Tail Gunner - WW II James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

B-17 photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Uncle Ruble served in the Army Air Corps during World War II. Dad explained to me that Ruble was a tail gunner on a B17 Bomber, a position that required immense bravery and skill. He flew numerous missions over Germany and France, facing danger every time he took to the skies. The exact number of missions he completed is unknown to me, largely because Dad cautioned me never to ask Uncle Ruble about “The War.” I respected that warning and avoided discussing his wartime experiences, which are explained further in this story.

I was eight or nine years old, when Uncle Ruble came to Louisville to stay with us for a few days, and since our house was small, and my room had twin beds, he slept in my room in my spare bed. Before he arrived, Dad called me to our kitchen table, to discuss my Uncle's visit. I am sure he thought an eight-year-old would likely ask a lot of questions, and he was right. I was a little confused as to why my Uncle was coming to stay with us, especially since he was married to my Aunt Maggie, and had a little girl, my cousin Cheryl. Dad and I had visited them in Brownsville, plenty of times, and I was trying to figure out what the heck the War had to do with his visit.

My father did the right thing. He actually took me into his confidence, and treated me like an adult. First, I learned the job Uncle Ruble did during the war was “not cool,” and certainly not much fun. An eight-year-old cannot fully understand the problem without wanting to know more about the war, and of course, would normally go right to the source for answers. Dad helped me better understand why it was an issue. He began by saying, “When your Uncle was on the bombing missions with his crew, he was in a very dangerous position.” I sat silently, wide-eyed, as he explained it all. He said Uncle Ruble was being fired at by Germany's fighter planes, and by enemy ground forces as well, with a thing he called, “flack.” He explained that many of our planes were shot down on every bombing run. When I said, “but Dad, the plane is metal,” he said, “Jimmy, the plane is made of very thin metal, to make it lighter, so it wouldn’t need as much fuel to take off, and also, to fly for a longer period. Most missions were hours away from the home base, and after the bombing run, they had a long flight back home.” Then he drew me a rough picture of a B17, and showed me where the tail gunner sat. When he explained the turret was glass, I was flabbergasted. There was nothing to keep my Uncle safe. He painted a pretty grim picture of how much danger the crew was in, and I remember being concerned for my Uncle. I was almost in tears.

B-17 flying through flack photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

B-17 dropping bombs over target photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Dad could see I had a better understanding, and he said, “War is no fun, Jimmy, but men like your Uncle fought the Germans so we could be free to live our lives as we choose. Your Uncle is a hero, son.” That gave me a sense of pride; I was so proud to think my Uncle Ruble did that for us. Dad continued, “Your Uncle was afraid, just like every man on the plane, but let me tell you what bothered him most. He shot enemy planes down, and of course, they were shooting back at him and his plane full of friends. So, he killed men who piloted enemy planes. He shot them down and they crashed and died. Every time he saw one crash, he felt guilty that he had killed someone, even though it was our enemy. He also watched as the bombs dropped from his plane, blew up buildings filled with people, and it bothered him a lot to know he had a part in killing other humans by the hundreds, or even thousands. So, that is why he is coming to stay with us for a few days.” I don't remember what I said, but I remember Dad giving me time to ask questions. Then he told me that my Uncle was bothered so much by the killing, he would be going to the hospital Monday morning, “to help him get better.” It was all becoming clear to me, but it made me a little fearful. Was my Uncle crazy, the guy who would be sleeping in the twin bed right next to me? Dad said, “Son, there is nothing to worry about, we only want to help Uncle Ruble get well. But you must not mention the war.” I was so scared, I knew I wouldn’t ask Uncle Ruble any questions, much less about the war.

That first night Ruble was with us, I had gone into the bathroom, and when I came out, I almost tripped over him. He was down on his knees with his hands folded on the bed's edge, praying, and he was speaking in a quiet tone. I just passed by him going to my bed, and I listened. That's how I learned of his devotion. What a special man he was, and at that moment, listening to his prayer, I felt sorry for him. I wanted him to get well.

He was admitted to the old Nicolas Hospital in Louisville, the same place my Army Reserve unit was stationed years later. He was there for about three weeks, and I remember we visited him several times during that period. I can't remember what he made, but I do remember it was A few small items he made for each of us, as well as for others. I remember there were a lot of other soldiers there with him, going through the same thing as him. The program kept his hands busy, and also, he had daily sessions with an Army doctor.

Whatever happened that few weeks, Ruble must have gotten better from his hospitalization.

My Dad explained to me that Uncle Ruble would always carry a sense of guilt from his experiences during the war. As a deeply committed Christian, Uncle Ruble was troubled by the violence he had been involved in, particularly the act of taking lives. His faith taught him not to harm others, and this belief made the realities of combat especially difficult for him to reconcile. The weight of those actions stayed with him, and it was clear that his conscience was affected long after the war had ended. Still, those people were shooting at him, so he returned the fire. It was war.

I suppose we will always be left with “why do men fight wars.” We humans are simply imperfect; that must be the short answer. If we were perfect, we would live in a perfect world. Perhaps we would call it Heaven. What a unique and glorious idea.

My Uncle Ruble went on to become the Finance Manager of the Ford Dealership in Brownsville, Kentucky, and did that job for years. Later he became the Tax Administrator for Edmonson County, Kentucky, which was a political office. He had that position for a long time, and no one ever ran against him, and when he finally retired, his son ran for the office and won it. My Uncle’s good name benefited his own son. In all his years, I never saw the man when he was not smiling, and he always had fun teasing me about my girlfriends, or lack thereof. I loved the man dearly.

(Editor's note:  One of our first writers, Wally Hoffman, was pilot of a B-17 during WW II and flew many missions.  His stories give a vivid description of what it was like to fly through flack and enemy fighter planes and to see a friend's plane go down in flame. You can access them here. )