This book depicts the last year of Hitler's
Third Reich as it was seen through the eyes of a
prisoner of war. From the 27th of May in 1944 the
experiences of this POW are vividly described. You
will share the experiences of a Kriegie as
he lives in three different POW camps and spends days
on the roads fleeing the advance of Russian forces in
the latter days of the war, right down to liberation
by Pattons forces in those final weeks of World
War II.
CHAPTER II Sudden quiet strikes me like a blow as I
roll out of the open hatchway into the soft clear air
and fall toward the patchy green and brown earth far
below. Flipping head over heels my body stabilizes to
fall, back down, with a view of Delayed Lady as she
flies on, trailing smoke and flame into the distant
haze. Looking to my right I see Dee falling with his
back-pack unopened. I assumed that he would free-fall
for a time, which he did, as I was to find out almost
a year later. When I left the cockpit the busily
unwinding altimeter indicated somewhere between
16,000 and 18,000 feet. So now the clock is running,
with the ground about two minutes distant in
free-fall time (with an unopened parachute). I
recalled that the average man would reach a speed of
from 80 to 120 miles per hour, depending upon his
size and the altitude at which he starts his fall
(air resistance increases as one gets lower). So,
lying there in the quiet soft air, I decided that
having lost an undetermined amount of blood and
having been active without oxygen while leaving the
plane, it was time to pull the rip-cord and not risk
a long free-fall. Pulling the "D" ring with
my left hand was no problem... except that nothing
happened! The rip cord had pulled free with a muffled
"POP", but no pilot chute appeared. Not as
advertised! Again time seems to stretch seconds into
minutes and reason says here we go again! Gotta do it
by the numbers! First, check the pins on the end of
the short cable attached to the "D" ring...
they appear to be normal, so toss the ring away and
examine the chest pack. It is partially open and a
small bit of white nylon is flapping wildly about in
front of my face. I'll get to do this only once, so I
carefully remove my gloves and open the parachute
pack further and immediately uncover the problem.
Pilot chutes are last in the order of packing a
parachute. Containing two thin pieces of wood in the
shape of a cross to hold the pilot chute open as it
pulls the main parachute canopy free of the pack.
This particular parachute is a 22 foot Irving, a
small size for people weighing 150 pounds or less. I
can see that the ends of these particular slats are
hung up in the corners of the small pack. Grasping
the reluctant pilot chute assembly I pull it out.
With a pop it drags the main canopy out into the free
air where it deploys properly. The sudden pull of the
opening chute slows my fall abruptly, resulting in a
rather stiff neck for the next few days, the least of
my problems. Hanging beneath a parachute over south
central Germany is hardly what I had planned as an
activity for the day. But here I am. Looking around I
count six more open chutes above and below me. There
should be ten, hopefully the missing are delaying in
hopes of eluding detection. A guess puts me at an
altitude of something just over 10,000 feet. I must
have fallen over a mile while messing around with the
parachute. Below on the ground some eager beaver cuts
loose with a rapid fire gun and I can see tracers
arching into the air below me... fortunately I am not
within their range. Unhappily I hear the sounds of
single rifle shots. A more worrisome turn of affairs.
However, nothing strikes me or the canopy above my
head and the gunfire soon ceases. As I near the
ground it becomes apparent that I'll land beside a
road adjacent to a recently plowed field. Down the
road a short distance
away a soldier on a bicycle is approaching the
landing site. I continue to fall and suddenly the
ground comes up fast and I just have time to catch a
glimpse of some people running in my direction from a
nearby field. Flexing my knees I hit, facing down
wind, roll and sit up, tugging on the lower shroud
lines to spill the air from the canopy. All in all,
an instruction book landing! As the parachute
collapses I struggle to my feet, releasing the
harness and shroud lines. Several people come running
up led by an elderly man. Speaking in German he
ascertains that I'm an American airman. With no
further ado, he starts a roundhouse blow at my head.
This, after the last hour's battle, flak, fire and
the parachute malfunction! What to do? With no
ability to fight back or negotiate, the only thing
that comes to mind is to keep his blow short and less
damaging. So, I step forward into the punch and watch
his faded blue eyes widen as I come closer. I roll
with the impact and after the first glancing blow he
begins to back away, trying for still another swing.
A young man (probably slave labor) pulls him away
just as the soldier arrives. Dismounting from his
bicycle the soldier proceeds to take charge of the
situation. On this mission I had chosen to leave my
side arm (a Colt 45) in my locker and also to wear a
brand new pair of GI shoes instead of the fleece
lined slippers that I had been wearing inside of my
flight boots on previous three missions. This was the
result of advice from more experienced crew members.
It turned out to be excellent counsel, for the gun
would have done me more harm than good and the shoes
served me well over the next year of captivity.
Particularly during the long cold days and nights on
the open road in front of the Russian advance. The
soldier put an end to the elderly man's active
hostilities and made sure that I had no weapons. He
then proceeded to examine my wounds and finding no
vital organs had been struck, helped fashion a sling
for my right arm using my G.I. neck scarf. He then
organized the spectators to help him with my gear. My
elderly adversary was given the Mae West to carry
while the younger man was put to work gathering up
the parachute and bundling it to carry. The remaining
four or five people just milled about. Off we went,
trudging down the road in the warm mid-day sunshine
of late May. The soldier, rifle still slung over his
shoulder pushing his bike, was followed by the old
man, now busily examining the Mae West. (The
flotation device was named for Mae West the actress,
because of her rather spectacular chest development.)
I limped along just to the right of the old fellow.
The remainder of the group straggled along in the
rear carrying the chute and chattering among
themselves. I felt like an actor in the midst of a
movie mob scene and had to keep telling myself that
this was for real. As we made our way along the
narrow road the old man's curiosity led him to fumble
with the lanyard which abruptly activated the
device's CO2 cylinder. This inflated the Mae West
with an explosive POP!. Dropping the now bulging life
vest the old man jumped back, scattering the
spectators in the process and causing a good deal of
confusion. After restoring order the soldier spent
some time explaining what the flotation device was
and assuring everyone that no harm could come to them
from it. However, I'm sure he didn't call it a Mae
West. After deflating it he persuaded the old man to
carry it again and we started down the road in the
warm sun as a slight breeze rose to cool us. I don't
know where the thought came from, nor why, but as we
walked along the Mae West, now deflated and slung
from the old mans right shoulder with its shark
repellent release dangling free, just within reach.
Just within reach? While walking in the sun,
perspiration had formed on the old fellow's face and
neck. The wind was right! With no further thought I
reach up with my left hand and gently pulled the
shark repellent release cord. This sent a cloud of
yellow-green powder billowing over the old man.
Confusion reigned again! When the soldier once more
established order he asked (in broken English and
German) what this stuff was. I explained as best I
could, for I had little or no German at that time,
that it was a substance to keep big fish away. Then,
looking at the now billously colored face and neck of
the old man, the next question was, what to do to get
rid of the smelly stuff? Water, I tell him, just soap
and water... knowing full well that moisture will set
a harmless stain that will persist for a couple of
weeks. To my thinking a just reward for the punch I'd
received. I'm sure that the old German remembered me
for some time. After walking for some distance a
little old lady dressed in black, carrying a knobby
black cane, came from who knows where, scuttled up
and joined the group. Believe me, she didn't need
that cane! She walked with us for a quarter mile or
so, edging her way over behind me. Then, shrieking
imprecations, she began enthusiastically thumping me
on the back of the head and about my shoulders with
the cane. It took considerable gentle persuasion on
the part of the soldier to get her to cease and go
home. All things considered I doubt that I'll ever
forget that walk in the sun. In a little while we
came to a cross road and were met by two soldiers in
a military truck carrying a mangled piece of Delayed
Lady, the forward end of the catwalk that had spanned
the bomb bay. Assisted into the rear of the truck,
with the Mae West and parachute stowed, I was taken
from my escort and driven to Saarlauten (?), a small
nearby village. There we pulled up in front of a
prominent building in the small town's center. A
number of people clustered about its enterance and
more were visible inside.
Quite a gathering. After I was helped down, the truck
disappeared, off to round up more
"Luftgangsters" I was sure. On a now
stiffening leg I was escorted into the building and
found Jay, the bombardier, sitting slumped at a
table. A perfect picture of dejection. The crowd of
spectators, mostly women and children with a
sprinkling of old men, lined the walls of the room.
As I entered, Jay, seeing that I was wounded, hopped
up and helped the soldiers open our two escape kits
to deal with the wounds. They proceeded to give me
some sulfa tablets! I swear that my ears began to
ring as a result, for they had used all that were in
both kits. Jay and the soldiers proceeded to bandage
my arm. It was a rather large wound and I saw that
they were going to use all the bandages on my arm.
Calling a halt to that activity I drew their
attention to the holes in my leg. One of the soldiers
produced a knife and slit the trouser leg up beyond
the knee, accompanied by oh's and ah's from the
audience. Not from sympathy for me I was sure, but
for the destruction of good fabric, a commodity that
was becoming scarce in Hitler's Germany. After the
trouser leg was slit where pieces of 20 mm had struck
my leg the wounds, two in my lower leg and another in
my knee, were bandaged. Later Jay told me how he got
there. It seems that after leaving Delayed Lady he
decided to free-fall into what appeared to him to be
a large forest. He looked about as he fell, to the
left, to the right, over both shoulders and beyond
his feet. All he could see were trees and more trees.
Black Forest! His escape kit, containing money and
other essentials necessary for survival in enemy
territory, was safely zipped inside the front of his
jacket. Great! As he fell lower branches soon became
clearly visible on the trees and he pulled his rip
cord. Inexperience had carried him almost too close
to the ground. However the parachute opened easily,
although almost too late, and deposited him with a
thump in the small village square directly in front
of this building! The little village had been
directly below the small of his back as he looked
about on his way down. About an hour passed and the
truck had returned carrying Delayed Lady's crew
chief, shaken but unhurt. In the mean time the
Germans soldiers consulted with their superiors by
telephone and after considerable discussion we were
placed back in the truck and taken to a nearby
antiaircraft garrison. It contained permanent
buildings and quite possibly the gunners responsible
for Delayed Lady's destruction were part of the
garrison. There we were locked in separate cells, not
to see each other again. Soon a young German soldier
entered my cell bearing a cup of hot
"ersatz" coffee. This concoction, said to
be made of processed acorns, had no relationship to
coffee other than its temperature! Sipping the
strange bitter brew, I saw that my cell consisted of
a room, about 8 by 12 feet, with a window at one end
and a door at the other. A wooden bench with a raised
area at one end, similar to an old-fashioned divan,
stretched along one wall. There were no chairs or
other furnishings. Fatigue took over and after
finishing the odd brownish liquid in the mug I lay
down on the hard wood of the couch. Soldiers came
from time to time to peer in the small window in the
door. Eventually someone brought me another cup of
ersatz coffee, a small bowl of thin soup and a slice
of black bread. After eating I was conducted to the latrine where I needed one of the German soldiers to support me on my right side. That leg and arm had both become stiff and could not be depended upon to
function properly.Calls of nature required my captors aid until I had reached Stalag Luft III, a permanent prison camp. Assistance such as this appeared to be old hat and something to be expected by the Luftwaffe soldiers (guards) who provided the support with, for the most part, just a,
"For you the war is over!", either in speech or attitude.
![[South Umpqua Oregon]](suocon.gif)
![[POW-Cotterell]](http://www.wizzards.net/n7jcz/oregon/graphics/0916-cott-thumbnail.gif)
POW![[B-17]](http://www.wizzards.net/n7jcz/oregon/graphics/b17g_bomber.gif)
![[Captured Airman]](http://www.wizzards.net/n7jcz/oregon/graphics/capture.gif)
distance
away a soldier on a bicycle is approaching the
landing site. I continue to fall and suddenly the
ground comes up fast and I just have time to catch a
glimpse of some people running in my direction from a
nearby field. Flexing my knees I hit, facing down
wind, roll and sit up, tugging on the lower shroud
lines to spill the air from the canopy. All in all,
an instruction book landing! As the parachute
collapses I struggle to my feet, releasing the
harness and shroud lines. Several people come running
up led by an elderly man. Speaking in German he
ascertains that I'm an American airman. With no
further ado, he starts a roundhouse blow at my head.
This, after the last hour's battle, flak, fire and
the parachute malfunction! What to do? With no
ability to fight back or negotiate, the only thing
that comes to mind is to keep his blow short and less
damaging. So, I step forward into the punch and watch
his faded blue eyes widen as I come closer. I roll
with the impact and after the first glancing blow he
begins to back away, trying for still another swing.
A young man (probably slave labor) pulls him away
just as the soldier arrives. Dismounting from his
bicycle the soldier proceeds to take charge of the
situation. On this mission I had chosen to leave my
side arm (a Colt 45) in my locker and also to wear a
brand new pair of GI shoes instead of the fleece
lined slippers that I had been wearing inside of my
flight boots on previous three missions. This was the
result of advice from more experienced crew members.
It turned out to be excellent counsel, for the gun
would have done me more harm than good and the shoes
served me well over the next year of captivity.
Particularly during the long cold days and nights on
the open road in front of the Russian advance. The
soldier put an end to the elderly man's active
hostilities and made sure that I had no weapons. He
then proceeded to examine my wounds and finding no
vital organs had been struck, helped fashion a sling
for my right arm using my G.I. neck scarf. He then
organized the spectators to help him with my gear. My
elderly adversary was given the Mae West to carry
while the younger man was put to work gathering up
the parachute and bundling it to carry. The remaining
four or five people just milled about. Off we went,
trudging down the road in the warm mid-day sunshine
of late May. The soldier, rifle still slung over his
shoulder pushing his bike, was followed by the old
man, now busily examining the Mae West. (The
flotation device was named for Mae West the actress,
because of her rather spectacular chest development.)
I limped along just to the right of the old fellow.
The remainder of the group straggled along in the
rear carrying the chute and chattering among
themselves. I felt like an actor in the midst of a
movie mob scene and had to keep telling myself that
this was for real. As we made our way along the
narrow road the old man's curiosity led him to fumble
with the lanyard which abruptly activated the
device's CO2 cylinder. This inflated the Mae West
with an explosive POP!. Dropping the now bulging life
vest the old man jumped back, scattering the
spectators in the process and causing a good deal of
confusion. After restoring order the soldier spent
some time explaining what the flotation device was
and assuring everyone that no harm could come to them
from it. However, I'm sure he didn't call it a Mae
West. After deflating it he persuaded the old man to
carry it again and we started down the road in the
warm sun as a slight breeze rose to cool us. I don't
know where the thought came from, nor why, but as we
walked along the Mae West, now deflated and slung
from the old mans right shoulder with its shark
repellent release dangling free, just within reach.
Just within reach? While walking in the sun,
perspiration had formed on the old fellow's face and
neck. The wind was right! With no further thought I
reach up with my left hand and gently pulled the
shark repellent release cord. This sent a cloud of
yellow-green powder billowing over the old man.
Confusion reigned again! When the soldier once more
established order he asked (in broken English and
German) what this stuff was. I explained as best I
could, for I had little or no German at that time,
that it was a substance to keep big fish away. Then,
looking at the now billously colored face and neck of
the old man, the next question was, what to do to get
rid of the smelly stuff? Water, I tell him, just soap
and water... knowing full well that moisture will set
a harmless stain that will persist for a couple of
weeks. To my thinking a just reward for the punch I'd
received. I'm sure that the old German remembered me
for some time. After walking for some distance a
little old lady dressed in black, carrying a knobby
black cane, came from who knows where, scuttled up
and joined the group. Believe me, she didn't need
that cane! She walked with us for a quarter mile or
so, edging her way over behind me. Then, shrieking
imprecations, she began enthusiastically thumping me
on the back of the head and about my shoulders with
the cane. It took considerable gentle persuasion on
the part of the soldier to get her to cease and go
home. All things considered I doubt that I'll ever
forget that walk in the sun. In a little while we
came to a cross road and were met by two soldiers in
a military truck carrying a mangled piece of Delayed
Lady, the forward end of the catwalk that had spanned
the bomb bay. Assisted into the rear of the truck,
with the Mae West and parachute stowed, I was taken
from my escort and driven to Saarlauten (?), a small
nearby village. There we pulled up in front of a
prominent building in the small town's center. A
number of people clustered about its enterance and
more were visible ![[Click to enlarge Map]](http://www.wizzards.net/n7jcz/oregon/graphics/s-map.gif)
![[Model of Stalag Luft III]](http://www.wizzards.net/n7jcz/oregon/graphics/camp-model.gif)
After eating I was conducted to the latrine where I needed one of the German soldiers to support me on my right side. That leg and arm had both become stiff and could not be depended upon to
function properly.Calls of nature required my captors aid until I had reached Stalag Luft III, a permanent prison camp. Assistance such as this appeared to be old hat and something to be expected by the Luftwaffe soldiers (guards) who provided the support with, for the most part, just a,
"For you the war is over!", either in speech or attitude.