“If it’s so peaceful, why is there a war on?”

During World War II, when Donald Noe was 21 years old, he was a bomber pilot with a 10-man crew, flying missions over Europe. He leaves today for a reunion in England where he will trade memories with his former comrades. Noe, 65, and his wife, Loretta, live in Sylmar. I had never been off the ground in my life up to the time I went to primary flight training. I had the desire, but coming out of the tail end of the Depression time in Illinois, who ever had the $2.50 in their pocket to take that barnstorming ride? I sure as hell didn’t.

Lindbergh flew the Atlantic in 1927, and if you were 5 or 6 years old at the time, this just boggled your mind. It captured your imagination. Everybody wanted to be a Lindbergh.

I enlisted in July of 1942. I soloed after 4 1/2 hours of flight time. That was probably the best landing I ever made, my very first one. I didn’t bounce it.

When I first arrived in Hobbs, N.M., for four-engine training, the instructors took us to the flight line at 6 o’clock in the morning. It was almost dark. We walked out and saw those B-17s, and I thought, “Oh my God, what have I done? How does anybody ever get these big monsters off the ground?” I quickly learned that the B-17 was actually very easy to fly.

We got assigned to the 385th Bombardment Group at Great Ashfield in England in June of ’44.

On my first mission, I flew the right-hand seat as co-pilot. We were crossing the channel, and I looked down, and I saw the coastline of France, beautiful country. It was almost like being on a sightseeing bus and taking the tour, only you’re looking at the country four miles down.

A few bursts of flak came up. At that point you had no fear of it. I was sitting there watching this P-47 fighter off to our left, then all I saw was a big black cloud. He wasn’t there any more. Apparently he had been hit by a burst of flak. He just disappeared. That’s the moment at which you realize that 30 seconds from now you may not even be here.

I guess the thought crossed my mind, that it was so peaceful, how come we’re so vulnerable? And if it’s so peaceful, why is there a war on? And what the hell is war? Never having been shot at, I didn’t know. I damn soon found out.

The worst one we ever got into was a mission to Berlin. It was in August of ’44. Berlin had something like 1,000 guns, 88s and some 105s.

We got hit. One shell burst just below our right waist window in the back, and blew the whole window and the gun right out. The waist gunner was hit by shrapnel. Another burst wounded the ball turret gunner. Another one severed all the control cables for the rudder and for the elevator controls. It was hell to pay for a minute or two.

We managed to get control of the plane and maintain a semblance of level flight. All four engines would pull the nose up above horizon a little bit until it gave you a feeling of stalling, then you back off the power and let the nose drop back down, and you just play the throttle, pull the nose up, let it drop down. We were 450 miles from our area. It took all the co-pilot and I could put out to stay with it.

When we arrived back, the unit was in such condition it was impossible put it on the ground. The tower instructed us to circle the field and to drop the crew. None of us had bailed out prior to that time frame. But you’re going to do whatever you have to do in order to survive. All nine of the crew survived.

Then the co-pilot and myself were instructed to take the aircraft back out toward the coast before we bailed out. When we came down, two American enlisted men from the bomb supply dump close by put me in their Jeep and hauled me back to their place to stay overnight.

The most welcome thing they did was to get me out of my gear, and then they handed me a water glass full of Old Grand Dad. Once I had consumed that glass of Old Grand Dad, I knew no fear and no pain. And they put me to bed immediately.