Combat Crew (11 page)

“No — nothing above us. It must have been an explosion.”

“Copilot to Navigator, did you see what happened?”

“No, I was looking to my left — didn't see a thing 'til it was all over.”

“Copilot to Ball. Nick, what's happening down below? How many planes were lost? See any chutes?”

“Air's full of pieces and parts of planes! There were four or five that got it! All but one broke up. I see three chutes.”

“Oh, Lord! Five ships and only three chutes?”

“That's all I see. They're goin' to land in the water, an' the rescue boats are already headin' out to pick 'em up.”

“Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew. Four or five ships were torn up, we don't know why. Either an explosion or collision. Stay calm! It wasn't caused by fighters.”

Whatever caused the tragedy, I wondered if it could have been avoided with better disciplinary control of the group. The puzzling part of the catastrophe was that we were flying very close to the planes that were lost, yet we had felt no concussion or unusual air currents. In a few minutes the remainder of that group aborted and returned to their base.

Ten minutes from the French coast, Shutting called the Pilot, “Paul, Paul!”

“OK — go ahead.”

“There's a wing ship at three o'clock in the second element pullin' out!”

“I see it.”

A few minutes later we dropped down into that vacant position. “Bombardier to crew — flak, nine o'clock low.”

“Flak, eleven o'clock high.” The fire was moderate and caused no damage. “Radio to Turret — Radio to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“Something's wrong with my oxygen!”

“What's th' problem?”

“I don't feel good.”

“Turret to Waist — Jim, go take a look at Radio's regulator.”

Counce was back on intercom quickly. “Nothing's wrong with your regulator, Radio. I think you imagine you're not getting enough oxygen and are breathin' too heavy. Relax! Breathe normally an' you'll be OK.”

“Tail to crew — escort catching up with us — high at six o'clock.”

“This is the Navigator — they sure look good to me!”

“Bombardier to crew! We're gonna need 'em real quick. Bogies at eleven o'clock low, comin' up!”

The P-47s had numerous clashes with F.W. 190s trying to get to the formation. I counted ten enemy craft that might have been shot down. I didn't know for sure unless I saw a fighter explode or the pilot bail out. If any of them crashed, we were too far from the scene by that time to see the impact.

I wonder if there has ever been a sight — show or drama — as thrilling as watching a series of dogfights between good pilots, with all of them aware that death awaited the losers. It was such a fascinating sight I sometimes forgot briefly that I was a part of the drama. At times I almost felt like it was a highly realistic war movie in which I was a bit player.

“Navigator to Pilot — over.”

“Navigator to Pilot.”

“Navigator to Copilot.”

“Motion Paul to get on intercom.”

“Go ahead, Navigator, this is Paul.”

“Five minutes to the I.P.” (Initial point.)

“OK.”

Several minutes later Shutting called the pilot again. “There's the I.P. down on the right, about one o'clock.”

“I see it — hard to miss the Eiffel Tower.”

“Navigator to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“On the bomb run in three minutes.”

“Ball to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Flak — six o'clock low.”

The Tail called, “Flak — five o'clock level.”

Wham!

That burst was mighty close! Then four more bursts — all close. The aircraft was now on the bomb run and had to fly straight and level. Another four bursts were so nearby I could hear the shell fragments strike the aircraft hard!

“Copilot to Waist.”

“Go ahead.”

“Anybody hurt back there? Any serious damage?”

“Some good-sized holes behind me — not serious — so far.

That flak battery of four guns had us in its sights and was bursting salvos all around us. Each salvo crept closer.

Bang!

The ship rocked and pitched from the concussion of the nearby shell explosion. They weren't far off target — that was certain! I grudgingly acknowledged and admired the accuracy of those German gunners so far below. When I could hear the “whoosh” sounds of the shell bursts and see the orange flame in the center of the explosions, that told me they were getting much too close! For the second time German flak gunners had us so well targeted that they needed only one more very small correction to lay that salvo right on us.

“Bombs away!”

That was always sweet music to my ears.

“Radio to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“One bomb's hung up in the bomb bay.”

“Turret to Bombardier — I'm goin' back and try to release it.”

“Hold your position, Turret. We can't drop that bomb 'til we get clear of French territory,” said the Copilot.

Recently a new ruling had been posted forbidding any plane to jettison bombs or equipment over occupied Europe. There was a left turn and a wide circle and we were heading back toward England.

“Ball to crew — three fighters four o'clock low — 190s, I think.”

“Copilot to Tail.”

“Go ahead.”

“Can you see the fighters?”

“No, they're outta my view.”

“Can Waist see the fighters?”

“Left Waist to Copilot — cannot see them.”

“Ball to Copilot — they're comin' up from underneath.”

I heard the ball gun open up with one heavy burst after another. In a little while the firing stopped.

“Tail to Copilot — I see those fighters now — they're droppin' down an' away.”

“Tail, this is Nick. They changed their minds when four Balls opened up. I hit one of 'em real good. One broke off without firing.”

I expected a sharp clash with the red and yellow nose meanies near the target, but they failed to show. I knew we would meet them somewhere before long.

“Bombardier to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Fighters one o'clock high.”

“Navigator to crew — could be Spitfires — they're due right away. Be careful!” The Spits looked like 109s at a distance.

As soon as we identified those sleek R.A.F. beauties, the ones mainly responsible for saving England from Goering's bombers in the Battle of Britain, I felt certain we had no more worries about fighters for the day. The Spitfires were beautiful airplanes in the sky and deadly to tangle with. Their R.A.F. pilots were veterans of countless sky battles. The Spitfire was designed to meet German bomber attacks over England. They could land, rearm and refuel, and get back in the air rapidly for the next wave of bombers. Large fuel tanks were not needed and would have been a handicap for the fighting over Britain. The small fuel tanks, however, reduced their effectiveness as escort aircraft.

“Ball to crew — flak ten o'clock low.”

“Tail to crew — flak six o'clock level.”

It turned out to be light and inaccurate. The formation began a gradual letdown as soon as we neared the English Channel.

“Turret to Bombardier — I'm goin' back and release that bomb.”

“OK — need any help?”

“No, don't think so.”

On the catwalk I discovered with relief that the stuck bomb was in an easy position to reach. With a long screwdriver I tripped the shackle that held the bomb and it tumbled out. I watched until it struck the water with a gigantic splash, then returned to the cockpit.

“Turret to Bombardier. Bomb bay clear, you can raise doors.”

“Thanks, Turret — Bombardier to Radio.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are doors comin' up?”

“Doors are up.”

The 381st didn't lose a ship that day, but some other groups behind us caught it much rougher. There was a famous B-17 that took part in the raid on Villacoublay. The
Memphis Belle
was the first American aircraft to survive twenty-five missions. Its crew was the first combat crew on a B-17 to fly twenty-five missions over Europe. Director William Wyler's 1944 documentary
Memphis Belle
was filmed partly in England. It played up the Villacoublay mission, and one scene showed wounded men being lifted from B-17s at the end of that raid. The movie helped to sell war bonds and became popular during the war period. The
Memphis Belle
and her crew flew back to the U.S. and toured the country in support of the War Bond Drive.

At interrogation many questions were asked about the horrible tragedy that wiped out four or five planes. The next day the official version was released. Two B-17s were caught in a propeller blast, due to a sudden shift of position of a lead ship. That meant the air turbulence, created by that unfortunate move, caused two pilots momentarily to lose control of their aircraft. I could visualize their frantic efforts to avoid a collision, and the helpless feeling they had as the wind blast forced them together. When they collided there was a violent explosion that wiped out two other aircraft close by.

On August 25 new B-17Fs with their crews arrived and were assigned to the 533rd Squadron. They were indeed welcome because the squadron was under strength, which kept all crews on constant battle call status. We were happy to see the new men, but even more delighted to get the new Fortresses, with their increased fuel capacity and better performance.

Carroll Wilson was the number-one goldbricker I knew in the Service, and I knew a lot of accomplished ones. But he had a redeeming quality to balance it. He had the natural ability to con people into things the rest of us could never have managed. In the States we would send him to the Orderly Room for passes because he rarely failed to talk them into it. But there was one incident in which Wilson was the principal actor that topped all of the ludicrous stunts I saw in my Air Force years.

The bomb sight incident began one morning when we were in crew training at Casper, Wyoming. We took off to let the Bombardier do some practice drops with a Norden Bomb Sight. Soon after takeoff the oil pressure on one engine dropped off too much and we returned to the base to have a relief valve replaced. Now, the Norden Bomb Sight was guarded with elaborate security. The Sight was the cornerstone of the high-altitude concept and elaborate means were taken to insure that it did not fall into the hands of the enemy in time for it to be duplicated and used against us. Bombardiers were held responsible. When Purus checked out a Norden Sight for a practice flight he was required to wear a .45 automatic and keep that sight under surveillance at all times.

When Herb landed the aircraft and pulled onto the hardstand I saw right off that the crew chief was alone. I told him the bad news. “I'm afraid we're gonna have to replace a relief valve on number-three engine. You want me to start taking it out while you go get a new one?”

“That would speed things up. I oughta be back in twenty to thirty minutes.”

When the crew chief took off for Aircraft Supply, Herb asked, “How long we going to be tied up?”

“Forty minutes to an hour,” I answered. “We'll have to run up the engine and check out the pressure after the valve is changed.”

Herb turned to the other men. “Come on, let's go to the club for coffee. We have plenty of time and we don't need to hang around here.”

Purus shook his head. “I can't go, Herb. I've got to guard this damn bomb sight.”

“Aren't you a commissioned officer? Well, order one of these sergeants to guard the sight while we're gone.”

Purus hesitated. “I don't know … well, I guess it would be all right. Here, Wilson, buckle on my forty-five and stand where you can see the sight up in the nose at all times. Don't let it out of your vision — and no one is to enter this aircraft 'til we get back. And remember, this gun is loaded! Be careful!”

I was working high on an engine repair stand with my head up behind the engine most of the time. A few minutes later I looked down and saw Wilson practicing fast draw with that forty-five.

“Wilson! Put that gun back in the holster! You know better than to play with a loaded gun!”

He meekly agreed to do so. Five minutes went by and I glanced down. He was at it again!

“Wilson, you're gonna kill someone! Put that gun where it belongs!”

I felt someone tap my foot and looked down. There was one of the sight technicians I had seen at the bomb sight vault several times when Purus checked out a Norden Sight.

“Sergeant, we got an inspection due today on the sight you're carrying. How long will you be here?”

“Another thirty minutes, I guess.”

“Good! I'll have the sight back in less than thirty minutes.”

“Don't talk to me! See that Sergeant with the gun? He's in charge of the sight. Talk to him about it.”

I went back to work and assumed he cleared it with Wilson. In a few minutes I had to come down for a tool and could see the technician in the nose of the plane, removing the sight. He was clearly visible through the plexiglass, and I saw him leave the aircraft carrying the bomb sight and walk off close enough to Wilson that I thought sure he saw him.

I heard the rest of the crew returning. When Purus looked up at the nose of the plane his face went white.

“Wilson!” he screamed. “Where's the bomb sight?”

Carroll whirled around and stared in utter disbelief at the gaping, empty space in the nose where the sight should have been. His mouth popped open and he went into shock. He couldn't say a word — just blabbered incoherent sounds. That was when I realized that Wilson didn't know where the sight was.

Carqueville ran over to me. “John! You must have seen something! Where's the bomb sight?”