by John Comer
Suddenly I realized my left hand was so cold it was becoming numb. That was normally a sign that the electric glove had burned out. I looked down at the hand. It was bare except for a thin silk glove. Where was the electric glove? Oh! I had removed it to wire the turret clutch in place. At thirty-five below, I was handling the metal gun controls with a hand covered only with the light silk glove normally worn under the electric outer glove. Impossible! My hand would have frozen solidly in a very few minutes. Yet, I was looking at the numb hand and the electric glove was resting where I took it off much earlier — before we reached the target. There was only one explanation: In the excitement of the action my blood pressure had gone sky high, pushing a large quantity of warm blood to the hands which replaced some of the lost heat.
When the fighter attacks finally faded out my relief was quickly punctured by the antics of number-three engine. It suddenly unfeathered and began to revolve out of control. It required engine oil pressure to hold a propeller in a feathered position with the blades flat to the wind. If the oil pressure failed, the blades would shift to an angle, and the strong wind would rotate them. That was called windmilling, and with no means of control, the propeller revolutions would rev up to fantastic speeds. With no lubrication the engine would get hotter and hotter until it became red hot. The danger was that it might tear off of the aircraft with severe damage. The engine revved up and up beyond the twenty-five hundred R.P.M. red-line limit. I watched with a sinking feeling as it shot up to three thousand. Then, to my immense relief, and for no reason that I could think of at the moment, it began to level off, then started slowing down. Eventually it stopped and resumed a feathered position again.
“Turret to Ball.”
“Go ahead, Turret.”
“Check number three again for an oil leak.”
“No oil leak from number-three engine.”
“Pilot to Turret. What’s wrong with number-three prop?”
“Not sure. Could be a fracture in the oil pressure system in the prop hub that opens and closes. Ball says no oil leak down below so far. If it starts squirting out oil we’ll have a runaway prop.”
“Turret to Waist. Jim, how does this sound to you?”
“Don’t see how it could be anything but a pressure leak.”
Five minutes later the process repeated. All of the way back to Ridgewell that propeller would race up to three thousand revolutions and, having made its point, return to zero. Each time the speed zoomed upward my blood pressure went up with it.
We could have caught fighters again, but fortunately nothing else happened. Tinker Toy had serious landing problems but ended with nothing worse than slipping off the runway into sticky mud. A crowd gathered quickly to see what new horrors she had thrown at her crew. And again the question: Was she really a jinx ship? For the men who flew combat raids in her it was more than a wartime superstition. It was a series of nightmares! That day her nose was blown off, both windshields were wiped out, one wing was battered, and she was heavily damaged from the radio to the tail. The cockpit was splattered with blood, bits of flesh, and hair — a horrible sight to see.
When I climbed out of 755 the crew chief was waiting. “You had better put in a call for some sheet metal men, you will probably need two new engines, the radio is shattered, you will need two windshields, and one wing flap. The tail is also damaged. I think all of the main fuel tanks will have to be replaced because they are bound to be perforated …”
The 381st sent out twenty-one ships and lost seven. The 100th had another bad day and lost eight. The total loss for the raid was thirty-seven Forts. Of the returning aircraft, seventy-five percent were damaged.
As soon as we were on the ground, I asked Gleichauf and Purus about the huge mass of shining particles I saw near the target. It turned out to he a new way to confuse the enemy radar by dumping out bales of thin aluminum foil fragments. The light pieces floating in the air confused the enemy radar by appearing to be aircraft. What I saw was a compressed bale of foil that had not yet begun to break up. Later on it was thrown in bulk from several aircraft regularly and was called “chaff.”
After the mission I hit the sack, weary, exhausted, and in a state of confusion. What did the message I received on the way to Bremen mean and where did it come from? I never expected to get an answer to a prayer, if indeed, that is what had happened. There was absolutely no doubt but that I did get a communication. The question was, “Where did it come from?” A simplistic answer would have been straight from God. I could have accepted that except it seemed too simple — too easy to draw such a conclusion as fact. I tried to think about it in rational channels, although I realized that at some point any religion steps beyond logic or reason into mystical or metaphysical phenomena. The danger faced each mission made me ready to turn to any spiritual assistance that was readily available, but I needed to separate the real from the dross that had accumulated in my mind.
Next page: Examples of escape pictures.
Note that every man used the same jacket.
Chapter XIII
Mission to Anklam
October 9 — Anklam, Germany
Aircraft 719: Hellcat
It was difficult for me to get out of bed that morning. I felt tired and low on energy, which was unusual for me. When I got to Operations, Gleichauf was waiting. “They’ve given us a new airplane, John — one of those G models that arrived two days ago — the number is 719.”
“That’s great! Now we will have twenty-seven hundred gallons of fuel. I wish we could have had one flight before we take her up for a combat mission. I hear there are a lot of changes.”
“Oh, I don’t think the changes will make much difference,” Paul replied, “but get on out there as fast as you can and look it over. Find out what you can about those new electronic supercharger controls they told us about.”
When Jim arrived I called to him. “We’ve got a new airplane — one of those new G models. Get your equipment quick and let’s get out there and see what she looks like.”
An ominous groan from the Briefing Room sent a shiver down my spine. Jim looked up, “Listen to that! We must have a real bitch today!”
“Wherever we’re headed, it’s gonna be mean. That much is for sure,” I answered.
“I hope Chamberlain is on hand with plenty of extra ammunition, ’cause it sounds to me like we’re goin’ to need it.”
In the personnel truck on the way to the ship Jim asked, “What do we know about the changes in the new models?”
“The main ones are the electronic supercharger controls and the new chin turret.”
Next page: Tinker Toy as the aircraft looked after the October 8 mission. On top of the plane is mechanic Dean L. Carrier, who later became a flight-engineer-gunner. The officer in the picture is Capt. Greenwood. Sgt. Carrier is pointing to the whole where the 20mm cannon shell entered the aircraft and killed the pilot.
“Don’t forget about those enclosed waist windows and the radio hatch cover. No more of that storm of cold wind gushing through the waist and radio room. The electronic supercharger controls are near my position. I’ll check them out with the crew chief and see what we can do in an emergency.”
The early E and F models of the B-17 had open waist windows with guns mounted in those openings. The radio room upper hatch was removed and a gun was placed there. In most groups the rear radio room door was also removed, since it served no purpose in combat. The combined open spaces created an enormous suction causing a terrific frigid wind blast to roar through the radio room and the waist. This hazard was responsible for untold casualties of freezing and frostbite. The new G model replaced the open spaces using clear plexiglass windows with the gun mounts built into them.
“OK — we’ll both check out the new turret for Purus. The guns have probably never been fired. I hope that remote-control sight works out well.”
“It will take Purus a while to get used to it — sounds awkward to me — but it ought to help up front wh
ere we need more firepower.”
Chamberlain was there when we arrived and I asked him for four thousand extra rounds in case we needed them. How did he always manage the extra ammo? There wasn’t supposed to be any surplus around the flight line.
I was waiting anxiously for Gleichauf to begin the briefing: “All ships will have twenty-seven hundred gallons of fuel today for the first time on a mission. Three Wings will cross Denmark at thirteen thousand feet and attack different targets. We will fly a little way over the Baltic Sea then turn right into northeastern Germany to hit an airframe factory at Anklam. S-2 thinks the different routes, the unexpected lower altitude, and timing will upset the opposition and divide the fighters. They estimate the opposition will be light. Jerry does not know we can strike a target this deep.”
The crew was delighted at the lower altitude and mild temperature. My enthusiasm waned when I had time to reflect on the long route over Denmark so close to the German border. I found Purus examining his new turret. “You say S-2 doesn’t expect much fighter opposition?”
“That is what they told us.”
“Suppose S-2 is wrong? We’ll be within close range of German fighter bases for six to seven hours. Every fighter they have can easily get to us at thirteen thousand feet.”
“You’re right. We could catch a long, rough fight in and out.”
I turned to Gleichauf. “I don’t buy S-2’s estimate of the fighter opposition. There are too many fighter bases close to our flight path. We could catch half of the fighters in north Germany and we better put on all the ammunition we can carry.”
“I don’t like to carry more weight than we need,” he answered.
He did not give me a flat no, so I put aboard more ammunition, raising the total load to thirteen thousand five hundred rounds. It was almost double the regulation seven thousand rounds.
When our turn came to take off, we roared down the runway and at ninety miles per hour Paul felt out the lift of the wings. Nothing. At a hundred miles per hour, still nothing. At a hundred and ten he tried again with no response! We should have been in the air at a hundred and five. At a hundred and fifteen the ship still would not begin a bounce. Kels glanced at Gleichauf with a questioning look. The end of the runway was rushing toward us. It was too late to abort the takeoff. Big beads of sweat broke out on Paul’s face. At a hundred twenty-three miles per hour, there was a feeble bounce.
Paul screamed at Kels, “Raise landing gear!” That desperation move lowered air resistance just enough to permit the aircraft to stagger drunkenly into the air. I have never been so frightened in my life! We barely skimmed over some trees and rose unsteadily to a little over sixty feet. Then the airplane started sinking, in spite of all Gleichauf could do and what should have been a safe airspeed. For the only time in my life I gave up all hope of survival. I knew that no one survived a crash on a takeoff with an overloaded airplane. We cleared some trees and reached a large open area of fields as the aircraft sank toward the ground. I expected at any second to spin off to the right or left and crash. That is what airplanes normally do when they cannot maintain flying speed on takeoff.
Paul yelled to Kels, “Lower landing gear!”
John quickly flipped the gear switch and the main wheels came down before the plane struck the ground. The ship hit hard and bounced back into the air thirty or thirty-five feet.
“Raise landing gear.”
Up came the wheels and we hung precariously in the air for a few seconds. Slowly the plane began to sink again. We got down to twenty-five feet and steadied. The engines had been wide open all that time and airspeed was up to a hundred and thirty. Now the aircraft began to inch upward. I saw some trees ahead and we were able just to clear them. Ever so slowly the ship rose on up to a safe height.
Lucky! Lucky! Lucky! Nothing but pure, unbelievable, and undeserved luck saved us from a complete wipeout! Ten men got a reprieve from what seemed certain death. Why? The aircraft was mushing on takeoff because of too much tail weight, upsetting its aerodynamics. Too much extra ammunition weight? I did not think so. The ships we had been flying could have handled it. Up to then I had not considered that a G model, with the chin turret disrupting the air flow a little, might not have as good takeoff characteristics as the older ships. That may have had something to do with it, but was not the main reason for the near disaster.
I hurried to the radio room to check the weight distribution of the extra ammunition. I had placed as much as I could against the forward wall of the radio room next to the bomb bay and the center of gravity of the airplane and the rest as far forward as possible, along with some in the cockpit and nose. To my shock the boxes of reserve rounds were far back in the waist and some stacked right against the tail gunner’s position. I was furious. “Are you guys crazy? You damned near killed us. You never move weight to the rear of an airplane!”
Jim knew better so why did he let them do it? Then I saw the Tail Gunner getting out of the tail. “You were in that tail on takeoff? No wonder we were so tail-heavy.” I was so incensed I could have choked Legg on the spot. “Get those boxes of ammo back against the radio room forward bulkhead an’ leave them there until they are needed.”
In the cockpit I explained to Gleichauf what happened. “The crew back there pulled most of the extra ammunition to the waist. And Legg was in the tail with all of his equipment on the takeoff. We were thirteen hundred pounds too heavy at the tail.” That must have been the worst successful takeoff since Orville Wright made the first one.
The length of the mission cut out the usual feinting tactics. We formed up quickly and headed out over the North Sea toward Denmark.
“Bombardier to crew — Bombardier to crew — test fire your guns.”
I listened to the guns chatter.
“Navigator to Copilot. How about this? No oxygen mask — and a decent temperature.”
“I wish they were all like this,” Kels answered.
“Pilot to crew, cut the unnecessary talk. Keep the intercom clear.”
“Navigator to Pilot. Danish coast in ten minutes.”
“Bombardier to crew, we’re close enough that fighters could hit us. Keep alert.”
The coast passed by underneath. We were flying parallel to the German border. Denmark looked green and peaceful below.
“Bombardier to crew, fighters at eleven o’clock level.”
I counted thirty-two M.E. 109s. They made numerous attacks but were cautious and showed inexperience in opposing B-17 formations.
“Waist to crew — more fighters coming up — look like M.E. 210s.”
“Bombardier to Navigator, my guns have jammed. Take a look at the ammunition chute.”
The G model eliminated the navigator side guns and placed two guns in the new nose turret. The Navigator had the responsibility of reloading the small ammunition cans by removing a section of the deck above the ammunition chutes. The long chutes were assisted by electric motors activated by the firing trigger.
The attackers were wary of the formation guns and we kept them at a distance with good protective fire coverage. Some large twin-engined craft came up and flew along with us on both sides of the formation just out of our gun range. Some gunners were firing at them.
“Bombardier to crew. Do not fire at those ships. They’re out of range. I think they’re trying to get us to use up our ammunition.”
Over the Baltic Sea there was little opposition. We passed directly over a German naval base. I could see frantic action below as boats hurriedly attempted to clear the harbor before the bombs they expected started falling.
“Navigator to crew, watch those Krauts tryin’ to get out of the harbor.”
“Ball to Bombardier, lower the bomb-bay doors and scare the hell out of ’em.”
“Pilot to crew! I told you to keep the intercoms clear!”
The formation made a sweeping turn to the right into Northern Germany. Perhaps then the German Defense Command could narrow down the possible targets and alert the fig
hter airfields protecting those installations. The enemy could not be certain until we made the final turn toward the objective.
“Bombardier to Navigator, my guns are jammed again.”
Later Shutting called Purus. “Your ammunition keeps jamming up in those long chutes. Must be somethin’ wrong with the design.”
“Copilot to crew, watch the F.W. 190s one o’clock high. They’re comin’ in but not on us.”
We helped out another squadron with protective fire at long range.
“Bombardier to Pilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ll be on the bomb run in five minutes.”
“Flak nine o’clock low — flak ten o’clock level.”
When the doors came down the fighters stood away from us as they always did. I never figured out why. Were they afraid of our falling bombs? When the load released cleanly, I felt much better because the mission was half over. It would be a long ride back, but the Germans usually hit us harder before the target, so going back should not be too bad. That extra ammunition was not likely going to be needed. Gleichauf would probably give me hell about loading on too much ammunition: all of that extra weight for nothing.
Ten minutes later Purus called the Pilot. “Looks to me like we are goin’ to be hit harder on the way back. By now every fighter in north Germany knows where we are and how long we’ll be in their range.”
Wilson came on the intercom. “Copilot, check ten o’clock level — is that a four-engine Dornier bomber with all of those guns sticking out?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before — are they trying to use that big ship against us like a fighter?”
The formation continued the steady fire and it was effective. At that rate, if fighters kept showing up, we were going to have an ammunition problem before long. I changed my mind about the extra ammunition. We were going to be glad we had it aboard.
“Bombardier to Copilot, look at twelve o’clock! A small open-cockpit training plane comin’ right at us — must be gunnery students.”
