212: The European Theater, 1943

Prof. Greg Jackson (0:10)

It's early in the morning, October 14th, 1943 We're in Nettishol, England, where Eugene T. Carson, or Wing Ding, as he's known, is seated in the mess hall with fellow servicemen of US. Army Eighth Air Force's 388th Embarment Group, choking down what he calls a usual breakfast of square eggs, spam, and SOS. That last item is creamed chipped beef on toast, what the whole US military calls SOS., short for shit on a shingle. A fair note of disapproval for a discerning small town Pennsylvania baker, even if that life is now an ocean and thousands of miles away. Here in England, he's a tail gunner and staff sergeant, hoping this morning's quote-unquote crummy weather gets today's yet-to-be-announced attack pushed off.

Suddenly, the curtain dividing the mess from the briefing room is pulled back. So much for a silver lining for today's clouds. And the news gets worse. Today's target is Schweinfurt, Germany.

The room explodes with exclamations of shock and trepidation. Oh, Jesus, no, not again. Holy Mother of God, this is my last mission.

Yes, Schweinfurt, located in the heart of Nazi territory in Bavaria. The town is home to factories producing the ball bearings so essential to German aircraft. When these daring airmen struck the city back in August, they devastated Nazi ball bearing production, which fell from 140 tons per month to 50 But it came at the steep cost of 20% of all participants, 370 airmen, friends to many in this room, did not make it back. With losses like that, statistically, an assignment to the 8th Air Force is a death sentence. And now, these airmen, many survivors of August's raid, are being asked to go back, to again fly their bombers, largely without escorts, right over Germany. It feels like a death sentence. Yet, the briefing officer doesn't miss a beat. His voice bellows over the room's laments. This is a very important mission. Germany's ball-bearing works must be destroyed.

It's later that same October 14th morning, Eugene Wing Ding-Carson's B-17, nicknamed Tiger Girl, is soaring over France in a formation of 16 flying fortresses. As they fly, Wing Ding is at the aircraft's tail turret or the stinger, checking gear and test firing his guns. Something feels off and then it hits him. His parachute is missing. Eugene sits at his gun in terrified silence. He knows that if he informs the pilot, Otis Ingebrigtsen, aka Dingle, he'll turn this flying fortress around. But between 1B17's takeoff turned crash landing, ironically or wholly appropriately, a bird nicknamed Hard Luck, and other mechanical failures, their group is already down 6 bombers. No, Eugene won't be the cause of yet one more American plane not flying today. One fewer to drop bombs and fend off the Luftwaffe. He sits in panic. This is a death sentence. He prays. He hears a female voice say, Trust me. What? That's insane. He checks his mask. Is he sure he is getting oxygen? Yes, he is.

OK then. With little other thought besides, Oh Jesus. He accepts his fate and prepares to engage the enemy. Crossing from Belgium into German air, Eugene watches as their fighter escorts, now at the limit of their range, peel off. And only minutes later, with his group of B-17s still 200 miles from Schweinfurt, the dreaded Nazi Air Force, the Luftwaffe, arrives.

Across hundreds of miles of sky, some 500 aircraft, 229 American bombers and more than 300 German planes exchange machine gun fire.

Worse are the Ju-88s. These powerful twin-engine fighters launch 21-centimeter rockets from a thousand yards out. Rockets that don't just down bombers, but incinerate them in the air.

Black funnels fill the sky as wrecked planes fall. As airmen's parachutes open, taking some to safety, but in other cases bursting into flames, leaving a young airman to fall to his death. To quote Eugene's later recollection, the scene was one of carnage beyond imagination. It was strangely not frightening. The intensity of the action left no time for a longer. However, despite my calmness, I was satisfied the end was near.

Incredibly, Eugene's entire formation, all 16 flying fortresses, reaches Schweinfurt. Here, the fear isn't the Luftwaffe, but the anti-aircraft artillery. It's a deadly exchange. The B-17s drop 1,122 high-explosive bombs, while Schweinfurt's guns, answered with shells, set to explode as shrapnel spraying side-obscuring black clouds at the formation's altitude. A shell strikes the B-17 just next to Tiger Girl. Eugene watches in horror as it goes into a spin for a few seconds, then explodes into a thousand pieces. Not a single man had a chance to parachute out. With the bombs dropped, the bombers turn around to again face the same hundreds of miles Luftwaffe gauntlet between them and relatively safe air.