Combat Crew

by John Comer

  ‘Pilot to Copilot, do you recognize the area? See anything familiar?’

  ‘Don’t recognize it — Navigator.’

  ‘This is the Navigator.’

  ‘Watch for some landmark you can recognize from your charts.’

  Deering dropped down to a lower altitude. Sanford, a waist gunner, had quite a few missions, but neither of us could pick out anything familiar. Suddenly a tower appeared to the right. I recognized immediately that it was a German flak tower, but before I could say anything, a furious burst of shells exploded around us.

  ‘Get the hell out of here — we’re over the Continent.’

  But where over the Continent? It could have been East or West France, Holland, Belgium, North Germany, or possibly Denmark. Stanford and the tail gunner did have the pleasure of strafing the German tower — one of the few times I know of that Fortress gunners could shoot back at the enemy manning those flak guns.

  We flew north for ten minutes until we sighted what I thought was the North Sea. Suddenly twelve bursts of very accurate flak caught us almost dead center. I quickly grabbed the wheel and ducked out of that spot fast. I threw the ship up and down and took as much evasive action as I thought the crew could stand.

  ‘Copilot to Navigator, we’ve got to find out where we are so you can give us a heading for England.’

  ‘Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew. Watch for fighters. They’re goin’ to hit us if we don’t get out of here quick.’

  Back in the waist, tail, and radio room, the ammunition had been thrown out of the cans and the men banged up a bit by the drastic evasive action. The gunners were frantically trying to get the ammunition straightened out. Deering turned west and flew parallel to the coast in the hope that Stanford or me would see something familiar. Thirty minutes of this and we turned southeast. High and inaccurate flak came up. A few minutes later a lone F.W. 190 appeared and made two passes. Fortunately both were against the tail where we have our best defense. Deering did a good job of evasive action.

  ‘Copilot to Tail, good going back there! Let ’em have it when they come in.’

  Deering turned into land again. ‘Copilot to crew, two fighters at two o’clock high — pour the lead to ’em if they try to attack us.’

  The pilot dodged into a cloud bank before the fighters could strike.

  ‘Good work, Pilot. Stay in this cloud until we shake those fighters, but we got to find out where we are — we can’t hang around here all day.’

  ‘Copilot to Radio.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Do you know how to get a fix?’

  ‘I think we’re too far away for a fix.’

  ‘I was afraid of that. Try anyway.’

  When we came out of the clouds, Deering turned inland again and headed for a sizable city in full view. Without warning all hell broke loose! Flak and small arms fire came up in a hail of lead.

  ‘Copilot to Pilot. I know where we are. That is Calais! Let me have the controls.’

  I took more evasive action but not fast enough. I heard a loud noise underneath the aircraft.

  ‘Copilot to Ball, where did we get hit? Any bad damage?’

  ‘The bomb-bay doors were knocked down.’

  ‘Copilot to Top Turret, go back an’ see if you can hand-crank the doors back up.’

  The doors would not come up, but it was not important. We had plenty of fuel.

  ‘Pilot to Navigator, give us a heading for Ridgewell and be sure to allow for that heavy wind current.’

  Deering took over and climbed to six thousand feet. Two more F.W. 190s came up from the rear. Both had belly tanks and one had a rocket chute.

  ‘Copilot to Tail, watch that fighter with the rocket. When you see the rocket fire, follow the vapor trail an’ tell the pilot which way to move the airplane.’

  ‘Pilot, this is the Tail. It’s gettin’ in position about fifteen hundred yards behind us, slightly high. He fired it! It’s comin’ straight at us! Pull up! Pull up!’

  Deering jerked the aircraft up an’ the rocket passed under us real close.

  ‘Tail to crew, fighter comin’ in five o’clock level.’

  I could hear the tail and waist guns hammering an’ saw the fighter flash by below my window. It pulled up high and tried a nose attack.

  ‘Pilot! Evasive action!’

  The attack failed and the two fighters disappeared into the mists.

  ‘Copilot from Top Turret, I think we hit that fighter — maybe knocked it down.’

  ‘I doubt it. Those 190s are heavily armored and can take a lot of punishment.’

  The radio operator had been feverishly attempting to pick up a fix. He got a response all right, but the station failed to answer his challenge for the day. He knew then it was a German station trying to lure us in for a kill. That was a trick used by both sides. (The radio operators used Morse code, which was easy to fake.) Actually we were a little too far away for a reliable fix. Halfway across the water that same F.W. 190 our gunners thought they had shot down appeared again. That persistent bastard followed us all of the way to the English coast. Radio finally got in contact with a home station and established a Q.D.M. At the coast a Spitfire showed up and the F.W. 190 took off for Germany in a hurry. I was much relieved to see the outlines of Ridgewell show up. There was one final error: Radio was confused about the damage to the aircraft and had radioed ahead that our landing gear was shot out. When we came in to land I saw to my surprise ambulances, crash wagons, and fire trucks standing by. The Old Man was plenty teed off! He blamed me for the mixups and damage to the plane.

  November 18

  During this period the 381st was constantly being infused with new crews, who had yet to learn the hard lesson that tight formation was as essential to their well-being as blocking is to a football team. We received new crews, but continued to lose experienced ones, and that meant an exhaustive effort to keep the quality high. Training went on but too many replacement crews lessened our ability to fly good formations consistently. Either the new pilots arrived with some high-altitude formation experience or they had to start learning it on combat missions. Sure, we flew some formation practice, but there was no way that the 381st could provide the training that the crews were supposed to have had in the States. For quite a while the Group was losing as many men as it was gaining from new arrivals. We did not have the time, or the aircraft, or the fuel to retrain those new arrivals.

  November 27

  The rain clouds cleared and there was a part of a moon. Eight or ten of us pedaled into a nearby village and enjoyed an evening at the pubs. At closing time we started back to the base. The men in the lead used their flashlights and the rest of us followed along in the dark. Between the local road and our quarters there was a swift-running stream spanned by a narrow bridge. We were strung out in single file behind a Captain in the lead. Suddenly the Captain dropped his flashlight and everything went dark. I heard a wild yell and a splash as something hit the water. I switched on my light in time to see an officer’s cap floating jauntily downstream bobbing gently in the water like a toy boat.

  Someone yelled, “Where’s the Captain?”

  Four flashlights scanned the empty water rushing by. An authoritative voice took command. “All right! Jerk off your blouses! All of you! Now! Get in that creek! Couple of ya go downstream and work back. We gotta find him — and quick!”

  The frigid water sobered me real quick. In one or two minutes someone located the Captain and we pulled him out of that freezing water. Fortunately he did not take on much water internally, and in ten minutes he was recovered enough to be out of danger. I was shaking with a bad chill by the time I got to the hut and into some dry clothes. The temperature was thirty-five degrees.

  Chapter XVIII

  Mission to Paris and Leverkusen

  The month of November was frustrating because the weather kept the B-17s grounded for a week at a time. When a mission was called we fully expected it to be canceled before takeoff, or
in the air before we reached enemy territory. If clouds were almost certain to cover the target, there was no point in continuing the mission unless the drop was scheduled to be by Pathfinder equipment. Since the middle of the month we had taken off eight times back to back without getting in a mission. That was hard on morale. Being confined too much of the time to the small metal quarters, we became irritating to each other. Sometimes Lancia’s noise became abrasive and Wilson’s disorderly bunk was always revolting to a person like me, who wanted things neat and shipshape. There were days when Rogers withdrew into a morose silence and ignored the rest of us. When he was in one of those moods it was better to leave him alone. Tedesco’s continual harping on Brooklyn and New York got on my nerves. Hadn’t he ever been anywhere else before he was drafted into the service? The least offensive occupant of our hut was Hubie Green. He was such a nice, gentle young man I could find little to resent about him.

  December l — Leverkusen, Germany

  Aircraft 730

  Jim climbed wearily out of bed and groaned, “Another false alarm I suppose. Will we ever get in another mission?”

  “We haven’t flown a completed raid since early November,” I said. “At this rate we’ll be here another year.”

  Harkness added, “But we’ve been in sight of enemy territory four times before we turned back.”

  Gleichauf intercepted me at Operations. “We’re carryin’ a General with us this mornin’ so get things in good shape before we get there.”

  I did not like the idea of high-ranking brass on a mission. It meant extra trouble and having to be more careful over the intercom. As soon as I examined the cockpit of aircraft 730 I made a run for the perimeter road and was lucky to hail down a passing Jeep. “Get word to Operations real quick that aircraft 730 has no extra cockpit oxygen outlet — cannot handle an extra passenger in the cockpit.”

  When Gleichauf arrived he said, “They switched the General to another ship. The target is Leverkusen, at the edge of the Ruhr Valley.”

  There were groans from the crew.

  “Cut the bitching. Major Hall, the Group Operations Officer, will lead the 381st.” He turned to Harkness. “Watch close for flak damage under the engines.”

  With Hall leading I knew it would be a smooth, well-executed mission if the weather permitted. The takeoff was efficient and on time. The weather had improved so much it looked like we might be able to proceed with the operation.

  “Pilot from Navigator.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ll hit the coast at eleven hundred hours. Fighters can show any time.”

  The P-47 escort arrived as we crossed the coast and shortly afterward the intercom came on: “Ball to Copilot — fighters at four o’clock low comin’ up.”

  “Tail to Ball, what are those fighters tryin’ to do? I’ve never seen them circle around down below us before.”

  “Don’t know. Maybe it’s a new tactic against the 47s.”

  “Copilot, I can see at least thirty from the turret.”

  I looked up in time to see eight 47s streaking down at high speed followed by the remainder of the escort. For a few minutes there was a marvelous view of about forty P-47s tangling with about fifty M.E. 109s. It was the biggest dogfight I ever saw — a gigantic, twisting, turning, diving battle that was soon out of my range of view.

  At the I.P. I saw the first B-17 go down from a fighter attack. Suddenly ice began to form inside the turret glass and cut my vision to zero. Where was the moisture coming from? The cockpit windows and windshield were clear.

  “Copilot to Turret — Copilot to Turret — four fighters crossing in front of us at ten o’clock high — let ’em have it.”

  I scraped the ice furiously. When I could see, they were too far away to get in my sights. Gleichauf was caustic. “Why in the hell didn’t you shoot? They were right in front of you!”

  “Ice! The turret glass is iced up — barely see out of it. Scraping it off as fast as I can. Don’t know where the moisture came from.”

  The aircraft was another of those old E models with small Ball and Top Turret oxygen tanks. “Ball to Waist. Ball to Right Waist — it’s time to refill the ball oxygen tank.”

  “OK, Ball, turn it around forward and hold it there. Don’t move that ball until I tell you it’s clear.”

  “Got it, Jim.”

  Remembering what happened the day we flew Tinker Toy, Jim had George standing by with a walk-around bottle in case ice should form and hold the valves open. When he tried to remove the filler valve it would not release. Realizing that he would have to run back to the waist and get a screwdriver to prize it off, Jim went on intercom: “Waist to Ball, do not move the ball — repeat — do not move the ball, until you hear me say clear.”

  All Harkness heard distinctly was the word “clear.” “Thanks, Jim,” he said, and whirled the ball back into action and snapped off the filler line. The oxygen pressure in the left side aft system of the Waist and Tail vanished as the gas spewed out. Fortunately the pressure in the ball held firm.

  “Radio to crew. Radio to crew. The left rear oxygen system is gone. Switch to the right system.”

  My earphones were so poor that I could not pick up what was going on in the aft section of the ship. Really it was no serious matter, as the mission was relatively short. We had plenty of oxygen but Sanford, flying left waist, failed to hear the warning and keeled over and passed out. Counce quickly switched his hose to the right side regulator and he revived.

  “Bombardier to Waist.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is everything OK back there?”

  “I think so. I can’t tell about Legg. I think he’s OK ’cause he looks like he’s sitting up at his position.”

  “Bombardier to Tail.”

  “Bombardier to Tail — Bombardier to Tail — come in.”

  There was no response.

  “Waist?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Go back and check out the Tail Gunner.”

  When Jim got to where he could see Legg clearly he realized the tail gunner was in very serious condition, and had to have oxygen fast or he was going to suffer brain damage or worse! Jim struggled valiantly to untangle the gunner’s hose and switch him to the undamaged right side system, but Raymond had collapsed so that he was lying on his hose. There was only room in the tail for one man. Counce knew that man had to have oxygen quickly. Without a moment’s hesitation he unhooked from his portable bottle and plugged Legg into it. He knew he would probably pass out before he could get back to his waist position, and he did. But Sanford quickly revived him and no harm was done.

  “Tail from Waist — Tail from Waist.”

  “This is the Tail, go ahead.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I guess so — a little dizzy — but I’ll make it.”

  “Keep your regulator on the right side system. The left system is empty.”

  “OK — Waist — that’s what the trouble was? Thanks for straightening me out.”

  While Legg was unconscious he suffered a severe electrical burn on his leg where the electric suit pressed too tightly against him. When off of oxygen for an extended period, the bodily resistance to high or low temperature plummets.

  “Ball to Copilot, my electric heat has gone out — hope I can keep from freezing a foot or hand.”

  “Use straight oxygen. That’ll help some.”

  In the ball the gunner had less room for bulky clothes so he depended more on his electrically heated equipment than the rest of us. I felt the bombs fall away. It told me we would be free of that miserable flak in a few more minutes. That was the main thing I wanted right then.

  “Turret to Ball, exercise your hands and feet as much as you can. A little exercise can stave off frostbite.”

  “Turret to crew. Turret to crew — fighters at one o’clock high.”

  The attacks were directed to the high squadron and I did not have a good opportunity to fire.

  �
�Tail to crew, another Fort going down at eight o’clock low — four chutes.”

  A Fort nearby caught heavy damage to number-three engine. An oil or fuel line was ruptured and a long stream of flame shot back as far as the tail. Several men dropped out of the waist hatch. One unfortunate crewman pulled his ripcord too soon and the silk blossomed up into the flame. It instantly began to blaze. I watched in stunned horror as the condemned man started his terrifying plunge toward Earth five miles below!

  “Copilot to crew — that’s the third Fort I’ve seen go down so far.”

  The fighters kept circling the formation making sporadic passes. They were by no means a hot interceptor group. I suspected they were green German pilots. It was time for the attrition of war to begin decimating the excellent pilots with whom Germany had started the war. Ten minutes from the coast the intercom came on: “Tail to crew — another B-17 dropping down at five o’clock.”

  “Copilot to Ball — do you see it?”

  “Yes. I see it. No chutes so far. It looks to be under control.”

  After some more questions Kels announced, “That must have been Nixon’s plane. I guess he knew he could not make it across the Channel.”

  The way I saw it, Nixon decided to give the crew a chance to bail out rather than risk a water ditching. Those men were old friends and it was depressing to see them lost. Well, it would be better for them to jump if they couldn’t make it to England. With bad visibility shaping up, the chances of getting picked up from the water before dark were poor. Few survived a night drifting on the cold Channel.