Birthday “Blow Out”

By Harry W. Love
Bombardier, 568th Squadron

My story begins like so many other bomber crews..  at 0400 18 October 1944.

As per schedule, the crews are awakened; the quick wash-up; off to the mess hall for the usual chow-down; back to barracks for completion of dress, storing of personal papers, and finally, off to the briefing room. As rhetoric will have it, this is basically the routine for any bomber crew in the 8th Air Force, flying out of England.

My story, however, departs from the traditional version espoused by so many others on 18 October 1944.  It was my 21st birthday. My attitude, no different from any other 21 year old; I was happy, had a great crew and festivities were planned for that evening when we returned from the bombing mission.

At the briefing, we received our instructions. Our mission was to Koblenz, Germany. (Considerably less difficult or dangerous we thought than Berlin, Regensburg, Augsburg, or so many others.) During the briefing session, the members of the crew contemplated no unusually heavy problems. At the completion of the general briefing, the pilots, navigators and bombardiers parted ways for individual briefings. We then were driven to our assigned aircraft.

Reflecting back I feel a few words are deemed necessary regarding my Pilot, Donald Drugan. He was a masterful, highly prestigious, military man and competent in all aspects of his assigned field. Our Co-Pilot, John Mohn, was very astute, tolerant and somewhat more pacific than Donald Drugan. Our Navigator, Gerald Wasserman, a Brooklyn boy, was very dedicated to his job and an asset to our crew.

We approached the coast of Europe at approximately 0830 hours. Our target Koblenz was still an hour and a half away. We encountered no enemy fighters en route, and the flak was light.

The bomb run over the target was considered very successful. Upon making our turn off the bomb run (after release of bombs), we then headed in a northwesterly direction to meet up with the balance of the Wing, which could be seen some 15-20 miles away. At this time, it was quite apparent that we were some 5 or 6 minutes behind schedule in our rendezvous with the Wing for our trip back to England. This necessitated our lead crew to change course some degrees further to the north, which brought us over a portion of the Ruhr Valley. On approaching this particular area, some 5 or 10 miles from our rendezvous, we began to pick up massive concentrations of flak fire. One of the first bursts came within 100 yards of the front of our plane. This was followed by 5 or 6 more immediately, thereafter, each one closer than the preceding one. It seemed that we were well tracked down below by the antiaircraft crews. At this time, I announced to the crew that the bursts were directly in line. . . the Pilot, in accord, confirmed my communication.

Some 2 or 3 seconds later, we received a hit in the nose of the plane directly above the chin turret leaving a hole some 15-20 inches in circumference. I immediately back tracked away from my chin gun position and took up a station to the right (which was the cheek gun). The cyclonic rush of air that came through was impossible to control.

The antiaircraft gunners on the ground weren’t finished tracking our plane, for at that instant we received a direct hit in one engine (starboard side) with shocking impact. Massive vibrations developed and fumes and smoke filled the plane. The pilot, without hesitation, pulled out of formation, and attempt­ed to put out the flames within that particular engine by sideslipping the plane.

“We have to go, the wing is coming off.” The Navigator looked at me with quite an acceptable (and understandable) look of doubt, and shook his head. At that instance, the wing came off!

It is apparent that with one of the wings off of a B17, it will not fly. Our plane began to plummet down in a spiraling, leafy fashion to earth. At this point, I would assume we were in the neighborhood of 20-22,000 feet. Quite instantaneously, all within the craft were seemingly welded to their specific posi­tions. I was flung against the starboard cheek gun slamming my neck against it in a rigid fashion, unable to move a muscle due to the powerful centrifugal force exerted during the spiraling effect. At this moment, I vividly recall thinking of one thing, and one thing only...“What will Mom say or feel when she hears about me being killed in action?” There was no question or doubt in my mind that I was to meet “my maker” in a matter of moments. There was no possible chance for anyone to success­fully escape this situation.

Approximately two or three seconds later, there erupted a tremendous, all-encompassing explosive force, I felt my entire body weight being lifted by an unknown force. I was literally catapulted through the air, head first and out the front Plexiglas nose of the aircraft. The plane had exploded. The gas tanks (I am assuming), from the other wing or in the body of the craft, had been ignited by the flak we took. Luckily I did not black out. I was alert and fully cognizant of the entire situation. I knew instantly that I was free from the aircraft. I had the foresight, however, not to pull the ripcord immediately. As I began to fall to earth, I could clearly see burning debris from our aircraft. Far to the left, a chute opened; shortly thereafter on my right, another chute; and then a few seconds later, still another chute opened. This chute (the latter), perhaps opened too soon, and as fate would have it, part of the burning debris struck his chute as it opened. Which crewmember it was, I could not identify. I held my ripcord with a firm grasp for what seemed to be hours, but I’m sure it was only a second or two before making a move. I saw clear areas around me. I then pulled the cord “My God, I’m going to be safe. I’m floating down to earth.”

At this juncture, everything began to go black, or more accu­rately, red. I now realized I could not see. I placed my hands over my eyes, wiped them and realized I did not come away from this situation unscathed completely. I was bleeding profusely from head wounds received when I was blown through the front Plexiglas of the craft. I also realized that my shoes that were tied to my parachute harness were not there. They had been snapped, or torn, off when I was blown out of the aircraft.

On descending, the impact of landing was so hard and abrupt that it caused one of my legs to collapse on the base of my spine.

I placed the time of my landing at 1230 hours. I continued to move on through the afternoon. I traveled for several hours in a westerly direction as best I could, and rested part of the night in a thickly wooded area. I did not know for sure how many of the crew got out, but I had seen two chutes at a distance. Later I was informed that a fourth airman had in fact gotten out. There were only four survivors from our B17G.

The following day I was finally detected and captured at approximately 0900 hours on the 19th of October 1944. I was taken to a town (to the best of my recollec­tion, Oberursul) where my imprisonment began.

Some weeks later, during which time I spent a week of interro­gation procedures in Dusseldorf, I had the heartwarming plea­sure of seeing three of the enlisted members of my crew. The Tail Gunner, Conwell, related to me that he was blown out of the tail section. Raymond Hutt was blown out of the Waist Gunner’s compartment and the Radio Operator, Ledford, was blown out of the top section of the craft’s radio compartment. I was further informed that the Ball Gunner, Stevens, had not emerged from the ball nor did he have his chest pack on at the time the wing disengaged itself from the aircraft. Out of a crew of nine, only four survived.

After spending about eight months in prison camps, Stalag Luft 3, Sagan and Moosburg, I was liberated by Patton’s Third Army on 29th April 1945 and returned home in May of that year.

October 18th, Nineteen Hundred Forty-Four, was my day of infamy, it too was my Birthday ... my day of Rebirth.

Editors Note:

Harry Love’s article appears in Vol II of  the 390th Anthology publication.  This article was specifically chosen in that it is a coincidence  that our current Museum manager, Tom Drugan is Don Drugan’s brother who was killed in action on this mission and one of the survivors, Vernon Hutt, a waist gunner volunteers here at the museum. Parts of the original article have been excised in order to maintain publication spacing goals.

A. Anzanos