When This B-17 Lost Its Entire Nose — This Crew Flew 10 Minutes Pulling Bare Cables

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A Story of Courage and Survival: The Flight of Mispa

On July 14, 1944, First Lieutenant Evald Swanson found himself in the cockpit of the B17G bomber nicknamed Mispa, soaring over Budapest amidst a storm of anti-aircraft fire. At just 24 years old, Swanson had already completed 17 combat missions, but today would test his limits like never before. The Luftwaffe had positioned over 288 mm flak guns around the railway yards below, and they were all firing.

The mission was straightforward: strike the Shell oil refinery and railway yards in German-occupied Budapest to disrupt supply lines feeding the Eastern Front. However, the grim statistics weighed heavily on the minds of the bomber crews of the 15th Air Force. Out of every ten men who climbed into a B17, eight would not return home. As Mispa flew through the curtain of flak, the crew braced for impact.

Suddenly, an 88 mm shell struck the nose of the aircraft. The explosion was instantaneous and catastrophic. The front section of Mispa—the bombardier’s station, the navigator’s position, the Nordon bomb sight—was obliterated. Second Lieutenant Kenneth Dudley and Second Lieutenant Joe Henderson, who occupied those stations, died instantly. The blast threw Swanson into a chaotic struggle for control as the aircraft pitched upward, threatening to stall.

With no cockpit instruments left, Swanson faced an unimaginable challenge. He could see the formation of B17s ahead, but he had lost all sense of direction and control. The cold air screamed through the gaping hole where the nose had been, and blood from the explosion covered the flight deck. Yet, despite the impossible odds, Swanson found a way to stabilize the aircraft using the exposed control cables still intact.

Behind him, the surviving crew members—each one aware of the dire situation—began moving forward. The radio operator and flight engineer understood that they had to hold the cables steady to keep Mispa in the air. With flak still bursting around them and enemy fire threatening, they acted without hesitation. Over 200 flak guns continued to fire, and another shell struck engine number two, causing it to explode in a shower of oil and metal fragments.

Now with only three engines, Mispa struggled to maintain altitude. The formation was pulling ahead, and Swanson knew they were losing speed. The crew worked tirelessly, pulling on the cables to control the aircraft. Each movement had to be perfectly timed; too much pressure would cause the plane to overreact, while too little would yield no response. They were flying on sheer willpower and instinct, ten men working together as a single organism to keep the 65,000-pound bomber aloft.

As Mispa descended through 28,000 feet, Swanson estimated they had been flying without a cockpit for several minutes. The crew’s hands were cramping, and the cold was brutal, but they pressed on. Swanson knew that every second counted. They had to get out of Hungary, away from enemy territory, and into Yugoslavia.

Suddenly, the crew began waving frantically toward the rear of the aircraft. Staff Sergeant Charles Tucker, the tail gunner, had felt the violent pitch and knew something was wrong. The tail structure was flexing dangerously, and if it failed, everyone aboard would die instantly. The crew understood the gravity of the situation; they had to bail out while the aircraft was still controllable.

With no intercom to coordinate the evacuation, the crew made the decision themselves. One by one, they began moving toward the waist gun windows to jump. Each time a man exited, the aircraft became harder to control. The B17 began to wobble, and Swanson adjusted the throttle settings to compensate, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Five men jumped from the aircraft, each one descending under parachutes, but there were still two men left aboard—Swanson and his co-pilot, Second Lieutenant Paul Burnt. The aircraft was now at 22,000 feet, still descending, and the tail structure was on the verge of failure. Swanson knew that Burnt needed to go; there was no reason for him to stay aboard. The risk of dying in the crash was too great.

Burnt unbuckled his harness and moved carefully toward the exit. He looked back at Swanson one last time, and with that, he jumped. Swanson was now alone in the cockpit of a dying bomber. The aircraft was still descending steadily, but it was no longer flyable. The missing nose created massive drag, and without the crew pulling cables, any significant control input was impossible.

At 19,000 feet, Swanson faced a gut-wrenching decision. He had to jump, but he had to ensure that the crew had enough time to distance themselves from the crash site. He decided to stay for a few more moments, hoping to give his men a better chance of evading capture.

Finally, at 10:00 a.m., Swanson made his move. He unbuckled his harness, feeling the wind pressure trying to pull him forward. He squeezed through the narrow crawlway to the bomb bay area, grabbed his parachute pack, and positioned himself at the waist gun window. The aircraft was diving now, and he had to jump quickly.

As he leaped from the aircraft, the slipstream hit him like a wall. The roar of the engines faded as he watched Mispa fall. The tail section separated, and the bomber pitched nose down, disappearing into the trees below. Moments later, a column of black smoke rose into the sky.

Swanson drifted southwest with the wind, but his landing was disastrous. He hit the upper branches of a tree, breaking his left leg upon impact. Unable to move, he hung there in the parachute harness as German soldiers arrived at the base of the tree. They quickly collected him, and a German medic treated his injuries, applying a temporary splint and injecting morphine to dull the pain.

Swanson was transported to a local command post and then to a German medical facility, where doctors set his broken leg. Over the next few days, the rest of Mispa‘s crew was captured, all found within a 20-mile radius of the crash site. They were transported to Stalag Luft 4, a prisoner of war camp in Austria, where conditions were harsh but not brutal.

As winter turned to spring, the Germans began evacuating camps due to the advancing Soviet forces. Swanson and his crew stayed together, marching through Germany as the Third Reich collapsed. On April 30, 1945, American forces reached their column, and after nine months of captivity, they were finally free.

Swanson returned to civilian life in Michigan, marrying and raising a family. He rarely spoke of July 14, 1944, attributing his survival to luck. He did not see himself as a hero but rather as a pilot who had done his duty under impossible circumstances. Yet, the Army Air Forces recognized his bravery, promoting him to Lieutenant Colonel over the years.

Evald Swanson passed away in 2009 at the age of 89, having lived a full life. He often reflected on the flight of Mispa, the bomber that lost its nose over Budapest and proved that human determination could overcome even the most dire engineering limits. The bond between Swanson and his crew remained unbreakable, a testament to their shared experience and the memories of those who did not return.

Through this story, the legacy of Evald Swanson and the crew of Mispa lives on, reminding us of the courage and resilience of those who faced unimaginable odds during one of history’s darkest times. Their names and sacrifices will never be forgotten.