Some Gave All:

By Cheryl Pula

Some Gave All is the final book in the amazing 8th Air Force series by Cheryl Pula. This book wraps up at the end of the war and gives readers an insight into where our heroes ended up after the war was over.

“Cheryl Pula has done a magnificent job portraying our Bomber Boys from the 8th Air Force during WWII. What a great ending and tribute to the men and women of our Armed Service during this period of US history. Hats-off Cheryl, job well done.” Joe Shay former Captain World Airways, Sherrill, NY
“After reading the final book in this series I came away saddened. I felt I had just said good-bye to dear friends who I came to love.” Steve Rowlands, U.S.A.F 1973-1977

“The epilogue section describing these people's lives after the war makes them real, especially after we’ve come to know and care about them in combat." Adrien M. Synnott SSG (RETE) ARNG.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Pula
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310547188

Cheryl Pula

Biography: A native of New York Mills, New York, Cheryl Pula is a retired Reference Librarian with a B.A. degree in Russian Language and a minor in German. Though officially retired in August 2011, she now works part-time at the New York Mills Public Library in New York Mills, NY. Cheryl also does extensive speaking engagements throughout New York and is available to speak at your next event. For more information, e-mail [e-mail] or visit her website at http://www.8thmilitary.com. She has taught courses on unsolved historical mysteries; the American Civil War; World War II; The Titanic and several other topics. A founding member of the New York Mills Historical Society. She is also the founder, current secretary and newsletter editor of the General Daniel Butterfield Civil War Round Table in New York Mills. She is an honorary member of the Memphis Belle Memorial Association of Memphis, Tennessee. Cheryl is also a charter member of the Writer’s Club of Bridgeport, New York. She is known around central New York for presenting a number of historical lectures (90 to be exact!) on topics from the Titanic to the first moon landing in July 1969. Cheryl was elected “Historian of the Year” by the Oneida County Historian’s Association in 2006. In 2010, she was listed in Who’s Who In America. She is also the author of the series of novels about Eighth Air Force B-17 bomber crews in World War II England. The first book in the series is, The Children’s Crusade, published by Whitehall Publishing. This is the seventh in the series. She has also compiled a series of books that bring together some of the most compelling and interesting mysteries in our history. The series is called, It’s A Mystery with the first and second volumes already published and more to follow. Cheryl is also a national speaker. To learn more about Cheryl Pula or to schedule her to speak at your next event, we invite you to visit her website at: http://8thmilitary.comTo arrange to have Cheryl at your next event as a Keynote Speaker, e-mail [e-mail] or visit her website at: http://www.8thmilitary.com.

Book preview

Dedication

To the Greatest Generation, Army, Army Air Force

Navy, Marines, Coast Guard or Merchant Marine:

Thank you for the freedom we enjoy today

"Courage is the price that life exacts

for granting peace."

---Amelia Earhart

Introduction

Some Gave All is the eighth and final book in

The Eighth Air Force series.

All events in this series are based on actual occurrences

experienced by people I personally interviewed

while conducting my research.

It was my privilege to spend time with these

Veterans and my honor to share their stories in this fictional work.

On December 16, 1944, the Allies were sent reeling by a major German offensive through the Ardennes Forest in Belgium, what the newspapers in the United State quickly dubbed the Battle of the Bulge after the shape of the offensive when drawn on a map. Allied ground forces scrambled to meet the threat. Just after Christmas, the U.S. Third Army under the command of General George S. Patton relieved the 101st Airborne holding on heroically in the city of Bastogne.

Now, in mid-January 1945, the enemy was retreating back into Germany, defeated perhaps as much by the lack of fuel for their tanks as by the Allied forces in general. The Eighth Air Force, nicknamed The Mighty Eighth by the American news media, was aiding the ground forces in their fight to push the Germans back. Cargo planes dropped supplies and the fighters and bombers carried the war to the enemy, more and more often into the heart of Germany itself.

The 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy) stationed at Bassingbourn, Cambridgeshire, England, was on the way to bomb a launch facility for the infamous V-2 supersonic rocket, located in Nordhausen, Germany. The 92nd Bombardment Group (Heavy) from Podington was leading the strike force, but the 91st was the second high Group in the strike, led by their Air Exec Major Jack Harrington and his B-17 G named Full House. It was manned by the most veteran crew at Bassingbourn, average age 22.5 years. They knew they would face heavy enemy opposition in both German fighter cover and anti-aircraft fire on the way to and from the target. Currently over the eastern English Channel, they spotted what they thought was the vanguard of the enemy fighters, but looked like nothing more than a bright orange light ahead, which didn’t seem to be moving. When challenged by a swift American P-51 Mustang fighter, the strange light took off at a high rate of speed, faster than even the speeding Mustang, headed directly toward Full House in the lead of the 91st.

Since the bomber was on the inbound leg of its mission, it could not take any sort of evasive action and Jack and his crew could only watch in fear as the bright light of the rapidly approaching aircraft came directly toward them on a collision course that they could not possibly hope to avoid.

Monday, 15 January 1945

Over the Straits of Dover

1015 Hours (10:15 AM)

They were over that area of the English Channel known as the Straits of Dover, and just completed an eastward turn, well on their way to the target, a V-2 rocket launch facility located outside of Nordhausen in central Germany. Half of the sky was dominated by ugly grayish-white clouds, threatening wintry January snow. Many of the United States Army’s Eighth Air Force missions scheduled in support of the ground troops trying to beat back the German advance through the Ardennes Forest had been canceled before they began due to the inclement weather. The cloud cover today was not complete, so the bombardiers would be able to see the target. Everyone in the strike force knew the bombardiers could drop their ordnance without having actual visual acquisition, because the Norden bombsight would tell them when it was time. But there wasn’t a bombardier in the 91st or the Army Air Force who would willingly bomb a target without seeing it with their own eyes. The meteorologists predicted snow in the late afternoon, but those flying the mission were assured it wouldn’t interfere with the sortie to the V-2 launch site. For the 91st and the other elements in the strike force, the 92nd and the 100th Bomb Groups, it was one less factor to cause concern. They were more worried about the fighters and flak they had yet to encounter, which was predicted to be very heavy.

In the nose of the B-17 G Full House, 25 year-old Captain Dale Kennedy studied his map intently. Through his continued calculations, the navigator estimated it wouldn’t be long before they saw the first enemy fighters, probably within the next few moments. They were venturing deep into Germany, though it would take only two and a half to three hours to reach Nordhausen from their home base at Bassingbourn, depending on the wind and other factors. The entire mission would take between five and six hours, which wasn’t the longest they’d ever flown, but it was plenty long enough for Dale. Like everyone else, he would much prefer to be back in Cambridgeshire, but he didn’t have a vote in the matter, and neither did the rest of the air crews flying in the three bomb groups that comprised the strike force.

He got up slightly from his navigator’s position and took a quick glance out of the small window above his table. He couldn’t see much except the port wing and engines one and two, but what he could see below wasn’t inviting. The water was grayish-green rather than dark blue as it usually was when the sky was clear in the summer, and since it was January, Dale knew the water was ice cold. It was choppy, which meant it was windy, a major factor in his bombardier’s calculations to drop their ordnance.

Dale glanced toward the bombardier’s position in the very tip of the Plexiglas nose, the forward most position on the bomber, and noted that First Lieutenant Jesse Nowakowski, 22, was studying his instrument panel on the port side, checking exactly what the navigator had thought about, the current wind direction and speed. The bombardier bent over his Norden and made a slight adjustment, then looked back at the instruments. Jesse would make many more such minute adjustments to his bombsight, perhaps hundreds, before they actually reached their final destination.

The navigator sat back in his chair, and did what he always did whenever he took his seat, whether for the first time or the fifth or sixth during a flight. He glanced at the photograph of his wife Susan and daughter Jamie taped to the right side of the navigator’s window where he could see it throughout the entire mission. Dale checked his watch, then the gauge that told him their air speed, drew a red line with his grease pencil on the plastic overlay on his map, then made a notation in his navigator’s log.

Jack, on course, on time, he reported.

Roger, Major Jack Harrington, 25, acknowledged immediately from the pilot’s seat on the flight deck. He was the plane’s commanding officer, as well as the 91st Bomb Group’s Air Exec.

In the top turret, Flight Engineer T/Sergeant Keith McNeil, 26, was scanning the sky, alert for the German fighters that would be coming their way at any moment. He turned his turret from port to starboard. As he did, he caught sight of something in his peripheral vision to port, a quick flash of bright orange light. He turned the turret back to the left, so it was now facing forward. The sun wasn’t that bright, what with the gloomy, gray winter clouds, but even so he had to squint to determine what caused the flash, which he assumed was the glint of the sparse winter sun off of a canopy, though it was a strange color to be a reflection off glass. He’d seen more than enough of those types of flashes after flying bombing missions for over two years to know sunlight on a glass canopy was usually bright white, sometimes blindingly bright, especially in the middle of summer. What McNeil had to ascertain was whether the aircraft was friend or foe. He wasn’t the only one who saw it. Jesse in the tip of the nose also spotted it, as did Jack and his copilot, Captain Brian O’Rourke, 25.

Like McNeil, Jesse squinted, attempting to identify what type of aircraft was heading toward them, as it still had to be some distance away. All he could see was the flash of orange, but no discernable, distinct form. He was the bomber’s gunnery officer, intensely trained in aircraft recognition. Once the plane was in range, he’d be able to identify it. Oddly, as Jesse watched, expecting Full House and the unidentified airplane to close the distance, it did not seem that they were getting any nearer to each other. It was as if the distance between them remained constant, which meant the other plane had to be flying backwards. That was impossible. No airplane could fly backwards, yet the aircraft remained at the same distance. Jesse admonished himself. All it meant was that the other plane was further away than he originally calculated, and would begin to take on a more discernable and identifiable shape and form within the next few seconds. In a way, that also bothered him, because as a bombardier, he had always been able to accurately calculate distances between their plane and another craft or the target. It was part of his job to judge distances, but it seemed he’d miscalculated this time, as the distance wasn’t getting any closer. It was not just irritating, but truly puzzling.

Jack and Brian were also watching the orange light from the cockpit. They’d both flown many missions, and it didn’t seem at all like anything they’d seen before. It must obviously be an aircraft. It wasn’t a flak burst, as they hadn’t arrived in the area of the flak batteries yet, and when those shells burst, they left ugly black smudges. The smoke from the flak bursts also dissipated after a few moments, blown away by the wind and the prop wash from the bombers as they moved through the wispy, almost ethereal smudges. This light did not dissipate, but remained bright and constant.

It was the same with contrails, sometimes called vapor trails. At the altitudes where the bombers operated, between 24,000 and 26,000 feet on a normal bomb run, the hot gases emitted from their engines mixed with the frigid air to create white exhaust trails across the sky. The air at those altitudes was anywhere from forty to sixty below zero. Sometimes the contrails dissipated quickly, other times they lingered for quite a while depending on the winds at the particular altitude, the stronger the wind, the quicker the vapor trails vanished. If the winds weren’t that strong, they lingered. Regardless of how quickly the exhaust trails disappeared, they were long and white, not round and orange. What they were seeing was obviously not a contrail from another aircraft.

It might also be the exhaust flame from a German unmanned V-1 rocket, which everyone nicknamed the buzz bomb after the odd humming sound of its engine. Neither Jack nor Brian had ever seen a buzz bomb, so they didn’t know what it looked like in reality, but based on the descriptions they’d read, it couldn’t be that. As with an airplane, if it was a V-1, it should be moving and this wasn’t.

One person who actually had seen a V-1 with his own eyes was flying fifty feet to starboard and a little higher, on another B-17 G named Second Chance. The pilot, Captain Matt Moore, 23, was the 91st’s Deputy Lead and commander of the 324th Squadron. He was also Jack Harrington’s best friend. Watching the odd light, Matt knew with certainty that whatever it was, the orange light wasn’t a V-1. It wasn’t moving and it was round, not the way rocket exhaust would appear at all.

The same could be said for the supersonic V-2, which the Germans began using four months earlier in September ’44. Like the V-1, the V-2 left a distinctive v-shaped flame. Once it got going, the V-2 was faster than anything on earth, achieving speeds of 4,000 miles per hour on its downward trajectory. Matt was an aeronautical engineer, and knew without a doubt that the light he was seeing was neither of the German rockets.

Everyone who could see forward on Second Chance was also watching the odd light. In the top turret, Flight Engineer T/Sergeant Jim Mallory, 23, spotted it. In the cockpit, Matt’s copilot, First Lieutenant Morgan Chandler, 25, also had eyes on it, as did First Lieutenant Chris Cahill, 23, the bombardier stationed in the transparent nose. Behind him, First Lieutenant Mark Moreau, 24, the navigator, attempted to see the object, but the bombardier forward of him was blocking his view.

Is that a plane? Morgan asked, almost to himself.

Matt shook his head. No. It isn’t one of ours. If it’s a German fighter, where are the others? He wouldn’t be out here alone.

No, he wouldn’t, Morgan agreed. A scout?

A scout would have left the area once he saw us coming, Matt commented, still eying the odd orange light. It isn’t a rocket either.

Then what is it? Morgan asked.

Matt didn’t have an answer.

On Full House, Brian was also asking, Jack…what is that?

Jack shook his head. It’s like a bright navigation light, but it’s the wrong color. Navigation lights were either white, red or green depending on where they were located on the aircraft.

As they watched, one of their P-51 fighter escorts closed in on the light. Judging by the Mustang’s rate of closure, he was really traveling, probably near top speed. The P-51 could streak along at nearly 500 miles per hour, almost two and a half times faster than a cruising B-17. Strangely, the odd ball of light didn’t attempt any sort of evasive action. In fact, it appeared stationary, though they all knew that would be impossible. An aircraft needed forward momentum to remain in the air, it needed airflow over the wings to generate lift, yet this one seemed to be either moving very slowly or not moving at all.

The Mustang charged in, was within a few yards of the light, and it still hadn’t moved. The P-51 closed the range and got off a burst with its six .50 calibers in both wings. Almost as soon as the pilot hit the trigger, the orange stationary light suddenly zoomed out of the way, executing a fast, almost impossible maneuver to starboard, and headed straight for the nose of Full House.

Out of pure reflex and the instinct for self-preservation, Jesse hit the triggers of his chin turret, letting loose his own twin .50s. He could not comprehend the maneuver he’d just witnessed from the unknown craft. He’d been in combat since July ’43, and thought he’d seen everything the enemy fighters could do. This one turned almost on a dime, from seemingly standing still in the air to a ninety degree turn to the right at speeds greater than that of the pursuing Mustang. Even as Jesse hit the triggers, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot whatever it was. It was still out of range, but coming straight at them incredibly fast.

Behind him, Dale could just see past his bombardier, and watched tensely as the object streaked toward them on a direct collision course.

Jack and Brian saw it coming too, as did McNeil in the top turret, and knew there was nothing they could do to avoid a head-on collision. It was approaching too fast, and they had two planes to either side of them, Matt’s Second Chance to starboard, and Captain Bill Lindemann’s Nazi Hunter to port. With two B-17s that close, there was no possibility of taking evasive action. Even if they could, judging by the incredible rate of closure with the object, nothing they did would be fast enough to avoid a certain collision.

Jesse fired again, joined by McNeil. Jesse’s chin turret had two .50s as did McNeil’s top turret, so there were four .50 caliber Brownings trained on the quickly approaching enemy, yet it kept resolutely coming, straight at them. If they didn’t hit the aircraft or at least cause it to veer away to avoid their bullets, it would ram them head on. Their fire was totally ineffectual. The foe continued to streak toward them at incredible speed, heading directly toward Full House.

As Jack watched the thing zip toward them, the realization flashed through his mind that it was almost exactly a year before, January 24, 1944 that the original Full House was rammed and nearly taken down by a German fighter, which led to what everyone in the Eighth, as well as the American public, called the Bassingbourn Miracle. While the bomber had a diagonal gash that bisected her fuselage from port to starboard, Full House limped back to Bassingbourn and a successful landing. Ultimately the valiant plane did not survive. Even though she brought her crew home, she was too badly damaged, and was relegated to the status of hangar queen, useful only for spare parts. The current Full House was her replacement, named in honor of the first.

The truly miraculous thing about that incident the year before was that the crew survived even though the airplane didn’t. Now it appeared to Jack that they were about to be rammed again, not from the port side, but directly ahead. There was nothing he or Brian could do to avoid it. This time, hit head on, neither Full House nor her crew would survive.

For a fraction of a second, Jack tore his eyes from the fast approaching object to a picture of his wife taped to his instrument panel. Captain Marcia Meyers Harrington was an Army nurse on the medical staff in the infirmary at Podington, the home of the 92nd Bombardment Group (Heavy), the force that was now leading this day’s raid. Jack kept Marcia’s picture taped to the panel so he could see it, his way of having her with him on every mission. If they couldn’t shoot down the object or cause it to change course, his quick glance at that picture would be the last time he’d ever see his wife.

In his position behind the Norden bombsight, Jesse was still firing, but knew he could not hit the thing. It was approaching at unbelievable speed, and by now it should have a discernible shape. It didn’t, still appearing as an orange ball of bright light.

Behind him, Dale was watching with wide eyes. Without knowing he was doing it, he gripped the sides of his chart table with both hands until his knuckles inside his leather gloves were white from the tension. He knew it wouldn’t do one bit of good to clutch the table. It wouldn’t do anything to keep the object from hitting them. He’d been in combat since December ’42, and the worst he’d ever received were a few cuts and bruises. Now he was going to die, and it would be within the next few seconds.

Oh Jesus, Dale breathed helplessly, almost resignedly.

Only a couple feet forward of him, purely out of reflex, Jesse closed his eyes, waiting for the impact, knowing he would be the first to die. He didn’t want to see it. He prayed it would happen quickly and it wouldn’t hurt.

Jack and Brian braced themselves, though they knew it wouldn’t do one bit of good.

The orange light sped toward them and with just a few feet to go, seemingly in less time than it took to blink an eye, it gained altitude and zipped above Full House, clearing it by only a few scant feet.

In the top turret, McNeil ducked reflexively, then immediately turned his turret aft and watched as the orange light sped toward the remainder of the 91st.

S/Sergeant Joe Angelino, 23, didn’t know what had been occurring in the front of the plane, as he was the tail gunner in the rear, facing backward. It was a complete surprise to him when a quickly moving orange ball zoomed past overhead, then headed toward the remainder of the 91st, all packed together behind Full House.

What the hell…? he blurted inadvertently.

Joe, can you see it? An orange light? Jack asked quickly, surmising his tail gunner could see the thing.

Uh…yeah, Angelino said, still watching with wide eyes.

What’s it doing? Jack questioned intently.

Angelino watched it for a few seconds, still trying to determine just what he was seeing. "It’s…it’s zigzagging in and out between our guys. Damn…it’s so fast…"

Is it shooting at anyone? the pilot asked.

No…it doesn’t seem to be, Angelino said, now over his shocked surprise, his voice a little more under control. It looks almost like…it’s playing.

Playing? Brian repeated questioningly, as though he hadn’t heard correctly.

Yeah. It’s just zooming in an out…wait…Now it’s gone, he said, his voice carrying a strange tone.

Gone? Which direction? Jack questioned.

I…I’m not sure. It was there one minute…the next it was gone. It went so fuckin’ fast…I think it went to port, Angelino said, almost in disbelief.

To starboard, a little higher and fifty feet behind aboard Second Chance, Matt couldn’t believe what he saw. He and his entire crew watched as the orange light headed directly toward Full House. Matt thought the other plane would surely be rammed, as he knew Jack nor anyone else in the 91st could take evasive action while on the way to the target. At the last possible second, the orange light changed course and zoomed up and over the other bomber, missing it completely. No airplane could execute the type of maneuvers that the orange light exhibited, nor could anything they had achieve that speed. The bogey literally left the P-51 Mustang in the dust, which was hard to do, as the fighter was the fastest thing in the American aerial arsenal.

"What the hell was that?" Morgan asked incredulously from the copilot’s seat.

Damned if I know, Matt admitted truthfully.

Morgan stared at him. It was a very odd occasion when he heard Matt swear, not that damn was a really bad word. Morgan heard a lot worse since enlisting. Unlike some guys he knew in the Army who swore constantly, his commanding officer rarely did, and for Matt, damn was about as intense as it got.

Aboard Full House, Jesse and Dale were marveling that they were still alive. Neither of them could believe or even comprehend how the other craft missed them. In spite of what just happened, they could hear the conversation between the cockpit and Angelino, and knew that whatever it was had left and gone away…somewhere.

What do you think that was? T/Sergeant Greg Cerminaro, 21, the radio operator asked.

I thought it might be St. Elmo’s fire, but it doesn’t move, not like that, McNeil said.

Some sort of new Kraut weapon, Angelino suggested.

No, it didn’t shoot at us or anyone else, Brian said.

What didn’t? S/Sergeant Jim Robinson, 22, asked from the ball turret. From his position on the belly of the bomber, he hadn’t seen anything. All he could hear was the crew’s chatter.

What did you see? S/Sergeant Al Schulze, 22, asked from the port waist gunner’s position. Since the bogey went right over them, neither he nor S/Sergeant Tad Furmanski, 20, the starboard gunner, saw anything.

We’ll tell you later, Jack said. Keep an eye out for fighters.

Jack knew McNeil was right. The strange light couldn’t have been St. Elmo’s fire. That was a natural phenomenon, caused by electrical discharge in the air. It usually manifested itself around the rigging of ships at sea, or the wings and tails of airplanes during thunderstorms or other atmospheric disturbances. It seemed to cling to the ship or plane, but never moved by itself, and certainly never flew around on its own, executing impossible aerial maneuvers.

Jack had only seen St. Elmo’s fire once, and that was during Advanced Flight in Nebraska. He was on a practice flight with six other aircraft, flying solo without an instructor in a single-engine T-6 Texan trainer at approximately 9,000 feet. They’d taken off just after a Great Plains thunder and lightning storm moved through, so there was a lot of electrical discharge in the air. They flew into the outer fringes of the storm to practice flying in adverse weather conditions, so the plane’s wings quickly became wet with rain. After only flying about twenty minutes, a strange, almost ethereal soft blue glow began to form on the Texan’s wings until both were bathed in the fascinating phenomenon. Jack had never seen it before, but he knew what it was, as the instructors told the class that sometime, somewhere, it might be possible, given the right conditions that St. Elmo’s fire might pay a visit.

Ball lightning was another phenomenon that Jack considered. It was rare and while he’d never seen it, unlike St. Elmo’s fire, reports did say it moved, so that was a possible explanation. There was one thing that excluded both ball lightning and St. Elmo’s fire. Jack heard that ball lightning was usually white, and he knew from his own experience that St. Elmo’s fire glowed blue. Neither was orange.

The pilot pushed the thought of the strange bogey out of his mind. He had more pressing concerns, and that was the mission at hand. They could attempt to figure out what the orange light was once they returned safely to Bassingbourn and had a chance to debrief and talk it over.

Jesse tried to shake off his surprise at still being alive and breathing, and forced his attention back to his instruments. The mission wasn’t even half over yet and there were would be many more chances to die before this day was over. In only an instant, all thoughts of the strange encounter were pushed from his mind, and he studied the readings on his instrument panel. He turned back to the Norden bombsight and made a couple minute adjustments for a change in wind velocity and a slight variation in barometric pressure.

Dale checked his map. In five minutes they would be over the coast, and from there it was approximately thirty minutes to the target. If they were going directly to the target, it would be about fifteen minutes, but they were taking a longer approach to bypass some of the flak batteries, so they would come in south of the target, drop their ordnance, then fly a straighter course back toward England.

Twenty minutes to the IP, port two degrees, he reported, letting his pilot and bombardier know it was only a few minutes before the beginning of the bomb run.

Copy, Jack acknowledged and made the turn, noting at the same time that the lead Group, the 92nd, was also turning.

Roger, Jesse said shortly, his attention now entirely focused on his bombsight.

Since the target was almost a half hour away, the German fighters would probably harass them for twenty minutes or so. Once the flak began, the enemy planes would return to their base, refuel, rearm and get back up to attack the bombers on the way home. Dale checked his map again. The flak batteries were marked on the chart, and he could determine it would only be about fifteen minutes before the flak began. That morning, Captain Kelly Davenport, the S-2 Intelligence officer who gave them their pre-mission briefing, stressed they could expect heavy fighter cover and lots of flak, since their target was one of the primary German V-2 launch facilities. According to Dale’s calculations, they should be encountering the first enemy fighters at any time.

Bogeys, two o’clock. 109s, McNeil called at that second from the top turret. This time, he could tell that they were genuine, bona fide German fighters.

Brian looked to starboard, and saw them coming in fast. Rushing to intercept were several P-51s. Their briefing was correct. There were at least three squadrons of German planes, probably more. Even with the prior warning, he was still surprised to see that many 109s coming at them. Kelly warned them to be aware that the fighter cover between them and the target would be heavy, but Brian thought he was just being overly cautious. Other S-2s at previous briefings talked about Allied air supremacy over the continent and little chance for significant Luftwaffe opposition, so Brian believed it. Now he could plainly see Kelly wasn’t being cautious in the least. He was right. Brian wouldn’t be surprised to find that the Germans brought together all the planes they had left to attack them, there were that many.

Jack watched intently to see where the 109s were going. The 92nd was Lead, not them, so he quickly thought that while some of the enemy fighters would go after each group in the strike force, the majority would more likely concentrate on the 92nd rather than on them.

To starboard on Second Chance, Matt arrived at the same conclusion. The 92nd was led by their Air Exec, Major Pete Kirkland, 26, who was with the 91st until the fall of ’43. Pete and his officers were bunk mates of the Full House officers until Pete was transferred to the 92nd.

Looks like most of them are headed toward the 92nd, Morgan commented from his copilot’s seat.

Matt nodded. That doesn’t mean they’re going to leave us alone.

The first group of German fighters McNeil spotted at the two o’clock position headed toward them, but most of the others kept going toward the lead group one thousand feet below and ahead.

The leading 109 zoomed in. McNeil waited until the fighter was in range, then let loose with his twin .50s. The heavy caliber bullets ripped into the canopy of the enemy fighter, killing the pilot. The forward momentum of the German plane caused it to keep coming, and within only a few yards of Full House it finally nosed down, headed toward the ground 26,000 feet below. McNeil let his breath out, not even realizing he’d been holding it.

He wasn’t the only one who was busy. In their starboard waist position, Furmanski had his hands full. He was a double ace with ten enemy fighters to his credit. Right now, he had not one or two, but three 109s converging on him. Luckily, between him and the German fighters was Second Chance, with S/Sergeant Ryder Colson, 20, at the starboard waist position, S/Sergeant Steve Camponari, 21, in the tail, and S/Sergeant Josh Becker, 22, in the ball turret, any of whom could hopefully help him before the 109s got to Full House. Second Chance was flying fifty feet higher, and it appeared to Furmanski that even though the other B-17 was closer to the attacking Germans, they were zeroing in on Full House as she was the Leader of their Group.

Colson and Becker on Second Chance both opened fire on the three enemy fighters. Colson bagged the one in the lead and it headed down, but the other two kept coming, taking a cursory shot at Second Chance, but obviously intent upon attacking Full House.

Furmanski tracked the 109s. He could not take a shot until they cleared Second Chance. If he shot any sooner, he risked hitting the other bomber. He waited until the second and third German planes were within range and away from Second Chance. He pulled the trigger of his Browning, and his bullets hit the first plane, drilling the engine. The 109 immediately headed down, but the second kept coming and fired.

The German’s bullets tore into the starboard side at Furmanski’s position. All missed him but one, which slammed into his metal-lined flak vest. It hit with such force that it knocked him off his feet, sending him backwards into Schulze at the port waist position. Furmanski tried to grab onto something so he could remain on his feet but missed, and the back of his head cracked against the hard wood of the ammo box feeding Schulze’s Browning. He was unconscious before he even hit the deck.

Schulze held onto the handles of his Browning as Furmanski ran into him. He hadn’t expected it, and had all he could do to remain standing. As he steadied himself, he looked down and saw his best friend sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed. Furmanski’s oxygen mask had come off.

Tad! he yelled inadvertently.

Al, what’s wrong? Jack asked immediately from the cockpit.

Tad’s down! Schulze said, trying to keep his voice from sounding frantic with worry.

How bad? Jack questioned quickly.

Schulze didn’t answer as he reached down and replaced Furmanski’s oxygen mask. At this altitude, there was hardly any breathable oxygen in the air. Had he still been conscious, Furmanski would have passed out after two minutes without oxygen. Deprived of it for twenty minutes, he would be dead. Schulze didn’t have any more time to assess his condition, except to note that he was unconscious, and that a German bullet hit Furmanski’s flak vest. The cloth over the metal plate was torn and the metal was dented, but with a quick glance, Schulze could see the slug hadn’t penetrated.

Al, how bad is it? Jack asked again.

I can’t tell, Schulze said honestly. He’s unconscious…

Al, nine o’clock, McNeil warned from the top turret, pulling the gunner’s attention away from Furmanski.

Schulze didn’t want to leave the other gunner lying on the deck, but he had no choice. He grabbed the handles of his .50. It only took a second for him to spot the 109 bearing down on him from the nine o’clock position. He took his shot, and his bullets tore into the front of the German plane, destroying the propeller. The fighter immediately flipped over and headed for the ground.

Jack didn’t have time to assess what was going on at the waist position. Tad Furmanski was a double ace, the best gunner at the 91st, and one of the best in the entire Eighth Air Force. The idea of being in combat without his starboard waist gunner concerned him. All of Jack’s gunners were very good, they’d proven it time and again in over two years in combat, but even though Furmanski wasn’t the senior gunner aboard, he was the one they all looked to, the one who set the standard for the others. They were good, but without Furmanski, they were missing a huge asset. Not knowing his exact condition or even how badly he was wounded or what Furmanski’s injuries were, Jack didn’t even know if he was still alive. Schulze only reported he was unconscious, which could mean anything. That left only McNeil in the top turret and Robinson in the ball turret to cover the rear starboard side, and to a lesser degree, Cerminaro in the radio compartment. Jesse could cover the front right once he was finished with the quickly approaching bomb run. Any Germans that came their way had to be below Full House for Robinson to even see them. If they weren’t, then McNeil was going to be very busy, at least until after they dropped their ordnance.

At that moment, a completely incongruous thought popped into Jack’s mind. It was January 17th. On January 28th, in only eleven days, Tad Furmanski would turn 21. Jack hoped like hell that his injuries weren’t severe enough to prevent the gunner from celebrating his 21st birthday or any birthdays after that.

Aboard Second Chance, S/Sergeant Tony Sciortino, 23, the port waist gunner saw the 109 attack, and knew Furmanski was hit because he was no longer at the starboard gun port, the barrel of his Browning pointed up into space.

They got Tad, Sciortino said, his voice communicating the fact that he hoped like hell his assessment was wrong.

The entire crew heard him. In the cockpit, Matt prayed it wasn’t true. He was the copilot of Full House for ten months, and flew with Furmanski on every mission. He liked the gunner a great deal, and didn’t want to consider the possibility that he was wounded or worse.

Ten minutes to the IP, Dale reported aboard Full House, attempting to keep his voice professional, though it was difficult after hearing Furmanski was down.

Roger, Jesse responded, also thinking about Furmanski. He’d shared many, many conversations with the gunner, in both English and Polish, and learned a lot about him. He didn’t want to believe Furmanski could be badly injured, he wouldn’t believe it. Jesse forced his thoughts and his attention back to the quickly approaching bomb run, which was now only eight minutes away.

Bogey, ten o’clock, Dale called from his navigator’s position, seeing a 109 zooming in at them from the port side.

Jack glanced to the left, seeing the German coming directly at them from slightly off of their left wingtip. The 109 was coming fast, intent on taking out Full House.

McNeil in the top turret let loose with a burst of six bullets. Dale manned the .50 next to his chart table, and joined in the attempt to get the fighter. Jesse, who had two .50s, couldn’t do anything, as his attention was now solely on the last preparations for the bomb run.

From the port side, the 109 quickly closed the distance and opened fire. The bullets slammed into the left side of Full House. A couple tore into the nose, ripping through the air in the small space between Dale and Jesse, then out the opposite side. Two more entered the cockpit and tore through the fuselage just behind and below the pilot’s seat, and missed both Jack and McNeil manning the top turret behind him.

At that moment, the flak began, the lethal shells exploding only a few yards in front of the bombers. Black puffs were all over the sky in a matter of seconds, the shock from their explosions rocking Full House. The crew could easily hear the sound of the heavy steel shrapnel hitting the thin aluminum sides of the B-17, and could quickly smell the acrid odor of the cordite from the exploding shells. It was only going to get worse in the next few minutes.

Jack thought Kelly was right again. The fighters were out in large numbers, and the flak was blanketing the sky. It was some of the worst he’d seen in a long time.

In Second Chance’s cockpit to starboard, Matt was having similar thoughts. The flak was intense, and they were only just entering the danger zone.

How long to the IP? he questioned over the interphone.

Eight minutes, Mark answered without hesitation from his navigator’s position. Everything’s on time.

Hearing his navigator’s last statement, Matt silently thought about an old Army maxim: If you’re on time, you’re late. It went hand-in-hand with another old Army maxim: Hurry up and wait.

Jesus, that doesn’t look good. This was one time I was hoping Kelly was wrong, Morgan said, gazing out of the windshield.

Matt shook his head. You know better than that. If Kelly says it’s going to be bad, it’s going to be bad.

Morgan nodded reluctantly in agreement.

In Full House, Jesse made another adjustment to the bombsight. He hated flak with a passion. He couldn’t let it distract him from his job, though. Unlike the German fighters, he couldn’t do anything to defend himself or Full House from flak. He was also on his final preparations for the bomb run, and his attention needed to be on that and nothing else.

Seven minutes to the IP, Dale said.

Copy, Jack acknowledged.

Two flak shells exploded close by. The first was slightly to port. Fragments of shrapnel hit Full House, a couple punctured the Plexiglas nose, but missed Jesse as he leaned over the Norden.

The second exploded closer, on the starboard side, pushing the B-17 violently to the left. Pieces of flak slammed into engine number three, the inboard on the copilot’s side. The engine immediately began to smoke, belching oil, threatening to catch fire. At the same time, a jagged fragment of the heavy steel about the size of a .45 caliber bullet penetrated the cockpit on the copilot’s side.

The passage of the sharp metal through the bomber’s aluminum fuselage slowed it a little, then it penetrated a layer of light armor plating placed there to protect the pilots, which slowed it even more. It still had enough momentum to continue on and hit the copilot’s control column, where it ricocheted to the right and caught Brian, ripping through his Mae West life vest, the thick B-3 jacket, bunny suit and flight suit. While the metal of the fuselage slowed the bullet, the fabric of Brian's clothing was no match. The fragment tore through the skin and muscle and hit the lowest rib on his right side, cracking it. By then, after penetrating two layers of metal; ricocheting off the control column; tearing through four layers of flight gear; skin and muscle, and caroming off dense bone, the metal lost most of its momentum, and was deflected one last time by the copilot’s rib to exit Brian’s body and end up in the fleece lining of his heavy jacket.

"Shit!" Brian swore inadvertently, the pain evident in his normally calm, even voice. Out of reflex, he clamped his right hand over the hole in his life vest and bent slightly, though he couldn’t go too far, held up by his seat harness.

Brian! Jack called as he looked over and saw his copilot’s hand pressed over the front of his Mae West but slightly to the side. Jack couldn’t see most of Brian’s face, as it was covered by his oxygen mask, but he knew his Executive Officer had been hit and was in pain.

The pain tore through Brian’s right side from his hip to his chest. He could determine just by the feel of it that the flak hit the rib bone, and could only hope it wasn’t broken, but from the amount of pain, Brian determined the rib probably was cracked if not broken outright.

Attempting to sound in control, Brian said, It’s okay…

How bad is it? Jack questioned.

With tremendous effort, Brian forced himself to say, It’s all right.

Are you sure? Jack asked. He needed to know if his copilot was still able to perform his duties.

Brian nodded and repeated, I’m…okay.

The whole conversation took only a few brief seconds, but the entire crew heard it. McNeil quickly realized this wasn’t good at all. First they lost Furmanski, their best gunner, and now their copilot was wounded, and judging by his voice, obviously in a great deal of pain. McNeil wasn’t sure what to think from the exchange. Brian said it wasn’t bad, but the copilot was like Jack, in that he had a profound gift for extreme understatement. They could be flying on only one engine, and like Jack, Brian would say everything was under control, and they had nothing to worry about. The Flight Engineer knew that’s the way they both were, always confident, optimistic, never pessimistic or the least bit negative, and it was that continual and unwavering optimism that infused the entire crew to the point where they believed everything would always turn out well. That was why they were such a good team.

Brian looked out his starboard side copilot’s window. Engine number three was streaming thick black smoke and trailing oil. Feathering number three.

He leaned over slightly, the pain of the wound intense. He pushed a switch on the instrument panel to his left and above the control pedestal between their two seats. He turned the supercharger control off for the damaged engine, then closed the throttle, turned off the mixture control, closed the fuel shut-off valve and turned the booster pump off. Brian turned off the ignition switch and the generator, shutting down number three. The entire process took only a few moments.

Three feathered, Brian breathed.

Jack was not surprised at all by his copilot’s actions. Unless he was mortally wounded, Brian would continue to perform his duties to the best of his ability. The engine needed to be feathered, and Brian did it automatically, as Jack currently had his hands full with maintaining the throttle and the control yoke.

McNeil watched as the engine wound down, and the propeller blades turned so that the front of the propeller, the widest side of the blade, was no longer facing forward. The sharper, thinner edges of the blade were into the wind, cutting the resistance so Full House wouldn’t slow down, even though she was now flying on three engines instead of four.

Six minutes to the IP, Dale reported.

Like the rest of the crew, the navigator heard Brian and Jack. It was obvious Brian was wounded and in pain, but it didn’t seem it was impairing him enough that he was incapable of flying. The crew knew their Executive Officer would never knowingly jeopardize the safety of his crew by continuing to aid in piloting the aircraft if there was even the slightest chance that he was physically impaired.

As for Brian, he was in tremendous pain, but there wasn’t any possibility that he would relinquish his position as the copilot unless as a last resort. Besides Jack, there were only two other people aboard who had been through basic flight school, and they were Dale and Jesse, as basic flight was a requirement to become a navigator or a bombardier.

Brian’s father was a surgeon, and he’d acquired a lot of medical knowledge from his Dad, even though he, himself, was an English literature major at Harvard. Based on some of the things he’d learned from his doctor father, he didn’t think the wound was so bad that it would incapacitate him. He felt certain he could still do his job.

Jesse bent over the Norden, making yet another adjustment for a change in barometric pressure. He looked up slightly, taking a visual. He could see the V-2 launch facility near the horizon, only a few moments of flying time away. Target in visual range.

Roger that, Jack acknowledged.

Though it was freezing cold in the cockpit, Brian could feel the blood on his skin inside his clothing where it was warm. He gritted his teeth slightly inside his oxygen mask. While the smallest movement caused intense discomfort, he still didn’t think it was so bad. Right now, the injury was more of a nuisance, albeit a painful nuisance.

Jesse continued to check his calculations and reprogrammed his Norden whenever needed. During the bomb run, especially the last thirty to forty seconds, he would readjust his bombsight on average once every 2.7 seconds, and he would do all the complicated mathematical calculations in his head. He couldn’t allow any distractions to take his mind off the job, even the intense flak that continued to burst around them.

In his gunner’s port on the left side, Schulze knew that as long as the flak barrage was continuing, the German fighters would be absent. He turned and knelt, checking on Furmanski. The other gunner was still unconscious, and that worried Schulze deeply. Furmanski had been out for almost fifteen minutes. Schulze checked the oxygen flow through Furmanski’s mask, and it was exactly as it should be. He slipped his hand beneath Furmanski’s flak vest and Mae West life vest, and unzipped the top of his B-3. He felt the gunner’s chest, and he could just barely detect the subtle movement as Furmanski breathed. Schulze couldn’t ascertain how badly he was injured, but he was alive, and that was the most important thing.

In his position in the tail, Angelino tried to look around to determine what was happening with Furmanski, but there wasn’t enough room for him to move. Like everyone else, he’d have to wait until they were on the way home and out of range of the German fighters and flak to find out what was happening with his friend.

Three minutes to the IP, Dale reported.

Copy, Jack acknowledged.

He took a quick glance at Brian, and tried to ascertain how he was doing. He could see the copilot’s face, that part which was not covered by his oxygen mask. He was a little paler than normal, but still capable of performing his responsibilities and rendering assistance when needed. Even so, Jack determined to keep a watchful eye on him.

Jesse checked his gauges, making adjustments for a wind velocity change and a tiny fluctuation in wind direction.

In the radio room, Cerminaro got ready to head for the bomb bay to make sure everything dropped according to plan.

One minute, Dale said.

Roger, Jack acknowledged.

Once they reached the IP, the beginning of the bomb run, it would be eight or ten minutes to the target itself. The length of time depended on head winds, tail winds and other factors.

How’s it look? Jack questioned.

Brian scanned his gauges again, something he did every few seconds. When he answered, his voice was steady, no sign that anything was wrong or out of the ordinary. Everything’s good.

Jack continued to watch out of the windshield. It was about all he could do at this point. The lead group, the 92nd, seemed to be taking the worst of the flak, since they were in front and the German anti-aircraft gunners were concentrating on them. As he watched, a burst hit one of the 92nd’s planes located in the port side flight, a little lower and behind the leader. The flak took off its rear starboard aileron, and the plane immediately began to go down, out of control, turning off to the right. Jack didn’t know how many planes the strike force lost to this point. So far, there were no reports of anyone from the 91st going down, and he hoped their luck would continue.

At the IP, Dale’s voice said over his headphones.

Jack reached down and pushed the autopilot bar to on. Jesse, she’s yours.

Got it, Jesse said as he became the aircraft commander for the next eight to ten minutes. He glanced quickly at his instrument panel and made an estimate. TOT eight minutes.

Copy, the pilot acknowledged.

Eight minutes, Chris reported in Second Chance, fifty feet to starboard.

Roger, Matt answered.

Behind Chris, Mark watched alertly, knowing every move his bombardier would make before he made it. Prior to becoming members of Matt’s crew in November ‘44, they’d flown together at the 100th Bombardment Group (Heavy), so they could practically read each other’s thoughts.

In the bomb bay, radio operator T/Sergeant Chuck Novak, 21, stood in the doorway between his station and the bomb bay. Like Cerminaro on Full House, it was his job to make certain the ordnance dropped properly when Chris hit the bomb release switch.

How are we doing? Matt asked in the cockpit.

We’re good, Morgan reported, having just completed his every-few-seconds scan of the instrument panel.

Matt took a glance out of his left side pilot’s window. He was concerned about Full House. Engine number three was feathered, but still smoking, though it didn’t seem to be slowing her down any. A B-17 could remain in the air with three engines, with even just one, so the missing engine shouldn't pose a problem. What was of concern was the fact that the starboard waist gunner’s position was unmanned. The .50 Browning’s muzzle remained pointed up in the air. Because Second Chance was fifty feet behind and higher than Full House, he had a clear view of the port. It had been a long time, at least fifteen or twenty minutes since Furmanski disappeared from his post. Matt prayed that he wasn’t badly wounded, or worse, though he knew if he was physically able, the gunner would find some way to get back to his gun. The length of time he’d been away from the Browning didn’t bode well.

Five minutes, Jesse reported emotionlessly in Full House.

Roger, Jack said.

He checked on Brian again, keeping a watchful eye on his wounded friend while at the same time concentrating on the bomb run. There was absolutely no indication of anything wrong, one way or another, either in Brian’s expression or voice when he spoke. Everything was normal, the same as on every other mission, except that the copilot was beginning to look increasingly pale. It was obvious to Jack that his XO must be in pain, but he couldn’t detect it.

Brian was really hurting, his side and the injured rib were on fire, but his problems weren’t important at the moment. His thoughts were focused on the bomb run, the mission. Like Jesse, he couldn’t afford to allow himself to become distracted even though he wasn’t piloting the bomber. He kept his attention on everything, knowing that he might have to take over if something drastic happened to Jack. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that his pilot might also become wounded. It happened before when Matt was flying on Full House. Brian hoped to hell it didn’t happen again, but if it did, he had to be prepared to take command, even when wounded.

Though Jack governed the speed of the aircraft, Jesse and his Norden were responsible for everything else. The bombardier gave a quick glance at his instruments. Everything looked good. He concentrated, anticipating his run, how it would be. He’d seen the target photos for an hour prior to the mission in the bombardier’s briefing, so he knew he had to aim at a stretch of ground between the V-2 launching pad and the storage facility. By using the space in between the sites, they hoped to take out both with the bombs from the strike force blanketing the area.

One minute, Jesse called as he adjusted the bombsight for a fluctuation in wind speed. It was now blowing from starboard, so he had to compensate. If the wind continued to do so, when he jettisoned