Survival: Self & Country, Wwii: Combat Adventures of a B24 Navigator

By Bruce Galvin Craig

The adventurous true stories of a WWII Navigator on a B24 Liberator Bomber flying from England on missions over Germany. The book follows the author's military training through twenty transfers and his inventive efforts to get a commission and join the Air Corps. Each time a decision was made, some of his comrades went one way and others were sent to the infantry! There is barracks humor: tricks they played on each other and on superior officers. In addition to Chapter indexes, there are indexes of his 13 "near death" experiences and of his 18 missions over Germany, listing cities and targets to be destroyed. Interspersed with his story, in bold type, is a report of what was happening in other theaters of the war. Excellent review of little known events and strategies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467035200

Bruce Galvin Craig

Bruce Craig, a World War II Navigator, saw frequent combat in Europe and earned a medal for his experiences. Bruce kept a journal of his military career, and turned it in to a fascinating recount of his training, combat missions, and life-changing experiences at war.

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© 2011 by Bruce Galvin Craig. 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.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/11/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3519-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3521-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3520-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916282

Printed in the United States of America

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

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter 1   A Flight To War

Chapter 2   Over The Ocean

Chapter 3   Prelude to Combat

Chapter 4   The Last Days At Home

Chapter 5   Hello Army

Chapter 6   How Do I Teach Basic Training?

Chapter 7   Another Chance

Chapter 8   Off and Running

Chapter 9   Maxwell Maneuvers

Chapter 10   Shoot ’Em Down

Chapter 11   Pointing The Way

Chapter 12   Bombers Away

Chapter 13   War Zone

Chapter 14 The Lonely Ranger & Pronto

Chapter 15   Go West Young Man

NEAR DEATH THREATS

NEAR DEATH THREAT #5 Hitting Trees at Takeoff.

NEAR DEATH THREAT #6 Engines Quitting Over the Atlantic

NEAR DEATH THREAT #1 Potential Rollover Car Accident

NEAR DEATH THREAT #2 Near Drowning in Gulf of Mexico

NEAR DEATH THREAT #3 Lost in Training Flight in Storm

NEAR DEATH THREAT #4 Lost Lights in Night Flying

NEAR DEATH THREAT #7 Fall Halfway Out of Plane

NEAR DEATH THREAT #8 Armed Soldier Murder Threat

NEAR DEATH THREAT #13 One of Most Dangerous Missions

NEAR DEATH THREAT #9 Almost Shot Down by B17s

NEAR DEATH THREAT #10 Scheduled for Shot Down Flight

NEAR DEATH THREAT #11 Flying into Anti-Aircraft Cloud

NEAR DEATH THREAT #12 Conflicting Compass Readings

aERIAL MISSION FLOWN

Mission #1 02/28/45 Mershede Rail Yard

Mission #3 03/08/45 Lost Engine. Forced Return

Mission #4 03/17/45 Hanover Tank Factory

Mission #5 03/19/45 Baumenheim Jet Factory

Mission #6 03/20/45 Hemmingstedt Refinery

Mission #7 03/21/45 Hesepe Jet Airport

Mission #8 03/25/45 Buchen Oil Storage

Mission #9 03/30/45 Wilhelmshaven Docks

Mission #10 03/31/45 Brunswick Rail Center

Mission #11 04/08/45 Roth Airfield

Mission #12 04/09/45 Landsberg Jet Airfield

Mission #13 04/10/45 Rechlin Jet Airfield

Mission #14 04/11/45 Regensburg Airport

Mission #15 04/14/45 Coubre Point, France

Mission #16 04/15/45 Royan, France

Mission #17 04/17/45 Krochelevy, Rail Yards

Mission #18 04/20/45 Muldorf Rail Yards

2 Photo 1st lt bruce craig author.jpeg

1st Lt. Bruce G. Craig, Author

1945

3 Photo Bruce Craig with war friends.jpeg

Top Row—Pilot, Copilot. Bombardier, Navigator

Clark, Keane, White, Craig

Bottom Row—Flight Engineer, Four Gunners, Radio Man

Moore, Foshee, Stein, Bard, Ruck, Rawlins

PROLOGUE

The book starts off as the author and his flying crew first see the new B24 Liberator, four engine bomber they will take into the combat region. They will fly from New York to Labrador and on across the Atlantic Ocean to Wales and England to join a combat group. Even though this flight was not combat, it was full of unexpected adventure and some panic just flying to the combat group destination. The last medical shots, the last phone call home, and the last look at New York City, left the crew feeling lonely, inquisitive, but still full of bravado. The author said goodbye to his fiancé there in New York, which added sorrow for him.

The question of how did I get here and into this job is answered by a flashback in Chapters 3 and 4 which have the greatest amount of world history In the book. World history of the war is presented in short bursts throughout the book. It is in bold italics so it is easily identified for those who want to find it (or avoid it). It does demonstrate the massiveness of the war worldwide, but without great detail.

Life threatening events occurred not only in combat but in training, and on weekends when the crew might be off the army post enjoying some freedom. There was a major event even after the war that threatened the author’s life, the lives of the whole crew and the ground crew passengers that were riding along.

Humor and embarrassing events add a lighter feel to the story to balance out the adventure content.

© 2011 All rights to the personal story of the author Bruce Galvin Craig are reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form of that story.

The world history was developed from multiple library sources in 1977.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As the author, I would like to thank all those men who flew with me in our first B24 during training and in the first six missions in Europe. I felt as though we were a really compatible and close knit group. I somehow felt that we were almost family, and if any of us were to be wounded we would be taken care of promptly. I was very disappointed when I was promoted to lead navigator and taken away from all of you. From then on, I would be flying with a different crew on every mission and was even moved to a different Quonset hut where I knew no one. So, thanks to all you guys for making our relationships so pleasant in our flying days together.

Also I give special thanks to the old buddies of mine from the early days of our army life, namely at Iowa City and at MIT in Cambridge, Mass. to supposedly become meteorologists. We had fun even if some of us (including me) flunked out. I still laugh at room doors with the hinge pins removed so room occupants had their door fall over when they tried to enter their room or the guy that went to bed and woke up to find himself on a fire escape balcony, down one flight of stairs from where his room was. Thanks for the laughs and comrade spirit guys.

And can I ever forget Basic Training Center #10 and the way we were supposed to teach basic training to new recruits when we hadn’t had it ourselves, and the companionship we shared there. Thanks for the friendships in those hectic days. How many Saturday parades did we miss? (on purpose, with no penalties)

I was glad we had each other to pal around with. Thank you. I hated to leave you all, but the Air Corps was calling. Thanks especially for the help you gave me at Basic Training center #10

GERALD MARGOLIS

JOSEPH RIEGER

RICHARD WILSON

Then there was Penn State College where I think we all passed academics, and we all enjoyed the food in the frat houses we lived in. I often think of the pleasant times I had with all of you. Thanks for the pleasant memories.

LANIER BEDINGER

BOB HOSICK

HAROLD CLAUSER

FRED JACOBY

CHARLES DOWNING (killed in later training)

JOE MALLO

DICK EHRMAN

BILL MINTER

I miss all you guys and I wish I knew where you ended up in the war. I hope you all ended up with a promotion in whatever branch of the service you wanted. I do wish you had the luck to get through the war with your life intact and freedom from any injuries.

Thanks to you guys who flew into dangerous areas to get the airplane pictures. We’re proud of you.

Thanks for the photo by Denver Post’s Craig P. Walker, the text by the Denver Post staff writer Karen Rouse and the Denver Post for approving the release of the entire article for use in this book. In reference to Denver Post article B24 Vets Reunion Helps Them Clear Air and corresponding photos.

Finally, many thanks to Lauren Lawton for her excellent and competent computer work on the book.

The AIR MEDAL was awarded for each group of six combat missions flown by a crew. The medal is shown with 2 oak leaves to represent 2 more awards of the medal.

4 Photo Air Medal.jpeg

Chapter 1   A Flight To War

It was January of 1945, and the bite of winter wind stung my flesh as it worked its way through the fibers of my clothing. I was standing on the ramp of an airport next to a B24 bomber, waiting to fly from Long Island to Europe to join in the fighting. My body had been hardened by almost two years of concentrated physical training in the U.S. Army and U.S. Army Air Corps. I had come out of high school and my first year of college with a height of six feet and a weight of 133 pounds. No matter how much I ate then, my weight remained the same. I could pull my stomach in so far that I thought I must surely be able to see the outline of my spine from the front. Now I weighed 160 pounds, and there was no possibility of that. What a change it had been. I remembered when I was starting college that my sister, Mabel, wondered if I would ever gain weight. Well, now I had.

Starting aircraft engines and bombers taxiing along the ramp roared in the background. They created their own wind as the propellers pulled through the chilled air.

My arm was still uncomfortable from the shots. Yet, I almost had to laugh at the ridiculous situation that existed when I got the shots. As I rubbed my upper arms, trying to generate some heat, I thought back to that time. It was just the day before yesterday, here in Hempstead, NY. The rest of the young Air Corps men and I stood in a line that wound its way into a barracks. Inside, the line continued up to the point where four medics stood, giving immunization shots. Two were on the left and two were on the right. It was apparent that each man passing through was going to receive four shots. I leaned to the right so I could see up into that area. Good Lord! The guys were getting shots in both arms at the same time. Well, perhaps it was better to get it over with this way and not have to stand in line any longer than necessary.

We had been standing in line most of the day… and most of the previous day also, for food, medical exams, dental exams, records review, or anything else they could think of. We were on our way overseas, so perhaps these would be the last of the shots we would have for a while. As we moved further into the barracks, we stripped to the waist and threw our shirts and ties over one arm. A few moments more and the time had come. The man in front of me stepped forward and got his two shots. As he stepped forward to get the next two shots, I stepped forward to get my first two shots. The medics stopped to open a new package of serum. They were soon ready to go again and so were the second pair of medics. The four of them descended upon me, and instantly I had four needles in my two arms. At least the two on my left were far enough apart that they could operate their hypodermic needles. The two on my right were too close to finish squeezing the serum into me or so they said.

Come on, Harry. I was here first, one of them said.

Sure you were. Now, take yours out, or I’ll just stand here all day with mine stuck in this here guy’s arm. I’m in no hurry.

I knew better than to complain. That would only egg them on. I had caught one of them winking at the other. So I just smiled at them and tried to look bored. A major, coming in the far end of the barracks, seemed to give them some incentive to settle down to business. Besides, I wasn’t contributing to their fun since I wasn’t appearing to be disturbed by all their needles.

My mind brought me back to the present. The cold weather and the impersonal feeling of standing alone on the ramps of this airport brought loneliness and fear to my mind. I had stayed in training in the U.S. without even trying, but this flight we were about to make would end that phase. This was to be a flight into a combat zone. I felt that I had so much to live for… so many experiences to have yet. Was I going to be cheated out of those? I had been lucky so far in avoiding so many pitfalls that could have led into the infantry and the ground fighting. I preferred that if I must die it would be in the air, not wading through water and mud. My next door neighbor had approached me before I left for the army and advised me to join any branch of the service other than the infantry. He had been in the infantry in World War I and never again wanted to think of the hardships he had experienced then. His advice stuck in my mind dramatically. I was lucky in being away from the infantry. When I told him I was trying for the Air Corps he commented, Don’t you know that is the most dangerous of all? At least I was still safe now in spite of flying. I hadn’t been killed in training like some of my close friends had been. There I was, not really looking at the situation spiritually. Rather, I was on some kind of physical relation to my surroundings. To this day, I still think of all those times when I considered only luck in making the correct choices the army asked me to make or the choices the army made for me. I was guided into the events that were shifting me from area to area. The choices I made and the choices the army made were incredibly accurate and helpful in keeping me safe. Somehow, there was a nostalgic feeling about leaving the United States. Was there some power to prevent my early death before my mission on earth was accomplished? It might be that I had more power to control events with my mind than I had ever dreamed.

A strong gust of wind jarred me again, and my attention was diverted from my fears and concerns temporarily. I looked around to see my crew working busily at the plane. I wasn’t needed yet. They were still trying to load their bags on board the bomber. The putt-putt was going… a small gasoline powered electric generator that was always started as one of the first procedures. The smell of the exhaust fumes always made me sick inside. Never really sick, but it was a bad feeling that I hated.

My mind slipped back to the shots. I remembered my buddy, Jerry, who was a wiry, masculine, tough-natured guy. He and I had shared much of the early army training. Sometimes when we got shots, Jerry would pass out cold. I didn’t know why, but this memory brought a smile to my face. It had always seemed so contradictory to the traits of the Jerry that I knew.

Another blast of wind from one of the bombers hit me, and then another, punctuating the end of my smile. Obviously, this was no place to meditate or reminisce. The protection the plane would furnish from the wind would feel good. Maybe the exhaust of the putt-putt wouldn’t be blowing up into the nose of the bomber today. Maybe I should avoid the nose and go sit up on the flight deck, somewhere the fumes never seemed to go. I started to walk towards the B24.

Yes, there was a nostalgic feeling about leaving the USA. I enjoyed what I could see of the landscape, even though there was not that much scenic material to see from where I was. We had gone into New York City on open post the last two evenings. My leaving was inevitable. Though it may have seemed heroic to some, it really didn’t seem so to me. It was something I had to do to help protect my country. There was never any thought of trying to get out of the duty of enlisting in the army. Later, I saw It was my mission to help my country survive… . and to survive myself. I wasn’t fighting it inside nor had I the faintest hint of protest such as would show up in the youth in future wars. Yet, the enemy seemed faceless. No enemy had done anything to me personally or directly. How could I be all fired up and gung-ho? But then, I knew I was and there was no anger about going. Perhaps there were some who would feign sickness to get out of personal danger. There must have been. A couple of days ago, in one of the assemblies, some colonel had gotten up on the stage to swear at us and threaten those who got sick suddenly.

If any of you damned bastards even cough, I’ll see to it personally that your ass is put into the infantry immediately and shipped out on the next boat to a battle field!

The volume of his voice made the threat even more awesome. I sure hoped that I wouldn’t get the flu and honestly be sick. To threaten me with the infantry was apparently the worst thing they could think of. I was already convinced it was the closest thing to Hell before this incident. Now I was seeing some corroboration that my opinion was valid.

We were given open post In New York. My fiancée, Ellie, (from my days at Penn State College) and I walked around Times Square. We had a nice dinner and it gave us some private time to talk about us as a couple. I had my picture taken for my parents. I remembered arguing with the photographer. He said he’d color my hair brown. I said I wanted it black. He contended that white people didn’t have black hair. Had there been color film in those days, my hair would have been black.

We went to see one of the big name orchestra personalities who were playing in a large hotel night club: Count Basie, I believe. I recall being impressed with all the musicians who seemed to just walk in and play a few numbers with his group before waving and walking out again. They all seemed to be such good friends. Ellie and I had to say goodbye, not knowing whether I would be injured or killed. The future looked very uncertain and I was so glad she came from Philadelphia to see me for this last night before my going on into combat. It was a sad parting as I put her back on the train to her home.

I and the rest of my crew met at a prearranged place and time to get our bus back to the base. We had closed down the city with too many rum and Coca-Colas. The bus got us back to the base in time to hit our bunks at 4:40 AM. It felt good until we were wakened at the usual 5:30 get up time. Less than an hour’s sleep and this day was the day we were to find our plane and start to fly it out of the country and into the war zone.

There was an incentive to roll out of bed. The plane we were to fly was a new one. We had yet to fly in a really new one. We were to be the ones to ferry it over the Atlantic Ocean into combat. The enlisted men in our crew had already seen it and reported that it was a real beauty.

I slipped out of my underwear, grabbed a towel and headed for the shower. That would help me to wake up too. Little did I know what a luxury that would be within a few weeks. Something as simple as a shower a luxury? Oh, yes.

My pilot, Dave, and Bernie, our bombardier, and I crammed our clothes into our A AND B bags hurriedly. Bob, our copilot did it more slowly, having a more fully developed hangover than the rest of us. We piled the bags outside the barracks along the road. We stuffed breakfast into ourselves as fast as we had stuffed our clothes into our bags. The excitement was growing. I think it was something like getting a new car. What were the accessories? How fast would it go?

At last, the big truck pulled up to take us all to our planes. The officers of four crews created a flurry of activity, throwing bags into the truck and swinging aboard. The enlisted men of the crews were already getting on a truck in their barracks area. We were grinning at each other and making jokes. Some jokes weren’t all that humorous, deep down inside. Our copilot, Bob, was so hung over he could hardly gather the strength to move at all. None of us were really well off, to tell the truth, but he surpassed us in misery.

Hey, Bob. Maybe they’ll have a seat that converts into a bed in the copilot’s position.

Humorous, Bruce. For God’s sake, leave me alone.

Dave wasn’t too happy about it. Bob’s condition was such that he was barely operable. It just meant extra work for Dave if Bob was not going to carry his part of the work load in piloting. Dave just shook his head as if to say, Hopeless. Bob sat there, staring at the truck floor, holding his head.

Suddenly the truck came to a stop, and there was our plane, gleaming in its newness. We threw our bags off of the truck, jumped down, and walked hurriedly over to our plane. The bags could just lie there until we had looked over the plane.

Look at this picture someone painted on the side of her nose… and the name ‘School Daze. What’s the deal on this, you guys? I thought we got to name our own plane and paint it up!

Heck, I don’t know. Just look at all the names written on her over here. How many people signed their names on this anyway?

Hey! Inside there are more names… all over the place. Some have good wishes and addresses. Anyone want to be a pen pal?

Not unless she’s young and single and beautiful. Why don’t you check them out, Bruce? You’re the mail specialist in this group.

I got that comment because I seemed to get more mail than anyone else.

OK, you guys. Here’s the answer. This was a special plane… the 15,000th one they produced. It’s written here on the wall. They must have had a big wingding party when this rolled off the production line.

It had been a milestone at the big Willow Run manufacturing plant, one of several plants that made the B24’s.

I squeezed up onto the flight deck and was amazed to find the special stack of electronic equipment and a radar desk I’d never seen before. Dave and I puzzled over it and finally decided that the main stack was all radar equipment. The radar desk had a small lever to let the bombardier guide the flight path of the plane on the final run to the target. I discovered a radar altimeter.

You mean there is something besides one of the aneroid barometers that has to be reset all the time? I could hardly wait to try it. How amazing it would be to be flying along and see the altimeter pick up every hill and valley. I combed every part of the inside and shared a description of each new item with those of the crew who had missed them. Our bags were still outside. I dropped down out of the bomb bay onto the ramp. There were bags all over… two for each of the ten men in our crew. I looked for mine and stowed them in the plane behind one of the bulkheads. I took a walk away from the plane to relax. After I had reminisced and taken a last look at the Hempstead landscape, I returned to the plane. I made sure that I had my maps and navigation equipment up on the flight deck.

Here we were, real, genuine neophytes ready to take off on a journey across the Atlantic Ocean by plane. None of us had ever done such a thing before. We all were under 21 years old. The pilot and copilot certainly knew how to fly the plane competently. I’d seen both Bob and Dave fly tight formation with other bombers. I had great confidence in Dave since he had done the most formation flying. Flying one of these bombers was far from flying a fighter plane. The difference was one between driving a sports car and a trailer truck with no power steering. I had seen Dave flying tight formation with his jacket off, perspiration running down his face, and the temperature at freezing. One hand was holding the control wheel, turning the wheel and pulling and pushing the wheel control column back and forth. The other hand was operating four throttles, and his legs were operating the rudders. Everything was in constant motion.

I can imagine how difficult it was for Dave the first few times, with instructors in other bombers of the formation yelling at him to close it up into a tighter formation. If he started to catch up to the plane in front of him, all he could do was ease back on the throttles accurately. There were no brakes to apply. If he pulled back on the throttles too far, he could force planes behind him to drop back. As a result, the formation could go into total disorder. It had happened a few times, at first, in pilot training, for a few pilots.

Rawlins knew the radio well, and it was not critical yet. Our flight engineer, Moore, was competent and had known the maintenance of the plane well. There was not much for him to do during the flight itself. Bernie didn’t have to drop any bombs on this flight, so he was riding as a passenger, as were the gunners, Foshee, Stein, Bard, and Ruck.

We had a good crew. It seemed simple, but everyone was depending upon me to navigate the plane accurately. I knew celestial, dead reckoning, pilotage, and Loran navigation. I had one of the newest sextants with which to shoot the stars. In shooting the stars, the navigator had to hold the sextant level. A small bubble built into the sextant defined when the sextant was level, much the way a carpenter’s level would work. In flying, however, the plane does a great deal of minor maneuvering, climbing, diving, and turning. It can be indiscernible to a passenger, but its influence on the bubble is disconcerting. It creates false levels which then give ever changing readings on a star. My sextant was an automatic averaging sextant, so you could chase a star in the lens system for three minutes, and at the end of that time, it would produce an average reading. In really rough weather, even the average reading would be suspect.

I had maps galore. I felt a nervousness at the responsibility. The night part of our trip was of no concern to me really. There were so many helpful stars to use… even planets, if I cared to take the time for the more lengthy calculations. Even using the standard 3 stars that were about 120 degrees apart, I would feel some uneasy anticipation as I started to draw in the three navigation lines. Ideally they should cross at a point on the map which corresponded to our position at the time I shot the stars. If the three lines came out as a triangle, I would assume we were somewhere within that triangle on the map. Any one or all the lines might have been in error. Silently, I would often wonder, Where are we, really? From the time I had shot the stars, some 15 or 20 minutes might have passed, so even if the lines had crossed at a point, we were no longer at that point. At over 280 miles per hour ground speed, we were now about 70 miles from that point.

Then there was daytime navigation over water. As we would probably fly south of Greenland and Iceland, we wouldn’t be seeing land during the trip. To do pilotage navigation (recognizing land characteristics from a map) would be impossible. The stars would be invisible during the day. Shooting the sun at noon would tell us how far north we were but not how far east or west. It would have been helpful to have Loran navigation, but it was not in this part of the world yet. Loran navigation required a special receiver in the plane to process the signals from the Loran transmitters. These broadcast stations sent out precisely timed signals, and the plane’s receiver would process the signals and display numbers that could be translated into exact positions on a Loran map. The positions were quickly obtained and very accurate. There would be dead reckoning navigation available with which I could use the airspeed readings, predicted winds, and a compass to calculate our position. A check with the radio compass could be used to tell us generally when we were directly south of Greenland, but not how far north or south we were.

Dave and Bob had their earphones on and had gone through some of their preflight procedures. We had permission to start our engines and go through some of the final preflight checks. It seemed so painful to hear the engines turn over, one by one. The starter whine and final connection to the engine resulted in shaking, hesitant, jerking motions and laborious noise. Each engine in turn would cough and sputter and blow black smoke out of its exhaust. I always felt relieved as each engine finally caught and started to run. When all four were running finally, it felt as though some great task was over. The bomb bay doors were rolled shut, and I started to walk back through the bomb bay area on the six inch wide beam that served as the only floor. No one was to step off that beam onto the bomb bay doors because they were not designed for that. I squeezed through the vertical beams that would hold the bombs in place, and I joined the