To Kingdom Come (41 page)

OSCHERSLEBEN—January 11, ’44

by Brigadier General Robert F. Travis

We were seated on hard chairs in the base movie at Molesworth. It was a cold damp evening and darkness had come on prematurely due to the overcast, which was now breaking into low scudding clouds, and giving some promise of improving weather for the morrow. The theater consisted of a Nissen hut with a concrete floor, and was unheated and poorly ventilated; the only heat coming from the bodies of the military personnel present, which also exuded a distinct masculine odor. Seated next to me were Lt. Colonel William R. Calhoun, Operations Officer of the 41st Combat Wing; Major William R. Thompson, Intelligence; and Captain Dan E. Baker, Adjutant and Aide-de-Camp.

The picture had just gotten well started when one of our interruptions occurred, being caused by a Sergeant who shouted above the sound of the movie, “All maintenance and gunnery personnel of the 341st Squadron report to your organization immediately.” Cal turned to me and said, “It looks like we’re up for tomorrow.” Other such interruptions occurred successively as each organization was called to duty.

For some time we had been expecting orders to make our first attack on Berlin, and the weather map indicated a possibility of this mission being put on on the succeeding day. I knew that the men had been called out on the Alert Order and that the regular Field Orders would not arrive for some time; yet, I lost interest in the movie and shortly thereafter departed with my staff for our headquarters to see if any premature information had been released.

With our headlights dimmed, we drove a mile and a half over narrow roads beneath concealing trees to the oblong one-story brick building which served as our headquarters. The duty officer had only received the Battle Order and bomb and gasoline loadings, but from this information we could see that it would be a deep penetration, a visual target, and that my Combat Wing was to lead.

I immediately got on the phone and called “Chuck” Merwin, Operations Officer of the Division, and asked if there was a possibility of my leading the division. He could not give me the target over the telephone, but indicated that it was extremely important; and he believed that General Williams would let me go as it was about my turn. There was nothing more that we could do until the Field Orders began to arrive so I stepped out into the darkness to look at the weather. Stars were beginning to break through and the scud was only a few hundred feet thick in patches. Activity was apparent over the entire area covered by our dispersal aircraft. Portable electric units furnished light for the maintenance crews who were feverishly trying to get the maximum number of aircraft available for the morning mission. Trailers loaded with 500-pound demolition bombs were creeping slowly toward the aircraft that would swallow up their loads. Overhead one or two Mosquitoes could be heard droning as they climbed toward altitude and reconnaissance flight over the Continent. Far off to the east could be seen occasional flashes, where the British were practicing night bombing or a Jerry was putting on a nuisance raid. Search lights came on for short periods, fingered the sky, and disappeared into oblivion.

I was recalled to the office by the sudden chattering of the Teletype machines as the Field Orders began to arrive. Looking over the shoulder of the operator, I obtained the code letters from which I could look in the Intelligence File and pick out the target. It was to be the Focke-Wulf plant at Oschersleben, just south of Berlin, which so far had been untouched by our bombers. To reach this objective meant breaking through the concentric rings of fighter interceptors which the Hun had placed about Berlin and her important industries. We were to have some fighter support, but not nearly enough. Flak was sure to be intense and accurate at many places along the route as well as in the target area.

As soon as I had grasped the essentials of the mission and seen my name commanding the division, I went home to get a few hours’ sleep before the early briefing, leaving the essentials of getting our Supplementary Field Orders to my staff.

From experience I had found it necessary to lay out all the equipment which I intended to use the succeeding morning where I could quickly get into it and not forget some necessary item. On the table I placed my escape kit, emergency rations, identification tags, silk muffler to protect my face from freezing should the windshield be shot out, cigarettes, and a clean handkerchief. On the floor I piled a clean suit of winter underwear, my electric flying suit, boots, gloves, special helmet with oxygen mask, flak helmet, and vest. Alongside of this flying equipment was a special target folder in which my Intelligence Officer had placed a route to and from the target with check points and fighter rendezvous points marked thereon. Also was included aerial maps of the area and large scale identification photographs of the actual target.

Warning Sgt. Deldoso to awaken me at 3:30 I climbed into my G.I. bed and started my usual battle with sleep. This is the time when I get scared, not on the mission. Lying there in my bed and attempting to relax, my imagination runs wild. Being aware of the opposition and the problems of such a mission, I start thinking of all the things which can go wrong. I remembered that I volunteered for the damn mission and that it was not necessary for me to go at all as I had already done more than my share. I remembered my duty to my wife and children and how little money they will get in case I am killed. I wonder whether my sense of duty has caused me to go, and not just the desire for excitement and adventure. The net result is that I never sleep soundly but toss from one side to another in the bed until I hear the approaching feet of the Charge of Quarters to tell me it is time to arise.

Once I wash and dress this is all behind me. I am then ready and eager, and my only worry is that the mission will be scrubbed at the last moment due to adverse weather.

I left my quarters and drove to the 303rd mess. As a special treat for the combat crews going on the mission, fresh eggs were served. I always eat a hearty breakfast, for once forgetting my tendency toward obesity, as I am pessimistic enough to realize that it may be a long time, maybe the duration of the war, before I get another good meal.

Driving through the darkness, I arrived at the briefing room of the Group. The crews ahead of me had assembled in front of the big wall map where the briefing would be given. The target and route are temporarily concealed by a curtain and much conjecture is going on as to where we are to be sent. One young pilot saw me enter the room, and realizing that I only went on visual missions of great importance that involved deep penetration, said, “We have had it. The Old Man is going.” Everyone took their seats with a sense of expectancy. The room was bitterly cold and damp. In the far corner one Sibly stove struggled valiantly against the winter climate of England. Many of the crews were suffering from colds as was apparent from their almost constant coughing. Colonel Lyle, Operations Officer of the 303rd, took his position and raised the curtain. Immediately a sigh of intense expectancy and trepidation arose from the entire room as they saw our route northeast across the North Sea, Holland, and on into Germany. All data pertinent to the mission were given to the crews; escape procedure, in case they were shot down, was covered in detail; methods of assembly; identification flares; what they should do in various emergencies; and every conceivable question which might be in their minds was answered. Slides showing the initial point, route to the target, and the target itself were thrown on the screen and discussed in detail. Great emphasis was placed upon the importance of destroying this target. An explanation was made to the crews as to what great bearing it would have upon the ultimate defeat of Germany. We knew that to get this target would cost us a great price and these boys must be convinced that the loss of life and aircraft was well worth what we hoped to accomplish.

There was one hour between the end of briefing and “stations time,” which is the hour set when all members of the crew must be in the proper position in the aircraft with all essential equipment aboard and ready to go. During this period, Group, Squadron, and Flight Leaders are given last-minute instructions. Airplane commanders gather their crews about them in the dispersed aircraft positions, check their equipment, and give special instructions.

I drove out through the darkness on the perimeter until I reached dispersal area No. 25, and as my headlights swung on the nose of the “8-Ball,” the ship I was to fly, a guard who had been standing in the darkness challenged me and made me identify myself. About the aircraft I could see some 25 or 30 men checking the fusing on the bombs, topping off the oxygen, loading flak vests and miscellaneous equipment aboard the aircraft, and wiping off the pilot’s and bombardier’s windshields.

Though there was little snow on the ground, the night was bitterly cold and I remained in my warm car until approximately ten minutes before “stations,” when I descended and shook hands with the crew. I particularly cautioned the tail gunner to keep me informed of any straggling or difficulty which the elements of my formation might be in while en route to or from the target.

As usual I found considerable difficulty in working my large body with all of its winter flying equipment and paraphernalia up through the emergency exit and into the copilot’s seat. Calhoun, who is to be my pilot, followed me and seated himself on the left. We both spent several minutes arranging such things as binoculars, maps, parachutes, and so forth, at conveniently located spots about us in the cockpit.

On my left front a white rocket shoots skyward and bursts in a shower of small stars, which is the signal to start engines. Immediately the entire airdrome throbs to life with the powerful deep-throated roar of 160 engines. Normal checks are made, wheel blocks removed, and the crews stand back in readiness for us to taxi.

At the second rocket the brakes are released and our heavy ladened aircraft lumbers forward. The ground crews, whose faces and bodies are illuminated by the light from the cockpit, hold up their right arms with forefinger touching thumb in the form of a circle to wish us good luck and a safe return.

Our progress through the dark on the narrow perimeter track is necessarily one of caution, for should we drop a wheel off the concrete, the aircraft would immediately bog down, obstruct the runway to following aircraft, and prevent our departure on the mission.

We swung into position on the main takeoff runway and lined up two abreast in our proper order. The sky was just beginning to lighten and in the gray light I could see our 36 aircraft and 4 spares all taxied into proper position with their engines idling.

At the green flare, Cal fed full power to our B-17 and we slowly gained momentum as we rushed into the dark. It always seems as though these ships will never leave the ground and the last few moments are anxious ones as we approach the end of the runway and see ahead of us a line of trees, which we never clear by more than a few feet.

Slowly we climb in circles while each succeeding airplane cut short their turns and fill into proper positions until we have a group of eighteen ships flying a normal combat formation several thousand feet in the air. Beneath me the snow-covered fields looked like a jigsaw puzzle cut by the black lines of hedge rows and rock fences. Smoke from the tall chimneys in the nearby industrial town hung close to the ground and stretched out like a river toward the sea. All about me I could see other groups rising from their fields and firing identification flares which floated earthward as twin brilliant balls of green, red or yellow. The first rays of the rising sun struck the metal wings and reflected pink light. Radio calls were being made by the Unit Commanders for identification and request for position reports.

Slowly the entire division assembled into Groups, then into Combat Wings, and finally into a Division Formation which proceeded towards its departure point on the English Coast.

I looked behind me and as far as I could see came a mass of B-17s, stretching from horizon to horizon, which gave me a great sensation of the strength and force of our mighty nation.

The “8-Ball” is the leading aircraft of the entire force and on our ship are the picked members of the lead crew, each a specialist and the finest that we can produce. On their shoulders will rest the responsibility for the success of the entire mission. All the blood, sweat, tears and effort that have gone and will go into this mission will be futile unless each and every one of them performs his task perfectly.

As we approach the coast, I called Ground Sector Control and informed them that we would be on course on time. This was to aid our fighters who were to support us in making proper rendezvous with us at the enemy coast.

The channel can be seen through broken clouds which increase in density until we are flying over a solid undercast. The sun is now up and shining brightly in our eyes; all aircraft have worked themselves into proper position; radio conversation has ceased; and the formation proceeds like a well-drilled Army, as it climbs toward altitude and the enemy.

Well out over the North Sea I give the order to check our guns. Even though I expected the firing, I always jump when the twin .50-caliber machine guns of the top turret fire just above my head. The whole cockpit vibrates violently while they discharge. Dust floats down through the rays of the sun and the shadow of the twin barrels swings across the nose of the aircraft as the gunner tries out his turrets.

This is our last period of relaxation. All preparations have been made that are possible and just before going on oxygen we all smoke one last cigarette. The outside air temperature is rapidly dropping as we ascend, and as the needle passes minus 20 degrees, I plug in my electrically heated flying suit and adjust the rheostat to a comfortable temperature. All members of the crew relieve their bladders, as this is also the last opportunity for many hours of cold flight ahead of us.

The navigator announces our progress as the result of dead-reckoning and checks through the radar equipment which can see the enemy coast even though it is beneath a solid cloud cover. After several hours we are approaching the Dutch Coast and the Zuider Zee. Ahead of me I can see many pursuit aircraft and, though they are too far for me to identify even through my field glasses, I believe them to be friendly. Our cruising speed is tremendous and as I count them I have a greater trepidation of troubles to come, for there are several times too many. Only one group is supposed to make rendezvous with us at the enemy coast with other groups further along the route. Obviously some of the friendly fighter cover has arrived too soon, meaning that their endurance will be curtailed when we get further into Germany due to gasoline shortage.