"Upper turret to pilot, B-24 off our left wing just feathered No. 1 engine. He is dropping back and losing altitude." The tail gunner calls and says the plane has just jettisoned its bombs. A few moments later, the tail gunner calls, "He just feathered No. 4 engine; he is changing course." Then we hear, "Pilot to crew, the B-24 that lost Nos. 1 and 4 engines is going to Sweden." The Swedes and the Swiss will let Allied planes land if they are having mechanical trouble and cannot make it to their home base. The plane and the crew will be interned for the duration of the war. Not a bad choice -- better than going down into the North Sea. I understand that Sweden is the land of blondes. The thought crosses my mind that maybe there was nothing wrong with that plane, maybe the crew decided that they had had enough. This is not the first time that the Army Air Forces has had planes leave formation for an unknown destination. If the crewmen decide among themselves that they have had enough, or even if the pilots make such a decision, it is not a difficult job to fake mechanical trouble or sabotage the plane and enter a neutral country.
There is a great deal of boredom in flying combat, almost a lull before the storm. Then the navigator calls out to the pilot, "Thirty minutes to target." I look out my window -- complete cloud cover. Just a sea of white below us. Without the Mickey operator along today, we would have to scrub the mission because of inability to see the target. The bombardier and radar operator are engaged in a discussion about the target. I'm on my assigned radio frequency, a direct contact with the base. However, I only listen; I do not acknowledge any radio contact. I'm in my own little world as we drone along.
"Radar to pilot, I have identified the target. We are about 10 minutes out."
"Pilot to radio, get ready to open bomb doors."
"Radio to pilot, how about flak suits?"
"Pilot to radio, never mind the suits."
I descend to the lower flight deck next to the bomb-bay door lever and crouch next to the bomb doors. The call comes over the intercom, "Open bomb doors," and I press the lever. The four big doors roll up the sides of the plane like the lids of roll-top desks. All I can see below are clouds. The radar operator is in direct contact with the bombardier; I hear his voice as the radar operator gives instructions to the bombardier. The bombardier is making cruise corrections -- flying the plane with his control. The radar operator stays steady and clear on his directions. I hear him say, "Steady now," and his next words are "Bombs away!" I feel the plane lurch upward, then I verify all bombs have been dropped and reach for the door lever.
"Tail to pilot, flak directly astern of the plane." We are diving and turning away from the target; the flak stays with us. The German gunners are good. They know our action after bombs away and have compensated for it. With the next flak burst, it feels like something has lifted the tail of the plane. The next burst is a loud "Ka-blam!" The left wing goes up to about a 45-degree angle, and the pilot corrects to bring the wing level.
"Waist to pilot, No. 2 engine smoking bad." "Top turret to pilot, what's our oil pressure on No. 2?" "Co-pilot to engineer, oil pressure is a little low." "Engineer to pilot, we've been hit in the oil system on No. 2 engine. Continue to operate the engine, monitor the oil pressure. When the pressure begins to fluctuate, feather the engine." The smoke from the engine comes from a leak that is hitting the exhaust collector ring. "Engineer to co-pilot, does the engine check out OK otherwise?" "Co-pilot to engineer, manifold pressure is down about 10 psi, rpm is down about 400." "Engineer to pilot, my advice to you if it means anything is to continue to run the engine as I suggested; the decision is yours." "Pilot to co-pilot, feather No. 2 engine. Give me a little more boost on the other three engines. We'll see if we can stay with the group." "Pilot to crew, damage reports." "Tail to pilot, the whole top is gone from my turret." "Left waist to pilot, left vertical stabilizer is damaged extensively, additional holes in fuselage." "Top turret, no further damage visible up here." "Engineer to pilot, no further oil smoke from No. 2 engine." "Radio to pilot, several large holes in the bomb bays, holes in the lower flight deck." "Pilot to navigator, any further damage?" "Navigator to pilot, no damage up here."
Despite the battle damage, the aircraft is performing OK. We are pulling a lot more power from the remaining engines and maintaining our position in the formation. The whole formation is beginning to descend to lower altitudes. I can see that the cloud cover is just below our plane now. The fact that the formation is losing altitude as a group enables us to keep up easier. "Engineer to pilot, fabric is tearing on left rudder; how is rudder control?" "Pilot to engineer, no loss of rudder control that I can feel." The formation is spreading out before entering the cloud cover. That stuff looks like pea soup. Once we enter the clouds, the pilot and co-pilot are on the gauges, maintaining a constant rate of descent until we get out of the thick clouds. Everyone stays alert. I have left my position and am standing between the pilot and co-pilot, to provide another pair of eyes watching for aircraft. We finally break out of the cloud cover and I see the French landscape. We are at 14,000 feet and still descending. The three remaining engines are running well -- a fine compliment to Pratt & Whitney engineering.
I realize that I'm cold, even though my heat control is at "maximum." I guess my electrically heated suit has failed. "Radio to co-pilot, is your heated suit working?" "Co-pilot to radio, negative, I'm froze." "Top turret to radio, I have no heat either." I'm silent for a moment. "Radio to engineer, does the generator on No. 2 engine supply current to our suits?" "Engineer to radio, you are right -- loss of No. 2 engine means loss of electrical power to some positions on the flight deck."
I go back to the liaison position on the intercom and continue to monitor my assigned frequency. In some ways, this is the loneliest job on the crew most of the time. You are completely unaware of intercom chatter. When anyone wants me, he must turn the control on the intercom box to "call" in order to override anything that I'm listening to. The altimeter indicates 12,000 feet, and I remove my helmet and oxygen gear, don my cap and headphones, snap a throat microphone around my neck, plug in my gear and continue to monitor the assigned frequency.
The free air temperature gauge indicates minus 16 degrees. It is now 3 p.m., three hours since we left the target. The lack of heat is beginning to affect me -- I'm darned near frozen. All I can think about is, "How can I do my duties for another two hours?" A glance out the window reveals the beautiful French landscape. We continue to descend at a gradual rate, still free of any enemy opposition. I'm daydreaming when I get a call from the pilot, requesting a weather report. We are over the Normandy coast. I break radio silence to ask for the base weather report. I change frequencies, snap on the transmitter and ask Old Buckenham Tower for the weather. After I answer questions about the challenge of the day and colors of the day, I receive the report -- which, as usual, is terrible. Visibility is down, with light blowing snow. I copy the report and forward it to the aircraft commander, then change back to my assigned frequency and continue my boring assignment.
Soon we are down to 4,000 feet and over the English Channel. The background static in my headphones is broken up by a loud, clear distress signal. I'm alert to the message -- a CHIPP call sent twice, followed by a loud, steady signal. A Boeing B-17 radioman has locked in his key. I forward the message to Air Sea Rescue, then give the downed plane's position to our navigator, who plots a course to the position given. Our B-24 banks away to a new course, and in a few minutes we spot the downed plane's crew getting into rubber rafts. We continue to circle for about 15 minutes, until we spot the Air Sea Rescue boat. When the boat arrives, we set a course for England. I feel good about our part in the rescue because, after all, we are flying a battle-damaged B-24 with only three fans turning.
In about 30 minutes we spot the English coast. Our base, Old Buckenham, is the first field in from the Channel. The rest of our group has already landed. We enter the pattern and start the normal prelanding checklists. We will come in with a little higher approach speed, due to one dead engine. The co-pilot makes contact on the 274N command set: "Flame Leap, this is Army 217 requesting landing instructions, over." "Army 217, this is Flame Leap, you are cleared to land." I hear the high-pitched whine of hydraulics as the landing gear comes down and is verified as locked; the flaps are coming down, too. I leave my position, start the APU, reach over the bomb doors and switch on the auxiliary hydraulic pump. Now I can see the end of the runway. The throttles come back, the gear touches, and we bounce once and touch again, but the nose wheel is still off the runway. Finally, the nose wheel is down, and the pilot gets on the binders hard. The Liberator slows down, and after one more hard brake application we slow enough to enter the taxiway.
The top hatch opens. The engineer is standing on the seat back of the radar operator's chair with his head and shoulders out of the hatch. He is in contact with the pilot by intercom. The ends of other wings are about 65 feet away. It is easy to misjudge the distance between our wingtips and those of other aircraft. We are following a jeep with a sign on the back that reads "Follow Me" to our hardstand. We obey the crew chief's signals that tell us where to park. The plane shudders as the three remaining fans come to a stop. The pilot and co-pilot complete their checklists, and the wheels are chocked by the ground crew.
The free air temperature is 20 degrees, but six hours with no heat is really a long time. I gather my gear into my flight bag while the pilot completes the required form and slides it into its metal container.
Additional Sources:
216.22.196.152
tinpan.fortunecity.com
www.wpafb.af.mil
www.liberatorcrew.com
www.brooksart.com
www.worldwar2pilots.com
www.military.cz
www.the467tharchive.org
When a professional musician nicknamed "Happy" became a Christian, he quit playing in nightclubs and offered his services to a rescue mission. Some time later, he received a phone call from a club manager who wanted to hire him to do a show that would have brought in a lot of money. But Happy turned down the offer, telling the manager that he would be playing at the mission. Happy said, "He congratulated me. That surprised me. Here was a man who wanted me to play for him and he was congratulating me for refusing his offer." The manager respected Happy's decision.