Man Survived 22,000-Foot Fall Out of Bomber

Alan Magee of Angel Fire ranked among the luckiest of those who served in the Army-Air Force during World War II.

A B-17 ball turret gunner, Magee had no choice but to jump out of a disabled, spinning-out-of-control bomber from about 22,000 feet.

A drop of more than four miles. Without a parachute. And Magee miraculously lived.

His incredible story was featured in a 1981 Smithsonian Magazine on the 10 most amazing survivals during World War II.

Magee seldom spoke of that death-defying drop. He died nearly 61 years later on Dec. 20 of complications from a stroke and kidney failure in San Angelo, Texas, said a niece, Jill Greene of Albuquerque. Magee was 84.

"He didn't like to talk about it, and he wouldn't dwell on it," Greene said. "One of the guys who saw him come through the roof of the railroad station tracked Alan down (in 1978).

Alan E. Magee, who retired to northern New Mexico in 1979, was born in Plainfield, N.J. The youngest of six children, he enlisted after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

He was 5-foot-7, barely small enough to fit in the B-17's ball turret— a cramped, donut-shaped plastic glass and metal turret on the bomber's underside. It was such a tight fit— a gunner's knees were practically against his chest— that Magee had to leave his chute on the deck of the four-engine Flying Fortress.

The ball turret offered a panoramic view and also a precarious target for German fighter planes. B-17 gunners had a high casualty rate, said Don Jenkins of Albuquerque, Magee's friend of 38 years and a World War II Navy veteran.

"He was very easy to get along with— very cheerful, very talkative and a very, very sweet guy," Jenkins said. But, he said, Magee only spoke to him three times about the events on Jan. 3, 1943.

Sgt. Magee, 24, was one of the oldest of the 10-man crew who flew out of Molesworth, England, on a bomber nicknamed "Snap! Crackle! Pop!" The pilot was only 19.

His seventh mission was a daylight bombing run on St. Nazaire, France, called "Flack City" because of the anti-aircraft guns defending the German submarine port. The 360th Bomb Squadron of the 303rd Bomb Group sent 85 B-17s with a fighter escort.

Over the target area, flack damaged Magee's plane, and then German fighters shot off a section of the right wing.

Magee, who was wounded, scrambled back into the cabin, but his parachute was ruined.

"He saw a gap in the spinning plane and jumped out," said Jenkins, who explained that in the confusion Magee forgot he wasn't wearing a chute.

"He remembered tumbling," Jenkins said. But at that altitude, Magee quickly lost consciousness.

Eyewitnesses saw Magee crash through the Nazaire train station's glass skylight, breaking his fall. When he regained consciousness, Magee said to his captors: "Thank God I'm alive."

Magee's injuries included 28 shrapnel wounds. A lung and kidney were hit. His nose and an eye were ripped open. His broken bones included his right leg and ankle. A right arm was nearly severed.

Jenkins said the Germans decided that anyone who could miraculously survive deserved "real special attention."

With the German doctors' help, Magee fully recovered. Jenkins said Magee later hiked and backpacked and "led a pretty good life."

Two of his crewmen also survived. In all, 75 airmen died, seven U.S. planes were destroyed and 47 were damaged that day, he said.

Magee was a prisoner of war until May 1945. He received the Air Medal for meritorious conduct and the Purple Heart.

"Alan was never the type to look in the past," Greene said. "He always was looking forward, living for the moment."

Despite the harrowing experience, Magee loved to fly. He qualified for a private pilot's license. His career included the air freight business and airline reservations.

On Jan. 3, 1993, Magee and the other two crewmen were guests of the St. Nazaire townspeople. They hosted a banquet and erected a six-foot-tall memorial to salute the Snap! Crackle! Pop! crew.

Magee is survived by his wife, Helen; a sister, Adele; six nieces and three nephews. A celebration of his life will be held this spring.

Free Fall
The Free Fall Research Page

Unplanned Freefall? Some Survival Tips By David Carkeet
Admit it: You want to be the sole survivor of an airline disaster. You aren't looking for a disaster to happen, but if it does, you see yourself coming through it. I'm here to tell you that you're not out of touch with reality—you can do it. Sure, you'll take a few hits, and I'm not saying there won't be some sweaty flashbacks later on, but you'll make it. You'll sit up in your hospital bed and meet the press. Refreshingly, you will keep God out of your public comments, knowing that it's unfair to sing His praises when all of your dead fellow-passengers have no platform from which to offer an alternative view.
Let's say your jet blows apart at 35,000 feet. You exit the aircraft, and you begin to descend independently. Now what?
First of all, you're starting off a full mile higher than Everest, so after a few gulps of disappointing air you're going to black out. This is not a bad thing. If you have ever tried to keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, you know what I mean. This brief respite from the ambient fear and chaos will come to an end when you wake up at about 15,000 feet. Here begins the final phase of your descent, which will last about a minute. It is a time of planning and preparation. Look around you. What equipment is available? None? Are you sure? Look carefully. Perhaps a shipment of folded parachutes was in the cargo hold, and the blast opened the box and scattered them. One of these just might be within reach. Grab it, put it on, and hit the silk. You're sitting pretty.
Other items can be helpful as well. Let nature be your guide. See how yon maple seed gently wafts to earth on gossamer wings. Look around for a proportionate personal vehicle—some large, flat, aerodynamically suitable piece of wreckage. Mount it and ride, cowboy! Remember: molecules are your friends. You want a bunch of molecules of solid matter hitting a bunch of atmospheric molecules in order to reduce your rate of acceleration.
As you fall, you're going to realize that your previous visualization of this experience has been off the mark. You have seen yourself as a loose, free body, and you've imagined yourself in the belly-down, limbs-out position (good: you remembered the molecules). But, pray tell, who unstrapped your seat belt? You could very well be riding your seat (or it could be riding you; if so, straighten up and fly right!); you might still be connected to an entire row of seats or to a row and some of the attached cabin structure.
If thus connected, you have some questions to address. Is your new conveyance air-worthy? If your entire row is intact and the seats are occupied, is the passenger next to you now going to feel free to break the code of silence your body language enjoined upon him at takeoff? If you choose to go it alone, simply unclasp your seat belt and drift free. Resist the common impulse to use the wreckage fragment as a "jumping-off point" to reduce your plunge-rate, not because you will thereby worsen the chances of those you leave behind (who are they kidding? they're goners!), but just because the effect of your puny jump is so small compared with the alarming Newtonian forces at work.
Just how fast are you going? Imagine standing atop a train going 120 mph, and the train goes through a tunnel but you do not. You hit the wall above the opening at 120 mph. That's how fast you will be going at the end of your fall. Yes, it's discouraging, but proper planning requires that you know the facts. You're used to seeing things fall more slowly. You're used to a jump from a swing or a jungle gym, or a fall from a three-story building on TV action news. Those folks are not going 120 mph. They will not bounce. You will bounce. Your body will be found some distance away from the dent you make in the soil (or crack in the concrete). Make no mistake: you will be motoring.
At this point you will think: trees. It's a reasonable thought. The concept of "breaking the fall" is powerful, as is the hopeful message implicit in the nursery song "Rock-a-bye, Baby," which one must assume from the affect of the average singer tells the story not of a baby's death but of its survival. You will want a tall tree with an excurrent growth pattern—a single, undivided trunk with lateral branches, delicate on top and thicker as you cascade downward. A conifer is best. The redwood is attractive for the way it rises to shorten your fall, but a word of caution here: the redwood's lowest branches grow dangerously high from the ground; having gone 35,000 feet, you don't want the last 50 feet to ruin everything. The perfectly tiered Norfolk Island pine is a natural safety net, so if you're near New Zealand, you're in luck, pilgrim. When crunch time comes, elongate your body and hit the tree limbs at a perfectly flat angle as close to the trunk as possible. Think!
Snow is good—soft, deep, drifted snow. Snow is lovely. Remember that you are the pilot and your body is the aircraft. By tilting forward and putting your hands at your side, you can modify your pitch and make progress not just vertically but horizontally as well. As you go down 15,000 feet, you can also go sideways two-thirds of that distance—that's two miles! Choose your landing zone. You be the boss.
If your search discloses no trees or snow, the parachutist's "five-point landing" is useful to remember even in the absence of a parachute. Meet the ground with your feet together, and fall sideways in such a way that five parts of your body successively absorb the shock, equally and in this order: feet, calf, thigh, buttock, and shoulder. 120 divided by 5 = 24. Not bad! 24 mph is only a bit faster than the speed at which experienced parachutists land. There will be some bruising and breakage but no loss of consciousness to delay your press conference. Just be sure to apportion the 120-mph blow in equal fifths. Concentrate!
Much will depend on your attitude. Don't let negative thinking ruin your descent. If you find yourself dwelling morbidly on your discouraging starting point of seven miles up, think of this: Thirty feet is the cutoff for fatality in a fall. That is, most who fall from thirty feet or higher die. Thirty feet! It's nothing! Pity the poor sod who falls from such a "height." What kind of planning time does he have?
Think of the pluses in your situation. For example, although you fall faster and faster for the first fifteen seconds or so, you soon reach "terminal velocity"—the point at which atmospheric drag resists gravity's acceleration in a perfect standoff. Not only do you stop speeding up, but because the air is thickening as you fall, you actually begin to slow down. With every foot that you drop, you are going slower and slower.
There's more. When parachutists focus on a landing zone, sometimes they become so fascinated with it that they forget to pull the ripcord. Since you probably have no ripcord, "target fixation" poses no danger. Count your blessings.
Think of others who have gone before you. Think of Vesna Vulovic, a flight attendant who in 1972 fell 33,000 feet in the tail of an exploded DC-9 jetliner; she landed in snow and lived. Vesna knew about molecules.
Think of Joe Hermann of the Royal Australian Air Force, blown out of his bomber in 1944 without a parachute. He found himself falling through the night sky amid airplane debris and wildly grabbed a piece of it. It turned out to be not debris at all, but rather a fellow flyer in the process of pulling his ripcord. Joe hung on and, as a courtesy, hit the ground first, breaking the fall of his savior and a mere two ribs of his own. Joe was not a quitter. Don't you be.
Think of Nick Alkemade, an RAF tailgunner who jumped from his flaming turret without a parachute and fell 18,000 feet. When he came to and saw stars overhead, he lit a cigarette. He would later describe the fall as "a pleasant experience." Nick's trick: fir trees, underbrush, and snow.
But in one important regard, Nick is a disappointment. He gave up. As he plummeted to Germany, he concluded he was going to die and felt "a strange peace." This is exactly the wrong kind of thinking. It will get you nowhere but dead fast. You cannot give up and plan aggressively at the same time.
To conclude, here are some words that might help you avoid such a collapse of resolve on your way down.
"Keep a-goin'." (Frank L. Stanton)
"Failure is not an option." (Ed Harris, as the guy in Apollo 13 who says, "Failure is not an option")
"'Hope' is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops-at all." (Emily Dickinson)

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