Free The Bomber Boys by Travis L. Ayres Page A

fighters continued to close in on the bomber, but their angle of approach had changed. Instead of diving straight at the bomber, the mystery airplanes were coming in on a more parallel route.
    “I think they’re ours,” Robinson announced from the top turret. Then, when he could make out the fighters’ distinctive shapes, he added, “Yeah, its two little friends!” Moments later two shiny P-51 Mustangs pulled alongside of Chart’s number 015 Fortress—one cruising just feet away from each of the bomber’s wingtips. Chart returned a friendly wave from one of the fighter pilots, and then everyone on board found himself smiling and waving.
    Tony was not surprised when their skipper announced his intentions. They would be continuing back to England. Whether it was the friendly fighter escort that had tipped the scale, Chart
did not say, and Tony would never know. Chart had made his decision and his men trusted him.
    Long minutes, and then hours, dragged by as the B-17 la bored homeward. Tony made several trips between the nose and the cockpit, consulting with Jerry Chart on the bomber’s airspeed and informing his pilot of where they were and the remaining distance to Chelveston. The two P-51 “little friends” departed and returned several times as they checked on other American bombers. Finally, the Mustang pilots returned a last time to give the bomber crew a send-off wave, and then they streaked away, leaving contrails in their wake. Like everyone else, Tony hated to see them go, but he guessed they were now out of the danger area for enemy fighter attacks.
    Fuel was a concern, but their altitude seemed acceptable. They were still at several thousand feet when Tony spotted the English Channel in the distance. Soon the navigator and toggler began sighting familiar landmarks of the English countryside, and they knew they were approaching Chelveston. Tony breathed a sigh of satisfaction and relief. His navigation calculations had been right on the money for Jerry Chart to get them back home.
    Finally, there it was—Chelveston, with its distinctive three runways crossing one another to form a small pyramid pattern in its center. Most of the 305th Bomb Group’s B-17s were visible, already parked in their assigned positions around the perimeter of the airfield. A couple of other Fortresses were just landing as Chart’s aircraft turned to begin its approach. Tony thought the ugly air base, at that moment, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
    Sitting in the left seat, Jerry Chart was calm and confident. They were going to be okay after all. He had not forgotten about the five live bombs still on board, but that did not cause him
great concern. He felt he could land the damaged Fortress safely on just three engines. The B-17 had proven to be an incredible airplane, and he was, after twelve combat missions, an experienced bomber pilot.
    At an altitude of one thousand feet, Chart motioned for Wisniewski to hit the switch to lower the landing gear, and he also began to engage the landing flaps. At once both pilot and copilot knew that something was wrong.
    Chart visually checked the left wing and Wisniewski checked the right wing. The landing flaps were not working at all, and even worse the pilot could not feel or hear the aircraft’s wheels coming down. Since the interphone was inoperative, Carl Robinson went aft to confirm the wheels’ status. Soon he was back to report that the wheels had not dropped down into landing position. Chart had already guessed where the problem was.
    “It must be the fuse box,” he told Robinson. “The flak hit must have burned out the fuses.”
    The flight engineer went to the still-smoldering fuse box and pulled out the fuses that carried current to the landing flaps and landing gear controls. He replaced the damaged fuses with the spares, which were also stored in the fuse box. Wisniewski tried the landing gear switch again. Chart tried the flaps. Nothing happened—the