by John Comer
November 11
Stimulated by the success of my electric overshoes, I made a much better pair of electrically heated gloves. The heat was placed where it was needed instead of in the middle of the palm. Having to keep the fingers in constant contact with metallic controls, at temperatures that varied from thirty-five to sixty below zero centigrade, should have required that the electric heat be concentrated on the fingers where the contact was. But the equipment designers apparently had no conception of high-altitude gunnery needs and put the heat in the palm of the hand. Of course, it was much better than nothing, but at the lower temperatures handling metal for extended periods overtaxed the crude design. My new gloves were ideal and for the remainder of my combat missions never needed repairs.
No matter what the conversation was, or the location, the bull sessions always led back to the one thing uppermost in the mind: Where would we go tomorrow? How rough would it be? and the ultimate question: Would we make it? I never deliberately let that question come up, but it was there in the subconscious mind day after day. The boredom for stretches of days at a time, the endless waiting for action we knew was coming, and too much time to think all combined to draw the nerves ever tighter.
November 13
Allied weather forecasters had a complex task in trying to decide what could be expected a day or two in advance with enough accuracy to guide Bomber Command in their planning. European weather is changeable and clear periods such as we are accustomed to are infrequent. For stretches of days at a time, clouds hover over the area of the European Continent. Sometimes a mission would take off with questionable visibility, and an hour later the operation would be scrubbed. One day during that period we were scheduled for a raid over Germany and so much murk settled in that there was no chance of the mission. The fog increased and created hazardous flying conditions. Three wings of airplanes were blindly groping their way down, hoping for a break in the clouds. We were lucky and found a hole in the swirling mists with a welcome airdrome in view. When we pulled up to an empty space, Counce said, “Look! Yonder is Tootsie Snoots,” our one-time airplane. Her name now was Dottie J but to us she was still Tootsie. At that time she had twenty-five missions to her credit without a turn back for mechanical problems. In the 381st, few aircraft made that many missions. I examined the ship from close range for a long time with Jim and let my thoughts drift back to Herb Carqueville, and the high hopes of that day when we landed Tootsie on English soil. So much had happened that it seemed a long time. It was almost certain by now that Herb was gone. If he had bailed out and survived we would have heard about it. Every time I had to face that harsh reality I felt a dull stab of pain.
November 14
The call came at two A.M. Jim was ahead of me and when I got to Operations he said, “There’s somethin’ different in the air this morning. The Brass looked tense when they went into the Briefing Room.”
“Any idea what may be comin’ up?”
“No. But you can bet it’s gonna be a rough one! Go on to the ship an’ I’ll wait until they pull the curtain.”
When Jim arrived on the next transport truck, I was waiting anxiously. “What did it sound like?”
“The worst groan you ever heard — then dead silence — not another sound.”
“Where do you think we’re goin’? Schweinfurt again?”
“Could be Schweinfurt — or some other place just as bad.”
When Gleichauf arrived I could see that he was keyed up. “Today it will be Berlin!”
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
He shook his head.
Counce said, “We’re not really goin’ to Berlin?”
“We sure as hell are. There may be two thousand fighters close enough to hit us. This will be the first daylight raid ever on Berlin. S-2 says to ‘expect the Luftwaffe.’ It will be rougher than anything we’ve seen so far.”
I had difficulty believing that Bomber Command would attempt what seemed to me a foolhardy venture. There were so many fighters in the Berlin area that the forces we could put up would be overwhelmed as I saw it. Perhaps in a few months, with two or three times as many B-17s and a swarm of long-range escort fighters, hitting Berlin in daylight would become feasible. But we did not have that kind of strength then and I think most 381st men knew it. George Reese assigned himself as our copilot. Either he knew something the rest of us did not know, or he had more courage than brains.
Two new gunners were flying our tail and ball positions. I did not resent them personally, but why did Operations have to stick us with two inexperienced men on a raid like this? Both of them were already so numb with fright that I doubted either would be worth much to us. I got Shutting, Counce, and Balmore together for a minute and said, “Those rookie gunners are scared so bad that the color has drained out of their faces. We got to do something to relax them.” Turning to Shutting: “Couldn’t you put on a comedy act with your testicle armor? Get them to help you assemble it. We got to get them over the shakes. The best way is some horseplay.”
Carl was at his best. “They’re gonna be after me today! They think they goin’ to shoot off my balls. No way! I got ’em fooled. They don’t know about this armor doodad. I get it tied like this then stand on my armor plate.”
“But what if the flak bursts on your left side instead of below you?” I asked.
“I got that figured out. If they burst on the left I get on the right side of the Bombardier. If it’s on the right I get on his left side — use him for armor plate — we got a surplus of Bombardiers.”
George had some chalk and inscribed each bomb “Herman,” “Adolf,” or “Goebbels” and obscene remarks about what we would like to do to each one of them personally. I watched the tension fade and the color return to the two young gunners. When they could laugh at the wisecracks and foolishness I felt much better about them.
Thirty minutes went by while crews waited for the signal to start the engines. Suddenly I heard cheering echo across the field. The mission to Berlin was canceled. Did Bomber Command really intend to strike Berlin that day? I still have doubts. Was it a morale thing to break the monotony of idleness caused by bad weather and a slowdown awaiting a build up of long-range fighters? I thought so.
November 17
Two times recently we had been on missions flying number 730 that had to be called off for weather reasons. On both flights number-three engine developed heavy smoke, becoming increasingly denser as the aircraft climbed to higher altitude. At sixteen thousand feet the ball operator could see a suggestion of raw flame from the exhaust. To me this was a clear case of a malfunction in the air fuel mixture system, probably in the bellows valve of the carburetor, which adjusted the amount of fuel as the altitude increased and the outside air pressure being sucked into the carburetor became lower. I rarely had differences with the efficient ground crews at Ridgewell, but locked horns on that malfunction. The crew chief insisted that nothing was wrong because the engine ran fine at ground level. I don’t think he understood the function of the bellows valve and unfortunately his line chief backed him up. I was dead certain they were both wrong!
That morning Major Shackley, the Squadron Commanding Officer, was leading the Group and riding with us in the copilot’s seat. I knew the aircraft would not make it to the bombing altitude and managed to catch the major outside operations.
“Major, 730 won’t make the mission! It has a bad bellows valve but the crew chief says I’m wrong an’ won’t change it. I thought you would want to know it.”
“I’m leading and can’t run the risk of an abortion. We’ll switch planes. Stand by for a change.”
The mission was canceled over the North Sea but not before 730 got into serious trouble. At seventeen thousand feet number-three engine blew off the cylinder heads and scattered broken parts over the sky. Her crew was lucky to escape more damage or a fire. The ground crew blew it that time but it was one of the few instances of a mistake so serious that should have been avoided. I don’
t recall what crew was flying number 730 but I was glad it wasn’t us.
Chapter XVII
Mission to Norway and Mission to Bremen
November 16 — Norway
Aircraft 878
Johnny Purus Only
Johnny Purus was drafted to fly with a new crew on their first mission. What did he do to deserve such an unenviable assignment? He must have become crossways with Franek because bombardiers were not in short supply. I am sure Franek would not have done that to most of the experienced bombardiers. It was one of those days when nothing went right. The first error was the faulty weather forecast. The second error was the information on the target, which was a plant in Norway located over a mine. The briefed altitude was thirteen thousand feet, but halfway across the North Sea they hit a weather front that was unexpected, and had to circle and circle up to nineteen thousand to get over it. When they reached the target area neither the lead navigator or bombardier could find anything resembling the plant supposed to be there. The intelligence relied on by Bomber Command might have been planted by the Germans. Both sides tried to lure the other into costly misadventures to waste manpower and materials. In frustration the Group made a wide three-sixty swing back over where the target was supposed to have been. Again nothing!
But the boneheads for the day were not finished! The pilot was too inexperienced to realize the need to stay in formation so he was trailing along behind. Ten minutes from the Norwegian coast the pilot made what turned out to be the fourth error of the day. He left the cockpit and headed for the radio room to confer with the radio operator. Pilots do not leave the cockpit in enemy territory without a compelling reason! On the catwalk near the door to the radio room he was shocked by the rattle of fifty-caliber guns in action and a twenty-millimeter cannon shell tore through the bomb bay, somehow missing the bombs, and took off part of his flight jacket sleeve. Eight enemy fighters had jumped the formation and hit the stragglers first as they always did. Another slug crashed into the top turret. The copilot belatedly decided to get into the formation and did a good job of flying to pull quickly into the protection of the defensive fire coverage. That was how new crews got shot down! They listened to the stories about fighters and did not buy them. “All of that junk about tight formation was for the birds!” Purus was lucky to survive.
November 26 — Bremen
The raid was called on a raw, windy morning. Outside the sky was a mass of shifting clouds and blowing fog. After a quick look I went back into the hut and said, “We got weather problems today for sure. It’ll surprise me if we get off the ground.”
Balmore was still grounded for frostbite injuries, but he sat up and remarked, “Hope you fellows don’t get another one of those blind climb-ups through fog.”
“If we go at all it looks like that is exactly what we will draw,” I answered.
Balmore continued, “I’d rather have fighter attacks than sweat out those climb-ups in fog.”
Gleichauf gave us the story for the day: “The target is going to be Bremen. You know what the flak will be like! The weather over the Continent will be ice-forming so some of the fighters may not be able to get to us. The altitude will be twenty-six thousand feet and the temperature will be about fifty below.” Shutting added, “There is a strong wind blowing at a hundred and forty miles per hour at our altitude. It is one of those winds that can shift directions and cause problems.”
Gleichauf had one more comment: “The Copilot and Engineer must keep an eye on the engines for carburetor icing.”
It was a bleak outlook. The biggest mistake of the day, and there were many, was the weather forecast. I knew there would be mixups in such turbulent skies. The takeoff proceeded on schedule thirty minutes before dawn. I was invariably fascinated by the sights and sounds of a group takeoff in the dark. There was an element of the theatrical with airplanes groping toward the lineup at the end of the runway. Pilots detested the severe risks of collisions or mishaps because B-17 formations were not really suitable for night flights.
Paul followed the flight course as briefed: A specified rate of climb and speed for so many minutes, then a forty-five-degree turn, repeating the process until out of the murk. Theoretically the planes should come out in the clear close together so that the squadron could form quickly. If the fog was a thousand to fifteen hundred feet, the tactic would work fairly well. But if the overcast was up to eight or ten thousand feet it would create chaos.
“Pilot to Navigator.”
“Go ahead, Paul.”
“Can you see anything ahead?”
“Nothing! Blind as a bat.”
“John, get in the turret an’ watch out ahead. Lots of planes in this soup.”
A little later: “Pilot to Navigator — what is our rendezvous altitude over splasher four?” (A radio beam projecting upward to aid navigation.)
“Five thousand feet.”
At that height there was a clear space between banks of heavy clouds and the 381st was supposed to assemble over this radio beacon. Some aircraft were already there.
“Bombardier to Pilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“There’s our signal light color high at seven o’clock.”
“Good. I see it.”
When we pulled close to the aircraft flashing the signal light that was intended to identify the 381st Group, it turned out to be another group, and a mixup on the signal light colors. It was just one of a number of mistakes the pilots would have to endure for the next two hours. Another aircraft with the familiar 381st Triangle “L” was also lured by the false signal. The pilot saw we were from the 381st and moved in on our right wing and stayed there.
“Hey, Paul, we got company,” said the Copilot. “It’s from our Group, but I don’t recognize the ship.”
“I wish to hell he’d get off of our wing! We got more fog comin’ up.”
But the aircraft hung in on our wing tight, much to our consternation. It was bad enough being in the soup with so many other ships flying blind. Later we found out the reason: that wing aircraft was without a navigator, and the confusion and awful weather was driving the pilot to desperate measures. It seems odd that Operations would have permitted a ship to take off under such conditions without a navigator.
“Pilot to crew — we’re goin’ on up to nine thousand feet — hope we can catch the 381st there — everyone watch out for other airplanes — Navigator! Navigator!”
“Go ahead.”
“Let me know when we are approaching the rendezvous point.”
Sometime later: “This is the Navigator. We’re getting close to where they told us to go — can’t see anything in this soup.”
“This is one big mess, Navigator. I’ll try to contact the Wing.”
After another five minutes: “Pilot to Navigator — OK, they say go to twelve thousand feet over splasher four.”
At twelve thousand feet it was the same — fog — fog — fog!
“Pilot to Navigator — this is no good either! Can’t see anything. Let’s try thirteen thousand.”
But another thousand feet did not help, and we lost radio contact with the Group leader.
“Radio to Pilot — Radio to Pilot.”
“This is the Pilot.”
“Blasingborn says the 381st will pass over splasher four at fifteen thousand feet at nine hundred hours.”
At the scheduled time we were over the radio beacon at the correct height and it was the same story — just blinding fog!
“Pilot to crew — we’re goin’ on up until we break out of this soup. Ships this high have lost contact — no telling how many lost planes are up here. Watch out for other aircraft.”
The overcast broke at nineteen thousand feet. There were many aircraft milling around in confusion looking for a formation to join. The long climb up to this altitude had undoubtedly used up a lot of fuel.
“Turret to Copilot, do we have enough gas to join a formation without knowing for sure how long the mission will be?”
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br /> “Copilot to Pilot.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve burned up a lot more fuel than we expected. We got enough for a short mission, but not for a long one.”
“I don’t see any formation to join anyway. If we should find one later we would run a risk on gas! Navigator — Navigator.”
“Go ahead, Paul.”
“Give me a heading for Ridgewell.”
Shutting knew that the wind might have shifted in the several hours since the weather briefing, but without visibility he had no means to check for drift. “Start letting down in wide circles, Paul, and I’ll keep calling out the headings.”
A long time later the aircraft broke under the clouds. We were over land near the North Sea.
“Navigator to Pilot, we were lucky. We could’ve come down far out over the sea the way these high wind currents can shift direction.”
On this same goofed-up mission attempt George Reese was assigned to Lieutenant Deering’s crew as copilot on their first mission. Operations thought that with Reese in the cockpit Deering could stay out of trouble. The rookie navigator must not have paid much attention to the briefing because he evidently did not catch the hundred and forty mile per hour wind. It was odd that he could miss such navigational data, probably due to the fear and trauma of a first combat mission. When it was decided that it was impossible to proceed with the mission, the Navigator had to rely on dead reckoning to get back to the base. The strange story came from George Reese:
We were at twenty-one thousand feet when I told the pilot that the mission was scrubbed. I didn’t pay too much attention for the next hour as the ship eased down through fog; I was worried mainly about a collision in the soup. I remembered that a high wind was blowing but I could not recall the exact direction from the briefing. Once or twice I called the Navigator to ask if he was allowing for the drift from that high wind, but could not get anything out of him. I was a little uneasy that he might be confused, but at that time there did not seem to be any good reason to ask the radio operator to get us a Q.D.M. I expected that we would need one when we broke clear of the fog. There were no holes in the ceiling and we came down blind. At six thousand feet the Ball called, ‘Ball to crew — land below us.’
