ThinkPint2

#2512 Dienst Grad II

by Donald E. Phillips

This first piece was written in the 1985 in response to a great nephew’s girlfriend needing to interview a veteran for a course she was taking on U.S. Military History. In response to the request Don wrote the following to describe his military experience.

November 1941 found me, along with a few hundred thousand others, entering a branch of service. To me, the Air Force looked like a good bet…you lived well, ate well, didn’t have to live in foxholes, weren’t subject to the discomforts of the foot soldier, and had to worry about only one thing…keeping the plane in the air. A simple task…right? It seemed so, all through Navigation Training. Then on to England, the 8th Air Force, 306th Bomb Group, and September 6th, 1943.

It started like any other day, with the orderly waking us at 4:30 a.m. to tell us a mission was scheduled. The usual amount of grumbling and griping went on throughout the barrack as we groped our way into our clothes in the semi-darkness and stumbled to the briefing room to be told all the necessary details to the mission…primary target, secondary or alternate target, meteorological data, fighter cover, rendezvous points and time, estimated flak areas to avoid, and many other details. Then into trucks and to the flight line, where our B-17’s were already being warmed up and readied for the flight. Then one by one into the air and into formation with other squadrons of bombers, then other groups of bombers, until we numbered almost three hundred strong, at that time a formidable effort.

Everything was going smoothly. We headed for the English Channel, gaining altitude steadily, so that we could cross the coast of Europe at 23,000 feet. At that point the anti-aircraft batteries would blast their first welcome, and the flak exploding around us would announce the German’s intentions of keeping some of us from reaching the target area.

Across the coastline and still going smoothly. All bombers, many manned by veteran pilots, were flying in tight formation, the better to protect against fighter attack. Now the sun was coming up and casting patterns on the clouds around us. Another hour would take us to the target, a magneto factor in Stuttgart, Germany, then home to a lavish breakfast and the usual good-natured relaxed banter that takes place at the end of a mission.

An hour later we were on the bombing run, and here our luck changed. Nothing too serious, but cloud cover obscured the target area, and we had to circle and take a second run at the target. Flax was heavy and taking its toll as one bomber, then another was hit and strayed from the formation. The second bomb run was no better than the first, clouds still completely blotted out the target, so we headed for our secondary target, another hundred miles away. Here, too, we ran into trouble but finally were able to drop our bomb load and head for home. By now we were almost an hour behind our original flight plan, and now we had a real problem…sufficient gasoline to get home. To complicate matters further, a strong headwind developed, using our limited supply of fuel even faster. The Chief Engineer busily transferred gasoline from one tank to another, so that each of the four engines would be supplied. Slowly the gauges crept toward the empty mark, and slowly we bucked the headwinds toward England. Now Paris was visible below and to our left, and we knew we were only minutes away from the Channel where we could ditch our plane and hope that Air-Sea Rescue would find us. No such luck…seconds later the first engine sputtered and coughed its last. The Channel was in plain sight ahead of us, perhaps three or four minutes away, but we were not to reach it. Our plane was in perfect condition, untouched by either flak or fighters, but it was as worthless to us as if it had been riddled like a swiss cheese.

Now we had a choice…we could either bail out, setting the controls so that the plane would dive sharply and destroy itself afterward and be worthless to the Germans, or attempt to ride it down. Our Captain, a veteran of 23 missions, decided to have us bail out.

Suddenly the parachute took on a whole new meaning, a totally different look. All through training school I had looked upon the parachute as a nuisance, a heavy cumbersome thing that Supply Depot insisted I check out at the beginning of each flight. Once inside the plane I had thrown it into a corner, out of the way, and lugged it back to Supply when the mission was completed. Again, when I went overseas I grumbled about lugging the heavy thing around with me. Now, suddenly, it was the only transportation between me and the earth, some 17,000 feet below. None of our crew had ever jumped before, and there was no time now for remembering the instructions from the training films we had seen time and again.

I jettisoned the escape hatch in the nose of the ship where the Bombardier and I were stationed, and the wind swept it back and away as though it were a piece of confetti. Somewhere in the dim dark recesses of my mind I recalled that we were supposed to dive out through the escape hatch, and I looked down at the tiny patchwork of fields and farms far below. Not me…I couldn’t go out headfirst. Instead I swung my legs out through the hatch, and the wind sucked me out into the quiet of the September morning.

Now to see how this parachute is supposed to function! I have no recollection of pulling the ripcord, although I know I did, and quickly. No delayed jump for me…the urgency of seeing silk above me precluded that. I felt my body lurch as the great chute billowed almost instantly, checking my downward plunge. What a relief! That silk couldn’t have looked better had it been gold instead. An enemy fighter circled me, but made no move other than to probably radio position to ground forces below.

The descent seemed to take forever, though actually it was a matter of minutes…time enough to clean pockets of anything that might be of use to the enemy. The escape kit, a standard issue at the flight line, contained a few simple French phrases…”Je suis aviateur American” etc. in the happy event that the French underground might find and help a newly-grounded, clipped-wing flier, a compass, and 2,000 francs, again for use of the French underground movement, which had done a fantastic job of smuggling many downed airmen through the Pyrenees mountains into Spain, to the American Consulate, and back to England.

Gradually I drifted down, until I could see that I would land in a thick grove of trees at the edge of a small town. Then the ground rushed to meet me and my body was hurdling through branches and stopping abruptly as the parachute tangled in the tree top. Hurriedly, I cut my way down, and stuffed the chute into a nearby culvert. But too late…I straightened up at the guttural sounds of a foreign tongue, and found myself eyeball to a gun barrel with two young German soldiers, and in the vernacular, “for me, the war was over.” Then, and only then, did the horrible realization sink in that this was indeed the enemy, that I was on his playground, that I had only minutes before dropped a few tons of bombs in his nest, and that the rules by which the game would be played henceforth were his rules, not mine.

They didn’t speak English, nor I German, but gestures with machine guns in any language are readily understandable. We marched to the depot, where a crowd of French villagers quickly gathered, peering in the windows at the unwilling visitor, in his strange uniform. The descent through the tree had scratched and bloodied my face, and the Stationmaster’s wife busied herself with basin and washcloth, sponging away the blood and clucking away in French all the while. While she worked I managed to smuggle the envelope with the 2,000 francs into her hand without being noticed by the guards. She hurried to another room, discovered her good fortune, and returned with a big smile, the typical French kiss on each cheek, and an explanation in French for all the villagers gathered around the station. As the word spread, they, too, smiled, waved, and then boldly formed a line, marched into the station and one by one, greeted me with the French hug and cheek-kissing ceremony. However, the guards took a dim view of this and ran everyone out.

Minutes later, the train arrived and we were on our way to Beauvais, France, a local camp, a large room with barred windows, and my first night in captivity. Already another airman was there, and before morning there were six of us in the room…and an unhappy bunch we were. The next morning we boarded a train to Frankfurt, Germany, solitary confinement, and questioning. Those were long days, with nothing to do but stare at the walls of the tiny cell. My watch had been taken from me, and there was no light in the cell, so I counted the days by the number of times the guards brought the piece of heavy German bread and the bowl of soup, which is standard there. A week later we were taken to Stalag Luft III, 75 miles southeast of Berlin, one of the main P.O.W. camps. It was broken into five areas, each called a compound, each housing about 2,000 prisoners, and each surrounded by a high barbed wire fence. Watchtowers along the fence enabled guards to police the area quite effectively.

This was to be home for the next seventeen months, although, of course, we did not then know it, and would not have believed it. Quickly you find that it pays to look not beyond tomorrow. Always think the war will end tomorrow…if it doesn’t, you have whiled away another day, and can look to the next tomorrow.

Each day began at 7:00 a.m. with a lineup on the parade ground for nose count, to be sure that no one had slithered under the barbed wire, somehow gotten by the dogs, and escaped during the night. Then back to the barracks for a cup of coffee and the daily ration of bread, a heavy German concoction which tasted reasonably palatable and, at least, filled the hole in your stomach. Usually twelve prisoners would band together into a family, pool their Red Cross parcels, and cook together. In theory, and according to the Geneva Convention, each prisoner of war is entitled to one eleven pound food package per week. In practice, the enemy is more interested in delivering troops and supplies to the various fronts than he is in handling Red Cross food parcels from Switzerland to a POW camp, hence a shortage of food parcels, and half rations results…one parcel for each two men, or quarter rations…one parcel for four men, etc. Beside the parcels, the Germans supplemented the diet with their bread, sometimes a few potatoes, and occasionally a coarse vegetable.

How to pass the days? Therein lay the biggest problem of all. The Red Cross and Y.M.C.A. were able to get a few books into camp, and we read almost anything avidly. In a POW camp, even a telephone book is a best-seller. They were able to provide us with a few softballs and bats, and the Stalag III Major Leagues were formed. We kept a path worn around the outer perimeter of our camp with our endless walking. And always, we reversed our former approach toward the tasks to be done. Whereas, in a normal lifestyle, the goal is to finish the task at hand in the shortest time and in the most efficient manner; there the goal is to consume the most possible time with the task, to make it last as nearly through the day as possible. With proper guidance, a new prisoner can be taught to make the simple hand washing of a shirt last the whole morning. And even though at home he cared not whether or not mother ironed his shirt, in camp he will fashion an iron from the empty tin his food came in, heat it upon a primitive stove and spend the afternoon ironing the shirt, even to the extent of the military creases down the back.

A letter from home…this was indeed a treasured thing. We were allowed to write three single-page form letters home monthly, and could receive mail from home. Usually letters were well over a month old by the time of their arrival, but their age didn’t matter. They, and the snapshots they sometimes contained, were the things we lived for.

Naturally, our 2,000 prisoners came from all walks of life, so we had almost every trade represented there. Two young interns did their best to care for our medical needs with the primitive supplies they had. Many were former teachers and they conducted informal classes in the subjects they knew best. Among the prisoners were the first trumpet from the Bunny Berrigan band as well as a former Glenn Miller trombonist, and several other musicians. With the help of the YMCA, a few instruments found their way into camp, and a very welcome jazz band put on impromptu concerts for the rest of us.

Facilities for keeping clean were primitive, but the task was not impossible. Summertime was no problem. No one minded jumping under the cold water spigot which was available to us. Each Wednesday during the winter, came the familiar call from the German guards, “Vere und swansik” for showers, and groups of 24 at a time would be marched to a shack which served as a bathhouse. Haircuts were a bit amateurish, but no one minded. Shaving was optional, and there was much experimentation with goatees, full beards, mustaches, and sideburns.

Things went along in this manner until January 1945. At that time the Russian army was spearheading a drive toward Berlin, and our camp lay directly in its path. Through BBC reports on our secret radio facilities we knew they were within a few miles of us, and hoped to be liberated by them. Excitement ran high, rumors were rampant, and expectations of liberation and return to the USA had everyone keyed to fever pitch. No dice. On January 29th, in sub-zero weather, the German high command ordered us south, on foot, carrying whatever food and clothing we felt we could struggle along with, and the camp was deserted in a matter of hours. We must have presented a strange sight to the German Luftwaffe above, for we were 10,000 or more, counting the German guards accompanying us, and our lines stretched for miles along the snowy roads as we struggled wearily along. In all we marched four days, covered 90 kilometers, sleeping wherever we found space, barns, churches, and once in a pottery factory, which was heated. This brought us to a town called Spremberg, where we were herded into boxcars, destination Stalag VII, near the small town of Moosberg. This camp was much more crowded, sanitation facilities almost non-existent, and food very scarce. A thin soup was brought in once daily, plus a limited ration of the German bread. It became apparent that the war was nearing the end. By the end of April we knew that the Seventh Army was very near, and the rumor mill worked overtime. Most of the speculation centered around another forced march to keep us in German hands. On April 28th came the semi-official word that the Germans would abandon camp, leaving us behind with a token guard force, and allow us to be liberated by the American Seventh Army. The next morning we watched from the camp as the German Swastika atop the Moosberg Town Hall, a mile away, was lowered, and in its place, and billowing softly in the April breeze, up went the Stars and Stripes, seen for the first time in so many, many months. Never will I see a more beautiful sight, and never have I seen so many grown men cry. It was probably the most moving experience I have ever witnessed. Many times in later years, I have stood at athletic events as the Flag is raised and the Anthem played to a yawning, apathetic crowd, and thought again of that moment. If you have never lost your freedom, it is a thing taken for granted, perhaps even laughed or scoffed at by some. For them I have only pity.

Things moved swiftly after the raising of the flag. Minutes later, a U.S. Army tank steam-rolled its way into our camp, not even stopping to open the barbed wire gates. Even though we hadn’t budged an inch from where we were, suddenly we were home…we were among friends. It took a few days to make the arrangements, but we were soon flown to Camp Lucky Strike in France, deloused, fed, clothed, interrogated, and on our way to the States. Our ship docked in New York on June 5th, we had a night on the town, then on to Chicago, another night on the town there, and the next day, we were furloughed for 60 days and I was on my way to my hometown of Pontiac, Illinois, and a much-anticipated reunion with my family.

Three things stand out…the afore-mentioned raising of the flag in Moosberg, the sighting of the Statue of Liberty as we entered the harbor, and the final moment when I stepped off the bus in Pontiac and embraced Mom and Dad for the first time in so many months. A most gratifying moment, and a cherished memory even now.