He rose and shook my hand. “The pleasure would be mine, Leftenant. Not only are you the only American I’ve had in my shop, you’re the first I’ve had the opportunity to chat with. Most interesting, I confess, and I look forward to your return.”
I didn’t know quite how to take that last bit, but assumed the best as he showed me out through his shop. He shook my hand again at the door and said, “Ta, young man. Take care. Can’t win the war all by yourself, you know. I’d be pleased to offer another cuppa in the morning should you wander back.”
The tentative nature of his invitation didn’t escape me as I followed his directions to the nearby tube station. I supposed these war-weary people had learned long ago how totally final good-byes could be.
* * *
In the early hours of the evening, after checking in at the Red Cross hostelry, I was wandering the streets radiating from Piccadilly when a familiar figure suddenly approached. Of all the millions of people in London, here came Dick McChord, a classmate from West Point!
“Mac!” I shouted.
“Robin, I thought that was you!” We embraced with whacks on the back and a great pumping of hands. This brought a few stares from some bowler-topped, dark-suited Londoners. I could almost hear them thinking as Mac and I walked off together, Crazy, loud Yanks. Rude blighters.
“Where you stationed, Mac?”
“Lavenham, up near Ipswich. B-17s. Been there three months now. This is my first time in London. Boy, what a town!”
“My first, too,” I replied, “and I agree. This city is everything I thought it would be and more. I’m at Wattisham, right next door to you. P-38s. Hell, we’re neighbors, Mac. Let’s go have a drink on that.”
We turned off the Strand into the alleyway leading to the prestigious Savoy Hotel. The resplendent doorman with his green livery coat, gray trousers, and shiny top hat looked at us with an air of disdain but didn’t offer to open the entry doors. Mac and I glanced at one another, grinned, then opened the door and walked in.
Once inside, I remarked, “Sure obvious he hasn’t much use for Yanks. Must have had some bad experiences. Can’t say I blame him.”
“Oh well,” Mac responded philosophically, “Maybe the barkeep will take our money.”
We found a comfortable seat in an understated but elegantly appointed room overlooking the Thames. As we sat, another V-1 charged by not half a mile away. We watched silently as the thing, growling its ugly sound, flew left to right and then suddenly dove steeply out of sight, its impact marked a moment later by a column of rising smoke and debris. Seconds later came the explosion, a dull thud setting the plate-glass windows rattling. Mac and I talked of moving back from the glass, but then gave a what-the-hell shrug and called for another brandy.
Here was another first in a day of many firsts for me. Like the sherry at lunch, I’d never had brandy before, and though the bite of it was raw, the warm glow that soon followed in the pit of my stomach was agreeable. We believed the phlegmatic barkeep had palmed his cheapest off on us, but agreed that neither of us had the experience to question his choice. He’d probably done us a favor by not foisting the top-shelf premium stuff on a couple of poorly paid lieutenants.
Mac and I sat as dusk fell into night, jawing and recounting our experiences since graduation. It was a comfortable bond that reached between us as we shared our mutual impressions tinged with a bit of wartime fatalism. I had escorted Mac’s bomb group more than once, watching from a distance as his ponderous formation of B-17s plowed into the flak on their bomb runs. Those guys flew into the bursting shrapnel with courage and determination. They paid a dear price in burning planes and blossoming chutes. Unlike fighter pilots, survival for the bomber guys was pure chance. You were either hit or you were not. There was nothing on earth you could do about it. Skill wasn’t a player. The thought made me shiver, and I silently questioned whether or not I could have done what he did day after day.
We were both quiet for a minute, thinking about our friends, when I decided to cheer things up a bit. I told Mac about my encounter with Mr. Warwick and how I coveted that set of armor.
“Did you buy it?” he asked.
“No,” I confessed, then tried to explain my feelings about it. “I just couldn’t come to the point of asking, and besides, what in hell would I do with all that stuff here in London, and then how would I get it back to Wattisham, store it, and then get it back to the States?”
Mac grinned and replied, “Why don’t you go back, put some money down, make a deal to pay on schedule, and have him hold the items till you figure out a way to handle them? I bet you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
That made good sense to me and I vowed to give Mr. Warwick some money when I saw him in the morning.
We walked to the front of the hotel and parted company, to another wail of the all-clear siren. I wondered how they knew it was all clear with these buzz bombs. Flights of Luftwaffe bombers in the old blitz were easily tracked coming in, but these V-1s? They were random, one-way attacks and impossible to predict. A mystery.
As I made my way back to the Red Cross billet, I had to throw off a sense of gloom. I couldn’t determine if the feeling was for Mac, for me, or just in general. Something felt wrong, very wrong, but the gloom dissipated when I saw Margaret waiting for me in front of the Red Cross building. We’d met at one of the Wattisham parties, and I had rung her up in hopes of meeting during my time in London. We shared a few drinks, talked a bit, then exchanged a few kisses before parting for the night.
The next morning, I returned by the Underground to Mr. Warwick’s. I would follow Mac’s advice and put some money down on that old armor, even if it took me years to pay it off. I climbed the steps out of the station, walked the half block toward his Olde Antique Shoppe, turned the corner, and stopped in horror. The block ahead of me was devastated. An ambulance, two small fire engines, and two police vans blocked the street. A white-helmeted group of bobbies along with other rescue workers dug at piles of rubble with pickaxes and shovels. A gaping hole in the ground was all that was left of the shop.
One of the bobbies muttered to me, “No survivors here, mate.”
I felt an incredible loss. Losing people in airplanes wasn’t easy, but it was a recognized part of fighter aviation. Losing comrades in war was difficult, yet we were doing what we all knew needed to be done. Here, these people, this kind old shopkeeper who had shared his meager horde of tea with me and quelled my curiosity about the armor and history, this entire nation that was subjected to this constant tragedy … they were changing me. I was maturing possibly or maybe altering my perspective. My anger at the enemy was deepened. My drive to win the war became greater than ever.
Less than a month later I returned to London to meet with some friends and maybe see Margaret again. It was a beautiful summer evening. I walked slowly through the streets, savoring London. The night seemed special. I was in a liquid well of time, each fluid moment poignant, every part of my being tuned to my surroundings, to the streets, the old buildings, and the sky in its rare clarity with a full moon shining down. All was a part of me and I felt immersed in an aura of belonging that was as palpable as anything I had ever felt.
Walking alone toward my destination, not hurrying or lagging, just walking, I was aware of having possibly earned the right to be a part of this proud city. I identified with its people, and I shared the agony and the defiant attitude of Londoners. It was an oddly ecstatic feeling. I had paid for my admission with over fifty missions to date. The savagery of aerial combat had graduated me into the ranks of the combat fatalists. What would happen would happen. We did our best and could control the outcome only slightly. The steady attrition of my comrades and close friends had edged me into the protective shell of knowing that only now exists. Forget yesterday, and to hell with tomorrow. Mr. Warwick remained etched in my mind.
The city lay quiet and tense awaiting the nightly onslaught. The blackout was betrayed by a moon so bright that lampposts cast shadow
s onto the street, and windows glittered like reflecting jewels. Air-raid sirens were quiet for the moment. Their moaning wail was a noise that had become a hallmark of the war here in England. I thought about what that rising and falling summons had meant to these people for so many years now. It governed their lives, dictated their days and nights, ruled their thoughts, and filled them with determination. Hitler had miscalculated. The more he bombed, the greater grew England’s resolve. The more damage he wreaked, the more proud these people became of their resilience. They drew together in adversity, more stubborn in their support of Winnie and the war effort. These people on the home front fought and died just as their soldiers did in faraway battles. The British stood as one. Nothing could defeat them.
Every gaping hole where businesses had flourished and every shattered home where flowers had grown was a scar of battle on a grand and defiant old lady. The random attacks of the V-1s and V-2s were a form of war that was almost worse than the early savagery of the Battle of Britain. At least that, as horrible as it was, had been on a personal, even human level. The “Few” had now become the many.
I made my way along the streets. In the distance, an emergency vehicle wailed its distinctive warning. The sky glowed in places above random fires as the moon shone down with cold indifference. A faint familiar growl intensified as another buzz bomb flailed the night sky. Sirens began in warning. The noise of the bomb’s approach became ominous. This one was going to be close. Like the Londoners, my ears were attuned to the nuances of these robot attacks. Every nerve responded to the ugly, rumbling blast of that ramjet engine. The damned machine was hideous in its mindless intensity. It wasn’t aimed at a target. It was blind in its selection. The city itself and the people were its target. Only fate determined who would live and die. The Londoners had again taken to the deep shelters of their underground.
Time to duck! But where? That doorway there? Maybe not much better than out here on the pavement, but at least something. I dove quickly into my meager shelter as the robot’s engine abruptly stilled and the inhuman monster nosed over in its final dive. There was an ear-shattering blast; concussion waves broke windows, then the ground heaved, slamming into my body. That was close, damned close. My ears rang. There was silence, then the patter of falling debris: lumps and pieces of bricks and boards thudding back to earth, ending with the last tinkle of glass and the rumble-slam of a falling wall. I came out of my doorway and resumed my journey as the sirens of the local rescue squad converged on the impact point only a block or so away.
Finally, my destination was ahead: the Wellington Bottle Club. I went down a flight of steps and rang the bell. The door cracked open, my club card was examined, and then the outer and inner blackout curtains were pulled aside to admit me. I entered a smoke-filled room jammed with people, most in uniform and mostly air force, both Brits and Americans.
The place was dimly lit. The crowd was standing still. There was no laughter, nor any voices. Two more distant explosions in quick succession were felt more than heard, and lent dramatic impact to the music holding the crowd mesmerized. Someone was playing the piano over in the far corner. Shivers rose up my spine as I recognized the piece. Never had the defiant and haunting melody of the Warsaw Concerto been more appropriate, and never had my response to a shared emotion sent tears streaming down my cheeks as they were at that moment. This was my family. I felt at home.
7
Victories—at Last!
By August we had all changed. Combat does that. It digs deep into your soul, searching to find the grit. For most, it isn’t something you think about. It just happens. The world shrinks around you. Home, Mom, and apple pie become remote memories, and the mental image of your girlfriend back in the States is sexier than the rear view of Betty Grable. We learned to live one day at a time and to concentrate on survival. But to varying degrees we all developed a deep sense of frustration at our lack of real action. I needed something positive to make the empty beds of lost friends meaningful. There had to be more than just strafing trains, dropping bombs, losing people, fighting to come back home, then feeling like we hadn’t really accomplished anything. It was part of the war effort, but the milk runs didn’t fulfill the vision we held of a fighter pilot. Ground attack was part of the mission, but our focus always returned to aerial battles.
The group had made progress since our arrival in early May, but the price had been high. We’d lost three of our four flight commanders, both of my roommates had been shot down over Holland, and many pilots were KIA or POW. Nearly half of the original 434th Squadron was gone. The other two squadrons in the group had suffered similar attrition. Our original group CO, Kyle Riddle, was lost to flak on May 10. No one was immune. We who survived had gotten smarter about combat.
Our salvation appeared with the arrival of Colonel Hubert “Hub” Zemke, who replaced Colonel Riddle as CO two days later. Hub was about to give us all some much-needed savvy in the art of aerial warfare, and we were ready. Zemke had loads of experience. He’d been an Air Corps pilot prior to the war and even flown a tour with the Soviet air force. As CO of the 56th Group at RAF Boxted, he had developed tactics in which his pilots rendezvoused at an easily found landmark in their bomber escort zone, then broke up into individual flights and fanned out in 180-degree arcs to respond to attacks on the bomber stream. The spread let his units cover a lot of airspace.
In May, both of Zemke’s wingmen were shot down by Luftwaffe ace Günther Rall, who in turn was shot down by 56th Group ace Joe Powers in the same dogfight. After that, Zemke upgraded his “fan-out” tactic to the three full squadrons of the group instead of just flights. He jumped at the chance to command the 479th because he wanted to fly the new Mustangs. His 56th Group had P-47s, which were increasingly focusing on ground attack. He knew we were converting to P-51s when we heard only rumors. Hub was our kind of guy, aggressive, smart, relentless, and determined to hit the Luftwaffe where it hurt. He was already a triple ace and had created legends in the 56th, like Gabreski, Mahurin, and Johnson. We in the 479th knew about their exploits and were in awe of their skill and good fortune.
I’ll admit we were a raggedy-assed bunch when he arrived. We had lots of desire but not much air-to-air experience. We never blamed Colonel Riddle for that. God knows he flew and led as many missions as anyone, but results count. For us Hub’s fame as leader of his Wolfpack was nothing short of awesome. The new boss took over and rattled us right away. He taught, led, laid down the law, and put us on the right track. Things were going to be different. Although he put up a stern front, we quickly learned he cared about each of us. To tell the truth, we felt as though he had a hard time keeping a straight face at our bumbling eagerness. He had a great sense of humor, but we learned when it wasn’t at the forefront.
On his first day at Wattisham, Hub put up a sign on the door of his office: KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER. I’M A BASTARD, TOO. LET’S SEE YOU SALUTE.
The young pilots got a huge charge out of that. Hell, we were in the habit of saluting everything anyhow, and wouldn’t go near a colonel’s sanctum unless under extreme duress. To be called before the boss meant trouble. Failing to knock would only have compounded whatever felony had brought us there in the first place, so we knew the sign wasn’t about us. We watched and smirked as our immediate bosses and members of the group staff were seen outside that door, self-consciously tucking in shirttails, running hands over hair, buffing up the shoe shine on the back of each trouser leg, adjusting the tie, then knocking timidly, and nervously waiting for permission to enter. We knew and they learned.
When Hub arrived, a few of the pilots in the group had shot down an enemy aircraft or two, but I had yet to even see one. I was frustrated. Fighter pilots dream of victory in aerial combat; it’s the be-all and end-all of the fighter profession. It was the price of admission, and I wanted to belong. Mission after mission since May, I had flown with my head on a swivel searching for enemy planes. Nothing. Nothing in that vast sky except bombers and flak, explosions a
nd smoke trails spiraling down, anguished calls on the emergency frequency, parachutes and pieces, and the otherwise empty wild blue. No prey, no snarling little Messerschmitt 109s or Focke-Wulf 190s, just nightly mission reports telling us someone else had found them. Usually it was someone from Zemke’s 56th Group. Gabreski had twenty-eight kills and I hadn’t seen one enemy aircraft in flight.
The morning of August 14 finally offered something different: a predawn takeoff, a bridge over the river at Chalon-sur-Saône as the target. The German armies were in retreat, fighting for every mile, resisting fiercely as the Allies pushed through France toward Belgium and Holland. General Patton’s 3rd Army was sweeping the southern flank. The bridges behind the Wehrmacht were important targets. Knocking them out would hinder movement and support Patton’s intention of destroying everything in front of him.
Only 8th Air Force headquarters knew why the 479th FG was picked to hit this particular bridge. We certainly couldn’t figure it out. Maybe they had greater faith with Zemke as our CO. I would ponder it for years yet never figure out the reasoning. We were in England, a couple of hours away from the target, and 9th Air Force was in France now, close to the ground action. They were veterans in providing the air support that had made Patton’s dash possible. Perhaps all of the 9th squadrons were engaged in that truly close support in front of the troops, which none of us in the 8th were yet qualified to do. In any event, bombing bridges was something we’d been doing all summer, and I guess it didn’t matter whose bombs did the job.
During the briefing there was a lot of stirring and nervous coughing. It wasn’t the target or the opposition expected, nor even the anticipated flak, that made us nervous. The weather was good, in fact excellent for Europe. Group Lead Highway exuded confidence, the S-2 intel officer made the mission seem really important, our own airfield conditions were normal, and flight assignments stacked up well, so why the niggling feeling?
Fighter Pilot Page 10
