Eye of the Eagle: The True Story of an American Hero

FOREWORD

When I was a young child, I spent every summer with my Grandpa Norm up in the rustic mountains of central Oregon - and I absolutely relished and cherished the times we had together. From fishing to camping, the summers were open-ended interviews into my grandfather, his life, and his many accomplishments. I remember some of his stories of his time in the service and the miracles that came from it. He was a disabled veteran and was proud to have served his country. I’ll never forget that hat he wore – a baseball cap with large yellow lettering boasting his DAV-status.

I find myself wondering (even now after he has passed) how the man found so much time to do the things he loved in the short time he was here. Norman Miller was truly a renaissance man: he was a musician and a precision machinist who loved writing, inventing, painting, and Lord only knows what else we may later find to be a passion of his. His wife and my grandmother who currently lives in Las Vegas, to this day, still finds things that surprise the family as a whole. This book, like some works my grandfather started, was but a rumor – something that Grandpa Norm had not really finished.

My grandmother found what she thought was another unfinished art piece in a forgotten plastic bag, and decided to do some nostalgic reading only to find out that Carter Hitt’s story was complete in more ways than anyone had known before. With previous attempts notwithstanding, she found that publishing a book these days was relatively easy and offered my mother the task of editing it. After several revisions and turbulent days trying to narrow down a chaptering method, the whole book was digitized into the piece you now hold in your hands.

I wish I could tell you about everything that made my grandfather a great man, but that is a different story for another day. Perhaps others can fall in love with the man’s story that my grandfather felt was absolutely worthy to finish.

God willing, you will, too.

Tyler Hanson

Introduction

Early in the 70’s Carter Hitt and Norman Miller met for the first time, forming a friendship as they remembered and shared their memories of their individual war experiences. Norm had served three years as a US sailor, stationed stateside, but Carter, based in England, had been part of a US Air Force reconnaissance squadron. Flying P-38’s, these men flew ongoing missions over enemy lines, photographing enemy targets before and after they were bombed – facing onslaughts of enemy fighters and armed with -- a camera!

His story and his restricted diary which he also shared with Norm, was riveting. Norm determined that others should know about these men, about reconnaissance and all that it entailed, hence – Eye of the Eagle.

Both Norm and Carter passed away in 2000, but their story remains.

There have been many heroes in many wars, but it seems fitting that our Photo Joes who contributed so mightily to US victory in World War II should be recognized, even at this late date.

Only a fraction of those with whom Carter flew returned home. He, however, arrived for Christmas, 1945.

Author’s Comment

Many fliers and men in other pursuits know for a lifetime the goals they hope to accomplish—and often in the attainment of a particular goal, the rise to it is gradual. Carter Hitt’s decision to bask alone in German skies was neither preconceived nor gradual. His volunteering for reconnaissance duty was abrupt as a meteor’s end in collision with earth, for a specific incident caused him to make this decision, thus helping to create the uniqueness of his story. Not the story of a full complement of men on a proud ship, nor the story of men of valor in a gradually decimated fighter squadron, but the exploits of Carter Hitt, the loner—one man against the sky. One man surviving insurmountable odds—German fighters, flak, fatigue, engine failure, and psychological warfare.

Life and war produce exciting and tumultuous events. Yet there is this one life—this one series of events that reverberates far in excess of the norm. Reconnaissance pilots were sworn to secrecy, their fabulous deeds never told for fear of endangering the very existence of our sacred United States during World War II. But time passes—and now the tremulous, unbelievable, fantastic story of Carter Hitt, reconnaissance pilot of the United States Army Air Corps, can be revealed and reveled in all its glory—if indeed fear, apprehension and revulsion can be associated with the awesome name of glory.

Carter Hitt, formally educated, was not a man of distinction in the mores of an English nobleman. Average in height and weight, with a handsomely tanned face and quick blue eyes, he was neat and fidgety, with an idealistic sense of responsibility to the country in which he lived. In the uniform of the United States Army Air Corps, he embodied every outstanding quality exemplified in a man of war. And as with all men of accomplishment, he had a beginning. A beginning that evolved into one of the strangest and most fascinating series of events to befall any man at any time.

For Carter had no business being in any branch of the service. He’d many times been rejected. After serving seven months in the Army Air Corps, he’d been given a medical discharge, which automatically prevented another enlistment. Yet he wound his career to its consummate end as a very live, much-decorated reconnaissance pilot. It began with his intense desire to become part of his country’s involvement in World War II.

Places and incidents in this story are true and are transcribed to a great extent from a World War II restricted diary. However, only two names used in this account are factual—Ray Hakkila and Carter Hitt.

When the first Lightning’s were born, seventeen thousand man-hours were required for completion, but by 1942, construction time had been cut to eight thousand hours. The twin-boom design offered ample room for turbo superchargers and gave designers great flexibility in locating radiator baths, air intakes and other accessories. Dozens of revolutionary innovations were incorporated in the speedy P-38, among them a bubble canopy, counter-rotating propellers which eliminated torque, and improved oxygen systems for high altitude flying. All of the models—the XP-38, YP-38, P-38L, P-38M, etc.—retained the original wingspan of fifty-two feet eight inches. A limited number of P-38’s were produced to accommodate two passengers. The Air Corps listed operational speeds at something between 390 to 414 miles per hour in level flight, but speeds were a carefully guarded secret and 38’s were extremely fast for their day.

Initially, the P-38’s carried 1,150 horsepower, later increased to 1,475 h.p. per engine. These Allison in-line engines had tremendous durability but speeds were variable, depending upon the age and condition of the engine, type of propeller, smoothness of fuselage and the inborn ability of some pilots to coax a maximum performance from whatever plane they flew. Self-sealing fuel tanks were installed beginning with the P-38D.

The many-modeled P-38 was a stable, rugged airplane, which could absorb massive doses of punishment and still fly, but the first models underwent drastic encounters with vibration and tail-flutter, eventually partially overcome by redesign. Many early test pilots didn’t survive to relate their experience of the tail section disintegration and because of this inherent malfunction, the 38 received an undeserved reputation as a flying death trap. In dives exceeding 450 M.P.H., an air compressibility factor plagued the early planes constantly but later installation of diving flaps allayed much of the original power dive problem.

On the Model 322, a hotly debated and confused decision was the removal of the counter-rotating propeller system. Reconnaissance pilots depended heavily on this feature to elude enemy fighters because in tight lufberry circles, the single engine enemy fighter would spin out while the P-38’s remained basically stable. A strange high command decision, indeed, and one not wholeheartedly endorsed by designers at Lockheed Aircraft.

Combat-worthy P-38’s began to come off the production line in early 1942 and were idolized by General Carl Spaatz in Africa. He was aware of the frustrating reports of high-speed dive complications but approached the matter realistically. I’d rather have an airplane that goes like hell, he said, and has a few things wrong with it, than one that doesn’t go like hell and has a few things wrong with it. He demanded and received the plane he sought, and utilized the P-38 for every phase of duty.

Many of the rumors about the Lockheed could be credited to inexperienced, too-briefly-trained green pilots with little or no combat experience who were faced with all manner of malfunction only overcome by experienced pilots. As time passed, the 38’s improved markedly as did the pilots who flew them, and historical records substantiate the fact that in World War II the P-38 racked up dramatically impressive scores over the enemy.

P-38’s saw little fighter service from British-based airfields. In the early war, planes were in short supply and needed badly in North Africa. Thirty-eights were more tediously built than other aircraft, thus keeping their numbers down, and the more readily mass-produced 51-Mustangs became the prominent fighter and bomber escort over Germany. It was difficult for heavy-armored, heavy-gunned P-38 fighter planes to maneuver in close quarters with German 109’s, and the edge in speed of a 38 over the 109 was of little use when the 38’s were flying cover for the slower bombers, for it wasn’t their task then to elude enemy fighters but to remain close by and protect their bomb-laden charges.

The middle of 1943 saw the first effective P-38 fighter squadrons formed in England. Fighter models had fared superbly in the better-weathered Pacific Theater, but fighter pilots on the whole were not enchanted with the P-38’s effectiveness in Europe. They were always cold—the twin booms made them easily recognizable by the enemy—high altitudes caused engine trouble and curtailed maneuverability and roll rate—and too many engines burned when hit by flak, with no fire control equipment available.

In the summer of 1944, P-51’s took over fighter duty and the only P-38’s then visible over Britain, France, and Germany were reconnaissance planes. But for these recon pilots literally blasted from the sky, yet able to return safely home in but a shambles of an airplane—the P-38 became a precious means of survival and they wanted to fly nothing else. The P-38, unarmed, was faster and lighter than its counterpart, the five-gunned fighter plane. Its long range, high altitude capabilities, and superior speed made it a natural for reconnaissance.

Photo Joes are the eyes of the Army, Navy and Marine Corps. Without these intrepid pilots, wars would take forever, and if a war were to end, the loss of life would be staggering. Photographic evidence is the lifesaver of the services. The importance of a recon pilot was expressed by General Hap Arnold—Photo reconnaissance may not win battles—it wins wars!

The ways in which photo reconnaissance accomplishes its purpose are many. The G. I. wants to know what lies over the next hill—how are the enemy’s defenses stacked in the next town, city or hamlet—how many troops are stationed there and are there tanks and heavy artillery? Headquarters wants to know what troops are being moved—how many and in what direction? When paratroopers unfold their silky shrouds, where will they land and will it be safe? Are there any natural defenses in the area and at what point can they group in safety?

And where are the stalking ships of the enemy’s naval force? Are they positioned to hit our shipping and destroy lives, food and equipment? Can the bombers expect flak? Where is it concentrated? Can it be avoided? If pictures reveal enough damage, can it save an unnecessary second mission by the big boys?

Answers are needed and answers are the mainstay of a Photo Joe. Indirectly, photography is the most death-dealing job in the Air Force. Indirectly it stops oil, manufacturing and storage plants. Indirectly it causes the smashing of arsenals, men, equipment, transportation, naval forces, and supply lines.

During World War II, the duty of a recon was to print the secrets of the enemy hundreds of miles behind enemy lines. With guts, skill, cunning, and luck, he threw his strength into a task far from his homeland. He gave everything—the very breath of life—and many are in the ground and in the icy casket of the sea. The German high command was filled with the dread realization that military and industrial installations were continually surveyed and that any change of significance was almost immediately taped and measured. Accurate reconnaissance was one of the principal reasons for America’s victory.

Enemies of the recon were weather, fighters and flak. Photo pilots were prime targets for flak when forced to leave their high altitude foxholes five miles up to take close-ups of important installations demanded by military urgency. Low altitude missions were rare, for pictures taken from 25,000 feet with a long focal length camera usually met interpretive standards.

With an average round trip of 1400 miles to Posen, Berlin, Munich, Prague, Stettin – wherever the bombers went – the photo ships preceded and followed. But the Seventh Photo Group had a wide variety of jobs, each requiring special techniques. Their primary duty was long range, strategic photo reconnaissance, deep in the heart of German territory. These flights included checking of P.W. camps, V-I sites, V-II sites, synthetic oil plants, and a continual check on the shifting of German air power.

Another of their jobs was low level, oblique photo work, where they flew as low as 5,000 feet. This low altitude made it easy for enemy flak gunners. This type of mission was the most dangerous and invariably exacted a heavy toll in pilots and planes.

The final type of mission was known as dicing, conducted at extremely low levels. The usual altitude was from five to twenty feet from the ground. Dicing mission were employed in the checking of sub pens at Bremen, Hamburg, Kiel, Brest and Bordeaux, and were also used to photograph at close range the camouflage of big industry, air fields, V-bomb sites and flak installations. Flak gunners had little success in downing P-38’s at this low altitude. They didn’t have time to sight and the fast planes, usually flew between buildings in towns or below tree level in open country. Small arms fire was pesky and sometimes critical. Dicing was assigned the most experienced pilots – considered veterans if they lived through one mission.

About the Seventh Photo Group:

The expression, Bring back target photos seems almost gentle, doesn’t it? Yet men of another time could little appreciate the rigors so traumatically associated with the task.

Many months prior to the crossing of the Rhine by allied forces the American high command was vitally aware of the destruction wrought by British and American forces and of German power drained by relentless, precision bombing of her war-making capabilities. From reconnaissance pictures, skilled photo interpreters determined what materials were produced and where – rocket potential and positions – oil production estimates. The Seventh Photo Group – pilots and laboratory technicians – were responsible for approximately 1,000,000 photographs covering nearly 3,000,000 square miles of enemy territory in Belgium, Germany, France, Holland, Czechoslovakia, Austria, Denmark, Italy and Russia. The film, nine inches in width, stretched in excess of 360 miles! Photo labs developed more than 5,000,000 prints for intelligence purposes. On each aircraft, from two to five automatic cameras took nine-inch square negatives on 100 to 200-foot rolls of film.

As the mighty Eighth Air Force’s primary intelligence source, the busy Seventh Photo Group flew 5,693 operational sorties which consumed 17,570 operational flying hours. At the same time, the men behind the scenes – mechanics, cooks dishwashers, telephone operators, typists, medical men and others – all contributed heavily to the success of its missions.

Through the diligent efforts of Photo Joes and their ground crews, all of the German industry became an exposed tableau to be examined at will. Photographs told the story – photographs pointed the way.

Chapter 1

In his hometown of Aberdeen, Washington, Carter Hitt’s father was a safety engineer—a cheerful, balding man with great concern for his son. However, there was no light-heartedness in evidence this day as he confronted Carter belligerently.

Son, he began forcefully, "What in hell is wrong with you? Did you join the Air Corps again? Did you know the F.B.I. is conducting