AND NO PURPLE HEART

CHAPTER 1

The D-Day Invasion

Sitting in the ball turret hanging beneath the fuselage of the B-17 Flying Fortress, Frank Mays could do little but watch. Except for the  intercom system of the airplane, he was cut off from human connection--alone. The snug space in the turret was a lonesome place and at times, it felt like he was SITTING ON THE DOORSTEP OF HELL.

As Frank watched through the18-inch  round glass between his feet, anti-aircraft shells bursting all around him, it seemed as if he were in a black cloud. Flak or shrapnel from the bursting shells filled the air with thousands of steel fragments, as flashes of fire from burst  after burst lit the awakening morning sky. Frank could do little but imagine himself as small as possible throughout the hellish barrage. All ten men aboard the airplane were quiet as the formation continued the bombing run. The bombardier was  preparing the Norton bombsight, fixing the crosshairs on the target below, as shells burst ever closer to the airplane.

Frank scanned the underbelly of the plane looking for damage caused by the strewn shrapnel. The superchargers on each  engine spewed a blue-white exhaust flame, indicating that the four 1200-horsepower radial engines were running smoothly. Still, the B-17 bounced and jerked from the concussions of the bursting shells, requiring the pilot and co-pilot to  struggle to keep the plane in level flight in the formation of B-17s. Frank was jarred from side to side in his turret as he kept the turret moving to help deflect flying shards of shrapnel.

Suddenly a shell burst directly in front of the  turret sight glass, sending shrapnel into the metal body of the airplane, and damaging the number 3 engine. The co-pilot quickly feathered the propeller and shut down the engine as black fluid streamed underneath the wing from a ruptured oil  line. Fortunately, Frank could see only minor damage to the underside of the wing near where the flak had hit.

Red flashes and black smoke from bursting shells seemed closer now as the formation reached the IP, or the Initial Point of the  bomb run. It seemed that the German anti-aircraft gunners now had the correct altitude of the formation and shells were bursting closer and more frequently around the planes.

The pilot turned control over to the bombardier, and the  bombsight took control of flying the plane by its connection through the automatic pilot. Frank watched the bomb bay doors open and counted the thirty-eight 100-pound bombs as they dropped.

Frank could see the bombs exploding some 17,000  feet below, just off the Channel shoreline of France. The target was a concrete and steel barrier placed there to prevent military landing craft from coming ashore. There were explosions along the beach as naval guns on Allied ships bombarded  the gun positions of the defending Germans. Frank looked at his wristwatch and noted the time: 6:15 a.m.

Hundreds of Allied ships and smaller boats cluttered the Channel and the warships kept a constant barrage of shells pounding the German  gun positions. Troop transport ships sat at anchor unloading thousands of American soldiers in smaller troop landing-craft, creating a beehive of activity on the waters below the bomber formation.

Frank rotated his turret up and looked  toward England. In the early morning haze, he saw a stream of American bombers leaving England and following his airplane. Stretching as far as his eyes could see were hundreds of B-17 and B-24 heavy bombers, flying in a continuous formation,  without a gap. As he rotated the turret forward, a shell burst nearby and a piece of flak cut through a small Plexiglas window at Frank's side. The piece of hot shrapnel struck a metal gun casing on one of the .50-caliber machine guns and then  ricocheted into Frank's left fur-lined boot. Fortunately, the thick material of the boot stopped the piece of flak just short of cutting his skin. Although it hurt like crazy, Frank could tell he was not bleeding as he saw the piece of  shrapnel sticking from his boot just forward of his heel near the instep. With no blood flowing, there would, of course, be no Purple Heart.

"Those bastards are trying to kill me!" he muttered, as cold wind whistled through the  broken window. The fur-lined flight suits were not designed to protect against winds of 170 miles per hour at 45 degrees below zero, so Frank turned the turret to position the broken window toward the rear of the plane. This helped some, but  only temporarily, as he had to keep the turret moving to watch for German attack fighters. So far, none had been reported in the area, but they were expected to appear at any time. The flak continued to chew up the formation, with other planes  taking hits, although none were close to Frank's plane at this time.

As quickly as the flak started, it suddenly stopped. Frank imagined the Germans must have been having a hard time trying to decide which targets to select. He could see  many low-flying Allied bombers and fighter planes attacking below and to the sides of the heavy bomber targets, as bombs and naval shelling pulverized the entire coastal area. As he looked forward, he noticed the bomber formations ahead were  now starting to make a turn to the right. The 385th Group was near the lead in the air armada consisting of hundreds and hundreds of heavy bombers.

The French countryside appeared below as a patchwork of small fields surrounded by  hedgerows. Frank noticed that the roofs of most of the scattered houses he could see were the color of red clay tile. Here, away from the beaches, the setting looked peaceful. From three miles up, he could not distinguish anything smaller than  a military truck, but he knew that many soldiers were on the move down there. The flak had long stopped and now the drone of the airplane engines lulled a false sense of security. Fortunately, no one in his airplane had been injured, and the  expected German fighters had not appeared. Frank kept the turret turned such that the wind no longer whistled through the broken window at his side, and his mind began to wander back to the pre-flight briefing earlier in the morning.

The  briefing officer had stated, "Okay boys, this is it--the day the world has been waiting for. Today we start the invasion of the Continent and give the Germans hell. Allied troops will disembark from England and hit the beaches along the  French coast."

The Major called it "Operation Overlord." Disembarkation Day. D-DAY, Tuesday, June 6, 1944.

Paratroopers were being dropped in France at the time of the briefing, and they now fought a short distance inland  from the Channel. Their job was to interrupt German movement toward the Channel. The invasion by American troops would be on the beach of Normandy, France, near a city called Caen.

The crew loading-list for this mission had been posted at  10:30 p.m. the previous night, and Frank was roused from the sack at 1:30 this morning. It had been a typical British morning with cool, dark and damp clouds thickening over the area. The clouds had now begun to move over the Channel. They  were slow moving, watery clouds--not a good sign for the troops below.

As the formation of 35 airplanes flew from France over the English Channel and headed back to base at Great Ashfield in Suffolk, England, the gathering clouds to the  west darkened.

Once on the ground back at the base, the ground crews began repairing the ruptured oil line and broken window. When the fuel tanker arrived, the B-17 was fueled, and then more bombs were loaded. An hour after the wheels  touched down from the first mission, the repairs were completed and Frank's plane rolled off the concrete hardstand onto the taxi strip to commence their second mission of the day.

Frank's crew had arrived at the 385th Bomb Group on June 1  and had flown their first mission on Sunday, June 4, bombing a target near Versailles, France. On their second mission on June 5, they had bombed some beach guns at Caen. The count was now Mission number 3, D-Day minus 1, and today's second  mission would be number four. They were heading back to the invasion beachhead at Normandy.

As the 35 airplanes from the 385th rejoined the air armada, it was a remarkable sight with all the many Allied bombers filling the sky, creating a  never-ending line of aircraft heading toward France. Through the gathering clouds, Frank could see the wakes of the ships below, along with flashes of fire and billows of black smoke from the shipboard guns. The shoreline was being pulverized  by a combination of naval shells and bombs dropped from the air. From where the shells were bursting on the shore, Frank could tell that the ground troops were not making much headway onto the beaches. It had to be pure hell down there with  the Germans holding their positions in the face of all the firepower. He had learned in briefings that the Germans were well fortified along the shore with many heavy, concrete gun emplacements.

As the formation of airplanes in which Frank  was flying crossed the Normandy coastline, he again saw Caen off to his left at about 9 o'clock. The German fighters that had been absent on the first mission now suddenly appeared from the high clouds. He heard someone yell over the intercom  that there were ten ME-109s coming in at 10 o'clock high. The plane began to vibrate from the firing of .50-caliber machine guns in the top turret and waist gunner's positions.

A B-17 from an upper element of the formation fell away at 4  o'clock, going down with its numbers 2 and 3 engines on fire. The bomber started to roll over on its side and as it did, the plane exploded.

Another B-17 drifted down and underneath Frank, with the number 3 engine on fire. He watched as a  man bailed out of the fuselage waist door, his parachute blooming full open. Then a second man jumped and his parachute opened too soon, snagging the horizontal tail elevator, causing the man to be strung out behind the plane like a tail on a  kite. The fire in the number 3 engine immediately flared back to the parachute and melted it into nothingness. Frank watched as the man then fell end-over-end without his parachute and disappeared into the background of the earth. "God,  what a horrible way to die," thought Frank.

No other chutes appeared from the airplane before it rolled upside down and exploded. The thirty-eight 100-pound bombs and gasoline tore the plane into small pieces and junk drifted toward  the ground. At that moment, all the other planes in the formation dropped their bombs.

The German fighters came back and Frank fired at a ME-109 as it flew under his plane--but no cigar, as he missed the fighter. The flak started again and  suddenly the fighters were gone. The formation then turned and as they crossed the coast heading for home, Frank saw Cherbourg off at 9 o'clock. There were explosions around the edges of the town.

Over England, the pilot announced that the  crew could come off oxygen, so Frank stored the ball turret and removed his oxygen mask. Alex and King sat in the fuselage waist with him and lit cigarettes. No one mentioned seeing the man falling without his chute nor was there any comment  concerning the B-17 blowing up. No one ever discussed these type incidents; instead, they just sat and thought about the carnage they had seen.

There were more than a dozen other bomber bases around Great Ashfield, located three to five  miles apart. From the air, they all looked similar. Great Ashfield was easy to spot from the air because of the three tall poplar trees that threw shadows when the 385th returned from a mission.

The formation went into a circular landing  pattern and with only one engine out and no one injured, Frank's plane was one of the last to land. King and Frank were looking out the right waist gunner's window as the wheels touched the landing strip. When the right wheel touched down, the  tire blew, sending the plane off the runway and across the grass at more than 100 miles an hour. At the sound of the tire blowing, the pilot shut down the three remaining engines and tried to hold the plane in a straight path as it raced  across the grassy area between runways.

The plane had traveled only about 200 feet when the right landing gear dropped into a drainage hole and spun the airplane around, digging one wing into the ground. The sudden stop tore loose Frank's  grip on the window frame and threw him forward onto his back, with King and Alex landing atop him. They were a mess of arms and legs as they piled on top of each other. Frank's back hit across a metal floor frame knocking the wind from him.  Although the fall hurt his back and neck, he and the two gunners quickly scrambled from the airplane and ran about 100 feet before they realized the airplane was not on fire. The other gunners and officers were not far behind.

The B-17 was  not a pretty sight lying there with one wing stuck in the ground and the other high in the air. Both propellers on the right wing were badly damaged and gas poured from the ruptured wing tanks. This, of course, ended their flying for the day.  The wheels had left the runway at 3:00 a.m. for the first mission and it was now after 3:00 p.m. Frank thought that two combat missions and a crash landing were enough for one day. Everyone on the crew was tired and ready for a meal and a shot  of Scotch whiskey at the mess hall.

The clouds had rolled in and a sprinkle of rain began to fall as the men gathered equipment from the plane, returned the flight equipment to supply and headed for their debriefing meeting. The sighting of  the two men from the plane that blew-up was logged along with the other B-17 that went down. The news from the invasion front was not good, as the weather had closed in over the area and all airplanes were grounded. The invasion troops on the  beach would have to go it alone, or with only the assistance that the Navy could provide.

At the mess hall, Frank welcomed his shot of Scotch whiskey, his Grog ration, but he only picked over his food. It just did not taste right with the  knowledge from debriefing that the two crews that had been shot down were from his hut. The crew that had been lost on Sunday had also bunked in his hut and he had known these men well. This meant that Frank's crew of enlisted men now  comprised the old men of the hut. Four crews of 24 men slept in the wood and tarpaper building that was sixteen by thirty-six feet and was filled with double bunks. The exposed rafters and two-by-four walls were partly covered with pin-up  pictures of Betty Grable that someone had cut from a magazine. Four bare light bulbs provided their only light.

As Frank sat in the hut with his crew, he knew it would be a lonesome night. Damn, what bad luck--eighteen men gone. It was a  bitter pill to swallow, knowing that his new friends were now dead. The quartermaster soon came to pick up the men's belongings.

Frank's mind wandered, searching for better thoughts. There had been times since he entered the Army Air Corps  fourteen months ago that were not all this bad. Some of his experiences had constituted a reality check for this teenager from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Taking an eighteen-year-old country boy with a southern drawl and sticking him  out in the world created a real shock to his upbringing. Life was certainly different from what he had known in rural America. Few if any of the country girls were as forward as the females he had met while traveling. It could have been the  Lifebuoy soap he used or maybe his southern drawl, but whatever, it brought a grin to his face when he remembered certain incidents.

Frank had entered the service on March 19, 1943, and was sent first to Camp Lee in Virginia for  indoctrination. From there, he went to Miami, Florida for basic training, and then to Gulfport, Mississippi for Airplane Mechanic Training. He turned nineteen on August 13, 1943, and when he finished mechanic's school, he was sent to Las  Vegas, Nevada for aerial gunnery training. On the troop train en route from Gulfport to Las Vegas, in the town of Abilene, Texas, was where the incident had started--an incident he was never to forget.

The two combat missions today had  required him to breathe oxygen for a total of nine hours and this made for a slight lightheaded sensation. When he returned to the mess hall and received his shot of Scotch whiskey on top of his oxygen-saturated blood, it made him loose and he  let the memories roll before his mind. It was not difficult to see in his mind's eye the event as he remembered it happening. He could almost feel the warmth of the hot Texas sunshine.

In Abilene, the train had stopped to let the troops off  for some exercise and the troop commander put the men through a 10-minute close-order drill. Some civilians had gathered to watch the men execute the drill and gave them a round of applause when they finished. The officer then dismissed the  men and they were allowed to wander around the station. Frank walked away and leaned against a support column of the station walkway, watching some young ladies walking toward town from the station. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and when  he turned, he was facing a female marine lieutenant. He snapped to his best attention and saluted.

She put him at ease and told him she just wanted to talk. She said she was in charge of a troop of female marine recruits in the cars ahead  of the mess car. The gist of her conversation was that she was unhappy with the military and she was lonesome and tired of dealing with the females and listening to their prattle. She wanted to know if Frank missed his female companionship as  much as she missed her male friends in civilian life.

An officer had never confronted Frank face-to-face before and he was petrified as he answered, "Yes, ma'am. Ain't nothing like friendly company, especially pretty girls. I miss them  a lot."

The lieutenant continued talking about how she regretted entering the service and wished she could get out with an honorable discharge. She told Frank that her car was just ahead and adjacent to the mess car, and that it also  served as her office and bunkroom--her home on wheels.

Then she floored Frank by saying, "I've really enjoyed this talk, but I have to get my troops back aboard the train. I'd like to talk some more with you, though. Can you meet me in  the mess car at around eleven tonight."

Frank saluted as she turned to leave, but she only smiled. The country boy knew he was one step away from putting both feet in deep doo-doo, but this was one meeting he intended to keep.  The situation had tickled his imagination because not only was she a lieutenant, she was also a very pretty one.

He made his way to the mess car, arriving at 11:00 p.m. sharp. No one was there, so thinking it must have been a big joke on  him, he turned to leave. Then he heard the door open at the other end of the car, and there she stood. The marine officer beckoned him to follow her. Inside the next car was a room to one side and he followed her into a bedroom/office. She  closed and locked the door. Without saying a word, she popped the top on two cokes and motioned Frank to sit beside her on the bunk. He imagined he was one small step away from the stockade, but he sat anyway, sweat dampening his shirt under  his arms.

As they drank the cokes, she told him that her name was Ann Hudson and that she had been fresh out of college when she began this dead-end job. She did nothing but travel back and forth across the country escorting new female  recruits, never in one place long enough to make friends. Six months of this was more than she had bargained for and she was lonesome. Her idea of being a marine was not to mother a bunch of girls her same age, which was twenty-two. She wanted  out of the service but her commission did not allow for discharge except for medical reasons.

Sweating profusely, Frank thought to himself, "Don't even consider it!"

Then he thought, "Don't be so damn dumb, Frank," as  she removed her shirt and kicked off her shoes. "Oh, what the hell," he concluded.

He left the marine lieutenant at about 2:00 a.m. and slipped through the cars to his bunk. Sleep did not come quickly that night.

The next  morning his traveling buddy, Bob, asked, "What's that cologne you have on? Hadn't noticed it before."

Jokingly, Frank replied, "I think it's called Military Brass."

These many months later, he still grinned at the  memory. Taking his tray and dumping it, Frank walked from the mess hall into the rain, thinking, "Hell, it ain't such a bad day after all."

Lying on his bunk in the crew's hut, the effects of the oxygen and Scotch began to wear  off and his back and neck hurt from the fall. The darkening bruise on his heel was painful, reminding him of how close he had come to getting a Purple Heart. Going to the base Flight Surgeon to have one's problems checked was, of course, not  an option. The surgeon would no doubt ground him and he would miss flying with his crew. He wanted to stay with these men, as they had become his friends.

Other than what he had learned in his stateside training, Frank had not known what to  expect on these first missions. Combat, however, was totally different from any lessons he had received. In his hometown theaters, Frank had seen war movies about combat flying, but here there was no background music and the blood and death  were very real.

Mark, the top turret gunner, entered the hut and told the crew that because of the weather they had canceled all flying. The crew's plane was being repaired and should be ready when the weather cleared. It had received only  minor damage when compared to some of the other B-17s that had taken a real beating. With that news, Frank got comfortable in his bunk and soon slipped off into a world of dreams.

Thus ended D-Day, June 6, 1944.

The next morning Frank  found he had slept through a German air raid. Someone had tried to wake him, but he never became fully aware of what was happening. A lone German HE-111 bomber had slipped through the spotter network. No one knew how he located the base and  found the ground targets in the rain. It didn't seem that the German could not have done it without help from someone on the ground, so something must have given the pilot a target. Rumor had it there was a spy on base. But who? And why? Why  would anyone do such a thing? The Germans had spies planted in England, of course, and some were people one would never expect. Often they were women who could get soldiers to talk.

Blackout security was strictly enforced and every man was  aware of what could happen if a German pilot found a target. No one was allowed even to light a cigarette outside at night. All windows were covered and light traps were installed at all doors. Frank had been told that a German pilot could  spot the light of a match from twenty miles away. Flashlights were taped to give off only a slit of light, and were used only when necessary. A spy could, of course, place a flashlight in an area that could be seen only from the air. Aimed in  a certain direction and left burning, it would be like a beacon for a night bomber. It seemed that was what had taken place to give this pilot a night target in the rain. This was, of course, only speculation, yet what other answer could there  be?

The HE-111 bomber did not carry many bombs, but this joker had made every one count. The bombs had hit a gas tank and a parked B-17 located near the tanks, causing collateral damage to several trucks and other equipment. It was a real  kick-in-the ass to think that someone associated with the base would put men and equipment in jeopardy this way.

The area bombed was only about 1,000 feet from where Frank was sleeping. Several men had tried to awaken him but the two  missions on D-Day had zonked him and he slept through all the sirens, blasts and noise of men running around. A piece of the B-17 that blew-up during the raid fell some 200 feet away from where Frank slept.

For five days, the rain fell and  the poor bastards on the beaches were catching hell, without one American airplane to help. All crews were restricted to the base awaiting the first break in the weather, as ground crews stayed busy repairing damage to the airplanes. There was  not much for the combat crews to do but lay around and try to keep busy writing letters and playing poker. There was very little conversation. Waiting was the hardest part of this job.

Frank had time to think about his arrival at Great  Ashfield and that first combat mission. Already, it seemed like a dream. It had been the night of June 4, and the sun had set beyond the field across from the 549th squadron encampment. The cool, damp English evening air had quickly swallowed  the heat of the day. It had been countdown time for the airmen as all were waiting for the posting of the 10:30 p.m. loading list. This had created tension, excitement and dread for Frank as well as all other members of the crew. They had  waited several days for the weather to clear so they could go on that first mission. Everyone questioned what it was like to fly in real combat.

The waiting was soon over as the list was posted and the names of Frank's crew appeared. The  teenager from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia had a grin across his youthful face as he headed for the hut and hit the sack. Going to sleep was not a problem since it had been a part of their training.

At 3:00 a.m., the CQ awakened  them, making sure all were on their feet. The early morning mission was to Versailles, France. The target was a railroad-marshaling yard filled with trains. The formation of 35 bombers destroyed the target, but the anti-aircraft fire had been  heavy. Fortunately, their plane had escaped with little damage. Unlike a dream now, it was more a nightmare as a crew from Frank's hut had been shot down over the target, the empty bunks serving as a reminder until a new crew was assigned to  the hut.

On the night of June 10, the rain clouds began to break and the moon could be seen trying to light the night. The rest period was over for the 385th Bomb Group, and on Sunday, June 11, D-Day + 5, the crew was back in action early  in the dark morning sky. The cloud cover had thinned over the Normandy beach and many airplanes were back in the air helping the invasion troops on the ground. The news was that the Germans were cutting the troops to pieces, with many soldiers  being killed on both sides.

The weather had taken its toll by stopping the Air Force, so maybe this mission would help the poor devils down there. The target consisted of beach gun emplacements at LeTouquet in France. According to the  briefing officer, German gun batteries had the American forces pinned down, making this a vital target that must be destroyed. The airplanes were loaded with twenty 250-pound bombs, which were heavy enough to break through the concrete gun  emplacements.

At altitude, the outside air temperature was fifty degrees below zero, and even the fur-lined flight suit with other clothing underneath was not enough to keep Frank warm. Cold from the metal turret door drained away his body  heat and he shivered. The rubber oxygen mask on his face warmed slightly from his breath, but moisture condensed and dripped from the drain onto his scarf, then quickly froze.

Scanning the early morning sky from his position in the ball  turret, Frank could see that the clouds were moving to the southeast, away from the invasion front. He thought of what a muddy mess it must be down there after all the rain over the past few days. Up here, it was cold as hell, but this had to  be better than fighting and trying to sleep in all that mud. He would take the cold over the mud any day.

Slung from underneath the airplane at 25,000 feet, he had a panoramic view of everything below. He could see low flying airplanes and  naval ships blasting the inner shore positions. The Channel continued to be a beehive of activity. German defensive anti-aircraft fire seemed light, and strangely enough, not one German fighter plane was reported. Several flak bursts hit  Frank's airplane, but damage was minor and no one was injured. Still, they had ruined someone's Sunday morning.

The return trip from the target was uneventful. Back at base it was to supply, debriefing and the mess hall for a shot of Scotch  and then lunch. They spent Sunday afternoon catching up on sleep. Frank wondered why the Brass found it necessary to bomb a target at 9:00 a.m. rather than 11:00 a.m., robbing him of two hours sleep. The question would go without asking!

There were not a lot of things to do for amusement at Great Ashfield, and there usually was not much time, even if you found something you liked to do. Taking cold showers, playing barracks poker, letter writing and some board games at the  recreation hall were about all there was to do. Some local British women usually staffed the recreation hall and they often brought their daughters along. Frank paid little attention to the young girls, however, figuring there was no need  getting in a sweat for nothing, as the mothers kept a watchful eye on the young airmen.

Monday, June 12, Mission number 6, D-Day + 6. This mission was to destroy an airfield at St. Martin in France. The briefing officer said the field had  been used to attack invading troops of both the American and British.

Most German airfields were just large grassy areas without hard tarmac landing strips. They could quickly set up a field by using farmland and adding temporary shacks for  maintenance. That must have been the case here, as there were no flyable airplanes at this location, although damaged fighters remained from when the Germans had abandoned the field. Frank thought they must have known about this mission in  advance, as this should have been an important attack field.

Neither was there any defense--no flak, nothing whatsoever. The 35 bombers were each loaded with thirty-eight 100-pound bombs and Frank watched as approximately 1300 bombs  ploughed the earth below him. The field was filled with bomb craters and few buildings ceased to exist. The Germans would not be using this for an airfield anytime soon.

The return trip was without contact with the Germans and Frank sat and  watched the beautiful scenery for a while. After crossing the coast of England, he, King and Alex sat in the waist of the airplane and smoked cigarettes.

The crew decided the old B-17 assigned to them should have a name, since most other  planes on the base did. After much discussion, they selected a name to reflect the general appearance of the airplane, which was an older "F" model, with some modifications making it similar to the newer "G" model. The tail  gunner's section had been changed slightly and a chin turret with two .50-caliber machine guns had been added. The waist gunners still had the full open windows that allowed cold air to blow in whenever the windows were opened in combat. This  made for an uncomfortable situation in the cold skies but that was the way it had to be. Alex and King, the waist gunners, never complained. The old airplane had seen combat service elsewhere before being sent to the 385th Bomb Group. It was a  faded olive drab color with many flak-damaged areas patched over.

The name they finally came up with was "War Horse." The old girl had served the crew well and so far, the only injury to the crew was the grape-colored bruise on  Frank's left heel, which was still sore and caused him to walk with a noticeable limp. He carried the piece of shrapnel in his pocket as a souvenir, and as he fingered the piece of flak, it always reminded him of how close it came to ending  his career as a ball turret gunner.

Frank had started with this crew in Dyersburg, Tennessee in January, some six months ago, when the ten men had come together for overseas training as a crew. All were strangers to each other then, and no  two had come from the same state. The men were casually friendly toward one another, but willing to meet new people. When the list of names was posted, four officers and six enlisted men met as a team for the first time in the corner of a  hangar.

The four officers were all Second Lieutenants: Lt. R. H. Silver, Pilot; Lt. A. D. Maxwell, Co-pilot; Lt. M. M. Butt, Navigator; and Lt. M. R. Saltier, Bombardier.

All six enlisted men were Buck Sergeants: Sgt. Mark I. Rogers, Top  Turret Gunner; Sgt. Donald R. Swope, Radioman; Sgt. Frank R. Mays, Ball Turret Gunner; Sgt. Wayne S. Alexander (Alex), Left Waist Gunner; Sgt. Carlton P. King (King), Right Waist Gunner; Sgt. Wilber M. Koop (Koop), Tail Gunner.

During their  three months of intense training at Dyersburg, individual training was honed and they began to operate as a team. Whether they lived or died now depended on each member doing his job, so the ten men on Frank's crew soon became compatible and  developed into a polished team. When their overseas training was completed, all crewmembers were advanced in rank by one grade. The higher the rank of a soldier, the more the Germans respected him. The Germans frowned on any soldier having a  rank less than Sergeant, so the new rank of Staff Sergeant would help if any members of the crew were shot down and captured. This also meant an increase in pay to eighty-five dollars a month.

With the training at Dyersburg completed, the  crew received overnight off-base passes. Four of the members hitchhiked to Cairo, a small town in Illinois, where they did their celebrating in various bars. After a one-night shack-up in a cheap hotel, they returned to base, tired but happy.

The group, consisting of 300 men--thirty crews in all, was then sent to Kearney, Nebraska, where Frank's crew picked up a new B-17 and headed for England. The trip required one-night stops in Bangor, Maine, then to Gander, Newfoundland, and  from Gander to Reykjavik, Iceland. In Iceland, Frank watched the sun set at 11:30 p.m. The top rim of the sun dipped below the horizon briefly and then came back up in the same place, staying out of sight only for perhaps about five seconds.  It really was the land of the midnight sun. The temperature was about 20 degrees and a steady 20-knot wind blew constantly. All Frank saw there were windblown rocks polished smooth by wind, sand and time.

From Iceland, it was a one-day  flight to a base in northern Scotland, where the airstrip was lighted for landing only after the pilot gave the correct code words when on final approach. Never in his young life had Frank ever dreamed of being in a foreign land, especially  Scotland, which was the land of his ancestors, and he was awed by thoughts of being there.

The enlisted men spent the night in a horse stable, which was all brick and clean. Their beds were GI cots located in horse stalls. In the mess hall,  Frank experienced the British custom of serving airmen a ration of Grog, or Scotch whiskey, after a day in the sky.

The crew left the new B-17 in Scotland and the aircraft was sent on to a base for immediate use, while the crew went to a  final school on survival in combat. The enlisted men traveled in a train boxcar to a place in England named The Wash, where Frank learned the latest tactics to help keep him alive while in combat. The instructors were experienced combat  veterans who taught him lessons in a ball turret operation using a dummy turret mounted on a wooden stand, shooting machine guns out over the mud flats that gave the place its name.

They watched more propaganda films in the mess hall,  similar to the ones they had seen back in the States, only these were more violent, with gruesome pictures designed to infuriate the men watching. The idea was to make everyone learn to hate the Germans. The films included what to expect from  the Germans if shot down and captured. Torture was used to make the captured men talk. They saw many dead and wounded Americans, some butchered, others shot in the head, and some slashed with knives. The captured films came from North Africa  and Italy.

None of the crewmen wanted to admit their fear of being shot down and captured, but it was obvious by their facial expressions. Pictures were shown of people back in the States: women and children, old men, babies, the American  flag--all the things for which the men were expected to fight and die. Freedom! Freedom from the cruel dictators that would try to rule the world.

After a week of training, the crew was assigned to a base and they traveled by truck the  short distance to Great Ashfield, the home of the 385th Heavy Bomb Group. Once there, they were assigned to the 549th Bomber Squadron. This was where Frank now lay on his bunk, with six combat missions to his credit, realizing already that not  many men lived through the required twenty-five combat missions comprising a tour of duty.

There was no rest for the weary, because at 10:30 p.m., the First Sergeant posted another list for Frank's next mission: Mission number 7, June 14,  D-Day + 8. Another German airfield, but this time it was located in Belgium.

With a name for the airplane now, the crew used it lovingly as they spoke of the "Horse." Tested in combat, she was not flashy like some of the newer  planes with their bright silvery aluminum. Although plain, she was willing to give of herself for the safety of her crew.

This mission seemed like a repeat of the one to St. Martin, but with one major difference: German ME-109s were  attacking the formation. The crew of the Horse felt they were ready for the fighters. Mark, in the top turret, reported them first. They hit the formation from 10 o'clock high, five ME-109s diving through the formation and taking down a B-17  as they passed. The Germans made just one pass and then they were gone. Mark was the only one to get off any shots as the fighters went through. A second B-17 was hit and had two engines on fire after the attack. The pilot of that plane  managed to dive and blow out the fires in both engines. No one could understand why the German fighters made only that one pass and then broke off the attack.

One reason more gunners did not fire at the fighters was that they had to be  careful not to shoot down their own airplanes. With 35 airplanes in a formation, in the heat of battle a gunner could be shooting as the fighter went through and he might hit one of his buddies. It happened every so often that a B-17 was lost  due to one of the formation's own gunners failing to stop firing at the correct time. There was often no way to determine if a B-17 gunner or a German fighter was responsible for shooting down a bomber. The attacking fighters were always  blamed, of course, and no one ever disagreed.

Back at base, it was the same routine: supply, debriefing to tell of the lost airplane and what the gunners had seen happen, and then to the mess hall for a shot of Scotch before eating. The  food, which was not all that good, was supposed to be a special diet designed to cut down on stomach gas. Gas in the intestines and every cell in a person's body expands at high altitude, where the pressure is less than the one atmosphere at  sea level. Lack of pressurization in the airplane could cause major problems, as stomach gas tends to lock-up in the guts and cannot pass without great pain. To demonstrate this, someone once tied the end of a condom before takeoff, and when  the airplane reached 20,000 feet, the condom expanded to the size of a football.

Pork was the primary meat served to the airmen, and their infrequent red meat seemed to be of the four-legged horse variety. Soldiers were forbidden to eat  most food grown in England. The British collected human waste and used it for fertilizer on the crops, and the cattle were neither vaccinated nor inspected as they were in the States. On the base, the men who collected human waste from the dry  toilets were known as "Honey Dippers."

June 15, Mission number 8, D-Day + 9. It appeared as if the milk runs were over and now came the long, hard missions. Today's target was an oil refinery located near Hanover, Germany. The  briefing officer warned that this mission would be difficult, as German fighters and anti-aircraft guns defended the target--perhaps as many as a thousand guns. The German anti-aircraft weapon of choice was the 88-millimeter cannon, which was  about as accurate as a country squirrel rifle. The range of the cannon was over 35,000 feet and the B-17 was limited to an operational altitude of 30,000 feet. For this mission, the Horse was loaded with ten 500-pound bombs and all the  100-plus octane gas possible--more now since newly designed wing-tip tanks had been installed on many B-17s.

Small flak batteries along the flight route were placing anti-aircraft bursts smack into the formation of bombers. The command  radio was alive with the conversations of the pilots concerning men wounded and damage to the airplanes.

Then the German ME-109s hit the formation. "Bandits at twelve o'clock high!" announced Lieutenant Slater.

"They're  coming through," Mark said as his twin .50-caliber machine guns began firing. "Going to the rear."

"Damn, he almost flew into us," King shouted.

Frank opened fire as he tracked the German plane to the rear. Koop,  who was in the tail, had a sight on the same ME-109 and he started firing. Tracer bullets seemed to be everywhere.

"They're regrouping in front for another pass," said Lieutenant Slater. "Here they come again!" His guns  were firing as he spoke over the intercom.

The Horse was shaking from the jarring of the machine guns, as thousands of rounds were fired at the fighters as they barreled through the formation. Frank saw an ME-109 going down with smoke  pouring from its engine. Then he saw a B-17 falling in about the same path as the fighter dived into the earth. Another B-17 was falling back from the formation and parachutes began to appear as men bailed out of the plane. He counted one,  two, three, and then no more parachutes bloomed as the B-17 exploded, pieces of the plane and the men scattering into the bright sky.

The German fighters seemed to have had enough and they left, flying to the north, and not a minute too  soon. Then the flak from the Hanover defense opened up on the formation. Dense black smoke appeared everywhere as bright bursts of fire marked each exploding shell. A shell burst underneath the left wing of the Horse, but did only minor damage  to the underside of the wing. The self-sealing material on the gas tanks had taken care of the small holes made by the shrapnel.

Flak suddenly burst in front of the Horse, causing the number 4 engine to blow a cylinder. The co-pilot quickly  feathered the propeller as pieces of the engine and cowling ripped off and fell away. Oil streamed from a broken line.

The pilots were having a rough time trying to maintain position on the element leader as concussions bounced the airplane  around in the sky. Then the bomb bay doors opened and the bombs fell away from the plane. Frank counted them and reported to the bombardier that all were out of the bomb bay. The doors then closed and locked.

The formation reached the RP,  or Rally Point, where the airplanes closed formation for protection from fighter attack. No fighters were seen, however, and everyone wondered why they did not come back to continue the attack.

"Shit," said King as he noticed a  flak hole next to where he was standing. "The bastards came close that time!" The piece of flak had cut his "Mae West" lifejacket. He added, "I hope we don't have to ditch this baby."

Alex chimed in: "A miss is as good as a mile."

Don Swope said, "Come look at the holes near my ass if you want to see close." There was a hole the size of his fist no more than six inches from where he sat.

Koop  joined in with, "I told you the tail was the best place to be. Wanna ride back here?"

Frank had observed the bombs exploding on the ground and he reported to the pilot, "I think we missed the whole damn target, from what I  could see." The pilot contacted the formation commander and confirmed that the bombs had hit only about 10 percent of the target.

With the pilot's permission, Frank crawled from the turret and opened a box of K-rations. It was frozen  solid, but eating it was something to think about other than the damage to the Horse and the loss of lives in the other airplanes. He chipped away at the frozen ham and eggs with his knife, putting a chunk in his mouth and letting it melt. It  was not all that tasty. While he sat there eating, he looked around at the flak holes near his ball turret. The holes ranged in size from that of his little finger to one as large as a basketball. The big hole was no more than a foot from  where his head had been. He remembered hearing metal ripping when the Horse was in the flak area, so that was probably what had caused the noise. After he finished eating the K-rations, he used that hole to dispose of the ration box.

Somewhere near the Channel, the number 1 engine quit running and the pilot had to drop from the formation and join the other straggling airplanes. With two engines gone, the Horse could still fly, but it quickly lost speed and altitude. Once  over England, the pilot said the crew could come off oxygen, so Frank crawled from the turret and sat in the waist with King and Alex, smoking cigarettes--not just one but several. Don and Koop did not smoke and Mark stayed forward in the top  turret. There was no conversation whatsoever, as all seemed to be in their own world.

The main formation was long gone as the stragglers made their way to the base. The airplanes with dead and wounded landed first, while the Horse circled  in a landing pattern. In the debriefing, Frank learned that one of the lost crews was from his hut--another six men gone; friends no more. Frank's heart was heavy with sorrow. He had lost track of how many of the men who bunked in his hut had  been injured and lost over Germany. Although he really knew, he did not want to remember.

When the quartermaster came to pick up the men's belongings, no one said a word. The routine had become familiar now, and it was most unpleasant to  watch as the clothing and personal items were taken away and sorted to be packaged and sent home.

The ground crews were busy repairing damage to the airplanes, which would require several days. During this time the routines got old in a  hurry. Some men were satisfied to lie around in their bunks all day while others wrote letters home. The ladies at the recreation hall brought biscuits and steeped tea, but all the young ladies stayed clear of the men.

Alex and Frank conned  a pass to go into the village of Stowmarket, which was about the size of Amherst Courthouse, a small town near where Frank lived back in the States. The size was all that was similar, though, as they found English villages far different from  small towns in America.

The two located a pub and tried to drink the English beer, which was room temperature and flat. Neither of them liked it and their first 'alfpint proved quite enough. A ground crewman had told them that if they  wanted whiskey they should go to a certain house located near the railway station. It turned out to be easy to find. They were welcomed and both quickly recognized what type house this was. The several reasonably good-looking women who helped  with the serving of booze were big bosomed and slightly fleshy, not the type young lassies Frank would rather have seen there. The women were easy to talk with, however, and they were not pushy. Alex struck up a conversation with one named  Emily, and soon they were having a grand old time. Frank rationalized that the women were too old for him.

After several shots of whiskey, Alex had decided to stay awhile, but Frank wanted no part of this so he left Alex at the brothel and  went for a walk on the village green. It was deserted except for two lads and two young lassies who were kicking a ball around. Frank stretched out in the shade of a tree and watched them play. They were having great fun at their game of  kickball, laughing as if they had not a care in the world. He realized that these children had known nothing but war since they had been old enough to remember, and he regretted that he hadn't had a chance to play with friends like this when  he was a young child.

Frank remembered a time when children were playing near where he was going to mechanics' school in Mississippi. He and his soldier friend, Bob, had gone on an overnight pass to the small town of Gulfport, which was  overrun with soldiers from two nearby airfields. There were so many soldiers that Frank thought one could not spit on the sidewalk without hitting a soldier's leg. They then decided to hitchhike to a place they had heard about not far from  Mobile, Alabama. It was a resort named The Edgewater Beach Hotel. Neither Bob nor Frank drank, but they went into the bar and ordered a mixed drink. It tasted lousy so they just sat and talked while looking over the finery of the bar area.

While they sat at the bar, a waitress told Frank that one of the ladies sitting at a nearby table would like to speak with him. Never one to refuse the attention of a good-looking woman, he went over and introduced himself to one of two young  women sitting there. Soon he discovered the females were on break from a nearby college and were staying at the hotel for the weekend. Frank then called Bob over and before long they were outside on the lawn playing with a beach ball, kicking  it around similar to how the children were playing here now. That place even looked like this village green except for the Magnolia trees that grew back in Mississippi.

When evening came, Frank told the girls that he and Bob had to leave  for the base, whereupon one of them suggested the men stay the night with them at the hotel. The girls then sneaked Bob and Frank up to their rooms, which were elegant with all-southern décor and large four-poster beds that seemed to suit the  occasion. The rooms even had washstands with large bowls and pitchers, just like ones he had seen in pictures of plantations. It was almost like a scene from the movie "Gone With the Wind." Early the next morning when they awoke,  Frank could hardly bring himself to say goodbye. He and Bob had then hitchhiked back to base.

The young English children quit playing and left, so Frank went back to the brothel to see how Alex was doing. He found his friend having such a  good time that he had decided to stay longer with Emily. Frank thought the booze had apparently settled between Alex's legs. As Frank returned to base alone, the long walk and cool evening air felt refreshing and cleared some of the horrors of  war from his mind.

When he checked in at squadron HQ, Frank found that one of the duty officers had left a note requesting Frank meet him in front of the recreation hall. He thought this odd, but went there and did not see the officer who  had left the note. Oh well, if the officer wanted to see him, he could just wait until later. Frank wondered what this could be about, as he was nearly certain it didn't concern military business. The only connection Frank had had with this  officer was that the man had accepted some money from Frank to put in the squadron safe for him.

The next morning at the mess hall, breakfast consisted of wheat flakes and powdered milk, reconstructed powdered eggs, and powdered mashed  potatoes. The flakes and milk were a soggy mess and the eggs and potatoes tasted like dirt, so Frank's entire breakfast went in the garbage and he settled for a cup of hot black coffee and a piece of toast with Oleo. Alex had made it back to  the base late, and at breakfast, he looked as if he hadn't slept a wink. He sat by Frank in the mess hall and when Frank dumped his food, so did Alex.

That night the crew appeared on the loading list posted for the next day's mission, and  at 4:00 a.m., the CQ came through the hut waking the men listed for this mission. Alex still looked like something the cat had dragged in, the booze having really done a job on him. When the briefing officer said they were going back to the  same target as on the previous mission, there came a loud groan from the men as they realized it was Hanover again.

Mission number 9, D-Day + 12. The only difference on this mission would be that if during the bomb run they missed the oil  refinery, the bombs would string across the city proper, which was a secondary target.

At 6:00 a.m., the formation of 35 airplanes crossed the English coastline at an altitude of 24,000 feet. Each bomber was loaded with ten 500-pound bombs.  While heading to the target, the formation received some flak along the planned route. Frank looked ahead and it seemed as if a large black storm cloud was forming. Whomp, whomp, the flak burst underneath the belly of the Horse, causing the  airplane to jump and jerk from the bursts as pieces of hot shrapnel ripped through the body of the plane. Frank kept his turret moving to help deflect the shrapnel as it slammed into the turret.

A few B-17s began dropping out of formation  as they lost engines from damage by the dense flak barrage. Still, the airplanes continued on the bombing run, making every attempt to complete their assigned tasks.

Over the target, Frank watched as the bomb bay doors opened and he counted  the number of bombs as they dropped. He looked down and watched the mass destruction as the bombs exploded on the oil refinery. The flak barrage lasted a full two minutes longer until smoke from the burning oil storage quickly rose to a level  of 10,000 feet behind the retreating bombers. It soon began mixing with a layer of low clouds, changing them to a dirty gray color.

A while after leaving the Hanover target, Frank spotted flashes on the ground in front of the formation. In  seconds, bursts of flak appeared ahead of them. He knew these flashes were from guns firing at them and it angered him to know that he could only sit and watch the Germans shooting at him. Making a few quick calculations as to windage and  distance, he aimed his two .50-caliber machine guns toward where he thought the bullets would hit. After firing five10-round bursts from his guns, the German flak batteries stopped firing. He watched and saw not one flash, and there were no  more bursts ahead of the formation.

The formation of airplanes flew directly over the spot where the flashes had been observed and not a single round of anti-aircraft came from there. Frank always wondered if his bullets had anything to do  with the flak batteries stopping firing. Maybe yes, maybe no, but in any case, he felt better having fired back. There were a number of straggling B-17s behind the formation but not a single German fighter appeared.

Back at the base it was  the usual scrambling of airplanes trying to land without radios and with on-board wounded. For airplanes without radios, the signal to clear the runway was to fire a red signal flare. The special flares contained a double red burst and when a  plane made this signal, the runways were immediately cleared and ambulances were standing by to race to the damaged airplanes as soon as they stopped rolling. Many of the airmen from this mission would not have to go on another, as more Purple  Hearts awaited the dead and wounded. The Horse had taken some flak hits, but fortunately, none had been in vital spots.