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But in the fog the entire group takeoff might take up to a half-hour. The fog and bad weather were always our bitter enemies. While taxiing, our engines would roar, breaks would screech, and we knew we'd awakened everybody in East Anglia. 

Imagine it! Hundreds of bombers taking off, gathering over East Anglia, groping around in the fog or mist, forming into a semblance of organization over our previously designated "splashers" (radio beacons). The timing was absolutely critical. We had to reach each splasher on schedule. If, for instance, we missed our connections with our fighter escort somewhere, that meant less tome for the escort. We tried never to be late meeting our "Little Friends."

The Luftwaffe met us shortly after we reached Germany. Those Me109s and FW-190s that had flown through fighter screen would coast in behind or abreast of the formations, throttle back and fire their rockets. A direct flak rocket hit on a B-17 usually caused an instant explosion of the most violent and dreadful nature. The rocket, the airplane's bomb load and the fuel would all go up in a searing flash of light which few ever escaped. The airplane and its crew just vanished, and all that was left was a huge back smudge in the sky. Then, the blast effect would punch out n all directions with massive force, buffeting the formation. Frequently, one direct rocket or ground flak hit destroyed two or three airplanes, because we kept such tight formations. 

It was a wild scene. The noise was incredible. Our own 50-caliber guns firing constantly, close flak bursts the roar of our own engines and cannon shells hitting the aircraft was deafening. The cannon shells, hitting the airplane, sounded like a case of big ball bearings being dropped into a large metal garbage can and tossed about, or large hail on a tin roof. The scene outside would have been astonishing to anyone who had time to look. 

Hatcher interrupts his narrative to recall another raid:

On the mission to Munster, before we had long-range fighter escort, we fought the Luftwaffe all the way in and out. That day, and several others, we had to fly home right on the deck, not more that 30 feet off the ground halfway across Europe. B-17s would accept incredible punishment. On that Munster strike; we were shot out of the formation. It was Armistice Day, Nov. 11 1943. Some Armistice Day. Two engines were gone, both inboards, blasted on the bomb run. Electrical power was gone on the right side due to a pair of 20-millimeter cannon shells that hit the bulkhead in the forward part of the bomb bay shortly after release. The right landing gear was hanging down. Then, another 20-millimeter shell hit, this time right aft of us in the cockpit. Our armor plate saved us. The cockpit filled with smoke and it was like being in a black cloud. Couldn't see a thing. We slid open the side windows to clear the smoke. When we looked out, we saw that we were heading straight down. The rest of the group though we were goners for certain. Johnny Pyles, my pilot... he was later killed in a head-on collision over France with an FW-109... took what was by then a shattered wreck straight down to the deck, and we somehow made it home, skimming over church steeples and houses. We were only 54 minutes late landing at Bury. Somebody in another Fort had taken films, and several das later, in a London theater, we saw ourselves going down in flames. Some newsreel. 

Back to the Berlin raid:

The Initial Point (IP) was located about 20 miles west of Berlin. From then on in, we were on the bomb run, and the lead bombardier "flew: that aircraft with his Norden bombsight. We called that area "Flak Alley." We bombed on a signal from the lead aircraft; hopefully you'd make it that far. Then we turned toward home. More than often, the formations were subjected to an even more merciless battering on the return trip. B-17s that literally shouldn't fly any longer, shot to shreds, flew because they were well-build and because their pilots had obviously thrown the boom away. 

Some aircraft had to force-land on those missions in neutral Sweden or Switzerland, and some ditched in the Channel, the crews to be rescued b Royal Airforce launces, if they didn't freeze to death beforehand. Many crashed trying to land at their bases. Others returned with dead or wounded aboard. 

If we made it back, in fog or bad weather often as not, or at dusk, there'd always be the debriefing. "what about flak?" "How many fighter?" "What was your estimate of accuracy?"

After equipment stowage, wed head for some sleep, exhausted. There  were nearly always empty beds on those nights. Friends were missing, some never to return. But we had to sleep because tomorrow was another mission. 

You couldn't blame the German pilots. They were fighting for their country too. It was just the war. 

The writer is a free-lancer living in Atlanta. 

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