The October sun is warm. The blue, cloudless sky, actually, is perfect.
The black tarmac under my sneakered feet supports interesting activity as a variety of unusual aircraft arrive and take off in preparation for tomorrow's 2010 Air Show at Virginia's Culpepper Regional Airport. Voices are soft against the erratic chugs, snorts, and explosions of powerful engines as they bunch their muscles for flight.
And there she is. My goal. My focus. At the far end of this stretched out tarmac, all by her self, stands my B-25-J bomber. There is Corsica. There is the 340th Bomb Group. I feel the thrill manifesting on my skin as I stop and draw in the breath of one seeing such a long time and seldom visited dearest of friends. Hello, again, plane.
This North American B-25 was one of the most famous twin-engine bombers used during WWII. It was the single most heavily armed aircraft, some versions carrying as many as eighteen .50 caliber machine guns. This Mitchell bomber was named after the outspoken Gen. Billy Mitchell, who proved once and for all that bombers could destroy targets and that wars would nevermore be decided only on land or sea. The world turned its eyes to this aircraft when, on April 18, 1942, sixteen land-based B-25 Mitchell bombers, under the command of Lt. Col. James Doolittle, were launched from the Navy aircraft carrier USS Hornet and attacked 5 Japanese cities in an unfathomable and daring raid that brought attacks to the Japanese homeland for the first time in 2600 years. The plans for this (later dubbed) “Jimmy Doolittle Raid” were so tightly guarded that the men who volunteered for this “dangerous secret mission” were not informed of a single detail until they found themselves aboard the carrier.
I had made arrangements with the owner of this particular aging but restored B-25-J for a flight. A flight! Understand, I feel I know this aircraft. I know countless stories, I have read extensively, I know my father's personal experiences and opinions; I have models, parts, pieces and a great variety of mementos from my father's belongings about the B-25 throughout my home. As an artist, I have drawn this plane, in detail, on any number of occasions for various reasons.
But today is different. In front of me is the final piece to my puzzle. Here is my ride. My experience. I move in, around and under this plane again and again. I settle into the pilot's seat, then the copilot's area. I stand behind those seats where the navigator with his array of papers and maps had stood. I peer down the lonely tunnel the bombardier had to travel to reach his so highly visible nose cone. This tunnel has to be traversed either on your stomach or on your back, pushing and pulling your body along as your shoulders slide along its walls and your face is inches from the ceiling. I make a few attempts to experience this, but claustrophobia keeps me from completing it. I could not have been a bombardier!
I peer out the upper turret gun position, and then step to the waist gunner's windows. Placing my hands on the gunner's two grips and trigger I dwell on the heavy, fierce roll of the gun belts before me, my mind full to bursting of images. Hunched over, I proceed toward the tail gunner's position. This, momentarily, is a questionable journey because that already snug interior gets progressively more confining. This one, fortunately, I am able to handle and can experience the isolated tail gunner's remoteness from his crewmates by both distance and his back-facing direction.
The hour arrives and I, with four other passengers, climb the small metal ladders under the plan's belly to board.
I have brought three “friends.” The first is my father's B-2 bomber jacket. As I slip it on, my hand goes to the right pocket to feel for the small box of NoDoz still resting there. Second, in the left pocket, I had placed his silver metal pilot's wings, and third, on my thumb sits his 1935 West Point ring. During the war the ruby was lost from that ring so Dad, temporarily, had substituted. He carved the end of his plastic red toothbrush handle for a totally acceptable replacement.
Earlier, the limited space of the aircraft had taken me a bit by surprise. A 6-foot-tall crewmember would have had to stoop to navigate. Bodies passing each other would require twisting and curling, with heavy combat boots vying for precious floor space.
I slide into my seat, tighten the harness with its unusual and now long-obsolete hooking system, and adjust my headset. I inhale the scent of oil, canvas, and metal. Preparation is under way.
Shortly those famous Wright R-2600-13 Double Cyclone fourteen-cylinder air-cooled radial twin engines turn over, and, with thunder and roar, breathe life. The plane rumbles and vibrates, demanding attention.
This is why I am here.
I can “see” George Wells. His hands are adjusting his headphone over his light hair, then gripping either side of the figure-8-type yoke as he settles into the plane's left first pilot's seat, readying for the designated mission. This one is not to be a “milk run.” To his right, like a hand in a glove, eases Fred Dyer as the Formation Commander. With calm deliberation he checks his instruments. He glances out the window, fingers absently touching his small dark moustache. Ruggedly handsome bombardier Vincent “Chief” Myers has removed his parachute, allowing his large shoulders to squeeze into the bombardier's area, and is now making adjustments to the precious Norden bombsight.
At takeoff the B-25 owns the runway with its powerfully increasing speed and screaming power, until it parts company with the earth into the now-welcoming and quiet skies. I see the turret gunner, the waist gunner, and the tail gunner as they are intently scrambling about in this cramped space and, once under way, occasionally firing short bursts to test their guns. There is a quiet tension and nervousness as these vital preparations are checked off. I can feel the anxious strain that permeates this B-25. But I can also feel the confidence of these men who, with amazing bravery, stepped up for us.
My ghost crew crosses over the pristine waters of the Mediterranean Sea to the Italian countryside so similar to the Virginia farmland now beneath us. I watch these long-ago warriors reach, then veer from, the IP and settle on that direct course to their target. Nerves strain to snapping as their path is locked into that three- to five-minute deadly and unswerving bomb run. “Bombs Away!” Then, in an instant, this aircraft is forced to perform to its utmost in evasive maneuvering, banking, climbing, dropping, and twisting to escape intense, accurate, and violent bursts of gunfire and splattered, razor-sharp chunks of jagged, ripping, slicing, metal flak. The fate of this B-25 and its crew is unknown for endless moments.
“I'm the bombardier,” Yossarian cried back at him. “I'm the bombardier. I'm all right.
“I'm all right.”