Combat Crew

by John Comer

  Counce bounced out of bed. “I thought you said we wouldn’t go out for another week.”

  “I didn’t think we could! How many ships can we put up?”

  “Not more than one squadron ’til they get some more patched up,” Nick Abramo answered.

  “I’ll bet they’re puttin’ together a force from two or three groups,” said Wilson.

  An annoying sensation plagued me some mornings. I shook and shivered while dressing. Was it the early morning cold, or just my nerves?

  By the time I was on my way to the mess hall the shakes were gone. I saw Gleichauf at Operations before briefing. “We’re goin’ to have an extra passenger along today,” he said.

  “Who we takin’?”

  “Lieutenant Cohler, one of the Flight Surgeons, will be riding with us in the nose.”

  “Good idea! They need to know what it’s like.”

  Jim and I got to the plane early. Only the loud stutter of the small engine operating the electric generator broke the silence. The crew chief had finished his daily inspection and was asleep in the cockpit. Soon other men arrived and the sounds of clanging metal and hand charging reverberated through the aircraft.

  Buck Rogers was not with us. He was badly shaken up on the Schweinfurt raid, and was now in the hospital. He suffered internal injuries from the severe bouncing he took in the tail of the plane during heavy evasive action. Buck was probably a little too old for combat gunnery, although he was a tough guy. A new man, Raymond F. Legg, from Anderson, Indiana, had replaced Rogers for the time being on the tail guns. Legg came from a rural area. He was twenty-one years old — quiet, good-natured, steady, and a nice-looking young man. I liked him on first sight, but how he would do on the tail guns was yet to be seen. That day was an ideal mission to break in a new man.

  Balmore was grounded again with frostbite, and an operator named Brophy was with us in the radio room. It was almost time for the officers to arrive, when it suddenly occurred to me that Wilson was missing.

  “Has anyone seen Wilson since we left the hut?”

  “I thought he was gettin’ up when I went out the front door,” Counce said.

  About that time a truck stopped and out climbed Wilson, not overly concerned about being late. He arrived just ahead of Shutting.

  Paul gathered us into a circle to hear the briefing. “The target today is Gilze-Rijen, in Holland. Not too bad! We will put up three composite squadrons made from two groups. We will have fighter escort all the way in and out. Flak will be moderate to heavy. We could see some fighters, so don’t get the idea that this is gonna be a milk run! The Germans have two hundred fighters close enough to intercept. This is Lieutenant Bernard Cohler, one of our Group Flight Surgeons. Lieutenant, you’ll fire the right side nose gun. Jim, show the Lieutenant what he needs to know about the gun.”

  Shutting turned to Cohler. “If you have any trouble with the gun, let me know quick, an’ we’ll switch guns.”

  What a contrast to our last raid! This one showed promise of being a snap. The 381st furnished one squadron, and the other two came from the 91st Group. I did regret that I had to participate in a raid against the Dutch and their lovely country. Years before I had spent some pleasant days in Holland. How unfortunate that it happened to be located between Germany and the North Sea!

  The formation got underway after a long, drawn-out flight across England in an attempt to confuse the Germans. The fighter escort was to meet us a little short of the Dutch coast. Not much fighter action was expected in view of the escort protection and the short time over enemy territory.

  “Radio to Turret. Radio to Turret.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Something wrong with my oxygen regulator.”

  “What th’ hell is it this time? You radio jocks always think you got oxygen trouble!”

  “The gauge wiggles.”

  “Wiggles? Are you sure you’re sobered up from last night?”

  “I’m perfectly sober — the thing flutters — wiggles.”

  “I think you’re imagining things. How do you feel?”

  “I feel OK.”

  “If you feel good, don’t worry about the gauge. You’re gettin’ enough oxygen, or you’d know it.”

  “Turret to Waist.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Keep an eye on Brophy. Can you see him from where you are?”

  “I can see him.&rdqo;

  “If he shows any signs of trouble go take a look, quick.”

  “OK. We won’t be on oxygen very long today, anyway.”

  When it was fairly certain that the mission would not be canceled, I called Purus. “Turret to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are you ready for me to pull the bomb fuse pins?”

  “Yes, I think so — go ahead.”

  So I took a walk-around oxygen bottle and went back to the bomb bay and pulled the pins out of the bomb fuses. That meant that when the bombs fell out, an impeller would quickly spin off (caused by the wind), leaving the striker pins free to hit on impact with the ground and trigger the explosion.

  “Turret to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The bombs are armed. Rack switches are on.”

  “OK, Turret.”

  The flak started coming up as we approached the coast. Lieutenant Cohler had a ringside seat for some close-up views. I knew how he was feeling, seeing it for the first time. That plexiglass sure looked agonizingly thin when the shells exploded.

  “Bombardier to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re on the bomb run.”

  It soon became obvious that the bomb run was too long.

  “Pilot to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why the hell didn’t we drop?”

  “Don’t know, Paul. Either his position was off or the Sight wouldn’t line up. We’re starting a three-sixty.”

  “We’ll be twenty minutes coming around for another run. If we fool around over this target they’ll get some fighters up here.”

  A few fighters had been reported flying low and to the left. I suppose that some silly new gunners became confused and cut loose at the 47s thinking they were 190s. The escort immediately retreated to an altitude well above our fifty-caliber range. Twelve to fourteen 190s saw the opportunity and slipped in under the escort and raced toward the formation.

  “Copilot to crew! Copilot to crew! Fighters eleven o’clock high — comin’ in! Blast ’em! Shoot th’ hell out of ’em!”

  I could see my tracers hitting the first one but he kept right on coming. Lieutenant Cohler had the excitement of a head-on attack, and one fighter whizzed by him so close that the pilot’s bright red scarf could be plainly seen. The formation leader was shot down, and I saw two more Fortresses explode and go hurtling toward the ground far below. Lieutenant Alexander, one of our squadron pilots, was a lucky man that day. A twenty-millimeter cannon shell ripped through the cockpit side window, brushed him lightly on the head, and zoomed out through the other side without exploding. Unbelievable!

  I could hear Legg firing from the tail, and twice I zipped around to see what the action was back there. He looked like he was doing all right from what I could see.

  “Bombardier to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re on the bomb run again.”

  “Hope we drop this time!”

  Three or four minutes later: “Bombs away! Let’s go home!” from Purus.

  I felt the load release, and the formation made a left turn and was soon back over the North Sea.

  The next morning Balmore was at the station hospital and overheard the men kidding Lieutenant Cohler about his “mission.” One of the orderlies said, “Lieutenant, how was it yesterday? Rough?”

  The reply was, “Yeah, it was rough all right, but you sonnuvabitches will never know how rough!”

  The opposition on our last mission was the Focke-Wulf 190. Most B-17 men considered it G
ermany’s finest fighter at that time. It performed well between twenty and thirty thousand feet. On balance I thought the P-47 and F.W. 190 were evenly matched on a plane-to-plane basis. The 47 was superior above thirty thousand feet, and I thought the 190 was better from about twenty-two thousand and lower. The advantage the 47 had as an escort aircraft was in tactics. It could fly high above the formation and swoop down with an altitude and dive advantage when the 190s attacked the Forts. The way it worked out, the F.W.s had to become the aggressor and run the risk of being attacked, while the P-47s became the defensive force and could choose their time to attack when they had a height advantage.

  On August 20, the loudspeaker on the base came on in the middle of the morning. “All combat personnel report to Operations — all combat personnel report to Operations.” It continued at intervals — every fifteen minutes.

  On the way to Operations there was much bitching among the crowd.

  “Why can’t those Operations nitwits leave us alone?”

  “Another one of those aircraft recognition classes! I know what a 190 and 109 look like!”

  “They keep us on alert all th’ time, an’ on a day we don’t have to go out they gotta dream up some horseshit to look good on their reports to headquarters.”

  At Operations there was gloomy silence until we were all assembled, and then we didn’t really believe what we heard. “This is goin’ to be a real surprise! We’re giving every combat man a four-day pass, and we’ll have personnel trucks ready to leave at one-thirty. We’ll take you to the outskirts of London where you can catch a tube into the city.” When the cheering died down, the voice continued: “You men need some free time — now is our chance to give you four days off while we get our damaged planes repaired. This pass will be mandatory unless excused by the Flight Surgeons.”

  Someone in the crowd said, “But some of us are broke! Hell, we can’t take off for London with no money!”

  “We thought of that. The Finance Officer is standing by to issue an advance on your next pay, for all those who need it.”

  The whole thing was organized superbly. The Command obviously wanted all of us away from the base, away from the empty tables at the combat mess, away from the empty bunks in the huts. They wanted us to rid ourselves of whatever tensions had built up inside. Someone at headquarters was smart enough to know that the best therapy was a big blast — a wild weekend that would let it all come out. Those in charge were concerned about the morose attitudes and glum faces after Schweinfurt.

  There was a scramble to get ready, but no man in the 381st was going to be left behind when those trucks took off. We were in London before dark, and the celebrating got off to an early start. We took full advantage of our good fortune for we might not get another four-day pass for a long time.

  London was an exciting place to be in 1943. Throngs of men, far from home, were seeking pleasures of various kinds, trying to find some escape from the stifling military confinement. The area along the Strand and near Trafalgar Square was especially crowded. There is a statue of Admiral Horatio Nelson on the square, along with two huge stone lions, one on each side of the Admiral. According to legend, the lions roar whenever a virgin passes, which is not often.

  When the drinking establishments opened to provide the stage for the evening festivities, downtown London was crowded with men in many kinds of uniforms. From open doorways one could hear snatches of lusty songs from groups well along with their drinking. Although the nightly blackout was strictly enforced, up and down the streets there would be the flare of a cigarette lighter so some soldier could get a look at a girl standing in a darkened doorway. From those doorways there was a lingering odor of cheap perfume that attempted to camouflage the need for a bath. Soap and warm water were rare luxuries in wartime England. There were swarms of men walking arm in arm, sometimes fifteen abreast, headed for some bistro. Here and there one could see a soldier and a girl walking along, perhaps toward her room in some shabby hotel or flat. Would the soldier discipline himself to hunt up a pro station at three A.M. or run the risk of a venereal disease?

  By ten P.M. the favorite bars of the soldiers were crowded and getting wound up. The noise was deafening but no one minded. There was camaraderie and loud talk, but seldom any brawls. Soldiers swapped favorite tales and enjoyed a few hours away from military confinement. Then someone with a commanding voice would get up and pound for attention, and start singing:

  “Roll me over, in the clover,

  Roll me over, lay me down,

  And do it again.”

  And the favorite barroom song of wartime England would roll on and on. There were endless stanzas, and each participant could make up his own. The singing would go on until the singers grew tired.

  During the war years drinking establishments in England were rigidly regulated. At the nighttime closing hour, soldiers were just getting started. To circumvent the restrictive hours, private clubs opened up. One of those was the Bazooka Club, near the Strand and patronized mainly by the R.A.F. An English friend sponsored Jim, George, and me and I do not recall any other American members. That place became a favorite and convenient hang-out for us when we were in London. The club was a lively place. The members were mainly connected with Allied Air Forces. There were Australians, South Africans, Canadians, and a small number of men from the Free French and Free Polish Air Forces. Those nationalities mixed surprisingly well, and many pleasant evenings were spent swapping tales with the men who manned the Lancaster Bombers or flew the Spitfires. One night I was with three R.A.F. men at the Club. One of them asked me, “You Yanks really think you tagged out two hundred and eighty-eight Jerries on your ball-bearing raid?”

  “No,” I replied. “We probably got a hundred, maybe a few more. The claims get duplicated.”

  “Those Jerry chaps don’t scratch out easy, ya know.”

  “You’re damned right they don’t! All that armor plate! Say, what’s it like up there all alone over a German city at night? I think it would scare the hell out of me.”

  “Some nights it’s a piece of cake — some nights it’s a rough show!” said one.

  “The worst time is when we get caught in those searchlights! We are stone blind until we get clear of those bloody lights.”

  One man turned to a handsome young chap, with blond hair and a curling mustache. “Bill, tell him about that night you fell out of the open hatch.” Bill wasn’t eager to talk about it, but after some persuasion, he began: “We were in a Wellington Bomber, ya know. The rear entry hatch cover becomes part of the walkway through the waist. I was operating the wireless when we flew through some flak and took a bit of a hit mid-ship. I banged the craft around, ya know, and the pilot called me to take my torch and see if the control cables were OK back there. I picked up my torch, but the thing wouldn’t light up. I stepped back into waist, flicking the switch, and dropped out into bloody space. The flak had knocked off the hatch cover! I grabbed the rim of the hatch with one hand and hung on — no parachute, you know.”

  “You mean you were hanging out in space with one hand?”

  “I couldn’t get a good grip with my other hand, and I knew I couldn’t hang on very long. The wind blast was terrific. My mic was still snapped on ’cause we have a long cord, but I couldn’t talk, just gurgled and made choking sounds. The pilot heard those funny noises and rushed someone back to see what was wrong. He followed my mic cord back to the hatch, and grabbed me just before I was slipping off. It took two blokes to pull me back into the aircraft. A bit of a show, ya know!”

  The temperature in the room that night was about fifty degrees, but Bill’s forehead was dotted with big beads of perspiration as he recounted, for my benefit, his frightening experience. I never heard a more hair-raising tale throughout the war.

  The last night of our four-day pass was a real bash! It must have been four A.M. when we hit the sack. By the time we got up the next morning it was too late to find any place open that served breakfast.

 
“Why don’t we go back to the club?” George asked. “Maybe they’ll have some doughnuts or pastries left over.”

  There was no intention to start drinking so early in the day, especially on an empty stomach, but one round wouldn’t hurt. That was how it began and before long we were off on a super bender until it was time to leave for Waterloo Station and get a train back to Ridgewell. I did not recognize my condition until I took a few steps, and everything went blank. George and Jim had matched me drink for drink all day, but those were the only men I have ever known who never showed any visible signs of intoxication. Big George picked me up and staggered down the stairs and got us into a cab. At the huge Waterloo Station, he managed to get me through the crowd and aboard the train, avoiding the Military Police.

  August 21

  George had a good friend, a radio operator named Feigenbaum, who came from New York, not far from where the Balmores lived. “Feig” spent a lot of time in our hut because of Balmore. He had a companion we called Brooklyn, and the two were always together. They paired off well: Feig was the comic, and Brooklyn was his straight man. Together, those two could entertain a barracks for hours, with just normal conversation. Feig had an unusually husky voice with an inclination to stammer. He loved to stumble in at two in the morning and wake up the entire hut to tell about his date. Anyone else would have had practically everything in the hut thrown at him, but Feig was in a class by himself.

  The day after our last sortie, Balmore came back from Operations, visibly shaken.

  “What’s wrong, George?”

  “I can’t believe it — I just can’t believe …”

  “What can’t you believe? What is it?”

  “They say Feig got a direct hit in the chest with a twenty-millimeter — gone instantly!”

  “Oh, my God! Not Feig! His first mission?”

  “Yep, his first lousy mission! John, I can’t believe a man like Feig will never be around any more. Just last night he was here in the hut with us!”