Read Online The Bomber Boys by Travis L. Ayres - Free Book Online
Authors: Travis L. Ayres
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provide any real protection and it certainly was uncomfortable, but it was his routine and it had worked so far.
Tony reasoned it was his job to get his B-17 to the Initial Point. After the dangerous bomb run, it was his job to guide the pilot and the aircraft back to England—but during the bomb run, Tony’s only priority was to stay alive.
The navigator held the small cross that hung around his neck with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. He crossed himself with his right hand. Already wearing one flak jacket, he placed another on the floor beneath the navigator’s desk. His friend Carl Robinson had procured the extra jacket for him. Tony had reciprocated by purchasing a new pair of officer’s dress shoes at the PX and giving them to the flight engineer.
Exchanging a quick glance with the toggler who was kneel ing at his bombsight, Tony tightened the strap on his flak helmet and squeezed his five-foot, two-inch frame underneath his desk. It was a tight fit even for his size.
The toggler watched Tony’s routine and wished he had a desk, too. Of course, every man on the bomber knew that for the next fifteen minutes, there would be no safe place inside the B-17. Flak bursts were already starting to shake and rattle the bomber. Should the nose of the airplane take a direct hit, Tony’s routine would not matter. Everything would be gone—the desk, the toggler and the navigator.
The German antiaircraft gunners in Berlin were to be respected. They had gained plenty of experience since the American B-17s and Liberators had begun flying daylight raids on the German capital almost a year before. To Allied airmen, Berlin
was The Big B, and as far as Tony was concerned, the “B” stood for Bad!
As large as New York City, Berlin presented a long bomb run. Some bombers were going to be hit, and some crews would not be going home. Flying LeMay’s straight-in bomb pattern, it was mostly a matter of luck or fate. So Tony had nothing to do but to ride it out. His only obligation during the bomb run was to log in the time of the bomb release, and he had even worked that out in a way that limited his exposure.
More flak bursts. Heavy impact. Very close. B-17 number 015 was a tough bird, Tony reminded himself. Jerry Chart was a top-notch skipper. He had brought them home from eleven missions and often with a shot-up airplane. Top-notch skipper.
Two loud flak explosions seemed to say, “This is different!” This was The Big B, and she had a special welcome for the 305th Bomb Group on its first visit to Berlin since December of the previous year. That mission had cost the 305th dearly, with three of its bombers being shot from the sky—one of those, commanded by pilot Charles R. Todd, had broken apart in midair, killing Todd and all eight of his crewmen.
Now Tony could hear the sound of metal fragments glancing off the airplane’s Plexiglas nose cone. It sure seemed as if they had been in the bomb run long enough to be over target. Why had he not felt the bombs being released?
“What’s going on?” he asked the toggler without moving from his spot below the desk.
“Lead plane hasn’t dropped his bombs yet,” the toggler replied, making no attempt to hide the impatience in his voice.
Tony shifted his weight to keep his legs from cramping up and freed his left hand, checking his watch. Only seven minutes had passed since I.P. Still, they had to be close to target. Then, suddenly, there it was. The airplane lurched upward as several hundred pounds of bombs fell from its belly.
As the B-17 lifted, so did the crew’s spirits—at least a little. The flak was just as bad on the way out, of course, but now their pilot’s flying skills could come into play. He could take evasive action and use his instincts, which they had all come to believe in. In the cockpit, Jerry Chart was well aware that evasive action was really a guessing game when the flak was this heavy.
He tried his best to find clear patches of sky
Tony reasoned it was his job to get his B-17 to the Initial Point. After the dangerous bomb run, it was his job to guide the pilot and the aircraft back to England—but during the bomb run, Tony’s only priority was to stay alive.
The navigator held the small cross that hung around his neck with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. He crossed himself with his right hand. Already wearing one flak jacket, he placed another on the floor beneath the navigator’s desk. His friend Carl Robinson had procured the extra jacket for him. Tony had reciprocated by purchasing a new pair of officer’s dress shoes at the PX and giving them to the flight engineer.
Exchanging a quick glance with the toggler who was kneel ing at his bombsight, Tony tightened the strap on his flak helmet and squeezed his five-foot, two-inch frame underneath his desk. It was a tight fit even for his size.
The toggler watched Tony’s routine and wished he had a desk, too. Of course, every man on the bomber knew that for the next fifteen minutes, there would be no safe place inside the B-17. Flak bursts were already starting to shake and rattle the bomber. Should the nose of the airplane take a direct hit, Tony’s routine would not matter. Everything would be gone—the desk, the toggler and the navigator.
The German antiaircraft gunners in Berlin were to be respected. They had gained plenty of experience since the American B-17s and Liberators had begun flying daylight raids on the German capital almost a year before. To Allied airmen, Berlin
was The Big B, and as far as Tony was concerned, the “B” stood for Bad!
As large as New York City, Berlin presented a long bomb run. Some bombers were going to be hit, and some crews would not be going home. Flying LeMay’s straight-in bomb pattern, it was mostly a matter of luck or fate. So Tony had nothing to do but to ride it out. His only obligation during the bomb run was to log in the time of the bomb release, and he had even worked that out in a way that limited his exposure.
More flak bursts. Heavy impact. Very close. B-17 number 015 was a tough bird, Tony reminded himself. Jerry Chart was a top-notch skipper. He had brought them home from eleven missions and often with a shot-up airplane. Top-notch skipper.
Two loud flak explosions seemed to say, “This is different!” This was The Big B, and she had a special welcome for the 305th Bomb Group on its first visit to Berlin since December of the previous year. That mission had cost the 305th dearly, with three of its bombers being shot from the sky—one of those, commanded by pilot Charles R. Todd, had broken apart in midair, killing Todd and all eight of his crewmen.
Now Tony could hear the sound of metal fragments glancing off the airplane’s Plexiglas nose cone. It sure seemed as if they had been in the bomb run long enough to be over target. Why had he not felt the bombs being released?
“What’s going on?” he asked the toggler without moving from his spot below the desk.
“Lead plane hasn’t dropped his bombs yet,” the toggler replied, making no attempt to hide the impatience in his voice.
Tony shifted his weight to keep his legs from cramping up and freed his left hand, checking his watch. Only seven minutes had passed since I.P. Still, they had to be close to target. Then, suddenly, there it was. The airplane lurched upward as several hundred pounds of bombs fell from its belly.
As the B-17 lifted, so did the crew’s spirits—at least a little. The flak was just as bad on the way out, of course, but now their pilot’s flying skills could come into play. He could take evasive action and use his instincts, which they had all come to believe in. In the cockpit, Jerry Chart was well aware that evasive action was really a guessing game when the flak was this heavy.
He tried his best to find clear patches of sky
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