Post by limburger59 on Aug 9, 2020 13:05:15 GMT -8
B24D-CO-41-11591 Desert Fury
Pilot: Capt Travis Trammel
Squadron: 78th Bombardment Squadron (Composite), 509th (H) Bombardment Group
Squadron Position: High
Bomber Formation Position: Middle
Mission Date: 2 Nov 42
Mission Number: 024
Target: Fuka, Egypt - Supply Depots
Bomb Run: On
On Target: 60%
B-17 Damage: 2 Hits
Port Wing x 1
-brake out (10)
Waist x 1
-superficial(2)
Mechanical Failure x 1
-radio inoperable (10)
Peckham Points: 21
Repair Time: Overnight
Landing: Safe at Fayid
Claims: 1
F/O Notah Lonewolf 1 x Bf-110
Casualties: 0
Award/ Promotions Requests:
After Action report(using QOTS):
Since a mission credit was given for mission 014 to Ploesti, Desert Fury and five of the crew are on their 25th mission. So a special AAR for the occasion is warranted.
I tried to check all the facts to make it as realistic as possible. There were a few things I couldn't confirm and guessed at. It makes a good read nevertheless.
They were woken up about 2:45.
They dressed, washed and shaved to insure a tight seal for their oxygen masks. A poor fit was a headache one didn't need on top of everything else that could go wrong.
They joined the other crews for breakfast. The condemned are always served a final hearty meal.
Once finished they made their way to the rear of the mess hut, but rather than leave they broke into one of two groups as did almost everyone else. Some went left to where the squadron's Catholic Priest stood, others to the right to join with the Protestant chaplain.
At the briefing, everyone was tense. Trammell found himself holding his breath as the curtain was pulled away to reveal the target. He wasn't the only one.
As the target was revealed there was an audible exhaling of relief.
"Fuka." Lever smiled.
"A hop, skip and a jump." Trammel nodded and smiled back.
They sat through the rest of the briefing, jotting down notes of secondary targets, check points, mission procedures, expected flak and fighter resistance.
At the end of the briefing they all synchronized watches, then they separated and attended different meeting.
Woods and LaMotte were informed of flak installations reroute to the target area which they circled on their maps while Lonewolf, Lanigan, Burnham, Worden and Driscoll's meeting covered the target and route; type of friendly fighter support with time and place to expect it; type of enemy fighters anticipated and where, as well as probable attack tactics; the formation and escape and evasion information.
Mencia joined the other radio operators and recorded the day's wireless codes, radio call signs and frequencies.
After their separate meetings they made their way to the personal equipment room and collected their flying equipment. Escape kits with foreign money, maps, matches, chocolate, and other items useful in evasion were distributed.
At least the flak vests and helmets were delivered to the hardstands every mission. It was bad enough moving about weighed down while wearing heavy underwear, heavy socks, regular uniform shirt and pants, heavy electric jacket and electric pants, electric gloves, heavy shoes that fit inside sheepskin boots, a wool scarf and, of course, a parachute.
They boarded the back of a truck that was taking them and the crew of Lucky Strike out to their planes. Lucky's crew hopped in first and the rear of the truck became cramped when Fury's crew squeezed in.
As the truck started to move, the Squadron Flight Surgeon Capt Holland yelled at Sergeants Worden and Driscoll.
"You men! Get off that tailgate and wait for another vehicle! Riding on the tailgate is dangerous!"
Worden and Driscoll exchanged glances and both broke out in peals of laughter.
"This is dangerous the man says . . ." laughed Driscoll.
"We could get hurt the man says. . ." Worden laughed just as hard. "Hey Doc! If you're really worried about our safety, cancel the mission!"
Capt Holland could only shake his head as he realized the absurdity of his concern, their laughter faded the further the truck pulled away.
The truck stopped near Desert Fury and the crew piled out and sauntered towards the big B-24.
Usually, the ground crew installed the turret machine guns and the other gunners installed their single .30 and.50 cal. But this was Fury's 25th and final mission, as it was for several of the crew. T/Sgt Mackenzie had his ground crew install all the MG's for the crew.
Trammel patted Fury's nose affectionately. "Last one, Girl. Bring us home."
Then he, Mackenzie and Lever walked around the plane for a final visual inspection while the rest of the crew climbed onboard and checked out their parachute harnesses, Mae West's, chute packs and flak jackets that the ground crew had placed at every crew position.
Finally, the crew took their positions for take-off. Woods (BOMB) and LaMotte (NAV) on the flight deck; Lonewolf (ENG/TT) between the pilots; Mencia (RO) at his desk; and the other gunners in the waist area. Driscoll (TG) climbed into the tail gunners position.
Trammel and Lever had run through their preflight checklists and then it was time to start up the engines.
After the engines were run up they then focused on the flight tower and watched the Group Operations Officer. He would supervise the take off and handle any problems.
Soon a green flare was fired off as a sign to start taxiing. In turn, each pilot signaled the ground crew to pull away the wheel chocks and then moved his ship onto the taxiway.
When it was his turn, Trammel waved away the chocks, released the brakes and headed down the runway while Lever set all throttles for maximum power and Lonewolf monitored the instruments. A fully-loaded B-24 needed about 3,000 feet to become airborne but common practice was to use the entire runway so as to gain maximum airspeed.
Once in the air, Trammel kept Desert Fury flying straight for about two minutes, in part because a B-24 was not very maneuverable until it had gained speed and altitude. Then he headed to the Group assembly area, climbing at the predetermined rate set at briefing. Once fully assembled, the formation headed out following the mission flight plan.
Below at Fayid, Mackenzie, the ground and support personnel rested. Their nerves would be tested when the bombers returned, waiting to see if their plane and crew had defied the odds. Then they would have an outlet to work off their nervous energy.
Because of the mission being a short hop, the crew moved to their assigned positions. Driscoll (TG) had climbed into the tail before takeoff so he could watch for other planes coming too close and call out a warning.
As they neared 8,000 feet, Trammel ordered the crew to don their oxygen masks. They had no need to conserve the supply on this short mission, and he wanted to overcome any effects of the crews celebrating the night before. But they had been pretty tame last night knowing the importance of this mission to several of them. It was merely precautionary.
As the plane climbed, the temperature dropped. The temperature inside the plane was about the same as the temperature outside. Waist gunners Burnham and Worden stood in front of their open windows throughout watching for fighters. While Driscoll claimed that he sat in the coldest part of the plane, the tail, it was coldest of all in the nose. Woods and LaMotte suffered not only from the cold temperature but also from the wind roaring through the gaps between the machine guns and fuselage.
The heated flying suits were a Godsend - when they worked.
But there were many problems, especially for Burnham and Worden. During any mission they were always kneeling and then standing up again, depending on where enemy fighters were and how they had to position their guns. As a result, the wires behind their knees would short out; sometimes they would burn the skin or catch fire.
"Alright. Everyone test fire your weapons." Trammel ordered. Desert Fury shook as each man fired a short burst to ensure their guns were working correctly.
After he had fired his, Lanigan hooked up to a portable oxygen bottle and made his way through a small door to the bomb bay. He squeezed through wearing all of his gear onto the narrow walkway between the bomb racks and started to remove the safety pins that kept the bombs from exploding if they somehow had accidentally dropped on takeoff.
He collected all the tags and returned to his position and stored them for post mission inspection, proving that the bombs had been armed and ready to detonate on ground contact.
Mencia sat at his radio listening to - nothing. As usual, the formation was under orders to remain silent and not give a heads up to the enemy who monitored the airwaves for just that very thing.
But he continued to monitor his set, listening for Morse code messages affecting recall, diversion or change of target.
The gunners were all constantly scanning the skies for enemy fighters, often staring into the morning sun in the process.
Once the contrails started to form they knew that suddenly at any time the nose of a German fighter with its 20mm guns blinking red fire could pop out of it.
Twice the gunners spotted fighters and both times the fighters passed the 78th (I rolled two no attacks) and attacked the other two Squadrons. But they all knew it was just a matter of time before the little killers keyed on them.
"Skipper," Mencia called out. "The radio just crapped out."
Trammel and Lever exchanged glances. Lever rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a shrug of shoulders.
"Can you fix it?" Trammel asked.
"I've tried. No go."
"Keep trying."
"We're coming up to the IP, Skipper." LaMotte called out.
He counted down the seconds to initiate the final turn towards the target. Cubby Rain, lead bomber turned on the mark, followed by the rest of the formation.
The crew knew they were then on a fixed track, which simplified the calculations of anti-aircraft batteries. They now had no options of course or altitude.
"Fighters!" Lonewolf cried out. "202's at 1:30 high and nine level!"
All eyes turned to the clock positions to spot the incoming threats.
As they watched, more dark specks dropped down and as they grew larger became recognizable as P-40 Tomahawks.
"Go get'em, boys!"
"Gotta love the RAF!"
"They got one! Take that, Mussolini!"
"Cut the chatter and keep an eye out! They aren't the only fighters up here." Trammel commanded.
The crew became quite as they returned to their rubbernecking.
Then the cry of fighters rang out again.
"More 202's. And P-40's."
Four Italian fighters had started to make runs on the Fury and her crew, the 202's split off and scattered as the RAF escorts followed hot on their tails.
One 202 shook off his pursuer and turned back towards the bomber.
"12 o'clock high! (great movie!)" Woods called out as he opened fire with his nose gun followed by Lonewolf's twin fifties of the top turret.
Tracers filled the sky with them closing in then impacting the Macchi fighter. Pieces began flying off quickly followed by black smoke and flames as it spiraled to the earth miles below.
"That was for every Brother that you took from me!" Lonewolf growled.
The gunners kept up their vigilance, opening fire when a target presented itself as it passed by to attack another bomber.
"Flak ahead." Lever said, as the fighters all moved away from the b-24's.
They could see the flak bursts ahead, and Trammel recalled a letter that he had written his Brother several weeks ago, another life time: "With our air speed at about 300 mph during the bombing run, we are subjected to anti-aircraft fire for about ten minutes. Most of the anti-aircraft guns are 88mm. At an average of 1,000 feet per second, it takes 20 seconds for an 88 shell to reach our altitude. In that same 20 seconds we shall have traveled something more than a mile. It's not exactly a turkey shoot for anti-aircraft guns."
First, we see the black puffs. Then we begin to smell the black powder. A little closer and we see the ugly red burst itself and perhaps feel and hear the impact of small shrapnel fragments. Those we can live with if we have just a bit of luck. When it's closer than that and shell bursts begin to toss the plane around, the odds are against us.
We need lots of luck then."
And luck Desert Fury's crew had as they flew through the flak field.
On the bomb run with the bay doors now open, Woods set his bomb sight to allow for range (altitude) and deflection (bomb drift to the left or right as it fell to earth). He then selected the drop pattern on the intervalometer.
Woods huddled over his bomb sight, tuning out the bursting flak. The crew waited, listening.
"Think he'll find it in this soup?" Lever asked.
"If the flak can figure out where we are, Woods can figure out where the target is." Trammel replied.
Finally Woods calmly announced "Bombs Away." and Desert Fury rose up free of the weight of her payload.
"Closing doors. The ships yours, Skipper."
"That looks like you're spot on, Blake!" Driscoll commented as he strained to keep an eye on the results of the drop.
Trammel turned the bomber making for the Rally Point outside of the flak field where the Group would reform into defensive formations.
Where the fighters waited to feast.
INBOUND
"Fighters! Looks like 109's!"
"Little friends on the job."
"One's coming through. 12 high,"
"Get him!"
They could see the twinkling of the fighters guns as rounds slammed into port wing and waist.
Burnham and Worden winched as the bullet ricocheted off something and spent its energy to land on the floor.
Trammel studied the wing but the hit seemed harmless enough.
"He's coming around. 12 level."
Before the gunners could fire, a P-40 pumped a long deflection burst into the 109 and the pilot jumped for his life as the engine exploded in flames.
They watched as every now and then a fighter or two made runs on other bombers as they made their way home, contributing to the formations defensive fire.
LaMotte kept checking their heading and positions and gave corrections as necessary.
The formation began "letting down" reducing altitude about 500 feet per minute so they were down to just a thousand feet by the time they reached Fayid.
While Trammel and Lever concentrated on getting into the landing queue, Driscoll, Burnham, Worden and Lanigan refused to relax, as sometimes enemy fighters followed the bombers and strafed the airfield.
While in the landing pattern circuit, Lonewolf confirmed that the wheels were down and locked.
And then he noticed the hydraulic pressure gauges. "Hey Skipper! We don't have a brake on the port side. Hydraulics gone."
"I guess that fighter did more damage than we thought." Trammel said looking out at the port wing.
Desert Fury waited while the bombers with wounded aboard or severe battle damage fired two red or yellow flares, sometimes both, and landed first while they made a wide left-hand circle above the base.
Trammel watched as planes with wounded personnel turned off the runway as soon as possible, halting on the taxiway or the nearest hardstand where the ambulance was waiting.
Then he watched as those who had fired off yellow flares took their turn.
He was content to allow everyone else to land before him. During their time in the queue, he and Lever had talked it over and decided to burn as much fuel as possible and to have all the aircraft off the runway when they came in.
He polled the crew to see if any wanted to bail out rather than ride it down. It was their right.
The jokes flew about then. Lonewolf being so heavy that his chute would never open in time and that he'd just bounce off the ground. Mencia being so light that the wind would blow him back out to the ocean and he couldn't swim.
But in the end they all voted to stay.
"Okay. We've made our choices." Trammel told them.
Finally, as the last plane in the air, they fired off yellow flares and lined up the runway.
"Kind of ironic to survive 25 missions only to die in a landing accident, don't you think?" Lever joked.
"Shut up, Joe."
"Nothing like going out in a blaze of glory."
"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?
Driscoll was now in the waist with Lanigan, Worden and Burnham, moving passed them to join Lanigan in crash position.
"Care to bet on our survival?" Lanigan asked. "I'll give odds of 2-1 against."
"That good?"
"Say Cole. Did I ever thank you guys for pulling me outta the spare pool for permanent assignment to this crew?" Burnham asked tongue in cheek.
"I accept your humble thanks." Worden said grimly as he took his crash position.
In the nose Woods opened the bomb bay doors to vent any gas build up and then braced himself along with LaMotte.
Prepared the best they could, Trammel and Lever set down.
They throttled back the engines and worked the rudders, compensating for the lack of a port brake, using the starboard brake sparingly.
They chewed up a lot of the 6,000 foot runway. But the bomber started to slow down and they were able to turn off to a taxi strip and finally rolled to a stop.
Everything on board was quite. Then the crew cheered loudly.
Sirens were heard from the approaching ambulances and vehicles converging on them.
"Looks like a reception committee. I wonder what's that about?" Lever deadpanned as the crowd gathering around the bomber.
"Skipper, you lead us out. Lever, Woods, Lonewolf and Lanigan. Follow him out." LaMotte ordered.
""Yes sir!" Trammel saluted while smiling brightly.
He opened the door and as he was stepping out and was pulled from the aircraft to be showered by beer thrown by the assembled cheering ground crew and others. Flak thumping slaps rained onto his back as he was carried from Desert Fury.
He tried to protest, demanding that he had to inspect his beloved ship, to no avail.
He was carried and deposited into a waiting jeep, joined by Lever, Woods, Lonewolf and Lanigan who had the received the same treatment, while the ground crew and others surrounded them shouting congratulations' and well wishes.
After the jeep departed, Mackenzie hustled his ground crew back to the bomber where the others of the crew were removing their flight gear.
"Go and join them, Sir." he addressed them as he saluted LaMotte.
"We'll look after the Grand Old Lady of the Squadron and stow all the gear. I'll personally see to it that she is made ready to return them Stateside."
"You and your boys are coming to the celebration, right Chief?" LaMotte asked.
"We wouldn't miss it, Sir. But the Lady comes first!" and without further comment he turned towards Fury and started his walk around while the others poured over the bomber removing the gear and equipment.
At the briefing room, which was now set up for interrogation, Trammel and the four other 'survivors' were stunned to see the Squadron lined up outside.
"Boxcars - Salute!" Capt Loomis commanded. "You guys go and get this BS over with." he smiled.
The five men experienced the fastest interrogation they ever were part of.
They noticed the Old Man, Major Martindale, hovering behind the interrogators, tapping one impatiently with his cane if he thought that one of the five was being held up too long.
Soon, the five men left the interrogation for the last time. As they were leaving, Captain Trammel looked at Major Martindale. The Major smiled, genuinely, and after a long pause, said "Go on, Captain. Get out of here before they ask you more questions. We'll talk soon." Travis saluted quickly, and headed out to join his men, heading to their huts to clean up and prepare for a wild night of celebrating.
They had lived through some horrific times over the course of their twenty-five missions. Time would tell if they would suffer further problems that memories would cause, haunting them.
But for in the moment of here and now it was a time to celebrate and mingle one last time with some now lifelong friends and others who had become their brothers.
Pilot: Capt Travis Trammel
Squadron: 78th Bombardment Squadron (Composite), 509th (H) Bombardment Group
Squadron Position: High
Bomber Formation Position: Middle
Mission Date: 2 Nov 42
Mission Number: 024
Target: Fuka, Egypt - Supply Depots
NAME/POSITION | MISSION # | CLAIMS | THIS MISSION |
Pilot Capt Travis Trammel | 25 | 0 | 0 |
Co-Pilot 1st Lt Joe Lever | 25 | 0 | 0 |
Bombardier 1st Lt Blake Woods | 25 | 6.5 | 0 |
Navigator 1st Lt Guy LaMotte | 24 | 0 | 0 |
TT F/O Notah Lonewolf | 25 | 23 | 1 |
RO Sgt Carlos Mencia | 22 | 0 | 0 |
Tunnel Gunner S/Sgt Hank Lanigan | 25 | 2.5 | 0 |
PWG Sgt Marcus Burnham | 3 | 0 | 0 |
SWG Cole Worden | 16 | 2.5 | 0 |
TG Sgt Terry Driscoll | 16 | 1.5 | 0 |
Bomb Run: On
On Target: 60%
B-17 Damage: 2 Hits
Port Wing x 1
-brake out (10)
Waist x 1
-superficial(2)
Mechanical Failure x 1
-radio inoperable (10)
Peckham Points: 21
Repair Time: Overnight
Landing: Safe at Fayid
E/A | ENCOUNTERED | DESTROYED | PROBABLE/DENIED | DAMAGED | INTERCEPTED |
Bf-109 | 3 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 2 |
Bf-110 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 0 | 0 |
C-202 | 6 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 5 |
TOTALS | 10 | 1 | 0 | 0 | 7 |
Claims: 1
F/O Notah Lonewolf 1 x Bf-110
Casualties: 0
Award/ Promotions Requests:
After Action report(using QOTS):
Since a mission credit was given for mission 014 to Ploesti, Desert Fury and five of the crew are on their 25th mission. So a special AAR for the occasion is warranted.
I tried to check all the facts to make it as realistic as possible. There were a few things I couldn't confirm and guessed at. It makes a good read nevertheless.
They were woken up about 2:45.
They dressed, washed and shaved to insure a tight seal for their oxygen masks. A poor fit was a headache one didn't need on top of everything else that could go wrong.
They joined the other crews for breakfast. The condemned are always served a final hearty meal.
Once finished they made their way to the rear of the mess hut, but rather than leave they broke into one of two groups as did almost everyone else. Some went left to where the squadron's Catholic Priest stood, others to the right to join with the Protestant chaplain.
At the briefing, everyone was tense. Trammell found himself holding his breath as the curtain was pulled away to reveal the target. He wasn't the only one.
As the target was revealed there was an audible exhaling of relief.
"Fuka." Lever smiled.
"A hop, skip and a jump." Trammel nodded and smiled back.
They sat through the rest of the briefing, jotting down notes of secondary targets, check points, mission procedures, expected flak and fighter resistance.
At the end of the briefing they all synchronized watches, then they separated and attended different meeting.
Woods and LaMotte were informed of flak installations reroute to the target area which they circled on their maps while Lonewolf, Lanigan, Burnham, Worden and Driscoll's meeting covered the target and route; type of friendly fighter support with time and place to expect it; type of enemy fighters anticipated and where, as well as probable attack tactics; the formation and escape and evasion information.
Mencia joined the other radio operators and recorded the day's wireless codes, radio call signs and frequencies.
After their separate meetings they made their way to the personal equipment room and collected their flying equipment. Escape kits with foreign money, maps, matches, chocolate, and other items useful in evasion were distributed.
At least the flak vests and helmets were delivered to the hardstands every mission. It was bad enough moving about weighed down while wearing heavy underwear, heavy socks, regular uniform shirt and pants, heavy electric jacket and electric pants, electric gloves, heavy shoes that fit inside sheepskin boots, a wool scarf and, of course, a parachute.
They boarded the back of a truck that was taking them and the crew of Lucky Strike out to their planes. Lucky's crew hopped in first and the rear of the truck became cramped when Fury's crew squeezed in.
As the truck started to move, the Squadron Flight Surgeon Capt Holland yelled at Sergeants Worden and Driscoll.
"You men! Get off that tailgate and wait for another vehicle! Riding on the tailgate is dangerous!"
Worden and Driscoll exchanged glances and both broke out in peals of laughter.
"This is dangerous the man says . . ." laughed Driscoll.
"We could get hurt the man says. . ." Worden laughed just as hard. "Hey Doc! If you're really worried about our safety, cancel the mission!"
Capt Holland could only shake his head as he realized the absurdity of his concern, their laughter faded the further the truck pulled away.
The truck stopped near Desert Fury and the crew piled out and sauntered towards the big B-24.
Usually, the ground crew installed the turret machine guns and the other gunners installed their single .30 and.50 cal. But this was Fury's 25th and final mission, as it was for several of the crew. T/Sgt Mackenzie had his ground crew install all the MG's for the crew.
Trammel patted Fury's nose affectionately. "Last one, Girl. Bring us home."
Then he, Mackenzie and Lever walked around the plane for a final visual inspection while the rest of the crew climbed onboard and checked out their parachute harnesses, Mae West's, chute packs and flak jackets that the ground crew had placed at every crew position.
Finally, the crew took their positions for take-off. Woods (BOMB) and LaMotte (NAV) on the flight deck; Lonewolf (ENG/TT) between the pilots; Mencia (RO) at his desk; and the other gunners in the waist area. Driscoll (TG) climbed into the tail gunners position.
Trammel and Lever had run through their preflight checklists and then it was time to start up the engines.
After the engines were run up they then focused on the flight tower and watched the Group Operations Officer. He would supervise the take off and handle any problems.
Soon a green flare was fired off as a sign to start taxiing. In turn, each pilot signaled the ground crew to pull away the wheel chocks and then moved his ship onto the taxiway.
When it was his turn, Trammel waved away the chocks, released the brakes and headed down the runway while Lever set all throttles for maximum power and Lonewolf monitored the instruments. A fully-loaded B-24 needed about 3,000 feet to become airborne but common practice was to use the entire runway so as to gain maximum airspeed.
Once in the air, Trammel kept Desert Fury flying straight for about two minutes, in part because a B-24 was not very maneuverable until it had gained speed and altitude. Then he headed to the Group assembly area, climbing at the predetermined rate set at briefing. Once fully assembled, the formation headed out following the mission flight plan.
Below at Fayid, Mackenzie, the ground and support personnel rested. Their nerves would be tested when the bombers returned, waiting to see if their plane and crew had defied the odds. Then they would have an outlet to work off their nervous energy.
Because of the mission being a short hop, the crew moved to their assigned positions. Driscoll (TG) had climbed into the tail before takeoff so he could watch for other planes coming too close and call out a warning.
As they neared 8,000 feet, Trammel ordered the crew to don their oxygen masks. They had no need to conserve the supply on this short mission, and he wanted to overcome any effects of the crews celebrating the night before. But they had been pretty tame last night knowing the importance of this mission to several of them. It was merely precautionary.
As the plane climbed, the temperature dropped. The temperature inside the plane was about the same as the temperature outside. Waist gunners Burnham and Worden stood in front of their open windows throughout watching for fighters. While Driscoll claimed that he sat in the coldest part of the plane, the tail, it was coldest of all in the nose. Woods and LaMotte suffered not only from the cold temperature but also from the wind roaring through the gaps between the machine guns and fuselage.
The heated flying suits were a Godsend - when they worked.
But there were many problems, especially for Burnham and Worden. During any mission they were always kneeling and then standing up again, depending on where enemy fighters were and how they had to position their guns. As a result, the wires behind their knees would short out; sometimes they would burn the skin or catch fire.
"Alright. Everyone test fire your weapons." Trammel ordered. Desert Fury shook as each man fired a short burst to ensure their guns were working correctly.
After he had fired his, Lanigan hooked up to a portable oxygen bottle and made his way through a small door to the bomb bay. He squeezed through wearing all of his gear onto the narrow walkway between the bomb racks and started to remove the safety pins that kept the bombs from exploding if they somehow had accidentally dropped on takeoff.
He collected all the tags and returned to his position and stored them for post mission inspection, proving that the bombs had been armed and ready to detonate on ground contact.
Mencia sat at his radio listening to - nothing. As usual, the formation was under orders to remain silent and not give a heads up to the enemy who monitored the airwaves for just that very thing.
But he continued to monitor his set, listening for Morse code messages affecting recall, diversion or change of target.
The gunners were all constantly scanning the skies for enemy fighters, often staring into the morning sun in the process.
Once the contrails started to form they knew that suddenly at any time the nose of a German fighter with its 20mm guns blinking red fire could pop out of it.
Twice the gunners spotted fighters and both times the fighters passed the 78th (I rolled two no attacks) and attacked the other two Squadrons. But they all knew it was just a matter of time before the little killers keyed on them.
"Skipper," Mencia called out. "The radio just crapped out."
Trammel and Lever exchanged glances. Lever rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a shrug of shoulders.
"Can you fix it?" Trammel asked.
"I've tried. No go."
"Keep trying."
"We're coming up to the IP, Skipper." LaMotte called out.
He counted down the seconds to initiate the final turn towards the target. Cubby Rain, lead bomber turned on the mark, followed by the rest of the formation.
The crew knew they were then on a fixed track, which simplified the calculations of anti-aircraft batteries. They now had no options of course or altitude.
"Fighters!" Lonewolf cried out. "202's at 1:30 high and nine level!"
All eyes turned to the clock positions to spot the incoming threats.
As they watched, more dark specks dropped down and as they grew larger became recognizable as P-40 Tomahawks.
"Go get'em, boys!"
"Gotta love the RAF!"
"They got one! Take that, Mussolini!"
"Cut the chatter and keep an eye out! They aren't the only fighters up here." Trammel commanded.
The crew became quite as they returned to their rubbernecking.
Then the cry of fighters rang out again.
"More 202's. And P-40's."
Four Italian fighters had started to make runs on the Fury and her crew, the 202's split off and scattered as the RAF escorts followed hot on their tails.
One 202 shook off his pursuer and turned back towards the bomber.
"12 o'clock high! (great movie!)" Woods called out as he opened fire with his nose gun followed by Lonewolf's twin fifties of the top turret.
Tracers filled the sky with them closing in then impacting the Macchi fighter. Pieces began flying off quickly followed by black smoke and flames as it spiraled to the earth miles below.
"That was for every Brother that you took from me!" Lonewolf growled.
The gunners kept up their vigilance, opening fire when a target presented itself as it passed by to attack another bomber.
"Flak ahead." Lever said, as the fighters all moved away from the b-24's.
They could see the flak bursts ahead, and Trammel recalled a letter that he had written his Brother several weeks ago, another life time: "With our air speed at about 300 mph during the bombing run, we are subjected to anti-aircraft fire for about ten minutes. Most of the anti-aircraft guns are 88mm. At an average of 1,000 feet per second, it takes 20 seconds for an 88 shell to reach our altitude. In that same 20 seconds we shall have traveled something more than a mile. It's not exactly a turkey shoot for anti-aircraft guns."
First, we see the black puffs. Then we begin to smell the black powder. A little closer and we see the ugly red burst itself and perhaps feel and hear the impact of small shrapnel fragments. Those we can live with if we have just a bit of luck. When it's closer than that and shell bursts begin to toss the plane around, the odds are against us.
We need lots of luck then."
And luck Desert Fury's crew had as they flew through the flak field.
On the bomb run with the bay doors now open, Woods set his bomb sight to allow for range (altitude) and deflection (bomb drift to the left or right as it fell to earth). He then selected the drop pattern on the intervalometer.
Woods huddled over his bomb sight, tuning out the bursting flak. The crew waited, listening.
"Think he'll find it in this soup?" Lever asked.
"If the flak can figure out where we are, Woods can figure out where the target is." Trammel replied.
Finally Woods calmly announced "Bombs Away." and Desert Fury rose up free of the weight of her payload.
"Closing doors. The ships yours, Skipper."
"That looks like you're spot on, Blake!" Driscoll commented as he strained to keep an eye on the results of the drop.
Trammel turned the bomber making for the Rally Point outside of the flak field where the Group would reform into defensive formations.
Where the fighters waited to feast.
INBOUND
"Fighters! Looks like 109's!"
"Little friends on the job."
"One's coming through. 12 high,"
"Get him!"
They could see the twinkling of the fighters guns as rounds slammed into port wing and waist.
Burnham and Worden winched as the bullet ricocheted off something and spent its energy to land on the floor.
Trammel studied the wing but the hit seemed harmless enough.
"He's coming around. 12 level."
Before the gunners could fire, a P-40 pumped a long deflection burst into the 109 and the pilot jumped for his life as the engine exploded in flames.
They watched as every now and then a fighter or two made runs on other bombers as they made their way home, contributing to the formations defensive fire.
LaMotte kept checking their heading and positions and gave corrections as necessary.
The formation began "letting down" reducing altitude about 500 feet per minute so they were down to just a thousand feet by the time they reached Fayid.
While Trammel and Lever concentrated on getting into the landing queue, Driscoll, Burnham, Worden and Lanigan refused to relax, as sometimes enemy fighters followed the bombers and strafed the airfield.
While in the landing pattern circuit, Lonewolf confirmed that the wheels were down and locked.
And then he noticed the hydraulic pressure gauges. "Hey Skipper! We don't have a brake on the port side. Hydraulics gone."
"I guess that fighter did more damage than we thought." Trammel said looking out at the port wing.
Desert Fury waited while the bombers with wounded aboard or severe battle damage fired two red or yellow flares, sometimes both, and landed first while they made a wide left-hand circle above the base.
Trammel watched as planes with wounded personnel turned off the runway as soon as possible, halting on the taxiway or the nearest hardstand where the ambulance was waiting.
Then he watched as those who had fired off yellow flares took their turn.
He was content to allow everyone else to land before him. During their time in the queue, he and Lever had talked it over and decided to burn as much fuel as possible and to have all the aircraft off the runway when they came in.
He polled the crew to see if any wanted to bail out rather than ride it down. It was their right.
The jokes flew about then. Lonewolf being so heavy that his chute would never open in time and that he'd just bounce off the ground. Mencia being so light that the wind would blow him back out to the ocean and he couldn't swim.
But in the end they all voted to stay.
"Okay. We've made our choices." Trammel told them.
Finally, as the last plane in the air, they fired off yellow flares and lined up the runway.
"Kind of ironic to survive 25 missions only to die in a landing accident, don't you think?" Lever joked.
"Shut up, Joe."
"Nothing like going out in a blaze of glory."
"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?
Driscoll was now in the waist with Lanigan, Worden and Burnham, moving passed them to join Lanigan in crash position.
"Care to bet on our survival?" Lanigan asked. "I'll give odds of 2-1 against."
"That good?"
"Say Cole. Did I ever thank you guys for pulling me outta the spare pool for permanent assignment to this crew?" Burnham asked tongue in cheek.
"I accept your humble thanks." Worden said grimly as he took his crash position.
In the nose Woods opened the bomb bay doors to vent any gas build up and then braced himself along with LaMotte.
Prepared the best they could, Trammel and Lever set down.
They throttled back the engines and worked the rudders, compensating for the lack of a port brake, using the starboard brake sparingly.
They chewed up a lot of the 6,000 foot runway. But the bomber started to slow down and they were able to turn off to a taxi strip and finally rolled to a stop.
Everything on board was quite. Then the crew cheered loudly.
Sirens were heard from the approaching ambulances and vehicles converging on them.
"Looks like a reception committee. I wonder what's that about?" Lever deadpanned as the crowd gathering around the bomber.
"Skipper, you lead us out. Lever, Woods, Lonewolf and Lanigan. Follow him out." LaMotte ordered.
""Yes sir!" Trammel saluted while smiling brightly.
He opened the door and as he was stepping out and was pulled from the aircraft to be showered by beer thrown by the assembled cheering ground crew and others. Flak thumping slaps rained onto his back as he was carried from Desert Fury.
He tried to protest, demanding that he had to inspect his beloved ship, to no avail.
He was carried and deposited into a waiting jeep, joined by Lever, Woods, Lonewolf and Lanigan who had the received the same treatment, while the ground crew and others surrounded them shouting congratulations' and well wishes.
After the jeep departed, Mackenzie hustled his ground crew back to the bomber where the others of the crew were removing their flight gear.
"Go and join them, Sir." he addressed them as he saluted LaMotte.
"We'll look after the Grand Old Lady of the Squadron and stow all the gear. I'll personally see to it that she is made ready to return them Stateside."
"You and your boys are coming to the celebration, right Chief?" LaMotte asked.
"We wouldn't miss it, Sir. But the Lady comes first!" and without further comment he turned towards Fury and started his walk around while the others poured over the bomber removing the gear and equipment.
At the briefing room, which was now set up for interrogation, Trammel and the four other 'survivors' were stunned to see the Squadron lined up outside.
"Boxcars - Salute!" Capt Loomis commanded. "You guys go and get this BS over with." he smiled.
The five men experienced the fastest interrogation they ever were part of.
They noticed the Old Man, Major Martindale, hovering behind the interrogators, tapping one impatiently with his cane if he thought that one of the five was being held up too long.
Soon, the five men left the interrogation for the last time. As they were leaving, Captain Trammel looked at Major Martindale. The Major smiled, genuinely, and after a long pause, said "Go on, Captain. Get out of here before they ask you more questions. We'll talk soon." Travis saluted quickly, and headed out to join his men, heading to their huts to clean up and prepare for a wild night of celebrating.
They had lived through some horrific times over the course of their twenty-five missions. Time would tell if they would suffer further problems that memories would cause, haunting them.
But for in the moment of here and now it was a time to celebrate and mingle one last time with some now lifelong friends and others who had become their brothers.