HOLIDAY OVER PARIS

Heavy bombers of the U.S. Eighth Air Force celebrated Bastille Day with smashing daylight raids on German air installations at Villacoublay, Amiens and famed Le Bourget airport (where Lindbergh landed) near Paris. TIME Correspondent William Walton covered the Le Bourget raid from the transparent nose of the Flying Fortress Georgia Peach, jammed in with Navigator B. L. Otto ("Blotto") and Bombardier Johnny Ozier. His report follows:

The first time I saw Paris my knees shook like aspens. Ahead of the Georgia Peach, bursting flak made black puffballs in the early morning sunlight. Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts dived and rolled, spitting lead at the formation of heavy bombers droning steadily toward Le Bourget. The Forts, in high-stacked formation at about 20,000 feet, spurted streams of tracers and explosives back into the fighters. The Bastille Day air battle gave the French another chapter of memories on their historic anniversary. Me too.

The east was growing light when we rose forth from the camouflaged fields and, in ever-widening circles, took battle positions in three-dimensional formation. Georgia Peach was just above, and to the right of, the lead ship.

A blazing sun popped over the rim of the cloud world. When the coastal rally point was reached, the Forts were arranged in an irregular flying box formation, not unlike the classic battle phalanx. The highest planes were cascading mile-long vapor trails. Over the Channel, the clouds disappeared. Not a boat rippled the Channel's surface. Far out on either side, Spitfires raced along, occasionally tipping their wings to warn the eager fortress gunners not to fire on them.

The coast of France seemed to move toward us. Now it was below, a brown and green patchwork. Our Spitfire escorts had come as far as their gas tanks would permit. A moment after they left, the first attack came. On the intercommunication system a cool voice said into our headphones: "Enemy fighter at eleven o'clock."

Around the Clock. Not until the tracer bullets flew out toward the eleven o'clock angle could I spot the tiny black speck moving toward us. Quickly it became a plane with wings, bigger & bigger, then streaked out of sight to the left. The only sounds were the roar of the Fortress' engines and the shrill clatter of the .50-caliber machine guns. We clapped on our tin helmets. My knees felt as though someone had removed the bones.

The intercom spoke again: "Fighters at ten o'clock. Fighters at twelve o'clock." Far out to the right, at two o'clock, five or six were waiting. Slowly, gracefully, one peeled off and started toward us, closer & closer. Even before he was in range, our right gun fired. The tracers were too low. They moved closer, but the Messerschmitt had made his pass and gone.

Another peeled off. This time the gun got the range, sending tracers and explosives that seemed to go right into the fuselage. He passed out of sight. All the guns were firing now--from the nose, top turret, the waist and the ball turret in the belly. The tail gunner reported attack after attack.

"Fighter at three o'clock." The right gun spurted at a Focke-Wulf boring in, his guns winking red and yellow. He was close enough to show that he was painted a dusky blue, not black, with white crosses on the wing and fuselage. The gun followed as he passed close below us, smoke ribboning from his tail.

Bombs Away. For a moment no fighters were attacking. There had been no time to watch France pass below us. As I glanced out now, there was Paris, a pale gold pattern in the clear morning light, the Eiffel Tower, the Champs Elysees, the Seine glinting silver. Flak seemed to be mushrooming up from nowhere. In a moment Le Bourget was in sight. Johnny started fiddling with the release. As Johnny quietly said: "Bombs away," a cluster dropped from the Fortress close beside us. The Forts moved too fast for us to see the bombs hit, but photographs we saw later showed that they had smashed a row of hangars and the machine shops behind them. Not a bomb touched Paris.

On the return trip a new cloud of Focke-Wulfs attacked. Over the intercom the tail gunner said: "Two Forts are going down. Chutes opening from one. Can't see the other." Down below gun batteries made orange flashes, brown smoke spouted straight up, then black flak burst in the sky.

The Georgia Peach's guns were never silent, vibrating like riveters; empty brass cartridges piled up on the floor of the nose. Suddenly against a white cloud bank far ahead appeared dark specks. "I think the Spits are coming back," said intercom. "Be careful, though, boys." Spitfires streaked toward us, lipped into the Germans, then came back, darting protectively across our tail and either wing.

As far as the coast there was still flak, but we lit cigarets with relief. Now England looked more serene than ever. Later we learned that at least 100 to 150 fighters had attacked us, that perhaps two score had been shot down by the Forts and Spits.

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