At 11:47 a.m. on January 11th, 1944, Major James Howard spotted more than 30 German fighters diving toward three formations of B7 Flying fortresses over Asher Lee in Germany as his own P-51 Mustang squadron scattered across the sky after a brief dog fight left him completely alone. Howard was 30 years old with 70 missions behind him.

56 combat sorties over Burma and China with the Flying Tigers where he’d shot down six Japanese aircraft. Then 14 more missions over Europe since December when he’d taken command of the 356th Fighter Squadron flying the new long range P-51B Mustang. The Luftwaffa fighters closing on those bombers included Messersmidt BF 109s and Faulwolf FW190s.

some of Germany’s most experienced pilots flying from bases less than 50 miles away with full fuel and ammunition loads. The mission had started at 0700 hours that morning. 50 P-51 Mustangs from the 354th Fighter Group escorting three divisions of B17 Flying Fortresses to strike aircraft factories at Ashers Lebanon and Halberstat, targets critical to German fighter production located 90 mi southwest of Berlin. The bombers had completed their runs, dropped their ordinance, turned for home.

Then the Luftwaffa struck. Howard’s group engaged a formation of twin engine BF-110 XT starters near the target area. Howard destroyed one, shot it down clean, but the engagement scattered his pilots. When he climbed back to 24,000 ft where the bombers flew, every other American fighter had vanished.

300 men crewed those B7s below, 30 men per bomber, 10 aircraft in tight defensive formation, all depending on fighter escort to survive the 3-hour flight back to England. The bomber crews had already watched their P47 Thunderbolt escorts turn back an hour earlier. Those fighters lacked the fuel capacity to penetrate this deep into Germany. Now the P-51s were gone, too. Except for Howard.

His Mustang carried 450 caliber Browning machine guns, two mounted in each wing, 1,700 rounds of ammunition total. The inboard guns held 350 rounds each. The outboard guns carry 280. At standard combat rate of fire, that gave him roughly 4 minutes of sustained shooting if he managed his trigger discipline perfectly. His fuel gauge showed enough for maybe 30 minutes of combat. After that, he’d be gliding.

The first wave of German fighters rolled into attack position. Howard pushed his throttle to emergency war power and dove. His P-51B accelerated past 400 mph. He closed on a BF 109 lining up on the tail of a B7 named Patches. Howard’s gun sight centered on the Measure Smith’s cockpit. He fired a 3-second burst, 75 rounds.

The canopy disintegrated. The German fighter rolled, inverted, and fell away, trailing smoke and glycol. Howard pulled up hard, 6G turn. His vision narrowed at the edges. Two more BF 109s were already positioning for another pass. He reversed, cut inside their turn radius. The Mustang’s superior roll rate gave him the advantage. He fired again.

Short burst, 1 second. The trailing Meshmmit’s engine cowling erupted in flame. The pilot bailed out immediately. But more fighters appeared. FW190s from the north. Yellow-nosed aircraft from an elite unit. They saw Howard recognized the threat. One American alone. They could overwhelm him with coordinated attacks. Would Howard’s ammunition last? Please hit the like button.

It helps this history reach more viewers. Subscribe to see what happened. Back to Howard above Germany. The Lufafa pilots began their coordination. Some would engage Howard directly while others attack the bombers. Standard tactic against outnumbered escorts. Howard saw it developing. He had seconds to choose. Defend himself in a turning fight with experienced German pilots or stay with the bombers and accept attacks from multiple angles with no wingman to cover his tail. He chose the bombers.

A FW190 dove at the lead B7 formation from 12:00 high. Howard cut the angle. Fired. The fuckwolf’s wingroot exploded. The aircraft snap rolled left and broke apart. But two more fighters were already attacking from opposite sides. Howard’s ammunition counter was dropping faster than his fuel gauge.

He’d burned through 500 rounds in less than 4 minutes. The mathematics were simple and brutal. 30 German fighters, one American, 1,200 rounds remaining. The German pilots knew the math, too. They kept coming. Howard’s indicated air speed hit 430 mph in a near vertical dive. He pulled up into a climbing spiral. Three BF 109s followed.

He reversed hard at the top. They shot past his nose. He rolled inverted and pulled through. Got on the tail of the trailing messes. Fired. Another two second burst. Another fighter down. Then his gun camera recorded something wrong. Three of his four guns had stopped firing. Only one Browning was still working.

Howard checked his gun switches, flipped them off and back on. Nothing changed. Only his left inboard Browning was cycling. The other three guns had jammed, probably from the sustained hygiene maneuvers combined with the freezing temperatures at 24,000 ft, where the air temperature dropped to 40° below zero. Metal contracted, springs weakened, belts misaligned.

Standard mechanical failures in extreme conditions. But Howard had no time to troubleshoot. Six BF 109s were reforming for another attack run on the bombers. He still had one gun. 350 rounds remained in that single weapon. Maybe 90 seconds of firing time if he was extremely selective. The German fighters didn’t know his guns had failed.

That gave him an advantage. As long as he kept moving aggressively, kept positioning for shots, the Luftwaffa pilots would have to respect the threat. They’d have to defend. That meant they couldn’t focus entirely on the bombers. AFW190 rolled into a high-side attack against the rearmost B7. Howard turned hard into the threat, lined up his shot, waited until 400 yd, fired a 1second burst, 25 rounds. The Faulk Wolf broke off its attack and dove away.

Howard didn’t know if he’d scored hits. Didn’t matter. The bomber was safe for another 30 seconds. Two more BF 109s came at the formation from opposite sides. Classic Pinsir attack. Howard couldn’t engage both simultaneously. He chose the closer threat, turned toward it. The measures pilot saw Howard coming and broke away early.

The second BF 109 pressed its attack, but had to break hard when Howard reversed toward it. Neither fighter got a clean shot at the bombers. Howard was buying time with aggressive positioning, using his last gun sparingly, making every round count. Inside the B7s, gunners watched through their plexiglass blisters as the lone Mustang fought off attack after attack.

They could see German fighters everywhere could see the P-51 diving and climbing and reversing between the enemy aircraft and their formation. Some bomber crews would later report they counted 40 German fighters in the area. Others estimated 30. All agreed they’d never seen anything like what they were witnessing.

one American fighter staying with them through sustained combat when he could have easily disengaged and headed for home. Howard’s fuel gauge was dropping into the yellow zone. He’d been fighting for 17 minutes. His tactical situation was deteriorating. 30 German fighters remained in the area. His ammunition counter showed 200 rounds left, one gun, fuel for maybe 13 more minutes of combat. The mathematics hadn’t improved. They’d gotten worse.

Three BF- 109s formed up in a tight Vic formation and came straight at the lead B7. Howard dove to intercept. He positioned perfectly. The Germans saw him coming and broke early. Too early. They were respecting his firepower. That meant his bluff was working. But how long could he maintain the deception? How long before the German pilots realized he was barely shooting? AFW190 made a beam attack from the right. Howard turned hard into it, pulled seven G’s. His vision tunnneled.

He centered the gunsite, fired. One second. The Faulk Wolf’s canopy shattered. The fighter peeled away. Howard had scored a solid hit, but that burst had cost him another 25 rounds. 175 remained, less than 5 seconds of ammunition. The Luftwaffa pilots were adjusting their tactics.

They’d recognized Howard was alone and running low on ammunition based on how selectively he was shooting. Two BF- 109s began stalking him, staying on his tail, forcing him to maneuver defensively instead of intercepting attacks on the bombers. If they could pin him in a defensive spiral, the other German fighters could savage the B7 formation unopposed. Howard reversed hard. The pursuing BF 109’s overshot.

He got his nose pointed at the leader. Fired. Nothing happened. His last gun had jammed. He was completely out of ammunition. Howard’s finger was still on the trigger, but no rounds fired. His last functioning gun had quit. Ammunition counter showed 175 rounds remaining, but the weapon wouldn’t cycle. The charging mechanism had frozen solid, or the belt had twisted, or the barrel had overheated.

despite the sub-zero temperatures. Whatever the cause, the result was the same. He was flying a fighter with no working guns over Germany with 30 luftwaffa aircraft still hunting his bombers. The two BF 109s behind him didn’t know his weapons had failed. They broke off their pursuit when Howard pointed his nose at them.

That gave him an idea. The Luftwaffa pilots couldn’t see inside his cockpit. Couldn’t see his guns weren’t firing. They only knew that the American Mustang had been shooting accurately for the past 20 minutes. They had to assume he still had ammunition. Howard could use that assumption. He could bluff.

A FW190 positioned for an attack on the left side B7. Howard turned hard toward it, closed the range to 300 yd, pointed his nose directly at the German fighter. The Faka Wolf pilot saw Howard coming and broke off his attack immediately dove away. Howard didn’t fire because he couldn’t fire, but the German pilot didn’t know that. The threat alone had been enough.

Howard repeated the tactic. Every time a German fighter positioned for an attack run, he turned toward it, closed aggressively, pointed his nose. The Luftwaffa pilots broke off. Some dove, some turned away. None pressed their attacks when they saw the Mustang coming at them.

Howard was defending 300 bomber crewmen with nothing but aggressive maneuvering and the reputation of his earlier gunnery. But the tactic was burning fuel at an unsustainable rate. Each intercept required a hard turn. Each hard turn required full throttle. Each minute of combat was consuming fuel he needed for the 3-hour flight back to England.

His gauge showed 8 minutes of combat endurance remaining. After that, his options narrowed to bailing out over Germany or attempting to glide to Allied lines. Neither was survivable at this distance from friendly territory. The German pilots were starting to recognize something was wrong. Howard was pointing his nose at them, but not firing.

Three BF 109s formed up and came at the bombers simultaneously from different angles. Howard turned toward the closest threat. The Messersmid broke away, but the other two pressed their attacks. Howard couldn’t intercept both. One BF- 109 got within firing range of a B7 named Lucky Lady. The bomber’s waste gunners opened fire. 50 caliber tracers arked across the sky.

The Messid’s attack was wild, inaccurate. The fighter broke away without scoring hits. Howard’s fuel gauge dropped into the red zone. 6 minutes of combat fuel remaining. The B7 formation was still 90 mi from the German border, still 170 mi from the safety of Allied fighter coverage over Belgium. The Luftvafa had time. They had fuel. They had ammunition.

They could wait for Howard to run dry and then destroy the bombers at leisure. AFW190 made another run. Howard intercepted, pointed his nose. The German broke away, but this time the Fwolf pilot didn’t dive far. He pulled back up after 1,000 ft and repositioned. He was testing, probing, trying to determine if Howard was actually shooting or just bluffing.

Two more BF 109s coordinated their approach. Both came at the bombers from different quadrants. Howard turned toward one. It broke away. He reversed toward the second. That pilot held his attack longer, much longer, close to within 300 yards of a B17’s tail before finally breaking hard left. The German was getting bolder. Howard’s bluff was losing effectiveness.

Inside the B7 cockpits, pilots were watching their fuel gauges, too. They’d been flying for 4 hours. Their range was being consumed, but they couldn’t increase speed without breaking formation. couldn’t break formation without losing their defensive firepower.

They had to maintain course and speed and trust that the lone Mustang pilot would keep the Luftvafa at bay. Howard checked his position. The bomber formation was 70 mi from the German border. Now, 20 minutes of flying time, but his fuel gauge showed only 4 minutes of combat endurance left. The mathematics had finally caught up with him. Howard made a decision.

He would stay with the bombers until his fuel forced him to leave or until German fighters shot him down. Those were the only two outcomes. Now, running for home while the B7s were still under attack wasn’t an option he considered. 300 men depended on his presence, even if his guns didn’t work, even if his fuel was nearly gone.

The psychological effect of having a fighter escort was keeping some German pilots cautious. That was worth something. A BF- 109 dove from above. Howard turned into it hard, pulled the Mustang’s nose up at a 70° angle. The Messmmet pilot saw Howard coming and rolled away without firing. Another intercept. Another German fighter deterred, but Howard’s air speed bled off dangerously low in the climb.

His indicated air speed dropped below 200 mph. The Mustang shuddered, nearly stalled. He pushed the nose down to regain speed. That maneuver cost him altitude and fuel. The Luftwaffa pilots were definitely probing now, testing Howard’s responses. A FW190 made a faint at the bombers from the right. Howard turned toward it.

The Faul Wolf broke away immediately, but while Howard was turning right, two BF 109s attacked from the left. They were coordinating using decoys, splitting Howard’s attention. He reversed hard left. The two messes broke off their attacks, but they’d gotten closer than before. Much closer. One had close to within 200 yd of a B17’s tail. Howard’s fuel gauge showed 3 minutes remaining. His tactical situation was impossible. 30 German fighters still in the area.

No ammunition, almost no fuel, 70 mi from the German border. But the B7 crews were watching him, depending on him. He kept fighting. Two FW190s came at the formation simultaneously. Howard turned toward the lead fighter, pointed his nose aggressively. The German held his course longer this time, testing. Howard held his course, too.

Neither fired. Neither broke. They closed to less than 300 yd before both fighters turned away simultaneously. The Focal Wolf pilot had called Howard’s Bluff, but still hadn’t committed fully to the attack. Still wasn’t certain the American Mustang was actually out of ammunition. A BF 109 attacked from below.

Classic underbelly approach where bomber gunners had limited fields of fire. Howard rolled inverted and pulled through. Dove at the Messersmidt. The German broke hard right and dove away. Howard pulled back up to the bombers’s altitude. That defensive maneuver had cost him precious fuel. His gauge showed 2 minutes of combat endurance, maybe less.

The bomber formation crossed over a small German town. Howard could see the terrain below clearly. Snow-covered fields, dark forest, roads, railways, all enemy territory. If his fuel ran out now, he’d have to bail out, become a prisoner of war, spend the rest of the conflict in a German Stalag, assuming the German civilians below didn’t find him first.

Downed Allied airmen weren’t always treated well by civilians whose cities had been bombed. Three BF 109s positioned for a coordinated attack, one high, one level, one low. All attacking the same B7 from different angles. Howard couldn’t intercept all three. He chose the high threat. Turned hard into it, the Messersmid broke away, but the other two pressed their attacks.

The level fighter closed to within 150 yards of a B7 named Texas Rose before breaking off. The low fighter got even closer, fired a burst. Tracers arked across the sky. Most missed, but some didn’t. Howard saw bullet strikes spark along the B7’s right wing. The bomber stayed in formation, didn’t fall out, didn’t catch fire, but it had been hit. The Loof Waffle pilots had drawn blood.

They’d proven they could damage the bombers despite Howard’s presence. That would embolden them, make them more aggressive. Howard’s bluff was failing. His fuel gauge dropped below 2 minutes. The bomber formation was still 60 mi from the German border. Still 15 minutes of flying time. Howard’s fuel would run out long before they reached safety. The Luftwaffa pilots knew it too.

They began positioning for another mass attack. Six German fighters formed up in two Vicks of three aircraft each. Textbook formation attack. They would come at the bombers from opposite sides simultaneously. Force Howard to choose which threat to intercept. Whichever side he didn’t defend would have free shots at the B7s.

How would watch them positioning, calculated the geometry, realized he couldn’t stop both groups, but he could try to disrupt their timing. He turned toward the first Vic of BF 109s, accelerated toward them aggressively. The German formation held course. They weren’t breaking this time. They’d committed to the attack.

Howard kept his nose pointed at the lead measures. Close to 400 yd, 300, 250. The Germans still weren’t breaking. Howard’s finger twitched on his useless trigger. At 200 yards, the German formation finally scattered, split apart. The coordinated attack fell apart. But the second Vic was already diving on the bombers from the opposite side. Howard reversed hard. 7G turn. His vision grayed at the edges.

Blood drained from his head. He fought through it. got his nose pointed at the second formation, but he was too far away, too slow to intercept. Three FW190s dove at a B7 from 12:00 high. The bombers’s top turret gunner opened fire. Tracers streamed upward. The German fighters pressed through the defensive fire. All three opened fire simultaneously.

50 caliber rounds from the B7 met 20 mm canning shells from the fogwolves in the air between them. One FW190 took hits. Smoke poured from its engine. The fighter rolled left and dropped away. But the other two fuckwolves scored hits on the B7. Howard saw cannon strikes walk across the bomber’s fuselage.

The B7’s number three engine began trailing black smoke. The propeller continued spinning. The bomber stayed in formation, but it had been damaged. Seriously damaged. Howard’s fuel gauge showed 90 seconds of combat endurance remaining. His mind calculated the options. He could stay until his engine quit, try to glide toward friendly lines, hope to make it far enough to bail out over Belgium instead of Germany, or he could turn for home now while he still had fuel for the flight back to England, save himself,

leave the bombers to face the Luftwaffa alone for the final 50 m to the German border. He stayed. The mathematics didn’t matter anymore. The fuel didn’t matter. Howard committed to staying with those B7s until his Mustang fell out of the sky. That decision simplified everything.

No more calculating fuel consumption. No more planning his exit. He would fight until his aircraft quit flying. Four BF 109s attacked from below. Belly attacks where the bomber’s defensive firepower was weakest. Howard rolled inverted and dove at them. The measures scattered. Two broke left, two broke right. Howard pulled through and climbed back to the bomber’s altitude.

His fuel gauge showed 60 seconds remaining. His engine was still running on fumes and willpower. The damaged B17 with the smoking engine began falling behind the formation, losing air speed, dropping altitude, becoming an isolated target. The Luftwaffa pilots saw it immediately. saw the wounded bomber separating from the protection of the formation’s mass defensive fire.

Three FW190s turned toward it like sharks sensing blood. Howard turned with them, positioned between the German fighters and the damaged bomber. The Faulk Wolves came in fast. Howard turned toward the leader. The German held his course. Didn’t break. Kept coming. Howard held his course, too. They were playing chicken at 400 mph. Both aircraft closing head-on.

Closure rate 800 mph. 6 seconds to collision. 5 seconds. Four. At 3 seconds, the FW190 broke hard right. Dove away. Howard had won the game of nerve, but the other two Faulk Wolves used the distraction to attack the damaged bomber from opposite sides. Howard reversed toward them. Too late. Both German fighters fired. Both scored hits.

The B7’s number three engine burst into flames. The crew shut it down, feathered the propeller. The bomber dropped further behind the formation. Howard positioned himself between the damaged aircraft and the circling Luftwaffa fighters. His fuel gauge showed 30 seconds remaining. His engine would quit any moment now. Howard’s engine coughed, skipped a beat.

His fuel pressure gauge flickered. The Packard Merlin V1650 was sucking vapor from nearly empty tanks. He had seconds before the engine quit completely. The damaged B7 was 2 mi behind the main formation now, losing altitude steadily. Three engines couldn’t maintain level flight at this weight and altitude. The bomber crew was lightening the aircraft. Howard could see objects falling from the bomb bay.

Ammunition boxes, equipment, anything heavy that wasn’t essential. They were fighting for altitude, fighting to stay airborne long enough to reach friendly territory. Five BF 109s circled the wounded bomber like wolves around injured prey. They recognized the kill opportunity. A B7 separated from formation protection.

Down one engine, losing altitude, slow, vulnerable, easy target. The measure positioned for a coordinated attack. Howard turned to intercept. His engine coughed again, ran smooth for three seconds, coughed twice more. The fuel was gone. He was flying on residual fuel in the lines and carburetor. The first BF 109 dove at the damaged bomber.

Howard turned hard into the attack, pointed his nose at the Messers. The German pilot broke away. Second intercept. Howard’s engine ran rough, misfired, caught again, kept running. A second BF- 109 attacked from the opposite side. Howard reversed. His Mustang’s roll rate saved him. He got his nose around fast enough to threaten the attacker. The German broke off, but three more measures were positioning.

They had recognized Howard’s engine was failing, could hear it running rough from a half mile away, could see his air speed dropping as his power output decreased. They knew his combat effectiveness was finished. They pressed their attacks more aggressively, held their approach courses longer before breaking away, testing how much fight Howard had left. Howard’s altimeter showed he was losing altitude, too.

His rough running engine wasn’t producing enough power to maintain level flight. He was descending slowly, 200 ft per minute. If his engine quit completely, he’d be in a glide, 4 minutes maximum, until he’d be forced to bail out or attempt a crash landing in enemy territory. The main B7 formation was now 5 mi ahead, still on course for the German border, still 45 mi from safety.

The damaged bomber behind Howard was losing altitude faster now, down to 21,000 ft. The crew had jettisoned everything they could. The aircraft was as light as possible, but three engines weren’t enough. They needed a miracle or they needed fighter escort. Howard was trying to provide the escort, but his Mustang was dying.

Two BF 109s attacked simultaneously from opposite beam angles. Classic Pinser. Howard turned toward one. His engine quit completely. Dead silence except for wind noise. The Messormid pilot saw Howard’s propeller stop spinning. Saw the engine was finished. The German pressed his attack close to 300 yd 200.

Lined up his shot on the B7. Howard’s Mustang was a glider now. No power, no thrust, just momentum and altitude. He nosed down to maintain air speed, turned toward the attacking BF 109, pointed his dead aircraft at the German fighter. The measures pilot hesitated, broke away.

Even with a dead engine, Howard was still threatening, still positioning aggressively. The bluff was working even in a powerless glider. But Howard’s altitude was bleeding away fast. He descended through 20,000 ft. 19,000 18,000. His air speed was dropping too. Without power, he couldn’t maintain combat speeds, couldn’t turn as hard, couldn’t intercept as effectively.

The Luftwaffa pilots recognized his weakness. Four BF 109s formed up for a final mass attack on the damaged bomber. Howard turned toward them. His Mustang was barely responding now. Low air speed, low altitude, no power. He was gliding into an attack against four German fighters who knew he was finished. The mathematics had finally caught up.

30 minutes of combat, zero ammunition, zero fuel, one powerless Mustang against four fully armed enemy fighters. Then Howard saw something on the horizon to the west. Small dots, aircraft approaching fast. The dots resolved into P47 Thunderbolts, eight of them, fresh from forward bases in Belgium. They’d been scrambled to provide relief escort for the returning bomber formations.

The thunderbolts were still climbing, still 5 minutes away. But their presence changed everything. The Luftwaffa pilots saw them, too. Saw eight fresh American fighters with full ammunition and fuel closing fast. The mathematics had reversed. The four BF 109’s positioning to attack the damage bomber broke off, turned east, headed back toward their bases in Germany.

The other Luftwaffa fighters scattered across the sky did the same. Within 90 seconds, the German fighters were gone. Disappeared into the clouds and haze. The 30-inute battle was over. Howard’s B7s were safe. But Howard wasn’t safe. His Mustang was gliding through 17,000 ft with no power. He was descending at 800 ft per minute.

His air speed showed 190 mph and dropping. He needed to restart his engine or find a place to land. German territory stretched below him for another 40 mi. Beyond that was Belgium, then Allied lines, then England. Howard checked his fuel gauges again. Both tanks showed empty, completely dry, but aircraft fuel systems had residual fuel in the lines in the carburetor. Sometimes enough to restart an engine for a few seconds, maybe a minute if the pilot was lucky.

Howard reached for his fuel selector, switched from main tanks to reserve, turned his fuel boost pump to emergency high, hit his starter. The propeller turned once, twice. The engine caught, fired, ran rough for 3 seconds, then quit again. Not enough fuel. Howard tried again. Switched tanks, pumped the throttle, hit the starter.

The engine caught again, ran for 5 seconds this time, coughed, died. But those 5 seconds of power had arrested his descent, bought him altitude, given him options. The lead P47 pilot called Howard on the radio, asked for his status. Howard keyed his microphone, reported his fuel situation, explained he was attempting to glide to friendly territory.

The Thunderbolt leader acknowledged, positioned his flight to escort Howard West. Two P47s stayed with a damaged B7. The other six formed up around Howard’s gliding Mustang. Howard descended through 15,000 ft, 12,000, 10,000. Below him, he could see the Belgian border, rivers, roads, small towns. He was gliding at a ratio of approximately 10 ft forward for every foot of altitude lost.

From 10,000 ft, he could glide roughly 19 mi. The Belgian border was 22 mi ahead. He was going to fall short. Land in Germany. Unless he could coax more power from his dying engine, he tried again. Fuel selector to auxiliary tank. Boost pump to high. Mixture rich. Throttle cracked open slightly. Starter engaged. The engine turned. Caught. Fired. ran rough but stayed running.

30 seconds, 40 seconds, 1 minute. The engine was pulling fuel from somewhere. Maybe condensation in the tanks, maybe residual vapors. Whatever the source, Howard had power, limited power, intermittent power, but enough to shallow his descent. He leveled off at 8,000 ft.

His engine coughed, ran smooth, coughed again, kept running. The Belgian border passed beneath his wings. He was over friendly territory now. Allied air bases were scattered across Belgium. He could reach one probably if his engine kept running for another 10 minutes. The damaged B7 was descending too. The crew had shut down a second engine.

Number four was overheating, running rough. They’d shut it down to prevent fire. The bomber was flying on two engines now. Unable to maintain altitude, descending steadily toward Belgium, the crew would have to crash land or bail out. They wouldn’t make it back to England. Howard’s engine quit again. This time, it wouldn’t restart.

He was gliding through 7,000 ft over Belgium, Allied territory, safe from German fighters, but still 40 m from the nearest suitable airfield. He needed more altitude, or he’d be landing in a Belgian farmer’s field. His instruments showed his glide ratio deteriorating, air speed dropping, rate of descent increasing. Below him, he saw an Allied air strip, small, probably a forward fighter base, single runway, emergency landing field. It was 15 mi ahead. He was at 6,000 ft.

The math was close, very close. Howard descended through 5,000 ft. The airfield ahead was 12 m away. His glide path intersected the runway approach at approximately 1,000 ft. He’d have one chance. No engine meant no goaround. No second attempt. He’d land on the first pass or crash short of the runway. The mathematics were absolute. He trimmed his Mustang for best glide speed.

175 mph. Lowered his landing gear at 3,000 ft. The gear doors opened, the wheels extended, locked down. The additional drag steepened his descent angle. He compensated by nosing down slightly, maintained his glide speed. 4,000 ft 3,000 2,000. The runway was directly ahead. 3 mi 2 m.

At 1,000 ft, Howard crossed the airfield boundary. His altitude was perfect. His approach angle was good. He crossed the runway threshold at 70 ft. 50 30 flared. The main wheels touched first, then the tail wheel. The Mustang rolled straight down the center line. Slowed, stopped.

Howard had landed safely at a forward Belgian fighter base designated A70 near Antworp. Ground crew swarmed his aircraft immediately. Found his fuel tanks bone dry. Found three of his four guns jammed solid. found his ammunition counter showing 175 rounds remaining in his one functioning gun, the gun that had quit firing. Howard climbed out, reported to the base operations officer, explained he’d been escorting B7s over Osher Sleven, explained he’d engaged enemy fighters.

The operations officer arranged fuel and transport back to RAF Boxstead in England. The bomber crews returned to their bases throughout the afternoon. All the B7s from the 401st bomb group made it back. The damaged aircraft with two engines shut down crash landed at an emergency field in Belgium. The crew survived. Zero fatalities.

At the mission debriefing, 16 B17 pilots reported witnessing the lone Mustang pilot defending their formations for more than 30 minutes against overwhelming enemy numbers. Some crews estimated he’d shot down six German fighters. Others reported four. The bomber group commander, Colonel Harold Bowman, filed an immediate recommendation for the Medal of Honor.

The story reached Stars and Stripes reporter Andy Rooney within 24 hours. Rooney interviewed Howard, interviewed the bomber crews, called it the greatest fighter pilot story of World War II. The article went international. Major James Howard became famous overnight. The Saturday Evening Post ran a feature titled Oneman Air Force.

Popular Science published fighting at 400 mph. True magazine called him the Mustang Whip. Official records credited Howard with three confirmed kills on January 11th, two BF-110s and one FW190. Probable kills on two more. Damaged aircraft uncounted. But the statistics missed the point.

Howard had defended 300 bomber crewmen for 30 minutes without ammunition, without fuel against 30 German fighters. The bomber crews knew what that meant. They knew they’d witnessed something extraordinary. On June 5th, 1944, Lieutenant General Carl Spatz presented Major James Howard with the Medal of Honor at a ceremony in England.

Howard was the only fighter pilot in the European theater to receive the decoration during World War II. His citation noted, “Conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, single-handed attack against more than 30 enemy aircraft, continued fighting after ammunition exhausted, defended bomber formation until relief arrived.

” Howard continued flying combat missions through November 1944. He was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, then to Colonel. After the war, he rose to brigadier general in the Air Force Reserve. He commanded bomb wings, directed airports, ran businesses, wrote his autobiography, Roar of the Tiger, in 1991.

He died on March 18th, 1995 at age 81, buried at Arlington National Cemetery. If James Howard’s story moved you, please hit that like button right now. It tells YouTube to show this story to more people who need to hear it. Hit subscribe and turn on notifications so you never miss another story like this one. We bring you real World War II history every single day.

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