My father fought in World War II. He was the radio operator on a B-17 bomber. Actually, it was three B-17 bombers. Though there were successful missions in between, all three planes were shot down.
The first was hit after the target was bombed. Consecutive anti-aircraft bursts almost cut the plane in half from end to end, allowing the wings to actually flap like a bird. The pilot got it back to base, where he touched down with no landing gear. Inexplicably, all on board were safe, but the plane was a total loss.
The second plane had engine failure, midway across the boot of Italy, and returned to base. Standard operating procedure required that all bombs were to be jettisoned, prior to landing. All the bombs fell away, except for one. It got tangled in cables by its own stabilizer fins. The release triggered the arming mechanism. The bomb was live. No effort to dislodge it was successful. To make matters worse, it was soon realized by the crew that the nose of the bomb, the end with the detonator, was hanging beneath the plane, lower than the landing gear would reach. The bomb would touch before the wheels. My father remembered the co-pilot joking over the plane’s com system, “You know, if that bomb touches first and explodes, it could cause a flat tire, and they’ll charge us for it.” With only one engine, the best altitude the pilot could maintain was a few hundred feet, too low for parachutes to have time to open, so jumping was not an option. The pilot dropped the landing gear, then guided the plane in, tilted to one side, so one wheel could touch the ground, but keep the bomb safely in the air. As the pilot held this posture for hundreds of feet, he ordered the crew, “Now or never, boys. Jump and roll.” They did. Everybody but the pilot got out safely, though bruised. When the pilot was sure the whole crew was out, he let the plane level off. The bomb hit the ground with the explosion causing far more destruction than a flat tire. The entire mid-section was destroyed. Only two parts remained. The tail section, unblemished, looked as if it was still flying. The nose, including the cockpit, were thrown another three hundred feet down the runway, coming to rest with the pilot safe, his only ‘wound’ being a loud ringing in his ears for several days.
Plane number three? This was the life changer for my father. CONTINUE READING
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