I don’t remember the date I flew into Port Columbus in the bombardier’s seat of a B-17, but I remember the experience clearly.
I had attended an air show at the Lancaster airfield, knowing I would return to Columbus aboard one of the aircraft on display. My car was parked near the Nationwide hangar, where the plane was scheduled to appear at an event later that day.
About 10 of us took off from Lancaster in a B-17 stripped of most of its equipment. A deck covered the bomb bay doors, but the original machine-gun openings remained. There were no seat belts, only benches, and something to hold on to for those who stood during the flight.
The pilot’s first maneuver was a tight, 360-degree turn over the surrounding cornfields. Through the open gunner’s ports, the fields seemed to fill the aircraft. The plane then flew low over the runway, giving the crowd one last look before climbing for the flight to Columbus. The roar of the four engines overwhelmed even the wind rushing past the open bays.
During the brief trip, each of us had a chance to sit in one of the crew positions used on combat missions. The exceptions were the lower and rear gun positions, which could be entered only from outside the aircraft.
We looked into the cockpit at rows of analog gauges that had once guided crews to their targets and, with luck, home again.
We took turns in the bombardier’s seat. The view was spectacular. As we approached Columbus, the landscape changed from rural to suburban, with the city rising on the horizon.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder as Port Columbus came into view. I turned, expecting to give up the seat, but was told to stay there until after we landed.
I made this photograph with a 20mm lens on a film camera. I only wish I had used a wider lens so I could have captured the entire opening.
For me, the view ahead marked the end of a brief and unforgettable flight. But for the young men who once occupied that seat and flew B-17s in far more dangerous times, a familiar city on the horizon would have meant something much greater: the promise of survival, the relief of return, and the sight they had hoped to see through every perilous mile. Home.
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