One of my most memorable missions was to bomb a railway bridge, fly around the city of Zagreb to avoid the flack, and then destroy targets of opportunity for about 150 miles on the railroad line south of that city. There were eight of us, two flights of four. One flight flew at about 4,000 feet to provide cover while the other flight was at about 1,000 feet looking for targets. Our flight had shot up two separate trains; you never knew what might be in a string of boxcars, unless they blew up.

At this time, the leader of the flight covering us suggested we pull up and let his flight have a go at the next targets. There was a small grove of trees a couple miles ahead of us with two small locomotives with two or three boxcars, one of the locomotives facing north and the other facing south. As the P-38s approached firing range, the sides of the boxcars dropped and ack-ack guns started firing at the flight. Adrian Hulverson’s plane was hit in one engine, which did not catch fire. He feathered the engine and called out he was heading back to Italy.

Steve Dostal’s P-38 was hit in an engine, which was immediately engulfed in fire. He called out that he couldn't breathe as the cockpit was full of smoke and he was going to bail out. He jettisoned the canopy and was starting to climb out of the cockpit. His wingman, Chateau, called out to Dostal, "Steve, you're too low, get back in the cockpit; I'll help you get down in a little pasture ahead. Bank a little right; lower your nose a bit. Come a little left. Now raise the nose, you’re about to hit. ” The P-38 crash-landed in the pasture pushing up sheets of water.

I'm quite sure none of us thought Steve would get out of his aircraft as it was burning fiercely. But in a few seconds he was out of the cockpit, slid off the wing, waved a map and high tailed across the pasture to some woods maybe a half mile away. We thought he would be caught by the gunners who had shot him down or some other German soldiers in the area. In any case, we thought Steve would probably spend the rest of the war in a German stalag. We also knew that some downed airmen were killed by angry farmers before soldiers arrived to take them prisoner.

When we returned from this mission my crew chief called to me in the cockpit “you have a six inch flak hole in the right engine nacelle." I did not know I had been hit during all the excitement of the moment. Obviously, the flak had not damaged oil, coolant or hydraulic lines as everything functioned properly on the way back to our base.

We could not believe what we were seeing when, two months later, a heavily sun tanned man appeared wearing a Marshall Tito partisan uniform with a German Lugar pistol on his hip. It was Steve Dostal! The story he told of the last two months was also nearly unbelievable.

Steve said he had kept running into the wooded area until he collapsed from exhaustion. He came to with an old man jabbing him with the end of his walking stick. Steve, of Slavic descent tried to convince him that he was an American pilot. He spoke a few Slavic words the old man might understand, showed the old man the U.S. flag on the back of his jacket and carefully pulled a package of American cigarettes from his pocket.

When Steve tried to get up he found one of his knees was not working due to hitting something in the cockpit in the crash. The old man went and brought two men who helped Steve get to a house where the owner was known for helping downed aircrew to get out of Yugoslavia. To shorten Steve’s story somewhat, the owner said he had many enemies. He had guard dogs, but if they didn’t give a warning and someone came to the house and called for him who he did not recognize, he would leave by one door, Steve was to wait a few seconds and leave by another door and run for his life.

One night, with no warning from the guard dogs (probably poisoned) the owner did not recognize the voices of those who were calling, he and Steve followed the escape plan. Steve took off running through the woods, and was again befriended by someone in another small town. Food was always short and he was invited to a different house each night to share their dinner.

He was often asked, “Why don't you drop one of those tanks you carry under your airplane so we have it to take a bath in?” They did not realize it would be smashed and useless upon hitting the ground. After some time he and two other aircrew people who had also been hiding out were guided to a small airstrip used to bring military supplies to Marshall Tito. They hitched a ride on a B-24 and Steve was dropped off back in Italy.

Several years after the war ended, Steve Dostal made two trips back to Yugoslavia, and found the village and the house where the owner first sheltered him. The son told Steve that his father, now deceased, had been caught and hung up on a tree limb by a butchers hook under his jaw. He was later rescued by friends.

Steve was reluctant to talk much about his experience during our first few reunions. So, the rest of us would re-tell the story from what Steve had told us the day he surprisingly showed up at our Italian base.

One particular mission comes to mind. This one stars a skinny little guy by the name of Steve Dostal. This was a strafing mission, a train yard near Varazdin, Yugoslavia. I remember making a run ninety degrees to a train that was stopped in a station, and soldiers were running every which way. As I was making a turn away from the station, I saw a 38 gliding low over some trees, trailing smoke from the cockpit. There was a cleared field just past the trees, and the pilot was obviously heading for it. Several of us circled the field as the 38 bellied in. It skidded to a stop straight ahead, fairly intact. The pilot popped the canopy jumped out and headed for the woods near the edge of the field. We flew cover for a while, even after he disappeared, until Red Leader told us to form the hell up and get out of there. So much for that sortie!

Several weeks later some rather well-fed, slightly rotund fellow came into our squadron area. He had a beard, bandoliers crossing his chest, at least two automatic pistols strapped to his waist. He was obviously some Yugo Partisan, checking out our layout. He was, you guessed it, Steve Dostal, returning to duty!!