written by Steve Snyder

VBC member and guest Steve Snyder is author of Shot Down: The True Story of Pilot Howard Snyder and the Crew of the B-17 Susan Ruth, a poignant and meticulously researched account of his father’s bomber crew during World War II. The book takes the reader from stateside training to the French Resistance, which his father joined after being shot down. The article below is adapted from Steve’s book, which can be ordered at https://stevesnyderauthor.com.

B-17 Eighth Air Force missions began and ended with ground crews.

Each plane had its own dedicated crew of 11, headed by a crew chief and including specialists in mechanics, electronics, propellers, sheet metal, armaments, and everything else needed to keep the airplane flying. And that doesn’t include oil, gas, and bomb supplies.

At any one time, mechanical problems, shortage of parts, and combat damage meant that one-half to two-thirds of B-17s were out of commission. Each had to be inspected, assessed, and, if possible, repaired to fly again.

On the day of a mission, the ground crews checked the engines, tires, wings, controls, wiring, oxygen systems, radio systems, fueling systems, brakes, and gun turrets to make sure they were all operational.

They loaded the bombs—most often M43 (later M64) 500lb General Purpose types–into the bomb bay racks, set their fuses, loaded the .50-caliber shells for the machine guns (usually not less than 5,000 rounds), and made sure every plane had full tanks of fuel (typically 2,800 gallons representing one fourth of the plane’s gross weight at take-off). The fuel tanks themselves, nicknamed “Tokyo Tanks” for their long-distance capacity, were made up of a rubber composite, divided into 18 cells, and located in the plane’s wings.

Each night, the combat air crews waited anxiously around the Squadron bulletin board for the posting of the pilots’ names who would be flying the next day.

If you saw your pilot’s name posted, you tried to get some sleep. No one got much. Instead, there was a lot of chatter and silent prayers.

If your pilot’s name wasn’t on the list, you breathed a sigh of relief and tried to relax.

Sick or wounded crew members were replaced at random by fill-ins. Most men disliked flying in unfamiliar planes with new crews. Each bomber had its own idiosyncrasies and potential malfunctions that regular crew members knew how to correct.

Long before daybreak, orderlies traveled from barracks to barracks calling out the names of the pilots scheduled to fly. Crew members washed up, shaved (essential to avoid the discomfort of wearing an oxygen mask), relieved themselves, and got dressed.

Then, they would walk, bike, or ride a truck to a mess hall, where they would spend an hour eating non-flatulent foods for breakfast.

After that came the Briefing Room for an hour to receive information and instructions on the day’s mission.

Briefings began when the Commanding Officer (CO) entered the room.

“Ten-Hut!”

The men would rise and remain standing until the CO said, “be seated, gentlemen.”

Many in the Briefing Room had months earlier been sitting in high school or college. Now, classroom lessons were literally matters of life and death.

The CO unveiled a map of Western Europe strung with red wool yarn indicating the day’s bombing route. Murmurings inevitably followed, and, depending on the target, sometimes gasps and groans.

Large aerial photos showed key roads, lakes, rivers, woods, towns, and other landmarks they would expect to see en route.

On a massive bombing run involving hundreds or thousands of airplanes, precise timing and position were everything. The starting of engines, taxiing and take-offs, assembly points, and formation positions were all detailed. Identification of the Initial Point (IP) alerted crews to the landmark from which the bombers had to fly straight and level—usually 20-50 miles—to target. Then, after the planes released their payloads, they took off for the Rally Point, where they would re-form in defensive positions for the return home.

Weather conditions, bomb loads, radio instructions, flak battery locations, fighter opposition anticipated, and what fighter escort, if any, they could expect were all specified. Crews were reminded that, if captured, they were not to give any information except name, rank, and serial number.

The final instruction was to synchronize their watches (Type A-11, Military Field) with the CO’s.

After the general briefing, many crews paused for a moment of prayer with Group chaplains.

Pilots, bombardiers, and navigators then broke off for their own meetings to receive additional instruction and information.

While the ground crews made final inspections, repairs, and preparations, air crews would put on their flying clothes, receive their escape kits, turn in valuables and identification, and pick up their oxygen masks, electric suits, parachutes, and machine guns, each weighing 64 pounds.

Then, they rode to their planes in trucks or jeeps at least an hour before takeoff.

Once aboard their planes, they went through preflight procedures and waited for the signal from the control tower to take their stations. From this point on, the men ceased to be individuals. They were now, ideally, one cohesive team.

The tower gave the signal to start engines, a process that took 10 to 15 minutes, each of the B-17’s four engines slowly starting up in turn. A deafening roar consumed the air field as the fleet of bomber engines reached a crescendo.

A green flare from the control tower signaled the mission was a go. A white flare indicated a scrub for bad weather. After another 10 to 15 minutes for marshaling and taxiing, pilots tracked the tail numbers of the aircrafts they were to follow on takeoff.

Finally, Zero Hour.

Takeoffs were dangerous. Runways were short, the weather was rarely clear, and the planes were usually loaded beyond their maximum weight limit of 33 tons.

The first step was to get the airplane to a ground speed beyond which the pilot could no longer stop.

Then came “stalling speed.” Above it, the airplane will fly. Below it, the plane will drop.

Finally, “takeoff speed,” which needed to be well above stalling speed. Once the plane lifted off, the pilot called, “Wheels up!”

Bombers took off at 30-second intervals when clear and 60-second intervals when cloudy or raining.

Each plane climbed to a preset assembly altitude, then homed in on their Bomb Group’s radio beacon. Squadron leaders shot off colored flares to indicate their positions. Forming up took one hour and a lot of fuel and pilot effort.

Getting into formation involved hundreds of airplanes occupying the same clouds at the same time with little margin for error. Any deviation in course, rate of climb, or airspeed could put planes in the paths of others. Every crew member vigilantly scanned their surroundings to avoid mid-air collisions.

Forty-four bomber bases and 15 fighter bases were crammed into East Anglia, England, a region smaller than the state of Connecticut. With pilots flying in radio silence with no air traffic control, mid-air collisions were inevitable. About five-percent of all bombers lost in World War II fell during formation.

The airplane assemblies were called “combat box formations” and were the most effective tactic against enemy flak and fighter attacks. The building block of the combat box was the Element—three ships formed into a tight “V.”

The Element’s lead plane was responsible for maintaining its position relative to the Squadron’s lead plane at all times.

One plane flew off the lead plane’s left wing and the other off its right wing. Those flying the left and right wing positions were responsible for staying in “tight formation.” When a fourth plane was included, it flew in the “slot,” a position a little below and behind the others, thus converting the “V” into a diamond.

Bomber formation configurations changed over time, but by mid-October 1943, the Eighth Air Force had settled into four Elements of three aircraft each, forming up a 12-plane Squadron.

Three Squadrons, in turn, made up a 36-plane Group. And three Groups formed a 108-plane Wing.

Each Group formation occupied a stretch of sky 600 yards long, about a mile wide, and a half mile deep. Combat Wings came together at four-to-six-mile intervals to create a Divisional Column. Then, the Divisional Columns formed up creating one large flying fleet.

Take the 306^th Bomb Group, for example. Its missions consisted of three of its four Squadrons, with one Squadron remaining on the ground.

The 306th Bomb Group would then form up with planes from the 305th Bomb Group and 92nd Bomb Group. Together, these three Bomb Groups made up the 40th Combat Wing.

The 40th Bomb Wing then joined the 1st Bomb Wing, 41st Bomb Wing, and 94th Bomb Wing to form the 1st Division Bomb Column.

Finally, the 1st Division Column joined the Eighth Air Force’s other two Bomb Divisions, the 2nd and 3rd.

On any given mission, the total number of planes in the strike force could vary from the hundreds to the thousands, including fighter escorts.

These formations flew in an architecture as intricate and precise as a murmuration of starlings or a swarm of bees. Lead Group took the front, High Group behind to the right, Low Group behind to the left. This configuration optimized the B-17s’ combined defensive fire power.

But everyone knew the Low Group was most vulnerable, especially the rear-most plane in the Low Group. This position was nicknamed “Tail-end Charlie” or “Purple Heart Corner.” They were the last to arrive at target and the last to leave enemy territory.

*        *        *

The inside of a B-17 was like a cigar tube, a thin aluminum skin held in place by thousands of rivets.

Enveloping the crew was an aroma of sweat, grease, cordite (smokeless gunpowder from the .50-caliber guns), cigarette smoke, and, sometimes, urine and dried blood. Space was a bare minimum, so small that tail and ball turret gunners couldn’t even wear parachutes.

The bombardier, navigator, pilot, co-pilot, and engineer/top turret gunner were separated from the radio operator, ball turret gunner, two waist gunners, and tail gunner by the bomb bay.

The bombs were stacked in racks from floor to ceiling on both sides of the plane, five to a side. In between was a catwalk eight inches wide. When the bomb bay doors were open, the view was five miles straight down.

Once over the English Channel, the gunners cleared their weapons, which overwhelmed the plane with ear-splitting noise and the acrid smell of cordite.

Other than that, the only sound was the monotonous drone of the engines.

With a grand total of 12 .50-caliber machine guns on each B-17G, a combat Wing could bring over a thousand guns to bear on the enemy, each firing 14 round per second. But the guns overheated easily, and ammunition was limited. The best practice was to fire in four-to-five shell bursts, as needed.

Above 10,000 feet, the air grew thin, and the crew donned oxygen masks. At 30,000 feet, a man who lost his mask would lose consciousness in a minute. In 20 minutes, he’d die.

Pilots concentrated on holding the aircraft steady, keeping his eyes glued on his lead aircraft, even during enemy fighter and flak attacks. While the pilot flew the plane, the co-pilot monitored the more than 150 switches, dials, cranks, handles, and gauges covering the dashboard. Each one had a purpose: engine revolutions, manifold and fuel pressures, aerodynamics, barometric pressure, altitude, wind drift, airspeed, position and direction.

On a clear day, a ground observer could see a silver-skinned B-17G shimmering in the sunlight. Trailing behind were long cloudlike formations of condensation—“contrails”—created by hot engine exhaust coming into contact with cold moist air at high altitude.

Both the shimmer and the contrails were bad news for the bomber formations. They obscured targets and alerted German flak batteries and fighter interceptors, who zeroed in on the enemy attackers.

Each crew member wore a 30-pound flak suit made up of overlapping steel plates inside of aprons and a steel helmet designed to protect against anti-aircraft fire.

These protections reduced casualties from flak fragments and enemy fighter shell splinters but didn’t protect men from direct hits. The suits were cumbersome but could be shed quickly in an emergency by pulling on a cord.

Parachutes—too bulky to be worn all the time—sat at the ready to be clipped to flight suit harnesses when needed.

The airplane grew colder as the airplane climbed higher, eventually reaching life-threatening frigidity.

Each crew position had “relief tubes” for urination and defecation, except for the ball turret gunner, who, if he had “to go,” just “went,” let it freeze, and then pushed it out the ammo chute.

As the planes approached the coast of mainland Europe, pilot chatter increased.

“Stay on the ball.”

“Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Save your ammunition and make your shots count.”

“Don’t yell when you talk on the intercom.”

Tension inside the ship rose as it crossed the enemy coast. Helmets on, gunners alert. Pilots changed course every 15 seconds in zigzag fashion to confuse German flak batteries.

German radar stations dotted the landscape from the coast of France to the Fatherland, alerting the enemy of the bombers’ approach. As the bombers neared the target, 88mm Flugzeugabwehrkanone, or, “aircraft-defense cannons,” shot their flak (a contraction of the German word) into the paths of the Allied planes.

Some 900,000 German soldiers manned 10,000 pieces of anti-aircraft artillery to defend the country. The guns fired up to 20 shells per minute. Each shell was set at a height corresponding to the altitude of the bombers. When the shells burst, they unleashed metal shards that could rip through the aluminum skin of a B-17 from hundreds of feet away.

Flak caused far more death and downed more planes than enemy fighters.

Flak explosions gave themselves away in ominous black puffs of smoke. From a distance, they looked like polka-dots across a blue fabric. But as you got closer, those polka-dots formed a dense black carpet—“iron cumulus”—hovering in the air.

If you were close enough to see the orange and red centers of the bursting shells, you knew you were in trouble. Exploding flak rocked the ship violently, blackening the air around you and peppering the crew with small pieces of hot metal.

Direct flak hits exploded planes in an instant. They might simply disappear from sight or break apart and plunge in pieces. Others spun out of control or limped along on fire, engines out.

Even if you were unscathed by the death shards, the psychological impact of the explosions could be devastating. All you could do was sit and take it, dripping sweat at 50 degrees below zero. The grim joke, as Stephen Ambrose put it, was that flak converted more men to Christianity than Peter and Paul put together.

B-17 crews also had to contend with the German Air Force, the Luftwaffe.

At the start of World War II, the technologically advanced Luftwaffe ruled the skies of Europe. Its Messerschmitt Me-109 and Focke-Wulf Fw-190 (nicknamed “Butcherbird”) composed the backbone of its fighter defense.

On its own, a B-17 was no match against these planes. Staying with the group was the only protection. A 1943 Army study showed that about half of the B-17s lost in combat had left formation.

The staggered combat box wing formation gave B-17s full coverage of the sky.

Tiered high and low and lined up left and right, the planes were deployed to uncover every gun and create clear lines of protective fire. One plane protected the other, and vice versa.

This flight arrangement allowed for concentrated cones of .50-caliber machine fire for a thousand yards in every direction. A B-17’s only cover were the other bombers in the formation. Falling out meant easy picking for the Butcherbirds.

As the bomber formation drew close to its target, it reached the IP. The formation would make a 30-45 degree turn towards the target and begin its final approach.

From this point on, the bombardier flew the plane through the Norden bombsight linked to the plane’s autopilot. The bombsight simplified the bombardier’s job by taking into account factors of altitude, airspeed, ground speed and drift to calculate the bomb release point.

The plane had to fly straight and level through the exploding flak. Once committed to the bomb run, there was no turning, no evasion. It was to the target only.

Target areas were normally 500-by-250 yards or 25 acres in size. After each plane dropped its payload, it made a wide sweeping turn toward the Rally Point out of range of known flak batteries. There, the bombers formed back up again for the return flight to England.

Planes lagging behind usually fell prey to German fighters, which now swarmed to pick off aircraft damaged by flak.

Returning to England involved running a gauntlet that began as distant specks ahead, flashes of silver that grew larger and sparkled with machine gun fire as they got closer.

Then, they exploded out of sunlight, riddling the bombers at 2,300 rounds a minute. The sounds of cannon fire, fighter engines, and explosions merged into a cacophony of terror.

Enemy fighters wheeled about like acrobats, spitting fire, flipping over, zooming in and out of the B-17 formation, twisting, turning, climbing, diving, as if to bedazzle bomber crews.

Some played chicken, zeroing straight toward the nose of a B-17, only to split off a second from impact.

The bombers delivered their own deafening noise, guns drilling the air like electric sledgehammers. Guns couldn’t stop flak. But they could shoot down fighters. The B-17 intercom system buzzed with crew members’ shouting alerts about enemy locations.

“Bandit at 4’clock!”

When shredded by German fighters, bomber crews fumbled for their parachutes and prayed for survival. Some made it out of the falling planes. Many didn’t. Fellow B-17 crews could only watch in horror, counting the parachutes they saw opening as they remained in formation for their own harrowing flight home.

Battle damaged planes had tough decisions to make. If they crash landed or bailed out over Europe, they would most likely be captured. If they ditched at sea, they would freeze to death unless quickly rescued. The last and often best option was to try to make it back to England.

*        *        *

A whole other drama unfolded back at the bases of East Anglia.

Mid-afternoon or early evening, as the mission neared its scheduled return, men gathered in tense clusters around the control tower. They called it “sweating it out.” Every ear strained for the sound of engines.

A distant drone or faint image indicated the first returns. Base crews counted the planes and tried to decipher the tail numbers on the ships.

If a plane shot off a red flare, it meant there were wounded aboard. Such ships received priority. Medical personnel rushed to meet them. Rarely did a crewman receive medical attention while on mission. The only hope was to make it back alive.

No landing was complete until the engines shut down, and the crew safely disembarked.

The final moments of flight, gently settling to the ground, brought the promise of rest and relief.

Crews staggered off their ships and clambered onto trucks, which delivered the men to debriefing and interrogation by the Group Intelligence Officer. Before that, however, the airmen received a double shot of whiskey on the tarmac.

Each plane was assessed for battle damage by its assigned ground crew. Bombers that couldn’t be patched up at the base were turned over to the Eighth Air Force Service Command for more extensive repairs.

Crews rarely rested more than a few days before the whole dreadful process started up again. Men generally kept flying until they were killed in action, shot down and captured, or the war ended.

In early 1943, the Air Force introduced another way out. If you completed 25 missions with a bomber crew, you could receive a Distinguished Flying Cross and relief from having to fly further missions. Air crews jokingly referred to the award as the “Lucky Bastard Ribbon.”

By the end of 1943, only 25% of Eighth Air Force personnel had survived 25 missions. The rest had been killed, severely wounded, or taken POW.

Such was the life of a B-17 crew member in the Eighth Air Force in World War II