Learning to Fly in Combat(2)
On November 17, McGovern flew his second mission as Surbeck ’s co-pilot.
The
target was marshaling yards in Gyor, Hungary. Over the target the flak
began. It was heavy and accurate. Sticking tight to the formation, his plane
and the others could achieve a better bomb pattern but it also made a concentrated
target for the flak gunners. "It was just solid black except for flashes
of red where shells were exploding," McGovern remembered. The Germans were
using a box-type defense. Each of the 88s fired into an area as the bombers
approached, the shells traveling faster than the speed of sound and set
to explode at the group ’s altitude. "They just boxed it." The boxes were
2,000 feet deep and 2,000 feet wide, sometimes more. The German antiaircraft
units employed almost a million personnel and operated over 50,000 guns,
most of them the dreaded 88s. The shells were time-fused to explode at 20,000
feet, or above or below that altitude according to the flight pattern. As
the shells exploded, sending out hundreds of pieces of steel shrapnel that
had a killing zone radius of some thirty feet, the bombers flew into them.
"Well they had filled that box," McGovern said. A standard expression from
Surbeck or crew members was that "the flak was so thick you could walk on
it." McGovern "often wondered if that ’s the way hell looks."
Another pilot, Lt. Robert Reichard, recalled that "the barrage was so
intense that the daylight disappeared and it was as if someone had cut out
the sun." The B-24's had nowhere to hide and with the ground 25,000 feet
below, there was no place to dig in. The bursts around them posed a threat
to the airplane, as it had ten 500 pound bombs and over 2,000 gallons of
100 octane gas on board.
When the bombs dropped the plane jumped a few feet. "Everything improved
when they went away," Lt. Vincent Fagan remembered. "The plane was 5,000
or 6,000 pounds lighter, we were leaving the flak instead of going into
it and we could take evasive action — usually a diving turn towards the
shortest escape route from the flak area."
____________________
One didn’t always get out of the flak. On his first mission, October
7, 1944, B-24 pilot J.I. Merritt, in Liberty Belle, flew over Vienna to
hit an oil refinery. After dropping the bombs, he banked steeply to the
left and headed toward the rally point and home. Sgt. Art Johnson, a waist
gunner and assistant engineer, was on his twenty-sixth mission. He recalled,
"We had flown through the worst of the flak. I sighed a bit, for this was
my third time in the vicinity of Vienna and I knew about where the flak
began and ended." Just then, there were four explosions in quick succession.
Johnson ’s oxygen hose pulled apart, his gun was knocked out of his
hand, and he hit the floor, hard. Luckily his headset stayed connected and
he heard Merritt ask, "Is everyone okay?" Johnson checked the tail gunner
and the ball turret gunner, then pressed his mike. "Pilot from left waist
— everyone okay back here." But he added, "Number three engine throwing
oil and smoke, number four dead, holes in flaps and wings. Over."
Johnson later found out that the first burst had exploded directly in
front of the plane and the force of it took the top off the nose turret.
The second burst came through and cut the nose wheel and tire in two, cut
the interphone lines to the nose and also the oxygen lines. The third burst
ripped up the underside of the right wing and exploded in number four engine.
The gunner in the top turret, Sgt. Nick Corbo, had just breathed easy and
said to himself, "We’ve made this one," when the bursts came. One piece
of shrapnel exploded through the flight deck. Johnson and the other crew
members began throwing everything that was loose out of the plane. Ammunition,
guns, flak suits, anything and everything that was loose except themselves.
Merritt fought the wheel as the plane heaved and slowed to the brink of
stalling. Then it began dropping. Gasoline streamed from the riddled wing
tanks, filling the plane with the reek of the fuel. Only one engine was
still working, and that one hardly was. The plane had dropped from 25,000
feet to 12,000 and was still going down. Merritt managed to get up some
speed and cross into Yugoslavia. Down to 2,000 feet and almost out of fuel,
he called out over the intercom, "Bail out and good luck!"
Johnson recalled that the right waist gunner was the first out, followed
by the tail gunner and the ball turret gunner. "I was alone in back. I faced
the front of the ship and put my head between my knees and out I went. The
slipstream caught me and I went end for end. By the time I had slowed down
a bit I had pulled my rip cord. One long pull. I was jerked straight up
and down as the silk billowed open and I breathed a prayer of thanks."
Johnson and the others, including Merritt and the co-pilot, landed more
or less intact. They were picked up by partisans who managed to get them
back to Italy, but not until November 26.
Lt. Glenn Rendahl, a co-pilot from Hollywood, California, with the 514th
Squadron, said that on his first mission, the flak "exceeded whatever we
expected." On McGovern’s second mission one bomber of the group was lost.
Again there were clouds, but the lead bomber had the Mickey radar and used
it to find the railroad and dropped his bombs. The twenty-seven planes following
did also. But because of the clouds, no observation of results could be
made.
________________
On his first mission, navigator Pepin of the 741st saw a lot of flak,
saw some B-24's get hit, but his plane managed to drop its bombs successfully.
He felt a sense of joy as the plane headed home. The bomb bay doors were
closing and the aircraft’s speed was increasing. "The going-home sight
of the Alps in the early afternoon was far more beautiful than the morning
one." The radiomen tuned to the Armed Services Radio station in Foggia and
over the intercom the crew listened to the latest hit records. Both danger
and the crew’s stamina diminished on the home-bound run and "our elation
and silliness increased." Everyone was "tired, hungry and thirsty," as their
breakfast and coffee had been hours ago. Finally Pepin could see Cerignola
and his plane circled the field. Then, and on later missions, "My favorite
sight and sound was hearing the tires touch the steel mat on landing and
seeing the props come to a halt." After nine hours of "grueling, horrendous,
nerve-wracking flying, the mission was over."
________________________
For Sgt. Robert Hammer, now a radio operator with the 742nd Squadron,
his first mission was in late September: target, the airfield outside Munich.
Two of the men in his crew, a bombardier and a flight engineer, were on
their last missions before going home. A fighter escort joined them "and
we were bouncing gaily along in the blue" when dead ahead a thick, coal-black
cloud appeared. "Take a good look at it, fellows," the veteran bombardier
called over the intercom, "because it ’s flak and you’ll be seeing plenty
of it from now on." Hammer was appalled to see the squadron of B-24's ahead
fly directly into the stuff. Fools, he thought. Why don ’t they just fly
around it? He saw two planes get hit and start down. Shortly after, "we
were heading for that same suicidal cloud."
The plane started "bucking like a rodeo bronco." There was a crack.
Hammer looked quizzically at the veteran engineer, who pointed to a hole
an inch long and a quarter-inch wide made by shrapnel. After what seemed
an eternity that in fact had lasted for less than ten minutes, the bombs
were away and Hammer’s plane turned for home. "We were combat veterans
now."
__________________________
Radio operator Sgt. Howard Goodner flew his first mission in October,
1944. His plane was a B-24 flown by Lt. Richard Farrington, his squadron
was the 787th, a part of the 466th Bomb Group, Eighth Air Force. Low clouds
covered the airfield and when Farrington got his craft off the ground, he
could not see. Flying blind as he climbed, relying on his instruments, following
his heading, Farrington was quickly covered with sweat. Up, up, up he went,
until he got above the clouds. No amount of practice could have prepared
the pilot and crew for what they encountered — B-24's, glittering like
mica, were popping up out of the clouds over here, over there, everywhere.
They formed up and straightened out for the target. Farrington called out
over the intercom, "This is it, boys. We’re on our way to the war."
Ahead shells were bursting all over the sky, sending out shards of shrapnel.
The lead squadron of B-24's penetrated the flak. "Mary, Mother of God,"
one crew member mumbled into the intercom. "Mary, Mother of God, get me
out of this." Farrington took them right into it. Jarring detonations erupted
around them. The plane bumped and shuddered. But it kept flying straight
and level, until the bombs were released. Farrington banked, got away from
the flak, and headed home. Sergeant Goodner reached into his jacket pocket
for the Tootsie Roll he carried with him. It was frozen solid. When the
plane landed, Goodner had his first mission behind him.
_____________________________
On November 18, McGovern was Surbeck’s co-pilot on another milk run.
The target was the German airfield near Vicenza, Austria. The weather was
fair and the bombing was visual. Over 50 per cent of the bombs fell in the
target area causing extensive damage to the installation. Flak was light
and generally inaccurate. No German fighters were seen. The group returned
to Cerignola without casualties.
McGovern flew again the next day and it was no milk run. The target
was a refinery near Vienna. Because of cloud cover, the lead plane used
its Mickey and no results were seen, but dropping bombs by radar instead
of visually meant few of them hit what they wanted to hit and the damage
was minimal. Flak was intense but inaccurate and all planes returned to
base.
On November 20, on McGovern ’s final mission as a co-pilot, the target
was factories at Zlin, Czechoslovakia. It was a secondary, or alternative,
target, but the original objective had been obscured by clouds, so the lead
pilot took the group to Zlin. There the weather was clear and the bombing
was done visually, with excellent results. Best of all, there was no flak
over Zlin. All planes returned safely.
After debriefing, McGovern would meet with Rounds, Adams, and his crew.
They fired questions at him about what it was like, most of all the flak.
"They were filled with questions every day," McGovern recalled, "waiting
for me when I came back."
Once the session was over, McGovern would steer his way into the officer
’s club for a Coca-Cola or a beer. There he would listen to the veteran
pilots talk and ask his own questions. It was shop talk. From almost every
one of the discussions he would absorb information. The topics were the
B-24's, the crews, the Germans. What rpm at what altitude? Why was this
gauge or that instruments malfunctioning? Is there any way to stay straight
and level over the target and still avoid the flak? How long can an engine
be on fire before it detonates the gas tank? What can you do when a bomb
gets stuck in the bomb bay? How does the plane fly with only three engines
operating? With two? When the hydraulic system has leaked or been shot out,
how do you get the wheels down?
McGovern had flown four missions on four days. These consecutive missions
were about the absolute limit. They left the pilot and his crew haggard,
worn, jumpy, frazzled and spent. But each one of the attacks counted toward
the thirty-five missions that, when completed, would allow McGovern to return
to the States. When he had time to write to Eleanor, McGovern noted the
number in his letter — number five after the mission to Zlin.
"I worried, as any wife would," Eleanor said three decades later. "I
would feel a stab of fear whenever someone knocked at the door or the telephone
rang. The first thing I would do when I got a letter from George was to
scan through it for a number — the number of missions completed. That
was the first thing I wanted to know. Then I’d go back to read the letter."
___________________________
On December 16, radio operator Sgt. Mel TenHaken flew his first mission,
against a refinery at Brux, Czechoslovakia. Because the crew were new, the
pilot, Lieutenant Cord, was a veteran ofthirty-one missions. TenHaken ’
s regular pilot flew as co-pilot that day. There was another newcomer, a
photographer on his seventeenth mission. Theirs would be one of the last
two planes on the bomb run and his photos would be among the official records
of the raid ’s effect.
When the Group formed up and headed toward the target, TenHaken saw
"a seemingly endless line of planes. I had never seen this many in one place
at one time." He thought that "obviously Rosie the riveter back home had
been very busy." The bombers were at 25,000 feet, just below the 26,000-foot
ceiling for the craft.
On his B-24, TenHaken was in charge of the haff, what he had called
"Christmas tree tinsel" back home. Its purpose was to confuse German radar,
which otherwise would lock onto the group and know what altitude to set
the fuses for the shells to explode. The chaff was in packets, each one
wrapped and tied with a plain brown band, each one crimped to open in the
wind and allow the foil to drift down in individual pieces. Most veterans
thought the chaff didn’t do much if any good, but they tossed them out
of the plane with great gusto anyway.
When his plane got to the initial point and turned, then straightened
for the bomb run, TenHaken saw "numerous little puffs ahead forming a black
cloud shaped like an elongated shoe box." The leader of his squadron was
flying through it. Those behind were about to enter the German box. It was
time to pull the flak jackets on. These were for the crew, whose members
did not have the cast iron protection the pilot and co-pilot did. The jackets
consisted of irregularly shaped metal plates stitched between two sheets
of canvas to form a vest. To TenHaken, "their purpose seemed primitive,
identical to that of suits of armor." They weighed about twenty pounds each.
Most veterans decided early on not to wear them, but to put them between
their seats and their butts, thus protecting the most important part.
Over the target, with flak bursting from the shells all around his plane,
TenHaken started dropping the chaff packets through one of the waist windows.
After dropping one, he tried to count to ten as he had been told before
letting the next one go, but in the midst of the flak he seldom got past
two or three. Then the plane to his right got hit. "A flak explosion at
its number three engine had blown the right wing from the body. The scene
was incomprehensible — the wing tumbled over and down, and the fuselage
was nosing into a dive." There were no parachutes. "The bam-bam-bams and
poof-poof-poofs were exploding everywhere; it was inconceivable to fly through
this unscathed."
The bomber lurched. Have we been hit? TenHaken wondered. Through the
intercom, he heard the bombardier say, "Bombs away." ("The most beautiful
words in the English language," according to one pilot). Then the bombardier
continued, "Now let ’s get the hell out of here." After a pause, he came
on the intercom again to say, "I wasn ’t supposed to add that last part."
Lieutenant Cord banked the plane into a steep dive to the right. TenHaken
thought, thank you, God. Cord came on the intercom to ask each crew member
to report any damage. None. When they were out of the flak, TenHaken lifted
his oxygen mask and shouted above the engine noise to the photographer,
"You’ve been through seventeen of these now. Was this flak typical, lighter,
worse, or what?" The photographer grinned and shouted back, "It wasn’t
light. Each mission seems to get worse, but I can ’t believe they could
get more up here than they did."
Over the intercom, Cord asked, "Flight engineer back there?" He wanted
to know what the trouble was with the gas gauges. Number three engine sputtered
and quit. "Get something to three," Cord ordered.
"I’m trying," the engineer answered. "I’m trying."
Cord realized what had happened. On the intercom he said, "The bastards
hit our gas lines over the target. They ’ve just vibrated loose."
The number two engine quit. The engineer repeated that he was trying
to transfer the gasoline flow. He could not.
"We ’re losing altitude and control," Cord yelled. "We ’re at sixteen
thousand; a couple seconds back, we were at eighteen." He added, "Stand
by to bail if necessary."
Then number four engine quit. Then number one. There was a long moment
of quiet, only the sound of the wind that buffeted the plane about in the
glide. Then "the terrible clanging of the bail-out bell crashed the quiet."
Everyone got out okay, landed safely, and became POWs. For TenHaken,
the co-pilot, and the rest of the crew, it was their first mission. It was
number thirty-two for Lieutenant Cord. For the photographer, number seventeen.
For all of them, it was the last.
"Anon" made up words to sing to the tune of "As Time Goes By":
You must remember this
The flak can’t always miss
Somebody’s gotta die.
The odds are always too damned high
As flak goes by. . .
It’s still the same old story
The Eighth gets all the glory
While we’re the ones who die.
The odds are always too damned high
As flak goes by.
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