Another of the nonflying but sometimes harrowing duties of the group operations officer was occasional tower control. When the boys were coming back from missions that were rated at all difficult, or if the weather was as questionable as it generally was, it was necessary for a special traffic controller to be in the tower before and during landing. Colonel Arnold did this himself much of the time, but it was a duty which sometimes he would delegate to Colonel Miller or me. It has happened that I have been on the microphone in the tower and have been asked to make decisions for the crew of a stricken bomber in the air that might well mean the difference of life or death.
I was in the tower one evening as it began to grow dark, when the boys came back from a rough one. One after another of our available runways was blocked by bombers crash-landing when, just as the dark became complete, I got a call from a straggler. The late Lib was piloted by my own boy of the old days when I had the squadron. It was Mac McLaughlin flying B for Baker, Ole Irish. Mac's voice was calm as he called in for a landing. He told me he had only three engines, his landing gear wasn't functioning right, he had no flaps and no brakes. I had two of my three runways blocked, and the third, a very short one had just been cleared of a partly wrecked ship. I told him he couldn't use the long runway. I gave him directions to land on the short runway crosswind. Mac came in so low over the trees he almost took the tops out of the last two or three of them. He touched down perfectly, took the full length of the runway, but finally managed to get the plane stopped by dragging the tail. When he was announced safe Earl Widen, our new and sterling Protestant chaplain, came to me and announced, “Now I'm going to stop this praying and go to bed.”
That night after I left the tower and repaired to the bar to have a few beers to help me sleep, I saw Major John Berger, our group surgeon. John had been at the end of the runway in an ambulance picking up the wounded. He didn't know how I felt, and so he told me about one boy he had cared for. A gunner, he was, who had caught a 20 mm. shell from an attacking fighter plane. The shell wept through the back part of his head, but for some uncanny reason it hadn't exploded. It took part of the head away, but not enough to kill him. It just left him permanently blind. Peculiarly, there was no pain. The boy insisted on helping himself get out of the plane and into the waiting ambulance. He couldn't understand what had happened to him, and he didn't know he would never see again.
The things which hit me hard seemed to come in strings, and just a little while after that rough evening was over I found myself again in the tower trying to help the boys in. I didn't think I would have very much to do this time, because the raid was not calculated to have been a very tough one and there was comparatively good weather. But the group had evidently encountered very heavy flak.
The first call I got from one of our ships was not from the formation leader. It was from a young pilot, new to the group and home early. He was shot up and was able to get one main landing gear and the nose wheel down by the emergency manual procedure. The other main wheel was stuck in the up position. Flak had cut the cable which was used to lower the wheel. Having put the one main wheel and the nose wheel down, he could not now retract them. It would have been better to make a belly landing with all wheels up than to land as it appeared he would now have to.
He was giving out of gas and he called me to make a decision for him. Should he head the ship out to sea and jump, or should he try to land it? He had no wounded aboard. I told him to land. I was a major then, and a lieutenant colonel from our division headquarters who was visiting in the tower at the time told me I was crazy. He voiced the opinion that the crew should bail out. I was acting on the delegated authority of Colonel Arnold, and I let that officer know that I would run the traffic at the tower with no interference from anyone but my group commander.
As the ship turned in from the base leg of the traffic pattern, I saw our fire truck spurt exhaust. Its crew was hastily donning asbestos suits. The airplane was now on its final approach. Then it touched down on the one main wheel, held level for a moment and began to go down on the right side. Finally it touched the right wing and slid along partly on, partly off the runway for what seemed an incredible distance. The props on the right side dug in and broke off, and fire flew from under the ship where it scraped the concrete runway. At length the plane went into a giant ground loop and stopped. The fire truck dashed out as the flames licked upward from the bottom of the crashed Lib. I was abreast of the fire truck in my galloping jeep. We were almost on the wreck by the time it came to a full stop. Fire had already begun in the nacelle of the right outboard engine as well as in the center section underneath the fuselage. The next moment after the skidding hulk stopped the top hatch opened and men started jumping out. They were also jumping from the waist windows. I knew in two or three seconds the flames might ignite gas fumes and convert the wreck into an uncontrollable pyre. But in those seconds the firemen were pointing their hoses and squirting chemical spray everywhere there was evidence of fire. The white foam spat into the engine nacelle and under the ship, and the flames crackled and died.
There were other duties of the group operations officer which at that time were almost as harrowing as the duty of flying combat. But they were all in the routine of war, and proper performance of them brought a genuine sense of satisfaction.
One day shortly after my completion of the Berlin trip Colonel Arnold took me aside and asked me what plans I had made for the time when I had completed my tour. I told him I knew it was impossible for one in my position to plan and that I would do what I was assigned to do. But if I had my choice I would go back to the States as soon as possible. My aching to get a glimpse of Anne and Pete grew more acute with each day that passed. The colonel told me he thought I would, without a doubt, be able to go back to the States within three or four months of the time I had the tour complete. However, he let me know that owing to the fact that replacements were coming through slowly, everyone was expected to do a little extra work before going home. I replied that if I had to stay in England I would as soon be in the command I was in as any I could possibly think of. Then he mentioned the fact that General Ted had said he had a place for me in the wing. That ended our conversation of that day. But for days afterwards I continued to consider what had been said about the job at the wing. It was a job others had asked for, and I was vastly flattered that it might be offered to me. Just about that time my promotion to the rank of lieutenant colonel came through. I was very glad, but I felt a little ashamed about it. I had been such a continual beneficiary of good luck that I felt it quite possible my qualities had been overrated. I felt the best way to get along in my job was not to let myself get overrated. At the time the prospects of my future were presented to me I was not confronted with the necessity of making any decision, nor was I given to understand the matter had been finally decided by others. It was something to think about during the days I had remaining.
The last mission seemed almost automatic. I can recall few details about it. It was not hard and was made easier by the fact that, from some indescribable source, I had gained complete confidence that I would come back. This last mission was one deep into southern France. Colonel Arnold and General Ted also made it. Neither of those officers let much time elapse between their missions, nor did they pick missions. They flew on some of the toughest we had. They always maintained a spirit of levity and half-seriousness which made me quite ashamed of the moody way in which I took my hard ones. I felt it was just the difference between two real soldiers—West Pointers, God bless them—and a civilian covered with a uniform such as I. I used to hate the academy product, but in these last few months I had met too many good soldiers who were academy men to keep that misconception.
The main thing that I remember about the last mission was that when I got back to the interrogation room I was met by the newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Paul Burton. It was the same soft-voiced Paul who had gone out with me from Tucson on the original cadre of the group. Paul still had his
squadron. He was a few missions behind me and had a little way to go to complete his tour. Paul and I had always liked each other. We were the only two left in the group of the original four squadron commanders who had shared the tent together in Bengasi. Hank Yaeger had been shot down and Del Cross had left the command. Paul rejoiced with me over my finishing the tour. Soon after that when he set out leading the group and was shot down over Germany, I remembered his charming manner that day. I missed him as a very material part of the group I had known in the beginning. And again I felt as though fate had been almost unfair.
I had had two truly efficient assistants in my old job to whom I owed most of whatever credit the office had earned. They were moving along as I moved. Major Dan Minnick, my first assistant, was slated to go to Division Headquarters as the division training officer. The other assistant, Captain Don Westerbeke, was going to take over my job of group operations officer. Some short days after taking over my job Westy fell victim of the trail of bad luck I always seemed to leave behind me. He was shot down over Holland and after a time was reported a prisoner of the Germans. I could not help but put Westy's case together with that of Ken Caldwell, who took over my command of the squadron and was almost immediately killed in action. The old group was greatly changed by the loss of those men, and so was I.
6
The Wing
On March 24, 1944, I completed my tour in the prophetically named Liberator Round Trip Ticket. Almost at once I was given orders transferring me to the wing. I felt a strong attachment to my old group and was glad the wing headquarters were located on the same airdrome where I'd been. Our wing included, of course, my old group and two others at bases only a few miles away.
When I arrived in the new command I reported directly to General Timberlake, who then told me he anticipated using me as his A-3 staff officer. A-3 is military for operations officer. The job had previously been filled by Major Morton Macks, the funniest man I ever knew in the Army. Besides Mort's quality as a clown he was an extremely smart and efficient operations man. I think the only reason General Ted was willing to replace him was that he had been overseas a long time, had completed a combat tour of operations, and wanted to go home. The general was letting him go purely out of compassion.
As was customary, the first thing I did after reporting was to ask for a day or two of leave to go to London. The general approved my request and immediately I got on the telephone to LeSueur, who had told me to be sure to come down when I could. He wanted to help me celebrate my last mission. “Come on down,” Larry said. “I have a new flat and a nice room for you. I may have to leave town before you're ready to go back, but I'll give you the run of the place.”
This trip to London would be a much nicer one than those past. I wouldn't have to return to sweat out any more missions, and I would return to one of the best jobs in the Air Corps. Still, when I got to London, to my own surprise I guess as much as to Larry's, I didn't feel much in the mood for hilarity. I wanted to talk with the boys about war and politics and see some people I had tried to see and missed on my previous trips. I was tired and I wanted to relax. At the CBS offices I talked to Messrs. Shaw and Collingwood and some of the other fellows while I waited for LeSueur to return from lunch. While we were in the midst of a loud controversy Larry, sleek and dark in his ultraconservative pinstripes, strode in looking the part of a key international operator. He greeted me with, “Hiyah, jerk!”
That afternoon we chatted in the office for a while and then started wandering about town. Our first stop was the flat of Robert Capa, a thick-voiced, swarthy photographer for Life. Capa had asked Larry to come by and give him some advice about flats for rent. The stocky little photographer made a strong impression on me as another fearless journalist.
That evening we had dinner with Davidson Taylor of the Office of War Information, Charles Wertenbaker of Time, and some others. Dave Taylor had previously worked on the Louisville Courier-Journal and had a lot to say about Kentucky that was of particular interest to me.
As a result of the days I spent in London, I confirmed my already strong conviction that American reporters were doing a whale of a job. It was a job the American people had come to take for granted. Larry and Capa were both qualified parachutists hoping for a chance to jump somewhere behind enemy lines. All the rest of them spent many waking hours of each day planning how they might establish themselves personally in the war—not to make headlines, but merely to make themselves feel they were being fair to the public.
The day after my arrival Larry had to leave town. He left me with the keys to his sumptuous flat. I had been hoping for some time to be able to see Stanley Reed, Jr., an old law school classmate of mine, and now with Larry gone I decided to try again to find him. Stanley was the son of a Supreme Court justice, and a naval officer in one of the headquarters in London. He was a Kentuckian by birth, but because of his long separation from Kentucky he had come to look, talk, and act like a native of Long Island. We had a point of common interest in our acquaintance with Harold Laski, professor of economics at the University of London. Stanley knew Laski rather better than I did, though we had both met him at the same time when he came to Harvard to give talks to the law students. After several telephone calls I located Stanley and arranged to have dinner with him the next evening. Stanley told me that after dinner he would take me to Laski's house. He had been there before and assured me I would be welcome. That was to be a Thursday evening, and he said on Thursday nights Laski opened his doors to friends for discussions of currently interesting topics.
After I hung up I remembered an incident that happened some months before when I met a conversative M.P. on the train to London. I asked the M.P. what he thought of Laski. As I recall, he termed the professor something of a “crazy man.” I had then asked to what the honorable M.P. attributed the power of Laski's views. I remember the reply: “Oh, there are always people to listen to someone like that. And then, too, he writes those books, you know!”
I was very pleased to have a chance to see Laski again. I had read two of his recent essays, “Reflections on the Revolution of Our Times” and “Faith, Reason, and Civilization,” and was impressed by both. For clarity of thought and mastery of presentation I thought I had never seen a contemporary who could approach Laski in his field. I did, however, find myself in disagreement with him on some points. He drew parallels between the beginnings of Christianity and the incipient political forces of today. I disagreed with his concept that there are forces which may supplant religion. I have heard many times that religion “is the opium of the people,” but I saw its force among men who fought some of the greatest air battles the world has ever known. It did not serve to reconcile them to their shortcomings, their failures, or their unanswerable needs. It seemed to me that the religion given them by their chaplains, Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish alike, was no sanctuary for a pilot who quit combat. It was the strength of a pilot who might have had to quit without it.
Stanley and I had dinner and took a bus to Laski's house on the edge of London. The little man with the big glasses and the funny moustache met us at the door. “Mr. Laski,” Reed said, “you may not remember my friend Colonel Ardery.”
Laski's face brightened. “Oh, yes. He was with you in law school; of course I remember. Come in, Ardery. Glad to have you and Reed drop in.”
From the entrance hall we stepped down into a small library which held more books than any other room its size I ever saw. Several others arrived—most of them American Army officers. Laski started talking about Churchill's recent issue in Parliament over increased pay for schoolteachers. The prime minister's action in the case had been subject to many interpretations. Churchill had chosen to make a petty fuss over teachers’ pay the subject of a vote of confidence on which his government would stand or fall. Did he do it to demonstrate to Roosevelt and Stalin his power over the government? Did he do it because he really wanted to know how his government stood? Or did he do it just from sheer cussedness?
Though he gave no direct answer, I believe Laski thought the latter. I remember the long discussion better than I remember the conclusions. It seems to me it was the general view that Churchill had got his Churchillian temper up and decided to give the opposition a bit of a hosing. Laski impressed me as a man who, above all, possessed in abundance the qualities of a gentleman. He was supersensitive to injustice and tyranny. I think, if he had faults, one was that his intellectual capability caused him to overestimate people.
Next morning I rose early, threw my few things into my Air Corps B-4 bag, and caught the train.
The new job was even bigger and better than I had imagined it would be. Never in my life had I found myself so surrounded with such superior people as I did in that headquarters. A fine officer of Italian extraction by the name of Carmelo Alba, then a captain, was the S-l (adjutant). Major Mike Phipps, ten goals at polo and just as good at the work of an intelligence officer, was the S-2 (intelligence). I became the S-3 (operations). Among the other figures in the headquarters was Colonel Larry Thomas, the chief of staff. He had come in to take the job previously filled by Colonel Arnold when the latter left to take his group command. Some time after my arrival Colonel Thomas went out to take command of a group; and the Hollywood idol, Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Stewart, came in to take his place.
Then there was Fred Jarecki, Mike's assistant in intelligence. Soon after I came in Major Vic Sieverding also entered the intelligence branch. He was a delightful, older officer who had been a practicing lawyer in Des Moines, Iowa. Captain Fred Willis, my old squadron intelligence officer, had worked in this headquarters after leaving the squadron; but about the time of my arrival he went back to work in a group.
Bomber Pilot Page 22