Shattered Skies
US Bombing Raid over Germany
Reconstructed from letters to my grandmother...November 8, 1944
I didn’t mean to die. I, Joe, was too young, too handsome and too much liking life to die today. Hell, I’d only been doing these bombing runs for three months now and survived. The War Department hasn’t even recouped its investment in me for all that training before sending me over here to England last August.
Bad weather. The Recall message didn’t get relayed to our planes. We were first off, taking the lead some miles ahead before the rest wrestled to join the formation in the increasing haze, wind and rain. Without knowledge of the Recall, we didn’t turn around before encountering flak from our target, Merseberg. So, we dropped our load from the box formation and headed back to Glatton England across the North Sea.
Our planes were ghostly shadows in the darkening steel sky, but our Cap was terrific, holding our position in formation, flying to Glatton on the coordinates I’d given him. We were confident he would get us home through the muck. The rest of us waited quietly, passing time through the last hours of our eight-hour flight. As always, the drone of our B-17 engines blanketed the plane, making talk impossible without the intercom, but, for safety, radio silence was required. I was having some fun, light coding with my buddy, AJ, in a plane above and to the right of me, making plans for our ritual pub crawl that night.
Then it happened. We were hit.----------------------I should have been in the same plane with Joe that day, but I wasn’t. My gunner seat went to another guy because my back went out during the last mission. At the last minute I was able to join on another plane. I’d just made plans with Joe using good ol’ Morse light code, laughing that it was going to be a good night for gals, pals and pints. We deserved a bit of celebration. It was our 25th mission since August, most of them pretty rough; one putting 50 ack-ack holes in plane, another wounding two crew, and another having to limp home with only two of our engines. I’d turn my head back to my instruments when I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. Joe's plane, Arf & Arf, was hit, breaking in half behind the right wing. Within seconds, the two pieces spiraled down into the black sea, leaving nothing but an oil slick on the water. I didn’t see any parachutes.
I immediately yelled to our Captain. Our plane broke formation, diving down to the crash site, all of us looking for signs of life. Over the intercom someone said, “I think I see someone from the tail in the water. There’s a Mae West!” The co-plot jumped to SOS the Air Sea Rescue Service. I sprang from my seat to help throw life rafts as close as we could to the man floating in the water. If he was alive, there was a good chance he could crawl into one of the rafts and stay afloat until the rescue squad could reach him. After our third 360 degree run over the crash site, German shore batteries started popping at us. We had to leave, or we’d have ended up in the water as well.
Back at base, the commander told us, “Do not to talk about anything you saw or heard during the mission to anyone – not your buddies, other soldiers, friends or family. This mission and its details are classified. I’ve declared the Arf & Arf crew Missing in Action. This status will remain so until proven otherwise.”
Shocked by it all, I couldn’t speak or see straight. I’d just seen best buddy, Joe, disappear. I walked into the base hospital and didn’t come out for a week. My hands had to stop shaking before I could fly again.
December 8, 1944: It was a clear and crisp, December Sunday afternoon in Detroit, when Dorothy and her husband Joe Sr. answered the ring at the front door, thinking some friends had dropped by. But it wasn't friends. It was a delivery boy. Shyly, he thrust a Western Union telegram envelop into Joe's hands, then turned and scurried down the sidewalk like a rat deserting a ship. Carefully and slowly Joe fingered the the letter, breaking the seal to unlock the envelop contents. He read the words printed on white paper strips that were pasted to the oat colored paper.
Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Andrews, Sr: The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your son, 2nd Lt Joseph Andrews, Jr., was declared missing in action on November 8, 1944. Without evidence to his survival, by law, the presumptive date of his death for termination of pay and allowances will be set one year from this date. Letter follows. UL Adjutant General
Dorothy saw the blood drain from her husband's face. It was something horrible for this man to stand speechless before her. “What is it? What happened?” She grabbed the paper from his hands and read it herself. Angry pain shot through her body bringing water to her eyes and screams to her voice. She smashed the words, destroying the telegram in her clenched fists that beat against her husband’s chest. “No, No, No, No.” she screamed. Silently, he held her until she collapsed into his arms. John Jr. was their youngest son. Their beloved baby.
Tears fell down his face as Joe walked her to their bedroom and coaxed her down onto the bed. She shrunk in front of him as she curled her body into a fetal position. This strong, sturdy, in-charge woman had been reduced to a helpless child, sobbing until she exhausted herself into a fitful sleep. John Sr. stared blankly into the end of day nothingness.
It was dark when he rose and walked slowly, struggling with each step, as if he was twice his 50 years, into the hall entrance by the front door. He picked up the phone, dialed “0” and asked for Western Union. The telegram, sent that evening to his other son stationed somewhere on the ground in Europe, read,
Colin J Andrews: Joe Jr declared missing in action today. Can you come home? Love, Dad