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466th Bomb Group

AT-6 A classic portrait of the AT-6 "Texan" WWII advanced trainer.

A Reminiscence

Cadet Days

We arrived at Marana in early July. Marana was one of the emergency training bases developed in the rush to train pilots with little concem for comfort. The buildings were temporary shells without insulation, put up in the desert at the edge of the Saguaro (cactus) National Forest, west of Tucson. The temperature level was astounding. We arrived on one of the hottest days of the year, and after primary training at Hemet, CA, it was a shock. The living quarters featured regular Army cots, concrete floors, a clothes rack, and a foot locker. Showers and latrines were in a separate building about 75 feet from the barracks. An evening trip there was an adventure best undertaken in a pair of high-topped shoes, since the moisture attracted spiders, stinging beetles, scorpions, centipedes, and rattlesnakes.

One off-duty form of amusement involved quarters of the same type across the company street, a strictly off-limits area occupied by Amy women (WACs). Going to and from the showers the normal style, on both sides of the street, was to wear only a towel. The game was to make sure no one made it across with their towel in place. This also was true across the street. As you see, there was very little in the form of recreation on the base. (The weekends in Tucson were something else.)

We flew basic trainers designated as BT-13s during the first half of flight training and AT-6s for the second half. The BT-13 was called the "Vultee Vibrator," Vultee for the plane's manufacturer and Vibrator for the weird engine noise as its propeller switched from low to high pitch. If a house was buzzed at the right height and the propeller shifted at the right time, it could break windows. It was not a popular airplane with the civilians living in the area, especially during night flights when a house could be buzzed and no one could see the numbers on the plane.

The airfield was, to my knowledge, one-of-a-kind. Instead of a landing strip, it, was one square mile of concrete on which you could land and take off on any compass heading. It was great because you never had a cross wind. This was important, because we had over 200 planes landing and taking off at each shift change. Rather than flying a pattern, we positioned our planes so that we entered what was called the "funnel" for a straight-in approach, with possibly fifty planes on the approach at one time. You positioned yourself in the funnel so you were far enough away from the plane ahead of you and to the ones on each side, then flew straight in and taxied to the end of the field at a fast clip so no one would fly up your tail. You then found a clear spot on the taxi strip and started the process all over again. It was a little like today's freeways.

My most, persistent memories of Marana center on the heat, the bugs, and the snakes. If a person slipped when getting into a plane and touched the plane's wing, it would blister his hand painfully. Once, while I was at Marana, one of the cadets tailed out of a BT-13. He told the washout board that while he was flying the plane, he looked down at the floor and saw a rattlesnake coiled up between the rudder pedals. He said, "There was only room for one of us in the plane, so I left." When the crashed plane was located and checked, they found a four-foot. dead rattlesnake in the wreckage. The board decided his action was ,justified.

My memories of flying at Marana primarily concern a couple of goof-ups. One major goof of mine concerned an event when I was flying a solo practice session north of Marana, in an area also used by P-40s used for Advanced Training, from nearby Williams Air Base. The pilots in the P-40s loved to make simulated gunnery runs on the BT 13s. They were faster and more maneuverable.

I was in the area when a P-40 made a gunnery run on me and then flew alongside, did a snaproll, and then turned back to see what I would do. I dove to gain airspeed and did a snaproll. The P-40 made another pass and did a hesitation roll. I again dove for airspeed and did a sloppy hesitation roll. On his next pass he did a loop. You can do a loop in a BT, but you have to have fifty or sixty extra miles of airspeed to complete a loop. The P-40 was coming around too soon and I decided to try, even though I was short on airspeed. I was near the top of the loop when I stalled out, upside down and dead in the air, sliding backwards, and fell into what is called a hammerhead stall. As the wings suddenly develop lift just as the tail also catches air, it acts just like a hammer and HARD. The impact blew the sliding plexiglas cover off the plane, which hit the horizontal stabilizer and damaged one side. My helmet and sunglasses and the Form 201 flew out of the cockpit. The plane then flipped into an inverted stall. When I got control of the plane, I had about 400 feet of altitude left. The circus started at about 6,000 feet.

A report from a Williams instructor was colorful. He told my instructors that whatever the maneuver was, for hell sake don't ever do it again. I stood in a brace in front of all the instructors, and avoided a washout primarily because I was a Cadet Captain and got extra consideration.

The second event was later when we had changed to AT-6s. Of all the planes I flew in the service, I liked the AT-6 the best. It was capable of sustainect inverted flight and was great for acrobatics. A great airplane. The occasion I am concemed with here was a buddy ride, two cadets flying together and alternating on the controls. I haven't a clue as to the identity of the other cadet. We were alternating on the controls, and when we were ready to change, a shake of the slick would signal for the other to take control. We had alternated several times and I had rocked the stick for him to take over and sat back watching the plane do a series of chandelle swings from side to side. We were losing altitude. and I finally came alive as to where we were. We were headed over a Japanese inturnment camp, at a low altitude. I asked him what the hell he was doing, and he said: "Me? I’m not flying this thing." For the last ten minutes, no one had had the controls. The internment camps were severely restricted air space. By luck, no one got the plane numbers for a report.

Combat Days

I flew two training flights with the new crew before being available for combat. I do not recall the names of any of the enlisted men on the crew, and don't remember the first names of the officers with the exception of the bombardier, Hal Kren, whom I heard from a short time ago. Hartung was the 1st pilot and Gates the navigator. Kren reminded me that the 1st pilot's name was Niles Wellington Hartung: a dignified name for a "Polak" from Petoskey, Michigan. Keep in mind I started on this crew but did not finish with them.

I have no intention of giving an overall view of combat. My notes may cover details but would not convey the fear and resignation that there is no hope of survival. You try to function until it happens. Here are a couple of comments on specific missions:

1. The first mission was a shocker. Four-engine planes always bomb at high altitudes. Even in training, our practice missions were always at over 20,000 feet. On this occasion, we were to open a route from Omaha Beach into France, and were to bomb at 7,000 feet. That was the first and last time we were low enough to see vehicles and people. It was a startling reminder that we dropped bombs not just on targets but on human beings. A few missions later we had an electrical malfunction - our bombs hung up and released about twenty second late, and we put six 500-pound bombs into a twelve-story apartment complex in the city of Rostock, north of Berlin. Not good memories.
2. Another mission was not a big deal, in a way. Resistance was low because we were hitting an airfield near Bonn. We had fifty-pound bombs hung in clusters like grapes on the bomb racks. At bomb release the front racks cleared properly but the racks in the rear bay had a problem. The lower racks did not release and the upper ones did, piling the bombs up in the bomb bay and blocking the controls. When the rest of the formation turned to return to England, we continued to fly deeper into Germany. Alter about fifty miles, using trim tabs, we finally got headed back in the right direction, managed to call in fighter cover, and lowered our altitude to where we could work without oxygen. At that point, Kren, the bombardier, and I went back, got safety pins in the fuses, and carried the bombs back to the camera hatch in the rear of the plane to dispose of them. We decided to make a game of it. We would sight with our fingers and call left or right of the flight path, pull the safety pin, throw the bombs out by hand and see who could come closest to farm houses. We were not very accurate and I don't recall who had the best scores, but we got things cleaned up. With the electrical malfunction, we did not dare leave anything loose or still hanging in the bomb racks.
3. The city of Hamburg was, I think, the most heavily defended city in Germany, and we visited there three times. On our last mission there, Hamburg was the target for the entire 8th Air Force - 2,000 bombers all hitting the same city. We counted nineteen bombers going down at one time as we waited for our turn in the flight pattern so we could go in and drop our bombs. There is no way to express my feelings under those conditions other than to say I was very surprised at having survived.

I may come back to specific missions in random order. Of the 43 missions I flew, I can recall many of them individually but many others merge into a blur. How many I will bore you with I have not decided. I have had a request to put down the details of the time General De Gaulle and I were in a parade in Lille, France:

Our crew was flying a gas resupply mission, carrying gas for tanks and trucks as they advanced across France. We were landing on a field that had been a German fighter base about three weeks before. The English were operating the field and knew nothing about bombers. We were one of the first planes to land, and when we taxied to the control area they directed us to park on a dirt surface where the German fighters had been parked. We did not think it would work, and it did not. By the time we had turned off the engines and got out of the planes, the wheels of the main landing gear had sunk almost two feet into the ground. We were stuck, and it took them two days to get the planes back on concrete. By choice or not, we were in Lille, so we decided to check out the town that evening.

Several cafes were open during the evening, though food choices were limited. During the early evening, I spotted a shop with a Leica camera in the window and decided I had to make a try at getting it. The next morning I conned the English out of a Jeep, collected all the trade goods I could manage from about five air crews, and went to the city. When I arrived at the shop it was closed, the camera still in the window. I finally found a local French police officer who spoke some English and found out that that the owner of the shop lived over the store. No one was at home. I had used up most of the time I could spend on the project, so decided to head back to the base. The route back was down the "Grande Concourse" which by this time must have been populated by every person in the city. I started slipping down one side of the street, being allowed on it I guess because an American officer in the town was a rare item. The area had been liberated by the English and the French police did not know for sure what to do with me. As I drove slowly, trying to fade into the woodwork, some of the crowd spotted me and yelled "Vive la American," so I called back, "Vive la Frances!" Someone called, "La cigarette?" I was carrying a bag loaded with cigarettes, candy bars and what-have-you, so I pulled over, opened a package, and distributed these items to the crowd. At that point, the applause started and I got into the spirit of the occasion, even crossing that wide street to spread a little good will over there. By the time I got to my turn-off I was really into the spirit. It was well I got there when I did, as the De Gaulle parade was less than half a block away. I did not stick around to see if he got as warm a reception as I did.

I never did get back to Lille. It was decided that the base there could not handle heavy bombers. One note I must add: On the evening before, we had encountered a group of French teenagers. Some of them could not have been more than thirteen. They wanted to know what kind of plane we flew. They knew the "Liberator," the "Lightning," and several other planes by names, not by numbers. "B-24" did not mean a thing to them. They also bragged to us about the number of Boche or German soldiers they had killed, showing us the knives and the wires they used to strangle their victims. They each had a score, a 13-year-old indicating he had killed three men; some of the others five or six. I have often wondered what kind of adults they became. I think I would be afraid of them. This was the first of eight supply flights we flew. We then went back to bombing missions.

Some of the most, horrendous missions I flew were as a combat flight instructor taking new crews into combat for the first tune. I encountered pilots who should never have been allowed in an airplane and gunners who went crazy and tried to jump out of the plane the first time they were shot at.

We flew the first day mission for the relief of Bastogne. It was remarkable from the standpoint of anti-aircraft fire. We were flying into a 130 mile per hour headwind, reducing our airspeed to about 100 miles an hour. We were under fire for 32 minutes - the longest time ever recorded by the 8th Air Force. Four hundred and twenty-five holes in our plane showed that they were fairly accurate.

The resulting crash-landing without injuries to the crew netted a DFC and a week of R&R (rest and recuperation) at a lodge adjoining a lake near Salisbury in East Anglia. This was only my second try at sailing. We had a sailboat - about a 22-footer - at our disposal, and it was a lot of fun. While sailing around the lake, we tied a fishing line to the aft sail spar and forgot about it. One of us finally noticed that the line wasn't trailing the boat, but running alongside. When we pulled it in, we had caught a 30-inch northern pike with the wildest set of teeth I ever saw. We were all bare-footed and in swimming trunks, and none of us had nerve enough to get close enough to even throw it back, so we stayed out of its way, let it lay, and had it for dinner that night. What an English cook can do to a perfectly good fish to create a disaster lingers. They nortnally boil everything, and when they get away from a cooking pot they are lost. As I recall, she even wanted to boil the fish.

A situation that I have never heard discussed came up around this time. The base was "stood down" from bombing missions and we were informed that we and our planes were being prepared to drop poison gas. The base was secured, with no one allowed to leave. A convoy moved in, and the bomb bays of the planes were loaded with gas bombs and sealed. We were issued special flight gear and masks. Several other pilots and I went to the base commander and told him we would refuse to fly poison gas. We were told that our conversation would not be made a matter of record unless actual fight orders came down from Wing. If at that time we still refused to fly, an immediate court martial would be convened and we would be broken to privates and sent immediately to an advanced infantry unit at the front without basic training. It sounded like a death sentence. At the end of eleven days everything was cancelled, the bombs removed and the planes steam-cleaned. With great relief, we turned in the special flight equipment, and started breathing normally again. We were told that intelligence reports indicated the Germans were ready to use poison gas on London, Paris, and front-line troops. They apparently decided they had more to lose than to gain, and we had no need for more information than that. Mail from our base was severely censored for the next month (I had to act as one of the censors).

Let's talk for a minute about planes. When we started out, we had inherited a plane from another crew that had titled it the "Feudin' Wagon." We liked the name and kept it. Have I mentioned that Gates was an artist? He had been a professor of art at the University of Iowa under Grant Wood. He also had done some commercial advertising art, and was very good. In retaining the name, we decided to use Al Capp characters, so Gates added an eight-foot-long and very voluptuous "Daisy Mae" reclining on the nose of the plane. I selected Moonbeam McSwine to decorate my flight jacket (that I never flew in). The plane was damaged in a crash landing not too much later and the three other planes that followed were bright aluminum and no more artwork was done on them.

We had a custom at our base that no matter what the day had been like or how long or rough the mission, you were expected to shower, shave, and change into a uniform with shirt and tie. It sounds like a strange way to fight a war, but I found I liked the idea. It brought a little sanity back in our lives when mental stability was so badly needed.

I was so convnced that there was no way to live through a complete tour of duty that I would not read a magazine article that was "to be continued," for example. There was no way I would ask for anything to be sent to me from home, like a camera for instance, because I figured I probably would not be around to receive it. It was not until I boarded a super liberty ship at Liverpool and started back to the States that I changed my mind.

After 43 missions I was informed that I could go home, and if l could get checked off the base, I could leave that day. I made a mad dash and got the job done, but I wish I had had more time. I left four paintings on the wall of the room, one of them a portrait of myself. I simply forgot them in the rush. l left a pile of clothes and other items that I decided did not warrant the hassle of packing. Gates also had painted a six-foot brunette nude on the wall of the room, so lifelike that it gave everyone who came in the room a shock. I would have liked to have been around to watch the reactions of the next occupants.

Ed. Note: Lt. Smith's wartime reminiscences were submitted by his daughter with the following message:

My Father, Abraham Clifford Smith, died on February 16, 2001. I have enclosed a copy of his reminiscences about his experiances, including those as a B-24 pilot. He was a 1st Lieutenant with the 466th Bomb Group, 787th Squadron at Attlebridge. Later he also participated in the Berlin Airlift, and in total he received 65 points for medals alone, including the Distinguished Flying Cross. I am more proud than I can say to be the daughter of this remarkable man. I hope you will find the reminiscences interesting. My mother, Rhea Johnson Smith, also was a World War II veteran who served during the war as a Staff Sergeant in the Marine Corps. My father was as proud of her service as he was of his own. My parents are my heroes. - Karyn D. Severson

To Save a City The Berlin Airlift 1948-1949. Miller. The Berlin Airlift was a mission of epic proportions that demonstrated the power of air logistics as a political instrument - with the U.S., Britain and France delivering almost three million tons of supplies to the isolated Berlin. This original study of that time draws on recently declassified USAF files, records released since the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the memories of airlift veterans themselves.

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