I had two cousins that flew on B-17s back then. One was a tail gunner, and the other (his sister's husband) was a waist gunner. Cousin Bud (the tail gunner) flew two tours out of bases in England. The magic number was 25 flights, but for him, he flew 26 each tour. Cousin Don was the waist gunner, and did two tours of 25 flights. Bud flew twice for a gunner who was very ill. On those two missions, the aircraft commander was none other than Jimmy Stewart, then a Lt. Colonel. Both were on missions that went deep into Germany. Miraculously, neither was ever hurt, and neither were on aircraft that were lost or shot down. Both were on planes returning to England that were flying solely by the grace of God. Before Bud died in 2002, he showed me a few pictures of one airplane he was on. No rudder to speak of at all. Number four engine was shot clean off the aircraft. They lost every window but two. And after the plane came to a rolling stop, and the crew evacuated, the right gear simply collapsed. My other cousin Don never spoke of the war. He died of dementia in 1999. Sometimes, I wonder what secrets they took to their graves. Being an aircrew member back then was an exceptionally dangerous trade, with a percentage of fatalities comparable to infantry, from what I read once.
It's been 70 years since the end of World War II. I've always been a huge WWII history buff. And so many these days barely remember or acknowledge our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, much less WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. And to me, that is horribly, terribly sad.