Combat Crew (15 page)

“Copilot to Turret — watch Nick through the bomb bay.”

It was very easy to get hung up in the center of the bomb bay. A stocky man like Nick, in heavy flying clothes, had trouble squeezing through the narrow part of the catwalk where two vertical beams supported the weight of the bomb load. I got out of the turret and looked into the bomb bay to see Abramo struggling valiantly to break through. With a violent lurch he broke free, but dropped his parachute. He made a grab for it, but accidentally caught the ripcord! A cloud of white silk flooded the lower bomb bay. His chute was finished, so he stumbled groggily into the cockpit and on down to the nose, ignoring the oxygen hose I held out to revive him. He was too far gone for his mind to function normally, and was struggling against collapse. Shutting, unaware that Nick was coming, had the entrance to the nose blocked. Nick crashed into him and down went the Navigator, knocking over the Bombardier's recently used ammunition can before the contents had time to freeze. The smelly mess spilled liberally about his clothes.

“Navigator to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“I've got Johnny's shit all over my clothes!”

“What! You say Johnny shit on you?”

“No! No! His ammo can turned over on me! What we gonna do about my clothes?”

“What you're gonna do is get back on those guns. Right now! Worry about your damn clothes when we get back to Ridgewell.”

“Navigator to Nick.”

“Go ahead.”

“You all right now?”

“Yeah, I'm OK.”

“ Look what you did to my clothes.”

“Copilot to Nose! Cut the talk an' keep that intercom clear!”

“Turret to Waist — my earphones are real bad. Tell me what the situation is back there. Talk very slow.”

“We — got — oxygen — for — one — hour.”

“One hour?”

“Right! One — hour.”

We had just crossed the Rhine River and that meant real trouble if all we had was an hour of oxygen left in the rear at twenty-six thousand feet.

“Copilot to Bombardier — the Jerries are sendin' up everything that can fly — even some 187s.”

“First 187s I've ever seen — and they're using J.U. 88s, too.” Purus answered. The 381st was flying a tight formation and that saved us some attacks. The enemy fighters were not as aggressive as I had anticipated over that part of Germany. I suspected that most of those fighters were trained for night fighting against the R.A.F.

“Navigator to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ten minutes to the I.P.”

Two M.E. 109s hit us but they were caught with a heavy converging fire, and I thought both were badly damaged. Cahow's crew was in serious trouble. Their aircraft had sustained some heavy hits, and the ball turret door had blown off. But down in that ball Bill Kettner obstinately refused to leave his gun position. Despite the enormous wind blast at thirty-five to forty degrees below zero, he hung in there for the next three hours. It was bad enough to be in that ball on any mission, but that terrific force of wind, when he had to face directly into it to meet an attack, was an ordeal beyond the call of duty. I do not know how he survived it.

“Bombardier to Copilot — Herb, motion Paul to switch to intercom.”

“This is Paul.”

“Bomb run is coming up. I hope those clouds floatin' over th' target don't mess up the drop.”

Unfortunately for us, one small cumulus cloud did obscure the target from the direction of our approach. The lead Bombardier could not line up his sight.

“Pilot to Bombardier — are we goin' to drop?”

“No. I think we're goin' to come around on a one-eighty.”

“Oh, hell! That will ruin us on fuel!”

The formation executed a slow, costly half circle and another try for the target. Again the cloud obscured the main objective. The situation was so confused that I'm not sure what target we hit. It may have been an alternate. One good thing: I was greatly relieved to get rid of that bomb load!

“Radio to Bombardier.”

“Go ahead.”

“Three bombs hung up in the racks — don't raise doors.”

“Turret to Bombardier — I'll go back and get rid of 'em.”

“Pilot to Turret — stay on your guns — too many fighters around us now.”

“Turret to Copilot. How do your fuel gauges read?”

“Between a third and a quarter — closer to a quarter. Not good!”

“It's gonna be damn close on gas!” I answered.

“We're on auto lean — th' flaps are pulled down. Not much else we can do 'til we can drop out of formation and slow down,” Carqueville explained.

“We have about five hundred gallons — three hours using our altitude,” I answered.

“Navigator to Copilot. We're three and a half hours to Ridgewell. We might make it to some airfield on the coast.”

“Doubt we can make it to England if we stay at this high altitude all the way to the Channel,” I answered. I felt that if there was moisture in the aft oxygen tanks we probably had the same in the forward system. I made a test by filling a walk-around bottle. Sure enough, when I unhooked the bottle the filler valve was frozen wide open. I hammered the bottle back onto it and stopped the drain. Being forewarned by Jim's earlier problem, I was ready and knew what to do.

“Radio to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Oxygen pressure about gone back here. What we gonna do?”

“Turret to Pilot — I got six bailout bottles — should be good for thirty minutes each, if they're careful.”

“Rush 'em back real quick. Herb will take over the turret 'til you get back.” It required some time to distribute the bottles and coming back to the cockpit I got hung up in the bomb-bay racks. There was no oxygen left in the walk-around bottle I was using, so I knew that I had to break free quickly. I could feel myself slipping. With a final effort I tore loose and barely made it to the rear door of the cockpit. I fell partly in, with my legs dangling into the open bomb bay, and passed out. When I came to, I was plugged into the spare oxygen hose. I got back into the turret and called the Copilot.

“Turret to Copilot — thanks for pluggin' me in — I was lucky to make it to the cockpit.”

“You're wrong, John. You plugged yourself in,” Carqueville replied.

“No way I could do it! I was completely out when I fell into the cockpit door.”

“Well, no one helped you.”
⁷

“Then we got Gremlins aboard! Hey, Gremlins — thanks for pluggin' me in.”

“I wish your Gremlins would help us out on oxygen and gasoline!”

How I got connected to the cockpit hose still remains a mystery.

Wilson, Counce, and Balmore took two bailout bottles each. That left the remainder of the system oxygen, plus one bailout bottle they found in the waist for the Tail Gunner.

“Pilot to Copilot. Three things we can do. We can make a run for Switzerland. We can try to dive down to a lower Group. Or, we can bring one more man to the cockpit and let the other three bail out when they use up their oxygen … Switzerland sounds like the best bet to me.”

“I think so, too,” answered Carqueville.

“Tail to Pilot — there are fifty to sixty 187s between us and Switzerland.”

“Then forget about Switzerland.”

A few minutes later: “Pilot to crew. We're goin' to try to drop down to the lowest Group. Ought to help on oxygen — watch out for fighters.”

For the very first time being in a low Group sounded good. Gleichauf dropped the plane down and pulled into an opening in the formation barely in time to avoid a swarm of fighters that tried to cut us off.

“Turret to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“Got to refill the turret oxygen tank. It may freeze like the ball did. If so, I can't save it, but I can keep the main pressure from leaking out.”

“Any options?”

“Well, I could try to operate the turret from the cabin oxygen hose … I couldn't turn the turret much without unhooking the hose.”

“Try filling the turret tank.”

The same situation existed as had happened earlier. I jammed on a walk-around bottle and pounded it into position which saved the forward system pressure, but I could do nothing to keep the turret oxygen from spewing out. I quickly switched to the spare cockpit hose, but I could not turn the turret very much unless I dropped the hose. So when I had to meet fighter attacks I cut loose from the oxygen hose. When the attack was over, I dropped to the deck and re-engaged the oxygen hose before I lost consciousness. The supply of oxygen was barely adequate. I vaguely remember once when the intercom was blasting: “Get him, John! Top Turret! Top Turret! He's comin' in at twelve o'clock high. Shoot th' sonnuvabitch!” With all that going on, I was half-conscious and strangely undisturbed. I didn't give a damn if half the Luftwaffe was coming in as a unit! Lack of oxygen (partial anoxia) causes a curious mental sensation. The ability of the body to execute commands from the brain drops in proportion to the drop in the oxygen supply. Example: when off of oxygen one could not place the hand on the nose as directed; it might touch the left shoulder.

“Copilot to crew — over France now, so we can't get rid of those three hung-up bombs 'til we get to the Channel.”

That meant carrying some extra weight we did not need, and to make matters worse, the bomb-bay doors had to be left down, causing an extra drag and higher fuel consumption. Bailout bottles were never intended for any use other than bailing out at very high altitudes. I usually carried five or six in my equipment bag for oxygen use if they should be needed. That day the extra bailout bottles saved several men. Three of them would have had to bail out or risk dying or suffering brain damage. The mission to Stuttgart was the only instance I know of where men at twenty-six thousand feet were able to retain consciousness with such crude equipment for an extended period. A valve had to be opened with each intake of breath and closed while exhaling. George made one bottle last for forty-five minutes.

I got out of the turret long enough to look at the fuel gauges, then refigured our estimated consumption. “Turret to Copilot — it looks like we're gonna shave it extra close on fuel. Depends on how much we got left when those gauges show empty.”

“And that won't be long!”

“Pilot to Navigator.”

“Go ahead, Paul.”

“Why we swingin' so far west?”

“Don't know — makes no sense to me … this headin' will take us close to Paris,” Shutting answered.

“Isn't Paris out of our way?”

“Hell, yes — it's not the shortest route,” fumed Shutting. “They're sittin' up there in the lead plane with plenty of fuel, forgettin' about us in these old planes with small tanks. Paul — my uniform stinks!”

“I don't give a damn about your uniform, Navigator. We got real problems — don't they know some of us won't make it if we go a hundred miles out of the way?”

Wilson finished his last oxygen bottle and refused to leave his gun position. In a few minutes he collapsed. George brought him to and moved him forward to the radio room. It must be remembered to Wilson's credit that in a very bad spot he was determined to do his job to the end.

“Radio to Copilot — we're down to th' last of our oxygen — if you want us to bail out we got to do it before we all pass out.”

“Hold it, George! I think the formation is going to let down to twenty-one thousand feet to save fuel,” Carqueville answered.

At that altitude men would live, even if they passed out. Soon it was twenty, then nineteen, and at sixteen thousand the formation leveled off. The men were perfectly safe now. Jim had been off oxygen since he gave up his bottle to revive Wilson.

“Copilot to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“Pilots are calling the leader about runnin' out of gas. We're not the only one in trouble.”

The intercom was silent for a while, then the Copilot called, “The fuel warning light for number-two engine just flashed on.”

“And that's Paris far off to our left,” the Navigator added.

A fuel warning light meant that the engine tank had less than fifty gallons left. The normal cruising consumption of gasoline was about fifty gallons per hour for one engine. When holding in a formation the consumption increased due to some jockeying that was inevitable, but as soon as the formation began a gradual letdown the rate would drop considerably.

“Copilot from Turret, when will they start to let down?”

“Not much 'til we approach the Channel.”

Ten minutes later: “There goes the last warning light!”

“Pilot to Turret, you think we can make it over the Channel?”

“Not unless we got a little more fuel than those gauges show. Some of the older E models have a slight reserve when they read empty. Let's hope
Tinker Toy
is one of them. That's our only chance of making it over the water.”

“I think I can see the coast ahead about five minutes. All of our gauges are reading empty,” Carqueville interposed.

“Ask the crew if any of them want to bail out now over land. We got some altitude to play with — our chances are about fifty-fifty of making it to an airfield on the English coast,” replied Gleichauf.

All crew members elected to stay with the aircraft and take the risk; they knew that if we ran out of fuel and had to ditch without power, the chances of being able to set down on the water successfully were poor.

As luck would have it that day, we could do nothing right and crossed where it was a wide stretch of water. Now Gleichauf could drop out of the formation and slow down. Three other B-17s pulled out and fell in behind us. They must have thought we had a definite English airfield in mind. We cut far back on power, using our ten thousand feet of altitude to drop slowly downward.