Combat Crew (34 page)

“Cut the bitching. Major Hall, the Group Operations Officer, will lead the 381st.” He turned to Harkness. “Watch close for flak damage under the engines.”

With Hall leading I knew it would be a smooth, well-executed mission if the weather permitted. The takeoff was efficient and on time. The weather had improved so much it looked like we might be able to proceed with the operation.

“Pilot from Navigator.”

“Go ahead.”

“We'll hit the coast at eleven hundred hours. Fighters can show any time.”

The P-47 escort arrived as we crossed the coast and shortly afterward the intercom came on: “Ball to Copilot — fighters at four o'clock low comin' up.”

“Tail to Ball, what are those fighters tryin' to do? I've never seen them circle around down below us before.”

“Don't know. Maybe it's a new tactic against the 47s.”

“Copilot, I can see at least thirty from the turret.”

I looked up in time to see eight 47s streaking down at high speed followed by the remainder of the escort. For a few minutes there was a marvelous view of about forty P-47s tangling with about fifty M.E. 109s. It was the biggest dogfight I ever saw — a gigantic, twisting, turning, diving battle that was soon out of my range of view.

At the I.P. I saw the first B-17 go down from a fighter attack. Suddenly ice began to form inside the turret glass and cut my vision to zero. Where was the moisture coming from? The cockpit windows and windshield were clear.

“Copilot to Turret — Copilot to Turret — four fighters crossing in front of us at ten o'clock high — let 'em have it.”

I scraped the ice furiously. When I could see, they were too far away to get in my sights. Gleichauf was caustic. “Why in the hell didn't you shoot? They were right in front of you!”

“Ice! The turret glass is iced up — barely see out of it. Scraping it off as fast as I can. Don't know where the moisture came from.”

The aircraft was another of those old E models with small Ball and Top Turret oxygen tanks. “Ball to Waist. Ball to Right Waist — it's time to refill the ball oxygen tank.”

“OK, Ball, turn it around forward and hold it there. Don't move that ball until I tell you it's clear.”

“Got it, Jim.”

Remembering what happened the day we flew
Tinker Toy
, Jim had George standing by with a walk-around bottle in case ice should form and hold the valves open. When he tried to remove the filler valve it would not release. Realizing that he would have to run back to the waist and get a screwdriver to prize it off, Jim went on intercom: “Waist to Ball, do not move the ball — repeat — do not move the ball, until you hear me say clear.”

All Harkness heard distinctly was the word “clear.” “Thanks, Jim,” he said, and whirled the ball back into action and snapped off the filler line. The oxygen pressure in the left side aft system of the Waist and Tail vanished as the gas spewed out. Fortunately the pressure in the ball held firm.

“Radio to crew. Radio to crew. The left rear oxygen system is gone. Switch to the right system.”

My earphones were so poor that I could not pick up what was going on in the aft section of the ship. Really it was no serious matter, as the mission was relatively short. We had plenty of oxygen but Sanford, flying left waist, failed to hear the warning and keeled over and passed out. Counce quickly switched his hose to the right side regulator and he revived.

“Bombardier to Waist.”

“Go ahead.”

“Is everything OK back there?”

“I think so. I can't tell about Legg. I think he's OK 'cause he looks like he's sitting up at his position.”

“Bombardier to Tail.”

“Bombardier to Tail — Bombardier to Tail — come in.”

There was no response.

“Waist?”

“Go ahead.”

“Go back and check out the Tail Gunner.”

When Jim got to where he could see Legg clearly he realized the tail gunner was in very serious condition, and had to have oxygen fast or he was going to suffer brain damage or worse! Jim struggled valiantly to untangle the gunner's hose and switch him to the undamaged right side system, but Raymond had collapsed so that he was lying on his hose. There was only room in the tail for one man. Counce knew that man had to have oxygen quickly. Without a moment's hesitation he unhooked from his portable bottle and plugged Legg into it. He knew he would probably pass out before he could get back to his waist position, and he did. But Sanford quickly revived him and no harm was done.

“Tail from Waist — Tail from Waist.”

“This is the Tail, go ahead.”

“Are you all right?”

“I guess so — a little dizzy — but I'll make it.”

“Keep your regulator on the right side system. The left system is empty.”

“OK — Waist — that's what the trouble was? Thanks for straightening me out.”

While Legg was unconscious he suffered a severe electrical burn on his leg where the electric suit pressed too tightly against him. When off of oxygen for an extended period, the bodily resistance to high or low temperature plummets.

“Ball to Copilot, my electric heat has gone out — hope I can keep from freezing a foot or hand.”

“Use straight oxygen. That'll help some.”

In the ball the gunner had less room for bulky clothes so he depended more on his electrically heated equipment than the rest of us. I felt the bombs fall away. It told me we would be free of that miserable flak in a few more minutes. That was the main thing I wanted right then.

“Turret to Ball, exercise your hands and feet as much as you can. A little exercise can stave off frostbite.”

“Turret to crew. Turret to crew — fighters at one o'clock high.”

The attacks were directed to the high squadron and I did not have a good opportunity to fire.

“Tail to crew, another Fort going down at eight o'clock low — four chutes.”

A Fort nearby caught heavy damage to number-three engine. An oil or fuel line was ruptured and a long stream of flame shot back as far as the tail. Several men dropped out of the waist hatch. One unfortunate crewman pulled his ripcord too soon and the silk blossomed up into the flame. It instantly began to blaze. I watched in stunned horror as the condemned man started his terrifying plunge toward Earth five miles below!

“Copilot to crew — that's the third Fort I've seen go down so far.”

The fighters kept circling the formation making sporadic passes. They were by no means a hot interceptor group. I suspected they were green German pilots. It was time for the attrition of war to begin decimating the excellent pilots with whom Germany had started the war. Ten minutes from the coast the intercom came on: “Tail to crew — another B-17 dropping down at five o'clock.”

“Copilot to Ball — do you see it?”

“Yes. I see it. No chutes so far. It looks to be under control.”

After some more questions Kels announced, “That must have been Nixon's plane. I guess he knew he could not make it across the Channel.”

The way I saw it, Nixon decided to give the crew a chance to bail out rather than risk a water ditching. Those men were old friends and it was depressing to see them lost. Well, it would be better for them to jump if they couldn't make it to England. With bad visibility shaping up, the chances of getting picked up from the water before dark were poor. Few survived a night drifting on the cold Channel.

The total loss was twenty Forts, which was too high in view of the moderate opposition.

Jim Counce and I were scheduled to ride with the crew of Lieutenant Deering, the pilot George Reese was with when they accidentally came down over the Continent. I suspect that the assignment was to give Deering a little experience in his crew, but there was not always any particular reason for assignments. The raid would be Deering's second attempt and I was leery of him as a pilot. Of course Jim, as well as myself, was annoyed at being put with a green crew. The Paris area always threatened to throw Goering's crack “Yellow Nose” squadrons at us, and they were as mean as fighters could be. If they caught us near the target, with a pilot throttle-jockeying the formation, it would send out a clear signal of “green crew — hit it first.”

Riding in the rear of the personnel truck in complete darkness to the perimeter where the aircraft were parked was a different experience each mission morning. Some days the men were morosely silent, lost in speculation of what the next few hours would be like. Or they were gabby, covering their anxieties with the bravado of inane chatter. That morning I did not see them get into the truck so they were only voices in the darkness.

“Why the hell didn't they send someone to tell us they were loading bombs last night? We closed the Goddamn pub. I feel like hell.”

“Some pure oxygen will snap you out of it — always works for me when I got a hangover.”

“The way you soaked up the ale last night I bet you piss in your pants down in the ball today.”

“Hey, you remember that redheaded broad we saw at the pub last week?”

“Yeah — she looked good.”

“I had her out two nights ago.”

“How was it?”

“Allllll right! Her ol' man only gets home every three weeks and she can't wait that long.”

“We got us a new boy flyin' Navigator today. Our Navigator's got the clap — on that last pass to London I guess.”

“They can cure the clap easy now with that sulpha stuff — dries it right up.”

“Let's hope it stays dried up.”

We got out at aircraft 719 and as the truck pulled out I could hear the conversational drivel still going on. “Hey, let's go to Ridgewell tonight — there's a blond bitch you'd go for …”

The crew chief headed my way with a glum look on his face, “Sorry, but 719 is redlined for today.”

“Damn! We draw a green crew an' now the airplane's canceled out.”

Jim asked, “What's wrong with it?”

“Number three is vibrating too much — real rough.”

“Did you call Engineering?” I asked.

“Yeah, they're sendin' a truck to pick ya up.”

Jim groused, “Another one of those delays — not enough time to get the guns ready — and on top of that a new crew.”

The wait for the truck wasted precious time needed to get the aircraft, whatever one it would be, ready for a mission. When we finally piled out at the replacement airplane it was near engine starting time. Deering arrived at the same time we did.

“Pilot,” I said, “we don't have time left to get the guns ready. How about calling Operations and telling them that we will be late taking off because of a last-minute change of aircraft?”

Operations told Deering to try to catch the formation over the Channel and set up a rendezvous time. Of course formations were rarely that close on timing. A minor mechanical problem added another ten minutes to the takeoff delay.

When the aircraft finally became airborne we were twenty minutes late. It was time-consuming for the process of squadrons to gather their planes, then for the groups to form and the wing to assemble into proper positions. Deering had instructions to head straight for the final rendezvous over the Channel. When we got to the Channel the 381st was in sight but so far ahead that to try to catch up was impractical. We trailed the rest of the way over water midway between two groups. I think Deering still hoped to overtake the 381st.

“Top Turret to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Fighters can show up anytime now. Not good being out of a formation.” He did not reply. Ten minutes later he still had made no move to get into a formation. That was how aircraft got shot down. Flight Engineers do not tell pilots what to do, but something had to be done right away. “Top Turret to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“There's a vacant spot in the high group to our left — it's always better to be in the high group if fighters attack.”

“Good idea — don't think we can catch the 381st.”

“No chance of that.”

A few minutes later Deering pulled into the high group and I felt a hundred percent better about the situation.

“Pilot to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“I hope they don't raise hell about us bein' in the wrong group.”

So that was what had been worrying him. I suppose he did get chewed out for that episode with Reese and he did not want to get back on the carpet on his next flight.

“Top Turret to Pilot. Don't worry about that. Planes fly with other groups all the time when they can't find their own outfits. You got a good excuse. Operations didn't really expect you to catch our Wing when they saw you take off twenty minutes late.”

“Thanks.”

After that Deering relaxed and did what I thought was an excellent job for a pilot with so little formation experience. We got off in such a hurry that all I knew about the target was that it was an aircraft plant somewhere near Paris.

“Copilot to crew — I've got good news for you. Today we're gonna have a P-51 escort. How about that?”

Super news! At last we were getting what had been billed as a long-range fighter that would be a match for the best Germany could throw at us. We would soon find out if the P-51s were that good.

“Tail to crew — fighters at six o'clock high.”

As soon as they were close enough I saw what they were. “Top Turret to crew — they are P-51s.”

They were beautiful airplanes. I wondered if the Germans knew we had P-51s in England and what they thought about them. The secret had been well kept from the bomber crews. I watched with glee as the 51s drove off a handful of Jerry fighters and stayed with us to the I.P., where a group of P-47s with the larger disposable fuel tanks took over escort duties. Shortly afterwards seven F.W. 190s came poking up toward us. The 47s dived after them and the action moved beyond my vision. As far as I saw there were no fighter attacks against the formations. Visibility was zero over the target. The weather forecast missed completely.