By T.M. Shultz
The Daily Courier
He wasn’t there long enough to name his plane.
It was March 29, 1944, and Prescott Valley retiree William “Bill” Newell was a skinny 19-year-old fighter pilot serving in Debden, England. He had been there a month. Already he had gone on 12 missions, either escorting waves of American bombers into Germany or just prowling the skies, looking for Germans to shoot down.
Most pilots painted names on their planes. If Newell had been there longer, he says, he would have named his P-51 Mustang “Miss Pat” after his wife, Patricia. Patricia was living with her parents in Dearborn, Mich., patiently waiting for her young husband to return.
They were high school sweethearts, married just weeks before Newell left for England. He loved her from the moment he first saw her. He missed her terribly.
The day of his 13th mission dawned, but he did not think it was an omen. He did not believe in such things. Still, as he washed and shaved in the pre-dawn hours and then sat through the mission briefing, Newell felt uneasy. “For some unknown reason that morning, I was a little bit more nervous than I’d ever been before,” Newell recalled. He shrugged it off.
The mission was to meet up with bombers over Brunswick, Germany, and escort them back to England.
“As we were approaching Brunswick – we hadn’t gotten in contact with the bombers yet – this group of FW-190s came busting through the formation,” Newell recounted. Widely regarded as Germany’s best fighter, the Focke Wulf 190 bristled with 20 mm canons and machine guns.
“I got hit with a cannon shell,” Newell said. “All I could feel was this big thump. At first I thought I was on fire because the cockpit filled with what I thought was smoke. It was really coolant from the engine. All this coolant misted and came up into the cockpit and just kind of glazed everything inside the cockpit with a fine oil.”
He had to slide the side windows open to see. He wanted to bail out.
“I remember grabbing the emergency release handle,” Newell said. The canopy did not jettison. Instead, the handle broke off and he knew he could get out only if he forced the canopy open by hand. He decided to wait.
“I started climbing the airplane back up, because by this time, I was down to about 8,000 feet.” If he could catch up to his fellow pilots, they would guide him back to England.
Fifteen minutes later two planes from his group swung in beside him.
One was piloted by Dominic Gentile. The other was flown by John Godfrey. Both were famous fighter aces, claiming several “kills” apiece. The trio flew together for 10 minutes until Newell’s engine overheated.This time his plane – billowing smoke – really was on fire.
He pried open the canopy and jumped.
“I don’t think I waited 10 seconds to pull the chute handle,” Newell said, laughing. “They always said, ‘Count to 10 before you pull the ripcord.’ I didn’t. I jumped and pulled.”
The descent seemed to take forever. He had time to pull his boots back on after the force of the opening parachute yanked them half off his feet. He was falling into a field complete with two gun-toting German farmers. He slammed into the ground, but miraculously was unhurt.
“German soldiers came up in a car and took me to the nearest town,” Newell said. After interrogation, the Germans transferred him to a prison camp near Barth, Germany. Newell remained at Stalag Luft 1 through his 20th and 21st birthdays until shortly after the Russian army liberated the camp on April 30, 1945.
Newell said the Germans never mistreated him, although food was scarce and wormy. The prisoners showered once a month, lost weight and grew ill. At the end, after the Russians came, Newell saw murdered women and children lying just outside the camp. But through it all, he never had any doubts he would survive.
“I was only 19 years old,” Newell said. “I was just a kid. Thoughts like that never entered my head.”
What did worry him was his wife. For the first three months after Newell was shot down, officials told Patricia only that he was missing in action. The heart-wrenching news came unceremoniously by telegram. Later, she wrote long letters and sent packages to him, saving up her food ration stamps to buy her husband chocolate bars that the Germans ate.
What sustained Newell throughout his ordeal was pictures of his wife – especially one with a lock of her hair carefully tucked inside its plastic wrapping. He has faithfully carried that picture in his wallet ever since.
When Newell finally went home, all Patricia knew was that her husband was somewhere in the United States. She did not know he was heading straight for Dearborn.
“I just showed up in the middle of the night at the front door,” Newell recalled, smiling.
When Patricia answered his knock, she cried.
Not one for introspection, Newell has not thought much about how his war experiences have affected him.
“Those things are hard to understand,” says Newell, now 83.
What counted most in his life, he continues, was the 32-year stint after the war that he spent as a pilot with Western Airlines.
And his four children. And the wife he loved for more than 63 years. He still remembers their first date, their first kiss. He’ll always remember. Patricia died three months ago.
“No, I really can’t point to anything that I would say has changed me in any way,” Newell says, pausing.
“Except, really, the loss of my wife.”
Was she proud of him?
“Oh yes,” Newell replied. ” And I was proud of her.”