It was the middle of December in 1944 and the weather over Europe and England had been the worst in memory. Fog, rain and heavy overcast had shrouded the continent for many days. The Germans had broken through the Allied lines at the 'Bulge', fighting was heavy at Malmedy, and German tanks and troops were moving toward Antwerp unobstructed by fighters or bombers.

The Allied Air Forces had been grounded by the terrible weather for almost a week. It was a frustrating period. The Eighth Air Force had been grounded at a time when the fate of the Allied invasion of the continent was at stake. Then, on December 23, we were alerted that the weather was expected to clear the next day. In anticipation of clear weather the Air Force Command ordered a 'maximum effort' for Christmas eve. A 'maximum effort' required that every available bomber in England was to be loaded with fuel, ammunition, and bombs and was to proceed to a designated target on the continent.
According to official records of the Eighth Bomber Command, this December 24th raid was the largest air strike of WWII with 2034 bombers and 853 fighters.
Until this mission the largest number of planes that had flown on a single mission from Glatton was 36. On this date the 457th Bomb Group was prepared to put up 45 planes.

We were awakened very early on the morning of the 24th and through the darkness before dawn we could see that the weather was anything but clear. A cold rain mixed with snow was falling through a light fog. We could anticipate that by dawn this fog would become very dense......similar to others fogs that were familiar to those of us who had spent the past few months in England. Walking toward the ready room, hardly able to see 10 feet ahead, we fully expected there would be no mission on this day. Instead, our flight positions were assigned, the target described, and the briefing proceeded in the usual manner. The target for the 457th was to be Koblentz, Germany -- a rail intersection that was very important for marshaling trains supplying German troops that were fighting in the Bulge.

As we proceeded through the fog by truck to our plane, loaded with flight gear, maps, flak vests, etc., we still fully expected a stand down. In violation of the order to maintain radio silence, the signal to taxi came by radio instead of by flare. The fog was too thick for us to be able to see the usual flares. As we taxied out, nose-to-tail, it was impossible to see anything except the plane that we were following. Takeoff was delayed again and again and it was nearing 10:00 AM when the word came by radio to commence takeoff.

We had been flying squadron, group, and deputy leads for the past 10 missions. It was the usual procedure to have the lead ships takeoff before any of the rest. Each of the lead ships carried radar units (sometimes referred to as a 'Mickey' unit.) that replaced the ball turret. We were the sixth plane in order of takeoff.
The other five lead planes ahead of us roared down the runway and were swallowed up in the fog before they had gone a hundred feet. When our turn came, we pulled out into position for takeoff and lined up on the runway centerline marker -- we were unable to see the edges of the runway through the fog. The usual method of visually releasing a plane for takeoff was by flashing a green light from a small portable trailer stationed very near the edge of the runway at the point where we started our takeoff. We could not see the trailer through the fog.

A green light appeared from nowhere out of the fog. Did they really intend for us to takeoff under these conditions with a full fuel and bomb load? I called the tower to confirm (breaking radio silence) and told them I could not see the edge of the runway and could could not reliably set my gyro compass. The response was "line up using your magnetic compass."
Well, we had practiced this in training but always considered it somewhat of a gruesome joke. For those of you familiar with a magnetic compass you know that it's like a cork in water and at best "comes close." True to our training, we did as we were ordered. We lined up magnetically and set the gyro as best we could. We locked the tail wheel, lowered the flaps to about half, set the turbo, checked the compass one last time and gave it full throttle - holding on the brakes as long as we could. Then we released and we were on our way.

Under these circumstances it was standard procedure for the bombardier to try to guide the pilot down the runway since the bombardier had the best view of the runway ahead. I listened intently for his familiar voice but heard nothing until -- "We're going off." To me that meant he could see the edge of the runway and that we were about to leave the paved surface and encroach on the soft muddy grass field. I could not correct direction because I did not know whether we were going off to the left of to the right. If we left the runway, and the wheels were to dig into the mud at that speed, we were sure to nose over, and, with a full gas and bomb load we could expect a quick end to our tour.

A quick glimpse at the airspeed indicator showed our ground speed slightly over 70 mph (90 mph is considered stalling speed). At this point I made the decision that we had no choice but to attempt to get airborne. With one quick motion and without taking my eyes off the instruments, I reached for the turbocharger and turned it clockwise as far as it would go. The engines literally screamed as the extra manifold pressure was applied to them.
We had been cautioned never to go to maximum manifold pressure except in extreme emergencies since this could easily blow a cylinder with ensuing disastrous consequences. Fortunately, that did not happen on this occasion. I pulled the stick back and it came quickly into my lap with almost no resistance at all..

As we slowly mushed off the runway at about 80 mph my mind flashed to the muddy field approaching and thoughts of the consequences if we could not stay airborne. At that instant we hit the soft earth - but with one bounce were again airborne. We raised our landing gear and began to pick up speed, flying completely on instruments. We seemed lost in a sea of fog for about 2 minutes more and then suddenly broke through the fog at about 200 feet. Only a pilot who has experienced the thrill of suddenly breaking from a cloud into the clear atmosphere and blue sky can possibly know the feeling -- and especially under these circumstances.

The fog lay like a blanket over England as far as one could see and above the fog was a crystal clear blue sky -- beautiful flying weather. We had survived a takeoff that none of us would ever forget. Most of the members of our crew were unaware of how close we came to ending our tour - not over Germany, but on our home field.
As we began to climb above the fog, the waist gunner called on the intercom and noted that smoke was spiraling up from just under the area that we had broken through the fog. The ship that took off directly ahead of us had crashed.

We received word by radio from our field that all flights were scrubbed and no more planes would take off until the weather had cleared. The book "Fait Accompli", a history of the 457th, states that the last plane to take off crashed but it was actually the plane ahead of us. We were the last to take off.
Here we were, five lead ships with no ball turret guns, representing the 457th bomb group, circling and climbing into formation. Orders came from the ground to "Proceed on the mission as scheduled". Six ball turret-less bombers on to Germany. Our group was apparently the only group assigned to bomb Koblenz, so, in keeping with the traditions of the Eighth, we carried on.

Hours later, with hundreds of planes in the bomber stream around us, we left the Division formation and turned toward our target. Noting our vulnerability, the group commander contacted fighter support and five P51's appeared just above our small formation criss-crossing over us. What a great sight to see our "Little Friends" giving us a personal escort.
On our approach to Koblenz we were spotted by a single Me-262 twin engine jet fighter. It was our first view of the new German jet. The pilot of the jet managed to stay just out of range of our 50 caliber guns, and, for the next 30 minutes, made numerous passes at us firing his 30 mm cannon shells into our formation.
It appeared he was trying to draw off the fighters. The P-51's, wise to this maneuver, would chase him for a mile or two and then return to escort us. None of our planes were lost.
Except for moderate flak at the target, the bomb run was uneventful. We later joined with another group and returned in loose formation to England.

Because we were so late getting started that morning, it was almost dark when we spotted the coast of England. To our dismay, the fog still covered our field and most of East Anglia. Radio reports told us that there were a few fields open east of London, so we proceeded to an English field near London and landed safely -- the only time we used our landing lights since joining the 8th Air Force.
Landing at this field was yet another unexpected experience. Hundreds of other B-17's and B-24's, like us, had been forced to land at this field because of the weather. The field was solid with planes. When we touched down in the darkness, we could see planes parked just off our wing tips on both sides the full length of the runway. Almost every square inch of that field was covered with planes. I thought at that moment what damage a few Luftwaffe bombers could have done had they known.

This was Christmas Eve, 1944. We were an American flight crew far from home on a strange British airfield -- but we were not alone.
I remember singing Christmas carols with hundreds of other crew members around a Christmas tree in the mess hall. We slept on the floor that night, weary from the day's adventures, and returned to Glatton on Christmas day.

This is my memory of a Christmas Eve in 1944.