Written 17 December 1976. 32 years have elapsed so my narrative may have a few discrepancies; although, I doubt it, as it seems like it happened yesterday, and most of the happening is quite vivid in my memory.

"Alright you guys, outa the sack.  Come on, let's go!  Keerist!  You wanna sleep all day - come on, let's go - Jesus, watta bunch!"  My eyes open slowly, and staring at me in the dark is the orderly with his flashlight.  It's 3:00 AM and time for another flight over enemy territory.  I lie there trying vainly to remove my body from my warm sack; and sack it was.  In order to keep warm we (the enlisted men anyway) used to crawl into our mattress covers - which in essence were sacks - this way we could keep a little warmer.  The original "Italian sleeping bag" you might call it.  Anyway, I'm lying there listening to "Putt-putt" get a razzing from Frank.  Putt-putt is Fred Gaul, the flight engineer, and called Putt-putt because one of his jobs is to fire up the little gasoline engine (like a power mower) which powers the airplane until the engines are started.  Frank Yesia, the ball gunner, is a wise guy.  Frank is from Cicero, Illinois, home of the gangsters, and although Frank is far from the so-called "tough-nut", he is still held in awe by a few of us as having come from that tough part of Chicago - Al Capone's old stomping grounds.  Anyway, he's needling Putt-putt, the youngest on the crew, and the "goat".  We all have a good laugh and finally manage to shake ourselves loose from the sacks.

Our enlisted men's tent was comprised of six men: Thomas Diebert, S/Sgt., top turret gunner; Joe Mergo, S/Sgt., tail gunner; Roy Doe, Sgt., nose gunner; Frank Yesia, Cpl., ball gunner; Fred Gaul, Sgt., flight engineer-waist gunner; and myself, right waist gunner-radio operator.  We were a close knit crew.  I think we were possibly the most congenial crew in Italy.  We all got along great.  The officers, who lived in a separate tent in another part of the airfield, were considered by us as "regular guys".  They were a good group.  I know this "camaraderie" was not universal.  I firmly believe we had a unique crew, and it was a shame it all came to an end this 17th day of December 1944.

So here we are, struggling into our clothes, each man dressing as he saw fit - it was an informal uniform we wore - we weren't going to stand inspection or bow before the C.O., so we chose the most comfortable and warmest clothing each preferred.  I usually wore my O.D.'s (wool shirt and pants) for warmth.  We later picked up our electrically heated suits, parachutes and oxygen masks at the flight line.  We finally get dressed and stagger over to the mess hall for breakfast.  One thing you can say about combat crews and combat flying - we never wanted for a warm place to sleep or good things to eat.  It was hell over the target but, before and after, we had it pretty dammed good!  So here we are, eating our eggs and bacon, plenty of it, along with coffee and toast, and razzing each other about last night.  Wow!  What a night that was.  First, I'd like to explain how it was when we weren't flying.  One night we had movies or played ping-pong.  The next night the Enlisted Men's Club was open.  So, on alternate nights it was either movies or the Enlisted Men's Club.  The movies weren't bad, held outdoors, usually an old Betty Grable or Bob Hope movie, but anything was ok as long as it had a few laughs in it.  The Enlisted Men's Club was just the mess hall - after 8:00 PM.  It was a bar, period, but the drinks were cheap enough - 50ç each, or three for a dollar.  Needless to say, we all ordered three at a time. There wasn't much choice - I can't remember for sure what else there was, but I know we always had 101 proof British Rum and grapefruit juice from the kitchen.  It made a potent drink and, at three for a dollar, it didn't take many to relieve our frustration and anxieties.  So, at breakfast this morning we were discussing the last night's events.  It wasn't much - after six, nine, or twelve rum and grapefruits we were feeling no pain.  Roy Doe was singing over and over, "Roll me over in the clover, lay me down and do it again, roll me over in the clover, lay me down and do it again ---".  I can still see it as plain as yesterday - and hear Roy singing.  It wasn't long before he was out of it, so we got the stretcher and lugged him home to the tent.  Knowing 3:00 AM was going to come around quite soon, we all joined Roy and flaked out.  So here we were a few hours later, eating like nothing had happened, (I wish I could do that now) and razzing each other.

Breakfast over, we had to go to the general briefing for the flight and then we went to our respective special briefings.  My radio operator briefing usually consisted of frequencies for the day, and I picked up my chaff (aluminum foil) which I threw out over the target to foul up the enemy radar.  Next stop, was the plane.  Each man had a specific job to do - a general pre-flight.

We checked our guns, loaded them - I checked the radio equipment, etc.  We put on our electrically heated suits - which were thin suits, similar to thermal underwear, laced with wiring and had a plug which we plugged into a jack on the airplane.  Over the electrically heated suit we put on a heavy jacket and pants which protected the relatively thin and fragile electric suit and was heavy enough to protect one from the cold in the event of an electricity failure - even though it seemed as if you were freezing to death.  So here we were, all dressed up and no place to go - as it were.

Tom Qualman, the navigator, comes by and says, "Well it looks like we're sitting around here for awhile.  The magneto on #3 is kaput and we'll have to wait for it to be fixed."  Before long we are wondering if we are going to make it.  You'd think we'd be tickled pink to be able to abort even before leaving the ground but, as I had said before, we weren't a "normal" crew.  Even when we had first arrived in Italy we wanted to fly the very next day, but training and other events took precedence over foolish actions.  So, even after a good number of missions, we were still itching to fly.  Finally came the order to get ready.  We were going to fly!  If we could get off and catch up with the rest of the group, we could go.  Keerist!  You'd think we were going on a picnic instead of a deadly bomb run.

We're off, climbing through the grey overcast to find the sun at 20,000 plus.  Where is everyone?  Jesus! - we're all alone, we'll never make it - but we try.  Soon, far out over the Adriatic, we spot the rest of the group and try to catch up.  We are heading for Blechhammer - the oil refineries - the dreaded target No. 2 on the list, right after Berlin.  The second toughest, and the longest distance from Foggia.  All of a sudden I'm feeling cold.  What the hell my electric suit must be going out.  Keerist!  It's freezing!  About this time, I look out the left waist window and see the group way off to our left.  I'm wondering to myself what the hell they are doing way over there, and here we are flying tail-end Charlie when we should be right wing (as we had worked our way up) but, having left the ground late due to magneto trouble, we had to settle for what we could grab and that was into the slot at the ass end.

I couldn't help but think about what we had been through, all the previous missions, all the flack, all the tension, watching the others go down, fail to come back, working our way up from tail-end Charlie to right wing.  Boy!  Only one more to go and we would be squadron leader!

I recalled the first few days when I talked with some of the crews that had been here for awhile.  We were talking about R&R (that's short for "rest and rehabilitation").  It was a known fact that our rest camp was on the Isle of Capri, on the far side of Italy from where we were.  So, I innocently asked - "Well, how is it on the Isle of Capri - how's the wine - what are the girls like?"  He laughs, and remarks, "Who knows?  No one has ever lasted long enough to get their 25 missions in and go!"  It didn't take long to find out what the score was.  Day by day crews didn't come back - and now we were heading for the same fate, although we didn't know it then.

So here I am, freezing to death I thought, and wondering how come we're all alone - when over the intercom comes Joe's voice, "Fighters! Here they come!"  Almost immediately his exclamation was followed by the sound and reverberation of his guns.  I'm looking out the waist window but can't see any fighters as they were to my rear and high, it wasn't more than three or four seconds from the time Joe yelled when it sounded like rain on a tin roof, and the 20 mm shells from the fighters were ripping through the roof of the plane, missing Putt-putt and me by inches, and exploding into the forward part of the plane.  The oxygen bottles on the deck near the bomb bay doors blew up and caught fire.  I was encased in a sheet of flame, my clothes were on fire.  The aircraft took a violent lunge upward.  I was knocked flat to the bottom of the plane and momentarily stunned.  You see, Putt-putt and I, being waist gunners, just stood up - we were not sitting in a seat or turret, strapped down with safety belts - so with any violent maneuvers of the aircraft we found ourselves hanging on for dear life or being thrown around like rag dolls.  Now I was on my knees looking for my parachute, the interior of the plane was a mass of fire.  I found my chute (it was a chest pack and I had to snap it on the harness which I was wearing).  It seemed like hours - I couldn't lift it - it felt like a ton.  Little did I realize then that we were in a flat spin, and I was under negative "G" forces.

I finally managed to get the chute snapped to the harness and then, just as I dove head first through the waist window, I saw Putt-putt standing there watching me and assumed that he followed.  I hadn't wasted any time once I was able to move.  I just knew I had to get away from the fire.  I didn't even take the time to disconnect my oxygen mask, intercom, or electrical suit.  In the ensuing dive through the window I just ripped everything loose as the slack in all the wires was taken up.  My oxygen mask was torn from my face.  Due to the centrifugal force I didn't clear the side of the aircraft and my left foot was caught on the window sill.  I kicked back with my right foot and suddenly I was free - falling through the bright sunshine.

Pulling the ripcord was an involuntary act - I don't remember actually doing it.  God, it was quiet - so peaceful - so still.  I looked around - nothing - no chutes - no planes - the overcast was way below, no ground in sight, bright sun overhead and clouds below.  I couldn't get over how quiet it was; then I began to panic - it felt like I was just hanging there.  There was no sense of motion - nothing close to relate a downward drift to.  I just knew I was stuck.  How the hell was I going to get down!  All of a sudden I found I couldn't breathe!  I was in pain!  I didn't realize it then, but I was suffering from lack of oxygen.  It was a horrible feeling.  I couldn't stand it.  I wanted to end it - now!  I tried to unsnap my chute.  I couldn't do it because of my weight.  I wanted to unbuckle my harness and free myself so I could fall free and quick to relieve my misery, but I couldn't get the harness unbuckled either - because of my weight.  It was approximately 12:05 PM - at about 26,000 feet - I passed out from lack of oxygen.

The next thing I knew, I was under the clouds and coming down near a village.  I could see various buildings - a church spire quite prominently.  There was snow on the ground and I saw that I was about to come down in a plowed field on the edge of town.  I could see some figures running to where I was about to land.  I was coming down backwards.  I reached up to shift the risers of the chute to try and turn around - when I hit the ground.  I hadn't realized how fast I was descending and hit the ground unexpectedly, and immediately folded up like an accordion.  It was probably a lucky thing as I did not brace myself, but landed like a limp rag and, therefore, did not break any bones.  I lay there for a few seconds getting my breath back.  I wiggled my toes to make sure my back wasn't broken - it had felt like I had broken every bone in my body.  Just as I struggled to my feet I remembered the figures I had noticed running across the field.  By now, they were close upon me.  I could see they were German soldiers.  They were shouting and yelling "pistola, pistola" and making gestures by holding their hands under their right armpit.  They wanted my Colt .45 automatic pistol.  We had been issued the pistol and shoulder holster, but were advised not to carry it as it was very unlikely we would be in a position to use it.  Generally, the situation was such that an armed airman was treated badly by the Germans - as opposed to better treatment for an unarmed airman.  Anyway, the German soldiers were having a foot race to see who could get to me and get my pistol.

I suppose I should say, at this point in my story, that I could have "John Wayne'd" it and pulled out my .45 Pistol and shot the first five or six soldiers - like in the movies - and then stood there while the rest shot me full of holes; but then I wouldn't be here writing this story - would I?  You see, I had landed just across the road from a German army camp, and had literally thousands of soldiers to welcome me to their country.  The first soldier to reach me was disappointed to find no pistol, so he took my helmet instead.  The helmet and my parachute was all they took.  I was not molested in any way.

I was then escorted to the Commandant's office, where I received a cordial welcome and had a nice chat with the Commandant - who, by the way, spoke fluent English.  I had bailed out at 12:01 PM.  It was 29 minutes later when I hit the ground - 12:30 PM when I had first glanced at my watch.  It is now almost 1:00 PM, and the Commandant has offered me a cigarette and a glass of brandy.  I'm sitting there petting his big Irish setter and feeling relaxed and free.  It is just beginning to penetrate my senses that the war is over - for me anyway - selfish though it may sound.  I tell the Commandant my name, rank and serial number - discuss my home and family, and exchange a few pleasantries.  No military or vital security information was discussed whatsoever. After a few moments, I noticed him looking at me rather oddly, as if he were worried about something.  He picked up his phone and made a short call.  About this time my eyes were beginning to feel rather strange - a tight sensation - no pain, but a feeling as though I couldn't blink my eyes.  A moment later - the door opened and a doctor entered.  He gave me a brief examination and spoke to the Commandant in German.  I did not know what he said.  The doctor left in a few minutes, and no sooner had he gone when two soldiers, in full uniforms, with Schmeiser machine pistols, appeared and the Commandant said they would escort me to town.  He wished me well, we shook hands and I was off.  The town center was about three miles away, and we walked.  We had walked several hundred yards before my thoughts brought me recollections of stories we had heard about the Germans.  The farmers would stick you to death with their pitchforks -- the doctors had enormous hypodermic needles to fill you with poison - the soldiers would march you to a remote spot in the forest and shoot you - and on and on - my imagination ran rampant with all the thoughts.  I was positive these two soldiers were going to kill me.  They spoke no English and I no German.  They would motion and point with their machine pistols the direction I was to take.  Right into the woods, along a narrow and isolated path - this was it - I just knew it!  At first they were alongside, one on each side; presently, they were talking among themselves and were slowly getting behind me.  The slower they walked, the slower I walked.  I wasn't about to let them get behind so they could shoot me.

Well, it wasn't long before the path widened and we were on a road.  A few houses appeared and then the town.  I was taken to what looked like a school (at any rate, it was very similar in appearance to the grammar school I had attended when a child).  They took me into the kitchen - a huge area that had been turned into a makeshift first aid area.  I received another brief examination, and then appeared the dreaded hypodermic needle.  I swear it looked to be about two feet long and four inches in diameter.  It was a size I had never seen before, but I was assured it was only a tetanus shot.  Next I was ushered into the auditorium where there were about two dozen airmen, none of whom I had seen before.  It was now about 3:00 PM, and I sat there wondering what would be next.  About every 15 to 30 minutes, two or more airmen would be brought in.  The room was slowly filling up and yet no one I knew appeared.  I was beginning to wonder, "Christ! Did I jump out too soon?"  It had been done before.  Maybe I'd panicked and left a crew now on its way home.  Then I thought back - looked at my flying suit (I was quite a sight!).  My flying suit was in shreds, blackened from the fire, holes completely burned through in spots.  I finally convinced myself I couldn't possibly have been burned like this and the plane still be flying.

About 4:00 PM, they brought us some black bread and coffee (ersatz) which I couldn't eat.  I didn't like the taste of either, and I wasn't hungry.  Later on I would have given anything to have that glorious piece of black bread - which was soon to come to taste like rich cake.  My eyes were now beginning to swell shut and I could hardly see.  The pain was beginning, and I was slowly comprehending that I was burned worse than I thought.  My helmet and oxygen mask had protected my head and face, with the exception of the area around my eyes.  My goggles were on my head, riding high on my forehead - they were too uncomfortable to wear (sound familiar?), so my eyes had been burned, and not having access to a mirror I couldn't see the extent.  About 5:00 PM, an orderly came up to me and said that when it got good and dark they would put me in an ambulance and take me to a hospital.  I think it was about 8:00 PM when they led me to the ambulance.

I was met by a sound I will never forget - the voice of Tom Noesges, bombardier, who was lying on a stretcher with a broken leg.  It was a voice out of heaven.  Not only was I among friends again, (the auditorium, by 6:00 PM, had filled almost to capacity and I still hadn't seen anyone I knew) but my worst suspicions were allayed.  I now knew for certain that I hadn't jumped too soon.  I believe Tom was as glad to see me as I him.  I know, for myself, it was a grand and glorious reunion.  We were taken to a train and eventually ended up in a hospital in Brunn, Czechoslovakia, where we received our initial treatment.  I remember quite well being given a bath upon arrival, by female nurses, and not being able to see, my embarrassment was well hidden.  Tom Noesges and I were in the same room with two other Americans.  Shortly thereafter (about two weeks later) I had recovered enough to travel, and one of the other prisoners-of-war and I were taken to a regular POW camp for interrogation - leaving Tom Noesges at the hospital.

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