Table of Contents
Published by
CASEMATE
1016 Warrior Road, Suite C
Drexel Hill, PA 19026.
2002 & 2006 by Charles Alling
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Typeset and design by K&P Publishing.
ISBN 1-932033-59-9
Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress
First paperback edition, first printing
PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
This work is dedicated to
Prudence Prudy Kelsey Alling
1923-1944
and to
Ray Baskin and Bill Wright
and the other members of my crew:
Glen Banks
Jack Brame
Eddie Edwards
Willie Green
Mort Narva
Chuck Williams
Preface
T his is a personal story. Its about what was. Every passage, every episode and every fact is true. Its about warWorld War II, as seen through the eyes of one pilot of a B-17 Flying Fortress in the Eighth Air Force. Once I had flown overseas to our base in Mendlesham, England, I said goodbye to life as I knew it. Over the next eight months, I flew twenty-seven missions over Germany, France, and Czechoslovakia, with more than two hundred and twenty hours flying over enemy territory.
When I revisit those moments, I am reminded of how fortunate I am. I do not understand why we made it back alive when so many others should have and didnt. For those who flew in the Eighth Air Force, I suspect we all may have felt, at some point, that we were living on the edge, knowing that each flight could be the last. This unspoken understanding, this common bond, inspired deep, lasting friendships. This was my experience with my crew. We were bound together with undivided affection and devotion for each other.
This book is a recollection of only those combat missions, experiences, and thoughts that are deeply imbedded in my mind. Before each sortie, Intelligence officers would brief us on what to expect. And then at the start of each flight, our Flying Fortress would lift herself gracefully, carrying between two and three tons of bombs. Wed break through the clouds with the sunlight dancing and sparkling on her silver wings. Behind us and to either side, flying in tight formation, were hundreds of planes, a formidable and a majestic sight.
I couldnt help but feel overwhelmed with pride for my crew, the Eighth Air Force, and my country. That gave me the strength I needed to carry on. I often savored those brief, peaceful moments, lulled by the hum of our engines, as we flew east over the English Channel, heading for enemy territory. Then, at times, all hell would break loose. But with a leap of faith, hope, and prayerand a lot of luckwe made it through, and beyond.
Years passed before I had any desire to contact my crew. I have often wondered why. Now it seems so clear. After VE Day, when I returned to the States and left the service, I was anxious to break away from the past and begin a new life. I was focused on a new beginning, a new direction. My crew, all dear to my heart, must have wanted to do the same, and I am sure each one of us decided privately to look ahead and not back. Over half a century passed; still, I always had a hunch that eventually I would retrace my steps.
Fifty-four years after the war, for some inexplicable reason, I felt bound and determined to find my crew. I made calls all over the country. It was the first time I had initiated contact since we had all said goodbye after our return to the States in 1945. Of the nine of us, after an exhaustive search, I was unable to locate Mort Narva, my radar navigator; Eddie Edwards, my radio operator; and Chuck Williams, my left waist gunner. I soon learned that Glen Banks, my co-pilot; Willie Green, my crew chief; and Jack Brame, my right waist gunner had died. I could locate only two surviving members: Ray Baskin, my navigator, and Bill Wright, my bombardier. When I called them on the phone, there was a moment of silence on the other end. Ray couldnt believe it, after all those years, and neither could Bill. Bill broke the stunned silence on the line, You mean youre still alive? Thats utterly impossible!
The three of us knew a reunion was long overdue. We decided to meet in a central location, choosing Savannah, Georgia. On November 25, 1999, we gathered at the Hampton Inn. Ray and Bill met just before I arrived. After long hugs, they sat down together and renewed their friendship. Minutes later, nervous with anticipation, I walked in the entrance of the inn, the doors spun around, the wind whisked in and carried me along with it. I asked the clerk at the desk the whereabouts of my friends, fearing that after so much time I would not recognize them, and I entered the lounge where they were waiting. I cannot begin to explain the warmth I felt at that moment, and the joy that we were together again.
Inset Reunion of the crew of the Miss Prudy in Savannah, Georgia, November 1999. Charles Alling could only find two of his crew (top) when he searched for them fifty-four years after the war. Left to Right: Bill Wright, Charles Alling, Ray Baskin. (Top photo: USAAF)
That was the start of our five-day reunion. I knew that if it didnt happen then, it would never happen at all. I am also certain that if I had ever walked past Ray or Bill on the street, I would have thought they were perfect strangers.
The next morning, we left for one of Georgias Golden Isles, twelve miles east of Savannah, accessible only by boat. This would be the first and only time we had ever talked about our shared experiences. At the house we threw over gear into our rooms and headed out for a walk on the beach. Our pace, if you can call it that, was slow and deliberate, not because we were checking our footingthough on other terrain that would be of some concernbut because we were deep in thought about our combat missions from September 1944 to April 1945.
The three of us were full of spirit and willing to capture and recall our war experiences. We had, after all, shared the same space in a cold, damp Nissen hut for nearly a year. It had taken a lot of energy to maintain our composure and strength living in those quarters but we had found creative ways to make the Nissen hut a comfortable placesurrounding ourselves with photographs of loved ones that we tucked away carefully in our footlockers.
Now here we were, walking together once again, but this time on a vast stretch of beach with no one in sight for miles. Seagulls flew over head, dropping shells onto the beach, reminding us of flak in the skies over Europe. The shells fell onto the hard sand, cracked and split open, spreading the gulls next meal before them. As we followed the waters edge, I was lulled by the waves washing against the shore. Bottle-nosed dolphins played in the surf, gliding along the crests of waves and guiding us along the waters edge. The dolphins reminded me of our Little Friends, the P-47 and P-51 fighters that had guided our bomb group to and from enemy territory, protecting us from the Luftwaffe.
