Combat Crew (9 page)

After making my decision, I began consciously to try to drive out contrary thinking. “Why worry about tomorrow? There is no tomorrow — there is only today. Quit thinking about tomorrow or next week or next month. You can't control what will happen tomorrow, so why spend the precious time you have today worrying about it? The only time you have for sure is now. Today is real. So forget what the future may bring and learn to enjoy to the fullest extent what you have now. When life is threatened, each hour becomes more irreplaceable. Today you are alive and well, so be grateful. For all you know this may be your last day! Don't ruin it by morbid forebodings of burning airplanes and horrifying plunges out of the sky. To hell with tomorrow!”

I began to grope my way slowly, with twists and turns, and a few detours, to controlled thinking. I went a good way toward that objective during my stay in England but it was during another tour of combat duty, in a different area of the conflict, before the process matured, and a combat raid for me became just another day at the office (15th Air Force, Foggia, Italy — fifty missions).

I think the best soldiers in combat develop a mystic feeling of immunity to death. Sure enough “others all around me may get it, but the bullets and shrapnel will miss me! I've got this special thing going for me. What special thing? I have a strong feeling I'm going to make it, no matter how hopeless it seems, or how rough it gets.”

On days we weren't flying, we tried to find things to do to fill the idle hours. I began keeping a record of the things we did, and included some of our conversations. I kept detailed accounts of our raids, gathering together eight or ten men — some of them from different aircraft — going over what happened after each mission. I gradually began to record not only the combat raids, but what went through the minds of men under combat stress. There also developed for me a new pleasure in simple things. When the continuity of life was threatened, the reality of what life was became clearer. After all, one achieves an exalted state of existence only at rare moments. The rest of life is the daily sequence of one small insignificant thing followed by another. If one stands aloof waiting for another mountaintop experience, and fails to find zest in the small matters that comprise most of life, he or she will miss a majority of the best life has to offer.

I heard the Jeep stop outside and that surprised me, because I was so sure we could not mount a mission with our recent heavy loss of aircraft and our damaged planes.

Counce bounced out of bed. “I thought you said we wouldn't go out for another week.”

“I didn't think we could! How many ships can we put up?”

“Not more than one squadron 'til they get some more patched up,” Nick Abramo answered.

“I'll bet they're puttin' together a force from two or three groups,” said Wilson.

An annoying sensation plagued me some mornings. I shook and shivered while dressing. Was it the early morning cold, or just my nerves?

By the time I was on my way to the mess hall the shakes were gone. I saw Gleichauf at Operations before briefing. “We're goin' to have an extra passenger along today,” he said.

“Who we takin'?”

“Lieutenant Cohler, one of the Flight Surgeons, will be riding with us in the nose.”

“Good idea! They need to know what it's like.”

Jim and I got to the plane early. Only the loud stutter of the small engine operating the electric generator broke the silence. The crew chief had finished his daily inspection and was asleep in the cockpit. Soon other men arrived and the sounds of clanging metal and hand charging reverberated through the aircraft.

Buck Rogers was not with us. He was badly shaken up on the Schweinfurt raid, and was now in the hospital. He suffered internal injuries from the severe bouncing he took in the tail of the plane during heavy evasive action. Buck was probably a little too old for combat gunnery, although he was a tough guy. A new man, Raymond F. Legg, from Anderson, Indiana, had replaced Rogers for the time being on the tail guns. Legg came from a rural area. He was twenty-one years old — quiet, good-natured, steady, and a nice-looking young man. I liked him on first sight, but how he would do on the tail guns was yet to be seen. That day was an ideal mission to break in a new man.

Balmore was grounded again with frostbite, and an operator named Brophy was with us in the radio room. It was almost time for the officers to arrive, when it suddenly occurred to me that Wilson was missing.

“Has anyone seen Wilson since we left the hut?”

“I thought he was gettin' up when I went out the front door,” Counce said.

About that time a truck stopped and out climbed Wilson, not overly concerned about being late. He arrived just ahead of Shutting.

Paul gathered us into a circle to hear the briefing. “The target today is Gilze-Rijen, in Holland. Not too bad! We will put up three composite squadrons made from two groups. We will have fighter escort all the way in and out. Flak will be moderate to heavy. We could see some fighters, so don't get the idea that this is gonna be a milk run! The Germans have two hundred fighters close enough to intercept. This is Lieutenant Bernard Cohler, one of our Group Flight Surgeons. Lieutenant, you'll fire the right side nose gun. Jim, show the Lieutenant what he needs to know about the gun.”

Shutting turned to Cohler. “If you have any trouble with the gun, let me know quick, an' we'll switch guns.”

What a contrast to our last raid! This one showed promise of being a snap. The 381st furnished one squadron, and the other two came from the 91st Group. I did regret that I had to participate in a raid against the Dutch and their lovely country. Years before I had spent some pleasant days in Holland. How unfortunate that it happened to be located between Germany and the North Sea!

The formation got underway after a long, drawn-out flight across England in an attempt to confuse the Germans. The fighter escort was to meet us a little short of the Dutch coast. Not much fighter action was expected in view of the escort protection and the short time over enemy territory.

“Radio to Turret. Radio to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“Something wrong with my oxygen regulator.”

“What th' hell is it this time? You radio jocks always think you got oxygen trouble!”

“The gauge wiggles.”

“Wiggles? Are you sure you're sobered up from last night?”

“I'm perfectly sober — the thing flutters — wiggles.”

“I think you're imagining things. How do you feel?”

“I feel OK.”

“If you feel good, don't worry about the gauge. You're gettin' enough oxygen, or you'd know it.”

“Turret to Waist.”

“Go ahead.”

“Keep an eye on Brophy. Can you see him from where you are?”

“I can see him.&rdqo;

“If he shows any signs of trouble go take a look, quick.”

“OK. We won't be on oxygen very long today, anyway.”

When it was fairly certain that the mission would not be canceled, I called Purus. “Turret to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you ready for me to pull the bomb fuse pins?”

“Yes, I think so — go ahead.”

So I took a walk-around oxygen bottle and went back to the bomb bay and pulled the pins out of the bomb fuses. That meant that when the bombs fell out, an impeller would quickly spin off (caused by the wind), leaving the striker pins free to hit on impact with the ground and trigger the explosion.

“Turret to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“The bombs are armed. Rack switches are on.”

“OK, Turret.”

The flak started coming up as we approached the coast. Lieutenant Cohler had a ringside seat for some close-up views. I knew how he was feeling, seeing it for the first time. That plexiglass sure looked agonizingly thin when the shells exploded.

“Bombardier to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“We're on the bomb run.”

It soon became obvious that the bomb run was too long.

“Pilot to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why the hell didn't we drop?”

“Don't know, Paul. Either his position was off or the Sight wouldn't line up. We're starting a three-sixty.”

“We'll be twenty minutes coming around for another run. If we fool around over this target they'll get some fighters up here.”

A few fighters had been reported flying low and to the left. I suppose that some silly new gunners became confused and cut loose at the 47s thinking they were 190s. The escort immediately retreated to an altitude well above our fifty-caliber range. Twelve to fourteen 190s saw the opportunity and slipped in under the escort and raced toward the formation.

“Copilot to crew! Copilot to crew! Fighters eleven o'clock high — comin' in! Blast 'em! Shoot th' hell out of 'em!”

I could see my tracers hitting the first one but he kept right on coming. Lieutenant Cohler had the excitement of a head-on attack, and one fighter whizzed by him so close that the pilot's bright red scarf could be plainly seen. The formation leader was shot down, and I saw two more Fortresses explode and go hurtling toward the ground far below. Lieutenant Alexander, one of our squadron pilots, was a lucky man that day. A twenty-millimeter cannon shell ripped through the cockpit side window, brushed him lightly on the head, and zoomed out through the other side without exploding. Unbelievable!

I could hear Legg firing from the tail, and twice I zipped around to see what the action was back there. He looked like he was doing all right from what I could see.

“Bombardier to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“We're on the bomb run again.”

“Hope we drop this time!”

Three or four minutes later: “Bombs away! Let's go home!” from Purus.

I felt the load release, and the formation made a left turn and was soon back over the North Sea.

The next morning Balmore was at the station hospital and overheard the men kidding Lieutenant Cohler about his “mission.” One of the orderlies said, “Lieutenant, how was it yesterday? Rough?”

The reply was, “Yeah, it was rough all right, but you sonnuvabitches will never know how rough!”

The opposition on our last mission was the Focke-Wulf 190. Most B-17 men considered it Germany's finest fighter at that time. It performed well between twenty and thirty thousand feet. On balance I thought the P-47 and F.W. 190 were evenly matched on a plane-to-plane basis. The 47 was superior above thirty thousand feet, and I thought the 190 was better from about twenty-two thousand and lower. The advantage the 47 had as an escort aircraft was in tactics. It could fly high above the formation and swoop down with an altitude and dive advantage when the 190s attacked the Forts. The way it worked out, the F.W.s had to become the aggressor and run the risk of being attacked, while the P-47s became the defensive force and could choose their time to attack when they had a height advantage.

On August 20, the loudspeaker on the base came on in the middle of the morning. “All combat personnel report to Operations — all combat personnel report to Operations.” It continued at intervals — every fifteen minutes.

On the way to Operations there was much bitching among the crowd.

“Why can't those Operations nitwits leave us alone?”

“Another one of those aircraft recognition classes! I know what a 190 and 109 look like!”

“They keep us on alert all th' time, an' on a day we don't have to go out they gotta dream up some horseshit to look good on their reports to headquarters.”

At Operations there was gloomy silence until we were all assembled, and then we didn't really believe what we heard. “This is goin' to be a real surprise! We're giving every combat man a four-day pass, and we'll have personnel trucks ready to leave at one-thirty. We'll take you to the outskirts of London where you can catch a tube into the city.” When the cheering died down, the voice continued: “You men need some free time — now is our chance to give you four days off while we get our damaged planes repaired. This pass will be mandatory unless excused by the Flight Surgeons.”

Someone in the crowd said, “But some of us are broke! Hell, we can't take off for London with no money!”

“We thought of that. The Finance Officer is standing by to issue an advance on your next pay, for all those who need it.”

The whole thing was organized superbly. The Command obviously wanted all of us away from the base, away from the empty tables at the combat mess, away from the empty bunks in the huts. They wanted us to rid ourselves of whatever tensions had built up inside. Someone at headquarters was smart enough to know that the best therapy was a big blast — a wild weekend that would let it all come out. Those in charge were concerned about the morose attitudes and glum faces after Schweinfurt.

There was a scramble to get ready, but no man in the 381st was going to be left behind when those trucks took off. We were in London before dark, and the celebrating got off to an early start. We took full advantage of our good fortune for we might not get another four-day pass for a long time.

London was an exciting place to be in 1943. Throngs of men, far from home, were seeking pleasures of various kinds, trying to find some escape from the stifling military confinement. The area along the Strand and near Trafalgar Square was especially crowded. There is a statue of Admiral Horatio Nelson on the square, along with two huge stone lions, one on each side of the Admiral. According to legend, the lions roar whenever a virgin passes, which is not often.

When the drinking establishments opened to provide the stage for the evening festivities, downtown London was crowded with men in many kinds of uniforms. From open doorways one could hear snatches of lusty songs from groups well along with their drinking. Although the nightly blackout was strictly enforced, up and down the streets there would be the flare of a cigarette lighter so some soldier could get a look at a girl standing in a darkened doorway. From those doorways there was a lingering odor of cheap perfume that attempted to camouflage the need for a bath. Soap and warm water were rare luxuries in wartime England. There were swarms of men walking arm in arm, sometimes fifteen abreast, headed for some bistro. Here and there one could see a soldier and a girl walking along, perhaps toward her room in some shabby hotel or flat. Would the soldier discipline himself to hunt up a pro station at three A.M. or run the risk of a venereal disease?