A bomber flying with its tail practically torn off, connected only by a few wires and pieces of metal.
10 men who should have been dead.
A photograph that would defy the belief of any engineer.
This is the true story of the B7 All-American, the bomber that refused to die.
Stay until the end because what kept this plane in the air was not just engineering.
It was pure human will and a miracle that even enemy pilots witnessed in shock.
The Boeing B17 Flying Fortress was the backbone of the American Bomber Force during World War II.
With its four right cyclone engines capable of carrying over two tons of bombs and armed with 13 50 caliber machine guns, it was a formidable war machine.
But it wasn’t just firepower that made the B7 legendary.
It was its amazing ability to absorb catastrophic damage and still keep flying.
Pilots said it could return home even when it seemed impossible.
There were stories of B17s landing with destroyed engines, large holes in their wings, and completely malfunctioning systems.
The aircraft weighed over 15 tons empty and could reach 30 tons fully loaded.
It had a wingspan of over 30 m and required a crew of 10 highly trained men to operate it efficiently.
Each crew member had a crucial role.
Pilots who controlled this metallic beast.
Navigator who plotted the course over enemy territory.
Bombadier who ensured the accuracy of the attacks.
Flight engineer who monitored vital systems.
Radio operator who maintained communication with the base.
And five gunners who defended the aircraft from all directions.
Flying a B7 over enemy territory was one of the most dangerous tasks of the war.
The bombers flew in tight formations, relying on crossfire from their machine guns for mutual defense.
But this also meant they were constantly exposed to anti-aircraft fire and enemy fighters coming in in relentless waves.
The B17 number 41-24406 nicknamed AllAmerican was one of these aircraft manufactured at the Boeing plant in Seattle.
It had been assigned to the 97th Bombardment Group 414th Bombardment Squadron which operated from North Africa.
It arrived at the Biscra base in Algeria during Christmas 1942.
It was a relatively new plane, but it had already participated in several missions over access controlled territory.
Its crew had a growing confidence in the machine and in each other.
They knew that each mission could be their last, but they also believed that the All-American would always bring them back home.
No one imagined that this belief would be tested in a way that would challenge everything they knew about aviation.
The commanding pilot was Lieutenant Kendrick R.
Bragg Jr., a young man in his 20s with a natural talent for flying.
Bragg had grown up fascinated by aviation, dreaming of flying since childhood.
When the war began, he immediately enlisted in the Army Air Forces.
He was known for his composure under pressure.
While other pilots might panic when things got tough, Bragg kept a cool head and made rational decisions.
His superiors recognized this quickly and entrusted him with commanding a crew.
The co-pilot was Lieutenant Godfrey Bill Angel Jr., an equally competent pilot who perfectly complimented Bragg’s style.
Angel was more extroverted, always keeping the crew’s morale high with jokes and stories.
But when he was at the controls, he was completely professional and focused.
Navigator Harry C.
Nusil had the crucial responsibility of guiding the aircraft through hundreds of kilometers of enemy territory.
He constantly worked with maps, compass, and calculations, ensuring the plane remained on the correct course.
A navigational error could mean running out of fuel over the desert or flying directly into concentrated anti-aircraft defenses.
Ralph Burbridge was the bombadier responsible for the most critical part of the mission, ensuring the bombs hit their target.
He operated the Nordan bomb site, one of the most secret and advanced pieces of equipment in the war.
Capable of impressive precision when used correctly.
Flight engineer Joe C.
James knew every screw, every system of the B7.
He constantly monitored the engines, fuel consumption, hydraulic and electrical systems.
When something went wrong, he was the first to diagnose and if possible, fix the problem in mid-flight.
Paul A.
Galloway was the radio operator, maintaining vital contact with the base and other aircraft in the formation.
In enemy territory, the radio could reveal their position, so he operated cautiously, but his role was essential for coordination and emergencies.
The gunners were the aircraft’s defense.
Elton Cond in the vententral ball turret, Michael Zuk and others in the side positions and Sam T.
Sarpulus in the tail.
Sarpulus in particular had one of the most dangerous and solitary positions in the aircraft, isolated in the rear, watching for the most common approach of enemy fighters.
These men had trained together, flown together, faced enemy fire together.
They trusted each other with their lives.
And that trust was about to be tested in a way that no amount of training could have prepared them for.
February 1st, 1943 dawned clear over the Biskar base in Algeria.
It was a perfect day for bombing with excellent visibility and favorable weather conditions.
The mission for the day was to attack the German controlled port facilities in Tunis and Bazerte, Tunisia.
These ports were vital to the Axis war effort in North Africa.
Supplies, reinforcements, and equipment that sustained Raml’s forces flowed through them.
Destroying or damaging these facilities could significantly impact the enemy’s ability to continue fighting.
The mission briefing was straightforward.
The bombers would fly in close formation following a specific route to the target.
Strong resistance was expected both from anti-aircraft artillery and enemy fighters.
The Luftwaffa had become increasingly aggressive in its tactics, developing new methods of attack that tested the bombers’s defenses.
The crew of the All-American prepared their aircraft meticulously.
Every system was checked twice.
The bombs were carefully loaded.
The machine guns were tested and loaded with thousands of rounds.
Everyone knew that attention to detail before the mission could mean the difference between life and death.
When the signal came, the B17 engines roared to life one at a time.
The sound was deafening but reassuring.
It meant power.
It meant the machine was ready.
The planes taxied in sequence, forming a long line on the runway.
The takeoff was smooth.
The all-American climbed steadily, joining the formation with other bombers in the group.
They climbed to cruising altitude above 5,000 m where the air was thin and cold, but where they would also be relatively safe from much of the anti-aircraft fire.
The flight to the target took more than an hour.
Below the North African desert stretched in all directions, a vast expanse of sand and rock.
Occasionally, villages or oases appeared, small pockets of life in a hostile landscape.
As they approached Tunis, the tension increased.
The gunners maintained constant vigilance, scanning the sky for enemy fighters.
The navigation radar began to detect the first signs of the target.
It was almost time.
Then they saw the city of Tunis and its ports, and all around beginning to dot the sky, the black explosions of anti-aircraft artillery.
The battle had begun.
The bomber formation maintained its steady course toward the target even as anti-aircraft explosions began to appear closer.
Fragments of hot metal flew through the air and the acrid smell of gunpowder penetrated even at high altitudes.
Ralph Burbridge the bombadier was focused on his Nordon bomb site.
He made meticulous adjustments calculating wind, altitude and speed.
The bombs had to be released at the exact moment to hit the port facilities below.
1 second too early or too late and they would fall into the water or empty areas.
The autopilot was engaged connected to the bombing site.
This allowed Burbridge to effectively control the aircraft during the final approach phase, making small adjustments to ensure maximum accuracy.
Bragg kept his hands on the controls, ready to instantly resume command if necessary.
Then came the announcement over the intercom.
Bombay doors open.
The roar of the wind increased as the large doors beneath the plane swung open, exposing the bombs to the frigid outside air.
The all-American shuddered slightly at the change in aerodynamics.
Bombs out.
Burbridge’s voice was calm, professional.
The plane bounced slightly upward as more than two tons of explosives left the bay.
Below, the bombs fell toward their target, their stabilizing fins causing them to rotate and align.
The primary mission was complete.
Now came the most dangerous part, getting out of there.
The bombers turned to return to base, but they knew that enemy fighters would be waiting.
The Luftwaffa had learned that bombers were more vulnerable after dropping their bombs when they were lighter and slightly disorganized.
And they were right.
Out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Messormid BF 109 fighters swooped down on the formation.
Their cannons and machine guns spewed fire, tracers cutting through the sky like fingers of luminous death.
The gunners of the All-American responded instantly.
The noise was deafening when the plane’s 13 machine guns came into action.
Empty cartridges rained down inside the aircraft.
The smell of burnt cordite was suffocating.
One of the Messers passed very close, its German markings clearly visible.
The gunners covered it with concentrated fire.
Smoke began to billow from the fighter’s engine.
He sped away, wounded.
But another fighter was coming.
This one seemed more determined.
its approach more aggressive.
It was coming from the front in a frontal attack, the Luftwaffa’s newest and most dangerous tactic.
German pilots had discovered that B7s were less protected in the front and frontal attacks also gave bomber pilots less time to react.
The fighter was coming straight in, its guns flashing.
Projectiles pierced the nose of the All-American.
Then, at the last possible second, it should have swerved, but it didn’t.
Time seemed to slow down.
The crew of the All-American saw the Messersmidt coming straight for them, but there was nothing they could do.
Bragg pulled on the controls, trying to swerve, but in a split second, the impact came.
The German fighter collided with the rear of the B7 with devastating force.
The sound was apocalyptic, a clang of metal tearing through metal that echoed throughout the bomber.
It felt like the world was being destroyed.
The Messersmidt’s wing cut diagonally through the All-American’s rear fuselage just behind the waistline section.
The impact nearly severed the aircraft completely in half.
The rear fuselage was ripped open like a can, creating a massive tear that exposed the interior to the frigid high alitude wind.
The left horizontal stabilizer was completely torn off.
The vertical surface of the tail was severely damaged.
Control cables were severed.
Electrical, hydraulic, and oxygen systems were instantly destroyed.
The tail section hung precariously, connected to the rest of the aircraft only by a few thin structural beams and a narrow strip of aluminum skin.
The Messersmidt disintegrated on impact.
Pieces of the German fighter remained lodged in the B7 structure.
The German pilot, likely wounded or killed by gunners before the collision, had no chance of survival.
Inside the All-American, chaos rained for a few seconds.
The roar of the wind through the enormous hole was deafening.
Papers, loose equipment, anything not secured was sucked out.
The temperature instantly dropped below zero.
Brag struggled with the controls.
They were dead in his hands.
The control cables for the rudder and elevators had been severed in the collision.
The plane should have been spiraling uncontrollably, but miraculously it wasn’t.
It was still flying more or less level, although shaking violently.
In the tail section, Sam Sarpulus, the tail gunner, was completely isolated.
The rear part of the plane where he sat had been almost completely separated from the rest of the aircraft.
He could see the sky through the cracks around him.
He could feel the structure swaying dangerously, but he was alive, and his intercom still worked.
tail to pilot.
His voice came through the system, surprisingly calm considering the circumstances.
I’m still here, but you need to see this from the outside.
It’s very bad.
Bragg replied, his voice controlled but tense.
Receive tail.
Hold on tight.
We’re going to get us all out of here.
But how? The plane was flying in conditions that defied all known laws of aerodynamics.
By all calculations, it should have been impossible to control, and they still had miles of enemy territory between them in safety.
The first moments after the collision were critical.
Braggen Angle tried to assess what was still working and what was lost.
The list of destroyed systems was terrifying.
Conventional flight controls inoperative, two right side engines dead, serious oil leak in a left engine, compromised hydraulic systems, oxygen cut off for part of the crew.
But there was a surprising discovery.
The electric autopilot connected to the Nordan bomb site was still partially functional.
This system used electric servo motors connected to the rudder and elevators by wires independent of the mechanical flight control cables.
Angel had a brilliant idea.
We can try controlling the plane using the autopilot.
He suggested it was an improvised solution never tried before, but it was all they had.
Carefully they experimented.
Small adjustments to the autopilot produced small changes in the aircraft’s attitude.
It was imprecise, slow control, but it worked.
They could theoretically keep the aircraft level and perhaps even make very gentle turns.
Joe James, the flight engineer, was struggling to keep the remaining engines running.
The oil leak in the left engine was getting worse.
If they lost any more power, they wouldn’t be able to maintain altitude.
And at their current altitude, over enemy territory, they were perfect targets.
Paul Galloway was desperately trying to establish radio contact with the base or other aircraft in the formation, but the radio system was damaged.
Signals were coming through intermittently, but there was no certainty that anyone was receiving them.
In the waist section, the gunners stared in horror at the damage.
The hole in the fuselage was so large that they could see directly into the tail section, completely separated, except for that thin metal connection.
It was like looking at another aircraft flying in extremely close formation.
And there was another problem.
Two additional Messers fighters had spotted the wounded All-American separating from the main formation.
They circled like sharks, assessing, preparing to attack.
A damaged bomber alone was an easy target.
But the crew of the All-American wasn’t giving up.
The gunners kept watch, their machine guns tracking the fighters.
When the Messers made their first attack passes, they were met with barges of fire.
Surprisingly, all the machine guns were still functioning.
The German pilots quickly realized that this wounded bomber still had teeth.
After a few passes where they were met with heavy and accurate fire, they gave up and moved away, probably looking for easier targets.
But the All-Americans still had an impossible problem.
how to get home in a machine that, according to all the laws of physics, shouldn’t be flying.
Flying the All-American back to Bisker was like trying to drive a car with broken steering on a narrow mountain road.
Every movement had to be calculated, gentle, precise.
A sudden movement could cause the tail to detach completely.
The biggest concern was making any turn.
They needed to turn back toward Algeria, but a normal turn could generate forces that the damaged structure couldn’t withstand.
Bragg decided to make the turn as gradually as possible.
It took almost 110 km to complete a 180° turn.
The plane described a gigantic arc in the sky, tilting only a few degrees at a time.
It was painfully slow, but it worked.
Gradually, the nose pointed back south towards Algeria and safety.
The lead formation was already far ahead.
The All-American was alone, flying at reduced speed due to the massive drag from the damage.
They were slowly losing altitude, about 30 m every minute.
James was juggling the functioning engines, trying to extract every ounce of power without overstressing the already overloaded systems.
In the tail section, Sir Paulus remained in his position.
The crew had suggested he try crawling back to the main section, but that was extremely dangerous.
The space between the two sections was open to high-speed winds.
A failed attempt could tear him from the plane.
Furthermore, his weight in the tail section was helping to stabilize the rear section.
He stayed where he was, alone, isolated, but crucial to everyone’s survival.
The gunners in the belt section stood, their bodies partially exposed through the hole in the fuselage, continuing to watch the sky.
The cold was brutal.
Their hands went numb on the machine gun controls, but they held their positions.
Slowly, kilometer by kilometer, the All-American crossed enemy territory.
Time dragged on.
Each minute felt like an hour.
The crew barely dared to breathe, fearing that anything could be the factor that would finally break the plane in two.
They crossed the front line, leaving Axis controlled territory.
But they were not safe yet.
They still had to reach Biscra.
They still had to land this broken machine.
It was then that they heard through the damaged radio the voices of friendly fighter jets.
P-51 Mustangs that were on patrol saw the damaged B7 and came to investigate.
When they approached and saw the state of the plane, they were shocked.
One of the P-51 pilots came very close, flying in formation alongside the All-American.
Through the window, he made hand signals to brag.
His eyes were wide.
He shook his head in disbelief.
Then he pointed down at the distant sea and made jumping gestures, suggesting that the crew abandoned the plane.
Bragg shook his head firmly.
They didn’t have enough parachutes.
The crew had used some to try and stabilize loose parts of the plane, but even if they did, he wasn’t abandoning his plane.
Not while it was still flying.
The P-51 pilot watched, understanding.
He relayed the message to the base.
The All-American was attempting to land.
They were to clear the runway.
As Biskra appeared on the horizon, the tension reached new heights.
Landing was the most dangerous part of any flight, and they were about to attempt it with a plane that shouldn’t have been flying.
The control tower evacuated all other aircraft from the area.
Ambulances and fire trucks positioned themselves along the runway.
The ground crew looked to the sky, waiting, worried.
Some had heard on the radio what had happened, but no one really believed the plane would be able to land.
Bragg and Angle discussed the approach.
They basically had one chance.
They couldn’t take a normal approach with turns and adjustments.
They had to line up with the track as early as possible and maintain a smooth, continuous descent.
When we touch down, I’ll try to keep the tail in the air as much as possible.
Bragg said, “The less stress on that rear section, the better our chance.
Angel agreed.
He would be ready to assist with the throttle controls, managing the functioning engines to keep the aircraft as stable as possible.
James was monitoring every remaining indicator.
Fuel was dangerously low.
The oil leak had worsened.
One of the functioning engines was overheating.
They had minutes perhaps before they started losing more systems.
Nusell, the navigator, who would normally have finished his work, was now helping wherever he could, checking emergency lists, preparing the crew for landing, or if necessary, for rapid evacuation.
Burbridge and the gunners locked onto everything they could, bracing for impact.
In an emergency, any loose object could become a deadly projectile.
Sir Paulus, by the tail, fastened himself firmly into position.
He knew that the tail would bear the brunt of the impact when it touched the ground.
“I’m ready back here,” he announced.
“Do what you need to do.” The Biscra runway lay ahead.
Bragg was lined up alongside it, beginning his final descent.
His speed was higher than ideal because flying slower could cause the plane to stall and crash, but high speed meant a more violent landing.
It was a gamble, like everything on this flight had been a gamble against impossible odds.
The ground was rapidly approaching.
Some members of the ground crew turned their faces away, unable to watch.
The All-American crossed the edge of the track.
The main wheels touched the sand and gravel, creating clouds of dust.
Brag struggled to keep the nose raised, keeping the tail in the air.
But gravity was inexurable.
The tail slid down, that damaged section touching the ground.
There was a scraping sound of metal, sparks flying.
The rear structure undulated like a fish, flexing but miraculously not breaking.
The plane slowed, skidding down the runway in a cloud of dust.
Meters became centime.
And then finally, it stopped.
Silence.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the engines were shut down one by one.
The roar that had accompanied them throughout the flight ceased.
Crew, get out of the aircraft now.” Bragg’s voice was firm.
There could be fire, explosions.
They needed to get away quickly.
One by one, the crew members evacuated.
Sir Palace had to be helped out of the stern section, his legs having gone numb from the prolonged position.
When all 10 men were on the ground, counted and checked, the realization began to set in.
They had survived, all of them, without a single serious injury.
Against all odds, against all aviation laws, they had brought the All-American home.
When the ground crew approached the All-American, what they saw left them speechless.
The photographs taken that day would become some of the most iconic images of World War II.
The damage was worse than anyone had imagined.
The fuselage was almost completely severed, connected only by two structural beams and a narrow strip of aluminum skin no more than 20 cm wide.
It was physically impossible for this to withstand the forces of flight.
And yet it had the left horizontal stabilizer had completely disappeared.
The vertical fin was twisted and damaged.
Bullet holes riddled the entire structure.
Boeing engineers who later examined the photographs openly stated, “This plane should never have flown.
There is no technical explanation for how it remained airborne.” But there was an explanation that didn’t appear in engineering textbooks.
The crew’s extraordinary skill, their refusal to give up, and perhaps a bit of luck or divine providence.
The story of the All-Americans spread quickly.
Military newspapers published the photos with headlines that captured everyone’s disbelief.
The crulest cut ever, but the bomber conquers death.
The image became a symbol of resilience, of refusing to give up against impossible odds.
The crew received recognition, although they themselves downplayed the achievement.
“We did what we had to do,” Bragg said in a later interview.
“The plane brought us home.
We just guided it.
” But it wasn’t just the plane.
It was Bragg and Angle’s skill in improvising a completely new method of control.
It was James’ competence in keeping the engines running against all odds.
It was Sarpulus’ courage in remaining isolated in the tail.
It was the teamwork of the entire crew, each man doing his part perfectly.
What surprised many was that the All-American wasn’t scrapped.
The maintenance team worked for weeks and the bomber was completely rebuilt.
It returned to active service, being reassigned to the 301st Bombardment Group.
The aircraft continued flying combat missions and was later used as a transport and utility aircraft.
It served until almost the end of the war, finally being dismantled for salvage in March 1945 in Italy.
Having survived for more than 2 years after that impossible day, the story of the All-American transcended the war itself.
It became a powerful symbol of what human beings can achieve when faced with impossible situations with courage, skill, and teamwork.
The phrase coming in on a wing in a prayer has become closely associated with stories like this.
But all American took that expression to the literal extreme.
They really did come back on pieces of wing and with a lot of prayer.
For the crew members, the experience marked them forever.
Kendrick Bragg continued flying missions throughout the war, eventually completing his tour of duty and returning to the United States.
After the war, he remained in aviation, working as a civilian pilot and instructor.
He always kept a photograph of the damaged All-American on his desk, a reminder that limits are often elucery.
Godfrey Engel became an aeronautical engineer, his experience from that day motivating him to study aircraft structures and control systems in depth.
He contributed to the design of safer and more robust aircraft.
In the following decades, Sam Sarpulus, the tail gunner, who was isolated in the nearly detached rear section, became a survival instructor for bomber crews.
He taught not only techniques but also the mindset needed to remain calm in extreme situations.
If you panic, you’re already dead, he would tell the young aviators.
Stay calm, think clearly, and you can survive what seems impossible.
Joe James continued as an aviation mechanic, eventually opening his own maintenance shop.
He had a deep respect for B7s and always said they were the best built machines he had ever seen.
That plane saved us as much as we saved it, he used to say.
Boeing, the manufacturer of the B7, used the story of the All-American in promotional materials during and after the war.
The photographs dramatically demonstrated the robustness of its design.
Even when cut almost completely in half, the B17’s fundamental structure had held up long enough to save 10 lives.
Engineers studied the case extensively.
How did those two narrow beams withstand forces that should have broken them instantly? The analysis revealed that the combination of intelligent design, quality materials, and perhaps most importantly, the careful distribution of weight by the crew during flight had created a delicate balance that kept the plane intact.
But beyond the engineering, there were deeper lessons.
History taught us that rigorous training makes all the difference when things go wrong.
The crew of the All-American didn’t panic because they had been trained not to panic.
They knew their equipment so well that they could improvise when normal procedures failed.
He taught us that teamwork isn’t just a nice word.
It’s the difference between life and death.
Every member of the all-American crew performed their role perfectly, trusting each other completely.
Sarpulus trusted the pilots to bring him home.
The pilots trusted James to keep the engines running.
Everyone trusted everyone else.
He taught them that giving up is never the only option.
When Bragg and his crew saw that damage, they could have abandoned the plane.
Many would have considered that the rational decision, but they chose to fight.
They chose to attempt the impossible, and they won.
The story of the All-American has been told and retold over the decades.
It has appeared in books, documentaries, and aviation museums.
The iconic photographs have been reproduced thousands of times.
Each time they inspired the same reactions, disbelief, admiration, and a renewed respect for what the combination of human courage and exceptional engineering can achieve.
In military museums today, when visitors look at restored, gleaming, and intact B7s, it’s easy to see them simply as impressive machines.
But the history of the All-American reminds us that they were much more than that.
They were flying fortresses in the most literal sense, protecting crews even when devastated.
And it reminds us that the true heroes aren’t just those who carry weapons on the front lines.
They are also the pilots who fly broken machines through the impossible sky.
The engineers who keep engines running when they should have failed.
The gunners who remain in their positions even when isolated and exposed.
The navigators who chart courses home when the way seems lost.
The legacy of the All-American and its crew endures because it touches on something fundamental in the human experience.
We all face situations that seem impossible.
We all have moments when it seems easier to give up than to keep fighting.
And in these moments, stories like this remind us of what we are capable of when we refuse to accept the impossible as an answer.
They remind us that courage is not the absence of fear.
It is acting despite fear.
Bragg and his crew were terrified, but they kept flying.
Sarpulus was isolated and vulnerable, but he remained in his position.
James knew the engines could fail at any moment, but he kept working.
They remind us that skill and training are investments that pay off in the most critical moments.
The countless hours of training allowed that crew to react instinctively when every second counted.
And they remind us that miracles are not just divine interventions.
They are also the result of extraordinary people doing extraordinary things in extraordinary circumstances.
The All-American Miracle was built by 10 men who refused to give up, who used every ounce of skill, every bit of knowledge, and every shred of determination to turn the impossible into possible.
When you look at the photographs of that cutup bomber hanging by a metal wire, it’s hard to believe it flew.
>> [snorts] >> It’s even harder to believe it landed safely, but it happened.
And it happened because 10 extraordinary men faced death and chose life, chose to fight, chose to believe they could win.
This is their story.
This is the story of the all-American.
A story of 1200 bullet impacts, of torn wings spread, of impossibilities defied.
A story of how courage, skill, and a refusal to give up transformed a certain death sentence into one of the most inspiring survival stories of World War II.
And it’s a story that continues to inspire decades later because it shows us what we are capable of achieving when we are at our best, when we work together, when we refuse to accept defeat, and when we believe that even the sky is not the limit for the human spirit.
