The Fifth Mission

On December 1, 1943, we had our briefing for our fifth mission; only 20 more to go.  Crews were sent home after 25 missions, and we were all counting.  By now it all was a job we each had to do although stressful and fearful.  Even the debriefing, when we got back, had become a habit.  I always managed to relax after a mission.

As usual I rode down to the plane on my bike, leaned it against the hanger and locked it.  Off we went with our formation.  The flak seemed very heavy all the way to the target.  We saw a couple of planes go down, and again we didn’t see anyone get out.  We got to the target and made our bomb run.  Just as the bomb bay doors closed, we felt it.  We had been hit by anti-aircraft fire.  Nelson called over the intercom that although we have some damage, he still could control the plane, and he knew we would get back if we weren’t hit again.  But as we flew back, we weren’t staying in position.  Our formation was slowly passing us.  They couldn’t help us. We now knew we were dropping back and could not keep up with our group.

Soon we saw the last of the formation; we were on our own.  Fighter planes in 1942 didn’t have the range to come to our help.  We couldn’t use the radio anyway; we’d only attract enemy planes.  The pilot asked me for a heading for home base, and I gave it to him.  We hoped we could at least cross the English channel.  It was winter, and we wouldn’t have much chance of survival if we came down in the water unless we were picked up right away.  We had ditching equipment and a whistle to attract attention, but I had little faith in that.  I was too busy at my job because I had to keep us headed to home base.

Sam and I had seen the last of the formation.  He was sitting at his post and I was working hard.  I’m sure the pilot and the co-pilot were working hard keeping us going.  Suddenly the waist gunners called that we were being attacked by enemy fighter planes.  My job was finished.  We were under attack, I thought, only for a very few seconds.  Even before I could think of my flak vest, out pilot yelled for us to bail out, we were going down.  The big 1 on the picture in the briefing room was what I saw in my mind.  I had to go out first so that Sam and the pilots and Gotty could get out.  But first I had to urinate so very badly I couldn’t wait.  I very neatly used my helmet and placed it on the floor where it would not spill.  Then I started calmly to plan.  I had my parachute on so that was one worry out of the way.  I opened the hatch door slightly, but the wind blew it shut.  Then I figured I’d need to put a foot against it to hold it, and I’d dive out the door.  Two things still bothered me.  I’d have to really dive out so that I’d get away from the plane and not be hit by it.  Then too, I’d heard of guys who had never opened their chute and had been killed.  I’d also heard that there was evidence that they had been unable to find the brass handle to the rip cord which released the parachute.  I wasn’t going to let this happen to me.  I’d get a hold of it now, and when I needed this little brass handle, I’d know where it was.  I’d just use my left arm on the door and then dive out of the plane.  I did just as I planned.  I dived away from the plane.  I used a crouching position to give myself forward power.  I still held on to the brass handle, but then I thought they said when you jump, don’t open the chute too soon because you could be a perfect target floating in the air.

I wasn’t surprised it worked.  I felt like I knew it would, but I still had a couple of things to learn.  I had no feeling of falling--none at all.  I did find that I wouldn’t spin if I kept a straight position with legs straight out and my head high.  I did look to guess when I should pull the rip cord and decided at about two or three thousand feet I’d do it, and I’d save the brass handle all my life as a souvenir of this adventure.  I pulled the rip cord and felt a hard jerk, but a comfortable jerk.  I slowed down to just drifting.  Now was the time for me to do what I had heard to do to direct my fall.  All I had to do was take a hold of the ropes holding the chute by pulling one and then another.  I had been told it would be simple to decide where to land and land there.  Well, it wasn’t simple.  I started to slide rapidly to the side, and this scared me.  I could cause the whole thing to collapse, so I gave up the whole plan of directing my fall and decided I really didn’t see what difference it made.  I didn’t know where I was going anyway.

My next thought was to protect myself from a hard fall to the ground.  I’d pull my knees up so I could sort of spring up and absorb any shock of hitting the ground.  I got closer and closer to the ground and pulled my knees up, but I had floated into an arrangement of a wood frame holding wires on which the vines for hops were grown.  My chute caught and I hung there just able to touch my toes to the ground.  I hit my release buckle and dropped out of the harness onto the ground.  I had landed, but I saw right away that I’d lost my shiny brass handle.  It hadn’t entered my mind until now that it was attached to the rip cord.  I felt bad about this.

©Joseph H. Harrison 1999