Trip to the Fatherland

Editor's Note: I was sitting across the table from my grandpa a
few years ago, each of us dining on my grandma Lucy's masterful
cuisine. Grandpa was telling a war story. As much of a peacenik as I
can be sometimes, I love that stuff. "Patton" is one of my favorite
movies. "The Longest Day" and "Kelly's Heroes" aren't far behind and
neither is "The Battle of the Bulge" (even a pinko like Henry Fonda
shoots straight then and again). But hearing about the real thing is
better -- especially when someone you know is at the center. Grandpa
was telling me about a particular bombing raid over Germany. He was a
B-17 navigator during World War II, doing, as Barney Fife once put it,
his "part to whip the dreaded Hun."

As many others had suggested already, I recommended he write down
some of his WWII memories -- leave a story for those after to read and
help them better understand the war and what its fighters went through.
With all the recent ludicrous engagements around the globe -- Haiti,
Somalia, Kosovo, Bosnia -- many folks have lost respect for the
military. And, while in some cases this is completely understandable,
it shouldn't be in all. While it should be sparingly used, the
institution of the military is a vital one and no recent war makes this
so clear as WWII. Here is an account, my grandfather's, of a mission
over Germany. -- Joel Miller, Commentary Editor

Let me take you on a bombing raid over Germany. Though, why anyone
would want to go is beyond my best powers of comprehension.

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By the time of this particular excursion, my flight surgeon, Doc
Allen, had flown on over 18 missions. I said to him, "Doc, you're nuts,
you don't have to go."

"Yes, but you go," he answered.

"It's my job to go," I responded, "I'm the navigator: I tell them
where to go and direct them to the target -- and then find our way
home." (Oh well, Herb Allen made it and today practices nuclear
medicine in Houston, Texas.)

The time was 2 a.m. I was sleeping soundly on my three-biscuit
mattress when I was awakened by a sleepy looking PFC saying, "Lt.
Miller, you are flying today?" Immediately, I was wide-awake. I jumped
out of bed and saw that my pilot, Meiklejohn, was already up. The
bombardier was grumbling as usual. We dressed and headed for the mess
hall.

As usual, it was chilly at that hour in East Anglia. I pulled my
jacket collar close around my neck as we made our way up the hill to
breakfast. It was powdered eggs that day. They are not the most
appetizing food at two in the morning -- or anytime. Yuck! We managed
to wash down enough to start the day and headed out to the waiting 6-x-6
transport vehicle to take us to briefing.

We stumbled into the briefing room -- the crew all sat together: 1st
Lt. Meiklejohn, age 29; Flt. officer Mount, co-pilot; 1st Lt. Miller,
age 27, navigator; 1st Lt. Healy, bombardier; T/Sgt. Back, engineer;
T/Sgt. Niemic, radio operator; Turner and Church, both corporals age
19, waist guns; Cpl. Case, ball turret; and to bring up the rear, Cpl.
Fryback, tail gunner, age 19. Nineteen-year-old kids grow up fast when
shot at. Come to think of it, it doesn't do too much for the average
27-year-old either.

The map showing the mission was still curtained so we didn't know
where we were going. We didn't have long to wait, though, as the
briefing officer came in and yanked back the curtain. There are a few
groans when we saw the trip was deep into Germany. Magdeburg was our
target. We were briefed on the number of flak guns (all 88 millimeters)
around the target and the Luftwaffe fighter strength in the area. When
the briefing was over, the crew headed out the plane, a B-17 bomber.
The engines had been preflighted by the ground crew, the tanks topped
off with 2,780 gallons of 100-octane fuel, and 5,000 pounds of bombs
were loaded into the bomb bay -- she was ready to go!

As for me, I next went to the navigator's briefing, drew my maps,
plotted our course and got the weather and wind predictions. When I
finished, the 6-by was waiting to take me to the plane.

While I was at my extra briefing, the engineer installed my
50-caliber guns, which I checked over upon arrival -- they looked OK.
The rest of the crew was responsible for their own.

We had all donned our heated suits and boots and left all
identification behind -- just in case.

I started up the ladder carrying my chute and map case. Healy was
standing in the hatchway. "Are you coming in or out, Ed?" I asked.

"I don't know if it is any of your damned business whether I am
coming in or out." I decided to just go up the ladder and shove him out
of the way. "One of these days, Miller, I am going to shove my fist
down your throat clear up to my elbow," he threatened.

"Any day, Ed, any day."

I got out my maps, E6B computer, plotter and dividers -- the tools of
the 1944 navigator. No.1 engine coughed to life as Mike started to fire
up the plane, then No.2, 3 and 4. We taxied out to the runway and wait
our turn to take off. After finally getting the go-ahead, Mike lined us
up with the runway. He poured on the coal and held it on the runway
until the airspeed reached 135 mph. He then eased it up and we are
airborne -- gear up!

In no time, we were in the clouds on instruments. We broke out on
top and the crew started calling out aircraft -- 12 o'clock high, 3
o'clock level, and so it goes -- with 2,000 aircraft over East Anglia it
gets a bit hairy at times.

Healy went back to the bomb bay and armed the bombs. He came back as
crabby as ever and got in his seat. I put on my mask at 10,000 feet and
switched to pure oxygen. Hitting 20,000 feet, the crew would frequently
check to make sure no one had passed out from anoxia. I could feel the
cold creeping in around my collar and sleeves. I looked over at the
thermometer on the window -- it was 44 degrees below zero. I can always
tell when it reaches 44 below -- it starts edging in around my neck and
wrists.

We headed out across the North Sea and climbed to 25,000 feet. I
liked that altitude -- the accuracy of the enemy flak seems to drop off
above 20,000 and, that day, we planned to raise hell with the
Fatherland.

It was part of my duties to notify the crew when it was OK to
test-fire their guns. I charged the .50 calibers and eased the safety
off. I picked up the mike in one hand and, at the very same time,
pulled the trigger on the machine gun. "OK crew," I said as I fired off
a volley, "you can test-fire your guns now." Healy nearly jumped out
and let out a string of cusswords. He threatened me with mayhem. I
guess it does make one nervous to have a .50 caliber go off right behind
you.

Crossing the sea, I can remember looking down at the water. It
looked mighty cold and rough. I hoped we wouldn't have to land down
there.

Once we crossed over the coast we could see the landscape -- it
looked like a giant crazy quilt through the broken scattered clouds
below. There were very few rectangular fields in Europe -- all sorts of
odd shapes instead.

Now and then, some Kraut gunner sent up a few bursts of flak -- I
suppose, to test his gun. We usually tried to go between them until we
hit the bomb run.

I watched below for landmarks, computing the wind and the ETA to the
target. We were getting close, approaching the IP, where we started our
run. At that point, we would take no evasive action -- straight ahead
and pray they miss us.

As I looked out the window I saw an 88 go through the wing of a B-17,
between the No. 3 and 4 engines. It didn't blow until it had gone on
through the wing. Lt. Berves' crew. We counted the chutes as they
bailed out -- seven total. The fire had apparently gone out, however,
so he decided to head for home. It appeared to be flying OK and I hoped
he made it (he didn't, it turned out, come home that night). Off to the
right, another plane was in flames -- no chutes seen. The flak was
getting heavier and sounded like a hailstorm hitting the plane.

Healy hunched over the Norden bombsight. It seemed like forever
before he finally said, "Bombs away." The plane leapt up as it let
loose of 5,000 pounds worth of ordnance.

A flight of ME-109's circled off to our left. They weren't stupid
enough to fly into all that flak after us.

Scared? Hell yes, I was scared. I didn't figure we had a snowball's
chance in hell of getting out of that one alive. But for some reason,
the Lord has always looked out for me -- not that I have deserved it. I
thanked him as we eased our way out and headed for home.

We were bucking a pretty good head wind, which slowed us down. I
looked up ahead and watched a train on fire. One of the cars exploded
and then the fire seemed to die down a bit when another one blew. I
watched one after another blow until it finally moved beneath us and I
could no longer see it.

As I moved along, I drew pictures of the clouds, along with their
altitude, wind direction and velocity to give to Major Robinson, the
weather officer, when we got home to use in his forecasts. He was
always happy to get them and thanked me.

We finally made it back to the North Sea again and started letting
down. About half way across, there was a B-17 afloat with the crew
standing on top -- looked mighty cold down there. I hope our rescue
crews got to them before the Germans did. The headwind had used up most
of our fuel. It was getting mighty low and Mount kept saying, "We have
got to land soon." The field was in sight -- and none too soon. Mike
set it down. That screech of tires hitting the runway was a welcome
sound. As usual, he shut down two engines to taxi in -- which he had to
restart because the other two died on the way in for lack of fuel.
That's cutting it a bit too close.

Some of the planes fired red flares to indicate wounded on board.
The ambulance raced out to meet them.

After we dismantled and cleaned our guns, the truck picked us up and
took us to debriefing for a welcome home and a shot of whiskey. I could
never stand that rotgut so I gave it to one of the crew, usually Mike or
Back. How many did that make? I'd lost count and was too weary to
care. The ground crew, by the way, had to put two new wings on the bird
as they were so full of holes they weren't worth patching.

Once more into the truck, and this time it was up to the mess hall.
We finished eating and headed down the hill to the hut we called home.
There were empty bunks in the hut that night. Sorry fellows, you didn't
make it. How long would our luck hold, I wondered? Look on the bright
side: For all of this, I was getting paid all of $297.00 a month. I
wouldn't have recommended it for a career.

Over half a century has gone by since I flew that mission. There
were many more after that one, buried deep in the shadows of my mind. I
used to wonder, "What is an old Iowa farm boy doing out here in a
machine like this? It sure isn't a Farmall or a John Deere." But even
though Mike was a dairy farmer, he sure knew how to fly that airplane.

I sometimes think back on those days and some of those we left
behind. Their faces and names float before me. In troubled times like
these we are witnessing today, the love for our country transcends all
else. We do what we have to do -- and I'd do it again.

After serving in both WWII and Korea,

Dr. Ray J. Miller retired from the United States Air Force at the rank of captain.