BRIEFING AT THREE
By 1st Lieutenant HAROLD A. VOGEL
 
"BRIEFING AT THREE" is my account of 35 missions in Europe as Pilot of a B-17 Flying Fortress.  With few exceptions, these experiences were shared with the fellow members of my crew. To any crewman who chances to read these pages, I ask only that they bear in mind the fact that the perspective of war appeared different from the tail of a Flying Fortress, or from the downward look of the Ball Turret than it did from my post in the Pilot's seat.
 
A letter I wrote home sets the stage for the start of this journal.
 
                                                          Thursday Nov. 18, 1943 
                                                          Salt Lake City, Utah
 
Dear folks,
 
I suppose you are wondering just what I am doing in Salt Lake City--well just between us--I wonder myself. 
 
Back in Hobbs, (NM) I was in Headquarters reading the bulletin board when a notice was posted asking for 15 volunteers to go to Yuma, Arizona to fly B-17's in a Gunnery School.  Well I signed up because I was sure then that I'd get B-17's.  But after I signed up I got to thinking about me being stuck in Yuma for the duration while all my buddies were in combat winning medals and since they don't give battle medals for the Battle of Yuma, I scratched my name and decided I'd team along with the rest of the boys.
 
I've got my Hobbs diploma telling that I am qualified for Pilot and Co-Pilot of the B-17.  We had a General give us a graduation talk.  He said that in three months we would be flying over Germany.
 
Salt Lake City is headquarters for the 18th Replacement Wing.  Such a place!  Everything is screwed up-nobody seems to know what is going on.  But there are thousands of Pilots, Navigators, and Bombardiers here along with Engineers, Gunners, and Radio men.  Here is where we are formed into a combat team and we are sent from here to some operational training unit.  By far the greatest majority of Pilots here so far are fresh out of Advanced Training and me with my 4-engine transition course seem to be one of the lucky few.  But if I get sent to a B-24 school instead of a B-17 school, I don't know how things will work out.-- but there are so few of us B-17 Pilots here in comparison to the number on hand, so I think there is a chance I'll get B-17's (unless the run out before they get to my name down in the "V's."  I won't be here very long, And glad of that.  I'm sleeping in a large barn on the Utah State Fair Grounds.  There are over 700 Pilots in this room (what a threat to the Axis) (and how low the value of a pair of wings has dropped out here).  I'll write from somewhere in the US in another week or so.
                                                                                    All my love, Harold
 
 
On the morning of November 21, 1943, the 18th Replacement Wing at Salt Lake City, Utah issued Special Orders No. 325. Paragraph 6 assigned B-17 crew No.379 to proceed by train to AAB Pyote, Texas. The Personnel of this crew were:
                       
Pilot                     2nd Lt. Harold A. Vogel            "Hal"       
Co-Pilot                2nd Lt. Grant T. Newby             
Bombardier           2nd Lt. Howard W. Roemer        “Roz”
Radio Op.             Sgt. Joseph G. Galetti               “Joe”
Gunner                 Sgt. Arthur A. Miller                  “Bud”
Gunner                 Sgt. Howard R. Ruisch
Gunner                 Sgt. Edward F. Buckholz           “Bucky”
Gunner                 Sgt. James V. Shewmake          “Slick”
Gunner                 Sgt. Chester Shaffer
 
There were three hundred and eighty men milling in a barbed wire enclosure waiting for the train on the siding when our orders were passed out.  When I found my name and crew number on the list I began shouting our crew number and in a few minutes we were all together for the first time.  One of the first things we asked each other was, "where are you from?"  Newby, Roemer and myself came from Wisconsin.  Shewmake was from Texas; Ruisch from Iowa; Galetti from Illinois; Buckholz from Pennsylvania; Miller from California and Shaffer from Oklahoma.
 
Introductions over, we piled our gear on board the train and headed for combat training at Pyote, Texas.
 
Less than a week after we arrived at the Rattlesnake Bomber Base, we had several changes on our crew. Lt. Newby went to the hospital for an appendicitis operation and Lt. Stan Fox, a very good pilot, replaced him.  Sgt. Shaffer got airsick every time we went up in the blue so we were compelled to replace him.  It was difficult to find a replacement, but at last we were assigned Pvt. Paul Anderson from Indiana.  “Andy” was a Military Policeman who wanted to fly, so we gave him his chance.  He had not received Gunnery School training, so it was necessary to pound gunnery into him day and night until he knew his job as well as anyone.   He accomplished, in a few short weeks, the training the Air Force scheduled to last several months.  The next member to join our crew was 2nd Ltd. Russel Sullivan, “Sully” our Navigator. He was the youngest member of the crew, just nineteen and fresh out of Cadets.  “Sully” hailed from California. e HeHeeHe
 
As time went by, we practiced the art of war until it seemed to us that there was no other way of life.  Weeks went by without a pass, but what good was a pass down there?  Pyote was a mere ghost town and there were no other towns nearby.
 
Day and night we droned high in the sky, dropping practice bombs, flying formation, warding off simulated fighter attacks, strafing ground installations, flying instruments, dropping more bombs, shooting more ammunition, and always with that infernal oxygen mask drawn tightly over our faces--cutting off our circulation and giving us unbearable suffering.  When we weren't flying we were in Ground School, or up in a silo where, in a mock up of the cockpit and nose of a B-17 we flew realistic bombing missions over Germany. Each Officer performed his duties, flying, navigating and bombing with many problems and bad situations thrown our way.  We all walked away from there with perspiration on our brows. 
 
One fine day, on a practice bombing mission, we lost seven of our bombs out over the desert.  Roemer said that a malfunction of the bomb release system caused them to drop.  We returned to Base and just as I stopped the plane at it's parking spot, the empty right bomb bay gas tank, which could hold 410 gallons of gasoline, dropped from the open bay with a heavy thud as Roemer slipped the bombing lever into "select" position. That quickly drew the attention of the Commanding Officer. "Roz" firmly denied the Colonel's accusation that he had thrown the lever too far ahead until it hit the "salvo" position.  While thoughts of finding a new Bombardier flashed through my mind, Lt. Roemer invited the Colonel out to the ship, filled the bays with practice bombs, and suggested that the Colonel move the lever to "select".  The response was a gratifying crash as three of the bombs tumbled down onto the ramp, leaving others still in the ship.  This proved, beyond any doubt, that a mechanical fault existed.
 
"Roz" was about the best "sack rat" I have ever known.  When he wasn't bombing he was sleeping.  I often got his attention by slowly pulling the nose of the bomber up and then popping the wheel forward so that he would find himself weightless, floating around in his compartment.  Every other crewmember was doing the same--lucky no one was hurt.
 
One special phase of our training was called "ditching." This was the art of landing a disabled bomber on water and getting clear of the fast sinking ship. A B-17 was like a stone on water.  Usually, we were told, the tail sank beneath the waves thirty seconds after striking.  After many practice trials, exiting through the ceiling hatch in the Radio Shack of a mock-up trainer, I felt that we were unbeatable, so I challenged Lt. O'Brian and his crew to a little contest.  Good-by ten bucks! They made it in 15-1/3rd seconds, our crew in 15-2/3rd seconds. If only Sgt. Ruisch hadn't slipped and fallen back into the ship!
 
At the conclusion of our three months training, I had a hard time getting out of Pyote.  The Director of Flying ordered that I remain as an instructor and that my crew be broken up and sent overseas as fully trained Replacement Crew members.  I objected strongly because I did not want my guys stuck on a strange crew in combat conditions. The main thing we had accomplished in our training was the development of teamwork.  We all knew just what the other was capable of doing.  In addition, I was eager to enter combat.  There were days ahead when that training job looked pretty good.  Fortunately someone else volunteered for the training job.  My argument was that some married Pilot would be glad of the opportunity to stay in the States for a while longer and there were plenty of good Pilots to choose from.  At length, I located two Pilots who wanted the job.  The three of us put our names in a hat and the Director drew a name--not mine.
 
A last minute change was made in our crew just before going overseas.  My Co-Pilot, Lt. Fox, was transferred out of our crew and given a crew of his own as Pilot.  Lt. Wilbur “Dub” Dodds, from Tennessee, filled his position on our crew.  Dodds had been demoted from Pilot to Co-Pilot and carried his grudge throughout our tour of duty.
 
When our combat training was over, we were all granted a nine-day leave, our farewell to home and family. We were all anxious to get started for home when leave day arrived, but delay after delay kept us on the post until 2200 hours. Three of us from Wisconsin, Roemer, Thompson from another crew, and myself succeeded in getting a ride with a Lt. Fusco, one of the Bombardiers of our class who had a car.  His Dodge was old and worn out but we knew with luck we could beat the train to Chicago by driving straight through.  What a hectic trip that turned out to be!  The weather was dismal.  Fog and rain plagued us all the way.  We stopped counting the times the tires went flat.  We were a soaked greasy group after the first couple hundred miles.
 
Thirty miles west of Fort Worth, TX the engine failed.  It clanked and rattled and we were able to limp into a garage at Fort Worth about 1000, nine hours after leaving Pyote.  One of the piston heads had broken and we were faced with the prospect of a long delay.  A little more grime and grease didn't matter so we helped the mechanic as much as possible.
 
At 1600 hours that same day we were again rolling north.  For a long distance the trip was uneventful except for a few more flats.  We alternated drivers and stopped only for gas and oil.
 
Three of us were sleeping in the rear seat as we neared Cairo, IL.  Lt. Roemer was driving and it was raining hard.  The car suddenly lurched and skidded and I awoke with a start as the weight of two men slammed me against the side of the car.  We were lying on our side in a snow and slush-filled ditch.  Water was seeping up inside, and, after the first few stunned seconds, we found ourselves still in one piece.  The chill of the icy water sent us scrambling topside in a hurry.  Luckily no one was injured and, as we surveyed the overturned car, we tried to figure out what had happened.  All “Roz” could say was, "It beats me!"
 
Ethyl gasoline spilled from the tank and stained the snow red.  Thompson saw this and gasped, "Blood--someone's been hurt!"  I immediately recognized the source of the "blood" and, with a grim sense of humor, I stared at Thompson with a very startled expression on my face and pointed at his head.  Finally I blurted, "Your right ear--it's gone!"
 
He froze, paralyzed in his boots, and a shocked look of pain swept across his face.  Very slowly he brought his trembling hand up toward his ear, but he hesitated a full ten seconds before actually touching it.  I never saw a more surprised and relieved look that he displayed when his shaking fingers grasped one whole and unscratched ear.
 
For the next half-hour we busied ourselves retrieving our bags from the water and righting the car.  The engine wouldn't start again so we lost valuable time waiting for a tow truck to pull us into Cairo.  In Cairo we checked into a hotel to get cleaned up and then rushed over to a railroad station and just made connections to Chicago.  Lt. Fusco was left to salvage what he could from his battered car.
 
The days at home passed by quickly.  All of my former buddies were somewhere in the Armed Services.  From several persons I heard remarks that generally went along this line--"Why hello there!  Are you still in the States.  My Johnny has been overseas for six months.  Blah! Blah!  I paid no mind to this talk, but did enjoy spending time with my folks.
 
The return trip to Pyote was not nearly so dramatic, but trains offered more security and they didn't have flat tires.  As soon as we arrived in Pyote we began packing for our next move.  We spent the last night at Pyote playing poker.  That was our usual pastime around the barracks.  The next morning we shook hands with the men who were not moving on with us.
 
On the morning of February 25th, 1944 we left Pyote.   We were assembled by crews in front of the mailroom at 0800 and, typical of the old Army game, "hurry like hell to wait," we were still standing in ranks at 1000 waiting for something to happen.  Lt. Dick Taylor, a classmate of mine from Blackburn College days came along to wish us luck. He was a Bombardier Instructor.  Finally the brass and big wheels showed up and gave us brief cheers.  One of these was Major Cooke, our much disliked tactical officer.  With a Goering-like strut he passed up and down in front of us and said, "We've given you the best we've got. Good luck.  Give them hell for us!"  Then, with the post band playing lively marches, we paraded through the camp to the siding and boarded our train.
 
Before the train left, we ran over to the Sales Office and bought cigarettes and candy.  Dodds spotted a Coca-Cola truck parked near the train and he quickly had a case of coke tucked under his seat.  We were all busy reading magazines and playing blackjack by the time the train began to roll.
 
We arrived at Kearney, Nebraska on the morning of February 27, 1944.  Trucks were waiting for us and we clamored aboard for a quick trip to the Mess Hall.  After an excellent meal, we attended a short orientation lecture and then had the rest of the day free. Kearney, we soon discovered was the best-organized, smoothest operating Air Base we had ever seen.  This was our staging area.  Each man was presented with a copy of the processing schedule and he was routed swiftly from one phase to another with a minimum of lost motion.  We had never seen such efficiency in the Air Corps.
 
A showdown inspection of our flying gear took place on the second day. The checkers pulled equipment from us left and right and it began to look like we were going overseas without any gear.  Next came the paper processing.  We made out our final wills and powers-of-attorney and other important papers.  I finally received the orders from Pyote promoting Shewmake and Galetti to Staff Sergeants.  The promotions came through on the last day at Pyote, but I was unable to get the orders verified before we left.  Needless to say, the boys were beginning to feel bitter toward me for not getting their extra stripes for them.
 
We then had our physical exam that qualified us for combat duty. The doctor stuck a thermometer in our mouths, read it and said, "OK, you're ready."
 
We were routed from station to station like parts on an assembly line.  From the physical, we entered a room where we were fitted with the latest model oxygen mask and a built-in microphone.  Then the Finance Officer moved up and we collected all pay and allowances due.  From there we passed through long rows of flying clothing and equipment where we were loaded down with everything from a parachute to leggings.
 
The biggest piece of gear we acquired at Kearney was a B-17 airplane.  It was not ours for keeps.  For us it was a means to get to the Theater of Operations and we were delivering another bomber to the battle.  On February 29th we were briefed on the route we would fly to reach our Port of Embarkation.  The excellent briefing included actual in-flight movies of the route we would fly. Early the next morning, we loaded our baggage in the bomb bay of our assigned ship.  In the afternoon, we attempted to fly our instrument calibration mission.  It was necessary to insure proper operation of all flight instruments, particularly the compass on this factory fresh Fortress.  A faulty compass in mid-Atlantic would not have been in our best interests.  During this mission the fluxgate compass developed trouble and the landing gear failed to operate electrically.  We found ourselves flying around with one gear down and one up when it came time to land.  Our Engineer, “Slick” Shewmake manually cranked the gear down and we returned to Base.  Another check flight was scheduled and the mechanics began their work. More time was consumed fixing the gear than we had anticipated and we were delayed.
 
That night the majority of the crews departed for the Port of Embarkation, but a few, like us, were temporarily grounded for repairs.  In a sense, we were fortunate to stay at Kearney awhile longer, for the crews that took off that night flew at 18,000 feet through bad weather.  One of these ships, piloted by Lt. Marquette, encountered severe icing conditions near Des Moines, Iowa.  They crashed and all ten crewmembers were killed.  While taxiing for takeoff, another rammed Lt. O’Brian’s ship and two more ships were temporarily out of service.
 
For two days, severe storms in the East kept us grounded at Kearney.  Meanwhile, we completed our instrument calibration flight with an amusing incident.  “Sully” was up in the cockpit checking my instruments and “Roz” was sitting in the nose doing pilotage that is, keeping track of our position. When we were ready to return to base, I called for a bearing and swung the nose in accordance with Roemer's direction.  In a few minutes, the field came into view and I radioed my position and received permission to land.  I entered the traffic pattern and, while on the final approach with just a few feet between us and the ground, I looked over at the control tower.  What I saw prompted me to push the throttles full on and get out of there.  We were at Grand Island AAB instead of Kearney!  The fields were similar in appearance and close together.  We were in radio contact with the Kearney tower but our flight path encountered Grand Island first.
 
Our ship was a brand new ‘G’ model, just out of the Modification Center with only twenty hours on it, when they delivered it to us.  The guns were all in place, including a new wide-sweeping tail turret and the new type nose turret.  The bomber's skins were now coming through unpainted, for no longer was there any pretext at camouflage in the skies over Europe.  The long rows of new "G" Model Fortresses at Kearney spelled power to this observer.
 
A recent modification, a servo tab on the elevator surfaces, was included to make the operation and handling of the ship easier.  On our first flight this gadget fooled me; I almost stalled the ship when I hauled back on the wheel while attempting to land.  I had used the same pressure on it as on the older training ships and the nose jumped sky high.
 
We liked these new ships very much, this one of ours in particular.  But, no matter how nice she was, we couldn't become too attached to her because we knew that when we got to the United Kingdom, for that was our destination, we would not fly this particular ship in combat.  We were only to deliver the ship to the fighting zone and it, in return, was to provide us with a means of getting there.
 
I was supposed to sleep from 1700 until 2400 prior to departure, but the excitement of the coming trip kept me awake and, finally I dressed and went over to the Officer's Club where I played pool until we were called to a Weather Briefing.  Briefing was over at 0200 and then I went through a large stack of red tape.  I signed papers at a terrific rate and when the ink had dried, I had, among other things, "bought" the airplane, automatic pistols, binoculars, service records, knives and emergency rations.  While I was so engaged, the rest of the crew stood by the ship, pre-flighting and warming up the engines.  “Andy” and I carried armfuls of equipment to the ship.
 
It was a beautiful night for flying.  The snappy cold air pepped us up and the bright moonlight glittered on the frozen snow and reflected a thousand times from the rows of silver bombers resting on the ramp.
 
Precisely at 0430, on the 9th of March 1944, the control tower flashed us the green light and we thundered down the runway and rose slowly into the moonlight.  At 9,000 feet we leveled off and switched on the automatic pilot.  I tuned in the radio range station, found my proper place on the beam and settled back to begin watching the good old U.S.A. slip beneath us.
 
It was both a glad and sad feeling we experienced that night.  For the first time we were really out on our own, taking this ship to a spot thousands of miles away.  Going places felt good.  On the other hand, each passing minute in the sky put us farther away from home and family and this brought a lump to our throats.
 
The signals from the beams came in clear and strong and we saw the lights of Grand Island, Des Moines, and Moline slip by before daylight.   After dawn we waved good-bye to Joliet, Chicago, Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo, Utica, Albany and Manchester.  Then clouds obscured the earth and, for the rest of the journey we flew on instruments.  I made a sloppy instrument letdown and came in for a rough landing at Presque Isle, Maine, just nine hours and thirty-five minutes after leaving Kearney, NB.
 
At the POE we reported to Operations and were immediately processed further and given a stringent medical exam.  I did another hour of instrument flying in a Link Trainer working on the problem of a blind landing at our next stop.  After flying nine hours, and a bit of that in the soup, an hour in the Link Trainer was no fun, but every Pilot had to do it.
 
I needed no inducement to sleep that night.  Fifteen minutes after I left the Dining Hall I was sound asleep.  The next thing I knew, someone was shaking me painfully into a state of semi-consciousness and I heard something about a weather and route briefing for the next leg of the flight.  It was 0500 and below zero outside.  “Sully”, “Dodds” and I had to go to the Briefing and Roemer had time to enjoy another hour or two in his nice warm sack.
 
We were briefed on the weather and shown a motion picture of the route we would fly from Presque Isle to our next stop, Gander, Newfoundland, the Port of Embarkation for trans-Atlantic flights.
 
At take-off time the engines wouldn't start because of the bitter cold. Sgt. Miller had a cold and reported to the Infirmary.  After about an hour's delay we succeeded in getting the engines started, but Miller had not yet returned to the ship.  I sent Ruisch and Galetti out to get Miller and twenty minutes later Miller returned but the other two were still looking for him.  Miller backtracked and soon returned with the other two.  They all hustled aboard and we quickly got into the air.  Three and a half hours later we were at Gander.  The flight over Newfoundland was impressive.  We crossed the blue waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the snow covered woods, speckled with inviting iced over lakes.
 
At Kearney and Presque Isle we stocked up on cigarettes, candy, and other items which we figured would be scarce in England.  At Gander, the Red Cross gave each of us a carton of cigarettes.
 
We didn't expect to stay at Gander very long, but the North Atlantic weather kept us grounded for five days.  This we didn't mind, for the place was scenic and during our stay I went skiing twice.  They had a nice slope called "Little Sun Valley" which offered plenty of thrills.  Prices were lower here at the Clubs.  The best whiskey cost only twenty-five cents a shot.  Permanent officers and men seemed to lead a pleasant life here, but I imagine one would soon tire of the woods and snow and long for the  luxuries that civilization offers, such as wine, women and song.
 
“Sully” and I came from the over-water briefing armed with stacks of codes, maps, charts, and flight data necessary to complete the trip.  During the Briefing the officers present let loose a resounding cheer when they learned that a job had finally been found for the Bombardiers. While the rest of the crews were out preparing their ships, the Bombardiers were to go to the Mess Hall after baskets of sandwiches and coffee.  After the engines were warmed up and the ship was thoroughly pre-flighted, I had the gas tanks topped off so that we would have every available drop of gasoline for the Atlantic crossing.
 
We lumbered down the runway for the beginning of the flight at 2235 on the 15th of March 1944, a very dark and cold night.  At first the Fortress was almost reluctant to take to the air and for a few hair-raising moments I didn't know if we were going to fly the Atlantic or wrap ourselves around some Newfoundland pine trees.  From the instant we left the runway I was flying on instruments in the blackest night I had ever seen.  The first five minutes in the air had me wringing wet with perspiration.  I could not trim the controls for stable flight and, although we were gaining altitude, we were flying a course such as a Saturday night drunk would make.  It quickly came to my mind that we were tail heavy and I ordered all baggage and gear piled in the waist section moved ahead into the bomb bay.  As soon as this was done the controls became normal and from then on it was smooth sailing.  Had there been a few more pounds of gear piled in the back of the plane, this story might have ended at this point.
 
When we reached 9000 feet I leveled off and attempted to switch on the autopilot, but the cold Canadian air had rendered it inoperative and all attempts to thaw it out failed.  Dodds and I had a busy night facing the multitude of luminescent instruments.  We relieved each other at regular intervals from the task of keeping the ship on course. One instrument that we observed constantly was the fuel gauge.  Every few minutes we figured our rate of consumption and maintained carburetor setting for the most conservative consumption of fuel.
 
The Gunners spent the majority of the flight in the Radio Shack playing poker or stretching out on the floor to sleep.  “Slick” spent his time performing the many duties required of the Engineer.  “Roz” felt a little sick and he, true to his profession, slept almost all of the way across the Atlantic. “Sully” was the most active member of the crew.  Dodds and I could alternate at the controls and catnap occasionally, but on “Sully's” shoulders rested the responsibility for guiding us to those far off shores.  He plotted our position constantly by all the available means of navigation.  We were flying in a layer of clear air, but there were dense cloud formations above and below our level of flight.  When an occasional break in the upper layer permitted “Sully” took a fix on the stars.  On the entire voyage Galetti kept busy monitoring the weather stations, relaying the information on to “Sully” and myself every few minutes.  There were numerous storms over the Atlantic that night, but our course carried us only into the fringes of bad weather.  We were able to maintain our assigned course and altitude for the entire crossing.  Others flying ahead and behind us encountered severe weather conditions and experienced heavy turbulence.
 
When it became light enough for us to see, we found ourselves in a swirling gray mist all around except for the brilliant shades of red in the eastern sky.  A few times we were able to see the black waters beneath us.  There was no sign of civilization, no ships or floating debris.
 
The four engines performed wonderfully on the crossing, for which we were all very thankful.  I was in no mood to sound the warning, "dingy, dingy, prepare to ditch."  A person's chance of survival in those frigid waters was zero.  For hours we bored steadily through cumulus clouds.  Their tops were at our flight level and they swept swiftly past our wing tips as we winged eastward.
 
At 0745 a break in the clouds revealed a dark blotch on the horizon.  A few minutes later, we were sure it was land and, as we neared the shoreline, we saw with pride that we were splitting our course exactly as briefed.  After flying 2000 miles, “Sully” brought us to our exact landfall! We crossed the coast of Northern Ireland and the clouds closed in below once more shutting off our view of the land.  At this time, I spotted two other Fortresses near us, heading for the same destination, which lay some 300 miles ahead.
 
At the Coast In, “Sully” stopped navigating because I was scheduled to fly the remainder of the trip by radio beacon.  However, when I tried to home in on the station with radio compass, the needle kept circling crazily around the dial and it would not settle on a particular heading.  Investigation revealed that the antenna wire for that instrument had broken during the night.  Then I tuned in the Belleck radio range station and received a good signal for a few minutes, but before I could find the beam, the signals became confused and blurred and we realized that the Germans were jamming this frequency, as we had been forewarned. We were somewhere over Ireland without radio compass or radio range and at this point I called “Sully” and he estimated our position and gave me headings by dead reckoning.  Our concern was the heavy cloud cover.  Without radio beacons to guide us down through the stuff it was dangerous to go down blindly into that mountainous terrain.  Galetti reported very low ceilings over the countryside.
 
When “Sully” estimated that we had reached the Belleck range station we altered our course north and, after flying a few minutes on the new heading, I tuned in the Prestwick, Scotland range station, got a strong signal, and found that “Sully” had us "on the beam."  The Germans were not jamming this station, so now that we had our position, I made first radio report to the Ground Traffic Control.  The conversation in military jargon went something like this:
 
"Hello Nagar. Hello Nagar.  Hello Nagar.  This is Ballast Dog. This is Ballast Dog on southwest leg of Prestwick range, estimating Prestwick at 0950. Over."
 
"Hello Ballast Dog. This is Nagar. You are cleared to contact Burton Control for further instructions. Over."
 
"Nagar from Ballast Dog. Message understood. Roger. Out."
 
In the same manner I contacted Burton, giving them the information I gave Nagar.  Burton cleared us down to 5,000 feet and I gave them a call when we reached that altitude. This was Traffic Control’s job.  There were approximately fifty bombers coming in from Newfoundland and the time interval at take-off was one minute apart.  A minute separation in the air is not much.  The beam signals gained in volume and I knew we were coming over Prestwick Air Base.  Just as signal strength reached its peak a hole opened up in the clouds and there below was the airfield. Prestwick cleared us to 1000 ft. traffic altitude and I made a steep, tight spiral turn visually down to that altitude.  The ceiling kept dropping due to low scud clouds and ground haze and smoke.  We dropped to 500 feet to maintain contact with the field.  There were a half dozen planes in the landing pattern when I took my position in line.  The circuit was large and I soon lost sight of the field.  The plane ahead stayed in my view.  I followed him around to our final approach and when I finally saw the field, the runway was off to our left and neither the ship ahead or we could get in position to make a landing.  At this time it started to rain and the visibility dropped even more, so with the field still in view, I made a tight circle on the final approach leg and found a space between two other planes.  I rolled out of the turn in line with the runway, dropped the flaps and we lightly touched down on foreign soil.
 
I taxied to the parking area and cut the tired engines.  We were immediately instructed to unload our baggage into a waiting truck.  We left parachutes, Mae West life preservers, blankets and K-rations in the ship.  For months afterwards we were griping about leaving those delicious K-rations.  They would have made a tasty snack in the barracks.  There was no brass or brass bands to meet us, after all, we just flew across the Atlantic.  The GI who picked us up didn't even inquire about conditions back in the States.  Our minds after eleven hours thirty-five minutes in the air still were thinking Stateside, not Scotland.  Perhaps a slow boat would have given us some realization of the distance from home.
 
We reported to Operations Headquarters where we were debriefed.  I signed ownership of the B-17 from myself back to the Army Air Corps.  At this time I overlooked returning the Engineering records of the plane.  Later, when we were at our permanent station, I sent them back through military channels, but two months later they arrived back to me. 
 
When we were cleared at HQ, a truck took us for a short scenic drive through winding roads to the Adamson House, a great brownstone manor, formerly the home of a rich coal magnet, which had been turned into a transient hotel for personnel flying the Atlantic.  The walls of the bar room were covered with autographed photos and charcoal sketches of many famous people who had stopped there.  Here we had our first experience with English money.  We changed our American into English pounds, shillings, and pence.  When I ordered my first meal I simply held out a handful of coins and let the cashier pick out the correct amount.  Shortly after lunch we got down to the business of learning this money--a poker game.
 
In Scotland the grass was green and the trees were fully leafed out, a contrast to the deep snow and bitter cold of Newfoundland. 
 
After lunch, I registered and then began looking for a place to sleep.  Up on the third floor the plumbing failed for lack of water pressure.  On returning to the first floor, I was told to be ready to leave at 1700.  I changed clothes and cleaned up.  It was too close to departure time to find a bed and get some much-needed sleep.  At 1700 they changed departure time to 2140. I ran up stairs and found an empty bed.  At 2000 I checked the desk again and found a new 0300 departure time posted.  I rushed back to my bed, but someone else was already sleeping in it, and now I discovered every bed, chair, couch and barstool was filled, leaving me to sleep for six hours on the floor.  Finally the buses arrived and I scrambled aboard early to make sure I had a seat.  Our first ride in a blackout was an experience.  The bus twisted and turned down the roads on the left side and without lights.  After ten thrilling minutes, we arrived at a railway station and there we played the old army game again--hurry and wait.  We stood on the station platform in the black cold for two hours, (probably about five hundred of us,) while many trains swept past without stopping.  The trains showed no lights and they sounded nothing like American locomotives.  It was eerie standing on the platform while those ghost trains rumbled by.
 
A train finally shuddered to a stop.  It was one of those funny little trains like I'd seen on English movies.  Each compartment had a door and seats for six people.  In the rush for seats I separated from the rest of my crew.  I located an empty compartment and soon another officer groped his way inside. Had we thought to pull the curtains, we might have had a full length seat to sleep on, but a flashlight shined through the window and four more Officers clamored aboard.
 
I have taken many train rides, but the twelve-hour ride we took that night was the worst I ever hope to take.  There was absolutely no heat in the compartment and the only article I had for warmth was my short coat, which was far too short.  The only way I could keep warm was to cover my head, curl up on the seat with my knees doubled under me, and let my breath warm up my improvised tent.
 
On March 17th, we arrived at our destination, "Somewhere in England." We extricated our aching bones from the train and boarded a truck convoy, which lost no time getting started.  Upon questioning the driver, we learned that we were almost in the center of England near the Village of Stone.  The camp we were assigned to was called Beatty Hall, a former women's hostel for a nearby munitions plant.  The quarters were terrible.  The rooms were extremely cold because the walls were of concrete and stone and there was no heat.  The sun did not shine during the day.  Within two days, this clammy atmosphere had everyone suffering from a case of ETO (European Theater of Operations) sniffles.
 
Our weekly rations while in England were seven packs of cigarettes, two candy bars, two razor blades, and a few cookies.  We were issued a ration card to that effect.  The meals, although substantial, could not compare with the bill of fare in the Stateside training bases we had left.
 
The first night I went to bed right after supper.  Long after the war is forgotten, men all over the country will wake up screaming when they dream about those straw-filled biscuits, three per bed, that they slept on while quartered in Beatty Hall.  That first night I was too tired and cold to care how hard and lumpy that bed was.
 
We were scheduled to remain there for only a few days for which we were thankful.  I ran into Captain Lincoln, who was an instructor in my B-17 transition training squadron at Hobbs, NM, and my former roommate from twin engine Advanced training  in the Vultee Vibrator BT13, at Fort Sumner, NM, Max Wilson.  Both of these men were later shot down.  Wilson escaped capture and reached Switzerland, but Lincoln's ultimate fate is still unknown to me.
 
We stayed at Stone for six days with nothing to do but wait.  At night, we could get a pass from 1800 to 2400 to visit Hanley, a nearby town.  Once I missed the last bus back to the camp and had to walk and hitch hike, arriving at 0400.  A large truck stopped to give me a lift that night.  Both the driver and I were startled when I tried to enter the right hand door of the cab. I overlooked the right hand driver’s side of English vehicles.  That driver was probably thinking, "hijack" or stupid Yank.  During a blackout on a low cloudy night things like that could, and usually did happen to me.
 
Our next move by train took us to Bovington, England.  This camp was thirty miles northwest of London and, while there, we witnessed some of the last bombing raids on London by German airplanes.  We could hear the air raid sirens wailing from all points of the compass nearly every night and the camp loudspeaker would inform us of the proximity of the enemy.  We soon learned the distinctive sound of German planes.  At first we ran outside at the sound of sirens and watched the searchlights sweeping the sky.  Once in a while, we could see flashes of flak bursting over London and, a little later, dull flashes on the horizon as the bombs burst.  After a week of this we didn't bother to get out of bed at the sound of the sirens.
 
We attended ground school for two weeks, getting the latest information pertaining to combat in this theater of operations.  School lasted all day and at night we went to the club where we met many old friends.  Bovington was like a college homecoming in this respect.  I met many of the fellows who had trained with me somewhere along the way and then separated.  Now for a brief time we were all funneled together again, and for many it was the last reunion.  In the months that followed, wherever I went, especially London, I met some former classmate and he would tell me of someone who had been shot down and I would supplement his list with a few of my own.  In this way, we had a fair indication of how our former classmates were doing.  The casualty list grew swiftly.  I sincerely hope that many of them were able to reach the ground safely.
 
We witnessed an aerial demonstration that was well worth remembering.  The principal participants in the show consisted of a P-47 Thunderbolt, P-38 Lightning, P-51 Mustang and an A-20 Havoc playing opposite German JU-88, FW-190 and an ME-109.  Scramble them together in a wild dog fight, toss in a high flying group of Fortresses and a low-flying group of B-25's, add a few British Spitfires, a Mosquito, and a Hurricane and you have some idea of the aerial activity that we observed within the span of one half hour.  The Jerry ships were captured, flown by our pilots.  This was a demonstration for our benefit of German fighters in action.  If they wanted to show how good the German planes were, they succeeded very well.  The FW-190 kept clear of every Allied plane that tried to get on its tail.  The A-20 stalled out trying to catch the JU-88 in a turn, and the P-38 was always in the opposite side of the sky trying to catch up with the rest of the dog fight.
 
The JU-88 buzzed us at a terrific speed as we stood out in an open field watching the show.  He dipped so low that the prop blast knocked off our hats.  After watching this performance of German aerial capability, we knew that the fighter opposition could be plenty stiff, and that our safety lay in numbers, both in number of bombers and number of escort fighters.  We were told, however, that our fighter planes could outmaneuver Jerry fighters at high altitudes. 
 
We got a lot out of the days of Ground School at Bovington.  The material was combat oriented and practically all new to us and without previous knowledge of the facts we learned there, a crew operating in combat would be placed at a severe disadvantage.  In due course we finished our prescribed training and were issued our assignments.
 
My crew was assigned to the 94th Bombardment Group, which had its base near Bury St. Edmunds.  By consulting our maps, we located Bury about thirty miles east of Cambridge in Suffolk County.
 
On April 4th we departed Bovington via train for Bury.  It was a typical English day with intermittent rain, drizzle, fog and low ceilings.  We were in good spirits; no more Ground School for us--we were in the Big League now.
 
Upon arrival at Bury we boarded a GI truck and were soon winding our merry way through the picturesque English countryside.  After approximately fifteen minutes, we reached the airfield and our first stop was Group Headquarters.
 
Group didn't wait long to take some of the wind out of our sails.  We were in the Big League all right, but we were still rookies and that meant two more weeks of Ground School before we could go out and blast the Axis.  “Roz” and “Sully” didn't mind that a bit.  Ah, there was still a chance, (they hoped) that their applications to Cooks and Bakers School would be accepted in time to get out of all this.  (This was a standing joke among air force men.)
 
The 94th BG had four Combat Squadrons plus Ground Support Squadrons. The flying Squadrons were the 331st, 332nd, 333rd and 410th. We were offered our choice of 332, 333, or 410, all of which had vacancies at that time.  Vacancies occurred whenever a plane failed to return from a mission, or when a crew completed their mandatory 25 missions.  Not having any previous knowledge of this Group or its Squadrons, we went into a huddle and “Sully” suggested that the 333rd was a natural, a lucky sign.  It was a unanimous vote for the 333rd, an unfortunate choice as later events proved.
 
What happens when ten green kids like ourselves report into a Heavy Bombardment Group as replacement crews?  Well, as I have already said, we reported to Group Operations where the Director of Ground School, Lt. Murray, dug his claws into our ignorance with the gloating fact that we still had two more weeks of ground school and practice flying ahead of us.  Furthermore, it was necessary that we receive a passing grade on our exams before we could go into combat.
 
With this letdown, we jumped back on the truck and were driven to the 333rd Squadron area where we met the Ground Executive Officer.  He welcomed us with outstretched hands and passed us a stack of "beneficiary" papers to sign and then assigned us a place to live.  The enlisted men were directed to their quarters and an orderly led the officers through a dense woods dotted with discarded gasoline barrels, which, on second look turned out to be Nissan Huts and we were going to live in one of them.
 
A few months later, when I became a "wheel" (Army slang for a leader), I knew that after we left the Ground Executive Officer's office he phoned the Squadron Commander and informed him that  "a new load of fresh meat just arrived."
 
Our hut was the farthest back in the wet, dripping woods.  It was a bleak, black, half cylinder lying along the ground with a couple of permanently blacked out windows at either end.  We crowded in, each of us trying to get the best bed for himself, but the pickings were slim.  There were eight beds to the hut and the four in the rear were already occupied.  Naturally they had annexed everything in the hut that they wanted.
 
The beds at our end of the hut had fairly clean sheets on them.  We found out that evening when the other crew returned that the beds hardly had time to cool of between our occupation and that of the unlucky crew who had failed to return from a mission the day before. 
 
We busied ourselves that first afternoon unpacking and hanging up our pin-up girls, and making other finishing touches to our new home to make it look a little more livable.