99 years old, with war stories still fresh in his mind
Charlie Mills' memories of World War II remain strong, and at nearly 100 he mows grass, trims hedges and cares for his wife. "I'm still a lucky man. There're not many of us left."
The following article appeared in the Feb. 26. 2022 edition of The Charlotte Ledger, an e-newsletter with smart and original local news for Charlotte. We offer free and paid subscription plans. More info here.
Charlie Mills lives a vibrant and independent life approaching 100, and memories of his 41 WWII missions remain vivid; ‘I’m still a lucky man. There’re not many of us left.’
Charlie Mills rarely told war stories, but behind glass, he keeps the World War II mementos that have defined his long life: The crews he flew with, the medals he won and the photos of flyboys forever young. (Photos by David Perlmutt)
by David Perlmutt
Even now, nearly 80 years later, Charlie Mills chokes up telling the story.
It’s about Mills and his B-24 bomber crew returning from a raid in Germany in 1944, deep into World War II. They had left with 15 B-24s, but bad weather and a malfunctioning engine separated their plane from the pack, and it straggled back late — and alone — to North Pickenham, home base in England for the 492nd Bombardment Group of the Army’s Eighth Air Force.
The crew of mechanics that kept the plane flying was there to meet it, but the head mechanic, the crew chief, was missing.
They found him in a tent, crying — upset the squadron had lost two more planes and 20 airmen.
“We’d lost so many airplanes,” said Mills, a retired B.F. Goodrich operations manager in Charlotte. “The crew chief said: ‘All we do is fix those planes …’” That’s when Mills teared up and stumbled over words. He paused to compose himself.
He continued: “He said ‘All we do is fix those planes, and send them out to die.’”
Mills could have been one of them — many times. He was a top turret gunner and flight engineer, flying 41 missions first on a B-17 Flying Fortress and then B-24 Liberators. Nearly half the missions were with the hapless 492nd, the rest with the 801st Bombardment Group after the 492nd, nicknamed the “Hard Luck Unit,” was disbanded after losing so many planes and men.
Yet, on a recent morning, here was Mills, seven months shy of his 100th birthday. He walks without a cane or walker. He hears without any aid, still mows grass and trims hedges at his east Charlotte house. He cleans house, cooks (“such as it is”), and cares for Penny, 97, his wife of 67 years.
“I know I was lucky,” Mills said. “I’m still a lucky man. There’re not many of us left.”
He said he rarely tells war tales. On this morning, he was full of them.
‘Didn’t want to be left out’
His story is similar to thousands of Americans from all corners when the country was drawn into war in late 1941.
Mills was born in Stony Point, near Statesville, where his pharmacist father, Charlie Sr., a World War I veteran, opened the community’s first drug store. When Charlie Jr. was about 4, the family moved into Statesville and his father ultimately dispensed medicines at the city’s hospital.
Charlie Jr. left Statesville High School in the 10th grade to study sheet metal drafting in Durham as part of the National Youth Administration, a New Deal program designed to put young Americans to work during the Great Depression.
He transferred to a sheet metal school in Baltimore, then got a job at Glen L. Martin Co. in Baltimore, building B-26 bombers.
In late 1942, Mills, then 20, could have avoided military duty because he worked for a defense contractor helping the war effort, but his friends back home were Army-bound. “I didn’t want to be left out of the action,” he said. “I got drafted and transferred to Statesville with the idea I’d go in with my friends.”
His friends joined the infantry. Mills was assigned to the Army Air Corps, though he’d never flown. In 1944, after training at 13 bases around the country, he became a top turret gunner/flight engineer with the 492nd. His battle perch was inside a revolving Plexiglas dome with two .50-caliber machine guns that protected the plane from overhead attacks. The crew wore heated suits, boots and gloves since their planes climbed to 20,000 feet or above where the temperatures dropped to 20 to 40 below zero during missions on war and industrial targets over Germany, France and Belgium.
Surviving many close calls
His luck carried him through the 41 missions remarkably unscathed, despite being exposed to constant showers of German anti-aircraft flak. The 492nd flew 67 missions in 89 days but was dissolved after losing 55 bombers and 234 airmen. Another 131 were taken captive. Many of the missions were called “carpetbaggers,” transporting spies or leaflets and supplies to resistance forces fighting the Germans in France, and supporting Allied troops breaking out of St. Lo, France in the weeks after the D-Day landings at Normandy.
On a night mission to drop fake food ration stamps over Germany, the plane’s navigator and waist gunner were badly wounded from flak. Mills was sent to check on the waist gunner, and found a huge hole in the side, and frayed rudder cables. The pilot made an emergency landing in Reims, France.
During another raid, Mills smelled gas boarding the plane. He thought it’d been spilled during refueling. But poking his head out a top hatch as the plane taxied into position, he got face full of fuel.
“I had goggles on and thought it was raining,” he said. “Then I smelled and tasted the gas. I told the pilot to cut the engines right away, that we had a bad gas leak.” He found gas gushing from a fuel line to the number 2 engine. “If the super chargers under the wings had gone off, that would have been the end of us,” Mills said.
That incident triggered a recurring nightmare that Mills had for eight years after the war, where he climbs onto a wing to repair the leak, but slips off as the airplane explodes.
Dropping bombs by hand
His crew’s most dangerous target was a submarine plant in Hamburg, Germany. “At a briefing, they told us it’d be a tough target, but a must target,” Mills said.
From his turret, he saw a grouping of B-17s drop bombs in the distance, then take a barrage of flak. “I’d never seen that much flak.” He radioed the navigator: “What’s that city 10 miles off the left wing? Our guys are getting the hell hit out of them.”
“That’s Hamburg. The target!”
His squadron lost six of 15 planes over the target. Another two planes collided landing at North Pickenham. “We lost eight planes out of 15,” he said. “I thought we weren’t going to make it out of that mission. Our plane wasn’t scratched.”
On a similarly harrowing mission, Mills’ plane had flown into the Battle of the Bulge to support American ground troops pinned down by Germans. The plane was loaded with anti-personnel bombs, smaller than the bombs it usually carried. The bombardier dropped several bomb racks, but the top rack of 12 live bombs got jammed — placing the plane in danger.
It was Mills’ job to free the bombs. Trying not to “excite the crew,” he climbed onto a 10-inch-wide catwalk and opened the bomb bay doors. He began to delicately loosen each of the top three live bombs. “I physically picked them up and dropped them out of the plane,” he said. “When I picked up the third bomb, it took the pressure off the rest and they fell. It was a bit unnerving with the bomb bay doors opened. I kept telling myself ‘just don’t look down.’”
As a gunner, he encountered only one German fighter plane. The waist gunner warned of the approaching fighter, but Mills didn’t see it until it was on top of him. He shot several bursts. “It looked like they were hitting the plane,” Mills said. “All of a sudden, he turned and I saw him go down. I don’t know if I hit him.”
Still vigorous approaching 100
He was discharged in 1945 and returned to North Carolina, moving into a rooming house in Hickory, where he went to work for Goodrich at a tire store. A friend encouraged him to take a correspondence accounting course on the GI Bill. He did, excelled, and took an advanced course.
Meantime, a co-worker set up a blind date with Penny Davidson of Newton. They married in 1953 and moved to Winston-Salem, where Mills managed two Goodrich stores. They moved to Charlotte in 1957 when Mills became an operations manager at the Charlotte district office. The couple had no children.
Mills almost didn’t make it to 60, suffering a serious heart attack in 1982. But with medicine and exercise prescribed by his primary doctor, he’s not seen a cardiologist since his mishap. He’s had no other health problems.
He’s not what you expect of someone approaching centenarian status: He’s fit, with a head of white hair. He doesn’t need a hearing aid or glasses to read his morning newspaper, though he wears “weak” glasses. He and Penny walked two miles a day for years. Several canes lean against walls throughout his house, but he doesn’t use them except to shoo off dogs on walks. He golfed and fished until last year, and he still makes house repairs, including electrical and plumbing.
Charlie Mills took up painting in his retirement. Here he sits in front of some of his watercolors.
Mills must still be thinking long-term. At 94, he bought a brand-new Volvo to replace the previous Volvo he drove for 18 years.
He’s got no secret for longevity. His father died at age 80; his mother 86. He’s outlived three sisters, all younger — and most of his relatives. He’s not particularly careful about what he eats, though he’s always avoided fatty foods for “digestive reasons.”
Retiring a year after his heart attack, Mills took up painting, mostly watercolors. In the early days, he sold a few at shows, “but my accounting background convinced me I couldn’t turn it into a business.”
Several paintings hanging in his home studio in a converted bedroom harken back to his war days. A flight jacket hangs from a rack in one painting; nearby are portraits of a B-17 and B-24. Each year for the past 20, he’s painted holiday cards that he and Penny send to friends and relatives. They started with a list of 50. In 2021, they mailed 25.
There’ll be no celebration on Sept. 30, the day he’s set to turn 100. “It’ll just be another day,” he said. In the late 1990s, as the world approached the 21st century, Mills said he had vivid thoughts that he’d not live to see it.
“Now here we are 22 years later,” he said with a shrug and grin. “I’m still here!”
David Perlmutt has written about the Carolinas for 40 years, including 35 years he spent as a reporter for The Charlotte Observer. Reach him at davidperlmutt@gmail.com.
Need to sign up for this e-newsletter? We offer a free version, as well as paid memberships for full access to all 4 of our local newsletters:
➡️ Opt in or out of different newsletters on your “My Account” page.
➡️ Learn more about The Charlotte Ledger
The Charlotte Ledger is a locally owned media company that delivers smart and essential news through e-newsletters and on a website. We strive for fairness and accuracy and will correct all known errors. The content reflects the independent editorial judgment of The Charlotte Ledger. Any advertising, paid marketing, or sponsored content will be clearly labeled.
Like what we are doing? Feel free to forward this along and to tell a friend.
Social media: On Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and LinkedIn.
Sponsorship information/customer service: email support@cltledger.com.
Executive editor: Tony Mecia; Managing editor: Cristina Bolling; Staff writer: Lindsey Banks; Business manager: Brie Chrisman