Hell's Angels: The True Story of the 303rd Bomb Group in World War II - Softcover

Stout, Jay A.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0425274101 ISBN 13: 9780425274101

Publisher: Dutton Caliber, 2016

Synopsis

Winner of the San Diego Book Awards for Military/Politics, this is the true story of the Eighth Air Force's legendary 303rd Bomb Group
 
Although the United States declared war against Germany in December 1941, a successful assault on Nazi-occupied Europe could not happen until Germany's industrial and military might were crippled. The first target was the Luftwaffe--the most powerful and battle-hardened air force in the world. The United States Army Air Forces joined with Great Britain's already-engaged Royal Air Force to launch a strategic air campaign that ultimately brought the Luftwaffe to its knees. One of the standout units of this campaign was the legendary 303rd Bomb Group--Hell's Angels.
 
This is the 303rd's story, as told by the men who made it what it was. Taking their name from their B-17 of the same name, they became one of the most distinguished and important air combat units in history. The dramatic and terrible air battles they fought against Germany ultimately changed the course of the war.

INCLUDES PHOTOS

About this title

About the Author:

Lieutenant Colonel (Ret.) Jay A. Stout is a retired fighter pilot who works as a senior aviation analyst for one of the world’s preeminent defense corporations. During his twenty-year military career he logged a remarkable 4,700 flight hours, including thirty-seven combat missions during Operation Desert Storm. His writing has been read on the floor of the U.S. Senate, and he has been widely hosted as an aviation and military expert on various television and radio news shows including Fox, NPR, and Al Jazeera. He is the author of Unsung Eagles: True Stories of America’s Citizen Airmen in the Skies of World War II; Fighter Group: The 352nd “Blue-Nosed Bastards” in World War II; and many other military nonfiction titles.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

INTRODUCTION

I surely wish this was all over and we could be thinking about coming home but there is a long hard job ahead yet and there will probably be no going home for many. I just hope that the people back there realize what everyone is going through for them.

—Letter home, John McGarry, February 19441

ROBERT HALLIGAN STEPPED OUT of the familiar sweat-and-oil-and-cigarette stink of the dispersal tent and into the fresh, gray wet of the English morning. Only a handful of the 303rd’s B-17s were visible through the fog. The gray blanket likewise muffled the aircraft-readying noises made by hundreds of maintenance men and their equipment as they prepared more than three dozen bombers for the day’s mission.

There had been a mix-up in aircraft assignments, but it was finally settled that the John McGarry crew would fly Spirit of Flak Wolf to Marienburg, Germany; Halligan was the crew’s navigator. The big ship hulked on its hardstand directly in front of him. Halting rivulets of water traced paths down its sides and gave it a muscular sleekness. Halligan watched the bomber’s crew chief walk one of the four propellers through several revolutions to redistribute the oil that had drained into the lower cylinder heads overnight.

Swaddled in layers of flying gear, Halligan clumped to the forward access hatch under the nose of the B-17. He tossed his musette bag through the dark hole, grasped the edge of the opening and swung himself up and into the aircraft. His entry was fluid and easy. Experience had done that. The first time he tried to pull himself through the door—during training back in the States—he flailed and scrabbled and collapsed back to the ground in an embarrassed, out-of-breath heap.

Inside, Halligan collected the bag and ducked onto the narrow catwalk that ran beneath the pilot’s compartment. Behind him he heard footfalls and the clanking of metal on metal as the other crewmen readied the equipment at their positions. As big as it was, Spirit of Flak Wolf still juddered gently as the men moved about and positioned their gear. Their voices were indistinct mutters that betrayed no emotion despite the fact that the mission was to be the 303rd’s longest yet.

It would be Halligan’s twenty-fifth mission. Had it been just a few months earlier it would have been his last. But just lately the required mission count had been raised to thirty. Halligan wasn’t angry. Rather, he was resigned. In fact, he had been resigned for a long time. But it wasn’t a giving-up sort of resignation; rather, it was an acceptance of fate. Whether he died or lived depended not only on his skill and that of his crewmates but also to an enormous degree on considerations over which none of them had control. On luck. Regardless, he was resolved to do his best—he owed it to himself and to his comrades.

Still, the odds seemed to be closing on the McGarry crew. Of the previous twenty-four missions, the men returned to Molesworth with all four engines running on only four. Flak, fighters and mechanical gremlins dogged the crew on virtually every sortie.

Halligan settled himself at the little desk mounted to the left bulkhead of the aircraft’s nose. There, he arranged his charts and checked them against the notes he had taken during the early morning briefings. Spirit of Flak Wolf was slated to fly near the rear of the formation and consequently, barring a catastrophe, the responsibility for getting to the target would not fall to him. However, it was imperative that he be continuously aware of the aircraft’s position. He had to be ready to give McGarry an accurate heading home in the event the ship was separated from the rest of the 303rd.

Kenneth Foe, the bombardier, stepped up from the catwalk and into the nose with Halligan. The two men were joined by the sort of bond created only by shared terror. Together, in the glass-and-aluminum cage that was the nose of the aircraft, they had fought enemy fighters, endured flak and sweated out mechanical failures that could have forced them down over enemy territory, or worse, into the icy North Sea. Too many times they had turned to each other when their very survival was at stake. And although their faces were clamped under oxygen masks and goggles, their eyes had unerringly communicated the fear they both felt.

Halligan and Foe checked the four .50-caliber machine guns for which they were responsible. They heard McGarry and the copilot, Willie Cotham, in the pilot’s compartment above and behind them. The flare signaling the time for starting engines was due momentarily. Halligan looked out through the water-spotted glass of the nose and noted that the visibility had not appreciably improved.

There was the flare—a streak of yellow that disappeared immediately into the clouds. McGarry shouted and signaled through the window on the left side of the cockpit, and Halligan saw the crew chief nod and raise a thumb from where he stood outside in the wet. Two other ground crewmen stood ready with fire extinguishers. There was a murmured command in the cockpit, and then the left outboard engine—number one—whined and ticked as it slowly wound the propeller through two or three faltering revolutions. Then, the engine coughed blue smoke, caught and settled into a smooth, syrupy rumble that spun the propeller into a translucent disc. A low, vibrating growl thrummed across the airfield as the rest of the group’s B-17s came to life.

The crewmen aboard the bomber were all business as McGarry and Cotham started the right outboard engine—number four. The pilots would taxi the aircraft on only the two outboard engines in order to save precious fuel. The two remaining engines would be started just before takeoff. The interphone crackled as each man double-checked his equipment and reported his status. Halligan, alone in the nose with Foe, felt somehow comforted as Spirit of Flak Wolf, with engines running, no longer felt like a cold, inanimate machine. Rather, as did every aircraft, it vibrated with a subtle timbre that was its own—almost as if it were a living thing.

Only a few minutes passed before both the bomber and its men were ready to go. A green flare arced up from the control tower, and the aircraft assigned to the front elements of the 303rd’s formation rolled from their hardstands and onto the taxiways that ringed the field. Halligan knew that McGarry was ticking off the different bombers against a list as they taxied. It was imperative that he put Spirit of Flak Wolf where it belonged in the long line of big machines.

Finally, McGarry signaled the crew chief and immediately a ground crewman trotted around the left wingtip—clear of the spinning propeller—and pulled the wheel chocks away. There was another exchange of signals, and Halligan felt the aircraft shudder as McGarry advanced the B-17’s two outboard engines. He looked left and returned the salute that the crew chief aimed at McGarry. He was never sure if the ground man saw him, but he always returned the salute on principle.

The aircraft ahead of Spirit of Flak Wolf blasted up mud and water and small stones. A clump of propeller-blown something made a muddy streak down the left side of the glazed nose. Halligan considered whether or not the climb through the clouds would wash it clean and guessed that it probably would not. Both he and Foe looked up when the aircraft was rocked, as if by a heavy wind. The pilot of another B-17 powered up its engines to pull a wheel clear of the sodden patch where he had let it wander, just off its hardstand. A rock ticked hard against the glass in front of Foe, and he reached up with his forefinger and touched where it hit.

There was another green flare and the mission leader started his takeoff roll. Halligan watched the heavily loaded bomber use most of the runway before pulling itself clear of the ground. A few seconds later it disappeared into the gray murk. The rest of the 303rd’s aircraft followed at thirty-second intervals. A short time later McGarry and Cotham started the two inboard engines—number two and number three—finished their takeoff checks, and swung Spirit of Flak Wolf onto the runway. They pushed the throttles forward and let the engines settle into a smooth, ready roar before releasing the brakes.

Halligan noted that the aircraft was slow to move; the crew had never flown aboard such a heavily loaded ship. Nevertheless, the bomber did accelerate slowly down the runway. Stuck onto the front end of the aircraft as they were, Halligan and Foe had a view of the takeoff like no one else’s. The B-17’s initial jouncing damped into a smooth roll as the wings created lift and began to pull the aircraft from the uneven pavement. And then, at a distant point of the runway where none of the crew had ever been, Spirit of Flak Wolf was airborne. Halligan watched the ground disappear as the bomber hauled itself into the low-hanging clouds.

There was a sudden, mechanical roar and the aircraft lurched. Halligan felt it yaw even as McGarry and Cotham pushed the engines to full power. An engine had failed. Halligan—even through the din of the hard-pressed motors—heard the two pilots above and behind him strain as they wrestled with the bomber’s controls. And then McGarry’s voice came over the interphone. He sounded frustrated, but not frightened. He ordered the men to don their parachutes.

Halligan and Foe exchanged their fearful glances one more time. So soon after takeoff there were no oxygen masks to hide their faces. It occurred to Halligan that Foe looked old. And tired. Behind Foe, through the glass nose, Halligan saw the ground again. And trees. The load that Spirit of Flak Wolf carried was too heavy for it to climb on only three engines. There was a jolt and the B-17 tipped toward the ground and then bucked nose-high for a long moment before nosing over again. There was another crash, and Halligan blinked reflexively as Foe’s body hurtled into his amid a spray of shattered glass and metal.

*   *   *

DESPITE THE FOG, the thunderclap that Spirit of Flak Wolf made when it smashed into the ground near Winwick, on Easter Sunday, April 9, 1944, traveled for miles. The bombs it carried did not explode, but the big ship was ripped into smaller bits that were immolated when the fuel it carried ignited. Halligan, Foe, McGarry and Cotham were all killed, as was the engineer, Henry Grace, and the radio operator, Stephen Stuphar. Miraculously, the four gunners were thrown from the ship and survived, although they were badly burned and injured.

None ever returned to combat operations.

PREFACE

I WAS A FIGHTER PILOT. Like most fighter pilots I was sure that I was the best there ever was. Alone in the aircraft, I controlled my destiny. If I lived or died, there was one person to credit or to blame.

And that is why I am so fascinated by the bomber crews of World War II. Certainly the men who crewed the heavy bombers that were sent against Nazi Germany were flyers, but they enjoyed none of the soaring freedom of flight. Rather, they crawled into primitive, bomb-laden brutes and froze—sometimes to death—miles above the earth in enormous formations while being savaged by antiaircraft guns and fighters. Driven by a visceral loyalty to their comrades and their country, they hunkered down, thrashed through the enemy’s defenses, dropped their bombs and fought their way home.

If they weren’t shot down.

To some extent their skills and those of their crewmates determined whether they returned home or not. But to a greater degree their survival depended on luck. It was chance that put a bomber in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time to be caught by a burst of flak. And providence decided whether or not a mechanical failure forced an aircraft out of formation to be set upon by enemy fighters. And it was fortune that determined if a badly damaged bomber slammed into another. In actual fact, the fates of the bomber men were largely out of their own control.

Indeed, flying heavy bombers against the Germans during World War II was akin to a complex, airborne variation of Russian roulette. And that is why I believe these flyers were the most valiant airmen ever. The decision these men made to climb aboard a bomber, mission after mission, while knowing that a safe return was never certain—regardless of their skill or experience—was a splendidly brave one.

Of more than forty Eighth Air Force bomb groups I chose the 303rd—“Hell’s Angels”—for several reasons. Firstly, it was one of the original units to start heavy bombardment operations against Germany. This allowed me to use the unit to provide an overview of the story, from beginning to end, of the Eighth Air Force’s strategic bombing effort. Next was the fact that the unit’s records are extensive, well organized and readily available. Decades after the war the 303rd formed an association, and many men—Harry Gobrecht chief among them—labored assiduously to preserve the group’s legacy. Finally, there was the fact that although the 303rd was a standout unit, its operations were typical of all the Eighth Air Force’s heavy bomb groups.

However, that being said, the 303rd’s achievements were remarkable. The B-17, Hell’s Angels, from which the group took its name, was the first Eighth Air Force bomber to fly twenty-five missions. Another of the group’s aircraft, Knockout Dropper, was the first to surpass both the fifty- and seventy-five-mission marks. The unit was the first in the Eighth Air Force to reach the two- and three-hundred-mission milestones. Further, the 303rd flew more missions from England—364—than any other bomb group. And only one other unit dropped more bomb tonnage. Lewis Lyle commanded one of the 303rd’s squadrons before becoming the group’s deputy commander; he later led his own bomb group. He flew an incredible sixty-nine missions—more than any other Eighth Air Force bomb group commander. Moreover, the bravery of the 303rd’s airmen was never questioned and was personified by Jack Mathis and Forrest Vosler. Both were awarded the Medal of Honor.

Too many histories of the air war over Europe during World War II concentrate only on the terror of air combat. Overdone, this can leave the reader numb, even bored. Consequently, I have worked to describe not only the horrors of the air battles, but also why, how and by whom those battles were fought. I have also gone to some length to describe the roles of the maintenance and support personnel; not a single bomber would have gotten airborne without them. Indeed, for every airman there were approximately ten men who toiled on the ground to support him. Within these pages, for brevity’s sake, I have included the various support groups under the 303rd’s umbrella. But I believe they merit mention by name at least once. They were the 444th Sub Depot, the 3rd Station Complement Squadron, the 1681st Ordnance Company, the 1199th Military Police Company, the 863rd Chemical Company, the 1114th Quartermaster Company and the 202nd Finance Company.

The 303rd and its support units comprised a bombing organization the size of a large town—approximately four thousand men at any one time. The experienc...

About this edition

• Publisher: Dutton Caliber
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 0425274101
• ISBN 13: 9780425274101
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 480