HOW GOOD IT WAS! by Jim Moore
Ralph Winston Boucher, a native son of Tulsa, Oklahoma, never visited Bay Point or knew of its existence. But his life, deeds and a few artifacts are recorded and preserved in the memory and home of long time Bay Point resident Ruth Boucher, who was his best friend, the love of his life, and his wife. They grew up in the same town, attended the same schools and, although they never met while attending school, graduated from Tulsa Central High School just four years apart. For many boys soon to become men, those four years would be a lifetime. Winston Boucher graduated from high school in June 1941 in a nation that was still pacifistic. All of that would drastically change a few months later. In a speech to Congress President Roosevelt declared, Yesterday, December 7th, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the empire of Japan. By the time Roosevelt’s speech ended, America’s resolve had changed; the nation, however genteel it had become, would test the courage of its young men in battle, on foreign shores—and America’s women—If they were to be tested at all—it would be for patience.
Sons, fathers, husbands and fiancés during their final goodbye before marching off to war assured their mothers, children, wives and girlfriends that they would be the lucky ones, that they would make it home again. Letters never sent or read, memories rearranged and fading, were often the only reward for patience–and became a toll of war unaccounted for. It might be said that Ruth and Winston were the lucky ones, for they had yet to meet. She was a senior in Tulsa Central High when Winston arrived in North Africa. He was a tail gunner in a B-17 ready to wreak havoc on the Axis Powers. And perhaps it was, a bit ironic that while Ruth was discussing double negatives and the proper use of semicolons with her Tulsa High English teacher, her future husband Winston was alone in the tail of a B-17 manning twin 50 caliber machine guns shooting at bad guys and watching; often seemingly defenseless and in horror, as the bad guys shot back. And so it was: America at times a tranquil sea surrounded by a world at war. A surreal circumstance, only broken by interjections of harsh reality, became the America of World War II. B-17s, or Flying Fortresses, were no place for sissies; this was as harsh an existence as there was when it came to long range flying in wartime skies.
B-17 en-route to a bombing mission during World War II with Winston Boucher and nine other crew members.
Unpressurized, noisy, little to no heat, slow, uncomfortable and not all that maneuverable, it was Boeing’s version of a flying Model “A” Ford destined for air combat. B-17 crewmembers became the poster children for no frills flying. And yet the crews who flew them had a love affair with the airplane and could not stand to hear it criticized. Stories of B-17s returning home with ailerons shot to pieces, huge portions of the wings missing, tail sections hanging together more out of habit than engineering and other seemingly fatal wounds that surely would have downed a lesser plane, are plentiful. Of course the flip side to that is if the damn thing was a bit faster, could have flown a bit higher and was a bit more maneuverable, it would not have been shot up in the first place. Critics must acquiesce because history has accepted the crew’s version of the B-17, and in aviation circles it has become both legend and lore. In any case, on November 1, 1943, Staff Sergeant Winston Boucher flew the first of 51 bombing missions he would be credited with during World War II. Daylight bombing belonged to the Americans. So early in the mornings it was not unusual to hear, smell and see hundreds of R1820 Wright/cyclone engines producing just 1200 horse power each but a lot of octane rich smoke as they belched and backfired their way to life. Once running smoothly and in sync, there was a soothing cadence or rhythm created by the engines that ran through the airplane and created a false sense of security during the run toward Nazis occupied Europe. Each B-17 was home to four of these 9 cylinder extremely complicated engines, and genuine concerns about their complexity replaced the false sense of security as the plane entered Axis skies filled with German ME-109 fighter planes and exploding anti-aircraft fire.
As a B-17 pilot, there is a panoramic view of the fight you are about to engage in approaching the target area, a kind of big picture syndrome, and there is the sense that you are a part of a team. As a tail gunner, the fight is more personal; you are alone, and the SOB in the German ME-109 fighter plane coming in from the six o’clock position is shooting his 20 MM cannon not at a team, or even the airplane, but at you the tail gunner—trapped in your isolated position, jammed into a space you were not meant to fit into; it’s not just that you can’t run and hide, but it is so cramped you can’t even duck. Watching enemy tracers walking their way toward you is frustrating, brutal and frightening. Fighting your way to a target is one thing, but what the B-17 crews knew was they would have to fight their way home too. Fifty-one times Winston took to the air as a tail gunner on missions that lasted anywhere from three to nine hours, making it home on one occasion with a hole in the airplane so big you could park a jeep in it. By the time 1944 became the New Year, Ruth was planning her future. After a June graduation she would go off to college and prepare for a new life in what would surely be a new world. Hope was changing to optimism within the arsenal of democracy as the might of America’s industry and the determination of its military sent the Axis powers reeling across the globe. Winston also was planning for the future, but his dreams were a bit more modest. As the New Year began he still had 44 missions to survive before he would be sent home and out of harm’s way. At the time the life expectancy of a B-17 tail gunner was just 4 missions; Winston had already survived longer than statistics suggested he would–he had every right to be concerned 
Kneeling to the right is Winston Boucher after his 51st and last bombing mission in a B-17 during World War II.
As with so many young men fighting in World War II, nostalgia was his companion for the most part. His dreams for the future were to return to the past—after all he had left his horse in the care of his mother when he went off to fight the war and, while Tulsa was an oil town, there were still a lot of cowboys living amongst the oil rigs. Winston had a love of land, cattle and horses that would stay with him, but for now he just had to get back to that horse. June 1944 was a great month for the couple that had yet to meet. Ruth was about to graduate from Tulsa Central High School and move on to college. Talk of a post war America and how good it would all be as soon as the war was over kept everyone in the conversation. There was still plenty of killing and dying to do but the conversation was generic in nature because no one knew who would do the killing and who would do the dying; everyone just knew the good guys were going to win and the war would be over. It was assumed without merit that the world would be ready to embrace peace.
You never get used to the high pitch, whining, straining sound of a B-17 starter as it barely, it seems, has the strength to swing the prop over– and no matter how often the results are the same, there is excitement and relief when belching and backfiring in a cloud of smoke as if in protest the engine comes to life. Each B-17 has four engines and for each, the scenario and the mood swing of the crew is the same. On June 2, 1944 just after four thirty in the morning Winston and the rest of the crew could feel the muscles in their bodies tense as if attempting to help as they sat listening to each engine’s starter struggle to turn the engine with its big propeller over several times and as each engine came to life there was a collective sigh of relief. Finally all of the engines on all of the B-17s were running and the lineup began for takeoff. The target this day was the railway crossing and marshaling yards in Oradea, Romania. It would be a seven and a half hour round trip and the Romanians who normally manned the defenses but were not exactly enamored with Hitler’s quest for world domination had been replaced with German soldiers who were much more dedicated to their task. The ride to and from the bombing site was anything but a milk run. The Germans, prepared and angry, were everywhere and so was danger; for many American crewmen it would be their last ride in a B-17. Upon return from this raid Winston would learn that mission 51 was his last mission and that soon he would be going home not to the past but the future as well as his mother, his horse and Tulsa. June 1945 arrived and a year almost to the day had passed since Ruth graduated from high school. Things were moving quickly and, just home from college she was glad to have time to visit her old friends and make new ones too. She met a Tulsa boy, one she had never seen or met before, and was surprised to find out she knew his sister. It was love at first sight. He was home on leave from an R&R camp in Miami, Florida, where returning Airmen who had flown a lot of missions were sent to acclimate to the civilian surroundings they were about to rejoin. He was handsome and just the sweetest man you would ever wanted to meet. It was mutual; they both knew instantly they had met their future and it would be not only great but special.
Three months after they met they married–on his birthday, September 29, 1945. Ruth said it was the only way she could be sure he would not forget their anniversary. Ralph Winston Boucher and his wife Ruth became Mr. and Mrs. Boucher and both instantly were ready to settle down and make their way in the world. Winston, as he was known, took a job with Braden Steel out of Memphis. He began on-the-job training as an Engineer as he simultaneously completed a correspondence course from Stanton University. A year after they married, their first child—a boy–arrived, followed by a girl. Theirs was a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post American family if ever one existed. Winston grew up in Tulsa and, with a war looming, he, like many other high school graduates, made his way to the military where he became a tail gunner–a unique occupation with no career potential.
He was intrigued by flying and soon had a pilot’s license just for fun. To earn a living, however, he became an engineer for a Memphis steel company. But his heart belonged to the land–and of course the cattle that would go with it. After 17 years, the steel company was being sold out and this was the perfect time for Winston to buy land and begin developing a farm. When you have a farm, people sometimes just seem to drop by to see who you are. One such person was not only nice but he was also famous; in fact you only needed to hear his first name and the people of the world knew who he was. His name was Elvis. Elvis Presley. Well, Elvis stopped by one day and bought Winston’s farm from him lock, stock and barrel. Then he asked Winston to stay on and manage the place. Winston and Ruth agreed–and a friendship began that resulted in Winston and Ruth being invited to the wedding and reception of Elvis and Pricilla Presley. Not long after, Winston began looking for another tract of land to develop. He found such a place: Dardanelle in Yell County Arkansas. It was Father’s Day, June 20, 1971. Winston had a few things that needed his attention in Dardanelle, Arkansas. Besides, a friend of his had just finished rebuilding a bi-wing open cockpit Boeing Company Stearman just like the ones used for training pilots in World War II. His friend would pick Winston up in the Stearman and bring him back to Memphis. How perfect a day would this be for a father who loved to fly! Suddenly it was over. Dreams meant to last forever were lost in the twisted wreckage of an aircraft just outside of Dardanelle. A love affair full of romance and adventure, which had begun in a whirlwind 26 years before, ended without warning in an instant. Elvis Presley had two large crosses mounted on bridges that crossed his farm; he had a third cross made and erected at the Dardanelle crash site in memory of his friend, Ralph Winston Boucher. For Ruth it began as the loss of a husband, the father of her children and the man who swept her off her feet and got her to the altar in just 90 days not so long ago. But now more than that it has become the memories, of what it was and how it was, the laughter shared, while holding hands as they told each other secrets. Memories mixed but special that she can never let go of they are memories full of love, of footsteps heard no more, the sights and sounds of working together, raising a family, this makes it easy for Ruth to remember that they were more for having loved one another. All of this Ruth keeps with her and treasures because however brief it was, it was their time, it was her time, it was his time. She will never let go of those things that were so special and that still touch her heart. These are the memories that will always bring a smile to her face, reminding her of just how good it was—how very good it all was! ■