Signs were everywhere. The RAF had a single word to cover all those conditions: cowardice. LMF was the euphemism."
"Sounds draconian."
"It was. They thought LMF was contagious. The 'infected man' was swiftly marched away to quarantine, then humiliated, vilified, and drummed out of Bomber Command. Demoted, he was sent to the army, the navy, or down the mines. 'LMF' was stamped on his file to plague him the rest of his life. His flying badge got forfeited. In the case of De Count, that was ironic."
"Why?" asked Lenny.
"The air gunner's brevet had the letters 'AG' to the left of a single wing with twelve feathers. Originally, there were thirteen, but that could bring bad luck. To quell superstition, the brass clipped a feather off with nail scissors."
"But the jinx got De Count anyway?"
"Bingo," Sweaty said.
"Why such harsh treatment?"
"As a deterrent. The strain affected all of us to varying degrees. If there'd been a way to leave ops with honor, a lot of men would've bailed out. Instead, they kept on flying until their number came up. God knows how many planes went down because men who were afraid of the LMF stigma continued to fly when they shouldn't have."
"Do you know what broke De Count?"
"Probably. Another crew in the squadron came home from a shaky do. The Achilles heel of a British bomber was its under-belly. A Halifax had no ventral turret. Not only did flak batteries blast up from below, but Nazi night fighters were armed with upward-slanting cannons to give us a kick in the gut.
"The plane that ran into trouble took a double hit. A night fighter blew the balls off its mid-upper gunner. The castrated man dropped from his turret with both hands between his legs.
He ran around, jumping up and down, screaming, 'I've been hit!' Then flak tore a leg off the bomb-aimer. The wireless operator spent the next two hours lying in a pool of blood in the frigid nose cone, trying to keep a tourniquet cinched around the injured man's stump. The bombardier was thrashing about in pain and had to be subdued, so the radioman kept knocking him out with punches from his fist.
"When the stricken bomber landed, we were out at the pan.
Every man knew that could be him—castrated or legless—on the next op. De Count was shaking. His face blanched white."
"Stress with a capital S!" said Lenny.
Sweaty winced. "I should have seen it coming. One day, about a week before De Count cracked, they lined us up in the crew room for important news. Her Majesty was on her way to pay us a visit. We were told in no uncertain terms how to behave. When she offered us her hand, we were to say nothing more than 'How do you do, ma'am.' Hours later, the queen arrived at the air station. When she offered De Count her hand, he was overcome. Grasping her palm in both of his, he wouldn't let go. He kept saying, 'I'm so pleased to meet Your Majesty. . . .So pleased. . . .So pleased . . . So pleased . . .' That breached every rule in the book, but the queen was gracious.
All she did was put her other hand on top of his and say, 'No more pleased than I am to meet you, Sergeant, I assure you.'
"I thought De Count was going to cry.
"Shortly after, he went to the wingco and refused to fly."
"LMF," said Lenny.
Sweaty nodded. "The poor bastard. What a dirty label. How many guys found ways to avoid risking their lives for their country? Cowards who spent the war behind a desk? De Count stepped up to the plate and took it for as long as he could. The guy volunteered for dangerous duty, then suffered disgrace."
"So you got my granddad?"
"Trent was an 'odd bod,' a spare gunner attached to no particular crew. Having lost his own plane in a crash over the North Sea—he bailed out through the rear hatch just in time—he tagged onto any crew short of a gunner."
"What was he like?"
"As a marksman? We took him up for an air test before that fatal flight. Ack-Ack gave him a thumbs-up on how he handled the turrets and the guns. Jonesy exemplified the air
"Sounds draconian."
"It was. They thought LMF was contagious. The 'infected man' was swiftly marched away to quarantine, then humiliated, vilified, and drummed out of Bomber Command. Demoted, he was sent to the army, the navy, or down the mines. 'LMF' was stamped on his file to plague him the rest of his life. His flying badge got forfeited. In the case of De Count, that was ironic."
"Why?" asked Lenny.
"The air gunner's brevet had the letters 'AG' to the left of a single wing with twelve feathers. Originally, there were thirteen, but that could bring bad luck. To quell superstition, the brass clipped a feather off with nail scissors."
"But the jinx got De Count anyway?"
"Bingo," Sweaty said.
"Why such harsh treatment?"
"As a deterrent. The strain affected all of us to varying degrees. If there'd been a way to leave ops with honor, a lot of men would've bailed out. Instead, they kept on flying until their number came up. God knows how many planes went down because men who were afraid of the LMF stigma continued to fly when they shouldn't have."
"Do you know what broke De Count?"
"Probably. Another crew in the squadron came home from a shaky do. The Achilles heel of a British bomber was its under-belly. A Halifax had no ventral turret. Not only did flak batteries blast up from below, but Nazi night fighters were armed with upward-slanting cannons to give us a kick in the gut.
"The plane that ran into trouble took a double hit. A night fighter blew the balls off its mid-upper gunner. The castrated man dropped from his turret with both hands between his legs.
He ran around, jumping up and down, screaming, 'I've been hit!' Then flak tore a leg off the bomb-aimer. The wireless operator spent the next two hours lying in a pool of blood in the frigid nose cone, trying to keep a tourniquet cinched around the injured man's stump. The bombardier was thrashing about in pain and had to be subdued, so the radioman kept knocking him out with punches from his fist.
"When the stricken bomber landed, we were out at the pan.
Every man knew that could be him—castrated or legless—on the next op. De Count was shaking. His face blanched white."
"Stress with a capital S!" said Lenny.
Sweaty winced. "I should have seen it coming. One day, about a week before De Count cracked, they lined us up in the crew room for important news. Her Majesty was on her way to pay us a visit. We were told in no uncertain terms how to behave. When she offered us her hand, we were to say nothing more than 'How do you do, ma'am.' Hours later, the queen arrived at the air station. When she offered De Count her hand, he was overcome. Grasping her palm in both of his, he wouldn't let go. He kept saying, 'I'm so pleased to meet Your Majesty. . . .So pleased. . . .So pleased . . . So pleased . . .' That breached every rule in the book, but the queen was gracious.
All she did was put her other hand on top of his and say, 'No more pleased than I am to meet you, Sergeant, I assure you.'
"I thought De Count was going to cry.
"Shortly after, he went to the wingco and refused to fly."
"LMF," said Lenny.
Sweaty nodded. "The poor bastard. What a dirty label. How many guys found ways to avoid risking their lives for their country? Cowards who spent the war behind a desk? De Count stepped up to the plate and took it for as long as he could. The guy volunteered for dangerous duty, then suffered disgrace."
"So you got my granddad?"
"Trent was an 'odd bod,' a spare gunner attached to no particular crew. Having lost his own plane in a crash over the North Sea—he bailed out through the rear hatch just in time—he tagged onto any crew short of a gunner."
"What was he like?"
"As a marksman? We took him up for an air test before that fatal flight. Ack-Ack gave him a thumbs-up on how he handled the turrets and the guns. Jonesy exemplified the air
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