On Wings of the Morning

by Dan Verner

  Colonel Rackham stepped into the room and onto the stage, followed by his aides. The fliers jumped to their feet, and Rackham motioned them down with an impatient motion of his hand. He grabbed a pointer and nodded at the sergeant who stood at the pulley which moved the heavy black curtains in the front of the room. The curtains parted, revealing a long red line of tape leading deep into Germany. Groans and cat calls arose from the ranks. Rackham motioned them to silence.

  “I know, men, I know. This is an important mission. We’re going deeper into Germany than we’ve ever been before. You’ll have Jugs with you all the way in and back, but expect Jerry to throw everything he has at you. Remember to keep your formations tight and cover each other. We’re really taking the fight to Hitler with this one. Form up on Kerchner. Takeoff is at 0600 hours. Time hack—” he held his left wrist up, fingers poised over the buttons on his watch—“Now! Weather briefing will follow for navigators. Good flying and good luck!”

  He tucked his pointer under his arm and marched off the stage. The crews again jumped to their feet, and then dissolved into a hubbub of conversation and complaints.

  Otto sank back down into his chair, lost in thought. This would be the hardest mission yet, and he would be at the point, the lead bomber out of three hundred the Eighth would put into the sky this day. He and his crew had trained for a week for this role. Three hundred bombers would release their bombs when Detwiler, their bombardier, pushed the “pickle switch” on his Norden. He had a tighter feeling than usual in his stomach. He tried to push his anxiety aside and think of Alice, lovely Alice, who lay sleeping not a mile from where he sat.

  He and Donovan went outside to meet up with the rest of the crew. A new member named Riley, from Boston, was the replacement for Cousins, the ball turret gunner who had invalided out with stomach ulcers. It was a wonder they all didn’t have them. Riley stood stiffly at attention, holding a rigid salute. Otto waved a casual hand. “At ease, Riley, you don’t have to do that.”

  Riley moved to the “at ease” position. Otto sighed and stood up. “Just relax, son,” he said, although Riley was only about three years his junior. “I hear you’re the new ball.”

  Riley relaxed his posture imperceptibly. “Sir, yessir, I just wanted to introduce myself. It’s an honor to serve with you, sir. Scuttlebutt has it that you’re the best and the luckiest pilot in the Eighth.”

  “Thank you, sergeant. And don’t call me ‘sir’. ‘Lieutenant’ will do.”

  Riley grinned. “All right, Lieutenant. The rest of the crew says they call you ‘Lt. OK’ because, well, you’re OK Glad to be aboard, Lt. OK!”

  Otto winced. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Riley, and call me that if you want on the ground. But don’t use it on a mission. It gets confusing if we have nine people shouting ‘OK’ into the intercom. Just call me ‘pilot’ when we’re in the air. All right?”

  Riley came to attention and held another salute. “OK, Lt. OK! Will comply, sir, don’t cha know?”

  Otto waved a salute, dismissing Riley, who went off to find the other crew members. He sighed again, picked up his flight case and joined the last few stragglers filing out of the B-hut.

  Dawn was barely breaking, illuminating the golden fields of wheat that surrounded the base. It was almost harvest time, and a slight chill hung in the air. Otto found the jeep with his crew already crowded on. He climbed in the passenger seat as the crew chorused, “Good morning, Lieutenant OK!”

  “Good morning, troops,” he returned and grabbed the windscreen as Donovan put the jeep in gear and lurched off toward the flight line.

  The Mata Maria sat on the first hardstand on the flight line. The crew, headed by Sergeant D’Agostino, had finished servicing the Boeing and was standing in a rough line waiting for the flight crew. Donovan whipped the jeep around in a tight turn and killed the ignition. The nine other members of the bomber jumped out and headed for their stations. Otto went over to Aggie D’Agostino. “She’s all set to go, Lieutenant. Number three was running a little rough but we got her back to spec.” He handed Otto a clipboard. Otto scribbled his signature without looking at the form. Aggie ran a car repair shop in Brooklyn before the war, and there wasn’t anything mechanical he couldn’t fix. They shook hands and he did a quick walkaround. All was in order.

  Otto lifted himself through the front hatch and made his way to the left seat. Donovan was already at work, flipping switches. He and Otto ran down the preflight checklist. Satisfied, they moved on to engine start.

  Donovan punched the start button for the inboard starboard engine. The big Pratt and Whitney turned over a few times, belched a puff of white smoke and then caught, running up to its cruise setting. Mata Maria lurched to the right, held by wheel chocks under the main gear. Donovan punched start for the number two engine and it caught, joining its companion on the other side of the fuselage. Donovan and Otto studied the gauges. “We’re good,” Otto said, nodding to the crewmen on either side of the bomber, who pulled the wheel chocks out. Otto advanced the throttle on the port engine and pulled the control on the starboard to idle. The B-17 made a slow turn onto the taxiway.

  They ran out to the end of the runway where a spare B-17, inboard engines turning, sat in case Mata Maria couldn’t go. Otto caught a quick glimpse of other bombers moving out of their hardstands and onto the taxiway. They always reminded him of fat black ducks waddling along the ground. But these ducks packed a punch.

  Otto turned to the set point, locked the brakes, and hit the start button for engine one, which fired and promptly ran up. He hit start for number four. It turned over two, three, four, five times and did not catch. He tried again, with the same results. A crew chief sitting in a jeep beside the replacement hustled over. “We’re going to have to put you in the spare, sir. You know the rules.”

  Otto was already undoing his seat belt. Mission rules held that if the lead bomber couldn’t go the crew had to switch to the reserve. Crews didn’t like flying a spare. Mata Maria’s crew felt theirs was a lucky bomber and they had a lucky pilot. Otto keyed his mike. “Pilot to crew. We’re switching to reserve.” He heard the protests and profanities before the mic cut out. Nothing to do but change.

  The ten men repeated the loading process and the engines started promptly on the bomber with the red tail showing that it was a lead aircraft. Otto’s call sign remained the same, and as he and Donovan stood on the brakes, he contacted ATC. “Sudbury control, this is Mike Alpha Tango Alpha, ready for takeoff.”

  The reply came promptly in his earphones. “Roger, Mike Alpha Tango Alpha, you are cleared for takeoff. Good luck, fellas.”

  “Roger that, control. Thank you.” He keyed the intercom. “Crew, takeoff positions. Out.”

  Otto advanced the throttles to takeoff setting and as he called, “Release!” he and Donovan let off on the brakes. The big Boeing began its takeoff roll, slowly at first and then accelerating through the early English morning with increasing speed. Donovan called out the airspeeds. Otto could feel the heaviness of the aircraft and its bomb load. He saw the ambulances parked at the end of the runway.

  “95!” Donovan said. “Rotate!”

  Otto pulled back on the control column and the bomber pulled into the air. Donovan was on the gear lever almost as soon as they cleared the ground. The pilots could hear the main gear motors whine, followed by a solid thump from both sides as the wheels locked into place. “We have two greens on the gear,” Donovan said quietly.

  The bomber strained and creaked as it clawed for altitude against its load of bombs and fuel and men. The crew was uncharacteristically silent on the intercom. Otto supposed they were spooked by having to take the reserve. He would have preferred the Mata Maria himself, but procedure was procedure. He supposed that the Army had a procedure for everything. Not that they were always followed, especially in the Air Corps.

  The lead aircraft pulled through 1,000 feet, 2,000, straining upward to its operational altitude of 30,000 feet. At 10,000, Otto ordered the crew
on oxygen. The cold crept through the thin aluminum skin and he was grateful for the heated electric flight suits they all wore. Detwiler, the navigator, called out headings as Otto flew a “racetrack” in the sky to allow the other bombers to form up on him. They did this for half an hour, finally reaching their assigned altitude. One last turn, and they were headed east toward Schweinfurt and its bearing factories. They had been told to expect heavy resistance from flak and fighters.

  “Tail to crew, wish you guys could see this. There are Forts from horizon to horizon. What a sight.” That was Stone in the tail gunner position.

  Otto heard the whir of the turret motor behind and above him as Schmidt, the top turret gunner, swiveled to the six o’clock position to look at the aerial armada. He felt the vibration of Riley’s ball turret in the belly of the airplane as the new man followed suit. “Wow! Lieutenant OK, wish you could see this!”

  Donovan rolled his eyes above his mask. Otto punched on the intercom, “Riley, identify yourself by position and don’t use ‘OK’ on the horn. It creates confusion. Do it again and I’ll have you busted to private.” There was a long pause.

  “Ball here, sorry, Lieutenant—”

  “Pilot,” Otto interjected.

  “I mean ‘pilot,’” Riley stammered. “All this is new to me.”

  Adams, the right side gunner called out, “Right waist, little friends, four o’clock low, P-47’s.” He paused, then exclaimed, “What the hell—they don’t have drop tanks! “What the f—”

  “Someone screwed up somewhere,” Otto intoned calmly, but he was not happy at the prospect of going unescorted the last part of the run. The Jugs could have gone the whole way with the tanks. Without escort, the bombers would be left vulnerable during the hairiest part of the mission. Well, what could you say besides S.N.A.F.U.?

  The Channel lay far beneath them. Time to have the gunners do their test. “Gunners, weapons check,” he called into the intercom. The cockpit was filled with the sounds of explosions of six pairs of .50 caliber Browning situated at several points in the aircraft, punctuated by the tinkle of shell casings hitting the floor. The stink of cordite reached his nostrils. Yep, the ’17 was aptly named, all right. Flying Fortress. Still, it just took one hit from a Messerschmidt cannon or from a flak shell and they were all history.

  “That’s enough, gunners,” he called as the firing went on a little too long. “Save it for Jerry.”

  The air armada bore onward toward the French coast. They could expect fighters first, particularly as they got closer to the target, then flak and then the fighters again after the bomb drop. Otto wondered how the Germans figured out where they were going. Although it was pretty hard to hide 300 bombers laying down contrails like directional signs pointing to them.

  A thick cloud deck loomed over the continent. This wasn’t in the plans. “Nav, this is pilot. Did the forecast include a cloud deck?”

  “Pilot, nav here. No sir, broken clouds was the forecast. I see it, too, sir, and I don’t like it.”

  I don’t either, thought Otto as the flight bore on.

  Chapter 31

  Into the Mix—1027 hours Zulu

  The cloud bank stretched from horizon to horizon.

  “Nav, is there any way around this thing?

  “Don’t think so, sir. We can try to climb over it.”

  Otto debated. Going higher meant going up through the overcast. Going under it meant exposing the flight to attack. Or at least more of an attack than if they stayed at altitude. The big engines on the Forts operated best at altitude. He made a decision: they would go up and take their chances on a letdown to the target. He keyed his mic.

  “Nav, I’m going to take her up. Ball, tail, top, watch to see that the flight follows.”

  He heard a round of “Rogers” from the stations and porpoised the aircraft to indicate a change in altitude. The flight observed radio silence at this point in the mission. Otto advanced the throttles to full military power and pulled back on the wheel. The B-17 nosed upward.

  It wasn’t enough. The cloud deck was building, and soon they were in a thick overcast. Damn, Otto thought.

  “Pilot, tail. I’ve lost sight of everyone.”

  “Roger, tail. Thanks. Let me know if you catch sight of them again.” They were somewhere beyond the front line over Nazi-occupied Europe in a cloud bank with three hundred aircraft loaded with fuel and explosives. Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed. He considered aborting the mission by firing off a flare but knew he would have to answer to that decision. Better to press on.

  Otto held his course steady, and the clouds suddenly parted to an area of clear skies. The call came from tail: “BANDITS! BANDITS! 5 O’CLOCK HIGH!” The chatter of the tail gun was joined by the top and starboard waist. He could see the nose gun swivel to the right, loosing bursts of .50 caliber shells. The Me109’s tore past the bomber, tiny in comparison, moving so quickly, quickly, pulling Immelmanns and coming back toward Otto and his crew. Generally, they avoided frontal attack, but these guys were good, blasting away and then peeling off just as they entered the range of the American guns. A cannon shell struck the starboard wingtip and shredded it. Otto and Donovan pulled the ship back to port and adjusted trim to compensate for the additional drag and loss of lift. As he did many times every mission, Otto thanked God for the toughness of the Forts. He had seen some limp back to base with incredible damage, a dozen feet of wing torn away, stabilizers and rudders almost completely shot up, engines charred lumps of metal. But they still brought their crews back.

  “HERE THEY COME AGAIN,” screamed Riley, and once again the gunners opened up. The ship shook with the recoil of thousands of shells pouring into the sky.

  “Short bursts, lead your target,” Otto called out, uncertain whether anyone could hear him. They knew what they were doing, but in the excitement of being shot at, they might do anything. He just hoped no bomber was within their range. There were too many cases of bombers being shot down by friendlies.

  The attacks came in wave after wave for the next twenty minutes. Otto silently cursed the lack of escorts. What good was it having P-47’s with drop tanks if they weren’t used? Someone had screwed up, that was for certain.

  As suddenly they began, the swarms of black fighters fell away. Otto called for a crew report.

  “Crew, damage report,” he called. The voices that came back were tense and higher pitched than usual.

  “Top, right wingtip is shredded.”

  “Waist one, a few holes in the fuselage here and there. Nothing serious.”

  “Bombardier, a hole in the glazing.”

  That was all. Everything considered, not too bad.

  Ahead, a curtain of black puffs of smoke littered the sky. Flak. That meant they were near the target. The fighters had peeled off so they wouldn’t be hit by their own AA fire.

  “Into the valley of death rode the ten thousand…”

  It was Detwiler, the literature major. “Det, keep your Tennyson to yourself, will you?” Otto scolded.

  “You got it, pilot. ‘We who are about to die salute you!’ ”

  Otto and Donovan scanned what they could see of the sky. “Tail, who’s with us?” Otto called.

  “Tail here. I see maybe a dozen a/c, and the formation is pretty ragged.”

  Otto cursed silently. The other ships were supposed to form up in order to protect each other. Maybe they would after the bomb run.

  “Pilot, nav, we’re at the I.P.”

  Flak shells began exploding on either side of them.

  “Bombardier, you have the aircraft.” Otto said, as he and Donovan lifted their hands from the controls. Detwiler, the bombardier, flew the aircraft from his Norden bombsite. The Fort had to fly a straight and level course for what seemed like an eternity but which was really only a matter of minutes. Otto kept his hands poised over the wheel, waiting for Detwiler’s call.

  The bomber jolted and slewed to the left as a flak shell punched through the wingtip on
that side, exploding fifty feet up from them. Shrapnel pinged against the fuselage. Otto could see Detwiler correcting with what control he had.

  The last ten feet of the port wing was gone and the number one engine was smoking. “Shut down number one,” Otto called, and Donovan hit the “kill” switch on the panel to his right. The prop windmilled and stopped as Donovan feathered the blades.

  Otto dialed in more trim to compensate for the damage.

  “Bombs away!” Detwiler called, and the aircraft lurched upward, free of its load. The flak was so heavy that it looked like, as the saying went, Otto could have gotten out and walked on it. He grabbed the controls and firewalled the throttles on the remaining engines, diving down and to the left, headed into a U-turn that would take them away from the murderous AA all around them.

  “Tail, someone’s hit. They’re going down.” There was silence on the intercom.

  “Count the chutes, tail.”

  More silence. Finally, “No chutes, Captain. Poor fellas couldn’t get out.”

  The bomber rattled and shook as it was pounded by concussions from shells bursting all around.

  Over the intercom: “O my God.”

  Otto keyed his mic, grateful that Donovan had his wheel in both hands. “What is it?”

  “One of our guys took a shell in the gas tank. He just exploded. There’s nothing left.”

  God rest their souls, Otto thought. “OK, stay alert.”

  The rest of the flight pulled ahead of them since they only had three engines. Otto watched grimly as the remaining ships formed up and grew smaller and smaller. Those were the rules. Don’t risk your ship to cover a crippled craft.

  The flak bursts grew less and less frequent, but that only meant the fighters would make another appearance, having landed, refueled and rearmed. He could see them swarming over and through the formation ahead of them and knew they would pounce on his crippled ship.

  “Overspeed on number four!” shouted Donovan. He reached up and killed that engine.

  Crap, Otto thought. Slower and slower. “All right, crew, we’ve lost two engines. Jerry’s going to come after us with all he’s got. Check your chutes and be prepared to bail out if I sound the horn.”