John Droz, Sr.
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Hawaii Political Info exclusive [republication of earlier story]
Memorial Day Story
Hawaii Political Info introduction: The late John Droz, Sr., a native of upstate New York, wrote a year before he passed away about the fear he had experienced on his first flight in actual WWII combat, in Europe, as a B-24 (bomber) navigator. The fear was so overwhelming that he felt he would be unable to do his job under war conditions. Back in his tent grappling with his dangerous experience and his reaction to it that night, he made up his mind to resign the very next morning and face the consequences.
This is his story, written by him, about what happened next.
In later years John and his wife Elizabeth, who had family in Hawaii, visited the islands almost annually, which they squeezed into their other globe trotting. Their favorite island was Maui.
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By John Droz, Sr. (September 3, 1917 - April 9, 2009)
This is a true story of the 15th Air Force in World War II — hidden in the mind until 90 candles lit the memory. No notes, written from recall of a massacre nearly forgotten. This is a story of horror in a strange machine called an airplane.
The B-24, four-engine, heavy bomber, comfortable, like an old man in an easy chair, settled down on the bumpy runway in the Italian sunlight. I sighed a long breath of relief. We had “made it.” My prayers had been answered. The long, dangerous journey over the huge Atlantic Ocean navigating at night from Iceland to the small Azores island landing strip, a narrow miss of a crash as the overloaded plane struggled to find air space on the take-off to North Africa. Then on our way to this shot-up airfield in romantic southern Italy. We had come half-way around the world. It had been my first real test as a navigator after several months of intense training and about 800 hours of actual flight time. As a crew, we had become a team. We passed our first trial. This was the “real world.” We were on our way to win the war.
Upon landing at the southern Italy air base we were more than welcomed by the seasoned veterans. There seemed to be a wide choice of tents open for our selection. My crew and I were to soon learn that the 449th Heavy Bombardment Group had lost almost 50 percent of their airplanes and men in the one mission of bombing the oil fields of Polesti. The stories from these recent raids did not worry me as I was too excited and unprepared for the dangers that lay ahead. The horror described was beyond my understanding.
Along with six other new navigators I was given a four-day capsulated education on the geography of southern and central Europe along with a detailed location of enemy fighter strength and heavy gun location. The deadly German fighters were at minimum estimated in the hundreds but the 100mm cannons were counted in the thousands. Their shells could blacken the skies and reach planes even at 30,000 feet. There was rarely an escape from their murderous fire.
My “home” was a small to medium tent which I shared with my three crew officers: pilot, co-pilot and bombardier. The non-commissioned six gunners and crew were housed in another area. Segregation was still a curse in our lives.
On day I awoke at 3:30 a.m., dressing quickly in the cold air of a morning in March. I hurried to a quick breakfast and a briefing at 5:00 a.m. on how to get to wherever we were going. I was excited and eager to do my part.
Having slept very little, I began to feel the anxiety, something a navigator should never experience. I would not be with my own crew on this first mission because I was flying as a student with an experienced crew who had already been on 10 combat missions. After the briefing, where I picked up my “shute,” maps, escape route if shot down, alternate targets #1 & #2, and an evaluation of the amount of “flack” and “fighters” that could be expected, an American Catholic priest was there to give blessing and Communion for those who wanted it. I, a newcomer, was amazed to see how few accepted. “No atheists in foxholes” did not seem to be the truth I had always imagined. I, of course, was mightily glad to receive and also make a quick (complete however) Confession.
I met the training crew with brief dialogue, quickly taking my place in the jeep and rattling off to the plane at the far end of the runway. Gas was being poured in, about 1000 gallons, as mechanics climbed all over the plane. On the nose was the name of the B-24, “ONE MORE TIME.” They had printed this on the side of the reclining figure of a blonde movie star — I could not decide if it was a good or bad omen.
Because of me, the crew would number 11 rather than the usual 10, an extra 200 pounds. As the men climbed in, loaded their guns and went to their assigned takeoff positions, I felt very strange and uncomfortable. My “winning the war” suddenly seemed to be very unimportant. The regular navigator would be in the nose of the plane, with a gunner and the bombardier. So I was to sit on some ammunition boxes in the main body with a board on my lap as a place to write.
The ‘ONE MORE TIME” was loaded with 500 lbs.of bombs and heavy tanks of gas. With an extra person she would have a hard time getting off the ground. At the end of the runway she finally lifted off in what I would soon learn was an unusual effort due to the extra load. As I looked out the window opening, I realized that the countryside had the skeletons of several planes that were not able to lift high enough on their takeoff. I shivered and then began to prepare the final checklist of my first combat flight. I checked my oxygen mask, which would keep me alive when we went above 15,000 feet, which we never had done in training. Today’s mission called for 21 planes at 21,000 feet and was directed at an airfield in southern Germany. Next I checked my electrical connection on each glove and my flying coveralls. A poor connection could prove fatal. The temperature over the Alps, which we would cross, went to 50 below many times a year. A poor connection could prove fatal.
I had a heavy “flack” slip-on that went over my head and covered my chest and back. Another “steel” cushion covered the “family jewels.” Last was a wool cap which I already had on — this was topped by a borrowed oversized steel helmet that when worn covered most of my face. I was totally overwhelmed by the array of equipment. My anxiety began to border on panic. Sweat was oozing out of every pore.
When I was finally ready, I realized I could hardly move. I tried to locate our plane’s position on the map and realized I was lost before I had hardly started. My wool hat had an earphone for intra-plane conversation, which was mainly between the pilot and navigator. The gunners were quiet except when damage was done to their section or enemy fighters were approaching. The regular navigator gave the plane’s position on the map, wind speed, temp reading, etc. about every 15 minutes, which saved my sanity and enabled me to find our position over Europe.
Because this is my story and not a mission story, we will “fast forward” somewhat to the return trip. The target had been a tough one, even to an experienced crew. The plane had lost one engine — but had three left. The extreme right engine was hit at the target and burst into flame. The pilot quickly shut off the gas supply to that engine and the flack fire was stopped. Flack was the name for exploding bombs shot from huge cannons. The bombs were controlled to "burst" at calculated altitudes. This explosion made an enormous black cloud filled with thousands of nails, ball bearings and sharp bits of steel. We had to fly through hundreds of these black bursts to reach our target.
The bomb run at the target had heavy flack. Old "ONE MORE TIME” lived up to her name, but she bounced and dipped and shook until I was sure that this was the “ONE" time left. My hands were freezing, it seemed. The air temperature was 15 degrees below zero. I had lost my map and marker as well as my seat. I pulled the flying suit tightly around me.
I tried to hide in the “flack covering.” I was too scared to move, yet I knew I had to recover my map. My worst fear was that the #1 navigator would get shot and I would have to get these men back alive. Because of the loss of the engine, we had reduced air speed and had to leave the protection of the formation. We reduced altitude and limped back to our base.
Finally, approaching the home field, the plane took its place in the landing pattern and I praised God as we touched down safely. How I got out from under my equipment and out of the plane itself was a miracle. I was so scared that I was shaking visibly. I could hardly see or hear and I stumbled blindly as I moved toward the waiting jeep.
As I literally crawled back to my tent and fell into my cot, the tears became uncontrollable. I was alone in the tent and seemingly in the world. I would never be able to fly a mission again. Could not possibly do it. Had been so scared, I felt I had no idea how to navigate under war conditions. I was done — finished. Now I would sleep — resign first thing tomorrow.
I tried to sleep but kept shivering from the fear of the flack, the lost engine and cold and the memory of the shaking, bouncing plane. I prayed and prayed. I heard the others return. I kept my head turned to the wall. God forbid they would see my tears and my fear. I had visions of the firing squad — they kill quitters, don’t they? Sleep finally came, although the nightmares of a shaking, dipping, falling, uncontrolled plane at 30,000 feet while being shot at by hundreds of German guns was with me that night — and probably would never leave.
“God, where are you?” I kept pleading — until my mind finally shut down.
Fast Forward Four Months
They were all congratulating me, hugging me. Some even kissed me. I had completed my 50th mission, been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and they were happy for me. I quietly left the celebration when I could and went back to my empty tent. I fell on my knees. If others had been there they would have heard my grateful prayers of thanks for taking away my past fears.
John Droz, Sr. back home in upstate New York on his wedding day, May 26, 1945
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Fifty missions! Fifty lifetimes! Fifty trips to Hell and back! I could hardly remember that first bumbling, scary flight. The fear I believed that I could not live with had gone after a night of prayer. Each of the remaining 49 flights had been many times more dangerous — lost engines, fire, hundreds of flack holes, lost heat, lost intercom connection, non-functioning brakes, parts of the tail or wings shot off, forced landings in strange places: and a crew totally dependent upon my navigation. The fear had been replaced with faith. Not one airman on any of my missions had been physically wounded, despite the fact that the other planes had 50 percent death casualties plus innumerable injuries, despite the fact that we were the lead plane! Not shown was the additional damage to the minds and hearts of these brave men who fought this war.
Often I had looked down and thought about the destruction we had inflicted on the ground. The homes destroyed, buildings with irreplaceable personal belongings gone; things collected for centuries gone in a minute . . . and the people — thousands dead or suffering because of the bombs dropped. An “eye for an eye” was the excuse used — or was it to “save the world for democracy.” I was not proud of what I had to do. God forgive me, I prayed.
I had done my job. It was over. I was going back to life. I was going home! Lord, be with me!
