The Bomber Boys

Table of Contents

 

 

 

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Copyright © Travis L. Ayres, 2005

eISBN : 978-1-101-14536-4

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Acknowledgments

At first reluctant to talk about their experiences and even more reluctant to have the word
hero
applied to them, Anthony Teta, Peter Scott (Seniawsky), Art Frechette, George Ahern and Bob Valliere offered their time, their memories and their patience to the author. Without the contribution of any of these five men,
The Bomber Boys
would be an incomplete work. I have thanked them many times during this project, and I thank them again.

John Conners was an early inspiration for this book, and his wife, Helen, was gracious and helpful. Former B-17 airmen Charles Armstrong, Jerry Chart, John Cuffman, Philip Duke, William “Jack” Ferguson, Charles Lyon, Frank Pogorzelski, Paul Spodar and Michael Swana were as open and cooperative as the original five Bomber Boys. Most of them I only met by telephone—a situation I deeply regret.

Tom Ayres was the most talented writer I have ever personally known. He was also my writing coach, my brother and my best friend. His feedback and encouragement during this project was very helpful and greatly appreciated.

Jim Donovan is a great agent. Every author should have an editor as easy to work with as Brent Howard at NAL Caliber.

Special thanks to my wife, Elizabeth, and my daughters, Alissa and Tina. Each of them inspires me in their own way.

Introduction

In 1996 my wife and I were renting a house on a small horse ranch in Connecticut’s Totoket Valley. Our landlord was an outgoing and energetic gentleman named Anthony Teta. His friends called him Tony.

Tony was twenty-five years older than myself, but we soon discovered we shared many common interests and we became quick friends. Because of Tony’s youthful appearance and seemingly boundless energy, I never even thought of him as being part of the World War II generation. He certainly never approached the subject.

One afternoon as we drank iced tea on his patio, I happened to mention a television program I had seen about the Eighth Air Force and its operations during the Second World War. I was surprised when Tony said:

“Yeah, I was in the Eighth.”

“You were? What did you do?”

“I was a navigator on a B-17 with the 305th Bomb Group,” Tony replied casually.

“How many missions did you fly?” I asked, sensing a story.

“Thirty-five missions.” He said it in the same even tone with which he might have asked, “Do you want more tea?”

I asked more questions, but Tony changed the subject, saying, “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember many specifics.”

Out of respect for my new friend, I let the matter drop, but
over the next few weeks it kept running through my head—thirty-five missions. There had to be some interesting stories in Anthony Teta’s World War II days.

The idea of a book on the men of the U.S. Army Air Force was not yet part of my thinking. I was already too busy writing a book about my great-grandfather, who had been a Confederate soldier at the battles of Shiloh and Stones River.

Still, I immediately felt a connection between my Civil War ancestor and the former World War II airman. For the past two years I had worked tirelessly trying to uncover every small scrap of information available about the old Confederate. Now, here, living right next door, was a living example of the kind of men who had helped win America’s other great war.

Later, Tony introduced his friend John Conners to me with the comment, “John was also in the 305th.”

“You two served together?” I asked.

“No, I was there a year or so before Tony,” Conners said. My interest had just doubled.

“You know, I would love to sit down with you both and talk about your experiences,” I said.

“We’re going to a meeting of Army Air Force veterans in Cheshire this Tuesday. You’re welcome to come along,” Tony offered.

“We can talk a little on the drive there,” John seconded the invitation. I gladly accepted. In fact, I would accompany the two 305th veterans to many of the monthly meetings of the Army Air Force Roundtable of Connecticut, in Cheshire, and occasional meetings of Connecticut’s Eighth Air Force Historical Society, in Hamden, during the coming months. Soon, I was on a first-name basis with several other former B-17 airmen. As these men began to realize my interest in their past was sincere, most of them began to open up—sharing a story here and there.

I liked it best when I could sit with two or three of the
veterans at once. On those occasions, I would simply listen as the airmen became lost in their own conversations about the war. Sometimes, for a second or two as I watched Tony Teta describing a particularly vivid incident, I could almost catch a glimpse of the nineteen-year-old navigation officer he had been during World War II.

For a history buff like me, it was heaven. It reminded me of what the great Civil War historian, Bruce Catton, had once written about his boyhood. As a youngster, Catton had sat listening as the old Union veterans of his hometown had told their war stories. Those early encounters had remained precious to Catton decades later, even after he had written his Pulitzer Prize-winning Civil War classic,
A Stillness at Appomattox.

As I listened to the former B-17 airmen, I had no illusions of becoming another Bruce Catton, but I did know the makings of a good book when I heard them. I also knew I should arrange real interviews with the veterans, and I fully intended to do so, when time allowed.

A couple of years went by. My Civil War book was finished. I still visited with my airmen friends, but other projects kept popping up. Then one day in 1998 the phone rang. It was Tony Teta. He told me that John Conners had died.

The passing of John Conners was a cold reminder to me that if the wartime experiences of these former air combat veterans were going to be documented, someone had better get started. Like Catton’s old Civil War vets, the Bomber Boys would be gone too soon.

As much as I knew I would enjoy conducting the interviews, I also knew the process would be time-consuming. Surely I would have to interview perhaps twenty veteran airmen to find five compelling stories to fill a book. To my surprise, my first five interviews provided the remarkable stories that make up
The Bomber Boys.
Granted, I sought out two of the five, when other veterans
told me, “You have to talk to Peter Scott and Art Frechette.” Their stories are truly unique.

All five of my subjects (and the late John Conners) knew each other at least casually through their involvement with one or both of the aforementioned air-veteran organizations. Three of the Bomber Boys are close friends. None of them knew each other during the war. Like many American World War II combat veterans, they are modest men. For most of their postwar years they kept their memories of the missions over enemy territory to themselves, or tried to forget those missions altogether. Friends, coworkers and even wives (sometimes especially wives) received only scant information if they asked about the war. Often the wives were grateful to be excluded from this part of their husbands’ lives. When a woman watches her spouse entangled in a violent nightmare flashback, she quickly concludes she would rather not know the details of the dream. So these men put the war years behind them and became productive, hardworking citizens, good fathers and then grandfathers.

In their late sixties or early seventies, as careers came to an end, the former airmen found themselves drawn to their own kind. Anthony Teta first met John Conners in a restaurant where they discovered their 305th connection. The Cheshire Roundtable and the Eighth Air Force Historical Society were comfortable fraternities where the Bomber Boys could share the company of others who had “been there.” This is not to say they went to the meetings to talk about their own experiences. To my knowledge, of the five, only Art Frechette was ever a featured speaker at any of these gatherings (prior to my interviews with them), and his wartime experiences were so incredible he could hardly have avoided the limelight.

Tony Teta, Art Frechette, George Ahern and Bob Valliere were regulars at the meetings but seemed content to listen to others tell their stories. Peter Scott was the most reserved of all. Long after
I had convinced the other four to allow me to interview them, Peter remained reluctant. Finally he just said, “No.”

Somehow, I sensed that Peter really wanted and needed to tell his story but he just was not sure about me. In a last-ditch effort, I made a promise: “Peter, if you let me include your story in the book—I’ll do my very best to get it right.” There was a long pause, and then he said, “Okay, let’s do it.”