Shot Down by John Dinou
Oct 2, 1944- We washed out of a steel helmet in all the time we were at A-59. The only showers we enjoyed were in Paris at the Red Cross Hotel; an establishment Fate meant for me to discover, quicker than I imagined.
Caldwell told me we’d be “loading” the next day, so I walked down the hallway of the crew members brothel to check the Loading List on the bulletin board outside of Col. Maxwell’s room. As I fought my way down a hallway of excited screwballs, laughing and shouting for no reason at all except this was all new, they were young and being boisterous was an effective way to camouflage anxiety. Sure enough, there was the Caldwell/Dinou crew typed in to fly off the left wing of Flight Leader Dave Barker’s ship, the whole six-plane flight stuck back in “coffin corner.”
Briefing, the next day for the Ubach Mission, occurred in broad daylight instead of in the dark of early morning. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of grilled Spam, powdered eggs, and Texas toast washed down with reconstituted white milk. Pretty bad. Deatrick wondered, if our side was winning the war, what were the Germans having for breakfast today?
The cheery part, of course, was good old Army coffee. Pop a dram of French cognac in it and it’ll get one’s heart to pumping. A team of 6×6 trucks pulled up to the 496th BS mess tent to transport the “chosen” to the Group briefing tent. This was a two pole monster large enough to hold a circus. Once again, the briefing for this mission followed the scenario of all the others. A couple of hundred sophomoric young men whistled at friends from other squadrons, yelled at one another, lit cigarettes and sought comfortable places on one of the hard wooden benches. Smoke curled upward and collected in the roof of the canvas top, enough to burn a man’s eyes.
Airplane ID (identification) silhouettes glued at random on walls while black models of both Allied and enemy airplanes twirled lazily on slender threads from the ceiling of the huge canvas tent. As always, memorabilia of broken German ships were mounted at strategic places around the periphery of the room. Someone shouted, ” TEN-HUT !” Every person in the room, like underclassmen at Pre-flight, popped to attention. The briefing team strode purposely down the long aisle toward the raised platform at the front.
Lt. Col Emmanuel “Chief” Schifani acted as briefing host. He said, “At Ease, men. Smoke if you got ’em.” Most of us laughed at this banal jest. He signaled the Group Chaplain, Captain Cox, to lead us in a short prayer. That was followed by a lot of shuffling of feet as air crews, dressed in winter flight gear, got comfortable for the hour presentation.
Next followed the weather man. The weather will be operational, he said, which means about 50% cloud stratus, but visibility will be unlimited. Then the “Chief “signaled for the bedsheet to drop off the huge overlay map mounted at one end of the tent. At the same time, bright spot lights flashed onto the map while all overhead lights were tuned off.
The black line indicating the route in lay in a generally Eastern direction. An officer, Major Frank Bingham, of Green Bay, Wisconsin, who was to lead the mission now had center stage. He raised a six foot wooden pointer and pointed out some route landmarks. ” Here is Compiegne where we sight first after a short run en route. Then
comes Soissons and we cross the border into Belgium. Almost all the way through Belgium, we spot Charleroi/Florennes and enter German air space right after checking Liege.
“The mission is Ubach, Germany, right here just a bit North of the Autobahn which runs between Aachen and Cologne. As you can see from the red circles to the left of the target area, ( he whacked the nasty red circles with his long pointer), there are flak batteries in the area. Each red circle indicates a six mile effective range of an 88. Just make sure you don’t turn off the target too sharp because these 88’s might get you. Otherwise, gentlemen, I can guarantee you a milk run today!” He finished by suggesting two alternate targets and two alternate airports in case of mechanical problems.
This brought a grateful cheer from all the guys, including me. The missions out of England had been uniformly severe. An S-2 officer then rose to say the target is an industrial area and went on to explain its importance. This was followed by the Group communications officer who went through all the code names, flare color codes, and wireless settings. Col. Schifani finally asked the Padre for a closing prayer and we were dismissed for an early lunch.
We even have time for a short nap. Ubach. If all the missions from A-59 were to be milk runs like his, deal me in!
At exactly noon, Unteroffizier Herbert Reiser dismounted from his bicycle to join his gun crew, Fliegerabwehrkanonen, or FLAK Battery “A.” He and the three privates would actually load and lock the 88mm anti-aircraft cannon but it was Feldwebel Henreich Meyer, posted on the other side of the big gun, at the telemetry equipment, who would actually fire it. The two men had gone to gunnery school together but it was Meyer now who outranked Reiser and the two men insulted each other only as good friends do.
“What took you so long to get here this morning, Reiser? Another flat tire on your bike or one last roll with your ugly wife?”
“Now, now Sergeant, I am exactly on time and you mustn’t insult my dear wife or else I’ll have a few unkind words to say about your offspring who, as every man in this gun crew knows, are the ugliest kids in Ubach.” They grunted at each other and turned away, each to his work.
They settled down to another boring shift. There had been the usual flurry of RAF Lancasters during the night but, to the 8th Air Force Fortresses, Ubach represented a backwater target. They were much more interested at targets around Aachen to the West and Cologne, along the Autobahn, to the East.
The men snoozed as soldiers do, smoked the awful cigarettes, or read mail from home. At about 1400 hours, Reiser sent one of the privates to Supply for a pot of ersatz coffee, which like the cigarettes, was laced with sawdust. They broke out sandwiches of thick black bread and sausage, and ate languidly, without gusto.
At 1450, Feldwebel Meyer’s field phone jangled. The firing officer, Oberleutnant August Kurtz, reported a formation of “Devil Ships,” for that is what the German gun crews called the B-26s in their immediate area. “Actung! Actung! Fire four shells to test the range!” ordered Kurtz.
Like a well-rehearsed team, Sgt. Meyer’s men sent a volley of 88mm shells bursting into the sky but with no effect on the formation of bombers. The formation flew
just out of range. Then a strange thing occurred. The very last flight, turned tightly to the left and suddenly arrived within range of the 88s.
“Fire at will! Fire at will!” commanded Kurtz. Round after round of shells burst from the mouth of his gun and the other guns in the battery. At 1505 Reiser turned toward the private to his left to receive casing #42-387, marked EssenWerks, Essen, Germany, slid it into the mouth and slammed shut the breach lever.
“Ready!” he shouted. The gun control officer triggered a salvo of four into Capt. Barker’s covey of Marauders. The time, 1505.
Milk Run. Indeed. I would fly the bomb run, being in the Number Three position of the flight. Capt. Baker turned into the I.P. at precisely 1501 hours and settled into three minute bomb run. We dropped on his lead at 1504 and turned tightly to the left, but too far. The fusillade of cannon from down below commenced, sending deadly bursts ( shells in clusters of four into the flight of six Marauders.
At 1505, we caught a burst on my side of the Marauder. The ship, “Ill Wind II” shuddered. They say if you can’t see it but hear it, you’re in trouble. They also say if you can hear a sound like gravel being shoveled, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.
“They” were right about all of it. A chunk of flak tore through my flight suit. I felt a singe of heat tearing through my right pant leg and smelled the material burning.
Lambert Austin writes that out of the 36 airplanes which joined up for the mission to Ubach only 12 bombed the area. Was that because of inclement weather? Were the other 24 ships shot out of the sky? We were so focused on Capt. Barker’s wing that we were unaware of anything else. We were still bombing by flights and remembering the little red Circles on the map overlay. I felt confident that as long we stayed well away from a tight left turn, we ‘d be safe.
We came off that bomb run like Spitfires with a tight, hard turn to the left; exactly what the mission commander warned us to avoid. We had no choice but to hang on to the flight commander’s wing.
We caught a savage burst at 1506. Shell Number 42-387, exploded between the right engine nacelle and me. By nothing less than a miracle and the sturdy construction of a B-26, the wing didn’t break off. Just then the Intercom crackled with screams from the guys in the rear.
“Hey! We’re drowning back here. Help! Do something!” I was on my way, already moving my seat back, turning over the controls to Caldwell. It was my job in a situation like this to get our togglier, Junior Meeks, out of the nose. That accomplished, Keith yelled in my ear to turn off the main switch to the right wing gas tank. I unbuckled and hustled toward the bomb bay.
1st. Lt. Keith M. Caldwell, up in the cockpit had his hands full, immediately the right engine quit. He felt the awful blow on the right side of “Ill Wind II” and like a paternal shepherd, sensed the mortal blow to his airplane. He yanked back the right engine throttle while at the very same time he jammed, with all the strength in his powerful leg, the left rudder. This counteracted the vicious tendency of the Martin B-26 Marauder to flip over on its back. He fought to trim the controls so the airplane flew more easily; trimmed so that it flew “hands off.” Caldwell had thus given us a fighting chance to make it home to Pontoise, to the “Hilton” and a hot dinner.
Larry Biggs, engineer-gunner, from his position in the top turret, saw the burst. He gazed in shock at the river of 100 octane aviation fuel streaming back from the main
wing tank. Almost instantaneously, it siphoned up and in through Curt Deatrick’s waist windows, and threatened to drown Mark Meeks, trapped in his position in the rear turret.
Acting on pure instinct, Biggs now moved quickly to the bomb bay, his focus on the cut-off valve to the main gas tank, located on the forward bulkhead. I met him there at the same instant, reached down and turned it to the “OFF” position. I motioned to him to come forward to the cockpit.
“We may need you up there,” I shouted in his ear. He nodded his head. It was clumsy moving with the winter flying gear we wore. Even worse for me with a knee burning like fire. We hopped to the flight deck, pleased to see Caldwell had feathered the stricken engine and all but had the left engine humming at maximum. Biggs helped him to trim-up the ship and soon the two men had it flying straight. By the time I had strapped myself down, Keith turned to me, took his hands off the yoke and said. “Look Ma. No hands.” and flashed that big, shiny-toothed grin! We laughed. It was good to laugh.
At the very same moment, Deatrick crawled back toward the rear turret, across the open waist windows where one lurch of “Ill Wind II” would send him tumbling out and probably into a German prison camp. Somehow, this skinny, unathletic kid got hold of Mark Meeks’ flight jacket and, with superhuman strength, pulled him out of the rear turret against the current of gasoline. Sometimes men are so grateful for an act that they can’t say “thank you” properly. As they lay panting on the floor of the rear compartment, Meeks, his flight clothes soaked with gasoline, grinned at Deatrick and said, “You’re not going to light a cigarette right now, are you?”
Meanwhile, Biggs and I moved to the cockpit. Turning off the fuel cock worked; the stream of gasoline ceased, thus reducing the threat of fire.
All of this occurred in no more than 30 seconds. Like in all such emergencies, the men, pumped to their eye balls with adrenaline, reported later that their movements were framed as in a slow-motion movie.
I got on the Intercom to Deatrick and Meeks to toss out everything they could think of to lighten the weight of the plane. That meant ammo tracks, flak suits, machine guns and extra armor. Caldwell had the bomber pointed at 270 degrees on the compass as by now the main bomber formation pulled away from us into the horizon. That made us a cripple and thus vulnerable to predatory me 109s.
“We’re going to fly this thing due West as long as we can,” Caldwell yelled at both me and Biggs, who was standing in his usual position between pilot and copilot. “Any idea where we are?” he asked.
“Beats me, Skipper,” replied Biggs as I turned up the palms of both hands.
“That’s the problem,” Caldwell said, yelling over the roar of the lone engine.. “We don’t really know where the bomb line is. That means if we fall to the German side, we’ll spend the rest of the War in a prison camp. If we fall on the West side of the bomb line, we’ll be OK. So, let’s see if we can nurse this baby on one engine and not lose too much altitude. That way, we got a good chance to make it back. OK?” Biggs and I nodded our heads. I looked out the left window to the last of our engines, as it just perked, happily away.
Since I was responsible for the crew, I got on the Intercom once more and explained to the guys what the plan was. Then, as an after thought, I said, “If you guys in the back are through tossing stuff out, come forward to the radio compartment. In the event we have to abandon ship, all you guys hit the bomb bay and sit on the cat walk.
When you hear the alarm bell, jump. We’re going to milk this altitude as much as we can so when you hear the bell, you got only 1000, maybe 1100 feet of air under you. Everybody got that?” They acknowledged.
Then the left engine quit. It just stopped.It seized.
If an engine conks out, the props are supposed to windmill lazily. Instead, this one froze in position. Three faces turned instantly to the latest disaster; shock registered on all. “Darn,” swore Caldwell.
“She-hut,” echoed Biggs.
“Shit!” I bellowed.
“OK, Johnny. Get the guys in the bomb bay, on the cat walk with chest packs and ready to abandon ship!” said Caldwell, keeping his mind clear with what he had to do in the next five minutes. I said, “Roger,” and got the men where he wanted them, This was something we’d discussed and which had worked so well for us at Barksdale but only Deatrick, Caldwell and I remained of that original crew. We’d have to lead the three new men to safety.
I stayed with Caldwell as Biggs and Junior Meeks joined Curt and Mark on the catwalk. We milked it as long as possible. Keith cut off all switches to both engines and had both props feathered. He used flaps to increase our wing area thus providing more lift. He cut down air speed to just above shudder. We still didn’t know if we’d cleared the bomb line. If any one ever deserved the Distinguished Flying Cross, it was Keith M. Caldwell, on that day. And Keith was not finished with his day’s work yet.
We watched the altimeter because altitude at this point was life itself. Down, down, down we went. Caldwell had two concerns. The first was to trim the airplane so that it flew straight and level long enough for him to exit the cockpit, cross through the tiny radio compartment and stoop through the hatch into the exposed bomb bay. The second concern was to stay in the air long enough to clear enemy held territory.
He fussed with the elevator control tab at his knee while at the same time his right hand reached up to fine-tune the rudder control handle. He kept his eye peeled to the altimeter. No sense focusing on the air speed indicator. The pre-stall shudder would tell him to dip the nose down a tad to pick up a bit more speed when needed. Five thousand feet. 4000. 3000. Down we went. It didn’t matter what the rate of descent was. Level wings and minimum air speed were the essentials. All with no auto-pilot.
At 2000 feet, he spoke, in the quiet of the stilled engines, “OK, now. At 1500 feet, hit that alarm bell and start moving toward the rear. Move it quick and easy because I’ll be right on your can. Got it?”
I acknowledged by patting his shoulder and wished him good luck. If “Ill Wind II” lost its trim while Keith moved through the radio compartment, it was sure curtains for him. Centrifugal force in the resultant spin would spell doom for him and the ship.
At 1500 feet, I hit the alarm switch. There are three alarm bells on a Marauder. One in the cockpit/radio compartment. One on the bomb bay/radio room door and the third in the aft bomb bay/waist gun section. They are painted red and are loud as hell.
I unstrapped and stepped down into the radio room. I hadn’t noticed the stench of gasoline before but now it came to me strong. I guessed we were at 1000 feet. Plenty of good time to jump and survive. Then I entered the bomb bay to find them frozen in fear.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were still there! Still squatted down on the cat walk. All of them! They were supposed to be out and tumbling through the air to safety! This can’t be! That was when I “lost it!” Reflex. Instinct. Training. Everything hit my brain at once. Surely they heard the bail-out bell, hadn’t they? What were they waiting for? It was an order, damn it all.
At the same instance, pure anger, fury, and rage pumped into my blood. My fists knotted and my ears burned. Without thinking, choosing no one in particular, I freed my Colt .45 automatic from its shoulder holster and aimed at the first available squatter. It happened to be Curtis Deatrick. But I figured if I could get him to jump, the rest would follow.
“JUMP. JUMP. JUMP!” I screamed at him. His eyes only got wider, his body still frozen, immobile.
“JUMP YOU SONOFABITCH, OR I’LL BLOW YOUR F——G HEAD OFF,”
my eyes stretched wide with fury. That did it. Like the first olive out of a narrow bottle, he slipped off into space,. The others followed, one, two, three. I wondered how much altitude that left me and Keith? He must have been right on my butt for just then, he tapped my shoulder as asked, “What’s going on here?”
By way of answering, I turned toward him and stepped down into the slipstream. We had less than 500 or 600 feet left. You’re supposed to count to ten before yanking on the D-ring. Bull Shit. I jumped and pulled at the same time, Keith behind me, just like at Barksdale, by no more than a few seconds.
It’s really unnerving to be looking down at the ground; identifying trees as they whistle by; recognizing open farm land; wondering if a Wehrmacht private is waiting down there with a Mauser rifle in his hands. Further, all in split seconds, I fantasized my strong and healthy body bouncing among the trees, shattered and dead. What would my folks think? What would Miss Jerry Johnson have to say about it?
Then SNAP. The Master of the Universe decreed that I would live. The parachute opened. The familiar WHAM into my crotch and I was safe. But first where was I? I spotted a stand of trees off to my left and was in the act of pulling on the straps to carry me toward them. Yeah, hide in those beech trees long enough to determine my position. Find out where the Germans are. It would soon be dark and if this was enemy territory, darkness would help me escape.
All of this thinking went for nothing. Dressed in heavy sheep lined jacket and flight boots, I hit the open ground, tumbling and fighting to collapse the silken parachute. Running to those benevolent trees seemed a logical thing to do. It was not to be. I never reached them.
Mark Meeks tumbled after his chute and had trouble slipping on the slick, muddy farm land. His sheep lined, very heavy flight boots prohibited any thought of running. He looked up, his young eyes frozen as a wall of peasants approached him. The horde was peasant stock, mostly women, children and older men.. They were armed with ax handles, scythes and shot guns. They approached Mark cautiously, all except one young, blonde lad who charged him at full speed with a rifle in his hands.
Meeks, an accomplished hunter, yanked out his Colt pistol. “Halt!” he commanded. The blonde man did not. His berserk charge continued. He hurled epithets at Meeks in a foreign language. The rifle and wild eyes were language enough.
He commanded once again, “Halt!” The lad did not, continuing his charge. Within ten yards, now, he raised his weapon to fire. Meeks shot him in the head; right between the eyes. The blonde head snapped back with the force of the .45 slug and came to rest within five feet of his flying boots. It was all over. The remainder of the crowd put down their “weapons.” One, evidently the leader, approached Mark and in broken English apologized for the young man’s behavior. He explained that the lad had been abused by the Germans, witnessed his entire family shot against their very own barn door and had lost his mind.
“He probably thought you were a German flyer,” the leader said.
Mark Meeks would carry that carload of guilt with him the rest of his life. The nightmare of the young blonde head lying at his feet occurred over and over again Sometimes it would not appear for months at a time and he would think, “I’m over it now I’ve put it behind me.” Then it would blindside him at 4:00 in the morning, and he’d awaken in a sweat and curl up his knees.
From my kneeling position, I glanced up. I no sooner won the battle with the chute when a ring of peasants of perhaps 40 or 50 people surrounded me. They looked as though they had stepped out of a Millet painting.
There were no young men among them; mostly women of varying ages dressed in the billowing skirts, white aprons, and the wooden shoes of farm people. I counted five or six young children and one old gentleman with white flowing mustaches. They were armed with ax handles, sticks and scythes except for the older gentleman who held a shot gun in the cradle of his arm and the way he carried it told me he knew how to use it. He was not threatening, just wary.
Like a damned fool, I dropped the chute, straightened up, and drew the .45 caliber automatic from its holster. The people had not made a sound. They had not indicated any emotion on their faces at all. As soon as they saw my weapon, that changed. The barrel of the shot gun tipped toward my belly. The women who carried scythes raised them in the air. A couple of the young boys re-gripped their ax handles. It then occurred to me that the Colt automatic holds six shells in the clip and one in the chamber. What good would that do against all those folks? I tossed the piece over my shoulder and put up my arms in surrender.
The old guy relaxed his shot gun but approached me, my hands still up. I couldn’t read anything in his face. I reached into the lower pocket of my flight suit for my escape kit. Funny how stress and fear stimulates the mind; frees it to do the things it must.
The Army Air Forces escape kit, issued on all missions by the parachute room. was a work of pure inspiration. It consisted of a tough, clear plastic; deep pocket size. It contained, among other things, a multi-colored map of Europe on fine silk, a packet of four cigarettes, a thoughtful packet of toilet paper, an amount of French and German money, a fish line and hook, a chocolate candy bar, and a French, German to English phrase book. In addition, The Air Forces had thought to train us in useful phrases in both German and French.
I calmly opened the phrase book and in my very best French, I said, “Je suis American.”
No comprehension at all from the old guy. Holy smokes, I thought, they must be Germans. I envisioned months behind barbed wire, eating thin soup and ersatz bread, being told what to do (I hate that), and probably beaten.
I pointed at my shirt collar insignia to show him the “U.S.” and at the same time, at the proper line in the phrase book. Thank God, that did it. A brilliant smile lit up this gentleman’s face. He dropped the shot gun to the ground and plastered me with wet kisses, French style. This was a signal for the whole circle to close around me, hugging and pounding on my back; laughing and calling neighbors to come see the American flyer. “Americain! Americain!” they called to one and all.
A little kid shook my hand. I think he said something like, “Any gum, chum?” One lady, with a bushel of apples, gave me a big kiss and offered some of her fruit, I took as many as would hold in my pockets, thinking to load up for the crew. It was a scene of great rejoicing, with shouts of “Americain. Americain.” The old guy stooped to retrieve his shot gun and returned my .45 at the same time. never forget the taste of those apples nor the bear hug he gave me or the kindness in his eyes.
About that time, a Jeep pulled up with two American G.I.’s. “Hi, there, Lieutenant,” the three striper said. “You OK?” I nodded yes, offering them some apples. They laughed. God it was wonderful hearing some good American laughter.
“Our outfit has picked up all your guys. Everybody, safe and sound. One guy said he has a bruise on his thigh and said you got shot in the knee?”
That reminded me. I slipped my hand into where the flak had torn a hole. My knee was fine. The thing was “only a flesh wound, pudnah” as John Wayne might say, with hardly any bleeding at all. I did, however, ask for an aspirin because my back hurt.
“Don’t worry about that, sir. We’ll have our medics check you guys out. After that, y’all can have chow with us, if ‘n you want.”
“That’d be fine,” I replied. “Wha’outfit?” the universal query among soldiers. “Second Platoon, A-Company. Wha’outfit?”
“496th Bomb Squadron, 344th Bomb Group. You guys, infantry?”
“Yessir. You a pilot?”
“Yes.” I replied.
“You sit on them bomb runs and let the Krauts shoot 88’s at you?”
“Yes.” I said. I recalled news reel pictures of the horror and terror that infantry soldiers go through while living in conditions of utter misery. I was about to ask what it was like.
“Man,” they both said almost at once. “I wouldn’t have your job for nothing!”
“By the way,” I asked. “Where are we?”
“You made it over the German border, Lieutenant, just passed a little town called Florennes. Ever heard of it?”
“Naw, Never heard of it.”
“Those people surrounding you are Belgians. You should thank God you’re not a Luftwaffe pilot.”
“What would they have done?”
“Don’t ask!”
“Where are the Germans now?”
“Oh, they are that-a-way. We knocked them out of here a week ago!”
“A week? Do tell!” I wondered if there was a chance they’d be back.
Within minutes, the G.I.’s hosted me to chow at their company mess. The rest of the Caldwell/Dinou crew was present and already wolfing down the victuals. Caldwell arrived within minutes. We had C-Rations of braised beef, creamed corn, spuds, freshly baked bread and the ever popular baked bread and the ever popular “fish-eyes-and-glue” for dessert. We passed cigarettes all around and told War stories.
After another 30 minutes or so, a private arrived to say our quarters for the night were ready. These men put up pyramid tent for us. There was no floor but they had provided six clean sleeping bags and a kerosene lamp. We were too damned tired to care: too tired to celebrate our survival. Not one of us reported any dreams the next morning; the sleep was that deep.
The next morning, Company A announced they had a truck dead heading West; did we want a ride? “Hell, yes,” we said. So, after a breakfast of real chicken eggs, scrambled with chunks of sugar-cured ham, thick slabs of freshly baked bread. and the ubiquitous Army coffee, we piled into the back end of a truck, parachutes and all, and headed West. Meeks Senior, after a breakfast like that and a smoke, volunteered to resign from the Air Forces and seek out the Second Platoon of A-Company, where ever they may be luxuriating.
We rode the Red Ball Highway through scenes right out of a surrealistic movie of destruction. The bodies of soldiers and civilians had been removed by the Graves Registration guys but the carcasses of horses had not. The stench as we passed was like road kill of a hundred skunks. Unforgettable.
The broken towns and villages stood as mute testimony to the furious fighting. As a child, I loved playing with Lincoln logs and an erector set. I enjoyed building things and planned either to be an architect or a construction engineer. Here were entire towns with broken buildings; some of the buildings without one entire wall standing unscathed. Like the buildings in London, broken by the Blitz, they were reduced to piles of rubble and debris. The impact on my psyche was unimaginable.
I’m not sure when the nightmares began, but I surely remember them:
I am standing at the intersection of three streets, in an unidentified city. I sense it is European. The buildings, tired and morbid are all the same height, identical in design, four stories high. The windows are identical in each building. They are rectangular, without glass, and appear black and unblinking.
I hear not a sound. There is no smell. No life is observed in the dream. Not a human being is present. Not a cat or a dog nor a rat runs down the street. Nothing. There is no movement; only those black, staring windows, accusing me with silent contempt. For what, I don’t know.
The nightmares do not occur often. Some months, not at all. When they do, I awaken curled in a ball, sweating and feeling destroyed. It takes days, sometime, until I feel good about myself once again because, somehow, I feel partly responsible for this destruction.
The truck trip to Paris should have been an opportunity for a G.I. sponsored travelogue. Indeed, our route took us through some of the most beautiful countryside on Earth. Not hard to understand why millions of people choose to live here, said Caldwell, or why so many millions have died fighting for their rights to portions of it.
We sat in the back of that bone-jarring, kidney killing 6×6, trying as best we could to keep warm. The weather turned cold. Colder than a witch’s tit, said Deatrick.
“Why the fuck they call these things 6×6’s anyway,” asked Junior Meeks? “And why the fuck don’t they put shocks on ’em?”
“They call ’em 6×6’s because they was designed to carry six infantry soldiers on each side, on these hard-as-rock benches, with their gear stowed up the middle aisle, that’s why,” replied Biggs. “Who’se got a smoke?” Meeks extended a pack.
“Hey, look at that,” called out Deatrick. He pointed at a road sign. It read Armentiers. “My dad told me about this place.” He began to sign in a loud voice,
“The Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parley-vooz. The Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parleyvooz. The Mademoiselle from Armentiers, gave a soldier 40 beers , Hinky-dinky parlay vooz!”
By then the rest of the guys, both Meeks, Biggs and I joined in, each contributing stanzas to the universally familiar ditty. Caldwell, smiled. happy to see his charges verging on the hilarious.
If it was hilarity, it masked an underlying cauldron. These men had faced death and escaped by a hair's thickness; three of us, for the second time. Beyond that, there was the business of my .45. Caldwell knew or sensed this issue had to be resolved.
After the Hinky Dinky ditty exhausted all known stanzas, a quiet settled on the six of us in the rear end of this bouncing, cold-as-a-pawnbroker's-heart truck. Caldwell opened the conversation.
"Did I see a gun in your hand, back there in the bomb bay?" he asked. We both sat nearest the tail gate, facing one another, the men stacked forward into the depth of the vehicle.
"Yeah. I guess so," I replied, sheepishly. I squirmed a little; unconsciously patted the automatic now seated in its shoulder holster.
"Yeah, you did, you sure did," answered Curt Deatrick, seated next to Caldwell, looking right at me. "And he pointed it right at me. How's come you to do that? Why me?"
I shrugged. What could I say?
"Why not Biggs or Meeks," he pressed?
This time I answered by extending both palms flat and up. "I don't know. But if I think of an answer, I'll get back to you." He looked like he was moving in with more assertion. "I said, get back to you whenever...OK? Now back-the-fuck off! And that's an order!" Suddenly, I was angry. That was the second order I'd ever given this crew. The first one, via the alarm bell, ordered them to "Bail Out!" They disobeyed. Deatrick would not disobey this one or I'd bring the weight of my gold bar down on his three stripes and a rocker.
Not much later, the driver stopped for a piss-call. We all hopped out. Caldwell took a position next to me, away from the crew.
"What was that all about?"
"What was what about?"
"Come on, now. Did you pull a gun and why at Deatrick?"
"I dunno, Keith. What's the difference?"
"The difference is, unless we talk about this, bring it out on the table, this crew is done for."
"So what. We'll all be assigned to other crews. Besides, I'm no nearer to checking-out as a first pilot now than when we first came into the squadron."
"I promised you, Johnny, that I would see to it that you got your own crew, and will. But, in the mean time, we have this one and we have a chance to get through this jack-pot and become a better crew because of it. Now, Please, will you tell me why you pulled your gun on these guys and why Curtiss, in particular?"
I really liked Caldwell. He deserved an answer. I tried to explain what happened, although I wasn't sure I had it all straight.
"I knew when I left the flight deck, we had under 1000 feet of altitude left. Maybe 750 or 800. If all went smoothly, the guys would be out of the bomb bay by the time I got there. That would leave you elbow room to make a nice, safe jump with maybe 600 feet. I knew, from Barksdale, you'd be right on my can, worrying if the airplane would hold its trim."
"Yeah, So?"
"So. That's when it all fell apart. I ducked through the bulk head into the bomb bay. The guys were still hunkered to the cat-walk. What was I supposed to do? They always told us, as officers, we had to look after the men. I wasn't thinking; just reacting. I couldn't leave the ship unless I saw them tumble out."
"Sure, but why the gun and why Deatrick?"
"I don't know why I selected Deatrick. I guess I was looking right at him. He was at the right place at the right time. Nothing personal. I yelled at him to JUMP! I saw frozen panic in him and as I turned toward the others, the same look was in their faces. I had no choice. We were eating up altitude. If one of them didn't jump, and quickly, we'd all be doomed."
"Is that when you yanked out the Colt, John?'
"Yep. That was the time. I put it right in poor Deatrick's face and said, ' Jump, you sonofabitch or I'll blow your fucking head off!' I couldn't believe I said that. I can't believe now that I said that, but it worked. By the time he pitched down into the slip stream, the others followed. Then and only then did I feel free to dive out as well. I honest to God thought we were too damned low and you and I'd be bouncing on the ground below."
Keith turned silent. We knocked off the last drops off our "yoshes" and zipped up. The truck driver yelled. "Hey. Saddle up! Let's go!" We mounted the tail gate of the 6x6 and resumed the trek to Paris.
We drove for about an hour in silence. I made a decision. I took off my Colt automatic and extended it to Curtiss Deatrick, holster and all. "Here, kid," I said. "This thing is useless. I couldn't kill 50 peasants with it and I almost shot one of my best friends. I'm sorry about that."
Deatrick looked stunned. "What the heck, Johnny. Would you have shot me forsure?”
“Fucking A-well-told!” I said, and burst out laughing.
“Geez,” he said. “You didn’t have to call me a sonofabitch, did you?” Then he laughed. The whole crew laughed. Caldwell laughed. He stuck his thumb up at me and winked. He bad a crew again; one better than before.
The real problem was, for the first time in my life, I saw a dark side of myself that I thought never existed; a side that would surely kill another person in order to survive. And a friend, at that. It scared me.
We hit it lucky. It took three days and two nights to reach Paris. The Infantry handed us off to three different outfits yet each saw to it that we had chow and a place to sleep.
The ravages of War diminished as we traveled away from the front. The traffic on the two lane roads never ceased, each route clearly marked by the top of a #10 can sprayed bright red. A constant stream of military vehicles of all types traveled at almost breakneck speed toward the East, toward the viscous fighting at the German border. Trucks, like the one we rode in, staff cars, motor cycles, half-tracks, ammunition carriers and scout cars, all by the hundreds, rumbled day and night on the Red Ball Express. Coming back the other way the traffic consisted mostly of ambulances, trucks from Graves Registration, or GIs coming off the line for some R&R.
As we entered Paris herself, it was like entering another world. “Not a scratch,” said Junior Meeks. “Look at that. Not a shell hole in any of the streets. Not a building with holes in it. Was there a War here, or what?”
We’d heard that Paris had been spared. Lucky Frogs. They walked the streets and boulevards like the anointed, the liberation party still going on full blast from the magnificent day, August 25, when General Marc LeClerc lead the victorious Allied armies through the Arc d’Triompe, and down the Champs Elysee. About a million French men and women lined the Champs that day, to cheer their liberators. They waved flags, threw cut flowers, and offered cups of red wine to the troops as they marched by. Some of the women offered themselves in gratitude. That spirit was still very much alive as our truck pulled into the Place de la Opera. The truck stopped in front of the American Red Cross Headquarters.
“This is it, fly-boys,” announced our accommodating driver. “All you do now is walk up to the first receptionist you see in that building and tell her you want to send word to your outfit. They’ll take care of you from now on.”
Stiff legged and bone-tired, we tumbled out of the truck bed onto the streets of Paris. What a beautiful day it was; a day like back in Chicago, we called “Indian Summer.” Clear and sparkling. On most of the wrought iron balconies, bright red geraniums turned loving eyes toward the sun. Whirling around the plaza, Parisian auto traffic toot-toot-tooted in its insane pattern. As we yanked and pulled our parachutes out of the truck, a crowd gathered about us, most of the ladies envious of the pure silk billowing out in profusion. The contrast was startling. Here they were, well dressed Parisians drawn by curiosity toward six American airmen still dressed in heavy wool lined leather flight suits and covered with the grime of three days travel over dusty roads.
“Who’s in charge here?” a baritone demanded.
“I am,” replied Caldwell, with a mild smile of interest. He, by now, had his chute under control from the slight breeze blowing past the truck.
“These your men?” the voice belonged to a 1st Lt. Military Policeman. Two burly three stripers stood at each of his elbows. All three were dressed in white leather Sam Brown belts, white lanyards and holsters, and a black and white MP brossard on one arm. I bounced down and stood next to Keith. Then this prick MP said in a loud and nasty voice, “You men are out of uniform!”
We exploded with laughter, not knowing if this man was kidding or not. Biggs said, “Shee-hut. We must be winning the derned War. The chicken-shit is here, fresh from the States!”
By now the curiosity seeking crowd drew even closer. We laughed even more.
“One more remark like that and put you men in the guard house and throw away the key!” This guy was serious. We couldn’t believe it. Deatrick passed me back my Colt and I strapped it under my arm pit with all deliberation. Caldwell coughed.
“I wouldn’t do any thing like that, Lieutenant,” he said with a smile, but steel in his eyes. “General Hoyt Vandenberg wouldn’t like you doing that to one of his best crews.”
With that, the MP sonofabitch softened. “Oh. Shot down, eh? Why didn’t you say so? Here, now. Let me and my men help you guys with some of that stuff. We’ll just get you guys on up to the Red Cross and they’ll fix you right up.”
God love the Army, when you’ve learned how to play the game.
It was getting late. For once, the Army allowed the whole crew to stay together. It was all we could do to shower, shave and put on fatigues for dinner. Sleep, for all of us, was deep and dreamless. The next day, the Red Cross arranged a month’s pay and chits to purchase proper uniforms at the Post Exchange on the Champs Elysee. They provided us with a staff car to drive us the short distance. From the PX, the Arc d’Triompe stood majestically no further away than two city blocks. And, ofcourse, the weather once again sparkled with autumnal splendor. It was grand not to wear the sheep-lined leathers any longer.
Parisians love to promenade and today was no exception. We stood at the entrance of the PX and couldn’t help but ogle the smartly dressed women strolling down the side walk of the Champs.
Jimmy (Junior) Meeks wanted to know what those round things were located near the curb.
“What round things you talkin’ about,” asked Senior?
“Those round steel things. Guys go in and guys come out. What they doin’ in
there?”
“Why’ent you go in and find out,” said Senior. Junior did exactly that. He came out a moment later, a huge grin on his baby face. “Well,” asked Senior. “What they doin?”
“They pissin’ in there; that’s what they’s doin’ and I did too. Come on you guys, you gotta piss just one time to tell the folks back home you pissed on the Champs Elysee!”
