This is the true accounting of Mission Glassknob told from the vantage point of a pilot, Walter Wooton, of the 486th squadron, who was flying the #4 position aircraft on this mission.
I awoke suddenly, as I always do on mornings when I'm scheduled to fly. I'm not aware of having heard anything. The tent was pitch black, with a slightly lighter triangle at the end where the flap is pulled back. My sleeping bag feels warm and cozy, and I'm wide-awake.
A shadow darkens the entrance, and the Officer of the Day will call very softly, “Woot?”
I answer, “I'm awake,” and I hear the crunch of gravel as the O.D. goes on to the next tent to awaken another man scheduled for the morning's mission.
The evening before, George (Wren) and Chief (Havermyer) or Fred (Piltchard) and Joe Ruebel (Danby) would alternate researching and planning the next day's targets.
We always had all of the arrangements for the next mission available each night to work on. At least one pilot, bombardier, and navigator plus gunners, drawn from any of the four squadrons, needed to be assigned to each aircraft. The new arrivals would always be paired with the more seasoned men. Crews were not assigned to the same plane each time. They flew whatever aircraft was available. Usually between 6:30 P.M. and 7:30 P.M. 12th Air Force Headquarters would call and give us the target for the next day. We would receive the location and identification, if it was a bridge, troop area shipping vessel, road intersection, airfield, etc. We were told the bomb load and weight required and the number of bombs, which in turn determined the number of airplanes needed over the target.
Whoever was on duty that night would immediately call the four squadrons and tell them what the bomb load was to be and the number of aircraft they were to furnish. They would then immediately send their armament people out to load the planes accordingly, so they would be all ready early in the morning.
I unzip the sleeping bag and roll into a sitting position on the side of the cot. Now that it is winter we've taken down the mosquito bars, and getting up is less like fighting your way out of a fishnet.
Somebody had turned on the phonograph up at the Officers Mess. They're playing “The Wiffenpoof Song,” which seems pretty appropriate. “Damned from here to eternity, God have mercy on such as we.” I feel a shiver run up my spine.
I pull on my ODs, GI shoes, and fleece-lined jacket, then walk up to the mess hut. After the darkness outside, the mess seems uncomfortably bright. They have pancakes, bacon and coffee for us today. I'm not usually hungry before a mission, but today breakfast tastes awfully good.
(George: “The cooks would be informed the night before also as to when they should have breakfast ready — if you could call it breakfast. Our expression for it was ‘Slum Gullion.’”)
The eighteen officers scheduled to fly this morning's mission are here. The rest of the squadron will eat later, after daybreak. There's very little conversation, I guess it's just too early.
I go to the latrine and wait in line, as usual, there's always a line before a mission.
(George: “Atfirst, we had a slit trench for bathroom use, but later, outhouses were built.”)
While walking back down to my tent I notice that the sky on the eastern horizon is slightly less black now. Trigger (Paul Phelps, my tent-mate) is still asleep, so I try to move quietly. I get into my flying suit, put my jacket back on over it, pull on my boots and gather up my notebook, pencil, gloves, and earphones. I kneel and shoot up a short prayer, then go out and over to the Operations tent to check out an escape kit. Escape kits contain gold money, a silk map of the area we are to be in, Benzedrine, and emergency rations. These kits had better be sealed when we turn them back in. I stow the escape kit in my shin pocket along with my cigarettes and lighter, then go outside and climb aboard one of the three 2 ½ ton trucks parked out there.
The trucks start, and we lurch down the unpaved road about a half-mile and stop outside the briefing hut at Group Headquarters. No trucks from the other squadrons are there. Apparently this is to be the 486th show.
Inside the Quonset, bomb-fin crates are lined up to serve as seats facing a raised platform at the end. At the rear center of the platform is a curtain. It covers a map which will show our route to the target by means of red twine pinned on the map. Briefing starts, as always, with a “time hack.” “In thirty seconds ... it will be zero six four four . . . ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, Hack!” All watches are now synchronized to the exact second. Now comes the read-off of times: “Start engines 0728, taxi out 0730, take off 0734, reach IP 0942, time over the target 0946.” I scribble these in my notebook as they are read out. I've already headed the page with the flight information taken from our Operations bulletin board last night after the mission was posted: 6Z in the lead, 6W in the #2 on his right wing, 6L in #3 in his left wing. I'm flying 6A in the #4 spot, leading the second Vee, with 6Y in #5 on my right wing and 6C on my left in the #6 position.
No rendezvous time is announced, so there will be no fighter escort. Next come the codes for the day: mission “Glassknob”; wounded aboard “Eagle”; dead aboard “Flower”; tower “Gable.” The briefing officer cautions us, as always, to observe strict radio silence until across the Italian coast coming home. As usual the emergency signal is a red flare. We should be back on the ground by noon.
(George: The intelligence office)' would conduct the part of the briefing covering the expected enemy action. His favorite expression was “There will be flak of no consequence.” We would all reply, “That's easy for you to say.”)
Now the curtain hiding the map is drawn back, accompanied by the sound of a sigh. It is a reflex action, I suppose, this group intake of breath when the target is uncovered. The target is deep into the Alps, well beyond Lake Garda, near the Brenner Pass. The Major explains the purpose today. Our flight of six B-25s is to drop twenty-four 1,000-pound semi-armor piercing bombs into a mountainside above a rail cut.
This will cause a landslide, or avalanche, which will bury the rail line under tons of rock and keep the line cut effectively for a long time. This is the rail line from the Brenner Pass. Lately, the Krauts have rebuilt the bridges we've knocked out within days, sometimes overnight. Today's raid will make things a little more difficult for them. The Major is gleeful at the prospect. We're not! It's a long way for only six airplanes with no fighter escort. There are Me-109s and Macci-202s up there. And we know they have a hell of a lot of ‘88s along that river.
The Mission Commander is to be a Lt. Colonel from Group Headquarters. He will be flying 6Z, with the regular pilot in the right seat. When I checked the Squadron Bulletin board last night I wondered why no copilot was posted for 6Z. That explains it. Number 4 (that's me) is to take the lead if anything happens to number one.
Known flak positions are pointed out on the map. Our flight path is routed around all of them except those over the target area. We'll cross the Italian coast at La Spezia, follow a meandering course to Lake Garda, then turn north and follow the river up to the target. We'll cruise at 9300’. Indicated airspeed 200 MPH. The Mission Commander is to radio a coded mission report when we reach Lake Garda on the way back.
With a “good luck” from the Major, the briefing is over and the pilots, bombardiers, and radiomen leave to preflight the aircraft. At the pilots’ briefing the five of us (the Colonel from Group doesn't join us) are given a weather analysis, suggested power setting for climb and cruise, are told to maintain a listening watch on Channel B, reminded to maintain radio silence, conserve fuel, and to be sure to turn on IFF (a radar identification device). We'll each be carrying four 1,000-pound bombs, and a full load of fuel and ammunition. We will need every inch of runway to get off since there's no surface wind this morning. I hope we don't need a few more feet than we've got.
We go out to the trucks and are driven another half-mile to the airstrip, down the taxiway to the equipment Quonset. It is pretty light outside now. We jump over the tailgate and go inside the hut to the bins. I take out my Mae West, check both gas cylinders and valves, then strap it on. Next I check the seals and rip cord on my chute, then shrug it over my Mae West.
My airplane, 6A, Sahara Sue II, is parked on the hardstand nearest the equipment hut so I walk over without waiting for the truck that serves a line taxi. I do a walk-around check of the ship with my copilot, Red Allison. Red has already completed the preflight list. The crew is all here, and the six of us sit around and smoke, waiting until it's time to get aboard.
Every few minutes someone gets up and goes over to the weeds beyond the hardstand to relieve himself. I marvel that so much water can be passed by so few. But it's always that way before a mission . . . it goes with the job.
Finally, after checking my watch I say, “Let's turn the props over,” and we all take turns putting a shoulder to a propeller blade and pushing it as far as we can until the man behind catches the next blade and keeps the rotation going. We count aloud to six, meaning we have rotated the propeller twice, and the engine three times (gearing is sixteen to nine). This drains any oil that has run down to the bottom cylinders, which might crack a cylinder head when the engine is started. We repeat on the other prop and now it's time to go.
My tension has been mounting steadily since I first got up this morning, but I know it will leave as soon as I get the engines started. It always has, and this is my 46th mission. But right now my stomach feels like I've swallowed a cannonball.
I snap my flak vest over the chute and climb aboard. I hear both hatches slam shut behind me as I settle into my seat, fasten my seat belt, and plug in my throat mike and earphones. Red and I run through the checklist. At 0738 I hit the primer switches . . . throttles cracked, prop control full forward, mixture full rich . . . I shout out the window, “Clear left” and hit the starter switch. The big prop turns over and over, then catches with a roar, throwing a great cloud of blue smoke. I follow the same sequence with the right engine, which starts quickly, and the B-25 trembles as if she is anxious to get moving.
Rinky Doo is #3 today, so I watch for her to come down the taxi strip so that I can fall in behind. Here she comes! I glance at my watch, its 0711. I let off the brakes and taxi our behind 6L. Figler, 6Y's pilot, has slowed down to allow me to turn into the line ahead of him.
We stop near the end of the runway to check the mag and run up the engines. I'm dimly aware that the tension I've felt all morning is gone. The lead airplane, 6Z A.W.O.L is on the runway and rolling. It's exactly 0714. Now 6W starts to roll and 6L moves ahead to the end of the runway and holds. Rinky Doo starts rolling and I taxi out onto the end of the runway. Booster pumps On. 15 degrees of flap, I advance the throttles slowly to 44 inches, release the brakes and we start our run. The control van flashes by on my left . . . we're halfway down the strip. I ease the control column back and get the nose-wheel off. At takeoff power the engines sound as if they are tearing themselves from the nacelles. Good old 6A flies herself off the ground a hundred feet to spare. I jerk my right thumb up and the gear starts up. Red had his hand on the handle waiting for my signal. I reduce the power then Red reduces the RPMs while I start milking up the flaps. We're over the Mediterranean at 75’ straining to climb with the weight of the armor plate, bombs, ammunition, fuel and men.
Ahead of me the lead plane has started a shallow climbing turn to the right. The number two and three ships start turning too, leading 6Z so as to slide into position on his wing as he comes around. I bank to the right, keeping my nose aimed just ahead of the number three. I'll be flying formation in reference to number one, but to watch him rather than two and three during the join-up would be inviting a mid-air collision. I get closer to number three since I'm turning inside of him, and get just behind and below before he comes into position on 6Z's left wing. I slide into the number four spot, tucked in close behind and below number one.
Shapes on my left and right, at the edge of my peripheral vision, let me know that 6C and 6Y are in position on my wings. The formation is tight. I can count the rivets in 6Z's belly.
It's physically painful to fly the number four position. Your head is tilted back and you are looking up through the top window behind the windshield. My neck muscles begin to protest after a while. Our squadron has lost more airplanes in number four than in any formation position. This fact doesn't bother me particularly. Although I'm not overly optimistic about my chances of completing this tour, I've never believed that any particular position is worse than another. The Krauts aren't that accurate.
I nod to Red to take over. His left hand closes over my right on the throttles and I release them and the control column, and drop my feet flat on the floor. Allison is good. The airplane doesn't waver during the transition, and he keeps us socked right in there. I shake my head to uncramp my neck, light a cigarette, and make a crew check on the interphone: tail gunner, radioman, top turret, and bombardier, each reports everything okay. I check the engine instruments, then the flight instruments. We're climbing through 8,000 feet at 0729.
I jerk violently at a series of explosions much like a truck engine with no muffler. It's only the top turret testing his guns and the smell of cordite seeps into the cockpit. I hope Red didn't notice my startled jump . . . sounding and appearing calm is the prime rule of this game.
We level off at 9,200 feet. I reach over Red's left hand and pull the prop levers back to 2,100 RPM, making minor adjustments until the engines sounded synchronized. I check the fuel gauges and flip two switches to transfer fuel from the auxiliary tanks, out at the end of the wings, to the large main tanks inboard. I like to transfer the reserved fuel just as soon as we have burned enough out of the main tanks to accept it all. Some of the fellows won't transfer fuel until they've left the target and are on the way home. They believe, correctly, that a full tank is less apt to blow up than a tank full of fumes. But I believe that a hit on the fuel transfer pump or lines is just as likely as one in the reserve tanks, and that extra fuel out there won't get you home if you can't transfer it. Furthermore, the tanks are vented, and if you transfer as early as possible, the fumes should be gone before you get shot at. This question is the subject of one of those running arguments, night after night, back in the tent. Nobody ever convinces anybody on the other side. I'll never understand how the Army overlooked this question. There's a regulation on absolutely everything else.
Allison's neck is bound to be bothering him by now. I grasp the wheel lightly, put my feet back on the rudder pedals, l put my right hand over his left, and take the throttle as he slides his hand away.
Looking fixedly at the lead plane a few feet away I can't see the horizon and am never quite sure of our altitude, whether we are turning, climbing, or straight and level. In formations this tight you don't want to risk letting your eyes stray from the airplane you are flying on.
After Red and I have exchanged the controls another few times, Bray, the bombardier, calls on the interphone, “Five minutes from the IP (that Initial Point where the final turn toward the target is made, and is the beginning of the Bomb Run). At the IP you roll out of the turn on a heading to the target. The bombardier then has to find and recognize the target visually, then get it centered and tracking in the crosshairs of his Norden Bombsight.
(George: “The pilot, who had given control of the aircraft to the bombardier, has, in the cockpit, a gauge on the instrument panel called the Position Direction Indicator, or PDI. This device was a relay signalfrom the bombardier, which showed the pilot if little changes were needed in direction, to right or left, for the direct line to the target.”)
Today we will have 240 seconds to do this. During the final 30 seconds of the run we will be flying straight and level at a constant speed. This halfminute is the most dangerous time. More that half the planes lost during my tour have been hit during the fraction of a minute before the bombs are released, and you even begin to take action of any kind. Just hold it in tight.
I nudge Red and he takes over. I bob and turn my head to ease my neck muscles a last time, reach behind my seat for my steel flak helmet, and put it on. I check the engine and fuel gauges, glance outside at the incredible beauty of these magnificent mountains, and fight off a tremor brought on by the cold — or is it fear? I take the controls from Red and from the corner of my eye see him don his flak helmet and lower his seat to Full Down. His job is to watch the instruments during the bomb run, and he says he can concentrate better if he doesn't see outside too well.
The underside of 6Z's wings flash with reflected sunlight — we're turning on to the IP. Those wings ahead and above are shaded again, and I know that we're headed towards the target. 6Z's bomb bay doors open and I can see the long, fat bombs inside. A puff of jet-black smoke passed by the window, then another, and another. Flak! There's a loud CHUNG with another simultaneous sound like a fistful of stones flung against corrugated iron. This means we're hit. Everything feels okay, the engines sound fine. Red would have already told me. I'm aware that my anxiety is completely gone, replaced by an exhilaration beyond anything ever experienced outside of combat. I have a sense of being wholly, completely alive. All my senses are acute. Time seems to slow down.
I can see flak bursting dead ahead, then hear the CHUNG of another hit. We are still making small turns, climbs, and dives, and haven't settled down for the last straight and level run. Damn! The Krauts are accurate today! They're putting their ‘88s in our hip pocket and we are still twisting and turning!
My mind is racing with many thoughts: the sound of the engines, our position in the formation, the intensity and accuracy of the flak. “Yey, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Those words always pop into my mind, unasked, on the bomb run.
Now we are flying straight and level. I hold 6A very tight just behind and under 6Z's tail stinger (the tail 50 caliber). Flak is bursting just ahead of 6Z; it's right on our altitude but they're leading us a little too much. Suddenly 6Z's four big bombs break free, and wobbling slightly, fall straight down in front of our nose. The seats thrust upward as our own 4,000-pound bombs release and the airplane responds with a swooshing lift.
Okay, Colonel, let's get the hell out of here, I think, and ease up on the controls anticipating a violent turning dive to get out of the flak. 6Z's bomb door closes — nothing happens! The Colonel maintains our creeping airspeed, then starts a gentle 15-degree turn. (I learn later, from his crew, that he's watching the mountainside, and wants to see personally, the avalanche which is to cover the rail line with tons of rock.) It's the tail-gunner's job to do that and to report to him over the interphone.
There's a very loud BLAM! and more black smoke flashes by. Red tugs my sleeve and I steal a glance away from 6Z to him. He's ashen. ‘‘Did you see it?” he shouts at me. I shake my head, not understanding, and tilt my head back to hold position. It's not hard to do, we're still doing 200 MPH in a gentle turn. Something draws my attention over to Knighton's ship, 6W, in #2 position on 6Z's right wing. He's above me at about one o’clock. His left fin and rudder, flat olive drab with a big white “6W”, slowly turns a glossy black, changing color as I watch. I'm flabbergasted, never having seen anything like this. Now his left propeller slows and comes to a stop, feathered, then I realize that the shiny black color came from the oil pouring out of the left engine and that was blown back on the stabilizer and rudder. 6W skids to the right, smoking and losing altitude. Knighton must be literally standing on his right rudder to keep his good engine from turning into the formation. He slides down and out of sight, leaving a trail of smoke. We've completed 270 degrees of turn and roll out level, plodding along at 215 MPH. At last we're out of range of the 88 batteries and are headed home.
(George: “Then started the long trip back to our home base, often with many planes sustaining damage and injuries. During a mission, if a plane was shot down before our very eyes, or had engine problems, there was nothing we could do except make a record of where it went down. Sometimes damages would prevent a plane from keeping up with the formation and they would have to drop back and make it back alone. We would just keep trying to make it home safely ourselves. There was no way we could help them. There would be ambulances, fire engines and medical people standing by as we landed ready to assist us in any way. The Red Cross girls would also be there with coffee and doughnuts.”)
“Red leans over and slides the earphone off my right ear, get up close and tells me that “Figler got a direct hit back when I heard the BLAM and has gone down.” Most of Red's original crew were now assigned to Figler while he gets combat experience flying copilot with me. He watched from a few yards away when they “bought the farm.” I glance at Red again. He looks 20 years older than he did a couple of hours ago.
Two ships out of six . . . twelve good men gone! I thank God it wasn't me, then feel a flood of remorse at the selfish thought.
I tap Red's arm and he takes over. I look out to the left at 6C, catch the copilot's eye, point up to 6Z's right wing, then hold up two fingers. He nods and turns his head to shout something to the pilot. 6C begins to drop down, then crosses underneath me and climbs up into the #2 position. Now we're a diamond formation where a few minutes ago we were two Vees.
I light up a cigarette, then get on the interphone and take a crew check, starting with the tail-gunner. With nobody on our wings he's all alone back there and I know his head is swiveling constantly, looking for fighters. Everybody reports everything okay. Our only damage seems to be lots of holes in 6A's skin. She's pretty well patched up already. A few more won't even be noticed. No one adds any comment to this brief report. The usual banter is missing.
(George: “This might be hard to believe, but the hardest part was when you were not on the mission. Waiting for the ships to return, the five or six hours always seemed so long. When the first flight was sighted, the first thing you did was to start counting the planes and looking for damages. Of course, we would get radio calls indicating injuries aboard and calls from planes that had damage and needed priority on landing If there were no injuries in damaged airplanes, they would wait until the other planes with injuries got down. Planes whose engines were causing problems would get priority landing because of the possibility of the engine quitting.”)
I tune the Command Set to Armed Forces Radio at Caserta so that the fellows can listen to some music on the way home. It doesn't sound very good to me. And while fiddling with the command radio I miss the mission report on VHF. Red hears it, leans over and shouts, “Mike, Fox, Nan, George.” The mission was a failure! There was no avalanche!
The rail line is still open.
With his biting sarcasm and sly humor, Joseph Heller wrapped his novel around these wicked and ever-increasing missions: the number of missions required before reassignment home, the destination of each mission, the degree of danger anticipated with each mission, the interplay of crewmem-bers during the mission, the capriciousness of luck accompanying the aircraft and, primarily, the prayed-for safe return from each mission. It was the single major player in his book, and it gave birth to the now household phrase, “Catch-22,” referring to an unsolvable situation.
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. (p. 46)
Catch-22's Col. Cathcart, who “oscillated hourly between anguish and exhilaration,” (p.186) was the character responsible for continually raising the number of missions to be flown before one could return home. In truth, it fell not solely to Col. Chapman, commander of the 340th Bomb Group, but rather to Gen. Knapp, commander of the 57 th Bomb Wing, or higher up the military chain of command, to determine the increase of these missions, which grew from 25 to 50, and then, under rare and special circumstances, to 70. It was found that the original number to be flown went so quickly that new crew replacements were put at greater risk by not having enough seasoned crew to fly with and learn from. The carefully considered increase in mission number insured that every flight with new crew would consist of experienced crew as well, decidedly increasing success statistics.
The description in Catch-22 of the beginning of a mission varied little from the actual facts.
He [Appleby] was in the Jeep with Havermeyer riding down the long, straight road to the briefing room, where Major Danby, the fidgeting group operations officer, was waiting to conduct the preliminary briefing with all the lead pilots, bombardiers and navigators. (p. 47)
“I think,” said George, “that I was both Wren and Appleby. Heller describes Appleby as a lead pilot with his lead bombardier, Havermyer. That's me with my lead bombardier, Chief Myer. We flew more as a team than with others. I was considered the hot pilot in the squadron at that time. I was aggressive — always ready to take a challenge. I've always been patriotic. It was easier for me to be a combat pilot than it was for some other people. Like Chief Myer, (Havermyer/Hungry Joe) I think Heller split me into two people.”
[Yossarian] had Orr's word to take for the flies in Appleby's eyes.
“Oh, they're there, all right,” Orr had assured him. About the flies in Appleby's eyes . . . although he probably doesn't even know it. That's why he can't see things as they really are.”
“How come he doesn't know it?” inquired Yossarian.
“Because he's got flies in his eyes,” Orr explained with exaggerated patience. “How can he see he's got flies in his eyes if he's got flies in his eyes.” (p. 46)
Everything Appleby did, he did well. Appleby was a fair-haired boy from Iowa who believed in God, motherhood, and the American Way of Life, without even thinking about any of them and everybody who knew him liked him.
“I hate that son of a bitch,” Yossarian growled. (p. 18)
(George: “By the way, I don't know what Heller means for ‘flies in your eyes’. If I had them, no one ever told me about them.”)
The officers of the other five planes in each flight arrived in trucks for the general briefing that took place thirty minutes later. The three enlisted men in each crew were not briefed at all, but were carried directly out on the airfield to the separate planes in which they were scheduled to fly that day, where they waited around with the ground crew until the officers with whom they had been scheduled to fly swung off the rattling tailgates of the trucks delivering them and it was time to climb aboard and start up. Engines rolled over disgruntled on lollipop-shaped hardstands, resisting first, then idling smoothly awhile, and then the planes lumbered around and nosed forward lamely over the pebbled ground like sightless, stupid, crippled things until they taxied into the line at the foot of the landing strip and took off swiftly, one behind the other, in a zooming, rising roar, banking slowly into formation over mottled treetops, and circling the field at even speed until all the flights of six had been formed and then setting course over cerulean water on the first leg of the journey to the target in northern Italy or France. The planes gained altitude steadily and were above nine thousand feet by the time they crossed into enemy territory. One of the surprising things always was the sense of calm and utter silence, broken only by the test rounds fired from the machine guns, by an occasional toneless, terse remark over the intercom, and, at last, by the sobering pronouncement of the bombardier in each plane that they were at the IP and about to turn toward the target. There was always sunshine, always a tiny sticking in the throat from the rarefied air. (pp. 47-48)
At the IP the pilot and copilot took their hands from the controls and the bombardier took over for the next four to seven miles. He had to ignore his survival DNA to ensure that the plane flew straight and steady, avoiding all evasive action, until they reached the exact point to release the bombs. For those excruciating final minutes the crew had to take what was given them for there was absolutely nothing they could do.
If they escaped unharmed the atmosphere for the return home changed. The swatter had not smacked them lifeless and relief oozed from every pore as clenched jaws relaxed and dry mouths moved tentatively once again. Talk resumed. If German guns had taken down any of their buddies in their flight, the quiet interior reflected numbing anguish, each man trying to deal in his own way. At the edge of the runway, HQ staff and ground crews would be anxiously waiting for their return. Eyes strained as incoming planes were counted and as they searched for the dreaded gaps in their ranks.
“You're inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age.” (p. 38)
Every airman had to face his first wartime mission. All were young, all were newly trained, and all were thrust into the unknown. Most were apprehensive; some were palm-sweat terrified.
The mission overshadowed everything. Like Heller, every man remembers his first mission or his most intense mission or his most terrifying mission. For Jack Marsh his vivid memories include the all-important, and ever-increasing, mission count. Marsh was trained as both a bombardier and a navigator and had been assigned to the 340th bomb group on Sept. 1942, 20 months before Joseph Heller's arrival. His circumstances, however, could have been a blueprint for Catch-22.
When we first arrived for combat duty, we were advised that after 25 combat missions we would be eligible to return to the States. I was the first person in the 340th to complete 25 combat missions, but was regrettably informed that the minimum number had been increased to 35 missions, NOT 25. Well, as it turned out, I was the first airman in the group to complete 35 missions, but again, we were advised that we would need to fly 50 missions before being eligible to return to the States.
Again, I was the first of the group to complete the 50 combat mission required. During the six-week delay after my orders were being cut, the US invaded Italy. At the request of my commander I voluntarily joined him in the lead ship for my 51st mission out of Catania, Italy, which was approximately 100 hours, but as we landed back at Catania, we were told not to leave our planes. They were being reloaded with bombs and ammunition, which meant we were expected to fly a second mission back to the first target area. SO, I ended up flying mission number 52.1
Bombs Away!
View from following plane showing bombs being released.
This continual increase was, of course, Catch-22's lifeblood. Even into his sixties, Joe remembered George very well: “George Wells just flew missions endlessly and without fear, and I put that into Catch-22 . . . it struck me as kind of heroic and . . . unreal.” (The Greatest Generation, Tom Brokow)
Each mission brought to the table its own unique thumbprint. There are as many stories as there are flights. Each change of circumstance required a change of plan by the crews, not by choice but by necessity.
When a cook runs out of butter, a change or a substitution can be made. When a teacher falls ill, a substitute will step in. In like manner, when two crippled pilots ran out of individual functioning parts they substituted with what ingredients remained.
Meet Gat and Otis:
They were just over the target south of Bologna and the flak was flying thick enough to drop their gear and spin their wheels on. The plane on their left was hit; the plane under them went down. The air was bursting wide open on all sides. Suddenly Gat (Lt. Charles D. “Gat” Ross, first pilot) got a terrific impact in the right leg and a dizzying jolt on the right side of his face. One piece of flak had torn a hole in the calf of his right leg and another had ripped through his lip and cheek, imbedding in the flesh just under his cheekbone. Blood spurted all over the plane, blinding him.
At the same time, Little (Lt. Otis Little, copilot) was hit in the right hand but Gat motioned for him to take the controls, and he flew with one hand holding the formation.
Opening the window, Gat began to get his senses back when the rush of cold air hit his teeth. He thought all his teeth had been knocked out by the flak, or else his jaw crushed for he could feel the jagged edges of the sharp metal. Reaching up, he pulled the piece of flak out of his face, felt relieved, and turned around just as another piece of jagged metal whammed through the cockpit, slashing Little across his left ankle.
Shortly afterwards, one motor went bad. They feathered the prop and limped along, a battered plane on one engine, carrying a pilot with one useless leg, a slashed face, and half blinded by his own blood; and a copilot with one useless hand and one useless leg. There was nothing to do but combine their assets.
So that's the way they brought her home. Gat's hands were all right, so he handled the wheel, while Otis, whose eyes were not bothered by any blood, helped guide him. The pilot used his uninjured left foot on the left rudder pedal, and the copilot duplicated on the right pedal with his uninjured foot.
Nearing the field, the blond, stocky pilot called the tower and told them to “Get the meat wagon ready,” that he was coming in on one engine and two wounded guys. He didn't say which two.
Neither one knows how they did it, but the synchronization special was a “greaser,” this outfit's term for the smoothest landing possible. Then Ross and Little (who eventually did not survive the war), were hauled off to the hospital.2
Missions are to be endured and then, hopefully, rehashed over the years at get-togethers. On the evening before one of these future reunions, lights burned way late in one of the member's rooms in the club. Two 340th veterans, who happened to be born on the same day, May 16th, were recapturing an experience. Pilot Harry George and Bombardier Ed Dombrowski were talking in cadence to others about an exploit.
Pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit.
“We were both on the same mission,” Harry said. “We got the hell shot out of us.”
The missions on which only one of them flew were milk runs.
“We hoped,” Ed said, “we’d never fly together on the same plane.”
But on June 22, 1944, they did — for the first and last time.
“I’d never fly with him again,” Harry said.
At 7:35 that evening in 1944, their plane was shot down between the Italian cities of Florence and Bologna over the Apennine Mountains. Burned from the flames, they parachuted from the aircraft.
“Ed came down on one side of the mountain,” Harry said, “and I came down on the other.”
Ed was captured by the Germans, escaped and fought with partisans during his 59 days in Italy. “Harry had love and broads on his side of the mountain,” Ed ribbed his friend. Harry smiled. (He and his family in1969 visited the mountain town of Barerino de Muegello whose residents had hidden him from the Germans during his 7 8-day stay.)
But Ed had been declared dead. When he arrived home in Erie, Pa, Ed recalled, “The day I got back they were having a High Requiem Mass for me.”
On the wing roster, Ed Dombrowski was listed as dead.
Then, in 1976, Ed showed up at the Wing's 7 th reunion. At the registration desk, Harry's wife signed him in and burst into tears.
“It was quite a reunion,” Harry said, “after believing he was dead for 32 years.”
There were occasionally stand-down days between missions. One such dull day occurred because of foul weather and “Chief” (Havermyer) convinced George (Wren) and Fred (Pilchard), and Cal Moody (Moodus) into having a flare gun battle with the British Liaison Officer and his assistants. “Have you ever seen a flare hit a tent? To say the least — we were lucky we didn't start a fire we couldn't control or hurt someone. It was also fortunate Chapman was gone for the day.”
On another such day, after having arranged for the British Liaison Officer to go on his first combat mission (no defenses expected, truly a “milk run”), “Chief” and George took down the Britisher's tent, while he was on that mission, and marked his gear for “Next of Kin.” “Thank heavens he returned safely. We did help him put his things back together again.”
Another mission, each one being unique, connected the tiny island of Pantelleria with the life of Col. Willis F. Chapman, commander of the 340th Bomb Group. This 32-square-foot dot on the map is an Italian island in the Strait of Sicily in the Mediterranean Sea. It lies 62 miles southwest of Sicily and 43 miles east off the Tunisian coast. Its capture was deemed paramount to the Allied success in invading Sicily since it would permit planes to be based within range of that larger island. This tiny but vital strip of land had been the focus of continual, intense, unrelenting, day-and-night pounding by fighters and bombers before its unconditional surrender was tendered, the surrender that coupled it with Bill Chapman.
In Bill's words:
The Army had planned to take the surrender of Pantelleria at noon on a Saturday. Pantellerians had been given their instructions, “No firing!” A big cross was to be laid out on the airstrip if everything was satisfactory. We tried to find how to land on that strip. General Auby C. Strickland, Desert Air Task Force, said he wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Nobody could get in and out of that pock-ruined field.
Strickland said to me, “If you get in and out of there and are still alive, you come on over and I'll give you a free dinner.”
“What kind of dinner?” I asked.
“Lobster.”
“OK, I'll be over.”
I studied the area's photos and found two places where I could land but they weren't straight. You had to hit and zig and zag back a little. I could make it. They gave me the papers and, if I was out at 5 o’clock on Friday and all was clear, the Pantellerians would surrender. But whom would they be surrendering to? To the Air Force! (The AF planned to capture it as a test case for air power.) It would be the first time in history that any outfit had ever surrendered to the Air Force. It was very important to the Air people; they wanted it so bad they could taste it.
I came in a few minutes ahead of 5 o’clock. I figured if I hit a pothole there would be someone there to fish me out. If I made it I could take the surrender. I made it all right and got to the hanger — but not a soul was on that field. Not a one. Nothing there. Things aren't right; maybe I'll get shot, I thought.
They had underground hangers that I explored. These laborintensive hangers had been hewn from solid rock, thereby ensuring their safety from bombardment. Unfortunately I didn't bring any blankets and it was a time of year that got damned cold at night. I couldn't shut the hanger doors. I remember sitting there and freezing all night long. Thought in the morning I could have C-rations I’d stuffed in the duffle bag. Lamb stew. In the morning I had it for breakfast. Opened it, took one bite and went AGH! And threw it away. Don't know how the rest of our people ate it. It was about 5–6A.M.; the Army would come at noon. Not a damn soul to give the surrender.
I checked out the airstrip to see how I could take off. There were two aircraft on the field — one, a British Hurricane sporting the British Union Jack, was standing on its nose in a pothole. The other was also British, a Beaufighter. (The “Beau” was a long-range heavy fighter well regarded by its crews for it ruggedness and reliability. By the end of the war 70 pilots with RAF units had become aces while flying this aircraft). I checked out the airstrip to see how I could take off. I plotted it out, cranked her up, dodged all the right holes at the right time, and I flew back to Tunisia.
Bill eventually collected his promised dinner. As he lifted the shiny dome from his plate, there sat, in all its glory, a can of Spam! It, however, shortly was followed by a fine orange-pink langoustine, the smaller edible lobster of the European seas.3
Ahhh . . . a mission with a happy ending!