The fighters broke away underneath us and then climbed high to our left rear and turned again to attack. Since they were behind us, I couldn't see the start of their second attack. I was kept informed by my waist gunner and tail gunner. As they got closer I could see them. This time it looked as though McCormick in the Vagabond King was going to bear the brunt of it. And just then they were on him. I could see the cannon shells ripping through his plane and some hitting the tail of Colonel Wood's. The second, third, and fourth fighters came in. Our waist gunners reported one fighter down in flames and another limping off with his engine smoking. But the Vagabond King suddenly spurted flame all over the top of its broad wing. A moment later the flames almost covered it. Then it headed down slowly and majestically toward the cold waters below. Our little formation drew away, and I never saw that plane again. My men didn't see it hit the water, but it was evident it couldn't have made shore. No chutes were seen. Fred Sayre, the copilot, stuck his head between Wright and me. I had ranked him out of his seat but told him he might go along on the mission and ride on the flight deck if he wanted to. Now Fred took a look at the Vagabond King going down in flames and said, “Some days it just doesn't pay to open the door.” Great guy, Fred. I knew he felt just the way I did about seeing our friend McCormick go down, but he was doing his bit to raise our spirits when the going was rough. Our number four engine was leaking oil to the point that the outer part of the right wing was black with it. I called all stations on the interphone.
“We can't bail out over this water, but we're hit. Those fighters must know it. If they hit us again we're gone. We may make shore if we're lucky. Check all your equipment for an emergency.” I was taking what I thought was a coldly accurate view of our situation.
But as luck would have it, the shooting down of two of the four fighters seemed to have an effect on the other two. The fact, which I hadn't discovered until that moment, that there were stragglers—single B-24s—flying behind us also had an effect. The remaining two fighters left us to attack a single Lib flying about a mile to our rear. My heart went out to the men in that ship. I don't know whether they got through the attacks or not. Our attention was diverted elsewhere when I heard the gunners say it was being attacked. At least we seemed momentarily free of the enemy.
We were still a good way offshore. I was watching the oil pressure gauge on the engine that had been hit. Pretty soon the oil pressure started a fast descent toward zero. I called to Bob that I was feathering the prop. I pushed the feathering button and at the same moment cut off the gas to the engine and switched the mags off. Nervously, I watched the prop. After a moment I saw the big fan slow up until at length it came to a standstill, with its blades turned edges into the slipstream. Thank God, there was still enough oil left for the feathering mechanism to work.
We still had problems. Here we were about half an hour from the target with a full load of bombs and only three engines. I wasn't certain whether we could continue to the target with our load and the dead engine. I put more power on the three good engines. Bob retrimmed his ship. He was concentrating on flying good formation. We didn't know when we might be attacked again, and we didn't want to take any chances on straggling. After seeing how we flew for a few minutes we decided we probably could pull enough power on our three good engines without completely burning them up to carry our bombs to the target. At that moment I remembered how I played what I considered a good game of bridge, for an hour or two drawing marvelous hands. Suddenly I would relax and completely muff a bid. When I did that I always got the feeling that my luck had run out. When I had good luck I had to play well or it quit me. I was afraid my previous good luck in combat flying had run out because I muffed the first mission on Norway. I would have to play much harder now in order to earn my luck and stay in the game.
Shortly after McCormick was shot out of the left wing position, McLaughlin, who had been flying high right on our ship slid down and under and filled in the spot left vacant. We flew on, fairly close upon our target, a three-ship flight of Libs obviously a little shot up but proceeding satisfactorily.
We finally got over our target, dropped our bombs, and then turned right. Being in the right hand seat, I got a good view of the bomb bursts—they were perfect. There were the airfield, some repair shops, and some buildings beyond that our intelligence had told us were occupied by Nazi officers. Our bombs started bursting close to the end of the airfield, holed up a good, hard-surface runway, split open the shops, and continued blossoming in great explosions in the officers’ quarters. I was exultant over the damage. I hoped some of those Nazi pilots who had just been giving us such a going over were quartered in those buildings.
At the time the fighters left us I had felt we would be lucky if we made it to Sweden, where we might bail out and be interned. There have been very few times when I was as certain I would not get home. But now that we were lightened by the dropping of several tons of bombs I found I could take a different view of things. Of the three ships, ours was the worst hit; but we had three apparently good engines. They showed no ill effects from the excess power output, and now that we were rid of the bombs we could throttle them back to the point where there should be little danger of burning them up. True, we had a long distance to go across the North Sea to get back to England, but there was no reason to assume we couldn't make it. As we turned from the target, Colonel Wood called me. He suggested I take the lead and said he would drop in on my wing, since my ship was crippled. He felt he might give us better protection that way, and it would enable us to set the pace going back. I accepted the proposal, and soon we found ourselves leading a majestic formation of three B-24s headed southwest toward England.
The start of our return trip was nice enough. I was optimistic about our chances, but I somehow felt that we hadn't seen the last of the fighter planes. And as I was turning it over in my mind and we were leaving the coast of Norway, our waist gunner reported fighters coming up from the rear. This time instead of the sleek, single-engined sky sharks—the FW-190s—we had Ju88s. They were the familiar twin-engined planes, much faster and more maneuverable than a heavy bomber, but not the extreme fighter-type planes that the Focke-Wulfs were. They approached in twos, coming past us high and to the right somewhat as the 190s had done. They were higher and farther out. Finally the first one turned in. All three of our ships sent up a cone of .50 caliber fire. Just after the first attacker turned toward us we could see streaks of smoke coming from under its wings. These streaks extended themselves like lines drawn by points coming in our direction. We knew they were launching rockets. We had seen them before. After the rockets left the attacking plane Bob put the nose of our ship down and pulled off several inches of power. Since we were in such a small formation, it was not difficult for the other ships to follow us in this evasive maneuver.
In a second or two the rockets bursts. They burst short. The deterrent force of our .50 caliber guns in keeping the attacker away from us, plus the evasive maneuver, gave us a pretty safe margin of distance from where the rockets exploded. Time and again the Ju88s lined up on us. Each time we met them with heavy .50 caliber fire. Each time they turned and released their rockets. And each time Bob waited until the rocket launchers under the wings of the attacker were smoking, indicating that the rockets were away, and then he would make a turn, usually a diving turn in one direction or another. The two ships with us got on to it and stayed in formation remarkably well. All the bursts occurred short and were either to the right or the left, according to the way we turned, but always they missed us by a fairly safe margin.
Bob did a magnificent job of evasive action, and one he wouldn't have been able to do with a larger formation. During all this wavering and zigzagging we were coming with good progress upon the northern edge of the cloud bank that had carpeted our flight nearly all the way coming up. Those clouds ahead looked awfully good. We were sorry the undercast hadn't lasted right up to the time we had hit the enemy coast. But now we were over the first, p
atchy clouds, and in a few minutes more we were over an almost solid undercast. The last Ju88 made a pass just as we pulled off power and dived our little formation into the bank of cloud. The cloud layer was thin there and the fighters followed us down, but they never got another shot at us.
Lightened as we were with much less gas and no bombs, our plane moved along at a nice pace with the three good engines set for moderate power. We had nothing to worry about as long as we didn't lose another engine, and there was no reason to suppose we would. Just the same, we notified Air Sea Rescue Service of our position, speed, and heading in order that they could keep a check on us until we made it over land again. Two hours and a half later we landed at our home airdrome with the deep satisfaction of having done a good job against odds. We had put our bombs on the target, and we had carried them there from a considerable distance after being crippled. It almost erased the anguish I had felt because of my poor leadership on the first Norway mission.
After making that successful trip to Norway I was ready for a short rest. I had never been to London, and my last leave was one I had taken at Bengasi to go to Alexandria for two days. With a relaxed, clear conscience, I asked for three days off. I made a reservation at the Red Cross Reindeer Club. I had heard that with the aid at one's disposal at a Red Cross club it would be possible to see London, get good theater tickets, be advised about shopping, or find just about anything the town had to offer.
London I found very pleasantly quiet. I spent practically all of my visit seeing the sights—Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, Trafalgar Square, the wax museum, and a host of places I had wanted to see. Next time, I thought, I would do what I would enjoy without regard to sight-seeing. I did go back refreshed, and with a more exalted opinion of the Red Cross than I had had before. The courtesies and benefits furnished by the Red Cross to Americans in the service, both officers and enlisted men, white and black, were a great credit to that organization.
After my return we experienced a period when our losses were depressingly heavy. I saw many new faces in my squadron. But the difficulty of getting used to the new faces was as nothing compared to the sight of the remaining old ones under the shock of losing their friends. Our sorest trial of morale came when replacements were not quickly forthcoming for the crews we lost, and the old guys had to face empty barracks for days on end. The winding up of personal affairs of those missing in action, including the packing and cataloguing of personal effects, was heartrending. If new men came in quickly the missing ones were less conspicuous.
I well remember the period before Christmas, 1943. Two things in particular stand out. First, the weather. Anyone who was asked to lead one of those midwinter forays knew the odds were greatly against his being able to complete his mission with any degree of success. We had not got our pathfinder equipment set up then—that came a few months later—and so at that time we could not bomb by instruments. Each trip out was apt to be characterized by a number of midair collisions between bombers climbing through heavy overcast. There were cases of ships loading up in freezing cloud layers and spinning in under the tremendous weight of gas, bombs, and ice. There were always men who returned with frostbitten hands, faces, and feet. Normally these were the ones who were lucky enough to get over the target. We were short of the proper number of electric flying suits with electric gloves and boots. Every time some men would have to go without and would have to be hospitalized because of frostbite.
The other thing I particularly remember was about Christmas itself. At the Government's urging, most of the folks back home had mailed our Christmas packages early. Many of the packages arrived in late November. I was taught to make quite a holiday out of opening Christmas packages, and I had come to feel it a kind of sin to open them before Christmas. Kind friends and members of my family saw to it that I had many packages to open. My problem each time I was up for a mission was to decide whether or not to open my presents. I always felt there was a pretty fair chance I wouldn't come back, and it seemed stupid to leave the packages laying around unopened. I had seen the unopened Christmas packages of many of my missing friends marked “Return to Sender.” I went through that indecision many times. Each time I would go to bed leaving the packages unopened. In the icy cold of the black morning when I was called out to fly I would wonder again whether I would be back to see them once more. Strange that a man my age should spend as much time as I did debating the matter of Christmas packages!
The truth, I guess, was that those packages were the most recent tie between me and loved ones back home. It was not what was in them, but that they represented so much time and effort and affection that caused me to make almost a fetish of them. Whatever they contained they were expressions straight from the hearts of those dearest to me; and to open them before Christmas was to destroy their magic. I was true to my principle, and the Lord rewarded me by bringing me home on all those occasions. The end of that dilemma was that on Christmas morning I found myself alone in my room sitting on the floor opening presents. I don't remember what I got, but I felt closer to those at home at that moment than I had since I left the States.
Our station had been selected for a Christmas broadcast over CBS which afforded excitement. I was particularly interested in the broadcast because Edward R. Murrow and Larry LeSueur came up to run it. I had met Larry some time before. He had come up a month early for a short visit to make advance arrangements. I had cornered him and got him on the subject of politics, the war, and Russia. Larry had spent a long time in Russia and was the best authority I ever had a chance to talk to. LeSueur and Murrow were too busy on that occasion for me to see much of them, but after I renewed my old acquaintance with Larry he invited me to stay with him next time I came to London. I was pleased at the prospect of having a chance to talk about things I hadn't discussed in a long time.
The Christmas broadcast was a huge success. Many officers and enlisted men had an opportunity to say a few words to reassure their families back home that they were well and as happy as Americans ever can be so far from home. I was convinced of the dedication of the American newsmen. They performed an immensely important role, and the ones I saw had a conscientiousness about their work which was quite impressive. When the newsmen left the day after the broadcast I was on hand to say goodbye and to tell Larry I would see him on my next trip to London. Already I was planning to ask for a few days’ leave.
After Christmas I knew the group was in for great changes. I had seen in our briefing room on numerous occasions a newcomer to our wing. He was Colonel Milton W. Arnold, an officer I remembered who had graciously said “sir” to me on a badminton court at Kelly Field back in 1941. At that time I was a flying cadet and he was a captain clearly mistaking me for a civilian. The keen-eyed, wavy-haired Colonel Arnold was now at wing headquarters as General Timberlake's chief-of-staff. He was only recently out of the Air Transport Command. We heard he had fought so vigorously to get out and get into combat as to make himself a nuisance, and we admired that. Since he had been in the wing he had led several of our missions and had clearly demonstrated his ability to lead. He was a regular officer and a West Pointer who quite obviously felt it his duty to come to grips with the enemy in the closest and most direct manner possible.
Colonel Wood, according to the report I heard, would soon move to take command of a new wing, and Colonel Arnold would take over our group. The switch affected me because there was the shadow of a rumor that in all the changes to follow I was going to be taken away from my beloved squadron to be put in the place occupied by John A. Brooks III, the job of group operations officer. I had cussed group operations for nearly everything I conceived to be wrong with the group. It was a little ironic that now I was to be passed the platter to see what I could do with it, and the prospect didn't make me happy because I loved my squadron. There was something about having my own command that was a lot better than the best staff job. I made no bones about my dislike of the prospect of being group operations officer.
Very soon the changes came. Colonel Wood moved out to his new command, taking Major Brooks with him. Colonel Arnold moved in. Colonel Miller remained in his position as air executive and I went into the operations office. Major Ken Caldwell took over my squadron. He was the first pilot who had flown lead ship on many of our early missions. Ken was a Kansas City boy, very strong-willed and opinionated. He was a hard worker, bull necked and square jawed, with a temperament in keeping with his looks; a pilot who was generally liked, and admired by the few who didn't like him.
A few days after he took over the squadron, Ken was acting as group command pilot on a mission to an airfield in the south of France. He was flying with Captain Dave Wilhite from Owensboro, Kentucky. Wilhite was a pilot out of Conroy's squadron and was the one man of all the other squadrons whom I had most wished to have in mine. Dave was undoubtedly one of the great pilots of the group, as of course was Ken. Coming away from the target for some unexplained reason our group got separated from the rest of the division formation. The fighter planes which were supposed to give support to the heavy bombers maintained cover over the main part of the division. Our group, being separated from the main unit, invited and got heavy fighter attacks just a few miles from the coast of France.
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