He didn’t like the idea of having that electricity right next to his underwear.
‘You’ll be grateful for it,’ said Curtis Stearley, the co-pilot, who was standing by Harry in the equipment store. ‘I had to do one or two high-altitude flights in training and it’s pretty unpleasant that high up. Nothing like the trip we did over the Atlantic. And you’ll be in that little ball, barely able to move to keep yourself from freezing. Look after that suit, Harry. It’ll be a lifesaver.’
Not for the first time, Harry regretted the duty he had been assigned. He was the Macey May’s ball turret gunner. His own physiognomy had decided his fate. There was no volunteering. At five foot six, he was the shortest in the crew, and the ball turret needed a small man to squeeze in and operate it.
To begin with, Harry had been fascinated by his revolving Sperry turret with two powerful Browning machine guns, slung under the belly of the B-17, just behind the wings. But then he got his hands on the instruction manual and realised what a nightmare it was. Just climbing into the turret could kill him. If he didn’t do it right, the turret might turn on its finely balanced rocker and snap him in half against the side of the aircraft. What made it even more difficult was that you only got into the turret once the plane had taken off, and you had to get out of it before you landed. He didn’t like the idea of lowering himself in with ten thousand feet between him and the ground, and the aircraft shaking and jolting about.
The turret was as cramped as expected, especially in a heavy flying suit. But once you were in it, and had mastered the complex controls, there was no denying it was an amazing piece of machinery. You could swivel round 360 degrees at the push of a lever, and the whole thing rocked from 0 degrees level with the belly to 90 degrees straight down with equal ease. Early on in training, back in Nebraska, some of the gunners had dropped out, claiming being in the turret made them so nauseous they could not cope. But Harry had discovered he was unaffected by all that swivelling and dipping throughout the whole field of fire. Operating the gun excited him, despite its danger and discomfort.
What he couldn’t shake off though was the thought of how awkward it would be to get out of that little ball if the B-17 was going down. There was no space for a parachute in there. And he could imagine how difficult it would be to get out when everyone else was abandoning the plane.
By ten o’ clock that morning the crew had all clambered into their heavy flying gear and were ready to go. Holberg gathered them round, underneath the nose.
‘You need to be on full alert throughout this flight,’ he told them sternly. ‘Sometimes German fighters pounce on bombers on training missions. They think we’ll be easy meat. Combat rookies. So let’s prove ‘em wrong. You’ve all done your drills; you’re all good shots.’
Then he softened. ‘And I definitely don’t want your folks getting a telegram telling them we were shot down over Cheshire or the Irish Sea.’
Like a football team before a game, before embarking they gathered together in a group hug.
‘OK,’ said Holberg, ‘let’s go,’ and the crew dispersed to their various entry hatches.
‘You could go hunting at the North Pole in this,’ said John, as the rear gunners clambered into the narrow door just in front of the tail.
Dalinsky smiled. ‘I’d feel a lot safer with a Browning than a harpoon.’
It was cumbersome moving around, but once the Macey May had taken off and Harry had clambered into his turret and plugged in his heated suit, he began to feel quite snug. It was a cloudless late summer day, and the blue sky and green land with its patchwork of fields and farms made for a stunning vista.
They climbed steadily, heading north-west towards the Isle of Arran, off the west coast of Scotland. That was to be their turning point and would provide them with a flight time similar to the bombing runs they would be expected to make over enemy territory.
After half an hour Holberg’s voice came over the interphone. ‘Ten thousand feet. Oxygen masks on. Keep watching the skies.’
Holberg never wasted a word when they were flying, although he was friendly enough on the ground. He instilled in them all the importance of saying only what needed to be said when they were airborne.
The four aero-engines screamed with the effort of lifting the heavy bomber up towards the edge of the stratosphere and as they climbed and the plane banked slightly in a turn Harry noticed how the sky above grew darker blue as they edged towards their maximum height of thirty-five thousand feet.
It was strange up there. Too high for birds and certainly no place for a human being. The cool, clean oxygen Harry was breathing kept his head clear and he maintained a steady watch, slowly rotating his turret through its 360 degrees. Sometimes it was difficult to keep up the watching, staring into infinite nothing. But Harry was keenly aware that this was the first flight they were making where they might meet with an enemy fighter. For the first time they were in danger of being killed in action.
He noticed a few wispy cirrus clouds drift by below and watched the engine exhausts leave four fluffy white trails against the blue sky as they ploughed through the stratosphere. Despite the cold and discomfort, he couldn’t help feeling this was a magical place.
When they got back to Kirkstead, Holberg gathered his crew round and congratulated them on a successful flight. Then he announced he had got them all a day pass to Kirkstead for tomorrow. There was a ‘jumble sale’ he told them, and a fête with a cake baking contest. It would be their first immersion into British life.
‘Sir, what the hell’s a jumble sale?’ asked Jim Corrales.
‘You better make sure you read your Servicemen’s Guide to Great Britain,’ said Holberg. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be “jolly nice”.’
They all smirked, but Harry went back to his bunk and read that very manual. A jumble sale, it said in the glossary, was a rummage sale.
For the crew of the Macey May, Saturday morning had the makings of a perfect day. A crisp dawn, ham and eggs for breakfast, and a leisurely shower before they all assembled in their best dress uniform – the one they wore for parades and other formal ceremonies.
But that morning was also the bomb group’s first mission since Schweinfurt. As Holberg and his crew strolled towards the village, they stopped to watch the active service crews take to the sky. The squadron was still under-strength from its usual twelve after the disaster of Schweinfurt, and they counted ten planes taking off. The Macey May crew weren’t supposed to know, but it was no secret that this was a short mission over to the Charleroi steel plant in Belgium.
Ralph Dalinsky spoke to Holberg. ‘It don’t feel right, us going out to enjoy ourselves while the bomb group is off over enemy territory, sir.’
The captain just shook his head. ‘We’ll be up there with them soon enough, Sergeant, so just enjoy yourself while the sun is shining.’
Kirkstead was only a few minutes’ walk from the base and they arrived to find a crowded church hall, full of bustling bargain hunters and the tables already half empty. Seeing Harry’s disappointed face a stout elderly lady in a floral dress hooked her arm around his. ‘Rule number one of jumble sales, young man: get there early. This one’s been open for nearly an hour.’
She was the first English person who had spoken to him directly, and all of a sudden Harry felt tongue tied. He had expected the Brits to be frosty and polite, but she was just like his grandmother back in Brooklyn.
‘Thanks for the advice, ma’am,’ he said politely.
‘Now, what are you looking for?’ she asked with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I’m on the committee. We can’t buy things – people would say we earmarked all the best goods. But there’s nothing to stop me helping you find something nice.’
Harry told her he was hoping to find some mementos for his mother and father. They fell into easy conversation, and Harry began to relax. His new friend introduced herself as Mrs Gooding and offered to show him around the fête. ‘Everyone is so glad you boys are here with us,’ she told him, patting him on
the arm. ‘The world was a frightening place when we were facing Hitler alone.’
They walked outside into a large field where trestle tables had been set up beneath the shade of several large oaks. One table contained a display of cakes and biscuits together with the names and addresses of those who had baked them. ‘Look out,’ said Mrs Gooding. ‘Here comes trouble.’
A bird-like woman, of similar age to her, approached the table with a small entourage of other elderly ladies. ‘She’s the cake judge. Shows no mercy. The others in the WI are terrified of her.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am – WI?’ asked Harry with a tilt of his head.
‘Women’s Institute. It’s an organisation for ladies who don’t have anything better to do,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I’m the local chairwoman.’
Harry and Mrs Gooding watched the judge from afar. Assisted by her entourage, she took minute slices from the offerings, tasted them and wiped her mouth with a little lace handkerchief. Then she wrote a small comment on each of the name tags attached to the cakes.
Harry was enjoying this immensely. It was just like observing a newly discovered tribe and their arcane rituals. His brother David, a lanky, bookish kid, had wanted to study anthropology at Columbia University and he had often told Harry about the rites and ceremonies of obscure South American or Micronesian tribes.
‘We’ll come back in a moment,’ announced Mrs Gooding, and steered Harry over to the bring-and-buy stall. ‘You might find something here,’ she told him, gesturing to a table of ornaments – vases, glass animals and little statuettes. ‘I must go and circulate.’
It was the perfect place and Harry quickly found a brass horse’s head for his father and a little china tableau of a basket full of flowers for his mother. He was sure they’d love them.
‘Let’s see,’ said the elderly gentleman on the stall, ‘seeing as you’re having the pair, let’s say one and six.’
Harry got out his wallet and pulled out two pound notes, hoping the man would be honest with his change. He was aware that this was a fortune for two small ornaments, but he was sure they were valuable. Besides, there was little else to spend his money on.
The man was looking astonished. ‘Blimey, I can’t change that. Haven’t you got any coins on you?’
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Reece?’ It was Mrs Gooding, come to rescue Harry. ‘One and six,’ she explained ‘One shilling and sixpence. Put all that money away, if you don’t mind.’ She reached into her pocket and paid the stallholder.
‘You can pay me back later,’ she said to Harry. ‘Now I’d like to buy one of those cakes.’ She directed him over to the cake stall.
On the way there John Hill called over. ‘Hey, Harry, who’s your lady friend?’
‘You’re an impertinent young man,’ said Mrs Gooding with a twinkle in her eye. Harry could tell she wasn’t really offended.
‘We’re off to buy a cake. You coming to join us?’ said Harry, quickly introducing his friend to Mrs Gooding.
She looked him up and down and smiled. ‘Come and observe the British art of cake judging. It’s not for the faint-hearted.’
The judging had finished and the table was surrounded with a flock of women of all ages, keen to see what she had written. There was laughter and suppressed howls of outrage. John, Harry and Mrs Gooding began to read the judge’s comments.
These are the worst scones I have ever tasted. 0/10
Texture fine, but too dry. 3/10
Sickly. 4/10
Lardy. 1/10
A fine balance of sweet and tart. 8/10
‘I’ll have that one, before someone else has it,’ said Mrs Gooding, pointing to the plum cake that had met with the judge’s approval.
‘Now, why don’t you both come home and help me eat the cake with a nice cup of tea?’
Mrs Gooding lived in a small white house close to the church hall and sat them down in her garden on a couple of deckchairs. She brought them tea and two generous slices of plum cake.
The cake was quite as delicious as the judge’s comments had suggested and reminded Harry of the cakes you could buy at the deli at the end of his street. He felt a stab of homesickness. John was beginning to doze off in the early afternoon sun, so Harry carried their cups and plates back inside and kept Mrs Gooding company while she peeled potatoes for her evening meal.
‘Grandma, there’s a strange man in the garden! Have you been rounding up American airmen again?’
Harry turned around, startled. The voice belonged to a petite girl now standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘Here’s another one!’ She gave him a winning smile, and put out a hand for him to shake. ‘Tilly Tait,’ she announced, and gave a little curtsy.
Harry guessed she was somewhere in her late teens. She had a shock of wavy blonde hair and a delicate pink complexion, and Harry thought she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.
For the second time that afternoon he was lost for words, and to his horror he began to blush.
‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’re a new arrival at Kirkstead.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he managed to say, and gave her an awkward salute. ‘Sergeant Harry Friedman, United States Army Air Force.’ Then his mind went completely blank. He wanted to tell her how much he liked her green dress, but he thought that would be too corny.
Mrs Gooding came to the rescue. ‘Tilly is my granddaughter, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. She’s staying with me.’
‘Our house has been requisitioned for some of your top bods at the base,’ Tilly said. ‘Mum’s working in London, Dad’s off in the navy, so I’m here.’
John picked that moment to come in. Despite the fact he had only just woken up, John was a lot more self-assured, introducing himself and making small talk with an easy charm Harry envied.
‘The cake was delicious, Mrs Goulding, thank you,’ he said. Harry felt pleased he’d got her name wrong. He didn’t want Tilly to like him instead.
John spoke again. ‘Come on, Harry. We’ve got to get back to the base.’
They said their goodbyes and Tilly gave John what Harry hoped was a polite but indifferent nod. Turning to him, she lit up with a bright smile. ‘Goodbye, Harry. See you again.’
The sun still shone brightly in the sky, and they walked back down the country lanes in high spirits. ‘She’s a peach,’ said John, ‘and she likes you, you lucky son of a bitch!’
Harry could feel himself blushing again. He wasn’t going to tell John, but he didn’t know a great deal about girls.
The sound of aero-engines reached their ears. ‘They’re back,’ said Harry, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject.
In moments the sky filled with the sound of returning bombers. No one crashed as they landed and they could see no flares from approaching aircraft indicating seriously wounded men in need of urgent treatment.
Ten had taken off that morning and a quick tally of the planes as they weaved round to take their positions in landing formation revealed all of them had returned.
John Hill squeezed Harry’s elbow. ‘Look at that! All of them made it back. Maybe we’ll survive after all.’
CHAPTER 4
September 8th, 1943
As August turned to September, their time in training began to drag. There was a seemingly endless succession of lectures on aircraft identification, gunnery tactics, formation flying and the intricacies of the B-17’s hydraulic and electrical systems. Harry could see how it was all supposed to be useful, but he was beginning to think his brain couldn’t take any more.
Harry also began to realise that there were certain men it was best to avoid. They were easy enough to spot – the shaky ones with frightened eyes; and the ones who seemed to delight in putting the wind up the new boys – like the two older guys, Gus and Lenny, who sat with Harry and John one time in the mess.
They were in their mid-twenties maybe, both gunners, recently transferred from Rattlesden. They spent the whole meal swapping gory stories
about crews who had been killed on missions.
‘That Fort that crashed here back from Schweinfurt, the one that landed with its wheels up,’ Lenny said. ‘Heard the belly turret gunner got trapped in that little ball …’
John interrupted. ‘Hey, fellas, leave it, will you? We saw that plane crash as soon as we got here.’
‘You a ball turret gunner?’ Gus asked Harry with a smirk.
He guessed they probably knew his position on the Macey May and were just trying to make him crack. He tried not to let them bother him, but what he’d heard put him off his food.
‘Strawberry jelly,’ Lenny said, with added sound effects to drive the point home. ‘Ya wouldn’t get me in one of them ball turrets.’
Harry and John got up to leave soon afterwards. As they walked back to their hut, Harry felt a wave of despair as he thought about how small his chances of survival actually were. ‘Do you think anyone does their twenty-five missions?’
‘Those creeps in the mess got to you, didn’t they?’ John said, and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Not everybody dies in a bomber that goes down – don’t ever forget that, Harry. They parachute out. Why d’you think they give us those talks about escaping? It happens all the time.’
Their Nissen hut was still half empty, which suited them. It would not be filling up until more new crews arrived. For the moment, they had nearly as much space as the officers. But Harry was spooked by the empty beds on the other side of the aisle. He realised the bunk he now lay in had been previously been occupied by a man who was now most likely dead.
He could imagine his predecessor, a young man from Idaho, or San Francisco, or Maine, staring at the underside of the bunk above, a stranger in a strange land, having the same anxious nights as him. Had that guy wondered what fate awaited him? You’d have to be made of stone not to. He wondered whether he’d been killed by flak or cannon fire from a Nazi Messerschmitt, or that newer one, the Focke-Wulf … or maybe he’d been trapped in a burning Fortress as it plunged to the ground. You only died once, but as an aviator there were a thousand ways to die.
Bomber Page 3
