Photo: Larry and Barbara Hewin, Williamsburg, Virginia, May 2004

The Last Flight of the Baggy Maggy – and borrowed time – Written by Larry Hewin

Foreword

In early September of 1992, I was contacted by Eugene ‘Shab’ Shabatura, who had been a gunner on my B-24 crew in WWII. I had not had contact with any of the crew since 1945 – a period of 47 years.

Shab had been in touch with some of the other crew members he had located through membership in the 2nd Air Division Association. He located me by forwarding a letter to the Veterans Administration, asking that they forward the letter to me; knowing that I was wounded on our last mission, he reasoned that the VA would know where I was.

Beyond his contact with the crew members, he had been in contact with a Hollander named Jos Van Roozendaal, who was seeking information about Baggy Maggy, the B-24 I was flying, and her crew on her last flight when she crashed near his home in Holland and the crew became ‘kriegies’ (POW slang for Kreigsgefangenen, German for prisoner of war). An odd coincidence is that Van Roozendaal was born on the same day that Shab was liberated from the German prison camp he was in after our capture when Baggy Maggy was shot down.

Why, then, the determined interest on Van Roozendaal’s part in something that occurred so long ago? There are several reasons. He and some associates are interested in military aviation and in WWII history, particularly as it pertains to their area.

I found that Van Roozendaal had furnished Shab with pictures of the field in which we crashed. I had given a Hollander my wrist watch that day just before the Germans arrived; I was amazed to learn he still has it, and has sent Shab a picture of it.

Bill Kirlin, my radio operator, was killed in the crash. The Hollanders established a marker at the crash site where he was buried that day. They have proposed to establish some kind of memorial to the aircraft and crew at the crash site.

It is perhaps an understatement to say that, forty-eight years after the crash, I was intensely moved by all this. I resolved to write this account and provide it to such of the old crew as can be located, Jos Van Roozendaal and his associates and to some of my family – they have undoubtedly heard me reminisce about parts of it, but not the whole story.

I heard an ex-POW speak not long ago (about Patton’s failed attempt to liberate the POW camp at Hammelburg, Germany), who advanced his opinion that no one who went through the POW experience came out of it unchanged; that his values, judgments of his fellow man, and of himself would be forever tempered and colored by his POW experience. I agree. While I would not volunteer to do it again, I would not delete the experience out of my past, if such were possible, even for a considerable sum.

Larry Hewin
September 1992

Preface

Undoubtedly, I should have many years ago tried to set down some details of the September 18th, 1944 mission of the B-24 Bomber, Baggy Maggy, and her crew to the vicinity of Arnhem, Holland. However, I have never had much inclination to look rearward and so have found it easy to procrastinate. Belatedly, I will try to recall and describe some of those events, as well as to summarize what I have been doing since.

The passage of 48 years inevitably dims the memory; thus, my account may contain errors. If so, I will welcome corrections or additions from anyone who can offer more accurate information or recollection.

The Combat Operation

The overall operation in which we were involved was code-named Market Garden. The American 101st Airborne Division under Gen. Maxwell Taylor, the 82nd Airborne Division under Gen. James Gavin (I got to know both those gentlemen in later years when I had occasion to brief them on Army Aviation Research matters) and the British First Airborne Division landed behind German lines in the vicinity of Arnhem on the 17th of September. The overall operation has been well-described in the book ‘A Bridge Too Far,’ by Cornelius Ryan.

The plan was for an early linkup with the Airborne by other forces commanded by Field Marshal Montgomery. In brief there were two major problems encountered in executing the plan: There were too many heavily defended bridges to cross to make the linkup; and there were intelligence foul-ups, such as an SS division in the area that the Allies were unaware of and communications failures. The Holland underground had information on German dispositions that some Allied commanders did not have. An arrogant General Montgomery reportedly refused to consider the data and would not listen to Prince Bernard or his people.

The result was that the entire operation did not go as planned and was something of a disaster. The British lost most of their Airborne Division. The Americans lost many Airborne troops; and the 8th Air Force had eight B-24s shot down, including Baggy Maggy, the B-24 our crew was flying. Four other B-24s were so severely damaged they crashed in England.

In a paper on Operation Market Garden, Robert Oberschmid, a retired officer who was with the 93rd Bomb Group, sums up: ‘In the final analysis Montgomery’s end run around the Ruhr was an utter disaster. Inadequate planning, ineffective staffing, confusion and timid leadership led to one of the greatest defeats of the war.’ Of the B-24 efforts, Clay Blair says in Ridgway’s Paratroopers, ‘These drops, by completely inexperienced bomber crews who had had only the sketchiest of briefings, were also wildly inaccurate.’ However, he also reports that Gavin’s troops recovered about 80% of the 250 tons dropped to him and Taylor recovered about 20% of the 250 tons dropped to him. So the losses of the day were not in vain, even if they were inefficient.

Our Mission

We were a part of the 409th Squadron, 93rd Bomb Group (H), 2nd Division of the 8th Air Force, stationed at Hardwick, England. We were to fly in resupply early on the 18th – going in low, pulling up to about 500 feet for the airdrop, then dropping down and returning home. The operation was expected to be such a ‘milk-run’ that it was considered doubtful that we would get mission credit.

The morning of the 18th, we got our usual mission briefing, and went to our assigned aircraft, Baggy Maggy. (My remembrance is that we were awaiting assignment of our regular aircraft, which I wanted painted with a wounded and bandaged donkey on crutches, to be called ‘My Achin’ Ass.’) Baggy Maggy was a tired aircraft and looked it. Sgt. Shabatura remembers that as we were loading, some officers came by in a jeep and one of them remarked, ‘If the Germans get this, they will not be getting much.’

Information that Shab obtained through 2nd Air Division contacts establishes that Baggy Maggy had good reason to be tired; she had been with the 93rd BG at least as far back as mid-1943 and had been on the Ploesti raid. She was assigned to at least three crews as their ‘regular’ aircraft, and undoubtedly flown by many others. Jim McMahon who flew in her in 1943 to Berlin and other rough raids is a fan; he says of Maggy, ‘She was about the best plane in the 93rd,’ and, ‘. . .she always ran like a sewing machine,’ a characteristic we verified and appreciated during our mission in her. Reminiscing about Baggy Maggy and her crews, Jim has suggested that all her users should form a ‘Baggy Maggy Fan Club.’ The respect paid by some of her former crew to this honorable old girl makes it almost embarrassing to have been her pilot on her final flight.

The crew of Baggy Maggy that day

Pilot 2nd Lt. Larry M. Hewin
Copilot 2nd Lt. Richard C. Scott
Navigator 2nd Lt. Henry Greenberg
Bombardier 2nd Lt. George W. Sadler
Flight Engineer T/Sgt. Donald Dukeman
Radio Op. T/Sgt. William Kirlin, Jr.
Gunner S/Sgt. Eugene H. Shabatura
Gunner S/Sgt. Osborn Malone
Gunner S/Sgt. George S. Burford
Supply Specialist Sgt Bolton

Several members of the above list were not part of my ‘regular’ crew who had trained together at Colorado Springs and had then flown a B-24 from Lincoln, Nebraska to Ireland via Bangor, Goose Bay, Labrador, Greenland, and Iceland. We had flown six bombing missions, some fairly easy, some such as Magdeburg extremely rough – I think we lost 12 out of 36 planes that day, one of them being a crew with whom our own crew had some close friends.

We had also been pulled from regular bombing missions for a while to fly supply missions to France, chasing General Patton’s rapidly advancing tank columns. These were low level flights, and we got complaints from our crew chief who had to pick Lombardy Poplar branches put of the bomb bay doors. This was great fun for me as pilot, but may have been a little electrifying for those riding in the nose section.

At the time of the Arnhem mission, our regular navigator 2nd Lt. Will Landon had been assigned to lead navigator training and Greenberg was in his slot. Our regular Flt. Eng., T/Sgt. Frank Wathen had been relieved pro tem, I think because of an injury, and Dukeman was in his slot. Bolton was a services of supply man assigned incident to the supply drop functions and replacing our Armorer/Gunner, S/Sgt. Stallings since bombing was not on the menu. Why then a bombardier? We were traveling at treetop altitude where navigation is difficult. Sadler was to do pilotage navigation, the ‘eyeball’ kind with chart in hand looking at the terrain and other identifiable objects.

After pre-flighting that morning, we were sitting in Baggy Maggy awaiting our time to start engines and taxi when we got our first clue there was some problem. We were told to hold up take-off, there would be a re-briefing on route and target. I think, but am not now sure, that the navigators were re-briefed more than once that morning. Our thought at the time was that ‘there is something wrong with this picture.’ And there was.

I do not recall that the flight into Holland was initially anything but routine. The supply missions we had flown previously had familiarized us with the beauty of the scenery as viewed from low level, and the startled looks from natives as we would pop over a hedgerow. It was routine until we pulled up to 500 feet to make the drop on what we believed to be the target zone. We were then hit with a heavy barrage of ground fire, ranging from the small caliber ‘zip’ guns and machine guns to 20mm flak.

The storm of gunfire took its toll on us. I had 20mm wounds in my right arm and both legs, apparently severing arteries in all three limbs and making me virtually useless as the pilot of a severely damaged aircraft. Others of the crew had received wounds as well, but the circumstances kept me from learning all of them at the time. I do know that Burford had a bullet in the calf of his leg.

I asked that they drag me out of the seat and get someone into my seat to try to help the copilot (Scotty) fly the airplane. They did so, bombardier George Sadler getting that duty. Sgt. Kirlin, the radio operator, then administered morphine and multiple tourniquets to me as I lay prone on the flight deck floor under the top turret with Kirlin alongside.

The aircraft was heavily damaged. Scotty has since described Maggy flying ‘as though a big hand were pushing her down.’ George has noted that he had both feet on one rudder pushing hard to help Scotty handle the directional control. I suspect we had lost some wing surface, some tail surface and possibly had damage to the control surfaces.

There did not appear to be engine damage. I recall that I could see the power settings from where I lay. Scotty was drawing more than rated full power (I think nearly 65’Hg – I believe 47′ was the redline – and 2700 RPM) from all four engines, much exceeding the redline. To quote Scotty, ‘. . .all the temperature gauges with the needles up against the pegs – RED HOT – and not an engine quit. If any one had, we wouldn’t be here. We’d have crashed immediately.’ From my flying experience, I don’t know any engine other than those Pratt & Whitneys that would take that kind of punishment and keep on flying.

Still, we could not maintain airspeed and were having a hard time with directional control. I told Scotty to put her down in the first field that he thought might give us a chance. He had to climb over every hedgerow we approached, each time doubting whether the airplane could get over without stalling. The decision to land or not in each field had to be made in a split second. My recollection is that Scotty considered and rejected some before deciding ‘this is it.’

The crash landing

I cannot describe the crash landing. I experienced what I have since heard described as an ‘out-of-body experience.’ From about the moment of impact until the aircraft had stopped, I had no physical sensations: no pain, nothing real in my vision, no sounds, nothing. My existence for that brief period, as though in a warm homogeneous softly lighted cloud, was as a mind only. The mind was clear and sharp. I specifically recall wondering whether I would survive or not. I felt no fear of death. If it was inevitable, my only feeling was regret for those I would leave behind. The experience had at least one lasting effect: while I have since never wanted to die, and have done all the things most of us do to avoid it, I honestly do not think I have since ever feared it.

When the aircraft had ground to a halt, reality returned. As best I can recall, I was no longer on the flight deck floor but in the nose section that had broken open alongside my new location. I got out, and despite the wounds, put some distance (I really don’t know how much) between me and the aircraft before collapsing. Those turned out to be the last steps I would take for several months.

It must have broken old Maggy up pretty severely. I had stepped out from the broken-open nose section. George Sadler reports he was thrown through the windshield, with the pilot’s seat still strapped to him. ‘Knocked silly’ as he put it, when he came to, he saw Scotty and said, ‘ I know who you are, and I know who I am, but where in the hell are we?’ Shabatura had been in the waist section and exited through another break, pushing the wing aside.

Holland civilians quickly appeared and told me they could have aided us to escape except for the wounded condition of several of the crew, and that the Germans, who were nearby, would be there quickly. I had long since forgotten, until recently reminded, that I gave one of the Hollanders my watch since I figured the Germans would take it anyway. He still has it.

Someone informed me that all of the crew had survived except for Bill Kirlin who was crushed under the top turret. Before the crash, I had been the one under the top turret with Bill alongside. I can only surmise that in the crash the flight deck floor gave way; I must have slid forward into the nose, while Bill must have toppled over into the place I had been. The top turret then collapsed on him. Fate takes some peculiar turns.

As forecast, the Germans soon arrived and hauled us on a wagon to a building, possibly a country schoolhouse, that the Germans were using as a field hospital. If this account seems somewhat fuzzy at this point, it is possibly because when the first German medic I encountered asked if I had had any morphine, I lied and said no, so he administered some more. I can honestly say I was feeling no pain at the time, which was the last occurrence of that condition for a while.

It was the also the last I saw of any of the crew for a while.

I was taken to the surgery in the field hospital where they cut out the larger pieces of flak – rather crudely, it later appeared. I was later able to count over eighty distinct holes ranging from about half the size of a fingernail to nearly two inches across. I still have an occasional small piece of flak emerge to the surface of the skin, the most recent one about two years ago – some forty-six years later.

Movement to POW Camp – Stage 1

Following the surgery, I was moved to a town, probably Dordrecht, and another hospital. I can recall that a Hollander head nurse identified herself as part of the underground resistance. She expressed her concern for me and said it was a shame I was not physically fit, as they would have a good chance of getting me out. Her authoritative and confident manner convinced me she knew what she was talking about. I wished I were well.

From there I was carried with some wounded Wehrmacht soldiers to a freight car outfitted to carry stretchers. They were evacuating the injured Germans to rear-area medical facilities. I presumed I was headed for Dulag-Luft, the interrogation camp for fliers.

We traveled intermittently as bombing had disrupted the railroads and traffic was slow. I don’t now know how long we were en route, but I do recall it was long enough for us to be given several meals and some cigarette rations. I was interested that I, as the only POW in the car, received the same rations and treatment in general as the Germans. I commented on this to one of the Germans who spoke English and he said it was, in effect, the accord paid to combat troops regardless of affiliation. However, equal treatment was soon to end abruptly.

While we were waiting in a marshaling yard, the Allies bombed it. When the air raid sirens went off the Germans in my car were evacuated, presumably to bomb shelters. One of the soldiers said something in German to his superior, while pointing to me. The superior answered firmly. I didn’t need to understand German to know the gist of it was, ‘Leave him here, it’s his airplane doing the bombing.’ I remained alone in the car throughout the raid and for some time afterward. While the freight car rocked to and fro from the concussion of the bombs and the glare lit up the car through the open door, the bombs caused no damage to the car I was in.

The raid had its intended effect. It was apparent that the train could not proceed. The Germans decided to move several other POWs and me to a nearby camp where they held some Russian prisoners who were used as slave labor.

It was a small camp and I never knew its name if it had one. Apparently the Russians were worked elsewhere with grossly inadequate diet until they developed a disease that appeared to be similar to elephantiasis. They would then be brought to this camp for a period and fed a diet, which I found inedible, but which evidently would restore them to sufficient health to be returned to work.

The senior German was an enlisted man. The only person there with any medical ability was a captured Italian enlisted medical corpsman who also provided the prisoners with haircuts.

I was placed in a small room with several other Americans who had been taken from other cars of the train. We were the only prisoners other than the Russians. The camp was clearly ‘off the beaten track’, a spot where one could easily imagine being lost and forgotten for the duration. The Geneva Convention was obviously not a consideration there.

My condition at the time was poor. My legs and arm had were bandaged after the surgery with a white crepe paper, with no evidence of any sulfa or antiseptic; they had become infected in several areas. Both legs were bent at the knee – the right more than the left – and any attempt to straighten them brought immediate agonizing pain. I was feverish, could not eat anything they had, and drank only their ersatz coffee and tea.

Thus I was less than thrilled to find that I – an ailing, 20 year old, lowly 2nd lieutenant – was the senior allied officer in the group. It concerned me because I felt some responsibility to try in any way that I could to insist they evacuate us and put us back into regular POW channels.

There were six of us. Two were airborne guys, a staff sergeant and a private whose names I can’t recall – both, I think, had been in a glider crash .

The oldest and most experienced of the group was an 82nd Airborne Warrant Officer with about 20 years service, who would quickly inform you that he could make a twenty-mile forced march with full field pack and carry a recruit under his arm for the last five miles if necessary. He was rugged, of Polish descent, name of Nick Stozic.

The youngest was a kid from Virginia Beach, just turned 19, weighing about 275 pounds and called Tiny. His further distinction was that he had been drafted, given boot and airborne training, and sent overseas; had jumped; and was in prison camp six months from the time he had been inducted – and yet he retained a sense humor.

The last member of the group was a young private who was a bit nervous, with understandable reason. Jerry was Jewish, had been raised in Berlin, Germany, and later came to the USA.

Jerry would have been scared in regular POW channels, although the likelihood of any problem because of his race was probably small as long as he had the American dog-tags and was identified primarily as American rather than Jewish. However, out of those channels the risk became greater. Should he fall into the hands of civilian police, Gestapo, SS, or other avid Nazis, he would be in deep trouble. I provide this background because it became necessary to expose him to some risk, which as far as I know did not bring him to harm although it could have.

Obviously, if we were to press a case to get out of there we had to communicate. The problem was that no one in the camp outside us Americans spoke English. Jerry was our only tool. He resisted, arguing that he spoke German with an identifiable Berlin accent that could instantly get him shot as a spy or worse.

In deference to his concerns, our first efforts were that he taught me enough phrases to convey in German that I was a pilot, and was supposed to go to Dulag Luft for interrogation, per Reichsmarshal Goring’s standing orders, implying that Goring was likely to be upset if they did not get me there immediately – the thought being that if they moved me anywhere they would, for economy, move us all. Well, the German NCO in charge listened and was unimpressed; nothing happened.

Time continued to pass slowly and still nothing happened. Our only diversion was that some Russians who seemed to have some kind of trusty status as orderlies came in to visit from time to time. We established particularly friendly relations with two of them.

One, whose real name we could not master, we named Charley, which he thought was great (he would beat his chest, point at himself saying ‘Charley’ and laugh with delight). He looked a bit like Curly of the Three Stooges, and constantly clowned.

The other, named Ivan, looked a bit like Foozy in the old Alley Oop comic strip. Unlike Charley, he was a sad little man, but was equally interested in his relationship with us.

Communication with the Russians consisted mainly of arm-waving sign language, salted with a little pigeon-German that all POWs of whatever nationalities seem to acquire. Despite these limitations, the friendship blossomed and they visited us every day.

At one point we were made to understand that we would be visited by a captured Russian doctor, a captain, who apparently was being used as a physician by the Germans. This gave us hope that (1) as an educated man, he might speak English and help get us out of there, and (2) he might be of some medical assistance – we all had wounds.

The Russian doctor/captain arrived. He was well dressed, appeared well fed and in good health. He breezed in, shook hands all around, several times said ‘Americans! President Roosevelt! Fox Trot!’ smiling broadly the whole time; then, having exhausted his English vocabulary and, it seemed, his interest, he departed as breezily as he arrived. And we never heard from or about him again.

Additional time dragged by. We then found out that the camp was to be inspected by a German Inspector General team. We were beginning to feel some desperation. We felt that if we could not persuade an IG team we were in the wrong place we would likely spend the war there, if we lasted.

Accordingly, we began preparations. We convinced Jerry that he had to interpret for me, disguising his accent as best he could. I would make our case through him, mentioning frequently the Geneva Convention, Goring, Dulag Luft, and anything else we felt would be convincing. We rehearsed, going over what we would say, and what we would not say, and critiqued our pitch.

When the IG group arrived, they did visit our group. They listened and asked questions. From our viewpoint, it went about as planned. However, the IG team made no comments or commitment, so we didn’t know how we had made out.

A week or so later, we were told we would be leaving for other camps. We presumed it was the result of our pitch to the IG. And we did leave for other camps shortly thereafter.

My departure was marked by one memorable incident. I have not mentioned my clothing, but I had no shirt, it having been lost somewhere, and no shoes or socks. The pants I had on were a pair of officer’s ‘pinks’ that had been split to mid-thigh of both legs to permit the surgery. I don’t know exactly how long we had been in the Russian place, but I think it must have been five or six weeks. Thus, we were into mid-October or later, and it was cold and raining in Germany when I was to leave.

Charley and Ivan displayed concern about my lack of warm clothing, and Charley solved the problem by removing his only shirt and giving it to me. I protested, probably rather weakly, but Charley would have none of it. Thus, I may have become the only American who ever had a Russian give him the shirt off his back. I have often thought of him with gratitude and I hope that he fared well.

Movement to POW camp – stage 2

I was then on my way to another unknown destination, as Germans generally did not bother to brief on their plans.

During my travels in Holland, Germany, and Poland, some experiences stand out; that is to say many of them were interesting in one way or another but a few really stand out. And it was on this leg of my travels that I had one of the most miserable – good chance to catch pneumonia and die; why I didn’t, I don’t really know.

I had lost much weight in the German camp (I found on arrival at our destination that I weighed 145 pounds whereas I had weighed around 195 or so before capture.) I still carried much infection and was pretty weak.

Once more we were stuck overnight is a rail area, this time without a train or a place to go. The guards finally took us to an underground tunnel with concrete floors, which might have been some part of the rail complex since it did not look like an air raid shelter. We were soaking wet, it was cold – probably 35-40 degrees, and I had almost no significant clothing and no shoes. There we spent the night lying on the concrete floor.

I can only say that at some point I again achieved a sort of separation of mind and body. I can recall reasoning that there wasn’t anything I could do about it. My body was going to experience pain, and therefore there was no use in my mind fretting about it, since it could not possibly help. I tried to think solely about other times and other places and went to sleep. I awoke a few times but returned to sleep each time.

I was thoroughly chilled in the morning when we resumed our journey. But we got another train and eventually I was delivered to a room in the destination camp, possibly near Magdeburg, where they had taken many if not most of their British First Airborne prisoners. When they lined up for counting, it looked like the whole division, a sea of red berets.

The room I was delivered to was in the building the camp used for a hospital. It had twelve or so beds, with maybe half of them occupied by assorted British and American POWs.

A British doctor and chaplain immediately took charge of me. The doctor’s query was ‘Well, what have we here?’ I explained that I expected to go into a first class case of pneumonia at any moment, giving him a detailed account of my reasons. His response was something like, ‘Well, maybe not; we are going to pump some hot porridge and milk and a hot cup of tea into you, and those have been known to cure all sorts of ills.’ I found out later that an infantry 1st lieutenant named Jimmy Ball, kind of a Damon Runyonesque character from Yonkers, New York, and devoted to the track and other forms of wagers, was offering 3 to 2 that, based on my appearance, I wouldn’t last two more days.

Despite that, the good doctor was right – I didn’t even catch cold, much less pneumonia.

The stay in that camp was a bit encouraging. Again, I can’t now say how long I was there but guess it was five to six weeks. During that time the attentions of the doctors helped (even though they had severely limited medical supplies) by simply inspiring confidence in recovery.

I was eating again and that helped. But the biggest boost was that I managed to get up from the bed. I absolutely detest bed pans and other such appliances and had a burning ambition to get down the hall to the latrine.

The problem was that, because of the bent legs (which by now seemed their permanent state), I could stand only by leaning with my back against the wall. I found that I could shuffle along sideways leaning my back against the wall, and with some practice could get reasonable speed. But there was the added problem that between the ward and the latrine were a couple of doors I didn’t want to go into.

It took additional practice to sort of pirouette off one side of a door frame to the other without falling into the doorway, but I finally mastered that as well, which to me was a great triumph. It boosted my morale no end, partly because I had entertained doubts that the right leg would ever straighten fully despite the doctor’s assurances that it would. The trips to the latrine proved that it was slowly beginning to straighten.

It is tempting to describe my fellow prisoners there in detail because there were some heroic and admirable people, but I will limit myself to brief comments about just two of them.

The chaplain I mentioned who was a great friend and inspiration to us all was on his second captivity. He had been first captured at Dunkirk and had been a prisoner until he escaped back to England. Then, contrary both to policy that former prisoners not go back into combat areas and the urging of all who knew him, he went right back in and was eventually captured again. Somehow he had kept the Germans from recognizing his previous captivity.

In the bunk next to me there was an airborne 1st Lt. Winn who had come in over the beach on D-Day and had been rather seriously wounded. He had not quite recovered when the Arnhem operation came up, but he had asked that he be permitted to go on it. He had fought for some time, was wounded again, and captured. He fretted much about getting out and back into it again.

Those two had the sort of character and determination that helps carry us all through adversity.

Once more the time arrived when a German came in and announced that I would be leaving for another camp. I assumed I would finally be put into Luftwaffe hands, and wondered whether it would be Dulag Luft for interrogation, or whether my information being by then so old, I would be sent directly to a Stalag Luft. It turned out to be neither.

Movement to POW Camp – Stage 3

This time I was moved alone in the company of two guards. I remember thinking there was some joy in knowing that for the period of the trip, I would tie up two members of Hitler’s Wehrmacht. While there had been little to amuse in my previous captive travels, this trip reversed that; we were traveling in railway coaches and the two guards were considerably different.

The first guard, the one in charge, was a Ph.D., formerly a university professor. He was a tall lanky individual, I judged about fifty years old, highly intelligent, and spoke several languages including flawless English. He was a Private First Class. He was extremely friendly and apparently appreciated my addressing him as Professor. I asked how it was that such an educated and competent person was a Pfc. rather than a commissioned officer. He replied with no hesitation that except for the old-line regular Army, the officers were drawn from the ranks of ‘bootblacks, taxi drivers and the like’ who in their ambition and ignorance would do anything Hitler ordered without asking questions.

The other guard couldn’t have been more of a contrast. He was about 60 years old, about 5’4′ tall, about 200 pounds, had totally white hair and a white curled-at-the-ends Prussian mustache. He had an ever present twinkle in his eye and an ever cheerful attitude. He smiled at every female between eighteen and eighty that passed, and if they smiled back and got close enough, they each got a pat or a pinch on the fanny. With the proper braid and decorations, he could have played a Prussian Chief of General Staff in any musical comedy, or with a beard and red suit he would have made a convincing Santa Claus. He spoke no English, was a private, and immediately responded to my calling him Pop.

At one point, we were between trains in a major train station (Bremen, I think it was), waiting with others on the island between tracks for the train we were to take, which was late. When it had not arrived even on its delayed schedule, the Professor said he thought we had better check to see if further delays were posted in the main terminal. He turned to Pop and gave him instructions to go check. Pop replied ‘Ja,’ handed me his rifle and took off without another thought. Now I, obviously a POW, am sitting in this major terminal surrounded by all kind of Germans, holding a rifle! I called the Professor’s attention to my problem, he laughed and relieved me of the rifle.

Sitting in a station like that brought a variety of reactions from passing Germans. While some would shake their fist and mutter things like ‘murderer’ or ‘baby-killer,’ others were curious and cordial. One stopped and asked where I was from and told me about visiting Chicago where he had a cousin. A young (probably about 20) Luftwaffe Lt. Pilot, elegant in his uniform, polished boots and leather overcoat, stopped and asked if I was a pilot and what I flew. We chatted for a while. He was a fighter pilot and had been shot down three times, each time over Germany since their air war was totally in a defensive stage at that point. He seemed to take it as routine, with no concern that each time he was sent right back to his unit and sent up again.

It turned out that our destination was Oflag 64, the camp for American ground officers in Altburgund (Shubin) – also called Posen, in Poland. The Germans may have a reputation for orderliness, but they were sure having a hard time getting me in the right place.

Oflag 64

This was an old and well-organized camp. The American staff of the camp was organized along the lines of a typical regiment or battalion. The German guard took me inside the barbed wire and turned me over to the American camp adjutant, who explained something of the setup to me.

The senior office was Colonel Paul R. Goode, Inf., graduated in West Point’s ‘Class of the Generals.’ Others told me later that he had not made general because he was a rambunctious, hell-for-leather, rather profane type who made superiors nervous. He was a fine military leader respected by all who served under him. He later proved that view again when, although not a young man, he led his charges in several hundred miles of winter marching when Oflag 64 was evacuated in the face of the oncoming Russian Armies. I know he survived the war, because he was later the Post Commander at Ft. Monroe while I was at Ft. Eustis.

Still not able to walk upright, I was once again put in the camp hospital. The hospital was well-staffed with doctors and had better medical supplies than elsewhere due to its longer history. The food in the hospital was a good as a POW is ever likely to get, better than outside the hospital in the same camp. And it was warm, an attribute sincerely appreciated since we were now well into winter.

Before this time, the places I had been had had few amenities. I was pleased to find Oflag 64 had a library, a camp newspaper, and other niceties. For example, there was a young officer who came regularly to the hospital ward in the evenings with a record player and classical records. He would lecture on the music and the composer and play the compositions.

I also had visits from fellow prisoners from outside the hospital in the first few days I was there. Some were from South Carolina, some had gone to Clemson (which I had attended) and some had gone to the same flying schools as I. They were most cordial, but seemed to ask a great many questions. I learned later that they had been sent by the camp security committee to insure that I was who I said I was, and not a German ‘plant’ in there to aid in foiling any escape planning. Their friendliness was genuine, but the procedure was routine.

After they cleared me, they resumed the practice of having a visitor each day who had memorized and would recite the BBC war news obtained from a hidden radio the camp maintained. A standard procedure in some if not most camps was to attribute the information to a German guard as, ‘Herman says that Allies advanced 25 miles in the Cologne sector yesterday . . . etc.’

I had some very congenial companions in the hospital. In the bed next to me was Wright Bryan, a civilian war correspondent for the Atlanta Constitution, a Clemson Graduate, and an extremely intelligent and charming fellow. Wright later became Editor of his paper and after retirement went back to Clemson where he wrote and I believe taught some classes.

Wright had become very friendly with a Catholic priest who came by nearly every evening for conversation and sometimes chess. They usually included me in their discussions, which I enjoyed since both of them had considerably more experience and wisdom than I.

But there were also some less fortunate souls. We had a West Point Lt. Col. of Infantry who was in our ward for jaundice. His more serious problem was psychological. He had trained for battle at West Point, then for much of the war had to train others, all the while pleading for a combat command. Finally, he had been assigned one and committed to combat. Almost immediately, his unit had been overrun by a German attack, defeated, and the Germans captured him. The effect on him was devastating; his entire waking day was devoted to fretting about his perceived failure and his desire to escape, and get another command, and redeem himself in his own eyes.

I first became aware of the problem when he found out that I was a pilot and approached me. His proposition was that he was sure that there was a German fighter base maybe fifty or sixty miles away. He and I should escape, steal a fighter plane, and fly westward to the Allied zone. I tried to explain that I could not at that time even walk upright, I was not a fighter pilot, couldn’t read German, and we would probably have trouble even getting the engine started. The fighters were single-place aircraft, and even if we overcame all that, it would be doubtful that the fuel would be sufficient to make the trip. It was doubtful that we, given our respective medical conditions could manage the escape from Oflag 64. Also it was most unlikely that the Escape Committee who controlled all escape efforts would approve. I felt extremely sorry for him as did the others but nothing we said seemed to help.

There were two other pilots at Oflag 64 who had been erroneously sent there and had just stayed there because it was established and, as camps went, not as bad as some. The Germans apparently did not know they were pilots and the pilots didn’t care to tell them. They too had been asked by the Lt. Col. to escape and steal a plane.

In mid-December, we heard on the BBC news about the Battle of the Bulge and within a short time we had a large influx of prisoners taken in that operation. The extent of the captures was reflected in the acquisition for the hospital of a captured division surgeon.

Oflag 64 did its best to make Christmas of ’44 a real Christmas. There were decorations, caroling, modest gifts and special meals from carefully hoarded supplies. We also were cheered by the rate of advance of the Russians on the eastern front – they were getting close enough that it was becoming clear that it would not be much longer, if there were no reverses, before the Germans would have to do something about us. The concern, however, was what? Would they try to fight? Surrender? Evacuate? If so, how?

Shortly after Christmas, I was released from the hospital and assigned to regular barracks. I could now walk upright but not well due to the severed muscles, impaired circulation and the atrophy of muscles that had occurred due to several months without exercise. The doctors prescribed a program of gradually increasing walks around the camp.

Barracks life was an abrupt change from the hospital. We were now in the middle of the Polish winter, the barracks had almost no heat, and everyone was chilled nearly all of the time. Conversation was usually brief and desultory since energy levels were low.

In my barracks at Oflag 64, there were generally no organized groups sharing food preparation chores, the pattern being each left to his own devices. Some few did partner up with one or maybe two others and they shared their food and the preparation of it. But most simply used the ingenious ‘Kriegie stoves’ made of tin cans which would allow preparation of a small meal with not much more than a sheet of notebook paper. The rations of that period ranged from about a fourth to a half the required Red Cross parcel ration, supplemented with a small section of Black Bread, some ersatz coffee or tea and a small allocation of boiled potatoes.

As it turned out I was not to experience that setup for long. One day a guard came in and called out, ‘Lt. Hewin!’ When I replied he said with some indignation, ‘You should not be here!’. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘when am I going home?’ ‘Nein, nein, you are a pilot and you must go to the Stalag Luft!’ Well, I had tried to tell them that for several months and it had finally penetrated. He said they would make arrangements and that I should be prepared to go shortly.

I had been supplied adequate uniform clothing to wear and some toilet articles, but had little else, so packing wasn’t a chore.

Col. Goode called me in to wish me well and to ask me to carry a note from him to a Maj. Waters who although a ground officer, was at Stalag Luft 3 where I was going. Major Waters had been involved in several escape plans and attempts, acquiring fame for his daring (I think there may have been a book written about him later). Carrying such messages between camps without going through the German censors was strictly verboten. Col. Goode said I should conceal it somewhere on my person, that I would be thoroughly searched, and they would probably find it, but to give it a try. I said I would, and began to think where I might best conceal it.

A guard took me in tow and led me to the German Commandant’s offices where the two guards who were to escort me were to take me in charge. Before my departure, a German Captain apparently had to talk to a superior officer in a higher headquarters about some aspect of the travel. So help me, what I now narrate is true, although if I hadn’t seen it I would have said that it was some fictional comedy bit.

The German captain was seated, with his blouse off. He got up and put on his blouse. He then made his call to his superior while standing at rigid attention. When he had finished, he took off his blouse, sat down, and breathed out in relaxation. He then indicated that we should proceed on the trip.

While on the subject of the German mentality, I should mention an event that occurred at Oflag 64 while I was there. An American officer who worked in the American adjutant’s office objected to an action that one of the guards was doing – an action he believed to be in violation of the Geneva convention. I think it had to do with his trying to post something on our bulletin board that was not legal. Our man protested, the German persisted, hot words ensued, and as I heard it, at some point our man shoved the German. He was arrested, tried and to the surprise of most, was sentenced to death. The execution was deferred, for what reason I am not now sure, but I think it was procedural allowing review and appeal under Geneva rules. I did not hear anything further about the case until much later.

Movement to POW Camp – Stage 3

The trip to Sagan, Stalag Luft 3, was again by rail coach, accompanied by two guards who had nothing to distinguish them except their indifference.

The only thing that stands out in my mind about that trip was the demeanor of the Poles we encountered during the journey. Traveling through Holland and Germany, I seldom saw anyone do the ‘Heil Hitler’ thing complete with salute. The Polish civilians rendered it regularly to my two guards, who returned it half – heartedly if at all. My impression was that the Poles had been thoroughly cowed. This may be wrong, or less than generally applicable, but it struck me forcibly at the time.

I also remember changing trains in what I took to be the main Berlin station. The memory remains because of the size of the Berlin station, and because of the female announcer of trains who had perhaps the sexiest voice I have heard before or since.

We arrived at Sagan. Having considered a number of possibilities, I had decided that the best hiding place for Col. Goode’s message was in my hat, one of those wool helmet liners that has folds. I would conceal the message in the fold, take off my hat respectfully when approaching the search, and just toss it aside while emptying my pockets.

I was delivered to a building outside the barbed wire surrounding the regular camp, for initial processing and the search. My genial German host was a sergeant – slight, sandy-haired, and about forty. He spoke perfect English, and seemed more like a Scot than a German.

After some initial processing, we came to it: ‘Are you carrying any messages for anyone in this camp that should go through the censors?’ I said, ‘No.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s see.’ And he reached over, picked up my hat, unfolded it and took out the message. (It must be now be clear that I never had any future in the James Bond business, or possibly poker either for that matter.)

He unfolded the message, scanned it and said, ‘Now you didn’t have to do that; you shouldn’t try to fool us. There is no problem here – this will go through the censors, and Maj. Waters will probably have it in a day or so.’ He made no further search, apparently being just as sure I had nothing else as he had been sure where the one I had was hidden. ‘But you, on the other hand are going to spend some time in solitary confinement.’ And I did.

It turned out to be only three days, but seemed much longer. If you don’t know how long you are to be in it makes however long you are in seem longer. It certainly gave me an appreciation of what solitary confinement could be.

The cell was about 5′ x 8′ with a cot and no other furniture. It had one small window about eye level which looked at a blank cinder block wall about a foot beyond the window. You could tell night from day but could see nothing else. There were no books, nothing on the walls except the inevitable pencil tallies of past days. The walls were thick with little sound penetrating into the cell. The meals were delivered with minimum contact and no conversation. There was nothing to contemplate but your thoughts and your navel. I knew they were not really that annoyed with me, so deep down I was not really worried – still I was glad to get out and into the regular prison camp.

Stalag-Luft 3

Stalag-Luft 3 was considerably different from Oflag 64 in several ways. It was considerably larger than Oflag 64’s 1600 or so at the time I left. Stalag Luft 3 was divided into several different compounds, separated from each other by the usual barbed-wire. One compound was principally for Americans, one for British and so on. I don’t really know what the total population was but it may well have been 50,000 or more.

The camp Senior Allied Officer was a British Air Vice-Marshal; the Senior American Officer was a Brigadier General Vanaman. There was a rumor that he had parachuted into Germany intentionally, with a B-4 bag and Class-A uniforms in order to provide appropriate American rank.

The initial security screening to insure that you were really who you were supposed to be was more vigorous and extensive than at Oflag 64. As at Oflag 64, there were the ‘common-background, friendly-but-questioning visits,’ and also some open direct examination by security committee members who had final responsibility for clearing newcomers.

I was assigned to a barracks and a specific room within that barracks. The room’s occupants (I think there were eight or nine) functioned as a communal group in almost every sense of the word. All Red Cross parcels and German issue food were pooled, and the group ate meals prepared by two members elected as cooks by the common consent of the group. Some others of us shared the more menial chores such as clean-up, while yet others were specialists.

One such specialist was our group’s trader. Each day he would set out with whatever we might have in relative surplus, whether it be cigarettes or canned milk or whatever, to trade for whatever we needed or wanted most. Some times he engaged in speculative trading – simply trading for ultimate profit. Everything had a price in cigarettes, that being a common base for all barter. He would some times set out with some number of packs of cigarettes in the morning, trade all day and have a nice profit in cigarettes by the evening, having traded a half-dozen or more other commodities during the day. He was exceptionally good at it and we all profited from his operations.

We also had a tinsmith, a genius in making things out of tin cans. He had no other duties and was perfectly happy to work at it all day every day. He had made such things as an oven that replaced a section of the normal stovepipe on our stove and provided our two excellent cooks a baking capability. That was just one of the many cooking utensils he had devised. He was skilled enough to attract contracts from other groups for various jobs, paid for in cigarettes or other barter that enriched our commune. In his spare time in the evenings when he was not working on the group’s behalf, he was making himself a clock, all the intricate clockwork parts being made from tin cans.

I had luckily fallen into a relatively prosperous group. Perhaps part of the reason for the prosperity was that some of the Kriegies had been in quite a while, the most senior being a British Flight Officer who had been in nearly 4 years. They were also a well ordered and congenial group.

I liked the way things were organized. Breakfast was a lean meal, but the cooks handed out the black bread toast with butter and jam, along with coffee or tea to the others while they were still in their bunks if that was the way they wanted it. Lunch was also a relatively light offering, but we ate it all together at the table. The light breakfast and lunch was made more palatable by the knowledge that the evening meal would be a treat every day. The philosophy was to save up and have that one really good meal each day, and it worked. The trader had contacts among diverse nationalities and traded for things from their private parcels – lentils from Indians, garlic from the French etc. The two alternating cooks added to our welfare by competing with each other in creativeness.

The BBC was provided daily from the covertly operated radio, and there seemed to be news from other unidentified sources as well. For example, I had not been there long when we heard that Oflag 64, the camp I had recently left, was being evacuated – the prisoners were being marched west as the Russians advanced on the Eastern front. I learned later that they had been marched some 300 miles in the dead of winter to Hammelburg.

The Russians continued to advance. I had probably not been there more than five or six weeks when we were told that Stalag Luft 3 was also to be evacuated eastward. All who were able were to march, and those considered unable to march were to be loaded on trains. I still had not sufficiently recovered and was marked for the trains.

Those who were marched out left several days before we did since the needed trains were not immediately available. The departing Kriegies had abandoned all personal possessions they could not carry, leaving behind much clothing. I wandered around the camp and outfitted myself with a new South African Army outfit – pants and battle jacket, a good overcoat. I also found some British hobnail boots that were too big, but when laced tightly and worn with a couple of pairs of socks fit reasonably well and were warm. I also put together a small pack of food, cigarettes, soap, and toilet articles to take along on the trip.

Eastward

It was freight cars again. I will not detail that trip beyond saying that in most cars there was insufficient room for all to sit comfortably on the floor at the same time, much less lie down. When many of its occupants were sick, vomiting and with diarrhea, it was not a pleasant place. Still, in comparison with the hardships experienced by those who marched (Scotty was one of those in the march), it could be considered a pleasure cruise.

It took several days to get to our unknown destination, which turned out to be Nürnburg.

Nürnburg

This was Stalag XIIID and it had obviously collected a hodgepodge of prisoners from various places and of various nationalities. On arrival we were processed through showers and delousing, but little other attention was paid to new arrivals.

We were assigned to barracks that were packed about as fully as possible with triple decker bunks. The organization was minimal, a ‘to-each-his-own’ system.

There was little to do, and some of us played bridge or chess most of the day when not exercising or preparing something to eat.

‘Things to do’ picked up when the Allies started bombing the town of Nürnburg. The camp was not far from the center of Nürnburg and some of us were a bit concerned about the accuracy of strategic bombing, as applied to our own case. We were advised to, and did, dig slit-trenches to get into during raids. The trenches had the dual purposes of protecting from bomb blasts and from the German flak being hurled up by the ton which, inevitably, had to come back down.

The British began night bombing which made the Americans particularly nervous since the British technique was to have a pathfinder aircraft first mark the target with flares, then the bombers would come in individually from different directions and at different altitudes dropping by reference to the flares. One of their pilots was shot down about the first night of bombing and wound up in our barracks. He chided us for our concerns, saying that they were highly accurate, knew exactly where the camp was and that we were in no danger. It was only a night or so later that a bomb dropped in one part of the camp, fortunately killing no one. The British pilot joined us in the slit trenches after that.

The American daylight raids by the 8th and 15th Air Forces were spectacular. They put up a maximum effort for several days which we estimated must have been nearly 1500 aircraft – wave after wave after wave. We had reports from crewmen shot down in those raids and brought through Nürnburg on their way into our camp that much of Nürnburg had been simply leveled.

In the meantime, we also had word that General Patton had run a spearhead sixty miles into German territory to Hammelburg in an abortive attempt to liberate the camp there in which Patton’s son-in-law was a prisoner. The failed attempt has been criticized as tactically unnecessary and not well advised, costing quite a few American lives and materiel. But from our viewpoint at Nürnburg, it signaled clearly that the Americans were now getting close and were POW-aware. The further proof was that shortly we got the word, ‘it’s time to move again.’

To the South

This time we were headed to Moosberg, a smaller town not far from Munich. It was about a 110 km march the way we were to go. We had a bit of time to get ready and for once, I made some correct decisions.

I made a pack, as many Kriegies often did, from a pair of pants. A draw-string is attached at the end of each leg. A belt can be used to close the pack at the waist. Put the pants astride your neck, tie a string loosely from one leg to the other, and you are in business.

The best decision I made was that, assuming that we would be able to trade with the Germans in the countryside, I converted most of what I owned in worldly goods to cigarettes, soap, and chocolate. All are relatively light and were highly desired by Germans.

I don’t recall the exact date of departure, but it must have been early or mid-March. The weather was by then not severe, although some of the early nights on the march were cold.

The march started out in very orderly units, our barracks being near the front of the column. But we had not gone far before several facts were in evidence. The German guard on the march was very light. The guards had an extremely large group to control and could only loosely guard the line of march, with no real control of the individual units.

It would have been relatively easy to evade the line of march. Some did, despite word passed by senior officers not to attempt escape. Liberation was expected not too far in the future, and escape through areas where one might meet desperate SS troops, civilian police, or other dedicated Nazi groups was deemed dangerous and unnecessary. Some who did escape from the march were later reported missing and were presumed killed by such groups. Others made it; some had quite a time on the way.

Given the loose control of the march and the fact that the environment was much more pleasant than it had been in camp, some of us immediately adopted an approach to the march that made it more enjoyable, particularly so in my case.

A day or so out I teamed up with an Iowa farm-boy and sometime navigator named Hetrick. We were both of the same mind: to follow the line of march, but not identify with or stay with any specific unit. We would take our time, explore areas slightly off the line of march, trade, and stay out as long as possible. After all, it was early spring in Bavaria, the countryside was beautiful, and most of the rural Germans seemed to bear us no animosity. This approach resulted in some interesting experiences. I will relate a few of the impressions that still remain with me.

Not far out of Nürnburg, I had stopped to try to do some trading with a German farmer, possibly fifty years old. While we were engaged in a ‘how many cigarettes for the potatoes’ dialog, the 8th and 15th started a maximum raid on Nürnburg. The sweep of the raid and the bomb drops were fully in our view, the sound of the exploding bombs echoing past us. We stopped for a moment, I offered him a cigarette, we lit up and watched curiously for a while. When we had finished our smokes we concluded our bargain, I said goodbye and departed. That incident seemed almost surreal to me then and still does now.

Somewhere slightly off the march we wandered into a small town, obviously ancient, at least partly surrounded by a wall, and containing a church which I think dated back to the 13th century or so. We visited it much as any peacetime tourist to Bavaria might have.

The town had a small inn which I am sure in other days had hosted such tourists. We thought it would be nice to spend a night there ourselves. Deeming it worth a try, we approached the manager, and after a bit of negotiation involving both cigarettes and chocolate, we made a deal for bed and breakfast. The only stipulation was that we would have to eat breakfast in the kitchen lest other less tolerant Germans see us and become angered at our presence.

It was nice to travel with an old farm hand. Mostly, we stayed in the haylofts of farms we were passing. Our standard routine, as evening approached and a likely farm was sighted, was for me to take both his pack and mine and locate us a good spot to bunk and an outside spot to cook. He would go on a rambling scouting trip and would come up almost always with some eggs and often with other goodies.

A fairly large group of us were once staying at a large and rather prosperous-looking farm, which had, among other things, some geese. An enterprising Kriegie had cornered one of these and quietly throttled it. He surreptitiously dressed it out, cut it into small pieces, and buried the feathers and innards. He then distributed the pieces among us with no one having a particularly large or readily identifiable piece. The trouble was that, when everyone started to cook, you could have smelled roasting goose for a mile in any direction. You could have heard the farmer screaming even further than that.

The extent of a Kriegie’s appetite while walking everyday in the fresh air and enjoying himself somewhat for the first time in a long while might be judged from another incident. Hetrick had one nice day made a particularly rich find. We scrambled a dozen large duck eggs with some chopped up onions and a can of corned beef. He and I ate the entire dish with some black bread and margarine and then had some desert.

It was apparent that the Germans attempted, without complete success, to require the farm families to consume no more of their produce than they would have received if they were city folks. For example, a farmer told us they were supposed to turn in all their egg production and get back something like two per week. I don’t think that worked any better there than it would have in the U.S.

At another farm we witnessed an SS Officer and a couple of his troops requisition a pig from the farmer. Here was another extremely unhappy German, squealing louder than the pig that was being dragged away. The farmer knew the piece of paper he was being given by the SS officer was shortly going to be worth absolutely nothing – he was simply having a pig stolen by a bunch of armed losers.

While stopped at yet another very nice farm, the farmer came over to where a group of us were camped. He was displaying a rather solemn and sad face, and told us with an air of sincere regret he had just heard on the radio that ‘our President Roosevelt had died.’ He expressed his sorrow and regrets on our behalf. ‘He was a great man,’ he said.

Once within our experience, the column was visited by some trucks bearing the big Red Cross sign on them and carrying both parcels and some shoes and clothing. The trucks were our American Army 6×6’s, operated by American GI’s under the aegis of the Swiss Red Cross. Apparently, agreement had been obtained at some level for this arrangement, which helped the Germans supply prisoners they could not otherwise adequately supply.

I did not need any clothing but did feel I could well use some different shoes. The British hobnail boots were about four sizes too wide for me – they were wide width, whereas I wore a narrow 12AA size when available – and besides, the hobnails made a terribly loud noise when I was touring the ancient church.

Now, 12AAs are scarce in well stocked American stores, and I had little hope of getting some off a GI truck in Bavaria, but I thought it was worth a try. I asked the Sgt. on the truck if he had a 12AA. With no hesitation, he said ‘Sure,’ and tossed them to me. They were combat boots and I still have them and sometimes wear them in winter snows.

It must have been at about that time on the march that I bumped into Scotty and his cohort, Vic Bubbitt who had helped Scotty through the winter march. (I think I also had met them in Nürnburg, but I am not now sure.)

Hetrick and I took nineteen days to complete the trip, having been among the first out of Nürnburg and among the last into Moosburg. The walk, aside from being a generally enjoyable experience for me, had been exactly the physical therapy I needed at that point. Fresh air, better food, and exercise each day in a moderate amount had put me in my best physical shape since being shot down. I entered Moosburg with some regret that the March was over, but with the consoling belief that we to be liberated soon.

Moosburg

Moosburg was a crowded melange of POWs from many camps and of many nationalities. We were quartered in large tents, sleeping on the ground. Organization seemed minimal, both on the part of the German camp staff and the Allied POWs, everyone having the expectation that American Forces were on the way. We heard that General Eisenhower had issued a warning that POWs should be protected in the liberation process and that Germans not complying would face war crimes charges. We also heard that the camp German staff were in accord with Ike’s directive.

Some of this information undoubtedly came from the sympathetic members of the German guard staff. There was a German captain everyone called Goldie (for his gold tooth) who had been at Sagan and who came out each day in his gorgeous leather coat to appel (the assembly for counting noses) with an American who called the assembly on the bugle. They had become friendly over time and both were at Moosburg continuing the same duties. I later heard that on liberation day, Goldie sought out the bugler and gave him the leather coat.

The diversity of origins of the POWs which I have mentioned was quite visible at the appels. Among the various nationalities were a group of Aussies, perhaps 150-200, who always impressed us by their spirit, toughness and discipline. They always held their own formation, sleeves rolled up regardless of weather, those Aussie hats turned up on one side, before the German appel. They would then remain at their version of Parade Rest until the Germans dismissed the assembly. But the Aussies would not break ranks until they finished their business and the senior Aussie dismissed them.

As days passed we seemed to be getting more and more information beyond what our own clandestine radios were picking up. Some came from the Germans, some from new POWs, some of it was just rumor.

What we heard from all sides was that the American advance was steadily getting closer. But we also learned that they were meeting resistance from SS units. The SS would organize local Hitler Youth (and such other locals, military or not, that they could press into service) into a line of defense. The SS would then remain until the battle started. With the fight underway, the SS would then leave the locals to fight the oncoming American Forces, many of them to die in the process. It led some of us to conclude that liberation wasn’t necessarily going to be entirely peaceful.

April 29th – Liberation

Finally we heard that the Americans ‘were just up the road’ and were going to liberate us that day. The camp’s German staff, we heard, had agreed to cooperate wholeheartedly with the American Army in the safe turnover of the camp’s POWs. However, as expected, the SS set up resistance in the fashion we had heard about. We could not directly see the Battle of Moosburg, but we could hear it and did recognize stray rounds of gunfire going through the camp. At least one American P-51 kicked up some dust in the camp with machine gun fire before apparently deciding that was wrong. I personally did not see any casualties although I heard there were a few, including at least one death. I could not personally verify it but heard that the Kriegie I mentioned earlier as being given a death sentence for striking a guard was, ironically, killed by a stray bullet on liberation day.

Some of the German guards told us that the day proved costly for some of their fellow guards. They said the German Commandant had ordered one group of guards to go to their barracks, stack their arms, and be ready to surrender. An SS group reportedly contacted them at the barracks, tried to countermand the Commandant’s orders, and directed them to take their arms and go to the defense of Moosburg. When they refused, the SS Commander directed tank cannon fire into the barracks killing all or most of them.

The day’s battle was soon over and the first of the American Forces entered the camp. They were the 14th Armored under General Patton, who was leading the campaign in our area (we were told they were part of General Patch’s forces that had been loaned to General Patton). The vanguard troops advised us they had known all about us and that supplies of food and other goodies were on their way to us. They said we would soon be transported by trucks to an airfield where we would be airlifted out of Germany to a point in France for further processing and the return home.

It is probably unnecessary to spell out for anyone the joy and relief of liberation. I had some bad times, but not nearly as bad as some others experienced. My captivity had seemed long, although it was but a fraction of what some had endured. I think most all of us sincerely believed always that liberation day would come and that we would again be free. However, I think all POWs also knew there was a great deal of hazard to POW existence, and always the possibility of all kinds of occurrences that might keep them from ever reaching that goal. Along with the sincere belief in ultimate freedom, there was always a nagging shadow of a doubt in the back of the mind.

On the lighter side I remember the reaction of one Kriegie when he was given some freshly baked white bread from the liberator’s field mess. He tasted it and said, ‘Well, it tastes pretty good, something like cake – but if I’m really hungry I’ll eat the German Black Bread for the meal, and this stuff for dessert.’ We had all become accustomed to the heavy (seemingly sawdust-laced) German bread, and the white bread truly did taste like fluff to us at the time.

Toward Home

The day after the liberation, General Patton himself came riding in on a tank and made a short, but typically Patton-like, speech to the Kriegies.

Very shortly after, we were trucked to an airfield as promised (I think it was Landshut), loaded on C-47s – the old Gooney-bird – and flown to Camp Lucky Strike at the port of LeHavre, France, where our new freedom began to be felt in substantive ways.

Camp Lucky Strike

Lucky Strike was a tent city but looked pretty good to us. We were issued some clothing, bedding, and given a partial pay. The food, by today’s standards, would probably not be judged as anything special – but it seemed pretty good to us and it was plentiful. We even found a PX with limited stock where we could spend some of our partial pay. And, messages were sent on our behalf to relatives notifying them of our release and pending trip home. We wrote some letters ourselves. It began, at least, to sink in that we really were free, our war was probably over, and we were going home.

Crossing the Atlantic to the USA

Soon after arrival at Lucky Strike, I boarded an Italian Liner that had been pressed into service by the United States – I can’t recall its name, but it was a pretty nice ship. The passenger list included some military personnel on normal rotation back home from their European tours, some English ‘war-brides,’ and the rest were liberated POWs.

The ship had essentially two classes of accommodations. There were the cabins, such as you might picture as normal to an ocean-going liner. Then there was the other kind, down in the holds, with no portholes and with bunks stacked three or four deep, so close together you could hardly turn over without nudging the guy above you.

The assignment to quarters was by rank. The break point was 1st Lieutenant and above in cabins, 2nd Lieutenant and below in the hold. Since, as far as I knew, I was a 2nd Lieutenant, I was assigned to the hold. It is typical of my luck in smaller things that I found later that I had been a 1st Lieutenant since shortly after being shot down – I could have been in those nice cabins.

It bothered me little at the time. I just stayed topside virtually all of my waking hours. The Navy fed us about 4 times a day, which consumed time. The Ship’s Store had almost unlimited supplies of things like Hershey bars, cigars, cartons of cigarettes and the like, so more time was spent in buying and consuming. And I enjoyed many hours of leaning on the rail at the fantail, watching the sea behind us.

There were some who enjoyed the trip less than I did. While the weather was generally fair all the way, we did encounter some wave action that made quite a few passengers seasick. Many of the English war-brides had a different problem. They reveled in the brilliant sun of the clear days at sea, sunning themselves with visions of beautiful tans not normally available in the English climate. The result was that after a few days, many of the fair-skinned English beauties had complexions that looked more like lobsters, some of them with painful sunburns that would peel, leaving them with a considerably less beautiful look than their vision had anticipated.

I think the trip took about eight days for us to arrive in Boston. There they had ‘Welcome Home’ ceremonies and took us to a temporary billet to arrange orders and transportation home for sixty days leave.

The evening meal that day was a treat for all of us. We had steak – the first any of us had had since imprisonment – and ice cream, and all the milk anyone wanted to drink. An interesting sidelight was that it was served by POWs, this time Germans who were the prisoners of our side. They knew we were former POWs, and I couldn’t help but notice if you asked them for something additional, you got it quick!

The processing was rapid and efficient, which is not always the case with the Army, and I was shortly underway home to Houston, Texas where my family was living at the time.

Home

When I stepped in the door at home, I felt that whatever life might bring from that point onward would be in, in a sense, a gift. On the face of it, I had had a better chance of Baggie Maggy’s top turret snuffing out my life than Bill Kirlin’s. I had had other chances to die and didn’t. The rest of my life could well be viewed as borrowed time.

Home at the time was Houston, Texas. While my dad had been transferred earlier to Baltimore, Maryland to become Sales Manager of the company he worked for, my mother had been unwilling to move until I returned lest I be unable to find them – a response typical of mother.

There were other reminders that we who were in the armed forces weren’t the only ones who made sacrifices for our support. One of mother’s best friends was a very elderly lady, a great granddaughter of Sam Houston. She knew that I smoked and, since cigarettes were at that time scarce, had stood in line repeatedly to get what cigarettes as were available for me so I would have some when I got home. She did not know, nor did I ever tell her, that I had bought six or more cartons from the ship’s stores on the way home. I simply told her how nice it was that she thought of me and how much I was enjoying her cigarettes every time I saw her.

Another taste of the adversities of civilian life came when we moved the rest of the family to Baltimore. The household goods were shipped, but my mother, sister and I were to drive the 1938 Buick to Baltimore. I now know that if I had shipped that too, I would have avoided a trip that was almost as bad as some of the kriegie travels.

Tires – there weren’t any, and it was now hot in the sunny south. I have forgotten now precisely how many old used and retreaded tires we blew out or where all of them occurred. I do recall the one on the Louisiana highway elevated up out of the swamp (euphemistically and reverently called wetlands now) where you quickly blacken with mosquitoes and had to maintain a lookout for all the snakes that crawled up there to warm themselves. But we finally got there.

Processing and a new station

It had been a most enjoyable sixty-day leave. In the early part I had bought some new custom-made summer uniforms. By the latter part of the leave, they no longer fit very well. I had renewed some old acquaintances in Greenville, SC, my old home town as well as having a nice visit with my family.

I reported to Miami Beach and a luxury hotel for processing and reassignment. I had acquired a ‘like-new’ ’42 Mercury convertible through an old friend of my dad. I was several times offered many hundreds over the list price for it as I stopped for gas on the way to Miami. Miami was mostly a ten-day vacation and I made the most of it, before receiving my assignment to Turner Field in Albany, Georgia.

Turner Field

Turner was a training base that, at the time I arrived, was devoted mainly to retraining returned pilots like me and to training some Chinese pilots. All returning pilots were to get twelve hours of training in a B-25 for the purpose of standardization (removing any bad habits acquired in combat flying) and reorientation to stateside flying.

I had always wanted to fly the B-25; I had asked for it on graduation from pilot training. My POW days had deprived me of the opportunity to build up flying time that I much desired. I viewed the Turner assignment enthusiastically; it was an opportunity for at least some attainment of both goals. The twelve-hour course whetted my appetite for more of the same.

The problem was that the Army Air Force simply had many more pilots than needed, many of who had far greater experience than I. However, I wanted more flying, particularly in the B-25, so badly that I learned something: if you are persistent enough, you may succeed against the odds.

While awaiting yet another assignment, I pestered the Squadron Operations Officer where I got my refresher flying for a job doing any kind of flying. He said, ‘No.’ It was a kind refusal, but definite. I said, ‘OK, do you mind if I hang around in case you occasionally need a copilot or something?’ He couldn’t really refuse that, so I hung around, all day, every day.

I got odd flights – administrative, engineering checks, ‘the Colonel wants a copilot’ and sometimes filled in for an instructor. Not too much later the Operations Officer said, ‘You win, I’m having you assigned as an instructor.’ A bit later, I was made an Assistant Operations Officer as well, which turned out to be a factor in my next assignment.

Turner was in many ways the most enjoyable assignment I ever had. I loved the B-25 and accumulated enough time to feel really competent in it. While instructing, I had many interesting experiences: ‘instructing’ returnees who had several thousand hours more time than I did in the B-25; participating in Air Shows; getting grounded for buzzing an auxiliary field before landing with a three ship formation of B-25s (ungrounded two days later to make an emergency flight); going out to Oklahoma with some other pilots to pick up a squadron of B-26s when none of us had flown it – just read the book and took-off; challenging engineering flights such as bringing a B-25 back from an auxiliary field with no hydraulic systems; and more. I loved it – and my buddies and I used to go to the local airport on Sunday and rent a J-3 cub so we could get some more flying.

All good things end, and the news came that Turner was to close. My reassignment was to Wright-Patterson at Dayton, Ohio; I had no idea why that particular location.

Wright Patterson AFB

My luck continued in my new station.

The Personnel Officer asked what kind of assignment I wanted. ‘A flying job,’ I said. ‘So does everyone,’ he replied with impatience, ‘now what else can you do?’

I wasn’t giving up that easy and said, ‘How about something in flight operations? I was an assistant squadron operations officer at Turner.’ After about twenty minutes of quibbling, he reluctantly awarded me a 2167 Operations Officer MOS (military occupational specialty) and assigned me as an assistant operations officer at Wright Field Base Operations.

It was a good job from my viewpoint. My principal duty was in a section responsible for the flying time of all Colonels and Lt. Cols. assigned to Wright and Patterson Fields. It meant checking out in a variety of aircraft, doing checkouts for the Cols., as well as a variety of administrative flights. Additional duties included signing flight clearances, airdrome officer, and one duty I didn’t care much for – we had a variety of vehicles, tugs, line taxis, sedans. etc., all operated by a crew of eight to ten WACs, whose supervisor was me.

I very much enjoyed the assignment for the flying experience it provided, but as it turned out it was to provide one more enduring effect.

My boss’s secretary was a girl name Pat, the daughter of a full colonel. Pat had a figure and a way of walking that tended to make Marilyn Monroe look boyish. I have seen a distracted mechanic actually fall off the wing of an aircraft, and an officer dump his lunch tray down the front of his uniform as Pat passed by. She was a cheerful and good natured person and a good friend. When she offered to provide me with a blind date with one of her friends, an Ohio State student, I readily accepted.

The blind date was Barbara Woods. I was impressed and have to conclude she was too (we will have been married forty-four years when November 13th, 1992 arrives – it was a couple of years later on Sadie Hawkins’ Day in 1948 when we were married.)

When I met her dad, Bryant Woods, I found out he had been a pilot in WWI and had been shot down and held as a POW. He later worked in Wall Street and with Bell Aircraft. Seeing WWII coming, he had been recruited as an air intelligence officer and returned to active duty as a major. He was assigned to the 93rd Bomb Group and trained with it in Florida before going overseas, and participating in the Ploesti raid. It turned out that he had left the 93rd a few months before our crew joined it. We got along famously. Because of his former business experience, he had been assigned to WPAFB on return from overseas, by then a full colonel, to work in contract renegotiation as the war wound down.

It was about that time I came to believe that the Air Force – which I felt at the time I would like to make my career – had so many pilots with college degrees that it was not likely to retain me without one. Consequently I elected to get out and return to Clemson to finish my degree.

Transition to civilian life

After seventy-two days of terminal leave spent renewing acquaintances with old friends and becoming a frequent house guest of Barbara and her family who were then living in New York, I plunged into the ice-cold waters of higher education in the field of engineering at Clemson.

The ‘waters’ may not have been that cold for everyone, but they seemed so to me since I had been, before leaving for the Air Corps, and indifferent C-minus student – I had initially gone to college primarily to get the two years that were at that time a requirement for aviation cadet pilot training. That poor start compounded by the four-year intermission of the war made reentry into the middle of the junior year of engineering a real jolt.

However, my attitude was changed and my determination was such that I managed to finish in early ’48 with a mechanical engineering degree and probably several stomach ulcer scars, but with a B+ average.

Prospects at the time for reentry into the Air Force looked grim as did the prospects for any flying job – there were just too many pilots with thousands of flying hours. Good paying jobs of any kind were not plentiful. My roommate in college had a paper route that supplemented his GI Bill allotment. He found that his first job on graduation, a respectable one with a first-line air conditioning company, paid less that his paper route. I had no clear idea of what I even wanted to do except to stay in some aspect of aviation.

At about that time, an interviewer from the National Advisory Committee For Aeronautics (NACA, which in time became NASA of space fame) at Langley Field in Virginia made an offer and I accepted (perhaps influenced a bit by the fact that Barbara and her family were by then in Washingto, DC, Bryant having accepted a job as a special assistant to the Undersecretary of the Air Force for Procurement).

NACA- Langley – Hampton Roads Virginia

My assignment was in the design of the models, equipment and research facilities used for aeronautical research. Some projects were interesting. I worked on parts of a supersonic tunnel and designed a small apparatus that used tiny glass spheres to simulate the action of air molecules over airfoils at hypersonic speeds. Some projects were dull: design of heavy high pressure piping and working with heavy steel support structures. One area of work (fate again) was to have a strong effect on my future activities – I was assigned some work on helicopters. The first project was to adapt one of the early Sikorsky rotor systems to the Langley Helicopter Tower. Later I was to work with another engineer in designing a one-tenth scale dynamic flying model of the Hughes Flying Crane.

I had been with NACA about three and one-half years when a new Army unit at Ft. Eustis announced intentions of expanding into the aviation research field, with principal interests in helicopters and light fixed wing aircraft.

It was then 1951. I had been married to Barbara for almost three years and we had a son, Jim, almost two years old. With due consultation with the family, I applied to the new outfit and was accepted.

Army Aviation Research and Development

The next 23 years were in this field of activity, so I will try to summarize it briefly, which for me is difficult. So perhaps describing end points will help.

When I joined as a project engineer, the air element, part of a Transportation Research and Development Station, was small: about three officers, five civilians and six enlisted men who were technicians or engineers. We were required to transfer R&D projects to the Air Force for actual execution. Our own budget for studies and surveillance of the Air Force efforts on our behalf was extremely small.

In about 1956, we were given authority to do work ourselves without going through the Air Force. Growth from that point was steady, aided by the emphasis on helicopter use in Viet Nam. By 1974 when I retired, the organization had transferred its surface transportation interests to other organizations, and was entirely devoted to aviation. We had slightly over three hundred people and a budget averaging more than forty million per year. I had progressed upward through the organization and was for the last 14 years the Technical Director, second in command to the military Commanding Officer.

That work provided me with mixed blessings.

Some of the work was the most rewarding I have ever participated in. Beyond improving performance and economics of rotary wing aircraft, we also were key is saving many lives in Viet Nam and later as a result of pioneering work we did in aircraft and personnel armor, reducing aircraft vulnerability, prevention of crash fires and in aircraft crashworthiness. Under the pressure of the needs of our forces in Viet Nam, we did some of the work so expeditiously that we got, almost in the same mail, a commendation for the work and a letter of reprimand for our short cutting of budget procedures in order to do the work.

Among collateral benefits, I continued flying in the reserve at Langley Field until 1957, and I also was able to get some unofficial time in the Army’s helicopter and light aircraft.

The Army R&D work also involved considerable travel in the United States as well as to Canada and Europe several times. I participated in the American Helicopter Society, the Society of Automotive Engineers, and the Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, presenting papers occasionally as well as functioning on committees or journal editorial assignments.

The down side of the job was in the conflicts. With growth or competition for limited resources, there always seems to be organizational infighting as well as reactionaries determined to stand in the way of progress since it involves change. The organization and doctrine of Army Aviation was also evolving and changing and there was a good deal of stress associated with that. The net result was that an undue (in my view) amount of time and effort had to be spent in activities not directly contributing either to the Army’s objectives or my sunny disposition.

By Fall of 1974, we had attained a high percentage of our most important goals and I found my work was becoming more routine, repetitious, and less enjoyable. While our organization was not directly affected, a more general reduction in force within the Army provided a rule under which I could, at 50, elect an early retirement; I did, and act which I have never regretted for one minute.

We had added a daughter to the family in 1956. She was by then 18 and in college; son Jim had finished college and was a musician. I had, in the early seventies, finished a Master’s Degree in Management Engineering with George Washington University. We had been living in Newport News, VA. So the vision of being retired, moving twenty miles away to historic Williamsburg, and continuing a higher-education program at William and Mary College that I had started part time before retiring looked quite attractive.

After the First Retirement

We moved to Williamsburg in 1975 and I enrolled full-time in the a doctoral program in Education with specialization in higher education administration – I had visions at the time of possible administrative posts in a college, with maybe a bit of teaching. But, as is often the case, I got sidetracked.

The first influence was computers. While our Aviation Laboratory had possessed a very respectable IBM mainframe computer, it was from my viewpoint remote; I was given results, and often asked for information and someone fetched it – but I didn’t get my hands on it. At W&M, I did, and I was fascinated by it.

I turned most of my electives to computer activities in one way or another. I did a computer analysis of minority students for the Vice-President for Equal Opportunity (or whatever his title was in that era). I performed my required internship in the Institutional Research Office where I devised a computer model of the flow-through of all classes from acceptance as freshmen to graduation, for use in estimating probable failures, dropouts, European sabbaticals, transfers in and out and other variations of population. I had found a whole new interest. And some readers may recall that it was about the time that I received my doctoral degree (in 1978) that the first home computers became available, and I couldn’t wait to get one (as puny as those models now seem).

An Aside: My graduation ceremony in ’78 found me at age 54, and by then my hair was well into the gray part of the spectrum. My program advisor, who was sitting on the stage next to the President of the College, told me later that the President leaned over to him and said, as I made the long trek from my seat to the platform, ‘The least we could have done was to get Hewin some Grecian Formula.’

After Graduation

With no immediate commitment, I was persuaded by an former associate to join him as a partner in his Aviation Safety Consulting business. Since I had much affection and respect for him, I did so. He was Frank ‘Pappy’ McCourt, the guy who had originally hired me into the Army program. Later, he had left the program. He spent several years in Mississippi in a variety of activities, until I persuaded him to come back – and I hired him back into the program. Now, he was in a way, hiring me again; and that job, too, turned out to be enjoyable.

The main function was in consulting with law firms in connection with litigation associated with air crashes. We also did some work for the Attorney General of New York State on air transporting of hazardous materials. The most rewarding work came when the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association contracted with us to do an overall study and analysis of General Aviation Safety. We did the research, analyzed the data with the Radio Shack TRS-80 Microcomputer we had acquired, and produced a well-received thirty-thousand-word report. I also got back into flying again, at least in light civilian aircraft, an occupation that the perceptive reader will have by now concluded I welcomed.

Computers to the Fore

My fascination with the microcomputer the term personal computer had not yet come into fashion) and its potential grew. As a result, my partner and I and two others formed a new company, VolksMicro Computer Systems, to assist business firms with adapting the small computers to their needs. We then moved the Safety Consulting Firm to a suite of new offices in Williamsburg shared with VolksMicro.

I enjoyed that work particularly, since I was it was an emerging field, something new every day technically. After a while Pappy decide to fold the Aviation Safety partnership so I could then devote full time to the computing business. I installed, supported, taught, fixed, sold, explained, and was very much ‘chief cook and bottle washer’ of a small business.

I also decided that I had to share all this wisdom, so for about two years I wrote a monthly column called Issues and Answers for Desktop Computing magazine as well as writing some feature articles. I also taught some programming under a contract we had with the Army. As I couldn’t get enough computing in at the office, I also had one at home and every evening would repair to my den and start again. And that is how, in 1984, I got my heart attack. You just can’t sit down all the time and stare at a tube without some ill effects. And, in turn, that’s also how I also stopped smoking, finally.

I was lucky – if you can ever call having a heart attack lucky – the medics decided I did not need bypass surgery, and the worst things I suffered were ten days in intensive care with a machine inserted next to the heart, exercising it.

I was provided with extensive directions as to exactly which of my personal habits had to change, and how, under threat of what penalties. And when the Barbara had finished those instructions, the doctors added some more.

So I did quit smoking, and I somewhat modified my diet. I think, however, that the most important change for me was exercise. As soon as I was able, I started walking forty minutes or so six days a week, every morning, rain or shine, hot or cold. My cardiologist has since found no problems in any exam and says as far as he is concerned I can return to flying. I haven’t, partly because of current costs, and partly because of the red tape a heart attack victim has to go through to reinstate a pilot’s license physical certificate.

I also decided to wind down VolksMicro Computers in favor of a lessor load of occasional consulting; I closed it out in 1986 after eight years of operation.

I established an office in my den and have since continued some consulting on personal computers. I also formed a partnership with a packaging expert to turn some packaging specifications and packaging guidelines into a menu-driven computer software reference program. We have since collaborated on an instructional video on corrosion prevention for use by industry and government. I produced the computer graphics which, along with his text, were converted to video format by a local media production group.

Having finished that, I think I am about ready to retire again, except that I have in mind some writing that I have been putting off for years.

Barbara and I owned boats, power cruisers, for about thirty years, the last one being a thirty-two-foot express cruiser. I sold it about four years ago, reaffirming the old axiom that the two happiest days in a boat owners’ life are the day he buys it and the day he sells it. I also vaguely recall resolving that I would not again be saddled with such a burdensome, if pleasurable, liability. It was not much more than eighteen months later that I found myself the owner of a recreational vehicle (RV), a Coachmen 240CB, with stove, refrigerator, microwave, TV, air conditioner, 4KW generator and all the niceties. Thus, the fate of all my good resolutions.

In any case if I pursue writing, I can always take along my laptop computer, and write leisurely.

My son plies his musical talents from his base in nearby Virginia Beach. My daughter, Julie, heads the Library for the Blind in nearby Newport News, and she has given us a grandson, now twelve, who provides us all with much enjoyment and a connection to the very young. My sister Wilma and her husband live in my old hometown of Greenville, SC, and we visit each other several time a year.

This had been a long recitation and I am certain I will have told some who read it a great deal more than they asked for. Although the effort was inspired by the renewed contact with my old crew members and by Jos Van Roozendaal’s, I have written it for others as well; I hope all will bear with those parts not really of interest to them.

In any case, I thank Eugene Shabatura for rattling my cage and making me aware of the incredible and inspiring interest of Jos Van Roozendaal. I hope that the crew may be able to get together at the 1993 meeting of the 2nd Air Division Association at Hilton Head Island, SC, in November ’93. What I would really like to do is visit Norwich and Hardwick in England, and go on to Holland to meet Jos Roozendaal and his associates and visit the crash site – but I am not sure whether I will be able to pull that one off.

I hasten to add that I do not consider this written account finished. I entertain some thought of expanding it backward, forward and in the matter of detail. Whether I will actually do that, or whether it will go in the same direction as some other of my resolutions have done remains to be seen.

In either event, I will welcome and gladly incorporate any materials or information others of the crew may wish to contribute.

Williamsburg, Virginia, Larry Hewin, September 1992

Afterword

All the stories I wrote after I saw the monument for the first time in 2004 for the newspaper where I worked, as well as the stories I wrote after my retirement, are collected in the Baggy Maggy section on my website. When I visited Donald Dukemam in Lancaster and Larry Hewin in Williamsburg in May 2004 they gave me paper copies of the stories they had written about their life in the war. Back in Holland they sent me digital copies in Word documents, and they both gave their permission to publish them.

I made the documents available for download on my website, where you can still find them, including all the images Larry and Donald used. Now I’ve published the text, over 17.000 and 24.000 words, on the website in the Baggy Maggy section, for quick and easy reading.

Over 150 photos, dating from 1944 until 2024, including all the images Larry and Donald used in the original Word documents, can be found in the Baggy Maggy album on Google Photos.

Link: Baggy Maggy section
Link: Baggy Maggy album on Google Photos
Link: Donald Dukeman: Destined to Survive in Word (download, 5.3 mb)
Link: Larry Hewin: The Last Flight of Baggy Maggy in Word (download, 2.1 mb)

Léon Krijnen, Breda, The Netherlands, May 2024