This morning the take-off and formation rendezvous at 18,000 feet over northeast England went smoothly. The day was sparkling clear without a cloud in the sky, we were a magnificent sight, 36 big, shiny, silver birds flying smoothly in beautiful formation into the morning sun.  It made a man proud to be part of it.

The weather was unbelievably important to us, it could be so bad in the British Isles that bombing operations could get stopped completely. In the autumn and winter of 1942 the weather was so bad that the 8th  AF could only mount eight raids.

About thirty miles west of Cologne, at an altitude of 26,500 feet we turned at the IP (initial point for the bomb run), directly towards the target, bomb doors open and ready for the attack.  This was always an awe-inspiring sight but  flying the bomb run was physically unbelievably difficult.  At high altitude the heavily loaded airplane with the additional drag of the open bomb bay doors was terribly difficult to control.  With no power assists on the controls I had to fight the mushiness and lack of response of the aircraft with all my strength.

Despite the 45 degree below zero temperature in the pilot's cabin (we had no heaters), I perspired so from my efforts to fly the aircraft that I had to turn my electric flying suit heater off, it was the most strenuous physical work I have ever had to do.  Despite all this I was aware that this was the culmination of all the training, practicing and organizing that had been invested in me by my country and I wanted only to do it right.

As we turned on to the bomb run we could see the target area ahead of us with black puffs marking the flak bursts (usually 88 mm anti-aircraft shells that were exploded at a pre-set altitude). Just before we dropped our bombs  I remember thinking,

"There's no way that the flak can get us, they can miss us in front, behind, to either side, above and below".

I also remember that simultaneous with these thoughts were three flak bursts right in front of the nose of the aircraft, not fifty feet away.  Flying through the smoke of the shell burst gave one the feeling of speed so lacking in high altitude flight but although it all happened quickly, I had time to think,

"They fire these 88s in four-gun batteries, where in the devil is that fourth burst?"

It seemed forever before we got away from that little flak flurry.  I assumed I was wrong about the four-gun batteries since I never saw the fourth burst.

About then we dropped our bombs, closed the bomb doors and the formation made a banking turn to the right to get to our compass heading back to England.  With the loss of the weight of the bombs and the closing of the bomb doors the airplane actually felt agile, a good feeling to accompany our thoughts of,

"Let's get the Hell out of here."

I think these were thoughts but they may have been words on the intercom from me or from one of the crew.  At any rate, it articulated the thought uppermost in all our minds. During this maneuver, Guy in the ball turret could see the bombs fall and strike the target and he reported to us that our bombs had hit the railroad marshalling yards, the intended target. He actually saw a good bit more of the war than I ever did, as did other members of the crew who had time to look around while flying into Germany and back from a raid.

We arrived at our home base without further incident, peeled off from the formation to enter the landing traffic pattern and set the aircraft down gently on the snow-packed runway.  There was a slight crosswind quartering in from the right and as we lost speed, the wind caught the vertical fin and turned the aircraft to the right.  To correct this I applied the brake to the left wheel, when I did this I found the results of that missing fourth flak burst, I had no left brake.  The hydraulic line had been ruptured.

As we veered off the runway I could see a gas tanker ahead and off to the right and with some men sitting on top of it watching the bombers come home. To avoid the truck I hit the right brake and rudder as hard as I could causing the plane to turn violently to the right.  As the wing swept over the tanker I was aware that the men who had been sitting on the top of the truck a fraction of a second earlier were no longer to be seen.  The plane lurched across the snow covered field coming to rest finally in a ditch.  Not knowing how bad the leak of the combustible hydraulic fluid was, I rang the evacuation alarm bell warning the crew to get out as quickly as they could.  Little Joe had been sitting in his radio room unaware of what was happening and when the alarm went off it startled him.
"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Couldn't you tell that Wagner's just dropped the plane into a ditch? Hurry out of the plane", replied Guy.

As the men evacuated the plane, Joe was heard to mutter,

"Seemed like a perfectly normal landing to me".


From "The Youngest Crew" by Paul Wagner
Lagumo Press, Cheyenne, WY, 1997, ISBN 1-878117-18-1