Searching for Pemberley (20 page)

Rob ordered a round of drinks to celebrate the Crowells' good news. Before leaving, Jack said, “Now you know Beth wouldn't send me down here without something for you, Maggie,” and he handed me a large envelope. “She apologizes for not sending more of Elizabeth's diary, but it's slow going, copying all that out
in longhand. When you see the condition of the diary, you'll understand why she has to do that.”

Shaking hands with Rob, Jack said he had learned that a bronze plaque commemorating the 91st Bomb Group's contributions to the air war over Germany was being unveiled at Bassingbourn, Rob's former base, on Memorial Day, and he was wondering if Rob would go with him to the ceremony. This request came out of left field and caught both of us by surprise.

“During the war, we'd listen to the wireless for war news, and we'd hear all about America's Mighty Eighth Air Force and its raids over Germany. Of course, we had Bomber Command and Fighter Command, but for sheer size, you couldn't beat the amount of resources that America threw at Hitler. I always wanted to get up close to a bomber, so I checked a few things out and learnt that your old base is having this ceremony.”

Jack was waiting for Rob's answer, but what could he say, except “yes"? Rob and Jack agreed to meet at the train station in Royston at 9:00 on Memorial Day, and Beth and I were invited.

WHEN ROB AND I got off the train from London, Beth and Jack were waiting for us at the Royston station. Beth walked toward me with arms extended, kissed me on both cheeks, and told me how glad she was to see me. Even though the Montclair years were in the distant past, Beth possessed an elegance of style that came straight from England's glory days before the First War. On the other hand, Jack greeted me with a solid handshake and Rob with a slap on the back.

In July 1945, when the Americans had departed, Bassingbourn had been officially returned to the Royal Air Force. The base was little changed from the time Rob had last seen it in September 1944, except that everyone was wearing RAF blue. Rob pointed to the barracks where his quarters had been, a nondescript, two-story, red brick building. “Compared to some guys, we had it good. Bassingbourn was a permanent RAF installation, so it had a lot more going for it than some of the other stations. We had barracks with central heating and not the Nissen huts you'd see in the newsreels. We took a lot of crap from guys stationed
at other bases who had potbellied stoves to heat a room with twelve guys living in it. But we all had the mud and the rain and the fog.”

Jack pulled up in front of the two-story control tower where a crowd had gathered for the ceremony. Rob looked out at the runways, where hundreds of B-17s had taken to the skies, flying dangerous missions over Germany and occupied Europe. Lined up nose to tail, and in thirty-second intervals, the ten-man crews lifted off and prayed that this would be just one more mission instead of their last mission.

Pointing to the control tower, Rob said, “The ground crew used to stand up there or on the hardstand waiting for the bombers to come back. Of course, they wanted everyone to get back safely, but they'd worry about the other guys once they spotted their own ship.”

Jack mentioned that most of the bombers he had seen during the war had German markings on them. “Everyone thinks of London when they think of the Blitz, but any industrial city or port took a hit, and Southampton, Manchester, and Liverpool were all bombed. As soon as the fires were put out, the Home Guard and the fire brigade commanders supervised the clearing of the rubble, and the rebuilding would begin.”

“Just like in Germany,” Rob said. “We'd have to go back to the same target time and time again, except they used slave labor to clear the rubble.”

“Maybe you could tell us what it was like to go out on one of your missions,” Jack said.

“After the ceremony, if they let us walk around, I'll tell you what it was like.” With that, we joined the group gathered in front of a platform where the speakers were waiting to address the crowd.

We turned our attention to the podium where a number of dignitaries were examining a sketch of a bronze plaque, which would be dedicated at a future date, honoring the five bomb squadrons that had flown 9,591 sorties on 540 missions from this base beginning in September 1942. The Commanding Officer at RAF Bassingbourn introduced an American colonel and a former member of the ground crew of the “Memphis Belle,” the most famous B-17 of the war, each remarking on the extraordinary accomplishments of the men of the Army Air Corps, who had taken off from airfields just like Bassingbourn, to take the war to the enemy on his home ground. Col. Hendricks referred to the more than 3,800 graves of American servicemen at Madingley. At one point, Patrick Monaghan had rested in that cemetery before his family had requested that his remains be returned to Omaha.

Jack, Beth, and I saw Rob's growing discomfort as each speaker talked of the heroism of all the air crews who had come to England to help her defeat the greatest enemy ever to confront modern European civilization. As soon as the last speaker had finished, Rob took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and lit a cigarette. Taking a look around the airfield, Rob said, “I can't get you inside a B-17, because all these bombers are British, but…” He hesitated for a long time before saying, “Are you sure you want to hear all about a mission?” We all nodded.

“Okay. Here's how it went. Everything started with the 8th Air Force Headquarters in High Wycombe. They were the ones who decided what the targets were and what groups would fly.

“You checked the alert board to see what aircraft and crews were flying. If your name was on the list, you couldn't leave the base. If you weren't flying, the pilots might use the Links trainer to fly simulated flights, and the navigators would train on a new
radar system developed by the RAF. On days off, the whole crew practiced ditching.

“While you were sleeping, the ground crew was going over every inch of your plane, and the ordnance crews were loading the bombs into the bomb bay. Anywhere between 0300 and 0600 hours, a sergeant, a great guy from Kansas, who probably could have sat out the war because of his age, came into our room and said, 'Monaghan, McAllister. You're flying. Breakfast at 0400, briefing at 0430.' Something like that. He'd give you about one minute for this to sink in, and then he'd shine a light in your face. Pat always said the same thing: 'Another day, another dollar,' and then he'd jump down from the top bunk and start getting dressed.

“If you were lucky, your mission would be a milk run to France or Holland, but if it was Berlin or the Ruhr, you'd hear mumblings and groans. The movies showing guys cheering about going to Berlin was b.s., unless they had a death wish.

“You were shown photographs, maps, and diagrams to help you identify the target. When Allied troops were nearby, or if your target was in France or Holland, you had to make visual identification of noted landmarks to make sure you didn't kill friendlies. If you weren't absolutely sure, you went on to your secondary target.

“After that, another officer went over escape and evasion procedures, including where rescue ships were located in the North Sea and the Channel. Before your first mission, in case you had to bail out, you had your picture taken in civilian clothes that a European workman would wear. Hopefully, you would connect with someone from the resistance, and they'd use the pictures to get you false papers. In our escape kits, we had a little
compass and a scarf, which was actually a map to help with your escape. Everybody loved those things.

“The navigation officer went over order of takeoff and your position in the group. That's what everyone was waiting to hear. You were known by the name of your pilot, so it would be something like 'Canicatti flying position 3-6.' There were three squadrons to a group: lead, low, and high, with six ships in each squadron and maybe a couple extras in case someone had to drop out.”

Crushing his Pall Mall into the runway, Rob continued: “After your briefing, you went to the equipment room to draw your gear: oxygen mask, throat mike, leather helmet, and other stuff all went into the flight bag. Every guy decided how much clothing to wear under his flight suit. The warmest part of the plane is in the Plexiglas nose, or 'the greenhouse,' which is where the bombardier and navigator sit. The gunners have it the worst because they are exposed to freezing temperatures for most of the flight. Your suit has insulated wires that get plugged into the electrical system at your station with a rheostat to control the temperature. You put on rubber boots, fleece flying jacket, your Mae West life preserver, parachute, and flak jacket. A lot of guys grabbed an extra flak jacket to sit on as additional protection for the family jewels.

“A truck came by and picked up the crew and took you to the revetment where your plane was parked. You taxied out onto the runway and waited for the green flare, which told you the mission was on. You waited your turn, and then off you went. Because it took a long time to get hundreds of bombers up in the air at the same time, you had to keep flying around and around while the pilots found their place in the formation.

“Once the plane was over the Channel, the gunners shot off a few rounds to make sure their guns were working. I was always looking for geographical checkpoints to make sure we were on course. I called the flight deck every half hour to let Cosmo and Mick know exactly where we were. When we got up to 10,000 feet, Mick told everyone to go on oxygen and to put on their steel helmets. After that, he'd check on everyone about every fifteen minutes to make sure that no one had conked out because of a lack of oxygen.

“On my first two missions, I flew with an experienced crew, which was standard procedure. I introduced myself to the pilot, but all he said was, 'Do your job.' I didn't understand it at the time, but later on I realized it was because he figured I'd get killed. If he didn't know me, it was one less guy to feel bad about. Keep in mind, this guy is about twenty-one years old, younger than me, but he had the eyes of an old man.

“After the first mission, I felt as if I had aged ten years. I told Pat I didn't see how I could do this twenty-four more times, and he said, 'You won't have to. I hear that the average number of missions for the 91st, our bomb group, is fourteen, and then you're either dead or a prisoner.' Gallows humor. I told him to go…,” and then he looked at Beth and said, “take a hike.” And everyone started to laugh.

“Early on, because of fuel limitations, we had fighter escort only as far as the German border. After that, we were on our own. The Germans knew exactly where we were because of the bomber stream. Contrails from hundreds of bombers are hard to miss. More often than not, the fighters were waiting for you. When they disappeared, you knew you were heading into flak.” Shrugging his shoulders, he said,
“There's not much you can do about flak.” It was flak that had killed Pat Monaghan.

“Once the IP or Initial Point had been identified, the lead plane would send out a colored flare to let everyone know we were over the target. At the start of the bomb run, the pilot turned the ship over to the bombardier, who actually flew the plane through the Norden bombsight until after we had dropped our bombs. If a plane got hit, you looked to see if anyone had made it out and counted parachutes. You also had to report on any planes you saw going down or exploding. If a plane went into a spin, centrifugal force often kept the crew pinned inside the plane, and they couldn't get out.

“Back in England, the control tower told you in what order you would land. Priority was given to any ship carrying someone who had been seriously wounded. After that, bombers that had been shot up and might have trouble landing were given priority. From there, you went to interrogation. You're dead tired, but you have to answer all their questions. 'Did you encounter any fighters?' 'Where was flak the heaviest?' 'Did you have a visual on the target?' and so on.

“After flying with Cosmo and Mick, two of the coolest pilots under the worst of circumstances, I didn't want to fly with anyone else. But two other pilots I flew with landed our ship in a turnip field. The wings were so shot up that there was more daylight than not. It was only because of their skill that we made it to land, and we didn't have to ditch. Your chances of surviving a water landing in the English Channel are between slim and none. If by some miracle you manage to get out of the plane, you'd probably freeze to death because of the water temperature.

“Believe it or not, that crash had a happy ending. There were all these girls from the British Land Army, who were working in the fields, and they came over to make sure we were all right. This cute little brunette runs up to the tail gunner and plants a kiss on his cheek. Badger tells the girl that he's going to marry her, and son of a gun if he didn't look her up when he had finished his missions. That's a hell of a way to meet your wife.”

With Rob talking about dangerous missions over Nazi Germany, it wasn't the right time to ask about Badger and his bride. But when it was a good time, I wanted to know how Badger knew in a few minutes that this English girl was the right one for him. In five months, Rob hadn't figured it out, or maybe he had.

“Once we got clear of the flak and fighters, we'd tell jokes or start singing. I sang Western ballads, which Cosmo hated, calling it shit kicker's music. His guy was Frank Sinatra. You had to lighten things up, or the pressure could be unbearable.

“That was all there was to it, except you had to do it twenty-five, thirty, or thirty-five times, depending on when you got to England.” Taking off his tie, he said, “Let's go into the village and get a beer.”

We drove into Royston, which had all of the charm of a small English village, right down to the occasional thatched roof, gray-stone village church, and memorial to those killed in The Great War. We headed to the “Red Cow,” Rob's favorite pub during the war. The owner recognized Rob and came over and shook his hand. “The first one's on me,” he said, putting his hand on Rob's shoulder. “There's been a bunch of your old gang in here today.” Turning his back to me, the owner whispered, “You know that Millie got married?” Rob took my hand and introduced me as “the best thing that ever happened to him.”