by John Comer
Waiting for the scores to be posted was agony. I hoped that I hit the target sleeve at least once. When nineteen percent was posted by my name — one of the highest scores of the day — I was stunned. I had lost seventeen percent of my ammunition because of rounds that wouldn’t fire, and still hit nineteen percent? That score triggered a transformation. I imagined myself an aerial Doc Holliday and swaggered a little on my way to the barracks — like I thought Doc would do.
September 7
The next morning it was great to awake at a reasonable hour and look forward to a day of unruffled simplicity. The morning after a rough raid I always felt in tune with the universe. I had once again thumbed my nose at the odds and was still there. Even the small, everyday tasks that might otherwise seem menial were pleasant to contemplate. It was good to polish shoes or do some routine repair on flying equipment. When one lives on the brink of extinction, his outlook on life undergoes a change, for he realizes that life is a fragile and precious gift. I had a full day at my disposal and I intended to enjoy every moment of it. Nothing was going to louse up my day!
Counce looked haggard when he got up and started dressing.
“How you feel?”
“Terrible! Got a bad headache.”
“You were off oxygen far too long yesterday.”
Surprisingly, at this early hour of the day, Wilson stirred and sat up. “Anybody got some aspirin? I’ve had an awful headache for hours.”
I handed him an aspirin bottle and a cup of water.
“It will probably take three or four aspirin to knock this one,” he said.
“No, don’t take more than two, Wilson. If that won’t do it, go see the Flight Surgeon.”
Jim said, “I hope this headache is the only damage I got from yesterday.”
“Have you noticed any dizziness?”
“No, just this blasted headache. Being out of oxygen was my fault … I should have had a bottle on hand and somethin’ to hammer it on with.”
“That’s ridiculous,” insisted Wilson. “How could you have known there was water in the oxygen system?”
“Well, I should’ve been ready for an emergency like that, and I wasn’t.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Jim, go ahead and blame yourself, but no one else does,” I answered.
Counce and Wilson took off for the base hospital, and I pedaled to Operations to do some work on my electric suit. I felt so good I was even glad to see Lieutenant Franek. To my surprise Carqueville was there, in animated conversation with Reese and Franek. I could tell he was pleased about something and wondered what was goin’ on.
“John, guess what?”
I waited for him to continue.
“I’ve been made first pilot again.”
“Hey! That’s great! When will you take over your crew?”
“Today! Believe me, I hope they give me some good men. I’m so used whatever is available from the spare gunners, navigators, and bombardiers … I’m gonna miss you, John, and Balmore and Jim.”
I deeply regretted that the relationship with Herb would be broken, but I was happy for him because I knew how much he wanted to get back to first pilot status. That evening we pedaled into Great Yeldham to celebrate Carqueville’s sudden elevation to first pilot position. Nearly all the crew went along. Balmore joined some villagers in a dart game. He was very good and could beat any of the crew with no effort. In fact, he could hold his own with the English who had played the game since childhood. Some of them were real experts. They arrived at the pub with their special dart cases, and had a great time competing with their friends and engaging in village gossip.
September 10
On a mission, the Navigator in the lead plane did the Group navigating. But if the formation broke up on the return, or we had to fall out of it to conserve fuel, Carl had to quickly pinpoint our position. With only an occasional glance at his charts, he wasn’t always able to recognize our exact position instantly. That’s where Balmore entered the picture. A good radio operator was priceless to a navigator. George could attempt either a position fix or a Q.D.M. A fix9 would provide Shutting with our latitude and longitude at a given time. A Q.D.M. would give him a compass heading directly to the radio station Balmore contacted. Either one would put the Navigator in excellent position to bring us over Ridgewell Airdrome even if the weather was foul.
A fix was a matter of triangulation — a known distance between two radio stations and two angles created by the angles of the radio beams reaching the two stations.
Chapter IX
Mission: Airfield in Belgium10
September 9 — Airfield in Belgium
Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck
Buck Rogers was back with us again and that made me feel better. I felt safer with Rogers in the tail than any tail gunner in the 381st. Raymond Legg, who had been flying in the tail while Buck was recuperating, was a nice kid. I liked Raymond, but Buck was the best I had seen in that position at that point.
Now that Carqueville was a first pilot with his own crew, Lieutenant John M. Kels, from Berkeley, California, was assigned as our copilot. He was easygoing and relaxed, quite a contrast to Gleichauf’s tense concentration. Kels was twenty-three years old, a large, well-proportioned man who made a good appearance. We could not expect him to be another Carqueville right off. It would take a while for him to know the crew, and what he could expect from each man. Kels was an excellent replacement and I had no doubts about him from the first mission with us.
There was an atmosphere of excitement at Operations. No one actually said what was about to happen, but it was hinted that something big — real big — was about to break. Gleichauf was visibly excited when he arrived at the aircraft. “The long-awaited invasion may be on this morning. They don’t say so for sure, but all crews are warned to make no comments on the intercom about anything they may see crossing the Channel. We will have an escort all the way in and out. The mission should be short. When we get back, leave your gun positions set up for another raid. Report to interrogation quickly and be ready for a second mission if they call it.”
Takeoff time was early. Before dawn the planes were lined up on the taxi strips. A night takeoff was a fascinating sight. The darkness was spotted with moving lights as the aircraft moved steadily into position. There were sudden stabs of bright illumination as pilots hit a landing light to help outline a tricky turn. The aircraft pulled up close together near the end of the runway and the throb of engines dwindled to a steady rumble. The lead ship was in place. One minute … two minutes … three minutes … there was the signal flare. Four engines opened up with a deafening roar. The ship trembled. Brakes were released and the aircraft sped down the runway appearing as a series of fast-moving lights, the turbo superchargers gleaming blue-white from the heat, an eerie glow under the wings. The next plane followed, then another. Eventually our turn came. When we pulled into place Kels put the cowl flaps in trailing position. On takeoff I stood between and slightly behind the pilot and copilot where I could see the instruments clearly. I did not get into the turret until we were nearing the Channel or North Sea.
“Tail wheel locked — light is out,” said the copilot.
Gleichauf glanced at me and I nodded. A last look at the controls and the four engines opened up. Paul held hard brakes until the engines reached full takeoff power of twenty-five hundred R.P.M.s.
“Brakes off.”
The ship lurched forward as the four engines grabbed the air — Paul jockeyed the throttles momentarily for control, then commanded, “Lock throttles!”
“Throttles locked,” replied the copilot moments later.
My eyes were glued to the engine instruments. They jumped rapidly from one engine to another until I was satisfied they were going to hold. Then a hasty look out of the right and left side windows at the gas tank vents. Sometimes they siphoned out fuel into the air on takeoff. Back to the instruments: still OK. I had time now for a fleeting look at the runway. By this time speed w
as coming up and I started calling out the air speed, “Sixty … sixty-five … seventy … seventy-five … eighty … eighty-five … ninety” so the pilots would not have to look at the airspeed indicator.
Gleichauf pulled back the wheel and released it, starting a series of gentle bounces that would tell him when there was enough lift on the wings to pull the plane into the air.
“Ninety-five … one-hundred … one-oh-five …”
The aircraft lifted smoothly from the runway. “Wheels up.”
“Wheels coming up,” responded the copilot.
“Hundred and ten … hundred and fifteen …”
The aircraft was gathering speed. We hit some propeller wash from a preceding aircraft and there was a risky moment or two. Kels said. “Wheels are up — lights out.”
“Hundred twenty … hundred twenty-five …” I relaxed because there was nothing to worry about for the present. It was still dark but in the east there was a faint hint of dawn. Far ahead were lights we must follow carefully. Gradually darkness gave way to predawn light. The Squadron formed in proper order, ready for Group rendezvous. I was keyed up for this raid, expecting big things to open up. After the climb to high altitude we headed out to sea toward the target. I suspected that the object of the raid was not so much bombing damage to a target as a diversionary action to draw off enemy air interference with the naval craft if indeed the invasion was underway.
“Navigator to Bombardier.”
“Go ahead.”
“Look at all those ships.”
“Pilot to crew — Pilot to crew, make no comments about anything you see below. Sometimes intercom talk leaks through to Jerry.” (By freak electronics.)
Sure enough, ships were strung out in a long line from the British coast halfway across the Channel. It looked like the invasion was on, but I could hardly believe we were strong enough then for an all-out attempt against the Continent. It was an exhilarating view, but I had to cease sightseeing and turn my attention to the business at hand.
“Navigator to Pilot! Navigator to Pilot!” Kels motioned to Gleichauf to switch to intercom.
“This is the Pilot.”
“Enemy coast in five minutes.”
“Pilot to crew — keep alert.”
“Bombardier to crew, oxygen check.”
“Tail, rajah.”
“Ball, OK.”
“Radio, rajah.”
“Turret, OK.”
“Cockpit, OK.”
“Ball to Copilot-Ball to Copilot.”
“Go ahead, Ball.”
“Flak, eleven o’clock low.”
Boom! A real close one! I heard fragments strike the aircraft hard, but could see no damage from my position.
“Copilot from Ball.”
“Go ahead Ball.”
“Sir, I am wounded.”
There was a momentary lag on the intercom. I was not certain I had heard Nick correctly.
“Copilot to Ball, will you repeat that?”
“Sir, I am wounded.”
We never used the word “sir” on the intercom and Nick seldom used it on the ground unless a high-ranking officer was present. What induced Nick to become so formal when he was wounded? Kels motioned Gleichauf to get on intercom. “Nick was hit by that heavy burst of flak.”
“Pilot to Ball — Pilot to Ball! Where were you hit? How bad is it?”
“Got me in the leg an’ foot. Goin’ numb, but hurting some.”
“Can you move your foot?”
“I can move it OK.”
“We are just now enterin’ enemy territory. Think you can stay on the guns until we get back over water? It won’t be long.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Good! We’ll get you out of the ball as soon as we’re back over water.”
“OK, Pilot — I can make it.”
“Radio to Ball, turn your heated suit up high to hold down shock.”
“OK.”
“Bombardier to Ball, use pure oxygen, Nick. We got plenty today.”
“OK, Bombardier.”
“Pilot to Ball, if you start feeling dizzy let us know an’ we’ll get you out of there quick.”
“OK — I’ll make it.”
“Navigator to Bombardier. There is the I.P. — be on the bomb run in five minutes.”
“Waist to Turret.”
“Go ahead, Waist.”
“Number-three engine is throwin’ a little smoke.”
“OK, Jim.”
“Turret to Copilot — is number three on auto lean?”
“No, it was runnin’ a little hot, so I put it on auto rich.”
“Suggest put it back on auto lean and open cowl flaps enough to keep it about two fifteen [215 degrees cylinder head temperature].”
A few minutes later the Waist called, “Number three has quit smoking.”
“Good! Remind me to tell the crew chief when we get back.”
“Bombardier to Pilot — we’re on the bomb run.”
“Tail to crew. Flak five o’clock low.”
“Waist to crew, flak three o’clock low.”
The flak was mild and not very accurate, which was welcome to me, and no fighters were in sight, which was unusual.
“Bombs away.”
I felt the load drop off and the aircraft surge slightly upward.
“Radio to Bombardier, bomb bay clear.”
“OK, Radio, doors coming up.”
“Doors are up.”
“Pilot to Ball — Pilot to Ball.”
“Go ahead.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Foot’s hurtin’ worse. Get me out soon as you can.”
“We’ll have you out in a few minutes now.”
“Bombardier to Radio, get the blanket ready to wrap up Nick when we get him in the radio room.”
“Bombardier to Ball, I’ll be back as soon as we leave the coast and help you out of the ball. I can see the coast up ahead now.”
The fighter escort was perfect. No enemy planes were sighted. Flak was meager. Nick was unfortunate to catch a flak fragment from the only burst that was close to us. The formation began letting down and Purus went back to help Nick, who was in pain but not enough to justify a morphine shot. Purus decided it would be best to leave the foot and leg wrapped in blankets and not try to bind the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. It was much too cold to expose the foot to outside air temperature. All they could do for Nick was keep him warm and as comfortable as possible. Gleichauf broke from the formation to get fast medical help for Nick. At lower altitudes the intercom was unneeded in the cockpit. Paul turned to me. “Fire a red flare on the approach.”
When I was sure they could see it, I fired the flare that signaled wounded man aboard. Shortly afterward I saw an ambulance head for the taxi strip we were expected to use.
As soon as the aircraft stopped Nick was lifted gently onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. As it pulled away I had a depressed feeling. I had come to admire Nick. He was a brash young man, but he had been a mainstay down in the ball, where none of the rest of us would have ventured by choice. It took a special kind of man, with a tough mental attitude, to handle the anxieties of that position amid the bursting flak. Herb Carqueville was waiting when we climbed out of the ship and very much upset about Nick. Captain Ralston, the Flight Surgeon, was also there. I knew Nick would get the best of care and treatment.
At interrogation we learned nothing more about the ships we saw in the Channel. Orders were to leave the guns mounted in the aircraft and stand by for the possibility of another mission. It never came. All afternoon we stayed close to the radio waiting for a news flash. Not a thing was said about an invasion. The next morning newspapers carried a story of an invasion rehearsal — no doubt a part of the continuous effort to confuse the enemy as to when and where the invasion would come. The code name for the exercise was “Starkey.”
I had serious reservations about the ethics of dropping bombs on the Occupied Countries.
All of us understood the necessity of destroying submarine pens, harbor facilities, and war plants. But the civilian population of Belgium and Holland were caught between the grinding forces of two ruthless military machines. Make no mistake about it — the Allies were ruthless and had no hesitation to sacrifice innocent people to achieve military objectives. Did the bomber crews have any accountability for raining death from the skies on helpless populations who had nothing to do with starting the war? Edward Cayce, the noted psychic reader, is reputed to have been able to describe the events of previous lifetimes by some psychic ability to read directly from the pages of what he called the “Akashas Records.” I prefer to think that no such celestial archive exists. Nevertheless, I was bothered by my part, as insignificant as it was, in the impersonal fury of destruction poured down on Europe from above. And I think that most of the men who manned the bomber crews were uneasy whether they admitted it or not.
Across Europe the portraits and statues of military commanders look down from positions of honor. Their names and deeds have been encased in a mantle of glory. But war is not glorious — or noble. War is incredible brutality and inhumanity beyond description. Too soon the cruelty and terror of the campaigns are forgotten. The faces of the conquerors hang alongside the portraits of saints and are only a little less honored.
September 11
During the early part of September the 8th Air Force was reorganized. General Carl Spaatz assumed command of all American Air Force operations in Europe. Then Major General Ira Eaker moved up to command the 8th Air Force. The 8th Bomber Command was put under General Frederick Anderson. The rest of the command shaped up as follows:
First Division Brig. Gen. Robert Williams
Second Division Brig. Gen. James Hodges
Third Division Brig. Gen. Curtis LeMay
Divisions were increased on paper to four wings, each composed of three combat Groups. The combined strength was to be built up to that structure in the immediate future. Such plans would mean larger formations and improvement in the odds for survival for each man. Whether the buildup would take place soon enough to be of any help to me was yet to be determined. The casualty rate was so high at that period that even large numbers of new crews and aircraft would build up the force less rapidly than expected.