Of all the many planes that winged their way through the World War II firestorms, few have achieved the iconic status of Flak-Bait, a Martin B-26 Marauder whose very name is history. Rolled off the Baltimore Glenn L. Martin assembly line in April 1943, this bomber didn’t just serve—it survived, repeatedly. With over 200 combat missions to its credit, Flak-Bait is the most battle-hardened American plane of the war—and the lone U.S. bomber to have come back from so many European missions.
Tabled early on to Lt. James J. Farrell of the 449th Bombardment Squadron, 322nd Bomb Group, the plane was named in a personal, near-whimsical manner: “Flak” for the German anti-aircraft fire it would learn all too intimately, and “Bait” after Farrell’s brother’s dog, who had the nickname “Flea Bait.” The name took hold—and, as happened to be the case, couldn’t have been more appropriate.
Between August 1943 and the last weeks of the war in 1945, Flak-Bait flew through some of the most hazardous skies in Europe, supporting huge efforts such as the D-Day invasion, the Battle of the Bulge, and the precision bombing of V-weapon sites. Its 200th mission was in April 1945, a bombing raid over Magdeburg—a feat as symbolic as it was historic.
The statistics are mind-boggling. The bomber took over 1,000 hits from enemy fire—flak splinters, bullets, even cannon shells. It came back more than once with one engine out, sometimes even on fire. The hydraulics went. The electrics went. And yet it never failed to return its crew. Amazingly, despite the raw danger of its missions, none of Flak-Bait’s crew were killed while flying it through its combat career. One man alone was injured. The chances alone make its tale stand out, but the plane’s toughness and the flight crew’s expertise cemented its place in history.
What makes Flak-Bait even more special is how it’s been conserved. Following the war, the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum acquired the aircraft. But rather than restoring it to appear freshly minted, curators took a different route. They chose to leave it just as it was—dented, patched, and scarred. Each hole, each rivet, each field repair is a testament. Curators such as Chris Moore appreciated such flaws. Particularly the fabric-covered control surfaces, with their visible damage. These are testaments to what American bomber crews experienced—and survived. If the plane had been restored conventionally, much of that tangible history would have been erased.
Conserving Flak-Bait has been a masterclass in conservation over restoration. People like Pat Robinson, Lauren Horelick, Chris Moore, and Malcolm Collum have brought methods more regularly applied in art conservation into the field of aviation. They’re not just conserving a machine, they’re conserving an experience. No part is replaced unless completely unavoidable.
Original fabric is stabilized with overlays applied very carefully, maintaining strength and appearance. The paint is inspected at the molecular level to keep it from flaking or fading. A jagged piece of German flak discovered under the radio operator’s seat remains undisturbed—a haunting souvenir from one of its numerous near-misses.
The project is accompanied by severe logistical challenges. Flak-Bait has never been completely rebuilt since 1946. It needs to be moved, reassembled, and each piece treated with utmost care. Kristen Horning, one of the professionals who assist in managing collections for the museum, has characterized the process of moving and reassembling such artifacts as delicate and deliberate. The motto? Interference to a minimum. Each decision is made with preserving authenticity in mind.
But the history of Flak-Bait is more than metal and machinery. It’s also very human. More than 350 airmen flew in the aircraft throughout its operational life. Their names—and hundreds of others from ground crews, visiting civilians, and even kids—still adorn sections of the fuselage. Some are scribbled in pencil. Others are scratched into paint. Each one contributes to the aircraft’s living history. Nowadays, curators are inscribing these names, making the connection between a machine and all the lives it affected.
Ultimately, saving Flak-Bait is not merely about preserving a plane in one piece. It’s about respecting the history of those who constructed it, flew it, and risked their lives in it. As Jeremy Kinney, one of the museum’s curators, has put it, this aircraft is a time capsule. It comes alive not by glossing over it, but by retaining the grime, the scars, and the marks of survival.
In an era when so many planes were disassembled and sent to the junkyard after the war, Flak-Bait still stands. It stands as a unique and potent symbol—not just of survival and engineering, but of courage, sacrifice, and the burden of history borne on each mission.