The Last Mission

Lying there in the hut half asleep and half awake, I was thinking of the letter I had just written to Mother and Lorraine. "Don't worry about me now, I'll be home soon as I'm more than half finished with my missions. It won't be long now."

Glancing at my watch I could see it was 1:50 a.m. If there was a mission today, our crew should surely be on it as we hadn't flown for several days. In the distance I could hear footsteps approaching our hut. How well I knew those footsteps by now -- the footsteps of the Squadron NCO charge of quarters coming to wake up the combat crew officers who were flying that morning.

Yes, he was heading towards our hut. The outer door opened, the lights turned on. Everyone in the hut, 12 men, awoke immediately. The Sargeant called off the first pilots names one by one and everyone held his breath till the list was finished. I thought possibly that our crew could sleep late again, but the next to the last name was "Lt. Norby". "Breakfast at two and briefing at three", announced the CQ.

It was cold dressing in the hut in those early morning hours, and as usual I was the last one out of bed. Our crew was the only one from our hut flying this morning. The pilot, 1st Lt. Norby and the co-pilot, 2nd Lt. Allen, both of them "Chucks", told me they'd see me at the mess hall as I wasn't dressed yet.

Outside the hut it was black; at this time of the year in England it stayed light until about 11:30 p.m., and got light again about 4:00 a.m. At Squadron Headquarters I met the truck that took us to the mess hall, however, I got off at the chapel. Father Lenahan was there as he was every morning for general absolution and the administering of Viaticum to the Catholic crew members who were there. Time for a prayer and thanksgiving, thence on to the mess hall.

The boys had saved me a place as usual, but pancakes were on the menu. Pancakes, high-altitude flying and my stomach would inevitably "spin-in", so I made a breakfast of cold cereal, coffee, fruit juice, bread and jam, and stewed fruit -- my usual "combat breakfast".

After we three had our last cigarette and last cup of coffee, out to the awaiting trucks to the briefing room. Both officers and men packed into the GI trucks, the officers to their briefing room and the enlisted men to theirs.

The briefing room contained a large map of all Europe upon which our route for each mission was shown by red string. This map was screened by a curtain until the doors were locked and the briefing underway. The first step of the briefing was the Group Intelligence Officer pulling back this curtain to display our route and target to the officers of the various crews Each mission there was a tense silence as the curtain gradually moved back, baring the map and the target of the day. One could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet. If the target turned out to be an easy one and the route short, there was usually a mild cheer; if the mission was to be a "rough one", no one said much, but looked at the man next to him and nodded.

Today our target was a tough one and the route long. We had been to Murseburg, near Leipzig, once before. After the officer's general briefing, then was the Navigators briefing; making the flight plan, drawing courses and computing distances and arranging maps and charts. Thence to the equipment room, draw a parachute, and my flying equipment and heated flying suit. Next came dressing with flying suit, boots, helmet etc., and back on the trucks to the hard-stand of our airplane. The rest of the crew was in the tent, some sleeping, several putting guns in the nose position for me, as the navigator was usually the last to arrive, due to the special nagivator's briefing. The ground crew members were all busy putting the last minute touches to our ship.

Brief case, parachute, oxygen mask, candy bars and gum, and escape kit into the nose, a last minute check of guns, radio, navigation equipment, oxygen equipment, first-aid equipment, dinghys and "Mae Wests"; it was already engine-starting time. We joined the other ships after running up the engines, around the parimeter track towards the runway.

The weather was chilly and crystal clear that July morning, as our ship taxied up to the runway in take-off position. The time was 4:05 a m. and we could scarcely make out the lights of the Colonel's airplane as he roared down the runway for the first take-off. Following at 30 second intervals the remainder of the ships of the Group followed him, like angry birds taking off in the early English dawn. Already the clouds were starting to roll in from the Channel, as was the custom in early morning in that part of England, East Anglia.

We were next to take off when the pilots ran up the engines for takeoff. Our ship was the ship we had flown most of our 20 previous missions in, now to begin the 21st. Now we started to roll; faster and faster down the runway! The bombardier and myself were peering out the plexiglass watching the runway marker lights flash by. The last little rise of the runway, and we were in the air, ready to climb to assembly altitude for our 21st, and little did we realize then, our last mission.

We found our position in the Group formation at 14,000 feet in the low squadron. The clouds had indeed rolled in now and the ground was obscured from our vision as the sun started to come up and the Group started around the "assembly line" to pick up the other Groups in the Wing and the Division.

Our route was out over the Channel and into enemy occupied Holland. Needless to say, as Navigator I was kept busy figuring ETA's (estimated time of arrival) for the English coast, the Dutch coast and warning the crew when we arrived over enemy territory.

Out over the English Channel, Norby gave the order, "Test fire your guns." We all did and all guns were OK.

Now we were flying completely above an under cast. A sight I shall never forget was the immense numbers, mile upon mile of planes. Group after Group, Wing after Wing, as far as the eye could see were these bombers, B-17's and B-24's on course to the target in the early morning sunshine here above the clouds at 21,000 feet. A most beautiful sight, indeed! Each formation roaring on, this time to knock out an oil refinery which was supplying der Fuhrer's tanks and planes.

Onward, flying farther and farther into Germany proper, gunners now constantly on the alert for enemy fighters. Between breaks in the clouds now and then I could pick up a pilotage checkpoint to check my dead-reckoning position. The lead navigator was on course but according to my calculations, we would be about 15 minutes later at the target than the time scheduled on the flight plan due to an unforeseen wind shift.

"Navigator to crew - we are now at the I.P. (initial point from where the bombing run starts to the target). We are due at the target at 1025."

Turning down the bomb-run we could see the wall of black puffs ahead in the target area. One could almost feel the tenseness of the crew over the roar of the engines, however, we had all experienced this feeling 20 times before as we had flown into flak. We could see planes far ahead of us going down, not many but some, but we were confident that would never happen to us.

Going down the bomb-run to the target was always a good time to say a little prayer for us all to get back safely. And this day was surely no exception.

Almost as soon as we came into the flak area, we could feel the bursts all around us. The fragments seemed like hail on a tin roof as they hammered against the fuselage. More than once I called the bombardier over the interphone to see if he was all right. We received a fragment of flak through the nose and I could feel the plexiglass pieces of the nose going down my back. The minutes seemed like hours when flying through this anti-aircraft fire. The Germans really seemed to have our altitude and our Group in their sights today. Finally after what seemed like hours, but was really only a few minutes, the bombardier called over the inter-phone "Bombs Away!", after which someone immediately said, "Let's get the hell out of here." It seemed as though our ship was really taking a beating today. Several flak bursts out to our right put number three and four engines out of commission. Both engines were "feathered" and it was impossible to keep up with the Group on only two engines, so we left the formation in a dive to lower altitudes.

Even after leaving the formation, the flak gunners still had their sights on us. Flak was bursting all around us.

After leaving the formation at the rallying point, I gave the pilot our course home. We intended to follow the briefed route back for fighter protection by our own fighters and to avoid flak areas. At this point south of Leipzig we were in the very heart of Germany -- too far from Switzerland or Sweden, and even France, Belgium and Holland at this time were all enemy occupied countries. Our only hope was to follow our "Briefed" course back. We also planned to fly back at tree top level in order to escape enemy fighters and flak.

Now we were in a dive towards these lower altitudes from 24,000 feet where the formation was. The air speed meter read 250 mph going down at the rate of about 3,000 feet per minute. (The B-17 cruising speed was 150 mph.)

As we were going down, the engineer called in "Fighters at one o'clock", but they did not press an attack on us. Both number three and four engines now started to smoke and burn even though feathered. It was indeed apparent to us all that this was our last mission.

Somebody reported number 1 engine was smoking. When the pilot ordered us to bailout, both the bombardier and myself grabbed our chutes and I pulled open the escape hatch near the Navigator’s compartment in the nose. This was the navigator's duty on bail out procedure which we had practiced many times. The navigator is also the first man to bail out at this hatch.

After opening the hatch, I was met by the terrible roar of the engines and the slipstream of the number 2 engine (number 1 wasn't much use to us now, as it had been hit, too). There 16,000 feet below me was enemy Germany, and it certainly looked like a long way to drop.

Once again I checked my parachute and harness and I decided to go out the hatch head first. I had forgotten to take off my steel helmet, so I removed it and set it nicely back up in the nose of the ship -- as if I'd be back to use it again.

Finally, I was ready to go. I sat down near the hatch and shoved off feet first. First, I heard a terrific roar from the engines and the wind; and then the sensation of falling, not so much falling as the earth seemingly going round and round, first earth, then blue sky, then earth and sky again. I was tumbling head over heels and heels over head. I remembered in order to stop this, to extend my arms and put my legs out straight. Before I jumped I resolved to pull a "delayed jump", because of the presence of enemy fighters in the area. After I extended my arms and legs I could see nothing but sky as I was lying, or rather falling, with my back to the earth. Looking over my shoulder I could see two small towns about 12 or 13,000 feet beneath me. I still had the oxygen mask fastened around my face, so while unhooking it, using both hands, I again started tumbling, but went back to my original position. By lifting one leg as in a leg lift, I went over on my side.

I also must mention that I prayed constantly from the time I left the ship until reaching the ground!

Looking over my shoulder, I estimated my altitude now at about 6,000 feet -- time to open my chute -- the one big test in a 'chute jump.

I pulled the ripcord; something white shot past my face; then a terrific jolt; then an even greater silence than before. It seemed as though one was in a new world entirely, up here hanging in the harness with the 'chute billowing overhead. A mighty contrast to combat flying -- no noise; everything seemed so peaceful!

Now, however, I could see that the 'chute was drifting directly towards one of the villages below me. I pulled on the shroud lines to take me away from it and land between the towns. This started me swinging under the 'chute like the pendulum of a clock, which wasn't a very comfortable feeling, so I stopped this after I passed over the village.

Lower and lower I dropped; the towns were now very distinct. Now I could see a woman come out of the farmhouse at the edge of the village waving to me. Looking overhead I could see at least 20 'chutes above me at various altitudes. When I reached about 150 or 100 feet from the ground, I looked away from the ground and relaxed; I was landing about two miles from the nearest village. (By relaxing, I mean relaxing as much as possible under the circumstances.)

Just before hitting the ground I saw a German fighter, a FW-190, crash into the ground in flames about a mile east of me.

The next thing I knew I received a terrific jolt and a pain in both feet and legs. I was on the ground safely! I was happy indeed to be alive, even though my left ankle felt as though it were broken (it turned out to be only a sprain). Glancing at my watch it showed 1052, the jump took place in approximately seven minutes! The whole episode from the target up to the present had taken only 20 minutes, which seemed like 20 hours.

Oh, it was good to be on solid ground lying there in the warm sunshine on the soft wheat field, even though I was in enemy Germany! I was trembling and shaking from all the intense excitement of the past few minutes. My 'chute had collapsed as soon as hitting the ground as it caught on the tall wheat.

Glancing overhead far, far above me, group after group of B-17's were roaring homeward to England. It was a lonely feeling indeed to know that you aren't going back, and to think of the worry and heartaches this would cause my loved ones. Those boys up there were truly the lucky ones. Then I thought of the ones who died, and thanked God from the bottom of my heart that I was alive.

Things had happened so fast I could hardly believe where I was. I had only been on the ground a minute or so when I saw my engineer's 'chute land about 100 yards west of me nearer the town.

I knew my chances of escape were slight, but while lying there pondering over some sort of a plan, I heard many voices approaching me. Having been sighted while still in the air, my position wasn't hard for them to find. I tried to hide in the tall wheat, but not having time to bury my 'chute, they must have seen part of it. The voices came near me and someone shouted at me to get up. Sitting up, I turned around and saw three or four old men, evidently members of the "Landwacht" (home guard) one with a pistol, the others with rifles; three young boys were also there, one with a hatchet and one with a pitch-fork. All of them were civilians.

After searching me for arms, of which I had none (as ordered by Group Intelligence) the old man with a Nazi swastika band on his left arm enquired, "Deutsch, Anglise, Americaner?", to which I replied proudly, "Americaner!" Using signs and the word "vas", I asked him his nationality, to which he replied "Polisher". I thought possibly that all was not lost yet, but should have known better.

They marched me into the little village of Nedertrieben, the old man proudly displaying me to a chance meeting of any of his fellow townsmen. The boys looked at me more or less in awe and they carried all my possessions into town for me - my 'chute, flying helmet and oxygen mask, and the 'chute harness. The old man forced me to keep my hands up all the while.

As we reached the main street of the village, I could see what looked to be the whole populace out to greet me! By this time I had begun to"sweat out" my fate. About the only reception I was given up till now was a scowl and the word "swine" in deep guttural German. Evidentally, the German populace didn't go for the "glowing personality" of American "terror-fleigers".

Coming towards me down the center of the road, running at top speed, was a woman about 30 years of age with a little girl about 4 years old, hanging for dear life onto her mother's hand. This woman was shouting at me in a terrible rage, and crying at the same time. She ran up to me and gave me several blows on the jaw with her fist. Bitter hatred flamed from her eyes. She must have called me everything she could think of while the little girl looked bewildered at both her mother and me. Needless to say, the old man with the swastika enjoyed the face slapping immensely. I might add that this German woman "packed quite a wallop”!

The situation didn't appear very humorous to me then. If this woman was like this, I could almost see myself dangling from the end of a rope if we reached the hands of the rest of the populace assembled in the street at the center of the village.

However, no one laid a hand on me as I was led to the barnyard of one of the main buildings. I saw my engineer being led towards a barn; he waved to me and I to him. Later he was brought into the barnyard with me, along with a co-pilot from our Group, but another squadron. The Germans allowed me to talk to the co-pilot, Lt. Quast, but my engineer; T/Sgt. "Andy" Devine was forced to sit on the opposite side of the yard.

After several minutes of discussing our jump, a Luftwaffe unterofficer came up on a motorcycle, and from that moment when I was turned over to the Luftwaffe by the German civilian home guard, I was a prisoner of the Luftwaffe. The three of us were soon joined by another engineer from another crew. This man, as he was about to bailout, noticed that there was still life in his pilot, whom they had thought dead as the result of a 20mm burst from a fighter. All his other crewmembers had bailed out before him (the engineer). He jumped up into the co-pilot's seat and, although he had never landed an airplane before, crash-landed his airplane on two engines, as the other two were on fire. He thereby saved his pilot's life. The pilot was taken to a German hospital and reportedly recovered. Later the other crewmembers of this engineer signed a sworn statement as to the facts, and recommended him for the Silver Star. I also signed the recommendation, as I had seen the engineer land the aircraft wheel up and on two engines.

About 3 o'clock in that same afternoon, the four of us were marched out of this barnyard by a detail of Luftwaffe enlisted men in charge of the same unterofficer. But before we go on, I should like to mention the populace who came to the gate of the barnyard to see us. Mothers brought their small children down to see these terrible "luft gangsters", and terror-fleigers. Some of the Germans had the idea that all aircrew members of the AAF were ex-Chicago gangsters! Most of the children would take a peek at us now and then, but for the most part they tried to hide behind their mother's skirts. The older people would usually stare at us - some indifferent, some bitter, uttering a guttural "swine"! When school let out in the afternoon, all the children came to see these American terror-fleigers.

NOTE: Before being turned in to the Luftwaffe, a German civilian policeman in a uniform resembling Bismarck’s came to look at us. He walked up to Lt. Quast and myself, and his first words were "For you the war is over." He said he had been a prisoner in England during the last war, where he had learned to speak English.

When we left this barnyard-courtyard, we were searched again, then forced to carry all our belongings, flying equipment, clothing, and parachute and harness. Lt. Quast, in attempting to escape, had had his knee stepped on by the horse of a farmer who was chasing him. He walked with a considerable limp. We were told we should have to march about 7 or 8 kilometers to a town called Bad Sulza. It was a hot summer afternoon, and having had no food and little water, the march was quite trying. The four of us were guarded by six or eight German soldiers who were armed with rifles and pistols and one machine pistol. Just before reaching Bad Sulza, Lt. Quast's knee gave out on him, so the Germans procured a small cart, which Quast rode on and two of us pulled him through the streets of the town, which was crowded with people who HATED us.

We were marched to a concentration camp for French (so it appeared), and once again we were searched. These Germans seemed quite surprised to see a small crucifix and rosary, which I carried with me. My St. Christopher's medal was also with me. About 8 p.m. we were taken to the solitary confinement area of the camp, and two men were put in a cell originally meant for one man. About nine we were brought a meal which consisted of two sandwiches, ersatz coffee, and 2 packs of Camels each, with matches. This was the first I had eaten since 2 a.m. of the same day. The food was evidently Red Cross food used for the French prisoners.

Next morning the German commandant of the camp came to see us with his aide. Before we went to sleep that night, we took Quast to the hospital. We had asked the Germans for medical attention for his knee, so he and the three of us took him to the hospital on a cart. The German Luftwaffe doctor put his knee in a plaster cast, and wrapped my sprained ankle. Sgt. Devine was given aspirin for a headache. We then returned to our cells, and so ended July 29, 1944, my last day of freedom until May 1, 1945.

At noon next day, we were brought a pitcher of stew and left the prison after drinking several cups with ersatz tea. We were marched into Bad Sulza, his time with a cart for Quast and our belongings, to the railroad station. We were put on the regular train in a guarded compartment with our guards.

We traveled westward to Wiemar, several hours ride. While awaiting a truck at the railroad station at Wiemar, we were taken to a secluded part of the station. The unterofficer left us with 4 younger guards, one of whom we found could speak English. We spoke of why he fought and why we fought, then the conversation switched to general subjects. He was interested to know if we had sweethearts at home, and we asked the same of him. We also spoke of movie stars he knew. This was one of the few times I ever conducted a conversation with a German, the other time being, of course, at the interrogation center later.

The truck arrived and we were taken to a Luftwaffe base several miles from Wiemar. Again we were searched, and this time put into solitary confinement. At this place we were given neither food nor drink.

My cell consisted of an area about 10 feet long and about 6 feet wide. The heavy door contained a small window which was locked and covered by a shutter. The window, covered by bars, was about one foot square. I could look out by standing on the bunk. The bunk did not even contain a straw mattress, nor straw pillow, and no covering of any kind. I slept on the bare, flat, hard boards. It was indeed a lonely evening, and still lonelier night, however, I slept well, being weak from the lack of food and drink.

During the night I was kept awake till late by some German constantly shouting for "Schultz" in a deep, loud voice. They certainly must have kept Schultz on the move as his name was shouted almost every 10 minutes. Thus ended July 30, 1944, my first full day of captivity.

Copyright 2006 by ROBERT T. HANRAHAN
Selman Field Class 44-4