Authors: Paul Dowswell
They had several weeks of acclimatisation ahead of them – night flights, more training – before they would be considered combat-ready. Harry was grateful for that now. He had arrived over England feeling excited and ready to go. But that had vanished the second he saw that horrible yellow and black explosion – like an obscene rotting cauliflower. He realised then and there that Kirkstead might be the last place he would ever live, and his life might be over before he reached his eighteenth birthday.
For the first time he wondered if he had done the right thing in coming here. His buddies back in Brooklyn had been full of admiration when he’d told them he’d aced the air force induction interview and the recruiting officers hadn’t batted an eyelid when he’d told them he was eighteen. He hadn’t expected there’d be a problem. Harry had a stocky, muscular build. He spent most of his school vacations teaching local kids gymnastics and baseball. He had plenty of confidence too and people always assumed he was older than he was.
His parents were upset when he volunteered, but they knew there was no point trying to dissuade him. They’d all been hearing terrible things about what the Nazis were doing in the conquered territories. At first it was just rumours and the odd story in the newspapers. Then friends who had family in Germany, Poland and Czechoslovakia had told them letters had just stopped arriving. They were
a pretty secular family, not even minding if Harry dated gentiles, but they were still Jews. And what they heard filled them with a mounting sense of dread and revulsion.
Harry had talked to Bortz, the bombardier, about this. He was Jewish too, and he had heard the same horror stories, and volunteered for the same reasons. Harry had always imagined there would be a bond between them, but Bortz was an uptight guy, who kept himself to himself.
‘Come on, Harry, our ride’s here. We gotta go.’ John Hill’s voice jolted him away from Brooklyn and back to Kirkstead. Harry slipped off the last of his flying gear and ran out to the jeep, clutching precariously to the side as it sped down a mud track to the main airfield buildings.
The briefing hall was just as makeshift as their Nissen hut and a thin draught whistled around their ankles. The linoleum on the floor was new but already scuffed, as were the flimsy trestle tables and chairs. Other crews joined them and they quickly realised these were men like them – just arrived from the States as replacement crews for the four squadrons that made up the bomb group at Kirkstead.
Holberg was sitting just behind Harry and deep in conversation with another captain. ‘Worst raid yet,’ he heard the man say. ‘This squadron alone has lost four planes.’
Holberg swore under his breath – something which shocked Harry. His captain was a pretty upright guy – churchgoer. He even had a couple of kids. He wasn’t the
swearing type, but then four planes was a third of a squadron.
Someone else chipped in. ‘303 over in Molesworth lost nine.’
Harry was horrified. Nine out of twelve planes. That was a massacre.
‘What was it? Did they say?’ asked Holberg. ‘Flak? Fighters? Don’t suppose they know yet …’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the bomb group commander and they all stood abruptly to attention. The commander was a trim-looking man in his middle years, with razor-sharp creases in his trousers. He took off his peaked cap to reveal a thin crop of grey hair and addressed them all sternly.
‘At ease, gentlemen, welcome to England. My name is Colonel Laurence H. Kittering. You join us at a critical time. Today my bomb group have just returned from Schweinfurt. Our target was the ball-bearing factory there, and early reports suggest they did a good job, but we’ve taken a bit of a beating.’
Most of the hall had heard about the losses already and a low mutter passed through the assembled crews at this last comment. Kittering ignored this and carried on speaking.
‘I want to tell you why it was worth it. If we can wipe out their ball-bearing production plants, then the war will end a lot sooner. Now you’ve all heard that nursery rhyme,
For want of a nail
?’ He paused, searching their faces for acknowledgement.
The men stared at him blankly. He seemed mildly irritated by their reaction.
‘
For want of a nail the Kingdom was lost
,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s what ball bearings are these days. They’re the nail. Everything with a motor – tanks, trucks, planes – they use them. Artillery uses them, machine guns use them. Bombs and shells use them.’
He paused again. ‘You knock out that ball-bearing plant in Schweinfurt, and another one the Krauts have down in Regensburg, and we’re halfway to winning the war.’
Kittering spent the rest of his talk outlining the drills and exercises the new crews would be doing before they were ready for combat. Then he told them he expected them to behave themselves and be courteous to the British.
‘The Limeys have been at war for four years. So, yes, everything looks a little shabby. The food is lousy, and there isn’t much of it. Their clothes are a bit worn. Everything needs a coat of paint. But I don’t want any of you boasting about how much better everything is Stateside. They don’t want to hear it and neither do I. These people held out against the Krauts after they conquered the rest of Europe and they deserve our respect. Now, any questions?’
Jim Corrales put his hand up. ‘How do the Limeys take to being called “Limeys”, sir?’
There was stifled sniggering throughout the room. Kittering eyed him with suspicion, weighing up what he had said and wondering if he should put him on a charge. Harry marvelled at Jim’s straight face. There wasn’t an iota
of mockery or insubordination in the way he had asked the question.
‘They don’t,’ snapped the colonel. ‘Next question.’
An officer stood up at the back of the room. ‘Captain Wilbur Schwarz, sir. Is it true that this morning’s raid on Schweinfurt cost twenty per cent of our mission aircraft? Can we expect subsequent missions to have a similar rate of attrition?’
The room erupted in concerned murmuring again, louder this time.
Colonel Kittering was not impressed. ‘You’ll all shut your mouths.’ His voice cut across the hubbub and the room settled to a cowed silence. ‘Rule number one at this airbase: you will not repeat idle gossip. Captain, you’ll report to my office as soon as this meeting is over.’
There were no more questions after that. The men trooped out under the stern eye of the colonel, barely daring to speak. He saw Kittering grab Jim Corrales by the sleeve as he left the room and heard him say, ‘One more crack like that in a briefing and I’ll bust you down to private so fast you won’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.’
Harry’s crew all bunched together afterwards, outside the briefing hall. The day felt warmer and even held the promise of a beautiful late summer evening.
‘Come on,’ said Holberg. ‘Let’s go meet the ground crew.’
Sergeant Ernie Benik eyed the approaching new boys with trepidation. Most of them looked so young – kids fresh out
of school or college, with their cock-of-the-walk strut. At once he felt the weight of his years. He was in his early forties – probably an old man in their eyes.
His previous crew had lasted a single mission. The one before that had managed five operations before they were shot out of the sky. And that was after three of them had been killed in action on the fourth trip – the ball turret and tail gunner, and the radio operator, all caught in a lethal salvo from a German fighter.
Ernie made it his business to retrieve the bodies from the cramped interior and he shuddered when he remembered he’d had to finish that job with a hose. Cannon shells, especially, made a terrible mess of flesh and blood. The haunted faces of the survivors as they and the replacements boarded the plane for that fifth mission had convinced Ernie that he’d never see them again. If he’d been a betting man he would have put money on it. But that would have been callous. And Ernie was not callous.
Some of the other crew chiefs had told him you shouldn’t get too close to your aviators. Ernie didn’t share this view. The United States Army Air Force was his family. He’d never married and had no kids. So he made a fuss of all the new boys.
He made a quick tally in his mind. The crew of the
Macey May
would be the fourth he’d looked after since he arrived in the late winter of ’42. It was a tough life, and that bastard Colonel Kittering wasn’t going to be offering them
any kindness. So why shouldn’t he? The flyers usually had a wake-up orderly to get them up on mission days. Ernie made it his personal job to rouse his flyers.
As the men approached, Ernie called to his boys over the roar of the generator truck that was recharging the bomber’s on-board power supply. ‘Hey, fellas, knock that thing off and come and meet the new crew!’
The generator ground to a halt and a fresh silence settled around them. It was easy to see who was in charge of this bunch, and Ernie stepped forward to shake Holberg’s hand, turning swiftly to do the same with the other flyboys who had gathered around him.
He waited for the final two of his team of oil-stained mechanics to clamber down from engine number three, which had its cover off, exposing its cylinders, pumps and gears to the elements.
‘Meet the team,’ said Ernie. Each man nodded as Benik introduced them. ‘Lenny, Hal, Ray, Ted, Woody, Frank, Vic …’
‘They’re good guys,’ Benik said to Holberg. ‘You can count on them. Never let me down yet.’
Holberg introduced the crew of the
Macey May
, finishing up with LaFitte.
‘And this is Second Lieutenant Ray LaFitte, our flight engineer.’
Benik shook LaFitte’s hand. ‘How’d she run over the Atlantic?’
‘No problem at all,’ LaFitte said.
‘We’ll do our best to keep it that way.’
Formalities over, Ernie said, ‘Well, you fellas will want to get your bearings. Why don’t you go stroll around the perimeter. You’ll still be back in time for chow.’
The crew of the
Macey May
left. When they were out of earshot, Lenny said, ‘Poor suckers. Hope they last longer than the previous lot.’
Ernie, who towered over all seven of his men, cuffed him lightly over the head. ‘Hey, no sourpuss talk here. Who says these guys aren’t gonna make it to twenty-five missions.’
Harry’s crew wandered right to the edge of the airfield perimeter before their captain spoke. ‘Nice guy, isn’t he?’
They all murmured in agreement. How would anyone not like Ernie Benik?
‘Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all,’ Holberg said, waving his arm towards the field before them. It looked beautiful in the soft, early-evening light. Two horses were grazing in the pasture beyond the hedgerow, and the nearby village looked impossibly picturesque. A church spire stood silhouetted against the sky, and there was a manor house and several cottages that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a chocolate box. It was a world away from the teeming streets of Brooklyn. Harry was wondering how soon he might get the chance to explore outside the airbase when John Hill brought him swiftly back to reality with a question for Holberg.
‘Excuse me for asking, Captain, but that thing Captain Schwarz said – about losing one in five of the bombers today –’
Holberg cut him off.
‘Schwarz had no business raising it like that. The colonel was right to chew him out. It might be true, it might not. And even if it is, maybe most of those guys got out before they crashed. I want you all to put it out of your minds. All we can do is train the best we can and make sure we’re among those crews that always do come back.’
The church clock chimed seven. ‘We got an hour before the mess closes,’ said Holberg. ‘It’s been a long day. I suggest you all hit the hay as soon as you can. But tomorrow evening, if we can get a pass out, I want us all to go find one of those Limey pubs.’
Harry liked Bob Holberg. He was like a favourite teacher or uncle. Holberg had actually been a teacher before he’d joined up. English had been his subject and he’d taught in a prep school in Connecticut. He’d told them they only needed to salute him when other officers were around. Other captains were far more formal with their crew – and would only be addressed by their rank and surname.
Harry had been training with the crew of the
Macey May
for four months now, and most of them were great guys. He was looking forward to trying out the local beer with them and getting to know a bit more about this country. So far he hadn’t even heard a Brit speaking.
* * *
They arrived at the mess at the same time as the non-coms from another Fortress. The boys from
Carolina Peach
introduced themselves. Like Harry’s crew, they were from all corners of the United States.
They had arrived late that afternoon and they too had seen the still-smouldering remains of the B-17 on the main runway.
‘Beautiful evening though, ain’t it, boys?’ said the shortest airman among them, obviously keen to change the subject.
‘You’re the ball turret gunner, right?’ said Harry, and put out his hand.
‘Damn right! Charlie Gifford.’ He had a really firm grip, the sort that hurt your hand. ‘Takes one to know one.’ Gifford smiled. He was several years older than Harry and a striking man, with blond hair and blue eyes – the perfect Aryan, if you believed that garbage the Nazis spouted about the ‘master race’.
‘You a volunteer?’ he asked Harry, and from the way he said it, Harry got the feeling he suspected he was underage.
Harry nodded.
‘Recruiting officer must have forgot his glasses the day he interviewed you.’
Harry tensed, but Gifford winked. ‘Don’t worry, I ain’t about to go tell the group commander.’
All ten of them sat round the same table and ate an unappealing stew and some kind of sponge, with a tasteless
white sauce with a skin like a plastic balloon and a lumpy, paste-like texture.
‘I guess the USAAF isn’t famous for its haute cuisine,’ John Hill said. He had been training to be a chef in a New York hotel when he joined up.
‘At least we ain’t on the diet they got the Limeys on,’ said Skaggs. ‘I read they get one egg a week.’