The Bomber Boys (27 page)

Many B-17 airmen came to believe the German fighter pilots preferred attacking a B-24 Liberator bomber when given the choice. Indeed, the B-17 was on its way to becoming one of the legendary airplanes in aviation history. Despite the heavy losses over Germany, the Flying Fortress had already gained
a reputation as a tough bird to kill. Time and again, battle-damaged B-17s made it back to England when all odds said it was impossible.

They landed with gaping holes in their wings and fuselages, with huge portions of their tails ripped off, with their noses (along with bombardiers and navigators) missing. The B-17 skippers brought the bombers and crews home safely on just three and sometimes only two working engines.

Certainly there were also some miraculous returns by B-24 Liberators, but B-17 airmen were convinced of the superiority of their aircraft. If asked to compare the two airplanes, a B-17 crewman was likely to proclaim, “A B-24 is the crate a new Flying Fortress comes packed in.”

On one of his early missions, George witnessed his first fighter attack. It was not on his B-17 group but on an unfortunate group of B-24s flying low and to the front. Later at post-mission interrogation, he would describe how the Luftwaffe “went after the B-24s unmercifully.” From his perch in the ball turret, George had an unobstructed view of the lopsided air battle. One after another, the Liberators went down under the relentless guns of the fighters. George felt angry and helpless. The German planes were far out of the reach of his turret guns.

Like all the gunners aboard the bombers in his group, George readied himself for the time when the enemy fighters would turn their attention to the B-17s. It would not happen on this mission. After the German planes had destroyed or damaged many of the bombers in the B-24 group, they were gone as quickly as they had appeared. But it was not the B-17s’ reputation that had driven them away. The fighters had simply exhausted their fuel.

Throughout the war, Luftwaffe pilots proved their bravery in aggressive attacks on the heavily fortified B-17s. There was no good way to approach a bomber that boasted thirteen gun positions, especially when it was part of a tight bomber formation.
Yet German pilots destroyed hundreds of the Fortresses by taking great risks and constantly revising their tactics.

The Luftwaffe used captured B-17s to train fighter pilots how to effectively attack the American bombers. Head-on attacks became a favorite early in the war. A frontal attack made the German fighter a much smaller target and protected it from most of the bomber’s guns. By attacking the B-17 head on, the fighter and the bomber were flying in opposite directions, and this meant the attack was over in seconds. There was another important benefit for the German aviators. If the fighter pilot scored a hit during a frontal assault, he could very likely kill the bombardier and/or the navigator in the nose section. Frontal attacks remained a mainstay with the Luftwaffe until the Americans introduced the twin .50 caliber chin turret
.

By the summer of 1944, the Germans were more desperate than ever to stop the American bombers, and the Luftwaffe pilot corps was by then a mixture of crafty veterans and inexperienced but bold rookies. Even though long-distance fighter escorts were becoming more common, George and the other gunners on Marvin Walker’s crew were pitted against German fighters on several missions. The worst attack came on an unescorted mission, and it came not with shocking quickness but with a touch of slow intimidation.

Someone spotted Me-109s and called a warning over the interphone: “Enemy fighters! At nine o’clock!” George swiveled the ball turret to the left. A group of Messerschmitts was cruising outside the range of the American bombers’ guns. George picked one out and adjusted his gunsight’s horizonal and vertical lines on the target. He was ready, but the German flight commander was not. The 109s stayed there, just out of reach, almost as if they were escorting the American bombers to their target.

The enemy fighters were much too far away to actually see the pilots, but George knew that as he stared at them, they were
staring back—young men on both sides, dreading what was about to happen but eager to get it over with.

When the first Me-109 peeled off and headed for the bombers, George quickly moved the turret gunsight to cover the lead fighter. Other fighters rolled out of their formation and came at the B-17s from various approaches. George felt a vibration from overhead. It was the left waist gunner opening fire. Keeping the gunsight on the German fighter was more difficult than George had imagined. In a few more seconds the enemy plane would sail through the bomber group. George squeezed both his thumbs down hard and felt the turret’s machine guns respond. His bullets raced through the sky, but the Messerschmitt was gone.

The speed of the German fighters amazed the belly gunner. He swung his weapons first in one direction and then in another, firing quick bursts at anything within range. The noise of the air battle was also surprising. There was the rumble of the four big Fortress engines, mixed with the sound of his machine guns and the constant rattle of the bomber’s other gun positions. On top of this was the interphone traffic: “Bandit . . . six o’clock low!” Underneath all the noise, the ball turret motor hummed reassuringly as George moved to meet any threat in the zone below the bomber.

Small puffs of white smoke, like mini flak, popped up in the sky around his turret. George had heard some veteran airmen refer to the small explosions as popcorn: a rather innocent name for the twenty-millimeter German shells that could rip through a B-17’s thin metal shell or through the Plexiglas of a ball turret.

George shook off his apprehension about the popcorn explosions and concentrated on eliminating the source. He spotted a German fighter coming up from beneath the bombers.

“Must be a rookie pilot,” George said to himself and he rotated the turret guns toward the invader. Most experienced Luftwaffe
pilots would avoid attacking a B-17 from underneath. The maneuver forced the attacking fighter to climb up to the bomber. As it climbed, the fighter’s rate of approach was slowed significantly, leaving the plane exposed to the bomber’s ball turret guns for a few extra seconds.

George used the additional time to line up his gunsight perfectly—horizontal red line across the body of the fighter, vertical lines pulled in tight on the fighter’s wingtips. The broad bottoms of the Flying Fortresses must have seemed a fat target to the young German pilot, but he never got the chance to take the killing shot.

George pressed the twin fifty triggers and saw his rounds make violent contact with the Me-109. When the bullets began to hit the fighter, the pilot reacted quickly by turning away from the bomber. The Messerschmitt’s turn proved fatal to the aircraft and perhaps to its pilot. George kept his triggers pressed down and watched the bottom of the fighter being torn apart by the turret guns.

Fire erupted from the enemy fighter, and seconds later it began its long fall to earth. George did not see a parachute, but he had little opportunity to look for one. Other Me-109s were pressing the attack and demanded his attention. Lieutenant Walker’s gunners protected their bomber well that day and then settled in for their reward—a bomb run through a flak-filled sky.

Later, as George relaxed over a glass of scotch, he relived the Messerschmitt attack for the benefit of an interrogation officer. He told how his turret’s bullets had eliminated one German fighter that had attempted an attack from below.

“Do you think you got him?” the interrogator asked.

“I’m sure I did!” George replied.

Afterward, George gave the matter little more thought. He was too busy flying bombing missions to worry about the Eighth Air Force record-keeping procedures. One day he received word
that the “official kill” of the Me-109 in question had been credited to an Air Force major. The officer had apparently been flying on the mission as an observer, taking the place of a tail gunner in order to get a good view of the formation. The major had also claimed credit for downing the German fighter and received credit for the kill. The sergeant, of course, did not. George shrugged it off. He was certain he had prevented that particular Luftwaffe fighter from ever shooting down his or any other American bomber, and that was all that mattered.

 

 

 

As the new guys, Walker’s crew had been given a patched-up, battle-weary B-17. After the July 13 mission to Munich, she needed even more patches. George knew the bomb run was going to be a tough one long before the bomb group reached Munich. It was his fourth combat mission, and the sky over Munich was darker than it had been at any previous target. A black cloud of flak smoke hovered above the city, the residue of shells fired at earlier bomb groups.

Fresh flak explosions appeared quickly as the 351st began its bomb run. Not only was it the thickest flak George had yet witnessed, it was also the first time he could actually hear shrapnel striking the ball turret. A German antiaircraft shell would explode close by and fragments would cut into the bomber’s fuselage, while other pieces would glance off the round metal back of the turret. Sometimes George would not even see an explosion, but still he would hear the stuff thumping against the turret. The air was full of large and small metallic hazards.

Walker’s bomber returned from Munich and landed at Polebrook with more than a hundred flak holes adorning it. Miraculously, not one man on board had been hit. Looking at how the flak fragments had sliced through the bomber’s metal shell as if it were butter, George began to appreciate the ball turret even
more. The outside of the turret was scarred and the metal part showed some denting, but its design had protected him. The back of the turret was armor-plated and thick bulletproof glass (but not twenty-millimeter proof) shielded the front of the gunsight and, as a result, its operator. The rest of the ball turret was Plexiglas, which might not withstand a direct hit but could deflect small fragments off its round form.

While most airmen avoided assignment to the ball turret, George was now convinced it was the best place to be during a bomb run. If he attempted to explain the advantages of his gun position to other crew members, they would just smile and slap young George on the back. After all, ball turret gunners were different.

After a few more missions over Germany, Walker’s crew was rewarded with a brand-new airplane. She was a silver B-17G, with the serial number 43-37854. A large “J” painted on her tail signified she was part of the 351st Bomb Group. The letters “RQ” on the bomber’s fuselage represented the 509th Bomb Squadron. The letter “V” stood for the aircraft itself.

George and his buddies were proud of her. They all agreed such a beautiful lady deserved a special name. Many monikers were suggested but quickly rejected as not worthy enough. Even as they flew their new B-17 to bomb military and industrial targets in Germany and enemy troops in France, the bomber boys could not come up with an acceptable name. After completing a dozen or so combat missions, Walker’s airmen received news that put the name discussion on the back burner.

The crew of the no-name Flying Fortress had been granted a forty-eight-hour pass to London. They all took the train together into the old city and then crammed into a couple of taxis to search for a hotel. The driver of George’s cab told his passengers he knew a nice place and assured them they could get all the rooms they needed.

“Let’s go!” came the enthusiastic response, and off they went on what was to be a thrilling ride through the streets of London. The boys were waving at young women and pointing at double-decker buses when they heard the air raid siren. Though they had never been to London, the airmen knew the warning meant V-1 bombs were headed toward the city. Here and there they could see the bombed-out buildings. Earlier in the month they had bombed German V-1 launch sites in France. Now they faced being on the receiving end.

Their driver seemed unaware of the loud sirens as he sped by slower traffic. Even the pedestrians were in no particular hurry to reach the bomb shelters. George watched as some of the Londoners calmly ducked into a covered doorway or down the stairs leading to the tube, while others simply ignored the noisy warning and continued on their way.

“Shouldn’t we be looking for shelter?” one of the airmen asked.

“No, we will be fine,” the driver said confidently. He went on to explain his view that if everyone stopped every time the V-1s dropped, then London would cease to function as a city. One couldn’t give the Jerries that satisfaction, he said. He assured the American flyers the rocket bombs would land far away from them, and they did.

George heard the explosions as the V-1s fell in another part of London. Minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of a first-class hotel. The second cab, carrying the rest of the bomber crew, pulled up seconds later. The hotel lobby was crowded with civilians as well as men and women in British and American uniforms. George guessed the taxi driver had been mistaken.
There’s not much chance this hotel will have any vacancies.

“Do you have rooms available?” Lieutenant Walker inquired on behalf of his men.

“We have plenty of rooms available . . . on the top floor, sir.” The desk clerk smiled and waited for a reaction. The top floor was okay with George and his buddies. They just wanted to drop off their bags, get out and see the city, and maybe meet some of its female citizens. Later, an English bartender would explain why all of London’s hotels had rooms available on the top floor. The regular hotel guests would not stay in a top-floor room because of the V-1 flying bombs. A V-1 explosion was powerful enough to destroy the top story of a building and even do heavy damage to the next. Any of the lower floors were considered safer. Most guests paid a premium for rooms on the lower floors, leaving many top-floor rooms unoccupied. Hotel managers slashed the top-floor rates and found American service personnel more than willing to take a little risk in order to stay at a posh hotel.