Clash of Eagles USAAF 8th Air Force Bombers Versus the Luftwaffe in World War 2

299 Pages·2014·2.4 MB·English

by  Bowman

First published in
Great Britain in 2006
by Pen & Sword Aviation
an imprint of Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street, Barnsley
South Yorkshire, S70 2AS
Copyright © Martin W. Bowman, 2006
9781781594384
The right of Martin W. Bowman to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted
by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in
writing.
Typeset by Concept, Huddersfield, West Yorkshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI UK

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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prorogue
CHAPTER 1 - Castles in the Air
CHAPTER 2 - The ‘Bloody Hundredth’ - Blitz Week and Beyond
CHAPTER 3 - To the Promised Land?
CHAPTER 4 - The Lucky Bastards
CHAPTER 5 - Brux - Turnstiles to Death
CHAPTER 6 - ‘Planes Overhead Will be Ours’
CHAPTER 7 - The Lady Named Death is a Whore
CHAPTER 8 - Visions of Victory
CHAPTER 9 - The Ties That Bind
Glossary
Index
Laughter in the crew room
‘Chutes upon the floor,
Coffee in the tankards
Hail against the door,
Telling of the hazards
That faced the bomber boys,
Searchlights feebly waving
Like phantom children’s toys,
Scorning thoughts of peril
Within the hornet’s nest,
Then turning like tired eagles
When coming home to rest,
Faced the common danger
A grim, determined band,
Messengers of freedom
O’er every conquered land.
‘Grey Dawn’, Robert S. Nielsen

Prorogue
The station is dark and silent at 0105 on this June morning. A chill wind
ruffles the grass, an old moon hangs low over a neighbouring wood and high
in the clouded sky a nightfighter drones by on patrol. The plane guards wait
watchfully within the monolithic shadows of the bombers. A wandering jeep
cruises the perimeter track behind two pale blue spots of light. In Hangar 1
a night crew is changing an engine on Rain of Terror. At the motor pool the
truck crews, alerted, doze fitfully. In the station headquarters building,
behind the gasproof doors, the windowless offices which house the Message
Centre and the Operations Room are quiet but bright with light. In the
Message Centre a sergeant and a PFC are talking shop, in Operations the
Watch Officer is reading a book, and, down the hall, the Intelligence Duty
Officer is writing a letter home.
Target Germany, 1944
The Bombing Mission, by George Rubin, 486th Bomb Group
The Quonset hut is dark and cold. The two stoves, one at each end, have gone out. They
need more coal or discarded bomb casings to start them up. Suddenly a light appears in the
doorway of the hut. It is the Sergeant at Arms with a flashlight. He moves quickly from
bed to bed, shining the light in our eyes. Splude, Jessen, Brown, Manfred, Rubin - ‘Get up,
rise and shine, the mission is on for today’. My watch says 4 am. I get up feeling groggy
and put on my long johns over my regular underwear, woollen socks, shirt and pants and
then my flying suit over all of this. I tie up the laces of my GI shoes and put on my green
lined flight jacket. It is cold and windy as I step out into the night, carrying my towel and
toilet kit and walk slowly over to the latrine and the water closet. Other crewmembers are
already there. There is very little conversation. I make do with a fast wash up and maybe a
shave. Not too close or your face will be irritated by the oxygen mask. Then back to the
Quonset to get a scarf and a knit cap to wear.
It’s cold and clear as I walk the quarter mile or so to the mess hall wondering where the
bombing mission is going today. I enter into a long well lit and warm building filled with
airmen getting their breakfast or eating it. It’s hard to feel hungry. Partly it’s due to the
hour and also the nervous gut feeling about the mission. There is very little conversation at
the table. Just drink your coffee and pick at the food. Then it’s back out into the dark and
the cold night. A grey light has started to fill the sky in the east. It’s another long walk to
the flight lockers.
I open my locker and take off my flight jacket and flying suit and put on an electrically
heated suit, another pair of socks and electrically heated flying boots. I put the flight suit
on over all of this and then the flight jacket goes back on. I put my electrically heated
gloves in my jacket pocket and my flying helmet is either put on or carried. I mustn’t
forget the oxygen mask and Polaroid flying goggles. My GI shoes I sling over a shoulder
and I put on a pair of warm gloves and a scarf. My wallet and other identification I leave
in the locker. I hope that if I don’t return, these items will find their way home to my
parents. Next door I sign out for my parachute and escape packet consisting of a compass,
map, German money and phrasebook and a .45 calibre pistol.
Then it’s a short walk to the briefing room: a long Quonset with rows of chairs and a
covered map at one end. There is some banter by the crewmembers - unfunny jokes about
what target is under the curtain, a story about the last mission and who was it who couldn’t
hold his breakfast down over the target or had to take a shit on the bomb run. Then a
sudden call of ‘Attention!’ The briefing officer appears and the curtain over the map is
pulled back. There are groans and curses and ‘Not back there again?’ There is your target.
Long coloured strings show the route to and from the target, altitude, bomb load, ETA,
areas of intense flak and where you can expect fighter interception and how many groups
are involved in the mission. I have a sick feeling when I look at the strings going deep into
Germany. This will be a long mission. There are very few questions.
We are dismissed from the briefing and leave now for the hardstand and our plane.
Some walk, others bike, or ride over in a jeep. The sky is now light as dawn approaches. I
arrive at Oh! Miss Agnes. The ground crew is at work loading the bombs. Today it will be
twelve 500 lb demolition bombs. I check with the ground crew about the A-4 bomb
shackles and inspect all the .50 calibre machine-guns - two in the tail, two in the waist,
two in the ball turret, two in the top turret, two in the nose turret and one in the nose. All
are in place and so is the ammo. I walk around the plane, silver and shiny as the sun hits it
with its yellow strips over the waist and the wings and the big black square ‘W’ on the tail.
I swing on board through the waist door hatch and deposit my parachute near the left waist
gun. This is a safe place. Then I begin my pre-flight check. Oxygen-pressure full on the
dial. The dial next to it shows the little lips moving up and down - oxygen is coming out. I
check the emergency bottles and the large oxygen tank on top of the ball turret. They are
full. I connect the intercom; I check that I can hear and that the throat mike is transmitting
my voice. I check that the guns and the ammo clips are in place. Outside again the sun is
up now and with the other crewmembers’ help the ground crew pull the props through the
usual nine times to clear out the cylinders. I take a last look around the field and re-enter
through waist hatch. I watch as the rest of the crew comes aboard.
Manfred the tail gunner enters the waist and crawls back to his position. He will spend
the next 6 to 7 hours on his knees. Brown goes into the radio shack area just forward of
the waist and begins to check all his equipment. Splude sits down near me, with not much
to do until we are airborne. Jessen goes up front behind the pilot and co-pilot seats, where
he checks out his turret, all the instruments and the fuel and oil pressure. The navigator,
bombardier, pilot and co-pilot swing aboard through the front hatch. Each has done a pre-
flight check of their equipment and the entire plane. I sit in the waist. It is a time of tense
quiet. The spell is broken by the whine of the No. 3 engine starting up. Wiley has given
the command, ‘Clear. Contact!’ Outside, a member of the ground crew stands next to the
engine with his fire extinguisher. The prop rotates slowly, then the engine catches. Smoke
comes out of the exhaust and the engine is running. This is followed by engine 4, then 1
and 2. All four are running smoothly. The pilot releases the brakes and we move off the
hardstand and line up behind other planes in the squadron. Soon all thirty-six aircraft, plus
a few spares, are lined up along the taxiways. We wait for the green flare from the control
tower to signal that the mission is ‘on’ or the red flare that means the mission is
‘scrubbed’.
The green flare goes off overhead. One by one we move up to take off. Brakes
squealing, engines revving up and dying down. Wiley and Demerath finish their pre-flight
check. We are now lined up for take-off. The green lantern blinks on the runway in front
of the plane. The engines rev up, the entire aircraft shudders, the brakes are released and
slowly at first we roll forward then pick up speed - 50, 60, 75, 95, 110. Slowly we rise,
and the wheels come up. Great Waldingfield disappears below us. Jessen comes back to
lock and check the tailwheel. We are in the clouds now. The plane bucks and I feel as if
I’m on a roller coaster as the plane rises and suddenly falls. I hold on and chew away on
my juicy fruit gum, hoping we are soon out of this and scared that we may hit another
aircraft or crash land. We are caught in the prop wash of the planes in front of us. I hold on
tight and suddenly as it started it stops and now smoothly we continue to climb to
‘Nightdress’, the first radio marker. We come out of the clouds into bright sunlight and
begin to assemble on the lead aircraft of our squadron.
We continue to climb, circling to the next radio marker and group assembly. Above the
clouds now, the group slowly forms: high squadron and lead, middle, low and the tail-end
squadron. We are at 10,000 feet and the pilot tells us to go on oxygen. I check my oxygen
mask and watch the little lips on the flow indicator move up and down as I breathe in the
oxygen. I check the plug connection to my electric suit and turn up the rheostat to ‘high’,
as the cold in the plane becomes more intense. The group meets the rest of the wing and
over 800 aircraft head for the English coast. The long white streams of contrails from each
plane fill the blue clear sky. Over the Channel the pilot checks in on the intercom and tells
all positions to check guns and test-fire. I check the waist guns. Twice I charge the .50
calibre gun and fire out into space, watching the tracer bullet (every fifth shell) light up the
blue sky. It’s good to fire the guns. It’s something I know a lot about and it gives me a
sense of control during the mission. With the guns I can protect myself and the rest of the
crew. I lock them in place and check the heating plate over the top of the gun, a new
device that helps prevent jamming in cold temperature. It will probably be about -40 or
-50 below zero soon.
The French coast appears below. It’s time for Splude to enter the ball turret. I help him
open the ball hatch and watch as he climbs in, and plugs in his oxygen and heated suit. I
close and lock the hatch. The whine of the ball motor starts up as he checks all the
different positions of his turret and then he test-fires his guns. I check in with him on the
intercom. I will do this from now on for the rest of the mission.
The pilot tells us we are over Germany. Watch out now for fighters. Our ‘Little Friends’
protection of P-51s will soon peel off and leave us. The first flak appears off our wing:
small black puffs that seem to follow us along. Soon the entire sky is filled with flak. I can
hear it and feel it as the plane rises and falls due to the explosions. They sound like
pebbles hitting the plane. I lay out my flak jackets on the floor as protection and also use
them to cover my parachute. The group tries evasive action and I open the floor hatch and
begin to throw out the chaff (small strips of tin foil that are supposed to give German radar
the wrong signal and direction). The flak seems to get heavier and closer. There is a hit in
the right wing behind No. 3 engine, then above my head near the door. There is nothing