by John Comer
“Yeah, but a couple of times it was close.”
“What are you going to do with your special armor?”
“I’ll find some deserving Navigator.”
“I got a better idea. Take it home and hang it on the wall.”
On the way to interrogation Jim asked, “How does it feel to have twenty-five made?”
“It would be great if I didn’t have these miserable pains ever’ time I move. It was murder when I had to look straight up today — like a knife stabbing me in the neck.”
“You better go have it looked at.”
“I will, first thing in the morning.”
After interrogation, I had to go out to the plane and clean and stow the turret guns. With fair weather holding another day they might go out again the next morning. On the perimeter truck to the personnel site, I suddenly realized that I felt different. What was it? Then it dawned on me that the pains were gone. Just like that. It took an hour and a half after the mission for my ragged nerves to return to normal. The Flight Surgeon knew it would happen. Now I felt just great! Never before had I any concept of what effect tight nerves can create in an otherwise healthy body.
The celebration that night lasted until two A.M. and when the pubs closed, it resumed at the hut. I was through! The fighting part of the war was over for me! Now and then I would glance at Jim or George and it was clear that they felt left out of things now. But I had no doubt that both of them would come through fine. Reese would put them on the best available crews, so I did not let their gloom dampen my elation.
January 9
It was now a matter of awaiting orders for the port of return to the States. It was a proud moment to report to Colonel Nazzaro and receive the Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded to men who survived twenty-five missions at that date. Studying the decoration, I pondered why my luck had held up and tried to recall the faces of those I knew well who failed. What was luck? Was it an inexplicable thing available to a few at times, but withheld from most men? Or was it a series of pure coincidences? Looking back at it today the latter seems far more likely, but I am not sure. In wartime some men and some crews wore a charm one could almost see. I could spot them around the Operations area or the mess hall. I could spot others that I felt certain would never make it. How could that be? I developed the ability to sense those things. It was strange and puzzling to me that I could feel those predictions in advance and I never discussed it with anyone else. Of course, the majority of our combat crews fell into neither class. Only a few, on the opposite sides of what I call luck, generated those psychic impressions.
The feeling of elation at completing a combat tour was starting to wear thin. I was so bound to those men and to that place that I felt sad and a little depressed at leaving. Something inside me said, “You belong here until this thing is over,” and I suppose a part of me will always remain at Ridgewell. One could not go through those experiences and walk away cold.
Meanwhile Carroll Wilson had recovered and arrived at the hut on combat duty again. It was good to see him once more before I left, because from the time he joined the crew I had a warm feeling for that complex and immature young man. As always, he was broke, so I loaned him another ten pounds in addition to what he already owed me. (When he returned to the States he sent me every cent of it.)
The weather turned nice and most of the men were out on a mission. The ground was dry enough for the English farm children to play outside our huts. A gunner named Pope was trying to teach seven or eight of them how to throw and kick a football. I can still remember his happy-go-lucky grin and cocky mannerisms. Kids took to him readily. When Pope entered a room the atmosphere changed. He was one of those people who had the knack of placing themselves in ridiculous situations. He had the look about him that suggested he would try anything at least once: I know he had been a star athlete somewhere but he never talked about it. His Georgia drawl lingers yet in my memory. The next day he failed to return from a mission. There was no report about what happened to the aircraft. I hope he got out in time.
That night George, Jim, Carroll, and I were in a somber mood. We talked about our early crew days and the scary situation when we arrived at Ridgewell. Those men were more like a family than could have been expected from ten persons drawn from so many divergent backgrounds and parts of the country. I was reluctant to see it break apart and scatter us about over the country.
I thought about a funny thing that happened on one of our missions. We were bouncing around in some flak and all of a sudden I was startled to hear the radio gun behind me cut loose with heavy firing. I whirled around expecting to help George hold off fighters diving down on us. Evidently a piece of flak had hit the inflating valve on one of our two life rafts. The big, bright yellow raft automatically inflated with gas and pushed out of the upper storage compartment, in front of the radio hatch where George was standing at his gun facing the rear. It tumbled into the slipstream, and the blast of air propelled it directly over the radio position. I turned just in time to see George pouring furious bursts at it as the huge contraption zoomed beyond the tail.
“Radio from Turret.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you get that big yellow fighter?”
“Go to hell, Turret.”
I developed such a brotherly love for that big man with his infectious Irish grin. He had so many strengths balanced with small weaknesses. One of the things I remember best about him is the one tap dance routine he knew and his soft voice singing, “Mary, Mary, plain as any name can be …”
After lights were out I said, “Jim, do you remember that night at Las Vegas when we got out of that bar just before the fight broke out and the M.P. patrol wagon arrived?”
“Yeah, I recall the incident.”
“What happened?” asked Wilson.
“One night we were having a drink in a small casino and bar and Jim went to the rest room. He returned in a hurry and told me to pay for the drinks quick and get out of there. From across the street we heard the sounds of a sizable brawl break out, and watched the paddy wagon cart off twenty or thirty civilians and servicemen.”
George inquired, “How did you know the fight was going to break out?”
“Because I started it,” Jim replied. “Some soldiers and sailors were arguing in the rest room. When I left I turned off the lights and pushed them together.”
January 10
It was quiet my last night at the airdrome. I volunteered to check the canteen for signs of a mission shaping up for the next morning. It was the last thing I could do for them.
“Well, the key faces are missing so you can expect a call in the morning,” I reported.
“You mean those who will go — they may not call us,” said George.
“Or we may draw a green crew. Who knows what to expect from now on?” Counce added.
“I don’t think either of you will have to wait long. I don’t see any surplus gunners or radios around.”
Jim had been returned to combat status that day and was in better spirits, with a chance to run off the four or five missions he needed quickly. The door opened and Vernon Chamberlain walked in.
“I heard you were leaving tomorrow and wanted to say good-bye, John.”
“Vernon, you have been a faithful friend to our crew and we appreciate it. You took chances many times to slip us the extra ammunition we needed,” I said.
“I don’t know what it was, John. At first it was Gleichauf, then all of you. Your crew became my team. I’ve been sweating out you guys so long it’s going to be odd not to have someone on the missions that I feel a little bit responsible for. You guys were always the same, no matter where the mission was. Other crews came out to the plane nervous or silent or bitching about the guns when nothing was wrong with them. But you fellows always arrived in a good humor, kidding each other or some kind of horseplay. You were just different from the others — my kind of people, I guess …”
It was going to be difficult to le
ave all of those friends, not knowing if I would ever see them again. Certainly we planned to get together after the war, but would it really happen? Or would the occasional letters eventually die out?
Jim looked at me, “We have talked often about mental attitude — about fear. Tell me something honestly, John — have you overcome fear in combat?”
“No. I doubt if anyone ever does completely. But starting with the way it was when we arrived here, I have gone seventy to eighty percent of the way toward controlling it. That damn flak still bothers me at times.”
“I haven’t done near that well,” said George. “I doubt if I have gone fifty percent of the way.”
“It depends on what you mean by fear,” I answered. “How do you tell when it starts and when it ends?”
“I don’t follow you,” Balmore said. “I’m either scared or I’m not.”
“Look at it this way: You are flying along knowing that fighters are going to hit you. When? Where are they? Hope we see them in time. You build up anxiety, the first stage of fear. I wish the escort would get here before they do! We got to be careful and not let them slip in on us out of the sun! Tension builds up. There they are! About sixty of them. Where’s the escort? The sensation of fear wells up. Here they come! Look at those cannon flashes! You pour bursts at them and excitement crowds out fear. The adrenaline is flowing. At two hundred yards your bursts get longer and closer together. Excitement increases. The fighters are now at one hundred yards, using their full assortment of weapons at you from close range. Your bursts are three times as long as they taught you at gunners school. You do not care if the barrels burn out. You are keyed up to your maximum performance — exhilaration! It’s an emotional high that is a heady sensation unlike any other emotion you have ever experienced. A gunner could become addicted to it with enough experience. In time he might crave the kill-or-be-killed thrill as some people crave strong drugs. Maybe that’s why some men become professional soldiers of fortune. Civilian life is too tame for them after years of combat and the high excitement that goes with it.”22
There was silence for a while and Wilson said, “You’re getting close, John.”
Counce added, “I never thought about it the way you break it down, but it’s true that all of those emotions are involved in a fighter attack. I guess we all have a secret desire to flirt with danger, but each of us thinks that others will pay the price — not him.”
“What do you say to all this, George?” I asked.
“In the radio room I hardly ever get to see any of the attackers until it’s over and they flash by. Most times they roll under the wing and I don’t see them at all. I hear the intercom scream, ‘Coming in.’ I hear the bursts getting longer and longer and I’m petrified back there, seeing nothing that is going on! If I had more chances to fire at the fighters, it might be different.”
That last night at Ridgewell I was caught in an ambivalence of twisted emotions. Of course, I was glad to have escaped the hazards of air combat. But the attractions of exhilarating combat experience lingered in the subconscious mind. Stateside military duty, whatever my assignment might be, by contrast with Ridgewell would, I knew, be too dull and stagnant. And there was regret at having to leave these men, with whom I had relationships that could not be repeated in civilian life. After lights were out I lay there in a state of gloom. What should have been a happy contemplation had turned sour.
Chapter XXVI
Good-bye to Ridgewell
January 11 — James Counce and George Balmore Only
On different aircraft
At 5:30 A.M. the lights came on and roused me from a deep sleep. I listened to the roster: “Counce flying 888 with Klein — Balmore flying 912 with Crozier …”
I raised up in bed. “Those are good crews. Right?”
“We could have done a lot worse,” Counce answered.
“Well, since I’m already awake, I might as well go out and see you jokers off.”
The personnel truck let George out first. “Good luck! I’ll see you back in the States when this thing is over.” A handshake and he was gone.
I helped Jim get the guns ready until it was time to start engines. “Good luck, Jim. Let me know where you are stationed when you get back to the States.”
He gave me that big grin and closed the hatch. I watched the ship pull away and almost wished I was going with them. I had to hurry to get my bags ready for the truck that was to take us to the nearby station. Just before the train arrived, I looked up as I heard a formation overhead.
“Take a good look, Carl. That’s the last time we’ll see the 381st in action.”
“Good luck, boys,” he said. “Go get ’em.”
It was a long, slow train ride across England to Chorley, on the west coast, the embarkation point for service personnel who were returning to the United States. Nearly all of these men were wounded, or for some other reason were no longer needed in the combat area.
When men completed a tour of combat duty and returned to the States, quite a few of them did become highly nervous for a while. The condition was brought about by too many traumatic experiences buried deep in the subconscious mind and seeking an outlet. The excitement, and the motivation created by the need to defend all that was good in our civilization, was abruptly withdrawn, and replaced by a humdrum military existence. The change was too sudden and drastic for the mind to accept it right away. So those men continued to dwell mentally in the immediate past for a while. The falling aircraft, the explosions, and the hideous flak were strongly imprinted and needed to be worked out of the subconscious mind. In time, the nervousness would wear off for most of those who were affected. The need to talk about the war would fade, to be replaced by the daily trivialities of civilian life, from which they had escaped for a brief time into high adventure. For the majority of those men there was no lasting damage. Slowly they returned to what we call normal. For a few, perhaps more sensitive than others, the memories were too indelibly planted. For them, more time and treatment were needed. In severe cases of neurosis and continuing anxiety, injections of sodium pentathol were used, along with the help of a psychologist, to pry troublesome memories out of the subconscious mind. The patient was induced to talk at great length, in response to questions about those lingering nightmarish experiences. The drug helped to release the deeply buried tensions. Most times it worked.
January 14
I was standing in the snack bar at Chorley when I saw Lieutenant Ferrin walk in. He was a few days behind me getting away from Ridgewell.
“When did you leave the 381st?” I asked.
“Yesterday. Got here this afternoon.”
“I read that the January eleventh mission had high losses. How did the 381st come out?”
“There was a mixup and the planes were called back. Some of ’em didn’t get the message and went on and got clobbered.”
“How many did the Group lose?”
“Quite a few. I didn’t get the exact number, but it was bad!”
“You know Jim Counce and George Balmore.”
“Sure, I know ’em.”
“They were with Crozier and Klein on that mission. Did both of those ships get back OK?”
“The loss startled Colonel Nazzaro because it was unexpected.”
“How about Klein and Crozier?” I sensed he was avoiding my question.
Ferrin took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. “Crozier and Klein both went down, Comer.”
I listened in a state of shock and disbelief. For a minute I could not say anything.
“Were there any chutes — either plane?”
“Crozier’s plane was seen to explode.23 There was hardly any chance for a survivor.” There was an icy feeling in the middle of my chest. When I recovered enough, I asked almost in a whisper, “And the other plane?”
“Klein’s ship was last seen badly damaged and engines burning — it is not known if any of the crew got out. No chutes were observed.”
At least
there was a chance that Jim had time to jump but I knew well how fast the explosions came after engines caught fire. If anyone got out, surely Jim would be one of them, for he was close to the waist escape hatch.
“Have you seen Shutting?”
“Yes, I ran into Carl an hour ago.”
I turned away from Ferrin and stumbled blindly from the crowded bar. He followed and told me the meager details that were known. But I had quit listening. My mind was in shock. Right then I could not talk to anyone. The night was bitterly cold and it was raining. I walked blindly in the rain without cap or raincoat for a long time because a man does not cry in front of other men; I walked until I was soaked and shaking with the cold. What Ferrin said kept coming back. “The 533rd Squadron was almost wiped out — lost six ships! The mission was called back but First Division did not get the message so it went on to the target and was hit by a devastating fighter attack. One squadron all alone so far inland was unbelievable!”
There was no possible sleep for me! All night I stared into the blackness and groped for the means to accept the inevitable. At such times the mind tries to find ways to avoid the truth when it is too bitter to accept. There is some mistake! They will turn up! The word will seep back that they got out and are prisoners of war.
January 15
It was a bad day for me. The weather was cold and rainy. I kept thinking about Jim and George. I supposed that it was futile to keep trying to delude myself that George got out in time. I had to accept the facts, and they were that the aircraft was seen to explode and no chutes were reported. But surely Jim had a chance. He was in the closest position to an escape hatch. No one saw the aircraft explode and it was under control at the last report. Yet, I had a strange feeling — some extra sense — that Jim was gone! It was the same psychic premonition that I often felt about combat crews and was almost always correct. No matter how I tried to rationalize his escape, I knew there was no hope.