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Mi Amigo

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One of my favourite - albeit tragic - Sheffield Wartime Stories. This would make a superb book or film, or even inspiration for a song (the title 'Mi Amigo' already has a ring to it), in tribute.

Below is what seems a long story to post, but it's a good read - it has been abridged from a much longer story available on a BBC website (link at the bottom)

As dusk fell on 22 February, 1944, a Flying Fortress fell from the sky over Sheffield, and crashed in woodland at the edge of a city park. In spite of the efforts of townsfolk, none of its crew of ten could be saved. Accounts of the incident were sparse from the beginning, and soon they became confused and embellished. Some of the mysteries surrounding the stricken aircraft's final hours could perhaps be resolved by the chroniclers of the formidable 8th Air Force. Some of them might never be explained.

The paucity of information about the last flight of Mi Amigo has itself become part of the myth. Commentators have speculated that the truth is too harrowing to be lightly told. We should remember, though, that this was just one sorrow among a relentless litany of sorrows. More than 40 other aircraft, and more than 400 other airmen of the Mighty 8th, were lost on that very same day. No single tragedy could merit special attention. All of the telegrams were brief.

Under such circumstances, the reminiscences that take the place of a more formal record have a poignant and intimate quality. For many years, the fate of Mi Amigo was almost unknown outside the families of her aircrew and the veterans of the Royal Air Force Association who diligently mark her anniversary.

But some tales, even half-complete ones, possess a remarkable power. They endure quietly in the folklore of the community that bore witness, until they bloom in the imagination of succeeding generations. They bloom because they weigh on the heart and summon the spirit at one and the same time.

This is such a story.

David Harvey was not a native of Sheffield, but he had already been a resident there for fifteen years when he chanced upon a story that he found hard to believe. A book discovered in the Imperial War Museum's repository at Duxford said that a Flying Fortress had crashed in his home city, and moreover in a part of it that he knew well.

Harvey was already a devoted researcher of the air war in Europe, and he was incredulous for two reasons. First, he knew that no planes of this type were stationed as far north as the Yorkshire city and that an off-course bomber returning home in distress would be expected to come down much closer to the east coast. Second, he couldn't understand why his friends (who were well aware of his interest) had never mentioned the incident.

There was even supposed to be a memorial stone in a park where he had often taken his children to play. He went looking for it.

The stone weighs half a ton, carries not one but two bronze plaques, stands about fifty metres from a busy café and is surrounded by ten oak trees deliberately planted to commemorate the lost airmen. In spite of this, it's deceptively easy to overlook. David Harvey didn't find it immediately, but when he did find it, he knew at once that he must tell the story.

Harvey's deeply moving little book was published in 1997. It remains the only substantive public account of the legend of Sheffield's Flying Fortress.

By around noon on that Tuesday in February, 1944, the 305th were over the coast of Denmark. The sky was blotted with the deadly black smoke-puffs of flak from 88mm anti-aircraft guns. Worse still, the cloud-cover was solid, and the bombers had little hope of locating their target. If the nature of the mission had been different, the bombers might have turned for home sooner. This time, though, it was imperative to maintain the threat, and so draw the teeth of the German fighter squadrons.

The first wave of Focke Wulf 190 fighters came out of the cloud close to the formation, leaving the gunners little time to respond. Judging that manoeuvrability was now the most urgent need, the squadron leader jettisoned his bombs. The rest of his convoy immediately followed suit, and the unburdened bombers climbed and wheeled back out to sea. For a little while, the enemy aircraft disengaged.

Close to the bottom end of Hunterhouse Road at Hunters Bar, Fred Nichols had an electrical repair shop. Jeff and Tony, for a while yet too young for their call-up, were working there that afternoon. The kids who would soon be playing football in the park were still at their lessons. Some of them might already have been thinking about those precious minutes of abandon between the school bell and the fall of darkness.

In the streets nearby, there were bakers and bar-keepers, a dentist and a clergyman and many more who would all tell their stories in the days to come. For now, though, none of them can have imagined what they were destined to see.

Big Week went well for the 305th. They deployed 300,000 tons of munitions for the loss of seven aircraft. Even the Alborg sortie, with a zero bomb-count, could be judged a success, since it prevented the interception of the raid on Rostock.

Two planes didn't make it back from Denmark. 42/31409 went down into the sea, its engines crippled by sustained enemy fire. Mi Amigo also took heavy damage, but Kriegshauser resisted the Focke Wulfs' efforts to isolate his craft from the main formation. The plane was still airborne when the Germans fell away, with ammunition and visibility compromised. She was by now well out over the North Sea, heading west in dense cloud.

Observers from neighbouring aircraft later gave a consistent, if detached, account. For whatever reason, Mi Amigo could not effect radio communication. More than one of her engines was misfiring, and her skin was in tatters. She was having difficulty maintaining altitude, and soon began to fall behind.

There was no effective way to assist a bomber in this situation. Its crew could not bale out over water, since they would die of hypothermia within minutes if they entered the sea. The first battle was simply a matter of regaining land, and after that it would be down to luck and the skill of the pilot. The squadron leader did all that he could, by assigning one plane to try and nurse Mi Amigo home. That done, he lead the rest back to Chelveston at full speed.

Mi Amigo was now almost alone. An hour before, the clouds had probably saved her. Now they became her nemesis. A tight escort was impossible because of the risk of collision. The nursemaid lost the stricken B17 some five hundred miles off the English coast, and, after a few minutes of tentative patrolling, the search had to be abandoned. Mi Amigo, it was assumed, had lost her struggle, and had plunged into the cold sea.

Mi Amigo did not crash for another four hours. What happened in the intervening time will never be known. We can only try to piece together John Kriegshauser's dilemma from the known facts.

At some point, she went off course, her flight ending a hundred miles north of her home base. This suggests that her navigational equipment was disabled, and possibly that the two crewmen in that area of the aircraft (the navigator and the bombardier) were incapacitated. The condition of the rest of the crew is unknown, though the fact that enemy fighters appear to have been able to sit on her tail and strafe her engines might mean that the tail-gunner and ball-turret gunner had also been lost.

Kriegshauser must have been aware of another aspect of his crew's welfare, too. The six men behind the cockpit of a B17 were exposed to severe cold when flying at altitude (in fact they wore electrically-heated suits for this reason). Waist-gunners in particular sometimes literally froze onto the aircraft's fabric, and so injured men who could not support themselves were prone to suffer a horrible death.

Mi Amigo's pilot may well have been faced with a dreadful choice. For the reason above, he would have wanted to fly at low altitude in warmer air. The damaged engines, on the other hand, might have denied him the power to ascend, so that the height he started with would be all he could ever have. We can surmise that the approach to the English coast was a slow, and perhaps irresistible, descent.

The condition of the engines may also explain why Mi Amigo flew so far inland (around a hundred miles) without apparently trying to make a landing. The weather conditions give a further clue. Though it was still daylight, cloud cover was complete down to about 500 feet. Kriegshauser probably judged that he would have insufficient power to abort a blind approach, and so chose instead to fly on for as long as he could, hoping that the cloud would clear. It never did.

It was just before five o'clock in Endcliffe Park. Youngsters chased their football in the failing light. They heard her before they saw her.

Some accounts say that the aircraft tried to put down in that tiny green space, but that the pilot pulled up the nose when he saw the children, and hit the hill instead.

Some say that it circled, that it rolled, that it clipped the trees even as it broke the cloud. Some say that the engines stuttered at the last.

This can't all be true, and yet none of it really matters. All that can be said for sure is that photographs prove that the aircraft was pointing down the hill when it crashed. If Kriegshauser's last act was to save the footballers, he carried it out by bringing the plane down too soon, rather than by over flying the field.

Mi Amigo shed her tail, and slewed to a halt among the trees, her wings and fuselage more or less intact. Fire broke out internally, but for the first couple of minutes the astonished onlookers were able to draw close. The children were shooed away, since at least one man's corpse was thrown clear, though no public record identifies him.

Some observers describe cries from within. Some say that they begged for help, and others that they pleaded with would-be rescuers to get away. One young Sheffielder said he tried to pull an airman clear, but the man's legs were trapped and the flames consumed him.

Nobody seems to have considered the possibility of live bombs on board. It was only once the fire took hold, and ammunition began to crack and whine, that the huddle of people on the hill dispersed in search of shelter. The inferno, when it came, was shocking in its intensity. An hour after the crash, as the last natural light faded away, the remains of Mi Amigo were ashes and blackened shards of metal, and all hope had gone.

There is an annual service on the Sunday closest to 22 February. Wreaths are laid at the crash site. The service is read in St Augustine's at Brocco Bank. The anniversary is kept by the Royal Air Force Association.

Jeff Hawkins was one of the young electrical apprentices at Fred Nichols'. His account is especially coherent and eloquent. He describes the immediate aftermath but also the scene three days later, when the authorities re-opened the park and children combed the slope for souvenirs. The clearance of debris seems to have been slapdash, for Jeff himself recovered a broken watch, stopped at two minutes past five, and someone else found a misshapen signet ring. The stream at the bottom of the bank yielded a pair of flying goggles.

Charles Tuttle, Harry Estabrooks and Maurice Robbins still lie in the American Military Cemetry at Madingley, Cambridgeshire, along with nearly four thousand of their countrymen who gave their lives in the defence of Europe between 1942 and 1945. The other seven were interred here briefly, too, but their remains were later reburied in the land of their families.

There are at least two h2g2 Researchers, one American and one English, who possess a copy of David Harvey's little book. This Entry can't add anything to that account, and it might never have been written, but on the evening of 5 November, 2005, the Englishman drove past Endcliffe Park, and there were trails of fire and showers of sparks in the sky above the fateful hill.

Full story: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A7563783

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I've never seen any pictures of it - or indeed even the monument (surrounded by 10 trees, apparently, to signify each of the 10 dead crew).

There are loads of accounts of the story if you look over the internet for them though - some fascinating reads from eyewitnesses and such.

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On February 22, it will be the 63rd anniversary of the american plane, the "Mi Amigo" crashing, in Endcliffe park (22nd Feb 1944).

There's a ceremony normally

The ceremony is usually held on the Sunday nearest the 22nd, so it could be tomorrow.

It follows a service read at St Augustine's and is organised by the RAF Association.

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In the woodland behind the cafe and stream in Endcliffe Park, is a small memorial stone dedicated to the ten United States servicemen who died when their B17 bomber, named "Mi Amigo", crashed there on 22 February 1944. The crippled aircraft fell to Earth on its return from a sortie over Denmark, killing all on board but, incredibly, missing the densely populated surrounding area. The memorial is a surprising and often fascinating find, both for visitors and locals, and a book, entitled Mi Amigo – The Story of Sheffield's Flying Fortress, by David Harvey, will appeal to those curious to find out more. The R.A.F. Association conducts a service at the memorial every year on the Sunday closest to February 22nd at 11am. Anyone is welcome to attend.

I'm going to try and get the book.

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The service will be held at St Augustine's Church Brocco Bank at 2pm.

The wreath laying ceremony is before that at the site of the crash at 1.15pm.

(Both Sunday 25th)

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Hello all,

I'm the daughter of David Harvey, so if anyone is still looking for copies of books I can help!

We've also got incredible amounts of information and pictures and even the pilot's goggles.

IM or email me if anyone would like any more information.

Thanks

Jess

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Thanks for the offer, Jessy, and welcome to Sheffield History.

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I was given a photograph of this plane in Encliffe Park, the father of a friend of mine took it.

I loaned it to the museum of the Times Gone By [ pre Banners Attercliffe ] but then it closed down

and like many others, never saw our goods again. :(

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Hello, I recently discovered this website and was a bit surprised that some of you still remember the B-17 incident. I should say here that I am the nephew of the bombadier on the Mi Amigo. My name is Enrique, my uncle was Melchoir Hernandez. Of course, I knew that his plane crashed in your town, but I did not know any details until I read the thorough account on your website.

My mother, Dolores, is one of his younger sisters, and was very close to him. As a kid, I visited his grave many times. It is a very modest affair, just a headstone. He also had a younger brother, Lelo, who was a paratrooper, but I don't think he saw any combat - entered the war too late. Lelo is still alive but suffered a stroke about 5 years ago. Rey also had an older sister, Carmen, very pretty, many suitors, but never married. She was like a second mother to all of us kids. Died of cancer about 7 years ago.

Melchoir, we all, called him Rey (Ray), overcame many obstacles to be on a bomber crew. His family was extremely poor (not all that unusual during the Depression). There were often nights without dinner. Rey was quite skinny and had difficulty making the minimum flight weight. He said if he was going to be killed, he didn't want to die in the mud. He bought a life insurance policy in the name of his mother. After his death she collected $50/month until she died at the age of 95. The insurance company would call periodically to see if she was still alive. My grandparents bought their first house with that money. Rey had 13 nephews and nieces. Of course, none of us ever met him as we started popping up in the 1950's.

I write a little poetry when I get a chance. I hope you don't mind if I share a piece with you (note: Tio=uncle):

NUCCIO

There is Carmelita’s Chorizo works

and places fading away like the Melmac factory.

Whittier Boulevard is waking,

and the comfort of morning beer

beckons at the Starlight, the Sarong.

Flower shops with $5 bouquets

and dead man’s dirt.

There are the Stations of the Cross

along the little windy roads, which,

even after all these decades,

still confuse me, and that

is why I need you Angel Nuccio.

That is why I need your Doric columns,

your bold righteous wings,

white marble skin,

and, yes, even your strong, Christ-like feet.

You guide me to a tailor’s son,

the bombardier from the barrio,

2nd Lieutenant Hernandez, USAAF.

Tio.

You guide me

to a gray piece of sky, wet with mist,

at that moment when

my 45 rpm, metallic blue youth

would not be contingent on flying Mexicans.

Yes, Angel Nuccio,

I need your gentle hands,

your nymphet form,

and cold eyes.

-Enrique Souffle

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Hello, I recently discovered this website and was a bit surprised that some of you still remember the B-17 incident. I should say here that I am the nephew of the bombadier on the Mi Amigo. My name is Enrique, my uncle was Melchoir Hernandez. Of course, I knew that his plane crashed in your town, but I did not know any details until I read the thorough account on your website.

My mother, Dolores, is one of his younger sisters, and was very close to him. As a kid, I visited his grave many times. It is a very modest affair, just a headstone. He also had a younger brother, Lelo, who was a paratrooper, but I don't think he saw any combat - entered the war too late. Lelo is still alive but suffered a stroke about 5 years ago. Rey also had an older sister, Carmen, very pretty, many suitors, but never married. She was like a second mother to all of us kids. Died of cancer about 7 years ago.

Melchoir, we all, called him Rey (Ray), overcame many obstacles to be on a bomber crew. His family was extremely poor (not all that unusual during the Depression). There were often nights without dinner. Rey was quite skinny and had difficulty making the minimum flight weight. He said if he was going to be killed, he didn't want to die in the mud. He bought a life insurance policy in the name of his mother. After his death she collected $50/month until she died at the age of 95. The insurance company would call periodically to see if she was still alive. My grandparents bought their first house with that money. Rey had 13 nephews and nieces. Of course, none of us ever met him as we started popping up in the 1950's.

I write a little poetry when I get a chance. I hope you don't mind if I share a piece with you (note: Tio=uncle):

NUCCIO

There is Carmelita’s Chorizo works

and places fading away like the Melmac factory.

Whittier Boulevard is waking,

and the comfort of morning beer

beckons at the Starlight, the Sarong.

Flower shops with $5 bouquets

and dead man’s dirt.

There are the Stations of the Cross

along the little windy roads, which,

even after all these decades,

still confuse me, and that

is why I need you Angel Nuccio.

That is why I need your Doric columns,

your bold righteous wings,

white marble skin,

and, yes, even your strong, Christ-like feet.

You guide me to a tailor’s son,

the bombardier from the barrio,

2nd Lieutenant Hernandez, USAAF.

Tio.

You guide me

to a gray piece of sky, wet with mist,

at that moment when

my 45 rpm, metallic blue youth

would not be contingent on flying Mexicans.

Yes, Angel Nuccio,

I need your gentle hands,

your nymphet form,

and cold eyes.

-Enrique Souffle

Thanks for sharing that with us. Have you seen the book published on the Mi Amigo?

BBC Article :

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A7563783

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Thanks for sharing that with us. Have you seen the book published on the Mi Amigo?

I haven't. Must check it out. Thanks. -ES

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The crew of the Mia Amigo haven't been forgotten Enrique, as this link to a story in tonight's local newspaper shows. (9.02.2009)

Thank you very much. Your continuing annual remembrance shows how long it takes to bury a war. -ES

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Hi Enrique

I passed the memorial today, here are some photos I took. RAF Menwith Hill is a base in North Yorkshire manned by US service personnel, who always attend the memorial service.

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I was in St. Augustines Sunday and there were some US Air Force officers there along with a display of some of the artifacts that were found there (Uniforms, goggles etc.). There was a memorial service at the church that afternoon I think.

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I was given a photograph of this plane in Encliffe Park, the father of a friend of mine took it.

I loaned it to the museum of the Times Gone By [ pre Banners Attercliffe ] but then it closed down

and like many others, never saw our goods again. :(

From tonights Star

http://www.thestar.co.uk/news/Enduring-tri...n-in.6088986.jp

Edited by Stuart0742
Topics Merged

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