Combat Crew

by John Comer

  When I began to feel sorry for myself in reference to the heavy odds I remembered that I could have been assigned to the 100th Group — the hard luck Group of the 8th Bomber Command. That unfortunate outfit had earned the undying hatred of the German Luftwaffe. Whenever their group insignia was recognized the Jerry pilots were instantly infuriated. One story explaining the circumstances that brought this on kept circulating so persistently that it must have had the elements of truth. According to that story, the 100th was under intense attack over the Continent and in desperation one Fortress lowered its landing gear. That is the internationally recognized signal for surrender. When the German fighter pilots pulled in close to escort the surrendering craft down, some of the Fortress gunners suddenly opened fire at the unsuspecting fighters while they were out of position to return fire. Several fighters were shot down and some pilots lost. From that moment on the 100th was a marked Group and the sight of that hated insignia inflamed the German pilots to turn full attention to the 100th.

  September 13

  Sam Spivak was one of the early crew chiefs in the 381st and a good one. He was the brother of Charlie Spivak, a well-known orchestra leader of that period. When Sam and Gleichauf got together it was old friends meeting again. It was reassuring to have that kind of man in charge of keeping our aircraft in top condition.

  One bitterly cold day Sam was working alone, high up on an engine stand with his head in the nacelle space behind the engine. Electricians, armorers, and other specialists were coming and going. Sam heard another vehicle stop but paid no attention to it. An English voice said, “Yank, how do you like our English weather?” No American liked the miserable winter-spring weather of 1943 in England, and Sam thought he was talking to one of the English runway workers. His reply was a volley of profanity that clearly expressed what he thought of English weather in very definite and colorful terms. When he did not hear any reply, Sam stooped down to where he could see to whom he was talking. He got the shock of his life: there stood King George VI, flanked by British and American military brass! Sam tried to stutter an apology, but the king cut him short. George VI was laughing heartily and said, “Forget It, Yank. I had it coming. And I’ve heard better profanity than that many times. I’m an old navy man, you know.”

  Chapter X

  Mission to Nantes

  September 16 — Nantes, France

  Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck

  Carqueville was flying his initial mission as a first pilot with a crew newly put together. He would be on the right wing and we would be on the left wing of the second element of the squadron.

  I saw Carqueville at Operations early that morning and he said, “John, my men are nervous and scared, as all of us are on our first raid. We may need some help if fighters hit us hard. Keep your eye on us.”

  Jim cut in, “Keep tight formation and the fighters won’t pick you out as a green crew.”

  The target was submarine installations at Nantes, on the Loire River, a few miles from the Bay of Biscay, on the west coast of France. Takeoff and wing assembly were smooth and on schedule. A short time before we reached the enemy coast Purus called me.

  “Bombardier to Turret — pull the bomb fuse pins.”

  “OK, Bombardier.”

  “Ball to crew, fighters six o’clock low — can’t make out what they are.”

  “Tail to crew, they are P-47s.”

  The escort flew crisscross patterns above us and for an hour nothing happened. Then the Navigator spotted trouble.

  “Navigator to crew, 109s eleven o’clock low — looks like about fifty of them.”

  Reliable Jerry had timed the range of the escort perfectly and approached the formation at the time when the 47s would have to turn back. When the Thunderbolts were gone the enemy interceptors pulled up to our altitude and began the usual circling tactic to pick out the best angles for attack. We could never be certain what they looked for, but a ship with signs of mechanical trouble or a straggler was sure to be high on the hit list. We also knew they looked for the weakest formations and suspected that they tried to spot green crews. Perhaps certain groups had earned a reputation of being rough on attack. Other groups may have been easy targets in the past and when they recognized the opposition by the insignias, they may have changed their tactics.

  “Bombardier to crew, fighters are hitting the high squadron.”

  The attack screamed by us at about two hundred yards and we let go with burst after burst. There were seven fighters attacking in a single file.

  “Tail to crew — 109 comin’ in six o’clock high.”

  I whirled around to help Legg and we hammered hard at the 109 and another right behind him.

  “Ball to Turret.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think you an’ Tail got one — I can see it going down smoking.”

  I saw us hit it with a dozen bursts, but I think Legg did the most damage. This was the kind of fight I liked. We were never swarmed by fighters but there were enough attacks to keep us busy. By that date I had enough combat experience to be keyed up to maximum performance by fighter action.

  The fight slowed down, but ten or twelve interceptors were still buzzing around the formation. A fighter was leading three other Bogies and circling us at about twelve hundred yards.

  “Navigator to Turret.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Hey, John, think we could hit that sonnuvabitch at four o’clock high?”

  “He’s a little out of our range, but we might fire high an’ lob a few rounds into him if we’re lucky.”

  “Let’s dust him off for the hell of it.”

  “OK — fire away.”

  I set my elevation several degrees above his flight path and took a long lead. Both of us squeezed off three or four bursts. We picked the wrong man to mess with. He was not bothering us and we should have left him alone. His wings wiggled as if out of control for a few seconds then he went into a dive and came straight at us with the other three fighters following his lead. We had a full thousand yards to fire and the nose and turret guns poured a deadly hail of lead and steel all of the way. We were assisted by other gun positions in adjoining ships. One after another those fighters barrel-rolled under our right wing, and I heard Jim open up as they flashed by his position. Then Legg cut loose as they dived down out of range. The 109s were so rugged they could absorb a lot of punishment and keep right on coming in. Well, one of us did hit the lead ship with an improbable shot.

  “Navigator! This is the pilot. That was damned stupid! That fighter wasn’t botherin’ us an’ you and John made him mad. Those four 109s could’ve knocked us down. Don’t either of you ever pull a stunt like that again.”

  Gleichauf was really hot and he had a right to be. We should not have instigated that attack. Fortunately, he did take effective evasive action while the four of them were coming in on us. That was probably why we did not take any damage.

  As soon as the fighters dived past us I whirled around to see how Herb was doing. Two fighters were zooming by his aircraft and severe damage was clearly evident.

  “Turret to crew, Herb’s badly damaged. His ship is riddled from the waist back an’ looks to me like the Copilot and Top Turret are wounded.”

  “Waist to crew, Herb is all right as far as I can see.”

  It was typical of Jerry tactics to mount two or three simultaneous attacks to divide the defensive fire. In this case it worked well because we were tied up with our own problems. When Herb needed some help we could not give it to him.

  “Navigator to Pilot.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The I.P. is just ahead of us.”

  “Bombardier to crew, flak twelve o’clock high.”

  The fire was light and inaccurate, which was great with me. I hated that damn flak. The bombs released on time and the formation made a right swing out over the Bay of Biscay. Two aircraft had release problems but they got rid of their bombs as we passed over a harbor nearby. I watched the bo
ats making frantic movements in an attempt to avoid the bombs they could see falling directly on the harbor.

  “Bombardier to Pilot. I think Herb is goin’ to be able to hang on. His Copilot is sitting up in his seat now.”

  The flight back to England was long and tiresome. When we landed Major Hendricks, the Squadron Commanding Officer, sent for Shutting and me. The Major was usually a mild-mannered man but when we reported he was steaming.

  “I’ve seen some asinine things in my day, but you two men drawing four fighters in on our squadron for no sensible reason takes the prize for stupidity. Don’t you have sense enough to leave fighters alone who are not bothering us? If I ever hear of any such irresponsible action from either one of you again there will be severe disciplinary measures!”

  When we were out of range of the Major’s hearing Shutting whispered, “I never knew Hendricks had such a temper. Good thing we both kept our big mouths shut.”

  “Damn right! If we were not so short on combat personnel he would have thrown the book at us.”

  Well, it did sound like a good idea at the time. The action was getting a bit dull and we thought dusting off that fighter would liven things up. And that is exactly what happened, but not the way we anticipated. I still wonder, when I think of that day, which of us hit that fighter. It was one hell of a shot.

  A gunner who wore size thirty-eight did not make it back from the mission and my blouse problem was solved. It was an excellent fit and I had a full uniform again. I hoped the unfortunate man got out of the ship in time.11

  September 18

  When the combat action slowed down, the 381st resumed their endless classes, not only because the information might be useful, but also to fill the vacuum between raids. The aircraft recognition classes were a matter of repetition. Pictures showing the silhouettes from different angles of vision of all the enemy aircraft we were expected to see would be flashed on and off of the screen. In time we came to recognize an aircraft at a distance the same way we recognized a Ford or Chevrolet without conscious thought.

  The prisoner-of-war classes made a lasting impression on my mind. I can recall the lecturer saying something like the following: “Never resist an armed soldier because he is looking for an excuse to kill you after what you are doing to the cities of his country. German civilians are worse than the soldiers. They have been known to shoot men parachuting down. German soldiers will follow the prisoner-of-war rules of the Geneva Convention. So if you have a choice, surrender to soldiers rather than to civilians. If you are captured, your orders are to tell the captors your name, rank, and serial number and nothing else. Give the enemy no other information no matter how trivial it may sound to you. Your second order is to attempt to escape if you can. Don’t do anything foolish. Remember that as a prisoner of war you are costing the enemy food, housing, materials, and manpower. Dead, you cost the Germans nothing. You will be questioned to extract whatever information they can get out of you. The Germans are skillful at interrogation. You might be ushered into a comfortable office where a smiling officer offers you a cigarette and a chair. He might have a glass of beer brought in. There could be small talk about the U.S. Perhaps the officer has visited our country. This could go on until he thinks you are disarmed. Then the questions will get closer and closer to what he is probing for. If you are not careful, you will spill information the enemy can use to put together a better picture of what we are doing and how we are doing it …”

  Sometimes the lecturer was an escapee from a prison camp and we listened with intense interest. “Your third order is to obey the orders of the enemy as long as they do not aid the enemy war effort. You will refuse to work in a war plant or to do anything that will work against your country. You have little to fear from the German soldiers in the way of physical abuse. No matter what you have heard, we have no confirmed cases of torture of American or English soldiers. Herr Hitler still feels he is going to win this war, and hopes to create a working relationship with the U.S. and England after the war.

  “Your fourth order is that you will be under the command of the senior Allied officer in your prison camp. The enemy will issue most of their directions through him. Never wear or carry anything in clothes or equipment that is not definitely a military issue. If the enemy finds anything on your person other than military or aircraft paraphernalia, you might be considered a spy or a saboteur. If they suspected you were an agent, you would be turned over to the Gestapo, and rest assured that the Geneva rules would not apply. They would put you through torture to extract useful information …”

  September 21

  When a four-day pass was available we always made a strenuous effort to get into London early enough to find a hotel room. My favorite place was “Prince’s Garden,” the site of the Eagle Squadron Club of Americans who served with the R.A.F. before the U.S. was drawn into the struggle. It was located far enough away from the beaten path of soldiers on leave that rooms were usually available up to mid-afternoon.

  One night in London I bumped into Johnny Graves in a bar near Trafalgar Square. He joined me at Sheppard Field that day when a few of us were conned into volunteering for aerial gunnery. We were together at the Boeing Aircraft Engineering School, at the Las Vegas Gunnery School, and the various training bases where combat crews were put together and developed. I was struck immediately by the change that had taken place in Johnny since I had last seen him. The look in his eyes and the lines tightly drawn across a face too young for such lines told me he had been through some harrowing experiences. This is what he told me: “We were badly damaged and had no chance to make it across the North Sea. The radio operator got in touch with Air-Sea Rescue, and as we headed down to ditch, there was enough power left to control the ship. We hit hard and bounced some before settling. Two of us were out real fast and got the rafts launched, and managed to cut loose before the ship sank. Right quick I saw we were in trouble ’cause the raft I was in began to deflate. There was a leak, either a defect in the raft or some battle damage. I got the hand pump going and me and one of the waist gunners kept that raft inflated. It was almost dark when we hit the water and we knew our chances of being rescued before the next morning were almost nil. The other raft drifted away in the dark and was never found. In a very short time we were soaking wet from the wind blowin’ spray on us and so cold — so cold. I was worried the hand pump would wear out before morning, but the two of us stayed with it all night. When dawn came the other three men were dead of cold and wet exposure. The exercise of pumpin’ was just enough to keep two of us alive all that awful night …” Graves paused, unable to go on and tears welled up in his eyes. In a few minutes he recovered. “You’ll never know what it was like. Looking at them cold and lifeless was terrible. They were almost like brothers. That morning a patrol boat spotted us and the ordeal was finally over. I’m OK now, John, on another crew, but it won’t ever be the same for me again. I’ll keep remembering how they looked …”

  There may have been other overnight survivors in the North Sea, but Johnny Graves and his crewmate were the only two I heard about. That leak in the raft turned out to be the difference between life and death.

  There were not nearly as many air raids against London in late 1943, but one had to be prepared for an air raid any night. If an air raid warning sounded, I followed the crowds to the nearest shelter and waited it out. But one night I was opposite Hyde Park when the sirens began to shriek. That eerie, baleful sound always made shivers ripple through me. There was an antiaircraft battery in the Park, so on impulse I decided to forget the shelter and watch the show, reasoning that I might not get another opportunity to watch antiaircraft fire close by at ground level. I gazed with intense fascination as the huge searchlights stabbed the sky with brilliant beams of light. It was awesome to see those batteries fire and the orange-red bursts high in the sky. A bomber got caught momentarily in the converging beams of two searchlights and gleamed bright in the sky like a lighted billboard. I tried to visualize the bl
inding terror of the men in the bomber, knowing as they did that they were a perfectly outlined target for the R.A.F. night fighters.

  Suddenly pieces began dropping around me and I realized that jagged chunks of cast-iron shell fragments could strike me any second. Quickly I ran into the shelter of a large overhanging doorway until the sirens sounded all clear.

  “Good show?” came a voice out of the darkness.

  “Yes, indeed,” I replied, “quite fascinating to watch the batteries fire.”

  “It might be so to me if I hadn’t seen it so many times, you know.”

  “Do you often stand here rather than go to the shelters?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, tonight I was going to visit friends. When the sirens opened up I was not near a shelter I knew about and I saw this big doorway” was the answer.

  We stood talking for a while, then he asked, “Were you headed somewhere special when the raid started?”

  “Just back to Piccadilly to see if I can find any of my friends.”

  “Would you like to go with me to visit my friends for a little while? And see how some of us Englishmen live in wartime London?”

  “That would be interesting. I can go to the club later.”

  The friends were a couple with two children living in a nearby flat. They talked at length about the difficulties and trauma encountered in rearing a family surrounded by the terror of war. Both of the men were ex-soldiers who had sustained wounds and were now working in war plants. I felt a warm glow of comradeship with those people who were so hospitable to a man they had never seen before. On my next trip London I used all my rations at the P.X. and carried numerous scarce items to this fine family. The children were delirious with excitement over the candy and the mother was delighted with several bars of soap and some sugar I conned the Mess Sergeant out of.