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MY HERO: How My Father Helped Spoil Hitler’s Last Christmas

Brave bombardier was sent into action in 1944 with the largest air armada in the history of warfare

spinner image pilots sit on top of bombs that say merry christmas adolf
A Boeing B-17 "Flying Fortress" crew planning a Christmas present for Adolf Hitler with a bomb addressed to him.
Popperfoto via Getty Images

During the waning days of the Vietnam war, I was drafted into the Army and sent to Germany. My folks decided to fly over for a visit, and I wrote to my father, telling him I would drive them wherever they wanted to go sightseeing. 

spinner image people hold up a welcome home sign as someone from the military stands before an american flag. the words aarp veteran report appear above the flag
Getty Images/AARP

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A quick response came with a long list of cities, many of them not mentioned in popular travel guides.  I wrote back to him questioning the list of places he wanted to visit and noted that most hadn’t made it into the Michelin Guide.

I received this reply: “Those were my 30 bombing missions in WWII.  I want to see what has become of them and I still feel for all the innocent people in the target areas that were mostly air bases and rail junctions.” 

He had spoken very little about it, but my father, Donald F. Kilburg Sr., had been a bombardier in B-17 Flying Fortresses in the war. On Christmas Eve 1944, he had taken part with the 487th Bomb Group, part of the "Mighty Eighth" Air Force, in the largest aerial bombing mission in history.

The Battle of the Bulge was raging, and Mission 760 involved every plane at the disposal of the U.S. Army Air Corps in Britain and occupied Europe — 2,034 bombers and 853 fighters — flying in formation to 34 tactical targets in Germany.

More than 5,000 tons of bombs were dropped, marking a turning point in the battle and the war. Some 21,000 airmen took part. The objective was to immobilize the aircraft, supply lines and communications centers that were the life support for Adolf Hitler’s forces, which were pounding the beleaguered Allied ground troops.

Over Liege, Belgium, my father watched as the lead plane copiloted by Brig. Gen. Frederick Castle was hit by an enemy fighter, exploded and plummeted to the ground. Castle was one of just five American generals to be killed in WWII, and my father was now the lead bombardier in the new lead plane.

His B-17 was badly damaged — 150 holes were later found in the skin of the plane — but my father and his crewmates made it to the Luftwaffe’s Babenhausen aerodrome southeast of Frankfurt, where they dropped their bombs from 22,500 feet and hit the target.

After landing safely back at Lavenham in Suffolk, England, it was a time for celebrating life as well as Christmas. There were drinks all around and my father then went to Christmas midnight Mass. He was told the next morning that he had been standing when he was supposed to be kneeling and kneeling when he should have been sitting.

My father’s B-17 was one of 187 aircraft damaged out of the 2,046 aircraft dispatched. In all, 13 B-17s were destroyed and some 100 airmen of the 487th Bomb Group perished.

Later in life, my father displayed a different kind of courage. For 23 years, he was the sole caregiver and companion for his dear wife, Carole, my mother. She was the same woman who had knitted him woolen socks when he was a bombardier and had borne his six children (I was the eldest), caring for us in the postwar years as he went off to work each day.

During the years of my mother’s decline into Alzheimer’s, I encouraged Dad to attend the annual reunions of his bomb group, the 487th.  At one of those, he “volunteered” me to document the story of that memorable Christmas Eve in 1944.

Mission 760 helped halt Hitler’s Ardennes offensive and paved the way for the Allied victory in the Battle of the Bulge, the largest and bloodiest battle of WWII. It was to be Hitler’s last Christmas, and I am proud that my father was one of those who spoiled it for him.

As a young kid, I had friends whose dads had returned from combat during the war with souvenirs and trinkets that they liked to show off.  My Dad, who was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his gallantry on Mission 760, had never brandished such things or talked about his war experience in my presence.

It was not until I was in college and about to be drafted that I discussed his time in WWII with him and got to know him from a completely different perspective.

When the WWII Memorial on the Mall in Washington, D.C., opened in 2004, we joined Dad in a tour of it.  He spent hours reading the names on every stone, rejoining us with tears on his face. He died six years later at the age of 89.

God bless my Dad, my hero.

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