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Dad is front row, 2nd from right - John H. Jones, right waist gunner
A Hairy Day
The B-17 bomber was not a glider, but it was not a brick either. I found this out on a cold, damp 22nd of February, 1944…
We had been on a trip to Bernberg – halfway across Germany. Our task: to deliver a load of 500-pound bombs on an aircraft assembly plant. In this, we were successful with 90% of our calling cards square on target. Our group of 18 airplanes was in tight, well-formed order. We were to release our cargo by “toggling” on the lead ship in the formation. So, when the lead bombardier said, “drop” (the bombs) we did, and with good result.
This, usually was the climax on a mission. When we turned away after the drop and toward our base in England, antiaircraft (“flak”) bursts stopped. Enemy fighters devoted their attention to the slower, more dangerous, arriving bombers. Although alert and ready, we crew members could relax a little on the trip home.
(Things get hairy below the fold)
This was my 8th mission of the 30 required for a tour; this number was recently increased from the 25 originally set. It was only the second (and destined to be the last) we had flown together as a complete unit. Our crew had been put together in Ephrata, Washington, the previous June. Dexter (“Dex”) Mason from DeKalb, Illinois, was our pilot. The co-pilot, Joseph Hall (we called him “booster pump”) was from Bluefield Kentucky. “Pappy” Richard Walsh, the bombardier hailed from St. Petersburg, Florida. Our navigator, Stansford (“get lost”) Fenley lived in Huston, Texas. Crew chief, flight engineer, and upper turret gunner, David “Dave” Perry was from upstate New York, Tarrytown. In the radio room, Wenceslaus Dobre “Teddy, the Polack,” was from Buffalo, New York. Hal “HD” Quisenberry, from Portland, Oregon, operated the ball turret. My fellow waist gunner, Bob Roberto” Cassieo came from Fort Castle, Pennsylvania. Finally, a razorback from Van Buren, Arkansas, C.C. Green, presided in the tail gunner position. We called him “two beers,” because that’s all it took to get him sleepy drunk. We had trained as a squadron (the 509th) along with three such squadrons, making up the 351st group.
This group, a new one, had started out in Montana. Training completed, we got our orders and few across the Atlantic via Iceland. After a weather delay in Iceland, we finally joined the 8th Air Force in late July, 1943. We, like many other groups, were stationed in midland England near Peterborough.
We were a close group as crew, but we had one thing after another get in the way of continuous flying together on missions.
Now on our way home, we climbed to 23,000 feet to get out of the way of arriving groups to the target, who were flying at 21,000. As we rumbled on, still in close formation, Fenley remarked on the intercom that “lead” (the lead ship of the group) was deviating from the course.
“That’s Brussels down there ahead of us,” he said.
I watched, from my right waist gun position, as the city began to move beneath the wing. A third of the city had appeared before a storm of black, red-centered flak puffs began exploding among us. They had waited until we were dead in their sights before firing. Their aim was deadly. The sound of bursts was a “THWAACK” followed immediately by pings and plunks as pieces of shrapnel hit the plane.
All aircraft in the group, in the face of such accurate fire, took violent evasive action.
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Depending on their location in the formation, ships around us dived, pulled up sharply, or banked in high wingovers, seemingly out of control. We scattered in all directions. (I later learned that in that first burst of grouped AA shells, five planes were put out of action.) We suddenly were alone, down to 15,000 feet. Looking around, I saw daylight through dozens of holes, from pencil size, to those you could have put a fist through. The intercom went out. No communication. I checked the tail and radio operator. OK. Cassieo was standing at his post, holding his left arm, which was seeping blood. I helped him apply a tight pressure bandage from his first aid kit, and then checked the ball (ball turret). It was moving and got an answering “OK” rap when I knocked on it.
When I got up front – trouble. Perry was down with a leg wound and being helped by Fenley. Pappy was working on Dex who apparently was hurt bad. Joe was at the controls and helping Pappy as he could. The left side of the cockpit was crushed in around the pilot; most of the front window was gone above that position. A cold blast of air made it almost impossible to stand up. Joe nodded that he was all right. Pappy finally found enough space to get some morphine into Dex’s arm. Yelling at each other, we decided to get Perry back through the bomb bay to the radio room where he could lie down, and then Fenley would man the upper turret. I went back to my station to be on the lookout for fighters. We were at risk in our crippled condition.
The intercom suddenly reawakened. A round of reports confirmed our status. Joe reported that we were gradually losing altitude, getting less than full power on the engines, no hydraulics and only the compass to instruments. He said the engine gauges were flopping all over the dials. However, we were moving along and the control surfaces were apparently undamaged since Joe could steer the ship, albeit sluggishly.
“OK,” Joe said. “Let’s stay with her as long as we can and get home.”
All out us were fearful of bailing out of the airplane. We also knew the punishments the “Forts” (B-17 bombers) could take. We had seen them land with wing tips and vertical stabilizers gone, with a giant bite out of the fuselage, or with only two engines.
We continued to lose altitude as we crossed Holland. We could feel the ship was hurting. By the time we reached the welcome sight of the English Channel, we were down to 1,000 feet. The coast of England slowly slid toward us. Then, we were over safe territory. Yea!
“Can we make it to base?” came over the intercom.
“We seem to be getting no lower,” Joe said. “Let’s keep going.” Then, “I think we are losing number 1 and 3 (engines),” he said. “I need some help getting her down, I can’t see out the windshield, it’s covered with something.”
“There’s a base right down there, over to the right,” Fenley said, “put us in there.”
“Yeah, I think I can see a little of it out the window here,” Joe said, “we’ll give it a go.” This last a phony British accent, as a force of habit. Joe liked to mock the way they talked.
Joe got the ship racked around on the right heading, hopefully, for the runway. Walsh started firing-off red flares, the signal to show all concerned that we were in distress with wounded aboard. Teddy and Fenley took turns trying to raise somebody on the radio. We got no response. Kept trying.
With no gear or hydraulics, the usual procedure was to use the crank to lower the wheels. We decided that was not an option due to the power loss. Increased drag with the gear down might be too much to handle. We decided to go in “wheels-up” or “belly land.” For such a crash landing, the safest place to be was in the radio section, the part of the airplane most likely to stay in one piece in the event of a break-up.
“OK,” Joe said, “everybody get in there, we’re going in. I’m down to about 500, I think.”
Smith and HD, who had gotten the ball retracted and in stowed-position, helped get Bob, still dazed and dopey from the morphine, get past me into the radio room. The officers cradled Dave and Bob as they lined up together in sitting position for landing. Teddy was still trying to raise somebody on the radio. Dex had to be left behind. We could not get him free from his metal bondage.
For some reason I can’t remember, I stayed at the waist window. I could see out. I told Joe I was there; did he want me to help him in? He said OK, and that he could not judge the landing very well with almost all-forward vision obscured. By then, we were below 500 feet. The base buildings flashed by beneath us and lost of green field ahead. It seemed a dream – everything in slow motion. I started calling out to Joe my estimate of height: 400 feet, 300 feet, 75 feet. We seem to float slowly along and very gently.
“Chop your power and let her find her way,” I told Joe. (“Where did I get this sudden flight knowledge?” I asked myself. “Oh hell, might as well keep it up.”)
Then we were at 15 feet. She floated. Ten feet, she sighed a little and continued to settle, oh so slow.
“You got it,” I cried, and jumped quickly-slowly into the section with the others (or on top of them) amid frowns.
She brushed the earth. The ball turret, the lowest part of the ship on wheels-up, jerked and jumped into the waist bay. The tail section dragged, then she gently nosed down and started to slide; perfect, beautiful, textbook. We scrambled out with fire extinguishers so fast it seemed we stood waiting for the ship to come to us. Smoke, flying glass, mud, no fire, jeeps, trucks and ambulances coming out way. Joe, finally getting the side window in the cockpit open, crawled out.
“We did it, we made it, Jonsey,” he said.
“Damn right,” I replied.
Hosts of personnel swarmed around the plane, taking care of the wounded and cutting Dex free. Severe knee injury and other, we were informed.
I stood wondering. “I’m alive, I’m not dead, and I’m not even hurt. Praise God!”
Later, after extensive debriefing and several slugs of scotch whiskey, we went back and looked.
3,600 flak holes! With her four bent props, muddy sides, and jagged wounds she still looked graceful and beautiful.
[Dad joined the Air Force in 1941, at the age of 19. After the war, in 1946, he was able to go to school on the GI bill, something he was always grateful for:
“I don’t know who was responsible for the idea of the “G I Bill,” but I hope his/her heavenly rewards are infinitely extended. But for the GI Bill, which funded my education, I would be driving some farmer’s manure spreader or employed as a camel walker.”
It wasn’t until his death, in 2006, at the age of 85, I learned from reading his discharge papers that he’d joined the Air Force with just a 3rd grade education. He earned his Master’s Degree and worked his entire career for the Colorado State government, in the department of child welfare.
He wrote “A Hairy Day” and other memoirs, a year before he died.
I am sad and happy to remember you, Dad, this Memorial Day.
John H. Jones, doing the Mashed Potato in heaven.]