by John Comer
September 22
When an air crew had been in heavy combat action, and appeared to be shaken up, they became eligible for one of the rest homes maintained in England. It was not a matter of the number of raids, but the mental condition of the crew. The Flight Surgeon kept a watchful eye on the men before and after missions. He alone decided when a crew needed a week or two of respite from the war.
Carl Shutting organized a campaign of odd behavior by the crew for the benefit of the Flight Surgeon, Captain Ralston. He had it worked out well, carefully orchestrating the act to catch Ralston’s attention, but I had no confidence it would work. The elated Navigator came to our hut in fine spirits that afternoon: “We did it! Ralston thinks we are on the edge of bad nerves. We’re leaving for the rest home in the morning for a whole week away from this rat race.”
“Where are we going?” asked Jim.
“Some village on the upper Thames River — that’s all I know. Maybe we can get out of this mud for a week anyway.”
“We got you to thank for this. I didn’t think our little act would work. You know there isn’t a damned thing wrong with any of us.”
“We know that, John — but Ralston don’t — and that is what counts.”
“It sounds great.”
We left for Cholsey in fine spirits. The day was clear and cold, which was exceptional for the time of the year. It was too bad that Wilson was in the hospital for frostbite, and Rogers was not included because it was evident that he was not going back on combat duty. George, Jim, Shutting, Purus, Gleichauf, and I were the lucky ones.
At Cholsey Station a personnel truck met us. It was a short ride to our destination. When we pulled into the long driveway, I was surprised at the layout. It was a magnificent old manor house, beautifully covered with ivy. The house was four stories high and the lovely grounds were spacious and well kept. Green lawns, attractive hedges, and bright flowers were a welcome sight.
The staff met us at the door. “Welcome to Buckeley’s Manor! We hope you will have a pleasant stay here. Each man will be assigned a room to himself. The schedule for meals is posted on the bulletin board, and you can dine any time during the hours listed.”
We went upstairs and were shown our rooms. Imagine having a room all to myself.
“Here are your sheets.”
Sheets? I had forgotten about such things.
The bathrooms were down the hall.
“What time of the day do you have hot water?” I asked hopefully.
“Oh, it’s always hot until ten P.M. Then we turn it on again each morning at seven o’clock.”
Unbelievable! How long had it been since I had a hot bath?
“Let’s go downstairs and fit you men with tweed trousers and pullover sweaters,” said one of the staff members. “You are free to wear these clothes instead of your uniform while at Buckeley’s.”
After dinner that evening all of us were issued passes for the week.
“You are free to do what you wish with your time while here. We have tennis courts, a trap or skeet range, badminton courts, and there are golf courses nearby. Or you may enjoy archery and horseback riding. You will be issued a bicycle so you can ride into the villages or explore the countryside. The beautiful Thames River is close by and we suggest you take a boat trip up the Thames. A boat runs a regular schedule every day. Enjoy yourselves while here. Forget about the war. If you have any other requests, please let us know.”
The Thames River upstream is quite different from the muddy, commercial estuary a traveler sees at London. The Thames I saw was a beautiful river, clean and sparkling. Fine old estates bordered each bank, and their well-kept grounds sloped to the edge of the estuary. Most of the homes had private piers and boats; it was England at her finest. The stream wound between inviting lawns and overhanging trees for mile after mile, becoming more picturesque as the boat moved farther upstream.
At Buckeley’s there were men from many groups in the Air Force, and some recently from North Africa. I noticed that most of the latter were recovering from wounds or nervous shock. Late at night we sat around huge open fireplaces and swapped experiences — experiences that no doubt were expanded in the act of retelling. Each morning our routine included some fast tennis to limber up, then a bicycle ride around the back roads until lunch time. In the afternoon we would shoot skeet for a while, then take off for another ride through unspoiled rural byways. We were lucky to find a pleasant pub at Wallingsford, a village remote from major cities. Uniforms were nonexistent except for us — too rural for soldiers. That pub gave me an insight as to how the villagers lived. I listened to intimate political discussions, and learned for the first time that England had a fast-growing movement toward socialism and some tendency toward mild communism. I learned that, although the English strongly supported Churchill, many of them were opposed to the Tory party. They wanted him for the war, because strong leadership was required, but I listened in amazement to what they wanted in the future. They did not want a Churchill government after the war. They were determined that England was not going back to a government dominated by the aristocracy. (After the war when Americans were shocked that Churchill was turned out of office, I remembered Wallingsford and knew why.)
The time spent at Buckeley’s Manor was one of the most pleasant weeks I have ever experienced, because it was such a contrast to Ridgewell Airdrome. It was a week’s interlude of tranquility in the midst of war.
At the Cholsey Station Shutting said, “We won’t have another week like this one in England — it has been great! I hate like hell to go back to the war.”
“Same here,” Gleichauf replied.
Late that afternoon we reached the village station and rode the rest of the way on our bikes that had been checked in at the station when we departed a week earlier. It was almost dark but we could see the Fortresses returning from a mission.
Back at the hut Jim asked Lancia, “What’s gone on since we left?”
“We made a run on Emden — got in an easy one.”
“And we used a new radar gadget that lets you see through the clouds,” Pitts added.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “there’s no such thing.”
“No bullshit! The navigator sees right through the fog,” Pitts insisted.
“How did the drop come out?”
“Not too good, but this was our first time to use it. Give them a chance to work the bugs out of it. Sounds good to me,” Lancia replied.
“What do they call this new thing?” George asked.
“The Limeys call it Pathfinder.”
That was one of the early American attempts to use the radar device that we later called Mickey.
“There’s a rumor that one of the Squadron Commanders tried to quit flying this week,” said Kettner.
“Who was it?” I asked. “Not our C.O., I hope.”
“The story is this Squadron Commander got fouled up mentally — broke down — said he couldn’t take it any more. We don’t know who it is.”
“They’re tryin’ to keep it hush-hush,” Tedesco added. “I heard they won’t let him quit flyin’ — would be bad for the morale of the men.”
“How would you like to fly a raid with that commander leading it?” Jim asked.
Chapter XI
Mission to Emden
The temperature was warmer, so Balmore joined me for the long bike ride into Ridgewell. The White Horse Tavern was a favorite watering station for soldiers and civilians. Three men from the base came in and took over a table next to us. After a while I could not help overhearing their conversation, perhaps because it dealt with a common subject high among the gripes of combat personnel.
“Why can’t we get better flyin’ equipment?” one man asked. “They keep improvin’ the Goddamn airplanes, but they screw us with lousy equipment.”
“The bastards who designed it don’t never have to wear it in combat — that’s one reason,” said another.
“Wonder why they can’t co
py the R.A.F.? They been improvin’ their stuff for years. Some of it is damn good.”
“Harry Houdini couldn’t get out of one of our chutes if he landed on water! He’d drown like a rat caught in a fish net,” added a third voice.
“But the R.A.F. has a quick release so they can cut loose the chute just as they hit the water.”
“Or in a high wind.”
“OK! Why can’t we copy them?”
“But my big bitch is that lousy oxygen mask. I think the Gestapo must have designed it.”
“I know what you mean. How did they manage to get that extra thing in it that makes your nose start to run as soon as you put it on?”
“I don’t know, but after a couple of hours in that wind back in the waist, the Copilot calls me up an’ says, ‘What’s the matter with you? I can’t unnerstan’ what you are sayin’.’ How the hell can I talk plain with a mouthful of snot?”
“Where did they dredge up those bastards they call engineers who design this stuff?”
“Some 4F draft dodger not worth a shit for anythin’ else. But even those no-goods should’ve come up with better electric gloves. Why in the hell did they put the heat in the palm of the hand? Don’t need it there! It’s the fingers that freeze holdin’ metal at fifty below. But no, the bastards never thought of that.”
“If one of them had to fly a few missions in the waist or radio room, he would come up with some electric overshoes real quick instead of those silly electric shoes we have to wear. If we had to bail out we would be on the Continent without any shoes! How would you like that?”
I turned to Balmore. “Electric overshoes! That’s exactly what I need. You know what, I think I could make a pair of them. The idea of how to do it just hit me. I’m glad we came here tonight. I’m going to start huntin’ up the materials first thing in the morning if we don’t get a call.”
George looked at me but said nothing. I could tell by his look that he thought I was hallucinating. The possibility of making something like that out of scraps with crude tools was not in the realm of his understanding.
October 2 — Emden
Aircraft 765: Nip and Tuck
Two weeks had gone by since we had last been out on a mission and I did not expect one that morning. I was groggy when Reese turned on the lights.
“Wake up! You guys been loafin’ long enough.”
The combat mess hall was getting crowded again with the influx of new men. One real rough raid would take care of that! It was easy to pick out the recent arrivals. I could see the anxiety written on their faces and in their gestures. After a while, if they lasted long enough, they would be able to mask their fears. Only a few men, who were born with less than the normal sensations of fear, could quickly become accustomed to the frightening proximity of death, which was a companion one had to accept on every mission. As men became more experienced in combat action, their confidence increased along with each successful raid, but twenty-five missions was insufficient to form a protective mental armor against constant danger. If they sustained enough combat time it would eventually become a way of life, overcoming most of the fear and anxiety. For me this happened in the 15th Air Force when I had about sixty missions. A man learned to hide his thoughts behind a facade of cocky bravado — an image often displayed at the mess hall before a mission. A veteran looked like it was a breeze, not a care in the world, but inside his stomach was churning. The main difference between beginners and experienced men was that the latter knew they could take it, and the new men did not yet have that mental shelter. I studied the faces with an ambivalent mixture of amusement and compassion.
At Operations the Briefing Room reaction was moderate. Jim said, “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
We threw our heavy bags of equipment into the personnel truck. On the ride out to the aircraft, Legg said, “You don’t think this one will be another Stuttgart?”
“From the sounds I heard we are not goin’ that deep today,” I answered.
Wilson came awake. “John, do you think Tinker Toy is really a jinx ship?”
“I don’t know. What is a jinx anyway?”
Someone from the dark interposed, “You’re damn right she’s a jinx! All that damage, raid after raid.”
“Maybe so, but how can metal, wire, and plexiglass take on a personality? Yet I have to admit there is somethin’ different about that plane,” I replied.
There was plenty of time to get ready. When Gleichauf arrived he gathered the crew into a circle out of the hearing range of the ground men. “Not too bad today. It’s Emden — a short run over the North Sea. We may see a hundred fighters, if the Germans figure out where we’re goin’ fast enough. We’ll have a P-47 escort over the target. The flak will be mild and the temperature about thirty-eight degrees below.”
The weather over England was favorable for takeoff and the Wing formed on schedule. The flight over the North Sea was tiresome; the formation was loose and erratic, reflecting the large number of new crews. We were ripe for a heavy fighter attack. The route was parallel to the enemy coast for a while. I saw the Island of Helgoland to our right.
“Bombardier to crew, oxygen check.”
Each position chattered away with the routine procedure that assured that no one was in trouble out of sight of the others.
“Navigator to Pilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re going to swing right in five minutes, then make a ninety-degree turn to come over the target downwind.”
“Turret to crew — Turret to crew — the escort five o’clock high.”
“Tail to Copilot, those 47s look good up there. I bet we don’t see any Bogies today.”
“This is Ball, flak four o’clock low.” It was scattered and ineffective.
“Tail to crew, I was wrong — fighters at six o’clock low — look like 190s.”
The formation pulled in a little tighter. The Jerries made some quick passes close by, but I saw no B-17s sustain damage. The 47s dived into them and that was the end of the attacks for a while.
“Bombardier to Pilot, we’re on the bomb run.” That meant the aircraft had to be level and steady for the bomb drop. At this point the bombardier in the lead aircraft took charge. The other bombardiers watched his bomb bay and the moment they saw the first bomb fall from the lead ship they released their loads. On the bomb run the lead bombardier was in control of the ship through the Norden Bomb Sight. It connected into the automatic pilot. When the moving indices of the sight lined up properly, the bombs were released. The Norden Sight computed air speed, altitude, wind drift, and all other factors that could influence the accuracy of the bomb strike.
Immediately after the bombs were released on the shipping docks and submarine pens, the Wing made a long, slow left turn and headed for the North Sea.
“Turret to Navigator.”
“Go ahead.”
“How would you like some more easy raids like this one?”
“Suit me fine except it has been a little dull.”
“Not too dull for me,” Gleichauf cut in, “I like ’em dull.”
Bomber Command announced we had lost twenty-eight ships on that easy mission to Emden. To me it was almost a milk run. Why? There was only one answer: too many pilots throttle-jockeying back and forth lousing up the formations so that they were vulnerable to fighter attacks. Who do you think the fighters would choose to hit: the tight, well-disciplined formations or the loose ones signaling green crews? The Wing was a sorry-looking operation on the Emden mission, and if we put that kind of show against a tough target, I shuddered to think what would happen.
October 3
I was eager to put my idea of electric overshoes to work. Fortunately I found everything I needed in the discarded equipment bins. In two or three days I had the design worked out. What it amounted to was cutting up a number of old electrically heated felt shoes into sections large enough to fit around my regular G.I. shoes. With some help from the Parachute Department, where they had experts in
sewing and the equipment, the sections were joined together. The heating wires were placed on the outside of the overshoes for easy access in case repairs should be needed. A pair of extra-large flying boots was split and enlarged enough to fit around the overshoes to protect the heating wires from damage in use.
The overshoe design worked even better in high-altitude extreme cold than I expected. My feet felt exactly as if I were on the ground in mild weather. There was no sensation of either heat or cold. They were durable enough that no repairs were needed for the remainder of my missions. The design made so much sense that it was difficult to understand why the Air Force equipment experts stayed with those too-hastily-designed electric felt shoes that were not what combat crews needed.
October 5
The training classes continued concerning bailout procedures and escapes from enemy-occupied territory. I can still hear the instructor droning: “Now when you see a wing fire, that means gasoline or oil is burning. Sometimes a wing fire will burn itself out but that is rare. When you see the flame streaming back from the wing, get ready to bail out. You will not have much time to ponder the situation. There is no need to panic. Snap on your chute and wait for the bailout order. Grasp the ripcord in one hand, fold your arms against your body, and fall out. Count at least twenty and pull the ripcord. Never pull it too quick because it might blossom up an’ hang on the tail of the airplane.”
Then questions would interrupt the instructor. When the order was restored, the speaker would continue: “Don’t worry about passing out in the thin air. You will revive when you get down to ten or twelve thousand feet. When you get close enough to see the ground clearly, look in all directions for dense woods or some other place to hide until dark. Determine if any army or civilian patrol is on the way to where you will land. If they are, do not resist or attempt to run away. If you do you will be shot on the spot.”
