WW2 Plane crash lands at Athenry in 1943
U.S. B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber referred to as 'Stinky" after it crash landed in Athenry
On the 15th January 1943, during a flight from Gibraltar to Portreath, a United States B-17E Flying Fortress Bomber known as "Stinky" crash landed outside Athenry. The plane’s crew became disoriented over the Bay of Biscay, missed its navigation checkpoints, and flew significantly off course. With fuel nearly exhausted, it crash-landed at approximately 11:50 am in a field at the Athenry Agricultural College colliding with a stone wall.
All 17 passengers and crew including high-ranking U.S. officers such as Lt. Gen. Jacob Devers escaped unharmed. They were promptly surrounded by civilians and the Local Defence Force. A well-known anecdote recounts that when an LDF member pointed a rifle at Devers, he responded, “Son, point that thing away. It might go off and hurt someone”
While under the rules of neutrality Ireland was expected to intern “Stinky”’s occupants but it was 'determined' that they were not on an active combat mission but merely ferrying passengers. Consequently, after hospitality from the locals including whiskey, lunch and a warm welcome they were quietly transported via Northern Ireland back to the UK later that evening.
Thanks to quick thinking by the crew and the kindness of Athenry civilians, what could have been a diplomatic or military incident became a uniquely warm wartime anecdote.
The Crew of the B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber outside the Railway Hotel with local LDF man Frank Kilkelly on the left.
Crew Members (from left) T/Sgt Edward D. PARRISH, Sgt Johnnie J TUCKER, Sgt Lorin E BLANCHARD Jr., Capt. Thomas M HULINGS O-437980 - PILOT, Sgt John W TIPPEN and 2/Lt Clyde B COLLINS
Crew: (from left) 2/Lt J. Kemp MCLAUGHLIN CO-PILOT, Brig/Gen Gladeon Marcus BARNES and Lt/Gen Jacob Loucks DEVERS
War Map of the World in 1943 given by the Crew to the Irish Army.
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A Child's Memory of the Flying Fortress at Athenry It was a fine sunny morning. I was not at school that day because I had the flu and I persuaded my grandmother, with whom I lived, to let me stay home. I must have had a late breakfast because around mid-morning I was out in the farmyard. My Uncle Michael and a neighbour were talking together looking up at a huge bomber that was flying low over the countryside. It circled around for about fifteen minutes. “He’s in trouble,” said Michael. “And he seems to be looking for somewhere to land.” The plane flew in wide circles sometimes disappearing from sight and then returning. At one stage it passed directly over our heads. I can remember clearly seeing the men inside looking out the windows. In the glass turret at the front I saw a man wearing calf-length boots. I was only six years old and it was the biggest aircraft I had ever seen. I had watched the mail planes from Oranmore to Dublin before and I had heard aircraft passing at night, but this was something different - enormous, menacing and flying dangerously low. Although the sun was shining the plane looked to me very dark green and threatening. We thought at first it might be German, but Michael reassured us: “They’re Americans the signs on the side aren’t German.” Still he and our neighbour Paddy Whelan worried aloud that it might mean an invasion. After some debate they agreed it could not be an invasion force the plane was clearly in trouble. They speculated it was a bomber. I was intrigued but also a little frightened. The aircraft circled for about twenty minutes or more then turned in a wide loop over Gloves village, across by Blane towards Kingsland and finally disappeared behind Hanniffy’s Mount. Moments later we heard two loud thuds in rapid succession the first a dull sound, the second a sharp heavy bang. Then silence. “She’s down!” said Michael. “Listen for explosions and fire,” said Paddy. But the morning air was still. We ran up to Hanniffy’s Mount thinking the plane had come down only a few hundred yards or maybe a mile away. We approached cautiously Paddy warned that if it were Germans they might open fire. But when we reached the Mount there was nothing to be seen. Later that evening, word reached us, the plane had crash-landed in the farmyard at Athenry, about three miles to the west. We could hardly believe it had come down so far away, when we had heard the bangs so clearly. It must have been an almighty noise for those nearby and terrifying for those inside the aircraft. I cannot recall what day of the week it was but I do remember being thrilled when uncle Michael promised to take me to see the plane on the ground after Mass the following Sunday. He often took me on the bar of his bicycle perched on an old cushion. We went to hurling matches in Kiltulla, Athenry, Craughwell and Loughrea that way. He was a kind uncle always carrying me, a six- or seven-year-old, all over the countryside. That Sunday, about midday, we set off for the farmyard at Athenry. The sight was unforgettable. The huge grey plane lay in a field only a few yards from a stand of tall trees. The undercarriage was gone, she was flat on her belly, having scooped out a long trench in the reddish-brown clay as she skidded to a halt. Behind her about 150 to 200 yards away was a stone wall she had ploughed straight through, leaving a wide gap and scattering stones across the field and even onto the road. We could trace her path clearly, first where she touched down a few hundred yards earlier, the landing wheels gouging deep scars into the ground. Nobody was allowed inside the field, there was a heavy military presence keeping the crowd back but even from the roadside we could see plenty. I remember watching as someone moved one of the guns in the midships turret; it swung back and forth with a sound like a vacuum cleaner. Another gun at the tail was jammed into the ground, because the wheels had collapsed. The wheels themselves were huge. I saw one lying flat under the wall near the trees, still shiny black in the sunlight. The atmosphere was electric. Crowds of people came from every direction, marvelling at the size of the aircraft, talking excitedly about where they had been when it came down. It became a great attraction, right in the middle of the war. People came on bicycles, on horseback, or in pony and traps. There were very few cars, as there was no petrol. The road was jammed, and the Local Defence Force were on duty trying to keep order. For a six-year-old boy, it was a day never to be forgotten. (Writer unidentified)
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"The Mighty Eighth in WWII: A Memoir" James Kemp McLaughlin was born in 1918 in West Virginia an published his wartime memories in his book, "The Mighty Eighth in WWII: A Memoir" published first in 2000 and included a chapter that told of his impromptu visit to Athenry. Upon our return from Casablanca we were again alerted for another trip, this time to England. We were to be going back to our home base. I bought a bushel of oranges and two cases of wine for my mates back at Bovingdon. Our passengers were Lt. Gen. Jacob Devers, at that time commander of American Forces in the European Theater of Operations, and his staff, consisting of Brig. Gen. Gladeon M. Barnes, Col. William T. Sexton, Maj. Gen. Edward McBrooks, and Maj. Earl Hormell, his aviation advisor. We departed Algiers in the early afternoon for Gibraltar, arriving about 5 p.m.. We refueled, ate dinner, and began working up our flight plan, which would take us west from Gibraltar, past Portugal, then north across the Bay of Biscay to the English Channel, then northeast to Bovingdon Airport, just northwest of London. We delayed our takeoff from Gibraltar until after midnight in order to evade the German fighters and arrive in England well after daylight. Winter dawn didn't arrive until after 8 A.M. (Double Daylight Saving Time). The flight plan called for about seven and a half hours for the entire trip. We also would be flying through a cold front that was drifting southeast across England into France and would present us with head winds and navigation problems all the way. We got off about 2 a.m. on January 15 and began what seemed to be an uneventful flight. We hit the cold front in the Bay of Biscay and rocked along in it most of the night. Our navigator was unable to shoot any astro shots because of cloud cover. Shortly after daylight, we encountered a broken-to-scattered cloud deck below our nine thousand-foot mean sea flight level, and about 9:15 a.m. our navigator gave us a northeasterly heading for a southwest England landfall thirty minutes later. After we turned to our northeasterly heading, General Devers's aide and air advisor pilot, Major Hormell, came into the cockpit and checked our new heading. He then said he was worried that our headwinds had slowed our ground speed so much that our new northeasterly heading might result in a landfall on the Nazi-held Brest Peninsula instead of southwest England, and that German coastal guns might shoot us down. His argument was a valid one in the sense that the coastlines and terrain were similar, making an identification error possible. Additionally, there was the danger of having the European Theater commander and his staff killed, or worse, captured. He suggested that we turn to a westerly heading for thirty minutes, then north for thirty minutes, then easterly to make sure we hit England instead of France. Lt. Clyde Collins, our navigator, objected, saying we should fly out our flight plan and check the coast features for definite identification before we entered. In the meantime, Staff Sergeant Teaford, our radio operator, had tried to get us a QDM (Radio Directional Course) from RAF radio stations, but an RAF night-bombing raid was returning, and the stations by regulation would not honor our calls. Lieutenant Hulings decided to take the major's advice. We returned to a westerly heading, a move that later proved disastrous. We flew our westerly heading back into the Atlantic, then north, then back on an easterly heading, and made landfall shortly after 11 A.M. We had obviously hit Ireland, but our navigator had no maps of Ireland and could not positively identify anything. We were in the Galway Bay area, but none of us had ever been to Ireland and, with no maps to identify the towns, bays, and streams, we couldn't be sure. As we circled the area, we saw some peat bogs. One of our passengers was British Flying Sgt. R.C. Bolland, hitchhiking his way home from a three-year tour as a Spitfire pilot on Malta. When he saw the peat bogs, he said he thought it was Scotland, suggesting the idea that perhaps we'd flown up the Irish Sea and warning that an eastward course that might take us from Ireland to England could also take us from Scotland toward Germany. We then made a decision to fly north into northern Ireland where two or three American airplane modification depots were located (the northern counties of Ireland were still part of Great Britain). Captain Hulings and I had previously flown to one of them. As we flew north, the rolling farmland began to disappear, and we found ourselves flying over a minor mountain range. By this time we'd been airborne for nearly ten hours, and we began to worry about fuel. Suddenly, one of the low-fuel warning lights flashed on, indicating about twenty minutes of remaining flight time. Not knowing for certain how far we were from an airport, Lieutenant Hulings elected to fly toward the rolling terrain of the Galway area, in southern Ireland, where we'd have a better chance of finding a field large enough to set down on. At that time he instructed me to go back and tell General Devers of our fuel shortage and of our plan to crash-land the airplane. He also told me to tell Devers that we did have enough fuel to climb the airplane to five thousand feet above sea level and allow the general and his staff to parachute to the ground rather than face the risk of a crash landing. After I explained the situation to General Devers, he said, "Son, what are you going to do?" I said "Sir, I'm going to help Captain Hulings land this airplane." He said, "All right, son, we’ll do whatever you're going to do.” When I returned to the cockpit and told Hulings of the General's decision, Hulings alerted the crew to prepare for a crash landing and to so instruct all the passengers. By this time all four red low-fuel warning lights were on, and we knew the end was near. We circled and noted that nearly every field large enough to land an airplane on had a large post in the center. The Irish had done this to make certain that no British airplane would land without wrecking or at least incurring damage. Also, all the fences dividing the fields were of stone. We decided on a narrow field on which we could approach and land into the westerly wind. It too had rock-wall fences, and because it was narrow, it looked longer than it actually was. It contained a few cows, but they were feeding along the southern side, which left us enough room to roll down the center. We set up a long approach and dragged our B-17 in with full flaps, landing gear down. She settled in after we crossed the eastern fence. We both stood on the brakes as the airplane hydroplaned on the wet grass for the rest of the length of the field. The landing gear was knocked off as we hurdled the far wall fence, and the airplane came to rest on its belly in the next field. I pulled back my side window and looked down and saw smoke rising from the number three engine. I panicked, tossed my chute harness, and slithered out through that window, which was about eighteen inches by eighteen inches. For fifty-five years I've wondered how a man my size could have done that. I then ran to the rear door of the airplane and began helping our passengers out. Of the seventeen people on board, none was injured. Just after we landed, I saw an Irish Home Guard soldier with a rifle running through the trees toward us, yelling in Gaelic and waving his arms. General Spaatz had given me three letters to be delivered to Gen. Ira Eaker and two others at 8th Bomber Command. Not knowing what they contained, I was alarmed that they might fall into the wrong hands. I asked General Devers what I should do with them. He said, "Eat them." I quickly and quietly consumed them without further ado. The Irish soldier could speak only Gaelic, and none of us could converse with him, so we began to unload our personal effects. As the local folks began gathering around, my two cases of wine and basket of fruit soon disappeared. The Irish, like the English, hadn't seen any tropical fruit since the war began. Staff Sergeant Teaford blew up the IFF (Secret Identification Equipment) so it would not be captured intact. (Each IFF set had a built- in explosive charge to ensure its destruction, if necessary.) We carried no Norden bombsight aboard this flight. By this time, a few Irish people began to gather around us, along with a very elegant Irish lady on whose farm we had landed. She carried a stone jug of Irish whiskey and several coffee mugs. The local parish priest accompanied her. She greeted us very cordially and insisted we have a cup of whiskey. General Devers suggested we all accept her gracious hospitality, so we each had about six to eight ounces of straight Irish whiskey. It was now noon and, not having eaten since the night before, that cup of whiskey quickly wiped away my strongest apprehensions. In fact, I couldn't hit the ground with my hat and, totally relaxed, everything suddenly became kind of funny. The priest presented me with a religious medal for good luck. Shortly the locals found some automobiles and drove us to a hotel near the town of Athenry. They immediately opened the bar and we began to have more drinks while they prepared our lunch. By the time lunch was served we were all three sheets to the wind, and after having been up all night I could hardly keep my head up as we supped on a delicious breakfast of steak and eggs. Shortly after we arrived at the inn, one of General Devers's staff called the American consul in Dublin and arranged for our transportation out of southern Ireland (the Irish Republic). We remained around the dining hall until after dark. Officially, southern Ireland was a neutral country, and, according to the Geneva Convention, we were supposed to have been interned there for the rest of the war. Early in the evening two sedans and a small bus arrived. We quickly boarded and headed for northern Ireland, arriving well after midnight. We spent the rest of that night at Langford Lodge. The following day we flew back to our home base at Bovingdon, Hertfordshire, our original destination. After arriving back at Bovingdon, I fully expected an investigation and a formal hearing on our snafu. Except for a letter of explanation that Lt. Tom Hulings wrote, nothing happened. I'm certain that General Eaker and General Spaatz realized that our crew had only a few months' flying experience, that this flight was only the third flight over water for our navigator, and that an investigation would be a waste of time.
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Extracts from an Irish Army Report on the incident. |
Report on forced landing of a U.S. Flying Fortress at Athenry – 15 January 1943 by Commadant J. PowerOn the morning of the 15th January 1943, a dramatic incident unfolded in the skies over County Galway. At 11:25 a.m., Irish Army intelligence in the Western Command reported that a four-engined American aircraft was in difficulty near Athenry. By 11:50 a.m., the plane had made a forced landing in the grounds of the Agricultural College, about a mile and a half from the town. The aircraft was a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress, bound from Gibraltar to England. Navigation and radio problems had left the crew completely lost, they believed they were over Scotland when, in fact, they were over Couny Galway. When examined on the ground the bomber showed some signs of recent action. Empty ammunition shells were found aboard along with a note referring to “enemy action” suggesting the crew had been attacked en route. The landing damaged the undercarriage, propellers, and wings, but the crew escaped safely. The B-17 carried a heavy armament, sixteen parachutes and other military stores were also on board. Some of the weapons and equipment were removed by the Irish Army to Renmore Barracks in Galway for safekeeping. Later that night at 2:00 a.m. on 16th January, the crew were handed over at the RUC Barracks in Belleek, Co. Fermanagh, for transfer on to Northern Ireland. Because of the size of the party and their baggage, a separate luggage truck was required. Before leaving, the American commander, General Davis, expressed his deep appreciation for the assistance given by the Irish authorities. He remarked that his thanks were entirely inadequate and hoped that proper recognition would be made in future. He was especially grateful for being allowed to telephone the American Minister in Dublin. From conversations with the Americans, Commandant Power noted several points of interest:
This unusual landing in neutral Ireland not only brought the war close to the small town of Athenry, but also provided the Irish Army with valuable first-hand insights into the state of the conflict as seen by American forces in early 1943.
On the left the B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber referred to as 'Stinky" in its prime and on right being examined following the crash landing. A Remarkable Reunion Following the war Mr. Frederick H. Boland, Secretary of the Irish Department of External Affairs, had an unusual meeting in Dublin with a distinguished American visitor. It was the first time he had set eyes on General Jacob L. Devers then Chief of the U.S. Army Ground Forces. During the war, Mr. Boland had served as Assistant Secretary of External Affairs. He vividly remembered the day in 1943 when an American Army transport plane, carrying General Devers, was forced to land in Athenry. The incident occurred just prior to the Allied invasion of North Africa, at a time when invasion plans were still a closely guarded secret. Mr. Boland recalled receiving the urgent call about the landing. It fell to Mr. Joseph Walshe, Secretary of the Department of External Affairs, to convey the Irish Government’s decision permitting General Devers and his party to continue their journey. The stakes were high, had permission been refused the course of events in the war might have been altered considerably. General Devers himself never forgot the incident. Overjoyed at the news of his release, he opened a crate of bananas from his aircraft a rare delicacy in wartime Ireland and shared them among the local people, many of whom had not seen such fruit since before the war. Years later, Devers when reunited with Boland in Dublin, he expressed once again his deep gratitude for the kindness and courtesy shown to him and his men during that difficult episode. The American general was part of a tour of distinguished guests which included General Lucius D. Clay, the American Military Governor of Germany. At a press event, General Clay spoke frankly about the post-war difficulties in Europe, noting the failure of the German government to cooperate, the lack of Russian commitment to agreements and the bleak prospects facing democratic movements in a divided Germany.
U.S. B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber referred to as 'Stinky" |
Crew of the Flying Fortress and notable passengers
According to historical aviation records, the crew aboard Stinky during the Athenry incident included:
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Pilot: Captain Thomas (Tom) Hulings
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Co-pilot: Jim McLaughlin
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Navigator: Clyde Collins
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Radio Operator: Larry Dennis
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Flight Engineer / Top Turret Gunner: Ed Parish
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Tail Gunner: Sergeant Tucker
They were accompanied by several high-ranking passengers, including Generals (Barnes, Palmer, Brooke), Colonel Sexton, Major Hormel (spelling variant “Hormelnwere”), Captain Rawlings, and non-commissioned officers including Sergeants Pippin, Herrie, Planchard, Bery, Tocer, and Bollard—all of whom managed to return to duty.
In 2011 Laurence (Larry) Dennis the radio operator was able to return to the skies in a B-17 similar to the plane involved in the crash landing when the he took a flight in a B-17 'Sentimental Journey' flown by the Commemorative Air Force.
The Radio Operator and the General: Athenry 1943
Laurence E. Dennis Jr. after graduating from High School in 1936, followed the call of duty and joined the Army Air Forces, eventually serving as a radio operator with the 92nd Bomb Group.
On 15 January 1943, Dennis was part of the crew of the B-17E Stinky, ferrying personnel from North Africa back toward England. The weather was atrocious: rain, fog and endless static on the radio waves. For hours they flew blind, lost over the Atlantic and desperately searching for land.
What made the flight unforgettable for Dennis, however, was one particular passenger: Lieutenant General Jacob L. Devers, head of U.S. Army Ground Forces in Europe. At one point, frustrated by the uncertainty of their position, he strode into the radio room where Dennis was straining to raise a signal through the static.
“Have you contacted anyone yet?” Devers demanded. “No, sir,” Dennis admitted. The general exploded: “What the G-- D-- hell kind of radio operator are you?!”
Dennis, a 24-year-old sergeant, calmly handed him the headphones: “Here, General, you can try.” But Devers refused, grumbled, and stormed back to the front. Years later, Dennis would laugh at the memory. “It struck me as a bit unusual for a Tank Corps general to chew out an Air Corps radio operator,” he recalled in 2010, “so I’ve never forgotten it.”
Eventually, low on fuel, the big bomber dropped through the clouds and crash-landed in a field outside Athenry. The crew scrambled out, shaken but unharmed. According to Dennis soon curious locals gathered and the schoolmaster led a whole class of children to see the remarkable American plane. He remembered the smiles as the crew shared a carton of oranges they had carried aboard a rare treat in wartime Ireland. After the incident the men were quietly returned across the border into Northern Ireland, their strange detour into neutral territory behind them.
Dennis’ war, however, was far from over. In April 1943 he rejoined combat duty with the 92nd Bomb Group. A few months later, on 16 November 1943, his aircraft from the 407th Bomb Squadron suffered crippling mechanical failure over Norway. Dennis bailed out on what was his 23rd mission and was captured.
For the next 18 months, he endured life as a prisoner of war in Stalag 17B.
Yet among all the trials of combat and captivity, one moment always stood out in his memory, the day a four-star general stormed into the radio room of a Flying Fortress and the day that same aircraft ended its journey not in battle but in a quiet field in Athenry Co. Galway.
Radio operator on B-17 Flying Fortress Bomber T/Sgt Laurence E. DENNIS Jr (left) with a friend on the wing of the Bomber (centre) and (right) a German prisoner of war ‘mugshot’ from his 18 months at Stalag 17B.
Aggie Qualter’s version of Incident raises questions
In her book published in 1989 local historian Aggie Qualter wrote: “In 1942, four Generals of the Allied Supreme Command made a forced landing at Athenry. Travelling from America to London for a military conference, they made an unplanned inspection tour of North Africa.
They visited Cairo, refuelled at Gibraltar on the return journey, but lost their way over the Bay of Biscay. They asked for their exact position on radio, but were intercepted by a German fighter, who picked up the message. Due to the bitter encounter with the enemy plane, which they shot down, they found themselves completely off course, and finally landed at the farmyard (Mellows College).
A plucky five-footer – Dinny ‘the Barber’ Madden – armed and in uniform, was one of the first to appear on the scene. He approached the plane with the words: ‘A member of the Irish Defence Force.’ A tall uniformed officer stepped forward, stood to attention, and replied: ‘A General of the American Army.’
It was a day of great excitement in Athenry. The Generals – glad to be alive and in a safe country – laughingly shouted ‘Catch!’ as they hurled all kinds of goodies to the people – chocolate, grapes, bananas and oranges – all special luxuries in the war years. Denny was married to Mary Cunniffe.”
Was the interaction with a German fighter covered up to avoid a breach of the Geneva Convention on how a neutral country should deal with ‘prisoners’?
In correspondence and other reliable accounts, Stinky’s crew did not describe an aerial battle before the landing. Instead, they emphasised navigational errors, bad weather and static on the radio as the reasons they became lost and ran out of fuel.
Folklore sources can often blend oral tradition and local memory, which can reshape events. The mention of a German fighter may have been a later embellishment or misremembered detail. It is not supported in the U.S. Army Air Forces’ own records of the incident but Aggie Qualter would clearly have first hand knowledge from the local LDF members who engaged with the crew immediately after it crashed.
The Irish Army discovered empty ammunition shells on aboard along with a note referring to “enemy action” suggesting the crew had been attacked en route. Why was there no official inquiry by the U.S. Army authorities into the incident that almost cost the lives of their highest ranking Officers.
Neutral Ireland was obliged to intern all belligerent troops and aircraft that landed on its territory. In practice, however, Allied personnel were often quietly escorted across the border to Northern Ireland, while German crews were interned for the duration. If an aerial combat episode with a German aircraft had been acknowledged, it would have strengthened the case that the U.S. officers were 'combatants on active duty'. That would have made it much harder for the Irish Government to justify releasing them without breaching neutrality.
Therefore, it is quite possible the “fighter encounter” was downplayed or left unrecorded officially to avoid complicating Ireland’s careful balancing act under international law. On the day after the crash local people reported that Dr. Eduard Hempel, the German Minister for Ireland, visited the site and according to one woman who wrote “I believe Hempel and more of the ‘snakes’ were down first thing next day crawling all over the Fortress and spying out the land’.
It is unlikely that he and his officials would travel to the scene of the crash, apparently looking for evidence of an alteraction, unless they knew or suspected it was involved with the downing of a German Fighter.