The following article appeared in "Stars & Stripes" in 1944. The copyright, by "Air Force Inc" has long since expired.(Courtesy Norman Nutt)

The least known front on which our young men are now fighting is the high altitude battle line. Anyone who has felt bitter cold may have some idea of the Russian front. Movies have given a glimpse of the man who fights in a submarine or tank. But nothing short of an actual bomber mission can tell the whole story of conditions on the 25,000-foot front. The cold is worse than Russia's, the cramped quarters as bad as a tank's, the problem of oxygen as vital as in a submarine.

Leave out the danger from the enemy for a moment and consider only the natural hazards at this great height. Remember the fearful hardships suffered by the men who tried to climb Mt. Everest, man's only other effort 5 miles up. A bomber crew is whisked at dizzying speeds from sea level to 25,000 feet. Making a deep penetration into Germany the men are in the air from eight to ten hours, every minute packed with intense danger and hardship. They must fight for their lives, possibly suffer wounds without proper medical help, and expertly control some of the most complicated and fast moving machinery ever invented.

Quick accurate jobs are done by everyone from tail-gunner to pilot, but they have to be done in clothes that are agravatingly bulky, for the cold may reach 60 degrees below zero. First a man dons the heaviest of long underwear. Over it goes regular clothes. Then comes a bulging, binding winter flying suit of leather lined with sheepskin. He is already moving awkwardly, but there is more to come; an armor vest of steel plates, a yellow Mae West life preserver, and over all the parachute harness. On his head he wears a warm cap and a steel helmet. On his hands go thick heated gloves.

More items remain-- not clothing, but gear. Without oxygen, a man would lose consciousness in about 30 seconds; so he slings on an oxygen mask around his neck. (Later its grip on his face will be almost maddening.) Then there are the intercom headset and the throat microphone--the one clamped over his ears, the other strapped snug around his Adam's apple.

Worry no.1 is take-off. The pilot is strapped in his seat by his crew chief (another restriction on movement)-- and he must take thirty tons of steel and aluminum, loaded with gasoline and high explosive into the air. From the time the throttles are advanced at the head of the runway, the tension begins. The speed mounts to 100, 120, before the heavily laden wings lift the plane clear. The slightest swerve would blow a tire and cartwheel plane, crew and explosives into a pyre of flame and smoke. The whole crew holds its breath. But the plane doesn't swerve. The mission is on.

Now it is time to strap the oxygen mask absolutely tight, so tight that the rubber face-piece digs into the skin and cuts off circulation in the cheeks. It is time for the pilot to turn up his radio receivers to a volume so loud they overcome static and enemy jamming. The noise in his ears is deafening, but no word must be missed.

It is time for him to start the long strain of keeping eyes fixed on the bomber 100 feet up and to the left, to move a stiff control wheel with one hand, to tease four throttles and propeller pitch control levers into just the right speed, to move the big rudder pedals against the resistance of heavy springs -- all this to keep formation while the plane plunges ahead at 300 feet a second, surging up and down in the turbulent air. The gunners start their power turrets on methodical "searching" of the sky for enemy fighters that may blast into the formation at any second, the navigator begins his endless plotting and checking and sweating.

The second and third hours brings aches to the pilot’s arms, legs and back, stiffness to the rest of the crew. The throat microphone grips and chafes those little scratches from shaving, the Mae West rubs the back of the neck. In the headphones, above 20,000 feet, the grains of carbon "pack" and produce a constant drilling squeal that has the same effect on the nerves as dragging fingernails down a slate. The cold begins to creep through the heavy clothing. The oxygen mask grips the face like a malevolent hand. Subconsciously, a man wants to loosen it or rip it off, consciously he leaves it on. In this plane and in all the others above, below and around, each mind feels the familiar strain of high altitude.

During the fifth hour, the Luftwaffe is likely to show up several thousand feet above the bombers, ready to slash down in screaming formations. But flying with the bombers are the Thunderbolts or Mustangs -- to the bomber crews their black heavy bodies transcend the beauty of any pin-up girl ever born. The attack cue is the urgent--excited but not scared -- report from Top Turret: "Fighters at five o'clock high! Ten of them -- 190's". After the first instant twitch at the pit of the stomach, everyone waits tensely until the roar of Top Turret's guns say the battle is joined.

From then on things happen so fast there is little time for fear. Bullets spatter through the fuselage with the clamor of a boiler factory. The right waist gunner catches a slug. The copilot is ordered to leave his seat and give first aid. In the next few minutes some of the difficulties of this kind of warfare will be quickly apparent.

Lack of room is one. A heavy man in an overcoat, carrying two packages and trying to get at his change in a telephone booth is about the only civilian comparison. The copilot starts by disengaging safety belt, heater connection, radio cord, oxygen hose and finally his parachute seat pack. If the plane gets hit in the next ten minutes the copilot is one man who won't jump. He fastens on a walk-around oxygen bottle, worms out of his seat and starts aft.

Every fold in his clothing seems bent on catching the knobs, levers and corners that crowd the interior. At the deep frame of the top turret he has barely room to squeeze by when the turret is still. If the gunner is "searching," he may get caught in the powered track and be seriously injured. The narrow bomb-bay passage is fringed with sharp brackets and fixtures; many a crew member has suffered bad cuts from them during violent action.

Right waist is unconscious at his station. The slipstream shrieks in through the gun aperture at 60 degrees below zero. He needs a tourniquet and a compress, sulfa dust and a hypodermic. It is no job for heavy gloves. The copilot slips his off. If he is fast, he may get the necessary things done in two or three minutes, then get his gloves back on. Even so, he is probably in for trouble. The blast of air is colder than the chamber that quick freezes food, and it has the same effect on bare flesh. The few minutes of exposure may mean six months in the hospital, hands muffed in antiseptic boxing gloves, in the hope that the fingers will be saved. But it's a dead gunner or an injured hand, and there's no choice. The copilot's next worry is to struggle back through the plane to the cockpit. His walk-around oxygen bottle is giving out, and he seems slower and more tired than a strong young man should be.

Now the bombers converge toward the bomb release line. German fighters and anti aircraft batteries reach their frenzied peak of resistance. The air is alive with flak. Horsing the bomber through violent evasive action takes all the strength of the pilot's arms and wrists. The crew counts each excruciating second. Finally comes the bombing run and the thrilling shout -- "Bombs Away!" The bomber swings around toward home -- and goes through the whole harrowing experience again until that blessed moment when it slides down across the Channel in the protective custody of the escort fighters.

In spite of these fantastic hardships, no American heavy bomber formation has been turned back from its target by enemy action. The boys in the Forts and Libs can take it.

BOMBER -- by Lyle Dickinson (1999)

High in the cold and sunlit silence, the bomber intrudes on the sanctity of these lofty and unused places. To the eyes of those on the ground, it appears to crawl effortlessly across the sky, leaving behind its telltale streamers of condensation, voiding the efforts at secrecy accompanying it's purpose.

Despite the presence of others in the formation, it moves in splendid isolation. It's survival, aside from the aim of enemy gunners, is dependent upon the skill and courage of it's crew. Nowhere in man-made machines of war or weapons systems is the concept of teamwork more evident and vital.

The crew readies itself for the inevitable conflict. Now the peaceful sky is mottled with dirty black splotches, each preceded in milliseconds by an almost indistinguishable reddish flash, which signals the expelling force behind hundreds of fragments of steel which tear through the aluminum skin of the bomber and the human bodies within.

As the matador faces the "moment of truth" over the horns of the bull, so the bomber must do when it makes it's "run", unmindful of the bursting flak and the diving fighters ( for this is when the bomber is most vulnerable ) The bombardier announces to the waiting ears of his comrades, "Bombs away," and the turn for home begins.

The crew must withhold any relaxation or celebration after the bomb run and the turn for home for they are still fair game for vengeful enemy fighters. Many of the planes are partially disabled and unable to take evasive action or return fire. With each passing minute the prospects brighten as the bomber nears home, as slips beneath the protective umbrella of the shorter range fighters. But it is only after the squeal of landing gear tires on the home field runway that the camaraderie of those who have shared this experience, overflows, and it can be truthfully said, "Mission Accomplished."