Machine Gunner Grandpa

In memory of Old Papa

By Katherine A. Kimes

My 85 year old grandfather, George Rankin, sat in his favorite chair, which was strategically positioned directly across from the TV. Hi feet were propped up on the ottoman. He smiled at me and opened his World War II scrapbook. I leaned over the side of his char with my hands cradled on it’s arms and my knees firmly pressed against the carpet and patiently waited for his story to begin. 

He turned the pages to a picture of the crew of Eighth Air Force, 390th Bombardment Group, 571st Squadron. It was the picture taken after completing the group’s third combat mission, but it had only been my grandfather’s first. There were five enlisted men and four officers in the picture. All nine men were smiling.  My grandfather quickly asked me if I could pick him out. I laughed and said he was the only enlisted man who had a hat on.  It was his lucky hat; the hat he always wore in combat.  This hat kept the beating sun off of his already balding head.  He was 29.

He pointed to an eager looking young man, who stood to his right.  The man’s face beamed with an accomplished smile, his hair picture perfect. He told me that this was the left waist gunner, Warren Weisert. Warren a.k.a. “Shorty” was his buddy, a relationship which bloomed because of their stationed positions in the aircraft. My grandfather had been the plane’s right waist gunner and Warren was his counterpart, the left waist gunner. To the left of my grandfather stood the co-pilot, Lieutenant Winford Alfred, his hat positioned slightly off center. Standing next to him was Frank Becay, the top turret gunner, who was also the plane’s engineer.  He squinted at the camera with his head cocked to the left.  A dimpled, blonde hair, Burless Dye, the ball turret gunner was next in line.  He wore a grin from ear to ear.  The last man standing in the row was Lieutenant Ted Archuleta, the bombardier. He stood perfectly straight with his head held high. 

Three men squatted in front of the six standing men.  All balanced on the balls of their feet with their elbows propped on their knees. The first man, Lieutenant Gerald Ritcher, was the pilot. Know by his crew as Rick, he named his aircraft, the Rick-o-shay.  Ritcher’s features looked odd, strange. A curious smile detailed his face.  He peered at the camera from the corner of his eyes. His hat casted a shadow over his face. He more readily faded into the ranks of the whisker-free, enlisted men with his boyish face, rather than with the three mustached, older looking officers. To the left of Ritcher stood the navigator, Lieutenant Carl Fannin.  He was the only man who wore sunglasses. Besides Fannin was Bill Holland, the radio operator, who dramatically leaned forward, a lit cigarette pressed between his lips. He was squinting, forehead creased, which emphasized his bushy brown eyebrows. He held in his right hand a dagger, while his left hand caressed the blade.  All the men help assorted “souvenirs” from their three day “stay” in North Africa, everyone except my grandfather, George Rankin, whose hands were empty.

From my grandfather’s center a cleansing breath expanded his thoughts. His eyes shone with remembrance; images that had not yet faded, but only made temperate through time. His passionate words led me to his journey into human history, World War II, the raid on Regensburg, Germany.

August 17, 1943 4A.M. A clerk from the 390th Squadron Commander’s Office came into the soldier’s barracks and turned on the lights. The men were jolted awake. As they got dressed, complaints were exchanged concerning the early wake-up call, but once they got suited, the men  were off to the mess hall for breakfast: fresh eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and biscuits, “a hearty last meal.” Afterwards, they were order into the conference room, where they were given their mission assignment. They were to bomb Regensburg, Germany. The target was Messerschmitt, a German aircraft plan where 25-30% of Germany’s single-engine fighter plans were produced. This manufacturing plant was the second largest of its kind in Europe. The Regensburg mission would be the first attempted at a shuttle mission to North Africa. The designated route of the  formation was to fly over France, into Germany, drop the bombs, enter Italy by way of Switzerland, cross the Mediterranean Sea and arrive at their final destination, the air base, Telergma in North Africa. From their home base in Framlingham, England, ten men boarded the Rick-o-shay and put on their oxygen masks. The planes took off and attempted to form the standard aerial, three-squadron format, a flying format which resembled a triangle. The Lead Squadron formed the apex of the triangle, while the Low and High Squadrons formed the two base points of the triangle. The Low Squadron was positioned to the lower left of the Lead. The High Squadron was positioned towards the Lead’s lower right. There were ten planes in each of the three-squadrons. The 390th dispatched 20 aircrafts that morning. The Rick-o-shay was positioned in the High Squadron, first in line to the right of their group’s lead plane. Unfortunately, a delay in establishing the standard aerial formation over England cost the B-17s gallons of precious fuel.

When they reached the coast of France, the men were on the look-out for German fighter planes. Their orders were to keep a diligent watch for the enemy. The flight over France was smooth. It was a clear day, bright sunshine, but this unfortunately gave the enemy the advantage. They could see the B-17s coming from miles away and there were no fighter escorts to secure their safety. No noise. Only silence inside the aircraft. All the men dreaded the inevitable, but there was no time to dwell on their predicament. Each man had a job to do. This prevented them from ever thinking about the chance that they might not make it back alive.

It was -30 degrees as my grandfather stood at the 3 x 4’ opening at the side of the aircraft over the right wing. Despite this, however, he was not cold. He was bundled up in long underwear, fur-lined pants, jacket and gloves, and an electrically heating flying suit. This piling of clothes, however, did not hamper his movement. Instead it kept the bitter temperature and wind chill away. A long obtrusive 50 caliber machine gun was positioned on an undercarriage on the base of the opening. Its barrel was over three feet long. The gun pivoted and could be quickly maneuvered into different positions: up, down and side to side. The machine gun was stabilized by a stand that sat inside the aircraft; therefore, my grandfather wasn’t burdened with supporting the gun’s heavy frame, while simultaneously engaging in combat. This gave him leverage. As he stood at the opening, he wondered whether his basic training at Biloxi, Mississippi and his simulated combat fights at gunnery school in Wendover, Utah had actually prepared him for what lay ahead. All the while he hoped that things would not be too bad.

Holland announced sightings over the radio via headsets. “Enemy at 3 o’clock high.” “Enemy at 12 o’clock high.” The sky, once filled with fear, was now filled with German fighter planes. Before the single-engine fighter planes attacked, the German pilots flew by and saluted the American soldiers. The Rick-o-shay crew consecutively saluted the enemy, but after this courteous exchange the fighting officially began. German fighters strategically came out of the blinding sun and flew through the formation, trying to break it up, but the German efforts failed. Therefore, in order to make their tactics more effective, they sent out newly-assembled fighter planes on the opposite side of the main attack. These planes were used as decoys to distract the B-17 gunners.

Fighters were all over the formation.  The Rick-o-shay was attacked from multiple angles. Its tail was chased all the way to the target. My grandfather, Rankin, had to move into action quickly, but it was difficult.  He had to fire at one fighter plan, while simultaneously lining up another one out of the corner of his eye. He scanned the clear blue sky and moved into action. With his gun perched and aimed, he fought off the foray of German planes, nearing 50 to 75 feet from his post. The Nazis came in high and dove under the Rick-o-shay’s tail, but the ball turret gunner Dye got them, my grandfather eagerly explained, “just like the movies”; the fighter planes exploded in mid-air while Dye was still shooting.

The enemy ceased attack once the Rick-o-shay was over the target because the German fighters could not risk being hit by the ground artillery that was being sent up. The sky that was once filled with fighter planes was not filled with flak, antiaircraft artillery.

All my grandfather could do during this time was stand at the opening with his gun positioned and watch the clear blue sky become bombarded with flak. He silently hoped and prayed that their plane would not get hit by a shell. The plane was silent. No one spoke or left their post. Ritcher flew the plan straight and level so the bombardier, Archuleta, could accurately drop the bombs on the Messerschmitt target. The aircraft leveled from a flying altitude of 28-30 thousand feet; no evasive action. In the 30 plane formation two B-17s were lost in the target area, but the Messerschmitt at Regensburg was literary washed off the map.  

As the Rick-o-shay left the target area, it was pursued by over 100 planes. The men fought it out plane for plane. Ritcher ducked the B-17, the Flying Fortress swiftly and smoothly between the German fighters. He preformed some beautiful piloting. It was the roughest few hours my grandfather had ever had or ever hoped to have.

The B-17s remained in formation over Germany and were under steady attack nearly to the Alps, but as soon as the enemy discontinued contact, it was “every plane for themselves.” Once plan want down in France, while another plane’s engines knocked out over Switzerland.

Staff Sergeant Rankin’s adrenaline poured through his veins. He looked back and saw the tail gunner’s limp body crawling up the tail. Ingersoll had taken off his oxygen mask and earphones; a shell had exploded on his chest plate. His legs were shattered and his abdomen was badly injured; the bomb nearly blew off his arms. Neither man spoke a word. Rankin rushed over to Ingersoll’s aid and pulled his semi-conscious body to the waist of the plane. Rankin placed his oxygen mask around the wounded man’s face and used oxygen sealed in portable containers. He knew exactly was to do; his Red Cross and Scouts training had prepared him. He covered Ingersoll’s body, administered shots of morphine and assured him that everything would be all right. Rankin attended to Ingersoll’s needs or two hours.

The Rick-o-shay’s crisis increased minute by minute. The aircraft was running out of fuel.  Ritcher wasn’t sure if they could make it to North Africa. He thought about landing the plane in the neutral country of Switzerland, but realized that once he did this the crew would be required by the rules of war to become intern in Switzerland for the duration of the war. He decided against this alternative and continued towards their intended landing site. Ritcher however, was still worried that his aircraft would run out of fuel during its 500-mile journey across the Mediterranean Sea. Two B-17s had already gone down in the Mediterranean. So in order to conserve gasoline, the men lightened the plane’s load by dropping the waist guns out of the plane and into the sea.

Once they reached North Africa, there was no time to hunt for a landing field. Ritcher had to put the plan down at the first flat place he found, a dry lake. Two B-17s were already there when the Rick-o-shay landed. A United States Army Squadron, the Signol Camp Corps., were stringing telephone lines nearby, came to the Rick-o-shay’s aid and called U.S. Headquarters for help.

My grandfather turned the page of his scrapbook and showed me a flimsy, light pink Cinq Franscs bill. He smiled and told me that one of the boys from the Signol Camp Corps. gave this to him. 

A station wagon was sent for Ingersoll within the hour and he was transported to a British hospital. Archuleta accompanied him.  As soon as the Rick-o-shay was refueled, the rest of the crew flew to their intended site at Telergma. The air base, however, did not have anywhere for them to sleep. The crew refused to leave their plane because they didn’t want anyone to “mess around with it.” All nine men slept under the wings of their aircraft and ate nothing by K-rations. They stayed at Telergma for three days. It was during my grandfather’s stay at the air base that he realized just how dangerous a flight he had just completed, but now he knew what to expect. He had 24 more waiting for him, so he better be prepared. 

Then my grandfather returned to the picture taken after the men completed the Regensburg Raid. The original crew, minus one. It was not long after my grandfather returned to England that he was awarded the Distinguishing Flying Cross for his “heroism and extraordinary achievement, while participating in an aerial flight.” However, it wasn’t until after completing his 25th mission and returning to America that he found out that Ingersoll had survived.

Out of the 127 planes that attacked the target on August 17, 1943, twenty-four planes never returned to base. The Regensburg Raid became a saga in Air Force history.  Its completion was an “epoch” in aerial warfare, the first of the “Big Three.” It was the US’s deepest penetration on German soil to date and the most successful mission executed by the Eighth Air Force in its first year of operation. It stood above the rest.

My grandfather always knew that he was considered expendable, but refused to ever entertain the idea of death. He always insisted that he would finish his tour of duty and return home to his new wife, Mary. This optimism always stayed with him.

As he closed his treasured scrapbook, my grandfather looked at me with a smile and an expression of relief. I was overwhelmed with a sense of pride for his strength, courage and determination. Neither hardened nor distant, but rather fondly with his eyes sparkling, he quietly told me, “I did not fear dying,” as the tears slowly fell from my eyes, “but I did fear losing my arms, legs and my sight.” Then with a soft laugh, a big smile and an insistent voice he proudly teased, “The Rick-o-shay – we always came back.”