In the fall of 2002 I decided to
research a B-17 crew from the 100th Bomb Group. I went on line
and read all I could about the John Ryan crew. In doing my
research I was directed to Bill Terminello by group historian
Mike Faley.
Bill had been a pathfinder with the 100th. He would fly twenty
plus missions, three on D-Day and ultimately crash land in
France with Rosie Rosenthal in the right seat, after being hit
with flak over the Rhine River. He would be severely injured and
spend months recuperating.
Bill had been flying the lead plane on the day that the Ryan
crew had been shot down, 12 June 44 over Dunkirk. Ryan had been
on Bill’s right wing when his aircraft was hit by flak and
exploded just over the channel.
I had seen photos of Bill on the 100th Bomb Group web site. He
is standing with his crew smoking a cigarette with his A-2
jacket and sunglasses on; the B-17 "Terrible Termite" is in the
background. The crew had decided to name it after Bill in a
fashion. Yes – this is right out of "Twelve O’clock High" or
"The War Lover. " Was he Gregory Peck or Steve McQueen?
Would he remember the June 12th mission?
I called him at his home in Las Vegas and told him who I was and
what I wanted. He remembered the mission and answered all of my
questions in detail. He had kept a diary of each mission and on
this one, things has not gone as planned. He made it clear from
the start that he had not flown the plane alone non won the war
single handedly. He had been part of a wonderful team.
He was part of a crew that he liked very much. On the ground he
allowed them all to address him as "Lard Ass" regardless of
their rank. In the air he was "Captain. " No monkey business,
just all business…the business of war.
After our first conversation on the phone, I took it upon myself
to make him my living history bomber pilot. I called him many
more times. Early on he put me in touch with the two other
surviving members of his crew: Louis Quiada in California and
Bob Hanser in Kentucky. They, like Bill, would provide me with
valuable information both verbal and written.
One night on the phone, Bill announced that he was coming to
Washington D. C. for the dedication of the World War II Memorial
on Memorial Day 2004. Since I only live two hours from D. C. I
invited him and his lovely wife to come to Delaware to visit me
after the dedication. They eagerly agreed to do so.
On my way to pick them up at their hotel in D. C. , I wondered
what he would be like. We had several conversations on the phone
and our topics had drifted away from World War II. He loved his
family, football, his dogs, his card games with his friends, and
the numerous places to eat in Las Vegas. We had come from the
war years of the forties to modern day.
I parked my vehicle and walked into the lobby of the hotel at
the appointed time to meet him. I had no picture of him other
than the ones from sixty yeas ago or from newspaper clippings
that he had sent me. Thus I would not be able to recognize him
by sight. I walked to the main desk and asked what room Bill
Terminello was in. The desk clerk pointed to a man at the door
and said, "That is Mr. Terminello. " I walked towards him. He
was dressed in shorts with a short sleeve shirt that was not
tucked in. Gray haired now in his early eighties he looked more
like someone’s grandfather than the "Captain" of long ago.
Upon reaching him, I introduced myself as he did to me. There
were no handshakes, just a hug like a son to a father.
He turned and introduced me to his wife Meg. We went outside and
started loading the luggage in my vehicle. There hanging on the
cart was his new A-2 jacket with "The Terrible Termite" painted
on the back. It has been painted by his fellow crewman Louis
Quiada, just like he had painted their jackets during the war.
Bill had made up his mind that he was going to wear his A-2
jacket at the World War II Memorial dedication even if it was
100 degrees outside. And he did! I always felt that he did not
wear it for himself; he wore it for Louis Quijada, Bob Haneser
and the rest of the crew, and then for all his fellow airmen
both living and dead that had fought in the skies over Europe.
The ride to my house was uneventful and the conversation very
easy. He was like everyone’s favorite uncle. No pretense, just
down to earth with a great sense of humor.
At my home, guests were anxiously waiting to meet Bill. Helen
Kaferle of Connecticut was there. Her brother had been the
co-pilot on the Ryan crew. Meg Sherback from Massachusetts was
there as well. Her father had been the only surviving member of
the crew. Barb Healy came from New York. Her uncle had been the
ball turret gunner on the crew.
To me it was obvious that there was an instant bonding. They all
shared a common event, June 12, 1944. Bill had been there; the
others had relatives there, and two had relatives killed on that
day.
I had a surprise for everyone. At the Georgetown airport, about
thirty minutes away, Larry Kelley, owner of the B-25 named "Panchito"
had graciously agreed for us to tour the plane both inside and
out.
Bill had flown B-25’s during his career and confided in me that
this was his favorite.
Now sixty years later, much older and not as thin or agile as he
once was, he slowly made his way up the ladder at the front
hatch. With some effort he got into the pilot’s seat. At this
point I stepped away from the airplane. I was in no hurry and I
did not want Bill to be in any hurry. He could sit there as long
as he wanted. He pointed out things to his wife and explained
how they worked. You could hear the excitement in his voice.
After a few moments she came out of the plane and Bill sat there
all alone. He was going back in time and I knew it.
This was his time now. A time that he was not obligated to share
with anyone. I would ask no questions and he offered nothing.
After a short while he climbed down out of the B-25.
He was smiling and telling me how great this had been. I asked
him if it brought back memories and he said, "Yes, both good and
bad. "
Later we went to lunch, and the relatives began asking
questions. AS always he made it clear that he had not won the
war alone. He had only been a small part of it. Back at my house
I had him try on my B-3 jacket. He laughed saying he did not
remember how heavy they were. Then in a solemn moment he
described what had happened to the Ryan crew. There were some
tears, but they were short lived. For the relatives, he had
answered some important questions and they were grateful.
The day was truly one to remember.
The next day I took Bill and Meg to Dulles Airport to catch
their plane home to Las Vegas. As we stood on the sidewalk
outside the terminal we said our thanks and our goodbyes. Then
as when I had first met him I leaned over and hugged him. He is
not Gregory Peck or Steve McQueen. No, he is better…much better.
It’s easy to see why he is part of the "Greatest Generation, ’
and to all the veterans like him I say, "Thank you!"
Editor’s Note:
Crew was on it's first mission. Aircraft was hit by flak
over Dunkerque at 0853 hours at 24, 000 feet. The #4 engine
caught fire and the right wing broke off near the the #4 engine
inducing a spin - five or six chutes may have come from this
aircraft. Sherback had no recollection of leaving the plane and
believed he must have been blown clear. A German officer told
him the plane exploded and all remains went into the sea. All
the KIAs above are commemorated on The Wall of the Missing at
the Ardennes American Cemetery in Belgium.
Letter to Harry Cruver from George L. Sherback, sole survivor
of the John F. Ryan Crew date September 1, 1996:
Harry; Sorry about the long delay in replying… About the
14 June 44 mission. (1) The reported fire in #4 engine is in
error. Actually was intact and the fire was between #3 and #4 in
what I thought (and still do) was as fuel tank fire. My last
observation from the radio room was a fairly large hole that was
enlarging as the ship skin was melting. (2) The first sign of
trouble was a report from the waist of smoke followed almost
immediately by "There is a lot of fire on the right wing. " (3)
A short time before the wing fire report, Lt. Carl S.
McGinty-BOM sustained a wound to one of his feet. I ask if I
could help but was told by Lt. Hans J. Chorpening-NAV to wait a
minute to see if he could take care of McGinty. Shortly McGinty
agreed that nothing further could be done in the aircraft. (4)
My last clear memory in the plane was putting on my chute and
heading to the waist where the guys were getting ready to get
out. I recall being at the ball turret support when the lighting
went out. My next vague recollection was thinking that it was so
quiet and such a beautiful day. Next memory if lying on the
ground with blood all over the place. There were Germans on a
bank approximately 30 to 40 yards away calling for me to come
out. My first thought was to stay put and have them come and get
me, but still bleeding, I unfastened my chute, threw my escape
kit aside and walked out. I later was told the area was mined
and the Germans were afraid to come after me. I was lucky, I
guess, to have missed the mines. (5) Conversation with German
officer after receiving first aid for my wounds, he was a
Cambridge graduate and spoke excellent English, informed me the
aircraft had exploded and fell in the channel with the loss of
all my comrades. As for the German officer at the crash site, I
have no idea what he told me. (6) As a complete Ryan Crew this
was the first mission. During June 6 to June 10, this was during
the time the 100th was flying two missions a day, I seem to
recall that Ryan and Fenner flew at least one or more of these
with other crews. I may be wrong here but the memory is fairly
strong. (7) Post Crash Info: From the bunker I was taken to a
hospital in Lille were my wounds were treated. Next stop was
Frankfurt for solitary confinement and interrogation, after
which I was sent to the Orthopedic hospital in Meiningen for
about one month - then to Stettin near the Baltic. Left this
camp on Feb 6, 1945 and marched eighty-six (86) days until
liberated by the 104th Division on the Mulde River near Helle,
Germany. We were then flown to Camp Lucky Strike for shipment
home. Was discharged at San Antonio, Texas in the fall of 1945.
That's it Harry, it would be nice to have more details, but
nothing will change the reality of the loss of nine excellent
people with whom I was granted the privilege to live and fly
with - even for a short time. . Regards George.
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