Big Week Page 6
Once again, the aircraft industry was the prime target: the Arado works at Anklam on the Baltic coast, the Focke-Wulf plant at Marienburg, as well as Münster and Bremen. Finally, this Thursday, 14 October 1943, it was the turn of Schweinfurt once again. Mission Number 115. Brigadier-General Curtis LeMay, commander of VIII Bomber Command’s 3rd Division, had rung Colonel Neil ‘Chick’ Harding, commander of the 100th BG, and suggested they could sit this one out after the mauling they had suffered in the past week, but Harding had replied, ‘The Hundredth go off ops? Never!’2 So the Hundredth would be flying again.
Among those from the group due to be flying that day were the crew of Nine Little Yanks and a Jerk, captained by Lieutenant Bob Hughes, a 25-year-old from Bryant in Washington State. Mission 115 that day was to be Hughes’s tenth, but the briefing early that morning was unlike anything he and his navigator, Lieutenant Len Wickens, had yet experienced. Normally, the briefing room would be crammed before a mission, but as the curtain went back to reveal the map and a route to Schweinfurt, there were officers from just eight crews. As was then revealed, a number of those crews were to have key positions filled by the loan of personnel from other units. Nor would they be flying all together as a bomb group. Rather, the eight were to be split into two flights, one of which would fly the mission attached to the 390th BG, and a second, led by Hughes, which would accompany the 95th.
From the briefing, they went the short distance over to the mess hall for breakfast: dried eggs, Spam, coffee, toast, English marmalade and what Hughes called ‘wonderful English dark bread’.3 It had been an eventful few months for Hughes. He had joined up the previous year, been selected for pilot training and had finally passed out with his wings from Class 43-B at La Junta in Colorado. From there he had been posted to Walla Walla back in his home state of Washington, where he had joined the ‘Saunders Provisional Group’, which was made up from twenty-five rookie crews. A key part of daylight bombing was formation flying, because it was believed that only by sticking together in close formation would crews be able to bring the full weight of fire to bear. With thirteen heavy .50-calibre machine guns per aircraft, twenty Fortresses, for example, multiplied to an impressive 260 machine guns. Yet flying and fighting together required practice and coordination, so, along with a number of other rookie crews, they had carried out Secondary Phase Training together from Walla Walla, which had involved plenty of navigational practice, formation work and also gunnery. Final Phase Training had taken place across the state border at Redmond, Oregon, and then they had all flown on to Grand Island, Nebraska, for staging to England.
At this point it had not been clear to Hughes and his fellows whether the Saunders Provisional Group would remain together as a new bomb group or whether they would arrive in the UK and then be posted to other groups already there. It says much, though, about the exponential growth of the US Armed Forces that entire regiments in the army, as well as bomber and fighter groups, were being formed and were training together from scratch. The United States Army Air Corps – as it had been when Germany had invaded Poland in September 1939 – had had just seventy-four fighter planes and even fewer modern bombers. Now, America was producing barely comprehensible numbers of aircraft: in 1942, just under forty-eight thousand had emerged from new American factories. That figure had already been surpassed in the first nine months of 1943.
As a first lieutenant who was slightly older than many of his fellows, Hughes had earlier been appointed personnel officer to the Saunders Provisional Group. On 23 June, Colonel Saunders had mustered his charges together. The colonel would not be making the trip across the Atlantic; rather, his task was to train up yet more new crews. However, someone needed to be nominally in charge of the group as they headed to England, and Saunders had appointed Hughes. He and the crew of the already christened Nine Little Yanks and a Jerk would be leading the way.
The next day, they had flown to Bangor, Maine, and carried out some further training to study long-range cruise control – vital before flying across the Atlantic. There, a further nine B-24 Liberators had been added to the Provisional Group and then it was finally time to make the epic trip across the Atlantic, staging at various airfields along the way, from Nova Scotia to Iceland, before finally touching down at Prestwick in Scotland. All thirty-four had arrived safely, although as Hughes had made his approach, Joe Boyle, his radio operator, forgot to pull in the trailing radio antenna, which then caused a bit of damage as it whipped over the trees and hedgerows at the end of the airfield. ‘Now we thought we knew who was the “jerk” on the crew,’ noted Hughes in his diary.4 He had handed over command, and then the crews promptly had their new bombers taken from them and were all packed off to Combat Training School. Two weeks later, Hughes and his crew were assigned to the 351st Bomb Squadron of the 100th Bomb Group.
Although crews would be kept together through a tour of twenty-five missions, each member was first given a taste of a combat mission as part of a more experienced crew. Hughes, for example, had flown his first official mission on 25 July as the co-pilot to Lieutenant Tom Murphy and the crew of Piccadilly Lily. It had been to hit the U-boat pens in Kiel in northern Germany and had certainly been no easy milk run. By the time they landed again, Piccadilly Lily had twenty-seven holes in it. Two more trips with Murphy’s crew had followed in quick succession. During a mission to Hanover, they had had the right elevator shot off and an incredible 168 holes drilled through the plane in an attack by an Me210, and next they had been attacked by German fighters during a mission to Oschersleben. Finally, the crew of Nine Little Yanks and a Jerk had all flown together for the first time on 15 August, and this time it had been a milk run to Merville in northern France.
Since then, Hughes had notched up another five trips, including the Regensburg mission, which he had again carried out as co-pilot on Murphy’s crew. That had been his last trip with Piccadilly Lily. Murphy and all his crew had been lost on 8 October, along with five other crews from the Hundredth that day. A further crew had managed to bail out and were now prisoners of war.
On this Thursday, 14 October, Hughes was about to fly his tenth official mission, although only his fifth with his crew on Nine Little Yanks and a Jerk. And as was all too evident from the rows of empty beds and the ghostly atmosphere in the mess hall and briefing room, and from the sight of far too many battle-scarred Fortresses, Hughes had done pretty well to survive as long as he had. Now, he and his crew were to fly to Schweinfurt, scene of a slaughter just two months earlier.
General Fred Anderson had sent the order to bomb Schweinfurt just after 11 p.m. the previous evening. ‘This air operation today is the most important air operation yet conducted in this war,’ he wrote on his orders.5 ‘The target must be destroyed. It is of vital importance to the enemy. Your friends and comrades that have been lost and that will be lost today are depending on you. Their sacrifice must not be in vain. Good luck. Good shooting and good bombing.’
Around 90 miles further west of Thorpe Abbotts, at Podington, near Wellingborough, the crews of the 92nd Bomb Group were also learning what the day’s target was with a mixture of incredulity and dread. The 92nd had been among the first to join the Eighth Air Force. They had reached England the previous summer and had taken part in several early missions that September. From then until May, the 92nd had built up strength, absorbing and training up new crews and getting ready to go back into combat.
Among those originals who had flown to England the previous year was Lieutenant J. Kemp McLaughlin. Now twenty-four years old and from Braxton County in West Virginia, McLaughlin and his crew had not been sent to North Africa, but instead they and the rest of the 407th Bomb Squadron had been instructed to help set up the 1/11th Combat Crew Replacement Center. This had been established by General Ira Eaker to help newly arrived aircrew orientate themselves around the UK, as well as learn about escape and air-sea rescue, and escape and evasion procedures, flying near barrage balloons and in poor weather. It was a good idea, but while McL
aughlin had been singled out to become an instructor pilot, he was also asked to fly a number of VIP flights to Gibraltar, then on to North Africa and back again. Not until May 1943 did he finally rejoin his original bomb group.
Then, in early July, McLaughlin had been transferred from the 407th Bomb Squadron to the 326th, where he had been given an entirely new crew, a new Fortress – swiftly named Fame’s Favored Few – and been made a flight leader. He and his crew had been one of the leading bombers for the first attack on Schweinfurt and had had a comparatively easy time of it, but now, on the morning of 14 October, McLaughlin was in no doubt about what lay in store. ‘We all knew that we’d be going back to this target,’ he noted, ‘and each of us hoped he’d not be selected for that raid.6 No such luck.’
In fact, McLaughlin and his fellow officers on Fame’s Favored Few had been put on alert the previous day. What the target would be was never revealed until the morning of the mission, but there was a clue to be had from a visit to the base weather office. There, they learned another low front lying over much of England and stretching across the Channel and over the continent was forecast for the following day. Better weather was predicted for central Germany, where the skies would be clear – ideal for bombing. At dinner that night in the officers’ mess, many of them had been trying to guess what the target might be, but when they woke early the following morning not just to thick cloud but also to drizzle and fog, McLaughlin, for one, was convinced there was little chance they would be sent up in such poor conditions, no matter how clear the skies over Germany.
Still, they had been taught to prepare for a mission, even if it was likely to be scrubbed, and, after an early breakfast, trucks pulled up at the mess to take them to the briefing. At the far end of the room was a curtain and a middle-aged intelligence officer.
‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention?’7 he said once all the pilots, navigators, bombardiers and 92nd staff officers had settled. ‘This morning we have quite a show.’ He then drew back the curtain to reveal the large map on the wall. The men leaned forward, craning to see the lines of the route and the target. Then the intelligence officer added, ‘It’s Schweinfurt again.’
For a moment there was a profound silence, then came the groans and whistles. ‘Son of a bitch!’ said one man loudly. ‘This is my twenty-fifth mission.’ The last of his tour before returning to the States.
‘What the hell are you crying about?’ responded one youthful-looking pilot. ‘This is my first!’
McLaughlin, meanwhile, was more interested in what was to follow. He accepted it was a vital target, but just how tough it was likely to be depended on which route they took, the number of fighters, or ‘Little Friends’, that would be escorting them and the likely number of enemy fighters. The intelligence officer now explained that only light flak was expected along the route and P-47s would escort them all the way to the Ruhr. From then on, they would be on their own until the return leg, when more Thunderbolts would pick them up north-east of Paris. That was more than 400 miles and over two hours’ flying. It was quite a long stretch without any protection. And over the Reich. Over the target itself, they could expect some 380 anti-aircraft guns firing twelve rounds per minute. That equated to well over fifty thousand shells fired at the main formations from the moment they reached the initial point (IP) through to the end of the target run.
Even worse, they would most likely be met by some seven hundred enemy single-engine fighters and four hundred twin-engine, attacking them with cannons, machine guns and the advantage of far greater speed and manoeuvrability.
Most of the men assembled sat aghast as the briefing continued with details of flight formations, the runway take-off line-up and the composition of the bomber force. That day the 92nd would be leading not only their wing, but also the 1st Division and the entire Eighth Air Force. And McLaughlin and the crew of Fame’s Favored Few would be the lead ship. Finally, Colonel Budd Peaslee was introduced. Formerly commanding officer of the 384th BG, he had, two weeks earlier, taken over as Chief of Staff of the 40th Wing. He was going to fly with McLaughlin and his crew as Eighth Air Force commander.
McLaughlin was tall and lean, with short, dark hair and pale eyes, and although his height lent him an obvious natural authority, he still looked incredibly young, as did most of the boys about to take off that day. There was no getting around it: this was likely to be a horror show. McLaughlin’s only cause for optimism was the weather here in England, which was still terrible. He reckoned there was still a very good chance the mission would be scrubbed.
Even so, they had to assume otherwise and so he arrived at his aircraft half an hour before take-off in order to make his own personal checks and, after walking around and satisfying himself all was in order, he climbed up through the rear hatch with his parachute and flying kit, conscious that the weather remained as dreadful as it had been. Captain Harry Hughes, his navigator, and Lieutenant Ed O’Grady, the bombardier, arrived from their additional briefing and clambered up directly behind him. Once on board, they discovered the rest of the aircrew and ground crew inside the ship already, keeping out of the rain. ‘One quick glance,’ noted McLaughlin, ‘told me they were worried, scared, and that morale was down.’8 McLaughlin did his best to reassure them, while still silently praying that the mission would be cancelled. If anything, the weather appeared to be worsening and there was still no sign of their passenger, Colonel Peaslee, which augured well. They were not to be saved, however. As McLaughlin was starting the engines for the warm-up and carrying out his preparatory drills, Peaslee arrived and clambered into the cockpit. The mission was on.
As the lead Fortress, Fame’s Favored Few was the first to taxi out, slowly inching around the perimeter and then lining up at the end of the runway. Behind him, other Forts followed. There were still a few minutes before take-off and, peering out into the worsening fog and rain, McLaughlin struggled to see how they could possibly go ahead. He now broke radio silence to ask the control tower if there was any message, hoping against hope they would be ordered to stand down. ‘I did not relish the idea of a zero-zero take off,’ he wrote soon after, ‘with a full bomb load, extra gasoline, and maybe bad icing conditions.’9
Before any reply arrived, however, the clock reached take-off time and so, reluctantly, at 10.12 a.m., McLaughlin began revving his engines, released the brakes and the Fortress sped down the runway, 50 miles an hour, 60, 70. Asking Peaslee to keep a close eye on the runway in case of any swerving, he watched the speedometer reach 100 m.p.h., then, pulling back on the control column, felt the big bomber ease into the air. He was flying purely on instruments, a nerve-wracking experience with so many other laden bombers right behind him. Climbing up through the cloud, they finally broke out at around 7,000 feet and kept climbing, circling to wait for the rest to form up behind them. Over the Channel, he spotted Thunderbolts flying on over them, ready to intercept any enemy fighters.
There had been no such crowding for take-off at Thorpe Abbotts. Bob Hughes watched the first bomber squadron go and then it was their turn, with his ship in the lead. It was 10.15 a.m. Thirteen minutes later, they managed to clear the cloud base and successfully rendezvous with the 95th Bomb Group, although their hosts for the day were four ships short. That meant a bit of realigning so that they were in a tight defensive square as they flew. Without fighter escort, they were still extremely vulnerable. But without a flying formation, they were dead in the air.
They now rendezvoused with the 390th Bomb Group and that made their 13th Combat Wing complete. As they neared the continental coast, they spotted their escorts. It was now around 12.30 p.m. They were a little south of course and around four minutes behind schedule. Over his headset, Hughes heard chatter on the radio from the lead units and escorts ahead of them. It seemed the enemy were already swirling.
Hughes and the rest of the boys from the Hundredth might have successfully formed up and joined their wing, but in the lead ship it was clear to Kemp McLaughlin and Colonel Peasle
e that not all units had joined up in their proper sequences; it was hardly surprising in the terrible weather, but as a result the mission had begun with some confusion – and that was unlikely to help their cause.
On they flew. As they entered German air space, the fighter escorts, at the limit of their range, turned and left them. The bombers were on their own. ‘A large formation approaching at 5 o’clock,’ called out Lieutenant Augustus Ahrenholz, who was usually McLaughlin’s co-pilot, but who had taken the tail of the plane to make room for Peaslee.10 At first they thought this must be the 40th Combat Wing behind them, but it rapidly became clear that it was instead a large gaggle of twin-engine Messerschmitts. Rather than attack from behind, the enemy fighters passed them on their starboard side, ready to circle in for a head-on strike; sure enough, the moment the fighter escort had departed, the enemy began their attacks. As McLaughlin flew on, he could hear his own crew calling out attacks from all around them.
Flak now appeared – puffs of angry black smoke and the clatter of shrapnel. The Fortress lurched. This was coming from the southern tip of the Ruhr – the great industrial heartland of Nazi Germany; they were too far north. A swift adjustment to avoid anything more, but then they were under attack again from yet more fighters – over a hundred this time. At this point, McLaughlin noticed that the low group ahead and below them had already lost five out of sixteen ships.
‘Oh, hell!’ called out Sergeant Ford, one of the waist gunners. McLaughlin asked him what was wrong. There were, the sergeant reported, a mass of twin-engine enemy fighters gathering for attack. Never before had they come under such a heavy and concentrated onslaught. Two Me110s attacked from the starboard flank, while an Me109 suddenly sped down out of the sun and opened fire on the Fortress of the deputy leader on McLaughlin’s right, Major George Ott. One engine was knocked out immediately, possibly even two. The stricken B-17 could not keep up and fell back. Nine parachutes blossomed, but Ott was still flying. Then the bomber disappeared from view.