His story began with the description of his plane and his job on that bomber as the flight engineer and top turret gunner. He jumped from 25,000 feet, flak in his knee, face charred black beyond recognition. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and has no memory of pulling the parachute cord. The Germans below were waiting for him, and he remembers a hospital and something that felt like molasses put on his face.
He rambled, skipped ahead, doubled back in his tale. At one time he was on a boat, down in a hold, a bucket lowered with water. He saw a man jump overboard and used for target practice.
The first camp was too close to Russian guns. They were loaded into 40-by-8 boxcars (called this because capacity was either 40 men or 8 horses), 60 men deep.
They all knew they faced a firing squad, sooner or later.
Red Cross parcels provided food for the guards first, since the German army couldn’t feed them. This man learned one could go a whole day on a 1-inch piece of chocolate from the care package. Most of the time, he was fed cabbage soup.
Stalag #4 was his home, and he learned quickly to not engage in conversation or draw the notice of the guards. He was often cracked in the back by a rifle butt.
He did have an empathetic story to share about one guard, who had two sons. One fought for Germany; the other for his new homeland, America. When he received word that the German soldier-son had died, he felt great relief. Because it was not to be by the hands of his brother. Small mercies.
He helped to cover for another man who chose to escape, for a tense 48 hours. Just like an episode of “Hogan’s Heroes,” but without the laugh track.
The word came – they were to be released to Patton. Yes, The Patton, who would race the Russians across Germany to claim victory as ours. Hitler knew he would have to give up his prisoners and ordered a forced march of 800 kilometers. He wanted no man left alive to relinquish.
The Army airman described how they were handcuffed in pairs, right hand to left hand. Emotion gripped his features as he relayed how his partner wanted to lay down and die. He threatened to twist the other man’s arm off at the shoulder, if he didn’t keep the gap closed in front of him. Another man did drop, and a Hitler Youth ran his bayonet through his temple.
They slept paired up for warmth, with one blanket, in the same subzero conditions as the infamous Battle of the Bulge, occurring nearby.
And somehow he survived. This is the price one single man paid to save the world. It’s overwhelming, isn’t it.
Yes, he lived, returned, married, had children. His daughter is a nurse. A great-granddaughter sat on his lap to pose for pictures at the end of his talk. He loved and was loved. From the second he jumped from his B-24, he has lived an existence close to God. He felt His hand many times.
The spirit remains strong in his feeble body; he is determined to spread his message as long as he can. That war must never happen here, on American soil. We must do whatever is necessary elsewhere to keep it from here.
This very decent man, a member of the dwindling Greatest Generation, also softly cautioned, “I know we are drifting further and further from God. And we’re gonna have some tall questions to answer.”
No comments:
Post a Comment