I posted this on another site, but I thought it would be an interesting read here. Apologies if you've already seen it.
Today I flew in a B17, here in the DC area for a large flyover on Friday to commemorate VE day.
The B17 flight was special to me because my late father in law flew two and one half missions in a B17 on bombing raids from England to Germany in 1944.
At the time, the British had stopped flying daylight raids because the losses were so high- they were running out of pilots. So the Americans got the job of bombing the Nazi war-making plants during the day.
On his third mission, his plane was at the tail end of a large contingent of planes-- around 900, he said-- and by the time his rolled over the target area, the Nazi fighters and AA guns were fully engaged. His plane took many hits, and several crew were killed. Eventually the plane became too crippled to make it back and the order was given to abandon the aircraft.
He managed to find a parachute with fewer holes shot in it than some, and with the rest of the crew that was still alive, parachuted out of the crippled plane and into a German potato field.
With both legs broken and wounds to his arm, he didn't have much of a chance to escape and evade, and the Nazis quickly rounded up him and the other crew and dispatched them to a prisoner of war camp, where he was denied treatment for his wounds, and fed mostly scraps- when he was fed at all.
At the time, he was just 18, a red clay Georgia farm boy who joined the service when he was just 17 and a half.
Perhaps because of his age, and good shape, he survived the camp, including a forced march in the winter, when the camp evacuated to avoid the advancing Soviets, whom the Germans greatly feared; they knew how they would be treated by the Russians if captured. When finally liberated, he had lost a lot of weight, and of course was still dealing with the result of broken legs that had healed without the benefit of any care.
He went on to marry, and father 5 children, one of whom is my wife of 28 years.
So, yes, the flight meant something to me.
Mine was a peaceful flight over the verdant fields and housing developments of Northern Virginia. As I squatted, looking out the waist gunner window, I marveled at the courage these young Americans had to fight and often die, in foreign lands. In my flight, no fighters came swarming with guns blazing, and no AA batteries were launching fire from the ground. But I imagined what my father in law faced on every mission, and wondered if I would have had the same courage and focus.
We owe a lot to those veterans who risked their lives to defeat one more evil regime.
It's not something I'll forget.
Today I flew in a B17, here in the DC area for a large flyover on Friday to commemorate VE day.
The B17 flight was special to me because my late father in law flew two and one half missions in a B17 on bombing raids from England to Germany in 1944.
At the time, the British had stopped flying daylight raids because the losses were so high- they were running out of pilots. So the Americans got the job of bombing the Nazi war-making plants during the day.
On his third mission, his plane was at the tail end of a large contingent of planes-- around 900, he said-- and by the time his rolled over the target area, the Nazi fighters and AA guns were fully engaged. His plane took many hits, and several crew were killed. Eventually the plane became too crippled to make it back and the order was given to abandon the aircraft.
He managed to find a parachute with fewer holes shot in it than some, and with the rest of the crew that was still alive, parachuted out of the crippled plane and into a German potato field.
With both legs broken and wounds to his arm, he didn't have much of a chance to escape and evade, and the Nazis quickly rounded up him and the other crew and dispatched them to a prisoner of war camp, where he was denied treatment for his wounds, and fed mostly scraps- when he was fed at all.
At the time, he was just 18, a red clay Georgia farm boy who joined the service when he was just 17 and a half.
Perhaps because of his age, and good shape, he survived the camp, including a forced march in the winter, when the camp evacuated to avoid the advancing Soviets, whom the Germans greatly feared; they knew how they would be treated by the Russians if captured. When finally liberated, he had lost a lot of weight, and of course was still dealing with the result of broken legs that had healed without the benefit of any care.
He went on to marry, and father 5 children, one of whom is my wife of 28 years.
So, yes, the flight meant something to me.
Mine was a peaceful flight over the verdant fields and housing developments of Northern Virginia. As I squatted, looking out the waist gunner window, I marveled at the courage these young Americans had to fight and often die, in foreign lands. In my flight, no fighters came swarming with guns blazing, and no AA batteries were launching fire from the ground. But I imagined what my father in law faced on every mission, and wondered if I would have had the same courage and focus.
We owe a lot to those veterans who risked their lives to defeat one more evil regime.
It's not something I'll forget.
