FLYING THE B-29 -- by Charles L. Long

The 20th Bomber Command of the 20th Air Force had sent orders to our 40th Bomb Group for its three B-29 squadrons, the 25th, 44th and the 45th, to participate with other bomber groups based nearby in India in a strike against the Singapore naval repair facilities, which had been captured by the Japanese and used to repair their ships.

We were awakened at 10 PM. I had spent a short and restless evening. It was still hot and humid from the day. I wore olive drab boxer shorts. I slipped around my waist a canvas escape belt which held seven, two-sided silk maps printed in 7 colors by the French, some US Chits, which could be filled out as promissory notes to those who might aid us in escape, and a small, concealable compass. I slipped on a lightweight olive drab cotton flight suit that had in its knee pocket a "Pointy-Talky" booklet that would enable downed fliers to communicate in any of the many languages of Southeastern Asia and China. I pulled on my high top GI shoes and hooked up the olive drab canvas leggings that we were required to wear on combat missions. Around my waist I fastened my web belt which held a sheathed trench knife, a canteen of water, and pouches with extra clips of 45 caliber ammunition. With my red leather baseball cap on my head, I walked with other pilots and crew to breakfast. The air was pungent as usual from the lingering cooking fire smoke drifting in from surrounding native villages.

The briefing covered the usual weather and intelligence data, bomb load and type, cruise control, formations, the target, alternate targets, expected enemy flak and fighters, altitudes to fly, rendezvous point, initial point, axis of attack, and where we could expect to ditch at sea near a British submarine (the sub's code name was "Darkeyes"), and other escape and survival information.

We caught jeep or truck rides to our B-29s revetment. Our plane's name was "TABOOMA" which stood for "Take A Bite Out Of My Ass". Our flight crew had loaded the twelve 50 caliber machine guns the day before. The ordinance men had loaded 6 one thousand pound bombs.

I put on my olive drab "jungle vest". It held my 45 caliber Colt automatic in its waterproof pouch, a folded machete, birdshot shells for the 45, broad-brimmed hat with mosquito netting, canvas gloves, waterproof matches, flares, a signal mirror, fish line and hooks, Charm candies, salt tablets, atabrine (anti-malaria) tablets, water treatment tablets, and a first aid kit. Over all this I put on a fur-collared, cotton flight jacket, then a May West (an inflatable flotation device). I slipped the backpack parachute straps over my shoulders and fastened the buckle device. Onto the parachute was fastened a one-man life raft which acted as a seat cushion. In the life raft was a can of water. A syringe of morphine to quell the pain of wounds was taped to the parachute's left strap forward of my shoulder, within reach of either hand. Around my neck was a throat microphone and over my red leather ball cap rested a headset.

In the midnight darkness we had completed our preflight checks and had started the four engines. The ground crews were all standing about watching and it came our turn to taxi. The bomb bay doors were just being closed when there was a jolt and noise. A week-voiced announcement came from our radar operator who could see through a rear, round port window into the bomb bay. "Sir, two bombs just fell out of the bomb bay." The ground crews that had been watching had all taken dives into the surrounding slit trenches. We shut down the engines and got out to assess the situation. We rounded up ordinance men who disarmed the bombs by removing the arming vanes and had them drag the bombs to one side. The bomb bay doors were checked and were functioning. We fired up the engines and were last to taxi and take off for Singapore.

The dawn found us heading southeast over the Indian Ocean. Being late and last to take off, we had a little catching up to do. Since we were 2,000 pounds lighter than the rest of our group, we could advance our throttle settings for a bit more speed. The B-29s were among the first planes that had cabin air pressurization, so as we slowly climbed to this mission's bombing altitude of 20,000 feet, it was warm and comfortable and during daylight, when not under danger of attack, there was no need to wear an oxygen mask. The autopilot relieved us pilots from the tedium of manual control.

The Southeastern Asian counterpart of Tokyo Rose was transmitting to us on our inter-ship frequency, announcing crew members' names and rank and telling us that on previous raids bombs from "you butchers" had hit every school, church, orphanage, old folks home, hospital and civilian group without damage to any military target. When she wasn't talking, there were annoying jamming signals that would test our composure and hamper our communications.

For the long flight we were provided with sandwiches and coffee, and benzedrine tablets to keep us awake. In the forward end of the aircraft there was a cylindrical canister with a funnel and rubber tube into which we could urinate. In the radar compartment aft, there was a chemical toilet which we were reluctant to use because the poor radar operator would almost die from the odors. We were required to record weather observations along with any aircraft and shipping sightings.

As we neared the rendezvous point in the Straight of Malacca, where enemy fire was probable and expected, I put on my 90 pound flak suit, GI plastic helmet liner, metal flak helmet, oxygen mask with built-in microphone, goggles, a pair of silk gloves, a pair of wool gloves over the silk gloves and a pair of leather gloves over the other two pairs. Thus, we would be prepared for any sudden loss of cabin pressure which would allow a sudden temperature drop to many degrees below zero. In my lap I held a large and heavy still camera for snapping action and reconnaissance photos. The flak suit weighed heavily on my legs and made use of the rudders difficult.

Since the rendezvous point was about 2,000 miles from our base, we could not afford the fuel to allow us to wait long for many other planes to arrive so the first to arrive at the rendezvous point would be joined by the next two planes and be the leader of a three plane element which would proceed to the target.

The Japanese always knew we were coming. Whoever planned our missions always ordered the same formations, the same altitude, the same radio frequency, the same initial point and the same axis of attack. It was like a football game where the opposing coach says "Ah so! They are using the same play every time!" It didn't take a genius to figure out how to counter our moves.

Excited intercom chatter among the gunners would signal the approach of Japanese Zero and Zeke fighters. They would fly almost straight up, firing as they came. They would disappear in the sun above us and then dive, flare out and release white phosphorus bombs which would explode over our formations. If an engine ingested burning white phosphorus, it is not likely that the fire could be put out.

Knowing we were coming, the Japanese Navy would have two heavy cruisers laying one after the other across our path. As the fighters broke away, the cruisers put up a 4,000 foot layer of flak whose orange bursts would turn to black puffs of smoke. Some would be close enough to be heard and the impact felt. It sounded like heavy gravel hitting the plane as hits were sustained.

Once out of the cruisers' range, the fighters would be on us again. They would break away a second time as we came into the range of the ground anti-aircraft batteries of the heavily defended naval repair facilities. One objective was to destroy the British King's floating dry dock with which the Japs could repair large ships.

After "bombs away" and out of the range of the ground batteries, the fighters would be on us again. Eventually the fighters would reach the limit of their endurance and we would head northwest out over the waters of the Straight of Malacca. There was time now to take off all the flak suits and headgear and assess damage. The plane would be put "on the step", that is throttle back and slowly lose altitude to save fuel.

Now came the long flight back to India. Our bodies were plagued with dysentery, most of the time mild, sometimes severe. On this mission we were all suffering. By this time in the flight the forward urine canister was full and overflowing. So was the chemical toilet in the radar compartment. There was a plug-sealed tube from the flight deck floor through which smoke and signal flares could be dropped. Since we were now at an altitude where we were depressurized, I left my pilot seat, got onto my knees over the hole on the deck, removed the plug, and attempted to make use of this ad hoc urinal.

Unfortunately, air rising in the tube blew everything back in my face. As the plane buffeted along I was soaked, as was the entire surrounding area.

The whole crew was trying to hold back the "runs" or "trots". We decided to open the after bomb bay doors and to take turns, in a more or less "bombs away" fashion. Again air turbulence in the bomb bay which was not kind to us and we ended up coating every nook and cranny of the bomb bay. What did make its way into the slipstream streaked the underside of the plane all the way to the tail. The flight crew (that was us) was responsible for cleaning the aircraft, and we would pay the price. The odor was forever with that plane and in the 120 degrees in the shade in India it was intolerable.

After 17 hours of flight, we landed at our base with a few holes here and there in the aircraft's skin. Before interrogation, the 2-ounce shot of whiskey they handed us was almost enough to knock us off our feet. There were three crew members who didn't drink. They were instructed to take the shot glass anyway and slip it to a couple of us who did. In a tired state and on an empty stomach -- whee! After interrogation came time to stow gear, get something to eat and hit the mosquito netted sack in our rice straw-roofed, mud walled quarters. Hot, dirty, tired smelly bodies would be in instantaneous deep sleep.

At the critique on the following day we were reprimanded over the two 1,000 pound bombs we had neatly dropped under our parked airplane. Under questioning, we learned that our bombardier routinely, and wrongly, moved the bomb release lever from "Safe" to "Select" as part of his preflight routine. It turned out that the cable releases on the bottom two 1,000 pounders were set too tight so that when he put the lever in "Select" the two bottom bombs were salvoed.

We spent the rest of the day in the hot sun of India trying to clean up our airplane. So much about the glamour of combat flying.

DONALD B. HARMON

BRIEF BIO:

Don Harmon was born on March 7, 1922 in Riverside, California. On September 12, 1942, at Portland, Oregon, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. After complications with the flight physical and other delays he was finally sent to San Antonio, Texas, for Preflight; Pine Bluff, Arkansas, for Primary; Independence, Kansas, for Basic (Nov-Dec43); and finally on to Mission, Texas, for Advanced Training (Jan-Feb44). Upon graduation from Advanced he received his pilot's wings and a 2ndLt. commission. For almost a year thereafter he instructed in Vultee Vibrators (BT-13). Then in January 1945 he moved on to B-29 flight engineer training, after which he received his Observer wings. He spent the rest of the war at Lowery Field, Denver, Colorado, instructing B-29 flight engineers. He was discharged in November 1945 as a First Lieutenant.

On March 3, 1942, at Redondo Beach, California, Don married Betty. Together they had five children, Robert, Gail, Peggy, Sherrill and Julie.

HIS STORY:

On September 12,1942, I reported to the induction center at Portland, Oregon, where I passed my Aviation Cadet written test. Unfortunately, I flunked the physical examination. When I was a boy, a horse had dragged me down a barbed wire fence, nearly cutting my leg off below the knee. The doctor said that I couldn’t fly with an injury like that. However, he did say that I could retake the exam again in six weeks.

Meanwhile, I was drafted to McClellan Field, Sacramento, California, for six weeks basic training then transferred to Ogden, Utah. After that, I was sent to Pendleton, Oregon, where it was 20 degrees below -- just right for walking guard duty! My six weeks were more than up, so I retook the Aviation Cadet tests, and passed. Pendleton was closing down so I went to San Bruno, California, where I was billeted at the Tanforan race track. It was also in the process of being de-activated, so I was soon shipped back to McClellan Field.

After a long wait, I was finally transferred to San Antonio, Texas, for preflight and ground school training. After completing the course I was assigned to Pine Bluff, Arkansas, for primary flight training. My instructor, Mr. Moody, soloed me first then three more. After that he flunked the others, since he preferred to keep just four students out of every class.

I then went to Independence, KS, for basic flight training. We flew North American BT-14’s, which were North American AT-6’s with fixed undercarriages and powered by 450 horsepower Pratt & Whitney radial engines. The way we piled them up I don’t believe that there were many left for future classes.

Advanced training was at Mission, Texas, where we flew AT-6s and graduated as Class 44B. Two of us were sent to Perrin field near Sherman, Texas, where we became basic flight instructors, in Consolidated Vultee BT-13’s, often referred to as Vultee "Vibrators".

Teaching Cadets was a real experience. I never really knew how to fly until I experienced all the mistakes that Cadets can make. On one flight in an AT-6 with a Cadet, oil started flowing along the canopy track into the rear seat. The AT-6 was a two-seater in which the instructor sat behind the pupil. "Is there any oil up there?" I asked. "Yes," he replied. "How bad?" I asked. He replied, "I don’t know, I can’t see out of the windshield!"

Now deeply concerned, I asked how long it had been flowing. He responded, "About thirty minutes". Luckily, I spotted an auxiliary field below us so, grabbing the controls, I said, "I’ve got it!" and made a rapid landing. When we got down and checked the oil, there was less than one gallon remaining out of the normal five gallons carried in the old Pratt & Whitney’s sump. That was the day I started to turn gray.

I instructed until January, 1945, when I was reassigned to ground school at Amarillo, Texas to train as a B-29 flight engineer. At the time the "powers that be" considered it necessary to have three pilots on board a B-29 so my fellow students were all pilots. Later on the rules were relaxed so non-pilots could be flight engineers.

My next stop was Lowery Field, Denver, Colorado for more ground school and hands on training on the Pratt & Whitney R-3350 engines. B-29 flight training was completed at Montgomery, Alabama. There I received my Observer wings.

I was returned to Denver to become a flight engineer instructor, which required more flight training. There I trained under an instructor with whom I didn’t exactly see eye to eye. He had been a buck sergeant but, after going through the same training that I had received, he was made a 2nd Lt. One day, in front of our Major and the rest of the class, he berated me for wearing my Pilot instead of Observer wings. I came right back and by the time I was done chewing him out everyone, including the Major, was staring at us. The next day the Major called me in. I thought, "Now I’ve done it". But he said "Nice work, I’m putting you in for 1st Lt".

I spent the rest of the war at Lowery instructing B-29 flight engineers.

RICHARD R. KLINGENBERG

BRIEF BIO::

Richard Klingenberg was born on May 3, 1924 in Santa Ana, CA. When he was not yet 19 years old he was drafted in the Army Air Corps. He went through Primary Flight Training in Oxnard, CA; Basic Flight Training at Bakersfield, CA; Advanced Flight Training in Marfa, TX; and B-29 Transition Training at Tucson, AZ. His major theater of wartime operations was Asian-Pacific / Tinian, in the summer of 1945. Before the war ended he managed to get in two (2) combat missions. He was released from active duty on October 21,1946 in San Francisco, with the rank of Second Lieutenant.

On January 7, 1945, in Denver, CO, he married Marilyn. Together they have three children, Terrence, Carol, and Robert.

HIS STORY:

In late 1944 I was on the fast track to B-29 pilot -- and I did get my wings and B-29s -- but because of an attack of tonsillitis at just the wrong time I ended flying them as flight engineer / pilot, with emphasis on the former. The flight engineer's duty station was a seat right behind the co-pilot, facing the rear of the plane, in front of a large instrument panel. The panel contained all of the engine instrumentation, including manifold pressure, rpm, oil pressure and temperature and cylinder head temperature for each engine. There was also an impressive array of emergency lights and related switches (if this light comes "on" throw this switch to the "up" position). I also had available a throttle and mixture and prop controls for each engine. The only available view of the outside world was off to my left, a small window for checking the starboard engines in flight.

On a typical flight I was first responsible to preflight the plane. Hanging on those big R-3350 engines were equally monstrous four-bladed props, which traced out prop arcs approximately 17 feet in diameter. It was part of my preflight job, with the help of several of our crew, to pull each of those props through several revolutions. This swept away any oil which might have accumulated in the bottom cylinders, in turn allowing the engines to be turned over more easily by the electric starters.

I then got the Auxiliary Power Unit started, went to my station in the plane, started all of those engines, and checked that all were running well, ready for takeoff. On the way out to the runway, and while waiting for takeoff clearance, the engines tended to overheat, and it was necessary to watch cylinder head temperatures closely and to judiciously manipulate cowl flaps. Once in the air there was usually enough air flow through the engines that the cowl flaps could be closed and left that way.

It is often said that the B-29 was underpowered by really it was just always overloaded. Takeoff typically consisted of a "sag" down from the runway almost into the water followed, if all went well, by a slow climb out to altitude. During that early period it was again necessary to closely monitor cylinder head temperatures.

The B-29, being pressurized and heated, allowed crew members to dress in summer uniforms or lightweight flying suits. We even had hot lunches, hot cocoa and coffee.

Flights were usually 12-14 hours long. Most of the time I concentrated on cruise control, carefully measuring fuel consumption and fine tuning engine manifold pressure, mixture ratio and prop pitch (rpms) to minimize fuel consumption. Before the flight I had calculated fuel usage over the whole flight, for two, three and four engine operation, showing the points of no return. The challenge was to meet or better that plan. Most of the time I was right on. I did have the freedom to get up from time to time and move about the cockpit, and I frequently relieved one or the other of the pilots at the flight controls. That was how I got my flight time in as well. I was third in command.

There was a ten-gallon stainless steel tank aboard to be used in the event of a call of nature. The strict rule was that the one who used it last saw to it that it was emptied and cleaned before the next guy needed it. Amazingly enough (I was so young in those days!) I never used it, lasting 12-14 hours with no problems. As I recall, that held true for the pilots as well.

I was born and raised in Santa Ana, California, not far from the Army Air Force cadet training base. Naturally I wanted to be a cadet myself, and to fly the big bombers. But early on in the war I was too young to enlist. So I worked for a year or so at Douglas Aircraft Company, in Long Beach, building A-20s, which I really wanted to fly. I finally got signed up in the Army Air Corps, but was drafted before the final papers were completed. So I went through regular basic training, as an enlisted man. After completing basic training I was able to transfer to cadet training.

At the time, pilot training required that you have two years of college under your belt, and I had none. So they put me in the College Training Detachment and shipped me off to St. John's University in Minnesota. In some way or other I satisfied the college requirement there in eight months, and was shipped back where I started, to my home town of Santa Ana, and to the cadet training I had wanted in the first place.

We started off in Primary, and I soloed, in the redoubtable Stearman. That training was supplied by a civilian contractor in Oxnard, California. I remember that Corsairs from a nearby Navy base (probably Point Mugu) regularly would buzz us Primary students, and scare us half to death. One student got so scared that he bailed out. In general, the Stearman was a nice plane to fly.

Basic was at Minter Field just outside of Bakersfield, California, where we flew a Vultee BT-13. The BT-13 was a low-wing monoplane with a greenhouse canopy, not unlike the AT-6 Texan, except that it did not have retractable landing gear. It was in Basic that I was first exposed to the tortures of the "Big Blue Box", the link trainer. I never could master that monster, I think I crashed every time I got in it. That was a distinct disadvantage to me later on because, lacking that link trainer qualification, I was unable to qualify for an instrument ticket until after I transferred to the Guam Air Depot and was flying C-46s and C-47s. By that time I had enough actual instrument time to qualify.

Finally, Advanced Training was at Marfa Army Air Field outside of Amarillo, Texas. There we flew the twin engine AT-17, known as the "Cessna Bomber" or the "Bamboo Bomber". There I got my first taste of night, cross country and instrument flying. Night cross country in that flat land, with few if any towns, railroads or navigational aids, was a truly rigorous exercise in navigation and instrument flying. Navigational aids consisted of the old radio ranges. The radio station transmitted the "A" signal (dot-dash) into two opposite quadrants and the "N" signal (dash-dot) into the other two quadrants. Where the quadrants met the dot-dashes blended with the dash-dots to form a continuous signal. Those continuous signals were the "beams" which you would "ride" into the station. Unfortunately, the radios were terrible, full of crashing static, making it nearly impossible to hear the navigational "A's" and "N's".

Just before my very last flight in the Training Command I came down with tonsillitis. I was adamant, however, that I finish that flight, and qualify for my wings, so I flew it anyway, in severe agony. On return I went right from the flight line to the hospital, where I spent a whole month, and eventually had a tonsillectomy. I got my wings while in the hospital.

However, that was a critical problem for my career because it was while I was stuck in that hospital that my potential B-29 command pilot career was derailed. While in the hospital my classmates, my "friends" scarfed off all the good pilot assignments. At the same time they raided my footlocker and stole everything I owned. By the time I got to the assignment desk, in the only clothes I owned, the only assignments left were flight engineer and radar observer. About that time, the powers that be decided that with only two pilots the B-29 was too vulnerable. Just knock off those two crew members and the plane goes down, taking all the crew with it. So they decided that there should be two extra qualified pilots aboard and, to keep them busy and out of trouble, they assigned them the duties of flight engineer or radar operator. Federal aviation authorities maintain that logic, that the flight engineer must also be a pilot, in many commercial aircraft even to this day.

Flight engineer was really a mechanic's job and I knew nothing about engines. I was sent to Amarillo, Texas, for a few weeks of flight engineer training. At Amarillo there was nothing but engines as far as the eye could see. They taught very little about the engines, per se, but went into great depth on emergency procedures, such as when and how to feather the prop on an engine, and on cruise control techniques. The latter utilized a series of complex charts showing how to operate the engines under any set of conditions to get the maximum possible performance, usually reflected in minimum fuel consumption per hour or per mile flown. There were a set of charts for operation with four, three and two engines. I guess there was only one way to operate an engine when there is only one remaining.

Next I was sent to Lowry Field in Denver, Colorado, for further flight engineer training. There they had B-24s specially equipped with engineer's panels that were the same as in the B-29s. They also taught us about transferring fuel between tanks to maintain optimum fore-and-aft balance, which could have significant effect on cruise control. At one time we had on board a crewman who was addicted to cigars. He was a chain cigar smoker, and just had to have one going all the time. It was a great feeling of power to announce, "The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship while transferring fuel.", and watch him squirm.

While in Denver I married my wife Marilyn.

Finally we were sent to Davis-Monthan for B-29 transition training. That was the first time any of us had seen a B-29!! Then, in June of 1945, we were sent overseas, to North Field on Tinian Island, in the Marianas chain.

By the time I arrived in the combat zone the war was very nearly ended. We got in just a couple of combat (mine laying) missions before it was all over. I didn't even qualify for one lousy Air Medal. The "Enola Gay" took off from our field but we knew nothing of it. We had noticed a roped off area with large "Stay Away" signs, and so we did. We weren't told about Hiroshima until after the Nagasaki bombing. Then there were some pretty wild celebrations, because it seemed to pretty clearly signal an end to the war.

When the surrender was finally signed, in Tokyo Bay, our group flew a massive formation of B-29s over the signing, aboard the USS Missouri. There were a lot of great, historic pictures taken but you can bet that we got none of the good ones.

Shortly thereafter we flew a mission to drop supplies to a POW camp. While the prisoners had been liberated, there was no food around, for them or their captors. We bundled massive amounts of food and supplies in wooden crates and attached small parachutes. We flew over the camps at tree-top levels to assure accuracy in the drops. Unfortunately, when we arrived over the camp we found that almost all of the parachutes were missing. The only thing we could figure was that they were somewhat valuable and had been stolen before we even took off. We could think of no way to fix the problem so we shoved the crates out the bomb bay anyway. We watched many of the boxes plunge through roofs and /or shatter on the ground, spraying food and supplies all over the place. We sincerely hoped that we hadn't hurt anyone. In another place in this chapter Rich Porter, a B-29 ground crew member, said he also witnessed the chaos of that drop but claims that the parachutes simply malfunctioned.

And shortly after that we flew what was called a "show of force" over Korea. Something aggressive was shaping up in Korea even then. We took all the ammo out of our planes, got everyone we could into the air, and flew a massive formation of B-29s over Korea. We never heard whether that accomplished anything.

Of course, I had arrived in the Pacific Theater so late, just a few months before the end of the war in the Pacific, that I had accumulated almost no "points" toward going home. As a result, with great joy and celebration, nearly everyone but me departed for home and discharge. I got a "plum" assignment to the Guam Air Depot to fly C-46s and C-47s in the "Army of Occupation" of Japan. For a year I flew supplies and people between Guam, the Philippines and Japan. In addition I got a "plum" secondary assignment as Guam Motor Pool Officer. It was my enviable duty to search all over Guam for military vehicles and to get them bundled up and shipped stateside. Finally, just when I was about to accumulate enough points to go home, the Air Force offered to transport my wife to Guam and to give us government quarters if I would stay on for another year. I respectfully declined.

While I was in the Guam assignment I traveled frequently to Japan, landing at several different air fields. I also got to travel fairly extensively there. I got a close look at the damage we had caused, including both Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In the latter two absolutely nothing but the reinforced concrete buildings were left standing, everything else was leveled, right to the ground. Although I rarely found Japanese who could speak English, everywhere we went they were quite polite and hospitable (probably cursing us in Japanese while smiling broadly). There was no doubt we had very heavily pasted every target in Japan worth pasting. Time to let up and go home.

CHARLES L. (LES) LONG, JR

BRIEF BIO:

Les Long was born on November 3, 1923 in Santa Cruz, CA. When he was not yet 20 years old he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. He went through Primary Flight Training in Wickenburg, AZ, flying Stearmans; Basic Flight Training in Lancaster, CA, flying BT-13s; and Advanced Flight Training at Fort Sumner, NM. His major wartime operations were in 1944-45 in the China-Burma-India / Tinian Island theaters, where he participated in major battles in the China- Burma- India Defensive, and the Western Pacific Air Offensive against Japan. He flew seven (7) combat missions and was awarded the Air Medal. He received a partial disability retirement in 1946 at Valley Forge, PA, and retired with the rank of Captain. The above picture shows the "now" and "then" of Les Long.

In 1950, in Santa Cruz, CA, he married Veronne. Together they have two children, Charlette and Diane.

HIS STORY:

In 1941 I entered San Jose State. I took a lot of math and science and pre-engineering courses, math through differential calculus, analytic geometry, spherical trigonometry, with naval and military applications, and surveying, where I learned to use a sextant. In 1942 at age eighteen I enlisted to become an aviation cadet. Though I was 6'5" tall and the height limit was 6'4", I bent my knees and was measured as 6'3". At age nineteen I was called in along with 3,000 other potential cadets from the west coast's major colleges and universities. We all had been through rigorous college physical education, boxing, judo and daily romps over the obstacle courses set up to train those waiting to be called to service.

At basic training in Utah I finished in the top 100 of the 3,000 and was sent directly to Santa Ana while the rest were farmed out to the college training detachments. I was so tall that I was the first man in the first squad of the first flight of the 20,000 cadets. After being quarantined, I had my first plane ride when an officer from War Eagle Field at Lancaster picked me up in a BT-13 at little Orange airport and flew me to visit my mother and sister. Myy sister was secretary to the CO of the flying school. I felt like a VIP. My flight training was in Stearmans, the BT-13 and AT-17s.

At twenty years old, with wings and commission I checked out of B-17 flight training as an airplane commander. While I waited for assignment orders, I decided to take a chance and went AWOL via bus from Hobbs, New Mexico to Liberal, Kansas where my best college buddy, Lloyd Britton from San Jose was in B-24 pilot training. I flew with Lloyd on one of his training flights. I went to a nearby field and talked my way into a flight on a C-46 that was pulling gliders. That day, I got a telegram from a fellow B-1 7 pilot at Hobbs that my orders came through. I hightailed it back to Hobbs.

The orders sent me to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I too was introduced to Stites. I recall having about four fast tall glasses but don't remember being on the floor. I do remember that we sang "Stars and Stites Forever".

The best of us were selected for B-29 training. I was assigned to a crew. The airplane commander was 1st Lt Richard Cobb, about 21. He was officious and gruffly barked every statement as an order. He ordered the enlisted men around in a highly distasteful manner. Our first flight as a crew was in a B-17. He barked and yelled. He did a two point take off which we were instructed not to do because of the strain it put on the main landing gear. We were to fly practice bombing. If a gunner called on the intercom and announced "Aircraft, 9 o'clock level, collision course" he would bark "I see it! I see it". One could get the idea that he saw everything and if he was going to bite your head off, why report?

The radar operator, who had no radar set and therefore nothing to do on the B-17, called to say that his oxygen mask had broken. In a "heroic" gesture, Cobb took his oxygen mask off and sent it back to the radar man. I watched Cobb as he put a handkerchief over the open end of his oxygen hose and tried to suck. In time, his lips and fingernails were turning blue. He was carrying a pearl-handled Colt Frontier model .45 which he would draw and twirl as he attempted to fly. His reactions to the PDI were imprecise and sluggish. I reminded him that we were staying up too long. He snapped at me. I started to transfer fuel to one tank that was getting low. He ordered me not to transfer.

Daylight was rapidly fading. I repeated the need to transfer fuel. Again, no. On the final approach #4 engine quit from lack of fuel. I reached with my left hand to start the feathering procedure. His right hand cracked my wrist hard as he feathered #3. With 2 engines out on the same side on final approach and near darkness the plane was hard to control. I let out a few cuss words and unfeathered #3 as he pulled up to go around for another try to land. I said "Now, will you let me transfer fuel?" He said, "NO!" So, we came in on three engines.

He made a hard wheel landing that strained the main gear. Once onto the dark taxi strip I told him I wanted to shut down #1 to balance the stopped #4. He said, "NO!" There was a cross wind from our right that was pushing our tail left and, coupled with the pull of two engines on the left, forced Cobb to heavily ride the left brake. The left gunner reported that the left brake area was glowing red. As Cobb was rebuffing the gunner the left brake blew, and we spun in a circle. Cobb decided to abandon the plane, which was blocking other aircraft on the taxi strip. In the dark we walked with our gear back to operations. Although I was the newest guy on the crew, I knew this was not the way a crew should work.

The next morning when the crew assembled, several of them had had it. Each spoke his piece about not wanting to be treated like animals, etc., etc. Cobb sat in silence. One crew member passed out little torn pieces of paper and called for a vote. He collected the ballots in his hat, left the room for the count and returned. It was a unanimous thumbs down. Cobb excused himself, went the CO and had himself relieved. It was the last time we saw him. As co-pilot I was now temporarily in charge. I set things straight. I instructed the crew about when to act militarily correct and when we could be informal and act as true friends.

They turned from being dejected souls to a real family team. If they reported "Aircraft 9 o'clock level, collision course" they got a "Roger, thank you". I told them that even if we started flying formation with another craft to report it and that they would not get their heads snapped off.

Captain John E. "Dusty" Child was assigned to us. He was as short as I was tall. He had been pilot flight instructor in the training command. I took him aside and recounted the history of the crew. He was a perfect fit. Often, he would call me aside and ask "What has been your policy on this?" He commanded our respect.

On one of my first flights on B-29s out of Clovis, New Mexico, we lost one engine, the bomb bay doors would not close, the right landing gear would not come down, we lost 4 generators. We were sent to Tinker Field, Oklahoma City where they had crash and hospital facilities. After flying most of the night to lighten up, we crash landed and destroyed the plane. All got out. I got a bad hit on the head. I could write a book on the hazards of getting to combat. Some frightfully near-misses and survival from three crashes.

At Clovis we were to participate in a maximum effort exercise. The planes on this field, some of which were YB-29s, had many evolutionary modifications. Some had wooden pieces attached to the roots of the prop blades that were supposed to force more air into the hot-running engines. Others had weird cowl flap configurations. For the max effort, the airplane we were assigned needed several overdue ground inspections and checks, and was streaked with oil from the engines. Every one of the engineers on previous flights in this plane had reported #3 engine backfiring in flight. Each time the ground crews had merely run the engine up on the ground and said #3 was OK. Our flight engineer said that we should not fly this plane.

We were packing up our gear to go back to our quarters when the CO roared up in a jeep and said "Get this airplane off the ground". His jeep's tires spit gravel at us as he roared away. As we continued to pack up he roared up again and ordered us to get in the air. We told him we were not going to fly the plane. He said "For disobedience, have your crew report to my office at 0800 tomorrow for disciplinary action that could lead to court martial".

We all spent an uneasy night. There was a second max effort early that morning. As I was getting ready to report to the CO's office I heard a loud explosion. A column of black smoke rose from off the end of one of the runways. The plane we had refused to fly had been taken off by another crew. As they took off, the 3# engine exploded and knocked out #4 engine. The wing on that side dipped and struck a power pole that sent the plane cartwheeling. Fortunately, there had been a rare, heavy rainfall the night before and the plane skidded into the ground backwards and burst into flames. By some miracle, all hands got out with only one injury, a broken ankle sustained when one of the crewmen jumped from the rear door.

We reported to the CO's office as ordered and were promptly dismissed.

After B-29 training we were sent to Herrington, Kansas for "staging". We wound up being forced to start flying overseas in a 29 that had an unstoppable gasoline leak from the right wing. The plane had been refused by other crews and had been on this field for some time. It had lemons painted on the nose wheel covers. We too refused to take this lemon. The commanding officer of the staging base forced our entire crew into a pick and shovel detail in the freezing cold of ice and snow of winter in Kansas. Our 0800 to 1700 job was to mix and pour the concrete foundation for a new officers club. We were the only workers on the project.

Our hands were bleeding and we were coughing our lungs out. The high sulfur coal stoves in the barracks spewed out harsh lung irritants which made our conditions worse. Each day the CO would be driven by in his warm command car and ask if we were ready to take the lemon plane that they could not fix to get it off his records. We felt that we were going to die in the cold. We reasoned that we could die there or take the chance that we wouldn't die in the lemon. He broke us down and we reluctantly agreed to take the plane.

We landed in West Palm Beach, Florida. Warm. White sand. Waving palms. What a relief from the freezing cold of Kansas. An extra engine was loaded into the aft bomb bay along with a large, sealed wooden crate. We were issued a carbine and ordered to guard the crate 24 hours a day until we reached our destination. This put a little hardship on us but we complied with the order.

We flew to Georgetown, British Guiana; Natal, Brazil; Accra, Gold Coast Africa where two crew members and I were attacked by spear-wielding young black warriors who were about to strip us of our uniforms, watches and wallets. By strange luck, a jeep load of MPs came careening down the narrow jungle trail and dispersed the blacks. On to Nigeria where we had to wait until they cleared the elephants off the runway before we could land.

Next the Anglo-Egytian Sudan, then Aden Protectorate(now South Yemen) where our plane was swarmed by about fifty little brown men who came up the nose wheel hatch and through the rear access door as we taxied. Their intent was to grab and run with anything that was loose. I knocked several with the butt of my .45 and kicked them down the nose wheel hatch. A truckload of soldiers arrived to send them away. Then Karachi, and on to our base, Chakulia, 110 miles west of Calcutta.

We could not raise the tower at Chakulia. There was no sign of life. Without instruction, we landed, taxied and parked. We saw some hands from out of the ground motioning to us and saw that all the men were crouched in slit trenches. We had landed during a Jap air raid. Welcome to India and combat.

When the all clear sounded, our plane was swarmed by crew chiefs and ground crews who were seeing what they could cannibalize, tools, parts, etc. A senior officer approached and thanked us for bringing him his new airplane. He pointed to a war weary 29 that had many bombs and camels painted on it to indicate missions and trips over the hump to our bases in China. The crew was shocked. I said "Wait a minute, this plane is proven. It has gone out and come back many times. I'll bet she has a really great crew chief and ground crew."

This was so. He was Master Sergeant "Ducky" Holmes, an older, sinewy, gray-haired man. Unlike your typical crew chief, Ducky flew on the engine slow-time break-in flights and would monitor the flight engineer's instruments. We would let him pilot while we were in the air. On at least two missions, after we were well out over the Indian Ocean, he would appear, having stowed away.

So, here we had just arrived at Chakulia. An entourage of officers drove up in a couple of jeeps. It was the Airbase Commander and his staff officers. They asked for the orders that we carried for the wooden crate that we had guarded 24 hours a day since leaving West Palm Beach. The crate was lowered and placed on a flatbed truck and was pried open. It was laden with Whitehorse Scotch, Old Crow, Four Roses, Canadian Club, etc., etc. We were not offered a drink for our attention to duty. Nor were there any "thank yous".

We were assigned to the 25th Squadron, 40th Group, 58th Wing, 20th Bomber Command of the 20th Air Force. My squadron commander, Major Bill Kingsbury, was also from my home town of Santa Cruz, California. After the war he went on to be one of General Lemay's successors as Commanding General of the Strategic Air Command.

We painted our TABOOMA nose art on our war-weary craft. Without delay, the "lemon" 29 which we were 'forced' to give up was renamed and flown to China by its seasoned crew. They were sent out on a single ship recon mission. Long before they had reached enemy territory their radioman was sending a routine CW message which stopped abruptly in mid message. The plane was never heard from again and was never found. I believe that the unfixed gas leak in the right wing did them in.

Our missions in Southeast Asia took us to Rangoon, Bangkok, Saigon(when it had been French-Indochina) and Singapore. The targets were primarily bridges over the various rivers. On one 2-day pass to Calcutta, I was kidnapped by Chinese, held in a brothel underneath a warehouse on a tributary of the Ganges River and narrowly missed getting knifed and rolled.

In India, they removed the B-29's de-icer boots from the leading edges of the wings and tail to cut weight. After all, who needs de-icer boots in 120 degree in the shade India? They forgot that it gets cold and icey at altitude.

On one single plane photo recon mission to Singapore, we were attacked as usual by Zeros and Zekes, 2 heavy cruisers' flak, more fighters, then ground batteries, then fighters for the third time. We were at 20,000 feet when we ducked into a thin layer of clouds, lost the fighters, settled back on autopilot. What we didn't know was that the thin layer of clouds veiled a thunderhead.

While we were taking off our flak helmets and flak suits, our plane was icing up. And no de-icer boots. Tabooma shuddered and stalled. It got violently turbulent in the thunderhead. It took two of us on the controls to get the plane in a flying attitude. We fell 3,000 feet. Since we needed every inch of altitude, we gradually descended all the way back to India. Then we faced going into the jungle or ditching. Reduced speed along with careful cruise control allowed our engineer to nurse the plane back home.

On various other missions we experienced the expected engine failures, hung-up bombs, bomb bay doors failing to close, flak damage, etc.

When the main thrust of the bombing war was turned against the Japanese homeland, we packed up and flew to one our forward bases in China where we waited out a typhoon between the Philippines and Formosa. On a dark night while I was returning from a trip to a distant latrine, a Chinese soldier challenged me in the dark. I answered his challenge in my best phonetic Chinese, which he did not understand. I couldn't see him. After I heard the click of a round of ammo being bolted into his rifle's chamber, he stuck his mounted bayonet in my neck and stripped me of my wings and insignia. With sign language I managed to get him to agree to let me have the little, round, ceramic device on his quilted blue cap. It was the multi-pointed white star on a blue background, the Nationalist Chinese Emblem, worth about 1 cent. This keepsake is now in my den in a frame that also holds patches, ribbons and various medals. I couldn't find anyone to whom I could report this.

We were off the next day, destination Tinian. Heavily loaded, on takeoff at 6,000 feet uphill on a gravel runway, the plane lumbered along and barely lifted off. A senior officer who was doing the flying touched the brakes to stop the wheels from turning before retracting the landing gear. But just as he braked, the plane settled back to the runway. We were lucky to get off without another crash. The gunners reported "Left gear coming up, sir, tires in shreds", "Right gear coming up, sir, tires also in shreds". We headed for the Marianas.

How discomforting. To fly the next fourteen hours to our new base at West Field on Tinian with prospect of grinding up our airplane. All the other planes in our group landed first. The fire and crash trucks and ambulances were ready. Miraculously, the nylon-cored tires held.

A very muddy area from which sugarcane had been freshly bulldozed held our tents. We did some practice bombing on Rota. On one such flight we had opened the bomb bay doors. It was bumpy flying. Our radio operator who was crammed behind the two forward turrets looked into the bomb bay and announced on the intercom in a choked voice that "The little propellers on the bombs are spinning and falling out". Our bombardier hit the salvo lever. Safety wires had not been put in and no one had checked!

As a result of one of the crashes, I could not see well out of my right eye. Not too good for pilots who need excellent depth perception. In landing at West Field, you came in over water and the low cliff and onto a bright, white crushed coral runway. All of the other strips I had landed on had a tree or power pole or communication shack on which I could judge distance and height. Now I couldn't tell where the ground was.

I began to realize how much I was endangering my crew by my strong desire to continue flying missions. Even before going overseas I had passed eye exams because when the examiner said "Cover your right eye and read the chart" I would cover my bum right eye with my right hand and when he said "Now cover you left eye and read the chart", I would bring up my left hand over my bum right eye again and read the chart again with my good left eye. I was never caught. But now I figured it was time to stop and get medical care.

We were scheduled to fly our first bombing mission from Tinian to Japan. Without saying anything to the crew, I told myself that this would be my last mission. As we reached Iwo Jima we lost an engine and had to abort. I was disappointed not to have made it one time to Japan but I had made a bargain with my conscience to do the right thing.

I turned myself in to the Group Flight Surgeon. Unbelievably, he merely looked into my right eye with a flashlight, said nothing and I found myself assigned to 58th Wing HQ as an aircraft controller, monitoring the missions. There were Cokes, Life magazines and hot showers, all the stuff we were not getting as crew members. This is not what I wanted. I needed medical attention. I found the Wing Flight Surgeon who had been with our forward bases in China. A real man. On more than one occasion he had parachuted behind enemy lines in China so that he could give medical aid to our downed flyers who were being brought out by the Chinese underground. He put me in the base hospital.

Three days later, and before I could say goodbye to my TABOOMA crew, I was unnecessarily strapped to a stretcher and placed in the shade under the wing of a C-54 hospital evacuation plane. As I was lying there, a jeep rolled up. A man walked among the stretchers giving words of encouragement. He looked at me and said "For heaven's sake, Leslie, what are you doing there?" It was Mr. Robert Burton, my old high school chemistry and forestry teacher who had been a father figure to me and helped shape my fatherless life. He was too old to soldier. He volunteered as a technical advisor to follow the conquests of the Pacific islands and to direct the natives in growing vegetables for the armed servicemen.

Our hospital evac plane landed on Saipan and picked up a load of injured airmen, wounded marines, sailors and soldiers. Many were in bad shape. I convinced a flight nurse to release me from the stretcher and I helped tend the wounded. I wandered forward and chatted with the pilots. We were to land first at Kwajalein, then Johnson Island, Hickam and on to Fairfield-Suisuin. The pilots took me up on my offer to fly for a while to give them some relief. I had never flown in a C-54 before but flying is flying and it helped me while away the hours. We landed at Fairfield on Memorial Day, May 30,1945.

A C-47 flew me as the lone passenger to Moffet Field, Sunnyvale, California. An ambulance with siren unnecessarily blaring and red lights flashing carried an embarrassed me up Bayshore Highway to Palo Alto and to what was to be my Dibble General Hospital home for the next fifteen months.

The retina in my right eye was detached. I went through 7 major operations. After each I was sandbagged down, blindfolded and immobilized for a period of 30 days. After each of these stints in bed I was unable to walk at first. As soon as I was getting the hang of walking, they would operate again, and sandbag me blindfolded. By the end of a year of this I was an anxiety case. The operations, by today's standards and techniques, were crude and experimental. I guinea-pigged and was the first human on whom a couple of types of operations were performed. Today, with the use of lasers, retinas can be reattached on an outpatient basis.

Dibble Hospital in Palo Alto was closing in mid 1946. 1 was sent to Valley Forge General Hospital, Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, and finally got retired, after 16 months of hospitalization, for physical disability on October 30, 1946 as a 22 year old captain, blind in one eye.

I had another three years at San Jose State and graduated with a degree in fine arts, minors in math, science and aeronautics. Decades of running and owning various manufacturing plants followed. I did a lot of boating and sailed 7 times to Honolulu as navigator, including 4 Transpacs, LA to Honolulu.

On May 11, 1995 I was comfortably seated aboard a Qantas 767 going from Perth, in western Australia, to Singapore. A flight attendant asked me if I had been to Sin gapore before. I replied, "Yes, but never on the ground." She looked puzzled and asked for an explanation. My mind flashed back 50 years to World War II and 1944-45, when I was a B-29 pilot based 110 miles west of Calcutta, India.

Among the assets captured from the British in Southeastern Asia in 1942 by the invading Japanese was the King's floating dry dock in the shipyards at Singapore. This dry dock enabled the Japanese to repair their damaged warships. As Com mander of Allied Forces in Southeast Asia, Lord Louis Mountbatten's objective was to send B-29s to damage or destroy this facility. Prevailing humor had it that the Brits would bill us for destroying what had been their property.

The B-29 Superfortress bomber at the time was the largest operational aircraft in history. It dwarfed the B-17 Flying Fortresses that I had flown. The 20th Air Force B-29 missions to Singapore were the longest ever flown. When you were safely back in India and on your cot in your mud and rice straw quarters, 36 long, exhausting, waking hours would have flown by since you had left that bed.

Later during my visit, I was inside one of the many gondolas suspended from a cable system that gives riders a marvelous view of parts of Singapore, including the harbor facilities. A recorded narration was being piped into my gondola - "Below and to the right is a landmark floating drydock that has been in continuous operation for 100 years."

I was stunned! Until that moment, I thought we had destroyed that drydock 50 years ago.