- Thread starter
- #21
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
Wait—so they'd say "Affirmative that"? It sounds almost too long—they must have had some kind of shortener or code word . . .
Info About 2,000-bomber Raid, Dec. 24, 1944
- Thread starter kamakiri B-24 Dad
- Start date
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special ed
2nd Lieutenant
- 5,680
- May 13, 2018
I'll drag out some old paperbacks and look.
Remember the old "roger" and "wilco" from the 1930s. "Roger" meant "copy that" and "wilco" was "will comply". "affirmative" (without 'that') merely meant message received and understood.
Remember the old "roger" and "wilco" from the 1930s. "Roger" meant "copy that" and "wilco" was "will comply". "affirmative" (without 'that') merely meant message received and understood.
Last edited:
- Thread starter
- #23
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
Yes, I definitely remember those. It seems just too cheesy now—too many WWII movies—but "roger" is nice and short, like "copy," plus it can be appended by "that." Heh . . . I can just do a search and replace. But I'll wait for your decision. It's just that I would think that anything long—three syllables or more—would inevitably get shortened by these impatient guys.
- Thread starter
- #24
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
*Sigh* Anyone know the actual physical location of the navigation beacon that lots of bombers used, called Buncher 6? I know the location of Splasher Beacon 6 (some village—I have it somewhere) but I need the Buncher location to figure out how far it was from Rackheath. Details, details . . . I swear, this thing will be the end of me.
Oh . . . I forgot to mention that this won't be for publication (unless some publisher gives me $50,000 in advance) but just for family and friends. And you guys!
Oh . . . I forgot to mention that this won't be for publication (unless some publisher gives me $50,000 in advance) but just for family and friends. And you guys!
GrauGeist
Generalfeldmarschall zur Luftschiff Abteilung
They used "Roger" for message recived and "Roger Wilco" for message recieved, will comply.
- Thread starter
- #26
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
Excellent! I'll change my text accordingly. Thanks, Grey!
GrauGeist
Generalfeldmarschall zur Luftschiff Abteilung
Glad to help.
- Thread starter
- #29
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
- Thread starter
- #30
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
Heh . . . new section. I was thinking about what the constant uncertainty was like—the crazy thoughts that must have come along for all the crew at some points:
—————
Behind your closed eyelids you feel your eyes darting from side to side almost as if possessed, the buzzing now in your chest and getting more persistent as your imagination broadcasts scene after scene of falling B-24s and shattered metal and junk, the detritus of planes and bodies that you fly through and it's not like a movie, because it's real. You know it's real because you've seen it in front of your very own eyes and it's men who are in those planes, men just like you who have families and girlfriends and wives who are waiting, almost paralysed with fear that something will happen to their boy but counting the missions and praying but
will get the Dreaded Telegram instead
of hugging Oscar, Peter, Norman, Johnny or Bob at the airport real soon, any time now.
The sheer randomness of it all is the most chilling aspect—the continual helplessness at every second of every minute you're in that plane because you just don't know what's going to happen.
It's kinda like going 80 miles an hour on a remote ruler-straight two-lane country road. For a while it's a terror-hilarious thrill until a low-pressure front causes a tree to fall in the road 100 feet away, causing a landslide with giant boulders and iron ore, and Bigfoot. And Yetis. Lots of Yetis.
—————
Behind your closed eyelids you feel your eyes darting from side to side almost as if possessed, the buzzing now in your chest and getting more persistent as your imagination broadcasts scene after scene of falling B-24s and shattered metal and junk, the detritus of planes and bodies that you fly through and it's not like a movie, because it's real. You know it's real because you've seen it in front of your very own eyes and it's men who are in those planes, men just like you who have families and girlfriends and wives who are waiting, almost paralysed with fear that something will happen to their boy but counting the missions and praying but
will get the Dreaded Telegram instead
of hugging Oscar, Peter, Norman, Johnny or Bob at the airport real soon, any time now.
The sheer randomness of it all is the most chilling aspect—the continual helplessness at every second of every minute you're in that plane because you just don't know what's going to happen.
It's kinda like going 80 miles an hour on a remote ruler-straight two-lane country road. For a while it's a terror-hilarious thrill until a low-pressure front causes a tree to fall in the road 100 feet away, causing a landslide with giant boulders and iron ore, and Bigfoot. And Yetis. Lots of Yetis.
- Thread starter
- #31
kamakiri B-24 Dad
Airman
- 19
- Jul 16, 2024
Excerpt 5 (?) Going On Oxygen
——————————————————
Uh-oh. You're going to be on oxygen any moment.
Time for a last Chesterfield. You light it from the last one.
Some crews like to go on oxygen at 8,000 feet, which is about the height of Bogota, Columbia, in the Andes mountains. Hell, if 350,000 people can walk around all day without oxygen masks, so can you.
Besides, the cigarette smoke protects you from the effects of lack of oxygen, as you well know. Doctors recommend cigarettes for a range of conditions, and you're sure hypoxia is one of them.
You read somewhere that there's a place in Peru that's at 16,000 feet, with a population of gold miners who have been digging for generations.
They must smoke a lot of cigarettes.
You look around to see if O'Connell has spotted you lighting a cigarette and is on his way to sponge, but he's in the bomb bay, probably looking at fuel-transfer gauges.
Excellent.
When you go on oxygen, there's a designated member of the crew who has to do oxygen checks every 15 minutes—probably Zumalt, since he's the Johnny-come-lately.
Every crew member has a number, except the pilots, and Zoom just calls the number and the crew member has to repeat his number back. Silence could indicate some kind of accident with the oxygen hoses, and someone, probably the one nearest to the guy, has to go physically check on him.
At 20,000 feet, it takes only a few seconds to lose consciousness. You've heard the stories of just such incidents, and they're grim. A waist gunner somehow disconnects his hose, slumps over, and no one notices it until they notice it, and by that time he's walking through the Pearly Gates, asking nearby angels if they've got a light. Then a Martini, easy over.
That's the first thing I'd do! No more Lucky Strikes—they're gonna be Jesus Non-filters! And the gin . . . Virgin Mary Excelsior?
"Men, it's oxygen time." Jonesy.
It's the first time he's spoken.
Mose must be having a cigarette, although for him that's quite the trick, because B-24s don't fly themselves: he has to have both hands on the yoke, which is kinda not like a steering wheel, (unless your dad's Lincoln's steering wheel had a "let's drop 1,000 feet now" function) at all times, especially when flying formation.
Updrafts, downdrafts, air pockets, sudden headwinds (or tailwinds)—they come suddenly, a little bit like being in a boat in the unpredictable North Sea.
Probably Jonesy is lighting the cigarette for him and putting it between his lips, although that would be letting smoke get in his eyes.
No—there's only one answer: Jonesy has taken over flying, while Mose relaxes with a fag, which is what the English call 'em.
For you they're known as "Supplemental Oxygen Aids."
Drag.
You reluctantly and carefully put the cigarette out—the oxygen mask will be no barrier to you smoking, but right now you have to focus on the mask and its connections.You'll smoke the rest of it later.
Here we go again. This fucking thing . . . gotta get it right first time.
If you don't quite fit it onto your face—and sometimes even if you do—your breath will start to form ice crystals inside and out, which of course interferes with your smoking.
But it's one more inconvenience, along with your heavy flight gear, adding to your claustrophobia and discomfort.
One of the toughest jobs in the armed forces, goddamn recruiter says. Why didn't he just admit that it would be an amusement park in the sky?
Hose to connector: check.
No interference with electrics, no tangling with the fuel lines: check.
Side of mask pulls off easily for better cigarette access: check.
Oxygen flow: Yeah! Damn, this stuff really works! Now . . . where's the martini hose?
You'll find out if everything is indeed läuft bei mir—all squared away—when you reach 20,000 feet. But now, it's Chesterfield assembly time.
Only then is it safe to contemplate your relative distance to Eternity.
As you smoke, you idly hum the Air Force Song:
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,
At 'em boys, Give 'er the gun!
But with your version:
Up we go, into the Krautland Death Zone
Climbing high into the flak
Killing Huns anywhere we can find 'em
Hitler Youth killing us back
Wordsworth might quibble with it—Coleridge, forget it; he'd make it The Rime Of The Ancient Aviator—but you might send it in to the Stars & Stripes. The editors will see the obvious merits of the updated lyrics and soon servicemen everywhere will be singing it.
Cigarette doused.
Right. Back to work.
At the moment, your squadron is going to have to merge with the other three squadrons. You're all meeting at a predetermined fix called Buncher 6—a radio-wave source that broadcasts a precise location for you and the rest of the Group, over which you will circle until everyone's formed up—it'll take maybe 15 minutes, if you're lucky. Thirty if you're not.
But Shower is in the lead box somewhere, so you know that if the Headmaster's on board, the starry-eyed pupils, eager to avoid six of the best, will be closely following.
Then you'll all head for the coast, and Splasher Beacon 6—the last point before you begin your ride over the North Sea.
The North Sea . . . that's where the nightmare begins.
On all your previous missions—all five—hitting the North Sea was the starter gun for the real fun. Oh sure, takeoff and assembly were rough, but they weren't actively trying to kill you.
But count your blessings. You've made it this far—right?
Right.
Bravo! No, seriously, fucking Bravo.
But what is ahead is what you fear most. Takeoff and assembly are always bad, but it's pit-of-the-stomach fear. What's ahead is leaping, howling, exploding fear.
There will be people—people much like yourself, highly-trained, dedicated, intelligent people—and they'll be doing their level best to kill you.
In some ways you find this almost impossible to understand. Why? Why would ever there be people who would not just be actively seeking to—no, going out of their way to. . . kill you? By any means at their disposal? Bullets, bombs, clubs, rebar, soccer balls, twine, balloons . . . ferchrissakes, you're fucked.
And you'll be heading for Splasher Beacon 6 in about, well as soon as everyone gets their shit together.
The plane is silent. Apart from the 1,200-decibel engine noise, which you don't even notice any more.
You wonder what the rest of the crew are thinking . . .
Pilarski's thinking about his dog. Womack and Hubbard are thinking about their dogs. O'Connell's thinking about O'Connell. I'M thinking about O'Connell. Everyone else is thinking about their dog. How come I don't get a dog?
On second thought, you know you could never get up early enough to—
"Guys, radio check." Zumalt.
——————————————————
Uh-oh. You're going to be on oxygen any moment.
Time for a last Chesterfield. You light it from the last one.
Some crews like to go on oxygen at 8,000 feet, which is about the height of Bogota, Columbia, in the Andes mountains. Hell, if 350,000 people can walk around all day without oxygen masks, so can you.
Besides, the cigarette smoke protects you from the effects of lack of oxygen, as you well know. Doctors recommend cigarettes for a range of conditions, and you're sure hypoxia is one of them.
You read somewhere that there's a place in Peru that's at 16,000 feet, with a population of gold miners who have been digging for generations.
They must smoke a lot of cigarettes.
You look around to see if O'Connell has spotted you lighting a cigarette and is on his way to sponge, but he's in the bomb bay, probably looking at fuel-transfer gauges.
Excellent.
When you go on oxygen, there's a designated member of the crew who has to do oxygen checks every 15 minutes—probably Zumalt, since he's the Johnny-come-lately.
Every crew member has a number, except the pilots, and Zoom just calls the number and the crew member has to repeat his number back. Silence could indicate some kind of accident with the oxygen hoses, and someone, probably the one nearest to the guy, has to go physically check on him.
At 20,000 feet, it takes only a few seconds to lose consciousness. You've heard the stories of just such incidents, and they're grim. A waist gunner somehow disconnects his hose, slumps over, and no one notices it until they notice it, and by that time he's walking through the Pearly Gates, asking nearby angels if they've got a light. Then a Martini, easy over.
That's the first thing I'd do! No more Lucky Strikes—they're gonna be Jesus Non-filters! And the gin . . . Virgin Mary Excelsior?
"Men, it's oxygen time." Jonesy.
It's the first time he's spoken.
Mose must be having a cigarette, although for him that's quite the trick, because B-24s don't fly themselves: he has to have both hands on the yoke, which is kinda not like a steering wheel, (unless your dad's Lincoln's steering wheel had a "let's drop 1,000 feet now" function) at all times, especially when flying formation.
Updrafts, downdrafts, air pockets, sudden headwinds (or tailwinds)—they come suddenly, a little bit like being in a boat in the unpredictable North Sea.
Probably Jonesy is lighting the cigarette for him and putting it between his lips, although that would be letting smoke get in his eyes.
No—there's only one answer: Jonesy has taken over flying, while Mose relaxes with a fag, which is what the English call 'em.
For you they're known as "Supplemental Oxygen Aids."
Drag.
You reluctantly and carefully put the cigarette out—the oxygen mask will be no barrier to you smoking, but right now you have to focus on the mask and its connections.You'll smoke the rest of it later.
Here we go again. This fucking thing . . . gotta get it right first time.
If you don't quite fit it onto your face—and sometimes even if you do—your breath will start to form ice crystals inside and out, which of course interferes with your smoking.
But it's one more inconvenience, along with your heavy flight gear, adding to your claustrophobia and discomfort.
One of the toughest jobs in the armed forces, goddamn recruiter says. Why didn't he just admit that it would be an amusement park in the sky?
Hose to connector: check.
No interference with electrics, no tangling with the fuel lines: check.
Side of mask pulls off easily for better cigarette access: check.
Oxygen flow: Yeah! Damn, this stuff really works! Now . . . where's the martini hose?
You'll find out if everything is indeed läuft bei mir—all squared away—when you reach 20,000 feet. But now, it's Chesterfield assembly time.
Only then is it safe to contemplate your relative distance to Eternity.
As you smoke, you idly hum the Air Force Song:
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,
At 'em boys, Give 'er the gun!
But with your version:
Up we go, into the Krautland Death Zone
Climbing high into the flak
Killing Huns anywhere we can find 'em
Hitler Youth killing us back
Wordsworth might quibble with it—Coleridge, forget it; he'd make it The Rime Of The Ancient Aviator—but you might send it in to the Stars & Stripes. The editors will see the obvious merits of the updated lyrics and soon servicemen everywhere will be singing it.
Cigarette doused.
Right. Back to work.
At the moment, your squadron is going to have to merge with the other three squadrons. You're all meeting at a predetermined fix called Buncher 6—a radio-wave source that broadcasts a precise location for you and the rest of the Group, over which you will circle until everyone's formed up—it'll take maybe 15 minutes, if you're lucky. Thirty if you're not.
But Shower is in the lead box somewhere, so you know that if the Headmaster's on board, the starry-eyed pupils, eager to avoid six of the best, will be closely following.
Then you'll all head for the coast, and Splasher Beacon 6—the last point before you begin your ride over the North Sea.
The North Sea . . . that's where the nightmare begins.
On all your previous missions—all five—hitting the North Sea was the starter gun for the real fun. Oh sure, takeoff and assembly were rough, but they weren't actively trying to kill you.
But count your blessings. You've made it this far—right?
Right.
Bravo! No, seriously, fucking Bravo.
But what is ahead is what you fear most. Takeoff and assembly are always bad, but it's pit-of-the-stomach fear. What's ahead is leaping, howling, exploding fear.
There will be people—people much like yourself, highly-trained, dedicated, intelligent people—and they'll be doing their level best to kill you.
In some ways you find this almost impossible to understand. Why? Why would ever there be people who would not just be actively seeking to—no, going out of their way to. . . kill you? By any means at their disposal? Bullets, bombs, clubs, rebar, soccer balls, twine, balloons . . . ferchrissakes, you're fucked.
And you'll be heading for Splasher Beacon 6 in about, well as soon as everyone gets their shit together.
The plane is silent. Apart from the 1,200-decibel engine noise, which you don't even notice any more.
You wonder what the rest of the crew are thinking . . .
Pilarski's thinking about his dog. Womack and Hubbard are thinking about their dogs. O'Connell's thinking about O'Connell. I'M thinking about O'Connell. Everyone else is thinking about their dog. How come I don't get a dog?
On second thought, you know you could never get up early enough to—
"Guys, radio check." Zumalt.
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