Combat Crew (16 page)

“Pilot to crew — Pilot to crew. Jettison everything heavy — get those bombs out quick so we can raise the doors.” The ammunition was the first to go because it was heavy. Jim Counce picked up full boxes of fifty-caliber ammo and tossed them out of the window like they were matchboxes. He was that strong. Carqueville released the three bombs while I removed the turret guns and heaved them out. At last we could raise the bomb-bay doors that had been down since the bomb drop.

“Pilot to Radio.”

“Go ahead.”

“Stay in contact with Air-Sea Rescue frequency 'til we're over land. Don't know when these engines will quit.”

“Radio to Copilot — lots of Forts calling Air-Sea Rescue — sounds like eight or ten will have to ditch.” (Land on the water.)

“Tail to Navigator — those three B-l7s are still tailin' us.”

“Pilot to Navigator.”

“Go ahead.”

“Pick the nearest English airstrip you can find on your chart.”

“Can't pinpoint where we are exactly — but there should be some airfields anywhere we hit the coast.”

“Pilot to Bombardier. Soon as you can see the coast, watch for a place to land.”

We were still letting down, drawing so little power that the engines were barely above idling R.P.M., and I expected them to quit at any moment.

“Bombardier to Pilot — I can see the coast ahead, very faintly.”

“Pilot to Navigator. Do you see an airstrip? Which way?”

“Navigator to Pilot — don't see any airfield. Never crossed the coast before without seeing two or three!”

We had inadvertently picked out the only spot on the English coast, or so it seemed, that did not have a number of landing fields. It could not go on much longer. My mind was in turmoil: “These engines have to have gasoline to keep running and the tanks are down to fumes! Where are all of those landing strips I see every time we come over the English coast? Either we find one in a matter of minutes or we put this big airplane down in some farmer's backyard! We are too low to bail out! I hope all of us survive the crash landing, but that is not likely! Come on engines! Hang in there a little longer. There's got to be a landing strip nearby. Where? There are a thousand airfields in England. Well, one way or another we're going down in the next few minutes. There is no way this can go on!”

“Navigator to Pilot! Look over to your left at ten o'clock. Isn't that a small airfield?”

“I see it! Thank God! We're gonna make it! John, fire the emergency flare when we get close enough that they can see us comin' in.”

By that time I was at my usual low-altitude position — between and slightly behind the pilot and copilot. The flare would alert the airfield that we were landing without normal landing procedures. The copilot turned to me, “Pump any fuel we have left from number-two and number-three engines to number one and number four. We need one engine on each side for the approach.”

I sucked the remnants in the inboard tanks to the outboard engines. As we slowly dropped down to the small runway I “ceased breathing,” hoping those two engines would not quit until we got near the short landing strip. “Keep going, engines! Just another thirty seconds! That's all I ask — another thirty seconds. We almost got it made.”

The wheels touched down and I resumed breathing. Gleichauf quickly braked the speed and pulled off the runway to let the trailing B-17s land. Then one of our two remaining engines quit! It was that close!

We had landed at a small R.A.F. Spitfire base. Nick's parachute silk was partially streaming out of the bomb bay and that drew a crowd right away. They probably thought someone was hanging on the end of the chute!

I could not bounce back to normal all at once; far too much had happened in a short period of time. The hazardous experiences of the day had brought us perilously close to disaster. And now to be safe again was almost too much to take in. Slowly the tensions evaporated and my sense of well being returned.

Some R.A.F. officers came out to invite Paul and his officers to their club. Gleichauf asked me, “Have you seen Shutting?”

“No,” I said, “not since right after we landed.”

It was odd that Carl could have vanished so quickly. I found him hiding in the tail. “Go on, John,” he said. “Act like you don't see me.”

“No, Gleichauf's lookin' for you — might as well come on out.”

Carl had peeled off his outer coveralls, but it didn't help much. He was right about one thing:
he did stink!
Off he went to where I presume he had a table to himself. True, his charisma that day left something to be desired, but he had lived through unbelievable hours in one of the storied Flying Fortresses of World War II, known as
Tinker Toy
. Nothing had gone smoothly or as planned that frantic September day for Carl R. Shutting. Yet there he was, alive and uninjured, and back on friendly soil. So what else really mattered? He could have his clothes cleaned.

I never knew a mug of ale could taste so good! The English were very hospitable and wouldn't let us pay for a thing. Meanwhile the ground crew found enough gas in five-gallon cans to get us back to our base. A little before sunset we took off for Ridgewell. At the 381st the men were surprised to see us, because we had been reported lost over France. A few more hours and all of our clothes and personal things would have been gone.

We lost forty-five Fortresses and four hundred and fifty men (except those men who were picked up before dark by the Air-Sea Rescue people), on that poorly planned, poorly executed mission to Stuttgart. In addition to the heavy loss of lives and planes, a half million gallons of fuel (uselessly consumed) transported at high cost in men and materials across perilous sea routes, bristling with submarines. All for nothing! That was the worst waste of Air Force power that I saw in World War II. Far too much was risked on a paper-thin margin of fuel consumption. Seventeen B-17s
⁸
went down in the Channel from lack of fuel, and we barely escaped being one of them. The excellent Air-Sea Rescue Service saved many of the downed men, but no figures were released on the exact number picked up from the water. I doubt if I will ever completely forget the anxieties and frustrations that besieged us during the raid on Stuttgart. The only thing we did right all day was to get back to England. The amount of damage to that weird aircraft was far below what
Tinker Toy
usually suffered on a combat mission. Was she a jinx plane? I don't know. What we call a jinx must surely be a state of mind. Some 381st men said that they heard Lord Haw Haw (the German propaganda broadcaster) say that they were going to shoot down
Tinker Toy
. It was strange that he would know that aircraft by name and reputation. Did the enemy have some special vendetta for her that would explain her apparent attraction to the fighters?

I have read no explanation of the unnecessary longer return route from Stuttgart, when so many of the aircraft were desperately short of fuel. It seemed to me that someone in command made an error in judgment, but then we were not privy to all the facts. There may have been good reasons, such as a large fighter force waiting for us on the more direct return route. The story of war is a mixture of good command decisions versus poor ones. On the whole, Bomber Command provided good leadership. Once in a while, like September 6, 1943, nothing went right. It must have been the bleakest day in General Eaker's life. Fortunately for us, such days were rare in the air offensive over the Continent.

It was on the Stuttgart raid that Carroll Wilson came of age. When the chips were down, he showed me special qualities that were impressive. He proved that he had courage beyond the ordinary. I had always felt that it was not a question of ability with Carroll — that he could do whatever he set his mind to do. After all, he was only twenty when he came with our crew, and he had some growing up to do.

That night when the lights were out my mind slipped back to that frantic day in Nevada when I fired a gun from an airplane for the first time. Each gunner had to have at least eight percent hits on the tow target sleeve to qualify. Even on perfect shooting most of the projectiles will miss a small target when fired from a distance because of the spread-out shot pattern. The aircraft was a single-engine craft with two open cockpits. Before takeoff the pilot gave me his instructions:

“When we get near the firing range I'll give you five commands: One, hoist the ammunition can over the side an' secure the gun — don't drop that can! Two, feed the ammunition into the receiver. Three, hand charge. Four, fire until finished or I tell you to stop. Five, clear the gun and stow it. One more thing: keep your gunner's safety belt fastened at all times 'cause it's going to be real rough up there today.”

All the way to the firing range I struggled feverishly with the safety belt. It was so tight that I couldn't budge it, and was a foot and a half too short for me to stand up in the cockpit to fire. I had no microphone to tell the pilot, so it boiled down to working in that super-rough air without a safety belt, as risky as that would be. The intercom was impossible! All I could hear was loud babbles of static.

“Squawk — awk — eek — ug — ”

I supposed that was command number one. I lifted the heavy can of ammunition out into the slipstream and at that moment the aircraft lurched upward and I came close to dropping my ammunition. I hooked the can onto the gun and relaxed for a moment. That was a mistake! When I looked back at the can I was horrified to see the ammunition belt streaming rapidly out into the air! With a desperate lunge I caught the end of the belt — it was whipping and gyrating in the slipstream like a long, angry snake. I dragged it slowly back into the can and asked myself the question: “What in the hell ever made you think you wanted to be an aerial gunner?” I looked at the pilot's mirror and he was shaking his head and frowning.

Loud intercom static blasted my ears: “Squawk — eek — awk — ”

I could not make out one word so I hooked the ammo belt into the receiver of the gun. It was one of the few things I did right all day — that is, it would have been right with the safety belt on. I was leaning out over the gun when the aircraft pitched violently downward and I was thrown up and almost out of the open cockpit. I could feel myself going overboard. I reached down frantically but was too high by that time to grab anything. At the last second one foot caught a projecting edge down below, and it was enough, but just barely, to make the difference. At that low altitude I wouldn't have had time to find the ripcord of the parachute. Before my breathing returned to normal the intercom exploded again. I caught the word “charge” so I hand charged a round into the gun chamber ready for firing.

More static: “Gurk — gook — awk.”

That meant fire — but at what? More loud squawking and the wings shook violently! Where was the damn target? More static! Then I saw it — so far away it looked like a postage stamp. Did they expect me to hit anything that small and that far away, out of a bouncing airplane?

My first burst was too high. Then the gun stopped! My mind went blank about gun stoppages. In the excitement I automatically hand charged and the gun resumed firing. That told me it was either a short round or a badly worn gun. In all, I had seventeen stoppages, and seriously doubted I had ever touched the target sleeve. Finally I stowed the gun in disgust! Instantly there was a furious babble of static. What was the pilot trying to tell me? Then I remembered! I had forgotten to clear the gun, and there was one live round left that could have killed someone on the ground! Pilots had the authority and the obligation to ground gunner candidates who were not suitable to handle weapons in the air. After my inept performance that day I thought he was likely going to wash me out on the spot. When we landed he took his time getting out of the front cockpit, and I cringed as he approached me.

“You almost lost your ammunition two times! Your cockpit procedure was the worst I ever saw! You failed to clear the gun and could have killed someone! But, in spite of all that, I think you got some good hits on the target. Now tomorrow, calm down and you'll be all right.”

He started off, then turned back. “Sergeant, one time I saw you bounce too high. Your safety belt was much too long. That's dangerous in rough air.”

“Yes, Sir, it was — uh — too long. I'll watch that next time.”

Waiting for the scores to be posted was agony. I hoped that I hit the target sleeve at least once. When nineteen percent was posted by my name — one of the highest scores of the day — I was stunned. I had lost seventeen percent of my ammunition because of rounds that wouldn't fire, and still hit nineteen percent? That score triggered a transformation. I imagined myself an aerial Doc Holliday and swaggered a little on my way to the barracks — like I thought Doc would do.

The next morning it was great to awake at a reasonable hour and look forward to a day of unruffled simplicity. The morning after a rough raid I always felt in tune with the universe. I had once again thumbed my nose at the odds and was still there. Even the small, everyday tasks that might otherwise seem menial were pleasant to contemplate. It was good to polish shoes or do some routine repair on flying equipment. When one lives on the brink of extinction, his outlook on life undergoes a change, for he realizes that life is a fragile and precious gift. I had a full day at my disposal and I intended to enjoy every moment of it. Nothing was going to louse up my day!

Counce looked haggard when he got up and started dressing.

“How you feel?”

“Terrible! Got a bad headache.”

“You were off oxygen far too long yesterday.”

Surprisingly, at this early hour of the day, Wilson stirred and sat up. “Anybody got some aspirin? I've had an awful headache for hours.”

I handed him an aspirin bottle and a cup of water.