Quiet Americans by Mike O'shea (about his father)

[Minstrel]

My G.I. Bill beginnings
by Mike O'shea


My Dad was a B-17 bomber pilot during World War II, but

he didn’t have to be. A “sole supporting son” after my

grandfather was killed in a work accident, my then 16-year-old

Dad dropped out of St. Joe’s Prep in Philly, went to work as an

elevator operator to feed his family during the Depression, and

later joined the Army Air Corps. He graduated flight school as a

single engine pilot. He ended up a POW.

I remember years ago, after an award ceremony, the junior

officers took him to lunch to ask combat flying questions.

They wanted to know where he went to college and

how he became the pilot of a four-engine, crew of

10, B-17 bomber. He answered, “I had never been

in a plane and only had two years of high school.

Flying experience or college was not required

back then. We were losing a lot of pilots.

I was breathing and willing.... I got to fly

a new B-17 around the field with an

instructor for a few hours, then they

assigned me nine crew members

arriving from different training

courses, pointed us all East, and sent

us off to war. I scared myself and the

crew on our first few landings for fuel as

we headed towards Europe.”

My Dad arrived in England and was

assigned to the Army’s 8th Air Force

92nd Bomb Group (Heavy)—the first B-17

group deployed to England, flying out of

Poddington. “The first thing they did was take our

brand new B-17 and give us a B-17 that looked like

hell. It was parts of about five different planes patched

together,” Dad remembered.

According to an article published in a Philadelphia paper,

Lt. Henry M. O’Shea wrote his mother that he and his crew had

arrived in England and had flown their first mission—failing to

mention that on the mission, the plane made it back to base with

two engines out and more than 500 bullet holes in the fuselage.

In the early part of the war, the B-17s flew daylight missions

without fighter cover and casualties were very high.

General Hap Arnold awarded Dad a Distinguished Flying

Cross (DFC) after his 15th mission, when he got his crew back

to base in a very damaged plane with wounded on board. Dad

also got to know Jimmy Stewart (who also flew bombers for

the 8th) on USO trips to London during the war. Dad said Jimmy

was the “real deal, a great pilot, and flew all the missions, not

just the easy ones.”

On February 25, 1944, my Dad flew his 24th and final

combat mission over Regensburg, Germany. His plane took

heavy fack, knocking out two engines and rupturing the

left-wing gas tank. The plane filled with high-octane gas.

Another shot-up B-17 falling out of the sky hit the plane. The

tail gunner section broke off—the unconscious gunner still

strapped in—and embedded itself into Dad’s plane. He hit the

alarm for his crew to bail out, but stayed at the controls until

the unconscious tail gunner finally came to, and then bailed

out—jumping so low he was badly injured. Captured and sent

to a hospital, his mother was notified that he was missing in

action—and presumed dead—because no one saw him bail

out of the burning plane. After six months of going to Mass

every morning and praying, a letter came from the Red Cross

telling her that her Henry was alive.

After medical care, Dad arrived in Stalag Luft 1 in

Barth, Germany. He played bridge and chess to pass

the time at the POW camp with other Army Air Corps

officers including Ross Greening (famous painter and Doolittle

Raider), John Morgan (Medal of Honor recipient), and Francis

Gabreski (leading European theater fighter ace with 28 kills).

On May 1, 1945, the camp was overrun by the advancing

Russians. The U.S. POWs were taken to a captured airfield, then

flown to France to board a ship headed back to the States in

order to transition to flying B-29s for the invasion of Japan. My

Dad said that every POW on deck was crying when they caught

the first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

After VJ Day my Dad was sent home and soon married

my Mom (an USNR Lt.). He went back to Drexel and Co. in

Philadelphia to see if he could get his old job back as an elevator

operator. The job was not available, but the boss upstairs wanted

to see him. My Dad said, “I walked in and the boss upstairs told

me that he had been a Colonel in the 8th Air Force during the

war, and that no highly decorated, combat-wounded 8th pilot

was going to run an elevator. He told me to take a two week

honeymoon with pay and then start training as a bond trader.”

Dad learned firsthand coming home and returning to civilian

life that it’s the unwritten law of the military—and one of the

great things about being an American—the military always

takes care of its own.

—Mike O’Shea is the fitness editor of Parade magazine and a member of the USO Board of Governors.

[fossis]

Great Story, we owe those guys & Gals so much, my Mother was a (Rosie The Riveter) in California during the war, refurbishing the planes that were all shot up, shes 90 years old now.

Fossis..............

[PICCman]

Touching story....thanks for sharing it with us!! i'l hold my head a little higher
having served!!!