Combat Crew (42 page)

“Copilot to crew! Fire! Dammit, fire!”

Three 109s screamed through the formation and caught the lead B-17 with a rocket directly in the cockpit. The Fort burst into flame and in seconds was on the way to oblivion. No one escaped from the doomed craft.

“Waist to crew — fighters are circling to get in front of us again.”

“Copilot to crew — the sonnuvabitches are coming in! Fire! Fire! Fire! Pour the lead to them!”

They turned around and attacked again with cannon fire blazing from their wings. The aircraft shuddered from the impact of heavy firing. I could see my tracers striking the lead fighter.

“Tail to Copilot. Fort exploded behind us.”

“Ball to Copilot, another Fort at four o'clock in bad shape.”

The fighters vanished to the south as suddenly as they had appeared.

“Copilot to Turret, do you have sunglasses?”

“Yes, Copilot.”

“Put them on an' watch the sun area.”

For an hour nothing happened and I relaxed. The mission was about over and I exulted in the smug knowledge that I finally had it made. But Jerry had one last goodie in reserve to throw at me! Oh, hell! More 109s straight ahead! Where did they come from?

“Turret to crew! Turret to crew! Two 109s one o'clock high coming in!”

The fighters swooped down and leveled out too low for my guns to reach them. Two times on that mission Bogies had slipped in almost undetected. Two more Forts caught heavy damage. Suppose one of them had hit us a lethal blow less than twenty-five minutes away from the coast. It almost happened.

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

“Navigator to crew, they are Spitfires — our escort home.”

Well, I thought, surely I have it made now, with those R.A.F. beauties crisscrossing below, ready to take on anything that looks German. A little later the sunlight reflecting on the Channel began to sparkle in the distance. It was almost over, but I wouldn't risk jinxing the crew by saying so — yet. I watched the coast slowly slide by below with mixed feelings. When it faded into the haze I knew for sure it was all over.

“Turret to Navigator, we got it made. We got it made.”

“Pilot to crew, keep the intercom clear an' stay on your positions until we cross the English Channel. We are not taking any chances.”

We had broken the 381st jinx again (if there was a jinx) and that would make a good many men feel better. Jim, George, and the others waited with congratulations. There was no way I could describe my relief and exultation. I turned to Shutting. “You made it without losing your balls.”

“Yeah, but a couple of times it was close.”

“What are you going to do with your special armor?”

“I'll find some deserving Navigator.”

“I got a better idea. Take it home and hang it on the wall.”

On the way to interrogation Jim asked, “How does it feel to have twenty-five made?”

“It would be great if I didn't have these miserable pains ever' time I move. It was murder when I had to look straight up today — like a knife stabbing me in the neck.”

“You better go have it looked at.”

“I will, first thing in the morning.”

After interrogation, I had to go out to the plane and clean and stow the turret guns. With fair weather holding another day they might go out again the next morning. On the perimeter truck to the personnel site, I suddenly realized that I felt different. What was it? Then it dawned on me that the pains were gone. Just like that. It took an hour and a half after the mission for my ragged nerves to return to normal. The Flight Surgeon knew it would happen. Now I felt just great! Never before had I any concept of what effect tight nerves can create in an otherwise healthy body.

The celebration that night lasted until two A.M. and when the pubs closed, it resumed at the hut. I was through! The fighting part of the war was over for me! Now and then I would glance at Jim or George and it was clear that they felt left out of things now. But I had no doubt that both of them would come through fine. Reese would put them on the best available crews, so I did not let their gloom dampen my elation.

It was now a matter of awaiting orders for the port of return to the States. It was a proud moment to report to Colonel Nazzaro and receive the Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded to men who survived twenty-five missions at that date. Studying the decoration, I pondered why my luck had held up and tried to recall the faces of those I knew well who failed. What was luck? Was it an inexplicable thing available to a few at times, but withheld from most men? Or was it a series of pure coincidences? Looking back at it today the latter seems far more likely, but I am not sure. In wartime some men and some crews wore a charm one could almost see. I could spot them around the Operations area or the mess hall. I could spot others that I felt certain would never make it. How could that be? I developed the ability to sense those things. It was strange and puzzling to me that I could feel those predictions in advance and I never discussed it with anyone else. Of course, the majority of our combat crews fell into neither class. Only a few, on the opposite sides of what I call luck, generated those psychic impressions.

The feeling of elation at completing a combat tour was starting to wear thin. I was so bound to those men and to that place that I felt sad and a little depressed at leaving. Something inside me said, “You belong here until this thing is over,” and I suppose a part of me will always remain at Ridgewell. One could not go through those experiences and walk away cold.

Meanwhile Carroll Wilson had recovered and arrived at the hut on combat duty again. It was good to see him once more before I left, because from the time he joined the crew I had a warm feeling for that complex and immature young man. As always, he was broke, so I loaned him another ten pounds in addition to what he already owed me. (When he returned to the States he sent me every cent of it.)

The weather turned nice and most of the men were out on a mission. The ground was dry enough for the English farm children to play outside our huts. A gunner named Pope was trying to teach seven or eight of them how to throw and kick a football. I can still remember his happy-go-lucky grin and cocky mannerisms. Kids took to him readily. When Pope entered a room the atmosphere changed. He was one of those people who had the knack of placing themselves in ridiculous situations. He had the look about him that suggested he would try anything at least once: I know he had been a star athlete somewhere but he never talked about it. His Georgia drawl lingers yet in my memory. The next day he failed to return from a mission. There was no report about what happened to the aircraft. I hope he got out in time.

That night George, Jim, Carroll, and I were in a somber mood. We talked about our early crew days and the scary situation when we arrived at Ridgewell. Those men were more like a family than could have been expected from ten persons drawn from so many divergent backgrounds and parts of the country. I was reluctant to see it break apart and scatter us about over the country.

I thought about a funny thing that happened on one of our missions. We were bouncing around in some flak and all of a sudden I was startled to hear the radio gun behind me cut loose with heavy firing. I whirled around expecting to help George hold off fighters diving down on us. Evidently a piece of flak had hit the inflating valve on one of our two life rafts. The big, bright yellow raft automatically inflated with gas and pushed out of the upper storage compartment, in front of the radio hatch where George was standing at his gun facing the rear. It tumbled into the slipstream, and the blast of air propelled it directly over the radio position. I turned just in time to see George pouring furious bursts at it as the huge contraption zoomed beyond the tail.

“Radio from Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you get that big yellow fighter?”

“Go to hell, Turret.”

I developed such a brotherly love for that big man with his infectious Irish grin. He had so many strengths balanced with small weaknesses. One of the things I remember best about him is the one tap dance routine he knew and his soft voice singing, “Mary, Mary, plain as any name can be …”

After lights were out I said, “Jim, do you remember that night at Las Vegas when we got out of that bar just before the fight broke out and the M.P. patrol wagon arrived?”

“Yeah, I recall the incident.”

“What happened?” asked Wilson.

“One night we were having a drink in a small casino and bar and Jim went to the rest room. He returned in a hurry and told me to pay for the drinks quick and get out of there. From across the street we heard the sounds of a sizable brawl break out, and watched the paddy wagon cart off twenty or thirty civilians and servicemen.”

George inquired, “How did you know the fight was going to break out?”

“Because I started it,” Jim replied. “Some soldiers and sailors were arguing in the rest room. When I left I turned off the lights and pushed them together.”

It was quiet my last night at the airdrome. I volunteered to check the canteen for signs of a mission shaping up for the next morning. It was the last thing I could do for them.

“Well, the key faces are missing so you can expect a call in the morning,” I reported.

“You mean those who will go — they may not call us,” said George.

“Or we may draw a green crew. Who knows what to expect from now on?” Counce added.

“I don't think either of you will have to wait long. I don't see any surplus gunners or radios around.”

Jim had been returned to combat status that day and was in better spirits, with a chance to run off the four or five missions he needed quickly. The door opened and Vernon Chamberlain walked in.

“I heard you were leaving tomorrow and wanted to say good-bye, John.”

“Vernon, you have been a faithful friend to our crew and we appreciate it. You took chances many times to slip us the extra ammunition we needed,” I said.

“I don't know what it was, John. At first it was Gleichauf, then all of you. Your crew became my team. I've been sweating out you guys so long it's going to be odd not to have someone on the missions that I feel a little bit responsible for. You guys were always the same, no matter where the mission was. Other crews came out to the plane nervous or silent or bitching about the guns when nothing was wrong with them. But you fellows always arrived in a good humor, kidding each other or some kind of horseplay. You were just different from the others — my kind of people, I guess …”

It was going to be difficult to leave all of those friends, not knowing if I would ever see them again. Certainly we planned to get together after the war, but would it really happen? Or would the occasional letters eventually die out?

Jim looked at me, “We have talked often about mental attitude — about fear. Tell me something honestly, John — have you overcome fear in combat?”

“No. I doubt if anyone ever does completely. But starting with the way it was when we arrived here, I have gone seventy to eighty percent of the way toward controlling it. That damn flak still bothers me at times.”

“I haven't done near that well,” said George. “I doubt if I have gone fifty percent of the way.”

“It depends on what you mean by fear,” I answered. “How do you tell when it starts and when it ends?”

“I don't follow you,” Balmore said. “I'm either scared or I'm not.”

“Look at it this way: You are flying along knowing that fighters are going to hit you. When? Where are they? Hope we see them in time. You build up anxiety, the first stage of fear. I wish the escort would get here before they do! We got to be careful and not let them slip in on us out of the sun! Tension builds up. There they are! About sixty of them. Where's the escort? The sensation of fear wells up. Here they come! Look at those cannon flashes! You pour bursts at them and excitement crowds out fear. The adrenaline is flowing. At two hundred yards your bursts get longer and closer together. Excitement increases. The fighters are now at one hundred yards, using their full assortment of weapons at you from close range. Your bursts are three times as long as they taught you at gunners school. You do not care if the barrels burn out. You are keyed up to your maximum performance — exhilaration! It's an emotional high that is a heady sensation unlike any other emotion you have ever experienced. A gunner could become addicted to it with enough experience. In time he might crave the kill-or-be-killed thrill as some people crave strong drugs. Maybe that's why some men become professional soldiers of fortune. Civilian life is too tame for them after years of combat and the high excitement that goes with it.”
²²

There was silence for a while and Wilson said, “You're getting close, John.”

Counce added, “I never thought about it the way you break it down, but it's true that all of those emotions are involved in a fighter attack. I guess we all have a secret desire to flirt with danger, but each of us thinks that others will pay the price — not him.”

“What do you say to all this, George?” I asked.

“In the radio room I hardly ever get to see any of the attackers until it's over and they flash by. Most times they roll under the wing and I don't see them at all. I hear the intercom scream, ‘
Coming in
.' I hear the bursts getting longer and longer and I'm petrified back there, seeing nothing that is going on! If I had more chances to fire at the fighters, it might be different.”

That last night at Ridgewell I was caught in an ambivalence of twisted emotions. Of course, I was glad to have escaped the hazards of air combat. But the attractions of exhilarating combat experience lingered in the subconscious mind. Stateside military duty, whatever my assignment might be, by contrast with Ridgewell would, I knew, be too dull and stagnant. And there was regret at having to leave these men, with whom I had relationships that could not be repeated in civilian life. After lights were out I lay there in a state of gloom. What should have been a happy contemplation had turned sour.