[kaki3152]

Lt William Brewster Morgan, who was the only survivor from the 4th FG wrote an account of his shoot down, which was published in the February 1959 Flying magazine.

It all started one sunny May day back in 1943.

I was operations officer with the 355th Fighter Squadron of the 4th Fighter Group, Eight Air Force stationed at Debden. England.
We were to pull a diversion to draw the German fighters in order that our bombers might hit Emden. Germany, our track was to be Ghent, Belgium.
Before climbing into the cockpit of his P-47, Bud Care, my wingman, sauntered over for a last cigarette and we discussed the coming mission. "You know, Morgan," he said, "we've simply got to do better. Our squadron is low scorer, it's up to us old-timers to lead the pack." I agreed and we shook hands , wishing each other good luck.
Our group was acting as top cover for the force and we were to go in at 35,000 feet. As we approached the coast of Belgium, the C.O. called our radar control in England, and the calm, unconcerned voice announced that that things were beginning to pop "Fifty plus bogies taking off St. Omer, 30 plus Lille, 50 plus Blankenburg" there were more coming.
We soon crossed in and, in no time we were over Ghent. This was our turning point, we had done our work, now we were to head home.
Bud Care's voice crackled, "Red Three red four here-two bogies at eleven o'clock low, look like Me's." I strained my eyes but the high altitude haze blotted out everything at eleven o'clock low. Taking a deep breath, I answered "Roger from Red Three, you go down I'll follow.
In a second, we were behind two Messerschmitts and they hadn't seen us. Bud's gun were firing. The first burst was enough, the enemy plane flew apart in a cloud of flames. Number two filled my sights. I tightened my finger on the trigger, the jumping of the guns seemed simultaneous with the strikes on his right wing and along the engine cowl smoke poured from his exhaust and he fell into an easy left bank that tightened into a spiral as he headed down. All good reason had left me blotted out by the thought "a confirmed, get a confirmed." Here I made my mistake. I should have headed back up to my squadron but it was too late anyways. Reports on the radio told me what had happened, the squadron had been jumped.
Weak in the background was Bud's voice,insistent "Morgan,Morgan get out, there are four following you down!"
I had to act fast. Should I go back up to the squadron 10,000 feet above me or should I try to dive away from those boys. I chose to go up as I was too low. At about 10,000 I was crossing the coast with the air speed indicator on the red line. They must have gone by the barrier [sound?] the way they caught up with me. Soon they were within range and the leader lined up to fire. When his wings lit up like neon lights I broke left and knew I was in it. He had three friends to help him, I was alone. Not more than a quarter turn later, he decided this was it. His first burst caught me in the engine. My plane shuddered with the punishing fire. I was spinning violently, the flames past my cockpit. Time to bail out. I called Bud but no answer, my radio was probably gone. Flicked the emergency IFF on, called "Mayday" three times and reached for the cockpit latch. Jammed! I pulled out of the spin. They were right behind me. Two more attacks and the wings of my plane looked like a bunch of scrap. As I happened to glance down once more into the cockpit, I noticed the small crowbar I always carried in case of a fire or jammed canopy on the ground. It worked! The pressure seemed to break a lock, setting me free.
The only instruments left were the altimeter and the airspeed, the former indicated 400 feet and the latter 175 [mph]. Too late to jump. But I had dumped my shoulder straps when the canopy had opened. I stood up in the seat, still holding the stick and the airplane hit the water with a terrific impact. Then all was still. My parachute came off easily and I automatically inflated my one man raft as the tail of my plane disappeared under the surface.
I knew that I was close to the Belgian coast, each swell lifted me up to reveal the skyline of a city, probably Ostende. Nine hours later , I was picked up by a Belgian fishing trawler and within 15 minutes, the German had boarded her and I was looking down the wrong end of a machine pistol.