Chapter 3 - COMBAT CREW TRAINING

 

Salt Lake air field was a center for the distribution of trained aerial gunners to the various airbases where the bomber crews were formed. In a few days, I found myself on the way to Ephrata, Washington. What a desolate place. Except for being cooler, it was not that much different than the Nevada desert. Dusty, hot, and black tar-papered one-story barracks and other temporary buildings. It was not a very pretty sight.

The beginning of major personal war-time associations began there the evening our crew got together and met for the first time. We introduced ourselves to each other. How clear is my memory of Lt. Braum. As we shook hands, I thought to myself that someday I may go through hell with this man. Little did I know that prediction would come true.

The names of the original crew are:

• 2/Lt. Lowell H. Braum, Pilot Portland, Oregon
• F/O. Andrew Franko, Co-pilot Dallas, Texas
• 2/Lt. Wallace Cooke, Navigator Oakland, California
• 2/Lt. Dallas E. Kauffman, Bombardier State College,   Pennsylvania
• S/Sgt. Robert. F. Haney, Enginer,Top turret gunner, Chicago, Illinois
• S/Sgt. Curtis Dunaway, Radio Operator Osgood, Indiana
• Sgt. Bruce P. Hall, Jr., Ball turret Los Angeles, California
• Sgt. Donald K. McClure, Left waist Lansing, Michigan
• Sgt. Pat H. Varnado, Right waist Foxworth, Mississippi
• Sgt. James R. Stipe, Tail Guner Mena, Arkansas

We quickly became good friends and a very cohesive crew. Lt. Cooke established himself as a good friend of the enlisted crew members. Haney was the senior NCO and generally took care of us. He was the major channel of communication with the pilot, although we could always talk to Braum if we felt is necessary. We developed the firm belief that this was the best heavy bomber crew in the Army Air Forces. I believe it was.

There was a gunnery camp in a canyon beyond Soap Lake. We were there for about two weeks for additional gunnery practice. We lived in the tents behind the orderly room building. The gunnery ranges were across the road. Some of them were just .30 and .50 caliber machine guns mounted on posts. One of the more interesting arrangements was a jeep with a fifth wheel fixed on a boom in front that guided the jeep by means of a wooden rail around an oval path. The jeep carried a target above it. We fired the .50 caliber machine guns while tracking the jeep target. The jeep was well protected by earthen barriers. We made every effort to hit the jeep but were unsuccessful. When it was not used as a target, we could ride on the jeep around the track. I think it is possible that those earthen barriers might still exist unless the land had been used for something else since.

At the right time in the morning, we could elevate the .50 caliber machine guns so that the bullet trajectory was above the canyon wall. Then we could see the sun glint off the copper jackets as they streaked through the air. We didn’t know where those slugs were going. The maximum range was 4.25 miles. I hope we didn’t hit any cattle or buildings. If we did, we never heard anything about it.

After a few short weeks we left Ephrata for a new training base at Walla Walla, Washington for reasons unknown. We arrived at night. There was no bedding in the unheated barracks. I put on my sheep-skin lined leather flying pants, boots and jacket and slept soundly. There may have been only two or three weeks when we were told we were going to Avon Park, Florida. The officers and S/Sgt. Haney flew one of the B-17’s. The rest of us went by rail. No Pullman sleepers this time. We traveled in a troop sleeper. Bunks were stacked six deep to the ceiling. We ate in a GI mess in a baggage car. The trip diagonally across the USA took six incredibly long days. I didn’t know there was that much rail laid end to end in the country. As we approached Chicago, the country-side took on a more midwestern look. I had not been home since entering active duty. As we passed through Chicago, I felt that I was close enough to get off the train and run the 212 miles home to Lansing.

Back in Florida again. Avon Park airfield was east of the small town. We passed miles of orange groves. The training was primarily for the officers. There were bombing missions in which we dropped the 100 pound “blue-demon” practice bombs. They were filled with sand and contained a black powder charge in the tail to mark the point of impact. On one mission I was pulling the safety pins out of the tail fuses when the bombardier opened the bomb bay doors under me. Space did not allow a parachute to be worn. Luckily, I was not standing on the doors. We had one gunnery mission over the Gulf of Mexico that gave everyone an opportunity to fire his position at a tow target. We all hoped that Braum felt much more comfortable knowing his gunners could hit a target.

One night mission we were not sure of our position. We landed at Cross City, Florida, a P-47 fighter training base. Dunaway was transmitting with our trailing wire antenna extended while were on final approach. I kept telling him we were getting lower and lower. The antenna had a lead weight that would cause a lot of damage if it hit anything. He finally reeled it in. The P-47 pilots had not seen a B-17 up close. One of them buzzed our plane so low he had to raise his wing to clear our rudder. Our co-pilot, Andy Franko, took Dunaway for a ride in a BT-13. That pleased Dunaway very much. The next day we returned to our base at Avon Park.

Flying continued night and day. I came to the conclusion that central Florida was good for only one thing, drop bombs on it. The impact of the bombs were liking sticking your fist in a bucket of mud.

Finally, we were given leave. A whole ten days to get to Michigan and back. My anxiety to get going was as high as can be imagined. Waiting for the train at Avon Park depot was agonizing. (The depot still stands today.) All night through Georgia, I arrived at the Detroit Michigan Central depot where I had departed for Ft. Custer eight months earlier. God, it was good to be home again! My dad loaned me his car. Even with gas rationing and tires worn so badly there was almost no tread, I made it safely to Lansing to visit my Mother and up to McIvor to visit with Grandparents Pringle. Don Pringle was in the Merchant Marine by this time and was not home. My boyhood buddy, Merlin Johnson, made the trip with me. The ten days passed in a flash. Painfully, my dad drove me to the Detroit City Airport (at that time the only commercial airport) where I boarded a TWA DC-3 for Dayton, Cincinnati Knoxville and Atlanta. I had a long wait until daylight at Atlanta and then an Eastern Airlines DC-3 to Jacksonville, Florida and by train from there to Avon Park. I was depressed when I returned. I knew we were going over seas into combat shortly. The outcome was by no means certain.

In January 1944, the whole crew took a three day pass to West Palm Beach. We went by train and stayed at the Hotel Washington. We had a great time. Our pilot, Lt. Braum, was married at a private ceremony. Our co-pilot had his wife join him. We didn’t see much of either one of them. There was a very nice night club in Palm Beach with some very friendly girls. I was too shy to get acquainted with them. Lt. Wally Cooke, our navigator, rented a red Pontiac convertible that we drove back to Avon Park for our crew picture. That was taken on the ramp and then we returned to West Palm Beach. You will notice that Wally Cooke is not wearing his navigator wings in the crew photo. That is because he gave his wings to a girl he met in the bar of our hotel. All in all, it was a great time. After we returned to Avon Park, we completed our training and departed for Hunter Field near Savannah, Georgia. There we were assigned a brand new B-17. It had only twenty-five hours on it. It was a “G” model with closed waist windows, (the first we had seen), a chin turret, and a new design tail turret. We pulled off the horn-like buttons on the pilot and co-pilot’s control wheels and inside were good luck messages from the girls at the factory.

B-17 Left and Right Waist Gun Positions

We were quartered in special barracks. The area was posted and restricted to combat crews only. We were issued our .45 pistols complete with shoulder holsters and jungle survival kits. These kits had machetes with long, wide and very sharp blades. These kits fit the seat cushions of the seat-pack parachutes. The days were spent flying our new airplane. We made several low altitude flights (they were really buzz jobs) up and down the deserted Savannah River to calibrate the airspeed and other instruments. After about a week we departed Hunter Field. We made a rather long cross-county flight to check fuel consumption. Our route was from Hunter Field to Ft. Myers, Florida, up to Jacksonville then landing at Morrison Field, West Palm Beach. (Now Palm Beach International). After a couple of days we boarded our B-17 at midnight, January 28, for overseas. I got down on my hands and knees and kissed the “ole” USA good-bye.

By daybreak we were over Puerto Rico. About noon we landed on the island of St. Lucia. St. Lucia was a trip back to the time of Columbus. The island hadn’t seemed to change much since his time. From the landing strip we could see the blue water in the harbor and beaches. The color was strikingly beautiful. We had lunch, refueled and took off for Trinidad, our next stop. We landed at Waller Field. Two days later we departed for South America. We flew out over Devil’s Island, the famous French penal colony off the coast of French Guyana. We had plenty of emergency rations and survival gear on board. I suggested we land on a beach, tail the airplane into the jungle and wait for the war to end. Braum was cautious about fuel so we landed at Amapa, Brazil, north of the Amazon River. It was tropical. Then we flew over the mouth of the Amazon River passing over the equator. The mouth of the river seemed to be about a hundred miles wide. The muddy water extended for miles into the Atlantic ocean. We landed at Belem, Brazil on the south bank of the Amazon. We stayed in tents. It was hot, tropical and very humid. We bought some ankle high red leather boots made in Brazil. The next day, there was mold on the soles. We also purchased some women’s genuine silk stockings that were unavailable at home due to wartime rationing. We departed for Forteleza on the South Atlantic coast. During our two or three day stay we were drinking beer outside on some picnic tables. Someone had a pet monkey. The monkey picked up every bottle and drained it. It became so drunk it couldn’t judge the distance from one table to the next. Every time it tried to make the jump it fell flat on its nose. It staggered around on the table tops trying every empty bottle to find more beer.

Again, at midnight we were ready for the overnight flight to Dakar, French West Africa. I was standing by the nose of the airplane in the dark with some of the crew, and Wally Cook looked up at the stars and said: “We didn’t have these stars in navigation school. My confidence in him plummeted. The night flight over the South Atlantic passed uneventfully and we landed at Dakar in daylight. The country side was almost desert. The trees were few, scraggly and barren. The blacks who lived and worked there were so black that when they got dirty, it showed up as gray on their skin. There was a French black Legionnaire with a red Fez who guarded our airplane. He had a rifle as long as he was tall. We offered him some cigarettes. As was the custom to tap a few out of the pack and take one, he startled us by taking all of them. Jimmy Stipe tried to give him a Savannah street car token. The guard would have none of that. There is a photograph of Jimmy and the guard in my scrap book.

We slept in cots with mosquito netting. Each barracks had a black attendant who continually sprayed the air with insect spray. Sometimes they were too enthusiastic. It made it hard to breathe. We had time to go to a beautiful sandy beach on the ocean. There were some black kids there who spoke no English. Some of the crew entertained themselves by smiling and calling them insulting and obscene names. The kids just returned the insults with friendly smiles, not understanding what was being said to them. Up the beach we encountered two French Foreign Legion officers from the fort at the top of the bluffs overlooking the Atlantic. There were several black legionaires with them. One of the officers threw a hand grenade into the ocean. Stunned fish floated to the surface and the blacks waded into the water and collected the fish and placed them at the feet of the officers. Another hand grenade and the event repeated itself until enough fish were on hand for the evening meal. The officers invited us to join them but we declined. I have often thought what an efficient way to fish. It was much better than with a rod and reel.

After one or two days we departed for a long flight over the western Sahara to Marrakech. This was a city like no other I had ever seen. It looked like all of those one might imagine for this part of the world. It was so tribal, rural and remote we were glad to leave. A short flight to Casablanca where we spent a few delightful days. It was our first opportunity to be in a decently civilized city. Of course our first effort was to find Rick’s American night club portrayed in the Humphrey Bogart classic movie, “Casablanca”. We knew it was fictional but there might be some kind of approximation. We couldn’t find one. We did find a French restaurant that served us some fried eggs on pewter plates.

We were not supposed to carry our .45 pistols into town. We did it anyway. It was comforting to have it tucked into my belt under my A-2 leather jacket while riding to and from the base on those horse-drawn Arab taxis through those narrow streets. The old timers said it was a good idea to carry them. They said if the Arabs started to follow you on those dark, narrow streets, all you had to do was pull out your .45, pull the slide back and let it slam forward. The Arabs, hearing this, would vanish into the walls. We never had to use our weapons.

We all took turns guarding our aircraft at night even though there were armed Moroccan guards around the aircraft. My favorite position was at the forward entrance hatch. There was enough room to lie on blankets in the passageway between the cockpit and the nose section. This location had the advantage that in the event of any disturbance outside our airplane, I had only to open the hatch and I had a clear 360 degree field of fire for my .45. Nothing ever happened. One of the Moroccan guards was eager to talk. I could not understand a word he said. He made me understand that American airplanes were better than the French because the Americans had more “boom-booms”. There were a few single engine high wing French airplanes parked near us. They may have been the Moraine-Saulnier type. I believe they were pre-World War II.

The next stop on our month-long adventure was Algiers. We landed at the airport, Maison Blanc. On the way into town there was a large passenger ship broadside high and dry on the shore. I don’t know how such a large ship could go so far aground. There had been several German air raids on Algiers. Here was a fabulous city, very French in its architecture. Our engineer Haney was quite clever in adjusting the turbo-supercharger amplifiers so that the engines would not check out on pre-flight. In this way we could reasonable stay as long as we wanted at any airfield. The enlisted crew stayed at the Red Cross club in downtown Algiers. We went to a movie and saw Glen Miller’s orchestra in the film: “Orchestra Wives.” When the song “Kalamazoo” came on with the words about going back to Michigan I was wildly homesick.

I must mention our visit to the Casbah. This is the old Arab quarter and was off-limits to Americans. We entered the old narrow streets anyway and soon found our way to a house of ill-repute. Entering we found several attractive and very friendly ladies and a piano being played. It wasn’t but a few minutes when the American Military Police showed up. They told us you guys know you are not supposed to be here. The women made a big play with the MP’s to let us stay but nothing doing. We left, regretfully.

The Hotel Aletti had an unusual display in the lobby. I was familiar with the perfume called Schiapparelli’s Shocking. It was sold in glass containers in the form of a female torso. In the hotel lobby was a larger than life-size eight foot tall glass model of the same female torso advertising the same perfume.

We sadly departed all the charms of Algiers for El Aouina airfield near Tunis. We landed in this God-forsaken dusty, desolate battle-damaged airfield after dark. The mess-tent and kitchen were closed. We were very hungry. The only thing we could find to eat was a can of Spam, white bread and grape jelly. As a sandwich, it left much to be desired. On guard duty in the airplane I started up the auxiliary power unit and tried to tune in some entertaining radio stations on Dunaway’s BC-348 short wave receiver. I picked up a lot of strange radio noises but no entertainment.

The next day we explored some wrecked Luftwaffe and Italian airplanes piled in a scrap heap. We then departed for Foggia, Italy. Across the Mediterranean after a short flight, less than three hours, we landed at Foggia Main. A few minutes on the ground and we departed for the base at Amendola. After a month enroute, we had reached our destination. The war, for me, was about to begin.