Three days later, it was the turn of Hugh ‘Mac’ McGinty to notch up his first mission with 524th Bomb Squadron in the 379th Bomb Group, part of the 1st Division, at Kimbolton, not far from Gordon Carter and the Pathfinders at RAF Graveley. McGinty had turned twenty-one on the 27th and, like Goldie Goldstein, had been rapidly discovering the reality of what he had let himself in for. From Philadelphia, he had put himself down for the Air Corps because he had always loved aviation, but because he hadn’t completed high school he had been denied his choice and was instead sent to the Field Artillery along with one of his brothers, Lucky. A reprieve came soon after, however, when he was told he could apply to join the Army Air Forces as an air gunner. It had been the chance he’d been waiting for. His brother, however, had not been impressed. ‘Lucky couldn’t believe I could be so stupid,’ he noted, ‘but in his usual way said, “If you go, I’ll go too.”’19 Both were packed off to gunnery school, but were also taught armoury and then were put into the air to further hone their skills. The brothers had loved it. By June 1943 they were at Salt Lake City and sent to join their respective crews. Hugh became tail gunner and 1st armourer under Lieutenant Ernal Bridwell. ‘The ten-man crew,’ noted McGinty, ‘made you feel like you were part of a team.20 We soon became a family.’
Just before they departed for England, they heard about the Schweinfurt raid and the huge losses, but despite this they headed across the Atlantic with morale high, full of youthful eagerness to get on with the job. Kimbolton, however, dampened McGinty’s spirits. The relentless grey weather and the rain got to him; he felt the chill all the way to his bones; the mess hall was half an hour’s walk away; the mattress on his bed was thin and filled with horsehair. The showers were invariably cold and he was usually even colder by the time he got back to their hut. Although still every bit as keen to get on with the job, now it was so that he could get his twenty-five missions done and get back home – yet for the first two weeks, all they were allowed to fly were practice missions.
Then he heard there was a shortage of tail gunners, so he volunteered to fly as a spare gunner with one of the veteran crews. ‘I figured it would give me valuable experience,’ he wrote, ‘and get my missions completed quicker.’21 Training on the job like this happened fairly often for all crew positions. The tail gunner had an unenviable location in the B-17. To get to his position, McGinty had to clamber to the left of the entry hatch in the fuselage, then over the elevator spar, by which time he was on his hands and knees. The fuselage now began to narrow dramatically. At the very far end of the bomber was his station: a narrow padded seat on which he perched on his knees with his legs back. Sitting like this for any period of time – especially in the bulky flight suit – was uncomfortable to say the very least. The entire position was cramped, claustrophobic and isolated from the rest of the crew. It was next to impossible to sit there with a parachute attached, so that tended to be left just behind. He had an escape hatch, but it was about 8 feet back and to one side and not big – not big enough to readily slip out of in full flying gear, at any rate. And while his immediate visibility was reasonable, he still had a twin .50-calibre machine gun in front of him and could see absolutely nothing behind. How so many put up with operating in such appalling conditions is hard to fathom.
McGinty, however, seemed to take it in his stride and, two days after his birthday, flew his first mission with Lieutenant George E. Hemphill’s crew. They had already flown fifteen operations, but had recently brought back two wounded and one dead. McGinty’s normal crew’s bombardier, Matty Nathan, also flew with him that day. The target, once again, was Bremen.
All went well on the journey out, although McGinty was not impressed by the idle chat over the intercom – in Keirsted’s crew, they had trained to keep radio silence unless speaking was essential. There were only 154 bombers for this mission, but some 314 Thunderbolts escorted them, including Bob Johnson and Gabby Gabreski from the 56th Fighter Group, and while these Little Friends were with them, the German fighters, as ordered by Göring, kept away.
All too soon, however, the Thunderbolts turned for home and suddenly Me109s, Me110s and FW190s were hurtling into them. From his position in the tail, McGinty could see much of this and watched as bombers started to smoke and burn. Tracer criss-crossed the sky and as the wounded bombers fell out of formation, so the enemy fighters tore into them like jackals. He tried to count the parachutes, but not everyone was getting out.
Then came the flak, which grew progressively thicker as the fighters became more aggressive. Now all their guns were clattering, while the men were calling out over the intercom, warning of fighters. Then they were gone and the Fortress was jolting and rattling with the flak burst, which battered against the airframe like hail. They were supposed to be flying straight and level on the bomb run, but it didn’t feel like either, they were being jolted so much. At last it was ‘Bombs away’ and they climbed with a surge, but as they turned the enemy fighters reappeared and McGinty found himself firing almost without respite. He wasn’t sure whether he hit any, but it seemed to keep them from getting too close.
And then, at long last, the P-47s returned and they were back over the North Sea, heading for home. McGinty had never seen a more welcome coastline, but what was clear one moment was then lost as the fog rolled in once more. Suddenly, they were on their own, the formation completely scattered, and flying through dense cloud. Only by calling a fix did they eventually find Kimbolton again, the pilot touching down through the fog with their fuel dangerously low. Nine hours they had been airborne, and the Fortress had three bullet holes to prove it, but unlike two others from the group and thirteen in all on the mission, they had made it. McGinty had chalked up mission number one, but the reality was that only 26 per cent – that is, one in four crews – could expect to make it through the next twenty-four.
The Flying Fortress might have been the mainstay of the Eighth’s 1st and 3rd Divisions, but the 2nd was equipped with the Consolidated B-24 Liberator. This rather ungainly-looking four-engine bomber had begun life in 1939 after Consolidated Aircraft had been asked by the Air Corps to build B-17s under licence. Instead, and rather like North American Aviation with the P-51, they had reckoned they could produce something even better. On 1 February 1939 the Air Corps had issued a Type Specification C-212, which demanded a new heavy bomber with greater range, speed and a higher ceiling than the B-17, and had been prompted by Consolidated’s early design ideas. They had duly been given a contract on the understanding that the prototype be ready for flight by December that year.
Not only had Consolidated made the deadline – just – they had also created a heavy bomber with a revolutionary high-efficiency airfoil wing system, designed by David R. Davis. The wings were larger than those of the B-17 and, with the airfoil design, thicker at the centre too, which allowed for greater fuel capacity. In terms of range, there was nothing to touch it. The high wings also allowed for a chunky fuselage, which could accommodate up to 4 tons of bombs – more than the B-17 – and made the plane more comfortable for those crewing it. Furthermore, it had a tricycle undercarriage, which gave it far greater visibility on the ground and made it easier to operate while taxiing. It was also slightly faster than the Fortress, with a top speed of 290 m.p.h. but a significantly higher cruise speed of around 215–20 m.p.h., compared with around 180–85 m.p.h. for the Fortress.
The British and French had immediately ordered heavily, but when France fell in June 1940 the French orders were transferred to the British. Because of its range, the B-24 was used primarily by the RAF for anti-submarine patrols, but also in the Middle East, and its range ensured it was the first heavy bomber to fly regularly across the Atlantic. Furthermore, the first USAAF bomber unit sent to join the war against Nazi Germany was a group of twenty-three B-24s, known as the Halverson Provisional Detachment, posted to fly side by side with RAF Middle East in Egypt in June 1942. The B-24 became the most produced bomber in the world.
None the less, its p
ayload was nothing like as large as that of a Lancaster, nor was the plane as robust as the B-17; those highly efficient airfoil wings, especially, were vulnerable. It was one of the main reasons why there were more B-17s in the Eighth than B-24s. Opinion about and loyalty to the two US bombers was divided.
One of those who favoured the B-24 was Hollywood film star Jimmy Stewart, now a captain in the USAAF. On Thursday, 25 November, he arrived in the UK to take command of the 703rd Bomb Squadron in the 445th Bomb Group, part of 2nd Division’s Liberator units. There were few more effective gauges of the totality of the war than the number of sports and movie stars now in uniform. Stewart could undoubtedly have avoided front-line action, not least because at the time of being drafted he had been thirty-three and was now thirty-five – some eight years older than the maximum age for USAAF flying training.
Stewart had been a keen aviator for years, however; he had gained his private pilot’s licence in 1935 and even a commercial licence three years later, and he privately owned a Stinson 105 two-seater, which he often used to fly back to see his parents on the East Coast. He had even taken part in a cross-country air race in 1938 and by the time of Pearl Harbor had logged almost four hundred hours. ‘You’re like a bird up there,’ he said of his love of flying.22 ‘It’s almost as if you’re not part of society anymore.’
Despite being one of the best-loved male actors in Hollywood – he had won his first Oscar in 1941 for The Philadelphia Story – Stewart came from a long tradition of military service. Both his grandfathers had fought in the Civil War in the 1860s and his father had served in both the Spanish–American War of 1898 and on the Western Front in the First World War. Stewart always claimed his father was his greatest inspiration. Then there was a fundamental sense of duty. ‘It may sound corny,’ he told a reporter, ‘but what’s wrong with wanting to fight for your country? Why are people so reluctant to use the word patriotism?’
Stewart had become the first major Hollywood star to enter the military, although he had initially been turned down by the Air Corps for being underweight.23 He soon put that right and was in, but his age, status and considerable flying experience made him an obvious choice to remain at home, training recruits and helping with both recruitment and the raising of war bonds. Reluctant to become a PR agent for the Army Air Forces, he did none the less make a recruitment film called Winning Your Wings in early 1942; it was reckoned he helped drive some 150,000 volunteers into the service on the back of this.
By the summer of 1942, Stewart’s worst fears had been realized: he was posted to Kirtland Airfield in New Mexico as an instructor and then to the Operational Training Unit, 29th Bombardment Group, at Gowen Field in Idaho. Rumours reached him that he was soon to be taken off flying duties altogether, but his CO at the 29th BG, Lieutenant-Colonel Walter ‘Pop’ Arnold, had heard that a new group was being formed – the 445th – and in need of personnel, and so rang the commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Bob Terrill, to recommend Stewart, assuring him the film star wasn’t starry in the least, but instead was a high-class pilot and a natural-born leader. On 3 August 1943, Stewart was told he had been posted as operations officer to one of the four squadrons, the 703rd.
Although he had been flying B-17s, he had earlier tried out on a Liberator and favoured the big ‘Flying Boxcar’, as they were known. Intense training followed at Sioux City in Iowa and, within three weeks, Stewart had taken over command of the 703rd, having quickly proved himself to be every bit the man recommended by Pop Arnold and with the novelty of his celebrity soon worn off.
Before they left Sioux City, Stewart invited his parents up from Pennsylvania for a farewell dinner. As they left the next day, his father, the old warrior Alex Stewart, handed him a letter. ‘I feel sure that God will lead you through this mad experience,’ he had written.24 ‘I can say no more. I continue only to pray. Goodbye, my dear. God bless you and keep you. I love you more than I can tell you. Dad.’ It was dated 11 November – the anniversary of the end of the First World War in which he had played his own part.
Two weeks later, Stewart was in England, at Tibenham in Norfolk, just a few miles north of Thorpe Abbotts, and among the fifteen hundred new aircrew to reach England that month.
But for all this influx of manpower, and for all the hundreds of thousands of tons of bombs dropped already that year, it was clear that the Luftwaffe was still far from beaten, and Germany’s leadership was still a long way from putting up the white flag.
CHAPTER 11
Fighter Boys
WHILE GENERAL IRA Eaker was concerned that not enough new crews were reaching him quickly enough, the continued poor weather was allowing him to replenish his bomb groups and even add entirely new ones, such as the 445th BG. Many of the new crews arrived as replacements, though, and that included pilot Lieutenant William R. Lawley and his crew, who had flown a brand-new B-17 from the US air base at Presque Isle, Maine, coast-hopping north to Canada, Greenland and Iceland, then on to England.
Lawley was twenty-three, tall and of slender build, and from Leeds, Alabama. The youngest of ten children, he was none the less the only child of his mother, and his nine half-siblings from his father’s first marriage were all a lot older. He had enlisted a little over a year earlier, in August 1942, and had applied for the Air Forces because, ever since Charles Lindbergh’s solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927, he had wanted to learn to fly. He had never had the money to do much about it, but the war had presented him with a great opportunity finally to take the plunge and become a pilot.
Unusually, he chose bombers rather than fighters. ‘I liked the idea of the heavy equipment,’ he said.1 ‘I felt a little on the large size for WWII cockpits and I didn’t like the idea of that single engine out in front of me.’ By the beginning of October 1943, Lawley had formed his crew and been placed in a provisional group at Scott Field, Illinois. On 3 October, they were told to fly to Maine and get ready to head overseas. That day saw the opening of the World Series and so, along with the other five pilots scheduled to depart, Lawley asked permission to buzz Yankee Stadium in New York on the way. ‘Just don’t get too low,’ they were told.
Unfortunately for Lawley and his crew, they soon developed engine trouble and had to abandon hopes of overflying the baseball. Instead, they landed at Bridgeport, Connecticut, where by chance the legendary aviator Charles Lindbergh happened to be passing through. An engine change at Bridgeport did the trick and they made it without mishap to England, where the B-17 was promptly taken from them and they were posted to Chelveston, about 15 miles from Bedford, home to the 305th Bomb Group. Once there, they joined the 364th Bomb Squadron and were given a new ship, which they christened Cabin in the Sky.
Meanwhile, at Tibenham, the newly arrived members of the 445th Bomb Group were settling into their new environment and working up to go into action. The crews had all flown over in their longer-range B-24s, using a route from Florida south to Puerto Rico, British Guiana and Brazil – now an ally – then across the Atlantic to Dakar in West Africa, on to Morocco and then north to England. It took two weeks, and Captain Jimmy Stewart had flown much of the way himself, riding with Lieutenant Lloyd Sharrard’s crew. They had lost one crew, the Sunflower Sue, which had also been carrying a further four passengers, including Stewart’s master sergeant. Out over the Atlantic, they had given a mayday then disappeared. One of Stewart’s first tasks on reaching Tibenham was to write letters to the families of the fourteen men who had been lost, possibly the most unenviable task of an air commander.
Cold and wet, Tibenham, like all other air bases, covered a vast area that included accommodation for some six thousand men as well as all the offices, ammunition dumps, fuel stores, firing butts, hangars and workshops. In many ways, airfields such as Tibenham were like small new towns. Hastily built concrete roads linked the various parts of the complex, but plenty of rough tracks, puddles and mud remained. Their last staging post had been Marrakesh; the contrast could not have been starker. Stewart was sharing quarters wi
th Captain Howard Kreidler, CO of the 701st Bomb Squadron, in a flat-roofed concrete-and-brick barracks block. It was basic, with a single Franklin stove for heat, which they soon got working, but better than the Nissen and Quonset huts that housed the majority of crews.
Among those also settling in were the men of Bullet Serenade, piloted by Lieutenant George Wright. While Wright and his fellow officers had been put into a Quonset hut, the enlisted men had been allocated a Nissen hut. These cheap and easy-to-erect buildings looked like giant cylinders sliced in half and put on a concrete base, with roofs and walls made from semicircular sheets of corrugated iron. The waist gunner and 3rd engineer was Sergeant John ‘Robbie’ Robinson, from Memphis, Tennessee, who had turned twenty-two only that month. ‘So this is going to be home,’ he thought as he walked into their allotted hut: six beds either side, brick walls at each end, two dangling light bulbs hanging on cords and a pot-bellied stove in the middle.2 Outside was an unfinished block that contained latrines, showers and washstands, though no evidence of any hot water. That evening they were issued only C Rations – a rather tasteless hash. It was Thanksgiving Day 1943.
Later that evening, Robinson sat on his cot writing to his young wife, Elizabeth, who was back home in Memphis working a night shift in an aircraft factory. They had been married just over a year when his draft had arrived in the post. He was madly in love with her, thought of her almost constantly and missed her desperately.
That same day, Friday, 26 November, Feldmarschall Erhard Milch was overseeing a display of new aircraft and weaponry at Insterburg airfield in East Prussia for the Führer. It had been Göring’s idea, organized at very short notice and with the aim of currying favour for the Reichsmarschall. Consequently, when Hitler arrived with his entourage, including Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, Göring snubbed Milch entirely and not only personally introduced each of the machines to the Führer but made it clear their existence was largely his doing, not Milch’s.
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