HIGH-ALTITUDE ATMOSPHERIC CONTAMINATION

Robert ("Bob") Carter, Navigator, 336th Squadron
(Originally published in Courage, Honor, Victory)

It was to be another one of those days- a "maximum effort" mission. That means that anything with wings and a couple of engines must take to the air and go if at all possible. We were flying the lead airplane in the low squadron. For this particular effort, we were to have an extra aircraft to fly in the slot below and behind us. This dubious honor was given to a ship from the 412th Squadron, piloted by Dave G. To know Dave was to love him. We were buddies from way back in phase training in the United States; we went through the replacement procedures and arrived at Horham together. I was assigned to the 336th and Dave to the 412th squadron. 

He was a boisterous and uproarious product of Brooklyn, New York, and flew an aircraft with the inelegant and ungraceful name of "Floozie Flossie." He always joked about his two sets of dog-tags. One set read Dave G. and the other read Dave O'Brien. As he put it, "I'm not going to be caught with a name like Dave G., if I'm shot down over Germany." Incidentally, Dave is Jewish, and he has the map of Israel all over his face. 

After a normal take-off, we circled for an hour in the pre-dawn darkness to gain altitude and assemble into group formation. We leveled off at 23,000 feet and headed east toward "Fortress Europe." 

If you've never seen a sunrise from five miles up, then you're missing something really special. The sky gradually changes from its inky, Stygian blackness to quite beautiful and spectacular shades of purple, to various and exquisite hues of blue and then to reflections of orange, pink, and red. Then, inexorably and inevitably, the rim of a huge ball of fire peeps inquisitively and cautiously over the eastern horizon. The rising sun is on its way to herald in a new day, lighting our way to the target and, unfortunately, also lighting the German fighters' way to find us. This day the contrails streaming from our engines in the sub-stratosphere pointed like an arrow straight to our Fortress formations. The Lord was showing no favorites that day. 

As we were crossing the North Sea and approaching the Dutch coast, our co-pilot, Joe A., called me over the intercom to advise me of a condition that was causing him much inconvenience and extreme discomfort - the "Gls." He requested information as to how to solve his embarrassing and delicate predicament. 

I reminded him of the large, canvas shell-casing bags on the two side nose 50-caliber machine guns, one of which would be more than adequate to solve the problem. Now, how to dispose of the canvas bag on completion of the exercise? 

I advised Joe to go back to the radio operator's compartment, remove the overhead plexiglass hatch, and just throw the shell casing bag, with its contents, up through the open hatch. The force of the slip-stream across the opening would suck the bag up and out. 

We completed the mission successfully and returned to Horham without further incident. As we were leaving the debriefing room, Dave G. and his crew came in. 

"How did it go, Dave?" we inquired. 

"Don't ask," replied Dave, "I must have hit a bird or something. You should see the state of my splattered windshield!" 

Needless to say we didn't tell Dave about the bird that had hit his windshield.