Ah, my father was a tail gunner in a B-17 Bomber stationed out of England. He wasn't one for stories, but he did mention 2.
They flew so high that that they had electric suits to keep from freezing, no pressurized cabins in those days. His boots quit working on one mission and he got frostbite. Had to get whirlpool baths on his feet and scrub the dead flesh off with a bristle brush. They also had to clean up their own planes of bodies and the associated mess when they came back from missions. He told me of planes coming back so shot up that the blood from the unfortunate crew would be dripping out of bulllet/flak holes in the belly of the aircraft. Before it was all said and done, he had his 50 missions under his belt and rotated back to the states where he was a gunner instructor for would be crew members.
He said that the flyers would look down and feel sorry for the ground pounders who would not be returning to a warm bed the next day. The infantry he talked to felt the same way about the flyers when they saw all that flack and MG fire going up to meet them. They had no foxhole, no cover, nowhere to hide. All you can do is wait at your station and hope for cross-eyed gunners.
Years later (early '90s) when I was stationed in Germany, he flew over to to visit with me after stopping over in England for a couple of days. He said that when he was flying over the channel, he could close his eyes and see the bursts of flak as if it were just yesterday. Never again he said, Never again.
While he was there, he walked over the Mainz Kastel bridge one Sunday morning and watched as the people gathered at the large church there. Every time he saw someone his age, he wondered if he was piloting the fighter that the twin 50s he controlled were spitting death at, or maybe he was between the impacts of the bombs they were dropping.
It wasn't a very good visit for him, lots of memories and nostalgia dredged up, most of which were not pleasant.
Ian