A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” – V: An Excerpt From the Novel – The Edge of Survival

The third and last of three posts presenting excerpts from Face of a Hero, this post presents a transformative point in Louis Falstein’s book:  The crash-landing of Ben Isaacs’ crew near Mandia, while returning from a combat mission, due to flight engineer Jack Dula’s misreading of the amount of fuel remaining in their B-24.

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But first, to give an idea, here’s an illustration of a B-24 experiencing a bad landing at Manduria.  The aircraft is “Miss Fury“, squadron number 22, 41-29212, a B-24H of the 721st Bomb Squadron, and it’s snapping its port main gear strut while landing on Manduria’s rain-soaked runway on March 13, 1944.  Probably manned at the time by Lieutenant Merle W. Emch and his crew, the broken bomber was so badly damaged that it was declared salvage.  This set of images taken of the aftermath by the 1st Combat Camera Unit, viewing the aircraft from the left, clearly shows the damage incurred during the landing, and rather watery conditions at the base.  (The photo is Army Air Force image 51309AC / A22761.)

As described in the squadron history:  

“There was a mission scheduled today to bomb the Gorzia Airdrome in Northern Italy. The mission was scrubbed before the crews were even briefed due to very adverse weather conditions. The rainfall was very consistent and heavy at times. The runway at the present time is very muddy.

“The Squadron received 3 new replacement crews today. Lectures were given to these crews by the Group Operations Officer, Intelligence Section, and Communication Section. Major Davis, the Squadron Commander, gave the crews a general lecture on tactics and military discipline.

“A slight fire broke out in the mess hall at approximately 1600 today but was immediately taken care of. A movie was held at Oria this evening titled, “Presenting Lily Mars”.

The aircraft’s nickname and nose art, shown in the crew and post-crash photos, was inspired by the comic character Miss Fury, created by June Mills (a.k.a. “Tarpé Mills”).  Going by Wikipedia (?!) Miss Fury was the first female action hero, appearing in Sunday comic, and, comic book format.  She seems to have been a parallel to Batman in not actually possessing super-powers, her strength and speed instead arising from that skin-tight catsuit that she’s wearing. (!)

From MyComicShop, here’s the cover of the second issue of Miss Fury, published in 1942.

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Fortunately in “real life”, it seems that none of Miss Fury’s crew were injured in the plane’s landing accident, unlike the all-too-frequent occasions – in combat or otherwise – which eventuated in the injury, wounding, capture, or deaths of airmen.

In that regard, “this” blog post includes a list (linked below) of B-24 losses incurred by the Cottontails during the Group’s wartime service, the first page of which is shown here:

Reading from left to right, the data fields comprise:

1) Missing Air Crew Report Number, or secondarily, Accident Report Number
2) Date of Incident
3) Pilot’s surname
4) Pilot’s first (given) name
5) Pilot’s rank
6) Squadron7) Fate of crew, indicated by three-numbers-in-a-row: The “left” number indicates the total number of personnel aboard the aircraft, the “middle” number indicates the total number of survivors, and the “right” number indicates the total number of men who did not survive.
For example, “10-10-0” indicates an aircraft loss in which the entire crew survived; “11-2-9” indicates two survivors of a crew of eleven, and “10-8-2” indicates an aircraft loss where eight crewmen survived.
8) B-24 sub-type (primarily “G”, “H”, “J” versions, with 1 “L”, and 4 “M”s)
9) Aircraft serial number
10) Comments about the plane’s loss, typically for planes lost in accidents
11) Aircraft squadron identification number, as painted on the plane’s rudder
12) Aircraft nickname. In this case, I’ve tried to make the text, whether upper or lower case, or with quotes, identical to that painted on the actual aircraft.
(Next sheet!)
13, 14, 15, and 16) Repetition of the four data fields comprising MACR or Accident Report number, date of incident, pilot’s surname, and aircraft serial
14) General (very general) location of aircraft’s loss
15) Luftgaukommando Report number, if pertinent and / or known

This list was initially created by reviewing all pertinent MACRs, “in-person” at the microfilm reading room at NARA, in College Park, Maryland, via Fold3, and in a few cases, as fiche copies obtained from NARA.  Aircraft nicknames and squadron identification numbers are from a variety of sources.  These comprise MACRs, Wallace Forman’s published compilation of B-24 nicknames, and of course (!) the Cottontails website.  Information about aircraft “not-necessarily-lost-in-combat” – in accidents or other not-immediately-combat-related-events – is also from the Cottontails website, and is combined with and corroborated by information from Aviation Archeology.

Viewing this information as a whole reveals that a total of 1,513 airmen comprised the crews of the 156 B-24s listed in the table, of whom 967 (64%, or about two-thirds) survived. Curiously, if you limit personnel losses to the 131 B-24 losses only recorded in MACRs, the proportions remain almost identical: A total of 1,303 airmen were crewmen aboard these Liberators, of whom 821 (63%; again, about two-thirds) survived.

Aircraft losses by squadrons are:

720th: 44
721st: 36
722nd: 36
723rd: 40

Particularly bad days for the Cottontails – when the group lost five or more B-24s (I picked that number arbitrarily) were February 23, March 24, April 5, April 25, May 24 (the single worst day, with eight planes lost), and June 24, of 1944.

You can view this tabulation HERE, and references correlated to specific planes HERE.  

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Now, back to fiction and Face of a Hero, and an event far more serious and devastating…

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The nose gunner – Mel Ginn – dies of his injuries, while the pilot – “Casey Jones” Peterson – grievously injured, survives.  All the other airmen emerge alive from their demolished Liberator, but with this incident, the crew’s sense of identity as a crew markedly erodes.  And from this point on, the crew’s original sense of unity will completely unravel, through the assignment of new men to fill “vacant” crew positions, the loss of original crew members to other crew, and, combat fatigue.

Here, Lou Falstein’s use of language, whether in terms of his description of events, subtleties of speech, or presenting crewmens’ moods and thoughts is superb.  The writing is succinct where it need be and descriptive as it need be.  And yes, there is a parallel between the predicament of Peterson and that of a character in Catch-22, which has been remarked upon elsewhere.  To quote from Falstein’s novel:  “ACROSS FROM my cot lay Casey Jones Petersen in a white cast. He looked entombed in the cast, like an Egyptian mummy.  His arms were broken, and where his legs had been, there were cotton-swathed stumps.  Only his face showed out of the cast, and there were openings at the bottom for bodily functions.  He couldn’t move, nothing of him moved except his eyes.  An orderly, or nurse, held the cigarette for him when he smoked.” 

The parallel character from Catch-22 can be seen for a fleeting moment in the YouTube trailer for 2019 Hulu’s mini-series, fifty-four seconds “in”.  Here’s a screen-shot…  

…while you can view the full video here…

Given the crispness of Falstein’s prose, and the clarity and detail with which the crash-landing is described, I’ve wondered if this passage is based on the author’s own experience in the 450th Bomb Group.  In that regard, Lou Falstein’s name doesn’t appear in any Accident Report filed by the 450th Bomb Group.  Similarly, his name is absent from any of the 16,604 WW II Army Air Force Missing Air Crew Reports (MACRs).  

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“God, you’re a coward!” I lashed out at myself, “You’re like putty. 
You must repeat this over and over to yourself: 
This is the only positive thing you’ve ever done! 
If you quit you’ll never be able to live with yourself. 
Nor will Ruth live with you when she finds out the truth. 
Look, take stock, think instead of whimpering like a fool. 
At thirty-five a man should act grown up. 
Others think you’re grown up. 
In Chicago they think you’re a hero. 
Most of your friends are either on Limited Service in the army or overage and out of the war. 
You’re probably the oldest gunner in Group. 
It’s not an honor, but nothing to be ashamed of. 
You’ve flown thirty missions. 
Not an honor, but some people give up much earlier. 
And the war. 
Think! 
We’re winning. 
The Allies are deep in France and the Russians are in Romania. 
You’re part of it. 
This is your war, remember? 
Rekindle your anger. 
You must rekindle your anger. 
Remember, your life is like a tracer bullet; let it glow once – just once – briefly. 
Let it light up the sky for others to see. 
Don’t snafu the deal, oh, brother, don’t snafu the deal. 
Tomorrow you must get off the cot, crawl if you have to, but get out of here!”

***

He had not looked for gentleness or even conciliation.
“All right, son,” spoken softly by this woman who looked like a mother,
caught him off guard and he was suddenly defenseless.
She had her arm around his waist, leading him back to his cot.
At first he tried to shake her off but soon he gave up the struggle,
and when she helped him onto his cot and raised his legs after he lay down,
Dooley could stand it no longer and wept like a little child.
Only a man does not weep like a child.
A man’s sobs are sounds of anguish and despair.
They come to the surface with the difficulty of dry heaves.

Casey Jones brought the ship off the target with a sharp turn to the right.  The Number Four engine was smoking from a direct hit.  We were losing gas.

“We’ll catch up with the formation,” the pilot said to Dooley who was on his guns in the top turret, “then you’ll come down and feather Number Four and transfer the gas to the good engines.”

We did not count the holes in the ship.  There were a hundred of those, but that didn’t matter because a checkup revealed that nobody had been hurt.  We were worried about the dead engine, which would slow us down.  But we anticipated no undue difficulties because our escort of Lightnings and Mustangs picked us up off the target to fly us home.

“You know something,” Martin said, “I think we missed the target.”

“Who gives a s_____?” Petersen said.

Over Lake Baloton [sic – Balaton], in Hungary, Dooley started transferring the gas.  When he’d drained Number Four, the engineer went to work transferring the remaining gas from the auxiliary tanks, the Tokios.  His pumps indicated that the auxiliaries were all drained.  But Dooley didn’t know, at the time, that you could not trust the pumps on a B-24.  He computed his gas at six hundred gallons, all that was left of the twenty-seven thousand gallons we’d started out with on the mission.

“Are you sure?” Casey Jones asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“That’s what the pumps say.”

“We couldn’t of lost that much gas,” Casey Jones said.  “Take another check, will you, mate?”

The panic crept over us in slow, subtle stages, like water inundating an area.

The formation was streaking for home, there were wounded aboard on many of the ships.  And in order to keep up with the pace set by the formations, the pilot was feeding the three remaining engines a rich mixture of gas and oil.

“I don’t know,” Casey Jones said.  “Be frank with you, I don’t understand what happened to our gas.  There should be more of it in those Tokios.”

“Not according to my pumps,” Dooley said.  He wasn’t sure of himself-

“In that case, fellas, it’s going to be a tight squeeze,” the pilot said.  “We might even have to bail out over Yugo.”

“Maybe we ought to fly her on auto-lean,” the copilot suggested, “even if we have to leave the formation.  Save gas that way.”

We dropped out of formation.  Chatter died in the ship.  We moved as little as possible, as if hoping that inaction would nurse along our gasoline a little longer.  “If Pennington were at the stick,” I thought.  The ship held no mystery for him.  But Pennington was probably on the ground, in Italy, smiling sardonically at our dilemma.  Or so it seemed to me.

Over Yugoslavia, Casey Jones called to say: “My indicator is mighty low, fellas, but I’ll try the Adriatic.  Take a chance.  Might have to crash-land after we cross it.  Unless you want to abandon ship here.  What do you say?  Rugged either way.”

There was no response to the pilot’s words.  The silence indicated that the decision was being left up to him.  Only one of us had been in a crash landing before — Charley Couch.  He was in the waist section smoking a cigarette when the pilot’s words came over the interphone.  Suddenly he seized his head with his hands and started shaking it vigorously.

“Oh, God, no,” he whispered.  I saw his face drain of the blood and it was almost chalk white.  “Not again,” he whispered, rolling his head from side to side.  “This time I’m afraid Mama Couch’s boy ain’t gonna make it.  Oh, my God, my aching scrotum.  I shore musta sinned awful bad.”  He sprang to his feet and looked about him in terror as if he’d just awakened from a frightful nightmare.  Pressing on his interphone button, he screamed into the mike: “Lieutenant, I’d do anything but crash-land if I wuz you.  I done it once, walked away from a ship that hit the dirt, but wasn’t many that walked away with me.  We gotta set her down, Lieutenant, why doncha try an’ set her down?”

We’re over water now, Charley,” Casey Jones replied.  “But we’ll fly as long as we can.  Might even try and make it for home base.”

The mention of home base kindled a brief hope.  Momentarily I believed we would make it.  We had made it before.  Always there was something, but we had made it.  Perhaps my caul had something to do with it after all.  There were these uncomputed, incalculable, unforeseen factors in war that made the difference between life death.  How else explain the incident of the tail gunner who had been shot away from the ship and went hurtling down in his turret and lived to tell the story?  And yet, the realization that I was placing my hope on miracles increased my anxiety.  I knew that a B-24 was not built for crash landings.  (The ship was built to stay on the ground.)  But never having been in a crash I did not know what to fear or what to expect.  The fact of the matter is, there are all kinds of crash landings.  It depends on the space, the terrain, the control of the ship.

We crash-landed suddenly.  Six miles from home base.  The crash came with such suddenness, our flaps were down only twenty percent.  There had been just enough warning from the pilot, who screamed: “DITCHING POSITIONS!  HURRY!  WE’RE GOING IN FOR A CRASH!”

I was sitting on the floor, leaning my back against the ditching belt, facing to the rear of the ship.  Against me, Charley Couch was propped, my legs wrapped around his body, Trent sat between his legs.  We were all propping our necks with our hands when the twenty-eight-ton ship telescoped into the ground on its belly.  There was a deafening thud accompanied by the anguished cry of crumbling aluminum.  I felt as if my insides had been pulled out of me; my eyes were sucked into the back of my head, the delicate fibers dangling, stretched, on fire with pain.

When I was able to open my eyes, I saw dust outside the open waist windows, dust rising on both sides.  I listened for explosion or the sound of fire.  But I saw only dust.  Then I noticed Billy Poat’s lean, bent figure.  He rose with difficulty, gripping his middle as if he were holding on to his guts.  He moved toward the waist window, leaned over it, and fell out.  I heard him shout, call for help.  Inside the ship, Trent was bleeding from the head, Charley Couch was moaning softly, trying to get to his feet.  He finally succeeded and moved toward the waist window.  He was shaking his head like he did when the pilot had made the suggestion about crash landing earlier.  His store teeth were dangling, protruding out of his mouth.  I saw one of his hands go up, fix his teeth by lodging them in proper place as if he were fixing his toilette before going out to meet a girl.  Then he too leaned over the waist window and fell out.

I tried to move, but could not.  My hands were feeling about my body for blood; there wasn’t any.  I could move my right foot, but not the left one.  When I tried to sit up, my body would not give.  It seemed nailed to the ship’s belly which was dug into the hard rock.

In the front end of the ship were Casey Jones, Oscar Schiller, Andy Kyle, Dick Martin, Mel Ginn, and Dooley.  I heard Dooley’s voice.  It was very weak.  “We can’t get out up front, you guys.  Pilot’s arms, legs broken …  in his seat.  Mel’s hurt awful bad, unconscious.  We’re locked in, you guys.  Do something….”

Then I heard the chattering: Italian.  And Billy Poat’s voice.  “In here,” he said, “mi amicos.”  I saw the heads of two Italian laborers.

Aspetta, aspetta,” one of them said.  I pointed toward the front of the ship where the rest of the men were entombed, but the Italians continued saying “Aspetta, aspetta,” and carried Trent and me out and laid us on the ground about fifty feet away from the ship.  Then they ran to the front of the plane, led by Billy and Charley who were both bleeding from slight wounds about their faces.  They examined the ship carefully, speaking mostly in sign language.  One of the Italians took off across the road and came back with an acetylene torch.

“If there’s gas in that plane,” I heard Billy say, “they’ll be blown to hellengone.  And so will we,” he added as an afterthought.  But he did not move away from the plane.

“I’m for trying it!” Charley counseled.  “Ain’t no other way to get ‘em out.  By the time the field sends down the meat wagon, fellas are liable to be dead.”

“Okay, paisan,” Billy nudged the Italian.  “Drill!”

Did the two Italians realize that they were endangering their own lives by applying the torch to an Americano plane which was full of 100 octane, volatile, highly explosive fumes?  If they did, they gave absolutely no indication of it.  They seemed completely concentrated on the gun bit which was chewing away at the aluminum body of the plane.  Billy and Charley were shouting to Dooley whose face appeared in the glass over the copilot’s seat.  The glass had not shattered.  “Hold on …  Just hold on,” Billy yelled.

The two Italians changed off on the torch.  Both of them were dipping sweat from the heat of the hot July sun.  Both of them smiled as they worked.  Their smiles reached across to us like warm handshakes.  Without these two Italians, two men working on a casa six miles away from the airfield, without them my comrades would have perished.  By the time the ambulance arrived with Doc Brown and three medics, the two strange Italians, or gooks, as we American called them, sawed off enough of the ship to reach the entombed men.  Schiller and Andy almost made it on their own power but Casey Jones was carried out like a sack of broken limbs, and Mel Ginn was an unconscious, bloody mess.

***

ACROSS FROM my cot lay Casey Jones Petersen in a white cast.  He looked entombed in the cast, like an Egyptian mummy.  His arms were broken, and where his legs had been, there were cotton-swathed stumps.  Only his face showed out of the cast, and there were openings at the bottom for bodily functions.  He couldn’t move, nothing of him moved except his eyes.  An orderly, or nurse, held the cigarette for him when he smoked.  “The Doc said I’ll be like a new man after one year in the cast,” the pilot said to Billy, who was on the next cot.  “A year won’t take long.”  He didn’t know his legs had been amputated.  “Looks like you fellows might start shopping around for a new pilot.  What do you think, Poatska?”

“Oh, you’ll make it, Lieutenant,” Billy said.

“I sure busted you guys up real bad,” Petersen said.  “I’m awful sorry.

“Did the best you could,” Andy said.  He and Schiller had walked away from the crash, suffering from shock.  An MP had found them wandering on the road and returned them to the base.  Every day Andy came to visit us at the hospital.

“How’s Mel?” Dooley asked continually.  He could hardly sit up on account of his bruised back, and his eyes were still half shut from the lacerations and cuts.  He kept repeating the question in his sleep: “How’s Mel?”  When awake he couldn’t keep his eyes off the stumps which had been Casey Jones’s legs.  When Dooley discovered Mel was on the Critical List with an internal hemorrhage and busted kidney, he said, “If that kid dies, it’ll be on account of me.  The whole thing’s on account of me.”  He was sure now the crash had been his fault, but somehow he couldn’t put his finger on it.  “I f_____ up some place,” he muttered.  He was constantly striving to get up from the cot to be nearer Mel, but the nurse forbade it.  “You aren’t ready for it yet,” she said.

“Please, nurse, can I talk to him one minute?”

“Somebody ask for me?” Mel inquired.  His eyes didn’t focus any longer and he wasn’t able to see, but his voice was still clear, though weak.  “I don’t look my best today,” he would say by way of a joke, “but I’ll be okay by tomorra when you come to see me, I guarantee ya that.”

“Sure you will,” said Mel’s neighbor.  He was a Negro from Engineers, with a busted arm that was in a white cast.  He was able to walk around, and when the orderlies were not in the ward he offered his help cheerfully.  “Anything you want?”

“Wanna write a letter to my wife, Sharon,” Mel said.  “I ain’t wrote to her in a coon’s age.  Trouble is, fella — “  He hesitated, looked at the colored boy without seeing him and said: “What’s your name, fella?”

“Phil.”

‘You’re my buddy, Phil, my good buddy.  Trouble is, Phil, I don’t know what to write half the time.  Feel queer as a three-dollar bill ever’ time I sit down to write.  Why don’t you just write and tell her I’m doing fine.  Just doing dandy.  I’ll be much obliged to ya….”  He slumped in his bed as if the effort of speaking and the attempt at humor was too much for him.  He looked so thin, emaciated, and his skin had the pallor of death.

The heat was unbearable.  Though the rooms of this former high school turned hospital were without doors, the air stood still and heavy.  Everywhere there were army cots placed so close together there was hardly any room for a patient to put his feet down on the cement floor.  The severe cases, like Mel and Petersen, lay in real hospital beds.  Above some of the beds were pulleys and weights and limbs dangling from them in the real stateside manner.  There were about thirty men in our large room.  Nurses flitted in and out, looking Very busy, always looking busy and solemn and just a bit surly as if they disapproved of the goings-on.  And always there was a captain from Public Relations walking forlornly among the cots with a stack of Purple Hearts and a list of names.  When Dooley saw the captain for the first time he said, “When they write me up for one of them things, I don’t want it.  I want no part of it.”  The captain was about say something, but he turned away and left the ward.

The only comic aspect in this unbearable place was Leo’s shaven head.  His golden hair had been cut right on top of the head where his wound was.  A bandage covered the spot.  Charley, in the cot next to Leo’s, slept most of the time.  Dick Martin hobbled about on a crutch I, too, was promised a crutch.

***

Pennington came to visit us in the evening.  I was sorry he came and was relieved when he left.  I knew it wasn’t fair to blame him for our disaster.  But I couldn’t help feeling it was on account of his heroics that this thing had happened.  I watched his face while he talked to us, but he was genuinely sorry and wanted to be helpful.  Nevertheless, I hoped he would not come again.

***

The nurse brought me the only book she found on the premises: Salsette Discovers America, by Jules Romains.  One passage in the book fascinated me to such an extent I couldn’t get over it: “Your cooks don’t like to prepare sauces [said the protagonist, about America].  Now, sauce is cooking, sauce, I mean, in the broadest sense.”  Sauce in the broadest sense!

***

There was no question about it: our crew was finito.  They would send Casey Jones back to the States to be placed in a hospital somewhere near Duluth where his wife might come to see him, and hold his cigarette for him.  Mel was bleeding internally and there was no way to stop that bleeding.  The doctors, majors and lieutenant-colonels stood over him, consulting.  But nobody could help him.  Mel was bleeding to death.  “Phil, where’s Phil?” he chattered feverishly.  “Have you wrote that letter to my wife, Phil?”

“I’m working on it —”

“That’s my good buddy.”  The words came with difficulty now.  “You’re my buddy for life.  After I get up — “

Billy Poat lay on his back, stiff, unmoving, staring at the dirty ceiling that had once been pink-colored.  Billy stared at the ceiling with a feverish concentration as if he were entranced by the dirt and the flies scampering over it.  When he looked at you, his eyes were far away, as if he were contemplating some terrible decision.  Dooley hardly spoke at all.  The guilt for the crash seeped slowly into him, like a poison.  He was sure the crash had been his fault, although he didn’t know what he had done wrong.  But at the field, the crew chiefs were not long in determining the cause.  They said if Dooley had advised the pilot to raise the bomber’s wings alternately and drain the gas from the wing tanks, instead of relying on the faulty pumps, there would have been no crash.  An investigation of the ship disclosed 200 gallons of gas in the auxiliary tanks – after the crash.  But Dooley was not told about it while in the hospital.  Nothing existed for him except Mel’s thin moans.  His own injuries did not concern him.  He couldn’t lie still.  He couldn’t sleep at night.  He was forever watching Mel’s bed.  It was like a deathwatch.  When he thought Mel needed attention he shouted for a nurse, doctor, or orderly.

***

I had always associated hospitals with the color white.  Hospitals were quiet, cool, drowsy places, with long, clean corridors and muted bells and effortless efficiency.  Nurses and doctors and even orderlies all worked with purposeful concentration.  Ruth had been in such hospitals in Chicago.  I’d always loathed them because my wife spent so much time in them, but now I reflected on how restful it would be to lie in one of those quiet, cool, white rooms.  And sleep.  I had an insatiable need for sleep.  Sleep to shut out thoughts of tomorrow and of the chaos here.  I would sleep around the clock if they let me.  But even in a hospital one was still in the army.

The color was khaki: the cots, the blankets.  There were no sheets.  The food was served on plates instead of mess kits, but it was still c ration food.  Vy-ennas.  The orderlies wandered about indolently in the manner of overworked PFCs and corporals who have learned in the Army that the best way to avoid doing anything was to pay no attention to the world about you.  And there was the noise, constant noise.  Noise and unbearable heat and somber-faced nurses, and naked, peeling walls and hard cement floors.  The only note of onerousness was supplied by the venereals who were billeted in tents out in the courtyard.  There was no order in the place.  There was only chaos and confusion.  It was amazing that anybody ever got well there.

***

Through my constant half sleep I heard planes overhead.  I knew they were coming back from a raid because it was late afternoon and the heat was suffocating and my cot was wet with perspiration.  I wondered what target they’d struck today.  I wondered what day it was.  It didn’t really matter what day it was.  I was lost in the vastness of time.  Time and events were a swift whirlpool and I was spinning on the rim of it and there was never an end.  I had been in this whirlpool all the conscious years of my remembrance.  There had been no other existence.  Perhaps there had been a time once, when the hour, the day, the year was of import, when one moved of one’s own volition.  But that must have been long ago.  Before the army was invented.  Before merciful sleep was invented.  It was T.S.  Eliot who wrote in that poem: “Good night, ladies …  good night, sweet ladies …  goonight…”  A very profound line!  When I got out of the army I would sleep forever.

I had a most alarming dream.  I dreamed I shot off my big toe on the right foot quite by accident while cleaning my pistol.  My comrades took me to the medics’ casa where Doc Brown examined the wound and said: “I’ll give you a letter to the Adjudication Board in Bari, recommending that you be grounded.  You can’t fight any more.  It’ll take that wound some time to heal, and after it heals that stump will bother you in altitude.  Besides, you’ve had enough, Ben.”  He put his hand on my shoulder, kindly and warmly.  “You’re too old to fly anyway.  It was all a fluke, letting you fly in the first place.  How many missions have you now?  Thirty?  That’s good enough.  You’re a hero.  Fought a good war.  My comrades nodded agreement and said: “Doc, he tried his best.  Accidents happen, though.  He didn’t mean to shoot off that toe.  He’s an okay guy, Doc.  Nothing phoney about pop.”  We all got in a jeep, and suddenly I was alone on the road to Bari.  I was abreast of the big sign: AMERICAN MILITARY CEMETERY.  Suddenly Cosmo came out on the road and stared at me.  “Where you going, doc?” he asked.  “No place,” I said.  I woke up-What alarmed me was that my subconscious had gone berserk with neat schemes of escape.  So the vacillations had been there all the time, lurking where one could not reach for them and tear them out by the roots.  The dream frightened me; in fact, it terrified me; in it grasped too eagerly for safety, abandoning my comrades.  I was ashamed, and yet it was no lie: I wished it were reality, not a dream.  I was tired of endlessly fighting, trying to reconcile my fears with my beliefs and fighting against the army.  The struggle had sapped all my energies.  The crash had capped it all.  I was too old, too tired, too sick….  I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again.  I was tired of this life of conflict and violence.  I almost envied Casey Jones.  For him there was no more violence.  He would be cared for the rest of his life.

But Petersen was a cripple!  What would Casey Jones say if he were in mv position?  “God, you’re a coward!” I lashed out at myself, “You’re like putty.  You must repeat this over and over to yourself:  This is the only positive thing you’ve ever done!  If you quit you’ll never be able to live with yourself.  Nor will Ruth live with you when she finds out the truth.  Look, take stock, think instead of whimpering like a fool.  At thirty-five a man should act grown up.  Others think you’re grown up.  In Chicago they think you’re a hero.  Most of your friends are either on Limited Service in the army or overage and out of the war.  You’re probably the oldest gunner in Group.  It’s not an honor, but nothing to be ashamed of.  You’ve flown thirty missions.  Not an honor, but some people give up much earlier.  And the war.  Think!  We’re winning.  The Allies are deep in France and the Russians are in Romania.  You’re part of it.  This is your war, remember?  Rekindle your anger.  You must rekindle your anger.  Remember, your life is like a tracer bullet; let it glow once – just once – briefly.  Let it light up the sky for others to see.  Don’t snafu the deal, oh, brother, don’t snafu the deal.  Tomorrow you must get off the cot, crawl if you have to, but get out of here!”

***

At night Mel cried feverishly.  The nurse kept coming back armed with a hypodermic needle.  She had ceased counting three-hour intervals.  The doctor had instructed her to give him the needle.  “Might as well keep him as comfortable as possible,” he had said.  “The poor fellow won’t last much longer.”

“And when you write that letter to Sharon,” Mel whispered hoarsely, his mind already wandering on the periphery of death, “I wancha to say I’m a faithful husban’ to her.  And if she stick by me I’m gonna make it up to her.  ‘Cause I don’t care any for them Eyetie gals.  I guarantee ya that…  Just put down ever’thing I say, Phil, ’cause I’m busy right now fixing to shoot down that there ME-109 —”

Dooley crept off his cot and started toward Mel’s bed.  The engineer’s face was frozen with terror.  “Mel —”

“What is it, Phil?  You writing down things like I said?”

“It’s your buddy, Dooley —”

“Well, you just tell her I meant to write alia time, but somehow — didn’t ever get ’round to it.  She’ll unnerstan’.  She knows I’ll make it up to her.  When I git back home — “

The nurse came in the ward and saw Dooley standing over Mel’s bed and said: “You had no business getting off your cot, soldier.  You’re not well enough to —”

Dooley paid no attention to her, concentrating his stare, his whole being, on the dying man.

“Soldier, go back to your cot!”

“I gotta help him,” Dooley muttered, talking to himself.

“You can’t do a thing for him,” said the middle-aged, sallow-faced woman who walked with a slow and tired gait and looked so out of place among the young, sturdy, swift-moving nurses.  “You can’t do a thing for him, boy.  And you’re liable to injure yourself — “

“Somebody’s got to help him, you can’t let him —” He seemed afraid to mention the word “die.”

“We’re trying to make him as comfortable as possible,” the nurse said.  “As for you — “

“Comfortable!” Dooley cried.  “You’re letting my buddy die!  If my buddy dies it’ll be all your fault.  It’ll be the army’s fault!  I’ll hold you all responsible!”  He was suddenly hysterical, hurling his own feeling of guilt at the army, transferring the guilt that had been on him like a terrible weight since the crash.  “I’m warning you!” he cried, waving his arms.  “I’m — “

“All right, son,” she said gently.

Her words struck him like an unexpected blow.  He had not looked for gentleness or even conciliation.  “All right, son,” spoken softly by this woman who looked like a mother, caught him off guard and he was suddenly defenseless.  She had her arm around his waist, leading him back to his cot.  At first he tried to shake her off but soon he gave up the struggle, and when she helped him onto his cot and raised his legs after he lay down, Dooley could stand it no longer and wept like a little child.  Only a man does not weep like a child.  A man’s sobs are sounds of anguish and despair.  They come to the surface with the difficulty of dry heaves.

The ward was silent a moment, then Mel resumed his chatter.  “Tell her when I get back home, Sharon and me is going in for ourselves.  Ain’t gonna have to live with my old folks no more.  Gonna get us some cattle and start in for ourselves, like we said.  I do declare, if n there’s one thing I miss in this Eyetieland, that’s seeing cattle.  Sure is funny, a land without no cattle.  Now you take western Texas —”  He sniggered, amused at the thought.  He coughed.  He lay still for a while.  I heard the roar of engines, away in the distant sky.  Dooley’s cot creaked.  He sat up.  We were all sitting up, our eyes glued on Mel’s bed, listening to the last thin fibers of his voice.  “I can’t breathe so good …  must be my oxygen hose working loose …  Damn …  Nose gunner to bombardier, nose to bombardier, over; open my turret door and check my hose, I can’t breathe….”  He coughed.  “Oh, God …  oh, God, oh, God —”  He died before morning.  (pp. 128-139)

Just One Little Reference…

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” – IV: The Events of the Novel

Having presented Louis Falstein’s five New Republic articles, it’s now time to move on to Face of a Hero.  To that end, it would do to present an overview of the novel, in terms of characters and events, relating these where possible to actual combat missions and aircraft losses of the 15th Air Force in general and the 450th Bomb Group – the Cottontails – in particular.  

So, in three upcoming posts, I’ll present excerpts from the novel which illustrate Louis’ writing style, exemplify his thoughts and beliefs, and in one case, relate a turning point in the novel in terms of the life of Sergeant Ben Isaacs and his fellow crewmen.  

And so, on to the highlights of the story…

____________________________

“And I’m not afraid.”

____________________________

Here’s an example of what an airman might fear, though in this instance with a fortunate ending!

The date?  May 31, 1944.

The setting?  A mission to Wiener-Neustadt, Austria.

The event?  A rocket fired by a Messerschmitt-110, which perforated the starboard rudder of a 721st Bomb Squadron Liberator, B-24H 41-28827, otherwise known as “Number 34“, otherwise known as “Impatient Virgin The II“.  The plane’s still-intact, white-painted rudder, clearly reveals the inspiration for the 450th Bomb Group’s appellation of “The Cottontails”.  

Despite the dramatic damage, pilot Lt. Irving Weilert and his crew brought their Liberator back to Manduria, where it seems that the plane was repaired, for it reportedly crashed a few months later, on June 13, 1944.  This official Army Air Force photo (52222AC / A23324) lists the men’s names as:

Front row, left to right:

Smith, Robert, Sgt., Chicago, Il.
Dobbs, Dal, T/Sgt., Copan, Ok.
Lewis, Richard, S/Sgt., Wareham, Ma.
Rizzo, Joseph, Sgt., Chicago, Il.

Rear row, left to right:

Harvey, Robert, Lt., Washington, D.C.
Weilert, Irving, Lt., Webster, N.Y. (pilot)
Gardner, John, Pvt., Albion, Mi.
Lumovich, Victor, Lt., Kenny, Mn.
Grossman, Donald, Sgt., Melrose Park, Il.
Crapps, Lorach, Lt., Miami, Fl.

A review of the National WW II Memorial registry reveals that all ten men survived the war.  

____________________________

Back to the novel…

____________________________

Ben Isaacs’ fellow crew members:

Original Pilot: Albert Pennington, Jr., otherwise known as “Big Wheel”. From Boston, he’s married to Myrtle. Upon return from a mission to Ploesti, Rumania, he will be removed from the crew, due to breaking formation to provide escort to a straggling, damaged B-24.
Replacement Pilot: George “Casey Jones” Peterson (otherwise known as “Big Swede”), a truck driver from Minnesota.
Co-Pilot: Chester Kowalski, from Hamtramck, Michigan. In civilian life he sells plastics on Joseph Campan Street, Detroit. While stationed at Mandia, he’s having an affair with Miss Nellie Bullwinkle, Red Cross director in that city. She’s twice his age.
Navigator: Andy Kyle, from Opal, Missouri. (In our world, an unincorporated community in Lawrence County.) His wife is Opal.
Bombardier: Dick Martin, from New York. (State or city is unspecified.) Prior to the war he was a Civil Service employee.
Flight Engineer: Jack Dula, a.k.a. “Jack Dooley”, from Pittsburgh.
Radio Operator: Billy Poat.
Nose Gunner: Mel Ginn, a rancher from “Ozone” (in our world, Ozona), Texas.
(Original) Ball-Turret Gunner: Cosmo “Mouse” Fidanza, from Cleveland, who has family in Italy
(Replacement) Ball-Turret Gunner: Charley Couch, a gold prospector from Arizona. He has a predilection for no-limit poker, wears false teeth, and despises his wife. His main interest in life is reading Studs Lonigan.
Right Waist Gunner: Leo Trent, from Hollywood. Twenty-three years old, he sells perfume in civilian life. His twenty-one year old brother is a Marine Corps ace in the Pacific Theater.

Other dramatis personae

Master Sergeant Arthur Sawyer: In charge of the Squadron orderly room.
Major Paterno: A Squadron ground officer.
The anonymous crew chief of “Violent Virgin”, one of the B-24s in which Ben’s crew flies combat missions.  This man is a Jew.  A question he poses to Ben Isaacs marks a moment upon which Ben considers the symbolism of being a Jew in the context of flying combat missions over German-occupied Europe, and – in case of his capture by the Germans – the implications of being a prisoner of war, and identified as a Jew.  This is not the only point in the novel at which Ben ponders his identity.

Three B-24 Liberators

Besides “Violent Virgin” and “Flying Foxhole” (the latter being the first Liberator which the Pennington crew flies after their arrival in Italy), Ben’s crew also flew combat missions in “Dinah Might“.

Ben Isaacs’ combat missions

#1: Wiener-Neustadt, Austria, over which the crew witness a B-24 being shot down by flak.
#2: Turno-Severin, Romania
#3: Ploesti, Romania, on June 6, 1944.  Lt. C. Maxwell’s B-24 is missing. Though in “real life” the 15th Air Force lost 12 B-24s (and 1 B-17) on this date, none of the Liberators were from the 450th Bomb Group.
#4: Munich, Germany. Cosmo is wounded in the left leg by flak, and hospitalized at the 53rd Field Hospital.
#5: Ploesti once again.  A B-24 is shot down by enemy planes, and the B-24 “Wolf Pack”, piloted by Lt. Wensley, drops out of formation over Yugoslavia and is abandoned by her crew.

A gap in the account follows, during which the crew completes nine more missions.

By July of 1944, the crew has also flown missions to:

Brod, Yugoslavia
Belgrade, Yugoslavia
Sofia, Bulgaria
Salonika, Greece
Budapest, Hungary
Miskolz, Hungary
Constanza, Romania
Pitesti, Romania
Giurgiu, Romania
Osijek, Yugoslavia
Zagreb, Yugoslavia
Ploesti, Romania

Events during subsequent missions

During the crew’s 27th mission, a “milk run” to Zagreb, Cosmo is killed in his turret by flak. He is buried at a U.S. military cemetery at Bari.  His replacement is Charley Couch.

On a mission to Regensburg, Germany (did the 15th Air Force actually fly missions to that city? – I don’t think so!) the Liberator “Betty Lou” crashes into the Adriatic Sea, killing all ten crewmen.

Then, another B-24 is lost, but in very different circumstances: A bomber crashes on take-off while en-route to Naples, with the loss of a crew who’d completed all their missions “without a scratch on the plane”.

On a mission to Brux, Czechoslovakia, the crews of Vern Matchek (of Croatian ancestry, from Scranton, Pennsylvania), and Danny Smith are missing.

By now, Lt. Pennington has been removed from his crew to be replaced by George “Casey Jones” Peterson. With his departure Lt. Kowalski also leaves the crew, and is replaced by Oscar Schiller, whose family ancestry is from Vienna.

A crash-landing

Things get much, much worse.

On return from a mission to Vienna, “Dooley” miscalculates the quantity of fuel remaining in their plane. Pilots Peterson and Schiller, believing their aircraft incapable of safely reaching Mandia, crash-land their bomber 6 miles from their base. The result? Ben, Trent, Poat, and Couch, all in the aircraft’s waist, are stunned, but survive. Peterson, Schiller, Kyle, Martin, and Dooley, trapped in the nose of the aircraft, are freed from the wreck by two Italian laborers.  But, two of the crew – Peterson and Ginn – are very badly hurt and have to be extricated and carried away from the smashed plane.

Ben, Peterson, Ginn, and Dooley are hospitalized. Peterson’s arms are broken, and his legs are so badly injured as to eventually necessitate amputation. Mell Ginn is hurt worse of all. Occasionally conversing with Dooley and Ben, sometimes to talking to no one-in-particular, sedated, passing in and out of consciousness, he succumbs to internal injuries before the next morning.

But, as Ben observes of Dooley, in anguish and guilt over Mell’s suffering, “Dooley could stand it no longer and wept like a little child. Only a man does not weep like a child. A man’s sobs are the sounds of anguish and despair. They come to the surface with the difficulty of dry heaves,”

A civilian diversion:

Then, an interregnum: Ben visits a refugee camp, in a passage presaged by Lou Falstein’s article “From a Flier’s Notebook” in The New Republic of August 20, 1945.

A return to combat

On the day after Ben’s return, Dick Martin flies with a new crew, and their plane is shot down over Bucharest. Later, Schiller is assigned to a newly-arrived crew.

The Tigertails commence missions to Southern France a few days prior to Operation Dragoon, which begins on August 15, 1944.

On August 14, aboard a B-24 piloted by Lt. Fitzsimmons, Andy Kyle cracks up and, while witnessing a fuel leak from the plane’s #4 (outer starboard) engine, attempts to parachute from the waist window. Restrained by the crew, he is grounded by a medical board.

The same and worse for Billy Poat: He jumps out a waist window while flying with a new crew over Vienna, after previously having requested to be grounded. This has terrible effects on Andy Kyle: Upon hearing this news, he goes berserk. Physically restrained and bodily placed on a plane going to Naples, he is sent back to the Zone of the Interior.

Ben’s original crew having thus fallen apart, he’s relegated to the position of “extra gunner”, to be assigned to fill in on other crews as needed.

On a mission to Vienna aboard Lt. Mathis’ Liberator, Ben witnesses a burst of flak shear the two port engines from Pennington’s plane, and then clearly observes Pennington himself bailing out.  Lt. Smiley’s B-24 collides with another plane, and both aircraft explode. Worse: The ball turret gunner on Lt. Mathis’ plane commits suicide with a .45 pistol.

The final toll of the mission is “100 men missing from Group.”

Though in the novel there are no missions between October 15 and mid-November, in reality, the 450th Bomb Group completed nineteen missions between October 16, 1944, and November 15, 1944. Roughly during this interval, Ben suffers frost-bite in both feet.

By now, the only survivors of the ten members of Ben’s original crew – at least, those physically and mentally intact and remaining with him at Mandia – are Jack Dula and Charley Couch.

Ben’s 40th mission is to Munich, Germany.

Ben’s war is complete…

On December 16, 1944, he flies his final mission with the crew of Lt. Short, to Innsbruck, Austria. This date accords with the 450th Bomb Group’s history, which denotes the December 16 mission, to that city, as having been the Group’s 194th mission.

…and the novel concludes

“I felt suddenly as if my whole body was arrayed against me,
hurling its war legacy of pains at me, demanding submission.
And I retorted with numb lips,
“It is too late.
There comes an end.
This is the end.
And I’m not afraid.”

***

I remember that morning.
I remember how out of the blackness of the receding Alps three aircraft rose in our direction.
And suddenly I awakened from my numbness and my lips whispered over the interphone:
“Three unidentified aircraft at six o’clock high!”
I raised my guns and suddenly I dropped them and a cry of joy burst forth from me.
“They’re ours! P-38s!” I cried.

I remember that morning and the three pursuit ships which were the loveliest of all sights.
I lowered my guns and we lost some altitude and I felt warmer.
And the sun came streaming in through the Plexiglass and I began to cry.
How splendid were the mountains receding along the Po!
And how beautiful the earth!
I cried for the deep serenity inside me,
a serenity which made me forget,
momentarily that the war was not over and tomorrow men would be dying.

Yes, I remember that morning and the tears and the sorrow, and finally the calmness.

Some Books to Refer to…

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Harcourt, Brace & Company, New York, N.Y., 1950

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Pocket Books, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1951

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999

Rust, Kenn C., Fifteenth Air Force Story, Historical Aviation Album, Temple City, Ca., 1976

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” – III: First Published Writings: “Molto Buono”, and, “The New Republic”

Louis Falstein’s literary oeuvre commenced at least five years – and probably more – before the 1950 publication of Face of a Hero, based on this very brief news item from Molto Buono (Italian for “Very Good”), the unofficial wartime newspaper of (first) the 723rd Bomb Squadron, and (subsequently) the 450th Bomb Group.  The article specifically mentions that Louis was an editor of New Writers and Midwest magazines, and was solicited to write articles for Free World, a publication affiliated with the United Nations.  

The article confirms Lou’s service as a combat airman in the 723rd Bomb Squadron, the article’s publication date, February 3, 1945, placing an approximate time-frame on the period of Lou’s service with the Cottontails: The latter part of 1944 through early 1945.  

Molto Buono, February 3, 1945

723rd Notes

Did you know that S/Sgt Lou Falstein, who very recently wound up his missions and took the long but wonderful voyage home, is a professional writer, a former editor of “New Writers” and “Midwest” Magazines?  Just before leaving, Lou was asked to write a series of monthly articles on the development of democracy in Italy for “Free World,” an outstanding international publication, dealing with United Nations economic and political problems.

________________________________________

To give an appreciation of the technical aspects of being a B-24 Liberator tail gunner, this video, “Consolidated B-24 Tour – Subscriber’s Request! – Part 1“, at Kermit Weeks’ YouTube channel, shows the interior of the rear fuselage of a B-24J Liberator, with particular emphasis on the interior of Louis’ crew station, the Emerson tail turret.  The aircraft is “Joe”, 44-44272.    

________________________________________

It seems that Louis’ first published writing appeared in a periodical of great significance: The New Republic.  From August of 1945 through January of 1946, he authored five articles for that magazine, three of which were based upon his experiences in the Armed forces, the other two reporting on the development of the atomic bomb.  The commonality of the articles is their very “human” approach to their subject matter: they emphasize neither Lou’s military experiences per se, nor the purely technological and scientific aspects of the extraction and refinement of uranium for use in atomic weapons.  Instead, they focus on Lou’s impressions of civilian refugees, fellow soldiers, and scientists and their families, paying particular attention to language, speech, and emotion.  However, the final two articles are somewhat analytical, one covering moral and political controversies arising from the use of atomic weapons, and, the other entirely straightforward discussion of veterans’ organizations in the post-WW II United States.

These are the article titles and their publication dates:

“From a Flier’s Notebook” – August 20, 1945
“You’re on Your Own” – October 8, 1945
“Oak Ridge: Secret City” – November 12, 1945
“The Men Who Made the A-Bomb” – November 26, 1945
“Veterans Welcome” – January 28, 1946

Full transcripts of all five articles are given below, with each article “headed” by quotes – in dark red, like this – that I think exemplify or highlight the article’s central point.  The two articles about the Oak Ridge National Laboratory are accompanied by images of cartoons (one from P.M., the other from the Daily Mail) that actually appeared in those pieces.  

Of special note – for the purpose of this series of posts – is Lou’s very first article: “From a Flier’s Notebook”.  Note that in the first paragraph Lou mentions “our crew”, the only non-fiction reference to his fellow crew members – whoever they were – that I’ve found.  And, in light of the statement, “Today we find ourselves in a luxurious palace.  We’re on a high hill, and below our rocky cliffs flows the bluest of seas, so blue it hurts your eyes; its waters so clear you can see many fathoms down from your window,” was the un-named location of their “luxurious rest” Capri, or, Naples?

Of much greater import in terms of Face of a Hero is Lou’s detailed and moving account of his interactions and conversation with Yugoslavian refugees, both partisans and civilians, at a nearby rest camp, the article concluding upon his crew’s encounter with Jewish refugees from Yugoslavia, Austria, and Poland, at a “refugee colony on the coast.”  Both of these encounters would be the basis a very lengthy passage in Lou’s then-future novel. 

There, Sergeant Ben Isaacs feels an intense and immediate sense of identification – if not empathy – with these people, his awareness of this shared history giving rise to memories of escaping the Ukraine and reaching America in the wake of the Russian Civil War.  And yet, even with closeness, there is distance:  He comes to the realization that the trajectory of his life – the passage of time, and, his years in America, as an American – have created a near-unbridgeable gulf between himself and the people who in both symbolism and reality, embody his past.

But, that’s for later.

Here are the articles:

August 20, 1945 – “From a Flier’s Notebook

October 8, 1945 – “You’re On Your Own

November 12, 1945 – “Oak Ridge: Secret City

November 26, 1945 – “The Men Who Made the A-Bomb

January 28, 1946 – “Veterans Welcome

________________________________________

From a Flier’s Notebook

The New Republic
August 20, 1945

Today we find ourselves in a luxurious palace.
We’re on a high hill,
and below our rocky cliffs flows the bluest of seas,
so blue it hurts your eyes;
its waters so clear you can see many fathoms down from your window.
We are here for a three-day rest.
Combat fatigue.

There is a Yugoslav rest camp nearby….

**********

In the shoe-repair-shop were two elderly people – Viennese.
The woman, still showing signs of former good living, looked up and smiled.
“A guest,” she said, and embraced me.
Vienna.
Had I ever heard of Vienna?
Yes, I said, I’d had occasion to hear of it…
“Ah, you’ve been bombing it!” she exclaimed.
“Goot! Goot! I have a great house there, but I don’t care.
Bomb it.
Hitler is there.
Destroy it!
Destroy the evil genie!”
America – would I tell them something about America, the outside world?
She held onto me: “Please come to our casa, if only for an hour…”

They live on this rocky, craggy coast, far away from their native lands.
They work and pray in their little synagogue.
They are very dexterous with their hands and are self-supporting.
But they have no place to go.
They are strangers here and strangers in their homelands.
Some of them talk of Palestine, of America.
But most of them live with nothing to look forward to.

The manager saw us to the road.
He shook my hand and said:
“Please come back.
We are apart from the world…
Shalom (Peace be with you).”

IN WAR things change very quickly from the sublime to the ridiculous, and vice versa.  Yesterday our crew was in very Spartan surroundings eating C-rations and sleeping on the hard canvas bunks.  Today we find ourselves in a luxurious palace.  We’re on a high hill, and below our rocky cliffs flows the bluest of seas, so blue it hurts your eyes; its waters so clear you can see many fathoms down from your window.  We are here for a three-day rest.  Combat fatigue. 

There is a Yugoslav rest camp nearby, and in the beautiful village below our palace I met several Yugos at the well.  Many of them wear uniforms, British style, and all have Partisan caps, even babes in arms.  We started a conversation with a couple, of lads and found that we could understand one another quite well.  They invited us to an affair which was to take place that evening.  As we talked, a fierce mustachioed giant came over.  A Yugo M.P.  He listened to our talk, nodded approvingly and finally said in – English: “You come tonight to party, h-okay.  H-eight o’clock, h-okay.”  And he put his huge paw gently on my shoulder and concluded: “American aviaticheri very good, sure.” 

The show took place in a monastery.  The program consisted of short sketches – crude, agitational, but good front-line stuff.  The poetry is on a high level.  These people sing well and are impressive even to those who do not understand them.  And they sing at the slightest provocation.  The blind, emaciated accordionist would strike up a tune, and the whole assemblage of men, women and children would join in lustily.  Then someone would shout in their language: “Death to Fascism, Freedom to the People!” and there would be an echo.  They have a fine, proud, dignified bearing.  They are poor, but offer you cigarettes.  British.  (You prevail upon them to take your American smokes.  They accept, but reluctantly.)  The children have mature faces.  They do not beg or accept candy like many of the little Italians who ask for “chungum…chocolat…caramel…”  They follow the sketches intently.  Some of the twelve-year-olds have seen action in battle.  The women are big, some quite attractive; they carry rifles, like the men. 

Blaj Bralle, the blind Dalmatian, plays the accordion like a master.  I met him in a cool wine cellar.  He agreed to share my bottle of wine if he could reciprocate.  “I’ll play for you,” he said.  He played and sang in a high passionate tenor voice and drank for three hours.  While Blaj and I were drinking, the giant mustachioed M.P. lumbered in.  He dented my back with his huge paw and said he was very happy to see me, but he could not stay; he was on duty.  Very sorry.  But he would have just one sip.  A quick one.  He tossed off one glass, wiped his mustaches and said, “I go now.”  I asked him to have another.  “H-okay.”  He drained another glass.  “Good!”  He said he sure missed the wine when he was imprisoned by the Germans for three full years.  Then he excused himself, said duty called; he would have just one more drink.  He told me how he’d starved, how the Nazis tied his hands over his head for days, how they shot people.  He showed me an old copy of Stars and Stripes which carried his fierce mustache and an article detailing his experiences as a Partisan and prisoner of war.  We killed the bottle, and he finally left, saying: “H-okay, h-okay, I’ll see you…”

It’s been a long time, and I’ve flown many missions.  Back at the rest camp facing the blue sea.  I fell in love with this spot on my first visit here two months ago: The warm sun and the beach are far away from the droning planes and early alerts.  The grim war-life is erased from my mind for a few brief days. 

I cannot find my old friends among the Yugoslavs here.  A young lad, Dmitri, promised to take me to another accordionist who might have word of Blaj.  Dmitri is fifteen, a dignified, taciturn peasant boy.  He is a veteran guerrilla, recovering from wounds received in action.  He wears a Partisan cap with five-point-star, but no shoes.  We went to the “home” of Professor Nikita.  A barren, cavernous room with a mattress on the stone floor.  Two broken chairs.  Nothing else. 

Professor Nikita is also blind.  Blaj Bralle is no longer here, he said.  He is sick with tuberculosis and has been taken away.  (These people have so little, so tragically little, to eat.)  “I will oblige you with some accordion playing.”

The accordionist and I drank.  His wife poured the wined with delicate hand like a hostess accustomed to gracious manners.  I sat on the floor, but she refused to sit on the chair, insisting that I take it.

I had one cigar in my pocket, our week’s ration.  I offered it to Nikita.  He refused, but finally took it.  He fondled the cellophane wrapper for a long time.  Then he undid it ceremoniously, mumbling: “Ah, my dear friend!  What a treat!  It’s been so many years…  But you are depriving yourself- “

“Smoke it, please,” I said.

“Surely, surely,” Nikita exclaimed, his strong, stony face beaming.  “Mama, we’ll proceed to smoke this wonderful thing.  Mama, smell it.”  We lit the cigar.  “Mama, come here.  The sheer fragrance of it.  Now I’m happy.  I shall smoke it slowly and I shall play some songs for our dear comrade.”

As we played and sang, a young bespectacled Italian priest in dark brown cassock and his boy assistant entered.  The hostess gave him her seat.  They spoke Italian.  The priest asked for some operatic airs and sang in a strong tenor voice.  His face grew red and sweaty.  My Luckies made the rounds.  The hostess stood and smiled graciously, wanting her guests to be happy.

How poor these people are!  But what dignity!  “Our land is afire!”  the accordion player said.  “It is a beautiful land, but the incendiaries have put it to the torch.  You can do the same to them.  You and your mighty airplanes.”

The other night the Red Cross gave a party for us and Invited Dmitri.  He came reluctantly.  He has no shoes – and he doesn’t like to sit at dances.  As we walked to the hotel, we met several friends of Dmitri’s and I invited them too.  There was one husky girl, her left hand in a cast.  Her name was Zinka.  She is of peasant origin, wears a Partisan cap and trousers and there are three battle stars on her jacket.  She has a peasant’s suspicion of city folk, of strangers, of Americans, too.  She spoke very little.  Dmitri told me that she had been a commander, of three hundred Partisans, with a legendary reputation for heroism and leadership.  Her husband was killed at her side.  She doesn’t laugh much nor smile.  Her hatred is grim, but the children here, the many Yugoslav orphans, love her.  She is very tender to them.  We danced a waltz together.  “I like these,” she said.  “When there was music at home, we danced much.”  I brought Zinka some punch and cake.  Later in the evening she offered me some.  “Take it,” she said.  “But I’m full,” I told her.  “You brought me some before,” Zinka retorted.  “Now you will share mine.”  She hails from the mountains and her dialect is not easy for me to understand, but we managed.  She has killed many Germans.  “You have too?” she asked.  “Many?”  I said I didn’t know how many.  “But you kill them.  That is what matters.  That makes us brothers-in-arms.”

Yesterday we played Santa Claus to a group of Yugoslav children.  A truckload of us took off for a coastal town where the orphans are housed.  We carried several cartons of candy with us.

In an improvised hospital with cold, drab rooms were little tots, all feverish eyes in dry, white faces.  The English Red Cross worker, named Mercy, led us among the children.  They knew instinctively the meaning of a toy: a teddy bear or a clumsy dog made of olive drab.  But candy – few had ever seen it.  One youngster reluctantly accepted the bar I gave him.  He gazed at it blankly, no reaction on his face.  We removed the cellophane wrapper and suggested that he taste the candy.  He did, hesitantly.  Finally he realized that candy is to be eaten.

The older children, aged nine or ten, understood the occasion.  They lined up solemnly, not like our kids yelling with joy and anticipation.  They did not reach out.  But as we made the rounds, each one upon taking the candy said quietly: “Chvala (Thank you).”

In the evening a bonfire was built in the village square.  The youngsters marched in, singing as usual, and sat around the fire.  A silver-bearded old guerrilla who looked like a professor, played Santa Claus.  He wore a big white robe, and a Partisan cap.  Before passing out the toys and candy, Santa Claus made a brief speech.  He told the children of the gifts brought them by their allies; gifts which they must gladly accept, some day to be repaid.  He said it was necessary to move up this Christmas celebration because they were all going back to Yugoslavia where great tasks awaited them and their leader, Tito.  The children cheered Tito, the Allies and Santa Claus.

Earlier in the afternoon we had visited a Jewish refugee colony on the coast.  Here were Yugoslav, Austrian and a few Polish Jews.  In a huge villa, once inhabited by rich fascists, these homeless people have set up workshops.  They make bedsprings of telephone wires, as well as clothes, toys and shoes.  They have access to discarded materials only.  Yet their work is superb.

The general manager, with a Hitler mustache, showed us ground.  “Out of 70,000 Jews once inhabiting Yugoslavia, only 6,000 are left,” he said.  “And they are alive today because they are with the Partisans.”  He was once a big businessman in Belgrade.  Now he has nothing, expects nothing.

An old nearsighted Austrian Jew was wiring bedsprings in a dark room.  There is no electricity.  He asked me eagerly from where I came.  “New York,” I told him.  “Ah, New York!” he exclaimed.  “Do you know the Schumans on Eighty-sixth Street?  Please see them.  Tell them of my plight…  Please…” 

In the shoe-repair-shop were two elderly people – Viennese.  The woman, still showing signs of former good living, looked up and smiled.  “A guest,” she said, and embraced me.  Vienna.  Had I ever heard of Vienna?  Yes, I said, I’d had occasion to hear of it…  “Ah, you’ve been bombing it!” she exclaimed.  “Goot!  Goot!  I have a great house there, but I don’t care.  Bomb it.  Hitler is there.  Destroy it!  Destroy the evil genie!”  America – would I tell them something about America, the outside world?  She held onto me: “Please come to our casa, if only for an hour…”

They live on this rocky, craggy coast, far away from their native lands.  They work and pray in their little synagogue.  They are very dexterous with their hands and are self-supporting.  But they have no place to go.  They are strangers here and strangers in their homelands.  Some of them talk of Palestine, of America.  But most of them live with nothing to look forward to.

The manager saw us to the road.  He shook my hand and said: “Please come back.  We are apart from the world…  Shalom (Peace be with you).”

SERGEANT LOUIS FALSTEIN

________________________________________

You’re on Your Own

The New Republic
October 8, 1945

There was no hell-raising in the barracks.
If there was any joy in our hearts, it was an inner joy.
We asked each other, somewhat sheepishly: “What do you intend to do for a living?”

**********

A private from New York, said:
“I can just see myself …
riding on the Eighth Avenue subway. …
All of a sudden I feel inside my shirt and discover I ain’t got my dog tags on …
I’m scared stiff an MP will catch me and I’ll get restricted.
“So I pull the emergency cord for the train to stop, and I run home for my dog tags. …
I can just see it.”

**********

For most of us it was the last night in the Army.
No doubt some felt a sentimental twinge in parting with a life so thoroughly lived
that its imprints would linger forever in one’s being.
It had not all been blood and sweat,
and even for those of us who had seen the burial of our comrades,
there had also been many moments of joy and warmth and common feeling of accomplishment.
And some of us spoke freely of joining the Reserve
and even reenlisting if we could not make a go of it in civilian life.
An infantry sergeant who had been through the hell of Anzio, said:
“For months now I’ve been sweating it out, looking forward to this.
Now that it’s come, I’m afraid.”

ELEVEN of us boarded the train in Chicago with orders to report at Fort Dix for, separation from the Army.  We were a jubilant bunch of high-point men.  It was our last train ride as GIs, and one we had been looking forward to for many years.  We found our Pullman compartments but did not stay in them long.  A feeling of great excitement and anticipation imbued each of us.  The club-car was crowded; the washrooms, platforms and passageways were loud with talk and handshakes and back-slapping.  There were hundreds of us riding the Freedom Train.  In the dining-car we presented our government meal tickets and received the inevitable stew, but this time we did not resent it.  For this was the last time.  We were lavish in our tips.  We called each other Mister.

The following morning we arrived at Fort Dix.  At the gate we saw a GI coming in our direction, a barracks bag slung over his shoulder and a shiny, new cloth discharge emblem on his shirt.  “How long does it take to get a discharge?”  Joe Myron, a waist gunner who had flown with the 15th Air Force, asked.  “Forty-eight hours,” the brand-new civilian replied.

“That’s too long for me,” Joe said as we moved on.

Forty-eight hours isn’t a long time after years in the Army.  But even the most stolid and patient among us considered one day’s delay in our discharge as an irreparable blow to the progress of mankind.  We were in a hurry.  And here, finally, was the opportunity.  No golden promises awaited us outside, and many looked with fear and uncertainty to the future.  But now, getting out was the important thing.

We were issued bedding, assigned to barracks in the Casual Area, and told to listen to the public address system and read the bulletin board.  “Your names will appear on the roster tomorrow,” the non-com from Operations said indifferently, “Most of you will get on it tomorrow, but some won’t.  And if you don’t, you’ll know your service record is not in order.  And please don’t come to Operations and ask us why you didn’t make the roster.  We just work here – 24 hours a day.”

In the barracks we found three men who said they’d been there four days already.  One of the men, tall, flabby, with six overseas bars on his shirt-sleeve, talked with the bitterness and cynicism one finds so frequently in the Army among those who feel trapped.  “Four days I been here!” he said.  “I ain’t no dischargee.  If you ask me, I’m a retainee.”

Twice daily, rosters were posted along a large wall in front of a modest little building called Operations.  These rosters contained the names of men and the schedule for their discharge processing.  The most prevalent question among us was: “Did you get on a roster?”  Of our original group of eleven men, ten got on.  Jimmie Moore, former radio-operator-gunner, didn’t make it.  “You’ll get on tomorrow,” we consoled him.  But Jimmie was broken-hearted.  “I know my service record is in order,” he muttered dejectedly.  “It always happens to me.”  He lay in his bunk and sweated it out.  We, the lucky ones, thought of tomorrow, our first day of processing, and many obstacles loomed in our minds.  Suppose we flunked the physical test and the Army refused to release us?  Suppose Finance snafu-ed the works?  We built a thousand pessimistic suppositions.  A former paratrooper in dirty uniform and sparkling jump-boots summed up our feelings: “You ain’t out of the Army till you got that white piece of paper.”

Our processing began in the afternoon.  About fifteen hundred of us crowded into a large, unfinished auditorium to hear a welcome speech by a lieutenant, and an outline of the processing steps.  Then the Protestant chaplain, who looked like a tough racket-buster, offered his three principles to guide us when we changed over from khaki to civvies.  “Take it easy,” he thundered.  “Have confidence in God,” and “Help build a better America.”  It was a big order on a warm afternoon; and orientation talks never were popular among GI’s.  But we were in a festive and magnanimous mood.  And the chaplain had a sense of humor.  “Take it easy,” he counseled, “no matter what you undertake. … If you want to get married, think it out, take it easy.  If you want to use the vocabulary you acquired in the Army, think it over, take it easy.  Ask for the salt if you want it; no adjectives needed, they’ll know what you mean…”

An Over-age Destroyer-a man 38 or more being released because of age-said philosophically: “The only way to beat the insurance companies is to die young.”  How to convert bur government insurance was the most debated question.  We argued it among ourselves in the barracks, and sought clarification on the following morning when our group started processing in earnest.  The counselors sat in plywood-partitioned cubby holes, armed with our service records and large, unpleasant-looking tomes.  My counselor, a staff sergeant who’d toured the globe for the Army, had a friendly handshake for me.  He said he would give me as much time as I desired.  He was here to help me and advise me on my rights as a veteran; how to convert my insurance, and so on.  We scanned my service record thoroughly, and toward the end, when we got up, he put his hand on my shoulder and said in paternal fashion: “I’d also advise you to have some children.  In old age they make life much brighter.”

In the afternoon the much dreaded physical examination came up.  It was as thorough as the one I had during induction several years ago, but much less personal.  The doctors and medics seemed more harassed and colder; they worked at a swift pace, and there was little time for oral questioning.  One doctor regarded us with envy and said: “I heard a rumor the Army is going to discharge a doctor this year.”  We were thumped and jabbed and stabbed by needles and shoved along in assembly-line fashion until we were thoroughly explored and recorded and ordered to dress and leave.  My friend, the waist gunner, was told to stay; the doctors discovered a murmur in his heart.  He sat in misery, upstairs, awaiting reexamination.  Some were advised to file claims with the Veterans’ Administration for service-connected disabilities.  One fellow with large, feverish eyes who suffered from recurrent malaria, asked: “If I file a claim, will it hold up my discharge?”  He was assured that it would take only an additional ten minutes to file a claim with the VA.  Of course, one was not certain of having the claim approved, but it was best to have it -on record, for some of the service-connected disabilities were liable to grow worse in the future.  By filing now, one would save a great deal of time and red tape.  But there were many men who did not file claims because they feared it might create another obstacle in their path to liberation. 

We were through for the day.  In the evening we drank beer out of small paper cups at the PX, and studied the merchandise on the shelves.  It reminded me of the evening before our crew took off for overseas.  We had done a great deal of shopping.  We bought razor blades, pipes, tobacco, candy, cigarettes; our co-pilot took along silk stockings and rouge and lipstick in order to establish a good bargaining position with the girls in the ETO.  Now we were studying the shelves again, wondering what to buy before taking off into the unexplored domain of civilian life. 

There was no hell-raising in the barracks.  If there was any joy in our hearts, it was an inner joy.  We asked each other, somewhat sheepishly: “What do you intend to do for a living?”  Most of us did not intend going back to our old jobs.  The future for us was tomorrow – when we would get that White Piece of Paper; beyond that was a blank.  Jimmie Moore, who’d spent the day listening to the loudspeaker and scanning the many rosters, was more dejected than ever.  “Tomorrow will be two days, and I ain’t on yet.”  Some men played poker; not recklessly, not like overseas when money meant little, when you did not know whether you would be alive the next evening to play again. 

The lights went out at 10 p.m.  One tech sergeant, who had flown missions out of England and had been wounded and, much decorated, mused out loud: “Seems to me,” he said in mock dejection, “I never will get that Good Conduct Ribbon.”  His record was spotless, he assured us, but it seemed, he never was stationed in one place long enough to receive that award.  His service record stated that he was “favorably considered” for that’ high honor at eight different camps.  “Now it’s too late,” he said with resignation.  “What will I tell my grandchildren, when they ask: ‘Grandpa, did you receive the Good Conduct Ribbon in the Great War?’”  Beneath the sergeant, in the lower bunk, a high-point cook’s helper outlined his plans for the future: “I’m going back to Italy,” he said.  “I got a woman there, and she’s got two kids.  I never seen a cook like her in all my life!”  A private from New York, said: “I can just see myself … riding on the Eighth Avenue subway. … All of a sudden I feel inside my shirt and discover I ain’t got my dog tags on … I’m scared stiff an MP will catch me and I’ll get restricted.  “So I pull the emergency cord for the train to stop, and I run home for my dog tags. … I can just see it.”  Another man said: “Tomorrow I’ll be a civilian.  From tomorrow on I ain’t stationed in a place, I live there, see!  And when I decide to travel, it ain’t ‘…in accordance with AR 20-64, said EM ordered to report at destination no later than …’  I report when I please.  And when I go some place, it ain’t on a furlough 15 days plus traveling time-it’s a vacation and I stay as long as I want.  Tomorrow I’ll be a free man.”

The waist gunner who was held back because of his heart murmur did not indulge in flights of fancy.  And neither did a couple of other men who were scratched from the roster for further check-ups.  They could sweat it out several days more; but each day was eternity.

For most of us it was the last night in the Army.  No doubt some felt a sentimental twinge in parting with a life so thoroughly lived that its imprints would linger forever in one’s being.  It had not all been blood and sweat, and even for those of us who had seer the burial of our comrades, there had also been many moments of joy and warmth and common feeling of accomplishment.  And some of us spoke freely of joining the Reserve and even reenlisting if we could not make a go of it in civilian life.  An infantry sergeant who had been through the hell of Anzio, said: “For months now I’ve been sweating it out, looking forward to this.  Now that it’s come, I’m afraid.”

In the morning-our last morning as soldiers-the omnipresent loudspeaker from Operations instructed us to turn in our bedding and to fall out in front of Operations with our baggage.  We said goodbye to the men who stayed behind.  Jimmy Moore, who had finally got on a roster, remarked: “You guys will be unemployed just two days longer than me.”  A guide with an orange armband marched us off at 7:30 past the mess hall where German PWs were sweeping the cement sidewalk and eyeing us blankly.  Among us there were some angry mutterings, and then someone in our ranks started humming: “When this war is over, we will all enlist again, When this war is over, we will all enlist again, Like hell we will, like hell…”

We were marched into a long, fluorescent-lighted building to sign the discharge papers.  Even for the average Army cynic the impending ceremony had a touch of solemnity in it.  We lined up along a tall table and our service records were placed in front of us, on large blotters covered in ink with many names that preceded us.  We were told to sign three copies, one in indelible pencil.  The instructions were concise and simple; certainly there could be no room for error.  Arid yet we were nervous.  And the huge, sandy-haired man whose name was Dombrowski trembled when he took up the pen and, beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.  After the signing and finger-printing we stood outside briefly to relax from the ordeal. 

At the clothing-exchange shed, grimy shirts and trousers were discarded for new ones.  A doggie parted reluctantly with his high infantry combat shoes.  “They ain’t even-good for work,” he said.  Someone suggested they were perfect for hunting.  “Not job-hunting,” the doggie said, trying on a pair of GI shoe, “sand that’s the only kind I’ll do for a while.”

For some days we’d looked with envy on men who had the cloth discharge emblem sewn on their uniforms.  We deemed such honor and accomplishment beyond our reach.  Now it was our turn.  A battery of sewing machines which lined two sides of a large shed was operated by GI’s with bored expressions.  They grabbed the shirts and blouses we threw down on the tables, and the needles raced above the right breast pockets, wedding the shiny, golden emblem irrevocably to our shirts.  We dressed and patted the emblem lovingly, and we were off again, to Finance, this time.  On the company street we saw a group of Negro dischargees march by; they were processed separately, as if belonging to another army.  But they too wore happy grins.

At Finance, the pay roster was called, and we lined up again to receive our final pay.  This was the last hurdle.  The room was filled with smoke and nervous chatter.  The paratrooper who still had his shiny boots on, said, “Soon as I get the dough from the cashier, I run.  Don’t matter if I get overpaid or underpaid.  And by the time they find the mistake, I’ll, be in Buffalo.”  The loudspeaker interrupted our speculations and warned us that of the money due us, all but $50 would come in check form.  It was for our own protection, the loudspeaker said, for there were instances in the past when a man who carried $500 with him when he left the discharge center would beg an MP for carfare to get out of Trenton.

We were paid and given our lapel discharge button.  The paratrooper did not take off across the fields.  Everything went smoothly and efficiently.  Outside, a Permanent Party non-com said: “Everybody put on a tie and smarten up because we’re going to the chapel from here for the discharge papers.”

About 300 of us took our seats silently in the big, mural-covered chapel: I remembered the one at Grand Central Palace in New York when I was sworn in.  The room was dark then and hushed in silent bewilderment.  This was a little different.  The windows were open and the bright sun came in.  A major with narrow eyes sat on the podium underneath a flamboyant mural depicting George Washington reviewing two armies: the Continentals and the Army of today.  In the pear, on the balcony, the organ played softly: “America”  We looked back, and the Wac at the organ winked at us: The Jewish chaplain said a brief prayer.  I did not hear the prayer.  And I caught only snatches of the major’s speech who said he was bidding us a warm farewell in the name of the Chief of Staff.  I watched the faces of my buddies, and; like myself, they were impatient to hear their names called.  The major stepped down from the podium.  He took up the envelopes which contained our discharges and the names were read off.  A name was called and a man stepped forward to salute for the last time and to receive his paper after a hearty handshake.  The ceremony proceeded quietly.  Occasionally the major found it difficult to pronounce names that were of Polish, Czech or perhaps Armenian origin.  And they were all there, in this small group, names from all the lands and religions that forged out of their blood the flaming letter V. 

LOUIS FALSTEIN

________________________________________

Oak Ridge: Secret City

The New Republic
November 12, 1945

I asked my driver, a young woman from this Bible Belt country, where the plants were.
“Well git to ‘em,” she said with a knowing smile.
“It takes time.”
And like a trained guide she pointed to the neighborhoods and called them off:
“Where you’re staying, that’s Jackson Square, main residential and business section.”
I scribbled in my notebook:
Pine Valley, Elm Grove, Grove Center, Jefferson Center, Middletown, Happy Valley.
While pointing out the neighborhoods,
she also suggested that I jot down the A&P’s,
the Farmers’ Market, Supermarkets,
and a hot dog stand selling Coney Island dogs for ten cents.
She called my attention to the fact that in the Trailer Camps
the streets were named after animals: Squirrel, Terrier, Racoon.
But I didn’t ask her how come there was a Lincoln Road in the heart of Tennessee.

EIGHTEEN MILES WEST of Knoxville lies the town of Oak Ridge, birthplace of the atomic bomb.  We drove over a recently constructed road and I asked the driver, a young private, when the road was built and how far it extended.  He smiled obligingly, hesitated and finally said: “Suppose it’s perfectly all right to tell you, but I wish you’d inquire about it from the proper authorities when we get to Oak Ridge.”

____________________

Drawing by Eric Godal.  Copyright by Field Publications, Inc., and reprinted by courtesy of PM

____________________

That was my first lesson in what is a habit of long standing with Oak Ridgers: security.  I found out that security includes not only the Clinch River and Cumberland Mountains which keep the outside world from this atomic city.  I saw gates within gates and barbed wire fences and signs warning of “Prohibited Zones” and “Restricted Areas.”  And posters in dormitories, offices and stores: “Protect Project Information….”

People in authority say, “Don’t quote me on this” or ‘This is off the record.”

A young scientist told me, “Even those who talked m their sleep learned to keep their mouths shut.”  I asked naively wherein lay the danger of talking in one’s sleep, and the reply was: “What if the wife heard you?”  Things aren’t so bad now, he said with relief.  “There was a time, coming home from the lab, when I couldn’t talk to my wife at all.  I pretty well knew what the Project was making, but I couldn’t tell her.  We’d sit around the dinner table and the strain was terrible.  A man could bust.  Then we started quarreling.  Over nothing, really.  So we decided to have a baby.”

A psychiatrist at the Oak Ridge Hospital told me of his increased work load during the days before the Bomb was dropped.  “The strain was terrible,” he said.  “I had my hands full.  But practically no one talked.  One fellow couldn’t stand it, so he told his wife.  But she felt the secret was too much for her and she told it to a friend.  So they had to terminate all three of them in a hurry.”

Actually very few of the 75,000 Oak Ridgers knew what was being done on this great reservation.  Some rumors had it that synthetic rubber was being made.  Wiseacres said they were getting ready to manufacture buttons for the Fourth Term.  One plant didn’t know what the other was doing, and even within plants the work was completely departmentalized.  The people on top knew, the scientists knew, but they didn’t talk.  The Bomb hit Hiroshima and the Oak Ridge Journal ran a banner head: “Oak Ridge Attacks Japan.”

But the people still don’t talk.  The whole world knows what Oak Ridge is producing.  What isn’t known is how it’s being produced.  As an outsider you will be heard out with tolerant suspicion when you talk of atomic fission or the Bomb, but if you mention plutonium or U-235, the cold stares set in.  The more polite Ridger will listen to your question, dig into his pocket for the Smyth Report, and pointing to a well worn page, will say: “There is your answer.”

The fact of the matter is, the Smyth Report contains more information about the Bomb than most people in this town possess.  The ones who know more keep it to themselves, and the rest feel it’s none of your business.

At first glance you wonder what all these thousands of people from all parts of the United States are doing in this hidden Tennessee country.  From the ridges-which lace the reservation in all directions, you look in vain for signs of industrial activity.  Finally you discover several smokestacks.  But they are smokeless.  All over the place, seemingly planless at first, are a jumble of hutments, barracks, dormitories, trailer camps.  Perched on the ridges are the dormitories on stilts looking like chicken coops, the houses and permanent apartments.  The over-all impression is a combination of army base, boomtown, construction camp, summer resort.  The “Colored Hutment” section looks like an Emergency Housing Slum Area.

I asked my driver, a young woman from this Bible Belt country, where the plants were.  “Well git to ‘em,” she said with a knowing smile.  “It takes time.”  And like a trained guide she pointed to the neighborhoods and called them off: “Where you’re staying, that’s Jackson Square, main residential and business section.”  I scribbled in my notebook: Pine Valley, Elm Grove, Grove Center, Jefferson Center, Middletown, Happy Valley.  While pointing out the neighborhoods, she also suggested that I jot down the A&P’s, the Farmers’ Market, Supermarkets, and a hot dog stand selling Coney Island dogs for ten cents.  She called my attention to the fact that in the Trailer Camps the streets were named after animals: Squirrel, Terrier, Racoon.  But I didn’t ask her how come there was a Lincoln Road in the heart of Tennessee.

“I want you-all to write a good story about Oak Ridge,” she said warningly.  “There’s been many of you writers from the North, but I ain’t seen a good story yet.  You fellas don’t seem to git the sperit of this place.”  I heard a great deal more on the subject of “the spirit” from articulate residents during my stay.

“There’s 53 old cemeteries here,” my informant continued, “spread over the 95,000 acres of Roane an’ Anderson Counties.  When the people was moved off the land for the Project to commence, the Army promised it would take care of the cemeteries.  And they do.”  On Decoration Day the approximately 3,000 former inhabitants of these ridges are all granted passes to come and decorate the graves, “What happens when somebody on the Project dies?” I asked.  “Well,” my driver said, “they’s shipped back home where they’s from.”  What’s more, she added, few people ever die here, because most of the workers are young.  “I never seen a grandmother in two years I been here,” she said.

The plants are widely dispersed and hidden in the valleys.  Miles of wooded areas separate them from one another and from the residential districts.  Mountains and ridges prevent any observation until you are actually near them.  First come the warning signs, then the big fences and guard towers, and in the background are the massive atomic fortresses.  Again there are smokestacks, and no smoke pours out.  I said to my guide it didn’t seem to me as if anything were going on inside those plants.  “Plenty going on,” she replied, “just ain’t no smoke to it.”

The mystery deepened even more with the realization that while a great many things entered the huge structures, very little seemed to come out.  Later I learned that it required big quantities of ore and many complicated processes – done here and elsewhere-finally to isolate the negligible bit of precious uranium from the mixture of U-235 and U-238.

There are several methods of extracting the uranium.  The Tennessee Eastman plant, known as Y-12, and comprising 270 buildings, uses the electro-magnetic process.  Carbide and Carbon Corporation, K-25, occupying 71 buildings, obtains the same results by gaseous diffusion.  S-50, operated by the Fercleve Corporation, employs the thermal-diffusion method.  All these processes have been tested, and they all work.  X-10, the Clinton Laboratories, formerly connected with duPont, are doing research on plutonium, the main plant being at the Hanford Engineering Works in the State of Washington.

Three shifts keep the plants in operation day and night, and thousands of workers and technicians from Oak Ridge and its environs check in past the maze of fences, guards and more guards.  Few of them ever see the finished product, and before the Bomb struck Hiroshima they hadn’t the least inkling of what was going on behind the thick walls that separated them from the radio-active uranium.  Charlie Chaplin’s awe at entering the super-modern factory in “Modern Times” was nothing compared to what the Project workers first experienced in the plants.  Charlie at least saw what he was making.  The Ridgers still can’t see, but they know.  There’s a purpose to all the button-pushing; and fantastic equipment.

“I still don’t see how a gadget can take the place of a brain,” a worker said philosophically, “but leave it to them long-hairs to think things out.”

Three years ago the Manhattan Engineer Distict was a plan.  The Black Oak Ridge country was chosen as one of the three atomic sites for its electric power, supplied by the TVA, its inaccessibility to enemy attacks, its water supply and the then uncritical late area.  The small farmers who inhabited these ridges were moved off the land with proper remunerate and dispatch.  They could not be told why.

The bulldozers moved in, and with them arrived the jeeps and the automobiles.  The army, having the scientists in mind at first, built several hundred permanent houses and put fireplaces in them.  Often the fireplaces were there before the walls were up.  Then the plans were changed, and more houses were built.  More workers arrived, and the need for shelter became acute.  They started building barracks, hutments and the TVA came to the rescue with those square, matchbox demountables.  And finally the trailers were bought in and set up below the ridges.

IT WAS not an inspired migration.  Many were lured by high wages; others by promises of comfortable living.  The scientists, those who had worked with the Project in other parts of the country, knew the reasons.  The GIs came because they were told to come.  One woman said it was a good way of getting rid of her husband.  “I knew he couldn’t follow me past the gates.”

They waded in the red-clay mud, and some walked about barefoot for fear of losing their shoes.  The clay was hard and they had to water it at night in order to dig it next morning.  People knew there was no gold to be found in the Cumberlands, and therefore it is the more remarkable that they worked with such fervor and pioneering zeal.

When Oak Ridge had 15,000 inhabitants, there was only one grocery store in town.  Businessmen, unable to find out the potential number of customers or clients, were reluctant to move in.  One five-and-ten concern asked for a contract barring competitors for a period of ten years.  Slowly, warily, entrepreneurs set up shop in Oak Ridge.  And they’ve done quite well by themselves, so well, in fact, that the OPA has had to step in on occasion to curb some enterprising souls.

Roads were laid out, buses started to operate, taxi-cabs were brought in.  Neon lights went up on business establishments, and some people started calling Oak “Ridge “home.”  They cut weeds and planted Victory gardens and raised pets.  People started having children, many children.  “Pretty near all there was to do in those days,” a father said.

Today the city has its Boosters and Junior Chamber of Commerce, and a Women’s Club.  It has beauticians; one hair stylist advertises as being connected “formerly [with] Helena Rubinstein’s Fifth Avenue, N.Y.”  There are tennis and handball courts.  A symphony orchestra, composed of Project employees, is led by a prominent scientist.  There are seven recreation halls into which people can wander and join a bridge game or participate in community singing.  There are several movie houses and a Little Theatre and a high school.  But Oak Ridge still has no sidewalks.  “When I first came here,” a youngster of ten said, “I missed sidewalks most.  Now I don’t care.”

Some people point with pride.  Others point at the “Colored Hutments,” where living facilities are primitive, to say the least, though comparable to some of the housing for white workmen.  Negro children are not permitted to go to school with whites; they journey to nearby Clinton for their education.  And for that reason many Negroes did not bring their children to Oak Ridge.  Plans are now being made to provide school facilities for the Negroes as soon as a sufficient number of children are enrolled to justify it.  They have one recreation hall, the Atom Club, and one movie house, which is located 12 miles from their hutments, in the K-25 area.

The GI scientists point to the great discrepancy in salaries.

No one points at the food served at Oak Ridge cafeterias, and that’s as it should be.

One of the town’s most interesting institutions is the Oak Ridge Hospital.  It is an experiment in what its brilliant young director, a lieutenant colonel, says “has absolutely no relationship with socialized medicine.”  He calls it “The Group Insurance Plan.”  Nevertheless, I advise Dr. Fishbein not to be lulled by the colonel’s reassurances.  The plan works something-like this: each family head pays $4 a month, and the medical services include all his children below the age of 19.  Doctors make private calls, but the fees go to the hospital.  There is no private practice.  The hospital has 300 beds and can handle 1,500 in-patients monthly.  Five psychiatrists are attached to the institution, and their emphasis is on what they call group therapy.  The hospital is staffed with high-caliber practitioners, many of them from the Mayo Clinic.  Everybody in Oak Ridge can afford to enjoy good health.

THIS is the only city in the United States which has no unemployment and no reconversion problem.  There are no election headaches, since the councilmen act only in an advisory capacity to the District Engineer, who is both an army officer and the mayor.  Those who acquire an additional child try to move from a B-house to a C-house, and so on up to a F-house, which rents for $73 a month.  And those who marry and are lucky move from their “Single”‘ dormitories to an A-house.  But no matter where they move, most of it is Cemesto (cement and asbestos rolled into sheets).  And there’s a feeling of temporariness about the whole place.  The one bank in town is bulging with assets, for which the state of Tennessee is not ungrateful.  The inhabitants of Knoxville have learned to tolerate the outsiders, if not for their ways, for the revenue they’ve brought. 

There is a tendency among many to talk about the “past” and about “the spirit” they had “in those days.”  A few have left for the other “home,” but most are waiting.  The Bomb that pulverized Hiroshima was the reason for their existence.  The world was shaken to its very foundations.  Now the people who’ve unchained this fury are thinking of its implications not only lor their immediate tomorrow, but for the world’s also.

Louis Falstein, recently discharged from the Army, flew 50 missions with the 15th Air Force.  Now in New York, his working on short stories and a novel.  He visited Oak Ridge as a special correspondent for the New Republic.

________________________________________

The Men Who Made the A-Bomb

The New Republic
November 26, 1945

In July, 1945, the A-Bomb was tested in the desert of New Mexico.
I’m told that a flyer who was sent up to observe the explosion from a safe distance
was so startled by the bomb’s flash that he radioed a terrified message to the ground:
“The damned long-hairs have let it get away from them!”

The flyer was wrong.
The bomb was a success.
Many of the men who made it then petitioned the President
not to use it on the remaining Axis power, Japan, without prior warning.
However, they felt it was more dangerous for the world’s future to keep the bomb secret
than to explode it over Japan and thus shorten the war.
They wanted it to be used in some way,
realizing their own responsibility for the consequences.

With Hiroshima came the end of an epoch.
“When the papers came out with news and it was no longer a secret,”
an Austrian refugee scientist relates,
“we rushed it out in the streets and hollered ourselves hoarse:
“Uranium … graphite pile … uranium… Then we got drunk.”

X-10, OR CLINTON LABORATORIES, lies hidden between the ridges and is surrounded by great forests.  The plant, inscrutable like all plants at Oak Ridge, shows no sign of life or activity.  Three smokeless stacks and the white buildings give the impression of an abandoned ghost factory, and the guard towers and barbed-wire fences seem as if they are there only for the purpose of assuring peaceful slumber.  Nearby, a big sign depicts a lazy sun coming up over the horizon with the inscription: “Dawn of Peace.  Lee’s Make It Forever.”  It’s a serene picture, but a false one.  X-10 is very much alive.  It works three shifts making plutonium for experimental purposes.  And it has a greater concentration of scientists than any other plant at Oak Ridge, among them many G.I.s.  Lately, these scientists have been very vociferous.

____________________

The Atom Squatters

Illingworth in the Trans-Atlantic edition of the London Daily Mail.

____________________

To Oak Ridgers the scientists are known as “long-hairs.”  To mountaineer Southerners on the Project the long-hairs are a peculiar lot who were at one time in favor of interdenominational services, “all praying in one church and at the same time,” I heard said with obvious disapproval.  And their children in school are forever clamoring for more student representation on the council.  “They got ‘em that Symphony Orchester playin’ classical stuff.”  Some of them don’t like segregation of the Negroes into “Colored Hutments” at Oak Ridge.  Now they’re raising a fuss about what should be done with the A-Bomb.

I was introduced to my first long-hair in the lobby of the Oak Ridge Guest House.  He was a tall young man of about twenty-five, and was absorbed in the funnies when I came up.  “I like the funnies very much,” he said, “but Orphan Annie’s politics make me mad.”

In the evening I met another long-hair.  He, too, was in his twenties.  His wife looked like a girl recently out of college.  “And this is my dog, Pluto,” the young scientist said, “named after plutonium.  A very intelligent dog.”  He turned to the dog and said: “Pluto, would you rather work for duPont or be a dead dog?”  Pluto rolled over on his back and played dead.  The owner tossed him a biscuit.  Then he said: “Have you seen the May-Johnson bill?  It’s suicide.  Something must be done …”

There are 75,000 people at Oak Ridge connected in one way or another with the Project.  The Project is making atomic bombs.  The war is over, and the Ridgers are well aware of the fact that atomic bombs are not needed for peace.  They’re thinking of the A-Bomb and the future, but only the scientists have made themselves heard.  I wondered whether the others were silent because of their long habit of security or from fear of censorship by the Army.  One chemist said to me: “I just don’t think there’s any hope.  Don’t quote me on that.  I feel a terrible guilt.  I sometimes wish I could be religious.”

The Oak Ridge Journal, a town weekly, carries in its October 18 issue an interview with five Project workers picked at random.  “What form of control do you favor for the atomic bomb?”  To the outside world such a question suggests nothing out of the ordinary.  But in Oak Ridge, where the people have kept quiet for three years, and where one of the large companies recently issued an order through the Army, forbidding, among other things, discussion and speculation on “…international agreements, beyond the presidential releases …” the Journal’s modest poll is quite significant.  Of the five questioned, four expressed themselves as favoring some sort of international control, while the fifth, an Army sergeant, said: “We should keep it here and use it as a powerful threat to ensure world peace…”

THE SEVERAL HUNDRED civilian scientists at Clinton Laboratories have organized to find an answer to this most urgent problem.  I met with members of the executive committee of the Association of Oak Ridge Scientists.  It was somewhat surprising to find that the oldest man in the group was not yet thirty.  But these men, chosen for their outstanding work in physics and chemistry, are a mature and responsible lot.  There is an urgency about them now, and deep concern in their faces.  They’ve fashioned a terrible weapon and consider themselves the Responsibles.  They think how the weapon should be controlled jointly – by the world.

Who are these Responsibles?  Most of them have been with the Project since its inception.  They worked with it in Chicago on the “Metallurgical Project,” where the first experiments were made on a limited scale with graphite piles by Dr. Fermi.  Unlike most Ridgers, they knew what the Project was doing in its later stages, and what its end product would be.  They worked stubbornly, tirelessly, completely disregarding their own safety.  They, too, were front-line soldiers.  “When Dr. Fermi set off the first graphite pile beneath a fence near Chicago University,” a young scientist reminisced, “some men stood around with water hoses to put out the fire if the chain reaction threatened to get out of control.  I was praying hard, hoping it wouldn’t blow sky high, and there were these guys with little water hoses!”

When part of the Project moved to Oak Ridge in 1942, the scientists moved with it.  Many of them went to work at Clinton Laboratories for further research on plutonium.  And there, side by side with GI scientists, they embarked on a feverish race with Hitler for the completion of the atomic bomb.  They trudged through the red-clay mud and often spent sixteen hours daily at the laboratory.  At home, evenings, they stared at their wives silently.  They could report neither their near-successes nor failures.  The wives learned not to ask questions.  “So we played Chinese checkers,” one physicist said, “till we got sick of it.”

“Once I found myself doodling on a piece of paper after dinner.  My wife came up to where I was sitting.  She didn’t say anything.  We’d got into the habit of not talking.  But she looked at the paper on which I was drawing aimlessly and her eyes seemed to ask the question: ‘What are you doing?’  And what was I doing?  Drawing a chain reaction on paper unconsciously.  I tore the paper and threw it in the fireplace.  Then we went to bed.”

Dr. Harrison Brown, who had come to the Project from Johns Hopkins and who at the age of twenty-nine is an outstanding scientist and member of the Association, told me the story of those heartbreaking and crucial days.  “On New Year’s Eve, 1943, we finally achieved our first great goal,” he said.  “A complete milligram of plutonium – 1/1000th of a gram!  We sent it off to Chicago for critical experimental purposes and stayed in the laboratory to celebrate.  But how long can you keep slapping each other on the shoulder?  We could not tell our wives of the great triumph.  So we retired at nine.”

In July, 1945, the A-Bomb was tested in the desert of New Mexico.  I’m told that a flyer who was sent up to observe the explosion from a safe distance was so startled by the bomb’s flash that he radioed a terrified message to the ground: “The damned long-hairs have let it get away from them!”

The flyer was wrong.  The bomb was a success.  Many of the men who made it then petitioned the President not to use it on the remaining Axis power, Japan, without prior warning.  However, they felt it was more dangerous for the world’s future to keep the bomb secret than to explode it over Japan and thus shorten the war.  They wanted it to be used in some way, realizing their own responsibility for the consequences.

With Hiroshima came the end of an epoch.  “When the papers came out with news and it was no longer a secret,” an Austrian refugee scientist relates, “we rushed it out in the streets and hollered ourselves hoarse: “Uranium … graphite pile … uranium…  Then we got drunk.”

IN THE FIRST WEEK of September the scientists at X Oak Ridge began informal meetings to discuss the implications of the A-Bomb for the future.  They found their concern shared by others.  Two weeks later they set up a tentative organization and elected an executive committee.  They issued their first Statement of Intent, boldly announcing that: 1. The A-Bomb is no secret.  2. We cannot long have a monopoly of its manufacture.  3. International control is the only solution.

By the end of September more than 90 percent of all civilian scientists at Clinton Laboratories banded formally into the Association of Oak Ridge Scientists.  Similar groups came into existence in Chicago and Los Alamos, New Mexico.

Dr. P.S. Henshaw, a biologist on leave from the National Cancer Institute and one of the leading members of the Association, summed up the scientist’s viewpoint.  “For many years an accusing finger has been pointed at the scientist for his concern solely with the work in his laboratory.  To some extent such accusation was correct.  We were not, in large, concerned with the social implications of our work.  But now we can no longer remain unconcerned.  The necessity to speak out has been forced upon us by the nature of the weapon which we ourselves helped make.  Man’s very existence is threatened unless intelligent use is made of our discoveries.”

It is ridiculous, the scientists point out, to claim that the A-Bomb and the so-called “know-how” can remain strictly an American possession.  What about the great roster of European scientists who have experimented in the nuclear field for many years?  And what about the scientists of European origin who had worked on aspects of the Project and who have since returned to their native lands?  Nor need the other countries invest two billion dollars to achieve their goals.  Our work was handicapped by the necessity for basing major decisions on largely theoretical predictions.  They know the A-Bomb works.  They know it can be manufactured through any one of four processes: electromagnetic, gaseous diffusion, thermal diffusion, and plutonium.  They need use only one of these methods, or they can develop one of their own.

The May-Johnson bill, the scientists feel, even if considerably watered down by amendments, will defeat the very purposes which its short-sighted backers seek.  For, rather than work under a cloak of secrecy and be subject to all manner of restrictive measures, many nuclear scientists will leave the field altogether, as some have already threatened to do.

The scientists do not claim to have an answer as to how the world should get along.  They say an answer must be found.  The world cannot afford not to get along.  If we reveal no more information to the other nations, this country may hold leadership for a few years.  After five years the United States cannot rely for its security upon producing more deadly atomic bombs.  This knowledge has led some to propose that we ensure our security by forcibly preventing other nations from producing atomic bombs.  Since no nation would peacefully accept this prohibition, such a step would mean that we should have to conquer the world within the next five years.  At the present stage of atomic development, such world conquest would be neither quick nor certain.  Nor would the American people acquiesce in such a course.

International control [say the scientists] is another alternative that has been widely proposed.  No specific plans have been prepared, and we do not intend to offer one.  We recognize that any such plan involves many difficulties, and may require that in order to preserve the peace of the world, we forgo some potential peaceful applications of atomic power and some phases of our national sovereignty.

The alternatives are clear!  I If we ignore the potentialities of atomic warfare, in less than a generation we may find ourselves on the receiving end of atomic raids.  If we seek to achieve our own security through supremacy in atomic warfare, we will find that in ten years the whole world is as adequately armed as we, and that the threat of imminent destruction will bring about a “preventive war.”  If we recognize that our present leadership in atomic power can last at the most several years and we attempt to dominate the world, we will find ourselves immediately involved in another and greater war in violation of our democratic moral code and with no assurance of victory.

In view of the disastrous nature of these alternatives, we must expend every effort to achieve international cooperation and control as the only possible long-term solution.

We strongly urge the people of the United States and their leaders to think about, and find means for, the international control of atomic power.  The United States must exert leadership to promote this.  The citizens of our country, together with the peoples of the rest of the world, must demand that their leaders work together to find the means of effective international cooperation on atomic power.  They must not fail.  The alternatives lead to world suicide.

I talked to the men who made the A-Bomb, and that’s their message to you.

Louis Falstein, recently discharged from the Army, flew 50 missions with the 15th Air Force.  Now in New York, his working on short stories and a novel.  He visited Oak Ridge as a special correspondent for the New Republic.  He visited Oak Ridge as a special correspondent for The New Republic. 

________________________________________

Veterans Welcome

The New Republic
January 28, 1946

The young man with the ruptured duck is skeptical and cautious,
as a result of his bitter experiences with authorities, promises and flowing phrases.
He is justifiably disillusioned with the state of our nation,
and the great danger is that he will retire into himself to sulk alone.
A greater danger is that he will be attracted by the fascist groups
who will direct his disillusionment into their own channels.
It is incumbent on all progressive veterans’ groups
to speak out boldly on the pressing issues of the day;
to take sides with men who act for progress.
Show the veteran the proper path, and trust his intelligence.

THE YOUNG MAN wearing a “ruptured duck” in his lapel may not be the most popular guy in the world with the housing authorities or the employment agencies, which are downright ashamed of their meager offerings, but there are more than half a hundred outfits who shout a lusty welcome to our hero.  These are the veterans’ organizations, and they’re out for big business.  The ruptured duck, so far as the mushrooming legions are concerned, is a soaring eagle, and nothing is too good for the man who wears one.  Thirteen million men and women will eventually be veterans; add their families, and the sum total means a sizable chunk of influence for good or bad.

Heading the vast array of ex-servicemen’s organizations are the Big Two: the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars.  Both have been in business a long time and are well aware that their considerable prestige can be maintained only by striking out for the new returnee.  The AL and the VFW have set aside great sums of money for high-powered campaigns that reach out to the prospective veteran while he’s still overseas.  The Legion is reputed to have a hundred million in the kitty, with a plan for setting up a radio station, FM, television, all working toward the goal of five million members by 1947.

It’s a long haul, but the AL is in an advantageous position to get the desired quota of 3,300,000 new members.  The influence it wields, particularly in small towns throughout the country, is undeniably strong.  Like the VFW, the Legion is firmly established with its rituals, halls, bars, billiard rooms and occasional parades down Main Street to show off the brand-new veteran to admiring and cheering crowds.  There’s the handshake and the slap on the shoulder and a few drinks.  Then a promise of the old job back, perhaps, or the “let’s-see-what-we-can-do-for-you” attitude.  The pressure is strong, and the small-town veteran joins, in the end, not only for the social and economic benefits, but because it is the prudent thing to do.  In the larger cities, where social outlet is greater and more varied, the Big Two are making slower progress.

Six hundred thousand new veterans have joined the American Legion in the past few years.  The old men are still in control, but the young voices are being heard.  The recent convention, held in Chicago, was the soberest in years, and a new, serious note was injected into the deliberations.  A move to deny charters to new Labor Legionnaire Posts, of which there are already more than a hundred, was defeated on the convention floor.  The Labor Legionnaire Conference proposed some resolutions that would have brought down upon it the wrath of the Americanization Committee in the past.  Among the proposals were: action on the full-employment bill; condemnation of the Wall Street Post for an “Americanism” award to Cecil B. De Mille; opposing the National Convention’s going on record regarding compulsory military training, until all men were out of uniform and able to vote on the subject.  The Labor Legionnaires urged the convention to reverse its previous stand on immigration; to encourage the passage of the 65-cents-an-hour minimum-wage bill and abolition of the poll tax; to endorse the winter clothing drive for the Yugoslavian people.  The labor resolutions were not adopted, but for the first time in its career, the AL Convention listened to a CIO speaker.  Its final decisions were no model of progressivism, but it would be wrong to assume that the powerful American Legion, which contains so many new veterans, can be ignored and shunned.

The VFW, older but numerically smaller than the AL, has, on the whole, been the more liberal of the two.  There is no doubt that the 800,000 new members – out of a total of 1,000,000 – have to a great extent generated the fresh breeze now coursing through the smoky VFW halls.  Several posts have collaborated with trade unions on issues pertaining to veterans.  These moves have not been discouraged by the top leadership, which is committed to expansion.  The organization’s great enticement is a proposal for a Big Bonus which is calculated to give the veteran a huge amount of money, a maximum of $5,000 per man.

Both organizations make grudging provisions for Negro veterans, who are shunted into posts of their own.  The AL has posts for women, while the VFW decided at its recent annual encampment in Chicago to postpone the woman problem until next year.

TRAILING the Big Two is a roster of new veterans’ organizations, ranging from budding progressivism to outright pro-fascism.  Gerald L.K. Smith, of the America First Party, is the chief-of-staff of the Nationalist Veterans of World War II.  Smith wants the white “Christian” veterans only.  “My time will come,” warns the bombastic disciple of the late, unlamented Huey Long, “in the postwar period, in the election of ‘48.  The candidate will not be me – it will be a young veteran of this war – but I’ll be behind him.  If business conditions are bad – inflation, widespread unemployment, farm foreclosures – then my candidate will be elected.”

Edward J. Smythe, a defendant in the sedition trial of 1944, has hatched the Protestant War Veterans, “a voluntary association of white gentiles of the Protestant faith who served in any of the wars of the Republic.”  He advocates a bonus of $1,000 for every discharged veteran.

Joe McWilliams, the Yorkville Fuhrer who has managed so successfully to keep out of trouble with the law, put his pro-fascist cronies to shame with his stupendous “Serviceman’s Reconstruction Plan” which “will utterly destroy the long prepared program of the Marxists.”  And the way to achieve this is by “the just payment of $7,800 to our several million militarily trained young men and their establishment as business-owning citizens …”  The Chicago Tribune, an old hand at protecting “the American way,” has supported the plan.

There was a time when the Shrine of the Little Flower out at Royal Oak, Michigan, was known among Detroiters as the Shrine of the Little Swastika.  Social Justice was banned in ‘42, but you can’t keep a good man down.  Father Coughlin, whose heart “bled for the people,” formed the Saint Sebastian Brigade, this time to “help” the soldier.  He collected 400,000 names of servicemen from wives, mothers and sweethearts, and he prayed with equal fervor for all of them to St. Sebastian, the soldier’s patron saint.  There was an incidental charge for the services, amounting to $700,000.  The St. Sebastian Brigade is not a veterans’ organization, but Father Coughlin, who never lets go of a good thing, should obviously be closely watched by the government, the Catholic Church and the people.

Behind these well known rabble-rousers are the smaller fry, and the list of their sponsors reads like Who’s Who at a sedition trial.  They’re out in force to snatch the confused, disgruntled and embittered ex-serviceman.  And unless something is done immediately to improve conditions for the new civilian, the fascists in our midst will reap a rich harvest.

Fortunately, the rabble-rousers do not have the field to themselves.  Liberal and progressive groups are being formed throughout the country, some as small “committees,” others as fledgling organizations of veterans.  Then there are those who appeal to limited groups, like the Jewish War Veterans, Catholic War Veterans, Italian-American World War Veterans, Blinded Veterans’ Association, Bilateral Leg Amputee Club of America, and others.  One of the smallest but most active is New York’s Veterans Against Discrimination.  Born as a result of John O’Donnell’s vicious attacks against minorities in the New York Daily News, the committee’s main function is picketing.  The veterans picketed the News offices, and carried the fight to the large stores advertising in that paper.  For whatever reason, some of the large advertisers in the News have recently withdrawn their copy.  Veterans in other cities arc emulating New York’s example.

OF THE moderately successful new groups, the American Veterans of World War II, Amvets, has been bogged down recently by a series of splits and factional fights on the question of labor.  The smoke of battle has not cleared, and it is too early to pass final judgment.

The American Veterans’ Committee, comparatively new in the field, but highly publicized in recent months due to its effective work on behalf of housing for veterans, is emerging as one of the important organizations.  The Committee’s “Statement of Intentions” says: “We look forward to … living in freedom from the threat of another war …  We are associating ourselves with American men and women, regardless of race, creed or color, who are serving with or have been honorably discharged from the armed forces, merchant marine, or allied forces …”  Its aims include: “Adequate financial, medical, vocational and educational assistance for every veteran.  Thorough social and economic security.  Free speech, press, worship, assembly and ballot …  Active participation of the United States in UNO …  Establishment of an international veterans’ council for the furtherance of world peace and justice among the peoples of all nations.”

The AVC, with forty chapters in the states, is scheduled to hold its Constitutional Convention in Des Moines in March, at which time the committee will be transformed into a full-fledged veterans’ organization.

The young man with the ruptured duck is skeptical and cautious, as a result of his bitter experiences with authorities, promises and flowing phrases.  He is justifiably disillusioned with the state of our nation, and the great danger is that he will retire into himself to sulk alone.  A greater danger is that he will be attracted by the fascist groups who will direct his disillusionment into their own channels.  It is incumbent on all progressive veterans’ groups to speak out boldly on the pressing issues of the day; to take sides with men who act for progress.  Show the veteran the proper path, and trust his intelligence.

Louis Falstein, recently discharged from the Army, flew 50 missions with the 15th Air Force.  Now in New York, he is working on short stories and a novel.

Here’s Some References…

Molto Buono, February 3, 1945 (page 3), at 450th BG.com

Manhattan Project, at Wikipedia

Oak Ridge, Tennessee, at Atomic Heritage Foundation

Oak Ridge National Laboratory, at Wikipedia

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” – II: Louis Falstein’s War in the Air… Before, During, and After

It’s appropriate to begin at a beginning.   

With that, this post – presenting biographical information about Louis Falstein – is a composite of information derived from his biographical profile as published in a late-1980s edition of Contemporary Authors, excerpts from Alan M. Wald’s Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left and the Antifascist Crusade, documents at Ancestry.com, and, details provided to me by Louis Falstein himself some years back. 

We all start somewhere.  In Lou Falstein’s case, like his Face of a Hero protagonist Ben Isaacs, he hailed from Eastern Europe, having been born in the city of Nemirov, in the Vinnytsia Oblast, Ukraine, on the 1st of May, 1909.  (This city is also the birthplace of Nathan of Breslov, the chief disciple of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov; see also….)  

In this Oogle map, Nemirov, denoted by the blue oval, appears in the left center, just southeast of Vinnytsia…

…while the city is in the lower center of this larger scale map.

While some aspects – unpleasant aspects – of Ben Isaacs life in the Ukraine are related in the latter part of Face of a Hero, the details of Louis Falstein’s own life in the Ukraine are unknown, except for Alan Wald’s comment in Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left and the Antifascist Crusade.  Namely:  “His father had orchards in the Ukraine, but he became a businessman in the United States.”  The 1930 Census lists his parents as Joe (Yoseph bar Avraham Mordechai; 1881-2/5/55) and Bessie (Bessie bat Shmuel; 1887-7/11/57), and his siblings as Frieda, Lorna, Morris, and Tonia (?), all having been born in Russia, and living at 148 Maplewood Street in Chicago.  Joe’s vocation is listed as factory laborer, and Louis’ – at the time, he was twenty years old – as clothing cutter.    

As revealed by his “Declaration Of Intention” (shown below; via Ancestry.com), Louis departed Europe from Antwerp, Belgium, and arrived in Quebec in mid-1925.  From there, he reached his point of lawful entry into the United States – Detroit, Michigan – via the “SCP RR” (South Carolina Pacific Railroad), on May 16, 1925.

He signed his “Declaration Of Intention” on May 29, 1933, and his “Petition for Naturalization” on March 5, 1936.  On June 10 of that year, at just over the age of 27, he became an American citizen.  At the time, he listed his vocation as “singer”.      

Here’s an enlargement of Lou’s portrait in his “Declaration Of Intention”…

…and here’s his Petition for Naturalization:

Leading up the the Second World War, the intervening years of Lou Falstein’s life are recounted Trinity of Passion:

“The family had no interest in either radical politics or Zionism, and Falstein lacked direction as an adolescent.  He was forced to go to Hebrew school but found it dull.  He attended but did not graduate from high school in Chicago, although he later secured a diploma by taking a special course.  During the early Depression he found work for a while as a shoe salesman, but he was mainly unemployed.  In 1934 he came to Detroit to seek work in the auto plants.  At this time he was drawn to the John Reed Club, where he became friends with the African American poet Robert Hayden and developed an admiration for the radical attorney Maurice Sugar.  Occasionally he wrote skits for fund-raising events.  His name appeared (as Lewis Fall) as one of the editors of the Detroit Left publication New Voices, but he published nothing.  After changing his name for a while to Fallon, because of the Ford Motor Company’s reputation as being anti-Semitic, he at last found work.  But when a union leaflet was discovered in his lunch bucket, he was fired and was forced to apply for “pick and shovel” work with the WPA.  To his good fortune, he secured a job with the Federal Writers Project.”

At the WPA Falstein found himself under attack by the Black Legion, a neofascist organization that denounced him and other radicals as Red spies and threatened their lives.  Falstein recalled that he was referred to in the newspapers as an “agent of the Third International.”  Shortly afterward a coworker on the Federal Writers Project was murdered.  In order to help save the WPA from elimination, Falstein joined the Save Our Jobs March in Washington, D.C., spending a week living in a tent in Potomac Park and lobbying congressmen.  At this time, Falstein became obsessed with the Spanish Civil War.  He generally felt like an unheroic, perhaps even cowardly person, but the logic of his political views made him susceptible to pressure to take action on behalf of the Spanish Republic.

When two of his friends joined the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and were killed in battle, Falstein volunteered.  Before he could depart, however, he received a court order to appear as a witness at the impending trial of the members of the Black Legion.  This was an event that attracted worldwide attention.  Legion “executioners” paraded before a crowded courtroom and bragged about their exploits in killing scores of persons – sometimes by burying them alive in lime pits – because they were African American or “Red unionists.”  When the trial was over, Falstein found work at a General Motors plant, only a week before the famous sit-down strike began.  He remained in his plant for six weeks.  He was often frightened by the efforts of the police and vigilantes to evict the strikers, but he drew strength from his sense of solidarity with other men and women in the battle.

Just before the start of World War II he moved to New York.  As a Communist he believed that he should participate in the war, even though he felt fearful and unsuited.  To his amazement he was accepted for combat duty in the army air force…”

Here’s Louis’ Draft Registration Card, which was completed on October 16, 1940.  As can be seen, Louis was by now employed at the A.F.G. literary agency at 545 5th Avenue in Manhattan, otherwise known as the Lorraine Building.  Though this occupation presaged the future direction of his life, of A.F.G. I know nothing further, for there are no records – none! – about the agency at either Duck Duck Go or Oogle.  

Now, we jump a few years ahead.

As related by Ben Isaacs’ in Face of a Hero, his bomb group was known as the “Tigertails”, his bomb squadron the “227th”, their base “Mandia” at Italy.  These clues ostensibly suggest that Louis Falstein served in the 722nd Bomb Squadron of the 450th Bomb Group, for the Group’s identifying marking late in the war was a series of vertical black and yellow stripes painted on the fins and rudders of their planes, while their base was at Manduria.  The Group’s original form of aircraft identification was the white-painted rudders of their Liberators, thus their initial (continuing and much better known!) nickname being the “Cottontails”. 

Louis confirmed my suppositions some years back, verifying that while he indeed served in the 450th Bomb Group, he actually was a member of the 723rd – not the 722nd – Bomb Squadron.

Unfortunately, details of Lou’s actual military service are unknown. 

A review of the historical records of the 450th Bombardment Group and 723rd Bomb Squadron obtained from the Air Force Historical Research Agency – at least, those records that I have access to or know of (!) – does not reveal Lou’s name, but as the expression goes, “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”.  However, his name does appear in the context of a most interesting document at the website of the 450th Bomb Group Memorial Association.  So, other than the all-too-succinct biographical blurb published in the jacket and on the cover of the 1950 and 1999 editions of Face of a Hero, nothing is known about his crew, the dates and destinations of his combat missions, or significant experiences during his combat tour.  Similarly, like very many American Jewish servicemen who served in combat in WW II and received military awards (or were casualties) his name never appeared in the 1947 compilation American Jews in World War II.  

Still, there are a few pictures to go by.

The photo below will be familiar to readers of Steerforth Press’s 1999 edition of Face of a Hero, for this image – overprinted, of course, with title, author’s name, and the blurb, “The novel of World War II air combat that predated Catch-22 by a decade” – comprises the book’s cover art.  

The backdrop of the portrait, taken in November of 1944, is the rear fuselage of a B-24 Liberator.  It can be seen that the star cocarde has an unusually dark surround, which is probably a dark blue overpaint of the red surround which was used as part of the Army Air Force national insignia until August of 1943.  The light-colored camouflage paint may be a color known as “desert pink”, or, it’s very (very!) deeply faded olive drab.  As will be related in a future post, Ben Isaacs’ (and Lou Falstein’s?) last combat mission seems to have taken place in late January to early February of 1945, which implies that this November, 1944 photo – a publicity shot? – a picture for his family? – was taken in the midst of his combat tour.   

Since Lou is wearing a tie, the picture is kind of formal.  He would have been 35 years old at the time, an unusually “old” age (but then again by no means unheard of) for an Army Air Force bomber crewman in 1944. 

This insignia is well-known: It’s the emblem of the 15th Air Force.

This insignia, a cottontail bunny rabbit riding a bomb through the sky, is a little less well-known:  It’s the insignia of the 723rd Bomb Squadron.  To be specific, this is the patch which once adorned Louis Falstein’s own Army Air Force jacket.  

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This series of Oogle maps and air photos shows the location and present appearance of the 450th Bomb Group’s base at Manduria, Italy.  

First, this map shows the location of Manduria relative to the coast of Italy.  The city is located along the southern edge – or inner “heel” – of the Italian “boot”, southeast of Taranto and inland from the coast of the Ionian Sea.

Moving in closer, this view reveals that the southern limits of Manduria lie six miles north of the coast.  However, the Oogle map doesn’t reveal the location of the Cottontails’ base – between highways SP96 and SP97, just north of the city limits – probably because the air base has not been used as such for decades.  

Moving to a slightly larger scale brings the 450th Bomb Group’s former base into view in obvious and striking clarity.  The base is situated about two miles from the built-up northern outskirts of Manduria, and is surrounded by farmland and orchards (?), with quarries at the south.  Given that nearly eight decades have transpired since WW II’s end, the fact that the airfield has not been converted back to agricultural or commercial (at least, as of the date this image was taken) is surprising.

This close view clearly shows the Cottontail’s single runway, which is oriented SSE-NNW.  The locations of thirteen hardstands can be seen along west perimeter road, and three less clearly along on the east road.  The network of the base’s interior roads is also visible.  

Here are three hardstands along the west perimeter track, each measuring about 50 by 100 feet.  It appears that the land just adjacent to this group of hardstands, along the inner edge of the perimeter track, is used for agricultural purposes.  Remnants of two roads inside the perimeter road are also visible.

Since no active highways or roads traverse the site of the airfield within the outer track, Oogle street views of the base can only be accessed via the active highway – SP97; Strada Provinciale Manduria-Oria – paralleling the eastern side of the former airfield.  Highway SP96 is too far west to obtain any views of the former base.

This Oogle street view looks into and across the base towards the southwest from northeastern “corner” of the field, from a point where SP97 intersects the east-west access road running across the base.  At this point – at the entrance to the base at the northeast “corner” of the airfield, as it were – there appears to be some kind of marker or monument in the form of two pillars and a wall, with a plaque between them.  Note that the stone buildings inside the base, in the left center of the photos – Masseria Schiavone ex campo aviazione – are abandoned and dilapidated.  

For the image below, we’ve virtually traveled south (from the above photo) along SP97 to a point about a fourth of the way between the base’s northeast corner, and, its southern point.  We are again looking southwest “into” the airfield, from a point on SP97 opposite the Centrale Electrica Solare bank of solar collectors. 

What’s especially interesting is the sign along the former airfield’s boundary, on which is painted: ZONA-MILITARE – DIVIETO DI ACCESSO, meaning “Military Zone – No Access”.  In 2022, why?  Is there live ordnance buried at the airfield?  I don’t know.  Even assuming that the base was stripped of all salvageable material after it was abandoned in 1945, one wonders what buried artifacts might today be found with a metal detector. 

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This photo below, which I received from Louis, is interesting. 

Shown are two 450th Bomb Group B-24 Liberators in formation over snow-covered mountains (the Alps?), the nearer aircraft (41-28774) being a B-24H.  The triangle-in-circle at the top of the fin designates the 15th Air Force’s 47th Bomb Wing, which – in addition to the 450th Bomb Group – was comprised of the 98th, 376th, and 449th Bomb Groups.  The “4” at the bottom of the fin, in combination with the white rudder (the above-mentioned “Cottontail” marking) together designate this plane as being assigned to the 450th Bomb Group.  The number “25” on the rudder indicates that 41-28774 is an aircraft of the 450th Bomb Group’s 721st Bomb Squadron, which, along with the 720th, above-mentioned 722nd, and 723rd squadrons, were the four squadrons comprising the 450th.  

If you examine the image closely, you’ll notice a spherical object suspended below 41-28774’s fuselage.  This isn’t a Sperry ball turret; it’s a radome housing H2X radar, used for ground mapping for bombing missions during inclement weather.  The radome has a light-colored horizontal band painted around it, I think a visual cue for adjacent planes as to whether the radome has actually been fully, or only partially, extended.  Another image of this plane, taken a moment later in flight, can be viewed at the American Air Museum in Britain.    

41-28774 survived the war, to be returned to the United States and salvaged in August of 1945.  I suppose it’s been long since turned into aluminum siding.

This pair of photos, from the 450th Bomb Group Memorial Association, showing Down & Go (42-52152), a B-24H of the 722nd Bomb Squadron, are an excellent example of the early and late group identification markings painted on 450th Bomb Group B-24s.  Just like the above image of B-24H 41-28774, the upper picture shows the outer rudders in white, with an individual aircraft number – in this case, 41 in black – painted upon them.  The lower picture shows how the white rudder insignia has been replaced by a set of vertical black and white stripes, but the fin retains the “triangle in circle” 47th Bomb Wing marking at the top of the rudder. 

Same plane, different clothes.

Down & Go was written off after a taxiing accident on September 8, 1944

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Digressing, another part of Louis Falstein’s life, though not a part of the world of Face of a Hero, was the wartime experience of his cousin, Lawrence I. Falstein.  A fellow Chicagoan (from 1004 North Kedzie Avenue), Lawrence, the son of Fannie H. Falstein, was born on July 25, 1925.  A PFC (36694283) in K Company, 110th Infantry Regiment, 28th Infantry Division, Lawrence was captured during the Ardennes Offensive on December 20, 1944, and was a POW at Stalag 4B, in Muhlberg, Germany.  Akin to Louis, his name never appeared in American Jews in World War II.    

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While Louis Falstein’s literary oeuvre will be presented and discussed in subsequent posts, the only substantive information I’ve found about his postwar personal life again comes from Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left and the Antifascist Crusade, which states, “Politically, he remained outside the Party membership but was more loyal to the Party than ever.  He faithfully read the Daily Worker and the New Masses and its successors.  Through the dancer and poet Edith Siegal he met Michael Gold, and he knew Len Zinberg as well.  He believed that Stalin could do no wrong and was unaffected by the revelations at the Twentieth Congress in 1956, and he continued to read and study Marx in his spare time.  His wife worked as a guidance counselor, and in 1946-48 he took courses at New York University, after which he taught writing there in 1949-50 and at City College in 1956.”

As for Mike Gold (not the most congenial fellow) and Len Zinberg, the following snippets from Wikipedia are enlightening:

Mike Gold was the pen-name of Jewish American writer Itzok Isaac Granich.  A lifelong communist, Gold was a novelist and literary critic.  His semi-autobiographical novel Jews Without Money (1930) was a bestseller.  …  As a critic, Gold fiercely denounced left-wing authors who he believed had deviated from the Communist Party line.  Among those Gold denounced were screenwriter Albert Maltz and “renegade” Ernest Hemingway, who while never a Communist had been sympathetic to leftist causes but came under fire by some for his writing on the Spanish Civil War in For Whom the Bell Tolls.  Hemingway responded with “Go tell Mike Gold, Ernest Hemingway says he should go fuck himself.”

Leonard S. Zinberg, otherwise known as Ed Lacy, was a member of the League of American Writers, and served on its Keep America Out of War Committee in January 1940 during the period of the Hitler-Stalin pact.”

Much more than at Wikipedia, Zinberg / Lacy’s life is covered in great detail by Ed Lynskey, at MysteryFile.  Regardless of his politics, Lacy … Zinberg … was a very interesting man.

I was more than stunned to read about Louis’ longstanding identification with Marxism, but on reflection, in light of his family history, social background, vocational history, the social circles in which he moved, and especially the tenor of the times, his ideological loyalty to and identification with “the Party” – even if he was thankfully never a member – would not (alas; alas) have been altogether unprecedented.  Still, for one’s beliefs to have remained unchanged by Nikita Kruschev’s revelations at the closed session of the Twentieth Party Congress on February 25, 1956, and, the Soviet Union’s repression of the Hungarian Uprising in 1956 (both events having been the impetus for many to break all affiliation with Communism, whether in terms of beliefs or politics) says much about the nature of the human capacity to believe, and, the difficulty of change

If anything mitigates all this, it is that regardless of the nature of Louis Falstein’s political beliefs, they neither motivated nor were evident in Face of a Hero or his other works.  This is especially so in terms of the centrality of his identity as a Jew, and, the ongoing survival and future of the Jewish people, which will remain anathema to Marxism and really all forms of secular collectivism.

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Lou Falstein after the war, from Trinity of Passion.

Louis Falstein passed away on May 22, 1995.  I don’t know the location of his place of burial, though I assume it’ near New York City.  

Some Things to Refer to…

Books

Bell, Dana, Air Force Colors Vol. 2 – ETO & MTO 1942-45, Squadron / Signal Publications, Carrollton, Tx., 1980

Besancon, Alain, A Century of Horrors – Communism, Nazism, and the Uniqueness of the Shoah, ISI Books, Wilmington, De., 2007 (“Is it better to be a beast that plays the angel or a man that plays the beast – given that both are beasts “of prey”?  This is indeterminable.  In the first case, the degree of the lie is stronger and the appeal is greater.  The communist falsification of the good went deeper, since the crime more clearly resembled the good than the naked crime of the Nazi.  This trait allowed communism to expand more widely and to work on hearts that would have tuned away from an SS calling.  Making good men bad is perhaps more demonic than making men who are already bad worse.“)

Blue, Allan G., The B-24 Liberator – A Pictorial History, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1975

Dublin, Louis I., and Kohs, Samuel C., American Jews in World War II – The Story of 550,000 Fighters for Freedom, The Dial Press, New York, N.Y., 1947

Eldad, Israel (Lehi.org; see also Jewish Virtual LibraryJewish Revolution – Jewish Statehood, Shengold Publishers Inc., New York, N.Y., 1971  (Writing in 1971 and speaking of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, “The present flirtation [late 1960s early 1970s] of many Jewish youngsters with the New Left cannot hold a candle to the spell that the socialist-communist ideal cast over the young Jewish generations at that time.  It is no exaggeration to say that the best Jewish minds, the nation’s greatest mental and physical resources, were sacrificed on the altar of this new God.”)

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999

Freeman, Roger, Camouflage & Markings – United States Army Air Force 1937-1945, Ducmins Books Limited, London, England, 1974

Rottman, Gordon and Chin, Francis, US Army Air Force I, Osprey Publishing Ltd., London, England, 1993

Rust, Kenn C., Fifteenth Air Force Story, Historical Aviation Album, Temple City, Ca., 1976

Wald, Alan M., Trinity of Passion: The Literary Left and the Antifascist Crusade, University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, N.C., 2014

Nemirov, at…

Wikipedia

ru.Wikpedia

Encyclopedia.com

Yivo

MyShtetl

International Jewish Cemetery Project

Uncovering My Family History, the untold story of Chassidism and the Holocaust (by Shmuel Polin)

The Revelations and Events of 1956

Khrushchev’s Secret Speech, 1956, at NARA

Premier Nikita S. Khrushchev – The Secret Speech to the Communist Party’s Central Committee – Stalin and the Cult of Personality – Moscow, February 25, 1956 (PDF full text), at Inside the Cold War

Hungarian Revolution of 1956 (June 23 to November 11, 1956), at Wikipedia

Air Force Historical Research Agency Unit Histories

723rd Bomb Squadron

A0656 Sq-Bomb-718-Hi 9/47 through Sq-Bomb-735-Hi 6/44

450th Bomb Group

B0593 Gp-449-Su-Op-S 24 Apr 45 through Gp-450-Hi 8/44
B0594 Gp-450-Hi 9/44 through Gp-450-Su-Op-S 1-5/44
B0595 Gp-450-Su-Op-S 6-10/44 through Gp-451-Hi 1/45

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” – I: A Mirror of The Past

“Now that’s what I call a dead parrot.”

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I: Anti Antiheroism

As the character of every man is unique, so is the spirit of every age. 

The nature of that spirit can be animated by many things; some coincidental, some acting in concert, and some irreconcilable.  As for the latter, perhaps most apparent in recent decades has been the clash – a clash lying deep in history and even deeper within human nature – between an appreciation of the past and confidence in the future, and, a world view that finds meaning and power through being relentlessly adversarial, solely and simply for the sake of being adversarial.  

In any event, it’s only through the perspective of time – whether years or decades – that the spirit of an age can be understood.  So, I think back…  

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During my freshman year at Easton College, my course of study involved – like that of all incoming students – a year of English.  My first and second semester classes in that subject – both titled “Literary Form and Meaning” – were taught instructors who had very dissimilar teaching styles, and who were equally unlike in the strictness and rigor with which they graded students’ compositions and tests.  Despite thee differences, the two classes had a commonality in their approach to literature, and, the body of readings assigned to students.  In theme and content, both placed a clear and specific emphasis on literary works centered upon the concept of the anti-hero; the transgressor or questioner of norms; the individual set against mores and social convention.  Not necessarily – perhaps? – as a figure to be emulated, but definitely – for certain! – as an individual embodying and symbolizing an alternative, contrary way of understanding, moving within, and ultimately contending with the world.  

Or to put it more succinctly, as I remember in the simple phrase of one of my instructors, people who were “knaves and rogues”.  People who were antiheroes.  

Even now, I remember some of the stories and books that we read. 

Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery.  Alan Sillitoe’s The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner; very well-written, but astonishingly bleak.  Herman Melville’s Bartleby The Scrivener; compelling, but I would prefer not to again read it.  Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange.  Molière’s Tartuffe.  Homer’s Odyssey.  Two works of Shakespeare: Henry IV, with a perhaps-inevitable focus on Sir John Falstaff, who I found as tiresome as he was boring.  Oliver Twist, with equal time devoted to Bill Sikes and Fagin.  (It would be so nice to see an alternative depiction of Fagin, as inspired by Will Eisner’s graphic novel…)  Of these eight works (there were others) my favorite was by far the Odyssey; my least favorite (by far; by far) Tartuffe (awful and pretentious); the most disturbing and memorable – and I’m certain intended as such – Burgess’ Clockwork.  Did the latter glorify and validate violence, condemn such, or, was it a detached depiction of a society in the midst of self-induced and persisting disintegration fostered by apathy and collectivism?  Perhaps it was all of these, and more.  

I found the emphasis on this literary theme to be more than odd, but I never broached my puzzlement to anyone.  However, as the months passed, even as I was unevenly matched in a sumo-style wrestling-bout with introductory calculus, struggling with chemistry, and gradually reconciling myself to the fact that engineering would never be my forte, and above all trying to navigate other uncertainties (where I felt as if I was blindfolded during an unending eclipse), I soon noticed something: 

Given the universal requirement of a year of English for all freshmen, and the inevitably large number of classes needed for so very many incoming students, the suite of required readings – whether novels, novelettes, short stories, or plays – varied somewhat from class to class.  But, most (most) English classes, I think, used the same general set of literary works.  I suppose the selection of books was made by the college’s English Department, rather than by individual instructors themselves, although with allowance for professors’ literary tastes and preferences.  In any case, I soon saw that the required readings in “Literary Form and Meaning” were very different from those of virtually all other English classes.  Very.  

II: The Flight That Failed

That’s when I took notice of a certain novel, first among the books of my friend R., and second, realizing that this novel was one of the assigned readings of the majority of freshman English students.  The author was a man named Joseph Heller.  The novel was Catch-22.

I knew a little bit about Catch-22.  To be more accurate, I knew “of” Catch-22, the movie.  

I became vaguely aware of the film in 1970, via an article in a special edition of Flying magazine (I think it was Flying magazine?) which in either a special edition, or, a special section of a regular monthly issue, displayed photographs of B-25J bombers used in the movie by that name.  These images, ground shots and in-flight photos, clearly illustrated the contrived nose art, unit insignia, and simulated armament featured by these aircraft.  I don’t remember – and looking back I would not think – that the magazine paid any attention to Heller’s novel in a literary or historical sense, or focused on the movie as an example of cinematography.  Then again why would it, for the magazine was aimed at pilots and aviation enthusiasts.  Though to be admitted, I was at that time too young to be interested in such things.  (Though I did enjoy 2001 A Space Odyssey when I saw it in the summer of ’68.  Well, okay, only the scenes of David Bowman, Frank Poole, and Hal the computer.  I had no idea why those crazy monkeys were dancing at the film’s beginning, and what that glowing baby and “big black monolith” – as it was dubbed in Mad Magazine’s March 1969 parody, “201 min. of a Space Idiocy” [check it out at the tumblr feed dedicated to Keir Dullea!] – were doing in the fancy hotel room at the movie’s end.  Which scene, admittedly, freaked me out.  A little.)

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I still possessed that copy of Flying two years later, when I bought the Aurora plastic model company’s 1/48 plastic model kit of the B-25J Mitchell.  At the time (we’re talking fifty-two years ago) the kit was the only 1/48 “J” on the market, though Revell did manufacture the “B” in the same scale.

Here are two versions of the box art for Aurora’s kit.  The first is, I think, from its initial release in the mid-1950s, and the second from its mid-1960s version.

Via EBay seller blackandwhitemaui1 (not a plug, just giving the source!), here’s the instruction sheet the Aurora kit.  Suffice to say this ain’t no Monogram 1/48 B-25J (whether solid or glass nose) or Academy 1/48 B-25B.  Not by any stretch of imagination, thought, or sprue.  

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A few years after graduating from Easton College, I wanted to learn just why (“Why?!”) Catch-22 had been and continued to be the center of literary attention, to the point where the very expression – c a t c h – 2 2 – had passed into the English language as a figure of speech, seemingly unrelated to Heller’s novel.  More (hey, I do like a good story) I simply wanted to read the book.  I quickly found a paperback copy in very nice condition at a used bookstore; not too difficult, as new and used copies of the book were then abundant, just as were once physical stores selling new and used books. 

Just as were physical stores in general.   

Here’s an image of the cover of the novel’s first paperback edition.  Note (especially!) the prominent above-the-title placement given to Nelson Algren’s November, 1961 endorsement from The Nation: “…the best American novel that has come out of anywhere in years.”  “Wow!”  Hey, if the book’s endorsed by The Nation and The New York Times then just as night follows day, it must be good.  (The sarcasm is intentional, as you’ll read later.)

I opened the book.

I was fully aware that this was a novel and so – by definition – not a historical work.  However, given its setting and time-frame, I nonetheless thought it would provide some degree of insight, however dramatized and fanciful, about WW II and the Mediterranean Air War, drilling down to and focusing on the experience of aerial combat from the vantage point – whether physical, psychological, or intellectual – of the individual aviator.  Assuming that the novel was inspired by fact – so I reasoned – suggested to me that at least some elements of historical reality – a changed unit name here; an altered target name there; the details of a pivotal combat mission altered in detail elsewhere – could easily be perceived within its pages.  This, coupled with a fictionalized discourse or reverie – or two, or three, or more?! – about such topics as human nature, courage, cowardice, camaraderie (and even humor and absurdity!) from the perspective of by then a quarter-century since the war’s end – would I thought certainly be found in Heller’s writing. 

Anyway, it was long.  There was bound to be something good within it, somewhere. 

So, I started to read it.  And then, after reaching a point perhaps 100-odd pages into the novel, I stopped. 

I never made my way to the end.  I tried.  Really, I tried.  But, I couldn’t get any further, for to read on would have wasted time that could be more wisely spent elsewhere.      

My assumptions about and hopes for the book were wrong.  Entirely wrong.  Startlingly wrong.  Catch-22 was to me as was poor “Polly”, the famed mythical Norwegian Blue Parrot of Monty Python fame, for it ran down the curtain literary and should have long since joined the remaindered inventory invisible.  To wit:  

This parrot is no more.
It has ceased, to be.
This, is an ex-parrot.

Truly, it was awful.

The novel seemed to violate even the most expansive and generous concepts of plot, theme, organization, brevity versus descriptiveness, and, character development; concepts which I’ve taken for granted from all my prior reading.  (For example, the works of WW II veteran James Jones, principally the magnificent novels From Here to Eternity and The Thin Red Line, or Irwin Shaw’s The Young Lions.)  Other than being set in the Mediterranean Theater of War in the latter part of WW II, the book was bereft of even the most indirect or tangential historical context, for no sense of place, time, or a larger setting emerged from its pages.  For all its length and verbosity – and admitted linguistic cleverness (oh wow, gee, I guess there’s that) – it was jarringly one-dimensional.  At the core, the novel was a form of literary self-indulgence: unrefined prose randomly splashed onto its pages as if from a high-pressure fire-hose, lacking a transcendent central message, absent of meaningful character transformation, and above all, bereft of any larger moral and historical insight.  

At least, that’s how I felt about it in my early 20s. 

I gave it another try some years later; I had the same experience.  I grew as exasperated as I had the first time.  I know that my literary tastes had by then substantially changed (hey, they’ve changed a helluva lot since), but my aversion to Catch-22 remained. 

But about the war, I wanted to read more.  

III: On Wings of Words

In the mid-1980s, while browsing through the inventory of a used bookstore in a small town in Pensylvania, I chanced across a paperback book – a Pocket Book in near-pristine condition, that – first by virtue of its cover art, and second by the explanatory “blurb” on its rear cover, immediately caught my attention.  The book was entitled “Face of a Hero”.  Its author was one Louis Falstein.   

Here’s the cover of my copy of the paperback:

The book’s origin is explained on the front endpaper:

EVERY WORD of Face of a HERO reads as though it were written on the spot.  When you finish this book you will know that this was the way it was 20,000 feet in the air with enemy planes attacking from all sides.  For Louis Falstein, like his novel’s hero, Ben Isaacs, was there.  As an aerial gunner with the Fifteenth Air Force, Mr. Falstein won a Purple Heart, four Air Medals, and nine battle stars.

Face of a Hero is Louis Falstein’s first novel.  It was originally published by Harcourt, Brace & Company.  

I bought the book, but I was unable to actually read it, for I didn’t want to risk damaging it in light of its (then) nearly fifty-year fragility.  Instead, I purchased a copy of the Harcourt, Brace 1950 hardcover first edition from a specialty used bookseller.  That copy I read, and read twice. 

Here’s the jacket:

Here’s Louis Falstein’s 1950 portrait by “Arni”, featured inside the book’s jacket…

xxxx

I thought that Face of a Hero was excellent. 

I think it remains so. 

I read the novel from three perspectives: Simply as a work of diversion – of fiction, for fiction’s sake; to gain an understanding of WW II aerial combat from the vantage of an enlisted man serving as an aerial gunner; to see what perspectives and insights could be availed from a Jewish aviator flying combat missions against Nazi Germany, given the nature and ethos of the Third Reich.  As for Catch-22?  By the time I read Face of a Hero, Hell’s novel had – in contemporary parlance – long since “fallen off my radar”.  Far, far, off.  Well, the “scope” had been turned off years before.  

Thirteen years later, in April of 1998, both novels came to public attention as a result of an inquiry to the Sunday Times of London by one Louis Pollock, inquiring whether, as his letter was quoted in the Chicago Tribune, “…anyone could account for the amazing similarity of characters, personality traits, eccentricities, physical descriptions, personnel injuries and incidents” among the two novels.  Pollock’s question was addressed by Michael Mewshaw in the Washington Post, Mel Gussow in the New York Times, and Sanford Pinsker in The Forward.  It was also touched upon in biographical retrospectives of Joseph Heller published in the two “Posts” (that of Washington, and, Jerusalem) just after that author’s death in December of 1999.  

I think this controversy was at least the partial impetus for Steerforth Press’s 1999 reissue of Face of a Hero in trade paperback format…

…the cover of which appears below:  

The novels do parallel one another on first glance.  Both stories are set in the Mediterranean Theater of War in the final years of WW II.  Sergeant Ben Isaacs, Falstein’s protagonist, is a Jew and an aerial gunner on B-24 Liberator bombers in the 15th Air Force.  Heller’s Captain John Yossarian, a bombardier of distant Assyrian heritage, serves on B-25 Mitchell bombers in the 12th Air Force.  However, despite these superficial similarities, and other aspects of the two texts, the novels really are utterly different in terms of style, overarching plot, theme, character development, and especially the perception, role and fate of the protagonist (and even secondary characters) in a larger historical context.  

Beyond the different nature of the novels as literature, the literary and cultural fate of the two books has been dissimilar to a degree so vast as to be…  Well, how sounds the word “absurd”?  Despite positive reviews in The New York Times, the Washington Post, The New Republic, and glowing comments in other newspapers and periodicals, Face of a Hero fell into an obscurity from which it was only lightly and temporarily revived in the Steerforth Press edition.  Catch-22 has experienced a fate vastly different:  Whether as a novel, a film, a television (mini)-series, or an expression that has become part of contemporary language, culture, and thought, Catch-22 and “catch-22” live on.  

But, this series of posts is about Louis Falstein and Face of a Hero.  

More, to follow…

A Few References…

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Harcourt, Brace & Company, New York, N.Y., 1950

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Pocket Books, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1951

Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999

Heller, Joseph, Catch-22, Dell Publishing, New York, N.Y., 1968

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero”

A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero”

Sergeant Louis Falstein, Manduria, Italy, November, 1944

Sometimes, you have to change your routine…  

The great majority of my posts at TheyWereSoldiers have approached the subject of Jews in the military though biographical records, photographs, official documents, and in a few cases, interviews of veterans.  But, there’s far more to a man’s life than a straightforward recitation of dates, places, and events.  His thoughts and beliefs; his understanding of the world around him, let alone his “own” interior world, may only germinate well after an event has actually occurred, regardless of whether that event – at least in the unknowing eyes of others – is mundane or dramatic. 

And through this self-understanding, whether expressed in prose, poetry, the visual arts – or perhaps the irony of silence? – we can sometimes understand the nature of an era better, than through a nominal recitation of purely factual information.  (People, after all, can’t be reduced to mere numbers.  Though in 2022 many in the Managerial Professional Class would ardently wish it were so.)  One way of understanding the past – a very well-known way, at that – is through the novel.  

Louis Falstein’s 1950 novel Face of a Hero is a case in point.  With a bent towards writing well before the Second World War, Falstein, an aerial gunner in the 723rd Bomb Squadron of the 450th “Cottontails” Bomb Group, found in military service the inspiration for this work, his first published book.  Despite having received favorable to excellent reviews, his novel rapidly faded from prominence, only really returning to the public eye – and that, temporarily – in 1999.  This came about as the result of questions about the origin of another novel: Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, a work which has had enormous and continuing cultural and literary impact; a work – despite superficial similarities – utterly different in style and far more importantly ethos than Falstein’s novel.    

Face of a Hero merits a deeper view for what it reveals about Jewish military service in WW II; for its portrayal of WW II aerial combat from the vantage point of an enlisted man; for the way that the author built a fictional world from one of fact.  To that end, the following eleven (yep, count ’em, eleven!) posts cover different aspects of the novel, its author, and (to a limited extent), Catch-22

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[But first!…

…though this post was created on October 7, 2022, only yesterday – on October 18 – did I make a most fortuitous discovery: An audio interview of Louis Falstein by Warren Bower of WNYC Radio recorded on February 3, 1951.  This 23-minute-long interview is “Archives Item 69684 / Municipal Archives Item LT715”.]

In conversation with Louis Falstein, Mr. Bower, of New York University’s School of Continuing Education, at first asks about how the novel was constructed. 

It’s revealed that though Louis initially considered presenting his story from the vantage point of every one of the ten aviators in the crew of B-24 Liberator Flying Foxhole, this approach was rejected because he didn’t want to write a first novel that was “sprawling”.

So, he related and universalized the story through one man only – Ben Isaacs – to maintain “constant and dramatic movement” in the novel.  In turn, Mr. Bower suggests that Isaacs, “…is not more important than the other members of the crew,” to which author Falstein agrees.  However, Falstein adds that by “knowing” Isaacs better than the other nine crewmen and showing what he lived through, felt, thought, and learned, another dimension would emerge from the novel.

Stepping away from the novel’s contents, Mr. Bower addresses something ostensibly simple yet quite fundamental:  The origin of the book’s title.  When asked about the very meaning of “Face of a Hero”, Falstein replies that the title is intended to be realistic and not symbolic.  “A hero is comprised of many things.  A ‘hero’ is a very human, being, subject to many doubts, and many fears.  Ben Isaacs knew why he fought, and that is part of being a hero.”

Mr. Bower’s observations about the novel mirror those of several reviewers, specifically in terms of the book’s explicit (at least, for the time!) use of language.  When asked about this, Louis stated that the book reflected the reality of language as it was actually spoken by combat airmen, and that he didn’t want to forego linguistic realism.  This included the use of the phrase “a man went down,” rather than the irrevocably grim expression “having been killed”, for all but the most unambiguous circumstances pertaining to the loss of an aircrew.

Ultimately, when asked about the motivation for continuing to fly combat missions despite one’s ambivalence about his ability to serve as an airman, or, in the face of the enemy, Louis stated that, “Indoctrination and knowing that one has a just cause gives one a great deal of so-called ‘courage’, that one might lack,” adding that Ben Isaacs felt as if he were reborn on the end of his fiftieth mission.

Mr. Bower concludes his interview with thoughts similar to those of the novel’s reviewers, for he admires the way the book is written:  Simply, unostentatiously, and with no fancy style, but powerfully and impressively.

Though the radio program is about 23 minutes long, Mr. Bower’s interview of Louis Falstein only comprises its first eighteen minutes.  The final five minutes pertain to two recent books; fiction and non-fiction respectively.  The first is Ernest Hemingway’s latest work, Over the River and Into the Trees, of which Bower is highly critical (really – wow!), deeming the novel, “…a colossal bore,” suggesting that the author’s heart simply wasn’t in the work, which is simply a very thin autobiography.  The second book, coming in for very high praise, is Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon-Tiki.

Here’s Mr. Bower’s obituary, from The New York Times:

WARREN BOWER, TEACHER; WAS HOST OF RADIO SHOW

October 29, 1976

Warren Bower, professor emeritus of English and a former assistant dean of New York University’s School of Continuing Education, died Tuesday at St. Vincent’s Hospital.  He was 78 years old and lived at the Salmagundi Club, at 45 Fifth A venue.

Mr. Bower was well known as the host of a WNYC radio program, “The Reader’s Almanac,” which offered interviews with authors between 1938 and 1967.  In 1962 he was given the Peabody Award for the show, which reflected his deep interest in books and authors.

He was born in Elkhart, Ind., and graduated from Hillsdale College in 1920.  He earned his master’s degree from the University of Michigan in 1923.

Mr. Bower was the author of “The College Writer,” “New Directions” and “How to Write for Pleasure and Profit.”

He is survived by his wife, Lesley.

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And now (…minor drum roll, please…) here are the posts.  They are…

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1. A Tale of a Tail Gunner: Louis Falstein and “Face of a Hero” (This post!)

2: A Mirror of The Past (How I discovered Catch-22, and, Face of a Hero)

3: Louis Falstein’s War in the Air… Before, During, and After (Biographical overview of Louis Falstein’s life, focusing on his military service.)

4: First Published Writings: “Molto Buono”, and, “The New Republic”

5: The Events of the Novel (List and descriptions of characters in the novel; chronological list of events and details in the story)

6: Excerpts From the Novel – An Aviator’s Life and Thoughts

7: Excerpts From the Novel – Jewish Aviators at War

8: An Excerpt From the Novel – The Edge of Survival

9: The Art of The Novel (Cover and interior art of first (1950) edition of the novel, and its four subsequent editions.)

10: Book Reviews

11: After The Hero: Later Books (Illustrations of covers of Louis Falstein’s later works, with details about some.)

12: When Parallels Diverge – “Catch 22” and “Face of a Hero”

13: “Catch-22” In The Perspective of History

14: A Still, Small Voice; A Still, Small Novel

I’ll post these essays sequentially, rather than all at once, and link them to this introductory post, as I do so.

Here goes…

(Note: I want to thank Saul Schwarz for his “suggestion”: “Thanks, Saul!”)

Soldiers from New York: Jewish Soldiers in The New York Times, in World War Two: Albert H. Bendix – December 22, 1943 [Updated post…]

[Here’s a new version of an old post – “old” that is, at least by Internet standards.  It’s really, really (did I say really?!) long, like the majority of my posts.  Well, in this world of 2022, somebody’s gotta’ write at length.  I guess that person is me…]

As part of my ongoing series of posts about Jewish WW II servicemen who appeared in The New York Times – whether as military casualties, awards recipients, or as subjects of general news items – “this” post, originally created in August of 2017 and focusing on 2 Lt. Albert Hunt Bendix of the United States Army Air Force – has now been expanded and corrected.  It now more broadly reflects the service of Jewish airmen and soldiers who were military casualties December 22, 1943, the late December Wednesday when Lt. Bendix did not return from a combat mission to Germany.  For those men who were members of the United States Army Air Force, the post now includes – where available – images of the emblems of the squadrons to which they were assigned.  

So first, to start with Lt. Bendix himself…

From the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Lieutenant Bendix (0-683894) was the navigator of a B-17 Flying Fortress, and lost his life during a mission to the city of Munster.  Reported Missing in Action in a Casualty List published on February 8, 1944, his brief obituary, transcribed below, appeared in the Times on September 21, 1945. 

Albert’s parents were Harry Hunt and Olga (Coyne) Bendix; his sisters and brother Mrs. Annette Mack, Mrs. Maxine Bloom, and Harry, Jr.  According to biographical information at FindAGrave.com, his grandfather Theodore Bendix, “…was musical director of “The Spring Maid” with Mizzi [actually, “Mitzi”] Hajos.”

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Lieut. Albert Hunt Bendix, son of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Bendix of 140 Riverside Drive, navigator of a B-17 in the Eighth Air Force and winner of the Air Medal, who was listed as missing in action Jan. 10, 1944, has been reported officially dead.  He was 26 years old.

Lieutenant Bendix was shot down over Muenster, Germany, on his eighth mission on Dec. 22, 1943.  He had been associated with an insurance brokerage concern in this city.  He entered the Army in 1940.

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Here’s the location of the Bendix family’s residence: 140 Riverside Drive in Manhattan, an image originally from (and no longer at!) RealtyHop.com.

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Albert was a crew member aboard B-17G 42-37773, of the 563rd Bomb Squadron, 388th Bomb Group, 8th Air Force, piloted by 2 Lt. Webster Merriam Bull (0-745609; from Omaha, Ne.).  

42-37773, nicknamed Full House, last seen with its #1 engine feathered, crashed into the Ijsselmeer, near Edam, Holland, shortly after the 388th’s formation had dropped its bombs and was enroute back to England.

Of the plane’s ten crewmen, two survived:  They were left waist gunner S/Sgt. John F. Rogowski (32381701; left waist gunner, from Buffalo, N.Y.), and tail gunner S/Sgt. Thomas Glenn Wesson, Jr. (14182114; tail gunner, from Florence, Al.), both of whom parachuted just before the aircraft crashed at sea.  Captured, they spent the remainder of the war as POWs at Stalag 17B Braunau Gneikendorf, near Krems Austria.  The bomber’s other eight crewmen parachuted at too low an altitude, or, succumbed to the coldness of the December sea. 

As reported in Missing Air Crew Report 3148, “Lt. Bull’s wing man report[s] that he dropped slowly behind the formation about 5 to 10 minutes after bombs away on the return route.  One of the men dropped back with him a considerable distance behind the group.  Bull feathered his #1 engine and called to his wing man over the radio, telling him to rejoin the formation, as he would be unable to do so.  Bull’s A/C was last seen somewhere over Holland.  Going down into the overcast under control and escorted by 4 P-47s.” 

Besides Lt. Bendix and Bull, and Sergeants Rogowski and Wesson, Full House’s crew included:

Hobbs, Leavitt Patrick, 2 Lt., 0-680636 – Co-Pilot – (San Rafael, Ca.) – KIA
Gunderson, Loran Arthur, 2 Lt., 0-744274 – Bombardier – (Chicago, Il.) – KIA
Pasque, Angelo, T/Sgt., 39165858 – Flight Engineer – (Los Angeles, Ca.) – KIA
Riley, Howard William, T/Sgt., 16150364 – Radio Operator – (Detroit, Mi.) – KIA
Rush, Chester Noah, Sgt., 39250775 – Gunner (Ball Turret) – (St. Louis, Mo.) – KIA
Marsilio, Rudolph Ceaser, S/Sgt., 13126890 – Gunner (Right Waist) – (Philadelphia, Pa.) – KIA

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This excellent in-flight photo of Full House, from the American Air Museum in Britain website, was taken on December 20, 1943, two days before the plane’s loss…

…while this image, showing the bomber flying through flak bursts, is from the 388th Bomb Group Database.  

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Born on November 22, 1916, Albert was buried – at Block I, Section 28, Plot 197, Grave 2 – at Riverside Cemetery, in Saddle Brook, New Jersey, on May 13, 1949.  His name is listed on page 273 of Volume II of American Jews in World War II. His matzeva, photographed by FindAGrave contributor dalya d, is shown below:

Full information about the loss of Full House and its crew can be found in this remarkably detailed account at the ZZAirwar (Zuyder Zee Air War) website. 

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Other Jewish military casualties on December 22, 1943 (25 Kislev 5704) are listed below.  

For those who lost their lives on this date…
– .ת.נ.צ.ב.ה. –
…Tehé Nafshó Tzrurá Bitzrór Haḥayím
May his soul be bound up in the bond of everlasting life.

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306th Bomb Group, 367th Bomb Squadron

Sall, Henry, S/Sgt., 32177039, Gunner (Right Waist), Air Medal, 2 Oak Leaf Clusters, Purple Heart, 17 missions
Mr. Andrew Sall (brother), 535 Graham Ave., Brooklyn, N.Y.
MACR 1716; B-17F, 42-3363 (“GY * G”, “Punchy”); Pilot – 1 Lt. James E. Winter; 10 crewmen – 3 survivors; Luftgaukommando Report KU 547
Netherlands American Cemetery, Margraten, Netherlands – Plot P, Row 20, Grave 1
Casualty Lists 1/23/44, 8/24/44
American Jews in World War II – 425

Though believed to have been shot down by German fighters, there are no specific eyewitness statement about Punchy’s loss in MACR 1716.  However, the report lists the aircraft as having been last sighted by Second Lieutenants John J. Stolz and Charles O. Smith, and, First Lieutenant Martin Newstreet.  

Of the plane’s ten crew members, there were three survivors: 

2 Lt. Robert F. Jones – Navigator
T/Sgt. David M. Hovis – Flight Engineer
S/Sgt. Otis F. Thomas – Tail Gunner

According to Lt. Jones, Lt. Winter was last seen, “At the controls of the plane.”  He was believed to have been attempting, “…to get the plane under control so the other crew members could bail out.”  “The interphone system was knocked out by [a] flak burst in nose of plane about 5 min. before we were finished off by fighter planes.  All casualties either dead, or, wounded and unable to escape by parachute.”

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445th Bomb Group, 701st Bomb Squadron

Silverman, Conrad, 2 Lt., 0-685748, Navigator, Purple Heart
Brooklyn, N.Y. – 12/18/15
Mr. and Mrs. Tobias and Fannie Silverman (parents), Beatrice, Estelle, and Leo Silverman (sisters and brother), 1060 52nd St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
MACR 16098; B-24H 42-7520 (not 42-64438!), “Snow Goose”; Pilot – 2 Lt. Norman H. Nelson; 10 crewmen – no survivors; Luftgaukommando Report AV 447/44
Crashed near Bolsward, Netherlands
Zachary Taylor National Cemetery, Louisville, Ky. – Section E 101
Brooklyn Eagle 7/25/43, 2/26/44
Casualty Lists 1/23/44, 2/27/44

American Jews in World War II – 444

Two months after the loss of Snow Goose, the following article about Lt. Silverman appeared in the Brooklyn Eagle.

Won’t Accept Death Of Brother in Nazi Raid
February 26, 1944

Sister of Lt. Silverman, an Army Nurse Overseas, Searching for Further Details

Beatrice Silverman, sister of Lt. Conrad Silverman, officially listed as killed in a raid over Germany, refuses to take news of his death as final and is conducting a personal investigation for further details.  She is a lieutenant in the army nursing corps and stationed overseas.

Silverman is 27.  He was in the infantry first and later transferred to the air corps as a navigator.  He was shipped across in November, 1943.

Two other members of her family are in the armed forces – Estelle, a navy nurse, and Leo, a major in the army.  Conrad attended New Utrecht High School and Brooklyn College.  The family lives at 1060 52nd St.

Postwar “fill-in” Missing Air Crew Report 16098, which incorrectly denotes the serial number of Snow Goose as 42-64438, carries only the cryptic statement, “Ship #438 [sic] attacked by fighters at time of bombs away.  It was last seen going down out of control and no chutes were observed.” 

In 2008, a monument in memory of Snow Goose’s crew was erected at the bomber’s crash site, seen in this flickr photostream image of Edwin van Bloois.  As mentioned by Mr. van Bloois and unknown to the Army Air Force in December of 1943, “Above Friesland, the B-24 was attacked by a German night fighter and in the dramatic fire fight that followed the crew tried desperately to shoot down its belligerent.  The crew tried to land the plane but crashed near Bolsward.  The bombs were not dropped before the landing and exploded during the crash.” 

In early May of 2013 (nineteen years ago already?!…), two nieces of Lt. Nelson paid homage to their uncle at the bomber’s crash site, in an event – seen in the video below – reported upon by GPTV.  While the video is unaccompanied by English-language translation (oh, well…), the caption, translated via OogleTranslate, is as follows, “In many places, 2 minutes of silence was observed on Saturday evening at a war memorial.  One such monument commemorates the crash of the B-24 bomber Snow Goose in Bolsward.  The monument was placed in 2008.  Ten young men were killed in the crash.  On Saturday a number of relatives of one of the fallen crew members came to Bolsward.  Two nieces of Norman Nelson. Joanne Nelson and Lynda Brown-Nelson.”

Additional information about the December 22 mission and Snow Goose can be found at the websites of the 445th Bomb Group, and, Teunis Schuurman.

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446th Bomb Group, 704th Bomb Squadron

Jacobson, Sydney Charles, 2 Lt., 0-742719, Pilot (Bomber), Purple Heart, 2 Missions
Mrs. Eleanor A. Jacobson (wife), 1777 Somerset St., Providence, R.I.
MACR 2008; B-24H 42-7613 (“FL * H”, “Mi Akin Ass”); 10 crewmen – 7 survivors
Zachary Taylor National Cemetery, Louisville, Ky. – Section F 29
American Jews in World War II – 562

Akin to the Snow Goose, the Missing Air Crew Report for Mi Akin Ass is entirely vague about what actually happened to the bomber, for which there are no eyewitness accounts, other than the generic statement, “Information not available, undoubtedly due to enemy action.  Aircraft last seen apparently under control entering overcast.” 

What is present in the MACR are co-pilot 1 Lt. Robert Dale Bingham’s postwar comments about the fate of the three crewmen who did not survive the mission: Lt. Jacobson, Bombardier 2 Lt. Wade H. Krauss, and Flight Engineer S/Sgt. Orley E. Kjelgren, who are buried in common grave F-29 at Zachary Taylor National Cemetery.  Lt. Bingham’s comments follow.  While certainly informative about the fate of all three men, when it comes to Lt. Jacobson, they reveal something else about Robert D. Bingham, and that with immediate clarity.

Circumstances of bail out of crew members for whom no individual questionnaire is attached: No knowledge other than that none jumped the bail out signal, all was regular.  I just didn’t happen to actually see a crew member jump.

What members of crew were in the aircraft when it struck the ground?  Have no positive knowledge but believe 2nd Lt. Wade H. Krauss and Kjelgren, Orley E. S/Sgt.

Bombardier Krauss:

Any hearsay information: He did not fire a shot at attacking aircraft, he had turret turned to one side & did not move it or himself when Lt. Cranford attempted to get him to bail out by pounding on turret glass to attract his attention.

Flight Engineer Kjelgren:

Any hearsay information: Lt. Cranford claims to have seen a leg through trap door calculated to have been Kjelgren, Orley E., from position last seen in.

Pilot Jacobson:

Did he bail out: Uncertain.

Last contact or conversation just prior to or at time of loss of plane: I told of and pointed to fire in bomb bay.

Was he injured: Not at last contact with him.

Where was he last seen: Stepping out onto flight deck.

Any hearsay information: The radio operator, S/Sgt. Mahan told me on ground that S.C. Jacobson stepped out on flight deck & attempted to put on parachute but that it opened & was in his arms.  Later Sgt. Evans (tail gunner) told me that he was seen to attempt a jump only to have chute catch on plane.

Any explanation of his fate based in part of wholly on supposition: I believe the above to be true as he did leave the controls without warning and take to the flight deck in a big rush as if to be in a hurry to get out.  He was a smart boy & a Jew, it seems to fit.”  

Well now.  What Robert Bingham really suggested was that Lt. Jacobson’s actions in attempting to abandon his aircraft were not the actions of Lt. Sydney C. Jacobson the man, but instead “a Jew” named Sydney Jacobson, for whom Bingham’s use of the word “smart” is far more indictment than compliment.  In a larger sense, while an attitude of comradeship and solidarity was not at all uncommon among Army Air Force air crews (many, many accounts in Missing Air Crew Reports attest to this, often in riveting, dramatic, and tragic detail), this was not universally so.  Yet, having reviewed all the Missing Air Crew Reports, I can state that comments such as Bingham’s are extraordinarily few in number.

One of the seven survivors of Mi Akin Ass was the plane’s left waist gunner, Sergeant Sidney H. Raiken (16155375), the son of Harry (1/3/82-1/31/58) and Fanny (Robin) Raiken, and brother of Florence, who hailed from 2718 North 40th Street, in Milwaukee.  Captured, he spent the remainder of the war at Stalag Luft 4.  His name appeared in a list of liberated POWs released by the War Department on June 6, 1945, and in 1947, on page 585 of American Jews in World War II, wherein it’s indicated that he was awarded the Purple Heart.  The absence of his receipt of the Air Medal (and Oak Leaf Clusters for that medal) suggests that he flew less than five combat missions.  

Sidney Raiken’s account of his final mission – below – is excerpted from Evelyn R. Lewis’ book The War Stories of Sidney H. Raiken.  Two discrepancies are present in his account.  Note that he mentions, “the ball turret gunner to the left of me,” and, words to the effect that he (himself?!) had to shut down one of the plane’s engines.  Given his crew position as left waist gunner, the “ball gunner” referred to was almost certainly the right waist gunner (S/Sgt. Joseph P. McDonald), the ball turret gunner – not directly visible from the waist gun position – having been S/Sgt. Scott F. Swinburn.  Shutting down one of the bomber’s engines probably refers to an action taken by Lieutenants Jacobson or Bingham.

Flying along and this ball gunner on the left of me, I didn’t even know him, but flying along, it was cold, I looked at him.  He had ice on the eyelashes.  Periodically, we would cock the gun because of the cold [to] be sure it’s working so it wouldn’t freeze up.  So it was difficult to do.  You didn’t have much to brace on, and your oxygen hose went down your chest here.  So this guy next to me, he couldn’t cock his gun so he had to have a brace against his chest.  So what he does is disconnect his oxygen mask, which is the worst thing you could do.  So it was just lucky that I turned around that instant because here he is, slumped over the gun, no oxygen, 25,000 feet.  So what I did was I gave him a… I put on his oxygen hose again, connected it, and gave him a pure shot of oxygen which we could do.  And he came to, but another minute he would have been gone.

We’re in formation coming back and the wing is starting to vibrate pretty badly, so I had to shut off one engine.  And a couple minutes later another, the wing started vibrating again.  I had to shut off another engine.  So we’re operating on two engines so we start drifting back from the formation and we were no more than 100 yards from formation when a black night fighter, Me 110 was on my side with the wing up and right in front of me here’s this black wing with the German crosses on and I told the ball gunner, I says, “Well why didn’t you tell me he was coming?  I could have taken a shot at him and he says, “I was just too scared.”

That was our first time we were under fire attack.  So here the fighters are coming in, so the pilot would call out.  He’d say, “Three coming in at 11 o’clock out of the sun.”  And you’d turn your body so it would be toward 11 o’clock to give the least amount of area.  And they kept coming in and I noticed the plane started burning and the pilot was kind of trying to hit the cloud cover almost in a dive.  And I couldn’t get at the fire because it was pretty hard to get to and started burning there and I guess the bomb bay must have been all aflame too and I don’t know just what happened but the thing was burning to the extent and I didn’t hear any orders to leave so we scrambled to the rear hatch and just left; the ball gunner and I left.  We found out that the plane exploded just a couple minutes after that so the ball gunner, like I said before, was above me as we drifted down.  You got that story.

Right after that first Me 110 made a pass at us, subsequent passes of these fighters, I noticed my gloves were all ripped apart.  I had the thumbs on the gun and the first thing I knew my gloves were in shreds, both of them.  I couldn’t feel anything.  I didn’t know what was going on and I didn’t realize that my two hands were wounded and, of course, it dawned on me after I bailed out that not only was my hands wounded, but my bone was sticking out of the one hand.

And it was a lucky thing I didn’t put on that flack jacket.  We had a bullet proof vest that weighed a ton, it was made out of layers of steel and had I put that on I would have been a dead man because not only were my hands wounded but my leather jacket was all kinds of ripped apart, the flaps were gone, things like that.  Found out later that they were shooting 20mm shells that exploded inside the airplane, like a grenade and I was just lucky it was just my finger.  I wasn’t blinded or killed, something like that.  If I wore a bullet proof vest, instead of knocking the flaps off my leather jacket and all that, it would have went inside the vest.  The vest just protected you in the front and the rear but not on the side, so the shot would have gone inside the vest, but that thing weighed a ton, we didn’t wear them. 

Going out the lower hatch, the ball gunner is out of the bubble on the bottom and they are leaving.  The lower hatch opens easily.  We go out.  Nothing is happening.  I am tugging at the handle and nothing is happening and then it dawns on me that I am pulling the wrong handle.  I don’t know how far I fell freefall and I pulled the red handle.  It was the red handle that opened, and I start drifting down and at that point I saw the ball gunner was above me.   …

Sidney Raiken passed away on December 1, 2002, and is buried at Mount Sinai Memorial Park, Los Angeles, Ca.

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448th Bomb Group, 714th Bomb Squadron

There were no survivors from the 11 crew members of B-24H 42-52105, an apparently un-nicknamed Liberator piloted by 2 Lt. David E. Manning.  The crew included 2 Lt. Jerome Slepin, the bomber’s navigator, and S/Sgt. Irving Mazur, its left waist gunner.

Unlike other bomber losses on December 22, 1943, an eyewitness account does exist pertaining to this plane’s loss.  As stated in MACR 3313 by First Lieutenant Karl M. Schlund, pilot of nearby B-24H 42-7683 (“Sweet Sioux“), “I was flying the #2 position in a three ship element of which Lt. Manning was in the #3 position which Lt. Hughey was leading.  Over the target area which was Osnabruck, Germany Lt. Manning’s ship was seen going thru heavy flak.  A minute or so later his ship left the formation and was last seen going thru the cloud cover with enemy fighters attacking his ship as it went down.  The ship appeared to be under control.  No chutes were seen leaving the ship.”  The events pertaining to the bomber’s loss are diagrammed at zzairwar.  

Only five members of the bomber’s crew were ever found, and thus, have places of burial.  Along with Lt. Slepin, these men were:

2 Lt. Robert F. Palicki (Co-Pilot)
2 Lt. Arne O. Bergrum (Bombardier)
2 Lt. Byron E. Lanphear (Observer)
Sgt. William S. Pennypacker (Right Waist Gunner)

This plane’s loss is covered in Luftgaukommando Report AV 879/44 (which specifically pertains to Lt. Slepin), and, reports U 2611, U 2658, and U 2742. 

Lt. Slepin’s parents were William (2/7/93-2/20/76) and Eva (Rosenberg) Slepin (12/2/96-7/26/57), and his family, including brothers Louis and Richard, resided at 929 Park Avenue in New York City.  His father was in some way – what way, I don’t know – associated with the Trutex Dress Company at 1385 Broadway in Manhattan.  His name having appeared in casualty lists issued by the War Department on January 23, 1944 (Missing in Action), and September 19, 1944 (confirmed Killed in Action), he is buried at the Netherlands American Cemetery, in Margraten, Holland, at Plot B, Row 18, Grave 18.  His name can be found on page 447 of American Jews in World War II, where his sole award is listed as the Purple Heart.  He was born in 1922.

S/Sgt. Mazur was another New Yorker, albeit a Brooklyn type of New Yorker.  His father was Samuel A. Mazur, who resided at 2000 84th Street, and his brother was Sidney, who lived at 206 Quenton Road.  Born in 1921, his name appeared in the same January 23, 1944, casualty list as that of Lt. Slepin, and on page 390 of American Jews in World War II, where he is listed as having been awarded the Air Medal and Purple Heart, suggesting that he had completed between 5 and 10 combat missions.  His name is commemorated at the Tablets of the Missing at Netherlands American Cemetery, at Margraten, Holland.   

__________

Killed (Non-Battle)

En Route to European or Mediterranean Theater of War

As shown in many of my prior blog posts, and especially as revealed in literature about WW II military aviation, whether online, at (for example) Aviation Archeology, or in printed format, in the form of Anthony J. Mireles magisterial three-volume work Fatal Army Air Forces Aviation Accidents in the United States, 1941-1945, a tremendous number of Second World War United States aircraft and personnel losses occurred within and near the continental United States during activity neither directly nor immediately associated with contact with the enemy.  (I’m sure something analogous could be said for the air forces of other nations that took part in the war, though other than for RAF Bomber Command, I don’t know how well, of if, this has been documented.)

One such incident occurred near West Palm Beach, Florida, on December 22, 1943, and involved the loss of a B-24 Liberator departing on a ferry mission to Europe.  Piloted by 2 Lt. Samuel G. Dean, the bomber, carrying 14 crew and passengers, crashed 3 miles northwest of Morrison Army Airfield shortly after taking off.  As described by Anthony Mireles in Volume I (page 622) of Fatal Army Air Forces Aviation Accidents in the United States, “The airplane was taking off [0200 hours] on a ferry mission to the European War Theater when it collided with treetops about three-quarters of a mile from the end of the northwest runway.  The collision apparently caused the failure of at least two engines, the pieces of which were found near the trees.  The airplane climbed slightly after the initial impact and, losing power, veered to the left and crashed about three miles from the end of the northwest runway.  The B-24 crashed into swampy terrain … Lt. Cáceres [2 Lt. Radames E. Cáceres] and S/Sgt. [Howard G.] Sewell were found alive in the wreckage.  Lt. Cáceres died at 1930 EWT.  S/Sgt. Sewell died on 12/23/43 at 1350 EWT.”

Eliot Kleinberg’s story of the bomber’s loss, accompanied by illustrations, and, biographical profiles of the plane’s crew and passengers, appeared in the Palm Beach Post on May 25, 2014 (since updated on May 26, 2022), under the title “The Forgotten 14: A Story Never Told“.  As of September, 2022, his story is still – fortunately! – accessible online.

Among the bomber’s crew was aerial gunner S/Sgt. Louis Karp (Leezer bar Yakov Yosef) (32629703) from the Bronx.  Born in Manhattan on September 14, 1918, he was the son of Jacob and Jennie Karp, his family residing at 1343 Findley Avenue.  Buried at Mount Lebanon Cemetery, Glendale, N.Y.  (Society Workmen’s Circle, Block WC, Section 5, Line 27, Grave 7), his name appears on page 357 of American Jews in World War Two, with a simple notation indicating that he lost his life in a non-combat event.  

“Louis Karp in West Palm Beach in December, 1943” (Karp Family Photo, from “The Forgotten 14”)

“In an undated photograph believed to be from the 1940s, Louis Karp’s mother Jennie makes one of her nearly weekly visits to his grave in New York.  When Louis died, she had two other sons in the war.  When another was shot down and believed killed, she asked the President to bring the other home.”  (Karp Family Photo, from “The Forgotten 14”)

This 2017 image of Sgt. Karp’s matzeva is by FindAGrave contributor S. Daino.

____________________

United States Army Air Force, 15th Air Force

“The only information I gave them was my name, rank and serial number.”

And, a related story…

Louis had five siblings – Edith, Julius, Maurice, Milton, and Morris – his four brothers all serving in the military, though “The Forgotten 14” states that Morris, then in Europe, was returned from there to complete his military service in the continental United States.  However, Julius an aerial gunner like his brother, left the United States for Europe on December 25, 1943 (ironically departing from Morrison Field), and was assigned to the 2nd Bomb Group, a B-17-equipped bombardment group of the 15th Air Force.   

Julius wrote an account of his military service entitled (well, pretty appropriately!) The Julius Karp Story, which gives a substantive overview of his military experiences, and very briefly touches his pre-war and post-war life. 

Initially assigned to the 2nd Bomb Group’s 20th Bomb Squadron…

…Julius was wounded on February 24, 1944 – during “Big Week” – and was awarded the Silver Star for his actions that day.  His award citation reads: “For gallantry in action while participating as Right Waist Gunner on a B-17 type aircraft during a bombing mission against an important enemy aircraft factory at Styer, Austria, on 24 February 1944, his formation was intercepted and heavily attacked by approximately 150 enemy fighters.  In the ensuing engagement the aircraft was severely damaged and Sergeant Karp received a serious and painful wound in the left leg from the enemy plane cannon fire.  Despite the pain and shock he continued to man his guns in gallant defense of his plane and crew, beating off successive attacks until he lost consciousness from loss of blood and lack of oxygen.  By his conspicuous courage and unselfishness in his determination to carry out his mission regardless of all hazards together with his gallantry and devotion to duty in the fulfillment of his personal responsibility, Sergeant Karp has distinguished himself and the Armed Forces of the United States of America.”

On a date unknown during his service in the 2nd Bomb Group, Julius was apparently transferred to the Group’s 49th Bomb Squadron…

…which may – or may not? – have been related to the following incident: “…if you were Jewish in the service at that time, you had to sort of keep to yourself because there was anti-Semitism among the Americans at times too.  One pilot I flew with did something wrong on the flight and I told him so.  I was the flight engineer.  When we got back, he called me a “damned Jew”.  I went to my commanding officer and told him about this and I refused to fly with them again.  He agreed and grounded me for a few days and then put me with another crew.  The next day, the crew that I had flown with was shot down.” 

In any event, Julius Karp was shot down on his 48th mission.

This occurred during a bombardment mission to Blechhammer South, Germany, on August 7, 1944.  Flying in a B-17G piloted by 1 Lt. Dwight F. Hastings, his aircraft was struck by anti-aircraft fire.  The entire crew parachuted east of and over the target, Lt. Hastings last of all.  According to navigator 2 Lt. James A. Shaw, “[Hastings] was last man to leave and believe he should receive commendation the way he stuck to the controls up to the last.”  The loss of this un-nicknamed aircraft, 44-6176, is covered in Missing Air Crew Report 7470 and Luftgaukommando Report KSU / ME 1890.

Nine of the bomber’s ten crew members survived.  Ball turret gunner S/Sgt. Howard J. Kidney was definitely uninjured when he left the aircraft, but did not survive, other crewmen (in 1946, at least) being uncertain of his actual fate.  Lt. Shaw reported having been told by a German guard at Mechnitz, that Kidney was shot while descending in his parachute, or (as related to him by the radio operator and left waist gunner), that Kidney may have been killed during an escape attempt with Russian POWs.  The former is the most likely eventuality, as the pertinent Luftgaukommando Report includes the (deliberately?) ambiguous statement that the Sergeant “met his death by being shot down in an air attack”, thus, intentionally not specifying how he died.  

A notable aspect of Sgt. Karp’s memoir concerns his capture and interrogation, specifically in terms of both his refusal to answer his captors’ questions, and, in reference to his identity as a Jew.  As stated in his essay, “We were searched and locked up until some SS troopers arrived to question us.  The only food they gave us was some black bread and water.  I was there for three days when I was taken to a railroad yard and put in a pig box car and shipped to Frankfurt for more questioning by SS troopers.  They asked me again and again where we were flying and what our mission was.  The only information I gave them was my name, rank and serial number.  They got angry and made me get undressed and put me in another room.  They poured ice water on me.  After a while they told me to get dressed and I was taken again to another room.  The guard looked at my dog tag and asked me what religion I was.  I had an H on my dog tags for Hebrew, but I smashed the H with pliers before I went over seas.  I had heard rumors that they were killing Jews.  I told them I was Protestant.”

Well…  There is a difference between what Julius recorded and what has been preserved.  As seen in this image of Julius’ dog-tag, one of the items within Luftgaukommando Report KSU / ME 1890 (accessed via the National Archives) the dog-tag, obviously bearing an “H” for Hebrew, is intact and undamaged, appearing much the same as it did when worn nearly eight decades ago.  

However, the “Angaben über Gefangennahme eines Angehörigen der feidnlichen Luftwaffe” – the “Report of the Capture of Enemy Air Force Personnel” in KSU / ME 1890 – does corroborate at least part of Julius’ account of his interrogation.  

This full translation of the report (note that it was completed on August 10, three days after Julius’ capture) reveals that Julius refused to give his date of birth, and similarly, “To all other questions Prisoner of War refused to make any statement.”

This photo, from mid-summer of 1945, shows a pensive Julius with his sister Edith (the only girl in the family?), and mother Jennie at Louis’ grave, shortly after Julius’ return to the United States.

Born in Manhattan on June 11, 1922, Julius passed away on February 9, 2011.  The photo below, from 2006, accompanies his February 10, 2011 obituary in the Houston Chron News.  

____________________

Prisoners of War

44th Bomb Group, 66th Bomb Squadron

Fleischman, Abel, S/Sgt., 32509819, Radio Operator, Air Medal, Purple Heart
POW at Stalag Luft 4 (Gross-Tychow) and Stalag Luft 1 (Barth)
Mr. William Fleischman (father), 1634 Sterling Place, Brooklyn, N.Y.
Born 3/5/21 – Died 9/23/98
MACR 1713; B-24H 42-7533; Pilot – 1 Lt. Warren W. Oakley; 10 crewmen – 3 survivors; Luftgaukommando Report KU 539
Casualty Lists 1/23/44 (Missing in Action), 4/21/44 (Prisoner of War), 6/8/45 (Liberated)
American Jews in World War II – 311

This account of the survival of S/Sgt. Fleischman, flight engineer T/Sgt. John F. Byers, and navigator 1 Lt. Frank D. Powers comes from Will Lundy’s 44th Bomb Group Roll of Honor and Casualties.  As he reported in MACR 1713, six of the crew’s seven fatalities were entirely uninjured, but were unable to exit the falling aircraft because of the force of its final spin.  Lt. Christian was able to escape from the plane, but his parachute malfunctioned.  

The second 66th Squadron aircraft lost was piloted by 1st Lt. Warren W. Oakley and Richard K. Collins.  The MACR contains this information: Aircraft #533 was reported as lagging in the rear of the formation just after target with bomb bay doors still open.  Different crews observed this aircraft at various times between 1400 and 1431 hours and each one reported that it was losing altitude but apparently under control.  Aircraft #548 (Heskett’s) had been flying on the right wing and Heskett reported that he pulled alongside #533 to determine why they were not keeping up with the formation.  (It was later learned that #533 had lost three superchargers.)  Oakley motioned for him to go ahead and catch the formation.  At 1431, the tail gunner of #548, saw the ship begin to spiral down below into the clouds.  It was not believed likely that any of the crew survived as no chutes were seen to open.

A crew member, Sgt. Abel Fleischman, tells his account: “I was flying spare radio operator on this crew.  First of all, we were hit by flak, and then jumped by about five to seven fighters.  We couldn’t unload our bombs as they were stuck as were the bomb bay doors.  Our bombardier, Christian, asked the pilot if he should unload them by hand, but the pilot said, ‘No.  We are over enemy-occupied land.’ “The fighters knocked all or at least part of our tail off.  After Byers (engineer) came out of the top turret and bailed out, I think we started to go into a spin, but I managed to get out as well.  Just Byers and I got out.  [Editor’s note: One more crewmember, Lt. Frank Powers, also got out.] “Miller’s crew also went down the same day – that was my original crew with whom I trained.  I landed by parachute in Holland (near Den Ham).  After hiding out a couple of hours, was captured and taken to a Dutch hospital for about six weeks.  Then to Frankfurt, Stalag Luft 6, 4, and l.”

Lt. Frank D. Powers, navigator, adds, “We were a squadron leader and made our target.  But we lost two engines on the return, our wingmen abandoned us, and flak or fighters hit the tail surfaces – and we spiraled down, out of control.  T/Sgt.  Christian, the bombardier, and I had no warning of how serious the problem was, so we stayed with the plane.  (Pilots were so busy trying to regain control they couldn’t ring the bail out warning.) We thought that Warren Oakley would regain control.  Byers and the radio operator (Fleischman) knew about the tail damage and they abandoned ship at high altitude.  Had Byers warned us, we probably all would have made it.  Christian, bless him, helped me put on my parachute and was killed by the jump.  We were so low, less than 800 feet at that time, that Christian’s chute never fully opened.

“Before the local policemen arrived, a young man of about 25 or so, came up to me and in good English, said ‘I congratulate you – all of your friends are dead.’ At that time I did not know we were in the Netherlands and had the fleeting thought that he was a German and was going to inflict a terrible beating on me.

“Then a policeman, a young man about my age, 22, arrived and his sympathy was with me, but with the surrounding families knowing that I was there, he had to phone the German authorities and release me to them.”

I contacted the widow of John F. Byers, who gave me the following information: “John told me much of what Abel Fleishman told you.  He also thought that they were the only two to get out.  John was too big to wear his chute in the turret, so he grabbed it and snapped it on, but when he tried to pull the ripcord, he had it on upside down.  In his own words, it scared the hell out of him, but as you know, it worked.  He landed in a plowed field somewhere in Holland, went in to the top of his boots, and hurt his knee.  Some men were there almost as soon as he landed – they helped him to a barn, then hid him in the hay, under gobs of hay.  Soon S.S. men came with pitch forks, but he was hidden deep enough that they missed him.  When they left, one of the Dutch men got him on a bicycle, took him in to town and to a doctor (Den Ham?).  He stayed there over a Pub or bar until they could move him a few days later.”

John managed to avoid capture for a considerable period, had many close calls – too many to include in this report.  Then an informer notified the S.S. and he was captured and became a POW.

P.C. Meijer, Dutch historian from Den Ham, Netherlands, has sent data about his investigation of this crew.  “Last week I found the place where the Liberator came down, and met a farmer who lives near the place.  The farmer, Mr. Bril, said he remembered all what happened, he was outdoors when the plane came in at low speed and was just above the roof of the barn.  At first, he thought it was a belly landing, but it hit very hard.  Then immediately, he saw an American come running toward him (Powers, who had just parachuted) and was yelling, ‘Bomb! Bomb!’ and making gestures to lie down – and he did.  The aircraft exploded immediately and it was like a fireworks display with the ammunition exploding, fire, flares, etc.  Pieces of the plane were strewn about.  The explosions made a large crater seven meters deep and 20 meters in diameter, broke the windows in his house, and blew the doors open.

“One crew member landed about 30 meters from his house – Powers.  People later told him that another chutist, Fleischman, came down southwest of his farm, and he hid in the woods and was soon captured.  And the third chutist, Byers, was found and hidden by the other farmers in the area.  In a very short time, the Germans arrived to take Powers prisoner, but they could not understand English, so brought in a teacher who spoke English to interpret for them.  Later, he was taken away…”

In 1985, during the 40th anniversary celebration of the liberation of their country, the people of Den Ham honored this crew with speeches, flowers, photographs – they are remembered!

On September 10, 1945, this two-sentence news item pertaining to Sgt. Fleischman’s military service appeared in the Brooklyn Eagle.

T/Sgt. Abel Fleischman of 1634 Sterling Place has reported to the air force redistribution station, Atlantic City, N.J., after 22 months in Europe as a B-24 radio gunner. He wears the Air Medal and Purple Heart.

Abel Fleischman died on September 23, 1998, and is buried at Florida National Cemetery, in Bushnell, Florida.  

__________

91st Bomb Group, 322nd Bomb Squadron

Harris, George D., S/Sgt., 12180643, Radio Operator, Air Medal
POW at Stalag Luft 3 (Sagan) and Stalag 7A (Moosburg)
Mr. Joseph Harris (father), 562 West 164th St., New York, N.Y.
MACR 1715; B-17G 42-37738 (“LG * T”; Miss AMERICA); Pilot – 2 Lt. Edward M. Steel; 10 crewmen – 9 survivors
Casualty Lists 2/26/44, 5/29/45
American Jews in World War II – 341

Missing Air Crew Report 1715, like other MACRs covering bomber losses this day, is very brief:  “Aircraft B-17G 42-37738 was seen at 1440 hours, 52-33 N, 05-03 E, 25,300 feet, leaving the formation and slowly losing altitude but continuing on course under control.  Subject aircraft was badly shot up.”  

Nine of Miss AMERICA’s ten crew members survived the mission.  Ball turret gunner Sgt. Gerald Dutton Glaze – the subject of an extensive “write-up” by Lt. Steel in a Casualty Questionnaire within MACR 1715 – was confirmed by fellow crewmen to have successfully left the aircraft, but he was never seen again.  At Dulag Luft, a German interrogator reported to 2 Lt. Robert E. Emmick (the plane’s navigator) that Glaze had been killed, but did not elaborate.  It was suggested by some of his fellow crew members that his parachute may have failed, or, he was murdered by German soldiers or civilians.  In any event, his body was definitely recovered and identified, for his dog-tag was displayed to one of the nine survivors while the latter were at Dulag Luft.  As of 2022, Sgt. Glaze remains missing

This image (Joe Harlick photo N3257 / image UPL 45480 from the American Air Museum in Britain) shows the nose art of Miss AMERICA…

…while this diagram, in MACR 1715, sketched by former co-pilot William P. Meyers in 1945 or 1946, shows the last course of Miss AMERICA, which passed over Texel Island.  “Left formation 6 mi. from coast turning to 170 [degrees] along which course No. 1-7 bailed out, then turned south while remainder of crew left the plane.  Plane was in gentle bank to right when I left it, and No. 9, Sgt. Lane, reported he saw it blow up.  I was delaying pulling rip-cord and could not observe because of motion of body.”

__________

389th bomb Group, 566th Bomb Squadron

Ross, Samuel, S/Sgt., 12158089, Gunner (Right Waist)
POW at Stalag 17B (Gneixendorf)
Mr. Martin H. Ross (father), 181 Hawthorne St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
Born 3/24/24
MACR 2047; B-24D 42-40706; Pilot – 1 Lt. Paul J. Lambert; 10 crewmen – 9 survivors; Luftgaukommando Report KU 545
Casualty List 6/19/45
American Jews in World War II – Not Listed

MACR 2047 is absent of eyewitness accounts of the loss of B-24D 42-40706, but Casualty Questionnaires indicates that the aircraft’s position in the 389th Bomb Group’s formation was “coffin corner”, or, “extreme right rear”, the plane having left the formation just before reaching the Initial Point.  Postwar questionnaires in the MACR reveal that power was lost in two engines.  By the time it was realized that neither of these engines could be restarted, the aircraft was at too low an altitude for the crew to bail out, necessitating a crash-landing.  This occurred near Osnabruck, Germany, two miles from the town of Mettingen.  Though the MACR is not specific, it seems that the plane was attacked by fighters. 

The entire crew were able to take up crash positions, with the pilots in their seats, four men on the flight deck, and the four remaining crewmen in the rear of the aircraft.  Tail gunner S/Sgt. Charles E. Smith died the evening of December 22 as a result of injuries sustained during the landing, while left waist gunner S/Sgt. Melvin V. Wile, like Sgt. Ross previously wounded by gunfire from German fighter planes (also having been injured in the crash landing) recovered from his injuries after spending two months in hospital. 

__________

92nd Bomb Group, 407th Bomb Squadron

Wolfson, Seymour Nathan, Sgt., 35380868, Gunner (Left Waist)
POW at Stalag 17B (Gneixendorf)
Mr. and Mrs. Morris and Sarah A. Wolfson (parents), 110 West Ross St., Wilkes-Barre, Pa.
Mrs. Gerald DeBaer (sister), 893 Stadelman Ave., Akron, Oh.
Born 1918
MACR 1711; B-17F 42-3184 (“PY * Q”; “USS ALIQUIPPA”); Pilot – 2 Lt. Henry J. Roeber; 10 crewmen – all survived; Luftgaukommando Report KU 536; Bergung Report 293
Casualty Lists 3/13/44, 6/21/45
American Jews in World War II – Not Listed

Unlike some of the other losses recounted above, there were three direct eyewitnesses to the loss of USS ALIQUIPPA, all having been crew members – navigator, ball turret gunner, and tail gunner – of B-17F 42-30716, the Aliquippa’s left wingman, the latter leading the 92nd’s high squadron (the 92nd leading the wing). 

The ALIQUIPPA dropped down and under 42-30716, losing altitude.  Smoke was seen to emerge from the 42-3184’s #4 (outer right) engine, and the aircraft began losing altitude.  Then, the bomber’s #1 (outer left) engine began smoking, with the crew firing green flares.  Escorting P-38s approached the ailing B-17.  When last seen, the bomber was under control, descending into clouds at 12,000 feet, while covered by P-47s.

It was assumed that the aircraft ditched, but fortunately, the bomber actually bellied-in at the De Haar Farm, near “Aselo” (Azelo), east-southeast of Bornerbroek, in the province of Overijssel, Holland, at 14:30 hours.  With – so it seems from the MACR – no injuries to the crew.

Numerous photographs of the bomber – I would assume clandestinely taken at very great risk by a Dutch civilian! – can be viewed at a Facebook page of the Almelo Canadian Militaria Collection – 1940-1945 (Canadese Militaria & Almelo 1940 – 1945), specifically Bornerbroek USS Aliquippa.  The images have been provided by Frits Lamberts of the Nederlands Photo Museum, while text associated with this page states, “Op 22 december 1943 storte bij Bornerbroek een B17 bommenwerper neer van de USAAF.  Het vliegtuig een Boeing B-17F met registratie letters PY-Q en serienummer 42-3182 behoorde toe aan het 327ste Bomb Squadron [error] van de 92ste Bomb Group.

Het was diezelfde morgen opgestegen van basis podington voor een aanval op Osnabruck om 14:15 vloog het nog in formatie boven Nordhorn, een kwartier later kwam het toestel in moeilijkheden en maakte met de buitenste motoren in brand een geslaagde noodlanding in het weiland bij boerderij “De Haar” aan de Doodsweg in Bornerbroek.

Vier bemanningsleden wisten te vluchten, maar niet voordat ze in het toestel eerst alles hadden vernield, de rest van de crew had het vliegtuig al eerder verlaten per parachute.”

Translation?

“On December 22, 1943, a USAAF B17 bomber crashed near Bornerbroek.  The aircraft, a Boeing B-17F with registration letters PY-Q and serial number 42-3182, belonged to the 327th Bomb Squadron [error] of the 92nd Bomb Group.

It had taken off that same morning from base Podington for an attack on Osnabruck at 14:15 it was still flying in formation over Nordhorn, fifteen minutes later the aircraft ran into difficulties and made a successful emergency landing with the outer engines on fire in the meadow near the farm “De Haar” at the Doodsweg in Bornerbroek.

Four crew members managed to flee, but not before destroying everything in the aircraft, the rest of the crew had already left the aircraft by parachute.”

Sergeant Wolfson was captured by “Custom Officers” in the town of Itterbeck, along with 2 Lt. George Sokolsky (bombardier), 2 Lt. Donald J. McPhee (navigator), and, S/Sgt. Hubert F. O’Neill (radio operator), though the KU Report doesn’t specify if these men parachuted from the plane, or, remained aboard during the crash-landing.  Given the fact that neither pilot nor co-pilot is among this group of four, this suggests to me that these four men were among those who parachuted from the bomber.    

Here are four of the thirteen photos of USS ALIQUIPPA at the Bornerbroek USS Aliquippa Facebook page:

In these two images, German soldiers can be seen guarding and inspecting the plane.  Assuming that the crew wrecked the interior of the plane to such a degree as to render it’s repair impossible, no damage is actually visible in these photos except for all four propellers having been bent in the belly-landing.  

Duitse militairen bewaken de USS Aliquippa gestoken in de buitgemaakte bomberjacks die waren achtergelaten door de bemamming.  “German soldiers guard the USS Aliquippa [dressed] in the captured bomber jackets left behind by the crew.

MACR 1711 includes a copy of the Salvage (“Bergung“) Report (number 293) pertaining to the recovery of the downed bomber.  In terms of physical format and general appearance this document is very similar to Luftgaukommando Reports filed for USAAF bomber losses during 1944 and 1945 – for example having data fields for the types and serial numbers of engines and radio equipment – but it isn’t actually a Luftgaukommando Report, per se.    

So, here’s a translation of the Salvage Report…

United States Army

Unlike the majority of men whose biographies are presented in this post, Second Lieutenant Harold J. Glickman (0-1546994) was not an aviator:  He served in the 9th General Hospital in the Army ground forces, and died of illness on Goodenough Island, New Guinea.  Buried in Manila at the Manila American Cemetery (Plot L, Row 14, Grave 42), his name appears in American Jews in World War II on page 322, with a simple notation indicating that – like Sergeant Louis Karp of the Army Air Force – he died under non-combat circumstances.

Born in Manhattan on February 19, 1913, he was the husband of Pearl P. Glickman, the couple residing at 3340 Fenton Ave. in New York City.  His parents were Meyer and Leah J. Glickman, whose wartime addresses – all in the Bronx – were 1) 1162 Sherman Ave., 2) 1109 Morris Ave., and 3) 2482 Valentine Ave.  After the war’s end, Leah resided at 5307 Chandler Ave., in Baltimore, Maryland. 

United States Navy

Another Jewish non-combat casualty on December 22, 1943, was a member of the United States Navy: He was Ensign (Aviation Cadet) Irving Spivak, then assigned to training unit VN8D-8B, at NAS Pensacola, Florida.  

As reported in this article from The Pensacola Journal on December 23, 1943, Ensign Spivak was killed in the crash of a PBY Catalina seaplane during a night-time training mission:  

Four Killed and Three Missing In Plane Crash

Four persons are dead and three are missing as the result of three crashes involving Pensacola Naval Air Training Center personnel, it was announced yesterday by the center’s public relations office. 

Three fliers were killed and two are missing in the crash of a plane from Squadron 8B of Bronson Field, five miles south of Bronson Field on Perdido Bay at 8:30 P.M. Wednesday.  The dead are: Ensign Morton Van Cragg [sic – should be “Morton Van Praag, Jr.”], USNR, the pilot who is survived by his wife & mother of Kansas City, Kan. and Cadets Douglas A. Thompson, USNR, son of Mr. & Mr. T.E. Thompson of Devils Lake, S.D., and Charles Edward Sikora, son of Mrs. T.M. Sikora, Sheridan Wy.  Missing are: Cadets Irving Spivak, USNR, son of Samuel P. Spivak of Syracuse, N.Y. and Cadet Thomas G. Wolf, USN, son of Mrs. Florence Rothering of St. Paul, Mn.  A search for the missing is being conducted.  Bodies of Thompson & Sikora will be sent to their homes at 1:30 today with escorts. 

The above news article was found in the 1994 Newsletter of the PBY Catalina International Association – a.k.a. “PBY-CIA” – (specifically, Volume 6, Number 1, page 8), and is mentioned in passing in the organization’s 1990 Newsletter (Volume 2, Number 4, page 9).   

Born in Syracuse, New York, on October 20, 1917, Ensign Spivak was the son of Samuel P. (6/15/91-11/11/67) and Esther (4/97-7/5/43) Spivak, of 239 Fellows Ave., or, 315 East Raynor Ave., in that city, and his sister was Mrs. Melvyn Lessen.  News about his death in the December 22 accident appeared in The Times-Union (Albany) on 12/25/43, and Syracuse Herald Journal (1/19/44), while postwar, his name was mentioned in the Post-Standard on 4/14/46 and 5/30/48.  A Graduate of the University of Syracuse Class of 1942, his name appears in American Jews in World War II on page 452.   

Soviet Union / U.S.S.R. (C.C.C.Р.)
Red Army [РККА (Рабоче-крестьянская Красная армия)]

Akselrod, Ekusim Moiseevich (Аксельрод, Екусим Моисеевич)
Lieutenant [Лейтенант]
Infantry (Platoon Commander) [Командира Взвода]
122nd Guards Rifle Regiment, 41st Guards Rifle Division
Born 1924, city of Nevel

Barembaum, Evgeniy Semenovich (Барембаум, Евгений Семенович)
Lieutenant [Лейтенант]
Infantry (Platoon Commander) [Командира Взвода]
1506th Anti-Tank Artillery Regiment
Born 1913, city of Ashkhabad

Bindler, Gersh Yoodelivich / Yoorevich (Биндлер, Герш Юделивич / Юрьевич)
Lieutenant [Лейтенант]
Infantry (Company Commander – Military Communications Section) [Командир Роты Связи Войсковой Части]
Military Unit 37226, 342nd Rifle Regiment, 136th Rifle Division
Born 1917, city of Minsk

Brodetskiy, Valf / Volf Khananovich (Бродецкий, Вальф / Вольф Хананович)
Sergeant Major [Старшина]
Killed during artillery shelling [Убит При Артиллерийского Обстрела]
3rd Tank Battalion, 175th Tank Brigade
Armor (Turret Gunner) [Башнии Стрелок]
Born 1910, Kalininskiy Raion

Eydelshteyn (Eldeyshteyn), Boris Isaakovich (Эйдельштеин ((Эльдейштейн), Борис Исаакович)
Captain [Капитан]
Infantry (Battalion Commander) [Командир Батальона]
620th Rifle Regiment, 164th Rifle Division
Born 1912, city of Ovruch, Zhitomir Oblast, Ukraine
Buried in Luchinki, Vitebsk Oblast, Belorussia

Lvov, Yakov Khaimovich / Khananovich (Львов, Яков Хаимович / Хананович)
Junior Lieutenant [Младший Лейтенант]
Infantry (Machine Gun Platoon Commander) [Командир Пулеметного Взвода]
62nd Rifle Division
Born 1911
Buried at Cherkassiy Raion, Cherkassiy Oblast, Ukraine

Ruvinskiy / Ruvizhskiy, Samuil Abramovich (Рувинский / Рувижский, Самуил Абрамович)
Guards Junior Lieutenant [Гвардии Младший Лейтенант]
Infantry (Machine Gun Platoon Commander) [Командир Пулеметного Взвода]
68th Guards Rifle Division
Born 1923, city of Mariupol

Shrabshteyn / Shraybshteyn, Emanuil Mironovich (Шрабштейн / Шрайбштейн, Эмануил Миронович)
Lieutenant [Лейтенант]
Infantry – Platoon Commander (Gunnery Company) [Командир Взвода Пульроты]
77th Rifle Division, 105th Rifle Regiment, Military Unit / Military Post 26786
Born 1924, city of Brovariy, Kiev Oblast, Ukraine
Buried Yasnaya Polyana, Hornostaivka Raion, Nikolaevskiy (Nikolayevsky District Ulyanovsk) Oblast, Ukraine

Sloosar, Yakov Abramovich (Слюсарь, Яков Абрамович)
Senior Lieutenant [Старший Лейтенант]
Infantry (Battery Commander) [Командир Батареи]
758th Rifle Regiment, 88th Rifle Division, Western Front
Born 1924, Platonovo, Tatarskiy Raion, Novosibirsk Oblast
Buried in Ripenki, Vitebsk Oblast, Belorussia

Tselman, Leonid Vladimirovich (Цельман, Леонид Владимирович)
Colonel [Полковник]
Infantry – Chief – Division Headquarters [Начальник Штаба Дивизии]
315th Rifle Division
Wounded in action 12/15/43; Died of wounds [умер от ран] 12/22/43 at Evacuation Hospital [Звакуационный Госпиталь] Number 1019
From Yaroslavl Oblast
Buried at city of Ufa, Ufimskiy Raion, Bashkir ASSR (Bashkortostan)

Vaks, Semen Solomonovich (Вакс, Семен Соломонович)
Junior Lieutenant [Младший Лейтенант]
Infantry – Platoon Commander (Mortar Platoon) [Командир Взвода [Минометной Роты]]
105th Rifle Regiment, 77th Rifle Division
Born 1924, city of Kremenchug

Vilenskiy, Izrail Grigorevich (Виленский, Израиль Григорьевич)
Guards Lieutenant [Гвардии Лейтенант]
Infantry (Platoon Commander) [Командира Взвода]
137th Guards Rifle Regiment, 47th Guards Rifle Division
Born 1899 (!!), city of Sosnitsiy

England

Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve

In the same way that the names of Sgt. Louis Karp and Ensign Irving Spivak appear on this day of December 22, 1943 in the context of military activity that did not involve direct contact with the enemy, so does that of Flight Sergeant Arthur Lipshitz (Aharon bar Avraham Yitzchak haKohen) 1383809, of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve. 

Born in Whitechapel in 1922, he was the son of Abraham Isaac and Zelda Lipshitz, the family residing at 19 Northfield Road, Stoke Newington, London, N16.  He was the youngest of six children, his siblings comprising Anne, Betsy, Chaim, Jacob, Morris, and Sarah.

The image below is a recent (verrrry recent – July, 2022 recent) Oogle street view of Northfield Road in Stoke Newington, with address #19 (white frame around black door) behind the stone fence in the center of the image.  (At least, assuming my virtual navigation of London streets via Oogle maps is correct…)  

A navigator, F/Sgt. Lipshitz received the Distinguished Flying Medal while serving in No. 10 Squadron RAF

On the evening of December 22-23, 1943, he was a member of a crew of six aboard Wellington 1c (W5714) of No. 15 Operational Training Unit, piloted by F/O Donald Eugene Raymond, RCAF, which departed at 1832 hours from RAF Hampstead Norris on a night navigation exercise.  As recounted in Royal Air Force Bomber Command Losses (Volume VII, p 267),After midnight, a call for assistance was made and the first class fix, which placed the aircraft at 50° 02’ N 06° 46’ W, was acknowledged.  At 0058 hrs, a second call asking for urgent help was received and a second class fix, at 50° 00’ N 06° 50’ W, was duly sent.  This was not acknowledged and the final call from the aircraft came at 0121 hrs with the wireless operator holding down his key, the transmission gradually fading away.”  The aircraft was presumed to have crashed into the sea west of the Isles of Scilly.  Of the crew, only F/Sgt. Lipshitz body was ever found.  He is buried at Edmonton Federation Jewish Cemetery, Middlesex, England (Section V, Row 8, Grave 2).  

While some visitors to this blog may be well-familiar with the Wellington bomber, for those who aren’t (probably very many, in this year of 2022) the painting below, of Wellington III X3662 of No. 115 Squadron RAF, is a nice representative image of the general appearance of this aircraft.

These two Oogle maps show the last location of Wellington W5714.  This first map displays the aircraft’s position relative to Ireland, England, and the English Channel…

…while this larger-scale map shows the aircraft’s position relative to the Scilly Islands and southwestern tip of Cornwall.  What the image does not show – and no mere map can possibly convey – and for which words are utterly inadequate – were the enormous odds bearing against the survival of the crew of W5714 that late December evening: A night-time ditching; trying to escape from a sinking (even if intact?) aircraft in pitch-darkness; the negligible odds of surviving the chilling winter waters of the English Channel, even if within a dinghy.  

Aside from F/Sgt. Lipshitz and F/O Raymond, Wellington W5714’s crew comprised:  

Sgt. Arthur Charles Reece Miles – Navigator (2nd)
F/Sgt. Geoffrey Alfred Hebblewhite RAAF – Wireless Operator
Sgt. Charles Griggs – Air Gunner
Sgt. Frederick William Mittonette – Air Gunner

Here’s the “Report on Flying Accident or Forced Landing Not Attributable to Enemy Action” for Wellington W5714.  It’s from F/Sgt. Hebblewhite’s Casualty File at the National Archives of Australia.  The Report indicates that F/Sgt. Lipshitz had accumulated over 210 flight hours in Wellington aircraft, but is otherwise absent (as it will always be absent) of specific information about the fate of W5714.  

This article about F/Sgt. Lipshitz appeared in the Jewish Chronicle on May 21, 1943.  It’s from F/Sgt. Lipshitz’s biographical profile , which appears under “RAF” at Cathe Hewitt’s website Remembering the Jews of WW 2.  A transcript follows. 

The Distinguished Flying Medal has been awarded, in recognition of gallantry and devotion to duty in the execution of air operations, to Sergeant Arthur Lipshitz, R.A.F., No. 10 Squadron.  His citation states:

“Sergeant Lipshitz had taken part in a large number of operational sorites.  As a navigator, he has never failed to fly his aircraft to the target area and back.  Although his aircraft has been seriously damaged by anti-aircraft fire on several occasions, this airman’s enthusiasm for operation flying has remained undiminished.  Sergeant Lipshitz has a splendid record of courage and devotion to duty.”

Sgt. Lipshitz, who is 20, is the son of Mrs. Z. Lipshitz, of 19, Northfield Road, Stamford Hill, N.16, and of the late A.I. Lipshitz, Hebrew teacher at the Canon Street Road Synagogue.  The Sgt. was a member of the choir of the New Synagogue, Stamford Gill, and a member of the Stamford Hill Jewish Boys’ Club and of Habonim.  In civil life he was a salesman, and he volunteered for the R.A.F. at the age of 18. 

Also in F/Sgt. Lipshitz’s biographical profile is this photographic portrait, the very image used in the above Jewish Chronicle article.

F/Sgt. Lipshitz’s also name appeared in the Jewish Chronicle on December 31, 1943, and, February 25, 1944, while his name is listed page 214 of Henry Morris’ We Will Remember Them

This image of F/Sgt. Lipshitz’s mateva is by FindAGrave contributor darealjolo.  

“MAY HIS SACRIFICE NOT HAVE BEEN IN VAIN”

Canada

Captain Charles Krakauer was a medical officer – by civilian profession, a physician and surgeon – in the Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment of the Royal Canadian Infantry Corps.  Born in Toronto on May 24, 1915, he was the son of Isaac and Mona Krakauer, his parents residing at 61 Henry Street, in Toronto.  Killed in action on December 22, 1943, he is buried at the Moro River Canadian War Cemetery in Chieti, Italy, in plot IV, E, 12.  His name appeared in The Jewish Chronicle on January 21, 1944, and can be found on page 40 of Volume II (“Casualties”) of Canadian Jews in World War II.  

This portrait of Captain Krakauer is from the Canadian Virtual War Memorial.

____________________

Amidst my other posts, I’ll continue updating my existing posts about Jewish soldiers in The New York Times, and, create new posts in this series, as well. 

There have been many, and there may be many more.

____________________

References

Books

Chorley, W.R., Royal Air Force Bomber Command Losses – Operational Training Units 1940-1947 (Volume 7), Midland Publishing, Hinckley, England, 2002

Dublin, Louis I., and Kohs, Samuel C., American Jews in World War II – The Story of 550,000 Fighters for Freedom, The Dial Press, New York, N.Y., 1947

Lewis, Evelyn R., The War Stories of Sidney H. Raiken, Smashwords Edition (ISBN 9781005359706), at SCRIBD, July 31, 2021

Lundy, Will, 44th Bomb Group Roll of Honor and Casualties, Green Harbor Publications, 1987, 2004

Maryanovskiy, M.F., Pivovarova, N.A., Sobol, I.S. (editors), Memorial Book of Jewish Soldiers Who Died in Battles Against Nazism – 1941-1945, Union of Jewish War Invalids and Veterans, Moscow, Russian Federation

Mireles, Anthony J., Fatal Army Air Forces Aviation Accidents in the United States, 1941-1945 – Volume 2: July 1943 – July 1944, McFarland & Company Inc., Jefferson, North Carolina, 2006

Morris, Henry, Edited by Gerald Smith, We Will Remember Them – A Record of the Jews Who Died in the Armed Forces of the Crown 1939 – 1945, Brassey’s, London, United Kingdom, 1989

Richards, Charles W., The Second Was First, Maverick Publishing, Bend, Or., 1999

Canadian Jews in World War II – Part II: Casualties, Canadian Jewish Congress, Montreal, Quebec, Canada, 1948

A Newspaper Article

Kleinberg, Eliot, The Forgotten 14: A Story Never Told, The Palm Beach Post, May 25, 2014, updated May 26, 2022 (“On Dec. 22, 1943, the Army Air Corps sent 14 flyboys to a ‘secret’ destination in a bomber that took off from what is now PBIA.  Minutes later, a fiery crash took their lives.  But they got scant attention in the press, until 70 years later, when a Post reporter stumbled across the story and set out to tell their tale.”)

Some Websites

B-17G 42-37773…

…at American Air Museum in Britain

…at Zuyder Zee Air War (ZZAirwar)

F/Sgt. Arthur Lipshitz…

Number 15 Operational Training Unit, at RAF Web

Isles of Scilly

Remembering the Jews of WW 2

Merchant Navy

Navy

Royal Air Force

Arthur’s brother Jacob writes memoirs of the family’s origins and life

Arthur’s sister Anne’s memoirs of the family life

571 as of August 18, 2022 April 30, 2017

Soldiers from New York: Jewish Soldiers in The New York Times, in World War Two: Captain William Hays Davidow [A Pilot’s Reminiscences]

WW II Army Air Force Captain William Hays Davidow, a pilot in the 12th Ferry Group and relative of Arthur Hays Sulzberger, publisher of The New York Times, was the ironic subject of an article item published in that newspaper on January 27, 1943.  The impetus for that news item’s appearance was Captain Davidow’s sad death in a take-off accident at Accra only six days earlier, on January 21, 1943. 

In the above-linked post about Captain Davidow, I presented the small measure of information still that exists about him now, in 2022, seventy-nine years later.  Given the passages of almost eight decades since the accident in which he lost his life, coupled with the fact that he left no descendants, his correspondence, military records, and related memorabilia probably no longer exists.

At least, that’s what I assumed as of December of 2021, when I last updated that post! 

But fortunately, I stand to have been corrected.

Recently, while researching the Air Force History Index, I was intrigued to come across an entry for an document entitled, “Interview with Capt. W.H. Davidow”, the abstract for which states that the document is an “Interview with Capt Davidow, Pan American World Airway, Covering Clipper Operations in South American, Africa, Middle East, India, and China.”  The interview is on AFHRA Microfilm Roll A1272, the document being one of several (I don’t know how many!) categorized under the subject heading, “Intelligence, Army Air Forces”.

Now, that was unexpected.

Comprising twenty-two pages of typewritten text, the document is headed, “Current Intelligence Section, A-2”, and is dated September 23, 1942, and consists of a series of questions by a “Colonel Coiner” to Captain Davidow.  Though Colonel Coiner’s full name does not appear in the interview, I think he was Richard T. Coiner, Jr., who eventually rose to the rank of Major General in the Air Force.   

Information supporting this suggestion comes from (Major General) Coiner’s biography, which states, “In January 1941, he organized the 19th Transportation Squadron which he commanded until October of the same year when he was named assistant executive to the assistant secretary of war for air.  In March 1944 he became the executive.”, and, “From March 1943 until February 1944, he was in Tampa, Fla., first as flying safety officer, Third Air Force, and later at McDill Field as commander of the 21st Bomb Group and then the 397th Bomb Group which he led in its move to England.”  The central theme being, that within the time period during which he met Captain Davidow – September of 1942 – he was involved in transportation and flying safety, rather than combat, the latter commencing for him after February of 1944.  A West Point graduate like his father, he passed away at the age of 70 in 1980, and is buried at Mission Burial Park South, in San Antonio, Texas.  

______________________________

But first, to re-introduce Captain Davidow, here’s some biographical information about him, extracted from and identical to that appearing in the above-mentioned “first” blog post:

This image of Captain Davidow standing in front a PT-17 Stearman biplane, presumably a semi-official portrait taken during his pilot training, appeared in the Scarsdale Inquirer on November 6, 1942.

A more formal portrait of William Davidow as a Flying Cadet, from the United States National Archives collection of “Photographic Prints of Air Cadets and Officers, Air Crew, and Notables in the History of Aviation“.  (RG 18-PU)  Lt. Davidow received his wings on August 15, 1941. 

This portrait of William Davidow appeared both in the Times’ obituary and the Lafayette College Book of Remembrance, the latter profiling alumni of Lafayette College (in Easton, Pennsylvania) who lost their lives in World War Two.

______________________________

And so, getting back to the interview?

It’s transcribed verbatim, below.

Immediately apparent is the unsurprising but notable fact that the interview focuses on flying, per se, rather than aerial combat, of which – by virtue of Captain Davidow’s assignment as a ferry pilot, geography, and the time-frame of late-1942 – there’s absolutely none.  In terms of enemy opposition in general, the only mention is that of being fired upon by the Vichy French while coming in to land at Fort Lamay.  (“Fort Lamay”?  I think that’s an alternate spelling of Fort-Lamy, which if so (!?) is currently N’Djamena, in the country of Chad, in central Africa.)  In a larger sense, the document is an overview of the challenges of flying – in terms of geography, weather conditions, navigation, communications, and the psychological and physical impact of such activity on pilots, in primitive conditions – throughout Africa, and secondarily in south Asia, during an era when flying did not have the naively unwarranted quality of taken-for-grantedness that it does now, in 2022.  (At least, for now.)        

The document sheds light on Captain Davidow’s sense of conscientiousness and his love of flying, but by definition and nature reveals nothing about him as a “man” … in terms of his personality, beliefs, and opinions.  Those thoughts, as they have for all men; as they eventually will for all men, have receded into history. 

To enable better comprehension of the interview, I’ve hyperlinked some place names and acronyms, and have provided current or alternate spellings for the names of less commonly known geographic features, cities, or locales.  These appear as italicized deep red text, just like “this”.

And so, without further delay…

______________________________

September 23, 1942

Current Intelligence Section, A-2

INTERVIEW WITH CAPTAIN W.H. DAVIDOW

PAN-AMERICAN

oOoOo

Lt. Colonel Coiner: These four captains have just returned from Accra.  We are going to ask Captain Davidow, who is to be the spokesman for the group, to tell us about some of their experiences and their operations with Pan-American-African on that route.  I believe you fellows also went to India once, didn’t you?

Answer: Yes.

Lt. Colonel Coiner: That was part of the operations.  Captain Davidow will lead off and bring us up to the present and the other gentlemen will make such comments as they think appropriate.

Captain Davidow: Well, gentlemen, I will start off with the very beginning.  When they first came to get us to go over on this job we were stationed at different fields throughout the country.  They came and asked for volunteers to go over for six months, on leave from active duty, to establish this line through Africa.  The four of us here today went over from _____ [this word left blank in original document!] School.  We were instructors there.  We went with Pan-American as co-pilots.

We left from New York by Clipper.  We went down to South America – Natal, and over to Lagos, and then to Accra.  Accra was then very different from what it is now.  We had about six planes over there and operations were very slow.  We only ran one or two trips a week, depending on what we had to move.  We didn’t have any brake drums on the planes.  One plane would come in and slip the brake drums.  They would service the plane that just arrived and take our another one.

Conditions over there at first were very bad.  We got over there in the fall just after the rainy season.  Malaria held up operations quite a bit.  We had no adequate medical facilities at that time, but we managed to get through that all right.

Gradually we got more and more personnel over there – more pilots, more planes.  First we would just fly from Accra to Takoradi [Sekondi-Takoradi] and Khartoum and over to Bathurst.  As time went on we extended our lines up into Cairo and eventually on over to Karachi, running a schedule three times a week, then seven times a week.  When we left they were running something like six planes a day over to Freetown and up the line to Cairo, Tehran, and over to Karachi.

Maintenance problems over there were very tough at first.  We didn’t have a supply of anything in any great number.  Everybody did a pretty swell job and pitched in.

At first a bunch of us – about 12 – were flying with the R.A.F., who didn’t have too much to do.  They had an over-supply of pilots.  We ferried some Hurricanes and Blenheims from their base at Takoradi to Cairo.

As we got more planes war was declared, cutting out pilot supply off.  We couldn’t get any more pilots from the Army.  All the men coming over were called back.  When our six months were up, they asked us if we wouldn’t stay on.  Then we were flying about 145 hours a month.  We were flying almost every day.  Some months all but two or three days we would fly.  They tried to get pilots over to us.  We got some pilots – civilian trained boys – who went in as co-pilots.  That is what they are using over there now.  All the original Army men are checked out.  The co-pilots are all C.P.T. [CP.T.P. – Civilian Pilot Training Program] boys with anywhere from 200 hours on up.

As it stood when we left, operations were running a regular schedule up into Cairo and then, as conditions warranted, branching off and going somewhere else.  About the time they were having a lot of trouble out in Burma, a group of our boys with 12 planes were called for by the 10th A.F. to act as transport group out there.  They operated all over throughout Burma and China – Leiwing, Lashio, and out of Dinjan, evacuating the Burmese and any supplies around in there.  Some of the stories they brought back are pretty remarkable.  Three or four of the boys took off with 75 people in DC-3s.  They are supposed to have 21 people on board.  With this load they flew over mountain peaks, no oxygen, 23,000 or 24,000 feet altitude, icing conditions, on instruments, no de-icers.  They take all de-icers off.  They brought back some pretty interesting information on what a DC-3 could do.

There was nothing very stereotyped about the work there.  A job would come up – they would come in and get a bunch of us and say, “We have such and such a job to do.  Let’s go.”  Just a little while ago, up in the Western Desert, they needed some fuses and 37mm shells in a hurry.  I think they had a 48 hours supply left.  Rommel was coming in from Mersa Matruh and they didn’t know whether they were going to stop him.  They woke the boys up in Accra and sent them down to Lagos, where they picked up the fuses.  They flew from Accra to Cairo in 24 or 25 hours, which is a distance of 3,500 miles.  They set a record for that run.  Of course, the British were there to pick up the fuses and get them on up.  That is fairly typical of the stuff they had to do over there.

We got some P-40s in for the A.V.G. [American Volunteer Group] when they were very hard up out in Burma.  A group of our men ferried them out.  I went as far as Cairo on that.  We flew those all the way up across the desert and into Dinjan and down into Kunming.  We only lost one plane which was bombed on the way on the ground.  Most of the trips we made with no equipment whatsoever in case we met up with the enemy.

On operations out of Accra our crew consisted of two men on board, the pilot and the co-pilot.  No navigator or radio operator.  The first group of us that got over there about eleven months ago learned the route pretty well.  When we started off we had no radio communications at all, no ground-air communications.  All we had was a map which was 1/2,000,000 and not too accurate.  We had very fine weather.  There is very good weather in the fall and right through to the early spring before you get the rainy season.  No clouds at all.   We were pretty lucky we got to know the route.  Now we have radio at every station and by now we have a D/F signal which they turn on for you when requested, at every one of our stations, Accra, Lagos, and Khartoum.  They don’t give you anything in Cairo because of Rommel being so close.  They give us a warning if an air raid is on.

A few months ago we started operations at night.  There were a lot of difficulties caused by it.  We had no facilities for that.  If we were caught in bad weather and the radio compass went out, we had no way of knowing where we were.  Operations were confined to take off at night and flying into daylight so when we got there we had a fair chance of knowing where you were regardless of the weather conditions.  They had flown the route actually landing at night.  A couple of times they had a little trouble in finding the destination.  All of the towers are blacked out.  I have come into Kano just after dark and I was close enough to know where I was.  If I had been down here (map) on my way up I would have had nothing to check on on a dark night.  The native camp fires are all over.  There were no beacons and then we didn’t have radio.  You can’t just tell – if your dead reckoning is perfect you hit it on the nose.

Weather information over there is very unreliable due to the fact that we have no meteorological stations through the area to give pressure readings and reports daily.  We do have stations at Fishermans Lake [Lake Piso or Lake Pisu], Monrovia, and Accra and Khartoum.  The rest of them are R.A.F. stations.  I would say that their weather reports, on the whole, are fairly unreliable.  We can never put too much faith in them.  We use them for indications: We go ahead and take a look at it – if it looks good we keep on going … if it looks bad, we go back.  The only kind of bad weather you get are the line squalls which can be very severe.  In late spring and summer this whole run is made completely on instruments.  Ewe make that almost every day.  You take off at Accra and climb up over the overcast and go all the way down on instruments and when you get there come in on D/F.  If you get a 200 foot ceiling that is fair.  If you get a 300 or 350 foot ceiling, it is good.  You take off again and come back on instruments.  It isn’t very rough; just rain and thick soup.

Weather up here (around Egypt) is mostly sand-storms.  Like thunderstorms, with a lot of sand in them.  That is about the most rugged thing you meet.  That is something we never do try to go through.  I tried landing in one at night and it was about the closest I ever came in getting messed up.

Our ground personnel was [sic] very inexperienced at first.  We had a bunch of college boys – young boys with no experience with airplanes, or airplane work.  They were smart and eager, but they didn’t know very much.  You would think sometimes they would give you a fair analysis of the situation that could be depended on.  That time I came into Khartoum an hour after dark, they told me there was a 30 mile wind with a little blowing sand.  It was dark and all I had was a flare.  I landed in a 50 mile cross wind in a sandstorm.  I learned a lot.  You learned not to trust anything over there except mostly yourself.

The food situation has been all right.  We had very good food for the first six months.  The second six months the supplies never did come through the way they should have.  A lot of stuff spoiled at first because preparations at Accra were not completed at the time the personnel arrived.  The generating systems weren’t set up.  The housing was bad – no screens and no medical equipment.  Sanitary conditions weren’t exactly what they should have been.  A lot of meat spoiled and things like that.  We always got plenty to eat.  Sometimes, though, it was what you might call exotic fare, but on the whole, everything went very well.  We all pitched in and everything improved.  By the time we left it was a very well-run organization, with trips going out.  We kept planes in the air all the time with minimum maintenance.  Our loads average up to 90%.  Very seldom do you take off without a full load.  At first most of them were over-loaded.

If there are any questions at all, I’ll try to answer them.

Question: Your pilots that have been flying across the ocean – did they report seeing any submarines?

Answer: I won’t say many, sir.  I guess about ten or twelve.  I saw one myself one day I was coming back from Bathurst.  I saw one right off Monrovia.

Question: Do they make any attempt to get away from Pan-American ships?

Answer: The one I saw, sir, I don’t know about the others, but one boy said he was fired on.  That was pooh-pooed by a lot of the British and Army men over there.  They thought it might be that he had been seeing things.  The one I saw was sub-surface at periscope depth.  I could see the outline of the sub.  IU came down fairly close to make sure it was a sub.

Question: Did it dive?

Answer: No sir.  It just kept going.  He was headed for Marshall where there were 25 ships in the harbor.  He was coming down the coast about eight miles off shore.  Of course, we didn’t have any guns or anything.  I didn’t have any code or any radio operator.  I just went back and radioed by voice.  I didn’t think I could get them, but I did.  I spoke to Accra and Kano, 1,700 miles away.  I reported a sub headed for Marshall.  They sent out word for the R.A.F.  We never heard what happened.  That is the way most of it goes.  We spot very few.  We fly down the coast here all the time.  There was the one I saw and one other.  Of the Air Ferries and the Army boys coming across, one said he saw four at one time all together.  But those cases are fairly isolated.

Question: The reason we asked is that we heard they made no effort to avoid the Clippers at all.

Answer: I don’t believe they did submerge when they saw them.

Question: Are your ships camouflaged like Army ships?

Answer: They were, sir, after December 7.  At first they were silver.  Some of them were painted desert tan, a sort of yellow, almost.  Now they are all green – dark green.  It doesn’t help very much in the desert, but it does in flying over this country (map) here.

One other thing I forgot to say – one thing that bothered us a lot – after we had this built up and we were getting 25, 35 or 40 ships on field at a time, B-24s – and up to 40 or 60 P-40s – I don’t remember how many planes, but one night we had about 90 planes on the field and we had four little pop guns for defense and they were handled by native troops of the English Army.  We had no defense whatsoever as far as combat aircraft went.  Colonel Harden said, “If they don’t come in and bomb us tonight, they are a lot stupider than I think they are.”  We didn’t have a thing.  We never had any planes capable of going up and engaging any enemy aircraft at all.  They could have come in any afternoon, or the middle of the day, and knocked down our operations, that is our headquarters there, which would have disrupted the line for I don’t know how long.

Question: We hear the weather is much worse in Monrovia than Accra.  Why would that be?

Answer: I don’t know, sir.  All weather charts list heavy rain all the way down and right at Accra there is a little clear circle.  It’s pretty bad right in through there, it’s true.  In the last three months, before I got back, I hadn’t been into Marshall on a clear day.

It was a circus coming in there.  You would have planes coming across the ocean.  You would get in there at 1,000 feet and call the radio and ask them if it was clear to come in for a landing.  “Yes, the wind is calm in any direction you want.”  Just a boy on the radio.  I remember one time when he told me that.  I took plenty of time to get an approach set and came in and made a landing.  No sooner was I on the ground than four planes came right down on the field.  They had been right up there with me.  One of them was on the field ready to take off.  He took off half way down the runway.  He looked up and saw a plane landing in the opposite direction on the same runway and so he headed off the runway and burned up.

There was a little confusion down there in had weather before we had any sort of control.

Question: There is a small circle of good weather at Accra?

Answer: Yes, along the West coast there.

Question: Have they got a good control officer in Monrovia now?

Answer: I think the main trouble was that the radio was located in a spot where he couldn’t possibly see the field and wouldn’t be able to see whether it was clear or not.  If he didn’t hear anybody else coming in – and many pilots didn’t report or check in with the tower – he would say it was clear for a take-off.  They probably have a tower out there now, so that they have a view of the field.  It was a pretty bad situation out there then.

Question: Is the emergency landing field at Roberts Port [Robertsport] valuable to you at all?

Answer: We use it a lot, sir.  The Clippers all come in at Fisherman’s Lake.  We had a good runway there – one end was unusable, because it was raining so much.  We would go over there to pick up freight – high priority freight – and passengers coming in by Clipper.  That is about twenty minutes flight from Montreal.  We would stop at Marshall going over to Fisherman’s Lake on a little runway – nothing but one single sand runway, and pick them up there.  If it rains a lot you can’t use it very well.  We use it as a regular field, not an emergency field.

Question: What is the largest plane that has been taken in there?

Answer: We took a DC-3 in there with 30 inches of mercury on a damp day.  I wouldn’t want to fly in anything heavier.  It is just sand.  We had a couple of planes stuck there for awhile.  In really bad weather we get a lot of rain there.  There is no surfacing at all.

Question: What is the Lagos-Calcutta Ferry?

Answer: I don’t know, sir.  We operate into Karachi.  From Karachi on the regular operations are by Trans-India transport.  C.N.A.C. [China National Aviation Corporation] picks it up from there, I think.  The only operations we used to do – we tried going through here (map) for awhile – the Southern Route through Arabia.  I went through there once and I almost got interned.  I made the mistake of staying overnight in a tent and almost got interned.  The Sultan wanted to know why I was there.  They closed that route – or they had when I left.  We ran occasionally to Calcutta [also “Kolkata”].  Ferry some DC-3s out there and stuff like that.  I think Pan-American comes in and fly [sic] their planes all the way there themselves.  Some of them get out as far as Kunming.

Question: What is your opinion of the route across the north of the Belgian Congo?  In case the other line is cut off?

Answer: I have never flown over that country, sir.  All of our operations have been up in here (map).  I don’t know what the fields are.  I know Captain Greenwood surveyed some of that stuff.  The airfields when he went there were quite small – in fact he barely got in and out of them.

Question: Do you have any suggestions to make on these operations – things that would make it easier or things that have been done wrong and should be corrected?

Answer: It would help a great deal if we could get competent weather information from men who know their job.  Of course, a place like Marshall, with a control system like they have, should be corrected.  I guess it is by now.  The main trouble at first, from the entrance of the war on, was such a shortage of personnel of our own and of the Army over there.  Men were taking over jobs they knew nothing about.  Army control officers would be boys who had been meteorologists here and made second lieutenants and were sent over, and the only personnel around some major control officer at a field.  The pilots coming through – the Army pilots – didn’t feel they were competent personnel to give orders and to advise them as to what conditions were along the route as far as briefing and everything else went.  They were probably excellent meteorologists, or whatever their special field was.  I think that condition no longer exists the way it was then.

Question: How about communications?  Air-ground radio?

Answer: It started off very poorly.  We all had to break in and just before we left it had gotten quite good.  Occasionally you would have a little trouble.  The thing is so important over there – it’s the only navigation aid we have – if a plane get off course, there are so few little check points throughout there.  You may go 300 miles without seeing a check point.  You come in on D/F.  If you call the station and can’t get him – the operator is asleep or busy, or on another wire.  There is a terrific amount of traffic and not enough channels.  They are using voice and C.W. [continuous wave Morse Code] on the same channel.  They are handling it very well considering the equipment.  They need more of it.  The airway are jammed most of the time.

Question: How about maps now?  Are they better maps?

Answer: The same maps.

Question: Are they putting out any photographs of the route to people at all now?

Answer: No, they haven’t any at all.  They are planning to make up new maps though.  They requested all captains of the ships to write up a list of their own personal check points, just where they are located, and turn them in to the chief pilot’s office so they may draw up more accurate maps.

Question: I have heard that a lot of the civilian maintenance personnel belonging to Pan-American-Africa are coming back.  Do you think that they would go back if they were asked to go?

Answer: I have heard they would, sir.  The top foreman over there, who has been over there ever since they got organized – I saw in New York – said all the boys wanted to come back almost 100% for at least a vacation.  They were all stuck in one spot and while there most of them were working up to 18 hours a day.  In places like Khartoum, were it gets to be 135o, they would work all day in the sun until they just dropped, literally.  They lost weight and were in pretty rotten shape.  They did a wonderful job and had a swell spirit de corps.  They wanted to get home.  If they went into the Army now, the Army told them they would try to give them leave as soon as possible.  They don’t feel they want to get into the Army until they know exactly.  I hear they are coming home and Ryan, the foreman, said he thinks at least 90% of them are perfectly willing to go back if they are asked.

Question: What is the general character of the country between Accra and Khartoum as you fly over it?

Answer: Right in here (map) we fly over water.  (All this with map:)  This is all jungle.  This is Vichy territory.  All of this in here is jungle.  You come on up here.  About in here it starts to think out a little – more bush.  It stays bush country all in through here to Port Lamy [N’Djamena], getting dryer and hotter all the time.  When you get up to El Fashir [Al Fashir, Al-Fashir or El Fasher] it starts to get desert with occasional bush.  Sandy country.  From Khartoum on up to Cairo, of course, it is nothing but sand and rock.  As far as the terrain goes, in here you have quite a mountain range, goes up to 12,000 feet.  You have in between Kano and Lagos various hills, not going up that high.  Down south of it, southeast, there are some mountains there.  This is all just flat desert, nothing to distinguish it very much.

Question: How do you fly that country from Khartoum to Cairo?  Did you ever lose any planes on that route – get lost with all that sand and crap?

Answer: You can’t get lost, sir, if you remember which side of the Nile you are on.  The Nile goes right on up.  We go straight up.  Here you meet the Nile.  You meet it again here and here and at Cairo.  If you don’t meet it here for awhile, you keep heading in left.  If you don’t meet it up here you lose heading in right.

Question: There aren’t any check points?

Answer: The worst place is between Khartoum and El Fashir.  There you have nothing.  Our check points here – the first place you get a check point is a little mountain 45 minutes out.  Then the sand turns white in a spot out here.  That is a check point.  That is the last check point you have until you hit El Fashir.  That is 525 miles, two check points.  Actually only one, the mountain is almost at Khartoum.  That is the place where we had the most trouble when we had no radio.  El Fashir is a tiny little town, must [sic] little black mud huts along the river bank.  It is not a river, but a little stream.  Streams like that are every 50 yards throughout the country.  If you don’t get within five or ten miles of El Fashir, you have no idea where you are.  Of course, going up the other way, you always hit the Nile.  I know a bunch of our pilots wandered around for a couple of hours trying to find the place.  All the airports are so hard to distinguish.  You can fly right over top of an airport and never see it.  They are not actually towns, just a group of huts, and they look like any other river bank.  Most of the river banks in the summer are black with black shrubs.  The huts look the same in the air.  You can’t see them at all.

Question: Did you have any contact with the Vichy French?

Answer: Yes, at Fort Lamy.  Of course, they used to shoot at us.

Question: I mean, did you get a chance to talk to them?

Answer: Yes, but I don’t speak good French.

Question: What, in general, was their attitude toward the Americans?

Answer: They like us.  They are a fine bunch.  We had several in Fort Lamay.  Our of our planes operated with the French for awhile up into the desert.

Question: You are talking about the Free French.  How about the Vichy French?

Answer: No contact at all with them.  The Free French and not the Vichy French shot at us.  They had been bombed and they fired at us even if we were coming in to land.

Wait a minute, I was shot at, and I think somebody else reported they were shot at.

Question: In Vichy territory.

Answer: We were supposed to stay away from all Vichy territories.

Question: There aren’t any spots for emergency landings on the Western end of the route are there?

Answer: Only the coast, sir – the beach.

They have little fields in between Lagos and Kano.  They have one field at Oshogbo  [Osogbo (also Oṣogbo, rarely Oshogbo]] which you practically never see.  It is always overcast, but it is there and a very good field.  In here (map) you have little tiny clearings in the sand that are spotted on some maps and aren’t spotted on others.  All the way up they have little cleared places and they have been used.  B-24s and B-25s have come down there and waited for daylight to find out where they were and go again.  Up here (map), of course, you land almost anywhere you want to.  They have a fair number of little auxiliary fields, but you can’t bring good equipment in really safely.  They are there, but I don’t think you could find them when you needed them.

Question: Do you know from where the airplanes took off that bombed Fort Lamy?

Answer: I don’t believe so, sir.  They think they came from Zinder [also Sinder].  That is where they though they came from at one time – I don’t know whether they ever verified this.

It was just one plane that came.  Everybody was at lunch.  It just flew in and dropped its bombs.

Question: Did you have any trouble over there because the route wasn’t militarized, or have you had any thoughts on that at all?

Answer: I never experienced any personally, but I think the only difficulties were due to a civilian agency working along with the Army in later stages.  That comes up anytime you have one group that thinks it is doing a swell job and there is a little rivalry in between.  There was a liaison problem there.  But as far as we were concerned, we were half and half anyway.

The only thing was they were needing pilots badly there for operations expected of them.  Just couldn’t get them anywhere.  They were getting a few now and then – also maintenance men and new equipment.  That was the chief problem as far as operations and line and equipment.  They were doing the best they could.  They expected to double their operations and couldn’t do it as a civilian company.  Couldn’t just go out and hire the people.

Question: Merely personnel and supply problem rather than personal?

Answer: That was the whole trouble.

The Words They Left Behind: American Jewish Soldiers in The Great War – A Century of Brief Memories

Photographs can enliven words.

And sometimes, whether in symbolism or reality, words can illuminate photographs.  

Such is the case in “this” post.  Continuing with – ahh, but perhaps not concluding! – my writings covering the military service of American Jewish soldiers in the First World War (through a general overview of the military service of American Jewish soldiers during that conflict, in three parts: herehere, and here; via photographic portraits of American Jewish WW I soldiers from the state of Pennsylvania who were military casualties (herehere, and here); and, by biographical profiles of American Jewish soldiers who were military casualties on November 11, 1918), this post presents documents found in Ancestry.com’s collection “Pennsylvania, U.S., World War I Veterans Service and Compensation Files, 1917-1919, 1934-1948”.  In terms of depth, detail, and variety of documents, the Pennsylvania collection is by far the richest – ranked by state – of Ancestry’s collections covering the WW I service of American soldiers. 

Along with wartime photographic portraits of soldiers, the most interesting documents in the Pennsylvania collection are “Veterans Compensation Applications” and “War Service Records”. 

The reason being?  These documents were completed by veterans themselves, or, in the all-too-inevitable instances where a soldier never returned, by friends or family members. 

In terms of the former, information in these records comprise a soldier’s own, freshly remembered accounts of his wartime service (in his own handwriting!), which recount his service in abbreviated, varying, but always revealing fashion.  And, for the purposes of a blog in this is year of 2022 (!), they typically include errors of spelling in terms of geography, which have lent an interesting challenge to writing this post.  (!!)  In any event, given that well-nigh unto a century has transpired since these documents were written, however brief, they may be the only records of military service personally left by these veterans.

In terms of the latter, the information in these documents is typically all-too-terse, albeit there are exceptions, exemplified by Veterans Compensation Files for Sergeant Irving Sydney Clair and First Lieutenant Edward Benjamin Goward.   

And so, this post is comprised of accounts from Veterans Compensation Applications and / or  War Service Records for ten soldiers.  Of these ten, eight survived the war.  They were:

Private Jacob Burstein – Wounded in Action
Sergeant Joseph Leopold – Slightly Wounded in Action
Private Charles Levin – Wounded in Action
Private Samuel Polingher – Shell-Shock
Private Jacob Rubinstein – Wounded in Action
Private Daniel Stein – Wounded in Action
Private Samuel Weiner – Wounded in Action
Private George Winokur – Slightly Wounded in Action

For these men, I’ve transcribed – a verbatimly as possible – their written accounts, while (where possible) clarifying spelling mistakes for geographic features and city names.  I find that of Private Polingher particularly moving and inspiring, for refreshingly, in a matter-of-fact and entirely unapologetic way, he mentions, “Arrived Luneville Sept. 15th. where all the Jewish boys celebrated Yom Kippur and on our arrival we were met the branch reformed Jews”.  But really, all the accounts are interesting.  

The two men who did not return were:

Private Aaron Caplan – Died of Wounds

The second sheet of Private Caplan’s Veterans Compensation Application includes correspondence, in Polish, with the Chairman of the Board of that city’s Jewish Religious Community, Izrael-Boruch Liberman, and, the city’s mayor, J. Piaskowski.  

Private Harry Ellman – Died of Wounds

Private Ellman’s mother signed her name to his Veteran’s Compensation Application in Yiddish.

And so, a century after they were written, some brief writing from the past return to the present.  Will there be other wars, from which will arise future Veterans Compensation Forms?  I don’t know.  (Who does?) 

Perhaps it is better that the future is unknown to us.  (Perhaps.)  

***  *** ***  *** ***  *** ***  *** ***  *** ***  *** ****

Burstein, Jacob, Pvt., 3,106,468
79th Infantry Division, 316th Infantry Regiment, E Company
Wounded in Action (gassed) 9/28/18
Mrs. Florence (Cantor) Burstein (wife), Charlotte Joyce and Lenore Debra (daughters), 6114 Ellsworth St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Mr. and Mrs. Joshua (“Shaya”) and Frida Riba (Ben) Burstein (parents); Mrs. Lena Levy (sister), 4068 Lancaster Ave., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born Riga, Lativa, 11/24/94
Philadelphia Inquirer 11/15/18

Arrived in Camp Meade Md. May 26th 1918. 

Left Camp Meade for overseas about July the 6th 1918. 

Left New York harbor for France July the 9th, arrived in Brest France July the 18th. 

We sailed on the S.S. Agamemnon, which was called before the war Kaiser Wilhelm the II.  We stood in Brest for about 4 or 5 days. 

After traveling in box cars from Brest for about four or five days and nights we landed in Vause.  It is a small town located about twenty kilometers from Dijon.

From Vause we hiked over to a little village Cussey it is about 5 kilometers from the town mentioned above.  We were training there until the later part of August. 

From there we left for the Front.  Before we got to the front we were under fire many times. 

September the 26th 1918 my Division the 79th took part in starting of that big drive in the Argonne Forest.  I was a platoon runner in my company.  September the 28th 1918 I was gassed. 

I was transferred from one hospital to another for several times until I landed in base 53 it was a gas hospital and it was located in Congres. 

After I left the Hospital, I was sent around to several camps until finally I was classified in class B2, which it meant from 3 to 6 months behind the lines, which at the mean time I was guarding German prisoners. 

After the Armistice was signed November the 11th 1918 they never returned me to my original outfit.  I was guarding the German prisoners until December outside of Bordeaux. 

And I sailed for the U.S. on the S.S. Chicago with a Casual Company.  Arrived in the U.S. Jan. 24 – 1919 and was discharged Feb. 8th 1919.

____________________

Caplan, Aaron, Pvt., 3,174,043
4th Infantry Division, 58th Infantry Regiment, F Company
Died of Wounds 11/16/18
Previously Wounded – on 10/1/18
Mr. and Mrs. Chaim and Ruchla Caplan (parents), 26 Krakowska, Augustow, Poland
Mr. Perrine Caplan (uncle), 5723 Hobart St., Pittsburgh, Pa.
Mr. Charles Caplan (brother), 410 East Murphy Ave., Connellsville, Pa.
Born “Kalwari”, Poland / Russia, 8/16/94
Beth Hamedrash Hagodol – Beth Jacob Cemetery, McKees Rocks, Pa. – Section C, Row 2, Lot 54

podpisu Przewodniczacego Zarzadu gminy wyznaniowej zydowskiej
August p. Izraela-Borucha Libermana, niniejszem stwierdzam.
Miasto Augustow, dnia 30 kwietnia 1935 roku
P.o. Burmistrza

The signature of the Chairman of the Board of the Jewish Religious Community
Augustow, p. Izrael-Boruch Liberman, I hereby affirm.
The city of Augustow, on April 30, 1935
After. The Mayor

Wlasnorecznosc podpisu p.o.Burmistrza m.Augustowa J.Piaskowskiego, oraz autentycznosc odcisnietej pieczeci urzedowej stwierdzam. –
Miaso Augustow, dnia 30 maja 1935 roku

I certify the ownership of the signature of the Mayor of Augustow J. Piaskowski, and the authenticity of the imprinted official seal. –
The city of Augustow, on May 30, 1935

Stwierdza sie niniejszem wlasnorecznose podpisa Starosty Stefania Ejchlera oraz autentycznose odeisnietej pieczeci urzedowej Starosty. Powiatowy g. Augustowa 13 maja 1935

It is stated hereby self-signed by the Starosty Stefania Ejchlera and an authentic stamp issued by the Starosty of the County of Augustow 13 May 1935

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Ellman, Harry (Tsvi bar Yitzhak ha Kohen), Pvt., 1,830,815
80th Infantry Division, 320th Infantry Regiment, I Company
Died of Wounds 10/2/18
Mr. and Mrs. Isadore and Dora (Sternberg) Ellman (parents), 97 Taranilor St., Soroca, Bassarabia, Rouamnia
809 Anaheim St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born “Loblien” (?), Russia, 12/5/94
Beth Abraham Cemetery, Pittsburgh, Pa. – Section 2, Row 19, Plot 4

Harry’s mother’s name appears on the form in Hebrew, with the direct translation being “Dora Helman”, despite the English-language spelling being “Elman” or “Ellman”.  Adding a silent “hey” at the end of a name was not uncommon.  (Translation by Naomi Cohen.  Thanks, Naomi!)  

This image of Harry’s matzeva is by FindAGrave Contributor Richard Boyer.  As immediately revealed by the carving of a pair of hands with opposing fingers paired as “Vs”., let alone by Harry’s Hebrew name – Tsvi bar Yitzhak ha Kohen – Harry was a Kohen: A descendant of Aaron, brother of Moshe Rabbeinu.  

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Leopold, Joseph, Sgt., 1,239,347
28th Infantry Division, 110th Infantry Regiment, A Company
Slightly Wounded in Action 9/28/18
Mrs. Leah (Finkelstein) Leopold (wife), 420 West Susquehana Ave., Philadelphia, Pa.
Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin and Fannie (Rittenberg) Leopold (parents), 2408 South 2nd St. / 1120 S. 2nd St. / 2533 South Philip St., Philadelphia, Pa.
(Philadelphia Inquirer lists address as “1127 S. 2nd St.”)
Born Philadelphia, Pa., 12/19/93
Philadelphia Inquirer 12/18/18

Engagements – 5th German offensive from July 14 to July 27th, 1918.  Advance on the Ourcq & Vesle river July 28 to Sept., 1918 inc.  Meuse Argonne offensive from Sept 26th to Oct. 9-18. 
Slightly wounded Sept. 28th 1918
(This was taken from discharge)

These two news articles and the accompanying photo, presumably from either The Philadelphia Inquirer or Philadelphia Bulletin, are also in Sergeant Leopold’s Veteran’s Compensation File.

Sergeant Leopold, son of Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Leopold, 2408 South Second Street, was wounded on the third day of the big Allied drive from the Marne, when he and an officer of the 110th Infantry went out scouting into No Man’s Land.  He received his wounds trying to save his superior officer, who was also struck down by bullets.  Leopold is now recovering in a base hospital in France.

***

On the third day of the big Allied drive from the Marne, a lieutenant and a sergeant of the old Third Regiment, N.G.P. [National Guard of Pennsylvania]., now the 110th Infantry, went out into No Man’s Land on a scouting expedition facing a rain of machine-gun bullets.

Both were carried back wounded, the “non-com” sustaining his injury in a heroic attempt to rescue his superior officer.

The hero is Sergeant Joseph Leopold, 1120 South Second Street.  He is now recuperating in a base hospital and expects to be sound again within a few weeks.
In a letter to his parents, Benjamin and Fannie Leopold, 2408 South Second Street, he describes his thrilling experiences.

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Levin, Charles, Pvt., 554,314
26th Infantry Division, 103rd Field Artillery Regiment, F Battery
Wounded in Action 7/18/18 (“high explosive in leg”)
Wounded in Action  10/7/18 (“gassed”)
3206 West 8th St., Los Angeles, Ca.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Yetta (Meltzer) Levin (parents), 317 Chestnut St., Pottstown, Pa.
Born Rochester, N.Y., 2/24/99
Philadelphia Inquirer 12/22/18

I have lossed my discharge – some years back so am putting down dates from memory –

When I enlisted in Pottstown I gave a false age saying I was 21 yrs old on July 6th 1917 –  Did so because I was afraid they wouldn’t take me or that I’d have to get my Parents consent which I didn’t want to do at the time –

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Polingher, Samuel, Pvt., 2,667,070
37th Infantry Division, 146th Infantry Regiment, A Company
Shell-Shock (date not specified)
Mr. Mabel Polingher (wife), 3322 Pennsylvania Ave., NW, Washington, D.C.
Mr. and Mrs. Benzin and Fege (“Fannie”) Polingher (parents), Hyman Polingher (brother)
Born Romania 8/26/97; Died 5/11/65

Private Samuel Polingher

Leaving Philadelphia April 26, and arriving at Camp Lee Virginia the same day. 

The next day I start in training for a soldier live to prepare myself to fight the Germans, and I got along fairly. 

Leaving Camp Lee June 19 – 1918 – arrived at Hoboken, N.Y. [sic] June 13 –

Leaving Hoboken June 15 – arrived at Brest June 22 

Leaving Brest June 24 

Lodged one night at Brest in the Historical Napalion [sic] barracks. 

Leaving Brest June 25 – arrived at Bormount June 29 

Hiked 15 kilors to Somary Court where we were trained until July 23th

Leaving July 23 – arrived at Rambersvill July 24 –

Leaving Rambersvill July 26 on trucks we rode the whole night we pasted the town named Bacarat [Baccarat] and got off in the woods  It was raining the whole night and we began to realize what prospect we have for our future days, there is no doubt that we were all disgusted and I thought myself the only thing we must have is rations and this was the first time that I had to pitch a pup tent. 

My partner was a good little fellow and of course he helped me and it didn’t take us long and we had a swell home we got some branches of Pine trees and we laied down on the ground in order to make our bed soft and comfortable  My partner and I went to sleep and it started to rain good and hard we heard lots of shooting but we were very tired and we fell asleep and about 10:30 our corporal came and gave us an alarm  Boys get up and make your packes  Of course no candles were allowed to be lit and just think it was dark and raining, but still I heard my corporal shouting boys we are going over the top and we didn’t know where we were going, but he said we are going out on the road with our packes and start to hike in the darkness that night to a town with the name Bartichomp at 3 o’clock that morning

There were a group of our men from each company to learn how to throw hand granades  [grenades]  We stood there 2 days and we left for a village named Vacavill where we were four days around the out skirts of Vacovill then we left for the front line trenches 

And we came to the trenches at two o’clock at night arriving at the front line trenches August 5th fighting as much as our Americans boys could of done 

We left the trenches August 10th arrived at Indian village and at Bacarot Aug. 11th

Leaving Bacarot Aug. 15th arrive at Vacavill Aug. 16

Leaving Vacavill Aug 17th arrived in the wood of Vacavill and then left for St. Marrice  Arrived Aug. 30th

We stood in the support line trenches leaving St. Marrice Sept. 15

Arrived Luneville Sept. 15th. where all the Jewish boys celebrated Yom Kippur and on our arrival we were met the branch reformed Jews

Leaving Lunveille Sept. 16 arrived Barzing Sept. 17

Leaving Barzing Sept. 17

Arrived Bacarot Sept. 18 where we got on the train and arrived at Haironvill [Haironville] Sept. 19 and left Sept. 20

We got on the trucks which was driven by Chinese drivers  We pasted through the town named Ba-ladut and got of in town named Jubnvill. 

Arrived at the Orgonde [Argonne] Forest at night Sept. 22 –

Leaving the forest Sept. 26 and also made a nice big steak and a cup of coffee before we started the big drive. 

We started our great offensive against the Prussian guards which put up a strong resistance. 

Arrived at the front line trenches at six o’clock in the morning and began to go over the top  We reached our first objective the town Mont Foucan [Montfaucon] Hill Number 304 and then we reached our second objective  the formers dead Mans Hill No. 305 and we were released by the 32 Div.

Leaving Sept. 30 arrived at Ricicort [Récicourt] Oct. 1 leaving Oct. 3 

Arrived at Ja_ Oct. 4 and leaving Oct. 4th. 

I have much more to write but I think it will take up to much space so I came to a close.

By Private Samuel Polingher

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Rubinstein, Jacob, Pvt., 1,785,617
79th Infantry Division, 315th Infantry Regiment, Machine Gun Company
Slightly Wounded in Action 9/29/18 (“gassed”)
Mrs. Dora (Borden) Rubinstein (wife), Rose, Evelyn, and Eugin (daughters and son), 4301 Atlantic Ave., Wildwood, N.J.
Mr. and Mrs. Wolf (“William W.”) and Anna Rubinstein (parents), 2103 N. 31st St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born “Tcherkass”, Kiev, 1896
Philadelphia Inquirer 12/1718

Have been gassed, it happened this way. 

One dreary rainy night, being packeted in a little street between Mountfocan [Montfaucon] and the Hun, Frits finally got my number, a gas shell hit a man (standing in front of me) who fell right on me and I inhaled the perfume 

Have been in about 25 Hospitals, Convalessense, Replacement Camps  Have made good use of the French 8 horses or 40 men box cars.

Our Co. has been stationed in the following villages Shattelonot, Haronvill [Arronville?], Dombasel [Dombasle-sur-Meurthe?]

After the Armistice I found my Co. in Etray, then we hiked to Shomont Sur oir [Chaumont-sur-Loire], had a 120 mile hike with stops in about 50 villages, then settle in Remacourt a big Base Hospital center

Then a five day trip to Verton a little, rest and homeward bound to St. Nazier [Saint-Nazaire]

There we stayed 4 days and moved 8 times

Have been categorized and sterilized, and undergone inspections of all descriptions.

But one little incident that I’ll never forget.

That was in St. Agnion [Saint-Agnan] a Replacement Camp where they worked Christmas and New Years

One rainy day on detail as usual, the Commanding Officer some Major past us by and made the following remark

“I don’t see why the Government raised your wages at that time when 50c a day is too much for you.” But he is excused.  This prohibition wasn’t in force in France.

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Stein, Daniel, Pvt., 1,237,695
28th Infantry Division, 109th Infantry Regiment, L Company
Wounded in Action 7/15/18
1006 East 12th St., Chester, Pa.
Mr. and Mrs. Nathan and Clara (Brodman) Stein (parents)
Mrs. Max Rubin (aunt), 215 Christian St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born Philadelphia, Pa., 6/9/98
Enlisted in 1917 without informing parents.
Pennsylvania Veterans Compensation Application: “Veteran’s service credited to New York and has failed to furnish proof of Pennsylvania residence.”
Philadelphia Inquirer 8/30/18

This half-tone photo of Pvt. Stein (certainly taken before he was Private Stein!) was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer on August 30, 1918.  

In order to make my service record clearer, I’ll elaborate my service.

Co. L., 13th Inf. Is the original organization I joined in 1917.  Around the beginning of 1918, we were reorganized and called the 28th Div., hence Co. L., 109th Inf.

July 15th, I was wounded; July 18th I became a prisoner-of-war; until Dec. 7th when all of us were released and brought to Vichy, France.

A few weeks later we were organized into Casualty Companies at St. Agnan, France; and as a member of Co. I – 1st Bn – 143 D.B. I came home and was discharged at Camp Dix, N.J.

Daniel Stein

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Wiener, Samuel, Pvt., 1,240,238
28th Infantry Division, 110th Infantry Regiment, M Company
Wounded in Action 8/25/18
2547 West Division St., Chicago, Il.
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander and Ida (Glick) Wiener (parents), 932 N. 2nd St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born “Rovno” (?), Russia, 7/18/96
Occupation: Employee of Dupont in Wilmington, De.
Philadelphia Inquirer 10/6/18, 12/21/18

Begun July 21 at Phila., 3rd Pa. Inf. Armory ‘till 8/10
Camp Taylor 69th Market Sts ‘till Sept. 10th
Camp Hancock, Ga. Sept. 15, 1917 until April 24th
Arrived Camp Merritt April 27th 1918
Sailed for France May 2nd.
Arrived at Liverpool England May 16th 1916
Went to France May 17th.
Arrived at Cailais [Calais] France same day.

Philadelphia Inquirer
October 6, 1918, or, December 21, 1918

The Americanization of young “Sammy” Weiner, which began just nine years ago when he reached the United States an emigrant boy from Russia, passed through the final stages on the fields of France in July and August.  As a member of the 110th Infantry he went unscathed through the seering [sic] blasts of German fire along the Marne in July and participated in the stirring pursuit of the boche from the Ourcq to the Vesle.  The 110th reached the Vesle on August 6 and the next day Private Wiener wrote a brief letter to his mother, Mrs. Ida Weiner, 832 North Second Street.

The weeks passed after that with no news until last Saturday an ominous looking telegram came from Washington.  Mrs. Weiner does not read English and she turned the telegram over to her daughter.  It stated: –

“We regret to inform you that Private Samuel Weiner has been missing in action since August 26.”

Mrs. Weiner came to this country from Russia some years after her son landed here, yet she, too, has absorbed the spirit of the American mother.  Her daughter translated the flow of Jewish [Yiddish] from her lips: –

“Sammy loves his new country, and I love it and I have given him willingly.  But if he is missing I feel sure that he will turn up all right.”

Private Weiner is 22 years old.  He enlisted in the old Third Regiment, in July, 1917, and went with it to camp Hancock where it was transformed into the 110th Infantry and he was assigned to Company M.  He came home in his soldier suit on a short furlough just before the regiment sailed overseas last May, and it was a question who was the more proud, the mother at the sight of her stalwart son in khaki or the lad himself in the new uniform just issued to him with the crossed rifles on his collar and the jaunty overseas cap.

Wiener was down at the Du Pont plant in Wilmington, Delaware, making powder for the Allies when this country entered the war.  He stayed on the job for a month or more and then came home.

“I guess I’ll have to go shoot some of the stuff I have been making at the Germans,” he explained to his mother, and went down to the recruiting office and signed up in the Third Regiment.  He was mustered in out at Bywood [a neighborhood in Upper Darby, a suburb of Philadelphia adjacent to the western edge of the city of Philadelphia], and was out of the awkward squad and full-fledged soldier before the regiment _____ for its final training. 

____________________

Winokur, George, Pvt., 1,900,879
82nd Infantry Division, 326th Infantry Regiment, B Company
Slightly Wounded in Action (“gassed”) 10/13/18
435 Segal St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Mr. and Mrs. Max and Sarah (Tonkonoff) Winokur (parents), 1821 S. 5th St., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born New York, N.Y., 12/21/94
Philadelphia Inquirer 12/25/18 (Philadelphia Inquirer lists surname as “Minokur”, and lists date as 10/13/18)

I went in France April 28, 1918 and I was in the Toul Front on July.  And also in the Champaine [Champagne] Battle and I got gassed in the Arrogone [Argonne] Forrest. 

I had my gas mask on for 6 hours in a shell hole and my gun was broke from shrapnel and I was taken to a field dressing station & then sent to a base hospital. 

I came back with the _____ Ship and it took eleven days & I went over in six days with the Marratannia.  [Mauretania] I am now well & in the best of health.

George Winokur
1821 So 5th St.
Phila. Pa.

 

A Century of Soldiers: A Jewish Infantry Officer in the United States Army in World War One: First Lieutenant Edward Benjamin Goward of the 28th Infantry Division

In a prior post, I told the story of Sergeant Irving Sydney Clair, who, while serving in the United States 28th “Keystone” Infantry Division, was badly wounded in mid-July of 1918.  Though completely blinded, he survived the war, only ironically to pass on from illness in early 1919, in the United States.  Unlike many other Jewish WW I soldiers profiled at this blog, his story could be related here in “full” – at least, compared to that of other Jewish WW I military casualties – principally by virtue of a lengthy news article that appeared in the New York (Albany, to be specific) newspaper The Argus in December of 1918, as secondarily via articles in newspapers serving southeastern Pennsylvania.  

I related Sergeant Clair’s story in the context of a series of blog posts  covering the military service of American Jewish soldiers during the First World War.  These comprise a general overview of the military service of American Jewish soldiers during that conflict, through coverage of this in the general and Jewish news media (in three parts – herehere, and here); via photographic portraits of American Jewish WW I soldiers from the state of Pennsylvania who were military casualties (herehere, and here); and, by means of biographical profiles of American Jewish soldiers who were military casualties on Armistice Day; November 11, 1918. 

Another Jewish soldier whose life and military service can be recounted in detail (at least, relative detail) was like Sergeant Clair also a Philadelphian:  He was First Lieutenant Edward Benjamin Goward, Company Commander of M Company, 110th Infantry Regiment, 28th Infantry Division.  The son of George and Mary (Astro) Goward, 1616 North Marshall St., Philadelphia, Pa., he was born in that city on September 15, 1894.  A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania (class of 1916), he’d previously served on the Mexican border.  

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Shoulder sleeve insignia of the 28th Infantry Division.  Though this specific patch dates from the Second World War, the insignia has remained unchanged since the design’s creation in 1918.  

 

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On July 29, 1918, while leading his troops, Lieutenant Goward was mortally wounded by a sniper.  His second-in-command, Lieutenant Thomas B.W. Fales (also a Philadelphian) immediately came to his aid, but Lt. Fales, as well, was shot – also mortally wounded – by the same sniper.  Seeing the plight of the two officers, Sergeant Howard L. Barnes in turn went to help, but he, too, was shot.  Fortunately, Sergeant Barnes survived his wounds.  He passed away at the age of 71, in the year 1954: In another time, and, within terms real and symbolic, an entirely different United States.  

Lieutenant Goward was buried at Montefiore Cemetery, in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania, on January 18, 1922 (Section E, Lot 1, Grave 3)  (Lieutenant Fales rests at the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery, at Seringes-et-Nesles, France.)  News articles about him appeared in the Evening Public Ledger (9/6/18 and 5/15/19), and Philadelphia Inquirer (9/7/18, 10/27/18, and 1/19/22).  Curiously, his name is absent from Haulsey, Howe, and Doyle’s 1920 Soldiers of the Great War – Memorial Edition.  

This posts presents transcripts of news articles about Lieutenants Goward and Fales in chronological order. 

I’d initially hesitated in presenting this sad story in its full detail, but, realizing that it’s better to have a story told, than forgotten, it fully follows below…

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Here’s Lieutenant (at the time, Sergeant) Goward’s portrait from his Pennsylvania WW I Veterans Compensation File.

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7 City Soldiers Dead and 7 Hurt
Five Army Lieutenants From This Section Among Casualties

Evening Public Ledger and The Evening Telegraph
Friday, September 6, 1918

Seven more Philadelphians have been added to the heroes from this city who have given their lives for the country on the battlefields of France.

The death of two Philadelphia Lieutenants – Edward B. Goward and Thomas B. Fales – are reported unofficially in a letter written by a soldier in France.  The reports are confirmed by an officer who has returned here from France and is now in this city.

Lieutenant Goward was killed while acting commander of Company M, 109th Infantry, formerly the First Pennsylvania, and Lieutenant Fales was second in command.  Both men were reported wounded on July 30 last, but the official casualty lists from Washington have as yet made no mention of their names.

The author of the letter, Supply Sergeant Charles McFadden, 2nd, also asserts in his latest letter that the Old First was virtually wiped out – that of twelve infantry companies hardly enough men were left to make up one company. 

“When this letter reaches you, the State of Pennsylvania will be in mourning,” he wrote.

Sketches of Heroes

Lieutenant Thomas B. Fales, widely known cricketer and a nephew of John Wanamaker, fell at the head of his company, according to an official report received here today.  He is said to have been shot six times, once through the lungs and five times through the abdomen.

The report of his death is contained in a letter received here by Charles McFadden, Jr., 4032 Walnut Street, from his son, Charles McFadden, 3rd, a supply sergeant of Company M, 109th Infantry.  The report of his death and that of Lieutenant Goward is confirmed by Lieutenant William Stephenson, 1449 Cayuga Street, of Company I, who is now in this city to act as an instructor.

Lieutenant Fales, who is the son of the late Mrs. Mary W. Fales, 4407 Spruce Street, was cited for valor on the battlefield during the defense of the Marne about the middle of July.

Lieutenant Fales was thirty-two years old and a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania.  Before enlisting he was a member of the firm of Fales & Dutcher.

He was reported wounded on July 30; his family received word to that effect from letters written here by members of his company.  They were unable to confirm the report in Washington.  Neither his name nor that of Lieutenant Goward has appeared in the official casualty list.

Lieutenant Edward B. Goward, 1618 North Marshall Street, was a newspaper man of this city before he enlisted in the service.  Information to the effect that he was killed is contained in the letters received by Mr. McFadden from his son.  Writing of the death of Lieutenant Goward, Sergeant McFadden said:

“He was put in command of our company, with Lieutenant Fales, a pal of mine from the officers’ training school, as second in command.  After two days of fighting through the woods, we had to advance down a hill, across a small river and up another hill, all in the open.

“The boche were entrenched around the edge of a wood, with a bunch of machine guns and he gave us h___, we took the woods, but in doing so Lieutenants Goward and Fales were killed.

“Goward was hit once in each shoulder and a couple of times in the stomach.  If his name is published in the papers, tell dad to call up his father and tell him that Eddie died at the head of his men and that his men would have gone through h___ for him.

“He was considered one of the bravest men in the regiment and had a very rosy future before him.  He is buried where he fell, on the side of a hill near Courmant.

“Our American graves are marked with a small wooden cross, with the soldier’s identification tag tacked on it.  Fales was killed and buried near the same place.”

Lieutenant Goward was reported wounded in action on July 30 in a former letter received from Sergeant McFadden.  The War Department has no confirmation of the report of Lieutenant Goward having been wounded.

The last letter received from the lieutenant by his mother, Mrs. Mary Goward, said he had been acting as forward observing officer “in a busy sector,” but had been relieved and was then in the rear.  This was before the time fixed by Sergeant McFadden as the day when he was killed.

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Sons of State Disregarded All Hazards to Crush Foe

French Commander Lauds Pennsylvanians for Remarkable Record Made After Reaching Vesle River

Evening Public Ledger – Philadelphia
Thursday, May 15, 1919

Thomas W. Fales, a Philadelphia boy and lieutenant in M Company, 109th Infantry, gave up his life in the fighting at Courmont, on July 29.  His commander, Lieutenant Edward B. Goward, went forward forty yards to reconnoiter and was hit in the head by a sniper’s bullet.  Lieutenant Fales crawled out to his rescue.  A German bullet hit him in the head.  Sergeant Howard L. Barnes, seeing the plight of his two superiors, crawled out to rescue them, but met a similar fate.

Sergeant Walter Miller was more fortunate in the rescue work and reached the trio without getting hit.  Lieutenants Fales and Goward refused assistance and ordered Miller to carry Sergeant Barnes to the rear.  He obeyed the command.  Fales and Goward died before their company reached them.

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Philadelphia Inquirer
September 7, 1918 or October 27, 1918

The death in action of Second Lieutenant Goward, Company M, 109th Infantry, has finally been confirmed by the War Department.

The confirmation shatters the unyielding hope which possessed the young officer’s mother, Mrs. Mary Goward, 1616 North Marshall Street, from the first report that he had been killed.

Lieutenant Goward died at the head of his platoon in an attack on a machine gun nest in a woods south of the Curcq River on July 29.

To his comrades he was known as an heroic officer and soldier with a personal disregard of self and a supreme contempt for German bullets.

He and Lieutenant Thomas G.W. Fales, led the charge which cleared out the machine gun nest.  Lieutenant Fales, too, fell on that eventful day, and the War Department has as yet given no information to his parents at 4407 Spruce Street.

Both men had come unscathed through the terrific fighting south of the Marne River when M Company of the 109th Infantry, was cut off and almost annihilated.  Lieutenant Fales at that time won a citation for the way in which he rallied a few survivors and took them back to the regiment.  Lieutenant Goward was serving as a sergeant in the headquarters company at the time, he having not yet received his commission, which was won at the Third Officers’ Training Camp at Fort Hancock.  After July 15 he was assigned to M Company under Lieutenant Fales.

Lieutenant Goward was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where he won the Latin prize, and enlisted in the old First Regiment of the National Guard at the outbreak of the war.  The War Department confirmation of his death, said tersely: –

“We regret to inform you that Lieutenant E.G. Goward, infantry, was killed in action, July 19.”

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LIEUT. THOMAS FALES KILLED IN FRANCE

Man Who Met Death of a Hero in France Engaged to Marry Miss Ethel Badgley

Word was received today by Rev. and Mrs. J.T. Badgley that Lieut. Thomas B.W. Fales, of Philadelphia, who was engaged to marry their daughter, Ethel, has been killed in action in France on July 30, in the fiercest of fighting. He was shot six times, once through the lungs and five times through the abdomen. Word came through a letter written by Miss Badgley at the Fales home in Philadelphia.

Lieutenant Fales and another young officer of Co. M., 109th Infantry, who also was killed, were leading a charge against the Germans when they made the supreme sacrifice.

Information of their death was received from comrades and later confirmed by a letter from Lieut. Wilson Stephenson, of Co. M, of Philadelphia. The names of the two dead officer have not yet been listed with the official casualties, but a number of letters have been received by relatives telling of their deaths together with some of the details, leaving no doubt of the truth.

One of the comrades of the two men in writing about their death spoke of their bravery and declared that the regiment had almost been wiped out – that of the twelve companies hardly enough men had been left to make on full company. Lieutenant Fales was officially reported as wounded a week ago, but later this was officially denied.

Lieutenant Fales was thirty-two years old and was a nephew of John Wanamaker. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and at one time was widely known as a cricket player. He also was a fullback on the soccer teams in 196 and 1917.

At almost the beginning of the Allied drive in July along the Marne, he was mentioned in the despatches for his gallantry in leading a party of men out of a desperate situation when they got too far advanced. The regiment of which Lieutenant Fales was a member was in the thickest of the fight and is said to have been the means of turning the ride in a fierce fight in which the Germans were pushing the Allies.

Miss Badgley and Lieutenant Fales met in Philadelphia about three years ago at the wedding of the latter’s brother and their acquaintanceship later ripened into love and about a year ago their engagement was announced.

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Here’s Lieutenant Goward’s War Service Record, as completed by his mother in June of 1919…

Enlisted as Private
During summer of 1916 located at El Paso Texas
Discharged October 1916.
Called back to service March 1917.  Guard duty in vicinity of Harrisburg.
Camp Hancock September 1917 until April 1918.
Camp Upton from April 26th, 1918 until May 2nd, 1918.
France from May 1918 until his death in action July 29th 1918.
July 1916 Corporal
March 1917 Sergeant
Top Sergeant December 1917
Second Lieutenant, July 1918
First Lieutenant, end of July
Acting Captain of Co. M. 109th

Lieut. Goward was killed in action July 29th, 1918, while leading Co. M. of 109th.  The details may be obtained from the accompanying newspaper account.  He is buried in a cemetery at Courmont, France.

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The matzevot of Lieutenant Goward and his mother, at Montefiore Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pa…

…and, the title page of The Record – the Class Yearbook for the University of Pennsylvania – for the class of 1916…  

…within which, an entry for Edward Goward appears on page 49…  

…while here’s his portrait.

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This portrait of Thomas B.W. Fales as a civilian – his University of Pennsylvania graduation portrait, as well? – is via FindAGrave contributor Robert Sage…  

…while this picture of his tombstone, at the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery and Memorial, in Picardie, France, is via Linkert.  

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According to the May 15, 1919, issue of the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger – Philadelphia, “Sergeant Howard L. Barnes, seeing the plight of his two superiors, crawled out to rescue them, but met a similar fate.”  But, this sentence is quite ambiguous and open to different interpretations, for it does not specify what his “fate” actually was.  Was Sergeant Barnes killed?  Did he survive?  If so, how badly wounded was he?

Documents in his Veteran’s Compensation File reveal the answer:  Sergeant Howard Logan Barnes, although badly wounded by a sniper, did survive the war.  Though this “Immediate Report of Death” (a one-page form not uncommonly found among documents pertaining to soldiers who were killed in action, or died of wounds) indicates that he died some time between July 28 and 31, 1918…

…another very brief document (not illustrated in this post; it’s as physically small as it is brief) simply states that he was wounded in the right elbow and right thigh.  

Sergeant Barnes’ survival is further and solidly attested to by this Abstract of Military Service which, though it lists a very incorrect date when he was wounded (not October 26!), verifies his survival.  

And finally, we have a Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Honor Roll record completed by the Sergeant’s mother in March of 1919, in which information about the July incident is absent.   

And last, a quick check of FindAGrave reveals that Howard Barnes – born in Wayne County, Pa., on April 15, 1894, passed away in that locale on November 17, 1954, at the age of 71.  He’s buried at Fairview Memorial Park, in Lackawanna County.