by John Comer
John Comer
COMBAT CREW
The Story of Twenty-Five Combat Missions Over Europe From the Journal of a B-17 Gunner
Combat Crew is one of the best memoirs about the air war over Europe ever written. John Comer kept a journal of the twenty-five missions he flew in 1943 when the casualty rate on his base was close to 80%. After each raid Comer gathered the crew together and pieced together the air battle from a 360-degree perspective. His book is handwritten history, recorded within hours after the battles occurred.
Comer vividly creates his experiences as top-turret gunner/flight engineer in a B-17 Squadron that was thrown against the best pilots the Luftwaffe could offer. In 1943 the Germans were more experienced than the Americans and the Army Air Force had no long-range fighters to protect the B-17’s as they flew deep into enemy territory. That Comer survived is a testament to his crew’s skill and his luck; his 533d Squadron (8th Air Force, 1st Division, 381st Group) lost three out of every four men on combat status during the six months Comer flew his first twenty-five missions.
Comer’s powerful narrative is devoted to the men who flew the planes, dropped the bombs, and fired the guns. Their everyday life was filled with terror, friendship, and fatigue. Comer recorded it all in his diary. The reader shares the fears of flight crew as they wonder if their heavily loaded bomber can actually lift off the runway. Many planes didn’t make it. Then there are the freezing temperatures in unheated planes (63 degrees below zero with the bomb-bay doors open and 200 M.P.H. winds blowing through the aircraft). There are missed targets, faulty equipment, red-hot shrapnel from antiaircraft fire, and what it was like to look German fighter pilots in the eye as they barreled in with cannons blazing. Above all, there is the horror of watching friends being shot down on every bomb run — no matter how “easy” the mission might have been.
Immediate, straightforward, compelling, Combat Crew is destined to become a classic of aerial warfare.
What People Are Saying About Combat Crew
“I find your remarkable book, Combat Crew, engrossing. It’s one of the best records of aerial combat in World War II I’ve ever read, and I want to tell you how impressed I am.”
— Charlton Heston, actor
“Combat Crew was a very special experience for me to read. You certainly put it down the way it was.”
— James “Jimmy” Stewart, actor and B-17 instructor pilot, United States Army Air Force
“The author flew on many of the most violent air raids flows by the United States 8th Air Force during World War II. Combat Crew gives the reader an accurate, dramatic, and firsthand, on-the-scene account of the way it was. It is a book that cannot be aside once started.”
— George G. Shackley, Colonel, USAF (Retired), C.O., 533rd Squadron
“John was kind enough to let me have a sneak preview of his manuscript, and it brought back a lot of old memories. He has a knack of relating our feelings and experiences in combat. It is a great book, and I recommend it highly.”
— Lieutenant Colonel William Cahow (Colonel Cahow participated in most of the combat action that is described in this book.)
“An accurate, gripping portrayal of a combat-crew member’s thoughts and actions while participating in twenty-five of the toughest missions flown by the 8th Air Force over Europe. A genuine account of aerial warfare from the top turret of a B-17.”
— Lieutenant Colonel Stuart S. Watson, C.O., 533rd Squadron
Copyright © 1988 by John Comer All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Comer, John.
Combat crew / John Comer.
p. cm.
Reprint. Originally published: Dallas: J. Comer, c1986.
ISBN 0-688-07614-9
I. Comer, John. 2. World War, 1939-1945 — Aerial operations, American. 3. World War, 1939-1945 — Campaigns — Europe. 4. World War, 1939-1945 — Personal narratives, American. 5. Flight engineers — United States — Biography. 6. United States. Air Force — Biography.
I. Title.
[D785.U6C64 1988] 87-28085
940.54'4973'0924 — dc19 CIP
Combat Crew Is Dedicated to the Memory of
James Counce
Hardin County, Tenn.
K.I.A. Jan 11, 1944
George Balmore
Bronx, N.Y.
K.I.A. Jan. 11, 1944
Herbert Carqueville
Chicago, Ill.
M.I.A. Oct. 9, 1943
Raymond Legg
Anderson, Ind.
K.I.A.
And to the Memory of All the Men
Who Gave Their Lives
in the Air War Over Europe
That the Rest of Us
Might Continue to Live in Freedom
Table of Contents
Preface
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter I
Arrival at Ridgewell Airdrome
Chapter II
Mission to Brussels
Chapter III
Mission to Le Bourget
Chapter IV
Schweinfurt #1 The Ball-Bearing Plants
Chapter V
Mission to Gilze-Rijen
Chapter VI
Mission to Villacoublay
Chapter VII
Missions to Amiens-Glizy and Romilly
Chapter VIII
Mission to Stuttgart
Chapter IX
Mission: Airfield in Belgium
Chapter X
Mission to Nantes
Chapter XI
Mission to Emden
Chapter XII
Mission to Bremen
Chapter XIII
Mission to Anklam
Chapter XIV
Second Mission to Schweinfurt (Black Thursday)
Chapter XV
Mission to Wilhelmshaven and Gelsenkirchen
Chapter XVI
Mission to Wesel
Chapter XVII
Mission to Norway and Mission to Bremen
Chapter XVIII
Mission to Paris and Leverkusen
Chapter XIX
Mission to Emden
Chapter XX
Mission to Bremen
Chapter XXI
Mission to Bremen
Chapter XXII
Mission to Osnabrück
Chapter XXIII
Mission to Calais
Chapter XXIV
Mission to Ludwigshaven
Chapter XXV
Mission to Tours
Chapter XXVI
Good-bye to Ridgewell
Epilogue
After the War:
Status of Crew Members as of 1986
About the Author
Footnotes
Preface
The ultimate objective of Combat Crew is to make the combat missions come alive for readers of this book. In particular I want the wives, the sons, the daughters, and the grandchildren of the participants to feel that they are experiencing the extreme cold, the constant dangers, and the traumatic events that were common to all the men who manned the Flying Fortresses in the high thin air over the European Continent. To the extent possible my purpose is to take the reader along with us on the combat missions.
This account tells how one combat crew handled the boredom and monotony of barracks life, all the while sweating out the missions as the air battles unfolded. Every crew was different, reflecting the discipline desired by the pilot. However, I flew with thirteen air crews and
found that all experienced crews were far more alike than different. The well-researched documentary books about this period may leave the impression that all of the missions were life-and-death struggles. It was not like that: each crew had some very rough missions and some easy ones. Often the accounts of the air battles over Europe are concerned with the commanders and the generals and their agonizing decisions. Again, it was not like that for us: We knew nothing about where we were going or why until two or three hours before takeoff. Once in the air we merely followed the formation, not being concerned about tactics.
What happened to “Gleichauf’s Crew” was much like the experiences of men in other crews who succeeded in completing their quota of missions. Each crew could see only part of the action within its range of vision. When our crew had a rough go, sometimes crews in another part of the same battle had it easy. And even on the missions we called “milk runs,” almost always some unlucky crews were shot down. Death was never more than a few feet or inches from the men in the Flying Fortresses.
Foreword
As we approached the site where Ridgewell Airdrome once stood I was overcome with memories. It was June 1972. All at once I was transported back three decades in time. I could hear the raucous roar of Flying Fortress engines revving up for takeoff in the damp predawn cold of an English morning. I could smell that mixture of oil and gasoline that filled the air when engines coughed and started. I could feel again the vibrations of those overloaded aircraft struggling to escape the runway and lift up over the mists. I recalled that uncomfortable feel of an oxygen mask fitted tightly against my face. I remembered the hours I spent recalculating the odds of surviving and the daily realization that they were not good.
Suddenly I shivered despite the warmth of the summer day. I could not shake off the chill of the past. Was this return to Ridgewell going to be a mistake? One by one I recalled the faces of my crew — a group of young men from diverse locales and backgrounds, thrown together by chance and placed under intense pressure. We were such ordinary men from whom the extraordinary was demanded. We were half-trained and woefully inexperienced. Most of our men had been in military service barely a year. We were expected to face the fury of Germany’s superbly trained and experienced Luftwaffe and survive. Some of us did. During those months together we formed bonds of friendship I have never experienced before or since.
We were getting closer and I strained to catch a glimpse of something familiar — anything that would confirm that I had once been a part of this place. Ridgewell had been home, prison, and refuge — the center of my world for so many months. I squinted ahead, secretly hoping for rain, but there was none. That seemed so strange! Ridgewell — without that eternal drizzle and everlasting mud? But that week England played a trick on my memory. The sun made daily appearances and the sky remained uncharacteristically free of moisture. Then it happened! About a hundred yards from the site of the base a gentle drizzle began to fall from skies that up to that moment had shown no hint of rain. It was eerie, as if it had been staged just for me. I was tempted to look upward and say, “Thank you.” And I knew I was right in returning to Ridgewell.
Then I was jolted back to reality. The site had long since returned to grain fields. Two old hangars were still standing, but now they were filled with farm machinery. They had traded airplanes for tractors! Part of me knew this was as it should be. Another part reached back through the years remembering how those hangars were once alive with men — and Flying Fortresses needing major repairs. I wanted to regain for a few moments the experiences that could be relived only by those men who flew from this field in that long ago time of war. I stood there silently in the soft rain for a long time, remembering.
My wife and two close friends were with me, but they could not participate in my nostalgia. Nor did they try. To me, it represented the most intensely lived year of my life. To me, this was ground as hallowed as Lincoln’s Gettysburg. Although I flew out of other combat airfields far distant from England, none was burned as deeply into my memory as Ridgewell. It was from here that I had the first traumatic shock of combat. It was from here that so many of my friends, some of the finest men I have ever known, began their last flight.
Prologue
November 24, 1942
A thousand men were assembled on the parade ground at Sheppard Field, Texas, on that November day, just eleven months after Pearl Harbor. A dapper Major strode to an elevated speaker’s stand. I will remember him as long as I live. The man was a spellbinder, a military pitchman with superb talents. I listened in hypnotic fascination as he described the adventurous life of an aerial gunner. Carried away by his fiery enthusiasm, I could picture myself holding off a swarm of Japanese Zeroes! With exciting fervor the speaker challenged those of us who had an extra share of guts. Some might, he hinted, be accepted for aerial gunnery. The Major concluded his remarks: “Those of you who want to escape menial assignments for the next three or four years, and live a life of excitement, fall out to my right for physical examinations.”
About fifty of us, whose judgment at the moment was questionable, lined up as directed. An hour later I was still sitting in the silence of the reception room at the base hospital awaiting my turn.
The hypnotic spell was beginning to wear off. Men were leaving quietly until there were only a few of us left. What the hell was I doing there? Did I really want to trade a safe aircraft mechanic’s job for active combat? Since when had I developed an extra share of guts? Slowly rational thinking returned. I got up and began easing out, and was ten feet from the exit when a hall door opened.
“Comer!”
“Here,” I responded automatically.
“That room on the left. Strip down; they’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
How often the timing of a trivial incident shapes our lives. If that orderly had been five seconds later I would have been gone, and the war for me would have been a vastly different story.
I suddenly remembered the crushing blow ten years earlier when an unexpected visual depth perception change abruptly ended my hoped-for aerial career at the Air Corps Flying Detachment at Brooks Field. I had to conclude that the defect would still be there and I was sure the medical exam would be the same as for pilots.
But now a strange feeling came over me: I wanted very much to pass those tests. And I did great until it came to the depth perception. Once more it floored me. When I showed such obvious dismay at the results of the depth perception gauges, the examining officer asked, “Are you in the Aircraft Mechanics School?”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“You might qualify for aerial engineer.”
“Aerial engineer?” I had never heard the term before.
“Yes, a flying aircraft mechanic who is also an aerial gunner.”
It was certainly an interesting new possibility.
“We are not as strict on engineers as on the other gunners. The Colonel might OK you.”
When I got to the Colonel he used a new instrument I had not seen in the past — an electric depth gauge. He studied the results, then looked at me.
“Comer, you’re close enough that I can waive the defect if you are sure you want to be a flight engineer. It will probably mean combat. Is that what you want?”1
I had no time to ponder my decision.
“Sounds great to me!”
“OK. I’ll mark your records as medically qualified for Flight Engineer-Gunner. Good luck!”
Chapter I
Arrival at Ridgewell Airdrome
As the personnel truck sped through the wet English countryside my apprehension and uneasiness increased. In a few days we would be facing the fury of the German Luftwaffe. I glanced at the other five men of our crew. Each was silent, immersed in his own contemplation of what the immediate future held in store. It was July 1943, and it was all coming to a head for us quite soon now. What would it be like? Could we handle it? After only ten days of orientation in England, I knew we needed more gunnery practice. The tru
ck slowed down and I saw we were approaching our destination. All day I had been dreading that moment. Most likely the base would be one of those hard-luck outfits who regularly lost high percentages of their aircraft. The worst of all was the 100th Group. Please! Not that unlucky snake-bit command! But logic indicated that the depleted groups would need more replacement crews like us, who had been hurriedly trained and rushed to the 8th Air Force to cover the heavy losses.
It was shortly after dusk, a poor time to arrive at a strange base with no conception of what it would be like. I looked at Herbert Carqueville, the pilot, and he pointed to George Balmore, the radio operator, who was dozing.
“Wake up, George. We’re coming into the base.”
Carl Shutting, the navigator, straightened his uniform. George Reese, the copilot, looked like he did not have a care in the world. He was like that. Johnny Purus, the bombardier, looked worried — as I was.
The truck wheeled into an obviously quite new base. Looking around, my first impression of the base was prefabricated metal buildings thrown hastily on top of English mud. At headquarters we piled out and unloaded baggage.
A Major took his time examining our papers. There was another crew with us, from the same training command in the States. “I know you are wondering where you are. You are assigned to the 381st Bombardment Group at Ridgewell Air Base.”
What a relief that was! The 381st was not one of the high-loss groups we had been hearing about.
“I am sending you to the 533rd Squadron, under the command of Major Hendricks. They are low on crews. A driver will take you to the squadron headquarters. Good luck on your new assignment.” From what I had seen since reaching England, we were going to need some luck!
