My Hero  -  by Eric, grandson of ex-POW Frank Conroy

An Old Soldier Of Two Wars -  the 40 and 8 boxcar.

Out of the Past - a letter from Germany arrives 55 years to the day after he was shot down and helps to bring closure for an ex-POW.

There are holidays bringing their message of cheer,
Such as Christmas, and Easter, and Happy New Year,

But the one deeply etched in the cracks of my brain
Is the day that denotes a full harvest of grain.

To be perfectly frank, it meant little to me,
If the corn was un-eared, or the pod had no pea,

But when turkey and trimmings in splendant array
Filled my plate, I would shout, “Holy smoke, what a day!”

Yet it seems that a change has come over my life,
For a spoon takes the place of my fork and my knife;

And instead of spaghetti and meatballs and bread --
All my meals are consistently boiled rice instead.

 If you haven’t had “lugao” for breakfast, my friend,
Then you merit condolences, missing the blend

Of the rice and the water, occasional worms,
With some weevils and ants, and most probably germs.

There is dinner and supper where rice ever reigns,
With some rocks and some husks unremoved from the grains;

And some soup that contains (if your luck’s with you now),
Half a morsel of fat from an old carabao.

But I weathered all this, like the trouper I am,
(Since my first meals of rice came from old Uncle Sam),

And I dreamed of Thanksgiving, that glorious day,
And a meal of proportions that words can’t convey.

Let this bantering cease, I’ll bring Truth to the fore;
What we ate on that day (if the tale doesn’t bore),

Was a larger amount of that damnable seed
That we’ll probably eat ‘til the day that we’re freed.

Yet it’s true, I’ll admit as a matter of fact,
There was Thanksgiving fish (with its guts still intact),

And some other such things which I ate in dismay
And I moaned and I groaned, “Holy smoke, what a day!”

LUGAO, rice cooked to a watery soup or gruel.
CARABAO, Philippine water buffalo. 
 

The Next Generation - Written for our grandson, Eric, who is seven years old and lives in Denver, CO. The original hangs in his room. When he is an adult, we won’t be here, but this article may help him some time when the going is tough.

Eric, we are glad you are part of our family. The world needs young men like you that will be educated, mature and able to solve the world’s problems.

You have many responsibilities to face....more than any other generation. Your eager personality and willingness to please will carry you far. Many will admire and follow you. You energize any group that you are part of. This is a blessing.

In World War II, I flew with the 8th Air Force group in England called Hell’s Angels. It was a formidable assembly of well-trained young men that did a job that nobody liked, but it had to be done. Against stiff competition, evil forces in the world were defeated and citizens got back to normal lives.

Eric, you have the personality and discipline to represent your generation well during crisis.

In your life there will be many obstacles. Your generation has the intelligence, training and fortitude to overcome all of this. Not with guns, tanks or military craft, but with brains, judgment and pride.

When you face major problems, think of Hell’s Angels...this will give you strength, courage and faith. You have the gentleness of an angel.

Every generation has to face Hell in some form and you and your contemporaries can resolve this adversity.

You must keep going. Never turn back. Hope always beckons us on. The road ahead may mean difficulty, but the road back always means failure. God is at the end of the road ahead, but at the end of the road back, you will find only yourself.  If you look at yesterday, you will never see tomorrow.

Man is not made for defeat, man can be destroyed, but not defeated. No one doubts your ability to see it all through.

You will never walk alone. We will always be with you.

May God’s gracious love watch over and keep you each day.

Grandpa and Grandma Singular

Bill and Mary Singular
511 East 8th St.
Lyndon, KS  66451 

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A Price for freedom – A POW Story

By Dana Sinopoli
Granddaughter of Arthur Rubenstein, 3650 Overhill Dr., NW, Canton, OH  44718

Winner Ohio Essay Contest, sponsored by Dept. of Ohio
 

 I want you to close your eyes for a moment and try to imagine being 19. Now imagine being pulled away from your family, your friends, and your home, and placed into hell with nothing but a gun and a prayer. You are a soldier in 1944, fighting in one of the most gruesome and pitiless wars of all time. World War II.

It is Dec. 15, 1944. Your company, which consists of 250 men, is the furthest division advanced in Germany, after just having captured Kesternich. Early dawn of the very next day, the town is lit up by large klige lights as an entire tank division comes pouring into the town. The rumble of machines shakes the ground beneath you and creates a sound so powerful, it seems as though the earth is splitting into two.

You are in the basement of a small house when a tank stops right outside the window. The .88 gun of the Panzer tank points directly at the window, forcing you and a handful of other terrified soldiers to surrender. At this point, there are only 50 of you left.

Barely able to walk, being so weighed down with fear, you are all marched to a school house and lined up by a Germany Prisoner of War lieutenant. This man, who you feel nothing but hatred for, walks up and down the line of men, and out of everyone else, points at you. The lieutenant accuses you of having shot German prisoners. You are pulled out of the line and taken by truck to Bonn Prison Camp.

You are still only 19 years old and instead of running around a college campus, you are put in solitary confinement. The cell is smaller than a closet, and has only one door. You have no overcoat and nothing to shield you from the cold. You see no one for six weeks and your only nutritional intake consists of erzats bread. Because the Germans did not have enough wheat, they would mix wood chips in with the wheat they have, and that is your bread.

Every few days you are dragged out of your cell and interrogated by officers for a crime you did not commit. You are crowded by German men with shiny boots and crop sticks and relentlessly told to sign a paper admitting to killing German prisoners of war. Again and again, you refuse, even after being threatened with the firing squad.

On Feb. 4, 1945, an Alliance British plane known as a Pathfinder drops flare directly into the middle of the camp. The impactful waves level the camp and destroy your solitary bunker. You crawl out and have to remind yourself to breathe, as you are witness to an inferno.

Prisoners of war of all the Allied countries are screaming out of joy, confusion, bewilderment, and some scream because it has been so long since they have had the freedom to do so. There are fires all around the you see body parts flying through the air.

At dawn, you and the other survivors are organized by your nationality. This mostly consists of Yugoslavians, British, French and Americans. You and the other Americans are put into a box car and shipped to Limburg.

You are still only 19. You are filthy, grossly underweight, sick, yet exhilarated beyond belief to be out of confinement. The conditions in Limburg were far from home. There are over 500 men sleeping on the dirty floors, no water, and not a single care package is ever sent, although before going to war, you were promised to have them daily. As though all this were not enough, you come down with diphtheria and as the camp is evacuated, you are left with 12 other prisoners. The next day, the Ninth Armor Division greets you with utter disbelief of your condition.

After many months in the hospital, you are given a leave. After experiencing more trauma than anyone should have to endure, you finally arrive at the train station, longing for the secure arms of your mother. You small at her and almost collapse as she walks right by you, unable to recognize you due to your condition.

Pain does not end just because the war did. Everyday is a reminder of being a 19-year-old prisoner of war. After seeing such an evil side of man, it is an amazement that you even find a way to greet each day.

This is my grandfather, Arthur Rubenstein’s story. It was once said that “it takes 20 years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only 20 seconds of war to destroy him.” This war is a story my grandfather kept silent about for many years, and as amazing as it is to hear what happened, it is just as much an honor to hear him be able and willing to tell it. The soldiers and victims of WWII should never be forgotten, for the price of freedom should never be as great as it was.

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An American Soldier

By Stephanie Maksimow
Granddaughter of Thomas Hatsis
14100 Fair Isle Dr., Delray Beach, FL  33446 

Barbs of Steel

By David Horowitz
Son of Dr. Leon Horowitz, Southlake, TX

Twisted wire and barbs of steel. Today they are rusted and brittle. Yesterday they were deadly and all too real. What are you to make of these days gone by, of memories that simmer and still can make you cry?

Man’s inhumanity becomes the fuel for war. No explanation will do, as you struggle to understand. Death, starvation, and pain are the fruit born of twisted wire and barbs of steel.

Foggy memories of a far away place come into focus as you retrace your steps. Remembering a time when your buddy became your brother in the struggle to survive. When chance or luck or a greater purpose prevailed. Mere inches separated you from the reaper that stole away your brother. You visit his grave to pay your respects. In this life it seems there is little justice, only twisted wire and barbs of steel.

The beauty of Alsace today obscures the ugly truth of the winter of ’44. A time when dry socks or a piece of stale bread were more important to you than any possession you have since obtained. A whole in the ground with logs for a roof, was the muddy bed in which you sought safety, and a place to rest your weary head.

With honor and valor you fought on this field of terror. With every threat of your young man’s soul you struggled. The cost to you can not be measured. The toll it seems can never be fully paid. This is the price of twisted wire and barbs of steel.

Towns and forests, centuries in the making, bombed beyond recognition. The landscape of your soul cratered by pain and fear. Lives and loves, friends and brothers, all have been torn by the twisted wire and barbs of steel.

Time has passed, but the visions of fear and danger are no less real. We, who were not there, can not feel the pain that you alone own. We can only imagine the way it must have felt. Your life caught up in twisted wire and barbs of steel.

Those who love you seek to understand your yesterday of machine guns and mortar fire. A yesterday that shrieks through more than fifty years of silence and into your dreams at night. We can not hear the deafening roar of cannon blasts or see the shell-shocked faces. Our attempt to understand becomes more elusive the more we try. We learn more, but comprehend less, of twisted wire and barbs of steel.

All that we can do, and all we can say may never be enough. We will have to take solace in our prayers, that our efforts have helped you untangle your soul from the twisted wire and barbs of steel. You deserve no less.

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A Family Man

Submitted by Johnna Tomke Courcy
217 Mescalita Ct. N. Oceanside, CA
760-433-2294 

This letter was read at my father’s funeral. I think it conveys the feelings of all of us, and how proud we are of all of our veterans. God Bless you all!

Sometimes we are offered a glimpse into someone’s life which enriches us for a lifetime. I remember one Christmas at Johnna and Bill’s when Susan and I were fortunate to be included in their holiday dinner. John and Joann were there. We sat around the table and after some prodding, got to hear some recollections from John’s WWII experiences. I was amazed at what we learned. These were men whose duty transcended their own needs, wants, desires and even a concern for their lives. In a calm and reserved manner, John spoke of his flight. Being taken prisoner. And his life altered forever. He was now a hero. He spoke of the long marches. The humiliation from the Germans as they passed. The injuries they endured. The death. The pictures stay with me of these young man, so far away from his hometown, just taking the cards he was dealt and sucking it up for a great unselfish cause. In the quiet recesses of his soul, he must have replayed his experiences thousands of times. Only John knew the true reality of what he experienced. But this time he shared with us what I’m sure was just the outer edges of a life experience we could never truly understand. All we could do was listen in awe. His calm, loving spirit is the medal he wore.

He was proud of his daughters. At Johnna and Bill’s wedding, while sitting around the kitchen table, he seemed delighted being surrounded by his family and their friends. I saw as he quietly looked at each of them. You knew he felt he had done well. We mourn. We grieve. But even though he has left this physical plane, he will never be gone. He lives, brightly in all of us who he touched. I don’t think he would want us to cry. I think he would want us to get up and embrace life. Life, that he knew first hand was a gift. Life that he proudly defended. He lives in all of us. Let’s make him proud.

A hero will never be gone.

Mark K. Brown, 1999

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Why we should honor America’s Veterans

By Josh Weiner, 7th Grade Student at Southampton Middle School
Bel Air, Maryland. Teachers: Carol Moore & Alberta Bernstein (PNC Al Bland’s Daughter)

Veterans played a vital role in the freedom of American and in many other civilizations. For example, in WWI and WWII, many young men joined the Armed Forces and were willing to give their lives and shed blood for their country. They also played a vital role in this century, and in centuries before.

In the Revolutionary War and every conflict to date, men gave their lives to ensure that America would have freedom. Freedom was not easily achieved. Many veterans suffered from various hardships that included starvation, severed body limbs, imprisonment and other horrendous tortures. Other wars brought different tortures. For instance during WWII, our veterans suffered excruciating pain during the Bataan Death March. Only the very strongest survived and many of our strongest died. Soldiers were taken to prisoner of war camps where they were barely fed. Strong soldiers were reduced to mere skeletons. Sacrifice was commonplace.

Veterans look just like you and me. They have come from every culture, every race, every religion, every city and state. Veterans have carried rifles, fired howitzers, stabbed with bayonets, cared for their wounded and prayed for those in danger. Throughout all of their experiences veterans have displayed great courage and honor. My grandfathers fought in WWII and the Korean War. They  were no different than any other veterans and they proudly served.

We should honor our veterans because of their heroic actions and bravery. First, we can write to veterans and be a part of their lives. Our Congress should realize their sacrifices and provide care for them especially those who are hospitalized. Second, citizens can wear red, white and blue on Veterans Day to show that they care for the people who put their lives on the lines for the colors of the Star Spangled Banner. The stars resemble the twinkle of hope in everyone’s eyes; the blue represents the soul and the bravery; the white stripes are hope for a peaceful and bright future.; the red represents the blood they shed for our Nation’s freedom; the stitches are all the people who have held the American ideals together.

I don’t know if I will ever be a veteran, but I do know if I am called, I will do my part to keep the freedom of our Nation. It is a calling of honor and duty for all Americans.

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Let Freedom Ring

By Leslie Troyer
Lighthouse Academy, 201 Madison St., Floyd, IA 50435
Grandson of Clinton W. Richards

My Grandpa is my hero, he served in World War II
He’s told me of his flights, and what he trained to do.
He fought for love of country, for freedom and for right,
But on his last mission, his heart was filled with fright.

Bombs lit up the sky, his plane was hit and crashed,
Nazi youth captured him, his spirits then were dashed.
To prison camp they marched, in the light of day.
Memories flooded Grandpa’s heart of the “Good Old USA”.

In prison, there were men who had lost all hope.
Then, they began to pray, their faith helped them to cope.
On one glorious day, the war came to an end.
But Grandpa couldn’t walk, so he was carried by a friend.

As Grandpa headed home, he hungered for a view,
Of his lovely bride and the babe he hardly knew.
As his ship came into dock, he lifted up his eyes,
He saw “Old Glory” waving in the deep and clear blue skies.

He stood to his feet, as a tear fell from his eye.
Saluting those three colors, waving up so high.
He thanked God for the men, who gave will willingly,
And sacrificed their lives, so all men could be free.

  
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My Grandfather’s World War II Experience

By Nathaniel Meierpolys
Grandson of Robert R. Meier, 15265 Heather Hill Drive, Brookfield, WI  53005

 It’s 1944. Imagine yourself as the co-pilot of a B-17 in WWII. The nine other people on the crew and you are flying in formation with 30 other B-17s. Your mission is to take out a German oil plant. You go in for the bomb run, which is the 2-3 minutes before the actual bombing when you tighten your formation. Suddenly, anti-aircraft fire from the ground hits you and one of four engines goes out. By the end of the bombing strike, the plane has lost three engines, leaving you with only one outboard engine to fly with;  but with only one engine you can’t keep altitude control. The plane is falling slowly at the rate of about 200 feet per minute. You and your crew are very close to the French border and decide to try to get across the border to safety. Unfortunately, you are falling too fast and can’t make it across in time. You are forced to either parachute or try a crash landing. Crash landings are usually safe when there is a large field or open space, but in Europe, things are very close together and fields are smaller so this is impossible. You and the pilot decide to give the orders for the entire crew to bail out. The gunners, bombardier and navigator parachute out, and then it’s your turn. You stand on the catwalk in the bomb bay, looking out below. For several seconds, you stand there looking at the ground and clouds so far below. You’ve never had a practice jump and as you stand there your life flashes before your eyes while you think of all the terrible experiences of the war.

This story is one of the many frightening experiences my grandfather had in WWII. As a young man of 21 years, Robert R. Meier joined the Air Force and began basic training at Jefferson Base in St. Louis. After that, he and other men were separated from several groups to be trained as pilots in Phoenix and Pecos. He’s told us many times of the fun flying an open cockpit biplane, a Steersman, in training. He spent several months at Coe College where he learned basic things such as geography and history as well as flight training.

After getting experience with flying, he met his crew and they were ordered to fly from Nebraska to Maine on the first leg of the journey to England, where they would be stationed. They had been informed that they might experience some slight turbulence, so when they started jostling a little bit they weren’t worried. As they flew into a thunderstorm, however, they became uneasy as the altimeter rose and fell, resulting in the plane being carried thousands of feet up and down on airflows. This continued for two or three minutes before the B-17 came clear and eventually landed safely at the destination.

The second leg of the trip form Maine to Newfoundland was fairly uneventful, but the third leg across the ocean was tedious at first and then terrifying. The planes were held for several days due to big headwinds so the personnel enjoyed a peaceful rest. Eventually, the B-17s were cleared to leave Newfoundland and fly to Ireland. After three or four hours of flying, they realized this was going to be a very long trip. Midway through the flight, the navigator checked their progress and location with the stars and realized they didn’t have enough fuel to reach their destination – land. They slowed down to a more economical cruise speed and hoped that they could make it. After 20 flight hours, they landed safely on the first airstrip they could see, with barely enough fuel to last another 15 minutes. Other planes weren’t as lucky, though, and several had to ditch in the ocean.

Life was hard at the camps where they stayed in England. My Grandfather had to fly missions 3 out of 4 days, and even daily for a few weeks. They were woken up incredibly early, about 4AM, and would fly all day. The B-17s and B-24s would fly to the target in a formation making harder prey for enemy fighters. As the group would get closer, the 30 planes would tighten up their formation and the lead plane’s bombardier would give the signal for the planes to drop their cargo.

My Grandfather’s B-17 crew was on their 28th bombing mission when anti-aircraft fire disabled 3 of the 4 engines.

That brings us back to that frozen moment before parachuting. Later, he told me he got confidence to jump by thinking, “If the rest of the crew can do it, I can do it too.” After several seconds of being rooted to the spot, Bob jumped. Falling to the ground he pulled the handle on the parachute and waited for it to catch him, but nothing happened. He flashed back to what the instructor had said to do if the parachute doesn’t open and started scratching and tearing at the parachute bag. He pulled it out and it sprang open with a huge jolt just in time. Looking down, he then saw power lines directly below him. Pulling the cords as instructed, he led air out to float away from the power lines, but then he landed harder with a jolt and freed himself from the parachute. Taking in the surroundings, he saw a group of villagers with pitchforks and shotguns. When the crew was bailing out, they thought that they may land in France since they were just miles from the border, but when the villagers got there, he knew differently. He lost all hope of being in France when the man in front pointing a gun at him smirked and shouted with a German accent, “For you ze var ith over.” He was captured and taken to a POW camp where he stayed under hard conditions until he was liberated by Russian allies and was reunited with his family. He is here today and I am glad for all of the things he has taught me.

  
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Behind Barbed Wire

By Amy Johnson, Falls High School, International Falls, MN

Don Jurgs Award Recipient

You will not be forgotten…

It has been two years since you first came into my life. Since then everything has changed. I feel extraordinarily grateful to have been given such a chance in life. I have learned something from you that will never be taught in a class. You are in my thoughts often. Everything you stand for, and how lucky I am. Without you, I know I would be a very different person. I want you do know, that although I can only imagine the horrible things that you have gone through in your life, they do not seem any less real to me. I will never forget you, or your cause.

One group of people that has impacted me are the Ex-Prisoners of War. I met these Ex-POWs while presenting my state-winning essay Behind Barbed Wire at their annual State Convention. Their stories inspired me and made me realize the value of all human life. An Ex-POW sitting at my lunch table had white hair and little round glasses. I had watched him as he entered the room and began to make his way towards our table.  He had a limp and could not easily walk. I knew that it was an ever-present reminder of his POW experience. In my mind I could see him, surrounded with little children, some on his lap, and others on the floor around his chair; he was telling them grand, adventurous stories. The children were looking at him with amazement. As he talked, I felt like one of those children, and I was drawn into his story. He told me about the horrible conditions at the German POW camp, about how he, a big man, had dwindled to about 110 pounds when he finally left the POW camp, about how it felt to continuously have a loaded gun pointed at his face. I stared at him admiringly. I couldn’t imagine going through something like that. I remember his wife sitting there supportively, as he struggled to talk about his experience. As he paused she told me about the day she found out her husband was missing. She was in the kitchen of the southern Minnesota farmhouse and she could see a black car coming up their long driveway. As it got closer she could see it was an officer. She explained how hard it was to open the door knowing that what she was about to hear was bad news. She told me about her hoping and praying, that’s all she had to cling to, telling herself that her husband would be all right. I saw the scars that their experience had left in both of their hearts, the tears that were so close to being cried, and deep respect that they had for life, and how grateful they were to be living it. As lunch ended I looked around and noticed that it was the same expression on every single person’s face in that room.

These Ex-POWs touched my heart, soul and mind…I came away from that afternoon a very different person. I had witnessed something that I know I will never forget. These people had gathered to celebrate life. These men had gone to war to protect their values, they had fought, they had looked death in the face, and because of this, they had an incredible respect for life that was truly amazing.

These men and their wives rekindled the spirit for life inside of me. They had the courage to fight for the lives of all human beings. They were the most kind and generous people I had ever met. They are ambassadors for life. I knew that I wanted to be just like them.

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The Thirteenth Mission

by Terry Lee Wilde Spear, LTC, USAR, Retired
In Memory of my Father, Walter Lee Wilde, MSG, USAF, Retired

Thirteen, the number considered unlucky by some, and for some, decidedly so. The day was Jan 29, 1944, and Dad was only seventeen years of age when he climbed aboard the ill-fated B-17 in the middle of the night in Snetterton Heath, England.

Born in Seattle, Washington in 1926 of German descent, Dad never knew his grandparents who died before his birth, Johann Wilhelm Wilde and Minna Hager, both who were born in Germany. Dad’s father, Walter Wilde, accompanied him as he walked into the recruiting station in Seattle. Dad was determined to fight in the War before it was over and feared that if he waited until he was of age, the war would be over. When Dad was asked his date of birth, the Sergeant became hostile as he stated Walter should have signed up a month prior to this, when in reality, Dad was two years underage. Uncertain as to the outcome of the Sergeant’s threats concerning prison sentences and the like, Dad waited anxiously, ready to tell him the truth about his age, until the Lieutenant in charge stepped in and said that there was no problem, that what was done was done and to go ahead and enlist the young man. And with this said, Dad was transformed into a new recruit.

After many months of training, Dad arrived in Snetterton Heath, England and was moved into a Quonset Hut which appeared still occupied by other crew members of the U.S. Air Force as bags were packed neatly on each of the bunk beds. When Dad asked another crew member if there was some mistake as to his crew’s assignment to the barracks, the Sergeant replied, “No, the crew from the last mission already went down. They won’t be back. There were no survivors.”

And that’s how the War began for Dad. Thirteen missions later, most of his own crew along with several others in the B-17’s that flew on that fateful night, would never return.

That night, ribbed by the other gunners about this being Dad’s thirteenth mission—he had already been wounded on an earlier mission in September of 1943 and while his former crew was on their next mission while Dad recuperated in the hospital, all crew members were lost—Dad was determined to show his new crew that he would return that morning from the “milk run,” G-2 presumed it would be. So on this mission only, he left his 45-service automatic with two spare clips, the 38-special with 50 rounds of ammunition, and his machete, back in the barracks. The gesture probably saved his life.

The target was to be the Marshaling Yard at Frankfurt, a heavily protected industrial center, fairly deep within Germany and as the formation neared the German mainland after crossing the channel, they got their first hostile welcome from enemy fighters. Then the German aircraft disappeared and anti-aircraft batteries opened up, filling the sky with debris. Sometimes a Jerry would park off the tail of Dad’s aircraft just beyond firing range, lob rockets at them and relay their altitude to the ground batteries. The flak would stop and the Germans would return with either ME 109’s or FW 190’s. These actions continued all the way to Frankfurt.

This was no milk run. With considerable anti-aircraft fire and alternately, aircraft intercepts, Dad’s craft had been the lead ship in a four plane element, but had lost their tail-end Charlie and their right wing ship. Just as miles of anti-aircraft batteries gave them a reprieve, a sky full of Jerries filled the void.

Shortly before 11:00 A. M., just after Dad had called in for a confirmation on a FW 190 he had hit, he felt a bone-shaking jolt to the plane and was sure that his plane had been hit. He stared in disbelief when he thought he saw the front half of a FW 190 sail past the window. His plane vibrated with such ferocity, he felt it was coming unglued. Then Dad realized that the radial engine was not the FW 190’s, but was really from their own right outboard engine which had been completely blown out of the wing; then the wing floated on by. The ship shook violently and banked out of control, crashing into his left wing ship. Dad’s aircraft exploded, sending the other ship straight down.

During the explosion, Dad was knocked unconscious, and when he came too, he found he was riding the tail down to the German mainland below. He was lying on top of his parachute which he had placed over an old 20 mm hole in the wooden catwalk so as not to remind himself of the fate of the unfortunate tail gunner he had replaced not too many missions before. The remaining ammunition had dumped out of his twin trays onto his legs and feet pinning him down. Struggling to get free from the ammo, he finally freed one of his legs, but in the process of freeing his other leg, lost his flying boot. Finding his chest chute, he debated for a moment as to whether he should try and get it on first before he climbed out of the tail, or fasten it on the way down. Dad chose the latter. With parachute in tow, he managed to work his way down the catwalk and pulled himself with considerable difficulty over the jagged edge of the broken tail section.

Suddenly, Dad found himself free-falling. He tugged desperately to align the chute with the harness snaps located on his chest. Barely aware that the bright sunlight had faded into a mistiness as he fell through the clouds, he realized that the ground was not far beyond. He fumbled blindly trying fervently to fasten the chute to no avail. Hundreds of times during training flights and combat missions, under more ideal conditions, Dad had snapped on this type of chute with no difficulty, but now dropping against insurmountable winds and facing anxieties never before experienced, the task became monumental. He knew that in a moment, he would feel the ground shatter his body and it would all be over. Then he heard the first click as he wobbled the chest pack back and forth over the chest snaps and then another click. He was certain the chute was secure. He pulled the rip cord, but nothing happened. It was then that he realized that he was holding the chute so tightly against his chest that he was preventing it from opening. He pulled his hand away from his chest and moments later, felt his body catch. Dad looked up at the billowing white silk as he was jerked suddenly upward and then looked earthward, where he landed in what would could be considered a perfect landing according to textbook procedure only seconds later.

Only four of Dad’s ten crew members survived the crash. Second Lieutenant James L. Kelly was in terrible condition as he had plummeted face first through the plexiglass window at the nose of the plane; his face so torn up from the crash causing severe lacerations, facial bruising and blackening of the skin that one of the members of another crew who was captured that same morning remarked he thought the Lieutenant was a Negro with a Negro fighting group flying out of Italy. Dad saw Kelly with his whole face bandaged the day or so after his capture, but never knew what became of him. Sgt Arthur J. Brown, known as “Brownie”, the ball turret operator, also survived as well as Tech Sergeant Phyilipp K. Rousse, the Radio Operator. Dad had shrapnel wounds in his arm and a 20 mm ball had lodged in his right leg.

The four men were captured by the Germans shortly after landing and so ended my Dad’s thirteenth mission, who though he had managed to escape twice from the Germans during his 16 months of captivity, was recaptured both times and not freed until the close of the war.

Dad succumbed to a fast acting cancer and died Jun 16, 2000, but prior to this had been an active member of the Waco, Texas Prisoner of War Chapter, whose memory is still mourned by his family and friends.

Terry Lee Wilde Spear, 509 Stardust Road, Crawford, Texas 76638
254-848-9994; tspear@flash.net

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The movie Pearl Harbor ends with America's first strike against Japan - the Doolittle Bombing Raid on Tokyo.  Eight (8) American's were captured and imprisoned by the Japanese, off these only four (4) or 50% would survive that imprisonment and return to their families in America at the end of the war.

On April 18, 1942, 16 B-25 bombers took off from the USS HORNET, the first fully loaded bombers ever to take off from an aircraft carrier. The raid was the United States' answer to Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor four months earlier. Although the bombs Doolittle's Raiders dropped inflicted no serious damage, the mission was a much-needed boost to American morale.  The crews planned to unload their bombs over Japan, then land in Chinese territory that was in friendly hands. But stormy weather made it impossible for them to reach safe haven, and most of the planes crash landed in China after running out of fuel, some in Japanese held areas. One ended up in the Soviet Union and it's crew was held for a year before being released.

Following the raid the crews of two planes were missing. On Aug. 15, 1942. it was learned from the Swiss Consulate General in Shanghai that eight American flyers were prisoners of the Japanese at Police Headquarters in that city. 

On Oct. 19, 1942, the Japanese broadcast that they had tried two crews of the Tokyo Raid and had sentenced them to death, but that a larger number of them had received commutation of their sentences to life imprisonment and a lesser number had been executed. No names or facts were given.

After the war, the facts were uncovered in a War Crimes Trial held at Shanghai which opened in Feb. 1946 to try four Japanese officers for mistreatment of the eight POWs of the Tokyo Raid. Two of the original ten men, Dieter and Fitzmaurice, had died when their B-25 ditched off the coast of China. The other eight, Hallmark, Meder, Nielsen, Farrow, Hite, Barr, Spatz, and DeShazer were captured.   In addition to being tortured, they contracted dysentery and beri-beri as a result of the deplorable conditions under which they were confined.   On Aug. 28, 1942, Hallmark, Farrow, and Spatz were given a "trial" by Japanese officers, although they were never told the charges against them.  On Oct. 14, 1942, Hallmark, Farrow, and Spatz were advised they were to be executed the next day. At 4:30 p.m. on Oct. 15, 1942 the three Americans were brought by truck to Public Cemetery No. 1 outside Shanghai. In accordance with proper ceremonial procedures of the Japanese military, they were then shot.

The other five men remained in military confinement on a starvation diet, their health rapidly deteriorating.  In April 1943, they were moved to Nanking and on Dec. 1, 1943, Meder died. The other four men began to receive a slight improvement in their treatment. By sheer determination and the comfort they received from a lone copy of the Bible, they survived to August 1945 when they were freed. The four Japanese officers tried for their war crimes against the eight Tokyo Raiders were found guilty. Three were sentenced to hard labor for five years and the fourth to a nine year sentence.

The  Crews: Takeoff No.6 (Ditched off China Coast)    Crew from 95th Squadron, 17th Group Lt. Dean E. Hallmark Pilot Executed by Japanese Oct. 15, 1942 Lt. Robert J. Meder Co-pilot Died in Japanese P.O.W. Camp - Dec. 1, 1943 Lt. Chase J. Nielsen Navigator Japanese P.O.W. 3 and 1/2 years Sgt. William J. Dieter Bombardier  Drowned after ditching following raid April 18, 1942 Sgt Donald E. Fitzmaurice Gunner Drowned after ditching following raid April 18, 1942 Takeoff No.16 (Bailed Out) Crew from 34th Squadron, 17th Group Lt. William G. Farrow Pilot Executed by Japanese Oct. 15, 1942 Lt. Robert L. Hite  Co-pilot Japanese P.O.W. 3 and 1/2 years Lt. George Barr Navigator Japanese P.O.W. 3 and 1/2 years Cpl. Jacob D. DeShazer Bombardier Japanese P.O.W. 3 and  1/2 years Sgt. Harold A. Spatz Engineer/Gunner Executed by Japanese Oct. 15, 1942 Three of the former POWs are alive today: Chase Nielsen, 75, of Brigham City, Utah says he harbors no ill feelings toward anyone..  He said he was tortured, starved and suspended in handcuffs so that his toes barely touched the floor.  Jacob DeShazer says he wrote poems on an imaginary blackboard and memorized Bible verses to pass the time he spent in the prison camp.  After the war, DeShazer, now 79 and living in Salem, OR., became a minister and spent 30 years as a missionary in Japan and China.   Robert Hite, 72, of Camden, AR., saw his weight drop to 80 pounds during his stay in the Japanese prison. He was bitten by bugs, rats and lice, suffered starvation and had water poured down his nose.

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The Victory Flag

by: Rev. Rodney P. Kephart
 

 
This flag was raised at Fukuoka Camp #6 in Orio, Japan simultaneously with the signing of the surrender by the Japanese at 8:00AM, 2 Sept. 1945, on board the USS Missouri, thus claiming Camp #6 for the United States of America. This flag was then flown daily as the official flag over Orio Camp #6 until 13 Sept. 1945, at which time, 1st Lt. James Beverley, Chief of US Army Repatriation Team #21 arrived with his team to repatriate the prisoners held by the Japanese. From that day until the flag came into the possession of the Idaho Historical Society, the history of the flag is sketchy.

 This historical artifact was made by Rodney P. Kephart with the assistance of Ryland Barnett; both were American civilians held prisoner by the Japanese. At the time, the Americans had dropped clothing and food at Camp #6 during the last days of August 1945 by parachutes made of red, white and blue nylon.

 About 9AM on 1 Sept. 1945, two American officers (also fellow prisoners) came with an armful of parachutes. They confronted Mr. Kephart with the question, “Can you make us an American Flag so that we can have an official “Raising of the Colors” at the same time the Japanese sign the surrender tomorrow morning. Mr. Kephart had a Japanese sewing machine that had been rounded up for him to alter the Army uniforms that had been dropped for the prisoners, and with Mr. Barnett to assist him, he took up the challenge and immediately began the project.

 The obvious question was, “Where to start?” Neither of them had seen an American flag in almost four years. It was a design from memory challenge. Mr. Kephart remembered how his mother had taught him to make star by folding a piece of paper a certain way, so that with one cut of the scissors, a five-point star was made. He proceeded to make a pattern out of paper from cement sacks. The next step was to lay out a field that would accommodate 48 stars.

 Once the field and stars were established, arriving at the layout of the stripes was the next challenge. With thirteen stripes, the only option was to have seven red and six white. The top and bottom stripes had to be red to establish an edge to the flag. The field, being blue, needed a white stripe below it to accent it. This gave the division of stripes, seven at the end of the field, and six below. The width of the stripes was determined by dividing the distance across the end of the field by seven. Six equal stripes were then added below the field to give the width of the flag. The width was then used as the length of the stripes at the end. This gave the length for the six stripes below the field, the length of the flag.

 With the general layout of the flag complete, it was necessary to calculate the added material needed to allow for the seams. The next problem was, how to handle the flimsy material in order to make the stars. The stars needed to be manageable, as there needed to be 96 stars in order to sew them on both sides of the blue field. The decision to glue the material to paper from cement sacks by using rice gruel for glue, solved the problem. Mr. Kephart had become familiar with the Japanese sewing machine. He took on the job of sewing and Mr. Barnett set out to cut the 96 stars. As Mr. Kephart began sewing, and had completed the first two stripes, they were not satisfactory. Rather than take the time to do them over then, it was decided  to wait until the flag was complete and see if there was time to make changes.

 By 1AM 2 Sept., Mr. Barnett had finished cutting out the material for the flag. The sewing machine was so noisy that conversation was not possible. Rather than just sit, Mr. Barnett decided to retire as only one could sew at a time. Mr. Kephart completed sewing the flag  at about 2:30AM. At that time in the morning there was not even a thought of making changes. Mr. Kephart delivered the flag to the American officers and retired.

 When awakened by the sound of the bugle, he was so utterly exhausted, he turned over and began to sob. He missed the Historical Raising of the Colors that he had just made possible by the long night of strenuous labor.

 The flag, which became the official flag for Camp #6 at Orio, Japan until repatriation on 13 Sept. 1945 was not seen again by Mr. Kephart until he saw it on display in Coos Bay, Oregon in Sept. 1981, thirty-six years later. He was attending the Survivors of Wake, Guam, & Cavite, Inc. convention and it was on display in cooperation with the Idaho Historical Society.  After the war, it had been turned over to the Survivors organization and they had, in turn, turned it over to the Idaho Historical Society.

 In 1994, the Department of North Dakota convention was in Jamestown and the flag – in the custodial care of Mr. Kephart – was again on display. At the close of the convention, Mr. Kephart was confronted by Raymond Seerup, the VSO from Miles City, MT. His question was, “What do you intend to do with the flag?” His reply was “I suppose I’ll send it back to Idaho.” To this, Mr. Seerup replied “You are crazy if you do! You made it, didn’t you?”

 It was at that moment that Mr. Kephart realized that a miracle of God had just unfolded before him. The American flag which he had made as a prisoner of war in Camp #6 in Orio, Japan forty-six years earlier had just been returned to him! He kept the flag and informed the Idaho Historical Society that he intended to keep it as they had not shown proof of ownership. This, of course, trigged a lawsuit by the Society charging theft of property and threatening fines and imprisonment.

 After Mr. Kephart talked to the Idaho Attorney General and explained what he proposed to do with the flag, he was asked to supply affidavits from fellow prisoners and was given a letter by the AG that put the matter to rest. Mr. Kephart holds possession of the flag to this day.

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The Cake
by: John (Rudy) Crawbuck

This is just a short story of a time in my life. Several years ago, a friend of mine sent me the names of some of the fellows that we were interned with in Stalag Luft VI and IV. One of the guys was Bill Hughes. Bill and I were close buddies and were in the same barracks. As soon as I could, I phoned Bill in Kansas City, MO. It had been fifty or more years since we had last seen each other. The conversation went something like this. “Hello Bill. This is Rudy Crawbuck, do you remember me?” His answer was no. I told him we were in the same barracks in VI and IV together and we were chained at the ankles together when they moved us from Stalag Luft VI to IV. There was some hesitation in his trying to remember. Then he asked, “Are you the guy who made the cake?”

 This was the question that brought about the writing of this little story called The Cake.

 I had been one of the lucky ones in camp to have received a food package from home. It had all kinds of goodies in it. Nineteen pair of eyes all watched me as I opened it. (There were 20 of us in a room 12x12).

 We had a pan used for washing, etc. I cleaned this pan and coated it with some oleo. Then commenced to mix all the goodies I had -- nuts, raisins, candy bars, cut up black bread, crumbs, powered milk and anything else I could find to fill up the pan. A small amount of water and my cake was ready to cook. I placed it on top of our pot-bellied stove and it took awhile to cook. Guys from the other rooms came in to admire Rudy’s cake. One guy wanted to know what I was going to do with it.

 The table was cleaned and the finished cake was placed upside down on it. It looked just perfect. Twenty young and hungry men just looked and admired it. At this time, the Germans were feeding us approximately 900 calories a day, and food was the main topic of conversation for sure.

 Now came the big question -- what to do with it. After all, it was all my stuff that went into the making of the cake, including my bread ration. It was cut in half by our room Captain and divided among all the men.  

We all enjoyed this unusual feast and I felt like a hero and was thanked by all.

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Behind the Barbed Wire

By BILL HUGHES
THE JOURNAL NEWS

(Original publication: May 09, 2001)
Copyright The Journal News. Reprinted with permission.

YONKERS, NY — On Valentine’s Day in 1943, Army Signal Corps photographer Angelo Spinelli ran out of both film and luck.

He was under orders to photograph the 1st Armored Division’s assault on Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s tank divisions holding the Kasserine Pass in North Africa when he was captured by the Germans.

“I was out of film, so I was just sitting around when this lieutenant asked me to escort some German prisoners to the rear for interrogation,” Spinelli said. “We got all turned around, and the next thing you know it, we walked right into a German patrol, and they turned the tables on us.”

In the next 27 months, Spinelli, a former Yonkers resident who now lives in Florida, was held as a prisoner of war, spending most of that time in Stalag 3-B, roughly 50 miles southeast of Berlin near the Polish border. Shortly after he arrived, he bribed a German guard with eight packs of cigarettes in exchange for a 120 mm Bessa-Voightlander folding camera.

In the ensuing months, under the risk of being shot as a spy, Spinelli set out to chronicle life in a German POW camp through a series of approximately 1,200 photographs he secretly shot and developed while he was held prisoner. This month, 92 of those photographs are on display in the Mamaroneck  (NY) Library in an exhibit, “Behind the Barbed Wire.”

“There are a lot of great stories that came out of World War II, but this is one hell of a great story,” said Ken Simon, a former POW who sponsored the exhibit, which is on loan from the Andersonville National Historic Site in Georgia. Andersonville is the country’s only national park dedicated as a memorial to American prisoners of war.

Simon read about Spinelli’s photographs in a POW magazine, and wrote to Chief Park Ranger Fred Sanchez, who worked on restoring the negatives and first put the exhibit together in April 2000.

“This collection is one of a kind. There is nothing else in existence like the Spinelli photographs,” Sanchez said. “Had he been caught, there is a very high likelihood that he would have been killed. We certainly know of incidents in which the Germans killed soldiers for less.”

Spinelli managed to befriend one of the older German guards who got him the camera and set up a system where he would pay him one pack of cigarettes to get him a roll of film, and another pack to get it developed. “They told us we weren’t going to get out of there alive anyway, so I figured what did I have to lose?” Spinelli said.

He received a steady supply of cigarettes from Red Cross care packages and from his family back home. He bartered with an Air Force POW for a pair of baggy airman’s pants, in which he would hide the camera. Sometimes enlisting the aid of lookouts, Spinelli would sneak the camera out and click off a frame when a good opportunity arose.

Because the instructions that came with the film were in German, at first Spinelli had to use trial and error to figure out what the film speed markings meant. Without a light meter, he was forced to guess the correct shutter speeds. Consequently, less than 400 of the 1,200 photos came out properly exposed.

The 92 photographs on display offer a rare glimpse at the daily life of American POWs in the 1940s. They depict the drudgery of POW life and the men’s attempts to occupy their time, along with showing some of the squalid conditions they had to endure. Other, more lighthearted prints show the men playing sports, putting on theater skits, or performing in choirs and bands.

To conceal the prints and negatives, Spinelli dug out a hiding place underneath his bunk bed. “The barracks had bricks on top of a sand floor, so I lifted one of the bricks under the leg of the bed and dug a hole in the sand as deep as my arm could reach,” Spinelli said. “I traded cigarettes for some cement and made a cover for the hole, and whenever I heard there was going to be a search, I’d put all my stuff down there.”

According to Spinelli’s account, the guards would warn the prisoners in advance of any searches because there was so much contraband traded between them and prisoners, the guards knew they would be punished if the goods were ever discovered.

“Historically, the task of guarding prisoners fell to personnel who were unfit for front-line duty,” said Simon, who was a bombardier in a B-17 when he was shot down over northern Italy and turned over to the Germans by Italian police. “These guys would do almost anything for a pack of cigarettes back then; they were more valuable than gold.”

By the time the Russian Army began pushing its way into Germany, Spinelli had amassed a collection that took up the same amount of space as a small shoebox. He had also managed to procure an additional camera and a collapsible tripod.
 

Do you recognize any of the kitchen staff pictured above? If so, write the editor.

As the Russians advanced, the POWs in Stalag 3-B were ordered to march to another camp further to the west. Spinelli stashed his photographic equipment and supplies in the bottom of a rucksack. When he arrived at the new camp, he saw the guards were searching all the POWs’ bags at a table near the entrance.

“At first I thought, this is the end, they’re going to find me out and I’m finished, but then I got an idea,” Spinelli said. As he approached the table, he dumped out all the contents except for the photographic equipment, then dangled the bottom portion of the bag over the edge of the table closest to him and slid it along toward the end of the table.

“There was a guard who saw what I was up to at the end who asked me what was in the bag, so I reached in, pulled out some cigarettes and gave them to him, and he waved me on.” Shortly afterward, the Germans abandoned the camp, and the Russians liberated the POWs.

After the war, Spinelli settled in Yonkers for 38 years and operated a jewelry business with his brother in New York City. He is now 84 years old and lives in Hallandale, Fla.

NOTE: His photographs are featured in the AXPOW 2002 Calendar “Behind The Wire”,

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33½ Months as a Guest of Der Fuhrer

William W. Williams III, KGF #322/1927
69 Old Town Road
Hyannis, MA  02601

I was the signalman aboard the SS Carlton, a merchant marine vessel bound for Russia with military supplies. She was sunk by a torpedo from a German U Boat on the morning of July 5, 1942 in the devastation of convoy PQ 17, 350 miles north of Norway. I was one of 24 “rescued” by German seaplanes (the rest of the crew drifted, rowed and sailed for nearly three weeks, landed in Norway, and joined us in Milag-Marlag Nord much later.)

 We who were picked up landed in Kirknes, Norway, and were incarcerated in Stalag 322, a camp for dissident Norwegian schoolteachers. I was given a dog tag hammered out of a tin can with the number: 322/1927, my identification for the entire time – I still have it!

 On a German cargo ship we reached Oslo, Norway. On a larger and faster ship we cam to Aarlborg, Denmark, and by train to Wilhelmshaven, Germany. Because we were the first Americans to be captured, and there were no American camps at the time, we were taken to Milag-Marlag Nord, in Tarmstedt, a short way from Bremen, a stalag for British Navy prisoners.

 Non-commissioned officers were not required to work, and I could have remained there for the rest of the war, but I wished to escape. So, I exchanged identity with a British seaman who was being forced to work. In April 1943, posing as Henry Rose of England, I went by train to Charlottenhof, Obersilesia, to work with a small group of prisoners repairing an irrigation canal.

 Five days later, another prisoner and I walked off the job. We thought we had everything planned, except that we didn’t know about the tracking dogs in the next village. They soon found us, and we surrendered and were separated. I was taken to Stalag 8B in Lamsdorf. A short time later, I was called to headquarters, presented with my original dog-tag (322/1927), and sentenced to five days solitary confinement on bread and water for escaping and trying to confuse my kind “rescuers”. I never found out how they discovered the switch in identity.

 At that time (April 1943), an American Army sergeant and I were the only Americans in 8B. Because we were non-British, we were housed in compound 10 with prisoners from India, Australia, New Zealand, North Ireland, Greece and Canada. The Canadians were from the Black Watch Division and had been captured in the failed landing at Dieppe, France. Because of circumstances surrounding their capture, they were forced to wear handcuffs day and night.

 While in 8B, I began attending church services and was called into the Christian ministry. After the war, I returned home, went to college and seminary, and am now a retired American Baptist minister.

 In February of 1944, I was transferred to Stalag 2B in Hammerstein, Pommerania, an all American camp. I became the acting chaplain when the present chaplain was repatriated. In this capacity, I went out of the camp for many weekends to hold services at the various arbeits kommandos. I was in the city of Danzig in January of 1945 when the Russian army broke through on the Eastern Front. The city was evacuated, and I was on the last train to leave the city.

 By early February, the Russians approached Stalag 2B, and the camp was abandoned by the Germans. We were placed in groups of three hundred or more and headed west on foot. After wandering around for sixty days, we crossed the Elbe River at Domitz. On April 14, we were strafed by American planes and I ran away. I was lucky to come upon an American outpost and was free at last! By truck I went to Hildesheim, by plane to LeHavre camp Lucky Strike, where I rejoined some of the men from my ship that I had not seen since my first escape. By plane together, we went to England and by ship to Boston, MA and home.

 In October 2000, my son and I traveled to Germany and Poland and revisited the sites of Milag-Marlag Nord, Stalag 2B, Hammerstein, and Stalag 8B Lamsdorf. On Oct. 15th we signed the guestbook at the museum Lambinowice.

 EPILOGUE 55 YEARS LATER

 For many years I had hoped to revisit the sites of the places where I had been held as a prisoner of war. Finally it became possible and my son William W. Williams IV and I flew out of Logan airport in Boston, landing at Tegel in Berlin on Oct. 10, 2000 at noon.

 We picked up our rental car and headed for Bremen where we stayed the first night. In the morning we traveled east to Tarmstedt, the location of Milag-Marlag Nord just eighteen miles away. It had been a camp for enemy Navy and Merchant Marine sailors and was where I spent the first nine months of my captivity.

 During my 33 ½ months I was also in Stalag 344/8B in Lamsdorf, Obersilesia for ten months, and lastly in Stalag 2B, Hamerstein, Pomerania for twelve months, followed by a sixty-day march in the winter of 1945, from which I escaped. To conserve travel time, we decided to go to 2B next and then to 8B before returning to Berlin for the trip home.

 Milag-Marlag Nord: Our first stop in Tarmstedt was at a bank to exchange some currency, and begin our inquiry to locate the camp. No one in the bank could speak English, but as I am still conversant in Deutsch, I said that I had been a “Kriegsgefangener” there in 1942, and wanted to visit the area. An elderly farmer was cashing a check. When he heard the word “Kriegsgefangener” he came right over to us and said “Warten sie hier, bitte”, and went to the telephone. He had asked me to wait while he called the Burgermeister (Mayor) who knew all about the prison camp and would like to meet us. We got in the car and followed him to the mayor’s house. What a stroke a luck! We could never have found it by ourselves.

 The entire area had been demolished and obliterated and planted to forest some forty years ago. The mayor took us in his own car down an old logging road to one lone barracks that had been preserved in the middle of the forest and is now a private dwelling – and that is all there is left of a compound that held Royal Navy sailors and Merchantmen since 1940 and the crew of my ship which had been sunk in 1942. Incidentally, the area is now called “Westertimke”.

 The mayor told us of the editor of a nearby newspaper who had collected a documentary of the camp. After good-bye to the mayor and the farmer, we headed for the town of Zeven, and found the newspaper office. The editor himself was not available, but had left word for one of the staff to take us upstairs to the archives and showed us newspaper size photographs of the camp taken through the years. On the table was a documentary brochure that had been printed and was for us to take home.

 STALAG 2B HAMERSTEIN   Our next destination was Stalag 2B. That was the last camp I was held from Feb. 1944 to Feb. 1945, when it was abandoned in the face of the Russian advance from the East. The camp was broken up into groups of three or four hundred men and marched on foot westward, wandering seemingly aimlessly until we reached Saltzwedel some sixty days later where I left the column and liberated myself in the hands of an American gun emplacement. I remembered most of the towns through which we had passed: Stargard, Stettin, Neubrandenburg, Teterow, Gustrow, Parchim, Ludwigslust, Domitz.

 Starting with Saltzwedel, my son and I retraced my footsteps in reverse, crossing the Elbe River at Domitz where we spent the night at a country inn. I was anxious to see again the town of Parchim where our march group passed the end of an airport runway lined with fire engines manned by women, and from which experimental jets took off. After the war, it was occupied by the Russian military who used it as a military air base. Now it again is a Polish town. The airport has been completely modernized and has scheduled weekly international flights to Spain.

 As we would our way eastward to Stettin where we stayed overnight, I remembered we had been herded into barns at night and were now passing the very ones in which we had stayed.

 Hamerstein is no longer on the map. It is once again a Polish town called “Czarne”. We inquired at Town Hall and one of the employees graciously drove us to the campsite. Like Marlag, it had been leveled, and planted to trees. Because thousands of Russian soldiers had been imprisoned there too, and had perished through disease and neglect, during the Russian occupation the mass graves had been dug up and the bodies reburied with markers. In a small park there is a tall memorial marker and as far as the eye can see are the grave markers with the hammer and sickle emblem. The town has a public relations booklet which contains a short history of Stalag 2B and a picture of the memorial park.

 STALAG 344/8B LAMSDORF, OBERSILESIA  Before going to Stalag 8B, Bill and I took a side trip to Gdansk. I was there on a preaching mission out of 2B in Jan. 1945 when the Russian army broke through on the eastern front. Because of the Russian advance, the entire civilian population was evacuated and I was on the last train to leave the city on my way back to 2B.

 After spending the night in Gdansk, Bill and I headed south to Lamsdorf, now Lambinowisce, the site of Stalag 8B. The buildings there date back to the Franco-Prussian War when it was a POW camp then. It is now an elaborate museum similar to our Andersonville. Nearby there is a huge public park where thousands of Russians had been housed, and where they died by the thousands. In the midst of the park there is a huge monument commemorating all the prisoners of all the wars. The site where the British (4,000) and the Americans (2) were held is now a Polish army artillery range and not accessible to the public.

 The staff at the museum was glad to see me as the first confirmation that there had been any Americans there at all. I was there for ten months from May 1943 to January 1944, where I did 5 days solitary on bread and water for having escaped originally. The museum has publications and videos and is now on line.

 Before returning home, Bill and I spent two nights and a day seeing the sights of Berlin.

This single barracks is all that is left.

Reverend Williams in front of the Czarne town sign

The Memorial Park

The plaque at the base of the monument

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My HERO
 by Eric - Grandson of ex-POW Frank Conroy

Children often think of fictional characters like Superman or Batman as their heroes. As they get older, they realize that the word “hero” has a different meaning. A hero is usually a person who inspires someone or helps them in a way that no one every has or ever will. My hero is my grandfather. He is that one person who was able to inspire me in many ways. He is a family man, war hero and inspiration to us all.

 I just came to find out about five years ago that the man I have called Grandpa ever since I was able to speak was not my grandfather through blood, but through marriage. My real grandfather, who I had never met, did not treat my grandmother or her children very well. My grandmother finally left him and she met Frank Conroy, a cab driver from New York City. A few years later, they were married. Surprisingly, my grandfather was not scared off by her five children, one of which was my mother. He took them in, and he did everything in the world for them. He gave them what they needed most in life – a father figure. He has been there for them since the first day they met, and has been nothing but good for them. I consider him one of the greatest family men ever, for he has done so much and will continue to do more.

 Another thing that makes him a hero, not only to me, but also to every American, is his role in WWII. Before he ever met my grandmother, he was in the army. He was a machine ball gunner on a B-24 bomber. His squad was one of the best. They flew and accomplished many bombing missions throughout Germany. One day, while on a mission, the plane was shot down. He and four other men parachuted out and landed safely on the ground. The bad thing was that they landed in the middle of German territory. Not too long after landing, they were captured by German soldiers and taken to a camp in Ploesti. When he tells this story, he will not tell anyone any more of the story than what I have just told. I don’t know of anything that went on at the camp. I suppose that it is just too much for him to talk about. He was released after the war ended and was honored by the United States with the Purple Heart. A Purple Heart is one of the greatest honors a soldier can receive. A few weeks after I turned sixteen, and my grandparents came for a visit, my grandfather approached me with a small box and handed it to me. I opened it and to my surprise, inside was his Purple Heart. He told me that I meant a lot to him and he wanted me to have it. The Purple Heart is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. He fought so hard to have that honor, and he gave it to me. Another reason that made it so special was that he could have given it to any of his other ten grandchildren, but he chose me.

 Whenever I get frustrated with school, life, or anything else, my grandfather is the person I talk to. He always has a great solution to any problem that I throw at him. He has always motivated and pushed me to do well in school and to make something of my life. I used to be a big troublemaker in school. I made poor grades, and I had no respect for my teachers. My mother told him what was going on with me, and the next day I got a phone call from him. We had a long conversation, and what he said changed my life. I went to school the next day with a positive attitude. It was great. My grandfather also taught me how to play golf, although I am still not very good. Every time I hit a golf ball, I am reminded of him. To me, my grandfather is the most wonderful person to ever befall on this planet. He has done so much for my family, and me and I cannot begin to thank him enough. I will always remember him as a family man, war hero, and an inspiration to us all.

 Love your grandson, Eric

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Although Germany surrendered in May 1945, the ravages of war persisted throughout Europe as the Marshall Plan rebuilt the continent’s infrastructure. Human suffering and hardship continued because the war-scarred economy could not adequately meet even basic human needs. In response to this need, Drew Pearson, the American newspaper columnist, initiated a grass roots effort to collect personal contributions from individuals throughout the United States. American citizens donated $40 million in relief supplies of food, clothing, medicine, and fuel. These gifts, placed in freight cars, were shipped to the people of Italy and France in 1947; the effort became known as the American Friendship Train.

This gesture of friendship and compassion inspired a French rail worker and war veteran, Andre Picard, to suggest that France reciprocate. His veterans’ organization solicited gifts from the French people; the response was immediate and overwhelming. Instead of filling one boxcar, the original intention, the collected items eventually filled 49 boxcars. One would go to each state with the 49th to be shared between the District of Columbia and the territory of Hawaii.

The merchant ship, Magellan, transported fifty-two thousand gifts in 49 boxcars from LeHarve to a rousing welcome in New York Harbor. The ship docked in Weehawken, New Jersey on February 3, 1949. Since the wheelbase of the boxcars was eight inches wider than American rails, the stubby little boxcars were loaded onto flatbed trucks for journeys to each of the United States. One by one, they were delivered to welcoming crowds in the state capitols. Pennsylvania’s gift arrived in Harrisburg in late February 1949 and was entrusted to the PA Department of Military Affairs.

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