Mary Ruth” Memories of Mobile
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“Mary Ruth” Memories of Mobile... We Still Remember Stories from the 91st Bomb Group Lowell L. Getz Foreword The Eighth Air Force flew a total of 264,618 individual bomber sorties out of England during World War II. The 91st Bomb Group (Heavy), alone, flew 340 missions. Although many missions were routine, with little action, all too many were anything but routine. Formations often were subjected to continuous German fighter attacks, especially during the early months of the war. Anti-aircraft batteries sent up clouds of flak over most targets. Losses of planes and lives were severe. Many of the returning planes were so badly damaged that they barely were able to struggle back to their bases in England. Causalities among the crews were heavy. Even the “milk runs” were far from uneventful. Assembling the complex formations in the murky skies over England and flying the long distances at subzero temperatures to and from the target in aging, war weary planes was wrought with danger. Each mission presented its own unique drama about which any number of stories could be told. Unfortunately, only a few accounts of the events transpiring on specific missions have been recorded. The trauma, the terror, the manner in which the airmen responded to the situations are disappearing with the participants. We owe these men such a debt of gratitude, however, that an attempt should be made to record as many of the incidents of the time as possible. It is only through such accounts that later generations will understand and appreciate the dedication and sacrifices of the men who flew in the Eighth Air Force. In this short compilation of stories, I have put together just a sampling of the events of the time: those associated with an individual B-17 bomber as she “narrates” her own story; the tragic fate of those who flew on three planes bearing the name “Short Snorter”, reference to a good luck talisman; the description of a mission during which one Squadron lost six of eight bombers it sent out, including all five of the Low Squadron; the dedication and devotion of one pilot, from his youth, through the war years, to his ultimate sacrifice 10 years later; the fate of the 20 bombers who flew the last mission with the “Memphis Belle” and who stayed on to fight the air war after the “Belle” and crew returned home; the diary of a pilot; the terror experienced by one squadron as six of its bombers were shot down during one 40-second encounter with German fighters; one squadron on its final mission--the chaos, the drama that occurred, through which the crews and planes endured; an account of a plane and her crew who flew only a few missions, brushed briefly with history, and was lost amongst the exploits of other planes and crews of the time who received notoriety. This crew, this plane, typify those thousands who flew and died in obscurity, but upon whose shoulders, and wings, was carried the brunt of the air war over “Fortress Europe.” In developing these stories I have located and interviewed crewmen involved in the missions and incidents recorded in the text. Although some have provided excerpts from diaries made at the time, most have relied on recall in providing the details that make up the stories. One must be circumspect in relying on memory of events of more than 50 years prior. Many have warned me to be careful “...as the years go by, the memory fades, but the stories get better.” Accordingly, I have attempted to double-check all accounts by interviewing more than one crewman involved in each of the incidents. I have also relied heavily on official documents from the time in the National Archives and the Air Force Historical Research Agency. Still, there may be (hopefully, few) instances where the details do not correspond exactly to the events as they transpired. Even so, one has to keep in mind that no matter how much a crewman may have “embellished” the details, it is really not possible to make the events more traumatic than they actually were--only the details will differ. The danger, the stark terror, the dedication cannot be embellished upon. The errors are mine. The heroism is theirs. Lowell L. Getz, Champaign, Illinois Front cover photograph. Crew of No. 536, “Mary Ruth” Memories of Mobile. Kneeling from the left: James P. Feerick, bombardier; William R. Brown, tail gunner. Standing, from the left: Henry “Maurice” Crain, ball turret gunner; Raymond Litzo, right waist gunner; James O. Akers, flight engineer/top turret gunner; William “Glenn” Allen, left waist gunner; Richard O. Maculley, radio operator; Vincent J. Bliley, navigator; Kenneth L. Brown, pilot; James H. Quenin, copilot. Sgts Allen and Maculley were killed when the “Mary Ruth” was shot down on 22 June 1943. (Ken Brown) “Mary Ruth” Memories of Mobile… We Still Remember Stories From the 91st Bomb Group Contents Another Time, Another Place—Lady Lois, Little Jean……..………… 1 Good Luck Talisman or Tragic Jinx? Saga of the Short Snorters…... 29 Return From Bremen. The Low Squadron is Gone………………….. 41 One Came Home. The Stories of Those Left Behind….…..…..……... 49 Don Judy—His Flight From Mercer Island to Long Island………….. 81 A Pilot’s Diary. William H. Arthur………… ……….….………….… 89 Forty Seconds Over Eisenach………………..……………………….. 105 Pandemonium Over Pilsen—The Forgotten Final Mission……...… 123 “Mary Ruth” Memories of Mobile…We Still Remember…..……… 133 The Coen Crew. A Dedication………………….…….…….….…….. 139 Copyright © 2001 Lowell L. Getz Another Time, Another Place--Lady Lois, Little Jean The Attic The bare 100-watt overhead bulb flashes on. heat that I felt was in another time, in another place, Jagged shadows scurry across barren rafters lining when I was a part of something much more the stark ceiling. A metal-on-wood grating sound formidable, something much more momentous, accompanies the dissonant screeching of rusty something much more noble than a mere waffle springs as the folding stairs are pulled down. iron. Decades ago, before I became a part of this Wooden steps creak under the weight of heavy feet. family’s traditional Sunday morning breakfast, the Someone is coming up to the attic, the first time in metal used to make this serene kitchen appliance over two years. had been a part of a large complex instrument of "Oh my God! Would you look at all this war. clutter, Jim. Why didn't she just throw it away instead of lugging it up here for us to haul back The Beginning down again?" "You know Mom, Bets. Never could The first time I felt heat was after arriving in throw anything away. Thought she might need it the refinery at Hurricane Creek, Arkansas from the someday. Dad always said he didn't want to outlive bauxite mine over in Saline County. The reddish her and have to clean out the attic." They sound brown ore was dumped into digesters heated to 200 older and wearied, but I still recognize them, the F to remove the "Red Mud" impurities. From there twins, Betsy and Jim. The last time I heard them it was into immense precipitator tanks to form they were the vibrant voices of youth leaving for crystallized alumina. Next were the 2,000 F rotator college and the world beyond. kilns, out of which came purified white powder They slowly scuffle through the disarray-- alumina. Then, on to the smelting plant at nearby old lamps with dented paper shades, a wire Jones Mill and into large 1,800 F electronic cells. magazine holder, cracked crochet mallets falling Molted aluminum spewed from the cells into 50 from their wobbly wooden stand, an old red paint- pound ("Pigs") and 1,000 pound ("Sows") ingot chipped tricycle, an equally scarred blue 16-inch molds. After cooling, the ingots were loaded onto boy’s bicycle, a conglomeration of sagging railroad cars and rushed to a sundry of cardboard boxes filled with tattered toys, faded baby manufacturing plants in and around Seattle, clothes, frayed children’s books, tired old dolls, and Washington. Once again I felt heat as some of the tangled Christmas decorations. A life-time ingots were melted down and poured into a myriad accumulation of family relics. The shuffling of molds. Others were heated and rolled out into approaches. I feel the touch of a hand, less soft than thin sheets that were cut into a multitude of the last time. "Would you look at this, Jim. She even uniquely shaped pieces. The results, hundreds of kept the old waffle iron. I figured it had given up parts, some small, some large. the ghost and been tossed years ago. Remember the These aluminum pieces, along with more Sunday morning ritual--waffles, sausage and fried complex electrical motors, pumps, tubing, wiring, eggs?" "Yep, even remember how exciting it was gauges and thousands of other components, shipped that first morning we came down and Mom was in from subcontractors throughout the country, were fixing real waffles--just like we ordered at Mildred’s delivered to a large open building camouflaged to Sunrise Cafe. Wonder if it still works? Take it down look like a residential city from above. There they and see. We can't get into cleaning this out until were placed next to short moving production lines tomorrow anyway." leading to assembly fixture areas where the parts So we leave the attic. Being careful not to came together into larger completely integrated drop me, Betsy backs down the stairs to the garage. units. These completed units were moved by Into the kitchen. Haven't been here for 15 years or overhead cranes to a final assembly position.