Catastrophes and Adventures
A Wartime Adventure
Catastrophes may strike anyone at any time, as
Noah’s Boys discovered. But whether or
not they are later seen as an Adventure has to do with the End of the Story. My own father experienced a personal
catastrophe when he was shot down over Nazi Germany. Later, however, he described it as “My
Wartime Adventures.”
Here is a part of
his story.
“For our first actual mission over enemy territory
in September of 1944, we were given a “used” B-17-E: the patched-up veteran of
many missions. The ground crew said it
was a lucky one. Very early that morning
we joined up with a big formation of B-17’s.
I recall looking out my Co-Pilot window as we first flew into
“flak.” I saw the B-17 on my right hand
get hit by Ack-Ack and explode on the bomb run.
It went down fast —and no parachutes appeared! Ten men were doomed! That was a sobering first vision of combat.
Being winter, many missions were called off due to
adverse weather or bad vision over the “target.” But we still got up early every time and
assembled in the aerial squadron.
We actually flew nine full missions, going through
anti-aircraft “flak” each time as we dropped our bombs over Germany. When we flew, our squadron was in close
formation: our wingtips were nearly touching our neighboring airplanes. The idea was to keep the German fighters from
flying in between us, shooting up a bomber, and coming back. On one of our
missions a “V-2” came up at our B-17 formation on its flight to London. We were close, and felt the rocket’s
wake.
We saw our buddies get hit and go down on nearly
every mission. There were very few
parachutes! We lost 10 percent or more
on every mission. I have recently heard that the common loss of planes on a
bomb run was about 10%, so we were running about average when we were assigned
to bomb some submarine pens for our tenth mission on 17 Jan 1945.
By that day all was becoming routine: I got up
around 0300. We took off with our plane
fully loaded with bombs, fuel, ammo, and our normal crew, and climbed up to
altitude in the dark. We joined up with
an immense formation, and were heading for Europe by dawn.
There really were a thousand airplanes in those
formations. The deep drone of so many
engines must have been a thunderous rumble to the Germans.
On that mission we encountered very heavy flak, but
were able to drop the bombs on the target.
But we hadn’t escaped unhurt: our right hand engine suddenly
stopped—there was a hit on the oil hopper!
With so much less power we had to drop out of our position. This attracted more fire from the ground
--anti-aircraft gun, rifle, and anything else they could shoot.
Another engine soon overheated and caught fire-- it
had to be shut down. We still hoped to
return to England, but could not stay with the formation. The bomb run had given us a run east into
Germany; we now turned north, planning to go over the North Sea into
Sweden. To reduce our weight, we threw
our machine guns and ammunition overboard —and anything else we could. Before long, we realized our engines did not
have enough power to get over the North Sea!
We were going down!
Our descent took about an hour. Maylan told me to
pick the spot, and went back to help the tail gunner and ball turret gunner out
of their turrets, and to get everyone into crash positions. Crash landing with the wheels retracted was
standard procedure; but the dangling ball turrets would have been immediately
smashed off, meaning certain death if they had remained. Another engine lost
power—that left us only one! From about
twelve thousand feet of altitude I looked at the forests of Schleswig-Holstein,
and chose a green pasture for our landing.
Then I looked out of my window, and was startled to
see a Messerschmidt keeping pace with us!
I turned the plane away from the North Sea and aimed for the now-closer
green rectangle. The fighter could have
turned and easily shot us down; but we are indebted to him, and I thank God he
left us alone to crash land!
As I nosed our plane down for the last few seconds
before the crash, Maylan joined me in his seat and helped pull the heavy rudder
up full. We approached the ground, the
wheels still retracted, the rudder sluggish, and only the far left engine still
working.
We touched down at 90 miles per hour, plowing into
a flock of 12 sheep, killing them instantly, and began a long skid. We avoided
a full collision, but scraped the left wing against a barn. The right-hand inboard engine tore loose and
tumbled to a near miss of the farm building—which actually turned out to be a
school, filled with students. The left
wing ground against the barn; if it had ground any more, it would have sparked
against the leaking fuel, and blown up the aircraft.
Amazingly, however, the crew all got out
unharmed! Maylan climbed through the
left window; I went head first from my right window, flipping over to land feet
first on the ground! (The photos above
of our plane were taken by an 11 year-old German student the day after our
crash, and sent to us just a few years ago.)
Procedure in such cases was to destroy the airplane
to prevent the enemy from examining it.
The crew spread parachutes over the dripping fuel tank to spread a fire;
but no one had a match or cigarette lighter!
Frustrated, we all ran together to hide in a stand of trees, but the
schoolmaster came out with a shotgun and found us at once. He had help from teachers and students, and
we soon were all lined up against the barn we had scraped. Then the schoolmaster went inside and put on
his Kaiser Wilhelm helmet with the spike on top!
Several boys seemed to want to see us shot—a pair
of them got into a fight. The audience
enjoyed the fight, which was the dirtiest I had ever seen, grabbing genitals and
the like.
Eventually Army trucks came and took all of us away
to “Interrogation.” We two pilots were separated from the crew, and I was
separated from Maylan, too. We were all
put into different trucks. That was the
last contact I had with any of the crew until after my discharge. The interrogating officer seemed to know more
about me than I was willing to tell him.
After that I was marched to the nearby train
station, where a crowd of German villagers viewed us with hatred. A little girl with a missing leg caught my
eye. That night I was put on a shot-up
German passenger train, and rode from Schleswig-Holstein to Frankfurt, and from
there to Nuremburg—no food that I recall.
Next was a 3 or 4-day march under old German guard troops. No food that I recall: by now I was
hungry. We slept in barns, on cold hard
floors.
Marching across a farm field I stooped over and
picked up a turnip… the marching guard yelled at me and someone behind me said:
“drop it or they’ll shoot you.” I turned
and saw a rifle pointed at me—so I dropped it.
I have not liked turnips since that moment. We were marched past Nuremburg, Mosseburg,
and then into Stalag Luft prison.
I was with other American prisoners of war, but did
not feel like talking much. Once in the
prison camp, I slept on a pile of straw with a blanket. We must have lined up for food distribution,
but it was awful—all I remember is weed soup.
We were mostly left to ourselves all day: there was no reveille or
routine like that.
I had left my clarinet “Elmer” in the barracks in
England. (It was mailed to me years
later—I had my name on the case.) But
somehow I got a metal clarinet that came from the Red Cross—I still have
it! I would go out into a ditch to play
it, and had no trouble from the other prisoners. It kept me sane!
We divided up Red Cross boxes from America that
included cigarettes. I swapped mine for
food and for a little notebook that was made by Russian POWs. The Russians were in their own compound
enclosed by a barbed wire fence. It was
separated from our compound by a space patrolled by police dogs. But the Russians somehow got over our fence
anyway, and traded stuff they had made from scraps for cigarettes. The guards would gladly have shot them! Our “toilet” was a barracks with rows of
slanted seats with buckets. But it kept
the stink under control. The Germans had
some prisoners man the “honey buckets.”
Three months later we heard rumors that Patton’s
tank troops were coming to free us. I do
not recall the date but on that day there was much excitement in camp. We heard that “S.S.” troops were on one side
of the camp, and Americans on the other!
Lots of gunfire erupted. Since I
was outside, I dived into a ditch and lay still. Looking up, I saw that bullet holes had
appeared in the wall of a tent next to me: if I had sat up, I would have been
killed, shot by one side or the other.
After more shooting, things eventually quieted, and
there were shouts: “The Americans are here!”
We scrambled out, happily liberated from the clutches of the Nazis. I recall stepping over some old German
guards—now quite dead—as we were guided out.
After de-lousing and feeding, we burned our stinky uniforms and got new
clothes. I was flown in a DC 3, which
circled around the Eiffel Tower, and brought to “Camp Lucky Strike,” a big Army
Field Hospital Camp in Saint-Sylvan, France for liberated prisoners of
war.
I brought my Red Cross clarinet with me, and soon
was being checked over by doctors. I
weighed only 95 pounds, and was suffering from starvation, lice, and I’m not
sure what else: I felt very weak.
Because of my poor physical condition, I ended up convalescing for some
time at Camp Lucky Strike. We were lined
up for good meals, and could brush our teeth and bathe whenever we wanted.
Some of us went to Paris on leave, but I did not—I
was in a hurry to get home. I got on a “Liberty Ship” by way of buses, trucks,
and trains, and spent 20 days in the “Last Convoy” of the war. Forming up, we steamed west by way of Newfoundland. The convoy did zigzagging, as there was still
fear of submarines, and we deliberately went through fog and storms to avoid
them. Finally, we got to New York City,
and were delighted to see the Statue of Liberty. We were home: the war in Europe was over.”
Notes:
Excerpted from “Dad’s Wartime Adventures.” (Donald Horning, 2005) The first photo was taken by a young German boy
who shared them with my brother Stevan Horning during a personal visit to
Germany about 60 years later.
The Catastrophe
The Happy Ending: An Adventure!
Gregory Horning
Comments
Post a Comment