Merseberg! pg 4

Anyway, we lumbered on toward Merseberg at about 200 miles per hour, taking evasive action from the flak where possible. Some of the crew were throwing out that "chaff" tinsel to blur the German radar scopes. We knew we were about there when we saw that black wall of flak ahead of us "so thick you could walk on it." I often thought how glad I was I didn't go to cadets to become a pilot because I wasn't too sure I would have what it took to head that plane right into those walls of flak. Never claimed to be brave, I Just went along with the rest of the gang because it seemed the thing to do. In fact, I often thought I'd need the services of a laundry, if and when I made it back.

Our bombardier, Mac, was to call me on the intercom system when he dropped his bombs so I could fire our flare gun through the top of the plane, so the other planes could also drop their bombs when they saw the flare. So, while on standby for Mac's call, I was scanning for enemy fighters with my top turret when I noticed an O.D. colored B-37 was pulling up to take the box position off our right wing. It wasn't unusual to take in a straggler from another group as it would strengthen our 50-caliber firepower and it also wasn't unusual to see an O.D. colored B-17 on all-out efforts. I don*t recall what the letter was on the tail but it was other than our group's "W." Things got pretty exciting and confusing about the time you approached the targets. That was an understatement in this case, as the Flak bursts got nearer, louder, thicker and so close you could see the balls of fire in them. We were flying No. 3 of the Group lead element when suddenly three bursts exploded very close directly in front and slightly below us. It knocked out the Group leader, us, the leader of the low element and his No. 3 aircraft. The bursts were so close the thin aluminum skin on the plane was really taking a beating; in fact, it was starting to look like a sieve. There were hug holes torn in the wings where the flak pierced the self-sealing gas tanks. Some of the engines were taking hits and starting to falter. Mac called me on the intercom to get ready to fire the flare. I then reached out of my turret toward the flare gun and found I'd have to get out of the turret to reach it. Here we were at 28,000' altitude, 50 degrees below Centigrade, flak popping all over and I had to get out of the turret. Cussing to myself, I unbuckled my turret straps, unhooked my electric heating suit cord, unhooked the oxygen line and stepped out of the turret to hook up to a walk-around oxygen bottle. While I was waiting for Mac's call over the intercom (right after I stepped out), I heard a big "zing" and saw about half of my top turret bubble was knocked out where my head would have been. I then got Mac's call and fired the flare. I took a B-10 flight jacket and tried to stop up the hole in the bubble to cut down on the blast of cold wind coming in. It soon sucked out so we had a gaping hole again, (A supply sergeant gave me a bad time later when I asked for a replacement for the B-10, flash light, etc., in the pocket. Being about half "flak happy" and short-tempered in those days, I suggested that he go over on the continent and look for it.)

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