Soldiers from New York: Jewish Soldiers in The New York Times, in World War Two: March 8, 1944 (In the Air…) – First Mission … Last Mission: Second Lieutenant Jesse H. Lack

As part of my series of posts about the military service of Jewish soldiers in the Second World War – with a focus on military casualties, and, soldiers who participated in or experienced significant and memorable events – my most recent set of posts covered military actions on land, sea, and in the air on March 19, 1945.  The basis of that post, like the many that have preceded it, was the appearance of biographical information about a soldier in The New York Times.  (In this case First Lieutenant Charles Blum, on March 19.)  Continuing on the same basis, “this” post is the first of several pertaining to events a little over one year earlier – on March 8, 1944 – and is based on a news item about 2 Lt. Jesse Herbert Lack of the United States Army Air Force, whose obituary appeared in The New York Times on September 6, 1945, four days after the Second World War formally ended, the war in Europe having ended on May 8 (May 9 for the Russian Federation) of that year.

Here’s Lt. Lack’s all-too-brief obituary, which reflects the brevity of his life…

Aviator Killed Last Year In Flight Over Germany

Second Lieut. Jesse H. Lack, a navigator in the Air Forces, was killed on his first mission when his bomber crashed near Berlin on March 8, 1944, the War Department has informed his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Lack of 5510 Thirteenth Avenue, Brooklyn.  Lieutenant Lack, who was 20 years old, was previously reported missing.

He enlisted in 1943 after working for two years in the Washington and New York Navy Yards.  He was a graduate of Townsend Harris High School and attended Brooklyn College and Cooper Union.  Besides his parents, Lieutenant Lack leaves a brother and two sisters.

The image accompanying the obituary shows Lt. Lack wearing a clean-and-relatively-new scarf and navigator’s wings pinned to his leather flying jacket, suggesting that this portrait was taken upon his commission as a second lieutenant.  

Born in the New York borough of Brooklyn on August 13, 1923, 2 Lt. Jessie Herbert Lack (0-694883) was the son of Harry and Yetta Lack and the brother of Vivienne, Phyllis, and Arthur, the family residing at 5510 13th Ave.  His name appeared in a War Department Casualty List under the category of “Missing in Action” published on April 21, 1944.  His name subsequently appeared in the news media only one more time: in the above-mentioned Times article of September 6, 1945.  Given that the mission of March 8, 1944, was his first, last, and only combat sortie, he was thus ineligible for the Air Medal (which required the completion of five combat missions) or Distinguished Flying Cross, his sole award being the Purple Heart.  Subsequent to the war years, his name appeared in the “In Memoriam” section of the Times on May 15, 1949, and can also be found in Volume II (on page 370) of the 1947 compilation American Jews in World War Two.      

The following three images show the contemporary (as in 2024) appearance of 5510 13th Ave. in Brooklyn.  It’s in the Borough Park area, one of the largest and most prominent centers of Jewish life outside of Israel.  The first two images are from Apartments.com, and the last image, showing the building’s entrance, is a “zoomed” Oogle Street View.  

“If these halls could talk…”

“…if these walls could talk.”

Here’s a close-up of the building’s entrance: A gateway to the past. (Does the past still exist?)

Lt. Lack was buried at Long Island National Cemetery (Section J, Grave 15344), in Farmingdale on May 16, 1949.  His simple government-provided matzeva, photographed by FindAGrave contributor GLENN, appears below.    

Lt. Lack was assigned to Crew 66 – the crew of 2 Lt. John David “Jack” Adamson of the 458th Bomb Group’s 755th Bomb Squadron, presumably as part of the Group’s original contingent – the other squadrons having been the 752nd, 753rd, and 754th – the Group itself having been activated at Wendover Field, Utah, on July 1, 1943:  As described at 458thBG.com (from July 6, 2004, and now only accessible via the Wayback Machine?), “The Adamson crew trained with the group in Tonopah, Nevada in the fall of 1943 and proceeded to England in January 1944.  Unlike the majority of the aircrews, Adamson and his crew were sent from Morrison Field in Florida to New York, reporting to the North Atlantic Wing ATC.  From there they traveled via the North Atlantic Ferry Route with several other 458th air and ground personnel.  The crew was shot down on their first combat mission, the 8AF’s second raid on Berlin.”

Here’s the insignia of the 755th Bomb Squadron: A B-24 Liberator stands alongside a bomb.  Nonchalantly.  

(This image is via invaluable.com.)

For the March 8 mission the Adamson crew were assigned to the apparently un-nicknamed B-24H Liberator 41-28720, squadron code “J3 * N“.  Of the ten men who boarded the aircraft that morning only five would return, as documented in Missing Air Crew Report 3345, and, German Luftgaukommando Report KU 1174.  The bomber’s crew is listed below, the survivors comprising the co-pilot, flight engineer, radio operator, ball turret gunner, and left waist gunner.  

Pilot: Adamson, John David “Jack”, 2 Lt., 0-739644 (Born 8/1/20)
Co-Pilot: Berrio, John Joseph, 2 Lt., 0-810994 – Survived (5/14/20-10/4/97)
Navigator: Lack, Jesse Herbert, 2 Lt., 0-694883
Bombardier: Daskam, Charles Sylvester, F/O, T-122613 (Born 7/3/21)
Flight Engineer: Moe, Elmer Peder, S/Sgt., 19146147 – Survived (9/30/19-3/19/08)
Radio Operator: Tamburello, Jake Joseph, T/Sgt., 6663411 – Survived (5/29/15-2/23/90)
Gunner (Ball Turret): Rabideau, Harold Clarence “Pete”, Sgt., 12035281 – Survived (10/11/22-11/6/13)
Gunner (Right Waist): Lowman, Willard Lafayette, Sgt., 14092318 (Born 12/18/21)
Gunner (Left Waist): Forbes, Henry J., Sgt., 36441369 – Survived
Gunner (Tail): Freeman, Billy L. (William Lynn), Sgt., 38269438 (Born 1921)

While there appear to be no existing or available photos of the crew as a group – officers and NCOs together – an image contributed by Chris Adamson to the 458th Bomb Group website shows Lt. Adamson and the three other men who were most likely Lieutenants Lack and Berrio, and F/O Daskam: “Crew 66”.  In the photo, Lt. John Adamson is definitely 2nd from left.  For the other men, comparing faces to names from the available photos of F/O Daskam and Lt. Lack (really, just one photo of each) suggests – assuming that the other three men in the picture actually are Lt. Adamson’s fellow officers – that F/O Daskam is at left, Lt. Lack is standing at rear, and Lt. Berrio (for whom no photo is available) is sitting at right.

This portrait of Lt. Adamson, at Ancestry.com, was uploaded by AFCsearch on December 27, 2016.

This portrait of F/O Daskam is via FindAGrave contributor Richard Weston.

This portrait of S/Sgt. Moe, one of the five survivors of J3 * N, was uploaded to Ancestry.com by Wendy Zenz on August 30, 2016.
xxx

Sgt. Willard Lowman didn’t survive the mission.  This picture is via FindAGrave contributor Jerry Low.

Missing Air Crew 3345 comprises 46 pages, but ironically, it’s completely absent of eyewitness accounts by other members of the 458th, simply listing the cause of the bomber’s loss as “unknown” … albeit 2 Lt. Nelson R. Stewart is listed as a eyewitness.  In any event, postwar, four of the five survivors (Berrio, Moe, Rabideau, and Tamburello) submitted Casualty Questionnaires to the Army pertaining to the fate of their crew members, as part of the the military’s massive postwar effort to definitively ascertain the fates of fallen and missing members of the Army Air Force.  While their communications naturally vary greatly in length and detail, they form a sufficient enough “picture” to reveal what befell the Liberator and its crew. 

But…  Before presenting excerpts from these documents, perhaps it’s best to begin with this interview of (former sergeant and ball turret gunner) Harold C. Rabideau, conducted on April 24, 2003 by the New York State Military Museum.  As recorded in the crew list above, Mr. Rabideau passed away a decade after this interview, in late 2013.  

Reaching back in time, here are three articles about Sgt. Rabideau from the Malone Evening Telegram.  They successively cover his missing in action status, confirmation of having been captured and interned as a POW, and finally, his liberation.  The articles are via the FultonHistory website.  

March 29, 1944: Missing

May 15, 1944: Prisoner of War

May 21, 1945: To Return

The 458th Bomb Group website – specifically the profile of Lt. Adamson and his crew – includes transcripts of statements by three crew members (T/Sgt. Tamburello, Lt. Berrio, and S/Sgt. More) which appear in Missing Air Crew Report 3345.  “Take-aways” from the statements includes: 1) J3 * N was damaged by flak, losing its #4 and then #2 engines.  Lt. Adamson attempted to return to England at low altitude, for which Lt. Lack gave him a course.  Though a radio call was made for fighter support, none arrived, and the disabled bomber was then repeatedly attacked by enemy fighters very at close range, with the survivors baling out at low altitude.  This attack probably killed Lt. Lack and F/O Daskam, who were in the bomber’s nose.  It seems sadly evident that Lt. Adamson – until that point unharmed – also attempted to parachute, but was killed when his parachute snagged on the Liberator’s tail. 

Here excerpts from the three men’s statements.  Obvious from the accounts of Sergeants Moe and Tamburello is the fact that Lt. Lack’s father engaged in correspondence with the survivors to ascertain the fate of his son, concerning which T/Sgt. Tamburello was highly circumspect.  

2 Lt. John J. Berrio… (Co-Pilot)

Lt. Berrio’s statement is unassociated with a Casualty Questionnaire.  Rather, given the condition and appearance of this one-page document (even as very poorly digitized and scratched microfiche), it appears to have been associated with separate documentation – included in MACR 3345 – about Lt. Lack’s fate, specifically because it’s headed “Berrio States”, and includes the names of the other four survivors.  Here it is, in its entirety:  

We were hit by “flak” near Hannover *** the oil pressure on No. 4 engine began to drop *** near Berlin the turbo on No. 2 engine went out and we were forced to salvo our bomb load *** fighter protection was called for but they never came.  The enemy fighters (ME 210s, I believe) picked us up and made numerous attacks to our tail and waists.  When the plane caught fire *** Lt. Adamson told me to give the order to bail out. *** When  I left the plane, Lt. Adamson was standing with his parachute on.  The plane crashed about 200 feet from where I landed and there was one chute wrapped around the tail. *** The crash took placed on the outskirts of Finsterwalde, Germany.

As we were leaving the formation I called Lt. Lack and asked for the course back to England.  He gave me a course. *** I heard him talk to F/O Daskam *** I called later, while we were under attack, but they never answered.

This statement appears in Lt. Berrio’s Casualty Questionnaire…

The plane was below 1,000 feet when I bailed out and crashed nearby.  There was one parachute wrapped around the tail, but I was unable to investigate as I was taken prisoner immediately by the Germans, and they would not permit me to go to the plane.  I presumed the chute to be that of Lt. Adamson.

“The plane was burning badly while in the air, but it was extinguished when it crashed.”

According to Sgt. Forbes, Sgt. Freeman was hit in the first attack.

T/Sgt. Jake J. Tamburello… (Radio Operator)

Casualty Questionnaire…

When I was captured I was taken to the point where our craft hit the ground. I saw a parachute entangled around the left horizontal and vertical stabilizer. It seemed as though this chute had been opened too soon and the wearer apparently carried down with falling aircraft.

I was informed by the Germans that four of my crew members were dead in the aircraft. (This was when we were at the scene of the crash). They also told me one member was taken to a hospital. Later that evening, while in prison at Fensterwalde Air Base (sounded like a twin engine base to me from aircraft engines) the Germans informed us (four other crew members and I) that the man taken to the hospital had died.

Having limited speaking knowledge of the German language I was able to learn that the above mentioned town was approximately twenty kilometers northeast of Berlin.

I recall no other information, either facts or hearsay.

Individual Casualty Questionnaire regarding Lt. Lack…

I gave Lt. Lack’s family no information whatsoever.  I was in no position to do so, for I knew nothing of him.  I felt that if I were to give them information incorrectly it would do more harm than good.  It was not my position, nor duty to inform them of this tragedy.

S/Sgt. Elmer P. Moe… (Flight Engineer)

Though undated, it seems that S/Sgt. Moe’s letter was composed in 1946, as it references a letter received from Lt. Lack’s father “last July”, implying the summer of 1945.  Detailed, completely Frank, and sensitively written, it’s remarkable that the statement – as it appears in MACR 3345 – was composed from memory.  Then again, perhaps some things are indelible.  

The following is in reply to P.S. on letter I received today concerning information I gave to the family of Jesse H. Lack.  May vary slightly as this is from memory only.

Last July I received a letter from Mr. Henry Lack in which he stated that he had received rumors that his son was still alive and asked if I could help him get straightened out on the events that took place so he could have a little more to work on.  Here is the bulk of my reply:

“I am sorry to hear you are still in doubt as to your son’s fate and this is to prevent you from holding any false hopes.  I too had some hope that your son was okay, but have given it up as we would surely have heard for sure by now.  I did not tell this before as we had orders it would add confusion etc.  Also that you would be properly notified by War Dept. and I have given them several written reports on this.  Therefore this is meant only for your information and not to be repeated as it may add to trouble and confusion.

On March 8 our target was Berlin.  Your son was in the nav. comp. in the nose and the bomb. was in the nose turret.  They could not be seen by any other of the crew and their only means of communication was by interphone.  Bailout signal was to be given over interphone and by alarm bells located at the various plane compartments.  One bell being near your son.  We went through scattered flak and one turbo supercharger went out which cut our power from one engine and near the target the oil pressure on another went out.  We could not keep altitude and so decided to hit the deck where we would get more power from the engine with the turbo out and try to make it home.  The pilot called for a compass heading, got it and soon we were jumped by fighters.  One made a pass or rather three passes at us from the rear knocking out tail turret and left waist gun.  On last pass, after tail and left waist guns were quiet, he got in close and gave us about a three second burst that set us on fire and must have put several hundred holes in our plane.  All this time he was too low for me to get a shot at but believe ball gunner at least hit him.  My gunsight went out so I switched to other filament and took a shot at him as he pulled up to our left, but he turned away and by this time gasoline was burning from a large hole in our left wing, our interphone was out and the radio operator was getting up and motioned down and so I snapped on my chute and followed him out as the copilot was right behind me.  To get to your son one of us would have had to crawl on hands and knees and then may have hindered their exit as they had an escape hatch in the nose too.  In this case there was absolutely no time as I hit the ground before my chute had fully slowed me up.  I was captured even before I could my chute off and the Germans would not let us any nearer to the plane.  As the country was quite thickly settled there was little chance anyone got away and if they were picked up I am quite sure they would have come to the same place as we were.  Or if they were injured, they would have gone to hospital and you would have heard through the Red Cross.  If they did not get out of the plane they must have met death instantly.  Surely if your son was alive, he would be home now or have let you know where he is.  That is about all I know that could clear up any false rumors you may have heard.  I think he did not get out in time. 

Despite the comprehensive coverage of J3 * N’s loss in the Missing Air Crew Report and Luftgaukommando Report, the precise location of the plane’s crash is hard to determine.  FlightSafety lists the location as “4 km north-east of Doberlug-Kirchhain”, while Luftgaukommando Repoet KU 1174 lists two locations: “200 m vom Ostausgang nördlich Hennersdorf / n.b. Kirchhain Strasse Hennersdorf” (“200 m from the east exit north of Hennersdorf / n.b. Kirchhain Street Hennersdorf”), and, “ostausgang des Dorfes Hennersdorf bei Kirchhain, 200 m nördlich der Strasse” (“east exit of the village Hennersdorf near Kirchhain, 200 m north of the road”).

This map shows this general area relative to Berlin and Leipzig…   

…while this larger scale view shows the setting in the context of Leipzig and Cottbus…

…and finally, this map shows the locations of Finsterwalde, and, Doberlug-Kirchhain.

More blog posts about March 8, 1944, will follow…  

Two References

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

Freeman, Roger, The Mighty Eighth: Units, Men and Machines, Doubleday and Company, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1970

The Last Words of a Missing Man: The Letters of Private Asher Goldring, PAL/16323, March, 1945

“…he lived completely in his deeds,
and when they were over nothing of him remains –
nothing but words, precisely.”
(“Iron”, from The Periodic Table, by Primo Levi, 1984)

Private Asher Goldring, PAL/16323, הי״ד
(Photo via Museum of the Jewish Soldier in World War 2)

There are innumerable casualties of the Second World War for whom there by now remains very little in the way of memory, other than a letter or two, a sepia-toned portrait, or vague anecdotes and tenuous recollections … typically recollections of recollections … shared by descendants and other distant family members, recollections which only vaguely capture the essence of a fallen soldier’s character.  One such example is that of Major Milton Joel of the United States Army Air Force who was missing in action on November 29, 1943.  His only surviving correspondence is a single V-Mail letter and several pages of diary entries, all his other writings having been destroyed or lost in the eight decades since 1943.  However, on rare occasion, even some eighty-odd years “after the fact”, there are missing soldiers whose presence in the world is solidly attested to – even now – by the words they left behind. 

One such man was, and is, Private Asher Goldring (PAL/16323) of the Jewish Brigade of the “palestine” Regiment. 

I learned about Pvt. Goldring in an ongoing project of identifying military casualties (killed, wounded, missing, prisoners of war, etc.) among Jewish soldiers who served in the armed forces of the Allies during the Second World War.  In terms of soldiers from the Yishuv, the primary sources I consulted were:

1) Yoav Gelber’s Jewish Palestinian Volunteering in the British Army During the Second World War – Volume IV – Jewish Volunteers in British Forces (1984),

2) Jacob Lifshitz’s The Book of the Jewish Brigade: The History of the Jewish Brigade Fighting and Rescuing [in] the Diaspora (Sefer ha-Brigadah ha-Yehudit: ḳorot ha-ḥaṭivah ha-Yehudit ha-loḥemet ṿeha-matsilah et ha–golah) from 1950,

…and…

3) Henry Morris’ two-volume compilation of the names of Jewish soldiers of the British Commonwealth who fell during the Second World War, We Will Remember Them (volume I and II, the latter co-authored with Hilary Halter), published respectively in 1989 and 1994. 

These three works, combined with Casualty Lists published in The Palestine Post, Haaretz, and The Jewish Chronicle,  plus biographical records accessible through the Commonwealth War Graves Commission database, enabled a compilation of the names and biographical information pertaining to the thirty-seven fallen soldiers of the Jewish Brigade.

As this exploration progressed, the information I found attained a level far beyond nominal military information (“names and serial numbers”), for it entailed learning about the engagements in which the Brigade participated, particularly so for the three men of the Brigade who had been listed as “Missing”.  They were:

Moshe Shiefer (משה שיפר), Pvt., 38478, Yitzchak Sima (יצחק סימא), Pvt., 38081, Moshe Ernest Wadel (משה-ארנסט ואדל), Pvt., 38479, and, Asher (or Usher / Uszer) Goldring (אשר גולדרינג), Pvt., PAL/16323.  Of the four, Shiefer, Sima, and Wadel were eventually found, and interred at the Ravenna War Cemetery.

Though eventually deemed killed, the definitive nature of Asher Goldring’s fate has never actually been ascertained.  This was unknown in 1945 and it remains so today, nearly eighty years later after the evening of March 31 – April 1, 1945.  You can learn more about this event at my blog posts:

The Jewish Brigade at War – The Palestine Post, April 13, 1945

and

The Jewish Brigade: The Fallen.

Unlike Major Milton Joel, Asher’s memory is preserved in a trove of documents created during and after his military service.  These can be accessed at the website of Yad Vashem, as described in my post about fighter pilot Ensign Aleksandr Broch, of the Polish People’s Army’s  1st Fighter Aviation Regiment “Warszawa”. 

The material comprises: “Letters related to Asher Goldring, born in Konstantinov, Poland in 1910, and other documentation related to him, his wife Hana (Schmuckler) Goldring, born in Strlishche, Poland in 1910, and their family members, dated 1938-1948”, while the documents are fully described as: “Letters sent to Hana Goldring, regarding the fate of her husband Asher, who made aliya to Eretz Israel as a pioneer and enlisted in the Jewish Brigade.  Included in the letters is notification by the British Ministry of War, dated 13/01/1948, that the soldier Asher Goldring was killed in action; letters sent to Asher and Hana Goldring in the British Mandate for Palestine by their families in Poland in 1938; letters sent by Asher Goldring to his wife Hana while in service as a soldier in the Jewish Brigade, written during 13/01-31/03/1945; poems; a newspaper; drawings by Asher Goldring”.

Comprised of over 220 images, a perusal of these documents reveals the magnitude of Yad Vashem’s efforts in making such material available to the public:  The resolution of the scans is high; their quality excellent.  More importantly, in light of Yad Vashem’s catalog description of these items, and, upon perusing these documents, it struck me that there was – is – something truly special here: A man’s character is evident through the words he expresses, the words he writes, and (sometimes!) even the words he receive from others.  In that light, I thought it worthy of learning what Asher Goldring wrote to his family during the last month of his life.  And, sharing that with you.

To that end, the text of the 39 sheets comprising Asher’s correspondence during March of 1945 were transcribed.  This effort, by Mr. Vladimir Yurist, about whose skills (and contact information) you can read more in the Acknowledgements, was central and instrumental to the creation of this post.  Some of the letters were translated to English by Vladimir, and others through Google.  The Google translations involved many iterations for each letter until, grammatically, culturally, and subjectively (and even dare-I-say intuitively?) sensible English-language versions ultimately emerged. 

Thank you Vladimir!

(As you can see below, this post is – alas! – unfortunately absent of the transcribed Hebrew text of Asher’s letters.  The reason for this lies in practicality: I made several drafts of “this” post comprising the text of Asher’s letters in English and Hebrew.  However, though text in Hebrew can easily be formatted in Microsoft Word to correctly appear right-to-left, text in this orientation immediately flips to a left-to-right format in WordPress, when a blog’s default language setting is English.  Paralleling this, there don’t seem to be any WordPress Plugins designed to enable correctly oriented Hebrew and English … both … in the same blog post.  Thus, not wanting to induce vertigo in any Hebrew-speaking readers, I’ve reluctantly decided to eschew Hebrew text, in this post.  For now.)

But, getting back to the topic at hand…  Who was Private Asher Goldring, PAL/16323? 

He was born in Poland in 1910, the son of Haim David and Sara Goldring, and brother of Hava Rubinsztejn, Mordechay, Freidel, and Shmuel.  The husband of Chana (Schmuckler) Goldring, his daughter was Jezreela, whose name I suppose was inspired by that of the Jezreel Valley of northern Israel, and his son Yoram, whose name I (equally suppose?) was inspired by that of King Jeroham / Joram, the fifth kind of Judah.  In his letters, Asher refers to his son by the name Yerimika: in effect, “little Yoram”.

Izkor.il presents the following “picture” of Asher’s life, here translated from the Hebrew and slightly edited:

Born … to a devout Hasidic family, distant from Zionism and pioneerism.  At the age of seventeen [1927] he left home, went to pioneer training, and his parents reconciled with him only before his immigration to Eretz Israel.  He immigrated to Eretz Israel with his wife, whom he met while working on establishing branches and training kibbutzim of “Hechaluts” in 1932 , and the two joined Kibbutz HaKovesh, later Ramat HaKovesh.  In 1937 they moved to the Ra’anana settlement, where they built their home.  He became involved in the life of the settlement and his activity there was particularly felt in the development of auxiliary farms in the workers’ neighborhoods and in the agricultural production that was beginning there at that time.

After the outbreak of World War II, in 1941 he enlisted in the British Army and was assigned to Company 14 of the Infantry Unit (the “Buffs”), which formed the basis of the “National Israeli Battalion” and later the Jewish Brigade (the Army).  In his unit, in addition to the training and guard duties assigned to him, he devoted himself to social and cultural activity among his brothers in arms.  The “Nafi” (Shekm) that was under his management in the unit served as a kind of committee house for the soldiers and a focus for ideological agitation. 

His kibbutz and the Ra’anana Workers’ Council published a booklet in his memory, containing comments from friends about his character and work.  His name was also immortalized in the book “The Jewish Brigade .”  A residential neighborhood for discharged soldiers that was established after the war is named after him – “Asher Neighborhood.”

Asher (as “Uszer”) is commemorated at the Cassino Memorial, Italy, on Panel 13, Column 234 (Syria / Lebanon).

With that, what about the events of Asher’s last battle? 

First, excerpted from my post of June 4, 2021, “The Jewish Brigade at War – The Palestine Post, April 13, 1945”:

On April 20, 1945, The Jewish Exponent (Philadelphia) published an article by Jewish Telegraphic Agency correspondent Pat Frank entitled “Jewish Brigade Battles Germans in Hand-to-Hand Battle on Italian Front”.  Frank’s article concludes with the following paragraph, which in light of Goldring’s biography as presented above obviously pertains to the missing medic:  “As of several days ago, the Jewish Brigade had lost only one prisoner since they have been in action.  He was a first-aid man who accompanied a patrol into the German lines, and remained when the patrol withdrew to care for a wounded comrade.  When the Brigade advanced the next day, they found that the wounded man had died and the first-aid man had disappeared, and, presumably, been captured.”

Second and In much greater detail, here’s an excerpt from Jacob Lifshitz’s The Book of the Jewish Brigade: 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But first!  Here’s the front cover of my copy of The Book of the Jewish Brigade.  A little wore for wear, but the symbolism is highly evocative.  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On the night of March 31, 1945, 17th of Nisan 5755, a platoon from the First Battalion went out on duty and separated into small groups in different directions . The groups were to meet in the field two hours later. Half an hour later, as one of the groups approached a house occupied by the Germans, [when] only a few meters away from the house, grenades were thrown from inside the house, and large fragments of them hit the backs of Aryeh Shechter and Yosef Shneur, of blessed memory, concussing their hearts and rendering them unconscious on the spot, without them even having time to utter a word. The groups met in the field and continued their duty all night, entrenched themselves around the house, near which their comrades had fallen a few hours earlier, staring into the darkness and ambushing the enemy. The next day, on April 1st, in the afternoon, the group was again sent to the same house, to get ahead of the Nazi ambushers. That evening, at 11 o’clock, the group was replaced. Another group returned to their regular positions. On the way back, the enemy attacked them with mortars and covered the entire area they were moving in with fire, and every minute the boys clung to the ground. When they reached their positions, there were handshakes for those who remained and heartache for those who were absent.

That night, the night of March 31, a second guard of twelve soldiers from Company A under the command of the late Sergeant Leizer set out to ambush the enemy near Poganana in the Sanyo Valley. The guard advanced through “no man’s land” to a post called “Dempsey’s.” Leizer left his comrades behind and, accompanied by one soldier, went to inspect the house and found it apparently empty. As a result of the report on the inspection, the guard continued to advance toward the house, feeling certain that this time they had outrun the enemy and surprised him. But they had advanced a few steps and a deadly shower of fire from a “Schmeisser” and a large number of hand grenades were hurled upon them from a distance of about ten meters. Nine Germans were hiding in the same house, whom the searchers did not notice. For a brief moment, there was confusion, which came from surprise, and the boys fell to the ground and froze. A grenade hit Leizer and he shouted: “I’m wounded, give first aid,” and Private Goldring administered it to him. The soldiers asked Leizer whether to retreat, but he ordered to carry on, taking control of the situation, gave orders: “Flank on the right! Submachine gun – fire! Sergeant N. Command the squad!” and raised a mighty shout in his loud, clear voice, “A-z-r-a!”, so that it could be heard at the front position. The guard took up positions and began to fire in the direction of the enemy (1), but the enemy continued to rain fire. The new commander, Sergeant N., was disconcerted and danger was expected for the entire squad. At the signal of Kimchi, he turned on the radio, took command and ordered a retreat with the aid of the machine gun, and the comrades retreated to the trench about ninety meters away. There it was discovered that Sergeant Leizer and Goldring were missing. Goldring did not want to say goodbye to Leizer, and tried to help him until the last moment. The boys wanted to return and bring them with them, but due to the large number of wounded, they were not fit to walk and returned to their position. An order was immediately given to that company, and from it a fighting guard of 15 soldiers under the command of an officer set out to search for the two missing men and bring them with them, but they lost their way in the darkness of the night and had to return. On their way back, they entered a minefield, stepped on mines, and several were injured. Sergeant Michael (Martin) Levy was killed on the spot and Shlomo Shreyar was seriously wounded and died later. It was necessary to return. Only at dawn did stretcher bearers from the First Battalion remove the dead Leizer, while Goldring’s whereabouts are unknown to this day. It is not known whether he was captured or killed. Kimchi received a medal of distinction for his courage. M.M. [Military Medal]

The night of March 31 was a bloody one for the First Battalion: five dead, one missing, and ten wounded.

(1) Of the nine Nazis who were in the house, only three were seen fleeing, and it is assumed that they suffered six casualties. At dawn, the enemy set up a smoke screen to cover the removal of his dead from the house.

The other soldiers mentioned in the above account are:

“Leizer”: Leizer, Shuli, Sgt., 17637
“Kimchi”: Kimchi / Kimchy, Aharon Ben, Pvt., PAL/38518
“Levy”: Levy, Michael (Martin), Sgt., 15160
“Schechter”: Shechter, Aryeh (Liona), Pvt., 17225
“Shneur“: Schneur / Sznejer, Yoseh Chaim / J.C.H., Cpl., 16789
“Shreyar”: Schreer, Schlomo, Pvt., 16727 (Died of wounds 4/2/45)

To the best of my knowledge, nothing further has been learned about Private Goldring’s fate in the eighty years since 1945.  

What may have happened to him?

Based on the above account (albeit there do seem to be abundant “official” postwar documents at Yad Vashem, in Hebrew) he was unwounded when last seen, and his body – if he had been killed in action – let alone his “kit”, equipment, or weapon, were not located after Allied troops advanced through the immediate area of battle.  It is the absence of all these that strongly suggests he was captured.  If so – and I believe this was so – given the identities of the German units encountered over time by the Brigade, he may have been taken captive by members of the 4. Fallschirmjäger-Division (German 4th Parachute Division), a Luftwaffe formation which may have been involved in the Pedescala Massacre at Veneto, Italy, from April 30 to May 2, 1945, during which 63 civilians were murdered.  

Having been from the Yishuv and having served in a military unit ultimately under auspices of the British military, perhaps there is a Casualty File – a set of records roughly analogous to an American WW II Individual Deceased Personnel File – for Asher, which might include documents speculating about his fate.  That is, assuming that a full investigation into his fate, specifically involving identifying and questioning German POWs who were members of the units that opposed the Brigade from March 1 through April 1, was even conducted in the first place.  As to the location of Casualty Files for Yishuv WW II soldiers, I have no idea.

In a larger sense, as suggested in my post of May, 2021 concerning Corporal Jack Bartman of the United States Army Air Force, “…though I cannot cite specific references, I’m under the general impression (I can’t cite any references) that the investigation, prosecution, and punishment of war crimes in Italy – whether committed by the Wehrmacht, SS, or Italian Fascists; whether against Allied POWs, civilians (Jews and non-Jews both), or Partisans – did not have the organizational support, drive, and publicity that initially characterized the pursuit of justice for war crimes in the Western European and Pacific theaters of war…  Even if the effort in those theaters was eventually undermined and superseded through bureaucratic apathy, realpolitik, and economic interests.  (For more on this disillusioning story read Tom Bower’s Blind Eye to Murder – Britain, America and the Purging of Nazi Germany – a Pledge Betrayed.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In a vastly different vein, what do Private Goldring’s letters reveal about Asher Goldring, the father; the husband; the man?

Having read a very great amount of correspondence of WW II servicemen, a general impression that comes across is the degree – of course with significant exceptions – to which soldiers (and sailors, and airmen) when communicating with family, focus upon facets of their experiences that are entirely unrelated to war, politics, and ideology.  Instead, their letters are centered upon aspects of life that, while ostensibly mundane, are in reality at the vital center of all mens’ lives and therefore central to their emotional, intellectual, and moral endurance … and thus a spiritual bulwark in the face of death and injury: Family relationships and family dynamics, the conveniences (and inconveniences) of their living conditions, friends and comrades, food, and, diversions from the reality of war.  Certainly this is entirely true of Asher’s letters.  But, in a few of his writings, there is even more.

Whether due to his age (he was, after all, 31 years old), marriage, being a father twice over, or his youthful transformation from being a Hasidic Jew to an (ostensibly secular) Zionist pioneer … I think that dual identity is particularly important … or an highly unusual level of intellectual and spiritual depth, Asher’s letters manifest an awareness of his part in the long and continuing scope of Jewish history: The present is seen through the template of the past, and the cycle of Jewish festivals (specifically Purim and Pesach) is the prism through which he perceives his participation in the war against his generation’s Amalekites.  This is especially so in his letters of March 4 and March 11.  

But, before we come to the letters, here are a few photographs:

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Taken in Ra’anana in 1944, this is probably the last family picture of the Goldring family: Hannah, Asher, Jezreela, and Yoram.  (image from Moreshet Ra’anana.)

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Hannah, Jezreela, and Asher, also in 1944; also in Ra’anana.  (Image from Facebook.)

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Asher and a very young Jezreela. (Via Facebook.)

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Another portrait of Asher.  (Also from Facebook, though this image can be found at Izkor.il in very low resolution.)

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Also from Moreshset Ra’anana, this image shows Asher and two comrades.  The Hebrew caption approximately translates to: “[unit] 815 soldiers on home leave – 2nd World War, early 1940s.  From right to left – Shimon Rochberger, Asher Goldring and Pesach Monman.”

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Shoulder flash of the Jewish Brigade Group

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And now, the letters:

March 4, 1945 (Adar 19, 5705) – to Hannah

“…but the Jews have been given the possibility of fighting and saving their lives,
and fulfilling the ancient commandment:
“He who comes to kill you – arise early and kill him”.
And that is the only way the Jews were saved and smote their enemies,
and only after that did salvation come to Israel.”

4.3 Sunday

Hello my Dear!

I remember a time when I didn’t know the day of the week, and so hours could pass by without knowing.  I remember a time when a friend asked me on the day of rest whether it was Shabbat.  In that case it was a Tuesday, and that could just have been exactly a day of rest.  That is how the festival of Purim passed for me, although the saying is that Purim is not a festival and fever is not a disease, but I, who contracted cholera, know that Purim is also a festival.  And I have always taken this holiday seriously: first of all it is interesting, because we have very few happy festivals, and furthermore it is a festival of victory over Haman.  And when else has a victory over Haman been as necessary, and needed as in these days?   There has never been a period in which there have been so many Hamans, so many oppressors.  Who have not only decreed to destroy [and] to kill, but have also actually killed and destroyed, and Hamans of another kind who did not permit those who succeeded in saving themselves – to do so.

And like them – so today, the decree has not been revoked, but the Jews have been given the possibility of fighting and saving their lives, and fulfilling the ancient commandment: “He who comes to kill you – arise early and kill him”.  And that is the only way the Jews were saved and smote their enemies, and only after that did salvation come to Israel.  A new period of glory was halted due to the Hamans and their sons, and “Korish” [Cyrus] came into the world and halted a temple for Israel.  All this requires that that first Jews will fight and overcome their enemies.  The Purim of banquet will be the Purim of that time – Jews fighting their enemies.  We shall surely overcome them and we shall surely be redeemed, and the house of Israel will rise speedily.

Goodbye and write.
Kisses to all.
Father.

The use of the phrase “fever is not a disease” amidst mention of Purim does not emerge from the winds of chance, and reveals Asher’s familiarity with the literature of the Haskalah.  The phrase appears in Y.L. (Yitskhok Leybush) Peretz’s “Kol Kitvei Peretz” Volume 5, Mashal vedimayon … the date of which I don’t know! … as described by Prof. Rabbi Wendy Zierler of Hebrew Union College, in her TheTorah.com essay, “The Enduring Value of “These Days of Purim”. 

On pondering her translation of Peretz’s words about Purim, it seems that Peretz wrote of the holiday in words of deep skepticism, going, “…so far as to deem Purim a “fever” – at best, an occasion to “dance on the grave of former national glory”.  The Rabbi’s translation of Mashal vedimayon follows.  You be the judge.  (Why do Peretz’s words remind me of Chaim Nachman Bialik’s 1904 In The City of Slaughter?)

Purim is no holiday.
Fever is no illness.

There is no reason to envy one who trembles with fever,
and even less so, to envy a people whose holiday is Purim.

Not because the salvation doesn’t come from the hands of a man.
Miracles aren’t required – –
one can use suspenders to hold up one’s pants.
And there’s no shame in a Deborah, a Yael, or a Judith.

To Esther we owe thanks for the first victory won not against, but under,
foreign rule.

Purim is the anniversary of the first “protected Jews,”
the first who were close to the sovereign,
the first disclosing of a secret,
and the first “making of a bed” for a king.

Purim is a joyous day for beggars, klezmer musicians, masqueraders …
and for the nation like them!

Dance on strange beds, wretched soul,
on the grave of your former glory – drink and forget, if you can!

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March 6, 1945 (Adar 21, 5705) – to Jezreela

6.3.45

Hello dear!

Yesterday I did not write nor did I think that I would be able to write today.  And here I am writing.  Although I thought about speech because the last few nights sleep is not normal and it’s desirable to have a little speech during the day.  But the noise is too great.  There are some people who don’t mind all of this with a blanket over their head, and sleep.  The day after tomorrow and I will do the same.  For now I can’t.  I’ve been lying down for an hour and can’t fall asleep.

In the meantime, good news has arrived and steals the possibility of sleep, and therefore there’s time to write and the daily order of things doesn’t change.  So time passes without having much to write or tell.  I guess you have a lot to tell and I have a lot to tell, I’m just waiting for that time, I hope it’s very close and in the meantime, peace and kisses, write a lot.

Father

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March 8, 1945 (Adar 23, 5705) – to Hannah

8.3.45 Thursday

Hello dear Hannah!

Last night I received one of the rarest letters I will write in which there is a little about what is going on with you. And records about your situation, I start from the end.  A drop to remove one worry from you. Hannah, I’m not tired of reading your letter and no matter how it was raised, I understand that you are tired of writing because otherwise I would have asked you to write longer letters for the conversation and how much I already miss conversation with you, the much longer it will last.

It seems to me that the winter you are passing through was not a week of peace and quiet, but troubles on top of troubles, one has not yet passed and the other is already coming.

An illness on top of the last one – you can call it the period of illnesses – I hope that the worst was already in the past and now spring has come and a real spring has come for us also.

And most importantly health; I hope Hannah that you will continue to write me letters like this and longer ones that give me more details about what is going on at home, and do it without considering whether the news is good or not.  I will also try to write you a little about what is happening with me of course as much as possible, because you know that I am very limited not only in writing but sometimes there is also a picture that is not allowed to be sent.

And I want to pass the censorship law, and if I tell you just a few things about what should not be written, you will immediately see that there is almost nothing left that is allowed.

It is forbidden to write where I am, of course; it is forbidden to write what I do and where I live; if I travel; it is forbidden to write that I am traveling to a certain or unknown place, or even that I am at a wedding; it is forbidden where I am to send [notice of] a wedding that is being promoted, and more is forbidden, forbidden, and forbidden – and here you will understand how difficult it is to write about my life and within the limits of what is allowed.  I will tell you that we relatively live very well both in terms of housing and food, society, etc. and for the sake of illustration I will point out a few things to you.

For example, lately I’ve been drinking a lot of wine, don’t think of me as a renter [?], but it’s simply instead of water, because it’s sometimes in short supply.  I mean there’s no shortage of water for bathing and for any other use, only for drinking, and then as you know, par navet eats ma’an loosberlit – while on the road, they drink wine instead of water, and there’s no shortage at all.  From all kinds of sweet and sour and shock [?] we have a new discovery – apple wine.  And it is not at all intoxicating and very tasty.  From that alone you could have already learned that a paradise really dipping in wine is here.

But it’s still not bad.  Here, for example, now with evening twilight, I’m sitting together with a fairly large group of friends in the center of a room.  A fire is burning by us in the fireplace, and it both warms and spreads light throughout the room; the darkness is thick.

Some of them write letters, some play cards and some engage in small talk.  And so everyone finds work according to their wishes.  Today I did a little helping with the cook.  I was taken care of by friends who think I know how to arrange spicy things.  They think because of my excellence as a comedian.  That’s why I made noodles for dinner today and they were very successful, and in this my situation is even worse because I already have an order for tomorrow.  So from here see that everything is fine, just one detail that is not completely fine yet.

And if it was possible to take off my shoes a little at night, I already miss that a lot, but I hope that in a day or two we will forget that too.  I hope all this gives you an idea of ​​what my day is like.

Hannah I am writing this letter in breaks and this is already after the third break and I hope to finish it.  In the meantime I received a package.  I think this is the package you wrote me about although it is also from Egypt by Sephora.  In a package a knife, chocolate biscuits and cigarettes.  I thank you very much and of course all the company that are with me.  Thank you in any case.  Hannah believe me that I am the one who doesn’t lack anything and it’s a shame on your money.  I understand your good and faithful will as if I received the best packages.

Be at peace and kisses with love

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March 10, 1945 (Adar 25, 5705) – to Hannah

CMF 10.3.45 Saturday

Hello, my dear.

Although you have not yet received the continuation of your promised letter, I have received something that is also important to me.

Hannah I will confess to you.  And I hope you forgive me.  And you will not see in this any breach of trust.

You know I’m very worried about the condition of your hand.  And I always doubted whether you were telling me the whole truth.  And that too with good intentions, you don’t want to put me in a bad mood while I can’t help you.  But I want to know the whole truth about the condition of the hand; what should be done and if we do everything necessary.  I therefore wrote a letter to Dr. Buchstein and asked him for details about the situation.  And today I received a friendly reply from him and I am also sure that he is telling me the whole truth as far as he knows it.

According to his letter, he had a special conversation with Dr. Gottfried about the situation and what kind of healing you should receive.  He assures me that there is no fear and the hand will return to its strength as it was before.  It is true that it requires prolonged treatment.  But it will suffice.  The treatment is radiotherapy.

Hannah, you will surely forgive me for that, because even if I had been at home, I would have had the permission to go to the doctor and ask about your condition, out of fear that the patient is not told the whole truth.  That’s why I did it in a letter and since the answer is very reassuring I also want to share it with you.  Although it’s hard, Hannah, don’t worry, and Hannah, everything will be back together without any worries.  You know I trust doctors more than feelings.

Nothing has happened with me.  The fireplace spreads heat and also some smoke.  In the bunk room some of the company are snoring in a deep sleep, and some delve into the card game and immerse themselves in it with all their senses.  Their eyes are shiny and their faces are sweaty.  They do not notice what is happening around them.  Outside, the sun was approaching sunset, it was a spring day and a cool wind was blowing.  I spent the whole day on guard and most of my time is occupied with various thoughts, while cracking seeds which also belong to our loot and are here in whole sacks.  And that’s how the days and nights pass. 

Hannah in the previous letter I forgot to answer your question.  The menorah costs together with the shipment about a lira and a half in Eretz Israel money.

Peace be with you and write.

Kisses to all of you from Father.

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March 11, 1945 (Adar 26, 5705) – to Hannah

“After all, we all know what they did to our families. 
And each of us has known for a long time
that he was orphaned from his entire family,
and if anyone is left alive, it is almost a miracle. 
After all, it’s as if he has been resurrected.”

11.3.45 Sunday

Hello dear!

Hannah, I understand your mood after reading Riva’s letter.  It’s really terrible and awful.  But we have to perceive the situation differently.  After all, we all know what they did to our families.  And each of us has known for a long time that he was orphaned from his entire family, and if anyone is left alive, it is almost a miracle.  After all, it’s as if he has been resurrected.  Indeed, Hannah, I always told you and I repeat it this time as well.  Let’s not lose all hope and let’s not weep for everyone, although the destruction is general.  But there are still remnants left and we must also have some left from our families.

And now the day has already passed, Sonia is alive, Riva is alive.  Hannah I say there is still hope.  Only now have these places been released and only now are they starting to be retaken from the forests, from countries of refuge, from all kinds of remote places, and rejected corners where the people who drowned in the sea of murders hid.  And so Hannah, we will accept everyone who appears before us with joy as if he were born again, and we hope that our family will continue to grow in survivors.  And for our part, we will do everything to help them.

Of course, the best help would have been if we could have brought them to Israel, for now there are no possibilities for that.  You know that regarding Sonia I wrote to the agency and the answer was negative; they sent her a package.  Here again I received a letter from the agency in which they inform about the package they will send, I am attaching the letter to you.  We will also include Riva in our treatment.

There is nothing new with me.  Beautiful days, probably summer is just around the corner.  The good news is there is hope.  The big summer is coming…

I wrote a letter to Jezreela, I touched a little on the painful question, although according to you it doesn’t help much, but it seems to me that despite everything I have to write.

Peace to you and peace to the Bartov Lezvi family and all who seek peace

Kisses to you all dear

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 12, 1945 (Adar 27 5705) – to Hannah

12.3.45 Monday

Dear Hannah!

Good and bad are very abstract terms.  It is hard to judge a situation without comparing it with another.  More correctly, when a person lives a normal life, he doesn’t even feel the good in everything he does, or in every free movement he makes.  When a person is closed in a place for even a very limited time, then he begins to feel how good freedom is. How good is freedom, how good is movement.  For instance, when did I know how to appreciate the (?) of a bed – it is a simple, natural and ordinary (?) thing.  A person sleeps in a bed; how is it possible I shall get special enjoyment?  Only now (?) I have been living by mistake.  To sleep in a bed is (?) and now I am enjoying such luxury (?) springs and alone in a bed.  (?) Can you understand (?) that it is possible.  (?) It is a little hard to fall asleep (?) that disturbed my sleep. (?)  And one of the things (?) goes.  Hannah, if, God forbid, I had to sleep in a bed (?) with a frame with white sheets and a blanket, clothes that are warm and a little dirty outfit (?) and instead…  I am afraid I would not be able to fall asleep.  That’s how it is, Hannah, don’t think that previously it was very bad, but now this is relatively even better.  Only one thing is bad.  For a few days now I have not sent the children pictures, and I have nothing to send you, and there is no possibility here to obtain anything here worth a penny.  I’m very sorry, but that will also pass quickly.  Because the days of spring are beautiful.  Especially when there is much rest, we engage in all kinds of games.  I have become a sportsman again – playing netball, and other sports, so that the time will pass quickly.

Well, enough talking about my Paradise.  Soon you will start to be jealous of me.  For a few days now I have received no letters.  A number of letters have accumulated with me and they will arrive together.

Goodbye to you and to all our friends.

Kisses to all.
Yours with love,
Asher

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March 14, 1945 (Adar 29, 5705) – to Jezreela

14.3.1945 Wednesday

Hello my dear girl!

Yesterday I wrote you a letter and was indignant that I had not received any letter from you for a long time.  I ask your forgiveness for my unjust indignation.  Today I learned about your attack.  I hope it heals quickly and goes away completely and doesn’t come back again.

Then also write me a letter for you and for Yerimika as usual.  I stopped sending the pictures because I can’t get any more.  These days also pass quickly and again I will send you some things, and in the meantime I will send you something new.  I found a collection of symbols [stamps?] from all Italian cities.

I collected them and not all of them are in good condition.  But I think you will like it.  I have a set of 264 of them, and among them are also beautiful ones.  I might find more

Well, my child, be healthy, it’s time for you to be healthier too.  I hope this will be the last attack.

Hello to all your friends and especially to Miriam, give kisses to Yerimika [little Yoram] and mother for me.

Kisses to you

Father

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March 17, 1945 (Nisan 3, 5705) – to Jezreela and Hannah

17.3.45 Shabbat Evening

Good week dear!

This day I received a letter from the Giladi family, there is nothing special about it. The main writer, Esther, also gives [news?] from Yoram and Jezreela and you also.  “Only saw Hannah at home but we were not there long due to lack of time.”

Nothing has been changed for me during the week, Jezreela.  Yesterday I sent you some landscape photos again.  I got them by accident and glad I had something to send you.  Why haven’t I received letters for almost a week now?

Hannah, my letter is not some kind of anthem, but because there is no telegram soon, in this I am giving you an example of how you can write a letter even when there is no time

Peace and kisses to you all

From father

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 19, 1945 (Nisan 5, 5705) – to Hannah

19.3.45 Monday

Hello dear!

Hannah – for nothing – I resented the fact that I don’t receive letters.  It wasn’t you.  The blame is probably a delay in the mail; the letter before the last one was from the 8th to the newest and last from the 10th, the difference was only two days.  For me; it was a difference of days in receiving them.

Yesterday I received a letter from Gershon.  There is nothing new in the letter.  He again sent me a package for Passover.  This is what he writes in the letter.  It is very unpleasant for me that he sends packages so often.  If only I could also send him something.  Maybe I’ll write to him not to send a “rope” for his money.

Hannah, we’re not such bad students.  But there is no end to learning… you know that the more you learn the more the need to learn grows.  And life itself is only a lesson and it is the best lesson.  [?]

[?]  In relation to Jezreela, I also imagine that it would be very good if it were possible that on days off, such as school, you could visit Kitor, although I understand that you have enough things to do.  In any case, it would be advisable to take an interest in it as soon as possible and find out all the places and details, what are the special difficulties, and let me know about it.  Maybe I too can participate in whatever it is, whether with advice or actual help; of course you also need to ask her opinion on that.  I think it’s important that she agrees, especially if it’s in the company of children.  In any case, you should show interest and as soon as possible. 

I don’t have anything special that serves the matter of the war, and wait for the final day in faith.  I also believe in the Moshiach; that this time the end is near and maybe even closer than one thinks.

And be safe and warm kisses to you all

Goodbye children.

Father

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 22, 1945 (Nisan 8, 5705) – to Hannah

22.3.45 Thursday

Dear Hannah, hello!

I didn’t write yesterday, because during the day I traveled to the nearby city and returned late at night.  On my way back I found a package containing a knife, shaving cream, a brush and razors and handkerchiefs, all good things and I thank you very much.  I just don’t know where to put them because I have a very serious space limitation / problem.

Hannah, I measure your desire to send packages according to my wishes and it seems to me that I enjoy when I only have the option of sending you something more that you enjoy, while receiving the things.  And also in your reply I wrote to you about two weeks ago, I received a package which sender’s address was Tzfora’s and it contained chocolate and goodies.  And here is a package again today, plenty of packages and my satchel is full.

I won’t say more than that because I can’t prohibit the shipment to you…  But consider this, Gershon also sends.

And now that I’ve traveled it’s an opportunity for me although I won’t be able to write much either about the place or the places I visited, although I didn’t visit that much either because there was nothing there.

Only one thing that I am very happy with again:  I have a lot of pictures for the children and two of them are larger.  Maybe you would like to hang one on the wall in front of Yerimika [little Yoram].

And the second is where you will determine a few other things all for the children, and I hope that the children will enjoy and be happy about the things, so I am already starting to enjoy them.

I searched all over this city to get something more substantial for you and I’m very sorry I got nothing.  And so I also asked you to be content with pictures…  I still hope that maybe by Passover I will be able to get something and if not you will have a happy holiday without it.

Today for me it’s Wednesday.  A package from home had pictures of the children and I divided them according to the scenes and according to the times to send them.  In addition to this, my friends in Israel also receive a package and it also contains a lot of chocolate; of course I enjoy it too.  And in addition to all these.

I once told you in one of my letters about a fellow who is in the class with me, and I am a letter writer for him.  I already told you about him.  He is an excellent, kind-hearted boy and now all kinds of trouble have fallen.  He is one of the refugees.  Only his education is very limited and that is why I write the letters; in particular, each letter is difficult.  For example, he has an uncle who writes despite Keshet [?] with many commas, of course I answer letters with those and the uncle is very happy to receive his letters.  And lately some romance has developed between him and a girl from there.  I may be guilty of this because I write the letters.

And here is the last case, a few months before his enlistment he was in the Ramat Hasharon group and he really wanted to write to them, so he had trouble as usual.  So I helped him and wrote a letter that I also liked.  What did the people of Ramat Hasharon do?  In their letterhead they printed his letter with a special emphasis and of course with his signature and started to come up with material for him and ask him to continue writing.  And the guy’s eyes are beaming with joy and of course I am keeping a secret only a few know because they saw when I wrote.

For many others it’s a surprise…  In the morning the fellow greets me with joy and desires to be with me in his joy.

Hannah, maybe these things are not of interest to you, I just wanted to draw the type of common man for you, who with all his heart is a prisoner of the help you give him, and his friendship is a loyal friendship.

And now Hannah means that I’m already writing nonsense.  As you can see I write numbers at the top of my letters; continue them so that you know if everyone is therefore progressing and accepted.  If there is a missing number between the letters, you will know that it is a package or pictures or something similar, because this is also included in my number, even if it doesn’t have the number written on it.

And finally, my dear, I’m trying to prepare myself and you that we probably won’t see each other again this Passover.  And I’m sure this is the last holiday of our loneliness and therefore we will make an effort, to help overcome with strength…

Although it is difficult.  Because I miss you so much…

Hello warm kisses
Yours with love

xxxxx

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 25, 1945 (Nisan 11, 5705) – to Hannah

“The passing days are about history.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“I just finished reading a small book called Karl – and Anna,
although it refers to the previous war,
it is very typical of this war as well. 
And so I’m a little “under the influence”.”

25.3.45 Sunday

Dear Hannah, Hello!

There are a few moments at my disposal when writing is possible, which means that the mail will go, so I will hurry and write a few words because I didn’t write yesterday either for the same reason.

The passing days are about history.  In the days when we meet together we will have a lot to tell.  But now, in their present time, they are of great interest. The days are not easy either, but it all passes quickly.  The best news is getting better and better in a few more days and it will be good.

How are you dear?  Has it really been a long time since I received any letter that are usually in the mail?

Anyway, Hannah, my dear, don’t worry, everything is fine.  The main thing is to keep writing letters because at this moment this is the most important thing.  The main thing is that there is no shortage.

Hannah, don’t be surprised that there are sometimes differences in writing in terms of content, form and writing.  It all depends on the conditions on the spot and a little on the state of the power…  I want you to understand this very well.

I just finished reading a small book called Karl – and Anna, although it refers to the previous war, it is very typical of this war as well.  And so I’m a little “under the influence”.

Hello and many, many kisses

Yours with love

Asher

The “small book” Asher is referring to is Leonhard Frank’s Karl and Anna.  Though first published in Berlin in 1926, its plot is best understood from the Internet Movie Database summary of its 1947 film adaptation “Desire Me”, which – otherwise identical in terms of protagonists and plot? – was actually set during and after the Second World War. 

Namely, “Released from a POW camp at the end of WW2, a French soldier tricks the wife of a fellow POW into believing her husband was killed by the Germans and seduces the grieving woman, but the ‘dead’ husband eventually returns home.”  Similarly, as described at IMDB by Ron Kerrigan, “Shortly after WWII, flashbacks tell the story of Marise, her husband Paul, and Jean, who was imprisoned with Paul in a German camp. While attempting to escape from the camp, Paul is shot, and Jean goes to see Marise, confirming the news she already had gotten about Paul’s death. Jean has fallen in love with Marise through the stories Paul told him and wants to stay with her in the seaside town in Brittany, where Paul owned a small business.”

The late-forties film adaptation, entitled “Desire Me”, was directed by Jack Conway, George Cukor, Mervyn Le Roy, and Victor Saville (all uncredited!), and starred Greer Garson, Robert Mitchum, and Richard Hart.  (Read more here.)  

You can view the full movie at ok.ru/video, while you can read the book at the Internet Archive.  

Was the inspiration for Frank’s book the (true) story of the French peasant Martin Guerre?  Were the tale of Martin Guerre, and “Desire Me”, influences upon Sébastien Japrisot in the writing of “A Very Long Engagement“?

Certainly the particular edition of Karl and Anna read by Asher read will never be known, but given that even as of 2025 the novel hasn’t been translated into Hebrew, the obvious conclusion is that Asher was already sufficiently fluent in either English or German to have read and appreciated the text.  WorldCat reveals that the first British edition appears to have been published in London in 1930.  

Here’s the first American edition, published by Brentano’s in New York, in 1929.  This copy is from Between the Covers-Rare Books, Inc., in Gloucester City, New Jersey, via ABE Books.

This edition, via Badger Books of Woollahra, New South Wales, Australia, was published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons in New York in 1930.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 26, 1945 (Nisan 12, 5705) – to Hannah

26.3.45 Monday

Dear Hannah, Hello!

The weather is somewhat rainy, so I slept well today instead of last night, because at night sleep is difficult… but it’s good that you can sleep during the day.  For every human being practicing rising early [?] are the first days.  And you get used to that passing, and everything passing. 

Hannah, I asked you not to worry because everything is fine and will be fine.  And if they also preach different lines, and there will be those who are confident, how many, then there will also be those who will cry.  Don’t be among the crying, remember the sun, you wait for me and I will return… and in a few days I will also write more details about my life.  

All around me now everything is blooming – trees covered with white blossoms; the whole field is green and wildflowers of all colors decorate the green carpet the difference is big….  

Therefore, hello to you and all the best

Warm kisses from father.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 28, 1945 (Nisan 14, 5705) – to Hannah

“Hannah, I’ll tell you the truth, before I sat down to write,
I thought I would write,
and write without limit about everything –
about my feelings and the past in recent times,
but as such, my tongue has unfortunately turned the pen from emotional writing about feelings,
so we will postpone the writing for another time
and for now, Happy Holidays to you,
don’t think too much, Hannah, everything will be fine,
that’s it.”

28.3.45 Wednesday

Hello dear!

Today is Passover Eve.  And it’s a bit difficult for me to write…  It’s close to noon.  I’ve already managed to rest a few hours from the night before so my mind is clear.  The weather has also improved and it’s really nice outside, the sun warms a pleasant spring temperature.  I am in a rift.  All around me orchards and vineyards rise and fall on the mountain slopes.  And at their feet is spread a green carpet of winter grains and patches of grass.  In order to list their names of the ones decorated with an abundance of flowers, I need the help of Jezreela.  Under one of the trees that is completely covered with white blossoms and gives off a pungent smell, my desk is lined with ammunition boxes.  And one of the boxes also serves as a bench for me.  The weather and the surrounding nature give off a smell until you completely forget what’s around you, and sometimes you won’t even hear the noise of the cannon or the explosion of the bombs. whose sound is heard quite often.

And how clear the contrast is here, everything around me is abundant with heat, everything blooms, and grows, and everything is determined to enjoy the beauty of nature, and in contrast to all this beyond here, mankind sows and scatters destructive tools, bringing death to the trees of Lebanon and to man.  Sending his final venom, despite his knowledge of his last dying days, this predatory and crazy animal on the brink of its miscarriage has not yet surrendered!  But the bitter storm is getting closer and in that there is a bit of speculation until Germany is destroyed, every additional German killed, every additional destruction means a little bit of peace, and in that there is a bit of speculation.  Hannah, although today I will write of the events at the front, it turned out that it is no longer new for you.  In my opinion it was already in all the country’s newspapers and perhaps in special and great moral deceptions.  I have time for it in bold letters because it is very simple.

Everyone gets used to it and you can also get used to the fact that bombs are falling all around and you are quietly doing your work.  The period since we came to Italy has been a very interesting and rainy period since the days of the confederacy and the whole page up to the front.  I will also try in one of the letters to write to you these impressions of the places of recuperation [?] I was in until I arrived at the front and I hope that by the time you receive this letter I will already be far from the front again or that I won’t be at all anymore Front In any case, not everything is dark here either. Feeling pretty good no fear and a good melee.

And the main thing is that there is also a sense of anticipation when you see that a German was killed or captured and [I can] describe to you how much pleasure it is when you see a group of Germans from the master race compared to how miserable they are..

There are also humorous things that will surely enter Jewish folklore.  Imagine that one of our friends entered a German position and the Germans were running like moles with their heads stuck in the ground in fear.  And the fellow shouts out loud, “Pigs!  Jews here!”  Of course in their language.  But those who stand up raise their hands and one begins to plead: “I’m not a Nazi, I’m an Austrian social democrat”, that’s how the master race who come for their wages surrender at the front…

We’ll settle for the front this time, it’s finally already Passover, is it already the holiday of Herut [freedom] and the Redemption, and we also feel the characteristic of the holiday, and this prompted my friend to think that we’ll sleep with him, and he’s making sure to gather around a small group that follows him, and he’s even an organizing order, and we already have unleavened bread for all seven days, and I’ll also be forced to eat unleavened bread.  Because there will be no bread we also have wine that I got from Eretz and instead of food every day of the week we drink Italian wine. Tonight we will drink Eretz-Israeli wine and remember that Herut [freedom] is today.

Hannah, I’ll tell you the truth, before I sat down to write, I thought I would write, and write without limit about everything – about my feelings and the past in recent times, but as such, my tongue has unfortunately turned the pen from emotional writing about feelings, so we will postpone the writing for another time and for now, Happy Holidays to you, don’t think too much, Hannah, everything will be fine, that’s it.

My Passover is a release from slavery to wait a few more days until everything is over.  A new light will shine on us all.

Peace be upon you and happy holidays

Kisses to all

From father

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 30, 1945 (Nisan 16, 5705) – to Hannah

30.3.45

Hello dear!

Hannah, I understand, for your sake, that even on a day when there is no possible respite, I try to give a sign of life, but I ask that if you do not receive letters for several days, do not worry because it is not always possible to write

Hello and all the best

Kisses to everyone from Father

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

March 31, 1945 (Nisan 17, 5705) – to Hannah

31.3.45 Saturday

Hello, my dear Hannah,

My letters have been very short lately.

There are times when even though the moment is full of things[ events], you still have no option to cancel them.  And I will tell you the truth, that writing is very difficult for me.  However, know that I feel absolutely fine and physically and mentally healthy.  I try to write to inform you of my well-being.  I am going to sleep in the rear to rest a little. 

There is hope that the state of affairs will progress.  As in my prior days, we will have to move forward more, so in the meantime the whole thing will be over.  Half of Germany is already occupied and the full occupation is being completed.

Hannah don’t, worry keep writing often, kisses to all of you.

Yours with personal love

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Unknown Date – to Hannah

My Dear,

After a long break I received your letter today with Yerimika’s [little Yoram’s] paintings.  I had really waited for much too long.  All the time I suspected the postal service.  However, when I received the letter it was from the 19th, and the letter before that was from the 10th, it was too long a time, especially for now.  My dear, you write that you know everything.  I suppose that everything you know is the truth….  And I hear your heartbeats in the nights.  I hear them well, although not always quietly.  But, my dear, don’t worry.  Time is already measured in days.  Very soon, a little more effort and I shall return home, and everything will return to normal.

Hannah, your last letter is all good.  I pray that it will continue thus.  Are you all really feeling well, and does your hand no longer hurt?  Or is there also a little desire to give me only good news?  I, at any rate, am very happy with the letter. 

Hannah, again I repeat my old request, you understand the value of the letter, make a little more effort and write to me more often.  With me there is nothing new.  Whatever you read in the newspaper – don’t take too much notice.  The noise will be great for sure….  And you should further know that everything they write has already passed a long time ago.  They never write about the present.  Accept things with simplicity, because everything will be good.  I am now also in a new “palace”, in a family room.  My partner is one of the members whom I mention a few times in my letters, the one for whom I write the letters.  This room was probably a stable or cowshed in the past, it is hard to say with certainty, because here in Italy, in the farmers’ houses, all the houses are built so that the house, the stable and the cowshed are built together.   Although they are large houses, with two floors, the building is of bricks. The living rooms are mostly on the upper floor and the lower floors are the farm quarters.  Therefore, I am also on the lower floor.  And I have a special chamber, with two beds and a small hole which serves as the entrance.  If you remember the farmers’ houses in Poland, each house had such a hole underneath the oven for the chickens, usually for laying eggs.  In our vicinity they would call it a “kotleh”, and don’t ask again how the horse could get into such a hole?  Because, once a upon a time it was different, and now it has been adapted to the needs of “people”, and there I feel not bad, although it is always dark there, but that also has an advantage, because at night I am not also in my Lidze, as I call it in my language.  Except during the day and then it is good that it is dark.  It is more comfortable to sleep, and anyway I have installed a small lamp made out of a little metal tin.  With a wick, which gives both light and smoke, and that’s not bad… What can I tell you, I even installed a small cabinet for books in this room.  As for the beds that we have, we would really be able to take them into any decent house.  So that everything is OK but for a single small disturbance that remains, and certainly today, I shall get rid of that as well.  Before I came into my room the chimney from the kitchen was aimed into there.  Although smoke is a good thing.  But it was a little too thick.  So, I blocked the chimney.  But some smoke still gets in.  We shall fix that as well.

Well, Hanny, as you will read in my letter, I continue to laugh, and that is a good sign.   So you may also learn from me and don’t worry.  Yesterday, together with your letter, I also received a letter from Josef ???, but it was only a copy of a letter sent to you.  From that I learn that you wrote to him, as it is a letter of reply.  In Yiddish they say: Pashtonkene fish geges on kun ba’aya nite geaht.  [You eat stinky fish and you don’t have a bad night.]  But don’t worry, soon we shall be free without any favors and without any releases.  By the way, what did you write to me?  I also received letters from Janshly / Minshly [?] and Zippora Reichman.  But here some kind of mishap occurred.  She seems to have written letters to a guy named Jacob, and she mixed up the letters.  Before sundown, I examined the letters twice, until I was convinced that the letter, that is, it is his correct address, and the letter starts with “Dear Jacob”, and of course all the contents are not for me…

Because I think you write everything, even a little more…

So, again, my dear Hannale [little Hannah], enjoy a good and happy festival.  When it becomes possible to write about everything I shall also write to you happy things.

Goodbye, and warm kisses.

Regards to neighbours and friends.

Yours with love.

Asher

Comment: Though Asher’s letters are obviously in Hebrew, the aphorism “Pashtonkene fish geges on kun ba’aya nite geaht.” (You eat stinky fish and you don’t have a bad night.) is in Yiddish. This appears to be a play on the saying: “Ate stinky fish and thrown out of the city.” (My thanks to Naomi, Yiddish translator par excellence, for the translation!)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Unknown Date – letter fragment – to Hannah

That it will not be difficult in any case must be careful.  And I am ready to testify that it is possible to live in a house that is not “whitewashed”, and [with] all the plastering.   Try to keep the renovations and improvements to the one that I will return to.  And I hope it will be soon.

You may get the impression that I am always at rest, because at another time it is impossible to write.  Or rather, it is forbidden to write.  Life here is pretty good; my goodness at “home” so it is tidy.  And one of the main things is to have a bit of a blanket, but it’s not difficult either.

The days are very beautiful.  The [?] has begun and these are the signs of spring.  Also an old shower and plenty of wine so there is no need for drinking water.  All the same Hannah, don’t worry, I’m ready at any moment for any enjoyment, and to end the war…

Hannah, what’s up with my family?  You don’t receive any letters from them?  And what about Yantel and Tischel; there used to be a letter during the days of your illnesses and in this matter.  I also answered her and since then I have not received anything from them.  I also answered the letter to the Giladi family, is Shmuel still continuing with the recruitment process?

Hannah In one of the letters you reveal your negative relationship to [?] Brigade.  You need to change your relationship, because for our benefit I think that the brigade will be there even after the days of the war.  This is what I think will be, not me.   Therefore there should be others.  It’s hard for us, but we need to mobilize.

Greetings to all our friends and to all who ask for our peace

Kisses to you all

Yours with love
Father

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Newspaper Article – September, 2001 (5761)

The following news article, translated from the (I think) “Israel Revealed” Facebook page, is from a September, 2001 issue of the “New Direction” newspaper.  It presents a very brief overview of Asher’s life, beginning with the return of the veterans of the Jewish Brigade to Israel in 1945, Asher obviously not among them.

The Asher Neighborhood – named after Asher Goldring

By: Leah Klein

Many of us from Ra’anana remember that day when Ra’anana celebrated the return of the Israeli soldiers who served in the British army and the brigade.  The residents and school children gathered in the center of the settlement – near the Great Synagogue and watched every car that came from the east of the settlement.  When the soldiers came, the meetings were excited.  Flowers, hugs, crying and joy.  We children ran through everyone.  The only one who did not return was Asher Goldring.

Jezreela – Asher’s daughter, who lives in Ra’anana with her family members, says that in the newspaper “Davar” news appeared during her father’s service about a brave and heroic soldier – Asher Goldring – who remained in the field alone and after three days returned to the base.  Clearly in the newspaper organization they learned that the name was wrong and that it was Asher Goldring – and he was missing.

On the day the soldiers returned, mother told her, “Don’t go, he won’t come back.”  But she joined all the revelers with hope in her heart.

Asher (1910-1945) was born in Poland to a Hasidic family.  He studied in a classroom and in a yeshiva and at the age of 17 was infected with the Zionist virus.  He secretly left his father’s house and joined the “Pioneers”.  In training he met his future wife – Hannah.  They immigrated to Israel and settled in Kibbutz Ramat-HaKobesh and in 1937 they moved to Ra’anana, joining public activity in the working institutions.  He worked to improve the conditions of the workers and thought about building a special company in the working land of Israel.  He established the cooperative store in the colony and managed it, according to his friends, with all his heart.

During World War II, he enlisted in the British Army, even though the conscription duty did not apply to him (age 31 + 2 children).  He was the living spirit of his unit and fought to establish the Jewish Brigade.  In his words of persuasion, he said, “We must volunteer for the Hebrew regiments.  The married will form the nucleus of the leadership [?] and the example for the unmarried who must be drafted.  The Nazi beast, conquering country after country, preys on nation after nation.  The Jewish people long for help and we do not listen to it.  Do we close our ears to this call?  What will we say to our children who will ask us ‘Where were you in those days, and what did you help your fellow Jews who were taken to the gas chambers?’  Our answer should be one and only – the mobilization of the Hebrew battalions.”

Thus he continued to recruit many people.  When the Jewish Brigade was established, he immediately joined the brigade and went to fight on the Italian front.  Shortly before the end of the war he fell in battle.

In the booklet published in his memory, his friends describe a man who was always a pioneer.  Demands greatness and fulfills greatness.  [?]  A man of faith and purity, the living spirit at all parties and events.  A man taller than you and above all the people.

The letters he left behind are written in fluent Hebrew and are full of Zionism and love of the homeland.

Upon their return from the war, his friends established the “Asher neighborhood” in his memory.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

These four maps, from large to smaller scales, show the location of the Asher neighborhood (“Shikun Asher”) in Ra’anana, and then the city itself within the larger context of the geography of Israel and the Levant.  

The Asher neighborhood…

Ra’anana, in relation to Herzliya and Kfar Sava…  

Ra’anana, halfway between Tel-Aviv and Netanya…

At this scale, you can’t see it anymore.  But, it’s still there.  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Uploaded on May 15, 2014 to Uri Manos’ YouTube Channel, this video, “The Asher Neighborhood – Childhood View” (“שכונת אשר נוף ילדות“), presents a very brief biography of Asher commencing at @ 1:45, and then chronicles the history of the Asher Neighborhood, as part of the city of Ra’anana, through the eyes and memories of its residents.  The translation of the descriptive text below the video is:

“Asher neighborhood.  An isolated island during the days of the Raanana colony.
Its graduates embrace and miss each other.”
(שכונת אשר. אי מבודד בימי המושבה רעננה. בוגריה מתרפקים ומתגעגעים)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“For every deed God will bring to judgment
– for every hidden thing,
whether good or bad.”
Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) – 12:14

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

An Acknowledgement

I would like to express my appreciation to Vladimir Yurist for his fine transcription and translation work.  With over three decades of translation experience in fields such as aerospace, communications training, and medicine, Vladimir’s working languages comprise Russian, English, Spanish, and Hebrew.  His clients have included Israel Airspace Industries, Elbit Systems, Plasan, Marcom, and others.  He can be contacted at  tralenator@gmail.com. 

References

Author Leonhard Frank, at…

… Wikipedia

… GoodReads

Ra’anana, at…

… Wikipedia

… Municipal Website

… Nefesh B’Nefesh

… Tripadvisor

Jehoram of Judah, at…

… Wikipedia

Books, Books, Books!

Bower, Tom, Blind Eye to Murder – Britain, America and the Purging of Nazi Germany – A Pledge Betrayed, Granada Publishing Limited, Herts, England, 1981

“Gelber 1984” – Gelber, Yoav, Jewish Palestinian Volunteering in the British Army During the Second World War – Volume IV – Jewish Volunteers in British Forces, World War II, Yav Izhak Ben-Zvi Publications, Jerusalem, Israel, 1984

Levi, Primo, The Periodic Table, Schocken Books, New York, N.Y., 1984

Lifshitz, Jacob (יעקב, ליפשיץ), The Book of the Jewish Brigade: The History of the Jewish Brigade Fighting and Rescuing [in] the Diaspora (Sefer ha-Brigadah ha-Yehudit: ḳorot ha-ḥaṭivah ha-Yehudit ha-loḥemet ṿeha-matsilah et ha–golah ((גולהה קורות החטיבה היהודית הלוחמת והמצילה אתספר הבריגדה היהודית)), Shim’oni (שמעוני), Tel-Aviv, Israel, 1950

“We Will Remember Them I” – 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, England, 1989

“We Will Remember Them II” – Morris, Henry, Edited by Hilary Halter, We Will Remember Them – A Record of the Jews Who Died in the Armed Forces of the Crown 1939 – 1945 – An Addendum, AJEX, London, England, 1994

Prisoners of War – Armies and Other Land Forces of The British Empire, 1939-1945 (“All Lists Corrected Generally Up to 30th March 1945), J.B. Hayward & Son, in Association with The Imperial War Museum Department of Printed Books, Polstead, Suffolk, England, 1990 (First published in 1945 by His Majesty’s Stationary Office)

Words Worth Watching: “Operation Downfall: What If The US NEVER Dropped The Atomic Bomb & Invaded Japan?”, from History Undone

Quite different in topic and theme from the posts typically appearing at this blog, History Undone’s (with James Hanson) video, “Operation Downfall: What If The US NEVER Dropped The Atomic Bomb & Invaded Japan?” is a fascinating, well-thought-out, and persuasive exploration of a still-debated and contentious topic.  Uploaded on December 6 of this month (it’s December 23 as I type this…) it’s thus far received over 56,000 views. 

Highly recommended!  

Long a subject of scholarship and polemic, the overlapping topics of the use – or non-use – of atomic weapons against Imperial Japan, and the consequent and inevitable invasion of that nation using “conventional” weapons and tactics, has also, inevitably, been central to works of fiction.  Very brief thought brings two such works to mind: Alfred R. Coppel’s The Burning Mountain: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan, and, Cyril M. Kornbluth’s short novel “Two Dooms“, which was published in the July, 1958 issue of Venture Science Fiction; also see GoodReads.  The latter is the subject of a discussion at Classics of Science Fiction. 

 

In the Past Lives the Present: The Future of the Jews of the United States, as seen in 1945

Through the lens of the past, one can discern the present.

And from the vantage of the present, the nature of the past can become clearer.  

Case in point, novelist, short story writer, and screenwriter Michael Chabon’s speech at the Hebrew Union College graduation ceremony on May 14, 2018.  Akin to the aphorism about a “talking dog” – that far more startling than the poor quality of its speech is the mere fact that it’s even capable of talking at all – the most remarkable aspect of Chabon’s address was that – as much as its very content – it was given in a venue that was (is?) “Jewish”.  Truly remarkable in his ignorance of Jewish history in general, let alone the history of the re-established nation state of Israel in particular, the animating ethos of Chabon’s talk can best be understood as the legitimation and praise – if not the moral imperative (in a Kantian sense) – of Jewish self-negation, both individually and collectively. 

Here’s Chabon’s speech, which can be found at Rando Namo’s YouTube channel (uploaded May 21, 2018) under the title “Hebrew Union College Graduation Ceremony Clip”.

Michael Chabon’s peroration elicited numerous insightful reactions, impassioned as much as analytical (links are given at the end of this post).  Perhaps the best is D.G. Myers’ Michael Chabon’s Imaginary Jews, from the Fall, 2008 issue of the Sewanee Review.  Equally telling is Rabbi Ammi (Ammiel) Hirsch’s September 19, 2018 Yom Kippur Sermon: “From the Ghetto”, at Stephen Wise Free Synagogue. … 

In these reflections of, and reflecting upon, Chabon’s speech I’m reminded of the lyrics to John Lennon’s 1971 facile Yoko-Ono-inspired-ode to collectivism, and, the jettisoning of human particularism, in favor of the nullifying pleasure of a soporific universalism: “Imagine“.  I know I “heard” this song as far back as the early 70s (seriously! … even as a kid I found its airs of grandstanding moral nobility and near-pathological idealism to be disconcerting – though I didn’t know the words “pathological”, “idealism” and “disconcerting” back then!), but it’s true implications weren’t apparent until I viewed the 1984 movie “The Killing Fields”, in which the Lennon / Ono ode accompanies the film’s concluding scenes.  It was here, through the cinema, that the banality, utter shallowness of thought, and especially the totalitarian brutality lurking behind the lyrics’ false sweetness was fully crystallized.  For naively or intentionally, what this song was extolling was a mechanistic view of reality, the abolition of individual human endeavor, and, the suppression of all national identities, the results of which have been amply evident (and were ongoing even as the song was released in the midst of the (first?!) Cold War!) throughout the twentieth century, to the “tune” of tens of millions dead.    

For your consideration, the lyrics follow:

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today… Aha-ah…

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace… You…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world… You…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one.

Then again, I’ve always felt the pop-culture – and not just the pop-culture! – fascination with The Beatles to be perplexing.  (Blasphemy, blasphemy!)

Oh.  Yes.  Getting back to Michael Chabon’s speech…

Thinking about the ideological currents contributing to his thinking, I’m reminded of an essay that appeared on April 13, 1945, a month before the end of the Second World War in Europe, in the Indiana-based The Jewish Post, which is currently published as The Jewish Post and Opinion.  Written by Bertram A. Rosenberg and entitled “A Soldier Checks Up on His Buddies to Discover What Kind of Future in Store for U.S. Jewry”, the essay takes the form of a series of vignettes, eleven in number.  Through these, Rosenberg relates his observations of the interaction of Jewish soldiers in his unidentified unit with and among Jewish and non-Jewish soldiers and civilians in settings both military and civilian.  He also presents comments made by Jewish soldiers – discretely recorded, I would think! – that were expressed in unguarded reflection about their perception of themselves, other Jews, and the political and military situation of the Jewish people “in general” during the war’s final year. 

Of central note is the fact that absolutely none of the eleven incidents … musings … conversations (call them what you will) recounted below pertain to antisemitism as directly experienced by these soldiers.  Though we have no way of knowing how random, representative, or dramatically selective is this “portrait” (I think it’s truly random), distinct themes emerge from Rosenberg’s essay:  The degree to which the identity of these men was derived not through the prism of their own identity, ancestry, and heritage, but instead, from assumptions of how they assume others perceived them.  …  The degree to which some wish to consciously jettison or escape from any sense of identification with the Jewish people.  …  The attribution of antisemitism to the behavior of Jews themselves.  …  The ineffectiveness of educational efforts to impart a sense of Zionism, and, Jewish history.  …  Juxtaposed against these observations are a small few in which efforts towards a positive, confident, and assured Jewish identity are described.  This is particularly so in the last vignette, in which a colonel in the Medical Corp admonishes his men: “We have nothing to apologize for. It is impossible now to elaborate upon two thousand years of religious faith, but enough to say that, you fool nobody, not even yourself, whim you deny your birthright.”  

Rosenberg’s conclusion is ambiguous:  “I hesitate to enforce an all-inclusive conviction. I am reminded of the story of the blind men, who attempting to describe an elephant, found different points of emphasis and drew pictures in accordance with their sensitivity of experience.  I do know that U.S. Jewish youth needs a new, different, more militant type of manhood.  Being a Zionist, I know of one such type, possibly all-inclusive.”  He closes with words from his brother:  “We, the Israelites, need a Jewish-American manhood, that understands its responsibilities, accepts them and perceives the pleasures of our tradition, not solely the difficulties of it.”

Here’s Rosenberg’s essay, which is as relevant in 2024 as it was seventy-nine years ago:

A Soldier Checks Up on His Buddies to Discover What Kind of Future in Store for U.S. Jewry

Bertram A. Rosenberg

The Jewish Post
April 13, 1945

ONE Sunday morning I awoke with a mission.  I was going to find out, the extent of Jewishness, among my buddies, to learn of their background, Jewish education, awareness of Jewish problems, closeness of Jewish associations, and so on.

“Crazy fool,” strange interlude number one within me spoke.  “Crazy fool, leave well enough alone!  Leave well enough alone.”

“After all,” strange interlude number two spoke.  “After all upon the thoughts of these youth, representative of all sections of the country, will depend the sort of Jewish life that will be led in America.  And if you want to have a part in the destiny of your people, you should know the ways of their lives.”

Herewith I wish to assure all aspiring psychiatrists who desire to send me letters of advice and treatment that through the judicious use of non-habit forming opium, laudanum, cocaine, 3.2 per cent beer, intravenous morphine injections, I have cured myself of the delusions of “strange interlude.”

A Tall Assignment

“This is a tall assignment I says to me, so big, so subject to untrue generalities, so unscientific, so devoid of a beginning or an ending, a “rishon or a sof,” that only you would undertake it.  You will start from the middle of an ocean, longitude zero, latitude zero, and descend downward, losing air, choking for sense, finding yourself swimming in four directional current, going up, going down, and wondering when the lifeline of common sanity will snap.  Being human, thus lacking the fundamental annual sense of good and bad, I went ahead regardless.

In writing of what happened, I decided that I would quote various incidents written down in my black book and let the reader draw his own interpretation of their meaning.  As for me, I was definitely swayed by what I had noted.  After just a cursory landing on the “island within,” the footprints upon the beach, told me what I wanted to know…

Incident I …

“I feel that there are three hundred and sixty pairs of eyes watching our movements,…”

Our Jewish group of 25 men out of a total assembly of 360, were lined up in military formation, to march over to visit the chaplain.  We, the Jews, led the parade, we the twenty five, because our chapel for today was the nearest.  A young Jewish soldier alongside me said:

“I feel that there are three hundred and sixty pairs of eyes watching our movements, watching our cadence, watching our smartness, watching … whispering … criticizing … of course this is the super imaginative phantasy of my eighth sense, but it is a concrete disturbance.”

Incident 2 …

“I’m roped in.”

Our group deported from the others and as we awaited entrance to the chapel, one of the Jewish boys hollered out to a pal of his in the Christian columns:

“I’m roped in.”

As an honest, manly extension of this, he might have said:

“Listen, you Christians, I’m not here because I want to be.  I’m not one of these Jews.  I’m roped in because we were ordered to be here.”

Incident 3 …

“Yep, it’s peculiar, well when my father-in-law dies, I will be free.”

Before going into the chapel, one John Smith explains to all of us:

“Yep, nobody believes I’m Jewish.  Why when I was to be married, my father-in-law thought me a “goy.”  Yep, it’s peculiar, well when my father-in-law dies, I will be free.”

Incident 4 …

“…when such a thing happens it is best to leave it alone,
to let it go,
to avoid all trouble,
to let the matter drop,
to act as if nothing happened.”  

Suddenly one of the boys motions for all of us to assemble in a small circle.  We go underground to listen.

“Listen, fellows.  I have something to tell you.  One of our soldiers in barracks got up today and read a poem, a soldier’s hymn, contents being that the Christians fight while the Jews buy bonds.  Fellows, when such a thing happens it is best to leave it alone, to let it go, to avoid all trouble, to let the matter drop, to act as if nothing happened.  After all aren’t there many jokes about the Jews we tell ourselves.  I know this kid.  He even says “Sam Goldberg is his best friend.”

Incident 5 …

“Some of you say that even if you don’t believe in religion,
you should attend services to gain the respect of your Christian pals,
but what respect have you gained by having your face slapped.”

One of the boys replies:

“Listen, fellows, you guys that say hush-hush this affair are cowards.  When that fellow read his poem you had not time to rationalize, to debate the wisest course of action, because this was a stimulus to your emotions, it was a split second affair, and if you hid under your cover, plugged your ears with your fingers, or bent down to tie your shoe lace, or walked out of the room, then you showed physical and menial cowardice.  You had no time to think, you had only time for your Jewish conditioned background to activate your reaction.  It was as if a hot iron were touched to your hand.  The resultant action is based on muscular reflex, conditioned by your experiences with fire and heat.  Sure you hid under your covers.  Just as you have been hiding ever since you understood you were Jewish.  You have no pride in your Judaism.  Some of you say that even if you don’t believe in religion, you should attend services to gain the respect of your Christian pals, but what respect have you gained by having your face slapped.”

Incident 6 …

“In fact, it is a shock to learn that twenty five years of Zionist propaganda,
of current events of American English articles, of books,
has not conclusively reached into the heart of Chicago …
outlands of New Jersey …
southern Florida hand-clapping Texas …
cold Massachusetts.”

After chapel services a discussion initiated by the chaplain was held.  The topic chosen was “Regimented Prayer.”  From out of nowhere a disturbed soul asks:

“Chaplain, what is a Zion … a Zionism … a Zio –”

The chaplain jumps to the rescue and adds:

“A Zionist”

“Yes, sir.”

“A Zionist is a person who wants the Jews of Europe to find a home in Palestine.  Although an American Zionist is one who does not want to go there.”

A second voice says:

“Isn’t a Zionist, one who wants to kick the Arabs out of their land?”

A bright, young man astounds the gathering, Klal Israel, with the important piece of information:

“Pierre Van Paassen’s book, “Days of Our Years,” has the answer to that.”

A third voice says:

“Isn’t Biro-Bijan a Zionist state?”

So it goes, wholesale uninformativeness.  It surprises one.  In fact, it is a shock to learn that twenty five years of Zionist propaganda, of current events of American English articles, of books, has not conclusively reached into the heart of Chicago … outlands of New Jersey … southern Florida hand-clapping Texas … cold Massachusetts.

Incident 7 …

“See, that’s what I mean.
It is that type of Jew, dirty, begging, conspicuous, that causes anti-Semitism.
I don’t blame the Gentiles.”

Last night three of us Jewish boys went to a show.  While on the way, we were cautiously approached and stopped by a bedraggled, hunched over moth-eaten man whose face bore marks of Jewish suffering.  At first we intended brushing him aside, but to test my friend’s reactions, I said:

“Let’s buy a paper.”

“All right,” said pal one, “but I have no change.  Will a dollar bill do?”

The man nodded, “No.

“’Here’s a dime,” I volunteered.  “Let’s give it to him and forget the paper.”

“No, thanks, boys,” the man hastened to say, “I sell papers.”

“Du bist a Yid,” I said in pidgeon Jewish.

“An alte Yid,” he responded.

My friends demanded a halt to the conversation, appearing embarrassed, and cautioning me to speak softly.  When we finally were out of earshot, one said:

“See, that’s what I mean.  It is that type of Jew, dirty, begging, conspicuous, that causes anti-Semitism.  I don’t blame the Gentiles.”

Incident 8 …

“We had gone “over the hill” from GI chow, and were seated in a Jewish restaurant, awaiting the entree of chopped herring.  Each of us had been supplied by the observant proprietor with a drip-pan placed snugly against the lower lip, Ubangi style, into which fell the tidal wave of anxious saliva.  One of the more daring boys had secured a bottle of Canadian Club, and asked the proprietor whether we could make a toast, the answer being:

“If I can’t see it, can I see it?”

Which translated into good English, means:

“If I can’t see it, can I see it?”

We lifted our glasses to a position Just on the level with our eyes (seeing is believing).

“Rebenishelolam.”

“Rehenishelolam,” I repeated, “what’s that?”

“Oh,” he replied, “that’s the Jewish toast for drinking.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No,” he answered, “but my grandmother always said it at home.”

“You’re mistaken,” I said, “the word is ‘Lechaiim,’ to health.  You were calling upon the Lord’s name.”

Nevertheless, the Canadian Club tasted good.  Indeed after awhile we were amazed to find that the proprietor had installed a revolving cuisine.  Or so it seemed.

Incident 9 …

“What do you guys want to do, prove this is a Jewish war?”

One day after a very impressive chapel service, during which the chaplain read of the “Heroes of the Battle of the Warsaw Ghetto,” with the tune of the Young Judean version of “Adon Olam” ringing in our ears, we made our way back to our barracks.  There my friend found an old harmonica and commenced to give out with all the Palestinian chants he and I knew.  Anu Banu Artza, Avinu Malkenu, Hineh Matov …  It was not more than three songs and two bars of “Yerushalyium” later, when the section chief, a Jewish lad, cautioned us to quiet.  Revolt flared up within us, this Sunday, and we continued. 

Again the section chief emerged from his shell, and cautioned:

“What do you guys want to do, prove this is a Jewish war?”

Incident 10 …

“Fine Jewish boys met death with a “Shma Israel” on their lips,
and a Mezuzzah in their hands. 
And here in these very halls…”

Our camp had a very fine library.  Well, this day I walked in intent on securing Ben Hecht’s “Guide to [sic] the Bedevilled,” or Ludwig Lewisohn’s “Breathe Upon These“, or Pierre Van Paassen’s “Forgotten Ally,” when I observed and promptly snatched, or should I say snitched a booklet, “Fighting for America,” put out by the National Jewish Welfare Board.   

As I looked through this history of brave fighting Jews and feverishly scoured the “missing in action,” the “died for their country” columns, I was aware of a sniping over my shoulder.  A voice inquired:

“May I read it next?”

One day later, the booklet was returned to me with an enclosed note.

“Dear Bert,

I showed this booklet to several Jewish friends of mine and the consensus of opinion was that it is a waste of valuable paper.  Why do certain people insist upon separating us Jews into a distinct grouping?  This showing of our differences results in special attention to us.  We need less of this.”

I venomed.  Fine Jewish boys met death with a “Shma Israel” on their lips, and a Mezuzzah in their hands.  And here in these very halls…

______________________________

Here are covers of the books referred in the above vignette.  They’re all from my library.  (Yes, I like books.)

A Guide for the Bedevilled
Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1944

__________

Breathe Upon These
Ludwig Lewisohn
Bobbs-Merrill, Indianapolis, In., 1944

__________

The Forgotten Ally
Pierre van Paassen
The Dial Press, New York, N.Y., 1943

__________

Fighting for America
A Record of the Participation of Jewish Men and Women in the Armed Forces During 1944
The National Jewish Welfare Board, New York, N.Y., 1944

______________________________

Incident 11 …

“We have nothing to apologize for.”

At services today, a colonel of the Medical Corps was among the worshippers and was requested by the chaplain to give his greetings.  This elderly, handsome, neatly attired officer spoke:

“Fellow Jews, I think that what I have to say will be a Testament of Faith.  Mind you I’m not a Holy Roller, but what I have to say, I believe in.  Don’t be ashamed of being a Jew.  Many of the boys who come to the medical training school are ashamed of being Jews, they try to hide it.  As for me, I have always found a great source of spiritual strength in my religion.  I have a Jewish home and intend to bring up my little family as Jews.  We have nothing to apologize for.  It is impossible now to elaborate upon two thousand years of religious faith, but enough to say that, you fool nobody, not even yourself, whim you deny your birthright.”

These are just eleven incidents, but easily multiplied by four score and seven, that like organic pain, are symptoms of unhealthy disturbances in U.S. Jewish life.  This is not news.  But the Army Express carries one over the broad land, throwing unassortedly man upon man, given the opportunity for a study of altogether different unlocalized human beings from Maine to Florida, from Washington to Texas, from California to New York.

Draws No Conclusions

This, then is my stay of “GI Jacob,” as I found him.  From these “Incidents,” can be drawn a pretty fair diagram of Jewish-American youth as Jews.  I, for one, am a poor artist.  I leave the color, strong lines, weak lines, emphasis of profile, to the Jewish socio-religio experts, who in their own accepted learnings, will draw it out as it affects them.

I hesitate to enforce an all-inclusive conviction.  I am reminded of the story of the blind men, who attempting to describe an elephant, found different points of emphasis and drew pictures in accordance with their sensitivity of experience.  I do know that U.S. Jewish youth needs a new, different, more militant type of manhood.  Being a Zionist, I know of one such type, possibly all-inclusive.

One word then, before I leave, one thought, that my brother so ably writes, from an army camp somewhere in the world:

“We, the Israelites, need a Jewish-American manhood, that understands its responsibilities, accepts them and perceives the pleasures of our tradition, not solely the difficulties of it.”

Here’s the original article as it appeared in The Jewish Post…

Let’s return to 2023 and 2024.

What conclusions can we draw from the intersection of Bertram Rosenberg’s article of 1945 and Michael Chabon’s speech of 2018?  The opinions about Jewish identity, and survival, versus the ideology of self-negation that Chabon espoused in his commencement address didn’t solely arise from within his (and I quite eye-rollingly admit, my) generation, or, spontaneously spring from the ideological aether of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.  They had already crystallized, and were felt and articulated in different ways decades earlier, having historical antecedents in events and philosophical currents – the impacts of which were perhaps initially unanticipated or unappreciated – that commenced far – centuries? – earlier. 

As understood by Bertram Rosenberg’s anonymous Medical Corps colonel, an apology, however intensely felt, passionately articulated, and adroitly acted upon, cannot be the foundation for the the self-understanding of individuals, let alone the continued existence of a people and a nation. 

To conclude, two videos:

November 3, 2023: “Pro-Palestinian protesters at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia call for Israel-Hamas ceasefire” (from The Philadelphia Inquirer)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 23, 2024: “Jewish Voices For Peace Hold A Sit-In On Capitol Hill Protesting Prime Minister Netanyahu’s Visit” (from Forbes Breaking News)  (A bit of a typo there: Should be “Jewish Voice for Peace”.  The organization, Jew-ish in name only, (big emphasis on the “ish” part) is a contemporary incarnation of the former Soviet Union’s Yevsektsiya.) 

“plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”.

Post Script

An ironic and unrelated afterword.  Or two.  (Or three.)

It’s odd. 

Despite my opinions about Chabon’s Hebrew Union College speech and the ideology of his writing (as exemplified in his novel The Yiddish Policeman’s Union), I admit to really (truly!) enjoying the 2012 film John Carter, (based on Edgar Rice Burroughs’ serialized John Carter of Mars; see more at Archive.org) for which Chabon was one of the three screenwriters.  Though the film was and continues to be overwhelmingly “panned” and pummeled by many viewers and critics, I felt it was genuinely evocative and strongly representative of science fiction as presented in the pulps of the early twentieth century, examples of which you can find at my brother blog, WordsEnvisioned.  Plus, it was lots of fun. 

So, there’s that.

You can view 21 clips of the movie at MovieManiac9147’s You Tube channel, while alternatively, the full film can be viewed at OK.ru.

Printed Perplexities and Pointed Provocations

The original 1945 Jewish Post article…

The Jewish Post (Indiana), at Hoosier State Chronicles

The Jewish Post – Issue of April 13, 1945, at Hoosier State Chronicles

Michael Chabon, at…

… Wikipedia

… Internet Movie Database

… Goodreads

Stephen Wise Free Synagogue, at…

… SWFS

Suggested Thinkings…

– Article Series – Mosaic Magazine (Registration Required) –

Gordis, Daniel, Why Many American Jews are Becoming Indifferent or Even Hostile to Israel, May 8, 2017

Halkin, Hillel, The Vanishing of the Jewish Collective, May 15, 2017

Gordon, Evelyn, How A Changing American Liberalism is Pulling American Jews Away from Israel, May 18, 2017

Gordon, Evelyn, How the Ebb and Flow of American Politics Affects American Jewish Attitudes Toward Israel, May 23, 2017

Gordis, Daniel, Why the American Jewish Distancing From Israel is so Heartbreaking, May 30, 2017

Suggested Listenings…

(- Tikvah Fund Podcasts -)

Daniel Gordis on the Rift Between American and Israeli Jews, April 3, 2019

Jack Wertheimer on the New American Judaism – Part I, August 7, 2019

Jack Wertheimer on the New American Judaism – Part II, August 21, 2019

Jack Wertheimer on the New American Judaism – Part III, September 11, 2019

Clifford Librach on The Reform Movement and Jewish Peoplehood, August 24, 2018

Suggested Readings…

Chabon, Michael, Those People, Over There: In his commencement address at Hebrew Union College, Los Angeles, the author exhorts the class of 2018, the Jewish leaders of the future, to knock down the walls, May 30, 2018

Fishman, Sylvia Barack, Cohen, Steven M., and Wertheimer, Jack (Daniel Schere): Chabon’s Views on Intermarriage are Mainstream, and Also Morally Abhorrent, at Washington Jewish Week, June 13, 2018

Horn, Dara, The Cool Kids: Self-mutilation as a Jewish cultural strategy and the sad history of the Yevsektsiya, at TabletMagazine, September 6, 2019

Librach, Clifford, Paying the Price for Abandoning Jewish Peoplehood – The lesson in the Chabon Affair: Reform Judaism is all about sociology, not ideology, at Tablet Magazine, June 18, 2018

Myers, D.G., Michael Chabon’s Imaginary Jews, at A Commonplace Blog, (originally published in the Sewanee Review 116 (Fall 2008): 572–88)

Sacks, Jonathan, Why Do Jews Drift Away From Judaism?, at Algemeiner, September 25, 2019

Solway, David, Jewish Self Estrangement Is Perennial, at PJ Media, August 7, 2018

Soldiers from New York: Jewish Soldiers in The New York Times, in World War Two: 2 Lt. George Greenfield – January 9, 1945 [Updated once again!]

Gadzooks, have six years gone by already?  Updated on February 3, 2020, with an image of B-29 “Wugged Wascal”, I’ve (once again!) updated this post in this month of October, 2024.  It now includes images of 1 Lt. Leonard Rifas, his crew, and the B-17 in which they were lost, “Miss D-day”.  These images and related explanatory information were found at FindAGrave and Ancestry..  You can view them below.

* * * * *

Originally created on April 3, 2018, this post includes information about several casualties in the Army Air Force on January 9, 1945, among whom was Second Lieutenant Murray Karron, flight engineer on the B-29 “Wugged Wascal”.  I’ve now updated the post to include two images of the “Wascal”, one from Steve Birdsall’s 1981 book Saga of the Superfortress, and another from Prentice Burkett’s The Unofficial History of the 499th Bomb Group (VH).  These are the only images I’ve thus far found of this B-29 (42-24658). 

Scroll down…

________________________________________

By its very nature, military activity – even when limited to action such as instruction and training; even when geographically distant from engagement with enemy forces in actual combat – has always entailed a solid element of risk and danger.  One example of this appeared in The New York Times on February 15, 1945, through the publication of an obituary for Second Lieutenant George Greenfield (0-2070016), an Army Air Force navigator from the Bronx. 

Killed in Bomber Crash Last Jan. 9 in England

Lieut. George Greenfield, navigator on a B-24, was killed when his bomber crashed in England on Jan. 9, the War Department has notified his family here.  Lieutenant Greenfield was 22 years old.

Born in this city, he was graduated from Stuyvesant High School in 1941 and then attended the University of Indiana for two years, majoring in languages.  He enlisted two years ago and was qualified as a pilot in the Air Corps, but later was transferred and graduated as a navigator at Selman Field, La.  He went overseas at the end of November.

His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Greenfield of 1180 Anderson Avenue, the Bronx; a twin sister, Jeanette; and two other sisters, Mrs. Paul Bergman and Margaret Greenfield, survive.

This Google Street view image shows a contemporary (2014) view of 1180 Anderson Ave.

Though there’s no Missing Air Crew Report for Lt. Greenfield and his crew (his MACR index card carries the simple notation “No MACR”), his record at the American Battle Monuments Commission provides the “clue” by which the incident of January 9, 1945, can be identified: He was a member of the 706th Bomb Squadron of the 446th Bomb Group, with the Aviation Archeology database revealing that a B-24H Liberator of that squadron (42-95306, “RT * S”, nicknamed “Dragon Lady” and piloted by 2 Lt. Andrew J. Puschock, Jr.) was lost in an accident at Whittlesford, England on that date. 

Though the records of the 706th Bomb Squadron, and, any Accident Report filed after the incident would certainly list the plane’s crew, only limited information is currently available about the other casualties in this incident.  Aside from Lt. Puschock, who is buried at Arlington National Cemetery, another fatality is known to have been 2 Lt. Robert Wallace Allen, presumably the bomber’s co-pilot, who is buried at the Cambridge American Cemetery, in Cambridge, England (Plot B, Row 5, Grave 54). 

Lieutenant Greenfield’s name appeared in the “In Memoriam” section of The New York Times on December 1, 1945.  Born on December 1, 1922, his name appears on page 335 of American Jews in World War II.  His sole award is the Purple Heart, suggesting that the Puschock crew – perhaps a newly arrived crew, as implied by his November arrival in England – may have flown fewer than five combat missions prior to the accident on January 9.  He is buried in the Cambridge American Cemetery, near Lt. Allen, at Plot B, Row 6, Grave 54. His matzeva, photographed by Skip Farrow, is show below:

Another aspect of this news item is more subtle, almost “hiding in plain sight”:  The single-bladed propeller on Lt. Greenfield’s cap was the emblem of World War Two Army Air Force aviation cadets, suggesting that his portrait (a very good portrait) was an image in his family’s possession which was donated to the Times. 

Some other Jewish military casualties on Tuesday, January 9, 1945, include…

Killed in Action
– .ת.נ.צ.ב.ה. –

Boyaner, Frank, Major
Canadian Dental Corps
Mrs. Hazel Olive Boyaner (wife)
Mr. and Mrs. Don and Kaylia Boyaner (parents)
Born Saint John’s, New Brunswick, Canada, 3/23/25
Brookwood Military Cemetery, Surrey, England – 56,D,9
Canadian Jews in World War II – Part II: Casualties – 12

Carp, Paul Iban, Lt. JG, 0-184815, Purple Heart
United States Navy
Possibly lost while serving as a member of a liaison team aboard a French escort vessel
Mr. Joseph Shepard Carp (father), 2738 SW 20th St., Miami, Fl.
Miss Clare Schwartz and Mrs. Ruth C. Rosow (sisters)
Graduate of Harvard University
Tablets of the Missing at North African American Cemetery, Carthage, Tunisia
WW II Memorial Honoree Record by Ruth C. Rosow (sister)
Jewish Floridian 3/2/45
American Jews in World War II – 82

______________________________

Cohen, Clarence, Cpl., 36895289, Gunner (Central Fire Control), Air Medal, Purple Heart, 2 missions
United States Army Air Force, 20th Air Force, 500th Bomb Group, 883rd Bomb Squadron
Mrs. Bettie (Nettie?) Romanoff (sister), 7454 Wykes St., Detroit, Mi.
Also 693 Alabama Ave., Brooklyn, 7, N.Y.
MACR 10903; Aircraft: B-29 42-24657 (“Mustn’t Touch”; “Z square 45”), Pilot: Capt. John J. Charters; 11 crewmen
Aircraft presumably ditched; no survivors

Corporal Cohen’s Superfortress, Mustn’t Touch, was lost during a mission to the Musashino Aircraft Works and Nakajima Aircraft Engine Factory near Tokyo.  There is little (and will forever be little) definitive information about the plane’s loss, seemingly attributable to mechanical problems with the plane’s engines necessitating ditching in the Pacific Ocean roughly half-way between Saipan and Japan.  As summarized in Missing Air Crew Report 10903:

Shortly after take-off, his aircraft developed mechanical problems.  During climb-out the #1 engine was leaking oil, and puffs of black smoke were coming from the #4 engine.  At 16,000 feet his aircraft feathered the #1 engine propeller and began to abort the sortie.  Last visual contact was at a geographic location of 28 degrees 10 minutes north and 137 degrees 30 minutes east, at 0315Z.  Last radio contact, at 0410Z, stated they had lost an engine and were going to ditch in the ocean, approximately 900 nautical miles north of Saipan.  No survivors were ever found, and he was declared killed in action one year later. 


Corporal Cohen and his fellow crewmen are memorialized on the Tablets of the Missing at the Honolulu Memorial, in Honolulu.  His name appears on page 290 of American Jews in World War II. 

This below image of the nose art of Mustn’t Touch is from Tom McNamara’s flickr photostream, while the second image – Army Air Force photograph 64276AC / A39219 – taken on Saipan in November, 1944, shows the aircraft before the application of nose art.  (The soldiers in the foreground, from an engineer battalion, are drilling holes for dynamite charges during construction of an airstrip at Isley Field.)  Of technical interest, the image clearly shows the tail cannon characteristic of early B-29s, which weapon would eventually be deleted from the Superfortress due to its slow rate of fire, and, the difference between the trajectories of its 20mm shells, and, those of the twin tail-mounted co-axial 50 caliber Browning machine guns. 

______________________________

Cohen, Louis, PFC, 39558749
United States Army Air Force, 77th Air Service Group, Headquarters Squadron
Died (non-battle) on Tinian Island
Mrs. Betty G. Cohen (wife), 1318 S. Cochran Ave., Los Angeles, Ca.
Born 1911
No number on MACR index name card
National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, Honolulu, Hawaii – Section Q, Grave 662
American Jews in World War II – 41

Frenkel, Boris Mikhailovich (Френкель, Борис Михаилович) Senior Sergeant [Старший Сержант]
U.S.S.R., Red Army, 63rd Cavalry Division
Radio Operator in Valentine Mk IX tank
Born 1925
Probably buried at Zámoly Village, Fejér County, Hungary
Memorial Book of Jewish Soldiers Who Died in Battles Against Nazism – 1941-1945 – Volume IX – 307 [Книги Памяти евреев–воинов, павших в боях с нацизхмом в 1941-1945 гг – Том IX – 307]

______________________________

Hertz, Joseph, Cpl., 32794422, Tail Gunner, Air Medal, Purple Heart
United States Army Air Force, 5th Air Force, 345th (“Air Apaches”) Bomb Group, 500th Bomb Squadron
Mr. and Mrs. Haney and Selma L. Hertz (parents), Arnold (brother), 120 Hopkins St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
Born Austria, 1920
MACR 16290; Aircraft: B-25J 43-36187 (“Man of War”, or, “Man-O-War”); Pilot: 2 Lt. James O. Buffington, and five crew members

Man-O-War
was struck by anti-aircraft fire during bombing and strafing mission over Luzon, crash-landing south of the city of Angeles.

Cpl. Hertz, Lt. Buffington (Peru, Indiana), and, Bombardier / Navigator 2 Lt. Vernon C. Buchanan (Indianapolis) were killed in the immediate crash of the aircraft, while three crew members survived the loss of the plane.  The latter were Co-pilot Capt. Richard T. Thompson (Delta, Michigan), Flight Engineer Cpl. Bernard R. Dunnavant (Victoria, Virginia), and Radio Operator T/Sgt. Walter J. Nelson (Union City, N.J.)

Thompson and Dunnavant, both very seriously injured and unable to move, remained at the site of the wrecked plane.  T/Sgt. Nelson, less seriously hurt, aided them to the best of his ability, and then attempted to reach Filipino civilians for further help. 

During his absence, Japanese troops arrived at the scene of the wreck and murdered his surviving comrades.

Concealed by Filipino civilians from discovery by the Japanese – in the village of Delores Mabalacat – Sgt. Nelson was turned over to a band of Filipino guerillas, and, eventually joined by Sgt. Nolan W. Huddleston of the 387th Bomb Squadron, 312th Bomb Group, returned to American forces by January 23. 

The five casualties from Man-O-War are are listed as having been awarded the Air Medal and Purple Heart, with Lt. Buffington having received two Oak Leaf Clusters, suggesting that they had flown between five and ten combat missions prior to January 9.  They are listed on the Tablets of the Missing at the Manila American at Fort Bonifacio, Manila.   

FindAGrave includes a record for WW II Army Air Force veteran “Walter John Nelson”, who died in 2013 and is buried at the Brigadier General William C. Doyle Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Wrightstown, New Jersey.  This biographical record seems (?) to “fit” information about T/Sgt. Nelson of Man-O-War, with the exception that the record is for a Corporal – and not T/Sgt. – Nelson.

The 500th Bomb Squadron Mission Report for the 9 January mission (extracted from the 500th Bomb Squadron’s Mission Reports encompassing August 1944 through August 1945, at the 345th Bomb Group) is shown below, with sections pertaining to the loss of Man-O-War outlined in red.  This is followed by a series of Google Maps showing – at successively larger scales – the probable area (as denoted by the red oval) where Man-O-War crash-landed.  This location was identified through information in Lawrence Hickey’s Warpath Across the Pacific, MACR 16290, and a map of Clark Field and Vicinity, at Pacific Wrecks. 

Mission Objective; Mission Description.

______________________________

Details of the Mission: “Lt. Buffington executed an unexplained 180 turn from South to North and has not been heard of since.” 

But, as recounted in Warpath Across the Pacific…

“Eight miles below Tarlac, 2 Lt. James O. Buffington pulled his plane from a loose formation and doubled back to hit a pair of trucks bypassed on the adjacent highway.  Minutes later, hastening to catch up with his flight, Buffington and his co-pilot, Capt. Richard T. Thompson, saw two trucks sitting on the tracks just north of Dau Junction.  Their initial attack was made from fifty feet and left three box cars blazing.  But as they pulled off their run, a flak battery found thee range.

T/Sgt. Walter J. Nelson was in the radio compartment when the plane jerked suddenly.  Glancing forward, he saw a fire blazing in the cockpit.  “This is it.  We’re going down!” his mind screamed at him.  Only seconds separated Nelson from possible death and he used them well.  He released the emergency escape hatch, then braced himself against the transmitter, using a parachute for a head cushion.  The plane jarred violently as the belly furrowed a rice paddy.  A low earthen mound ripped off a wing and spun the plane into a tight loop, pitching Nelson through the open hatch.

When he awoke, the radio operator found himself on the ground next to the burning aircraft.  Near the right nacelle lay Cpl. Bernard Dunnavant, the turret gunner, with one leg almost severed.  Five hundred yards away sat two camouflaged bombers bearing the blood-red Japanese hinomaru on their fuselages.  The ill-fated crew had come to grief on the very edge of Angeles South, one of the satellite airfields in the Clark Field complex.”

______________________________

The crew of Man-O-War.

______________________________

Luzon.

______________________________

Luzon, with Angeles and Mabalacat in the center of the map.

______________________________

The possible – general – crash location of Man-O-War: South of Angeles.

______________________________

A closer view of the possible crash site: An area bounded by the Angeles-Porac-Floridablanca-Dinaluphin Road (to the west), the Pasig-Potrero River (to the south), and MacArthur Highway / Manila North Road (to the east).

______________________________

Ioffe, Abel Abramovich [Иоффе, Абель Абрамович] (at Priekule, Latvia)
16th Lithuanian Rifle Division, 156th Rifle Brigade

Mr. Avraham Yofe (father)
Born 1922
Probably buried at Kuldiga County, Latvia
Road to Victory – 281 (Name given as Yofe, Abel, Sgt.)

______________________________

Karron, Murray, 2 Lt., 0-868393, Flight Engineer, Air Medal, Purple Heart
United States Army Air Force, 20th Air Force, 499th Bomb Group, 877th Bomb Squadron
Mrs. Alyse (Cohen) Karron (wife), 1163 East 27th St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
Mr. and Mrs. Louis and Tillie [11/10/53] Karron (parents); Evelyn and Jack (siblings)
MACR: 10911; Aircraft: B-29 42-24658 (“Wugged Wascal”; “V square 3”) Pilot: Capt. Kimmel Parker Murphy; 11 crewmen
Aircraft presumably ditched; no survivors
Brooklyn Eagle 1/16/42
American Jews in World War II – 357
New York Times Obituary “In Memoriam” Section – 11/12/53

Old Newspapers

I’ve not been able to find a photograph of Murray Karron, but this is an image (not the best, but still it’s an image) of Murray’s fiancee and future wife, Alyce (Alyse?) Cohen, as published in the Brooklyn Eagle on January 16, 1942.

________________________________________

The loss of Lt. Karron’s crew in Wugged Wascal, piloted by Captain Kimmel Murphy, parallels that of Corporal Cohen’s:  Target: Musashino Aircraft Works and Nakajima Aircraft Engine Factory.  Reason for loss: “Operational difficulties”.  Action: Ditching.  Result: No survivors. 

Oddly, the Missing Air Crew Report for Captain Murphy’s plane – lost after successfully completing its bombing-run – contains no statement specifically describing what actually befell the aircraft.  Instead, information about the missing bomber is found in a document dated January 10, 1946 within MACR 10907, which covers the losses of six B-29s (recorded in MACRs 10903, 10904, 10907 itself, 10908, 10911, and 11220) from the mission of January 9, 1945. 

The statement covering 42-24658 is as brief as it is enigmatic, simply stating:

The plane was last contacted by radio at 0908Z by Sergeant Irving R. Wirth, at 25-30 N, 146-30E.  The report states that the aircraft is believed to have been ditched in the ocean as a result of operational difficulties [nature unspecified]. 

The coordinates 25-30 N – 146-30 E mark a location about 250 miles east of Iwo Jima, Volcano Isles. 

Another statement notes the search for the missing crew:

Search started 1000 K 10 Jan 1945, to be continued until darkness or limited endurance of aircraft.  Search will continue on subsequent days for as long as the 73rd Bomb Wing permits.

Like Corporal Cohen, Lt. Karron and his fellow crewmen are memorialized on the Tablets of the Missing at the Honolulu Memorial, in Honolulu.  As for 2 Lt. Jack M. Danowitz (mentioned in the blog post covering 1 Lt. Arthur S. Goldstein), Major David I. Cedarbaum preserved a record (recorded by W.D. Bray) about Lt. Karron’s last flight – actually, far more informative than the MACR, albeit with the plane’s final location being incorrect – to which nothing further could ever be added:

The Airplane Commander was K.P. Murphy.  They flew to the Jap homeland, dropped their bombs, and an hour away began to have engine trouble.  They radioed the fire spread and they had to ditch, the plane being out of control.  They were about 100 miles north of Iwo presumably when they hit the water.  No rescue facility was ever able to locate anything of them.

________________________________________ 

From The Unofficial History of the 499th Bomb Group (VH), this picture shows the crew of Prentice Burkett standing before “Wugged Wascal”.  Unfortunately, like all crew photos in the book, the men’s names are not given, but the five men standing at rear are likely Burkett and the crew’s other officers, while the six men in front are presumably NCOs.

________________________________________ 

Printed as a full-page image on page 138 of Steve Birdsall’s Saga of the Superfortress, this photograph, from the collection of Lawrence F. Reineke, is captioned, “The 499th Group’s Wugged Wascal near Fuji on January 9, with Captain Kimmel Murphy and his crew.  A few hours after this photo was taken she crashed into the sea, less than seven hundred miles from Saipan.”  This image also appears (in smaller size) in The Unofficial History of the 499th Bomb Group (VH).

______________________________

This is a very-high-resolution (600 dpi) scan of the “Wascal”, as seen in the above image.  Even at this magnification the clarity of the image is remarkable, with structural details and the last four digits of the B-29’s serial clearly visible.  More important, of course, are the eleven men inside the plane..   

______________________________

Katz, Wolf, Sgt. (at Ginkunai, Lita)
U.S.S.R., Red Army, 16th Lithuanian Rifle Division, 224th Artillery Brigade
Mr. Chone Katz (father)
Place of burial unknown
Road to Victory – 290

Mirvis, Mikhail Borisovich (Мирвис, Михаил Борисович) Private [Рядовой]
U.S.S.R., Red Army, 58th Rifle Division, 20th Tank Brigade, 45th Autonomous Motor Rifle Battalion
Rifleman
Died of wounds at Medical Facility of 45th Medical Battalion, 53rd Rifle Division
Born 1924
Buried at Cemetery Number 80, Grave 1, Muzhla Village, Komarom-Estergom, Hungary
Memorial Book of Jewish Soldiers Who Died in Battles Against Nazism – 1941-1945 – Volume II – 547 [Книги Памяти евреев-воинов, павших в боях с нацизхмом в 1941-1945 гг – Том II – 547]

Ples, Josef, WO 2C, W-336 (at Dunkirk, France)
Czechoslovakia, 1st Czechoslovak Army Corps, 1st Armored Brigade
Czechoslovakia, Lipník nad Bečvou, okres Přerov; 8/12/19
Cassel Communal Cemetery Extension, Nord, France – D,15
Zide v Ceskoslovenskem Vojsku na Zapade – 247

______________________________

Rifas, Leonard, 1 Lt., 0-771802, Bomber Pilot, Air Medal, 4 Oak Leaf Clusters, Purple Heart, 27 missions
United States Army Air Force, 8th Air Force, 385th Bomb Group, 549th Bomb Squadron
Born Chicago, Il., December 20, 1921
Mrs. Jeanette Rosalie (Rifas) Miller (sister) (12/21/14-7/21/04)
5125 N. Capitol St., Washington, D.C.
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Leo (1/15/88-1951) and Sarah Rieva (Kulvinsky) (3/21/90-3/85) Rifas (parents) Bertram E. “Bert” Rifas (brother) (10/27/24-11/12/11)
1216 Broadway, c/o Commonwealth, Kansas City, Mo.
Aircraft: B-17G 44-6100 (“Miss D-day”) 10 crewmen – no survivors
MACR 11718
Tablets of the Missing at Cambridge American Cemetery, Cambridge, England
American Jews in World War II – 113

Half-way ‘round the world from the loss of Mustn’t Touch and Wugged Wascal, another bomber – 8th Air Force Flying Fortress Miss D-day, piloted by Lieutenant Leonard Rifas – was lost in circumstances as enigmatic as those two bombers:  The aircraft vanished during a short flight from an emergency landing strip in France, to the 385th Bomb Group’s base at Great Ashfield, England.  Though the bodies of two crewmen were found by Air/Sea Rescue, the other eight crewmen remained (still remain) missing.  There were no survivors. 

As stated in Missing Air Crew Report 11718: Aircraft 44-6100, returning from operational mission to Frankfurt, Germany on 8 January 1945, landed at emergency landing strip, A-70, Laon-Couvron, France.  Radio message was received at station 155, that this aircraft had been given clearance on the afternoon of 9 January 1945, but due to weather conditions on the continent it was believed that clearance had been cancelled, as no further contact was made by either A-70 or station 155.

The bodies of two of the crew frozen together in a life raft [2 Lt. John W. Skoff, bombardier, and S/Sgt. Lowey I. Boyd, ball turret gunner] were picked up at 50 – 40 N, 00 – 20 E, 13 January 1945, by Air/Sea Rescue and taken to New Haven Mortuary.  [New Haven is located just east of Brighton, in southern England.]

Here’s Leonard Rifas’ graduation portrait from the 1921 yearbook of Chicago’s Woodrow Wilson Junior College.

Initially found at FindAGrave, where it was uploaded by Carolyn DeLoach, this image of Lt. Rifas and his crew was originally uploaded to Ancestry.com by “kochwayne” on January 18, 2014.  The original source of this halftone photo is unknown.     

“kochwayne” also added a smaller photo to Ancestry to serve as a name key to the crew portrait.  Using that image as a guide and correlating the names thereupon to those listed in MACR 11817 yields the following list.  Note that ball turret gunner Lowey Boyd is apparently absent from the photo.

Rear

Pilot – Leonard Rifas, 1 Lt., 0-771802, Washington, D.C.
Co-Pilot – Charles M. Jones, 2 Lt., 0-1997859, Cincinnati, Oh.
(? – Navigator – Robert G. Chandler, 2 Lt., 0-1997897, Framingham, Ma.)
(? – Bombardier – John W. Skoff, 2 Lt., 0-717902, Joliet, Il.)

Front

Gunner (waist) – Dwain R. Rasmussen, S/Sgt., 37266500, Cotesfield, Ne.
Gunner (waist) – John H. Parrish, S/Sgt., 36860139, Alma, Mi.
Flight Engineer – William D. Finkbiner, T/Sgt., 36368254, Palestine, Il.
Radio Operator – Wilmer W. Sherwood, T/Sgt., 16019735, Charleston, Il.
Gunner (tail) – Alphonse J. Novetske, S/Sgt., 36893952, Detroit, Mi.

Not in photo?…

Gunner (Ball Turret) – Lowey I. Boyd, S/Sgt., 33657419, Davenport, Va.

Here’s a nice close-up of the bomber’s nose art.  Unfortunately, its individual squadron identification letter is unknown.  The 549th Bomb Squadron history in AFHRA microfilm roll A0641 is strikingly anemic, only very briefly mentioning the plane’s loss on frames 391 and 392.

What happened aboard Miss D-day will never be known, but based on information in the MACR, no emergency calls were radioed from the aircraft during its brief flight, or if they were, such signals were not received.  The fact that the bombardier (from the front of the aircraft) and ball turret gunner (from the plane’s aft fuselage) survived for a time in one of the plane’s two rafts, suggests that there may have been adequate time for the crew to at least gather in the radio room for a controlled ditching, probably somewhere between Boulgone, France, and Beachy Head, England.  Though Lt. Skoff and S/Sgt. Boyd were found roughly – only – fifteen miles south of Eastbourne, in the English Channel (the location designated by the red circle in the below map), in mid-winter, in an open raft, those fifteen miles might just as well have been one thousand…

Lt. Skoff, from Will County, Illinois, is buried at Camp Butler National Cemetery, Springfield, Il. (Section 4, Grave 26), while Sergeant Boyd, from Buchanan County, Virginia, is buried at the Cambridge American Cemetery, in Cambridge, England (Plot F, Row 6, Grave 110). 

According to records at the 385th Bomb Group, Lieutenant Rifas completed 27 missions.  For his first twelve missions, he served as co-pilot to Ted C. Findeiss.  Commencing with the Hannover mission of October 26, 1944 he served as pilot, with nine of his fifteen missions in this capacity being flown in Miss D Day.

______________________________

Rosenberg, Jacob Joseph, EM3c, 2425767, Electrician’s Mate, Purple Heart
United States Navy, USS John D. Henley (DD553)
“0821: Two men [EM3c Jacob J. Rosenberg and F1c Kenneth Dowd Russell] fell overboard and were not recovered after a thorough search of the area.” (11-34 N, 159-14 E)
Mrs. Sophia Anna (Rosenberg) Zitzer (sister), 16 Greenock St., Boston, Ma.
Tablets of the Missing at Honolulu Memorial, Honolulu, Hawaii
American Jews in World War II – 176

Rubin, Harold, S 2C, 8625065, Seaman, Purple Heart
United States Navy, USS Mississippi
Mr. Able Rubin (father), 1659 W. Euclid Ave., Detroit, Mi.
Tablets of the Missing at Manila American Cemetery, Manila, Philippines
American Jews in World War II – 195

References

Birdsall, Steve, Saga of the Superfortress, Sidgwick & Jackson, London, England, 1981

Burkett, Prentiss M., Capt., The Unofficial History of the 499th Bomb Group (VH), Historical Aviation Album, Temple City, Ca., 1981

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

Hickey, Lawrence J., Warpath Across the Pacific – The Illustrated History of the 345th Bombardment Group During World War II, International Research and Publishing Corporation, Boulder, Co., 1984

Leivers, Dorothy (Editing and Revisions), Road to Victory – Jewish Soldiers of the 16th Lithuanian Division, 1941-1945, Avotaynu, Bergenfield, N.J., 2009

Kulka, Erich, Zide Československém Vojsku na Západé, Naše Vojsko, Praha, Czechoslovakia, 1992

Loyd, Alwyn T., B-29 Superfortress in detail & scale – Production Version – Part 1, Aero Publishers, Inc., Fallbrook, Ca., 1983. 

Sturzbecker, Russell L., The Roarin’ 20s: A History of the 312th Bombardment Group, U.S. Army Air Force – World War II, Russell L. Sturzbecker, Westchester, Pa., 1976

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

Memorial Book of Jewish Soldiers Who Died in Battles Against Nazism – 1941-1945 – Volume II [Surnames beginning with К (K), Л (L), М (M), Н (N)], Maryanovskiy, M.F., Pivovarova, N.A., Sobol, I.S. (editors), Union of Jewish War Invalids and Veterans, Moscow, Russia, 1995


Memorial Book of Jewish Soldiers Who Died in Battles Against Nazism – 1941-1945 – Volume IX [Surnames beginning with all letters of the alphabet], Maryanovskiy, M.F., Pivovarova, N.A., Sobol, I.S. (editors), Union of Jewish War Invalids and Veterans, Moscow, Russia, 2006

B-29 42-24657 (Tom McNamara photostream, at flickr.com)

2/3/20 – 889

Fall of Fortresses, Fall of Illusions: Elmer Bendiner’s Flights of Memory: A Jewish B-17 Navigator over Europe: Denouement and After – November 29, 1943 – I

I had always acknowledged my kinship with the Jews of Europe,
but it was a watery-thin intellectual nod that I sent them.

I had lived in a world – social, political, sexual –
where I supposed that others took my Jewishness for granted as I did
and made no fuss about it.
The crosses of the Klan had burned in the hills near the town I lived in as a child,
but they had not referred to me.
When we did not laugh at the Klan we hated it because it menaced other people.
I loathed anti-Semitism in the same way
because it was a scourge for other people though not for me.

Now that stupid little man had stripped the illusion from my war.
It was not, then, a game which we played with death in the sky.
It was not all gallantry and white contrails against the blue.
It was not an aesthetic experience sanctified by an unchallengeable political cause.
Hitler was not a dragon with shiny scales to be slain by a shinier knight.
There were no dragons,
but only savage men and women
burning the flesh of other men and women.
And I was a Jew with someone’s spittle on my face.

Elmer Bendiner’s The Fall of Fortresses is an unusual book:  Though a semi-biographical memoir and “meditation” – as described in the book jacket – about America’s air war against Germany during 1943, it shares a quality typical of most works of fiction, found in genres such as adventure, noir, romance, science-fiction, fantasy, seafaring, and more.  That is, rather than being an arid recounting of combat mission after combat mission (after yet another combat mission); personality after personality (after yet another personality), within its final chapter, the book brings the reader to an event which binds together the implications of the author’s experiences, observations, and impressions into what is – if not a literary climax in the classic sense – than at least a deep and powerful revelation about the author’s symbolic and real place in the war against the Third Reich, and even beyond.

This occurs in the context (or, should I say after the context?) of Bendiner’s final mission, quite unlike the author’s telling of his 1943 missions to the German cities of Kassel on July 30 and Stuttgart on September 6.  Instead, through a writing style which smoothly melds together descriptions of events, personalities, and aerial surroundings into a vivid whole, he presents the memories (probably backed up by references to a dairy, correspondence, and archival reference(s?)) of his experiences during the 379th Bomb Group’s mission to Bremen on Monday, November 29, 1943. 

While this mission held the same potential for danger, drama (and death) of mid-July and early-September, these dangers were in retrospect for his crew unremarkable. Obviously, Bendiner and his crew returned to England, his combat tour completed, the central question of his life no longer the “if” of survival but the certain “what” of the future. 

On the evening of November 29, came a realization.

That night, emotionally drained, he entered the 379th’s Officers Club, trying to come to terms with the awareness that he would no longer have to live by day-by-day, his future unknown, facing each mission with the anticipation of the next mission:

“I drank a scotch and soda. I do not recall another time throughout the war that I drank alone. I usually drink to keep in step or to ease the flow of talk. That night of the alert I must have been groping for words to say to myself, desperate to find something to do while the others slept the uneasy sleep that waits for the glare of a flashlight, for the grumbling and the whining, and the start of a new mission in the deadly cold sky.

“Would I wake at that summons, turn over and go back to sleep? Would I haunt the mess and the flight line like a damned ghost? How stupid, how cruel to let me stay alive and safe among those who are still hostages to death. No surgeon would leave an amputated limb near the living patient. It should be taken away, put out of sight, allowed to regenerate a body as a worm does when it is severed.”

At the Officer’s Club, he has an encounter with a Public Relations officer.  (379th Bomb Group or 527th Bomb Squadron?  Bendiner doesn’t specify.)  The two converse, “…until he said quite suddenly, “You made it all the way. Not many of your people stick it out.” 

Thunderstruck and at a loss for words, Bendiner leaves the club.  “I was caught completely off guard. I had just been tasting the joys of exclusivity at a bitter time. I had condescended to talk to this paddlefoot, this unprepossessing paper pusher. I had been in and up and he had been down and out. It had been so kind of me to talk to him. Then in the twinkling of an eye he had pulled me down and thrown me out. I walked the dark and rutted roads around Kimbolton, clutching my coat as if caught in a chill wind.”  More follows.  

This is the solitary passage in The Fall of Fortresses that pertains to the author being a Jew, and the fact that it effectively and almost concludes Bendiner’s memoir testifies to the conversation’s significance and impact.  Suffice to say that the late-1943 event and its implications obviously remained an undercurrent in the author’s consciousness at least through the 1980 publication of The Fall of Fortresses, and, I would deign to suggest, beyond.  

Of Bendiner’s personal beliefs concerning being a Jew – whether in terms of a transcendent sense of peoplehood, belief, and what is quaintly called “religion” – I know absolutely nothing, for this doesn’t seem to have been the subject of his postwar writing, except for the curious comment in his Contemporary Authors biography that his religion “defies categorization”.  However, even if Bendiner’s conversation with the anonymous P.R. officer eventuated in no outwardly visible transformation, it brought him to a realization about both his identity, and, the very nature of the war in which he was participating. 

Even if, like some American Jews of his generation, that nature only crystallized decades after the fact.  And for other American Jews, never. 

A central and continuing question, as relevant in 2024 as it was eighty-one years ago, and unquestionably and blatantly so since October 7, 2023 (22nd of Tishrei, 5784) – though it’s always been obvious, even in the “best” of times – is whether the conditions of Jewish acceptance, existence, and survival can ever be taken for granted. 

A definitive answer to that question remains pending.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An unrelated note…

The 8th Air Force’s mission to Bremen of November 29, 1943, is the subject of numerous posts about Major Milton Joel, commander of the 38th Fighter Squadron of the 55th Fighter Group, who along with four other 55th FG and one 20th Fighter Group Lightning pilots, was shot down during that mission.  (The Major and his plane have never been found.)  Bendiner’s comments about, “A frontal system, visible in a line of towering stratocumulus, lay between us and Bremen.  We passed over the clouds and noted the edge of the front on the thermometer that tracked the outside temperature,” “a solid blanket of clouds beneath us,” and, “We bombed Bremen through the overcast and the flak,” amplify passages in 55th FG Mission Reports, Encounter Reports, and Missing Air Crew Reports about the pervasiveness of cloud cover over the continent that day.  This figured into errors made by both USAAF and Luftwaffe fighter pilots about the location of fighter claims and losses on this mission.

You can view a list of posts about Major Joel and the 38th FS here, while an account of all Jewish military casualties in the Allied armed forces on that November day can be found here.  

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Elmer Bendiner stands before the nose of Flying Fortress “Tondelayo” (B-17F 42-29896, squadron identification marking “FO * V“).  Photo from Silvertail Books.

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Here is Bendiner’s passage about the November 29th mission in its entirety:

My twenty-fifth came on November 29. It was our second visit to Bremen in three days. We climbed through soup and emerged into a blue sky lit by a sun that shed no warmth. The chill ate into my ribs and goaded my frostbitten toe to ache with the memory of its earlier insult. I scrunched my arms into my sides, barely lifting them to chip the frost from the window. There were about 150 planes in our parade; other formations were en route elsewhere to north Germany. (We looked brave out there, but with the Schweinfurt losses still in headlines our chiefs dared not send us beyond the reach of P-47s and the Mustangs which were appearing for the first time in our theater, though without wing tanks that would make the difference in later months.)

With our fighters fanning out around us and above us we looped far out over the North Sea before turning to make our run to the target. A frontal system, visible in a line of towering stratocumulus, lay between us and Bremen. We passed over the clouds and noted the edge of the front on the thermometer that tracked the outside temperature. It began to rise, though it was still no more than sixty below zero Fahrenheit.

As we turned toward the target the windows frosted into dazzling snowy pinpoints of light, blinding the view. In the nose Bob and I could barely see blue sky and distinguish the shapes of fighters. Ours or theirs? We could not tell. We tracked them with our guns but did not fire.

We could not know it at the time, but the cockpit was then in real trouble. The window defroster had failed in the stress of the frontal passage. The engines may hum, the props spin, all the intricate nerves of a plane may function superbly, but the failure of a simple defroster can prove fatal.

In that bitter cold of 25,000 feet in November over the North Sea, Bohn had to open his window and put his head out to see where he was going. In a hurricane of lacerating cold he had to keep from blinking so that his tears might not freeze his eyes shut.

We saw a German pop up through a solid blanket of clouds beneath us. It was an ME-109. Bohn saw him, too. We watched him far out, maneuvering for a head-on attack. He was coming in. Bohn called us on the intercom and his voice was strained. Bob turned to me his eyes blazing. He banged a fist on his gun. Was it jammed, or what? He pushed me aside to try my gun, though it could not be swiveled far enough to catch the oncoming fighter in its sight. There was no click, no chatter. The gun was dead. Bohn called again and again to fire. Our plane was silent. Our guns, in that brief passage from cold to warmer, moister air, had frozen.

I turned to look at the other planes of the formation. Not a tracer flew. The Messerschmitt came on. He was well within range now and we had not a gun to stop him. Could he then rake the formation, burn us to the ground, because the damned sky had made us impotent as hens mesmerized in the presence of a fox?

Then we noted that no lights were playing along his wings where we knew his guns should be firing. He came through the squadron up ahead and no planes fell. He passed us at our level, and Bohn, who had a better view than I had, says he waved. Bohn says he had a black mustache; he saw the enemy that clearly at the moment when a meteorological happenstance imposed a truce. An inversion – with cold air below the clouds and comparatively warm air above – had momentarily sealed his guns.

I do not recall the enemy’s mustache or his farewell wave, but I saw him turn and plunge downward into the gray rolling clouds.

Minutes later in stable air the guns thawed. We could again be as murderous in our defense as need be. We bombed Bremen through the overcast and the flak. On the way home German fighters came up in force. They and the flak knocked out of the sky thirteen of our planes carrying 130 men. I was not among that number, and it had been my twenty-fifth.

I smiled when I was congratulated. I got off a letter to Esther. That night and all the next day I felt curiously disembodied. I was there and not there. I walked the same roads I had always walked. I slept where I had always slept, but all was changed. I was not part of my crew. I watched them go about their work and their preparations in my absence. They would talk about getting together with me sometime if… We would see each other in London, New York, Minneapolis, Boston, if…

I no longer shared that highly charged existence in the shadow of the if. I would learn to live as I had once lived without that omnipresent, stimulating shadow. True, I had never forsaken my childish belief in invulnerability, but nevertheless the if had always been there, on the other side of my plane’s window, peeking from behind Esther’s picture, within the envelope of her letter. I became attached to it. I felt that somehow the conditional lent a distinction to life. One must indeed be hungry for distinctions to develop a fondness for that grinning, gap-toothed conjecture of death.

I confess, nevertheless, that I had grown accustomed to that presence as the eleventh member of the crew, and I would miss him along with the others. The feeling of impending separation grew keener on the evening of November 30. The field was alerted. My crew would fly and I would not. I had been offered a job at Wing Headquarters, helping to design missions for others. It would have meant a captaincy and a job in a world of pleasant mess halls, staff cars and jeeps, with just enough time in an airplane over Britain to collect my flying pay. I had turned it down for a chance to go home, see Esther, meet my daughter and, pending assignment to some other war, live the life of those who need no poppy in their buttonhole to assure survival.

I was sure that I wanted such a life as any sane man would. A part of me was sane and had sane desires. A better-organized army would have rushed me off the base within the very hour I had completed my twenty-fifth. I should have vanished as definitively as those who die or resign from combat. Perhaps my decision to forgo the promotion and opt for home had upset some part of the machinery. In any case I had been told that I was not to go home for a while at least. I would have to do a stint of teaching navigation to neophytes in Northern Ireland.

“Ireland?” echoed Joyce and her mother in a concerted wail of disbelief. I had gone to see them in the afternoon to say goodbye. To the Woffords of England, Ireland was the utmost edge of the world, a place of terrible exile. I scuttled their sympathy with laughter and rolled Joyce’s farewell kiss upon my tongue. Then I came home to the field, the alert and a sense of desolation.

I remember the bar in the officers’ club. The wood was blond and highly polished. It ran the entire length of a very long wall, or so it seems to me in recollection. A mirror was hung behind it on which was pasted a collection of decorous breasts, legs and toothy smiles. There was a crude cardboard facsimile of our emblem – crossed bombs and death’s head.

Blackout curtains covered the windows. No one sat at any of the tables near the stoves. The place was cold, as I remember, and empty. I do not think there was a soul there except myself. Someone must have been tending bar, but I do not recall a face or a name or a word that was exchanged. I think there was a yellow light over the bar, but most of the room was in semidarkness.

I stood with my foot on the rail. I drank a scotch and soda. I do not recall another time throughout the war that I drank alone. I usually drink to keep in step or to ease the flow of talk. That night of the alert I must have been groping for words to say to myself, desperate to find something to do while the others slept the uneasy sleep that waits for the glare of a flashlight, for the grumbling and the whining, and the start of a new mission in the deadly cold sky.

Would I wake at that summons, turn over and go back to sleep? Would I haunt the mess and the flight line like a damned ghost? How stupid, how cruel to let me stay alive and safe among those who are still hostages to death. No surgeon would leave an amputated limb near the living patient. It should be taken away, put out of sight, allowed to regenerate a body as a worm does when it is severed.

I do not remember a man coming into the bar, but there he was next to me. I have forgotten his name. He was a PR man – an information officer. I had known him slightly, and occasionally given him a bit of color to adorn a press release. He was a mild-mannered man, one of many I had known on the field as I knew the color of the bar or the turn of the road. Until that moment he had been part of the scenery but had not participated in my world. I flew and he walked. I was on familiar terms with death and he pecked items out on a typewriter as I do now. I was an arrogant snob. I was part of an elite. He was an outsider. Still, I was civil; I made talk.

I believe he bought me a drink, but I am not sure. He had done a squib on my completing my missions, he said, and I nodded appreciatively. His face was a pasty white, as I remember it, but I do not trust myself because I have carried his face so long in my mind that it is the worse for wear.

We were oppressively alone in that bar. The alcohol had diminished me to a point below anything I had known. My spirit had collapsed like a dishrag. Inside my throat I could feel tears drip as from an abscess. Yet we talked of God knows what. We talked until he said quite suddenly, “You made it all the way. Not many of your people stick it out.”

I hope to God I did not nod my head or let my hand shake. I know I could not speak. I think he knew I could not speak, and that staggers me with shame thirty-five years later. I put my drink down. That I do remember. I do not think I looked at him. I wish now that I had, that I had seen his face clearly. I cannot tell whether he smiled or smirked or gloated or peered dully at me through his glasses. I will never know. I took my trench coat from the hook on the wall. I recall that I did everything slowly. I put on my crushed airman’s hat and walked out.

That is what happened. A plethora of rationalizations followed at once and have continued for thirty-five years. The event came so suddenly upon me, so unexpectedly, that I could not think of any of the thousand witty, savage, blunt things to say or do that have leaped to mind ever since. I was caught completely off guard. I had just been tasting the joys of exclusivity at a bitter time. I had condescended to talk to this paddlefoot, this unprepossessing paper pusher. I had been in and up and he had been down and out. It had been so kind of me to talk to him. Then in the twinkling of an eye he had pulled me down and thrown me out. I walked the dark and rutted roads around Kimbolton, clutching my coat as if caught in a chill wind.

I had always acknowledged my kinship with the Jews of Europe, but it was a watery-thin intellectual nod that I sent them. I had lived in a world – social, political, sexual – where I supposed that others took my Jewish-ness for granted as I did and made no fuss about it. The crosses of the Klan had burned in the hills near the town I lived in as a child, but they had not referred to me. When we did not laugh at the Klan we hated it because it menaced other people. I loathed anti-Semitism in the same way because it was a scourge for other people though not for me.

Now that stupid little man had stripped the illusion from my war. It was not, then, a game which we played with death in the sky. It was not all gallantry and white contrails against the blue. It was not an aesthetic experience sanctified by an unchallengeable political cause. Hitler was not a dragon with shiny scales to be slain by a shinier knight. There were no dragons, but only savage men and women burning the flesh of other men and women. And I was a Jew with someone’s spittle on my face.

I do not pretend that I was a victim of a pogrom. I agree that, living in the same century as Auschwitz, I ought not to mention my little encounter. And it would have left no mark on me if I had not been rendered so vulnerable by a false sense of security derived from the battlefield where death creates the splendid illusion of brotherhood.

None of this was clear to me as I left the bar. It has taken me thirty-five years to begin to understand that nameless PR man. He probably shrugged when I walked out, confirmed in the view that Jews are hypersensitive and unpredictable and that they can’t tell a compliment from a kick in the ass.

I spent the night somehow between the officers’ club and my hut. I no longer remember whether I woke when my crew left. I must have said goodbye again though I had already said as much the night before. Still, to think that I had not would shame me more than my performance at the bar.

And thus ended Elmer Bendiner’s war  That is, as shown in this series of posts, until 1980.

Here’s His Book

Bendiner, Elmer S., The Fall of Fortresses, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1980

The Fall of Fortresses: Elmer Bendiner’s Flights of Memory: A Jewish B-17 Navigator over Europe: Tondelayo’s Final Mission – September 6, 1943

We would have to ditch,
take our chances against riding down with the plane straight to the bottom of the Channel,
and take our further chances on being picked up by friends, not foes, at sea.
I argued for that proposal.
Everyone knew it was a personal matter with me.
I could see no other way to get home
to my wife and shortly forthcoming child before the war’s end.
I might grow old while my child grew up.

“Poor Benny – he’s got to see his kid.”
Real sympathy poured over the intercom disguised as mock tears.
Bohn supported me from the start.
Mike and Duke pitched in, and the others followed cheerfully.

I accepted such sacrifices without a qualm.
I was young then.
Would I now try to persuade others to make so risky a choice on my account?
Not likely.

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This “second” excerpt from Elmer Bendiner’s The Fall of Fortresses covers the ditching of Tondelayo in the English Channel while returning from the 379th Bomb Group mission to Stuttgart on September 6, 1943.  Bendiner weaves together his correspondence to his wife, what seems to have been postwar correspondence or personal conversations with his pilot, Bohn Fawkes, perhaps historical records from the 527th Bomb Squadron, and certainly his own memories, into a fast-moving and crisply detailed historical tapestry that captures the mixture of fear, tension, humor, and matter-of-factness inherent to a situation and event where survival was problematic.  And, if problematic for one, then ten times more problematic for the crew of a heavy bomber.

In this regard – and viewed from an even higher perspective, whether of time or (quite literally!) altitude – any perusal of official records or serious historical works pertaining to the WW II air war (let alone later conflicts), specifically in terms of the survival of aircrews lost at sea – whether through controlled ditching or mass bailout – will readily reveal how problematic was the survival of airmen during such events.  The USAAF’s Missing Air Crew Reports and most any of R.W. Chorley’s series of books covering WW II Bomber Command Losses are replete with accounts of such events – some heart-rending; many sad beyond words and thought; many others inspiring; a tiny few perhaps humorous – that leave one wondering about the unpredictable intersection between training, skill, bravery, and fate.  (Yet, in Judaism there is no such thing as “fate”.  There I momentarily and theologically digress!)  Still, whether you prefer “fate” or fate, all things held equal, repeated training, preparation, and familiarization with both an aircraft’s design, and personal survival gear, could certainly make a difference in the probability of an airman’s survival at sea, whether via bailout or ditching.

Specifically mentioned or alluded to in Bendiner’s story are (of course) pilot Bohn Fawkes, anonymous co-pilot “Chuck”, flight engineer Lawrence H. Reedman, and tail gunner Michael L. Arooth.  Of these four men, let alone the entire crew, it seems that the only individuals hurt or injured were Bendiner (unspecified), “Chuck” (wounded in his leg by 20mm cannon fire) and Arooth (badly gashed his head during the ditching.).

The videos below elucidate aspects of survival at sea in terms of successfully ditching a B-17, and, the rate of aircrew survival during such events.  Note that the final section of “B-17 Bomber Ditching Survival Rate? Not Good” is “Strong Seasonal dependency on Rescue Stats”.  This seems to be borne out by the ditching of the Fawkes’ crew in mid-summer (everyone survived), versus the ditching of the Leonard Rifas crew in mid-winter of 1945 (no-one survived).

Here’s “Ditch at Sea and Live in a Boeing B-17 (1944-Restored)”, at ZenosWarbirds.  

“Ditching in water was a fact of life for stricken aircraft in World War 2, from the frozen white tops of the North Sea to the shark infested waters of the South Pacific. “Lt. Reynolds.” played by veteran actor Arthur Kennedy (Lawrence of Arabia), is copilot on a B-17 that ditches at sea. He survives by pure luck, but the rest of the crew is lost due to a lack of preparation. When he gets his own ship, Reynolds vows his crew is thoroughly trained in B-17 ditching. He gives them the straight dope, step by step.”

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And, here’s “B-17 Bomber Ditching Survival Rate? Not Good”, at WWII US Bombers.

Topics of the video:
Causes of Ditching
Ditching Vs. Bailout
Range of Bomber VHF communications
Air Sea Steps for aircraft in Distress
Crew Ditching positions
Gibson Girl Usage
Air Sea Rescue Stats for the B-17 and B-24 Bombers
% of Rescues per month
Strong Seasonal dependency on Rescue Stats

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Elmer Bendiner stands before the nose of Flying Fortress “Tondelayo” (B-17F 42-29896, squadron identification marking “FO * V“).  Photo from Silvertail Books.

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Tondelayo early in her short-lived combat career – during the summer of 1943 – as seen in Army Air Force photograph 60509AC / A45870.

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Unfortunately, I’ve no idea of the specific (or approximate) location in the English Channel that marks the undersea resting place of Tondelayo.  By definition there’s no Missing Air Crew Report for this incident, and the historical records of the 527th Bomb Squadron I believe only commence in October of 1943.  C’est la vie.

And thus, Elmer Bendiner’s account of the mission:

Stuttgart lies some five hundred miles inside Germany. A heavily loaded B-17 flying at a moderate altitude – say, seventeen thousand feet – in formation, zigging and zagging in evasive action, might be expected to make the round trip but would land with fuel tanks perilously close to empty. There would scarcely be a gallon to spare for a foolish mistake or a bit of horseplay.

The mission was being led by Brigadier General Robert Travis. I had nothing against the General before Stuttgart because I knew very little about him except for his legendary talent at poker. After Stuttgart many of us had a great deal against him. He added to our anxieties – or at least to Bohn’s – from the very inception of the mission by announcing his intention of following a newfangled theory developed by someone at Bomber Command. A great deal of fuel was being wasted by climbing to altitude with full tanks, it was reasoned. Why not climb at a later point when the tanks would be lighter?

My second-lieutenant pilot could have told the General why not, but he wasn’t asked. To fly in the thin upper air a plane needs the added strength of its superchargers. If those superchargers are out of order it is best to realize that incapacity when you are over friendly territory and can drop down to a lower altitude and head for home. It is not wise to wait until one is at altitude over enemy territory to find that you cannot stay in formation.

Travis, untroubled by such technical considerations, led us across Europe at ten thousand feet until we were close to Tubingen, from which we would turn onto the target. Then he began to climb steeply and we followed him. Our superchargers worked. The record does not show whether others failed, because how can one distinguish in the fall of a Fortress the various ingredients of disaster – enemy flak or 20-mm. shells or rockets or simple mechanical failure?

We were flying low and on the outside of the formation. Travis and his lead group were in view ahead of us. As we rounded Tubingen I noted clouds moving across the Black Forest. Outside my starboard window the Neckar River was still plainly visible snaking its way to the target.

Stuttgart lay before us in checkered sun and shadow. It was close to noon. The flak came up, but not too heavy. Then as we neared the target white clouds capriciously intervened. Bob had no concerns; he would drop on the leader’s bombs. But those clouds must have disconcerted Travis’s bombardier, all set as he was to fix the primary target on the cross hairs of his bombsight. Could he switch at an instant from visual bombing to instruments?

We read the answer in the spectacle of our lead group passing over the target with bomb-bay doors wide open and no bombs falling amid the furious black flak.

Travis was going around for another try, and the formation would wheel behind him. All very well for Travis and the happy few at the hub of that wheel. They could describe a nice, tight circle. But to us on the outward rim it meant a fearsome strain to keep up with the formation, and a serious drain of gas. We had to fly perhaps an extra forty or fifty miles at full throttle, using gas at very nearly the rate required for a takeoff, just to keep our position in the formation.

We could have come in closer to the hub, shortening the radius of the swing and saving considerable fuel, but we dared not slip under the open bomb-bay doors of Travis and his group. His bomb bays, like ours, were loaded with incendiaries. (This too seems odd, for ball bearings and the machines that make them do not burn.) The incendiaries were ingeniously packaged in clusters with a timing device so set that, at a predetermined distance below the bomber that hatched them, the firebombs would spread out and cover a wider area.

No one could be sure just when those incendiaries would tumble out, their clusters flying apart. We swung out in a wide arc. Why the General did not close his bomb-bay doors is yet another unanswered question of the city.

On the second time around, the incendiaries fluttered down, and smoke billowed up in black clouds from the city.

As we turned away from the target the Luftwaffe made its belated but emphatic appearance. Fighters came at us head on and blazing. Bohn was one of those pilots who believed ardently in evasive action. (There are some contrary schools of thought, which declare that it is better to fly straight and level as if on parade, following the model of the Light Brigade.) As the German planes came at us from high out of the sun, Bohn pushed Tondelayo to climb and pitch. This seemed to throw the attackers off momentarily. But they – or others like them – came at us again, three or four abreast. Bohn recollects that he saw a puff of smoke from the engine of one of the German fighters and in response nosed Tondelayo into her dance. In retrospect he much regrets that he did not accurately interpret the puff as an indication that the German pilot had cut his throttle and was waiting for us to come down from our jump while he slowed his run at us. He caught us cold and raked Tondelayo from nose to tail.

When he left us one of our engines was on fire; our copilot of the day, Chuck, had had his leg torn by a 20-mm. shell; the oxygen lines in the rear of the ship had been cut, and the oil-pressure gauge was down to zero because our oil line had been severed.

Now, it is the oil pressure that enables the pilot to change the pitch of the propellers. And if the pitch cannot be changed the propeller stands like a rigid paddle in the teeth of hurricane winds. If it spins without lubrication the friction can build up enough heat to melt metal. Then the propeller blades might turn into a deadly missile and slash the frame that held us. Our own propellers were poised like axes against us.

It was clear that we could not stay in formation. To put out the fire in our engine we would have to work up an airspeed of at least 235 mph. We could have done so only in a dive. (We had been at that deadly extremity before.) In any case we would have to drop to lower altitudes with half our crew deprived of oxygen. (We had been there before as well.)

At the first lull in the fight we waved away our wing man and dived until the fire was out.

Now we can pick up the letter to my wife.

…We had to drop out of formation and fight our way across Europe by ourselves. As it developed, we didn’t so much fight our way out as sneak out, running for every cloud cover we could see. The spot decision right then was up to Fawkes. He could have asked for a course to Switzerland. The lovely snowy, blue-and-white peaks of the Alps were plainly visible, towering almost up to our altitude, although quite a way off….

I must interrupt again. Technically it was up to Bohn, but not actually as it turned out. Bohn was our commander – and a very good one, which is to say that he almost never gave an order. We talked this situation out, weighing the pros and cons as if we were civilians around a table. While we talked we flitted from cloud to cloud over Europe. I had given Bohn a heading, but he could scarcely keep to it while chasing clouds. I had to follow every twist and turn he made, altering our headings accordingly and still aiming for England by the shortest route.

It was plain from the most casual glance at our fuel level, at our ground speed, at our low altitude and at the distance we had to go that we could not make it back to Kimbolton. We had three choices to discuss. We could head for the Alps, where we would be interned for the duration. (General cheers over the intercom.) Choice number two: we could bail out over France. We all carried civilian passport pictures. (I liked mine because I had borrowed a very un-Army, tweedy jacket for the purpose.) We could hope to land amid the French Resistance and follow their lead to the Channel coast, where we might thumb a ride on a fishing boat. Our intelligence captain had described this alternative as an easy walk across occupied Europe for which we were well armed with a snapshot and a .45-caliber pistol. (Dead silence for that option.)

Last possibility: we could fly as far as our fuel would permit. I told everybody I was sure we could reach the Channel. We would have to ditch, take our chances against riding down with the plane straight to the bottom of the Channel, and take our further chances on being picked up by friends, not foes, at sea. I argued for that proposal. Everyone knew it was a personal matter with me. I could see no other way to get home to my wife and shortly forthcoming child before the war’s end. I might grow old while my child grew up.

“Poor Benny – he’s got to see his kid.” Real sympathy poured over the intercom disguised as mock tears. Bohn supported me from the start. Mike and Duke pitched in, and the others followed cheerfully.

I accepted such sacrifices without a qualm. I was young then. Would I now try to persuade others to make so risky a choice on my account? Not likely.

We knew then that our co-pilot’s wounds were superficial, but would not Switzerland have seemed the safest bet for him? We could have made a case for internment. Why didn’t we?

Back to the letter:

…Bohn asked for a heading home and I was glad of it even though with fighting and one thing and another I was a bit vague as to our precise position at the time. We dived down into the loveliest, heaviest cloud imaginable and stayed in it as long as possible, while I feverishly worked away to establish our position and improve on the course I had originally set. The cloud gave out, and for a time we sailed at low altitude over the grain fields, forests, towns and rivers of France. Some of these checkpoints seemed to bear out my theoretically estimated position and some of them contradicted it. It was beautiful country; it seemed to be of a different color from that of England or Holland or Belgium.

We were playing hide-and-seek in the clouds over France. And in the open spaces our gunners were anxiously watching for German fighters who were looking for us but who miraculously failed to see us before other clouds came up to hide us. However, ground radio was tracking us and we had to shift course to clear what I thought would be heavy flak areas. We could see flak on both sides of us, largely to signal fighters, we thought….

At this point I must refer to Bohn, who remembers clearly an incident which I recall only dimly. We had been flying through cloud for some time when he asked me where we were. He says that he could see no way in which I could be sure of anything. And he was right, of course. I had followed our zigs and zags as best I could, but how could I be certain in that fog to which we clung? Then I had my answer from the Germans. The gray-white nothingness was punctured by black flak explosions all around us. “Ah,” I said, “Rouen.” We both laughed.

…Just before we crossed the coast Fawkes called up and suggested that anyone who didn’t want to take his chance in the water could still jump. None of us did. I could see water ahead, but we ran up along the coast to avoid a large seaport and heavy coastal flak. Duke, our radioman, was sending out an SOS and asking radio stations to take a fix on us. They did and he reported it to me, but it seemed to me to be way off. And Duke asked for another, which was just as bad. I realized then that no one in England knew where we were. I gave Duke our estimated position, but he couldn’t get it through….

Actually the British shore stations were asking us to move some thirty miles north where they could get a proper fix on us. They did not know it, but they were asking men to fly without wings. When we crossed the coast we had only one engine working, and in a B-17 that is a few minutes away from none. I gathered a few of my belongings – a chart of the Channel coast, which I folded and slipped into the pocket of my coveralls, a pencil or two, my gloves (gauntlet types that were more elegant than warm) and Esther’s picture. Then I clambered out of the nose, up the hatch behind Bohn, and through the bomb bay to the radio room.

…We were over the sea now and our four engines ran out one after another. When I left the nose, two of them were already motionless—a most disconcerting thing to see in an airplane. Back in the radio room we all took our previously assigned positions, bracing ourselves for the shock. I crouched behind the radioman’s armor plating and talked to Mike, who was crouched next to me. Up to the last minute Mike retained his faith in Tondelayo and couldn’t believe we would really have to ditch. He asked me whether we were headed toward England. I said we were but I knew we couldn’t make it. We chatted like that, looking up through the open hatch to the great, gray, swirling clouds, wondering how near the water we were and when the shock would come….

As we dropped closer to the sea Bohn turned to our copilot and asked him whether he had ever landed a plane in water. Chuck shook his head. Would he like to? No. With the last bit of power in Tondelayo Bohn maneuvered to land along the crest of a wave. To hit a wave broadside is very like flying into a stone wall. We skimmed the crest, then sank into the trough of a mountainous wave. We sank, then rose, buoyed by empty gas tanks.

From the cockpit Chuck saw his fondly crushed pilot’s cap in the hatchway leading to the nose and seemed about to try to fish it out. Bohn recalled looking at him doubtfully as if to say, “You’re on your own.” No window in the cockpit of a B-17 is made to allow a grown man to wriggle out of it unless he is in the extremity of desperation. Both Bohn and Chuck made it to the wing.

Someone should have pulled a lever to release the dinghies from the fuselage. No one had. Bohn quickly scanned the directions on the metal plaque above the wing. He pulled the appropriate lever as per instructions, but nothing happened. He and Chuck pulled, twisted and clawed the dinghies out, then started the inflation, which should have been automatic. Could it have been ten seconds or thirty? None of us remembers how long it took to climb out.

…We lit lightly at first and only a bit of spray seemed to come in. Mike stood up, and we all yelled to him to get down. But it was too late. After skipping along the water the ship finally plunged, throwing Mike forward so that he gashed his forehead. Then the green-gray water rushed in. I felt nothing so much as surprise. In drills there had been nothing to suggest such a torrent of ocean running through our airship. I tried to stand, but the force of the water knocked me down, and when I did get up, some of the precious things I had gathered were floating.

Everyone was on his feet, everyone excited and clambering toward the hatch, everyone shouting that there was plenty of time and to keep calm. Mike stood next to me and I saw that his head was bleeding badly. A piece of floating B-17 had clipped me and scratched my forehead. For an awful moment I thought that Mike and I, who were wedged in a corner, would never get out. Mike finally managed it. By that time the water was up to my chest and rising rapidly. Our bombardier, Bob, was still in there. I hoisted myself up on one side while he made for the other. I remember that I failed to make it the first time and I could hear Mike hollering outside, “Where’s Benny?” Then I clambered out. The wings were already under water.

I clung to the fuselage for a second or so and watched Fawkes and the others, who had extracted one of the rubber dinghies and were maneuvering it away from the wings of the sinking plane. Then I plunged into the water. The dinghy was scarcely more than a stroke away from the ship. But I had overlooked one detail that might have proved disastrous. I had neglected to inflate my Mae West….

Actually the dinghy must have been farther off than a swimming stroke or it would have been sucked down by Tondelayo. Obviously a participant in an event is not the most reliable witness when it comes to precise measurements. On the other hand, the raft could not have been too far off, because I have never been a good swimmer and for that occasion I was wearing a full flying suit and boots; my pockets were stuffed with map and pencils, Esther’s picture and odd bits of paraphernalia I thought I might need.

…I clung to the raft while Larry, our engineer, kept shouting, “Hold on, Benny, hold on” – as if I thought of doing anything else or going anywhere else just then. When I turned around Tondelayo had vanished; our dinghy and the other one holding the rest of our crew were the only things left on an apparently limitless sea. After a bit of floundering about I managed to hoist myself into the tossing dinghy. All this took much less time to live through than it does to record.

The Channel was as rough that day as it ever gets, and the swell was dark, towering and fearful to look at. It was worse to feel. We became violently seasick. That is, all except Bob and one gunner, who increased our miseries by remaining obtrusively and volubly high-spirited. There is, however, a measure of providence in the seasickness that plagues the shipwrecked. First, it gives them something to do which relieves the monotony; second; it makes death almost welcome.

Before giving way to utterly abandoned retching and writhing we paddled with our hands toward the other dinghy so that we could lash the rafts together….

Dinghies are equipped with oars, but we could not find them. Eventually they turned up at the very bottom of a heap of tightly stowed, largely unworkable gadgetry.

…In between spasms, when I could lie with my head back and not feel too sick, I could watch the endless seascape and the barren sky. Bob was cranking our portable radio frantically but in vain, because we had lost the kite to raise our aerial; we knew then that we could send no signal at all.

From time to time Larry would bail out some of the water that swept over us in salty waves whenever we thought we might begin to dry out in the sun. Larry would bail a little, get sick, bail some more and get sick again. I tried to help, but as soon as I’d lift my head I’d vomit. I was no help at all. For five hours we tossed like that and in my lucid moments, I would speculate on the direction of our drift. It was impossible to tell with any certainty. I knew what winds had been prevailing all afternoon, but there was much I did not know. In one lucid moment I looked down at the few things I had brought with me. One of these was my Mercator’s Chart. Now, darling, there is nothing quite so useless on a broad ocean as a Mercator on a raft that one cannot steer. I finally threw it overboard.

Toward the end of the afternoon we were all resigning ourselves to spending a night on the water. I, at least, was convinced that no one in England had any idea of where we were. Earlier we had seen a flight of bombers, but they were very high and no one aboard could possibly have seen our signals. It was a little more than five hours after we ditched that we sighted a squadron of fighters. Larry had the flare pistol out and ready to shoot. Duke shouted that they might be Germans. Some of us told him to shoot and others yelled at him not to.

Here I must point out a rare phenomenon. Bohn said, “Fire.”  When Larry hesitated Bohn said for the one and only time in my memory, “That’s an order.” Bohn told me later that he was positive they were Spits by the sound of them, which we had heard minutes before we saw them. Actually when we spotted them they were headed like a flight of arrows to England and no one in our position – climbing and sinking amid monstrous waves – could say whether their silhouettes were German or British. They were mere specks and shadows and I could see in them neither friend nor foe. Bohn’s ears for machinery were far subtler than mine. And I am grateful to them.

…Larry fired. The fighters were already past us, but one blessed pilot was looking back for an unknown but providential reason. We watched the fighters fly on and then noted that one peeled off, and the others followed.

They came in low over the water toward our flare – a magnificent affair of parachutes, red balls of fire and smoke like a Fourth of July celebration. Those Spitfires were the most meaningful, beautiful things I have ever seen. They swooped down and circled above us. Sick as we were, we stood up, waved and yelled at them, and came very near to upsetting the dinghies altogether. One of the Spits circled high above us to radio our position while the others continued to make passes over us by way of sustaining our morale. It was wonderful. We would cheer and laugh and get sick again, then laugh some more. I have never been so happy and so miserable at the same time.

After a while the Spits left us, but we felt certain that help would be on its way in no time at all. After a while another Spit did come out….

I am reminded by my pilot that it was not a Spit but a Mosquito.

We set off another display of fireworks and he too came over to circle above us. We were very glad to have him and we were sure that we were practically saved, but the sun set and the swell seemed to grow more ominous and still there was no rescue. We knew that our guardian plane would run out of gas soon. After a final pass he left us. The moon came up, big and yellow over the water. It was a lovely night, cold but full of stars – a few of which I fruitlessly recognized – but, lovely night or no, we continued to be sick. We strained our ears listening for motors. We saw lights where there were none. We told each other that we were sure to be rescued that night. But I think that each of us acknowledged to himself that it was unlikely.

We had been in the water about nine hours when Mike suddenly shouted that he saw a light. Fawkes saw it, too, when we rode the crest of a swell. We sent up another flare and then waited. Then we heard the dull throb of a motor, and a beam of light reached out near us but not quite on us. Dinghies are pitifully small things to spot on an ocean. We fired another flare, this time into the wind so that it fell back directly over our heads. The beam swung around and picked us up. Then while the light came nearer a terrible thought struck me and most of the others, I suppose: What if the vessel were an enemy ship? To have traveled all that distance across Europe alone, to have dived Tondelayo into the sea, to have spent nine agonizing hours on a raft, all to avoid capture and then to be picked up by the wrong ship – that would be too bad. We shouted and soon heard someone answering. “Ahoy,” said a voice behind the light. Apparently our collective Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Texas and New York accents made themselves known, and the voice answered jubilantly, “OK, Yanks, we’re coming.”

We clambered aboard the boat, fumbling awkwardly up the swaying rope ladder. There were a dozen happy angels dressed in blue RAF uniforms and turtleneck sweaters saying, “Bloody good show,” and cinematic things of that sort. They had hot soup and dry clothes ready for us. I couldn’t swallow the soup and, since I paused on deck for one last mighty heave of what was still in my innards, I came down too late for the clothes. But I stripped to the skin and they wrapped me in warm fleecy blankets….

While Bohn and I lingered on the deck we thought we saw a great hulk move out of the sea perilously close. Bohn tapped the shoe of the captain on the deck above us and gestured toward it. “We’ve copped it,” said the captain quietly, but he was wrong. The apparition was another British rescue launch, and together we headed home. The German shore batteries tossed a few shells in our direction, but they were not too serious about the effort.

…It was a long voyage home and we dodged minefields all the way. The skipper told us that we had drifted from our original position some twenty miles off the French coast to well within the patrol lanes of the Germans and in easy shelling distance of their coastal guns. By morning we would have been in enemy hands.

When we hit the coast town of Dover there was an ambulance waiting at the end of the stone walk. But Bendiner had no pants, nothing but a couple of blankets. I was panicky. I had read much about this town and it hurt my dignity to think that I would make my triumphal entry pantless. But I did. I clambered up the ancient stone steps of the wharf, clutching my blanket and looking like a refugee from a raid on a Turkish bath. It was very embarrassing. Those who were hurt were taken to a hospital. The rest of us – the cut on my forehead had thoroughly healed – went to the local officers’ barracks of the Royal Navy, where gold-braided commodores served us rum and scotch, hot soup and bully beef. They fussed about us and sought in a thousand ways to make us happy. But still I had no pants. At last some kind lieutenant dug up an outfit for me and I regained my dignity. As a matter of fact he provided civilian clothes for me – slacks and a sweater – so that for that night and the next day I felt like a civilian and looked like Don Budge….

***

Bohn, although a mere second lieutenant, was commander of the crew and therefore shared the quarters – and the razor – of the Admiral of the Port of Dover. He woke on the following morning to see the Admiral staring out to sea. That dignitary invited Bohn to join him for a morning dip in the Channel, then, hastily recollecting the circumstances, added, “I suppose not.” Bohn confessed during our day of rehashing the events to a slight twinge of embarrassment over the fact that he had not been the last to leave Tondelayo in keeping with his position. I told him of the commander of the Royal Indian Navy who testified at a board of inquiry, “I did not leave the ship. The ship left me.” That cheered Bohn.

On the following day, after we saw our co-pilot at the hospital and said a cheery farewell all around, our operations officer flew down to bring us back to Kimbolton. This time the groundlings had rolled our bedding and gathered our personal possessions into pathetically small packages suitably tagged. We unpacked and rejoined the living.

… I expect that shortly we will be shipped off to spend a quiet recuperative week at a seaside resort. Some of the boys who have been watching me furiously pounding away have become curious, and I have shown them most of this letter. They are now anxiously waiting for the last page to roll off the press so they can find out whether or not they were saved.

All my love,
ELMER

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This truly remarkable image, Army Air Force photograph 71149AC / A14028, shows Bohn Fawkes’ crew (with the exception of co-pilot “Chuck”, recovering in hospital) at Kimbolton on September 7, 1943, the day of their return to their base.  As described in Bendiner’s account, all are wearing British clothing.  At the center of the photo, focused – perhaps – on writing an account of their experience, is (probably) Lt. Fawkes.  Fourth from right is Lt. Bendiner, while seated at far right with bandaged head is Sgt. Michael Arooth.  

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The “quiet, recuperative week” mentioned by my young self did not come at once. We were being handled according to the latest authoritative study by Eighth Air Force psychiatrists. A crew that had had a very rough mission a month or so earlier had been dispatched to a “flak house” for rest and rehabilitation. They came back rested but scarcely rehabilitated. They had used their week off to mull over their collective past and unpromising future. On their return they announced their unanimous decision to quit the war. They would not fly combat again together or singly. It was not mutiny, merely combat fatigue.

Colonel Mo was taking no chances with us. He and a few psychologists who had been studying combat crews to see what ordinary creatures would do under extraordinary stress decided on a policy well known to everyone who has tried to train young equestrians. If they are thrown, toss them into the saddle at once. If they have escaped a broken neck they must be encouraged to try again.

Unfortunately, Kimbolton was socked in for ten days after Stuttgart, and the dark memory of the ditching seeped into our bones while we trudged through the mud to the mess hall or down to the line to accept without joy Tondelayo’s replacement – a plane named Duffy’s Tavern.

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Not every WW II Army Air Force aircraft was bedecked with elaborate nose art, some planes simply bearing a nickname and nothing more.  Such is the case of  B-17F 42-31040 DUFFY’S TAVERN (otherwise known by its squadron code FO * A), seen here at Kimbolton on November 11, 1943, in Army Air Force photo B-71044AC / A11536.  The plane’s nickname was doubtless inspired by – going by Wikipedia-ology – the CBS and NBC radio program of that name, which was broadcast between 1941 and 1951.  

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The recollection of Tondelayo sinking through green depths to the bottom of the Channel worked upon us. We saw our flesh within her skeleton, bloated, rising and sagging with ghastly swells, skin shredding in the eternal wash. Images teased us like sea-green sirens stirring an invitation to madness amid the autumnal swish of the fields around Kimbolton.

We did not describe to each other the atrocious look of death we ten might have worn within the twisted wreckage where our names, lettered on the metal frame, would serve as tombstones and where the flying limbs, swelling breasts and much venerated crotch of Tondelayo would be raped by pulsing tides and left to lie derelict.

We did not speak of her or the sea or of ourselves. I waited for a cablegram from Esther that would make me a father and seduce me from such visions. No message came for me.

We did hear from the void, though. Bohn had a note from Johnny, courtesy of the Red Cross. It was written in a breezy, wish-you-were-here mood from a Stalag Luft. He had floated down to earth safely but landed among people who did not recognize the war as a game. Rendered mindless by the rain of bombs or perhaps by earlier horrors, they spoke of lynching the bomb crews who came to earth. Johnny was rescued by German airmen who, in 1943, saw him as a member of their fraternity. They understood the bombing and the killing of total strangers in ways that a civilian could never appreciate. They installed Johnny safely in a POW camp where the war was quite tolerable, it seemed. He was out of it at last.

I cannot now recall whether there were any who envied him.

We came to know Duffy s Tavern. It was no more than a soulless collection of B-17 parts. We inhabited it as if it were a furnished room. It was serviceable but no more. And this despite some energetic efforts to pretend that it had a spirit. Duffy himself, our flyer-turned-publican, broke a bottle over its wing and we drank to it in a mood of abstracted gaiety.

We ourselves had chilled the beer for that celebration by flying a case or two up to altitude – undoubtedly the most expensively cooled beer ever consumed. I watched myself celebrate. As I recall, we all seemed to have an air of odd detachment. We said and did familiar things, but I, at least, sat far back in my head, which had grown to the size of earth and heaven. I beheld myself with bemused interest while I waited word from Esther and my child.

On the sixteenth of September we piled into Duffy’s Tavern and headed for Nantes to take yet another whack at the impervious submarine pens. We made it back with only minor damage. I believe that our nerves then had been insulated by a sheath of ice so that they carried no messages of pain or fear. Perhaps we could have finished our missions or even done many more in that strange condition, operating by mechanical reflex, beyond or beneath sensation.

However, the day after we came back from Nantes we were shipped to Blackpool as if we were machine parts that had been chipped and needed to be overhauled. We did not work our passage across England but rode as so much functionless freight. I did not regard as a luxury the situation of a passenger on a free ride. I chafed at it.

When our plane rolled to a stop and the engines were cut we leaped out on the hardstand at Blackpool. The sky was cloudless, full of the possibilities of combat. I slung my musette bag over my shoulder and waited for the others. They emerged from the waist of the plane carrying something. They gathered in a circle around whatever it was. I elbowed into the group and saw at our feet our ball-turret gunner, Leary, the youngest of the crew. His hands clutched empty air. His eyes rolled back beneath his lids, exposing a fish-white vitreous. His shirt was pulled away from his trousers, and the belt pinched the skin of his belly purple. His neck and face were splotched.

“Keep him warm … give him air,” people shouted.

Bohn and Mike were kneeling at Leary’s side. Bohn was trying to take hold of Leary’s tongue to keep his airway open. Someone asked for a coat. I took mine off and handed it to Bohn, who covered Leary. Then some RAF groundlings tore up in an ambulance and loaded Leary aboard a stretcher. He too vanished as had our waist gunners on the Kassel raid, and as Johnny had earlier. Now Leary was asserting, with purple epileptic emphasis, that he would fly and fight no more. He was to go home, we learned later that day. And so he did and lived to become a cop in Philadelphia.

The rest of us, left to refresh ourselves amid the delights of Blackpool, felt our throats constrict with Leary’s. We commingled our fears in long unspoken dialogues, inarticulate as the plop and twang of the lobbing of our tennis balls on the clay courts.

My mind’s eye sees Blackpool as fully inhabited yet deserted like a beach resort out of season. The shops have merchandise in the window left over from a summer that has passed. Chill winds blow scraps of dead newspapers across the boardwalk. A soft malaise hangs in the air around the red-brown brick of the crenellated pseudo-Gothic castle that is the scene of our rest and recreation.

The pubs are warm and cozy, but the conversation is like the fluttering of the dead newspapers on the boardwalk. There are pretty girls in the pubs. I see them clearly, but I think I was restrained by thoughts of Esther’s labor and the impending arrival of my child. Who would screw in the presence of his baby?

Bohn had his own inhibitory mechanism, and so we talked with tennis balls, plunking the gut of a racket, plopping on the clay, until we had talked ourselves out.

When we mentioned the war we talked as civilians and strategists do, as if it were all a matter of grand movements by armies and navies, of encirclements and flanking maneuvers, of siege and statistics. The U.S. Army was battling its way inland from Salerno. Montgomery’s Eighth Army was inching up the Calabrian toe. Field Marshal Rommel was flooding northern Italy with German troops to replace the wavering Italians. We could not know that Rommel even then was conspiring with the Oberburgomeister of Stuttgart to overthrow Hitler, unlock the concentration camps, construct a liberal facade and lead the Western world against Russia. If we had known, would we have spared Stuttgart to save the promising Oberburgomeister? And would we in Blackpool, concerned with our own drowned Tondelayo and with our odds for survival – would we have discussed such fascinating matters with the animation we can so easily muster now after thirty-five years of civilian life? I doubt it, for war is not a matter of news bulletins. It is the image of oneself inside a plane at the bottom of the sea. It is the face of an epileptic seizure. It is that shameful zest that death gives to life. It is not, assuredly, grand strategy.

Our conversation was confined to tennis sounds and the swish of curling waves on a bleak strand. We rode in a horse-drawn buggy with girls whom we caressed abstractedly. Photographers sold us snapshots of ourselves, the whereabouts of which I do not know, but I fancy that they still blow endlessly across the boardwalks of Blackpool.

It was on the last day of our rest and rehabilitation that a cablegram arrived telling me that I had a daughter. The information came complete with the usual statistics such as weight, as if she were a prize fish. Whether it was an error of transmission or my addled brain, or my unfamiliarity with babies, I do not know, but I cabled back to ask whether “14 pounds 6 ounces was good weight for one so young.” We drank to her and to Esther. The crew – or what was left of it – felt, and still feel, a proprietary interest in that daughter because it was for her sake they had chosen to take their chances with the sea rather than fly to the safety of Switzerland.

I wrote my daughter a letter and another to my wife, wore fatherhood as a poppy in my buttonhole, and climbed aboard a plane sent down to fetch us home to Kimbolton.

Three days later we were over Emden, where a German battleship we had not expected to find in the harbor tossed up something like a rocket. We brought home Duffy’s Tavern with gaping holes in wing, nose and fuselage. It was my seventeenth completed mission. Counting all the false starts and aborts it was very likely my fiftieth venture into battle. Half the original crew were no longer with us – though Mike would soon return. Three quarters of the original squadron were missing or dead or had withdrawn from combat.

I had a third of the way still to go to the magic number of twenty-five. All the military portents spoke of a bloody autumn to come.

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Presumably because he hailed from the Bronx, and, pre-war was employed as a reporter for the Brooklyn Eagle, a brief account of Elmer Bendiner’s experience in September of 1943 appeared in that newspaper, albeit over a year later: On December 6, 1944.  Here’s the article as published in the Eagle, and, a full image of page 22, on which it appeared.  As to why this news item appeared so long after the fact is a matter of conjecture.

The Eagle typically reserved its latter – or very last – page(s) for items covering news information about servicemen, or, casualty lists.  This article was found via Tom Tryniski’s Fulton History website.

Old Newspapers
Old Newspapers

Ex-Eagle Reporter Crashes in Channel To Escape Nazis

The Brooklyn Eagle
December 6, 1944

The Flying Fortress Tondelayo was in a jam. She had just raided Stuttgart from a British base and a combination of head winds and dirty weather generally had taxed her gasoline supply to the limit.

Navigator Lt. Elmer S. Bendiner, a former Brooklyn Eagle reporter, who lives at 2664 Grand Concourse, the Bronx, and Capt. John E. Fawkes of Minneapolis, the pilot, went into a huddle.

To bring her down in Switzerland meant internment for the duration. A landing in France, then in German hands, meant capture. There wasn’t enough gas to take her back to England.  The only chance was a crash landing in the English Channel off the French coast.

The radio was out of commission and the copilot was wounded. Lieutenant Bendiner was hurt, too. But for six hours the gallant crew of the Tondelayo tossed on the angry Chanel, seasick and hoping against hope for rescue, while shore guns tried their best to sink the Fortress.

But the rescue party reached them after darkness and the entire crew was taken back to their base.

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Next post, Elmer Bendiner’s final mission, and, his quiet revelation.

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Here’s the Book

Bendiner, Elmer S., The Fall of Fortresses, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1980

Here’s Another Book

Freeman, Roger A., The B-17 Flying Fortress Story: Design – Production – History, Arms & Armour Press,  London, England, 1998

Guess what? – Another book!

Forman, Wallace R., B-17 Nose Art Name Directory, Phalanx Publishing Co., Ltd., North Branch, Mn., 1996

The Fall of Fortresses: Elmer Bendiner’s Flights of Memory: A Jewish B-17 Navigator over Europe: “This is all we can do for you now.” – July 30, 1943

…there had been not just one shell but eleven of them in the gas tanks
– eleven unexploded shells
where only one would have sufficed to blast us out of the sky
with no time for chutes.
It was as if the sea had been parted for us.
Even after thirty-five years so awesome an event leaves me shaken.
But before Bohn finished the story there would be both more and less to wonder at.
He spun it out.

Elmer Bendiner stands before the nose of Flying Fortress Tondelayo (B-17F 42-29896, squadron identification marking “FO * V“).  Photo from Silvertail Books. 

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Elmer Bendiner’s writing of The Fall of Fortresses during the late 1970s doubtless presented him with a literary quandary: How should an author structure his book so that it presents a picture of aerial combat that’s historically accurate in its recounting of history, events, and personalities, and at the same time is intellectually and emotionally compelling.  One way would be by recounting the events of each of his twenty-five missions, whether “routine” or singularly memorable, in chronological order, which could lend his book a rote, dry, repetitive air.  Another way would be by focusing on those particular missions or events – few in number – which by their significance and unusual nature left indelible impressions upon the author.  It’s by following the latter course that Bendiner created his memoir, and in this, three particular missions stand out: A mission to Kassel, Germany on July 30, 1943; a September 6, 1943 mission to Stuttgart, and on November 30, 1943, Bendiner’s final combat mission, to Bremen, Germany, on November 29, 1943.

It’s those three flights that – excerpted from his memoir – will be presented in this series of posts.  First, though, it’s time to introduce Elmer Bendiner’s crew.

The Crew of Tondelayo

To begin, here are the very few photographs of Bendiner’s fellow crew members that I know of.   The first two come from The Fall of Fortresses.

Here’s his pilot, 2 Lt. Bohn Edgar Fawkes, Jr.

And, his bombardier, 2 Lt. Robert Lawrence Hejny

From Ancestry.com, here’s the 1934 Austin (Texas) high school graduation portrait of “Larry”: T/Sgt. Lawrence Harris Reedman, the crew’s Flight Engineer

Having started with Fawkes and Hejny in Tondelayo’s “nose”, we’ll symbolically work our way back to Tondelayo’s “tail”:  And so, fittingly, here are some pictures of tail gunner T/Sgt. Michael Louis Arooth.  

This undated image of T/Sgt. Arooth is Army Air Force photograph 78761AC / A8882.  The date of the photo is unknown, but given that he’s wearing the Air Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, Distinguished Service Cross, and particularly the Purple Heart (he was wounded on July 30 and injured on September 6), the picture was presumably taken at or near the end of his combat tour.

This picture of T/Sgt. Arooth is from the WW II Uncovered Facebook Page  (9/29/20) and shows the Sergeant making a radio broadcast, location unknown.  

Unfortunately, I don’t have the source of this image, but I’m certain the picture also shows T/Sgt. Arooth.  Given that Tondelayo is adorned with several swastikas denoting victory claims over German fighters (unlike in the picture with Elmer Bendiner, where it seems to bear none), the picture was obviously taken before the bomber’s loss on September 6, 1943, during the latter part of its service in the 527th Bomb Squadron.

At the U.S. Militaria Forum, here’s another picture of Sgt. Arooth, probably taken when he was training in the United States.

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If I have any criticism of The Fall of Fortresses, it’s this: Given that Bendiner’s personal records, diary, and letters, and doubtless photographs survived the war, it’s a pity that more of his personal photos weren’t included in the book.  Other than the pictures of Fawkes, Hejny, and the author, the memoir is entirely absent of images of the author’s family, the rest of his crew, B-17s, or Kimbolton.  It’s a pity.  What was G.P. Putnam’s Sons thinking???

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This photograph, Army Air Force picture C-71023AC / A11454 (it can be found at Fold3 and the American Air Museum in Britain, as UPL 41323), shows Tondelayo and (at least some of) Bendiner’s crew, at the 379th Bomb Group’s base in Kimbolton, England.

Fold3 contributor patootie63 has two entries at listing the names of the men in the photo.

One entry states: “Could be Carnal’ crew : Lt Walter Flower Carnal (pilot) was born on dec 1st, 1918 – passed away on july 28th, 2010 (POW on 14 oct 1943, flying aboard 42-3269 “Picadilly Willy”) Lt William S Davidson (copilot) POW Lt Morris Konier (navigator) POW 1 Lt Leslie M Gross (bombardier) KIA on oct 14th, 1943 T/Sgt Leonard Frederick Cruzan (radio) POW – was born on dec 16th, 1919 – passed away on june 30th, 2014 – Sgt Norbert Stephen Jost (engineer) was born on nov 19th, 1919 – passed away on july 8th, 2002 POW S/Sgt Donald S Sherman (ball turret gunner) was born on nov 29th, 1920 – passed away on june 1st, 1945 POW S/Sgt Nick G Rukavina (right waist gunner) KIA on oct 14th, 1943 S/Sgt Monico R Rodriquez (left waist gunner) POW S/Sgt Milton M Fisher (tail gunner) POW”

The above caption is hyperlinked to four men in the photo.  In center rear is Bohn Fawkes, while in front row second from left is S/Sgt. Monico Rodriquez, fourth from left is S/Sgt. Donald Sherman, and fifth from left is Sgt. Arooth.

(The above entry also states that the photo was taken on July 12, 1943.  Which makes sense, given that the bomber was lost in early September.)

And the other: “This is Fawkes’ crew : 2Lt Bohn E Fawkes Jr (pilot) 2 Lt Charles A Mauldin (co-pilot) born on sept 2nd, 1919 – passed away on feb 17th, 2007 2 Lt Elmer S Bendiner (navigator) 2 Lt Robert L Hejny (bombardier) born on jan 5th, 1920 – passed away on aug 5th, 1985 T/Sgt Frederick J Reinhard (radio operator) T/Sgt Lawrence H Reedman (engineer) T/Sgt Walter J Gray (ball turret gunner) S/Sgt Harry L Edwards (right waist gunner) S/Sgt John A Leary (left waist gunner) T/Sgt Michael Arooth (tail gunner)”

In Fold 3, the above caption is hyperlinked to three men in the photo.  Second from rear is Elmer Bendiner, in center rear is Bohn Fawkes, and at far right front is (again) Sgt. Arooth.  The above crew list also accompanies the photo as it appears at the American Air Museum in Britain.

So, in light of both of patootie63’s entries, we have identities in the crew photo for Elmer Bendiner, Bohn Fawkes, Michael Rodriquez, and Michael Arooth. However, based on the Fawkes’ crew list as presented in patootie63’s “second” entry (just above), which is repeated at the American Air Museum in England, and a reading of The Fall of Fortresses, the actual Fawkes’ crew – at least, those men with whom Bendiner flew his missions, and/or are mentioned or alluded to in his book – is listed below.  The men’s names are accompanied by their ranks, serial numbers, names of next of kin, wartime residential addresses, date of birth, and (alas) inevitably – this being the year 2024 – date of death.  This information is derived from a deep perusal of Ancestry.com, and, FindAGrave, the latter evident via the hyperlinks.  In this manner, I was able to find definitive information about all but three men: Radio Operator Frederick Reinhard, Ball Turret Gunner Walter Gray, and replacement Waist Gunner Henry J. Edwards.  

An observation: Remarkably, though two members of this crew (waist gunners Herring and Stockman) became POWs, and one man (Michael Arooth) was wounded and injured, every man listed below survived combat, and, survived the war.  The last surviving crew member was Charles Augustus Mauldin, who died at the age of eighty-seven in 2009.

Their Names

Pilot: Fawkes, Bohn Edgar, Jr., 2 Lt., 0-410814
Mr. and Mrs. Bohn Edgar (6/12/92-2/8/46) and Inez E. (1893-1959) Fawkes (parents)
2426 Irving St., Minneapolis, Mn.
Born Minneapolis, Mn. 9/2/19 – Died 2/17/07

Co-Pilot: Mauldin, Charles Augustus, 2 Lt., 0-794438
Mr. and Mrs. Charles “Charlie” (9/16/83-1/1/30) and Ethel Charity (Dutherage or Duthridge) (8/31/91-8/22/81) Mauldin (step-parents)
2310 6th Ave., Columbus, Ga.
Born in Mississippi; 5/5/22 – Died 6/1/09

Navigator: Bendiner, Elmer Stanley, 2 Lt., 0-797240
Mr. and Mrs. William (Wilhelm) [7/31/25] and Lillian (Schwartz) Bendiner (parents)
2664 Grand Concourse, Bronx, N.Y.
187 North Ocean Ave., Freeport, N.Y.
Bertram, Evelyn, Lawrence, Marvin and Milton Bendiner (brothers and sisters)
Born Scottsdale, Pa.; 2/11/16 – Died 9/16/01
Brooklyn Eagle 12/6/44

Bombardier: Hejny, Robert Lawrence, 2 Lt., 0-734342
Mrs. Dorothy Mae Webster (wife); Married 1/26/44 – Divorced 9/3/81
Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Anton (3/19/87-1965) and Elizabeth M. (Spinler) (1901-1994) Hejny (parents); Barbara, Daniel, and Raymond (sister and brothers)
1808 East 7th St., St. Paul, Mn.
Born Pine City, Mn.; 1/5/20 – Died 8/5/85

Flight Engineer: Reedman, Lawrence Harris, T/Sgt., 18089373
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel “Sam” (4/7/89-5/21/74) and Sarah D. (Rosenthroh) (9/15/91-6/27/75) Reedman (parents)
Miss Lilian Charlotte Reedman (sister) (2/8/11-6/18/98)
2515 North Stanton St., El Paso, Tx.
Born St. Louis, Mo.; 2/12/17 – Died 3/29/08

Radio Operator: Reinhard, Frederick W. “Duke“, T/Sgt., 32338340
(Is this him?)
From New York, N.Y.
Born 1916

Gunner (Ball Turret): Gray, Walter J., T/Sgt. (33301215?)
(According to a memorial at Fold3, T/Sgt. Gray, was born in Pittsburgh, Pa., in 1920.)

Gunner (Waist): Herring, George Edwin, Jr., S/Sgt., 19002595, Gunner (Waist)
POW – Stalag 9C (Baz Sulza)
From California

Born Oklahoma City, Ok., 12/9/19 – San Bernardino, Ca., 5/11/92

Gunner (Waist): Stockman, Herbert James, Jr., 16109833
POW –  Stalag 17B (Gneixendorf)
Mrs. Murial L. (Stoll) Stockman (wife), 1626 Evans, Detroit, Mi. – Divorced 7/9/46

Mr. and Mrs. James W. and Estella (Hopwood) Stockman (parents)
Born New Castle, Pa.; 2/29/16 – Died 1/18/00

Gunner (Tail): Arooth, Michael Louis, T/Sgt., 31128966
Mr. and Mrs. Salem and Dora Mary Arooth (parents); George, Louis, Peter, and Ruth (brothers and sister)
26 Lorenzo St., Springfield, Ma.
Born Springfield, Ma.; 7/31/19 – Died 2/15/90

Post 7/30/43, Herring and Stockman were presumably replaced by:

Edwards, Henry J., S/Sgt.

Leary, John Anthony, S/Sgt., 13028387
Mrs. George F. Lehman (aunt), 2111 66th Ave., Philadelphia, Pa.
Born Philadelphia, Pa.; 2/3/23 – Died 9/16/99
Separated from active service Feb. 2, 1944, at Tilton Gen. Hosp., Fort Dix, N.J.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, we’ll start with the mission of July 30, 1943, which was triply and dramatically significant. 

First, the B-17’s wings were struck by eleven 20mm cannon shells fired by attacking Me-109s or FW-190s, none of which, though effectively embedded in the plane’s fuel tanks, failed to explode.  (Otherwise Bendiner probably would not have survived to write his memoir, I wouldn’t be bringing you this set of blog posts, and you wouldn’t necessarily be visiting this blog.)  The very nature of the damage incurred by the plane, and the actual reason that the several cannon shells failed to detonate, was only revealed to Bendiner during a get-together with Bohn Fawkes in Tarrytown, New York, probably (given the year The Fall of Fortresses was published) in the late 1970s. 

(I once encountered a YouTube video about this incident, but the URL has since slipped through my pixels and spreadsheets.)    

Second, the B-17’s oxygen system was damaged during the fighter attack, eventuating in the plane’s radio operator, ball turret gunner, and both waist gunners experiencing anoxia, with the waist gunners parachuting from the aircraft. 

Third, tail gunner Michael Arooth was wounded and also anoxic, yet remained at his position and continued to defend the bomber.  This is the incident for which he received the Distinguished Service Cross, as issued in European Theater of Operations U.S. Army General Orders No. 61 of September 10, 1943.  Here the text of Arooth’s award citation, as found at Hall of Valor: The Military Medals Database:

The President of the United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress July 9, 1918, takes pleasure in presenting the Distinguished Service Cross to Staff Sergeant Michael Arooth (ASN: 31128966), United States Army Air Forces, for extraordinary heroism in connection with military operations against an armed enemy while serving as Tail Gunner in a B-17 Heavy Bomber of the 527th Bombardment Squadron, 379th Bombardment Group (H), EIGHTH Air Force, while participating in a bombing mission on 30 July 1943, against enemy ground targets in Germany. On that date, Sergeant Arooth’s B-17 was attacked by a large force of enemy fighters. During the course of these determined attacks, Sergeant Arooth destroyed three enemy airplanes and, while firing his guns, was wounded by an exploding cannon shell. His left gun was jammed by enemy fire, his oxygen supply line was broken, and the interphone system was inoperative. The pilot was forced to use violent evasive action, and several members of the crew, thinking the airplane was out of control, bailed out. When this occurred, Sergeant Arooth gave up his attempts to reach his emergency oxygen system, returned to his one remaining gun, and continued to fight off enemy attacks. Without oxygen, and with his leg shattered and bleeding, Sergeant Arooth, displaying extraordinary heroism and with complete disregard for his personal safety, remained at his post and defended his airplane and crew with his one good gun. When this gun jammed he skillfully repaired the malfunction, resumed firing, and destroyed his fourth airplane. The extraordinary heroism, coolness, and skill displayed by Sergeant Arooth on this occasion reflect high credit upon himself and the armed forces of the United States.

In the hands of a skilled writer, any of these events could serve as the basis for a chapter (or two), yet Bendiner seamlessly wove them together into a single story.  Or, chapter, to be precise.

As for myself, my first encounter with this chapter of Bendiner’s book sparked an interest in obtaining the Missing Air Crew Report (MACR) covering the loss of the plane’s waist gunners, whose full names are not given in Bendiner’s text, with one name is misspelled.  (“Herrin”, not the correct “Herring.)  I was at first puzzled a few decades ago when an inquiry to NARA revealed that there was no MACR pertaining to this event.  Only later did I learn that the time frame of the incident – the summer of 1943 – was coincident with the Army Air Force’s implementation of the use of these documents, this event bureaucratically “falling through the cracks”, as it were, accounting for the absence of a MACR.  However, the American Air Museum in Britain revealed that the events in this story occurred aboard Mystic, officially known as B-17F 42-5820.  As you can see from the crew list above, both Herring and Stockman survived as POWs.  They were apparently replaced by S/Sgts. Henry J. Edwards and John Anthony Leary.

Mystic did not finish the war.  The plane was lost during a mission to Gelsenkirchen on August 12, 1943, after having been transferred to the 526th Bomb Squadron as LF * C.  It was piloted by 2 Lt. Kurt W. Freund, with seven of its ten crewmen surviving.  Having crashed near Leinersdorf (11 km north of Ahrweiler) its loss is covered in MACRs 1359 and 2340, and, Luftgaukommando Report KU 21.  

So, here’s Elmer Bendiner’s chronicle the events of eighty-one years ago:

“This is all we can do for you now.”

The following morning we were up again in the cold predawn to find ourselves a broken family. Tondelayo was being fitted with new props. The colonel had commandeered our gunners for his lead ship – a tribute, of course. Bohn was to replace Mike in the tail position, as was the custom when the colonel took over. And since Dutch, the group navigator, would be riding with the colonel, I was fobbed off on a squadron lead.

Johnny was assigned as co-pilot with still another crew. We had been operational for almost two months and we had lost seventy-five percent of our original crews. Replacements were arriving, but as Arnold reminded Eaker, we had to salvage what we could. To some Johnny must have looked salvageable.

We do not know precisely what went on inside the cockpit of Johnny’s plane on the mission that day. Some said they saw the plane slip back and drop below the formation with one engine smoking, then blazing. Four chutes opened, they say. I was not there, because the plane on which I rode that day developed one of those mechanical symptoms that used to afflict us in Johnny’s time. Again the cockpit asked me for a heading home, and after five hours we made it back to Kimbolton for coffee and the anxious tally of our wild geese. They came in across a sweep of sky still brilliant in the late afternoon.

I look over my time sheet that has been so scrupulously kept by some company clerk, and I am incredulous. One day follows another in the list of battles. There should have been time to savor and digest our fears. If on a Wednesday one watches other men die and sees one’s own death foreshadowed, it does not seem fitting to watch a similar deadly dance on Thursday and again on Friday and again on Saturday. Such a schedule can make the most awesome event a dull routine and turn battle into a business. If some morning at my present age I saw my friend and neighbor killed or if I felt the whoosh of a bullet pass my head I should want some time to think and then to scream before I faced a similar ordeal. But in those days we were too young to scream and thoughts were easily put off by the exhilaration of death’s presence. Now I can see that death is pallid and often ugly, but I confess it did not seem so then. And so we went up morning after morning in that gentle July, and on the thirtieth of that month we came to a strange milestone on the road to Schweinfurt.

It was a return visit to Kassel. We had been in action for four days running. At 0530 we were gathered in the briefing room, its bustle and its tensions as homey as a country kitchen, so quickly does the shocking become familiar. I do not remember fatigue. I had slept soundly and waked to the usual electric glare. I had bolted the usual eggs which seemed to coat one’s teeth and tongue with fine sandpaper. I had scalded my throat with coffee and smiled at myself picking a poppy. Between a yawn and a sneeze I read our fate in chalk on the battle lineup.

I do not mean to say it was a routine like a ride in the subway betwixt sleep and waking, staring at faces and behinds that are different and yet the same day after day. It would distort the reality and stretch words out of joint to pretend that it could have been so dull. In a subway the imminence of death is conjectural, problematic. In the briefing room it was certain, fierce, palpable and stimulating.

We ten in Tondelayo circled over Yorkshire, warming ourselves in the sun at eleven thousand feet, above a gray expanse of cloud. We crossed Felixstowe heading southeast at 0730, according to the map that has grown old with me for thirty-five years.

We climbed to our bombing altitude, 24,000 feet, over the North Sea and hit the Belgian coast close to the Dutch border. Out the port-side window I could see the Scheldt winding into Holland, and out the starboard window lay Bruges. It was then that our own P-47s and the RAF Bostons waggled their wings and went home. It was 0801, I noted in my log. A scribble nearby I take to mean that there were fighters. They had swarmed up from Woensdrecht Airdrome. Actually some B-26s had preceded us in the hope of drawing them off. I do not know whether those bright-yellow-nosed spitting wonders had risen to the bait of the B-26s and then gone down to gas up in time for us. Perhaps they had wisely sent up only a few to greet our decoys and held the rest in reserve for the main show.

In any case there they were, buzzing up at us from an airfield right on course. This was ideal for the Luftwaffe, because almost all of the fighters’ flying time could be spent in combat. In the previous April the Luftwaffe had fitted auxiliary fuel tanks to its fighters, which gave them perhaps two hours of high-speed, high-altitude flying time. On the day we went to Kassel the German dispatchers displayed their ingenuity by having their fighter squadrons hedge-hop from station to station along our presumed course.

Some came from Lille and arrived in time to give us trouble east of Brussels at 0817. Others came up from an airfield near Poix, too late to catch us on the way in but in plenty of time to ambush us on the way out. Some came from Brittany and Normandy and refueled at Lille.

At 0836 we were south of the Ruhr. We had weathered three heavy fighter attacks. Most of them came in from the rear of the formation, often four abreast. We in the nose felt their presence and heard the ping of shrapnel, but it was Mike who saw most of the action on the way in. Being a tail gunner is a lonely job. “It’s a good spot for praying,” Mike had said once. “You’re on your knees all the time.” The only spot that’s worse is the ball turret, where the gunner is wrapped around his gun like an anchovy or a fetus in a womb too small.

The tail usually saw more action than the belly. “The fuckin’ Germans must think all tail gunners are stupid,” Mike used to say. They came in again and again, firing, turning bottoms up and slipping away.

From Gladbeck and Cologne swarms of FWs and MEs shot up and barreled through our formation. Near Remagen I noted the fall of two enemy fighters. I fired at those arrows in the sky, but I knew that I was merely making noise to let them know we were alive on the port side. Bob’s gun kept up a ceaseless chatter and the top turret pounded like a jackhammer inside my head. Then quite suddenly the fighters vanished and left us to our bomb run and the accompanying flak. We came up on Kassel from the south. I peered over Bob’s shoulder and saw the city. We were rocked by flak. Still the motors ground on. There could be no evasive action. We would fly unswervingly through a sky of angry black shell bursts.

The bomb-bay doors of the plane ahead of us swung open. I watched the bombs tumble out helter-skelter at first, then straightening to a purposive plunge. When ours were gone, lost in the black smoke far below, Bob called out that the doors were closed and Bohn banked Tondelayo sharply to starboard. As we headed north and then west for home the flak slackened off and the fighters came back. They had been gathering all morning. It had been one hour and eleven minutes since we had entered Europe, and the Germans had had time to assemble a massive fleet of fighters, gassed up and ready.

It must have been somewhere near Recklinghausen that disaster struck. Mike called in to say he was hit in his right hand and left leg. Then followed a jumble of static and for a while we couldn’t raise him at all. Tondelayo was being knocked about the sky. Actually Bohn was climbing, diving and making corkscrew patterns in a crazy choreography designed to unsettle the fighters, who were pressing in from all sides. I kept my mind on the zigzag line we were taking across Europe. When I tried to stand, my feet slipped from under me. I clung to my desk and the gun, waiting for the attack to subside. When at last Mike came on again his words were jumbled and he sounded as if he were calling from a painfully long distance.

We drove across Germany trying to keep up with the formation, which had a ragged look, with gaping holes where planes had been. I had seen two of the group go down. The formation was turning more to the south in a beeline out of Germany, when we became aware of an alteration in the sound of flight. When Larry in the top turret eased up and when Bob’s guns stopped momentarily, Tondelayo seemed unnaturally quiet. The roar from the waist was missing. No one sang out to claim a kill or warn of fighters coming in. Bob and I looked at each other across the tops of our masks and he opened up his mike, ripping into my headset, “Bombardier to waist gunners, bombardier to waist gunners. Come in, come in.” Silence. Tondelayo climbed and plunged. “Stockman, Herrin, come in, Goddammit. Come in. Do you read me? Duke, come in. Bombardier to radio. Duke, come in.”

Tondelayd’s motors whined. Then came Mike’s voice, vague, blurred, with an odd calm: “They’re gone. Gone.”

We were 25,000 feet above Germany and they were gone. One imagines a switchboard operator saying, “Sorry, sir. They’re gone.” At the time the word itself with its nonsensical associations filled my head and left no room for irony. They had gone four miles down to the patchwork of farms I could barely see. Fighters were swarming about us, coming in at three, four, seven and eight o’clock where our guns were silent. Now and then we thought we heard a long burst from the tail, but that was all.

Bob disentangled his headset and oxygen hose. He lurched past me. His face was neither sad nor scared. I realized that he was in a rage. He went up the stepway to the cockpit. We were still in formation. I put down my pencil, unplugged my oxygen hose and my headset. I chucked my helmet aside and clambered after him. Behind the cockpit Bohn pointed to a green oxygen bottle, into which I plugged my hose like the antenna of an insect. We ducked under the turret, which was rattling in uninterrupted air-shattering streams of fire that had the sound of panic. We passed through the bomb bay along the narrow steel catwalk, past the racks that had held the bombs, and into the radio compartment. Duke was gone. We went into the waist, where blasts of cold air bit into my face. Herrin and Stockman were gone. Their masks, still attached to the oxygen outlet, flapped against the metal wall. The door had been jettisoned. Through it we stared at windy space. As Tondelayo banked and rolled I could see the distant, detached world below. Then I saw Duke. He was sitting on the floor, one leg dangling beyond the open hatch. Bob and I pulled him in across the floor past the waist ports, where the wind howled as in an arctic blizzard, where one could see the silvery wings of our enemies curvetting and spitting sparks.

The floor of the fuselage was torn in spots, the metal peeled back. Multicolored cables were in shreds. We sat Duke up in the radio room and looked to see whether he was bleeding. He was untouched, but his eyes were dreamy and he wore a smile of absurd serenity.

There was no oxygen in the rear of the plane. Mike had seen the waist gunners as they jumped, driven by lack of oxygen to illusions of impending disaster. Mike had watched their chutes open. One of them had barely cleared the horizontal stabilizer. Mike himself did not know whether the plane was actually going down. In any case there was nothing he could do about it. His arm and leg were torn and, though he was not in pain, he was groggy. He must have felt the cold, because the wires that hooked his electric suit had been cut. With his good arm he had changed the belt of ammo in his gun and eased his nerves by firing. He recalls seeing a Messerschmitt. He waited until it was two hundred yards from us, just the point, he thought, where the German would open up and blast us out of the sky. Mike let go a stream of fire that caught the fighter. It turned yellow and red, nosed upward, then spun in.

Bob hooked Duke to an oxygen bottle and stayed to take care of Mike as best he could. I hurried down to the nose, told Bohn the situation and began to work out a heading home. We had to drop to an inhabitable altitude regardless of the dangers of straggling in enemy skies. I remember looking at my watch, the minute and second hands whirling as unconcernedly as if I were on a street corner waiting for Esther. I looked out the window and, without seeming to grasp the significance of the phenomenon, noted that the propeller on engine Number Four was rigidly stationary. It had been feathered, disconnected to keep it from tearing the engine out of the wing. Black smoke streamed behind it. I drew a course that would take us across Holland dodging the flak zones listed in my flight plans. I hoped the information was reliable. I did not know. I only pretended to know. The plane dropped closer to the land. When I identified the Willems Canal in Holland, I called the cockpit to correct our heading. Our formation was above and ahead. We were alone. Mike’s gun rattled, but I did not know whether he was firing at something or to keep himself awake. The top turret answered with a roar. But then came the blessed moment when I could tear off my tin hat and my mask and breathe real air. The plexiglass of the nose had several gaping holes. We had one man wounded. We were missing two others. But we were going home. We were going to drink something hot. We were going to sleep in a bed.

The ball-turret gunner, undoubtedly anoxic as were the others in the rear of the plane, could not easily raise his turret to extricate himself without hydraulic pressure, and that had been lost when the lines were severed. Curled up in Tondelayo’s steel ball, impotent, Leary had survived because he could not follow the waist gunners out of the plane. He was barely nineteen years old, the youngest in the crew. I do not know how he withstood that torture wrapped within himself, powerless amid bullets and explosions, oppressed by the realization that at any instant he might be spattered to a mass of ugly tissue, like a cat run over on the highway. That might happen to any man in the crew, but the rest of us had the illusion of motion, of elbow room to give us security. There was nothing that Leary could do about his fate. He was as powerless as a rivet in his ball turret. He had been reduced to a neuter.

We could have brought up the ball turret by hand and released him, but we needed his gun as we needed Mike’s. When we reached the North Sea and saw the gliding shapes of friendly P-47s we brought him up. I calculated an ETA and gave it to Bohn. His voice was as even as if we were sitting on our bunks. “Roger. Thank you, Benny.”

With flares rising like Roman candles we came to Kimbolton. We bumped to a halt on the grass where we had come before when our brakes were undependable. We were late, but we were home. Mike was not badly hurt, according to our cheerful obstetrician.

“Our waist gunners are gone,” we told the debriefing officer.

“Are what?”

“Are gone.”

“What?”

“Gone.”

This battle is distinguished by a postscript which was appended some thirty-five years after the event. Bohn and I were sitting on a porch in Tarrytown, New York, on a summer evening. We were rehashing the war as ex-warriors have done since civilization invented wars. We were not seeking to dress our memories in cinematic glories or dissolve them in an alcoholic haze as veterans do. We were seeking rather to collapse the wind out of nostalgia, to see the war plain. We were trying to mount our recollections on pins so that we could study them in various lights from various angles. We were seeking to approximate an objective account of what we had seen and done.

We were reconciling scrawls from our respective logs. For example, after a raid on Münster Bohn had written: “This will make a lot of Dutch Nazis.” He no longer remembered what that meant. And I had scribbled on that day the one word “Eindhoven.” I had forgotten why. We looked at a map and saw that Eindhoven was a Dutch town not far from the German border. At the ground speed of those antique planes we flew it would have been perhaps ten minutes from Münster.

Our memories fed each other. As we talked, the scrawls unlocked cobwebbed files in our minds until at last the two comments made sense. Münster had been cloud-covered, and our formation had turned away from the target. The bomb-bay doors of our group leader were open. So were ours. Suddenly the undercast rolled away, revealing a flat green and tawny countryside. I recognized the pattern of rivers and canals. When I saw the formation prepare to bomb I yelled into the intercom that we were over Holland. As I yelled the bombs fell, and I noted that we had hit Eindhoven. It was then that Bohn had summed up in his log the political consequences. (Incidentally, I have subsequently talked with several Dutchmen who graciously forgave us, but then, none of them was under our bombs at Eindhoven.)

In any case it was in this search of the past that we came to the Kassel raid and the disappearance of our waist gunners. Over Bohn’s face came a characteristically odd, slightly mischievous grin. “You remember,” said he, “that we were hit by twenty-millimeter shells.”

That was not a singular experience for us, I pointed out. But these had hit our gas tanks, he recalled. That did indeed stir something in the archives of my brain. Somewhere I had even made a note of shell holes in gas tanks. I reflected on the miracle of a 20-mm. shell piercing the fuel tank without touching off an explosion.

Now Bohn licked his chops so that I could see that a revelation was on the verge. It was not the case of an unexploded shell in a gas tank, he said. It was not so simple a miracle. At the time Bohn too had thought it was no more than that. On the morning following Kassel, while I slept late and missed my breakfast, Bohn had gone down to ask our crew chief for that shell, as a souvenir of unbelievable luck. Marsden told Bohn that there had been not just one shell but eleven of them in the gas tanks – eleven unexploded shells where only one would have sufficed to blast us out of the sky with no time for chutes. It was as if the sea had been parted for us. Even after thirty-five years so awesome an event leaves me shaken. But before Bohn finished the story there would be both more and less to wonder at. He spun it out.

Bohn was told that the shells had been sent to the armorers to be defused. The armorers told him that Intelligence had picked them up. They could not say why.

The professorial captain of intelligence confirmed the story. Eleven shells were in fact found in Tondelayo’s tanks. No, he could not give one to Bohn. Sorry, he could not say why.

Eventually the captain broke down. Perhaps it was difficult to refuse a man like Bohn the evidence of a highly personal miracle. Perhaps it was because this captain of intelligence had briefed so many who had not come back that he treasured the one before him as a fragile relic. Or perhaps he told Bohn the truth because it was too delicious to keep to himself. He swore Bohn to secrecy.

The armorers who opened each of those shells had found no explosive charge. They were as clean as a whistle and as harmless. Empty? Not quite, said the captain, tantalizing Bohn as Bohn tantalized me.

One was not empty. It contained a carefully rolled piece of paper. On it was a scrawl in Czech. The intelligence captain had scoured Kimbolton for a man who could read Czech. The captain dropped his voice to a whisper before he repeated the message. Bohn imitated that whisper, and it set us to marveling as if the revelation were fresh and potent, not thirty-five years old and on its way to being a legend. Translated, the note read: “This is all we can do for you now.”

Here’s the Book

Bendiner, Elmer S., The Fall of Fortresses, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1980

Here’s Another Book

Freeman, Roger A., The B-17 Flying Fortress Story: Design – Production – History, Arms & Armour Press,  London, England, 1998

The Fall of Fortresses: Elmer Bendiner’s Flights of Memory: A Jewish B-17 Navigator over Europe in World War Two – Book Reviews

“…the anonymity of war is as terrible and profound
as that of chessmen tumbled into a box when the game is over.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time moves forward, inexorably.  With it, the memory of the past flows along paths that sometimes meet, sometimes diverge.  On one – the course typical of men and nations – lies forgetfulness.  On the other, the memory of historical events may continue, but will be softened, if not altered, if not irrevocably distorted, by the shifting winds of politics, ideology, and sometimes the exuberant tides of irrationality that unexpectedly break upon – and even emerge from within – all civilizations.  And thus, whether by one man or many, the centrality, impact, and memory of historical events having the greatest and most transformative impact for any given generation, will not be so (can memory ever be so?) for later generations.  Regardless of an event’s magnitude, intensity, impact, or power.  

But, regardless of the fallibility of human memory and entirely independent of man himself, facts remain, irremovably cemented into the fabric of time.  

Certainly and obviously central to the twentieth century, and having indirect influence upon the events of this 21st century, have been the “Great War” and the Second World War, which some historians have considered to be the opening and closing phases of a single, much larger historical interval.  Inevitably, both of these awful conflicts have given rise to an incalculably vast body of literature, both fiction and non-fiction.  Naturally, many of these works were produced by veterans of these conflicts, either in the years immediately following their military service, or, several decades later, when they were better able to reflect upon the past as they entered retirement, by which time they’d gained perspective on their experiences, the memories of which were no longer as jagged or emotionally impactful as in their youth.

I’ve read many books of this nature, as I’m sure you have also. 

They vary in quality as much as all men vary: in perceptiveness, literary skill, recollection of facts, sentimentality, honesty, candor, and tact.  In that regard, below, quite randomly listed, are the titles of books penned by (and in a few cases about) Jewish aviators who served in the Allied air forces in the Second World War, some of whom I’ve mentioned or alluded to in prior posts.  I take for granted that an equal and perhaps greater number of titles covering the experiences of Jewish servicemen in the ground and naval forces could be found (I know of a few), but that’s beyond the scope of this post. 

In terms of this list of titles, immediately apparent is the fact that some were privately published, some released by vanity presses, and others by mainstream, well-established publishers.  (Notably, in light of the enormous technological and logistical changes in the nature of book publishing over the past few decades, the less-than-stellar reputation once accorded to vanity presses I think is truly no longer (un)merited.)  

Prisoners of War…

…In Europe

A Measure of Life, privately published, 2002
By Herman Lewis Cranman, (Herschel Eliezer Kranman), 1 Lt., 0-692478, Bombardier/Navigator, 34 missions
512th Bomb Squadron, 376th Bomb Group, 15th Air Force
Shot down July 14, 1944 in B-24H 41-28920, piloted by 1 Lt. James H. White, 11 crew members … 10 survivors
Plane-in-Squadron identification 33 / D // Nickname “Big Marge”
Missing Air Crew Report # 6958, Luftgaukommando Report ME 1791
POW at Stalag Luft 3 (Sagan) and Stalag 7A (Moosburg)
Born Savannah, Georgia, March 14, 1924 – Died April 2, 2017
Mr. and Mrs. Philip (7/20/03-1/23/95) and Jeanne (Litman) (3/7/04-9/13/78) Cranman (parents)
406 East 50th St., Savannah, Ga.
Name not listed in American Jews in World War II

Goldfish – Silver Boot – The Story of a World War II Prisoner of War, Fortis Publishers, 2010
By Harvey Stanley Horn, F/O, T-131675, Navigator, 5 missions
772nd Bomb Squadron, 463rd Bomb Group, 15th Air Force
POW 3/20/34, Stalag 13D (Nuremberg)
Born Brooklyn, N.Y., 12/15/13
Mr. and Mrs. Louis and Esther Horn (parents), 1218 41st St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
Also 82-15 Britton Ave., Elmhurst, N.Y.
Casualty List 4/26/45
Aircraft B-17G 44-6377, piloted by 1 Lt. John H., Lincoln, 10 crew members – all survived
Aircraft nickname “Pretty Baby’s Boys”
Missing Air Crew Report 13050
Name not listed in American Jews in World War II

Also see interview at The West Point Center for Oral History

The Eleventh Passenger, Vantage Press, 1996
By Joseph Millman, Sgt., 32222070, Ball Turret Gunner, Purple Heart, 2 missions
747th Bomb Squadron, 456th Bomb Group, 15th Air Force
Shot down February 17, 1944
Severely wounded; repatriated on SS Gripsholm in February, of 1945
POW at Stalag 9C (Bad Sulza)
Born in Poland, January 12, 1920
Mr. and Mrs. Jacob and Rose “Reizel” Millman (parents), 1164 47th St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
Rhea, Reva, and Libby (sisters)
Name appeared in Casualty Lists on 4/22/44, 6/8/44, and 2/16/45; also in P.M. Daily 2/16/45
Aircraft: B-24H 42-52286, nickname “The Little Joker”
Piloted by 2 Lt. Harry W. Bessler; ten crew members – four survivors
Loss covered in Missing Air Crew Reports 3078 and 6330
… and Luftgaukommando Report ME 878
Name does not appear in American Jews in World War II (Like for so many other men…)

Joe Millman and his wife Bella, during the reunion of the 456th Bomb Group in June of 1996.  (My photo.)

Joe’s dog tag, in Luftgaukommando Report ME 878, via NARA.com

Herb P. Flyboy – The Journey from World War II Pilot to German POW, privately published, 2005
By Herbert Irwin Pearlman, 1 Lt., 0-824859, Bomber Pilot, Air Medal, three Oak Leaf Cluster, 26 missions
526th Bomb Squadron, 379th Bomb Group, 8th Air Force
Prisoner of War February 9, 1945
Born Bronx, N.Y., February 22, 1922
Mr. Albert N. Pearlman (father), 3236 Tibbett Ave., New York, N.Y.
Casualty List (Liberated POWs) June 13, 1945
Pilot of B-17G 44-6119, “LF * A”, “White Lightning”
Aircraft loss covered in MACR 12337 and Luftgaukommando Report KU 3677
Name found on page 403 of American Jews in World War II
Maxwell Field Class 44-C; assigned to 526th Bomb Squadron 10/28/44

His Silver Wings – I Came of Age during World War II, June R. Ehrlich, Vantage Press, 1993 (Paul Ehrlich)  Paul was the pilot of B-24J 42-50675 “X7 * F” / “Bold Venture III“, of the 788th Bomb Squadron, 466th Bomb Group, which crash-landed (itself) in England on December 25, 1944.  The entire crew survived, the incident being covered in MACR 11256.  This incident is the subject of the following video…

My Private War – Liberated Body, Captive Mind: A World War II POW’s Journey, Norman Bussel, Pegasus Books, 2008

Sitting It Out : a World War II POW Memoir, David K. Westheimer, Rice University Press, 1992

Fighter Pilot – Aleutians to Normandy to Stalag Luft I, Mozart Kaufman, M & A Kaufman Publishers, 1993

Where There’s A Will, There’s A Way (…And Where There’s A Way, There’s a Wayburne!), Ellis Wayburne (mentioned here), privately printed in October, 1995

Story of Jerome Jacobs – 364th Fighter Squadron Pilot, at ToFlyandFight.com 

From Records Group 242 in the National Archives, here’s a (actually, the) only record … other than Missing Air Crew Report 8797; there’s no Luftgaukommando Report covering the loss of Pappy’s Answer, his P-51B … attesting to Lt. Jacobs’ being a POW: It nominally documents his captivity in Oflag 64 in Altenburg, and Stalag 9A in Spangenberg.  As he related to me in an interview back in the 1990s, as a result of the chaos attendant to his capture during the Battle of Arnhem, and, his rapid transport from a front-line German hospital to various POW camps, he was never, actually, interrogated.   

…In Japan

They Can’t Take That Away From Me, Ralph M. Rentz, with Peter Hrisko, Michigan State University Press, 2003

Hi Ma, I’m Home, Irving S. Newman, privately printed, 1945

Back From the Living Dead – The Infamous Death March and 33 Months in a Japanese Prison, Major Bert Bank, privately published, 1945

Escape and Evasion!

Against The Wind, Cyril Rofe, Hodder & Stoughton, 1956

The Dark Side of the Sky – The Story of a Jewish Airman in Nazi Germany, Leo Cooper, 1998 (Harry Levy)

And Otherwise…

Terror in the Starboard Seat – 41 Trips Aboard a Mosquito – A True Story of 418 Squadron, Dave McIntosh, Stoddan, 1980 (Sid Seid)

The Invisible Battlefield?, Horace S. Turrell (at one time available on the ‘net but-alas-not-any-more), 1996

Combat Bombardier, Leonard Herman and Rob Morris, Xlibris, 2007

The Cold Blue Sky, Jack Novey, Howell Press, 1997

Navigating the Course – A Man’s Place in His Time, David Fanshel, Valley Meadow Press, 2010

Navigating the Course – All to the Good, David Fanshel, Valley Meadow Press, 2013

Jewboy vs The Luftwaffe, Philip M. Goldstein, privately published (Blurb), 2015

Of War and Weddings, Jerry Yellin, Sunstar Publishing Ltd., 1995

IMSHI – A Fighter Pilot’s Letters to His Mother, Messrs. W.H. Allen & Co. Ltd., April, 1943 (Captain Ernest Mitchelson Mason)

Heroes are Fools – Diary of a World War II Airman, Murray M. Crawcour, Gefen, 1989

In the Lion’s Mouth – Diary of a World War II Flyer, Robert N. Adlen, Emis Publishing Company, 1985 (Captain David Gandin)

Hiroshima & Nagasaki Revisited, Jacob Beser, Global Press, 1988

Fiction

The Prisoners of Combine D, Len Giovannitti
Von Ryan’s Express, David K. Westheimer
Song of the Young Sentry, David K. Westheimer
Face of a Hero, Louis Falstein (start here…)

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Within this genre, one of the best such works I’ve read, published some now forty-four years ago, is Elmer S. Bendiner’s The Fall of Fortresses, which was released by G.P. Putnam’s Sons in mid-1980.  (And now readily available on EBay, ABE Books, etc., and maybe even your local library!)

A B-17 Flying Fortress navigator in the 8th Air Force, Bendiner’s combat tour occurred during 1943, and ended with the completion of his (and most of his crew’s) 25th and last sortie during the 8th’s mission to Bremen, Germany, on November 29 1943.  As such, his experiences as a combat aviator in the USAAF paralleled the time period during which the 8th Air Force was, in terms of attrition and losses on a proportional basis, engaged in its most intense struggle against the Luftwaffe.

Though divided into chapters (15 of them), the fifteen have no headings or titles, and likewise aren’t subdivided into larger sections.  Essentially, the book is a continuously flowing block of text, only nominally broken by chapter numbers.

But, on a more subtle level, as you read Bendiner’s book it soon becomes apparent that there actually is a structure to the text.  First and sensibly, it’s chronologically arranged.  Second and in a very (very) general sense, the chapters alternate in emphasis, one chapter pertaining to the experiences and interactions of Bendiner and his crew during different missions or situations (sometimes on a very personal level), followed by a chapter covering theoretical and doctrinal aspects of strategic bombing in the USAAF and RAF, or to a lesser extent, military strategy and geopolitics.  The book really shines in a purely literary sense in Bendiner’s appropriate and measured use of metaphor and similie, “like” (!) in the quote that opens this blog post (!) which is reflective of his pre- and post-war background as an editor and news reporter, and, postwar authorship of three prior non-fiction books in the field of history.

A member of the 527th Bomb Squadron of the 379th Bomb Group and assigned to the crew of 2 Lt. Bohn E. Fawkes, Jr., Elmer Stanley Bendiner (ASN 0-797240) was born in Scottsdale, Pa., on February 11, 1916, and thus was in his late 20s during his combat tour.  He was born to Wilhelm “William” and Lillian (Schwartz) Bendiner, his parents eventually moving from Pennsylvania to 2664 Grand Concourse, which is located in the New York borough known as the Bronx.  (You’ve heard of the Bronx?!)  His brothers and sister were Bertram, Evelyn, Lawrence, Marvin and Milton.  Thus far, oddly, I’ve only found one reference to him in a wartime newspaper:  In the Brooklyn Eagle, on December 6, 1944, over a year after he completed his combat tour.  (This article will be presented in a future post.)  I attribute this to Bendiner having worked at the Eagle from 1939 to 1940.

Mr. Bendiner passed away on September 16, 2001.  I do not know his place of burial.

Like innumerable other American Jews who served in the United States’ armed forces in the Second World War – who were military casualties, and (or) decorated for military service – Elmer Bendiner’s name is quite absent from the 1947 Dial Press two-book publication American Jews in World War Two, perhaps reflective – in his case – of the fact that the National Jewish Welfare Board, in its quest to compile biographical information about Jews in the military, never contacted his family to begin with.  (Likewise, flight engineer Sgt. Lawrence Harris Reedman’s name is also absent from this compilation.)  This is indirectly reflected in The Fall of Fortresses, by the complete absence of such questions as the implications of being a Jewish POW in German captivity, or, how being a Jew affected (or truly did not at all affect) a servicemen’s relationships with his comrades.  From reading the lines, and more importantly reading “between the lines”, there was a genuine sense of solidarity among and between Tondelayo’s crew members, with the author maintaining friendships with at least some of these men – particularly pilot Bohn Fawkes – into the 1980s. 

However, Bendiner’s quietude about being a Jew through most of the book powerfully belies the deep significance of his identity and heritage, which though subdued is not absent.  Near the book’s end he adeptly and skillfully weaves this into a disillusioning and deflating realization – concerning (well, at least in late 1943; I don’t know about later) – the tenuousness of his assumption about being perceived and accepted as an American aviator (let alone an American, per se?) who has endured much and survived all, versus simply being seen as a Jew.  And with this, tangentially, the true nature of the German enemy he has been fighting comes into focus.  The literary effect is not maintained for long, but the effect is extremely powerful.  Interestingly, none of the book’s reviewers, regardless of their true and fulsome praise and admiration of The Fall of Fortresses, seemed to have picked up on this.      

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Here’s the 8th Air Force uniform (shoulder) insignia (from my collection)

This is the emblem of the 527th Bomb Squadron (from Rolyat Military Collectibles)

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“This” post presents the full text of four book reviews of The Fall of Fortresses which appeared coincident with the book’s 1980 publication.  Two are from The New York Times (when it was still an actual newspaper; it’s not been a newspaper for some years), one from The Washington Post (before it became the Bezos Daily Bugle), one from Time magazine (before it vanished into deserved irrelevancy), and, one from the Yonkers New York Herald Statesman.  These are preceded by Mr. Bendiner’s biography, as published in Contemporary Authors in 1980.

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The next two posts will present excerpts from The Fall of Fortresses pertaining to two remarkable experiences of Elmer Bendiner and his crew.   These will focus on events recounted in the book: 1) The inadvertent bail-out of two gunners during a combat mission on July 30, 1943 (both survived as POWs), when their aircraft was struck by several 20mm cannon shells fired from attacking Me-109 and FW-190s, which miraculously failed to explode … thus, Tondelayo and her crew survived, and 2), The ditching in the English Channel of Tondelayo on September 6, 1943, from which, through a combination of superb piloting skill and extraordinary luck, the entire crew survived.  This will be followed by another post, relating to Bendiner’s account of his dramatic but anti-climactic final mission of November 29, 1943, and – upon the realization that his combat tour was over – the impact and implications of a conversation which ensued with the 527th’s Public Relations officer.  

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Lt. Elmer Bendiner stands before the nose of his crew’s Flying Fortress Tondelayo (B-17F 42-29896, squadron identification marking “FO * V“), with nose art painted by Cpl. J.D. Hicks. The nose art and nickname were inspired by the femme fatale played by Hedy Lamarr in Richard Thorpe’s 1942 film White Cargo.  (Photo from Silvertail Books.)

Here’s the trailer of White Cargo, from The Old Hollywood Times.  You can view the full movie at ok.ru.

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Elmer Bendiner in 1980 in a photo by Paul Viani, from the book jacket. 
(My own worn-out copy, but hey, it gives you an idea!)

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And herewith, a biography, and five book reviews…

Elmer Bendiner’s biography, from the 1980 edition of Contemporary Authors.  He was 64 years old at the time.

PERSONAL: Born February 11, 1916, in Pittsburgh, Pa.; son of William (a businessman) and Lillian (Schwartz) Bendiner; married Esther Shapiro (an editorial assistant), October 4, 1941; children: Winnie (Mr. Paul G. Viani), Jessica.  Education: Attended City College (now City College of the City University of New York), 1932-35.  Politics: “Defies neat categorizing.”  Religion: “Defies neat categorizing.”  Home: 11 Park Ave., Tarrytown, N.Y. 10591.  Agent: Theron Raines, 475 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 10016.

CAREER: Newark Ledger, Newark, N.J., reporter, 1938-39; Brooklyn Daily Eagle, Brooklyn, N.Y., reporter, 1939-40; Flying Age, New York City, managing editor, 1945-46; Esquire, New York City, non-fiction editor, 1946-48; National Guardian, New York City, associate editor, 1948-58; Science and Medicine Publishing Co., New York City, editor, 1958-68; World Wide Medical News Service, New York City, editor, 1969-72; Hospital Practice, New York City, contributing editor, 1972 – Military service: U.S. Army Air Forces, navigator on B-17 bomber, 1941-45; served in Europe; became first lieutenant; received Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters, and Purple Heart Medal.  Member: Authors Guild, Authors League of America.

WRITINGS: The Bowery Man, Nelson, 1962; A Time for Angels: The Tragicomic History of the League of Nations, Knopf, 1975; The Virgin Diplomats, Knopf, 1976; The Fall of Fortresses, Putnam, 1980.

Work anthologized in Man Alone, edited by Eric Josephson and Mary Josephson, Dell, 1962.  Also author of documentary film script, “Uptown.”  Contributor to Esquire, New York Times Magazine, Nation, and Strand.  Editor of Log of Navigation, 1944-45.

WORK IN PROGRESS: A history of Spain in the tenth century, “when Arabs and Jews collaborated in a cultural adventure that prefigured the Renaissance.”

SIDELIGHTS: In a New York Times review of The Fall of Fortresses, Elmer Bendiner’s history of American air battles during World War II, Christopher Lehmann-Haupt writes: “It is remarkable how [Bendiner] manages to combine in a single, nearly poetic, tone of voice, a view that combines the big picture with the personal one – how his narrative seamlessly encompasses the anecdotal and the historical, the strategic and the tactical, the thrill and the horror.”  Lehmann-Haupt concludes that The Fall of Fortresses is a “shining accomplishment.”

Bendiner told CA: “I look upon my work as journalism, uninhibited by an exclusive preoccupation with the contemporary.  If a story provides a clue to the grandeur and/or absurdity of our lives it seems newsworthy to me even though it occurred a thousand years ago.  Hence, I see a certain consistency in exploring the lives of homeless men on the Bowery, the performance of diplomats between the world wars, the efforts of 18th century Americans to seduce the rulers of Europe, the strange splendors of Spain a thousand years ago, or the work of doctors and nurses in the Arctic, in India, Japan, or Tanzania.”

Bendiner’s work has taken him to Europe, Central and South America, East Africa, Bangladesh, Thailand, New Guinea, the Philippines, Israel, Japan, and Canada.

BIOGRAPHICAL/CRITICAL SOURCES: New York Times, May 9, 1980.

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From The New York Times Book Review, May 25, 1980…

The War In the Air

THE FALL OF FORTRESSES
A Personal Account of the Most Daring – and Deadly – American Air Battles of World War II.
By Elmer Bendiner.
Illustrated. 258pp. New York:
G.P. Putnam’s Sons. $11.95.

BOMBER!
Famous Bomber Missions of World War II.
By Robert Jackson.
157pp. New York: St. Martin’s Press. $8.95.

By DREW MIDDLETON

EVEN after 35 years, World War II occupies such a prominent place in the American historic and literary imagination that we can be assured of a steady flow of new books about it. Indeed, so much has been written – good, bad and indifferent – that the reader approaches the latest books with a certain apprehension, since many of them, certainly much of the fiction, tend to be overwritten. But these two works of nonfiction, “The Fall of Fortresses” and “Bomber!” – which are complete and short – may start a fashion for briefer, sharper pictures of the war.

“The Fall of Fortresses,” in fact, is the best personal narrative by an airman that I have read since Richard Hillary’s “The Last Enemy.” Mr. Bendiner writes with clarity, compassion and a marvelous eye for the comic that so often lies just beneath the surface of war.

The Fortresses in his book are the B-17’s, the backbone of the United States Eighth Air Force in Britain. Mr. Bendiner was a navigator in a B-17, a position that enabled him to observe the rest of the crew, to watch the battle develop as the Forts pushed their way through the flak and the fighters into Germany and to reflect on the meaning, if there was any, of it all.

The centerpiece of “The Fall of Fortresses” is an account of the attack on Aug. 17, 1943, on the ball bearing works at Schweinfurt in the heart of Germany by 230 Forts of the First Bomb Wing. The German fighters and the American bombers fought one of the bloodiest air battles in history. The American losses incurred there and in an attack on the same day on Regensburg were 60 bombers, 600 men.

Yet the sight of the mass of bombers taking off roused Mr. Bendiner, who confesses nonetheless that his exultation was an “act of treason against the intellect, because I have seen dead men washed out of their turrets with a hose.”

But, he adds, if you desire an intellectual view of war, you must ask someone who has not seen it. Brilliant is the only adjective that fits his personal story of the raid, and to that story he adds the details about the battle that he has accumulated over the years. So we see not only the Forts pounding on toward the target, but the German fighter squadrons from all over western Europe assembled for the kill after the bombers turn westward to England and safety.

Mr. Bendiner survived the first Schweinfurt raid and returned on the second raid in October. Once again he provides a skillfully drawn, understated picture of the battle and the dreadful return trip lit by ‘the yellow flicker of burning B-17s.

Mr. Bendiner has also pondered the military reasons behind these and other raids, successful and unsuccessful. He tells how the American air generals won their battle for daylight bombing against the opposition of some of their own “ground generals” and the Royal Air Force. His description of what the air command did – and why – after attaining virtual Independence in combat winds through the book, giving it a substance that a narrative focused only on the fighting could not provide.

***

Heavy losses were not confined to the Americans. R.A.F. Bomber Command lost 95 bombers and 665 men over Nuremberg on the night of March 30-31, 1944. In “Bomber!” Robert Jackson describes this as the night fighters’ triumph, and so it was. “Bomber!” which deals with famous bombing missions of World War II, might have been just another rehash of familiar material. But with precise, controlled writing, Mr. Jackson has made a valuable contribution to our knowledge of the air war. Although he views the air war from a broader perspective than Mr. Bendiner, Mr. Jackson’s selection of missions – German, French, American and British – is so astute that the book never falters.

Mr. Jackson writes, for example, that the impact of the German bombing of Rotterdam in May 1940 was significant. The Luftwaffe had decided to delay or call off the attack, but the call back orders arrived too late, and the raid, Mr. Jackson says, “turned out to be a tragic blunder.” But, he continues, “this does not alter the fact that the Germans had conceived and executed it as a deliberate terror attack against a civilian target,” and it convinced the British that the time had come to launch their bombers, then pitifully few, against German industrial targets in the Ruhr.

“Bomber!” also tells of some unusual aircraft and airmen. One was the Jules Verne, a long-range bomber operated by the French Navy, which on the night of June 7, 1940, was the first Allied bomber to bomb Berlin! The Forts and the Lancasters came later, but at that date, with the French Army torn apart by the Germans, one lone aircraft carried on the fight and salvaged some honor for France.

Mr. Jackson is very good not only on the battles but on the innovations that gradually refined bombing techniques. Of course, as Elmer Bendiner reminds us, we, the Americans, were never as accurate as we believed, but accuracy did improve. The first steps toward improvement, however, were taken by the Luftwaffe, and Mr. Jackson gives a detailed account of Kampfgruppe 100, which was the first pathfinder force, and its effect on what Churchill called “the wizards’ war’’ waged by British and German science.

Mr. Jackson also clears away some legends that have grown around bombing missions. The raid by American B-25s on Tokyo, for example, led by then Lieut. Col. Jimmy Doolittle, was one of the most daring exploits of the war. At one time, however, it was fashionable to dismiss the attack as a gimmick inspired by the Roosevelt Administration to divert attention from the melancholy defeats in the Pacific.

“Bomber!” takes a different view. The bomb load was light and little material damage was done, but the raid profoundly affected the course of the Pacific war. The effect on the morale of the Japanese, who had been “flushed and made cocksure by their recent victories, was incalculable,” and shortly after the raid, Admiral Yamamotn, commander of the Combined Fleet, launched his ambitious plan to take Midway and bring the Americans to battle. He brought them to battle, all right, and the Japanese were decisively defeated. Jimmy Doolittle and his men left their mark on the war.

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From Time magazine, May 12, 1980…

After the Bombs

The Fall of Fortresses. By Elmer Bendiner. 258 pages. Putnam. $11.95.

The final oddity of World War II is that its survivors are still writing their memoirs. Why should some have waited so long? Perhaps the unique quality of that war was that its participants absorbed their experience like so many time-delayed capsules: some to be released while the war was in progress; others, only now, 35 years after the event. Elmer Bendiner, who flew as a navigator on the Flying Fortresses of the Eighth Air Force, offers no explanation for his delay. If he is obliged to confess to blanks in his memory, he makes use of logs, records and previous histories to tell us what it was like to take part in the two great raids against the ball-bearing factories at Schweinfurt. “If one wants an intellectual view of war one must ask someone who has not seen it,” he writes. He means, in his elegant book, to see the war plain, without heroics; his level, quiet tone of voice has an appropriately elegiac quality.

In 1943, when young Bendiner guided his B-17 to England, the Americans had yet to demonstrate that their plan for daylight precision bombing of German military and industrial targets would prove effective. He and his fellow airmen had no idea that their commanders had decided to accept a loss of 30 of every 100 airplanes flown in such missions. The truth was brought home early enough: within the first two months of operations, Bendiner’s group had lost three-quarters of its original crews. From the perspective of late middle age, Bendiner thinks less well of death than he did then. At the time, aerial combat was for him “a frenzy in which I heaved and sweated but could not stop because, shamefully, my guts loved what my head hated.” For precisely this reason, we send the young to war. “A hard day’s work,” Bendiner writes, “exploding something into nothing… Our superiors were pleased with us because we had dropped 422 tons of bombs and, according to the reconnaissance photos, only 333.4 tons had been wasted on homes, streets, public parks, zoos, department stores and air-raid shelters. This passed for precision.”

Empty Shells: By Aug. 17, the day of the first Schweinfurt raid, Bendiner well understood what air warfare entailed. His pilot, having aborted three missions due to “faults” in the engines, had been replaced. On a raid over Kassel, his crew had lost both waist gunners: their oxygen cut off, they had succumbed to illusions of disaster and jumped from the plane. On this same excursion, eleven explosive shells pierced the fuel tank of Bendiner’s Fortress. Only decades later did he discover why his plane was not instantly destroyed: ten of the shells had been empty and the eleventh contained a paper on which was written, in Czech: “This is all we can do for you now.” The assault on Schweinfurt, however, promised to be more than routine. The crews were assured that this “first fully strategic air mission of the war” would bring about Hitler’s collapse. To distract the Luftwaffe from the 230 Fortresses moving toward Schweinfurt, a diversionary force would be sent first against Regensburg. Of course, nothing worked as planned. The great raid, which cost the Americans 60 bombers and 600 men, failed to eliminate Germany’s capacity to produce ball bearings.

“And did we win or lose?” Bendiner asks. The occasion provided no immediate answer. Nor was one forthcoming two months later when, after losing his plane in the English Channel, Bendiner returned with another armada to do the same thing again with identical results: another 60 combers, another 600 men lost. The Schweinfurt raids did not shorten the war oy a day. They did, however, provoke from Bendiner one of the war’s most haunting images: that of a homeward route marked by a “trail of torches” – the only sign of animation on a darkened Continent was the yellow flicker of burning B-17s.

In time, Bendiner concluded that his commanders knew very well the raids could not end the war; their purpose was, at whatever cost in lives and airplanes, to prove forever the efficacy of air power. If that is so, Bendiner writes, “then Schweinfurt’s ghosts must ride with those of the Light Brigade at Balaklava – brave soldiery forever charging to their deaths in. gallant absurdity.”

PETER S. PRESCOTT

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From The New York Times, May 9, 1980…

Book Reviews
By Christopher Lehmann-Haupt

THE FALL OF FORTRESSES: A Personal Account of the Most Daring – and Deadly – American Air Battles of World War II. By Elmer Bendiner. 258 pages. Illustrated. Putnam. $11.95.

ELMER BENDINER’S “The Fall of Fortresses” – a memoir of navigating B-17 Flying Fortresses over Germany during World War II – could well have been as bitter and blackly humorous as Joseph Heller’s “Catch-22.” After all, the centerpieces of the book are two 1943 bombing raids on the ball-bearing factories of Schweinfurt, which can arguably be characterized as disastrous for the American Eighth Air Force. Owing to a combination of factors – among them, weather, an insufficient number of bombers, the lack of auxiliary gas tanks, and the failure of America intelligence and the success of its German counterpart – the two raids cost approximately 130 planes out of the 520 that set out on them and 1,150 of 5,300 crewmen, or a total loss of more than 20 percent.

Yet the two raids failed to cripple Germany’s ball-bearing production, and there remains to this day some question whether bearings are even a critical industrial item in the first place. So, as Mr. Bendiner concludes, “Schweinfurt’s ghosts” may be riding “with those of the Light Brigade at Balaklava – brave soldiers forever charging to their deaths in gallant absurdity.”

But Mr. Bendiner’s mood in “The Fall of Fortresses” does not match Yossarian’s in “Catch-22.” For one thing, he believes that on balance the air war was worth its sacrifices of human life. If the Allied bombing failed to “castrate” “the German machine,” and if it failed to vindicate the heirs of Billy Mitchell in their advocacy of strategic bombing, it did serve, in the words of Albert Speer, to open “a second front before the invasion of Europe” – that is, “the skies over Germany” – which in turn both relieved the pressure on Soviet military forces and helped the eventual land invasion by the Allies to succeed.

‘Our Cause Was Just’’

As for the moral dimension of the bombing offensive, which “some commentators,” as Mr. Bendiner puts it, now speak of “as a ‘children’s crusade,’ “ Mr. Bendiner insists, “We were not children fired with a vision – our own or that of others.” Instead, “We were merely young men accepting our times.” And, “Hitler was real and his victory had to be prevented.’’

“And if after the killing,” he writes, “discerning critics point out that the strategists were not pure in heart or particularly wise, and that therefore some of our victims died needlessly, where can we find absolution? Only in this: that our cause was just. This sets us apart from our enemies.’’

Finally, Mr. Bendiner did not altogether detest the experience of flying his 25 missions as a navigator of B-17s. Indeed, there were elements he rather enjoyed. Sure, he knew full well that Death himself was the 11th member of the crews he flew with. He had seen the scarlet streak along the fuselage of a neighboring plane that was the telltale sign that a gun-turret had been blown away and the gunner decapitated. He had seen dead men washed out of their turrets with a hose. And yet there was an exhilaration to being up there in the blue, isolated from the alarums of battle in the paradoxical silence of the droning engines. “I exulted in that parade” of Flying Fortresses. “I confess this is an act of treason against the intellect.” He sums it up, “But if one wants an intellectual view of war one must ask someone who has not seen it.”

Big and Small Picture

And yet he has also given us that intellectual view of war. In fact, it is remarkable how he manages to combine in a single, nearly poetic, tone of voice, a view that combines the big picture with the personal one – how his narrative seamlessly encompasses the anecdotal and the historical, the strategic and the tactical, the thrill and the horror. It is especially remarkable to someone like me, who came of conscious age against the background of World War II and who therefore believed so absolutely in the Allied cause that there was no room at all for questions of moral conduct. The only facet of the imagination that the war appealed to was the romantic one, and for me, playing my war games, as for Mr. Bendiner at his entrance into the Air Force, “blood and death were leitmotifs in a very classy production number.” It came as a shock to be told that there were finer moral issues raised by the war than the ones of defeat and victory, and that the Allies had violated them at Dresden and Hamburg (not to speak of Hiroshima and Nagasaki).

The beauty of “The Fall of Fortresses,” then, is that without ever stinting the moral and strategic questions that came after, it confirms the romantic dimension of the war – even so far as assuring us that not only in our fantasies, but also in reality, was there a thrill to riding up there in the wild blue yonder alone and seemingly impervious to death. It makes us feel that thrill. It also makes us feel “the anonymity of war,” “as terrible and profound as that of chessmen tumbled into a box when the game is over.” And finally, the horror. “The Fall of Fortresses” is a shining accomplishment.

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From The Washington Post, June 29, 1980…

Fall of the ‘Flying Coffin’
The Brief Campaign of The Bomber Tondelayo

THE FALL OF FORTRESSES.
By Elmer Bendiner.
(Putnam. 298 pp. $11.95)

By Stephen I. Petranek

Somewhere on the bottom of the English Channel, “wreathed in weeds,” the corroded, silted-in hulk of 34,000 pounds of a B-17F bomber named Tondelayo remains, a sepulcher vibrating and pulsing in the memory of the only navigator she ever knew, “Benny,” the last to leave her before she slipped beneath an angry sea on a September afternoon in 1943. JijL .

To Elmer Bendiner, tagged Benny by the crew, Tondelayo seems a not-yet-finally buried reminder of his own anger about having endured, perhaps needlessly, some of the most horrifying aerial battles of World War II, battles which the author, more than three decades later, found it necessary to reassess, question and in some ways condemn as misguided at best. There is also the guilt and wonder of having enjoyed death as an 11th crew member on his missions, the shame of knowing that bombs were acidentally dropped on allies and children and the never erasable memories of bodies and planes suddenly ripped to fragments.

Although Tondelayo did not survive the mandatory 25 missions required of her crew members before they could retire from combat, she did rather well for a sitting duck, seemingly parked in the skies over Europe at a modest 150 mph as Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf-190s flying 400 mph spit 20 mm explosive shells through her skin time after time, mission after mission. Tondelayo finally fell prey not only to German fire but to the myth, not tested before World War II, that hundreds of strategic bombers flying in close disciplined formation were not only Flying Fortresses themselves, but a collective fortress capable of their own defense without constant fighter support,

Bendiner joined a mixed bag of nine other crew members in the belly of a bomber the Germans had called, in a slightly earlier version, a “flying coffin,” a bucket of rivets that even skilled Royal Air Force pilots had nicknamed a “flying target.”

But like other warriors at other times, this sensitive, charming, caring, even humble man named Bendiner got high on the close proximity of death in the flying coffin. “With death visible and audible, creating a taste in my mouth and a flatus in my belly, I was undeniably alive in battle… This was not the war of boredom and vermin we had read about in the tales of our fathers’ agony. This was a frenzy in which I heaved and sweated but could not stop because, shamefully, my guts loved what my head hated… I exulted in that parade of Fortresses forming for battle. I confess this as an act of treason against the intellect, because I have seen dead men washed out of their turrets with a hose. But if one wants an intellectual view of war one must ask someone who has not seen it.”

To some extent Bendiner would insist that survival in a bomber with an accepted casualty rate of 30 percent on some missions was luck. But except for Tondelayo’s first pilot, who, until he was removed from his position, tended to panic in bad circumstances, the crew seemed to be a balanced blend of the guts, outward casualness and determination necessary to survive.

Bendiner does not remember every crew member of Tondelayo, although the detail of his recollections of what mattered and his research into American and German records of his missions was as thorough as conceivably necessary. There was a bombardier who had washed out of pilot school and whose response to war was often repressed rage; a radio operator with “style” who was “the soul of urbanity”; a quietly expert copilot whose closeness to the Fortress was almost symbiotic, and a “street-wise Ulysses” tail-gunner.

There was, too, the luck that Bendiner thanked heaven for: 11 explosive 20 mm shells that didn’t explode were dug out of Tondelayo’s wing gas tank by intelligence experts who found inside one shell a note, written in Czech, that translated as, “This is all we can do for you now.”

There was also the luck of being in the right place at the right time. It was all too frequent that the plane next to Tondelayo was dismembered, sent spinning in wildly gyrating pieces to the earth, her last moments dutifully recorded in Bendiner’s log. “In the morning I had been over Germany watching Tondelayo’s sister plane through my port window. Along the fuselage to the tail ran a scarlet streak. It had taken me a moment to understand that there was no top turret and that the fuselage was painted with the blood of a gunner who manned it before it was blown away.”

The touchstone of the account of Tondelayo and her navigator is the two massive daylight assaults of Flying Fortresses launched on Schweinfurt, Germany, in August and October of 1943, assaults which war planners and politically motivated generals, concerned about demands that all bombers be sent against the Japanese, had determined would neatly end the war within a year by wiping out the Reich’s major ball-bearing plants. Without ball bearings, they too simply determined, German props could not spin and tank treads roll. Bendiner indicates, based on military reports, that the idea may first have been suggested by the Swedish minister’s son-in-law at a Washington cocktail party on Dec. 20, 1942. Albert Speer, interestingly enough, said years later that the damage the Reich suffered at Schweinfurt was in part offset by ball bearings produced in Sweden.

Either assault might have seriously undermined the German effort, had they been followed up within weeks by other bombing raids. But the horrifying losses of the American forces in the raids so devastated the fleet that follow-ups were impossible. At one point Bendiner notes that he never returned from any mission without at least, at the very least, some flak holes in the aircraft. He unintentionally seems to suggest that navigators might have been superfluous on the flights home from the targets. Returning bombers could simply follow the fires of shot-down fortresses: “All across Germany, Holland and Belgium the terrible landscape of burning planes unrolled beneath us. It seemed that we were littering Europe with our dead…”

In the first raid the losses were: “60 aircraft, 552 men missing, 21 brought back wounded, 8 brought back dead, 17 returned planes inoperable, many others heavily damaged.”

In the second assault on Schweinfurt in October, only three or four of the 18 planes in Bendiner’s bomber group returned to base the night of the raid. “Of 291 crews that crossed the Channel, 29 were lost before they reached the target, another 31 fell on the way home – 60 in all, 600 men missing out of a force of less than 3,000.”

The people who were running this European precision-bombing show were in many cases disciples of the court-martialed martyr Billy Mitchell who had insisted that such strategic, rather than troop-support, bombing would decide wars in the future. Bendiner tries desperately to find credence for strategic bombing, such as the Schweinfurt raids, and notes in a strange rationale that the missions, even if not directly successful as bombing raids, tied up so many Germans they created a second front – in the air – which kept the Germans from overrunning the Russians. But he is a lot less than certain:

“We were sent on a hazardous mission to destroy in a single day an objective that was Vulnerable only to repeated assaults for which we had not the strength. Those objectives could not wait for the arrival of more bombers, of the promised Mustangs, of belly tanks [which would have allowed fighters to escort bombers into Germany itself, because we had to dramatize the importance of air power in the European Theater for the benefit of the public and the Navy.

“If that is a fair reading of our commander’s thought processes, then Schweinfurt’s ghosts must ride with those of the Light Brigade at Balaklava – brave soldiers forever charging to their deaths in gallant absurdity.”

The reviewer is deputy editor of The Washington Post Magazine.

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From the Yonkers New York Herald-Statesman, October 26, 1980…

Book reflects war memories

By PHYLLIS RIFFEL

Total strangers have called long distance to talk with author Elmer Bendiner of Tarrytown about his memoir of World War II. And it’s not because they also flew on the Flying Fortresses of the Eighth Air Force – some are infantrymen, others have never been in the service and some were born after the war.

“I guess it’s gone home to a lot of people,” said the 64-year-old former navigator. “War is a powerful seducer.” He contends that everyone fights his own war, in his own way, but there is a common denominator in the devasting experience of any war. “The book stirs up a lot of memories.”

“The Fall of Fortresses,” published by Putnam in May, is a personal recollection of the events leading up to two raids on ball-bearing factories in Scbweinfurt, Germany, in 1943. Some 130 airplanes of the 520 that were sent on the fateful missions were lost and 1,150 of the 5,300 crewmen killed in the attempt to demonstrate the validity of daylight precision bombing as a means of bringing the war to a quick end.

Bendiner has blended bis own feelings about the war – then and now – with the actual details of the two raids on Schweinfurt and others of the 25 missions he flew in a vivid first-person account. He talks of how he came to be a navigator, his interaction with members of the crew, his impressions of wartime England, in a manner that makes the reader feel as though the action in the 258-page book took place only yesterday.

A natural question is why did he wait 35 years to write this sensitive, thoughtful chronicle of a young man thrust into war? And wasn’t it-difficult to recall all the factors and emotions that marked his life in those days, even for one with a skilled memory?

After Bendiner completed his missions – for which he received the Purple Heart, the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal with three oak-leaf clusters – the native of Pennsylvania was assigned to be a navigation instructor in Ireland. He had a leave in the United States before his next assignment.

It was on the long sea voyage home to see his wife, Esther, and his new-born first child, that Bendiner wrote a novel based on his experiences. “‘I was never satisfied with it,” he said, and the manuscript was put on the shelf.’’ He kept his navigator’s log, which contained many personal asides as well as the official records of action and flight on ‘Tondelayo,” the B-17 he flew over Germany in.

Together with the expressive letters he wrote to his wife during that era, which she retained, these documents formed the nucleus of material for the book.

The catalyst lor writing the volume actually was an idea for another book which be proposed to an agent. “I wanted to write an historical book about the year 1800 – it’s a fascinating year in American history,” he said. The contact liked the idea but asked Bendiner If he could come up with something a little closer to modem tinges. He said, “I knew then that at last I was going to do this,” (the “Fail of Fortresses”).

It took a couple of years to put everything down on paper as Bendiner, a free-lance writer for the last 10 years worked on the memoir in conjunction with other projects. He visited with bis co-pilot four or five times and rehashed past events, and Interviewed retired Gen Mo Preston, commanding officer of his squadron, to check out bis impressions of what transpired at the base at Kimbolton, England. Preston was a colonel in 1943 and Bendiner knew him by rank alone, and the CO only knew biro by his number back then.

Candid about the thrill inherent in warfare and the anonymity of battle, in his book Bendiner ponders the motivation of the military commanders in World War II and the loss of life – both military and civilian – in the struggle for victory.

In the 1970s Bendiner was based in Switzerland to establish and edit an international news service for a string of medical newspapers. While living abroad for four years, he also wrote a history of the League of Nations, titled “A Time for Angels.” He and his wife traveled from Africa to the Arctic and from Bangladesh to Budapest with numerous stops between. When in Germany, he acknowledges he had an “uncomfortable feeling when I would see Germans my age. I wondered what they were doing during the war”

Chosen as a Book-of-the-Month alternate, by two aviation book clubs and being published in England shortly, the “The Fall of Fortresses” Is not just an exercise in which one man puts together bis thoughts on the ramifications of war on bis own life. Rather it describes an era in history in broad terms meshed with personal reflections.

Upon their return to the United States, the Bendiners settled in Woodstock, N.Y., where he wrote a book on the diplomacy of the American Revolution – “The Virgin Diplomats” – prior to his current book. The couple moved to Tarrytown three years ago and find it convenient to New York City and enjoy the historical nature of the area.

A slight, wiry man with piercing blue eyes, Bendiner said he is writing a story of how Arabs and Jews together enlightened the otherwise sombre middle ages from their comer in Spain and Portugal.” In his study, which has a sweeping view of the Palisades, he also continues work on the biographical history of medicine. Mrs. Bendiner works with her husband in the typing and editing chores.

Raised in a small Appalachian town in a family whose members either had an ambition to write or assumed that they probably would in any case,” Bendiner describes his achievements in college as mediocre. He left in his senior year to work as a reporter on newspapers, in and around New York, until 1940 when he was employed by an agency seeking to rescue Jewish refugees from Germany. In 1941, shortly after his marriage, Pearl Harbor was attacked and he enlisted, confident that he would be drafted in due time anyway.

In the period since his days In the Air Force, Bendiner has been a magazine managing editor, a political writer for the National Guardian, and a book reviewer and author. It is fortunate for the reading public that his account of air battles in World War II managed to surface in the midst of all his other endeavors.

PHYLLIS RIFFEL is Lifestyles Editor of The Daily News, Tarrytown.

Oh, yes…  References, references, references!

Here’s the Book

Bendiner, Elmer S., The Fall of Fortresses, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, N.Y., 1980

Here’s another book!

Contemporary Authors, Volumes 89-92, Gales Research Company, Detroit, Mi., 1980

And otherwise?

Gabrielle Bendiner-Viani (daughter of photographer Paul Viani), at…

… The Laundromat Project

1 Lt. Nathan Margolies: March 19 and March 24, 1945

“Because he was concerned to make sure of everyone’s
safety before bailing out himself.” 

A review of the history of the WW II Allied air campaign against the Axis, specifically in terms of missions conducted by aircraft manned by multiple crew members – here we’re largely talking about bombardment aircraft, though such aircraft certainly could be used for photo or weather reconnaissance, or, electronic warfare – reveals a consistent theme in the context of aircraft losses; a theme perhaps second nature and long taken-for-granted.  This is revealed for the United States Army Air Force within Missing Air Crew Reports, in R.W. Chorley’s series of books covering Royal Air Force Bomber Command and, in a myriad of other references.  In essence, it wasn’t at all unusual for the pilot (and co-pilot, as well) of a bomber to lose their lives in their final efforts to keep a damaged aircraft under some semblance of control in order to grant their fellow crewmen the chance for a safe bailout.  There are many Missing Air Crew Report Casualty Questionnaires that are explicit in the descriptions of such events.  A comprehensive review of these documents, or, a systematic tabulation of loss records in Chorley’s books, might enable a researcher to actually quantify just how often many otherwise uninjured pilots – who otherwise might have survived – gave their lives in such circumstances. 

One such aviator was First Lieutenant Nathan Margolies (0-806295).  The son of Moses and Rose (Blatt) Margolies, he was born in Brooklyn on July 6, 1915, and resided with his parents at 8301 Bay Parkway, in that rather well known New York borough.  The recipient of the Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters, and Purple Heart, his name can be found on page 387 of American Jews in World War II.  His name appeared in a Casualty List released on April 19, 1945, and can also be found upon the Tablets of the Missing at Manila American Cemetery, Manila, Philippines, while a commemorative matzeva bearing his name is present at Section MF, Plot 46-D-12, at Arlington National Cemetery.  His name also appears in Robert Dorr’s 7th Bombardment Group / Wing 1918-1995 (page 248) and in Chick Marrs Quinn’s The Aluminum Trail (page 389). 

As indicated from this commemorative information and the latter two books – and as you’ll see from this post – he did not survive the war. 

This is him…

A member of the 9th Bomb Squadron of the 10th Air Force’s 7th Bomb Group, Lt. Margolies was reportedly wounded by anti-aircraft fire on March 19, 1945.  Thus, his inclusion in “this” series of blog posts concerning Jewish military casualties on March 19, 1945.  However…  

…he was killed during a combat mission five days later, on March 24, 1945, while in command of B-24L Liberator 44-49607 (tail number 28) during a mission from Pandaveswar, in West Bengal, India, to “Bridge Q633″ on the Burma-Siam Railway. 

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The insignia of the 10th Air Force.

This example of the 9th Bomb Squadron insignia was found at Etsy.  Though the gray rays in the upper half of the insignia resemble searchlight beams – as if pinpointing enemy aircraft at night – in reality, they simply form the Roman numeral “IX”, representing the number “9”.  As in 9th Squadron.

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From Edward M. Young’s B-24 Liberator Units of the CBI (Osprey Combat Aircraft 87), this profile, by Mark Styling, is a representative image of the markings carried by 9th Bomb Squadron B-24s slightly before the general time-frame of the Margolies crews’ missions.  This plane, B-24J 44-40857, RANGOON RANGLER, shows the squadron’s black & white checkerboard rudder with a horizontal fin band, and, plane-in-squadron number.  RANGOON RANGLER survived the war with many combat missions and other sorties, and postwar was turned over to the Reconstruction Finance Corporation (RFC).  There’s no record of the Margolies crews’ 44-49607 having a nickname.  

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The names and eventual fates of Lt. Margolies’ crew members on the March 24 mission are listed below:

Co-Pilot – Chaffee, Arthur Richard, 1 Lt., 0-755518, Seattle, Wa. – Survived
Navigator – Scranton, Edwin Ely, 1 Lt., 0-685742, Alliance, Oh.  (See here, here, and here) – KIA
Bombardier – Meridith, James M., 1 Lt., 0-889303, Wichita, Ks. – Survived
Flight Engineer – Sadloski, Stanley P., T/Sgt., 11010475, Hartford, Ct. – Survived
Radio Operator – Nelson, James F., T/Sgt., 32086547, Brooklyn, N.Y. – Survived
Gunner – Reed, Edward, S/Sgt., 11090457, Fall River, Ma. – KIA
Gunner – Cunningham, John E., S/Sgt., 14147628, Atlanta, Ga. – KIA
Gunner – Moriarty, Leo, S/Sgt., 32185901, Ware, Ma. – Survived
Gunner – Herald, Kenneth William, S/Sgt., 39559281, Pomona, Ca. – Survived

Unlike most (most; not all) MACRs, the eyewitness statements in MACR 13435 describing 28’s loss were not recounted by crew members of other planes in the 9th’s formation.  Rather, they were reported by two of Lt. Margolies’ six surviving crew members: bombardier Lt. Meredith and gunner Sgt. Herald.  The MACR also includes Casualty Questionnaires filed by T/Sgt. Sadloski for his four fallen fellow crew members.  Through these records, it’s possible to reconstruct what transpired over India that day, seventy-nine years ago.  

First, as described by Lt. Meredith…

Were flying indicated altitude of 2500’.  We were one hour and forty minutes out from the field when the oil pressure started dropping off on #1 engine [left outer engine, as viewed from above] very fast.  Lt. Margolies told me to go down in the nose and salvo the bombs which I immediately did.  When I crawled back up to the flight deck the engineer was salvoing the bomb bay [fuel] tank.  The pilot could only get the engine partly feathered causing a terrific drag on the left side.  We were losing about a thousand feet a minute so the pilot yelled “bail out”.  I buckled on my chute and went out the right front bomb bay.  I saw only one other parachute beside my own and did not see the plane crash.

…and then, S/Sgt. Herald: 

At 11:15 it was reported that number one engine had bad oil pressure and Lt. Margolies proceeded to feather it.  Due to some mechanical failure, the prop would not feather, which caused an excess of drag on our left wing forcing us to lose altitude even after out bombs and gas tank were dropped.  Our pilot fought it but to no avail.  The first order was to prepare for a ditching and as soon as that was given another order was to put on chutes, and there came the bail out order.  The waist windows had been broken out, so as soon as we were told to bail out, I went through the right waist and hit the ground very soon after my chute opened.  The altitude we went out at was about 700 ft.  I hit the trees and soon joined out co-pilot and radio operator. 

As indicated above, the bomber was already flying at the low altitude of 2,500 feet (remarkably low by the standards of the 8th or 15th Air Forces, but perhaps typical for a 10th Air Force mission of this nature…?) when mechanical failure – a drop in oil pressure – was encountered in the number 1 engine.  (Interestingly, the header page of the MACR attributes the aircraft loss to carburetor icing, but I don’t how know (or if) such a problem could contribute to low oil pressure.  Especially at low altitude.  Especially in the climate of India and Burma!)  Regardless, Lt. Margolies’ first command was for the crew to prepare for ditching.  Immediately afterwards came an order to bail out, in light of the plane’s very rapid loss of altitude and the danger inherent to ditching a B-24 with very limited control and very little time for preparation.  (Not that ditching a B-24 was easy under optimal circumstances, to begin with.) 

Six crewmen left the plane:  Lt. Margolies’ officers, and, Sergeants Nelson, Cunningham, and Herald.  

Of the six, the parachutes of Lt. Scranton and Sgt. Cunningham were either deployed too low and too late, or, failed to open.  

Four crewmen remained in the aircraft: Lt. Margolies, and Sergeants Sadloski, Reed, and Moriarty.

Of these men, Lt. Margolies, severely injured in the ditching, was unable to escape the sinking aircraft.  Sgt. Reed managed to leave the wreck, but he did not survive.

Thus, from a crew of ten, six returned.  Of the four who did not survive, only Sergeant Reed’s body was recovered to eventually have a place of burial. 

Photos of the fallen appear below.  They, and several images of Lt. Margolies, as well, have been contributed to the mens’ biographical profiles at FindAGrave by Mr. Walter N. Webb (cousin of Lt. Scranton) about whom you can read more here.

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2 Lt. Edwin F. Scranton, Navigator

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S/Sgt. John E. Cunningham, Gunner

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S/Sgt. Edward Reed, Gunner

Sgt. Reed was also “an amateur artist and wood carver and played the guitar.”  This is his water-color self-portrait.

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But wait (!) there’s even more…(!!)…

In the early 2000s, Mr. Walter N. Webb, who had been researching the histories of 7th Bomb Group crews lost in WW II – with a focus on his cousin, Lt. Scranton – posted the results of his investigation at the website of the 7th Bomb Group (“7th Bombardment Group (H)”), which in 2024 is no longer “up and running”.  The title of his work was: “A Special Tribute to the Margolies Crew – Photos and research by Walt Webb”.

Mr. Webb’s post includes speculation about the location where B-24 28 and her crew – both the survivors and those killed – came to earth, and, photos of the Margolies crew (and another 9th BS crew, that of 1 Lt. John F. Albert), the above-mentioned photographs of Lieutenants Margolies and Scranton, and, Sergeants Cunningham and Reed, two Google Earth images simulating the probable final course of 28, and finally, a symbolic memorial ceremony that he arranged in honor of Lieutenants Margolies and Scranton, and Sgt. Cunningham, that took place at Arlington National Cemetery on May 26, 2005. 

Well, to quote from Mr. Webb’s post…

I’ve been researching a 9th Squadron crew, four of whom were killed in a March 24, 1945, air accident en route to Thailand.  Three of those men still are missing in the Ganges Delta region along with their B-24. One of them was a cousin I never really knew (Lt. Edwin E. Scranton).  These photos are about this crew, the last two photos are of the Arlington ceremony that I arranged for the families of the three MIAs.

I was able to download Google Earth and use it in an unusual way–to simulate the Margolies B-24 final descent route across the Ganges Delta (Mar. 24, 1945) and to visualize what the pilots saw as they crossed these islands at altitudes of 1,000 feet and below.  Google Earth allows you to “fly” to any point on a 3D globe, drop to any altitude, tilt to get an oblique view, and even rotate around the target!  The earth coverage comes from satellite imagery.  The detail varies; major cities have the highest resolution.  Since I saved the entire descent path, all I have to do to revisit is to press the “Tour” button and then watch as the path automatically runs!

I’ve used information in Mr. Webb’s post, specifically his two Google Earth maps,  to build “this” post a little further, in terms of mapping and illustrating the final flight of 28 and her four fallen airmen.  

This map, included in MACR 13435, shows the last witnessed location of 28: Over the Bay of Bengal, just a few miles south of the coast of modern day Bangladesh.  Note that the map is only a snippet cut from the much larger “Army / Air” 1:1,000,000 map: “NF-45”, which you’ll see with just a quick mouse scroll down.  

XXXXXXXXXX

Based on the MACR map, the map below, at a vastly smaller scale, shows the aircraft’s last reported position in the wider geographic context of the Bay of Bengal, India, Bangladesh, and Burma.  It’s designated by the miniscule, almost-invisible (and really tiny) red oval in the center of the map.

Going to a larger scale, here’s 28’s last reported position in the context of the Ganges-Brahamputra Delta.

A tiny section of map NF-45 in MACR 13435 is shown above.  Below, via the University of Texas, is a complete version of a later edition of the same map – “NF-45-12” (“Putney Island, Pakistan; India”) – spliced via photoshop with the adjoining map to the north, “NF-45-8” (“Khula, Pakistan; India”).  These two adjoining maps, at 1:250,000 scale, were compiled in 1955 from the 1923-1942, and, 1924 Surveys of India, and are October, 1959 editions prepared by the Army Map Service and printed by the Corps of Engineers.  For the purposes of this post, this photoshopped Army composite map illustrates the setting of 28’s loss in a detailed context, and clarifies a Google Earth image from Mr. Webb, which follows…    

And so, more from Mr. Webb:

[Two] photos are … sample scenes from the simulation, both overviews in tilt mode.  I also have views from the lower heights actually flown by the crippled aircraft along its final path.

[The first scene …  (not illustrated here!) looks S to N across the bailout island where 6 of the crew jumped.]  Scranton and Cunningham (chutes didn’t open) fell under the plane’s path, while the 4 on chutes probably drifted a bit to the NNE, thus shown displaced slightly in that direction.  Cunningham delayed his jump and so is separated from the rest.  (A British air-sea rescue eyewitness recalled seeing the parachutes hanging in the trees “in a perfectly straight line.”)  Thirteen miles to the N, the 3 distant targets represent the general area where I believe the plane actually may have ditched with 4 on board  (Margolies and Reed perished; only Reed was recovered.)

[This] scene … (image below!) shows approximately where the 3 crew MIAs may be located.  Although the B-24 may have ditched somewhere along that stretch of the river, it’s uncertain whether the submerged wreckage still is there, lodged in the mud (the B-24 broke into 3 sections), or has drifted farther downstream.

Using Mr. Webb’s Google Earth map as a basis, here are the probable locations of Cunningham’s and Scranton’s bailout and 28’s crash, shown on Maps NF-45-12 and NF-45-8 (you can see where I spliced them by the difference in the intensity of shading), as respectively indicated by the blue circles.

A much, much closer view.  Assuming that the crash location is correct, the aircraft came down in the vicinity of or in the Jamuna River.

This air photo view of the plane’s probable crash location is at the same scale as the NF-45 composite maps above….

…while this air photo is a very (very (very)) close view of this branch of the Jamuna River. 

Between 2011 and 2013, the missing men and plane were the subject of discussion at Wikimapia, under the heading “crash site, invisible“.  

There, this message appears: “B-24 Liberator piloted by Lt. Nathan Margolies crashed here after others bailed out(but not all survived).  They were on their way to bomb a bridge on the infamous Burma-Siam Railway on 24 March 1945.  Still missing are Pilot Margolies, Navigator Lt. Edwin E. Scranton, and a Gunner S/Sgt. John E. Cunningham.  Navigator’s cousin still is searching for remains of both aircraft and personnel.  Contact wwebb24@verizon.net. The plane took off from Pandaveswar, West Bengal, India.

Coordinates: 21°55’11″N 89°10’22″E”

This inquiry generated three comments – by Bangladesh citizens “TurboProp”, “asisdutta_jc”, and “ershadahmed”, which are presented verbatim below:

TurboProp (2011)
CALLING OFFICERS OF BANGLADESH NAVY OR COAST GUARD TO COMMENT ON THIS. THERE ARE 2 ESTABLISHMENTS–ONE WITHIN THE MARKED AREA, ONE LITTLE UPSTREAM.  MAY BE THESE PEOPLE WILL HAVE SOME IDEA
13 years ago

asisdutta_jc (2012)
Condoled by SDutta: +919593000434
12 years ago

ershadahmed (2014)
Inaccessible and isolated mangrove remains inundated.  Officers of Bangladesh Navy or Forest Deptt should try to locate the spot and help them finding.  Its two years already, the request has been made by the US air force persons to Bangladesh Navy. Engr. Ershad Ahmed +(88-02)-01711548879 9 (cell)
10 years ago

______________________________

And, two pictures from time ago.

As mentioned above, Mr. Webb’s post from the early 2000s at the 7th Bomb Group’s website includes a photo of Lt. Margolies crew, and, a photo of the crew of 1 Lt. John F. Albert.  These photos, and several other images of 9th Bomb Squadron crews, can be found in the historical records of the 9th Bomb Squadron for March, 1945.

This image shows the Margolies crew in front of B-24 squadron number 33 prior to takeoff on February 5, 1945.  The mission was to bomb the pair of bridges at Kanchanaburi, Thailand.  The crew had to abort and return.  

The men are:

Back row, left to right:

1 Lt. James M. Meredith
S/Sgt. Edward Reed
T/Sgt. James F. Nelson
S/Sgt. John E. Cunningham
S/Sgt. Kenneth W. Herald
S/Sgt. Leo Moriarty
Cpl. John L. Sulgrove

Front row, left to right:

1 Lt. Arthur R. Chaffee
Lieutenant Margolies
T/Sgt. Stanley P. Sadloski
1 Lt. Edwin E. Scranton

This photo was also taken on February 5, 1945, and is significant in showing 44-49607, with, “…a hand-painted “28”, an indicator of its recent arrival to the squadron.” 

The men are, left to right:

1 Lt. Donald P. Funk – Co-Pilot
2 Lt. Owen H. Brownfield – Bombardier
T/Sgt. Arthur L. Burdette – Flight Engineer
1 Lt. Bernard D. Kahn – Navigator
1 Lt. John F. Albert – Pilot
T/Sgt. Lyle L. Vralsted – Radio Operator
S/Sgt. H.Q. Smith – Gunner
S/Sgt. Gordon Greenberg – Gunner
S/Sgt. Paul R. Hon – Gunner

Almost seventy-nine years have transpired since the loss of “28” and her four crew members.  Given the passage of time, let alone the very nature of the terrain and climate where the 44-49607 came to earth (and actually, sea) it must be accepted that the missing men and their plane will never be found.  Still, a measure of memory, even if belated, is better than no memory at all.  

Some Books

Dorr, Robert F., 7th Bombardment Group / Wing 1918-1995, Turner Publishing Company, Paducah, Ky., 1996

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

Quinn, Chick Marrs, The Aluminum Trail – How & Where They Died – China-Burma-India World War II 1942-1945, Chick Marrs Quinn, 1989

Rust, Kenn C, Tenth Air Force Story, Historical Aviation Album, Temple City, Ca., 1980

Young, Edward M., B-24 Liberator Units of the CBI, Osprey Publishing, Oxford, England, 2011

And otherwise…

I want to express my thanks to the Air Force Historical Research Agency for the Albert and Margolies crew photos: “Thanks very much!”

AFHRA Microfilm Roll A0538