Combat Crew by John Comer

fine Commanding Officer. He had the respect of the men in his command. The Colonel was from a military family, but no typical brass hat. He was the quarterback on the 1933 West Point football team that lost only one game — 13 to 12 to Notre Dame. (He later became a four-star general and succeeded General Curtis LeMay as head of the Strategic Air Command.) The Colonel was my idea of what a combat commander should have been. I never heard one bitch about him from anyone in his command that made any sense.
    In our Group Interrogation Room the atmosphere was loose and free from any kind of restraint. Here the complete picture of the raid was placed on paper. No one crew could see everything accurately, so the final group picture of the mission was composed from the data supplied by various crews. Often there were new items to report which set in motion the network of Air Force Intelligence (S-2) which was constantly striving to stay ahead of the enemy. A new defensive weapon or method was pounced upon as soon as it showed up, in an effort to find the best counter-method before the Germans had time to exploit a temporary success.
    If a gunner thought he had shot down a fighter he had made his claim at the interrogation, where the briefing officer could get confirmation from other gunners who might have seen the incident. Wilson was positive he had badly damaged a fighter.
    â€œWhat kind of fighter was it, Sergeant?” asked the interrogation officer.
    â€œF.W. 190, an’ I got in three heavy bursts. I could see ’em hittin’ it an’ pieces flyin’ off.”
    â€œWell, Sergeant, the enemy fighters who intercepted us today were all M.E. 109s with liquid-cooled engines. The F.W. 190 has an air-cooled engine, but the only fighters today with air-cooled engines were our P-47s — did you hit one of them?”
    â€œOh, no! I’m sure it wasn’t a P-47 … I — uh — maybe there wasn’t as much damage as I thought. I — uh — withdraw the claim.”
    Balmore said, “Go ahead with your claim, Wilson. Maybe you can get credit for downing a P-47.”
    It was after interrogation that fatigue really hit me. But the day’s work still was not over. Wearily, we went back to the aircraft because the guns had to be cleaned and checked for worn parts, and stowed in oil-soaked cloths. They must be ready for another raid the next morning in case one was scheduled. It was twilight when I got back to our hut. Total exhaustion, such as I had never experienced before, so numbed me that I did not bother to go by the mess hall or take the time to wash. The long hours since the call at two-thirty A.M., the debilitating rigors of high altitude, the intense cold, and the wearying fatigue from fear and tension combined to hit me hard. I literally fell into bed, with part of my clothes on, and in two minutes was oblivious to everything, including the noise and hubbub of men coming and going.
    After that first combat experience, I realized a peculiar phenomenon of the mind: It is more traumatic to listen to a factual telling of a hair-raising experience than actually to go through the same thing yourself. The difference is that when listening to such a story, one has no escape mechanism. However, when living through a harrowing experience, the mind is too occupied with defense and physical actions to provide full accommodation for fright.
    Originally I had some reservations about Nick Abramo, because the ball was so important to the crew. Hanging down there all alone, cut off from the rest of the aircraft, was an unenviable position. By the time we got back from Le Bourget I was satisfied that we had a reliable man guarding the approaches to our plane from below. I guarantee that no other man in the crew would have voluntarily entered that risky, cramped, overexposed contraption. The ball required the knees to be brought upward on each side of the Sperry Computing Sight. Over a long