The Bomber Boys Read Online Free PDF Page B

American bomber airmen did not like the new thirty-five-missions rule, but they gritted their teeth and kept
flying, hoping their luck would hold up a little longer. The replacement aircrews arrived at their new bases unaware of the difficulty they would face in surviving thirty-five combat missions over Germany. The veterans knew. They dubbed any man who completed all thirty-five combat missions as a member of “the Lucky Bastards Club.”
    This was the state of affairs at Chelveston in December 1944, when Tony and the other members of Chart’s bomber crew reported for duty.
     
     
     
    It soon became apparent to Tony and the rest of the crew that until they racked up a couple of combat missions, they could expect a continued cold shoulder from the 305th’s more experienced crews. The snub was not a mean-spirited gesture, but simply an emotional defense.
    Every one of the veteran airmen had lost a friend with whom he had swapped mission stories, discussed wives and girlfriends, or stumbled back to base in an advanced state of inebriation. It was hard enough to see another American bomber shot from the sky, but when the airplane was in your bomb group or your own squadron, you knew it was your friends who were dying. You counted the parachutes falling from the stricken bomber and too often there were only a few. Which friends had lived? Which had died? You would not know until you got back to base in England—if you got back. Watching friends die tended to remind one of his own mortality.
    The bottom line was that few of the veteran airmen were looking for new friends to mourn. They kept the rookies at arm’s length. The new guys quickly began to look forward to their first combat mission in order to get the butterflies out of their stomachs and to become real members of the 305th.
    For Chart’s men, their time came on Christmas Eve morning.
From out of the barrack’s darkness, someone shook Tony’s shoulder as he lay sound asleep.
    “Gotta get up, sir; you’re flying today,” a sergeant with a small flashlight said before moving on to the next man on his list. Tony rubbed his eyes and looked at the illuminated hands of his watch. It was 2:30 a.m. The alerted crews dressed and stumbled to the mess hall for a hot breakfast of eggs, pancakes and coffee.
    A general briefing was next. The room was large and noisy as airmen from the 364th, 365th, 366th and 422nd squadrons swapped predictions on what the day’s target might be. The answer was hidden beneath a large cloth sheet that covered a detailed map of Europe.
    Tony found an empty seat next to Jerry Chart and George Wisniewski. The other members of the new crew sat nearby. Their quietness was in sharp contrast to the loud chatter of the veteran crews, but a silence fell over everyone when the 305th’s commanding officer walked to the front of the room. He was Colonel Henry C. MacDonald, assigned to head the Chelveston-based bomb group only two months before. Tony thought the colonel looked a little young for the job. Still, when MacDonald spoke, there was confidence and resolve in his voice. He made a few opening remarks, which somehow failed to register with Tony as the new navigator stared at the covered map. What finally grabbed Tony’s and everyone’s attention was when the commanding officer said, “Gentlemen, today’s target is . . .” Another officer pulled away the cloth exposing the entire map. “Giessen!”
    So that’s it, Tony thought. His first mission—and for all he knew his last—was to Giessen, Germany. He had never even heard of Giessen. What was there? Why were they going to bomb it?
    “Nidda airfield,” Tony heard MacDonald say. “You are going
in at twenty-one thousand five hundred feet. Expect some moderate flak over and around the target.”
    Moderate flak? Tony wondered how much flak was moderate. He had no way of judging. He had heard the veterans refer to the German antiaircraft fire in terms of light, moderate or heavy flak.