How a B-17 Bomber Became More Than an Airplane to Me.

"Aluminum Overcast" a B-17G  built in May of 1945. She never saw combat, but still served in various capacities for over a decade.

 I've loved aircraft of all types for as long as I can remember. Since I'm a “Baby Boomer”, and the son of a World War 2 Army Air Corps veteran, the “war birds” of that era were especially appealing to me. Among my favorites of the many models hanging from my bedroom ceiling and scattered about shelves and desktops was the the B-17, the redoubtable “Flying Fortress” that is almost synonymous with the idea of American Air Power during the war.

What added to that plane's allure, perhaps, was that my father flew in one during the war as a radio operator (also on a B-29 later in the war). He didn't talk a lot about the war, and I remember only once that he talked about being shot down over the Pacific. He and the rest of the survivors spent a couple of days floating in life rafts until a Catalina flying boat picked them up. He said his most vivid memory of that was the smell of burning flesh. I was young, and after I wrinkled my nose as I realized the implications of that, he changed the subject.

My affection for the Flying Fortress has led me to spend extra moments viewing them in museums, and greatly enjoying the time I saw one in flight at an air show. But I never had the chance to actually board one until recently, when the “Aluminum Overcast” came to Cedar Rapids for a 3 day event, featuring both flight opportunities and ground tours. I couldn't afford the flight, but I was bound and determined to make the most of the ground tour.

At age 58, I still felt like a kid going to a carnival as I walked into the hangar with the “Aluminum Overcast” parked about 100 yards away. Capturing photos that showed the marvel of this piece of history was a given, but I had a deeper, more personal goal in mind for this tour. I wanted to sit in the radio operator's seat, and by doing so connect in a way with my father who's been dead nearly 20 years.

Imagine the outrage of some if planes today had this sort of nose art on them.

I did a walk-around, taking a lot of photos but also stopping to just look, and feel. Something about standing under the wing and running my hand across the surface, empathetically sensing the history behind this particular aircraft, and B-17s in general, was life-affirming for me. It offered a solid reminder of what those who fought in World War 2 went through, and why they offered to make the ultimate sacrifice. History has always been a love of mine, and a tangible piece of history like the “Aluminum Overcast” all the more so.

The bombadier's position in the nose, the famous Norden bombsight and the chin turret with 2 .50 caliber machine guns that made the "G" model B-17 unique. This brought the total number of guns on the plane to 13.

My plan, after thoroughly exploring the exterior, was to climb up through the front hatch into the cockpit. That's when I discovered that a middle aged, 300 lbs man with bad knees isn't meant to board a bomber through a hatch and compartment meant for fit young men who averaged about 5' 9” in height and around 150 lbs in weight. It took some twisting and contorting, but I made it. Whew!

“Ya know, in the movies, it looks much bigger than it really is!”

The pilot's position. Notice the modern avionics and headset. This is required to make the plan compatible with modern FAA requirements, as well as simply making the plane safer and easier to fly.

I sat on a bench behind the pilot's seat, taking photos and watching people come up the way I'd come, then continue aft via the catwalk through the bomb bay. Seeing a guy about 150 lbs lighter than me have to squeeze between the struts supporting the catwalk brought me to the realization that I was not going to be taking that route to the aft compartments.

Getting out of the cockpit and through the forward hatch proved easier once I decided to put my camera back in my bag and take the bag off my shoulder.

As if things weren't tight enough up front, this is the ball turret. Ball turret gunners were always the smallest men in the crew, usually shorter than 5'4", and even then it was a tight fight. The gunner had to look through his legs to target enemy aircraft.

Entering through the aft hatch was a snap compared to my adventure forward. I took my time taking photos and examining various details of the interior. I noticed just how thin the control cables actually are. How the plane would rock when the wind gusted. How it creaked with each footstep. Flying in a B-17 must have been daunting enough without the prospect of going into combat.

Looking forward from the aft hatch. The seats are remarkably similar to the ones in the C-130s and Chinook helicopters I flew in on airborne ops. In fact, the interior of "Aluminum Overcast" reminded me of the interior of a Chinook.

As other visitors moved on, I worked my way forward to the compartment where the radio operator sat. I looked at the position and imagined my father sitting there. Then I sat in the chair and just closed my eyes for a moment.

Connection.

The radio operator's position. I sat there and tried to imagine how my father felt on the long flights over the Pacific Ocean from various airbases on small islands to Japanese held islands that were the targets of their missions.

It dawned on me that, since I'd been a Communications Specialist in US Army Special Forces, I had more in common with my father than I'd previously considered. That thought had never occurred to me until that moment, as I sat there in the position he once occupied in a different plan, looking at equipment that, even though it was outdated, I recognized how to operate. Though my father has been dead nearly 20 years, at that moment he became more alive to me than he had since he passed away.

While the radio set itself is quite different from the one I used when I was in Special Forces, the headphones and Morse Code key are very similar.

I exited the plane with a range of emotions and thoughts that I am still processing. My father's time in the war is now a bit more real to me. With that is the realization that he was part of a crew that killed people, because that is what the B-17 was meant to do. It was a weapon, designed to kill people on the ground and in the air (defensively).

The primary purpose of the B-17 was to drop bombs on the enemy. These bombs in the starboard section of the bomb bay are dummy bombs, and each bears the name of someone who worked on restoring "Aluminum Outcast".

While “Aluminum Overcast” never saw combat (it was built in May 1945 and so only saw use in non-combat roles) the planes my father flew in did. He was there as bombs were dropped on Japanese positions. He fired a .50 caliber machine gun at Japanese planes that attacked his aircraft. Even if he didn't shoot down any planes, he was still party to dropping bombs.

Do I fault him for that? Of course not. My words about the B-17 being a weapon aren't meant as criticism of the brave men who manned them during the war. They are meant to reflect my growing sense of disappointment with my own species, my fellow Homo Sapiens who are so devoted to killing one another that we design aircraft as magnificent as the B-17 to accomplish that task.

I also question my own life-long love of “war birds”. I consider the disconnect involved in feeling such an admiration and affection for a plane like the B-17, even though its express purpose is to end the life of other human beings. Why do I still not feel what I think should be adequate repugnance at the idea?

Perhaps the answer lies, in part, with my own mind set from having served in the Army. Those who fight the wars seldom start them, or even want to be fighting them. They do what they do because they feel it's the right thing to do, and often it boils down to trying to stay alive and preserve the lives of their comrades, such as the crew of a single B-17. When leaders refuse to prefer peace to conflict, often those who are willing fight are left with no choice but to do so.

I would that we could relegate every weapon of war ever made to museum pieces meant to remind us of a period of species wide insanity that we finally outgrew.

I realize that my love of planes like the B-17 has matured from a childhood fascination bathed in ignorance of just how heinous war is, to an understanding that these machines, these magnificent flying weapons, embody the virtues of those who are willing to fight, and die, for their loved ones back home. My father never wanted to kill anyone, but he was willing to in order to keep those he loved from being killed. Somehow, after touring “Aluminum Outcast” and sitting in the position my father once sat in on a plane long since gone, I understand a little better who he was.