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My Story, by Robert H. Berly
Jr., 450th Bombardment Group, 721st Bomb Squadron, 1944-1945
Why
I grew up between Lexington and Columbia, South Carolina. We were within four
miles of the Columbia Army Air Base (now Columbia Municipal Airport) where
Doolittle trained his B-25 crews for his famous Tokyo flight. I reported to
Miami Beach for basic training. We had nice ocean-front rooms but weren't in
them much of the time since we spent all day every day - drilling on a golf
course, across the bay in Miami proper.
Training
At the age of seventeen, I started college at Clemson A & M College (now Clemson
University) in the fall of 1942. I was a member of the ROTC Cadet Corps and was
taking Electrical Engineering. I was barely eighteen when recruiters for all
branches of the military arrived on campus and enlisted virtually every able
bodied student in reserve programs which, theoretically, would have permitted a
continuation of our education but would predetermine the branch of service we
would enter if we were called to active duty. This recruitment took place on
December 5, 1942 and since I was still not old enough to sign up without
parental approval I had to go home and persuade mama and daddy to agree to my
signing up.
Upon completion of a few weeks of basic military training I was assigned to a
College Training Detachment (CTD) which served as a holding pool until such time
as an opening in the Aviation Cadet program materialized. My CTD assignment was
back at Clemson -- the same campus which I left just a few short weeks before. I
felt like the main difference was that I had just traded the blue-gray ROTC
uniform for the suntan army uniform. I was even taking similar courses of math,
science, and physics. There was one significant difference, however, and that
had to do with acceptance on the campus. Only a few dozen ROTC students remained
on campus and because we were now active duty military personnel, we had
suddenly assumed the status of heroes in the sight of these students who, for
one reason or another, were unable to join us on active duty.
I had just completed one semester when my reserve status abruptly came to a
halt. Almost every student on the campus, approximately 3,000 in all, received
orders to report to active duty in February and March 1943. My orders came in
late February but since I was then in the college infirmary with a mild case of
mumps, my orders were reissued and I went on active duty on March 13, 1943.
While at Clemson in the CTD program we got our first taste of flying. Those of
us who had been tentatively scheduled to later enter pilot training as aviation
cadets made regular trips over to Anderson Airport (about fifteen miles away)
and accumulated ten hours of flying Piper Cubs. We weren't permitted to solo but
even this form of flying was fun. We learned some routine maneuvers and even
some aerobatics. It was while doing a snap roll (which turned out-to be a slow
roll) that I learned that a Piper Cub was not designed to stay on its back more
than a few seconds. I broke a welded wing strut in this particular maneuver.
Fortunately I had my ten hours of flying because I doubt that I would have
persuaded that particular instructor to fly with me again.
During all this time, Aviation Cadet "classes" were completing their prescribed
training schedules and finally in the early summer of 1943 there was a long
awaited opportunity for our class to actually begin pilot training.
Preflight
I was sent to Maxwell Field near Montgomery, Alabama, for Preflight and this was
a real experience. Maxwell Field was a pre-war military installation with
permanent buildings and facilities and was the location of the AAF Eastern
Flying Training Command. Since this base represented the "Randolph Field of the
East" the life of a Cadet here assumed much of the character of a West Point
Cadet. We ate "square meals" in the mess hall, cleaned and polished for frequent
"white glove" inspections, and received demerits for a variety of infractions
and for these infractions we were punished with guard duty. As a "lower
classman" we constantly heard, "Hit a brace, mister" from an upperclassman. Next
would come, "How old are you?", then "Tuck that chin in - I want to see eighteen
wrinkles in that chin!"
Summer in Alabama often produces afternoon rain showers which, in turn produce
mammoth mud puddles. Since we had a retreat parade each afternoon it was
inevitable that an Aviation Cadet formation and a big puddle would collide. Once
the base commander got through chewing us out for attempts (unsuccessful though
they were) to avoid marching through that mud we all decided that cleaning muddy
uniforms and re-polishing muddy shoes was small price to pay to avoid a repeat
of that performance.
Our assignment to Maxwell Field gave us our first identity as Class of 44C. This
designation meant that we were scheduled to complete our course of study in 1944
and the "C" meant the third month - March. A class was composed of from 250 to
300 Aviation Cadets, most of whom were 18 to 20 years old. A few, however, were
student officers who were already commissioned, and they were older. We didn't
realize it then but we were on a pretty fast track where we would soon move from
one assigned station to another approximately every eight weeks. We would pack
all our uniforms and personal gear in two duffel bags and, living out of the top
of the bags, we seldom unpacked them to bottom before we moved to the next
location. Pilot training at this time in 1943 had been speeded up to the point
that each day was divided into three eight-hour periods and we would have ground
school one period, flying school another, and sleep during the remaining period.
At several stations we had no free time and didn't leave the base from the time
we arrived until we left on transfer to the next base.
Primary flight school
From Maxwell Field we went to Fletcher Field which was at Clarksdale,
Mississippi and was located close to the Mississippi River. We received primary
training at this field and the plane used in flight training was the Fairchild
PT-23 which we nicknamed the "Beaverboard Bomber". This name seemed particularly
appropriate to us since the most common Cadet created damage was a cracked
center section which exposed a cardboard looking material when we landed too
hard. We were expected to make very precise landings since the main landing gear
was bolted directly to a laminated wood main spar which ran the length of the
wing. Our flight instructors at Clarksdale (as well as those at later assigned
stations) were chosen because they had been exceptional as students during their
flying training. Some of them were very unhappy about spending their careers
teaching when they really wanted to be in combat becoming fighter aces. This
attitude caused too many of them to take too many chances when they became a
little frustrated. By the time I went overseas, barely six months from the start
of my flying training, all but one of my main flying instructors had died in
airplane crashes. Instructors weren't the only "hot pilots" around. One of the
cadets attempted to fly a PT-23 under a bridge, folded the wings back, and left
a head-shaped impression about four inches deep in his instrument panel. He
lived through it but never flew again.
Basic flight training
From Clarksdale we moved down river about sixty miles south to Greenville,
Mississippi where we underwent basic flight training, using BT-13A aircraft. The
enclosed cockpit and much more powerful engine made us feel like we were making
great advancements in learning to fly. Greenville was only about 150 miles from
the little eastern Mississippi town of Shuqualak where my maternal grandfather
lived and operated a general merchandise store. The proximity was too much to
resist and on at least two occasions I flew over that way and buzzed the town,
blowing up dust from the unpaved main street. Even though word soon got around
town, fortunately nobody felt compelled to report me.
Advanced flight training
I don't remember whether we were given any choice of single or multi-engine
training at this point but I was quite pleased to be sent next to George Field
near Lawrenceville, Illinois for twin-engine advanced flight training.
Lawrenceville is just across the Wabash River from Vincennes, Indiana where
inhabitants, we soon learned, were proud of the fact that Red Skelton was a
native son. By the time I got to Lawrenceville, it was mid-January and we got to
fly over a lot of snowy landscape both day and night in the course of our
training. The Fairchild AT-10 was a good airplane and the inherent design left
the retracted main gear slightly protruding from the underside of each engine
nacelle and this came in real handy when an absent minded Cadet neglected to
lower the gear before landing. This was our first contact with a training plane
that had retractable gear but when a gear up landing was made, damage was
generally slight, usually just two curled back propellers.
At the conclusion of advanced training we were either determined to be
proficient and given the coveted silver wings or would be washed out of pilot
training. Another significant decision was also made by our instructors at this
point. We could be commissioned a Second Lieutenant or would be made a Flight
Officer, which was a non-commissioned rank. A significant factor in determining
this rank was a personal interview with a colonel, who, in my case, turned out
to have been a high school superintendent in civilian life. As soon as he found
out that I had made good grades in high school he terminated the interview and
told me flatly that I would be commissioned.
Transition
After receiving my silver wings and gold bars I was sent to Smyrna, Tennessee
which was a B-24 training base. This was to be where I would make the transition
from training aircraft to military aircraft. Although it didn't appear that
going from two to four engine flying should be hard to do, I soon found that the
B-24 Liberator enjoyed a richly-deserved reputation for being a somewhat
difficult airplane to fly. The long narrow Davis wing was certainly never
intended to provide any gliding capability-you had to have plenty of engine
power at all times if you expected good performance from this plane. I guess
that was why it earned the nick-name, "The Flying Boxcar."
During transitional training an instructor pilot was assigned only two students
and the two of us wondered (at first anyway) why we had been so unfortunate as
to get the instructor who was designated the emergency procedure check-rider for
the whole air base. Later on, I was to look back on this as having been one of
the most valuable facets of my training. At any rate, our instructor would dream
up all these diabolical schemes, creating simulated air emergencies to test
student pilots, and he tried each one out with us first. In effect we could
count on some "emergency" almost every time we flew with our instructor. He was
skilled in making them appear real so you were never sure that they weren't.
On at least one occasion, the problem was quite real! We were on a training
flight which took us through the edge of a thundercloud which contained baseball
sized hail. We happened to be in a B-24D which had "coffin" seats. This
consisted of 1/4inch armor plate behind and over the pilot's and copilot's
seats. I was flying from the pilot's seat and my instructor was in the copilot's
seat. When the tremendous hail started hitting the Plexiglas windshield, the
leading surfaces of the aircraft and the propellers my instructor unsnapped his
seat belt, got up, crouched behind the armor-plated seat, and told me, "Fly it
through!" We got through all right but when we landed we had fist-sized dents in
all the metal leading edges of that plane.
After transition, I went out to Lincoln Nebraska where I was assigned my crew,
No. 6247. Next we were attached to the 2nd AF and sent to Gowen Field, Boise,
Idaho to train together as a crew. Gowen Field had parallel runways and was used
jointly as a military base and a municipal airport with one landing traffic
pattern to the left and one to the right and with both military and civilian
aircraft landing and taking off continuously.
Col John R. (Killer) Kane, who had been a B-24 group commander on one of the
Ploesti oil refinery raids was our base commander. The only time I had any
direct contact with him came as the result of a flight emergency I experienced
early one Sunday morning in July of 1944. All available B-24s from several
fields in the western United States were flying in a low level formation for a
movie reenactment of a Ploesti raid when I got a runaway prop. I headed back to
the field and, on receiving permission from the tower for an emergency, down
wind landing, was prepared for a "crab" landing. This was made necessary because
the pull of the runaway engine made it impossible to fly straight when power on
the other three engines was reduced for landing. Both my copilot and I were very
apprehensive that the engine crankshaft would break and send the whirling
propeller through the flight deck where we were sitting! We were very lucky
however and the engine "froze up" when we were about 50 feet above ground on our
landing approach and I was able to kick the plane around straight in the last
few seconds and make a good landing instead of wiping out the main gear as would
most likely have happened. Col Kane, who was in the control tower observing the
formation of B-24s, complimented my handling of the emergency.
We had one other experience while stationed at Gowen Field and again narrowly
escaped possible tragic consequences. In this instance we were on a routine
training mission which involved air-to-ground gunnery practice over a range in
Washington state and also included a navigational training exercise from Idaho
to Washington, Oregon, and California and then back to Idaho.
I had not realized until we were on the last leg of this flight from California
that I had two variations on that particular airplane that, when combined, had
turned it into a real gas guzzler. This trip taught me that you had to watch
your gas gauges when you had Stromberg-Carlson carburetors or splinter-blade
propellers and since I had both, I soon realized that we weren't going to have
enough gas to get home. I quickly decided to land at the nearest air base on our
proposed route which was at Reno, Nevada. This was a short runway field where
"Gooney Bird" (C-47) pilots were being trained for flying across the hump in the
CBI theater. While I was involved in paper work I failed to realize that the
refueling crew on the flight line had "topped off" my tanks with 100 octane
gasoline adding four or five tons of weight! Since it was about dusk when we
prepared for takeoff it was somewhat daunting to see red obstruction lights on
the tops of the low mountains which formed a barrier approximately 270 degrees
around the runway! I immediately decided that we would need to pull a
short-field takeoff, which means hold the brakes while you run up the engines to
full power. When the brakes start slipping you start your take-off roll. Well,
we got off the ground all right but I couldn't get up enough air speed to
retract flaps and with flaps down I couldn't build up air speed- a real
"catch-22" situation. I pulled the stops on the four engine turbo-superchargers
and this gave me a little more power and at the same time I was gradually
banking around toward the gap in the surrounding mountains. With the
superchargers going full blast and flames shooting out about six feet behind
each engine we must have made an impressive sight as we cleared the red
obstruction lights by less than fifty feet. I was too busy to do anything but
fly the plane but I noticed that the navigator instructor, a captain, who was
standing behind the copilot's seat, had silently reached over and snapped on his
parachute when I cut in the turbo-superchargers.
After about eight weeks at Gowan Field we went to Topeka, Kansas for staging for
overseas. Several days before we were to leave Topeka my radio operator and the
tail turret gunner got drunk and ended up in jail in town. I don't really think
they got "salt water fever" but I believe they were taking a last fling. I got
them out of jail OK but the base authorities yanked them off my crew and gave me
two substitutes at the last minute.
Crew Number 6247
Standing: Robert W. Bennett,
CG - Wm L. Lewis, CG* - Wm M. Deary, Jr, CG - Peter Nesteruk, ROG* - Louis J.
Torre, AEG - Patrick Bowie, AG
We then departed for Camp Patrick Henry, Newport News, Virginia to go overseas
by ship since bomber crews were no longer flying over. We were finally ready to
go overseas in the late summer of 1944 and since our port of debarkation was to
be Newport News, Virginia the convoy was to be assembled in Chesapeake Bay.
Thirty five B-24 crews, 350 men, were to cross the Atlantic in one of the cargo
holds of a Liberty ship and since these ships were reputed to have a top speed
somewhere between 8 and 9 knots we greeted this information less than
enthusiastically. When we got aboard ship we found that our baggage was stored
beneath the deck we walked on and this deck consisted of oiled loose planks with
some pretty wide cracks between them. Later, we were to discover that there was
a great deal of realism in some of our fire drills as cigarettes accidentally
dropped through those cracks started fires in the duffle bags just beneath. We
were not real thrilled with our sleeping accommodations either. We were issued
canvas sling hammocks and told to hang them the best way we could. It took
several days to make up the convoy and we had hardly gotten settled aboard
before a terrific hurricane caught us anchored in shallow water of the bay. For
about a day and a half there was a bunch of awfully sick men on that little
round-bottomed ship as it rolled what looked like about 60 degrees from side to
side. I had not had any problem with airsickness during flight training, even
during aerobatics, but I made up for all of that with this bout of seasickness
before we even started across the ocean. I guess I got it over with all at one
time because I was never sick after we got moving. Once the storm passed, the
convoy got underway but for our little ship this turned out to be a false start.
We had traveled less than two days when we broke down.
We limped back to Newport News for repairs, which turned out to be replacement
of the lignum vitae bearing blocks on the propeller shaft. All of the Air Corps
personnel got 10-day passes while repair work was in progress but then we were
loaded on the same ship to make our "ocean cruise". While we were off the ship
they had hung bunks, four high, to replace the hammocks so this was somewhat
better. Any improvement turned out to be purely illusionary, however, since we
were barely halfway across the ocean when the ship broke down again. The
decision was made to continue rather than turn back even though the ship's
captain knew that this meant dropping behind the convoy and being virtually
without any protection for the remainder of the voyage. For the rest of the
crossing a destroyer escort would come back and circle us about every two days
and one day a flight of Navy "Hellcat" fighter-bombers used us for a simulated
target -- coming in just above the waves and pulling up to hop over our ship.
The trip from Newport News to Naples, Italy took 28 days since we were slowed
down so much. Adding to our misery, the food began to give out, especially flour
for baking, and we no longer had fresh water for purposes other than drinking. A
saltwater shower, even with the special soap, still left you feeling unclean.
The worst time on the trip was that particular morning the captain called us all
up on the deck (which was completely covered with lashed down Army trucks) and
announced that he thought it only fair to tell us that a number of German
submarines which had been thought to be securely bottled up in the Norwegian
fjords had just escaped to the open sea and could well be prowling in our area.
Fortunately we didn't have any contact with German U-boats and after going past
the Rock of Gibraltar and sailing several more days we pulled into Naples,
Italy. The harbor was filled with sunken ships rolled over, with one side
exposed above the water, and we got to shore by walking on a boardwalk which had
been constructed across three of these ships.
Our orders assigned us to the 721st Squadron of the 450th Bomb Group and we soon
found that it was located several hundred miles from Naples -- clear across the
peninsula and farther south. We stayed in Naples several days, waiting for
transportation to our base, and quickly came to realize that it was much nicer
to visit higher up the slopes of the mountains since still used the cobblestone
streets for open sewers. We thought we might as well live in style so we went to
the Allied Officer's Club (formerly the German Officer's club) which, as I
recall, was up the slope of Mt. Vesuvius and ordered a big evening meal once. It
was a real impressive, three or four story marble building situated on a sloping
site with marble courtyards at each level and with orange trees heavy with ripe
oranges throughout the courtyards. Well the menu had disguised our food pretty
good but when it was served we discovered that we were eating "C-rations". So
much for authentic Italian cuisine!
When our transportation arrived it turned out to be the slowest moving freight
train I have ever come in contact with! It took two days to go approximately 200
miles and since we were in open box cars we could hop off and go out and pick a
handful of almonds and hop back on another box car. When the train stopped
again, which happened frequently, we could walk back to the car we were supposed
to be on.
Our base
then a few days of sun would produce dust on our unpaved runway. The runway did
have steel mats to help support the weight of fully loaded B-24s but because of
the mud, these mats had pushed down below the surface to where they were no
longer visible except along extreme edges of the runway. There was no perimeter
fence around the base and as a consequence, anybody was free to come and go as
long as they dodged the patrolling guards. To augment the limited number of
guards available to guard the planes, the enlisted men on the flying crews had
to stand guard on a rotating basis. During the time I was there, on two
different occasions Italian spies were caught just off base as they were using
short wave radios to transmit information to the Germans concerning mission
briefings which we had just attended. Several times flying toward the target on
a mission "Axis Sally" would come on the radio and say something like "Cotton
Tails we know you are heading toward Munich today and we'll have a warm welcome
for you." This can give you an uncomfortable feeling when you are actually
flying toward Munich and still have hours to go before you get there.
We finally reached our destination, an air base near a small town called
Manduria. When you look at the boot-shaped peninsula of Italy, our base was
between the instep (Gulf of Taranto) and the back of the heel. We were told
immediately on arriving that it was unsafe to leave the base if not in a group
and officers were advised to wear side arms when off the base. It seems that the
Germans, when they were there, considered themselves so superior to the Italians
that they didn't even associate with them but the Americans invited the Italian
girls to dances on base right away. The few remaining Italian men in the area
(mostly the very young and the very old) didn't appreciate this fraternization
and on one occasion they waylaid the GI bus taking the girls home and beat up
the girls and shaved their heads.
We soon realized that October and November were rainy months for this part of
the world! We would slog through mud for days on end and Our base was located in
the midst of olive groves and we were told that some of the trees were more than
100 years old. Ancient property lines were indicated by loosely piled stone
walls which had been created by many years of picking up stones in the
cultivated areas and tossing them out on the borders. Many of these "walls" were
piles of stones 6 or 8 feet high and as wide as 10 or 12 feet at the base. When
a mission damaged B-24 landed short or over-ran the end of the runway and hit
one on these stone piles, it would be literally pulverized.
There were several old pre-fabbed Italian military barracks where some of us
stayed and others stayed in 10 or 12 man structures which consisted of "two-for"
block walls and a canvas tent roof. A "two-for" block was squared off limestone
roughly 8 inches by 8 inches by 16 inches and they were hacked out of local
quarries by the Italians. The name was the result of the price, two cigarettes
per block. Combat attire
When we first entered combat we were advised by the experienced flyers to wear
only GI olive drab uniforms on missions. An officer's "pinks and greens" could
single you out for possible rougher treatment, if captured. We were also told to
wear high-top "brogans" since low quarter shoes might fly off from the shock of
an opening parachute and even if capture was eluded it would be very difficult
to walk out without shoes. We soon found too that most flying crew members kept
a sheath knife strapped to the lower leg to be used if bail-out occurred over
water and entanglement in the parachute resulted.
The properly attired pilot had a real "layered look" on a combat mission.
Starting with the OD uniform and high-top shoes you then added fleece-lined
boots over shoes because electric shoes wouldn't fit over "brogans ". A flight
suit (nylon coveralls were generally used although they melted and caused
serious burns if an oxygen flash fire occurred) was added over the uniform. You
could elect to wear an electric suit, or a fleece-lined jacket, or a B-10
jacket: Thena "Mae West" life preserver, then a back pack parachute. Next was a
flak vest (pilots had 1/4 inch armor behind and partially over their seats on
the flight deck) and a flak helmet. An oxygen mask was worn anytime we were
above 10,000 feet. Since the B-24 cockpit was basically unheated (although
heaters were supposedly in a few planes) your exhaled breath soon formed a solid
sheet of ice on your chest below the oxygen mask. On your hands you wore brown
silk "liner" gloves, then electric gloves, and then outer leather gloves. The
escape kit was carried in a knee pocket of your flight suit. It contained things
such as 48 American one dollar bills, silk maps, a button compass, morphine,
sulfa powder, etc. The electric shoes, suits, caps, and gloves were the
forerunner of the electric blanket which became popular right after the war.
Landing aids
A one million candlepower searchlight served a dual purpose at our base.
Frequently we wouldn't return from a mission until after dark since our base was
so far south and the searchlight was directed straight up into the sky to help
our formation find the base. Once we got back in the vicinity of the base the
searchlight was turned down the runway. As the plane got closer and closer to
the ground the shadow of the plane was projected forward in the last few seconds
before your wheels touched down and depth perception was completely gone. At
this point you just flew blindly until your wheels struck the runway. This was
not always the smooth gentle landing you would have preferred, especially if you
were in a plane that had sustained damage which was yet to be fully evaluated.
Sometimes when we returned from a mission a straggler might swing over Taranto
Bay in making a landing approach. This could lead to some "fireworks" since the
British had been assigned the defense of that area and their gunners never did
seem to realize that we were on the same side of the war. They would sometimes
shoot at our planes but I don't think they ever hit one. After an incident of
this type some Americans were known to go to the British base and stand at the
fence and shoot 45 cal automatics across the field toward their installations
(of course this happened only after a number of 3.2 % beers were consumed).
Neither side in this private war ever did any damage that we knew of -- this
didn't speak too well for the marksmanship, did it? I had my 20th birthday
shortly after arriving in Italy and looking back now that seems awfully young to
have been given control of an airplane which then cost about $350,000 and even
more importantly, given the command responsibility for the nine other members of
my crew. Of course we were all young then. Only two members of my crew were
older than I was. In an effort to appear older I grew what turned out to be a
pathetic looking moustache, the only thing this accomplished was to convince me
never to try that again.
My Squadron
I was assigned to the 15th AF, 47th Wing, 450th Bomb Group and the 721st
Squadron. This was October of 1944 and the Allies were definitely showing signs
of winning the war. However, we were made aware of the reason for our assignment
almost immediately upon arriving at our base. The 721st Squadron had suffered
almost 300 % attrition because of an earlier unfortunate experience. There were
several versions of the story but the gist of it was that a B-24 was badly
damaged on a mission which involved both anti-aircraft and enemy fighter
response. The pilot, knowing he had become a "sitting duck" and could be shot
out of the sky at any moment, elected to surrender in the air. The accepted
procedure for doing this was to lower flaps and landing gear and slow down
airspeed to permit being escorted back to an enemy air field where the plane
would land and the crew would be taken captive. In this case, the flaps and gear
were lowered and an FW-190 came in on each wing tip to escort the plane down.
After some minutes the B-24 pilot reassessed the situation and thought they
could make it home so he gave the order to his gunners and they shot down both
of the FW-190s and the B-24 did make it back to friendly territory. At that time
the 721st became a marked squadron. Since the squadron identification was a
solid white rudder they became known as the Cottontails or "Whitetails" and
thenceforth German fighters would break off a "dogfight" anywhere in the
vicinity of where the "Cottontails" were flying in order to attack the squadron.
My Tour
A tour of duty as a bomber pilot involved completing 35 sorties or 50 missions,
whichever came first. A sortie involved one take-off and one landing but many of
the targets were so rough that double mission credit was assigned to them. We
had a mission briefing before dawn and the bombardier (armorer officer) and the
bull turret gunner (armorer gunner) would then see to the bomb loading and the
loading of the ten, 50 cal machine guns and the ammunition for them. Frequently
we took off before dawn because our mission took from six to nine hours. Planes
lined up on the taxi strip in the appropriate order for their designated
position in the formation and all cockpit checks were made while taxiing. When
the plane in front of you lined up on the runway you timed 30 seconds from the
time you saw his wheels roll. You were supposed to be starting your takeoff roll
at the end of the half minute. If it was during a "dry" time there would be so
much dust on the runway that you couldn't see the plane taking off in front of
you after he had gone 150 feet. Once a box of seven or ten planes was airborne
we formed a loose formation at about 3000 feet altitude.
After all planes were in formation we started climbing in formation and usually
reached desired bombing altitude just prior to reaching the "IP" (initial point
of the bomb run). When rifles (barrels of the machine guns) were placed in the
plane for a mission there was masking tape over the ends to prevent moisture
from entering the barrels. The gunners didn't "clear the guns" (test fire) until
we reached enough altitude that ice crystals, rather than water droplets, were
present in the atmosphere. If rain drops or moisture condensed from the heat of
firing the guns, would freeze inside the gun barrel the 50 cal slugs would
ricochet inside the barrel and split it from end to end. Clearing the guns while
in formation was not without certain hazards, especially since we customarily
flew in a stepped down echelon. This meant that the ejected brass shell casings
from the planes ahead of you would be falling all around your plane. In one
instance a shell casing hit a propeller of a plane below and was thrown through
the side with such force that it took a chunk out of the pilot's hip big enough
to put a fist in. The formation was nearing the target and to leave the safety
of the formation and attempt to return to base as a lone aircraft would probably
have been suicide for the whole crew. The pilot elected to continue the mission
even thought he was bleeding profusely. They stuffed rags into the wound to try
to stanch the flow but he died before they got back to our base.
Formation incident
Sometimes simply flying in formation could be .dangerous. One time the pilot
flying off my right wing swerved toward my plane and the only way I could avoid
a collision was to put my plane in a steep dive. We were on the way to the
target and I had a full gas load and bomb load so in just seconds my airspeed
was beyond the red line on the gauge and it was very difficult to pull the plane
out of the dive. We did, however, and resumed our position in the formation and
completed the mission. Although a number of people were aware of the incident, I
never was officially questioned about it but I heard that the pilot of the other
plane received a reprimand.
Future events proved that this was the beginning of the period when Allied
bombing strategy had been so effective that the German Luftwaffe was very low on
fuel and they couldn't put many planes in the air. The uncertainty of fighter
attack made it important that we continue to maintain good flying formations. It
was still a court-martial offense to abort a mission without a very good reason.
On one mission our box leader was inexperienced to the extent that he was
cruising at a speed which made it impossible for those of us farther back in the
formation to keep up. Our approach route was over the Adriatic Sea so several of
us dropped first one and then another of our 500 lb bombs in an effort to
lighten our planes enough to keep up. We had finally emptied our bomb racks
before we reached the target. Although we stayed in formation we didn't receive
mission credit for that mission. This was contrary to established policy and I
would have protested had I not become a prisoner-of-war shortly after this.
Hot shot pilot
When we first got to the base at Manduria it had been approximately a month and
a half since I had flown in an airplane so to get back in the swing of things
and also to familiarize myself with the immediate area, I checked out a B-24 and
was shooting some landings. After three or four landings I rolled up to the ramp
to park the plane and was met by a very irate Master Sergeant who proceeded to
chew me out without drawing a breath! As soon as I could make sense out of what
he was saying it became apparent that some green and very dumb Second Lieutenant
had been shooting landings in the plane assigned to this crew chief and contrary
to all knowledge and/or human intelligence had retracted the gear on each
take-off and consequently never let the expander tube brakes cool off between
landings. The resultant heat buildup had most likely damaged the brakes and this
crew chief and several other enlisted men would probably now have to work all
night changing out the brakes and they probably did need it since the wheels
were smoking slightly even as we stood there engrossed in this slightly one
sided conversation.
By this time in the war (and maybe also due in part to the particularly high
attrition rate of the 721st squadron) our crews were not assigned to one
specific airplane and it was possible to fly a different one each mission. When
a newly arrived crew first started flying missions the copilot would sit out the
first two or three missions and an experienced pilot would fly with the crew
using the crew first pilot as his copilot. After this period the new crew would
again become a unit and remain together barring some illness or casualty.
Sometimes, however, a crew might be augmented by a volunteer cameraman or by
someone evaluating new equipment or a new combat procedure. Occasionally one of
our crews would be blessed with the presence of the commanding general of the
47th Wing since his headquarters was located just across a dirt road from our
base.
Takeoff Incident
On one mission, after our crew was again flying as a unit I had just lined up on
the runway and was looking at the cloud of dust which hid an airplane taking off
in front of me when I revved up the engines while holding the brakes, kicked the
rudders to see if the airflow from the engines was sufficient to give me
directional control and started rolling. I always took off on a combat mission
with this procedure rather than using brakes to line up on the runway. When I
tried to kick the rudders I could tell immediately that the control surfaces
were still locked. The copilot always went down a checklist as we were taxiing
out and one of the last things to do before take-off was to unlock the controls.
You don't do this too soon because with planes taxiing so close together the
prop wash from planes in front of you might damage your control surfaces if they
flap around. Somehow this time, my copilot had failed to unlock the controls and
here we were starting to roll down the runway in a cloud of dust and with the
controls locked and knowing that within 30 seconds another B-24, fully gas and
bomb loaded would be rolling blindly down that runway behind us. In pure reflex
action I used the brakes to steer us off the runway and across the field, hoping
all the time that we wouldn't plow into an open ditch that I knew the
construction engineers had in that vicinity. The tower was screaming at us over
the radio, trying to find out what we were doing and I just pretended that my
radio was out and didn't answer. Our luck held, we didn't hit the ditch (or any
soft spot), and I just cut across the field and got back in line on the taxi
strip and when my turn came took off with controls unlocked this time.
Targets
We were hitting some important targets, a ball bearing plant, oil refineries,
railroad marshalling yards, and strategic transportation links. All of these
were well defended with highly accurate anti-aircraft guns but we generally had
good "intelligence" and were briefed on the location of the permanent and
semi-permanent gun emplacements in close proximity to the selected target. This
didn't hold true for the target that I most dreaded to fly against. This was
Brenner Pass, the only railroad connection between Italy and Germany. It is
located on the Italy-Austria border. We never knew where the anti-aircraft guns
were because most of them were rail-mounted and highly mobile. For a while we
bombed the railroad tracks through the pass but found that damage of this type
could be repaired quickly and the trains would be running again in a few days.
After we started bombing the mountain sides we found that we could bury enough
track to stop the trains for two weeks or more.
Refreshments
It was left up to each individual to provided for his hunger or thirst on a
mission since our squadron didn't address this need in any way. I didn't
normally carry anything along this line because we flew in unheated planes and
wore oxygen masks at all times above 10, 000 feet altitude-which was almost the
whole mission in most cases. As first pilot, I customarily flew the plane from
take-off until we had dropped bombs and had gotten out of the target vicinity,
then my copilot flew back until we arrived at our base and then I would land the
plane. I didn't get hungry because of the excitement and adrenalin flow plus the
physical exertion of formation flying with a loaded airplane left little room to
think about food. Some of the crew might carry a candy bar or K-ration pack, but
generally we all went without food the 10 to 12 hours from morning to the
evening meals in the mess hall. It fell to the pilot's lot go through debriefing
with S-2 after parking the plane on the maintenance ramp and informing ground
personnel concerning any damage or maintenance problems encountered. De-briefing
started with a double shot of rye whiskey ("Mission Whiskey") which was intended
to relax pilots who were still over-excited from the mission or those who were
numbed by the loss of a crew member or possibly a friend on another crew that
didn't make it back.
Anyway a double-double shot of whiskey loosened tongues pretty good and
individual de-briefing could take from ten minutes to as much as an hour. After
the evening meal the flying officers might tend to their ground assigned duties
which were normally rotated around the squadron. Then the first pilot had to
censor his crew's outgoing mail. This usually consisted of physically cutting
out such things as "We bombed Munich with 1000 pounders today" or maybe "Two of
our planes didn't make it back". It seemed to be hard for some of our folks to
find something to say without getting into forbidden areas. By the time this
little job had been completed we could go to base operations and check the
posted list to see if we were scheduled to fly the next day. Normally we didn't
fly on consecutive days unless one of the missions was a "milk run", such as
bombing an undefended stone bridge in Yugoslavia across the Adriatic.
Even today you can reflect for a few moments and still mentally hear and feel
the effects of a flak barrage. The first such experience was rather startling
since nobody had warned us that we would see all these puffs of black smoke all
around us (and sometimes in the midst of our formation), this could be followed
almost instantly with a rattle (as if handful of small pebbles was forcefully
thrown against a tin building) then you would hear aloud "whomp" and the plane
would lurch. The rattle was caused by shrapnel penetrating the aluminum "skin"
of your B-24 and this occurred, seemingly, seconds before you felt the blast
concussion. Generally when the anti-aircraft guns first started firing at us it
took several barrages before they zeroed in on us but this rule didn't hold if
it was a sunny, clear day. In that case, the first barrage might be dead on our
formation. We carried shredded aluminum "chaff" which the gunners dumped out of
the waist windows or camera hatch when weather conditions made it impossible for
German gunners to track us visually. This "chaf" floating down as a cloud would
look to enemy gunner's radar like a formation of bombers and would lead much of
the fire power away from the real planes.
You don't have my number yet!
On one mission my flight engineer was in the waist area of the plane when we
took some shrapnel. One piece about two inches long and about 1/2 inch wide came
up through the floor at his feet, grazed the back of his gloved right hand
(tearing through a leather glove, electric glove, silk liner glove and just
scratching the skin) and continued up to the roof of the plane. It's momentum
was spent and it failed to continue on out of the plane but dropped back at his
feet. When he picked it up out of curiosity he saw that there were numbers
stamped on it. He was almost in shock when he read #7144 which was also the last
four digits of his army serial number. He pocketed this "good luck omen" and
carried it with him on subsequent missions. He figured if it "had his number"
and caused no more injury than it had, then perhaps there wasn't any flak out
there that did "have his number." By the way, his hand didn't even bleed at a
temperature of around minus 50 degrees Centigrade but I did notice that this
well sun-tanned fellow was a little pale immediately after this incident.
continue to part 2 SHOT DOWN