When an American Pilot Stole a German Fighter and Survived His Own Guns

By [Staff Writer], U.S. Historical Features

In the long, crowded history of World War II aviation, few stories sound as improbable as that of First Lieutenant Bruce Ward Carr. It is a story that reads like fiction: a 20-year-old American fighter pilot shot down behind enemy lines, starving and freezing in occupied Europe, who escaped not by evasion or rescue—but by stealing a fully fueled German fighter aircraft from a Luftwaffe airfield. Even more astonishing, after surviving German defenses, Carr nearly died at the hands of his own side when American anti-aircraft gunners opened fire on the aircraft he had stolen.

Yet every detail of the story is real, documented, and verified by military records. And it would be only the beginning of one of the most extraordinary combat careers in U.S. Air Force history.

Shot Down Behind Enemy Lines

On November 2, 1944, First Lieutenant Bruce Carr was flying his P-51D Mustang over Czechoslovakia as part of the Ninth Air Force. German flak tore into his aircraft, crippling the engine. With oil pressure collapsing and the Merlin engine moments from seizure, Carr had no choice. At 4,000 feet over enemy territory, he bailed out.

He was just 20 years old, with 37 combat missions and five confirmed aerial victories. Below him lay German-occupied territory, where American airmen faced grim odds. Some were beaten to death by civilians. Others disappeared into Gestapo custody. Survival training taught pilots how to evade, but few succeeded for long.

Carr landed alone in a forest, gathered his parachute, and began walking west—toward Allied lines more than 200 miles away. He traveled only at night, hid during the day, and survived without food or water. After three days, starvation and hypothermia were already setting in. At that pace, he would never make it.

On November 5, Carr made a calculated decision. He would surrender—not to the German Army or the Gestapo, but to the Luftwaffe. Fighter pilots, he believed, were more likely to treat him with professional respect.

That decision led him to a German airfield—and to a moment that would define his life.

An Impossible Opportunity

From concealment near the base, Carr observed Focke-Wulf 190 fighters parked in dispersal areas among the trees. One evening, he watched two German mechanics finish servicing a single aircraft. They fueled it, ran the engine, checked the controls—and walked away, leaving the fighter ready to fly.

Carr understood the risk immediately. He had never flown a German aircraft. He could not read German. He did not know the systems, the procedures, or even whether the guns were armed. But he also knew that surrender likely meant a prison camp and an uncertain future.

That night, Carr slipped through a rusted section of perimeter fencing and climbed into the cockpit of the Fw 190. For four hours, he sat in the darkness memorizing the controls by touch alone. He learned the positions of the throttle, flaps, gear, and starter. Crucially, the German fighter used a single-lever throttle system—the Kommandogerät—which automatically managed engine functions. Without it, Carr’s attempt would have been impossible.

At dawn, as the base began to wake, Carr tried to start the engine. The first attempt failed. The second attempt failed. On the third, he pulled the starter in the opposite direction. The engine roared to life.

German voices erupted across the field.

Carr released the brakes, shoved the throttle forward, and accelerated across open ground—heading not for a runway, but a narrow gap between hangars. The aircraft lifted off with inches to spare. Bruce Carr was airborne in a stolen German fighter.

Shot at by Both Sides

Flying at treetop level to avoid flak, Carr headed west at full power. German technology kept him alive as he skimmed over villages, church steeples, and power lines. After 90 minutes, he crossed into Allied-controlled territory.

Relief lasted only seconds.

American anti-aircraft guns opened fire immediately. To them, it was a German fighter approaching at high speed. Tracers ripped through the airframe. Carr could not bail out and could not communicate. He aimed for his home base at Ansbach and pushed the aircraft harder.

When he reached the field, his problems worsened. The landing gear would not extend—likely damaged by American fire. With gunners tracking him and no time left, Carr made a desperate decision. He cut power and belly-landed the Fw 190 on the runway.

The aircraft slid hundreds of feet, shedding metal and sparks. Carr survived—but was too exhausted to move. Military police rushed the wreck, assuming they had captured a German pilot, and began pulling him from the cockpit.

Only when his commanding officer, Colonel George Bickell, recognized him did the situation defuse.

Within an hour, Carr was drinking hot coffee and eating his first meal in three days.

The Last Ace in a Day

The stolen fighter was studied by U.S. intelligence, then an order came down: no more unauthorized capture of enemy aircraft. Carr returned to flying Mustangs within a week.

He did not slow down.

On April 2, 1945, Carr led four P-51s on a reconnaissance mission when they encountered a formation of 60 German fighters. Every rule of air combat said disengage. Carr attacked.

In just 11 minutes, the four American fighters destroyed 15 enemy aircraft. Carr alone shot down five—becoming an “ace in a day,” the last American pilot to do so in the European theater. He was 21 years old.

By the end of World War II, Carr had flown 172 combat missions and claimed 14 or 15 aerial victories, depending on the source. He received the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary heroism.

Three Wars, One Life

Carr’s story did not end in 1945. He flew jets with the Acrojets demonstration team, fought MiGs in Korea, commanded squadrons during the Cold War, and flew nearly 300 combat missions in Vietnam. In total, he accumulated more than 500 combat missions across three wars.

He retired in 1973 as a colonel. Even then, he kept flying. In his seventies, he was still piloting P-51 Mustangs at air shows.

Bruce Ward Carr died in 1998 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. His headstone is simple. It does not mention the stolen fighter, the 60-to-4 battle, or the three wars.

It does not need to.

Those stories live on as reminders of a kind of courage that cannot be trained—only chosen, in moments when survival and impossibility meet.

And once, in November 1944, a young American pilot chose to steal a German fighter and fly straight through history.

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