Back From Combat: A World War II Bombardier Faces His Military Future
by
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ON THE PLAINS OF KANSAS
The Pullman car clicks over the rails as we pass through the wheat fields and small towns of Kansas, the rhythmic sound soothing yet melancholy. The trip had been long from Los Angeles after my leave at home from Williams Field. The train is almost an hour late, but the Rock Island locomotive is doing its best to make up time.
My mind is a kaleidoscope of thoughts, the pleasures and disappointments of my leave and the doubts about my future tumbling around in different shapes and colors.
The monumental event that happened while I was on leave was the dropping of the atomic bomb at Hiroshima on August 6th, 1945. Every paper carried photos of the great mushroom cloud rising over the utter destruction of the city. The use of the bomb was a horrible event, instantly killing over 90,000 human beings. How could Japan survive and carry on with the war? We all thought the Japanese would have to capitulate now. Only a few days later, on August 9th, another bomb devastated Nagasaki. Surely that would convince them to quit. Then it was official; the Japanese surrender. On August 15th the agreement was signed ending all hostilities. More photographs appeared in the newspaper of the Japanese envoys dressed in black suits with top hats, as though they were from another era. The Japanese generals stood at attention with them on the decks of the USS Missouri in their military uniforms decorated with medals and gold braid.
Although the slaughter and maiming of the Japanese at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was a ghastly blow to mankind, the bombing may have saved the lives of millions of American and Japanese soldiers as well as civilians who would have perished in a full-scale invasion of Japan. Perhaps I would have been one of them.
But what does it all mean for me? It means the war is over, that I’m going to live. I’m going to survive the war and live a normal man’s life. I’m jubilant like everyone else because, being human, I think about my own life, the carnage thousands of miles across the Pacific being relegated to the edges of my consciousness. That terrible event releases me from the possibility that I might die. The thought of it wells up in me like a great warm bubble.
I’m a full-fledged radar operator, but what do I do now? With the end of the war in Europe and now Japan so many changes are occurring in the military that we can’t rely on getting any definite information about what lies ahead. They’re sending us to Herington, Kansas, a staging area for overseas deployment, to join B-29 crews that have trained in Alamogordo, New Mexico. We are to be their radar operators. But why are they doing this when the war is officially over? Apparently, once plans have been put into motion they are hard to stop.
I finally reach the small town of Herington that at first appears not to have much to offer, only several blocks of two-story brick buildings. I can’t imagine coming into it on a pass. What would I do? I’m surprised that the Rock Island station is so large, a two-story building constructed of rugged limestone blocks with the Rock Island logo on its end. At the station, I phone the airfield for transportation, the base being eleven miles outside of town. Shortly a small army truck picks me up. Once out of town we roll past fields and farms on land as flat as a billiard table with a few ripples here and there. Silver silos rise out of sorghum fields. I wonder about the layout of the base, what kind of quarters we’ll have and most of all what my function will be.
Once we settle in we find that the movement of the B-29 crews from Alamogordo has been cancelled. We will not be joining these crews. Now what? The officer in charge promises we won’t remain in Herington very long, but where we’ll go from here is a mystery-- more unknowns to think about. I don’t believe this officer any more than I do the others. Rumors are that we might transfer to El Paso, Texas or Tucson, Arizona, very near where we started.
The base at Herington is small and compact, making it easy to find everything. The sun is scorching during the day, and the nights are cool, but what annoy me most are the pesky flies that constantly nag us in the barracks. So many flies swarmed inside the Rock Island station when I arrived that I was glad to get out of it. Perhaps they’re endemic in farming communities where there’s plenty of animal dung and rotting refuse.
A large group of silver B-29s are on the flight line at the base, but apparently we are not going to fly in them. They’re magnificent airplanes, but may or may not be a part of my immediate future. …
* * *Finally they give us an opportunity to get our flying time in for our extra pay. Being up in the air again and actually doing something will be a relief. Since we have mainly B-29s on the field, I’m excited about flying in one. Down at the ramp, I check in at the flight office to find out what plane I’ll be flying in. I’m disappointed to discover that I’ll be flying in the only B-24 on the field, an old B-24E model called “Old Herringbone,” named after our base that is affectionately known as Herringbone Army Air Base.
We are to fly one hundred miles west of Herington to another B-29 base at Walker, Kansas. Thunderheads are beginning to build, some of them looking very angry. We fly close to a potent storm, encountering the usual bumpiness and watching streak after streak of lightning zap from the clouds to the ground. Some of the bolts dart uncomfortably near us, close enough to startle me. I had never liked toying with thunderstorms, and I’m nervous about this one. Not only are we flying in an old decrepit B-24, but we have to contend with the storm’s fury. Eventually we edge away from the black monster, making me feel much better.
We land at Walker and let a major get out, apparently on military business. We take off again, flying in wide circles around the airfield, looking down on the patchwork of wheat and sorghum fields below. After we have killed enough time, we land and pick up the major. His work finished, we take off for Herington.
Used to mechanical problems on B-24s, I’m happy that this flight appears to be flawless. As we reach Herington and settle into the approach for landing, the pilot informs us that something is wrong with the nose wheel. He can’t get it all the way down, and he doesn’t think it’s going to lock in place. Two braces appear to be broken.
“I want you all to get in the waist behind the bomb bays,” yells the co-pilot, over the roar of our engines. “Just as soon as our wheels touch the runway, I want all of you guys to rush back towards the tail. Maybe with your added weight we can keep that nose wheel up until we’re about stopped, keep us from nosing in. Good luck!”
As soon as our tires screech on the runway, we all scramble back towards the tail. With our weight bearing down on the back, the metal tail skid starts dragging on the runway. I can see it and the shower of sparks and flame it leaves behind, the racket of its scraping deafening. We roll down the runway, keeping the nose wheel from touching, the fireworks display whipped up by our tail skid creating a spectacular show. As the pilot hoped, the nose wheel doesn’t touch until we nearly stop. If we hadn’t done what we did, we would have nosed in for a potentially bad accident. The base, having been warned of our problem, is ready for us. Red fire trucks with flashing lights are ready to spray foam. An ambulance and emergency trucks are not far behind. Men run out on foot to aid us or to see what’s happening. We had used most of the runway as our braking power was limited, only a few feet being left at the end.
Being at Herington is not a bore any more.
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About the Book
His combat tour over, a survivor of thirty-four bombing missions as an 8th Air Force bombardier, Charles “Norm” Stevens wonders what he will do next. He would have his 30-day furlough, but that will pass quickly. What then? Having endured the hell of his bombing missions, he has no desire to sign up for another tour.
Even though the Allies are gaining on all fronts, the war still rages, and he is still on active duty in the Army Air Corps. He is a trained bombardier who will continue his military service. But in what capacity?
Turning down the option of being an instructor, he volunteers for training as a radar bombardier. But where would this lead him? He sees himself slowly being drawn into the Pacific War as a radar bombardier on a B-29 Superfortress. It is a gamble. Would the war end or would he find himself again in hostile skies?
Stevens previously wrote about his cadet and crew training in The Innocent Cadet Becoming a World War II Bombardier and his combat experiences in An Innocent at Polebrook: Memoir of an 8th Air Force Bombardier. This volume completes his military experience.
About the Author
Charles N. Stevens, or Norm as his friends call him, grew up in Inglewood, California. At l8 he joined the Army Air Corps. He entered in l943 and was discharged after the war in October l945. He served as a bombardier on a B-l7 in the 8th Air Force, 351st Bomb Group, at Polebrook, England during the summer and early fall of l944. He finished his tour of duty, completing 34 bombing missions over Germany and occupied France, Belgium and Holland.
He wrote extensively about his combat experiences in his previous book, An Innocent at Polebrook: A Memoir of an 8th Air Force Bombardier published in 2004. His second book was a prequel detailing his year of training before going overseas, The Innocent Cadet: Becoming a World War II Bombardier, published in 2008.
After returning from overseas he trained as a radar bombardier at Langley Field, Virginia and Williams Field, Arizona. He was to be assigned to a B-29 crew for duty in the Pacific when the war ended.
Following the war he enrolled at the University of California at Los Angeles, graduating with a BA in psychology. After a series of graduate courses he earned his teaching credential. Over a span of 32 years he taught science and mathematics in junior high schools and English and American Literature in high school. While teaching he earned a master's degree in English at California State College at Los Angles.
He has two sons by a previous marriage, Jeffry L. Stevens and Greg E. Stevens. He has five grandchildren, Brenda Stevens Sherry, Eric, Sharon, Michael and Beth Stevens, and two great grandsons, Ryan and Colin Stevens.
He retired in l984 and has lived a life of reading, writing, traveling and being a grandfather. He lives with his wife, Dolores Seidman, in Monterey Park, California where they have resided for 40 years.