The Bomber Boys (31 page)

Over Munich that day,
Torchy Tess
was hit by flak and heavily damaged. An explosion to the left and near the nose of the bomber wounded its navigator and bombardier, and knocked out the number one and two engines. Soon the two remaining right-wing engines were leaking oil. Ablanalp knew the only hope was to try to reach Switzerland, which is what the valiant pilot managed to do. But with only two weakened engines, the B-17 could not reach a landing strip.

With two Swiss Air Force fighters escorting him down, Ablanalp brought
Torchy Tess
in for a crash landing. The landing area was mostly open land that was dotted with a few trees. Most of the crew, huddled in the radio room, could not see what was happening, but they could feel the bomber sliding across the field, and they could hear parts of their aircraft begin to break away. The bomber had almost come to a stop when it hit a tree.

Several members of the crew were injured, including Ablanalp and his copilot, Second Lieutenant Harold V. Gividen. Soon after being removed from the wrecked Fortress, Ablanalp, who had saved all of his men, was dead. The crew buried their pilot with full military honors in Münsingen, Switzerland.

Torchy Tess
was a total loss at the end of her fifty-eighth mission, but she would never be forgotten by the numerous 351st airmen who had flown her and loved her.

Crew Reunion
: In the early 1990s, George Ahern began to attend 351st Bomb Group reunions, where he has been reunited with former crewmate Charles “Buddy” Armstrong on several occasions and once with Philip Duke. The three old friends stay in touch today via telephone and e-mail.

Manna from Heaven

BOB VALLIERE

 

385TH BOMB GROUP

 

550TH BOMB SQUADRON

 

 

 

 

 

The play at first base was extremely close. The runner’s foot touched the bag at the very instant the ball slammed into the first baseman’s mitt. The umpire hesitated only a second or two before making his call, but even that minuscule delay did not go unnoticed by the hometown crowd. When the official jerked his right thumb into the air, the fans at Ebbets Field showered him with boos.

With the game close and his team struggling through a .500 season, Brooklyn manager Leo Durocher had been poised on the top step of the dugout. When the umpire called his runner out, Durocher stormed toward first base. Even with the protesting runner screaming at him, the ump kept his eyes on the Dodgers’ flamboyant leader. Durocher, in his fifth season as a major league manager, had already earned a reputation for being both combative and brilliant.

In a choice seat behind the Dodger dugout, nineteen-year-old Bob Valliere watched the argument escalate as Durocher placed
himself between his player and the umpire. Bob smiled, knowing that in the press box a radio announcer was probably describing Durocher’s language as “colorful.” Bob was close enough to the fray to hear some of the manager’s harsher comments, but even he could not always tell when Durocher had truly lost his temper or when he was just acting.

Bob knew the Dodger manager well—well enough to call him by his first name and, in fact, Durocher had provided his ticket to the game that day. Leo was family; he and Bob were second cousins. Throughout his teenage years, Bob had been allowed access to the Dodger dressing room and dugout, where he had met many of Brooklyn’s beloved Bums.

On the field, the umpire had grown tired of Durocher’s verbal assault, and he turned to walk away from the manager. Durocher was having none of it. When his language failed to achieve the desired result, the hot-tempered manager resorted to one of his favorite tactics. Baseball rules prohibited anyone from touching an umpire, but the rules said nothing about a player or manager taking his anger out on the ground. Durocher was determined to exercise this right of expression, and soon he was kicking his cleats into the dirt with such gusto that a small dust storm seemed to be brewing around first base.

If some of the dirt and a few small pebbles kicked up by the Dodger manager happened to strike the umpire’s trousers, Durocher did not feel responsible. The umpire saw things differently. “You’re out of here!” the ump screamed, loud enough for Bob and everyone else in the box seats to hear. For those out of earshot, the umpire emphasized his action with a dramatic gesture, pointing a finger toward the Dodger dugout. Durocher had been thrown out of the game.

Bob watched with complete enjoyment as cousin Leo kicked a little more dirt in the umpire’s direction. The manager then strolled to the home dugout under the appreciative cheers of the
Dodger fans. Bob knew Leo had gotten just what he wanted. There had never been any doubt that the umpire’s controversial call would stand. Leo had taken the heat away from the runner, one of his starting players. He had fired up the rest of his team and at the same time he had entertained the hometown crowd. He had done what needed to be done at the time.

Bob Valliere was in a similar situation as he left the ballpark that afternoon. It was the summer of 1943 and after having completed two years of studies at Michigan State University, Bob was prepared to put his personal plans on hold to go to war. He had been accepted into the United States Army Air Corps and was looking forward to the challenges of navigation school in San Marcos, Texas. With some luck, Bob estimated he could become a navigator, complete his bomber training, fly his twenty-five combat missions and still be back in the States in time to see the Dodgers play in next season’s World Series—if cousin Leo could work a miracle and get his team there. It never crossed Bob’s mind that the Dodgers’ chances were better than those of a combat bomber navigator.

 

 

 

Bob Valliere was born in Brooklyn, New York, on August 23, 1924. His parents were first-generation Americans. Bob’s father, Armand, was of French heritage, and his mother, the former Marie Signaigo, was Italian. The Vallieres shared a two-story brick home with Marie’s mother and father—Bob and his parents lived on the second floor and the Signaigo grandparents occupied the downstairs.

It was a warm and fertile atmosphere for an only child who grew up indulged but who showed continuing signs of above-average intelligence. A straight-A student, Bob graduated from high school at age sixteen and then breezed through two years of college courses. Army Air Force testing officers were surprised
when Private Bob Valliere achieved a perfect score on his navigation school entrance exam.

For Bob, a young man blessed with a natural ability for mathematics, the Air Corps’ tough navigation school proved to be no more an obstacle than Michigan State had been. Bob graduated near the top of his class and, commissioned as a second lieutenant /navigation officer, headed to MacDill Field in Florida. At MacDill, the young navigator met his new bomber crew and began flying training missions, eagerly applying the skills he had acquired in navigation school.

The weeks flew by. Combat training was completed, and Bob and his crewmates awaited assignment with nervous anticipation. But before they could take off for overseas, there was another in a seemingly endless string of physical examinations. Bob did not give it a second thought. He had already passed half a dozen physicals since his initial enlistment. He was sure there had been some kind of mistake when the examining doctor told him, “Son, you have a hernia.”

“I can’t have a hernia,” Bob responded and explained how he had passed all the previous Army physical exams.

“Well, they missed it, because you have had it since birth. Don’t worry, we will admit you into the base hospital and schedule an operation. You’ll be as good as new.”

“How long will it take? I’ll be leaving with my crew in just a few days,” Bob said.

“No, you can’t fly for at least two months after the operation.” The doctor informed him it was Army regulations. A day or two later, Bob watched his bomber crew take off in a new B-17, headed for the war in Europe without him.

Bob resigned himself to the delay and decided to enjoy his hospital stay. After a successful operation, the navigator was free to roam the hospital, flirt with the nurses and even go carousing in town during the evenings. If the Army was forcing a
two-month liberty on him,
Why not enjoy it?
he thought
.
The newspaper headlines made it clear the war would still be there after his hospital stay ended.

When he was finally discharged from the hospital, Bob moved into the transient barracks and dutifully checked the bulletin board every day to see when he would be assigned to a new bomber crew. Day after day and then week after week, the name Bob Valliere failed to appear on any of the crew lists. After a month had passed, he approached an assignment officer, only to be told, “Be patient.” Still, nothing happened, and Bob realized his records were lost somewhere in the vast Army bureaucracy.

One day, seven full months after leaving the MacDill field hospital, Bob bumped into another officer, whom he had known at San Marcos Navigation School. The ribbons on his friend’s uniform indicated he was a combat veteran who had completed his tour.

“Hey, Bob, when did you get back?”

“I’m still here!” Bob said. “I’ve never been assigned.”

As the two friends caught up, Bob found his book from navigation school and opened it to a photograph of their graduation class. The veteran officer pointed to one of their classmates in the photo. “He was killed in action.” Pointing to another, he added, “He was also killed in action.” Again and again, he placed his finger on a different face in the photo and repeated the phrase, “Killed in action.”

A few days later, Bob checked the new-assignments board and was surprised to see his name listed as the replacement navigator for a rookie crew that was headed to the Eighth Air Force in England.

 

 

 

Bob and his bomber crewmates made their Atlantic crossing on the
Queen Elizabeth
along with thirteen thousand other military
personnel. After disembarking in Scotland, the airmen spent a few days waiting for their bomb group assignment. The rookies found there was no shortage of war rumors floating around. One of the most prevalent rumors concerned the 100th Bomb Group.

The 100th had earned a reputation as a hard-fighting and hard-luck bomb group. In truth, their losses did seem to come in bunches. Of twenty-four B-17s shot down during the August 17, 1943, raid over Regensburg, nine were from the 100th Bomb Group. On October 10, 1943, the 100th sent thirteen of its bombers to Münster as part of a larger formation. Only one plane returned.

In March 1944, the 100th along with the 95th Bomb Group comprised the first Eighth Air Force formation to bomb Berlin; the 100th lost one of its Fortresses in the process. Eight more 100th bombers went down in July over Merseburg. Then during a mission to Ruhland in September, the Luftwaffe came “out of the sun” to devastate the 100th Bomb Group again—shooting down eleven bombers. Finally, on the last day of the year and only days before Bob Valliere’s arrival in Scotland, the 100th Bomb Group lost twelve B-17s while flying a raid on Hamburg.

So when Bob and the others on his new crew heard, “If you get assigned to the 100th Bomb Group, you might as well make out your will,” it was as much fact as it was rumor. Every veteran airman of the Eighth Air Force had heard of the “bloody 100th.” When their assignment came, everyone on Bob’s crew was relieved to hear that they would be heading to Great Ashfield air base to become members of the 351st Bomb Group and the 550th Bomb Squadron.

Bob reached Great Ashfield airfield with his eight new crewmates. (By January 1945, the Eighth Air Force had decided one waist gunner could handle both midship gun positions.) The
crew commander was Lieutenant Michael Swana, who was comfortable with his men calling him “Mike.” Born in Dudley, Massachusetts, Swana was the son of Czechoslovakian immi grants. Only twenty years old, he was also one of the youngest bomber pilots in the Eighth Air Force.

Copilot Lieutenant Wallace MacCafferty had trained as a fighter pilot before being assigned to bombers. The bombardier was Flight Officer Marvin Hydecker. Nineteen-year-old Leonard Weinstein, who had been a running back on the New York University football teams of 1942 and 1943 and now held the rank of Tech Sergeant, would be the crew’s radio operator and gunner. The rest of the crew members were: flight engineer, Staff Sergeant Al Hareda; waist gunner, Tech Sergeant William Wells; tail gunner (and sometimes ball turret gunner), Staff Sergeant Charles DuShane. The crew’s regular ball turret gunner was a staff sergeant named Shinberg. After one or two missions, a new ball turret gunner was assigned to Swana’s crew. The replacement gunner was a staff sergeant by the name of Goldstein.

Swana and his crew were given a B-17 that had been named
The Stork Club
by its previous crew. Although
The Stork Club
had plenty of combat mission miles on her, the bomber appeared to be in good condition, and she sported some creative nose art. The airplane’s name was proudly displayed in bold letters, and beneath it was a painting of a stork carrying a bundle that contained not a baby, but a large bomb. Swana’s bomber boys liked the nose art, and they liked the Flying Fortress.
The Stork Club
had a history, but now she was all theirs.

The rookies were eager to get their first combat mission behind them, especially Bob, who had waited so long. When the day finally arrived, he nervously climbed into the nose compartment. He carried with him a small gift from his mother—a string of rosary beads. As he hung the beads near his navigation table,
he noticed the bombardier, Marvin Hydecker, watching him. Bob felt a little self-conscious, until Hydecker smiled and nodded to indicate his approval.

When
The Stork Club
taxied onto the runway, every man on board tried to calm his
first-mission jitters.
Bob touched the rosary beads and said a silent prayer:
Don’t let me screw up. Don’t let anything go wrong.
Lieutenant Mike Swana piloted his aircraft into the air. During the next half an hour, something
was
going to go terribly wrong for the crew of
The Stork Club.