 48
Hour Pass To London
At
the completion of the debriefing session on the Berlin mission,
the Buffalo Gal’s crew was given a 48 hour pass. This was welcome
relief We had seen over 200 men in our Bomb Group shot out of
the sky during our first five missions of aerial combat and we
were all getting a little “flaked up.”
The crew assembled at the Diss train station within an hour, bags
packed and ticket in hand for some anticipated fun and relaxation
in London.
Upon arrival at the train station in London, the enlisted men
headed for the Strand Palace Hotel on the famous Strand, near
Trafalgar Square. The officers went to the Jules Annex of the
Red Cross Club on Jermyn Street.
The Red Cross Club had three floors of dormitories which were
nothing more than large open rooms with a sea of steel cots. Charlie
Hardiman and I dressed in blouse and pinks and decided to explore
the pub situation. We found it advisable to seek out one of the
underground establishments since it would soon be time for the
nightly Nazi bombing.
We located an establishment that had been recommended and found
ourselves a table. The place was crawling with military and civilians
of both sexes. Wartime London was a melting pot for the armed
services of every nationality, and their uniforms were often picturesque.
In the United Kingdom women were drafted into the services; so
most of the girls and women were in uniform.
A waiter came to our table and asked if we wanted a wine order.
Since we desired something a little stronger than wine to drink,
our answer was negative. The waiter vanished. A little later,
bottles of Scotch whiskey were being brought to the other tables.
We inquired as to how to go about obtaining a bottle or two of
the Scotch. We were told that when the waiter came to the table
earlier inquiring about a wine order, that was our cue for placing
an order for the Scotch. All the Scotch that was to be consumed
there for the evening then had to be ordered and delivered from
an outside bootlegger or black market operator and that was it
for the evening. Gin or beer was the only alcoholic beverages
available so gin it was.
At about 21:00 hours, a rumbling explosion shook the cellar room.
Dirt and dust dropped from the ceiling and the power went off.
Candles were lighted and the party continued. Bombs were being
dropped by the Nazi bombers on London. A few minutes after the
first bomb blast, a helmeted air raid warden came down the stairs
and inquired if there were any injuries. He got no answer. He
then asked if there were any elderly or infirm in the room. Again
no answer. His next inquiry was if any of the women there might
be pregnant. A burly female voice from the back of the room said,
“Blimey Matey, give us a little time, we just got here!”
The pub was a bedlam of revelry. Smoke, loud talk, piano music,
songs of all branches of services, some clean and some bawdy.
The call to drink up was announced as it was time for the midnight
closing. The nightly bombing of the city was over and everyone
departed the scene. Charlie and I took a cab back to our quarters
at the Red Cross Club.
Sleep came easily since we had consumed the best part of two fifths
of gin mixed with grapefruit juice. Ugh!
About 03:00 hours, I was rudely awakened by an explosion of the
highest magnitude and found myself lying on the floor on top of
my A-3 bag. My ears were ringing and breathing was restricted
because the air was full of dirt and dust. The power was off and
visibility was zero. Blackout curtains made any outside lights
invisible. I could not see my hand in front of my face. Someone
finally produced a flash light or torch, a term the British preferred
to use. My bridgework was loose and water could be heard running
in all the commodes as every one of them in the building had been
flushed by the explosion. Believe me, this had been one hell-
of-an-explosion. Cool performers that they traditionally were,
the English made an absolutely unbelievable announcement later
in the day that, “It may be possible the Germans have finally
perfected the dreaded V-2 rocket, and there is a strong possibility
that one of them may have landed in the heart of London in the
early hours of this morning.” What in the name of hell did they
think it was, a firecracker? The next morning, Hardiman and I
found the hole the thing made. That sucker made a hole a block
wide when it landed about a half mile from where we were sleeping.
That evening found us back in the underground pub where Chuck
and I had been the night before. We made sure to turn in a wine
order this time. That V-2 rocket blast had assassinated my hang-over
and my gin soaked membranes violently opposed any more gin. It
was Scotch or nothing - so Scotch it was. To awake with a splitting
head and a full load of remorse - was it worth it? Hell, yes!
We were soon at it again. The conviviality of wartime is unimaginable
if one has not actually experienced it. People who had not seen
each other before five minutes ago became comrades. Complete strangers
drank out of the same bottle with no thought of disease.
This is how we became acquainted with a First Lieutenant who was
lead bombardier for one of the Bomb Groups. We spent most of that
evening listening to a most bizarre and intriguing tale about
an accidental bombing event. Here then is his account of the 7
September 1943 task force mission that was sent out against the
Evere Airfield on the outskirts of Brussels, Belgium.
The prime purpose of the mission was to bomb German Air Force
installations, including shops, fuel storage facilities, ammunition
dumps and living areas of the fighter base.. The airfield was
heavily defended by 88 mm flak guns.
In placing the guns, the Germans had left off a few of them on
one side, leaving a weakness in their gun defenses. It had been
decided that the approach route for the mission would best be
unexpected from that direction which was south to north and forced
the route to the target to be directly across the city.
At the Initial Point of Halle, a few miles southwest of Brussels,
the combat wing leader was to fire a green flare and then turn
northeast directly across the heart of the city. At this signal
the groups would break into a bombing interval of one mile and
follow the leader in. Each group would then release their bombs
when their group bombardier released his. After the bombing, the
leader was to turn left and the following groups would reform
into a defensive formation. As was the rule in all operations
over occupied countries, bomber crews were cautioned against any
bombing of other than specifically designated targets. Stress
was placed on the unfortunate predicament of the Belgian people
under German domination. - that these people were our friends
and could be counted on for assistance in case our bombers should
be shot down or they should have to make crash landings on Belgian
soil.
At the IP, the formation turned to split according to plan, and
the bombers headed directly across the heart of the city. The
bomb bay doors opened and each bombardier was ready to toggle
his bombs out as soon as he saw the bombs failing from the lead
bomber of his formation.
Each lead bombardier of the strike force was busy locking on to
the target with his bomb sight.
The formations were aligned in a column of groups and moving across
the city from south to north. They had encountered no fighters
or flak. The bombardier continued his story. His group was in
the second position. He said he had identified the target and
had completed his bomb sight adjustments and was prepared for
the bomb run on the airdrome. He watched the city pass slowly
beneath his bombsight window. A very heavy haze hung over the
city of Brussels.
The bombardier said he had finished making minute corrections
to the bomb site as he neared the target. All switches were in
the on position and he felt he had a good run on the aiming point
and he felt the plane lift as his bombs went out. He looked down
and saw the arming vanes spinning away and watched his bombs as
they walked down the path of impact.
His pilot made the left turn off the target run as briefed and
was closing in on the wing lead to reform into a defensive formation.
The Lieutenant said as he was closing the bomb bay doors, he looked
up and saw bombs from other groups hitting another target and
not the one he and his group had bombed. He said it was kind of
like a bad dream when he realized that he was seeing bombs being
dropped by the other groups on the Evere airfield target.
He said, “As we swung west to return to England, he would never
forget the boiling smoke from the airfield target. And to the
south, and in the middle of the city, a much smaller column of
smoke from his bomb pattern.
The Lieutenant related that he had picked up on a target which
was geometrically similar to the Evere airfield. At the moment
of bomb release, I was sure that it was the real target. He went
on, “I just flat picked up the wrong target and I dropped 168
- 500 pounders (14 of my groups aircraft) 3 1/2 miles short of
the target.”
The next morning, information reports to the intelligence section
indicated that the Lieutenant’s bombs had fallen on the Royal
Belgian Military Academy that was being used to house and train
the Germans. The information reports further stated that 1,200
German troops were casualties from the accidental bombing and
across the channel, the accident was being called a remarkable
exhibition of American precision bombing. An official announcement
covering the bombing was that “Such are the fortunes of war,”
and the incident is now closed.”
Such are the fortunes of war indeed! Some targets were a piece
of cake - others took some luck interlaced with the bombardiers
skill. In his case, “How lucky can you get?”
We went from one pub to the other drinking just about anything
they had available. The English seemed to lean on a lethal concoction
of gin and Guiness. An Oklahoma Indian P-51 pilot standing between
Chuck and me said, “that stuff is rough as a wood haulers ass,
but it’ll sure get the job done.” He wanted to know what we were
doing for the war effort. We explained that we were over there
doing the same thing he was, trying to kick Hitler’s butt every
chance we got. He told us that Indians were sort of psychic and
could see in the future. He singled out Flannigan, Cox and me
and said we would come out of the war without a scratch, and Hardiman
would make it, but he would get a piece of flak in him before
his tour was over. Later I asked Chuck what he thought about the
psychic Indian’s prediction. His only answer was, “Kiss my ass!”
We ate fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, ogled the army of
prostitutes that thronged Piccadilly. The idea of buying sex wasn’t
my dish of tea. They didn’t starve however on my account . . .they
had plenty of customers. The Bobbies wisely ignored the “ladies
of the night” and let them carry out their oldest profession.
They stood in doorways and never left. Always the tell-tale glow
of a cigarette let it be known they were there. Their tricks were
done in a standing position. That enabled them to do five in the
same amount of time it took to do one in a hotel room.
After a while we disengaged from riotous living and took to the
historic sights to be seen in the historic old city. We visited
Charing Cross Station, Pall Mall, Leicester Square, Regent Street,
Maiden Lane, Berkley Square, Waterloo Bridge and the Tower of
London. We went to Westminster Abbey and Parliament.
We toured Hyde Park where soap-box orators abounded. Most of them,
we were told, were polishing up on their oratory skills preparatory
to becoming politicians.
The next day we returned to Thorpe Abbotts to again become warriors
in a shooting war. For a few days we had had a new lease on life
and we rehearsed the good times for days on end.
We had missed a Squadron Inspection while we were in London and
it was reported not to have been a happy occasion.
Third Air Division Commander, General LeMay had pulled a surprise
inspection on the 350th Squadron and the Squadron Commander” had
taken to the woods.”
At the conclusion of the inspection, Louis Hays came roaring into
the Squadron area with a jeep load of armorers hanging on for
dear life. Louis went flying through a mud puddle and threw up
a wall of mud that landed a few feet from the General. With fine
military precision and in keeping with a GI’s notion that Chain-of-Command
means shit rolls down hill, an executive order went from General
to Commanding Officer, to Executive Officer to Adjutant to First
Sergeant: “Get that man.”
The Bloody Hundredth went back to Berlin the day we departed for
London. Only nine planes from the group went out this time and
all came back. We must have used up a hell-of-a bunch of their
fighters for them on those first two Berlin’s because no Nazi
fighters were seen on this one.
I am absolutely amazed at some of the infinitely small motivational
ideas that Group Command conjures up that boosts morale. On our
return from the March 8 Berlin mission, a new medical policy had
been put into effect and the returning crews were rewarded with
a double-shot of Scotch rather than the customary single, which
has proved to be one of the best ideas yet. Morale went up like
a sky- rocket.
March 13 saw more early morning activity around the base than
had been seen in many moons. The reason was because the rumor
was spread around the previous night at the Commissary that everyone,
paddle feet as well as combat troops, would have two fresh eggs
per man for breakfast. That was enough to drive anyone out of
his warm sack.
Reports from a critique at Framlingham indicated that the 100th
Bomb Group did right well on the initial Berlin raids. Distinguished
itself in fact.
During the course of the day, Generals Spaatz, Doolittle, LeMay
and Kissner arrived, it was assumed to boost morale after the
terrible Group losses at Berlin. They conducted an inspection
of the base and presented eight decorations including the Silver
Star to Colonel Bennett for “superb judgment and gallantry” for
the Erkner Bearing Factory job at Berlin on March 8, for which
the Group received a second Presidential Unit Citation.
After the presentations the Generals ‘held court’ at the Officers
Club, chaffing with all comers and answering any and all questions
and proving themselves to be good Joes in every way. One young
Second Lieutenant who had stayed at the bar a little too long
and built up a pretty good “snoot full” of courage walked up to
General Jimmy Doolittle, squared his shoulders and buried his
index finger about three inches deep in the Generals chest and
announced, “You think we don’ know whachur here for doncha?” Doolittle
explained, “Well son, after the terrible losses this Group sustained
on the initial missions to Berlin, we wanted to come here and
see if there is anything you need that might make you a little
more comfortable and also to provide equipment and material for
your Group to make things better here.”
The Lieutenant squared his shoulders again and poked that finger
deep in the Generals chest. By this time General Spaatz was becoming
pretty incensed but Doolittle seemed to be enjoying it. The kid
went on, “You think there’s something wrong with our morale, dontcha?
Well let me tell you something. Nothin’s wrong with our morale,
and if it was, we don’t need a bunch of gahhdam Generals comin’
round here tryiana flxit.”
Some of the kids friends took him in tow and guided him back to
his Nissen hut and the episode was forgotten.
Thirteen new crews arrived today to bring the Group back up to
full strength. The events of the day had been extremely interesting
and revelatory. The Air Force Command and staff went back to their
duties and the story of the Lieutenant telling off the 8th Air
Force Commander was told and retold until it became somewhat boring.
Events like this take some of the edge off the bloody war. So
much has happened to us all since we got here. We’ve seen death
and destruction. Zeb Kindell was a close friend. I saw his plane
blow up over Dummer Lake in March. Paul Martin and I went through
Primary, Basic and Advanced training together. We congratulated
each other with a big hug the day we got our wings and bars. It
really tore my heart out when I saw his Fort turn into a bail
of fire.
So... .if some kid gets a little juice in him and wants to defend
the integrity of his organization, take his good conduct medal
away from him for a week or so but don’t put him irons. He might
have been over Berlin yesterday.
Like the man says, “Their golden youth blots out the sky, they
let the comets plod. As each one flies to live or die for country
and for God.
Next...Sing These
Songs Mightly
Continued...
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