Roy, the eldest son of Lora Morrow-Duncan and Roy Duncan, had enlisted in the Army Air Force shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He tested significantly high enough to be admitted into the aviation cadet corp and his subsequent aptitude batteries showed him best suited to the skills needed to pilot one of the Army's most effective bombing platforms, the veteran Boeing B-17. After a years worth of rigorous testing and training, he earned his wings and was shipped over to England to join the 369 Bomb Squadron, 306 Bomb Group, 8th Air Force, based in Thurleigh Airfield. He was assigned to bomber crew and, like all new arrivals, he soon learned the deadly implications of his chosen profession. Some 27,000 men had already died in the skies above Germany. Certainly this damming figure stirred in his mind as he headed out this early morning. Bomber crews were required to complete 30 missions, 5 more than what was expected, before they were allowed to rotate back to the states. Yet only 2% of crews ever made that magic number...chances were that you would be blown out of the sky and die first. If you were lucky, you would be able to bail out, then you would have a 50/50 chance. 50% you would be captured or escape into the French/Belgium underground, or 50% chance that you would be shot on the way down or that your parachute would malfunction. Certainly not a numbers game that any sane gambling man would take. What was worse was the knowledge that his mother, Lora, was still recovering from the loss of Roy's younger brother, Hewlett, who died three years before at the tender age of 15.
Roy stopped briefly at the officers mess hall and downed an quick bite to eat before making his way to the briefing hut adjacent to the flight line. He stepped into the room and milled around for a few minutes looking for Ritter. He found him a few minutes later, a tall, lanky guy from New York. He was about the same age, but unlike Roy, he already had 11 missions under his belt. Ritter introduced him to the other officer crew members, 2nd LT Joe Siebert, crew navigator, and 2nd LT Rob Stalker, the bombardier. It was an awkward situation. Roy was an outsider flying with another veteran bomber crew. That was a tough enough prospect in itself, but in a world dominated by an almost religious devotion to good luck charms and routines, fitting in would be a monumental task to accomplish. He chatted with Ritter for a few moments and took a seat next to him as the briefing began. The Squadron commander, G-2 Intelligence rep, and a handful of other briefers entered the room. They stood in front of a large wall map that showed England and Germany. After a moment, the Colonel ordered the men to be seated and began the brief. Their target this day would be the a group of manufacturing plants in the city of Cologne. The G-2 man explained the significance of the target, locations of anti-aircraft batteries, and the general approach. The weatherman followed and gave a quick run down of the weather and visibility conditions they could expect. He was followed by the flight leader, who went over the launch times, formations, approach, initial point, and all the other in-depth details of the mission.
The brief concluded about 4:30 and Roy followed Ritter and the others out into the crisp morning air. It was still dark outside, though there was a hint of blue light in the eastern sky. He hopped into a jeep driven by Ritter and sped off down the flight line. They passed several rows of bombers, each surrounded by men in a flurry of activity as last minute preparations were being made. Their metallic skins reflected in the light of the jeep and flood lamps around them, some a dull olive drab, others a shiny polished aluminum silver. Ritter pulled the jeep over to the side and said "here we are". Roy look up and was nearly blinded by the silvery sheen of a B-17G. Even though, he had seen this sight before, it was still a beautiful thing to behold that dark morning, her polished silver fuselage studded with 50cal machine guns, the number 737 painted on the right side of the nose, and he could just make out the yellow and green tail markings with the white H centered in a black triangle which indicated that the plane belonged to the 306 Bomb Group. The enlisted crewmen were already there, going over the final checks and starting the process of priming the engines by manually turning each her four propellers. Roy, took a slow walk around the bomber, admiring her beauty, as much as he was performing a routine pre-flight inspection. As he rounded the starboard wing, Ritter called him over to meet the other crewmen. There was S/Sgt Sam Bussieres, top gunner, S/Sgt John Daly, the radio operator, Sgt Ken Ross, the ball turret gunner, Sgt Dan Callahan, waist gunner, and Sgt John Tomke, the tail gunner.
Roy chatted with the men for a few moments and then made his way to the left hatch of the plane and put on his survival gear, a parachute rig, and his flight jacket. Flying at 32,000 ft was a very cold business. Once suited up, he crawled up the hatch into the crew cabin and took his seat in the right Co-Pilot position. Then he and Ritter began going through the process of checklists and equipment checks to ensure the plane was ready for start up. By 5:00, everyone was in their position and everything was ready. Ritter and Roy started engine #3 and brought it up to power. Next come #2, #1, and finally #4. Roy scanned over the dashboard, noting the rpm, oil pressure, fuel and other indicators. He felt a lump in his throat when he looked up and saw a lighted pace jeep pass by followed by the lead bomber as it taxied to the run way. It was a nerve wracking process to watch the procession of bomber after bomber pass by waiting for their turn, but finally it came. Ritter released the brakes and the plane crept forward and turned into the single file line. They followed along the taxi-way and patiently waited as each bomber made a 180 degree turn onto the runway. A deafening roar followed and slowly each behemoth clawed its way into the air. Then it was their turn. Roy scanned over the dashboard and then pushed the throttles for two of the engines forward while Ritter controlled the other two. He could feel the acceleration in his chest...the landing gear bounced on the uneven surface, then he and Ritter pulled back on the controls and slowly the plane began to angle upward. 30 seconds later the landing gear broke free of the Earth and the plane soared into the first light of the morning sky. It was 6:00 AM.
Ritter and Roy brought the bomber up to 1,000 feet and joined a formation of aircraft circling above the airfield. Another 45 minutes to an hour would pass before all 36 bombers were airborne, time again spent patiently waiting. Luckily, the business of monitoring the ships performance made things seem to go by more quickly. By 7:45, all the bombers were up and the bomb group had formed into three district diamond formations. The group turned to a general southeast heading and began ascending to 32,000 feet. Shortly after passing over the coast of England, Roy was pleased to see a very welcome sight approaching from the north. A squadron of shiny new P-51 Mustangs moved into position slightly ahead of them to act as escorts into German held airspace. These "little friends" as they called them, were a god send. The P-51 could out fly the very best that the Luftwaffe could throw at them. They were fast, nimble, armed to the teeth, and best of all, they could fly almost all the way into Germany with them. Roy strained to see if he could make out the tail markings, hoping to see a red tail fin identifying the 361st Fighter Group, 434 Fighter Squadron. His Uncle, 1st LT JW Morrow, piloted one of these sleek fighters, and the thought that he might be up with him brought a sense of comfort.
The English coast passed below them and gave way to the Channel. Half an hour later, they passed over the coast and into the European Continent proper. Thankfully, by this stage in the war, the Allies had pushed deep into both Belgium and the Netherlands, so they wouldn't be greeted by the Luftwaffe or anti-air-artillery yet, but that time was rapidly approaching with each passing mile. Roy tried to calm himself with the thought that there was a substantial sized raid hitting multiple targets today. Hopefully, that would keep the Luftwaffe preoccupied and lessen the number of fighters that might hit his group. But the Luftwaffe was the easy part. The P-51s would take care of most of them and you could at least shoot at the ones that got through into the formation. In short, you had a fighting chance. But flak guns were a totally different story. There was no P-51 or 50 cal bullet that could stop a deadly 88mm shell from blasting you and your plane to bloodly little bits. All you could do was try to stay above them and pray they didn't find their mark. So far, the mission had gone well enough. No fighters had risen to meet them, and as they passed over land controlled by German forces, neither had any flak bursts.
They had been cruising at 32,000 feet for more than an hour now. Even with the layered clothing and electrically heated suits, the sub-zero outside temperatures penetrated your bones. As the target drew nearer, Ritter and Roy began the series of routine checks to ensure everything was ready. Radio checks, navigation updates, oxygen checks, weapons check, mobility for the ball gunner, updates from the flight engineer. All was ready for action. At 9:00 the lead bomber signaled that it had Cologne in sight. Each man in the plane braced himself. There wasn't a man in the sky that day who did not have an icy ball of fear in the pit of their stomach....each in his own way engaging in a titanic internal struggle to control themselves and focus on the job at hand. The sky was clear this morning, so at least they would be able to get a good shot at the target, but that also meant that the 88mm guns would also have a clear shot at them as well. Always there was a trade off for any advantage. The formation went through a series of turns to pre-selected way point as a means to throw off ground observers. Each turn would vary to some degree until finally the lead plane reach the initial point, or IP. It was usually a tall landmark of some sort located near the target area. Once reached, the formation would alter course for the final bomb run on the target. This was the most critical part of the mission, and the most dangerous. The pilot would switch control of the bomber to the bombardier who would guide the plane to the target using the Nordan bomb site. What made this part so tedious was the fact that the pilots did not have control and no evasive maneuvers could be taken. If flak guns opened up.....and they would, all you could do was fly through it and pray you didn't take a direct hit or get sprayed by shrapnel.
At 9:15 the lead plane called the IP. It was time. Roy's mind raced through the series of checks and calls to be made before they reached the IP. Oxygen checks were good. Engine operations, fuel levels, oil pressure all good, bomb bay doors open. No sign of enemy fighters. Communications check with all positions good. He glanced once more over the dashboard, then looked up and what he saw made his blood run cold. Up ahead, about two miles distant, appeared tiny black puffs of smoke.....flak bursts from the 88s. No matter how many times he had seen them before, or been buffeted by their close proximity, it was something you just never got used to. Both Ritter and Roy watched intently as the clouds got closer and closer. So far, the Germans aim was off today. There were puffs above and below the formation and the ones within didn't come to close to any of the planes ahead. Ritter called down to Stalker and Siebert asking if they were on course. Siebert replied that they had reached the IP. Stalker concurred and directed that the planes course be altered 5 degrees left. Roy and Ritter pitched the plane over until Stalker called it good and then leveled out. Suddenly a jarring motion shook the plane and all around them the deadly puffs of flak began to appear. Stalker called up, saying they were on their run. Ritter reached down and flipped the auto-pilot switch. Control of the craft went to the bombardier. Their lives were in his hands now.
The flak began to intensify as they neared the center of Cologne. Still, Roy could see no clear hits or damage to either his plane or anyone else. Stalkers eyes was glued to the bomb site, while Siebert carefully monitored his navigation and engineering board. Roy called for one last oxygen check and each crewman responded in the affirmative. Everyone was listening to Stalker as he lined up on the target below. They had just crossed over the Rhine, which ran through the center of the city, when the flak began to get more intense. Stalker looked up from the bomb site for a moment and saw two puffs of black smoke directly ahead. He keyed his intercom and shouted "Flak! 12 O'clock and level." Suddenly the plane was rocked by two simultaneous explosions. The plane was thrown upwards in a violent jerky motion and dropped back down. Roy felt something sharp and hot slash across the right side of his temple. The instrument panel seemed to lift up and shatter.....everything was a blur...moving in slow motion. Ritter looked to his left and yelled that both engines had been shot away. He struggled to control the craft, but it was too late. With both left engines gone, the bomber began a port turn into a downward spiral. Ritter hit the bail out alarm and then looked over at Roy. He was bleeding from a cut above his right eye, but he seemed frozen...staring straight ahead. Ritter followed his gaze and was stopped cold by what he saw. The nose of the plane was completely gone. There was no sign of either Siebert or Stalker anywhere.
737 had taken two simultaneous direct hits of flak from an 88mm gun. The first blew away the nose, killing Lt's Joe Siebert and Robert Stalker instantly. The second wrecked both port engines and set them ablaze. The plane was shedding altitude at an appalling rate as it spun out of control. Ross, Callahan, and Tomke were the first to bail out. Ritter checked to ensure that the bomb bay doors were open and then yelled for the radio operator and the top gunner to get out. Daly and Bussieres quickly unbuckled themselves and made their way to the bomb bay. Daly removed the safety lines and dove out with Bussieres following close behind. The plane had now arched over the northern end of the city and was plummeting downward on a reciprocal course away from Cologne towards the west. Satisfied that all the enlisted men had made it out, Ritter looked over at Roy and signaled him with a thumbs up gesture, indicating it was time for them to get out. Roy was still bleeding from his head wound, but he seemed to have his wits about him. He made his way aft, fighting to maintain his footing as the plane rolled to the left, but the sight of the open bay doors made him hesitate for a moment. He looked up and saw Ritter emerge from the cockpit....as if in slow motion, Ritter looked out of the bay, braced himself and then dove out. He hadn't notice Roy standing by the outer frame of the bomb rack. The realization that he was now the only man left on board snapped Roy to his senses. He looked out and saw the city give way to green pastures. Not a single one of them had ever had any actual training for this beyond a 10 minute movie back in flight school, but now action was a matter of life or death. Roy inched his way to the rail, steeled himself and dove out head first.
The wind slammed him like a brick wall and his stomach felt like it was lodged in his throat. Above him, the crippled bomber sped away, trailing a tail of oily black smoke behind it. "Free fall...free fall" he thought. Some little bit of training kicked in as he remembered not to pull the rip cord too quick. Germans were apt to shoot at a man as he glided down in a chute, but a free falling target was almost impossible to hit. Roy arched his body out, not so much from training, but rather from the force of the air rushing past him. He counted...1..2...3..4...5..6...7..8...9...10...and pulled the rip cord. He felt a sudden jerking motion as the parachute deployed, but then....nothing....he was still free falling. He looked up and saw that several of the harness lines were severed. A sheer panic suddenly hit him....the chute wasn't opening. He desperately struggled with the harness trying to get the some kind of control over them. The ground was speeding towards him, faster and faster. He struggled, tried to remember some bit of training...something....anything......he glanced down and saw a pasture...."Oh no...." There was a sudden thudding sensation...and everything went dark.
The village of Brauweiler lay just to the west of Cologne. It was a small, peaceful farming community, untouched by the war, unlike its immediate metropolitan neighbor. There were no regular troops stationed there, but it was used as over-flow station for wounded from the city. A young nurse was taking shelter inside the towns small hospital, grateful that her location was of no interest to the bombers that roared overhead. Then she heard an unusual sound....a mechanical straining noise drawn out like a siren. She instantly knew what it was...a plane was about to crash. Instinctively, she ran outside...knowing that at least if she saw the incoming plane she would have a chance to avoid it. She looked up and saw a silver bomber trailing smoke and diving down at a steep angle. It was still to high to hit were she was....thank God. Then she noticed a small dark figure emerge from the underside of the craft. A tiny black dot that fell towards the Earth faster and faster. Suddenly she was struck with horror as she saw his parachute deploy and realized that it had malfunctioned. She could see the man struggling to get it open but it was too late....he struck the ground about 500 yards away. Moments later, she heard a muffled explosion to the south and saw a plume of black smoke billowing up near the village of Konigsdorf as the bomber she saw moments ago had crashed.
The girl made her way towards where she had seen the man fall accompanied by two members of the local guards unit. They stepped off the road and into a small field and found the man. He was laying in a heap on the ground...the left side of his body smashed, the mangled parachute still attached to him. Several of the cords were severed and had scorched marks on them. Apparently the shell that took down his plane and sent shards of shrapnel spewing out in all directions and must have damaged the mans gear in the process. One of the men rolled the body on its back and began to look for some sort of ID. In the coat pocket he felt a lump and pulled out a wallet. Inside were a few pieces of military script, a photo of a older women, perhaps the boys mother. Tucked in the wallet was a small leather ID case, embossed with a set of wings and the words "identification card, Air Corps, United States Army. Inside he found two credentials, one indicating the persons rank, and service number, the other a photograph of the young man with the name Roy W. Duncan typed below it. The soldier took the papers, along with the ID tags from his neck. The nurse who had found him had already summoned a truck to come pick the body up. After he was loaded in the back, the soldier told the driver to take the body north to the village of Geyen. There were already several bodies of Allied Airmen buried there....Duncan would be laid to rest with them.
Ritter couldn't believe his crummy luck. Not only had his plane been blown out of the sky, but now he was about to land on top of a 88mm flak gun emplacement. At least there would be little question as to what would happen next. Both he and Dan Callahan, who landed nearby, were immediately captured upon landing and taken to a bunker adjacent to the gun. An angry Major stormed in a few moment later and began yelling at him in German. Ritter stared him down as he ranted. Suddenly, the officer balled up his fist and punched at Ritter's head, but missed. Ritter didn't flinch. A moment passed, then the Major looked at the confiscated ID and in broken English said "Ritter...that is a good German name". "That's a good name" Ritter replied. About an hour later, he was led to a truck and driven out to a field. The first thing he noticed was a silvery heap of wreckage.....the nose from his plane. He then saw two bodies about 50 yards distant, both horribly mangled, their parachutes still attached and unopened. He found an ID tag on one...it was Rob Stalker. The other body was not recognizable and had no ID, but Ritter was sure that it was Joe Siebert. As he was led away, another officer stopped him and handed him a wallet and USAAF ID. Ritter opened it and saw the face and name of Roy Duncan. He looked back at the officer who nodded to the ID and shook his head....Duncan was dead. Ritter knew that the local population had a reputation for harsh treatment of downed pilots, so that meant that either Duncan's chute didn't open, he was shot on the way down, or he was shot by civilians on the ground. He assumed civilians simply because the German Army normally observed the rules of the Geneva Convention once you were on the ground.
Ritter and Callahan remained in Cologne for another 4 days before being sent off to a Stalag camp for the duration of the war. While there, they learned that the all the other members of their crew had survived the crash with the exception of Stalker, Siebert, and Duncan. There were conflicting post- war reports as to how Duncan died, but the story that he was killed on the ground by civilians was what was reported to his family. More recent research seems to indicate that his parachute malfunctioned and that he fell to his death. Several years later, Duncan's remains, along with several other airmen, were disinterred and moved to an American cemetery in Belgium. In 1949, Roy's Mother and Father had a memorial grave marker for Roy placed in the family plot in Georges Creek Cemetery, near Cleburne Texas. It is believed to be a marker only, though some family members say that a casket was buried in the plot. He most likely still rests with his fellow Airmen in Belgium. His Uncle, JW Morrow, was assigned to escort another group of bombers that day and later recalled that as he made his way back to his air base, he could see Duncan's base in the distance and was suddenly overcome with a bad feeling that his nephew wasn't coming back. Roy Wendell Duncan was my Fathers cousin.
2nd LT Roy Wendell Duncan
Crew of B-17G 737.
Standing L-R Carle, Ritter, Stalker, Siebert
Kneeling L-R Tomke, Ross, Bussieres, Callahan, Arnwine, Daly
(Carle and Arnwine were not on the 15 OCT 44 flight)
Photo of the Konigsdorf crash site of B-17 737
Marker of LT R.W. Duncan
Georges Creek Cemetery, Texas
