January 24, 2012
A round of golf
Ready to fight
The aftermath
Caught on tape
It was early 1943 and several hours after a terrifying bombing mission over Germany, and U.S. Army Air Forces Tech Sgt. Paul J. Posti, a B-17 machine gunner, still wouldn’t talk about the strange incident that occurred.
His crewmates kept badgering him, eager to hear his version of how he might have done the impossible. But Posti wouldn’t play ball. He refused to confirm or deny he’d destroyed a swift Focke-Wulf 190 fighter plane with one shot from his revolver.
Afraid of being labeled a liar or a fool, Posti insisted there was no way he could’ve done it. All he would say was, “Not with a silly .38 Smith & Wesson.”
A round of golf
Then 30 years old, Posti was stationed at Polebrook, England, with the 351st Bomb Group of the 8th Air Force. On his fifth mission, Posti flew with U.S. Army Air Forces Capt. Jack Omohundro. Because Omohundro was from New Orleans, his Flying Fortress was named The Belle of the Bayou. U.S. Army Air Forces Col. William Hatcher was the group leader that day, and during his pre-dawn briefing, he revealed the target was a synthetic rubber plant — disguised to look like a golf course — in the Ruhr Valley.
Always before a raid, each crewmember had to consider whether it was OK if he were shot down and taken prisoner while carrying a concealed weapon. To the enemy, that was the same as saying he intended to put up a fight, and he would get miserable treatment from his captors. If he were unarmed, it might mean better treatment. Knowing this, few airmen carried handguns.
Older than the others in the 10-person crew and assigned the dual posts of flight engineer and gunner, Posti felt responsible for the safety of the ship and the younger crewmembers. It didn’t matter to him — or them — that at 5 feet, 4 inches tall, he was the smallest person aboard.
He made his decision. He stuffed his revolver into his chest holster inside his flight jacket. Then he swung aboard and took his place as the right waist gunner. He hardly could feel the weight of the revolver because it was one of the smallest .38-caliber guns produced by Smith & Wesson, with only a five-shot capacity.
Ready to fight
Seventy-six heavily loaded B-17s roared up from dozens of tarmacs around Polebrook. Soon, they joined other formations of Flying Fortresses. Below them, the English Channel was blue and choppy. France unrolled mile after mile. The landscape changed subtly from towns in France to green fields in Germany.
As Posti tells it:
In war, I learned that when a man nerves himself up for an effort that involves possible death, he undergoes a kind of tuning up. That morning, we are in good form. Because each Fortress bristles with 13 heavy .50-caliber machine guns, our formation is armed with thousands of guns.
For half a minute, the crew blows off tensions over their [microphones], talking brave and getting ready for battle. Suddenly, [no one is] talking anymore. Through the bombardier’s sight looms a perfect golf course.
Then the scramble is on. The air is swarming with fighters and greasy black flak blossoming all around. Cool deadly German fighters are boring in. The Germans are out for blood.
We drop our load, and they’re still coming. We’re paying heavy for this round of golf. All around us Fortresses are smoking, careening, and, [like] streaking comets, flaming down from the sky.
Ammo is going down. Belly ball turret [Nelson] still is firing. But Nelson, too, has shot his last rounds.
The Belle is hit badly. One engine is shot out and a vertical stabilizer shot away, with countless jagged flak holes in the fuselage and wings. Because I’d fired all 1,100 rounds in the .50-caliber machine guns, my gun barrel is burned out.
Nobody is firing now. Guns on nearby ships are silent. We are helpless pigeons. I see 3 o’clock driving in at us again, and suddenly I’m filled with so much rage I yank out my .38 caliber and bang away. I remember aiming for the cockpit. The German airman sits up high in his glass cage. He’s so close I can see his face and insignia.
He roars under us. We all expect to see him come back up. But 3 o’clock doesn’t come back up.
After the Belle managed a wobbly but safe landing back at Polebrook, the crew razzed Posti. Relieved to have completed a bummer of a mission, they cut loose with sarcasm about the Focke-Wulf: “What’d you hit him with, Paul? Your water pistol? A wad of gum?” they asked.
Posti joked back but provided no answers. What had happened at 20,000 feet still was a blur.
The aftermath
During a debriefing, Posti was asked, “Sergeant, what the hell really happened up there?”
“Sir, I can’t say for sure,” Posti said. “Ask the other gunners.”
During further questioning, an S-2 major, Squadron Army Intelligence, revealed Nelson supported the theory that Posti’s revolver shot down the Focke-Wulf. Nelson told the S-2 major that from his position under the bomber, he was able to follow the Focke-Wulf all the way down. He saw it streak to the Earth and blow up in flames.
Nelson testified that by the time the Focke-Wulf incident occurred, there were no bombs or .50-caliber bullets left aboard the Belle.
“So it comes down to this,” said the S-2 major. “The only bullets left aboard the ship were in your revolver. And it’s Nelson’s theory that your one-in-a-million lucky shot hit the pilot of the Focke-Wulf in the head. I tend to agree with Nelson.”
Caught on tape
Then came a surprise: The S-2 major revealed a gun camera aboard another B-17 had recorded the death dive of the Focke-Wulf and confirmed it was the one downed by Posti’s revolver.
“The incident is closed,” said the S-2 major. “The Germans must never know a B-17 can run out of ammo in the middle of a mission. Therefore you must never publicly reveal [what happened with the revolver].”
As he was leaving the meeting, the S-2 major stopped Posti. “One more thing,” said the S-2 major, “and this is important. You must never reveal the identity of the officer whose movie camera filmed the incident. He is a world-famous man, and we must keep him a secret to protect him from the enemy.”
The S-2 major referred to the officer as Captain G — Clark Gable. What the S-2 major didn’t know was that Posti and Gable had been friends for years. They first met at the Hollywood Brown Derby, a hangout of film celebrities, where a young Posti was the executive chef.
During their first months at Polebrook, the difference in their ranks prevented Posti and Gable from renewing their friendship. When they passed each other on the street, they’d wave, but they never stopped to talk. After the revolver/Focke-Wulf incident, that changed.
The next time they passed by each other, Gable said, “Come along, Paul. I’ve got something you ought to see.”
He led Posti to an operations building that was headquarters to the 351st Group’s photographers. He put film into a projector and ran off footage from their golf course camouflage mission to the Ruhr Valley.
Not long after that, Posti was taken off flight duty and transferred to a temporary assignment as head chef. Posti suspected Gable had something to do with it. Almost overnight, the food had improved, and Gable came by to congratulate Posti.
Eventually, Posti returned to flight duty as a waist machine gunner. He flew with many B-17 crews. No longer permitted to carry his revolver, he shot down a Messerschmitt 190 fighter and a Junkers 88 bomber and was credited officially with three kills — including the Focke-Wulf.
Copyright Tedd Thomey and Military Officers Association of America. All rights reserved.