That summer of 1944 was a dry gulch for those of us eager to mix it up with the Germans. The real fun of combat was at the end of a day of action, when we'd sit around in the Nissen set aside as an officer's club, drinking Scotch and eating Spam sandwiches while chattering like a bunch of bluejays-refighting our dogfights or refiring our high angle deflection shots that nailed a 109. Now, all we talked about was whether or not the air war was over. Paris was liberated and it seemed as if the Germans were ready to call it quits, at least in the sky. All they were sending up were buzz bombs, many of them fired from the Dutch coast and passing right over Leiston, en route to London. Some of them came in so low that they blew up against the hills near our base. It was an awesome weapon, but it couldn't win the war. Ed Hiro and a few others thought the Germans were biding their time, building up their strength to sock it to us in a few big punches. Whatever the truth I was frustrated. I still had only one air victory officially credited to me, which was really amusing because I was now one of the four squadron flight leaders, the only one who wasn't an ace with at least five victories, and the only one not a commissioned officer. My new roommate was Bud Anderson. Andy was the best fighter pilot I've ever seen, with the eyes of an eagle and the instincts of a mongoose. We had the best eyes in the group, and could pick up specks in the sky from fifty miles away. And as he said, "Chuck, if we don't see 'em, they just ain't up there." Well, they weren't up there, and Andy and I were left to dogfighting each other to see who got to lead the flight home.
But we were still taking losses. Because there was no action upstairs we were ordered down on the deck to find targets of opportunity like trains and barges and motor convoys. That's how we lost Ed Hiro in early September. He was strafing German positions in support of the airborne invasion in Arnheim, Holland, when he was shot down on his last mission. We lost Eddie Simpson when he collided with another Mustang on the deck over France. I remember Andy and me climbing on the wing of Col. Don Graham's Mustang after a really hairy strafing run. Graham was our group commander and he looked in shock. Stubby Gambel was Graham's wingman and our friend. "Where's Stubby?" Andy asked. Graham shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "There were all these tracers…." He stopped and stared at his propeller blades. One of them had a bullet hole the size of a silver dollar. He turned white. So, we lost Stubby, too, and by now there were only a handful left who had joined the 363rd the day it originated in Tonopah. Each loss of one of the original guys drew together those of us who were left; in fact, we were living together under the same roof, and we became so close that it was as if we were flying in our own separate squadron.
Don Bochkay was the old man. He was about twenty-five, a Californian who loved to tinker with cars. Silk panties or nylons were impossible to get in wartime London, and he had his mother send him some to use as bait. One night, five of us were in a West End pub getting drunk, while 0l' Boch made a play for one of the barmaids by giving her a pair of fancy silk panties. "Honey," Boch said to her, "you stick with me and you'll be fartin' through silk." That line became famous throughout the entire Eighth Air Force. London had nightclubs, and we'd stay in a hotel and chase girls and get drunk. We'd go there whenever Doc Tramp, the flight surgeon, thought we needed a rest. He watched over us like a damned mother hen. You'd have thought we'd race to London every chance we got, but we were afraid of missing something-like a big dogfight-on our days off. But once we did go, we had ourselves a blast. One time Andy and I, more drunk than sober, raced down the platform to catch the last train to Leiston, which was just pulling out. We managed to toss our bags on board, but the damned train left without us. Doc Tramp would just shake his head when we got back from a three-day "rest" in London. We were in sorry shape.
Not that we didn't keep ourselves amused back at the base. We'd finish a night of boozing by dogfighting on our bikes in the pitch dark until the night when Jim Browning went ass over teakettle and almost broke his back. Then the C.O. threatened court martial. All the Nissens attracted rats, and all of us had .45s, so it was worth your life to wander around at times. Obie O'Brien's Nissen was like a damned sieve, bullet holes everywhere. Obie was quick on the draw with a temper to match, and one night, after polishing off a bottle of Scotch with a few buddies, he marched on the chow hall, shot the lock off the food locker, and helped himself to a couple of hunks of corned beef. If I got hungry, I'd sneak out in the woods and shoot the head off a rabbit. And if the truth be known, I made a few "emergency landings" that summer in parts of France occupied by our troops. Once I flew back to base with a case of champagne in my lap. To a country boy it tasted like sody pop; I drank it celebrating my promotion to lieutenant. After turning me down three times because of the court martial on my record, a board of colonels finally agreed that I was commissioned officer material.
I was still the most junior officer in our squadron because any other second lieutenant had seniority over me; rank meant nothing in combat, or should've meant nothing, but by early fall I was actually leading our entire squadron on missions, and there were several captains who were rubbed wrong being led by a new lieutenant. One of them was assigned to my flight of four, and refused to follow my orders. Flying combat is deadly serious, life-and-death stuff, and a flight leader is like a captain of a ship. His job is to spot the enemy fighters and order when to drop wing tanks, how and when to attack, and so forth. We were over Germany and this guy was flying as tail-end charlie, but lagging too far back in the rear, and ignoring my order to close up. So far back, he could be picked off by a 109 sneaking up on us and we'd never know it. Man, I got hot. I did a big barrel roll and came in behind him; he never saw me. Then, I fired a burst right over his canopy. The bastard saw that. He closed up immediately, and did what he was told. But I couldn't understand a guy like that: without discipline and teamwork, we'd all be killed.
On September 18, I led two squadrons in support of airborne landings in Holland. Our assignment was to provide top cover to C-47s towing gliders filled with combat troops. German flak and small arms fire were intense, and we sat up there watching those slow-moving C-47s getting hammered. Ten of them were blown out of the sky in minutes, and the ground was littered with smashed gliders. It was a bloodbath, and a part of me ached to get down on the deck and strafe hell out of those German guns; but another part of me was damned glad that our orders were to stay at 5,000 feet, well above the murderous flak, and escort the surviving C47s out of there.
I was really shocked when group headquarters chose me to lead the entire group on a mission. I was only twenty-one, a new second lieutenant, not even worth mentioning when it came to kills. By then, there were more than twenty aces in the three squadrons comprising the 357th Fighter Group-I wasn't even close. But group noticed me. The captain filed a complaint against me for firing warning shots at him; we were both called on the carpet. He was sent packing, and I was complimented. I was aggressive and reliable, and while fighter jocks don't lack egos and a few guys might've thought they could outfly me, there was nobody in the entire group who claimed they could outsee me. Being out there in front, your job is to see the enemy ahead of anybody.
A few days later, I was assigned as group leader and led all three squadrons on a bomber escort mission over Germany. Andy ragged me by calling me "colonel." The group leader is usually the group's commanding officer. Although I acted pretty matter of-fact about it (actually there wasn't that much to it: I was responsible for getting us to the rendezvous point with the bombers and positioning each squadron) I did manage to squeeze off a quick prayer we all used in tight spots: "Lord, just don't let me screw up." Anyway, I figured that as group leader, if there were any Germans in the sky, at least I'd get first crack at them. And that's exactly what happened.