The day finally came when we could all go homeland it was also the time of our narrowest escape of the entire war. We hitched a ride with another B-17 crew heading for Stone where we were to wait for a boat home. Andy and I sat in the nose. The pilot thought he was still over the fiat country of southeast England and he was merrily buzzing hedgerows when a large hill loomed up directly ahead. He pulled up hard and I swear that we brushed the trees on top, but we made it. Andy's face was chalk white and I'm sure mine was, too. They landed at an intermediate point and we politely declined to fly from there to Stone. We took a much-welcome train.

It was mid-March, 1945. Our Victory Ship heaved through a North Atlantic storm while I sat topside reading sea stories. The crossing took two weeks as we zigzagged to avoid U-boats and held our speed to that of our convoy, about 10 knots. The passengers were diverse: Actor Jean Pierre Aumont was on board writing memoirs about his experience with the French resistance. I played medicine ball with Commodore Weems (inventor of navigation aids). One head (latrine to us) was occupied by Marine guards and their hapless prisoners, Gls who had been caught stealing from Allied freight cars.

On Easter Sunday, April 1st, we arrived in New York Harbor. It was a beautiful day and everyone was colorfully dressed, a stark contrast with the drabness of England. After another 11 days on a troop train ! finally arrived back in California, ready to get married and finish college as an engineer. I don't think I was quite the same young man who boarded the train for boot camp in 1943. Now I had responsibilities and a new direction.

My brief but exciting military career changed my whole life. It gave me all the flying I wanted (I haven't flown much since except as a passenger on commercial airlines), and it confirmed my desire to become an engineer. Finally, the GI Bill financed my college days; I'm not sure I could have afforded to go back to college without it. But the memories are the best of all—the sweet smell of oxygen, the whine of the mighty turbos, the camaraderie of our crew, the thrill of flying a bomb run through the heaviest flak—all added up to my precious "piece of the action."