Waist gunner

Air Classics, Dec 2001 by John, Dave

AFTER AN ILL-FATED MISSION, THE AUTHOR TAKES UP LIFE AS A PRISONER OF WAR

COMBAT

In June 1944, 1 was preparing to go on my first mission to bomb the railroad yards in Budapest, Hungary. I will say that our training exactly duplicated the combat mission. It felt like just another training mission until I heard the flak "thumping" on the bottom of our plane. Reality set in when a B-17 went into a dive and suddenly exploded in mid-air. We frantically looked for parachutes, but none appeared. The rest of the mission was uneventful. As was customary, the Red Cross was waiting for us after the mission. They furnished coffee, donuts and whiskey for the crews. Perhaps the Army had seen too many World War One movies where the SPAD pilots needed a shot to steady their nerves. In any event, we looked forward to the Red Cross.

For our first five missions, we were told that our escorts were the Tuskegee Airmen in their P-47s.

We never saw them after that and it was only recently that I learned that they were given P-SIs. Occasionally, we were supported by P-38s. I preferred the P-38s because I could tell the difference between a38 and an Me 109 right away and they were identifiable from any distance. From the front, a P-51 and an Me 109 look alike.

The summer went by in a routine manner. The Italian summer is similar to southern California's - no rain and very warm weather. Several times we went to Bari, on the Adriatic Sea to swim. It was a nice beach, although there were not any bath houses. Much to our disappointment and chagrin, the Italian women were adept at coming to the beach fully clothed and changing into a bathing suit without revealing any bare skin.

There was a common expression used by flight crews to describe a combat mission - 98 percent monotony followed by two percent sheer terror. During one mission, our '17 lost one of its four engines. We were able to safely coax it back to Foggia. When we taxied up to our parking spot we noticed the ground crew laughing. It turned out the crew chief had wanted to change the engine, but the rest of the crew felt it would complete another mission. The crew chief won the bet and the others were paying off. So much for having confidence in your ground crew. Since we rotated planes for every mission, we hoped we'd never draw that one again.

We flew to Ploesti, Romania, five times. We never encountered as much resistance as the first flight of B-24s originating in Africa did. There was always flak to ruin your day, but the worst part was the sheer length of the night. On one occasion, we made it there in near record time, only to encounter a 50 mph headwind on the return flight. That trip seemed to last an eternity.

After we had become seasoned vets (I use that term loosely), we were chosen to lead the group with the 301st's Colonel as pilot and our regular pilot in the copilot seat. The Colonel would rotate amongst the four groups of seven planes, letting different groups lead a mission. The radioman on a B-17 has the big radio directly in front of him and a desk to take down messages. The radio room is near the bomb bay and has a door that opens to a catwalk that leads to the pilot's compartment.

During this mission, I was surprised to see the engineer open the door; surprised because the engineer had never come to the radio room before. The Colonel had sent him to tell me that the intercom wasn't working and that he wanted me to fix it. Well, the intercom is not a part of the radio system and was Greek to me. I remembered from radio school however, that a diode tube in the intercom was susceptible to breakage at high altitude. I found the intercom box, opened the door and discovered a spare tube taped on the door. I replaced the tube and the intercom worked fine. The Colonel was ecstatic and said I was the best damn radio man he ever had flown with.

We were flying an airplane named Tennessee Sunshine (few of our planes were named because we flew a different one each time) on one mission without fighter escort. The tail gunner reported seeing 40-50 planes approaching and stated, "If they're not ours, somebody is going to catch hell - and it's us!" The Me 109s and Fw 190s ripped through our flight that day shooting down 16 of 28 planes. One round tore through my glove without touching me. Another shell from a 20mm cannon came into the fuselage next to my leg. Later, I marveled at the big hole coming in and all the little holes from the exploded fragments going out the other side. From the outside, the damage that our plane sustained must have given the impression that numerous casualties were on board. As we rolled to a stop, a padre in a jeep came alongside and asked the number of dead. We stated none and none injured. He stated "God bless you" and went to the next plane. The Tennessee Sunshine, was not so lucky, however. The bomber was shot full of holes and the main wing spar so badly damaged that it was scrapped.

During a mission that was led by the Colonel, I received a radio message to return home. I was suspicious because we had been warned that the Germans might send false messages. I informed the Colonel of the message and that it was sent "clear," and hadn't needed decoding. The Colonel decided to return to base anyway. As we approached the field, I received another message instructing us to practice formation flying around the base. The Colonel replied, "Bullshit, we're landing." We did and everyone was happy except the person who gave the "practice" order.