daughters of d-day:

S/Sgt. Clifford Bates, 386th Bomb Group 554th Bomb Squadron, Tail Gunner,“Privy Donna”

18 February 1918 - 9 November 1990

I have a photograph of my father, Cliff Bates, and other young airmen of the 386th BG taken during a medal ceremony in 1943. An officer, Lt. Col. Sanders, is pinning the Distinguished Flying Cross on my father who is standing at attention, staring straight ahead, his mouth slightly open. He liked to tell me and my brothers that he was saying “ouch” because he had been stuck by the pin of the medal. The back of the photograph tells another story, where my father scrawled the following: “Notice my big fat mouth is open as usual.”

Such was the tenor of my father’s war stories. He preferred to talk about the humorous side of life in the USAAF during the Second World War. The son of English immigrants from Lancashire, my father loved being stationed in England. He told many stories about the warmth and generosity of the folks he encountered, particularly those whom he met in the local pubs. Apparently, he rarely paid for his first pint as soon as the locals found out that his family was from Blackburn, and the good whiskey, kept hidden from view, generally found its way into a glass in front of  him. Some of his crewmates and others in his squadron would try to get free drinks and good whiskey by using my father’s story. “It worked for some of the guys,” my father recalled, “but most of them could not keep up the bluff under close scrutiny -- especially the guys from Texas!”

One of my favorite stories revolves around the RAF/USAAF boxing matches that were held on a regular basis. One week, a flyer announced that an RAF boxer of some renown  named Bates would be in the ring against a US airman. My father told everyone in his squadron that the RAF boxer was his cousin. When they arrived at the match, my father’s buddies went wild when Bates entered the ring -- he was a tall, muscular black Bahamian. My father -- blue-eyed and red-headed -- kept a straight face and kept the ruse going, telling everyone that this was indeed his cousin. For the rest of the war, he never changed his story and insisted that the RAF boxer was his relative.

He only ever told us two battle stories, and even these have a humorous side. The first was about the day he was wounded by shrapnel. “When I was hit, a yelled out, and Joe Hough, our Radioman, came to my assistance. I was lucky that day -- our Flight Surgeon, Michael Mikita, was on board to bind my wound and give me a transfusion. Joe Hough was also lucky that day. Moments after he left his position to come help me, a barrage of flak pierced the hull and riddled his radio full of holes -- he always said he was glad I got wounded because he probably would have been killed.”

The second, often told story was about the only times he ever thought that he would die. “Whenever the Polish Free Air Force flew cover, some of the fighters would barrel-role through the formation to get to the Germans first. More times than I care to remember, they came awfully close to the tail of my plane. I always thought it would be just my luck to die at the hands of an Ally!”

My father flew 75 missions in the ETO, receiving the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Heart, and the Air Medal with 13 OLC’s. He was always very humble about these awards, saying that he only did what every other American airman or serviceman did during the war -- his duty, “nothing less, nothing more.” I think he would be embarrassed if he knew that I have read the General Order that describes the actions that earned him the DFC:

Staff Sergeant Clifford Bates, 31139812, Air Corps, United States Army is cited for extraordinary achivement (sic) while serving as an Armorer-Gunner on a B-26 airplane on twenty-five bombardment missions over enemy occupied continental Europe. Sergeant Bates displayed courage and laudable coolness under fire while fighting from his gun position. His skill and dexterity succeeded in warding off the attacks of enemy fighter planes and thus aided materially in the success of the missions. Sergeant Bate’s (sic) conduct under these hazardous conditions, exemplify the highest traditions of the Army Air Force.

                                                      General Order No. 69, 8 December 1943

This man of courage and laudable coolness always said that he hoped he never killed any one. This man was my father and I am proud to be his daughter.

Clifford Bates was born in New Bedford, MA on 18 February 1918, the ninth of Albert and Elizabeth Bates’ ten children. Like most of his Depression-era cohorts, he left school to go to work in the cotton mills. He was working at Goodyear Fabric Corporation, making barrage balloons, when he was drafted in 1942. He trained at Tyndall Field, FL, MacDill Field, FL, and Lake Charles, LA, before shipping out to England. He was stationed at Great Dunmow, Boxted, Beaumont-sur-Oise, France, and St. Trond, Belgium, before returning stateside. He went back to work at Goodyear, married the girl next door, and raised four children. In 1970, he flew in a passenger jet for the first time. “Ooo-wee, smoo-ooth! It lands so much better than a B-26!”