William Hermann, 92, a World War II bombardier, takes a ride aboard the B-17 Madras Maiden, sitting in his old wartime post. Afterward, he spoke to reporters, describing the trip. The Madras Maiden, on its inaugural public tour, is available for flights and ground tours at Hayward Executive Airport. (Photo by Keri Luiz)

By Donna Beth Weilenman
Martinez News Gazette

William Hermann has been Chevron’s chief economist, and at 92, he’s an honored Golden Gate University professor. But Monday, he returned to a position he held back when he was 20 – seated in the nose of a B-17.

Hermann was a lead crew bombardier during World War II, flying 25 missions over Europe, deciding when his plane and 11 others should let loose their bombs on a target below.
But Monday’s flight on the Madras Maiden, which is making its inaugural tour of public flights and ground tours, was more pleasant than those harrowing missions. Nobody was firing on the elegant vintage warbird.
That wasn’t the case in 1944, when Hermann joined the Army Air Force, leaving the dairy farm operated by his family about 30 miles from Lincoln, Neb.
Wanting to avoid fighting in foxholes, he decided in 1943 to take to the air. But he wasn’t called up for a year, and was surprised so much more war was left to fight when he got his notice.
“I thought the war was over with D-Day,” he said, referring to the momentous Allied invasion of Germany that started June 6 of that year.
But on June 10, 1944, he was accepted into the military, earned his lieutenant commission and his wings, and became part of the Eighth Air Force based in England. He turned 20 on his way to the war.
“We thought ourselves as pretty grown up,” he said. And as a lieutenant, it pleased him that his older brother, Buzz, a first sergeant, “had to salute me.”
He was assigned to the 96th Bomb Group in the 413th Squadron.
Soon he was in the nose of an unnamed B-17, literally calling the shots.
“I had the best view,” he said.
But that view in the nose meant nothing protected him from incoming weaponry except his flak jacket and helmet.
“That Plexiglass could stop a stream of water, but not anything else,” he said before his courtesy flight aboard the Madras Maiden.
More than once, his bomber’s nose shattered in front of his feet. But the youthful bombardier was too focused on his job to worry about that.
Formations of B-17s were sitting ducks for the barrage of German 80 mm guns below. During his first bombing mission of a synthetic oil refinery in Leipzig, the enemy had 2,088 guns trained on the incoming allied planes.
Those guns filled the air with shells so thick they resembled black clouds. The planes had to fly through those black clouds.
If the bombers didn’t change position every minute, they risked being shot down.
“You didn’t fly the straight and narrow. The Germans knew your altitude. The only thing you could do is change direction.”
Hermann had just a few seconds – if that – to spot when the crosshairs on his sights were synchronized – the instant the B-17s’ bombs could be dropped on target. He could hit his target from 31,000 feet.
“We lost 56 B-17s on that first mission,” he said. “You could see them falling….flaming. I was lucky. I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was 20.”
His plane returned safe from his first mission, but not sound. It had been pierced by 150 holes. Crippled, the “Flying Fortress” still managed to return with none of its crew harmed.
“Some men said they didn’t want to fly anymore,” Hermann recalled. Faced with court martial, the fliers reconsidered and returned to the air on other missions.
Missions could last 10 hours, flying toward targets from somewhat safer bases in friendly territory.
The planes weren’t pressurized, and their skin was no protection from temperatures that sometimes reached 60 degrees below zero.
Special suits, when they worked, protected the fliers from freezing. Air masks gave them oxygen, but they froze to the airmen’s faces.
During one mission, Hermann made an oxygen mask check, listening for those from the tail of the plane forward to assert their equipment was working. The radio operator didn’t respond, which wasn’t unusual since they sometimes were monitoring enemy transmissions. But he was found passed out on his desk.
A crewmate was told to put a walk-around oxygen tank on the unconscious radio man and move him from his position. _
Suddenly the plane dropped 2,000 feet.
The gunner in the ball turret thought the bomber was falling from the sky. So he escaped his confining ball to grab a parachute. Right after he left his post, an enormous shell burst through the turret and hit through the radio position. The two men would have died had they been in their proper places.
Another time, a bomb got stuck, and fliers had to kick the bomb out over the Zuider Zee.
One of Hermann’s friends was a copilot who earned a Distinguished Cross after his B-17 was so shot up that the pilot was killed and others on the crew were wounded. Still, the plane returned to base.
“All of this was pretty chaotic,” Hermann said. “You can’t describe it unless you’ve experienced it.”
He and his men were photographed, and they kept those “mug shots” in their prisoner of war kit. Those photographs would be used by allied sympathizers to create false passports in case an airman was shot down and landed among the resistance. Hermann still has his picture.
Hermann and his friend Lt. A.F. Herbst, with whom he flew his 25 missions, both of German ancestry, often wondered how many distant cousins they were bombing.
The dozen bombers on which they flew weren’t named as some B-17s were, nor did they have any decorative “nose art” – illustrations, often of pinup girls, the fliers sometimes painted on the sides near the cockpits, in front of the bombers’ vast wings.
After 25 missions and a year as bombardier, Hermann’s assignment aboard B-17s was over, an event celebrated by a drink of Scotch. Those in the infantry didn’t get such a welcome, Hermann said. He doesn’t remember the brand he was served. “But they have good Scotch in England!”
When he was done with his service, he returned to his wife, Janet, whom he had married after meeting her at Washington University in St. Louis, Mo., prior to his bombing assignments, and to his first son, William Lawrence, who was four months old before meeting his father.
Rather than return to farming, Hermann entered the field of economics, earning a master’s and doctorate from Washington State while his wife earned a master’s degree in history and earned a Robert F. Kennedy award for the first of her several history books.
He spent several years with Shell, then worked in economic development for the U.S. State Department, traveling extensively throughout the world. At 50, he was hired as chief economist for Chevron, at the time the largest company west of the Mississippi._ Again, he was sent around the world.
Finally the couple decided to move to Berkeley, and Hermann, recently acclaimed as an outstanding instructor, continues to teach economics at Golden Gate University.
Besides their first son, who died as a teenager, the couple has reared William Jr., an Orinda businessman “who takes care of me,” Hermann said, and a daughter, Kristina Stevens, who lives in Victoria, British Columbia, who became the chief finance officer for British Columbia before she retired. In addition, the couple has grandchildren and great grandchildren to hear Hermann’s stories.
But Hermann doesn’t think of himself as part of “the greatest generation.” Instead, he said anyone who could serve during World War II did so, and he became one of 16 million in uniform at a time the American population was 150 million.
“We just took off our uniforms and went back to work,” he said.
Much of his military memorabilia, except for a belt buckle he wore on his flight and his Air Force ring he has worn since 1944, is part of the collection in the “Hermann Wing” of the Nebraska National Guard Museum in Seward. His uniform is on a manikin, and his Distinguished Flying Cross award is on display.
He said Monday’s flight brought back many memories.
“It was déjà vu all over again,” he said.
The four noisy Cyclone engines that resonated throughout the plane was another thing.
“I remember now why I am hard of hearing!”
After all, he spent at least a thousand hours listening to that powerful rumble.
Monday’s trip was far more pleasant than his missions. The warbird glided at a much lower altitude than Hermann had flown in the war, and the flight that coasted over Niles Canyon before returning to Hayward was less than half an hour.
Hermann was the center of attention, with reporters and photographers waiting in line to catch a glimpse of the veteran sitting in his old post in the restored bomber.
He didn’t have to worry about his coffee freezing, as it had during the missions. He wore a soft cap instead of a helmet, and at 1,200 feet, there was no need for an oxygen mask.
With no one firing at him, Hermann had time to enjoy what he called “the best view of anyone on the plane.”
Visitors can get that same view on flights on the Madras Maiden, which is making its inaugural tour of public flights.
Fights that leave on the hour from Hayward Executive Airport (APP Jet Center FBO), 19990 Skywest Drive, are being offered at $450 per person form 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Saturday and Sunday by the Liberty Foundation, which uses its money to keep the plane well-maintained and flying. It’s one of about a dozen B-17s still capable of flight of the 12,732 built for World War II.
Ground tours are available by donation to the nonprofit foundation from 2:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Those interested may reserve space by calling 918-340-0243 or visit the website www.libertyfoundation.org.

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