Combat Crew

by John Comer

  On the way to the mess hall George said, “I wonder how the Operations Officer feels when he reads out our names — he knows some of us won’t make it back.”

  “Someone has to do it, George. Which would you rather do? Take the risks yourself? Or have to choose which men may die?”

  “I could never send men out to fight, John, and maybe to die …. I would feel responsible for those who didn’t get back.”

  At Operations I waited with Jim and George for some signal from the Briefing Room.

  “I wish they’d start the Briefing — Oh! Oh! Listen to that!” Jim grimaced.

  There was a deep and prolonged groan followed by silence! My insides constricted because the pilots thought we had a super-mean one coming up.

  Balmore said, “I hope it’s not Schweinfurt again — or somewhere worse.”

  “Where th’ hell could that be?” asked Counce.

  An hour later I had the extra ammo on board and was about finished with the guns. Someone stuck his head up in the hatch under the nose and called, “Put the guns away, leave ’em right where they are. Grab your equipment — hurry!”

  “What’s wrong with those knuckleheads at Operations? Don’t they know we can’t change planes this late and get ready on time?”

  Then I realized it was Gleichauf down below. “The Operations people aren’t knuckleheads!” he said. “I made the aircraft change! Where we’re goin’, 765 can’t make it on gas.”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Forget it. Grab your stuff, and let’s go! Hurry up!” In the back of the speeding truck Gleichauf gave us the story. “We’re hittin’ Stuttgart, in south Germany — another ball-bearing plant. It’s the longest raid B-17s have attempted. Some aircraft will have twenty-seven hundred gallons of fuel, but we will have only seventeen hundred and fifty. It is gonna be close on fuel. No way 765 could make it on gas. P-47s will be with us a little way, then we go it alone. We’ll be over enemy territory five hours.”

  It was the big league for sure. When the truck stopped and I saw the aircraft it was another blow! Tinker Toy! Many of the gunners thought it was a jinx ship. They thought that somehow she attracted fighter attacks, because of the consistent battle damage that had become her trademark. Sitting there in your easy chair reading this account, and insulated by both time and distance, you may smile indulgently at the idea of a jinx. But men in combat tend to become superstitious. They go to great lengths to avoid whatever they suspect to be unlucky. And they cling to lucky charms or some clothing that they have always worn on missions, or to anything they associate with luck. There were some pilots who liked to fly Tinker Toy because the ship handled well and was easy on fuel. But her reputation with the gunners continued to grow.

  Balmore looked like he had suddenly become ill.

  “Oh, now, George, an airplane couldn’t really be a jinx — that would be like believing in ghosts,” I countered.

  Gleichauf walked by. “Cut this talk about a jinx and get this airplane ready! We only have ten minutes until time to start engines!”

  We were running woefully short of time, and I was shocked at the poor condition of the guns. All we could do was to keep working on them, mainly to remove the rust from the working parts, after the plane got into the air. We were almost across the Channel before my two guns were ready.

  There were no bailout oxygen bottles in the aircraft, but I had six that I always carried in my equipment bag for emergencies. They were steel cylinders wrapped in piano wire and filled with oxygen compressed to eighteen hundred pounds’ pressure.

  Gleichauf knew Purus had picked up a case of diarrhea during the night. Johnny made a hurried exit into the darkness, and when he returned Paul asked, “Are you gonna be able to make it?”

  “That was the third crap since midnight,” he answered.

  “If you shouldn’t go, I’ll call Operations to try to get another Bombardier.”

  “Not enough time for that,” Purus replied. “I’ll go — but I may get more calls.”

  Shutting had a suggestion. “Take along one of those metal ammunition cans. If you have to crap you can throw it overboard on the Krauts!”

  Carl was to regret that advice a few hours later.

  The formation came together quickly, to save fuel, and then set out over the cold waters of the English Channel.

  “Radio to Turret.”

  “Go ahead, Radio.”

  “My oxygen is leaking.”

  “Here we go again! What’s th’ problem this time?”

  “I already told you,” Balmore replied testily. “My oxygen’s leakin’.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because the right system is goin’ down too damn fast!”

  Before I could leave the turret to go to the radio room the pilot came on intercom: “Turret, stay where you are! We’re too close to the French coast.”

  “Pilot to Right Waist.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Jim, take a look at the Radio oxygen system.”

  “OK, Pilot.”

  Five minutes later Jim called, “Waist to Pilot! Waist to Pilot! There’s a slow leak in the right aft oxygen system — no telling where it is.”

  “Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew! All positions in the rear switch to the right oxygen system — use it up first.”

  That was all we could do for the moment. The route was over France to the Rhine River. We crossed the coast at a lower level than usual and were still climbing.

  “Waist to crew-B -17 pullin’ outta th’ formation — can’t see anythin’ wrong with his engines. What the hell is he trying to do?”

  The escort had already turned back to England and it was still a long way to the target.

  “Waist to crew. Fighters — six o’clock low, comin’ up fast! May be 190s.”

  For a few minutes the B-17 trailing us flew along unmolested. I think the Jerries were puzzled and may have suspected a trick.

  “Tail to crew! Three 190s jumpin’ that Fort behind us.”

  “Waist to crew! Th’ wing’s on fire — why don’t they jump? Oh, I see some chutes now!”

  There was heavy smoke and another Fortress was on its way down. “Bombardier to Copilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That was stupid! Why do you think he pulled out of the formation?”

  “Some new pilot, nervous and inexperienced — thought it would be easier to fly all by himself.”

  As we approached the Rhine River, George called again. “Radio to Turret — pressure’s down to a hundred pounds.”

  “Even so you should have enough … your left system is OK and you can kick off of oxygen at sixteen thousand feet coming back.”

  Tinker Toy was an old ship, an E model. It had small oxygen tanks in each turret that had to be refilled from the main system tanks on long flights. We were used to that, as aircraft 765 was an E model.

  “Ball to Waist — my oxygen tank’s gettin’ low. Be ready to fill it in a few minutes.”

  “OK, Nick. Let me know when you’re ready,” Counce answered.

  “Bombardier to Navigator.”

  “Go ahead, Johnny.”

  “I got another call — got to use that damn ammo can! Take over my gun until I’m through.”

  The forward nose gun was much more vital to our defense than either of the side guns in the nose.

  “OK,” Shutting said. “I’ll take over your gun, but you’re gonna freeze your butt at thirty-five degrees below!”

  “I know that but it’s better than lettin’ it go in my pants.”

  “Copilot to Nose — keep the intercom clear!”

  “Waist to Ball. Ready for me to fill your tank?”

  “Yeah — soon as I swing around. I’ll hold steady ’til you tell me it’s clear.”

  My earphones were not the best and the higher we climbed, the worse they were. I could make out only fragments of the intercom conversation.

  Jim finished filling the ball turret tank from
the left rear system pressure. When he removed the filler hose there was a loud spewing noise, and Jim realized that there was moisture in the oxygen system, no doubt caused by the condensation of moisture during those prolonged periods when that aircraft was out of action for repairs from battle damage. Hard ice had formed to hold both valves open, letting the precious oxygen pour out of both the ball and the left rear system tanks. He frantically tried to reengage the ball valve but the ice was too hard. In desperation, he ran to the waist for the nearest walk-around bottle and quickly hammered it onto the system valve. But he could do nothing to stop the drain of the ball pressure and it dropped to zero. Most of the system pressure in the rear of the aircraft was now gone.

  “Waist to Copilot …”

  I could not make out what Jim was saying. “Copilot to Ball — Copilot to Ball, come in.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Get outta that Ball quick, Nick. Jim says your oxygen pressure is gone.”

  “I’m comin’ out of the Ball.”

  “Copilot to Radio.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Help Nick out of that ball and hook him up on your spare hose.”

  “Paul — Paul!” Herb motioned for Gleichauf to switch over to intercom. “Got a bad problem in the back. Th’ ball oxygen is gone an’ not much left for the other men. How about sending Nick to the nose? He’s in the radio room now.”

  “Nick, can you hear me?”

  “Go ahead, Pilot.”

  “Move to th’ nose right away. Got to save what oxygen we have back there.”

  “Copilot to Abramo — don’t forget your chute!”

  Meanwhile Purus had completed his uncomfortable session with the ammo can, but the Navigator did not hear the order for Abramo to hasten to the nose, because his earphones were disconnected as he changed back to his regular gun position.

  “Copilot to Turret — watch Nick through the bomb bay.”

  It was very easy to get hung up in the center of the bomb bay. A stocky man like Nick, in heavy flying clothes, had trouble squeezing through the narrow part of the catwalk where two vertical beams supported the weight of the bomb load. I got out of the turret and looked into the bomb bay to see Abramo struggling valiantly to break through. With a violent lurch he broke free, but dropped his parachute. He made a grab for it, but accidentally caught the ripcord! A cloud of white silk flooded the lower bomb bay. His chute was finished, so he stumbled groggily into the cockpit and on down to the nose, ignoring the oxygen hose I held out to revive him. He was too far gone for his mind to function normally, and was struggling against collapse. Shutting, unaware that Nick was coming, had the entrance to the nose blocked. Nick crashed into him and down went the Navigator, knocking over the Bombardier’s recently used ammunition can before the contents had time to freeze. The smelly mess spilled liberally about his clothes.

  “Navigator to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve got Johnny’s shit all over my clothes!”

  “What! You say Johnny shit on you?”

  “No! No! His ammo can turned over on me! What we gonna do about my clothes?”

  “What you’re gonna do is get back on those guns. Right now! Worry about your damn clothes when we get back to Ridgewell.”

  “Navigator to Nick.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You all right now?”

  “Yeah, I’m OK.”

  “ Look what you did to my clothes.”

  “Copilot to Nose! Cut the talk an’ keep that intercom clear!”

  “Turret to Waist — my earphones are real bad. Tell me what the situation is back there. Talk very slow.”

  “We — got — oxygen — for — one — hour.”

  “One hour?”

  “Right! One — hour.”

  We had just crossed the Rhine River and that meant real trouble if all we had was an hour of oxygen left in the rear at twenty-six thousand feet.

  “Copilot to Bombardier — the Jerries are sendin’ up everything that can fly — even some 187s.”

  “First 187s I’ve ever seen — and they’re using J.U. 88s, too.” Purus answered. The 381st was flying a tight formation and that saved us some attacks. The enemy fighters were not as aggressive as I had anticipated over that part of Germany. I suspected that most of those fighters were trained for night fighting against the R.A.F.

  “Navigator to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Ten minutes to the I.P.”

  Two M.E. 109s hit us but they were caught with a heavy converging fire, and I thought both were badly damaged. Cahow’s crew was in serious trouble. Their aircraft had sustained some heavy hits, and the ball turret door had blown off. But down in that ball Bill Kettner obstinately refused to leave his gun position. Despite the enormous wind blast at thirty-five to forty degrees below zero, he hung in there for the next three hours. It was bad enough to be in that ball on any mission, but that terrific force of wind, when he had to face directly into it to meet an attack, was an ordeal beyond the call of duty. I do not know how he survived it.

  “Bombardier to Copilot — Herb, motion Paul to switch to intercom.”

  “This is Paul.”

  “Bomb run is coming up. I hope those clouds floatin’ over th’ target don’t mess up the drop.”

  Unfortunately for us, one small cumulus cloud did obscure the target from the direction of our approach. The lead Bombardier could not line up his sight.

  “Pilot to Bombardier — are we goin’ to drop?”

  “No. I think we’re goin’ to come around on a one-eighty.”

  “Oh, hell! That will ruin us on fuel!”

  The formation executed a slow, costly half circle and another try for the target. Again the cloud obscured the main objective. The situation was so confused that I’m not sure what target we hit. It may have been an alternate. One good thing: I was greatly relieved to get rid of that bomb load!

  “Radio to Bombardier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Three bombs hung up in the racks — don’t raise doors.”

  “Turret to Bombardier — I’ll go back and get rid of ’em.”

  “Pilot to Turret — stay on your guns — too many fighters around us now.”

  “Turret to Copilot. How do your fuel gauges read?”

  “Between a third and a quarter — closer to a quarter. Not good!”

  “It’s gonna be damn close on gas!” I answered.

  “We’re on auto lean — th’ flaps are pulled down. Not much else we can do ’til we can drop out of formation and slow down,” Carqueville explained.

  “We have about five hundred gallons — three hours using our altitude,” I answered.

  “Navigator to Copilot. We’re three and a half hours to Ridgewell. We might make it to some airfield on the coast.”

  “Doubt we can make it to England if we stay at this high altitude all the way to the Channel,” I answered. I felt that if there was moisture in the aft oxygen tanks we probably had the same in the forward system. I made a test by filling a walk-around bottle. Sure enough, when I unhooked the bottle the filler valve was frozen wide open. I hammered the bottle back onto it and stopped the drain. Being forewarned by Jim’s earlier problem, I was ready and knew what to do.

  “Radio to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Oxygen pressure about gone back here. What we gonna do?”

  “Turret to Pilot — I got six bailout bottles — should be good for thirty minutes each, if they’re careful.”

  “Rush ’em back real quick. Herb will take over the turret ’til you get back.” It required some time to distribute the bottles and coming back to the cockpit I got hung up in the bomb-bay racks. There was no oxygen left in the walk-around bottle I was using, so I knew that I had to break free quickly. I could feel myself slipping. With a final effort I tore loose and barely made it to the rear door of the cockpit. I fell partly in, with my legs dangling into the open bomb bay, and
passed out. When I came to, I was plugged into the spare oxygen hose. I got back into the turret and called the Copilot.

  “Turret to Copilot — thanks for pluggin’ me in — I was lucky to make it to the cockpit.”

  “You’re wrong, John. You plugged yourself in,” Carqueville replied.

  “No way I could do it! I was completely out when I fell into the cockpit door.”

  “Well, no one helped you.”7

  “Then we got Gremlins aboard! Hey, Gremlins — thanks for pluggin’ me in.”

  “I wish your Gremlins would help us out on oxygen and gasoline!”

  How I got connected to the cockpit hose still remains a mystery.

  Wilson, Counce, and Balmore took two bailout bottles each. That left the remainder of the system oxygen, plus one bailout bottle they found in the waist for the Tail Gunner.

  “Pilot to Copilot. Three things we can do. We can make a run for Switzerland. We can try to dive down to a lower Group. Or, we can bring one more man to the cockpit and let the other three bail out when they use up their oxygen … Switzerland sounds like the best bet to me.”

  “I think so, too,” answered Carqueville.

  “Tail to Pilot — there are fifty to sixty 187s between us and Switzerland.”

  “Then forget about Switzerland.”

  A few minutes later: “Pilot to crew. We’re goin’ to try to drop down to the lowest Group. Ought to help on oxygen — watch out for fighters.”

  For the very first time being in a low Group sounded good. Gleichauf dropped the plane down and pulled into an opening in the formation barely in time to avoid a swarm of fighters that tried to cut us off.

  “Turret to Copilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Got to refill the turret oxygen tank. It may freeze like the ball did. If so, I can’t save it, but I can keep the main pressure from leaking out.”

  “Any options?”