Bomber pilot

This is my story based on one of Kevin’s works of art for this week. Thanks, Kevin!

Most nights, I wake up in a cold sweat.

My mind is filled with memories. I can smell the leathery scent of my flight jacket. The oily smell of the cockpit. The smoothness of the controls: the throttle, the stick, the flap handle.

I am the destroyer of cities. I have the blood of thousands, of tens of thousands, on my hands. 

I am a B-29 pilot.

All I ever wanted to do was fly. I had this thing about aviation since I was a little kid. After I finished my paper route, I’d head over to Roosevelt Field, where the pilots and planes were located. It was enough for me to smell the exhaust, to watch them take off and land, see them fly.

But if I hustled, washed the planes, cleaned the cockpits, checked the air pressure in the tires…sometimes, one of the guys would take me up. I couldn’t get enough. 

That feeling when the ground dropped away… the roar of the engine and seeing everything from a mile high… clouds above us, next to us, below us… diving, banking, climbing…there was nothing…NOTHING…I knew that even came close. I knew my future would revolve around flying.

When WWII broke out, I was 17. I lied about my age to get in. But I wanted more than anything to fly.

I reported to the army induction center on my appointed date; there were hundreds of guys. I thought we were all gonna be pilots. We were given a series of tests, and each time they were graded, guys vanished. I kept thinking they were the lucky ones, they were the ones who were gonna be pilots. 

Finally, it got to me and about 20 other guys. A Captain addressed us. “All right gentlemen,” he said. “Congratulations. You have been selected to be pilots. See the sergeant at the rear of the gymnasium for orders. That is all.”  He turned and left the gymnasium. Then it hit me. I was gonna be a pilot!

Air cadet training in Norwich, CT was tough. No goofing around, no failed tests, keep your locker clean. Any violation would earn you demerits, hours of marching around the courtyard, sun, rain, nighttime. If you got enough demerits, you were gone.

Flight training…held at numerous Army Air Corps bases…taught me much. It made real the principles of flight I learned at Norwich. Lift, drag, weight, thrust… all of these concepts became real as I qualified to fly more and more aircraft. 

I trained especially hard on the B-17 and the B-24. I was destined for the European theater. That story is for another time.

One day, a major walked into the room. We all stood at attention as he scanned his list. “Baker… Bolton… step forward.” he said curtly. We did so and he continued. “We need B-29 pilots,” he said. “Report to Camp Cooke by next Friday.” Whaaat? I raised my hand. The major nodded.  

“Sir,” I said with as much respect I could muster. “Uh..  I trained with these men. We’re all headed to England. Can’t someone else be assigned?”

The major looked at me blankly. “Baker,” he said. “The Army doesn’t give a rat’s ass what you want. You and Bolton are at the top of my alphabetized list. You WILL report to Cooke by next Friday. Are we good?” I saluted and said yes, sir. Dang.

I learned to fly the 29… the newest and  most sophisticated bomber we had…at Cooke. Among other things, it had a pressurized cabin and a system that assigned all gun control to a single airman. Incoming enemy fighters would not just face a single .50 caliber gun… it would be flying into a maelstrom of ten .50 cals. They didn’t have a chance.

Saipan, one of the islands in the Marianas chain, was a beautiful place. We had wrested it from the Japanese at a horrible cost, but it allowed us to bomb the Japanese home islands at will. On our off days, the palm trees sighed in the gentle breeze. The sandy beaches and aqua-colored waters sometimes made me think I was on vacation.

Major General Curtis LeMay had decided that low-level bombing would be more effective than high-level raids. While this put us in range of Japanese anti-aircraft guns, it meant our bombs would go where we intended, rather than being blown miles off course by the jet stream. But it was tough on us pilots.

In March,1945, we were part of a fire-bombing raid of Tokyo. The raid consisted of two parts. The first wave dropped high explosives, which broke up the wooden buildings into kindling. The second wave…our group…dropped incendiary bombs that ignited the rubble.

This particular night, we were at the tail end of our 1,000-plane raid. By the time we got over the target, at only 5,000 feet, the updraft was terrifying. It was as though we were flying over the massive chimney of some hellish inferno. Debris was being flung upwards to such an extent that an 8-foot piece of corrugated metal from a Quonset hut lodged in our starboard wing. It flew back to Saipan with us.

Once in place, I gave the controls to the bombardier. He briefly flew the plane until his Norden bombsight indicated we were over the target. The plane lurched upwards as 20,000 lbs of incendiary bombs fell out of our bomb-bay doors. 

I remember those days…20 years now… like they were yesterday.

I never wanted to kill people, destroy cities. I just wanted to fly.

And even though I wasn’t the one who pulled the lever and dropped the bombs. I was the one who flew the plane 1,500 miles to the target. I am as guilty as the bombardier. I have blood on my hands.

After the war, pilots were a dime a dozen. I wanted to fly commercial airlines, but there were no openings. I took a job with Fairchild as an aerospace engineer, after earning my degree under the GI bill.

Happy? Yeah, I guess so. My sweetheart  waited for me and we’ve been married 19 years now.

Content? Yeah, I’ve got a good job, two good kids, am coming up in my career.

At peace? No. Some nights I hear the screams of those poor people, on fire, running around in agony.

On those nights, there is no peace. There’s only the numbness booze can provide.

I come up here to the attic after the wife is asleep and drink until the screams go away. Some nights are better than others.

But drunk or sober, their ghosts accuse me. And my answer of “I only wanted to fly” is met with icy silence.

Oh God, please take away my pain.