In describing the challenges of flying the venerable and headstrong World War II-era B-17G Flying Fortress, Aluminum Overcast, pilot Rick Fernalld described piloting the bomber as akin to “herding cats.”

He might have been describing the travails of shepherding several members of the local media on a flight in the grand old lady of the skies.

We gathered in the bright sunshine on the ramp at Enid Woodring Regional Airport Monday afternoon, standing mere feet from a window into history. The plane’s unpainted skin gleamed brightly, a far cry from the Army green the bombers sported during their heyday.

And as media folk we did what we do best, we talked. We talked to each other, we talked to other folks, we walked around the hulking aircraft and marveled at it, talking all the while.

One of our number, in talking with a member of the Experimental Aircraft Association, the organization that flies and lovingly maintains the Overcast, learned some time back the plane had been forced to make a belly landing. That bit of news prompted nervous laughter from some of those assembled, very nervous.

Then we signed waivers. There was a whole lot of very small type, which undoubtedly said if we didn’t make it back from our brief flight, as so many B-17 air crews didn’t during the war (some 4,750 B-17s were lost in combat during World War II), it was our tough luck.

We then were handed an information sheet, which briefed us on the dos and don’ts of our flight. It also informed us the airplane has only a Limited Airworthiness Certificate, rather than a standard one. “This does not mean the aircraft is unsafe,” the next line told us. More nervous laughter.

The sheet went on to explain even if one or two engines had to be shut down, the old bird would still fly quite well. Plenty of nerves, but now there was little laughter.

We received a briefing from our crew chief, about how not to hit our heads in the tight space, and where and where not to put our hands, feet and behinds during the flight.

Then it was time to climb aboard. The plane’s interior is cramped and uninsulated, the seats uncomfortable. All at once the pilots fired up the four Curtiss Wright 1820-97 engines, the din assaulted the ears and the fuselage shook.

After taxiing to the runway’s end, the pilot applied full power and the B-17 rumbled down the airstrip and lifted gently off. The nerves vanished instantly, replaced by a sense of wonder.

This was flying in the purest sense, visceral, an assault on the senses. There were the smells of oil and fuel, the vibrations through the bottoms of your feet, or your bottom, if you happened to be seated.

We climbed to about 1,700 feet and made a slow tour over Enid’s east side. We looked down upon grain elevators, Northern Oklahoma College Enid, David Allen Memorial Ballpark, Broadway Tower and other local landmarks.

Thoughts drifted to the men who flew these planes for real, relying on oxygen masks and heated suits to combat the rigors of flying for hours at high altitude. They flew not over a peaceful landscape, but over enemy territory, with the fuselage shuddering with the report of the plane’s 13 .50-caliber M2 Browning machine guns trying to dispatch enemy fighters, anti-aircraft fire buffeting the aircraft and threatening to inflict mortal wounds.

We ventured to the nose of the aircraft, where the bombardier sat peering through his top secret Norton bombsight, ready to drop thousands of pounds of destruction on enemy targets.

The guns still are in place in the old plane, as are some dummy bombs, but the Aluminum Overcast’s mission is a peaceful one — to keep alive the legacy of these historic war machines and to honor the men who flew them in combat, some who lived to tell about it, but many who didn’t.

The flight ended much too soon, and we climbed out of this living tribute to the courageous men who fought, and died, in Flying Fortresses during World War II.

Now there were no nerves, just a sense of quiet admiration.



Mullin is senior writer of the News & Eagle. E-mail him at jmullin@enidnews.com.