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During Word War II, I was a chaplain to the 450th Bomb Group, 720th Squadron,
flying four engine Liberator bombers from near Manduria in soothern Italy.
One of my assignments was gathering, inspecting and eventually mailing home the
personal effects of airmen who had been shot down or were missing in action.
Another was to be the morale officer. But the airmen's schedules were so
crammed and rigid that is was difficult to have enough time to get to know
them.
Briefing for the day's mission took place in the war room at 2:30 a.m., three,
four or sometimes seven days a week. The briefings were usually very tense,
with life-and-death information the daily menu.
There was little time for the chaplain.
Take offs were generally about 5 a.m. Formation for the mission could take an
hour or more; by the time that the fliers returned to the base, they were
exhausted.
The first thing that they received on their return was their "shots" to help
quiet their nerves, especially if the mission had suffered great losses.
After a debriefing, they had dinner, leaving my visiting time to be hit-or-miss
calls in their tents between 7 and 8:30 p.m.
At the end of each mission, as the planes returned, I parked my jeep so I was
facing them as they landed. All I could do was wave as they came in, but they
knew I was there.
Most of the planes had names or paintings -- nose art, as it was called --on
them. I counted them as they landed, as a shepherd counts his returning sheep.
One afternoon, as I stood by my jeep waving, I noticed a couple of the planes
circling the airfield at about 1,000 feet. That meant trouble.
Suddenly a jeep raced up and the driver yelled, "The C.O. wants you in the
tower."
As I stepped into the tower, the commanding officer motioned me to his side. He
told me that there were wounded men on one of the planes and that the mechanism
that lifted the belly turret back into the plane had been shot away. The plane
had lost its hydraulic systems.
"There is about five minutes of gas, and the plane will then have to belly
land," I recall his saying. "The gunner in that turret cannot be saved. He is
aware of the situation and wants to talk with you."
The colonel then turned the microphone on and told the airmen, "Chaplain
Stevens is here. I'll give him the mike."
What happened next still moves me almost to tears to this day.
"Robertson" -- I do not use his real name because of his last request -- told
me that he was aware he was about to die. He wanted to thank everyone -- those
in the plane with him and in the tower -- for what they tried to do to save
him.
"Please don't tell my parents how I died," he said. "Pray for me."
I prayed with my eyes on the plane.
What I said to my God, I do not know. But at the last minute I turned my mike
off, and there was Robertson's voice, reciting the Lord's Prayer.
As I watched that plane drop the last few feet, I heard him say: "Thy kingdom
come, thy will be done."
And then the plane hit the ground, and the turret disappeared in a streak of
sparks.
A 1990 film, Memphis Belle, recounted a similar story. I have never seen the
movie. I don't want to because, I am sorry to say, I witnessed the real event.
Each year at the reunion of the 450th Bomb Group, I speak at the memorial and
worship services. Some of the men had heard me recount this story; a couple of
years ago, they asked me to tell it again.
When I finished, there were few dry eyes in the room.
Afterward, one of the men made his way to me.
"I was in that plane," he said. "We tried and tried to get that turret up and
could not. All through the years, I have suddenly remembered that event,
started crying and have never been able to tell anyone why."
I understand the feeling, for it is one I share each tie I am reminded of
aerial combat.
I collected Robertson's personal effects and sent them to his parents, along
with a letter telling them that he bravely died serving his country.
They never knew just how brave he really was.
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Choir Practice 1944
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Easter Service 1944
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Story submitted by Alice and Doid Raab, Pictures submitted by David Hill
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