By February the 94th had progressed far enough in its training that USAAF planners deemed the unit ready for deployment to the United Kingdom. The group would travel in two echelons—the ground personnel by ship, and the combat crews by air along what was referred to as the northern ferry route.7 The former left New York harbor aboard the passenger liner–turned-troopship Queen Elizabeth on May 5, and after arrival in Scotland six days later boarded trains for the journey to the 94th’s first home in the British Isles, the former Royal Air Force base at Earls Colne in Essex.
For the aircrews, the trip across the Atlantic was somewhat less direct. On March 2 they undertook the first leg of the journey by train—to Smoky Hill Army Air Base in Salina, Kansas. Dozens of factory-fresh B-17F Fortresses awaited the aviators on the cold, windswept field, and among the first orders of business was for the pilot of each crew to select the aircraft he and his men would take to Britain and then into combat. The selection process was far from scientific: The serial numbers of the nine aircraft allocated to each squadron were written down on slips of paper and tossed together in an upturned hat. The squadron commander then held the hat as each pilot in turn pulled out a single slip; the serial number on the paper indicated the aircraft that the pilot and crew were assigned to.
Over the next few days the aviators got to know their new mounts, a process that involved one or two test flights to determine that the bombers were mechanically ready for the long overseas flight and that all of their subsystems worked as required. Since the final stages of the ferry route would cross areas where encounters with the enemy were possible, the breaking-in process included extensive testing of each Fortress’s powered gun turrets and individual handheld machine guns. The crews also used the shakedown period to apply a mutually agreed upon nickname to the side of their aircraft’s nose. These monikers ran the gamut from prosaic to witty to obscene, and were usually accompanied by a fitting illustration—most of which were painted on the aircraft by local airfield staffers who’d found a lucrative outlet for their artistic talents.
In the case of the Purdy crew, the choice of a name for their brand-new Fortress was based on the serial number emblazoned in yellow on the bomber’s olive-drab vertical stabilizer—42-29711. In craps, the dice game widely played by American servicemen of that era, the final three numbers of the B-17’s serial signified a “natural” 7 or 11 win on the first roll. Rolling a natural was considered an omen of very good luck—something everyone on the Purdy crew desperately hoped would accompany them throughout their time overseas—so the Fortress was unanimously christened Natural.8 The next order of business, of course, was to have the name and some sort of appropriate artwork applied to the bomber. The crew took up a collection and hired one of Smoky Hill’s most sought-after soldier-artists, a young African-American technical sergeant whose name has unfortunately been lost to history.
The man first painted Natural on the right side of the B-17’s nose. Though done in letters several inches tall, the nickname was dwarfed by the large and colorful artwork the young artist then applied on the same side, just forward of and below the cockpit. Within a two-foot-wide bright yellow circle stooped an African-American man wearing a red-and-white striped shirt, matching socks, black pants, and black shoes. The figure was frozen in the act of rolling a pair of dice, which appeared enlarged at his feet to show that the top face of one bore four black dots and the other three, while the lower side of the first showed five dots and the second, six. We have to wonder, of course, how the young artist felt about the image he was asked to create.9
Within two weeks of arriving in Kansas the 94th’s air echelon was ready to move on, though that turned out to be more of a problem than anyone had anticipated. The individual squadrons left Smoky Hill over a period of two days, but engine problems soon forced many aircraft—including Natural—to land at military airfields and civilian airports along the route. Close inspection of the affected Wright Cyclone power plants showed that the core problem was defective metal in the piston rings. With the long trans-Atlantic flight ahead there was no alternative but to replace all four engines on all of the group’s thirty-six Fortresses, a task that was carried out at the USAAF Air Depot in Mobile, Alabama, over three weeks in late March and early April. As aircraft were repaired they were assembled into flights of three and dispatched up the East Coast to Presque Isle Army Airfield, Maine, the jump-off point for the flight to Britain via Labrador, Greenland, Iceland, and Scotland.
Natural and its crew spent four days in America’s northernmost state, waiting for additional aircraft to arrive from Alabama. Other than an afternoon visit to a pub in Andover, New Brunswick—the nearest town on the other side of the U.S.-Canadian border—Joe Cornwall and his crewmates spent most of their time at Presque Isle either testing and retesting the B-17’s mechanical systems or undergoing refresher training on survival at sea.10 By April 14 enough 94th Bomb Group Fortresses had arrived in Maine to permit a formation of twelve to begin the first leg of the long flight to Britain. The following morning the crews of the dozen bombers attended a lengthy briefing that covered en route weather, navigation issues, and emergency radio frequencies. The aviators also received a detailed intelligence update on sightings of enemy submarines, surface ships, and aircraft along the route—a sobering reality check that was reinforced by the announcement that, in addition to maximum fuel, each aircraft would carry a full combat load of ammunition for its twelve .50-caliber machine guns.11
One after another the Fortresses trundled from the Presque Isle ramp area to the end of the active runway. After a brief, final engine run-up the aircraft took off at one-minute intervals, formed up, and headed northwest on the 650-mile leg to Gander, Newfoundland. As the formation reached its cruise altitude of 18,000 feet the Fortresses were briefly joined by a flight of Hurricane fighters of the Royal Canadian Air Force, their camouflage patterns and large roundels providing a glimpse of the future awaiting the American aviators.
In Natural’s rear fuselage the waist gun windows had been closed off with sliding panels and the small heat outlets turned up full, so Joe Cornwall, Frank Santangelo, John Smith, and Larry Templeton were relatively comfortable despite the below-freezing outside temperature. The men settled in for the flight, trying to get comfortable amid the jumble of footlockers, duffel bags, ammunition boxes, and crates of spare parts that took up every inch of space.
For Joe, the long flight provided ample time to digest a letter he’d received just before takeoff from Presque Isle. Forwarded several times, the quick note from Clara Gypin confirmed something Joe had assumed for some time. She had met someone, she wrote, a man named Clarence Rebuck. He was about to be discharged from the Army for medical reasons, so he wouldn’t be going off to war. He was kind to her and the children, she said, and while she would always care for Joe, she had decided to marry the man—as much for security, she admitted, as out of any great love. Though the news was painful, Joe admitted to himself that it was the right choice for Clara, and he couldn’t fault her for making it.12
Some 3,500 miles and four days later Natural and her eleven companions touched down in Britain, where they were soon joined by the rest of the 94th Bomb Group. Because the B-26–equipped 322nd Bomb Group, which had been operating out of Earls Colne, in Essex, had not yet vacated the base, the 94th’s aircraft were sent elsewhere. The men and aircraft of the 331st and 332nd squadrons gathered at the former RAF field at Bassingbourn, Cambridgeshire, already home to the USAAF’s combat-tested 91st Bomb Group. The equally experienced 305th Bomb Group at Thurleigh, Bedfordshire, welcomed the Fortresses and crews of the 333rd and 410th squadrons.
THOUGH THE AIR CREWS OF THE 94TH’S FOUR SQUADRONS UNDOUBTEDLY considered themselves already well trained and highly proficient by the time they arrived in England, the Eighth Air Force’s experiences thus far in the air war over the Continent had convinced General Ira C. Eaker—the Eighth’s commander—that all incoming personnel needed additional training in high-altitude forma
tion flying, gunnery, and bad-weather operations before being considered combat-ready.13 Beginning near the end of April the 94th crews at both Bassingbourn and Thurleigh began flying high-altitude training missions almost daily, initially in squadrons and then as a complete group.14
The practice flights helped bolster the aviators’ navigation, bombing, and air-to-air gunnery skills, but the main focus was on perfecting the group’s ability to fly the tight “combat box” formation. Developed and refined during the early USAAF bomber missions over Europe, the formation was intended to both increase the group’s defensive firepower and better concentrate its bombs on target. Although the exact configuration and composition varied with the number of aircraft involved, at the time of the 94th’s arrival in England the formation’s basic grouping was the three-aircraft element. This consisted of one Fortress in the lead, with another off its right wing, slightly behind and slightly higher, and the third off the lead’s left wing, slightly behind and slightly lower. Three (and later four) such elements made up a “squadron box,” with the elements also arranged in the staggered arrowhead or diamond pattern. The lead element was also the squadron lead, with a high element flying above, to the right and behind it; a low element below, to the left and behind; and a low-low element almost directly astern of and below the lead element. Three (and later four) squadron boxes would constitute a “group box,” with each squadron arranged in the same lead, high, low, and low-low pattern. And, eventually, three (or four) group boxes would form a “combat wing,” again arranged in the same offset, staggered formation.
When flown correctly, no two aircraft in any part of the combat box formation flew at exactly the same altitude or directly ahead of or behind another, opening clear fields of fire for the bombers’ gunners and reducing the chances of a midair collision. Although challenging to fly, especially through high-altitude turbulence and concentrations of heavy antiaircraft fire (referred to by the air crews as “flak”), the box was extremely daunting for incoming enemy fighters and allowed a greater percentage of the formation’s bombs to land in the same area.15 From the bomber crews’ point of view, however, the formation had one glaring flaw: the low aircraft in the low squadron or low group were the most exposed to flak and to tail attacks by German fighters seeking to avoid the greater concentration of defensive fire thrown out by the higher and farther-forward aircraft. As a result, the “tail-end Charlie” position in the formation was widely referred to as “Coffin Corner” and “Purple Heart Corner,” the latter after the medal awarded to those wounded in combat.
During the 94th’s sojourn at Bassingbourn and Thurleigh several of the group’s key officers and enlisted men had the opportunity to take part in missions flown by the 91st’s Fortresses, either as observers or as replacements for ill or injured regular crewmen. These flights undoubtedly helped the participants better understand the nature of the air war they and their unit were about to enter, but not all the lessons were purely theoretical. On May 1, twenty-four-year-old Major Maurice Rosener, one of the 94th’s original officers and the commander of the group’s 332nd Bomb Squadron, elected to fly with the 91st on a raid against the German submarine base at Saint-Nazaire, on France’s Brittany coast. The raid did not go well, with poor weather hampering the bombing and German flak and fighters downing seven of the seventy-eight attacking bombers. Rosener was aboard one of the planes that went down, becoming the 94th Bomb Group’s first combat loss.16
As much of a shock as Rosener’s loss was to the men of the 94th, it was soon overshadowed by a much more momentous announcement. On the afternoon of May 12 “Dinty” Moore summoned his squadron commanders and other senior leaders from both Bassingbourn and Thurleigh to a command briefing, held in his borrowed office in the 91st Group’s headquarters. After looking around the room, Moore cleared his throat and announced to the gathered officers that their training was over. The group had been designated combat-ready, he said, and the following morning the unit’s men and aircraft would do what they had come so far to do—the 94th was going to war.
Within hours the news of the group’s premier mission spread quickly around Bassingbourn, though Joe Cornwall and the majority of the 94th’s members would have to wait until the next morning’s pre-mission briefing to learn the details about the intended target. The lack of specifics didn’t particularly bother Joe, however. As he lay on his cot that night in the Quonset hut he shared with eleven other gunners, unable to sleep and smoking one cigarette after another, he had much larger questions swirling through his mind. He had spent two years training for combat, and now he wondered how he would react when he first saw the enemy up close. Would he keep his nerve and do his duty when the time came, or would he lose heart, leaving his friends to face the consequences? Would he live, or would he die?
OWING TO HIS REQUIRED PRESENCE AT A SENIOR COMMANDERS’ MEETING AT Pinetree—the code name given to the Eighth Air Force’s VIII Bomber Command headquarters outside London—“Dinty” Moore would not be leading the 94th’s first combat mission.17 He instead tapped the charismatic commander of the 331st Bomb Squadron, Major Ralph H. Saltsman Jr., to fly lead.
Though just twenty-seven years old, “Salty”—as Saltsman was inevitably known—was already a seasoned aviator. A 1940 graduate of the Air Corps Flying School at Kelly Field, Texas, he had gone on to instruct at the school and attended the U.S. Army War College. He had been a key member of Moore’s early cadre and was instrumental in getting both his own squadron and the entire group staffed, trained, and deployed. In the process Saltsman had proven himself to be an outstanding pilot, an able administrator, and a man who treated both superiors and subordinates with equal regard. He had also been among the first of the 94th’s officers to participate in a combat sortie, flying as an observer with the 91st Bomb Group.
The 94th’s first combat mission saw it joining three other recently arrived groups—the 95th, 96th, and 351st—to form the 4th Provisional Bomb Wing, which would send seventy-two Fortresses to hit two Luftwaffe airfields in the suburbs of Saint-Omer, France, a city fourteen miles southwest of the Belgian border.18 The fields, at Longuenesse and Fort Rouge, were home to elements of the Fw 190–equipped Jagdgeschwader 26, which along with Jagdgeschwader 2 was tasked with the daylight air defense of Northwest Europe.
The operation started well enough on the morning of May 13, with all aircraft taking off on schedule. The linkup with other groups of the 4th Wing also took place without a hitch, and the Fortresses set course for France in clear weather. Things started to fall apart, however, when the formation reached mid-Channel. The lead B-17 of the 96th Bomb Group suffered a major mechanical failure and had to “abort” the mission. That aircraft’s abrupt about-face caused the remainder of the 96th and the entire 351st to become disorganized, and to Saltsman’s chagrin both groups elected to return to base. Not only did their departure reduce the size and defensive firepower of the 4th Wing formation by almost half, it meant the remaining bombers would not be able to attack the airfield at Fort Rouge. Saltsman had no choice but to continue the mission, and led the 94th and 95th Bomb Groups on toward Longuenesse. The Fortresses were over the target by 4:37 P.M., and though the two groups’ bombing accuracy wasn’t all it could have been, the formation encountered no flak or fighters, and all the 94th aircraft returned to Bassingbourn without incident.
While the Longuenesse raid had been relatively straightforward—at least in terms of the 94th’s participation—over the following month the group was forced to come to grips with the realities of the air war over Occupied Europe. Between May 14 and June 11 the 94th flew seven additional strikes, hitting targets in Belgium, Germany, and France. In the process the group encountered heavy flak and determined fighter attacks—and also suffered its first losses: one aircraft during the May 17 mission to bomb sub pens in Lorient and three Fortresses on May 21 over Emden. Sadly, the latter operation led to a personal tragedy for the men of Natural. Russ Crisp, the crew’s flight engineer and top turret gunner, had been
tapped as a last-minute replacement for a sick man on another crew, and was killed when the aircraft he was on was shot down over Holland. Crisp’s death was a blow to Natural’s close-knit crew, and despite the fact that the men had acquitted themselves well thus far—Joe Cornwall had even been awarded an Air Medal for shooting down a German fighter on the May 21 mission—the stress common to all combat aviators was starting to take a toll on their nerves. While an occasional weekend pass to London or more frequent visits to local pubs helped allay the men’s anxiety somewhat, they had begun to wonder aloud when it might be their “turn in the barrel.”19
A change of station from Bassingbourn to the now available Earls Colne gave the 94th Group a brief stand-down from operational flying, but on the first raid from the new base—on May 29, to Rennes, France—the 94th lost three more B-17s. Although the mission flown on June 11 against U-boat facilities in Cuxhaven, Germany, resulted in no losses for the group, “Dinty” Moore and his aviators had to face the hard facts. In its first month of combat operations the 94th had lost seven bombers and seventy-three men: a grim statistic for aviators required to fly twenty-five missions before being rotated back to the United States.
Escape from Paris Page 3