Combat Crew

by John Comer

  “Now wait, George Reese is your friend and he’ll see that you get on decent crews.”

  “But you and Jim will go back to the States and we will get separated an’ you know what that means.”

  “You’re probably right,” Counce added, “but I know the three of us will keep in touch and get together now and then after the war is over.”

  December 18

  Three days earlier Carroll Wilson had been on a rough raid with another crew and he suffered internal injuries from the banging around in the waist caused by the pilot taking severe evasive action to blunt the effectiveness of fighter attacks. In spite of his goof-offs, which were legion, he was a likable youngster with good potential. All he needed was some responsibility to bring out his merit. When the going was extra tough, Wilson reached back into the reserve that some people are born with and came up with whatever was needed for the day to see it through. Compared to that, what else really mattered? He was transferred to a recovery hospital at another base and it was depressing to see him go. I knew there was a good chance I would be gone from Ridgewell before he returned.

  Chapter XXI

  Mission to Bremen

  December 20 — Bremen

  Aircraft 730

  Harold Harkness was back with us in the ball turret after recovering from the painful glass in his eye injury. It was good to have a competent man watching things below the aircraft. Raymond Legg was grounded, due to burns suffered when he became unconscious for too long in the tail. Wineski, a member of the Free Polish Air Force, was with us on the tail guns. He had escaped from Poland when the Germans invaded his country and joined the R.A.F. for a while before he was transferred to the American Air Force. He was an experienced gunner and we were glad to have him. La Buda was on the left waist guns taking Wilson’s place.

  The aircraft lifted from the runway at eight-thirty, just as dawn was breaking. Shutting called the Copilot. “Did you ever see a more beautiful sunrise?”

  Before he could answer Gleichauf cut in, “Keep the intercom clear — no personal conversation.”

  “Navigator to crew — Navigator to crew, the altitude today will be twenty-nine thousand, five hundred feet and the temperature will be sixty below. Watch yourselves for frostbite.”

  It turned out to be the coldest temperature I have ever had to endure. At nine-thirty we went on oxygen and the long climb began. At ten-thirty the Wing headed over the North Sea toward Germany. The target was Bremen again, with that awful flak. When I saw the coast approaching, I called the Navigator. “What is our altitude and temperature?”

  “We are at twenty-seven, five hundred and the temperature gauge is against the stop — low as it can register — sixty-two degrees below.”

  “Navigator, how cold is that on the Fahrenheit scale?”

  “About eighty below — an’ we got another two thousand to climb. It’s goin’ to be between eighty and ninety below Fahrenheit at our top altitude — real balmy — you can take off your shirt and get a good suntan in the turret.”

  “Turret to crew, at this temperature if any of your electric units go out, it will take heavy exercise to keep from freezing, so watch it.”

  “Bombardier to crew, we’ll take more frequent oxygen checks today.”

  Fifteen minutes into Germany Purus came on intercom: “Oxygen check — report in.”

  “Turret an’ cockpit OK.”

  “Radio, rajah.”

  “Ball OK.”

  “Navigator OK.”

  “Waist OK.”

  “Bombardier to Tail — come in.”

  “Bombardier to Tail — Bombardier to Tail — report in.”

  There was no response. “Bombardier to Waist.”

  “This is Jim, go ahead.”

  “Go back and check out the Tail.”

  “Rajah, will do.”

  Counce snapped his mask into a walk-around bottle, picked up a reserve constant-flow oxygen container and headed for the tail. Jim found Wineski passed out and immediately started working on him. Then his own regulator froze and cut off his oxygen supply. The demand-type regulator was supposed to be impervious to freezing at any temperature, so Jim thought his mask had frozen and hastily went through the procedure to clear a frozen mask. By that time he was too far gone and collapsed on top of the tail gunner. La Buda, the other waist gunner, could not see into the Tail with Jim blocking the view.

  “Bombardier to Waist, what is Counce doing? Everything OK?”

  “Something is wrong back there! Counce is not moving — repeat — Counce is not moving!”

  “Waist! Get back to that Tail quick an’ revive those men.”

  “Radio!”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Take over the waist guns and let us know what is happening back there.”

  Three to five minutes went by and a frantic Balmore called, “Bombardier! Bombardier! La Buda just passed out an’ fell on Counce. For God’s sake, send John back there quick! I don’t know what to do. Don’t let these men die!”

  “I’m on my way, Radio. Calm down and keep your mask clear of ice. We can’t have another man down.”

  “Pilot to Copilot, get in the turret until John gets back.”

  My mind was in a turmoil. I kept asking myself, “What is happening in that tail that has knocked out three experienced men? Anything different today from other days? Yes, the temperature. But that shouldn’t cause major trouble. The demand regulators are not affected by low temperature.20 But what if the regulators are freezing?” Those thoughts raced through my mind as I got out of the turret and plugged into a walk-around bottle. Instantly my oxygen failed. Hastily I switched back to the turret hose and tapped the walk-around bottle several times hard with a heavy screwdriver. I switched back to the bottle and it worked. So that was the problem! The demand regulators were freezing.

  “Turret to crew — Turret to crew — listen carefully. The demand regulators are freezing! Repeat: The demand regulators are freezing! If it happens to you, tap the regulator several times with anything handy, screwdriver works fine.”

  Grabbing four or five bailout bottles and two walk-arounds, I went aft as rapidly as possible. I kept telling myself, “You must not make any mistakes — if you do some people are going to die — watch what you are doing — no mistakes — .”

  I heard the nose and turret guns chatter over and over. “All right, keep your mind on what you’re doing. Forget the fighters.” George was slowly going insane with three men needing help so badly. He had the mental ability to know that if he rushed back to the tail, there would be four men unconscious in short order. When he saw me he was like a man reprieved. I could see a change come over him as he regained his mental composure.

  When I reached the tail, La Buda had to be revived first to get him out of the way so I could get to the other two men. Both of their faces were black as coal. The tail gunner looked like he was dead and Jim looked almost as bad. I poured oxygen down La Buda continuously until his color returned and he revived enough for me to clear his regulator and readjust his mask. With La Buda on his feet and helping, we pulled Jim out to where I could get to him. He was awful to look at. The unreal blackness of his usually pale face was terrifying. I had never seen a person off of oxygen that long at thirty thousand feet. “Oh, God,” I whispered as a stream of oxygen coursed down his throat, as much as I felt he could stand, “let him come back — please! Don’t let him die!” When I saw the first signs of color returning, I felt a surge of joy. He was going to make it! As soon as he came to enough to move, we got his mask in position and his regulator working. I sent La Buda to help Jim back to the waist and turned hurriedly to Wineski. There was no doubt in my mind that the tail gunner was dead. His face was coal black, like something out of a bad dream. He was not breathing, because the slightest breath could be seen in that intense cold, and he had already been off of oxygen longer than the medics told us a man could continue to live at thirty thousand feet.

  La Buda returned and h
elped me pull him out of the cramped tail space. Hopeless or not, I had to make every conceivable effort to revive him. I rammed a tube down his throat and injected extra-heavy doses of oxygen for a full minute with no success. I knew that if he had the slightest chance it would require some desperate measures! I increased the oxygen pressure, deliberately running the risk of serious if not fatal injury. Those bottles held eighteen hundred pounds of pressure and too much could have ruptured his lungs. It seemed to me that the risk was necessary. That went on for another minute and I had given up all hope when I had a vague feeling of slight movement. At first I thought it was my imagination playing tricks. No! He did move! I was sure I felt something. Then there was a sharp twist of his left leg, and there was no longer any doubt. The man was going to revive. I would not have given him one chance out of a hundred a few minutes earlier. The color slowly returned to his face and I reduced the amount of oxygen and timed the intakes to coincide with my breathing rate. It was a great feeling to see a man return from what I believed to be death. When his color became normal I began working on his regulator with my free hand, while continuing to keep oxygen flowing with the other. Physically, he was coming along well, but I could see from the wild look on his face that he was mentally disoriented. I hoped that it was not a matter of brain damage. Suddenly he drew back his fist and struck me hard on the jaw. I failed to see the blow coming and it knocked me backward and my head hit a metal joint so hard that for a couple of minutes I was mentally out. Counce, who by now was fully recovered, ran back and straightened my mask and helped me up. Meanwhile, Wineski had passed out again when he lost the oxygen I had been feeding him. We got his mask in place and the regulator working normally and watched him closely until sure that his brain was once again functioning. In another five minutes he was back on the tail guns, OK as far as I could determine.

  The aircraft was bouncing around so I knew we must be in the middle of the flak. I hoped we were past the target and would quickly get out of the antiaircraft gunners’ range. I was working my way forward carrying an armload of empty oxygen containers. To enter the radio room from the waist one used the top of the ball turret as a step because it was directly in the way. Harkness chose that exact moment to whirl the ball around. Both feet went out from under me and I took a nasty fall. The worst part was that two of the heavy cylinders bounced into the air and struck me on the head with stupefying force as I lay prone on the deck, feeling like a losing fighter just before the referee stops the fight. Two knockout blows in ten minutes — it was not my day!

  When I climbed wearily into the turret we were past the target on the way home. I knew from the sounds of gunfire that there was a brisk battle while I was in the tail. The report said that sixty fighters jumped us and I missed the action. The only good thing about the mission was that I did not have to look at the detestable flak over the city of Bremen.

  “Radio to Turret.”

  “Go ahead, George.”

  “It was close. You got back there just in time. Little longer, an’ both Jim and Wineski would have been gone. Right?”

  “Yes, it was close for Wineski. He was partly inside the Pearly Gates — or that other place.”

  “Tail to Turret, was it that close?”

  “At first I did not have any hope you would come out of it — how are you feeling?”

  “OK, except for a bad headache.”

  “Navigator to Turret, Tinker Toy got it while you were in the tail.”

  “Was it flak or fighters?”

  “A 109 slammed into her waist and both ships went down locked together, turning end over end.”

  “It’s hard to believe. I thought Tinker Toy would always make it back.”

  “Turret to Navigator, were we supposed to have P-38s on the return?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t show.”

  A strong headwind was slowing down the return.

  “Bombardier to crew, fighters at twelve o’clock low.”

  The enemy made two passes and vanished without doing any damage.

  “Tail to crew, that B-17 strugglin’ behind the formation is about to get it — four fighters are ganging up on her.”

  I turned around to watch that Fort put up a furious battle and hold off the attackers. I believe it was the only time I ever saw a B-17 survive a fight with that many interceptors. The American papers were full of stories about wounded Fortresses holding off ten or fifteen fighters. Most of those stories were purely imaginary. In the real life of combat over the Continent, it simply did not happen against experienced fighters.

  Halfway across the North Sea the tail gunner reported, “Lone 109 closin’ fast from the rear.”

  “What is he goin’ to try?” asked the Bombardier.

  “Don’t know — but he’s goin’ around to our left.”

  That audacious fighter pilot pulled ahead of the formation circled to eleven o’clock, and with guns blazing whipped straight at us.

  “Navigator to crew, look at that bastard — did you ever see such guts?”

  What did a military formation do to a gallant airman blithely taking on deadly odds? The book said shoot him down, but that went against the grain of American admiration for courage beyond the ordinary. And in a hopeless cause. We easily could — and perhaps from a military point of view should — have destroyed that fighter. But there was some chivalry left in the American makeup. Without a word of consultation with each other, all of our gunners came up with the same decision: They held their fire. The formation opened up to let him blaze through. How could we kill a man with such foolhardy courage? It is seldom that men see an example of pure nobility. That German expected to die on his assault. It was foolish of course but, like the British cavalry’s “Charge of the Light Brigade,” it was a thrilling spectacle to watch.

  Landing time was three P.M. and I was saddened to learn that a top turret gunner died during the mission from oxygen failure. Bomber Command listed twenty B-17s lost to fighter attacks. I saw little of the action so could not judge if the loss was excessive.

  Jim Counce sustained a frozen hand when he removed a glove to try to clear ice he thought was in his mask. The damage was severe and it was certain that he would be grounded for several weeks to a month. He was depressed when he found out about the damage, because it meant that he would be grounded for an extensive period and would drop far behind in his missions.

  December 21

  After Jim left for Braintree Hospital, I felt lost and depressed. We had been together so long — well, not that long by the calendar, but so much had happened in those eleven months that it seemed more like years.

  “George, I hated to see Jim leave. I may be finished and gone before he gets back to Ridgewell.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. The doctors told Jim his hand is in bad shape. You know, there is a chance it will have to be amputated.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Jim told me last night after they finished examining the hand.”

  “It’s not gonna be the same, with him gone, in this hut.”

  “Before long, John, I’ll be the only one left in this hut out of the two crews. You an’ all the rest will get through before me. How many missions you need now?”

  “Four. Shutting needs four, and Purus needs three. Don’t know about Gleichauf. I think he needs either two or three.”

  “It will be lonesome around here when all of you guys are, gone. Cahow’s men will be finishing too, but I’ll be here with a hut full of new gunners.”

  Later that day I went to the flight line to do something to 719 and passed by the empty hardstand where Tinker Toy had been parked since the 381st arrived at Ridgewell. At times I had imagined that she thumbed her nose at me as I pedaled by her when I was new to the base. She seemed to say, “Another one of those screwed-up gunners they send over here to ruin good airplanes like me.” Her end was as weird and spectacular as her reputation. A ship with such a bloody and storied record could not have had an ordinar
y ending like other airplanes. The Copilot saw her go. “That fighter spun out of control. It hit Tinker Toy in the waist just behind the ball — it went halfway through her like a giant arrow! They tumbled end over end — I saw flame and about a thousand yards down she exploded and I could see metal and bodies all over the sky.”

  The stars were out that night. I liked that very much because it meant a hard freeze and out of the mud for at least two or three days. Also, it sent a message to the combat crews: Get ready for a mission in the morning. With that in mind I set out my mission clothes and equipment. Most combat men developed superstitions about clothes or some special talisman they always carried on a raid. I remember one gunner who wore the same coveralls each trip and refused to have them washed. Somehow the unwashed coveralls had become his security blanket.

  After turning in, I lay in the sack and let my mind replay the events of the last six months. There was one strange thing I had problems understanding. In that cold, damp climate, and many hours at extreme altitudes and temperatures, I had been remarkably healthy. There had been no colds or sinus difficulties such as I had expected. Barring a hangover I awoke each morning feeling exceptionally good.

  Chapter XXII

  Mission to Osnabrück

  December 22 — Osnabrück

  Aircraft 419

  Pitts was the first man up when the call came, “Aw right! Get outta that sack. This is Cahow’s twenty-fifth.”

  Tedesco muttered, “He’s been so nervous all week that I hope he doesn’t screw up something today.”

  “That’s not like Cahow,” I said. “I remember how cool he was on the raid to Schweinfurt.”

  Green added, “When they get down to one or two they all start to sweat — they’ve seen too many blow it at the end.”

  “After this run, five or six of us are goin’ to start sweating,” Pitts remarked.

  George waited to pick up the sounds from the Briefing Room so I could go on to the aircraft. We were flying a ship I knew nothing about. When I unloaded at the aircraft I asked the crew chief, “Does 419 have any peculiarities I ought to know about?”