Combat Crew

by John Comer

  Each instructor had different ideas about how to land safely. I liked the following because it was the same system I was taught at Brooks Field many years earlier: “At about a hundred feet from the ground reach out and grab as many parachute shroud lines as you can grasp in each hand. Just before you hit the ground, bend your knees slightly to avoid breaking a leg, and pull down hard on both groups of shroud lines in order to help break the impact of your fall. Immediately after hitting the ground, turn loose of the shroud lines with one hand and use both hands on the other lines. Pull hard enough to spill the air out of the chute and prevent the wind from dragging you. If you are not apprehended, stuff the chute under some bushes then take off fast for the nearest place to hide. Swallow one of these benzedrine tablets from your escape kit to prevent shock. Stay hidden until dark, then move out to put some distance between you and any patrol that may be looking for you.”

  If an escaped airman was picked up by the Underground Resistance people, as often happened, he would need an identification picture for forged papers. All civilians in Europe were required to carry identification papers with a picture attached. The Underground could easily forge a set of false papers, but no photographic paper or film was available to civilians in occupied Europe. So each crewman carried an escape picture of himself made under harsh light to make him look haggard. Since the combat groups were strictly military units they had a limited number of civilian jackets for those pictures. On the following page are seven pictures, all showing exactly the same jacket. The Germans learned to identify captured fliers by the jacket in their escape picture.

  I remember a lecture from an airman who had bailed out and made his way to Spain and eventually back to England, “Most Frenchmen will recognize who you are, but Germans in France may not. Never force a conversation with a Frenchman because you do not know if it is safe for him to speak to you or recognize you for what you are. A French family caught aiding an escaped American or English airman is executed. If you reach the point where you desperately need help, try to find a remote village. Watch it from a distance for signs of Germans or officials. If there are none, then just before dark saunter slowly through the town without speaking or nodding to anyone. Let the people see you. Keep right on walking down the road so they will know where you will be after dark. If it is safe, they will notify the Underground. Leave it entirely up to them.”

  Chapter XII

  Mission to Bremen

  October 8

  The nightly raids against England continued but were a civilian threat, not a military one. The Germans did not have the accuracy to pinpoint military sites at night. Hitler had given up the idea of attempting to invade England, and knew that his forces could not destroy her with the weapons presently available. The German air raids were as much in retaliation for the nightly R.A.F. destruction raining down on Germany as they were to wipe out war production.

  If we thought Hitler was about to give up on the idea of subduing England, we were very much wrong. He could not accomplish it by means of conventional weapons, but his excellent scientists were working hard to develop new means of terror for the stubborn British. The Allied Commanders had no means to know how close to success they were, but alarming rumors were filtering into Allied intelligence centers. Some came from agents on the Continent. Other information of a highly disturbing nature was picked up from the secret Turing Machine (code-named Ultra), a marvelous machine. It was developed by a brilliant Englishman named Alan Turing, and could decode the supposedly unbreakable German cipher as easily as the Germans could do so with their code books. The German high command never suspected that their cipher had been broken and the Allies read their secret messages throughout the war. Mr. Churchill thought that “Ultra” was one of the most decisive advantages that the Allies possessed. Thus the Allies knew the threat of new super weapons was not just an idle boast of the German propaganda machinery. In English-language broadcasts we heard direct allusions to terrible instruments of death and destruction that would turn the tide of victory to Germany. We knew the Germans were capable of creating new machines of death if they had enough time. Even though we dismissed the threats as so much propaganda, we did not take the enemy lightly. I would not have been surprised at any time that some new weapon was thrown at us. We assumed that the Allies were working on super weapons, too, but there was the haunting fear that the German scientists were ahead of us because they could have started as far back as 1935 or 1936 and might be nearing success.

  October 8 — Bremen

  Aircraft 755

  “OK! Wake up. Let’s go! Listen to the roster: Comer, Counce, Balmore, Legg, and Harness flyin’ 755 with Gleichauf …”

  “Wait! You mean 765,” I said.

  “No! 755 like I said.”

  “But 765 is our ship,” I replied.

  “Not today. Some other crew is flyin’ it. Good luck.”

  Reese was gone before I could say anything else.

  Jim exploded. “Damn those clerks at Operations! Giving our ship to some other crew an’ makin’ us fly one we’ve never seen before.”

  “It’s an error in typing but too late to do anything about it. George, how about you standing by the Briefing Room door while Jim and I get to the aircraft early? I don’t remember aircraft 755.”

  The aircraft was in excellent condition. An hour later I said to Jim, “Things are going too well this mornin’ — not normal. We must be overlooking something.”

  George came out on the next truck. “Didn’t sound too bad. I’d say medium tough.”

  “You think we need more ammunition?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  A Jeep pulled up and the Flight Surgeon stepped out. “Rub some of this salve on your face where the mask does not cover it. I hope it’ll cut down on frostbite.” Captain Ralston was a good one. He never succeeded in finding an ointment to prevent frostbite but he kept trying.

  The crew chief drew me aside. “How long you fellows been here?”

  “Since July.”

  The chief looked relieved. “Who is your pilot?”

  “Gleichauf.”

  “Oh, good man.”

  Paul was well known to the veteran crew chiefs. They took pride in the condition of the aircraft assigned to them. When necessary the ground crews put in long hours. They became upset when an inexperienced crew abused an airplane. The chiefs, of course, expected battle damage, but they were incensed when planes returned with unnecessary wear on brakes and engines caused by pilots who did not have enough experience or did not care. Gleichauf had a reputation for respecting an aircraft and the men who kept them in good condition.

  When the pilot arrived, I started sounding off about some other crew assigned to our airplane but Gleichauf cut it short. “Some clerk made an error. Forget the bitching and let’s get ready to start engines.” He waited for the rest of the men to gather around him. “We’re goin’ to Bremen today. The fighter opposition is not expected to be too rough. There are two hundred and fifty flak guns — very accurate. There are two hundred fighters in the area, so it could turn out rougher than expected. P-47s will go with us nearly to the I.P. The target is submarine installations.”

  As we approached the enemy coast I went into my regular ritual. “Oh, God, be with me today and keep me from danger …” Instantly my brain received a message as clear as if it had come routinely over the intercom system, except it was not audible. “German pilots rising up to meet you are asking the same thing. How can you be so misguided, understand so little?” Where did the message come from? I put small credence in prayer in the sense of physical phenomena. It had always been for me more of a ritual or historical practice of Christianity than a direct communication with a higher power. I had never really expected a positive response. My mind reeled from the impact of a new dimension with which it was unprepared to cope.

  “Navigator to crew, fighters nine o’clock. It’s the escort right on time.”

  “Waist to Turret.”

/>   “Waist to Turret — come in.”

  I recovered when I realized that someone was calling my position. “This is the Turret — go ahead.”

  “Number-four engine is vibrating too much — could be detonation.”

  “Turret to Copilot, what’s the temperature of number four?”

  “Two-fifteen.”

  “That oughta be OK if the gauge is accurate. You can try two things: switch to automatic rich or open the flaps and drop it down to about two hundred.”

  I saw the cowl flaps open slightly and in a few minutes Jim called again, “Number four looks OK now.” I made a mental note to tell the crew chief to check the cylinder head temperature gauge for number-four engine.

  We crossed over the edge of the Low Countries and entered the air above Germany. The P-47s dipped their wings and turned back toward England. What went through the minds of the men who flew the P-47s when they had to break off and leave us alone to face the fury of Goering’s vicious fighters?

  “Tail to crew! Fighters at six o’clock. More fighters low and coming up.”

  “Copilot to Tail, let us know what they’re up to back there.”

  “Tail to crew — four fighters closing fast at six o’clock high.”

  “Radio to crew, I think they’re gonna come on in.”

  “Turret to Copilot, watch forward an’ call me if anything shows up — I’m goin’ to help the Tail.”

  “OK, Turret.”

  When I spun around I could hardly believe what I saw. Four fighters were flying so close together they looked like one enormous four-engine aircraft. Surely they did not intend to attack us that way! The greenest German pilot should have known better, but they kept coming. At six hundred yards I saw the first flash of cannon fire which was the signal for the formation gunners to let go with a furious assault. Every fifth round was what we called a tracer. It was a projectile with a magnesium insert in the rear, which would ignite and glow brightly as it flew through the air. Immediately the sky was ablaze with tracers. Almost all top turrets, some balls and all tails poured a heavy barrage at those four unfortunate fighters. The enormous mass of fifty-caliber slugs was so devastating that there were four puffs of black smoke and a sky filled with debris that erased four poorly-trained German pilots. They made two horrendous mistakes: one, flying so close together that they gave us a single target; and two, choosing the worst possible angle of attack where they would have to face the maximum firepower a B-17 formation could bring to bear.

  “Tail to Turret, they were crazy. They didn’t have a chance.”

  “A good way to commit suicide.”

  A curious thought ran through my mind. “Perhaps in their twisted Teutonic thinking they were reaching for Valhalla — if so, I hope they found it.”

  “Navigator to crew, fighters — nine o’clock level — eleven o’clock level.”

  They came at us from four directions. A Jerry defense commander must have stirred them up and they were breathing fire — mean and rough. It might have been what they saw us do to those four green pilots. For the next fifteen minutes it was a savage fight as intense as I can remember.

  We were in the low location, called “purple heart corner.” On the first heavy fire the turret clutch kicked out of position, stopping the action. I jumped out, removed the cumbersome glove from one hand, reached high up into the maze of cables and reset the clutch. The turret was quickly back in operation. The next burst of prolonged firing kicked the clutch out again.

  “Turret to Copilot, the damn clutch keeps jumping out! Must be a weak spring. I’ve got to try to wire it in position.”

  “Hurry it up. If the turret is out of action too long, the fighters will notice it.”

  As fast as possible, I re-engaged the clutch and wrapped copper wire around it to hold it in position — I hoped. As I climbed back into the turret, a fighter zoomed by spraying us with machine-gun fire. A slug knocked out my intercom phones. I did manage to repair the mic, but the earphone system was dead.

  As we approached the target the enormous field of flak ahead was unbelievable. And frightening! My thoughts were “Good God! Can anything fly through that?” I knew how accurate the flak was over Bremen. The German gunners had excellent radar control. Intense antiaircraft fire was far less dangerous than fighter attacks, but more scary: there was no way to fight back at bursting shells.

  Wham! The heavy crashing noise came from below me. I dropped down to survey the damage. My first fear was that one or both pilots might be seriously injured, but as far as I could see with a quick look, both were OK.

  “Turret to Copilot, over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Are either of you hurt? My earphones are dead, so give me some sign.”

  I leaned down enough to see them and he shook his head, which told me there was nothing too serious. Several fighters were circling high and to my left and I was watching them closely. I turned to the right for a quick look and was petrified! A huge rectangular mass the size of a large car was flying alongside, not far from me, glistening in the bright sunlight like a thousand diamonds. “What is that monstrous thing?” I said to myself. “Some fantastic new weapon the Germans are throwing at us? If that mass explodes it could blow us out of the sky.” I hid on the opposite side of the computing sight to take the small amount of cover available, and peeked around it at the terrifying apparition. It began to lose speed and broke up into shimmering reflections that fanned out behind into a luminous cloud of particles. How could that huge mass have gotten twenty-five thousand feet up in the sky? What was it?

  Fighters were streaking in straight ahead too low for me to get any shots. We caught a direct hit on number-three engine and it began to vibrate heavily. I heard a loud smash underneath and suddenly my intercom was working. (Like a radio that you kick and it resumes playing.)

  “Copilot to Ball.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can you see any oil leaking from number-three engine?”

  “It’s throwin’ oil real bad.”

  “Pilot to Copilot — feather number three.”

  The engine slowed down and eventually stopped.

  “Copilot to Ball — is number three still leakin’?”

  “It’s about stopped.”

  I felt the bombs fall out and soon we were clear of that awful flak! I looked back and the sky was a solid mass of boiling black smoke. How in the hell did any of us get through it? There was a loud bang from number-two engine. It must have taken a hard smash from a cannon shell or a big piece of flak. I waited for smoke or heavy vibrations but when, after thirty seconds, it was still running smoothly, I relaxed. Had we lost another engine it would have been extremely hazardous for us alone among all of those snarling fighters. We could not have kept up with the formation on two engines.

  Another attack came and I heard something strike the radio room with a sound of tearing metal.

  “Copilot to Radio — Copilot to Radio — come in.”

  “Copilot to Waist, can you see Radio?”

  “I can see him. Got some equipment damage, and he’s rubbing his ass like he may have been zipped there, but don’t think it is too serious.”

  “Go check out Radio an’ call me back.”

  “He’s OK now, Copilot, he’s motioning that his intercom is knocked out.”

  “Waist to Copilot.”

  “Go ahead, Wilson.”

  “765 has been hit — looks bad — don’t think she can keep up with us.”

  I watched 765 fall back with mounting apprehension. Soon she was out of my range of vision.

  “Ball to crew — 765 is gone! No chutes. Damn!”

  After a few minutes the Ball continued. “Six fighters tore her apart. Looked to me like they had time to jump.”

  Our faithful old aerial warhorse was finished! As she rolled back within my sight far below, I felt stabs of anguish. It was like losing an old friend with whom I had shared both escapades and harrowing experiences.

  A
fighter zoomed up from below and cut loose at us with cannon fire.

  “Tail to Copilot, a twenty-millimeter shell damn near got me. Knocked off one of my boots an’ crashed on through without exploding.”

  Aircraft Tinker Toy moved into the space that 765 had been holding.

  “Tail to crew, look at Tinker Toy. She’s riddled from the ball to the tail.”

  “That’s Tinker Toy — same old thing!” said the bombardier.

  “Copilot to crew, two fighters comin’ in eleven o’clock high. Let ’em have it Turret! Hey, Navigator, blast the bastards.”

  They were going for Tinker Toy and hit her dead center of the cockpit. I saw a small explosion.

  Counce called, “They got the pilot! Copilot is hit, too. The engineer is trying to move the pilot’s body so he can get in his seat.”

  “Turret to Copilot, I think I just saw the engineer put Tinker Toy on autopilot until he can try to get control.”

  Kels motioned for Gleichauf to switch over to intercom.

  “What is it?”

  “Keep your eye on Tinker Toy. Pilot is dead. Engineer put her on autopilot. He’s trying to move the pilot’s body. The copilot is slumped in his seat — can’t tell how bad he’s wounded.”

  “We’ll watch her — don’t want a collision with Tinker Toy.”

  The fighters kept striking her. One wing was badly torn and an engine cowling knocked off. But she flew on. In my imagination I could hear her taunting the fighters: “Yah! Yah! You Kraut pimps! You can’t knock me down. Go ahead! Try it! You square-headed bastards ain’t good enough to get me. Yah! Yah! Yah! Go ahead and try to shoot me down! Yah! Yah!”

  The wounded copilot raised up in his seat momentarily and helped the engineer with a control then collapsed again. How could the two men in the cockpit withstand that awful blast of super-frigid wind blowing squarely in their faces without windshields?