Interview with 95th Ball Turret Gunner Robert Fay

I had the pleasure of talking with 95th BG ball turret gunner Robert 'Bob' Fay this evening as part of the final research for my book. Fay flew 35 missions in a B-17 Flying Fortress between September 13, 1944 and early March, 1945. Throughout his time at Horham, Fay kept a diary. "I'd come home from a mission, and make notes while it was still fresh in my mind," he remembers. However, at the end of the war, before he could send the diary home, it had to be passed by the Army censors. "They gutted the center section out, and left the rest. Later, when I was back in the States, they shipped the gutted part to me after censoring."

Fay flew on the Hiram Griffin crew, in the 334th Squadron. He ended up in the ball turret because of his small stature. At first, we flew whatever plane was available. When they showed up at their barracks, they found they had been assigned to Barracks 13. There was only one man inside. He had missed the mission a few days previously, and the other men of the two crews who shared the barracks with him had been shot down. "He was the only one left in there," remembers Fay, "and he was really in trouble mentally by that time." The Griffin crew promptly changed the number of their barracks to 12-B.

Finally, after a few missions, "we got a new bird and we named it Victory Devil. On missions, lots of times things didn't work out. You'd be pushed to a secondary target due to weather mostly, and when that happened, you often got a lot more than you asked for." One particularly memorable mission was to Merseberg, to hit a synthetic oil plant on November 14, 1944. We had to bomb with PFF (Pathfinder radar) even though we could see fairly well. The Germans had put up a smoke-screen that obliterated the target. But we made a tragic error. We turned twenty miles too late, and went over the target through a flak area. We were suddenly in range of hundreds of guns, and had to put up with fifteen minutes of flak. Wicker's crew burst into flames and damn near took us down with him. Grif saved the day by cutting the throttle. We lost fifty-six bombers and 30 fighters that day, because of that error. I wrote at the time that considering the loss of life and equipment, the mission was a failure."

Fay did not particularly mind the tight confines of the ball turret. However, there were several things he didn't care for. First, "I didn't like the fact that the ball had a door that had to be opened for you to get out, and if it didn't rotate right, you were a cooked goose. You had no chute in the ball; there was no room. Second, it was damn cold down there."

"I had to get pulled out twice after losing my oxygen. Fortunately, our crew called around frequently and made sure everybody answered. It was a team effort. I was pulled out unconscious by our waist gunner, Bob Hamlin. I owe him a debt for that."

Close calls were frequent. Fay saw many bombers explode, or go down in flames, as well as American and German fighter aircraft. Flying in the winter of 1944 was dangerous, as the weather was terrible. On a December 16 mission to Stuttgart, the weather got so bad that Griffin had to drop out of formation and try to return alone. "We were out of oxygen, so had to drop to lower altitude. By the time we got back, you could hardly see the runway. Three ships overshot the runway that day and had to be scrapped."

Flak was the main enemy on many missions. "We'd get briefed for twelve flak guns and then we'd go over the target and there would be 100. On one mission down the Ruhr Valley, we ran the gauntlet of 1,200 flak guns. And then on another mission, there would be none."

German fighters still made frequent calls. Once, Fay saw two of the new German jet fighters, the Me262s, suddenly scream through the formation. "All they did was fly through and by the time I got a burst off they were gone! We knew they (Me262s) were there but didn't know when we'd run into them."

The closest Fay came to death was when a German shell ricocheted off the armor-plate behind his back in the ball, tearing a gash in the only place on the ball that could withstand such a hit. Otherwise, I would not be here."

As the crew neared the magic number 35, they had to try to make sure to finish at roughly the same time. Some days, one or more of the crew would be sick or couldn't fly. At the end of Fay's tour, he had to fly two missions after most of the rest were finished. "They all were there waiting for me at the end of the runway when I came back."

After the war, Fay didn't talk much about his experiences, but after a while, I began to get together with the other men on the crew. To this day, Fay and his wife have visits with the crew's original navigator, Bob Inman, as well as the co-pilot, Ken Wright. All three made it to the reunion in Dallas, Texas in October.

"We were very fortunate," he says.

This B-17 was One Tough Aircraft

They all came back to base alive, except togglier Staff Sgt. George E. Abbott of East Lebanon, PA. The bottom photo is one of the most famous of the air war.

No longer possible to cut and paste text, but I am posting the photos and the link to an amazing article about a 398th BG B-17 piloted by Lt. Lawrence M. DeLancey of Corvallis, Oregon, that took a direct hit and came home October 15, 1944, with all the crew alive but the togglier, who had been killed instantly when he took a direct flak hit.

Read the story that accompanies these incredible photographs here.

The Day I Visited the Ruins of the 95th Bomb Group Base at Horham, by Ken Hutcherson

The Vergene W. Ford Crew, 335th Squadron, 95th Bomb Group. Back Row: Vergene Ford, Pilot; Murray Saylor, Copilot; Julian Meyer, Bombardier; Cletus Comisky, Navigator. Front Row: Ken Hutcherson, Radio Operator; Willis Perry, Top Turret Gunner/Engineer; Robert Evans, Waist Gunner; Richard Peterson, Ball Turret Gunner; Marvin Casaday, Armorer/Waist Gunner; Leonard Styczynski (Stevens); Tail Gunner. (Photo from 95th BG website)

Another crew photo. Ken Hutcherson is in the back row, second from left. (Photo from 95th BG Website)

95th Bomb Group Veteran Kenneth Hutcherson poses at the crossroads near Horham during his return visit in August, 1972. Hutcherson flew with the 335th Squadron as a Radio Operator on a B-17 Flying Fortress during World War Two. (Photo courtesy of Kenneth Hutcherson)

This is one of my favorite written accounts of a World War Two bomber crewman's return to his old base. The full version will be appearing in the 95th BG history, out next year. Kenneth Hutcherson was a young radio operator on a B-17 crew when he first saw Horham during the war. He wrote of his return in August of 1972:

"It was a beautiful summer day the likes of which we rarely saw during the summer of 1944," he begins, "The train for Ipswich, Diss and Norwich, left at 8:30 AM so we got up at 7, had a quick breakfast at the Hilton (not like the ones we used to get at the Regent Palace) and took the tube to the Liverpool Street Station...

"We finally managed to get a seat in a compartment not unlike the ones all of us remember vaguely with the webbing overhead for packages and luggage...

After arriving at the train station at Diss, Hutcherson hailed a cab to Horham. The driver was not certain how to find the old base in nearby Horham, and had to stop several times to ask for directions. But finally, "after travelling the eight miles to Horham, we pulled onto a hard stand at the edge of a wheat field and said we were there. It was hard for me to get my bearings at first. There was a farmer across the road on a combine mowing his wheat. He stopped his tractor and came over to assist us and everything started to fall into place.

"One of the headquarters buildings was still there and the farmer took us through the briars and underbrush to get inside. You would find it hard to believe but there were still pin-up pictures pasted on the wall from Yank Magazine and also a Sad Sack cartoon stenciled on one wall. Over one doorway was stenciled 'Through These Doors Pass the Best Damn Flyers in the World'. What an experience!

"Our barracks from the 335th Squadron was a crumbled mess of corrugated rusty steel. We couldn't get back there because of the crops and no roads but I took a picture of it from the distance. The control tower crumbled last year but the main runway was still there. We drove down the runway which is still used for small planes for crop dusting. We took pictures there and also at the crossroads with the signs--Horham, Diss, Ipswich, Norwich and Eye. On the way back to Diss we stopped and took pictures of the thatched roof houses which I did not remember."

Upon arrival at Diss, the Cockney taxi driver refused to accept a tip, though he had stayed with them all day long. "I'm a cockney from London...and my word is my bond," he told Hutcherson."

Hutcherson finally persuaded the cabbie to take two pounds. Interestingly, Hutcherson had never visited the town of Diss during the war, as it was off-limits.

He then boarded the train, the mists of time again wrapped his memories in a comfortable embrace, and he returned to London.

Astute Review of Untold Valor

Posting this review by Jan Peczkis of my book on Amazon. Mr. Peczkis is that rare Amazon reviewer who actually reads the book and then is provides some synthesis and analysis. Thank you, Mr. Peczkis.

Click here for Mr. Peczkis' review, which focuses on German treatment of Jewish American POWs.

Green Farm Accident Report, November 19, 1943

This goes with the post immediately preceding it. Read that one first.

The Green Farm Crash, Redlingfield, November 19, 1943

This quiet, leafy grove of trees behind the replacment farm house at Redlingfield, Suffolk, contains many relics of Rongstad's crashed B-17 Flying Fortress. (Rob Morris Photo)

The same grove on the fateful day. (Army photo)

The farmhouse burns down. The Army Air Force paid the farmers to erect a new one, and it is still there. (Army photo)

The thatched farmhouse roof goes up in flames. (Army Photo)

The replacement farmhouse, June 2008. (Rob Morris photo)
Old shed across the lane from Green Farm, survived intact. (Rob Morris photo)

Wreckage from the Green Farm crash, possibly the ball turret. (Army photo)

This blogger site has gotten increasingly hard to use lately. First, I can't figure out how to move the photos around. Second, I can't copy-and-paste from other sites of my writing, so this is going to be short and sweet.

Twisted, charred wreckage of the Rongstad B-17. (Army Photo)

On November 19, 1943 a B-17 of the 95th Bomb Group piloted by Montanan Kenneth Rongstad took off from its base at Horham. Rongstad, an experienced pilot, banked too close to the ground, stalled, and crashed into a farm in nearby Redlingfield. All members of the crew were killed either in the initial crash or in the detonations of the 500-pound bombs on board.

I just got word that the English in the area are considering erecting a monument to the crash victims, so I thought I'd post some photos to help out the cause.

I visited the crash site in June 2008 and took the color photos above. The black and white photos are from the official Army Air Force reports, 95th archives.

Air Force Wives of World War Two

Bob and Patsy Ann Cozens, from their Christmas card last year. Two of my favorite people. (Photo courtesy Bob and Pat Cozens)

I am going to retrieve my photo of Patsy Ann Cozens shortly. It's on the other computer. But here is Bob's plane, named after Pat. (Photo from 95th BG website)

Geri and Fred Delbern, 1943. (Photo courtesy Geri Marshall)

Geri today. (Photo courtesy Geri Marshall)

Geri and Fred Delbern on their wedding day, 1942. (Photo courtesy Geri Marshall)

Robert and Bettylou Capen on their wedding day, 1943, Sheppard Field, Texas, shortly before Bob shipped to England to fly 34 missions on a B-17 as a ball turret gunner. (Photo courtesy of Bettylou Capen)

The 95th Bomb Group's commitment to telling the entire story of the Group during its existence included a last-minute addition of a chapter about the wives of the men who flew. These brave women endured frequent moves during training, and then a long period of 'sweating out the missions' as their spouses flew dangerous combat missions over Europe. I have had the honor of interviewing three of these ladies in the past few months for the book--Bettylou Capen, wife of ball turret gunner Bob Capen; Patsy Ann Cozens, wife of pilot Bob Cozens; and Geri Marshall, widow of pilot Fred Delbern.

Though I don't want to give away any spoilers from the upcoming book, I did want to share some photos of these incredible ladies. In researching and writing this chapter, I found that they are true heroes as much as their husbands.

Bob Capen and Bob Cozens returned from the war. Fred Delbern did not. He was killed on a mission in 1943, making sure all of his men had bailed out of his stricken B-17 'Lonesome Polecat II' before the aircraft crashed into the North Sea a few hundred yards offshore of Texel Island. When the plane hit the water, Delbern was the only living man aboard. His copilot, Donald Neff, had been killed and sat in the seat next to him. It must have been a lonely end for this brave man. Sadly, though Geri had written to Fred every day, he had not received a single letter when the Lonesome Polecat II made her final flight.