Mighty Fortress: Lead Bomber Over Europe

211 Pages·2006·3.9 MB·English

by  Chuck Alling

Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Preface
Chapter 1 - Through a Glass, Darkly
Chapter 2 - Sun in the East, Dead Ahead
Chapter 3 - Heartbeat F Fox
Chapter 4 - Assignment: To Hell and Back
Chapter 5 - Sweating It Out—Did I Hear an Engine Roar?
Chapter 6 - Near Miss
Chapter 7 - Merciless Hail
Chapter 8 - Code P: Dresden
Chapter 9 - Now the Day Is Over
Chapter 10 - Music of Angels
Chapter 11 - Many Thanks, Yanks
Chapter 12 - Victory in Europe
Chapter 13 - Flying Home on a Wing and a Prayer
Chapter 14 - Afterword

Endnotes
Index

Published by
CASEMATE
1016 Warrior Road, Suite C
Drexel Hill, PA 19026.

© 2002 & 2006 by Charles Alling

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publishers.

Typeset and design by K&P Publishing.

ISBN 1-932033-59-9

Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress
First paperback edition, first printing
PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
This work is dedicated to

Prudence “Prudy” Kelsey Alling
1923-1944

and to

Ray Baskin and Bill Wright
and the other members of my crew:

Glen Banks
Jack Brame
Eddie Edwards
Willie Green
Mort Narva
Chuck Williams
Preface

This is a personal story. It’s about what was. Every passage, every episode and
every fact is true. It’s about war—World War II, as seen through the eyes of one
pilot of a B-17 Flying Fortress in the Eighth Air Force. Once I had flown
overseas to our base in Mendlesham, England, I said goodbye to life as I knew it.
Over the next eight months, I flew twenty-seven missions over Germany, France,
and Czechoslovakia, with more than two hundred and twenty hours flying over
enemy territory.
When I revisit those moments, I am reminded of how fortunate I am. I do not
understand why we made it back alive when so many others should have and
didn’t. For those who flew in the Eighth Air Force, I suspect we all may have
felt, at some point, that we were living on the edge, knowing that each flight
could be the last. This unspoken understanding, this common bond, inspired
deep, lasting friendships. This was my experience with my crew. We were bound
together with undivided affection and devotion for each other.
This book is a recollection of only those combat missions, experiences, and
thoughts that are deeply imbedded in my mind. Before each sortie, Intelligence
officers would brief us on what to expect. And then at the start of each flight, our
Flying Fortress would lift herself gracefully, carrying between two and three tons
of bombs. We’d break through the clouds with the sunlight dancing and
sparkling on her silver wings. Behind us and to either side, flying in tight
formation, were hundreds of planes, a formidable and a majestic sight.
I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride for my crew, the Eighth Air
Force, and my country. That gave me the strength I needed to carry on. I often
savored those brief, peaceful moments, lulled by the hum of our engines, as we
flew east over the English Channel, heading for enemy territory. Then, at times,
all hell would break loose. But with a leap of faith, hope, and prayer—and a lot
of luck—we made it through, and beyond.
Years passed before I had any desire to contact my crew. I have often wondered
why. Now it seems so clear. After VE Day, when I returned to the States and left
the service, I was anxious to break away from the past and begin a new life. I
was focused on a new beginning, a new direction. My crew, all dear to my heart,
must have wanted to do the same, and I am sure each one of us decided privately
to look ahead and not back. Over half a century passed; still, I always had a
hunch that eventually I would retrace my steps.
Fifty-four years after the war, for some inexplicable reason, I felt bound and
determined to find my crew. I made calls all over the country. It was the first
time I had initiated contact since we had all said goodbye after our return to the
States in 1945. Of the nine of us, after an exhaustive search, I was unable to
locate Mort Narva, my radar navigator; Eddie Edwards, my radio operator; and
Chuck Williams, my left waist gunner. I soon learned that Glen Banks, my co-
pilot; Willie Green, my crew chief; and Jack Brame, my right waist gunner had
died. I could locate only two surviving members: Ray Baskin, my navigator, and
Bill Wright, my bombardier. When I called them on the phone, there was a
moment of silence on the other end. Ray couldn’t believe it, after all those years,
and neither could Bill. Bill broke the stunned silence on the line, “You mean
you’re still alive? That’s utterly impossible!”
The three of us knew a reunion was long overdue. We decided to meet in a
central location, choosing Savannah, Georgia. On November 25, 1999, we
gathered at the Hampton Inn. Ray and Bill met just before I arrived. After long
hugs, they sat down together and renewed their friendship. Minutes later,
nervous with anticipation, I walked in the entrance of the inn, the doors spun
around, the wind whisked in and carried me along with it. I asked the clerk at the
desk the whereabouts of my friends, fearing that after so much time I would not
recognize them, and I entered the lounge where they were waiting. I cannot
begin to explain the warmth I felt at that moment, and the joy that we were
together again.
Inset Reunion of the crew of the Miss Prudy in Savannah, Georgia, November
1999. Charles Alling could only find two of his crew (top) when he searched for
them fifty-four years after the war. Left to Right: Bill Wright, Charles Alling, Ray
Baskin. (Top photo: USAAF)

That was the start of our five-day reunion. I knew that if it didn’t happen then,
it would never happen at all. I am also certain that if I had ever walked past Ray
or Bill on the street, I would have thought they were perfect strangers.
The next morning, we left for one of Georgia’s Golden Isles, twelve miles east
of Savannah, accessible only by boat. This would be the first and only time we
had ever talked about our shared experiences. At the house we threw over gear
into our rooms and headed out for a walk on the beach. Our pace, if you can call
it that, was slow and deliberate, not because we were checking our footing—
though on other terrain that would be of some concern—but because we were
deep in thought about our combat missions from September 1944 to April 1945.
The three of us were full of spirit and willing to capture and recall our war
experiences. We had, after all, shared the same space in a cold, damp Nissen hut
for nearly a year. It had taken a lot of energy to maintain our composure and
strength living in those quarters but we had found creative ways to make the
Nissen hut a comfortable place—surrounding ourselves with photographs of
loved ones that we tucked away carefully in our footlockers.
Now here we were, walking together once again, but this time on a vast
stretch of beach with no one in sight for miles. Seagulls flew over head,
dropping shells onto the beach, reminding us of flak in the skies over Europe.
The shells fell onto the hard sand, cracked and split open, spreading the gulls’
next meal before them. As we followed the water’s edge, I was lulled by the
waves washing against the shore. Bottle-nosed dolphins played in the surf,
gliding along the crests of waves and guiding us along the water’s edge. The
dolphins reminded me of our “Little Friends,” the P-47 and P-51 fighters that
had guided our bomb group to and from enemy territory, protecting us from the
Luftwaffe.
When we would fly back to our air base in England after a bombing raid, it
was usually Bill who had broken the silence. Over the next few days, as we
walked the beach and explored the island, Bill now initiated many of the
conversations that helped us recount our past. Stopping in his tracks he’d say,
“Well, I want to tell you something and this is God’s honest-to-goodness truth.
Now listen!”
The command issued, we came to attention, but one time, he wanted to ask us
something. “What was the time you were most scared? I mean, really scared—
when you were certain that you were going to die?” He didn’t pause to hear our
answer; he knew it. On January 20, 1945, we had our first terrifying brush with
death and had survived only by a miracle. That was the worst of countless other
occasions when a burst of flak, a fighter’s cannon, or a mid-air collision could
have brought us unexpectedly to our doom. With each step, sinking deeply into
the fine sand that curled around our toes, leaving only our footprints to wash
away in the tide, we now told each other how it had been and dared to relive our