According to Andy Rooney, when talking about the pilots and crews that had flown both B-17’s and B-24’s, they preferred to fly the B-17’s because they knew “it was the plane that would get you home.”
Keynes' Cruisers Volume 2
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According to Andy Rooney, when talking about the pilots and crews that had flown both B-17’s and B-24’s, they preferred to fly the B-17’s because they knew “it was the plane that would get you home.”
I’m interested in the politics of US bombs killing British colonial subjects in Hong Kong. From memory the British were very concerned about this, and went out of their way to avoid civilian casualties- even accepting increased risk to the bomber crews.
The US raid on Hong Kong was inspired by a 12/1/43 US 14th Air Force raid against the shipyard. I just made it a little bigger and more successful.
Story 2344
Norwegian Sea, December 4, 1943
HMS Kent, one of only four cruisers assigned to Home Fleet, emerged from another wave's trough. She continued forward another several dozen yards to the calmer waters of the Kola Inlet before cold water swept her deck again. This was her fifth run to the ice free ports of the Soviet far north this year. Her three sisters, two anchored at Scapa and HMS Suffolk undergoing upkeep at Rosyth, had made a a dozen runs between them as well. The large cruisers were the convoy commander's flag ship. Each usually had a destroyer squadron, and a few minesweepers and patrol vessels escorting perhaps two dozen merchant ships. Today, twenty two cargo ships were battling the waves behind the cruiser. One ship had turned back to Liverpool two days out, and another had been sunk by a U-boat that the escorting O-class destroyers sank an hour later. The last ship that had left Liverpool was straggling with a pair of corvettes slowly moving forward nearer to the ice than the rest of the convoy.
Three more days and then rest for a week before the heavy cruiser and eleven other warships could escort a homeward bound convoy.
HMS Kent, one of only four cruisers assigned to Home Fleet, emerged from another wave's trough. She continued forward another several dozen yards to the calmer waters of the Kola Inlet before cold water swept her deck again. This was her fifth run to the ice free ports of the Soviet far north this year. Her three sisters, two anchored at Scapa and HMS Suffolk undergoing upkeep at Rosyth, had made a a dozen runs between them as well. The large cruisers were the convoy commander's flag ship. Each usually had a destroyer squadron, and a few minesweepers and patrol vessels escorting perhaps two dozen merchant ships. Today, twenty two cargo ships were battling the waves behind the cruiser. One ship had turned back to Liverpool two days out, and another had been sunk by a U-boat that the escorting O-class destroyers sank an hour later. The last ship that had left Liverpool was straggling with a pair of corvettes slowly moving forward nearer to the ice than the rest of the convoy.
Three more days and then rest for a week before the heavy cruiser and eleven other warships could escort a homeward bound convoy.
Depends on your "POV" I suppose
Randy
Story 2343
Rzhev December 5, 1943
The general drank his tea. He had a few minutes until the next meeting. His regimental commanders, quartermasters and senior commissars would be ready for a long discussion on training to incorporate replacements and new equipment into the rifle division. They had spent the past several months in defensive positions near the rail junction. The Germans had not pushed hard, and the Red Army had been content to hold firm during the mud season. Several other rifle divisions had been pulled from the line in the past two weeks. Many were heading to camps near Moscow and a few were heading to camps along the Don to rest, recuperate and rebuild their strength. The general could look at both the map, intelligence estimates and listen to the hints of large new Red Army formations finally being appropriately trained, or at least not inappropriately trained. Somewhere, his men would be in the thick of it again during the Spring offensive.
The general drank his tea. He had a few minutes until the next meeting. His regimental commanders, quartermasters and senior commissars would be ready for a long discussion on training to incorporate replacements and new equipment into the rifle division. They had spent the past several months in defensive positions near the rail junction. The Germans had not pushed hard, and the Red Army had been content to hold firm during the mud season. Several other rifle divisions had been pulled from the line in the past two weeks. Many were heading to camps near Moscow and a few were heading to camps along the Don to rest, recuperate and rebuild their strength. The general could look at both the map, intelligence estimates and listen to the hints of large new Red Army formations finally being appropriately trained, or at least not inappropriately trained. Somewhere, his men would be in the thick of it again during the Spring offensive.
Story 2344
Saipan, December 6, 1943
A long snake of flames erupted from the nozzle that the young, war weary Marine poked forward. Heat wormed its way into a series of cracks and crevices, burning bodies and sucking out the stale, stank oxygen sitting in the caves. Four seconds later, satchel charges and grenades were being tossed in to clear the forward lip of the crevass that had protected at least a dozen enemy infantrymen for the past three hours. They had been taking pot shots and evidently directing mortar fire on the US Marines in the valley since before dawn. As the grenades and then the heavy demolition charges exploded and steel shards rebounded off the stone walls, bazooka and rifle grenade teams began to send high explosives deeper into the darkness. Screams of pain were soon heard and then a few bullets emerged as the Japanese soldiers could not crawl any deeper into the earth. They could either die in place or die attacking. A few advanced into the light where BAR and riflemen waited. An hour later, after half a dozen men had crawled in and then through the cave, came back out, the company commander, a young LT who was the fourth commander since the landing for this company, had decided that the cave was secured.
As night fell, the birds started to sing for the first time in weeks.
A long snake of flames erupted from the nozzle that the young, war weary Marine poked forward. Heat wormed its way into a series of cracks and crevices, burning bodies and sucking out the stale, stank oxygen sitting in the caves. Four seconds later, satchel charges and grenades were being tossed in to clear the forward lip of the crevass that had protected at least a dozen enemy infantrymen for the past three hours. They had been taking pot shots and evidently directing mortar fire on the US Marines in the valley since before dawn. As the grenades and then the heavy demolition charges exploded and steel shards rebounded off the stone walls, bazooka and rifle grenade teams began to send high explosives deeper into the darkness. Screams of pain were soon heard and then a few bullets emerged as the Japanese soldiers could not crawl any deeper into the earth. They could either die in place or die attacking. A few advanced into the light where BAR and riflemen waited. An hour later, after half a dozen men had crawled in and then through the cave, came back out, the company commander, a young LT who was the fourth commander since the landing for this company, had decided that the cave was secured.
As night fell, the birds started to sing for the first time in weeks.
I have the two published books of cartoons by this artist. They are a thought provoking and light hearted look at era from the late 30s through to the 80s from the point of view of airmen of many ranks.
As do in storage someplace... I thought he was exaggerating the "Mormon 500" thing till I got assigned to Hill AFB. He was very much NOT exaggerating at the time
Randy
Story 2345
Southeast of Leningrad, December 8, 1943
"Crack"
A moment later, a bullet hit a steel target the size of large watermelon four hundred and forty three meters away.
Four hundred meters in the other direction, an instructor took notes. She sat in a hunter's blind, with a cup of lukewarm tea on a table and several sketchpads with paths, lines of sight and observations already littered on the floor. She had to observe half a dozen trainee teams on their stalks. She had spotted five teams. The one that had just fired, she had noticed half an hour ago and quickly predicted where they would sneak forward to for a fast shot. She raised the binoculars one more time and focused on her landmarks. Three seconds later, she had the spotter in view as he tried to get away through the snow. If this was real, mortars would begin ranging in a minute as an alert German sentry should have been able to see the firing position and if they were aggressively scouting their surroundings, they should know that there would only be a pair of escape paths with anything approximating cover against direct fire. She paused and made a note without ever looking at the paper before shifting her view ever so slightly to focus on the sniper. His hips were up like he was about to penetrate a virgin.
Three hours later, the exercise concluded. Of the twelve trainees, at least seven of them would have been killed during their stalks. Minor errors were deadly errors. Three more would have to count on luck to survive. The last pair had fired twice and evaded with skill. Tatianna spent an hour talking through their stalk before the trainees and their new instructor headed back to camp for hot soup and warm wool blankets. The instructor took her time as her cane found the ground with every step between the blind and the Studebaker treacherous.
"Crack"
A moment later, a bullet hit a steel target the size of large watermelon four hundred and forty three meters away.
Four hundred meters in the other direction, an instructor took notes. She sat in a hunter's blind, with a cup of lukewarm tea on a table and several sketchpads with paths, lines of sight and observations already littered on the floor. She had to observe half a dozen trainee teams on their stalks. She had spotted five teams. The one that had just fired, she had noticed half an hour ago and quickly predicted where they would sneak forward to for a fast shot. She raised the binoculars one more time and focused on her landmarks. Three seconds later, she had the spotter in view as he tried to get away through the snow. If this was real, mortars would begin ranging in a minute as an alert German sentry should have been able to see the firing position and if they were aggressively scouting their surroundings, they should know that there would only be a pair of escape paths with anything approximating cover against direct fire. She paused and made a note without ever looking at the paper before shifting her view ever so slightly to focus on the sniper. His hips were up like he was about to penetrate a virgin.
Three hours later, the exercise concluded. Of the twelve trainees, at least seven of them would have been killed during their stalks. Minor errors were deadly errors. Three more would have to count on luck to survive. The last pair had fired twice and evaded with skill. Tatianna spent an hour talking through their stalk before the trainees and their new instructor headed back to camp for hot soup and warm wool blankets. The instructor took her time as her cane found the ground with every step between the blind and the Studebaker treacherous.
Story 2346
December 9, 1943 south of Hamburg
Four factory fresh Focke Wolfes were being pushed into the hangers and out of the cold, biting wind. A dozen pilots were huddled around the new machines. The two aces of the staffel had claimed them and would be taking them up for a familiarization hop in a few hours. They each had been fighting almost constantly for the entire year and they were successful; one had twenty one kills and the other had seventeen. Their wingmen were the other veterans in the squadron; one had survived for six weeks and the other had for three months. Normally the veterans would be leading sections with the recent replacements as the other eight pilots huddled around the machines all had been out of advanced training for less than three weeks but today was a fun day and a rewarding day for the men who had survived so far. The rookies were in awe of the faster, smoother and more powerful beasts. They wished they could be aloft but they would only inherit the older, more worn machines that the experten had now discarded. Two rookies had already scored kills. Five had been shot down; only two men were long term losses as one had died with a fifty caliber slug through the cockpit and the other was likely to be in a hospital for another month. The three men who each had a 6,000 meter parachute ride had gone back up to battle the 8th Air Force within a day of returning to the fighter field.
Four factory fresh Focke Wolfes were being pushed into the hangers and out of the cold, biting wind. A dozen pilots were huddled around the new machines. The two aces of the staffel had claimed them and would be taking them up for a familiarization hop in a few hours. They each had been fighting almost constantly for the entire year and they were successful; one had twenty one kills and the other had seventeen. Their wingmen were the other veterans in the squadron; one had survived for six weeks and the other had for three months. Normally the veterans would be leading sections with the recent replacements as the other eight pilots huddled around the machines all had been out of advanced training for less than three weeks but today was a fun day and a rewarding day for the men who had survived so far. The rookies were in awe of the faster, smoother and more powerful beasts. They wished they could be aloft but they would only inherit the older, more worn machines that the experten had now discarded. Two rookies had already scored kills. Five had been shot down; only two men were long term losses as one had died with a fifty caliber slug through the cockpit and the other was likely to be in a hospital for another month. The three men who each had a 6,000 meter parachute ride had gone back up to battle the 8th Air Force within a day of returning to the fighter field.
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Story 2347
Cape Cod Bay, December 10, 1943
USS St. Paul, fresh from her birthing yard in Quincy accelerated. Soon she was cutting through waves at just over thirty two knots. Her rudder heeled over and she turned hard to port as the three main battery turrets barked. Super heavy shells arced down the range. They were tightly clustered but off to the left by 400 yards and short 600. Adjustments were quickly calculated even as the gun crews serviced their weapons. Thirty seconds later, another salvo entered the cold air. The results were better. On azimuth and slightly over. Against a real target, at least one shell was likely to have hit but against the flat wooden targets towed by a yard tug, no damage had been done.
Minutes later, Leonard Eberhardt was cursing silently. Being in the Navy had the benefit of a tremendous expansion of a vocabulary he would never use around his mother. The flexibility of the English language was something he had never thought much about until boot camp.
He had been warm and safe inside the superstructure tending to the busy air search radar scope. The seventh salvo which had destroyed the wooden targets had tripped something and the radar had failed. Standard protocols had not restored function so now the chief was getting a work party together to trouble-shoot the problems. And as the youngest and most junior man, he knew that he would be getting the shit jobs ninety feet above the frigid seas.
USS St. Paul, fresh from her birthing yard in Quincy accelerated. Soon she was cutting through waves at just over thirty two knots. Her rudder heeled over and she turned hard to port as the three main battery turrets barked. Super heavy shells arced down the range. They were tightly clustered but off to the left by 400 yards and short 600. Adjustments were quickly calculated even as the gun crews serviced their weapons. Thirty seconds later, another salvo entered the cold air. The results were better. On azimuth and slightly over. Against a real target, at least one shell was likely to have hit but against the flat wooden targets towed by a yard tug, no damage had been done.
Minutes later, Leonard Eberhardt was cursing silently. Being in the Navy had the benefit of a tremendous expansion of a vocabulary he would never use around his mother. The flexibility of the English language was something he had never thought much about until boot camp.
He had been warm and safe inside the superstructure tending to the busy air search radar scope. The seventh salvo which had destroyed the wooden targets had tripped something and the radar had failed. Standard protocols had not restored function so now the chief was getting a work party together to trouble-shoot the problems. And as the youngest and most junior man, he knew that he would be getting the shit jobs ninety feet above the frigid seas.
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and the stupidest...
you don't send the man least likely to succeed to fix a problem .
(however, I suppose you might send the least valuable from those that had a reasonable chance of succeeding)
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I assume the first check is "send the sprog up and make sure the cable's still attached to the antenna and that the cable's in one piece all the way down". You don't need a Yeoman of Signals to do that, anyone who knows where the cables should go can do it (which is why the duty red arse gets to go climbing). I doubt there's much electronic kit up with the antenna anyway - wouldn't most of it be in the ops room? You don't want to be putting too much weight on the highest part of the ship above water.
You send the junior guy up to hold the wrenches for the guy who knows what he is doing. And this is written from the perspective of a junior enlisted man before anything actually happens. Junior enlisted men are occasionally wrong about the workings of the minds of the relevant chief. A junior enlisted sailor who is not grumbling is not being worked hard enough. He is applying the knowledge of being in the navy for half a year that the junior guy gets screwed whenever there is a task with discretionary screwing --- Leonard is a smart guy to be able to take specific knowledge and generalize.
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" Two rookies had already scored kills. Five had been shot down; only two men were long term losses as one had died with a fifty caliber slug through the cockpit and the other was likely to be in a hospital for another month. The three men who each had a 6,000 meter parachute ride had gone back up to battle the 8th Air Force within a day of returning to the fighter field. " From post #5613.
These men are all likely to be dead or incapacitated wounded by D-Day. If TTL's General Doolittle's orders to destroy the Luftwaffe remain the same as OTL.
These men are all likely to be dead or incapacitated wounded by D-Day. If TTL's General Doolittle's orders to destroy the Luftwaffe remain the same as OTL.
and thats even more stupid.
Given that the man you are risking up the mast as a human toolbox is one of the handful of men trained in a vital task
and is a "lubber" to boot - more likely to get in the way of an experienced rigger than help
However, given the idiocy all too common in military traditions of hazing the new boy especially if in a new trade,
still quite plausible decision.
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