By order of the Commander: S. R. Brentnall, Major General, USAF, Vice Commander
Colonel David M. Taylor
Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross (3), Bronze Star (2), Air Medal (9), Purple Heart
Dave Taylor was born in 1921 and grew up in the small Mississippi town of Grenada. He occasionally played with his younger cousin, Trent Lott, who would one day become majority leader of the U.S. Senate. Young Dave’s horizons were not limited by the surrounding cotton fields. He soon became enamored with flying while helping fuel Ford trimotors at the nearby airfield in exchange for an occasional ride. Flying soon got into his blood, although there appeared to be little chance he would be able to follow his dream. When World War II started, Dave volunteered and in 1942 was assigned to flight training as an aviation cadet. In quick succession he passed through primary, basic, and advanced training, and on May 24, 1943, Dave received his pilot wings and the brown bars of a second lieutenant in the U.S. Army Air Force. His mother pinned the lieutenant bars on her young son’s shoulders at Ellington Field, near Houston, Texas.
Intensive B-17 crew training followed at a succession of airfields from Washington state to Florida. Twice, Dave’s crew and the units they trained with were certified combat—ready. Twice, his combat-ready squadron was designated a replacement training unit to train others for combat in the skies over Europe. At times Dave wondered if the war he wanted to fight would be over by the time he got his chance. Dave was promoted to first lieutenant and progressed to instructor pilot status. He was very good at flying the B-17. His skills confirmed many times over, Dave Taylor’s crew finally received its long-awaited orders to proceed as a replacement crew to England. The meaning of the term replacement didn’t really sink in until he got there. He had handpicked his crew of nine—copilot, bombardier, navigator, radio operator, and four gunners, all well trained in their respective specialties. On October 9, 1944, the men took a brand new B-17 bomber from Hunter Field in Savannah, Georgia, and flew it along the northern Atlantic route via Goose Bay, Labrador, and Scotland to England.
“After first being part of a replacement pool, we were eventually assigned to the 336th Bomb Squadron, 95th Bombardment Group, Heavy. The 95th was part of the 13th Combat Wing of the 3rd Bombardment Division, commanded by Major General Earl Partridge,” Dave recalled. “General Partridge replaced Major General Curtis E. LeMay that spring, who had gone on to organize the B-29s in the Pacific. Our combat wing consisted of the 95th Bombardment Group at Horham, the 100th at Thorpe Abbot, and the 390th at Framlingham. I flew a B-17G out of Horham, one of many air bases located in rural Suffolk and adjacent Norfolk Counties, halfway between Norwich to the north and Ipswich to the south.
“The winter of ’44 was bitter cold. Our Nissen huts, heated only by a potbellied stove, provided little comfort. The real problem was getting enough coal to keep the stove going. The Brits controlled the coal. My buddy and I figured out a little scheme. He would approach the English guard at the coal yard, make small talk, and offer the guard a much-prized American cigarette. While they were chatting, I jumped into the coal bin from the opposite side and threw chunks of coal over the wall. The guard never caught on, or maybe he didn’t want to. We had lots of coal all winter long and a cozy hut.
“We were not assigned living quarters by crews but rather by rank. Officers and enlisted men were housed in separate huts, which had a dubious advantage: when a crew was lost in combat, an entire hut was not emptied at once. Near each bed was an oxygen container. Early in the mornings, those chosen to go on a mission were awakened. We usually took an oxygen mask and did some prebreathing before washing up, eating, and going to the briefing. Those not selected, at least in our hut, took a swig of wine from a large, twenty-five-liter, straw-wrapped wine flask mounted on the ceiling. We had run surgical tubes from the flask to each bed. After fortifying ourselves this way, we rolled over and went back to sleep. We tried hard to give our barren existence some touches of congeniality. We were just kids, ranging in age from the late teens to midtwenties.
“Not only was the place cold, the food was lousy too. There were two mess halls at Horham—one for the air crews, and another for the permanent party. The permanent party consisted of staff and other nonflyers who remained at the base while air crews moved on—some died, some went home after thirty-five missions, some became “guests” of the Germans. The mess for the permanent party served good food both in quality and method of preparation. The air-crew mess was lousy in both respects. We couldn’t do much about that. I became the best chicken procurer in England. I quietly entered nearby henhouses, tucked an obliging chicken under my blouse, and soon we had fried chicken to supplement our diet of Spam and powdered eggs prepared by a disinterested kitchen staff. Another opportunity to improve our food situation offered itself when the group staff wanted to fly on my crew. One day the group commander announced that he was going to fly with me as my copilot. He was a lieutenant colonel. ‘You’re not flying with us,’ I told him in my capacity as pilot in command, ‘unless you eat like us.’ The group commander was unaware how bad the food was for his air crews, and after entering our chow line and seeing what was offered, he took us over to the other mess. After that the food situation in the air-crew mess improved for a while, but it soon reverted to its former deplorable state. Eating a good meal before a combat mission was important. Our missions were six to eight hours in duration, under extremely difficult conditions. If we were shot down, we knew we probably wouldn’t eat again for at least three days. That’s what experience had taught us.
“Our first missions after arriving at Horham were training missions to familiarize ourselves with local procedures and the area. We did some practice bombing. I remember during this time we came under V-1 rocket attack. The 95th Bomb Group and our next-door sister group at Thorpe Abbotts, the 100th, received special attention from the Luftwaffe. Our group had flown the first daylight raid against Berlin on March 4, 1944, and had been in the thick of things ever since. It was no surprise that the Germans took a special disliking to us. I was disdainful of the V-1s, and when the alarm was given, everyone else raced for the nearest shelter. I stayed in my bunk. I heard an ominous “putt-putt-putt-roar” and then smelled the exhaust from the V-1 as it passed the open window of my hut. Silence followed. Then I heard a loud explosion beyond a nearby hill. I catapulted out of bed, dove through an open window, and leaped into the nearest trench, filled with water. More V-1s followed with the same result. They exploded harmlessly on that hillside, doing no damage. The next day, Dirty Gerty, as we called the German woman broadcasting to us over the radio, announced that the 95th Bomb Group had been wiped out. We had a good laugh.
“Before my first combat mission I received several visits from old-timers, pilots who had nearly finished their thirty-five combat missions and were looking forward to going home. (The number of combat missions required of heavy bomber crews before going home varied from twenty-five in early 1943 to thirty-five starting in May 1944.) They just wanted to give me a heads-up. As the newest replacement, I would have to fly in what was referred to as Purple Heart corner. My crew would be the most exposed and vulnerable aircraft in the lowest squadron, flying in the low echelon, on the right wing of the element leader. We would have the least defensive support from any of the other aircraft in the formation. ‘Watch out for the new German missiles,’ the old-timers said, frowning. ‘They leave telltale smoke trails as they streak toward your aircraft. You’ll see the smoke, but never the missiles. They’re too fast.’
“Flying the Purple Heart corner on our first combat mission was enough stress without also having to worry about German missiles. Our target was the rail yard at Giessen. As we got into the area, I saw the dreaded smoke trails. By that time I was too busy flying a tight formation and holding our assigned altitude to worry much about missiles. Our group lost one aircraft that day, and on the way home I discovered I wasn’t really that afraid. I completely forgot about the German antiaircraft rock
ets. At the intelligence debriefing, when I reported the smoke trails, I learned that there really weren’t any new German missiles. It was a story the old-timers carefully nurtured and told to replacement pilots. Rather, the smoke trails I saw were our own marker bombs dropped by the lead aircraft, on which the following aircraft immediately behind the lead would release their bombs. The rest of us just dropped our bombs into the cauldron below. The marker bombs emitted trails of smoke on their way down which looked much like missile trails coming up, at least that’s what I thought. Never having seen an antiaircraft missile before, how would I know?
Smoke markers and conventional bombs falling on Steenwijk, Holland, March 24, 1945. D. Taylor.
“A typical combat mission started with the wake-up call for those designated to fly. From the time they woke us until we landed was a long day. Only part of it was the seven to nine hours of flying time. After washing up, we got dressed and donned our bulky flying gear and headed for the mess. After eating, we assembled in the briefing room, where we learned for the first time where we were going. Our group of three squadrons, twelve B-17s per squadron, was dispersed on hard-stands along the perimeter road which ran around the field touching each end of the three crisscrossing runways. Regardless of weather conditions, the engine start and takeoff procedure was followed in complete radio silence. At engine start, we warmed up our engines and ran through the pretakeoff checklist. The control tower then fired a yellow flare to start the taxi sequence. At our assigned time, and watching the aircraft ahead of us move out, we taxied toward our takeoff position. I knew who came ahead of me. When he started to move, I got ready to go next. When the tower fired a green flare, the group started the take-off sequence. It was an intricate process and not without its problems.
“On fourteen of my twenty-seven combat missions, mine was the lead aircraft. On three of those fourteen I lead the entire Eighth Air Force. Being lead meant that as we approached the target, I had to keep the aircraft at our assigned altitude, usually around twenty-five thousand feet, at an airspeed of 170 knots from the IP to the target. From the IP to the target, the bombardier flew the aircraft while I worked the throttles to control our airspeed and watched the altimeter to maintain our assigned altitude. As lead aircraft, our bombs were smoke bombs to mark the target for the others. On April 3, 1945, we flew a mission against submarine pens at Kiel. I was lead. Just before the IP I had to shut down one engine because of flak damage. On only three engines, I was barely able to maintain the formation’s airspeed. The aileron was shot up, too, with a large hole, making the entire aircraft shake. On top of that the bombardier was jerking the aircraft around. He had a hard time locating the target. The Germans had constructed a dummy target, and only at the last moment did our bombardier identify the real target. He jerked the aircraft onto the new heading, and we released the smokers. We hit the right target that day, judging from the fireballs we saw on our way out. When I was hit, I should have relinquished my position as formation leader to the deputy lead and headed to Sweden. In Sweden, I knew, we would have been interned for a time and subsequently released when a C-87 (the transport version of the B-24 bomber) came over from England to pick us up. The C-87 came to pick up ball bearings to be sent back to the States, where they were in critical supply. Air crews were incidental cargo for this nighttime run.
“I never thought of turning over lead to anyone else as long as my aircraft could fly and I could stay with the formation. At the rally point, our mission complete, I throttled back on the three good engines so as not to lose another and dropped out of formation. I headed for a lower altitude and denser air to stabilize the aircraft. Upon reaching the North Sea, I leveled off at ten thousand feet, continuing to head for England. Soon, an American P-51 fighter came swooping down and flew alongside us. Through hand signals, the fighter pilot gave me to understand that he was going to stay around. That was a great relief. He climbed back to altitude and circled above us as we lumbered slowly toward England. We were joined by a second B-17. I thought the aircraft looked strange, not quite like our own. It had no familiar group markings. Flying abeam us, the stranger kept edging closer and closer. Suddenly the P-51 showed up behind him and shot him down. It turned out to be a reconditioned B-17 used by the Germans to shoot down stragglers and to call out altitudes to their flak. With the help of that P-51 pilot, we made it home on three engines.
“On my fifteenth mission, against Nuremberg on February 21, 1945, I was lead again. Before reaching the IP, my engineer put my flak suit on me. He was to fasten the flies on my left shoulder to leave my right arm free to adjust the autopilot while the bombardier was guiding the airplane to the target with the Norden bombsight. The flack was intense, and things didn’t go as planned. The engineer had fastened the flies of my flak jacket on the right instead of the left side, causing the jacket to continually slide off, hitting my right arm when I tried to adjust the autopilot. When the jacket hit my arm, it also caused my helmet to drop over my eyes. This happened over and over again—I adjusted my equipment, the flak jacket slid down as I moved my right arm, my helmet slid over my eyes. When I could see, I saw flak. The Germans were firing salvos in boxes at 25,000 feet, then changing altitude and firing at 24,500 feet, and so on. The effect was a massive blanket of flak. We were taking a lot of hits. The little black puffs of smoke were so numerous that they looked like a blanket, the kind of stuff some people said they could walk on. When I could see the fireball within a puff of smoke, I could expect to be showered with shrapnel. It was no place to bail out and hope to reach the ground alive.
“Our group commander was flying as command pilot in the right seat. I was working with the bombardier to keep the aircraft aligned on target. When the bombardier called ‘Bombs away!’ the cockpit was engulfed in smoke so thick I couldn’t see the command pilot to my right. He thought the plane was on fire and hit the bailout button. The tail gunner jettisoned the exit door, and the rest of the crew got ready to jump. The scene below us was flak hell. I got on the mike and yelled to the crew, ‘Do not bail out! Do not bail out!’ I could see all four engines were still turning. The bailout lights continued flashing. I saw the command pilot rise in his seat to head toward the bomb bay to bail out. I punched his lights out, adjusted the autopilot into a gradual turn, and pushed the button to open the bomb bay doors. As the bomb bay doors opened, the smoke was instantaneously sucked out of the cockpit. The cause of the smoke turned out to be a damaged smoke bomb which had gone off just as we called for the doors to open. The bomb probably got hit by shrapnel. I jumped out of my seat and headed for the bomb bay, leaving my chute behind. There wasn’t enough room to take my chute along. I gave the faulty bomb a kick and watched it drop away. I balanced on a narrow ledge over the open bomb bay: below me was twenty-five thousand feet of empty space, a blanket of flak, and the raging fires we had started in Nuremberg. I got back to the cockpit and found to my delight that the airplane was still flying without any major problems. The command pilot had come to again, the Germans had missed our altitude, and we had only scattered flak damage. I turned at the rally point and headed for home. Two of my men told me later they were ready to jump when they heard my command not to bail out. A second later would have been too late for them. We returned to Horham a happy crew. As for my command pilot and group commander? I wrote him up for a decoration.”
Dave recalled his worst mission. “We had a radio operator on board who spoke German. We usually referred to them as Mickey operators. His job was to listen to the German fighters and disrupt their attacks by inserting himself into the stream of shouted warnings, sightings, and commentary by giving out false information in German as if he was one of them. The flak was really heavy that day, ripping numerous holes into our aircraft. A large piece of shrapnel hit below the Mickey operator, tearing a large hole into the fuselage under his legs, knocking out the central oxygen supply, and severing electrical cables. More shrapnel forced me to shut down an engine. I had my hands full flying the airplane and an
alyzing what I had lost and what still worked. The Mickey operator was terrified, looking down at the gaping hole below his legs, ice-cold air rushing up at him. His electric suit had failed, and he wasn’t getting any oxygen. He thought he was dying—and he was. He started screaming over and over again on the intercom, ‘I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead,’ totally blocking the intercom so I couldn’t talk to the rest of the crew. I had to make a choice. I went first to check on Jones, the ball-turret gunner. He didn’t have portable oxygen because of a lack of space in the turret; the Mickey operator did. I donned a portable oxygen mask and rushed to the rear of the plane to see if Jones was all right. It was the job of the waist gunner to get oxygen to the ball turret gunner. The waist gunner had pulled Jones out of the turret and given him oxygen. Except for exposure to the cold and a bad headache, Jones suffered no lasting effects. After I got back to my seat, I dropped the plane down from twenty-five thousand to ten thousand feet so we could breathe. I had to leave the formation and returned to England alone. The Mickey operator survived.
I Always Wanted to Fly Page 14