Combat Crew (30 page)

“Ball to crew — fighters comin' up at us from below.”

I heard his guns chatter again and again. No one could help him down there. Attacks I could not see always worried me.

“Bombardier to Pilot — Bombardier to Pilot. Over.”

“This is the Pilot …”

“We're on the bomb run.”

“Tail to crew — flak at eight o'clock level.”

It was spotty, but what they threw up was devastatingly accurate. Numerous Forts took hits, but none that I saw had to pull out of the formation in our Group. That Wing following us was not so lucky.

On the return P-38s chased away the few Jerry fighters who came up to our level. No rocket-carrying craft showed up. Actually, I would have liked for Jerry to have attacked us with rockets to see what the P-38s would do to them. On the way back I began to calculate the way long-range escort was going to shift the odds of survival for me. Until that day I tried many times to compute what the odds really were, using the total number of men who participated on raids since I arrived against the total casualties. This figure I projected over twenty-five missions. But the statistics I played with were too unreliable to have real meaning. My guess was that from July through October the odds must have been at least four to one that we would not make it. With the P-38s those odds were going to improve. That was the great news of the day. How much they would improve would depend on how many P-38s were in England then and how fast the force would be built up. At that time no airman at the 381st had succeeded in completing twenty-five raids. It was past the time that some of the earliest arrivals should have been through. For the first time I began to feel a cautious optimism that before long the 381st was going to turn out some graduates.

The Flying Fortresses were originally designed to fly as individual aircraft at high altitudes up to thirty-eight thousand feet using the accuracy of the Norden Bomb Sight. In practice this concept turned out to be impractical for two reasons. First, thirty thousand feet was found to be the highest altitude that crews could stand with consistency, due to the crude oxygen equipment and the intense cold in some areas of the airplane. Two, the opposition was so fierce from enemy fighters that the bombers had to attack in tightly flown formations to concentrate defensive fire.

In late October some officials of Bomber Command raised the question as to whether the Fortresses needed a highly trained navigator and bombardier in the nose. Could one officer be quickly trained to perform enough of the duties of both so that a well-qualified gunner could be used up front where the main attacks were? Some bombardiers proved to be top-notch gunners, like our Johnny Purus, but others could not get over the notion that their main job was to drop the bomb. That was important, of course, but I can tell you for certain that the primary thing nearly all of us had in mind was to get back to England one way or another. Some training toward combining the two positions had already been started. After all, a navigator was needed only when an aircraft was separated from the formation or lost in murky weather on the way home. The navigator in the lead plane did the rest of the navigating for the Group. And the bombardier in the lead aircraft did the work with the Norden Bomb Sight. All of the other bombardiers watched for the first bomb to fall from the leader, then instantly released their load. But if the aircraft became separated deep in enemy territory, a bombardier would be needed to find some target of opportunity to keep the mission from being a total failure for that aircraft.

Shutting and Purus took this idea as a big joke. “Why we need you Johnny?” Shutting asked. “I can toggle out those bombs when the stud bombardier lets go, and we can get us a good gunner on those nose guns.”

But Purus retaliated, “No! It's you we don't need any more. If we get lost comin' back home, all I gotta do is call Balmore an' ask for a fix or a Q.D.M. — why we need you?”

(The concept of a single Bombardier-Navigator never caught on. A great deal of time had been spent in the training of both positions, and resistance to combining the two positions was too strong to overcome. After a few weeks we did not hear any more about it.)

On the way to the mess hall that morning I could hear the last of the Lancasters up above, returning from a night raid against the Germans. I wondered where they had been and what it was like up there alone at night. They had to have a hell of a navigator to find the target and the way back to their base in the dark.

The briefing sent a shudder up my spine: “We're heading for Gelsenkirchen in the Ruhr Valley. We'll have a P-47 escort at the coast — the navigator will give you the rendezvous time. Spitfires are due on the way out. Be careful not to mistake the Spits for 109s. There are seven hundred gun emplacements in the Ruhr so the flak will be intense, rougher than any we've seen so far.”

There was an audible groan.

“Ball, keep a watch underneath for flak damage. There can be up to two hundred fighters, but they may not be too eager to come after us in all that flak.”

After the briefing Kels said, “We got us two Navigators now, so which one of you jokers is gonna give us the headings today?”

Balmore stepped up. “I've got the solution to that problem.” He presented small bailout compasses
¹⁸
to Carl and Johnny. With a serious expression on his face he said, “I'm giving compasses to both of you, so when the pilot calls for a new heading, the one who comes up with it first gets to call it in.”

Shutting and Purus solemnly shook hands with Balmore and accepted their tiny compasses. “Balmore, your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated. Now each of us has his very own compass!” responded Shutting.

At the coast the Tail came on intercom: “Fighters at six o'clock high.”

“Radio to crew — they're 47s.”

“And right on time,” added the navigator.

The P-47s were using some larger disposable belly tanks made from pressed paper by the British that extended their range considerably. A few fighters broke through the escort cover but were ineffective. Losses to the bombers were slight, but the flak was awesome. There seemed no end to it and the accuracy was unbelievable. Numbers of times we were bounced about by the concussion of close ones. I heard frequent shell fragments crash into the aircraft, and could see some damage from my position. Lieutenant Butler's ship was hit, and he began to fall back. One of his engines was smoking. Then Colonel Nazzaro's ship was hit and the engine trailed black smoke for two hours.

Wham! A big piece of shrapnel slammed through the accessory section of number-four engine.

“Turret to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“How do the instruments look on number four?”

“Instruments are normal.”

“All we can do is hope there is no fire.”

The wings were perforated with holes to the right and to the left. My greatest concern was an oil- or fuel-system rupture that would ignite from the red-hot exhaust collector-rings of the engines.

“Turret to Ball — can you see any serious damage under the right wing? Look for fuel leaks.”

“I see a lot of holes, but no leaks yet. Maybe they self-sealed.”

A large chunk crashed under me and was deflected by an oxygen tank. Another slashed through the narrow space between the turret and copilot, and on out of the aircraft.

“Bombardier to Pilot — Bombardier to Pilot! We're on the bomb run.”

“Drop 'em quickly so we can get out of this damn flak!”

A few minutes away from the target coming out I heard an extra-loud clang down below. A close one had showered the ball turret.

“Ball to Copilot — Ball to Copilot!”

“Go ahead.”

“The Ball was hit an' both my eyes are full of glass. I can't open 'em to see.”

“Are you hit anywhere else, Ball?”

“No, just my eyes full of glass slivers.”

“You want us to get you out now, or wait 'til we're over water?”

“You can wait. I'm as well off here as I would be in the radio room.”

Number-two engine took a heavy hit squarely on the propeller hub, but continued to operate normally. A hunk of flak, a lot bigger than most of the fragments, tore through the empty bomb bay with a fearsome noise.

“Bombardier to crew — fighters at one o'clock level — 109s, I think. They don't seem too eager …”

“If you were a Jerry would you want in this damned flak?”

“Hell, no!”

The Spitfires scheduled for the return escort did not show, although they could have been flying low cover below us. When the coast came into view, a small flak field opened up. The Colonel expertly moved the formation around it. Lieutenant Butler was having double trouble. He was in doubt that he could make it over the North Sea. Later he insisted that the copilot gave orders for the crew to bail out while over land without his knowledge or consent. The navigator, four enlisted men, and the copilot jumped, including a special friend of ours named MacGinty. “Mac” was often a visitor to our hut. We would miss him. He had thirty-three raids with the R.A.F. and this raid would have made a total of forty-two. Lieutenant Butler, with only three of his crew left, made it back to Ridgewell.

As soon as we got to lower altitude, and the threat of fighters had eased, I got out of the turret and looked for any damage I could see. After checking the hydraulic system I stood where Gleichauf and Kels could hear me.

“We got trouble with the hydraulic system. No pressure! We won't have any brakes on landing.”

Paul asked, “Are you sure we can't raise any pressure temporarily?”

“Yes, the fluid is gone.”

“Pilot to crew. We will have to land without brakes. I'll try to touch down at the end of the runway, then rev up number-one and -two engines. If we can ease off into the sticky mud to the right of the runway, that ought to stop us.”

On the final approach Paul brought number 719 in as slow as he dared — aiming at the end of the runway. What he saw ahead was unbelievable! Kels screamed out, “Paul, look at those damn people, lining both sides of the runway!”

“What are they doin' out here in our way!” Paul was frantic with helpless rage. “We can't turn off the runway and kill a dozen people!”

When the wheels touched down, Kels opened his side window and leaned far outside, trying to attract the attention of the people lining the runway. He frantically motioned the crowd to get out of our way. They smiled brightly and waved back at Kels. Gleichauf was infuriated! “Those stupid people are gonna make me wreck this airplane! We can't stop! Who the hell let them out here?” The pilot was turning red with rage. Kels was still trying to signal the crowd to get out of our way. Total failure! The high speed of the aircraft meant nothing to them! Then it was too late! The end of the landing strip was coming up fast and we were still rolling at considerable speed with no possible chance to make the turn onto the taxi strip.

Number 719 sped toward rough ground, roads and ditches, but little soft mud needed to slow us down. This was long before a pilot could reverse the propeller pitch to slow down an aircraft. (There was a large field of sticky mud to the right side of the runway, if only we could have turned into it.) I asked many questions about why that unwanted crowd of people was lining the runway, not only in the way but in danger from the damaged aircraft coming in to land, some of which were without the usual landing controls. No one would tell me why the men were there, or who was responsible for an absurd situation that defied common sense. I suspect some officer ordered the men out to welcome “the boys back home.” It might have sounded like a great idea to someone in an alcoholic daze.

The aircraft was coasting toward a country lane when I saw an English soldier blithely pedaling along on a certain collision course apparently unaware of impending doom. I watched in horror! At the last moment the man looked to his left and saw those huge whirling propellers coming right at him. Then he passed out of sight under the wing and I felt a slight impact as if we had struck something.

I said to Paul, “I'm afraid we got him!”

“Oh, God! I hope not!” Gleichauf replied.

“Last I saw he was about ten feet away with number-four prop headin' right into him.”

We bounced crazily this way and that, over more ditches and obstructions, slowing down. I saw with dismay that we were heading straight for a barnyard and two elderly ladies were sitting on a wooden fence directly in our path. There was a sizable ditch and the wheels dropped into it, throwing one wing into the ditch, and the other up at a grotesque angle. The aircraft came to a lurching halt, with the nose of the plane resting about where I saw the two women sitting a few seconds earlier. Among the crew our only serious injury was to Harkness.

Paul leaned out of the window and called to some men nearby. “Did we hit those ladies sittin' on the fence?”

“No, it was a bit of a scramble, but they made it, you know.”

That was a relief. The soldier on the bike was the only casualty. There was nothing we could have done to have prevented killing him. Number 719 was a sorry mess and it was all so stupid and unnecessary. A man killed and a new airplane wiped out for no sane reason! We should have gotten by with nothing more serious than a lot of sticky mud and perhaps a twisted landing gear.

The medical team arrived quickly to take Harkness to the hospital and get that glass out of his eyes. Those medics were always efficient and fast when we had wounded men aboard. A crowd gathered around the plane, but I was concerned about the extent of damage to number 719. One wing tip would have to be replaced and the landing gear was destroyed. The bomb bay was in sad shape and the bomb-bay doors would definitely have to be replaced. One engine was shot, and possibly a second from the collision with the ditch. While I was climbing around estimating the repairs that would be needed, a muddy English soldier walked up and tapped me on the shoulder. His clothes were badly torn and he looked like he had been in a fight.