The Bomber Boys

by Travis L. Ayres

  The pilot went on to explain that George might be assigned “further overseas duty not involving combat” for a month or so before he was sent back to the States. The third paragraph of Walker’s letter filled John Ahern’s heart with pride when he read the lieutenant’s words: “George is a fine boy and one we can both be proud of. It has been a pleasure having him on my crew. He has a good record and wears the Distinguished Flying Cross and Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters to testify as to his usefulness.”

  The day after Walker wrote the letter, the Torchy Tess crew got the call to fly again—George’s last mission. As the nineteen-year-old veteran ball turret gunner sat in the briefing room with his crewmates, he said a silent prayer that God would let them come home again from whatever German city they were being sent to. When the briefing officer removed the cover, George’s eyes followed the red line on the map. It did not extend into Germany. The line ended in France. “Ground support . . .” George vaguely heard. Someone slapped him on the back. He broke into a smile. For his final mission, George had drawn the much-sought-after but seldom seen “milk run.”

  By Christmas, George was back in the United States and home on leave. After a brief reunion with his family, he surprised his mother when he said, “Mom, I’m sorry I have to run, but I gotta get to the New Haven green.” Before she could protest, he was out the door, still wearing his dress uniform. In their final overseas letters, George and Marie had made plans to meet.

  “Why don’t we meet on the New Haven green?” Marie had suggested. “Look for a girl with a red rose.” As George walked across the green, its trees barren against a winter sky, his mood was springlike. Because of his uniform, Marie spotted George first.

  Oh my God, this guy is so handsome, she thought as she waved to him. George saw the girl with the rose waving to him.

  She’s even prettier than her picture.

  Though each had been nervous about their first meeting, there was little awkwardness between them. They held hands and laughed when they both tried to speak at the same time. Within minutes the young couple was embraced in a kiss, oblivious to smiling passersby on the New Haven green. George and Marie knew from that moment, they were destined to be together.

  The war in Europe and the Pacific was still unfinished business, and the Eighth Air Force needed veteran specialists to teach new recruits. George’s and Marie’s future would have to wait. He received orders to report to Gunnery Instructor’s School in Texas. His separation from military service did not happen until after the surrender of Japan in August 1945.

  George returned home that fall and promptly asked Marie to marry him. She said, “Yes.” A year later, on October 19, 1946, the former wartime pen pals were wed.

  After the War

  George Ahern: After their wedding, George and Marie settled in Branford, Connecticut. They bought a home there and raised three daughters, Kathleen, Sharon and Suzanne, and one son, John. Twelve grandchildren were born into the Ahern family.

  George’s first civilian job was in the shipping and receiving warehouse of a wholesale distributor of major kitchen appliances. Soon he was offered a promotion as a sales representative, servicing the accounts of retail stores. He practiced this occupation successfully for twenty-five years. Finally, a desire to “get off the road” pushed him to go back to school. Completing college courses in municipal waste treatment technology enabled him to secure employment with the public works department of his hometown. In 1990, George retired after serving ten years as the superintendent of Branford’s waste treatment plant.

  In 2002, George was elected commander of American Legion Post 83 in Branford. He is also a founding member of the Connecticut chapter of the Eighth Air Force Historical Society and served nine years as its secretary.

  During the spring of 2000, George and Marie traveled to England to attend a 351st Bomb Group reunion. After being welcomed by the mayor of Peterborough, the former airmen and their wives (two hundred in all) were taken to the site of the old Polebrook air base. The base property is now under private control, but the 351st veterans group retains ownership of a small section of runway where a monument to its members has been erected.

  The owner of the air base has also created a living monument to the brave men who died while serving with the 351st Bomb Group. In a field near the runway, the landowner has planted a small forest of trees—one tree for every 351st bomber that was lost during World War II.

  As George and Marie stood with the others paying silent tribute to fallen comrades, they heard a familiar sound coming from far away. It was a sound most of the former bomber boys had not heard in more than five decades—the unmistakable sound of four mighty B-17 engines. The same man who had planted the tribute trees had also arranged for a restored Fortress to do a fly-over. The bomber made several passes over the former Polebrook runway. Finally, as George watched the B-17 disappear into distant clouds, Marie watched her husband, knowing his thoughts were taking him back to a time when he was a young ball turret gunner and she was his pen pal.

  George and Marie had been happily married for fifty-nine years when she passed away on November 3, 2005. George still lives in his Branford home with his little friend Mitzy, a dog he rescued from the local animal shelter.

  Marvin R. Walker, Maurice E. Joncas, Daniel L. Rader, Donald E. Knuepple, William R. Schneider, William W. Weaver, Charles “Buddy” S. Armstrong, Philip H. Duke and Paul A. Schrader: These nine other members of the original Torchy Tess crew completed their tours of duty soon after George had completed his. All but two of the airmen received the Distinguished Flying Cross for having flown thirty-five combat missions. (Duke and Armstrong flew thirty-five combat missions like the others, but by the time they completed their tours of duty, Eighth Air Force rules had changed and the two waist gunners were denied this medal.) Although they had returned from some of their missions with their aircraft riddled with flak holes, all the members of Marvin Walker’s regular crew returned without serious injuries to their families in the United States.

  Philip H. Duke and Buddy Armstrong were the last of the crew to finish their combat rotation as a result of flying alternating missions as waist gunner on Walker’s crew. Duke did not go on his thirty-fifth mission until January 3, 1945.

  Despite his longer combat tour, Philip Duke returned to Wellsville, New York, and his wife, Virginia, in time for the couple’s first wedding anniversary on February 3. When he was transferred to an air base in Florida, Ginnie went with him. It was comforting to have her there, but the air combat veteran found the daily base routine boring. Over his wife’s objections, Duke volunteered for gunner duty on a B-29 bomber. He flew one practice mission aboard a Superfortress before the war in the Pacific ended.

  Duke worked ten years in the family oil well-drilling business in Pennsylvania and twenty years back in New York with the Wellsville Lumber Company, most of them as manager. From 1971 until 1981, he was tax assessor and building inspector for the town of Wellsville, a position he left to become project manager for a federal housing program. Duke retired in 1986.

  Philip and Virginia Duke raised a son, Philip Jr., who became a major in the U.S. Air Force, the third generation of Duke military aviators (Philip’s father had received his pilot’s wings near the end of WWI). The couple also had a daughter, Reita. The children grew up in the home Philip had built himself in 1960. Three grandchildren and two great-grandchildren followed. The Dukes celebrated their fifty-first wedding anniversary in February 1995. Virginia Duke passed away the following July.

  Philip still lives in his Wellsville home. He has donated countless hours to delivering Meals on Wheels over the past two decades. He enjoys his weekly game of golf for both fun and exercise, although recently he has given up his lifelong practice of walking the course to the comfort of a golf cart.

  Charles S. “Buddy” Armstrong was finally assigned to duty as a flight engineer during his last few combat missions. He completed his thirty-fifth mission in February 1945, and
returned to the United States three months later. By early May, he was on his way home to Blytheville, Arkansas, for a thirty-day leave and to await reassignment. When his train stopped in St. Louis, the airman got off to buy a newspaper. The headline announced that Germany had surrendered. The war in Europe was over, and Armstrong was discharged in July.

  It was easy for the former airman to fall back into the farm life he had grown up with, the life he loved. In 1946 he married Louise Brownlee, and the following year a son was born. The couple named him Charles, after his father. Two daughters completed the Armstrong family. Linda was born in 1949 and Diane in 1950.

  The former aviator was good at farming. Starting with two hundred acres under cultivation just after the war, Charles expanded the operation every year, producing cotton, soybeans, cattle and hogs. By the time he retired at age seventy-five, Armstrong was managing a farm of over fifteen hundred acres.

  Louise Armstrong passed away in 1988. Charles Jr. runs the family farm now, while his dad enjoys his retirement and his nine grandchildren.

  Torchy Tess: The aircraft that George Ahern had named after a Dinah Shore song continued to fly combat missions during the winter of 1944-1945. By late February 1945, Torchy Tess had brought her various crews back to Polebrook fifty-seven times. On February 25, she headed to Munich with Lieutenant Charles R. Ablanalp as her pilot. It was only the second combat mission Ablanalp’s crew had flown.

  Over Munich that day, Torchy Tess was hit by flak and heavily damaged. An explosion to the left and near the nose of the bomber wounded its navigator and bombardier, and knocked out the number one and two engines. Soon the two remaining right-wing engines were leaking oil. Ablanalp knew the only hope was to try to reach Switzerland, which is what the valiant pilot managed to do. But with only two weakened engines, the B-17 could not reach a landing strip.

  With two Swiss Air Force fighters escorting him down, Ablanalp brought Torchy Tess in for a crash landing. The landing area was mostly open land that was dotted with a few trees. Most of the crew, huddled in the radio room, could not see what was happening, but they could feel the bomber sliding across the field, and they could hear parts of their aircraft begin to break away. The bomber had almost come to a stop when it hit a tree.

  Several members of the crew were injured, including Ablanalp and his copilot, Second Lieutenant Harold V. Gividen. Soon after being removed from the wrecked Fortress, Ablanalp, who had saved all of his men, was dead. The crew buried their pilot with full military honors in Münsingen, Switzerland.

  Torchy Tess was a total loss at the end of her fifty-eighth mission, but she would never be forgotten by the numerous 351st airmen who had flown her and loved her.

  Crew Reunion: In the early 1990s, George Ahern began to attend 351st Bomb Group reunions, where he has been reunited with former crewmate Charles “Buddy” Armstrong on several occasions and once with Philip Duke. The three old friends stay in touch today via telephone and e-mail.

  Manna from Heaven

  BOB VALLIERE

  Navigator

  385TH BOMB GROUP

  550TH BOMB SQUADRON

  The play at first base was extremely close. The runner’s foot touched the bag at the very instant the ball slammed into the first baseman’s mitt. The umpire hesitated only a second or two before making his call, but even that minuscule delay did not go unnoticed by the hometown crowd. When the official jerked his right thumb into the air, the fans at Ebbets Field showered him with boos.

  With the game close and his team struggling through a .500 season, Brooklyn manager Leo Durocher had been poised on the top step of the dugout. When the umpire called his runner out, Durocher stormed toward first base. Even with the protesting runner screaming at him, the ump kept his eyes on the Dodgers’ flamboyant leader. Durocher, in his fifth season as a major league manager, had already earned a reputation for being both combative and brilliant.

  In a choice seat behind the Dodger dugout, nineteen-year-old Bob Valliere watched the argument escalate as Durocher placed himself between his player and the umpire. Bob smiled, knowing that in the press box a radio announcer was probably describing Durocher’s language as “colorful.” Bob was close enough to the fray to hear some of the manager’s harsher comments, but even he could not always tell when Durocher had truly lost his temper or when he was just acting.

  Bob knew the Dodger manager well—well enough to call him by his first name and, in fact, Durocher had provided his ticket to the game that day. Leo was family; he and Bob were second cousins. Throughout his teenage years, Bob had been allowed access to the Dodger dressing room and dugout, where he had met many of Brooklyn’s beloved Bums.

  On the field, the umpire had grown tired of Durocher’s verbal assault, and he turned to walk away from the manager. Durocher was having none of it. When his language failed to achieve the desired result, the hot-tempered manager resorted to one of his favorite tactics. Baseball rules prohibited anyone from touching an umpire, but the rules said nothing about a player or manager taking his anger out on the ground. Durocher was determined to exercise this right of expression, and soon he was kicking his cleats into the dirt with such gusto that a small dust storm seemed to be brewing around first base.

  If some of the dirt and a few small pebbles kicked up by the Dodger manager happened to strike the umpire’s trousers, Durocher did not feel responsible. The umpire saw things differently. “You’re out of here!” the ump screamed, loud enough for Bob and everyone else in the box seats to hear. For those out of earshot, the umpire emphasized his action with a dramatic gesture, pointing a finger toward the Dodger dugout. Durocher had been thrown out of the game.

  Bob watched with complete enjoyment as cousin Leo kicked a little more dirt in the umpire’s direction. The manager then strolled to the home dugout under the appreciative cheers of the Dodger fans. Bob knew Leo had gotten just what he wanted. There had never been any doubt that the umpire’s controversial call would stand. Leo had taken the heat away from the runner, one of his starting players. He had fired up the rest of his team and at the same time he had entertained the hometown crowd. He had done what needed to be done at the time.

  Bob Valliere was in a similar situation as he left the ballpark that afternoon. It was the summer of 1943 and after having completed two years of studies at Michigan State University, Bob was prepared to put his personal plans on hold to go to war. He had been accepted into the United States Army Air Corps and was looking forward to the challenges of navigation school in San Marcos, Texas. With some luck, Bob estimated he could become a navigator, complete his bomber training, fly his twenty-five combat missions and still be back in the States in time to see the Dodgers play in next season’s World Series—if cousin Leo could work a miracle and get his team there. It never crossed Bob’s mind that the Dodgers’ chances were better than those of a combat bomber navigator.

  Bob Valliere was born in Brooklyn, New York, on August 23, 1924. His parents were first-generation Americans. Bob’s father, Armand, was of French heritage, and his mother, the former Marie Signaigo, was Italian. The Vallieres shared a two-story brick home with Marie’s mother and father—Bob and his parents lived on the second floor and the Signaigo grandparents occupied the downstairs.

  It was a warm and fertile atmosphere for an only child who grew up indulged but who showed continuing signs of above-average intelligence. A straight-A student, Bob graduated from high school at age sixteen and then breezed through two years of college courses. Army Air Force testing officers were surprised when Private Bob Valliere achieved a perfect score on his navigation school entrance exam.

  For Bob, a young man blessed with a natural ability for mathematics, the Air Corps’ tough navigation school proved to be no more an obstacle than Michigan State had been. Bob graduated near the top of his class and, commissioned as a second lieutenant /navigation officer, headed to MacDill Field in Florida. At MacDill, the young navigator met his new bomber crew and began flying training missions, ea
gerly applying the skills he had acquired in navigation school.

  The weeks flew by. Combat training was completed, and Bob and his crewmates awaited assignment with nervous anticipation. But before they could take off for overseas, there was another in a seemingly endless string of physical examinations. Bob did not give it a second thought. He had already passed half a dozen physicals since his initial enlistment. He was sure there had been some kind of mistake when the examining doctor told him, “Son, you have a hernia.”

  “I can’t have a hernia,” Bob responded and explained how he had passed all the previous Army physical exams.

  “Well, they missed it, because you have had it since birth. Don’t worry, we will admit you into the base hospital and schedule an operation. You’ll be as good as new.”

  “How long will it take? I’ll be leaving with my crew in just a few days,” Bob said.

  “No, you can’t fly for at least two months after the operation.” The doctor informed him it was Army regulations. A day or two later, Bob watched his bomber crew take off in a new B-17, headed for the war in Europe without him.

  Bob resigned himself to the delay and decided to enjoy his hospital stay. After a successful operation, the navigator was free to roam the hospital, flirt with the nurses and even go carousing in town during the evenings. If the Army was forcing a two-month liberty on him, Why not enjoy it? he thought. The newspaper headlines made it clear the war would still be there after his hospital stay ended.