THE EAGER BEAVERS Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea: The battle-scarred B-17 was

barely airworthy; she was beat up, war weary, and wobbly in

flight. But early in WWII, damaged aircraft were considered a

precious commodity since spare parts were hard to come by.

The B-17, serial number 41-2666, had been relocated to Port

Moresby to become a parts donor. Her days as a modern-day

fighting machine were over. A motley crew of misfits awaited

her arrival. They had their own future plans for 41-2666, and this

is their story.

The pilot, Jay Zeamer, was most likely the most motley of the

crew. Other aviators considered him a ‘wannabe pilot’ lacking

B17s PARKED IN REVETMENTS AT PAPUA NEW GUINEA AIRFIELD

the skills of a true flyboy. His credentials were impressive. He

graduated from MIT with a degree in civil engineering; earned

his wings in the Army Air Corps in March of 1941, and served as

copilot on a B-26 Marauder twin-engine bomber before WWII.

But impressive paperwork doesn’t make good pilots. Zeamer’s

classmates and buddies quickly became lead pilots or squadron

leaders, leaving Zeamer in the dust of even mediocre pilots. He

couldn’t pass the pilot check tests. Although considered a ‘fair’

pilot by his superiors and peers, he never found the knack for a

respectable landing in a B-26. As any pilot knows, landings are

nothing more than a controlled crash, but poor Zeamer simply

could not control ‘the crash’.

As he continued to sit in a copilot’s seat, other pilots, especially

those from classes behind him, got the promotions and coveted

pilot’s seats. Zeamer promptly became bored to death and lost

all incentive. His pilot and superiors finally had seen enough of

Zeamer after he fell asleep while his plane was in flight. While

‘falling asleep in flight’ may not be unusual on long flights if a

pilot or copilot is not behind the controls, Zeamer fell asleep

during a bomb run as his aircraft dodged vicious anti-aircraft fire.

The pilot, needing help with the aircraft, had to beat his copilot

on the chest to awaken the man. Thus, his transfer to the 43rd

Air Group B-17 squadron in Port Moresby.

He was popular and enjoyed many friends at Port Moresby; on

the ground. But nobody wanted to fly with him. Allowed to fly

occasionally as a substitute navigator or copilot, Zeamer finally

sat in a pilot’s seat of a B-17 after volunteering for a photo-recon

mission when the scheduled pilot fell ill. The photo-recon

mission, an extremely dangerous flight over the huge Japanese

stronghold at Rabual, earned Zeamer a Silver Star. Yet, Zeamer

still hadn’t qualified as a B-17 pilot.

Still grounded as the Operations Officer for the 43rd Air Group,

Zeamer stayed aloft fairly often as a substitute B-17 pilot even

though he lacked the qualifications. He grew fond of the B-17s

and loved to fly recon missions, and he wanted the job on a full

time basis. Three things stood in Zeamer’s way: he didn’t have a

crew; he didn’t have an airplane, and, as his superiors knew, he

wasn’t a qualified B-17 pilot. Enter the Eager Beavers.

He solved the problem of ‘no crew’ by recruiting and/or sweet-

talking a bunch of misfits of the 43rd Air Group that no one else

wanted. Considered renegades, apathetic oddballs, and master

screw-off artists, Zerman discovered that rebels incline to mesh

together and the crew became one hell of a team. Now all they

needed was an airplane.

Flying Fortress, serial number 41-2666, touches the ground at

the 43rd, its flying days over, its future destined to be stripped

bare as a parts warehouse on wheels. Captain Jay Zeamer and

the original ‘Motley Crew’ had other ideas. Zeamer asked and

received permission to attempt a rebuild of 41-2666 since that

was the only way they were going to fly on a permanent basis.

How and where they found the ‘parts’ for an aircraft destined to

be a ‘parts factory’ is an unknown fog of war. Nuff’ said.

Rebuilt and ready for flight, the base commander congratulated

the team of misfits and stated a new crew would be flying their

rebuilt B-17. Zeamer and his team of nonconformists had other

ideas. The team slept in the B-17 and raucously announced the

.50 caliber machine guns were loaded and ready for use if some

fool came to ‘borrow’ their sleeping quarters. With a shortage

of planes and crews, the base commander turned his head the

other way and ignored their defiance. He let Zeamer’s crew fly

their own plane, but usually expected them to fly missions no

one else relished. The oddballs thrived on the danger, and the

opportunity. They pestered the operations center constantly

and volunteered for every mission turned down by other crews.

They became known as the Eager Beavers, and their salvaged B-

17 was called ‘Old 666.’

Due to the danger of recon missions, the Eager Beavers became

known, even among combat veterans, as ‘gun nuts’ due to their

obsession with protective firepower for Old 666. They chucked

the light .30 caliber machine guns and installed the heavier .50

caliber machine guns. In short order, the .50 calibers found the

garbage heap to be replaced with twin .50 caliber mounts. A

remotely controlled pair of .50 calibers were installed in front of

Old 666 so Zeamer could fire them like a fighter pilot. As an extra

precaution, the crew hoarded extra machine guns in Old 666 in

case the other guns malfunctioned or jammed.

Unconventional, perhaps a bit nutty, but in the Pacific Theater of

Operations in the early days of WWII, with targets spread out

ONLY KNOWN PHOTO OF OLD 666

over hundreds, if not thousands of miles of ocean, commanding

officers paid little attention to a crew who volunteered for each

and every terrible mission. Then came June of 1943. Southern

Solomon Islands were secured, but the U.S. knew the Japanese

were building or improving airfields in the Northern Solomon’s.

Photo intelligence was needed for the upcoming allied invasion

of Bougainville Island. Considered almost a suicide mission due

to hundreds of miles being flown over enemy airspace in a slow

B-17, plus remaining in level flight and taking no evasive action if

attacked since the cameras had to remain steady, the mission

would require either a very brave or a very crazy crew. Old 666

fit the bill.

The bombardier, Joseph Sarnoski, had 18 months of combat

under his belt and was going home in 3 days. He did not have to

fly the treacherous mission, but if Old 666 and his buddies were

going, then so was Sarnoski. During a fighter attack, the forward

machine guns were manned by the bombardier so Joe Sarnoski

felt he may be needed.

The day of the mission: As they approached the enemy airstrip

at Buka, the crew of Old 666 saw a hornet’s nest of Jap fighters

taking off and headed their way, over 20 were counted. Most

crews would turn and skedaddle for home to report the enemy

activity, but Zeamer knew a good photo of the base would help

the invasion planning for American aircraft and Marines. Tilting

the wings even one degree would throw the camera a half mile

off target, so Zeamer kept the big bomber straight and level as

the enemy fighters formed a semi-circle to begin their attack.

The fighters, commanded by Chief Petty Officer Yoshio Ooki, a

professional and experienced combat pilot, had his fighters all

attack at once. Even without knowing Old 666 was armed with

extra firepower, Ooki had enough experience to know a lone B-

17, no matter how many extra guns were aboard, was a sitting

duck and doomed to fall.

The first attack hit Old 666 with hundreds of cannon shells and

machine gun bullets. She was badly damaged, and five of her

crew were wounded. All the wounded men remained at their

battle stations as the fighters came in for their second pass. A

direct hit shattered the front plexiglass canopy, football-sized

holes ripped the wings, and hydraulic cables were cut.

THE JAPANESE AIRFIELD ON BUKA ISLAND

Zeamer kept the plane flying level and took no evasive action

although he too had been wounded in the second pass. Then

William Kendrick, the photographer, yelled over the intercom

that the photography was finished. Zeamer could now begin

evasive action, moving Old 666 side-to-side so his gunners had

better shots. The fighters came in for their third pass which

destroyed the oxygen system. Flying at 28,000 feet, Zeamer

knew he had to execute an emergency dive even with Old 666

heavily damaged so his crew would have the life-saving oxygen

they needed to continue the fight.

As Zeamer executed an emergency dive, an enemy 20mm shell

exploded in the navigator’s compartment. The explosion blew

the navigator Sarnoski out of his compartment and underneath

the cockpit. Already wounded once, another crewman found

Sarnoski with an enormous wound in his side. The wound was

fatal, yet Sarnoski told his buddy, “Don’t worry about me, I’m

alright,” then crawled back to his gun. The shattered front

plexiglass from a previous attack was now gone, exposing the

mortally wounded Sarnoski to 300mph winds as he manned his

gun. He shot down one more enemy fighter. This brave flyboy

died about two minutes after downing the enemy fighter. He

would not be going home in 3 days.

The life or death air-battle continued for 40 minutes. Several

enemy planes fell to the guns of the Eager Beavers, although Old

666 was so heavily damaged the crew didn’t believe they’d make

the hundreds of air miles back to base. Five men were seriously

wounded; Zeamer suffered multiple wounds, yet kept Old 666

flying.

The remaining Japanese fighters returned to Buka, out of fuel

and ammunition. Flight Officer Ooki, logically, reported the B-17

as demolished and about to crash in the sea when they last saw

it. He was wrong.

THE CREW OF OLD 666: TOP ROW, L TO R: BUD THUES, JAY ZEAMER,

HANK DYMINSKI, JOE SARNOSKI. BOTTOM ROW, L TO R: WILLIAM

VAUGHN, GEORGE KENDRICK, JOHNNIE ABLE, FORREST DILLMAN

Zeamer lost consciousness from loss of blood. He was removed

from the pilot’s seat but regained consciousness as he lay on the

floor. The copilot, a Lt. Britton, the only one qualified to care for

the wounded, remained in back of the aircraft. A gunner,

Sergeant Able, frequently sat behind the pilots and watched

them fly. That make Able, somewhat able, and the only one left

to fly Old 666. He did so with Zeamer coaching him from the

floor.

Old 666 made it home. Lt. Britton did return to the cockpit for

the finally leg back to base. Zeamer was the last man removed

from the damaged aircraft because the triage team considered

his wounds mortal. Just about every part of Old 666 was torn

apart by shells and bullets, except for the camera. The photos

were invaluable in the invasion planning of Bougainville.

All of the crew survived, except for

Sarnoski. The parents of Zeamer,

however, received a death notification

that their son had died in combat.

Zeamer spent over a year recovering

from his wounds in various hospitals.

He lived a long life, passing at the age

of 88. Jay Zeamer and Sarnoski were

both awarded the Medal of Honor, the

only time in WWII that two men from

one plane were awarded America’s highest award for bravery in

combat. All the other alleged misfits of Old 666 received the

Distinguished Service Cross, the medal second only to the Medal

of Honor.

Old 666, the would-be parts warehouse, dodged retirement a

second time. She was refurbished, upgraded, and returned to

the 8th Photo Reconnaissance Squadron. She flew combat with

the 63rd Bombardment Squadron, then returned to the U.S. to

be used as a base transport aircraft and a heavy bomber trainer

before being flown to Albuquerque, New Mexico in August of

1945 to be sold as scrap metal. Old 666 met a shabby ending as

did most of our WWII aircraft, but she will remain a symbol of

American ingenuity and bravery flown to glory by a crew of so-

called misfits who were, in fact, as red, white, and blue as any

aircrew in WWII.