Bomber

by Paul Dowswell

  The room erupted in concerned murmuring again, louder this time.

  Colonel Kittering was not impressed. ‘You’ll all shut your mouths.’ His voice cut across the hubbub and the room settled to a cowed silence. ‘Rule number one at this airbase: you will not repeat idle gossip. Captain, you’ll report to my office as soon as this meeting is over.’

  There were no more questions after that. The men trooped out under the stern eye of the colonel, barely daring to speak. He saw Kittering grab Jim Corrales by the sleeve as he left the room and heard him say, ‘One more crack like that in a briefing and I’ll bust you down to private so fast you won’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.’

  Harry’s crew all bunched together afterwards, outside the briefing hall. The day felt warmer and even held the promise of a beautiful late summer evening.

  ‘Come on,’ said Holberg. ‘Let’s go meet the ground crew.’

  Sergeant Ernie Benik eyed the approaching new boys with trepidation. Most of them looked so young – kids fresh out of school or college, with their cock-of-the-walk strut. At once he felt the weight of his years. He was in his early forties – probably an old man in their eyes.

  His previous crew had lasted a single mission. The one before that had managed five operations before they were shot out of the sky. And that was after three of them had been killed in action on the fourth trip – the ball turret and tail gunner, and the radio operator, all caught in a lethal salvo from a German fighter.

  Ernie made it his business to retrieve the bodies from the cramped interior and he shuddered when he remembered he’d had to finish that job with a hose. Cannon shells, especially, made a terrible mess of flesh and blood. The haunted faces of the survivors as they and the replacements boarded the plane for that fifth mission had convinced Ernie that he’d never see them again. If he’d been a betting man he would have put money on it. But that would have been callous. And Ernie was not callous.

  Some of the other crew chiefs had told him you shouldn’t get too close to your aviators. Ernie didn’t share this view. The United States Army Air Force was his family. He’d never married and had no kids. So he made a fuss of all the new boys.

  He made a quick tally in his mind. The crew of the Macey May would be the fourth he’d looked after since he arrived in the late winter of ’42. It was a tough life, and that bastard Colonel Kittering wasn’t going to be offering them any kindness. So why shouldn’t he? The flyers usually had a wake-up orderly to get them up on mission days. Ernie made it his personal job to rouse his flyers.

  As the men approached, Ernie called to his boys over the roar of the generator truck that was recharging the bomber’s on-board power supply. ‘Hey, fellas, knock that thing off and come and meet the new crew!’

  The generator ground to a halt and a fresh silence settled around them. It was easy to see who was in charge of this bunch, and Ernie stepped forward to shake Holberg’s hand, turning swiftly to do the same with the other flyboys who had gathered around him.

  He waited for the final two of his team of oil-stained mechanics to clamber down from engine number three, which had its cover off, exposing its cylinders, pumps and gears to the elements.

  ‘Meet the team,’ said Ernie. Each man nodded as Benik introduced them. ‘Lenny, Hal, Ray, Ted, Woody, Frank, Vic …’

  ‘They’re good guys,’ Benik said to Holberg. ‘You can count on them. Never let me down yet.’

  Holberg introduced the crew of the Macey May, finishing up with LaFitte.

  ‘And this is Second Lieutenant Ray LaFitte, our flight engineer.’

  Benik shook LaFitte’s hand. ‘How’d she run over the Atlantic?’

  ‘No problem at all,’ LaFitte said.

  ‘We’ll do our best to keep it that way.’

  Formalities over, Ernie said, ‘Well, you fellas will want to get your bearings. Why don’t you go stroll around the perimeter. You’ll still be back in time for chow.’

  The crew of the Macey May left. When they were out of earshot, Lenny said, ‘Poor suckers. Hope they last longer than the previous lot.’

  Ernie, who towered over all seven of his men, cuffed him lightly over the head. ‘Hey, no sourpuss talk here. Who says these guys aren’t gonna make it to twenty-five missions.’

  Harry’s crew wandered right to the edge of the airfield perimeter before their captain spoke. ‘Nice guy, isn’t he?’

  They all murmured in agreement. How would anyone not like Ernie Benik?

  ‘Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all,’ Holberg said, waving his arm towards the field before them. It looked beautiful in the soft, early-evening light. Two horses were grazing in the pasture beyond the hedgerow, and the nearby village looked impossibly picturesque. A church spire stood silhouetted against the sky, and there was a manor house and several cottages that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a chocolate box. It was a world away from the teeming streets of Brooklyn. Harry was wondering how soon he might get the chance to explore outside the airbase when John Hill brought him swiftly back to reality with a question for Holberg.

  ‘Excuse me for asking, Captain, but that thing Captain Schwarz said – about losing one in five of the bombers today –’

  Holberg cut him off.

  ‘Schwarz had no business raising it like that. The colonel was right to chew him out. It might be true, it might not. And even if it is, maybe most of those guys got out before they crashed. I want you all to put it out of your minds. All we can do is train the best we can and make sure we’re among those crews that always do come back.’

  The church clock chimed seven. ‘We got an hour before the mess closes,’ said Holberg. ‘It’s been a long day. I suggest you all hit the hay as soon as you can. But tomorrow evening, if we can get a pass out, I want us all to go find one of those Limey pubs.’

  Harry liked Bob Holberg. He was like a favourite teacher or uncle. Holberg had actually been a teacher before he’d joined up. English had been his subject and he’d taught in a prep school in Connecticut. He’d told them they only needed to salute him when other officers were around. Other captains were far more formal with their crew – and would only be addressed by their rank and surname.

  Harry had been training with the crew of the Macey May for four months now, and most of them were great guys. He was looking forward to trying out the local beer with them and getting to know a bit more about this country. So far he hadn’t even heard a Brit speaking.

  * * *

  They arrived at the mess at the same time as the non-coms from another Fortress. The boys from Carolina Peach introduced themselves. Like Harry’s crew, they were from all corners of the United States.

  They had arrived late that afternoon and they too had seen the still-smouldering remains of the B-17 on the main runway.

  ‘Beautiful evening though, ain’t it, boys?’ said the shortest airman among them, obviously keen to change the subject.

  ‘You’re the ball turret gunner, right?’ said Harry, and put out his hand.

  ‘Damn right! Charlie Gifford.’ He had a really firm grip, the sort that hurt your hand. ‘Takes one to know one.’ Gifford smiled. He was several years older than Harry and a striking man, with blond hair and blue eyes – the perfect Aryan, if you believed that garbage the Nazis spouted about the ‘master race’.

  ‘You a volunteer?’ he asked Harry, and from the way he said it, Harry got the feeling he suspected he was underage.

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Recruiting officer must have forgot his glasses the day he interviewed you.’

  Harry tensed, but Gifford winked. ‘Don’t worry, I ain’t about to go tell the group commander.’

  All ten of them sat round the same table and ate an unappealing stew and some kind of sponge, with a tasteless white sauce with a skin like a plastic balloon and a lumpy, paste-like texture.

  ‘I guess the USAAF isn’t famous for its haute cuisine,’ John Hill said. He had been training to be a chef in a New York hotel w
hen he joined up.

  ‘At least we ain’t on the diet they got the Limeys on,’ said Skaggs. ‘I read they get one egg a week.’

  Gifford was sitting next to Harry. ‘This the posting you wanted?’ he asked.

  Harry shook his head. ‘I was hoping to get some place out in the Pacific. See something different. Somewhere I’d never get the chance to see in civilian life.’

  But Gifford scoffed. ‘England’s much better than some flyblow island in the Pacific, fighting the Japs.’

  ‘Japs execute Allied pilots if they capture them,’ chipped in another of the Carolina Peach boys.

  Harry had heard about that too. A photo had been passed around in the mess hall at the training camp in Nebraska. There was a blindfolded Allied fighter pilot, kneeling down about to have his head chopped off by an officer with a samurai sword, while a crowd of Japanese soldiers looked on. Harry had felt a wave of nausea when he’d seen that. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be that young pilot, waiting for the fatal blow. Maybe England was better after all.

  ‘Hey, Charlie, you see that doll on the Yankee Doodle?’ called out another guy in his crew. ‘She’s buck naked, man!’

  The Macey May had parked next to it when they had arrived. Their own nose illustration was more restrained. Corrales made the whole table laugh, telling the story of the Macey May’s nose art. Holberg had named his Fortress after his wife, and had been shocked to see the painting Stearley and Hill had done – a blonde girl with a Betty Grable hairdo, wearing nothing but a pair of red stilettos.

  John Hill laughed. ‘Captain made us put her in a red bathing suit when he saw it.’

  After they’d eaten, the non-coms from the Macey May said a friendly farewell to the Carolina Peach boys and went for another stroll around their new home and watched the last of the sunset. It was magical, but it reminded Harry how fragile his link was to this beautiful world. He noticed Ralph Dalinsky cross himself and mouth a silent prayer and envied him. Harry didn’t know what to think, but he found it hard to believe in a God looking over his creation if even half of what he’d heard about the Nazis was true.

  It was almost dark when they returned to their hut. Jim Corrales turned on the light switch and they were shocked to see that half the room had been cleared out. All the cases and pin-ups and drying clothes that had been there this afternoon had gone. And the bunks had been stripped of their linen. The hut had been given a clean too and smelt of bleach.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Corrales. ‘Those guys were standing here this morning, just like we are now. Then they flew to Schweinfurt and they’re gone.’

  ‘Maybe they moved to another hut?’ said John. Everyone else just shook their heads.

  It reminded Harry of the time he had spent in the Beth-El Hospital in Brooklyn with his elder brother, David, during the 1941 polio outbreak. His brother had been far sicker than him and was sent to another ward. When Harry went to see him the next morning, he found an empty bed laid out fresh and ready for the next patient. A sharp smell of bleach had hung in the air. Knowing at once that David was dead, Harry had fled in helpless tears. Every time he smelt it now it sent a shiver through his body.

  They prepared for bed in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. Harry stared at the bottom of the bunk above, wondering if he was ever going to get to sleep. He was too tired. And, he had worked it out, it was still only six o’clock in the evening over there in Brooklyn. He thought of his mom and dad. He had promised to write to them the minute he arrived in England, but he just wasn’t in the mood. The day’s events played out in his mind. It had been a real roller coaster. The joy of flying above the clouds. Relief when they had landed safely after such a long flight. The thrill of being in a strange new land. Horror at witnessing such a gruesome crash.

  When Harry finally fell into a restless sleep his dreams were troubling. As a child he had read about the gods of ancient Greece and how they could cut the silver thread of life according to their whim and fancy. In his mind’s eye he saw himself gliding like a bird through sunset clouds, suspended from that silver thread. At once he felt in terrible danger and woke with a start. His chest felt heavy; his mouth was dry. Outside, dim light peeped through the flimsy curtains. It felt cold and damp in the hut and he shut his eyes tight, dreading what the next few days would bring.

  CHAPTER 3

  August 20th, 1943

  Three days after they arrived, Harry’s crew had still not been allowed to leave the airbase. ‘They think we’ll run away!’ said Jim Corrales. ‘Go off to London and join a Limey circus! Beats this gig, that’s for sure!’

  On the second day at Kirkstead they had all attended escape classes as a crew. A crusty British officer, on loan from the RAF, introduced himself as Flight Lieutenant Bowman.

  ‘It is extremely important that you bury your parachute as soon as you land,’ he said, in clipped upper-class tones, just like a Hollywood Brit.

  Dalinsky put up his hand. ‘When do we get to try out the parachutes, sir?’

  The flight lieutenant gave him a hard stare. ‘When your aeroplane is on fire and you need to get out of it.’

  A murmur of discontent went round the room. Holberg stood up, announcing his name and rank to let this guy know he wasn’t going to be talked down to, and asked if he was serious. ‘Do you mean to say we aren’t trained on how to bail out from a plane?’ he asked.

  ‘You train on the ground,’ said the flight lieutenant. ‘You go through the bailing-out drill until you can do it blindfolded. All you have to remember is to pull that ripcord on your chute after you count to five. That way you’ll be clear of the aircraft. Take it from me, you don’t need training for that.

  ‘And you need to ditch your uniform as soon as you make contact with friendly French or Dutch civilians,’ continued Bowman. ‘I think we can safely say there will be no friendly German civilians.’

  He smiled at his little joke. Harry was still reeling from the news that there would be no proper parachute training. Surely it couldn’t be that simple. How did you steer the thing or land?

  ‘You must find civilian clothes as quickly as possible,’ said Bowman. ‘But it is essential you keep your identity discs.’ He stopped and for a brief moment a look of distaste flashed across his face. ‘I believe you call them “dog tags”. If you’re caught without “dog tags”, the Germans might think you are a spy and that will prove fatal.’

  To underline his point he said, ‘Spies are shot if they are lucky, and tortured then shot if they are not so lucky.’

  At first Harry had found it difficult to take this stuffed-shirt Brit seriously, but as the lecture progressed a cold chill settled in his guts. This was definitely not a game. It had never yet occurred to him that if they survived being shot down, they would face another terrifying ordeal on the ground.

  ‘I urge you all to take the latest issue of a British newspaper with you when you go into combat. If you have a copy of The Times or the Eastern Daily Press, then you can prove to Fritz that you have just arrived.’

  That, at least, seemed a pretty simple thing to do to stop you being shot.

  After the lecture, they went off to have their photos taken. This, explained Bowman, was so they could carry passport-sized prints for fake identity cards. The photographer had a small selection of weather-beaten jumpers and jackets. ‘You’re supposed to be a French civilian. You can wear a beret too, if you really want to get into the role.’

  The next day, the little passport-sized photographs arrived. ‘Hey, Friedman, look at you.’ Corrales ruffled his hair. ‘You look like a little cherub.’

  Harry batted away his hand. ‘And you look like an axe murderer.’

  He didn’t like the guys teasing him about his age. He hadn’t told any of them he was really seventeen, but he thought they probably knew. He told himself to forget about it. He was here now, and if anyone was going to stop him from flying, they would have done so by now.

  They had another lecture later
that morning, this time from the colonel. Kittering told them it had cost many thousands of dollars to train them, so it was their duty as loyal Americans to try to escape if they were shot down. Harry wanted to ask about parachute training, and how they were supposed to land, but he lost his nerve. Sometimes you were made to feel like there were questions you just didn’t ask.

  After breakfast the following day, Holberg gathered them together in front of the Macey May and announced they would be making a high-altitude flight that morning. Most bombing raids were flown at twenty-five thousand feet, even thirty thousand. It was thought this great height would offer protection from German flak and fighters. That was higher than most of them had ever flown before, even in training. They were to report to the equipment store immediately to draw out oxygen masks and heated suits.

  ‘You need to shave every morning you have a high-altitude flight,’ said the instructor, after they’d collected their masks. ‘If these masks leak, you won’t get enough oxygen. You can easily pass out without even realising. And if no one else on the flight notices, they’ll find you stone cold dead by the time they find out something’s wrong.’

  Harry felt a twinge in his gut and recalled mess-time conversations with other B-17 crews, warning them of the perils of high-altitude flying.

  The masks were strange things – leather and canvas muzzles that attached to their leather flying caps, with a snaking tube that connected to their individual oxygen supplies. They took away your individuality, making you an anonymous sinister figure – like something out of a science-fiction movie, Harry thought.

  Harry’s high-altitude suit was a curious affair too. Over his vest and underpants he pulled on a heavy one-piece suit made of blue woollen fabric lined with heated wires. On top of that came heavy canvas trousers and shirt and a sheepskin-lined leather flying jacket.