I was the instigator. I pressed my point when I retorted, “Well, Bill, I’m not surprised. I guess I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, remembering how you were. Please accept my apologies for making the offer.” I’m a bit uncomfortable recalling the thinly veiled distaste I showed for him.
Christmas season arrived and I was back in D.C. Stevan came down for the holiday, and to my surprise we wound up on some kind of select social list. Party invitations piled high, often two a day. Though I couldn’t figure out how people knew I was in town, it didn’t matter. I guess it was because Stevan had gone to Western High when Dad was stationed here in D.C. just before the war. That had to be it. Though I had dated a few Washington girls when I was a cadet, I wondered if any of them or their friends were still around. Stevan and I plotted a schedule, borrowed a car, and made the rounds.
Some of the affairs were all right, some dull. My problem surfaced quickly. Though most of the young people were my age, I felt ill at ease with them. The girls were all beautiful, and either in college or doing their thing as debutantes. It didn’t overcome the fact that they were superficial, self-centered, and dull. We had absolutely nothing in common, since I couldn’t carry on the prattle of small talk and local gossip, and they couldn’t imagine what to say to someone who must have seemed to be from Mars. I felt awkward and out of place, somehow socially inept, a bit of a misfit. What really ripped it for me was when one young lady turned from our conversation and started speaking French to some pimply-faced guy. I knew enough to catch the drift, and though my French had proved entirely adequate in the bistros of Montmartre after Paris was liberated, this was too much. Stevan was having a ball, so I played the good brother and wingman for the remainder of the evening.
I was bored, and as the holidays wound down I grabbed a train for Atlantic City to see if I could get back to Britain a bit quicker. I met a beautiful girl on the train and spent a few days with her in Philadelphia, so it wasn’t a nonstop trip, but that’s another story.
I was totally relaxed when I headed off again but ran into another slowdown. Processing in Atlantic City seemed to take forever. I was impatient and the center couldn’t understand why I was there ahead of my scheduled time. I thought I was in serious trouble when one of the docs questioned me at length about my eagerness to get back to combat. He voiced a lot of “Hmms” and “I sees,” all the while writing stuff I couldn’t see down on a pad. It occurred to me he was the local shrink and wasn’t sure what to make of me.
Apparently, after a while he judged me reasonably sane, and I was soon on a train headed for the now familiar staging area at Fort Hamilton. There I was assigned a shipment number, along with six other pilots in the same R&R category. The ranking man in our group was a full colonel. He impressed the hell out of us right away. We were standing in front of a Transportation Corps captain’s desk and the colonel asked him when our ship was scheduled to sail. The captain squirmed and told us he couldn’t divulge that information, what with the war and all, but if the colonel would look out the window over across the room, he would see our ship just now entering New York Harbor. He added that it usually took the Queen Elizabeth about six days to turn around.
The colonel fixed the captain with a stern glare and said, “Tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to draw us all the usual gas masks and the rest of that useless crap you guys insist on having us carry. You’re also going to fill out all the necessary paperwork on us. Meanwhile, we’re going to proceed in good military order to the Biltmore Hotel and wait for our shipping date. When that arrives, you’re going to give me a call. I’ll be responsible for rounding up these troops, and you’ll meet us with two staff cars in front of the hotel. You’ll have all the paperwork with you, as well as the helmets and gas masks, and we’ll proceed to the docks from there. Any questions?”
The poor captain was aghast. His jaw dropped and his eyes gaped. All he could do was nod dumbly as the colonel turned and marched out of the room. We fell into lockstep behind him. Momentarily I felt like kissing a senior officer! The feeling passed quickly.
The six days in New York were time well spent. I called the girl I had met on the train and she more or less moved in with me at the Biltmore. We did the town and each other with gusto. I saw my first Broadway show and loved Mary Martin in One Touch of Venus. She had a line, “the triumphant twang of the bedsprings.” The days and nights passed with lightning speed. We danced to the big bands, strolled through Central Park at night, listened to Peggy Lee singing love songs, dined at El Morocco, and went to the top of the Empire State Building just for the hell of it. We window-shopped along Fifth Avenue, threw snowballs at each other, and laughed a lot. It was a wonderful time but destined to end quickly.
The call from the colonel finally came. “Get your butt in gear, Olds. It’s time to go!” And he meant right NOW.
There wasn’t much to pack, just rumpled clothes. Bills were paid, sad farewells made, and I was down at the curb within half an hour. Abiding by his instructions, the captain had arrived with the two staff cars. We all piled in for the short trip to the West Side dock where the Queen Elizabeth loomed. Her black hull was larger than a building and totally dominated the hustle and bustle of the loading operation.
The colonel thanked the Fort Hamilton captain and led us to the gangplank. Two military policemen stood there looking very officious, in spite of their youth. The buck sergeant tried to tell our colonel that he and his small group were out of order. This didn’t faze the colonel. He pointed out that their duty was to keep people from leaving the ship. Since we obviously intended to board the ship, we neither fell under their authority nor were their responsibility. The perplexed MP stepped aside and we proceeded up the gangplank trying to stifle our laughter.
In the main salon a harried lieutenant colonel sat behind an overloaded desk with a sign proclaiming him to be the troop commander for the duration of our voyage. I wondered how things like that worked out, considering our friend the full colonel, but I was glad it wasn’t my issue. I had another problem. To my surprise and emerging horror, I was appointed deputy troop commander for the forward third of this huge ship. The lieutenant colonel mumbled something about my responsibilities, which seemed to include the preservation of “discipline and good order.” That didn’t bother me until I was told there were roughly seventeen thousand brand-new infantry troops on board. One-third of them were to be my responsibility. My captain’s bars suddenly felt mighty insignificant. Five thousand, six hundred and sixty-six combat-bound infantry replacements, and I was supposed to keep order? Holy crap!
The QE set sail in the late afternoon. I found a place on the crowded deck and watched in fascination as the New York skyline slipped past. Soon there was Lady Liberty saying good-bye to her youngsters once again. The familiar figure took on an added sentimentality as the ship drew abreast of Ellis Island. I thought of the many thousands she had welcomed, and of the many thousands to whom she had bid a final farewell. Her raised arm against the setting sun as we passed eastward was a personal, throat-tightening gesture. The normally raucous troops fell silent, and you could almost read each youngster’s thoughts: Where am I going? Will I ever see home again? God, I miss it already.
The six of us with the colonel had learned we were the only ones on board who already had combat experience. I think that explained the feeling of detachment I felt from all those thousands of young infantrymen. My duties as assistant troop commander turned out to be nothing more than making the rounds. Deck after deck, down into the bowels of the ship, the troops were in eight-tiered bunks with scarcely room to pass down the aisles. Trying to make my way through the compartments, and literally climbing over piles of gear, I couldn’t help wondering how anyone thought any of these kids would survive a torpedo attack. The Queen sailed alone in crossing after crossing; no convoy for her. She relied on her speed and random course changes to avoid the U-boats. Obviously, the tactic had worked, for here she was in January of 1945 still making her da
sh to England.
Our trip was mercifully brief, four days and a bit. It was a Sunday when we anchored in the harbor at Gourock, the same port as my first trip. I found the troop commander and asked when the six of us were scheduled to debark. He looked at a long, thick list and found our shipment number very near the end.
I swear he was smirking as he said, “Well, let’s see.… Ah, here we are, Captain. You Air Corps flyboys will debark Tuesday afternoon. We hope.” Whatever his problem might have been, I didn’t envy him his job. I thanked him and turned away thinking I wasn’t going to stay on this stinking hulk another three days, not for anybody or anything.
I went down to the cabin I had shared with seven others and packed a few things in my B-4 bag. I put on my trench coat, slung the gas mask across one shoulder and my musette bag over the other, donned the helmet, fastened the chin strap, and, feeling well disguised, went to find the nearest exit. Down on the main deck I joined a platoon of infantrymen as they shuffled off onto a barge tied alongside. No one questioned me or paid any attention as the barge filled and shoved off for the dockside railway station.
Once on dry land and fighting my sea legs a bit, I turned for the railway ticket office as the infantry troops were marched away to a waiting troop train. No troop train for me. I went up to the regular ticket window, pulled out a wad of pound notes, and bought myself a first-class ticket to London. I figured it might be wise to spend a few days in that wonderful city before reporting back for duty. Hell, I had come back early, hadn’t I? What’s more, I was ahead of schedule. I reasoned that the war could get along without me for one more day.
London was, thankfully, very much the same. It didn’t take long to get reacquainted and feel back in the swim. But after one day and an evening, duty called, and the next day, January 15, I took the train from Liverpool Street Station for Ipswich and Wattisham. Soon I was enjoying the backslapping greetings of my squadron mates and listening to wildly embellished tales of derring-do in harrowing death-defying flights. All of these adventures, of course, had been heroically accomplished without any help from me. I was just their former buddy who had obviously deserted them and fled home to wallow in the fleshpots and hellholes of parties and sin. Admittedly I had, but I wasn’t ready to feel too guilty about having left them to fight off Hitler’s winter offensive alone.
I settled quickly into my new responsibilities as squadron ops officer as the days back in the U.S. quickly faded from memory. I flew as often as I reasonably could over the next week, but we were grounded for the entire week of January 21 to January 28 by weather. The weathermen said it was the worst winter in Europe in fifty years: icebox cold, nasty fronts, snow and sleet—wet, damp, freezing stuff. Our only consolation was that the Luftwaffe was grounded, too, but that relief was tempered by thoughts of Allied ground troops freezing their butts off. I gave silent thanks to my father for inspiring me to be a pilot. Grounded but grateful, we pilots threw a plethora of parties.
Word came that Major Jeffrey was being promoted to lieutenant colonel and would soon be moved to the 479th Group as deputy commander. Guess who was being promoted to major and rumored to take Jeff’s place as squadron acting CO? Did these guys know what they were in for? They probably did.
On January 24 a slew of new pilots arrived for the 434th. Four of them were bomber guys and would take some training, but they were all good pilots. The 8th Air Force had offered some of their bravest and best bomber pilots an opportunity to transfer to fighters. All they had to do was fly and survive not just one, but two full operational tours in B-17s or B-24s. Once this was completed, they were granted their wish to become fighter pilots. Although we admired their spirit, we knew you didn’t just step from two-dimensional to three-dimensional flying with the greatest of ease.
Bomber pilots were very special in their own right. It took barrels of guts to sit helplessly in those big birds plowing through fields of flak and persistent vicious fighter attacks. I probably could have, but no way in hell would I have wanted to. Despite their obvious expertise and experience flying the bombers, getting these men checked out in our Mustangs was a really scary deal. They proved they could take off and land without killing themselves or even bending the birds, but trying to get them to join up, fly close formation, follow the leader in a maneuvering rat race, loop and roll with confidence, and keep track of many aircraft in a roiling, three-dimensional mock dogfight was difficult. To get these pilots to do such things as second nature seemed an impossible task.
There were thousands of young men undergoing pilot and aircrew training at hundreds of bases in 1943 and 1944. It totally amazed me that in all that turmoil, and in those vast numbers, the process of selection functioned with commendable success. Somehow or other our instructor pilots seemed able to perceive a student’s inherent capabilities and then to recommend what type aircraft he should fly after getting his wings. There is a marked difference between bomber and fighter pilot attitudes. In training and in combat, you don’t just say, “I’m going to think this way or react that way.” Your reactions have to be instinctive based on the situation around you. The selection process throughout flight training was as much about a man’s attitude as about his flying skill. Men graduated and went on to fly bombers, transports, or fighters based on those instructor assessments. Yes, there were always exceptions, but the assessments usually worked.
We faced a difficult task in trying to bring our bomber converts up to speed as fighter pilots. Simply wanting to be a fighter pilot, even with hundreds of flying hours, isn’t always enough. Those of us who had survived were only too aware of how little the normal fighter-trained replacements really knew. Reconditioning the crew-accustomed bomber guys was going to be something else. We had established a phase-in program we called “Clobber College.” This involved a lot of local flying and many hours of ground school. We wanted to get the new guys comfortable with our procedures and to give them a running start at the demands of actual combat. The extra work for all of us was well worth the effort. That had been for incoming fighter-trained pilots, however; now we were facing a handful of men who had no fighter background at all, either physically or mentally. They literally had to start from scratch, and we had to convince them this was necessary. Their attitude going in was, “Hell, I’m a seasoned combat pilot, I know how to fly. Check me out in the Spam can and point me toward the enemy!”
I’m sorry to say that the conversion didn’t work, at least not in our case.
A week later, I was flying back from some meeting or other and happened to pass over a bomber base near Wattisham that was being “beat up” by a P-51. I saw the fighter make a low pass down the perimeter track by the flight control building, then pull up, turn, and dive for another pass. Buzz jobs on bomber bases were old hat and hardly worth the effort. Besides, they were frowned on by headquarters. So what was this bird doing? It suddenly occurred to me that this might be one of the recently converted bomber boys showing off for his old buddies. I started to circle as the Mustang pilot pulled up at the perimeter of the airfield. He’s going to roll, I thought, and, sure enough, there he went. Even at a distance I could see the nose way off line as the aircraft became inverted. The rest was like a slow-motion film. The P-51 stalled and snapped, and the nose went down. The bird spun through two turns and smashed to earth in front of a crowd of spectators. There was an explosion, parts flew in all directions, a brief fireball, and it was over.
I acted on my suspicions, turned, and landed quickly at that airfield. As I taxied on the grass toward flight control, an ambulance and several fire trucks were racing toward the scene of the crash. There didn’t seem to be much for any of them to do. I didn’t even have to get out of my airplane to learn what I wanted to know. A large piece of the fuselage from the smashed bird lay nearby, its tail number clearly identifying it as a P-51 from the 435th Squadron. What a waste, I thought as I took off back to Wattisham. The group bar would be a grim place that night. A bit of a lecture might be in order for the
434th fighter neophytes.
The weather was shit for a few days at the start of February, but once it cleared I was full of piss and vinegar and ready to get back at it. On February 3, I put my name on one truck with one trailer and shared a locomotive kill credit with Jenkins. Later that evening, I bagged one eager and beautiful British girl. No sharing there!
February 9 turned into quite a fine day. First thing in the morning, I pinned on shiny new oak-leaf clusters and officially became a major. Better yet, we ran into a flock of Me-109s and enjoyed reasonable success. By this period in the air war the group had settled into a daily routine of bomber escort. One squadron flew the close-escort effort as prescribed in the ops order, which meant staying close to the stream so the bomber crews knew someone cared about them. The bomber crews liked to see some friendly fighters around them. The second squadron flew area sweeps; their job was to rove within 15 or 20 miles of the bomber stream, hopefully putting themselves between the force and any attacking fighters.
The third squadron flew what we called “outlaw.” That was the preferred mission. Take off any time you wanted, and catch the Luftwaffe force either forming up for their attack or trying to return to their bases afterward. This took experience, planning, and a bit of luck for those of us pulling this duty.
On this particular day, the 434th pulled close-escort duty and I was leading the flight. We took off as scheduled with a minimum package of twelve Mustangs and ground our way along with the big boys toward Stuttgart at 27,000 feet. The weather wasn’t all that good. Broken clouds ranged in various decks right down to the ground, and off to the southeast a formidable front, like a gray wall, stretched away to the southwest.
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