The morning or the 11th of April was the beginning of the most awesome, stimulating, frightening, exhilarating, maddening, mind moving period of my life! It was the morning of the first combat mission of the thirty-three that I was to fly.

An early morning wake up call came at three forty-five a.m. A guy switched on the light in our hut and walked from bed to bed of our crew members shaking us awake with a terse, “Okay, you guys, this is it!” Our group had only flown one previous mission which had been the day before. We didn’t go on that mission because our enlisted men had spent the previous night on guard duty.

We had talked with some of the men who had flown the first mission and they were elated. There had been no flack, no fighters, and it had gone like a practice mission. We thought about that as we dressed and walked through the dark, misty woods to the mess hall where we joined other officers who were to fly today. There were loud greetings, many jokes, excited conversation, but most was all bravado and spoken through tightening lips.

We slowly are our “Farmers Glory”, a cereal that came in a bag like dog food. Mixed powdered milk and water, with the powder mostly on top; the first couple of guys got that and the rest got the colored water. Tomato juice, scrambled powdered eggs and huge slices of toast with orange marmalade and coffee. We always went just a little easy with the coffee because a full bladder at twenty-five thousand feet and thirty-tory degrees below zero always posed one hell of a problem.

When breakfast was over we were taken by truck to the Operations area. We went into the briefing rooms. There were rows of folding chairs with an aisle down the center. At the front of the room there was a two-step high platform with a large covered map. This would entail the target of the mission to be flown. A line would be drawn on it from the assembly area to the target and return. It wasn’t a straight line, but kinda wandered as they tried to route us around some areas that contained heavy areas of concentrated anti-aircraft positions.

Just before the target we always called the I.P. or initial point. This was about forty miles from the target and from here on in it was straight and level, no evasive action and , “God help us!”

We would be seated until the Commanding Officer came in, then someone shouted, “Attention!” And we would all jump to our feet and stand at attention until he reached the platform and said, “At ease.” We would then sit down and wait. He would reach over and draw back the curtain and there would be lots of “Oh’s” and “Ah’s”. The longer the line on the map the deeper the penetration into enemy territory and the longer we would be subjected to flack and fighters. This morning it was what we would soon call “medium penetration.” The C.O. said the target city was Oschersleben, Germany, and the target itself would be a Focke-Wulf airplane assembly factory. He reminded us that a tight formation had to be held one the bomb run and over the target itself because of the rather small area it covered on the ground.

The weather man was next and he explained what weather we might encounter on the way in and out and what kind of cloud cover we might expect to have over the target. Weather reports were not very accurate because of the distance from the base to the target made it rather difficult to forecast. Sometimes weather reconnaissance planes were flown the night before, but at best the reports were not very accurate.

Next, the Mission Officer pointed out where flack would be expected enroute, what fighters we might expect to encounter and what other targets might be hit in the surrounding areas.

We then broke up into groups. The first pilots in one to find the place in formation, what groups would be ahead and which ones would follow, etc. The copilots to get the start up, taxi, take off, assembly and insertion times. The insertion time was the time the group would fit into the bomber stream. We also had to get the code word for the day, the code word for the group for the day, find out who would monitor the fighter channels for our escort fighters and pick up the escape kits for the crew.

When these meetings broke up, we went to the locker rooms and changed into our flying gear, picked up our chutes, flight bag containers, googles, oxygen masks, Mae West life preserver, extra flight gear, medical kits and flack vests and flack helmets when the became available later. The first few missions we didn’t have electrically heated suits, but as soon as the became available we wold don these under the fur lined flying suits. We wore fur lined lamest, fur lined boots and gloves so, when the trucks picked us up to take us to the hard stand where our plane was parked, we had to have help to get into them. When the trucks dumped us off at the planes, we would line up our flight bags and chutes beside the plane and check each others contents to make sure that everyone had all the necessary equipment. It was vital that everything be there. It was a matter of life or death.

We would the manually turn the propellers to rid the bottom cylinders of excess oil that might have drained down into them during the night. When this was done, we would load our gear aboard and everyone would check the planes equipment at their station. Gunners checked the condition of their fifty caliber machine guns before loading them, check the ammunition supply and rotate the turrets, checked oxygen supply and tried out the oxygen masks.

The engineer checked the gas supplies, gasoline tank covers and figured who would stand where on takeoff to make the center of gravity of the plane right, checked the auxiliary gas engine in the front of the bomb bay which we named the “putt-putt”. It gave auxiliary power to the bomb bay doors so we could operate them before the main engines started up.

The bombardier would check the bomb load, the bomb hangers, make sure the safety pins were in place in the detonators of the bombs, the check out his secret “Norden” bomb sight.

The nagigator laid out his maps, sextant, and drift equipment, checked and cleaned the astrodome and side bubble windows.

The pilot checked the radio with the control tower, the instrumentation.

The Copilot posted the taxi takeoff time, ran a crew check on the intercom radio to make sure we had good communication within the plane, checked the pilot’s oxygen supply and checked in with the radio operator. He checked in with base communications to make sure we could get messages in case of emergency, of a change in targets, of bombing altitude because of weather and things of that sort.

We then waved to the ground crew chief and he would move to the right side and front of the plane with the fire extinguisher and we started them up. The inboard on the right side was number three, the outboard on the right side was number four, the inboard on the left side was number two and the outboard on the left side was number one. We always started number three first because that had the generators for the electrical power once the putt-putt was turned off.

When starting these fourteen cylinder twin row radial giants they started turning slowly, then as the cylinders kicked in, it went faster and faster and bellowed and belched black then blue-white smoke. When the numbers three and four were started the crew chief moved to the left front while numbers two and one were started. Now this plane awakened like a large sleeping animal. It became something alive, it trembled, lurched against the wheel chocks, moaned, squeaked, rattled as these 4,800 horses strained to get loose.

This mission was to last seven hours and fifteen minutes, so for a safety factor we had twenty-seven hundred gallons of one hundred octane gasoline aboard. We ran each engine to full throttle, individually checking and rechecking the instruments. Each engine had dual magnetos so, when they were running full power, we switched to right, then left on each engine to make sure they were both working. We then shut the off and got out on the hard stand and smoked a couple of cigarettes while waiting for start-up time. Five minutes until start-up and we all got back aboard and waited. When the radio call came, the whole base would thunder to the roar of these Pratt & Whitneys.

Thirty-six planes, all with four engines start up and everything including the leaves on the trees vibrate. Now they are throttled back and the call to taxi comes and the monsters turn on the hardstands, enter the taxi strips and head for the end of the takeoff runway. Nose to tail, nose to tail, they waddle along until they are lined up eighteen on each side of the end of the runway. Everyone checks and rechecks, some are grinding, some are somber, some go through the motions like robots, but the time is now here. We have trained for nearly a year as a crew and everything is running like a well oiled machine.

A flare shoots up from the control tower and the lead plane turns onto the runway. The pilot pushes the throttles forward as fast as they will go, blue flames streak back from the superchargers; the plane rolls faster and faster, but a load of fifty-two one hundred pound incendiary bombs, a full load of gas and ammunition seems to hold it back. Finally, nine-tenths of the way down the runway, it breaks clear and flies upward, wheels up, flaps up, throttle back to climbing speed. Already another plane is speeding down that cement ribbon, every fifteen seconds until they are all off and flying.

We are the third one in line and, as we cross the perimeter of the field, we feel the prop wash of the planes ahead. This is not something to worry about on a rather clear day but, when taking off when the clouds are so thick you can’t see the end of the runway, it is a hairy situation! When taking off then and running into prop wash, it scares you because you immediately wonder it you are overrunning the plane ahead of you.

Well, we are airborne and on our way to Oschersleben, Germany and finally realize that this one is for real. As we circle, gaining altitude and looking for our group leader, we occasionally let our minds wander as to what must lie ahead for us in the coming hours. How will we react, will this be a milk run or one where the enemy puts up stiff resistance?

There it is, a plane firing green-green flares. It is our formation leader. All the turns are left turns and we will be flying the left wing of the leader. This means that to get into our slot we will have to throttle back or we will be on the inside of the turn. Careul, don’t let the airspeed drop too far as this overloaded bird has a tendency to mush out and drop off quickly. He is straightening out a little so now is the time — more throttle, now slide up and in, that’s it, there we are! Now all we have to do is just hang in there until we get assembled, probably in thirty five or forty minutes. Before we realize it we are ready to insert into the bomber stream. Because we are a new group we are inserted near the end so that if we screw up it will just be a minor inconvenience.

We are now at sixteen thousand feet and climbing toward the coast of France. According to people in the know, we will be first greeted by Goering’s “Yellow Noses”, the Abbeville Kids. These were names given to several crack squadrons of ME-109 German fighters who were stationed around Abbeville, France. These were the best that Germany had. To be assigned to this outfit a German fighter pilot had to have at least twenty confirmed kills. When they could inflict damage on bombers on the way to the target, they would be easy cripples before they returned or, if damage was great enough, they wouldn’t proceed into France and Germany and fewer bombs would be dropped that day.

We are escorted by several fighter groups of British Spitfires who have a very limited range and generally have to leave less than one hundred miles into France. From there on out we will have a few P-47 Thinderbolts, then we go it alone. We see specks off to the left, probably German fighters, but being held at bay by our escort. Up ahead we see puffs of black. Flack! From where we are it doesn’t seem to be something that soon would send fear surging through our minds.

The 96th Wing, which is all B-24’s and of which we are a part, is following a Wing of B-17 Flying Forts. Being faster, we have to mess back and forth to keep from over-running them, so as we slide right and then left of the stream, it is possible to observe some of what is going on ahead.

The Forts are now entering the flack area and it spreads them out a little. There, a Fort is sliding out of formation with smoke pouring out of the right side. It slides away faster now and going into a flat spin — once, twice, three times, now a bright yellow flash and black smoke and that four-engine plane with a crew of ten brave men is gone! Welcome to was, Prichard! Ws you have just seen, it is for real. I glance at Chuck and nod. Yes, he had seen it also and, because of the oxygen mask, I can’t see the expression on his face, but I see a slight tightening of the lines by his eyes.

Formation flying is a tedious, demanding, tiring and fatiguing exercise. The B-24 was not as stable as the B-17. It had the long, narrow Davis wing which gave it speed, but not stability. It was strictly a two pilot plane. On long missions at high altitude it was impossible for one pilot to physically fly that monster for hours on end without occasional relief from the other.

Cross cockpit flying was always more difficult because of poor visibility, especially on turns executed away from the pilot who was flying it. The day following a long mission your arms and back ached from the strenuous workout.

Just before the initial point a couple of more daring German pilots made a few passes at the formation ahead of us. Our training in formation flying had been strict, and we were now reaping the benefits from it. We had been trained by the best and it has been learned from experience in combat by others that a super tight formation was the best deterrent to enemy fighter attacks. This was to prove true even when the Germans started flying head on passes through formations. The idea of head on passes was to try to kill the pilots on a single pass as opposed to making many other types of passes in an attempt to disable the bomber or set it afire.

As we turned toward the target, we could see up ahead a black cloud in the sky made by the exploding anti-aircraft shells. A couple of B-24’s slide out sideways with smoke and flames shooting out behind. This was a busy time — keep a tight formation at the correct altitude and heading. Never mind the flack, just keep flying straight into it and take your chances. Of course, a little prayer or two surely wouldn’t hurt.

Now comes the signal for “open bomb bay doors!” A rush of air fills the plane as the twin bomb bays open up. The engineer pulls the safety pins thus arming the bombs. The bombardier takes over and flies it over the target. This is a critical time — straight and level, cut the wind drift, the cross hairs start to come together, now bombs away! They fall four at a time in trail and, as they do, we stat gaining altitude as the load lightens. Okay, they are gone, close the doors, trim for level flight and make a turn to get away from the flack barrage. Hear those pings as the pieces of death tear through the skin of the fuselage.

I call for a crew check-in, all positions call in and no one has been hurt. Thankfully we turn for home about three and a half hours away.

We are a little faster now as the bomb load is gone, half the gas has been used and it flies a little easier. We can’t let down our guard because the fighters are always a threat and, for the next hour the will be like a bunch of hornets buzzing around, looking us over, waiting for someone who has bee badly hit or who had had to shut down more than one engine to drop back out of the formation. These cripples are just sitting ducks. We cannot slow down to stay with them and they haven’t enough power to keep up, so we cross our fingers and say a silent prayer for them, and continue on.

Fatigue sets in, your muscles get numb, but a call of “Bogies at nine o’clock” makes you forget and you get a little closer to the leader. About a dozen ME-109’s make a pass. They are probably low on fuel and going home to gas up and may be able to take one more pass at us before we are out of range.

Way up ahead we see the coast of France and, with a little lick, we will make it. The weather is in our favor as we let down. There is the water below us now and the cliffs ahead, and we are able to make a formation pass before we peel off to some in for a landing.

Skinner’s crew disappears from sight. We make a graceful left turn and follow the first two planes to the landing circle, gear down, flaps down and I call off the air speed — 150, 140, 130, 120, stretch it out, 110, 100, 90 — round it out — touch down. The tires scream as the rubber bites and slides on the cement to get the wheels turning and little puffs of smoke drift aside as the burning rubber cools. Let it cool, turn off on the last taxi strip to allow the plane behind you room to get out of the was to the others dropping in behind.

We turn off the runway and taxi back to the headstand. Solinsky has opened the top hatch and keeps a watch as we taxi. We swing into the hardstand, kick it around to make room for another plane, and we shut them down. We had taken off our oxygen masks and helmets at ten thousand feet, donned our caps and headsets and lighted up cigarettes. Now, as the noise of the engines subside and quiet reigns, utter fatigue flows through our bodies, but at the same time, we are under the spell of adrenaline that has been pumping for hours. A long, deep breath, a throaty yell of victory and a prayer of thanks. We are home!

I made out the Form Five as Chuck completes the shut down and we gather up our spare gear and crawl out onto the ground. What a feeling to stand up and stretch! One of the first acts is to relieve your bladder which you hadn’t realized in the excitement was full to over-flowing. Another cigarette amid all the chatter of the crew and questions from your faithful, hardworking ground crew. “How was it? Any flack? Any fighters? How did it perform? Any troubles?” We walk around searching and finding multiple flack holes, many in the right wing and some through the self sealing gas tanks. We had been lucky, no major damage and no one hit.

A truck drives up and we load up to go to debriefing. Ten crew members and a debriefing officer at each long table. “Where did you encounter flack? How long did the barrage last? Any fighters? Any particular markings? What kind of passes did they make?” On the table is a fifth of White Horse Scotch and ten paper cups. We pour some and drink it. It bites then warms your throat and stomach. You start to relax while the strike photos are being developed and printed. Here they are with about seventy-five percent in the target area and the other twenty-five percent about the fringes.

Where is Skinner? We find out that for some unexplainable reason he slid sideways and crashed and exploded into a stone farm house. The euphoria that you had been experiencing has now gone from a height of elation to utter deep sorrow. These men we had trained with all these many months, drank with, played cards with, shared deep secrets with were wiped from our midst in one resounding fiery moment. No longer would Skinner tip his hat like he always did while holding a good poker hand. No longer would Stuckman, Wilder, Sahlin, Eaton and the others call out a friendly greeting or give a casual wave of the hand in passing. Death had entered our souls and we were not prepared for it. We were happy to have survived, but were at a loss to give up our friends.

We took off our flying clothes, donned our uniforms and silently boarded a truck to our hut and our bed. What were the others thinking? Talk was minimal and tones were low as I took off my outer clothing and crawled into bed. I was no longer hungry, just bone tired. The Scotch was taking affect and, as I dropped into a fitful sleep, it flashed in my mind that number one was over and how many times would we be this lucky?