A big nightfighter, probably a Ju-88, met us as we crossed the French coast. He hit us hard, and I felt a jolt as the port landing gear fall away. More seriously, though, was that Knudsen's navigation instruments were destroyed. I should have turned us around right then, but I thought Knudsen could keep us in the bomber stream by dead reckoning, even if we did wander a bit. At least Packard, our new mid-upper gunner, thinks he got a piece of the 88 before it disappeared.
About the time we should have reached the target (but it was nowhere in sight), another nightfighter caught us, hitting our starboard wing. We escaped any major damage, but Kroll reported that the inboard tank was losing petrol.
When we finally reached the target, the Main Force was long gone. Fortunately, the defences seemed to have packed up and gone as well. We added our load to the fires — added it to the fringes, according to Madden.
It took longer than expected to reach the Channel, and another nightfighter was waiting for us when we got there. LeBlanc's suit heat was knocked out before we got away. He didn't have a chance to get cold, though, as Kroll announced that we needed to land immediately, while we still had the petrol to do it under power. We should have been over England at this point — but we simply weren't. Justice radioed Knudsen's best guess at our position to Air-Sea Rescue, and I set The Real Pipperoo down in the drink. It was a long wait until Air-Sea Rescue found us, but found we were, and all seven of us will be ready to go back out as soon as we're assigned a new kite.
F/S Thomas King
Pilot, The Real Pipperoo
May 27, 1944