At p.m.
on February 1st, 1944, First Lieutenant Robert Thacker felt his B17G fly fortress named Memphis Bell 2 shutter violently sheer 2,000 ft above Frankfurt, Germany.
The sound that followed wasn’t an explosion.
It was worse.
It was the sound of metal tearing, structural aluminum ripping away from the aircraft, and then silence from the tail gunner’s position.
Complete radio silence.
Tacker was 24 years old.
This was his 19th combat mission with the 381st bombardment group.
He’d survived flack, fighters, and mechanical failures.
But in the next 11 minutes, he would face something no B17 pilot had survived before.
Flying a 4engine bomber with 60% of the tail section destroyed.
No tail gunner, no tail guns, no rear fuselage integrity, just whine, screaming through a gap where 18 ft of aircraft used to be.
The mission had started routinely at 0847 hours.
Briefing at Rididgewell airfield in Essex, England.
Target Messers aircraft factory at Frankfurt.
Expected opposition heavy 42 B17 from the 381st would join 380 other flying fortresses from five bombardment groups.
Total force 422 bombers 422 bombers 230 P47 Thunderbolt escorts.
Weather was marginal.
Cloud cover at 8,000 ft.
Visibility 3 mi.
The meteorology officer predicted clearing over the target.
He was wrong.
But by the time they discovered that they’d be over German with a full bomb load and no choice but to press the attack.
Thater’s crew consisted of 10 men.
Co-pilot Second Lieutenant James Walsh, 22, from Michigan.
Navigator second lieutenant David Chen, 23, from California.
Bombardier second lieutenant Thomas Miller, 24, from Texas.
Flight engineer technical sergeant Frank Murphy, 28, from New York.
Radio operator technical sergeant call Davidson, 26, from Ohio.
Ball turret gunner staff sergeant Anthony Romano, 21, from New Jersey.
Waist gunner staff sergeant William Parker and Staff Sergeant John Hayes, both 23, both from Pennsylvania.
Tail gunner staff sergeant Eddie Morrison, 19, from Georgia.
Morrison was the youngest.
This was his eighth mission.
He joined the crew in December after their original tail gunner completed his tour.
The kid was nervous but competent.
Good eyes, quick reflexes.
He’d already shot down one mi 109 over Brmond on January 17th.
The crew liked him.
Called him junior.
He sent letters to his mother every day.
Told her he was doing fine.
Told her the war would be over soon.
Told her not to worry.
At a.m.
, Memphis Bell 2 lifted off from Rididgewell.
Formation assembly took 43 minutes.
The 381st formed up at 12,000 ft, then climbed a bombing altitude.
By p.m., they were at 22,000 ft, crossing the Dutch coast into German airspace.
The P47 escorts stayed with them until p.m.
Then they turned back.
Range limitation.
The Thunderbolts didn’t have the fuel capacity to escort bombers all the way to Frankfurt and back that left 422 B17 fly unescorted into the most heavily defended airspace in Europe.
The first Luftwaff fighters appeared at 218 p.m.
Faula Wolf FW90s.
12 aircraft.
They attacked from high diving through the bomber formation.
The B7’s defensive guns hammered.
50 caliber tracers crisscrossed the sky.
Two FW90s went down.
The rest broke off, regrouped, attacked again.
Thecker held formation.
His job wasn’t to dog fight.
His job was to maintain position in the bomber box, protect the aircraft around him through overlapping defensive fire, and reach the target.
The B7’s defensive armament was designed for mutual support.
Individual bombers were vulnerable, but in formation with interlocking fields of fire, they could defend themselves against fighter attacks.
Murphy, the flight engineer, manned the top turret.
His twin 50s traverse left, tracking an FW90, making a beam attack.
He fired a 3-second burst, saw strikes on the fighter’s wing.
The FW90 rolled away, trailing smoke, probable kill.
Romano in the Bolura engage.
fighters attacking from below.
Parker and Hayes, the waist gunners, covered the beam position.
Morrison in the tail, handled the position, the most vulnerable approach.
Fighters loved attacking from directly Aston.
B7s were slowest to maneuver in that direction, and tail gunners were isolated, working alone in a tiny compartment at the aircraft’s extreme rear.
At p.m., the formation reached the initial point.
Time to target 11 minutes.
Miller, the bombardier, took control of the aircraft through the Nordon Bombsite.
Thater’s hands stayed on the yolk, but Miller’s adjustments to the bombsite controlled the autopilot.
The B7 would fly straight and level for the next 11 minutes.
No evasive maneuvers, no deviations.
That was the price of precision bombing.
The Luftwaff knew it, too.
Fighter attacks intensified.
They focused on bombers making their bomb runs.
aircraft that couldn’t maneuver.
Easy targets and Mimi 109 dove through the formation, guns blazing.
Thater saw the bomber ahead of him.
Lucky Lady take hits in the number three engine.
Smoke poured from the cowling.
The propeller windmilled to a stop.
Lucky Lady dropped out of formation, descending.
Two P47s appeared from nowhere.
Must have been stragglers behind the main escort group.
They engaged the MI 109.
Shot it down.
Small mercies.
At p.m., Miller announced Bombay doors open.
The doors beneath Memphis Bell 2’s belly swung down.
Drag increased.
Air speed dropped from 180 mph to 170.
The B17 shuddered.
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Back to Memphis Bell.
Second flag appeared at p.m.
The Germans had positioned 88 mm anti-aircraft guns throughout Frankfurt.
Black puffs blossomed in the sky.
Each puff represented 20 lb of high explosive and shrapnel.
The Germans fired them in patterns, creating boxes of steel fragments that bombers had to fly through.
A flack burst detonated 50 ft from Memphis Beltu’s left wing.
Shrapnel peppered the fuselage.
Thater heard metal puncture aluminum, felt the aircraft shutter.
No catastrophic damage.
Not yet.
At p.m., Miller called, “Bombs away.” 12 500lb generalpurpose bombs dropped from Memphis bill to bomb bay.
6,000 lb of ordinance falling toward the Messers factory below.
The B7 lurched upward, suddenly 6,000 lbs lighter.
Thecker felt the nose pitch up.
He compensated, brought the aircraft back to level flight.
Bomb bay doors closed, Miller confirmed.
Let’s get the hell out of here.
But they weren’t out of it yet.
The formation had to hold course for another 30 seconds.
Photo reconnaissance cameras in the rear fuselage documented the bomb strikes.
Intelligence needed that data to assess damage.
30 seconds of straight and level flight while flack and fighters tried to kill them.
At p.m.
and 12 seconds, Faker broke formation pattern and turned west.
Time to go home.
Around him, other B7s did the same.
The formation began its long turn, heading back toward England.
380 mi, approximately 2 hours and 10 minutes of flight time.
If they survived that long, the left waffy wasn’t done.
MI10 9s and FW190s swarmed the bombers.
The fighters knew the B7s were most vulnerable after the bomb run.
Fuel was lower.
Ammunition was depleted.
Crews were exhausted.
This was the time to press attacks.
Morrison’s voice crackled over the intercom from the tail position.
Four bandits high coming in fast.
Murphy in the top turret confirmed.
I see them.
Me 10 9s.
Thater called out.
All gunners engage at will.
The four MI10 9’s dove toward Memphis Bell 2’s tail.
Morrison opened fire at 800 yardds.
His twin 50s hammered.
Traces reached out.
The lead me 109 broke left.
The second rolled right.
The third and fourth continued their attack run.
Morrison’s guns tracked the third fighter.
He led the target, compensated for closing speed.
Fired.
saw strikes on the MI 109’s engine howling.
The fighter’s propeller disintegrated.
The aircraft rolled inverted and fell.
“Splash one,” Morrison reported.
His voice was steady, “Professional.” “The kid was good under pressure.” “The fourth Mi 109 opened fire at 400 yd.
20 mm cannon shells and 7.9 2 mm machine gun rounds.
Streak toward Memphis Bell to tail.
Most missed.
Three didn’t.
The first ketton shell struck the tail gunner’s position just below Morrison’s left foot.
It penetrated the thin aluminum skin detonated inside the compartment.
Shrapnel tore through Morrison’s legs.
He screamed.
The second shell hit the vertical stabilizer.
The tall fin that rose above the tail.
It exploded on impact, blowing a hole 3 ft wide in the stabilizer structure.
The third shell was the catastrophic one.
It struck the horizontal stabilizer’s right side where it attached to the rear fuselage.
20 mm of high explosive detonated against loadbearing structural members.
The explosion severed two main spars.
The right horizontal stabilizer tore away completely.
It tumbled through the sky, spinning end over end, falling 22,000 ft to German farmland below.
Memphis Bell 2 lurched violently to the right.
The nose pitched up 30°.
That control yoke was suddenly fighting him.
The aircraft wanted to roll right and climb.
Physics was trying to kill them.
Walsh, the co-pilot, grabbed his yoke.
Both pilots pulled left with everything they had.
The B17 slowly rolled back toward level flight, but it wouldn’t stay there.
Constant pressure was required on the yolk.
Both pilots straining, muscles burning.
What the hell just happened? Walsh’s voice was tight.
That didn’t know yet, but he knew it was bad.
The aircraft’s handling characteristics had changed completely.
Every control input felt wrong, delayed, mushy, like trying to fly through mud.
Murphy’s voice crackled over the intercom.
[clears throat] Skipper, we’ve got a problem.
I’m looking back through the fuselage.
I can see Sky where the tail used to be.
The whole rear section is gone and Morrison’s not responding.
Thater’s blood went cold.
The tail section was the B17’s structural backbone.
The rear fuselage attached the tail surfaces to the main airframe.
If that structure was compromised, the aircraft could break apart at any moment.
The aerodynamic forces at 22,000 ft and 170 mph were enormous.
A damaged tail section would act like a sail in a hurricane.
Murphy, get back there.
Thecker ordered.
Check on Morrison.
Report damage.
Murphy left the top turret, crawled through the radio compartment, past the wasteg gun positions toward the tail.
What he found made him stop breathing for 3 seconds.
The tail gunner’s compartment was gone, not damaged.
Gone.
The entire rear 10 ft of fuselledge had been ripped away.
Murphy could see straight through the aircraft to the sky behind them.
The vertical stabilizer was still attached, but barely.
It swayed in the slipstream.
The left horizontal stabilizer remained, but the right side was completely missing.
Just twisted metal and torn aluminum skin whipping in 170 m wind.
And Morrison, Eddie Morrison, 19 years old from Georgia, who wrote his mother everyday, was wedged in what remained of his compartment.
Both legs were mangled.
Blood soaked his flight suit.
He was conscious in shock, his eyes locked onto Murphy’s face.
“Frank,” Morrison said quietly.
His voice was barely audible over the wind roar.
“I can’t feel my legs,” Murphy crawled forward to Morrison.
Evaluated his injuries.
Both legs were shattered below the knees.
Shrapnel wounds, severe bleeding.
Morrison needed a hospital immediately, but they were 380 mi from England over hostile territory in an aircraft that shouldn’t be flying.
Murphy grabbed the intercom.
Skipper Morrison’s alive.
Critical condition.
Both legs destroyed.
He needs immediate medical attention.
Can you move him? That asked.
Murphy looked at the situation.
To move Morrison, he’d have to drag him through the destroyed tail section across jagged metal through the open gap where the fuselage used to be.
The tail gunner’s compartment was separated from the rest of the aircraft by the missing section.
Morrison was trapped.
Negative, Murphy reported.
He’s stuck back here.
The tail section is separated from the main fuselage.
I can’t reach him without going outside the aircraft.
outside the aircraft at 22,000 ft at 170 mph in -40° F temperatures without oxygen.
It was suicide, but Morrison was going to die if they didn’t help him.
Blood loss, shock, hypothermia.
He had maybe 20 minutes.
Murphy made a decision that would later earn him the Silver Star.
I’m going after him.
He grabbed a portable oxygen bottle, clipped a safety line to his harness, wrapped a scarf around his face.
Then he crawled out onto what remained of the fuselage.
The wind hit him like a physical blow.
170 mph of freezing air.
His eyes watered instantly.
He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.
The slipstream tried to rip him away from the aircraft.
Only the safety line kept him attached.
He pulled himself forward, hand overhand, along the torn fuselage.
Metal edges cut through his gloves.
Blood froze instantly on the aluminum skin.
He reached Morrison after 90 seconds.
It felt like an hour.
Morrison’s eyes were closed.
Murphy checked his pulse.
Still alive, barely.
He grabbed Morrison under the arms, began pulling him backward away from the destroyed tail section toward the main fuselage.
The aircraft lurched.
That and Walsh were fighting constant control inputs.
The damaged tail made the B17 want to pitch and roll randomly.
Every movement made Murphy’s work harder.
The fuse lodge twisted beneath him.
Tilted.
He held on.
Kept pulling Morrison.
2 minutes.
Three.
Murphy’s hands were numb.
His face was frozen.
He couldn’t feel his fingers, but he kept moving inch by inch, pulling Morrison towards safety.
At 4 minutes and 40 seconds, Murphy reached the radio compartment hatch.
Parker and Hayes grabbed Morrison, pulled him inside.
Murphy collapsed through the hatch behind him.
His face was frost burned white.
His hands were bloody, but Morrison was inside.
out of the wind.
They could treat him now.
Davidson, the radio operator, immediately began first aid tourniquets on both legs.
Morphine injection blankets for shock.
He worked fast, professional.
He trained for this.
Every radio operator in the Eighth Air Force was trained as a combat medic.
Meanwhile, Thecker and Walsh were fighting the aircraft.
The B7 wanted to climb constantly.
The missing right horizontal stabilizer created asymmetric lift.
The left stabilizer was still generating downward force to balance the aircraft, but with the right side gone, the tail was trying to rise.
That had to hold constant forward pressure on the yolk, pushing the nose down, fighting the aircraft’s natural tendency to pitch up, his arms burned.
Walsh helped, but two pilots could barely manage the control forces required.
“We can’t maintain this for 2 hours,” Walsh said.
His voice was strained.
Der knew he was right.
They needed a solution.
Fast Chen the navigator crawled up from his compartment.
Skipper, I’ve been calculating.
Near’s friendly airfield is Manston on the Kent Coast.
340 mi.
If we can maintain current speed, we’ll make it in 2 hours 5 minutes.
If we don’t break apart first, Walsh added.
That made a decision.
We’re not breaking apart.
This aircraft has taken us through 18 missions.
She’ll take us home.
He meant it.
The B7 Flying Fortress had a reputation tough, resilient.
There were stories of B17s returning to base with catastrophic damage.
One engine out, two engines out, wings shot, full of holes.
Crews had limped home in aircraft that should have fallen out of the sky, but no one had flown a B17 home with 60% of the tail section destroyed.
That was unprecedented.
That was impossible.
That decided to make it possible.
The formation had scattered during the fighter attacks.
Memphis Bell 2 was alone now.
Stragglers were vulnerable.
Luftwafa fighters hunted them, picked them off one by one, but the German fighters saw Memphis Bell 2’s damaged tail.
They didn’t attack.
They assumed the B17 was already dead, just hadn’t fallen yet.
They were wrong.
At p.m., Thecker and Walsh worked out a solution to the control problem.
Murphy suggested using elevator trim.
The B17 had electric trim controls that adjusted the elevator’s neutral position.
If they trimmed nose down, it will reduce the control pressure required to hold level flight.
Walsh cranked the trim wheel.
The electric motor hummed, the elevator trim adjusted.
The control pressure eased.
Not completely, but enough.
That could now hold the yolk with one hand instead of two.
His arms stopped burning.
That’ll work, Thecker said.
Good thinking, Murphy.
But they had another problem.
Altitude.
They were still at 22,000 ft.
The damaged tail created tremendous drag.
The B7 was slowing.
Air speed had dropped to 155 mph.
At this rate, they’d stall before reaching England.
Thater needed to descend.
Lower altitude meant thicker air, more lift, higher air speed, but descending at a damaged aircraft was risky.
The aerodynamic forces would change.
The tail might not handle it.
He decided to risk it anyway.
Staying at 22,000 ft guaranteed a stall.
Descending might kill them, might save them.
He take might over guaranteed.
We’re descending to 10,000 ft.
Thaker announced, “Rate of descent, 500 ft per minute.
Smooth and controlled.
Everyone, hold on.” He eased the nose down.
The B7 began descending.
The air speed increased.
160 mph.
165.
The aircraft was responding normally.
So far, at 18,000 ft, the tail section shuttered.
Murphy felt it through the airframe.
a vibration, low frequency.
The damaged structure was resonating in the airflow.
If the vibration increased, the tail would tear off completely.
Skipper, we’ve got vibration, Murphy reported.
It’s getting worse.
That felt it too through the control yolk.
A buzz growing stronger.
He reduced the descent rate.
Slower descent, less aerodynamic stress.
The vibration decreased but didn’t stop.
At 15,000 ft, the vibration peaked.
The entire aircraft shook.
That’s instruments blurred.
He couldn’t read them.
The compass needle bounced.
The artificial horizon tumbled.
They were flying partially blind.
“Level off,” Walsh said urg urgently.
“We’re going to shake apart.” That pulled back gently on the yolk.
Memphis Bell 2 leveled at 15,000 ft.
The vibration decreased, not gone, but tolerable.
This was as low as they could go without risking structural failure.
Air speed had increased to 172 mph.
Good enough.
They could maintain this speed to England, probably.
At p.m., they crossed the German border into Belgium, still 280 mi from England.
Morrison was stable, but unconscious.
Davidson had stopped the bleeding, given him fluids, done everything possible with limited supplies, but the kid needed surgery.
Soon the channel appeared at p.m.
That beautiful gray expanse of water.
Never looked so good.
They crossed the coast of Dover.
British soil home.
That radioed Manston tower.
Manston control.
This is Memphis Bell 2 B7 with catastrophic tail damage.
Critically wounded.
Requesting emergency landing clearance.
The tower controller’s voice came back immediately.
Memphis Bell 2 cleared for straight and approach runway to it.
Emergency equipment standing by.
Wind 27 nil at 12 knots.
Ultimate 2 niner niner2.
Thater acknowledged began his approach.
The landing would be the hardest part.
With the damaged tail, the B17’s handling would be unpredictable during the flare and touchdown.
Too much back pressure on the yolk and the tail would stall.
The nose would drop.
They’d crash.
Too little back pressure and they’d hit nose first.
Same result.
Thecker had to land perfectly.
First try, no goarounds.
The aircraft barely flew in level flight.
In the landing configuration with gear down and flaps extended, it might not fly at all.
At p.m.
, Memphis Bell 2 was on final approach.
Gear down, flaps at 25°, air speed 140 mph.
That held the nose slightly high, compensating for the missing tail section.
Walsh called out altitudes 500 ft, air speed 135, 300 ft, air speed 132.
100 ft.
Air speed 130.
Faker could see the runway.
Concrete stretching ahead.
Emergency vehicles lined both sides.
Ambulances, fire trucks.
The whole base was watching.
50 ft.
He reduced throttle.
The B7 settled.
The tail vibration increased.
The airframe shook.
Thecker held steady.
Waited.
30 ft.
20 ft.
10 ft.
Thater pulled back on the yolk.
flared.
The nose came up.
The main wheels touched concrete, firm but controlled.
The tail wheel dropped.
The B7 rolled down the runway.
That applied brakes gently.
They slowed.
80 mph.
60 40 20 stop.
Memphis Bell 2 sat on Manson’s runway.
Engines idling.
Tail section destroyed.
But home shut down the engines.
Silence.
Beautiful silence.
Walsh looked at him.
Neither man spoke.
Didn’t need to.
The ambulance reached Morrison within 30 seconds.
Medics loaded him onto a stretcher.
Rushed him to the base hospital.
He’d survive.
Lose both legs below the knees.
But he’d live.
He’d go home to Georgia.
Write his mother.
Tell her he was fine.
Tell her the war was over.
For him at least.
The base commander, Colonel Martin Hayes, walked out to inspect Memphis.
Bell second.
He’d been flying B17s since 1942.
He’d seen damaged aircraft before, but nothing like this.
60% of the tail section was gone.
The right horizontal stabilizer completely missing.
The vertical stabilizer held on by three structural members.
The fuselage was torn open for 10 ft.
You could see straight through the aircraft.
Wind had polished the jagged metal edges to a bright shine.
Hayes walked around the aircraft twice.
Didn’t say anything, just looked.
Finally, he turned to Thecker.
How the hell did you fly this thing home? That thought about that question.
Honest answer.
He didn’t know.
The aircraft shouldn’t have flown.
Physics said it was impossible, but they’d flown it anyway because the alternative was dying over Germany and Thacker wasn’t ready to die.
His crew wasn’t ready to die, so they’d done the impossible.
She wanted to come home, sir.
Thaker finally said, “We just helped her along.” Hayes nodded.
He understood.
Every pilot understood.
Aircraft weren’t just machines.
They were partners, crew members.
When you flew 19 combat missions in the same aircraft, you developed a relationship with it.
You trusted it.
It trusted you.
You brought it home.
It brought you home.
Memphis Bell 2 never flew again.
The damage was too extensive.
She was stripped for parts.
Her engines went to other B7s.
Her guns, her instruments, everything salvageable.
The airframe was scrapped.
But her crew remembered her.
They’d flown her through 19 missions, through flack, through fighters, through catastrophic damage.
She’d brought them home every time.
Tacker flew 14 more missions before the war.
Ended in May of 1945.
Different aircraft, different crew members.
He survived.
Returned to the United States in December of 1945.
Received the Distinguished Flying Cross for the Frankfurt mission.
He never talked much about it.
When people asked, he said he was just doing his job.
Murphy received the Silver Star for rescuing Morrison under fire.
He went back to New York after the war, worked construction, never flew again, died in 1982 at age 66.
Morrison lost both legs below the knees, spent 6 months in hospitals, learned to walk with prosthetics, returned to Georgia in 1946, became a teacher, taught high school history for 37 years.
He told his students about the day a B17 brought him home with no tail.
Most of them didn’t believe him.
It sounded impossible.
It was impossible, but it happened anyway.
The 381st Bombardment Group flew its last combat mission on April 25th, 1945.
They’d flown 297 missions, lost 131 aircraft, won 310 men killed or missing, but they’d completed their mission, destroyed factories, disrupted production, helped win the war.
The cost was high, but they’d paid it.
Men like that, Murphy, Morrison, young men who climbed into aircraft every morning knowing they might not come back, who flew damaged bombers home through impossible circumstances, who refused to quit when physics said they should.
That’s the story of Memphis Bell II.
And the day she came home with her tail nearly gone, a reminder that impossible is just a word.
That determination matters more than aerodynamics.
that sometimes when everything is against you, you fly the airplane anyway and trust it to bring you home.
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