The Doomed Fortresses

Gonna employ a little Keep it Fair here and ignore WP’s lame Memorial Day prompt.

Instead, a little story about my Dad and how but for the vagaries of war, I might not be here.

Pop had spent months training as an Army Air Corps pilot. He and his group of pilot friends had gone through cadet training, then more advanced training on a series of military aircraft. They eventually qualified on the B-17 Flying Fortress and were destined for the European Theater, where they would replace a certain squadron within the Eighth Air Force.

Just before deployment, their commander assembled them and looked at a clipboard with an alphabetized list of names. He called the first two names on the list, my Dad and his friend Al Bolton. They stepped forward.

Their commander spoke. “You two are headed to California. They need two replacement B-29 pilots. Report for training in three days.”

Naturally, they wanted to stay with their friends and grumbled; but a look from their commanding officer was enough to silence them and send them packing.

Meanwhile, in the skies over wartime Europe, the Eighth Air Force was reeling under heavy losses. 26,000 men were killed, more casualties suffered than the entire US Marine Corps. Of the 12,700 B-17s manufactured, 4,700 (37%) were destroyed in combat.

After a raid, a crippled B-17 with only two of four engines working was trying to get home to England. It was barely aloft, maintaining its course and altitude only by the skill and determination of the pilot and crew. They were almost to the English Channel when they were intercepted by a German fighter. The German pilot, in his fleece-lined jacket and headphones, flew close alongside. He motioned downward with gloved hand: drop your landing gear and surrender.

The pilot had no choice but to turn around and head back to Germany. The crew would spend the rest of the war in a POW camp.

As they were flying, the flight engineer was finally able to coax a third engine back to life. They could make it back to England. He informed the pilot, who then had the difficult decision to make of either observing wartime honor or living to fight another day.

The Messerschmitt pilot had radioed back information about the captured B-17; its unique numbers, colors, and geometric markings that identified its squadron, group, and place in the aerial armada. Without warning, gunners in the B-17 opened fire on the unsuspecting German who burst into flames and spiraled down. The B-17 turned and limped back to England.

Understandably, the Germans were furious. Over the next several weeks, they singled out B-17s with the same markings as the B-17 who had shot down their friend. The doomed squadron suffered nearly a 100% loss.

It was this squadron to which my dad and Al Bolton were to have been assigned. But for the chance call at the last minute, they would have headed off to England and almost certain death….and I would not be writing this.

Thinking today about Pop…Al Bolton…the guys in the doomed squadron …and all who gave their lives in service or served. Thank you for our freedom.