Formation flying was difficult and dangerous, and planes were never more than a wingspan away from disaster. In the B-26, it was particularly difficult; the pilot and copilot couldn't see the wingtips because the engines blocked them from view.

They were climbing slowly - airspeed 180mph. "Now, Snokelburg said, as he tapped Cordes' right arm. Cordes rolled the Marauder into a 20-degree bank to the left. He was on the gauges now, monitoring airspeed, rate of climb and artificial horizon and trying to maintain the turn at three degrees per second. At the 90-degree point, the navigator cautioned him "Too steep; shallow it up a little." Cordes fed in a touch of right aileron, and they reached the reciprocal heading in exactly on minute.

The number-two pilot banked in from the left and slightly behind, added power and eased into position on Cordes’ right wing. Lt. Maury Neher maneuvered his aircraft into the number three spot on the left wing. From his tail-gunner position in the lead plane, Sgt. Jack Fox called on the interphone – “Number four’s in the slot, skipper, and five’s on his wing.” The slot for number four was below and directly behind the lead ship: They were flying straight and level at 1,000 feet, and the number-six ship would complete the formation.

Maury Neher and his crew, Lake Charles, Louisiana, 1944. From left: Neher; copilot Bob Reed; bombardier Wesley Myers; Wade Ensminger, Bob Davis, and Norm Sanford. Myers was on board Cordes' ill-fated plane on March 18, '45, and he, Davis, and Ensminger killed in action.

In the number-three plane on Cordes’ left wing, Neher’s copilot, Lt. Bob Reed, glanced to his left. "Look out for him!" he screamed, and Neher looked left to see the belly of the huge bomber skidding toward him. He shoved the yoke forward violently, and the number-six plane hurtled over him and slammed directly into the lead ship. “Rice saw him coming. He pointed and hollered 'Jesus!'" Cordes recalls. “I caught just a glimpse of the plane’s belly coming at me, and a split second later, we all exploded. My next memory is of tumbling - horizon, ground, sky - and then I realized I was still strapped to the pilot seat with the armor plate around me. I popped the seat belt and it pulled away; then I pulled my chute’s D ring and, at the same time, hit the ground - hard. I landed in a plowed field, and before long, Doc Prescott arrived in an ambulance, ran over and hugged me, saying ‘Olaf! Olaf, I’m so glad to see you.’”

After the impact, it took fewer than 30 seconds for Alex Cordes’ feet to hit the ground. The explosion caused by the collision of his Marauder and the number-six plane destroyed the plane in the slot - the number-four ship. Of the 19 aboard those three aircraft, 18 died. Cordes walked to the waiting ambulance, his only injury a slightly sprained ankle. The flight’s three surviving wing ships, left leaderless by the midair, tacked on to other flights and headed east to complete the day’s mission to Bad Durkheim, Germany.

How did Cordes miraculously survive the collision and explosion of two 19-ton aircraft? "His engine, or my left engine, must have cut right through the cockpit, right behind me and sliced off the whole flight deck," Cordes says thoughtfully. “The heavy armor plate behind the pilot’s seat probably cushioned the force of the explosion. When they found the armor plate, they said it looked as if it had been beaten with sledge hammers.” This heavy metal plate wrapped around pilots like a shroud, and they often referred to it as “the coffin.” The copilot’s seat had no such protection. Eye witnesses said Cordes’ parachute opened behind him, not above him. The formation was traveling at 180mph at the time of the midair, and after the impact, Cordes rode the front of a shock wave and hurtled forward much faster than he descended - the only reason his chute had time to open.

What caused the tragedy? The pilot of the number-six air-craft was new to the squadron - a "short-timer” - and formation flying is always challenging; the join-up is the most critical part of the mission. It’s an aerial ballet, and its execution must be perfect. The number-six ship came in slightly high and a few critical seconds too soon. When the pilot realized he was out of position, he increased the plane’s bank to slow the rate of closure. But the momentum of 38,000 pounds of bomber is not easily slowed, and as his bank steepened, he completely lost sight of the five-ship flight.

The next day, Lt. Cordes “got back on the horse”: he eased into the left seat of a B-26 and did some local flying. The day after that, he flew on a combat mission as copilot for Col. John Samuels, the 322nd Group Commander. When they landed, “Col. Sam” patted Cordes on the back: “You re doin’ fine, son; go back to work.”

But a pall hung over the squadron. Among the members of a bomb group, death is ever present, but there was always a deep resentment when a life was lost to an accident rather than to enemy fire. Sq. Cdr. Lt. Col. Henry Newcomer, a West Pointer, had the unenviable task of writing letters of condolence to the casualties’ next of kin. Death had come without regard for rank: nine of the victims were officers; nine were enlisted men. Lt. James Crumbliss was assigned as ranking officer of the six-man escort squad that led the funeral cortege to Etampes, a temporary burial ground 40 miles southwest of Paris. Three of Crumbliss’ regular crew had been on Cordes’ plane. The 451st Squadron departed Beauvais Airfield in April, and no one was sorry to leave.(Continued)