Veterans Stories

Commemorative Air Force Arizona Wing
2017 North Greenfield Road
Mesa, Arizona 85215
Phone 480-924-1940
Fax 480 981-1954
www.arizonawingcaf.com

S/Sgt Samuel Mock
B-17 Flight engineer/top turret gunner on B-17
452nd Bomb Group
728th Bomb Squadron

This is a short narrative of the experiences of S/Sgt Samuel Mock, who was a flight engineer/top turret gunner on a B-17 crew, in WWII. The crew that Mock served with was in the 728th Bomb Squadron, 452nd Bomb Group, in the 8th Air Force, assigned to an airfield in southeastern England. Mock starts his story as he was awakened on what he calls the most traumatic day of his life!

SHOT DOWN

On April 7, 1945, we were awakened at about 5:00am and trudged to the mess hall for breakfast and then to the briefing room where we got the poop on the day's schedule. As flight engineer, I was privileged to attend the pilots' briefing, because we were intimately involved with the cockpit procedures and most of the pilots wanted their engineers to be up to date on what they were told. This is where we were told where we were going, at what altitude we would be flying, the types of bombs we would be carrying, and given the approximate times and locations that we would be assembling with the other squadrons and groups. Those were things that were really pertinent to the business. of that particular flight. One of the other features of the briefing (which was more the business of the navigators who were in a separate briefing) was the anticipated weather conditions such as overcast and/or undercast conditions. And one thing that concerned all of us, was the anticipated amount and type of resistance that we might expect. After briefing, we loaded onto the `six bys' and headed for the planes, where the gunners checked the guns and and ammo and made sure the excess oil was wiped off their guns: the pilots, copilots and engineers checked the plane all over, as well as fuel, oil and anti icing fluid tanks being topped off, and that all the emergency equipment was properly stowed, etc. After all this was done, it was sit and wait for a Very flare to be fired from the control tower. A red flare indicated the mission was being scrubbed and we would not be flying that day. A green flare meant that we could start our engines and proceed as ordered toward our destination near the gates of hell.

(On the way out to the plane, we discovered that our regular ball turret gunner, (Bob Farris), had reported to the Flight Surgeon at briefing and had been replaced by Leonard Verilli. I found out several weeks later that he had contracted an STD while we were in London a couple of days earlier).

For the uninformed, the assembly of approximately 800 loaded bombers, in what were normally cloudy skies over England, was an experience in itself! We had no air controllers back then, and the radar that we had, was an extremely far cry from that in use today, and was not used for local air traffic control. We would all be headed for essentially the same assembly point and at essentially the same altitude, hoping that when we reached that area we would be in clear skies, and be able to get into the assigned formation with no trouble. With visibility around 500 feet or less in the area we would be climbing through, planes with maximum bomb and fuel loads, all climbing for altitude, with pilots, copilots and engineers all watching, as intently as they knew how, for any other aircraft within sight, it was indeed, a nerve wracking and quite hazardous experience! Assembly was normally around 8000 to 10000 feet altitude, and it took several minutes to get up through the `soup' up into the clear area above the clouds. Every second from the start of the take off roll until we cleared the usual cloud cover was a nightmare. A mid air crash then, was just as deadly as one today, and the Eighth had several of those recorded. Assembly was the event that started the adrenalin flow for rest of the flight. The staggered take off times was the condition that allowed the procedure to work, as that reduced the number of planes in any given area at any given time. Close encounters ( referred to today as near misses) were quite common and when they occurred really gave all who witnessed, a real start!

On April 7, 1945 the 452nd Heavy Bombardment Group was scheduled for a raid on a Luftwaffe Airfield named Kaltenkirchen, and some of the newer Jerry fighters were reported to be based there. We were scheduled to fly at an altitude of 23000 ft and with an undercast at an altitude of from 4000 to 7000 ft. Flak was expected to be light to nil and fighter resistance light to moderate. It appeared that it would be a raid of small consequence. We didn't know it at the time, but on that date, the Germans were to put up the last major fighter resistance of WWII, and part of those planes put up, were groomed to be Werewolves (German counterparts of the Japanese Kamikazes), and based at Kaltenkirchen.

At approximately 10 minutes past `lines in time' (the time that our group passed the presumed location of the battle lines), I called out that we had bandits at 2 o'clock level. As I recall there were five, slightly strung out and flying a reverse course from ours, so it took only seconds for them to start to turn in and pick us up. I started tracking one at about 1600 yards, started firing at about 1400 yards, and continued firing bursts up until the time he passed by the tail of our plane. As I was tracking the German by the tail of our plane, my turret suddenly stopped and the sight light went out. As I released the control handles on my turret, the sight came back on and I found that I could elevate the guns but on trying to rotate the turret , I found that it `locked up'.

While trying to find out what was causing the `lockup', I discovered that our plane was on fire and that the flames were trailing about 30 ft behind the left wing. I immediately called the pilot and apprised him of the situation, after which I quickly vacated the turret and plugged into the intercom and oxygen lines located immediately behind the pilot. I had just got hooked up when Lt. Gill called and asked how it looked. I took one look, and said," Skipper, We'd better get out of this S.O.B. before she blows!"

I heard the copilot (Lt. Barbeau) say, "Let's try to fly it!" ……..”, I suppose in reply to some conversation that I had missed while getting free of the turret. (At that time I had some further thoughts about his intelligence level)
The Skipper (Lt. Gill) immediately gave the bail out alarm, and believe me when I say that there was no wasted time in the execution of that order on anyone's part! All of us forward of the bomb bay used the same escape hatch and F.O. Lazzari (navigator) was hot on the heels of Sgt, Smart, (the toggleer), and while I was waiting for him to get out of my path, Barbeau was hard on my heels!

I was informed later by Lt. Gill, When we were at Camp Lucky Strike, ( a camp set up to process released prisoners of war) that he too, was close on the heels of the copilot in getting out, and he showed me the back of his flying suit and the flecks of aluminum that had splattered him (from the molten state from the plane exploding), because he was so close when it exploded. He later (in a letter to an Air Force Major) credited me with saving his life because of the warning I gave! Even though we have had several conversations since we returned from overseas, that subject was never again discussed between us. It wasn't needed!

When I rolled out (that's the procedure for the escape from the nose hatch. You sort of sit on your haunches and roll forward), my left foot some how momentarily caught in the hatch opening itself and I was swung around and turned face up toward the plane. As this happened, I felt a tug at my belt and my pistol passed by my face, my foot was freed, and I sort of rolled around and my pistol was about 6 or so feet away and it appeared that I might be able to stroke over and retrieve it. (Total time about 1-2 seconds)

As I continued to roll, I started my 10 count and as I reached the end of that, I had heard enough machine gun fire and roaring of fighter plane engines that I immediately decided on a `free fall' to a safer altitude.

Now I was never a very brave individual, and I have always been rather hard to convince that I was wrong when I got an idea in my head. (I think the term is `hard headed'). The training films that we had been shown, had all said for one to make one's body stiff and the human body would start to fall feet first and reach a terminal velocity (of about 170 mph), in no more than 15 seconds. I figured that if one were to hold the arms straight out and relax the body, the aerodynamics would automatically straighten out the body and slow it to a safe velocity for parachute opening. Wrong again! I tried that! And my relaxed body went into a ball with my knees next to my ears and the wind really started to whistle from the increased speed.

I then did what I had been trained to do, and as I did so, I found myself face up and feet down, falling in such a position that I could see a part of that beautiful Eighth Air Force, heading toward the target in full formation and the German fighters making their passes at them trying to deliver their death blows.

My reverie in that thought was ended in making a decision about when I should open up my parachute. I looked over my shoulder and saw the clouds below, which I reasoned would offer a safe cover from being seen by the German fighter pilots. As I approached the clouds, the briefing data returned to mind and I remembered that the undercast was from 4000 to 7000 feet. So as the clouds drew nearer, I readied myself by looking straight ahead with a resolution that I would pull the ripcord as soon as I saw the first clouds appear before me. I also thought that I'd like to keep that ripcord as a souvenir, and reminded myself to hang onto it. Well, as I saw the first clouds go by my face , I pulled the ripcord, and my parachute opened with no where near the discomfort that had been described as being what to expect. I checked for the ripcord and I didn't have it! Damn! And I wanted to keep it, too! While I was meditating on that, a new situation arose. I heard a very strange noise in all the silence of the clouds! FLLPP! , FLLPP!, FLLPP!

I listened closely and it was coming from above me! I looked up and saw that my parachute was starting to collapse from a severe forward and backward oscillation! The sound was caused when the portion that had started to fold under suddenly filled with air and sort of cracked like a towel when it is snapped. For the first time since we took off, I was consciously scared to death! But again the training manuals came back to mind and after first getting the oscillation changed to a side to side motion, and then stopped completely, I started taking stock of my situation.

I found myself praying aloud! Not for myself, but for my parents ! I was the youngest of six and the only one to go to war! I was their baby, and here I was, half a world away hanging from a parachute in the middle of a cloud bank, with no way to get them a message that I was okay. I knew that they would be worried. I had no thoughts whatsoever about how worried that they had already been.

About that time I broke out of the clouds to find myself about a mile high and drifting to my left. No sense of direction, for the sun was covered, and not the faintest of ideas as what to expect on the ground. I was drifting away from what seemed would be the best cover on the ground, and toward a group of houses. I again stopped the oscillation (a very unnerving situation for one's first time hanging in mid air), and removed my oxygen mask and dropped it, followed by my helmet. I didn't want the Germans to get either of them. They appeared to fall toward a small open ditch or winding fence row. I was kicking myself for converting my armpit holster to a hip holster, (done to allow my body to fit inside the top turret, while clad in my regular clothing, plus my winter flying gear, plus my Mae West life jacket, plus my parachute harness). Now none of it seemed to matter except the lack of protection from the unknown that would become reality in just a few short minutes.

As my fall continued I could see that I was going to come very near that group of houses and quite soon I heard voices shouting and as it appeared that I was going to land on top of a house, I released my chest snap on my chute harness, (I don't know why), and at the last moment when I saw that I was clear of the house, but was going to hit a tree, I crossed my extended arms and threw my head back to protect my face.

I went through the edge of what appeared to be an apple tree, my knees bent and with the help of the tree breaking the fall, I didn't even touch the ground with any part of my body. I immediately stared to unfasten my harness (left leg first) and as I did so, I heard ," Oop mit der hans!". Now even though I was of German ancestry (five generations back) and was not a student of the German language, I seemed to know what that meant. I continued to unfasten my harness as I looked up and saw a German soldier approaching me from the front, pointing at me with his left hand and looking down at his left side as he drew his pistol from the holster on his left side with his right hand. I immediately grabbed two hands full of air and hung on tight!

As my harness was released it went up into the air, pulled by the limbs of the tree and the leg snaps were at my shoulder level where my hands were brushing them. At the same time I heard the sound of a rifle being operated from behind me and I turned my head to face that threat. Another Jerry! The first returned his pistol to its holster, and he became quite insistent that I give him my pistol. I had an empty holster but six clips of pistol ammo on my web belt, which they had me remove along with my flying gear before they removed me from the immediate area. After finally being satisfied that I was no threat to them, they escorted me to another area about 2 or 3 houses away where I was proudly displayed to the female occupants (wives or girl friends or ?)

After a short time of the German soldiers unsuccessfully trying to communicate with me, they then escorted me to a house in another part of the village where I was presented to a German officer who then with some help (from one of the dirtiest German soldiers I ever saw, who said he had worked for the Brown and Williamson Tobacco Company in New York prior to the war), interrogated me enough to know that I either knew nothing or was going to divulge nothing that would be beneficial to him. A short while later, two different German soldiers on bicycles, with me on foot, marched me about 6 kilometers to a town called Schwarmstedt. At Schwarmstedt I was taken to the office (in a nice large home) of the Gendarmerie (police chief) where I met Jim Perlongo, (radio operator), Darwin Kusian, (waist gunner), and Leonard Verilli, (the ball turret gunner) that was with us that day to replace Bob Farris. After making no headway with his direct questioning, the Chief called in a young lad (I'd say eight or nine years of age) to act as an interpreter. He made about as much progress as had the German Army Officer earlier, but while attempting to interrogate us, a very obviously unhappy German airman entered carrying a wadded up parachute. He dropped his parachute on the floor in a corner and glared at us as he exchanged a few words with the Chief before he left! I didn't wonder why!

The four of us were then taken behind the house to a small outbuilding, one room of which was about 8' by 10', and with one small barred window about 8" X 12" and 6' from the floor. The door was a very generous 36" (probably a meter or 39 ") wide and was a very thick full 2"+ and made of hardwood (oak I'd imagine) and had a heavy bar on the outside. We were held there until late afternoon when we were caused to be loaded into the back of a 1936 Chevrolet. (The back seat was removed and there was a layer of Jerry cans on the floor boards upon which we had to lay in prone positions). There were two male and one female German soldiers in the front seat, who took us to Celle.

We arrived at Celle (a Luftwaffe airfield similar to our Kelly or Randolph Field) at just about dark, where we were again subjected to interrogation. After interrogation and the removal of all our possessions of any consequence, (they took our fleece lined flying boots and gave us ersatz leather shoes instead which really was later to be proven out as a benefit) and then imprisoned us in the guardhouse. We were in a slightly sunken area, (the reason I say sunken because our cell {Perlongo's and mine}had a small window that was about 6" tall and was situated about 6' above the floor with frosted glass and bars), had cells about 6X10 on both sides of the hall and as I best recall a total of about 8 perhaps 10 cells. There we found that Barbeau, Lazzari, and Smart, were already there ahead of us and none had any word from Lt Gill or Bill Costley, (tail gunner), except Kusian who last saw Costley just as he (Kusian)was bailing out. As I recall, there were a total of eleven prisoners in the guardhouse after we arrived that night. What a day!!!!

PRISONERS

Many of you people who read the story of the most traumatic day of my life, have come back and said that I stopped too soon or asked about the rest of the story. Well, you all know that my name is not Paul Harvey and I am sure that the rest of my story will not be as interesting as the first, but you'll have to bear with me, as this is what you asked for! The events that happened to me in the last three weeks of my internment, have not stayed as clear in my memory as did that very first day, so for this reason, only a few happenings will be related.

When the four of us were taken into the Guardhouse at Celle, we found that there were (I think!)seven other prisoners there, that had preceded us: Lt. Wm. Barbeau, FO. Wm. Lazzari, Sgt Hubert Smart, from our crew, plus 2 Canadian soldiers, and 2 other American soldiers. S.Sgt Leonard Verilli, Sgt. James Perlongo, Sgt. Darwin Kusian, and myself made a total of eleven.

As I best remember, the Germans let us co-mingle for awhile, before they locked us into our cells for the night. Before they locked the cell door on us, they brought us some food and in the dark, the best we could tell was, it was some sort of sausage and a rather grainy and doughy substance. Having had no food since breakfast, and it now being at least two hours since sundown, we welcomed the food and it was indeed quite tasty. We did not eat it all, and when daybreak came and we saw what we had relished so highly the night before, we wondered how it could have tasted so good and yet appear to be so unappetizing. We were to learn later that it was blood sausage and bauerbrote,(a very dark mix of coarsely ground wheat, which probably was partially fermented and pressed into a loaf form).

Our bed was a low wooden platform, about four feet wide and perhaps eight feet long with three feet at one end elevated to an angle of about 15 degrees. We had a very thin (about 2 _ to 3 “ thick) straw filled mattress, that just covered the bed. This was the sleeping facility that two of us shared while we were at Celle for the four nights.

The next day about noon (give or take a couple of hours), our guards unlocked the cells and marched us to a mess hall a short distance away where we were fed a pretty good meal. I don't recall what it was, but when you are in a position such as we were in, you accept what is given and are grateful for it! The thing that really sticks out in my mind about the meals we had there (a total of three), was that we were served by women who were jovial and friendly toward us, and offered us each a piece of hard butterscotch candy as they were bussing the tables where we ate. After we ate, we were again marched back to our cells!

We had ample opportunity to discuss and surmise what might have happened to Lt. Gill, our pilot and Sgt. Bill Costley, our tail gunner. They were both missing from our presence and apparently neither had been seen by any of us after we bailed out. Their very absence made each of us feel so very glad that we had made it out alive and well.

I think it was on the second day of our stay in Celle's guardhouse, that along in the afternoon, the airfield came under attack, being strafed by allied fighters. Sounded like P-47s and we hugged the outside wall very close so that if any thing came through the window we would not be hit! The attack only lasted a few minutes but it surely sounded like a war was being waged outside! I can't imagine why! Ha!

That night our cell block opened up and a new prisoner was brought in! This was a very young Russian lad, clad in the two-tone grey stripes of prison garb and the Canucks gleaned from the guards that he had escaped, when a train loaded with prisoners had undergone an air attack and he been recaptured. He seemed to be scared to death and probably with reason! We never saw him again, after his apparent lock up!

On the morning of what would have been our fourth day, we were taken from our cells to the outside and put in charge of a couple of young German soldiers who proceeded to march us out of the military facility and down the road. These two guys seemed to be already well under way to becoming inebriated, and still had a bottle of wine they were carrying. After a few miles of walking down the road, a truck was heard and seen coming from behind us! One of our guards motioned us to get out of the road and he stepped out into the middle of the road and motioned for the truck to stop! The truck driver sounded the horn and stuck his hand out the window and waved the guard off the road. With that, the guard, very noticeably, loaded his rifle and pulled it up to his shoulder, aiming it directly at the driver. The truck came to a stop! The guard had a conversation with the driver and we all thirteen piled onto the flatbed truck. I don't know how far we went, but the two guards polished off the bottle of wine just before the truck stopped and we all got off. It was an intersection where one road 'y'ed into the other and the truck took a hard right and headed back partially in the direction from which he had come.

Our guards had us sit for a while and they talked while keeping their eyes on us and watching the road for traffic. After awhile here came that same truck from where he had gone and he slowed and stopped, with no threats needed! Again we all got aboard, and this time for a much longer ride.

When we stopped the next time it was at a stable in the City of Uelzen! We all got off and the eleven of us were turned over to the ones in charge of the prisoners that were there in that stable. I was glad to see our guards go, for I wasn't all that comfortable, while that particular one was in charge of us. He seemed awfully headstrong and determined to get his own way, and with the persuasive power of that rifle, and fortification that the wine provided, it was not the most desirable situation to be in!

There were in that stable, around 150 POWs, all American. The front of the stable faced the street, or road, as it was just on the outskirts of the city, and the back was about 40 or 50 feet from a small but beautiful meandering stream There was a nice large lawn at the side of the stable, which we were allowed to enjoy! While our guards were watching of course.. We saw a couple of canoes, with couples in them, enjoying the romantic setting of the surroundings, as they slowly drifted along.

Later that day we were each given a blanket and a Red Cross PoW parcel. The RC parcels were provided by the American Red Cross and British Red Cross and were designed to supplement an average man on a starvation diet, for from 7 to 10 days and permit him to do a normal day's work, each day, and were distributed by the Germans to the PoWs. One of the prisoners there was conversant in German and through the ability to eavesdrop, found out that we were in the Lubeck Red Cross distribution area, and the people there, knowing that the war's end was rapidly approaching, decided to get rid of as many parcels as they could! That was why we got the parcels as quickly as we did! We had an evening meal consisting of a thick soup, with lots of leeks, rape and sugar beets. Not too awfully tasty , but at least nourishing and palatable

We had started to hear small arms fire late that afternoon and we were told that we would stay there and be liberated, from that spot. Joy of joys! None of us minded sleeping on the straw spread on the concrete floor of that stable, knowing that on the morrow we would again be free and headed for home! The next morning, we awoke to a smattering of the small arms fire in the distance, and we were given the news that our President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had died! We were somewhat saddened to hear that news, as most of us had never really recognized any other person in that office. It rather dampened the feelings that we had of the impending release! As we were walking around in the lawn area, we could see people up the stream from us, out in their backyard, burning a Swastika over a small fire. That elated us somewhat to know that that part of the populace felt the (soon to be) appearance of the allies!

Then a short while later, we were called out and told to get ready to move out immediately! Some one had issued the order that we were not going to be released after all. We quickly gathered up our belongings (the Red Cross parcels and blankets) and started a march to the opposite side of Uelzen, directly through the heart of the city. This wasn't what we had anticipated and left most of us in a less happy mood than what we had been in, earlier that morning. Our President was dead and now we were not going to be liberated! WOW! What a downer!

SEPARATED

On the march across Uelzen, I found that the carrying a Red Cross parcel and a blanket to be rather awkward at best. And tiring, too. Most of us had just put the parcel on the blanket, grabbed the four corners, swung the bulk over our shoulder, and walked off. We looked like a bunch of derelicts, as we walked across town. We were taken to some sort of facility, that had a mess hall, where we taken and fed a meal. After eating the four of us sat down outside and after a bit of discussion, they helped me fashion a back pack of the parcels and my blanket, so that I could carry the parcels for all four of us. And perhaps they would share the chore of carrying! There seemed to be no guards around, and the other three did a little exploring, while I was getting the back pack adjusted

I suddenly became aware that I was alone! I saw the direction that most of the prisoners were being taken and I followed in that direction, down that road that I had seen them take. I probably walked for three or four miles and saw absolutely no one! I had passed what seemed maybe a likely spot or two to possibly hide out in a wooded area , and then common sense seemed to tell me that I would be safer out in the open. I rested for a few moments and then got to my feet and walked on for maybe another couple of miles. I walked over to the side of the road and sat down and leaned back against a tree, to contemplate the situation I was now in. I must have sat there for perhaps 10 minutes, when a German officer rode up on a bicycle. He stopped and made a query of me in German, and which I replied as best I knew how. “nicht fer stehen”, or whatever, meaning that I did not understand. He understood! In fluent English, he asked, “Do you speak English?”

I immediately replied in the affirmative and he told me that there was a column of British prisoners coming behind him and that I should join them. He then rode off up the road. Just a few minutes later, the column appeared led by another German on a bicycle and flanked and followed by several guards. As they approached, I got to my feet, and a couple of the prisoners very near the front, apparently recognized my clothing and asked me to join them in their rank, which I did. The ranking soldier in the column was a Scottish Drum Major, similar to our 1st Sgt, and he was addressed as “Drummy”. Just like our Marine Gunnery Sgts all being called “Gunny”!

The real reason for me being asked to join the guys up front, slowly came to light over the next few hours! This group of British soldiers had been prisoners for nearly six years and had been working on farms in Poland when the Russians turned the tide and started to take back the ground that Hitler had previously taken! The prisoners were then forced to march ahead of the lines as the Germans were retreating, and if one was forced to drop out through exhaustion or any other reason, he was not seen again. Only the fittest had survived! They had left Poland with around five hundred and there were only about four hundred left when I joined then. There was a wagon loaded with potatoes, and pulled by a rather aged team of horses, and driven by an aging Pole who had been impressed into the German Army as a guard over the British prisoners. The potatoes were the staple food with which the Germans had provided them, and with sugar beets or rape and/or leeks being added occasionally. That diet along with the RC parcels was the food that had kept the Brits going.

The group had learned to give up most of their soap, cigarettes and chocolate (from the RC parcels) to trade with the German civilians in the villages they passed through, for salt, sugar, pepper and bread. The healthiest of the lot, of course, were able to march up front where they had the earliest opportunity for trading, and got the best of the trading deals. (Sometimes the ONLY trades!) When that group saw my back pack, it was larger than any two of theirs combined and I was invited to join their “combine”. It turned out to be an exceptionally good deal for me, and them! I had guys looking after me, interpreters, and they had a stock bearer and an additional supply of trading material! Because of my relationship with them, I gained nine pounds while I was a POW.

That group really looked after me, giving me a leather vest that came down below my hips and a beret to wear. I would have loved to have brought those items home but they were taken away when I was liberated!

I was with that group for the rest of my time as a PoW. We walked through the day on gravel and or dirt roads usually, staying in barns or stables, sleeping on straw strewn on the floor or in the hay loft. We were never near another town (to my knowledge) during my tenure. We passed through small dorfs (villages), that were the centers of large farms ( a hand down from the old feudal system where the land baron owned everything in and around the village and employed everyone that lived there.)

One of the guards was a tall lanky guy that we called 'Slim', and Slim usually walked up toward the front of our column, on the right side. Some of the prisoners had known him from Poland and had found him to be quite friendly and conversant. He seemed to be especially friendly toward me and I really didn't know why at the time! On this particular day we entered a farm that had an operating dairy complex, and we got there and got settled in just as the people were starting to milk, in a barn next to where we were billeted. Slim approached me and asked, “ Milch, ja?'

I hadn't the slightest idea about what he wanted and I just shook my head. Again he made his inquiry and again I shook my head and in my best German said, “Nicht”! One of my buddies overheard and told me to tell him, “Yes”!, he's offering you some milk. So I turned to Slim and said ,”Ja”! He immediately went over to a window of the dairy barn and rapped on the glass, and when the window opened he stuck his tin cup through the opening!

Now I was raised on a farm and never learned to like milk. I had squeezed those teats twice a day for several years, and squirted milk at the ever present cats, and couldn't understand why they took the unpleasantness of being hit in the face with a stream of milk, and still stuck around for more. I was NOT looking forward to drinking that milk!

The window suddenly opened and a hand reached out Slim's cup, filled to the top with fresh milk clear to the top with the heavy foam rounded up over the edge. Slim took it and with a big smile, and handed it to me. He said something to me as he handed it to me and I took it and started to drink it. When I stopped drinking I had a heavy white moustache from the foam, and not quite the dislike for fresh warm milk that I had harbored for years.

I returned Slim's cup with a sincere, ”Danke!”, and immediately found out why he had made the offer. Slim, with that big smile on his face, looked at me with my big white moustache, and said, “Zwei cigaretten, ja?” Two cigarettes, the price of a cup of “fresh from the cow” milk! I gave him two cigarettes, although the guys in my combine later told me that I should have given him one only! I felt like I had made a friend as well! He was always close enough after that, that I could give him a long butt when I was smoking and he was really appreciative.

Another time we were in a barn for a couple of days and it was raining a slow drizzle. Murdo Shand, my Scot friend, had stayed out in the drizzle to watch over some potatoes that he was boiling for the combine. (another advantage of the combine) He had just came back into the barn with the potatoes and was preparing them for us. I had a lighted cigarette and one of the guys said , “Jerry's coming!!!” I immediately snuffed the smoke and put it in my pocket but the smoke was still hanging around me. One of the guards walked in, saw and (I'm sure) smelled the smoke and yelled at me, “ Nicht rauchen in der scheiner!!” (No smoking in the barn)

I looked back at him and said, “Nicht rauchen! Heiss kartaufel !” (No smoking! Hot potato!) He shot his remark back to me and I really didn't know what he said, but I certainly knew what he meant! His look could not have been misunderstood.

At the completion of one of our days walk, one of the old horses that pulled the potato wagon was barely able to navigate, and the decision was made to pull the wagon with one horse. The Officer and Drummie conferred and they decided it was a wonderful opportunity for the group to get some meat. We stayed in that spot for two or three days, and the next day, each man got about a 2 inch cube of meat in his soup. It really was quite tasty! That was the first time that I knowingly ate horsemeat.

As a prisoner I became infested with the body lice that all of that group had. There had been no opportunity for laundry and nature being then, as it is now, my shorts had been discarded a couple of days earlier. I recall that on May 1st we came to a small settlement where there was an orchard just outside our billet for the night. There were several rocks along the fence and broken branches laying around and it was a perfect place for us to build small cook fires. While our cook was preparing our food, I went over to the fence and broke off a piece of wire about a foot long, and brought it back to our fire and stuck it in to heat. The fire was hot enough to soon get the wire red hot, and I proceeded to flatten one end of it using a couple of rocks. I then took off my shirt and was going around the seams of it with that hot wire, 'cooking' the nits that were hidden therein. When I got through with my shirt, off came the pants and I started in on them. The wire had to be reheated several times in the process and I was concentrating on what I was doing and paying no attention to my surroundings. I suddenly came to the realization that there were four or five women at the fence about thirty feet away, talking to some of the prisoners and they were all watching me killing nits! That was somewhat of an embarrassing moment! My trips to the hospitals have surely given me a different perspective on modesty than what I had back then!

On another occasion, I guess I had been a prisoner for around three weeks and I'm sure I was getting quite 'ripe', and we were at a place that had a small lagoon immediately to the rear of the barn. It looked to be about 1 to 2 feet deep, perhaps 12 -15 feet in diameter, and I decided to take a bath. Even though I knew from the extremely dark greenish brown color of the water that it wasn't what I would have normally chosen, it was wet and I had soap! It wasn't as bad as you, the reader, might imagine it would have been!

ITS ABOUT OVER

The day before I was liberated, I decided that I might as well try to get into a hospital and wait out the lines over running the place and be liberated that way. I feigned illness and went with the sick (krank) column. The old guard that led us was slow and as an alternative I was looking over the terrain for a possible spot to slip off and hide out. We hadn't gone far when we started to hear small arms fire and then we started to meet a column of German soldiers who were not in a happy mood and who turned us around and sent us back whence we came. Those guys looked like the typical thoroughly beaten soldiers might be pictured but still acted as arrogantly as the typical Nazi was portrayed. Not a bit friendly, and I decided that I certainly didn't want to be discovered by any of them, while hiding in a woods waiting to be liberated. I stayed with the column as we returned but we took a different path from that the German soldiers were taking. I again had visions of slipping away and was lagging back more than I should have been! All at once “Scarface” (one of our two guards that were quite disliked), rode up behind me on his bicycle! I hadn't heard him coming and had no reason to believe that there was another of our guards around. He rode his bike right between my legs and the frame hit me in the tail bone! That 'by golly' really did hurt! I had been told by the fellows, in my group, that none of the guards understood English, and I proceeded to read his presumed pedigree to him as I sped my pace to catch up! I am sure that “Scarface” understood enough of what I was saying, that he didn't appreciate my description and as he came up behind me the second time, he jumped off his bike and swung his rifle butt across my shoulders! I decided that he needed no more details of his lineage quoted to him, and I rapidly and quietly caught up with the rest of the kranken(sick). I sure was thinking a lot though!

On my last day as a POW, we arrived at another farm where we housed in two barns. About 500-600 feet from one of the barns, was a very small outbuilding that reminded me of a small hog house except that they didn't raise hogs there. We had just got settled in for the evening and I'd guess maybe an hour and a half prior to dark, when there was an explosion about three or four feet from that building. Immediately, the German Captain, who was responsible for us, sent a guard waving a white flag out to that building. He also sent another guard on a bicycle back on the road that we had just came in on. He too was flying a white flag! He returned about 15 minutes later and after reporting to the Captain, the Captain called us all together and told us that we would be liberated the next morning. He told us that he would surrender his weapon, a pistol, to Drummy and that he would order the guards to surrender their weapons, and release them to go their own way at that time. There were two of the guards that some of us wanted to have a chat with, but when morning came, neither of them were around. Apparently they had seen the handwriting on the wall, and it was probably the best for all concerned (especially them!).

We were liberated without ceremony about eight o'clock the next morning, when a British “Doodlebug”, (an overgrown front loader “sans the loader” but with a turret on top) rolled in and the Brit with his head sticking up out of the turret told us we were now free and to start walking back the way we came and to follow the signs.

There are several other incidents that come to mind occasionally but I think that the impression that those British boys made on me makes all the rest of my experience seem so insignificant, that I want to stress that aspect in my closing of this chapter. I found out that through all the adversity that they had been through, by being captured early in the war, working on the farms in Poland, and then walking in the wintertime all the way back from Poland under a forced march, and then for over eight weeks they had been promised time and time again that they would stay in a particular place and be liberated, there were a few that really didn't have the fortitude to resist. They would hear the small arms fire and when it seemed that it was close enough that indeed they were going to be freed, then the order would come down to move out! Some of those incidents and people, I saw first hand! I saw how the guys lost hope, and how it affected them. They started scratching the lice bites and they became infected! They lost interest in washing their eating utensils and got diarrhea. They would sit leaning back against some support, and blankly stare at whatever or whoever was in front of them. If we were in a marching situation, the fellows around the ill person would co-operate to try keep him on the move. If we were in a location close to a hospital, the old guard with the wagon would try to get him to where he could get medical attention. And in the middle of the night and they would have to go out to use the slit trench, and there was that one particular guard who might fire a round over their head. That guard was really cruel because he got a great pleasure out of that action! (He and “Scarface” were the two that we wanted to “chat” with). It was emotionally, just too much for them, that little bit of cruelty on top of the years of imprisonment!! On the other hand, those that withstood all those trials were some of the emotionally strongest men I have ever known, and I owe them so very, very much.

There are many little things that happened while I was a PoW, that come to mind occasionally, but apparently are not significant enough to stay close in my memory. The nights I slid down into the hay when we were bedded in the loft, and the way those Brits were so hungry for any bits of information about 'Dear Old Blighty', and how they kept me awake asking question after question, for which they really wanted answers. I felt so badly that I didn't have many of the answers.

After my liberation, I wound up at Camp Lucky Strike, in France. That was a tent city set up alongside a steel mat airstrip, and was where all the liberated American PoWs were routed. While there, our total diet was boiled chicken. That was where I encountered Lt. Gill and conversed with him at length. I found that we were the only ones on the crew that had deliberately had free falls into the undercast, but he hadn't experimented on the way down the way I had.

Tail gunner, Sgt. William E. Costley of Craigmont , Idaho was the only one of our crew on that flight, that did not survive! None of us knew for sure what befell him. We can surmise and conjecture and we can wonder! We can never really know! His body was found, identified and returned to the US for interment, but his mother was never convinced that he was killed. God Bless her!

Lt. William H. Gill and crew on March 28, 1945, after return from bombing mission to Hamburg, Germany. Their B-17 was hit by flak over the target and the # 2 engine took a hit that punctured the prop dome and pumped all of the oil out of the engine covering the pilot's windshield with clumps of the thick congealed oil. Those clumps ran as the plane came down from the cold high altitude for a landing and made forward visibility extremely difficult. As a result, they in error, landed at a B-24 base near their own base where they were met by armed personnel who were not so friendly until they proved the damage.

Back row, l to r Sgt Wm. E. Costley, Tail gunner , Sgt. Darwin Kusian, waist gunner, Sgt. Sam Mock, Engineer and top turret gunner, Lt.Wm. H.Gill, Pilot, Lt. Wm, Barbeau, Co pilot.

Front row l to r Flt.Ofcr. Wm. B. Lazzari, Navigator, Sgt Bob Farris, ball gunner, Hubert Smart, Toggleer and nose gunner, and Sgt James Perlongo, Radio operator.

As of this date (May, 2004) , Gill, Lazzari and Mock are the only survivors of the above crew