Across the Atlantic

Air Classics, Oct 2003 by Lustig, David C

THE SAGA OF B-17G TAIL NO. 164 AND ITS NEW CREW

Twentieth of January 1945, Meeks Field, Keflavik, Iceland. About 1000 hours:

After a much delayed takeoff, B-17G tail No. 164 was finally coaxed into the frigid dark Icelandic sky by pilots Lt. Larry Drew and F/O Jim Rotherham. It was the start of the last leg of a 17-day ferrying odyssey from Lincoln, Nebraska, to our destination of Valley, Wales. One hundred and twelve days before, the nine of us greenhorns, just out of training schools, took our first combat crew training flight together at Dyersburg Army Air Base, Tennessee. Besides the pilots, our crew consisted of Lt. Bill Keyser, navigator; Cpl. Kenny Seymour, togglier/gunner; Cpl. Ted Lanham, flight engineer/gunner; Cpl. Paul Snider, ball turret gunner; CpI. Doug Lillico, tail gunner, Cpl. Bill Winsby, right waist gunner; and myself, Cpl. Dave Lustig, radio operator/gunner.

Delay was a phenomenon to which we were getting accustomed: Three days of processing at Grenier Field, Manchester, New Hampshire, our Port of Aerial Embarkation, then eleven days grounded by 30-deg below zero blizzards at Goose Bay, Labrador, and, finally, a three-day delay at Meeks Field, Keflavik, Iceland, awaiting repairs to a damaged wing vent on our "red-tagged" No. 164. The repairs were necessitated due to the wing vent having been kicked out as Snider and Lustig, the "short straw" losers in the refueling lottery, were refueling No. 164.

Regulations at Goose Bay required all incoming B-17s to station two crew members on the right wing to handle the fuel hoses while filling the wing tanks for the over-water flight to Iceland. Huddling around the ball turret, the six of us non-coms decided to draw straws (six shredded newspaper strips) with the two shortest "straws" determining who would win the tortuous task. A personnel carrier whisked the other seven crew members off through the drifting snow while Snider and I, still in the wind-protected deep freezer that was our B-17, awaited the fuel truck. It was then that Paul and I mused about the pile of US Mail bags starting their third week en route by "air mail" to anxious GIs in Europe and laughed about our supply of emergency water in gallon GI cans every seam split wide open from their frozen contents.

It proved to be almost impossible to keep one's footing on those slick freezing metal wing surfaces with smooth stiff-soled boots in that blasting frost-biting wind and, as Snider braked for a sure slide off the wing, his toe found a hasty anchorage through the vulnerable wing vent. Apparently no technician braved the elements to inspect our plane at Goose Bay; however, with the slightly milder January temperatures of Iceland, one eager-beaver mechanic found our damaged vent, red-tagged the plane, and further delayed our ferry trip to Wales.

The capricious finger of fate being what it is, who knows, the delay may have saved our lives. After three days of waiting, in winds that blew that bottom coastal end of Iceland bare of snow, and anything that wasn't anchored, maintenance was still unable to find a replacement vent. With the safety of the aircraft obviously not compromised by the damaged vent, the decision was made to clear No. 164 for takeoff.

It was about 0800 hours in the frigid darkness that, with the help of preheaters, the Curtiss-Wrights were coaxed into life. One after another they sputtered, wheezed, smoked, vibrated, and, finally, roared assuringly. We had been rumbling along the taxi strips for many minutes and, as we paused at the end of the run-way, the tower cleared us for takeoff. Suddenly Kenny's voice rang out over the interphone: "Togglier to Pilot, over!" Drew: "Pilot to Togglier, over!" Kenny: "Sorry, sir, but I must have left my .45 under the mattress in our hut!" Drew: "(Expletive!) - I'll call the tower for instructions!" Drew then taxied No. 164 off of the runway and on to a side strip where a jeep pulled up to our plane and whisked Kenny off into the darkness. There we sat for what seemed like an eternity in the bone-chilling darkness of our plane until Kenny was finally delivered, his wayward Colt .45 strapped securely to his waist. Drew and Rotherham taxied No. 164 back on to the runway and, with our four roaring engines spitting jets of bright orange flame from their exhausts, we were hurtled westward into the cold dark Icelandic sky.

January in Iceland offers very little daylight and, as our heading was being altered with a slow-climbing left bank out over the frigid north Atlantic, a late morning fire-ball sun was just peeping over the eastern horizon. Suddenly the emergency alarm pierced the comforting drone of the engines! Drill after drill had taught us that three short rings meant an emergency - one long continuous ring meant bail out! - and this was one long loud continuous ring! I jumped out of my seat toward the right side of the radio room where Doug Lillico lay wrapped up in a blanket, sleeping. As I glanced out the window just above him, the high right wing was reflecting red off the engine nacelles - fire for sure I thought, as the dreaded ringing continued! I grabbed the edge of Doug's blanket with a mighty yank! Doug flew out of the blanket in excited confusion - grabbing his 'chute harness and Mae West and yelling over the din for me to help him. Struggling with my own harness and Mae West, I wasn't in a very helpful frame of mind! Back in the waist, I caught a glimpse of Paul Snider and Bill Winsby - one was wearing his harness and 'chute and the other his Mae West - and both were frantically arguing the merits of their decision. Prior to leaving Goose Bay, we were briefed that getting dunked in the icy north Atlantic meant a few brief minutes of survival and, wet in, life raft didn't afford you many minutes more. Thus the urgency!