Robert O. Harder - The Three Musketeers of the Army Air Forces: From Hitlers Fortress Europa to Hiroshima and Nagasaki

Naval Institute Press

291 Wood Road

Annapolis, MD 21402

2015 by Robert O. Harder

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Harder, Robert O.

The three musketeers of the Army Air Forces: from Hitlers Fortress Europa to Hiroshima and Nagasaki / Robert O. Harder.

1 online resource.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

ISBN 978-1-61251-903-6 (epub) 1. Hiroshima-shi (Japan)HistoryBombardment, 1945. 2. Nagasaki-shi (Japan)HistoryBombardment, 1945. 3. Tibbets, Paul W. (Paul Warfield), 19152007. 4. Ferebee, Thomas, 19182000. 5. Van Kirk, Theodore Jerome, 19212014. 6. Bomber pilotsUnited StatesBiography. 7. BombardiersUnited StatesBiography. 8. Flight navigatorsUnited StatesBiography. 9. United States. Army Air ForcesOfficersBiography. 10. World War, 19391945Aerial operations, American. I. Title. II. Title: From Hitlers Fortress Europa to Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

D767.25.H6

940.5449730922dc23

2015025294

Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First printing

For Paul, Tom, Dutch, and their families

Two names kept popping up when talking with Paul Tibbets....

I remarked that they must have been good friends of his.

Friends? said Tibbets. We were the three musketeers.

Tom Ferebee, Dutch Van Kirk, and I were the Three Musketeers.

from D. M. Giangrecos foreword to

My True Course, Suzanne Simon Dietzs

biography of Theodore Dutch Van Kirk

Contents

T his book probably had its genesis on a Sunday evening in May 1968 at McCoy Air Force Base, Orlando, Florida. A newly rated first lieutenant B-52D navigator-bombardier had just arrived at his first operational duty station, filled with all the eagerness and trepidation one might expect on such an occasion. After checking into the BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters) and preparing to report to his new squadron commander the next morning, he walked the two blocks to the Officers Club for dinner, followed by a much-anticipated stop at the bar.

Whatll you have, lieutenant? the bartender asked, almost certainly a moonlighting noncommissioned officer. The club room was dark and appeared half-closed; the young man assumed he was the only customer that quiet Sunday evening.

Scotch and waterand make it a stiff one!

The drink came quickly. The junior officer had no more than gotten the glass up to his lips when from the other end of the bar a glass slammed down hard on the counter.

Hit me one more time! came a booming, authoritative voice hidden behind the large draft beer taps. Before the young man knew it, the fellow had moved to the stool next to him.

Hi ya, lieutenant, the older man said not unkindly, ostentatiously checking out the junior officers slick navigator wings. The young mans eyebrows shot up when he saw the eagles on the fellows blue uniform coat.

Tanker or bomber nav? the colonel asked.

Bomber, sir, the lieutenant said, his heart sinking. All he had wanted to do was down a drink or two and hit the sack. Instead, on his first night, he had to worry about saying something stupid to a high-ranking wing officer. Ye gods! He had never before even spoken mano y mano to a bird colonel.

After taking another look at the lieutenants name tag, the colonel nodded knowledgeably. Youll be on a newly formed crew. We need to get several additional combat crews qualified over the summer before the wing rotates back to Vietnam.

The young man voiced another respectful yessir while surreptitiously checking out the colonels Master Navigator/Bombardier Wings and ribbon rows. The old boy had really been around.

Theyre still cross-training you fellows, right? Gotta be a nav before bomb school? The colonel knew the answer of course; the questions were only presented to keep the conversation alive.

The lieutenant nodded, preparing to blather on about how well he had been trained and how excited he was to become a part of Americas vaunted Strategic Air Command when the colonel mercifully intervened.

So tell me. What do you think of the Air Force so far?

Without giving any consideration as to how odd such a question was, coming as it did from a senior wing officer he had just met, the silver bar lieutenant reflexively spit out an answer. I have a Regular commission, sir, he said proudly. I plan to make the service my career.

The colonel swirled the ice cubes in his drink before responding. Well, he said carefully, I hope it works out for you.

A clumsy pause in the conversation ensued; while the younger man desperately sought an escape route from the increasingly uncomfortable encounter, the colonel continued to shake the ice in his glass. At length, the latter gave into his thoughts, his thick North Carolina accent even more pronounced than earlier.

Look lieutenant, a word to the wise. Youd best get out of this aircrew business as soon as you can. Transfer into a service or support organization and make your mark there. That is, if you have any idea of rising to serious rank in this mans Air Force.

Sir? the young officer said. He was puzzled, if not a little shocked by the remark. What could be better for a prosperous and lengthy career than being a rated flying officer? Why should he get into, say, personnel or supply or maintenance or whatever, when the cockpit was where all the action was? And why was this senior officer planting such ideas into the head of a lowly first lieutenant he had only just met?

Well, maybe Ive said too much, the colonel said, seemingly reading the young mans mind. But the fact is Im hanging it up soon and am done with all this Mother, God, and Country stuff. He suddenly spun on his stool and looked the junior officer directly in the eye.

Look, kid. This is a pilots Air Force. Only they get the good operational jobs, all the commands. The ugly truth is the career nonpilot-rated crewdogsthe navigators, bombardiers, electronic warfare officersget diddley-squat. The colonel touched the lieutenants arm, looking almost sorrowful. I can tell you right now whats going to happenunless a miracle occurs, you will never get out of SAC. After a few years seasoning as a navigator, theyll upgrade you to radar navigator/bombardier, where you will stay for at least another ten years and probably longer. If you are clever or lucky, you might find a way to unstrap the beast from your ass and finish with a command post job or a staff bomb/nav slot. For sure, he tapped the eagle on his left shoulder with a forefinger, you can forget about wearing one of these.

With that, the colonel drained his glass and thunked it down on the bar in a gesture of finality. If I were you, lieutenant, Id just chuck the whole thingget the hell out of the service at the first opportunity. He stood to depart, leaving the rookie navigator stunned in his wake.