Some 734 aircraft were available for this first Bomber Command attack on Germany’s main ball-bearing plant. As well as more H2S-carrying Pathfinders, another new tactic was to be introduced. The attacking force was to be split in two, with 392 bombers heading out earlier than the second attack group of 342 aircraft. The hope was to overwhelm the enemy night-fighter force as well as draw them towards the usual diversions, in this case 179 training aircraft sent over Kiel plus a number of Mosquitoes attacking night-fighter airfields.
Among those in the first wave was Flight Sergeant Ken Handley and his Australian crew, one of sixteen Halifaxes heading out from 466 Squadron. This was Handley’s third trip and, although he always felt anxious and apprehensive beforehand, once they took off at 6.15 p.m. he found those nerves had disappeared. In his dicky seat next to the pilot, Jack Scott, Handley had a clear view of night-time Europe spread out beneath them. Far away, he saw the cones of searchlights criss-crossing, but otherwise their journey was untroubled: they avoided any flak and were not molested by night-fighters.
By 11 p.m. they were nearing the target. As they began their bomb run, searchlights swept the sky and Scott had to take evasive action to avoid being caught in their cones. Flak was coming up, but most seemed to be below them – they were now at 22,500 feet. Back on their bomb run they soon spotted the target – the Pathfinders appeared to have laid down their markers well. ‘No clouds obscured the target,’ noted Handley later, ‘and it was shown up by cones of searchlights and fighter flares.2 The ground markers, giving off their orange colours were spread over the target area.’ The city was already burning by the time the Halifaxes of 466 Squadron arrived – and there was still another wave of bombers to come later that night.
Bombs away, they climbed to 25,000 feet. Soon after they were caught by searchlights, prompting Scott to dive dramatically and almost directly into a Lancaster below them, but, taking evasive action, he managed narrowly to avoid a catastrophic collision. Thereafter, it was plain sailing. ‘We saw no searchlights or flak,’ noted Handley, ‘and let down over the French coast.’3 They touched back down at RAF Leconfield at 2.21 a.m. and went to their debrief, followed by the usual bacon and eggs then bed.
Two hours after the first raid, the second hit the target. How many bombs landed on the ball-bearing plant was not entirely clear, but losses were comparatively light – thirty-three in all, of which only eleven were shot down during the second wave.
As Ken Handley was climbing into his bed, American aircrews were being roused as staff toured the Nissen and Quonset huts calling out, ‘Mission today!’ Another maximum effort. Spaatz, Anderson and Doolittle were determined to press home the advantage and ensure the big week they had envisaged. The Eighth Air Force might suffer a large number of casualties, but it could and would recover; they did not believe the same could be said for the Luftwaffe.
At Tibenham, George Wright’s crew was woken in the early hours of Friday, 25 February for their third mission in five days. Getting out of bed in the dark and cold was hard enough at the best of times, but even more so when just twenty-four hours earlier the men had done exactly the same and had headed out on a long mission from which 130 of them had not returned and from which they had been very lucky to come back safely themselves. This time, Robbie Robinson and the other enlisted men in Wright’s crew got up and dressed without a word. ‘All of us were like a bunch of automatic zombies,’ wrote Robinson.4 ‘We all walked together down the mud path to the mess hall, to the locker room where we got into our flight gear, then to briefing.’
Another at Tibenham now preparing for the day’s mission was Major Jimmy Stewart. He had not flown since that first day of ARGUMENT but, like everyone, had felt keenly the losses suffered by the 445th and not least those thirteen crews over Gotha the previous day. As a squadron commander, it was his duty not only to read after-action reports but also to write yet more letters of condolence, not only one of the most unenviable aspects of command but one that reminded him all too starkly – as if any further reminder were needed – that flying bomber missions over enemy air space was a brutally dangerous occupation. Like most of those aircrew heading up into such uncertain skies, he too felt scared. He had known the previous evening that he would be leading the group today and during the night had woken and walked over to the window. He pulled up the blackout curtain and looked out over the dark, peaceful English countryside. ‘My thoughts raced ahead to the morning,’ he said, ‘all the things I had to do, all the plans I must remember for an emergency.5 How could I have a clear mind if I was saturated with fear?’
Only seventeen bombers would be going from the 445th; it was all they could get into the air after the Gotha mission. The target, they learned, was Nuremberg. Jimmy Stewart would be the lead in the first flight, while Wright’s crew were to fly in the second section. It would be a long trip. As far as Robinson could tell, Nuremberg was almost as far as Czechoslovakia. As if to really ram home the point, the briefing officer warned them to conserve every drop of fuel they could. Bomb bays were to be opened and shut quickly. The ball turret should be dropped down into position – it was operated hydraulically – only when absolutely necessary, otherwise it caused drag, which burned up more fuel. They would have enough fuel for ten hours, but the trip would take nine and a half. ‘There will be very little margin for deviating from the planned path of your flight,’ the briefing officer warned them.6 Robinson stared at the red ribbon across the map. The briefing officer continued: there would be thousands of flak guns beneath them, especially when they flew over the Ruhr. It was important those carrying cameras did not forget to switch them on.
At Knettishall, the 388th BG were also getting ready. ‘No rest as the air blitz on German aircraft production continues,’ noted Larry Goldstein in his diary that morning.7 ‘Up and at them again today.’ This time, the 3rd Division’s Flying Fortresses were heading to Regensburg. Some 290 of them heading out on what was to be yet another long mission. In fact, Regensburg was to be hit doubly hard because the Fifteenth Air Force were going to join in – the first time bombers from both England and Italy would be attacking the same target on the same day – and bomb the city’s Messerschmitt assembly plants too. For Goldstein, this would be mission number twenty-three.
For the men of the Fifteenth Air Force, the main target was once again the Prüfening aircraft factory at Regensburg. In all, the Fifteenth planned to send up some 180 bombers, of which around 100 would be directed to Regensburg, while four smaller groups would attack a diversionary target. Lieutenant Michael Sullivan and his crew were among eleven B-17s from the 2nd BG that would be heading to bomb the harbour at Zara in Yugoslavia. Sully Sullivan, however, and the Fortresses of the 301st BG were on the slate for attacking Regensburg. And after the previous day’s encounter with the Luftwaffe, everyone was braced for a bumpy ride, despite talk of diversionary raids to draw the enemy away.
In neither England nor Italy, then, was there much enthusiasm from the bomber crews for the mission that day. Robbie Robinson wished it would be cancelled altogether. After the briefing, they headed for the truck that would take them to their waiting B-24s. ‘My feet were walking in one direction with the crew,’ he noted, ‘my mind and body wanted to go back to the hut.’8 But he clambered up into the truck, as he knew he had to, and then found Jimmy Stewart jumping up too and sitting beside him.
‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we are going to have a mighty fine flight today.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Robinson replied. ‘It looks like we really are.’ Neither of them believed it.
The 445th BG started taking off around 9.30 a.m., all with bomb bays full of 100lb fragmentation bombs. They were also carrying large amounts of Window, which they were to throw out manually from their waist-gunner positions as they crossed the enemy coastline. Sure enough, flak soon began bursting around them, so Robinson and Tyler began throwing out the tinfoil. Looking out, Robinson saw formations of B-24s and B-17s stretching for what seemed for ever. Depleted the
y might have been, but theirs was still a mighty armada. Suddenly the flak stopped and, although they had fighter escort, Robinson knew that any moment enemy fighters would show up. Then his foot started to freeze and once again he had to perform emergency repair work on the electric heating wires – a task he managed in the nick of time because enemy fighters were wheeling in for the attack. Robinson barely saw them as they streaked by, but then the Little Friends dived in after them and the 109s scattered after just one pass.
To the south, the bombers of the Fifteenth Air Force had reached Regensburg without much difficulty, largely thanks to closer escort from the fighters, although the Little Friends had been forced to turn back before nearing the target, which was beyond their range. Bombing was reasonably accurate and component and final assembly shops were hit – and would be hit again later by the bombers of the Eighth.
On the return leg, however, at around midday, the trouble started. As they were flying over Trieste on the north-east coast of Italy, they were attacked by more than two hundred fighters. The result was carnage. Sully Sullivan and his crew were among only two from the 32nd Bomb Squadron to make it back. ‘Sad, sad day,’ he wrote, ‘for I lost one of my best friends – our pilot, Bill Epps!’ Epps was flying with the 419th BS that day and was shot down, along with twelve other crews.9 Sullivan also saw his good friends Joe Baughman and Joe Chapas, part of David Paxton’s crew, go down in flames just off the right wing of his own ship. ‘Such things as I saw are really horrible,’ he noted on his return.10 ‘B-17s falling with tails shot away. Chutes all over the place and flaming planes in spirals. B-24s caught hell above. God grant there be no more days like this one!’
In all, twenty-one B-17s and fourteen B-24s were shot down this day, a terrible 25 per cent of the attacking bomber force. Spaatz had known he was going to have some tough days and Regensburg on this last Friday in February was certainly one of those for the Fifteenth Air Force.
While some two hundred enemy fighters had been sent up to meet the earlier attack by the Fifteenth, only fifty-nine were scrambled to meet the far larger effort by the Eighth. Among the latter were the fighters of JG11, who were ordered into the air as once more Division control reported enemy bombers approaching their air defence sector. Heinz Knoke could hardly believe it. It was relentless; being on standby all day, continually feeling tense, with nerves on edge and knowing that after every mission another portrait photograph was going to have to go up on the wall. Everyone looked haggard and strained. ‘Concentrations in sector Dora-Dora!’ came the repeated message and, despite the fatigue, despite the deep knot of dread and fear, they had to pull themselves up from their chairs, put away their game of skat and run to their Gustavs. ‘No laxatives are needed,’ jotted Knoke, ‘to assist the sinking feeling Dora-Dora creates.’11
Among those escorting the bombers to the target were once again the 4th Fighter Group, which, with drop tanks attached, had taken off from Debden and rendezvoused with the bombers over Sedan in eastern France. Bee Beeson was at Green 1, flying with the 334th FS as they approached the bomber box from the rear. One lone Fortress had fallen far back from the rest of the group and was now being attacked by two enemy fighters who were making passing sweeps at the stricken bomber. Beeson now led his section down, diving towards them, but before they reached them the Fortress slowly fell off to starboard and began to spiral down, while the two enemy fighters circled above it. Suddenly, they spotted the Thunderbolts heading towards them and, while one dived away, the other whipped into a turn, giving Beeson a 60-degree deflection shot that was hard even for someone of his marksmanship, and his bullets went wide. None the less, he had closed at around 500 m.p.h., which had given him enough speed to zoom up over the enemy and dive down once more. This time, the German dived for the deck, giving Beeson a chance to come in on his tail. He soon got behind him, but the German pilot was taking evasive action all the way down, so Beeson was finding it hard to get a clear shot. Then they both levelled out over a town and the German circled around it, then began following the course of a stream. At this point, Beeson’s dogged pursuit paid off because he opened fire from 300 yards, closing to just 100. He saw his bullets hit and bits of the Focke-Wulf fall off. Beeson sped past, so did not see the enemy plane crash, but his wingman, following close behind, did. Climbing back up, they saw eight or nine parachutes floating down, probably from the Fortress they had tried in vain to rescue.
Don Gentile was also in action, leading his section down in a bounce on a gaggle of Focke-Wulfs. Picking out one, he opened fire at 400 yards, then again at 300, until at just 75 yards he saw his bullets hit home. Suddenly, oil was splattering his Thunderbolt and bits of aircraft were smacking into his own airframe. Gentile pulled up and watched the enemy fighter plunge down. ‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘he definitely had it.’12
The hammer blow taken by the bombers of the Fifteenth Air Force meant those of the Eighth were having a comparatively easy ride. The Liberators of the 2nd Division were now reaching their target. As Wright’s crew arrived at the Initial Point, Buckey called out, ‘Bomb bay doors coming open.’13 Robinson was now asked to switch on the K-20 camera. This was no casual request, because to do so he had to get a walk-around oxygen bottle, plug it on to his mask, disconnect his throat mike and headset and then his electric heated suit. He still had his flak armour on, so waddled over to the camera hatch and turned on the K-20, then returned and did the whole procedure again in reverse. ‘Trying to get around in the ship while wearing flight gear,’ he noted, ‘was like a teddy bear in a bottle with lead weight.’14
They were now approaching the target, a large airfield, with flak blasting all around them. Tyler and Robinson were throwing out Window as quickly as they could in an effort to confuse the gun-laying radar. The bomber was rocking, jolting and jerking, while outside white and black puffs dotted the sky as anti-aircraft shells exploded all around. Despite oxygen masks, the stench of cordite was choking. Outside, down below, the airfield appeared to be full of aircraft, all lined up in rows.
‘For God sakes,’ called out Wright, ‘get those damned bomb bay doors closed.’15
‘Bombs away,’ Lieutenant Wittman called out almost immediately. Robinson watched the bombs falling and saw rows of explosions all along the lines of parked aircraft. ‘Bull’s eye. Every bomb,’ he called out. Bombs from the Fortresses also appeared to be hitting their mark.
Up ahead, no more than 20 yards in front, was Jimmy Stewart’s plane, and suddenly it was hit by a direct burst of flak by the flight deck, behind the nose wheel. Wright moved up, underneath, and, sure enough, there was a large hole. A package fell out – a parachute pack – and hit one of their propellers then disappeared.
‘He’s staying there,’ called out Wright.16 ‘The ship hasn’t lost any speed.’ He tried contacting them on the radio but there was no answer; they were, however, supposed to be on radio silence.
Robinson now saw enemy planes swooping towards them.
‘Fighters! Me109s. Ten o’clock!’ he called out. ‘Enemy fighters coming in!’ He began counting over the intercom but then stopped. No one wanted to hear that more than sixteen were heading towards them. The first Schwarm took out two B-24s, which began flaming and falling. There were no parachutes. A B-17 was also falling; Robinson saw it hit the ground. Wright kept them tight in the formation; they all stayed close, just as Stewart liked it. Robinson and the other gunners hammered on until eventually the enemy planes melted away, only to be replaced by more flak. More Window was thrown out, although Robinson was increasingly convinced it was little more than a magnet and achieved quite the opposite of its intended goal.
The three squadrons of II/JG11 had joined up at 15,000 feet over Lüneburg Heath in northern Germany and had then climbed to 30,000. Heinz Knoke glanced down at his dials. Supercharger running smoothly. Revs, boost, oil and radiator temperatures all as they should be. Compass bearing, 360 degrees.
‘On your left,’ a ground controller crackled in Knoke’
s headset.17 ‘Watch for heavy babies to your left.’
Knoke could see nothing. He felt tense and on edge. Carefully he scanned the skies looking for vapour trails, then suddenly there they were – at least 6,000 feet below and to the south heading eastwards.
‘I see them,’ said Major Specht, the Gruppe commander.
‘Victor, victor,’ came the acknowledgement from the control room at Division.
Knoke gazed at the bombers. It was hard to tell how many there were, but he guessed as many as six hundred, or even eight hundred with fighter escorts. A vast armada at any rate.
Fear departed as adrenalin surged through him. Specht dipped a wing and began his dive, with Knoke and the rest of the Gruppe following. As he dived, Knoke checked his guns and the sights. Both hands now grasped the moulded Bakelite grip on his control column. Finger and thumb on the twin cannon and machine-gun triggers. They were almost upon the bombers, but a glance behind showed him the Thunderbolts were coming down after them in turn and, as he was well aware, the American fighters could out-dive them.
Now they levelled out and swept through the lead bomber formation in a frontal attack. He pressed his gun buttons and felt the Messerschmitt judder as cannon shells and machine-gun bullets spat from his plane and punched fat holes across the wing of a Fortress. He cursed – he’d been aiming for the cockpit. Pulling back on the stick, he climbed up out of the fray, his Staffel following, and suddenly the Thunderbolts were upon them and they were swirling and turning, and Knoke was desperately trying to get himself into a firing position, but each time was forced to break because two, four, six, even ten Thunderbolts were bearing down on him. Fighters seemed to be everywhere in a massed melee, but the Messerschmitts were badly outnumbered.
Big Week Page 39