At a.m.
on February 1st, 1943, First Lieutenant Kendrick Bragg crouched behind the controls of his B7 Flying Fortress over Tunis, watching two German fighters dive toward his formation from 11,000 ft.
26 years old, 41 combat missions, zero aircraft lost.
Two Messers fighters broke from their patrol.
One rolled toward the lead bomber, the second lined up on all American.
The mission to Tunis had started 3 hours earlier from Biscra airfield in Algeria.
Bragg squadron, the 414 bomb squadron of the 97th Bomb Group, had received orders to hit the docks.
German supply ships were feeding Raml’s Africa Corps.
Cut the supply line.
Starve the army.
They dropped their bombs 12 minutes ago.
The docks were burning.
Now they face the fighters.
These 17 crews called it the gauntlet.
The moment after bombs away when formations turned for home and German fighters swarmed.
In the previous four months, the 97th had lost 19 fortresses.
190 men.
Some bailed out over enemy territory.
Some burned in their cockpits.
Most crashed into the Mediterranean.
The mathematics were brutal.
A bomber crew needed to survive 25 missions to go home.
The odds of reaching 25 were less than 1 in four.
Bragg watched the first Messersmidt attack the lead plane.
Tracers cut through the formation.
The B7’s nose guns returned fire.
The German fighter rolled away, trailing smoke.
The second Messersmid came at All-American headon.
600 mph of closing speed.
Bragg’s bombardier Ralph Burbridge fired the nose guns.
50 caliber rounds walked up the fighter’s fuselage.
The Messmmet didn’t pull away.
Later, intelligence would identify the pilot as Eric Poxia.
16 confirmed kills.
An ace.
Either Burbridge’s rounds killed him or wounded him badly enough that he couldn’t control his aircraft.
The fighter kept coming.
Bragg rammed the control column forward.
All-American dove.
The measures wing clipped the B7’s vertical stabilizer and tore diagonally through the rear fuselage.
Metal screamed.
The bomber pitched up violently.
Bragg felt the controls go slack in his hands.
Behind him, through the open bomb bay, he saw daylight where the fuselage should have been solid.
The entire left horizontal stabilizer was gone.
The fuselage was sliced nearly in half.
Co-pilot Godfrey Engel grabbed his parachute.
Navigator Harry Nul looked back at the gash and said one word.
Bail.
Brag checked his instruments.
Four engines still running.
Two on the right side coughing but turning.
Altitude holding at 9,000 ft.
The bomber wanted to climb.
He pushed forward with both hands and his knees.
The nose dropped slightly.
The formation slowed around them.
Nine other B17s matched all-American speed.
A protective shell against the fighters still circling.
They were 90 mi from Biscra, 90 minutes of flight time, over enemy territory with a bomber that could tear itself apart at any moment.
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Back to Bragg.
Brag called to his crew on the intercom.
Static.
The electrical system was damaged.
He needed to know if anyone was hurt.
He needed to know if the tail section was even attached.
and he needed to decide in the next 60 seconds whether to order his crew to jump into the Tunisian desert or try to fly a half-destroyed bomber home.
Bragg unbuckled and climbed out of his seat.
The Bombay doors were still open from the attack run.
Cold air howled through the fuselage at 9,000 ft.
He could see through the gash in the rear fuselage all the way to the tail section.
The tail gunner Sam Sarpololis was still in his position, alive, moving, cut off from the rest of the crew by 16 ft of empty air where the floor should have been.
Engineer Joe James appeared at Bragg’s shoulder.
Both right engines losing oil pressure, left outboard engine running hot, electrical system shot, oxygen system dead, radio completely gone.
The tail hanging by the right side frame.
That’s it.
Maybe some structural members I can’t see the whole thing swinging in the slipstream.
Bragg looked at the tail gunner again.
Sarus gave him a thumbs up through the plexiglass.
150 lb of man holding the tail section stable by his weight alone.
Radio operator Paul Galloway crawled forward.
Intercom’s dead, but the bombsite autopilot wiring is intact.
The Nordan system uses separate electrical lines to the control surfaces.
The Nordon bomb site had its own autopilot, electrically controlled servos mounted near the rudder and elevator, designed to hold the aircraft steady during bomb runs.
Not designed to fly a crippled bomber home, but it was all they had.
Can we control it from the cockpit? The bombader station.
Burbage can manipulate the autopilot inputs.
You call out what you need, he translates it into autopilot commands.
Bragg climbed back into the pilot’s seat.
The bomber was holding altitude but drifting right.
Every control input felt like pushing against a wall.
The damaged tail created massive drag on one side.
He looked at Angle.
We try for Biscra.
The co-pilot stared at him.
90 m formation stays with us until we’re clear of fighters.
Then we’re on our own.
Start dumping weight.
Ammunition guns we can remove.
Everything not bolted down.
Brag keyed the dead intercom.
then remembered.
He sent James back through the aircraft with orders, “Strip the plane.
Throw out everything.” They needed to stay airborne for 90 minutes with 2 and 1/2 engines and half a fuselage.
Waste gunner Michael Zuk appeared with his 50 caliber machine gun, 700 lb of weapon system.
He heaved it through the gash in the fuselage.
It tumbled toward the desert below.
Ball turret gunner Elton followed with ammunition cans, 500 rounds per can, 40 lb each.
Gone.
The Messers made one more pass.
Cond and Zuck stood in the fuselage with their heads and shoulders exposed through the torn metal.
They fired their remaining weapons.
The German fighters broke off out of ammunition or fuel or both.
The formation was beyond their operational range.
The other B7s pulled ahead.
Standard procedure, don’t risk nine aircraft for one.
All-American dropped to 8,000 ft, then 7,000.
Bragg was trading altitude for air speed.
If they went too slow, the bomber would stall.
Too fast, and the damaged tail would rip off completely.
Burbridge called from the bombader station.
Autopilot’s holding, but it’s fighting me.
Every input I make takes 30 seconds to register.
This thing wasn’t built for manual flying.
Keep it level.
That’s all we need.
The formation disappeared ahead.
All-American was alone over enemy territory.
Bragg watched the fuel gauges.
They had enough to reach Biscra barely.
If the engines kept running, if the tail stayed attached, if they maintained this altitude and speed, the desert rolled past below.
Mountains to the north, the Mediterranean to the east.
Biscre was southwest.
80 m now, 75 minutes.
Then the number three engine started smoking.
the left outboard, the one James said was running hot.
White smoke first, then gray, then black.
Bragg watched the cylinder head temperature gauge climb into the red.
The oil pressure dropped.
The engine was destroying itself.
But if he shut it down, they wouldn’t have enough power to maintain altitude.
They’d descend slowly into the Tunisian desert, 30 mi behind German lines.
And even if they survived the landing, the tail section would collapse on impact and crush Sarpulolis.
The number three engine seized at 7,200 ft.
The propeller windmilled for 3 seconds, then locked.
The sudden drag pulled All-American into a left bank.
Bragg pushed right rudder.
Nothing.
The control cables were severed.
He pushed the right throttles forward.
The bomber leveled.
They were flying on asymmetric thrust.
Two engines on the right side pulling hard.
one and a half on the left.
The aircraft wanted to spiral.
Bragg held it steady with throttle inputs and forward pressure on the control column.
His knees achd, his hands cramped around the yolk.
Angle watched the altimeter.
Losing 100 ft per minute, how far to Biscra? 68 mi, 62 minutes at current speed.
Bragg did the math.
They’d lose 6,200 ft.
They were at 7,000 now.
They’d hit the ground 20 m short of the runway.
James appeared again.
We stripped everything, even the oxygen bottles.
We’re down maybe 800 lb.
Not enough.
We need more altitude or more power.
That engine’s done.
If we restart it, the whole thing could catch fire or throw the prop.
Either way, we’re dead.
Bragg looked at the fuel gauges.
They’d burned through a third of their load.
Fuel was weight.
Every gallon they burned made them lighter.
Every pound lighter meant they could glide farther.
But they needed to stay airborne long enough to burn that fuel.
How much fuel in the Bombay tanks? Maybe 200 g.
Why? Dump it.
James stared at him.
We need that fuel to reach Biscra.
We won’t reach Biscra if we hit the ground in 40 minutes.
Dump the Tokyo tanks.
All of them.
Get us another,000 lb lighter right now.
James crawled back through the aircraft.
2 minutes later, fuel sprayed from the bomb bay.
200 gall at 6 lb per gallon.
1,200 lb of weight gone in 30 seconds.
The altimeter steadied, then climbed.
7,100 ft.
7,200 7,300.
Bragg felt the bomber respond.
Lighter, more lift from the wings.
The descent stopped at 7,500 ft.
They had breathing room.
Maybe enough.
The autopilot servos wind.
Burbridge was fighting to keep the nose level as the center of gravity shifted with the fuel dump.
Autopilots overheating.
These motors weren’t designed to run continuously for an hour.
How long can they last? I don’t know.
Maybe 30 minutes, maybe five.
55 mi to Biscra.
50 minutes of flight time.
The desert stretched endlessly below.
empty.
No roads, no villages, no place to land except sand and rock.
If the autopilot failed, they’d lose all control.
The bomber would pitch up or dive or roll, and Saralus would die in the tail section.
Bragg checked his watch.
a.m.
They’d been flying the crippled bomber for 44 minutes.
Every minute felt like an hour.
Every engine sound like a warning.
every gust of wind like a threat to tear the fuselage apart.
The radio was dead, but Bragg could see the other bombers far ahead.
Probably already circling Biscra, landing, crews climbing out, walking away from their aircraft.
All-American was still 30 mi out, still over hostile territory, still held together by structural steel and luck.
Then the tail started to move.
not swaying, not bouncing, actually separating.
The gash in the fuselage was widening.
Bragg could see it from the cockpit.
The right side of the airframe was peeling away.
Metal fatigue, vibration, wind load.
The forces were too much.
After 45 minutes of flight, the tail section was finally tearing free.
James appeared at Bragg’s shoulder.
His face was white.
The tail, it’s going.
Bragg looked back.
The tail was flexing, moving independently from the fuselage, like a fish tail in water.
If it broke off completely, the bomber would tumble.
Nine men in the forward section would have seconds to bail out.
Saralus and the tail would have no chance at all.
Get everyone into parachutes.
Prepare to jump on my signal.
What about Saralus? Bragg didn’t answer.
There was no answer.
The tail gunner was trapped in a section of aircraft that was about to break away.
And there was nothing anyone could do to save him.
Angel grabbed a walkound oxygen bottle and crawled toward the tail.
The regular oxygen system was dead, but they kept portable bottles for emergencies.
He reached the edge of the gash.
16 ft of empty air to the tail section.
He couldn’t cross it.
No one could.
He gestured to Sarpalus.
Come forward.
Crawl.
The tail gunner looked at the gap, then at the tail flexing around him.
He started moving slowly.
The tail section bounced with every shift of his weight.
If it separated while he was crawling, he’d fall with it.
Sarpalus dragged himself forward.
6 ft, 8 ft, 10 ft.
He reached the edge of the tail section where it connected to the fuselage, or what was left of the connection.
He stretched his arm across the gap.
Angle reached out.
Their hands didn’t meet.
3 ft short.
James appeared with parachute cords.
He tied them together.
20 ft of nylon line.
He threw one end to Sarpalus.
The tail gunner caught it, wrapped it around his wrist.
James and Angle pulled.
Sarpalus pushed off from the tail section and swung across the gap.
His boots caught the edge of the fuselage.
They dragged him inside.
The tail section flexed again, now with no weight to stabilize it.
It moved more freely, more violently.
The metal shrieked, but they were 23 mi from Biscra.
19 minutes of flight time.
The tail just needed to stay attached for 19 more minutes.
Bragg throttled back slightly.
Less power meant less stress on the airframe, but it also meant they’d descend.
7,000 ft.
6,800 6,500.
The altimeter unwound steadily.
He could see Biscre now.
The airfield appeared on the horizon.
Flat desert with three dirt runways scratched into the sand.
A handful of tents, some fuel trucks.
The other B7s from the mission were already on the ground.
Tiny shapes lined up along the runway.
Burbridge, can you get us lined up for landing? The autopilot’s barely responding.
These servos are cooked.
I’ll try.
All-American descended through 5,000 ft.
4,000.
3,000.
The airfield grew larger.
Bragg could see men on the ground now, standing, watching.
Someone must have radioed ahead.
Told them a crippled bomber was coming in.
At 2,000 ft, Bragg fired three red flares from the cockpit.
Emergency signal.
Clear the runways.
Wounded aircraft inbound.
The flares arked up and burst, visible for miles across the flat desert.
The ground crews scattered.
Trucks pulled off the runway.
The other B7s taxied clear.
All American had the entire airfield to itself.
Angle called out altitude.
1,000 ft.
Air speed 130.
We’re high and fast.
Bragg pulled the throttles back further.
The engines spooled down.
The bomber settled.
800 ft.
600 400.
He could see individual men on the ground now.
Some running.
Some just standing with their hands shading their eyes.
Gear down.
Engle reached for the landing gear lever.
Paused.
If the gear won’t lock, we’re landing on the belly anyway.
Should we even try? Try.
If the nose gear collapses, it might take stress off the tail.
Keep it from breaking on impact.
The gear motor winded.
Bragg felt the thump as the main wheels locked down.
The tail wheel indicator stayed dark.
The tail wheel was attached to the tail.
The tail was barely attached to the aircraft.
No tail wheel.
200 ft.
The runway filled Bragg’s windscreen.
Packed dirt.
hard as concrete in the desert sun.
He eased back on the yolk.
The nose lifted slightly.
Too much and the tail would dig in.
Not enough and the nose gear would collapse.
He needed to hold the tail off the ground as long as possible.
Let the main wheels take the weight first.
100 ft.
50 ft.
The bomber dropped toward the runway.
Bragg’s hands were locked on the yolk.
His feet braced against the rudder pedals that didn’t work.
Every muscle in his body was tense.
The main wheels touched.
Dust exploded behind the aircraft.
All-American bounced.
Settled again.
The wheels grabbed.
The bomber rolled.
Still moving at 80 mph.
The tail dropped.
Metal scraped across the packed dirt.
A grinding howl of aluminum on sand.
The tail section collapsed.
The bomber skidded forward.
Sparks flew from the tail, dragging across the runway.
The screech of tearing metal echoed across the airfield.
Brag held the control column back, keeping the nose up, keeping weight off the front gear.
70 mph 60 50 The bomber slowed.
The tail section dragged, then stopped dragging.
It had separated completely.
Bragg felt the aircraft lighten.
The back end was gone.
40 mph.
30 20.
All-American rolled to a stop 800 yd down the runway.
The engines were still running.
Bragg’s hands were still locked on the yolk.
Angle reached over and pulled the mixture controls to idle cutoff.
The engines died one by one.
Silence.
Bragg sat in his seat.
His legs were shaking.
His hands wouldn’t release the control column.
Angel had to pry his fingers off.
James appeared from the back.
Everyone’s alive.
No injuries.
Sarpales is out.
Is out.
Everyone’s getting off now.
Brad climbed out of his seat.
His knees nearly buckled.
He’d been flying for 4 hours.
The last 90 minutes at full tension.
Every muscle was cramped.
He walked back through the fuselage.
The bomb bay was empty.
The waist section was stripped bare.
Then he reached the gash.
He could see straight through to the runway behind them.
The tail section was sitting 200 yd back, collapsed on its side.
The vertical stabilizer bent, the horizontal stabilizer missing, but intact enough that you could see it had been part of an aircraft 5 minutes ago.
Brad climbed down through the fuselage opening.
His boots hit the dirt.
Ground crew were running toward the bomber.
An ambulance pulled up.
The medics jumped out with stretchers ready.
Burbridge waved them off.
We’re fine.
Nobody’s hurt.
The medics looked at the bomber, then at the crew, then back at the bomber.
One of them said what everyone was thinking.
How? Bragg walked back to look at All-American from the outside.
The famous photograph that would circulate through every Air Force base in North Africa was taken 10 minutes later by Lieutenant Charles Cutforth from another B7.
But even without the photograph, the damage was obvious.
The left horizontal stabilizer was completely gone, ripped off at the root.
The vertical stabilizer was damaged.
The rudder was barely attached.
The fuselage had a diagonal gash from the top turret position all the way to where the tail should have been.
You could see through the aircraft from one side to the other.
Daylight visible through a 16 ft gap.
Two engines on the right side were destroyed.
Oil streaked the wings.
The left outboard engine was seized.
Only one engine out of four was undamaged.
The electrical system was shot.
The oxygen system was torn apart.
The radio was in pieces.
Control cables dangled from the severed tail section.
Navigator Harry Nul stood next to Bragg.
He pulled out a small camera, started taking pictures.
Nobody’s going to believe this.
The ground crew chief appeared, Hank Highland.
He’d maintained All-American since the bomber arrived in North Africa 3 months earlier.
He walked around the aircraft slowly, touching the torn metal, looking up into the gash.
He stopped at the tail section lying on the runway.
Lieutenant, how did you fly this? Nordon Autopilot.
We couldn’t use the control surfaces directly, so we used the bomb site servos for 90 minutes.
87 minutes.
We dumped fuel to gain altitude, threw out guns and ammunition to reduce weight.
Flew on asymmetric power after number three seized.
Highland looked at the crew.
10 men, all standing, all walking, not a scratch on any of them.
He looked back at the bomber.
This aircraft should not have made it back.
The tail should have separated over Tunisia.
You should all be dead or prisoners right now.
Bragg didn’t respond because Highland was right.
By every engineering calculation, by every principle of aerodynamics, by every law of physics, all Americans should have broken apart over enemy territory.
The fact that it didn’t wasn’t skill or training or even luck.
It was something else.
Something about the B7 Flying Fortress that made it the most survivable bomber of World War II.
and understanding what that something was would save thousands of lives over the next 2 years.
The Boeing engineers who designed the B7 in 1935 had made one critical decision that other aircraft manufacturers hadn’t.
They built the fuselage using a semi monocco structure with heavy longitudinal stringers and deep circular frames spaced every 20 in.
Most aircraft used the fuselage skin to carry structural loads.
The B17 used an internal skeleton.
The skin was secondary.
This meant that if part of the fuselage was damaged, the loads redistributed through the frame members.
The aircraft could lose entire sections and still maintain structural integrity.
All-American had lost its left horizontal stabilizer, the structure that creates downforce to balance the nose heavy bomber.
But the right stabilizer was intact, and the B7’s design included enough control authority from one stabilizer to maintain flight.
Barely, but enough.
The fuselage had been cut nearly in half, but the right side structural members held.
Four main lingerons ran the length of the fuselage.
All-American lost two.
The remaining two carried the entire load.
They weren’t designed for that, but they held for 90 minutes.
The engines were mounted on a wing spar that passed completely through the fuselage.
This spar was independent of the fuselage structure.
When the meshmid struck, it didn’t damage the wing attachment.
The wings stayed on.
The engines kept running.
And as long as the wings were attached, the bomber could fly.
Within a week, engineers from right field arrived at Biscra.
They measured every damaged component, photographed every crack, calculated the loads that All-American had survived.
The data went back to Boeing and every other aircraft manufacturer in the United States.
The lessons were immediate.
Increase frame spacing strength.
Add redundant control runs.
Design systems with multiple failure modes.
build aircraft that could lose 30% of their structure and still bring crews home.
But All-American wasn’t done flying.
The maintenance crews at Biscus spent six weeks rebuilding the bomber.
They fabricated a new tail section, spliced in replacement fuselage frames, reinstalled the left horizontal stabilizer, replaced two engines, rewired the electrical system.
By mid-March 1943, All-American was airworthy again.
The bomber was reassigned to the 352nd Bomb Squadron, 301st Bomb Group.
It flew missions over Sicily, over Italy, over the Mediterranean.
The aircraft that should have been scrapped for parts flew for another 2 years.
Crews who flew all-American after the collision reported that it handled differently.
The spliced fuselage created vibration.
The repaired tail surfaces produced drag.
The bomber was slower than a standard B7, less maneuverable, but it flew and it brought crews home.
By March 1945, All-American had completed 118 combat missions, more than four times the 25 missions required to complete a tour.
The bomber had survived fighters, flack, weather, mechanical failure, and a mid-air collision that should have killed everyone aboard.
On March 6th, 1945 at Lucera Airfield in Italy, maintenance crews finally declared All-American beyond economical repair.
Not because of the collision damage that had been fixed 2 years earlier, but because of accumulated wear from 118 missions.
The airframe was tired.
The engines were worn.
The systems were failing.
They dismantled the bomber for salvage.
The engines went to other aircraft.
The instruments were redistributed.
The fuselage was cut apart for scrap aluminum.
By March 10th, All-American no longer existed as a complete aircraft.
But the story didn’t end there.
Lieutenant Kendrick Bragg flew 23 more missions after February 1st.
He completed his tour in June 1943 and returned to the United States.
He never spoke publicly about All-American, never gave interviews, never wrote a memoir.
He died in 1994 at age 77.
The other crew members scattered across the war.
Some completed their tours, some didn’t.
Tail gunner Sam Sarpololis survived the war and returned to Pennsylvania.
He rarely talked about the day he rode in the tail section, hanging by two structural members over the Tunisian desert, but the photograph remained.
The image of all American flying with its fuselage cut open became one of the most famous pictures of World War II.
Not because it showed destruction, but because it showed survival.
The B7 earned a reputation that no other bomber in World War II could match.
Crews called it the Flying Fortress, not because of its guns, because it brought them home.
The statistics were clear.
Of the 12,731 B7s built during the war, 4,735 were lost, a 37% loss rate.
high, but the B-24 Liberator lost 45%.
The Lancaster lost 51%.
When you measured by crew survival, the difference was even larger.
B17 crews had a ditching survival rate of 78%.
If the bomber went down over water, three out of four crew members survived.
The B24’s ditching survival rate was 32%.
The B24’s fuselage was a single structural unit.
When it hit water, it broke apart.
The B7’s frame structure kept it intact long enough for crews to escape.
Over Germany and occupied Europe, B7s absorbed damage that would destroy other aircraft.
One B7 returned to England with the entire nose section blown off.
The Bombader and Navigator were dead, but the pilots flew the aircraft home.
Another B7 collided with a German fighter over Cologne.
The fighter’s propeller cut through the cockpit, killed the co-pilot.
The pilot landed with his dead co-pilot still strapped in the seat beside him.
A B7 named Ricky Ticky Tavy had its tail section severed by flack over France.
The tail gunner Craig Bowman was trapped in the separated tail section.
It fell separately from the bomber.
Bowman survived.
The pilot landed the bomber without a tail.
Both the bomber and the gunner made it back.
These weren’t accidents.
They were the result of deliberate engineering choices made in 1935 when Boeing designed the aircraft.
Redundant systems, strong frames, independent structural elements.
The B17 was overengineered by the standards of the time, heavier than it needed to be, more expensive to build.
But those extra pounds of steel and aluminum saved thousands of lives.
By 1944, every Allied heavy bomber incorporated lessons from the B7.
The British Lancaster added redundant control runs.
The B24 Liberator received structural reinforcements.
New bombers like the B29 Superfortress were designed from the start with damage tolerance as a primary requirement.
But the B7’s reputation came at a cost.
Seven airframe manufacturers bid on the original contract in 1935.
Boeing’s design was the most expensive.
The Army Air Corps nearly rejected it.
They wanted a cheaper aircraft, more planes for the same budget.
Boeing’s chief test pilot, Leslie Tower, argued that crew survival would save more money than buying extra aircraft.
He was right.
By 1945, the calculation was clear.
Training a bomber crew cost $100,000.
Building a B7 cost $200,000.
If the aircraft brought the crew home even once after severe damage, it paid for itself.
The B7 did that routinely.
The Eighth Air Force flew 291 B7s on the Schweinford Reaganburg raid in August 1943.
60 were shot down.
77 more were damaged so badly they never flew again.
But 154 made it back to England.
Crews walked away.
Those crews flew again.
Their experience was invaluable and the B7s that brought them home proved the design philosophy worked.
All American became the symbol of that philosophy.
The photograph showed what the B7 could survive.
But more importantly, it showed what careful engineering could achieve.
Every rivet, every frame, every structural choice had a purpose.
And that purpose was bringing crews home.
The 414 bomb squadron adopted a new emblem after February 1943.
A cartoon dog preying on top of a damaged tail section.
The unofficial motto was coming in on a wing and a prayer.
The official motto was simpler.
We bring them back.
They did.
For two more years of war, the 414 flew B17s over North Africa and Europe.
They lost aircraft.
They lost crews.
But the survival rate was higher than any other squadron in the 12th Air Force because they flew fortresses and fortresses brought you home.
Today only four B7s remain airworthy in the world.
One flies with the Commemorative Air Force, another with the Experimental Aircraft Association.
They appear at air shows across America.
When they fly overhead, the sound is unmistakable.
Four right cyclone engines at full throttle.
The same sound that Bragg heard on February 1st, 1943.
The National Museum of the United States Air Force at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio displays a B7G, not all American.
That aircraft was scrapped in 1945, but the museum keeps the story alive.
A small placard near the bomber shows the famous photograph, the B7 flying with its fuselage cut open.
The caption reads, “Structural integrity under extreme conditions.” The photograph itself resides in the National Archives.
Image number 342 FH3A20571.
Taken by Lieutenant Charles Cutforth on February 1st, 1943, at approximately a.m., 3 minutes after All-American landed.
The image has been reproduced in hundreds of books and documentaries.
It remains the single most iconic photograph of B7 survivability.
But the real memorial isn’t in a museum.
It’s in the numbers.
Between 1942 and 1945, the B7 flew 291,000 missions over Europe.
Nearly 300,000 combat sorties.
The aircraft brought home crews that other bombers would have lost.
Exact numbers are difficult to calculate, but Air Force historians estimate that the B7’s damage tolerance saved between 15,000 and 20,000 American lives during World War II.
Men who would have died in less survivable aircraft.
Men who walked away from damaged bombers and flew again.
Men like Bragg and his crew.
The 414 Bomb Squadron’s emblem with the praying dog still exists.
The 97th Bomb Group Association keeps it alive.
Veterans of the unit meet every year, fewer each year.
But they meet and they remember all American.
The bomber that wouldn’t die.
Lieutenant Kendrick Bragg never received a medal for the flight.
The distinguished flying cross he earned came later for different missions.
The official citation doesn’t mention February 1st.
It doesn’t mention the collision.
It doesn’t mention flying 90 minutes with a destroyed tail section.
That wasn’t unusual.
Thousands of bomber crews performed similar feats during the war.
They flew damaged aircraft home.
They saved their crews.
They did their jobs.
The system worked the way it was designed to work.
The B7 was built to survive.
The crews were trained to handle emergencies.
February 1st, 1943 was remarkable, but it wasn’t unique.
What made all Americans special was the photograph, the visual proof of what the B7 could survive.
That image changed how engineers thought about aircraft design.
It influenced every military aircraft built after 1945.
Today’s combat aircraft are designed with battle damage tolerance as a primary requirement.
All-American proved why that matters.
The 10 men who flew All-American home that day scattered after the war.
They returned to civilian life, started families, built careers.
Most never spoke about their military service.
That was common for their generation.
You did your duty.
You came home.
You moved on.
But they were part of something larger.
They were part of the generation that fought World War II.
The generation that built the B17.
The generation that proved democratic nations could outproduce, outgineer, and ultimately defeat fascism.
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stories about pilots and mechanics and engineers who save lives with steel and courage and brilliant design.
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