B:17 – Thomas Sutherland

I’ve heard a of a lot of folk doing this already, so… why not! A diary. My name is Thomas Sutherland. I’m a 2^nd Lieutenant serving with the US Army Air Force, currently stationed at RAF Deenethorpe in England.

I wish I could offer better spirits for starting off this diary, but I’m afraid to say I’m altogether miserable. Spending thanksgiving aboard a cramped troop transport was the icing on the cake of what has been the most miserable November of my life. It’s funny how someone can be surrounded by so many people, and yet feel so alone.

Of course, the original plan was for me to fly to England on a B-17 – ferrying a new B-17 from the US stopping at Labrador in Canada, Greenland, Iceland then finally arriving in England. You may have noticed I said “the plan”…… That’s not actually what happened.

Taking off from Labrador, a fuel line ruptured on our right wing, right next to the number 3 engine. I don’t know if it was faulty maintenance after testing or what, but it came out of no-where without warning – just, a complete eruption of flames in the midwing. Although it wasn’t the engine that was on fire, I pulled the extinguisher for the number 3 engine hoping it would at least dampen the flames, but it did not…

I could see where this was going, and rang the “bail out” bell to instruct the crew to get out. In the cockpit, David and I put on our parachutes, as I was certain the other crew aboard would be doing, then we made for the bomb bay. Lewis, our radio operator, got there first and pulled the jettison of the bomb bay doors.

As we were poised to jump, there was an almighty roar from our right side and the aircraft lurched violently, rolling to the right. The force of this lurch threw me clear of the aircraft, and I pulled my parachute. When the chute deployed, I could see our B-17 spinning violently out of control, missing it’s right wing – having been shorn off by the fire.

I looked around frantically for the rest of the crew.

I was the only one who made it out…..

5 dead and a complete loss of a B-17… What a horrific way to end my first ever assignment as a pilot for the USAAF. Thankfully, after reading my report, I was cleared of wrongdoing, and sent on a god-awful iron sardine can to Europe to join with the unit I would be serving with.

I arrived a couple of days ago……

England is nice. After getting off the boat, we got the train north to RAF Deenethorpe, passing through miles of English Countryside. It reminds me a bit of back home in Kansas. At least I can get some comfort from that.

I met my squadron commander – Major August Roth. He’s a kind man. He heard about what happened prior to my arrive and made a point of greeting me to welcome me on the base. He showed me to my new B-17 – the “Maximum Effort” – and my new crew.

Flying with me will be my co-pilot 2^nd Lt. John Lorenz, navigator 2^nd Lt. Martin Goldschmidt, bombardier 2^nd Lt. Howard Kain, top turret gunner TSGT Don Dunbar, radio operator Lee Dornan, and gunners consisting of Staff Sergeants George Greenhaugh, John Miller, Robert Sherrill, and Alex Edwards.

I must confess, seeing a B-17 again churns my stomach after what I went through, but then that’s hardly an excuse in a time of war! The next couple of months will be hard, but I’ll have to grin and bare it.

Major Roth gave me something that might ease that pain: a pass to visit the local town of Corby for some drinks and good food, both of which I enjoyed – lifting my spirits somewhat. Call it a 4-day-late thanksgiving!

As I headed to one of the pubs, I actually ran into some of the men from my crew. This being a civilian pub, there’s no separation for officers and men – I don’t mind that. Robert Sherrill was there – “Big Bob” as everyone was calling him. What an enormous man! Tall, rugged and muscles to make the meek jealous. Sporting a flatcap and an ever-vanishing pint of beer, he’s standing with Don Dunbar. I can’t hear what Don’s saying from here, but whatever it is it has the group in stitches. They seem to be light of the party.

Over in the corner however, I couldn’t help but notice one of mines sitting alone. Thanking the bartender for a pint, I headed over to sit with him – George Greenhaugh. He perked up a little when I sat next to him, but the smile quickly faded. It turns out his journey to the UK was also marred with turmoil.

George, he tells me, was sailing on a ship to the UK as part of a convoy which came under attack from a wolfpack of German U-Boats. Being the largest ship, several torpedoes struck the boat they were on and they made for the lifeboats. Although many made it to the boats and rafts, the convoy – still under attack from the wolfpack – could not stop to pick up the survivors. He has to watch as the injured survivors succumbed to their wounds, and others died due to frostbite in the cold North Atlantic waters.

Like me, he’s been struggling to cope with it all. I shared my story with him and reassured him that I understand. He seemed to take solace in this, and the rest of the night we shared pints and enjoyed a happier conversation about our hometowns and our wives. He’s from a small town in Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife Betty. They married last year, just before he began his training. After an enjoyable night, George and I made our way back to base.

As I awoke the next day, the loud pounding at my door did nothing to help my hangover – seems I had a few more beers with George than I remembered. Opening the door, I was met by man in full service uniform, his Military Police “MP” armband giving away his position.

“One of your men was picked up last night by MPs” he said, asking me to come with him as commanding officer. Frowning, I quickly threw on a passable uniform and followed the MP as he led me to the Military Police office on base.

As the door swung open, I was met by the gaze of several remarkably annoyed MP Officers. Our very own “Big Bob”, it seems, forgot how much alcohol he could safely consume and ended up getting rather rowdy after I had left the pub. Refusing to stop drinking, the local police had to be called, who in turn called for the MPs once they found out he was an airman.

He isn’t called “Big Bob” for no reason, and by the meticulous accounts of the MPs, it took quite some number of them so safely wrangle him away from his alcohol. Judging by the loud snores I could hear through the adjoining wall, he must have been asleep in the next room over.

The MPs asked me how I wanted to proceed, and I must confess, I sort of looked at them blankly. Yes, I am the “officer commanding” of the Maximum Effort, but in all truth it hasn’t been that long since I gained my rank as 2^nd Lieutenant – and even then, the bulk of my training was aimed towards flying, not towards being a commanding officer.

With Sherrill asleep, the MPs were happy to babysit him awhile longer while I sought out Maj Roth for advice. He sat at his desk, his hands clasped in front of his face as I recalled the MPs story to him. “So no-one was attacked?” he asked, “and nothing was damaged?” – I confirmed that no-one was hurt and nothing was broken, far as I was aware.

He nodded softly, his hands still clasped, before he stood up from his desk and looked out the window towards the B-17s parked across the airfield. “In that case, it seems its his lucky day” he said, still looking towards the aircraft. He went on to explain that that we would have shortly been receiving word that we are due at briefing first thing tomorrow.

Is seems our first combat flight is at hand…..

Because of this, we need everyone ready for the important mission ahead. Turning back to face me, he said that unless there was any aggravating factors we weren’t aware of, I should give him a strong reprimand and bring him back to his billets. I returned to the MP office and sprung Robert, bleary eyed, from his detainment.

As the sun began to set in the cold November afternoon, I went for a walk around the airbase. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. After months of training, tomorrow would be the first time I see combat in this war…..

I awoke very early in the morning in a sweat. I struggled to stay asleep last night, thinking about what might lie ahead today. I could help but remember the flames that tore apart my aircraft the very last time I sat behind the controls of B-17. Today, it seems, I’ll not only have to take the controls once again, but I’ll also have to fend off the might of the Germain air defences in the process.

Still, I can’t dither – the hour is upon us. I took a shower and put on my flight uniform. Briefing was at 5am. My eyes widened in amazement as I entered the hanger. There must have been around 200 people there – the ten man crews of many aircraft, plus the squadron and group commanders and the intelligence officers to deliver the briefing.

For most of us, this was our first combat sortie, and the weight of that on our minds was all too apparent as we took our seats and an uncomfortable silence filled the air….

The senior officers lined the stage and be briefing began. Our target for today is the harbour at the French City of Brest. We would be hitting it with large explosive bombs and incendiary bombs. We won’t be alone for our run into German-occupied France, joined by one flight of P-47 Thunderbolt fighters, and one flight of P-38 Lightning fighter. That said, intel suggests minimal fighter resistance for this bombing run.

The officers cleared the stage and the lighting was dimmed as a projector was turned on. Yesterday, a flight of P-38s overflew our targets to get reconnaissance footage. I’m sure the bombardiers were looking for their landmarks to aim their bombsights, but for me I was transfixed on the many black clouds of flak shells exploding around the flight. I winced, seeing how intense the flak became over the harbour.

But… despite my concerns, it’s not like I can back out now. There’s a war on don’t you know. No, like the other commanding officers in front of me, I stood up and signed my name at the bottom of the briefing and headed out to the mess for food.

By 7:30 the crews had arrived at their respective bombers. My squardron, the 612^th Sqn  would send 6 bombers, and there would be another 6 from the 614^th and 615^th squadrons, for a total of 18 B-17s. The 613^th was deployed the day before, so they had no aircraft to send.

At my watch hit 7:30am exactly, I gave the order to 2^nd Lt. Lorenz to start the engines – so beginning a cascade of noise across the entire airfield. Yes, not only is this my first combat sortie, but Maj Roth has decided that the Maximum Effort would be flight leader for the entire bombing run. This will be a major test of our crew as a whole, and our individual skills along the way.

Leading the flight of B-17s, we were first to the runway. After take-off we rendezvous with the “assembly ship” – a brightly coloured B-17 visible for miles around that guided aircraft to the formation. Once the flight was formed up, the assembly ship broke off, and we were now solely in charge of the flight. We turned south and by 8:30, we were flying over the city of Bournemouth on the south coast of England.

By 9:10 we had crossed the channel and were over the French coast. Our fighter escort had arrived with us over the channel, and seeing them zip about overhead, securing our flanks brought a small relief – but I knew in my heart of hearts that our main battle would be against the German artillery.

At 9:40 our navigator, Goldschmidt, spoke up over the intercom; giving our final turning instructions onto the bombing run. So far we had met no resistance at all. 2^nd Lt. Kain flicked on all his switches and with that, I handed control of our aircraft and everyone aboard to our Norden bombsight commanded by 2^nd Lt. Kain.

No matter how many times I’ve done this, either in training or now, as a pilot, it’s a strange and uncomfortable sensation hand complete control of the aircraft over to this new technology. I sat my hands on my legs, nervously tapping them as we approached the target.

At 9:44am, I felt my eyes widen. Ahead of us, directly in our path the skies turned black with flak shells – exploding in place maybe a mile ahead of us as the German gunners zeroed in on our position. As we got closer the distant booms turned into loud explosions – we could hear them above the sounds of our mighty engines.

Judging by my watch it on lasted 2 minutes but it felt like much more as our aircraft was thrown up and down caused by the turbulence in the wake of the explosions. But after the 2 minutes, the air fell silent and the black smoke cleared from the sky.

To my horror, about a minute later the entire sky in front of us turned jet black with the smoke of flak shells exploding. Every gun in and around Brest was now zeroing in on our position. I felt myself gulp and Lorenz and I shared a glance with each other before resting our hand on the controls – ready to react if we were hit by one of these god-awful shells.

By 9:50, I could no longer see the city of Brest, it being hidden by the aircraft’s nose beneath me. Suddenly the red “Bomb Release” light lit up – Kain had released the bombs. Despite the flak, we had made it to the target – now it was down to his skill to see if we had actually hit it.

“Hit! Hit! Hit! Good hits!” Cried Greenhaugh from the ball turret over the intercom – I couldn’t help but let out a brief laugh of relief at the news, but my celebrations were short lived…..

As 2^nd Lt. Kain handed control of the aircraft to Lorenz and I, there was an almighty explosion from our left side, louder than any explosion I’d ever heard. I had to fight the controls as the entire aircraft lurched to the left in response. Regaining control, the intercom lit up, with Miller and Sherrill from their waist gunner positions reporting on the damage.

We’d taken a near-direct hit from a flak shell, tearing open the left side of the aircraft’s fuselage, fully exposing the frame that holds the aircraft together. I ordered the crew to sound off, over the intercom.

By some absolute miracle, not a single soul aboard our aircraft was injured, despite our extensive damage. Other aircraft were not so lucky….. Alex Edward, our tail gunner reported that several other B-17s were also showing signs of damage, some even smoking from their engines.

But we had cleared the flak, and no Luftwaffe aircraft troubled our return across the channel back to England. As we were about a quarter hour out from RAF Deenethorpe, Edward called out a B-17 was violently pitching up and down in the air, breaking away from the formation and barely able to keep control.

I looked out the window in horror as it started rocking from side to side too, getting worse and worse until eventually the whole aircraft rolled over to its starboard and spiralled in towards the ground.

I felt my heart sink to my boots as I faced forward once again. Horrific, but nothing I could do – I still have to land the plane. From there, everything proceeded smoothly. The landing was about as smooth as I could make it, and no other aircraft had any mishaps has the flight landed back at the airfield.

Arriving at our stand, I killed the engines and got up out my seat. Making my way through the narrow bomb bay, then past the radio room, I arrived at the waist section of our craft. Seeing it for the first time, I was truly horrified at the extent of the damage we had received – I could see clean out of the craft. Hell, I could practically do a full wing inspection from the comfort of the waist section.

And yet we made it home……

The rest of the night on base was a sombre affair, most of the crews – myself included – reflecting on our first combat deployment, the things we had seen, and on the bombs we had dropped.

The next day we were called into the hanger once again for debrief. A reconnaissance flight done the morning after the bombs showed total devastation of the Brest harbour – Kain had done a fantastic job on the bomb run. Major Roth congratulated us on our work hindering the German supply network in France.

The debrief was concluded with the news that none of us wanted to hear…… “Cap’n and the Kids” was the aircraft that spun out over the English countryside. A thorough investigation by the police, the USAAF, the RAF and the British army concluded that no-one made it out the aircraft. The entire crew died with their aircraft.

A shocked silence filled the air. You could have heard a mosquito enter the hanger it was that quiet. With the debrief done, I stepped outside and looked over at the setting sun. It would be too easy for me to get hung up on the 10 men we lost. It is a tragedy, of that there is no doubt, but is was, and they are but 10 to add to the tens of thousands of Americans who have died already. What is important is that I got my crew safe. I need to try to remember that in times like this….. But trying will be the hard part…..

Similar to my other video game-based stories, this story is heavily inspired by the actions, and outcomes of my playthrough of B17 The Mighty Eighth (Redux).

I am letting the game dictate medals and promotions and basing my storytelling around these in-game decisions and actions.

This may mean that certain things are not historically accurate, or historically likely, and I accept that.

This diary is a form of entertainment, both for the readers and me writing it - and I take some liberties in telling this fictional story.