American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  The B-29 engines had hardly cooled before the carefully camouflaged SS men crept to 100 yards of the aircraft.

  “Americans are so arrogant!” one whispered to the other, “Look, no fences or guards!”

  His unteroffizier [sergeant] corrected him, “It’s not arrogance, Luther, it’s complacency. But either way, we get our photos, yes? And think how easy to destroy them!”

  Eight Days later

  The order to destroy the B-29s wasn’t given to the unteroffizer [sergeant] and his men, for that would reveal their existence, something neither had considered.

  Berlin was shocked, “I cannot believe the Americans are bringing these huge Boeings against us,” said a senior Luftwaffe Oberst, shaking his head in disbelief. The head of the service agreed. “A bad omen,” he said darkly

  “Can they reach us from Iceland, sir? It seems so far,” asked a younger man.

  “They must believe so, Leutnant, or else why build an airbase? Still, I agree; intelligence doesn’t think they have the range. We must take the offensive and attack at once. Notify Luftflotte 5 in Norway.”

  Stavanger, Norway

  Oberst Karl Liebermann inherited Luftflotte 5’s strange mix of aircraft only weeks before. Now, he had to decide how to carry out his orders. A mixed force would be more likely to succeed and would be harder for the enemy to fight, he thought.

  Liebermann signed his name reluctantly, and said to his adjutant, “Well, here we are, Conrad. Prepare for launch as quickly as possible. How many of the Greifs [Griffons] can we get airworthy in time?”

  He referred to the Heinkel HE-177, the once promising but now discredited “super-bomber.” With an unusual arrangement of two engines driving a single propeller on each wing, the aircraft was at best temperamental, and at worst, deadly; massive engine fires were common. Its major attribute, when it operated properly, was the big bomb load; it could carry twice what the JU-88s could. The rest of the Luftwaffe had replaced the Heinkel’s with the far superior Gotha GO-447. Luftflotte 5 had the unenviable luck to be the last to operate them.

  “Sir, we can probably launch twenty-three of the twenty-five Greifs; this weather gave us a week to work on them, and most are operating as well as they ever do. As to the JU-88s, I can promise you sixty aircraft, no later than tomorrow evening.”

  “Hmm,” the older man replied, “we shall see.”

  25 May 1944

  0225 Hours

  After several more days of bad weather, the clouds and winds abated. In the predawn darkness, engines echoed across the base.

  At 0300 exactly, the control tower signaled “takeoff.” The JU-88s were first, taking off in pairs and forming into groups of five. They immediately headed for their targets. Next, the He-177s, faster and capable of higher altitude, took off singly. Lieberman’s adjutant was proved wrong almost immediately; one caught fire as it took off, and two others turned back with severe overheating. Still, a formidable force of sixty-two JU-88s and twenty-one He-177s thrust toward Iceland.

  Corporal Andrew J. Harder, U.S. Army, field stripped his illegal cigarette out of sight of the guard shack. He adjusted the Caliber 0.30 Carbine on his shoulder as he walked down the line of B-29 tails toward the warm shack. It was the third time he’d spent boring hours guarding the big airplanes from – what? He shook his head in disgust.

  What griped him most was that he, a Corporal, had to walk guard duty. It didn’t help his chagrin to know that until more troops arrived, everybody Buck Sergeant and below was taking their turn.

  Those new guys can’t get here soon enough, he groused to himself. What’s the use of being an NCO if ya still have ta pull guard duty?

  As he mused over his horrible fate, a beating, ominous rumble interfered with his thoughts. He glanced wildly around.

  Airplanes, but not ours!

  He glanced to the east; low flying planes headed straight towards the parked B-29s! High above were more aircraft. Training took over: he grabbed the whistle around his neck, and blew it hard.

  The guard sergeant burst out of the shack like he was on a spring, “What’s up, Harder?” he yelled.

  “Germans, Sarge, coming right at us!”

  The NCO gaped at the aircraft only a couple of miles away. He dashed into the shack and grabbed the telephone.

  “Air attack! Air attack! Aircraft inbound from the east!” he shouted into the instrument.

  Harder unslung his weapon, and jacked a round into the chamber.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God, have mercy,” he prayed, and shot at the rushing airplanes as they thundered over his head. The bombs fell toward him like a dream; they hung in the air for an eternity, then suddenly were on him and his world dissolved in a paroxysm of fire, noise and pain.

  Chapter 90

  2 June 1945

  Joel’s Office

  1117 Hours

  Bad News

  “Bad news, Colonel,” First Sergeant Bill Madsen said solemnly.

  “What is it, Bill?”

  “The Germans bombed the new base in Iceland, sir, and destroyed most of the B-29s. We lost a lot of people, too.”

  “What?” Joel said in astonishment, “How did they know we were there? Where’d they come from?”

  He paused, “What planes did they use?”

  The sergeant shook his head, “They were JU-88s and those crazy HE-177s. They must have come from Norway, but I didn’t think JU-88s had the range. Do they, sir?”

  “Well, that’s farther than you’d expect JU-88s to fly, but I suppose with extra fuel and a light bomb load, yeah, they could probably do it.”

  He shrugged, “They obviously did. Thinking about it, they’ve hit Reykjavik now and then. It’s easily within range of the HE-177s. What a shock.”

  “Did we at least shoot down a few?”

  Bill showed grim satisfaction on his face, “Oh, yeah, we sure did, sir. Those P-38s hit ‘em hard. They’re claiming fourteen Ju-88s, and six or seven Heinkle’s. The report doesn’t say anything about German rocket guns; guess the northern outposts haven’t been reequipped yet, thank goodness.”

  Chapter 91

  10 June 1945

  Stanton Township First Baptist Church

  1230 Hours

  Wedding

  Weeks Before

  It seemed to Joel that certain dates hurled themselves at him; first, when he was eighteen and was preparing to say goodbye to his mom and dad and brother and sister before boarding the train for the lonely cross-country trip to West Point. Then, at the Point, as the final final exams pressed in on him, and he faced graduation and commissioning. And now, his wedding.

  There was so much to do: he had to host a rehearsal dinner, choose a best man and groomsmen, help with invitations, buy a ring, plan for the honeymoon, and get a week’s leave. And he knew that Susan’s tasks were even more formidable.

  “Here’re my choices, Susan: Chappie for best man – if there was any way to get my brother here, it would have been him, but that’s just not to be. As groomsmen, Commander John Bell Higgins, Lt. Colonel Carl Tucker, and Captain William Rich. How’s that sound? OK?”

  “Yes, they’re OK; I’m anxious to meet John Higgins, you’ve spoken about him so often. Have they all agreed, then?”

  “Well, all but Chappie; he still has to get a ‘kitchen pass’ from Regina!” Joel chucked. He knew that Susan had already asked her to be one of the bridesmaids.

  “Now, you’ve asked Mildred Angleton to be your Maid of Honor, right? Who else will be bridesmaids besides Regina?”

  “A teacher from school you don’t know, Joyce Witherspoon, and Tech Sergeant Lucy Morgan.”

  “You’re asking Lucy Morgan? Why?” Joel could see the plain, skinny sergeant in his mind’s eye.

  “Joel, she’s a very nice girl, and don’t forget, she’s a colleague. She’s really a big help.” She cocked her head, “You don’t know her, Joel; away from the job, she’s a very warm, loving person.”

  Joel put up his hands in surrender, “OK, OK
, your choice. Now, I need to know: do you want to honeymoon at that hotel in Philly, or at a shore-side cottage at Atlantic City?”

  “That’s easy; I want to get you as far from the Army as I can. It’s the cottage, no question about it!” She ran her finger softly across his cheek, and smiled a special smile he was soon to love. “I want you all to myself, flyboy!”

  Now, it was upon him. The cake and flowers had been ordered and delivered, a really huge number of invitations mailed out [or so it seemed to Joel], the rehearsal and dinner had gone well, and suddenly he was standing at the front of the church with Chappie at his side.

  So far, so good, he thought as the organ played. His hands were sweaty, and his necktie was suddenly tight. He glanced around the congregation; most of his squadron was there, including Generals Randolph and White. John Bell Higgins was beside him wearing brilliant Navy dress whites, in stark contrast to the green Army uniforms of Joel, Carl Tucker and Bill Rich. In the congregation he saw Sergeants Hillborne and Ledbetter. The bride’s side of the church was nearly full too, with friends of Susan’s.

  The music stopped abruptly and there was a long second of silence, then Susan stepped out into the aisle on Mr. Kneebone’s arm, her long white bridal gown rustling. The congregation rose with gasps and murmurs of appreciation. Joel noted absently that somebody had gotten Mr. Kneebone an up-to-date suit.

  The Wedding March began and they started down the aisle. Joel stopped breathing; she was more beautiful than he imagined. Through her veil, she was looking at him with wide, expectant blue eyes.

  Oh, God, how do I ever deserve her? he thought in awe. Chappie touched his arm and whispered, “Steady there, ace!”

  She shifted her bouquet, and took his arm. She hadn’t looked away from him yet.

  “Who gives this woman in marriage?” the pastor asked.

  “I do,” said Mr. Kneebone clearly, “in substitution for her mother and father who couldn’t be here.”

  The ceremony raced forward: “—for better and for worse, until death do you part.” and before he knew it, Joel said “I do” in a distant voice.

  Susan said “I do” clearly, sweetly, never taking her eyes off of him. They exchanged rings and solemn vows: “With this ring, I thee wed and all my worldly goods to thee I do endow.”

  “By the authority vested in me by the State of New Jersey and the Baptist Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the pastor said, as if it was just an ordinary thing to say.

  A teary-eyed Millie reached over, pulled up Susan’s veil, and took her flowers. Susan turned up her face, and closed her eyes. It was the sweetest, warmest kiss Joel had ever experienced.

  The pastor gently turned Joel around by his elbow, and pronounced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Colonel and Mrs. Joel T. Knight.”

  The walk down the aisle was dreamlike. She actually did it! She married me! I can’t believe it. Susan pulled him close. He smelled her perfume and the strange, wonderful crispness of her gown. She really is my wife!

  The reception was a blur, all handshakes and congratulations. There was a small mountain of gifts, many from Wisconsin and Colorado. They cut the beautiful cake, and fed each other bites of the sweet goodness as they laughed. Susan disappeared, and then was back, in a smart looking travel outfit. Joel would travel in uniform.

  They made their way out to the waiting Packard through handfuls of thrown rice. The car had a big “just married” sign on the rear bumper. They climbed in, and Susan kissed him again. He almost missed the first shift as they drove away.

  Chapter 92

  22 June 1945

  Reykjavik – East Army Air Field, Iceland

  0230 Hours

  Reconnaissance

  First Lieutenant Thomas “Tom” Bellingham took off in his F-13 and began a climbing turn toward Norway. He patted the pocket of his A-2 jacket; the sun would be up soon, and he wanted the sunglasses ready.

  Unlike the shiny natural aluminum finish on the B-29’s, Bellingham’s photo version was a dull gray-white. Under the cockpit window, a buck-toothed cartoon man peered into a crooked telescope at an ugly caricature of Adolf Hitler, above the name “Peeping Tom.”

  His radio man turned toward the cockpit as he leaned back in his seat. “Pilot, we got a weather update. We’ll fly out of these clouds in about fifteen minutes or so, and have clear skies all the way.”

  “Sounds good. Pilot out.”

  Bellingham’s flight was the third in three days sent to find which German base in Norway the JU-88s and He-177s had come from. Two days earlier, Bellingham’s roommate, Lt. Timothy “Tiny Tim” Scarlatti, had flown over the sprawling German Navy base at Trodheim, but most of the aircraft were Kreigsmarine seaplanes. Yesterday, the squadron’s “old man,” thirty-two-year-old Captain William “Wild Bill” Brown had flown north, but the German base at Bodö had almost no activity.

  Bellingham’s crew had gotten the toughest target – the German base at Stavanger. The base was the south-most, and had hosted Heinkel HE-111s early in the war. It seemed logical that the longer range JU-88s and He-177s would be based there, on a Westward bulge in the Norwegian coastline that minimized the distance to Great Britain or Iceland.

  The Norwegian resistance repeatedly warned the Allies that the base was heavily protected by anti-aircraft guns and a mixed staffel of long-winged ME-109s and a handful of older FW-190s. A small number of ME-109Es rounded out the defensive force.

  Just what we need – “special models” of the 109, and they’re just waiting just for us, groused Bellingham to himself. That the long wing ‘109’s were old models, originally intended for the stillborn Nazi aircraft carrier didn’t lessen their danger, at least in his mind. His mood was morose on this his first real combat mission. He hadn’t slept well.

  As promised, they flew out of the clouds into brilliant sunshine. His navigator quickly spotted the tiny, unnamed island used as an intermediate checkpoint, and had Bellingham adjust his course a bit.

  “This far north, you just don’t dare to trust magnetic compasses,” the man drawled in his Tennessee accent.

  Bellingham leveled out at 30,000 feet, and settled in; they had close to two hours to go.

  A smudge on the horizon signaled they were getting close. Bellingham spoke into the mic, “OK, crew, listen up. As briefed, we’re coming in straight over the base, heading about 0-1-5 degrees. If ‘Shutters’ gets what we need, we’ll high tail it home. Otherwise, we’ll swing north, and make a pass heading due south. If that doesn’t work, we go home anyway; no sense in pushing our luck.”

  Nineteen-year-old Second Lieutenant Lyle “Shutters” Ryan grinned at the nickname. He loved working with the big cameras on this airplane more than anything he’d ever done. He was anxious to show the pilot what he could do. Even though he had checked them several times, he carefully went through the checklists for each camera, making sure that the heaters were on, the fuses weren’t blown and the lens covers were off. His hands were sweaty from nervousness inside his leather gloves.

  Bellingham surveyed the base with powerful binoculars, looks like normal activity.

  Then he spotted several JU-88s being prepped for flight. He hoped the enemy observers on duty were all looking to the south-west, the direction the British attacked from. Bellingham had carefully verified his aircraft wasn’t leaving a revealing vapor trail. The Norwegians had assured them the German base wasn’t equipped with RADAR; Bellingham sure hoped so. His aircraft would be invisible and silent to those on the ground. Or so they had been assured.

  Below him in the nose of the plane, Shutters bent over his task, with intense concentration. All of his cameras were working just fine. The scene below was perfectly lit; the young man hummed a nameless tune as he worked.

  Moments later, Bellingham heard his intercom, “Pilot, this is the Camera Operator. We got some swell exposures of the entire facility. I believe we can go home, sir.”

  “Good work, Shutters. We’re heading
home, guys.” Bellingham wheeled the big airplane around, and set a reciprocal course.

  Five hours later

  “Excellent photographs, Bellingham. Thank your camera operator. We’ll visit our new friends as soon as possible,” said the now affable colonel. He patted Bellingham on the shoulder, “Good work, son.”

  Chapter 93

  23 June 1945

  Iceland

  1500 Hours

  Strike Back

  Late the next afternoon, as thirty B-29s took off and formed up, camouflaged Germans photographed them. The Germans were astonished at how quickly the Americans replaced the destroyed bombers. It bespoke a production capability far beyond their own. They raced back to the cave; Berlin would want to see these photos.

  “The timing,” the briefer had told the B-29 crews, “is intended to put you inbound into Stavanger just as the sun is setting, to put the sun in the eyes of any snoopy Germans.”

  Major William “Billy” Johnson was commanding the attack with great anticipation. A twelve mission B-24 pilot with the 13th Air Force in the Pacific, he’d been thrilled with the transfer to B-29’s.

  He’d discussed this attack long and hard with the mission planners and the Colonel as they poured over the aerial photographs, and he’d convinced them at last to let him attack at 20,000 feet instead of 10,000 feet higher.

  Lower is more accurate, he kept reminding them, and in the end, won them over.

  Truth is, I’d rather go in at 15,000 – even more accurate, but those German 88 anti-aircraft guns in the photos changed my mind.

  “Look! We caught ‘em with their pants down!” his co-pilot shouted. They could see more than a dozen JU-88s lined up to take off as they swept over the airfield. Other German aircraft were waiting nearby with engines running.