Reprinted with permission from The Storm Lake Times Pilot and author

The days following the Normandy Invasions were measured using their distance from D-Day. On August 9, 1944, for example, it was D+64. And, on August 9, 80 years ago today, Captain Darrell R. Lindsey took off on his 40th and final bombing mission over Nazi occupied France.  

Five years before that, he was a student at Buena Vista College. Darrell attended BVC from 1939-1940, and, though he was born in Jefferson and went to high school in Fort Dodge, the community he found in Storm Lake always held a special place in his heart. As later said by his wife Evalyn and friend Bruce Rhinehart—both fellow Beavers—he always held a deep appreciation for the college and his time there. As for the college, well, it remembered him just as fondly. 

Darrell the Daredevil 

When writing about Darrell years later, what his best friend Bob Meinhard remembered most about him was his penchant for taking risks. He was, plainly and simply, a daredevil. When the two men met at BVC in 1939, Darrell was already a force to behold. He was charming and wild and seemingly always in motion. He was daring, often swerving at parked cars to see how close he could get or jumping to knock his hand against light poles just to see if he could. All the while, he would be grinning as his friends looked on and exclaiming ebulliently: “That was a good one!”  

It was this attitude that made him the perfect pilot when he enlisted in the Army Air Corps in January 1942 following the Pearl Harbor attack. He rose through the ranks quickly, making Captain by late 1942 and becoming Commander of the 585th Bomb Squadron of the 9th Air Force by September 1943. By early 1944, he was bombing targets at Pointe du Hoc and across the Normandy coast to prepare for the D-Day invasions.  

A Bridge Too Far 

His target for August 9th was L’Isle Adam Bridge, a vital railroad crossing over the Seine River some 15 miles North of Paris. The bridge was one of few remaining crossing points for German troops and supplies and was thus fiercely defended. Darrell and his crew were most certainly aware that this would be one of their toughest and most important targets. On August 8, Darrell wrote to Evalyn that he would be “very busy” the next day, but he could not specify anything any further. It was the last letter he would ever write her.   

As the leader of the formation, Darrell’s plane was the first to cross into enemy territory and, therefore, the first to be struck with severe anti-aircraft fire. The closer they came to the bridge the fiercer the fire became, and, just after the start of the bombing run, his right engine was hit and caught fire, sending the plane careening out of formation. For any other pilot, a flaming engine would’ve meant the end of the mission, but not for Darrell Lindsey. This was, after all, the boy who swerved at parked cars simply because he found life to be “too boring.” With the same skill he used to just miss cars on the sleepy streets of Storm Lake, Darrell pulled his plane back into formation and continued the bombing run. One can almost picture him grinning beneath his oxygen mask: “that was a good one!” 

Darrell’s Decision 

They successfully took out L’Isle Adam Bridge, but Darrell still knew his plane was doomed. He ordered the other eight men aboard his plane to bail out while he kept it as steady as he could with a flaming engine and catastrophic structural damage. One by one, the men jumped from the plane. White parachutes snapped open and drifted down and away from the aircraft. Within minutes, six of the nine men had successfully bailed out. One man, Top Turret Gunner Donald Wilson, fell to his death after his parachute failed to deploy. Darrell and bombardier Harley Hooper both remained on the plane. The easiest way for the pilot to evacuate was for the wheels of the plane to be put down, something Hooper quickly offered to do to allow Darrell to escape. Yet, Darrell knew that doing so might send the plane into a tailspin and leave both men trapped inside. Darrell said no, and ordered Hooper out of the plane. Recounting the details later, Hooper would note that Darrell had been completely calm the entire time, as unperturbed as he was the time he jumped and broke a streetlight instead of just tapping it.  

Hooper jumped out and the plane disappeared from sight. Darrell was reported MIA. Someone later claimed that they’d seen Darrell’s parachute open seconds before the engine exploded. Another claimed to have seen him wandering dazedly through the French countryside. After all, if anyone, anyone could have escaped, it would’ve been Darrell. It was that thought that gave his wife and friends back home in Storm Lake hope. Hope that he’d turn up at Allied lines with his trademark crooked grin and return home to start a family with Evalyn, just as he’d promised her in his last letter. But that was not to be. 

When the engine exploded on Darrell’s B-26 Marauder, it sent him spinning toward the small village of Saint Prix, a town of a few hundred just an hour from the Paris city center. Nothing Darrell could do would right the plane, and it smashed into a house not far from the town hall. Three people inside the house were killed in the impact and the fire burned so hot that no one could touch the downed aircraft for days. Darrell’s body was never recovered from the wreck. On May 30, 1945, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. It was presented to Evalyn in his stead. He was just 24 years old.  

Saint Prix Remembers Darrell Lindsey 

When I was little and went with my parents to their offices at BVU, we often drove past the house that Evalyn Lindsey lived in when she received the Western Union Telegram telling her Darrell was dead. It’s probably fitting, then, that this June I walked past the sight where his plane smashed into the earth in Saint Prix. Just like in 1944, it’s only a short walk from the Town Hall, where, in the back courtyard, there’s a monument to Darrell and his crew. It’s made of shiny black marble and surrounded by deep green trees. An American flag billows in the breeze just behind it. The monument was not paid for or even requested by the American government, it was created and dedicated by the people of Saint Prix, and is titled simply “Hommage Aux Aviateurs Americains Abattus sur Saint-Prix” — “Tribute to the American Airmen Shot Down in Saint Prix.” Below that are the names of the 9 Airmen aboard the plane. A small golden cross denotes the deaths of Darrell and Donald Wilson.   

There are many monuments to Darrell. One at BVU, one in Jefferson, and one in Germany. Darrell’s name is also listed on the Wall of the Missing in the Ardennes American Cemetery in Belgium and there’s an empty cenotaph in Jefferson, but that little monument in Saint Prix is the closest thing Darrell has to an actual grave. It’s the only corner of the world that’s soil can claim to hold him.  

Whatever remained of Darrell Lindsey after the inferno cooled is still there today, buried deep within the ground and blooming back into flowers and trees.  

 BVU Remembers Darrell Lindsey 

We spoke to the Mayor of Saint Prix, Céline Villecourt, and the Cabinet Director, Fleur Cavan, while we were there. We were probably a curious sight to them—two very obviously American strangers puttering around the town hall of a tiny, picturesque village—but they couldn’t have been kinder to us. In a mix of English and French, we explained that we were from Darrell’s college and we wanted to pay tribute to him. We explained that most of his immediate family members were gone, so Buena Vista University now held and cherished his memory in their place. They understood immediately, and appeared deeply touched. They told us about the ceremony they have every year in September to celebrate Saint Prix’s liberation from the Nazis, and the tribute they pay to Darrell and his crew. We left a picture of Darrell there that they promised to keep inside Town Hall, away from where the weather could touch him. They take good care of him there, in Saint Prix. They hold his memory just as dearly as we do. 

When we said our goodbyes to Mayor Villecourt and Fleur Cavan, we said goodbye to Darrell, too. We promised him that we would tell his story. Though his remains are in Saint Prix, his memory is here—in Storm Lake, in Jefferson, in Fort Dodge. And his spirit—his wild, charming, youthful spirit—has, as quoted by poet Percy Shelley “out-soared the shadow of our night.” 

So, today, we remember him. August 9, 2024: D+29,284.