Drained

            I stepped out onto my deck this morning, bird feeders in hand, and was met with the cool, crisp air that is common on an early November morning.  The sun was low on the horizon, and the woods were relatively quiet.  The smell of wood smoke from a neighbor’s chimney floated on the ever so slight morning breeze.  It is the sort of morning that transports me back to another time and place.

            Once more I was back at Raccoon Lake, our home away from home for the first two decades of my life.  Our little trailer tucked into the woods of Parke County, Indiana was our weekend retreat, and the cooler temps of autumn did not discourage us in the least.  Gone were the hours of fishing and boating, but in their place was hiking the woods and enjoying the sights and smells of autumn.  The fragrance of fallen leaves was ever present, even though we had thoroughly raked our own lot, either pushing the leaves deeper into the woods, or piling them in long rows along the gravel road to be burned.  What fun I had setting match to dried leaves and watching as the pile began emitting its heavy smoke before finally erupting into flame.  As the mound shrank, and the brown and golden leaves were replaced with black, charred skeletons with red glowing edges, I would take the rake and stir the pile to bring the unburned fuel to the surface to mix with air and again burst into flame.  Often burning leaves would cling to the tines of my rake, and I felt like a Greek or Roman god delivering fire at the end of his mighty staff.

            Early in the morning I would sneak down to the lake itself to glimpse life on the water.  Often a thin layer of fog hovered just above the calm surface of the water, and from it emerged the shadows of migrating Canada geese and small coots.  I was a city boy, and geese were far less common in those days, so to watch these beautiful birds drift lazily over the water, or hear a small formation honking overhead, tracing a “V” in the sky before descending, noisily and making a splashing touchdown on the lake thrilled me.  Interspersed with the large silhouettes of the geese were the small, black coots.  I would see them in small numbers during the summer, but they were more concentrated at this time of year.  Occasionally, one would “run” across the water’s surface in an attempt to become airborne.  Although the birds were much closer to me at this time of year, they were still rather skittish and I had to approach slowly and crouch behind exposed tree stumps in order not to force them farther across the lake.

            The stumps were exposed at this time of year because the lake would be partially drained each fall.  Raccoon Lake is a man-made reservoir that is part of the flood control for the Wabash River, so each fall the water level was dramatically lowered so the area could function as a receptacle for potential floodwaters later in the season.  This process opened up an entirely new world for me to explore.  The various inlets, or bayous as we called them, which had been broad expanses of deep water all summer, were now no more than streams cutting through muddy ravines.  Trunks of trees sacrificed when the area was first flooded to create the lake still clung to the soil, their roots now fully exposed.  In other areas, the ground was strewn with large slabs of sandstone and shale.  The island which sat in the middle of our bayou was at this time of year, a sandy rise in the middle of a muddy field.

            Using our hill as the starting point I could go either to the northeast or to the southwest along the lake’s border.  My preferred trail was the one going to the northeast, and that was always my first exploration of the year.  Starting from our trailer, I would head down the steep, muddy bank which led to a small rivulet of water.  In the spring, this stream would be alive with spawning shad, but at this time of year it was quiet.  Anxious to begin my trek, I first had to overcome the most difficult obstacle of the entire hike which was the ground itself.  The soil, having soaked up water for nine months of the year, was a quagmire consisting of soft clay and areas that were akin to quicksand.  I would hope for a cold morning where the ground would be frozen enough to support my skinny, ten year old frame, but that was rarely the case.  More than once I became trapped in the muck, only to have it pull my boot or shoe from my foot. This usually occurred after convincing myself I could mentally make my body lighter as I tiptoed across the soft, grasping clay.  I would imagine myself growing lighter as if filled by helium, and as I stepped forward I was positive I was not resting my full weight on my foot. Then I would sink halfway to my knees and have to struggle mightily to escape.  I guess my repeated failures in this mental exercise were one of my first lessons in physics, but apparently I was a slow learner since I applied the same approach year after year.  Try as I may, I could rarely find a point at which I could cross the stream, so my solution was to follow the shoreline until it reached the woods, then trace the stream into the woods until it became narrow enough to jump or a fallen tree provided a natural bridge.  Then I would return through the woods to the far side of the inlet where I would again emerge on the shoreline.  As long as I stayed with the high ground, I could navigate this area of the cove.

            My first destination was the island that sat in the middle of our inlet.  Because it was inaccessible the rest of the year, the island always held a particular fascination with me.  To call it an island is to be rather generous.  It was a small sandbar on which a handful of willows and grasses had taken root.  What my sister and I found particularly interesting there were the large, gelatinous blobs that hung from the branches which had previously been submerged.  We did not know what these were, but we mistakenly assumed they were collections of frog eggs.  In reality, what they were were bryozoans, a community of invertebrate animals, known also as “moss animals,” which have ciliated tentacles and feed by filtering plankton from the water.  Regardless of their true identity, they were exotic and always a prized find.  Sadly, over the years, the bryozoans disappeared, and as erosion increased with boat traffic, so did the island itself.

Bryozoa

 

            Having explored the island, I began making my way around the lake’s perimeter.  Some of the muddiest hiking was this first inlet until I reached the rocky point jutting out into the water.  Here was where the chunks of sandstone and limestone began.  I scanned the surface of each stone, looking for fossils of the prehistoric ocean and tropical landscape which had once existed here.  Sometimes I would uncover a piece of coral.  At other times, a chunk of petrified wood might be exposed.  Likewise, ripple patterns of the shore of some long forgotten lake could be found frozen in stone.  On breezy days, I would sometimes stack the rocks to make a small fortress where I could hide from the cold wind racing across the remaining water and relax in the warm sunshine.  

            Leaving the rocky area, I retreated into the maple grove that had sprung up on the point.  In the spring, when the water was high and the crappies were spawning, this was a favorite fishing hole.  However, at this time of year, my interest lay not in the shoreline, but in the foundation of an abandoned farmhouse now consumed and hidden by the young trees.  There is a frustrated archeologist in me, and I never pass up an opportunity to explore the “ruins” of a past life when they present themselves.  Very little remained of this home beyond a foundation wall, some old fencing and the occasional cracked drainage tile.  So for me, it was the darkness of the woods and the ghostly presence of a long, lost family that created the attraction.

            Emerging on the other side of the maple grove I continued on with my shoreline exploration.  The ground was generally drier in this area, and it allowed me to get a little closer to the water.  My focus from this point on was to search for hidden treasures among the gnarled roots of the surviving stumps and the branches of newly toppled trees.  These were the hidden hazards that had claimed many a fisherman’s line the prior summer.  I would look for a flash of fishing line waving in the breeze or emerging from the surrounding sand.  Following this, I would trace it into the depths of the stump until I could locate its “business end.”  Here I might only find a couple of lead sinkers and a rusted hook, but if I were lucky I might stumble upon a fancy lure or new jig.  My tackle box was full of these sacrificed artificial baits, and I believe I still have a few tucked away 40 years later.  The only problem was how to transport them home if I had a particularly successful hunt.  The treble hooks would embed themselves into my pockets or canvas knapsack, but somehow I managed.

Some of my "found" lures

A closer look

            Another treasure for which I was constantly on the hunt, but much less successful, was lost anchors.  The same clay which would sometime claim my shoe would also on occasion refuse to give up a lead anchor which had buried itself a little too deeply.  More commonly it would again be a submerged tree stump into which the falling anchor had drifted and wedged months before that held the prize.  So every scrap of nylon rope emerging from the sand had to also be explored, and in doing so I was able to add a couple of anchors to our collection over the years.  

Other discoveries were more serendipitous.  These included lost sunglasses, cigarette lighters, a lost (but empty) wallet, a nice skinning knife and sheath which I still own, and what I seem to recall as being a small animal pickled in a jar.  The latter may be one of those memories that the brain creates or expands upon over the years, but I can clearly see in my mind a jar with what looked like a baby monkey stuffed inside.  Perhaps someone had tossed out an old biology specimen jar, or maybe a container of some foodstuff had fallen into the water and the material inside had molded creating a fuzzy form.  As for myself, I choose to believe I found a pickled monkey.

My skinning knife

            Situated a couple of points over from our trailer was a hillside containing houses and apartments.  For a few years a family with a black lab resided there, and she would frequently join me for my walks.  Moseying down from grassy hill, she would come up to me with wagging tail and beg to be petted.  I would look for a stick to toss her and she would obligingly retrieve it, living up to the characteristic of her breed.  Together we would proceed on, exploring rocks and stumps together until the bank became too steep to safely traverse.  Here I would do an about face and return home, leaving my walking companion back at her home.

            The hike in the opposite direction was just as enjoyable, but usually much less productive.  Here the shoreline was nearly entirely rocky and very few stumps existed to explore.  I seem to recall a greater collection of fossils from this path, but few finds beyond that.  But it always felt like new territory to me, and with new territory comes the promise of new discoveries.  That is a feeling that still motivates me.  Just walking down a new street in a familiar neighborhood gets my heart pumping a little bit faster.

Fossilized coral

Petrified wood

Another piece of an a prehistoric tree

            As the season became colder, our visits became fewer, but we were fortunate enough to return a few times during the dead of winter.  Now the lake could be approached without the threat of becoming mired in clay and muck.  I could now explore the frozen lake, although that was only when I was convinced the ice was several inches thick.  One winter, I found a pair of old ice skates in the basement and took them with me to the trailer.  My plan was to clear an area of ice and skate on the frozen lake.  I made my way out to the small patch of ice that remained in our bayou and using a broom swept away the snow.  Conveniently located at one edge of the clearing was a stump, and it was there I sat to switch from boots to skates.  Having secured my ice skates, I stood up from the stump to get a feel for the ice.  Immediately I began moving away from the stump, although I had not made a move.  In clearing the ice, I had failed to notice that the water level below the ice had at some prior time dropped, and the entire lake surface had cracked and buckled inward slightly.  The stump had been at the high end of a very large, slanted slab of ice and as soon as I stood up, I began sliding downhill.  I did not know how to ice skate, and I certainly didn’t know how to skate uphill, so no matter how fast I moved my feet, I continued to slide backwards away from the stump and my boots.  I suspect in the end, I just fell over and climbed my way back up hill where I forever gave up my dream of skating on the lake, slipped on my boots and trudged back to the trailer. 

Yet I still found other ways to enjoy the frozen lake.  Once I followed some ice fisherman to what was nearly the center of the lake one year.  They walked single file, each tethered to the other as they tested the ice.  Once in the center, they used an auger to drill a large hole through nearly a foot of ice.  What I remember most about that day is the low, moaning of the ice, and the hollow yet thunderous sounds it would make as it cracked and shifted.  It was an eerily beautiful sound, and although there were numerous fissures running in all directions over its surface, the frozen lake was in no danger of opening and swallowing me.

Once spring returned, I usually made a repeat trek around the lake’s perimeter before the water started to once again rise.  I knew there were no more treasures to be found, but spring fever urged me on.  I watched the trees bud and the fish return to the shallows.  Soon the lake would rise, the temperature would warm, mushrooms would sprout, wildflowers would explode on the hillsides and another year of adventure would begin anew.  

As with the lake, there is a natural ebb and flow to life.  I have experienced many highs and lows in the intervening years, but always with the promise of new adventures still ahead.  But also like the lake, I have felt a drain – a drain on my memory.  For the past two years I have tried to put down on paper some of my favorite recollections of the past.  However, my mental water level is also at a low point, and I’m afraid I have written all that I can recall that I felt was worthy of a story.  So for now I close my blog.  Perhaps something will come to mind in the future, or one of those hoped for adventures may yet bring some excitement.  If so I will share it with you.   In the meantime, the old stories will remain here.  Check in every once in a while just in case I have some rare inspiration, but don’t expect to see much new.    Again, a huge thanks to the few of you who have stopped by to share my “ramblings” these past two years.  It has been a pleasure sharing them with you, and I am thankful for the new friendships they have helped create.  I truly wish I had more to share.  Keep sharing your own memories, and my very best to you all.

Flying High

            It was a beautiful, hot August afternoon in 2008, and my brother, my sister and I were, in a manner of speaking, about to open our Christmas presents.  Perhaps I should speak of it singularly, since it was a combined gift from our father.  We were about to have the opportunity to take a flight on a restored B-24 Liberator, better known to my father as his “office” during the Second World War.   This once in a lifetime opportunity was indeed an early Christmas gift from our father, and one that will likely never be matched.

            The B-24 Liberator is the often overlooked little sibling of the more glamorous B-17 Flying Fortress, yet this is not the result of performance but of publicity.  In Hollywood, looks are everything, and having garnered the nickname of “the Flying Boxcar,” its silhouette certainly did leave something to be desired.  Yet in many ways the B-24 outperformed its sleeker and more illustrious counterpart.  The Liberator could carry a heavier bomb load, and do so flying faster and farther than the B-17.   And its reputation has nothing to do with numbers, either, as the B-24 was the most produced of all the Allied heavy bombers and still holds the distinction of being the most produced American military aircraft to date.  However, despite 18,400 of these planes being built over the relatively short span of its production life, only a handful exists today, and of these only a couple are capable of actually flying.  We were about to board the only fully restored, flying model B-24J in existence.

Dad's main plane during the war

            The plane is owned and operated by the Collings Foundation, a non-profit organization created in 1979 to share the nation’s heritage through “living history” events, and while they originally focused on land transport, their focus shifted more to aircraft in the 1980’s.  Today their Wings of Freedom tour brings fully restored WWII aircraft to venues throughout the United States.  Flying together are the B-24, a B-17, and a dual-control P51 Mustang.  A couple of times before, we had gone with Dad to a local airport to see these planes and walk through the two large bombers.  The B-24 has gone through a few incarnations through the years.  The first time we saw it, it was the silver, unpainted All American representing the 15^th Air Force.  A year or two later, the scheme was changed to the Dragon & His Tail, a ship that had served in the Pacific.  On the day of our flight, and still today, she  is painted in olive drab and carries the colors and insignia of the plane Witchcraft, a noted aircraft of the 8^th Air Force which is the branch in which my father served.

My first view of an actual B-24 back in 1993

Several years later the plane returned as The Dragon and his Tail

It is an emotional and heartwarming scene to see aging WWII vets proudly showing off “their planes” to their children and grandchildren.  For many, it is the first time they have seen or stepped back onto such an aircraft since the war’s end.  Sometimes you can see one of these men standing off to the side, looking up at the plane with a faraway look in his eyes, and you can only imagine what past scenes of action or horror must be playing themselves out in his memories.  For others it is more like an emotional reunion with a long lost love as they reach out and touch the skin of the plane ever so softly.  Children, on the other hand, seem to be drawn to the 50 caliber machine guns projecting out the waist windows, where they grab the controls and take aim at imaginary Messerschmitts. 

My daughter, Rebecca, finding the 50 mm gun in the waist

A look at her from inside the plane

For me, my first walk through of the plane was an opportunity to “put a face” on the stories my dad had recorded during the war.  And on this particular day, it was an opportunity to have life breathed into those tales.  Only once had I ever seen the plane powered up.  My wife and I had taken Dad’s brother out to Mt. Comfort Airport to see the two vintage bombers.  Uncle Earl had never had the opportunity to see or explore the plane on which his brother had served during those fretful years away from home.  Unfortunately, we had misread the details in the newspaper, and when we arrived there were no WWII aircraft in sight.  We talked with the office and learned the planes were scheduled to arrive in about an hour, so we decided to sit in the shade and wait it out.  After what seemed an eternity, a low rumble in the distance caught my ears and soon the silhouettes of two large aircraft appeared overhead.  As they banked to make a sweeping circle before their final approach, I could see the twin tail fins that are perhaps the B-24’s most recognizable feature.  That moment was an emotional one for me, and tears welled up in my eyes.  It was as if an ancient dinosaur had just been resurrected from a fossil.  The plane that had until that point only existed in grainy, black and white footage and wrinkled snapshots from the war was descending from the sky right in front of me.  I felt like one of the ground crew back at Horsham St. Faith, where my dad had originally been stationed, sitting by the tower and counting the ships as they returned, praying “their plane” was one of the group to make it home.  The planes in turn touched down and taxied to a corner of the airfield where they would later be available for tours.  We were not able to visit the plane with Uncle Earl that day, but Dad brought him back the following morning to give him a more personal tour.

The ground crews and officers awaiting the planes' return at the tower in Horsham St. Faith

And so it came to be that here we were again at that same little airport awaiting our chance to actually fly in that magnificent plane.  The bombers were still available for walking tours, and so we first visited Nine-O-Nine, the foundation’s B-17.  What struck me was how much tighter the interior of the plane felt to me, and I thought of how difficult it must have been for the airmen to quickly maneuver through a disabled plane to bail out. Then we climbed up through the bombay doors into belly of the B-24.  Of course my daughter headed to the machine guns, but the rest of us gradually worked our way to the front section to peak into the cockpit.  Dad was happy to share his knowledge of the plane with other families walking through, and a couple other veterans could be heard doing likewise.  Once our tour was over, we gathered again on the tarmac to await our flight.

Dad talking with my wife, Sara, before our flight

 While we were loitering, the individual who had purchased time in the P-51 got his chance to go airborne and take control of the Mustang.  The spectator/pilot climbed into the front seat, the true pilot into the back, and the plane sputtered to life.  With sunlight gleaming off her bright, aluminum sides the impressive fighter plane bearing the name Betty Jane rolled off the tarmac and to the end of the runway where it pivoted and began its charge into the wind.  It took to the air and quickly rose into the clear blue skies, made a loop around the airport and was then gone from sight.  My heart only raced faster after watching this, and just as it began to settle into a normal sinus rhythm once more, the Mustang returned and buzzed the airfield with a spectacular low-level pass.  Now I was really chomping at the bit to start our own flight.  

The beautiful P-51 Mustang, "Betty Jane"

Yet more time passed until those of us flying were finally gathered together for a pre-flight briefing.  Dad had chosen not to accompany us.  He wanted this to be for his children and not so much for himself (his enjoyment was watching us experience it.)  And he figured he had given the B-24 enough opportunities to claim him; he didn’t need to try his luck one more time.    We were given a brief history of the aircraft followed by instructions.  We were to find one of the available seats in the plane, either in the waist or immediately behind the pilots, where we would buckle in for takeoff.  Once in the air, the pilot would ring the bail-out bell signaling we were free to get up and explore any part of the plane we desired.  We were cautioned to be very careful on the narrow catwalk that led through the bombay because the weak bombay doors would not support a falling person, and one would quite likely plunge through the bottom of the plane.  Likewise, we were warned against grabbing any of the cables running alongside the plane, as these were the flight controls and the pilots preferred it if we did not try controlling the air surfaces ourselves.

Author sitting at the radio operator's table

With our lesson over, we once again crouched under the plane and entered the bombay area.  I had purposely pushed my way towards the front of the group because I had one particular seat in mind.  I wanted to experience the take-off from the radio operator’s table just behind the co-pilot.  This had been my father’s view of the war, and I was determined to experience the flight from his perspective.  In fact, this is where my father was sitting on just his third mission when he observed the following on March 8, 1944-

  “I must say it is sure a grand feeling to be back in England tonight and I don’t care much for England.  We had quite a day as we went to Berlin known as “Big B” to us.  We flew Satan’s Mate and everything went pretty well until we got into heavy flak at Hanover going in.  Capt. Booth was flying as Command pilot and at that point he was hit by a piece of flak.  I was standing right behind him and when he jumped about a foot off the seat I thought his electric suit had shocked him.  The flak took the tips off the fingers of his right hand, the top off his right knee and then lodged in the back of his left leg.  We were at 25,000 feet where it was 40 below zero so the wounds didn’t bleed much.  I called Lt. Moore up from the waist and we did what we could for the Capt. then Moore took the co-pilot seat.  I kept working with him.  His electric trousers were in such a condition I was afraid they would short out so I disconnected them and turned the heat up on his coat & gloves.  I wrapped blankets & coats around his legs to try and keep them warm.  I don’t think he will be handicapped permanently but he will be laid up for some time.  He sure took it like a man and wouldn’t let me give him any morphine.  I should’ve anyway.  We went on in and the group did a swell job on the ball bearing factory.  I got a glance at it and it was in ruins.  I was pretty busy most of the time but it seemed like we would never get home.  We had some bombs hung up that we couldn’t get out so we landed with them to get the Capt. to a doctor.  We had about 10 flak holes.  One life raft was ruined.  Two of our ships are missing. The 8th air force lost about 35 heavies today.  (Toll’s guns were froze all the way)”

An injured Captain Booth being downloaded from the plane

Pilots going through the pre-flight checklist

            Thankfully, the seat was open and I swiveled out the small, radioman’s chair and buckled myself in.  From this vantage point, I could watch the pilots at work going through their extensive pre-flight checklist, just as Lt. Clark and Lt. Moore had done 60 years before.  Outside, the engineer pushed each propeller through a full rotation before the pilots could start the four 1200 hp Pratt & Whitney engines.  Eventually, the engines fired and warmed to build the necessary pressures to ensure a safe take-off, and ever so subtly the plane began to roll.  The engineer was standing next to me when suddenly he popped open the emergency hatch on the roof and climbed up.  There he sat perched on the plane’s roof between the cockpit and the top turret and became an extra pair of eyes for the pilots as they taxied to the end of the runway.  Slowly the plane turned and waited for the okay to take to the air.  At that point, the engineer dropped back into the plane and fastened his own seatbelt, and the race down the runway began.  It seemed like forever before the plane separated itself from the ground, but eventually we were airborne and the pilot immediately rang the bell.  As much as I loved sitting in my father’s seat, I wanted to see the rest of the plane.  Being near the front, it made the most sense to just move forward, and besides, that was a part of the plane I had never visited even on the ground.  I dropped below the pilots and made my way to the nose of the plane.  Here is where Lt. Haley, the navigator worked, plotting their course or taking positions through the astrodome above.  And here is where Lt. Hoobler had guided the bombing runs from a prone position as he gazed through the top secret Norden Bombsite in the nose.  Making my way through their cramped quarters I came to the nose turret where my dad’s crewmate Demkey had watched for attacking German aircraft.  Although the view was interesting from there, I was anxious to head back into the belly of the plane, passing my brother headed in the opposite direction since his goal was to get the bird’s eye view from the nose.  I passed what would have been Okie’s postion in the top turret on my way back to the bombay.  

Dad's crew in front of their training plane

            Here is where my father would peer through the open doors to watch the bombs release and tap out a “bombs away” signal, just like he did in this mission from June 22, 1944. 

    “I think after today we’d better thank the Lord for little favors.  Capt. Mitchell flew with us in our own ship leading the 491st to another noball target northeast of Abbeyville.  There was just a few scattered clouds so we bombed visual and with excellent results.  I hope I never see or hear any more flak as I did today.  Those gunners were sure putting it up around that lead ship.  We got into it on the bomb run and most of the way out.  It was very heavy and too accurate.  When it gets close enough to hear it’s too close.  Again it was impossible to get out of it and as the result our ship was hit all over.  I guess we had about 150 holes.  There are 12 gas cells and 11 of them hit.  Toll had some plexiglass knocked in his face when a piece went through the dome of his turret.  I was down by the bomb bays watching the results of our bombs and the command pilot was looking over my shoulder.  He says I ducked once but he must of been wrong cause I never raised up.  We got hit in the bomb bay just before bombs away.  Those rocket sites have first priority now that they are hitting London.  I think the Germans have their best AA gunners protecting them too.  Our ship will be in Sub Depot for some time.  I think I broke all speed records for sending in a bomb strike message today. We were still in flak so I didn’t waste any time.  They got it the first time.  I wonder if the guy who copied it had any idea how scared I was just then.”

View of bombs striking their target in St. Trond, France

The narrow catwalk coursing through the waist

            I eased my way along the narrow catwalk, past the raised ball turret where Donovan, the smallest guy on Dad’s crew, would squeeze himself in, and found my sister in the waist.  This is where two of the plane’s ten 50 caliber machine guns reside, being manned in my dad’s time by Innis, the crew’s waist gunner.  This became my favorite perch for the flight.  With open windows to allow for the guns, I could lean out and feel the air on my face and watch the world pass below.  Rather than the hedgerows of England, I had to content myself with the patchwork farm fields of central Indiana.  And standing in for the English Channel was Geist Reservoir.  Speedboats pulled skiers below me on this day, but with a little imagination the scene could be altered to what my father looked down on the day after D-Day when he wrote this in his journal-

My version of the English Channel

The Hoosier countryside standing in for England

            “Oh, what a day!  I must say this was the most interesting so far.  It was our first since moving to Hardwick.  We led our old group, the 458th to the town of Lisieux, France just past our troops.  The bombing wasn’t very good as the G.H. Beacon wasn’t working and it was a little too cloudy for visual bombing.  We didn’t encounter any flak or fighters but we had to feather #2 because the prop ran away.  It was clear just at the beachhead.  Below was the most exciting scene I ever expect to see.  The Channel was full of ships, boats, landing craft, etc.   There was all kinds and sizes with hundreds of allied fighters giving them cover.  The battle ships were shelling some coastal target and some coast gun must have returned the fire cause I saw some hits very close to one of our large ships.  I hope we get to go back tomorrow!”

Our shadow follows us below

Not exactly standard pilot uniform

            I watched the plane’s shadow chase us across the ground below.  It was the perfect day for a flight with clear skies and warm weather.  My father had to fly through the thick muck that makes up the English weather in the springtime.  We were clothed in shorts and shirtsleeves, but my father’s crew flying at such high altitudes in an unpressurized aircraft wore warm underwear, an electrically heated flight suit, with a two piece heavy outer suit of leather and sheepskin.  Over this they wore a parachute harness, a flak suit, leather flying helmet, gloves, goggles, heavy boots and a flak helmet, not to mention an oxygen mask.  The temperature was often 40 degrees below zero, and exposed skin quickly succumbed to frost bite.  The bulkiness of their flight apparel made it all the more impressive to me that they could maneuver and perform in such tight quarters. 

View from the tail gunner's position

            When I had made my way back to what had been Tolleson’s position as the tail gunner, the bell again sounded, and I had to find a seat once more.  Reluctantly since I did not want it to end, I sat by my sister in the waist and buckled up awaiting our landing.  I had expected this aging, clunky bird to set down a little hard, but to be honest, I never felt the contact with the ground.  It was as smooth as silk and better than some of the commercial flights I’ve taken.  For my siblings and me the trip was over, but the memories will last a lifetime.  

B-24 going down

Nothing can ever show us what combat was like for those men.  Statistics tell us that early in the war they would most likely not survive their full 30 missions.  We will never again in our lifetimes see the vast armada’s of heavy bombers filling the sky as far as the eye can see in all directions.  How can we appreciate the terror of seeing the black puffs of smoke around the plane and knowing that at any minute shrapnel could rip through its fuselage, taking lives, maiming crewmates or disabling the craft?  We will never know what it is like to have waves of enemy fighters repeatedly dive at your formation while you are forced to hold a steady course, while the sounds of your crew’s machine guns returning fire rings in your ears.  We cannot fathom the fear a crew surely felt when their plane became crippled and they had to drop out of the protection of the group formation in hopes of limping home alone over enemy territory, knowing all the while enemy fighters were waiting to pick them off.  We will never know the pain of seeing the faces in the barracks and mess hall change daily or weekly as your friends fail to return and new crews take their place.  Each plane that went down took with it 10 men.  The fear and subsequent relief when such missions ended is well reflected in my father’s final journal entry.  The date was August 8, 1944 and Dad was flying his 30^th and final mission with the 93^rd Bombardment Group when he recorded the following-

            “It seems that my roughest missions always come on the 8th of the month as my four worst missions have been on that date.  Today was the last one in this tour and I’m greatly relieved.  I flew with Capt. Darughty today as his radio operator is finished.  We went in at 14,000 feet which is the lowest yet and a mile or so too low to suit me.  We were by ourself  but this time I was glad cause if we’d had a formation with us I don’t think we would be here to tell it.  We were to drop five British flare bombs on the target which was a small village just in front of our own troops.  The reason was to make it so the first & third division of forts could pick up the target easier and be sure on not getting behind our own lines.  It was very interesting as we went in over Cherbourg.  There was a couple of convoys heading into the port.  It looked like the harbor was pretty well cleaned up as it was full of shipping.  I could see about five small vessels the Germans had sunk to block the harbor.  The shell holes in the large harbor forts were very visible.  From there on I saw lots of villages that were mainly shell holes & crators.  The red crosses marking the hospitals were very plain to see so there really shouldn’t be any excuse for the Germans to bomb them.  They’ve built a great number of aircraft landing strips.  I was really enjoying it till we got to Vire and turned on the I.P.  At about that time we crossed the German lines and did they ever give us the works.  I never saw so much flak in my life and it was accurate.  I think a lot of it came from German tanks cause their 88 mm will reach 14,000 feet easily.  Anyway as we were by ourself we did violent evasive action to try and get through safely.  We turned as high as 90 degree turns but is was still too close for comfort.  We got the flares on the edge of the target but I don’t know how we did with such a bomb run.  If we held a course for a few seconds the flak was right on us but the navigator & bombardier did a grand job.  The bombardier took the shortest run I’ve ever known but it was good.  By the time I got the bomb doors shut after watching the flares hit, we were at 16,000 feet and climbing fast.  It was just a couple minutes till we were back over our lines but we were in that heavy flak for about 15 minutes. I think there were 10 of the scaredest men on that ship I’ve ever seen.  Maybe it was because it was the last mission for 8 of us & 29 for the other two.  We really came home in a hurry.  The forts were suppose to come in at 12,000 feet and they couldn’t do very much evasive action as they were in formation.  Flak got the first three forts.  Our fighters were down on the deck strafing every gun they could find so it was quite a sight to see.  We were very lucky cause we only got hit about 15 times.”

Dad posing with his kids after the flight.

             Our father was grinning broadly as we each climbed from the plane.  He had given us one of the most memorable days of our lives, and opened a small window onto a very special time in his own life.  I am forever grateful to the Collings Foundation for maintaining these rare aircraft and for offering these special flights.   I thank Dad as well all the men and women who have ever worn the uniform of our country for their service and sacrifice.  And I especially thank him for a very special Christmas present, opened on a hot sunny afternoon in August several years ago.

****For those interested in reading the entire account of my father's war experience, you will find his journal at http://aradiomanslog.weebly.com/