Combat Crew

by John Comer

  I heard a loud crashing noise on the right wing. A heavy fragment struck it under a main fuel tank.

  “Turret to Ball — do you see any serious damage like a fuel leak?”

  “No — nothing that amounts to anything.”

  Flak struck the armor plate that Balmore was standing on and knocked him to one side. A few seconds later a fragment caromed off the rim of the radio hatch a few inches from his head.

  “Radio to Copilot — they’re dustin’ me off from two sides — that last one missed my head by two inches.”

  Four pieces of large shrapnel smashed through the cockpit to my rear with a fearsome noise. I turned around to look for damage and another piece whistled by my ear; it slammed up from below, went through the turret, and out the top, sounding like a cannon exploding when it pulverized the plastic glass above me. Fortunately, I had on sunglasses. One lens was broken and the other scarred by the flying glass fragments.

  “Copilot to Turret — are you OK.”

  “I’m OK.”

  Bam! A huge chunk struck where number-two main tank was located. I held my breath for several seconds waiting for the telltale signs of fire.

  “Copilot to Ball — can you see sign of a fuel leak?”

  “No — I guess we are lucky.”

  “Sometimes they self-seal an’ sometimes not.”

  Wineski was on his twenty-fifth mission and it was almost his last day again. Big hunks of flak tore by him so close they damaged his clothes.

  “Bombardier to Pilot — we’re not going to drop — a small cloud has the target covered — we’ll have to do a one-eighty and come back over it.”

  “I wish that we could get out of this damned flak,” Gleichauf muttered.

  The second bomb run was better, although I did not know what the target was. My concern was that fighters would arrive if we stayed around too long. But once the bombs were released, we were quickly over the Channel on the way home and raid number twenty-three was tucked away.

  The remnants of Cahow’s crew were with Schultz on our right. They picked up two hundred holes. We had only fifty-five, but many of ours were exceptionally large for flak shrapnel and in vulnerable spots.

  Bill Kettner and Ray Bechtel finished their twenty-five that day. What a great Christmas present for them! No question but that tension was mounting more than I expected. How could I suppress it knowing that so many good men had failed at the finish line? The question kept coming back: Was it purely coincidence? No doubt it was, but at the time imagination, frustration, and superstition allowed phobias to build up.

  Recently two men were reputed to have predicted their own deaths with accuracy. What mental processes were involved that defy rational understanding? There must be undiscovered capacities of the brain that perhaps someday we will understand. But how did they know what was coming for them? It is possible that many men made such predictions in error. When one of them turned out to be correct, it attracted intense interest. But such instances were bewildering and unsettling. They were shocking and the mind groped for a reasonable explanation. The recognitive phenomenon confused and fascinated at the same time.

  My experience was in the opposite direction. I had tried to psyche myself to help provide a basis for courage that might otherwise have been lacking. I just somehow knew — or made myself think I knew — that I would make it through the war. I felt that if I had to jump, I knew parachutes well enough to make it down safely. I was confident that if I could avoid capture upon landing I could make it back to Allied territory because I had some familiarity with European customs.

  December 25

  Christmas Day! It turned out wet and foggy, so no missions were planned. All day the station loudspeaker resounded with Christmas music, but the best thing for me was the return of Jim Counce. His hand turned out to be better than first expected. Jim was depressed because the rest of the crew was getting ahead of him and would be breaking up after one more raid by Gleichauf.

  My wife, Anne, had sent a full-sized fruitcake loaded with nuts in a tin container with the lid soldered. There was no other way a cake could have made the trip. Whatever food goodies came from home were shared with the others in the hut. That cake was the big event of the day.

  While we were opening packages I heard some unusually loud profanity from Woodrow Pitts’s corner. When it died down he sputtered in a rage, “Look what my aunt sent me — a five-pound can of Spam!”

  The day before, several men not on the battle order for the day went into Cambridge on the supply truck and brought back large sacks of ale and hard cider bottles from one of the wholesale liquor houses. So mostly that day we sat around the little stove, drank ale, and listened to Christmas music on the radio. And of course talked about the raids. We could never stay off of that subject very long. Late that night the president’s Christmas message was rebroadcast: It was a typical Roosevelt speech, with his magnetic warmth and assuring us that right would prevail over tyranny.

  Bill Kettner and Ray Bechtel spent the day packing and giving away accumulations too bulky or heavy. They had sold their bicycles and we refunded their share of the radio. Whoever took their bunks would have to cough up part of the common ownership of the radio. Watching them, I realized that two more missions would put me in the same position. I had seen Gleichauf that morning and he was noticeably nervous and tense.

  Christmas Day 1943 was the most somber one I can remember. Mostly the men were withdrawn, lost in memories of happier times. Americans were asked to stay off of the trains and public transportation facilities during the season so that the English soldiers and war workers would have an easier time getting home for a few hours. It was a reasonable request because we had nowhere special to go.

  December 26

  Weeks ago huge boxes were placed in the Post Exchange and other spots about the base for men to drop in candy or presents suitable for the English children who could expect little for Christmas. I watched men file by and drop all of their P.X. rations of candy and chewing gum, which the children loved, into the boxes. Many of the English youngsters had no recollection of prewar days. I was on a mission when the party for the nearby village kids was given. Trucks brought them to the base. Jim was there and told us about it. “You should’ve seen those kids. When they saw the candy and chewing gum and other things, they squealed and danced with joy.” Many of them had never seen such an abundance of goodies. At least we did one thing right during Christmas week.

  December 29

  Bechtel, Cahow, Bell, and Wineski left that day for transportation to the United States. It was my impression that Wineski, a citizen of Poland, was being granted special status for American citizenship because of his service in the Allied and American Air Force. He deserved it but almost did not survive to make it two times I knew of. He would be an asset to our country — no question about that. We shook hands and said the usual things about keeping in touch.

  The weather was decent enough the last two days but I was bypassed. The main thing now was to get those last combat missions over with. But the pace seemed to have slowed down recently. That day General Doolittle succeeded General Eaker as Commander of the 8th Air Force. Although it was unfair to the new Commander, the news was received with misgivings. All we knew about Doolittle was the raid on Tokyo that seemed to us like a publicity stunt, with the certain loss of aircraft and men not remotely justified by the insignificant damage one such puny raid could inflict.

  Chapter XXIV

  Mission to Ludwigshaven

  December 30 — Ludwigshaven

  Aircraft 730

  The call was welcome because I was anxious to put the last two missions behind me. I looked outside and said, “You won’t believe this — it’s clear outside. We’re going to get in a mission today.”

  Jim raised up in his bed and said wistfully, “I wish I was goin’ with you — hell, I don’t know when they’ll turn me loose to fly again.”

  “Just two more, Jim, two more an’ my war is
over.”

  Counce could have stayed in bed, but he got up and went out to the airplane with us. It was a habit hard to break.

  When Gleichauf arrived, he gave us the pertinent information. “It’s Ludwigshaven! We’re goin’ for the I.G. Farben Chemical Works. You know what the flak will be. We could draw two hundred fighters but there will be three groups of escorts — Spitfires goin’ in — P-38s over the target-and P-47s comin’ back — you all know this is my twenty-fifth so don’t screw up on anything today.”

  I could tell Paul was nervous because he was easily irritated. It was harder to tell about Purus. He was so much the same day after day. I will wager be had spent some sleepless nights in the last week.

  Shutting turned to Purus, “If those Jerries intend to hit your ass they better get with it. I hear they have been putting in special gunnery practice this week. They know it’s your last mission.”

  “You’ve only got two to go — who are you goin’ to give your special testicle armor to?”

  “Some Navigator who don’t want his voice to change suddenly.”

  The first streaks of dawn lighted the horizon as the ships took to the air and the sunrise was beautiful. Thirty minutes later the formation began to climb up to high altitude. My mind tried to cover all possibilities. “We must be careful! Watch what you are doing. Above all else don’t let any Jerry fighters slip in on us out of the sun — you know how many men have been lost on their twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth — but I’m different — I’m going to make it — I can feel it — yeah? Those men who got it probably had the same feeling. Calm down! I know Gleichauf is nervous and not at his best but he’ll be good enough for today. But what if he gets too tense and screws up? Forget it. We’re one of those crews that had the sign from the first raid that we would survive. Oh, come now! You know better than that. You say you’ve got something special going for you! You can’t believe that — not really. Oh, yes, I do!”

  My inner dialogue was interrupted as we made several diversionary turns then headed in the direction of the target. I expected a rough day. Two times before in that area the opposition had been fierce. A cloud cover underneath worried me, because I could see no Pathfinder planes, and that meant enough visibility was necessary to drop visually. We would be the first group over the target, so whatever reception the Germans planned we would likely catch the worst of it.

  As the flight passed east of Calais and the enemy coastline, I expected fighters to intercept us in the next few minutes. Surprisingly we droned on for a while without opposition. A fifteen-degree turn to the right brought us in line with the I.P. and at that point, General Galland’s defense commanders could narrow their estimate of the possible targets we could strike. If our strategy was good enough it gave us two advantages: one, it forced Jerry to put fighters over several targets, thus reducing the number that would intercept us. The second thing it did was to force Jerry to use up his dwindling fuel.

  “Pilot to crew — Pilot to crew, a large formation of fighters is due to hit us in a few minutes — get ready for them.”

  The information must have come from the Wing Commander. Did it mean that the ban on radio silence was being lifted? I hoped so. It seemed to me that we had carried the ban too far. What difference did radio silence make when Jerry had us on radar?

  “Navigator to Pilot — Navigator to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ll cross the German border in about five minutes.”

  “Bombardier to crew — fighters at eleven o’clock low.”

  “Ball to crew — about seventy fighters — they look eager.”

  At first the interceptors circled the formation, searching warily for the weakest spots. Gleichauf pulled in tighter. At all costs he did not want to attract attention on his last mission.

  “Bombardier to crew, three fighters coming in head-on twelve o’clock — let’s get them.”

  They barreled through us with cannons blazing, were hammered by seventy guns, and turned into flaming wrecks. No flying machine could withstand that kind of punishment and continue to be an airplane.

  “Navigator to crew — Spitfires high at eleven o’clock.”

  When the Spitfires approached, the German fighters surprised me by taking off for safer territory. Perhaps they did not have enough fuel left to mix it with the R.A.F. pilots. No other Bogies showed up and the Spit escort stayed as long as they could.

  “Bombardier to Pilot — we’re approaching the bomb run.”

  “Radio.”

  “This is Radio.”

  “Watch the bomb doors down.”

  “Doors are down.”

  “Copilot to crew — flak at ten o’clock level.”

  Antiaircraft gunfire was mild and scattered but devilishly accurate. We were bounced around from the concussion of some close ones.

  “Copilot to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That new joker on our left wing is hangin’ in tight. He’s going to be a good one.”

  “Right. I told him to stay the hell on that wing — an’ he’s doing it.”

  “Bombs away.”

  “Radio to Bombardier — bomb bay clear — you can raise the doors.”

  We were improving! Another drop with no bomb release malfunction. The bomb shackle release problems were finally getting under control.

  “Copilot to crew — Paul just heard that the radio operator on the plane to our right died from an oxygen failure.”

  Death from any cause was final and irreversible. It seemed to me it would be preferable to be able to report to the family that the man died from enemy fire in the defense of his country. I would have been reluctant to write his family and have to tell them he died by accident from an equipment failure. I remembered how close we came to losing Wineski from the same kind of failure.

  “Bombardier to crew — the P-47 escort is with us.”

  Purus and Gleichauf almost had it made now. Kels called, “Paul, take a look at France. Next time you see it maybe you’ll be a tourist.”

  The Navigator came on intercom: “Hey, Johnny! Those Krauts only got a few more minutes to hit your ass.”

  Ten minutes later I could see the glistening water ahead. They had made it. There was no way that Jerry was going to hit us with an escort above and friendly water below. We came out southwest of Le Havre.

  As soon as he saw the English coast, Gleichauf began to whoop and sing snatches of songs. He was a happy man. It was something to lift the tension of combat flying and put it in the background. That was the only time I saw Paul Gleichauf act up in the cockpit of a B-17. After we crossed the coast the men from the rear came forward to congratulate Paul and Johnny. Both were popular, not only with our crew but others on the base. Paul broke out of the formation and began his triumphant buzzing of the airdrome and an unexpected thing took place.

  “What’s the matter with that left wing ship? Can’t he see I’m going to buzz the field?” Gleichauf asked in exasperation.

  “You told him to stay on your wing and that is exactly what he’s doing,” Kels answered.

  “But he oughta know I didn’t mean on a buzz.”

  “You didn’t mention the buzz and he thinks this is some special test for him.”

  “Well, he’ll break out of it when I go into the dive.”

  He was wrong! That persistent wingman hung in tight and cozy down to fence-height altitude. I do not know what he thought was going on, but it was probably the only time in 381st history that two B-17s zoomed over the field at ten-feet elevation flying in tight formation. I imagine there were explosions of unprintable words in the control tower.

  Jim, Legg, Chamberlain, and many others were waiting when the aircraft stopped. Gleichauf was popular with the ground crews because he always treated them with special respect. Most of the crew chiefs showed up to offer congratulations. The Squadron C.O. and the Operations Officer were there. Major Shackley had a bottle of good scotch and passed it around in honor of the eve
nt.

  While our celebration was starting, the friends and associates of two hundred and nine men were numbed by their loss. Twenty Forts were missing, one radio operator was gone, and eight escort pilots paid the price.

  That night Gleichauf and Purus celebrated wildly. Those of us still on flying status had to break it off and get to bed at a reasonable hour because we were subject to call the next morning. My sweat-out of mission twenty-five started in earnest the next day. I went to Operations and cornered George Reese. I wanted to know what kind of crew I could expect on the last raid, now that I was unfortunately just a spare top turret operator.

  “Now look, John, we’re goin’ to get a first-class crew trying to finish up and a good pilot — isn’t that what you want?”

  “You’re damn right that’s what I want. When?”

  “I can’t tell you the date now. Give me time to work it out.”

  “Well, don’t keep me on the fence too long.”

  “Oh, how would you like Ferrin for your pilot?” he asked. “You know him well?”

  “Real good. Who else?”

  “What’s left of Cahow’s crew an’ I’ll dig up some more who are ready to finish.”

  “That will be great if you can arrange it.”

  “Now just relax and leave it to me.”

  He was right and I would do that. No need to worry about a thing. Reese was working up the best deal available. I would not allow myself to get in a sweat. It was just one more mission. I tried to make myself believe I could forget about it until the morning they called me for the last one.

  December 31

  That night as I lay in the sack my mind went through fanciful twists: “Good-bye 1943! And thanks for your help. I hope 1944 will be as good to me as you were. I am not listed in Who’s Who, but I am listed in Who’s Still Around, which is more important. I want to thank you for that, 1943. It could so easily have been a different story! Do you have any influence with 1944? You do! Great! Please do me one more favor and ask her to give me the same breaks. You know I will likely be back in combat somewhere in 1944, so ask her to keep my luck simmering on the back burner until I need it. Again, 1943, thanks for your help!”