William L. Orient, Technical Sergeant, serial number 13111662, served as a radio operator with the 328th Bomb Squadron of the 93rd Bombardment Group (Heavy) — the pioneering B-24 Liberator unit of the U.S. Eighth Army Air Force, operating from Station 104 at Hardwick, Norfolk. A native of Bridgeville, Pennsylvania, he enlisted in April 1942 and ultimately flew 34 combat missions, accumulating more than 200 combat hours. He was one of the most seasoned enlisted airmen in his squadron, voluntarily extending his tour well past the mandatory threshold to remain close to his brother Joe, who was still fighting with the U.S. Army infantry in France.
Orient came to the 93rd the long way. He entered the Army Air Forces hoping to become a pilot, but during primary flight training in a PT-13 biplane, a personality clash with his instructor ended badly — a botched landing in which they hit the ground and clipped a wingtip washed him out of the program. He later concluded he was better suited to the crew than the cockpit. Retrained as a radio operator, he received his B-24 assignment at Davis-Monthan Army Air Field in Tucson, Arizona, where Crew 4436 formed on June 7, 1944. The crew trained under pilot Lt. William McCabe ("Mac"), co-pilot Frank Cepl, navigator Jerry Farnum, bombardier Philip Phillips, and engineer Paul Harwood, alongside gunners Lawrence Miller, Kenneth Holt, Lawrence Coffman, and Henry Bratyanski.
It was in Tucson that Orient met Phyllis — the woman he would marry — just six weeks before the crew shipped out to England. He wrote to her throughout his deployment in letters he could not fill with specifics about his location or assignments, but which traced the arc of his emotional life overseas. He worried about his three brothers and a brother-in-law all serving simultaneously, grieved the loss of his cousin Andy in Italy, and found comfort in small things: a bicycle he called his "wheel," a bush mustache grown to cushion his face against the oxygen mask, and the Friday afternoon parties his barracks crew organized back at Hardwick with parachute bags full of cognac liberated from Antwerp.
Crew 4436 flew their first combat mission on August 1, 1944, bombing Le Bourget Aerodrome near Paris through rough, accurate flak. Three more missions followed in the next four days — a railroad bridge at Montereau, a synthetic ammonia plant at Harnes, and the Heinkel bomber assembly plant at Rostock. On August 5, returning from the aircraft works at Fallersleben near Brunswick, their B-24 absorbed 62 flak hits and lost hydraulics. Orient's crew put down at RAF Woodridge, a five-mile emergency landing strip, dragging the plane's tail on the pavement to stop. The aircraft was repaired and back in the air within weeks — Orient later cited it as evidence of the extraordinary dedication of the ground crews who worked nights by spotlight, changing engines on scaffolds.
The mission of August 8, 1944 — targeting Villacoublay Aerodrome southwest of Paris — became the defining episode of the crew's early service. Under relentless and accurate flak, pilot McCabe took a hit in his hand and began spraying blood. As radio operator, Orient had freedom to move around the flight deck, and he reacted immediately: he reached across the cockpit, lifted McCabe bodily over the control panel, and laid him on the floor. Co-pilot Cepl called bombardier Phillips forward and a tourniquet was applied. Approaching Hardwick on fumes with a wounded pilot aboard, Cepl called for a fly-through landing, shooting red flares so medics could find them on the runway. When Mac was removed from the aircraft, the crew found he had also been wounded in the back. Ground crews later recovered a chunk of flak from inside Orient's radio receiver that would have struck him in the head had he been in his usual seated position.
After McCabe's hospitalization, Crew 4436 flew with Lt. James H. Cook before co-pilot Frank Cepl assumed the pilot's seat. Through late summer the group was pulled off bombing to ferry fuel in 55-gallon drums to General Patton's Third Army at Orleans — the tanks were running dry. When Orient reached 25 missions the Army Air Forces raised the threshold to 30; when he reached 30, they raised it to 35. Most of his original crew went home around their 28th mission. Orient stayed on, assigned as a squadron radio operator flying with whatever crew needed him. His reasons were personal as much as professional: his brother Joe was still in the infantry in France, and staying in the air kept him, in some way, in that fight.
On October 7, 1944, Cook's final mission sent the group to the Magdeburg oil refinery — an installation Orient would visit six times in all. Assigned a brand-new aircraft and a theoretically safe formation position, they were badly mauled by flak and ran out of airspeed and altitude before reaching Brussels. They put down on a captured Luftwaffe field near Antwerp, rolling through cow pastures to stop. A Belgian civilian appeared quickly, warned them Germans were still in the area, and drove the crew into the liberated city. They spent three days at the fine Century Hotel with almost nothing to eat or drink. A Polish RAF squadron offered boiled cabbage and rum; Orient poured the rum into his cigarette lighter and called it the hottest lighter in the squadron. The crew left with parachute bags full of French cognac, which they organized into Friday afternoon parties back at Hardwick.
The mission of January 8, 1945 came closest to ending everything. Launched in near-zero visibility with orders to form over the Bay of Biscay, they were caught in violent thermals that threw the B-24 inverted and spinning. Orient jettisoned the bombs, hit the throttles, and deployed the flaps — but Cepl had gone deep into vertigo. Orient struck him on the shoulder. No response. He wound up for a second blow, ready to haul him from the seat. The second hit brought Cepl back; they pulled out at 1,500 feet with the rear fuselage twisted 45 degrees and the upper stabilizer knocked askew. They put down at Woodridge again. The RAF offered rum. Orient went through the line twice. Back at Hardwick, Cepl climbed off the truck flat on his back, declared he was finished with B-24s, and kept his word — he went home by boat.
Orient flew his remaining missions with borrowed crews — Severson's, Smith's, Holt's — primarily against Magdeburg's synthetic oil plant, which the Germans kept rebuilding as fast as the Allies bombed it. On his final mission, March 3, 1945, he flew as nose gunner with Holt's crew, the third plane to lead the group. They dove to 10,000 feet over Magdeburg; six German jets made passes and put six holes in the plane. He recorded it in his memoir, "Lest We Forget," written in the 1960s: "I quit combat flying at 34 missions — so I could stay with the group." He flew home with the 93rd on a 30-day rest leave, then was sent to Pyote, Texas for B-29 training before the atomic bombs ended the war.
After discharge at Fort Bliss, Texas, Orient boarded a bus overnight to Tucson. He arrived September 13, 1945 — and spent the day waiting. He refused to propose until the 14th. On bended knee, he asked Phyllis to marry him; her only question was "when." They married September 24, 1945 at All Saints Church in Tucson, Father Gramer officiating. They had five daughters and built their lives there; Orient worked as a general contractor for 40 years. He documented his service in "Lest We Forget" and in an oral history recorded by his grandson Jon Edmiston in 2001. He remained grateful throughout his life for the ground crews, the bonds formed under fire, and the strange grace of having survived things he had no right to survive. His marriage to Phyllis lasted 66 years. William L. Orient died on April 29, 2011 — his 90th birthday.
Assigned to 93rd Bomb Group in England as radio operator/gunner on a B-24. After going through three pilots and "walking home" four times, his crew was broken up at 28 missions. He finished the next six as extra crew and replacements, completing 34 total missions.
The sorties below are those we have been able to document for this airman, drawn from flight logs, mission records, and archival sources. It is not necessarily a complete account of every mission flown; gaps may reflect missing documentation, transferred assignments, or records lost to time.
Born April 29, 1921 in the Pittsburgh, PA area. Enlisted as aviation cadet; classified at Nashville. Pre-flight at Santa Ana; primary flight training at Santa Maria (washed out of pilot training). Radio School at Sioux Falls, SD; Gunnery at Yuma, AZ; operational training at Davis Monthan, Tucson, AZ.
On their last mission with pilot Cook, a badly damaged plane and lost airspeed forced the crew to put down on a captured Luftwaffe field outside Antwerp. A Belgian civilian found them first, warned them Germans were still in the area, and drove them into the liberated city.
William Orient enlisted in April 1942, met Phyllis during B-24 training at Davis-Monthan — six weeks before he shipped out. Assigned to the 93rd Bomb Group's "Ted's Traveling Circus," he flew combat across North Africa and Europe, including a punishing nine-hour oxygen mission to Stettin, Poland.
With 125 points against the 85 needed for discharge, William Orient was among the first to qualify when the war ended. He flew home with the 93rd Bomb Group, rendezvoused with the Eighth Air Force in Salt Lake City, collected his discharge papers, and rode the bus to Tucson that same night.
When pilot Mac was shot mid-mission, William Orient reached across the cockpit, lifted the large man bodily over the control panel, and laid him on the floor. Bombardier Phil was called up, a tourniquet applied, and Mac survived. Phil later said the luckiest day for the crew was the day Orient joined — a late assignment just before they left Tucson.
A colonel at Salt Lake City sought out William Orient by reputation to serve as radio operator on a flight east. Orient was under a shade tree sharing a bottle and never answered the call. The plane was the B-25 that crashed into the Empire State Building in 1945 — and his high school date Rosemary Welch was on the other side of the building when it hit.
Shortly after de Gaulle's forces liberated Paris, William Orient crewed two wing colonels over from England. Given a few hours free, he and the crew toured the city — but the Germans had looted it clean. The only souvenir he could find was a small poodle lapel pin.
The crew's assigned plane — "N-Nan" — came back from one mission with 42 fist-sized holes and was back in the air within weeks, ground crews working nights under spotlights. On another mission, with pilot Mac shot and the plane low on fuel, Orient shot red flares on approach so medics could find them on landing. A chunk of flak pulled from his radio receiver afterward would have hit him in the head had he been sitting in his usual position.
On their 28th mission, violent wind drafts threw the B-24 inverted and spinning. Orient jettisoned the bombs, hit all four throttles, and struck the vertigo-stricken copilot Frank Semple hard on the shoulder to bring him back. They put down at Woodridge, where Orient went through the RAF rum line twice. Semple climbed off the plane, declared he would never fly again, and kept his word.
As the war wound down, the 93rd flew trolley missions — low-level runs over France and Germany carrying ground personnel who'd never seen the destruction from the air. Flying over Antwerp at rooftop level, Orient could look down into the basement of the hotel where his crew had once stayed and see the chairs in the movie theater. The Battle of the Bulge had been made possible by a week of solid overcast that grounded every Allied aircraft — giving the Germans the cover they needed to launch thei
A young crewman — his name mangled by Murray Muscatel until a postwar reunion set it right — was cleaning his .45 the night before a weapons inspection, reassembled it, and pulled the trigger out of habit. The round passed over William Orient's head and punched a hole in the metal barracks wall. He hit the floor and drew his own weapon before George McNulty came running to convince him it had been an accident. On the bomb run, Orient's job was to keep his foot on the lever holding the bomb bay d
As radio operator, William Orient was largely footloose during the flight — his job on the bomb run was to stand at the bomb bay doors, holding them open with his foot and sitting on his flak vest against flak coming up from below. On one mission a bomb hung on its shackle after release, already armed — impossible to land with. Orient strapped on a walk-around oxygen bottle, grabbed a screwdriver, and made his way out into the open bomb bay at altitude. One well-placed strike knocked it loose. H
When pilot Cook called a routine local flight and neither the engineer nor copilot showed up, William Orient climbed into the copilot seat. He started the engines, called off the takeoff checklist, and after reaching altitude synchronized all four propellers by watching their shadow patterns through the side windows and working the toggle switches until they ran smooth. He figured the more he knew about the B-24, the better off he and the crew would be.
During primary flight training in a PT-13 biplane, William Orient was assigned an instructor he described as a California dandy — short, curly-haired, scarf at the neck, flying boots. There was an immediate personality clash. On one approach the instructor never communicated that Orient was supposed to be landing; they hit the ground, swerved, and clipped a wingtip. He was washed out of pilot training. In later years he concluded he'd been better off — a B-24 crew suited him far more than sittin
Combat flying forged a kinship William Orient said could never be created any other way. He found crewmates after the war through reunions and chance — Semple in a Los Angeles phone book, Farnham in Boston, engineer Paul Harwood still in regular contact decades later. Not every reunion was sentimental: word came back through the reunion circuit that Murray Muscatel, the barracks hustler who ran dice games in the officers' day room and left England with a barracks bag full of British pound notes,
News of Pearl Harbor reached William Orient in the back seat of a Ford convertible, on a double date with his cousin Louise and her boyfriend. Disbelief was the first reaction — nobody in the car could say for certain where Pearl Harbor even was, or believe that Japan would dare strike the United States directly. It would be four more months before he enlisted.
Orient waited nearly four months after Pearl Harbor to enlist, timing it to turn 21 and knowing the draft would catch him regardless. Enlisting meant a choice of assignment instead of the draft's coin flip. Meanwhile his brothers were already scattering across the war in four different directions — one repairing aircraft island to island, one exempted as the family breadwinner, one drafted the day after high school graduation, and the youngest bound for Korea years later.
When Patton's tanks outran their own supply lines across France, Orient's group became truckers — stripping their B-24s down to a skeleton crew and flying fuel and cargo directly into Orleans at low level. The same freedom to move brought him to newly liberated Paris as one of the first American servicemen in the city, and later to the low-level "trolley" runs down the Rhine, where he watched British fighters tip V-1 flying bombs off course with their wingtips.
Shot down early in his tour and captured, fellow airman Tom Bent spent years in a German POW camp with badly injured knees, later forced on a march ahead of the advancing Russian lines. Orient's account of Bent's ordeal opens into a wider reflection — on the resentment some veterans felt watching POWs receive more recognition than crews who flew dozens of missions and made it home, and on the military's deliberate policy, after the Sullivan brothers' deaths, of keeping friends and family separat
Briefed to hit German positions still holed up at Metz late in the war, Orient's crew crossed their own initial point in friendly territory — and a bombardier's one-notch error sent three blockbusters down on Allied-held ground before the bay doors ever reached enemy lines. The story sits alongside Orient's broader observations on the failed Maginot Line, the decline of Stuka dive-bombing against high-altitude Allied tactics, and the flak that had, by then, become more dangerous than German figh
An overnight pass turned into an all-night dash to Edinburgh with navigator John Sloan, whose Uncle Allen produced hidden bottles of scotch along a garden path and sent the two servicemen off with canteens refilled for the road. Orient hauled a hopelessly drunk Sloan back to base on his shoulder — only for a recall flare to scrub the mission an hour later, sparing them both a miserable flight.
With Magdeburg's synthetic oil plant hit six times and rebuilt just as fast by German construction crews working around the clock, one mission broke from the usual high-altitude approach — diving the formation down to 10,000 feet to make sure the bombs actually landed. Orient's account also covers the H2X radar and G-box systems that let the lead squadron bomb blind through solid cloud cover, and his sober tally of the flak defenses ringing German cities: enough guns around Hamburg alone, by his
A nine-hour mission at altitude, out over the North Sea and the Baltic to bomb Stettin, Poland, and back — a target hit so thoroughly on the first pass that, by Orient's account, it was never bombed again by air. The Germans eventually built reinforced submarine pens in the ruins so heavily fortified that British forces had to go after them with torpedoes instead.
Orient's official record credits him with 34 combat missions — one short of the 35 that would have forced a second tour, and exactly where he chose to stop. His personal logbook tells a different story: 37 missions, the extra three flown as a last-minute substitute on other crews and never logged by ground personnel too rushed to record fill-ins. He still hopes, decades later, that the discrepancy might someday be acknowledged — though he concedes much of the paperwork that could prove it burned
Opening the bomb bay doors mid-mission, Orient found a German ME-109 tucked directly beneath the formation, in the blind spot left by the ball turrets the group had stripped out to save weight. Close enough to see the pilot's face, he worked his .45 free of his parachute harness — and the instant the German saw the pistol come up, he peeled off in a straight black streak for the ground. This is the audio record of the same incident behind the site's "The Wrench and the ME-109" story, told here i