Everyone Called Him a Liability — Then a Burning B-17 Forced the Air Force to Rewrite His Story

In the official histories of World War II aviation, heroism often appears orderly: disciplined men, flawless records, and courage that arrives exactly when expected. The real record is far messier. Few stories illustrate this better than that of Staff Sergeant Maynard Harrison Smith, a man the U.S. Army Air Forces did not trust—until a single mission over occupied France made it impossible to ignore him.

The Man No Crew Wanted

By the spring of 1943, the Eighth Air Force was losing bombers at a catastrophic rate. Flying a B-17 Flying Fortress over German-occupied Europe meant facing concentrated anti-aircraft fire, aggressive fighter interception, and mechanical failure at extreme altitude. Survival depended on discipline and trust.

Maynard Smith inspired neither.

At 31, he was older than most enlisted airmen. He questioned orders, argued openly with officers, and accumulated a thick file of minor disciplinary actions. Among bomber crews, reputation mattered. Pilots could request replacements. Smith was regularly avoided.

The nickname came easily: “Snuffy.”
It implied unreliability. And in a bomber crew, unreliability could be fatal.

Smith had not joined out of idealism. A civilian court had offered him a choice between jail and military service. He chose the uniform—but not the culture that came with it.

By late April 1943, he had yet to fly a combat mission.

The Mission That Changed Everything

On May 1, 1943, a B-17 crew at RAF Thurleigh found itself short a ball-turret gunner. There were no volunteers. Time was critical.

Someone finally said, “Put Smith in.”

The target was Saint-Nazaire, a heavily defended German submarine base. Crews already knew it as one of the most dangerous objectives in occupied Europe.

Of the 78 bombers launched that morning, only a fraction would complete the mission.

Smith climbed aboard for his first combat flight with a crew that expected nothing from him—and prepared for the worst.

A Navigation Error and a Deadly Descent

The bombing run was rough but survivable. The real danger came afterward.

On the return leg, cloud cover obscured the coastline. A navigational error led the aircraft to descend over Brest, France, one of the most heavily defended ports in the Atlantic theater.

Anti-aircraft fire erupted immediately. German fighters followed.

The bomber took multiple hits. Fuel lines ruptured. Systems failed. Smoke spread through the fuselage. Electrical power dropped.

Standard procedure in such conditions was clear: bail out if survival of the aircraft was unlikely.

Several crewmen did.

Smith did not.

A Decision That Defied Training

Trapped smoke, spreading fire, and internal damage threatened the aircraft from within. One crewman in the tail section was wounded and unable to evacuate.

Smith exited his turret and moved toward the danger.

What followed lasted nearly ninety minutes.

Instead of abandoning the aircraft, Smith worked continuously to control internal damage—removing volatile equipment, suppressing flare-ups by any means available, and alternating between defensive fire and emergency action as German fighters returned.

No manual described what he was doing. No regulation required it.

He acted because no one else could.

Holding the Aircraft Together

While Smith fought the internal crisis, the pilot struggled to keep the B-17 airborne with compromised controls. The aircraft absorbed extraordinary damage—later estimates counted thousands of impacts across its structure.

Against all expectation, the bomber reached England.

The landing was violent. Structural damage caused the aircraft to fail upon touchdown. Rescue crews expected fatalities.

Instead, they found Smith assisting a wounded crewmate from the wreckage.

Every surviving member owed their life to decisions made after escape was still possible.

Recognition the Air Force Needed

The official report was unambiguous. Smith’s actions were cited as the determining factor in the survival of the crew.

He was recommended for the Medal of Honor, the highest military decoration awarded by the United States.

For the Eighth Air Force—exhausted, overextended, and under public scrutiny—the story mattered. It demonstrated resilience, sacrifice, and the human capacity to act under extreme pressure.

Smith became a symbol almost overnight.

Fame and Friction

War correspondent Andy Rooney wrote one of the earliest accounts. Newspapers across the United States followed. Photographs circulated. Letters poured in.

The attention changed nothing fundamental about Smith’s personality.

He remained argumentative. He struggled with authority. Disciplinary issues returned even as his citation moved through command channels.

In one of the war’s most ironic moments, Smith was performing kitchen duty as punishment on the morning he was scheduled to receive the Medal of Honor. The ceremony proceeded anyway.

The image was perfect—and deeply uncomfortable.

Heroism Without Transformation

Smith flew several additional missions. The psychological strain intensified. Eventually, doctors diagnosed combat exhaustion and grounded him.

Despite his decoration, his service record deteriorated. In an unprecedented move, he was later reduced in rank—quietly, without publicity.

By early 1945, he was sent home.

Parades welcomed him. Headlines celebrated him. The contradictions were omitted.

Life After the Moment

Civilian life proved harder than combat.

Employers expected humility. Smith delivered arguments. Relationships failed. Jobs ended. The medal opened doors his personality closed.

Over time, Smith retold the story of May 1st frequently. The core truth remained—but details grew, shifted, expanded. Few corrected him publicly. The documented record already confirmed enough.

He died in 1984 and was buried at Arlington National Cemetery, entitled to rest there by virtue of one extraordinary act.

Why His Story Still Matters

Military historians often return to Smith’s case because it challenges a comforting myth: that heroism and character are always aligned.

They are not.

Smith was difficult before and after May 1, 1943.
On that day, he was indispensable.

The Medal of Honor does not reward a perfect life. It recognizes a moment when someone acts beyond reasonable expectation, at extreme personal risk, for the survival of others.

For ninety minutes in a burning aircraft over occupied Europe, Maynard Harrison Smith did exactly that.

He stayed when leaving was easier.

And that, history agrees, was enough.