New Heavens (2 page)

CERVIA, ITALY, MARCH 1945

THE target today is Mestre, the most heavily defended port in northern Italy. We are in 250 Squadron of the Royal Air Force flying Kittyhawk (P-40) fighters over northern Italy and in Yugoslavia, in support of the Eighth Army.

The readiness boards on the wall in the living room give out the day's duties. The hominess and familiarity of the living room are marred by the impersonal furnishings, such as the torn armchairs, and the carpets that are spread around the room, as well as by the general feeling of impermanence. We await the sign to man our aircraft, all the while pondering our fate.

Unlike the fighter interceptions, when we usually stand alert near the runway or in the cockpit ready for a “scrambled” takeoff, there is ample warning for bombing missions.

The runway is made of perforated steel planking, or PSP, sometimes known as Marston Mat, linked together in narrow
strips to form a long, flat surface. Similar strips make up the taxiways. Nothing is permanent, for we have to be ready to dismantle everything and move forward if the ground forces are advancing, or back if we are retreating. The runway, too, can be easily taken apart and moved to another location. Airplanes are parked in their own parking bays among the trees and bushes. One mechanic services every two planes, helping us get into the machines and start the engines.

We get into the cramped cockpits of our Kittyhawks with our parachutes, life jackets, and dinghies, our maps strapped to our left thighs. The mechanic, kneeling on the wing, begins the start-up procedure. He turns the crank-handle faster and faster until the flywheel reaches a high-pitched whine. The magnetos are switched on, and the engine coughs and splutters into life. We check the various systems and increase to full power to test the engine. The Kittyhawk shudders and quivers, impatient at being restrained by the chocks.

We await the green Aldis-lamp signal from the control tower. As soon as the leader sees the green, he taxies out to the runway and opens up to full power. The takeoff is a hurried procedure, each fighter closely following the one in front to get aloft and into close formation. We have checked our radios but everything is done in radio silence for the time being. We are all well versed in our procedures and communicate using hand signals.

As the leader reaches 1,000 feet, he turns to port and we slide into a tight line-astern circle. When we are all in the circle the leader signals us into three flights of four airplanes
in “finger” formation. Then, we set course to the north, well out to sea. I see the coastline below me and through the haze to the east, Yugoslavia.

Two Thirty-Nine Wing of the Desert Air Force, 250 Squadron's dive-bombers in the lead, is chosen to be first over Venice. Our wing probably has the most experienced fighter squadrons of the Desert Air Force. Its history is intertwined with the victories and the defeats from North Africa to southern Italy and now gives support to the Eighth Army by dive bombing and low-level strafing.

By this time, I had completed forty-five missions, some as fighter escort to the heavy bombers, but more frequently, performing interdiction flights to disrupt enemy transport lines by bombing bridges, railroads, and marshaling yards. The enemy has difficulty in moving anywhere behind his front lines during the day. Moving shipping and barges in the canals and rivers is also dangerous because of our constant presence.

In a long climb to attack altitude, grouped behind, below, and on both sides, wing upon wing of fighters join us. Sleek Mustangs, dainty Spitfire IXs, snub-nosed Thunderbolts with their huge radial engines, and the solid old Kittyhawks named after Kitty Hawk, the airfield of Wright Brother fame and almost identical to Gen. Claire Chennault's Flying Tiger fighters in China three years before.

Five hundred aircraft in a dive-bombing raid on one target,
the largest assault of its kind in the entire European theater of operations. The target is beautiful, old Venice sinking slowly into its own mud, of interest now only for her ugly gray port of Mestre, a major supply center for the Wehrmacht forces in Italy. We know it bristles with antiaircraft guns of every caliber.

During the briefing before takeoff, the details are given as usual by the intelligence officer, Flying Officer George. He is less jovial than usual—his pink English face and yellow eyebrows creased by an occasional frown. He says that we will approach from the sea to the east of Mestre harbor, dive on the ships in the harbor, and rendezvous out to sea at 5,000 feet after the bombing. With a view to avoiding damage to the city, only dive-bombers with their greater accuracy are employed. Because of the expected heavy antiaircraft fire, Marauder [American-built B-26 medium bomber] “flak ships” will fly overhead to draw fire and, crucial as it turns out later for me, three air-sea rescue aircraft, one American and two British.

They are to follow and to wait over the sea south of the target area. One of the aircraft, an RAF Wellington, is fitted with a life boat, which can be dropped near any pilot who ditches in the sea. Another is a very old and slow Walrus single-engine seaplane of the Royal Air Force. The third is a twin-engine Catalina amphibian of the U.S. Army Air Force. [The army flew navy PBYs, designating them OA-10s.—ed.]

The sun glints through the haze and my eyes ache from the strain of searching the sky for enemy fighters. The Perspex of the windscreen and side panels is slightly scratched,
yet my vision is largely unimpaired. The cockpit has the familiar smell of fuel, oil, and Glycol coolant. The faint smell of the harness webbing and parachute covers brings me back to the early days of my flight training and to my first solo in the Tiger Moth. I wriggle into a more comfortable position on the hard dinghy beneath me. My scalp itches and I try, though I know it to be useless, to scratch through the leather helmet.

The comforting drone of the engine is my sole companion on these long flights, and my only contact is the voices on the radio from the rest of the squadron. I search every sector of the gray sky behind me because that's where danger lurks, especially with the sun behind you. The enemy will attack from above and behind, invisible between you and the sun.

We constantly scan for possible attackers, maintaining radio silence until we are into our dive and are detected by the enemy. My mouth is parched, and I lick my lips so I can speak into the microphone in my oxygen mask.

I keep my goggles on all the time to protect my eyes from the flames that may engulf me in a crash landing or from a strike by enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft fire. Hundreds of gallons in the fuel tank are two feet in front of me. For the same reason, I fly with long leather gloves. Some of my comrades have suffered badly burned faces from their exploding aircraft, but some continue to fly missions in spite of it.

To the left I can see Lake Comacchio just inland from the coast beyond Ravenna and the rivers that flow out at right angles from the coast. The small towns along the coast are
harmless and barely worth a glance, for the heavy anti-aircraft batteries are farther inland near the cities of Ferrara and Bologna. Smog and haze merge the sky and the sea into an indistinct blur as I peer through my windscreen at the murky horizon. The sea lies in wait far below, sluggish, lifeless, reflecting the yellow-gray haze above it.

I muse about the force of air-sea rescue aircraft assigned to the operation, and I double-check my yellow Mae West life jacket. High above us are the two South African Spitfire squadrons, weaving protectively.

The aircraft of my flight form around us with practiced skill. Blue and Green flights of my squadron, in the middle distance are on the left and right of my Red flight, one slightly below and the other above. All seem suspended motionless in the haze. The hundreds of aircraft in the other wings are just barely discernible in the far distance behind our wing, which is leading the attack. Dive bombers, each carrying two 500-pound bombs or one 1,000-pound bomb, drone northward over the Adriatic toward our target.

From time to time the Spitfire escorts criss-cross gracefully above us as they search the sky for enemy fighters. It is insulting for us as fighter squadrons to be protected by other fighters while we are now temporarily relegated to a mission of precision dive-bombing, but our heavy bomb loads will make us vulnerable to interception and unwieldy in the dogfights that must follow.

To the east across the sea is Yugoslavia, which we have attacked less often in these last few months of the war, for
our maximum effort is concentrated now on Field Marshal Kesselring's forces as they retreat to the north of Italy.

To the west, the setting sun helps us to pinpoint the twelve aircraft of the nearest squadron, which is divided like all the others into three flights of four craft like ours. Each flight is at a different altitude, separate yet together, each pilot watching the tail of the aircraft nearest to him, each flight watching the other two flights of its squadron, each squadron guarding the one next to it. At every turn the outside aircraft dives under its partner toward the inside of the turn to take up its position on the opposite flank, each flight in turn performing the same diving turn under its neighboring flight. A gigantic ballet in the sky, reaching into the distant haze.

This finger formation was introduced during the Battle of Britain and is dictated by the iron rule of self-preservation. Separated most of the time by the immensity of the sky, at other times there are moments of dangerous proximity during the long sliding turns. Your neighboring aircraft wheels under or over you, showing its graceful cockpit canopy or its underside streaked black by fumes. It's a momentary surprise as you recognize the head hunched under its leather helmet with the oxygen mask concealing the features, and then arcing off into the distance and to anonymity again. You disregard the earth below until you begin your landing approach or until you are in trouble. And the sea, set in its freezing snow-covered shores, dominates the environment below us, waiting.

The comradely formation of the squadron breaks up in a split second when contact is made with enemy fighters, and a wild individual scramble starts. All the rules of good flying
are cast aside as you maneuver for position, G-forces clutching at the flesh on your face and turning your limbs to lead while your vision dims.

The 1,400-horsepower Allison engine hums reassuringly in front of me. I check the oxygen flow, adjust the face mask closer to the contours of my cheekbones and jaw, and feel the cold seeping into my feet despite my thick fur-lined suede flying boots. Some pilots refuse to wear them, knowing that in case of a bailout, the violent jerk when the parachute opens will make them drop off, leaving you to try to get back to your lines shoeless. A trace of black smoke from the exhaust of one of the aircraft reminds me to adjust my mixture control as we gain altitude.

How attached one becomes to the aircraft one flies in combat.
After having flown the Hurricane, Spitfire, and Mustang, I became a sworn advocate of the Kittyhawk, not only for its great flying characteristics but for its ability to take unbelievable punishment and yet make it back to base. Last week, the Canadian, Jim Duval, the only married pilot in the squadron, made it back to base in his Kitty with one-third of its starboard wing-panel covers gone.

I check the oxygen supply line and fiddle with my radio's squelch button to ensure I will hear as clearly as possible in the din that will begin after radio silence is broken over the target. We have passed the front line now and are deep into enemy territory. On the left I see that we are past Lake Comacchio, and far ahead of my port wing the snow-covered coastline leads to Venice in the distance. As the coastline begins to turn east in a big loop toward Trieste, I see Venice with its anti-aircraft batteries.

I recall yesterday's mission in which we roamed at low level, searching for moving transport. We strafed and destroyed vehicles on the roads and barges in the canals and rivers. I recall a woman running in panic to her farmhouse as we suddenly appeared over the fields with a deafening roar. I got a glimpse of her white petticoat as she ran, and I quickly stopped firing my six guns.

The coast is partly veiled by low clouds and haze and runs parallel to our course. Now we fly deeper into enemy territory, weaving as we guard against getting jumped by German fighters from their bases in southern Austria. I glance at the coastline to the left in an effort to read our exact position relative to the target. When we are sure of our location abeam Venice, we level out at 9,000 feet and turn toward land to get into position for the bombing dive. I make a final check of fuel mixture, propeller pitch, and fuel tanks before pulling the lever to arm the bombs. As I await the carpet of anti-aircraft shells through which we have to dive, the tension increases. More than seventy guns protect our target in Mestre, not counting those around Venice itself.

The wing commander gives a signal with his raised fist and we move rapidly into echelon formation preparing to dive. Another few seconds and the ack-ack will begin to explode around us. I see the rest of my squadron advancing with me toward the target, the aircraft bobbing up and
down in the turbulence, and I feel close to them. I am comforted by their presence, though there is nothing much we can do for each other if things go wrong.

Now that the enemy knows we are here, we break radio silence, and I mark the tension in our voices. As we get nearer the target, the anti-aircraft shells begin to explode around us, white for the Bofors at about 6,000 feet. They appear to be harmless but are the most dangerous. The oily black patches from the 88mm guns burst much higher and so are less dangerous for us.

I keep my leader in view and stay as close as possible without crowding him. I know that this is the big one, the best-defended city in northern Italy. This raid on Venice is the climax of our campaign, and its defenses make it a dangerous and difficult task.