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It was a late November 1944 mission of the 100th
Bomb Group, 8th Air Force. We were flying 895, "Miss Chief", an old
(B-17G) aircraft but a dependable one, in which we had put a dozen
missions. Our Fortress crew had completed all the usual pre-take off
procedures (and, precautions), including making any last minute
necessary pit-stops before taxiing out for take-off.
Hence, during group assembly over East Anglia,
while I was monitoring the group frequency on the radio, I was
surprised to hear the following override on the intercom from Pete,
our radio operator:
"Lieutenant?" As co-pilot, I normally handled any
intercom communications between the crew and the cockpit, so I
switched from group frequency to intercom:
"OK, Pete."
"Lieutenant, Wade’s in a bad way."
"What’s wrong, Pete," I said, all the time
wondering if our ball turret gunner had had an accident or taken
ill. Thoughts of aborting our 12th mission also ran through my head.
Doubtless, Chuck, our pilot would approve of aborting if Wade was
really bad off.
"Wade’s gotta go so bad he can hardly stand.!"
"Can he get to the can in the companionway?"
We had long given up on using the bomb bay relief
tube, as it would invariably freeze up during the winter months,
even at low altitudes. So, our solution was a rectangular,
open-ended, well-secured, 15-gallon oilcan placed strategically in
the companionway. At the end of each mission it was always filled
almost to the brim. The task of disposing of what would be by then a
large frozen block of yellow-colored ice was democratically rotated
among the crew. We always joked about taking flak hits anywhere
but…well, you know where.
"No, Lieutenant, Wade has to do number-two, and
it’s really urgent!"
By now, the entire crew knew about Wade’s
predicament.
"Not back here!" (Bruce, our tail gunner.)
"It’ll get worse as we go higher!" (Dave, the
navigator, encouragingly.)
"Dump it all in the ball and sit on it!"
(Unknown, but probably Rex, our armorer and second waist gunner.)
"Maybe it’ll freeze fast enough to put it on the
floor in the waist." (Jim, our always helpful other waist gunner.)
"Nothing doing!" (Rex, the originator of the ball
turret solution.)
Executing his command function, Chuck pointed a
gloved finger at me and, without a word, his dry smile said "It’s
yours!"
"All right, you guys. Let’s have some good ideas.
Wade’s got a bad problem." (Me.)
"We all do now," (Robin, our flight engineer,
always seeing a situation clearly.)
"Not in my office!" (Al, our bombardier.)
"Lieutenant?"
"OK, Pete."
"I wonder if we could use one of the cardboard
boxes the chaff comes in. I could dump the chaff in the corner until
I need it."
"Better use more than one box, Pete. They’re
pretty thin." (Robin.)
"OK, Pete. Why don’t you try it. Let me know when
you’re finished." (Me.)
Chuck nodded and tapped my shoulder, pointing to
the headset. I switched back to group frequency in time to hear
Fireball Leader say we would be at Angels Five, on course, 2 minutes
behind briefing, in 17 minutes.
"Dave, did you get that?" (Me.)
"Roger." (Dave.)
Shortly later I switched back to intercom when I
heard on the override:
"Lieutenant?"
"OK, Pete."
"Wade’s done. I think the box will be OK."
"Thanks, Pete. Good job. How’s Wade?"
"Wade’s OK, but what should I do with the box?"
"Can you move it without spilling it?" (Me.)
"Yes, it’s pretty firm and we put a fairly tight
cover on it."
"Well, put it in some corner, out of the way.
We’ll deal with it later."
"OK." (Pete)
Suddenly, in a burst of truly creative
enthusiasm, Rex broke in:
"Lieutenant, why don’t we tie it to the fins of
one of our bombs? I can do it with some extra arming wire I have.
We’ll drop it with our entire load!"
At that the intercom came alive with excitement
and declarations of joy, missed with evil intent: "Right in the
Fuhrer’s face." (Bruce, tail.)
"Insult to injury." (Dave, navigator.)
"Same on same." (Al, bombardier)
Lieutenant? OK to go to the bomb bay?" (Rex and
Robin.)
Chuck, who apparently was also listening, lifted
his gloved hand with a raised thumb, almost hitting the landing
light switches. Big smile, now.
"OK. Go ahead." (Me.)
Carrying the box as carefully as if it were a
bomb, Rex squirmed into the bomb bay from the radio room to be met
by Robin from the cockpit. Together, they completed their dedicated
task promptly and in high spirits.
"Ok, Lieutenant, we’re done." (Rex.)
"Thanks. We’ll probably set some kind of 8th Air
Force record today. Wade, are you back in your turret OK?" (Me.)
"Yes, Lieutenant. We really ought to smear ‘em
today."
For the next few minutes, high humor reverberated
back and forth among the crew. Never had such interest been
expressed over our bomb load. They seemed anxious to get to the
target.
As we turned on the I.P. and took up our course
to the target, I switched briefly back to intercom:
"Wade, we probably won’t have much to worry us
about fighters on the bomb run. Why don’t you turn y our turret so
you can see the bombs drop out. Give us all a report."
"Roger, Lieutenant!" (Wade.)
We were flying lead in the low flight of Fireball
Able of the 100th and, as was often done, there was a fourth B-17
added to our flight of three, flying slightly below and directly
behind us. This was called flying in the diamond, somewhat of a
tailend Charlie position, which was usually assigned to a new crew.
Today, it was the B-17 flown by Billie B. and his crew.
In a few minutes, following standard procedure,
Al opened the bomb bay doors, which was announced by the usual roar
of the slipstream. After another short period of straight and level
flying we felt the sudden upward lurch of our Fortress at the same
moment Al sang out "bombs away."
Almost simultaneously, over the group frequency,,
I heard an irate rebuke: "Hey, what are you guys doing?" It sounded
like Billie B. "We can’t see anything down here!" Now I knew it was
Billie B.
At this sublime moment of our sweet revenge for
all the nasty atrocities of the enemy, at a time to once and for all
settle accounts with the Aryan brutes below by dropping on them
Wade’s latest full measure of devotion to the miracles of the
alimentary canal, we had badly goofed. WE had overlooked those
important aerodynamic relationships between weight, mass, shape, and
drag that determine a ballistic trajectory. Instead of sending our
personal (or, at least, Wade’s) greeting to the enemy below along
with our load of 8-500lb GP bombs, Wade’s box was delivered at about
150 MPH directly into the Vee of the windshield of Billie B’s
Fortress.
At this speed and with an outside temperature of
about -50° F, Billie B. was indeed instantly blinded forward with an
impenetrable coating that also instantly froze into an almost
perfectly symmetrical curtain over the windshield.
Fortunately, or otherwise, as one may consider
it, Billie B. was flying expertly closed-up almost directly under us
looking up through the upper cockpit windows. Thus, he could still
keep flying with the formation. (He returned to base, however,
looking mostly out his side windows.)
"Wade, I think we got Billie!" (Bruce, in the
tail.)
"I think so, too!" (Wade.)
"Lieutenant, what should I do?" (Wade, again.)
"Watch out for German fighters, Wade." (Me,
trying to pretend nothing happened.)
"Wade, I’ll help you clean it up." (Jim, always
helpful.)
Jim and Wade did exactly what they promised.
Chuck apologized for the entire crew to Billie B., who said he
understood. I emptied the can, all this after we landed at our base
at Thorpe Abbotts.
A month later Billie B. and his crew went down at
Hamburg among the 12 Fortresses of the 100th Bomb Group lost that
day, December 31, 1944. Old 895, "Miss Chief," was one of
them, too, but flown by another crew. |