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Combat Log of the B-24 "It's a good feeling to have taught an elephant to do a ballet" Editor's Note: This article was 'stolen' from Air Classics, Vol. 5, No.4, April 1969. I believe it was written by Bob Carlin. The article was submitted by Wally Robinson, our PX Manager and member of the 767th Squadron. To the newly commissioned Second Lieutenant with his shiny silver wings, receiving orders for the B-24 Transition School can be a sobering jolt . . . . . Bomber losses in Europe during World War II were continually fearful, and the need for replacement crews cut short the dreams of many a cadet who had plans of tearing up the skies in his P-51 or A-20. Furthermore an airplane called the B-24 was increasingly moving into the predominant role over that gallant lady, the fabled B-17 Fortress, and although often overlooked, was faster, had greater range, and could carry a heavier load. After the usual struggle through the training phases of Stearmans, BT-13s and the Beach AT-10s, it was awesome to walk up to a B-24 for the first time. There it sat; squat, heavy, pregnant, solid, very homely, and all business. Despite the first "walk around" to inspect the ship for external flaws, there really was not much that could be determined from the outside, and so, with the instructor seriously outlining things to avoid, it was time to board and aviate this unhandsome, awkward freight train. The B-24 was entered through the bomb bay. One had to bend over to do it as the belly was not much more than knee high. The pilots stepped up to the "halfdeck", the upper story of the nose section. Nose gunner, bombardier and navigator slithered through the tunnel under the flight deck to their offices, in the company of the nose wheel. The remainder of the crew moved rearward to the more spacious areas of the waist. The nose boys had to be continually mindful of one great hazard. When the wheel extended it would merely push the doors open, and when retracted small springs snapped the doors shut. We all remember the bombardier who came hurtling out, arms flailing, his bundled chute and fluttering magazine behind him. He had intended to lie back in comfort, using his chute as a pillow. No one had warned him about the doors. The flight engineer would start the small lawn mower engine, the auxiliary power unit, or APU. This would furnish power to fire the four mills. From that point on, it was a routine aircraft start. The main power switch and energizers were on the co-pilot's right. Number three would always be started first, as all bleed off power came from that engine. Following would be numbers one, two, then four. With all instruments jumping to life, and gyros uncaged, the airplane was ready to get on with it. The engineer would report in that all looked good from the waist window view, and would clamber up to his taxi position, head and shoulders popped out of the top hatch, much in the fashion that the armor boys ride in their tanks. This top hatch was for emergency exit on the ground, but caution was the word in utilizing it. Slipping into a whirling prop on either side was all too easy. We saw it happen twice. Taxiing began with the usual blast away from standstill. Then it got complicated. Out board engines were used for steering, and it was a real job to learn how. Considerable lead time was necessary to anticipate corrections. Also, after goosing number one throttle and neutralizing its turn effect with number four, the novice pilot would not notice that his ground speed had built up considerably. That' s when brakes came into play, and they were always sure, effective, and positive. After the routine 45º position for run up, to keep from blasting the plane behind, mags were checked, - and checked carefully. We would also run the engine up to full bore to see if it was going to deliver; then on to the next mag. At this stage tools or rags fell out of the nacelles (three times running) a dandy little confidence builder. With check list completed, props up full, half flaps, and the assorted electrical and meter checks it was time to "light the fuse." As all throttles were eased slowly up to the stop the co-pilot would reach up and manually hold them. As the roll began, cowl flaps were closed. This was really important. Should even one engine have cowl flaps stuck open the buffeting would be fearful. I recall a stratocruiser ditching in Seattle because of severe vibration immediately after takeoff. When we lifted from the water all four engines had wide open cowl flaps. The engineer by this time had positioned himself behind the pilot's right ear, into which he shouted the increasing speed. This allowed full attention by the pilot to the recommended procedure of going down the runway. Nose wheel off at ninety, main gear at one hundred. The noise by now was deafening, and hand signals for gear up were necessary. Making damn sure the wheels were actually off the deck, they would be braked firmly two or three times, to prevent their vibrating by spinning in the wheel wells. Then throttle back, props back (always in that order) to climb setting. Now that the aircraft was airborne for sure the flaps up signal would be given. They would be milked up in short jerks, to prevent the plane from sinking back to the deck. And sink it would! The engineer would carefully check all dials and hurriedly disappear to the waist to see if gear were full up, flaps were retracted, and checked for any oil trailing back or gas siphoning in its telltale, white ribbon. His return with an OK was always welcome. The smarter pilots would crack the bomb bay doors about now. There were always fumes in the bay, and more than one 24 was blown up by a careless engineer who had lit a cigarette up front and went back through the bomb bay without thinking about it. Earlier models used U shaped tubes which were plugged into one tank to transfer gas to another. The leakage was awful. This was re-engineered in later models, but the stark lesson remained. Most B-24s never flew with closed bomb doors. If flying alone or as lead ship on a mission the auto pilot was now brought into play. It could take quite awhile to tune it down to holding the exact altitude, course, etc., and once set up it would take an act of Congress to turn it off. Driving along was now quite pleasant. The even hum of the huge engines just outside and behind became a song to those who loved to fly. Then too, there was always a playful navigator who would appear in the bubble out front and grimace like a baleful spook. You could even figure on the bombardier sneaking back from his post over the Norden sight to playfully reach up from the underneath and pull on a rudder pedal. The sudden yaw was exactly the same as losing an engine, and the pilot's eyes would dilate as he dropped his paperback for emergency procedures. Real clowns those nose dwellers. It was formation flying that changed everything regarding the 24. Routine and normal flying was one thing, but now a different element entered. Formation flying was unbelievable. Trying to wrestle that anvil through an eight hour mission was a real ordeal. The controls fought back and moved hard - real hard. And only one hand could be used, as the other was on the throttles. The usual pattern was fifteen minutes of flying at a stretch. It was even worse when the lead ship was on your opposite side. This meant aligning through the co-pilot's window. Worse yet, new side windows appeared late in the war that had huge "bubbles" bulging out, apparently so the pilot could lean over and look straight down. These added to formation problems, as the lead ship became distorted, bent, humpbacked or generally warped. We hastily replaced them with the old flat windows. After getting into Germany six hundred miles deep, one began to ponder the impossibilities of getting out if necessary. This is where World War I and II share a common horror - going down in flames. We had chutes, yes, but unplugging oxygen, radio jacks, heated suit, seat belt etc., and then lifting your legs by hand over the pedestal between the seats, while the co-pilot was doing the same thing was just not possible. If one did get free and the plane was diving it would be necessary to climb up to the bomb bay. It's no wonder we usually counted on only eight out of the ten chutes, coming from a stricken ship. The loss of an engine was also fun and games. Two engines out on one side would require both pilots, total counter trim, and fervent prayer. Holding those two platter rudders against the rushing wind was really beyond a man's strength. We flew three hours once with one and two both out, at an altitude of roughly fifty feet. The co-pilot drove while I used both hands to keep my knees from buckling. It took both feet on one pedal. My legs did not quit burning for a week. Yes, we made it, but the plane never flew again. Incidentally, it was the mark of a good pilot if he brought much of his fuel back. The jerky formation jockey would continually add and retard throttles, eating up gas like stop and go driving. Our gas consumption was read to us like exam grades, to promote smoother formations. The Davis airfoil wing was a cutie, too. Without power to pull it along, it quit flying. So all landings were rather strong on power. The standard rule for landing a 24 was, "Open a window, drop a brick, follow it down." The "gliding" ability was just about like that. Usually we would drop half flaps and the gear on downwind, fly past the end of the runway thirty seconds and turn on the base leg, 3/4 flaps then. The check list would be completed by now, and the engineer back up front ready to call out airspeed. It was a good idea to aim a little short, to touch down as soon after round out as possible. Sometimes "just enough power to flush the commode" would get us over the fence, followed by the massive pull needed to lift the nose. The common trick was to crank in substantial up trim and hold the nose down against it. Then by relaxing the yoke, trim would bring the nose up, effortlessly. The 24 required a good spacing, by the way, behind the ship on final just ahead. It laid down a tornado of prop wash. It only took one such experience to allow plenty of room in the pattern. I suppose we envied the B-17 boys in some ways. Their airplane was much more gentle. It would glide, it would ditch, it would land wheels up. Ours would not. But they left before us and returned after we did, and we liked that. An effort was made late in the war to make the B-24 into a more gentle type. We picked up one such modification at the repair depot at Bari. Of all things, it had ball bearing controls. When I hauled that thing off the ground we almost did a loop. Despite this joyous innovation, however that particular plane, 313, lasted only two weeks. It went down over Bologna with six of its ten crew members. The 24 was the last plane of such a size built without a flight engineer's position. We had to fly it and read the meters too. The next one, the B-29, had another enviable feature. Hot food. Our brown waxed ration boxes always froze solid. When we got to them on the way home we usually shattered the brick hard chocolate on the throttle quadrant and sucked the chips. Once on the ground we had to be careful of "torching". Raw orange fire would trail out of the exhaust, but could be killed by a rapid throttle blast. It was a live hazard and the tower constantly monitored all landing planes, as the pilot could not see it from his seat. We had one plane, "Suzy Q", burn and blow up from torching. Maybe the legion of drivers of B-24s have collective memories of some of the agonies described herein, but I'll bet they all feel in their hearts as I do. It's easy to stand there and throw rocks at the stubborn beast, but more than once I stopped to look over my shoulder at that plodding truck, and felt a surge of compassion as I reflected on her ungirdled figure. It's a good feeling to have taught an elephant to do a ballet. |
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