I will try to give you a sense and feeling of the times and places that I experienced during the air war in Europe and my time in the armed service from November 9, 1942 to September 22, 1945.  My recollections of World War II are as fragmented and jumbled as the air I toiled through.  You never get the shattered pieces of remembrance just right!

Tragically, my entry into the Second World War came with a sudden impact on October 3, 1942.  My Uncle Earl (my mother’s brother), was reading the Sacramento Union, our local newspaper and came across a small article about a plane that had crashed in Puerto Rico on October 1, 1942, killing all its passengers and crew. 

The article listed a “Tom Burke” as being one of those that perished in the crash.  At that time my brother, Tom, was stationed in Puerto Rico with his US Army Quartermaster Transportation Company preparing to invade Africa.  My Uncle contacted me and we spent the next 12 hours trying to call Puerto Rico.  We finally got through and verified that the “Tom Burke” listed was indeed my older brother!

We got the official telegram 5 days later notifying my mother that her son, my older brother, had been killed in an airplane crash on October 1, 1942!  My mother was the first Gold Star mother in Sacramento, CA.

I enlisted at the delicate age of 18 and became Private Earl S. Burke, ASN (Army Serial Number) 19143923AUS (Army of the United States).  At the time, I didn’t pay any attention to what my enlistment might mean to my mother and father!  It finally dawned on me 22,000 feet over Germany on April 24, 1944, when a shell came through my ball turret and shoved me around a bit; what were they going to think and feel when they got another War Department telegram telling them that I had been wounded or, for all I knew at the time, dead?

My first duty station was Fort Lewis in Seattle, Washington, where I learned how to pick up cigarette butts, paint anything that didn’t move, and salute anything in uniform, as a private was the lowest living thing in the Army. 

After a week, we boarded the train for Atlantic City, New Jersey.  However, we were derailed at “Dead Man’s Curve” before reaching the town of Spokane, Washington.  All but the last three cars left the track and plunged into the canyon.  I was in the middle car of the three sleeping cars that remained on the track and they were tilted about 30 degrees heading down into the canyon, still attached to the rest of the train.  Everybody hit the floor one way or the other; some ceremoniously, others with no pattern what so ever!

Upon reaching Atlantic City, I had a much-welcomed transfer from the Army into the Air Corps and was assigned to Army Technical School 26.  We were billeted at the President Hotel on the Boardwalk which was alleged to be the residence of Al Capone, the infamous gangster.  You could see where they had mounted armor plate around the corner windows on our floor.

During this time, I learned close order drill and to salute.  I pulled some KP for goofing off, and this I did regularly.  I didn’t mind the KP but they insulted me by sitting me down with a paring knife next to 20 100# sacks of potatoes that happened to be sitting next to an automatic potato peeler!

Early in January 1943, we were put on another luxurious troop train with several thousand other well-heeled fellow travelers and made our way slowly to the Reno Army Air Base in Nevada.  We stopped off in Reno Junction and proceeded in 20 or so 6 X 6 GMC (jimmies) trucks to the air base.  During this short journey in a downpour of rain, we were stalled on the highway by a storm drain that had overflowed its banks and inundated the highway in about 2 feet of water.  We couldn’t go through the wheel-high water, as one of the trucks was swept off into the drain and went over on its side. 

Nobody got hurt, but we were all sitting there wondering what to do, when we heard the chug-chug of a Model A Ford pickup pulling along side of our convoy and it proceeded to cross the small river without so much as by your leave.  The Ford had wooden spoke wheels while our big hunks of metal had solid wheels and the water just pushed against these solid wheels.  We finally got one vehicle through and it pulled the others through.

I spent 6 months at Reno Army Air Base.  At only 18 years old, I became somewhat of a liability when going into town on leave with my buddies.  Had to belly up to the bar and order a Pepsi Cola.  Big time warrior!  I was assigned to the 854th Chemical Warfare Company, and trained to load chemical, incendiary, and high explosive ammunition aboard heavy bombers.  We spent many unpleasant hours wearing gas masks and impervious clothing.  Because of my superior skills (I was an Eagle Scout), I became a T4 (Cpl.).  At this exalted rank I lorded it over and led my fellow soldiers in their assigned tasks – but I still had to order Pepsi Cola at the bars in Reno!

In May 1943 we were alerted for overseas and packed our gear into the company trucks along with a goodly supply of liquor, razor blades, soap, silk stockings, and candy, fully expecting to recover our loot at our overseas destination.  We never saw our trucks again! 

We again boarded the train and were on our way to do battle with the Boche or the Japanese, with no idea where we were going or in what direction.  After 6 delightful days on yet another train, we arrived at Camp Shanks, New Jersey and boarded the H.M.S. Queen Mary, June 1, 1943.  I was finally on my way to England. 

I was in the 1st Division, 41st Combat Wing, 384th Bomb Group, 547th Squadron at Grafton Underwood.  We were a long way from home and stationed in a strange, damp, foggy country where beer was warm, the money was funny and we drove on the wrong side of the road!  But our duty was to carry the War into Hitler's backyard by flying in massive formations and bombing in daylight. 

Over the door of the briefing room were these words: TIME, PLACE, AND ALTITUDE!  These were the three things to remember when an incident occurred (an enemy aircraft shot down, your aircraft shot down, you shooting into your own aircraft, etc.) along with many other things that you forgot but needed in briefing -- if you got back.

In the early days, when the 8^th first started going after targets deep into Germany during the daylight hours, loss rates were very high.  A crew was committed to twenty-five raids before being sent home or reassigned to a non-hazardous job.  Even with 96 crews for the 72 bombers, crews became scarce during the terrible winter of 1943.  Base commanders were recruiting flight-crew gunners anywhere they could find them, from among the kitchen staff or the supply units.  This is where I came in.

I made application for aerial gunner, was accepted and went to the WASH (an East Coast inlet) to learn to be a B17 gunner.  I couldn’t hit the inside of a barn with the doors closed with a handful of oranges, but they pinned a set of wings on me and called me a gunner with the rank of S/Sgt.  (In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have even sewed on the stripes!  I was soon busted for a minor infraction, i.e., “Don’t borrow the Squadron Jeep to go to town!”

I joined a group of gunners who were assigned to openings in flight crews that were short.  We went anywhere there was an open spot.  With few exceptions, the crewmembers I flew with were strangers to me, and I was a stranger to them.  Trying to keep original crewmembers together was considered inefficient and contributed to morale problems when men were killed or wounded.  The sad realities of combat had to be accommodated; crewmembers had to be replaced and this attrition contributed to the decision not to retain the discrete elements of aircrews.  A B17 required the hands and minds of ten men; ten men were provided.  Neither the plane nor the mission needed anything else.  This is the main reason I don’t remember the names of the crews I served with, advanced aging not withstanding!?

One of the aircraft I was assigned to was B17F #42-29636, (BK*F), “The Vanishing Virginian”.  Initially, it belonged to the 303rd Bombardment Group but was transferred to 384th and renamed “The Virgin”.  Upon returning from a mission we found a flak hole had deflowered the plane just over the letter “V”.  The name was changed to “X-Virgin”, which we all agreed was appropriate. 

I was at headquarters on special assignment in London when a mission was called for August 17, 1943 to Regensburg/Schweinfurt).  I returned to base, but another gunner replaced me on the “X-Virgin” and I drew another ship, a no-namer.  Ironically, I would have been one of the four that bailed out of the “X-Virgin” because they thought the aircraft was on fire.  The four became POWs.  The others, with the exception of one gunner killed, were alive and brought the aircraft home in a wheels-up landing!

We received a Distinguished Unit Citation for our raid on aircraft factories in central Germany on 11 January 1944 and took part in the heavy bombing campaign against the German aircraft industry during "Big Week" the following month.

On March 4, 1944, while we were flying a mission to Cologne, Germany, somebody yelled, "Duck!" and a 20-mm shell came through the right side of my turret and exploded out the left side.  If I had hadn’t moved and the shell had exploded while I was still occupying that space in the turret, I would not be putting this story together.  The shell bounced off my left upper humerus, smashing the bone but not breaking the arm!  The shell then traveled upward into the left gunner’s position, hit the barrel of his gun and exploded, killing him.  I still remember the dead waist gunner lying on the ammunition boxes with his chest blown away.  I remember the tail gunner bleeding all over everything.  A ground crew member, Cpl. Gordon Rhoem, reported that the ship had at least 100 bullet and flak holes.  I survived this soiree and returned to duty, as a warm body was needed to fill a turret.

On 24 April 1944 the unit received its second Distinguished Unit Citation when, crippled by heavy losses of aircraft and men due to almost overwhelming enemy opposition, the group led the attack against the Dornier-Werke G.m.b.H. and Factory Airfield at. 

The April 24, 1944 mission was my last as flak rearranged my ball turret for me and once again did extensive damage to my left arm.  I kept a bunch of first aid stuff with me in the turret in case I needed quick resolution in stopping the blood flow and the pain of a potential wound.  This kept me from bleeding to death.  The compresses and tourniquet I learned to use while in the Boy Scouts were the difference between life and death for me that day.

After being carefully removed from the aircraft after this, my 24th mission, I was sent to the 106TH Base Hospital where they repaired my arm; at least that’s what they told me they were going to do.  I received a semi-permanent upper body cast with my left arm pointing straight out, which was Hell on doorways!  I learned how to move certain muscles in my chest and back in order to relieve the itching of a full upper body cast.  I was to remain in this cast for many, many months.  It put a serious hold on my life, but my beer-drinking mastery increased proportionately.

Later I developed Osteomyelitis (the scourge of W.W.I) in my upper left humerus and was sent to the 30th General Hospital, Wales, to have my arm removed.  Fortunately, this did not happen due to the skill of the Chief Orthopedic Surgeon.  With a little Yankee ingenuity, the Chief Surgeon cut a hole in my cast, put a wire cage over the opening and threw a few hungry maggots into this opening, slammed down the cage, and voila; meal time.  Thus, began the 15-month saga of one sad GI in a body cast.  I had so many shots of the new antibiotic “penicillin” that my fanny looked like a screen door.

I must give dignity and substance to the photograph shown here by relating of one of the escapades wrought by this fearless foursome on the citizens and pubs of Ellsmere, Wales.  I was in a body cast; S/Sgt. Anderson, a radio gunner, had lost his lower left leg over Germany; and PFC. Louis Dunche, 82nd Airborne Division, 501st Regiment, had been shot in the left hand during his parachute landing in France on D Day.  PFC Dunce later went AWOL in order to rejoin his unit in France.  An Army nurse is pictured with us.

S/Sgt. Anderson was supposed to be in a wheel chair due to the severity of his wounds, but he wanted his picture taken standing up with crutches.  Therein lies a tale.  The three enlisted men proceeded to go to town (Ellsmere, Wales) a half a mile away from the hospital.  We had to cross over two stone hedges to get to the road by a crafty route; you see the town was off limits to hospital patients!

During this time, S/Sgt. Anderson had a catheter in place and it drained into a 1-gal jug located between his feet while he was in his chair.  During our beer run we took his bottle and another jug with us so we could fill the spare bottle with beer and bring it back to our bed ridden buddies.

With help from the nurse, we negotiated the two stone hedges with a quite bit of confusion but we finally made our way into town.  We had to put both bottles between Andy’s feet so as to hide the spare bottle from the MP’s.

We stopped at our favorite pub the “Three Cocks” and proceeded to quench our thirst in a most hearty-manly American fashion.  When the pub owner finally called, “time gentlemen, time” we staggered back into the night and, with the help of the nurse, once again crossed over the two stone hedges carrying Andy, his chair, and two bottles of liquid -- one filled with warm English beer and the other with the obvious.  When we got back to the hospital we, in our eternally confused state, couldn’t tell which bottle was which, both of them being warm, and we had no takers to sample and identify which one held the beer!  On subsequent trips, we labeled our extra jug with a sign “BEER”.

Once someone said, “it is a small world” and it was sure proven to me that it was when I went to the base NAFFI Red Cross hut and ran into two of my friends, the Egger twins, from my home town, Sacramento, CA.  We ran around together until the inevitable happened, they were shot down over Oschersleben, Germany on February 22, 1944.  We lost 4 aircraft that day, including B17 # 42-39809, SO-M (No Name).  The ball turret gunner was my friend, Richard Egger, his brother Robert Egger was tail gunner, and the Pilot-Captain was Raymond L. MacDonald.  Of the crew, 3 were KIA and 7 were POWs.  The Eggers were POW in Stalag 4.

I returned to the States on July 11, 1944 via Air Transport Command (C54) .  Our flight took us from Prestwick, Scotland, through Reykjavik, Iceland, and Gander, Newfoundland for refueling, on to Mitchell Field, New York and then to the Hammond General Hospital in Modesto, CA. near my home was in Sacramento, CA.

Four months later, on October 24, 1944, I was released from the hospital and went to AAF Redistribution Station No 3, Santa Monica, California.  I had twenty-some days of R & R living it up on the Santa Monica beaches,  and then on November 13, 1944, I arrived at the 461st AAFBU, Lemoore, California.  At Lemore, I learned how to pitch a tent, how to clean a carbine (even though I had a Sharpshooters badge for the carbine, submachine gun, and the rifle), how to salute an officer, how to shine my shoes, make my bunk, and other neat things that would make me a better soldier. 

On January, 1945, I was assigned to the Salinas Army Air Base, HQ San Francisco Fighter Wing (411th AAF Base Unit) 451st Air Sea Rescue Squadron H – Monterey, California.  I was outfitted with boat shoes, peacoat, blue dungarees and blouse, and a white hat.  Sewed my stripes on the blue blouse and confused the hell out of the MP’s as to what I was.

When I asked why I was assigned to Squadron H, I was told that because I had been a Quartermaster (equal to Eagle Scout) in the Sea Scouts they figured I knew how to handle small boats.  I didn’t tell them I could handle only whaleboats that were less than 22 feet.  Thereafter, I was assigned as Chief Quartermaster for one 104-foot and two 85-foot air-sea rescue boats.  Talk about the difference between a 22-foot whaleboat with a sail and an 85-foot boat with twin 24 cylinder Packard engines!?

In August 1945 piloted an 85-foot crash boat from Monterey to Fort Baker, under the San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge.  We were told that we were to be outfitted with armament and our mission was to supply the guerrillas off the China Coast.  Fortunately, the war ended while we were still on the way.

I was sent to Hamilton Field, CA and separated from the service with Medical discharge of 50% disability on September 22, 1945.  When I arrived home I went to work at McClellan Air Force Base and rediscovered a young prewar friend, Lois M. Dudley.  I married her on September 15, 1946.  We had three sons, Earl Jr., Tom, and David.

Last but not least was my recall to active duty-September 18, 1950 to February 28, 1951 - (Air Force Reserve recall during Korea).  I was discharged at McClellan Field, Sacramento, CA., on February 28, 1951. 

In August 1984, I retired from Lockheed Missiles and Space Co., Sunnyvale, California.

This is a moment in time, not a history book, but in an effort to make it accurate, I’ve tried to check my memory against the facts.  It is distressing for me to note how infrequently the facts concur with my memory of what happened.  I assume, in cases like this, that the facts are wrong.