Combat Crew

Soon after daylight, the formation was crossing the gray-green water of the English Channel. My anxiety and tension mounted, as I knew we would face the fierce German fighters, for on this clear day we would invade the lair of Goering's best. The veterans had made certain we knew what usually happened to new crews on their first meeting with Jerry. They were not expected to come back. It was as simple as that. The intercom came on. TAIL TO CO-PILOT, TAIL TO CO-PILOT. GO AHEAD, TAIL. FIGHTERS FIVE O'CLOCK LOW. BALL TO CO-PILOT. LOOKS LIKE THE ESCORT. I spotted a long line of specs closing in fast from the north. It was the escort of fifty P-47 Thunderbolts. Good. I felt better because they could keep the enemy fighters away for a little while. However, the P-47s had a short fuel range, as the disposable belly tanks available at that time only held seventy-five gallons. NAVIGATOR TO CREW, NAVIGATOR TO CREW. ENEMY COAST FIVE MILES AWAY. BOMBARDIER TO CREW. WATCH OUT FOR FIGHTERS. Scared? Where do you draw the line between fright and intense nervous anticipation? Training in civilian life had prepared me for the feeling of kill or be killed. Our meager gunnery training was laughable compared with the skill and experience of the veteran German fighter pilots. The briefing on the target earlier that morning kept turning through my mind. We're hitting an aircraft plant at the edge of Le Bourget airfield near Paris. The fighter opposition will be plenty rough. This is your first real taste of combat, so— The Abbeville boys meant Goering's personal squadrons, the roughest Germany had to offer. When I saw the French coast pass by underneath, I became more tense and keyed up. We had been warned repeatedly that German fighters liked to lurk in the area where we would have to look directly at the sun to see them. They would attempt to slip in on us undetected by most of the formation gunners. It was my responsibility not to let it happen. From my turret, I had the only unobstructed view of the sky above in all directions. George Balmore, in the radio room, could see part of the area above and to the rear. Bombardier to crew! Bombardier to crew! Fighters! Twelve o'clock low! Can't make out what they are, but don't look like forty-sevens! I stood up in the turret, looked down, and counted twenty or more that could be seen from my position. They were German fighters, all right. The enemy pilots knew that the P-47s were at the end of their short fuel range and were patiently waiting for them to turn back. In a few minutes, the escort dipped their wings as if to say, good luck, see you in England tonight, and they were gone. I felt a nod in my stomach as the big thunderbolts vanished to the north. Immediately, the enemy pulled up to our level and began circling to pick out positions for attack. Of course I was excited. It was my first time to see a hostile aircraft in the sky. Co-pilot to crew! Throw the lead at those fighters if they come in! Co-pilot to turret! Go ahead. Keep your eye on those three fighters three o'clock high. I'll watch high and forward. Co-pilot to tail! See anything trying to sneak in back there? No, clear below and behind. Immediately Karkville screamed over the intercom, fighter coming in twelve o'clock level! Get him! Get him! Get him! I was tracking four suspicious fighters at nine o'clock and wheeled around just in time to get my sights on the fighter attacking us. It was headed straight for our nose, spitting deadly twenty-millimeter cannon shells and thirty-caliber machine gun bullets. I was so fascinated by the sight that I froze. Did not fire a shot. Neither did the bombardier or the navigator, the only other guns that could bear on a frontal attack. Light flashes from the leading edge of the fighter signaled how many cannon shells were being fired at us. I could hear some projectiles striking the airplane. It was a spectacle that drove deep into my memory. The fighter turned his belly to us and slipped into a beautiful barrel roll under our right wing and dived out of range. Karkville was boiling mad. We exploded over the intercom. What the hell's the matter with you, son of a bitches? You're supposed to be gunners.