At 2:47 p.m.
on the 5th of March, 1944, flight officer Charles Jagger pulled his P-51 Mustang into a climbing turn over Bordeaux, France, watching tracer fire from a Messormidt.
BF 109 walked toward his canopy.
21 years old, eight combat missions, zero kills.
The German had caught him during a strafing run on a rail yard.
Standard doctrine said, “Break right and dive.
Use the Mustang speed advantage, Joerger tried.
His aircraft responded sluggishly.
Something was wrong.
Then he saw it.
Coolant streaming from his engine cowling, white vapor trailing behind him.
The Germans first burst had hit his cooling system.
The Packard Merlin V1650 engine was already overheating.
He had maybe 90 seconds before it seized completely.
Below him stretched 400 miles of occupied France between his position and the safety of Allied lines in Spain.
Above him, the BF- 109 circled for another attack run.
And inside his cockpit, flight officer Joerger made a decision that would change the course of his life and alter aviation history.
He would not become a prisoner.
Not today.
This is the story of how one West Virginia farm boy survived 32 days behind enemy lines, crossed the Pyrenees mountains in winter with a wounded foot, and returned to combat to become America’s first ace in a day, and how that experience shaped the man who would break the sound barrier 3 years later.
Charles Elwood Joerger grew up in Hamlin, West Virginia.
Population, 200.
His father worked the natural gas fields.
No running water until Chuck was 8.
no electricity until 10.
At age six, his father gave him a singleshot 22 rifle and three bullets.
Told him to bring back three squirrels.
Joerger brought back three squirrels.
His father never questioned his shooting ability again.
Joerger had natural eyesight.
He could spot a deer at 400 yardds in dense forest.
When Pearl Harbor happened, Joerger was 18.
He enlisted in the Army Air Forces in September 1941 as an aircraft mechanic.
The army required pilots to have college degrees.
Joerger had a high school diploma.
In July 1942, the army opened the aviation cadet program to enlisted men without degrees.
Joerger applied immediately.
His vision tested at 20 to 10.
Better than perfect.
He soloed after 5.5 hours of instruction, half the time most cadets needed.
Natural pilot.
By January 1943, Joerger had his wings.
Second Lieutenant P-51 Mustang Pilot assigned to the 363rd Fighter Squadron, 357th Fighter Group, 8th Air Force.
He shipped to England in November 1943.
Reported to Lyon Army Airfield, 90 mi northeast of London.
The 357th Fighter Group flew bomber escort missions.
P-51 Mustangs escorting B7 Flying fortresses deep into Germany.
The missions were brutal.
German fighters hit the bomber formations in coordinated waves.
Messers BF-1009s, Faulk Wolf FW190s, the Luftvafa’s best pilots.
Joerger flew his first combat mission on the 8th of February 1944.
Escort to Frankfurt, no enemy contact.
His second mission on the 10th of February, escort to Brunswick.
His flight engaged eight FW190s.
Joerger fired at one.
No confirmed hits.
His third mission on the 22nd of February.
Escort to Gotha.
Heavy flack.
No fighters.
By March 1944, Joerger had flown eight missions, zero kills.
He was learning, watching, studying how German fighters attacked, how they broke, how they maneuvered.
The Mustang was fast.
437 mph at 25,000 ft.
Faster than any German fighter.
But speed alone didn’t win dog fights.
Positioning did.
Anticipation did.
Knowing where your enemy would be three seconds before he knew it himself.
Joerger was learning that.
Then came the 5th of March.
The mission briefing that morning was routine.
Bomber escort to Bordeaux.
Target was submarine pens and industrial facilities.
The 357th would provide high cover.
Stay above the bombers.
Protect them from German fighters diving from altitude.
Standard procedure.
Joerger’s P-51 was Glamorous Glenn, named after his girlfriend Glennice Fay Dick House back in California.
The aircraft carried 650 caliber Browning machine guns, 880 rounds total, approximately 20 seconds of sustained fire.
Joerger’s crew chief was Sergeant Ed Moran, New York.
3 years of aircraft maintenance experience.
Moran had pre-flighted Glamorous Glenn at 6:30.
Everything checked out.
Engine oil levels good.
Coolant system full.
Hydraulic pressure normal.
All six guns test fired the previous evening.
No malfunctions.
The Mustang was ready.
Joerger took off at 847.
The 357th formed up over Lon 48 P-51s.
They climbed to 25,000 ft and headed southeast toward France.
Crossed the English Channel at 932.
French coast appeared below them at 9:47.
Occupied territory now enemy territory.
They rendevous with the bomber stream at 1018.
300 B7s in tight formation boxes.
The bombers continued toward Bordeaux.
The fighters maintained position 2,000 ft above them, scanning for threats.
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Back to Jagger.
At 11:47, the bombers reached their target.
Flax started immediately.
Black puffs of 88 mm anti-aircraft fire filled the sky.
The bomber formations held steady.
Bomb bay doors opened.
The lead aircraft released.
The rest of the formation followed.
High explosive bombs fell toward the submarine pens.
Then Joerger saw them.
German fighters, 15 aircraft, mix of BF-19s and FW190s.
They were below the bombers.
Climbing toward the formation from the south, standard Luftwafa tactic, attack from below where the B7’s defensive fire was weakest.
Joerger’s flight leader called out the bandits.
Four P-51s rolled into a diving attack.
Joerger was number three position.
He pushed the throttle forward.
The Packard Merlin engine responded instantly.
Manifold pressure climbed to 67 in.
The Mustang accelerated.
The German fighters scattered when they saw the P-51s diving toward them.
Three BF- 109s broke left.
Two FW90s broke right.
Joerger followed the 190s.
His flight leader took the 109s.
At 18,000 ft, Joerger closed to 400 yd behind the trailing FW190.
He centered the gunsite pipper on the German fighter, squeezed the trigger.
His 650 calibers hammered.
Tracers reached out.
Most missed.
A few hits sparkled on the 190s tail section.
Not enough damage.
The German pilot snap rolled left and dove.
Joerger followed.
The FW90 was fast in a dive.
Not as fast as the Mustang, but close.
The German pulled out at 8,000 ft and headed east.
Running for home.
Joerger stayed with him.
Range closed to 300 yards.
He fired again.
Longer burst, 3 seconds.
Rounds walked up the 190s fuselage.
The Germans left wing started smoking.
The FW90 rolled inverted and entered a spin.
Joerger didn’t watch it crash.
He pulled up and looked for his flight.
Gone.
scattered during the engagement.
Standard problem in fighter combat.
Formations broke during attacks.
Pilots ended up alone.
Wingmen separated.
Joerger was alone at 9,000 ft over Bordeaux with no idea where his squadron had gone.
Below him, he saw a railard, trains, rolling stock, supply cars, German logistics, target of opportunity.
Doctrine said, “Rejoin your formation.
Don’t go hunting alone.
Joerger ignored doctrine.
He rolled inverted, pulled the nose down, and dove toward the rayard.
At 2,000 ft, he leveled out, lined up on a locomotive.
Fired.
His 50 calibers tore through the engine boiler.
Steam erupted.
The train stopped.
Joerger pulled up hard, climbed to 500 ft, looked for more targets.
That is when he saw the muzzle flashes.
Ground fire.
20 mm anti-aircraft guns positioned around the rayard.
The Germans had been waiting.
Tracers walked toward him.
Joerger broke right.
Too late.
Rounds hit his aircraft.
He felt the impacts.
Metal tearing.
Something hit his cooling system.
White vapor started streaming from his engine cowling.
Coolant leak.
The Packard Merlin was liquid cooled.
Without coolant, the engine would overheat in seconds.
His temperature gauge climbed immediately.
220° 240 260.
Normal operating temperature was 210.
At 280, the engine would seize.
He chopped the throttle.
Reduced power to minimum.
The temperature stopped climbing.
275° holding, but he was losing altitude.
Without power, the Mustang couldn’t maintain level flight.
He was descending at 800 ft per minute.
Current altitude 3,400 ft.
That gave him approximately 4 minutes before he hit the ground.
Then the BF-19 showed up.
Joerger saw him at 6:00 high, 2,000 ft above.
The German had been orbiting the railard, protecting the flack guns, waiting for Allied fighters to make exactly the mistake Joerger had made.
The 109 rolled into a diving attack.
Joerger had no power, no speed, no altitude.
He couldn’t outrun the German, couldn’t outclimb him, couldn’t fight.
His only option was to bail out.
Standard procedure.
Pull the canopy.
Release harness.
Roll inverted.
Fall clear of the aircraft.
Pull the rip cord at,000 ft.
Hope the Germans didn’t shoot you during the descent.
Joerger reached for the canopy release.
Stopped.
Something in his West Virginia upbringing.
His father’s voice.
Don’t quit.
find another way.
He looked at his instruments.
Altitude 2,800 ft.
Temperature 275°, oil pressure 45.
Low but holding.
The engine hadn’t seized yet.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
The BF- 109 closed to 600 yd.
Joerger saw the Germans nose light up.
Muzzle flashes.
20 mm cannon fire.
The rounds passed over his canopy.
The German had fired high.
Bad deflection shooting.
The 109 pulled up.
Repositioned for another pass.
Joerger pushed the stick forward.
Dove toward the trees.
His altitude dropped to,000 ft, 500 ft, 200 ft tree level.
The 109 followed him down.
But at low altitude, the Mustang’s handling characteristics gave Joerger an advantage.
The P-51 was stable at high speeds near the ground.
The BF- 109 was twitchy, nervous.
German pilots didn’t like low-level fights.
Joerger stayed low, 100 ft above the treetops.
The 109 made one more pass, fired, missed, then broke off.
The German had seen enough.
Lowitude fights over occupied France weren’t worth the risk.
He climbed away, headed east, left Joerger alone.
But Joerger’s problems were just starting.
His engine temperature had reached 290°.
The Packard Merlin was dying.
Oil pressure dropped to 20.
He could hear the engine running rough.
Detonation in the cylinders.
Pre-ignition from excessive heat.
He had maybe 2 minutes before complete failure.
He was 60 mi from the Spanish border.
No chance of making it.
He was 200 m from Allied lines in Italy.
Impossible.
His only option was to put the aircraft down in occupied France and evade capture on foot.
He scanned the terrain below.
Farmland, small fields, stone walls, terrible for emergency landings.
Then he saw it.
A clearing maybe 800 ft long, 200 ft wide, surrounded by trees.
Not long enough for a normal landing, but long enough if he committed completely.
Joerger lined up on the clearing.
Gear up.
Belly landing.
He’d lose the aircraft but survive the impact.
At 100 ft, he chopped the throttle completely.
The engine died immediately.
The propeller windmilled to a stop.
The Mustang became a glider.
Joerger held the nose up, bled off speed.
140 mph, 120, 100.
At 90 mph, he crossed the tree line.
The clearing rushed up.
He pulled back on the stick, flared the landing.
The P-51’s belly hit the ground hard 6G impact.
Metal shrieked.
The aircraft skidded forward.
Dirt and grass sprayed across the canopy.
The Mustang slid 400 ft, hit a small embankment, stopped.
Joerger sat motionless for 3 seconds, checking himself for injuries.
Everything worked.
No blood, no broken bones.
He’d survived the crash.
He slid the canopy back, climbed out onto the wing.
The Mustang was destroyed.
Fuselage buckled.
Engine cowling torn open.
Coolant and oil everywhere.
The aircraft would never fly again.
Then Joerger heard voices, German voices coming from the treeine 200 yd away.
Soldiers moving toward the crashed aircraft.
He ran south away from the voices into the forest.
His flight boots weren’t designed for running.
Heavy leather steel toe caps.
They slowed him down, but he kept moving.
Behind him, the German voices grew louder.
They’d reached the aircraft.
They’d seen it was empty.
Now they’d searched the area.
Joerger ran for 20 minutes.
His legs burned.
His lungs screamed.
He’d been sitting in a cockpit for 6 hours.
His body wasn’t ready for a sprint through dense forest.
At a small creek, he stopped, listened.
No voices, no sounds of pursuit.
The Germans had either given up or gone a different direction.
He was alone in occupied France, 200 miles from safety, no weapons, no maps, no food, just his flight suit and his wits.
Standard procedure for shot down pilots was to find the French resistance, the underground network that helped Allied airmen escape, but Joerger didn’t know how to find them.
didn’t speak French, didn’t know who to trust.
He decided to hide until dark, then move south toward Spain, toward the Pyrenees Mountains, toward freedom.
Joerger spent that first night in a farmer’s barn.
He’d found it just after sunset, empty, no livestock, hay bales in the loft, good cover.
He climbed into the loft and buried himself in hay, stayed perfectly still.
At 23:00 hours, he heard voices outside.
German patrol.
Flashlights swept through the barn.
Joerger held his breath.
The patrol moved on.
At dawn, Joerger left the barn.
He needed water, food, civilian clothes.
His flight suit marked him as an Allied airman.
Germans shot Allied airmen on site sometimes or sent them to POW camps.
Neither option appealed to Jagger.
He walked south, avoided roads, stayed in the treeines.
used the sun for navigation.
By midm morning, he’d covered maybe 8 miles.
His feet hurt.
The flight boots weren’t meant for hiking.
Blisters formed on his heels.
He ignored them.
Pain was temporary.
Capture was permanent.
At 11:00, he saw a farmhouse.
Small, isolated, smoke coming from the chimney.
Someone was home.
Joerger watched the house for 30 minutes.
saw no German vehicles, no military presence, just a farmer working in a field.
Joerger made his decision.
He walked toward the farmer.
The man saw him coming, stopped working, watched Joerger approach.
Joerger raised his hands, showed he was unarmed, called out in English.
American pilot shot down, needed help.
The farmer stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, gestured toward the house.
The farmer’s name was Pierre.
He spoke no English.
Joerger spoke no French.
They communicated with hand gestures and drawings in the dirt.
Pierre gave Joerger food, bread, cheese, water.
First meal in 18 hours.
Tasted better than anything Joerger had ever eaten.
Pierre brought civilian clothes, wool, pants, work shirt, jacket.
The boots were too small, but better than flight boots.
Joerger changed in the barn.
Pierre burned the flight suit.
Then Pierre drew a map in the dirt, showed Joerger where they were, showed him the route south toward the Pyrenees, 180 mi away.
Pierre also drew something else.
A house in a village 12 mi south.
Safe house.
French resistance.
They would help.
Joerger memorized the location.
Pierre, started walking.
He traveled by night, hid during the day, avoided German patrols, drank from streams, ate what Pierre had given him, made the food last 3 days.
On the 8th of March, he reached the village Pierre had indicated, found the house, knocked on the door.
A woman answered.
Middle-aged, suspicious eyes.
Joerger said one word.
American.
The woman studied him, then opened the door, pulled him inside quickly.
Her name was Marie.
She was part of the comet line, an escape network that moved Allied airmen from France to Spain.
More than 800 airmen would use the Comet Line during the war.
Marie fed Joerger, gave him a place to sleep, told him he’d stay with her for 2 days.
Then the network would move him south.
Joerger stayed in Marie’s attic, silent, hidden.
On the 10th of March, a man arrived, introduced himself as Gabriel, young, maybe 25.
He spoke English.
He would guide Joerger south.
They left that night, walked 18 miles, reached another safe house, another family, more hiding, more waiting.
The pattern repeated for 3 weeks.
walk at night, hide during the day.
Different guides, different safe houses, all part of the comet line, all risking their lives to save Allied pilots.
Joerger met another downed airman during this time.
A B24 navigator named Pat Patterson shot down over Belgium in February.
Patterson had been with the Comet Line for 4 weeks.
He’d seen things.
German patrols executing French civilians suspected of helping Allied airmen.
Entire families shot.
The resistance members knew the risks.
They helped anyway.
On the 28th of March, Joerger and Patterson reached the final safe house.
A farm in the foothills of the Pyrenees, 3 mi from the Spanish border.
The mountains loomed above them.
Snowcovered peaks 9,000 ft high.
Their guide explained the crossing.
22 mi through mountain passes.
Winter conditions below freezing at night.
Deep snow.
German patrols on the French side.
Spanish border guards on the other side.
The Spanish were officially neutral, but often returned escaped prisoners to the Germans.
The crossing had to be done quickly and quietly.
They would leave at dawn.
The 29th of March, 1944.
Joerger and Patterson began the mountain crossing at 5:30.
Their guide was a Basque Shepherd named Miguel.
He’d crossed these mountains 47 times.
He knew every path, every hidden route, every place German patrols operated.
The first eight miles were steep climbing through pine forests, then above the treeine into snow.
Joerger’s borrowed boots weren’t made for mountains.
No traction, no insulation.
His feet went numb after 2 hours.
Patterson struggled more.
The B24 Navigator had injured his ankle during his bailout.
It hadn’t healed properly.
The steep terrain made it worse.
At 12:00, they stopped to rest.
Miguel gave them bread and dried meat.
Told them the hard part was ahead.
A narrow pass between two peaks, 8,400 ft elevation, exposed, no cover.
If German patrols spotted them, there was nowhere to hide.
They reached the pass at 1430.
Wind howled through the gap.
40 mph gusts.
Snow blew sideways.
Visibility dropped to 50 f feet.
Miguel told them to move fast.
Stay together.
Don’t stop.
They crossed the pass in 25 minutes.
Below them, the terrain dropped steeply.
Loose rock, ice, treacherous footing.
Joerger led the way down, tested each step, made sure the rocks were stable before putting weight on them.
At 1520, his foot slipped.
A rock gave way.
Joerger fell 15 ft, landed hard on his left leg.
Pain shot through his ankle.
Intense immediate.
He tried to stand.
His ankle wouldn’t support weight.
Patterson and Miguel climbed down to him.
Miguel examined the ankle, pointed at it, made a twisting motion, sprained or broken.
Either way, Joerger couldn’t walk.
Miguel looked worried.
They were 7 mi from the Spanish border, still in German patrol range.
Joerger couldn’t stay here.
He had to move.
Patterson and Miguel fashioned a crutch from a tree branch.
Joerger used it to take weight off the injured ankle.
He could hobble slowly, painfully, but he could move.
They continued down the mountain.
Progress slowed to half speed.
Each step sent jolts of pain through Joerger’s ankle.
He gritted his teeth.
Kept moving.
Don’t quit.
Find another way.
His father’s voice again.
At 18:00, darkness fell.
Temperature dropped to 15° F.
Miguel said they couldn’t continue in the dark.
Too dangerous.
They’d camp and finish the crossing at dawn.
They found a small cave sheltered from wind.
No fire.
Germans might see the smoke.
They huddled together for warmth.
Joerger didn’t sleep.
His ankle throbbed, swollen, hot despite the cold.
He wondered if he’d made it this far just to freeze to death 7 mi from safety.
At 5:30 on the 30th of March, they started moving again.
Joerger’s ankle had stiffened overnight.
The pain was worse.
He could barely put weight on the crutch.
Miguel supported him on one side, Patterson on the other.
They moved as a unit, slow, careful.
At 8:20, they crossed into Spain.
No fanfare, no markers, just Miguel stopping and pointing at the ground.
Espa, he said.
Spain, neutral territory, but not safe yet.
Spanish border guards arrested escaped Allied airmen regularly.
turned them over to the Germans or interned them for the duration of the war.
They needed to reach the British consulate in Barcelona.
80 mi southeast, Miguel could only take them to the nearest village.
From there, they were on their own.
They reached the village at 14:00.
Miguel left them at a church, shook their hands, disappeared back into the mountains.
Joerger and Patterson went inside the church, found a priest.
The priest spoke English, told them they were in a Zaba.
The British consulate could help them, but it would take time, days maybe, they should hide.
The local civil guard sometimes searched for escaped prisoners.
The priest hid them in the church cellar, brought them food, water, bandages for Jagger’s ankle.
Two days later, a British intelligence officer arrived from Barcelona.
He examined their identification, dog tags, serial numbers, verified they were legitimate Allied airmen.
He told them a truck would take them to Barcelona on the 3rd of April.
From there, they’d be flown to Gibralar, then back to England.
But first, they needed to see a doctor about Joerger’s ankle.
The doctor in Azaba examined it.
Severe sprain, not broken.
It needed rest.
weeks of rest.
The doctor wrapped it tightly, gave Joerger a better crutch, told him not to walk on it.
Joerger thanked him, ignored the advice.
He’d walk on it.
He’d do whatever it took to get back to England.
Back to his squadron, back to combat.
On the 3rd of April, the truck arrived.
Joerger and Patterson climbed into the back, hidden under a tarpollen.
The truck drove south, 6 hours to Barcelona.
They arrived after dark.
The British consulate sheltered them for one night.
The next morning they flew to Gibralar on a Royal Air Force transport.
From Gibralar they flew to England.
They landed at Preswick, Scotland on the 7th of April.
Joerger had been behind enemy lines for 32 days, walked more than 200 miles, crossed the Pyrenees Mountains in winter with a sprained ankle, survived on help from strangers who risked their lives to save him.
He reported to the 357th Fighter Group on the 10th of April.
Squadron Commander Major Tommy Hayes interviewed him.
Wanted a full debrief.
What happened, where he’d been, who helped him.
Joerger told him everything.
Hayes listened carefully, then told Joerger something he didn’t expect.
Joerger was going home.
Army Air Force’s policy stated that any pilot who had escaped from occupied territory couldn’t return to combat.
If shot down again and captured, the Germans would interrogate him, torture him, force him to reveal the escape networks, compromise the French resistance, get innocent people killed.
The policy made sense, but it meant Joerger’s war was over.
He’d flown eight missions, zero confirmed kills.
His combat career was finished.
Joerger refused to accept it.
He requested a meeting with General Dwight Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in Europe.
The request went through channels, took two weeks.
On the 24th of April, 1944, Joerger stood in Eisenhower’s office.
The general asked him why he wanted to return to combat.
Joerger told him the truth.
The French resistance members who saved him took greater risks than he’d ever taken a cockpit.
They faced execution if caught.
He’d only face POW camp if they could risk their lives, he could risk his.
Besides, he’d learned things behind enemy lines.
Seen how the French resistance operated, seen where German patrols were strongest.
That knowledge would help him avoid capture if shot down again.
Eisenhower listened, considered, then made an exception.
Joerger could return to combat, but if shot down again over France, he would not use the escape networks.
he would evade on his own or accept capture.
Joerger agreed.
He returned to the 357th Fighter Group on the 30th of April, 1944.
His first mission back was May 8th.
Bomber escort to Brunswick.
No enemy contact.
His second mission was May 12th, escort to Brooks, heavy fighter opposition.
Jerger shot down his first confirmed kill, a BF 109 over Czechoslovakia.
His third mission was May 19th, escort to Berlin.
He shot down two FW190s.
By June 1944, Jerger had four confirmed kills.
One more and he’d be an ace.
Five victories, but the fifth kill proved difficult.
German fighter resistance was weakening.
Luftwafa losses were catastrophic.
Experienced pilots were dying.
Replacement pilots had minimal training.
The Germans were saving their remaining fighters for critical moments.
D-Day came on the 6th of June.
The 357th Fighter Group flew ground attack missions over Normandy, strafing German positions, destroying trucks and tanks.
Joerger flew six missions on D-Day.
No air-to-air encounters through the summer of 1944.
Joerger continued flying missions, mostly ground attack, occasionally escorting bombers.
He added one more confirmed kill in July, an FW90 over France.
That made five total ACE status.
By October 1944, Joerger had flown 57 combat missions, five confirmed kills.
He continued flying until age 89.
His last flight in a military jet was in 2012, an F-15 Eagle, 68 years after his escape from France.
He died on the 7th of December, 2020, age 97.
Pearl Harbor Day.
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