At 11:47 a.m.
on February 3rd, 1944, Staff Sergeant Elmer G.
Richardson assumes his position in the tail gun compartment of AB17 Flying Fortress designated as aircraft 42 to 31,333.
Call sign Ruthless Ruth.
Preparing for a maximum altitude bombing raid over Brunswick, Germany.
22 years old.
17 missions completed.
Three confirmed Messers Schmidt kills to his name.
300 m ahead, 87 Luftwaffa fighters scramble from German airfields, tasked with intercepting the 384th bombardment group before it reaches the ballbearing factories that keep Germany’s war machine turning.
Elmer Richardson grew up in Topeka, Kansas, working as a garage mechanic before the war.
He enlisted 3 days after Pearl Harbor.
His mother received his last letter on January 28th describing the cold.
It’s not like Kansas cold.
Ma, he wrote, “It’s cold that makes your bones ache.” By February 1944, the 8th Air Force has suffered a 43% casualty rate.
For out of every 10 men who climb into these bombers don’t come home, the life expectancy of a tail gunner is measured in missions, not years.
Elmer has 17.
The mission briefing at 6:30 a.m.
revealed the target.
Brunswick, deep penetration, 6 hours in the air.
Temperature at bombing altitude projected at -60° F.
Cold enough to freeze exposed flesh in under 2 minutes.
First Lieutenant Robert Daniels commands Ruthless Ruth.
His crew of 10 men have flown 130 combined missions over Nazi occupied Europe.
Statistically, three of them should already be dead.
At 9:15 a.m., Ruthless Ruth lifts off.
36 aircraft from the 384th Bombardment Group follow.
217 bombers total, protected by 112P 47 Thunderbolt fighters.
The fighters can only escort them halfway.
Elmer Richardson crawls through the narrow fuselage into the tail section.
The tail compartment measures 4 ft wide, 3 ft tall, no room to stand.
250 caliber Browning machine guns mounted in a hydraulic rotation system.
A small seat.
Plexaglass windows on three sides.
Minus 60° outside.
The compartment isn’t heated.
He plugs his heated suit into the aircraft’s electrical system.
When the system fails, which happens frequently, you have minutes before your fingers stop functioning.
He plugs his oxygen mask into the system.
At 30,000 ft, you’re unconscious in 20 seconds without oxygen.
Dead in 3 minutes.
He loads ammunition belts into both guns, 400 rounds each.
He checks his parachute harness, even though jumping from a disintegrating bomber at 30,000 ft gives you approximately a 12% survival rate.
At 11:47 a.m., Ruthless Ruth crosses the Dutch coast at 28,000 ft.
Elmer Richardson is alone in the tail, watching the formation behind them.
36 bombers stretched across three miles of sky.
The intercom crackles.
Lieutenant Daniels, the pilot.
Tail gunner, check in.
Tail gunner, check.
All clear behind us.
Skipper.
Roger.
Stay sharp.
Intelligence reports heavy fighter concentration.
Elmer scans the sky.
Empty blue above, solid cloud deck below.
Temperature gauge reads -58° F.
His breath fogs inside his oxygen mask.
His heated suit is working for now.
His toes are already numb.
This is where our story truly begins.
In 14 minutes, Elmer Richardson will face a test that no training could prepare him for.
In 6 hours, the crew will discover something that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
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The B17G Flying Fortress represents American strategic bombing doctrine.
Designed to operate at altitudes beyond most anti-aircraft fire, armed heavily enough to defend itself, capable of absorbing catastrophic damage and continuing to fly.
The tail gun position is the most important and most isolated station on the aircraft.
Most German fighters attack from behind and below.
The tail gunner sees them first, fires first, dies first.
You’re the aircraft’s last line of defense, sitting 35 ft behind the rest of the crew, connected only by an intercom that frequently cuts out.
At 12:01 p.m., the German fighters appear.
Elmer Richardson spots them first, 4,000 ft below, climbing fast.
Dark specks against white clouds, growing larger every second.
Fighters 6:00 low.
His voice crackles across the intercom coming up fast.
The entire formation opens fire.
The sky fills with tracer fire.
Red streaks from American guns, green streaks from German cannons.
He centers the lead Messersmidt in his gun sight.
squeezes the triggers.
Both guns roar.
Tracer rounds arc toward the fighter.
He walks his fire across the approaching aircraft.
The fighter rolls left, diving away.
Three more fighters replace it.
They’re firing.
White streaks of 20 mm rounds cutting through the formation.
The B7 behind Ruthless Ruth takes a direct hit.
The engine explodes.
The bomber drops out of formation.
Trailing fire.
Elmer swings his guns right.
This one’s closer.
500 yd.
He fires.
The fighter fires.
His rounds converge on the Messor Schmidt’s cockpit.
Glass shatters.
The fighter rolls inverted and falls away out of control.
That’s four kills now.
But there are 30 more fighters and they figured out that the tail gun is the most dangerous position.
Take out the tail gunner.
You can attack from behind with impunity.
A Faka Wolf 190 comes in from 4:00 high, diving at 300 mph.
Elmer swings his guns up, but the turret’s hydraulic system is sluggish in the cold.
The Faula Wolf fires first.
Four 20 mm cannons converging on Ruthless Ruth’s tail section.
The world explodes.
Cannon shells rip through the tail compartment.
Plexiglass shatters.
Metal tears.
One shell punches through the bulkhead.
Another hits oxygen system.
The third hits electrical system.
The heated suit goes dead instantly.
The intercom goes dead.
The hydraulic turret system goes dead.
Elmer’s guns are now manually operated.
Worse, his oxygen supply is severed.
He’s breathing cabin air at 30,000 ft.
He has seconds before hypoxia sets in.
He reaches for his emergency oxygen bottle.
A small yellow cylinder clipped to his chest.
Gets it open.
Presses the mask against his face.
breathes pure oxygen.
The bottle contains 10 minutes of oxygen.
After that, he has nothing.
The intercom is dead, so he can’t tell the pilot what’s happened.
In the noise and chaos of combat, the rest of the crew doesn’t know he’s been hit.
Temperature in the tail compartment drops immediately.
Without the heated suit, he’s exposed to the full -60° cold.
Another fighter attack from 7:00 low.
Elmer manually traverses his guns using arm strength against frozen hydraulics.
He fires.
The guns jam after 15 rounds.
Both of them.
He clears the jams, removes his gloves, grabs the frozen charging handles.
His fingers stick to the metal.
When he pulls away, Skin remains behind.
He gets the guns working, fires again, drops the attacking Messorm.
That’s five confirmed, but his ammunition is running low.
The emergency oxygen bottle gauge reads half empty.
5 minutes remaining.
Temperature continues dropping.
He’s shivering violently now.
His feet are numb.
His hands are numb.
His face is numb.
Another fighter attack.
Then another.
The German pilots have identified Ruthless Ruth as damaged.
They’re focusing their attacks.
Elmer fires until his guns are empty.
Then he sits in the frozen darkness, unarmed, unheated, running out of oxygen.
The emergency bottle gauge reads empty.
He breathes the last of his oxygen, then switches to cabin air.
The hypoxia returns immediately.
His vision tunnels.
His thinking becomes confused.
He decides to rest just for a minute.
The cold is everywhere now.
It’s inside him, replacing his blood with ice water.
His shivering stops.
That’s bad.
When you stop shivering, it means your body has given up trying to generate heat.
But he’s so tired and the cold doesn’t hurt anymore.
It’s peaceful.
The guns have stopped firing.
The fighters have moved on.
He’s alone in the tail section, alone with the cold and the silence.
He thinks about Kansas.
summer days in his father’s garage.
His mother’s kitchen warm and smelling like bread.
His girl Margaret who promised to wait for him.
His eyes close.
His breathing becomes shallow.
His heart rate slows.
At 12:43 p.m., 42 minutes after the first fighter attack, Staff Sergeant Elmer G.
Richardson dies of hypoxia and hypothermia in the tail gun compartment of AB17 Flying Fortress over Germany.
He is 22 years old.
He dies at his post, hands still on his guns, still facing the enemy.
He dies alone and he dies quietly and the rest of the crew doesn’t know.
Lieutenant Daniels, the pilot, has his own problems.
The number two engine is running rough.
The number four engine’s oil pressure is dropping.
The hydraulic system is damaged.
The aircraft pulls constantly to the left.
He tries the intercom.
Tail gunner.
Status report.
Nothing.
Richardson, you copy.
Silence.
The intercom system has been damaged.
This is normal.
Battle damage disrupts communications.
He assumes Elmer is alive and fighting because Elmer is always alive and fighting.
The formation reaches Brunswick at 1:17 p.m.
Flack fills the sky.
German 88 mm anti-aircraft guns firing shells that detonate in black clouds of shrapnel.
The bombader takes control.
Ruthless Ruth flies straight and level despite the flack.
Bomb bay doors open.
The bombadier’s voice calm despite the metal fragments punching through the fuselage.
Steady, steady.
Bombs away.
3600 lb of ordinance drops.
The aircraft lurches upward.
Daniel’s banks left, beginning the long turn toward home.
Behind them, Brunswick’s ballbearing factories erupt in flame.
But the mission isn’t over.
They still have 300 m of German occupied territory to cross.
At 1:34 p.m., the second major fighter attack begins.
70 German fighters hit the formation from multiple angles.
The sky becomes chaos.
Bombers exploding, fighters burning, parachutes blossoming against the clouds.
The waste gunners fire continuously.
The ball turret gunner spins in frantic circles.
The top turret gunner empties his ammunition, reloads, empties again, but the tail guns remain silent.
Lieutenant Daniels notices.
Tail gunner, you still with us? No response.
Jensen, can you see back to the tail? Is Richardson okay? Jensen tries to look after, but the tail section is separated from the waist by the narrow fuselage tunnel.
Negative.
Skipper can’t see him from here.
Daniels makes a decision.
If the tail guns are silent, it means either Richardson is dead or his guns are jammed or his ammunition is exhausted.
Either way, there’s nothing the pilot can do about it from the cockpit.
The only priority is getting the damaged bomber home.
The fighter attacks continue for 47 minutes.
Ruthless Ruth takes additional hits.
The number four engine quits.
The hydraulic system fails completely.
Fuel is leaking.
The radio is dead.
Three crew members are wounded.
At 2:21 p.m., the P47 fighters return, meeting the bomber formation at the German Dutch border.
The Luftwaffa fighters break off immediately.
The bomber stream limps toward England.
14 aircraft from the 384th bombardment group left on this mission.
11 are returning.
Three were shot down over Germany.
30 men dead or captured.
Ruthless Ruth crosses the English coast at 3:42 p.m.
Flying on three engines, leaking fuel, hydraulics failed, tailguns still silent.
Daniels sets up his approach.
Landing a shot up bomber is always dangerous.
The crew assumes crash positions.
The landing is hard but successful.
Ruthless Ruth bounces twice, then settles onto the runway.
Daniels cuts the engines.
The bomber rolls to a stop.
Silence after 8 hours of continuous noise.
Everybody out, Daniels orders.
Quick as you can.
This thing might catch fire.
The crew evacuates through the waste door.
Nine men climb out, dropping to the tarmac.
They count heads.
Nine men.
Where’s Richardson? Daniels asks.
Nobody knows.
The tail section was isolated during the entire mission.
Jensen Kowalsski go check the tail.
The two waist gunners climb back into the aircraft.
Jensen crawls through first.
He sees Richardson immediately slumped in his seat, hands still on the gun controls, facing aft.
Elmer.
Jensen’s voice is tentative.
Hey, Elmer.
We’re home.
No response.
Elmer.
He touches Richardson’s shoulder.
The body is frozen solid.
Rigid ice crystals coat the flight jacket.
The hands are frozen to the metal gun controls.
The eyes are open, staring at nothing.
Jensen backs out.
His face is white.
“He’s dead,” he tells Kowalsski.
“He’s been dead.
He’s frozen.” The crew gathers around the tail section, staring up at the small windows where Richardson’s body remains in position.
An ambulance arrives, then the base medical officer, Captain Arthur Henderson.
The flight surgeon climbs into the tail compartment, examines Richardson’s body, takes notes.
How long? Lieutenant Daniels asks when Henderson emerges.
Hours? At least three, maybe four.
Probably died early in the mission.
Hypoxia combined with hypothermia.
His oxygen system was severed, electrical system destroyed.
He had no heat, no oxygen.
He lasted longer than most men would have in those conditions.
We didn’t know.
Daniel’s sounds hollow.
The intercom was out.
We thought he was just maintaining radio silence.
We thought he was alive.
There’s no way you could have known.
Henderson says the tail section is isolated.
Even if the intercom was working, hypoxia victims don’t always communicate their distress.
They lose cognitive function before they realize they’re in trouble.
The crew stands in silence.
They flew 4 hours with a dead man in their tail.
They landed with him still frozen at his post.
The image will haunt them forever.
But now they face a practical problem.
Richardson’s body is frozen in position, frozen to his guns.
His hands are locked around the metal controls.
His body is rigid in the seated position.
They cannot extract him through the narrow tail access tunnel.
In this configuration, the tunnel is 26 in in diameter.
Richardson’s frozen body, locked in seated position with arms extended, is 34 in across.
The base commander, Colonel Julius Lacy, arrives.
He examines the situation, consults with the medical officer, makes the decision everyone is avoiding.
We’ll have to thaw the body enough to move it.
The crew recoils.
The idea of deliberately thawing their friend’s frozen corpse feels obscene, but there’s no alternative.
They can’t leave him in the tail indefinitely.
They can’t cut him out without destroying the aircraft, which is needed for continued operations.
They need to extract him intact, and that requires his body to become flexible again.
The base engineers arrive with portable heaters.
They position them near the tail section, begin pumping warm air into the compartment.
The process is slow and respectful and deeply disturbing.
The crew waits outside, smoking cigarettes, not talking.
3 hours later, at 7:15 p.m., Richardson’s body has thought enough to be moved.
The medical team carefully extracts him from the tail section.
His hands still bear the shape of the gun controls.
His face still bears the expression of concentration.
Even in death, even frozen and thawed, he looks like he’s still aiming at enemy fighters.
They place him on a stretcher, cover him with a sheet, transport him to the base morg.
The crew watches the ambulance drive away.
Nine men who flew into combat together, only nine who flew home alive.
That night, Lieutenant Daniels writes the hardest letter of his life.
Dear Mrs.
Richardson, it begins.
It is my duty to inform you that your son, Staff Sergeant Elmer G.
Richardson died in action on February 3rd, 1944 during a bombing mission over Germany.
He died at his post defending his aircraft and crew.
His actions during the mission were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Army Air Forces.
He was a credit to his family, his service, and his nation.
What Daniels doesn’t write, what he can’t write is that they flew home with Elmer frozen in the tale.
That they didn’t know he was dead, that they landed and evacuated and only then discovered his body, that they had to thaw him to get him out.
These details serve no purpose except to add pain to grief.
The official casualty report lists Richardson’s cause of death as hypoxia and hypothermia sustained in combat operations.
Time of death estimated at 12:43 p.m.
Location of death.
Tail gun compartment B 17G aircraft 42 to 31,333 over Brunswick, Germany at 30,000 ft altitude.
His mother receives the telegram 3 days later.
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your son, Staff Sergeant Elmer G.
Richardson, was killed in action on February 3rd, 1944 in the service of his country.
Letter follows.
She frames the telegram, places it next to Elmer’s last letter, the one about the cold.
It’s not like Kansas cold, ma.
It’s cold that makes your bones ache.
She never learns how right he was.
The 384th Bombardment Group returns to operations the next day.
Ruthless Ruth, despite catastrophic damage, is reparable.
The ground crews work through the night replacing engines, patching holes, restoring systems.
The tail compartment receives special attention.
They remove all traces of blood, all evidence of trauma.
They install new oxygen lines, new electrical systems, new plexiglass windows.
They repaint the interior, but they can’t remove the memory.
Every man who flies in that tail section afterward knows what happened there.
They know Elmer Richardson died in this exact seat, frozen to these exact guns.
Some refuse to fly in ruthless Ruth.
They request transfers to other aircraft.
The squadron commander denies most requests.
There aren’t enough aircraft to accommodate superstition.
Staff Sergeant Robert Morrison, replacement tail gunner, flies his first mission in Ruthless Ruth on February 10th, 1944.
He sits in Richardson’s seat, man’s Richardson’s guns, breathes oxygen through Richardson’s replaced oxygen system.
He’s 20 years old.
This is his third mission.
He survives.
The aircraft returns safely.
Morrison flies 17 more missions in the tale of ruthless Ruth.
He never speaks about Richardson.
Never acknowledges the history of his position.
Superstition says speaking about dead airmen brings bad luck.
Morrison has enough bad luck already.
Lieutenant Daniels continues flying Ruthless Ruth until April 1944, completing his required 25 missions.
He survives the war, returns to Ohio, becomes a commercial pilot.
He never speaks publicly about the mission where his tail gunner froze to death.
In 1987, a military historian interviewing Daniels about his war service asks about his most difficult mission.
Brunswick, Daniels says immediately.
February 3rd, 1944.
Lost our tail gunner.
good man died at his post.
He doesn’t elaborate.
After 43 years, the wound is still fresh.
The other crew members scatter after the war.
Jensen returns to Minnesota, becomes a farmer.
Kowalsski returns to Pennsylvania, works in a steel mill.
Duca returns to New York, opens a restaurant.
Morrison returns to Texas, becomes an oil worker.
Polarmo returns to California, becomes a mechanic.
Cole returns to Illinois, becomes a factory foreman.
Mitchell returns to Oregon, becomes a logger.
Weber returns to Wisconsin, becomes a teacher.
They don’t maintain contact.
Most bomber crews don’t.
The bonds formed in combat are too intense to sustain in peace time.
Remaining friends means remaining in that mental space where you’re always 22 years old, always terrified, always watching someone die.
Richardson’s body returns to Topeka in March 1944.
The funeral is military honors, flag draped coffin, rifle salute, bugler playing taps.
His mother receives the folded flag.
His girl Margaret attends the service crying behind a black veil.
She marries someone else in 1946.
His father lives until 1971.
Never removes Elmer’s photograph from the living room wall.
The distinguished flying cross is awarded to Richardson postumously in June 1944.
The citation reads, “For extraordinary achievement while serving as tail gunner on AB17 aircraft during a bombing mission over Germany on February 3rd, 1944.
Despite severe damage to his position and loss of oxygen and heat, Sergeant Richardson maintained his station and engaged enemy fighters, destroying two and damaging several others before succumbing to his wounds.
His gallantry and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of military service.
The citation doesn’t mention he was frozen.
Doesn’t mention the crew didn’t know.
Doesn’t mention thawing his body.
Those details remain classified, buried in afteraction reports that won’t be declassified for 50 years.
In 1994, a researcher at the National Archives discovers the full mission report.
The details emerge.
The frozen tail gunner, the crews ignorance, the three-hour thawing process.
The story spreads through veteran communities.
Some dismiss it as legend.
Others confirm it.
They remember hearing about the incident.
They remember the rumors.
The story becomes part of eighth air force lore.
A cautionary tale about the dangers of high alitude combat.
A tragedy about the isolation of tail gunners.
A testament to men who died at their posts without anyone knowing until it was too late.
Ruthless Ruth survives the war.
She flies 73 missions total.
Returns safely from all of them.
After VE Day, she’s flown back to the United States, then to a scrapyard in Arizona.
She’s cut apart for aluminum in 1946.
Nothing remains except photographs and mission records and memories.
The 384th Bombardment Group flew 314 missions during World War II, dropped 22,415 tons of bombs, lost 159 aircraft to enemy action, suffered 1,579 casualties.
Every one of those casualties has a story.
Most are forgotten.
Elmer Richardson’s story survives because of how he died frozen at 30,000 ft.
unknown to his crew, discovered only after landing.
It’s not the heroic death he might have wanted.
There was no final dramatic stand, no last message to loved ones, no witnesses to his final moments.
He died alone, quietly, gradually losing consciousness in the frozen tale of a bomber over Germany.
But he died at his post, and that counts for something.
3 weeks after the incident, the Air Force issues technical orders 01-20Eg41 mandating improved oxygen system redundancy in tail gun compartments.
New installations include dual oxygen lines, larger emergency bottles, and visual indicators visible from waste positions to confirm tail gunner status.
Too late for Richardson, but it saves lives afterward.
The 384th Bombardment Group holds a memorial service on February 10th, 1944.
The chaplain delivers the eulogy.
We gather to remember Staff Sergeant Elmer Richardson, who gave his life in service to his nation and his crew.
He died as he lived, faithfully executing his duty.
Richardson is buried in Mount Hope Cemetery, Topeka, Kansas.
His mother, Martha Richardson, keeps his distinguished flying cross in a shadow box, his last letter in her Bible, his photograph in her wallet until her death in 1978.
The distinguished flying cross citation reads, “For extraordinary achievement while serving as tail gunner during a bombing mission over Germany on February 3rd, 1944.
Despite severe damage to his position and loss of oxygen and heat, Sergeant Richardson maintained his station and engaged enemy fighters before succumbing to his wounds.
No mention of freezing.
No mention of the crew’s discovery after landing.
Those details remain classified for 50 years.
Lieutenant Daniels, interviewed in 1995 at age 74, reflects on that mission.
We flew home with him dead in the tail.
We didn’t know.
There’s nothing we could have done, but we didn’t know.
That’s what stays with me.
He was alone back there dying, and we were up front fighting our own battles.
Of the nine surviving crew members, only one is still living as of 2024.
Staff Sergeant Martin Kowalsski, age 102, remembers.
We found him after we landed.
Frozen solid, hands on his guns.
We flew all the way home and didn’t know.
He pauses.
That’s war.
People die and you don’t even know until later.
The story of Elmer Richardson illustrates a truth about high altitude bombing that statistics can’t capture.
You can die at your post without anyone knowing.
The cold at 30,000 ft isn’t just uncomfortable.
It’s lethal.
And when systems fail, men die, often quietly, often alone.
The tail gunner position had the highest casualty rate in the Eighth Air Force.
38% were killed or severely wounded.
They sat in isolated positions, surrounded by glass, targeted by enemy fighters.
They couldn’t abandon their position during combat.
Elmer Richardson was one of thousands.
His story survives because of the specific circumstances, but every tail gunner who died died the same way fundamentally.
alone, isolated, doing their duty despite impossible conditions.
55,000 American airmen died in Europe during World War II.
Each one has a story.
Most are forgotten.
Richardson’s name survives because the frozen tail gunner became shorthand for the brutal reality of high altitude combat.
He served, he fought, he died at his post.
He’s remembered.
That’s more than most men get.
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Staff Sergeant Elmer G.
Richardson, 22 years old, tail gunner, frozen at his post at 30,000 ft over Germany, dead for hours while his crew flew home.
Not knowing, discovered only after landing, frozen solid, hands still on his guns.
He stayed at his post until the end.
That’s what matters.
He died doing his duty.
Alone in the frozen darkness of a bombers’s tale, defending men who didn’t even know he was dying.
That’s heroism.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the kind that makes good movies.
The quiet kind.
The kind that happens when nobody’s watching.
The kind that matters most.
His name is on a memorial wall in England.
On a headstone in Kansas, in mission reports in the National Archives, in the memories of the few surviving crew members, in this story.
Now it’s in your memory, too.
Remember him.
Remember what he did.
Remember what it cost.
Remember that freedom isn’t free.
And sometimes the price is paid by 22-year-old kids from Kansas dying alone at 30,000 ft doing their duty until their body gives out.
Elmer G.
Richardson.
Tail gunner.
Hero.
Frozen but not forgotten.
