A Tail Gunner's Tale
Bessingbourn, England, December 1, 1943
The B17 Flying Fortress waited at the runway threshold, the brakes straining to contain the stallion at the gate, her four
engines fully throttled. The roar and vibration seemed to the occupants, the very edge of hell. The B17's name? Hell's Belle. Along with the crew, the B17 carried eight thousand pounds of armament: eight 500-pound mega bombs; twenty 100-pound incendiary bombs; plus thirteen Browning 50 cal. machine guns along with 13,000 rounds. Between the ammunition and a high-altitude oxygen system, the aircraft was a bomb itself. A stray bullet or errant flak could vaporize the airplane instantly. Lt. Guinn released the brakes. The Flying Fortress galloped forward, down the center line, leaping into the sky. For Staff Sergeant Gerald E. McDowell, this would be his eighth mission. Now airborne, he settled into his tail gunnery position. First he crawled on all fours twelve feet back through the narrow fuselage, and then eased himself into a seat no larger than a bicycle's. To qualify for a gunnery post, air corpsmen had to weigh 170 lbs. or less and stand no taller than 5' 10". Even at this, the spot was tight, a hard place to fight from, but even harder to die in. The ride was cold, windy, with temperatures hovering at -55 degrees. An electric suit, boots, and gloves were helpful, just enough to stay sharp for combat. At this altitude the metal surfaces were covered in frost. He fired several rounds from the Brownings, enough to clear the frozen condensation. All was ready.
On the Wings of Boys
Alone, isolated, Jerry had only his thoughts. He now realized the war was bigger than he understood, the responsibility greater than he envisioned. Many people forever unknown to him made this airplane fly, and yet, he was the hero. How strange, he didn't feel like one. All Americans were the heroes he thought. Everyone relied on everyone else. This was not just a soldier's war, it was a war for humanity, requiring each American citizen's full involvement. It was a war against time, against aggression, to defend the most sacred possession of all - freedom. Honor drove them forward. Love gave them courage. But fear was unavoidable. For Staff Sergeant McDowell, the months of training seemed years away. Could it have only been last summer...
Tyndall Field, Florida, July 1943
Sworn into the military on January 8, 1943, Jerry McDowell could have never foreseen how he would fit into this war effort. During basic training his perfect scores on the rifle range impressed more than his DI. Having grown up with guns, the ease of target shooting was natural. In a brief nightmarish moment, he worried his perfection would qualify him as a sniper. This was a different war; new challenges breed new talent. His skill earned him a spot at Tyndall Field, home to aircraft gunnery training. There he flourished. In airborne situations he could also hit his targets, but this time they were moving. He received one of the highest marksmanship scores in his class. On one occasion he even severed the target tow cable with a perfect shot. By autumn, he was chosen for training with a select fighter crew on a B17. Very soon they arrived in England. Disembarking from their plane, the corpsmen were greeted with these words: Boy, are we glad to see this. We lost sixty [B17's] yesterday. The war extended its hand to him; he grasped it firmly and returned the shake.
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God
One never needed a navigator to announce when the mission target was near. All one need do is look for the blackened sky ahead. Flak, that endless shower of spinning shrapnel, could reduce a squadron quickly, its sharp metal fragments cutting airplane and human skin alike. Leverkusen was their target today. Located in Germany's Ruhr Valley, this industrial center was vital to the German war machine, and, for this reason, protection was particularly strong. Hell's Belle entered the fracas with a strategic disadvantage. Her position in the flight formation was low, outside, and last, a spot aviator called Purple Heart Corner. It was here bombers were most susceptible to attack. As the squadron neared the flak field, the B17 formation tightened. It was their best defense, along with their Brownings, against what lay ahead on the other side - the Luftwaffe's aces, flying Messerschmidts and Fokkers. B17 crews called them the Flying Circus, so named for the acrobatic show they displayed right before their attack. It was an aerial dance, filled with steps of tweaks and cockiness, emboldening a sans hubris attitude the unconquerable suffer upon the world. But their days were numbered. Within weeks the legendary P51 Mustangs would step in, replacing the B17's dance partner, a partner who moved in step, not against it. For the present, it was fortress versus fighter.
And then, they engaged. The speed and agility of the Germans were tremendous. The Luftwaffe swooped in among the B17's, firing nonstop while the turret gunners returned salvos. The scene was surreal. Bombers dropping their loads as gunners desperately tried to lock on targets. Thousands of tracer bullets filled the sky, many bouncing off the armored surfaces of the airplanes. Jerry watched the approaching Fokker in his sight then pulled the trigger. The window to score was small; it was like catching a lightning bolt in your bare hands. The moment flashed by, much too quickly for the mind to grasp. Then his heart raced. Had his bullets hit the mark, or was it just a trick of the eye? He was almost sure of it. The fighter seemed to evaporate before him, far from the eyes of corroboration. As the battle raged on, the words kept repeating in his mind...we lost sixty B17's yesterday.
Things that go bump in the flight
A tremendous jolt knocked Jerry against the bulkhead followed by a loud vibration shivering through the plane. Then from the intercom he heard We're hit! We're hit! We're going down. The first and second engines on the left wing had been destroyed along with the cockpit where shells and machine gun fire had blown away the instrument panel and glass windows. The plane started to drop into a death spiral. Remarkably, pilot Guinn and co-pilot Fallek were unscathed, although trapped in their seats. Lt. Guinn announced if anyone wanted to parachute out he would try to level the plane briefly. Not one crew member moved. They intended to ride Hell's Belle all the way into Hell. Down, down, they dove, gaining speed in excess of 400 miles-per-hour. From 27,000 feet, they had several minutes to prepare. Jerry crawled forward from his tail position and was surprised to find fellow crew members simply standing idly, not panicking nor even reaching for their parachutes. Except for the howling wind, there was a calmness in the crew. Their missions together had built not just camaraderie, but trust, respect, reliance on one another, forged from the heat of battles shared. An overcast cloud layer was below them as the earth approached. And still the men waited, looking out the windows, nonchalantly accepting the obvious. The obvious wasn't to be. The Captain said Prepare for a crash landing. The men assembled midship, each assuming the emergency position. Clearing the overcast, the pilots were 1,500 feet above the ground. That's it! yelled the Captain, when he saw an open field. The pilots aimed for the clearing. Adrenaline replaced lost hydraulic fluid. Using the remains of the instrument panel for support, they braced their feet upon it and pulled the yokes back with all their strength. At 200 feet the nose rose and the wings leveled, putting tremendous G forces on the airframe. But the plane held together, thanks to those unknown Americans working tirelessly for these warriors. The Flying Fortress smacked the ground at 200 miles-per-hour, bouncing upward, again returning to the ground and scraping along a plowed field until the forward momentum ceased. Incredibly the plane was intact with all crew members alive.
Ten Little Indians all in a line
Like escaped animals from a traveling zoo, the men scattered into the countryside. A B17 in a beet field attracts more than cows. The locals quickly seized the moment and organized search teams to flush out the intruders. Some carried shotguns; others nooses. Survival training taught the Americans to surrender to the military or police if possible, as the citizenry preferred alternative methods for dealing with villains. Within hours, days, the crew was reassembled one by one and placed in custody of the Luftwaffe. A mutual respect among aviators exists, regardless of political boundaries, a fraternity of flyers. Although interrogation was intense, torture was out of the question. Eventually the crew was shipped to an ex-concentration camp in Krems, Austria, 40 miles north of Vienna. There they stepped through the gate and into history. For the next eighteen months their home would be Stalag 17, along with 4,600 additional downed airmen, and 26,000 Europeans caught on the wrong side of the war. It was here Jerry learned from his top turret gunner, Harold Wingate, he had indeed shot down the ME 109 moments before their fall from the sky. The score earned him the Air Medal for Meritorious Achievement.
Last one out turn off the plight
Survival is the number one priority for a POW. Fighting extreme cold, dampness, and miniscule toilet facilities was just the beginning. Electricity existed but few light bulbs. A barracks designed for 240 men held 400. Frigid showers, on concrete floors, did little to wash away the lice and fleas. Rats were aplenty but friendlier than guards. Food was insufferable and insufficient. Red Cross parcels were scant, often withheld by the Germans. Each day's menu included rutabaga soup topped with floating white cabbage worms. Black bread contained sawdust and mold. Periodic spuds, salmon, or corned beef appeared, with raisins and prunes, and one cup of hot water, period. The D-bar, a heavy chocolate candy bar was bitcoin currency, along with American cigarettes, popular among all internees, normally included in Red Cross shipments. One's health was constantly at risk, the smallest infection could kill you, that is if the dysentery didn't. But the Kriegsgefangenen survived. Contraband crystal radio sets obtained through trading with the Europeans, kept the POW's spirit alive. In early 1945, Russian troops advanced towards the stalag, and the German guards headed west with the American POW's. It was a cruel 281-mile journey, with the men exposed to weather day and night. As camp disciplined waned, so too did prisoner control. The Americans looted the camp's administrative office, throwing much in bonfires. It was here Jerry discovered his Stalag 17B photo ID file sheet. One month later the airmen walked straight into the US Army. Their ordeal was over.
Breathing Free
Jerry McDowell returned to the states and married Frances Griffiths Tyson, widow of William Tyson. Their marriage lasted until 2002 when Jerry passed away. Frances died in early 2014. Remarkable lives. Remarkable times. It is another example of the greatest generation. For risking and losing their lives in defense of our country, they asked for nothing in return. Just homes, loved ones, which they also earned themselves. They were the greatest generation for more than simply a war record. World War II claimed many lives, the cost incomprehensible. As we mourn the dead, we celebrate the living with an indebted thank you for preserving world peace and guaranteeing freedom for all Americans. The next chapter is being written as we breathe. Will the denouement be as successful? It is a question for the Oracle at Delphi, but, as always, weigh the answer, carefully.
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- Tejada-Genie
- The Red Badge Of...
- Bob, Beatles, and the Boomers
- The Call of the Wild
- A Bicycle Built for Two
- Photo Finish
- Three Gables in a Glade
- Now I know my ABC's... Richboro Ephemera
- Hitting on All Sixes
- A Tail Gunner's Tale
- Take it from the Top
- Dreams Work
- A Night to Remember
- I Was There
- Land of the Setting Sun
- Ribbons in her Hair
- Unspoken Truth