As soon as I was introduced to the crew I was to fly with, I began to feel myself undesired baggage, though I tried to be as helpful as I could. After all, I had a lot of hours flying these tubs; I might be useful. We were going to Gerbini Airdrome. It was one of the network of fields in the vicinity at Catania, Sicily. Half an hour before takeoff we were parked in a line of aircraft off the end of the main runway. Each ship was headed so that it might run up its engines without blinding any other with the dust storm set up by the props. As we were running our engines up the lieutenant in the pilot's seat said, “This thing's an awful klunk. If it gets there and back we'll be lucky. The number four prop has been acting up, but we haven't got enough prop governors to put new ones on every time one acts up. We're lucky enough to replace those which go completely out. Well, here goes.”
One by one he advanced the throttles of the engines as I turned the magneto switch on the engine being run up to right mag, to left mag, and back to both, watching the tachometer for a drop off of RPM. It was a borderline Lib, I could see from the ground runup; but if it would get airborne I figured we could get it there and back somehow.
Finally the ships started taking off. We were leading the low left squadron. As we straightened out on the end of the runway and the pilot pushed the four throttles open, I bent forward in my seat to give full attention to the engine instruments. I noticed the number four prop speeding up faster than the others. It hit 2700, its proper top limit, and kept advancing. Quickly I reached to the toggle switch that controls the prop governor and pulled it back to reduce the prop speed. The prop came back to 2700 and the four engines hummed the roar of synchronized power pilots love to hear. The big ship lifted its load of men, bombs, and fuel off the ground, and we were away.
We circled to pick up the ships of our squadron and to join the squadron leading the group. Occasionally the number four tachometer would oscillate and the ship would yaw noticeably. The prop was acting up, and then began a process of the prop gradually increasing RPM. The pilot looked very glum. “I guess if the damn thing runs away there'll be nothing to do but feather it and land. I hate to miss this mission, but we can't start off with an engine out.”
I happened to know that there are times when a failing propeller governor may be compensated for by the propeller feathering mechanism. I asked the pilot if he had heard of stopping a runaway prop with the feather button.
“Not except if you want to feather the prop,” he said.
“You don't have to feather it all the way,” I said. “All you have to do is push the button. Then don't leave it in till the prop completely feathers and the button pops out. Keep hold of the button and watch the tachometer. When the RPM drops to the point you want it, pull the button out. It works for a while and then the prop starts gaining again and you can do it all over again.”
“Try it if you want to,” said the pilot. “I don't give a damn, if we can get this klunk over the target and back.”
I did try it. I had never tried it before, but a representative of the Consolidated Aircraft Company had told me about it when I was instructing in B-24s at Tucson. It worked like a charm. The pilot and I were delighted.
At length, we had our squadron fairly well formed and headed out over the Mediterranean sliding in on the group lead. I was amazed at the delicacy and smoothness with which this pilot led his squadron. The pilot leading the group was evidently a fairly rough leader because he didn't fly with a constant power setting. I had heard some comment about that, with grumbling, before takeoff. My pilot was trying his best now to make up for it in the way he led his wingmen and his second element of three ships. When the group leader began to slow up a little he would gently S his squadron underneath. That is, our low squadron numbering six airplanes for this mission that normally was on the left would slide over slightly to the right and back then to its original position and then back again. All the time my pilot would be swearing.
“Just look at that bastard now. I'll bet in a minute he'll throw on a couple more inches of manifold pressure and if we don't watch he'll run off and leave all of us. Why do they let such a guy lead a group?”
I admired the procedure, for it seemed on the whole very well executed. The group formation for the most part was good. It wasn't always just like a diagram of a perfect formation, but all of the ships were in good mutual supporting distance of other ships. They maintained good integrity in the whole units.
Soon we saw the shore of Sicily, breaking a beautiful line in the constant blue of the Mediterranean. We flew up toward the straits of Messina and could see Italy on the right and Sicily on the left. Then the group leader turned left. There in front of us was what I at once recognized, thanks to the guns that welcomed us through Gibraltar, as flak—and heavy flak at that. Obviously the famous German 88 mm. guns were throwing up bursts a good deal larger than those I had seen before. The formation didn't seem to hang together very well in the flak.
Then we were over Sicily and very near our target. In a minute we dropped our bombs, getting scattered hits on the airfield. We turned left again and headed back towards the Mediterranean. At that moment I saw my first German fighters—not many of them. About four fighters made passes at the high right squadron of our group formation. One poor guy had allowed himself to get behind on the outside of the turn and was way out to the right of our group now. Most of the Jerries concentrated on him. He didn't go down, but he must have been hard hit. It looked like a couple of his engines were out as he started violent evasive maneuvers and headed off in the direction of Malta, the haven of many crippled aircraft of our bomber command. Malta was much closer to the targets in the Italy-Sicily area than any of the home airdromes on the south side of the Mediterranean.
Then we found ourselves over the sea again winging home and in pretty good shape, though a little strung out. We were letting down from our bombing altitude. The pilot sighed as he took off his oxygen mask. “Another one behind me,” he said. Then looking at the engine instruments he sounded a little uneasy: “Say! What about that oil pressure in number three?”
“I think it's okay,” I said. “I've been watching that oscillation of pressure and I think it's just something in the instrument. But number four prop is acting up worse than ever. When we get a little farther out I think we'd better feather it.”
“Okay.”
With number four feathered and the last red streaks dying away in the horizon off our right wing, we sighted the Libyan coast. There were the flares signaling our field, and in a few minutes I felt the wheels touch the runway.
Our group had really not had a great deal of practice formation flying at high altitude at the time we got to Africa. We learned we might be allowed only one practice workout before our first combat mission, and we wished we had flown more formation at altitude to get everyone used to doing his job while on oxygen. Ben Walsh, flight commander of my A Flight was the man I picked to be the lead pilot of the squadron. I was going to fly in the lead ship of the squadron as command pilot. Fowble had not yet arrived from England or I would have had him as the lead pilot. Ben was a good boy, but he didn't fly the way I thought he should. My other alternative was to let Frank Ellis, B Flight Commander, lead. Frank was a tall, angular, handsome Kentuckian whom I liked very much but who hadn't as much flying time in B-24s as some of my other pilots and needed a little more time to polish up his technique. At that time Frank was a poor formation flier and I didn't believe the squadron could stay with him.
And so Ben led our first real practice mission in Africa, and I was seated beside him. From the time of our takeoff he was out of formation and in and out again. He would get far back and put on a lot of power and then overrun. He didn't anticipate power changes far enough in advance to maintain his position properly and make it easy on the other fellows flying on him. And then we got in each other's hair. I was trying to tell Ben how to handle power settings, and he was going to the opposite extreme just to let me know he was the pilot. When I got on the
ground I said to him, “Ben, I don't think the squadron can stay with you on a combat mission if you fly like that. For that reason I am going to pilot the lead ship myself on the first mission. You can sit in the copilot's seat and see how I want it done if you wish. After that you will doubtless get what I mean. If you don't want to go under those circumstances you may let your copilot go with me. But I don't want to take a chance on shaking a lot of my boys out of formation in the midst of enemy fighter attacks.”
Ben was livid. He was the only man in the squadron as pigheaded as I, and his retorts to me were not much in keeping with the canons of military courtesy between inferior and superior officers, but I took it and made no comment. I had several hundred hours more flying time in B-24s than Ben, and many more hundred in general flying experience. But it was clear he thought he was the best pilot in the squadron and it enraged him to have anyone, including the squadron commander, imply otherwise. I had been told by the group commander and Major Brooks that normally it would be the policy of the group for squadron commanders to ride as command pilots leading their squadrons. As such they must occupy the copilot's seat in order to be free of the duty of piloting to monitor their formations properly and make command decisions affecting the whole formation. However, it was explicitly stated that on occasions we might like to do our own piloting and on such occasions we would be permitted to do so.
From pieces of the story that came to me later, it was evident that the insulted Ben went straight to Major Brooks and told him I had directed him to fly in the copilot's seat, substituting myself in his place as the lead pilot. I suppose without thinking of the impropriety of Ben's having skipped the chain of command as he had in going over my head, Brooks went immediately to Colonel Wood. Colonel Wood allowed his operations officer a good deal of latitude in formulating group policy, and apparently at Brooks's behest the colonel sent word that I would not fly as first pilot. I must occupy the job of command pilot and the copilot's seat, though, of course I could pick the ship I would fly in. In very short order I learned of this decision.
This blow hit me pretty hard because I felt it reflected strongly upon my authority as a squadron commander. I had been told I might fly as pilot and had relied on that. I felt if I were to be overruled it should not affect a decision already made, but only similar ones in the future. This was simply allowing a flight commander to overrule the squadron commander, which is no good for the maintenance of command authority. I'm sure Colonel Wood didn't think the matter nearly as important as I did. All of my pilots knew of my criticism of Walsh's formation flying and were wondering how it would come out. I was the obvious loser.
And so I decided to ride in the “tail-end-charlie” ship of the formation on the group's first combat mission. Brooks wanted Walsh to lead my squadron. Then, let him lead! Since my squadron was “tail-end-charlie” in the group, I would fly in the corner end ship of the whole unit. I would be riding for no particular purpose other than to ride. Smitty had been designated to take the generally unwanted tail ship position on this first mission, so I would fly with Smitty.
The night before the mission we were briefed. We were to hit Maleme Airdrome on Crete. It was supposed to be an easy break-in raid. We were told by Colonel Wood that he had asked to be given a few more days for training. Brigadier General U. E. Ent, commanding the Ninth Bomber Command, had said he was sorry, but the need was so urgent we must consider ourselves sufficiently trained to go. We were told there were only a half dozen to a dozen German fighters based on the field we were hitting and we might expect enemy opposition to be light. But it had been several days since the intelligence report on enemy strength in Crete, and during that period there had been a British commando landing. It was possible the German forces had been strengthened, but it was believed unlikely.
There was a little Britisher named Barwell, a flight lieutenant, who wanted to go in the ship with Smitty and me. He was a gunnery officer assigned to the Ninth Bomber Command to teach German fighter tactics and gunnery. He had numerous kills to his credit, and always picked the most vulnerable spot in a formation to ride. He felt he had the best chance of getting some shots from the position most open to attack. For this mission he had picked the “tail-end-charlie” ship of a brand new group—Smitty's ship and my ship. As Barwell and I walked up and down in front of the plane while the ground crew put in a last minute's checkup prior to takeoff, he confided in me. “You know,” he said, “I don't know how others feel about this bloody business. But when I see the bomb doors open and I hear the bombardier call ‘bombs away’ over the intercom, I get a thrill that's almost sexual in its intensity.” Barwell is a great gunner, I thought, but maybe he has had just a little too much of it.
At length everything was ready and, upon a flare signal from our small, improvised tower, the first ship took off. We were flying number two ship of the last element, or flight, of three bombers. That is, we flew right wing on the last leader of three ships. Leading the element was Captain Frank Ellis, a very sterling character, but at that time a very poor formation pilot and element leader. The ship on the left wing of Captain Ellis had to turn back because of engine trouble. This left us an element of two airplanes. Nearly all the way out Ellis was a good half mile to a mile from the formation with my ship flying as close a right wing position as we could possibly maintain. There was the group formation, and here were our two ships stuck way out like a decoy to enemy fighters. I worried a good deal on the way out, but I knew our job was to stay with Ellis no matter how much we longed to leave him and join the group. If we were to get the right spirit into the squadron and into the flights, we must stay with the element leader no matter where he led.
We crossed the Mediterranean without mishap and saw the shore of the beautiful island of Crete ahead of us. At last Ellis made a great effort to tack on to his position in the group formation. It was a difficult one for him to hold, but he was doing a little better, thank goodness. We were over the island and we turned right to come in on our bombing run when suddenly we saw enemy fighters, dozens of them. Not according to briefing, thought I. We began to get into some light flak. Our altitude put us pretty much out of range of the guns firing on us, though there were occasional bursts near an airplane.
We saw the bombs falling from the lead ship. All others immediately let go, and as I heard the famous call Barwell loved so well—“Bombs away”—I saw the indicator lights on the instrument panel showing bombs dropping. We were coming out of the meager flak, but there were the fighters and they were coming in for head-on attacks. Most of them were ME-109s and FW-190s, with one or two sleek Italian Macci 202s. Those fighter pilots were awfully good. One flew right between Ellis's ship and our own at about five hundred miles an hour, his guns blazing. I wondered where his shots were hitting. Our turret guns were chattering and I could hear Barwell's top turret firing until his guns jammed and the firing stopped.
“Got one! Got one!” I heard the tail gunner shouting over the interphone. “The bastard blew up—went all to pieces.” Several more passes were made at us but from a distance. It happened that the tail gunner, when all the smoke cleared away, had got one sure kill and one probable, the latter having been seen to catch on fire. The belly turret gunner got credit for one sure kill. So our ship counted two kills and a probable, and we later received official credit for them. Barwell later reported over the interphone that he knew we had done a lot of damage to several others with likely chances of other kills which of course we could not claim. He made no claim for himself and cursed his luck at getting a stoppage of his guns just at the time the fighting was at its height.
Our bombs had been scattered all over the place, with only a few of them in the airdrome area. As soon as bombs were away it was apparent that Captain Caldwell, piloting the lead ship in which Colonel Wood was riding, had thrown on a lot of power and left the target area like a scalded cat. That, we learned, is just what the enemy fighters hope for. It leaves stragglers aplenty because the guys on the
end can't catch up and the whole formation comes apart.
One airplane in Cross's squadron caught fire from a volume of German 20 mm. shells poured into it and went down in flames. Several chutes blossomed out of it and then it blew up. Quite a tragically colorful sight for the first group mission, and how surprisingly like the movies present it. We really were amazed that an airplane blowing up in midair looks exactly like the Hollywood directors picture it. I didn't know whose ship it was at the time, but I found later it was piloted by a fine young fellow named Scates.
I particularly noticed how suddenly an enemy fighter attack materializes. Usually with practically no warning, you look out to see a bunch of 20 mm. cannons blazing at you. Then there will be a moment or two when all hell breaks loose. Attack after attack can come within a matter of seconds, and the whole thing can easily take an unwary crew completely by surprise. Then as a rule the show is over. If your ship is flyable, you are lucky. But if you have really been taken by surprise, there isn't much chance that it is flyable. It is more likely to be on fire, and by the time a few more seconds pass it may be in bits floating casually through the four miles of air between where the bomber was and where the earth is.
Our ship was holed pretty badly. We happened to have no apparent hits in vital spots and we felt pretty sure of our chances to get home once the main fighter attack was over. As soon as we could we caught up with the lead ship of the formation and stacked in close formation. In our ship we had no wounded. We had drawn blood from the enemy fighters, even though perhaps we had done little damage to our assigned target. We had seen one crew of our good comrades lost and we felt this experience enough of the real thing to let us know we were now a combat organization, fighting a rough, mean war.
Bomber Pilot Page 10
