While
the taste of my first mission is still fresh, I want to record what I consider
a very important phase in my life. But rather than attempt to write of all that
has
or will happen, I shall limit this record to actual combat experiences. Yet,
frankly,
where or how to start is my main problem. So much has happened in the past
24 hours that it is hard to believe, let alone write about it.
But before long, the navigator
brought us back to reality. We were making landfall. So, on went the flak gear.
During that time we had
crossed the enemy coast and then hit our first bad luck. Being an hour late, we
missed our escort, and that meant a fight in and out again.
All we could do is hope some of the escort would come back for us.
Then the first of the flak
opened up, and I took a quick look at it. About eight bursts off the right wing
and I decided my curiosity was
satisfied, so I buckled on my chute.
Suddenly, it seemed as though I
was inside a boiler factory; all hell had broken loose. Our gunners started
firing and it wasn’t for testing
purposes, either. Looking out of the radio hatch I saw the reason – Jerries.
This party was on and Jerry was escorting us right in. Those
damn FWs were coming in all around the clock. You just couldn’t keep up with
them. No sooner did one peel off and come in, another
was right behind it. Then one jolly bastard came in from 1 o’clock low. I
spotted him out of the right radio window and called it out. Our
ball turret got on him, but instead of going after us, he caught our right wing
man. One minute we had a right wing ship and the next it was
a ball of flame.
Calling the left waist, I asked
him to swap positions with me, for these fighter attacks were what I was
supposed to photograph. So
we swapped. I might add, at that temperature, which was approximately -45
degrees centigrade, it’s damn cold, but under the circumstances
a Turkish bath had nothing on us. You get so damn tense that after a few minutes
all your clothes are soaking wet. I was no exception to that.
After a while the FWs left us
and we didn’t know why, and cared less, until it came over the intercom: JU88s
at 9 o’clock level, about
1,800 yards out. The lousy square heads sat out there, out of range of our guns,
and started to lob rockets in on us broadside. All you could
see was a trail of smoke and whoosh, right through the formation. It wasn’t
accurate shooting, and we lost no one to it, but it sure was a boost
for religion.
Then, after disposing of their
rockets, they came in on us. They didn’t do too much damage, but they certainly
left a few of their number behind
– in a blaze. That .50 caliber isn’t exactly an egg beater. And so we went on.
In all that time, I still wasn’t able to get a picture of fighter attacks.
Every time I’d get set, I had to drop the camera and grab the gun.
During all that time, we were
getting closer to “The B,” and the rest of the trip in was without enemy action.
Finally, the navigator told us we
were on the IP. This is where we really expected to catch hell, for once on the
bomb run a bomber formation can take no evasive action.
This run enables the bombardier to line up his sight and gives him control.
Well, I left the waist and went
back to the radio room to get in the camera hatch. I opened the camera hatch,
and, in between the flak bursts,
there was the city of Berlin. The flack was so thick round us you could walk on
it; it was just solid, above, behind, below and on all sides.
The radio op told me to look out toward 1 o’clock, so I stood up out of the
hatch and looked out the right window. Vapor trails at 1 o’clock high
– ME- 109s, and coming in like a swarm of hornets. I didn’t think they’d come
through their own flak, but they did. Jerry was out to try and
stop us. Well, there wasn’t much use in my just looking. I had pictures to take;
I could worry just as well in the hatch.
Some groups had already dropped
their load and I could see the bombs bursting in the city, and took shots of it.
But Jerry, in the meantime,
was charging a damn steep price of admission. We had lost our original wing
ships and now their replacements were gone. Every now and
then I’d see a Fort going in down under us, some to flak and some to fighters.
Some got out and some just had the deck stacked against them.
There were plenty of chutes to be seen, of both sides. At least Jerry was taking
a beating also.
Finally, they found a target and
bombs away. I tracked our bombs down and saw them explode smack in the middle of
this factory. It was
a perfect shack job and flame and smoke rose to testify to our accuracy. It was
a picture that cannot be described except through the
camera. I kept grinding away at the mess and saw other buildings around blow up
one by one. Those bombardiers sure wrecked that place.
Now LET’S GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!
Up to this point we were working
for the Government of the United States of America and 130 million people. Now,
we were in business for
ourselves. By this time Jerry must have really been PO’d, for the flak seemed to
be getting worse, if possible, and those MEs just came ripping
in on us. To add to our troubles, the bomb bay doors wouldn’t close, so the
engineer had to crank them up manually. At that altitude, that’s
a damn hard job, as is any exertion; it’s hard to breath. His oxygen mask was
restricting his movements, so the engineer ripped it off and
proceeded to crank up the doors. I kept an eye on him in the meantime with an
oxygen bottle handy, just in case. But after a while all was okay,
and now all we had to do was get home.
Jerry had other ideas on that
subject. Once again, I swapped positions with the waist gunner, still out to get
pictures of fighter attacks. Jerry
came up on our tail and his lead blew part of our intercom system out, but the
tail gunner blew him out – just like a candle. This wasn’t exactly
kosher, and put us in a hell of a spot with that system out. But we managed,
somehow. Well, this went on, and no sooner did we get
through with one bunch of those bastards and a new bunch would take over. Hell,
there was every kind of ship and marking that the Luftwaffe
had up there, all getting their licks in. Those “bandits” kept after us until we
could see the Channel, then our luck broke with us. A squadron
of P-47s came out after us and went after those Jerries, chasing them back.
Those little friends sure looked mighty good to us as they took
up positions on all sides of the remaining groups. Then, the Channel was under
us and we let down out of altitude.
It had been a long, hard and
hectic day, and we were pooped. We circled our base, and – after the ships
firing the red flares for casualties
– we landed. At the revetment we looked over the ship and it was a mess. Like a
fresh slice of Swiss cheese. But, in spite of it all,
we suffered no casualties. The bombardier had a piece of flak hit him in the
chest, but the flak suit took the impact; just knocked the wind
out of him. One 20mm cannon shell exploded across the navigator’s table and blew
half his clothes off his back, but he wasn’t even scratched.
We picked up four 20mms in the bomb bay, one through the tail and the entire
ship was riddled with flak and machine gun holes. Close.
At interrogation we all got a
shot of good American whiskey and sure needed it. That damn place was like a
wake. We had lost 13 ships
– 130 men, approximately, and 30 were out of our hut. Only Sam Catalano, Feener
and myself left out of the 33 that went out this morning.
I’m not particularly hungry
tonight, so instead of chow I’m writing this before I forget all the gory
details. But I’m sure glad I’m going on leave
tomorrow. This hut is too damn quiet.
So ends Mission Number One. Only 24 more to go.
RETURN TO
STORIES
This story and dozens of others can be found in
The 388th Anthology, Vols. I and II