Having presented a summary of the characters and events in Face of a Hero, “this” and the next two posts present excerpts from the novel which I think best express its multiple and overlapping themes. All page numbers refer to the 1999 Steerforth Press edition.
So, to start with… The following five excerpts pertain to social interactions between combat aviators and non-flying support personnel, Ben Isaacs’ “place” in his crew, and, the mundane aspects of military life between missions. These passages reveal Louis Falstein’s skill at describing the thoughts and feelings of central and secondary characters, as well as – especially – his ability to reveal Ben’s unspoken thoughts. They also reveal Falstein’s ability to crisply construct a setting or place – symbolically as well as visually – with an economy of language.
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Some images are historic, others emblematic, and a few – like the photograph below – are both.
This image and its enlargement show the end of a 460th Bomb Group B-24 in the European skies of 1944. Though an event now nearly eighty years in the past, the photograph, Army Air Force photographs 52110AC / A5050, and, 52555AC / A5052, which have appeared in numerous books and magazine (and now websites), such as Steve Birdsall’s Log of the Liberators, stunningly captures only one aspect of the air war of American heavy bombers crews.
Here’s 52555AC, as it appeared in Steve Birdsall’s 1973 Log of the Liberators, nine years before the declassification of the Missing Air Crew Reports. (Image 52110AC appears below…)
The event was the 460th Bomb Group’s mission to Vienna of June 16, 1944. Flying at an altitude of approximately 22,000 feet, B-24H 41-29508 of the 761st Bomb Squadron (identifying letter red K, nicknamed either This Is It or General Nuisance) was struck by anti-aircraft fire and almost immediately turned into a flying inferno. This is immediately evident from the picture, which shows the fuselage filled with flames from the bomb-bay back.
The plane exploded and disintegrated moments later, the wreckage falling to earth two kilometers south of Goetzendorf, Austria, shortly after eleven in the morning. The aircraft’s loss is covered in MACR 6095, and reported upon in Luftgaukommando Reports ME 1468 and secondarily ME 1469.
Of the bomber’s ten crew members, there emerged three survivors: The bombardier, co-pilot, and flight engineer. The navigator was unable to leave the plane before it exploded, while the pilot, First Lieutenant Frederick Bruce Smith of San Diego, remaining at the controls to give his crew a chance to escape, was killed. If you copy-&-save this image and closely examine the cockpit, you can see him seated at the controls. The crewmen in the rear fuselage, two or three of whom attempted to leave the plane through the waist windows, did not survive.
Besides Frederick B. Smith – listed as a First Lieutenant in the MACR, but having the rank of Captain on his tombstone – the bomber’s crew comprised:
Co-Pilot: Mansdorf, Harry, 2 Lt., Burbank, Ca. – POW
Navigator: Budriunas, Bronislaus (“Bronie”) F., 2 Lt., Athol, Ma. – KIA
Bombardier: Schwartz, John G., 2 Lt., Jersey City, N.J. – POW (Died December 4, 2003; probably buried in New Jersey)
Flight Engineer: Wilson, Herbert A., T/Sgt., Niles, Oh. – POW
Radio Operator: Redford, Edward W., T/Sgt., Independence, Mo. – KIA
Gunner (Nose?): Carter, Weldon B., Sgt., South Portland, Me. – KIA
Gunner (Waist): Summers, John W., T/Sgt., Buena Vista, Ca. – KIA
Gunner (Ball Turret?): DiMatteo, Leonard J., T/Sgt., Richmond Hill, Long Island, N.Y. – KIA
Gunner (Tail?): Bejar, Antonio C., Sgt., San Antonio, Tx. – KIA
From a purely technical vantage point (is that even possible for a photo of this nature?), this is one of the very few images of WW II aerial combat in which it’s actually possible to visually distinguish a crew member in a doomed airplane … as you can see in the enlargement below. Scanned from the original print (at the National Archives) at the ridiculously high resolution of 2400 dpi (?!), this close-up shows either Lt. Mansdorf or Sgt. Wilson emerging from the aircraft’s emergency overhead escape hatch, which has already been jettisoned. (Lt. Schwartz was blown out of the plane when it exploded.) The man is facing forward, his back set against the now-empty dorsal turret (it’s been rotated with guns facing starboard rear), his left arm resting on the edge of the hatch, with his parachute visible against his chest. If this is Sgt. Wilson, he was blown by the wind-blast back over the fuselage and between the plane’s twin tails, parachuting to land relatively uninjured. If the person in the photo is Lt. Mansdorf, then like Lt. Schwartz, he was blown into space when the bomber exploded. The two Lieutenants both seriously injured, were repatriated on the S.S. Gripsholm in February of 1945, while Sgt. Wilson spent the remainder of the war as a POW.
(Lt. Smith’s crew already had a previous “incident”: They ditched in the Adriatic Sea on April 6, 1944, with seven of the nine crewmen surviving. ( AFHRA Microfilm Roll BO609; Frames 30-31))
Ten months after the war’s end, Lt. Schwartz, recovering from his wounds at Valley Forge General Hospital, described what transpired aboard This Is It in a letter to the Army Air Force, specifically pertaining to the fate of his fellow crewmen. This was in response to an inquiry concerning his knowledge of the fate of his fellow crew members, replies to which would eventually be incorporated into the Missing Air Crew Report (6095) for this crew, a process paralleling the AAF’s procedure for resolving the fates of other missing crews.
Though I know nothing about him biographically, Lt. Schwartz’s letter immediately reveals a degree of education and excellent writing ability, for his account combines factuality and descriptiveness with a perhaps all-too-unavoidable and sadly inevitable sense of drama.
Here’s his account:
Valley Forge General Hospital
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
6 March 1946
SUBJECT : Casualty Information of Crew Members
TO : Commanding General, Army Air Force, Washington, D C
In reference to AFPPA-8, I am in receipt of the individual questionnaires pertaining to my fellow crew members still remaining in a casualty status. Lacking factual data because of circumstances surrounding the manner in which our ship was shot down, I find it next to impossible to answer the queries in the manner requested. As an alternative, will attempt to relate the few details I do remember leading up to the disaster and ensuing events, thereby sincerely hoping some point in the story might be of material aid to the Missing Aircrew Research and Investigation Office.
On 16 June 1944 our ship, a B-24 Liberator, was part of a formation of Fifteenth Air Force bombers destined for Austria. Briefed target was synthetic oil installations in and around the Vienna area. Successfully reached target area and at approximately twelve noon from an altitude of 23,000’ bombs were released. Were in the process of usual turn away from the target when anti-aircraft fire made contact with the ship. As Bombardier on board, my station was in the nose of the ship along with the Navigator and Nose Gunner. In this position I was hit with several minute pieces of flak about the legs. Receiving no alarm over the inter-phone, naturally assumed the plane wasn’t mortally hit nor were any of the crew members fatally injured. Few seconds later I glanced back through the tunnel leading from the flight deck to the nose and noted flickering motions. Unhooked my oxygen equipment and crawled back to investigate – the entire bomb bay was a blazing inferno. Scurried back to the nose, shed my flak suit, hooked on my parachute chest pack and kicked the navigator, Lt Bronislaus Budriunas, in the knees to draw his attention. He immediately went through the same procedure after releasing nose gunner, Sgt Weldon Carter, from turret. Was in the process of rehooking the inter-phone to inform the pilot, Lt Frederick Smith, and other crew members of existing danger when the ship suddenly lunged to one side. Because of centrifugal force, we were hopelessly trapped in since the plane was either violently spinning or in a very deep spiral. Fire raced up into the nose and unused rounds of .50 caliber ammo started bursting. From here on out I am still not aware as to what occurred. Apparently the plane exploded because I found myself floating through space. Automatically pulled the rip cord and the chute opened. Landed some two hundred feet from a German hospital at Geiselkirchen, Austria, when I was immediately carried in and given first-aid for third degree burns of the face, hands, legs, and backside. Since I was unconscious until but a few moments prior to touching the ground, on mere speculation would say I was blown clear at about 10,000’. Few days later on regaining consciousness learned I had been transferred to a prison hospital at STALAG 17A, Kaisersteinbruck, Austria, and that another crew member had managed to escape. He was our co-pilot, Lt Harry Mansdorf, who was also brought to this place suffering from an ugly flak wound in his right knee. On subsequent talks with him, attempted to learn what took place on the flight deck that particular day but derived little satisfaction insofar as facts were concerned. I merely learned that both he and our engineer, Sgt Herbert Wilson, had escaped via the top hatch. Because of his physical condition at the time I was unable to learn anything further save the fact that on parachuting out, he had landed at a place called Mannersdorf, Austria, and brought to 17 A at that very same day. Was unaware of Sgt Wilson’s fate until I arrived in the states at which time I learned he had been a P.O.W. somewhere in Germany and subsequently liberated when the Allied Armies overran Germany.
On 21 February 1945, Lt Mansdorf and I were part of a repatriation movement that arrived in the states aboard the exchange ship “M.S. Gripsholm”. At present Lt Mansdorf is convalescing at the AAF Regional Hospital at Santa Ana, California. Were he to be contacted, possibly some pertinent data might be supplied by him, more so than I could attempt to give by word of mouth.
At no time during the course of our P.O.W. tenure were either of us approached by the Germans in regard to the matter of identifying bodies, nor ever given an inkling that there was a semblance of a plane wreck.
In view of the incidents related, I can only suppose that considering the nature of the fire, in all probability it was raging on unnoticed by all within the ship. On the other hand, if it had been detected and the alarm transmitted over the inter-phone the only plausible reason for not hearing it might have been due to the fact that entire inter-phone system was shot out by the burst of anti-aircraft fire. Since all the crew members carried chest type parachutes, I can only sadly conclude that between the time I detected the flames and the subsequent dizzy descent of plane, the men whose status is still undetermined never had a chance to execute procedure for abandoning ship.
JOHN SCHWARTZ
1st Lt, Air Corps
0-685032
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Here are two photographs of the Smith crew on infinitely happier occasions, unfortunately without Lt. Smith himself. The images were loaned to me by Harry Mansdorf some years ago.
First, photographed in Capri or Naples after the crew’s ditching of April 6.
Left to right: Lieutenants Mansdorf, Schwartz, and Budriunas.
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Second, the crew as seen in the United States.
Front row, left to right: Lieutenants Schwartz, Budriunas, and Mansdorf, and Sergeant Carter.
Back row, left to right: Sergeants Wilson, Summers, Redford (mugging for the camera), DiMatteo, and Bejar.
The son of Max and Sadie (Klapp) Mansdorf of 1817 North Brighton Street in Burbank, California, Harry Mansdorf (0-1691614) was born in Manhattan on February 25, 1921. A prisoner of war at Stalag 7A (Moosburg) until his repatriation, his name appears on page 49 of American Jews in World War II, which lists his military awards as the Air Medal, two Oak Leaf Clusters, and Purple Heart. The mission of June 16 was his 28th.
Okay, back to Sergeant Ben Isaacs…
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Bens’ relationship with his crew…
We had not chosen one another as brothers; it had been ordained for us.
It occurred to me I must write to Ruth, but I didn’t know what to tell her. A subtle wall was being erected between my wife and me because we had not shared this experience. I realized with a shock that my wife was a civilian, safe back in the States. And I suddenly resented those who were safe. I was appalled at the ease with which I abandoned myself to self-pity even in my hour of triumph. But aside from the corrupting but very comfortable stabs of self-pity there was no denying that my most profound experience had been shared with me not by Ruth but by nine comparative strangers. They were now a part of my life, part of my joys and sorrows. We had not chosen one another as brothers; it had been ordained for us. Mel Ginn, a rancher from western Texas, was my brother. I didn’t know much about him and he was suspicious of me because I came from a large city. He was amused by my clumsiness with the guns. He was puzzled that an “old man” had got himself mixed up in the fighting. Mel had never met a Jew before and this confused him also. Before our first mission we had little to say to each other. But today we had been through life together. Before our first mission Leo Trent and I had little in common. Leo used to sell perfume in Hollywood before the war. His heart had been set on becoming a pilot, but he had been washed out of cadet training “three hours before graduation.” That was his story. It rankled that his younger brother, who was twenty-one, two years Leo’s junior, was an ace Marine fighter pilot in the Pacific while Leo became a “venereal gunner.” He was not a good gunner (this we had in common), and up in the air I saw him paralyzed with fear (this too we had in common). Leo and I had never become close, perhaps because we each knew the other to be a coward who resented being found out. That’s why he was wary of me. He credited me with an insight that always sat in judgment on his weaknesses. Also, he mistook my aloofness for snobbery. He did not like riddles. But I wanted him to like me. He was, after all, my brother. (p. 30)
***
The social exclusivity of the life of combat aviators…
We lived in an exclusive blood fraternity which no ground man was allowed to invade.
They seldom ventured into our barracks.
It was strange, this little America, complex, divided, stratified. Though we all ate in the same mess halls and stood in the same endless lines and dove into the same foxholes when the Jerry planes came over to bomb us at night, we lived in two distinct worlds. A clear, starry sky had a different meaning for a flyer than it had for a ground man. For us a clear sky meant a mission on the following day while for the ground man it often meant hours at the beach. When a flyer received his weekly ration of four cans of beer, he drank them all in one evening, fearing that he might not be around to drink tomorrow. We envied the ground man because he could contemplate tomorrow and the day after. He could think of the future. He was safe – like the civilians back home. We lived in an exclusive blood fraternity which no ground man was allowed to invade. They seldom ventured into our barracks. Behind our back they called us “hot rocks,” “hot pilots,” “wild-blue-yonder-boys.” They argued that the flyers were crazy; how could a man in his sane mind go up there day after day and be shot at? But many of them tried to emulate the flyers in the way they crushed their garrison caps. And some of them put on gunner’s wings when they got far enough away from the base. A few of them volunteered for combat. (pp. 47-48)
***
Ben’s challenge in being notably older than most of his fellow fliers…
Often while in the process of doing something I suddenly stopped and said to myself,
“You are acting too old, must act younger…”
There was the great need to be accepted and approved.
And beyond the determination to introduce some normalcy into a barbaric existence, and the striving for continuity, there was the constant battle to adjust oneself and not to stick out in too many places as an old fogey, a creaking old gunner with bad eyes and hot temper and strange ways. I was yet to learn the art of falling asleep with a half-dozen men playing poker at my table and two or three of them sitting on my cot and smoking constantly. I knew they expected me to go blissfully to sleep. But often I lay there, chastising myself: why can other sleep and you cannot? I told myself I had to endure it because after all this was a just war, and one must discard the luxuries of privacy and the intellectual snobbery of civilian life. And even though I was raging mad and wanted to turn over both cot and table – as I would have back in the States – I contained my rage, lay still, and turned all the blame on myself. Often while in the process of doing something I suddenly stopped and said to myself, “You are acting too old, must act younger…” There was the great need to be accepted and approved. And this lightened the burden of the unicolored existence where the only object that did not fall into the drab color of khaki or fatigue green was Trent’s red-striped pajamas. (pp. 53-54)
***
The challenge of finding a motivation to fly, and continuing to fly, combat missions…
The army spent a fortune to train me.
But do I navigate?
I’m just a passenger in the ship, while the lead navigator does all the work.
You men could fly without me.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a gun to fire.
You don’t know what it means to be shot at and not shoot back.
Would Andy laugh at me if I told him I was in this war because I wanted to keep America free? I wanted to tell him I was in it not only because I was against Hitler; I was also for something. I was convinced that after we won it, life would be better for all. People would get along better; not only Missourians and Illinoisians, but Italians and Americans too…
But how do you tell these things to a frightened man, a man facing death? I was afraid Andy would laugh at me. Americans had an ingrained suspicion of words, any words smacking of patriotism.
Andy sat silent for a while, contemplating the pebbles on the tent floor. “Oh, I’ll fly my missions,” he said. “I’m no better or no worse than anybody else. I certainly wouldn’t pull a stunt like Bowles pulled yesterday, shooting off his toe and claiming it was an accident. I wouldn’t do a thing like that, nobody in our crew would.” He regarded me searchingly to see whether I believed him. He got up and went to sit on his cot. “Oh, I don’t know,” the navigator sighed. “It’s all mixed up in my mind. In one way I feel I’m a sucker for being in this. In another way I feel useless. I’m supposed to be a navigator. The army spent a fortune to train me. But do I navigate? I’m just a passenger in the ship, while the lead navigator does all the work. You men could fly without me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a gun to fire. You don’t know what it means to be shot at and not shoot back. You’re helpless, useless. You go crazy. If I could only keep busy in the air – maybe I wouldn’t have the time to worry so much about death…” He slapped his thighs savagely and stood up and walked to the cone-shaped entrance of the tent. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve never been so mixed up and so scared in my life…” (pp. 109-110)
Life at “Mandia” (actually, Manduria) during late autumn of 1944…
What the Jerry could not accomplish, the weather had done.
We were helpless against the weather,
although we sent out radar ships at night to harass the enemy, and our formations,
when they did defy the cloud front, were led by Mickey [radar] ships.
THE LEAVES on the olive trees turned from green to a rich yellow and red. The sky was covered over by a dense mantle of angry gray clouds. With the clouds came the steady, pouring October rains of southern Italy. At night there were Alert Lists posted for the following morning’s mission, but with the cloudy dawn came the order for a stand-down. What the Jerry could not accomplish, the weather had done. We were helpless against the weather, although we sent out radar ships at night to harass the enemy, and our formations, when they did defy the cloud front, were led by Mickey (radar) ships.
We wandered about the muddy field, seeking a break from the dullness and tenseness. In the library, operated by Information and Education, Captain Wilkinson and his enlisted men were dug in for the fall and winter — playing poker. A few small volumes of armed forces editions were strewn about the gaping shelves: Carl Sandburg, Bolitho, Zane Grey, Norman Corwin, and endless titles of books nobody was interested in. The books were there because they had been sent along from some USO in the States that no longer had any need for them. In the mess hall the rain came through the roof and into the mess kits on the tables. Outside the mess hall the army of dogs, which grew constantly, waited for your drippings. The dogs were mangy and wet. Everything was damp and wet.
In Mandia, where we ventured like tired sleepwalkers, the streets were almost deserted. The housewives, who had sat crushing beans for hours on end during the summer, were inside the dark hovels. The rain drenched the walls and the last signs of Mussolini’s chipped image were obliterated. His admonition, CREDERE — OBBEDIRE — COMBATTERE, appeared like a pitiful joke out of the past. In the Laundry for American Solder, the four laundresses, Angelina, Maria, Lenora, and Gina, were working over Gl and officers’ shirts and there was hardly any light with which to see. The girls were wrapped in torn sweaters and their hands were red with dampness and cold. The Negro corporal sat in the gloom of the laundry, listening to the raindrops on the windows and the rapid chatter of the women. In the bar where Luisa worked, one lone New Zealander, his beret moved back on his blond head, sat glaring hungrily at the swarthy young barmaid who was behind the bar with her stump of a pencil. Just the blond Kiwi and the girl in the dark, damp, formless room; and the Kiwi telling the girl what a dinkum place was New Zealand, and Luisa saying, “No undershtanda.” In the American Red Cross, Nellie Bullwinkle appeared even sallower with the change of the weather. Her complexion looked sickly and her face was lined with little folds of flesh. But she was as cheerful as ever, bustling about the place, giving off little sparks of benevolence. (pp. 186-187)
…Just Two References…
Birdsall, Steve, Log of the Liberators: An Illustrated History of the B-24, Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, N.Y., 1973
Falstein, Louis, Face of a Hero, Steerforth Press, South Royalton, Vt., 1999