Combat Crew (38 page)

“What is he goin' to try?” asked the Bombardier.

“Don't know — but he's goin' around to our left.”

That audacious fighter pilot pulled ahead of the formation circled to eleven o'clock, and with guns blazing whipped straight at us.

“Navigator to crew, look at that bastard — did you ever see such guts?”

What did a military formation do to a gallant airman blithely taking on deadly odds? The book said shoot him down, but that went against the grain of American admiration for courage beyond the ordinary. And in a hopeless cause. We easily could — and perhaps from a military point of view should — have destroyed that fighter. But there was some chivalry left in the American makeup. Without a word of consultation with each other, all of our gunners came up with the same decision: They held their fire. The formation opened up to let him blaze through. How could we kill a man with such foolhardy courage? It is seldom that men see an example of pure nobility. That German expected to die on his assault. It was foolish of course but, like the British cavalry's “Charge of the Light Brigade,” it was a thrilling spectacle to watch.

Landing time was three P.M. and I was saddened to learn that a top turret gunner died during the mission from oxygen failure. Bomber Command listed twenty B-17s lost to fighter attacks. I saw little of the action so could not judge if the loss was excessive.

Jim Counce sustained a frozen hand when he removed a glove to try to clear ice he thought was in his mask. The damage was severe and it was certain that he would be grounded for several weeks to a month. He was depressed when he found out about the damage, because it meant that he would be grounded for an extensive period and would drop far behind in his missions.

After Jim left for Braintree Hospital, I felt lost and depressed. We had been together so long — well, not that long by the calendar, but so much had happened in those eleven months that it seemed more like years.

“George, I hated to see Jim leave. I may be finished and gone before he gets back to Ridgewell.”

“I'm afraid you're right. The doctors told Jim his hand is in bad shape. You know, there is a chance it will have to be amputated.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Jim told me last night after they finished examining the hand.”

“It's not gonna be the same, with him gone, in this hut.”

“Before long, John, I'll be the only one left in this hut out of the two crews. You an' all the rest will get through before me. How many missions you need now?”

“Four. Shutting needs four, and Purus needs three. Don't know about Gleichauf. I think he needs either two or three.”

“It will be lonesome around here when all of you guys are, gone. Cahow's men will be finishing too, but I'll be here with a hut full of new gunners.”

Later that day I went to the flight line to do something to 719 and passed by the empty hardstand where
Tinker Toy
had been parked since the 381st arrived at Ridgewell. At times I had imagined that she thumbed her nose at me as I pedaled by her when I was new to the base. She seemed to say, “Another one of those screwed-up gunners they send over here to ruin good airplanes like me.” Her end was as weird and spectacular as her reputation. A ship with such a bloody and storied record could not have had an ordinary ending like other airplanes. The Copilot saw her go. “That fighter spun out of control. It hit
Tinker Toy
in the waist just behind the ball — it went halfway through her like a giant arrow! They tumbled end over end — I saw flame and about a thousand yards down she exploded and I could see metal and bodies all over the sky.”

The stars were out that night. I liked that very much because it meant a hard freeze and out of the mud for at least two or three days. Also, it sent a message to the combat crews: Get ready for a mission in the morning. With that in mind I set out my mission clothes and equipment. Most combat men developed superstitions about clothes or some special talisman they always carried on a raid. I remember one gunner who wore the same coveralls each trip and refused to have them washed. Somehow the unwashed coveralls had become his security blanket.

After turning in, I lay in the sack and let my mind replay the events of the last six months. There was one strange thing I had problems understanding. In that cold, damp climate, and many hours at extreme altitudes and temperatures, I had been remarkably healthy. There had been no colds or sinus difficulties such as I had expected. Barring a hangover I awoke each morning feeling exceptionally good.

Pitts was the first man up when the call came, “Aw right! Get outta that sack. This is Cahow's twenty-fifth.”

Tedesco muttered, “He's been so nervous all week that I hope he doesn't screw up something today.”

“That's not like Cahow,” I said. “I remember how cool he was on the raid to Schweinfurt.”

Green added, “When they get down to one or two they all start to sweat — they've seen too many blow it at the end.”

“After this run, five or six of us are goin' to start sweating,” Pitts remarked.

George waited to pick up the sounds from the Briefing Room so I could go on to the aircraft. We were flying a ship I knew nothing about. When I unloaded at the aircraft I asked the crew chief, “Does 419 have any peculiarities I ought to know about?”

“Yes, there are two things. You got to keep the cylinder head temperature of number two below two-fifteen or you'll get detonation. And there's a vibration between seventy an' eighty on takeoff. It don't hurt nothing, so don't worry about it.”

I always wanted words with the crew chief because every plane, like every flier, had its own eccentricities.

The target was Osnabrück, known to me previously for its cheese. Gleichauf was leading the squadron and we were flying the low position in the Group.

“Well, we got the purple heart corner again today,” said Balmore.

The first ship got off at ten-thirty and pulled steadily up through an overcast. The tail gunner flashed a red “L” signal with a bright lamp to guide other aircraft to form on the lead plane with less loss of time.

“Bombardier to Turret, pull the bomb fuse pins.”

A few minutes later, “Turret to Bombardier, pins are pulled — rack switches are on.”

“Radio to Turret.”

“Go ahead.”

“My oxygen regulator is not right.”

“What's the problem?”

“It just don't look right. I don't think it is working.”

I knew it would be better to get George settled about his oxygen system before we reached enemy territory.

“Turret to Copilot, I'm going to the radio room for a few minutes.”

A mechanic had hooked up the regulator backwards, but it made no difference. It was working fine. As soon as I got back to the turret, I called George.

“Your oxygen supply is OK. It does look odd but don't worry about it.”

At twenty thousand feet we headed out over the North Sea: The temperature was minus forty-two degrees, but otherwise it was a nice day for a mission. The clouds thinned and visibility was adequate below.

“Tail to Turret, my electric heat went out.”

“Which circuits are gone? Hands and feet or the body circuit?”

“All of them are out.”

“Check the plug on the end of the cord. You may have a poor connection.”

“Can't see anything wrong with it — I've tried plugging it in and out several times.”

“One other thing you can try — scrape the prongs on the plug with any kind of metal you have back there. A screwdriver will do fine. Try to get any corrosion off the plug.”

“Bombardier to Tail, it's going to be better than forty below at our full altitude today. You think you can make it?”

“I'll make it — some way.”

“Copilot to Tail, exercise those hands and feet.”

“Not much room in the Tail to exercise, but I'll find some way to do it.”

“Turret here, now keep up that exercise no matter what. One mission I had to go up and down for four hours to keep my feet from freezing.”

“Copilot to Turret, the damn airspeed indicator went out.”

“What's the altitude?”

“Twenty-two thousand.”

“It could be in the instrument or it could be that some trash in the air caught in the pitot tube. Can Gleichauf fly lead with no airspeed?”

“It will be rough. We would be better off flying a wing position. If Paul can't cut it, we'll drop back and let the deputy lead take over.”

“Navigator to Pilot, enemy coast in ten minutes.”

“Bombardier to gunners, test fire your guns.”

I listened to the chatter of the guns as each position rattled off a burst and thought how lucky I had been to be with such a solid crew of ordinary men who became extraordinary when they had to. It all boiled down to three things: a first-class pilot who was good at tight formation, a good crew, and those much appreciated escort pilots.

“Radio to Turret, I'm getting dizzy. I told you this regulator wasn't working right.”

“George, listen to me. I think you're imagining trouble and are over-breathing. Now relax. Breathe normally and quit taking in deep gulps of air. Try it and see if you feel better.”

“OK, I'll try it.”

“Bombardier to crew, fighters at eleven o'clock low.”

“Copilot to crew, don't let them slip in on us.”

Sleek 109G fighters, the latest German interceptor to appear against us, circled the formation warily and made several passes but none directly against our Squadron.

“Tail to crew, the escort at six o'clock high.”

“Copilot to Navigator, look at those dogfights! How I'd love to be flying one of those fighters.”

I could think of many things I would prefer to do. The fight between the 47s and 109s was a swirling panorama of tracers, cannon flashes, and smoke plumes. Then the Bogies vanished and for a little while we had the 47s overhead. When they reached the end of their fuel range, they dipped wings and turned away. P-38s were due in a few minutes and I hoped more Bogies would not hit us in the interval. I was already starting to worry about my last three missions.

“Copilot to Navigator, this formation is so lousy, a group of hot fighters could tear us apart. How long to the I.P.?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Navigator to crew, fighters at nine o' clock low.”

They climbed to our level and began to circle the Group picking out targets.

“Copilot to crew! Fighter coming in twelve o' clock high.” I had some good shots but could not tell if I inflicted any serious damage. I could hear the ball guns hammering away below. When the firing ceased, I called Harkness. “Are you all right down there?”

“I'm OK — they keep coming up at us — I spray 'em an' they break off the attack.”

The 381st took a beating as we approached the target and three Forts went down. I saw one chute but the unfortunate man pulled his ripcord too soon, and the silk flared out quickly and hung on the rear of the Fortress. It was a sickening sight to watch that pitiable drama that could end only in a prolonged agony of terrifying struggle and a horrible death unless somehow that silk shook loose from the tail where it was caught. The last I saw of the stricken Fort, that doomed man was still trailing along helplessly in the slipstream. Nearby, two P-38s blasted a 109 and I noticed a brown parachute blossom from it seconds before it went into a dive out of control. One of those P-38s had to execute a frantic turn to avoid flying into that chute.

“Navigator to Pilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“They are sure cracking that wing ahead of us.”

Balmore picked up the three words “cracking the wing” and his blood pressure went out of sight. In the radio room he could see little of the action. About that time the aircraft caught some propeller wash from a plane ahead and lurched sickeningly. George thought the wing was coming off and grabbed his chute and headed for the exit door in the waist. La Buda, flying as waist gunner for us that day, stopped him, but George insisted on examining the two wings from the waist windows before he would return to his position.

“Radio to Turret, is something wrong with one of our wings?”

“Not that I know of — why do you ask?”

He did not reply, but I could sense his relief.

“Turret to Copilot, is the airspeed still out?”

“Yes — shows nothing.”

“How is the Pilot doing?”

“Rough. He's estimating the speed by watching the squadron ahead. Could the pitot tube be frozen?”

“It could be, or something in the air clogged it up. Or the instrument may have gone out.”

“Bombardier here, did you see those two 109s up above try to throw their belly tanks at us? They'll try anything.”

“No, couldn't see it from the waist, but two Forts at three o'clock high came damn close to colliding. That could've knocked out half of the squadron. A 109 just clobbered a 38 at four o'clock low.”

“This is the Copilot. I saw it. The 38 got careless. You can't do that with those damn Krauts.”

“Bombardier to Pilot — Bombardier to Pilot.”

Kels motioned Gleichauf to switch from command to intercom.

“Go ahead, Bombardier.”

“We're starting the bomb run.”

Flak began bursting around us. It was not heavy, but it sure was accurate. As usual, I cringed when the shells burst close by.

Wham! It was jut below us.

“Copilot to Ball — are you all right?”

“I'm OK — it was close but didn't hit me — we got damage between the waist and tail.”

I felt better when the bomb load fell free.

“Radio to Bombardier, the bomb bay is clear.”

“Tail to crew, the fighters are fading away — fuel getting low is my guess.”