Combat Crew (25 page)

That night Jim said, “How in the hell did we get by with that takeoff? When it sunk to the ground I thought we were all gone!”

“So did I? No way we could have cut it thinner!”

“That's the second time we almost got it on takeoff. Remember that night at Boise when Captain Glenn almost got us killed?”

“I'll never forget it,” I answered.

Pitts spoke up. “You say some Captain almost crashed the plane?”

“No, we were scheduled for a night instrument takeoff check for the pilot. I got to the ship ahead of the others and Captain Glenn, the instructor pilot, was already there and impatient to get the flight over with. He told me he had already done the preflight inspection, so let's get the engines started. I climbed into the copilot seat and reached for the checklist.

“‘I've already been through the checklist — don't need it again,' he said.

“‘But I thought we had to do …'

“‘Sergeant, I told you I have already been through it! Now start those engines!'

“‘Yes, Sir!'

“When Carqueville got there the Captain told him, ‘We've already done the checklist. We'll get the hood in place and take off.' (With the hood in place, the pilot could see only the instruments.) The flight was an instrument check. A few minutes later we roared down the runway and at ninety-five I saw Herb pull back on the elevator controls. Great Gods! The elevator was locked! I was standing alongside the copilot (Captain Glenn had his seat) directly over the elevator locking device! Both of us instantly dived to the deck to try to unlock it in time for the aircraft to get airborne before we ran out of runway! All we managed to do was knock each other out looking very much like a Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy comedy: Herb jammed brakes, released them, and jammed them again and again. Near the end of the runway he revved up an outboard engine and skidded the aircraft around. We slid sideways up to the end of the runway. We ruined the brake system and both tires and were lucky to get by with nothing worse.”

Balmore said, “I think that day we almost crashed into the mountain in Oregon was the closest thing we've had. It was worse than the takeoff this morning.”

Counce added, “You're right! We were seconds from a head-on crash and it looked like there was no way to avoid it.”

Jim was talking about a hazardous incident that took place on a training flight over the Pacific Ocean. I was not on the flight and Jim was serving as engineer. It was a check out of the Navigator and Radio Operator on over-water procedure. In a short time we would be heading out over some ocean for an overseas assignment. The flight started at Marysville, California. Soon after takeoff, fog closed in solidly up to twenty thousand feet. The Operations Tower directed them to continue the flight as planned because there would be no break in the fog for several hours. That put Lieutenant Shutting on a pure dead-reckoning
¹³
course with no means of checking his position for wind drift until the fog dispersed. Carl did fine for the first five hundred miles over the water. Radio contact indicated that they passed over a checkpoint on time. But the Navigator listened to considerable radio talk from ships and decided that the wind had shifted direction from the early morning briefing. After an hour or two on his changed heading (he had shifted the heading some to allow for the supposed change in the wind direction), he realized that the change was probably in error and he could not pinpoint where they were. The Navigator had downed too many cups of coffee and had to take time to go to the bomb bay to urinate. But he found the perchant tube hard frozen.

He located Jim in the cockpit.

“What am I going to do? Let it go in the bomb bay?”

“Here, take one of these paper bags the lunches came in. Urinate in this and throw it out of the waist window.”

Jim solved his problem. It worked fine until Shutting tossed the sack out of the window; the swirling wind caught the sack and flung it back into the Navigator's face. There was not much Jim could do for him except offer a handkerchief.

In the radio room Balmore was trying to make contact with any station that might help. At that time of crew training, the radio operators had not yet been instructed in how to get a fix or a Q.D.M. — a magnetic bearing — but fuel was running low and they had to know exactly where they were. George raised a Coast Guard station and the operator suggested a fix. An officer was called in and explained the procedure to Balmore by Morse code. A few minutes later he was able to give Shutting his exact position at a given time. With that definite information, the Navigator brought them over the air base at Eugene, Oregon. The fog was still solid over the western part of the U.S. Visibility was near zero and fuel too low to proceed east far enough to clear the fog. Below were rugged mountains. An instrument letdown in unfamiliar mountain surroundings was beyond the experience of the pilot.

Carqueville turned to Jim. “How much fuel do we have left?”

“Less than an hour.”

“We're goin' to have to do somethin' before long, even if it means takin' some risks.”

The control tower at Eugene understood the gravity of the situation and called Carqueville. “We can hear your engines so we're going to try to talk you down by sound. Keep circling and start lettin' down an' we'll call your turns and headings. Let down at two hundred feet per minute.”

“OK — we're ready.”

“Pilot to crew. The tower is goin' to talk us down. We will be lettin' down in mountains, so everyone get in position an' keep a sharp lookout. If you see anything up ahead call me quick.”

“Navigator to crew. We'll be lettin' down in a valley with mountains on each side. You know what that means.”

Cautiously they began easing down, following the instructions from the tower. The tension was intense. Every eye strained into murk, hoping to spot an obstacle in time. Surely there is no experience in flying more nerve-wracking than to know you may, at any second, hit a mountain head on.

Down! Down! Down! Down!

“Pilot to Navigator, we're below the height of the mountains on either side of us now.”

“
Mountain — straight ahead
,” screamed the copilot.

“Oh, my God.”

Out of the gloom was the sight that all pilots hope never to see coming at them from close range! Carqueville jerked the nose of the aircraft sharply upward so that they were flying parallel to the sloping side of the mountain, almost brushing the treetops. They could not maintain that steep angle of climb more than a few more seconds before the ship stalled out. Then number-three engine could not take the strain of prolonged high power and conked out. That appeared to seal their doom, if it was not already certain! Seconds before stalling out, the ship cleared the top of the mountain and Herb quickly leveled off. There is no way it could have been nearer to a disaster!

Suddenly Wilson roused himself.

“Hey, John, remember the day we left Boise? We were about ready to clear the field, and a horrible accident took place right in front of our eyes?”

“I certainly do remember — I'll never forget it!”

When First Phase Training was over, our crew, along with another crew, was ordered to proceed to Casper, Wyoming, by train. There was a delay on the morning of our departure, however, because the pilot of the other crew had to be pressed into duty as an instructor for a two-hour flight. Men of both crews were waiting together, in front of an orderly room. Fifteen minutes later we heard the roar of a B-17 taking off. Then suddenly, there was the earth-shaking sound of a horrendous crash, followed by intermittent explosions.

“Look at that parachute!” shouted Jim.

How weird! I saw a parachute billow into the sky with no one in it! The next second the air was filled with debris, flames, and smoke. We were stunned! The pilot we were waiting for was in the aircraft that just crashed! The plane ran wild on takeoff, veered from the runway, and streaked across the parking ramp, crashing into several B-17s. It ended up in a pile of burning wreckage against one of the school buildings where our training classes had been held. Two men were pulled from the flaming wreckage and seven others died.

It was so pathetic. The lives of seven young men wiped out instantly, either due to a pilot error or some mechanical failure of the plane. I could visualize the arrival of telegrams, and the tears of grief and anguish! I could see the flag-draped coffins and the solemn services. I could hear the lovely haunting echoes of “Taps,” bidding the young men a final good-bye. I knew that after a short time the memory of those men would begin to fade. In a little while only their families and a few close friends would remember. The rest of the community would soon forget them. After a year or two, most of the people who once knew them well would have a hard time recalling exactly what they looked like.