September 12, 1944, started out no differently than any of the ones before it during these last few months.

I was about to take off in a B-17 to hopefully destroy a target and return home to do it again the next day. If I could have foreseen what was about to happen, I would not have gotten out of bed. Although my take-off was in September of 1944, I would not make a landing again until May of 1945.

Our target that day was the ME-262 Jet Aircraft Airfield at Lechfeld, Germany. It was a maximum effort mission with both the 8th Air Force out of England and the 15th Air Force out of Italy putting up every heavy long range bomber that could fly.
The ME-262 jet represented a serious threat to us. This twin engine German jet aircraft was introduced in the spring of 1943 and its turbo-jet engines gave it a service ceiling many thousands of feet above our top fighters. In addition, its top speed was about 600 mph, 150 mph faster than our fastest fighter, the P-51 Mustang. Had Hitler not interfered by trying to force the designers into making it a bomber (to get back at England) and allowed it to be used as a pursuit fighter, it could possibly have put an end to daylight bombing. Of the 1,433 produced, less than 100 had been converted for use as fighters with 4-30mm canons. Those 100 were a very potent defensive weapon. Fortunately for us, the Luftwaffe was never to see them in greater numbers, due to the eccentricities of a mad little WWI corporal. For this important target, the 8th Air Force put up approximately 1,200 heavy bombers. The 15th Air Force put up approximately 800 heavies. This was the largest single mission of the war. I was flying deputy group lead that day which put me on the right wing of the lead plane.

The day had begun, as so many others lately, with a sergeant busting into our tent to rudely announce “There is a mission today gentlemen”. My hangover was as bad as usual. I resisted the urge to throw a  boot at him. It was 5:00 a.m. and the stench in the tent was awful.. I was close to throwing up.  I had learned from experience, that the best way to make this feeling go away was to suck on 100% pure oxygen down at the ship before takeoff. But first, I had to stumble over to the mess tent for “breakfast” which would consist of many mugs of black coffee, and shunning the chow line of powdered eggs, greasy bacon, and whatever other sickening stuff they had. We would then pile into a six-by GI. truck and go to the briefing building. When the briefing officer pulled the sheet back that was covering the map, a groan would go up from the group. The longer the red cord was, (showing the route and depth of penetration) the louder the groan. We were then told the importance of the mission. (Each one was always the most important) They left out the part about German jet fighters. Then it was on to the supply hut to draw our parachutes, flack vests, helmets, and other stuff we stowed into our A-3 bags. The navigators and bombardiers had gone to their own briefing. Everyone then met and piled into a jeep to be driven to our respective ships where the rest of the crew would be waiting. Our gunners would have had their own briefing. Sgt. George Guderly recalls that the escape and evasion intelligence advised them that if they had to bail out, they should pop their chutes as soon as they could so the favorable northeast wind would carry them toward Switzerland. I talk to the crew chief about the condition of the ship. At this point, he is the most important guy in my life. I ask about the # 3 engine that has been overheating, and am assured that everything is fine. I know he and his ground crew are very dedicated guys and that they have worked all night patching our ship and making it ready to go. I had flown a brand new B-17G (tail number 46421) over from the States, which they promptly took away from me when I reported to the Group. All 1st pilots had to fly their first five missions as co-pilot with a seasoned crew. A good policy. After those five, I was given another B-17G (tailnumber 46417 a slightly older model.

In October of 1994, I received a letter from Mr. Joe Koettner in the town of Rott, Germany. He was researching the history of his town and came across the story of an Allied airman who had been shot down over his area during WWII.

I was that airman. Once I started to write him, the memories were too great to confine to a letter. I ended up doing what I had wanted to do for a long time, which was to put the whole story down on paper. On September 12, 1944 I was 23 years old and on my 23rd mission over enemy territory. This is my story.

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