Monday, Mar. 20, 1944:
To the crew of the Fortress Passion Flower it was their 18th and biggest mission—the first big U.S. raid on Berlin. In the ball turret Gunner Dick Litherland of St. Francis, Ill. sweated it out—the toughest battle U.S. airmen had fought over Europe. Sixty-eight Fortresses and Liberators failed to return, but Passion Flower dragged home on three engines. Gunner Litherland told this story.
It took about an hour in the briefing hut to get all the dope. Then the chaplains came in. A Protestant guy and a Catholic guy. Each had a service at the same time in opposite corners. Just said a little prayer for us and then wished us luck. Most everybody goes to one or the other. Some went on to Confession, too.
By 6:30 we were wandering down to the ship. The ground crew was just finishing up. It was getting light—grey dawn.
Before the Takeoff. Everything was ready so there was nothing to do but horse around, wrestling with Henry Zaborsky, our navigator, and shooting the bull with the ground crew. It was so warm that morning we were hot in flying clothes. And so still the wind sock was hanging limp.
When we taxied out about 8:15 it was broad daylight. We circled up & up over the field until we were above the clouds. While we were getting into formation we could see hundreds of other Forts coming up at other places to make other formations. Berlin! Wow!
A Little Trouble. Over Europe, just as we saw the first flak, we had a little trouble. The skipper said "Number Four engine is actin' up, but I'm gonna take her on, anyway." He feathered it a while, then unfeathered just before we hit the German border.
Lot of flak around Hanover but not a fighter until we got near the IP (Initial Point). That first baby came in dead ahead—zingity dow. Then there were about 25 of them—110s, 190s and 410s—the 190s are the worst.
Those 110s were rocket-firing. First they made a pass through our formation with machine guns blinking, then they came up behind and threw their rockets our way.
Friday Gets His First. A little past noon, Friday Weitzel, our right waist gunner, got his first German fighter. First the left waist, Curly Carroll, fired a few bursts into him as he came boring down through the high formation.
I shot him some from my ball turret. Then Friday let him have it as he came through the other side. It just tore his tail off as though a big fist had twisted it. One guy baled out and we saw his chute open.
That first pass hurt our formation a lot. Forts were goin' down off our left wing—bing, bing, bing. Guys came balin' out of all but one. That one blew up—no pieces, even as big as a wheel, just tiny junk flyin' through the air.
Another went into a funny flat loop with a full bomb load. Chutes came popping out just as one wing cracked off.
That's when you begin to sweat. Our fighters were dog-fighting all around with their fighters—so many things you couldn't watch 'em all at once.
Before I knew it the bombardier was saying "Bombs away" into the interphone. Everybody was a little relieved.
Smart—in Some Ways. Even with all the fighters you could see Berlin plain. The prettiest city I ever seen from the air, prettier than Paris, laid out so perfectly. Those krauts are smart Joes in some ways.
Way down below there was a formation of B-24s crossing direct over Berlin through flak as thick as wheat. Every time there was a hole in the flak some gunner would fill the gap with another burst. There was such heavy air traffic our bombers were practically lining up to get a chance over the target. Our fighters were tearing around everywhere.
Here Come the Poles. Just about that time a gang of Polish R.A.F. guys, flying Mustangs, came in. They were outnumbered five-to-one but they sure put on a show. I saw one take on five krauts and knock down two of them. Our P-38s were out to the sides, trying to break up the fighters that hung out there. The krauts were breaking through and attacking us about eight or ten at a time.
By 1:20 we were beyond the target. Then things got worse. The skipper said, "We're out of formation. Keep your eyes open." He had feathered that Number Four engine and we went down easy to about 5,000 ft.
Four P-38s picked us up there and stuck around while we headed due west toward the blimy shore. There were broken clouds and we dodged into them when the P-38s left us.
Strictly Down. Three 109s were after us, but Skipper put our nose strictly down—until she was indicating 300—and we lost them in a big cloud. As we came out a 190-H belly-tank job like our P-47s came boring in.
Friday got him at 300 yd., but he kept coming until he burst into flames and disappeared below.
I saw another coming. I hollered to Skipper to kick our tail around so we headed right into him. This kraut was plugging our wings—and good—but Curly got him—a black ME-109E, the old type with square wings that look like a Mustang. He was so close we could see oil streaks on his belly and that old white cross with a black one in its middle.
For a couple of minutes nothing happened and Skipper said "Everybody okay, boys? We got three good engines and this is better than playing for fun."
Then flak started comin' up around us again. We did evasive action like you've never seen, turning from side to side, corkscrewing, all with one of our main spars shot away. It's a miracle we didn't lose a wing.
Last Cast. As we came through the flak Jim Arden, the tail gunner, saw a fighter so close he could have thrown a rock at him, but Jim was too hoarse to call her out on the interphone. He just gave her a short burst and the 190 blew up. I think the German had come up on us in a cloud and didn't even know we were there until too late.
Near the Zuider Zee we had P-47s with us a while. You could hear the sighs of relief over the intercom and everybody started singing and jabbering. One P47 flying on our wing said, "We've had a field day." You know 176 Germans were shot down that day.
Well, it was another kind of field day for us, flying back from Berlin alone through flak and fighters. As we got near the blimy coast I went forward, put my arm around the skipper and said, "You're the biggest,- ugliest sonuvabitch in the world but I love you."
After flying the B-17 over an enemy airfield, a German pilot named Franz Stigler was ordered to take off and shoot down the B-17. When he got near the B-17, he could not believe his eyes. In his words, he 'had never seen a plane in such a bad state'. The tail and rear section was severely damaged, and the tail gunner wounded. The top gunner was all over the top of the fuselage. The nose was smashed and there were holes everywhere. 
Aware that they had no idea where they were going, Franz waved at Charlie to turn 180 degrees. Franz escorted and guided the stricken plane to, and slightly over, the North Sea towards England . He then saluted Charlie Brown and turned away, back to Europe . When Franz landed he told the CO that the plane had been shot down over the sea, and never told the truth to anybody. Charlie Brown and the remains of his crew told all at their briefing, but were ordered never to talk about it. 
