©1999, 2009, Wally Hoffman
"What we call the beginning is often the end and to make an end is to make a beginning the end is where we start." – T.S. Eliot
I dream the intercom comes alive as the Bombardier requests an oxygen check. You can visualize the Bombardier and Navigator in their greenhouse in the nose of the plane. The bombardier with his Norden bomb sight and the controls to work the bomb bay doors. There are switches to set the bombs to drop in sticks, salvo, or individually at specific time intervals for each bomb. Behind and on the side sits the Navigator with the electronic and radio equipment and other complex gear to maintain accuracy in our flight to the target and return.
The Co-Pilot and Pilot reply OK. They are tightly packed together within a cage of steel, glass, controls and instruments. In front of them are three main clusters of instruments, mainly flight instruments. There are controls, switches, dials, gauges, handles, buttons, and toggles in front, to the sides between. These are above, below, and behind the Pilot and Co-pilot. There are more than 150 for the operation and control of the plane.
From his station in the top turret the Flight Engineer says OK. The flight Engineer is the operations center for the airplane. He notes all the gauges and the conditions of the engine; the transfer of fuel as only the main tank supplies the engines. He keeps the plane flying for the pilots. The turret is a completely independent electrically operating unit, which is the most visual point in the entire plane. There are two .50-caliber machine guns, with hand controls for the azimuth and elevation to fire through the roof.
The Radio Operator says OK. He maintains an unlimited communication link to the Group, Headquarters, and the combat wing. There is one .50-caliber gun he can fire through the roof.
Ball Turret OK. This is the most isolated position in the plane. The turret hangs from a single link from the bottom of the plane. It is a hellish position, as the gunner must hunch up his body by drawing up his knees into a half ball. There are two .50-caliber machine guns, one located on each side of his head. In this round contraption sticking out of the bottom of the plane the gunner aims his body at oncoming fighters. By working both hands and feet in coordination he is able to spin and tilt his two .50-caliber machine guns at the enemy fighters. Because of the round shape this probably is the safest position during flak and fighter attacks, but also he is the man least likely to escape from a blazing B-17 from this lonely position.
Right Waist and Left Waist OK. They live in a hollow shell encircled by a thin metal skin and supportive heavy metal ribs. There are wide hatches on each side where the gunners must swing their 60-pound guns into a slipstream of about 175 miles per hour. Many times after a running fight the floor of the waist is covered with .50-caliber casings, making it almost impossible to walk.
It is here that the ability of the B-17 to absorb such terrific battle damage and still fly is apparent. The plane can be cut and slashed almost to pieces by enemy fire and bring its crew home. It is the brilliant interlocking of its main structural members that keeps the B-17 flying as the skin is only a surface membrane.
Tail OK. The tail gunner reaches his position by climbing over the tail wheel and sits underneath the huge distinctive tail rudder. This is a cramped wedge at the end of the plane. He fires his two .50-caliber machine guns from a kneeling position facing German fighters boring in with their wings and noses alive with the winking of the firing 20-millimeter cannons.
We arrive at the Initial Point with the bomb path to the target alive with energy. It is vicious as to be almost beyond belief as we make our way in stately procession through the black puffs of flak. Time is standing still. The six minutes for the bomb run are like a lifetime.
Suddenly the plane lurches upwards and bombardier makes his familiar announcement: "Bombs away!"
Abruptly I am awake! There is our tour director delivering an invitation for breakfast at four to be followed by a briefing at five. Don’t these people believe in normal hours? Collecting my thoughts, I remember we have passed through the normal life expectancy figure of four missions. We are now existing on the negative end of borrowed time.
I roll out of the sack and follow the usual routine of shaving and dressing in layers. I refuse to look at the empty beds, which have become the "vision of doom." I wonder what have the fiendish minds at 8th Air Force Headquarters dreamed up as a target bringing us again to the gates of death? The biggest fear is how to avoid the "prop wash" (air turbulence from other planes that can throw you out of the air). There is always the persistent flak concentrated on the bomb run when the German antiaircraft gunners are zeroing in on the formation. All we can do is sit there and take it. There are no foxholes in which we can hide.
Outside is the same usual black and foggy early morning. As we walk into the combat mess there is the ever-present huge stomach knot with those eggs and bacon just staring at us. The Waist Gunner looks up with the usual full plate and a blank look on his face. Soon we are outside waiting for the doors to the briefing room to beckon us to today’s Hell somewhere in Germany.
This is like waiting for the curtain to go up on today’s melodrama of purgatory in the skies over Germany. Who will die today in the fierce battles in the rarefied air? There is the thought of the many friends already lost in the conflict for the control of the air space over Europe. We were amateurs who learned quickly a warrior’s lessons in a hard and bitter school. An instructor once said: "A man who has to be convinced to respond before he acts is not a man of action." To survive we must act as we breathe.
Grimly the doors to the briefing room swing open. We are checked in by the Military Police. In the Briefing Room we are surrounded with the heavy smoke haze, plus the roaring sounds of loud conversation. The body heat from fear elevates the temperature inside the room. People are sitting at every angle and posture. Some are sound asleep sitting up. Others are engaged in animated conversation. Still others stare blankly straight ahead.
We find our seats, having gone through this scenario several times like waiting for Act I of today’s "Play of Life." Only a small amount of red yarn remains outside the covered map, telling us we are scheduled for a long mission. All too soon there is a command, "A-TEN-SUN!" Everyone scrambles to their feet for the parading entourage of the base executive staff, in their class A uniforms, strutting on the scene. I think, "What an entrance," as I notice a smirk on the ground pounders’ faces. Tonight they will be counting the planes as they wait for those of us who make it back.
Suddenly the curtain rises on the day’s episode with the usual chorus of oohs and aahs. We all follow the red yarn from Polebrook marking the circuitous course across the North Sea, over Holland, missing Bremen, Hanover and Magdeburg, ending at Berlin. This is the third time we have been briefed for Berlin. Twice we waited on the flight line for three hours and then had the mission scrubbed.
Nobody likes going to Berlin as this is probably the best defended target in Germany. We are advised that our little friends (P-51s) will be escorting us all the way with a roving patrol.
Everyone is sitting up attentively listening to the intelligence officer describe the mission. There is no lack of attention, as his instructions can mean the difference between life and death for us. There is an instantaneous feeling of immense doom with fear spreading through the briefing room. We try not to look at one another. Who will be among the missing tonight? How many crews will get it today?
The Intelligence Officer advises us: "The flak should be light en route although we will pick up some in the vicinity of Hanover. The target will be defended by about 500 88mm antiaircraft guns. The gun crews are very good. We will be under controlled antiaircraft fire from the flak for seven minutes on the IP. This will be an invasion of their capital so the enemy fighters will be persistent and aggressive. Fighters will try to break up the formation with large head-on attacks. Don’t panic and try to dodge. This will leave you wide open if you straggle. Always stay in the tight defensive diamond formations. Should someone ahead of you get knocked out of the formation, immediately move into his place. The plane has either been hit or is going down as it begins to straggle.
The weather officer takes the stage, telling us: The weather is lousy. Visibility is now down to a quarter-mile but he assures us it will be up to a mile by takeoff. It is a lot better when we can see while rolling down the 6,000-foot runway. The plane is pregnant with the hell of bombs and 3,000 gallons of 100-octane flaming inferno. The majority of the crew members leave the Briefing Room but some wait. They soon assemble in little groups as men slip to their knees before their chaplains – Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish. There are almost no non-believers.
We pick up our flimsies for specific instructions and proceed to the ready room where we don the necessary gear to keep us warm in minus 60 degree temperatures and oxygen masks to keep us alive at 30,000 feet. The parachutes for an emergency trip to mother earth if the Germans were to clip our wings. Today we catch a truck with enough room for our gear. Trying to get everything on a jeep to take us out to the plane is a little crowded for 10 men. Is this a good omen?
The Crew Chief quickly briefs us on the condition of the plane, then we run the props through. While the gunners are installing their .50-caliber machine guns, gas trucks top off our tanks. It is now time for the final P-call (Make our bladders gladder). Everyone reviews their check-off sheets and loads extra ammunition. Briefing has told us we will have fighter cover, but you never know. All too soon there is the green flare to start engines and we know the mission is on.
The ground crews are still on the hardstand calling out "Good luck, hope it’s a milk run!" They are the heart and soul that keep us flying. They have been up for hours getting the plane ready, but in their tired eyes and oil-spattered clothes there is the look of anxious men. We are their crew, and they have given their utmost sweat and toil to their airplane. These same men will be at the hardstand at least an hour before the mission is to return, counting the planes. There is always excitement and relief when their plane comes home. However, the ground crew will also watch the sky in vain. They will be seen finally walking slowly back to their bunks scuffing their feet on the ground because they are sick deep inside.
As crew moves to their stations the plane abruptly becomes alive. She sits majestically on her wheels and tail gear even though the wings are not yet grasping the air as it slides over them. The plane is interlaced with control cables, electrical, communication lines, and oxygen system. In the air all these parts come together as a single individual like the parts of a human body. It becomes a single, living, breathing, and flying creature.
We gun the engines and the heavy bomber moves forward off the hardstand onto the perimeter track. We are a hulking shape in the light mist as we fall in behind a bomber with another one falling in behind us. We are nose to tail with the brakes squealing in protest, advancing and throttling back on power progressing to the end of the runway in ungainly fashion. There is a final squeal of brakes as we turn on a 45-degree angle to run up our engines prior to swinging on the runway for takeoff (we take off in 20-second intervals). We line up on to the runway and all four throttles are slowly advanced to the firewall. The roar becomes a sonorous scream as we release the brakes and begin to roll.
The B-17 gathers speed like a big rock rolling downhill as the border lights on the runway stretch off into the mist. The airspeed indicator creeps up to 50 mph and without warning you see the runway lights starting to turn red as we approach the end of the runway.
Suddenly the rough feeling of the runway vanishes and we are in the air as the wheels come up clearing the trees at the end of the runway. There is a thin blue smoke from the engines indicating full power. We are shortly climbing at 500 feet a minute heading for the buncher (this forms a vertical radio direction signal cone to a specific location on the ground) to form up. There is a feeling of exhilaration sweeping over the crew having completed another hazardous and successful takeoff. Instantly the intercom bursts with chatter from the crew wisecracking and telling old jokes. At 6,500 feet we break into the dazzling bright sunlight (we used to say the only time we saw the sun was when we flew over the clouds). We are in a spotless arena with the white clouds like cotton stretching everywhere. We have been flung from the misty world of the earth into space that is strange and awesome. All that exists below is a distant thing, as this is our domain. There is no sense of movement, no feeling of rushing through the air as we climb to 20,000 feet over the Kings Cliff Buncher to form up.
We soon find the lead ship for our group and settle into our allotted position. All too soon the formation turns east and heads for Europe. Below is the English Channel and ahead there is the outline of the Zuider Zee. As we enter Germany from Holland we are alerted there are fighters in the area.
Soon there is the familiar "Bandits – Nine O’clock high" from the top turret. What once were specks in the distant horizon move in on us, as everybody holds their breath in anticipation of an attack. Shortly there is a sudden sigh of relief as they turn out to be our little friends in beautiful P-51s. It isn’t long until the waist reports our little friends are peeling off. The radio operator reports another group is under attack by German fighters. We soon see the P-51s again weaving in and out around our formation. We can tell they haven’t mixed it up with any German fighters because they still have their drop tanks. (We later learned that 8th Air Force command had changed the tactics of the fighters. Their primary mission was no longer flying cover for the bombers, but instead we were used as decoys. In this way the fighters could destroy the Luftwaffe, reducing that menace from the skies for the overall military action in Europe).
Without warning we see them drop their tanks and disappear as we approach the IP for our bomb run.
As we turn on the bomb run over Berlin the bomb path to the target is a continuous black forbidden path of bursting antiaircraft fire. Time never moves as the six minutes that elapse for the bomb run seem to go on for a lifetime. Vigorously we feel the plane lurch upward and we hear the accustomed announcement from the bombardier, "Bombs away!" Our five tons of destruction are on their way to the target in Berlin.
We immediately switch the controls back from the bombsight (the plane during the bomb run is controlled by the adjustments of the bombsight). The Pilot tells the Co-pilot it is all his and the Co-Pilot raises his hands palm up to indicate he has the control of the plane. It is easier for him to make such a turn from his right-hand seat. He starts the slow turn to the right away from the target.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there leaps a bright flame and an astonishing release of energy. This is followed immediately by a tremendous staggering slap of concussion. It pulsates with a flashing of fantastic lights. Without warning a wide tear becomes visible in the right wing around the No. 3 engine. You are terrified; your whole being is totally intimidated. You feel as if your soul has escaped from your body. You can see and feel the darkness closing in around you. Everything seems to be standing on the edge of a huge black void as the universe fades in the distance.
Time is standing still as everything is in slow motion. The plane begins shaking and trembling from the nose to the tail. She immediately begins a graceful slide on the right wing approaching dangerously near the adjoining fortress. Frantically the other pilot pushes down hard on his rudder, skidding out of the way with only a second to spare. Immediately you grab the controls, desperately trying to bring the plane out of the slide while bypassing other planes in the formation and trying to keep the plane flying. With all your strength you are barely able to move the controls. Reaching for the feathering button for the No. 3 engine, you unexpectedly see the spray of brains, bones, tissue and blood spattered over the right side of the cockpit. What is left of the Co-Pilot lays pitched over the control column. With the bile rising in your throat you soon are choking in your oxygen mask. Swallowing hard on the gushing bile, there is no way you allow yourself to give in. The plane must be kept flying. Soon the Navigator is on the flight deck trying to move the Co-Pilot slumped over the control column. With all that dead weight on the control column it is impossible to hold the plane for very long. Soon we are behind and below the formation – losing altitude at about 500 feet a minute and in level flight. The power to the engines is increased, but No. 3 is windmilling, as it will not feather. No. 4 is smoking and trying hard to run. The first thing is to keep this bird flying, the second to try to see what damage we have and who is hurt. The Navigator pulls what is left of the Co-Pilot from the control column. Then the trim tabs are set, but the horrendous vibrations from No. 3 windmilling continue. Switching the autopilot back on, I can see the Group above and ahead of us in the distance. We are alone and totally exposed; it is like slowly running down the interstate with no clothes on. There is a cloud cover at about 20,000 feet so we let down into the friendly clouds.
As we are descending everyone is checking in – Radio OK, Ball Turret OK, Left Waist OK, Tail OK. Left Waist says the other Waist was hit and is checking him out. There is no response from the Bombardier or the Top Turret. The Navigator says the Bombardier is dead as he had taken a hit on his upper torso, which was totally shattered. The Radio Operator checks out the Top Turret. The Ball stays where he is to assess the damage as far as he can see. Radio soon tells us the Top Turret was demolished with the Engineer dead. Waist comes back and advises the Right Waist had taken a hit on the front of his flak suit. This had totally opened up the front of him; death was instantaneous. The Radio Operator announces our oxygen system has also been damaged and we are losing oxygen.
The Ball Turret advises the area all around No. 3 engine is shattered with the skin peeled back revealing the struts all along the wing root. Oil is coming out of No. 3 engine; however, there is no sign of fire. No. 4 engine is smoking, but he can’t tell where the smoke is coming from. The right wheel is dangling, with a red liquid pouring out which appears to be hydraulic fluid.
Losing our oxygen leaves us no choice but to descend to a lower altitude. We pass through 14,000 to 12,000 feet with a sigh of relief as we remove our oxygen masks. We break out of the clouds right after passing through 10,000 feet. Unexpectedly the vibration from No. 3 engine stops as the engine has frozen and the prop twisted off with no additional damage.
When we level out at 8,000 feet the No. 4 engine gives up the ghost and quits. This time the feathering works. We are unable to transfer any fuel from the right wing tanks so we lean the mixture control on the No. 1 and 2 engines almost to detonation. The Tail Gunner without warning calls out, "Fighters at five o’clock high!" and we think, "Here we go." We are well aware the Luftwaffe always looked for cripples trying to get home, as they are easy game. In a short time the Tail Gunner advises they are two P-51s, our little friends.
Even with increased power the two engines are not maintaining altitude as we keep slipping lower. It is time to jettison everything loose in the plane as it is a long way home from Berlin. All the guns, ammunition, flak vests, including anything loose are dumped out. We do keep our Mae West life jackets on. The Radio Operator notifies wing and the coastal stations we are limping home on two engines. Our little friends stay with us, then after while are replaced by a Spitfire. If we can keep the plane flying maybe we can get to England.
We are continuing to lose altitude and it is obvious we will not have enough fuel to get to England. Time to make some very basic decisions. Should we bail out now at a safe altitude, or try to go as far as we can, maybe ditching in the Channel? There is a chance on bailing out of ending up a prisoner of the Germans.
As a crew we have always been outspoken and everyone has had their say. The crew is unanimous in its decision to continue on. All of us would rather take a chance on the channel than on the Germans. We have heard many horror stories of the treatment and murder of prisoners by German civilians. I believe, also, to a man we were thinking of our dead buddies and if there is anyway possible let’s get them home. Our altitude is now 2,500 feet, and it appears we would be on fumes when we reach the coast. We still have our little friends keeping tabs on us and so far no enemy fighters have shown up. Everyone checks again to see what else is loose we can throw out. Radio advises us Group acknowledged that we were limping home on two engines and short on fuel. They have alerted Air Sea Rescue, and in the event we ditch we should give the "Mayday" call and tie down the radio key for a fix.
Finally the coast is in sight and we are down to 600 feet with the fuel gauges on the peg for empty. We have all discussed the crash positions we would assume when ready to ditch. The Navigator staying as Co-Pilot, and the Ball Turret Gunner acting as the Engineer remaining on the flight deck. Radio, Waist, and Tail will assume a crash position sitting in the radio room with their backs to the door.
We have all agreed we will get as far as we can and then try to land in a trough. The seas appear quite calm although there is a swell running like the ocean at home. All too soon the red warning lights come on, then the fuel pressure drops. The crew is warned and Radio begins his "Mayday" call, then ties down the radio key. We turn into the trough and drop our air speed to about 90. We begin the flair to kill the lift and get the tail down so we don’t submarine when the engines quit.
Without warning we hit the water with a giant belly flop. We pull the release for the window. The Ball Turret Gunner pulls the release for the life raft as the three of us scramble out on the wing. The life raft inflates from the CO-2 cylinders, but soon starts to crumple from the holes in it. The other three scrambling out of the hatch from the radio room join us. We all pull the CO-2 releases on our Mae Wests, this time in earnest. Perceptibly the nose and wing are sinking, so there is nothing left but to get into the water. (I can still remember the bitter frigid temperature of that water. I thought the Puget Sound was cold.)
We assemble in the water as we watch the plane disappear beneath the waves into a watery grave for the remains of our friends and comrades.
Radio assures us Air Sea Rescue had a positive fix on our location. The choppy water we had noticed now is three- to four-foot whitecaps. It isn’t too long until a huge rough wave breaks over us, splitting us apart. It doesn’t take too long for the numbing cold to begin to take its effect. You keep beating the water to keep the circulation going, but nevertheless can feel a total numbing sensation. The wind is bitter and I can feel the ice actually forming on my face, but no way is this going to beat me. I end up totally frozen to the backbone and halfway to the marrow. There are occasional glances at the top of the waves of the other yellow patches in the sea. Are they just blobs of yellow holding a frozen body or are they alive? As I put faces to the members of the crew it is difficult to imagine they will no longer be wisecracking and telling old jokes. How many times have all of us said: "Crash and burn on takeoff," or as we landed, "Cheated death again"? I remember vividly how we all came together as a crew such a long time ago in Tampa, Florida. Now, there will be no more.
After about 30 minutes an Air Sea Rescue boat appears and throws us a line. As they pull me aboard I am given a warm heavy woolen coat, which reaches down to my knees. Then I am ushered to a small, very warm cabin. With huge smiles, there are the Navigator, Ball Turret Gunner, and Radio Operator. Air Sea Rescue spends another 30 minutes looking for the other two crewmen and talking to two Spitfires circling the area. The wind has picked up and the waves are now about six feet high, making further search impossible. The Waist Gunner and Tail Gunner are lost to us forever.
There has never been enough said of these people in Air Sea Rescue for their efforts of compassion and bravery in rescuing others and us during the air war over Europe.
After three days of getting us warmed up we are returned to our base. They are very surprised to see us. The reports they had indicated we had been lost in the Channel and they had rolled our beds up. My mother has received a "Missing in Action" telegram from the War Department.
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