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W. Earl Hall World War II stories, 1944

Letter #40

slug-Traces Raid -4
By W. EARL HALL
Globe-Gazette Managing Editor
Letter No. 40
Somewhere in East Anglia, England--Few civilians, I'm told, have been privileged to an experience which came to me this forenoon at this fighter wing control center, thanks to the good offices of a friend and neighbor back in Mason City, Iowa.
It was Col. Ronald F. Fallows who vouched for me and made it possible for me to enter the control room and watch a fighter-protected bombing mission over Kassel, Germany, take place.
I had made the trip out from London, by motor through darkness, and lodged with Col. Fallows at his manor house headquarters.  He is the executive officer and second in command of the wing.
We had breakfasted with his fellow officers and proceeded, through a mist and bad visibility, to a nearby field from which Don Gentile and other famed fighter pilots have taken to the air to make glamorous history in this war.
"This," the colonel kept telling me, "is what we call soupy weather.  I'm hoping our boys don't have to go out today."
And while we waited to learn the verdict, I was taken about the field for an inspection of the rugged Thunderbolts.  We visited the projection room where I was given a special showing of pictures taken by the fighter planes' automatic cameras as they closed in on their targets--German planes in the air, enemy planes on the ground, locomotives, dock installations, etc.
About midforenoon I heard the fighter pilots told of the day's mission cut out for them "if the bombers manage to get into the air."  The meteorologist had a particularly gloomy report about conditions over the target as well as over England and the intermediate territory.  Through it all, there was a visible anxiety over the fate of 9 planes which had failed to return from a mission over Holland the previous day.  Had they been shot down;  Had they baled out into enemy territory?  Or had they landed on allied airstrips in Belgium or France?
"It looks like no soap for a mission today," Col. Fallows remarked, "but we'll move over to the control room and see what happens."
A short motor trip brought us here and I was taken into a sizable room filled with great maps and all sorts of communications equipment.  All of a sudden it was announced that the mission was on; bombers from several fields were already going up into formation.
I was given an extra head-set to listen in on the operations.  Seated in a balcony, I watched arrows being moved about on a great horizontal map down below me, showing the progress of the bombers toward the point over France where a split-second union with the fighters was scheduled.
Overhead I could hear the roar of motors from the planes I had been inspecting on the nearby field only an hour or two before.  Fighters, of course, assume formation 3 or 4 times faster than lumbering bombers and fly infinitely faster.  Bombers, therefore, have to have a sizable headstart.
Over in one corner of the room was a lineup of communications specialists charged with directing rescue operations for planes and airmen that come down in the channel--an important but almost unheard of service.
Great was the jubilation when all of a sudden a message broke through from one of the pilots who had been missing on the previous day's mission over Holland.  Then another--and another--and another--until 8 of the 9 missing pilots were accounted for.  It was as if the dead had come to life!
"My brakes are defective," I heard one of them report.  "I detected it on the take-off.  I'd like to be allowed to sit down last."
He didn't want to "mess up" the foggy run-way for his mates.
All the while the day's mission over Kassel was progressing, as shown by the arrows on the great map before me.  I had to leave to catch my train back to London before the story was ended.
The next morning a cryptic newspaper dispatch informed me that there had been "a heavy and effective bombing raid on an important industrial center in southwest Germany."
But I knew, from having looked on at close range, that there was a great deal more to the story than could be told in any such sentence as that in cold type.

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slug-Traces Raid -4 By W. EARL HALL Globe-Gazette Managing Editor Letter No. 40 Somewhere in East Anglia, England--Few civilians, I'm told, have been privileged to an experience which came to me this forenoon at this fighter wing control center, thanks to the good offices of a friend and neighbor back in Mason City, Iowa. It was Col. Ronald F. Fallows who vouched for me and made it possible for me to enter the control room and watch a fighter-protected bombing mission over Kassel, Germany, take place. I had made the trip out from London, by motor through darkness, and lodged with Col. Fallows at his manor house headquarters. He is the executive officer and second in command of the wing. We had breakfasted with his fellow officers and proceeded, through a mist and bad visibility, to a nearby field from which Don Gentile and other famed fighter pilots have taken to the air to make glamorous history in this war. "This," the colonel kept telling me, "is what we call soupy weather. I'm hoping our boys don't have to go out today." And while we waited to learn the verdict, I was taken about the field for an inspection of the rugged Thunderbolts. We visited the projection room where I was given a special showing of pictures taken by the fighter planes' automatic cameras as they closed in on their targets--German planes in the air, enemy planes on the ground, locomotives, dock installations, etc. About midforenoon I heard the fighter pilots told of the day's mission cut out for them "if the bombers manage to get into the air." The meteorologist had a particularly gloomy report about conditions over the target as well as over England and the intermediate territory. Through it all, there was a visible anxiety over the fate of 9 planes which had failed to return from a mission over Holland the previous day. Had they been shot down; Had they baled out into enemy territory? Or had they landed on allied airstrips in Belgium or France? "It looks like no soap for a mission today," Col. Fallows remarked, "but we'll move over to the control room and see what happens." A short motor trip brought us here and I was taken into a sizable room filled with great maps and all sorts of communications equipment. All of a sudden it was announced that the mission was on; bombers from several fields were already going up into formation. I was given an extra head-set to listen in on the operations. Seated in a balcony, I watched arrows being moved about on a great horizontal map down below me, showing the progress of the bombers toward the point over France where a split-second union with the fighters was scheduled. Overhead I could hear the roar of motors from the planes I had been inspecting on the nearby field only an hour or two before. Fighters, of course, assume formation 3 or 4 times faster than lumbering bombers and fly infinitely faster. Bombers, therefore, have to have a sizable headstart. Over in one corner of the room was a lineup of communications specialists charged with directing rescue operations for planes and airmen that come down in the channel--an important but almost unheard of service. Great was the jubilation when all of a sudden a message broke through from one of the pilots who had been missing on the previous day's mission over Holland. Then another--and another--and another--until 8 of the 9 missing pilots were accounted for. It was as if the dead had come to life! "My brakes are defective," I heard one of them report. "I detected it on the take-off. I'd like to be allowed to sit down last." He didn't want to "mess up" the foggy run-way for his mates. All the while the day's mission over Kassel was progressing, as shown by the arrows on the great map before me. I had to leave to catch my train back to London before the story was ended. The next morning a cryptic newspaper dispatch informed me that there had been "a heavy and effective bombing raid on an important industrial center in southwest Germany." But I knew, from having looked on at close range, that there was a great deal more to the story than could be told in any such sentence as that in cold type.