o There have been more than 60,000 American military fighter pilots; fewer than 1,500 became aces.
— House Resolution 685
The list of American fighter aces from World War I through Vietnam is available here.
Clayton Kelly Gross is the author of “Live Bait,” an account of his World War II experiences.
Almost 70 years after flying a middle-of-the-night mission on D-Day, Clayton Kelly Gross was on another midnight flight authorized by top-level command.
On the night of June 5, 1944, Gross was escorting glider troops to Normandy. A couple of weeks ago, his objective was the White House.
Gross was one of four former fighter pilots in the Oval Office on May 23 when President Barack Obama signed the American Fighter Aces Congressional Gold Medal Act. The four fliers represented all American fighter aces — pilots who shot down five or more enemy planes in aerial combat.
The Vancouver veteran was credited with six confirmed air victories, including a Messerschmitt 262 — the world’s first operational jet fighter.
Gross and his wingman also teamed on a “probable.” He damaged eight more German planes in aerial combat and destroyed two on the ground.
Clayton and his wife, Ramona, didn’t get much advance notice of their trip to Washington, D.C. He was reading his email at 11 a.m. May 22, Gross said, when Ramona answered the phone.
She said the caller was hoping they could be in Washington, D.C., for the Friday ceremony.
“We flew out at 11:30 p.m. that night,” Gross, 93, said.
Gross, a former president of the American Fighter Aces Association, was joined in the Oval Office ceremony by three World War II Navy aces: Fred “Buck” Dungan, Charles Watts and Tilman Pool.
The four aces represent a vanishing breed, said Doug King, president and CEO of the Museum of Flight. The Seattle museum is the home of the American Fighter Aces Association and was an advocate for the gold medal.
“There have been 1,500 American aces from World War I through Vietnam, and there are fewer than 100 left,” King said.
And there aren’t likely to be any American fighter aces in the future: “That’s not the way we fight wars now,” King said.
One gold medal will be minted and then presented to the Smithsonian Institution. Bronze duplicates will be minted for purchase, and the Vancouver couple plan to get some for family members, Ramona said.
But Gross, a retired dentist, didn’t leave the White House empty-handed. On the way out of the Oval Office, Gross received a commemorative Commander in Chief coin from Obama.
Right after the ceremony recognizing the fighter pilots, a similar signing was held to authorize a Congressional Gold Medal for another aviation group, the World War II Doolittle Raiders. A Vancouver B-25 crewman was among the 80 men who bombed Tokyo on April 18, 1942. Wayne Bissell died in 1997; the four surviving members were at the White House signing May 23.
Two D-Day missions
Gross flew a P-51 Mustang he named “Live Bait,” thanks to a commanding officer’s battle plan. Gross was told to fly low and maybe draw some enemy fighters while the commander kept an eye on him from above.
“I said, ‘What do you think I am: live bait?’?” Gross said. “He said, ‘Yes.’?”
Gross also used the name “Live Bait” for the title of his WWII memoirs.
Like many Americans, Gross is looking back this week on the 70th anniversary of D-Day. His timetable is a little different, though. The landings in Normandy were June 6, but Gross was in the air on June 5.
“We knew the invasion was coming because of all the buildup of men and supplies,” the Fairway Village resident said. “When we were restricted to base, that meant we were getting close.”
With fellow pilots, Gross had finished dinner June 5 and was following it up with a beer when the executive officer walked into the club.
“Close the bar,” he ordered. “We’re going to fly!”
When they took off at 11 p.m., Gross said, “I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. The only thing you could see was flames from other planes’ exhausts.”
They rendezvoused with C-47 transports that were towing gliders filled with soldiers and equipment. The glider troops were to land behind the Germans’ front-line defenses before the Allied troops hit the invasion beaches at dawn.
The sun was up when they flew their second glider escort mission, and Gross could see what D-Day was all about.
“I had a seat on the 50-yard line of the invasion,” Gross said. “The sea was black with ships.”
Don’t worry if something goes wrong and you have to bail out over the English Channel, Gross told the other fliers: “You can walk back to England on all those ships.”
A couple of weeks later, Gross learned that some of those glider pilots weren’t as lucky. Gross was having engine problems and headed for an advance landing field that had been set up on a flat stretch of countryside.
“When I was circling the field, I counted 13 glider wrecks,” Gross said.
After he parked “Live Bait,” something nearby caught his eye.
“Thirteen graves, all marked flight officer so-and-so. Every single glider pilot died” in those 13 wrecks.
In his book, Gross wrote that the two D-Day missions were his most memorable up to that point in the war.
Former enemies meet
Just about as memorable was his attack on the Me 262. He didn’t just get his final air victory of the war, Gross said; he got a friend.
Gross was at 12,000 feet when he saw the twin-engine German jet flying at 2,000 feet. Gross went into a steep dive and was unable to control his Mustang. He forgot about the Me 262 and pulled back on the stick.
When the P-51 finally leveled off, Gross was amazed to see the jet right in front of him. Gross started firing, and his first burst hit the left engine. The German started to climb straight up, and Gross thought his target was getting away. Then the jet slid down, tail first, and the pilot bailed out.
As the German swung from his parachute harness, Gross circled him in what he called kind of a victory lap.
Fifty years later, there was a more face-to-face encounter. Gross visited a German fighter pilot convention and met Kurt Lobgesong, the jet pilot who had become a high school teacher after the war.
“Both he and his wife gave me a big hug.”
When Lobgesong was shot down and his side was wounded, there were 25 pilots in his squadron. Two weeks later, only four remained, he said.
Through an interpreter, Lobgesong told Gross: “Because of my wounds, I did not fly any more in the war. You saved my life.”
