The Bomber Boys (21 page)

In the nose of the Fortress, Ferguson had given up on getting the bomb salvo switch to work and was unfastening a fire extinguisher. Art knew in his heart the bomb bay fire was far beyond control, but he reached to get the extinguisher from Ferguson anyway. The bomber lurched suddenly and began a sharp spiral ing descent that flung both the bombardier and navigator off their feet.

They were going down like a bath bubble goes down the drain when the plug is pulled. Art was sure they were all going to die if they did not bail out quickly. He was only two or three feet away from the escape door but the centrifugal force of the spinning aircraft would not allow him to reach the door’s handle.

This is it,
Art realized.
We’re going down and there is nothing I can do about it.

When the bomber exploded the young navigator did not hear a deafening noise. The sound was more of a
whoosh.
Then Art felt the concussion hit him in the stomach and he was gone—out of the airplane and out of the conscious world.

Lieutenant Herbert Heilbron was piloting a B-17 in the 352nd Bomb Squadron, which was flying somewhat behind and below the 419th formation. He saw Pearson’s bomber when it was hit by flak. Pearson and Heilbron were close friends, and the latter watched in horror as the crippled B-17 spiraled toward the Alps and then exploded. He immediately told his gunners, “Look for chutes!” No one spotted any.

Crewmen aboard other 419th bombers also strained their eyes, hoping to identify a parachute against the snowy white backdrop of the mountains. At the end of the mission, they would report to the interrogation officers that sadly no parachutes were seen emerging from Pearson’s dying Fortress. Some had witnessed the disturbing sight of the bomber being ripped apart by a fiery explosion—a wing breaking off—but no sign of chutes.

Incredibly, five of the airmen who had been blown out of Pearson’s bomber managed to awaken in time to pull their ripcords. All five of the parachutes opened properly. A sixth survivor was not as lucky. Art Frechette was alive but unconscious, and he was falling just as fast as any of the inanimate debris that had once been part of the B-17.

Like Art, Lyle Pearson had been rendered unconscious by the blast, but the pilot had regained consciousness seconds later. “
Oh my God, I’m still alive!”

He pulled his ripcord and felt the reassuring jolt of the white silk catching the wind. Above him, he could see the rest of the bombers in his group flying on to their target. Something else was also above him and it was coming closer.

By the time Pearson had identified the falling object as a large portion of one of his B-17’s wings, it was almost on top of him. He jerked at the parachute lines hoping by some miracle to steer out of the wing’s path. The wreckage sailed past, missing him by no more than fifty feet. A small piece of trailing debris hit the top of Pearson’s parachute, then slid away harmlessly.

Art Frechette would never know just how far he fell before he woke up. The bomber formation had started its bomb run at twenty-five thousand feet. The falling B-17 had most likely blown apart somewhere between fifteen thousand and twenty thousand feet. Art certainly had no time to consider such calculations when he woke up in midair. He was bleary but recovered quickly as information raced through his mind almost quicker than he could process it:
I’m alive! Colors . . . white and geen. The mountains! The Alps. So close! My chute is not open!
The last thought shocked Art fully awake. His right hand grabbed for his ripcord. His fingers touched the metal ring . . . and gripped it. But before he could pull the ring, Art Frechette slammed into a mountain.

The fallen navigator could not see a thing, but he could feel his body being tossed about. He was turning and rolling for what seemed like a long time and then nothing. The only sensation he was aware of was that he had stopped moving. He could not see anything, hear anything and strangest of all: He could not feel anything—not even pain.

So this is what death is like,
Art thought.
Not what I expected.
For a while he waited to see what would happen next. He faded in and out of consciousness. Time passed. He could not tell how long, robbed of all his senses. Slowly he began to feel something. The sensation intensified, especially on his face. He was cold.

He could feel his face.
I’m not dead!
Art found he could wiggle around a little bit, even turn his head. Then he realized, he was lying facedown in snow. With great effort, he was able to roll onto his back.

“How can I still be alive?” he muttered. “Must have pulled the ripcord somehow. The chute must have slowed me a little.” He raised his head slightly and could see his right hand still clenched around the ripcord ring. His parachute, he realized, was still unopened.

Overhead, Art spotted B-17s flying in formation in a sharp blue sky. It told him only minutes had elapsed since his impact with the mountain. He had not been certain before if he had been down for minutes or hours. Now he began to take an inventory of his body. He had no use of his right arm. There was no pain in the arm, but he could not move it. Both of his legs also seemed useless.

His feet felt colder than any part of his body, and when he looked, both of his boots were missing. The glove that had been on his left hand was gone. The exposed extremities soon began
to ache from the cold. Art used his left arm to get into a sitting position and in doing so, he began to feel some pain coming on. He remembered the morphine in his first aid kit but quickly dismissed the idea of giving himself a shot. Morphine would make him sleepy and he could not afford that.

Would someone come looking for him? He assumed German soldiers were already searching. The Germans would want to round up the survivors as quickly as possible.
Survivors?
Art wondered how many of the guys had made it out. He could not be the only one. Then again, maybe he could be. The B-17 had exploded so suddenly. Could any of them have managed to bail out?

Art looked around, hoping to spot someone, even an enemy soldier. There was nobody in sight. Looking at the surrounding terrain, he began to envision how he had survived his terrible fall. He had landed on a steep mountain slope, packed with thick wet snow. As severe as the impact had been, it could have been worse. Striking the mountain at a bit of an angle, he had tumbled helplessly down the slope. If he had landed on flatter terrain, he would have almost certainly been killed instantly.

Art knew he might yet die there on the mountain. And if he did not die, there was a strong chance he could lose his feet or hands to the cold, unless he was discovered soon. He did another 360-degree survey of the area. He saw no one, but this time he spotted some smoke off in the distance. It was coming from somewhere down the mountain. He could not be sure how far away the smoke was, maybe a quarter of a mile.

Another painful effort to try standing proved hopeless, so Art began to wiggle and pull himself down the mountain slope, using his
good
left arm. His progress was frustratingly slow, but after a half hour or so, he reached a drop-off where he could go no farther. The first thing he saw down below was a little wooden hut. Smoke was coming from its small chimney. He guessed it
was a structure used by farmers during the summer, when they brought their cows up to graze in the mountain pastures. Why it would be occupied during the winter, Art was not certain. Perhaps a hunter was using it. It did not matter—someone was either in the hut or close by. Art’s spirit began to brighten.

Then the crippled airman spotted something off to the right of the hut—something that did not belong in the wintry Alpine scene. There in the little valley, little more than a hundred feet away from him, rested remains of his B-17 bomber. The airplane’s wings were missing, but otherwise the crumpled fuselage seemed fairly intact. The body of one of Art’s crewmates lay a few feet from the wreckage.

From where he was, there was no way for Art to identify the dead airman, nor could he tell if there were any other members of the crew on the other side of the bomber’s wreckage. He was exhausted from the crawl to the ledge but the pain in his feet and legs had mostly disappeared again. He knew this was a bad sign. Art drew on the little remaining energy he had left and began to yell.

Slow minutes, which seemed like hours, passed. Art’s attempt at yelling for help was slightly more than a whisper now. He saw someone coming toward him. It was a German soldier.

The soldier had been relieved from his duties at the antiaircraft battery to search for the
Luftgangsters
(air gangsters). He was sure there would be at least one dead body to retrieve, since he had watched one of the airmen falling through the sky without a parachute appearing. That could not be the man lying in the snow, who was in a bad way but obviously alive. The soldier pulled back the bolt of his rifle and pointed the weapon at the airman.

Art could not understand the German’s instructions but it was clear he wanted the American to stand up and come with him. Pointing to his legs, Art said, “
Kaput. Kaput.”
The soldier
understood. He disappeared but soon returned with a civilian. The two men placed Art on a homemade litter and then took him down to the little hut. The warmth of the hut’s small fireplace felt wonderful to the nearly frozen airman.

Not far away from the hut, Lyle Pearson was trudging through knee-deep snow. Even with a fully operative parachute, the pilot’s landing had been a rough one. His back and one knee were causing him pain, and his right arm was bruised and bloody. He had shoved his right hand inside his flight coveralls to protect it from the cold. Pearson had no specific destination in mind; he was simply working his way down the mountain in the hope of finding someplace warm.

No more than ten minutes after his landing, he heard a rifle shot. It was near him. Pearson turned and spotted two civilians—an old man and a boy. The man had a rifle aimed in his direction.

“Italiano?”
the pilot asked hopefully.

“Nein. Deutsch!”
came the man’s reply.

Pearson knew better than to take any chances with an enemy civilian. He raised his left arm into the air in surrender, but as he attempted to remove his injured right hand from inside the chest area of his flight suit, he found the blood had dried and adhered to the fabric. When he began to use his left hand to free his right, the old man fired again. Pearson heard the bullet buzz past his ear. The bloody hand was free and both arms were quickly extended above his head. The old man’s perception that the American was trying to pull out a pistol had almost gotten the pilot killed.

Actually, Pearson
was
armed. He carried his regulation .45 automatic pistol in a shoulder holster underneath his flight suit. He wore the weapon on missions for only one reason—the holster and the metal of the .45 provided a little protection from a stray bit of flak striking him in the heart. He also carried a
bowie knife in his boot. Although the knife looked menacing, it was there mainly to cut parachutes lines, if necessary.

Pearson sensed movement behind him and turned to see a German soldier, who struck him hard on the side of the head with a rifle butt.

“Kaput?”
the German inquired as Pearson lay bleeding in the snow.

“Ja, ja,”
Pearson assured him.

The soldier helped the American to his feet and relieved him of the .45 automatic pistol. Then he found the bowie knife and flung it away. The German also tried to remove Pearson’s wedding ring from his left hand. The pilot balled the hand into a tight fist and pulled away, saying,
“Nein! Nein!”

The German clutched his rifle with both hands as the American braced himself for another blow. Instead, the enemy soldier waved the rifle barrel, indicating the American should head down the mountain.

 

 

 

Art Frechette was not allowed to enjoy the coziness of the hut for long. Soon he was placed in a toboggan-type sled for transport down the mountain. It was a thrilling ride. The civilian from the hut stood at the front of the sled and steered it with his feet. It quickly became apparent the driver was an expert at his task, as the sled sailed along at a fantastic speed. Several times, Art was certain they were about to slip over the edge of a cliff and plunge to their deaths, but the driver smoothly swung the sled back on course just in time.

Their destination was the antiaircraft battery that had been responsible for downing Art’s B-17. Two German soldiers carried him into a wooden building where he found a bittersweet surprise. Already in the room were his pilot, Lyle Pearson; the
copilot, Sam Wheeler; the bombardier, William “Jack” Ferguson; and the bomber’s tail gunner, Grant Dory.

The five airmen were not allowed much time for a reunion and were careful not to talk loud enough for their guards to overhear anything of importance. Art whispered that he had seen one dead crewmate next to the bomber’s wreckage. None of the others had seen any additional crew members. One dead for sure. Five of them at the antiaircraft battery. Four men unaccounted for.

Art looked at the bruised and bloody faces of his fellow prisoners.
What a miracle,
he thought, that any of them had survived when their airplane blew to pieces. It was unlikely that any of the others were still alive . . . yet hope was all any of them had now.

 

 

 

In reality, only one other member of Pearson’s crew was still alive, and he had so far evaded capture. Right waist gunner Charles Lyon had landed farther up the mountain than any of his crewmates. After a painful fall through the limbs of a tall pine, Lyon’s parachute had become entangled, leaving him hanging fifteen feet above the ground. Shock brought on temporary blindness. The airman fought off panic and soon his sight returned, allowing him to cut the parachute lines and drop into a cushion of deep snow.