The Bomber Boys (8 page)

At the beginning of the Berlin run, Tony had crammed all his navigation charts and instruments into his navigator’s case for safekeeping. Now he shoved the case on top of his desk and popped the latches open. The toggler pulled his oxygen mask down and asked, “What’s up?”

Tony gave him a quick review of their situation while he located the relevant navigation charts. Once he had the picture, the toggler moved to man the nose guns, realizing the bomber crew could soon be on its own.

Tony was grateful to have some company as he dug into the job of plotting a course to Sweden. He thought about his friend John Cuffman, back in the tail section of the B-17, all alone and isolated with no communication. Tony hoped Christenson or Hall would crawl back there and let him know what was happening.

The tail gunner would eventually get the word, but until then Cuffman stuck to his post, hands locked around the handles of his twin machine guns. He watched as the other bombers of the 366th seemed to gradually grow smaller and smaller above him. From his position, Cuffman could not see the feathered engine prop on number three, but he guessed that something was seriously wrong if the airplane was starting to lose altitude.

It had been a rough run for Cuffman. Every movement of the aircraft was magnified in the tail. He had been banged around with each flak concussion the B-17 had endured. As he got his last look at Berlin, the city looked like what someone had once named the steel mill city of Pittsburgh: “Hell with the roof off.” Behind his own airplane, Cuffman could see mile after mile of B-17s yet to make their bomb runs.

Down in the ball turret, Bill Goetz had sat in the choice seat to watch the nightmarish show. He had seen flak bursts everywhere among the Fortresses. Some had been so close that he could “see the cherry,” the red center of a flak explosion. He had not seen the blast that sent a metal fragment slamming into his ball turret. He had, however, felt its impact and the sound of hissing icy wind had let him know his ball turret now had a hole in it.

In the cockpit, Jerry Chart could feel not only the missing power of his third engine but also the drag on his aircraft resulting from the large hole next to the top turret. As time wore on, he could see other B-17s in the bomber lanes above his airplane, some returning from Berlin and still more bomber groups heading toward the German capital. He wondered if any of the American fighter planes patrolling those lanes could see his lone B-17 flying far below.

Keeping sight of the 366th proved impossible. The pilot of the squadron’s lead aircraft had wished Chart and his crew “good luck,” when their condition had been reported. There was nothing else he could do for them. The men of Chart’s crew
knew the fighting strength of the Luftwaffe was being weakened with each Allied bomber raid, but even one or two stray German fighters could spell disaster to a wounded B-17.

Nobody had forgotten that less than three weeks before, enemy fighters had brought down Jordan’s bomber, and the 305th had lost four bombers to German fighters as recently as New Year’s Day. Every man on Chart’s crew was on fighting edge as they found themselves alone in a vast chunk of enemy sky.

 

 

 

Once Tony had the coordinates for Sweden, he rechecked them quickly and then, confident they were correct, he turned his attention to reworking the coordinates for the route back to the Chelveston base. A crucial factor of navigation had changed after the number three engine had been lost. The bomber’s airspeed was slower now, so all of Tony’s calculations would have to be adjusted to provide a reliable course and estimated arrival time for a flight back to England.

The young navigator knew his pilot was waiting for the new information, and he had to fight the impulse to hurry the work. A navigation mistake under their current circumstances could prove deadly for everyone on board. Soon Tony was scrambling up the ladder that led to the cockpit.

Jerry Chart listened as his navigator gave him the headings, first for the neutral country and then for Chelveston. George Wisniewski jotted down the coordinates on his notepad as Chart continued to mull over his decision—England or Sweden. Tony felt the bomber commander would have to decide soon or even a run to Sweden would be in doubt. Chart ran it over in his mind.

The aircraft was performing okay on just three engines, although it continued to gradually lose altitude. He believed they could stay high enough to reach England, if the fuel held out.
The fuel transfer had gone well but it would be close. The five bombs lodged in the bay were not part of the equation, since they were an added danger no matter where he landed.

The fact that he and his crew were on their own concerned him, but they had not yet spotted a single enemy fighter. Carl Robinson, peering out of his top turret, interrupted the pilot’s thoughts.

“We’ve got company! Two aircraft approaching!” the flight engineer shouted.

Robinson tracked the two black specks that were approaching from above the B-17. Christenson’s waist gun was also angled upward to cover the unidentified planes. Cuffman, in the tail, had also spotted the airplanes, but they were too high for his tail guns to cover. They looked like fighter planes to him.
Enemy or Friendly?

It was the fighters’ movements that first gave them away, before anyone on board the bomber could identify their silhouettes. The two fighters continued to close in on the bomber, but their angle of approach had changed. Instead of diving straight at the bomber, the mystery airplanes were coming in on a more parallel route.

“I think they’re ours,” Robinson announced from the top turret. Then, when he could make out the fighters’ distinctive shapes, he added, “Yeah, its two little friends!” Moments later two shiny P-51 Mustangs pulled alongside of Chart’s number 015 Fortress—one cruising just feet away from each of the bomber’s wingtips. Chart returned a friendly wave from one of the fighter pilots, and then everyone on board found himself smiling and waving.

Tony was not surprised when their skipper announced his intentions. They would be continuing back to England. Whether it was the friendly fighter escort that had tipped the scale, Chart
did not say, and Tony would never know. Chart had made his decision and his men trusted him.

Long minutes, and then hours, dragged by as the B-17 la bored homeward. Tony made several trips between the nose and the cockpit, consulting with Jerry Chart on the bomber’s airspeed and informing his pilot of where they were and the remaining distance to Chelveston. The two P-51 “little friends” departed and returned several times as they checked on other American bombers. Finally, the Mustang pilots returned a last time to give the bomber crew a send-off wave, and then they streaked away, leaving contrails in their wake. Like everyone else, Tony hated to see them go, but he guessed they were now out of the danger area for enemy fighter attacks.

Fuel was a concern, but their altitude seemed acceptable. They were still at several thousand feet when Tony spotted the English Channel in the distance. Soon the navigator and toggler began sighting familiar landmarks of the English countryside, and they knew they were approaching Chelveston. Tony breathed a sigh of satisfaction and relief. His navigation calculations had been right on the money for Jerry Chart to get them back home.

Finally, there it was—Chelveston, with its distinctive three runways crossing one another to form a small pyramid pattern in its center. Most of the 305th Bomb Group’s B-17s were visible, already parked in their assigned positions around the perimeter of the airfield. A couple of other Fortresses were just landing as Chart’s aircraft turned to begin its approach. Tony thought the ugly air base, at that moment, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Sitting in the left seat, Jerry Chart was calm and confident. They were going to be okay after all. He had not forgotten about the five live bombs still on board, but that did not cause him
great concern. He felt he could land the damaged Fortress safely on just three engines. The B-17 had proven to be an incredible airplane, and he was, after twelve combat missions, an experienced bomber pilot.

At an altitude of one thousand feet, Chart motioned for Wisniewski to hit the switch to lower the landing gear, and he also began to engage the landing flaps. At once both pilot and copilot knew that something was wrong.

Chart visually checked the left wing and Wisniewski checked the right wing. The landing flaps were not working at all, and even worse the pilot could not feel or hear the aircraft’s wheels coming down. Since the interphone was inoperative, Carl Robinson went aft to confirm the wheels’ status. Soon he was back to report that the wheels had not dropped down into landing position. Chart had already guessed where the problem was.

“It must be the fuse box,” he told Robinson. “The flak hit must have burned out the fuses.”

The flight engineer went to the still-smoldering fuse box and pulled out the fuses that carried current to the landing flaps and landing gear controls. He replaced the damaged fuses with the spares, which were also stored in the fuse box. Wisniewski tried the landing gear switch again. Chart tried the flaps. Nothing happened—the spare fuses had also been ruined.

Chart considered circling the airfield but that meant burning precious fuel that he could not spare. With the wheels up and no landing flaps, he might still be able to glide the Fortress in for a crash landing, but even that option was removed because of the five live bombs still on board. No, he had to somehow get the landing gear down and he had to have working flaps. How? If only he could just shove a penny in the fuse box, like he had seen his old man do once when the lights had gone out at home. Of course, the B-17’s fuse-box connections were much too large
for that—Chart guessed there was two or three inches of space between the posts.

“Carl!” The pilot turned to his flight engineer. “Go back to John and get an empty shell casing off the floor. Quick!”

Robinson stared back at his skipper.

“Go now!” Chart ordered.

As Robinson headed back to the waist gunner’s area, across the five live bombs in the bomb bay and through the radio room, Chart’s plan hit him.
It might work,
he thought.
Just might.
He found Bill Goetz and John Christenson looking out the side window, discussing why their pilot seemed to be bringing them in for a landing with the wheels still up. Robinson could spare no time for explanations. He saw a couple of dozen empty shell casings lying on the floor. The shells had fallen there when Christenson had test-fired his .50 caliber machine guns on the way to Berlin. The flight engineer grabbed a shell casing, gave his two crewmates a thumbs-up sign, and headed back to the cockpit. Ken Hall watched it all from the doorway of the radio room. After Robinson brushed by him, Hall and the two gunners exchanged looks of bewilderment.

Jerry Chart was hoping there was enough copper in the empty brass shell casing to conduct electricity and serve as a replacement fuse. He was counting on the slow-voltage electricity to not give Robinson too much of a jolt, especially since the flight engineer was wearing heavy gloves. Robinson did not wait to be told—he jammed the shell casing across the two appropriate posts in the fuse box.

“Give it a try, George!” Robinson shouted.

The copilot worked the switch that controlled the wing wheels. Back in the waist, Hall, Goetz and Christenson had been joined by John Cuffman, and they all let out a cheer when the bomber’s wheels lowered and locked into landing position.

In the nose compartment of the aircraft, Tony and the toggler sat watching Chelveston airfield quickly growing closer and closer, neither man aware of the problems with the wheels and flaps. Once the wheels were down, Robinson pulled the empty shell casing from the fuse box and repositioned it over the two posts that controlled electricity to the landing flaps. He could feel the current’s pulse through his gloves but made no complaint.

“They’re working!” Chart announced as the flaps of each wing came down and caught the wind. On the ground, other flight crews, ground personnel and officers watched anxiously as the wounded B-17 glided toward the runway, with just three propellers spinning. Some with binoculars spotted flak damage aft of the cockpit and elsewhere on the bomber.

In the nose of B-17 number 015, Lieutenant Tony Teta took a deep breath and held it as he watched the runway surface approaching just a few feet below the Plexiglas. Jerry Chart was holding his breath too when he eased the airplane down. As he felt the bomber’s wheels make contact with the runway, Tony whispered a silent “thank you” and touched the cross that hung from the chain around his neck. Chart brought his damaged aircraft, with its crew of nine good men and five unwanted passengers, in for a textbook landing.

Berlin had lived up to her reputation as perhaps Germany’s toughest target, but Chart and his airmen had done their jobs. Though their Fortress was severely damaged, they had lived to tell the tale of their mission to The Big B.

There was much laughter, hand shaking and backslapping as the airmen climbed out of their bomber, but the men grew quiet as they got a better look at the flak damage number 015 had sustained. Besides the major hole near the top turret and the damage to the inside engine of the right wing, there were also holes in the left wing where flak had punctured its gas tanks, a
flak hole in the ball turret, and numerous holes in the fuselage. Tony walked slowly around the aircraft with John Cuffman, and the two friends took their own postflight inventory. When they were done, they had counted 168 holes in their aircraft.

The Berlin mission had lasted for more than ten hours and every man who had flown with the 305th Bomb Group that day needed rest, but first there was the necessary interrogation session. There was plenty to tell. Chart’s crew had been banged around, but all had survived their twelfth mission without serious injury. They had witnessed the appalling sight of other American bombers being blasted from the sky.