Combat Crew (27 page)

The triangle “L” insignia that identified the 381st bomb group.

Johnny Purus was an unusually good man to have on a crew. He was as steady in the nose as Jim Counce was in the rear of the aircraft. The rest of us would screw up at times, but Johnny never did, except on that first fighter attack when three of us failed so miserably. He entered the service as an enlisted man and had some aircraft mechanical experience. Purus could handle the controls of a B-17 well enough to get back to the base if something happened to the pilot and copilot. Counce showed natural flying ability, and I had flying experience also. That was good insurance for the crew.

Coming out of the mess hall at noon, I found Purus waiting for me. “Paul's got a flu bug an' a bad case of the G.I.s, so Captain Ralston has grounded him for the rest of the week an' sent word to Operations that none of the rest of the crew has to fly any missions 'til Gleichauf recovers.”

Jim spoke up, “Well, maybe we can get a four-day pass to London.”

“Go ahead an' try, but John can't go 'cause he's goin' to be busy with me putting in those two restrictors in the chin turret.”

“You mean they're ready?” I asked.

“They'll be finished today. I was at Armament this mornin' checking on them.”

By mid-morning the next day Purus and I were working with an armament mechanic on the tricky job of installing those hastily made assemblies at the best positions. We did not know how much back pressure would be needed to correct the malfunctioning of the ammunition, or at what point too much restriction would interfere with the movement of the ammunition to the receiver of the gun. Late in the afternoon the Major who commanded Armament, which included turret maintenance, came out to 719. After examining the installation he remarked, “Looks to me like you're about finished.”

“Another thirty minutes will do it,” Purus answered.

“How do you know how to adjust it?” asked the Major.

“We don't,” Purus said. “That will have to be done under fire.”

“That's what I thought. If 719 goes out in the morning, who is goin' to do the adjusting?”

There was complete silence while the Major waited. Then he looked at me. “Wasn't this your drawing? Isn't this your ship?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, I think I can get you on it as Navigator — OK?”

“Wait! Wait! I'm not on combat status for the rest of the week,” I answered.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Our pilot is sick an' Captain Ralston gave the rest of the crew time off 'til he recovers.”

“But you could go?”

“I suppose I could.”

“I think you should — it's your ship an' you're the engineer. We don't want some damn navigator foulin' up this test and that is what we're going to get unless one of you does it. I never saw a navigator who knew anything about guns except which end the bullets come out.” (That wasn't quite fair to navigators. Even though they did not have as much opportunity to fire the guns, some navigators did take their gunnery seriously.)

“You got a good point there, Major.”

“Well, how about it?” he answered.

“I'd like to, but hell, I — uh — you know what happens when you volunteer. You get the shaft ever' time.”

He laughed. “Oh, that's just barracks talk — let's go to Operations and see what they say.”

At Operations Franek said, “You can go if you want to, but you got a medical excuse for the rest of the week. It's your choice.”

The Major asked, “Can't you give him some hint about where we might go in the morning?”

“We don't have the target yet an' couldn't tell him or anyone else if we did know where it was. But you have the bomb load. You could tell him what your men are goin' to load tonight.”

He turned to me. “I'm not supposed to talk about the kind of bombs, but I guess it won't hurt to tell you. We're loading block busters.”

Block busters? Where did we use those two-thousand-pound big ones? Wheels turned in my brain. Lights flashed on and off. Submarine pens! That's the only place we had ever used them. Where were submarine pens? On the coast! It was going to be an easy target somewhere on the coast. I was not about to let a milk run get by me. The easy ones counted the same as the mean ones.

“OK, Major, I'll do it.”

Turning to Lieutenant Franek I asked, “Can you put me on 719 as Navigator if we go out in the morning?”

“I guess I could this one time. I hope to hell 719 don't get lost with you doin' the navigating.” He paused for a moment. “I'll put Cahow on 719 'cause his navigator's sick.”

“That's fine with me.”

Franek called as I started out the door, “Not a word to any of Cahow's men until wake-up call if we go in the morning. Got that straight?”

“OK, not a word.”

At three-thirty, George Reese turned on the lights. “Pitts, Lancia, Tedesco, Green, Bechtel, Kettner, and Comer flying 719 with Cahow — briefing at 0530 hours — good luck.”

“Hey, wait,” said Lancia. “Comer is not on our crew.”

“He is today,” Reese replied. “He's your Navigator.”

“Navigator! That bastard, a navigator?”

“I've been taking a correspondence course in navigation for the last week,” I answered.

“Come off the bullshit! What are you doin' with us?”

“Seriously, the chin turret guns jam up real bad on these new G models. Yesterday, we put some special-made restrictors in the ammunition chutes. I'm going to adjust them in action an' see if they work.”

“You think they'll work?” Tedesco asked.

“You better hope so, 'cause Franek told me he is goin' to assign the other G model we have on the field to your crew.”

Pitts moaned, “God! I hope we don't get lost today with you up there in the nose.”

They had decided that this mission was going to be an easy one, probably because Operations assigned me as navigator. As they saw it, I would not be up in the nose if it was going to be a long, tough raid. So no one on the crew stood by the Briefing Room that morning to catch the reaction when the curtain was pulled back revealing the target. We had the usual early morning murk, but there was a good chance it would break by takeoff time.

In the briefing room when the curtain was pulled and they saw that long string pointing straight to Schweinfurt, the pilots let out one long obscenity in unison — the last place on earth any of them wanted to go.

Dawn found the gunners in a breezy mood. The copilot, Lieutenant Stanley Parsons, got out of the personnel truck looking glum.

“Where are we goin' this morning?” asked Pitts.

“Schweinfurt,” Parsons replied.

“Very funny,” said Lancia, “where are we really going?”

“Now listen, you've had your fun! Get this straight! We're goin' over the middle of Germany to Schweinfurt an' back.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “If we get back.”

My mind recoiled in disbelief. “No! No! No! Not Schweinfurt! Was this some kind of joke? If so, it was on me. But I thought we were going on a milk run! Thought? If I had done any thinking, I would have been back at the hut,” I said to myself. “Anyone stupid enough to volunteer for a combat mission deserves exactly what you are going to get today.” I looked around at the other men. The silly grins had faded out. Tedesco tried some comic remark. No one laughed. Only the sound of the electric generator broke the silence. Gunners started drifting back to the aircraft. A little more head space for heavy firing. More ammunition. The oil buffer could be adjusted to allow more rapid firing. I came out of my shock and decided to recheck the two nose guns I had already set up for the bombardier, Lieutenant John Leverette. They had to be right for what I knew was coming.

When Cahow arrived I wondered if he was as calm as he looked. “I see that you already know what the target is. No need to tell you about the fighters. You know what to expect, so be careful with ammunition. Don't waste one round 'cause we're going five hundred miles into Germany. Three divisions will participate on this mission. The First Wing will lead the attack and the 381st will be the low group …”

That drew heavy moans and sarcastic remarks. “Here we go again! Is the 381st on the Wing shit list?”

“Knock off the bitching and listen to what I am telling you. We'll have an escort going in — P-47s — as far as their fuel will permit …”

The whole thing sounded ominous. A low position against the heavy opposition we knew would be waiting meant a brutal fight for survival for hours over Germany. The thought went through my mind that many of our 381st men would not survive the day.

At engine starting time the fog was expected to be no higher than four thousand feet, but we had to grind up slowly through ten thousand feet of murk before breaking clear of it. I recall how bitterly I cursed that miserable English weather and the ever-present chance of a sudden collision in the soup. By the time we pulled out on top of the fog the Group had to circle and circle until our widely scattered planes could be gathered into a formation. They were always in confusion when climbing that high through fog. Meanwhile, other groups in the Wing broke into good weather at four thousand feet and were on schedule, but we lost too much time collecting our scattered aircraft and were late. Major George Shackley, leading the Group, set out to try to intercept the Wing over the Channel. But we were not the only group that missed their rendezvous. The 305th was behind time and their Wing was out of sight. When the 305th commander sighted the 1st Division with the low position open he pulled into it. A little later, when Shackley caught up with the Wing, he was astounded that our assigned position was occupied. At that time I did not know what group had usurped our position or why.
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The 91st was leading and I noticed that they appeared to be under strength. I watched with delight while the 381st pulled up to a position adjacent to the high group. It was a peculiar combat formation but certainly a fortunate one. (Recently George Shackley told me he made that decision.) The escort arrived much too early, in another failure of timing, and therefore was of little help, because they had to turn back before we passed Aachen. As we started angling in toward the Rhine River, various gun positions began to call out warnings of approaching fighters.

When it was time for the escort to leave us I watched with growing apprehension as enemy fighters gathered in unusual strength for the opening attacks. I had other things to do when the fighting began so I could not estimate how many fighters hit the Division. One report said that the Germans threw two hundred interceptors against us early in the fight. The action was a lot like the August 17 mission. They came in from all angles but what I remember most is that they seemed to line up in groups of three to six and come head on, thus dividing the defensive fire of the formation. Once while looking down at the heaviest action the thought struck me that it was an aerial version of cavalry tactics. I saw single-engine fighters carrying rockets that were fired from close range. Fortunately for me most of the worst action was below the high position of the 381st. I could not see the 305th very well but the reports of the Ball and Tail indicated that it was being struck hard. I could not keep from remembering that our group was supposed to have been down there. One Fortress after another was reported as hit. Some I could see, but most were out of my viewing range. Some blew up. Others were set on fire. Possibly a third of the men were able to bail out in time. The battle was as furious as any I saw over Europe.