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Goes to War | Death
of a Flying Fortress |
We
Get Our Feet Wet |
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1998 “I did
not die, and did not remain alive; now think for thyself, “Once one has reached the point of no
return—Reality then begins”.
All too
soon I lifted myself from the seat, and looked at the Pilot in the left
seat and thought about 1943, and the historic mission to Schweinfurt.
That was the position I had occupied as Pilot. In addition to
flying and getting the plane under duress to and from the target I was
also the airplane commander. Flying
a 10-man weapon I was responsible for the safety and efficiency of the
crew. Chris
was our 20-year-old copilot and just a little over a year before had
been working in a shipyard in Vancouver.
He was the executive officer and my right hand man and would take
over the flying when needed, was also the engineering officer proficient
in engine operations. When he would realize I was getting tired he would
always tap me on the shoulder and with a smile indicate he was taking
the controls. He was the playboy of the crew always wisecracking and
rough housing and always had a positive attitude. I
dropped down to go to the nose, and looked at the bomb sight and there
sat Phil our bombardier who was the largest man on the crew at 6 feet 4
inches and the most reserved character of the crew. Phil had been an
Assistant Manager in a hardware store in Muncie, Indiana.
As we left to go overseas he had received a “Dear John”
letter, which ate him up, but he never showed it.
As the Bombardier he was responsible for the accurate and
effective bombing which is the purpose of the entire airplane and crew.
He was responsible for the success or failure of the mission on
that interval of the bomb run, and in addition manned the nose guns for
head on attacks. He also
initiated the oxygen checks every 10 minutes, with some smart wisecrack. As I
turned to the left there was the Navigator’s table and I could see
that constant smile from Eddie who was the youngest in the crew at 19
and always bouncing with seemingly unending energy,
Just a year ago he had been at Penn State hoping to become an
Engineer. He must direct the flight from departure to return knowing the
exact position of the airplane at all times keeping a log of the flight,
plus operating the cheek guns. As I
returned to the flight deck I expected to see “Pappy” (John who was
the oldest man of the crew at 27) transferring fuel or whirling around
in the top turret always looking for enemy planes.
Pappy had been a lead man in a steel mill in Pittsburgh, and I
was always sure he could have had a deferment, but felt he had a job to
do get the war on its way. Pappy
never seemed to get excited and never showed any fear except for chewing
on his ever-present pipe. He
is the chief source of information concerning the airplane and spent
many of his free hours with the crew chief.
In addition to operating the top turret he must work closely with
the Co-Pilot checking engine operation, fuel consumption, and the
operation of all equipment. He also worked with the Bombardier to cock, lock, and loads
the bomb racks. I walk
through the narrow 6-inch walkway in the bomb bay and opened the door to
the radio room. Sitting
there is Mike our Radio Operator with his head down coping code like mad
from some station, not too long ago had been working making radio
equipment in Rochester, NY. The
little compartment is full of radio equipment, and I had full confidence
knew all about this equipment, and how to operate it.
Mike was always giving us positions reports, and assisting the
Navigator in taking fixes plus keeping the liaison and command sets
properly tuned and in good operating conditions.
When the flak was at its worst Mike would huddle down with his
flak helmet and tune in the fastest code he could find to transcribe. I opened
the door to the waist where most of the offensive firepower from the
caliber 50 machine guns to ward off the approaching fighters is found.
The B 17 is the most effective gun platform which our Gunners
very proficiency applied their duties against enemy action.
The power Turrets require many mental and physical qualities
similar to an inherit flying ability.
The flexible Gunners must have a fine sense of timing, and be
familiar with the speed and path for leading the attacking fighter.
There in
from of me is the Ball Turret and standing ready to enter the turret is
Bill who a year ago was working on the assembly line for GM in Detroit,
MI. The Ball Turret
protects the bottom of the plane, and the gunner fits into in an almost
fetal position with the guns on both side of him.
With control handles he moves the turret around and up and down
to point the guns. Should something happen to the plane this is the most
dangerous position, as he must crawl out to attach his parachute to
leave the plane. Bill always took the opportunity to say a prayer for
all of us with his Priest before each mission, and when things became
rough you always would hear “Holy Cow” Just
behind are the two waist gunners. Bob
commands the left waist gun, and a year ago he was preparing to enter a
Seminary to become a Minister in his church.
Bob carried a fear of a crash and burning on take off in all the
missions. He worried for
all of us. He finished his
tour and was killed in a crash in Wales returning home.
The right waist gun belonged to Jim who was from West Texas who
always had a story to tell and was always on the intercom.
He was probably the best shot of all the Gunners. Then
there was the Tail Gunner, John who had the coldest and most precarious
position in the plane who hailed from Kalispell, Montana.
A little over a year ago he had been driving log trucks.
He was always getting one last shot at the fighters, having to
continually refill his ammunition belts.
Several times he had to change barrels in flight. My memory flashes back to that
fateful day of October 14, 1943, which began with that pesky flashlight
in my face, and the invitation —“Breakfast at Five and Briefing at
Six.” I remember dragging my eyes open and getting my thoughts
together, little did I know how the reality of this fateful day would
end. This was mission number four. I
wonder what hellish target is on that map in the Briefing Room? We’ve
been to Cologne, Bremen, and Kassel and flew as a Spare yesterday. If
nothing else we are surely learning the geography of Germany. This time
I shaved in warm water, as I had kept in mind to fill my helmet and put
it on the stove before going to bed. There had been hot water last
night, so had the luxury of a hot shower. We seem to be getting into a
routine as I dressed in layers from the clothes I laid out the night
before. Walking out the door I glanced at
those empty beds with the mattresses rolled up, and thought those guys
were here yesterday doing the same things I am doing today. Outside, it
was ink black, and foggy, they couldn’t possibly have us take off with
such limited visibility well below minimums.
Walking into the Combat Mess there was the usual knot in my
stomach, and those eggs were still staring at me. Sitting down at the
table with the rest of the crew there was Bob (Sgt Robert Smith) with a
full plate and a blank look on his face.
Resnik (S/Sgt John Resnik) was no longer interested in eating too
much after that first mission when at altitude he ended up with terrific
cramps. I thought what you learn with each
mission: (1) using a condom to put over the mike in your oxygen mask to
keep it dry, (2) keep squeezing your oxygen mask so the ice doesn’t
clog it up, (3) then shaking the ice out. I was now smart enough to
carry two masks. (4) Using a condom to urinate by tying a knot in it,
and throwing it out as a gift to Germany (When my children ask what I
had done during the war I told them, “the pleasure of pissing all over
Germany”). On the first mission soon after we
left the target many of the planes would again open their bomb bay doors
and you would see one or two cardboard chaff boxes come tumbling out
(chaff were thin strips of tinfoil used to confuse the German radar).
When ask I received a big laugh and was advised this is “Our Secret
Weapon”, you will soon find out! On the trip to Bremen one of the crew
had to answer nature’s call. He used one of the chaff boxes and we
were also able to bomb Germany twice on that trip (Lord Haw Haw on a
radio broadcast accused our bomb group of conducting “Biological
Warfare”). Suddenly the doors to the Briefing
Room swung open, and the MPs were checking our names off the mission
list. Almost immediately we are all enveloped in a heavy smoke haze,
with the temperature increasing noticeably from all the body heat of
everyone sweating out the mission. I look around everyone is sitting at
all angles and postures. Some are sitting up straight as a ramrod
staring sightlessly ahead, and some are even sound asleep. Others are
engaged in animated conversations about nothing with their neighbors. We
were all well acquainted with fear.
Knowing full well the specter of death incessantly hovered over
all of us as she patiently
waited to take us to her bosom. We are confident in each other and knew only too well the
odds were stacked against us, but we had the flying fortress with the
spirit and the soul pushing those odds in our favor.
The plane was our protector as it continued against all
probability to get us back to our base.
It might have been battered and broken with less than a full deck
of engines, but would some how struggle to get us home.
There was a bond of trust between the heart and soul of the B 17
and the crew who flew her. Abruptly a nattily dressed Major
(a ground-pounder) steps on the stage and begins roll call, calling the
names of each crew commanders as each pilot answers for his crew.
Moving to the back of the stage he drew the strings of the black
curtain of doom revealing the map of Europe, which would dictate our
lives for the next fourteen hours. There is a hushed silence as everyone
leans forward following the fateful end of the red yarn. “It’s
Schweinfurt” the Major says with a mordant smile, and gives us time to
think. Abruptly a buzz of voices breaks out, and one voice says
“Sonofabitch! This is my Last Mission.” And it was, as he was one of
those who never made it back. The Security Officer steps forward
and instructs us; “Do not talk about the mission once you have left
the room, and this applies to a Scrubbed Target. Be sure to wear your
dog tags, GI shoes, and don’t wear any insignia. Carry your rank, name
and serial number, and no billfolds, pictures, nor letters. No one will
leave this briefing until dismissed.” We were told this at every
briefing. Everyone now is sitting up
attentively listening to the intelligence officer. There is no longer
any screwing around for his instructions are life and death to us. You
experience the immediate feeling of the immeasurable doom, which goes
through the briefing room, and no one looks at one another. We are all
thinking the same thing, “Who will be absent from here tonight?”
“How many crews will get it today?” The flak should be light enroute
although we will pick up some south of the Ruhr. About 500 88mm guns
will defend the target and the gun crews are very good. We would be
under aimed fire from the flak for seven minutes on the IP. This means
that all during the 7 minutes we will be flying straight and level into
the dense flak with no evasive action possible.
The enemy fighters will be persistent and aggressive. The
fighters will try to break up the formation with head-on attacks.
Don’t panic and try to dodge. This leaves you wide open if you become
a straggler. Always stay in
the defensive diamond formations and if someone ahead of you gets
knocked out of the formation, move right up into his place, for he has
been hit and will go down anyway. We would never dally around, because
it’s our necks. The weather officer takes the
stage and is the least assuring of all. The weather is lousy. The
visibility is down to ¼ of a mile but we were assured it would be up to
one mile by take off (it wasn’t).
You are rolling down a foggy runway, which is only a mile long
with 3,000 gallons of 100 octane flaming inferno, and the belly of our
plane is pregnant with stifled hell. Everyone begins to leave as that is
our day. We proceed
to our special briefings and to pick up our flimsies, but some wait.
They assemble in little groups as men slip to their knees before their
chaplains-Protestant, Catholic, and Jew. As I walked into the ready room I
was suddenly hit with this deep depression and a feeling of dread as I
thought, “This is not the glamorized Wild Blue Yonder we had all heard
so many times.” We will be fighting 6 miles above the earth in an open
plane. The temperature will
be minus 50 to 60 degrees below zero on an oxygen mask trying to stay
alive in the rarefied air. There are no foxholes to hide in up there.
Most of the time there isn’t even the opportunity of fighting back;
you just sit there and take it. We will be living by the laws of chance
as we drive through the flak, which always seems thick enough to walk
on. There is always that possibility to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time when the projectile shot at us by random from the ground
would intersect the plane and ourselves? We are continually facing the
life and death struggle of the plane with all of us inside. Maybe some
dead, perhaps some wounded, and some not even scratched. It wasn’t the
anxiety of maybe being killed before the day ended, but a deeper far-off
feeling as if I weren’t operating within my own body. As I put on my
electric flight suit and heavy flight clothes, for the long mission, I
looked at the rest of the crew with a detached and lonely sadness
wondering will we still be together tonight? No way did I want to expose
my feelings to the crew for fear they would feel I was not equal to
doing my part, all of our lives totally depended on each other. In kind of a dream I proceeded to
our plane, thinking the B 17 was certainly a very forgiving plane to
fly. Once it was in the air
you would set the trim tabs and the plane would stay where you had set
it. This of course greatly
reduced the amount of leg and shoulder effort especially in formation
flying. There was always
the natural air turbulence, prop wash from other planes, and the flak,
always requiring considerable physical effort in the long hours of a
mission. Other tricks you learn are sighting on the element lead, a
light hand on the throttles always being aware of the attitude, power
and position changes, trim settings, relaxation techniques.
The B 17 always responded making life a little easier allowing
you that extra effort when calamity struck.
The plane response with one or two of those durable engines out
the plane would somehow get you back to England if there was enough of
the plane left to somehow keep flying. I went through the motions of the
checklist for pre-flight inspecting the plane with the crew chief. I was
there, physically doing all things, which were necessary, but seemed
detached and totally out of my body I had the feeling I was in another
dimension watching what I was doing. I was there, but wasn’t there.
Knowing we were in for a rough mission and would catch hell from the
fighters we loaded many additional boxes of caliber 50 ammunition. We
rechecked our flak suits and helmets then all of us made one last trip
to the bushes to relieve ourselves.
Abruptly with a shock I hear on
the intercom from the top turret “Bandits 9:00 O’clock High”
instantaneously followed by warning from the tail and the nose of
fighters coming in from all directions. Immediately you could feel those
20 millimeters going through the plane. The sound of a cannon shell
hitting a fortress depends on where you are. If you aren’t too close
it is like a metallic woof and you feel a jar that shakes the whole
plane, which reaches you and leaves you instantly. If the shell explodes
close to you there is nothing gentle and it certainly isn’t a
momentary tremor. It is like a giant slapping his hand on the water.
There are two sounds one from the impact and the second of it exploding.
It’s like firing a shotgun into a bucket which all comes back
exploding in your face. For a moment you aren’t scared because your
senses are dulled. Your bowels seem weak, (you tighten your pucker
string); your stomach shrivels up until you can figure out how much you
are hurt. It was then a huge electrical shock had hit me and from then
on to this day I have never felt fear. It was as if my mind had gone
into a corner to hide and had then come charging out to do battle. In
talking to others later, I found we all have gone through some factors
of this type of withdrawal. Some retreated from themselves and would no
longer be able perform.
As the fighters descended upon us
I immediately found myself in a world alien to everything I had ever
experienced as the maelstrom began. There were ME-109s and FW-190s
leaping into existence from everywhere without warning. When they began
firing you saw sudden flashes of light winking at you from the distance.
Soon there existed a canopy of cannon shells and bombs, aerial
mines and rockets exploding everywhere. Each one was intent on hitting
our pregnant bomb load and us. We were no longer in a stately march in
tight combat formation. We
try desperately to return to the crisp efficiency of our tight
formation, but it is impossible to achieve in this raging space of time.
We find ourselves slogging our way through a thickening mass of
exploding flame and smoke, with planes blowing up and spinning in
leaving a trail of parachutes behind. We drive ahead through a solid
whirlwind of steel splinters, flame, and jagged chunks of red hot metal.
The steel is everywhere; it crashes into wings, engines, and bulkhead
and airplane bodies; and into the bodies of men spewing blood, tissues,
intestines, and brains.
As quickly as it started the
fighters are gone and we are alone with only the extremely bright sun.
Our enemy now is the temperature, which is minus sixty degrees and never
seems to relax its vigil exposing us to sensitive freezing flesh and
frostbite. Central Germany is now below us
and in the distance we can see the first black specks of flak over the
target. We begin a radio check to assess what battle damage we had taken
and were everybody OK? Soon, everyone was checking in: Tail OK, except
almost out of ammo and was reloading the belts; Waist OK, lost my flak
helmet somewhere; Ball Turret, one of the side windows was hit and
can’t see anything except straight ahead; Radio, OK; Top Turret, think
I was hit in the leg and my ammunition boxes are gone with one gun
inoperable. It turns out that a 20 mm came through the turret knocking
out one of the guns and the ammo boxes on each side. This also tore off
his flight suit at the thigh. He had a slight red mark on one leg. Ammo
boxes were moved in and connected to the remaining gun with the hope
they wouldn’t jam. In the cockpit the gauges were
still working but all the glass on the dials looks as if someone had
taken a hammer to them. The radio compass is shattered and the other
radios are hanging by their connecting cords. All seem to be working; at
least the intercom is OK. The right portion of the windshield in front
of the co-pilot has two vicious looking cracks in it. The co-pilot’s
flak helmet was knocked off and has a huge hole in it. He doesn’t have
a mark although I think he is turning gray. In the nose one of the cheek
guns is out, the navigator’s table is shattered as well as his
instruments and flight log. For all the holes unbelievably all four
engines are running and our plane is still flying. It’s a miracle
nobody has been seriously wounded. When we turned on IP the
bombardier is already looking for his aiming point as the plane controls
are hooked to the bombsight. Again the fighters are coming in all
directions, but this time it is the squadron ahead who are taking the
beating. Soon the sky
around us filled with flak burst, paving a solid black-steel asphalt
roadway to Schweinfurt. The explosions sound as if someone is throwing
rocks at you when they burst close. Those flak gunners on the ground are
good. Normally the fighters will usually leave when you get into the
flak on the IP for the target, this time they are flying through their
own flak. Apparently, they have been ordered to defend the target at all
costs. These fighters may be the enemy but I have never seen braver men.
All the German efforts to keep us from the target have so far failed,
but we have paid a tremendous price in men and planes. The stakes were
high but the “Devil” was the winner. The target below is now fast
deteriorating into smoke and debris as our strings of bombs walk through
the city. The dead will outnumber our losses by a great number. Finally
we feel the plane lighten in little upward jerks as the bombs pass out
the bomb bay on their way to Germany. We are now at the halfway point of
the mission as we begin a wide turn to the right. There is little need
to get into formation, as everyone is staying close. As we make our turn
one can see the other formations behind us. They look ragged and are
still under attack from the fighters. The fighters are leaving the
“cripples” alone, going for those planes still carrying bombs. As we
turn you can see the target below and the sticks of bombs on their
six-mile flight to the earth. The target is covered with smoke and gray
dust is rising from the impact of the bombs.
As we cross the field preparing to
break into the landing pattern we can see the men on the handstands, the
meat wagons with the large red cross on the top, and the fire trucks
parked all along the runway. They are all watching us and counting the
bombers and trying to read the symbols as we fly over. All at once,
there are large numbers of red flares indicating wounded on board.
They have the priority to proceed into the pattern and land
first. Soon we are lined up with the runway on our final approach,
crossing the boundary of the field, begin the flare and soon the wheels
are finally touching the runway. We made it and are again down on mother
earth. As the tail settles to the runway, there is a terrific bang as if
the plane had been ripped apart, followed with a loud screeching of
metal! Not only had the tail wheel blown, but also the whole tail
assembly seems to be dragging behind the plane. The tower tells us we
look like a giant sparkler and as soon as we have completed our roll to
pull off the runway and get out of the plane. We find later that during
the fighter attacks the total frame just forward of the horizontal
stabilizer had been totally torn apart by the 20mm shells. Only the skin
and the control cables held it together. We complete our roll and moving
off the runway into the grass and mud. The faithful engines’ roar dies
out and the silence is followed by a mad dash of everyone from the
plane. As we are leaving the plane a fire truck and ambulance are
Johnny-on-the-spot.
We retrieve our gear from the
plane and are picked up by a truck. We pass the handstands (parking and
maintenance area for the plane) with their waiting crews. They all wave
and give us the victory sign. However, many of these ground crews will
soon silently and sadly return to their headquarters as their plane and
crewmen, who were a part of them, did not return. They will wait for a
new bomber with a new combat crew. We have the truck stop at our
hardstand so we can tell the crew chief and his people that we made it.
If it weren’t for the maintenance on that plane we would probably be
down somewhere in Germany and now a statistic. It is a little wonder we
have come to the realization it is impossible to complete a full tour.
Everyone comes to the conclusion you will either get it, or be shot down
eventually. As we all proceed to de-briefing
you look around and the faces this morning, which had the look of
expectation are now gray and blank. We are all thinking of too many
friends who have gone down in flames before our eyes. What about
tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that? There are too many concrete
handstands stained with oil and grease where the bombers had once stood
so majestically are now standing empty, only a terrible aching void
remains. A ground crewman is seen aimlessly walking off looking as if he
had lost his brother. In the de-briefing room we all sit
around the table and this time the questions are quietly asked with a
great deal of consideration. How many fighters, types, and methods of
attack? Were there any special weapons or markings? How about the flak,
how much, did it appear accurate? THE FOLLOWING IS A QUOTE FROM A
POST MISSION BRIEFING OF A B-17 PILOT, OCTOBER 14, 1943:
Thus ended the fateful day when I
was introduced to reality. EPILOGUE That page of blazing history is
now closed, although the scars of those of us who came home will always
remain. It is always easy to write of the battles won with the enemy
conquered. We fought and struggled to reach the target and on the way
were mauled and shot to pieces by the fighters and flak guns of the
enemy. The German pilots knew only too well the effectiveness against
our bombers. They also witnessed the burning planes, bombers with the
wings torn off, crews tumbling through the air, and the burning bodies.
How could those bomber crews take such punishment and hand it back while
continuing to fly towards the target? There never was a question of not
reaching the target, no matter how many formations were split apart, how
many bombers were in flame, and how cruel the test. The following is a quote from a Tail Gunner of the 388th
Bomb Group: As we left the coast of Europe the Luftwaffe disappeared.
I bent forward rested my head on the window and began to cry
uncontrollably. I stopped
long enough to say “Thank You God”.
I cannot to this day know from where came the voice “Trust
Me”. But in my heart I
knew I had not been alone in the tail.” The citizens of Schweinfurt have
erected a monument in Schweinfurt to this battle with the following
inscription: “IN MEMORY OF CITIZENS OF
SCHWEINFURT AND AIRMEN OF THE 8TH U.S.
AIRFORCE AND THE GERMAN LUFTWAFFE WHO LOST THEIR LIVES IN MISSION
115, OCTOBER 14, 1943, KNOWN TO THOSE WHO WERE THERE AS BLACK
THURSDAY” Wally
Hoffman flyingfortress@olywa.net All Photos courtesy U.S.
Air Force
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