WW II -- The Ballad of Bolt Stud Bill

Chaw · Nov 16, 2017

This is from a book titled " A Tail Gunner's Tale " by Gerald McDowell. Author was B-17 Tail Gunner who was shot down and ended up in Stalag 17B

This is his preface to the ballad.

A few POW’s in Stalag 17-B, adding on to each other’s work, wrote the following ballad.

At that time, I copied it into my “ Wartime Log “, as did others, but I have no idea who the authors were.

I was told then that there were more verses, even other versions, but I never saw them.

However, I have included this one with the text, as I feel it sets the stage for what you about to read .
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THE BALLAD OF BOLT STUD BILL

( Authors Unknown )

Now there’s some who say, that a gunner’s pay, is altogether too high.
But that ain’t so, cause we all know, we earn it when we fly.
It’s a rugged game, and there ain’t much fame, life at its best is short.
Now I’m gonna tell, of a tale of hell, of guts and iron will.
Of the war in the sky, of the men who fly, and the 25th raid of Bolt Stud Bill.

Now, Bill was one of those gambling’ sons, he had a lust for the game.
Cards, roulette ….or any darn’d bet , to Bill it was all the same.
He couldn’t tame, his lust for the game, he’d sit in every darn night.
He’d draw his pay, and there he’d play, till the time for the morning flight.
And if Bill couldn’t be found, dealing “ stud “ on the ground, or in the barracks couldn’t be seen,
He’d be crouched by his guns, dealing death to the “ Huns “ , from the tail of a B-17 .

He learned all his tricks, in group 76,
The outfit had taken abuse.
For every raid made, to the Jerry we paid, the price of a couple of crews.
Then into the group, replacements would troop, eager for missions to face.
They’d make just a few, and then a new crew, would fly in to take their place.

It got pretty bad, and a bunch of the lads, were discussing the problems one night.
While taking long sips, from a bottle’s tips, they proceeded to get a bit tight.
One of the guys, considered quite wise, a mathematical slick,
With paper and pen, and a drink now and then, promised the problem he’d lick.
With glasses of scotch, they sat round to watch, an anxious bleary eyed lot.
“ Slick “ sweated and swore, and cussed the Air Corps, till finally his answer he got.
I’ve figured it out, and there isn’t a doubt, no matter how you strive.
I’m willing to bet, there’s none will get, through mission 25!

And there in a daze, through the cigarette haze, sat Bill with a drink in his hand.
He listened a while, then sort of a smile, came to his homely plan.
“ Slick “ damned near choked, on the words Bill spoke, the room suddenly went still.
“ I have a hunch, there’s one in the bunch, so I’ll take that bet “ says Bill.
“ I’ll tell you what, lets make a pot, come on boys lets chip in
I’m willing to buck, on my gambler’s luck, that I’m the one who’ll win “

There’s no mistake, the odds were great, but the lure of chance was strong
So one by one, in their dough they flung, each thought he couldn’t go wrong.
It was early spring, when they started this thing, and when summer rolled around,
Left of the men, there were only 10, the rest were all shot down.
Bill always thought of the bet they made that cursed fatal night.
And he’d sometimes say, in a troubled way, “ it looks like Slick was right ! “

But still he flew, though well he knew, the fickleness of f ate.
Then he’d think of the dough, and off he’d go, another raid to make.
He howled and moaned, in a dreary tone, he swore he’d fly no more.
And in this way, he found one day, that he’d finished 24.
But the combat game demands a price that all must pay who fly.
This settled fare you can’t escape and pay you must , or die!

For such is the law of the E.T.O., there’s no exception to the rule.
And so Bill knew, before he was through, he’d paid his debt in full.
His weight was down, to a hundred pounds, he walked like a man in a daze.
He had a blank sort of look, his hand , it shook -----
He was changed in many ways.
The Purple Heart, the DFC, the Silver Star had he,
Bill had made, his 24th raid, just one more to go free.

He was sweating it out, this one more bout, holding out for an easy one.
And there happened by chance, a raid to France, that looked like it was a milk run.
The briefing was done, and the morning sun, was coming up in the East.
They cleared the props, and pulled the chocks, and took off for La Pallice.

Bill sat in the tail, watched the vapor trails, as over the channel they flew.
And he thought of the bet, and the dough he’d get, when this last mission was through.
They carried the sight, on this flight, for they were leading the way.
The hours passed, and they came at last, to where their target lay.
With anxious eye, bill scanned the sky, no fighters could he see.
But the sky was black, with bursting flak, as they reached the old I.P.
When out they swung, on the bombing run, their course was level and true.
They were flying by the P.D.I. , when the target came into view.
Bill’s brow was wet, with clammy sweat, as they opened the big bomb bay.
From the nose he could hear, the bombardier , as he shouted “ bombs away ! “ .
Bill glanced at the time, and spoke through the grime, we’ve hit the target at noon.
This is the easiest run, I’ve ever begun, but he spoke a little too soon.

For the plane gave a lurch, and a downward plunge, like a craft on a heavy sea.
Well, I guess this is it, for we’ve sure been hit, and it looks pretty bad to me.
And to his dismay, when the smoke cleared away, Bill saw that two engines were out.
When from the waist, in a tone of haste, he heard a gunner shout
“ Don’t worry bout flak, cause we’re falling back, and there’s fighters coming in fast. “
Right then and there, Bill breathed a prayer, as the first Fockewulf flashed past.
He tightened his grip, so his guns wouldn’t slip, and settled down to fight,
His shoulders slouched, in a gunner’s crouch, between his thin gun sights.
The big guns bounced, and bucked in their mounts, spewing forth their leaden death,
As he swung his guns, on a diving “ Hun “ , that was coming in fast on the left.
Bills eyes were bright , with a burning light, his lips were set in a grin,
The twenties flashed, with a bursting flash, as the fighter planes came in.
In a streak of red, the tracers sped, Bill knew his aim was right.
For a German plane, in a burst of flame, blew up within his sights.
Through barrages of flak, and fighters’ attack, the big ship staggered on,
Still in control, though shot full of holes, and two of the engines gone.
Up in the front, the pilot slumped, with a bullet through his head,
In the waist of the ship, with a shattered hip, lay a gunner dying , the other dead.
Shot in the thigh, with an attempt at a sigh, Bill croaked in a a bloody spray,
I’ve lost the bet, but I’m not through yet, come on you “ Huns “ and pay.

In they came, guns aflame, like hornets from their nest.
And well Bill knew, from the way they flew, they were Herman Goering’s best.
Through the tracers flash, and the cannon crash, he heard the co-pilot shout,
In a cracking tone, on the interphone, the order to bail out.
Bill saw at a glance, he hadn’t a chance, his luck had passed him by.
For their gallant plane, was a coffin of flame, and it was hit the silk or die.
The engineer, the bombardier, were the first to hit the chute.
And the rest of the crew, that were able to, quickly followed suit.
With screaming dives, the sky was alive, with Jerry’s swooping to kill,
And hating to quit, tho’ he knew he was licked, the last to leave was Bill.

Out Bill came from the burning ship, like a human Zephyr on high.
He grabbed for the ring, and found the thing, as he tumbled through the sky.
When your life depends, on odds and ends, of silk and cords and such,
Right then and there , he breathed a prayer, cause his life was not worth much.
He twisted and turned, and oh how he yearned, and the Devil laughed at his plight.
But a PFC at home, you see, had packed Bill’s chute just right.
With a yank on his back, up went the slack, in his chute he started to sway,
He glanced all around, and heard not a sound, for the planes had flown on their way.
Below him lay, the bay of Biscay, he knew he was in for a swim.
There broad and black, and covered with white caps, the bay awaited to greet him.

Bill had lost his bet, and had many regrets, for the coast was far out of view.
And England’s shore, he’d see no more, his life was just about through.
Bill should’ve quit, like his old pal “ Slick “ , then he would’ve been safe at home.
But he lost his way, in the cold bleak bay, and went down beneath the foam.

Men can’t understand, when fate takes a hand, that the odds against them are great.
Now Bill was in trouble, and went down for double, but his luck turned out to be fate.
Now if some still say, that a gunner’s pay, is altogether too high,
Just think of Bill, and his iron will, and his last battle in the sky.
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Wizard · Nov 17, 2017

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WW II -- The Ballad of Bolt Stud Bill

Chaw Well-Known Member

Wizard Well-Known Member

Need some nuts and bolts

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