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VACATION
WITH PAY
Being an account of my story of
The German Rest Camp
for Tired Allied Airmen at beautiful -
Barth-on-the-Baltic
By
ALAN H. NEWCOMB
DESTINY PUBLISHERS -
HAVERHILL … MASS. 1947
CHAPTER ONE
"Pappy" Mohler rolled over in bed and cocked a reproachful eye at me.
"Ten dollars?" he protested. "Now, Newk, for why would you want ten bucks in
this Newfoundland wilderness? From what I've seen of it, it's the one place
where you couldn't spend a nickel if you had one."
"Experimental research, Pappy," I explained. "Mathematical probabilities – some
of the boys are investigating the law of diminishing returns."
"Or in words of one syllable," said Pappy, "you crave to sit in on a crap game.
Newk, you oughta stay out of such. They get you nowhere – I should know." Just
a little late, I realized that waking your prospect for a quick touch out of a
sound slumber on a frosty, cloudy day wasn't the best way to float a loan.
Lieutenant Mohler was my first pilot in the shiny new B-17 we were flying from
Nebraska to England, by way of Newfoundland. I hadn't known him or the rest of
the crew very long; as a matter of fact, I had been with them only a week as a
replacement co-pilot. But Herb Corwin, our navigator, had assured me that Pappy
was a soft-hearted hombre who was ready to part with ten-dollar bills on
occasion, even to a new acquaintance like me.
Pappy was an interesting and colorful character. He had been, at various times,
a policeman, a restaurant owner, a numbers racket man, a taxi-cab driver, and
only he knows what else. He hailed from Salt Lake City, but had seen, in a
somewhat checkered career, many men and many cities. Since he was twenty-nine,
much older than the other fellows on our crew, he assumed a fatherly air toward
us all and gave out with a great deal of free advice, some of it, I must admit,
very good advice.
"How about Henry and Herbie?" he queried, "They got money." "Herb did have, but
those burglars he's playing with took him to the cleaners. Henry, I think, is
doing all right." Henry Kaczorowski was the bombardier on our crew. Pappy
grunted: "Oh, so they're in it too."
"Yeah. Tell you what, Pappy, let me have the ten and I'll split my winnings with
you," I offered generously, hoping against hope that there might be winnings.
"Oh, skip it," said Pappy. "Here's your ten. And good luck!"
The financial transaction completed, he rolled his rotund body over to the wall
to shield his eyes from the semi-pseudo sunlight that foggy Newfoundland
supplies to tourists during the month of July. Clutching the ten-dollar bill in
my presumably lucky left hand, I hurried across the sandy parade ground to the
barracks where the crap game was noisily progressing, providing a release from
the monotonous tension of the camp.
Perhaps I should mention that the date on the calendar in the mess hall, as I
had observed it that morning, was July 22nd in the warlike year of 1944. Only
the week before I had been waiting around in Kearney, Nebraska, as a replacement
copilot. For some reason, Mohler's crew had lost their co-pilot and I was
introduced to the men with whom I was going to combat just three hours before we
took off from Kearney. It
was a good crew and I considered myself fortunate to be one of their number. In
the quick way that men who fly together automatically become fast friends, I was
already "Newk" to them, and already I had a line of their varied
characteristics. Pappy was easy-going, Herb downright lazy, and Henry nervously
active, but they all worked together well in the plane, and I seemed to be
fitting into their routine.
As I opened the door of the barracks, Herb Corwin, who was slouching against the
wall observing the game, caught sight of me, and his ever-sleepy eyes brightened
a little. "Did Pappy come across?" he inquired. It was Herb who had suggested I
make the touch. I nodded. Herb gestured toward the game "Look at Henry!" he
exclaimed, "he's hot!"
Sure enough, Henry was going strong. On the blanket in front of his tense, wiry
body was a pile of American and Canadian currency, and the hand that rattled the
dice was going like a piston. His Flushing, New York accent rose above the hum
of voices; imploring the dice to "see things his way." "C'mon, babies," he
invoked. "Everybody on? Is it taken? Hi, Newk, get on me – I'm away! C'mon
babies, let's make it NATURAL!"
Silence greeted the first roll. Then with a quick jerk of his hand, a staccato
clicking of the dice, and a roar from the undershirt clad multitude, Henry
crapped out. But he bounded out of the crowd with as much cheerfulness as ever,
grinning from ear to ear and still holding a fistful of bills. "Gosh, Al, you
should've been here earlier! Youse coulda made a mint while I was hot! Boy, did
ya see me? I was going!"
The object lesson was before me! "Gentlemen," I put in, "I have just come to a
decision. What say we take this ten dollars so kindly provided by Brother
Mohler, go over to the PX, and have a milkshake on me? If we stay here, I'll
only be handing it over to these wolves with
dirty knees, but if we leave now I can give most of it back to Pappy."
Henry was ready to quit – he was ahead of the game; Herb was ready to quit
–
he was broke; so we walked down the street to the big Post Exchange, which was
crowded as usual with American and British officers and enlisted men, WAC's and
WAAF's, all milling around trying to get an order in to the counter-girls.
While we were waiting for Henry, our go-getter, to worm his way in to the
counter, several of the enlisted men on our crew came in the door and hailed us
boisterously. There were Wally Littrell, the Texan gunner-engineer; Pete Keryan,
the ball turret gunner, a Pennsylvanian; Don Cloutier, our tail gunner from
Illinois; and Max Stedman, a New York State man who filled the position of radio
operator on the ship. Hank Smith and Pat Dunne, the two waist gunners were, so
Wally said, spending the afternoon as Pappy was, "in the sack."
"Well, gosh, do youse guys want these milkshakes, or shall I throw 'em out?"
Henry was back from the counter in record time with our 'shakes, and we managed
to find an empty booth in which to sit down. Wally joined us. "Ah don't think
it's even worthwhile to dive in theah for one of those milkshakes," he said as
we sat down. "Have y'all heard th' latest?"
"No, what's happened? What is it? Are we leaving?" Immediately we showered him
with questions. Not only had we already spent three days waiting for the weather
to clear, but the prospect of our 2,000 mile flight across the Atlantic was a
priority subject in everyone's mind.
"We brief at fahve o'clock 'n take off sometime tonight or tomorrow mo'ning !"
That was enough. We gulped down our milkshakes and hurried back to the barracks
to wake Pappy and to pack our flight bags before the scheduled briefing time.
Rudely awakened, the "Old Man" heaved himself, grunting and groaning, out of his
bed and joined us in the flurry of activity that went on. A babble of voices
arose. "Gosh, they don't give you much time around here!" "Whereinhell's my A-2
jacket?" "If Corwin can steer us across all that water, he's a better navigator
than I give him credit for." "Hey, Pappy, don't let Newk get at that wheel
–
he'll drown us all!"
The barracks CQ put his head in the door, "Briefing at five o'clock sharp."
"Yes, yes, yes. Don't rush us." "Newk, we'll take turns flying and it won't be
so bad." "I'll bet those Germans are scared stiff – yeah." "Hey, Hoibie, how
far is it to you know where?" "How should I know? I ain't been briefed yet." "My
gosh, what a navigator – don't you have any interest in this thing?" "Not much.
Who's got my hat?" The CQ again; "Briefing is in ten minutes at the Operations
building. You go . . ." "We know, we know where it is." "All right, fellows,
let's go! Come on, come on! Leave your bags here and pick 'em up after briefing.
They'll probably give out with a meal before we leave, anyway."
"You're darn right they'll give us chow. Do you think I want to starve in the
middle of the ocean?" We streamed out the door and joined the rest of the two or
three hundred men going down to the briefing. On Newfoundland, five o'clock
means that the dusky, half-dark night has already started. The wind was rising a
little, pushing at our backs and urging us toward the big gray-green Operations
building. Pilots, bombardiers, and navigators crowded and jostled up the narrow
staircase, wise-cracking about the flight ahead, but we all quieted down quickly
as the briefing officers mounted a platform at the end of the long, drafty room.
There followed two hours of highly detailed, all-inclusive lectures and films on
the best and safest way to fly an ocean, even including motion pictures of the
terrain a pilot sees when approaching the Irish coast. Each pilot was issued a
200 page notebook of maps, instructions, call-letters, identification signals,
everything that might possibly be needed during the trip. Herbie's fears that he
might starve in the air were considerably allayed by a hearty meal served at the
officers' mess, after which we lugged our bags down to the flight line to meet
the enlisted men, who also had been briefed and fed. The night was chilly and we
were thankful for the warmth of the Flight Room, where hundreds of men lay
sprawled among the piles of baggage, waiting to go to their ships.
During the four days our new B-17's had been here, both our crewmen and the
permanently stationed line crews had gone over them, checking every detail and
seeing that the engines were running smoothly for the long hop ahead. Now all
that remained was to stow the baggage in the bomb bays, run through the final
flight check and we'd be ready to go.
The loudspeakers shouted out crew numbers as the ships took off at ten-minute
intervals, providing a deep undertone of roaring motors to the hum of idle
conversation in the room ... ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, I, reading a
Pocketbook mystery, Pappy and Herb asleep, and Henry in a voluble and seemingly
senseless argument with Wally. Then our number, 999, was called, and we took our
bags out to the waiting six-by-six truck. Our takeoff time was set at 2358
hours, and we had time to check the gas tanks once more, run up the engines for
testing, and see that everything else was set.
When the headphones told us that it was time, we swung out on the runway, I
locked the tail wheel and Pappy flicked on the generator switches and shoved the
throttles full forward. The big ship, heavily loaded, moved forward reluctantly
and then lightened as it picked up speed. Dark forests of pine trees lining the
runway streaked by and disappeared.
When we were airborne and I had set the throttles and RPM controls, it was time
to sign off from the "Gander tower" frequency.
"Bye-bye, Nine-nine-nine, have a good time and give 'em hell!" The tower
operator must have said that to a hundred ships that evening, but he must also
have known what it meant to us to leave with a friendly, unofficial goodbye in
our ears, and he made it sound spontaneous and sincere.
When we were on course and out of sight of land, Pappy uttered some more welcome
words: "Newk, you go on back to the bomb bays and get some sleep – no need for
both of us to fly this straight and level stuff at the same time. I'll call you
when I get tired."
I left my earphones on long enough to hear Herb bewailing the Army system of
providing two pilots for a B-17 but only one overworked, underpaid navigator,
got in a sharp reply about the relative values of the two positions, then pulled
the 'phones from my head before he could answer in kind – a very effective way
of getting in the last word – and went back for my nap. The bomb bays were half
full of B-4 flight bags, mail sacks, and barracks bags, and I managed to drape
myself quite comfortably over these. It was a little too soon after takeoff to
be able to ignore the pulsating sound of the motors, so I lay there half awake
and let my memory range back over the chain of events which had brought me from
a college campus to the winged bed I now occupied.
[next chapter]
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VACATION
WITH PAY:
Being an account of my story of
The German Rest Camp for Tired Allied Airmen at beautiful
Barth-on-the-Baltic
By
ALAN H. NEWCOMB -
DESTINY PUBLISHERS -
HAVERHILL … MASS. 1947