FLYING THE PLANE --- by Charles Potter

The B-17 was built by Boeing, Lockheed and Douglas Aircraft companies. After ten minutes of flying you could tell which company built the airplane. The Boeing plane was the best flying aircraft and was used as the lead airplane on missions. Lockheed was second and then the Douglas aircraft was used for "Tail-End Charlie".

While flying in the summer time we in the cockpit wore a flight suit and an A2 jacket as we had heaters that worked. The other crew members wore an electric suit along with a flight suit and the A2 jacket. In the winter time we wore long johns, flight suit, a parker-type jacket and heavy pants with wool lined boots. We all had flak jackets and steel helmets that we put on as we neared the flak zone. The pilot and co-pilot put the apron part of the flight jacket under our seat cushion to protect from any flak coming up from below.

The average mission was from seven to ten hours. Mainly the bombing altitude was around 30,000 feet. We had K-Rations, some contained breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage and some lunch with other kinds of food. The crew in the cockpit kept our lunches warm by placing them on the electric motors that were under our seats. Our rations in the mess hall was high calorie, low gas food, even then we were glad to be on oxygen at high altitude. On these rations I gained about 25 pounds over a period of six months. Lots of this weight was upper body strength as the airplane did not have any power assist flight controls. We carried some water but very seldom drank any, as we did not want to use the relief tubes. None of the crew smoked.

Our flight procedures as we went to 10,000 feet the co-pilot said" put on your oxygen masks", and he made a position check every 15 minutes while we were above 10,000 feet to make sure all crew members were okay. We had the normal intercom chatter until we reached the land mass after crossing the sea. The only talk then was "P-38s overhead -- P-38s leaving --P-51s taking their place" and if another airplane was shot down -- "how many parachutes did you see getting out of that airplane?"

When we were attacked by enemy fighters we wanted to know what their position was, what are the P-51 escort doing. It was an unwritten rule that if any fighter that kept his nose pointed at us within a firing range was fired on. Our main fighter opposition was Me-109s and Fw-190s. As we went into Germany we had to contend with Goring's "Yellow Noses" that were the best of the best. They flew Me-109s.

Morale was high. We knew we were doing our best to destroy the monster that Hitler had created.

RALPH F. BATES

BRIEF BIO:

Ralph Bates was born on February 9, 1922 in Binghamton, NY. When he was just 20 years old (Octo0er 1942), still in Binghamton, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps. He took Primary Flight Training in Helena, AK, Basic at Walnut Ridge, AK, and Advanced in Stuttgart, AK. His major World War II operations were in the European theater (Med), with the 817th Bomb Squadron, 483rd Bomb Group, 5th Wing, 15th Air Force, over the period October 1944 through July 1945. During that time he flew 24 combat missions, as an aircraft commander, and was awarded two air medals, the Purple Heart and the Silver Star, the latter for bringing a badly shot-up B-17 down safely at Opole, Poland, on March 22, 1945.

Ralph was first released from active duty, as a 1stLt, in 1945. He went back to school and seminary and was ordained a minister in April 1953. He then went back on active duty as a chaplain at Scott AFB, IL; Parks AFB, CA; Pepperrel AFB, Newfoundland; and Forbes AFB, KS; retiring as a Major in July 1963. In January 1964 he again went back on active duty but this time as an enlisted man, an Airman 1st Class Medic. He survived a tour in Vietnam, 1967-68, and chose a tour at Rhein/Main AFB, Germany, with his family, and finally left active duty for good, as a T/Sgt, in July 1972.

Ralph was married to Ruthie (see her story below) in March 1942, in Binghamton, NY. They have two children, Philip and Laura.

HIS STORY:

The crew assembled at Lincoln, NE, and was sent to the Army Air Base at Sioux City, IA, 11 July 1944. During the 10 weeks of intensive combat training Fischer was assigned to the crew and Jacobs, McCauley and Hausfeld joined as replacements for men who were transferred.

After completion of training they retired to the staging area at Lincoln and were issued combat clothing and equipment, then were assigned a new B-17 for the flight overseas. Their first stop was the aerial port of embarkation at Manchester, NH, on 16 October 1944. Other stops were made at Gander, Newfoundland; the Azores; Marrakech, French Morocco; Tunis, Tunisia and Grota, Italy.

They arrived at Sterparone in late October and began flying combat missions about I November 1944, Their targets included Vienna, Innsbruck, Linz, Salzburg, Odertal and Regensburg. The crew, with replacements Thaen and Brennan, was MIA on a mission to Ruhland, Germany 22 March 1945. Flying in B-17 44-6538, Miss Prissy, they experienced accurate, deadly flak, and even before the shells stopped coming ME-262s swept down upon them, concentrating on the 817th Squadron. Their plane, one of four in the squadron to go down, suffered numerous hits, with large fires resulting in the right wing and smaller fires in the left wing. Number 4 engine was feathered but Number 3 engine would not feather, leaving the blades flat against the wind.

It was obvious to those in the back of the plane that they were going down. McCauley, Thaen, Brennan, Piersall and Pickard bailed out and were captured. McCauley, who was wounded, remembers the events this way: "I remember the free fall, it was like lying on a cloud, quiet and peaceful, like we could imagine heaven, When the chute opened it was just the opposite - it was like being in the bowels of hell. The shock of the battle was wearing off and the burning and pain from my wounds was taking over. I remember also that I couldn't breathe - first because of the high altitude, which eventually took care of itself, and secondly because of the shrapnel that pierced my lung and made a hole in my chest when the shrapnel came out. I solved this problem by pressing my hand over the wound.

"There were 15 to 20 American and German fighters in a dog fight around me. I could hear the machine guns as they came in and out of my area. It was just like it came out of a Hollywood movie. I landed in some trees, positioned myself under them and started to patch myself up. The Germans had sent a five-man pickup crew after me. I heard them using their horns, whistles and bells as they encircled. I turned my back to the closest German and made sure if I was going to get shot he would have to shoot me in the back. A voice said 'Hands up! Pistole,' and at that moment I became a prisoner of war of the Third Reich.

"The Germans who picked me up paraded me through a small village, where the people, mostly women, children and old men, lined up for several blocks waiting for a chance to kick and whack at me. I could see the hatred boiling out of the women's eyes as they spit in my face and tried to scratch my eyes. It was unbelievable.

"'They took me to a first aid station it an air field. Probably the one where the jets came from. Here I was to receive medical attention. Waiting outside the doctor's office I thought, 'If only I could sit down for just a few minutes I would be okay.' Slowly I started to slump against the wall when a German major came along, picked me up, and whacked me around. Later one of the airmen who was in our wing told me that after the war he reported the major. The doctor who was supposed to treat me refused and said that he would not take care of me. He went on raving about 'why we bomb his schools -- hospitals - churches - women and children?' I replied, 'We only did precision bombing of military targets.'

"The Germans drove me and two other wounded airmen, captured at the same time, into the city we had just bombed, and took us to a field hospital which was an old school convened to take care of injured and wounded. In the middle of the night there was a great rumpus near our cots. After the guards got it all under control, we found out that some of the injured, which we had bombed that day, had picked up sonic knives and were about to eliminate us. They moved us to a small private room with a guard at the door.

"The next morning our planes came back about 11 a.m. to finish the job on Ruhland. The air raids alarms sounded. The entire hospital was evacuated to the air raid shelter except the three of us Americans and a terrified guard. We were placed by a window and ordered to watch the bombing. I can't begin to describe what it is like to be on the ground in an air raid. I can only say it was awesome. Bombs were scattered from one end of the city to the other. The old doctor was right - when we bombed we hit everything. After the all-clear, the wounded and injured came drifting into our hospital so they hustled the three of us out, put us on a boxcar and sent us to a POW hospital. I was there about eight weeks."

Brennan was also wounded. He joined the 483rd at MacDill Field on 6 December 1943 and was at that time an airplane armorer. After arriving at Sterparone he qualified as a toggler and begun flying combat missions.

Thaen was originally with the 8th Air Force and flew two missions from England. When the 8th Air Force decided to fly eight or nine men to a crew instead of 10, Thaen was sent to a casual pool along with hundreds of aerial gunners. From the casual pool he was sent to the 15th Air Force 24 September 1944 and eventually to the 483rd Bomb Group. All contemporary records list his name as "Lee K. Thaen". However, his legal name is and was, from the time of birth, "Thaen Kwock Lee". Thaen, who exchanged places at the last minute with Pickard, who had hurt his knee playing football, was in the tail. He also had some recollections:

"I thought I was the only person on board, so I jumped. Three fighters came after me. The first one missed and the second also missed. When the third one came by I was too low for him to shoot at me. When I hit the ground a burst of machine gun was fired at me. I hit the dirt fast. Then German soldiers came and drove me on a motorcycle to a building. On the way we passed a row of dead American airmen, about 12 of them covered with blood soaked parachutes. I knew they were shot dead on the way down. When we reached the building I saw our radio operator (McCauley) who was wounded and hurt bad. The Germans still made him stand up.

"After arriving at Stalag Luft 1, I was interrogated three or four times a week. Among the many questions I refused to answer -- he said, 'Are you Chinese?' I said, 'Yes, but I am an American citizen.' The interrogator said, 'I think you are a spy. Where is your air base?' After giving him my name, rank and serial number, he said, 'We do shoot spies, now where are you from?' I did not say anything. Then he called a couple of soldiers over and told me they were going to take me to the firing squad. After we marched six or eight minutes a German soldier came running toward us and said something to the two soldiers. Then one of them said, 'You are very lucky. The captain changed his mind.' Then they took me back to the compound and never called me again."

Those up front were also ready to bail out, and Kallock left his position more than once. Then one of many miracles that day occurred. The fires began to subside and soon went out! Heading east, Bates and Kallock realized they had a chance to get beyond the front lines and evade capture.

With Numbers 1 and 2 engines providing power and Number 3 running on about four cylinders, they managed to hold altitude at about 5,000 feet. Enemy fighters were seen but did not attack and no enemy fire came up from the front lines. It had been more than an hour since they were hit over Ruhland and now they were over Russian-occupied Poland!
They spotted an airfield and fired a green flare. Another green flare came up from the field. Preparing to land they discovered the right landing gear would not go down. Brewer had just enough time to crank the gear down manually . Flaps were lowered but due to the extreme fire damage the right wing flap fell off! The plane lurched to the right while Bates and Kallock made a desperate attempt to gain control. They hit the runway hard on the wheel that had just been lowered. There was just enough hydraulic fluid left to use the brakes one last time.

Now safely on the ground, Ralph Bates describes the events that followed:
"When we finally rolled to a stop, we were soaked with sweat, and completely limp. All we could do was lift our hands in thanks to God. We hurried out to see the damage, noticing Russian soldiers approaching. We took that wonderful first step on solid earth and were thankful. We couldn't believe our craft could fly. Why, all five of us could stand in the place where there was once part of the left wing. And that hole wasn't half as big as that in the right wing! Further inspection revealed 13 fires in the right wing and two in the left. All main spars in the right wing were riddled with shrapnel. Both mags were shot out on Number 4 engine. On Number 3 one mag was shot out and all but four spark plugs were hit.

"The name Ruhland will always remind us how near we came to giving it all for our country."

Hausfeld, assigned to guard duty, was not on the loading list for 22 March 1945. He had been replaced by Brennan, It was a lonely time in the tent that night for Hausfeld. As fate would have it, he too would have a change of address. When he was flying with John P. Dailey on the mission to Berlin just two days later, ME262s appeared again and the Dailey plane suffered hits that eventually led to the crew bailing out. Hausfeld was captured and taken to Stendal, Germany. Thaen, Piersall. Brennan and Pickard were there to greet him. They were all, to say the least, delightfully surprised.

Hausfeld recalls being in Francis Gabreski's compound as a POW. He never had a bed, sleeping on the floor. The five members of the crew that landed at Opole, Poland, returned to Sterparone 2 May 1945, the day after the base had been declared non-operational. Their route back included stops at Teheran, Cairo, Athens and Foggia. Kallock, Fisher and Brewer remained with the group at Pisa as part of the Homebound Airlines. They flew home in September 1945 as part of the Richard C. Schildmeyer crew. Schildmeyer joined the 483rd after VE-Day, having flown his combat missions with the 99th Bomb Group.

Bates and Jacobs were sent to the 301st Bomb Group 4 June 1945 and were soon on their way home. Bates learned at the 301st base that he had been awarded the Silver Star but it was never ceremoniously awarded. Donald E. Goodbye (817th navigator) named Miss Prissy for his daughter, who is now Priscilla Miller of Hazelwood, MO.

Some of those captured, including Brennan, thought for many years the entire crew bailed out when they did. Only while attending the 483rd reunion at Dayton did they learn other wise. Brennan provided the following information: "You were right when you said those members of the crew who bailed out did not know what happened to the rest of the crew until many years later. I was convinced the plane exploded after I exited the plane. The right wing was on fire and all hell was breaking loose. It was it jolting but pleasant surprise to hear the other crew members had survived. Until that moment I was under the impression the plane went down with the other members of the crew."

Ralph Bates has served the Association as chaplain.
Addendum: A letter written 13 November 1996 to Don Erickson (816th) from Michal Mucha, Poznan, Poland, indicates Miss Prissy was repaired by the Soviets and flew with Soviet long-range aviation. It carried red stars on the fuselage and wings.

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ROBERT COTTERELL

BRIEF BIO:

Bob Cotterell was born on June 21, 1917 in Algonia, IA,. When he was just 20 years old he enlisted in the Army Air Corps, at Scott Field, IL. He took Basic Flight Training at Lemoore, CA, Advanced Training in Douglas, AZ, and B-17 Transitional Training in Alexandria, VA. His major theater of wartime operations was in Europe (ETO), with the 749th Bomb Squadron, 457th Bomb Group, 94th Combat Wing, 1st Air Division, based at Glatton, near Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, from April 1944 to June 1945. He had just four (4) combat missions under his belt when he was shot down, and spent the rest of the war as a guest of the Third Reich (POW).

Bob managed to accumulate an Air Medal and a Purple Heart and the rank of Major, and was released from active duty in January 1947 at Sacramento, CA. He retired from the USAF Reserves on June 21, 1977 at Los Angeles, CA, still a major. He was married in Los Angeles on June 30, 1950, and he and his wife Pat have two children, Bob and Frances.

HIS STORY:

At the IP (Initial Point) the flak became heavy as the bomb line made their final turn toward the target. From this point on bombers must fly straight and level. On this day German flak gunners put up a "box barrage" in front of us, a favorite ploy to force the bombers to fly through an area filled with smoke and bursting antiaircraft shells. Not a happy chore as the smell of gun powder from the exploding flak combined with the oxygen and air in my demand mask, a sort of 4th of July kind of scent. Hail rattled on the airframe as we passed through large puffs of black smoke that hung everywhere in the air about us and at long last the bomb bay doors are opened.

At this moment, with radio silence no longer in effect, my earphones came to life as our Thunderbolt escort called, "Vinegrove 1, from Red 3". At my reply he asked to meet us on the other side of the target. Understanding his reluctance to make an unnecessary trip (for him) through a heavy barrage of antiaircraft fire I followed precedent, acknowledged the transmission and began to scan the instruments for possible engine problems caused by stray flak fragments. All appeared normal.

As I watched the instruments, sudden explosions ripped the cockpit! The intercooler controls in front of my right knee burst apart knocking my foot and leg back under the seat. Someone hit my right arm with a baseball bat and my earphones went dead. Looking up, through a now fractured windshield, I saw a "gaggle" of 40 to 60 enemy fighters coming through the smoke and haze at 12 o'clock high (directly in front of us but slightly higher). Their tactic must have been to call their antiaircraft gunners and have them cease fire just before the fighters entered the barrage area to get at the bombers during those final vulnerable moments before the bombs were released.

We, and our fighter cover, hadn't spotted them in the distant smoke and haze. Remember, nose to nose the closure rate between the fighters and bombers is in the neighborhood of 600 to 700 hundred miles per hour at our altitude. Under these conditions fighters, vectored to the approaching bomber formation by radar and ground control, arrive so rapidly that sighting them is an extremely difficult task on a hazy day. Time does not allow much discussion before they engage the formation and are gone!

There, immediately in front of Delayed Lady, a Me-109 hung poised on its back with wing guns blinking and three smoke rings visible in front of its propeller spinner! Those smoke rings were the result of a 20mm cannon firing through the center of the 109s propeller spinner. A strange phenomenon since he had to be doing over 400 hundred miles an hour! Delayed Lady shuddered under the impact of his fire and the recoil of her own 50 caliber weapons.

As I watched, unable to do anything worthwhile, the fighter exploded in a burst of smoke and flame directly in front of us. Split seconds later we flew through the area of the blast. Time seemed to stand still and things took on an almost etched still-picture effect. Looking out at the number 3 and 4 engines on my right, I found myself staring face to face at a pilot in a Focke-Wulf 190 as he passed just 30 to 50 feet off our right wing tip. I swear that we made eye contact for a split second and then he was gone.

Surveying the cockpit area it was obvious that Delayed Lady had been severely damaged. I could see number three engine had suffered a direct hit in the nose case and was throwing out gobs of oil with each revolution of the propeller. The instrument panel told me that the oil covered engine was dead and superchargers on engines one, two and four were inoperative, severely limiting the power available at this altitude.

It was immediately apparent that the throttle control cables had been severed forward of the control pedestal and were now locked in their spring loaded pre-set maximum-cruise position out in the engine nacelles. This provided us only 12 to 14 inches of manifold pressure on each of the three engines. We now had no direct engine control other than ignition switches and fuel shut-off valves and they may not be operable. Also the breathing oxygen monitors indicated that the system is inoperative and providing no oxygen to the 5 crew members forward of the bomb bay!

Radio wires to my helmet earphones and mike have been shot off between my head and right shoulder. Close, but no cigar. There is no feeling in my right leg from the knee down and my right forearm had been struck by what were later found to be 20mm fragments, one of which lodged in my elbow and remains there to this day. The control console and the forward side of the instrument panel had suffered major damage. A great hole had appeared in the fuselage to my right, stretching from the right of the intercooler controls to just aft of my seat. It was about three feet long and some twelve to fourteen inches high.

Fortunately for us Delayed Lady had just undergone a series of modifications, one of which placed armor plate in front of the instrument panel. This was to combat the Luftwaffe's tactic of attacking bombers from the 12 o'clock high position. Most of the incoming fire was deflected by that installation. As it was, my flak jacket looked like moths had ravaged it, the result of the fragments from the exploding 20mm shells that were not stopped.

Down in the nose section the bombardier had not been hit but the navigator had taken a fragment in his shoulder. Peering down and forward I could see that the whole Plexiglass nose was gone, along with the gun sight for the twin 50s in the chin turret. The bombardier appeared to be firing those guns by eyeball, "guess and by golly", just inches short of a very long drop out front. Maps and other debris, driven by the torrent of air coming through the open nose, littered the area. Shambles!

First things first. Dee was waiving the end of his disconnected oxygen mask feeder hose at me. Nodding my head I pulled my leg out from under the seat. It looked ok, with only small holes in the trouser leg and some blood. It appeared useable so, raising it, I stamped on the floor of the cockpit. Solid! No broken bones, so on to the most pressing problem, the need for oxygen at 26,500 feet! Behind me, but out of reach on the deck at the base of the forward gun turret, were a number of walk-around oxygen bottles. Each was capable of sustaining a man for 5 or 15 minutes. Guess what, we did have an emergency!

Having no intercom communication capability I reached back with my left hand and struck the top turret gunner on his buttocks to get his attention. He rotated his turret, looked at my empty mask hose, unbuckled, sat down on the turret base and, still looking at me, passed out with emergency oxygen bottles rolling about his ankles! Obviously he had been active with no oxygen for too long. Although we had dropped out of formation and were now descending, we were still much too high for normal physical activity without oxygen. Time was running out.

Unbuckling my seat harness, I tried to get up, only to fall back into my seat, held back by my flak jacket. Pulling its quick release ribbon I stood up, banged my head on the roof, leaned over and fell back into the gunners lap -- the quickest way to those bottles of oxygen. With my vision beginning to dim around the edges I reached down, picked up an oxygen bottle and connected it to my mask hose. Thank goodness for the simple easy to use design of the connectors! One or two deep breaths and eureka! Normal vision returned. Grabbing another walk-around bottle (a 15 minute one) I connected it to Dee's mask hose and returned to hook up the gunner.

Shaking him until the light of reason was visible in his eyes, I send him down into the nose with emergency oxygen bottles for the navigator and bombardier, who appeared to be lying inert on the floor. Struggling back into my seat I discovered that Dee had feathered number three engine, stopping it before lack of oil caused it to seize and become a worse problem.

So there we were, on three engines that couldn't give enough power to maintain altitude except down closer to sea level, some 20,000 thousand feet below us. We had no choice but to continue down and away from the bomb line. Dee salvoed our bombs while still headed for the target and as a result our rate of descent slowed somewhat. Delayed Lady was now just that, delayed!

The bombardier, now conscious and on a walk-around oxygen bottle, poked his head into the cockpit and, after a brief consultation, was sent back down to the navigators station to locate a map. In the meantime we took up a westerly heading as we descended, attempting to get on the deck to try to limp home. Unfortunately our quickie course took us directly over the Saar Valley and its huge concentration of antiaircraft guns.

As we continued westward, descending slowly, two fighters appeared high off our right wing headed in our direction! They were quickly identified as Focke-Wulf 190s! Turning toward us they nosed down in the beginning of a "pursuit curve", the standard method for a fighter to attack. I watched, helpless, with no gun to fire and no radio to call for fighter assistance. Suddenly two more fighters appeared, diving behind the 190s. To my relief the configuration of their engine cowl identified them as our own Thunderbolts, P47 Jugs! The 190s saw them too and turned away, running for home. All four promptly disappeared, diving toward some sparse cloud below and to the east, with the Jugs in hot pursuit. Always wondered how that came out.

Almost immediately we began to receive flak, not a lot but what there was was accurate! We were now nearing 18,000 feet, an altitude where flak is much more effective. Dee initiated a series of evasive turns timed to confuse the flak gunners, but as we descended Delayed Lady was bracketed (shell bursts on each side), and received a direct hit in the oil covered number 3 engine nacelle on my right. It immediately burst into flame and smoke began to come out of the wing slots aft of the nacelle, a sign that the firewall behind the engine had been breached and the fuel tanks were in danger. Dee activated the bailout alarm, motioning for me to leave. On my way out of the cockpit I reached under my seat and headed for the forward escape hatch located in the belly just aft of the nose section, the same one I had swung into just a couple of hours ago.

Kneeling and facing forward in the passageway just behind the hatch, I saw the navigator coming toward me from the nose section. Motioning for him to pull the hinge pins to release the hatch located between us, I fumbled to hook up my parachute. The hatch fell free as the bombardier came up behind the navigator, who now seemed to be frozen, staring down and out of the open hatch. Laying my chute aside I helped the navigator out with a shove and waved to Jay, the bombardier, who quickly followed, leaving me to buckle on my chute.

Dee was now standing behind me as I hurried to snap the chute pack to my harness. Questions and horror stories flashed through my mind. Do I have time to fully hook it up before leaving the plane? How much blood have I lost? What if I fail to hook the chute properly? Training says, "Do it by the numbers!", and I did just that.

Sudden quiet struck me like a blow as I rolled out of the open hatchway into the soft clear air and fell toward the patchy green and brown earth far below. At first flipping head over heels, my body finally stabilized, falling with my back down, with a view of Delayed Lady as she flew on, trailing smoke and flame. Looking to my right I saw Dee falling with his back-pack unopened. I assumed that he would free-fall for a time, which he did, as I was to find out almost a year later.

When I left the cockpit the busily unwinding altimeter indicated somewhere between 16,000 and 18,000 feet. So now the clock was running, with the ground about two minutes distant in free-fall time. So, lying there in the quiet soft air, I decided that having lost an undetermined amount of blood and having been active without oxygen while leaving the plane, it was time to pull the rip-cord and not risk a long free-fall. Pulling the "D" ring with my left hand was no problem ... except that nothing happened! The rip cord pulled free with a muffled "POP", but no pilot chute appeared. Not as advertised!

Again time seemed to stretch seconds into minutes and reason said "here we go again! Gotta do it by the numbers!" First, check the pins on the end of the short cable attached to the 'D' ring (they appeared normal), now toss the ring away and examine the chest pack. It was partially open and a small bit of white nylon was flapping wildly about in front of my face. I thought, "I'll get to do this only once!", so I carefully removed my gloves, opened the parachute pack further and immediately uncover the problem.

Pilot chutes are last in the order of packing a parachute. They contain two thin pieces of wood, in the shape of a cross, to hold the pilot chute open as it pulls the main parachute canopy free. This particular parachute was a 22 foot Irving, a small size for people weighing about 150 pounds. I could see the ends of these particular slats were hung up in the corners of the small pack. Grasping the reluctant pilot chute assembly I pulled it out. With a pop it dragged the main canopy out into the free air where it deployed properly. The sudden pull of the opening chute slowed my fall abruptly, resulting in a rather stiff neck for the next few days, the least of my problems.

Hanging beneath a parachute over south central Germany was hardly what I had planned as an activity for the day. But there I was. As I neared the ground it became apparent that I'd land beside a road adjacent to a recently plowed field. A distance away a soldier on a bicycle was approaching the landing site. I continued to fall and suddenly the ground came up fast. I just had time to catch a glimpse of some people running in my direction from a nearby field. Flexing my knees I hit, facing down wind, rolled and sat up, tugging on the lower shroud lines to spill the air from the canopy. All in all, an instruction book landing! As the parachute collapsed I struggled to my feet, releasing the harness and shroud lines.

Several people came running up, led by an elderly man. Speaking in German he ascertained that I was an American. With no further ado, he started a roundhouse blow at my head. This, after the last hour's battle, flak, fire and the parachute malfunction! What to do? With no ability to fight back or negotiate, the only thing that came to mind was to keep his blow short and less damaging. So, I stepped forward into the punch, and watched his faded blue eyes widen as I come closer. I rolled with the impact and after the first glancing blow he began to back away, trying for still another swing. A young man pulled him away just as the soldier arrived.

The soldier put an end to the elderly man's active hostilities and made sure that I had no weapons. He then proceeded to examine my wounds and finding no vital organs had been struck, helped fashion a sling for my right arm using my GI neck scarf. He then organized the spectators to help him with my gear. My elderly adversary was given the Mae West to carry while the younger man was put to work gathering up the parachute and bundling it to carry. The remaining four or five people just milled about.

Off we went, trudging down the road in the warm mid-day sunshine of late May. The soldier, rifle still slung over his shoulder pushing his bike, was followed by the old man, now busily examining the Mae West. I limped along on just to the right of the old fellow. The remainder of the group straggled along in the rear carrying the chute and chattering among themselves. I felt like an actor in the midst of a movie mob scene and had to keep telling myself that this was for real.

As we made our way along the narrow road the old man's curiosity led him to fumble with the lanyard, which abruptly activated the device's CO2 cylinder. This inflated the Mae West with an explosive POP! Dropping the now bulging life vest the old man jumped back, scattering the spectators in the process and causing a good deal of confusion. After restoring order the soldier spent some time explaining what the flotation device was and assuring everyone that no harm could come to them from it. After deflating it he persuaded the old man to carry it again and we started down the road.

After walking for some distance a little old lady dressed in black, carrying a knobby black cane, came from who knows where, scuttled up and joined the group. Believe me, she didn't need that cane She walked with us for a quarter mile or so, edging her way over behind me. Then, shrieking imprecations, she began enthusiastically thumping me on the back of the head and about my shoulders with the cane. It took considerable gentle persuasion on the part of the soldier to get her to cease and go home. All things considered I doubt that I'll ever forget that walk in the sun.

GARY DAHL

BRIEF BIO

Gary Dahl was born in Pasadena, CA on June 19, 1924. On February 8, 1943 he was drafted and quickly got into Air Force flight training. In 1944 he took Primary Training (Jan-Mar) at Ocala, FL, Basic (Mar-May) at Bainbridge, GA, Advanced (Jun-Aug) in Valdosta, GA, B-17 Pilot Training in Sebring, FL and Crew Training in rapid City, SD. Gary saw no wartime operations. He was released from Active Duty in Roswell, NM on October 24, 1945, as a 2nd Lt. He stayed on in the Reserves until 1972, retiring with the rank of LtCol.

Gary married Mary at Maxwell Army Air Base on December, 18, 1943. Together they had three children, Roger, Valorie and Cherryl.

HIS STORY:

I flew a PT-17, Stearman plane in Primary Flight Training, and it was wonderful ship to learn to fly. You could do all kinds of acrobatics as it was very light on the controls. I was the first Cadet to solo, so that night after Taps a dozen Cadets pulled me out of bed and carried me down to the shower room and soaked me in the cold water. So much for tradition. 20% of our class was eliminated and sent to gunnery class. Basic we lost 10% and in Advanced only two Cadets didn't make it.

My instructor in Advanced said he would recommend me for B-25 training and he was going into P-38 training. When I reported to Hendricks Field at Sebring, Florida, for B-17 training he was going in the gate just before me. We decided they put four engines on the P-38 and the B-25.

When I saw the size of the B-17 I stood in awe, how could I fly a plane of that size? The people at Boeing made a plane that was extremely easy to fly, so I ended up as Aircraft Commander on a B-17.

At Lincoln, Nebraska, I picked up my crew and we were off to Rapid City, South Dakota, where we learned all that was needed and we were ready for combat? In the adjacent picture I am the good-looking one second from the left in the front row (crouching).

Next stop Topeka, Kansas. We were assembled in a meeting room and told that two crews would not go overseas and would stay behind for one month. The first number called was Crew #L-47 which was our crew. So one month later we were loaded on the train and on our way to the European Theatre. We got as far as Cleveland, Ohio, and they turned the train around and brought us back to Topeka as we were not needed.

Next stop was a seven day stay at Pecos, Texas, where they broke up our crews, then to Kingman, Arizona, where I flew gunners up and down the desert while P-63 fighter planes would dive at us and the gunners would shoot graphite bullets at them. If they made a hit a light would light on the P-63. So we called them the Pinball machines.

They decided to close Kingman Army Air Field, so we flew the B-17s to Hobbs, New Mexico where they were going to make me a co-pilot on a B-29. When we arrived at Roswell we were informed that Army Air Force Regulation (?) said that being aircraft Commanders we could not be made co-pilots. So I spent the next two months getting my flying time in with AT-6 and BT-13. So ended my career as an Army Air Force Pilot.

CHARLES L. POTTER

BRIEF BIO:

Chuck Potter was born on September 18, 1919 in Centerburg, OH. When he was just 21 years old he was drafted, in Columbus, OH, into the Army Infantry. One year later he got into Pilot Training. He took Basic Flight Training at Ontario, CA; Advanced Training in Marfa, TX; and B-17 Transitional Training in Hobbs, NM. He later took Transition Training into C-54s in Great Falls, MT (1949), and into B-47s in Witchita, KS. His major theater of wartime operations was with the 353rd Bomb Squadron, 301st Bomb Group,15th AF, at Lucera, Italy, from July 1944 to February 1945, where he flew 50 combat missions in the B-17. He later flew 98 missions in the Berlin Airlift.

Over a long career Chuck was awarded 21 medals, including the Distinguished Flying Cross, five Air Medals, the German Occupation Medal with Airlift Device, and the Korean Service Medal. He was released from active duty on January 20, 1947 at Scott Field, IL. His highest rank on active duty was a first lieutenant. On January 23, 1949 He was recalled to active duty and served until April 30, 1963, and retired from the USAF Reserves on that date at McClellan AFB, CA, with the rank of Major.

He married Betty Raines on July 18, 1943 in Hobbs, NM. They have four children, Richard, Larry, Dale and Darryl .Dale is a hospital Chaplain (Major) at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

HIS STORY

I am Charles L. Potter, Major, US Air Force retired. I flew the B-17 during WWII. I began my military career by being drafted into the infantry July 2, 1941. It wasn't until October 1942 that I actually attended the Aviation Cadet pilot Training Program. I graduated from cadets in June, 1943, at Marfa, Texas, where we flew AT-17s, called the double breasted Cub. This was to get us used to more than one engine.

After graduation I was transferred to Hobbs, N. Mexico for B-17 pilot training. My first impression when I sat in the pilot's seat of the B-17 and looked out at that wing I thought it would never end, and I wondered how you could taxied that big bird around. Then I looked at the instrument panel that looked ten feet wide and just covered with instruments and I thought what a far cry from the AT-17s. The wings soon got shorter and the instrument panel less complex, as the instrument panel was divided into three sections. The flight instruments were in front of the pilot and co-pilot with the engine instruments in the center of the panel in front of the throttle, mixture control, propeller controls and the super-charger dials. We could scan the engine instruments panels in about fifteen seconds. During training I acquired 115 hours in the B-17.

I was transferred from Hobbs, New Mexico, to Nellis AFB, Las Vegas, Nevada. I was in the first group of pilots selected to fly aerial gunners to be trained in the B-17 combat type aircraft. We were originally scheduled to get a thousand hours in the B-17 and then go into B-29s, but with D-Day approaching I was transferred to Salt Lake City, where I was to have been given a crew to train for combat. The base was closing and I was then transferred to Lincoln, Nebraska. where I was assigned a crew. The crew and I were transferred to Rattlesnake AFB, Pyote, Texas, to train for combat. In the adjacent picture I am the guy on the left end of the front row (crouching).

After completion of combat training we were transferred back to Lincoln, Nebraska where we were assigned a new B-17G which we would fly overseas. My crew consisted of men from all over. The tail-gunner was the old man on the crew at 27, I was 24 and the rest ranged from 16 to 21. The first leg they gave me was to fly to Gander, Newfoundland. The second leg was to the Azores and this was all over water and it was hard to think that the ocean was this big as this Island was in the middle of it. When we landed at the Azores we thought we had blown all the tires but the airplane kept rolling and this was our first experience landing on pierced planking but we soon got used to this as that was most of the runways.

The next leg was Marrakech, Morocco from there to Tunis, Tunisia where we were assigned to the 301st Bomb Group at Foggia, Italy, with the call-sign of "Longskirt".
This was the area where the 15th Air Force and the B-17s and B-24s were stationed. We managed to land at the wrong base and the MPs met us and we were given directions to the right base. After we landed at the correct base as we were unloading our gear from the aircraft and different persons said "Oh, you won't need this item or that item" so we let them have those items, later finding out that when new crews came in we told them the same thing... so much for greenhorns.

Our Base was mainly tents with three buildings that were Squadron Headquarters and clubs for officers and enlisted men. The runway was 5,500 feet made of pierced planking. Our tents were located in an olive orchard. Our Group Headquarters was in a separate area from the four squadrons. We went to Group Headquarters for our briefings before each mission.

When we started flying combat our crew was separated to fly with experienced crews. On the third mission my navigator was shot down and I later heard he became a prisoner of War. My bombardier was loaned to another crew and was shot down on his 35th mission. He also became a POW.

I flew as co-pilot for the first three missions. The impression that I have of the first mission, which was over Budapest, Hungary, was when I saw the flak at a distance. I thought it was kinda pretty until we got in it and then it sounded like hail on a tin roof and, after that, we knew how dangerous flak was and not pretty at all!

From July 1944 to January 1945 I flew combat in the 15th Air Force out of Italy, flying B-17s. I flew as first pilot after the 4th mission to complete 50 missions. We flew 25 missions the first 30 days after joining the squadron.

Some of the most vivid memories:
One day we went to the briefing room and talked as usual until the briefing officer said that today we would go to the Romanian Oil Fields. The room became very quiet. We all knew of the first B-24 raid on this area, led by "Killer" Col. Kane -- the results of his raid was devastating. And we were going in at 30,000 feet, not at sea-level. As we were flying on the way to the target we kept getting flak that was not briefed. The ball-turret gunner said "The flak was coming from a railroad flak train" This was so that the enemy could keep us under flak all the way to the target. We were the second group over the target and by the time we dropped our 500 pound bombs the smoke was at our level. Amazingly enough, no one in our squadron was seriously damaged.

Another mission was to Munich, Germany. They had two rows of flak about a mile apart that crisscrossed in the middle covering the formation all the way to the target. I was flying lead of the second element of the squadron. By the time we were through the flak I was squadron leader, for the rest of the mission. The first three planes were shot up, but made it back to the base.

On one other mission to Vienna, Austria, I was deputy leader and we ran into intense flak. We had one engine shot out and another not functioning very well. We stayed with the group as long as we could then the second engine quit so we had to go it alone. The tail-gunner said, "Fighter coming in on our tail!" and the top-turret gunner said, "Two Red-Tails coming down from above!" The tail-gunner said, "The FW-190 was just shot down!"

The Red-Tail P-51s were flown by the 99th Fighter Squadron., known as the "Tuskegee Airmen". They were our main fighter escort on our missions. They later had the reputation of no bomber being shot down when they were the escort. The two P-51s escorted us to the Adriatic Sea where we were safe from fighter attack and we made it home.

Later the ground crew told us we had 248 holes in the aircraft, yet no one was injured. There was a piece of shrapnel about the size of my little finger that hit me on my helmet and fell on the floor I brought that piece of shrapnel home. The accompanying picture was taken just after that raid, from 32,000 feet, just outside of Vienna. It shows that despite the intense flak and the damage to us, we managed to solidly hit the target.

At another mission briefing we were told that we were going to bomb a potato factory. We all knew that the Germans were hungry and needed all of their potatoes but as the briefing continued we found that the potatoes were being used to make fuel for their new jet fighters. As I remember this mission was sort of a milk-run.

On the Invasion of Southern France my crew was listed without a co-pilot. I asked who my co-pilot was going to be and was told someone from the 15th Air Force would be down. As we walked up to the airplane a Brigadier General was standing there and I saluted him and he told me that he was to be my co-pilot. As a Second Lieutenant this was the first General that I had seen and wondered what I should do and he told me that I was the Aircraft Commander and he would do what ever I told him to. That was the last time that I ever told a General what to do. The Navy had been bombarding the French Coast. When we approached the Coast there was one anti-aircraft gun that fired on us. The Navy immediately fired 16 inch guns and that was the end of the flak for us. The concussion of the big guns hit us and caused us to bounce up in the air making it dangerous for a few minutes since we were fully loaded with bombs and we were at about 30,000 feet. As we left the coast I had a better chance to look out on the water and it was covered with ships to the horizon. I flew one other mission with my normal crew that day to Lyons, France.

On a mission to Fredrickshaven Chemical Plant I was flying squadron lead and this was a fairly easy mission as we had very little opposition but this is the day that I flew my 1,000th hour in the B-17.

On the 23 of December, 1944 I flew my 50th mission and ended up with about 1200 hours in the B-17. I never again flew the B-17, even though I continued my Air Force Career for 22 years. After completing my 50th combat mission I wrote my wife Betty a letter telling her that I had finished my missions. She never received that letter. A few days later a bunch of us went to Naples, Italy, where we waited for a ship to take us home. For about a month we were told the ship would soon be here. I did not write because I thought I would get home before a letter would. The USS Westpoint finally arrived. We landed in Boston and I grabbed a train home to Ohio.

From that point I stayed in the Air Force another couple of decades and flew a variety of other planes, on other missions. From March to October 1949 I flew about 100 missions C-54s in "Operation Vittles", the Berlin Airlift. From November 1951 to November 1954 I was Commander of a Supply Squadron stationed at Itazuki, Japan. I flew many C-47 supply missions to air bases in Korea. From August 1959 to August 1962 I was Supply and Procurement Officer for the 58th Air, Sea Rescue Squadron. One of our missions was to pick up astronauts in case they ditched in the Indian Ocean. The most advanced plane I flew in my military career was the B-47.

FIND / HIT THE TARGET

DON HUGHES

My name is Don Hughes. I was born and raised on a farm near Barron, Wisconsin. I enlisted on January 23, 1945, shortly after my seventeen birthday. I was sent to Fort Sheridan, Illinois for my physical and shortly thereafter was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps.

I stayed at Fort Sheridan for three weeks, learning how to march, polish my boots, make up a bunk bed, do K.P. All the senseless things, I thought, as I had joined the Air Corps to FIGHT, not to do woman's work!

On February 16th we were trucked to the train station in cold, windy Chicago, to get on an equally cold troop train, bound for Texas, to a place called Lackland Field. That was where I took my basic training. Then came the time for graduation, and IQ tests to give them an idea where they were going to send us for further training.

I wanted to become a pilot, but, even though I had an IQ of 142, I was only seventeen, and I had not finished high school, the devious minds of the Air Corps Brass told me that I had the makings of a NAVIGATOR! Whoopie, I was still going to be able to FLY!

I then began very extensive training, map reading, wind factor, effect of heat, cold, headwinds for takeoff, tailwinds for speed, how many gallons of fuel per hour to expect for any of these factors. Finally came graduation time, after eight weeks of the toughest schooling I had ever taken. Wrong again, the next was almost as hard.
But at last I was flying. I took all my training in a B-17G, 1943 model. My instructor was a M/Sgt. from Tennessee, with a deep southern drawl. He gave me a lot of good tips on map reading which is still very useful to me.

We did a lot of night flying, which I hated, but became very necessary for flying over the Atlantic, or the Pacific, or wherever else they were going to send me. Finally came the day for graduation again, six weeks to the day, and I had become the youngest full fledged navigator! Plus I had been promoted to S/Sgt.! I had gone from a $50.00 a month Private to a $140 a month S/Sgt.! And a two weeks furlough, boy was I proud of myself. This kid was never going to be a farm kid again!

After my furlough was over I had to report to Chanute Field, Illinois, for flying over farm country, the Great lakes, small hills, for two weeks. Then to Gander Lake, N.F., to England. Arrived in England on a real cold, rainy, miserable day.

Billetted in Devonshire, in Southwest England, I was initially assigned to the 457th Air Group, an air crew replacement center. Shortly thereafter I was posted to a Bomb Group of the 8th Air Force in Eastern England. The air field was eight miles northwest of town and we had to hop into a truck for transport to the field. It was cold and foggy every day.

Our plane was a new B-17, as yet unnamed, but the pilot, Captain Hansen, would always say at takeoff, "Come on Nellie Belle", so we voted for the name, which the C.O. approved. However, the name was never painted on the aircraft because the war ended shortly after our transfer.

We only made two bomb runs over Germany before they surrendered. We thought, "Boy, we must have really been good, they have surrendered already!" Of course, there were 300+ other planes on the raid too.

None of our crew smoked at that time but the copilot chewed plug tobacco, and used a tin can for a spittoon. Bath room facilities? A rusty 2-1/2 gallon milk can, thank God it had a lid. Had it tied to a stanchion with a piece of rope. Kinda hard to hit into the top of the can in bumpy air and very cold to sit on at twenty to twenty-five thousand feet. But you do what you have to do, regardless of the discomfort.

The plane was always smelly with gas fumes, cold, wore insulated cap, gloves, pants, jacket. Hard to use compass, or pencil to chart flight, but didn't dare to take your gloves off, because your fingers would freeze almost instantly. Everyone looked like men from outer space.

There was some scuttlebutt about flying to Calcutta, India, for the Pacific war but that was a false alarm. We stayed on in merry old England. I pulled a lot of occupation duty over the next two years, stationed at various bases throughout Europe.

I finished my three year hitch in February of 1948. Bummed around for almost a year, working at odd jobs. But the wages were only $0.69 per hour, grave yard shift for common or unskilled labor. So I went on a three week drunk with a buddy and then re-enlisted, into what was now the U.S. Air Force. So, I had gone from wearing olive drab to Air Force blue.

I was able to take pilot training, and was sent to Korea. There I flew 53 missions as forward observer before being shot down, landing in a rice paddy. I spent the next 13 days and nights walking out. Most of my walking was at night, as the North Koreans always had a small cooking fire, to cook their rice. All I had was a small survival kit, a compass, and a 45 caliber pistol. I learned to eat most anything I could catch. I had to eat it raw because a cooking fire would mean a bullet in the back.

I was discharged again in April 1954. I have done everything in my life time that I have ever wanted to do -- truck driver, pilot, deputy sheriff, help people down on their luck.

I am currently Vice President of a charitable organization work as a security guard for an attorney.

 

Table of Contents

 

BILL MOON

BRIEF BIO:

Bill Moon was born in Manhattan, Kansas, on November 13, 1922. Shortly after graduating from high school, on December 14, 1941, in Phoenix, Arizona, he enlisted in the Army. His first assignment was to the U.S. Army's Veterinary School at Camp Grant, Illinois, followed by duty at Camp Forest Tennessee, as a horse doctor. In the spring of 1942, at his request, he transferred to the Air Corps, as an Aviation Cadet. He took ground school and initial flight training at Gettysburg College, in Piper Cubs, and was selected for further training as a Bombardier. He took gunnery training in Kingman, Arizona, and Bombardier training in Deming, New Mexico. On April 29, 1944 he graduated and was commissioned a 2nd Lt.

Subsequently he flew 35 combat missions in B-17s as both a bombardier and navigator (and gunner) in the European Theater, with the 544th Bomb Squadron of the 384th Bomb Group, 1st Air Division, 8th Air Force. On one of those missions his plane was shot down, and crash landed. On another his Bombardier's seat was destroyed by flak while he was temporarily elsewhere in the plane. He was awarded 6 air medals.

Bill was discharged in August 1945 at Fort MacArthur, in San Pedro, California, as a 1stLt. In 1947, in La Mesa, California, he married Mary, and they had one son, Bill.

HIS STORY:

I was born in Manhattan, Kansas in November 1922. My mother died two weeks afterwards and I was raised by an aunt who died a year later. Another aunt raised me initially in California but I moved later to Arizona. I graduated from Phoenix High School, in June 1940, then worked as an assistant to an Arizona State veterinarian, mainly handling cattle.

On December 7,1941, I was with a friend working cattle when we assisted two girls with a car problem. They told us about the attack on Pearl Harbor, so we went into town to try and enlist. However, the office was closed, as it was Sunday. When I tried again the following day, I was rejected as I was too young and needed parental approval; however, my friend was accepted. I decided to wait a few days and, with parental OK, was enlisted on December 26,1941.

Because of my background, I was sent to the U.S. Army's Veterinary School at Camp Grant, Illinois. Later, I was transferred to Camp Forest Tennessee, as a vet. My duties were mainly meat inspections as most horses, except those personally owned by the officers, had been "salvaged".

In the Spring of 1942, bored with my job, I applied for transfer to the Air Corps. After acceptance as an Aviation Cadet, I was transferred to Atlantic City, New Jersey, for a couple of days then spent two months at Gettysburg College - previously a girl's school - doing ground school and 10 hours initial flight training in Piper Cubs. The next posting was to Nashville, Tennessee where we were sorted into crew categories. The crew selection process was done by dexterity tests and I was chosen for Bombardier training. Most of the pilots were selected from college kids. After a short stay at Santa Ana, California for further training, I went to Kingman, Arizona for gunnery training, where it was very cold. After completion in December 1943, I moved to Deming, New Mexico for Bombardier training (Class 44-6). I graduated on April 29,1944 and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. Subsequently, on my discharge from the USAAF, I discovered that I was a civilian for one day, before receiving my commission.

The next move was to Kearney, Nebraska for a brief stay, then on to Alexandria, Louisiana, where we were formed into B-17 crews. While there, we won the "best crew" award, which was a brand new B-17G. Unfortunately, we lost this as the pilot damaged it in a wheels-up landing at night. I was in the nose and the ground looked damned close! The ship settled on the ball gun turret under the belly, fortunately the gunner wasn't in it. In the picture above I am in the front row, far right.

Assigned for overseas duty, we then moved to Brooklyn, New York, for a few days. We then boarded the French liner "Ile de France" and sailed to Clydeside in Scotland. We were aboard a fast ship so we sailed independently, without an escort. Most of the passengers were Air Force types, including fighter pilots and a lot of ground personnel. Bing Crosby and a USO troupe were aboard, but they didn't put on any shows. The ship was so crowded that my shift was fed at 4 AM and 4 PM. Breakfast frequently consisted of British cod fish, not the most appropriate offering in the early morning!

On going ashore in early August, we were transferred to Stone, Staffordshire, which was an aircrew replacement unit. Here we were told the "rules of engagement" with the British population and other useful things to know.

Early in September, I was assigned to the 544th Bomb Squadron (BS) of the 384th Bomb Group (BG) stationed at Grafton Underwood, equipped with B-17Gs. This air base was located near Kettering in Northamptonshire. The 384th BG was part of the lst Air Division of the 8th U.S. Army Air Force.

The 384th BG tail and wing marking was a white triangle, outlined in black, with a black letter "P" in the middle. The 544th BS unit codes were "SU" with an individual aircraft letter applied to each side of the fuselage.

On arrival at the squadron, the crew underwent 10 days of local familiarization flying training before going on our first mission. I also learned to ride a bicycle here as it was the best way to get around the base.

To enter my crew position, I would board the aircraft via a hatch under the belly behind the chin turret. My low seat was in the glass nose with the Norden bomb sight just in front of me. I wore a flak jacket and "tin" helmet and usually carried spare jackets to stack on both sides of me, for extra protection. The bomb selector box was mounted on the left fuselage wall. I could select the spacing of the bomb releases by presetting the bomb intervalometer. I also had the controls to operate the bomb doors.

My duties as bombardier were two-fold. In addition to dropping the bomb load I manned the twin 50s mounted in the chin turret below my feet. The gun controls were on a column, mounted on the right side floor, which I could swing across in front of me. Looking very similar to a pilot's control yoke, it allowed me to rotate the turret and also move the guns up or down. On either side of my seat were the ammunition boxes. The navigator sat just behind me on the left side at his table. Two other 50 caliber guns was also mounted on swivels at the side of me at my seated head level, one on each side. These were hand held and were fired by the navigator.

The group usually consisted of three squadrons, low, medium and high, with the low squadron in the lead. As a bombardier, I would watch the lead ship which would drop a smoke bomb to warn us that he was about to unload. When he salvoed, everyone dropped at the same time. Normally I didn't have use for the bomb sight.

We flew our first mission on September 25,1944 to Frankfurt. I remember seeing a black cube way ahead and asked the navigator what it was. He responded that it was the flak box above Frankfurt, which we would have to fly through. We saw many Me-l09s and jet fighters too, but they stayed out of range.

Assigned to the number 3 slot in the high squadron, we were also designated "hot camera". This meant that during and just after the bomb drop , we would also take a series of photos. On leaving the target area, and in relatively safe air space, we broke from the group and sped ahead for home as fast as possible to allow quick assessment of the bombing results. Though we were designated as hot camera ship on several missions we were never attacked by enemy fighters while racing home alone.

Over the next two successive days, we flew to both Osnabruck and the first of several trips to Cologne, to bomb the Ford factory. We didn't encounter many fighters, but the flak was usually intense. We received a lot of minor damage from flak splinters and quickly learned to plug the ensuing drafts with well-chewed gum from our flight rations. Everyone chewed gum as a form of stress reliever during combat missions.

On our fourth mission, to Munster on 30th September, we got caught by heavy flak. On return to base, our B-17 had to have a new vertical stabilizer fitted and also new "Tokyo" 1550 USG long-range fuel tanks, which were mounted in the bomb bays.

The seventh mission, to Ruchland on October 7, was almost our last. Passing over Osnabruck , due to a navigational goof while outbound , we took heavy flak in Number One and Number Two engines as well as to the fuselage fuel tanks. The waist gun positions were soon swimming in fuel. I immediately opened the bomb doors and salvoed the load onto the anti aircraft gun battery which was located on a Luftwaffe airfield. We turned back to head for home, but as we passed over the Zuider Zee in Holland, which was mostly frozen over, it became obvious we would not make it across the North Sea to England.

The pilot sounded the "Bail Out" bell. I opened the hatch, looked down and told the pilot ( in a less polite version), " Hell No, I won't go" The entire crew refused to jump, so we turned south, aiming for Allied territory in France . Unfortunately, the navigator brought us right over Amsterdam, which was still in German hands. Again we were hit by low altitude flak and started to lose altitude. I chased the navigator out of the nose compartment!

We started to throw everything possible overboard to lighten the aircraft. This included the very heavy ball turret, which required a special wrench to undo the trunnion bolts. We couldn't get it loose, so we used the two .50 caliber gun barrels from the waist positions as levers and managed to break it off, with the appropriate remark to the pilot, "Ball's away".

At this point, we were joined by a very welcome Little Friend, a USAAF P-47 Thunderbolt, to escort us. We spotted an airfield and the flight engineer fired a red flare, but we received a warning not to land. Then a third engine started miss-firing, so we had no choice but to crash land. All but the pilots took up their crash positions in the radio room. I sat with my back to the bomb bay aft bulkhead with my knees bent while some one sat between my legs. I held the back of his head in my hands to protect him from whiplash. This was standard procedure for a wheels-up crash landing or ditching.

The flight ended up on a railroad track outside a small town called Saventem, in Belgium. As we slid to a rapid halt, the entire rear fuselage broke off at the back of the radio room. We were all uninjured and able to step right out the gaping fuselage. I remember kicking the waist gunner out with both feet firmly planted in his rear to speed the evacuation. He had hesitated because we had demolished a series of poles which carried wires and he thought they might be live. Fortunately, we had crashed behind Allied lines so an ambulance took us to a field hospital located in a school. We spent two days there before returning to the squadron. The only injury I received was a" mental scratch". I frequently relived the sounds of that crash for several years afterwards.

Seven days later, on October 14, 1 flew my next mission, to Saarbrucken, as the group lead ship. Fortunately, it was an easy mission with light flak, and the Luftwaffe kept its distance.

After four more missions in October, including two more visits to the Ford factory in Cologne, I got a break from operations to be trained as a navigator at the 8th Air Force navigation school. This was fortuitous because on my 1lth mission, which was to Mannheim on October 19, 1 discovered that my pilot had flown the entire mission with his eyes shut, leaving the co-pilot to fly the B-17. By then, most of the crew were becoming very uncomfortable with each other. We took a lot of flak that day, missed the target completely and barely made it to the English coast before running out of gas. Overall, the trip was a total disaster.

When we returned to base, I went to Operations and offered to fly with anyone that was going. My luck was in and I joined John D. (Dee) Francisco, from Boston, and his crew. They had completed about the same number of missions that I had at that time but had lost the two previous navigators. Because of the location of the navigator's seat in line with the propellers, navigator's chances of survival were frequently lower than the rest of the crew's. I never told anybody why I wanted to switch until now.

My navigation training included a week learning European theater navigational methods and how to operate the Gee box, which was used to aid accurate positioning. When I returned to combat flying with Dee's crew, our first attack was on 16th November, a ground support mission for Allied troops near Aachen. Sadly, I watched our wingman get hit by flak, and only five chutes were seen.

The aircraft we had on the November 20 mission was a dog, it couldn't stay with the group. We flew solo through thick cloud and passed through a formation of B-24s at right angles. I bet those B-24 jocks never forgot that incident! We had no idea where we were, probably over Essen, but on receiving heavy flak close by, we could see the red flashes through the fog, I salvoed the bombs and we beat a hasty retreat.

I remembered that if you got lost over Germany, steering 300 degrees Magnetic would get you back to England. It worked very well on this particular mission, we arrived directly over the base! The crew couldn't figure how I had found our way home so easily and I never told them. The rest of the Group bombed Gelsenkirchen as intended.

On another mission, our assigned aircraft was hardly controllable at formation speed. So we had to fly slightly faster and weave from side to side to stay in the vicinity of the Group.

My 16th mission, on November 24 was to Paderborn. It turned out to be a very scary day. So far, we had seen little fighter opposition, but this was different. Everywhere one looked, aircraft were going down. One ship, a B-17 from the 303rd BG at Molesworth (which often flew with us) was just ahead of us. It took a hit and one wing seemed to peel off in slow motion before the B-17 entered into a spin and vanished below us. The final tally was recorded as 129 enemy fighters shot down at a cost of 37 Forts and 29 escorting P-51 s. In addition, we got a close look at V-2 rockets being fired at London. To top it off, we were operating at only 22,000 feet yet with an air temperature of minus 44 degrees Centigrade. The coldest we ever encountered was minus 55 degrees Centigrade at 29,000 feet on a December 9 trip to Stuttgart.

I think it might have been this same mission, but anyway, one trip was memorable for another reason. Ike had ordered a maximum effort, so we were allocated the polka dot covered assembly ship , named "Alabama Avenger", and led the squadron all the way. ( The assembly ship was a war-weary bird painted in a bright distinctive scheme. Each Group had one which would take off first, fly to a designated point and orbit. The rest of the Group joined formation with it then set off without the assembly ship. They were needed as so many bases had overlapping circuits and with several hundred aircraft getting airborne in a short period, finding the right formation could be very confusing.) "Alabama Avenger" had no armament and couldn't carry any bombs as the bomb bays were lined with plywood, as a cargo ship -- we also used it as the " liquor ship", bringing booze from Scotland and Paris. Obviously someone was trying to make the Group look good at our risk. Our only protection was to fly tight formation.

On another occasion, we led the Group on a low level fly-by for some VIPs in Paris while en route to bomb the Germans. This time, we turned back before crossing the Allied lines.

The following raid, two days later, was to Merseburg, scene of some very tough missions in the past. Because of the previous air battle, we were allocated a P-51 fighter escort for each B-17 plus additional cover from P-38 and P-47 squadrons. As it turned out, it was a milk run --- little flak and very few enemy fighters appeared. We didn't always make it back to base, so I always carried a tooth brush in my pocket. While coming back from Merseburg, we ended up trying to land in a low lying mist at an RAF fighter base in Wales. The runway was steel matting laid on the grass. We made a pass but couldn't find the runway. For the next try, the RAF people fired red flares to show where the runway began. However, they were firing heavy caliber shells, so they arched much higher than the usual Verey pistol flare, thus we had quite a job estimating our height on approach. But we managed to get down without running off the end of the runway, which was quite short. Fortunately, the last part of the runway ran up hill.

Sometime before December 19, we were playing football as it was too foggy to fly. They ordered us off to attack a German counter-offensive at Gladt. Twelve of us from the 384th BG got off out of the entire 8th Air Force. We made the trip without fighter escort and all returned safely to England. Our ship on this adventure, called "Dark Angel", was another dog. We endured a fire in the top turret, the Gee box and the radios went out and two engines were in bad shape. Returning, we had to divert to Fairwood Common where we remained for three days due to the weather.

Luck was with me on the December 23 mission to Triest. The bombs failed to release, so I went back into the open bomb-bay, carrying a portable oxygen tank. After releasing the bombs, using a screwdriver to trigger the mechanism, I discovered that my parachute harness was tangled in a wiring bundle. During the struggle to free myself, the oxygen tank ran out. Somehow I managed to get loose and climbed through the door into the radio room, where the radio man hooked me back into the oxygen supply. When I recovered, I returned to the bombardier's position and discovered that a chunk of flak had passed right through where I normally sat, and had demolished my brief case!

My 34th mission was to become my last flight with Dee. It took place on January 7, 1945 when we bombed marshaling yards at Blankenheim. One of the other aircraft dropped early, and I suspect he may have hit advancing American troops. We didn't encounter very heavy flak; the recent missions had become much easier.

A few days later, Dee took the crew on another mission and I remained on the ground. They were doing a make-up flight as Dee was also getting towards the end of his tour. I hung around on the flight line, but they failed to return. They were a fine crew and I still miss them.

I didn't make my 35th and tour-ending trip, until January 21 when I went with another crew to Affschaffenberg, just south east of Frankfurt, and bombed some marshaling yards using PFF. The trip was very uneventful. At this time, my log book showed 750 flight hours of which 250 were flown in combat. Throughout all the combat missions, I never encountered any serious Luftwaffe opposition. Part of this could be attributed to our Group often flying with the so-called "Bloody One Hundredth", a Group which had been singled out by the Luftwaffe for particular attention, after an incident, and had suffered continuous horrendous losses for some time.

After hanging around the base for a few days, during which time I was made lst Lieutenant, I was sent back to Stone. Shortly afterwards, with some 250 other tour-expired aircrew, I was repatriated via the hospital ship SS "Mariposa", which had previously served on the California -Hawaii cruise ship service. The ship also carried a large contingent of patients and nurses, so in spite of the ship's speed, we were escorted by two destroyers. I was finally discharged from the USAAF at Fort MacArthur, California on September 25, 1945 and returned home to take up ranching again.

 

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