Milk Run: A Gunner's Tale

By William E. Heichel

Milk Run: A Gunner's Tale is the true story of William E. Heichel and his experiences flying with the crew of a B-26 Martin Marauder in World War II Europe, primarily as waist gunner and radio operator. Written in a casual style reminiscent of a journal, the story draws heavily from the author's combat experience and seeks to tell the story of life in the U.S. Air Corps without getting heavily into technical information.
Several soldiers served as inspiration in discussing army life. In particular, throughout the book several references are made to George Hajek of Capone's south side neighborhood in Chicago (and his many roles on Sunday night's Lux Radio Theater) and Henry Hank Isenberg of Dorchester, Massachusetts. The author regarded these two men as the best friends of his entire life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781481702010

William E. Heichel

William E. Heichel flew 39 missions (earning credit for 44 1/4) as a member of the 344th Bomb Group 9th Air Force of the U.S. Army Air Corps during World War II. The excess credit was earned flying with flight and mission leaders, a prime target for enemy fire. His time in the army earned him true and everlasting friendships. A native and life-long resident of Mansfield, Ohio, William spent most of his professional life as a loan officer (nearly 40 years all told). He was happily married for over 30 years. A proud father of five sons; this book was written due to the gentle persistence of his eldest son. William Heichel passed away in 2004.

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© 2012 by William E. Heichel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/17/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-4279-8 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913160

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dedicated to my dear wife, Diana, and to my sons in the order of their arrival: Larry, Tom, Tyler, Michael and Ryan. The eldest’s gentle persistence over the years resulted in my finally putting the first words on paper. And to three sons no longer with us:

Richard Alan, twins Brian and Bradley.

PROLOGUE

Much of my story is from memory. That memory was amply awakened by the mission diary I kept during World War II. It consists of dates, names of crew members, targets, bomb loads, weather, expected opposition and mission success. The only liberties I have taken are for incidents which I could not associate with specific missions such as an emergency landing in Luxembourg when I saw General Patton. The conversations are recollection based on notes I have made periodically over the past 12 years.

My first attempt to write this down came in 1983 after my first heart attack. The one thing that stood out in my diary with each entry was milk run and the hope that all our missions could somehow be just that. There was never a doubt that this would be the title. Since then, my old fighting group, the 344th Bomb Group, has organized annual reunions and put out a quarterly newsletter also called Milk Run.

Had I the foresight, I would have recorded the countless stories heard over the past fifty years which attempt to interpret this time in our lives. Most are lost forever; Dave, his third mission in B-17’s, shot down and becoming a POW; Gene, three or four tanks shot out from under him while with Patton, also becoming a German POW, coming home a ninety pound skeleton. Or Zip, always on detached duty, who, in the last days of the war, went through industrial files of Germany’s prime manufacturers, confiscating secrets for his country. Parts of these tales could be told from official records, but not the whole story, not the human condition side of it.

My story may not reveal secrets from which movies are made. But I am bound to share my experience. Bound because as often as we are told that history repeats itself, and that we must study it to avoid repeating our worst mistakes, too many have not listened. The lessons that war teaches are harsh. Each generation must learn again that which we were forced to suffer. The hope, of course, is that enough people do read these stories.

Gazing higher, from my four mile height,

While raining death on my fellow man

For where God must be, unreachable

Only to find, He will reach down

To guide, comfort, and acknowledge

He did bend for me

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Normal missions consisted of thirty-six planes in six plane flights. Mission commander would pilot #1 plane of the first flight of the first box. Usually each plane has six man crews, leading plane normally eight men: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier, Gee box operator—all officers. Three enlisted men, all gunners for top and tail turrets, and waist guns. Number five ship in each flight carried an extra radio man. In my crew, top turret was the armor-gunner, tail gunner was the engineer-gunner and myself at the waist windows as the radio-gunner.

The target for the mission dictated the size of the bombs to be carried. Normal bomb load was four thousand pounds: two 2000#, four 1000#, etc., except 100# bombs—we could only carry twenty-eight in the bomb bay and this would normally be against troop concentrations. Depending upon the target again, sometimes the entire mission dropped when the lead plane released its bomb load, but it could be bombing by boxes or by individual flights, then each bombardier in each #1 plane of each flight made his run with his own bomb sight.

The only variation on missions to the above was maximum effort missions where every plane in the group that was flyable, flew—becoming box number three.

Our bomb group was identified with a white triangle on our vertical stabilizer and each of the four squadrons in our group had numbers to identify the squadron. My squadron was N3—our plane was N3D. What always brought a chuckle was one of the squadrons was K9, and one of the squadrons was K9P (pee).

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September 1944-December 1944

CHAPTER ONE

Letting down gradually, we could see the field with the mile long runway up ahead. Flying in loose formation, the lead ship started a slow right turn over the outlying edge of the field, losing altitude, getting down closer to the rolling green countryside. Tucked in close at one corner of the field was the village Cormeille (pronounced kor-may) for which the field was known and other villages could be seen at various distances in all directions. Just little clusters of houses, most with just one road, some with a crossroad feeding them.

Sandy and I were kneeling down between the pilot and the co-pilot’s seats getting a good look at our new base. Lt. Jim Gleinser, the pilot, was talking to the field tower concerning landing instructions and then pulled the headphone off his right ear. We turned left again on the downwind leg.

Our home for the duration guys. Anyway, it’s pretty here, so it’s got to be better than our base in England. Take a good look, said the skipper.

How’s your French, skipper? asked Sandy. Most of what I learned I don’t think will do me any good here.

Been studying the French book they gave us with our escape kit. Got all the important words down already. You know—merci, entrez, bonjour, tres bien, combien—.

What’s combien?

Means ‘how much’.

Yeah, but how about the really important word?

Haven’t got that far yet, pal, but I’m working on it. Flaps down (this to Van, our co-pilot). High school French didn’t really soak in or impress me too much. But we’ll all be linguists before we leave here,—pause—Better get settled in, you two.

We both stepped back down into the radio compartment. Roy Lewis, our top turret gunner and the crew’s armorer, was seated in my radio chair on the side of the plane and Lt. Jim Gorman, bombardier and navigator, was stuffing his maps back into his briefcase. He was seated on the right side of the compartment behind the co-pilot’s seat and separated by the bulkhead at the rear of the pilot’s flight deck. It was two steps up from the radio room and under it was the well for the nose wheel of the tricycle landing gear which nestled there while we were in flight. I could see the runway was marked by patched sections of concrete its entire length, the Kraut’s departing gift. Several skeletons of burned out hangars below, a small spattering of tents and Army vehicles at various locations on the edge of the field. I sat down on the steps between the two compartments. Wondered what our new home would have in store. Time would tell. I turned to look forward and watched our skipper cut back on the throttle, slowing the plane and setting up the prop pitch and fuel mixture. A wheel down nod to the co-pilot, seconds later both looked out their side windows, back and down. Van gave the pilot a fingered okay for the right wheel being down and locked. I slid the door between the two seats open a few inches. Checked to make sure our nose wheel was set, mouthed a soundless got a wheel to the skipper and slid the door shut.

Our eardrums were adjusting to the lowering altitude and this changed the noise level of the engines. Soon felt a slight bump and a squeal of the tires indicating we were down—one more safe landing.

It was September of 1944 and our entire bomb group, the 344th medium bombers, was being moved from Stansted northeast of London to about eighteen miles northwest of Paris, France. We were the first three planes to be moved. The remainder of our planes and all personnel and equipment would be arriving over the next ten days to two weeks. It was a big operation to move an entire group, especially having to cross the English Channel.

Lt. Gleinser turned right off the end of the runway onto the taxi strip where a jeep stood in the grass with the driver waving his arms. The pilot braked the plane and slid back his side window.

What outfit, sir? yelled the jeep driver.

The 496th squadron, he screamed over the noise of the engines.

Waving his arms to follow him, the driver jumped back in his jeep and started down the taxi strip. After several turns and about a half mile of traveling, the jeep turned into a parking area at the edge of a wooded section. Skipper turned into the hardstand, locked one wheel and did a 180 degree turn and cut the engines. The jeep took off down the taxi strip and indicated the next two parking areas for the planes which had come over with us.

Let’s get all our gear out including your chutes, advised the pilot as he unbuckled. At least we got a week or so of no missions, maybe longer. It’s going to take that long, by boat and by road, for the rest of the outfit to get moved and all set-up.

Roy Lewis and I opened the rear door of the radio room and stepped into the bomb bay catwalk, went through both bomb bays (the rear one was never used) and back into the tail section where we gunners rode while on a mission. I went by the top turret and crawled over our baggage and opened up one of the waist gunner’s windows. We started throwing out B-4 Air Corps and barracks bags and anything else in the plane. Dropped out of the window, each man gathered up his own paraphernalia and toted it all up to the front of the plane. We sat on our bags and lit up our first cigarette in France.

Think there’s a chance we can get into the bigger town up the road tonight, Skipper? asked our diminutive tail gunner, Sandy.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Sandy. I have no idea what we’ll be doing all week, so lets play it by ear right now.

Off in the distance an Army truck could be seen heading in our direction on the taxi strip. It stopped at the first two planes, loaded up the crews and their gear and pulled up to our plane.

Grab your junk and climb aboard, Captain. We’ll run you down to your squadron area, yelled the truck driver. Willing hands added their gear to the growing pile in the center of the truck bed and pulled our crew up. We staggered around as the vehicle took off at top speed down the strip.

The airfield was situated on the edge of the village of Cormeille and there was a chateau within the village which was to be our group headquarters. A two lane paved road abutted the field and across the road was the remains of an orchard which showed signs of neglect after nearly five years of German occupation. Our living area was to be scattered throughout the orchard. Nearly a dozen tents and some buildings were still standing, but most of the buildings had been blown up when the Boche left. Buildings were being rebuilt by a handful of Army engineers who were hard at work.

The truck pulled up the slight grade to the tree-lined road, stopped and turned right down to the entrance to our squadron area. Along the side of the road stood a young boy and a girl, probably middle teens, the first French we had seen, and everybody turned their way, standing up and yelled greetings with a few French words mixed in. Hand in hand, the girl waved her free hand and smiled at us. The boy didn’t acknowledge us—he was too busy with his free hand pissing all over the bottom of a large tree trunk. Our introduction to the French.

Turning left off the main road, down the hill from the village, the truck skidded to a screeching halt with the gravel flying. We were in front of the largest building among the trees in the orchard. The driver stepped out and said we could all get out and unload our gear. His C. O., a major, would be out in short time and give us a rundown on the situation. The three crews shuffled around, looking at the surroundings, some lighting up.

A few minutes later the door opened and the major came out chomping on an unlit cigar and motioned for us to gather ’round him.

I’m Major Johnson, boys. In charge pending arrival of your squadron brass. Now with all the work we have to do before your whole outfit arrives, I need the ranking officer to take charge. Captain Jones was it and held up his hand.

Okay, Captain, continued the Major, Now some of the buildings were left intact. Officers’ barracks are okay and the building which will probably be your theater or meeting room. Latrines were all destroyed, the officers’ will be operating today or tomorrow. You enlisted men will use the outdoor type—for some time, I’m afraid. There’s a slit trench on the southeast side of the orchard and hopefully the wind will cooperate. You’ll be issued tents and will have to erect them yourselves, six men to each one. Officers can go pick up your own sacks in the building over there. We may also be calling on you for extra help on some jobs now and then, and Captain, please see to it we have cooperation.

A three-striper came out carrying what appeared to be a canvas tent with a pole and some stakes, dropped it in front of us.

This is Sergeant Lake. We’ll both be around to help with what we can, but remember we have a lot to do, so don’t make asses of yourselves with a lot of questions.

Hank Isenberg nodded to me and we went up and grabbed the large canvas tent. Hank and I have been together every day we’d been in the Air Corps except for our first few days of local indoctrinations. Besides that, our entire crews were good friends. Captain Jones, our ranking officer, was Hank’s pilot. We started up through the orchard and surprisingly, found we were on gravel walks, so this must have been the Krauts living area also.

Let’s go as far away as we can, so we won’t be ‘volunteering’ for every half-assed job on which they need help, commented Hank.

We went to the end of the walk which was also the edge of the orchard, dropped the tent and all our gear. The other four on the two crews were following along, one with the main tent pole, another with a sledge hammer and some tent pegs, dropped it all in a pile.

I’m having a cigarette and a shot before we start this fuckin’ job, says Sandy. We get done early and we’ll be on another shitty detail.

The kid gets away from home and right away he’s corrupt. Drinking, cussing, smoking. Next it’ll be girls—as soon as he finds out it’s fun.

Turn blue, Hank, Sandy’s favorite expression.

That evening, after an assortment of odd jobs, Sandy and I decided on touring the big village of Cormeille, our home. We found it was on one street, all uphill and nothing else. The chateau was near the other end from our camp. Just nothing there. We decided we’d head for Pontoise, a larger town, about eight kilometers away according to a sign on the road. It was towards Paris and we wondered out loud about how far was a kilometer. From the air, it had not appeared too far. So we would look up Capt. Jones for permission to leave.

He gave us a slip of paper allowing us off base until midnight along with a word of warning to stay out of trouble.

We caught a ride into Pontoise on an engineering truck headed for Paris and were dropped off in the center of town. Had changed from our fatigues to our summer tans with ties and our silver gunner’s wings. We spotted a café at the corner, and charged in. There were two men at the bar, two more sitting at a table, all older, all locals. Two women were also present, one wiping off the bottles on the back of the bar, the other talking to the two at the table. The bartender, a heavy, red-faced Frenchman with a big mustache, came from behind the bar as we hesitated inside the door. Had a big grin on his face, gave us each a big hug and a kiss on each cheek rattling away in French all the while.

He sat us down at a table near the door, went behind the bar and brought out a tray of glasses and two large dark, slim bottles. He passed the glasses around to everyone there and uncorked one bottle, filled Sandy’s and my glass about two thirds full and sat the bottle on our table. Opened the other bottle and filled everyone’s glass and offered what was obviously a toast in French. We joined in the celebration—whatever it was—and could see it was very moving for the others.

It was clear and bubbly. Vino? asked Sandy as he dug out several British pound notes from his pockets.

No, no, no vino. Champagne, champagne, with a string of French gestures. Picking up Sandy’s money, he stuffed it back into Sandy’s shirt pocket, shaking his