Combat Crew (5 page)

I heard the Jeep stop outside a little after two A.M. I could never sleep soundly when I thought a mission was likely. I would listen to the far-off roar of aircraft engines and shiver at the thought of where we might go in the morning.

We had learned a lot from that first aborted mission, and this time we were ready when the officers arrived. Each Group had different systems. At the 381st they considered it to be more important for the gunners to go directly to the aircraft and get it ready for the mission than to sit through a briefing. Really, all we wanted to know was the kind of target it was going to be. The rest of the briefing information was of little interest to the gunners. We worked out an easy way to evaluate the target. One of us would stand outside the door of the Briefing Room. As soon as the doors were closed, the curtain covering the target map was pulled back and the reactions of the officers could be plainly heard; that told us about how rough the target was going to be. If an extra-rough mission was indicated, we wanted advance notice. One thing was extra ammunition. It was against regulations, but I wanted more ammo if there was any real chance we might need it.

At the aircraft we would get our own guns ready, then prepare the nose guns so that the Navigator and Bombardier had only to make the final adjustments and slip them into receivers when they arrived. There was not enough time for them to attend briefing and get to the plane in time to do a thorough job on their guns. The guns were stored in a heavy wrap of oil-soaked cloth to prevent rusting. Before a mission the heavy oil coating had to be removed because it might absorb moisture and cause the guns to freeze at high altitude. A light oil film was rubbed on for the mission.

The target for the day was Hamburg. The R.A.F. had firebombed it during the night and we were to increase the holocaust. We were flying as spare and would fill in if any ship had to abort over the North Sea. I had mixed feelings about bombing that city. I had once spent three pleasant weeks in Hamburg. I recalled the evening I was carried along by a crowd into one of Adolf Hitler's fiery rallies — but being warned there might be street fighting, I turned away at the edge of the crowd. At that time the name Hitler meant nothing to me.

No aircraft aborted the formation, so when we reached the turnaround point, Gleichauf headed back toward England. It was a long, wearisome trip and I was concerned that fighters might spot us. But the size of the invading formation pulled all of the German interceptors inland and we saw nothing but water. Again, there was no credit for a mission.

It was a little after three the next morning when I heard the crunch of heavy shoes on the gravel walk outside. The lights came on and Lieutenant Reese roused us from sleep.

“Get up, you bastards! You're flying 765 with Gleichauf. Comer, Counce, Rogers, Abramo, and Wilson … Wilson! — Wilson!”

Wilson raised up in bed.

“Come on! Let's go — and good luck!”

Jim and I went on ahead of the others and got out to the ship early. We had plenty of time to get the guns ready. When Gleichauf got to the aircraft he called us for a briefing.

“We're hittin' the port docks at Brussels today — it will be a short run. S-2 [Air Force Intelligence] says they have a hundred fighters close by and moderate flak, but very accurate. Ought not to be too bad. Any questions? OK. Let's climb in and get ready to go.”

Major Hendricks, our Squadron C.O., was leading and we were flying as right wing in the second element of the lead squadron. As we headed out over the North Sea and the English coast faded from sight, several feints were made in fake directions and we returned to England and started over again. As early as 1943 the Allied strategy was to provoke Goering into putting his fighters up at the wrong time and at the wrong place. That would divide and reduce the interceptors that could attack us, and also force Germany to use up her precious fuel supply. The Germans did not have the vast oil resources of the Allies.

Surely, on our third attempt we ought to get a mission credit! How long was it going to take to get in twenty-five missions? But now clouds began to form heavily underneath the formation and halfway over the North Sea it became a solid blanket.

“Pilot to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead, Paul.”

“Can we drop in this soup?”

“No way — I think Hendricks will try an alternate.”

“Navigator to Bombardier — I'm sure the alternate is covered, too. Don't think we're gonna drop anything today.”

Oh, no! Not again! Would we ever manage to get in a mission? We had what seemed to be an easy one — and now! Three attempts and all that work for nothing! The rule for a mission credit was that the formation must do one of three things: fly the course all the way and drop on the target, drop on an alternate target, or engage the enemy in combat. The latter included encountering flak; however, it was never intended to include a sporadic burst or two I am sure.

“Navigator to crew — the lead ship reported flak! We've got us credit for a mission!”

“Bombardier to crew! Did any of you see flak? I didn't see any.”

“Navigator to crew! Dammit, don't argue with the Brass! They're gonna give us a mission!”

“But there wasn't any flak, Navigator.”

“Pilot to crew — if the C.O. says there was flak, you can be sure there was flak. Now don't raise any questions at interrogation.” (The debriefing of the crews after a mission.)

That was the smart thing to do, of course. So — ring the bells! Beat the drums! We had a mission credit!

What a difference one mission made! We were now allowed to join in a conversation without someone saying, “What th' hell do you know about it?” I felt one hundred percent better because of that one mark on the mission tally board. We were lucky to ease into combat with sorties, because each time, we had learned some valuable lessons, gained confidence, and increased the odds for surviving the first few real fights.

Only one of the eighteen crews that we trained with in the U.S. came with us to the 381st. The day after we arrived their navigator was pressed into service, because navigators were in short supply. We were all at the hardstand to meet him on his return, and were stunned to find that our friend was dead. It hit Carl hard because the nose of the plane was so vulnerable to heavy flak fragments or fighter projectiles. The ball turret operator on that crew was so badly wounded on the Hamburg raid that he will probably never walk again. But the worst was yet to come for Carl: two days later a navigator had his testicles shot off. Shutting never fully recovered from the trauma of that shock! He lived in deadly fear that it might happen to him! He persuaded the people at Armament to cut and shape some special armor plate to fit around his genital area. Holes were drilled in the edges so that it could be tied in place with four heavy cords. It took two men to assist in tying Carl's shield in proper position, and it became the matrix of his protective armor. Shutting was the only navigator in the United States Air Force with specially made genital protection armor plate. In addition, he placed two sheets of armor plate on the floor where he would stand at either gun.

The B-17E was being replaced with the B-17F, but a new crew could expect to be assigned one of the older, more undesirable airplanes. The main thing that bothered me was the small fuel capacity of seventeen hundred and fifty gallons, compared to the extra nine hundred gallons of the newer Forts. I hoped that whatever plane we were going to get, it would be soon. It would be better knowing what we would have to work with on a mission, than to draw a strange aircraft each trip.

On our first two sorties, I noticed that Gleichauf stayed on the Command radio frequency while Carqueville remained on the intercom to keep crew control. That freed Gleichauf to concentrate on formation flying, which used his experience to our best advantage. Paul let Herb take care of the rest. It was a good combination that worked out quite well.

Jim and I rode into Cambridge on the morning run of the supply truck, and started looking for bicycle and radio shops. There was no restriction on the sale of used items, and even new appliances could take on a used look very easily. We made our purchases and shipped the two bicycles to a nearby town by train. We carried the small radio. I doubt that any of us ever got more pleasure from a one-pound investment ($4.13 each) than we received from the purchase of that radio. It made a big difference in our lives. We had the full range of the British Broadcasting Company, which offered excellent music and world news. We listened regularly to the Allied Forces Network that broadcast the things Americans wanted to hear. While in England we became aware of a young singer named Frank Sinatra.

Our radio introduced us to a new type of program — very interesting, even though it was pure propaganda. We soon learned when to tune in to the German English-language broadcasts. They had an announcer with an exaggerated British accent. His name was William Joyce, but he was called Lord Haw Haw. To a newly-arrived combat group at an English airdrome, he would beam something like this: “Welcome to the 381st Bomber Group at Ridgewell Airdrome. We wish you good luck and look forward to meeting you over the Continent very soon. By the way, please correct the clock at your Officer's Club. It is five minutes slow!” And sure enough, on checking, the clock would be five minutes slow! That left the impression that German agents lurked everywhere.

Soon after daylight the formation was crossing the gray-green water of the English Channel. My anxiety and tension mounted, as I knew we would face the fierce German fighters, for on this clear day we would invade the lair of Goering's best. The veterans had made certain we knew what usually happened to new crews on their first meeting with Jerry. They were not expected to come back — it was as simple as that.

The intercom came on: “Tail to Copilot, Tail to Copilot.”

“Go ahead, Tail.”

“Fighters five o'clock low.”

“Ball to Copilot. Looks like the escort.”

I spotted a long line of specks closing in fast from the north. It was the escort of fifty P-47 Thunderbolts. Good! I felt better because they could keep the enemy fighters away for a little while. However, the P-47s had a short fuel range, as the disposable belly tanks available at that time only held seventy-five gallons.

“Navigator to crew — Navigator to crew! Enemy coast five minutes away.”

“Bombardier to crew! Watch out for fighters!”

Scared? Where do you draw the line between fright and intense nervous anticipation? Nothing in civilian life had prepared me for the feeling of kill or be killed. Our meager gunnery training was laughable compared with the skill and experience of the veteran German fighter pilots.