Combat Crew

by John Comer

  The first thing the next morning I was back on that twenty-fifth mission syndrome. There was too much time to think about it. “Will it be tomorrow? Will it be a good solid crew, or will Franek make up the assignments and throw me on a new crew that needs a gunner? I don’t want to wait forever. Let’s get it over with. I have been very lucky so far. Will my luck hold one more time? How can I sleep tonight without knowing if I am on the battle order? Now wait! Here I go again, overplaying this thing. Remember it is only one more run. Why not calm down and take it like all the other raids? Sure, that is what I’ll do. Not going to let it bother me. I will forget the whole thing until they call me. George promised he would get a good crew together, but I haven’t heard a word from him. He may have forgotten all about it and I am just a spare gunner on the extra board waiting for whatever the dice roll …”

  We went into the village that night and I caught the bartender diluting our scotch with cheap potato whiskey, which was common later in the evening when we would not notice it, and got into a heated argument. But George cooled it down and we moved to a table with some more men from the air base.

  “You are sweating out your last mission? No wonder you are so edgy — I’ve only got five — how I wish I was in your shoes,” one of them said.

  “But Operations won’t give me that last call. What am I supposed to do? Why don’t they let me get it over with?”

  “When was your last raid?” the other gunners asked.

  “December 28.”

  “That was only three days ago. You missed two runs and now you’re bitching about it? Give them time to put you on a good one.”

  Jim said, “That is what I keep telling him — cool it down. Let it come when it comes and quit worrying about it.”

  January 2, 1944

  I was wide awake when the Jeep stopped outside to wake up the crews. I flipped on a light to catch the time and saw it was an early call. Did that mean a long mission? For hours I had been unable to sleep. The far-off sound of engines being run up kept telling me a mission was shaping up. Normally I would not have heard it. Hopefully waiting for the call to come, I heard the Operations people pass our hut and familiar noises as nearby huts came alive. That made the third time they had passed me up. Why? Maybe they did not have a mission mean enough! What were they waiting for? Another Schweinfurt or Berlin? My mind was operating in an irrational manner. Operations was doing me a big favor by holding me off until a good mission developed if such a thing existed. I should have been grateful, and in moments of lucid thinking I was, because extra considerations were uncommon in military operations. But the opposite pull was an almost insatiable desire to get it over with.

  About mid-morning Jim came back from Operations with bad news. “A Fort blew up on takeoff this morning and killed the whole crew. Three men were on their twenty-fifth. The others were on their twenty-third.”

  “Did we know any of them?”

  “They were from another squadron but we’ve seen them many times around the mess hall or Operations. They must have got here about the same time we did.”

  “What a hell of a thing to happen! Makes you sick to think about it.”

  “John, suppose you had to write to their families. Would you tell them it was just a lousy accident?”

  “They are just as dead, no matter how it happened,” George added.

  “Yes, but think about the families wondering about how the accident came about, if it was carelessness on the part of someone.”

  “Why are you holding your neck so stiff?”

  “I don’t know what it is — maybe it’s a kink that will be OK tomorrow. Today it’s dealing me a fit.”

  “You better go to the infirmary and see the Flight Surgeon. You don’t want to come down with the flu or some bug an’ get yourself grounded for two or three weeks.”

  “Man, I can’t get grounded now — the worst thing that could happen. You are right. I’ll go see what the infirmary says.”

  The Flight Surgeon examined me and asked a lot of questions: “How many missions do you have?”

  “Twenty-four, Sir.”

  “Are you getting nervous about the twenty-fifth?”

  “Oh, not much — some men sweat it out, but it doesn’t bother me.”

  “All right, Comer. I think I know what your problem is. I’m going to give you some pills. Take one when the pain bothers you and before going to bed at night.”

  He went into the adjoining room, but I could see him reflected in a mirror over a lavatory. He was laughing! An orderly handed him a bottle and he resumed a serious expression and returned to the room where I was waiting.

  “Here you are. Now take these and I’m sure you will be OK in a week or two.”

  That laugh told me all I needed to know. My problem was nerves. The pills were no doubt some harmless concoction. They went into the first trash can I passed. The only pill that would help me was one more mission. The pain in my neck and shoulders got worse. It was painful to turn my head either way. Well, I had to live with it a little longer. Otherwise they might ground me for a while if the infirmary found out how bad it really was. That night I had the greatest difficulty finding any position where the pain would permit sleep. I heard every noise in the area for hours, but it was not a matter of expecting a call. The signs as best I could read them, said no mission in the morning.

  January 3

  The pains were definitely worse when daylight finally arrived. I remembered all of those futile resolves: “All of those great words! It was not going to get to you like other people. Where was the discipline? The Flight Surgeon spotted it right away. I hope it doesn’t hang out for everyone else to see.”

  Reese was busy when I arrived at Operations. When he slowed down I asked, “Are you going to be able to work out that special deal for us?”

  “Got it all shaped up. All I’m waiting on now is a target that won’t be too rough. Just be patient a few more days.”

  “With Ferrin?”

  “Right. With Ferrin.”

  That afternoon I pedaled into the village with Moe Tedesco to get some exercise and a couple of beers. The weather was quite cold, but we were used to that.

  “John,” Moe said on the way back, “if they keep putting me off, I may get so nervous I’ll crack up.”

  “We’ll get the call the first time Reese thinks it’s a good run. He’s looking after us and I’m damn glad. I would hate to draw another Schweinfurt.”

  “Or Berlin!”

  “In five or six months they can hit Schweinfurt with five hundred Forts surrounded with P-51s all the way to the target. Things are changing fast, but it won’t do us any good.”

  “You know where I would like to be right now?”

  “Where?”

  “Ebbets Field watching the Dodgers beat the hell out of those damn Giants. You’ve never seen a ball game until you see those two square off. They hate each other. The Dodger fans hate the Giant players and scream at every Giant batter who comes up.”

  “You really love Flatbush, Moe?”

  “Greatest place on Earth! I know that city. Her sounds are music to me ’cause I’ve heard them all my life.”

  “I think this ale helps the pain in my neck some. Not quite as bad as it was earlier today.”

  “What’s wrong with your neck?”

  “Nerves — from sweatin’ out that last one.”

  “With me it’s tryin’ to sleep. I lie awake — doze off — wake up — catnap all night.”

  “About the same with me — haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.”

  January 4

  The pains were becoming so severe that I could barely turn my head; but I was determined to ride it out, because I could not afford to get grounded and have to keep putting off the final raid. I kept saying to myself, “How long can I hold out? I need pain pills now and do not know how many more days …”

  Since exercise helped a little yesterday, I talked Jim into the long ride to Ridgewell.
The pains eased up a bit after two or three beers. Riding back to the base the clouds parted and it turned into one of those rare winter nights of clear weather.

  “Jim, tomorrow is the day. I can feel it. Look at that sky and you know it will be clear in the morning. I’ll get that last call.”

  “Don’t bank on it. Franek has you working on that electric gadget he wants for the Operations Office and he may keep you waiting until you finish it.”

  “What are you saying? He wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “He might if he thinks about it.”

  “When do you think you’ll be released to start flying again?”

  “I think it will be this week.”

  “That soon? You’ll catch up real fast,” I replied.

  “Don’t know about that, John. Me an’ George are extras now and never know when they’ll call us or who we will fly with.”

  Chapter XXV

  Mission to Tours

  January 5, 1944 — Tours, France

  Aircraft 514

  I had a strong feeling it would be my day. From midnight on I heard every sound in the area. There was loud talk in the adjoining hut when two of the residents staggered in from a night at the pubs. On the distant flight line there was a faint roar of engines being revved up. It was an ominous sound that suggested “in the morning we go.” Every hour Tedesco or I would sit up in bed and light a cigarette. The pains in my neck were so bad that aspirin no longer helped.

  An hour after midnight I heard the faint wail of air raid sirens far to the east. Which way were they coming? I hoped the invaders would go to the north, but the next ring of sirens opened up closer to us. I lay there and pondered the situation as the sirens became louder. It began to sound like the target might be Ridgewell. “Well, Comer, what’s it goin’ to be? Are you goin’ to stay here in the warm shack and bet they can’t hit you? If you climb out where will you go? The slit trenches are full of water an’ by now have a sheet of ice over them. Hell, you might as well stay in the sack …” Then the antiaircraft guns and sirens in the nearby town opened up. The metal walls rattled and vibrated loudly and I knew a bomb had exploded somewhere not far away, but too distant to hear the sound of the explosion. The eerie sounds of German bombers overhead faded out and the sirens signaled all clear.

  Then came dead quiet. But sleep for me would not come. If I was going out in the morning sleep was desperately needed. Just two or three hours of partial slumber would help. I tried all of the tricks to induce sleep I could remember, to no avail, and I lay there staring morosely into the dark. The seconds ticked slowly by. I flipped on a light long enough to look at my watch. The thing must have stopped running. It had to be later than that! No, the second hand was still operating. Would that night never end?

  I caught the sound of the Jeep a mile away as it sped toward us. I followed the course of the noise as it halted on the loose gravel nearby. There were sounds of steps on the gravel paths between the huts. Muffled noises floated through the metal walls. I could hear the sound of voices and a cold water tap turned on. Someone tripped over a parked bicycle and knocked it against our hut with a crash. I heard cursing but could not recognize the voice. The steps headed our way. “Great! They’re coming for us.” The steps passed by on the gravel. “No! No! They’re passing me by again! What is the matter with Reese and Franek? Have they forgotten I exist? The first thing in the morning I’m going to see Major Shackley — wait — the steps are coming back — hold it — maybe …” The door opened.

  “All right! We gotcha a good one. Come on and get up you lazy bastards — Comer, Tedesco, and Green — you’re flying with Ferrin in 514. This is it — good luck.”

  I bounced out of bed, although every move meant stabs of pain. Hubie Green and Tedesco were up with grins on their faces. “One way or the other this will be the big one,” Green said. “That was the longest night of my life.”

  Moe answered, “I didn’t sleep much either an’ I saw John get up and smoke a cigarette two or three times.”

  “Let’s check over that ship extra good and no foul-ups — no mistakes today.”

  “Hey, Jim. What’re you getting up for?”

  “How could I sleep with that damn air raid, then you guys making noises all night? I might as well get up an’ see you off.”

  So he went to the aircraft with us and helped get the guns ready for the Bombardier, who was also on his last mission. Jim said, “What I really came out here for is to watch Shutting put on his testicle armor for the last time. I wish I had a picture of it for the Chattanooga Times.”

  Ferrin and the rest of the officers unloaded and I waited expectantly. “OK, the target is Tours — about eighty miles southwest of Paris. We will have a fighter escort in and out.” He was interrupted with cheers. “The altitude will be twenty-two thousand feet and the temperature will be twenty-three below. Stay alert. Nothing is going wrong today. We’re all going to make it.”

  Opposition was expected to be mild so it sounded like a good mission for us. The Wing formation turned out over the Channel and the operation was finally on the way. Almost no chance existed now that it would be canceled or called back.

  “Navigator to crew — enemy coast in five minutes — start watchin’ for fighters.”

  “Bombardier to crew. Let’s have an oxygen check.”

  I listened to all positions report in.

  “Turret to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you want me to pull the bomb fuse pins?”

  “Yes, go ahead an’ pull them.”

  Five minutes later I was back in the turret: “Turret to Bombardier, pins are pulled — bomb rack switches are on.”

  “Thanks, Turret.”

  The run going in was without incident. Believe me, no other crew on that mission was so alert and ready for trouble if it materialized. A few minutes inside enemy territory the P-47s appeared as briefed. They were a beautiful sight to me. Some persons might think the big Thunderbolts too heavy and massive to be pleasing to the eye. I saw them from a different perspective. They saved my life many times and I would never lose my gratitude to them and the men who flew them.

  “Navigator to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead, Navigator.”

  “The I.P. in ten minutes. We’ll do a sharp turn to the left and the bomb run will come up fast.”

  “Bombardier to Radio, when we go on the bomb run, watch the doors down.”

  Ten minutes went by and the Ball reported flak. It was light to moderate.

  “Bombardier to Pilot, we’re on the bomb run.”

  When I saw and felt the bomb load fall out, I felt good. All we had to do now was get back to England and it would be all over for me.

  The Bombardier screamed over the phones: “Fighters! Twelve o’clock level!”

  His call came too late. None of us saw them in time! They must have dived down out of the sun and were a hundred yards away before the first man spotted them. That is what happened on a mission when it was seemingly too easy and the Fortress crews relaxed their normal alertness.

  “Copilot to crew! Fire! Dammit, fire!”

  Three 109s screamed through the formation and caught the lead B-17 with a rocket directly in the cockpit. The Fort burst into flame and in seconds was on the way to oblivion. No one escaped from the doomed craft.

  “Waist to crew — fighters are circling to get in front of us again.”

  “Copilot to crew — the sonnuvabitches are coming in! Fire! Fire! Fire! Pour the lead to them!”

  They turned around and attacked again with cannon fire blazing from their wings. The aircraft shuddered from the impact of heavy firing. I could see my tracers striking the lead fighter.

  “Tail to Copilot. Fort exploded behind us.”

  “Ball to Copilot, another Fort at four o’clock in bad shape.”

  The fighters vanished to the south as suddenly as they had appeared.

  “Copilot to Turret, do you have sunglasses?”


  “Yes, Copilot.”

  “Put them on an’ watch the sun area.”

  For an hour nothing happened and I relaxed. The mission was about over and I exulted in the smug knowledge that I finally had it made. But Jerry had one last goodie in reserve to throw at me! Oh, hell! More 109s straight ahead! Where did they come from?

  “Turret to crew! Turret to crew! Two 109s one o’clock high coming in!”

  The fighters swooped down and leveled out too low for my guns to reach them. Two times on that mission Bogies had slipped in almost undetected. Two more Forts caught heavy damage. Suppose one of them had hit us a lethal blow less than twenty-five minutes away from the coast. It almost happened.

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

  “Navigator to crew, they are Spitfires — our escort home.”

  Well, I thought, surely I have it made now, with those R.A.F. beauties crisscrossing below, ready to take on anything that looks German. A little later the sunlight reflecting on the Channel began to sparkle in the distance. It was almost over, but I wouldn’t risk jinxing the crew by saying so — yet. I watched the coast slowly slide by below with mixed feelings. When it faded into the haze I knew for sure it was all over.

  “Turret to Navigator, we got it made. We got it made.”

  “Pilot to crew, keep the intercom clear an’ stay on your positions until we cross the English Channel. We are not taking any chances.”

  We had broken the 381st jinx again (if there was a jinx) and that would make a good many men feel better. Jim, George, and the others waited with congratulations. There was no way I could describe my relief and exultation. I turned to Shutting. “You made it without losing your balls.”