The Tenth Mission - Part II

Training and more training. And, then our group was flown to Italy in October 1944. Fifteen hellish hours later we found ourselves dumped unceremoniously from trucks in the driving rain in front of a tent. The sign on the tent read "429th Sqdn - 2nd Bomb Group - 15th Air Force, Foggia Main." We met up with the survivors of the war-torn squadron who told us they had sustained 80 percent losses on the Ploesti oil field raids. The crews were, to put it mildly, more than somewhat caustic, bitter and profane. We raw recruits were shook to the souls of our fleece-lined flight boots hearing the stories of the bombing from three and four thousand feet into the face of three or four hundred heavy flack guns. "Ma, where do you catch the bus to Bonners Ferry?" I thought to myself.

On February 5, 1945 we were aroused at our usual 3:30 a.m. wake-up time, although I needed no shake on the shoulder - I hadn't slept a wink. We ate, carefully dressed, and were briefed on our target: Regensburg, Germany. When we got our orders, we all grew quiet. Regensburg was the second toughest target for the bombers; our orders were enough to put the whole crew in thoughtful silence. A long haul and many hours under oxygen was ahead of us.

We took off in the gray, cold dawn. There was a shift of snow on the ground over the Adriatic. We picked up a little flak over the Udine area of the Yugoslavian coast and then droned along with the other 300 or so bombers. Most were B-24s (we were the only wing of B17s in Italy).

About a half-hour off target, we began to pick up some more not-so-light flak. And, then finally we started the bomb run. As the right waist gunner, it was my job to 'expel' the chaff from a small hatch to the rear of the ball turret. From that position you couldn't see what was going on and I had to rely on the other gunners to take care of my 'fire zone.' With a 22-pound flak suit and helmet, hooked up to your electrical suit (in minus 65 degree temperatures), with headset, earphones and oxygen, it was cumbersome to say the least.

Ever wonder why you couldn't buy tinfoil to decorate your Christmas tree during the war years? Well, good Ole Uncle Sam was using it by the truck-load as 'chaff.' Chaff is tinfoil just like you put on a tree at Christmas time. I threw it out in packages by the handful at three second intervals. The chaff was theoretically supposed to distort the radar controlled guns.

My first indication of anything unusual on that tenth mission was a call from the pilot to me that the lead bombardier hadn't been able to connect enough and we were going around again. He wanted be to be sure to throw out more chaff.

I said, "Skipper they only gave me one carton and it's gone." He said, "Well, do something." I retorted, "Fine, pass be back your flack suit and I'll dispense it." His reply was not only very unmilitary, but also quite unprintable.

We all of a sudden again veered hard left. Someone cut in on the intercom and said, "Now what the hell." Another long pause and the pilot said, "Sorry boys, we're going around again." We dropped this time, but not before picking up a blast close enough to send a shudder through old "Kathleen" (I'll Take You Home Again) and all her occupants.

Another long pause and the pilot reported that we were losing power in one engine. Another eternity, and a wildly running right engine. I saw him feather it.

A cold gripping chill settled over me as I saw our squadron seemingly suddenly climb up sharply when I realized it was us losing altitude - the pilot diving a little trying to regain power in one of those usually amazingly reliable engines, but to no avail. Our pilot (Maurice Porter) called "group" and told them our plight and was advised to send out a distress signal so air sea rescue would have a "fix" on us should we make the coast. (I learned this later from our radio operator, Kenneth Hoffman.)

When Hoffman sent out the distress "Mayday, Mayday," the usually jammed frequency (the Germans worked hard at this) suddenly became as clear as a bell as the fighter class squadrons of the Luftwaffe also wanted a "fix" on a wounded duck.

We jettisoned everything possible. I had a camera that I wasn't supposed to have - full of film taken on the mission. Tough losing that. Have you every tried to tear up undeveloped film with mittens on, and scared stiff? Our comedian tail gunner Franklin Wartmen came on the intercom to complain that he had been saving five bottles of beer (one weekly) from his ration and there it was under his bunk for the vultures to get.

Our pilot in a grim voice came on to tell us it was no use. We'd been at 30,000 feet over the target. Now we were at 17,000 feet and had the 14,000 foot high Alps to cross. We would never make it. Besides that, we were lost, Porter was so busy trying to keep those horses running that he'd lost the navigation changes. Our navigator John Skoba was also unbelievably lost.

Porter said that we was going to put old misnomered "Kate' in a circle on auto pilot and we were all to line up. We needed to go out as quickly as possible, and remain as close together as we could. Maybe when we got down, we'd get together again.

Our easy-going, lovable Kentuckian co-pilot Donald Fishback was given the honor of going first and our pilot Maurice Porter was to jump last. I was the fourth or fifth man to step off the side of our B-17; out into the pitch black skies, with gusty winds blowing and snowflakes streaking my face.

I counted to 10 and pulled my parachute cord........