The Bomber Boys Read online

  Above and just aft of the nose section was the bomber’s cockpit, which provided just enough room for the pilot’s and copilot’s seats amid a seemingly endless array of switches, dials, gauges and flight controls.

  Directly behind the pilot and copilot was a small space that was really part of the cockpit area. Here the airplane’s flight engineer was stationed to react to any emergency situation and to serve as the top turret gunner. Moving aft from the flight engineer’s space, one came to the bomb bay, with its bomb racks to either side of a small walk space and a base just a few inches wide. Anyone passing through would have to turn sideways to keep from bumping into the racks of bombs, and if the bay doors were open during flight, there would be little but sky between him and the ground.

  Continuing rearward past the bomb bay, the next small compartment was the radio room, where the crew’s radioman maintained and operated all outside communication equipment. When necessary, he manned a single .50 caliber machine gun which was fired through an open ceiling hatch.

  Protruding out of the fuselage deck, just aft of the radio room, was the top portion and door of the Sperry ball turret. A few feet past the ball turret were the B-17’s side windows, left and right, with a single-barrel .50 caliber machine gun extending from each. The windows were staggered so the left and right waist gunners would not bump into one another during combat, at least in theory.

  There was a small escape door to the rear of the right waist gunner’s position, and beyond that a tunnel-like entrance, which the tail gunner would have to crawl through to reach his position—the most confining on the bomber with the exception of the ball turret.

  Lieutenant Jerome Chart’s B-17 crew flew one training mission after another, day and night, out of their Lincoln base. With each mission Tony could tell that their Skipper was becoming a better pilot. Takeoffs were crisper, landings were smoother and their scores on the practice bombing runs were going up.

  In turn, Chart was noticing his crew was starting to operate as a skilled unit. His copilot, George Wisniewski, seemed comfortable handling the aircraft when he got his opportunities to take control. Kelly was getting used to the Norden bombsight. Robinson was using every available free moment to cram his brain full of information on how to keep a B-17 flying in emergency situations.

  It was more difficult to analyze the performance of the gunners. They seemed to be learning the use and care of their lethal equipment, but unfortunately the Army Air Force provided little in-flight target practice. Still, while they were in the air, Chart had his gunners tracking everything in sight—other airplanes, cars and even houses.

  As commander of his aircraft, Chart knew there was no crew position more important to him than that of the navigator. Navigation of a combat aircraft in 1944 was a complicated job. The navigation methods used involved “pilotage” (the use of visual ground references), “dead reckoning” (computing ETAs to various points ahead), “radio” and “celestial navigation.” The pilot and the navigator worked closely during the flight, because any change in altitude, airspeed or direction could affect the navigator’s calculations. The success of the mission and—more important to the pilot—his crew’s survival depended on the navigator doing his job well.

  The B-17 pilot training manual pinpointed the navigator’s heavy responsibility: “The navigator’s job is to direct your flight from departure to destination and return. He must know the exact position of the aircraft at all times.”

  Chart liked his spirited young navigator from the first time they met. Teta was bright and energetic, but he was also as young and green as the rest of the crew. The pilot and navigator soon made it a regular part of their routine to get together after every training flight to discuss anything that might have gone better in the way the route was plotted or the way it was flown. This post-mission meeting was something Chart and Teta would continue even after they began flying real combat raids over Germany.

  As the crew began their final week of flight training, Chart hoped and prayed they were ready for the challenges of combat. That the ten young men were bonding and that each one felt the crew was ready for “the show,” there was no doubt. They would not have long to wait.

  Travel orders came through in September of 1944. Missing from the crew list was Glenn B. Kelly’s name. He would not be going to England as a part of Jerry Chart’s crew. Trained as a bombardier, Kelly was reassigned. John Stiles would move from his waist gunner’s position to take over the bombsight operation as the crew’s toggler. Christenson would pull double duty as both left and right waist gunner.

  A couple of days at Fort Dix in New Jersey provided Tony the opportunity to slip into New York City for a reunion with his mother and sister. On the ferry ride across the Hudson River, he spotted the Queen Elizabeth ocean liner docked on the New York side. Tony would get to know the ship well during the next two weeks, as he and more than twelve thousand airmen, sailors and soldiers made their crowded voyage to Scotland.

  The young navigator and the crew’s other three officers occupied a cabin that would have been very comfortable had not eight additional officers from other crews been assigned the same lodging. There were some moments of levity, such as when a group of Marines clandestinely changed the yellow tape on the floor and successfully misdirected a large contingent of Army nurses right into the Marines’ quarters. However, most of the voyage was a frustrating and hopeless search for some little place of privacy.

  A welcoming committee of small, rosy-faced children met the Americans when they arrived in Scotland. Little open palms were soon filled with whatever candy and gum the troops had in their pockets.

  A few days later came the long-anticipated final leg of the bomber crew’s journey. They were assigned to a base named Chelveston near Bedfordshire, England. Jerry Chart’s crew would be part of the 305th Bomb Group, composed of the 364th, 365th, 366th and 422nd Bomber Squadrons. Chart and his men would fly one of the twelve Fortresses of the 366th Squadron.

  By the fall of 1944, the 305th had already established itself as one of the most combative and innovative bomb groups in the American Eighth Air Force. In mid-November the unit had flown its 250th combat mission over France, Holland and Germany. A grim-faced officer named Curtis LeMay had been the 305th’s original commander in England, and while he held that position he had rewritten the book on combat flying. His tactics of tight formation flying for a concentration of firepower had spread quickly from the bomb group level to be accepted as standard procedure for the entire Eighth Air Force. LeMay, who was a no-nonsense group commander, was dubbed “Iron Ass” by his men, but they respected the fact that he was always ready, apparently eager, to personally lead a bombing raid.

  Respecting their leader did not necessarily mean the airmen of the 305th always agreed with his thinking. None of his decisions created more second-guessing and open grumbling than his “straight-in” bomb run. The veteran bomber pilots were convinced that flying in a straight line across a heavily fortified German city was only slightly short of suicide. LeMay believed the evasive actions of the American pilots were causing bombs to be dropped sloppily, with many missing the primary targets.

  Not one to worry much about diplomacy, LeMay bluntly announced the change in bomb-run procedure at a mission briefing early one morning. Although LeMay would later deny the exchange ever happened, 305th legend supports the following account as factual.

  LeMay told the assembled aircrews that for this mission they were going to give the straight-in bomb run a try. A wall of stunned silence was all he received in response. Undaunted, the stone-faced commander asked, “Any questions?” It was then that a brash young airman verbalized what most of the flyers in the room must have been thinking:

  “Sir, shall we go to the stockade now or wait for the MPs to take us?”

  Of course, the men of the 305th flew straight-in bomb runs from that day forward, without the threat of Military Police, and there was never any scientific way to prove who was right. Perhaps
both points of view had been correct. Bombing results most likely improved with the technique, and there is little doubt more American airmen died with the introduction of the straight-in bomb run.

  The worst day in the history of the 305th Bomb Group came about five months after LeMay was kicked up to a higher command position in the Eighth Air Force. During a raid on Schweinfurt, Germany, on October 14, 1943, the 305th participated with eighteen aircraft. Three of the group’s bombers had to abort the mission. Of the remaining fifteen 305th B-17s that attacked the target, only two returned to England.

  In all, more than sixty American bombers were lost on the day of the Schweinfurt raid as the Luftwaffe sent up hundreds of fighters to challenge the unescorted B-17s and B-24s. The raid is believed to have accounted for the heaviest single-day losses for the Eighth Air Force during the entire war. The 305th had suffered more than any other unit; 86.5 percent of its bombers had been shot down from the sky.

  The Schweinfurt disaster, more than any other raid, convinced the high command of the American Army Air Force that their bomber crews needed fighter escort planes that could take the Fortresses and Liberators all the way to the target and back. By the time Tony Teta and his crewmates arrived at Chelveston Air Base early in December 1944, the new long-range North American P-51 Mustang fighters, equipped with drop tanks for extra fuel, had arrived.

  The official position of the Eighth Air Force high command was that the improved fighter-escort protection would drastically reduce the number of bombers being lost to enemy fighters defending German targets. This certainly would prove to be true. It followed that with fewer aircraft losses, the airmen of the “Mighty Eighth” would stand a much better chance of surviving the required twenty-five missions that earned them a ticket back to the States. However, like many military decisions, this one was a two-edged sword. The number of required missions was promptly raised to thirty and then to thirty-five. Bomber crews with only one or two missions left to complete were suddenly told to unpack their bags.

  While the American Fortresses and Liberators would no longer be sitting ducks for the German fighter pilots to just pick off, even the fast P-51 Mustangs could not completely protect the bombers. Also, one other major danger had not been reduced at all—the deadly antiaircraft fire, or flak, that awaited every mission over German cities.

  The veteran American bomber airmen did not like the new thirty-five-missions rule, but they gritted their teeth and kept flying, hoping their luck would hold up a little longer. The replacement aircrews arrived at their new bases unaware of the difficulty they would face in surviving thirty-five combat missions over Germany. The veterans knew. They dubbed any man who completed all thirty-five combat missions as a member of “the Lucky Bastards Club.”

  This was the state of affairs at Chelveston in December 1944, when Tony and the other members of Chart’s bomber crew reported for duty.

  It soon became apparent to Tony and the rest of the crew that until they racked up a couple of combat missions, they could expect a continued cold shoulder from the 305th’s more experienced crews. The snub was not a mean-spirited gesture, but simply an emotional defense.

  Every one of the veteran airmen had lost a friend with whom he had swapped mission stories, discussed wives and girlfriends, or stumbled back to base in an advanced state of inebriation. It was hard enough to see another American bomber shot from the sky, but when the airplane was in your bomb group or your own squadron, you knew it was your friends who were dying. You counted the parachutes falling from the stricken bomber and too often there were only a few. Which friends had lived? Which had died? You would not know until you got back to base in England—if you got back. Watching friends die tended to remind one of his own mortality.

  The bottom line was that few of the veteran airmen were looking for new friends to mourn. They kept the rookies at arm’s length. The new guys quickly began to look forward to their first combat mission in order to get the butterflies out of their stomachs and to become real members of the 305th.

  For Chart’s men, their time came on Christmas Eve morning. From out of the barrack’s darkness, someone shook Tony’s shoulder as he lay sound asleep.

  “Gotta get up, sir; you’re flying today,” a sergeant with a small flashlight said before moving on to the next man on his list. Tony rubbed his eyes and looked at the illuminated hands of his watch. It was 2:30 a.m. The alerted crews dressed and stumbled to the mess hall for a hot breakfast of eggs, pancakes and coffee.

  A general briefing was next. The room was large and noisy as airmen from the 364th, 365th, 366th and 422nd squadrons swapped predictions on what the day’s target might be. The answer was hidden beneath a large cloth sheet that covered a detailed map of Europe.

  Tony found an empty seat next to Jerry Chart and George Wisniewski. The other members of the new crew sat nearby. Their quietness was in sharp contrast to the loud chatter of the veteran crews, but a silence fell over everyone when the 305th’s commanding officer walked to the front of the room. He was Colonel Henry C. MacDonald, assigned to head the Chelveston-based bomb group only two months before. Tony thought the colonel looked a little young for the job. Still, when MacDonald spoke, there was confidence and resolve in his voice. He made a few opening remarks, which somehow failed to register with Tony as the new navigator stared at the covered map. What finally grabbed Tony’s and everyone’s attention was when the commanding officer said, “Gentlemen, today’s target is . . .” Another officer pulled away the cloth exposing the entire map. “Giessen!”

  So that’s it, Tony thought. His first mission—and for all he knew his last—was to Giessen, Germany. He had never even heard of Giessen. What was there? Why were they going to bomb it?

  “Nidda airfield,” Tony heard MacDonald say. “You are going in at twenty-one thousand five hundred feet. Expect some moderate flak over and around the target.”

  Moderate flak? Tony wondered how much flak was moderate. He had no way of judging. He had heard the veterans refer to the German antiaircraft fire in terms of light, moderate or heavy flak. It was all abstract until you had experienced it firsthand. Tony also pondered if it would matter if the flak was light or moderate, if it was accurate.

  After the general briefing, the crews broke up into specific briefing sessions. Pilots grouped with pilots, navigators with navigators and so on. In each briefing, the men received details of what to expect on the mission and what was expected of them.

  A little later, Chart’s entire crew piled into a truck for the short ride out to the aircraft. The chill in the predawn air helped shake off any lingering sleepiness. Tony’s mission report indicated their aircraft for the mission was number 037. (The 305th used only the last three digits of a bomber’s serial number, for operational purposes.) She was a lethal beauty with seven machine gun positions, and she was sitting low from the weight of a full bomb load. Tony scanned 037’s armament again to reassure himself.

  Two single-barrel .50 caliber machine guns defended the nose—these would be manned by Tony and the bombardier. The nose was additionally armed with a twin .50 caliber chin turret. On top of the bomber’s fuselage, a few feet rear of the cockpit, twin .50 caliber machine guns protruded from a Plexiglas bubble, accompanied by a single .50 caliber poking skyward from the radio room. On each side of the aircraft, single-barrel .50 caliber weapons awaited their waist gunner. Beneath the B-17, only inches off the ground, was the sturdy Sperry ball turret with its twin .50 caliber machine guns. One more set of twin fifties stuck out of the tail section of the aircraft.

  Tony knew, in theory, that with the B-17G’s thirteen guns he and his crewmates could protect their bomber from enemy fighter attack in any direction. Of course, the pilots of the Luftwaffe had their own tactics and theories, not to mention some very advanced aircraft.

  One after another, each of Chart’s rookies climbed aboard and found his combat position. Jerry Chart would be sitting in the right-hand seat of the cockpit, serving and observing as copi
lot for this first mission. Carl Robinson took his place as flight engineer, directly behind the pilot and copilot. Climbing in the side door, Ken Hall went to the radio room. Tom Christenson assumed his waist gunner’s position, and Bill Goetz climbed into the tight quarters of the ball turret. Another crewman crawled through the little tunnel that led to the tail gunner’s space. George Wisniewski and John Cuffman were not on board for the December 24, 1944, mission.

  Tony waited for the toggler, John Stiles, to board, and then he pulled himself up through the little hatch under the nose of the bomber. Stiles went to the very front of the airplane’s nose compartment. Tony sat down at arm’s length behind the toggler at the navigator’s desk, which was really just a small wooden table that was attached to the left bulkhead. It was tight quarters, even for Tony. He and Stiles settled in and took in the view from the Plexiglas nose cone.

  The first 305th bomber lifted off from the Chelveston runway and disappeared into the foggy predawn sky. Thirty seconds later, another B-17 followed. Not until all the other Fortresses in the 366th Squadron had taken off did the pilot of B-17 number 037 rev the bomber’s four engines and point her nose down the runway.

  Tail End Charlie, Tony thought. Last in the formation. The new guys . . . the worst position. Dead last! It gave the term a whole new meaning.

  In General Curtis LeMay’s combat box formation, each squadron had a designated position to fly—lead, high or low. The last airplane in the low squadron was also the last airplane in the entire group. Tail End Charlie.

  The German fighter pilots preferred attacking either the lead aircraft (to disrupt the bomber formation) or the very last airplane because it was the most exposed. Tail End Charlie was an unenviable position that a crew could only graduate from by surviving there until an even newer crew joined the squadron.