Between the Missions

Flight Journal, Dec 2004 by Havener, J K "Jack"

LIFE AS A MARAUDER PILOT IN THE ETO

BACK IN 1944, going to war was a tedious, drawn-out process that began with a flight much longer than any of us wanted to make. My group, the 344th Bomb Group (M), flew our Martin B-26 Marauders en masse from Hunter Field, Savannah, Georgia, to Station 169 Stansted-Mountfichet, Essex, England, in January of 1944.

There were few, if any, navigational aids, so our navigators relied on dead reckoning and the occasional sun shot with their sextants. A huge sign over the Natal Operations door read: "If you miss the Ascension, your wife gets a pension!" This referred to Ascension Island, a tiny dot in the South Atlantic that was to be one of our refueling stops.

The trip wasn't without its moments, and I quote from a letter I wrote to my wife from Dakar in North Africa.

"Just as we all settled down to sleep, the door at the far end of the barracks opened, and we witnessed one of the most spectacular sights I've ever seen! In came six blacks-all clothed in long nightgown-type dresses with flat turbans on their heads. They were of descending heights, with the tallest in front, and each one had a flit gun in his hands held at port arms. On the leader's command of 'Hut!,' they all alternated their guns to the right and left behind him, as they stood at attention in a line just inside the door. Then the leader started a , counting cadence with just a 'Hut, hut, hut' and every time their left foot came down on the 'Hut' as they moved forward, each one would push the plunger of his flit gun and squirt out a spray of repellant. The plungers were drawn back as the right foot came down, and they marched to the end of the barracks, turned around and came back down and out the door at strict attention, with their eyes riveted to the back of the one in front and deadly serious! We were so taken aback that we just sat there with our mouths open and suppressed laughter, so as not to embarrass them, as they were very professional and soldierly about it. At last, we applauded like mad! If I'd only had a sound movie camera, that bit of film would be priceless!

"The first one was six-foot-four, and the one at the tail end of the line couldn't have been more than 12 years old, as he was less than five feet tall but just as serious as any of the others. It made my whole day worthwhile!"

On February 16, 1944, we flew for 7 hours and 55 minutes from Marrakech [Morocco] to St. Mawgan on Land's End, Cornwall [England], and thanked the Lord for our bomb-bay fuel tanks; the left engine actually quit from fuel starvation as we rolled to a stop on the hardstand. Too close for comfort!

When we finally made it to Station 169, each squadron (including headquarters) had its own dispersed area around the base. These areas looked like huge olive-drab highway culvert drainage tubes that were cut in half lengthwise and set inverted on the ground.

Have you ever tried living in a drainage culvert? We did, in England, and despite never knowing where the walls ended and the roof began, we survived.

THE ORIGINAL OCCUPANTS of our number 10 hut were: 2nd Lt. J. Hollinger, copilot; 2nd Lt. L. Wroneski, bombardier; 2nd Lt. Joseph Curley, bombardier; 2nd Lt. Frank Healy, copilot; 2nd Lt. E. Borresen, copilot; 2nd Lt. J. K. Havener, copilot; 2nd Lt. W. McLaughlin, Squadron bombardier; 2nd Lt. E. Horn, copilot; Lt. J. Nemeth, pilot; and 2nd Lt. C. Wood, Intelligence Officer.

Heat for the billet huts was provided by a single, inverted funnel-shaped, sheet-metal stove set in the center of the floor with a stack that protruded upward through a hole in the roof. Fuel was coke from a huge pile alongside the shower building, which was centrally located in the 497th Squadron area.

With 10 men crowded into a hut, disputes were sure to arise over whose turn it was to haul a bucket of coke in from this pile, and understandably so, as our times on the loading list for a combat mission varied considerably. To alleviate the problem, I devised an award system for our hut and posted a "coke run" chart on the inside of the door to record the activity. Each time a man made a coke run, he marked up a symbol in the shape of a coal scuttle. Five coke runs entitled him to a "stove league" medal, which was in the shape of a potbelly stove. After this, for every five additional runs, he would receive a "soot cluster" to add to his medal. After 25 runs, he automatically received a DFC (Damned Fire Clinker). If he acquired skinned shins or any other wounds while on a coke run, a "Purple Damper" was marked on the chart after his name. Psychologically, it worked and, in fact, it became a competition to see who could chalk up the most coal buckets during that chilly late winter and early spring.

Scrounging for enough kindling to get a coke fire started was always a problem, but we had a couple of expert "midnight requisitioners." Often the kindling suspiciously appeared to have been recently disassembled furniture or cabinetry installations, but we never questioned our provisioners as to from whence it came.