Help from an Unexpected Source

It was March 29, 1944, and the twentieth mission for our B-17 crew.
We were assigned to the 401st Squadron of the "Mighty Eighth" Air Force
and flying out of a former Royal Air Force base at Bassingbourne, England.
On that day, we were to lead an attack against an aircraft factory near
Brunswick, Germany. On previous missions to this area, we had encountered
fierce fighter opposition and were briefed now to expect more of the same.
At this point in the war, our strategy was to destroy the Luftwaffe-in the
air, on the ground and in the factories-in preparation for the planned D-Day
landings.

The ten members of our crew had grown accustomed to the nervous
tension that built up in our bodies during each mission, because many crews
were being shot down during this period. We were given a detailed briefing
on the weather, expected opposition from antiaircraft fire and fighter
aircraft, survival techniques, etc. Then we gathered up our parachutes,
helmets, flak vests and guns before going to our aircraft.

The ball of apprehension in our stomachs grew during this takeoff in

our overloaded aircraft. As we climbed up to our bombing altitude of twenty-
six thousand feet, the other five planes in the squadron that I was leading
joined us. Over the English Channel, the guns were test-fired and radio
checks completed. We sped toward our target and dropped our load.

After completing the bombing run, the formation made a sweeping

left turn toward home. A crew member called our attention to a group of
about fifty fighter aircraft at two o'clock, ahead and to our right, and
slightly higher than our formation. We were always suspicious of any fighter
aircraft, because our crafty enemy resorted to all types of ruses to draw
our gunners' attention while others would then press in with an attack. Some
familiar tricks were simulating friendly fighter tactics, mock dogfights, etc.,
while other enemy aircraft suddenly turned in to attack us.

However, these aircraft had the familiar P-51 black paint with white
stripes on the wings and were equipped with the wing tanks for extra range.
Suddenly, they dropped their tanks just off to our right, and we looked
around for German fighters in the area. We found them, when the whole
formation of "P-51s" turned out to be Luftwaffe ME-109s that turned in to
us with their cannons blazing! We narrowly missed being rammed by two of
them that just barely passed over us.

We couldn't escape being hit, with two ME-109s firing at us point-

blank. Looking out the left window, I saw the left wing covered with a sheet
of flame from the cockpit to the wing tip. Frank, in the ball turret, called on
the interphone, "We're on fire!"

"Get out of there right away," I responded. Then without thinking-and

because in the Flemish farm community near Green Bay, Wisconsin, where I
grew up, it was the custom to joke under difficult circumstances-I added,
"Come up here, and we'll have a wienie roast."
I didn't wait to hear if he was laughing, for I was watching the flames blow
off of the back of the wing, except for those around the number-one engine,
where they burned brightly around the cylinders. I immediately followed
established procedures to extinguish the fire. If we didn't control it, it
would mean bailing out-a prospect I didn't want to consider in this particular
situation. It seemed to take forever, but the fire did go out. By then,
friendly fighters had arrived to chase the enemy away, so we limped along
safely behind the returning B-17 formations.

We "sweated out" the trip back home to England. Since our gasoline
supply was low, we chose to remain near the surface to conserve fuel. We
came over our home field at Bassingbourne at two hundred feet, made a
tight pattern and were once again back on terra firma. The crew gave a huge
collective sigh of relief.

The popular expression "There are no atheists in foxholes" applied to

our B-17 as well. God spared us above Brunswick; I think we may have been
the best-praying crew in the Eighth Air Force.

But it turned out that we had other help that day as well.

The flight surgeon grounded our crew for a week, because we had
flown seven missions in the last nine days. Some of the crew spent this free
time with the mechanics and armament specialists who were repairing our
aircraft. They found that four cannon shells had exploded in the airframe,
but they also found three more that, strangely, had not exploded. It gave all
of us a nasty turn to realize what a truly close shave it had been. If any one
of those shells had gone off, it could have been the end of us.
 Two of the shells did not contain any explosives in them, but the third
had some paper with a message where the explosives would have been. It
took a while to find a translator to read the message; it was in Czech and
was probably placed in the cannon shell in the Skoda armament plant in
Prague, Czechoslovakia. The majority of the Czechoslovakian people resented
German control, but many were forced to work in factories supporting the
Nazi war effort. The message read, "THIS IS OUR WAY OF HELPING
YOU."

Dr. Lester F. Rentmeester

Condensed from an article in Voyageur
December 2000