Between the Missions

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

We always had time for a mascot in our hut, and our first one was a little orange kitten that we named "Trim Tab." One rainy night, Healy brought the kitten home in the pocket of his raincoat, and from then on, Trim Tab never lacked for attention; it was a constant scuffle as to who would have it on his bunk to play with and finally let it curl up, purring beside, to snooze.

Just two days before D-Day, Curley and Healy had an altercation that could have been serious. Every now and then, the group threw a party in the officers' club, and those who weren't on the loading list for the next day were welcome to attend. The Scotch flowed freely, and many cases of inebriation occurred as a result. Hollinger and I were not addicted to the booze, so we returned to the hut early in the evening and were sound asleep, when good old buddy Frank Healy (who loved his Scotch) came in around 0100 and crawled into bed very drunk. Then Curley came in from night flying at about 0130, turned on the lights to see where his bed was, and that set off Healy. He started to gripe about the lights, and Curley just argued back at him, teasing as he was wont to do; but Healy was just drunk enough to take it all seriously and just kept moaning about this and that, with Curley coming right back at him.

Finally, Healy said he was going to move out because he couldn't sleep with chicken-shit Curley fumbling around, and Curley told him to go ahead. Darned if he didn't get up and start to drag his bed out, with Curley offering to help, pushing on one end while Healy pulled. Then Curley tried to discourage him, but Healy was determined to go; so out he went! He fell down about six times while he tried to make up his bed again, and did we ever laugh at him! He finally got it done and crawled in, still bitching. He was on the sidewalk just outside the door. Curley uttered that dirty giggle of his and said: "Good niiiiiiiight, Frankie," and closed the door. We could hear Frank mumbling "chicken-shit togglier" over and over until he dropped off to sleep at last.

About an hour later, it started to rain, so six-foot-two Curley, who was more than 200 pounds of muscle, went out, and with superhuman strength, dragged skinny Healy back in again-bunk and all; then all was forgotten. None of us got to sleep until about 0300!

OUR NEW BASE IN FRANCE was Station AS9, about 25 miles northwest of Paris. It had formerly been occupied by a Luftwaffe Fw 190 fighter outfit, and although we had bombed it a couple of times, the single runway was still intact. We wished we hadn't done such a good job on the hangars and other installations, however, as all the buildings had been leveled. What we hadn't destroyed, the Germans had blown up before they left; they also poisoned the water system.

The only buildings left intact were in our squadron area, and they were the semi-underground huts the Luftwaffe antiaircraft gun crews had lived in. All the personnel of the other squadrons lived in pyramid tents in their respective areas, while the group staff officers took over a huge chateau on a hill above the base.