Bert Stiles
Stiles was a USAAF co-pilot on B-17s flying out of East Anglia. Below is his account of a mission to Leipzig in 1944. After completing his tour of 35 bomber missions, he elected to remain in Europe and fly fighters. He was killed flying a P-51 Mustang in late 1944.
Leipzig
The crews scheduled for that haul were waked up around 0300 hours. There was plenty of bitching about that.
I was so tired I felt drunk.
They told us there’d be eggs for breakfast, but there was just bacon without eggs. There was plenty of bitching about that too.
In the equipment hut I heard somebody say, “Today I’m catching up on my sack time.”
Some other gunner said, “I slept most of the way to Augsburg yesterday.”
Nobody said anything about the Luftwaffe. Leipzig is in there deep, but plenty of gunners bitched about taking extra ammunition. Plenty of gunners didn’t take any.
Beach was flying his last mission with Langford’s crew.
“We’re the last of Lieutenant Newton’s gang,” he said wanly.
“And I’ll be the very last,” I said. “Take it easy today.”
We had an easy ride in. I didn’t feel sleepy. I just felt dazed.
There was soft fuzz over a thin solid overcast going in, but inside Germany the clouds broke up. There was haze under the cumulus and the ground showed pale green through the holes.
The group was tucked in nicely, the low squadron was up close, and Langford was doing a pretty job of flying high.
The lead and high groups of our wing looked nice too. But our group, the low, was way back and below. Our wing was the tail end, with most of the 8th up ahead.
The wing had S-ed out and called our group leader to catch up. He didn’t.
If I didn’t listen to the engine roar it was quiet up there. The sky was a soft sterile blue. Somehow we didn’t belong there.
There was death all over the sky, the quiet threat of death, the anesthesia of cold sunlight filled the cockpit.
The lady named Death is a whore . . . Luck is a lady . . . and so is Death . . . I don’t know why. And there’s no telling who they’ll go for. Sometimes it’s a quiet, gentle, intelligent guy. The Lady Luck strings along with him for a while, and then she hands him over to the lady named Death. Sometimes a guy comes along who can laugh in their faces. The hell with luck, and the hell with death . . . And maybe they go for it . . . and maybe they don’t.
There’s no way to tell. If you could become part of the sky you might know . . . because they’re always out there. The lady of Luck has a lovely face you can never quite see, and her eyes are the night itself, and her hair is probably dark and very lovely . . . but she doesn’t give a damn.
And the lady named Death is sometimes lovely too, and sometimes she’s a screaming horrible bitch . . . and sometimes she’s a quiet one, with soft hands that rest gently on top of yours on the throttles.
The wing leader called up, “We’re starting our climb now.” We only had a half hour or so until target time.
He hadn’t listened. The lead and high groups were already far above us. We were back there alone.
We never caught up after that.
“I don’t like this,” Green said.
“Tuck it in,” somebody said over VHF. “Bandits in the target area.”
I was tense and drawn taut. The sky was cold and beautifully aloof.
Green was on interphone and I was on VHF, listening for anything from the lead ship.
I heard a gun open up.
Testing, I decided.
I saw some black puffs and a couple of bright bursts.
Jesus, we’re in the flak already, I thought.
Then the guns opened up. Every gun on the ship opened up. A black Focke-Wulf slid under our wing, and rolled over low.
I flipped over on interphone and fear was hot in my throat and cold in my stomach.
“Here they come.” It was Mock, I think, cool and easy, like in a church. Then his guns fired steadily.
The air was nothing but black polka dots and firecrackers from the 20-millimeters.
“Keep your eye on ’em, keep ’em out there . . .” It was Mock and Bossert.
“Got the one at seven . . .” Bossert of Mock. Steady.
They came through again, coming through from the tail.
I saw two Forts blow up out at four o’clock. Some other group.
A trio of gray ones whipped past under the wing and rolled away at two o’clock. Black crosses on gray wings . . . 109s.
A night-fighter Focke-Wulf moved up almost in formation with us, right outside the window, throwing shells into somebody up ahead. Somebody powdered him.
One came around at ten o’clock . . . and the nose guns opened up on him. He rolled over and fell away . . . maybe there was smoke . . .
The instruments were fine. Green looked okay. My breath was in short gasps.
“Better give me everything,” Green said. Steady voice.
I jacked-up the RPM up to the hilt.
They were queuing up again back at four and six and eight. A hundred of them . . . maybe two hundred . . . getting set to come through again . . . fifteen or twenty abreast . . .
. . . I looked up at the other wing-ship. The whole stabilizer was gone. I could see blue sky through there . . . but the rudder still worked . . . still flapped . . . then his wing flared up . . . he fell off to the right.
We were flying off Langford, but he was gone . . . sagging off low at three o’clock. Green slid us in under the lead squadron. Langford was in a dive . . . four or five planes were after him . . . coming in . . . letting them have it . . . swinging out . . . and coming in again . . . Beach was in that ball . . . poor goddamn Beach . . . .
“Here they come!”
“Four o’clock level.”
“Take that one at six.”
All the guns were going again.
There wasn’t any hope at all . . . just waiting for it . . . just sitting there hunched up . . . jerking around to check the right side . . . jerking back to check the instruments . . . everything okay . . . just waiting for it . . .
They came through six times, I guess . . . maybe five . . . maybe seven . . . queuing up back there . . . coming in . . . throwing those 20s in there.
. . . we were hit . . .
. . . the whole low squadron was gone . . . blown up . . . burned up . . . shot to hell . . . one guy got out of that.
. . . we were the only ones left in the high . . . tucked in under the lead. The lead squadron was okay . . . we snuggled up almost under the tail guns. They were firing steadily . . . the shell cases were dropping down and going through the cowling . . . smashing against the plexiglass . . . chipping away at the windshields . . . coming steady . . . coming all the time . . . then his guns must have burned out . . .
. . . there were a few 51s back there . . . four against a hundred . . . maybe eight . . .
“Don’t shoot that 51,” Mock again, cool as hell . . .
I punched the wheel forward. A burning plane was nosing over us.
Green nodded, kept on flying . . .
The guns were going . . . not all of them any more . . . some of them were out . . . burned out . . . maybe.
And then it was over. They went away.
We closed up and dropped our bombs.
Six out of twelve gone.
We turned off the target, waiting for them . . . knowing they’d be back . . . cold . . . waiting for them . . .
There was a flow to it . . . we were moving . . . we were always moving . . . sliding along through the dead sky . . .
I flicked back to VHF.
No bandits called off.
Then, I heard, “. . . is my wing on fire? . . . will you check to see if my wing is on fire? . . .”
He gave his call sign. It was the lead ship.
We were right underneath. We pulled up even closer.
“You’re okay,” I broke the safety wire on the transmitter. “You’re okay . . . baby . . . your wing is okay. No smoke . . . no flame . . . stay in there, baby.”
It was more of a prayer.
“. . . I’m bailing out my crew . . .”
I couldn’t see any flame. I wasn’t sure it was the same plane. But they were pulling out to the side.
All my buddies. Maurie . . . Uggie . . .
I told Green. “We better get back to the main group . . . we better get back there fast . . .”
We banked over. I saw the rear door come off and flip away end over end in the slipstream. Then the front door, then something else . . . maybe a guy doing a delayed jump. It didn’t look like a guy very much.
It must have been set up on automatic pilot. It flew along out there for half an hour. If they jumped they were delayed jumps.
Maybe they made it.
We found a place under the wing lead.
I reached over and touched Green. What a guy. Then I felt the control column. Good airplane . . . still flying . . . still living . . .
Everybody was talking.
Nobody knew what anybody said.
There was a sort of beautiful dazed wonder in the air . . .
. . . still here. . . . Still living . . . still breathing.
And then it came through . . . the thought of all those guys . . . those good guys . . . cooked and smashed and down there somewhere, dead or chopped up or headed for some Stalag.
We were never in that formation. We were all alone, trailing low.
From the day you first get in a 17 they say formation flying is the secret.
They tell you over and over. Keep those planes tucked in and you’ll come home.
The ride home was easy. They never came back.
The sky was a soft unbelievable blue. The land was green, never so green.
When we got away from the Continent we began to come apart. Green took off his mask.
There weren’t any words, but we tried to say them.
“Jesus, you’re here,” I said.
“I’m awfully proud of them,” he said quietly.
Bradley came down out of the turret. His face was nothing but teeth. I mussed up his hair, and he beat on me.
The interphone was jammed.
“. . . all I could do was pray . . . and keep praying.” McAvoy had to stay in the radio room the whole time, seeing nothing, doing nothing . . .
“You can be the chaplain,” Mock said. His voice just the same, only he was laughing a little now.
“. . . if they say go tomorrow . . . I’ll hand in my wings . . . I’ll hand in every other goddamn thing . . . but I won’t fly tomorrow . . .” Tolbert was positive.
. . . if Langford went down . . . that meant Fletch . . . Fletch and Johnny O’Leary and Beach . . .
. . . and all the others . . . Maurie had long black eyelashes, and sort of Persian’s eyes . . . sort of the walking symbol of sex . . . and what a guy . . . maybe he made it . . . maybe he got out . . .
It was low tide. The clouds were under us again, almost solid, and then I saw a beach through a hole . . . white sand and England.
There was never anywhere as beautiful as that.
We were home.
Green made a sweet landing. We opened up the side windows and looked around. Everything looked different. There was too much light, too much green . . . just too much . . .
We were home . . .
They sent us out to get knocked off and we came home.
And then we taxied past E-East.
“Jesus, that’s Langford,” I grabbed Green.
It was. Even from there we could see they were shot to hell. Their tail was all shot up . . . one wing was ripped and chopped away.
Green swung around into place, and I cut the engines.
. . . we were home . . .
There were empty spaces where ships were supposed to be, where they’d be again in a day, as soon as ATC could fly them down.
We started to talk to people. There were all kinds of people. Jerry, a crew chief, came up and asked us about the guys on the other wing. We told him. Blown up.
. . . honest to God . . . we were really home . . .
The 20-millimeter hit our wing . . . blew up inside . . . blew away part of the top of number two gas tank . . . blew hell out of everything inside there . . . puffed out the leading edge . . . blew out an inspection panel.
We didn’t even lose any gas.
We didn’t even blow up.
I stood back by the tail and looked at the hole. I could feel the ground, and I wanted to take my shoes off. Every time I breathed, I knew it.
I could look out into the sky over the hangar and say thank you to the lady of the luck. She stayed.
I was all ripped apart. Part of me was dead, and part of me was wild, ready to take off, and part of me was just shaky and twisted and useless.
Maybe I told it a thousand times.
I could listen to myself. I could talk, and start my voice going, and step back and listen to it.
I went down to Thompson’s room, and he listened. He listened a couple of times.
It was a pretty quiet place. Eight ships out of a group is a quiet day at any base.
Colonel Terry just got married. Thompson didn’t know about it. I went back to my room and sat across the room from Langford and kept telling myself it was him.
“When I saw you there were at least eight of them,” I said. “Just coming in, and pulling out, and coming in.” I showed him with my hands.
Then Fletch came in.
Beach got three at least. He shot up every shell he had, and got three.
He came over after interrogation.
“I guess they can’t kill us Denver guys,” he said. He didn’t believe it either. He was all through.
“Jesus,” I said, “I sure thought they had you.”
Green came in with O’Leary.
“I knew you were down,” O’Leary said. “I told everyone.”
Green smiled. He looked okay, “We’re on pass,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of here.”
I wanted to touch him again. I wanted to tell him I was glad I was on his crew, and it was the best goddamn crew I’d ever heard of, but I didn’t say anything, and he didn’t either.
I got out my typewriter and started a letter to my folks.
And then it came in again . . . all those guys . . . all those good guys . . . shot to hell . . . or captured . . . or hiding there waiting for it.
. . . waiting for it . . .
Then I came all apart, and cried like a little kid. . . . I could watch myself, and hear myself, and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing.
. . . just pieces of a guy . . . pieces of bertstiles all over the room . . . maybe some of the pieces were still over there.
And then it was all right. I went in and washed my face. Green was calling up about trains, standing there in his shorts.
“I think the boys need a rest,” he said. “You going in?”
“I’ll meet you in London at high noon,” I said. “Lobby of the Regent Palace.”
“Okay,” he said. “Get a good night’s sleep.”
“Meet you there,” I said.
But I didn’t.
They sent me to the Flak House. There was an opening, and the squadron sent me.