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Author: Stanley Jones

In the summer of 1944, an American Mustang aircraft crashed at Creswell, Stafford, England, killing the pilot. This is the author’s boyhood eyewitness account of that tragic accident along with a reconstruction of the final moments of the flight based on official USAAF & Staffordshire Police Reports and witness statements.

Suddenly and incredibly there it was, out of nowhere, a silver-coloured fighter plane trailing black smoke. It approached from the south, losing altitude fast, before levelling out over Holmcroft Road, moving left to right along the line of Second Avenue. Standing outside our house on First Avenue, my brother John and I scanned the high bright clouds of the late summer afternoon looking for the German plane that might have shot it down, for this was wartime England, July 1944. However, there were no other aircraft in the sky, only the lone plane flying above the red rooftops of the houses, a five-pointed, white-star emblem visible on its side. As it flew past, I could make out the pilot silhouetted in a bubble-type cockpit. Seemingly composed, he was hunched within the canopy close up to the front of the dome, intent no doubt on what lay beyond the plane’s nose. I wondered then, and to this day, whether he chanced to look down to see us standing there looking up, and what in the entire world he would have given in that desperate moment to have been there with us.

I could now see that orange flame laced the smoke. It belched out the right side of the fuselage, enveloping the cockpit before streaming back over the tail. The engine coughed and spluttered, cutting in and out as if having its speed regulated with bursts of throttle. John and I, eight and seven years old respectively, could do little but stand and stare, open-mouthed, our minds filled with a heady mixture of fear and fascination.

The aircraft was a North American Mustang that minutes later would crash and explode in a field of ripening wheat — a half-mile beyond the 'dead-end' of Second Avenue — killing the pilot, twenty-five year old Captain John Pershing Perrin, of the United States Army Air Forces (USAAF) 312th Ferrying Squadron.

Others from nearby houses had rushed out to stand and stare. Many, like us, excited children, along with anxious looking grown-ups, all turning to run up First Avenue in the direction of a column of black smoke rising ominously from a distant field.

There was not much left of the plane. At least that was in one piece. A torn wing here, a section of fuselage there, and of course somewhere around — I didn’t know where, or in how many places, nor did I dare ask — the remains of the pilot. A policeman shepherded me back from the scene, but not before a picture of it had been etched in memory — the excitement of being in a dangerous area, the realization of being present at a death. The acrid smell of seared metal and burning aviation fuel permeated the smoke-hazed air. Shapeless pieces of material burned and smouldered; sinister blackened clumps scattered amid the jade-green wheat. Hushed groups of grownups stood about. Knots of grim faces turned toward one another, arms folded, speaking in hushed tones. And coming fast; ploughing through the waist-high wheat like a launch at sea, a bright red fire engine.

Sadness is what we remember most. Along with a sense of awe for the unknown pilot. A profound feeling. One that has stayed with us to this day. A strange mix of admiration and wonderment for what he had faced — and how terribly bravely he had endured it.

Continued at 'The Heroic Story of Captain Perrin Part 2.'

Maps relating to the story can also be found in "The heroic story of Captain Perrin Part 4 - appendix"

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Jim Salveson on behalf of it's author Stanley Jones and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

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