The Bomber Boys (10 page)

George Wisniewski
,
Kenneth Hall
,
John Stiles
,
Carl Robinson
,
William Goetz
and
Thomas Christenson
: All of these airmen survived the dangerous air combat over Germany, returned to America and enjoyed the freedom they had fought so bravely to defend.

Crew Reunion
: Four members of Jerry Chart’s crew were able to reunite at least once to catch up on each other’s lives and to remember the antics and adventures they had shared as mere boys in uniform. The mini reunion was held at former copilot George Wisniewski’s Wisconsin home. In addition to Wisniewski, Jerry Chart, John Cuffman and Tony Teta attended the gathering. The four war buddies had been unable to locate most of the other crew members, and Bill Goetz was not able to attend.

Over good food and cold beverages, the four air veterans bonded again, and on the last day they talked of getting together for a second reunion. Unfortunately, George Wisniewski would pass away soon afterward and then came word that Bill Goetz had also died. With John Cuffman’s passing, now only two of the original crew remain—Chart and Teta. The two friends talk on the phone occasionally, and they would like to see each other again, each knowing it may not happen.

In 2003, a writer interviewing Jerry Chart told him, “By the way, Tony and John had the nicest things to say about you, and I think they both feel that they would not be here today if you had not been their pilot.” There was a pause, and then Chart quietly replied, “Well, they were a good crew.”

Escape from Black Thursday

 

384TH BOMB GROUP

 

547TH BOMB SQUADRON

 

 

 

 

 

Peter Seniawsky hated the desert. More specifically, he hated the Army base outside of Clovis, New Mexico, which was smack in the middle of the desert. It was a stretch to even call it an Army base. There was nothing there except endless sand dunes and an assortment of huts where the soldiers lived.

During the day, the desert sun made working on the airplanes a miserable experience, and if a windstorm blew in, the sand got into everything—the airplane engines, clothes and, worst of all, eyes. Even Peter’s thick glasses provided little protection from the relentless sand.

At only twenty, Peter was already a sergeant in charge of a company of mechanics, most of whom were into their second hitch with the Army. They had plenty of on-the-job experience and also plenty of attitude. The fact that none of them had made the rank of sergeant, despite many having been in the service for eight or nine years, said a lot about the mechanics. Peter had evaluated them after his first week and had decided: “They’re a bunch of screwups!”

The thing that really made his assignment in New Mexico unbearable was that it was halfway around the world from where he wanted to be. There was a war going on in Europe, an all-or-nothing, us-or-them shooting war, and Peter had done everything he could to get into it. So far, fate and the Army had placed one barricade after another in his way.

Born in Rutherford, New Jersey, in 1922, Peter had spent his early childhood on a farm in Lisbon, Connecticut. His father, Gabriel, had emigrated from the Ukraine and was a tool and die maker by trade. In search of a better life for himself and his family, he did all he could to make a go of it as a farmer, holding down his regular job in Jewett City and then working all weekend on the farm. After three years it became too much. The farm was lost to creditors. Afterward, Gabriel Seniawsky was never the same man.

Peter’s mother, Eva, had come to America with her husband and had given birth to his four children. She stood by him in good times and bad, but when her husband began to drown his depression in alcohol, the marriage became strained. As a teenager, Peter escaped his parents’ unsettling relationship by going on hiking and camping trips whenever there was an opportunity. Whether it was an overnight sleep-out close to home or a weekend outing with his Boy Scout troop, Peter loved to be outdoors.

Sometimes the scouts would visit the highland forests in New York State. Here, young Peter and his friends would hike for hours along the mountain ridges of the Appalachian Trail. He loved the woods, the mountains and the lakes. The wilderness also had valuable lessons to teach him and without even being aware of it, Peter learned skills that would one day prove crucial.

Peter’s older sisters, Alice, Vera and Margaret, were already
married, and Peter was sixteen years old when their parents separated. Peter quit school and got a job to help support his mother. A little more than a year later Eva Seniawsky died.

Margaret, the youngest sister, was married to a New York City fireman named Thomas Bile, and the couple asked Peter to come live with them in Brooklyn. By the time he turned eighteen, Peter had a good job in Brooklyn, was paying a little rent to the Biles and had saved enough money to buy a used motorcycle.

Helen Stagniunas had striking good looks, and she was smart. Peter was attracted to her the first time they met. He thought she was the prettiest girl in Brooklyn. He also thought she was a little spoiled. Helen was the daughter of a tailor and the youngest of four girls. When she first met Peter at a friend’s party, Helen played it cool, although she was immediately taken with him. He was tall and had that rugged outdoor look about him. Peter Seniawsky just looked like a guy who could take care of himself, and Helen reasoned he could also take care of any girl he really cared about. When she ran into him again during a not-so-chance meeting, she accepted his request for a date.

As they dated through the summer of 1941, Helen came to understand something else about Peter. There was a restlessness inside him—not just a desire, but an actual need to test what he was made of. Once discovered, this part of Peter’s personality both excited and scared Helen. She was developing serious feelings for Peter and wanted to know that he was going to be around.

One night, as he walked Helen to her door, he reluctantly told her of a big decision he had made. He and a friend were going to take a tour of the western United States and perhaps Mexico—on a motorcycle.

“A motorcycle?”

“Yeah, I’m going to buy one,” Peter told her.

“And tour the country?” Helen frowned.

“Well, yeah . . . I . . .”

“Peter Seniawsky, if you buy a motorcycle, then you can forget about seeing me!” Tears glistened in Helen’s eyes.

Peter hesitated. God, she was pretty, but he would only be nineteen once, and if he did not go now, he never would. He went on to explain how much he cared for her, but the trip would last no more than a couple of months. He was not leaving for good. It was just something he needed to do. Helen had stopped listening. It would be several weeks before he and his friend would be prepared to leave, so he and Helen could still see each other. She did not think that was a good idea. They kissed goodbye and parted that night, not with anger but with regret.

Peter got a great deal on a Harley-Davidson that needed some repairs and soon he had it running like new. He took a solo trip on the Harley to Philadelphia as a shakedown cruise. By the first week of December, Peter and his traveling pal had stockpiled enough cash and even mapped out their western tour route, day by day. Everything was ready. They decided to leave in the early spring of 1942 once the weather turned warmer. On December 7, their plans changed.

Peter walked down to the local Army recruiting office and, catching his reflection in the glass door, he stopped and removed his glasses. As he entered he resolved to demand duty in the armored corps, thinking that he might still get the chance to drive a motorcycle. Less than a half hour later, he was back standing on the sidewalk in front of the recruiting station.

“Sorry, son. Your eyes aren’t up to par,” the recruiting sergeant had told him. It was a free pass, one many men would have gladly taken. But Peter did not want it and, in fact, was determined not to accept it. There had to be a way.

About two months after his rejection by the Army, Peter noticed an article in the newspaper that said the vision standards
had been lowered. He was back at the recruiting office the next day. This time he passed the eye test, just barely.

“I want to get into the armored corps. I want to drive a motorcycle,” Peter told the sergeant in charge.

“No problem,” the sergeant responded. “Just sign right here.” If Peter had said, “I want to be a general,” there is little doubt the recruiting sergeant’s reply would have been any different.

The Army sent Peter first to Long Island for more testing, where they informed him that he had an aptitude for things mechanical. Next it was off to an Army base in Mississippi, where he breezed through the courses of the Army Air Corps Mechanics School. Upon graduation, he was enthusiastically looking forward to at least being part of a combat aircraft ground crew, servicing the fighters and bombers that would strike Germany and Japan. Where he ended up was Clovis, New Mexico.

On an especially hot morning, Peter walked into his commanding officer’s hut, determined to demand reassignment to some kind of frontline unit. Removing his cap, Peter watched as sand fell out of it. The tiny grains bouncing across the floor only strengthened his resolve.

“Sir, I’ve . . .”

The officer looked up from his desk and interrupted his chief mechanic. “Peter, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to pick out fourteen men from your company. They will be reassigned.”

“Reassigned?” Peter asked.

“Yes, I’ve got to provide fourteen men for gunnery school.”

“What kind of gunnery school?” Peter wanted to know.

“Fifty-caliber machine guns, I believe,” the officer said.

“Fifty caliber. You’re talking about bomber gunners, right?”

“I would think so.”

“How about putting my name down on that list,” Peter said.

The officer looked the sergeant in the eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Peter, you wear glasses! I can’t . . .”

Peter removed his glasses and shoved them into his pocket. “They don’t know that at the gunnery school, sir.”

The officer smiled. He certainly owed this young sergeant more than a favor or two. He had taken a group comprised mostly of slackers and underachievers, and he had kept them on the job and mostly out of trouble.

“You really want to go, Peter?”

“Yeah, I do.”

His commanding officer wrote “Peter Seniawsky” at the top of the reassignment list. Peter did not even ask where the gunnery school was located. It had to be better than the desert.

The sergeant and thirteen other enlisted men were soon on their way to Utah. When their airplane landed at an air base that had been constructed on the edge of the Great Salt Flats, Peter began to wonder if the locale
was
any better than Clovis.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said to himself. “I’m going to be a bomber gunner. In a few months, I’ll be overseas.”

The former mechanics were all pleasantly surprised when they were informed that their gunnery school was miles from the air base. It was located high in the majestic Rocky Mountains, which bordered the salt flats. For the next few weeks Peter had a wonderful time. He learned everything there was to know about the .50 caliber machine gun—how to take it apart and put it back together, even blindfolded. And if the actual target practice was not that realistic, at least it was interesting.

The new gunners assumed they would be driven down to the air base, deposited on a B-17 and allowed to acquire some in-flight gunnery experience. During their first two weeks of training, what they got was a thrilling ride aboard an open mining car. The little car was equipped with a .30 caliber machine gun and rolled—or more accurately, careened—along a narrow-gauge
track. On the descent, the occupant tried to hit targets, at least when he was not holding on for his life. After a few bumpy rides, Peter figured out it was impossible to hit the target under such conditions, except by pure luck.

What Peter enjoyed most was taking solitary hikes through the Rocky Mountain forests. On his day off, he would pack a couple of sandwiches and not return until after sunset. He imagined how the legendary nineteenth-century mountain men must have felt. That was not a bad life, he decided.

During his last few days at gunnery school, Peter and the other trainees were finally given the opportunity for some actual in-flight target practice. Flying in a B-17, the men were to each have a burst or two at a target sleeve pulled by a second airplane. He watched with anticipation as the first man was unable to score a hit.
I can do better than that,
Peter thought and wiggled his fingers in preparation for his turn.

The second man to shoot began to blast away at the target, and to everyone’s amazement the sleeve went down like a rock. The irritated instructor informed the jubilant marksman that although he had missed the target sleeve completely, he had managed to hit the tow cable. The sleeve was gone and so was Peter’s first and last chance at air-to-air shooting practice. The first time he would fire a .50 caliber in the air, he would be heading to Germany on his first combat mission.

During his first week at gunnery school, Peter had taken great care to conceal his vision problem. However, he found it necessary to wear his glasses when he was first ordered to strip down the .50 caliber weapon and then reassemble it. He waited nervously for the instructor’s negative reaction, but it never came. After that, Peter freely wore the glasses whenever he needed to. No one ever said anything about his glasses at the gunnery school, but Peter knew at his next assignment, it could be a very different story.

With gunnery school nearly finished, he would soon be headed to Washington State to join his bomber crew. These guys would be putting their lives in each other’s hands, and they might not be so accepting of a gunner who wore thick glasses. He knew he could do the job, but he decided, “Why rock the boat?” Before he left gunnery school, he sent his official aviator sunshades home to his sister Margaret, with instructions to have prescription shaded lenses inserted. Those shades would help Peter hide his little secret until he got to know his new crewmates.