
From my motherโs sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
Imagine clinging to the underside of a speeding bomber, thousands of feet above the earth, encased in a metal sphere no bigger than a washing machine. That was the reality for ball turret gunners in World War II, tasked with defending the bomber’s vulnerable underbelly.
These gunners, often the smallest in the crew, squeezed into the cramped turret through a hatch in the floor. Inside, they contorted themselves into a fetal position, facing twin .50 caliber machine guns pointed downwards. Their view? Just a sliver of the sky directly beneath them. Talk about tunnel vision.











