The Mission Day Log.

Most of us who flew in bombers in the war will vividly remember the events that went into the physical and mental preparation for a bombing mission. Only those who flew those missions will remember that strong inward desire to somehow avoid being awakened on that morning when we must once again prepare ourselves for the unknown.

In spite of these yearnings, each flyer dutifully forced himself to perform those task for which he had been trained, knowing full well that this day may be the last he would ever experience. Each member of each crew managed to perform that same ritual time and again -- 25 times, 30 times, 35 times.

The following mission-day outline, which I shall call a "Mission Day Log", is an attempt to detail the events, experiences, and yes, the feelings of one individual while preparing for a bombing mission to a target in Germany. This is my experience as a pilot. Other crew members preparations were only slightly different in detail but I believe we all had similar feelings.

 

The night before:
Usually we had advance warning that a mission was pending. If the weather was good and if we were not on leave we could expect that notice would be posted in the afternoon or evening of the day before our group was to participate in a bombing raid. The officers were usually at the Officer's Club or alone in the hut when the word came down. A typed notice that listed the crews that were to fly the next day was placed in the Club and in the Squadron headquarters. Each of us nervously searched that list for our crew name. There was no indication as to where this mission would lead us or the time of the morning that we would be awakened.
After the mission notice was posted, the atmosphere in the Club and squadron area changed radically. The joviality of the evening was gone as everyone became conscious of the meaning of this coming event. Some who could sleep would immediately retreat to their bunks and try to get much needed rest for the coming difficult day. Other's who could not sleep, would write letters, read, play cards, or anything that would help to make the time go by more swiftly. I usually chose to spend the evening writing a letter to my sweetheart or to my mother or both, figuring it might be a very long time before I might be able to write again.
We each faced the coming event in different ways. Newly arrived crews, who might be flying their first mission, would be looking forward to the event with great trepidation. Those of us who had been there before could scarcely control our desire to "get on with it". After all, the sooner we could complete our required number of missions the sooner we'd be going home. We could not choose the target or the time so we just took our chances and hoped that this target would be a "milk run".
I usually stayed up till about 10:00 PM. There was always the hope that I would suddenly be overcome by sleep. Why did time pass so slowly? There were times when I passed out and slept like a rock but most mission nights were spent in a very restless, fitful sleep. The expression "sweating it out" must have originated with airmen. Some airmen, when awakened the morning of a mission, would literally be in a cold sweat. No one said a word when one of his buddies arose in the semi-light of the early morning with sweat glistening on his torso. We understood.

 

Early Wakeup - 0330 hours.
It seemed to me that we were always awakened by an orderly at 3:30 AM -- it was not always 3:30 but it seemed that way. A rough hand on my shoulder and a flashlight in my face and a gruff "Wake up, sir. Briefing at 0430 hours", greeted me in the cold darkness of our hut. Lights were not turned on in deference to the sleeping crews that were not flying on that day. The four officers of our crew, Jim, Joel, Don and I lived together in hut #29. We each arose quietly in this early morning hour...usually by flashlight.
I dressed quickly in a sleepy stupor. There always seemed to be a chilling cold in the hut at that time of the morning but I felt comforted by the knowledge that wherever we went this day the temperatures at twenty five thousand feet would be much colder. I almost always wore my G.I. issue long johns. I never liked them but they did keep me warm. On one occasion I tried flying a mission without them and that experience convinced me that I could tolerate the itchy wool underwear better than the freezing cold. I also regularly wore a cashmere scarf which I had purchased on our first trip to Edinburgh, Scotland. The scarf was long enough so that I could wrap it around my neck, cross it over my chest and loop it under my arms.

The latrine, which served about fifty men, was less than a hundred feet from our hut and allowed us to sometimes be the first to wash with hot water....it ran out quickly. After ablutions and a quick shave (sometimes), we gathered our flight jackets and headed for the officer's mess for breakfast.
Our squadron, the 751st, was located about a quarter mile from the mess hall. I'll always remember the solemn procession of officers with flashlights spotting the way, trudging this quarter mile in the dark from the squadron area to the mess hall. In rainy or foggy weather the eerie procession was even more somber. We were each absorbed in our own thoughts of the coming mission and what it might mean.

Breakfast -- 0350 hours.
The mess hall was not the noisy, friendly place that we knew on non-mission days. Everyone was more subdued.....still trying to wake up. There was always someone, however, who decided to enliven the atmosphere by joking, or singing, or performing some nervous comic ritual to break the ice. No one seemed to appreciate this and the performer was quickly told to "sit down and shut up".
I usually had no appetite for food but also realized that it might be 12 hours or more before I would eat again, so I forced myself to enjoy the grits (or cereal) and "square eggs" and bacon that made up the usual breakfast menu. There was always fresh fruit - something I'm sure the GI's did not often enjoy. A cup of strong coffee topped off breakfast and acted as a quick picker-upper.

Mission Briefing -- 0430 hours.
Leaving the mess hall, Jim, Joel, Don and I, proceeded to the flight line for the officers mission briefing. We had been informed when we were awakened that briefing would be at 0430 hours -- it was now 0415 hours. Using our flashlights, we followed a short-cut path that took us to the flight line through a wooded area and saved a few minutes on this half mile walk. Walking this dirt path through the woods at this time of morning would normally be avoided but this morning there were enough of us that we seemed to form a continuous line from the mess hall to the briefing hut.
The briefing hut was an extra large Quonset hut with a blackout double door entrance. We shielded our eyes from the lights as we entered from the darkness of the early morning. Inside were rows of wood benches extending from the back of the hut to a raised platform stage at the front. A center aisle split the rows of benches. Overhead bare light bulbs in porcelain reflectors illuminated the space. The back wall of the stage was covered by a very large map of the European continent. The map was presently covered by a drawstring drape that would later be pulled back to display the route to our target for that day. The room could seat about 150 men and would be almost full this day since the group was putting up 36 planes. (Here is a picture of a typical briefing room almost like the 457th's)
By now, we were very much awake with anticipation. As the room filled with men, the nervous chatter of speculation and joking enlivened the atmosphere and the gathering seemed almost surreal. It took only minutes for the thin haze of tobacco smoke to fill the room. We anxiously awaited the moment of disclosure.....would our target be Berlin...or Mersberg...or hopefully some coastal target with no enemy fighters and little or no flak. We called this kind of mission a "milk run".
Promptly at 0430 hours the entrance door swung open. "Atten-Hut", and everyone snapped to attention as Colonel Rogner entered, strode briskly down the center aisle, and bounded onto the stage followed by the S2 officer, the weather officer, the colonel's aides and several other associates.
"At ease" shouted Colonel Rogner and moved directly to the center of the stage and immediately began a quick review of everything the group did wrong on the last mission. Fortunately, this only took a few minutes. He then quickly turned and signaled for the drawstring drape covering the map to be opened, and said, "Your target for today is the marshaling yards at Frankfort, Germany". At that moment it seemed that each flyer felt compelled to express himself with a gasp, moan, or some inappropriate remark as he observed the long black ribbon line on the map extending from Glatton to Frankfort, Germany. After the initial reaction, the seriousness of this briefing was evidenced in the expression on the faces of the men as each concentrated on the instructions being provided by the officers on the stage.
We now knew that this would not be a "milk run" and that we must prepare for a long, difficult day....there had been many disquieting stories circulated about our group's last mission to Frankfort.
Col. Rogner then proceeded to detail for everyone the following schedule: Stations - 0600 hours, Start Engines - 0630 hours, Taxi - 0645 hours and Takeoff at 0700 hours. He described the color flares to be used that day and gave other special instruction that were important for this to be a successful mission. He then explained what position our group would be flying in the Wing and in the Division. He described our specific target, how many planes we would be putting up, where other groups in the division were going and concluded with a traditional expression that we heard before each mission "This is the 457th Bomb Group, let's fly a mission worthy of her today".
The group commander then turned the stage over to the S2 officers (intelligence) who, using a pointer on the large map, proceeded to describe all that intelligence had learned about enemy fighters that might be expected and the location and number of flak guns that we might encounter at the target and en route. He then pulled down a projection screen over the map and signaled his assistant to start the overhead projector. For the next few minutes we saw aerial photographs of the target area, enlarged aerial views of the marshalling yards, ground pictures taken in that region , and occasionally some unnerving photos.
I vividly remember him showing a photograph, taken on the ground, of a line of telephone poles along a country road somewhere in Germany. From each of the first few poles were six airmen that had been hanged from the cross arms of these poles. "Don't let this happen to you" he said, "Defend yourself against civilians - surrender only to the military or the local police". It was then that it became clear to me why we carried a 45 caliber pistol.
The S2 officer then relinquished the stage to the group command pilot who named the squadron lead planes, repeated the times for stations, start engines, taxi and take off. He gave us our bombing altitude (25,000 feet), reviewed with us the primary target and named the secondary target in the event we could not bomb the primary. Next came the weather officer who described the expected cloud cover over England and over the route to our target and what we might expect at the target and at our base when returning. We always took this weather report with a grain of salt because weather predictions were seldom correct. The weather officer would say, "The temperature at 25,000 feet will be -40 degrees Fahrenheit." He was never wrong about that.
The intelligence officer again took center stage, and, looking at his wrist said, " We will now set our watches -- the time will be 0457 hours at the cue. In 10 seconds the time will be 0457 hours, ....., 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Hack". In unison everyone in the room pushed in their watch stem and started their watch. "Those of you who wish to talk with the chaplain can be dismissed now to the adjoining hut". The formal part of the briefing was over.

 Equipment Preparation - 0510 hours
The lead teams now gathered together at tables at the front of the room. The navigators and bombardiers of the lead and deputy lead teams went to another hut where they reviewed the targets and the navigation to the target and return. The copilots went to pick up an escape kit for each of the crew and the "flimsy's"- a thin rice sheet with the day's flight information and radio codes printed on it to be used by the pilot and radio man and to be eaten, if possible, in the event of bailout or capture.
We then left the briefing and proceeded to the equipment room to don our flight gear - the coveralls which we gratuitously called a flight suit, our leather-cloth helmet, goggles, gloves, Mae West, and parachute harness. We also picked up our oxygen mask, a throat mike, flak vests and parachute, and draped a 45 caliber pistol in a shoulder holster under our left arm. Some wore electrically heated suits but after my first experience with them, and the uneven heating I experienced (my rear was roasted), I elected to fly with the long johns and as many extra layers of clothing as I could manage to support and still have enough freedom to fly the plane.
We then threw our loose equipment onto the back end of a canvas canoppied truck which delivered us through the still dark morning to our assigned plane. The enlisted men had already arrived at the hard stand and were checking their guns and the bomb load.

 

Stations - 0600 hours
We are now all assembled at the plane we are to fly. Each of the crew members proceeds to load his equipment, parachutes, flack vests, etc. into the plane and scurries to locate it in the appropriate area. I spend some time with the ground crew chief reviewing the status of the plane and any mechanical problems that he thought we might encounter. It was never very good news to hear from him that No 2 engine had been acting up and that we might have trouble starting - but he thought it would be 'OK' once it started. Jim, our copilot, walks the exterior of the plane with one of the ground crew, observing every detail and especially seeing that the control locks and pitot tube cover have been removed and that all the engines had been "pulled through". It is now 15 minutes before scheduled start of engines.
Prior to boarding the plane each of the crew members pays a visit to the rear of the hard stand and "waters the Queen's grass". We know that it will be 10 hours or more before we will return and, with ambient temperatures at -40 degrees Fahrenheit, we do not want to risk getting certain parts of our anatomy frostbitten. Sometimes a crew member will throw up his breakfast.
I am especially anxious at this particular time. I make every effort to disguise my anxiety by my assertive actions, but I'm sure I am not the only flyer on this plane who is experiencing butterflies in the pit of his stomach as we await engine start.
Jim, our copilot, and I climb up into the open waist entrance door and proceed through the plane, squeezing through the bomb racks loaded with 500# demolition bombs. I exchange some words of encouragement with each member of our crew as we slowly move through the plane. Once at the cockpit we seat ourselves in our respective positions, strap on our parachute over the Mae West, connect the throat mike, check our oxygen mask and adjust the seat position. We give a quick overall check of the instrument panel and then commence our startup checklist. By this time I can hear the put-put of the ground crew's portable generator that is plugged into our plane until the engines are started. This generator provides power to our instrument panel, engine starters, lights and radio equipment and minimizes the drain on our planes batteries.
With Ed Peters, our engineer, looking over our shoulder we complete the preflight checklist and prepare to start engines. The copilot first makes a crew check to insure that everyone is aboard and in place and verifies that all guns have been checked and ammunition is at stand-by. Joel, our bombardier, checks the bomb bay to be sure the pins have been pulled and the bombs are ready and that the camera in the radio compartment is loaded and ready to take strike pictures. Sgt., Kenney, our radio man, checks his radio and the intercom and prepares the chaff that he will be dispensing on the bomb run.
It is now 0630 hours and looking out our cockpit window we see an arching red flare that has been fired from the control tower. The "engine start" is right on schedule. This is our sign that the weather is as expected and there is now a 90% chance that we will takeoff on schedule. The one thing we did not want at this time was a "scrubbed" mission. A mission might be called off for any number of reasons at the last minute . If the mission were "scrubbed" we would then have to close down, return to our huts, and repeat this same routine another day. We had mixed feelings about this. Sometimes we were glad that we had been given at least one more day before we would have to face the experience of being shot at. At the same time we knew that we would still have to complete the same number of missions, so, "We're here, let's go now".
Jim and I have now begun the startup check list. After signaling to the ground crew chief that we are ready to start engines,we begin by starting engine #1, then #2, #3, and #4. [A copy of the B-17 pilots checklist is in the section titled "Here is a copy of the pilots checklist" on this web site.] All items on the list are carefully checked, one at a time. When all four engines are warmed up sufficiently we run up each engine to full throttle for a few seconds to check rpm and manifold pressures and other instrument gauges. This is the time when the butterflies begin to disappear. We feel at home now and the familiar roar of our four Wright Cyclone engines is comforting indeed. We are ready to go.
At 0645 hours we signal for the chocks to be pulled from the wheels and, giving a wave to the ground crew, we slowly move toward the taxi strip leading to the takeoff runway. I have been given our planes postion at the breifing and now proceed to flow into that lineup of taxiing planes. We are now one of dozens of planes slowly lumbering, nose to tail, toward the takeoff runway. We will be the sixth plane to take off this day. The sky has begun to brighten somewhat but the sun has not yet made it's appearance over the English countryside.

 Takeoff - 0700 hours.
From our vantage point we can see the group lead plane move to the center of the takeoff runway to await the flare that would signal the start of the mission. The green flare comes at exactly 0700 hours. The lead plane slowly picks up speed and roars down the runway. Within 30 seconds after the lead plane had started down the runway, the second plane follows. Additional planes depart at thirty second intervals. As we await our turn to move onto the runway, I think about the coming mission and about how much my flying skills on this day will determine the safety and well being of the other men on board......a responsibility that weighs heavily on me. I say a short prayer.

It is now our turn. I slowly taxi out to the center of the runway. Our brakes squeal ominously as I make the 90 degree turn to line up on the center line of the takeoff runway. The gyro compass is checked and reset, the generators turned on, the wing flaps lowered one quarter and the tail wheel locked by the copilot. We await the green light signal for takeoff which will come from the mobile trailer parked ahead of us and along the port side the runway.

When the green light flashes, I press heavily on the brake pedals and advance the four throttle levers to full forward position. When the rpm reaches 2500, I release the brakes and we slowly start to move down the runway. As our speed picks up and I begin to feel the acceleration I realize that we are now committed to takeoff with our crew of ten, a 5000 pound bomb load, and 2500 gallons of aviation gasoline. Our plane creaks and bounces heavily as it slowly accelerates on the uneven concrete runway. As the speed increases further, our plane's tail slowly rises in defiance of gravity. To keep us centered in the runway I push heavily on the left rudder peddle. My eyes flash quickly from the runway to the instrument panel and then back to the runway. I can see this long concrete strip gradually disappearing beneath us as our speed begins to build. The roar of our engines at full throttle becomes deafening. Jim begins to shout aloud our airspeed.......80, 90, then 100 mph, and at 110 mph I pull the column back slowly and feel the welcome resistance that tells me we are at a speed that will allow us to become airborne. Slowly the nose rises and we lift off the runway - at that instant the ride suddenly becomes as smooth as silk and the comforting familiar roar of the engines is all I hear.
The landing gear and wing flaps are raised. We are on our way.