Combat Crew

by John Comer

  “Well, I could try to operate the turret from the cabin oxygen hose … I couldn’t turn the turret much without unhooking the hose.”

  “Try filling the turret tank.”

  The same situation existed as had happened earlier. I jammed on a walk-around bottle and pounded it into position which saved the forward system pressure, but I could do nothing to keep the turret oxygen from spewing out. I quickly switched to the spare cockpit hose, but I could not turn the turret very much unless I dropped the hose. So when I had to meet fighter attacks I cut loose from the oxygen hose. When the attack was over, I dropped to the deck and re-engaged the oxygen hose before I lost consciousness. The supply of oxygen was barely adequate. I vaguely remember once when the intercom was blasting: “Get him, John! Top Turret! Top Turret! He’s comin’ in at twelve o’clock high. Shoot th’ sonnuvabitch!” With all that going on, I was half-conscious and strangely undisturbed. I didn’t give a damn if half the Luftwaffe was coming in as a unit! Lack of oxygen (partial anoxia) causes a curious mental sensation. The ability of the body to execute commands from the brain drops in proportion to the drop in the oxygen supply. Example: when off of oxygen one could not place the hand on the nose as directed; it might touch the left shoulder.

  “Copilot to crew — over France now, so we can’t get rid of those three hung-up bombs ’til we get to the Channel.”

  That meant carrying some extra weight we did not need, and to make matters worse, the bomb-bay doors had to be left down, causing an extra drag and higher fuel consumption. Bailout bottles were never intended for any use other than bailing out at very high altitudes. I usually carried five or six in my equipment bag for oxygen use if they should be needed. That day the extra bailout bottles saved several men. Three of them would have had to bail out or risk dying or suffering brain damage. The mission to Stuttgart was the only instance I know of where men at twenty-six thousand feet were able to retain consciousness with such crude equipment for an extended period. A valve had to be opened with each intake of breath and closed while exhaling. George made one bottle last for forty-five minutes.

  I got out of the turret long enough to look at the fuel gauges, then refigured our estimated consumption. “Turret to Copilot — it looks like we’re gonna shave it extra close on fuel. Depends on how much we got left when those gauges show empty.”

  “And that won’t be long!”

  “Pilot to Navigator.”

  “Go ahead, Paul.”

  “Why we swingin’ so far west?”

  “Don’t know — makes no sense to me … this headin’ will take us close to Paris,” Shutting answered.

  “Isn’t Paris out of our way?”

  “Hell, yes — it’s not the shortest route,” fumed Shutting. “They’re sittin’ up there in the lead plane with plenty of fuel, forgettin’ about us in these old planes with small tanks. Paul — my uniform stinks!”

  “I don’t give a damn about your uniform, Navigator. We got real problems — don’t they know some of us won’t make it if we go a hundred miles out of the way?”

  Wilson finished his last oxygen bottle and refused to leave his gun position. In a few minutes he collapsed. George brought him to and moved him forward to the radio room. It must be remembered to Wilson’s credit that in a very bad spot he was determined to do his job to the end.

  “Radio to Copilot — we’re down to th’ last of our oxygen — if you want us to bail out we got to do it before we all pass out.”

  “Hold it, George! I think the formation is going to let down to twenty-one thousand feet to save fuel,” Carqueville answered.

  At that altitude men would live, even if they passed out. Soon it was twenty, then nineteen, and at sixteen thousand the formation leveled off. The men were perfectly safe now. Jim had been off oxygen since he gave up his bottle to revive Wilson.

  “Copilot to Turret.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Pilots are calling the leader about runnin’ out of gas. We’re not the only one in trouble.”

  The intercom was silent for a while, then the Copilot called, “The fuel warning light for number-two engine just flashed on.”

  “And that’s Paris far off to our left,” the Navigator added.

  A fuel warning light meant that the engine tank had less than fifty gallons left. The normal cruising consumption of gasoline was about fifty gallons per hour for one engine. When holding in a formation the consumption increased due to some jockeying that was inevitable, but as soon as the formation began a gradual letdown the rate would drop considerably.

  “Copilot from Turret, when will they start to let down?”

  “Not much ’til we approach the Channel.”

  Ten minutes later: “There goes the last warning light!”

  “Pilot to Turret, you think we can make it over the Channel?”

  “Not unless we got a little more fuel than those gauges show. Some of the older E models have a slight reserve when they read empty. Let’s hope Tinker Toy is one of them. That’s our only chance of making it over the water.”

  “I think I can see the coast ahead about five minutes. All of our gauges are reading empty,” Carqueville interposed.

  “Ask the crew if any of them want to bail out now over land. We got some altitude to play with — our chances are about fifty-fifty of making it to an airfield on the English coast,” replied Gleichauf.

  All crew members elected to stay with the aircraft and take the risk; they knew that if we ran out of fuel and had to ditch without power, the chances of being able to set down on the water successfully were poor.

  As luck would have it that day, we could do nothing right and crossed where it was a wide stretch of water. Now Gleichauf could drop out of the formation and slow down. Three other B-17s pulled out and fell in behind us. They must have thought we had a definite English airfield in mind. We cut far back on power, using our ten thousand feet of altitude to drop slowly downward.

  “Pilot to crew — Pilot to crew. Jettison everything heavy — get those bombs out quick so we can raise the doors.” The ammunition was the first to go because it was heavy. Jim Counce picked up full boxes of fifty-caliber ammo and tossed them out of the window like they were matchboxes. He was that strong. Carqueville released the three bombs while I removed the turret guns and heaved them out. At last we could raise the bomb-bay doors that had been down since the bomb drop.

  “Pilot to Radio.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Stay in contact with Air-Sea Rescue frequency ’til we’re over land. Don’t know when these engines will quit.”

  “Radio to Copilot — lots of Forts calling Air-Sea Rescue — sounds like eight or ten will have to ditch.” (Land on the water.)

  “Tail to Navigator — those three B-l7s are still tailin’ us.”

  “Pilot to Navigator.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Pick the nearest English airstrip you can find on your chart.”

  “Can’t pinpoint where we are exactly — but there should be some airfields anywhere we hit the coast.”

  “Pilot to Bombardier. Soon as you can see the coast, watch for a place to land.”

  We were still letting down, drawing so little power that the engines were barely above idling R.P.M., and I expected them to quit at any moment.

  “Bombardier to Pilot — I can see the coast ahead, very faintly.”

  “Pilot to Navigator. Do you see an airstrip? Which way?”

  “Navigator to Pilot — don’t see any airfield. Never crossed the coast before without seeing two or three!”

  We had inadvertently picked out the only spot on the English coast, or so it seemed, that did not have a number of landing fields. It could not go on much longer. My mind was in turmoil: “These engines have to have gasoline to keep running and the tanks are down to fumes! Where are all of those landing strips I see every time we come over the English coast? Either we find one in a matter of minutes or we put this big airplane down in some farm
er’s backyard! We are too low to bail out! I hope all of us survive the crash landing, but that is not likely! Come on engines! Hang in there a little longer. There’s got to be a landing strip nearby. Where? There are a thousand airfields in England. Well, one way or another we’re going down in the next few minutes. There is no way this can go on!”

  “Navigator to Pilot! Look over to your left at ten o’clock. Isn’t that a small airfield?”

  “I see it! Thank God! We’re gonna make it! John, fire the emergency flare when we get close enough that they can see us comin’ in.”

  By that time I was at my usual low-altitude position — between and slightly behind the pilot and copilot. The flare would alert the airfield that we were landing without normal landing procedures. The copilot turned to me, “Pump any fuel we have left from number-two and number-three engines to number one and number four. We need one engine on each side for the approach.”

  I sucked the remnants in the inboard tanks to the outboard engines. As we slowly dropped down to the small runway I “ceased breathing,” hoping those two engines would not quit until we got near the short landing strip. “Keep going, engines! Just another thirty seconds! That’s all I ask — another thirty seconds. We almost got it made.”

  The wheels touched down and I resumed breathing. Gleichauf quickly braked the speed and pulled off the runway to let the trailing B-17s land. Then one of our two remaining engines quit! It was that close!

  We had landed at a small R.A.F. Spitfire base. Nick’s parachute silk was partially streaming out of the bomb bay and that drew a crowd right away. They probably thought someone was hanging on the end of the chute!

  I could not bounce back to normal all at once; far too much had happened in a short period of time. The hazardous experiences of the day had brought us perilously close to disaster. And now to be safe again was almost too much to take in. Slowly the tensions evaporated and my sense of well being returned.

  Some R.A.F. officers came out to invite Paul and his officers to their club. Gleichauf asked me, “Have you seen Shutting?”

  “No,” I said, “not since right after we landed.”

  It was odd that Carl could have vanished so quickly. I found him hiding in the tail. “Go on, John,” he said. “Act like you don’t see me.”

  “No, Gleichauf’s lookin’ for you — might as well come on out.”

  Carl had peeled off his outer coveralls, but it didn’t help much. He was right about one thing: he did stink! Off he went to where I presume he had a table to himself. True, his charisma that day left something to be desired, but he had lived through unbelievable hours in one of the storied Flying Fortresses of World War II, known as Tinker Toy. Nothing had gone smoothly or as planned that frantic September day for Carl R. Shutting. Yet there he was, alive and uninjured, and back on friendly soil. So what else really mattered? He could have his clothes cleaned.

  I never knew a mug of ale could taste so good! The English were very hospitable and wouldn’t let us pay for a thing. Meanwhile the ground crew found enough gas in five-gallon cans to get us back to our base. A little before sunset we took off for Ridgewell. At the 381st the men were surprised to see us, because we had been reported lost over France. A few more hours and all of our clothes and personal things would have been gone.

  We lost forty-five Fortresses and four hundred and fifty men (except those men who were picked up before dark by the Air-Sea Rescue people), on that poorly planned, poorly executed mission to Stuttgart. In addition to the heavy loss of lives and planes, a half million gallons of fuel (uselessly consumed) transported at high cost in men and materials across perilous sea routes, bristling with submarines. All for nothing! That was the worst waste of Air Force power that I saw in World War II. Far too much was risked on a paper-thin margin of fuel consumption. Seventeen B-17s8 went down in the Channel from lack of fuel, and we barely escaped being one of them. The excellent Air-Sea Rescue Service saved many of the downed men, but no figures were released on the exact number picked up from the water. I doubt if I will ever completely forget the anxieties and frustrations that besieged us during the raid on Stuttgart. The only thing we did right all day was to get back to England. The amount of damage to that weird aircraft was far below what Tinker Toy usually suffered on a combat mission. Was she a jinx plane? I don’t know. What we call a jinx must surely be a state of mind. Some 381st men said that they heard Lord Haw Haw (the German propaganda broadcaster) say that they were going to shoot down Tinker Toy. It was strange that he would know that aircraft by name and reputation. Did the enemy have some special vendetta for her that would explain her apparent attraction to the fighters?

  I have read no explanation of the unnecessary longer return route from Stuttgart, when so many of the aircraft were desperately short of fuel. It seemed to me that someone in command made an error in judgment, but then we were not privy to all the facts. There may have been good reasons, such as a large fighter force waiting for us on the more direct return route. The story of war is a mixture of good command decisions versus poor ones. On the whole, Bomber Command provided good leadership. Once in a while, like September 6, 1943, nothing went right. It must have been the bleakest day in General Eaker’s life. Fortunately for us, such days were rare in the air offensive over the Continent.

  It was on the Stuttgart raid that Carroll Wilson came of age. When the chips were down, he showed me special qualities that were impressive. He proved that he had courage beyond the ordinary. I had always felt that it was not a question of ability with Carroll — that he could do whatever he set his mind to do. After all, he was only twenty when he came with our crew, and he had some growing up to do.

  That night when the lights were out my mind slipped back to that frantic day in Nevada when I fired a gun from an airplane for the first time. Each gunner had to have at least eight percent hits on the tow target sleeve to qualify. Even on perfect shooting most of the projectiles will miss a small target when fired from a distance because of the spread-out shot pattern. The aircraft was a single-engine craft with two open cockpits. Before takeoff the pilot gave me his instructions:

  “When we get near the firing range I’ll give you five commands: One, hoist the ammunition can over the side an’ secure the gun — don’t drop that can! Two, feed the ammunition into the receiver. Three, hand charge. Four, fire until finished or I tell you to stop. Five, clear the gun and stow it. One more thing: keep your gunner’s safety belt fastened at all times ’cause it’s going to be real rough up there today.”

  All the way to the firing range I struggled feverishly with the safety belt. It was so tight that I couldn’t budge it, and was a foot and a half too short for me to stand up in the cockpit to fire. I had no microphone to tell the pilot, so it boiled down to working in that super-rough air without a safety belt, as risky as that would be. The intercom was impossible! All I could hear was loud babbles of static.

  “Squawk — awk — eek — ug — ”

  I supposed that was command number one. I lifted the heavy can of ammunition out into the slipstream and at that moment the aircraft lurched upward and I came close to dropping my ammunition. I hooked the can onto the gun and relaxed for a moment. That was a mistake! When I looked back at the can I was horrified to see the ammunition belt streaming rapidly out into the air! With a desperate lunge I caught the end of the belt — it was whipping and gyrating in the slipstream like a long, angry snake. I dragged it slowly back into the can and asked myself the question: “What in the hell ever made you think you wanted to be an aerial gunner?” I looked at the pilot’s mirror and he was shaking his head and frowning.

  Loud intercom static blasted my ears: “Squawk — eek — awk — ”

  I could not make out one word so I hooked the ammo belt into the receiver of the gun. It was one of the few things I did right all day — that is, it would have been right with the safety belt on. I was leaning out over the gun when the aircraft pitched violently downward and I was thrown up and almos
t out of the open cockpit. I could feel myself going overboard. I reached down frantically but was too high by that time to grab anything. At the last second one foot caught a projecting edge down below, and it was enough, but just barely, to make the difference. At that low altitude I wouldn’t have had time to find the ripcord of the parachute. Before my breathing returned to normal the intercom exploded again. I caught the word “charge” so I hand charged a round into the gun chamber ready for firing.

  More static: “Gurk — gook — awk.”

  That meant fire — but at what? More loud squawking and the wings shook violently! Where was the damn target? More static! Then I saw it — so far away it looked like a postage stamp. Did they expect me to hit anything that small and that far away, out of a bouncing airplane?

  My first burst was too high. Then the gun stopped! My mind went blank about gun stoppages. In the excitement I automatically hand charged and the gun resumed firing. That told me it was either a short round or a badly worn gun. In all, I had seventeen stoppages, and seriously doubted I had ever touched the target sleeve. Finally I stowed the gun in disgust! Instantly there was a furious babble of static. What was the pilot trying to tell me? Then I remembered! I had forgotten to clear the gun, and there was one live round left that could have killed someone on the ground! Pilots had the authority and the obligation to ground gunner candidates who were not suitable to handle weapons in the air. After my inept performance that day I thought he was likely going to wash me out on the spot. When we landed he took his time getting out of the front cockpit, and I cringed as he approached me.

  “You almost lost your ammunition two times! Your cockpit procedure was the worst I ever saw! You failed to clear the gun and could have killed someone! But, in spite of all that, I think you got some good hits on the target. Now tomorrow, calm down and you’ll be all right.”

  He started off, then turned back. “Sergeant, one time I saw you bounce too high. Your safety belt was much too long. That’s dangerous in rough air.”

  “Yes, Sir, it was — uh — too long. I’ll watch that next time.”