MITCHELLS OVER THE DESERT

Air Classics, Jul 2005 by Keeshen, James F

FOR THIS USAAF B-25C CREW, THEIR FIRST NIGHT COMBAT MISSION WAS FRAUGHT WITH DANGER-FROM BOTH SIDES!

From early childhood most of us have been exposed to various forms of superstitions: Avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk; change course if you see a black cat crossing your path; be especially careful of everything you do on Friday the 13th, and never walk under a ladder of any kind. As we grow older we tend to dismiss these notions as another of the trappings of childhood. However, during World War Two while in Egypt, I happened to become acquainted with a group of RAF pilots who daily practiced their own individual litany of superstitious do's and don'ts.

My story begins in July 1942, when our outfit, the 12th Bomb Group (M) was ordered to fly our pink-tinted North American B-25C Mitchells from our base at Esler Field, Louisiana, to the RAF Moascar Aerodrome, adjacent to Egypt's Suez Canal.

At that point in the desert war, the British 8th Army could do nothing right, while on the other side, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps could do nothing wrong. The Jerrys had unrelentingly pushed the British out of Libya, well into Egypt and were at this time banging on the walls of the Suez Canal.

The British had wisely decided to make a stand at a natural bottleneck in the desert terrain, formed by the Qattara salt bog depression on the south and the Mediterranean Sea to the north. This expanse of sand was called El Alamein, some 30-mi west of the port city of Alexandria. Our orders were to fly close support night missions for the 8th Army.

After arriving in Egypt, we found that no one had seen fit to bring along a book on how to successfully fly a night bombing mission. North American Aviation had no instructions written on the belly of the B-25. Ground school instructors and other "experts" failed to inspire confidence in the air crews mainly because none of them had ever been on a mission. Like using a parachute, it was the sort of thing one does right the first time, or you don't.

We needed to talk to someone who was a success in the business. Our notion of a prosperous pilot was one who on a number of occasions had been able to go out and return unscathed - or at least in one piece.

Pilots I knew grew more apprehensive as the time for the "moment of truth" approached. What do you do if you think (or worse, are sure) there's a night fighter on your tail? What is the best defense against searchlights, against flak, how accurate are German gunners? If you wander out of a corridor (the RAF was great about putting up corridors) or your transponder IFF (identification, friend or foe) proves inoperative, or both, what then?

Comparing notes one day, six of us found we had quite a grocery list of "What do I do now" questions that no one seemed to have answers for. As we discussed the problem, one of the pilots said he had heard of a bunch of Americans who were flying velvet black painted "Wimpys" (Vickers Wellington bomber) for the RAF at a nearby aerodrome (as they were called in Egypt). It was the best idea anyone had come up with and all of us piled into a Jeep to go looking for the RAF Yanks.

A few inquiries later we found a group of pilots relaxing in a corrugated-roofed "living quarters." Following introductions, the first moments were a bit awkward. They, of course, were wondering what we wanted.

Noticing several half-inch round holes in the corrugated ceiling, I asked how they had gotten there. The RAF Yanks laughed. One of them named Jerry who was obviously a southern gentleman volunteered: "Aw, that was old Hank. He came home from town one night with a load on, flopped onto his bunk and began pickin' flies off the ceilin' with his revolver. Then with his last shell, he permanently turned off the light."

The entire room roared with laughter. With the ice apparently broken, we began firing our questions at them: "What do you do when you're over the target and they catch you with the lights?"

"Heck, Ah don't do nuthin'." It was Hank taking the initiative. "Let 'em shine their old lights - they can't hit nuthin' anyway. Ah jes go on the gauges (fly instruments) and fly straight and level. You go dancin' around up there an' you're gonna run into on of their lucky shots."

"Not me boy," Bob from Florida was quick to cut in. "When they put a LIGHT on me, I turn that ole Wimp every way but loose. And on thing you best beware of is the blue light - that's the master that controls all the other lights in the cone. When you get hit with ol' blue, you have a heck of a time wrigglin' out."

A tall gangling officer, wearing only his underwear, stood up and spread his arms out for quiet. "Aw, come on fellas, you're scarin' these poor guys otta their wits. Lemme tell you what I do and it works every time." He gestured, using his flat hand for an aircraft. "I go in real nice and easy. I circle around just outside the target area and wait 'til I see some poor bastard who's got their attention. Then I slip in and let go with my load and am outta there before they know what's about to hit them. It's so easy and it's the best way."