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Authors: Travis L. Ayres
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flight engineer gave him a thumbs-up.
Looking at the flak hole again, Tony could not imagine how his friend could have been so fortunate. Through the cockpit windshield, Tony could see only an occasional black puff of flak, indicating Chart had successfully flown them out of the effective range of Berlin’s ground gunners. He figured it was as good a time as any to check with his pilot for instructions. He leaned between the pilot and copilot’s seats.
“How’s it going, Skipper?”
Chart glanced back at the young lieutenant whom he had personally trained until he felt Tony was a first-class navigator. Now he would find out for sure.
“Tony, you had better plot a course for Sweden . . . just in case.”
The order spoke volumes to Tony. He knew Chart would prefer to nurse the B-17 back to England on three engines. They would not be able to keep up with the rest of the 366th Squadron or the 305th Bomb Group. They would almost certainly lose not only airspeed but also altitude. Staying in the bomber lanes might enable them to stay within the protective cover of American fighter escorts, but before long Jerry Chart would have to make a critical decision—to gamble on the long run back to England or to change course and land in Sweden.
Sweden was indeed much closer and their three healthy engines could probably get them there, but Sweden was a neutral
country. Any Allied airplane and crew that landed there would be taken out of the war permanently. Only the survival of his crew could force Chart to make such an irreversible decision.
Tony also knew that Chart had already ruled out trying for a landing in Russia, which was an available option for pilots of wounded Allied bombers flying a Berlin raid. Eighth Air Force headquarters had given approval for emergency landings in Russian territory, but had also indicated such action was to be a last resort. The Army Air Force commanders were confident any downed American aircrews would be safely returned by the Russians, but they were not so sure about getting their aircraft back.
“Sweden. I’ll get right on it, Jerry,” Tony assured him as he headed back down into the nose section. As he was descending the short ladder, the navigator could hear the pilot already giving Carl Robinson an order to begin transferring fuel away from the number three engine. They would need every drop if they had any chance of making it back to Chelveston.
At the beginning of the Berlin run, Tony had crammed all his navigation charts and instruments into his navigator’s case for safekeeping. Now he shoved the case on top of his desk and popped the latches open. The toggler pulled his oxygen mask down and asked, “What’s up?”
Tony gave him a quick review of their situation while he located the relevant navigation charts. Once he had the picture, the toggler moved to man the nose guns, realizing the bomber crew could soon be on its own.
Tony was grateful to have some company as he dug into the job of plotting a course to Sweden. He thought about his friend John Cuffman, back in the tail section of the B-17, all alone and isolated with no communication. Tony hoped Christenson or Hall would crawl back there and let him know what was happening.
The tail gunner would eventually get the word, but until then Cuffman stuck to his post, hands locked around the handles of his twin machine guns. He watched as the other bombers of the 366th seemed to gradually grow smaller and smaller above him. From his position, Cuffman could not see the feathered engine prop on number three, but he guessed that something was seriously wrong if the airplane was starting to lose altitude.
It had been a rough run for Cuffman. Every movement of the aircraft was magnified in the tail. He had been banged around with each flak concussion the B-17 had endured. As he got his last look at Berlin, the city looked like what someone had once named the steel mill city of Pittsburgh: “Hell with the roof off.” Behind
Looking at the flak hole again, Tony could not imagine how his friend could have been so fortunate. Through the cockpit windshield, Tony could see only an occasional black puff of flak, indicating Chart had successfully flown them out of the effective range of Berlin’s ground gunners. He figured it was as good a time as any to check with his pilot for instructions. He leaned between the pilot and copilot’s seats.
“How’s it going, Skipper?”
Chart glanced back at the young lieutenant whom he had personally trained until he felt Tony was a first-class navigator. Now he would find out for sure.
“Tony, you had better plot a course for Sweden . . . just in case.”
The order spoke volumes to Tony. He knew Chart would prefer to nurse the B-17 back to England on three engines. They would not be able to keep up with the rest of the 366th Squadron or the 305th Bomb Group. They would almost certainly lose not only airspeed but also altitude. Staying in the bomber lanes might enable them to stay within the protective cover of American fighter escorts, but before long Jerry Chart would have to make a critical decision—to gamble on the long run back to England or to change course and land in Sweden.
Sweden was indeed much closer and their three healthy engines could probably get them there, but Sweden was a neutral
country. Any Allied airplane and crew that landed there would be taken out of the war permanently. Only the survival of his crew could force Chart to make such an irreversible decision.
Tony also knew that Chart had already ruled out trying for a landing in Russia, which was an available option for pilots of wounded Allied bombers flying a Berlin raid. Eighth Air Force headquarters had given approval for emergency landings in Russian territory, but had also indicated such action was to be a last resort. The Army Air Force commanders were confident any downed American aircrews would be safely returned by the Russians, but they were not so sure about getting their aircraft back.
“Sweden. I’ll get right on it, Jerry,” Tony assured him as he headed back down into the nose section. As he was descending the short ladder, the navigator could hear the pilot already giving Carl Robinson an order to begin transferring fuel away from the number three engine. They would need every drop if they had any chance of making it back to Chelveston.
At the beginning of the Berlin run, Tony had crammed all his navigation charts and instruments into his navigator’s case for safekeeping. Now he shoved the case on top of his desk and popped the latches open. The toggler pulled his oxygen mask down and asked, “What’s up?”
Tony gave him a quick review of their situation while he located the relevant navigation charts. Once he had the picture, the toggler moved to man the nose guns, realizing the bomber crew could soon be on its own.
Tony was grateful to have some company as he dug into the job of plotting a course to Sweden. He thought about his friend John Cuffman, back in the tail section of the B-17, all alone and isolated with no communication. Tony hoped Christenson or Hall would crawl back there and let him know what was happening.
The tail gunner would eventually get the word, but until then Cuffman stuck to his post, hands locked around the handles of his twin machine guns. He watched as the other bombers of the 366th seemed to gradually grow smaller and smaller above him. From his position, Cuffman could not see the feathered engine prop on number three, but he guessed that something was seriously wrong if the airplane was starting to lose altitude.
It had been a rough run for Cuffman. Every movement of the aircraft was magnified in the tail. He had been banged around with each flak concussion the B-17 had endured. As he got his last look at Berlin, the city looked like what someone had once named the steel mill city of Pittsburgh: “Hell with the roof off.” Behind
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