Combat Crew (36 page)

Forts out ahead of us ran into trouble and fourteen B-17s were lost. Our gunners claimed the ridiculous figure of one hundred and thirty-seven German fighters shot down. My guess was that thirty-five would have been a high kill. With so many duplicated gunner claims our figures for enemy aircraft shot down were becoming a joke. No one who knew firsthand how tough those fighters were paid serious attention to our extravagant claims.

An incredulous Major at Group Operations the next day was caustic!

“You say a thousand-pound bomb stuck on the lower racks and two five hundreds on top of it tangled in loose cables from the fragmentation clusters carried on the top racks?” the Major asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you just happened by some odd chance to have some hacksaw blades on hand? Is that what you expect me to believe?”

“Yes, Sir — we always have hacksaw blades.”

He looked at us in disbelief. “You always carry hacksaw blades! No other crew in England does! You expect me to repeat this wild tale to the English?”

“But we are telling you the straight truth, Major,” Purus insisted.

That night I repeated the conversation to Counce at the hut. “I wouldn't have believed it either,” he said, “if I was in his position. Two bombs hangin' up on cables at one time must be a million to one chance.”

“Jim, do you remember how we wondered why the people at Boeing Aircraft recommended a half dozen hacksaw blades as part of what flight engineers should carry on missions, along with the other tool list they made up at our request?”

One very cold night in London I was with Jim in a cab about two A.M. returning from Kensington to our hotel. The night was exceptionally dark under the blackout common at that period of the war. The two small slits in the headlights that were permitted gave the driver little illumination to negotiate the maze of twisting streets. I had no idea where we were and do not see how Jim could have known either. He turned to me. “Pay the driver my part of the fare and I will repay you tomorrow. I'll meet you at the club about noon. OK?”

I looked at him in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

“Driver, let me out here, please.”

He got out and disappeared into the blackness of the bitterly cold night. “See you tomorrow.”

Had he completely gone off of the deep end? There was no way he could have known where we were. There was not a thing open at that time of night in the area he chose to get out. The next day he met me at noon in a bright, cheerful mood as if nothing unusual had happened. He made no move to explain his unorthodox behavior and, since it was none of my business, I did not ask him. Neither of us ever mentioned the incident. Jim was like that. When I thought I had him figured out he would shock me with some bizarre act totally out of context with his character or usual habits. Jim shared my taste for good music so we saw some excellent musicals at the Prince of Wales Theater. One evening we were fortunate to get tickets to a fine performance of the opera
La Traviata
.

Reese flicked on the lights and his voice broke the silence: “All right! Let's go! Out of that sack! Lancia, don't screw up today — this is your twenty-fifth — good luck.”

Green asked Lancia, “How do you feel?”

“Lousy! Couldn't sleep last night — wide awake — but I'm gonna make it today.”

Ugo had been sweating out this mission for several weeks because of some illness that had him temporarily grounded. As we left the hut everyone shook hands with Lancia and wished him the best of luck. The trip would make twenty missions for me and should have been good news except for a strange phenomenon: luck ran out for so many men in the 381st Group in the final quarter of the game. We have talked about a jinx airplane and for a while it looked to us like the 381st might have been a jinx group. Why was it so difficult for a 533rd man to complete twenty-five missions? Why had nearly every man who approached the finish line met with disaster? Only a handful had succeeded in running the twenty-five-mission hurdle. Was it merely coincidence? What about the Fortress taking off with nearly all the crew on their twenty-fifth and exploding? It was like an evil force hovering over the 381st ready to cut men down just as they neared success. That day Ugo was on a crew composed mainly of men reaching for the elusive last raid. We were anxiously awaiting the verdict, hoping they broke through the hard-luck syndrome we had seen too often. Rogers and Balmore were still adamant that it was the odds catching up that explained the heavy loss of men nearly through. Regardless of what the real reasons were, a psychic wall was slowly developing in the minds of those who were getting close to the magic number. Combat men tended to be superstitious and watched with dismay as the pattern repeated so many times that it no longer appeared to them to be a series of coincidences.

Takeoff time was nine o'clock into a dense cloud bank fifteen hundred feet high. Above the weather was bright and clear.

“Pilot to Navigator — that fog was extra thick — you think it will dissipate by the time we get back?”

“I hope so, but it don't look like one that'll burn off as soon as the sun heats it up.”

There was no use worrying about it. If it hung on until we returned it would create pure chaos with so many planes trying to land in a short time period. At eight thousand feet the Wing turned out over the North Sea and began a steady climb to the scheduled altitude.

“Pilot to Navigator — why are we making a left turn?”

“We're starting a three-sixty to balance the timing of the Wings because we're fifteen minutes early.”

After the formation circled the Copilot came on intercom: “The wing ahead is gettin' hit by fighters — I can see the cannon flashes.”

“Turret to crew — they lost a Fort at nine o'clock low — I see two chutes.”

“Ball to crew — two more chutes opened up before it exploded.”

“Bombardier to crew, three Forts aborting the wing ahead — I don't see any feathered engines or smoke.”

I watched them drop down just over the cloud layer, as if they intended to use the clouds if necessary. The abortion looked suspect to me — a severe breach of discipline. Meanwhile the formation passed Bremen to the right and made two left turns to pick up downwind currents over the target for maximum airspeed. We knew what the flak would be like and I am sure the rest of the crew was dreading it as much as I was.

“Waist to Turret.”

“Go ahead, Jim.”

“My gloves an' shoes just went out an' we got a long way to go before we come down.”

“Try to find out which unit is burned out and use your short circuit plug.” (The heated suit electrical system was a series circuit, like old-time Christmas-tree lights. If one unit burned out it broke the circuit and knocked out the rest of the units. I made some special plugs that could be used to shunt the current around a defective unit to restore power to the other units.)

“The plug is in my electric suit. Remember that they couldn't locate my suit at Equipment Check Out this morning and gave me this spare?”

“I'll pass my short circuit plugs back to Radio an' you can get them from him — Radio?”

“Go ahead, this is Radio.”

“Meet me on the catwalk.”

Ten minutes later Shutting called: “Navigator to Pilot.”

“Go ahead — this is the Copilot — Paul's on command.”

“Tell him the I.P. is coming up right away.”

I expected the usual flak spectacular but this time special tactics were used in an attempt to reduce flak damage. Three wings were sent over Bremen at closely timed intervals and widely varying altitudes to confuse the antiaircraft gunners.

“Bombardier to crew, flak ahead — it's coming up all over.”

The expected flak intensity was there, but the plan did work. Even though the volume of fire was as heavy as usual, the accuracy was nothing like the last time we were over Bremen.

“Navigator to Copilot, look at that formation of B-24s at twenty thousand feet — they're taking a lot of flak off of us.”

“Bombardier to crew, fighters ten o' clock low.”

“Ball to crew, Focke-Wulf 190s six o'clock low.”

“Turret to crew, vapor trails very high catching up with us — P-47s, I think.”

“Waist to crew, Fort goin' down at three o'clock low — Jerry fighter on fire and out of control.”

Dogfights erupted at high and low levels. Fast thinking saved an unknown P-47 pilot. A Jerry fighter got on the tail of the 47 and hung there; the pilot had an inspiration. He dived straight down toward the edge of the Fortress formation with the Jerry still on his tail and unaware of what awaited. When the 47 flashed by us at short range, fifty guns slammed into the enemy fighter turning it into flaming debris.

“Tail to crew, B-17 pulling out of formation — engine feathered. Hey! Wait a minute! Three 47s are coming down and slowing to his speed — they're flying alongside to give him protection.”

The 47s stayed with that crippled ship until the formation pulled so far ahead that I could no longer see them.

“Waist to Turret, Ugo just about has it made.”

Twenty more P-47s arrived to relieve the first Thunderbolt escort. It was hard to remember that only a few weeks ago the short-ranged escort was ineffective. Now with long-range fighters and larger disposable fuel tanks it was a different war. I would have liked to have bought a drink — a big double — for every escort pilot who helped keep the Bogies off of us.

“Bombardier to Copilot, I can see fighters hitting the wing ahead of us.”

“This is the Navigator, there goes another Fort.”

I saw only four Forts go down that day. It must have been some kind of record. The total loss for the mission was eleven aircraft, which was modest in view of the tough target for the day.

“Waist to crew, I know Lancia has it made now. We're nearly to the coast. He's going to break the jinx.”

“There will be a big celebration tonight,” Wilson added.

When the aircraft landed the procedure was normal. I turned around to pick up some equipment and the brakes failed. Gleichauf turned off into the mud to let it stop the aircraft. It was a muddy mess but there was no damage to the ship. Later the crew chief told me that a hydraulic fitting snapped off from the landing impact.

The celebration started before I got back to the barracks, after the guns were put into good order for a possible raid the next day. Some men from the 533rd Squadron had finally completed twenty-five missions! It could be done! The black clouds dispersed and a collective sigh of relief rolled over the Squadron. That night the nearby pubs were packed with celebrants and glasses were raised to the six men who swept away the barrier. There was now little doubt in my mind that I would soon join the selected band. I expected Ugo to put on a wild demonstration, but to my surprise he was quiet and somber. Perhaps the full impact had not yet had time to come through to him.

The night before, the Royal Air Force made a raid against Germany and encountered heavy opposition. On the return a number of Lancasters were forced down at sea shortly before dawn. Any R.A.F. men who made it into rafts might have survived that day, but they had small chance to last out that night. The area covering all of the water where they could have ditched was divided into search areas by grid lines. One aircraft was assigned to each search area. The plan was an exacting one for the Navigator, Lieutenant Smith. He certainly was a busy man, carefully calling out headings to the pilot so that all of the area was checked. The constant staring at the waves became nauseating. For hours we were just above the wave tops, peering intently at the water for some signs of a rubber raft.

“Pilot from Nose — Pilot from Nose, what's that black spot at nine o'clock?”

“I don't see it.”

“I see it from the turret.”

We came around over the spot and it was a water-soaked piece of timber. Later the Tail called, “There's somethin' at five o'clock — I think — not sure — it looks like — well, I don't know — .”

It proved to be nothing except a dark blob of water and an imagination.

“Navigator to Pilot, if there are any rafts out here I hope we can spot them.”

“I guess we are all thinking the same thing — next time it might be us out in that cold water,” replied Gleichauf.

We knew that whoever was there and still alive had only an hour or two of daylight left and would never survive the night if not found before visibility faded out. For eight hours we scanned the waves. Nothing! Just empty water! At some time during the day we were not too far from the coast of Denmark. The danger was slight because we were too low for radar to spot us and it was highly unlikely that there would be armed patrol planes over the area. By dusk every man on the ship was half sick. The sensation was similar to seasickness. The unfortunate R.A.F. crews who were hopefully waiting for rescue were not located. Perhaps none of them made it out of the Lancasters in time. The big British bombers were less sturdy than the Forts and more likely to break up in the process of ditching. We were more than glad to help in the rescue act because the R.A.F. pilots frequently provided escort for us, and without some escort the bomber groups would have suffered an intolerable casualty percentage.

Ugo Lancia left for the port of embarkation to the U.S. and in spite of his noise and gusto, I was reluctant to see him leave. Without his lively spirit the hut would not be the same, indeed it would be too quiet. Instead of the wild celebrating I expected him to do, Lancia was restrained and quiet his last days at the hut, as if torn between relief that combat duty was over and a sense of belonging with the rest of us. Until then I had relished the idea of more peace and quiet, but now I would have traded it for the noise and confusion Ugo created. I had become fond of that big, brash Italian but I never got around to letting him know it.