Bowman - Clash of Eagles: USAAF 8th Air Force Bombers Versus the Luftwaffe in World War II

The station is dark and silent at 0105 on this June morning. A chill wind ruffles the grass, an old moon hangs low over a neighbouring wood and high in the clouded sky a nightfighter drones by on patrol. The plane guards wait watchfully within the monolithic shadows of the bombers. A wandering jeep cruises the perimeter track behind two pale blue spots of light. In Hangar 1 a night crew is changing an engine on Rain of Terror. At the motor pool the truck crews, alerted, doze fitfully. In the station headquarters building, behind the gasproof doors, the windowless offices which house the Message Centre and the Operations Room are quiet but bright with light. In the Message Centre a sergeant and a PFC are talking shop, in Operations the Watch Officer is reading a book, and, down the hall, the Intelligence Duty Officer is writing a letter home.

Target Germany , 1944

The Bombing Mission, by George Rubin, 486th Bomb Group

T he Quonset hut is dark and cold. The two stoves, one at each end, have gone out. They need more coal or discarded bomb casings to start them up. Suddenly a light appears in the doorway of the hut. It is the Sergeant at Arms with a flashlight. He moves quickly from bed to bed, shining the light in our eyes. Splude, Jessen, Brown, Manfred, Rubin - Get up, rise and shine, the mission is on for today. My watch says 4 am. I get up feeling groggy and put on my long johns over my regular underwear, woollen socks, shirt and pants and then my flying suit over all of this. I tie up the laces of my GI shoes and put on my green lined flight jacket. It is cold and windy as I step out into the night, carrying my towel and toilet kit and walk slowly over to the latrine and the water closet. Other crewmembers are already there. There is very little conversation. I make do with a fast wash up and maybe a shave. Not too close or your face will be irritated by the oxygen mask. Then back to the Quonset to get a scarf and a knit cap to wear.

Its cold and clear as I walk the quarter mile or so to the mess hall wondering where the bombing mission is going today. I enter into a long well lit and warm building filled with airmen getting their breakfast or eating it. Its hard to feel hungry. Partly its due to the hour and also the nervous gut feeling about the mission. There is very little conversation at the table. Just drink your coffee and pick at the food. Then its back out into the dark and the cold night. A grey light has started to fill the sky in the east. Its another long walk to the flight lockers.

I open my locker and take off my flight jacket and flying suit and put on an electrically heated suit, another pair of socks and electrically heated flying boots. I put the flight suit on over all of this and then the flight jacket goes back on. I put my electrically heated gloves in my jacket pocket and my flying helmet is either put on or carried. I mustnt forget the oxygen mask and Polaroid flying goggles. My GI shoes I sling over a shoulder and I put on a pair of warm gloves and a scarf. My wallet and other identification I leave in the locker. I hope that if I dont return, these items will find their way home to my parents. Next door I sign out for my parachute and escape packet consisting of a compass, map, German money and phrasebook and a .45 calibre pistol.

Then its a short walk to the briefing room: a long Quonset with rows of chairs and a covered map at one end. There is some banter by the crewmembers - unfunny jokes about what target is under the curtain, a story about the last mission and who was it who couldnt hold his breakfast down over the target or had to take a shit on the bomb run. Then a sudden call of Attention! The briefing officer appears and the curtain over the map is pulled back. There are groans and curses and Not back there again? There is your target. Long coloured strings show the route to and from the target, altitude, bomb load, ETA, areas of intense flak and where you can expect fighter interception and how many groups are involved in the mission. I have a sick feeling when I look at the strings going deep into Germany. This will be a long mission. There are very few questions.

We are dismissed from the briefing and leave now for the hardstand and our plane. Some walk, others bike, or ride over in a jeep. The sky is now light as dawn approaches. I arrive at Oh! Miss Agnes. The ground crew is at work loading the bombs. Today it will be twelve 500 lb demolition bombs. I check with the ground crew about the A-4 bomb shackles and inspect all the .50 calibre machine-guns - two in the tail, two in the waist, two in the ball turret, two in the top turret, two in the nose turret and one in the nose. All are in place and so is the ammo. I walk around the plane, silver and shiny as the sun hits it with its yellow strips over the waist and the wings and the big black square W on the tail. I swing on board through the waist door hatch and deposit my parachute near the left waist gun. This is a safe place. Then I begin my pre-flight check. Oxygen-pressure full on the dial. The dial next to it shows the little lips moving up and down - oxygen is coming out. I check the emergency bottles and the large oxygen tank on top of the ball turret. They are full. I connect the intercom; I check that I can hear and that the throat mike is transmitting my voice. I check that the guns and the ammo clips are in place. Outside again the sun is up now and with the other crewmembers help the ground crew pull the props through the usual nine times to clear out the cylinders. I take a last look around the field and re-enter through waist hatch. I watch as the rest of the crew comes aboard.

Manfred the tail gunner enters the waist and crawls back to his position. He will spend the next 6 to 7 hours on his knees. Brown goes into the radio shack area just forward of the waist and begins to check all his equipment. Splude sits down near me, with not much to do until we are airborne. Jessen goes up front behind the pilot and co-pilot seats, where he checks out his turret, all the instruments and the fuel and oil pressure. The navigator, bombardier, pilot and co-pilot swing aboard through the front hatch. Each has done a pre-flight check of their equipment and the entire plane. I sit in the waist. It is a time of tense quiet. The spell is broken by the whine of the No. 3 engine starting up. Wiley has given the command, Clear. Contact! Outside, a member of the ground crew stands next to the engine with his fire extinguisher. The prop rotates slowly, then the engine catches. Smoke comes out of the exhaust and the engine is running. This is followed by engine 4, then 1 and 2. All four are running smoothly. The pilot releases the brakes and we move off the hardstand and line up behind other planes in the squadron. Soon all thirty-six aircraft, plus a few spares, are lined up along the taxiways. We wait for the green flare from the control tower to signal that the mission is on or the red flare that means the mission is scrubbed.