Combat Crew (14 page)

Outside the weather was cold even though winter had not yet arrived. Jim stepped out to study the weather and forecast what we could expect by morning. His meteorological discourse attracted scant attention. Woodrow Pitts was absent, which meant he had not returned from his nightly scouting trip to the canteen. I was writing in my notebook, trying hard to capture on paper the feel and pulse of this odd hut and describe the assortment of characters.

There was a loud banging on the metal wall from outside, and two men from an adjoining hut opened the door and demanded that the noise level be lowered by several decibels. They were ignored because who cared what they wanted? It was getting late, but going to bed was out of the question until the occupants wore themselves down.

The sound of a heavy crash against the wall overpowered the music volume. Jim said to me (the only one who was close enough to hear him), “Pitts hit the hut with his bicycle. Must have tanked up pretty good.”

“I wonder what he found out.”

An explosion of classic profanity — not the ordinary, timeworn barracks expletives, but a flow of words with expressive character. The door opened and Pitts entered.

“Hey, Pitts!” said Counce, “Did ya step in the big mud hole in the dark?”

“Or did you have the crabs again?” asked Kettner.

“Hell, no, I don't have the crabs! I went over my boot top in the stinkin' mud. And my bicycle has another flat.” That triggered one more outburst of colorful adjectives.

“All right. All right. Knock off the noise. Let's hear what Pitts found out,” said Tedesco.

The sounds faded out and we looked at Woodrow. “Well, I talked to three armorers. They're loadin' thousand pounders. All the signs say go in the morning.”

“In that case,” I said hopefully, “let's hit the sack an' get some sleep.”

Such a silly suggestion was unworthy of consideration. Lancia turned to Pitts. “New Jersey raises more vegetables than your whole state of Texas.”

“Bullshit!” Pitts roared in rebuttal. “The Rio Grande Valley grows more in a week than your two-bit New Jersey farmers grow in a month!”

We were off on one of the nightly arguments. Ray Bechtel said, “California grows more than Texas and New Jersey put together.”

Pitts and Lancia turned on Bechtel, and Pitts looked to me for support of the Lone Star State. I declined to join the fray because none of us knew anything about growing statistics. Barracks arguments are won by the loudest voice.

Wilson stirred and opened one eye. “What time is it?” he asked.

“About midnight,” someone answered.

“Why didn't somebody wake me up for chow?”

“I got an extra Hershey Bar if that will help,” I volunteered.

Kettner interrupted, “Hold it! Hold it! It's time for the late news.”

He switched on the radio to B.B.C. “This is the news: Royal Air Force Lancasters are out in force over the Continent tonight. Flight Officer Leahigh-Smith, flying a Mosquito, reported he could see a huge column of fire sixty kilometers from Cologne. The sounds of heavy gunfire in the Channel could be heard today east of Southampton. … The Admiralty admitted the loss of a freighter from a convoy south of Iceland. … Air raid sirens are wailing over the Midlands tonight. … Continued mopping up actions in Italy against slight opposition. There are unconfirmed reports that the Italian Military Forces are on the verge of surrender. … The Prime Minister said in Parliament today that we will drive the Hun from France and the soil of Belgium and Holland, but let the Hun guess when and where our forces will strike.”

The noise of the Jeep outside woke me up. I flipped on a flashlight and looked at my watch: It was 0230 hours … an early start! What did that mean — an extra-long mission? As I heard the familiar footsteps on the gravel walk, going from hut to hut, I was halfway hoping it wasn't my morning to go. When I heard the steps go on past our door, however, I became resentful that they were passing me up. Now what did I really want? That sound of crunching feet on gravel put me in an ambivalent mental state: the dread of going versus the prospect of excitement. The door opened, and I listened with little enthusiasm to the reading of the battle roster.

On the way to the mess hall George said, “I wonder how the Operations Officer feels when he reads out our names — he knows some of us won't make it back.”

“Someone has to do it, George. Which would you rather do? Take the risks yourself? Or have to choose which men may die?”

“I could never send men out to fight, John, and maybe to die …. I would feel responsible for those who didn't get back.”

At Operations I waited with Jim and George for some signal from the Briefing Room.

“I wish they'd start the Briefing — Oh! Oh! Listen to that!” Jim grimaced.

There was a deep and prolonged groan followed by silence! My insides constricted because the pilots thought we had a super-mean one coming up.

Balmore said, “I hope it's not Schweinfurt again — or somewhere worse.”

“Where th' hell could that be?” asked Counce.

An hour later I had the extra ammo on board and was about finished with the guns. Someone stuck his head up in the hatch under the nose and called, “Put the guns away, leave 'em right where they are. Grab your equipment — hurry!”

“What's wrong with those knuckleheads at Operations? Don't they know we can't change planes this late and get ready on time?”

Then I realized it was Gleichauf down below. “The Operations people aren't knuckleheads!” he said. “I made the aircraft change! Where we're goin', 765 can't make it on gas.”

“I'm sorry …”

“Forget it. Grab your stuff, and let's go! Hurry up!” In the back of the speeding truck Gleichauf gave us the story. “We're hittin' Stuttgart, in south Germany — another ball-bearing plant. It's the longest raid B-17s have attempted. Some aircraft will have twenty-seven hundred gallons of fuel, but we will have only seventeen hundred and fifty. It is gonna be close on fuel. No way 765 could make it on gas. P-47s will be with us a little way, then we go it alone. We'll be over enemy territory five hours.”

It was the big league for sure. When the truck stopped and I saw the aircraft it was another blow!
Tinker Toy
! Many of the gunners thought it was a jinx ship. They thought that somehow she attracted fighter attacks, because of the consistent battle damage that had become her trademark. Sitting there in your easy chair reading this account, and insulated by both time and distance, you may smile indulgently at the idea of a jinx. But men in combat tend to become superstitious. They go to great lengths to avoid whatever they suspect to be unlucky. And they cling to lucky charms or some clothing that they have always worn on missions, or to anything they associate with luck. There were some pilots who liked to fly
Tinker Toy
because the ship handled well and was easy on fuel. But her reputation with the gunners continued to grow.

Balmore looked like he had suddenly become ill.

“Oh, now, George, an airplane couldn't really be a jinx — that would be like believing in ghosts,” I countered.

Gleichauf walked by. “Cut this talk about a jinx and get this airplane ready! We only have ten minutes until time to start engines!”

We were running woefully short of time, and I was shocked at the poor condition of the guns. All we could do was to keep working on them, mainly to remove the rust from the working parts, after the plane got into the air. We were almost across the Channel before my two guns were ready.

There were no bailout oxygen bottles in the aircraft, but I had six that I always carried in my equipment bag for emergencies. They were steel cylinders wrapped in piano wire and filled with oxygen compressed to eighteen hundred pounds' pressure.

Gleichauf knew Purus had picked up a case of diarrhea during the night. Johnny made a hurried exit into the darkness, and when he returned Paul asked, “Are you gonna be able to make it?”

“That was the third crap since midnight,” he answered.

“If you shouldn't go, I'll call Operations to try to get another Bombardier.”

“Not enough time for that,” Purus replied. “I'll go — but I may get more calls.”

Shutting had a suggestion. “Take along one of those metal ammunition cans. If you have to crap you can throw it overboard on the Krauts!”

Carl was to regret that advice a few hours later.

The formation came together quickly, to save fuel, and then set out over the cold waters of the English Channel.

“Radio to Turret.”

“Go ahead, Radio.”

“My oxygen is leaking.”

“Here we go again! What's th' problem this time?”

“I already told you,” Balmore replied testily. “My oxygen's leakin'.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the right system is goin' down too damn fast!”

Before I could leave the turret to go to the radio room the pilot came on intercom: “Turret, stay where you are! We're too close to the French coast.”

“Pilot to Right Waist.”

“Go ahead.”

“Jim, take a look at the Radio oxygen system.”

“OK, Pilot.”

Five minutes later Jim called, “Waist to Pilot! Waist to Pilot! There's a slow leak in the right aft oxygen system — no telling where it is.”

“Copilot to crew — Copilot to crew! All positions in the rear switch to the right oxygen system — use it up first.”

That was all we could do for the moment. The route was over France to the Rhine River. We crossed the coast at a lower level than usual and were still climbing.

“Waist to crew-B -17 pullin' outta th' formation — can't see anythin' wrong with his engines. What the hell is he trying to do?”

The escort had already turned back to England and it was still a long way to the target.

“Waist to crew. Fighters — six o'clock low, comin' up fast! May be 190s.”

For a few minutes the B-17 trailing us flew along unmolested. I think the Jerries were puzzled and may have suspected a trick.

“Tail to crew! Three 190s jumpin' that Fort behind us.”

“Waist to crew! Th' wing's on fire — why don't they jump? Oh, I see some chutes now!”

There was heavy smoke and another Fortress was on its way down. “Bombardier to Copilot.”

“Go ahead.”

“That was stupid! Why do you think he pulled out of the formation?”

“Some new pilot, nervous and inexperienced — thought it would be easier to fly all by himself.”

As we approached the Rhine River, George called again. “Radio to Turret — pressure's down to a hundred pounds.”

“Even so you should have enough … your left system is OK and you can kick off of oxygen at sixteen thousand feet coming back.”

Tinker Toy
was an old ship, an E model. It had small oxygen tanks in each turret that had to be refilled from the main system tanks on long flights. We were used to that, as aircraft 765 was an E model.

“Ball to Waist — my oxygen tank's gettin' low. Be ready to fill it in a few minutes.”

“OK, Nick. Let me know when you're ready,” Counce answered.

“Bombardier to Navigator.”

“Go ahead, Johnny.”

“I got another call — got to use that damn ammo can! Take over my gun until I'm through.”

The forward nose gun was much more vital to our defense than either of the side guns in the nose.

“OK,” Shutting said. “I'll take over your gun, but you're gonna freeze your butt at thirty-five degrees below!”

“I know that but it's better than lettin' it go in my pants.”

“Copilot to Nose — keep the intercom clear!”

“Waist to Ball. Ready for me to fill your tank?”

“Yeah — soon as I swing around. I'll hold steady 'til you tell me it's clear.”

My earphones were not the best and the higher we climbed, the worse they were. I could make out only fragments of the intercom conversation.

Jim finished filling the ball turret tank from the left rear system pressure. When he removed the filler hose there was a loud spewing noise, and Jim realized that there was moisture in the oxygen system, no doubt caused by the condensation of moisture during those prolonged periods when that aircraft was out of action for repairs from battle damage. Hard ice had formed to hold both valves open, letting the precious oxygen pour out of both the ball and the left rear system tanks. He frantically tried to reengage the ball valve but the ice was too hard. In desperation, he ran to the waist for the nearest walk-around bottle and quickly hammered it onto the system valve. But he could do nothing to stop the drain of the ball pressure and it dropped to zero. Most of the system pressure in the rear of the aircraft was now gone.

“Waist to Copilot …”

I could not make out what Jim was saying. “Copilot to Ball — Copilot to Ball, come in.”

“Go ahead.”

“Get outta that Ball quick, Nick. Jim says your oxygen pressure is gone.”

“I'm comin' out of the Ball.”

“Copilot to Radio.”

“Go ahead.”

“Help Nick out of that ball and hook him up on your spare hose.”

“Paul — Paul!” Herb motioned for Gleichauf to switch over to intercom. “Got a bad problem in the back. Th' ball oxygen is gone an' not much left for the other men. How about sending Nick to the nose? He's in the radio room now.”

“Nick, can you hear me?”

“Go ahead, Pilot.”

“Move to th' nose right away. Got to save what oxygen we have back there.”

“Copilot to Abramo — don't forget your chute!”

Meanwhile Purus had completed his uncomfortable session with the ammo can, but the Navigator did not hear the order for Abramo to hasten to the nose, because his earphones were disconnected as he changed back to his regular gun position.