How One Gunner’s ‘CRAZY’ Mirror System Tripled B-17 Tail Gun Accuracy
October 14th, 1943. Twenty-five thousand feet above Germany, Staff Sergeant Michael Romano huddled in the cramped tail of his B-17 Flying Fortress, the twin .50 caliber machine guns heavier than his own body. His fingers ached from gripping them, his arms trembling under the strain. Through the small plexiglass window, he glimpsed the sleek shape of an Fw 190 diving toward the bomber’s most vulnerable angle: six o’clock low. Romano squinted through his crude iron sights, a simple ring and bead that offered no compensation for the speed of closing aircraft or the trajectory of his bullets. He fired. The tracers arced harmlessly behind the German fighter. Shells flashed past his fuselage, tearing through aluminum like tissue paper. The nightmare repeated itself—over and over.
By nightfall, sixty bombers were destroyed, more than twenty percent of the mission’s force. Another 138 returned crippled, never to fly again. Six hundred American airmen were dead. Romano’s own hands, shaking not from fear but from exhaustion, had fired hundreds of rounds without a single confirmed kill. The mathematics of survival were brutal: at this rate, no crew could hope to finish their required 25 missions alive. Tail gunners, theoretically the last line of defense, were failing catastrophically.
Romano’s first mission had ended with two bombers in his formation shot down, his best friend killed while attacking fighters passed behind him. Each loss carved a hollow ache into his chest. Back at Bassingbourn Airfield, he climbed from the tail section, eyes glazed from the stress and the thin high-altitude air. Later that night, while others slept, he sat in the maintenance hangar with a flashlight and a logbook, staring at the ineffectiveness of the ring and bead sights. The solution, he realized, was not in training or in firing harder—it was in seeing better.
Romano noticed his own reflection in the curved plexiglass of the tail window. In that distorted image, he glimpsed something revolutionary: what if he could mount small mirrors at strategic angles to extend his peripheral vision? What if he could watch where his tracers went, adjusting his aim in real-time, rather than shooting blindly into the void? The idea seemed absurd, even illegal. Army Air Force technical orders forbade unauthorized modifications to defensive armament. If caught, he could be court-martialed. But the thought of waiting for permission, while men died, was unbearable.
By October 7th, Romano found an unlikely ally in Technical Sergeant Frank Kellerman, a 38-year-old mechanic from Detroit, whose hands had built bridges in the Depression and repaired machines with whatever scraps were at hand. Romano showed him the sketches of mirrors, angles, and brackets. “This is illegal,” Kellerman said flatly. Romano nodded. “I know. But it works, or we die.”
Under the cover of night, Romano and Kellerman scavenged components from damaged aircraft across the airfield: a reflector sight from a wrecked P-47, mirrors from broken navigation instruments, aluminum scraps from forgotten supply crates. They fabricated brackets, mounted the mirrors at calculated angles, and welded the reflector sight to fit Romano’s confined tail station. By 4:30 a.m., the system was complete. No paperwork existed; no engineer had signed off. The modification was crude, jury-rigged, and entirely unauthorized. But Romano had a gut feeling it would work.
The following morning, the B-17 climbed toward Germany, its tail carrying a secret weapon. Romano swivelled his guns, peering through the newly installed reflector sight, his peripheral vision capturing mirrors reflecting the path of his own tracers. For the first time, he could see where his bullets would go before pulling the trigger.
A Fw 190 dove from seven o’clock high. Romano aligned the reticle, adjusted slightly using the reflected tracer path, and fired a three-second burst. Flames erupted from the fighter’s engine; it spiraled away in a black smoke trail. Seconds later, a Bf 109 attacked from the classic six o’clock low. Romano fired, leading the target using the mirror guidance. The canopy shattered, the fighter rolled inverted, and dove away. In minutes, Romano had two confirmed kills, his first in combat. His heart pounded, disbelief and relief warring in equal measure.
Back on the ground, the squadron’s crew chief discovered the unauthorized modifications. Orders barked, threats of court-martial, regulations cited. But the evidence was undeniable: Romano’s system worked. The hit rate, previously below eight percent, had tripled. The argument among the officers was fierce, but pragmatism eventually overrode protocol. Colonel Stanley Ray, commanding officer of the 91st Bomb Group, finally spoke: “We’re losing seventeen bombers a week. Sergeant, your modification stays. Fly the next three missions. If it works, we implement it groupwide.” Romano saluted, words unnecessary.
Over the following weeks, Romano’s mirror-assisted reflector sight proved miraculous. Tail gunners equipped with the system achieved hit rates above twenty-three percent, nearly tripling the effectiveness of the defensive armament. The Luftwaffe, once confident in rear attacks, now faced an unexpected, lethal accuracy. German fighter tactics had to change, and bomber survival rates skyrocketed. The improvised mirrors, born of necessity and courage, saved hundreds of lives in the skies over Europe.
Romano continued flying combat missions, tallying seven confirmed kills and four probables, but his personal heroics were only part of the story. The system he pioneered influenced the formal design of the Cheyenne tail turret on production B-17Gs and B-24s. What started as a desperate, illegal modification became standard equipment, saving thousands of lives and changing the course of the air war.
After the war, Romano returned to Pittsburgh, marrying his high school sweetheart and working quietly as a machinist for 37 years. He rarely spoke of the war. Yet the legacy of his innovation endured. In 1983, at a 91st Bomb Group reunion, a tail gunner approached him with tears in his eyes and a salvaged mirror bracket in hand. “Because of you, I came home. My kids exist because you couldn’t accept lousy gun sights. Thank you.” Romano shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “You would have done the same,” he said.
Michael Romano passed away in 2003, aged seventy-nine. His obituary listed only a line: “World War II veteran, 8th Air Force.” It said nothing of the young factory worker who, with mirrors, scavenged parts, and audacious ingenuity, defied regulations to save thousands of lives. It said nothing of the countless tail gunners who survived because one man refused to accept failure. It said nothing of the lesson he embodied: sometimes, the greatest act of courage is not following orders, but knowing when the rules matter less than the lives of those around you.
