By Andrew A. Rooney, Stars and Stripes Staff Writer
January 9, 1943

When the Flying Fortresses attack St. Nazaire or Naples or Western Germany it's not sheer luck if their bombs smash the targets and they return safely; it's the result of grueling hours of practice in the frigid sub-stratosphere over England.

The Forts, scores of them at a time, take off from widely separated bases and converge on their target, which may be an innocent Midlands town. But the C.O. has told the pilots at the briefing that it is Berlin — for practice purposes.

A 600-gallon gasoline ride over England on one of these "raids" would convince any infantryman that picking 'em up and laying 'em down is still the best way in the world to get around this earth.

Make yourself comfortable anywhere, the engineer says to you, pointing to the cold metal walls in the belly of the bomber, as he hurries off to help with the takeoff, assuring you that he will come hack in time to tell you how the oxygen mask works and to help you into some warm clothes.

It's a Maze of Wires

In the radio room the operator straightens out a maze of wires, some of which. run to various attachments hanging from your head and ears.

He fastens two black discs around your neck about the size of a quarter (a quarter is an American coin about the size of a shilling) which fit on each side of your Adam's apple.

For some reason you had always pictured fliers speaking to each other over the inter-om through little mouthpieces, like the one Mabel, back at the switchboard in the Capitol Hotel, used to use. It never occurred to you that it would cause complications when the oxygen mask had to go on.

The ship begins to move. It taxis down the runway, and the takeoff is smooth. The difference between the Fortress and the Piper Cub, the artillery's "Maytag Messerschmitt," is like the difference between a jeep and a 16-cylinder Cadillac — if you have ever ridden in a 16 cylinder Cadillac.

The objective of the practice mission is an airport in the extreme south of England, and the maneuver calls for a mock attack by Spitfires from the defending field.

There seem to be thousands of Forts in the sky around you. From any angle you look there arc five or six .50-cal. guns poking out at you from a Fort window or gun turret. Looking for an unguarded place to attack a Fort is like looking for a soft place to sit on a cactus.

Oxygen a Life-saver

The ship climbs slowly to the altitude at which the mission is to be performed, and your ears begin to feel as if they wanted to yawn. The engineer comes back and explains how the oxygen mask works-how to regulate the oxygen supply according to the height you are flying at.

It seems warm enough for a while. Really pleasant. The crew is chatting over the intercom as if they were out for a ride in the park with their families — back in the days when families went for rides in the park.

"Ten thousand feet, better put oxygen masks on," the pilot says over the interphone. You are still breathing. OK, but orders is orders so you tie the green oxygen mask to your face and open the valve on the tank.

It begins to get colder and you don'; look out the window as much as you did down lower. You begin to concentrate on keeping warm. The crew don't seem to think much about it.

"Might as well go over, now that we are up here." someone suggests by way of conversation over the intercom.

"Thirty-two below," adds the navigator as calmly as if it were room temperature.

Snow In a Fortress

The green bag that hangs from your face is a sack of snow by this time. You had forgotten to pull the plug at the bottom of the mask's " lung " to let the condensed moisture from your breath run out, the way you would empty a saxophone.

The radio operator, seeing that you are unhappy, smiles at you as if you were four, and points to a small box with a dial on it, on your right underneath the window. He indicates that you should turn the dial to the spot marked "LIAISON." Thinking that he is going to let you in on a radio communique straight from the High Command, you turn the dial.

"You were alone. I should have known, you were temptation." You look at the radio man stupidly.

As sure as you lived and breathed through an oxygen mask it was Bing Crosby. You are amazed to hear anything flow as freely as his voice does at that height. You half expect the languid tones of "Temptation" to freeze in their notes. The radio operator has cut in on a commercial wave-length carrying a Crosby rebroadcast from London.

Finally the target appears ahead. The bomb bay is opened wide, a few minutes before the target floats beneath the big ship. The open doors don't seem to affect the performance of the plane, having been designed to create a minimum amount of resistance when they are opened.

Then the Spitfires come. They bore through the air at terrific speed, attacking from all angles. You are glad they are on your team. The gunners in the Fort aim their guns at the Spits as they whiz through the formation, and as quickly as they came they are gone.

The gunners moved around almost as if they were playing ping-pong at a Red Cross club. You sit there and wonder how they keep alive up there, let alone fight.

"What is that city below us?" you ask timidly over the intercom.

"Berlin," comes the answer from somewhere, and for a minute your numbed senses are startled. It might for all you know be Berlin.

With the bottle of oxygen under your arm you start back to the waist of the ship, too cold to be very interested.

You go up front, back through the radio room, through the bomb bays squeezing through the two V-shaped braces above the bomb racks. Then you go to your knees to get underneath the rotating stand of the top turret. You stand in the pit behind the pilot and copilot, with the alternatives of crawling down to see the navigator's spot or standing there to watch the pilots work.

Comfortable at 10,000 Feet

You crawl down to see the navigator and the bombardier. You have come down to 10,000 feet, as you get closer to the home field, and it is getting more comfortable. It is time to take the mask off.

Down in the transparent nose the bombardier is lying on his stomach in the very tip of the ship. From his position you can see far down in front and all England is stretched out waiting for you to come down.

You are approaching the base swiftly, and several of the formations around you have peeled off and headed for their own field. You feel airsick, cold, and are generally firm about the resolution that you will never go above 10,000 feet again unless there is something to the rumor that heaven lies up there. You doubt that there is anything good above 10,000.

The pilot brings the B17 in to a beautiful landing. You are disappointed that there isn't a little shock when you hit. The solid feel of earth would be welcome.

There are men with sledgehammers beating both your eardrums.

"Scream," the engineer says to you. "Go ahead, scream."

You feel a little foolish and don't know exactly what to scream, but you do and it helps relieve the tension on your ears.

"Well, what do you think of the trip?" the pilot says to you jovially after you are out of the plane.

"I think," you mumble, "that the infantry is the backbone of the army."