Combat Crew (18 page)

When I was sure they could see it, I fired the flare that signaled wounded man aboard. Shortly afterward I saw an ambulance head for the taxi strip we were expected to use.

As soon as the aircraft stopped Nick was lifted gently onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. As it pulled away I had a depressed feeling. I had come to admire Nick. He was a brash young man, but he had been a mainstay down in the ball, where none of the rest of us would have ventured by choice. It took a special kind of man, with a tough mental attitude, to handle the anxieties of that position amid the bursting flak. Herb Carqueville was waiting when we climbed out of the ship and very much upset about Nick. Captain Ralston, the Flight Surgeon, was also there. I knew Nick would get the best of care and treatment.

At interrogation we learned nothing more about the ships we saw in the Channel. Orders were to leave the guns mounted in the aircraft and stand by for the possibility of another mission. It never came. All afternoon we stayed close to the radio waiting for a news flash. Not a thing was said about an invasion. The next morning newspapers carried a story of an invasion rehearsal — no doubt a part of the continuous effort to confuse the enemy as to when and where the invasion would come. The code name for the exercise was “Starkey.”

I had serious reservations about the ethics of dropping bombs on the Occupied Countries. All of us understood the necessity of destroying submarine pens, harbor facilities, and war plants. But the civilian population of Belgium and Holland were caught between the grinding forces of two ruthless military machines. Make no mistake about it — the Allies were ruthless and had no hesitation to sacrifice innocent people to achieve military objectives. Did the bomber crews have any accountability for raining death from the skies on helpless populations who had nothing to do with starting the war? Edward Cayce, the noted psychic reader, is reputed to have been able to describe the events of previous lifetimes by some psychic ability to read directly from the pages of what he called the “Akashas Records.” I prefer to think that no such celestial archive exists. Nevertheless, I was bothered by my part, as insignificant as it was, in the impersonal fury of destruction poured down on Europe from above. And I think that most of the men who manned the bomber crews were uneasy whether they admitted it or not.

Across Europe the portraits and statues of military commanders look down from positions of honor. Their names and deeds have been encased in a mantle of glory. But war is not glorious — or noble. War is incredible brutality and inhumanity beyond description. Too soon the cruelty and terror of the campaigns are forgotten. The faces of the conquerors hang alongside the portraits of saints and are only a little less honored.

During the early part of September the 8th Air Force was reorganized. General Carl Spaatz assumed command of all American Air Force operations in Europe. Then Major General Ira Eaker moved up to command the 8th Air Force. The 8th Bomber Command was put under General Frederick Anderson. The rest of the command shaped up as follows:

• First Division Brig. Gen. Robert Williams
  
• Second Division Brig. Gen. James Hodges
  
• Third Division Brig. Gen. Curtis LeMay
  

Divisions were increased on paper to four wings, each composed of three combat Groups. The combined strength was to be built up to that structure in the immediate future. Such plans would mean larger formations and improvement in the odds for survival for each man. Whether the buildup would take place soon enough to be of any help to me was yet to be determined. The casualty rate was so high at that period that even large numbers of new crews and aircraft would build up the force less rapidly than expected.

When I began to feel sorry for myself in reference to the heavy odds I remembered that I could have been assigned to the 100th Group — the hard luck Group of the 8th Bomber Command. That unfortunate outfit had earned the undying hatred of the German Luftwaffe. Whenever their group insignia was recognized the Jerry pilots were instantly infuriated. One story explaining the circumstances that brought this on kept circulating so persistently that it must have had the elements of truth. According to that story, the 100th was under intense attack over the Continent and in desperation one Fortress lowered its landing gear. That is the internationally recognized signal for surrender. When the German fighter pilots pulled in close to escort the surrendering craft down, some of the Fortress gunners suddenly opened fire at the unsuspecting fighters while they were out of position to return fire. Several fighters were shot down and some pilots lost. From that moment on the 100th was a marked Group and the sight of that hated insignia inflamed the German pilots to turn full attention to the 100th.

Sam Spivak was one of the early crew chiefs in the 381st and a good one. He was the brother of Charlie Spivak, a well-known orchestra leader of that period. When Sam and Gleichauf got together it was old friends meeting again. It was reassuring to have that kind of man in charge of keeping our aircraft in top condition.

One bitterly cold day Sam was working alone, high up on an engine stand with his head in the nacelle space behind the engine. Electricians, armorers, and other specialists were coming and going. Sam heard another vehicle stop but paid no attention to it. An English voice said, “Yank, how do you like our English weather?” No American liked the miserable winter-spring weather of 1943 in England, and Sam thought he was talking to one of the English runway workers. His reply was a volley of profanity that clearly expressed what he thought of English weather in very definite and colorful terms. When he did not hear any reply, Sam stooped down to where he could see to whom he was talking. He got the shock of his life: there stood King George VI, flanked by British and American military brass! Sam tried to stutter an apology, but the king cut him short. George VI was laughing heartily and said, “Forget It, Yank. I had it coming. And I've heard better profanity than that many times. I'm an old navy man, you know.”

Carqueville was flying his initial mission as a first pilot with a crew newly put together. He would be on the right wing and we would be on the left wing of the second element of the squadron.

I saw Carqueville at Operations early that morning and he said, “John, my men are nervous and scared, as all of us are on our first raid. We may need some help if fighters hit us hard. Keep your eye on us.”

Jim cut in, “Keep tight formation and the fighters won't pick you out as a green crew.”

The target was submarine installations at Nantes, on the Loire River, a few miles from the Bay of Biscay, on the west coast of France. Takeoff and wing assembly were smooth and on schedule. A short time before we reached the enemy coast Purus called me.

“Bombardier to Turret — pull the bomb fuse pins.”

“OK, Bombardier.”

“Ball to crew, fighters six o'clock low — can't make out what they are.”

“Tail to crew, they are P-47s.”

The escort flew crisscross patterns above us and for an hour nothing happened. Then the Navigator spotted trouble.

“Navigator to crew, 109s eleven o'clock low — looks like about fifty of them.”

Reliable Jerry had timed the range of the escort perfectly and approached the formation at the time when the 47s would have to turn back. When the Thunderbolts were gone the enemy interceptors pulled up to our altitude and began the usual circling tactic to pick out the best angles for attack. We could never be certain what they looked for, but a ship with signs of mechanical trouble or a straggler was sure to be high on the hit list. We also knew they looked for the weakest formations and suspected that they tried to spot green crews. Perhaps certain groups had earned a reputation of being rough on attack. Other groups may have been easy targets in the past and when they recognized the opposition by the insignias, they may have changed their tactics.

“Bombardier to crew, fighters are hitting the high squadron.”

The attack screamed by us at about two hundred yards and we let go with burst after burst. There were seven fighters attacking in a single file.

“Tail to crew — 109 comin' in six o'clock high.”

I whirled around to help Legg and we hammered hard at the 109 and another right behind him.

“Ball to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“I think you an' Tail got one — I can see it going down smoking.”

I saw us hit it with a dozen bursts, but I think Legg did the most damage. This was the kind of fight I liked. We were never swarmed by fighters but there were enough attacks to keep us busy. By that date I had enough combat experience to be keyed up to maximum performance by fighter action.

The fight slowed down, but ten or twelve interceptors were still buzzing around the formation. A fighter was leading three other Bogies and circling us at about twelve hundred yards.

“Navigator to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“Hey, John, think we could hit that sonnuvabitch at four o'clock high?”

“He's a little out of our range, but we might fire high an' lob a few rounds into him if we're lucky.”

“Let's dust him off for the hell of it.”

“OK — fire away.”

I set my elevation several degrees above his flight path and took a long lead. Both of us squeezed off three or four bursts. We picked the wrong man to mess with. He was not bothering us and we should have left him alone. His wings wiggled as if out of control for a few seconds then he went into a dive and came straight at us with the other three fighters following his lead. We had a full thousand yards to fire and the nose and turret guns poured a deadly hail of lead and steel all of the way. We were assisted by other gun positions in adjoining ships. One after another those fighters barrel-rolled under our right wing, and I heard Jim open up as they flashed by his position. Then Legg cut loose as they dived down out of range. The 109s were so rugged they could absorb a lot of punishment and keep right on coming in. Well, one of us did hit the lead ship with an improbable shot.

“Navigator! This is the pilot. That was damned stupid! That fighter wasn't botherin' us an' you and John made him mad. Those four 109s could've knocked us down. Don't either of you ever pull a stunt like that again.”

Gleichauf was really hot and he had a right to be. We should not have instigated that attack. Fortunately, he did take effective evasive action while the four of them were coming in on us. That was probably why we did not take any damage.

As soon as the fighters dived past us I whirled around to see how Herb was doing. Two fighters were zooming by his aircraft and severe damage was clearly evident.

“Turret to crew, Herb's badly damaged. His ship is riddled from the waist back an' looks to me like the Copilot and Top Turret are wounded.”

“Waist to crew, Herb is all right as far as I can see.”

It was typical of Jerry tactics to mount two or three simultaneous attacks to divide the defensive fire. In this case it worked well because we were tied up with our own problems. When Herb needed some help we could not give it to him.

“Navigator to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“The I.P. is just ahead of us.”

“Bombardier to crew, flak twelve o'clock high.”

The fire was light and inaccurate, which was great with me. I hated that damn flak. The bombs released on time and the formation made a right swing out over the Bay of Biscay. Two aircraft had release problems but they got rid of their bombs as we passed over a harbor nearby. I watched the boats making frantic movements in an attempt to avoid the bombs they could see falling directly on the harbor.

“Bombardier to Pilot. I think Herb is goin' to be able to hang on. His Copilot is sitting up in his seat now.”

The flight back to England was long and tiresome. When we landed Major Hendricks, the Squadron Commanding Officer, sent for Shutting and me. The Major was usually a mild-mannered man but when we reported he was steaming.

“I've seen some asinine things in my day, but you two men drawing four fighters in on our squadron for no sensible reason takes the prize for stupidity. Don't you have sense enough to leave fighters alone who are not bothering us? If I ever hear of any such irresponsible action from either one of you again there will be severe disciplinary measures!”

When we were out of range of the Major's hearing Shutting whispered, “I never knew Hendricks had such a temper. Good thing we both kept our big mouths shut.”

“Damn right! If we were not so short on combat personnel he would have thrown the book at us.”

Well, it did sound like a good idea at the time. The action was getting a bit dull and we thought dusting off that fighter would liven things up. And that is exactly what happened, but not the way we anticipated. I still wonder, when I think of that day, which of us hit that fighter. It was one hell of a shot.