Bomber VC: The Story of Flight Sergeant A. L. Aaron, VC, DFM, RAFVR

Original wartime caption: The Victoria Cross has been posthumously awarded to Acting Flight Sergeant ARTHUR LOUIS AARON, DFM, of the Royal Air Force. Flight Sergeant Aaron was captain of a Stirling on a bombing mission on Turin on 12th August 1943 when his aircraft was attacked by an enemy fighter. Although he was seriously wounded he summoned his failing strength to bring the crippled bomber back to an Allied airfield. He died nine hours later. SEE AIR MINISTRY AWARDS LIST NO. 695. (Imperial War Museum CH 11470; Aaron is dressed in typical European civilian clothes as this photo was used on escape documents carried by him)

by Chaz Bowyer

If a single quality could be chosen to epitomize the crews of Bomber Command during the fateful years 1939-45, then that quality can be generally summed in the word ‘youth.’ As with all matters related to the human race there were superb exceptions, but the great majority of the men who carried the RAF’s offensive into the black skies over Germany, Italy and occupied Europe were merely in their late ‘teens or only just of a lawful age of maturity. Classified in legal jargon as ‘infants,’ such ‘boys’ bore a man’s responsibility each time they took off on operations and the swiftly maturing process of facing death in a variety of horrible forms made men out of boys almost overnight.

This was particularly true of the bomber captains. Often of junior rank and, in so many cases, younger in years than the devoted crews they led into battle, such ‘skippers’ were constantly beset by the need to make decisions on which the lives of their crews depended. And on occasion it meant a choice between losing their own lives or preserving those of their crews. Almost without known exception they chose to save their faithful crews if at all possible. It was just such a cruel decision made by a 21-year-old bomber captain high in the night skies of Italy in the summer of 1943 that cost him his own life, but his crew came home alive. He was Arthur Louis Aaron.

Born in Leeds on 5 March 1922, his early education was aimed towards a career in arch-tecture but even as a boy he was fascinated by two things, mountains and flying … a tragically prophetic combination of interests. Like so many hundreds of other youngsters of his day, Aaron’s first ecstatic taste of the pure joy of flying came with a “five-bob flip” with Alan Cobham’s traveling ‘circus’ in the 1930s. His absorption with mountains may have been inherited from his mother who came originally from Switzerland but settled in Britain before the 1914-18 war, and he found expression for this in many rock-climbing expeditions during his spare time. On the outbreak of war in 1939 Aaron joined the Air Training Corps unit of Leeds University and the following year volunteered for air crew duties with the RAF. Completing his pilot training at 1 BFTS, Terrell, Texas, on 15 September 1941, he came back to Britain for operational conversion to heavy bombers and was eventually posted to 218 Squadron at Downham Market, flying Short Stirlings.

Commencing his operational flying with a “soft” trip, a mining sortie to the Bay of Biscay, Aaron soon began flying over the German homeland, bombing Duisberg, Bochum, Wuppertal, Dusseldorf, Krefeld and a dozen other major targets. The first real indication of his inner de-termination to complete any given task was the sortie on which his Stirling was partially crippled by predicted flak. Despite serious damage to the bomber, he carried out his bombing run and brought the Stirling back. His efforts were recognized by the award of a Distinguished Flying Medal.

In the afternoon of 12 August 1943, Aaron and his crew were briefed for their first operation to Italy. It was to be their 21st operational sortie and the target was Turin. Taking off from Downham Market into the lowering sun of a warm summer evening, Aaron lifted the nose of Stirling EF452 O-Oboe and, like some winged dinosaur, the huge bomber labored upwards, struggling to gain precious height. Crossing the French coast near Caen at some 10,000 feet, Aaron continued his steady climb in the brilliant moonlight now beginning to flood the night sky and, on reaching a comfortable 14,000 feet, he leveled the bomber out and headed south. Well used to the machine’s lack of a safe ceiling, he was not particularly worried … the sheer beauty of the approaching Alps bathed in moonlight capturing his attention. Pointing to Mont Blanc on the port side, he remarked “Boy, would I like to climb that.” His attention was brought back almost immediately to the job in hand as the target Turin loomed in front and below.

Busying himself for the bombing run-up, he ordered the bomb doors opened. The rest of the crew moved into their respective battle stations with the facility of a well-trained and experienced team. Allan Larden, the second pilot, slithered down into the nose bomb-aimer’s position while Mitchem, the flight engineer, automatically climbed into Larden’s vacated seat, his fingers waiting to operate the bomb release switches. The voice of Richmond from the mid-upper gun turret crackled over the intercom, saying “Watch that bloke up front, Art.” Aaron leaned to his right and saw on the starboard side another Stirling of the main stream slightly below and wallowing rather too close for comfort. “Okay, Ritch,” he acknowledged. Hardly were the words out than Richmond’s voice cam back, yelling “He’s firing at us.” Below their starboard wingtip at a mere 250 yards range the other Stirling’s rear gunner opened fire and steadily raked Aaron’s machine from starboard to port wing and back again. The time was 1:20 a.m.

The unknown gunner’s aim was deadly accurate. In the nose of O-Oboe, Larden was startled to see half a dozen fingerholes punched in the fuselage just two feet from his face; while behind him in the fuselage the navigator, Bill Brennan, collapsed in a cascade of maps, pencils and instruments as a bullet went clean through his heart. Larden was then stung into action by the horror-filled voice of Mitchem shouting, “My God, fellows, look at Art. Oh, poor Art. Give me a hand Allan.” Swinging up into the cockpit, Larden could see his skipper hunched over to his left and covered in blood from a gaping wound in the face, his right arm dangling useless and limp. The main instrument panel was a shambles of broken, blood-flecked glass as was the pilot’s side of the windscreen. The engine throttle levers were damaged and in the co-pilot’s seat Mitchem was fighting for control of the fully-laden bomber as it fell away to port in a 250-mile-per-hour dive. Finally regaining some control at just under 4,000 feet, Mitchem then slid out of his seat, and Larden, with the ease of practiced habit, took his place and started climbing to just over 7,000 feet at which height, rather than overheat the engines, he leveled out and concentrated on guiding the stricken machine through the menacing mountains.

Meanwhile, Mitchem had gathered the rest of the crew together and began to move the wounded skipper to amidships where he could receive first aid attention. Astonishingly, Aaron was still conscious and, in spite of having half of his face shot away, bullets in his chest and a right forearm attached by merely a few tendons, insisted on knowing Larden’s intentions for getting the machine back to safety. Unable to speak, he scratched a message with his left hand on the back of the dead navigator’s log, telling Larden to head for England. Larden gave him an OK sign and only then would Aaron consent to be moved and given two morphia injections. In fact the second pilot had little alternative for the time being but to keep heading south, ringed in by the mountains and having to constantly fight for control of a machine reduced to a near-wreck by gunfire damage.

The automatic pilot was inoperable, cables for trimming tabs were dangling, broken, from the roof, hydraulic lines ruptured thus rendering the rear turret useless and slopping oil in the mid-section. Added to all these, the starboard inner engine was threatening to overheat and they still had a full bomb load aboard. Ordering the crew to prepare dinghies and check parachutes, Larden then took stock of the situation. Bailing out would mean almost certain death among the snow-covered peaks. Coaxing the Stirling over the lower mountains towards Austria at first, Larden decided to head towards the nearest British-occupied land, Sicily. At his wireless set, Sergeant Guy continued to transmit to base but the response was practically inaudible. It meant that they were virtually alone in the sky, without a position fix, an accurate course to fly and little idea where they were precisely.

Finally they escaped from the mountains and crossed the Italian coast at La Spezia, where the bomb load of high explosive and incendiaries were promptly jettisoned into the harbor area. Still uncertain of their position, Guy sent a plain language signal to Bone airfield on the North African coast, an emergency call which immediately paid off when they received a reply advising them not to attempt landing at Sicily but to cross the Mediterranean to Bone. Everything now depended on fuel and Mitchem calculated that they might just make it if nothing untoward occurred en route.

Telling the rear gunner McCabe to sit by the engineer’s panel and watch the fuel gauges, Mitchem and Larden occupied the two plots seats while Richmond did his best to ease the pain and suffering of his skipper, Aaron. The latter, though desperately weak from loss of blood and shock, rallied sufficiently to scratch a message asking how they intended navigating. Guy reassured him that they were bound for Bone airfield and had a map bearing to get them there. Aaron lay back, exhausted even from this brief effort to ensure his crew were safe.

Droning on across the Mediterranean, Larden, under Mitchem’s expert guidance, alternated engine power, carefully extracting the last drop of precious petrol from each tank. Finally he spotted two searchlights forming an inverted ‘V’ on the horizon which were soon joined by a third light to form a marker tripod of light. It was Bone airfield. Homing over the beams, Larden put the Stirling into a clumsy right-hand circuit of the airfield and commenced preparations for landing. It was then that he was told by Bone’s controller that the main runway was blocked by a crashed Wellington bomber. Deciding on a wheels-up landing to the left of the runway, Larden continued his landing approach. The abrupt maneuvering of the machine brought Aaron to consciousness again and, on being told by Guy that they were going to land, the mortally wounded skipper started trying to crawl forward to take command of the landing. As Larden has since remarked, “Who could deny such an indomitable spirit?”

The two gunners helped Aaron into the left-hand seat while Mitchem stood behind his skipper, one arm holding him in his seat. Aaron had only his left arm to operate controls and could only shake his head to communicate with his co-pilot. Unaware of the Wellington wreckage on the main runway, Aaron instinctively lined the Stirling for a normal landing approach and could not comprehend Larden’s shouted warning. It was sheer experienced instinct which made Aaron recognize a “wrong” let-down and he nodded towards the throttles for Larden to advance them. Automatically obeying his captain Larden opened up the throttles for a second circuit. On his next approach Aaron again nodded for the throttles to be opened … an instinctive reaction to a situation whereby he knew the aircraft and crew were endangered. Once more Larden obeyed the unspoken order and the Stirling swayed away from the runway into a third circuit. By then Mitchem, with his precise knowledge of the desperately-low fuel state, told Larden that they must land this time … there was no fuel for any more attempts. The bomber settled into its approach and at only 500 feet Aaron again nodded to Larden to open up … the feel of the aircraft was not right for a normal landing. Larden shouted that there was no fuel, they must go down, but Aaron was determined and repeated his mute order. In desperation Larden leaned across and pushed his skipper hard back from the control column. Aaron collapsed, his eyes glaring at his co-pilot in an unforgettable reproach.

With the machine at stalling point and the left wing beginning to drop, Larden pushed the column hard forward and held tight as the desert sand rushed up towards them; then heaved back sharply. The Stirling tobogganed in for a belly-landing, scooping earth and sand in a monstrous tidal wave but came to rest without any further damage to crew or machine. They were down. The time was 6:00 a.m. on Friday the 13th.

Aaron was quickly removed and driven to the base hospital where an immediate operation was carried out to remove the bullets in his right chest cavity. The rest of the crew were checked over by the medical officer, Larden having two bullets removed from his right buttock and Mitchem having an ankle strapped up where two bullets had scraped the bone. Apart from the dead navigator, the others were unharmed. It was only after this that the crew learned of their deadly ‘lodger,’ a 500-pound high explosive bomb which had failed to release over La Spezia, and Larden was presented with the safety buckle of his Sutton parachute harness. Two bullets had made direct hits on it, jamming the mechanism into the ‘released’ position. Had he taken to his chute he would have fallen straight out of the harness.

All through the black Friday the survivors prayed silently for their skipper and indeed at first he appeared to be rallying well. But by early evening they learned that he had finally succumbed to his appalling injuries at approximately 3:00 p.m. He was buried with full military honors in Bone cemetery. On 3 November 1943, the London Gazette published the official citation for the award of a Victoria Cross to Arthur Louis Aaron and its narrative attributed the attack on the Stirling to “an enemy nightfighter.” Allan Larden was awarded a Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, while Mitchem and Guy received Distinguished Flying Medals for their part in this epic of courage. In a personal letter to Aaron’s parents the AOC-in-C, Bomber Command, “Bert” Harris, wrote in part, “In my opinion never even in the annals of the RAF, has the VC been awarded for skill, determination and courage in the face of the enemy of a higher order than that displayed by your son on his last flight.” On 25 February 1944, Aaron’s parents attended an investiture at Buckingham Palace where they received their gal-lant son’s awards and a little later, the father was present at a mass parade of Air Training Corps cadets at Wellington Barracks where the Commandant of the ATC, Air Marshal Sir Leslie Gossage, read out the VC citation in honor of their most distinguished ex-cadet. Two years later, in August 1946, the parents’ house was burgled and the medals stolen, but after a police appeal, Aaron’s awards were returned through the post anonymously. In December 1953, Benjamin Aaron, the VC’s father, presented the awards to the Leeds City Museum for permanent public display; they may be seen there today.

Perhaps the astounding courage and selfless sacrifice of Arthur Aaron might be best summed by the simple tribute paid to him by Sergeant Thomas McCabe, the rear gunner of the fated Stirling, who said, “It was the greatest thing I have ever known. His whole thought was for the ship and for his crew.”

Acknowledgment

The author is deeply indebted for information from Dr. F. E. Aaron and the personal account of Allan Larden, CGM, made available by Squadron Leader Ralph Barker, RAF (Retired).

VC Action

Aaron, 21 years old, was flying Stirling serial number EF452 on his 20th sortie. Nearing the target, his bomber was struck by machine gun fire. The bomber's Canadian navigator (Cornelius A. Brennan) was killed, and other members of the crew were wounded.

The official citation for his VC reads:

Air Ministry, 5th November, 1943.

The King has been graciously pleased to confer the Victoria Cross on the undermentioned airman in recognition of most conspicuous bravery:—

1458181 Acting Flight Sergeant Arthur Louis Aaron, D.F.M.Tooltip Distinguished Flying Medal, Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, No. 218 Squadron (deceased).

On the night of 12 August 1943, Flight Sergeant Aaron was captain and pilot of a Stirling aircraft detailed to attack Turin. When approaching to attack, the bomber received devastating bursts of fire from an enemy fighter. Three engines were hit, the windscreen shattered, the front and rear turrets put out of action and the elevator control damaged, causing the aircraft to become unstable and difficult to control. The navigator was killed and other members of the crew were wounded.

A bullet struck Flight Sergeant Aaron in the face, breaking his jaw and tearing away part of his face. He was also wounded in the lung and his right arm was rendered useless. As he fell forward over the control column, the aircraft dived several thousand feet. Control was regained by the flight engineer at 3,000 feet. Unable to speak, Flight Sergeant Aaron urged the bomb aimer by signs to take over the controls. Course was then set southwards in an endeavour to fly the crippled bomber, with one engine out of action, to Sicily or North Africa.

Flight Sergeant Aaron was assisted to the rear of the aircraft and treated with morphia. After resting for some time he rallied and, mindful of his responsibility as captain of aircraft, insisted on returning to the pilot's cockpit, where he was lifted into his seat and had his feet placed on the rudder bar. Twice he made determined attempts to take control and hold the aircraft to its course but his weakness was evident and with difficulty he was persuaded to desist. Though in great pain and suffering from exhaustion, he continued to help by writing directions with his left hand.

Five hours after leaving the target the petrol began to run low, but soon afterwards the flare path at Bone airfield was sighted. Flight Sergeant Aaron summoned his failing strength to direct the bomb aimer in the hazardous task of landing the damaged aircraft in the darkness with undercarriage retracted. Four attempts were made under his direction; at the fifth Flight Sergeant Aaron was so near to collapsing that he had to be restrained by the crew and the landing was completed by the bomb aimer.

Nine hours after landing, Flight Sergeant Aaron died from exhaustion. Had he been content, when grievously wounded, to lie still and conserve his failing strength, he would probably have recovered, but he saw it as his duty to exert himself to the utmost, if necessary with his last breath, to ensure that his aircraft and crew did not fall into enemy hands. In appalling conditions he showed the greatest qualities of courage, determination and leadership and, though wounded and dying, he set an example of devotion to duty which has seldom been equalled and never surpassed.

The gunfire that hit Aaron's aircraft was thought to have been from an enemy night fighter, but may have been friendly fire from another Stirling. Because of that the initial plan was to award him the George Cross, but prime minister Winston Churchill changed it to the Victoria Cross, because he did not want the enemy to know the RAF had shot down one of its own aircraft.

 

Portrait of Arthur L. Aaron, RAF, awarded the Victoria Cross: Italy, 13 August 1943. (Imperial War Museum CH 11680)

Aaron in flying gear.

Aaron’s No. 218 Squadron RAF Short Stirling was registered EF452 and coded HA-O. (Andy Hay/www.flyingart.co.uk)

The Mystery of a Landing: Sicily 1943

by Jack Belden

What was it like to land on a hostile shore? Here is a classic example—experienced by a war reporter during the landings on Sicily.

“Go to your debarkation stations.”

The voice on the loud speaker rang with a harsh metallic note through the wardroom.

The men sat up and blinked their eyes, and for a moment all of them stared at each other with expressions that seemed to say: “This is it.” Then a few of them broke out in foolish grins and rose slowly from their chairs.

“All right, let’s go! Let’s go!” called Maj. Grant in a brisk voice. He got up and strode down the wardroom, a tiny bundle of energy, and the others slowly followed after him, their heads bent toward the deck as if they were thinking.

It was pitch-dark in the passageways. In the inky blackness men stumbled against each other, but no one muttered a word. In silence we made our way toward the bulkhead door through which a little light from the boat deck outside shone. As we passed through the door, a hand reached out and squeezed each one of us briefly on the arm. “Good luck,” said a voice. It was the captain.

The moon was still shining dimly on the deck, but though we could now see, we clung close to each other for fear of becoming separated. From every passageway men, shuffling in dreary, silent attitudes, were coming out to swell the tide of those going in on the assault waves. They made a depressing sight—a composite of dead and dull faces and drab bodies loaded down with military gear. As we turned the corner of a bulkhead, the man ahead of me halted hesitantly before a boat which was swinging violently back and forth, first toward the deck and then away from it. Several voices behind us shouted and tried to ally any feelings of doubt we had. As we hesitated, they shouted cheerfully, “Get in. What are you waiting for?”

These words, spoken to show us that we were at the right boat, did not produce the action desired. The man who was leading our group paused on hearing those words, raised his hands in a helpless gesture and called back to the others, “I can’t get in.” As he said this, the men back of us yelled as if they were going to throw a fit. The leading soldier, however, remained adamant and made no move to get in the boat.

From my vantage point, it was evident that he was quite right in refusing to do so. The boat was rocking to and fro on its davits, coming close against the ship’s side at one moment and swinging far away at the next. The only way to enter the boat was to slide down a short knotted line and drop in. But to attempt to drop in that swinging boat would be suicidal. One slight slip would mean a plunge down into the water, which was slapping now with a loud and menacing sound against the ship’s side below us. So both the soldier and I remained standing where we were, looking at the dark void between the swinging boat and the ship, making no attempt to get in.

The crowd behind us, growing impatient, again yelled imperatively at us. Goaded by the angry voices, the soldier by me said, “Goddammit, there’s no one here. Where the hell’s the Navy?” At these words, the men behind us transferred their disapproval from us to the whole U.S. Navy.

“Dammit! Get some sailors!” one officer yelled.

“Jesus!” said another. “The way the Navy’s hiding, you’d think they was going to invade Sicily instead of us.”

As yet the delay had not been serious, but in our overwrought state of mind it assumed exaggerated proportions, increasing our nervousness to a state of shaking, angry doubt.

“God!” said an officer who had come up beside us. “If we can’t get our boats launched from the ship, what’s it going to be like in the water when they start shooting at us?”

The soldier by my side laughed bitterly. “Snafu! That’s us. Always snafued.”

At last two or three sailors arrived, the boat was secured firmly, the soldiers slid one by one down the knotted ropes, and the boat descended past the ship’s side into the choppy water.

As we drew away from the ship, our moment’s irritability dropped away from us as quickly as it had come. There was an immediate sense of gladness at getting started and a heightened awareness. When we got away from the shelter of the fleet, this feeling, however, soon gave way to another. We became sick.

The rocking of the small landing craft was totally unlike anything we had experienced on the ship. It pitched, rolled, swayed, bucked, jerked from side to side, spanked up and down, undulated, careened, and insanely danced on the throbbing, pulsing, hissing sea. The sea itself flew at us, threw the bow in the air, then, as it came down, washed over us in great roaring bucketfulls of water.

The ensign standing on the high stern of the boat ordered the sailor by the bow to close the half-open ramp. As he moved to do so, the helmsman in the stern yelled, “I can’t see.”

He did not finish his sentence. At that moment there was a hissing sound, then a dull squashing crash, and a wave of water cascaded through the ramp, throwing down those who were standing on the deck and overrunning the boat with water.

“Bail with your helmets!” called the ensign in a voice of extreme irritation.

Kneeling now in the puddle which sloshed up and down the length of the boat, the men scooped up the water with their helmets, staggered uncertainly to their feet, threw their load overboard, and then went down on their knees to repeat the process.

Meanwhile, the ensign kept the boat zigzagging over the water searching the sea for the boats of our assault wave. From time to time he would shout out to another boat, “Are you the second wave?” When he would receive a negative answer, he would curse loudly, turn the boat in another direction and begin searching again.

For a long time we coursed back and forth over the water, picking up one boat here and another there. Then we went in a circle, going round and round in the shadow of our fleet until, certain that every boat was present we broke out of the circle formation and headed in a line toward a blue light, which, shining to seaward, was bobbing up and down some distance ahead of us.

The uneven motion of the boat was now almost unbearable. Hemmed in between the high steel bulkheads of the boat, the men crouched like beasts, shivering from the cold spray, silent, but uneasy with imminent sickness. One by one they vomited, holding their heads away from their loosely clasped rifles, and moaned softly. One man clambered up the side of the boat and crawled out on the narrow ledge running around the top and clung there like a monkey, with one hand clasping the boat and the other fumbling at his pants. The boat was rocking heavily; the man was swaying with its motion, and it seemed momentarily as if he would fall into the sea or a wave would wash him overboard. The ensign in a sharp voice commanded him to get back inside the boat.

“I have to move my bowels, sir,” the man said in a tone of distressed pain.

Someone tittered.

“Jesus! What’s so funny about that?” said a soldier, and he got up and grasped the man, who was now half-hanging over the side by his shoulders. “Here, Joe,” he said, “hold on to me.”

From that time on, our dash toward the unseen shore became a nightmare of sickness, pain, and fear. The boat had gathered speed now and we were beginning to bound from one wave crest to the next with a distinct shock. There were no thwarts, no seats of any kind in the boat; only the deck itself to sit on and the steep, high hull of the boat to lean against. The motion of the boat threw us all against one another. My hand in bracing my rolling body had accidentally come to rest on the shoulder of a young boy. I looked down at him and saw that he was holding his head in both of his hands and quietly vomiting. “It’s the motion that gets you,” I said.

“The what?” the boy said.

“The motion. It’s different from on the ship. You’ll get used to it. You’ll be all right.”

“Oh, sure. The motion. You ain’t kiddin’. I’ll be all right.” He bent his head down, a sudden spasm contracting his shoulders, and he spewed from the mouth. “Oh, sure, I’ll be all right.”

I stood up and took a quick look over the boat’s side. Astern our great fleet fled, diminishing, sinking beneath the waves. The boat had begun to pitch and shudder now, swooping forward and down, jolting almost stationary for a moment, then lifting and swooping again; a shot of spray smashed aboard over the bows like a thrown bucket of water, and I knelt down again.

The boat pounded on. It rolled us against iron pipes, smashed us against coils of wire and jammed us on top of one another, compounding us with metal, water, and vomit. There was nothing we could do but wait, herded helplessly between the high, blank walls of the boat, huddled together like blind men not knowing where we were going or what was around, behind, or ahead of us, only looking at one another with anxious eyes. That not being able to tell what was ahead of us, to catch even one slight glimpse of the universe outside our tossing, rocking world, was almost unbearable, leaving us, as it did, prey to all manner of nighttime fancies. The unnatural and unwholesome motion of the boat, churning my stomach into an uproar, the bare and opaque walls of the hull, shutting out everything but the vault of the sky overhead, evoked in my mind a picture of the world outside that was fantastic and terrifying. Instead of feeling myself part of a group of American soldiers going ashore on a carefully planned invasion, I saw myself and the men as strange phantoms flung out across the maw of the sea, into the blackness of eternity, fast revolving away from any kind of world we ever knew. I felt as if we had been caught up in some mysterious rocket, and that we were being borne onward in this bouncing projectile of machinery toward a nether-world goal as incapable of taking command over our own destinies as a squirrel in a cage.

In a moment of hollow doubt I stood up, edging my eyes over the gunwale and looking out into the comparative world of light around us. The sea was sparkling with tossed spray. Ahead, and on either side of us, boats were dodging and twisting through the choppy waves, and from their sterns, waving from side to side with the motion of the boats, showers of gleaming water streamed out behind like the plumes of birds. What was causing the water to gleam was a wide streak of light. It sprang like the tail of a stationary comet from a ball of incandescent yellow that was shining on the edge of the blackness off to our left.

Suddenly, the light swung across the water, fastened on our boat and illuminated us like actors on a darkened stage. In the glare, I saw the green, pale faces of the soldiers and their bodies huddled close against the hull. Then the light shot past and over us.

“Why don’t they shoot out that goddamn searchlight?” growled a voice from the depths of the cavernous boat. “Jesus! We’ll be drowned without knowing what hit us!”

“Steady there!” said the voice of Captain Paul Carney. “Take it easy.”

Again I craned my neck upward, just getting the top of my helmet above the hull and looking out with fascinated eyes. The light had now swung onto a small group of boats which were thrashing wildly from side to side trying to escape off into the darkness. From somewhere ahead faint red flashes began to flicker like fireflies. Then red balls, describing a high arc like a tennis lob, arched over our heads and fell down toward the illuminated boats which could not seem to shake off the hunting glare of the searchlight. At this I drew in my breath and involuntarily I shouted, “They’re shooting at the boats.” Below me, from the soldiers crouching with their heads toward the bottom of the boat, floated up an echo, “Shooting at the boats—Jesus!”

Abruptly, our boat slowed down. Above me, and slightly to the right, hung a blue light, seemingly suspended in the air. Dimly I discerned the outlines of a naval patrol vessel. Out of the darkness above mysteriously came a metallic voice, “Straight ahead! Go straight ahead. You’ll see a small light on your right. Land there. Look out for mines. Good luck.”

It was all very eerie—rocking there on the sea and hearing a voice calling out of the black above us. But I had no time to think of this. Our engine gave a sudden full-throated roar as the ensign cut off the underwater exhaust. The boat leapt forward. The other boats behind us raced around to either side of us, and we sped forward like a charging football line. “Hurry!” I thought. “God! If we can only make it!” The sea cascaded through the ramp and a broadside of water catapulted down on us. The boat shuddered, bucked, then plunged onward in a confident show of power.

All my senses were now alerted to the straining point. A flush of thrill and excitement shot through me like flame. It was wonderful. It was exhilarating.

Smash! Pound! Roar! Rush!—toward the goal. Here we come! Wheee! My mouth was open and I giggled with insane laughter.

The sailor by the bow tapped me on the shoulder. I peered around. The boy was pointing. Ahead—directly ahead—two strings of dotted red light were crossing each other. They came out from the right and left, like two necklaces of strung red and black beads, and crossed each other in the air some distance before us.

“Machine guns!” the sailor shouted. “Theirs.” The little fireflies of light were growing very close now. “Going right through them!” the sailor shouted. He made a gesture with his hand across his throat. “Right through them.”

Snap! I heard a sharp cracking sound. Snap! Snap! Snap! Jittering, I ducked below the side of the boat. Then I half slid, half fell to the deck, huddling low with the rest of the soldiers. I was on fire inside, but outside I was cold. I could feel all my flesh jerking. It was not from excitement. No longer did I feel any thrill. The boat was pitching and rocking like a roller coaster. I knelt now and was sick. Gasping for breath I wiped the strings of sputum from my lips, drawing my sleeve across my chin. Dimly I saw the boy beside me on all fours with his mouth wide open and his head bent down. I tried to pull myself together and sidled over and held his head. My gesture was almost automatic. I told myself I had to be of some use. But I no longer cared about anything. The boat seemed to be spinning like a merry-go-round. Dazed, I wished that a shell would come along and end all this horror, wetness, and misery. If we could only get out of this insanely rocking prison. If the boat would only stop for just a moment.

Soon I was almost beyond feeling. All I knew was that we were enclosed in an infernal machine, shuddering through the darkness, toward the edge of the world, toward nowhere. I did not feel the boat slow down. I neither heard nor saw men get to their feet. At first, all I felt was a violent shudder. Then I heard the engine break out into a terrible thundering roar. At last, there was a jerk and a bump and the boat came to a halt.

“Open ramp!” shouted the ensign at the stern.

Glancing fearfully toward the bow of the boat, I saw it swinging down, like a huge jaw opening. Halfway down it stopped, stuck. We could see nothing. Only a half-open hole.

The soldiers stared at the hole as if fascinated. Grappling at the side of the boat, they pulled themselves to their feet and peered uncertainly out into the darkness through the ramp. For a brief moment they stared at each other, then bent their heads down, shuffling their feet. No one moved.

The ramp jerked down farther until it was level with the water. Still nothing could be seen. Still no one moved.

“Get off!” Major Grant’s voice was imperious.

No one moved.

“Jump off!” he hollered again. “You want to get killed here? Get on that beach!”

With these words he leapt into the darkness. Another man with a coil of wire followed. The others hesitated as if waiting to see what happened to those who had jumped.

I felt I would go crazy if I stayed in the boat any longer. I advanced to the ramp. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought and jumped.

The water struck me like a shock. I kept going down. ‘It’s over my head,’ I thought. My feet sank down and touched bottom. My chin was just at the water. I started to push forward. A sharp crackle burst the air nearby. There was a whine and whiz overhead. Then a metallic, plunking sound as if something was striking the boat.

The water was growing shallower. I bent my knees, keeping only my helmet-covered head above the water. I felt as if I were wearing a shield. Finding I wasn’t hit, I realized the machine gun fire was so far surprisingly light. “Hell,” I said to myself, “this is not as bad as the Mareth Line.”

It was dark. The fires that had been visible from the ship could not be seen here. Ahead of me I made out a sandy beach, rising in a slight slope. Figures were crawling on hands and knees up the slope. Every few moments they halted and lay on their stomachs. By now the water was really shallow. I straightened up and dashed for the beach. Bullets snapped overhead. I threw myself flat on the sand. At last I was on dry land.

 

 

A Square Looks at the “Bomb”

by Francis Casselman

I am a “square.” I believe in paying my bills, am often found in church on Sunday, and regard with amazement the capers which some young people hail as the incoming tide of social ethics.

I mention these incidentals to introduce an argument: the proposition that the dropping of the atomic bomb was not the greatest crime of our century. Most of the humanitarians who argue that it was have one characteristic in common: the oldest of them was in diapers at the time the event occurred. I was not. I was at work in headquarters of the 21st Bomber Command on Guam when the first strike pictures of the obliteration of Hiroshima passed through our Quonset. I saw it then as an act of war, as a step towards the end for which the whole world was praying. And I see it that way today.

This much is exceptional about my point of view. I was born in Japan. Saito-san, who was my nurse, Hosano-san, who cared for my brother, and the gentle Japanese cook, willing to make-believe bargain with me for two pails of non-existent vegetables, are dim shapes in my memory. We lived in Sendai, a city later burned to the clay by the great B-29 raids of the war.

But to return to Guam. At the same time we hit Hiroshima we were preparing for the invasion of the home islands of Japan. Okinawa had been taken. There was only one direction to go-north.

On our island, comradeship between the Marines and the Air Force was infrequent, as always between the desk workers and the attack troops. And yet, some of us had bridged the gap. One of my tent-mates had a cousin, a Marine stationed nearby. Others of us had been riflemen before the Army transformed us into statisticians. So we talked, and we knew. The rumor was out—expect half a million casualties when American combat boots crunch the soil of Honshu. That was the whisper coming down the grapevine, and in those days we lived on rumors.

So there was the great fear among the combat men, the fear all brave men feel, and which the American fighting man is apt to conceal behind sardonic humor. The men did not like the word “casualties.” To them it meant a buddy with half of his jaw shot away, or a stub where a foot used to be, or a corpse, if enough flesh remained to make one. Only on television is a casualty a dimple where a bullet has passed harmlessly through, leaving a scar to show the kids.

I do not know where the casualty figure came from. Perhaps it was not true, but other figures were true. At Saipan we accepted 16,000 casualties. On Okinawa 12,000 Americans died while they killed 110,000 Japanese. And finally there had been Iwo Jima, eight square miles of it, where we counted 20,960 Americans bloodied and stricken while their buddies blasted the defenders out of a network of concrete caves. The Japanese soldier was good in the only sense that any battlefield warrior is really good: At the death he was a snarling, killing animal. I cannot explain it better than this. Americans were ready to invade, and they knew that a great many of them would die.

President Truman knew it, too. He knew more. One person in all the world might halt this bloodletting: Emperor Hirohito, worshipped as a god, had the will, if a way could be found to override the war lords around him. The president did not hesitate. His orders went out, and Hiroshima died with almost 80,000 of its people. Three days later, when cables sent back and forth had failed, Nagasaki paid with 40,000 dead, and another 60,000 injured. There it ended.

Were we inhuman in what we did? We sacrificed 120,000 people, and saved countless times that many more. Most of those granted their lives were Americans. To apologize for that would be the purest kind of hogwash. We were at war. Our object was to destroy our enemies before they killed us. Those were the rules, ratified at Pearl Harbor, where 2,000 American sailors rot forever in the steel coffins of their shattered battle wagons.

The breast-beaters groan about all this destruction by just two bombs, dropped from two airplanes. I find this argument pointless. In Tokyo, on 9-10 March 1945, we firebombed and destroyed 97,000 people, and wounded 125,000 others. On that occasion the full strength of the 20th Air Force struck down on the tortured city-and that is the only difference, just the variation in the number of planes thrown in.

Additionally, the idea that the United States was the only country in possession of nuclear knowledge in 1945 is false. Two years before the first trial of an atomic bomb at Yucca Flats in Nevada, British agents had detected a factory in Norway, which had set up and was in the process of manufacturing a substance called “heavy water.” Heavy water has the chemical property of carrying in its makeup an unstable hydrogen atom, and Hitler’s scientists knew it. They were far down the trail which our own country had also chosen to travel. We beat them to it, largely because Hitler’s paranoiac intuition switched him away from a super-high explosive, and into the manufacture of rockets, which he later loosed against England. The world came that close to hatching two nuclear powers at the same time. And make no mistake as to what Hitler would have done with his thunderbolt if he had achieved it.

And so to me, and a lot of people like me, the dropping of two atomic bombs was a legitimate exercise of overpowering force, used to win a war. The nuclear door had already swung open. The fact that we were the first to go through it could never close it again.