Germans captured two American pilots – they squeezed into a single-seat P-51 and flew home together.

At 2:47 p.m. on August 18, 1944, Lieutenant Royce Priest watched as his squadron leader’s P-51 Mustang burst into flames over occupied France. Black smoke billowed from the engine as the badly damaged fighter crashed into a wheat field 20 meters behind German lines. Priest was 21 years old, had only two months of combat experience, and the man he idolized was about to become a prisoner of war.

The Germans had hidden an anti-aircraft battery in a railway carriage. When Major Bert Marshall launched a low-level attack near STN with his four aircraft, the carriage’s side walls opened, revealing 20mm and 40mm anti-aircraft guns already trained on them. The ambush struck the formation at close range. In August 1944, the US Eighth Air Force was losing pilots over France at an alarming rate.

The German flag batteries had become masters of camouflage. They disguised their gun emplacements as haystacks, farm buildings, and now also as railway cars marked with red crosses. American fighter planes conducting low-level attacks found themselves facing a gauntlet of concealed fire. The 355th Fighter Group alone had lost 17 pilots in the preceding two months.

Some were killed instantly. Others were forced to make emergency landings in enemy territory and spent the rest of the war in Stalagluft prisoner-of-war camps. Some disappeared without a trace, their fate remaining unknown. Major Marshall wasn’t supposed to be flying that day. As commander of the 354th Fighter Squadron, he could have delegated the mission to his squadron leaders, but Marshall was known for fighting on the front lines himself.

He joined the squadron in early June with only three flight hours on the P-51, having been retrained from the P-40. His second combat mission was D-Day itself. On June 6, he shot down a German Ju 87 Stooka over the beaches of Normandy. Two weeks later, he destroyed two Bf 109s. By the beginning of August, he already had five confirmed kills, quickly becoming a fighter ace in the history of the 355th Fighter Group.

His aggressive flying style earned him rapid promotions. From pilot to squadron leader in a few days. From squadron leader to operations officer in two weeks. From operations officer to wing commander in less than two months. Now, this very same aggressive style had landed him in a burning cockpit over enemy territory. Lieutenant Priest had known Bert Marshall long before the war.

Marshall was a three-time All-State quarterback in Texas high school football and had received an honorable mention as an All-American at Vanderbilt University. When Priest learned they were being assigned to the same squadron, he considered it the luckiest moment of his military career. He had studied Marshall’s tactics, copied his maneuvers, and tried to absorb everything the older pilot could teach him.

Priest watched as Marshall’s Mustang left trails of fire in its wake as it descended. The P-51’s Merlin engine had been hit directly below the exhaust. A second hit had punctured the radiator’s air scoop, and coolant was leaking into the airstream. The aircraft had only a few minutes of flight time left, perhaps less. The standard procedure was clear: if a pilot crashed behind enemy lines, his wingmen were to note the position, radio the coordinates to the search and rescue team, and return to base.

An interception attempt wasn’t just discouraged, it was considered impossible. The P-51 Mustang was a single-seat fighter. There was no room for passengers. There was no protocol for landing in enemy wheat fields. There was no training for what Lieutenant Priest was planning. If you want to know how Priest’s impossible decision turned out, please click “Like”.

It helps us share these forgotten stories with more people. Subscribe if you haven’t already. Back to Priest. Marshall’s burning Mustang disappeared beneath the trees. Priest pushed the control stick forward and began his descent toward the same wheat field. His radio crackled—an order from Marshall.

The squadron commander ordered him to abort the attack. Priest’s hand went to the radio switch. He could have acknowledged the order and returned to England. He could have followed regulations and let the Germans capture Marshall. His hand paused. He had already made his decision. The P-51 Mustang had never been designed for landings in wheat fields. Its liquid-cooled Packard Merlin engine sat low in the fuselage, the radiator air intake protruding beneath the fuselage.

Any obstacle higher than 45 cm could damage the cooling system and destroy the engine. The retractable landing gear was designed for paved runways, not for soft French farmland. A single bump or hidden stone could cause the landing gear to buckle and the aircraft to tip over. Priest ignored all of this.

He extended the flaps to 40°, reduced his speed to 145 km/h, and headed for the longest golden wheat field he could find. The Mustang’s nose obstructed his view forward during the descent. He had to judge his approach by looking sideways out of the canopy and estimating his altitude above the grain by the stalks rushing past his wingtip.

The wheels hit the ground hard. The plane bounced once or twice, then sank into the soft earth. Stalks of wheat whipped against the fuselage as Priest hit the brakes. The Mustang slowed, shuddered, and finally came to a stop 300 meters from the tree line, where Marshall’s burning plane had disappeared. Priest immediately swung the fighter back in the direction from which he had come.

If he needed to take off quickly, he couldn’t afford to waste time turning. The wheat field stretched about 800 meters downwind. That would have to be enough. Above him, the two remaining pilots of his squadron circled at 1,500 feet. They had watched his landing in disbelief. Now they were scanning the streets and the helicopters for signs of German reaction.

The answer came quickly. A military truck appeared on a dirt track about a kilometer to the east and sped toward the wheat field. The tarpaulin over the cargo bed suggested infantry. Based on the size of the vehicle, Priest estimated the number of soldiers at 20 to 30. The two Mustangs mounted above them rolled forward without hesitation to attack.

Their six .50-caliber machine guns could each fire 14 rounds per second. The lead pilot opened fire at 400 yards, his tracer rounds traversing the road and striking the truck’s engine compartment. The vehicle spun out, caught fire, and rolled into a ditch. The second Mustang shelled the wreckage to ensure no survivors reached the field, but the circling pilot detected further movement.

A second truck approached from the north. A motorcycle with a sidecar had appeared on a dirt track to the south. German patrols arrived at the crash site from several directions. Time was running out. Priest stood in his cockpit, scanning the row of trees for Marshall. Smoke rose from the woods where the squadron commander had crashed.

Marshall would have destroyed his plane by now. Every pilot carried thermite grenades to destroy downed fighter planes and prevent their technology from falling into enemy hands. The Mustang’s Merlin engine, its K14 sight, its IFFF transponder—everything had to be incinerated. Two minutes passed. The Mustang launched another low-level attack on the approaching motorcycle, scattering its occupants in a hedgerow.

Priest calculated the remaining time. The soft ground had left deep ruts behind his wheels. He needed full power on every inch of the runway for takeoff. The added weight of a second man in the single-seater cockpit would increase his stall speed and lengthen the takeoff distance. The calculations were merciless. The runway might not be long enough. Three minutes.

Still no sign of Marshall. The second truck had stopped about 400 meters away. Priest saw soldiers get out, split into a skirmish line, and advance on foot through the wheat field. Then, suddenly, a figure emerged from the woods. Major Bert Marshall ran toward the Mustang. His flight suit was blackened with soot, his face contorted with rage.

He waved his arms, not in greeting, but angrily. He ordered Priest to fly off without him. Priest did the only thing he could think of. He climbed out of the cockpit, untied his parachute harness, and threw it onto the wing. Then he took out his life raft and threw it into the grain field. Without a parachute, he couldn’t save himself if the engine failed on the return flight.

Without the dinghy, he would drown if they crashed over the English Channel. He made his intentions unmistakable. He would not leave France without his commander. Marshall stopped. He stood about 50 meters from the aircraft and stared at the equipment left behind on the wing. The German soldiers were now visible above the wheat, their helmets bobbing as they pushed their way through the stalks.

The Mustangs overhead had fired most of their ammunition at the trucks. They could still make one, maybe two, low-level attacks before their cannons ran out. Marshall sprinted the last few meters to the aircraft. The cockpit of a P-51D Mustang was 96.5 cm wide and 106.7 cm high (from the seat to the canopy). The space was designed for a pilot with a parachute, survival vest, and life jacket.

It wasn’t designed for two fully grown men. Marshall was 1.80 meters tall and weighed about 77 kg. Priest was slightly shorter, but still met the standard dimensions for flight equipment. Together, they would occupy a space meant for only one person. Marshall climbed onto the wing first. He lowered himself into the cockpit and slid down as far as he could, his back pressed against the armored seat, his legs stretched out under the instrument panel next to the control stick.

Priest climbed in behind him and lowered himself onto Marshall’s lap, his legs wrapped around his commander’s thighs. Their bodies were pressed together like cargo in a crate. The control stick protruded between Priest’s knees. His shoulders pressed against Marshall’s chest. Their heads almost touched the glass of the cockpit canopy.

Priest reached up and pulled the canopy shut. It clicked into place, just inches above his flight helmet. The two men could barely breathe in the cramped space. The August heat inside the canopy was oppressive. Sweat instantly soaked their flight suits. The instrument panel was partially obscured by Priest’s knees, but he could still make out the most important gauges: fuel pressure, oil temperature, and boost pressure.

He floored the throttle and felt the Merlin engine unleash its full power. 1200 horsepower roared through the fuselage. The propeller gripped the air, pulling the overloaded Mustang through the wheat field. The aircraft accelerated slowly. Too slowly. The combined weight of the two pilots, the full ammunition, and the remaining fuel far exceeded the Mustang’s maximum takeoff weight.

The soft ground scraped against the wheels. Stalks of wheat slapped against the air scoop under the fuselage. Priest watched his speed increase. 60, 70, 80 miles per hour. The row of trees at the end of the field was hurtling toward them. A P-51 Mustang usually took off at about 100 miles per hour. With the added weight, Priest estimated he would need at least 115 miles per hour.

His airspeed indicator read 95 knots. As the trees filled his windshield, he pulled back on the control stick and felt the wheels leave the ground. The aircraft climbed steeply into the air, barely climbing, the stall warning signals blaring in his ears. The treetops seemed to pass only centimeters below.

Branches brushed the fuselage of the aircraft. Then the view cleared, and they slowly climbed over the French countryside. Two men, crammed into a single-seat fighter, alive—against all odds. Behind them, German soldiers emerged from the wheat field and watched as the Mustang disappeared to the west. Their prey had escaped, but Priest and Marshall were still 200 meters from England.

The aircraft was dangerously overloaded. The engine overheated due to the overload, and somewhere ahead, German fighters were hunting for stragglers. The two remaining Mustangs of the flight formed up on either side of Priest’s aircraft as it climbed to 8,000 feet. Their role had changed from combat mission to escort.

With their ammunition nearly depleted, they could no longer engage enemy fighters, but they could keep watch for threats and guide the overloaded aircraft safely back home. Priest leveled the plane and reduced power to cruising speed. The engine temperature gauge had been steadily rising since takeoff, and he needed to cool the Merlin down before it suffered engine failure.

The air scoop under the fuselage had sucked in wheat stalks and other debris while taxiing on the ground. The airflow through the cooling system was partially blocked. The temperature gauge continued to climb toward the red zone with each passing minute. The flight path to England led over 180 miles of occupied France before reaching the Channel coast.

German flag batteries lined the route. The airbases at Ivru Drew and Bouvet could scramble interceptors within minutes if observers reported American aircraft. Priest kept his altitude low enough to evade radar detection, but high enough to allow for a glide landing in case of engine failure. The heat in the cockpit became unbearable.

The canopy of leaves acted like a greenhouse, trapping the August sun. Both men were drenched in sweat. Because Marshall was lying beneath the priest, he felt his full weight pressing down on his legs. Within minutes, his circulation was cut off. First his feet went numb, then his calves, and finally his thighs. He couldn’t move an inch.

The cramped space held them both captive, like prisoners in a medieval torture device. Priest concentrated on flying. The control stick moved between his knees with limited range of motion. His elbows were pressed against his ribs by the narrow cockpit walls. Every input required utmost precision. A sudden movement could have forced the stick against Marshall’s legs and sent the aircraft into a roll.

The escort pilots watched the engine cowling of Priest’s Mustang with growing concern. Coolant was leaking from the radiator, leaving a white trail in the airflow. The Merlin engine was slowly overheating. They estimated that if the temperature continued to rise, it would take another 15 to 20 minutes before it failed completely. Priest noticed the problem on his instruments.

He had two options. He could further reduce power and extend his flight time, but risk not reaching the English Channel before nightfall. Or he could maintain his speed and hope the engine would last long enough to reach friendly waters. He chose speed. Better to crash in the English Channel, where lifeboats patrolled, than over occupied France, where German patrols waited.

After 47 minutes of flight time, the French coast came into view. The white cliffs of the Kotantan peninsula glide past beneath them. It was still occupied by the Allies after the breakout from Normandy. Priest allowed himself a moment of relief. They had left occupied territory. If the engine failed now, they would land among the Allies.

The channel stretched before them, 21 miles of cold, gray water between France and England. Priest had left his dinghy in the wheat field. Marshall had left his with the burning plane. If they fell into the water, both men would survive only a few minutes in the icy current. The engine’s temperature gauge was in the red zone when they had covered half the distance.

Priest watched the needle tremble at its maximum reading and waited for the sudden silence that would signal the Merlin’s final failure. The English coast emerged from the haze: white cliffs, green fields, the distinctive silhouette of the white stripe to the east. The Mustang crossed the English coast with its engine still running.

Priest began his descent toward Steeple Morton, the base of the 355th Fighter Group in Cambridge. The runway was still 96 kilometers away. The engine temperature continued to rise. He had saved his commander from the Germans. Now he had to save them both from the aircraft. The Mustang’s engine began to sputter 19 kilometers from Steeple Morton.

The steady drone of the Merlin engine cut out abruptly as overheated cylinders failed. Priest enriched the fuel mixture and prayed the engine would last another five minutes. The airfield emerged from the summer haze. Two concrete runways formed an X across the Cambridge farmland.

Fire trucks and ambulances were already positioned along the main runway. The tower had received radio messages from the escort pilots. Everyone at Steeple Morton knew that an aircraft was approaching that would be difficult to land. Priest began her approach at 225 km/h, much faster than usual. The overweight Mustang needed the higher speed to maintain lift.

He extended the landing gear and felt the reassuring click of the wheels locking into place. The flaps were extended in 40° increments. The aircraft briefly lifted off, then settled back down. The runway came into view quickly. Priest initiated the landing and felt the main landing gear wheels touch the concrete. The tail dipped. The Mustang rolled along the centerline, slowed gently, the engine sputtering and coughing, but continuing to run.

He applied the brakes and brought the aircraft to a halt in the middle of the runway. Even before the propeller stopped turning, the ground crew rushed to the Mustang. They expected to find a wounded pilot, perhaps a dying man, who had somehow managed to bring his badly damaged aircraft home. But what they found was something no one had ever seen before.

Two pilots emerged from a single cockpit like circus performers from a tiny box. Marshall couldn’t walk. His legs had been trapped under Priest’s weight for almost two hours. His circulation was so completely cut off that he collapsed when he tried to stand on the wing. Ground crew carried him to a waiting ambulance.

Priest climbed down under his own power, his flight suit soaked with sweat, his legs trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. The news spread within minutes throughout the 355th Fighter Group. Pilots gathered around the aircraft to examine the damage. Stalks of wheat protruded from every opening of the fuselage. The radiator air intake was clogged with plant debris and rubble.

Oil stains marred the engine cowling where the overheated engine had begun to leak. The head of ground crew estimated that the Merlin engine had been only seconds away from seizing when Priest shut it down. The mechanics spent two days cleaning the aircraft, removing wheat straw from the landing gear bays, tail wheel housing, cooling fins, and gun ports.

The radiator had to be completely disassembled to remove the stuck debris. Several coolant lines had to be replaced. The engine required a complete overhaul and partial repairs. The rescue operation was unprecedented in the history of the U.S. Eighth Air Force. Other pilots had attempted similar landings to recover downed comrades.

Most attempts ended in disaster. Aircraft had crashed on soft ground, collided with obstacles, or been destroyed by enemy fire before takeoff. No one had managed to successfully land a single-seat fighter behind enemy lines, put a second pilot in the cockpit, and return. News of the priest’s action reached the group headquarters that same evening.

By morning, the news had reached the Eighth Air Fleet Command. The story presented the military leadership with a delicate problem. Lieutenant Priest had twice directly disobeyed a legitimate order from his superior during combat. He had risked a valuable aircraft and his own life in an unauthorized rescue attempt.

According to all regulations and procedures, he should have faced a court-martial, but he had also saved the life of one of the most promising squadron commanders in the European theater of war. Major Bert Marshall was a fighter pilot with five confirmed aerial victories. He was a proven combat leader with aggressive tactics that inspired his men. His capture would have been a grave loss.

The question landed on the desk of Major General James Doolittle, commander of the Eighth US Air Force. The same man who had led the famous attack on Tokyo in 1942 now had to decide the fate of a young lieutenant who had done something both heroic and insubordination. General James Doolittle had already had to make impossible decisions before.

In April 1942, he launched 16 B-25 bombers from the deck of an aircraft carrier, knowing full well that none of them would return. All the planes crashed, landed, or were abandoned due to lack of fuel. Eight crew members were taken prisoner by the Japanese, and three were executed. Doolittle himself had expected a court-martial for the loss of all 16 aircraft.

Instead, he received the Medal of Honor. Now he found himself confronted with a mirror image of his own situation. A young pilot had risked everything on an unauthorized mission and succeeded. The parallel was disturbing. Doolittle requested the complete mission reports of the 355th Fighter Group. He examined the radio logs, the witness statements of the escort pilots, and the maintenance records documenting the condition of Priest’s aircraft. The evidence was clear.

Lieutenant Priest had received direct orders from Major Marshall to abort the rescue attempt. He acknowledged the order. Then he ignored it and landed anyway. When Marshall repeated the order on the ground, Priest ignored it again. The Uniform Military Discipline was clear.

Disobeying a lawful order in combat was a crime punishable by a court-martial. Punishment ranged from demotion to imprisonment. In extreme cases, execution was a possibility. These regulations were well-founded. Military operations relied on the chain of command. If every pilot were to decide independently and according to their own judgment, coordinated action would be impossible.

But Doolittle also understood something the regulations couldn’t grasp. The Eighth US Air Force was losing pilots faster than replacements could be trained. Every experienced airman who survived another mission increased the chances of survival for his comrades. Marshall wasn’t just any pilot. He was a squadron commander, a flying ace, a tactical innovator whose aggressive style had shaped the entire fighter group.

His capture would have severely damaged the morale of the entire command. Furthermore, another crucial factor came into play: the war was entering a critical phase. The Allied forces had broken out of Normandy and were advancing rapidly through France. While the air force was weakened, it was still dangerous. The American pilots needed to be able to trust that their comrades would not abandon them in the event of a crash.

Priest’s rescue demonstrated something significant: it showed that the bond between pilots could overcome orders, regulations, and personal risks. Doolittle weighed these factors for three days. He consulted with his staff and examined precedents of similar situations. There was none that exactly matched. Other pilots had also carried out rescues behind enemy lines.

All had failed. Some had brought back two prisoners instead of one. Others ended in plane crashes and dead pilots. Priest was the first to succeed. The general had made his decision. He would not court-martial Lieutenant Priest. Instead, he would nominate him for the Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest award for gallantry.

The recommendation would recognize both the extraordinary courage of the rescue operation and the unprecedented achievement. However, Doolittle added a caveat. He was concerned about the message an award might send. Should other pilots attempt similar rescues and fail, it would result in the loss of lives and aircraft.

The Eighth US Air Force could not afford to encourage unauthorized acts of heroism. Every pilot who landed behind enemy lines during a rescue attempt risked not only his own life but also the resources of his unit. Doolittle revised his recommendation. Instead of the Medal of Honor, he suggested the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second-highest award for gallantry.

The award recognized Priest’s courage and skill, but also emphasized that his actions, however successful, should not become standard practice. The documents went through the proper channels. The headquarters of the 8th Air Force approved the recommendation and forwarded it to Washington. A ceremony at Steeple Mortyn was planned for late September.

Lieutenant Priest was to receive his medal in person from General Doolittle. The general intended to convey a message along with the award. He wanted the priests to fully understand why they had been denied the Medal of Honor. The ceremony took place on September 21, 1944, at Steeple Morton. Pilots from all three squadrons of the 355th Fighter Group assembled on the airfield.

The ground crews stopped their work to watch. The group commander stood beside General Doolittle as Lieutenant Priest marched forward to receive the Distinguished Service Cross. Doolittle pinned the medal to Priest’s chest. The blue ribbon with the red and white stripes hung beneath the silver cross. It was the same decoration Doolittle himself had received for the attack on Tokyo before being promoted to the Medal of Honor.

The symbolism was clear to everyone present. After the award was presented, the general held the priest’s hand for a moment. He looked the young lieutenant in the eye and delivered his intended message. He had never considered issuing a regulation prohibiting pilots from landing behind enemy lines to rescue comrades.

The idea seemed so audacious, so fundamentally impossible, that no sane person would dare it. Priest had disproven this assumption. What he had done was simultaneously the bravest and most foolish act Doolittle had witnessed in his two years as commander of the Eighth Air Fleet. The medal honored the courage. The decision to deny him the medal of honor acknowledged the folly.

The priest accepted the award without protest. He had expected a court-martial, not a commendation. The Distinguished Service Cross exceeded his wildest expectations. In a letter written decades later to Bert Marshall’s son, he admitted that the uncertainty surrounding his fate had been the most distressing part of the entire experience.

The flight itself had been terrifying. The wait afterward was even worse. The rescue went down in history as the first successful piggyback rescue in a P-51 Mustang for the Eighth US Air Force. It would not be the last. Priest’s example inspired other pilots to make similar rescue attempts in the following months. On August 28, ten days after Priest’s flight, another pilot from the 355th Fighter Group landed in occupied France to rescue a downed comrade.

His plane got stuck in the mud. Both pilots escaped capture and eventually returned to the Allied lines on foot. On October 3, there were two further rescue attempts. One pilot managed to rescue his wingman in a single-seat fighter plane. The other got stuck in the soft ground. Both he and the pilot he was trying to rescue were captured by German troops.

The risks and the mathematics behind the risky maneuver became increasingly clear. Some rescues were successful, others doubled the losses. The 20th Fighter Group recorded a successful piggyback rescue on November 18, 1944. First Lieutenant Jack Ilfrey landed his P-51 in a pasture and rescued his wingman under enemy fire. The Fourth Fighter Group added another successful rescue on March 18, 1945, when a pilot rescued Captain William McKinnon from occupied Germany.

By the end of the war, the Eighth US Air Force had documented at least five successful rescue operations using single-seat fighter planes. An unknown number of attempts had failed, resulting in further casualties and aircraft losses. The tactic remained officially unapproved. There was no regulation that ever authorized or prohibited it. Commanders simply turned a blind eye when pilots chose to risk everything for their comrades.

Major Bert Marshall returned to combat just days after his rescue. His legs had fully recovered from the injury caused by circulatory collapse. He commanded the 354th Fighter Wing until the autumn of 1944, increasing its aerial victories and earning the Silver Star for his leadership. In October, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and appointed deputy commander of the 355th Fighter Group.

When another rescue attempt in his squadron resulted in the capture of two pilots, Marshall realized the gravity of the precedent set by Priest. The war in Europe ended on May 8, 1945. Marshall had survived. Priest had survived. The aircraft that had brought them both to safety had been repaired and returned to service, flying further combat missions until Germany’s surrender.

But the story of that August afternoon in a French wheat field had only just begun. Both men would remain with her for the rest of her life. Colonel Royce Priest retired from the U.S. Air Force in 1968 after 28 years of service. His career had taken him from the wheat fields of France to the mountains of South America.

For three years he served as the personal pilot to the Chilean president, where he met his wife, Anita. He trained fighter pilots for allied nations. He flew jets that would have seemed like science fiction to the young lieutenant who landed a propeller-driven Mustang behind enemy lines.

The Distinguished Service Cross remained his most prized possession. He rarely spoke about the rescue unless directly asked. When he did, he directed the praise to the two escort pilots whose low-level attacks had bought him time, and to the ground crews who had repaired his damaged aircraft. He considered himself fortunate, not heroic.

Lieutenant Colonel Bert Marshall ended the war as commander of the 355th Fighter Group. He had seven confirmed aerial victories. The Silver Star he was awarded recognized his leadership of the 354th Fighter Wing during some of the fiercest air battles of the European theater. After the war, he continued his career in the Air Force and eventually commanded fighter squadrons in Japan during the occupation.

His three awards as best quarterback in Texas high school football earned him induction into the Texas Sports Hall of Fame in 1971. The two men remained friends throughout their lives. Their friendship had begun in a cockpit barely wide enough for one man, as they flew over enemy territory with a failing engine and no parachutes.

Such experiences don’t fade with time. In December 2002, Colonel Priest wrote a letter to Bill Marshall, Bert’s son. The letter contained the most detailed account of the rescue operation ever recorded. Priest described the hidden anti-aircraft battery, the burning Mustang, the desperate landing, and the agonizing return flight.

He wrote about the fear that had gripped him during the uncertainty surrounding the impending court-martial. He described the moment General Doolittle pinned the Distinguished Service Cross to his chest. But most of all, he wrote about why he had done it. Bert Marshall had been his hero long before the war. The opportunity to serve in his squadron had felt like destiny.

When Marshall’s plane caught fire over France, Priest had neither calculated the probabilities nor checked the regulations. He had simply refused to let his hero die in a German prisoner-of-war camp. Colonel Royce Priest died on May 18, 2004, in Riverside, California. He was 81 years old. His obituary honored him as one of the few surviving fighter aces of World War II and a recipient of the second-highest U.S. decoration for military gallantry.

The obituary mentioned his service in Chile, his long career in the Air Force, and his deep devotion to his wife and family. It omitted, however, that he had once crammed two men into a single-seat fighter plane and flown them home through enemy territory. Some stories are simply too extraordinary for an obituary. The P-51 Mustang that brought Priest and Marshall to safety was never preserved as a memorial.

It served during the war, was presumably sold as surplus, and disappeared like thousands of other warplanes into history. No museum commemorates the first piggyback rescue operation in the history of the 8th US Air Force with a plaque. But the story survived. It was passed down from pilot to pilot, from veteran to historian, from father to son.

Bill Marshall wrote two books about his father’s squadron. Both included accounts of the rescue that saved his father’s life. If this story touched you as much as it touched us, please give us a like. Every like helps YouTube share this story with more people. Subscribe to our channel and turn on notifications. We unearth forgotten stories from dusty archives every day.

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