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