Combat tales from a Liberator pilot: As if it were yesterday

Flight Journal, Aug 1998 by DeGroat, Robert G

From the distance of over 50 years, it is hard to recapture the feeling of flying in the European air war during WW II. A half century is a long time.

Sometimes, however, the past unexpectedly intrudes. It may be something as simple as a smell that brings it all back. For a fraction of a second, I am again a 23-year-old bomber pilot preparing to go to war in my B-24 Cherry II. Then, just as suddenly as it came, the feeling evaporates.

As 1943 turned into 1944, I was in the second of three classes of aviation cadets to take multiengine Advanced Training at West Point's Stewart Field next to the Hudson River in New York State. We flew the Globe AT-10-a twin-engine plywood trainer designed to fly like a heavily loaded aircraft. The AT-lOs were always kept in excellent condition, since they were primarily used by West Pointers. Our classes of cadets were formed in an attempt to keep the flight instructors from wasting valuable time and equipment during the long cold months when the Military Academy was in winter session.

On graduation, we rejoined the regular training program, but had the advantage of being offered a few choices. I was hoping for P-38s, but Uncle Sam had other priorities. The progress of the air war dictated a huge need for bomber pilots, so my options were pilot or copilot of a B-17 or a B-24. I chose the B-24 because it was reported to be bigger, faster and, perhaps, required more skill to fly. And I chose pilot instead of copilot because if I was going to lose my butt, I wanted it to be primarily my own fault.

Less than seven months after I began B-24 training at Biggs Field in El Paso, Texas, I was in Italy flying combat. At 2 a.m. one night, a sergeant yelled my name, supposedly to wake me up, but I was already awake. I couldn't sleep because I knew I was flying that day.

Mission days moved to their own rhythm, depending on the estimated distance to the target. After breakfast (generally green-tinted powdered eggs and strong coffee), a truck took us to the pre-mission briefing. To cover all the details, the briefing usually lasted about an hour, regardless of the targets importance or size. Nothing would be left to chance, since our lives depended on it. This was no game.

Following the briefing, a truck returned us to the squadron area and the personal equipment tent where I checked out my parachute and Mae West. After picking up my equipment, I boarded another truck headed for the flightline. I told the driver that my plane was coming up as we approached its hardstand. This allowed me to join my crewmates at the plane. The enlisted men, not required to attend the briefing, would already be at the plane to check their equipment.

Giulia Airfield was large. Each squadron of the 459th Bomb Group had its own area to park its planes just outside the perimeter track. Wherever they could find a level spot in what originally had been farmland, they had put a hardstand. We had pierced steel planking in the soft spots, but gravel everywhere else.

Before each mission, I made it a point to have an unhurried session with the maintenance crew chief about the condition of our Liberator. This helped with my careful walkaround inspection. It gave me things to look for and anticipate; I never felt the time spent with the maintenance people was wasted.

The B-24 was a relatively early tricycle-gear plane. Most steering was done simply by outboard engine power on the outside of the turn and brake pressure on the inside of it. The brake action was good, but a bit late, and it required anticipation. I never had any difficulty steering the bomber, but it was apparently a headache for maintenance. The nose-gear assembly had a reputation for being a weak spot and was checked religiously before every flight.

I made sure everyone in the crew was ready to go, but there was no pep-rally propaganda. These had always seemed false and unnecessary. We tried to have everyone aboard by the published "Start engines" time. Now I had to figure out when to get into the line forming around the perimeter so I would be able to take off in the proper sequence and form up properly in the pre-planned formation.

Four big engines sucking fuel while just sitting on the hardstand waiting for your turn seemed an unnecessary waste of a precious commodity; so if you knew your plane and were well down the line, you could be more casual about starting up. Later, I was consistently number three in the squadron box, but the four squadrons rotated position in the Group with every mission, so I could still be well back in the order.

The unceasing noise of the 758th Bomb Squadron's 44 to 48 vintage bomber engines coming alive is a sound I will never forget. After a while, it became white noise that I didn't focus on. That thunder retreated into the background as a result of the concentration required to do our jobs.

You checked the tail numbers of the planes as they passed your hardstand. Identification was aided by distinct names or nose art. You tried to recognize others' problems and gaps through experience and knowledge of where certain planes were parked. A crucial piece of information was the handout showing tail numbers and pilots' names that each pilot had received at the briefing. It not only set the final formation for the entire mission, but it also set the taxi and takeoff order.