August 4th, 1942
Ajaccio, 09:45 - The Campo dell'Oro airfield is attacked by 48 USAAF B-24s (98th and 376th BG) escorted by 48 NA-89 Mustang II of the 5th EC. The raid is intercepted by 14 Re.2001 of the 2nd Gruppo, commanded by Lt-Col. Quarantotti, who position themselves in the best possible way, because the attackers had been detected by radar long before. In five minutes of combat, the Falco IIs manage to shoot down three of the Mustang IIs, including that of Captain Leparc, and even a B-24 of the 376th BG, the first USAAF heavy bomber shot down in the Mediterranean. But the French fighters take their revenge, destroying nine of their opponents.
As soon as he lands between the bomb craters, Lt-Colonel Quarantotti, who had shot down a Mustang and damaged a B-24, orders his mechanics to immediately refuel his plane, so that he could take off again in search of some of his pilots, who might have fallen into the sea. But a few minutes later, his plane catches fire - perhaps because of unnoticed damage sustained in combat. Quarantotti jumps over the sea, but drowns (according to Italian rescue services who found his body, he could not have freed himself from the straps and lines of his parachute).
Other parachutists of the day are more fortunate.
"You must always respect your opponent, even if you are outnumbered and outgunned. This is the lesson that the Re.2001s give us, jumping on us at one against three (one against six, counting the bombers) at the approaches of Ajaccio. One of them, taking advantage of its maneuverability, like our MS-406s against the Bf 109s in the past, slips behind me and plunges me generously before releasing under the gusts of Wade, my wingman, who remains convinced that he hit him, but follows me like a worried nanny, because my engine spits out a thick smoke. "Red 1, Red 1! How are you doing? Jean-Pierre, how are you?" Leopold asks. I am worried too, but even more furious: "I am fine, but my zinc isn't. I'd better jump!" I'd rather jump over Corsica than end up in the water somewhere between here and Tunis.
I parachute as the manual advises and find myself suspended in the air above the Isle of Beauty, drenched in sunlight. On the way down, I have time to call myself an idiot although the guy who shot me is not the first idiot, the badges that Léopold saw (and that his machine gun filmed) prove it.
On the ground, in the middle of the maquis (at least I suppose that's what the maquis is!), I continue to follow the manual: I fold up my baggage to hide it. But where? I have the impression that there is not a soul who lives hundreds of kilometers away. A false impression: half a dozen patient individuals armed to the teeth seem to emerge from the ground, and one of them calls out to me in a strange language by pointing a machine gun under my nose. I remain mute of fear and surprise. Fortunately, one of his colleagues intervened: "Calm down, Tino, you can see that he is not an Italian!"
(The rest of the dialogue is in Corsican, but it will be translated for me later, amidst the laughter.)
- So, why doesn't he answer when I speak English to him? You told me that all the Allied pilots understand English, right?
- Uh, Tino, maybe because the English he understands is not like the English you learned in New York, during your... 1937 internship with cousin Paolo...
That's how my first vacations in Corsica began, spiced up with races in the maquis and very frugal meals with the team of cousins Hector and Tino Garneri. Not to mentionmore warlike episodes.
(...)
[Three weeks after being shot down, Jean-Pierre Leparc was recovered without incident by the Henri Poincaré, but he will have left an indelible memory in the island of Beauty].
(...) This will not be my last stay in Corsica, far from it. I have today a small house called "Le Parachute", almost on the spot of my involuntary arrival, where my family comes every year to spend less agitated vacations and where we enjoy the Corsican culinary specialties that I could not taste in 1942.
[Added to the 2000 anniversary edition] A few years ago, my house suffered the same fate as many others belonging to continental people. When we arrived from Paris, we found it in ruins: hooded individuals had come the day before to exercise their talents of fireworks. But the very next day, I saw a team of workers arrive, led by a character visibly very, very annoyed. They had come to repair the damage, and for free! The work completed in record time, the boss asked me for a certificate saying that everything was fine and left, thanking me with these words: "Sorry again, Mr. Leparc. We didn't know the story of the Parachute." Apparently, other Corsicans did."
(Jean-Pierre Leparc, Les Gars du Lafayette)
.........
This raid is for the heavy bombers the last training (in real conditions!) before the beginning of Blowlamp. All the American B-24s have to join Benghazi the next day, before redeploying to Rhodes and Crete.
