The Only American Pilot to Shoot Down a U.S. Aircraft—And Save Everyone Aboard

February 10th, 1945 — The Philippine Sea glimmered beneath the late-afternoon sun as Lieutenant Lewis L. Curtis of the 3rd Air Commando Group circled alone at 3,000 feet. Below him, his wingman—Lt. Robert “Bob” LeCroix—floated in a life raft only fifty yards from the shore of Batán Island, a Japanese-held stronghold defended by anti-aircraft guns, infantry, and patrol boats. LeCroix’s P-51 Mustang had been torn apart minutes earlier by flak while strafing the island’s airfield.

Rescue aircraft would not arrive until morning. Curtis knew what that meant. Nightfall in Japanese waters was a sentence of uncertainty—and often something worse.

Then he saw it.

A twin-engine C-47 transport aircraft was approaching from the east, lined up for landing—gear down, flaps extended—aimed squarely at the Japanese runway on Batán Island.

Curtis banked hard toward the newcomer, expecting to intercept an enemy decoy. But as he closed in, the markings came into view: the unmistakable white-star insignia of the United States Army Air Forces, and the tail code of the 39th Troop Carrier Squadron—the “Jungle Skippers.”

An American aircraft was about to land at a Japanese airfield.

Curtis radioed frantically. No reply.
He rocked his wings in warning. No change.
He flew directly across the transport’s nose. The C-47 ignored him, continuing its descent—its crew believing they were approaching an Allied base.

Curtis knew exactly what the Japanese did to captured aircrews. He had seen it firsthand. And he knew that if that transport touched down, the twelve people aboard—including two Army nurses—faced torture, interrogation, or execution.

He had less than a minute to stop it.

What he did next would make him the only American pilot in history credited with intentionally shooting down a U.S. aircraft in order to save the lives of the people aboard.

A Pilot Tempered by Fire

Lewis Curtis was no inexperienced flyer making a reckless choice. At 25 years old, he was already a decorated ace with combat victories in the Mediterranean, including seven German fighters and one Italian aircraft destroyed. He had flown P-38 Lightnings in North Africa and Italy, earning the Distinguished Flying Cross for saving a fellow pilot while outnumbered by Messerschmitts.

But Curtis also knew captivity.

Shot down during the Salerno campaign in 1943, he had crash-landed on a hostile beach and spent months in an Italian POW camp—escaping just ahead of German takeover. His experiences taught him that capture was often a fate worse than death.

When the Geneva Convention barred him from returning to combat in Europe, he volunteered for the Pacific.

He knew the stakes.
He knew the cost of hesitation.
And he knew exactly what he had to do as the C-47 descended toward enemy territory.

A Choice No Manual Prepared Him For

With the transport aircraft now below 300 feet, Curtis positioned himself behind it. He had six .50-caliber machine guns—each capable of ripping a bomber apart in seconds. But he wasn’t aiming to destroy it.

He needed to disable it.

To force it away from the runway.
To give its crew a chance to survive a water ditching.
To keep them out of Japanese hands.

Curtis closed to 50 yards—point-blank range—and aimed at the right engine only. A one-second burst of fire erupted from Bad Angel’s wings. The right engine caught fire instantly.

The C-47 yawed left, but still continued its descent.

Curtis looped around under heavy anti-aircraft fire and lined up on the remaining engine. The runway was seconds away. He fired again—another precise burst.

The left engine detonated, its propeller freezing in place.

Now the transport had no thrust at all. Its pilot was forced to ditch in the ocean.

The aircraft skipped across the waves, broke apart, and came to rest. Men scrambled onto the wings. Life rafts inflated. All twelve aboard survived the landing.

Curtis roared past again, strafing the shoreline to prevent Japanese troops from launching boats. He made repeated passes until his fuel gauge dropped to nearly empty.

As dusk fell across the Philippine Sea, Curtis saluted the survivors below and returned to base—uncertain whether he had just saved twelve Americans…

…or destroyed his military career.

What Happened on the C-47

The transport had taken off from Leyte earlier that day, carrying eight passengers—including two U.S. Army nurses—and four crew members. Severe weather had blown the aircraft off course. With a malfunctioning radio and limited visibility, the pilot mistook Batán Island for a friendly airstrip.

When Curtis first appeared alongside them in his P-51 Mustang, the transport crew believed he was offering escort—until machine gun fire ripped apart their engines.

They had no idea they were landing at a Japanese base.
They had no idea a fighter pilot was saving them rather than attacking them.

Overnight, they floated in dark waters, watching Japanese searchlights comb the sea. They only understood the truth once LeCroix, also floating in a raft nearby, explained what island they were beside.

After that, none of them doubted that Curtis had saved their lives.

A Passenger Curtis Never Expected

The next morning, at dawn, Curtis led four P-51s escorting a PBY Catalina rescue aircraft. The flying boat recovered all thirteen Americans, including LeCroix and the twelve persons from the transport.

Back at base, Curtis reported to his commanding general, George Kenney. Kenney showed him the passenger manifest. One name stopped Curtis cold:

Svetlana Valeriia — Army Nurse Corps — Age 19.

Curtis had taken her to dinner two nights earlier.

She was the nurse who had laughed at his stories, who told him she had once dreamed of acting in Hollywood, who agreed to see him again the following week.

And he had just shot her aircraft out of the sky.

General Kenney confirmed she was safe, uninjured, and—along with the others—grateful to be alive.

Then Kenney told Curtis something he never expected:

He was recommending Curtis for another Distinguished Flying Cross.

Not a reprimand.
Not a court-martial.
A commendation.

Because the decision he made—unprecedented as it was—had saved American lives.

“That’s for shooting me down.”

When Curtis finally gathered the courage to visit the field hospital, Svetlana stood up, walked across the tent, and slapped him across the face.

“That’s for shooting me down,” she said.

Then she kissed him.

“And that’s for saving my life.”

It was, in its own strange way, their second date.

A Legend in Four Flags

As the story spread across the Pacific, Curtis became the only fighter pilot in U.S. military history with kill markings representing four different nations:

Seven swastikas — German Luftwaffe aircraft

One fascis — Italian Macchi C.202

One rising sun — Japanese Ki-46

One American flag — The C-47 he disabled to save its crew

Pilots traveled from other bases just to photograph his Mustang, Bad Angel, with its unprecedented kill board.

Many thought the story must be exaggerated.
It wasn’t.
Every detail was recorded in combat reports, signed by General Kenney, and preserved in the archives.

To this day, no other American pilot has received an official aerial victory credit for shooting down a friendly aircraft for the purpose of saving American lives.

After the War

Lewis Curtis and Svetlana Valeriia married on April 2nd, 1946. Their maid of honor had been on the downed C-47. Their best man had flown with Curtis in the Philippines.

They remained married for nearly fifty years.

Curtis continued to serve, flying in the Berlin Airlift and retiring in 1963 as a lieutenant colonel. He passed away in 1995; Svetlana followed in 2013.

Today, Bad Angel sits in the Pima Air & Space Museum in Tucson, Arizona—a silent testament to one of the most extraordinary decisions ever made in the air.

Visitors often stop at the American flag painted among the kill marks, puzzled.
Few know the story.
Even fewer know what it represents:

The courage to make the right choice when the right choice looks wrong.

The Legacy of Lt. Lewis Curtis

Curtis’s decision is still studied by modern pilots for what it reveals about combat leadership:

Judgment under extreme pressure

Moral courage in ambiguous situations

The ability to recognize that saving lives may require breaking norms

Precision flying and marksmanship under fire

He proved that heroism is not always about destroying the enemy.

Sometimes it is about saving your own people—
even when saving them means shooting them down.