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DAWN THUNDER
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terrible drama. The weather here sometimes made things a bit difficult, you know, when a horse couldn't find it's bearings, fog and all of that. Oddly, the Americans appeared to thrive on adversity, "gripe" though they did. Almost every day, they would fly off to the aerodrome. I was a boy then... in 18 to 21 bombers, the B-17s. Incredible machines, they were. We'd often be awakened by the heavy roar of engines before dawn, and we'd know that the Yanks were about to have another go at Hitler, that wretched beggar.

It became difficult to go about the day's affairs after they left, knowing what our Yanks were encountering over Germany. And somehow we'd learn to the hour when they were expected to return. The whole town of Bury would seem to stop all activities, to wait for them, almost silently, hoping, praying. You see, we had come to know and appreciate those young men for the splendid people they were. We learned about their home towns, whether they were married and had youngsters, what they did in Iowa, Tennessee. Pennsylvania and South Carolina... we knew their hopes and their dreams. They became so much a part of us and our lives that it seemed they'd been ours always. 

Then, most frequently in the late afternoons, they'd stagger back over Bury, some of them in bombers so shot to pieces you wondered how they could still remain aloft. We could see them flying low over the town with wings shot full of holes big enough to drive sheep through and tail assemblies wrenched nearly off. Whoever designed the B-17 did a fair job, I'd say. But no airplanes or humans were designed to accept such punishment.

 I remember one afternoon of a particularly awful raid. In late 1943, it was. We had known the raid was on, of course, and shortly after the noon hour, several of us went to stand near the aerodrome fence. The bombers, only six of them, flex in. We understood there had been 18. One, altogether shattered, appeared to be having a most difficult time of it. Suddenly, just as it reached a point near the end of the runway, it plunged straight downward into the ground. A fearful explosion ensued. We learned that the tail gunner was the only survivor. He had been blown clear of the wreck.

 We loved them. They'd come to help save us from Hitler. Have you ever seen 15-year-old boys stand near a fence and sob? Have you ever wanted more than anything in God's world for an airplane to land safely? You wonder why Americans are appreciated in Bury St. Edmunds? Quite obvious, isn't it? Time doesn't dissipate admiration and such close association.

Cliff Hatcher, now living in Greenville, S.C., also remembers:

You asked about a mission. Well, let's take one to Berlin. Whew! You take it. I wouldn't want it again. Anybody who tries to glorify war is just plain dishonest or crazy.

  The base personnel had been working through the night. The armorers, fuelers, cooks, briefing officers, everybody but those of us designated to fly the mission, had been working like demons. About 2 a.m. on the day of the strike, we were awakened by orderlies who came into the quarters, flashed on the lights and shouted, "Hey, you guys wanna sleep forever? Gotta go! You got a mission to fly." We were all sleepy. Many of us had just returned from a raid the day before and had only four or five hours of sleep. We have to be at breakfast at 2:30 a.m. and in the briefing room half an hour later.

  At briefing, we learned where we were going. The briefing rooms on all those bases looked like miniature auditoriums, with small stages and big maps of Europe behind the stages. The maps were kept covered until we had all reported in the room was secured. When they uncovered the map and we could see red lines from Bury to the target, we knew it was "Big B."

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