•      I.  B-17 Aircraft Nos. 44-6407, 44-6737 and 44-6347 in the 32nd's Last Missions, by S/Sgt. Harold B. Whitbeck
•     II.  Ditching in the Adriatic, by Joe Mangano
•    III.  Disaster at 18,000 Feet, by Lt. Keith Taylor
•    IV.  Last Mission in B-17 Aircraft Number 23380, from Frank C. McGinley's Journal
•     V.  Amazin' Maizie Hits the News, sent in by William R. "Speedy" Wadlington
•    VI.   Forced Landing in Russian Territory: "Sugar Report," from S/Sgt. Robert Richards' Journal
•   VII.   52 Days -- If You're Lucky: Sgt. Robert E. Richards Had Delayed Return to Base
• VIII.   The Personal Diary of James Franklin Boston
•  IX.  The Reunion: A World War II Bomber Pilot, His Fighter Escort, and One Whopper of a Coincidence, by John Fleischman
•  X.  Art Unruh First and Last Missions

ON THE MISSION OF 14 MARCH 1945, the Fifteenth Air Force dispatched 848 bombers against targets in Austria, Hungary and Yugoslavia. The 301st and 97th Bomb Groups used visual aiming to drop 193 tons of bombs on the marshaling yards in Komaron, Hungary, 20 miles from German lines. The 32nd Bomb Squadron was assigned this mission and I was the tail gunner on "Miss BeHaven" plane number 44-6407. Early that morning, after a light breakfast and briefing we departed Italy on our bombing mission to Komaron Hungary. We encountered heavy flak before reaching the target and were forced to drop our bombs prematurely due to our loss of power. With one engine out and two others with reduced power we were forced to attempt reaching Russian held territory in Poland. Keeping altitude was our immediate concern in reaching the front lines between the German and Russian ground forces. Somewhere near Myslenice south of Cracow our situation became serious and at an altitude of approximately 1500 feet Lieutenant Walter Podasek, the pilot put our plane on auto pilot and we bailed out. Due to ground fire, believed to be from the Russians, we were forced to ocillate in our chutes to avoid ground fire. Luckily, no one was hit, however the ocillating made the landings difficult. Knees were dislocated and some landings were in trees, steeples and rooftops. Russian forces believing we were paratroopers captured and jailed us even though I had an 18 inch square American flag with me and called out that we were "Amerikanza." Jailing lasted a couple of days however our Pilot, Lieutenant Walter Podasek spoke Polish and helped to arrange our release. We were then on our own, using bicycles, truck or on foot to Odessa Russia. Odessa was a collection point for downed Air Personnel. We arrived back at the 32nd Squadron's base in Lucera, north of Foggia Italy by ocean freighter via the straits of Bosphorus, Crete to fly another day. It was the crew's belief that Miss BeHaven had been destroyed in the crash. Fifty two years later in 1997 information was received from Michal Mucha and Szymon Serwatka of Poland that our plane had continued to fly crewless for 300 kilometers. It had belly-landed in a field in a manner a real pilot could not have handled better. The landing location was between Krotoszyn and Ostrow south east of Poznan. (Michal and Szymon are conducting a WWII Aircraft MIA project in Poland) Their Home Page Internet address is http://www.samoloty.ip.pl/amiap/

THE PHOTOGRAPH ABOVE is of our belly-landed Miss BeHaven, taken in the summer of 1945 at the landing location. You can see the aircraft was being cannibalised by the locals at that time. The damage from the landing and flak is visible. Also note the pilot had feathered two propellers prior to their bail out.

ON THE 20TH OF APRIL, 1945, the Fifteenth dispatched 783 bombers, including a formation of 132 B-17s that dropped 388 tons on the Vipetino Marshaling Yard. The 301st and 2nd Groups put 91 percent of their bombs within 1,000 feet of the aiming point. Eight B-17s were listed as missing, including two from the 32nd. The unit encountered very accurate flak that hit 1st Lt. Howard Bower's aircraft, number 44-6737, in the number 4 engine just prior to bomb release. The crew bailed out and became prisoners. Meanwhile, 1st Lt. Robert Adams, flying the "Princess O'Rourke," number 44-6347, of the 32nd, fell back from the formation after the target. Apparently hit by flak, Adams flew towards France, but was intercepted by Swiss aircraft and was instructed to land. "Princess O'Rourke" became the only bomber of the 32nd Squadron and the 301st Group to be interned during the war.

SGT. HAROLD B. WHITBECK, a crew member on both of the missions, describes his recollections of the events narrated above: "Following our bailout of 44-6407 over Poland and capture by the Russians a few weeks earlier, with our regular crew piloted by Lt. Podasek, we were returned to our base at Lucera, Italy, just north of Foggia. Preceding the mission to Vipetino we had a "milk run," where we bombed the "front lines" in Northern Italy. We fired our guns at ground level at anything that moved. On our second mission after our bailout, we were scheduled to bomb the Vipetini Italy Marshaling Yards in the Brenner Pass. Stories were told that the ground gunners could fire downhill at you from the mountain sides. We left with the full compliment of enlisted men, but with a different officer crew. Our ship was piloted by 1st Lt. Robert Adams, whom we did not know previously and from whom we've never heard since. The enlisted crew consisted of Gus Burnham, right waist gunner, Fred Rasmussen, left waist gunner and radio, Vince Gamel, nose gunner and Joe Orman, ball turret. At the target we were hit by heavy flak, verifying stories of accurate fire from the ground and the mountainsides. We lost one engine on the right side of the "Princess," plus loosing power on a left-side engine. After dropping our bombs we lagged behind, and unable to stay with the formation, the Pilot radioed the Command and we headed for France. We were then intercepted by Swiss fighters and forced to land at Dubendorf, where we took out two or three fences before we stopped. We were photographed, fingerprinted, interrogated and taken to Adelboden and the "Nevada Palace." Our treatment was fair, allowing us freedom during the daylight hours, but off the streets at dark. We were not required to be at the hotel at night. Their food was generally less than desired, bland and often cold. Regimentation was lacking, but generally Swiss treatment was good. This was the last mission flown by the 32nd against an enemy in World War II. The war ended three weeks later, May 8, 1945, and I returned with the crew to the United States for further assignment."

SGT. JOE MANGANO was a ball-turret gunner on this mission and recalls the following:

SHORTLY AFTER turning on the bomb run, Me I09's shot out the number-four engine of our bomber, number 44-1398. Our pilot, Lieutenant Douglas Moore, had trouble feathering one of the two props after the number-three engine failed. We continued on the bomb run and released our bombs. While losing altitude, Lieutenant Moore ordered us to jettison all unnecessary equipment. I had gotten out of the ball turret by this time, and we tried to dump the ball turret and even shot the mountings with our .45-caliber pistols, to no avail. In all the excitement we threw out several parachutes. This meant our only option was to ditch in the Adriatic Sea. By this time we were at about 500 feet, and our pilot was able to regain level flight. The full power of the port engine was enough to just exceed stalling speed. At about 5 miles from the coast the number two engine blew up, forcing us to ditch off Pascara. I found out later that we had claimed two German Air Force fighters destroyed.

IT WAS A ROUGH DITCHING, and we had to swim like the devil to reach the rafts. Luckily, they hadn't been hit by enemy fire from the Me I09's, and I believe that saved us. We were picked up that night by the United States Navy and finally made our way back to our base in Lucera, Italy. I was scared to death, and truly think that we survived because we were all so young. I finally finished my fifty missions and was on my way back to the States when D day started. I sincerely believe that the man upstairs was looking after us that day. The members of our crew were Moore (P), Hunter (CP), Garrity (N), Upton (B), Flasiznstein (E), Frascatorf (RO), Gatrost (WG), Fish (WG), MacDonald (TG) and Mangano (LT).

WE WERE ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES from the target when our plane made a severe movement up and down, and then sideways, before returning to its place in the formation. The whole plane shook and vibrated with a loud noise like an explosion. Our Pilot was Captain William Wofford, and between the two of us we were sure this was the end. Everything that was loose in the cockpit was all over the place. It threw the bombardier up against the Plexiglas nose, knocking his oxygen mask off and then flipping him on his back. We continued on and bombed the target with reported excellent results. After we left the target area, about thirty Luftwaffe planes swarmed all over our formation. Our plane suffered some minor damage from flak and we lived to fly another day. I'm sure there was someone looking after us. The 32nd lost aircraft number 42-30466 on this mission and the fate of the crew was unknown.

THE OFFICIAL REPORT reveals the cause of the severe disturbance during the approach: Two 97th Bomb Group B-17s had engine trouble and began to leave the formation. Instead of making a 180-degree right turn, away from the formation, they turned to the left and flew head-on into the 301st formation. One flew below the leader's left wing and the other above and to the right, clipping the vertical stabilizer of Colonel Barthelmess's aircraft, and apparently hitting another 301st bomber before colliding with the lead bomber of the second element. One fortress in the lead element exploded, as did two B-17s in the second element. The P-38 pilots, who were flying low cover (beneath the overcast) for the mission, said they watched B-17 pieces raining from the sky for what seemed like five minutes.

THE COMMANDER'S and two other aircraft went over on their backs, not an ideal position for a fully loaded, iced up B-17. Two of those aircraft recovered at 10,000 feet. Others were not so lucky; the 301st lost five B-17s and their crews on this fateful mission. A navigator from the 419th bailed out and became a prisoner. One of the strangest stories of the war came from this mass accident. The collision severed the tail from one of the 353rd Squadron's bombers, trapping the crew in their positions. However, luck was with the tail gunner, James Raley, as the accident had left the tail section with adequate lift and weight distribution to allow it to fall or "flutter" to earth. Raley described the tail spinning around before finally impacting in a clump of pine trees. He was on his thirteenth mission, and did not realize what had happened until the tail came to rest. He opened the bulkhead door to find no aircraft. Raley was the only survivor. There was also a collision that downed a 99th Bomb Group bomber and a P-38 within 40 miles of the Group's disaster. (This "Official Report" information is from "Who Fears", the history of the 301st Veterans Association).

"PURPLE HEART CORNER"

AND SO, UP INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER, and the big day, little did I know, was started! Everything went smoothly with the exception of the supercharger on the No.1 engine, but we figured with three other engines, we would have no trouble whatsoever getting there. I was having a final cigarette and singing "Oh, what a beautiful morning, Oh, what a beautiful day", prior to putting on my oxygen mask, when I noticed that my chute had popped open. I never gave a thought then to any serious developments on account of this, but I remember thinking what a ribbing I would take from the boys at the base when they heard about it. However, soon after I made this interesting discovery, the Navigator informed us that we were approaching our IP and my thoughts quickly turned to the more serious business ahead. We were flying in "Purple Heart Corner" so we had a pretty good view of the boys ahead going through the flak, or I should say, disappearing in the flak. The whole sky ahead was black, just as it was the last time we were up there. It seemed funny to see and yet satisfying, too, watching what appeared to be toy airplanes in a cloudless sky plunge headlong into that black mass, disappear for a time, and then to reappear on their "rally". It seemed to radiate confidence back to us exhibiting a modest pride in a good job well done.

ALMOST SIMULTANEOUS WITH REACHING THE IP 'tracking flak' picked us up and began working its way toward us. Pilot Charles Mason had asked me at briefing earlier in the day to grab a couple of snapshots of anything worthwhile and with a start I remembered this and grabbed the camera. At almost the same moment, we spotted enemy fighters maneuvering into position, and hardly had I begun my call to the crew, when the Tail Gunner reported fighters attacking from 6 o'clock low and almost immediately he and the Ball turret opened fire, and the pounding of their guns sounded way up in the cockpit even over the roar of our engines, giving as good as was sent, as evidenced by the exultant crow of victory as one of the fighters began smoking and started haphazardly spiraling down, out of the fight for keeps. Finishing their pass at the tail as is the custom of the Foche-Wolfe 190's, they channeled to the right, peeling down to make another pass and exposing only their heavily armored belly to the waist gunner in passing. His tracers were cutting a path to one of these fighters, so I lined him up in the camera sights all set to snap what would have been a swell shot, but at that instant, the ship on our right wing received a direct flak burst and almost immediately burst into flames and started down. I guess none of them ever knew what hit them, and I took the camera down and watched them for a moment with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realized they were gone. I knew them all and now they were gone with nothing to mark the spot except a trail of oily smoke! I was jarred out of these thoughts, but definitely, when a flak shell burst below our right wing, throwing the ship violently upwards. The main point of damage was in the wing, directly behind No. 3 engine; as though some giant hand had torn a jagged section from the wing, and not satisfied with that, had furthered the destructive work by setting fire to it as well. No. 3 engine was completely knocked out and I remember thinking what a job we would have getting home with all the damage, while with half of my mind I realized it was only a question of time before the ship would blow up. I kept watching the fire, attempting to figure out how long we would last. Could we reach our target to drop our bombs, and would we be able to clear the target before we had to leave her?

DURING THESE MOMENTS WHILE MY THOUGHTS WERE RACING ALL OVER THE PLACE, all hell was breaking loose in the surrounding skies, and I found I was still automatically carrying out my job, setting the prop speed higher, giving our remaining engines all the juice they could take. Four fighters were still coming in, so I grabbed the camera and got a sweet shot as I had planned before, a Foche-Wolfe peeling away and down followed by the tracers from the Waist Gunner, only in the foreground I had focused on our own burning wing. I got one other shot of three Foche-Wolfe coming in from 4 o'clock high, when the Pilot called my attention from the business of calling out the fighters and taking pictures of the same. Our intercom phone had been shot out, so by gestures he informed me that these continued fighter attacks had destroyed our elevator controls and it took our combined strength to hold the ship straight and level for the bomb run. It was now more than ever a race with death to see if we could hang on until our bombs were away and we had gotten clear of the burning target areas before we bailed out.

THE FIGHTERS WERE CHANGING THEIR TACTICS NOW, varying their attack front and rear. The Tail Gunner was killed on one fighter pass and the quiet that settled over the ship told its own tragic story. Our Ball Turret Gunner had also gone to "Airman's Heaven", apparently killed instantly by the flak burst that so damaged our wing. Another flak burst, quite close, destroyed what was left of our aileron control and the A.F.C.E. mechanism too was not functioning. The cry of "Bombs Away" gave us mingled feelings of satisfaction, relief and regret. Relief that we had done our job well, but regret for at that clarion call, our last connection with our buddies was severed.

THE GROUP RALLIED ON THEIR WAY HOME, while we had no choice but to continue straight ahead, hoping to reach a safe place to bail out before the fire reached our gas tank. Almost as though a part of a pre-arranged plan, our exit cue was given by an off stage prompter in the personage of an unknown German fighter pilot. Our top turret gunner was very short in stature and to that fact alone, can he attribute his prolongation of life at that particular moment. One of his guns jammed, and being small, he had to duck down out of the turret to clear the jam. While thus engaged, a spray of lead perforated the cockpit, and a 20mm cannon shell burst in the turret, blowing it completely off the ship. It was almost laughable to see his eyes bulge out in surprise as he stuck his head out of what was left of his gun mount into the slipstream. Then, to add insult to injury, for the first time he noticed the wing burning; a tribute to his concentration on protecting the ship from the fighters. When he spotted the fire he crawled out of his turret again and forcibly called the pilots' attention to the fire. Up to that time I firmly believe the fire was known only to the Bombardier and myself. He had noticed it while following the erratic flight of an Me109 he had shot down.

THE ALARM BELL RANG and the top turret gunner started toward the bomb bay preparatory to leaving the ship. By the time I got my chute picked up (or, so I thought) he had already attempted to open the bomb bay doors, and failed. He jumped into the bomb bay just as I came though the door and partially sprang it, and by kicking and squirming he got out, almost.The door slammed shut on him, just as he fell out, catching his left arm and part of his chute inside. Don't ask me why, but I automatically used my old bean for a change and jumped into the bomb bay and sprung the Engineer clear. It is fortunate for him that I did, for he told us later that the slipstream was banging him against the fuselage and seemed to be tearing his arm out of the socket as well as ripping his shroud lines. However, he was out now and that's what was the important thing. It was then, however, that I started to sweat because when I went back to again try to open the bomb bay doors, through the door came good old Lt. Mason with the rest of my chute. I hadn't known till then how badly caught my pilot chute was in the turret and seats. He very nicely handed me my chute, signaled 'thumbs up', pulled the bomb bay release (this time it worked), and out I went, the chute ballooning right in the bomb bay. What a feeling of relief when I swung clear of the ship. I then looked up at my pretty little chute and started my sweating all over again, because two complete panels of the chute were torn out, either in all that jumping around the bomb bay, or when the chute opened in the ship. I said my favorite little prayer, although I didn't do too good a job of it at the time. As I looked, the chute made an ominous ripping sound just once, and after that is was the most pleasant, peaceful grandstand seat any man could ever have for a real view of combat at its best or worst, depending on your point of view.

I COULD SEE OUR SHIP, SMOKE AND FLAME STREAMING FROM IT, majestically descending and Mason's chute billowing behind it. I could spot other chutes below me, and see fighters still attacking old "Pistol Packin Mama". One of them buzzed me, but did nothing more than start my chute gently oscillating. Off in the distance I could see our boys going home silhouetted against a sky darkened by the rolling clouds of smoke and flame emanating from the target area.

CAPTURE

DESPITE THE COLD I FELT PRETTY GOOD. Around 6 PM the sun disappeared over the hill and I prepared to shove off. Little did I know then that the twilight would be my undoing. My place of concealment was OK in the sunlight, but with the sun's rays no longer glancing off my leafy covering, I stood out like a sore thumb. Halfway down the hill, three German or Austrian soldiers were still searching when one of them looked my way, and that was that! He leveled his gun at me, shouting at the top of his lungs in what sounded like double-talk. As though by magic, forms seemed to spring up all around me; old men with Nazi arm bands, Youth Movement kids and even two young girls with guns bigger than they were. I don't know what worried me most, the thought of capture or those nervous kids with guns. They were a lot more nervous than I was however, I thought at any minute they would let go at me. It sounds funny now even to me, but believe me, at the time, I wondered! I rose to my feet and tried to explain to them I was 'waiting for a streetcar' and if they would go away they would make me very happy. They apparently didn't understand the language, and all I could get out of them was a light for my cigarette. They wouldn't come close to me. They just threw the matches at my feet. After looking me over like a "Man from Mars", they finally marched me off to a flak battery nearby where they tried to explain they had a comrade of mine. It didn't feel too near with my bare feet. As we approached, I recognized Sgt. Crockett, the good soldier he was, greeted me with a snappy salute which I returned. I was sorry to see he had been captured, but was glad to see him looking okay. I had been wondering how badly he was hurt when he was caught in the bomb bay. His left arm was pretty badly banged up, but I couldn't tell if it was broken or not! He wondered who it was that released him from the ship and was profuse with his thanks when I told him I was the lucky boy.

I THEN TRIED TO COMMUNICATE TO OUR GERMAN HOST that I wanted a Doctor to look after Crockett's arm and they ran off and returned in a moment with a cup of weak hot chocolate. Apparently they misunderstood me slightly. By reverting to sign language and a soft-shoe dance, I finally got it across to them that I didn't usually appear in public with only one shoe on! They took the hint and dug up a boot for my left foot and then, by motions and a gentle prodding with the muzzle of their rifles, we got the idea that another tour of Austria was to begin. We walked, limped or what have you, lugging our chutes with us through the hills and vales and little villages for what seemed an eternity. At each village or farm settlement, we picked up a following of civilians, all anxious to see the vaunted American Terrorfliegers. Although I couldn't understand what they said, I gathered that they didn't exactly like us nor our bombs. C'est La Guerre! Knowing as we did that some of our boys had met with rough handling at the hands of irate citizens whose homes had been destroyed, this little gathering didn't make us feel any too good about the whole situation. We finally arrived at our destination, the headquarters of the flak batteries stationed in that area. Here we met another American Sergeant with a badly wounded leg. He was waiting patiently for assistance, but there didn't seem to be much being done about it. One of the Jerrys understood English slightly, and through him I made my demands for medical attention for these two injured men. They got a medic for them, and I was then taken into the inner sanctum to be interrogated by a Major who was their Commanding Officer.

IT WAS HERE I FIRST MET LT. DICK EGGERS. The four of us were finally moved out to the airfield in the town of Wiener Neustadt for safe keeping. We were put in the back of an open truck accompanied by soldiers with machine guns to guard us. They started the 'cold treatment' that I was to feel so much in the days to come. We weren't exactly dressed for the occasion and had only our parachutes for protection from the bitter cold wind. At one of the towns we picked up a flock of young Jerry soldiers, Luftwaffe ground crew, who were also heading for the airport. Again, we were subjected to the suspicious and curious scrutiny of German eyes. They soon turned from this unprofitable pleasure to skylarking. I imagine, for our benefit, like a bunch of good old G.I's with half a load on! Any passing person, male or female, was in for a chorus of catcalls and whistling. But every time we passed a demolished or semi-demolished building or area they quieted down and bestowed looks of hate in our direction. We finally arrived at the airfield, and before we were taken in we had the opportunity of seeing the German night defenses practicing their deadly work. A simulated attacking bomber was "coned" with their searchlights, and various night fighters made pass after pass at it. We thought it might be the real thing for a while, but the markings on all the planes became clear as they approached and we saw they all had the German Cross on them. The same German Cross that we had seen earlier that day going down in flames.

A FORETASTE OF WHAT WAS TO COME. A death-knell for a nation doomed to final and definite destruction. Maybe not in a day, nor a month, but coming inexorably closer with each passing day, each mission completed, with each battle won. We found out later that our thoughts would not always be this high, but deep inside we always knew and believed in the inevitability of Germany's end and with this rested our future hopes. We were finally taken inside what appeared to be a Luftwaffe guardhouse and the four of us were taken into a room about 20 feet by 7 feet. By sign language we were told to make ourselves comfortable, ha, ha! Eventually they brought in some live coals and started a fire in our little stove. Boy did that warmth feel good. Eggers understood a few, a very few, words in German, the most important of which at the time was 'essen' (to eat) and 'wasser' (water). They got the idea finally, and brought us coffee, a loaf of black bread and a piece of bacon. It was actually 90% fat. They kept pointing at the food, saying "Gut!, Gut!", indicating that this was a very special treat in Germany. That's what we needed to really warm us we thought, but when we tasted it, brother, all I can say is it shouldn't happen to a dog! If there is anything in this whole world that tastes worse than "Ersatz Coffee" it's "Ersatz Tea", and I hadn't encountered that as yet. Our German chums didn't like our refusing to drink their 'devils brew' and thought we were crazy when we expressed a desire for just plain "wasser". However, they brought us some and we attempted to satisfy the "inner man" with these choice morsels. As in our previous encounters with them, we were again the center of a curiosity bitten throng. After eating and warming up a little at the fire, we realized we had a pretty long eventful day, and a little sleep wouldn't hurt. We stretched out as best we could on our "Simmons mattress", boards to you and they took the hint, while putting out the lights as they left. Tired as I was, sleep didn't come easily, and midnight found me still just dozing and reviewing the day's happenings. Then I heard quite a commotion in the hall. I lay for a minute wondering 'now what'? Then above the noise I heard a familiar voice ask 'who's got a light?'. It was Dick Moon's voice, the last man I talked to outside of the crew before taking off. We had ridden out to the line on the same truck and as each group of men jumped off and went to their ships, the usual remarks were passed; "Good luck gang, see you at mess" or "Have a nice time, boys". That wasn't the way Dick saw it. As he jumped out he turned and laughingly said, "See you in Chetnik Headquarters, Mac". And now here we were 18 hours later, both Prisoners of War, and nary a chance of getting to Yugoslavia "Chetnik Headquarters". I waited a couple of minutes and then walked out into the hall and greeted the boys. I came out into the lighted hall, rubbing my eyes and growled, "Say, can't a guy get any sleep in this joint?!" Boy, did that give them a jolt! Talking it over later, I found out that they had been wondering what happened to me, and my sudden appearance had kind of a ghostly tinge to it. With Dick were the other boys from our ship; Mason, Rossi, Baker and our waist gunner Rauch, and also Dick's ball gunner and Engineer.

IT WAS PRACTICALLY A GATHERING OF THE CLAN. We were chased back into our 'boudoir' where we woke Crockett and the other boys and made the necessary introductions. The Germans brought in some bread and coffee for the new arrivals and we sat back to watch their reaction to Germany's contribution to the coffee industry. We got quite a laugh from the hurt look on their faces! The old bull was thrown, while they ate, about our varied experiences of that day and as the saying goes, "The first liar didn't have a chance". We finally retired once more to our not so soft bed and I wound up firmly wedged between Rossi and Dick. Came the dawn and I pried my way out of Rossi's embrace and woke him with a punch in the ribs. He woke up and seemed disappointed to find me there instead of who he was dreaming about. Finally all of the boys came out of it and we started jabbering where we left off the night before. About 8:00 AM our German chums brought in our morning taste thrill. We managed to polish it off and then one by one we were taken in and searched and questioned. Some of the Jerrys were sullen and grim, but some of them were just young happy go lucky kids. We found out later that the airport we were at was not only a fighter field, but an advanced training base for their pilots. This explained the hoards of kids around the place. It was funny to try and talk to them as they were pretty impressed by our "Bombers" and tried to demonstrate how they in their fighters would attack us. We tried to talk them out of the flying game, telling them that while they might knock a few of us down, we got our bombs on target regardless and most of us went home to fly again the next day and there were plenty more to take our place. Meanwhile they (the Jerrys) were getting fewer and fewer after each battle. For example, just the day before, their losses outnumbered ours, 3 to 1, despite the fact that they had thrown their best men, Goering's crack "Yellow Nose Squadron" against us. It was sort of a revival of an old feud. During the battle of Africa, our Squadron had tangled with Goering's boys and cleaned house.

AS A BADGE OF VICTORY, FROM THEN ON OUR WHEELS WERE PAINTED YELLOW, as a constant reminder to Jerry of that meeting. We sustained the heaviest losses of anyone the day before for this very reason. Our wheels stood out like sore thumbs and boy did they lay for us! However, we took a lot more of them down than they did us and by holding their attention, so to speak, we saved the other boys a lot of trouble. Even so, 3 out of the 4 ships of our Squadron that went down managed to fight them off until we dropped our bombs on the target. Not a bad record when we took the brunt of the attack. However we couldn't convince these kids that it was all over but the shouting, despite the fact that for the moment they were the victors and we the vanquished! Along about 10:00, a Jerry came in all excited about something and despite the cold opened our only window. We immediately set up a howl, but he kept hollering 'boom!' and shaking the windows, so we finally got the idea that someone's bombs hadn't gone off yesterday and they were going to set them off now and he wanted the window open so the concussion wouldn't break it. This was something new as we had dropped plenty but had never heard or felt them go off before. We were still talking when "Broooom!", went the first one. What a blast! The window slammed shut and the noise was deafening. This was repeated at intervals until all six were set off. Boy, what an experience! We knew they were being set off at a distance and individually, but it was still terrific. What must it be when hundreds or thousands of these babies go off almost at once. No wonder Jerry is on his way out. This turned the discussion to the effects of our bombing yesterday. We know from what we saw that we did a good job. But when one of the Jerrys slipped and told us that we had put 90% of the plant completely out of commission, we were as excited and pleased as schoolboys after a big meet. The questioning took up most of the day, and during the course, we discovered we weren't the only new captives. Dick Egger's Bombardier, Charlie Major, was in another room with some enlisted men from a B-24 crew. At about 7:00 we were told we were to be moved out that evening. At 8:30 all 20 of us piled out and got into the bus they had waiting. Moon and I went way to the back where there was an emergency exit that we thought might prove interesting. We had 4 or 5 Jerry guards armed with Tommy guns, but they all sat up front, so as soon as we got clear of the field, we went to work on the door. Unfortunately, it was double-barred on the outside and the windows too were locked. Before we had much success with the hinges on the door, we pulled into the railroad station, and that was that.

WE WERE HERDED INTO A WAITING RAILROAD CAR and were joined by 20 other boys who had been captured the day before and had been kept in storage at another point. The car was faintly reminiscent of our own streetcars at home with wooden seats and windows that naturally wouldn't open. Our supplement of guards was increased to about 20 and they brought along our food for the trip. It was more of the black bread and cheese. We felt the cold and the drafts from the broken floor boards of the car, so we huddled together as best we could with our feet on the opposite seat to get away from the drafts. But that didn't last long, as a Jerry came back and knocked my feet to the floor with his bayonet. I knew then how those comic tramps felt in the movies when the "Copper" banged their feet to keep them from sleeping on the park benches. We had quite an audience of civilians on hand, eager to view 'those Terrorfleighers' and we amused ourselves until the train pulled out by making horrible faces at them and growling like hungry animals. Finally the train pulled out and to keep our spirits up and also for Jerry's benefit, we started a songfest. "I Got a Gal in Kalamazoo", "The Air Corps Song", "I've Been Working on the Railroad", etc .The time passed quickly despite the cold and we soon found ourselves pulling into Vienna. It was a totally different Vienna from the one we knew in the movies. It was just another darkened, scared, war torn town. We pulled into a small station just on the outskirts of town and, picking up our allotted food ration, we staggered off the train. The word "staggered" is an exaggeration, of course, but I sure wish you could feel the weight of one of those loaves of bread. A man has to be in damn good shape to carry one of them, much less thrust it into his unsuspecting and unconditioned stomach! We had to walk about two blocks from the station to a trolley stop. The first car that came by was commandeered for our private use. I don't imagine the civilian population liked the idea of getting off, but you know how it is, nothing too good for the Americans and we couldn't associate with just anyone ha!, ha!. After about 15 minutes ride out we went again.

THIS TIME WE WERE IN THE CENTER OF TOWN and had another short walk through a fairly decent looking park and arrived at the main station. The inside of the station was brilliantly lit and it took a moment to accustom our eyes to the glare. My first impression was eye staring eyes all over the place! Everyone in the place stopped still for a minute and once again, we were the center of attraction. Our guards herded us off to a corner of the concourse and the silence was broken only by the angrily ominous mutterings of the bystanders interspersed with a few typical American wisecracks. We had about half and hour until train time and in that time we got quite a view of the cross section of the German people. Few and far between were smiling faces. For the most part, tears and bitterness were the predominant emotion. Soldier after soldier with full pack was taking leave of his loved ones while a few, a very few were coming home on leave. What caused us the most surprise was the age and in some cases, the lack of it in their fighting men. They were all very old or very young, the bottom of the barrel so to speak. Finally our train pulled in and we trotted off to embark again for points unknown. Our guards had little trouble clearing a path for us and even more trouble explaining to the other passengers that we must have seats together so they could keep an eagle eye on us. We got hold of a map from their timetable and were able to trace our course through Nuremburg, Lilz, Regensburg, etc. In all of them we could see evidence of where the 'stone termites' and been at work with good effective bombing where it was needed.

WE FINALLY PULLED INTO THE TOWN OF FRANKFURT. We looked hard all around us, but could see no evidence of any bombing. We found out we were going to Oberusel, a few miles out of town, where we would be interrogated. On our arrival there we had the alternative of waiting two hours in the cold for a bus or hiking about two miles to the "cooler" as our new home was affectionately to be known. Putting it to the wounded men in the party, we decided to do it on foot. When we got to the "cooler" we were all packed into a very small room and then called out individually and assigned to a private room for each man. Of course, at Sing-sing it is known as solitary confinement and 'that ain't good'. My room was 8 ft by 4 ft, with one barred window, a steel bed with an excelsior mattress encased in burlap. It had 8 boards to support my weight, two thin blankets to cover me, a chair, a water pitcher and a radiator. I found out later to my great discomfort that it didn't work. Despite the cold, I had to strip down while my clothing was searched. Everything of value was confiscated, my lucky silver dollar went, my pencils, notebook, cigarettes, candy, and they even took my prayer book. I had to talk like the devil to keep my Rosary. I spent a very restless night and as a result of my unsuccessful interrogation, I spent a very uncomfortable one. The next day was a repetition of the previous one. At 8 AM I had my two slices of bread and tea and at noon hot potato soup (it sure tasted good, then) and at 6 PM I got two more slices of bread and tea. I managed to fill up the days by counting the nails on the walls, the boards in the floor, etc. I exercised, prayed, and waited. It is hard to describe these days now as time crawled by. With the end of the interrogation phase of our journey, we were transported by train to our POW camp. We had arrived at our final destination, Stalag Luft 1, our new home for the duration of the war. (Ed. note: Stalag Luft 1 was liberated by Russian ground troops at the conclusion of the war in Europe.)

POW CAMP-Stalag Luft 1
November 11, 1943

November 12, 1943

AFTER MORNING FORMATION we were allowed to look over the extent of the camp open to us. We wandered around a while but the Chapel and Theatre were locked up and a light drizzle finally drove us back inside. We finally got around to introducing ourselves to our roomates-mostly Canadians and darn good boys they turned our to be. Pappy Bryan, Bill Coleman, Larry Aspinall, Harry Meyer, "Old timer" MacCullough and another one our our boys from Africa, John Cashore. We spent the rest of the day telling and retelling our terror stores, etc. The only break came when a little Englishman popped in to bid us a very hearty welcome. He had a RAF uniform on with no rank showing and he talked so fast we couldn't make head nor tail out of it, except the word "Padre". When he left we compared notes but it wasn't until later that day that we found our that he was Father Hall who was to be the best friend we had in camp and the hardest working man I ever met. He was captured in Rotterdam in 1940 as a civilian internee and had volunteered to come up here as our Catholic Chaplain. We had an organizational meeting that evening and got the ball rolling as far as camp activities went. Sports representatives, cooking, clothing, coal supply, rationing etc. etc. were all appointed and with a feeling of contentment that things were under way we turned in. Of course, the fact that all the lights were extinguised at 10 PM may have had something to do with our new 'early to bed-early to rise' routine.

November 13, 1943

November 14,1943

Nov.15, 1943

November 18, 1943

November 21, 1943

November 23, 1943

November 25, 1943

April 9, 1944

May 2, 1943

May 6, 1944

May 9, 1944

May 12, 1944

May 13, 1944

May 21, 1944

June 5, 1944

June 20, 1944

July 18, 1944

August 4, 1944

August 6, 1944

August 25, 1944

August 26, 1944

August 27, 1944

September 30, 1944

October 2, 1944

October 3, 1944

October 4, 1944

October 17, 1944

(Ed. note: The diary ends here. Surely there was more, but that information unfortunately is lost. Stalag Luft I, Barth, Germany, Barracks # 3, Room # 10: Frank C. McGinley, L.R. Moon, R. J. Eichenlaub, M.S. Baker, H.N. Mullaney, J. E. Peacock, D. G. Naughton, A. O. Williams, R. C. Howard, E. R. Chesmore, R. F. Eggers, B. J. Fuller, K. D. Haines, A. N. Rossi, W. C. Coleman, C. E. Mason, R. S. Macauley, D. A. Reagan, Ed Fennessey, W. C. Thompson and J. A. Graham occupied Room 10 in Barracks 3.)

ONE OF THE POEMS written by Frank McGinley while a prisoner in Stalag 1. It was sung by the prisoners in Room 10, Barracks number 3. to the tune of Bob Hope's theme song, "Thanks for the Memories."

"Thanks for the Memories"

Thanks for the memories, of flights to Germany
Across the Northern Sea, with blazing guns
We fought the Hun, for air supremacy.
How lucky we were!

Thanks for the memories, of Me-109's
And Flak guns on the Rhine
They did their bit and we were hit
So ended our good times...we miss them so much!

We drifted far out of formation
We jumped-and what a sensation
And now we sweat out the duration
Our job is done, we had our fun.

So thanks for the memory
Of days we had to stay, at Stalag Luft 1A
The cabbage raw which had to do
Till Red Cross Parcels came
How thankful we were.

So thanks for the memory
When "D" Day came along
We changed our marching song
From "Forever and a Day" to "War ain't Here to Stay"
We thank God for that!

  Frank McGinley, far right; Tony Rossi, center back

For more information contact Chuck McGinley, 6913 SW 167th Place, Beaverton, OR 97007. Telephone: 503-642-3194. E-mail chuckmcginley@prodigy.net

15th Air Force in ITALY--The amazing maintenance record of "Amazin' Maizie," a Flying Fortress crewed by T-Sgt, William R. "Speedy" Wadlington (left), 28, of Sledge, Mississippi, is a tale of changing wings like most people change socks.

THE GIANT FORT, named for Maizie Ann Harding of 488 E. 14th St., Tulsa, Oklahoma, wife of the pilot, Major Edwin F. Harding Jr., was put in Bill's charge when it was brand new early last February. He didn't have any trouble until the third mission, when "Maizie" got shot up over Reginsburg, Germany, and was one of the two ships that got back out of the Squadron. Then was when the first wing had to be changed, along with four engines, propellers, chin turret, landing flaps and a complete tail.

THREE MISSIONS LATER flak caught the main spar in the right wing, necessitating a replacement. After two days out because of that, "Amazin' Maizie" flew again and came back with the wings riddled--and so a new set was put on by "Speedy" and his crew.

A STREAK OF GOOD luck prevailed for a month, as his ship made every mission with no trouble. But that wouldn't last and on the return from the next mission there were gaping holes in the wing gas tanks--and so for the fourth time the wings were dropped.

"SPEEDY" AND HIS crew were getting to be experts when again several missions later--yes--another wing change. On the 55th mission all four engines were hit and the left wing for the sixth time had to be replaced.

COMMENTED WADLINGTON, "After that we only had minor troubles such as replacing tail assemblies, hydraulic and oil systems--nothing difficult!!"

IN 68 CONSECUTIVE MISSIONS without a turn back due to mechanical failure "Amazin' Maizie" led the Air Force three times and at one time led the Squadron for a month straight, all of which Bill modestly attributes to "a good crew and luck."

NOW THERE IS an "Amazin' Maizie II!!"

YES, IT WAS DECEMBER 26, 1944, and we were lucky enough to hit the battle order. Our 32nd Bomb Squadron is having a Christmas party in Foggia. It was quite a party although I didn't attend. We got up bright and early for briefing only to find that once again we were going to that well-known target of Blechammer Germany. It was a well-known target for its oil and half of the flak guns the Germans had. But we didn't mind, for we had been there three times before.

AS WE STARTED on the bomb run the flak began to hit us all over and it sounded like all hell had broke loose. In fact it did. No one had any closer calls than the other. We got a bad hit in the number one engine and it started a little fire and as we feathered the engine it put the fire out. The Lord was with us all the way for all of us came out without a scratch.

WE THOUGHT we would have to bail out but we were stuck with the ship. Number three and four engines were almost shaking the ship apart but we hung on. After we had traveled about a hundred and fifty miles a field was spotted and we decided to make a landing there. At least seven or eight Russian Fighter planes came up to get us but due to the luck, they recognized that we were not Germans. They started to make a couple of passes but broke away before firing.

AT LAST we were going to land and everyone was sweating out what kind of landing we were going to make. No one actually knew just what damage the ship was in, but Kage and Bill brought her in and made a most beautiful landing. At least it seemed good to know that our feet were on solid ground. It was a feeling that was just out of this world. The time in between bombs away and landing will never be forgotten for I'm sure that it was at least two or three years of my life.

WE WERE GOING to get out of the plane as soon as we landed but it seems as though the civilian population was all congregated around the plane. We stayed in until a Russian Lieutenant and two guards with fixed bayonets came marching through the crowd. As soon as we saw them we crawled out of the plane and all ten of us stood together.

THE RUSSIANS GAVE US a quick "high ball" and the first thing they asked was whether we spoke German. Of course no one knew what they were saying but we shook our heads no. They finally took us to a little village and fixed us up with a fancy meal of raw bacon and other fat meats and above all a nice shot of vodka. It was then that we found out that we were only about 2¾ miles from the front. I thought that the artillery guns sounded awful close. We also could hear small arms fire that was too close for comfort.

WE STAYED with the Lt. Colonel that was in charge of the infantry around there. He was a swell Joe and we had a good time with him although we only stayed with him for two days. They then got the bright idea that being we were Airmen we ought to be with the Air Corps. They moved us and then the real things began to happen.

December 28, 1944

December 29, 1944

THAT NIGHT they gave a dance for us and we were the only ones that were allowed to dance with the girls. But being we didn't know much about Russian style of dancing we just let the men take over. We were all getting tired so we went back to the sack to get another night of beauty rest on our board beds.

December 30, 1944

THE DANCE ended early so we went back and hit the sack. What a sack it was because my back is still aching.

December 31, 1944

January 1, 1945

January 2, 1945

January 3, 1945

EDITOR'S NOTE: It is with pride that I share my brother's journal of their forced landing experience in Russian territory. From the news reports it took the crew 52 days to return to their 32nd Squadron stationed in Italy. Robert completed his 25 bombing missions and returned to the United States. He raised a family and had a successful business. He passed away in November of 1973 at the young age of 50.

FOR MORE INFORMATION, contact Charles J. Richards, 2421 Williams Drive, Quincy, MI 49082-9644. Telephone 517-639-719, e-mail cjrichards@cbpu.com

15th AAF IN ITALY-- Blechhammer, Germany is only about four hours away from southern Italy by heavy-bomber, but S/Sgt Robert E. Richards, R.R. 1, Grabill, Ind., tail gunner on a 15th Flying Fortress, found out the hard way that it can take 52 days to get back --if you're lucky!

ON THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS during an attack against the oil refineries at Blechhammer, Richard's Fort was ringed with flak from the multitude of ack-ack guns protecting that vital target area. Several near misses stabbed the ship with flying steel, and disabled the oxygen system, the hydraulic system and all the instruments, including both compasses, which left the crew isolated in space.

THE NAVIGATOR'S COMPUTER was shot from his hand, and the radio operator lost his transmitter key in the same abrupt fashion; the emergency rations were peppered, most of the parachutes were shredded beyond utility and the gas tanks were riddled. One burst put the bomb racks out of commission and for the next few hours, while Richards was splicing severed control cables, the bombardier balanced on the narrow catwalk kicking out bombs to lighten the load.

Land Behind Russian Lines

AFTER A PERIOD of welcome recuperation at this stop, Richards and his crew were taken to an evacuation headquarters for Allied airmen. Here they were picked up and flown back to their base in Southern Italy.

"It was the rough way home all right" commented Richards, "but we were lucky to land in Russian hands. They made sure we had the best of everything they could give us!"

Veteran of 25 Sorties

HE COMPLETED telegraph and telephone school at Camp Crowder, Mo., on July 17, 1943 and won his wings at Las Vegas, Nev., on May 6, 1944. After leaving the United States on August 8, 1944 he flew his first mission, an attack against Barovincia, Yugoslavia on August 26.

HIS WIFE, Mrs. Glada Marie Richards and their two children, Allen, 2, and Nadine Fay, a recent arrival, reside at the above address while his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Charles W. Richards, reside at R.R. 1, Fort Wayne.

James Franklin Boston-14094612
U.S. ARMY AIR FORCE
Religion: Protestant
Date of Birth: August 26, 1921
Color of hair: Blonde
Height: 6 feet 3 ½ inches
Color of eyes: Blue
Nearest relative: Mrs. J. I. Boston, Mother, Curryville, Georgia

SERVICE RECORD
Transfers and changes in rank:

Enlisted as private on Friday, March 13, 1942 in old P.O. Building in Atlanta Georgia.
Appointed Aviation Cadet, May 12, 1942.
Arrived at Napier Field, Dothan, Alabama, May 26, 1942.
Arrived at Gunter Field, Alabama, June 2, 1942.
Arrived at Maxwell Field, Alabama, June 12, 1942.
Arrived at Turner Field, Advanced Navigation School, Albany, Georgia, August 16, 1942.
Arrived at Advanced Navigation School, Monroe, Louisiana, September 18, 1942.
CLASS OF 42-16, FLIGHT 56.
Set back to Flight 26, Class 43-1 November 6, 1942.
Graduated as 2nd Lieutenant, Selman Field, Louisiana, January 16, 1943.
Arrived at Salt lake Army Air Base, Utah January 20, 1943.
Arrived at Blythe Army Air Base, California, January 24, 1943.
Arrived at Pyote Army Air Base, Texas, February 3, 1943.
Arrived at Casper Army Air Base, Wyoming, March 8, 1943.
Arrived at Salina, Kansas (6-day delay en-route) April 17, 1943.
Arrived at Morrison Field, West Palm Beach, Florida May 2, 1943.
Arrived at Warner Robbins Field, Macon, Georgia May 7, 1943 for installation of “Tokyo Tanks.”
Arrived at Morrison Field, Florida, May 15, 1943 for the beginning of foreign service.

May 17, 1943-Departed from Morrison Field, West Palm Beach, Florida at 02:00 with clearance to Waller Field, Trinidad. Passed by Nassau on course, possible to do pilotage occasionally on small islands. Were ordered to be on lookout for the crew of a B-25 down in water. Passed 30 miles right of position reported. No survivors were seen. Landed at Boringuen Field, Puerto Rico 10:30, because of strong headwinds, very stormy and turbulent weather, No. 1 engine throwing oil, interphone out, and no radio contact. Boringuen is one of the nicest fields I have ever seen.

May 18, 1943-Departed Boringuen at 11:00 for Waller Field. Flew along about 60 miles west of Martineque and Guadaloupe. Rounded Galeria Point and landed 17:45 at Waller Field, Trinidad. On way to Trinidad saw a phenomenon reported only a few times previously—a small circular rainbow on the clouds below us with the silhouette of our plane in the center. Very Beautiful.

May 20, 1943-Took off Waller Field at 1:00 local time for Belem, Brazil. Arrived at Belem 07:30 later. Met A. Boraiko (42-16) now in ferry command and has made one trip to India. Now on second trip across. Said Ralph Adams is briefing Officer in Khartoum, Anglo-Egyptian Sudan. Some other classmates at Accra and Roberts Field. Belem is worse than Waller. Water and food bad, except for fruit. Plenty of mosquitoes.

May 21, 1943-Took off for Natal, Brazil 06:00 local time and landed Paranarim Air Base 12:30.

May 23, 1943-Went into city of Natal. Bought a male parrot for $4.00. Jack bought a female, Natives call parrots “popo-aqua’ee.” Parrots swear in Portuguese. Crew will teach them the English translation. Bought short-snorter boots. Only ones that fit were cream colored. Colonel didn’t approve of color.

May 25, 1943-Departed Natal 02:30. 250 miles from Ascension followed radio beam which ended abruptly out at sea. Believed to be a submarine. Did not see any subs but member of George Freeas’s crew sighted one. Landed Ascension 11:30. Food plain but much better than other places. Saw outdoor movie Saturday on the ground on the hillside.

May 25, 1943-Took off 8:00 for Dakar. Flew through another tropical storm but made it ok. Landed 16:30. Met John Ehma—Ferry Command (42-16).

May 28, 1943-Took off 08:00 for Marrakech. Flew over Sahara desert. Went up to 21,000 feet to get over hight mountains and storm 100 miles south of Marrakech. Nobody remembered parrots ‘till we leveled off. Gunners said they acted slightly drunk from lack of oxygen. Landed Marrakech 13:00. Officers quarters in town in unfinished modern night club and theater. Only taxis were rubber tired carts pulled by native boys on “bicycles built for two.”

May 29, 1943-Departed Marrakech 11:oo for Rabat. Flew over Casa Blanca. Landed at 01:00. Rabat Air Base to be permanent station for about three weeks. Plane unloaded. Possibility of losing plane to some crew already at the front. Officers quarters are tents pitched on ground with no cots. Food eated from mess kits. Flying in morning—ground school in afternoons. Rabat nice city with good Officer’s club. Sandwiches and real cake with lemonade sold by Red Cross. Met Captain Coupa’ French ace flyer. He shot down 11 German planes and 4 others flying P-36’s. He attacked 40 Dorniers.

June 7, 1943-Navigated ship being ferried to Oran (La Senia). Saw many wrecked planes, mostly French and Italian. Got a bag of mail for the other fellows, including a letter from home for me. Came back the following day.

June 14, 1943- Departed Sale’ Air base 13:00 and landed Le Senia 16:30. Stayed overnight.

June 15, 1943-Our plane (082) was given to Freas and Brewer. We got one like it (127). Departed La Senia 14:00 and arrived at St. Donat Air Base, Algeria 17:00.

June 18, 1943-Went on first mission 08:30 to Messina, Sicily. Flew with Lt. Namede who had just been recommended for DFC for flying B-17 back from Naples on two engines. The target-harbor and railroad ferry completely destroyed. Our plane dropped three tons of demos. (demolition bombs). No interception by enemy planes. Flak heavy and accurate. No planes shot down. One plane made a crash landing at Constantine. Landed St. Donat 17:30. One piece of flak went clear through wing behind No. 1 engine. Another hole nearby.

June 28, 1943-Went to Chateau Dun to hear lecture by Commander Weems, world’s formost authority on navigation. Introduced by Brigadier General Atkinson. Saw Preas and the other boys of the 97th Bomb Group. Still no mail, PX closed, out of rations and I can’t go on missions because all the older boys are flying to finish up their missions.

July 4, 1943-Went on mission to Cantania, Sicily 07:30. Carried 2400 lbs of frags. (fragmentation bombs). Moore, Pilot and Robinson, bombadier. Picked up Spitfire escort over Malta. Dropped bombs on airfield with good results. Saw my first enemy fighter. Spitfires acted like hounds hunting rabbits. A group was flying along while one snooped around and ran an Me-109 out in their midst. All joined the chase but the first one had more speed so the others let him by while the 109 dived, slow rolling. He was seen to crash in flames. No damage done by flak.

July 6, 1943-Visited Constantine. Went by Chateau Dun and saw George Freas. Said plane blew up on take off July 5 and killed “Tex” Slaton and Gordon Lowe (classmate 43-1) and all their crew. All good boys.

July 9, 1943-Mission to Biscari, Sicily. 06:15 Moore, Taylor and Irwin. Ten miles from coast of Sicily turned back on three engines. Salvoed bombs in ocean. Sighted 100 ship Allied convoy 50 miles south of Sicily headed toward Sicily. I was only Navigator in Group to report it to Intelligence.

July 10, 1943-Invasion of Sicily begun. Did not fly.

July 14, 1943-Went on mission to Messina, Sicily 06:30. Flew with original crew for first time. Carried 6000 lbs demos. (demolition bombs). One engine running rough. Didn’t catch formation till we got over target. Missed most of the flak. No enemy fighters seen. Listened to WOP music on radio on way back. Flew over Mt. Etna. My first time to look down into a volcanic peak.

July 17, 1943-Went on mission to Naples, Italy 06:45. Dropped 6000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs) on railroad yards. No fighters seen and went through light flak.

July 19, 1943-Helped make history. Made first bombing raid ever to be made on Rome, Italy 07:30. Dropped 4000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs) on railroad yards. Four 5-hundred pounders hung on racks. We salvoed them later in the sea. No fighters seen. General Jimmy Doolittle flew with the 2nd Bomb Group and General Atkinson flew with our 301st Group.

July 22, 1943-Flew to Algiers with Major Stoddard and Lt. Colonel Stewart. Came back with Colonel Stewart. He also brought Captain Walker’s (Squadron C.O.) promotion to Major.

July 28, 1943-“Special Delivery”, a B-17 in the 32nd Squadron being junked after setting a world’s record for number of missions (86). I flew my first mission in Special Delivery with Lt. Namele.

July 29, 1943-Went on mission to Viterbo Airdrome, Italy 07:00. Carried 4800 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). Robinson flew in Group lead ship. Moore, Taylor and I flew in 1-3 position.

August 7, 1943-Moved base from St. Donat, Algeria to a field 18 miles south of Tunis, Tunisia. Base much better with cool breezes and no dust storms.

August 11, 1943-Mission to Terni, Italy 06:00. Carried 6000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). Flak moderate. Coming back 60 miles from Italy intercepted by ME-109 and captured P-38 with enemy flier flying it. Nobody fired at first, thinking it friendly. Saw it slip in a formation from behind and shoot down a B-17. Everybody fired at it then including myself but my gun jammed. 20mm shell came by my head while I was looking through astrodome and went into No. 2 engine. P-38 was not shot down.

August 13, 1943-Went on mission to Rome, Italy marshalling yards 05:45. Had 24 P-38’s escorting us while we acted as bait for the P-38 encountered August 11. Carried 6000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). Flak was intense and fairly accurate. Got one small hole in wing tip. Saw unidentified fighter that was probably the P-38, but he did not come close.

August 17, 1943-Went on mission to Marseille, France 07:30. Carried 2880 lbs. frags. (fragmentation bombs). Flak was intense and one ship in our Group was shot down by direct hit by shell. Mason was the pilot of my ship. No fighters were seen. Four men reported to have bailed out of B-17 as it went down. I saw only two chutes. 21:00 PM saw fire-works of enemy bombing raid against shipping at Bizerte. Dug my fox-hole deeper.

August 25, 1943-Went on mission to Foggia, Italy 06:15. Carried 2400 lbs frags. (fragmentation bombs). Flak intense but we flew to the right of it. Saw only one enemy fighter but he did not come close.

August 26, 1943-My 22nd birthday.Went on mission to Capua Airdrome, Italy 05:15. Carried 2400 lbs. frags. (fragmentation bombs). Saw about 10 enemy fighters which made several passes at us. Fired at one of them. Coming back about 100 miles from Italy a B-17 broke away from the group on our right and turned back toward Naples in a fast shallow glide. It was obviously a captured B-17 that had flown over the target with us. 20:00 PM had a Squadron party in our new Officers club.

August 30, 1943-Went on mission to Viterbo Airdrome 05:45. Carried 2400 lbs. frags. (fragmentation bombs). Group attacked by several enemy fighters which fired some kind of rockets at us and also dropped metal fragments on us from above. Flak moderate but very accurate.

August 31, 1943-Went on mission to Pisa, Italy 07:25. Carried 6000 lbs demos. (demolition bombs). Saw the historical “leaning tower” from 20,000 feet. Attacked by about 15 enemy fighters over target. One came straight at me so I held back the trigger firing all the ammo in my box, probably hitting him and made him turn away. Just as he turned S/Sgt. Berg the engineer shot him down. Sgt. Teaster the waist gunner claimed a probable and he also accidentally shot part of our elevator off. Our life raft came out of the hatch and was lost over the target. Empty shells falling out of the B-17 in front of us hit our plane and made two holes in the Plexiglas nose. Fragments from one hole hit my cap and pulled it around on my head. Shortage of fuel caused us to consider landing on Sicily but we made it to the base OK. Upon landing we were greeted by a Brigadear General, two Colonels, a Major and two Captains who discussed our mission with us.

September 2, 1943-Went on mission to Bolzano, Italy (Brenner Pass) 08:45. Carried 4000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). Flew as low as 10 ft. off the water until the climb was begun. Saw 3 enemy Aircraft carriers near Leghorn. Before reaching target attacked by about 10 antique Italian fighters. They had two wings and non-retractable landing gear. One started to come in but my tracer bullets changed his mind. Flak moderate but accurate. Fired at German transport flying about 3000 feet below us but no visible sign of hits. Attacked again by about 10 German fighters near Leghorn. I fired about 300 rounds and really has a good time. Ball turret gunner Sgt. Walker and waist gunner Sgt. Teaster each shot down a fighter. Empty shells from the ship in front again came through our glass nose barely missing my head. Had several holes in plane including bullet holes.

September 4, 1943-32nd Squadron lost plane on mission to Capua, Italy. I did not fly. Officers shot down were Lt. Kimber (B), Lt. Crouch (P), Lt. Fleishauer (N) and Lt. Kenny (CP). Their B-17 was shot down by the captured P-38 and 5 ME-109s.

September 5, 1943-Went on mission to Biterbo, Italy 06:20. Carried 2880 lbs. frags. (fragmentation bombs). Only enemy plane seen was a transport far below us. Flak light and inaccurate.

September 6, 1943-Went on mission to Capodischino Airdrome, Naples, Italy 05:30. Carried 6000 lbs demos. (demolition bombs). Flak rather heavy. No enemy fighters encountered.

September 8, 1943-Went on mission to Frescatia, Italy 05:30. Carried 6000 lbs demos. (demolition bombs). Bombed the Villas where the German staff has it’s Italian headquarters leaving much room for promotions in the Germany Army. Flak was very intense and accurate. I was lead Navigator for the 32nd Squadron. Our plane was not hit but one pilot in the 32nd had the wheel shot out of his hands. The 97th Group lost a plane that received a direct hit over the target. Our Squadron attacked by a Regione 2001 fighter which mad several passes at our plane including two directly toward our nose. The most helpless feeling in my life was when he opened up directly at us and my gun would not come to bear on him. Somehow, he missed us and some of the gunners got him. Saw 7 fighters attack the Group ahead. 18:00—ITALY SURRENDERS UNCONDITIONALLY. Everybody warned not to fire on Italian planes which are supposed to fly over and land in Africa.

September 9-1943-Started on mission to Naples, Italy 04:00 where the Americans, British and Canadians are invading with the aid of the Italians. Had to turn back before reaching target with one engine out. We were leading the Squadron again.

September 12, 1943-Went on mission to Mignona, Italy 06:30. Carried 6000 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). Little flak although rather accurate and no fighters seen.

September 13, 1943-Went on mission to Consilina, Italy (06:45). Carried 3600 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs) and bombed German troop concentrations in support of our own invasion forces. Ran into bad weather near target but finally found and bombed it. Very little flak which was very accurate. No fighters seen.

September 14, 1943-Went on mission to bomb troop concentrations near Salerno, Italy 06:20. Carried 3600 lbs. demos. (demolition bombs). All the invasion barges, convoys and warships shelling the coast were clearly visible below. No flak or fighters were seen. I flew the plane part way back but formation flying is not too good!

September 25, 1943-Went on another mission to Bolzano, Italy 08:15. Our ship led the Squadron. The flak over Bolzano was some of the most accurate I have ever seen. Because of bad weather and visibility the Group lead ship did not drop it’s bombs and we had to make a run with it over the secondary target of Verona. There the flak was much worse and for the first time I could hear the explosions of the flak shells under the plane and feel the concussion, they were so close. I could hear the flak fragments raining into the ship and was expecting the nose of the ship to catch some any moment when Sgt. Walker called over the interphone that he was hit. He came out and Taylor went back to apply first aid, but it was so cold he couldn’t use his hands. We broke away from the formation and headed for the coast indicating 210 MPH so we could lose our altitude over the water. Our Squadron followed but had to scatter when we ran into a bad cloud front. I thought the nose was about air tight but it was raining, sleeting and snowing so hard that snow was covering everything inside. We hit the coast just as we came out of the cloud at the point where we went in, so as to miss flak and let down. The rest of our Squadron found us along with several other planes that had scattered all over the sky. Sgt. Walker was found to have glass fragments in his face about the eyes. Reports are that he will not lose his eyesight and will be OK. Our plane had 20 to 30 holes in it making the wings, tail and bomb bay look like a sieve.

September 28, 1943-Went on another mission to Bolzano Italy 09:00 to destroy a bridge over which vital supplies are going to German army. Carried five 1000 pounders. Extremely bad weather on entire trip. Had to turn back near target because of inability to see any part of Italy through clouds below. Ran into cloud front immediately after, which was even worse that that on September 25th. Heavy Ice and snow forming on wings made it necessary to salvo bombs. All planes in Group had to scatter because of inability to see each other, which was still dangerous because the planes were flying at different directions in the clouds. Hit the deck south of Spezia and headed home. Shot at by enemy boats near Corsicane Elba. Landed at base 01:00 hour late after an unsuccessful mission. However, we did better than some other planes which had close calls due to poor navigation by letting down over inland Italy.

Editors Note: This was the last entry in James Boston’s diary. His diary and other personal effects were returned to his next of kin by the Personnel Supply section of the 32nd Squadron. Information received later by members of the Ground Echelon revealed that plane No. 25137 had been named twice. The first name given was “Lead Foot” (Pictured below, left.) for the Crew Chief, Eugene Gardner’s nick name and the second was “Carol Jean IV” (Pictured below, right.) for the Pilot’s girl friend. Below is the official report of the lost plane and crew:

25137, "LEAD FOOT/CAROL JEAN IV" (Click the names to view our Nose Art Gallery, then click your "back" button to return to this page.) MIA Turin October 30, 1943 on its 86th mission. Charles Clowe crew, Wright, Boston, Robinson, Haberberger, Padgett, Service, Headding, Dill. All KIA. (MACR 1060).

The final entries in his diary are by his brother John I. Boston in 1995:

My parents received a letter from the War Department stating that he was missing in action. They said his Squadron was on a mission or returning from a mission when his plane developed engine problems. The crew bailed out in the Mediterranean. The position was noted but search planes returned but there were no survivors. Since there was a German submarine base in the area the thought was that they may have picked up and held the crew as POWs. We lived in hope that he would be released at the end of the war. About one year after the war ended my Mother received a letter from the War Department saying that the crew from one of the planes in their Squadron saw all 10 parachutes open and could see them being dragged across high waves and it was assumed that all drowned. Frank was a kind, easy going and very intelligent young man. We were very close as brothers. In my last letter from him he said he would like to go in some kind of business together. Though World War 11 ended over 50 years ago there has hardly been a day that I have not thought of him and how good it would have been to grow old with him around. John I. Boston

IX.  The Reunion:  A World War II Bomber Pilot,  His Fighter Escort, and One Whopper  of a Coincidence  by John Fleischman

HERB HEILBRUN KEEPS EVERYTHING. He has every canceled check he ever wrote. He has the manufacturer’s manual for the B-17G he picked up at the Boeing factory in Seattle on October 12, 1944, and the flight log that records the 7,075 miles and 41 hours of his flight from Lincoln, Nebraska, to Foggia, Italy, via Newfoundland, the Azores, and North Africa. He has one of the 89 chunks of shrapnel that ventilated his bomber on Christmas Day 1944, while his squadron was attacking refineries at Brux, Czechoslovakia. He has the government-issue rubber oxygen mask and canvas flier’s helmet that he wore 30,000 feet over Brux. And he has the diary he kept to detail his 262 hours in combat, piloting a B-17G from Italy up the Adriatic, over the Alps, and into the industrial heart of Nazi Germany. He knows to the minute how long he was in combat and on what dates he flew against which targets.

IN 1995, Herb read in the Cincinnati paper that the city was honoring the local chapter of the Tuskegee Airmen. Red tails, Herb remembered. The Tuskegees were the all-black 332nd Fighter Group. They flew red-tail P-51s on missions escorting bomber squadrons from Italy into Germany. Herb could still remember hearing, amid the radio chatter over the target, the distinctive voices of the Tuskegee Airmen. He felt that his thanks were overdue.

“THE MAYOR WAS MAKING A PRESENTATION on Fountain Square,” Herb recalls. “I went down to the hotel where they were having some sort of reception and I told somebody that I flew B-17s in Italy and that the Tuskegee Airmen escorted me. I said that if there’s a flier around here that was over there, I’d like to give him a hug for saving my behind. Then someone said, ‘There’s a fellow over there. I think he did that.’”

THE MAN WAS NAMED JOHN LEAHR. When the two were introduced, Herb hugged John and said: “I’ve been waiting 50 years to meet one of you guys. You saved my tail on many a day.”

THE BLACK EX-FIGHTER PILOT AND THE WHITE EX-BOMBER PILOT BECAME FRIENDS. They went out for lunch. They visited each other’s homes for dinner. They began matching up dates and other details of combat missions they’d flown. John had indeed flown cover on at least two of Herb’s 35 missions: Brux on December 16th and Blechemmer on December 17th. Brux on the 16th was bad but not as bad as Brux on the 25th, Herb recalled. On that mission – Christmas Day – his fuel tanks were hit, his high-altitude oxygen system was hit, and his armor gunner ended up getting wounded in the foot.

AS THE TWO GOT TO KNOW EACH OTHER, they discovered other things in common. The men had been born within a mile of each other and only seven months apart. Both had come up through Cincinnati public schools, and both had managed to scrape together two years of college during the Depression. Both had enlisted in the Air Corps within weeks of Pearl Harbor. Both had to wait months to be called for flying school, so both took jobs at the same airplane engine factory: Wright Aeronautical in Lockland, Ohio. Herb tested engines, firing up GR-2600-655 Cyclones on test stands. John worked in the plant foundry. The work was filthy, hot, and done exclusively by blacks, he recalls.

HERB GOT ASSIGNED TO ITALY as part of the 32nd Squadron of the 301st Bomb Group. He arrived well schooled in the elaborate squadron takeoff ritual that quickly launched and stacked dozens of bombers into box formations. Rising from fields all around Foggia, the bomber echelons assembled themselves until hundreds of aircraft were swarming up the Adriatic. The first time Herb saw one of the enormous boxes, it took his breath away.

A FEW THOUSAND FEET above the B-17s and off to the side, John Leahr flew escort in a P-51. “I’d always wanted to fly,” he recalls. “It fascinated me, but I’d never been up in an airplane in my life.” Word that the corps had been forced to train blacks as pilots electrified the black community, John recalls, and he rushed to join the War Department’s prewar Civilian Pilot Training program. The CPT assigned black pilots to get their primary training at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. Traveling to the deep south in that era “scared me to death,” John recalls. “There were so many stories. At that time, there was no federal anti-lynch law, and black people were beaten up and killed and nothing was done about it.”

THE AIR CORPS WANTED ONLY ENOUGH BLACK PILOTS to fill a handful of token squadrons, so the washout rate at Tuskegee was ferocious. John’s flying career almost crashed on takeoff. “It was when I was ready to solo,” he recalls. “I was lined up to take off and I thought I’d cleared myself good. So I started down the field and then I heard a strange noise and I looked up. Here’s an airplane coming right down straight on top of me… My prop hit the tail wheel of this other airplane and made a nice clanking noise.

“MY INSTRUCTOR WAS WAY DOWN ON THE OTHER END OF THE FIELD. I didn’t think he knew what’d happened. I thought that if I didn’t get this airplane off the ground now, I would probably never fly. If you hit another airplane, what that’s a washout. So I took the plane off without checking the prop. And that plane tried to slow roll on me all the way around the field. I got it up in the air, holding full rudder and stick to keep that plane straight.”

AFTER A BRIEF FLIGHT, JOHN MANAGED TO LAND. “The instructor came running up shouting, ‘Did you his that other airplane?’ “I played dumb and said, ‘I don’t think so’… He told me the commanding officer wanted to see me. I knew what that meant. I was going to be washed out.

“I REPORTED IN THE FINEST MILITARY MANNER, and he was sitting there ignoring me for a while and then suddenly he’s roaring at me, ‘You darn near killed an instructor and another student!’ and so and so forth. He gave me a good chewing out. Then he said, ‘Go on and get out of here and be more careful.’ Man, was I happy.” In July 1943, John earned his wings.

THE FOLLOWING FEBRUARY, his squadron landed in Italy. The black airmen lived apart from the white Air Corps. “The whole crew, everyone – mechanics, cooks, squadron commander, everybody – we were completely segregated,” says John. The pilots flew hand-me-down aircraft. When John’s squadron first went into combat with the 12th Tactical Air Force in February 1944, they were the only Americans in Europe flying the cranky and obsolete P-39 Airacobra. That July, the squadron was given weary P-51Bs and –Cs left them by white squadrons trading up to the more advanced P-51Ds.

ON A MISSION, the bombers would be about two hours out when the fighter escorts caught up with them. On the intercom of his B-17, Herb could hear his gunners sight them, high above the box, cutting S turns to eat up the difference in ground speed between bombers and fighters. The escorts were supposed to handle enemy interceptors, but nothing seemed to lessen the flak. The Germans moved mobile flak units around to surprise the Allies while they were crossing the Po Valley or near the mountain passes that they followed into Austria and Germany. And once the bombers reached their target, all the anti-aircraft guns on earth seemed to be waiting for them, altitude fuses set. It was the engineer’s job to dress the pilot for the bomb run – helmet and a heavy flak jacket shaped like an umpire’s chest protector. Herb would tuck the tail between his legs, then continue on with his squadron toward the target.

“YOU'D SEE THOSE POOR BOMBER BOYS line up and go straight into that flak,” John says. “It would be a beautiful clear day and you’d look up into a blue sky, it would be beautiful. But when those bombers would line up, it would look like one hell of a thunderstorm where that flak would come up bursting. And those bombers would fly right through it.

“WE WATCHED THOSE GUYS GO THROUGH HELL. We’re sitting out on the side waiting for them to come out and we could see them getting hit. If they got hit in the bomb bay, the plane just exploded into a great big ball of fire. The whole plane blew up and then it was nothing.

“WHEN THEY CAME OFF TARGET, that’s when the enemy fighters used to really get them. These guys would come off the target all shot up. Maybe they’d have a couple of engines knocked out. Maybe on fire. That’s when we would try to pick them up. They’d call us ‘Little Friend’ – ‘Little Friend, I’m going down.’ Or ‘Little Friend, I’m losing altitude. Can you see us? The pilot’s dead. Or the copilot’s injured. Stay with us. Little Friend, stay with us.’ That’s when those enemy fighters would come to shoot those poor guys down like sitting ducks.

“SOMETIMES THEY COULD GET THE PLANE together and get away from the target. Some might crash-land it if they could find a good place or some would bail out all together safely. In some instances, we were able to escort them far enough from the target so that they could make it on back. We would be running out of gas. We knew to the minute how long we had before we wouldn’t make it back ourselves. The stragglers would be very slow, traveling on two engines, but we stayed with them long enough to get them out of range of enemy fighters.” The Tuskegee squadrons, John says, never lost a bomber they were escorting home.

JOHN WAS EVENTUALLY RETURNED TO THE STATES so he could get advanced training to become a flight instructor at Tuskegee. He found that the racial climate back home had not changed. He recalls an incident in Memphis, where he had been sent by the military for a goiter operation. While convalescing, he and three other black officers had gone into town, and at a bus stop were accosted by a drunk. “He was a big redneck, a thug if there ever was one,” John says. “He stopped the four of us while we were waiting to transfer, right down there in the heart of town. We were in uniform. I was in full dress, with my decorations on, when this guy comes up and says: “I’ll be damned. Look at these niggers. And nigger officers.’ And then he says: “Two of them got wigs on. Damn, I’ve killed a lot of niggers, but I never killed any nigger officers. I’m gonna kill you niggers’” Luckily, the intervention of a passing white sailor and the arrival of a bus allowed the officers to escape.

ONCE HE WAS OUT OF THE MILITARY, John discovered that he was a pretty good salesman. He sold securities and managed a brokerage office before retiring as an office administrator from Cincinnati Gas & Electric. Herb became a salesman too, selling radio ads and then commercial real estate (He’s still doing a deal or two.) Today, John is a widower with children and grandchildren, as well as his step-children and step-grandchildren, plus the kids who attend his wife Carol’s in-home daycare center. When their paths crossed at the Tuskegee Airmen’s reception, the men were living 10 minutes apart.

ONE NIGHT, HERB RECALLS, “Johnny and I were having dinner, and he said, ‘You know, I grew up in Avondale.’ And that’s when I said, ‘So did I.’ And I remember what he said: ‘There were only five black families in Avondale, and I went to a school on Clinton Springs Avenue. It was an old mansion.’ And I said, ‘I went to that school. I lived on Warwick right where it came into Clinton Springs, and I would just walk up Warwick and right into school.’ Well then he said, ‘I don’t remember you.’ And I said, ‘I don’t remember you.’”

THAT WASN'T SURPRISING. When it came to racial matters, Cincinnati had Southern ways. During World War II, Cincinnati’s railroad station had the distinction of being the southbound point where passenger segregation began. Most of Cincinnati’s hotels, restaurants, and even hamburger stands were for whites only.

STILL AFTER HERB LEARNED that he and John had gone to the same school, he wondered if they had ever intersected. When he got home he went through his photo albums, of course he still had his second grade picture.

THE PHOTOGRAPH shows 40 kids in the class; 38 are white and two – a boy and a girl – are black. John recalls what happened next: “Herb sent [the picture] to me with a little note that said, ‘John, this thing is getting crazier and crazier by the minute. If that little black guy in this picture is you, well, that kid behind him who is almost touching him is me.’” It was true.

TODAY, JOHN AND HERB take out the picture to show a visitor. “So that’s me right there, and that’s Herb right there,” John says, tapping the white boy with the home-barbered bangs standing right behind him. Their teacher is in the back row. The two agree that Miss Pitchel was a tough cookie.

“AND SEE THAT BLACK GIRL THERE?" SAYS HERB. “I remember her name was Mary Louise Hillman, because my mother’s name was Mary Louise Heilbrun.”

“HERB, DO YOU KNOW SHE'S STILL LIVING RIGHT DOWN THE STREET from the school on Clinton Springs?” says John. “She’s not in the same house she was living in but she’s in the same neighborhood.”

“NOW ISN'T THAT SOMETHING?” says Herb, admiring the photo again. “This was 1928. That’s a few weeks ago.”

FOR THE LAST 25 YEARS, John has been campaigning to tell people about the role of the Tuskegee airmen in World War II and in the country’s racial history. Time is the enemy now for the Tuskegees. These are their last years to speak for themselves, putting on record not just their valor at war but the ugliness they confronted at home.

AFTER THE TWO REUNITED, John enlisted Herb in his campaign. Together, they speak at schools, clubs, and to any other group that will listen. The Kroger Company in Cincinnati had them address a corporate banquet.

TODAY, THEY ARE SCHEDULED TO SPEAK at the suburban Cincinnati campus of Raymond Walters College. Herb is waiting in the driveway when John drives up. John climbs out to contemplate Herb’s nearly vertical backyard that drops into a ravine. “I mowed that once a week for 30 years,” says Herb. “Then I hired this kid to do it for me. I got smart.”

“YOU GOT OLD,” says John.

THE TWO LOAD THE CAR with their Tuskegee Airmen displays and take off. John drives like a pilot, checking the instruments, scanning the horizon, and carefully watching his tail. THEIR COLLEGE AUDIENCE TODAY turns out to be senior citizens enrolled in an “Institute for Learning in Retirement” course on World War II. At first it seems John and Herb will be preaching to the choir, until they observe that many taking their seats in the lecture hall see to be only in their early 70s – too young to have gone to their war. Which is fine with John and Herb. Fresh ears are always in short supply.

JOINING JOHN AND HERB TODAY IS LESLIE EDWARDS, a Tuskegee ground crew chief who witnessed the nearly forgotten 1945 “Freeman Field Mutiny.” On a small training field near Seymour, Indiana, 162 black officers were court-martialed after refusing the base commander’s order to sign a pledge that they would stay away from the whites-only officers’ club. (The NAACP sent Thurgood Marshall to their defense, and though a handful of officers were convicted, General George Marshall eventually overturned the convictions.)

JOHN BEGINS BY SHOWING A VIDEO – a segment from a TV documentary on the Tuskegees. He talks about his training, about shipping out, and about getting jumped over Linz, Austria, by 40 German Bf 109s. Two of his wingmates were shot down at once, his flight leader was driven off, and, surrounded by enemy aircraft, he discovered that his machine guns had frozen at the high altitude and were unable to fire. He tells the audience that he owed his escape to a mixture or aerial acrobatics and applied religion.

WHEN IT'S HERB'S TURN, he tells the audience about the bomber war. He tells them about the wooden boards in the briefing room where each crew member’s last name was posted on a metal strip; one morning Herb watched the operati