Bob Frascotti never made it to the beaches of Normandy, yet he was a veteran of that invasion. He was one of the first to die that day.

Just four months past his 21st birthday, Bob—known as Scotty—was to fly one of the first missions of the day. His fellow pilots recall his “superb” singing voice, reminiscent of Vaughan Monroe, and his rendition of “Racing With the Moon.” A fellow pilot from that fateful morning recalled with some grim irony that clouds scudding across the face of the moon that morning may have robbed Scotty of a few vital seconds of visibility that literally meant life or death.

The night before, ground crews of the Eighth Air Force’s 352nd Fighter Group hastily painted their pristine ships with white and black invasion stripes. “Breakfast” was at 2200 on the 5th, with the briefing set for midnight. The “Blue-nosed Bastards of Bodney” were then informed that D-Day had truly begun. Their mission was to fly aerial cover for the landing forces to protect them from air attacks. The 486th Fighter Squadron, Bob’s unit, would be the first to launch at 0230 and he was assigned to the second section of four.

It was Scotty’s 89th mission. Night operations were unfamiliar to the group, which was used to protecting bombers on daylight raids over the continent. Their field, at RAF Bodney, England, USAAF Station 141, was grass. It’s lack of a well-defined illuminated runway compounded a pilot’s issues as the turf blended into the night sky like “black velvet.” A string of temporary lights had been laid, but one of the taxiing Mustangs had snagged and broken the power cable. The pilots had no recourse but to position and orient themselves as best they could in the drizzle and darkness.

An armorer, Sergeant Jim Bleidner, watched as the red and green position lights on the wings bumped in the night as the planes moved from the dispersal area to their take-off position near the tower on the western edge of the field. A new, second tower was under construction at the east end of the field, directly in the path of their take-off.

Frascotti’s plane, with a pale, weather-worn blue nose, was P-51B-5-NA, 43-6685, named Umbriago. This could be a corruption of the Italian word umbriaco, which means ‘drunk.’ More likely, however, it was taken from the 1944 song Umbriago by Jimmy Durante about a dear friend by that name. The lyrics end: “So when you feel low, better send for my friend, Umbriago.”

The flight lead, Lieutenant Martin Corcoran, turned his fighter into the wind and taxied forward a few feet. Without knowing, he was slightly to the right of the intended take-off line. Using the flame from his exhausts—described by Bleidner as “tiger’s teeth”—as a guide the other three slotted into position. At Corcoran’s command, all four fully laden Mustangs waddled forward in the dark, slowly gaining speed. To fly, the fighters needed an indicated airspeed of 150 mph.

Lieutenant Bud Fuhrman, to Bob’s right, held his craft down as it gained speed. Lieutenant Charles Griffiths, trailing slightly, thought his plane was “glued to the ground.” From his position, he could see the lights of Corcoran’s plane that indicated he was airborne, Then those of Furman, also up. Frascotti, however, off to his left, were slightly lower. Then, at near flying speed, Umbriago slammed into the unlighted unfinished control tower.

The unit’s history described the aftermath: “An enormous smear of fire, spewing like dragon’s bile, burned over the tower balcony and flared malevolently onwards as the aircraft disintegrated.” Bob Frascotti was no more.

Griffiths pushed on, his plane still on the ground, but eventually making into the air somehow after striking a net post on sister 328th FS’s volleyball court. In the 328th’s briefing room nearby, a blinding flash lit the area followed by a concussion and flying .50-caliber bullets as Bob’s ammunition cooked off in the flames.

The rest of the group took flight guided by the flickering flames of Umbriago.