Marion “Bud” Williams
1st Lieutenant, Pilot
97th Bomb Group 342 Squadron
15th Air Force, Bassingbourn
Bud
by Robert R. Williams
I am haunted by the gentle countenance of the young Army Air Corps Lieutenant in the old snapshot discovered among my mother's personal papers after her death. This snapshot came to light several years ago, and the image will not leave me. Not a week goes by that I'm not drawn to the picture, and pressed to fathom the complexity behind the apparently simple setting of a young airman standing in Class A uniform, replete with shiny new pilot wings adorning his chest.
The old photo stirred many memories, but in particular reminded me of an event long ago. I remember with clarity that I do not understand. 56 years has not dimmed recollection of the day my Grandmother and Grandfather Williams, along with aunts, and my mother took me to the cemetery in Blackwell, Oklahoma to visit a gravesite. It was the summer of 1946, and a warm Oklahoma wind blew gently over the grave markers. For a still grieving family, memories stirred of a native son, sacrificed in the name and cause of world peace.
My demeanor was typical for a boy of eight. Rambunctious and fidgety, I ran about the cemetery with not a care, allowing a typical short attention span to pull me from nook to cranny with total disregard for the solemnness of this important family visit. The only productive thing I added to this visit was placing a small wildflower on the gravestone.
There was considerable crying and consolation around the gravesite. This was the first grave. The first site was an “empty” grave---a token site to mark the passing of a young combat airman missing in action. The Army sent home an empty coffin for burial, so the family could begin the painful closure.
In July, 1951 a few personal items, I think it was a dog tag, sunglasses, and a few other items that were found near the crash site that could be positively identified as being on his person when the plane went down were sent home. I never knew if any actual remains were in the “package” sent home, but rumor was that it only contained the scant few personal items. Some felt it was unfair to reopen the wounds, just starting to heal, but general consensus was that the Army knew best, and could not, in good conscience withhold these identifying items from a loyal, grieving family.
Just before tearing themselves from this place, my mother and grandmother took me by the hand and led me to the marker and explained in simple, but honest terms that there lay my uncle, Marion “Bud” Williams; War hero, 1st Lieutenant, B17 Bomber pilot, shot down over Germany during a bombing run---his 36th mission.
Bud was in the 15th Air Force, 97th Bombardment Group (Heavy), 342nd Bombardment Squadron. He was lost on July 19, 1944 on mission to Milbertshoven Ordinance Depot, Munich, Germany. He was pilot of B-17G, Number 42-102918.
Prior to this, my war was a grand game played by wild adolescents running around and shooting the phantom Germans or Japanese. All at once the war came home for me. I didn't fully understand all it meant, but this was tangible evidence that something bad had occurred, and at least one man died as a result. I would never see Uncle Bud on this earth again, and I would never forget it! Childhood war games were never the same again.
My memory of Bud is scanty---only snippets remain. I remember mostly things that he had done, i.e., a pencil drawing depicting a rearing horse, a picture of a young airman in training (Bud) in flight attire, standing by a bi-wing trainer, fanny-pack parachute hanging in position. And of course, the small window banner with gold star that a proud mother and father, in bitter sweet reverence hung in the front window so that all could see the sacrifice this family made to the war effort. The Army footlocker with Bud's belongings sent home by his command was a constant reminder of his absence. The footlocker was kept in his bedroom, a sanctuary left unchanged and untouched.
What Bud must have gone through only God knows. Attempting to control a bucking, burning, screaming behemoth hurtling toward earth would surely call upon personal reserves we can only imagine. First Lieutenant was not a particular high rank for an aircraft commander with 35 missions under his belt, but few cared much for rank and medals. Flack and German fighters were no respecters of rank anyway. The odds of surviving 35 missions were slim. The odds of going home whole were miniscule.
They dreamed of home and family, but home must have taken on a new dimension. They still dreamed of home and family, but the world had shrunk down to the navigational aid ten miles out from their “home” base after a rough run. It also signaled the nearness of the luxury of fatigue, finally daring to let down after a dangerous bombing run.
Everyone at home had a part in the “war effort”. Kids purchased war stamps at school with their pennies, and smashed tin cans for recycling. Adults purchased war bonds, while women met at the schools and other public places in the evenings and weekends to make bandages for the wounded. Somehow it made the risk and horrors more palatable if you had a part---if you could do something. The entire community had a part. Young boys dreaming, playing war games, and fantasizing the glory and adventure, teenage boys feeling the war was passing them by---willing to quit school and lie about their age to get into the “action”.
Another Uncle, James Morris of Blackwell, lied about his age to join the Oklahoma Army National Guard, reassuring his Mother, “It's only the Guard Mom, don't worry”, knowing full well the unit would soon be called up for active duty. And action he did see. Coming home with permanent injuries, The Bronze Star for battlefield bravery, and a Purple Heart for injuries sustained in combat---a tank commander who was First Sergeant of his outfit at age 21. For many 16 year olds, this wasn't merely something to do; it was the only thing to do. Indeed, patriotism was the emotional fabric that held families and America together in those days. It's not hard to figure out why we won the war, is it?
It wasn't easy for those at home. Indeed, it's hard to imagine sending a son to war, or to sense the anguish involved. There are many facets of a nation going to war. Those who go, and those who remain behind, both pay a stiff price that is impossible to measure. To sense the flavor, look at your 17 year old son, grandson, nephew, neighbor kid, or the 17 year olds in your church Sunday school, and try to imagine him leaving tomorrow to become a crew member in a B17. You know the odds.
Mothers, through their tears, tasted God's salt of the earth as they hung the small flag with gold star, denoting a fallen son, in the front window for all to see. It was a badge of courage perhaps, and certain testimony to the ultimate price to be paid in wartime. Everyone had a part; some just paid a dearer price than others. Some gave much on the home front, others gave all at the war front---too many. I cannot fathom the depths of despair that befalls a parent upon losing a son in war. What a bittersweet task it must have been to place the small satin “Mother's Flag” in the front window of the home. The gold star thereon was stark evidence to all that a son had fallen on the field of battle. Ultimate pride and ultimate sorrow will, through the grace of God, be rewarded with glorification---God will reward such actions and loyalty.
It's hard to imagine the apprehension of a family, or fiancée waiting for word from the front. Or the uncertainty while listening to wartime songs, “We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when”, or “I'll be seeing you…”. Who's the hero? Clearly, both soldier and loved ones back home were heroes, each in their own way, in their own time and place. War was hell for those on the front lines, but there was a different type of hell for those on the home front. The stark terror of a bombing run over hostile territory was equaled only by the dull thud of worry and uncertainty of those at home.
The impact back home of just one lost life was multiplied greatly by the sheer number of relatives and friends. Multiplied by the thousands of war deaths, the impact was tremendous. It wasn't only thousands killed in action, but rather tens of thousands of relatives and friends directly affected. The result was a nation energized through the crucible of war. There is little wonder that memories of a war long past still permeate the lives of so many.
During the war, everything was done in a hurry. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? It could be jubilation or sorrow---both ends of the spectrum, or somewhere in between. You had to embrace today and worry about tomorrow tomorrow. A frenzied pace helped you temporarily forget the war---a way for the homebody to cope. Some say that life was simpler in those days, or less complicated, but this was far from reality. People at home existed at a frantic pace trying to negate the uncertainties of war. Keeping busy helped the time go faster, longing for a time when it would be over. But frantic as the days were, the nights brought little respite from thoughts of war. During the day, you could tune out (or down) concerns, but, at night, when the press of the day was over and the lights were out, reality spiraled down to a mother's bed in a modest home in a small Oklahoma town named Blackwell, and thoughts focused on a son in a bomber over Germany, wondering if he would ever see home again. No matter how you slice it that was not a simple, uncomplicated life.
Surely, the only emotion that can match the despair of a knock at the door by an Unknown Soldier carrying bad news, or an ominous telegram messenger, is the unbridled joy of seeing your son walk up the steps, duffel bag over his shoulder, home from the war. The feelings are equal in intensity, but the joy of homecoming is transitory, and soon taken for granted. But families never take for granted the loss of a son in the war---this lasts all their days.
I asked a crew member of “Sentimental Journey”, a fully restored and operational B17, maintained and flown by the Confederate Air Force, based in Mesa, Arizona, why they are willing to expend so much time, expense and effort to preserve WWII aircraft and fly them around the country for all to see and touch. His response was short and simple; “We don't want the world to forget”. Indeed, the world dare not forget.
I visited the Confederate Air Force B-17, “Sentimental Journey”, on flying tour in Delano, California, and was given a personal tour by a very helpful crewmember. What happened on that tour is difficult to describe. My emotions ran high just looking at the machine. Touching the skin of that aircraft sent sparks flying. Entering the aircraft through the small rear door, I was struck by its relative small size. The aircraft looks very large from the exterior, but inside it is a marvel of efficiency. Making my way up front, past the side gunner positions, I crossed the bomb bay and saw the “demonstration” bombs in place on either side of the walkway. Compared to today's armament, it looked like a pitifully small load to deliver, but each load made a tremendous impact on the outcome of the war.
By the time I reached the navigator's table I was totally exhausted by emotion and had to sit down. Sitting there, eyes closed, I could feel the bucking and lurching of a large aircraft in trouble, wind beginning to scream as it passed over the flight surfaces. Sounds of a frantic crew desperately trying to cope with a mortally wounded aircraft permeated my imagination: “Get out, get out.” “Someone get a fire bottle over here.” “Forget the fire bottle, get out, get out.” “I can't hold this thing any longer, we're going down! Get out, get out while you can.” “Go, go, get as many out as you can, move.” “Leave him, there's nothing anyone can do for him now, get out.” I could hear it. I could feel it. Eerie stuff.
Moving up to the flight deck, I marveled at the narrow passageway to reach the cockpit. It was necessary to walk sideways and suck-up to reach the flight deck. It doesn't seem possible a pilot could get through such a narrow space wearing a parachute and there didn't appear to be storage space in the cockpit. He obviously had to store the parachute below the flight deck, and was faced with the daunting task of finding and attaching it in anticipation of bailing out. Maybe that explains why so few pilots were able to bail out. Standing behind the pilot and co-pilot seats, the sounds and movements revisited me. If I ever had a feeling for what these guys went through, I had it then.
War was scary, but also a great adventure and the single most important event in many young service man or woman's life. It was never over for many of the participants. The disabled returnees, the parents of fallen men, the sweethearts that never tasted the fruit of marriage, or those who returned home physically or mentally “broken”-to these the war never really ended, it just took on a new “front”. To many, even the seemingly “well” ones, this was a life-changing event that never ended. To a few, it was a grand event full of surprises and adventure; worthy of retelling countless times---indeed, the best of times. But virtually everyone paid something---a price was extracted. Some paid more than others, but everyone paid something. If war is about breaking things and killing people, then we won since we apparently broke more things and killed more people than the other side. But it's hard for those left behind to feel victorious when they lost a son in battle. Winning battles and wars is one thing, but it's impossible to imagine losing a son. Time may numb the loss, but the pain surely never goes away. Isn't it ironic that we must lose (guys like Bud) to win? Losing to win is not an easy concept for me.
In a day of unprecedented prosperity, we owe a debt of gratitude to this World War II generation. If nothing else, we owe them a promise to never forget. Bud, and countless others like him paid the down payment on our yesterdays and advanced cash for our future---the price paid is the price of freedom. They forfeited their freedom so that we would not be denied. We must never forget the cost of our freedom to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. We take our freedom for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness far too lightly, and need a jolt now and then to remind us of the price paid for this privilege.
Our freedom did not just happen; rather it was bought and paid for. Next time you ponder your station in life, think of a brave young man in a B17 over Munich, and thank God above for the sacrifice he made on your behalf.
The old snapshot still haunts me. The smile speaks volumes. Maybe just the beginnings of a smile---not a smirk or one of cockiness, but one that assures the viewer that here was a young man, sure of himself (exuding confidence) and his mission in life. Some faces you can read and some defy interpretation, but this countenance is an open book. His future was set and certain. A Lutheran boy of Lutheran parents, one notch up in the Bible belt of a mid-western town knew his future even if he didn't survive the war. I feel a kinship with Bud beyond the uncle/nephew relationship. Good Lutheran and Baptist boys share a common destiny. The words of a popular wartime song, “We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when” aren't exactly true. I know the where---I'm just not certain of the when.
Bud, and countless others, paid a price for freedom. One B17 combat mission at a time, one foxhole at a time, one enemy machine gun bunker at a time, one beachhead at a time, one naval engagement at a time. Their unselfish devotion carved out a true world order for the United States and the world, wherein we have the freedom to enjoy life and the pursuit of happiness.
Surviving members of Bud's crew got word to my grandparents that half of them were able to bail out of the disabled, burning airplane while he stayed at the controls. The ground and the B17 ran a race. The ground (and eternity) came up far too quickly and won the contest. A large aircraft in a “death spiral”, wind screaming over its surfaces, does not easily recover.
The Bible says it well---Isaiah. 40:30-31, “Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.They will soar on wings like eagles…”
The B17 went down, but Bud's spirit soared. A Nation is grateful.
