Combat Crew

by John Comer

  At the aircraft we would get our own guns ready, then prepare the nose guns so that the Navigator and Bombardier had only to make the final adjustments and slip them into receivers when they arrived. There was not enough time for them to attend briefing and get to the plane in time to do a thorough job on their guns. The guns were stored in a heavy wrap of oil-soaked cloth to prevent rusting. Before a mission the heavy oil coating had to be removed because it might absorb moisture and cause the guns to freeze at high altitude. A light oil film was rubbed on for the mission.

  The target for the day was Hamburg. The R.A.F. had firebombed it during the night and we were to increase the holocaust. We were flying as spare and would fill in if any ship had to abort over the North Sea. I had mixed feelings about bombing that city. I had once spent three pleasant weeks in Hamburg. I recalled the evening I was carried along by a crowd into one of Adolf Hitler’s fiery rallies — but being warned there might be street fighting, I turned away at the edge of the crowd. At that time the name Hitler meant nothing to me.

  No aircraft aborted the formation, so when we reached the turnaround point, Gleichauf headed back toward England. It was a long, wearisome trip and I was concerned that fighters might spot us. But the size of the invading formation pulled all of the German interceptors inland and we saw nothing but water. Again, there was no credit for a mission.

  August 15 — Brussels

  Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck

  It was a little after three the next morning when I heard the crunch of heavy shoes on the gravel walk outside. The lights came on and Lieutenant Reese roused us from sleep.

  “Get up, you bastards! You’re flying 765 with Gleichauf. Comer, Counce, Rogers, Abramo, and Wilson … Wilson! — Wilson!”

  Wilson raised up in bed.

  “Come on! Let’s go — and good luck!”

  Jim and I went on ahead of the others and got out to the ship early. We had plenty of time to get the guns ready. When Gleichauf got to the aircraft he called us for a briefing.

  “We’re hittin’ the port docks at Brussels today — it will be a short run. S-2 [Air Force Intelligence] says they have a hundred fighters close by and moderate flak, but very accurate. Ought not to be too bad. Any questions? OK. Let’s climb in and get ready to go.”

  Major Hendricks, our Squadron C.O., was leading and we were flying as right wing in the second element of the lead squadron. As we headed out over the North Sea and the English coast faded from sight, several feints were made in fake directions and we returned to England and started over again. As early as 1943 the Allied strategy was to provoke Goering into putting his fighters up at the wrong time and at the wrong place. That would divide and reduce the interceptors that could attack us, and also force Germany to use up her precious fuel supply. The Germans did not have the vast oil resources of the Allies.

  Surely, on our third attempt we ought to get a mission credit! How long was it going to take to get in twenty-five missions? But now clouds began to form heavily underneath the formation and halfway over the North Sea it became a solid blanket.

  “Pilot to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead, Paul.”

  “Can we drop in this soup?”

  “No way — I think Hendricks will try an alternate.”

  “Navigator to Bombardier — I’m sure the alternate is covered, too. Don’t think we’re gonna drop anything today.”

  Oh, no! Not again! Would we ever manage to get in a mission? We had what seemed to be an easy one — and now! Three attempts and all that work for nothing! The rule for a mission credit was that the formation must do one of three things: fly the course all the way and drop on the target, drop on an alternate target, or engage the enemy in combat. The latter included encountering flak; however, it was never intended to include a sporadic burst or two I am sure.

  “Navigator to crew — the lead ship reported flak! We’ve got us credit for a mission!”

  “Bombardier to crew! Did any of you see flak? I didn’t see any.”

  “Navigator to crew! Dammit, don’t argue with the Brass! They’re gonna give us a mission!”

  “But there wasn’t any flak, Navigator.”

  “Pilot to crew — if the C.O. says there was flak, you can be sure there was flak. Now don’t raise any questions at interrogation.” (The debriefing of the crews after a mission.)

  That was the smart thing to do, of course. So — ring the bells! Beat the drums! We had a mission credit!

  What a difference one mission made! We were now allowed to join in a conversation without someone saying, “What th’ hell do you know about it?” I felt one hundred percent better because of that one mark on the mission tally board. We were lucky to ease into combat with sorties, because each time, we had learned some valuable lessons, gained confidence, and increased the odds for surviving the first few real fights.

  Only one of the eighteen crews that we trained with in the U.S. came with us to the 381st. The day after we arrived their navigator was pressed into service, because navigators were in short supply. We were all at the hardstand to meet him on his return, and were stunned to find that our friend was dead. It hit Carl hard because the nose of the plane was so vulnerable to heavy flak fragments or fighter projectiles. The ball turret operator on that crew was so badly wounded on the Hamburg raid that he will probably never walk again. But the worst was yet to come for Carl: two days later a navigator had his testicles shot off. Shutting never fully recovered from the trauma of that shock! He lived in deadly fear that it might happen to him! He persuaded the people at Armament to cut and shape some special armor plate to fit around his genital area. Holes were drilled in the edges so that it could be tied in place with four heavy cords. It took two men to assist in tying Carl’s shield in proper position, and it became the matrix of his protective armor. Shutting was the only navigator in the United States Air Force with specially made genital protection armor plate. In addition, he placed two sheets of armor plate on the floor where he would stand at either gun.

  The B-17E was being replaced with the B-17F, but a new crew could expect to be assigned one of the older, more undesirable airplanes. The main thing that bothered me was the small fuel capacity of seventeen hundred and fifty gallons, compared to the extra nine hundred gallons of the newer Forts. I hoped that whatever plane we were going to get, it would be soon. It would be better knowing what we would have to work with on a mission, than to draw a strange aircraft each trip.

  On our first two sorties, I noticed that Gleichauf stayed on the Command radio frequency while Carqueville remained on the intercom to keep crew control. That freed Gleichauf to concentrate on formation flying, which used his experience to our best advantage. Paul let Herb take care of the rest. It was a good combination that worked out quite well.

  August 15

  Jim and I rode into Cambridge on the morning run of the supply truck, and started looking for bicycle and radio shops. There was no restriction on the sale of used items, and even new appliances could take on a used look very easily. We made our purchases and shipped the two bicycles to a nearby town by train. We carried the small radio. I doubt that any of us ever got more pleasure from a one-pound investment ($4.13 each) than we received from the purchase of that radio. It made a big difference in our lives. We had the full range of the British Broadcasting Company, which offered excellent music and world news. We listened regularly to the Allied Forces Network that broadcast the things Americans wanted to hear. While in England we became aware of a young singer named Frank Sinatra.

  Our radio introduced us to a new type of program — very interesting, even though it was pure propaganda. We soon learned when to tune in to the German English-language broadcasts. They had an announcer with an exaggerated British accent. His name was William Joyce, but he was called Lord Haw Haw. To a newly-arrived combat group at an English airdrome, he would beam something like this: “Welcome to the 381st Bomber Group at Ridgewell Airdrome. We wish you good luck and look forward to meeting
you over the Continent very soon. By the way, please correct the clock at your Officer’s Club. It is five minutes slow!” And sure enough, on checking, the clock would be five minutes slow! That left the impression that German agents lurked everywhere.

  Chapter III

  Mission to Le Bourget

  August 16 — Le Bourget

  Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck

  Soon after daylight the formation was crossing the gray-green water of the English Channel. My anxiety and tension mounted, as I knew we would face the fierce German fighters, for on this clear day we would invade the lair of Goering’s best. The veterans had made certain we knew what usually happened to new crews on their first meeting with Jerry. They were not expected to come back — it was as simple as that.

  The intercom came on: “Tail to Copilot, Tail to Copilot.”

  “Go ahead, Tail.”

  “Fighters five o’clock low.”

  “Ball to Copilot. Looks like the escort.”

  I spotted a long line of specks closing in fast from the north. It was the escort of fifty P-47 Thunderbolts. Good! I felt better because they could keep the enemy fighters away for a little while. However, the P-47s had a short fuel range, as the disposable belly tanks available at that time only held seventy-five gallons.

  “Navigator to crew — Navigator to crew! Enemy coast five minutes away.”

  “Bombardier to crew! Watch out for fighters!”

  Scared? Where do you draw the line between fright and intense nervous anticipation? Nothing in civilian life had prepared me for the feeling of kill or be killed. Our meager gunnery training was laughable compared with the skill and experience of the veteran German fighter pilots.

  The briefing on the target earlier that morning kept turning through my mind: “We’re hitting an aircraft plant at the edge of Le Bourget airfield — near Paris. The fighter opposition will be plenty rough! This is your first real taste of combat so — !” The Abbeville Boys meant Goering’s personal squadrons, the roughest Germany had to offer.

  When I saw the French coast pass by underneath, I became more tense and keyed up. We had been warned repeatedly that German fighters liked to lurk in the area where we would have to look directly at the sun to see them. They would attempt to slip in on us undetected by most of the formation gunners. It was my responsibility not to let it happen. From my turret I had the only unobstructed view of the sky above in all directions. George Balmore, in the radio room, could see part of the area above and to the rear.

  “Bombardier to crew! Bombardier to crew! Fighters twelve o’clock low! Can’t make out what they are, but don’t look like 47s!”

  I stood up in the turret, looked down, and counted twenty or more that could be seen from my position. They were German fighters, all right! The enemy pilots knew that the P-47s were at the end of their short fuel range, and were patiently waiting for them to turn back. In a few minutes the escort dipped their wings as if to say, “Good luck! See you in England tonight,” and they were gone. I felt a knot in my stomach as the big Thunderbolts vanished to the north.

  Immediately the enemy pulled up to our level and began circling to pick out positions for attack. Of course I was excited! It was my first time to see hostile aircraft in the sky!

  “Copilot to crew! Throw the lead at those fighters if they come in!”

  “Copilot to Turret.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Keep your eye on those three fighters three o’clock high — I’ll watch high and forward.”

  “Copilot to Tail. See anything trying to sneak in back there?”

  “No, clear below and behind.”

  Suddenly Carqueville screamed over the intercom: “Fighter coming in twelve o’clock level — get him! Get him! Get him!”

  I was tracking four suspicious fighters at nine o’clock and wheeled around just in time to get my sights on the fighter attacking us. It was headed straight for our nose spitting deadly twenty-millimeter cannon shells and thirty-caliber machine-gun bullets. I was so fascinated by the sight that I froze! Did not fire a shot! Neither did the Bombardier nor the Navigator — the only other guns that could bear on a frontal attack! Light flashes from the leading edge of the fighter signaled how many cannon shells were being fired at us. I could hear some projectiles striking the airplane. It was a spectacle that drove deep into my memory. The fighter turned his belly to us and slipped into a beautiful barrel roll under our right wind and dived out of range.

  Carqueville was boiling mad! He exploded over the intercom: “What th’ hell’s the matter with you sonnuvabitches? You’re supposed to be gunners! Why didn’t you shoot? That fighter could’ve knocked us down! You let one more come in like that and I’ll personally work you over — all three of you!”

  He was furious and he should have been, because there was no excuse for failure to fire. I have relived those traumatic moments many times, and I can still feel the mesmerizing power that prevented my hand from pressing that firing switch. Why didn’t we fire? I will never know for sure. We were seized by the paralysis so typical of what happens to a deer hunter the first time he gets a buck in his gun sights (or the commandment “Thou shall not kill!”).

  The intercom came to life again. “Bombardier to Navigator and Turret: We blew that one! I don’t know why but we did. But, believe me, it’s not gonna happen again!” And it never did.

  We were lucky to sustain that first attack with little damage, because the enemy had minimal opposition to divert his aim or tactics. There were three simultaneous attacks which cut down the fire that each fighter drew. The Germans were smart in choosing which way to come in, relying mainly on head-on confrontation. When several fighters attacked at one time the concentrated fire of the formation guns was divided, reducing the opposition to each fighter and disrupting the defensive tactics of the formation.

  “Ball to crew — B-17 going down on fire four o’clock low!”

  I looked down and it was sickening. Long streams of flame extended beyond the tail. I kept screaming to myself, “Why don’t they jump? Jump! Jump, dammit! For God’s sake, get out before it’s too late!” But it was already too late. It was my first time to see men die in combat and it was a shattering experience. My stomach turned over at the thought of those ten men hurtling down to certain death. I wondered what flashed through their minds on that terrifying plunge to earth in their burning, spinning airplane.

  Suddenly the Bombardier called out: “Flak nine o’clock low! “

  “Ball to crew — flak at eleven o’clock low.”

  Huge puffs of black smoke began to burst around the formation. So that was flak! It was thicker than I expected, and a lot closer.

  “Bombardier to Pilot — over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re on the bomb run.”

  That meant the planes had to fly a straight and steady course for several minutes to provide a stable platform for the Bombardier and the Norden Bomb Sight.

  Bam!

  The ship rocked and I saw a nearby burst of orange flame followed by boiling, black smoke. I had been told that the crew would not hear the shells burst. Well, I heard that one! Mostly I saw only black smoke explode into large globs and heard pieces of shrapnel striking the aircraft whenever a shell burst too close. Flying through the floating smoke made the field of fire seem worse than it was.

  One battery of guns below began to move in closer and closer. They seemed to choose us as their special target and were firing five eighty-eight–millimeter shells at a time. As the bursts crept ever closer I could feel the hair on my head trying to push up against my helmet. All the German gunners needed to do was make one final correction, and they would have had us bracketed dead center.

  “Radio to Copilot — can’t we take some evasive action?”

  “Hell no! We’re on the bomb run.”

  I prayed a little, but who knows whether it helped or not. At the time, a man with a religious background felt that it could help, and in that sense
perhaps it was useful. Later, when I looked back on such moments more rationally, I wondered why I believed that through the mysterious phenomena we call prayer the Supreme Being could be induced to alter the Laws of the Universe — His Own Laws — just for me. Was I some special favorite? Was anyone praying for the protection of the innocent people who lived and worked too close to where our exploding bombs were landing? How strange and paradoxical for men to pray selfishly for their own lives, while doing everything in their power to kill other men, who in turn perhaps were praying to the same God.

  I was suddenly jolted back to the urgency of the moment as I heard, “Bombs away!” The unexpected upward lurch of the aircraft, as the bomb weight fell away, startled me momentarily. As we turned left away from the target, I got a glimpse of several columns of smoke rising from the bombed area.

  “Pilot to Tail.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did we hit the target?”

  “Where we hit looks like factory buildings — don’t know if that was our target.”

  I dropped down out of the turret just long enough to have a quick look at the fuel gauges, and got a shock when I saw that we only had a third left. After hasty calculations of probable consumption going back, with the aid of letting down from high altitude, I felt that we could make it back to Ridgewell.

  “Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew. Stay alert! They may hit us goin’ back. Turret!”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Put on your sunglasses and watch that area around the sun. We don’t want them slippin’ in on us.”

  Ten minutes later: “Fighters ten o’clock low!”

  “What are they doin’, Ball?”

  “Only two of ’em — not tryin’ to come in.”