“Okay, there is some good news in all of this. It’s estimated”—the word rang in Al’s ear—“that the defenses of Ploesti have been built around the idea of attacks coming from the east and northeast. Also, the gun layout has been devised for high-level assaults. We’ll be doing neither. We’ll be attacking from the west at low-level.”
Al stood again. “You mentioned earlier there are seven major refineries, sir, so I assume that means seven primary targets. Yet we’ve got only five bomb groups. Does that mean some groups will be tasked with hitting more than one target?”
“Sergeant,” Baker said, and motioned for the enlisted man on the platform to help him remove the large-scale map from the briefing board. Behind it sat a smaller-scale map of the area around Ploesti. Baker moved back to the front of the platform.
“Yes, Captain. Five bomb groups, seven targets. Here’s how it will work. The overall attack force will be led by Colonel K.K. Compton’s Liberandos. He’ll go after this refinery, we’ll call it Target White One.” With the pointer, Baker tapped a spot on the east side of Ploesti.
“We, the Circus, will be right behind the Liberandos. We’ll go after Target White Two. It’s the Concordia Vega Refinery, but you don’t have to remember that name. Since the target is just a bit northwest of White One, we should hit Two about the same time the Liberandos unload on One.
“Part of our group, a segment led by Major Ramsey Potts, will simultaneously attack White Three, a little southeast of One.” He tapped the map with the pointer again.
“The third bombardment group, the Pyramiders, commanded by Killer Kane, will have responsibility for hitting the highest priority target of this raid, Astro Romana, or Target White Four. It’s the largest refinery in Ploesti.” He indicated the target with the pointer.
Al chuckled softly at Baker’s use of Colonel John Riley Kane’s nickname, Killer Kane. Kane didn’t care for the name but had let it stand. The tag actually had been given to him by the Luftwaffe. In its intelligence summaries, he’d been labeled “Killer” because of his determination to always go full-throttle and drill through Axis defenses to his targets.
A tale circulating among Army Air Force crews was that once during a spirited attack by a swarm of Messerschmitts, the Luftwaffe pilots had got on Kane’s command frequency and drowned out his orders to his own pilots with taunts. Incensed, Kane bellowed back, “Get the goddamn hell off the air, you bastards.” Stunned, the Messerschmitt pilots shut up. Kane flew on, blasted his target, and returned home safely. Killer Kane.
Baker continued his briefing. “On the right of the Pyramiders will be Colonel Leon Johnson’s Eight Balls, the fourth bombardment group, going after White Five. Johnson’s deputy, Lieutenant Colonel James Posey, will peel off and lead a force to Blue Target, just south of Ploesti.
“Finally, the Sky Scorpions, led by Colonel Jack Woods, will climb the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps and take out a refinery eighteen miles north of Ploesti. That’ll be Red Target.
“All of these strikes will come, if not simultaneously, then within a minute or two of each other. The bastards won’t know what hit them. By the time they get their ack-ack going and their fighters up, we’ll be high-tailing it for home.”
Al looked around the tent. He could tell by their expressions that the pilots and copilots hadn’t quite bought into Baker’s optimism. They realized the gravity of the undertaking, and knew the risks. They all understood the mission could go either way. It could turn out to be a colossal success or a stunning failure.
As a concept, a plan, it seemed tilted toward success. It certainly contained a massive element of surprise. But as Al well knew, as soon as a plan begins to be executed, it starts to fall apart. A failure to remain undetected, a small error in timing or navigation, the loss of a key leader, and everything goes to shit. Deep within Al’s gut, a tiny alarm went off and wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Baker continued to talk. “I want to go over the IPs with you. These will be the key navigation points for executing our attack. The third or final IP will be the most important. That’ll be where we make the final turn into our bomb runs. The first two IPs were chosen to get us lined up for a straight shot to the final one.
“The planners tried to choose clearly recognizable features for the IPs, making it as easy as possible for us to pick them out. All of the IPs are small towns. The first is located here”—he smacked the map with the pointer—“a place called Pitesti. About twenty-five miles east-northeast of Pitesti is a little larger village, Targoviste. That’s IP number two. It’s got an easily recognizable landmark, a big ole monastery that sits on top of a hill. Can’t miss it.
“From IP number two we’ll continue east-northeastward to a hamlet called Floresti. That’s the final IP. We’ll turn there and follow a set of railroad tracks that leads directly into Ploesti. After a three-minute run, it’ll be bombs away.
“The groups will be spread out as we attack, each heading for its assigned target or targets. We should be able to hit them pretty much simultaneously. That will maximize the element of surprise, that and the fact we’ll be blasting in from the west where we’re least expected. I think we can pull this off, gentlemen, I really do.” He paused. “Questions?”
A number of the men had lit cigarettes. A gray-white layer of thin smoke, spurred by puffs of wind that had snuck into the tent, drifted out through the rear exit in a translucent veil.
A captain stood. “I assume there’ll be a lead navigator for the entire attack force, so if we stay together, it should be pretty much follow-the-leader as far as making the final turn, right?”
“Correct. Once we hit that first IP, we’ll fan out into multiple attack waves according to our specific targets. Thus, when we pass over that last IP, each group will make its turn into the final bomb run in proper sequence and position. And brother, if you’re on the ground, I’m guessing it would be a pretty damn impressive sight—a five-mile-wide attack force of Liberators screaming toward you at over two hundred miles per hour, skimming the ground.”
A chuckle of agreement rippled through the assembled aviators.
A crusty old major standing at the side of the tent raised his hand. Al had heard the guy had flown in the First World War but been busted back in rank a couple of times. He didn’t know why.
“Beg pardon, Colonel,” the major said, “but since we’ll be flying in tight formation and dropping bombs from smokestack level, how in the hell do we keep from blowing the shit out of ourselves or anybody on our wing?”
“Good question, Major. The planners actually considered that.”
Again a soft chuckle arose from the audience.
“The bombs will be on delayed fuses. The five-hundred pounders, for instance, will have a forty-five second delay. That should give everyone time to skedaddle off the targets before the bombs go off.”
“So you’d damned well better not be forty-five seconds late, I guess,” the old major growled.
“The penalty would be severe,” Baker said. He looked out over the assembled pilots to see if anyone else had questions. No one did.
“Okay, several final items,” he said. “First, we’ll be maintaining strict radio silence prior to the attack. No chatter between planes. That will prevent the enemy from using Radio Direction Finders to discover us. Second, British engineers have just finished constructing a dummy target layout for us in the desert on a plateau a little ways south of here. We’ll send a couple of Libs over it tomorrow to check it out, then turn the rest of you loose to start practice bombing runs a day or two after that. And third, the camp goes on quarantine starting tomorrow. No one comes in, except replacement aircraft, or leaves until after the attack.”
Baker turned and started to leave, then spun back to face the men. “Captain Lycoming,” he said, looking at Al, “I’d like to see you in my office in five minutes.”
Al and Sorey exchanged a quick glance, and Al shrugged. No, I don’t know why.
The briefing over, Bak
er departed the tent as the crews stood at attention.
6
Benghazi, Libya
Mid-July 1943
Al, responding to Colonel Baker’s summons, walked the short distance to a large Quonset hut where senior officers and mission planners worked. Baker’s desk stood in a corner. Al walked to it, saluted the colonel, and sat.
“Tomorrow,” Baker said, “I’d like you to take Oregon Grinder and accompany Colonel Timberlake and his Lib on a dry run over a plat of the Ploesti refineries. The Brits have laid one out for us in the desert. The front of each target is purportedly marked by a furrow of lime mixed with the engineers’ urine . . . no water was available”—Baker shot Al a quick eye roll—“and I just want to make sure those markers are visible. They’ll come up fast when you’re skimming along the sand at over two hundred miles per hour.”
“Yes, sir. Should I take my whole crew?”
“No. All you’ll need is your copilot, nav, bombardier, and radio operator. That should do it. Given your low-level expertise with haystacks and radio antennas, you’re a perfect choice to help out here.” Baker grinned, a sardonic commentary.
Al hung his head in mock chagrin. “I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”
“Probably not. But look what an asset it’s become. It’s why the colonel asked for you to be his wingman tomorrow.”
“Colonel Timberlake helped plan this, didn’t he? I mean Tidal Wave.”
“He had the lead. Best man for the job.”
“I know. I enjoyed serving under him when he commanded the Circus.”
Baker nodded. “Ted Timberlake’s Traveling Circus. England. Africa. Return to England. Now back in Africa.”
“Sir, so if Colonel Timberlake took the point in planning Tidal Wave, why isn’t he leading the attack force? Why Colonel Compton?”
Baker leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t bring it up to Colonel Timberlake, because he’s really pissed off about it. He’s been pulled off the mission by higher-ups. He knows too much. He’d be a huge liability if he were to be shot down and captured. Can’t risk it. So now he’s terrified his men will think he’s chickened out.”
Al shook his head. “That would never happen. His men know him too well.”
“Anyhow, better not to talk about it.” Baker leaned back in his chair. “You mentioned the men. That brings up another thought. I’d like a gut reaction from you. Are the guys ready for this? It’s a damned dangerous undertaking. I don’t have to tell you that. But since you’re a little older than most of them, Pops”—he winked at Al—“and have been around awhile, you may have a little better handle on if the crews are up to the task. What’s your take on it?”
Al paused for a moment to sort through his impressions before responding. He knew Baker wanted an honest assessment, and he wanted to get it right.
“These are tough men, sir,” he said, “and I don’t mean in a brutal way. I mean in a manner that makes them determined, tenacious, and fearless. They went through a lot before joining the Army. The Great Depression. Joblessness. Foreclosures. They come from hard-knock backgrounds. Farming. Fishing. Factories.
“Look at my own crew. My copilot, Lieutenant Sorenson, was a commercial fisherman in Oregon. Back-breaking and dangerous work. My tail gunner, Sergeant Cummings, picked cotton in South Carolina, some days from before sunup to after sunset. My waist gunner, Sergeant Hamilton, was a riverboat deckhand on the Mississippi. Labored in jungle-like heat day after day in the summer. My top turret gunner, Master Sergeant Gallagher, slogged through blizzards and dust storms on a South Dakota farm. Yes, sir, Colonel. You give these guys a job and they’ll get it done. You bet they’re ready. Apprehensive? Sure. A little scared? We all are. But we’re ready to go.”
Ready to go? Yes. But Al wanted to bring them home, too. In truth, he loved his crew, loved them like brothers, though his position of command prescribed he remain at arm’s length from them when it came to genuine closeness. As much as he wanted to get them back to the States, he knew the realities of war often dictated other outcomes. Most of the crew were mere kids when they climbed aboard Oregon Grinder for the first time, but after a dozen combat missions out of England, they had matured rapidly into men. His men, men he wanted to preserve, to keep safe, and return them whole and healthy to their families and friends.
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your candor.” Baker stood. Al followed suit.
“See you on the flight line at oh-seven-hundred,” Baker said. “Oh, and please, try not to hit any camels tomorrow. The Bedouins really don’t like that.”
“Yes, sir,” Al responded, “no camels.”
As he walked toward the exit, he noticed a group of officers, several of whom he knew casually, examining a large Michelin roadmap spread out on a table. He stopped and snuck a peek over their shoulders.
“Romania?” he said, looking at the map. “What are we gonna do? Attack by land, too?” He meant it as a joke.
A major built like a fireplug turned and addressed Al. “No, Captain. We’re designing your nav charts. For this mission, your high-level aeronautical charts are useless. Since you guys are going to be scooting along just above the wheat fields, the Michelin maps are really the best thing we’ve got. You’ll be able to navigate using highways and railroads. Some fun, huh?”
“Yeah, I’ve been warned not to take out any camels.” Al continued toward the exit, shaking his head. Only in the Army: sand castles, camels, and Michelin road maps. Alice in Wonderland had materialized in Libya.
“Camels?” the major called after him.
Early the next morning, Oregon Grinder, with Colonel Timberlake’s Liberator on the left, roared toward the desert target at over two hundred miles per hour, skimming just above the dunes.
“Should be on-target in fifteen seconds,” George, the navigator, said over the interphone from where he crouched in what was the bombardier’s usual position.
“Don’t see anything but sand,” Al responded. “Sorey, you see any white lines?”
“Negative.”
Al swept his gaze from side to side in a frantic search for the white lines of lime that were to serve as the guides for the practice bomb runs.
Ten seconds.
The bellow of the B-24’s four engines reverberated through the cockpit.
“George,” Al screamed, “you got anything?”
“Negative.”
Al glanced to his left, at Timberlake’s Liberator. Its copilot looked back at Al, shrugged his shoulders.
Five seconds.
A white line. Target. Too late. Come and gone.
“Well, that didn’t work worth a shit,” Al said to Sorey. “Didn’t see the damned lines until the last second.” He pulled Oregon Grinder up and rolled it right, away from the Brits’ target layout.
Back on the ground in Benghazi, Timberlake, Baker, and Al discussed the problem.
“Refineries are huge things, right?” Al said. “They’ve got tall stacks, big storage tanks, cracking towers?”
Timberlake and Baker nodded.
“So get something vertical for us to line up our bomb runs on. Put some poles in the ground, stick some rags or shirts—you know, something that flutters or waves—on top of the poles. We should be able to spot those and get set up perfectly.”
“Great idea,” Timberlake said. “I’ll make sure that gets done this afternoon, then we’ll make another recon run tomorrow morning.”
“We’ve got a detailed sand-table model of Ploesti, too,” Baker said. “We’ve used it to make oblique sketches of the targets so the crews will recognize them on a ground-level approach, but the drawings won’t help us on the practice targets. The stuff the Brits have built have the right width and depth but not the height. Let’s hope the captain’s pole idea works.”
The following morning, Al and Timberlake hurled their B-24s over the desert again. The rising sun, low on the horizon, cast long, slanting shadows that raced across the Sahara in tandem with the
Liberators as they charged toward the dummy refinery layout.
“Fifteen seconds,” George announced once more.
“Crap, crap, crap,” Al muttered. No poles came into view. Why can’t I see anything?
Then they were over the target. For the second time in two days they’d flown directly over the Ploesti mockup without being able to pick it up in advance.
Al radioed Timberlake. “What the hell happened? I thought there were supposed to be easy-to-spot poles set up for us.”
“Hold on, Oregon Grinder. I’m checking.”
The static-filled reply came a minute later. “The poles were up, topped by pennants. But some Bedouins came by in the middle of the night and swiped them. They love colorful cloth.”
“Unbefuckinglievable,” Al muttered to himself.
“We’ll try again this afternoon. The engineers are going to nail shredded petrol tins to the tops of the poles. Maybe the Rag Heads will leave ’em alone.”
Trial run number three proved successful. The Bedouins had left the strips of tin in place. When Al returned to Benghazi, he found Baker waiting for him in the simmering late afternoon heat.
“Good job, Captain. I appreciate your help. We’ll begin group practice runs tomorrow with wooden bombs. A few days before the raid we’ll perform two mock missions with the entire task force. On the final one, we’ll use live five-hundred pounders.”
“A full dress rehearsal?”
“For the big show.”
A private from the operations hut darted up to Baker. “Sir, sir.” He stopped and saluted. The two officers returned the salute.
“What is it, Private?” Baker asked.
“There’s a problem.”
“Tell me.”
Al noticed half a dozen “crash trucks” and at least two ambulances jouncing toward the runway.
“There’s a replacement Lib coming in with no hydraulics.”
“No brakes, then,” Al said.
When Heroes Flew Page 5
