At 11:37 on February 20th, 1944, First Lieutenant William Loi sat in the left seat of a B17 Flying Fortress, climbing through 12,000 ft over the English Channel, watching the instrument panel of an aircraft that had never seen combat before today. 23 years old, nine combat missions, 10 if he made it home.

The Germans had sent approximately 20 Messmid BF- 109 fighters to intercept the formations heading for Leipzig. This was the first day of Operation Argument, big week, the largest coordinated bomber offensive in history. Over 1,000 American heavy bombers crossing into Germany. The target was the Meshmid aircraft factories at Leipig.

The Eighth Air Force needed to destroy German fighter production before the invasion of Europe. Without air superiority, the landings would fail. Loi’s B7 was brand new. Douglas aircraft had built her at Long Beach in December. Serial number 42-38109. The crew had named her cabin in the sky. She’d arrived at RAF Chelvestston 10 days ago. This was her first mission. The 305th Bomb Group had lost 21 aircraft in the previous 3 months.

Most crews didn’t survive their first five missions. The Luftvafa concentrated their attacks on stragglers and damaged bombers. Once you fell out of formation, the fighters swarmed. Average survival time after losing an engine was 4 minutes. Loi had joined the 364th squadron in November. He’d watched 11 B7s go down, 88 men.

Some got out, most didn’t. The pattern was always the same. German fighters came in from 12:00 high. 20 mm cannon shells. The bombers couldn’t take that kind of punishment. Not head-on. The nose was too thin. Lieutenant Paul Murphy sat in the right seat. The co-pilot, 24 years old, 12 missions. He’d been shot down over France in January. Spent 8 days with the resistance. Made it back.

Murphy never talked about it. Behind them in the radio room, Staff Sergeant Thomas Dempsey, monitored the frequencies. The ball turret gunner, Technical Sergeant Joseph Kobureki, was already in position beneath the aircraft. Staff Sergeant Carol Rowley manned the top turret.

The waist gunners, Sergeant Ralph Brazwell and another crewman waited at their stations. Sergeant Alfred Went covered the tail. Lieutenant Harry Saraphene navigated. Lieutenant Harry Mason handled the bombardier’s position. 10 men, 4,000 pounds of bombs, three hours to Leipzig. The RAF had hit the city the night before.

700 bombers, 78 aircraft lost. Now it was the American’s turn. Daylight precision bombing. The theory was that the B7s could defend themselves with mass firepower, fly in tight formation, 1350 caliber machine guns per aircraft. The reality was different. Leipzig was deep, 500 m into Germany.

The P-47 Thunderbolts could escort them part of the way, maybe to the German border. Then the bombers would be alone. The new P-51 Mustangs had the range, but there weren’t enough of them yet. Loi checked the engine gauges, four right cyclone engines, 1,800 horsepower each. Everything looked good. Fuel flow normal, oil pressure steady, manifold pressure where it should be.

The formation was tight. Cabin in the sky held her position in the low squadron. The intelligence briefing that morning had been clear. Expect heavy fighter opposition. The Luftwaffa would defend the aircraft factories JG300, JG301, JG302, the specialized day fighter units.

They’d been reorganized specifically to counter the American daylight raids. Their tactics were evolving. More aggressive, more coordinated. The bomber stream stretched for miles. B17s and B-24s flying at 23,000 ft. Contrails marked their path across the sky. Every German radar station from the coast to Berlin would be tracking them. Every fighter squadron would be scrambling. Loi had flown nine missions.

Brunswick, Wilhamshavven, Frankfurt, Oshlaben. Each one harder than the last. The flack got worse. The fighters got better. The losses mounted. February had been brutal. The weather finally cleared. Now they were going every day, pushing deep, hitting the factories, trying to break the Luftvafa before summer. This was supposed to be the beginning, the offensive that would win air superiority.

The invasion depended on it. If they couldn’t destroy the German fighters on the ground and in the air, the beaches would be a slaughter. If you want to see how Loi’s crew survived what happened next over Leipzig, please hit that like button. It helps us share these forgotten stories with more people. Subscribe if you haven’t already. Back to Loi.

The fighter controllers in Germany were already vectoring interceptors toward the bomber stream. Somewhere over western Germany, Major Walter Breed was climbing into his Messid, leading the first group of JG301. 20 fighters coming north from Munich. They’d hit the formations as they turned off target.

Cabin in the sky crossed the German coast at 1153. 3 hours and 17 minutes until they know if she’d ever fly home. The formation reached the initial point at 1421. The turn onto the bomb run. The 305th bomb group led the first bombardment division. 36 B7s in tight formation. Cabin in the sky flew in the low squadron. Position 7. Third aircraft from the left.

Leipig appeared through the haze. Industrial city. Half a million people. Three Messmmet factories, Heblick, Optandorf, Mockau, the primary targets. The RAF had started fires the night before. Smoke still rose from the residential districts. Now the Americans would hit the production facilities. The flag started at 1424. German 88 mm guns, 600 ft per second, bursts at 23,000 ft, black puffs blooming across the sky. The formation flew straight through it. No evasive action on the bomb run.

The Nordon bomb site required steady flight, precise altitude, constant speed. Loi held the aircraft level. Murphy called out the flack bursts. Navigator Saraphene confirmed the heading. Bombardier Mason was in the nose, eyes on the target. The aircraft shuddered each time a burst went off nearby. Fragments rattled against the fuselage. The number three engines surged, then steadied. The Bombay doors opened at 1426.

4,000 lb, eight 500lb generalpurpose bombs, high explosive fused for impact. The target was industrial buildings, machine tools, assembly lines. The factories that built the fighters that killed American bomber crews. Mason released at 1428. The aircraft lurched upward, four tons lighter. Loi banked left, following the lead aircraft.

The formation turned away from Leipig, heading west, back toward England, 300 m over enemy territory, then the North Sea, then home. The Messers hit them at 1431. They came from 12:00 high, diving through the formation, 20 aircraft, BF 109 G6 fighters, JG 30001, Major Walter Bread leading, the head-on attack.

The tactic that worked best against the B7, hit the nose, kill the pilots. The bomber went down. The German fighters opened fire at 800 yards, 20 mm cannons, 13 mm machine guns, closing at a combined speed of 500 mph. The bomber gunners returned fire. 50 caliber machine guns. Tracers crossed in the air.

The fighters broke left and right, flashing past. One Messor Schmidt came straight at cabin in the sky, nose guns flickering. Mason fired from the bombader’s position. The top turret swung forward. Rowley hammered out bursts. The fighter didn’t break. The first 20 mm shell hit the cockpit at 1431 and 17 seconds.

It came through the windscreen between the pilot and co-pilot positions, exploded inside. The blast shredded Murphy’s chest, killed him instantly. His body slumped forward onto the control column. The aircraft nosed down. The second shell hit the instrument panel. Fragments sprayed across the cockpit. Loi took shrapnel to the face.

Blood poured from cuts across his forehead and cheeks. It ran into his eyes, covered the instruments. He couldn’t see. The third shell hit the number two engine. The inboard left. Fire bloomed from the cowling. Orange flame streaming back past the wing. The engine kept running, burning. The fire spread toward the fuel tanks. Four more shells hammered into the fuselage, the radio room, the waste.

Men screaming on the intercom. Deimpsey hit. Brazwell hit. The other waste gunner hit. Kobaritky in the ball turret taking fragments. Rowley wounded in the top turret. Went in the tail reporting damage. Eight men wounded, one dead. The aircraft was diving, falling out of formation, 300 m inside Germany.

Murphy’s body pushed the control column forward. Loi grabbed it with his right hand, tried to pull back. The blood made everything slippery. His right hand wouldn’t grip. Shrapnel had torn through his right arm. The muscles weren’t responding. He reached across with his left hand, grabbed the control column, pulled. The aircraft kept diving.

Murphy’s weight was too much. Loi couldn’t overcome it with one hand. The airspeed indicator climbed past 250 mph, 270, 290. The wings were shaking. Structural limits. The B7 could take a lot. But not this. Not much longer. Loi braced his feet against the instrument panel, hooked his left arm around Murphy’s chest, pulled the dead co-pilot back off the controls.

The body was heavy, dead weight, 170 lb. Loi dragged him clear, shoved him to the right, away from the column. He grabbed the control column with his left hand, pulled back. The aircraft started to respond. Slowly, the nose came up. The dive began to flatten. 13,000 ft. 12,000. The wings groaning under the load. At 11,000 ft. Cabin in the sky leveled out.

Alone 5 miles behind the formation on fire. and the Messers were coming back around for another pass. The number two engine burned at 11,000 ft. Flame stretched 20 ft behind the wing. The fire was spreading. Reaching toward the fuel tank in the inboard section. 1,700 gall of high octane aviation fuel. If it reached the tank, the wing would explode.

Loi tried to feather the engine, hit the switch with his left hand. Nothing happened. The propeller kept windmilling, feeding air to the fire. He hit the fire suppression, the carbon dioxide system. The gauge showed discharge. The flames didn’t stop. The intercom crackled, voices overlapping, damage reports from every position.

Dempsey in the radio room had taken shrapnel to both legs. Couldn’t stand. Brazwell hit in the shoulder and side. The other waist gunner wounded in the arm. Kobiretsky in the ball turret had fragments in his back. Rowley in the top turret caught steel across his ribs. Went in the tail reporting hydraulic fluid spraying.

Mason came up from the nose. The bombardier. He saw Murphy slumped in the right seat. Blood everywhere. Loi flying left-handed, blood running down Loli’s face, covering the instruments. Mason grabbed the first aid kit, started working on Liy’s wounds. The Messids came back at 1434. Four fighters, BF 109s. They’d broken off to regroup. Now they returned.

They could see cabin in the sky was crippled, alone, burning. Easy kill. They came in from the rear quarter 8:00 high. Went opened fire from the tail. 50 caliber rounds. The other gunners tracked the fighters. Everyone who could still man a gun. The Messers broke left, came around again, made another pass. Cannon fire walking across the fuselage.

More holes, more damage. Then they broke off. Loi didn’t know why. Maybe low on fuel. Maybe low on ammunition. Maybe they assumed the B7 would go down on its own. The fighters turned east, headed back to their bases. Cabin in the sky was alone. 11,000 ft burning. Three engines somewhere over central Germany. Loi checked what instruments still worked. Air speed 130 mph. Altitude holding.

The compass showed west northwest. Probably right. Hard to tell. Blood covered half the panel. He wiped it away with his left hand. It immediately ran back down. Mason finished bandaging Liy’s face. The cuts weren’t deep, but head wounds bled. Li could see better now. Not well, but better. His right arm hung useless.

Shrapnel had severed something. Nerves or tendons? He couldn’t lift it. The number two engine still burned. Flames bright orange in the afternoon sun. Loi tried the feathering switch again. Still nothing. The propeller kept spinning. He reduced power on the other three engines, slowed the aircraft, reduced the air flow past the burning engine.

The flames didn’t stop, but they didn’t get worse. The hydraulic system was failing, the pressure gauge dropping. Went had reported fluids spraying in the tail. Multiple lines hit. Without hydraulics, they’d lost the brakes, lost the turret drives, lost normal control feel. The flight control still worked. Cable operated, but everything was harder. Loi called for a damage assessment.

He needed to know what still functioned, what didn’t, whether they could make it home. The reports came back. Radio mostly dead. Ball turret jammed. Top turret working. Tail position working. Oxygen system damaged. Electrical system failing. One generator out. Running on batteries. Fuel transfer system questionable. Landing gear status unknown. Bombay doors wouldn’t close.

And eight men wounded. They were 300 m inside Germany, 200 m to the coast, then the North Sea, then England. flying at 130 mph, losing altitude slowly, on fire, three engines. If the fire reached the fuel tanks, they had maybe 10 minutes, maybe less. Loi made the decision at 14:41.

He called the crew on intercom. His voice was steady. Matter of fact, they were going to bail out. The aircraft was too damaged, too dangerous. Everyone needed to prepare. get their parachutes, move to the exits, wait for his command. The crew started moving, helping the wounded, getting ready to jump. 10,000 ft was good altitude. Enough time for the shoots to open. Enough time to get clear.

Then Brazwell came forward, the waste gunner. He’d been checking the wounded. He had a report. Dempsey couldn’t jump. Both legs torn up. He’d bleed out before he hit the ground. And Kobitky was worse. fragments deep in his back. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t climb out of the ball turret. Couldn’t bail out.

Two men too wounded to jump. If everyone else bailed out, those two would die when the aircraft went in. Loi looked at the burning engine, looked at the instruments, looked at the dead co-pilot slumped beside him. Then he made the second decision. He was staying with the aircraft. He tried to fly it home. Try to save the two men who couldn’t jump. Everyone else had the option stay or go.

Their choice. The crew chose to stay. All of them. No one bailed out. If Loi was flying this burning wreck home one-handed, they’d man their guns. Cabin in the sky flew west at 10,000 ft, 125 mph. The number two engine still burning. Loi held the control column with his left hand, his right arm hung dead.

He couldn’t use the throttles properly, couldn’t adjust the trim, couldn’t do anything that required two hands. Mason stayed in the cockpit. The bombardier became the co-pilot. He’d never flown a B7, never trained on the controls, but he could reach the switches, adjust the throttles, work the fuel mixture. Loi gave him instructions.

Mason followed them. They needed to gain altitude. 10,000 ft wasn’t enough. The clouds were at 8,000. If they had to fly through weather, they needed more margin. But climbing required power. Power meant more air flow. More air flow fed the fire. Loi tried anyway. Added power to the three good engines. The aircraft climbed slowly.

10,500 11,000. The fire on number two grew brighter. Flames streaming farther back. He reduced power, leveled off at 11,200 ft. The compass showed 270. due west. Germany stretched below them. Forests, fields, small towns. Loi couldn’t see well enough to navigate visually. Blood still ran into his eyes. The instruments were barely readable.

Saraphene came forward. The navigator gave them a heading 285 west northwest toward the coast. The fuel situation was critical. They’d burned through the main tanks on the bomb run. Now they were running on auxiliary fuel. The transfer system was damaged. The pumps might not be working.

If a tank ran dry and they couldn’t switch, that engine would quit. With three engines already strained, losing another would put them in the ground. Mason watched the fuel gauges, called out the numbers. Number one tank, 300 g. Number three, 280. Number four, 320. Number two was gone. That engine was dead weight now. Still burning, still windmilling, creating drag.

The hydraulic pressure hit zero at 1453. The system was dry. All the fluid lost through the damaged lines in the tail. Without hydraulics, the landing gear wouldn’t extend normally. They’d have to use the emergency hand crank. 200 turns, 10 minutes of cranking. If the mechanism wasn’t damaged, the electrical system failed at 1458.

The remaining generator quit. They were on batteries now. limited time, maybe an hour, maybe less. When the batteries died, they’d lose the radio, lose the instruments that required power, lose the fuel gauges. Loi’s vision was blurring, blood loss, shock, pain. His face throbbed where the shrapnel had hit. His right arm was on fire, nerves screaming.

He couldn’t let go of the control column. If he relaxed for a second, the aircraft would roll. The trim was wrong. The burned engine created asymmetric thrust. He had to hold left aileron constantly. Hold left rudder. His left arm was cramping. His left leg shaking from holding the rudder pedal. The fire went out at 1507.

The number two engine stopped burning. The flames just died. Loi didn’t know why. Maybe the fuel finally exhausted. Maybe the fire burned through something critical and starved itself. The propeller kept windmilling, still creating drag, but no more flames. No more immediate threat of explosion. Saraphene estimated they’d crossed out of the Leipzig defense zone.

They were over western Germany now, probably near Cassell, maybe 180 mi from the coast, another hour and a half if nothing else went wrong. Something went wrong at 1514. The number four engine started losing oil pressure. the outboard, right? The gauge dropped from 60 lb to 40, then 30, then 20. Oil temperature climbing, the engine was failing, bearing seizure, or a oil line hit by flack or fragments from the fighter attack.

Didn’t matter which, the result was the same. If the engine sees, the propeller would stop. Windmilling created drag. A stop propeller created more drag and they’d be down to two engines, both on the left side. The asymmetric thrust would be worse. Much worse. Loi reduced power on number four. Watch the gauges. The pressure stabilized at 15 lb.

Not good, but not dropping. The temperature held steady. He left it there. Minimum power. Just enough to keep it contributing. Not enough to seize it. Two engines at full power. One at minimum power, one dead and windmilling, still burning fuel, still creating drag. They were down to 115 mph. Altitude slowly bleeding off. 11,000 ft.

10,900 10,800. The formation was long gone. Somewhere ahead over the North Sea, safe, protected by fighters. Cabin in the sky was alone over Germany, crippled, descending. Every German radar operator could see them. Every German fighter controller knew they were there. A damaged bomber. Easy target. Mason asked if they should try calling for escort. Use the emergency frequency. Ask for fighter coverage.

Loi shook his head. The radio was mostly dead. Even if they could transmit, the fighters wouldn’t come this deep. Not for one aircraft. They were on their own. 160 mi from the coast, descending through 10,500 ft, flying at 115 mph, and Loi’s vision was starting to go dark around the edges. Li’s head dropped forward at 1522.

His hand went slack on the control column. The aircraft rolled right, nose dropped. Cabin in the sky entered a descending turn. 9,000 ft. 8,500. picking up speed. Mason saw it immediately. He grabbed Loi’s shoulder, shook him. No response. The pilot had passed out. Blood loss, shock, exhaustion.

Loi had been flying for 45 minutes with his face torn open and his right arm useless. Holding the aircraft with one hand, fighting the asymmetric thrust. His body had finally quit. Mason pulled back on the co-pilot’s control column. The aircraft responded slowly. He had no training. Didn’t know the proper technique. Just pulled back. Leveled the wings.

The B7 came out of the dive at 7,800 ft. He couldn’t fly it. Didn’t know how. He could hold it level for a few seconds, but Loi had been compensating for the dead engine, for the damaged controls, for the wrong trim. Mason didn’t know what to do. The aircraft started rolling again. He shook Loi harder, slapped his face, shouted his name.

The pilot’s eyes fluttered, opened. Loi looked confused, disoriented, didn’t seem to know where he was. Then his left hand moved, found the control column, gripped it, took control. The aircraft steadied. Loi blinked, trying to focus. His vision was tunneling. He could barely see the instruments. Mason told him the altitude. 7,400 ft.

Heading still west northwest. Loi nodded, adjusted the controls. They flew in silence for 10 minutes. Loi fighting to stay conscious. Mason watching him, ready to grab the controls again if the pilot passed out. The crew in the back tended the wounded. Dempsey was going into shock. Kobiretsky still couldn’t move.

The others patched holes, threw out equipment to reduce weight, everything not essential. Ammunition cans, empty oxygen bottles, anything loose. The clouds appeared ahead at 1538. A solid layer 8,000 ft high, stretching north and south as far as they could see. They’d have to fly through it. No way around, no altitude to climb over it. Loi aimed for a gap.

There wasn’t one. They entered the clouds at 7,200 ft. Everything went gray. No horizon, no ground reference, pure instrument flying. Loi stared at the attitude indicator, the artificial horizon, the only thing that told him which way was up. His left hand shook on the control column, his left leg cramped on the rudder pedal. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.

The turbulence hit inside the clouds. The aircraft bucked, dropped, rose, rolled left. Loi corrected, overcorrected. The wings rocked. He couldn’t feel the controls properly. Couldn’t judge the pressure. Everything was numb. Everything was distant. He was flying through fog inside his own head. They broke out of the clouds at 1547, 6,000 ft, lower than when they entered.

Loi had lost altitude without realizing it. The ground was closer now. German countryside, rivers, roads, towns. They were still over enemy territory. Saraphene came forward again. New navigation fix. They were 40 mi from the Dutch border. The coast was another 60 mi beyond that. 100 m total, maybe 50 minutes if they maintained speed, if they maintained altitude, if nothing else failed.

The number four engine quit at 1551. No warning, no gauge indication. The engine just stopped. Oil pressure had finally hit zero. The bearing seized. The propeller stopped turning. Locked. A flat disc creating maximum drag. The aircraft yawed hard right. Loi pushed left rudder. His leg was already at the limit. He pushed harder. The rudder pedal hit the stop. It wasn’t enough.

The aircraft entered a right turn. Slow, constant. Loi couldn’t stop it. He had full left rudder, full left aileron. The control column pressed against his chest. The aircraft kept turning. The asymmetric thrust was too much. Two engines on the left, one dead on the right, one seized on the right. The right wing was producing nothing but drag. Mason tried to help. Added power to the left engines.

It made the turn worse. Reduced power. The aircraft started descending. They were in a slow spiral. 6,000 ft. 5,800 5,600. turning right, descending, heading back east, back into Germany. Loi could barely see, barely think. His left arm screamed, his left leg shook. He couldn’t hold the rudder much longer. Couldn’t fight the turn.

The aircraft was flying him now, not the other way around. He was just hanging on. The Dutch border passed beneath them at 1554. They’d made it out of Germany. They were over Holland now. Occupied territory. Still enemy ground, but closer to home, closer to the coast. 45 mi, 5,000 ft. Still turning right, still descending. Loi tried everything.

Reduced power on the left engines. Increased power. Nothing worked. The physics were wrong. The aircraft wanted to turn right, wanted to descend, wanted to spiral into the ground. and there was nothing he could do to stop it with one hand. Mason watched the altimeter, watched the compass.

They were turning through south, heading back toward Germany, losing 500 ft per minute. They had 10 minutes, maybe less. Then they’d be too low, too slow. The spiral would tighten, the aircraft would stall, and 30,000 lb of crippled bomber would fall out of the sky. Mason thought of the bombs.

They dropped them over Leipzig, but the Bombay doors were still open, had been open for 90 minutes, creating drag, creating instability. He looked at the controls, found the door switch, hit it. Nothing happened. The hydraulics were dead. The doors stayed open. Loi was fading again. His head drooped, his hand loosened. Mason grabbed his shoulder, kept him awake, kept him focused. The pilot’s eyes cleared slightly.

He looked at the instruments. 4,500 ft. Still turning, still descending. He did something Mason didn’t understand. Reduced power on both left engines. The aircraft slowed. 95 mph. 85. The controls got mushy. Less air flow over the surfaces. Less authority. But the turn rate decreased. The spiral flattened slightly. Loi pulled back on the control column, trading speed for altitude. The air speed dropped to 75.

The stall warning buffet started. The aircraft shuttered right on the edge. Any slower and they’d stall. Any faster and the turn would tighten. He held it there right at the limit. 4,000 ft. 3,800. The descent rate decreased. 300 ft per minute. 200 150. The turn continued, but slower, more manageable. They were heading east now, back toward Germany, but the spiral had stabilized.

Saraphene called from the navigation station. They were 20 mi from the coast. If they could hold altitude, hold heading, they’d cross over the North Sea in 15 minutes. Loi didn’t respond. Couldn’t spare the concentration. All his focus was on the controls, on staying conscious, on keeping the aircraft flying. The German fighters appeared at604.

Two Messers, BF 109s. They’ve been tracking the crippled bomber, watching it descend, waiting for it to crash. Now they came in to finish it. They approached from the port side. 7:00, climbing to attack position. Went called from the tail. Fighters coming in. Loi heard him. Couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t maneuver. Could barely keep the aircraft in the air. The gunners would have to handle it. He kept flying.

The Messers made their pass at 1605. Came in from the rear quarter. Cannon fire. 20 mm shells. Rowley fired from the top turret. Went fired from the tail. The waste gunners fired. Tracers streaking out. The fighters broke off. Came around again. Made another pass. More cannon fire. More hits. The radio room took more damage. The vertical stabilizer hold. But nothing critical. The engines kept running.

The controls still responded. Then the messers broke off, turned away, headed east. Loi didn’t know why. Maybe they were out of ammunition. Maybe they saw other targets. Maybe they decided this bomber was already dead. Didn’t need more shooting. Cabin in the sky flew on. 3,600 ft, 80 mph. Still turning right. Still heading east. The Dutch coast was 15 mi away. Might as well have been a thousand.

Loi tried adding power again, just a little. The left engines came up. The turn tightened immediately. He reduced power back to where it was. The aircraft was telling him something. This was all she had. This speed, this power setting, this slow descending turn. Anymore and she’d kill them. He had to accept it. Had to fly what the aircraft would give him, not what he wanted, what she’d allow. 75 mph, 3,400 ft.

Turning right, one full circle every 3 minutes. The mathematics were simple. 20 m to the coast at 75 mph, 16 minutes. But they were turning, not flying straight. The turn added distance, call it 25 m, 20 minutes. They were descending at 100 ft per minute, 2,000 ft in 20 minutes.

They’d cross the coast at 1,400 ft if they were lucky, if the fuel lasted, if the engines held, if Loi stayed conscious, if the aircraft stayed together. Four ifs. Any one failure and they’d go in over Holland. German occupied Holland. If they survived the crash, they’d be prisoners. If they survived the crash, the number three engine caught fire at 1612, the inboard left. same position as number two on the right side, but number two had burned out. This one was fresh.

Orange flames streaming from the cowling. The engine that had been carrying them. Maximum power for 90 minutes. Something finally let go. A fuel line, an oil seal, didn’t matter. It was burning. Loi hit the fire suppression. The carbon dioxide system discharged. The flames kept burning. Brighter now, fed by the air flow. He couldn’t feather the propeller. No hydraulics.

Couldn’t shut off the fuel properly. The valves required hydraulic pressure. The engine burned. The propeller windmilled, adding drag to the left side. Now they had drag on both sides. Both inboard engines, one seized and stopped, one burning and windmilling. It almost balanced. Almost. The turn slowed slightly. Not much, but measurable. The aircraft steadied a bit. The fire was helping. Perverse physics.

3,000 ft. The Dutch coast was 12 mi ahead. Visible now through the haze. The gray line of the North Sea beyond. England. Somewhere past that. Home. If they could make it. If the burning engine didn’t explode. If the wing didn’t fail. If Loi didn’t pass out again. Mason watched the fire. Watched the fuel gauges. Watched Loi.

The pilot’s face was gray. His left hand cramped around the control column, his breathing shallow. He looked like he was dying, but he kept flying, kept the aircraft in the air, kept them pointed toward home. The coast was 10 mi away. The fire burned brighter, and Loi’s eyes started to close again. Loi collapsed at 1618.

His hand released the control column. His body went limp, unconscious. Mason caught him before he fell forward, grabbed the controls again. The aircraft rolled right, started to dive. Mason pulled back, leveled the wings. 2,800 ft. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t fly the aircraft, couldn’t hold it steady. The B7 wanted to turn, wanted to descend.

He was just delaying the inevitable. He shook Loi. No response, slapped his face. Nothing. The pilot was out cold. Mason shouted for help. Saraphene came forward from the navigator station. Between them, they held Loi upright, kept his head back. Saraphene had smelling salts in the first aid kit. He broke one under Li’s nose. The ammonia vapor hit.

Loi’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, coughed. His hand found the control column. The aircraft steadied. 2,600 ft. 8 mi from the coast. Loi took a breath. another focused on the instruments. His vision was almost gone, peripheral vision black, just a tunnel straight ahead. He could see the attitude indicator, the altimeter. Nothing else mattered. The Dutch coast passed beneath them at 1623.

Sandy beaches, dunes, then water, the North Sea, gray, cold, hostile, 60 mi across to England, 40 minutes at their current speed. if they lasted that long. The number three engine burned brighter over the water. Flame streaming 30 feet back. The wing structure was heating. Aluminum softens at high temperature. The wing could fail, could fold up. They’d cartwheel into the sea.

No survivors. 2,400 ft. Loi calculated the glide ratio. If both remaining engines quit, they had maybe 10 mi. Not enough to reach England. They needed the engines to keep running, both of them, all the way across. The fuel situation was critical. They’d been flying for 2 hours and 40 minutes. Combat loaded.

A B7 carried 2800 gallons. They’d burned most of it. The gauges were bouncing near empty. Hard to read through the blood on the panel. Mason called out numbers. Number one tank, 50 gall. Number four tank, 40 gall. Maybe 20 minutes of fuel, maybe less. Loi’s left arm was beyond cramping now, beyond pain. It was numb, dead.

He couldn’t feel his hand on the control column. Couldn’t feel his foot on the rudder pedal. He was flying by instrument indication, by memory, by will. His body had quit. His mind kept going. 2,000 ft. The North Sea stretched endlessly. No ships visible. No rescue if they ditched. The water temperature was 40°.

Survival time maybe 10 minutes less for wounded men. They wouldn’t last long enough for rescue. Saraphene stayed in the cockpit. Navigator turned co-pilot turned nurse. He watched Loi watched for the signs. The drooping head. The slack hand ready to catch him if he passed out again. Ready to try to keep the aircraft flying until Loi came back.

The English coast appeared at 1647. A dark line through the haze. Essex or Suffukk. Somewhere on the Eastern Shore. Home. England. 30 m 20 minutes. 2,000 ft. They might make it. Actually make it. The number one engine quit at 1651. The outboard left. The only engine on the left side still producing power.

The fuel finally exhausted. The propeller windmilled, then Loi feathered it. He had one shot. The emergency pneumatic system compressed air independent of hydraulics. He hit the switch. The blades rotated. The propeller stopped. Feathered position. Minimum drag. One engine left. Number four. The outboard right. The one that had been losing oil pressure for 90 minutes.

It was still running, still producing power, barely coughing, surging, but running. The aircraft yawed left immediately. One engine on the right, none on the left. Pure asymmetric thrust. Loi pushed right rudder. His dead left leg wouldn’t move. Saraphene grabbed Lolli’s leg, pulled it off the pedal. Loi shifted, got his weight onto the right rudder, pushed, held it.

The aircraft straightened slightly. 1,800 f feet, 20 miles from the coast, one engine still burning. The number three fire hadn’t stopped. Flames bright in the late afternoon. The wing glowing orange, the aluminum creaking, expanding, weakening. Mason watched the fuel gauge for number four. 30 gallons, 20, 15. When it hit zero, they’d lose the last engine. They’d be gliding.

1,800 ft. Maybe 8 mi range. Not enough. They’d go in short of the coast in the water. Cold. Dark. Final. The engine kept running. 10 gallons. Five. The gauge bounced on empty. The engine coughed. Caught. Ran rough. Smoothed out. Still burning fuel from somewhere. Vapors. Residual something. The English coast passed beneath them at 1703. 1,400 ft. One engine on fire.

Loi aimed for the first flat ground he could see. Couldn’t pick a proper airfield. Couldn’t navigate. Couldn’t see well enough. Just needed flat ground, a field, a road, anything. A small airfield appeared ahead. Grass runways, fighter base, Red Hill, Suri. Loi recognized it vaguely. He’d seen it on maps. Small, but long enough for a B7.

Maybe if he could get the gear down. If the aircraft held together. If the engine lasted 30 more seconds. The number three engine was still burning. Flames wrapping around the wing. The fire that wouldn’t die. The fire that was going to kill them all if Loi didn’t get this bomber on the ground in the next 60 seconds.

Loi lined up on the grass runway at Red Hill. 1,000 ft, one engine, the number three still burning, flames wrapping the wing. He couldn’t judge the approach properly, couldn’t see the ground clearly, just aimed at the green strip ahead. Hoped it was long enough. The landing gear was the next problem. No hydraulics, no normal extension.

They had to use the emergency system, the hand crank. Mason found it, started cranking. 200 turns, his arms burning, cranking as fast as he could. The gear started coming down slowly, mechanically, inch by inch, 800 ft. Loi reduced power on the last engine. The aircraft descended faster, too fast. He added power back. The engine coughed, caught, smoothed out.

Still running on fumes on will on nothing. Mason cranked. 50 turns. 75 100. The main gear indicator lights didn’t work. Electrical system was dead. No way to know if the gear was down and locked. Just had to trust the mechanical system. Keep cranking. Get the wheels down. 600 ft. The runway was close now. A small fighter base.

grass field, maybe 4,000 ft. Not long, not for a B7, but all they had, all they’d get. Loi aimed for the threshold. The aircraft was heavy, slow, barely controllable with one hand. Mason finished cranking. 198 199 200. The gear should be down. Should be locked. He couldn’t verify it. Couldn’t check it. just had to believe. He moved back to help Lawley. 400 feet.

The fire on number three suddenly flared brighter. A fuel line let go. Fresh fuel feeding the flames. The wing was orange, glowing, the metal expanding. Loi could feel it in the controls. The wing wanted to fail, wanted to fold, wanted to quit. He kept it flying. Saraphene braced in the cockpit. Call to the crew in back. Brace for crash landing.

Everyone who could move found a position. Grab something solid. The wounded were strapped down. Deimpsey, Kobe, Brazwell, the others, all of them waiting, hoping, praying. 200 ft. Loi pulled back the last engine’s throttle. Descent rate increased. The aircraft dropped. He couldn’t flare properly. Needed two hands for that. Needed depth perception. needed strength. He had none of those.

Just had his left hand, his will, his crew depending on him. 100 ft. The runway rushed up. Trees on either side. Buildings. He aimed for the center. Held the aircraft steady. The stall warning. Buffett started. 70 mph. 65. Right at the edge. The wing wanted to stall. Wanted to drop. He held it level.

50 feet. The fire was everywhere now. The entire number three engine cell burning. Flames reaching toward the fuselage, toward the fuel tanks. The wing could go any second. Could fold. Could explode. Loi didn’t look at it. Looked at the runway. At the grass at home. 20 ft. The main gear touched first. Grass runway. Soft. The wheels dug in.

The aircraft decelerated hard. Loi held the control column back, kept the tail up as long as he could. No brakes, no hydraulics, just rolling friction, grass drag, gravity. The tail wheel came down, the nose dropped, the aircraft slowed more, rolling, bouncing, the burning wing trailing smoke and flame.

They were down on the ground in England at Red Hill. The B7 rolled 3,000 ft, slowed, stopped. The fire still burning, smoke pouring from number three, the wing glowing orange, but they were down. They were stopped. They were alive. Mason opened the top escape hatch. Saraphene opened the side door. The crew started evacuating, helping the wounded out.

Dempsey first, then Kobitky, then the others. Moving fast. The fire was spreading. The fuel tanks could go. They had maybe seconds. Loi sat in the left seat. His left hand still gripped the control column. He couldn’t let go. The muscles had locked, cramped so hard they wouldn’t release.

Mason grabbed his hand, pried the fingers open, pulled Li out of the seat. They got everyone out. 10 men, eight wounded, one dead. Murphy’s body still in the right seat. They’d come back for him after the fire, after it was safe. They carried the wounded clear. 100 yards, 200. Then they stopped, turned around, watched.

Cabin in the sky, sat on the grass at RAF Red Hill. Number three engine burning, wing glowing, smoke rising, but intact. She’d brought them home. 4 hours and 26 minutes from Leipzig to England, one-handed, on fire with eight men who would have died if Loi had bailed out. The fire crews arrived at 1708. foam cannons, water hoses. They fought the fire, saved what they could. But 42 38109 would never fly again.

Damaged beyond repair, salvaged 3 days later by the second strategic air depot. Loi stood on the grass, his face bandaged, his right arm useless, his left arm shaking. He watched the firefighters work, watched his crew receiving medical attention, watched the sun setting over England.

They were home, all of them, because he’d stayed with the ship. Because he’d flown one-handed. Because he’d refused to let them die. 6 months later, Lieutenant General Carl Spatz pinned the Medal of Honor on Loi’s uniform, the nation’s highest award, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity, for saving his crew, for flying the impossible mission, for bringing them home. If this story moved you the way it moved us, do me a favor. Hit that like button.

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