One Sunday, on our way home from church, Marin and I heard on the radio that a plane had crashed in a residential area of Denver. When we found the scene, the bodies had been removed and the fire was out. That the crash occurred on the only vacant lot in the neighborhood is a tribute to the skill and dedication of the pilot. They were in landing pattern and too low to bail out; all aboard perished. We lost three planes during our final training period at Lowry; the crash in Denver was from my squadron. It never entered my mind that this sort of thing could make my bride nervous . . . not 'til years later.
As a matter of fact, Marin started "sweating me out" practically from Day One. When the Group was placed on alert to ship out, Marin had to leave, but her anxious days were only beginning. She had no way of knowing where I was, or how I was, as we flew to Morrison Field to embark on our overseas junket. It is well that she didn't know that we were on enemy submarine alert the first day out. We had weather delays in South America and Africa along the way. Two planes were lost on the trip; one was shot down when it strayed too close to France. After we landed in Cornwall (Newquay) England, there was more weather delay before we reached our destination. I guess it was a long, anxious time until Marin learned that I survived the trip. I did wind up in the Base Hospital with suspected malaria, but that wasn't too bad, except that I missed my crew's first mission.
Then came four months of combat missions, about 24½ in all. Lots of headlines screaming of fifty planes being lost in one day . . . plenty to worry a young bride. On April 11, 1944, en route to a target deep into Germany, we encountered very intense anti-aircraft fire. I was manning the nose turret and saw flak exploding dead ahead of us at our level. Flying in formation, we could only proceed toward the flak; I knew we would be hit. What I didn't know was that we had already been badly hit and before we reached the area of my concern, the pilot ordered, "Bail out! Bail out!" I managed to extricate myself from the turret after seeing the navigator disappear through the nose wheel hatch. When I was clear of the turret, I picked up my parachute pack and snapped it onto my harness. It was then that I suddenly realized that no one ever instructed how to bail out! Do I go out feet first, or head first? It's a fairly small opening and I opted to sit on the edge and push off feet first. I stuck my feet into the hole and the wind yanked my feet out straight -- I was lucky that my boots weren't torn off!
It was then that I realized that I couldn't possibly get out. The example set by the navigator did not register. I got up and sat down upon the Sperry bombsight and wondered what I should do. Then the plane went into a shallow dive and picked up speed. The increase in air pressure collapsed the turret plexiglass and blew the turret door open. A gale was blowing through the nose! "Well," I said, "Marin would at least want me to try." I stood up and stepped up to the hole in the floor and that is all I remember. I don't know whether it was God's hand, or Marin's, that pushed me out of that burning airplane. (I doubt that I yelled "Geronimo!") In retrospect, I realize that I hit my head on the far side of the opening and knocked myself out.
When I came to, I realized that I was falling and should count to ten before pulling the ripcord. I counted to ten a second time, just to be sure, pulled the red D-handle and blacked out. Regaining consciousness, I found myself spinning like a top -- rather disconcerting! I looked up and saw the shroud lines were twisted together all the way up to the canopy. (I wonder why they're called shroud lines? That sounds a trifle ominous, as a shroud is what you're trying to avoid when you must use a parachute.)
I looked at my watch; it was 10:30. The float down was lovely, very quiet and serene. The view was great and there was no sensation of motion. But as I neared the ground, there seemed to be plenty of motion, as the ground came up to meet me! I landed, looked at my watch (10:35), took off my chute and was captured immediately. I still have my ripcord handle, even though it was twice taken from me.
Marin didn't know any of this, of course. I knew I was okay, but all she knew, later, was in a "regret to inform you that your husband is MIA" telegram and, still later, in a letter from Chaplain Gannon expressing sympathy and hope. It must have been a relief for her to subsequently learn that I was POW, but that's not overly reassuring. She had had enough to sweat out already, but it was thirteen trying months before VE Day and I wasn't home even then.
The purpose of this yarn is to explain why I took the steps necessary to have Marin Stoddard Day listed on the fuselage of All American, B-24 Liberator. It appears in the Distinguished Flying Command section on the right side of the plane toward the tail. She's in good company, being near several other members of the 446th Bomb Group, including my late crewman, George Bigelow, and Lee Toothman, the West Palm Beach dentist. Everyone will agree that the ladies at home who sweated us out really do deserve recognition!
The silvery skin of All American has become almost obscured by the names of many individuals, units and their aircraft names in acknowledgement of contributions to The Collings Foundation, Stow, Massachusetts, to help defray the great cost of the aircraft restoration to flying status. Each name recalls a story and is representative of many other now almost anonymous participants who served in the air, on the ground, or at home and made us all so proud!
She saved my life. She is my life. I belong to Her in Love forever.
