The Flying Fortress
Tale of a Tail gunner
On a WWII B17 Bomber
Reading time 2.50
My father was one of the ten men who made up the crew of a B-17 Flying Fortress. At age twenty, he was specially trained for a position as tail gunner.
Members of the crew were well aware that the first objective of the fighting pilot was to eliminate the enemy and his weapon.
The tail gunner took a kneeling position with his knees resting on padded supports, his legs doubled back.
Most of these heroes were unaware of the death and destruction they would soon be facing as they flew their fortresses into combat. I cringe at the thought of how Dad must have been overcome by the feeling of fear that went through the minds of his comrades in the cabin of that airplane as they engaged in each death match.
The reality of war does not reflect the horror forced upon my father and his fellow troopers as their airplane was suddenly stricken and turned in to a burning inferno five miles above the earth.
It does not detail the heartache of watching a buddy’s aircraft slowly roll over and begin its final plunge to the enemy soil below. Nor can it describe the physical strain of using oxygen in an unpressurized aircraft at an altitude where the temperature dropped to minus 60 degrees.
These men were not superhuman. Most soldiers were only in their late teens or early twenties. Like my father, many would be reported missing after only a few missions, while others might survive only to be killed on their final mission. They were all living at a time in our history when they had an imperative job to do and many died trying to accomplish it.
My father survived through an emergency escape door just below the horizontal stabilizer as he bailed out of his disabled, blazing fortress. He barely had enough time to secure the parachute on the floor behind him in the aircraft. Although he was captured in Germany and was marched to France He escaped and came home to become my mother’s eventual Valentine.
This is where his tribute begins.
A Valentine Vignette
By Julanne Dalke
I rounded the corner of the double bed my parents shared.
“Pull the shade up, will you honey?” my mother asked while ironing the white cotton sheet with her hand.
I slipped my finger through the embroidered ring. Pulling gently, the shade released, letting in the morning sun. Dust danced in the molten air.
A ray of sunshine fell upon a framed photograph of my handsome young father in his Air Force uniform. It put me in a dreamy state.
I fingered the hairbrush Mama used, rolling it over in my hands. The bristles were soft, like the feel of her hair resting against my cheek when she cuddled me. The hand mirror was a perfect match – white embossed with gold. I ran my fingers over the floral pattern as I turned the mirror towards my face and studied my reflection. Pale skin, freckles dotting the bridge of my nose. I squared my lips to reveal straight white teeth I was proud of. Only one cavity this last time!
I put the mirror down and reached for the pink pump of the perfume bottle resting on mother’s boudoir, giving it a squeeze. With my other hand I fondled a cluster of pearls with a clip on the back that clasped mothers ears the night before. I grasped the pink satin jewelry box with its tiny plastic legs and gave it a slight shake. To my surprise, the top popped open to reveal a folded newspaper clipping, yellow with age.
“What’s this mom?” I inquired, unfolding it to reveal a picture of my grandmother standing between two men. One wore a necktie and sports coat. He is smiling looking straight ahead at the camera and shakes my grandmothers hand. Sadly, she looks down at the small open box she carries in her left hand.
“Why, that’s the article honoring your father dear” she whispered endearingly. Grandma is accepting a medal of honor for your daddy from the Senator of Oregon. They call it a Purple Heart.”
A Purple Heart?” I asked, turning my face up to meet her eyes.
“Yes, darling. Your father was missing in action in Germany during the war. Two of his brothers were also missing in action as they were serving in a different military service in Japan. Your father was a tail gunner on a B17 Bomber the military referred to as The Flying Fortress. His plane was shot down. He was able to escape the fire by parachute, but landed in the vicinity of a German war camp. He was captured by the enemy and spent eleven months in that camp as a prisoner of war. The Nazi’s were marching prisoners from Germany to France when your daddy escaped with another soldier. When he came home he only weighed 121 pounds. He lost all his hair. Your father and I were not married at the time but his brothers were. They came home too!”
“How come this is the first time I have heard this story, Mama?”
“Daddy doesn’t talk about it, child, and don’t ask, either. It will only upset him.”
My mother stirred the jewelry box, with her pink painted fingernails, uncovering the packet with the coveted treasure. She handed it to me. Lifting the lid I gazed upon the gold and purple medal with a picture of George Washington framed in a heart of gold.
Reflecting, I looked around the room my parents shared, noticing the safe haven she created for her sweetheart. Their marriage certificate hung on pink and red wallpaper flecked with felt. The bedspread matched and felt soft beneath my fingers. It feels like serenity. A picture of a woman carrying a parasol graced the north wall. She strolls through a garden in a park looking nostalgically across a lake. A crucifix hangs over the door leading out in to the hall.
