Return from Berlin: The Eye of a Navigator

22. Forgotten Missions

Forgotten Missions I've not described, nor do I even remember, some of the missions listed in my file by place names and date. Perhaps it was the canceling effect of redundancy, the lack ofspecific markers to single them out. Even gut-gripping experiences can, in war, be played over to a point of monotony. The ones that can easily be conjuted and retold , though, were unique-Peenemlinde for its awesome scale, I might even call it beauty, and a one-time-only privilege of adventute . Others were indelibly marked by a harsher objective standardwith what savagery and yet with what skill did they try to kill us, and by how important and efficacious could I judge our strike to be. Example-being shell-barraged to within an inch of my life at Hambutg on June 20 (my third mission) and then on the way to Berlin the next day, to feel the primitive joy of seeing Out enemy's huge oil supply still burning, still sending up great pleasingly shaped clouds of dense black smoke to 30,000 feet. Competing with such basic and perfect battle triumphs as that, our several little tactical raids in nearby France, with the exception of the carpet bombing at Saint-Lo, tended to merge and almost seemed to be a convenience in the business of completing a combat tour. But then why did Gaggenau, dauntingly deep in the south of Germany, a cold sweaty chore with obvious risks, fail to imprint? It 147 Return from Berlin must not have had a significant marker. Perhaps there was only the usual battle damage, and maybe no one that I knew got hurt-and then, of course it had to be compared with Ludwigshafen, where a week later we nearly bought it for a high price, a place that might also have been forgotten except for that single 88 shell that tore through our wing and the calamitous one that zeroed into Roger's bomb bay several days later. We remember even now not only the town name but the object of our attack, the 1. G. Farben Chemical Works. It's easy, of course, to understand why I remember Groesbeekunique in its challenge to find and hit accurately-not a very hazardous little trip; more of a sporting event you might say, but lavishly praised on paper and attested to by the group commander in a most sincere fashion. Then Osnabruk two days later simply got buried under the humus ofhistory without a trace; although it was, I think, a strategic rail target located deep enough in northern Germany to get us in trouble. We flew squadron lead and must have done it right, or I'd have had something to remember, and on September 25 we went to Frankfurt, a well-respected place in a highly industrialized area, but, again, I had nothing to mark it with. Eric de Jonckeere might well have been our air commander copilot, although his silence in my (non)memory does not confirm it. We must have, in all probability, done a good job, regardless of the copilot, and returned without bloody losses. Things that were impressive earlier in the summer may have by then become commonplace. 148 A Robert Grilley Gallery Drawing ofElizabeth, at Yokehill Farm, age eight. Returnfrom Berlin, painting, 1945. Daughter Rinelda, in the manner ofVermeer, 1978. Juneko andMonet. Daughter Juneko at age twelve, a life-sized painting, 1987-1988. Shirley, my former wife, 1960. Double portrait ofmy wife, Ei, 1978. ...