by John Comer
George was low for several days and we all had Feig on our minds, for he was an unforgettable man.
August 22
That morning Gleichauf and Carqueville came by our hut shortly before noon and gave us the latest news. “We’ve been assigned 765. It’s not too bad as B-17s go,” Carqueville said.
“For an E model, it’s OK. It’s about as good as we can expect,” I answered.
“That’s right. New crews don’t get the choice aircraft, John,” Gleichauf added.
Herb suggested that we take a good, hard look at the aircraft and see what we could do to improve it.
“OK, Jim and I’ll get to work on it right away.”
The E models held only seventeen hundred and fifty gallons of fuel, while the newer planes could take on nine hundred more gallons with the addition of the Tokyo tanks added at the far ends of each wing. On long missions we would have to sweat out the fuel consumption, knowing that the leaders would have another nine hundred gallons to play with and might forget about us jokers dragging up the rear.
August 23
That damp night at the hut we were talking about combat crews and how they got together at the various training centers in the States.
Tedesco asked, “You and Jim been together since gunnery school?”
“Longer than that,” Counce answered. “We first met at the Boeing Aircraft Engineering school at Seattle.”
“But how did you get assigned to the same crew? That’s a hundred to one chance,” Tedesco insisted.
Jim said, “It wasn’t chance. It was an unusual situation. We were at Gowen Field at Boise, Idaho, for assignment to combat crews. One day Comer and I got to wondering if they had made up crew lists yet and we decided to find the chief clerk and see what he would tell us. The chief was a decent guy, so I asked him, ‘How do they go about assigning engineers to combat crews?’
“‘Oh, the Head Engineering Instructor does that — two of you to a crew.’
“‘You mean there will be two engineers on every crew?’
“‘That’s right — a first engineer and a second engineer.’
“‘What’s the difference?’
“‘The first fires the top turret and gets another stripe. The second fires a waist gun.’
“‘When will they start assigning us?’
“‘Maybe the engineers are already paired off. What are your names?’
“‘Comer and Counce.’
“He looked through the pile of papers and pulled out a sheet.
“‘All right, here you are. Both of you are on this list. Go ahead and look at it.’
“John and I were both listed as first engineers.
“‘Well, what do you think about your second engineer?’ I asked John.
“He said, ‘He won’t be worth a damn. I don’t want to be on any crew with him — what about you?’
“‘Look who they put with me! The lousiest gunner in the class at Vegas, and a screw-up along with it!’
“I turned to the chief clerk. ‘Could you — uh — accidentally switch names and put both of us on the same crew?’
“‘I guess I could — I doubt if anyone would notice it — but if I did …’
“‘If anyone did notice, it was only a typing error — right?’ I cut in, and we both took out a five-dollar bill.
“‘Sure. Just a typing error. These new clerks we got here are always goofing things up. Which one of you is going to be first engineer?’
“I said, ‘Want to flip for it?’ John won the toss and we slipped the chief the two fives.”
Chapter VI
Mission to Villacoublay
August 24 — Villacoublay
Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck
I was awake when I heard the Jeep outside. As usual, it took some effort to get Wilson out of bed, but the others were up quickly. At Operations, the sound from the Briefing Room were mixed, so I had no clear idea what to expect until the pilot arrived.
“Here’s the deal for today. We’re hittin’ an aircraft workshop factory at Villacoublay, which is south of Paris. The altitude will be twenty-five thousand and the temperature forty below. An escort of P-47s will go halfway to the target. You know that Jerry has his best fighter groups protecting the Paris area, so we can expect a hot reception. Keep a sharp lookout and start firing as soon as you can reach ’em — hammer at ’em all the way in — louse up their aim.”
I turned to Jim. “It’s gonna be a balmy day in th’ waist — only forty below. Imagine that!”
“Damn, I forgot my shorts!”
“I hope those red and yellow nose bastards don’t show today.”
“If they do, start prayin’,” Nick said.
“They’re no meaner than those checker-nose devils,” added Balmore.
No words could adequately express our admiration and appreciation for the American escort pilots. Few of us in the 8th Bomber Command would have escaped either oblivion or a prison camp in 1943 without their help. Bad news about crews we knew at Boise and Casper kept seeping through, which highlighted the fact that we had been lucky so far. So when I saw those escort fighters approaching, I said to myself, “Thanks for your help — I hope I see you at the pub tonight and can buy you a drink.”
George was back with us in the radio room and I felt better, because he was the best I knew at that position. Balmore had two phobias: one, aircraft fires; two, oxygen troubles — some of it purely imaginary. I knew in advance that on every mission he would find something wrong with his oxygen system.
Soon after takeoff Gleichauf went on intercom: “Pilot to crew — I forgot to tell you that we are the spare today. We will trail the formation at high left. If no one aborts before we reach the coast of France, we turn around and come home.”
The bomb load was thousand pounders, which I liked better than the five hundred pounders. They were heavy enough to fall out if the release shackles operated at all. Sometimes during that period bombs remained hung-up in the racks. Bomb-rack malfunctions were common with the E and F models but were rare with the later G models. When there was a hung-up bomb or two it was my signal to go into the high-wire bomb-releasing act on the ten-inch catwalk between the radio room and the rear cockpit door. Two vertical supporting beams halfway between the two doors restricted the walk-through space so severely that it was almost impossible to get through it wearing a parachute. So I had to work on the narrow walk without a chute; it was like a high-wire performer with no safety net. Oxygen supply was from an unreliable walk-around bottle good for four minutes with no bodily exertion or excitement that could double the need for oxygen. An oxygen failure on that open walk, with nothing below but five miles of air, was something I tried not to think about.
The formation came together on time and turned toward the English Channel. We were flying parallel to a higher group that was behind the 381st, so we could spot an abortion quickly. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of something white floating by. I whirled around too late to see what had happened. There was a parachute with no one in it. Pieces of wings, tails, and fuselages littered the sky. Where there had been several aircraft a moment before, there was nothing but empty space and falling debris. I caught a brief glimpse of one ship going down. The fuselage had torn off flush with the trailing edge of the wing. All four engines were still running and the ship was revolving rapidly, like the way a rectangular piece of paper will do when released in the air. It was a nauseating sight. Forty or fifty men were wiped out in a matter of seconds. I saw another ship emerge below in one of those flat, Flying Fortress spins. A B-17 when out of control often went into a shallow circling descent that was neither a dive nor a spin, as we normally use those terms. I saw it so often that I coined the word “flat spin” to describe it. My first reaction was that fighters had slipped across the Channel and jumped us from out of the sun when we weren’t expecting them. I searched the sky wildly for some sign of enemy aircraft, and noted other turrets doing the same thing.
“Copilot to Turret — do you see
any fighters?”
“No — nothing above us. It must have been an explosion.”
“Copilot to Navigator, did you see what happened?”
“No, I was looking to my left — didn’t see a thing ’til it was all over.”
“Copilot to Ball. Nick, what’s happening down below? How many planes were lost? See any chutes?”
“Air’s full of pieces and parts of planes! There were four or five that got it! All but one broke up. I see three chutes.”
“Oh, Lord! Five ships and only three chutes?”
“That’s all I see. They’re goin’ to land in the water, an’ the rescue boats are already headin’ out to pick ’em up.”
“Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew. Four or five ships were torn up, we don’t know why. Either an explosion or collision. Stay calm! It wasn’t caused by fighters.”
Whatever caused the tragedy, I wondered if it could have been avoided with better disciplinary control of the group. The puzzling part of the catastrophe was that we were flying very close to the planes that were lost, yet we had felt no concussion or unusual air currents. In a few minutes the remainder of that group aborted and returned to their base.
Ten minutes from the French coast, Shutting called the Pilot, “Paul, Paul!”
“OK — go ahead.”
“There’s a wing ship at three o’clock in the second element pullin’ out!”
“I see it.”
A few minutes later we dropped down into that vacant position. “Bombardier to crew — flak, nine o’clock low.”
“Flak, eleven o’clock high.” The fire was moderate and caused no damage. “Radio to Turret — Radio to Turret.”
“Go ahead.”
“Something’s wrong with my oxygen!”
“What’s th’ problem?”
“I don’t feel good.”
“Turret to Waist — Jim, go take a look at Radio’s regulator.”
Counce was back on intercom quickly. “Nothing’s wrong with your regulator, Radio. I think you imagine you’re not getting enough oxygen and are breathin’ too heavy. Relax! Breathe normally an’ you’ll be OK.”
“Tail to crew — escort catching up with us — high at six o’clock.”
“This is the Navigator — they sure look good to me!”
“Bombardier to crew! We’re gonna need ’em real quick. Bogies at eleven o’clock low, comin’ up!”
The P-47s had numerous clashes with F.W. 190s trying to get to the formation. I counted ten enemy craft that might have been shot down. I didn’t know for sure unless I saw a fighter explode or the pilot bail out. If any of them crashed, we were too far from the scene by that time to see the impact.
I wonder if there has ever been a sight — show or drama — as thrilling as watching a series of dogfights between good pilots, with all of them aware that death awaited the losers. It was such a fascinating sight I sometimes forgot briefly that I was a part of the drama. At times I almost felt like it was a highly realistic war movie in which I was a bit player.
“Navigator to Pilot — over.”
“Navigator to Pilot.”
“Navigator to Copilot.”
“Motion Paul to get on intercom.”
“Go ahead, Navigator, this is Paul.”
“Five minutes to the I.P.” (Initial point.)
“OK.”
Several minutes later Shutting called the pilot again. “There’s the I.P. down on the right, about one o’clock.”
“I see it — hard to miss the Eiffel Tower.”
“Navigator to Bombardier.”
“Go ahead.”
“On the bomb run in three minutes.”
“Ball to Copilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“Flak — six o’clock low.”
The Tail called, “Flak — five o’clock level.”
Wham!
That burst was mighty close! Then four more bursts — all close. The aircraft was now on the bomb run and had to fly straight and level. Another four bursts were so nearby I could hear the shell fragments strike the aircraft hard!
“Copilot to Waist.”
“Go ahead.”
“Anybody hurt back there? Any serious damage?”
“Some good-sized holes behind me — not serious — so far.
That flak battery of four guns had us in its sights and was bursting salvos all around us. Each salvo crept closer.
Bang!
The ship rocked and pitched from the concussion of the nearby shell explosion. They weren’t far off target — that was certain! I grudgingly acknowledged and admired the accuracy of those German gunners so far below. When I could hear the “whoosh” sounds of the shell bursts and see the orange flame in the center of the explosions, that told me they were getting much too close! For the second time German flak gunners had us so well targeted that they needed only one more very small correction to lay that salvo right on us.
“Bombs away!”
That was always sweet music to my ears.
“Radio to Bombardier.”
“Go ahead.”
“One bomb’s hung up in the bomb bay.”
“Turret to Bombardier — I’m goin’ back and try to release it.”
“Hold your position, Turret. We can’t drop that bomb ’til we get clear of French territory,” said the Copilot.
Recently a new ruling had been posted forbidding any plane to jettison bombs or equipment over occupied Europe. There was a left turn and a wide circle and we were heading back toward England.
“Ball to crew — three fighters four o’clock low — 190s, I think.”
“Copilot to Tail.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you see the fighters?”
“No, they’re outta my view.”
“Can Waist see the fighters?”
“Left Waist to Copilot — cannot see them.”
“Ball to Copilot — they’re comin’ up from underneath.”
I heard the ball gun open up with one heavy burst after another. In a little while the firing stopped.
“Tail to Copilot — I see those fighters now — they’re droppin’ down an’ away.”
“Tail, this is Nick. They changed their minds when four Balls opened up. I hit one of ’em real good. One broke off without firing.”
I expected a sharp clash with the red and yellow nose meanies near the target, but they failed to show. I knew we would meet them somewhere before long.
“Bombardier to Copilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“Fighters one o’clock high.”
“Navigator to crew — could be Spitfires — they’re due right away. Be careful!” The Spits looked like 109s at a distance.
As soon as we identified those sleek R.A.F. beauties, the ones mainly responsible for saving England from Goering’s bombers in the Battle of Britain, I felt certain we had no more worries about fighters for the day. The Spitfires were beautiful airplanes in the sky and deadly to tangle with. Their R.A.F. pilots were veterans of countless sky battles. The Spitfire was designed to meet German bomber attacks over England. They could land, rearm and refuel, and get back in the air rapidly for the next wave of bombers. Large fuel tanks were not needed and would have been a handicap for the fighting over Britain. The small fuel tanks, however, reduced their effectiveness as escort aircraft.
“Ball to crew — flak ten o’clock low.”
“Tail to crew — flak six o’clock level.”
It turned out to be light and inaccurate. The formation began a gradual letdown as soon as we neared the English Channel.
“Turret to Bombardier — I’m goin’ back and release that bomb.”
“OK — need any help?”
“No, don’t think so.”
On the catwalk I discovered with relief that the stuck bomb was in an easy position to reach. With a long screwdriver I tripped the shackle that held the bomb and it tumbled out. I watched until it struck the water with a gigantic splas
h, then returned to the cockpit.
“Turret to Bombardier. Bomb bay clear, you can raise doors.”
“Thanks, Turret — Bombardier to Radio.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are doors comin’ up?”
“Doors are up.”
The 381st didn’t lose a ship that day, but some other groups behind us caught it much rougher. There was a famous B-17 that took part in the raid on Villacoublay. The Memphis Belle was the first American aircraft to survive twenty-five missions. Its crew was the first combat crew on a B-17 to fly twenty-five missions over Europe. Director William Wyler’s 1944 documentary Memphis Belle was filmed partly in England. It played up the Villacoublay mission, and one scene showed wounded men being lifted from B-17s at the end of that raid. The movie helped to sell war bonds and became popular during the war period. The Memphis Belle and her crew flew back to the U.S. and toured the country in support of the War Bond Drive.
At interrogation many questions were asked about the horrible tragedy that wiped out four or five planes. The next day the official version was released. Two B-17s were caught in a propeller blast, due to a sudden shift of position of a lead ship. That meant the air turbulence, created by that unfortunate move, caused two pilots momentarily to lose control of their aircraft. I could visualize their frantic efforts to avoid a collision, and the helpless feeling they had as the wind blast forced them together. When they collided there was a violent explosion that wiped out two other aircraft close by.
On August 25 new B-17Fs with their crews arrived and were assigned to the 533rd Squadron. They were indeed welcome because the squadron was under strength, which kept all crews on constant battle call status. We were happy to see the new men, but even more delighted to get the new Fortresses, with their increased fuel capacity and better performance.
August 28
Carroll Wilson was the number-one goldbricker I knew in the Service, and I knew a lot of accomplished ones. But he had a redeeming quality to balance it. He had the natural ability to con people into things the rest of us could never have managed. In the States we would send him to the Orderly Room for passes because he rarely failed to talk them into it. But there was one incident in which Wilson was the principal actor that topped all of the ludicrous stunts I saw in my Air Force years.