Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2013 20:38:34 GMT -5
Here's another one from the "madam transcript" project. She talked about some guy named Carl Bauman, saying he was the ball-turret gunner on the Enola Gay and got screwed up by seeing the atom bomb destroy Hiroshima. Except he was the flight engineer on My Gal Sal, a B-17E that belly-landed on Greenland ice after running into bad weather on a ferry flight to England in 1942. Everyone survived, but the closest a rescue plane could land was on a frozen lake 26 miles away, so the crew had to hike across the ice to get rescued.
LIFE magazine did "where are they now" piece on the crew in the early '60s and the madam talks about how everybody on the plane became a success (not entirely true) except poor Carl, who was a derelict and swept the floor of a local tavern for wine. He died in '66. My Gal Sal fared better; after being on the ice for years, it was recovered and refurbished and is now on display at the WWII museum in New Orleans.
Thoughts are welcome. And the pilot spelled his first name R-a-l-f.
MY GAL SAL
My name is Carl Bauman, they just call me Junior
Served on the crew of the bomber My Gal Sal
Damn-near froze to death stranded in the Arctic
Buy me a drink and I'll tell you 'bout it now
Flying Fortress was a fine ship, Pride of Seattle
All of us itchin' to give Hitler what-for
Headed off to England to join the Mighty Eighth
We hit lousy weather just out of Labrador
Ralf Stinson was the pilot; he was a good man
But when nature's got your number ain't much you can do
He said, "Boys, we're goin' down, take your crash positions"
We ditched on Greenland ice and waited for rescue
I lived through that and made it through the war
Saw boys blown to atoms over Germany
Come home to Terre Haute, found myself a gal
Wasn't married long before she walked out on me
Some men adjusted fine, picked up where they left
Ralf became a doctor, I heard somebody say
Some of us were like that bomber in the clouds
Engines droning on 'though we had lost our way
Not every casualty of war is buried 'neath a white cross
In some graveyard on some foreign shore
Some of us came home, we'd just lost our bearings
Life stopped making sense 'bout 1944
So now I sweep this tavern, they pay me in wine
Fact is there ain't much that I can do
Now I'll take that shot and I'll also need a chaser
And I hate to drink alone so pour one for you
My name is Carl Bauman, they just call me Junior
I'll sleep it off, tomorrow is another day
I feel like My Gal Sal up there in the clouds
Engines droning on 'though she had lost her way
LIFE magazine did "where are they now" piece on the crew in the early '60s and the madam talks about how everybody on the plane became a success (not entirely true) except poor Carl, who was a derelict and swept the floor of a local tavern for wine. He died in '66. My Gal Sal fared better; after being on the ice for years, it was recovered and refurbished and is now on display at the WWII museum in New Orleans.
Thoughts are welcome. And the pilot spelled his first name R-a-l-f.
MY GAL SAL
My name is Carl Bauman, they just call me Junior
Served on the crew of the bomber My Gal Sal
Damn-near froze to death stranded in the Arctic
Buy me a drink and I'll tell you 'bout it now
Flying Fortress was a fine ship, Pride of Seattle
All of us itchin' to give Hitler what-for
Headed off to England to join the Mighty Eighth
We hit lousy weather just out of Labrador
Ralf Stinson was the pilot; he was a good man
But when nature's got your number ain't much you can do
He said, "Boys, we're goin' down, take your crash positions"
We ditched on Greenland ice and waited for rescue
I lived through that and made it through the war
Saw boys blown to atoms over Germany
Come home to Terre Haute, found myself a gal
Wasn't married long before she walked out on me
Some men adjusted fine, picked up where they left
Ralf became a doctor, I heard somebody say
Some of us were like that bomber in the clouds
Engines droning on 'though we had lost our way
Not every casualty of war is buried 'neath a white cross
In some graveyard on some foreign shore
Some of us came home, we'd just lost our bearings
Life stopped making sense 'bout 1944
So now I sweep this tavern, they pay me in wine
Fact is there ain't much that I can do
Now I'll take that shot and I'll also need a chaser
And I hate to drink alone so pour one for you
My name is Carl Bauman, they just call me Junior
I'll sleep it off, tomorrow is another day
I feel like My Gal Sal up there in the clouds
Engines droning on 'though she had lost her way