Steel Fortress: The Memoir of an American Airman in Europe, 1944

By Michael Sargent Martin

Steel Fortress is a story of survival, about a flyboy aboard a B-17 bomber who is catapulted into the extraordinary experience of flying the heavies in the never to be replicated arena of World War II air combat. He flies the gauntlet of Germanys defensive network in 1944, battling the demons of war in the European Theater and also in his mind. It is a commentary on the totality of the human experience of war, from the brutal realities of combat to the internal battle that goes on within each individual survivor.

On a cold February morning in 1944, Harold leaves his new bride at an Iowa train platform and embarks on a stark and riveting journey, where camaraderie is the key to survival, and loss is the lesson learned. Heroism combined with humanism drives this compelling saga of the human spirit at its most triumphant and most vulnerable. Steel Fortress joins ranks with the most poignant of commentaries on war; it is a story for the ages, and evidence of the universal spirit of man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458212054

Michael Sargent Martin

“The task of corroborating real-time events and dates with personal anecdotes from my father’s memories became the challenge connected with completing this novel. What he did that year when he was just twenty-three years old is remarkable.” This inaugural book by author, Michael Sargent Martin was written as a tribute to his father who passed away in 2008.

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Copyright © 2014 Michael Sargent Martin.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1207-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1206-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1205-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918228

Abbott Press rev. date: 01/31/2014

Table of Contents

Photographs

Dedication

Background

Prologue

Stateside

Flight to Iceland

MARCH 1944

England—The First Days

APRIL

Learning the Ropes

First Flight

Baptism of Blood

The Air Medal

MAY

The April Girl Missions

Freddie

Berlin—May ⁷th

Berlin—May ⁸th

Three in a Row

Night Flight

JUNE

The Overlord Missions

D-Day

Freddie Takes a Hike

Escape from France

Getting Lucky Twice

JULY

Sinking into Madness

The Boxing Match

Stuttgart

Peenemunde

Augsburg

Schweinfurt

AUGUST

The Dog Days

London

Secret Mission

Another Day at the Office

The Radio

Terror and Daydreams

Psychiatric Evaluation

SEPTEMBER

Playing Out a Bad Hand

Ludwigshafen

Lutzkendorf

Plauen

Prodigal Son

Nijmegen

The Flying Cross

Magdeburg

Going Home

Afterword

The Journey of April Girl II

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Photographs

1) Harold G. Martin in the summer of 1943

2) Enlisted crew members of the April Girl

3) Harold and Marge in Sioux City, Iowa, December 1943

4) Escape kit ID photo

5) Edinburgh, Scotland, 1944

6) Enlisted men and officers of the April Girl

7) Top turret with name tag

8) Short snort

9) Bombs over Berlin

10) Flight jacket

11) April Girl with mission run tags

12) Harold at basic training

13) Nose section of B-17 and guns

14) On base at the airfield

15) Harold and Marge

16) At Polebrook, England, summer of 1944

17) Back in Detroit, Michigan, November 1944

18) With first born, Lynda May, December 1944

19) Harold in 2005

DEDICATION

To Lynda, Bud, Tom, Chris, Mary Anne, Sara, and Heather, and to their children so that our dad will be known to the families of their children.

Background

By the spring of 1944, America had been at war with Germany for three years. The United States Army’s Eighth Air Force had taken on the mantle of engaging in daylight bombing missions in the European Theater of War. They were reeling from blow after blow by the swift and powerful German Luftwaffe fighters, who, in spite of absorbing huge losses, still patrolled the sky. American bomber crews flew every day into this hostile environment of swarming enemy fighter planes and flak barrages sent up from German gun installations placed all across Western Europe. So far, the outcome of the air war was undecided.

The American bomber crews lived one day at a time and one mission at a time, hoping to make it through their assignments. However, the truth is that most of them never completed their tour of duty. In fact, at this point of the war, the chances of completing a tour were about twenty-six percent.

The hardships the fliers suffered were compounded by the push for D-Day (the Allied land invasion of Continental Europe) and so, war weary air crews were pushed to the limit of their physical and mental endurance. Consequently, most of the men were experiencing some form of physical and/or mental breakdown, and an astounding number of them were found to be experiencing symptoms of either flying fatigue or the more lasting form of operational fatigue.

The men who flew the American B-17 and B-24 bombers were all high tech, specialized assets trained to fight a type of war that had never been fought before. It was a totally mechanized style of warfare born out of necessity, schooled in theory, and equipped with the most advanced killing machines the world had ever seen. Billions of dollars were allocated for its assembly, and one fifth of all active American troops were assigned to the task.

This was an experimental exercise—waging war from the sky. Many of the stresses and hardships involved with flying a B-17 at 30,000 feet in an unpressurized cabin were not known to the engineers and battle planners at first, and they had to be worked out in process. Moreover, any symptoms of long term physical or mental effects to the fliers were not seen at the time, and hence, were never dealt with.

General Doolittle became Commander of Operations of the Mighty Eighth in April of 1944, and he brought with him a new and more offensive-minded strategy. The mandate was that, in addition to bringing an unrelenting barrage of high explosives raining down on industrial centers of Germany, the heavy bombers would now be used for the purpose of luring the Luftwaffe. By flying missions deep into Germany, over heavily defended oil fields and industrial targets around the city of Berlin, German fighter planes would be drawn into combat and then be attacked by newly available long range fighter escort planes, the P-51 Mustangs. American fighter squadrons were now ordered to leave the bomber formations undefended and engage German interceptors in combat, follow them to the ground, then locate and destroy ground based targets at random.

American heavy bombers were now completely expendable and readily replaced. With this new, more aggressive strategic campaign now in operation, the loss of men and machines was staggering. The Operations Commanders were seeing attrition rates equal to that of the previous year when those losses nearly crippled the American air campaign. But they could now counter those losses with a nearly inexhaustible supply of fresh men and planes … and into this arena, Tech Sergeant Harold G. Martin, of the 351st Bomb Group, 510th Squadron, had now arrived.

1a.jpg

Harold G. Martin, in the summer of 1943

Prologue

The afternoon sky over East Anglia was slate grey, rainy, and filled with dark rolling banks of clouds that extended eastward over the English Channel and the continental seaboard. A large ragged formation of B-17 bombers flew in and out of these fast moving storm clouds and tried to keep their groups together. Tech. Sgt. Harold Martin sat in the top turret of one of them, breathing slowly through his face mask, staring out through an inch and a half of dirty Plexiglas. He hadn’t moved in nearly a half hour, and he struggled to keep his eyes focused on the sky around him. His limbs hurt from cold and lack of oxygen, and each breath of air he pulled into his lungs was accompanied by a stab of pain in his head, nostrils and chest. But in spite of that, the thin measured draw of cold bottled air was putting him to sleep. It was easy for a flier to fall into a sleepy torpor and freeze to death under these conditions, especially during a spell of inactivity.

Harold had been lethargically watching familiar landmarks as they appeared briefly through breaks in the cloud cover. He knew they were getting near the airfield, so he stirred himself and shook his head from side to side. He stomped his frozen boots on the steel grid of the adjustable foot rest below his sling-like seat at the turret gun, and felt sudden stabs of pain up to his knees. Clumsily, Harold reached for a handhold on either side of the surrounding bulkhead, then steadied and slowly lowered himself to the bridge deck to test his cramped legs. He stayed in place for a minute until he could feel his feet again.

Harold squatted down between the seats of the pilot and the copilot in the cramped space and looked at the instrument panel readouts. With his glove-clad fingers, he wiped frost from his goggles and then from the lenses of the gauges. Through the radio mounted on the chin strap of his head gear, he informed the pilot, Charlie Walker, of fuel, oil pressure, and hydraulic levels, then altitude and air speed. It was a bumpy ride, so he reached up to grab the corrugated steel frame surrounding him as he stood to return to his seat. He slid back into the tight metal seat under the dome and looked out at other bombers as they disappeared into and out of heavy dark patches of wet clouds. Some showed signs of battle damage and he wanted to give them a closer look. He placed his hands on the controller grips of the guns, and felt pain in his frostbitten fingers when he used his left hand to swivel the steel turret frame around on its electrically driven rollers. He leaned sideways and forward to see below to the ground far beneath him, but dark streaking clouds layered out in every direction blocking his view, and the plane rocked so badly that it hurt his eyes to focus on the horizon line.

After a while, Walker radioed the crew that they were below 10,000 feet, and they could remove their oxygen masks. Harold struggled to remove the two pairs of gloves he was wearing, shook his hands in the air, then slapped them against his thighs to get blood circulating again. With leaden fingers, he unsnapped his face mask and drew air, tasting of gasoline and oil, deep into his aching lungs. His head pounded from oxygen deprivation, and his ears rang from the engine drone that reverberated all around him. His face blazed crimson and purple where exposed skin had frozen from wind burn, and felt like it was on fire. Every part of his body hurt from cold, bottled air, and hours of inactivity. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and the mission of the day was over.

What was left of the squadron formations of heavies were scattered wide and far, flying over England’s eastern countryside, all heading home. Harold still felt like sleeping but instead took another long look outside the glass turret that surrounded his head. He saw bombers of his own squadron nearby, flying in loose formation, and checked each of those planes for visible damage one more time. He had to leave his seat to get a better view of the nine planes that were flying the low box below him, so he again squatted down between the pilot and copilot. He looked out the starboard windscreen at the planes fanning out below him when something to his right caught his eye. From out of a nearby cloudbank, came another squadron of B-17s, flying a crossing pattern directly into the path of the low box he had just been looking at. It took only a matter of seconds, but it was enough time for Harold to realize what was happening. He had a front row seat for the oncoming and inevitable collision.

The lead plane of the encroaching formation flew into the bomber flying at starboard point and hit it broadside at 200 miles per hour. Both of the formations quickly flew through each other, and planes scattered in all directions. The two colliding planes exploded into fire and black smoke that enveloped into a rising mushroom plume, while fire, smoke and debris trailed away behind and below. Harold watched as Walker and the copilot flew right through that plume of black burning fuel, hoping they wouldn’t hit any flying steel. He stared in amazement and horror as he followed the trailing line of wreckage behind him as far as he could see. He yelled out, I don’t see any chutes!

Sixty-two years later, in a hospital room in Cincinnati, Ohio, Harold Martin abruptly woke from a deep, unsettling dream and shocked his family who had been standing vigil at his side. He had been lying in a silent coma, unconscious for three days after suffering a stroke. Suddenly and abruptly, he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and unexpectedly pierced the quiet stillness of the room and chilled to the bone his family who was there with him. No chutes … I don’t see any chutes! he shouted from his bed.

The first words out of his mouth after emerging from that deep comatose state were about an awakened, grim vision that trauma had kept locked and dormant in his subconscious for many years, a vision of war in the sky, planes going down in flames, and more of his friends falling to their deaths.

Harold did fully recover from that stroke, but he was eighty-five years old and lived just two more years. One day he confided to one of his sons whom, in those years, spent much time with him. They talked a lot about the war, and Harold said to him, Chris, the memories are starting to come back to me now. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I’m remembering a lot more about those times. The pictures are coming back to me now, but I wish to hell they wouldn’t.

These are some of Harold’s stories… .

Stateside

At seven o’clock, on a hot, muggy morning in April of 1943, a farmer drove his American Harvester truck noisily down a dusty dirt road outside of Biloxi, Mississippi, just as he did every morning. It was early in the season for produce, but with the war effort going on, there was always a needed commodity of one kind or another that somebody could use. This day, he had a load of scrap metal and old tires he was taking into town for selling or trading. Out in front of him, he saw a G.I. running up the side of the road like he was being chased by hound dogs. As he pulled up to the young man, he slowed his truck to get a look. He smiled and waved when he passed, and the G.I. looked over and waved back. Then the farmer pulled over, stopped his truck, and waited for the runner to reach him.

He leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window while the young man ran up to the truck and stopped to hold his knees and pull air into his lungs. Hey there young feller, where’s the fire? the farmer asked.

With heavy breath, the G.I. answered, I got to get back to the base by eight o’clock or my ass is grass!

The farmer chuckled with amusement. I’ve passed by you every day this week, same time every day. Don’t they let you sleep on the base?

Oh, yeah, but my wife is down here to visit me—she’s staying in Biloxi, he said, still breathing hard.

Well, don’t just stand there suckin’ up all the air. Hop in soldier, and I’ll save you some time. I drive right past there. It’s the Gulfport Field isn’t it?

With a nod, the young soldier got into the passenger seat and introduced himself. I’m Harold Martin from Detroit, pleased to meet ya.

They shook hands and the farmer offered an introduction. The name’s Dupree, just like on the side of the truck. Well son, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and it’s good to know that they let a few of you Yankees in to fight this here war. Why, us rebels can’t do it all by ourselves you know. He paused for a second to ponder that idea, and then added wryly, But then maybe we could at that, now that I think about it. Dupree looked over at Harold with a wide grin on his beard-stubbled face.

Harold returned a smile. Oh, from what I’ve seen, maybe you’re right, at least that’s what you all say, but I don’t mind helping out just the same.

Dupree chuckled and nodded favorably. So what are ya training for, son?

B-17 bombers, sir, we’re going to smack Hitler right where he lives, and end the war by this time next year!

Dupree slapped his knee in excitement and let out a rebel yell. By God, you go ahead and do just that! And give him one for me too while you’re at it! He looked very pleased with himself as he pictured in his mind the good old-fashioned Yankee beat down Adolph Hitler was going to be receiving very soon. Boy, I’ve been waitin’ for you guys to get over there with all that heavy metal. Those B-17s are sumthin’ all right, I’ve seen pictures of them, why, with all those guns, the Jerrys won’t even get near you guys!

Harold was beaming at that notion and nodding his head with enthusiasm. Yes sir, that’s the plan, I don’t figure to even get my uniform dirty! Dupree thought that sounded great. He laughed and let out another yell, and they kept talking as they drove down the dirt road.

Well son, here we are, Dupree announced as they pulled up near the gate. If I see you runnin’ this way tomorrow, I’ll stop again for ya. Good luck! He waved and left Harold standing in a swirl of road dust. Harold was at the base with time to spare.

Back at a hotel in Biloxi, Harold’s new bride, Marge, was up and starting her day. The hotel was a well-built southern style structure of white stucco and red clay roof tile, with a walk out onto the gulf shoreline. She went out onto the veranda and sat at a small table where terrazzo tile warmed her feet and the morning sun warmed her back.

Waves slowly lapped the shoreline in a mild rhythm, which she hardly noticed underneath the sound of a sea breeze gently moving the limbs of palm trees and garden planters in the open patio. The wind coming onto the shore had picked up some of the morning coolness from the ocean. The bit of a chill raised bumps of goose flesh on her arms and bare shoulders. Marge lifted her face directly into the sunlight and closed her eyes to let the warmth of the sun wash through her in waves of sensation that seemed to match the cadence of the waves rolling onto the sandy beach nearby. She took in a long breath of air, tasted salt water, and noticed the scent of julep blossom and bougainvillea. This was splendid and luxurious. And to think it was only yesterday that she was in Detroit where there were still patches of dirty snow on the ground and where it was an overcast forty degrees.

May I get you some coffee, miss? A waiter had come to the table dressed in a casual white shirt and pressed linen trousers, appropriate for a balmy day, even this early in the year.

Marge didn’t notice him until he began to speak.

Oh! I’m sorry, I was daydreaming, she said, looking at him with a bright smile. Yes, please, and a menu.

The waiter left with a pleasant efficiency. Again, Marge didn’t notice when he returned to the table with a coffee pot. She was enjoying the glorious morning in this new and exotic place, and the sun felt so good that it made her swoon … so when the man started talking, it startled her.

Your first visit here, missy? The Gulf can be very nice this time of year. But it can turn quick all the same. On a dime, I’d say. We haven’t had a good root up down here for a few years, but you know you can just about always tell when ones comin’ in. The man was elderly, black, and pleasant looking. The many lines of his face showed a sturdy looking character, as if he had weathered many heavy storms in his life of one form or another, but the furrows were comfortably worn and part of his natural expression.

Marge studied him as he began to talk. She didn’t expect him to engage her the way he did, that kind of thing just didn’t happen in the northern climes, or with city people. Most of the time, folks up north just leave you alone and don’t invade your space, so Marge was a little taken aback, but pleasantly surprised at the same time. This man had an easy congeniality that a lot of southern people seemed to have and no compunction about talking to her like she was kinfolk.

Marge shaded her eyes from the sun with her hands and smiled. How did you know this was my first time here?

Little lady, your skin is as pale as a bale of cotton, and if you don’t watch out you’re going to peel like an onion by tomorrow.

Oh, right, thanks for reminding me, I’ll cover up. Say, did you mention we might be headed for some nasty weather?

The gentleman looked to the south and breathed in the salt air. He seemed to conjure up some innate knowledge or sensibility that living in this environment would afford him, and he paused to reflect on it. No, Missy, he crooned, just clear sailing and cool breeze, at least for a while. He continued his gaze toward the water to reflect on the mobility of changing climate conditions, or perhaps, his reflections were on a larger scale, perhaps a global scale. Then the expression on his face became slightly more somber. He soberly amended his remark and said quietly to himself, … at least for a short while. He looked kindly at Marge and inquired, Is your young man in the military? There’s a lot of them comin’ and goin’ around here these days and the base is just a few miles from here.

Yes he is, and you’re right again. He’s in basic training at Gulfport and I’m here for the week. It’s so beautiful down here, and peaceful.

Well, enjoy your stay, missy, and all the best to both of you. He spoke warmly but then cast yet another glance out over the bay and seemed to study the horizon line over the distant water. His smile faltered a bit and gave way to a slightly pensive countenance before he turned again toward Marge, regained his pleasant smile, and with a nod, left the table.

Marge noticed that brief, faraway gaze and wondered what was on the man’s mind. She thought he was nice, but rather curious. Suddenly a cool gust of wind swept over her and chilled her shoulders. She looked up and saw that the sun had gone behind a cloud. She considered the waiter’s thought-filled and somewhat incongruent observations and was a little unsettled. But then the sun came out again, and Marge settled back in her chair and dreamily listened to the waves rolling onto the shore. She gave the elderly black man no further thought until he came back with the breakfast tray. He quietly served the food and upon leaving, turned to look at Marge with a level gaze. Now, you and your young man take good care of each other, y’hear. Days and years go by quick, and one needs to make the most of it in these kinds of times.

Oh. Marge looked up at him, surprised once again by the man’s unabashed familiarity. She studied his face closely for any sign of guile or misdirection but saw that he was sincere, so she replied, Thank you so much. That sounds like good advice, I will remember that.

Marge finished her breakfast and got on with her day. She walked into town later on and bought some sunscreen, and a pair of sunglasses that came to a point at the corners of the frame. They caught her eye and she thought they looked stylish, like the girls in Look magazine. After a while, she returned to the hotel, went for a swim, then lay down for a nap. When she woke up, it was mid-afternoon, and she began to get ready for Harold’s return from the army base at five o’clock.

Soon enough, she heard a rap on the door of the room and a key turn the lock. She had been reading a magazine but threw it aside and jumped up. Harold opened the door and stood in the doorway, sweaty and dirty from road dust, and she ran into his arms. Harold kissed her hard, and then held her out at arm’s length. Margie! I haven’t seen you since this morning and I forgot what you look like. He smiled teasingly and then added, It looks like this southern climate appeals to you, but you better be careful, you’re starting to get some mighty rosy cheeks.Marge looked at her arms and considered the observation. Hmm, you’re the second person to mention that to me today. Then with a quick, teasing scowl, she asked, Hey, what do you mean you forgot what I look like already?

Harold laughed. Well, I tried to wake you this morning but you were dead to the world, so it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, awake at least.

Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make sure you don’t forget me when you leave again tomorrow, what do you say?

Harold looked at her from top to bottom and with an approving nod, told her, I think you’re just the girl who could do that.

That evening, they had dinner at the hotel dining room. A piano was playing in a corner somewhere. Harold was in an Army long sleeve shirt and tie, and Marge wore a floral print summer dress. Harold lifted his glass to her and offered a toast. Well, here’s to the two of us on our belated honeymoon!

So this is our honeymoon, eh? She liked that idea. With a wide smile, she added, Well, I guess it is, and a beautiful one at that. Better late than never, I always say. She lifted her own glass and returned the toast. Here’s to us, and here’s to spending our honeymoon on the Gulf instead of back where it’s still wintertime.

They finished their dinner and walked outside to the patio. The gulf wind was stronger now as it rode the evening tide, and Marge had to pull a light sweater around her shoulders as they watched the setting sun drop behind golden backlit clouds over the water. They were silent for a while, and then Marge remembered the encounter with the black gentleman.

Harold, she mused, I met a man this morning—he was my waiter, and he was most interesting, but I think he scared me a little. It seems people down here aren’t shy with strangers because he talked to me like he knew me. It was kind of curious.

"Hmm, well what did he have to say? Did you tell him you were already married?

Oh it wasn’t like that, silly. He was older, but he looked like he knew a lot. He said we should take care of each other.

Well, that’s good advice, I’d say.

That’s what I said too, but there was something else there, something in the way he said it.

What’s that, honey, what else did he say?

"Nothing, really, it’s just in the way that he said it, but I can’t figure it out. It was kind of like he thought trouble was coming, I mean it made me feel like trouble was coming, and we needed to take care of each other." Marge wrapped the sweater around her shoulders a little tighter against the balmy, but cool night wind.

Harold rubbed warmth back into her arms with his hands and reassured her. I will take care of you, you know that, and don’t you worry about me getting into trouble. No German is going to touch me flying around up there five miles in the air—why do you think I chose the Air Corps?

Marge managed an affirmative expression. She thought it would be easier to settle for that familiar explanation of what sounded like a logical choice. Maybe it was a sound decision but any way you framed that picture, it didn’t sound safe, and it wasn’t any easier to accept. Well, maybe you’re right, she finally responded, but all the same, if you’re over there and I’m over here, how will I take care of you?

We’ll spend a lifetime taking care of each other when I get back … but speaking of taking care of me, how about right now? Marge smiled and giggled, then Harold took her by the hand, and they went back to their room.

By the end of June, Harold was sent from Biloxi, Mississippi to Long Beach, California for aircraft technical training at a Lockheed aircraft facility. He took gunnery practice as well, and it seemed like he and the rest of the rookies needed all the training they could get. The new recruits were taken out over the bay on an AT-6 trainer that was equipped with fifty caliber guns. They took turns shooting at large flatbed barges that were outfitted with targets on them. By the end of the week-long drill, the recruits were required to hit the target every time. But the exercise didn’t always go well. Apparently, the tow cable wasn’t quite long enough.

On a bright, crisp midmorning, an AT-6 trainer flew at fifteen hundred feet over blue and white water. It began nosing into a diving pattern which took it on a trajectory towards the tail end of a cargo ship that slowly plowed its way through the waves. It was towing a badly damaged and bullet- riddled target barge, using a very long steel cable, but it appeared that the cargo ship had also taken a few hits.

On a narrow metal seat in the middle of the plane, Harold sat with his hands on the trigger handles of a twin fifty caliber machine gun. In the copilot seat in front of him sat a drill sergeant who was turned around so he could watch the gunners and shout out orders. He was smoking a short cigar, and he was scowling. In the midsection of the plane were three other trainees who were waiting for their turn at the gun. It had already been a long morning, and the Drill Sergeant glared menacingly at Harold who was getting ready to fire at the target. Harold wore sunglasses because of the bright sun reflecting off the water and was wiping them off distractedly on the front of his shirt. He jerked his head up at the gunny.

Do you think you can get closer than fifty yards this time, rookie? You’re burning up all of our fuel here. Try to aim at the big red bull’s eye on the barge this time. I think you’ve killed all the sea lions down there in the water already. There was muffled snickering going on in the back of the plane and the Sergeant glared and barked at them as well. Don’t you screw heads worry, you’ll all get a chance to mess up as good as Martin here.

Everybody shut up quick. Harold gave them all a sideways smirk from behind his glasses and said, Boys, watch this one go right between the eyes. He looked out through the open gun port, and down to the water. The pilot veered the aircraft around and lined up an approach pattern across the flank of the target barge that was now four hundred feet below them. Harold sighted in on the cross hairs and pulled the triggers as the plane flew a straight line across the side of the barge. The heavy gun rattled and roared as tracer bullets described an arc across the water in a jagged line. But as the plane flew overhead, Harold turned his gun sideways, across the open port, to track his target now behind him. The rough water below was strafed by a long line of machine gun fire that turned away from the barge and headed towards the tanker, finally ending with bullets bouncing off the metal hull of the large tow ship.

Dammit! yelled the Sergeant. He threw his cigar out the open gun port and slammed his clipboard to the floor. Not again! That’s the fifth time today and it’s not even noon yet! We’re gonna run outta tow ships here if we don’t run outta ammo first! Can any of you goofballs shoot a straight line?

Harold looked sheepishly at the instructor and then, with his back turned to him, he threw a wide grin at the other trainees, giving them a wink and a quizzical, Not bad, eh? The boys shook their heads as they all looked down at the tow ship in awe.

One fellow said over his shoulder, I dunno, I think one of those guys down there mighta took one in the ass. He’s sure hopping mad.

Harold looked down at the stern of the tanker in the distance where crew members were scrambling up onto the deck from inside the ship. They had been hiding from a constant onslaught of misdirected live ammo all morning, and they looked like agitated ants running around checking for damage. Harold observed all the commotion and calmly said, Naw, I missed him by a mile. See, he’s standing there shaking his fist at me.

One afternoon, after the trainees had been shooting at the target barge all morning, they noticed that the cargo ship was listing badly to stern. Somebody had strafed the tow ship below the water line, and it was taking on water. Nobody owned up to that piece of very bad marksmanship, but the Drill Sergeant was once again furious and gave everybody hell. The cargo ship crew had finally had enough and refused to go out the following day and let their ship get damaged any further.

By mid August of 1943, Harold was sent to Nevada, then to Texas, where he finally began training as part of a B-17 crew. It was there that he first met his crewmates, the crew that would fly the April Girl together in the hostile skies above Germany.

The pilot was Charlie Walker, from Alabama. He was tall, stern and serious. The copilot was Robert Hurley from Liverpool, New York, who was career military and a studious type. The navigator was a country boy from Great Bend, Kansas, whose name was Charles Musser—he was good-natured and easygoing and took a lot of ribbing from the other guys. The bombardier was Sam McLean, who was good-looking and friendly. The guys liked to take him along when they went into town because he would always attract the girls. Al Kocsis, the radio operator from Akron, Ohio, was quiet and reflective. Bill Power from Winter Park, Florida, the waist gunner, was outgoing and a good storyteller. John Goldthorpe, the other waist gunner, was a serious type. The ball turret gunner was George Derby. He was short, skinny, and older than the rest of them. The tail gunner was Forrest Gordon who liked to tell jokes and was a good hand in a fight.

Things were happening fast now, and for the next three months, the crews all roomed together, ate together, relaxed together, went to classes together, and became a unit. The Army Air Force felt that bonding together would help the crews perform better in combat. Their primary job now was to learn every inch of the B-17, and know it like an extension of themselves. The B-17 Flying Fortress was the premier weapon of the Air Force. The instructors taught the men who would fly the planes, that it was a self-reliant fighting machine, able to fight its way through waves of enemy fighters and deliver its cargo. The press believed it, and so did the crews.

The airmen were America’s new glamour boys, and the press and public were enamored with them. They looked great in their leather jackets, aviator sunglasses and clean uniforms. At this point, they were jazzed up and ready to conquer the world. The bomber boys would spend a lot of time leisurely racking up practice air time, high flying at 20,000 feet while getting used to oxygen breathing equipment, or showing off by buzzing down some small town main street at twenty feet in the air. But the time was getting close, and the eighteen months of training were nearly done.

By late fall of 1943, the bomber boys were in their final days of training and were sent to a staging area for dispersal, to be shipped overseas. The crews that would become the squadrons of the 351st Bomb Group were sent to Sioux City, Iowa, to await their orders for active duty, which would be in just a couple of months.

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Bill Power, George Derby, Forrest Gordon, Al Kocsis, John Goldthorpe, Harold Martin

It was Christmas time 1943 when Harold saw Marge again. Training was over, and it was a slow time of waiting to be shipped out. He arranged for Marge to spend the last few months with him, and finally she had arrived. Sioux City was brimming with activity and there were thousands of people coming and going.

That first evening, they went into town looking for a room but there wasn’t anything available, anywhere. They stood out in front of a tavern and Harold took his camera from his duffle, held it out at arm’s length, and took a picture of them together. Shortly after that, while inside the tavern, Marge happened to run into a girlfriend she knew from back home whose husband would be shipping out the next day. Marge’s friend talked to the manager of the room she and her husband were renting, and got him to rent it to Harold and Marge right on the spot.

Marge and Harold made friends with a couple, Helen and Dick Huntington, from St. Paul, Minnesota, and they spent a lot of time together. When Dick shipped out to England, he was stationed not far from where Harold would be stationed, and they would visit from time to time. Within the year, Dick’s plane would be shot down over Germany.

Something had been bothering Marge, so she talked to Harold about it one day. The two of them had eloped before Harold left for basic training, but because of parental pressure and her wanting to please them, and mostly because of her strong religious beliefs, Marge now wanted to be married in a church, by a priest. She was a good Catholic girl, after all. Harold agreed, so on February 27th, 1944, they had a church wedding. Marge was both relieved and ecstatic at the same time.

After the service, she felt the weight of the world lift off her shoulders, and when they got back to their rented room, she was beaming from ear to ear. Harold noticed, so he had to ask, Honey, what’s got into you? Did a church wedding mean that much to you?

She looked up at him and beamed a wide smile. Yes. Very much! I can’t wait to write and tell Mom and Dad. They’ll be so happy!

Harold held her and felt her joy. If it meant that much to her, it was good enough for him.

Oh, and something else … Marge left his embrace to take a small box out of her purse. This is for you.

He opened the box and took out a neck chain. It was a religious medal, a crucifix on a chain. I had this blessed by Father Baines. I think it’ll keep you safe when you fly, she said excitedly.

Harold liked it and he said so. You know, this is a good idea, a little extra help might come in handy, you never can be too careful.

She smiled and looked at it admiringly. You just have to promise me you’ll wear it on every flight! Then she remembered the special part. And look at this, Harold. She took the medal and carefully opened up the crucifix that was joined front to back by a tiny metal hinge. It’s a relic! It’s from a real sainted person who was canonized by the Catholic Church. It’s a piece of wood, maybe from a casket or something, I don’t know, but Father Baines said it was special!

Harold examined it appreciatively and smiled. Then he gave her