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Enjoy - Lest Tomorrow Flees

by Lloyd O. Krueger

428 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0822; ISBN 1-55395-108-5; US$32.00, C$36.50, EUR26.50, £18.50

The humorous and humanistic happenings during my five years in the air force during World War II between 1941-1945.

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About the Book      About the Author      Sample Excerpts      Catalogue Info

About the Book

During the writing of COME FLY WITH ME, a story about some of my experiences while flying combat missions in the Air Force during the World War II, I was constantly discovering the whimsical and ludicrous events that helped me enjoy and, at other times, endure those 1200 days of my life. Each day would be interspersed with moments of mirth, intermingled with the times spent in serious contemplation, or performing required duties.
This book endeavours to record, in some chronological order, the humorous and humanistic incidents that occurred to me and many of my friends. From the moment, I enlisted in the Air Force cadets in July of 1942 until I received my Honorable Discharge in October 1945, I recall with fondness these many memories. I believe this generation grew up with a sense of humor that would prove to have a therapeutic effect on each of our dispositions and state of mind. We can take pride in the legacy we gave the world...freedom must be cherished.

About the Author

Prior to "Pearl Harbour", Mr. Lloyd Krueger attended the University of Wisconsin as an Engineering student. In 1942, he volunteered for the Army Air Force and ultimately became a Navigator on B-17s. Krueger flew out of England with the 95th Bomb Group. All but 9 of his 35 combat missions were as a Lead Navigator.
After Krueger's tour of duty in Europe, he joined the Air Transport Command and ferried military to all corners of the world. On many of these return trips they brought back war weary planes to the United States.
After Krueger's discharge in 1945 at the end of the war, he attended the University of Michigan and graduated with degrees in Architectural Design and Engineering. He practiced Architecture as President of his own firm in his home state of Wisconsin and also in all adjoining states until his retirement in 1974. Mr. Krueger was President of Solar Track Industries until he retired permanently in 1985. He also was a Director for Wisconsin Mutual Insurance Company for 24 years.
He has written three books concerning different aspects of his military career, namely COME FLY WITH ME, THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF A LADY and this current book, ENJOY - LEST TOMORROW FLEES. He and Norma, his wife of 58 years, have established a Charitable Trust that annually awards a complete four-year college scholarship to a Native American Indian high school sophomore.

Sample Excerpts

BRUX, CZECHOSLOVAKIA

      On this, my second mission, the wakeup call and breakfast were similar. We all shuffled in the darkness toward the briefing room. There would be little conversation going on, primarily because it seemed each was deep in their thoughts and contemplations. When we finally reached the smoke filled briefing room, after putting away a similar breakfast I had the day before, I could sense a higher degree of concern among the airmen than on my first mission only a few days before. The sound level increased by many decibels due to the myriad of conversations and questions being asked. Most seemed to sense something I was not aware of.

      Nearly everyone in the briefing room must have sensed the impending mission. There again was that same layer of billowing smoke, caused by all of the cigarettes, pipes, and cigars, which reached from the ceiling to just over the heads of the gathering crews. It seemed to stratify just a foot or two below the ceiling and the same distance above the heads of the anxious crew members.

      Tiny areas of light tried to penetrate this sooty vapor from the dozen or so under powered 40-watt bulbs dangling from the ends of electrical cords. Most men had on flight suits that were unbuttoned because of the excessive body heat in this overflowing room. You could smell the odor of perspiration intermingled with that of the burning tobacco.

      I could barely tell where the front of this elongated room was located. The only clue I had would be the direction each of the chairs had been placed. As I moved closer to the front, I could see the map on the wall. It would determine where this group would go today. The map was covered completely by a curtain, placed there to conceal this information, if only temporarily.

      The noise from a hundred simultaneous conversations going on was abruptly ended when someone shouted "Attention." In walked our Commanding Officer, Colonel Carl Truesdell, Jr. as this motley group rose to a standing position.

      Colonel Trusesdell appeared to be a man of middle age, very stocky, with pitch-black hair parted in the middle. His chubby face seemed to always have a cigar protruding from his lips. This instantaneous moment of silence was broken when the order "At Ease" was given and over a hundred butts dropped into their chairs, almost as one.

      Col. Truesdell had just taken over command of the 95th Bomb Group as he replaced Col. Chester P. Gilger. After a few brief words, the curtain was pulled back and there were enough moans and groans to almost clear the air of smoke. A heavy wool string reached from our Base at Horham England to the extreme eastern edge of Germany and the Czechoslovakian border. It did not stretch in a straight line but had several bends in it.

This string ran across the Channel to our European landfall at Vlissingen,        Netherlands, southwest of Rotterdam. From there it bent its way between Cologne and Frankfurt, Germany; and continued on to a place they said was Brux, Czechoslovakia, a town about fifty-miles northwest of Prague. There would be a different route described by the continuing string as we left the target and headed back to England.

      Col. Truesdell pulled the cigar from his mouth and stated: "Today's target is part of a maximum effort by the American 8th Air Force. Two thousand heavy bombers and fighters will fly out to hit five major synthetic oil plants, four in the Leipzig area of Germany and one at Brux. Targets to be attacked in Germany will include oil plants at Merseburg, Bohlen, Lutzkendorf and Zeitz."

      "Our target is over 600-miles in a direct line from our base and we all know that we never take the shortest route. We also know our fighter escort can only help us on the first half of the mission. The rest of the time we will be on our own. Gentlemen, this is the type of target you don't want to go back to. Do a good job this day. Good Luck."

      You now could hear a pin drop in this large smelly room. It was obvious to everyone the hours ahead would not be easy ones. Synthetic oil was most important to the German war effort because they had limited sources for the precious lubricant to run their war machine. They would defend these targets with all their prowess and capability. This would be the longest mission attempted to date.

      This day would prove to be my first real baptism under fighter plane attacks and the intense barrage of antiaircraft shells at the target. On today's mission, I was to fly with yet another different group of fellows, Lt. Charles Snowdon's crew. Again we would be relegated to the back of the formation in what is affectionately called the "Tail End Charlie" spot.

      This position in the formation would prove to be the most hazardous, both from enemy fighter attack and especially from flak. It was also the most difficult location to be assigned because of the accumulative spacing error in the formation. It would prove most difficult to maintain a tight position with the plane off either wing or before it.

      The rear of the formation was delegated to all new crews until they could prove they had the ability to maintain a position in a tight formation. This is almost a Catch 22 situation because many new crews were not around long enough to move up into the formation.

      I was beginning to wonder if I would fly continually with different crews for all of my missions. "When would I be able to go with my own HAARD LUCK group?" I asked. No one would volunteer a reason for what was going on with me. The most common reply was, "We just do what they order us to do." Again I did luck out by flying in my special B-17 we had named HAARD LUCK. To that extent I felt like a team, my special B-17 with its own personal Navigator.

Shortly before 0500 we boarded our plane. In the early hours of this morning, before entering the nose of this shinny B-17, I glanced up at the tail to assure myself it was indeed old number 297334, the plane I had crossed the Atlantic in. For some stupid reason, I felt this would be a good omen and a degree of apprehension left me.

      When I finally climbed into the nose and got situated at my desk, I once again spotted the name and a short note written by one of the "Rosie The Riveter" gals who had worked on our plane. It had been scratched on the aluminum skin in a rather obscure place, perhaps only known to me. It simply said "always come home."

      As we crossed the English Channel and for some distance into France, we could see our "Little Brothers." This is an affectionate name for our fighter support, namely P-38 Lightnings and P-47 Thunderbolts. They would be protecting our formation for about another hour and a half. Then they would turn toward England, drop down on the deck, and strafe any target that happened to come within their gun sights, targets of opportunity.

      Actually, each fighter group would be with us for only brief periods because of range capabilities. As they would be forced to leave us another group of fighter support would rendezvous with our formation of bombers. Each successive group of fighters could remain with us for shorter periods because of the distance we were from England. Finally, we could expect no more escort protection. This limitation was usually anything beyond a three hundred mile radius from our Base in England.

      As I saw the last group of P-47's break for home, I began to have my first signs of nervous tension. I felt we would not be as lucky as the "milk run" I had been on only three days ago. I could feel the necessity to consciously force myself to breath.

      I foolishly let my mind try and handle what it would be like to be hit by Luftwaffe bullets entering my little space in the nose of HAARD LUCK. I knew also that all my required missions would not be without the risks that war demands of its participants.

      Shortly after the fighter escort broke off, we heard the first reports of German Fighters. They had been waiting for this very moment. The first group of bombers they attacked was directly ahead of us. This would be the 100th Bomb Group that was stationed in Thorpe Abbotts, not too far from Horham.

      We could see what looked like over a hundred little bees, swarming through the air space of the Formation barely visible ahead. Large contrail loops swirled in the sky before me. The ten miles that separated us made their formation appear as elongated silver dots that took on the shape of several arrowheads, traveling five miles above the earth. Within minutes our moment of truth erupted with machine gun fire vibrating my plane and shouting on the intercom system. Hell had just broken loose.

      We were being attacked from all directions, but primarily from the front. About this time several of the bombers from the group ahead, which had been shot down, were now exploding on the ground below us. We could see several balls of flame and pillars of smoke.

      Next I saw my first German fighter plane roll over and spiraled down to earth, with a trail of smoke arcing behind him. A fighter plane raced past my left window while it rolled over to race in a lazy arc away from our formation. I do not believe a single shot was fired at this plane. The noise from the 50 caliber machine guns was deafening.

      The only time I would use one of the two 50 caliber machine guns mounted in the Navigator's section of my plane, I managed to make a cardinal mistake. As I tried firing at a German fighter plane, which appeared to be diving toward my right window, I held the trigger for an excessive amount of time. As I held my sight on the rapid approaching enemy, my gun finally jammed in all of the excitement. Nothing happened when I tried pulling the trigger, as the plane rolled away from my window.

      I found out later I had ruined the barrel by not knowing you were to only fire the gun in short 8-second bursts. In their effort to speed Navigators to the combat area, we were never given training in how to use the guns in the nose of a B-17, nor any other plane. I truly did not have the slightest idea of what I did wrong and how to fix the damn thing.

On the two practice flights I had where we could use our guns, I only pulled the trigger for a second, just out into space. I immediately could comprehend that the two 50 caliber machine guns, designated for the Navigator, were absolutely useless. Neither gun had the ability to swing and follow a speeding airplane or target.

      In addition, the visibility behind these two worthless guns was truly atrocious for the action now taking place before my unbelieving eyes. Now, while witnessing ME 109s and FW 190s flash past my tiny windows in split seconds, it did not take a rocket scientist to realize the impossibility of a Navigator also being called a gunner or having success shooting down an enemy plane.

      My experience in hunting grouse, pheasants, ducks and geese told me that these two worthless guns could have been left off this bomber and saved the taxpayer money. I had learned from my father to be successful at bird hunting, you had to aim at the bird, follow it with your sights, move slightly ahead of the target in an even swing, and then pull the trigger. Your lead would be determined by how fast the target would be moving. The Navigator's machine guns could do none of the above.

      I made up my mind, that during the heat of the battle, I would observe and note everything I believed to be important on to my charts. I would make note of bombers and fighters that were shot down, I would note the number of parachutes spotted, I would indicate longitude and latitude for each instance, and I would record the degree of flak noted along our course, its location or at the target area. Anything I over heard on the intercom that seemed important would end up on my chart of the mission being flown. To hell with those two damn worthless guns.

      The Group ahead of us lost several bombers and I noted that while some seemed to flutter toward the earth like a fallen leaf, others were diving in a lazy arc, and one just exploded into a ball of debris. One B-17 took a spiral course toward its inevitable rendezvous with earth. German fighters were also dropping from the sky, leaving a smoking trail toward the earth. Some broke into dozens of pieces that flew in all directions. I wrote all of this information on my charts with trembling fingers and a dry mouth that felt like I had forgotten to remove the cotton in it.

      As soon as the action had started, it stopped just as suddenly. The almost unbearable noise from nearly a dozen machine guns firing simultaneously was simply reduced to the accustomed roar of the engines. Everything seemed to be calculated in degrees of discomfort and torment. Both the mind and the body seemed to rebel simultaneously. There was a lingering smell of spent and burnt powder that somehow mixed with the oxygen we were breathing through our masks.

      The planes of the 95th Bomb Group had sustained some damage, but so far, all 36 B-17s were holding their position. The Group ahead had taken the brunt of the German Fighter Plane effort. Suddenly, Lt. Yablonski's plane in the echelon in front of where we were flying veered off to the left and pulled down and away from the formation.

      All knew any plane that could not keep up with the formation would have a terrible time making it home on its own, especially from this part of Germany. German fighter planes would find and pick on these isolated crippled planes, invariably shooting them down.

      The order had been given in Lt. Yablonski's B-17 to abandon ship, two parachutes were counted by our gunners. Shortly thereafter, the plane exploded in a ball of fire and pieces of the B-17 were thrown in all directions, before gravity moved them downward. Eight airmen would die at the instant of this explosion. I received a report from one of my gunners that he could see the two men floating earthward.

      Minutes after we lost one of our own planes, the Germans broke away from our Group and just vanished. For whatever reason they turned away, lack of fuel or loss of many of their planes, their decision was welcomed. Another hour of flying would bring our formation near the German-Czechoslovakian border.

      Once we hit our Initial Point and turned the entire formation toward our target, a new hell began to erupt. At first there were only scattered bursts of flak, but as we flew the approximate ten miles to the drop zone for our bomb load, the intensity increased with each passing second.

      These bursts of flak took on the shape of an inverted large Y. The entire puff of this explosion would be about ten feet long, with each stem of the Y appearing to be about eighteen-inches in diameter. Each of these bursts would come at us in groups of four or five shells. At the instant the shell exploded, it would throw out thousands of pieces of metal in every direction, seeking something to slam into. As we witnessed these black smoky bursts, we knew the particles of death were already on their way.

      Within minutes the sky was now black with hundreds of flak bursts, enough that you could not identify individual shots. It was at this point that you now could actually see flashes of color present themselves at the instant the timer in each shell went off. It was so dark it was difficult to observe the plane next to you.

      Every plane was being pushed about by the bursts of flak, and each not in the same direction. The turbulent air, the black menacing smoke, the explosive sounds of shells erupting, the roar of our engines, the sashaying of the remaining 35 bombers, the difficulty to remember to breath, and the heart pounding in your chest made each second seem like an eternity.

      Despite the fact you had ten men in your plane and you were apart of nearly four-hundred individuals, you felt all alone and like this terrible ordeal was just happening to you. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the concussion . . . . . . none of this seemed like reality.

      All at once I noticed my left leg began to tremble so hard I could hardly keep my heel on the floor. The feeling of hopelessness consumed my mind and every sensitive part of my body. It seemed impossible to inhale enough air to satisfy my lungs. The smell of cordite grabbed my nostrils and created something I had never experienced before. So much was going on it was impossible to focus your eyes on any one thing.

      There were moments when I felt like I had forgotten to breath. Many minutes seemed to elapse when everything within my body had frozen in time. I looked toward the Bombardier sitting only a few feet from me. I realized there was nothing he could do for me, nor that I could do for him. This was to be my first experience with genuine fear. I knew somehow I had to learn how to conquer or at least be the controller of this expected fright on my first real contact with hell.

      Our run to the target seemed to take an eternity. Though it was approximately a ten-mile leg and our formation was flying at about 180 miles per hour, these were the longest three minutes of my life. Finally I heard the command to open bomb bay doors. Though it was difficult to see in this man created mess, all eyes would be on the Lead Bombardier.

      As soon as his load left the lead ship, all other planes dropped their rack of bombs. As the entire rack in the bomb bay released their load, each plane immediately leapt upward about ten feet, not in perfect unison. They were now falling toward the target and we could get the hell out of here. The formation made an abrupt turn toward the west and we moved away while the bursts of flak followed us.

      Once we left the range of the anti aircraft guns my tail gunner gave me constant reports of the huge column of black smoke rising from the target area. We had hit their synthetic oil facilities and now the results were rising in the form of billowing black smoke. It had reached our altitude of over 30,000 feet and now the top of this column was being blown to the left. Some of our tail gunners said they could see this beautiful sight when we were nearly one-hundred miles away.

      What seemed like a short period of time after we had left the target area, suddenly, the yells of our gunners broke the silence and shouted over the intercom, "Here those bastards come again." The 95th Bomb Group was about to get attacked by German fighters, for the second time. The stupid thought that this did not seem fair flashed through my head until I realized the business both sides were engaged in did not have dispassionate rules to guide them.

      I noted on my maps and charts, that we were in the same vicinity of the previous attack. The German Fighter Pilots had time to land, refuel, take on ammunition, and get back into the sky to again greet us. This time, it appeared that they would not be as aggressive, as they were against the Group that led us into the target area.

      The 95th received only slight damage on the single pass the Luftwaffe made on us during this latest encounter. I noted only one fighter plane trailing some smoke as it sped away. Our guns were now quite but the smell of powder lingered on. As we lumbered along in the back of the formation we could see only the single vacant spot that the Lt. Yablanski crew had occupied.

      Not far from Frankfurt, Germany this crew met its end. Two crewmen, the Radio Operator Sgt. R.M. Harbeck and the ball turret Sgt. G.V. Dimayo managed to bail out and would ultimately become prisoners of war. Pilot Lt. E.M. Yablonski, Co-Pilot Lt.W.L. Corrigan, Navigator Lt. J.F. Madigan Jr., Bombardier Lt. V.F. Humme, Top Turret Sgt. C.R. Lyon, Left Waist Gunner Sgt. L.H. Smith, Right Waist Gunner Sgt. P.R. Neuman, and Tail gunner Sgt. M.B. Cullum all were killed as the plane went down in a ball of flames. There are no words to erase the vision my eyes and mind had been exposed to this day.

      This had been a long haul and darkness was beginning to set in as we approached the Base at Horham. We had been in the air almost twelve hours and the look of fatigue was present on every crewmember's face. We had lost only a single bomber and its crew, though many planes would fire off their red flares indicating wounded aboard. The 100th Bomb Group, part of our 13th Combat Wing, would not be as fortunate as the 95th Bomb Group this day.

      Tonight I would substitute my evening meal for a drink or two at the Officers' Club. I met "Waddy" and "Weak" there and immediately they started picking my brain about the mission I had just returned from. The few drinks of bourbon and the conversation with my two friends helped to get my nerves reacting normal again.

      They could not understand why our original crew was not called upon to partake in a mission, why I had been pulled away from our crew, and why others were flying HAARD LUCK. They obviously were asking the wrong guy.

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