Dad flashed back to that fateful day when the thunderous roar of the engines could be felt and the adrenaline kicked in. A routine reconnaissance flight for the seasoned crew of ten prepared for lift off. The plane began to lift, a sudden tilt, a strange sound, and finally losing the little altitude they had. A fireball. A fight for survival. The bomber was full of fuel and he knew fire would engulf them in a matter of minutes. Dad’s hands felt like burning coals, as he and two others fought to kick and push a door open at the back of the plane. He was out — hands no longer useful and hair singed.

 

The heat was unbearable and the air was thick with black smoke, as the three crewmen tried to help the others. But, the black inferno, void of breathable air, gave way to surrender and running for a nearby ditch. There, they could only watch in horror; helpless, while listening to the screams of their brothers. The night wept.

 

The B-17 sat on the runway. It was a beautiful day and Dad was anxious to see the plane that took him through the war. A war that brought him laughter, friendship, horror, and sadness.

 

Seeing the massive aircraft, with its metal reflecting in the sun, gave us a sense of pride that Dad had served his country. Dad couldn’t walk fast enough to reach his precious    B-17. We listened to the Lt Colonel give a brief history of the plane and the part it played in WWII. Dad listened intently, but he was restless. He wanted to get closer, to go in, to relive the memories of the men he had flown with. 

 

Dad’s advanced age made it impossible for him to go into the ball turret; a tight-fitting globe in the belly of the bomber. He walked to the back of the plane, the tail gunners spot, where he perched for hours on a banana seat and knelt with a gun sight in front of him. Moving forward to the navigator’s desk, he sat and gently caressed it. He moved further into the cockpit, lowering his head as he touched the pilot’s seat. As he turned you knew he had paid honor to each of his brothers.

 

Dad showed us every inch of the plane. The Lt Colonel announced they would take a group of six or more for a flight over Grand Rapids. Looking into his eyes, the longing to fly again was there. The price was steep, but fulfilling his dream was more important. 

 

For us, the flight would honor Dad and his service, but for Dad, it was to bid a final farewell to his beloved plane and the crew he lost. 

The time came to fly again. Dad swayed from side to side, clenching his fists, as the pre-flight instructions were being delivered. We boarded the plane, strapped in just behind the bomb bay, and waited for take-off.

 

Dad flashed us back to the time when German gunfire sprayed the plane with holes. The ball turret gunner had been hit, so Dad, the tallest crew member, crawled into the ball turret, even though his height made the task difficult. He took the gun and began shooting, but was soon hit with shrapnel. The bullet riddled plane had to land or crash. He started crawling, knowing he was in a death trap, but lost consciousness before reaching safety. Dad shared that he would be forever grateful to his B-17 brothers for pulling him out in time.

 

As he finished the story, there was unbelievable silence, only to be interrupted by the colonel’s voice, “Buckle up for the ride of your life.” 

 

The sound was deafening and pulses were racing faster than the taxing plane. All of us watched Dad’s face and at the same time wondered if this old plane would actually lift off. His face showed no signs of worry; just a smile of pure joy for his B-17, his crew, and his final farewell.

 

Thank you to all who served; including my mom during WWII and my brother during Vietnam. The men and women of WWII are called the Greatest Generation, but I’m afraid they may become the Lost Generation, if stories are not shared and history is not taught.