Combat Crew Read Free

headquarters. Good luck on your new assignment.” From what I had seen since reaching England, we were going to need some luck!
    â€œMajor,” said Carqueville, “we’ve heard so many stories, how tough is it? What kind of losses are you having?”
    The Major hesitated before answering and studied a large chart on the wall crowded with names. “See that chart? That’s the combat roster. We’ve been here sixty days, and so far we’ve lost a hundred and one percent of our combat personnel.”
    That seemed impossible! Did he mean a lot of replacement crews had arrived and were already lost in addition to originals? Surely the Major would burst out laughing in a few seconds. I watched his face for some sign that it was a joke pulled on new arrivals. The smile did not come. The message was clear. I did not know then if that frightful loss figure was factual, or inflated to get across his point that the playing was over. (Those were his exact words! But later I found out that the early losses, while serious, were not that bad.)
    The Major continued, “You’d know it anyway in two or three days. I guess it’s just as well to let you have it straight right now. Our strength is down and we are happy to have you with us.”
    I glanced at the other men and noted that the color had drained from their faces. No one said anything as we loaded the baggage into a transportation truck. Each of us was trying to digest the startling high-loss situation and struggling, with scant success, to translate those figures into what they meant to us individually.
    At the Squadron Headquarters we were greeted warmly by the Operations Officer. “I’m Lieutenant Franek. Welcome to the 533rd Squadron. We’re glad you’re here because we have only four combat crews in the squadron, and our minimum strength is supposed to be seven.”
    Carqueville asked, “Have you any information on our four gunners? They were supposed to arrive about the same time we got here.”
    â€œYes, we do have information,” Franek answered. “They’re due tomorrow.”
    That was the only good news I was to hear that day it was a great relief to know Jim Counce and the other gunners would definitely rejoin us. It would give our sagging spirits a lift just to see them again.
    A truck transported us to the combat site, and the driver pointed out the small, metal Quonset huts that would be our quarters. The officers would be in one hut and the enlisted men in another, not far away. The driver said, “Note that here we are widely dispersed to prevent serious damage from German bombing raids. Personnel trucks make regular rounds of the field perimeter during the daytime, and early in the mornings when there is a mission. Combat personnel are quartered separately from the permanent personnel.” I picked up the nuance in his voice: what it meant was that combat people were not expected to be around very long.
    The driver continued. “You men have a separate combat mess because your hours will be so different from the other men. As soon as you can manage it, I suggest you get into Cambridge and buy a used bicycle. It will make getting around the base a lot easier.”
    â€œHow far is Cambridge from Ridgewell?” I asked.
    â€œAbout eighteen miles. A supply truck makes a run every day, and there’s also train service from a nearby village.”
    I doubt if I ever had a more miserable evening in my life. The dingy hut, designed for twelve men, was a dirty, dimly lighted, depressing place. It was bare except for twelve crude cots. A single low-watt bulb hung in the center of the small metal building. I decided on a bunk and opened my bags, but before I could get my gear unpacked, some veteran gunners started drifting in to look us over.
    â€œWhere you guys from?” one asked.
    Balmore answered, “I’m from New York, and Comer is from