As the morning light brightened and visibility improved, the ships of their formation moved in closer, gliding in the invisible ocean, undulating up and down, moving in and out, graceful as eagles, riding on hope and courage.
From his perch in the nose of the B-17, Hal had a perfect view of the air and the land. Below he watched the light of the rising sun march across the fields and forests, checker-boarding the lands of England with patches of light and color. From time to time the sun’s rays would strike off the surface of a stream and silver the earth with sharp points of light, a gleam that traveled as the bomber moved until it waxed bright, and dimmed and was gone, only to be picked up farther on by another stream, another lake and, finally, the distant sea.
A swarm of P-47s carrying drop tanks of fuel, climbing behind the bombers, was bounced around in the slipstream of more than a hundred boring propellers. Like miniature wasps, they arched above the bombers, high in the blue, before they wheeled away and were gone. In the distance, the English Channel was a blue lake, looking serene and pastoral, but everyone knew that the shimmering surface was churned by icy, ten-foot waves that could drag a downed bomber to the bottom in seconds and kill a survivor in minutes.
At 12,000 feet, he made his way back to the bomb bay and pulled the cotter pins on the twelve bombs. It was hard for him to believe that sometimes bombardiers forgot to pull the pins, and, with the cotter pins in place, the bombs could not explode. The ship might just as well have stayed home. All the wounds, all the dead, all the fear was for nothing.
Twenty-five minutes later, after they had check-fired their guns and while they were over the channel at 20,000 feet and climbing at the standard 300 feet per minute, it happened! One instant they were skimming the ocean of air, the engines droning in a synchronization of power, maintaining the prescribed 1000 feet below and two minutes behind the group in front of them, the next instant ‘O’Reilly’s “Mongrel House” was struck by invisible prop wash from the group ahead and, abruptly, the big bomber flipped up on a wing, then, in slow motion, began rolling onto its back, falling sickeningly toward the waters more than three miles below.
The shock was so hard and quick it drove through reason. Hal felt as though he couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t scream! He was beyond panic! He was pure instinct as he fought to push himself free of his seat. He had to get out! But centrifugal force pinned him like a skewered moth. Somehow, he was aware that the sound of the engines changed as O’Reilly cut power to the starboard engines and threw full power to the port. And he could hear the stabilizer thudding from side to side, shaking the plane each time it hit, as O’Reilly and Fox worked the rudder pedals, pushing in unison, first one, then the other, frantically trying to shake the ship out of its death plunge.
But the Fortress was not responding!
Hal could see Cossel also struggling to push himself off his seat toward the escape hatch, but he too was pinned by the awful force. And over his shoulder, he could see the waters of the channel change from blue to slate as they rushed toward the falling plane.
Hal wanted to scream, to move, to hurl himself to the escape hatch, but he was pinned to his seat by a relentless force. The only part of him that defied the force was his mind, and it wanted him to scream defiance, but the only sound he could force out was a harsh gasp of rage.
He was prepared to die. But not like this. Not in an ingenious plunge to his death.
Then, as though it had heard his scream, the B-17 began to shudder. Under the pounding of the hard-swinging rudder, it slowly began to roll until it was falling on its side, one wing pointed toward the water, the other at the sky. Holding full aileron and full rudder, O’Reilly and Fox shoved the control column all the way forward, fighting the heavy wind pressure tearing at the controls, easing the big ship over into a headlong plunge.
The awful centrifugal force that had pinned Hal to his seat slowly lifted so that he could move. But the terrible fear remained. They were going to crash! There was no way that the death dive could be stopped!
Somehow O’Reilly and Fox had righted the heavy bomber, but now it was in a steep dive, and they began the struggle to pull the heavy bomber out of its headlong plunge. Elevator trim tabs full up; throttles back, combined strength on the control column, fighting the forces that were trying to pull the Fortress into the hungry water.
Slowly! Oh God, so slowly, the B-17 fought to break the force of gravity. And it began to win!
As the ship struggled to pull out of its dive, Hal felt the centrifugal forces clamping down. But this time, it was a force of joy. The ship was coming out of it! O’Reilly and Fox were winning, changing the Juggernaut of men and metal back into a bird.
Now he was again welded to his seat by the powerful G-forces as the B-17 bottomed out. The big ship began to shudder violently as the terrible forces tried to break its back, tried to rip off its fuel-laden wings, fought to tear it to pieces. The ship was racked by a series of shocks that popped rivet heads from bulkheads and sent new waves of panic racing through Hal. Out the side window, he saw the plane’s wings beating the air, the aluminum skin wrinkling, and bowing in a series of heavy waves. Gradually the plane’s nose came up, and the engines roared, the propellers clawing frantically at the thin air. And the terrible pressure began to ease! They were doing it! They were going to live!
Behind Hal, Cossel pushed himself off the floor, and he stumbled forward to peer over Hal’s shoulder at the dots high above that marked the distant planes of their group. As if on signal, a babble of panic-edged voices blasted over the intercom.
Then O’Reilly’s voice cut through the chatter. “Hey! Wasn’t that great? You fellows in the Air Corps have all the fun.” O’Reilly’s voice was as jovial as though nothing had happened. Cutting through the noise, it settled the crew, and the intercom was quiet.
“What the Christ was that?” Cossel asked.
“Prop wash,” O’Reilly answered. “From the group in front. I think they want to get there first.” He paused, and his voice took on a note of authority. “Caplinger, how does it look back there? Where’s the rest of the squadron?”
“All over hell. Most of ’em above us and back. We got it the worst.”
“Sir.” It was Bernard, the radio operator. “We’ve got rivet heads all over the floor back here.”
“Here too.” That was the chief.
“Okay. We’re still in one piece. Bailey! Get back there and check the bombs. Cossel, give me our true airspeed. See if you can work out any short cuts so we can catch up with the group. Bernard. Chief. Check and see how much damage we had back there. Caplinger, tell me how the regrouping is coming along.”
“Don’t worry about your oxygen,” Fox cut in. “We’re down to six thousand feet.”
Hal got up, unplugged his oxygen mask and intercom, and started toward the bomb bay. As he passed Cossel, he glanced out the navigator’s window at the starboard wing. He stopped in surprise. Instead of holding its usual gentle dihedral, the wing was canted upward at a much steeper pitch, and the skin on the surface was corrugated into a series of wrinkles. But the big bird was still flying, its four Wright Cyclones singing at full power, clawing for altitude as they fought their way back to the group.
Hal edged his way back through the narrow passage to the bomb bay, trying not to think about the wings and the fact that his parachute was back by his chair. It was the bombs that worried him.
At the bomb bay entrance, He paused before he forced open the door and stepped out on the narrow catwalk. When his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that only one of the bombs was partially off its shackle. It was on the outboard rack at station 32 held by one lug. Its blunt nose, dangling at a forty-five-degree angle, was partially resting on the bomb on the lower station.
Then he drew a sharp breath. The arming wires had pulled free from several bombs, and the small arming vanes on the nose
and tail fuses were spinning wildly in the icy wind moaning up through the cracks in the bay doors. With their cotter pins pulled, when those vanes spun off and fell away, the bombs would be completely armed. They would then be carrying a load of instant death, just waiting for a sudden shock or jar. The bombs had to be safetied and quickly.
Hal took off his gloves, leaving them to dangle by their electric connections, and pushed himself out further on the narrow catwalk where he tried to stop the spinning vanes with his hands, the smell of fear in his nostrils.
“Bernard?” he screamed. But his voice was lost in the keening wind. He let go of the spinning vanes and lurched back to the rear bay door and flung it open. “Bernard! Give me a hand here, quick!”
It took them interminable minutes, but together they managed to spin the arming vanes back on all but two of the bombs and re-insert the arming wires. On those two, the nose vanes had spun away and could not be found. One of them had been on the bomb, which had come half off its shackle.
Hal jury-rigged a safety of the two bombs by pushing their dangling arming wires through the small hole in the fuses. “That should hold them,” he shouted to Bernard. “Let’s see if we can get this one back on the shackle.”
Bernard blew on his cold hands and stared at the five-hundred-pound bomb. They braced themselves as well as they could on the narrow walk and worked their hands around the cold steel of the bomb’s nose. Hal’s hands were so numb he could not feel the icy metal under his fingers. “When I give the word,” he shouted, “Okay?”
Bernard nodded, his eyes skeptical.
Heave!” They both lifted, and the bomb trembled but did not move. “Again. Heave!” Again, the bomb trembled. It was doubtful that they could have lifted the nose of the bomb under the best of circumstances, but in the cramped quarters on the catwalk, it was impossible. Hal shook his head, and they straightened.
“We’ll have to let it go,” he yelled.
Bernard stared at the dangling bomb and rubbed his forehead. “Maybe we can get the chief and Pitman.”
“Can’t. Not enough room.”
Bernard pointed at the bomb’s nose. “No vane. If it lets go and hits the door . . .” He spread his hands.
“Yeah,” Hal said. He glanced at the dully gleaming bomb and wiped a cold hand across his mouth. If the other catch on the shackle gave out, the arming wire would pull out of the hole and, without a spinner to prevent immediate arming, the bomb could be set off by the fuse hitting the closed bomb bay door. Even if it did not explode immediately, if it let go within five hundred feet of the ship, they could all call it a day.
“I’ve got an idea,” he shouted. “I’ll take one of the vanes off another bomb and put it on this one. They aren’t likely to come loose.”
Bernard looked up and grinned in relief. “Damned good idea.”
“Go tell the others to keep their chutes handy just in case,” Hal said. Bernard nodded and worked his way back along the catwalk and out the aft door, closing it behind him, leaving Hal alone in the gloomy bomb bay.
Hal stared at the dangling bomb. It was rocking gently with the motion of the plane, putting an additional strain on the one loop of its supporting shackle. Would the shackle hold at such an awkward angle until the bombs were salvoed? Maybe. If they didn’t go through another violent maneuver like the last one. And if they did . . . that would be all she wrote. He had to get an arming vane on the damn thing. But could he? His hands had no feeling in them, and right now, he needed the sure touch of a surgeon.
Well, what the hell. If it blew, he would never know it!
He reached out and pulled the arming wire free of the top inward bomb on the starboard side, then gently spun the nose arming vane off. When it suddenly came free, his cold hands fumbled and almost dropped it. Then, gingerly, he eased the arming wire back through the hole in the fuse. Despite the cold, he discovered he was sweating profusely, his clothing sticking to him with clammy warmth. All except his hands. They were white and numb.
He was about to kneel on the catwalk when he was suddenly dizzy. He was hyperventilating. And they had been climbing steadily. They were probably at twelve thousand feet or more. This would be a hell of a time to pass out. He hugged the inboard stanchion while he tried to keep his knees from buckling, breathing slowly and evenly. The dizziness passed, leaving him weak and trembling.
Kneeling on the catwalk, he eased the arming wire from the fuse in the nose of the dangling bomb. The small vane was clumsy in his hand, and he had difficulty starting the threads. The ship suddenly lurched, and his hand swung the vane against the point of the armed fuse with a dull thump. Hal froze in breathless expectation! Nothing! Jesus! How many pounds—or ounces—of pressure did it take to trigger the fuse? They’d never covered that at Carlsbad. Maybe he was better off not knowing.
He steadied himself as best he could and gently worked the vane onto the threads of the fuse and spun it in. Then he eased the arming wire through the hole and stood up to lean his hot face against the cold metal of the stanchion. Now, if the shackle gave way, the 500-pound bomb would tear through the bomb bay doors without exploding. Wouldn’t it? That was the theory.
After a moment, he was able to work his numb hands into his gloves and edge along the catwalk and through the forward door. He was about to lower himself down into the well leading to the nose when O’Reilly leaned back and tapped him on the shoulder. He peeled back his oxygen mask to shout, “Okay?”
Hal nodded. “Okay, but don’t hit any brick walls.”
O’Reilly grinned. “Get your oxygen hooked up as soon as you can.”
Hal nodded, and as he lowered himself into the well, O’Reilly reached back and slapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of approval. Hal stopped in surprise and looked up, but O’Reilly was already back fighting the airplane up toward the distant group.
Hal slid down into the well and crawled forward past Cossel, who looked up from his litter of maps and winked. Hal’s arms were heavy, and as he tried to buckle his oxygen mask into place, it slipped out of his numb hands to the floor.
Cossel helped him buckle it on, and he sucked in drafts of oxygen while Cossel plugged in Hal’s electrically heated suit and turned it up to maximum. He then plugged in Hal’s intercom.
“You okay?” Cossel asked anxiously over the intercom. Hal raised his head and discovered that his teeth were chattering, and his hands hurt. He felt the heat bite into his numb body, and he nodded. He could not speak.
O’Reilly’s voice sounded over the intercom. “What the hell is going on down there?”
“It’s okay,” Cossel said. “He needed a shot of oxygen.”
“Okay. You’d better check on the others, too. It’s going to take us a good hour or more to catch the rest of the group, so everybody stay on the ball.”
‘O’Reilly’s “Mongrel House” did not catch the remainder of the group until they were passing over the Danish peninsula where there was supposed to be a flak corridor they could follow by moving out beyond the Heligoland Bight and curving in over the jut of land just north of Kiel.
Hal had put on his flak suit and was leaning out over the bombsight as they came out over the east coast of Denmark, ready to call the crossing point to Cossel as a visual navigation checkpoint when, without warning, oily blackness blossomed silently in front and below them. The concussion rocked the heavy B-17, and Hal’s head slammed against a right-wall stringer. His leather helmet kept him from being badly cut, and he pulled himself back into his seat in time to see two more puffs with sharp red centers. The ship was buffeted again, and he thrust himself from his seat in rising panic. He had to get back to the bomb bay and check that bomb! Suddenly a hard blow, accompanied by a sharp twanging sound, struck him in the back, knocking him forward against the bombsight. Oh God! He was hit. His back! His back was broken!
He steeled himself f
or the pain, but it did not come. Slowly he pulled himself upright. Thank God he could move. That meant he wasn’t paralyzed. And the pain? There was no pain. Could he be in such deep shock that he couldn’t feel it? How bad was he hit anyway? Could he be bleeding to death?
He eased his gloved hand up under his flak suit and brought it out. There was no blood. But there had to be!
He turned to Cossel. Maybe the navigator could check. But Cossel was staring wide-eyed at a basketball-sized jagged hole in the port wall. Hal realized then what had happened. Flak shrapnel, exploding through the thin aluminum wall, had struck him in the back. Thank God for his flak suit. If the jagged piece of flak had been a foot higher, it would have decapitated him! But except for a lump on his forehead where it had smashed against the bombsight, he was unhurt.
A shock ran through the ship, and Hal realized they were not out of it yet. Close black bursts of exploding flak were rocking the ship and, from time to time, jagged pieces of shrapnel plowed through the shuddering plane. As the ship bored through black smoke left by exploding shells, Hal could smell the ugly odor of cordite. The other ships were getting it too. Hal saw the B-17 on their left suddenly belch fire from the number four engine, roll gracefully over and dive for the ground. It exploded before it was out of sight. In the lead squadron, a ship leaped as though it had been harpooned and fell off into a tight spin; the entire tail shot away.
Then they were out of it, once again cleaving the high clean air.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Fox called. “Cossel, I thought we were supposed to have a corridor through there.”
“That’s what the man said,” Cossel answered.
“Barges,” O’Reilly cut in. “Damn clever, those Krauts. They see which way the column is heading and move flak barges in. They track a couple of groups to get the range, then wham!”
“Bernard,” Hal said, trying to sound as calm as O’Reilly. “Stick your head in the bomb bay and see if we still have that outboard bomb.”
Rush to Glory Page 24
