Plummet

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I scream as I’m thrown face down on the floor toward the rear of the fort.

 Just a moment ago I was crouching on the adapted bike seat which shoves itself far higher into a man’s back-end than any object really should go.

 I was scanning the densely foggy sky for aircraft from the cramped tail-gunner’s compartment of Skippy, my flying fortress.

 Watching the planes to our right and left, I was in a kneeling position, looking out over my guns.

 . . .

 We’re spiraling and falling.

 Flashes of blue, green and brown shoot through the tail window.

 The plane is spinning fast!

 Whatever happened threw me flat on my face. 

 Twisting to the right in a tight circle, the fortress spin broke the ammo trunk loose, so it’s now pinning me to the left wall of the compartment.

 I need to grab my parachute.

 I can’t move.

 How will I get to my chute?

 Impossible to move, my body is pinned flat against the wall.

 I must get to my chute!

 Straining every muscle, I try to shove or lift the ammo trunk with all my force.

 Nothing, I’m not moving.

 I try again, shoving with all my might against the plane’s ribbed interior.

 Nothing.

 I have to keep trying!

 Using every ounce of strength within, my whole body shoves against the wall and the ammo trunk; legs, arms, back, even the back of my head, but I can’t move it.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t just stay here while this plane crashes.

 . . .

 I can’t move and I can’t stay.

 . . .

 I have to move.

 With what’s left of my energy, I compel myself off the wall, pushing every last sinew until the heat of the pain forces me to stop.

 I can’t.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t get out.

 I can’t stop this.

 . . .

 Is this it?

 Falling to the ground in a plummeting plane is how I die.

 This is how I die.

 THIS IS HOW I DIE! I yell, girding myself with the vocalization of this realization.

 In another few minutes I’ll be dead.

 . . .

 Time is slowing down.

 Looking up through the tail window I can see only fog above.

 There is no sense of place.

 No here, nor there.

 Do not be anxious about anything.

 In every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to G-d.

 The ribs of the plane dig into my body as I’m forced ever more against its hard metal walls.

 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your G-d will be with you wherever you go.”

 Images begin streaking across my mind.

 My mom’s face.

 My dad reaching out his hand to me as I prepared to board the train when I left for basic training.

 The softness of Emily’s lips when we last held each other.

 “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

 What have I done with this life?

 I could have given the toy car back to Jack.

 . . .

 Why did I not ask Emily to marry me?

 . . .

 What difference have I made?

 . . .

 “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your G-d goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

 . . .

 What is this all for?

 . . .

 I’m not getting back to Kentucky after all, am I?

 . . .

 Why is this taking so long?

 If I’m going to die, why does it have to take so long?

 Get it over with!

 GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!

 This is not ok.

 Come on!

 HURRY UP, DAMN IT!

 . . .

 “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your G-d. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 . . .

 Time is fascinating.

 Most of it we don’t even notice.

 It goes by.

 Yet, at the end, it takes FOREVER!

 If it had taken this long through everyday life, I’d be dead by now.

 . . .

 WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?

 . . .

 Going to college is no longer on the table.

 I would have liked college; the learning, the slower pace, the peace.

 This falling is peaceful.

 . . .

 Am I already dead?

 Is this what death feels like, this peace?

 The plane has been plummeting for so long, maybe I’m already dead.

 If this is death . . . I’m ok with it.

 . . .

 A raspy swishing sound breaks my thoughts.

 Looking out, no longer up, through the window I see the tops of trees float away as the fort scrapes along them.

 GROUND!

 . . .

 We’re gliding down!

 . . .

 WE’RE NOT FALLING, WE’RE GLIDING DOWN! I yell out.

 Just then, the plane comes to an abrupt and jerked halt.

 Thrown forward, I bump my chin against a side-rib of the plane too hard, but the ammo trunk is moved a bit in the crash.

 That’ll bruise.

 . . .

 We’re on the ground!

 WE’RE ON THE GROUND! I yell.

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 . . .

 I’ve got to get out.

 The ship might be on fire.

 Shoving with what energy I have left, I’m able to nudge the ammo trunk a bit.

 It’s working now!

 Gathering all the strength in my arms and legs, I shove again.

 Again, a bit of a nudge.

 Keep at it.

 Use it all up, get out!

 UUURRRGGGG!!!!! I grunt as I shove again.

 More movement, it’s sliding now.

 AAAUUURRRHHHGGGHH!

 I GOT IT!

 I can rise!

 The ammo trunk is finally off of me.

 Raising my sore, and exhausted body off the wall of the downed fort, I dig my way out of the strewn shell casings, broken ventilation station, and other debris which had been tossed about as the plane spiraled down.

 My eyes scan the space looking toward the bulkhead door.

 Wow, the side of the ship is bashed in.

 Glad I wasn’t pinned against that wall.

 Turning the handle on the bulkhead door, I’m shocked by what I see.

 Or, don’t see:

 THERE’S NO PLANE!

 . . .

 The tail must have come apart from the rest of the plane, coming down by itself.

 What happened to the rest of the crew?

 As I remove my oxygen mask and headset, I scan the wreckage for another pair of shoes.

 Picking them up, I then exit the tail compartment of what’s left of Skippy.

 I gotta get away from here.

Sgt. James Radey was the tail gunner of “Skippy” a B-17 from the 301st Bomb Group, 253rd Bomb Squadron. He became the only survivor of his crew on January 11, 1944 when his squadron was in route over Greece. Visibility due to weather was barely past the wingtips of the aircraft, causing two bomb groups to collide head-on. Eight B-17s were destroyed, claiming 64 airmen’s lives. 17 men survived the crashes, Raley the only one to do so without using his parachute. Walking away from a four-mile fall in the broken tail section of a destroyed bomber, Raley suffered a cut to his chin and some bruises on his shoulder. Miraculously, the bomber’s ripped away tail section, with Raley inside, had just the right lift and weight distribution for it to “float like a leaf” and land relatively softly in a clump of pine trees. This was Raley’s 13th mission.

After the war, Raley visited the families of all of his lost crew, married, wrote an autobiography of his experience and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force after serving in Korea and Vietnam. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. From the day of the crash onward, he always considered 13 his lucky number.

Payback

Plexiglas separates my bent frame from the receding coastline below as we head north into the Babuyan Channel toward the Luzon Straits.

I hope we find some Japs!

Scanning the horizon ahead takes my mind off the reason for this mission, but not for long.

Payback!

My eyes dart from west to east, searching for ships heading south toward the Philippines. For all eight of us, payback can’t be pushed out of our heads by any activity, especially one as mundane as searching the horizon.

Despite having the best view in the plane, I can’t see beyond the cloud cover on this overcast December day.

Payback for the attack going on at Clark Field right now that forced us to scramble into the sky only partially loaded, Payback for Pearl Harbor, payback for starting this damn war!

“Smoke at 11 o’clock,” Bean yells on the communication system.

Damn, I wanted to be the one to spot it! How’d I miss the smoke?

I swing my head back toward the west again, seeing a small dark plume rising from the water.

“Adjusting our heading to target it,” Captain Kelly informs the crew.

We’re out for blood!

Theirs, and probably ours, as we’re also out here alone: A solo mission to bomb any target of opportunity we happen to find.

Just two days after the surprise at Clark Field caught most of our bombers and fighters on the ground, we’re on a bombing mission to slow down the expected Japanese invasion of the Philippines.

“That’s a big one!” hollers Robbins, the co-pilot.

Eying the smoke stack, I can discern an outline of a large ship steaming south as part of a group of vessels.

They can only be Japs. We don’t have anything that big out here!

“Targeting the big one, got that Levin?” Cap informs me.

YES!

“Roger Captain, targeting the big one,” I reply.

Our distance should be about seven miles, give or take.

I’ve had the Norden bombsight’s gyros running since shortly after takeoff. The computer is all warmed up. Clutching in the stabilizer, my right hand grips both the turn and drift knobs, rotating them to change the heading of the plane toward the ship.

“Adjusting heading, Levin. Take it easy on that computer!” Cap calls out.

What does he expect? This is our first combat mission, and he wants me to take it easy!

“Yes, Cap,” I reply.

Engaging the telescope motor clutch, I lower my right eye to the bombsights eyepiece, using my right hand to adjust the angle so the ship shows up in the cross-hairs of the scope.

Steady.

Too much angle and I overshoot the ship.

Must rotate the stabilizers back.

Clutching the vertical stabilizers, I uncage the gyros, allowing the site to track the ship.

Drifting left, away from the target.

Correcting for the drift, I double grip the turn and drift knobs again, gently nudging them forward.

Yes, on target now, but coming in fast. Oh wait, the bomb-bay doors.

With my right hand, I flip the bay doors switch, exposing our three 600-pound bombs to the world below.

Slowly turning the rate motor switch, I reduce the rate at which the plane is approaching the target.

Alright, the cross-hairs are steady on the target.

I level up by turning the leveling knob with my left hand so the scope is aligned and both bubbles are centered.

My reference is vertical, yes!

Eye back to the eyepiece, the target has drifted away from the cross-hairs. Right hand on the vertical stabilizers, I correct with the drift knobs one more time, flipping the automatic release lever.

No more corrections now, let’s see what this computer can do!

“Computer’s got the target, Cap!” I report.

“Going steady then,” Cap Kelly retorts.

The moments tick by as our aircraft approaches the sky above the large ship. At 22,000 feet, I can’t make out much on the ship itself, but it’s a big one, that’s for sure!

Staring down at it, I wonder:

Do they even know we’re up here?

After a pause between thoughts, the plane rises with the wind to the east, catching more air because of reduced weight.

“Bombs Away!” I call out, excitedly.

“Turning off auto-pilot,” I follow, in a less enthusiastic manner.

I kinda miss controlling the plane.

My eyes stay on the large ship below. Small bursts of fire erupt from guns on its deck.

They’ve spotted us and are firing back.

A large explosion erupts at the stern of the ship sending a plume of flame skyward.

“YES! A HIT!” I scream into the coms.

“Great job Levin, but hold off on the hollering will ya!” Robbins, the co-pilot, requests.

“Let’s get this bird home,” Cap suggests.

“Splash one Jap Battleship!” Halkyard bellows from the waist-guns.

“One less battlewagon for you Japs! Ha!” Money calls out.

Captain Kelly turns our B-17 so we’re heading back toward Luzon and Clark Field.

Payback feels good!

*****

December 10, 1941 a lone U.S. Army Air Corps B-17 bomber out of Clark Field in the Philippines successfully targeted a large Japanese ship north of Luzon, initially believed to be the battleship Haruna. The ship burst into flames while the crew of the bomber turned to head back to its base. Captain Kelly reported a major sinking. This news was a huge boost of sorely needed good news just days after the attack on Pearl Harbor and the destruction of most Air Corps planes in the Philippines the next morning. For the sake of truth, there were no battleships in the area that day, and the plane slightly damaged the Japanese cruiser Natori when the ship was hit with a single 600-pound bomb.

Time Life Books The Rising Sun, 1977, page 91.

http://img834.imageshack.us/img834/9351/boeingb17cflyingfortres.jpg - graphic of early model B-17 (likely in Philippines)

http://www.stelzriede.com/ms/photos/b17d.jpg - great pic of early model B-17

Kelly

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

Let’s get out of here!

Banking the giant B-17 170 degrees starboard, I put us on a new heading (south by south-east) so we’re in line with Clark Field.

Just as I finish the turn, Money in the top turret calls out, “Fighters 5 o’clock high!”

“Altman, before you get in the bathtub, let Clark know we splashed a battleship!” I order to our radio operator.

“Yes, Cap” he replies.

From multiple points behind the cockpit, the staccato cracks of machine guns clatter as hammers strike the rear end of belted shells, propelling each explosive projectile toward the incoming Jap Zeroes.

Robbins turns his head to look out over his right shoulder toward the incoming flight of Japs, “A whole swarm of ‘em! This is going to get ugly.”

We hit that ship on a mission that might never have happened, so we’re already ahead.

Despite the on-rushing enemy machine gun and cannon shells tearing through the thin skin of my lumbering giant bird, my glove-covered hands steady the vibrations, keeping trim and level flight.

Now we’ll see how much of a flying fortress this bird really is.

Shearing metal, human screams, staccato shell impacts, whizzing streaks of near-missed rounds, and blood-curdling shrieks of plane fragments torn away from the man-made contraption holding me aloft combine to crescendo into a cacophony of impulse overload silence.

Keep the plane flying, just fly the damn plane.

“Delehanty’s down, he’s bleeding,” someone yells into the coms in a voice too excited to be identified.

“You get Delehanty, I’ll cover your gun,” Bean offers over the coms.

He must be talking to the new guy, waist gunner Altman.

“Take out the one with the yellow stripe” Sergeant Altman, now in the bathtub turret, orders in a confident voice, perfectly calm, as if he is walking along a beach rather than fighting for his life and that of our plane.

Two Robert Altmans on my crew, what were the odds?

Keep it steady and fly the plane.

“Where’s the stripe?” Money asks.

“7, he’s at 7 High,” Halkyard, the other waist gunner, replies.

“Got ‘em. Take care of 4 Level,” Money calls out.

“He’s going too fast for me,” Halkyard grudgingly concedes.

“I got 3 low,” Altman offers from the tub.

“Whoa, did you see him go by?” Money asks no one in particular.

“Shut it, only use coms to call them out.” Robbins pipes in, attempting to keep the coms clear for the gunners.

“Engine 2’s hit, CATCHING FIRE!” Money shrieks into the coms.

Shit, a fire in 2. We can still make it back if the fuel doesn’t catch.

“I’m shutting down the fuel to 2 and feathering the props,” Robbins tells me, not looking in my direction.

“They’re breaking off,” Levin calls out from the nose.

“How’s Delehanty?” I ask, hoping new Altman’s got him covered.

Silence.

“Atman, how’s Delehanty?” Money chimes in.

“Money, get down there and check on Delehanty and Altman,” Robbins orders.

After a few moments of silence, Money comes back on the coms, “Delehanty’s dead, Altman’s bleeding Cap.”

Tub Altman comes on the coms, “Engine 4’s leaking, Cap. A dark stream streaking out.”

Engine 4 is leaking fuel. If the fire in 2 touches the fuel from 4, we’re done for.

“Shutting down the fuel feed to 4 and feathering the props,” Robbins informs me.

This bird has a good chance of exploding.

“Japs are coming back,” tub Altman reports on coms.

Summoning an air of gravitas despite my sense of dread, I order, “EVERYONE OUT, NOW!”

“I MEAN IT, JUMP NOW!”

Turning right so my vision is in line with Robbins, I order, “YOU TOO!”

“Someone break me out of here,” tub Altman orders more than requests.

I can’t imagine being stuck in the ball turret, dependent upon someone else in the plane to open the door for me.

Keep her steady.

Robbins starts to get up from his co-pilot seat, pauses for a moment while looking at me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Level it off and get out too.”

“I will.”

He folds himself in half, disappearing through the bulkhead.

My hands tremble in rhythm with the jittering plane.

Hold it together girl, we’ll get you home.

A Jap Zero streaks past so close I can see the pilots face.

Keep it steady.

The plane, despite its now violent vibrations, is staying level and steady, offering a perfect jumping platform for my crew.

I flip the switch to engage the autopilot, but when I let go of the steering column the wings bank slightly to port. 

If the autopilot doesn’t work, I can’t get to an exit fast enough before this bird flips over and starts spinning.

One engine on each side, with two feathered, if I put them in sync, even though they are not parallel, they could keep the bird stable.

I reduce the power to Engine 3, so that 1 is dominant.

Ok, that should do it.

Engaging the auto-pilot again, I pause for a moment to observe the plane.

Steady and stable, great!

Lifting myself from the Captain’s seat, my eye catches an incoming fighter at 3 O’clock, fiery bursts streaming from behind his prop.

Get out!

*****

Returning from what they believed to be a successful bombing run against a Japanese battleship, the crew of Captain Colin Kelly’s B-17(c) was jumped by a squadron of Japanese Zero fighters commanded by one of Japan’s most vaunted aces of the war, Saburo Sakai. Captain Kelly held the plane steady long enough for his six surviving crew members to escape before (and sources differ here) it either blew up or crashed. The Japanese fighter pilots could not definitively report which occurred, so a probable kill was split between several members of the squadron. This B-17 was the first American bomber lost in actual combat in World War II. Captain Kelly, a graduate of West Point, died in the loss.

The Legend of Colin Kelly by Robert Taylor

The crew that day were:

Pilot Captain Colin Purdie Kelly, Jr. (KIA, BR) Madison, FL

Co-Pilot 2nd Lt. Donald Robbins (survived)

Navigator 2nd Lt. Joe M. Bean (survived)

Bombardier Cpl Meyer Levin, 6975479 (survived) NY

Engineer SSgt William J. Delehanty (KIA, BR) NY

Radio/Bathtub Gunner Pfc Robert E. Altman (survived)

Assistant Radio/Gunner Willard Money (survived)

Gunner Pvt Robert Altman (WIA)

Waist Gunner SSgt James Halkyard (survived)

In the haste to share a small victory with a depressed military and civilian populace still reeling from the attack on Pearl Harbor and the surprise destruction of the U.S. air units at Clark Field the next day, the details of Kelly's sacrifice were confused and exaggerated. Reports of him crashing the bomber into a Japanese battleship, together with other equally false claims, encouraged many Americans to believe he was the first American suicide pilot of the war and deserved to be awarded The Medal of Honor. Kelly was a hero for saving his crew on America’s first bombing mission of World War II. He received the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second highest award for heroism, both for the assumed damage or destruction of the Japanese battleship Haruna but, especially, for the persona sacrifice which saved his crew.

Captain Kelly is considered the first American hero of World War II. Several streets, schools, post offices, and monuments around the country bear his name. His remains are buried in Madison, Florida (his hometown), and a statue in his honor resides in Four Freedoms Park. Kelly was survived by a small child, Colin B. “Corky “ Kelley III. A nation-wide effort, spearheaded by a Tampa newspaper, raised thousands of dollars for a Corky fund to help care for the child. President Roosevelt penned a request to the President of the United States in 1956. In the letter, F.D.R. asked that the airman's infant son get a West Point appointment. Colin Kelly III did attend and graduate from West Point, eventually becoming a priest and serving as an Assistant Chaplain at West Point.

http://airartnw.com/colinkellylegend.htm - To learn more about this mission, and those who were on both sides of it.

http://img834.imageshack.us/img834/9351/boeingb17cflyingfortres.jpg - graphic of early model B-17 (likely in the Philippines)