The Bomber Boys (7 page)

The bomber crews could expect heavy flak, the briefing officer
continued. “And the Luftwaffe,” which had been keeping a low profile during recent raids, could be expected to be “up in force” to protect Berlin. Four hundred more American B-24 Liberators would be striking Magdeburg and should “divert some attention away from the Berlin raid.” Tony doubted the Germans could miss noticing a thousand B-17s heading for their capital. He glanced at Jerry Chart and tried to read the pilot’s facial expression. To Tony, their skipper seemed to have a look of resolution. He hoped he was reading it right, because that was what they would need on their first mission to Berlin.

The boys in Chart’s crew were glad to see it was bomber number 015 waiting for them as they piled out of their truck. She had taken them to Reims, Cologne and Koblenz and had always brought them home. If they had to go to “the Big B,” she was as good a gal as any.

Later at several thousand feet above the English Channel, Tony surveyed the scene from his perch inside the airplane’s nose section. Ahead of the aircraft, as far as the eye could see on a beautiful clear day, were hundreds of gleaming B-17s. It was a sight that he knew he would never be able to sufficiently describe to anyone who was not there.

He also knew history was being made, and he was a part of it. For a while, the young navigator forgot about what he knew was waiting for them in the sky over Berlin—dense flak, a long bomb run and probably German fighters. His hunger to fly, along with destiny, had placed him on board this B-17 as a part of a massive strike at the heart of the Nazi government, and like every man on board, he planned to do his job.

Thousands of other Eighth Air Force airmen were also buckling down for the long trip to Berlin. Far below, German citizens on farms and in small villages ran from their homes to stare up at the fleet of American bombers that soon stretched from horizon to horizon. Most of the German spectators must have
realized how the war must now end—if an aerial invasion of such unimaginable size could cross their homeland unopposed.

From the lead aircraft to the last B-17, the bomber formation stretched for more than three hundred miles. When the first Fortress dropped its bombs on Berlin at ten thirty a.m., the last American bomber was just passing over Holland.

Tony checked and rechecked his coordinates to the Initial Point. Then he checked them again—more to occupy his mind than for any other reason. Time passed slowly as the rumble of the bomber’s engines mingled with the noise of the other 305th B-17s, flying in a tight combat box formation.

Visibility was excellent and miles away from Berlin, Tony spotted clouds of dark smoke rising from the Earth. He knew the source of the smoke was the fires burning out of control in the German capital. The first wave of American bombers had marked the target area with high explosives and incendiaries. The city’s firemen would be helpless to extinguish the fires until the last bomber was gone. The attack would last for one hour and forty-five minutes. Hitler’s vow that “we will raze their (English) cities to the ground” had come home to haunt Berliners.

As the 305th Bomb Group approached the Initial Point, Tony could see that despite the devastation she had already suffered, Berlin was still ready to put up a fight. Black flak bursts pocked the sky above the city. Twenty-five thousand feet below, veteran Luftwaffe gunners manned the flak towers that had been constructed to make the capital the most strongly defended of all German cities. The towers were augmented by numerous other antiaircraft installations operated by teenage boys and members of the German Home Guard.

Moments after Tony reported to Jerry Chart, “Skipper, we’re at the IP,” the B-17 began to get bounced around by flak concussions. Waist gunner Tom Christenson was the first of the crew
to have a brush with death. A piece of shrapnel flew by him, just missing his head—but not missing him completely as it grazed him over the eye.

In the airplane’s nose, Tony began his personal survival routine, which he had been using on the last several missions. Maybe it did not provide any real protection and it certainly was uncomfortable, but it was
his
routine and it had worked so far.

Tony reasoned it was his job to get his B-17 to the Initial Point. After the dangerous bomb run, it was his job to guide the pilot and the aircraft back to England—but during the bomb run, Tony’s only priority was to stay alive.

The navigator held the small cross that hung around his neck with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. He crossed himself with his right hand. Already wearing one flak jacket, he placed another on the floor beneath the navigator’s desk. His friend Carl Robinson had procured the extra jacket for him. Tony had reciprocated by purchasing a new pair of officer’s dress shoes at the PX and giving them to the flight engineer.

Exchanging a quick glance with the toggler who was kneel ing at his bombsight, Tony tightened the strap on his flak helmet and squeezed his five-foot, two-inch frame underneath his desk. It was a tight fit even for his size.

The toggler watched Tony’s routine and wished he had a desk, too. Of course, every man on the bomber knew that for the next fifteen minutes, there would be no safe place inside the B-17. Flak bursts were already starting to shake and rattle the bomber. Should the nose of the airplane take a direct hit, Tony’s routine would not matter. Everything would be gone—the desk, the toggler and the navigator.

The German antiaircraft gunners in Berlin were to be respected. They had gained plenty of experience since the American B-17s and Liberators had begun flying daylight raids on the German capital almost a year before. To Allied airmen, Berlin
was The Big B, and as far as Tony was concerned, the “B” stood for Bad!

As large as New York City, Berlin presented a long bomb run. Some bombers were going to be hit, and some crews would not be going home. Flying LeMay’s straight-in bomb pattern, it was mostly a matter of luck or fate. So Tony had nothing to do but to ride it out. His only obligation during the bomb run was to log in the time of the bomb release, and he had even worked that out in a way that limited his exposure.

More flak bursts. Heavy impact. Very close. B-17 number 015 was a tough bird, Tony reminded himself. Jerry Chart was a top-notch skipper. He had brought them home from eleven missions and often with a shot-up airplane. Top-notch skipper.

Two loud flak explosions seemed to say, “This is different!” This was The Big B, and she had a special welcome for the 305th Bomb Group on its first visit to Berlin since December of the previous year. That mission had cost the 305th dearly, with three of its bombers being shot from the sky—one of those, commanded by pilot Charles R. Todd, had broken apart in midair, killing Todd and all eight of his crewmen.

Now Tony could hear the sound of metal fragments glancing off the airplane’s Plexiglas nose cone. It sure seemed as if they had been in the bomb run long enough to be over target. Why had he not felt the bombs being released?

“What’s going on?” he asked the toggler without moving from his spot below the desk.

“Lead plane hasn’t dropped his bombs yet,” the toggler replied, making no attempt to hide the impatience in his voice.

Tony shifted his weight to keep his legs from cramping up and freed his left hand, checking his watch. Only seven minutes had passed since I.P. Still, they had to be close to target. Then, suddenly, there it was. The airplane lurched upward as several hundred pounds of bombs fell from its belly.

As the B-17 lifted, so did the crew’s spirits—at least a little. The flak was just as bad on the way out, of course, but now their pilot’s flying skills could come into play. He could take evasive action and use his instincts, which they had all come to believe in. In the cockpit, Jerry Chart was well aware that evasive action was really a guessing game when the flak was this heavy.

He tried his best to find clear patches of sky but by the time an antiaircraft shell exploded, it was by then too late to avoid it. There was also the ever-present concern of collision with another bomber. Pilots had to fly evasive action as a part of their squadron. On instructions from the lead aircraft, the rest of the 366th Squadron’s bombers would make turns or change altitude, sometimes dropping five hundred feet together.

The object of these coordinated maneuvers was to shake the radar fix of the antiaircraft gunners that had zeroed in on the B-17s by the time they had released their bombs. Flying evasively like a flock of geese was no easy task for the American pilots. Their combat formation placed the bomber’s wingtips as close as a hundred feet from each other. One bad move by any of the squadron’s pilots could result in disaster.

Assured that his bombs were on their way to Berlin, the toggler scrambled to the back of the nose compartment to make himself as small as possible. On the way past the navigator’s desk he saw Tony’s hand appear above the desk to write in the time of the bomb release perfectly on the log.

As Chart weaved the Fortress through the thick flak above Berlin, his crew hunkered down as best they could. The three exceptions were Chart, copilot Wisniewski and flight engineer Robinson. Robinson was busy checking the bomb bay. Everyone was listening on the interphone when he reported back to Chart.

“Skipper, we’ve got five bombs stuck in the bay!”

“Can you drop them manually?” the pilot asked.

“Tried it. They’re stuck good!” Robinson replied.

Tony continued to listen as Chart ordered his flight engineer to go back to the bay for a second shot at manually dropping the bombs. Between the continuous flak concussions and the pilot’s evasive maneuvering, it almost seemed a possibility the bombs would shake free on their own. Tony knew that was a long shot and soon Robinson was reporting back.

“I tried to kick them loose, Skipper. They’re still stuck!”

When he heard Chart tell Wisniewski to close the bomb bay doors, Tony knew they would be carrying the five unwanted bombs back to Chelveston—provided they made it back to England. At the time, Berlin’s antiaircraft gunners were doing everything possible to prevent it.

A strong impact shoved the B-17 to the left and almost toppled the young navigator out of his little desk fort. If that one had not hit them, it had damn well come close. Tony crawled out to investigate. Looking forward through the Plexiglas he could see flak bursts quickly appearing, one after another. How was Jerry flying them through that stuff?

Tony got to his feet and checked out the small left window. Everything looked okay. Number one and two engines were running fine. When he checked the right wing, he immediately spotted a problem with the inside engine. Number three’s propellers were still spinning, but it was not the smooth rotation of a healthy engine. Moments later, the propellers stopped. Tony realized that could only mean that Chart had decided to “feather” the props of the damaged engine.

The process of feathering actually turned the propeller’s blades to slice into the wind, instead of grabbing the wind when in the normal position. Left unfeathered, an engine prop could spin out of control, creating a drag on the aircraft and even causing a fire. Tony got on the interphone with his pilot.

“Everything okay up there, Skipper?”

As he asked the question, Tony discovered things were going
from bad to worse. The interphone was dead. He climbed quickly up the little ladder in the back of the nose compartment, emerging right behind the pilot’s seat. A cold wind swirled blue smoke around the cockpit, sparks were spewing from a fuse box and next to the top gun turret, Tony could see blue sky. Flak had ripped away a sizable piece of the bomber’s roof.

Robinson was on his feet but he looked shaky. Tony pulled down his oxygen mask and asked, “You okay, Carl?” The flight engineer gave him a thumbs-up.

Looking at the flak hole again, Tony could not imagine how his friend could have been so fortunate. Through the cockpit windshield, Tony could see only an occasional black puff of flak, indicating Chart had successfully flown them out of the effective range of Berlin’s ground gunners. He figured it was as good a time as any to check with his pilot for instructions. He leaned between the pilot and copilot’s seats.

“How’s it going, Skipper?”

Chart glanced back at the young lieutenant whom he had personally trained until he felt Tony was a first-class navigator. Now he would find out for sure.

“Tony, you had better plot a course for Sweden . . . just in case.”

The order spoke volumes to Tony. He knew Chart would prefer to nurse the B-17 back to England on three engines. They would not be able to keep up with the rest of the 366th Squadron or the 305th Bomb Group. They would almost certainly lose not only airspeed but also altitude. Staying in the bomber lanes might enable them to stay within the protective cover of American fighter escorts, but before long Jerry Chart would have to make a critical decision—to gamble on the long run back to England or to change course and land in Sweden.

Sweden was indeed much closer and their three healthy engines could probably get them there, but Sweden was a neutral
country. Any Allied airplane and crew that landed there would be taken out of the war permanently. Only the survival of his crew could force Chart to make such an irreversible decision.

Tony also knew that Chart had already ruled out trying for a landing in Russia, which was an available option for pilots of wounded Allied bombers flying a Berlin raid. Eighth Air Force headquarters had given approval for emergency landings in Russian territory, but had also indicated such action was to be a last resort. The Army Air Force commanders were confident any downed American aircrews would be safely returned by the Russians, but they were not so sure about getting their aircraft back.

“Sweden. I’ll get right on it, Jerry,” Tony assured him as he headed back down into the nose section. As he was descending the short ladder, the navigator could hear the pilot already giving Carl Robinson an order to begin transferring fuel away from the number three engine. They would need every drop if they had any chance of making it back to Chelveston.