Turbulence jostled the gliders, causing strain on the pilots and discomfort among the passengers. Rough air could buck or drop a glider several feet in an instant, keeping all on board alert and nervous.
Reporter Howard Cowan wasn’t enjoying the flight either. He kept eyeing nearby crates of anti-tank mines and wondering if the bumpy ride could set them off. His apprehension had started before boarding when one of his fellow passengers looked at the graffiti on the side of his CG-4A and observed, “We ought to paint ‘V-3’ on the side of it, it’s so full of explosives.”
Peering out the port window, Cowan saw the glider on short tow drift uncomfortably close to his own, causing him to worry about a midair collision and the resulting sensation of tumbling into the fields below. His unease shifted into a higher gear when a sudden downdraft sent the trooper next to him cracking into the steel framework; the man had made the mistake of taking off his helmet and now blood poured down his face.
To relieve the physical stress of trying to tame their bucking gliders against the turbulence, many pilots alternated flying to give each other a break. In Flight Officer Paul Swink’s glider, his “volunteer” copilot wanted to do most of the flying, which Swink thought was great. He’d never had the luxury of a copilot, having flown his other operations solo.
Swink periodically yelled over to see if he could relieve the other man, to which he always got the same reply, “No!”
As they got closer to the Rhine, Swink asked him if he was getting tired. “Hell yes, I’m tired, but I want you rested enough to land this thing!”
For many passengers the turbulence became unbearable, unleashing waves of vomit. Luckily in Chalk 155, only one of Dillon’s men barfed. Those next to him passed the trooper’s helmet, full of vomitus, back to the last man, who dumped the mess into the glider’s rear.
The misery in Private Charles Knight’s glider was more widespread. One trooper’s airsickness set off a chain reaction. Then Knight, already feeling queasy, threw up, followed by the rest of the squad. “That glider was one big stinking mess,” said Knight, recalling the sickly, sour odor.
• • •
A formation of 240 B-24 bombers took up a trailing position behind the transports and gliders. Having lumbered into the sky from their air bases in England at 09:10, they’d crossed the English Channel at 1,500 feet before turning northeast toward Brussels. Their route was nearly identical to that flown by the serials delivering the British 6th Airborne who had preceded them. With virtually every C-47 in Europe towing gliders or dropping paratroops, an aerial resupply would either have to wait for returning aircraft to be loaded, which would take hours, or use another type of aircraft. The four-engine B-24 Liberators got the job.
The timing of the Liberators’ supply drop had to be as close on the heels of the personnel drop as possible. Three factors contributed to this: Montgomery’s artillery units along the Rhine were still on cease-fire until all of the low-flying aircraft had cleared the airspace; dropping supplies immediately allowed the airborne troops to collect what they needed while assembling rather than waiting on the DZ; and, finally, planners wanted the bombers-turned-supply-aircraft to enjoy the benefits of the same anti-flak operations that the VARSITY transport aircraft did. Tragically, everyone overestimated the effectiveness of the Allies’ efforts to eradicate enemy AA positions.
The B-24 crews had been briefed the day before on their unconventional cargo mission. Typically, their behind-the-lines missions stretched hundreds of miles, but their target on this trip would be a mere 8,000 feet into enemy territory. Also different: instead of cruising over Germany at 25,000 feet, they’d be dropping supplies at less than 300. It would be a novel experience for aircrews that considered 13,000 feet an unusually low-level run.
The briefer had left no doubt as to the urgency of the mission: “This is it! Tomorrow will be the most important mission you will have flown. In importance and preparation it rivals the landings of June 6, for tomorrow, 24 March, is another great assault against Germany across the Rhine. . . . Our part in this assault is the dropping of vital equipment and supplies to the boys who have already crossed. The accurate dropping of these supplies is absolutely essential for the success of the boys on the ground.”
With its cavernous bomb bay, some creative thinking, and a few modifications, a B-24 Liberator could carry 2.5 tons of supplies. The cargo, divided into twenty or twenty-one bundles per aircraft, consisted of fuel, food, signal equipment, medical supplies, and a cornucopia of ammunition ranging from .45-caliber tommy gun bullets to 75mm howitzer shells. In each bomber the heaviest and bulkiest of the supplies were loaded into twelve A-5 equipment bundles and shackled into the bomb racks. To facilitate even more cargo the ball turret was removed, along with the escape hatch in the aircraft’s rear. The additional bundles placed near the open, five-foot hole of the ball turret, and those clustered around the escape hatch would have to be pushed out manually.
Like the supplies dropped from under the C-47s, each bundle was attached to specific color parachutes to aid identification of the contents. The chutes’ static lines were attached to various anchor points within the bomber, and the crew had to navigate the spiderweb of lines and cargo straps carefully to avoid entangling them. If properly jettisoned, all twenty-one bundles could be out in six seconds.
• • •
Up front in the lead serials, the Ruffians witnessed the changing terrain as they neared Germany. The view below shifted from colorful villages and idyllic farms to an ominous gray landscape of shell craters, splintered trees, and burnt fields. Olive-drab convoys congested the roads, bringing forward tanks, engineering equipment, sections of pontoon bridges, and countless other supplies.
As they pushed closer to the Rhine, the pilots passed back the ten-minute warning. The troopers’ solitude was interrupted by the jumpmasters who stood to face their sticks, bellowing, “Get readddyyyyy!”
“Get ready!” the stick shouted back.
CHAPTER 12
“LET’S GO!”
09:48–13:00. Drop Zone W, Germany. Saturday, March 24, 1945.
At the Rhine, PLUNDER was in full swing. British landing craft slogged across the thousand-foot-wide river, coxswains straining to steer their craft in the choppy water. Artillery shells whistled in, sending geysers exploding skyward, rocking the boats and showering the soldiers crouched against the gunwales. The odd bullet pinged off the closed steel exit ramp. Volleys of friendly shells sailed overhead seeking targets on the far bank.
German Fallschirmjäger used interlocking fields of machine gun fire and mortars to keep Allied troops pinned to the riverbank in Montgomery’s northern sector. Until the vigorous defense could be broken, no help could reach the British airborne troops from that quarter. The delays irritated one of Montgomery’s commanders, who later wrote, “It says a lot for the morale of those German parachute and panzer troops that with chaos, disorganization and disillusion all around them they should still be resisting so stubbornly.”
Farther south, in Wesel, the British Commandos—who’d entered the town on the heels of the previous night’s plastering by the RAF—also struggled. The Germans there had dug into the rubble, using it for cover and forcing the Commandos to fight their way forward block by block. Subsequently, they too were behind schedule in seizing their side of the Issel Canal where they intended to link up with Miley’s glider riders.
Progress was being made, however, in the center sector. British regiments spearheading the assault there had secured their objectives along the banks and were poised to take advantage of the VARSITY landings farther inland.
• • •
Gathered on a small balcony overlooking the Rhine, Winston Churchill, Eisenhower, and Montgomery observed the full grandeur of the crossing.
Churchill, who was seated and wearing a light overcoat, scoped the far bank with a pair of binoculars while Eisenhower and Montgomery stood to better survey events downriver. From their vantage point they would have
seen assault craft chugging across the Rhine and, in the skies above, British and American fighters pirouetting into German flak positions on the far bank.
But the fighter pilots circling overhead at 4,000 feet were having trouble spotting their targets. Montgomery’s smoke screen and clouds of dust from the artillery barrage had partly obscured the ground below. The reduced visibility forced the fighters to lower altitudes so they could get a better bead on their targets. A few made passes at treetop level to draw enemy fire so their circling comrades could spot the muzzle flashes.
Once the American pilots in their P-47 Thunderbolts located a target, they made attack runs in serial fashion. Flying in groups of twelve, the first pair dove at a flak position dropping bombs, which exploded into large mushroom clouds of smoking tentacles. The second pair of Thunderbolts then swept in, firing their wing-mounted rockets into the resulting inferno. The final pair made a low-level strafing pass to gun down survivors.
As one P-47 pilot recalled, “When you’re flying 20 feet off the ground and hitting infantrymen with eight .50-caliber guns, [it becomes very obvious] that war is a very messy sonofabitch of a business.”
Inevitably, several of the Thunderbolts were hit. Pilot Charles Bennett’s aircraft took several rounds coming out of a strafing run. With his aircraft trailing smoke, Bennett climbed to make a turn for home but quickly lost airspeed as his engine died. Just as the plane started to roll, Bennett slid back the canopy and threw himself out. Drifting under his fully deployed parachute, he watched the corkscrew smoke trail of his aircraft as it crashed into the Rhine. He landed in the river soon after and treaded water, edging his way to the friendly bank from which a small rescue boat headed toward him.
• • •
From their balcony vantage the assembled Allied leaders directed their attention back to their side of the Rhine as the booming British howitzers fell silent. Filling the void was the deep, unrelenting drone of overhead engines rising from behind them.
Churchill jumped to his feet. Clasping his cigar between two fingers he pointed skyward and announced the arrival of VARSITY’s armada, “They’re coming! . . . They’re coming!”
A correspondent just upstream witnessed the same wave of aircraft: “There seemed no end to the lines of planes which streamed slowly in from the west.” His fellow journalists and groups of nearby soldiers all stared upward, “none speaking, enthralled with one of the greatest spectacles of this or any war.”
• • •
In the armada’s vanguard were the C-47s carrying the paratroopers of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment into Drop Zone W. Raff’s Ruffians had arrived eight minutes early, cutting short the Allied artillery barrage that had shifted to target known anti-aircraft positions.
After hearing the command “Get Ready!” the troopers had opened the gates of their static lines’ snap hooks.
“Staaaand up!” shouted the jumpmaster over the throbbing engines and rattling airframe. The troopers struggled to their feet and formed a single line. Holding the static lines in their left hands and bracing themselves with their right, they faced the rear of the aircraft where the jumpmaster stood by the open cargo door, wind ripping at his uniform.
“Hoooook up!” he bellowed. With a metallic click, the troopers snapped their static lines onto the anchor line cable and yanked down to engage the gate’s safety button, locking it closed. They fought for balance as they used their right hand to insert, then bend the safety pin into place, making sure the snap hook couldn’t come undone. The jumpers were now engaged in the mechanics of a familiar ritual, and the activity achieved exactly what was intended—establish order and provide a distraction from racing hearts and nauseous stomachs.
The jumpmaster’s fourth command—“Check equippppppment!”—sent the stick into the motion of each man inspecting the man in front of him. A tug of the chute on his back confirmed the trooper behind was doing his job; he verified that the static line was routed correctly and the risers were still tucked in. Sitting and shifting in cramped quarters for hours could loosen straps or unbuckle snaps. After each man was satisfied with the trooper’s equipment in front of him, he inspected himself: Helmet fastened? Reserve ripcord accessible? Weapon case still secured? Static line over the left shoulder?
Once the stick had completed their inspections, the jumpmaster gave them the fifth command: “Sooooound off for equipment check!”
The last man in the stick started the count by yelling “Eighteen OK!” and slapping the man in front of him on the right leg. “Seventeen OK!” “Sixteen OK!” and so on. The first man stomped his right foot onto the metal deck and yelled to the jumpmaster, “All OK!”
At this point the jumpers were worked up and ready. Wanting to capitalize on their adrenaline, a jumpmaster might inquire, “Is everybody happy?” The entire stick would shout back in unison, “YES!”
With a nod, the jumpmaster skipped the next command of “Stand to the door.” Instead, he slid his static line past the open door and pivoted into the position himself. With his left foot forward, he gripped each side of the door frame, ready to propel himself out.
The second and third jumpers crowded forward, sliding their static lines past the door as well, ready to follow the jumpmaster. Those at the end of the stick craned to see what was going on up front or focused on the pack of the man in front of them, waiting to surge forward.
Over the steady pitch of the engines the troopers heard the muffled crumps of exploding flak getting closer. From the far side of the river German anti-aircraft gunners targeted the incoming transports. Several near misses burst between the planes, showering the thin skin with what sounded like gravel. The concussions jarred the aircraft and buffeted the men inside.
Sounds like heavy flak, but not as bad as we expected, thought many. Despite the nerve-rattling experience, they were right—it could have been worse. As the lead serial they benefited from being first in, and most of the enemy gunners were still recovering from the air attacks. The following serials would have it much rougher.
In the cockpits pilots scanned for visual checkpoints. Yellow smoke drifted up from a clearing on the west bank, marking their crossing point.
“Rhine!” yelled the jumpmasters leaning back into the plane. Pilots toggled the jump light on. It glowed red: the two minute warning.
• • •
Flying the lead aircraft, Colonel Joel Couch crossed the Rhine at a sharp bend near Xanten and began his three-mile run into DZ W. Flying parallel to the river, Couch kept looking for his main checkpoint: a narrow lake formed from the old riverbed. But he was having difficulty spotting it through the haze. Although the generators for Montgomery’s smoke screen had been turned off the day before, the smoke hadn’t dissipated and had drifted inland, reducing visibility to less than a mile.
As the pilots descended to 600 feet, the troopers in back felt the planes reduce speed to 110 mph for the jump. They could smell the smoke from the battlefield below. They were anxious and wanted out—anything was better than being tossed around in the back of a flak magnet.
Couch, flying over open farm fields, flipped the jump light to green at 09:48.
“Let’s go!” shouted Raff, launching himself out the door. Wide-eyed troopers rushed forward to the sound of shuffling boots on metal decking and static lines scraping along the overhead anchor line cable. Less than ten seconds later, all eighteen jumpers were airborne.
Sergeant Harold Barkley followed Raff out the door. After his chute opened, he narrowly avoided colliding with an equipment bundle that had drifted toward him; getting entangled would have likely collapsed both chutes. Drifting backwards, Barkley peered over his shoulder. He was heading directly for a barn with a large section of the roof blown off. He floated into the loft, landing safely on several hay bales.
Keying off Couch’s plane, the other pilots flipped on their jump signals as well. Most troopers tumbled out rather than jumped, snapping their chins down onto their chests to keep their heads cl
ear of the chute’s deploying risers.
• • •
Forty planes behind Raff’s, Thad Blanchard stood next to the jumpmaster in the open cargo door. Blanchard was desperate for fresh air. The plane reeked of vomit; most of the stick had thrown up, and he was gagging to keep his breakfast down. Passing over the Rhine, Blanchard watched plumes of shellfire chase assault craft as they shuttled back and forth.
In less than two minutes they were over the DZ, and Blanchard’s assistant squad leader yelled words of encouragement to the stick as they crowded toward the door. But something was wrong; they hadn’t reduced speed.
Blanchard finally felt the pilot cut back on the throttle. “Go! Go!” he yelled, just as the jump light flashed green. The men shuffled past Blanchard, tumbling out one by one. Rexford Bass waddled along, trying to keep up with the man in front of him while not getting his bulky machine gun chest bag caught on anything. He should have been the first man to exit; placing him in the middle of the stick slowed them all down. Blanchard slapped Harry Pinson on the back as he went past, “I’ll see you on the ground!”
As the last man, Blanchard slid his static line past the door and followed Pinson out.
Fighter pilot Wallace King watched in horror as anti-aircraft guns unleashed into the lumbering transports. He dove his Thunderbolt between two C-47s to make a low-level gun run, hurtling below the transports at just a few hundred feet above the deck. When he pulled back up to break away at the end of his attack, he almost clipped a paratrooper descending under a full canopy. King recalled, “It was obvious we could do no more without putting our guys at risk. The sky was filled with flak. . . . But the wave of cargo planes continued like giant caterpillars crawling toward the raging inferno. From my position, it seemed like a horrendous failure.”
Four Hours of Fury Page 24