Shaking hands with Rob, Jack said he had learned that a bronze plaque commemorating the 91st Bomb Group’s contributions to the air war over Germany was being unveiled at Bassingbourn, Rob’s former base, on Memorial Day, and he was wondering if Rob would go with him to the ceremony. This request came out of left field and caught both of us by surprise.
“During the war, we’d listen to the wireless for war news, and we’d hear all about America’s Mighty Eighth Air Force and its raids over Germany. Of course, we had Bomber Command and Fighter Command, but for sheer size, you couldn’t beat the amount of resources that America threw at Hitler. I always wanted to get up close to a bomber, so I checked a few things out and learnt that your old base is having this ceremony.”
Jack was waiting for Rob’s answer, but what could he say, except “yes”? Rob and Jack agreed to meet at the train station in Royston at 9:00 on Memorial Day, and Beth and I were invited.
Chapter 20
When Rob and I got off the train from London, Beth and Jack were waiting for us at the Royston station. Beth walked toward me with arms extended, kissed me on both cheeks, and told me how glad she was to see me. Even though the Montclair years were in the distant past, Beth possessed an elegance of style that came straight from England’s glory days before the First War. On the other hand, Jack greeted me with a solid handshake and Rob with a slap on the back.
In July 1945, when the Americans had departed, Bassingbourn had been officially returned to the Royal Air Force. The base was little changed from the time Rob had last seen it in September 1944, except that everyone was wearing RAF blue. Rob pointed to the barracks where his quarters had been, a nondescript, two-story, red brick building. “Compared to some guys, we had it good. Bassingbourn was a permanent RAF installation, so it had a lot more going for it than some of the other stations. We had barracks with central heating and not the Nissen huts you’d see in the newsreels. We took a lot of crap from guys stationed at other bases who had potbellied stoves to heat a room with twelve guys living in it. But we all had the mud and the rain and the fog.”
Jack pulled up in front of the two-story control tower where a crowd had gathered for the ceremony. Rob looked out at the runways, where hundreds of B-17s had taken to the skies, flying dangerous missions over Germany and occupied Europe. Lined up nose to tail, and in thirty-second intervals, the ten-man crews lifted off and prayed that this would be just one more mission instead of their last mission.
Pointing to the control tower, Rob said, “The ground crew used to stand up there or on the hardstand waiting for the bombers to come back. Of course, they wanted everyone to get back safely, but they’d worry about the other guys once they spotted their own ship.”
Jack mentioned that most of the bombers he had seen during the war had German markings on them. “Everyone thinks of London when they think of the Blitz, but any industrial city or port took a hit, and Southampton, Manchester, and Liverpool were all bombed. As soon as the fires were put out, the Home Guard and the fire brigade commanders supervised the clearing of the rubble, and the rebuilding would begin.”
“Just like in Germany,” Rob said. “We’d have to go back to the same target time and time again, except they used slave labor to clear the rubble.”
“Maybe you could tell us what it was like to go out on one of your missions,” Jack said.
“After the ceremony, if they let us walk around, I’ll tell you what it was like.” With that, we joined the group gathered in front of a platform where the speakers were waiting to address the crowd.
We turned our attention to the podium where a number of dignitaries were examining a sketch of a bronze plaque, which would be dedicated at a future date, honoring the five bomb squadrons that had flown 9,591 sorties on 540 missions from this base beginning in September 1942. The Commanding Officer at RAF Bassingbourn introduced an American colonel and a former member of the ground crew of the “Memphis Belle,” the most famous B-17 of the war, each remarking on the extraordinary accomplishments of the men of the Army Air Corps, who had taken off from airfields just like Bassingbourn, to take the war to the enemy on his home ground. Col. Hendricks referred to the more than 3,800 graves of American servicemen at Madingley. At one point, Patrick Monaghan had rested in that cemetery before his family had requested that his remains be returned to Omaha.
Jack, Beth, and I saw Rob’s growing discomfort as each speaker talked of the heroism of all the air crews who had come to England to help her defeat the greatest enemy ever to confront modern European civilization. As soon as the last speaker had finished, Rob took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and lit a cigarette. Taking a look around the airfield, Rob said, “I can’t get you inside a B-17, because all these bombers are British, but…” He hesitated for a long time before saying, “Are you sure you want to hear all about a mission?” We all nodded.
“Okay. Here’s how it went. Everything started with the 8th Air Force Headquarters in High Wycombe. They were the ones who decided what the targets were and what groups would fly.
“You checked the alert board to see what aircraft and crews were flying. If your name was on the list, you couldn’t leave the base. If you weren’t flying, the pilots might use the Links trainer to fly simulated flights, and the navigators would train on a new radar system developed by the RAF. On days off, the whole crew practiced ditching.
“While you were sleeping, the ground crew was going over every inch of your plane, and the ordnance crews were loading the bombs into the bomb bay. Anywhere between 0300 and 0600 hours, a sergeant, a great guy from Kansas, who probably could have sat out the war because of his age, came into our room and said, ‘Monaghan, McAllister. You’re flying. Breakfast at 0400, briefing at 0430.’ Something like that. He’d give you about one minute for this to sink in, and then he’d shine a light in your face. Pat always said the same thing: ‘Another day, another dollar,’ and then he’d jump down from the top bunk and start getting dressed.
“If you were lucky, your mission would be a milk run to France or Holland, but if it was Berlin or the Ruhr, you’d hear mumblings and groans. The movies showing guys cheering about going to Berlin was b.s., unless they had a death wish.
“You were shown photographs, maps, and diagrams to help you identify the target. When Allied troops were nearby, or if your target was in France or Holland, you had to make visual identification of noted landmarks to make sure you didn’t kill friendlies. If you weren’t absolutely sure, you went on to your secondary target.
“After that, another officer went over escape and evasion procedures, including where rescue ships were located in the North Sea and the Channel. Before your first mission, in case you had to bail out, you had your picture taken in civilian clothes that a European workman would wear. Hopefully, you would connect with someone from the resistance, and they’d use the pictures to get you false papers. In our escape kits, we had a little compass and a scarf, which was actually a map to help with your escape. Everybody loved those things.
“The navigation officer went over order of takeoff and your position in the group. That’s what everyone was waiting to hear. You were known by the name of your pilot, so it would be something like ‘Canicatti flying position 3-6.’ There were three squadrons to a group: lead, low, and high, with six ships in each squadron and maybe a couple extras in case someone had to drop out.”