This is a personal statement about my experiences over a two-day period in July, l944 in the skies over St. Lo, France. It is based solely on memory; I have not consulted any official records of 8th Air Force Group or Squadron that I flew with.

My crew trained at Pyote Air Force Base in the winter-spring of 1944. I vaguely recall that we picked up a new B-l7G in Grand Island (?), Nebraska, flying over Buffalo, New York - my hometown - to Goose Bay or Gander Field in Canada. We arrived safely in Northern Ireland after a terrifying dive of thousands of feet in the mid-Atlantic at night when the pilot was overcome by vertigo and several of our flight instruments failed. From there we went by train to a "repple-depple" and ultimately ended up at the 384th BG/546BS, probably in May l944. I have a clear and distinct memory of being afraid that we would be assigned to the l00th Bomb Group, a favorite target of the GAF.

The crew consisted of pilot Harlan Peck; co-pilot William Jennings; navigator Albert Bell; bombardier Jerry Twomey; tail gunner, Wallace F. Allen; engineer-left waist gunner George Hunter; ball turret gunner William F. Chapmon; radio operator Max Algase; and top-turret gunner Morris Sunshine, i.e., me. I cannot remember the name of the right waist gunner but I am reasonably certain that it was Frank Rancatore who later became the toggelier after bombing tactics changed and we began to drop on the lead bombardier's bombs. (Click here for a picture of some of the enlisted men in the crew.) The nose art on our B-l7 was simply “Peck's Bad Boys”.

As a new crew we had a lot to learn. The most important thing to remember was to keep quiet in the presence of real combat veterans. Strangely though, the 384/545 was almost totally destroyed on a mission to Schweinfurt in April, l944 - the target was ball bearings - I have no memory today of hearing about that awful mission. What I do recall hearing many bloody stories about is a 384th bombing raid on a place called Oberfpoppenhaffen where German planes were allegedly manufactured. I was 19 years old and I fervently hoped that we would never be sent to Oberwhatever. I also remember terrifying stories about "the Big Week", the Eighth's bombing offensive against German aircraft factories in January and February, l944. My morale was not improved by briefings on escape procedures either.

2. The War Situation: A Sergeant's Perspective

As best as I can recall, we flew our first mission about the third week in May. It became clear very quickly that the P-51 Mustang could keep the Luftwaffe at bay and that flak was the main threat. (For example, during my entire tour of 32 missions, I recall firing my guns once, when the 546th was attacked by a single Me410 which was promptly driven off by a pair of Mustangs. The target was an aircraft factory in Poznan, Poland.) The main topic of discussion was the invasion of Europe and many of our first missions were flown against targets in France.

For those of you who were there, I don't have to tell you about the huge excitement and hubba-hubba (remember that expression?) that exploded in the briefing room on June 6 even before the curtain was pulled away from the maps. And just like in the movies, the briefing officer said, "This is it!" Of course, the invasion was a success. But after a few weeks, when it became evident that the Allies were going to have a hard time breaking out of their beachhead and that France was not going to be magically liberated, our respect for the German infantry went up and our morale went down. We kept hearing a strange word over and over: hedgerows.

3. Missions to St. Lo

We know now that the Germans could never win the Normandy battle because we could bring in reinforcements and supplies and they could not because Allied air power had destroyed the Germans’ transport facilities. But the fact of Allied superiority meant that a breakout had to come soon. Hence, Gen. Omar Bradley's "Operation Cobra," a plan for Patton's armor to break out at St. Lo.

I remember July 24, l944 for a variety of reasons: first, we were being asked to directly intervene in a major ground offensive; second, the mission would be flown at a dangerously low altitude for slow-moving heavy bombers; third, the bombing had to be very precise lest we bomb our own troops; and lastly, it was my 20th birthday. I can still remember the huge groan of disbelief as we were told that the target would be bombed from l2,000 feet, an altitude so low that we would not need oxygen and the German flak gunners would not need gun sights. (Everybody had a huge respect for the German 88's.)

If memory serves, this was not the first time we had intervened in a major ground battle. As best as I can recall, we had flown a bombing mission for General Montgomery's British-Canadian forces trying to break out near Caen. But on that mission we bombed Caen from high altitude, as did the RAF. (It didn't work, hence the later attempt at St. Lo.)

That morning as I got to our B-17, I was not thinking about my birthday. I was trying, like everybody else, to find an extra flak suit to spread out around the base of my top turret. I think that our crew chief went through planes that were not flying that mission and came back with a few spares. They ended up laying in the waist walkway. It was a day for flak suits, flak helmets, and good luck charms. The only thing we had going for us was the hope that the bomber groups leading the way would take out the flak.

Of course, the mission on July 24th, l944 failed. We could not find the bomb line that separated friendly from enemy forces despite our low altitude, so our squadron brought its bombs home. We had never done that before and I know I was praying that a bomb would not break loose in the bomb bay as we touched down. Because we turned back before crossing the bomb line, I do not think that we caught much flak. It was a classic milk run as far as my crew was concerned. And we certainly hoped that General Bradley could get along without us in the future...a badly mistaken view.

On July 25th we learned that it was St. Lo, again at 12,000 feet. This time I was really worried. We had previously flown to Big B and I had seen lots of nasty flak: big black puffs with angry red-glowing centers following us closely as we dropped our bombs from 33,000 (repeat, 33,000) feet! And we were throwing out hundreds of bundles of chaff too. So the basis for "concern," i.e., fear, was there. If they were too close at 33,000 feet, think what could they do to you at l2,000! And this time we would not have the advantage of surprise.

The crew chiefs were all running around trying to find spare flak suits again. I should not be surprised if a couple of extra parachute chest packs were put aboard. As I looked at a B-17 crew nearby suiting up and getting ready to start engines, I did not see any brave men. I saw lots of guys hoping that someone would announce that the mission was scrubbed, permanently.

4. July 25: At the I.P.

I have no memories of taking off or crossing the British Channel. I do remember turning at the I.P. Our squadron was a bit spread out and the pilots were trying hard to get into close formation. As the top turret gunner, I was watching overhead to protect against falling bombs from friendly aircraft. The ball turret gunner was doing the same thing. The navigator and the toggelier were looking for markers indicating the bomb line. The bomb doors were open. We were flying the mission "as briefed," at about 12,000 feet.

As top turret gunner, I could not see the target area. Looking forward I could see the bomber groups queued up ahead of us. The flak was greeting them. It was not Berlin, Leipzig or Munich but there was enough to trigger the adrenaline and cause the heart beat rate to double, maybe triple.

About that time I heard the tail gunner, S/Sgt. Wally Allen, call out, "Flak! Behind us, and low." I swung my turret to six o'clock and looked. Black flak tracking us and getting closer. Allen said something again, I don't remember exactly what. The next burst was closer, still behind us but the flak's altitude was improving. Projecting where the next shell would burst, I was convinced that we were finished, dead. I keyed the mike and shouted, "Pull 'er up!" Naturally, as we were on the bomb run, there was no option to maneuver and we didn't.

The shell exploded with an audible noise behind and just below us. I was astonished to still be alive and that the plane was still flying. I don't know where the next flak burst went but I do remember the toggelier shouting "Bombs away." The formation seemed to loosen up and as we turned away from the target I looked down but could only see smoke and dust in the target area.

When we cleared the target area the navigator asked the crew to check in. There was no response from the tail gunner. The pilot ordered one of the waist gunners to investigate. I assumed it was merely some sort of intercom problem. But in a few minutes the waist gunner reported that Wally Allen had been fatally wounded.

As soon as we hit the Channel, the pilot got permission to break away from the Group and head straight to Grafton Underwood. I climbed out of my turret and went back to the waist. I thought that there might be some sort of mistake. The two waist gunners were sitting on the floor. I peered back into the tail and saw that Wally's parachute had been opened and used to cover his body. I asked George Hunter if he was sure that Allen was dead. He said that he was sure. He did not know where the flak had hit him but there was blood all over. There was nothing to be done, according to George.

I sat down on floor near the waist guns, stunned, refusing to believe that my best friend was dead. Death was something that happened to other people, in other planes, not here and not now. I don't remember what happened next. Maybe I was crying or shaking but I remember somebody putting an arm around me and offering me a cigarette. I was just twenty and it was the first cigarette I had ever smoked.

Months later, after completing my tour and returning to the States, I went to Traverse City, Michigan to see Wally Allen's family. We had made certain promises to each other, so I had to go. And I told his father and sister about what we did for General Bradley at St. Lo.

5. A Change of Scene

Sometime in l999, Wallace F. Allen's nephew telephoned me. When I found out who he was, I totally choked up and could hardly speak. He said he would call back in about a week. When he did, the same thing happened. So 55 years after the St. Lo mission, I had to "talk" about it by means of e-mail and a computer keyboard.

In l995, I contracted tuberculosis. The doctor asked me if I was a smoker. I said I had quit years ago. He asked me when I first started smoking and added somewhat sympathetically, it was okay to make a reasonable guess. I said, "I know exactly when I started smoking: it was July 25, l944." He looked at me in amazement. "How do you know that?" I replied, "That was the day we bombed St. Lo." Still amazed, he said, "Where is St. Lo?"

In an e-mail to Carol Schafer, WebSite owner, on 25 September 2000, Morris Sunshine made these comments and gave permission to use them here:

“The Eighth did bomb our own troops at St. Lo and in a revised version of Gen. Omar Bradley's authorized biography by Clay Blair, Gen. Bradley says that he had insisted that the track of the bombers parallel the line separating the Americans from the Germans. The Air Force wanted the bomber track to run perpendicular to that line. Both sides were arguing from the point of safety. Scholarly books written long after the bombing mission indicate that the Eighth Air Force did not want to do this mission because accuracy would require a very low bombing altitude, but Eisenhower had the authority to command all Allied Forces in Europe, so the mission went forward after all.

It's probable that many squadrons contributed to the "friendly" fire that killed so many U.S. troops. After the first bombs fell, smoke and dust obscured the pre-planned bomb line so the squadrons near the end of the bomber stream were forced to drop their bombs into the dust and just hope.

From the German side, General Bayerlein, who found the bombs and bomblets dropping on his troops, has provided the best description of what it's like to be on the receiving end. He said that we laid a "carpet" of bombs at St. Lo, that the landscape became a moonscape, that he lost communication with and control of his troops temporarily, and that there were many cases of hysteria among his less experienced troops.

The payoff, of course, was that Patton's Third Army, with hundreds of tanks, protected by a big fleet of 9th A.F. Thunderbolts and British Typhoons, was able to exploit "Operation Cobra," the break-out battle at St. Lo, to liberate central France. So, in the long run, thousands of Allied soldiers survived because Operation Cobra changed the battle from a bloody struggle for inches and feet to a mobile battle featuring advances of 50 miles per day.

In my opinion, the Eighth probably accomplished more at St. Lo in one or two missions than they did by radar-bombing heavily overcast German cities protected by many flak battalions at a significant human expense. The truth is that when a commanding general, say, Gen. Jimmy Doolittle, has 1000 heavy bombers and 5000 escort fighters at his disposal, he cannot tell his Commander-in-Chief that his force is just sitting around waiting for sunny weather over western Europe.”