Bomber Pilot

by Philip Ardery

  Evidently the group was hit by the Abbeyville Kids. That was the name we gave the Nazi pilots flying the yellow-nosed Focke-Wulf 190s based near Abbeyville. They were part of what was commonly known as the Goering Squadron. In a matter of seconds several Liberators were shot right out of the lead of our formation. Major Caldwell's and Wilhite's airplane was seen going down, with many cannon holes in the fuselage and fire burning in the cockpit. Soon after that news came through that Ken had been killed in action. I never heard about Dave. Ken was as game as any airman I've known. If he had a serious fault it was a smaller capacity for fear than the ordinary man has, giving him a tendency to lack caution.

  After Ken went down Frank Ellis took over the squadron. Frank was a grimly determined officer of great capability. When he took over the squadron Bob Wright became squadron operations officer. They both became majors and if ever two men had earned their rank, they were the two.

  Colonel Arnold turned out to be a man to gain even more of my admiration than I had had at first. He possessed boundless nervous energy. Nothing he saw when he arrived was good enough; he turned over everything and looked under it, and generally demanded that something new and better be put in its place. And so I lived to rue the day that I had ever criticized group operations. For every criticism I had ever made resulted in a great deal of work. The physical layout of the operations office was greatly changed. I brought the assistant operations officer, Major Dan Minnick, back into the main office. He had been given a little cubbyhole down the hall in which to work as training officer. I shoved and shifted. I got carpenters in to put up new status boards, tables, pictures, etc. I got the communications men to put in new telephones and work on the teletype service. And in all this I had Colonel Arnold prodding me with an uncomfortably sharp prodder.

  Before I got my new system halfway started, General Hodges, the division commander, came in on an inspection trip with a whole staff of inspectors. I was caught absolutely flat-footed. I had all the things in the way of records and evidence of training of lead crews in my mind, but only a little of it on paper at that time. General Hodges, an extremely stern man, took the hide off me in the few places where Colonel Arnold, by sheer oversight, had left any. I started to take refuge in the explanation that I felt I had been left a chaotic situation which I hadn't had time to straighten out. But I knew that would not do, so I took the criticism without comment. I understood what General Hodges expected to find in a group operations office and agreed with him. I didn't have it, and so I just shut up and tried not to flinch as he let go. There was a devilish gleam in Colonel Arnold's eye as he saw me sweat and squirm. I could picture him relating particulars of my moment of misery later to some of our friends as a high point of comedy in the inspection.

  Behind all the changes that came to the group and that I thought were real improvements stood not only Colonel Arnold, but less directly General Timberlake. He was between the group headquarters and the division—the CO between Colonel Arnold and General Hodges. General Ted was one I had come to know much better in the last few months and to esteem more. He and Colonel Arnold had been classmates at the academy. At the time of his promotion to general he had been the youngest officer to achieve that rank since the Civil War. He came of an Army family, being the son of a prominent regular Army officer and having two brothers who were also generals. He knew more men in his three groups by their full names than most of his group commanders did. He was apt to pop up in a squadron operations office any time “just looking around.” He had a pleasant way on these trips. He wouldn't make anyone uncomfortable at the time, but he would elicit all the information obtainable from anyone he talked to, and his sharp blue eyes would see everything worth seeing. Upon his departure he would have an impeccably accurate estimate of the efficiency of whatever outfit he'd seen. He would not tolerate inefficiency. He was bighearted, but if he thought a man needed removing, he would see it done quickly. And because of the speed of such movements he inflicted a minimum of pain.

  Colonel Arnold and General Timberlake completely erased my remaining prejudice against West Pointers. They were, by far, the two greatest officers I had ever been close enough to really to know. Their energy was unlimited, their wit and intellect admirable, and their manner graceful. Their methods of approach to problems were slightly different, and their ways of handling men were different, but the results of their efforts were nearly identical.

  Shortly after Colonel Arnold took command our group had a party. It was the custom to have one party a month. That party came after a series of particularly rough raids. Several crews were missing from the raids of the previous few days, and numerous others had returned only by the skin of their teeth. The boys had been fighting hard and were ready to play hard.

  Colonel Arnold had moved me into a small building near the officers’ club where he and Colonel Miller lived. There, before the party, he had General Timberlake, Colonel Miller, and me in for drinks. By the time we got over to the club the party was going strong. The floor was littered with bits of cloth which, after a moment's notice, were identifiable as the ends of neckties. As we entered the door—our group led by General Timberlake and proceeding in order of rank to myself in the rear—some lieutenant in high spirit grabbed the general by his tie and shouted, “What're you doin’ with that tie on?” And with one wide sweep of his arm, he swung a knife blade within a fraction of an inch of the general's throat, cutting off his tie just below the knot.

  The general turned with cool dignity to Colonel Arnold behind him. “God, Milt, what have you got here?”

  “Go on in and enjoy yourself, Ted, but don't annoy the boys.” Colonel Arnold was chuckling.

  We went in. It was obvious that for a long time no one noticed that one of the guests was wearing the star insignia of a brigadier general. No offense meant; they just didn't notice it. Finally, however, proper note was taken. We were standing at the bar when a very young second lieutenant reeled up to the general. He looked again to be sure that really was a general he saw and then turned around and motioned to two or three of his friends to come on over. Turning again to General Timberlake, he said, “You know, general, I'm a second lieutenant. I been in this man's Army two years now. One as a GI and another as a secon’ lieutenant. And this is the firs’ time I ever got a chance to talk to a general.” And then with real supplication in his gaze he looked up to the general and pleaded, “Say something, general!”

  General Ted's blue eyes twinkled. “What shall I say?”

  “Tha's all right! Tha's fine—now—say something else!”

  We were holding our sides and bending over laughing with tears coming down our cheeks. It was a real tribute to our Army. General Ted bore himself with such dignity without stiffness on that occasion that it was a matter of comment for a long time to come. He was no officer to permit indignity to his rank. But like Colonel Arnold, he apparently realized that if the boys were going to fight a hard war, they might also be expected to play hard. We left a little early, feeling it was evident no one would be hurt in the merrymaking and that seemed to be the only line drawn.

  Missions came and went. In time I was lead or deputy lead of several of the great air battles. In one raid on Emden we were intercepted after missing a rendezvous with our friendly fighters. Our bombers alone knocked down 117 enemy fighter planes. The air was so full of parachutes for a while that it looked more like a paratrooper landing than a bombing mission. During the height of the battle there were several bombers in various stages of disintegration everywhere I looked. But the heavy decks of clouds under us were sewn with threads of black smoke where stricken Nazi fighter planes dived earthward. Finally our fighters arrived. They accounted for 21 more German fighters, bringing our total of enemy destroyed to 138. My Liberator was credited with two sure kills.

  These missions were hours of horrifying screaming in our headphones, mixed with sounds of voices calling “bombs away,” “fighters at two o'clock high, coming in,” “K King is hit hard a
nd is leaving formation on fire, crew bailing out—.”

  After several such missions, I usually asked Colonel Arnold for two or three days off to go to London. After my first visit I always stayed with Larry LeSueur. That happened as a result of his invitation to me at Christmas time. I had hoped I might find other accommodations than those of the Red Cross, but the difficulty of getting hotel rooms was extreme.

  According to Larry's suggestion, when I got to town I went to the offices of CBS on Hallam Street. Larry wasn't in, but I was welcomed and told to make myself comfortable by George Moorad, one of Larry's associates. George was searching for material to make up his next night's broadcast, which was for the “Report to the Nation” program. He wanted to know about recent bombardment missions and, when he found I had been on the big Emden raid, he asked me if I would be interviewed on his program. I thought immediately that this was an opportunity of getting the news to Anne that I was well. Her receipt of my airmail letters was delayed a minimum of ten days, and her papers carried news of many heavy air battles in the last two weeks. “You know, Columbia in New York will send your wife and parents a wire telling them you are to be on the air,” George said. That decided me and I gladly accepted. I gave George a number of the details of the mission, and he went merrily off to get the story checked with the censors. That was on Monday. He told me to meet him at 2:00 A.M. Wednesday at the BBC Building. The broadcast was set for 2:30 A.M. Wednesday, London time, which would be 8:30 Tuesday evening in New York Eastern War Time.

  After George left I had a long chat with the darkly immaculate Ed Murrow. I had heard from some of the other members of the staff that Ed had been on a recent raid over Berlin with the RAF and I was very much interested because at that time the American Eighth Air Force bombers hadn't started making runs over The Big B in daylight. I asked Ed about his mission, but he seemed reluctant to talk about it. I think he performed the mission solely in order to keep faith with his listeners. He didn't seem particularly proud of it, though I think he had every right to be. Seeing his extreme modesty about it, I decided I would kid him a little. I told him of a column I had read by Ernie Pyle some months before. Ernie Pyle told how he had been offered a chance to go on a bombing mission and had turned it down. “That was one of the most impressive columns I ever read,” I said. “You don't know what an added burden an extra man is on a bombing raid.” I continued, “One more man might consume enough oxygen so that if an oxygen line is out it might make the difference of whether that plane would get back or have to be abandoned in enemy territory.” I had set out to pull his leg a little, but immediately I was ashamed of what I had done because I could see he was genuinely distressed.

  Larry came in then and shouted a cheery welcome to me. Both he and Ed, in their grimly formal clothes, looked like men who might have stepped in from Number 10 Downing Street. In England Larry sought only to be a straight reporter. Only seldom would he branch out editorially. Ed, on the other hand, had done a great deal of editorializing. He performed magnificent work in explaining the British to the Americans in those early days of the war when that problem was much more crucial than it was upon my arrival. I felt he was a little too favorable to the British government, but there was a strong need for what he was doing. I also would have liked him to be more critical of the governments in exile, then resting comfortably in London. I'm sure he felt there was plenty of criticism without any from him. Ed remained the somber voice periodically intoning “This is London” to millions of Americans. J. P. Marquand drew a wonderful picture of the projection of Ed's personality on the American public in that beautiful book So Little Time.

  Of course it was natural that Larry would leave interpretations of the British to Murrow. Larry had been in Moscow for a long time before he came to London and was almost as much of an authority on the Russians as anyone could be. He had just written a book about Russia which was published simultaneously in the United States and Great Britain, as well as in several other countries. It was called The Twelve Months That Changed the World.

  Chatting there with the “voices,” I spent the rest of that day getting caught up on the big picture of the war, which I so sorely missed at my bomber base. I talked with nearly all the men on the CBS staff either during the afternoon or at dinner that evening.

  Next day Larry had to go to work early, and he left me to shift for myself. I went window-shopping down Regent Street toward Picadilly. As I walked along with my mind idly wandering, I stopped in front of a bookshop. There in the window I saw a copy of The Twelve Months That Changed the World. I had an idea for another leg-pull. I went into a nearby telephone booth and called CBS. At length I got Ed Murrow on the phone. “Ed,” I said, “I've got something of utmost importance to Larry I want to let you know about. I was just walking off Picadilly when I came upon a bookshop offering Larry's new book at a special cut-rate price. I was disturbed and I went in to question the proprietor about it. His only explanation was that it seemed they had overstocked with that volume and were trying to take their loss quickly and clear out of the investment as best they could.”

  I could hear Ed laughing. “Wait a minute, Phil. Larry's just come in. I'll tell him about it.” Then in a minute he returned chuckling to the phone. “Larry's got his hat and coat on and is coming right down. Thanks a million.”

  Actually Larry's book was very much of a success in London. All books there were severely limited by the paper ration, and his was sold out very quickly. I bought a copy and found a few days later the book was impossible to buy.

  That evening Larry told me he had accepted an invitation for us to attend a cocktail party where he thought I might meet some people I would enjoy knowing. I don't remember where the party was or who gave it, but I do remember being in a great room filled with people particularly suited to make me feel uncomfortable. I remember Larry taking me over to T. S. Eliot to introduce me. Eliot looked like he did in photographs I had seen—a reasonably good-looking man with a nose and chin I didn't like. After the introduction Larry said to him, “I just finished reading your last book, Mr. Eliot.”

  The great poet smiled a little grimly and expanded in anticipation of a compliment. “I do hope you don't feel any the worse for it,” he said.

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” Larry replied, “I don't feel very good about it.”

  That threw Eliot a little off his stride. For a moment he spluttered and then with some irritation threw back, “I didn't intend that you should.” Then he was called away.

  Larry laughed. “I felt regardless of what you think of the guy, you'd like to meet him.”

  Later I went back to the flat to catch a nap before the broadcast I was to do. In the tense hush of the BBC studio, at 2:29 A.M. I saw the hand on the big clock speeding around, and I heard George Moorad say, “Hello, New York, hello, New York. Do you get me? This is George.”

  The Lincoln Flying School, Lincoln, Nebraska.

  From left, Jake Greenwell, Charles Hainline with dog Washout, James Lewers, Charles Back, John Petot, and Philip Ardery at the Lincoln Flying School, Lincoln, Nebraska.

  Lieutenant Ardery's last class of student fliers at Goodfellow Field, San Angelo, Texas.

  First Captain Ardery and Second Captain Charles Kruck with General George C. Marshall at Kelly Field, San Antonio, Texas, March, 1941.

  Formation of BC-1s over Kelly Field, April, 1941.

  Mrs. Ardery with son Peter Brooks at San Angelo, Texas.

  President Franklin Delano Roosevelt visits Lowry Field, Denver, Colorado, spring, 1943.

  Setting up camp in Libya near Bengasi, July, 1943.

  Ardery and Majors Cross and Burton at Bengasi.

  Bombing of harbor installations at Reggio, Italy, on July 11, 1943, by planes of the Second Bomb Division of the Eighth Air Force.

  Bombing of harbor installations at Reggio, Italy.

  Men attending a briefing before a bombing raid.

  Father Beck performing communion service for members of the 3
89th Bomb Group before a mission over enemy territory.

  Liberators pass into the Ploesti, Romania, target area at extremely low level.

  Liberators bombing Astra Romana refinery, Ploesti, Romania, August 1, 1943.

  Liberators bombing Astra Romana refinery.

  Flames erupting from distillation plant at Steaua Romana refinery near Ploesti, Romania, August 1, 1943.

  Burning boiler house and power house after bombing at Steaua Romana refinery.

  Oil storage tanks in flames at Columbia Aquila refinery near Ploesti. In background a wave of fourteen Liberators continues the bombing attack.

  Colonel Edward J. “Ted” Timberlake at base near Norwich, England, in August, 1943.

  Brigadier General Timberlake presents Colonel Philip Ardery with his second Distinguished Flying Cross at base near Norwich.

  Colonel Bob Terrill, General Hodges, Colonel Larry Thomas, Brigadier General Timberlake, Colonel Miller, Colonel George Bronson, Bombardier Johnnie Fino, and Colonel Ardery at base near Norwich.

  Brigadier General Timberlake and Colonel Ardery stand before a Liberator at base near Norwich.

  Enlisted men at opening of an officers’ club at an Eighth Air Force base in England on October 25, 1943.

  Combat crew of the 389th Bomb Group beside a Liberator at base in England.

  Crew of Old Blister Butt at Eighth Air Force base in England.

  Crew of Ole Irish stand before their plane at base in England on August 27, 1943.