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401st Bomb Group

North American P-51B Mustang Major James H. Howard of the 354th Fighter Group single-handedly defends B-17s of the 401st Bombardment Group from numerous enemy fighter attacks, successfully saving the group and downing a number of German aircraft. Already an ace with the Flying Tigers in China, Howard received the Medal of Honor for his heroics that day, and he remained the only fighter pilot in the European theater to receive that award.

Lucky

For the past twenty-five years or so memories and nostalgia, regarding combat in the skies during World War II, have metamorphosed from hangar flying at Reunions to print and television. In reading or viewing these exploits, it serves to remind me that I was a very lucky participant in those, great air battles. Although our airplane was hit whenever a barrage of flak appeared, I myself never received a hit. The Luftwaffe made many passes and somehow we were spared direct hits. There were three crewmen who did receive flak wounds. One crewman, on a subsequent mission, suffered his second Wound. His lament was, "Please don't give me another Purple Heart! My mother nearly had a stroke when she heard about the first medal and a second one will put her in her grave."

To repeat, we were lucky but also well trained. The 401st Bomb Group spent almost four months in Montana on a training schedule I believe was umnatched by any other Bomb Group. Day and night altitude practice bombings at an isolated bombing range, air to ground gunnery practice, ground school lectures, ditching procedures and unexpected foulups initiated by operations prior to flight. There were hours and hours of formation flying, even on one occasion, a low level (I mean Low Level) formation at a Parade. Our Squadron CO was stickler for close formation. "If you can't fly tight, you don't belong in the 401st!" We flew six hours every day, seven days a week. The schedule was adjusted somehow so that we had a day off (a twenty-four pass) during the seven days. The Ops officer used to laugh at his ingenuity here.

Like hundreds of others, our crew was close knit. One day after constant exasperation with the long, stiff billed G.I. baseball cap we all wore, I went into town and bought a red soft-billed baseball cap. When I had to put my face to the window and look back to the outside rear of the airplane, the bill of the cap would bend and enable me to get my eyes closer to the window for a better view. The next day, the Ball Turret Sergeant/Gunner showed up also wearing a red cap. He really needed this in his small domain. Within a week all crewmembers were wearing red caps. We were a standout. The Group's CO was heard to remark that the crew had good Esprit de Corps. By the months end, other crews sported various colored caps.

Other crews had named their planes after girl friends, wives, etc. Most had nose art reflecting their favorite Betty or Vargas pin-up beauty. We wanted a female for our nose art and we wanted a belligerent one who was also a lady. It was decided to name our airplane, Maggie, after the character in the current comics, Bring Up Father (sometimes known as Maggie and Jiggs.) The strip was drawn by George McManus, Private Mendelssohn, from our squadron, painted a very belligerent and threatening "Maggie” on the nose. No, this private/artist was not named Ludwig Felix.

Our flight from Montana to England was via Syracuse, Gander, Nutts Corner, Ireland and then on to Polebrook. Polebrook was the home base for the 351st Bomb Group and we spent some days there in training, as well as becoming acclimated to the topography of Merrie Olde England. The 351st Group was badly in need of replacements so several of our crews were assigned to them. When Station 128, Deenethorpe, England was ready it became our destined base.

The 401st Group's first combat mission was on November 26, 1943. The target was Bremen. It was on this mission that Maggie incurred the first war damage. As we were taxiing in trail on the Taxi strip, in line for take-off, there was a shattering noise from the rear of the airplane! The ship behind us had taxied right smack dab into our tail assembly and chewed it to pieces.The pilot must have had a case of "jitters" saying that his "brakes failed". More correct, like the rest of us - he was plain scared of the future.

At the start; a Tour of Duty was 25 completed missions. Later this was upped to 30. When several of us had completed 25 missions, we were offered R&R in the USA if we would come back for a 2nd Tour, I opted for this. On my return, after 4 missions, some of us were offered the chance to stay and receive a promotion or return to the Zone of Interior right then. I was combat weary (and maybe smart) so I chose to go back to the USA.

When back as pilot instructor and being asked many questions about the European Theater, I must say that I didn't have the answers that news hungry people were seeking. No wounds, no gore, no emergencies, no nothing. Of course the most asked question was, "Were you ever scared?" (Constantly) Did cannon ever hit you? Did you ever crash? Were you a POW? At times, I expected to hear,"How many times did your `chute fail to open?" Soon I began to be left alone, as it was evident my story wasn't what they wanted to hear. What they really wanted was "...and there I was... flat on my back ...hanging by throat mike ...copilot dead :..fire in the bomb bay ...two engines shot out ...and still climbing..."

My heart goes out to my comrades in the air who suffered tragedies and tribulations that only they can relate. On those rough and hairy missions there was, in many planes, a melodrama that was in progress that would defy imagination and nothing was evident to those flying on their wing. There were the dead, the injured; the dying, the suffering from loss of oxygen, from frostbite, loss of radio communication and many other serious problems.And it happened to the veterans and to the first-timers. They are the ones who are entitled to write the story of the battles in the sky. And now, after over fifty years; I can only relate incidents in which I barely came close to being a statistic.

When a new replacement crew joined our Group, our outfit had the custom of sending an experienced pilot as co-pilot with the green crew. It was my 5th mission that I was assigned to fly copilot with a first-time crew. As I recall, the mission was routine with a minimum of flak, more of' a "milk-run". However, when we were over the target and the Lead Bombardier in the Lead plane released his bombs, our bombardier was to drop on seeing the leader drop. He called on intercom saying that his bombs would not release. I told him that when we were out of enemy range and at a lower altitude he should go back to the bomb bay and put the pins back in the bombs, thereby disarming them. When we flew over the Channel I gave the order to SALVO and again the bombs failed to release. I then told him that we would just have to take them back home with us.

We then flew with the Group formation back to Deenethorpe. As we flew over our airfield our plane was in the first echelon to peel off from the formation and enter the traffic pattern for landing. The new pilot had the controls. He flew a fair pattern, made his base leg and turned on the final approach. Our main runway, the long one, was made of concrete and the adjacent taxi strip was of macadam. Flying west into the afternoon sun, the grayfish runway tends to blend in with the surrounding area and is sometimes hard to see. The black taxi strip stands out much more so.

Next thing I knew, this yo-yo pilot was in perfect alignment with the taxi strip in preparation for the landing. Suddenly, when we were about three hundred feet or so off the ground, he saw his mistake.That was when he threw up his hands and yelled, "Okay, you got it!" If we went around, as we were an early ship to peel off from the formation of eighteen ships, it would mean another thirty `minutes before we were on the ground. And after a days worth of flying with these ding-dongs.... that is where I wanted to be ...on the ground. Also, on the ground was a much needed shot of Scotch awaiting after debriefing. That was the kicker. I kicked in left rudder, left aileron, dropped the nose and dove for the runway. (What bombs are you referring to, sir?) It was over the fence and a smooth-bump-smooth landing. I never saw those people again and have no desire to do so. You can stop reading here for I'm telling you that it doesn't get any more interesting compared to the `True Heroes'.

It was on the second tour that this next incident happened. I don't recall the target. The Group leader was the CO himself. He had been our Squadron CO back in those training days in Montana. I was leading the High Box echelon, flying off the leaders right wing. After assembling over the Cottismere radio buncher, we headed out over the Channel; climbing through a very dense fog. This was tough formation flying as I had to keep the leader in sight and at the same time leave enough space so that his wingman and mine didn't have to play footsie with their wingtips: We flew on and on through the soup. It seemed to last forever.

Soon I began flying in a bank and wondering just why the leader was making a left turn. We were on Radio Silence. To me the turn was becoming steeper and so was my banking and that of my formation. l still had my wingmen. Later, on the ground; I surmised that I hadn't properly trimmed the airplane and also must have experienced Vertigo without realizing it. Fortunately, repeat, fortunately the co-pilot grasped the situation and took over the controls and straightened the aircraft. Our flight then passed over the lead planes without incident and we still had all of the original High Box. Whew!! I told the co-pilot to pick up the original heading and use the same Rate of Climb. When we finally broke out on top, we could see the main Group about a mile or less away. With an increase in speed, we were soon tucked into our proper slot in the formation. During this mission, I am unable to say whether or not flak or fighters clobbered us. Even though I went through the mechanics of maintaining a good position, my main concern was with what was going to happen when we were on the ground. I knew that I was in for a monumental ass-chewing by the CO., the likes of which had never been heard of in the ETO. The CO was a legend in his own time, especially, in this capacity.

The target was bombed and the Group flew back to base. After debriefing and a shower at the ol' Nissen hut, I headed for the Mess Hall and dinner. All this time there wasn't a word from Headquarters. That compounded the dread. I was in a real low funk in anticipation of the chewing l knew was coming. It's too mild a word to use "reprimand" here.

After dinner I went over to the bar for some libation, still having a little shiver in expectation. In only a few minutes, I happened to see the CO standing right behind me. So this is where it will take place and with an audience, yet. The CO spoke first, "Hey, what happened to you this morning? I thought maybe you got mad and went home." That was all he had to say. Afterwards, I figured it out. Hell, he was just plain glad to see me and my little band. We brought more protection with our firepower to the main formation and one never has enough of that. I told you that I was LUCKY!

L.A. Mitchell. Some Memories ... Bomber Legends. 2005 Volume 2 No. 4.

Return from Berlin The Eye of a Navigator. This is the story of one B-17 navigator and his crewmates, men who faced extraordinary danger with maturity beyond their years. It's a vivid and detailed account of combat flying and its psychological toll that also recalls the beginning of Robert Grilley's development as a painter of international renown, as he spends his off-duty time drawing the peaceful Northamptonshire landscape around Deenethorpe airbase.

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