by crew-chief Al Saccomando
822nd Bombardment Squadron, 38th
Bombardment Group
Al’s recollections of his
time as a crew-chief are pithy and effective. The 38th BG flew
Mitchells from go to woe in the SWPA. You will enjoy his final line.
As a crew chief in the 38th
Bomb Group, I recognized air crews were at more risk than we grease monkeys on
the ground, but I would like to point out that when we moved up to New Guinea
in late 1942 because of the shortage of aircraft (in the 71st we were by then
down to seven planes), we worked day and night to keep them in the air. In
addition, we had to pull a six-hour guard shift at least twice a week. Anyone
who was in New Guinea knows that at night, the mosquitoes brought out their big
bombers. We put gasoline in little cans, spread them around and stood in the
middle figuring it was better being a target for any enemy who had managed to
reach Moresby down the famed Kokoda Trail than to be picked up and carried away
by the giant mosquitoes.
Then came the red alert, the
frantic rush to douse all the cans and hit the slit trenches. I vividly recall
the day on Morotai sitting under the wing ‑ the only shade around ‑
bringing my forms up to date (engine hours, aircraft hour, landings on tires,
and a record of all work performed on that particular aircraft), when the radio
man assigned to that plane informed me that it was his responsibility was to
clean the guns in the waist windows. He climbed into the plane the next thing I
knew, a burst of 50 caliber shells churned up the ground six inches away from
me ‑ and I set a world record for the most altitude reached from a
sitting position. He came out of the plane with an apology, "Sorry. I
didn't know the gun was charged." As politely as I could, I informed him
the first thing to do when you want to handle the gun was to raise the cover. I
then suggested if he wanted to fly the rest of his missions so he could go
home, he had better leave right then ‑ and I made a mental note that the
next time he came to clean the guns, I would definitely be some place else.
Then in the Philippines, we were
waiting for the planes coming back from a mission. While walking along the taxi
strip back to my plane and passing in front of another, the pilot cut loose a
burst from the 8‑gun nose and once again I heard the whistling of 50
caliber slugs. My medium height had paid off.
Needless to say I survived
malaria, lousy chow, and most important, the guys wearing the same uniform I
was.
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