Pilots_Journals_PG6_Schweinfurt

Pilot's Journals: Page 6

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Schweinfurt
by Robert (Bob) Slane, Col. (ret) USAF

BLACK THURSDAY:
AFTERMATH

COMMENTARY: This is the second installments of the experiences of Col
Robert Slane that tell his experiences of the Raid on Schweinfurt and his time as a POW. There is not much I can or even should say about this, so I will just let him tell his story.

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PRISONER -------STALAG LUFT III-------- ESCAPE

( Note: This true story is a continuation of the �REVIEW of EVENTS� previously published under the title �SCHWEINFURT� by Robert M. Slane. That article is included in the �Stories� section of the 91st Bomb Group Web Site Master Copy

After crash-landing my B-17 aircraft adjacent to the small village in France, I was captured at the aircraft by two men dressed in civilian clothing . I was searched before being placed in the front seat of the Ford car the men had driven on to the field and parked near my downed aircraft.
In the back seat of this vehicle was another prisoner, handcuffed with both feet loosely tied. He had a broad face with wild blond hair. He appeared to be of Slavic or Polish nationality and he cringed when my German captor threatened him with what appeared to be a hard rubber hose.
It was only a short drive off the field where I crash-landed to the outskirts of the village. We, the prisoners, were taken out of the car and walked up a dirt floor corridor between a house and a row of walled prison cells. The first cell door was opened and the other prisoner was shoved into a dark looking hole. I was taken further up the corridor and placed in a similar cell. When the door was closed the cell was pitch black. The only source of light was a �peephole� in the door. The cell had a sort of bench-bed about two feet off the ground. The walls were stone and concrete but the floor appeared to be hardened dirt or adobe.
I had been in the cell for about half an hour when the cell door was opened and I was led outside into the corridor. Two Germans, in military uniform, were waiting to question me. The questioning started with an inquiry as to whether I was hungry. I said �yes� although I had no thought of food but felt I should eat if food was offered in order to keep up my strength. The next questions were related to members of my crew, �how many were aboard the aircraft� and was I �concerned about their safety since some might be injured and need medical assistance?� I was unresponsive to any of these questions as I repeatedly showed them my dog -tags and again stated �name , rank and serial number.� Finally, the questioners did get my attention when they pointed out that one member of my crew had been killed. I requested them to let me see and identify the crew member. With that request denied, I was returned to my cell. There was no further mention of food.
For the next several hours I sat on the bench ,leaning on the wall with my feet also resting on the bench. My mind was racing , going over, and over, and over, the events of the past few hours. I wondered what had happened to Glenn Foster. It couldn�t have been his body the Germans discovered behind the bulkhead or was it possible he had made it back to where the tail gunner, Sgt Smith, was reported to be unconscious? �What happened to the flare gun?� �Why didn�t I carry matches so I could have destroyed the aircraft?� �Why, once I was out of the aircraft and hidden in a thicket, did I go back?� I knew the answer was because I had to, it was my duty, my responsibility as the crew commander. �If I had been able to destroy the aircraft, would the Germans have been able to identify the body found behind the bulkhead?� Maybe it was best that I was unable to destroy the aircraft for just that reason. �What happened to Bill Runner, the bombardier, who was waving from the ground as I came in over the field just before crash-landing?� �Did the rest of the crew make it safely to the ground?� These were the types of thoughts that plagued me during those first hours of captivity.
My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness of the cell and I found a wooden bucket in a corner near the door. I removed the lid and the stench was suffocating. It was obvious this bucket had not been emptied for a long time. I returned to the bench using the fur collar of my flight jacket as a breathing mask until the smell receded.
I had been in the cell for four or five hours when I heard voices and my cell door opened. A German guard, lantern in hand, entered and with him was a young man dressed as though he were a motorcyclist. He had on a black leather jacket, leather pants and boots. He was about my size - 5 foot, 7 or 8 inches tall. He was dark complexioned and spoke with what sounded to me like a French accent. He spoke some English and when, without warning or apparent cause, he suddenly drew his pistol, I thought he might be an agent in the French Underground and was perhaps going to liberate me. That thought was short-lived as he suddenly grabbed my flying helmet and jerked it off my head. He then requested that I give him my watch; I did so, but when he demanded my pilot wings I told him �no� and after two attempts to take them from me, with me resisting by covering the wings with my arms, he suddenly turned to the German guard, muttered something and left. The guard then departed and I was left to return to my own thoughts until morning.
With daylight the next morning, I had a better view of my surroundings and more light was coming through the hole in the door. Just above my head, where I had been sitting all night, was a great circular web containing a spider with a body the size of a quarter. I shuddered with the thought that it might have been crawling on me. I managed to relocate my position on the bench away from the immediate vicinity of the spider and spent the next hour or so trying to figure the best way to get rid of this new menace. Since I didn�t have access to any weapon to kill it, I decided to let well enough alone with the hope that I could eventually get a guard to assist me in cleaning out the toilet and taking care of the spider.
About three hours after daybreak I heard the cell door open and I was again taken out of the cell. I was escorted to a large room in the house.. This room was filled with men of all ages. They were all seated in various locations around the room. Some of the men were armed with rifles, others had sticks that could be used as weapons. They appeared to be ordinary workers and for the most part, were dark haired, dark complexioned. None spoke as I was put on display by the Germans. They just appeared to be curious. I assumed they were part of the local search force that the Germans were using to track downed allied airmen.
From that room I was taken to what appeared to be a kitchen. I was allowed to sit at one of the tables and was served a bowl of what looked like potato soup and a chunk of very hard, stale bread. The old woman who served me would not look directly at me and she was unresponsive to any conversation attempted by the German guards.
I didn�t like the smell of the soup and I was only able to gag down one spoon full. The potatoes used in the soup had to be rotten. While I was trying to chew on the bread the old woman poured herself a bowl of the same soup and standing in front of the stove she took a spoon full of the soup. She tried to swallow but instead gagged and vomited the soup back into the bowl. She looked around the room, the guard had his back to her. Seeing that she was not being observed by the guard she took her bowl and dumped the contents back into the pot on the stove. She then turned toward me and looked me straight in the eye. There was a look of defiance on her face replacing the previous look of total indifference. We were two people who shared a secret. Her hate for the Germans was obviously deep rooted.
After leaving the kitchen I again requested that I be allowed to see the body of my crew member. There was no response to this request, but I was told that the airman was named �Schmidt� and that he had been shot in the chest and the wounds were massive. I was returned to my cell with little accomplished except for the information about Sgt Claud Smith.
It was sometime in the afternoon that my cell door was again opened and I was taken out into the corridor. This time I was facing a Luftwaffe Officer. He was wearing eagle wings surrounded by a wreath. I assumed that he was a pilot and perhaps one of the pilots who helped down our aircraft. He had an English speaking soldier with him. His only question was regarding my age. He seemed amused when I refused to answer his question and only responded by pointing to the information on my dog tags. He had me take my sheep lined jacket off and he then felt the material of my shirt The shirt was a thin summer khaki long sleeve. He may have intended to take the jacket, but did not when he realized the shirt would not provide much protection against the cold. The jacket was returned to me. After a brief conversation with the interpreter the German officer spoke directly to me in German. I didn�t understand his conversation and his interpreter provided no help. Receiving no response from me, the Luftwaffe officer turned, talked briefly with the guard and departed. It was back to the prison cell for me.
I dozed for a brief time and when awakened was relieved to see that the spider had climbed to a new and higher position in the web . I wondered if perhaps it could sense my desire to rid the cell of it�s presence. I didn�t relish the thought that I might have to spend another night with the spider present in the cell.
Late in the afternoon I heard increased activity in the corridor and the sound of marching foot steps. My cell door opened and a guard led me down the corridor. Outside the building was a line of about ten or twelve soldiers. They were all armed. My immediate thought was �this is a Firing Squad.� The guard guided me over to the corner of a building and I was shocked to see Joe Johnson ,the co-pilot, and the engineer, top-turret gunner, Sherman Sly coming around the building. I felt a surge of relief when it appeared that they were uninjured. The three of us were directed to climb aboard a truck. The truck bed was covered with a canvas top and had seats along the sides and also had benches facing the rear of the truck. Four guards boarded the truck, one on either side bench and two sat on a bench in front of the tail-gate facing forward. Johnson sat next to me and we were both facing the rear of the truck.
We had no way of knowing where we were going or what was in store for us and admittedly there remained some fear that we were going to face a firing squad. It was nightfall before we made our next stop and when three more members of my crew were placed aboard the truck I had mixed feelings of joy and despair. Vic Kuhlman, the radio operator, was badly injured. He had made a successful bailout, but during descent had become tangled in the shroud lines. He struck the ground shoulder first and was in severe pain. He had received no treatment since capture. We managed to place him on one of the side-benches in the truck. Lou Brown, the ball-turret gunner and Robert Solomon , waist-gunner were picked up with Vic Kuhlman. Still unaccounted for was Charles Groth -waist gunner , the navigator, Glen Foster and Bill Runner, the bombardier. I had to assume that the body found in the aircraft was the tail-gunner, Claud Smith.
As we traveled I attempted to read the road signs but only the cities of Metz and Nancy were familiar to me. We passed through many small villages and the thought continuously crossed my mind that we should try to escape. All of our �escape� training programs emphasized that if at all possible, �try to escape from your captors prior to being placed in a permanent POW prison,�- �opportunity for successful escape would best be accomplished while being transported from one area to another.� It appeared to me that positioning the two guards on a bench attached to the tail gate and facing us was almost inviting someone to leap up and push them over the back of the tail-gate.
I still had on heavy flying boots over my shoes. I would need to remove them before making any decision to attempt to leap out the rear of the truck. I slowly unzipped one boot, but when I attempted to take the boot off the guard sitting nearest me on the side bench spoke to me and pointed his gun at my chest. Needless to say I didn�t attempt to unzip the other boot. Even if I had been able to remove the boots I knew that there would be considerable risk in any attempt to rush the guards, but every time the truck slowed the thought crossed my mind that I could knock the guard facing us overboard, leap over the tailgate and disappear in the darkness.
Realistically, I knew that any escape attempt would be foolhardy unless every crew member had knowledge of and could react in a coordinated escape plan. Also, we had one member badly injured and his safety had to be considered. Still, with the thought of being a prisoner and facing an unknown future, I was fighting an inward battle with my emotions as I contemplated a situation that offered little opportunity for escape.
We finally arrived at a railroad station. The guards formed a circle around us and we were herded into a waiting room. The civilians were ordered to vacate this area and we were alone with the guards. Vic Kuhlman was in pain and was shaking from shock and the chilly weather. We found a place for him to sit, but the chills persisted. There was a table in the center of the room containing a stack of blankets and I finally went over to the table, took a blanket and we wrapped it around Kuhlman. One of the guards rushed forward shouting as he pushed me backward. His tirade continued as I tried to explain that our friend needed help. Another guard finally came forward and talked to his comrade and calmed him down. When out of their hearing range, Kuhlman said in a very low voice, �He says you didn�t ask permission.� I realized then, for the first time, that Kuhlman could speak and understand German. He had been aware of their conversations since capture but was too frightened to let them know that he was raised in a German speaking household. Kuhlman told me that he could understand every word said in his presence by the Germans. This revelation was quite a surprise for all of us. I assured Victor that we would be careful not to compromise his secret. I requested him to listen carefully and let me know about any information he might hear with respect to our present location , proposed destination or anything else of significance with respect to our status.
We were under constant surveillance by the guards but were allowed to talk in low tones among ourselves. I asked Joe Johnson if he had been questioned about Sgt. Smith and he indicated that he had not. He mentioned that he and S/Sgt Sly had been fed earlier in the day and the soup was �delicious.� He had eaten two bowls full of the potato soup. I made no mention of my own experience. Hopefully they had been served their soup from another source.
After about a two hour wait, we boarded a passenger train. The guards moved people out of their seats to make room for us and there was considerable grumbling by those who had to relinquish their seats as they tried to relocate. The other travelers appeared to be just ordinary citizens and for the most part appeared to be French citizens. It was difficult to fathom their thoughts with respect to our presence, but it was obvious that we were not the first prisoners they had encountered.
The lights were dim in the train and outside was total darkness. Kuhlman was in pain and every jolt of the train aggravated his shoulder injury. His low moans brought looks of sympathy from some of the surrounding passengers. One of the guards finally offered us a blanket. By folding the blanket we were able to place it under his shoulder and this action seemed to lessen the pain.
We were on the train the rest of the night and arrived at a prison out side Frankfort, Germany early in the morning. We were lined up in columns, counted, then marched into a prison compound. This was a �Dulag Luft,� an interrogation center where we were finally told we would spend a period of time prior to being sent to a �permanent� prisoner of war camp. The officer crew members were separated from the enlisted crew members and it was rumored that we would be sent to different �permanent� prison camps. We should have been aware of this, but I had forgotten that part of the lecture and I got a sick feeling watching my crew members marched of to �God knows where.� �Would I ever see them again?�
My name was called and I was placed with a group of officer prisoners. Joe Johnson and I were separated as he was called to join another group. We, my group of ten or so officers, were taken to a fairly large room. The room was not a cell but was just an ordinary room with a locked door. I knew none of the other airmen but in conversation discovered that most had been shot-down on the Schweinfurt mission (14 Oct.43).There were no chairs so most of us just slumped against the wall. Someone mentioned that we should keep our voices low, that probably the reason we were in a room without a guard was that in our discussion we would provide information of use to the enemy. There was some logic to that advice and the conversations became guarded.
For the first hour or so, the big topic was cigarettes. Who had a cigarette or tobacco? The heavy smokers were getting desperate. All of the smokers began a search through their clothing. Matches were at a premium as most of the cigarette lighters had been confiscated. One man had �roll your own� cigarette paper and others were using toilet paper to make cigarettes. Pockets were turned inside out to collect any tobacco that could be extracted from the lint. Anyone who lit a cigarette would share with others. For most of us this was the beginning of shared hardship that in some cases might be the difference between life and death. I was thankful that I didn�t smoke.
One by one the names of prisoners were called out and those departing did not return to this �holding� room. I was one of the last to be called and was taken down a corridor, out into the open and into another block of prison cells. This area was where prisoners were held in solitary confinement. The cell was small, maybe six by nine feet. A single low watt bulb was located in the center of the ceiling. High on the rear wall was a glassless, barred window. By standing on the cot, one could look out and view a sort of square court yard. The buildings surrounding this square, open area, all appeared to be prison cells with the same type of window as the cell I occupied. During my imprisonment in this cell I often saw faces peering out of these windows.
I had been in confinement for about three hours when I became aware of a guard looking at me through the small barred glass window in the door. This was standard procedure for the guards, to periodically look in each cell, day and night. Once a day each prisoner was escorted to a latrine in the building and permitted to use the facilities and wash up before return to confinement. I had eaten nothing except the stale piece of bread since capture and I did not take time to examine the contents of the small bowl of pea or bean soup served to me that first day of solitary confinement. I was very hungry and the soup was delicious. The bread served with the soup had some kind of spread that had little taste, but it was good .
The standard daily menu was a slice of bread in the morning with some type of hot drink that was a substitute for coffee. The mid-day food consisted of a cup of barley or pea soup and a slice of bread. Supper was another slice of bread with a spread of some unknown type of margarine or red jelly spread. It wasn�t exactly a diet of �bread and water� but it was close.
I found that by pushing the cot up to the rear wall I could look out the barred window and also listen in on the conversations of prisoners in adjacent cells. This method of communication must have been known to our captors but was evidently permitted. Perhaps this was one method used to gain information. The second day of imprisonment in the Dulag, I was at my window and listened to some one named Rose tell a story of his bailout. He was in the nose of his aircraft attempting to put his chute on when the aircraft blew up. He was blown out of the exploding aircraft and right next to him was his parachute - floating in the air. Rose said he grabbed the chute snapped it on and pulled the ripcord.
I was still trying to visualize Rose�s story when the prisoner he had been conversing with began to tell his experiences. He began by saying he had delayed opening his parachute in order to lessen the chance for capture. He said that after he was on the ground he waved to his pilot as the B-17 was flown at low altitude over his landing area. He then described how shortly after waving to his pilot a low flying German twin engine plane had fired at him. He was unhurt except for a shell fragment that went through his shoe and embedded under his big toe. I was stunned when I heard this conversation and I called out �Runner, is that you?� Of course it was Bill Runner, our crew bombardier, and his response was immediate. He reported that he had been free for two days after bailout before seeking help from a man who appeared to be a French worker. He was taken to a house, given some food and then was turned over to the Germans. He had not escaped as I had hoped, but at least he was alive, unhurt and accounted for.
After two days of solitary I found that I was getting an increasing number of itchy lumps on various parts of my body. I didn�t know whether it was �bed bugs� from the straw mattress on the cot or fleas of some type. I spent part of each day exercising with periodic push-ups and squats to keep my legs in shape. I removed my outer clothing from time to time to search for and kill fleas. I had difficulty sleeping as my mind kept reviewing the events that had suddenly changed my life and I tried to visualize the impact it would have on our families and loved ones back home. I wondered what my future would be like. I just couldn�t seem to accept the fact that I was a prisoner and had no control over my own destiny. I made a firm resolve to provide only name, rank and serial number to anyone who might interrogate me. I prayed to God to give me strength and the perseverance to face any hardship that might befall me. I made a vow to myself that I would escape if the least opportunity presented itself.
On the forth day of solitary I was taken to the office of my interrogator. A tall, distinguished-looking German Officer was standing at his desk as I entered the room. Seated at another desk in the room was a young woman. I assumed that she was the interrogator�s secretary. I was invited to sit in a comfortable chair facing the interrogator�s desk. At first there were no questions, as the Luftwaffe officer spoke in clear English, reviewing some of the facts he already had. He noted that I was flying an aircraft assigned to another Squadron and wondered, aloud, if perhaps the 401st Sq. suffered such a high loss rate on the previous mission to Anklam that the squadron could not fully support the Schweinfurt mission. I didn�t know at the time what the loss rate was on the Anklam mission but I did know it was high and that was probably the reason my crew was assigned to fly an aircraft that was not only assigned to another squadron, but was at that time not considered a �combat ready� aircraft by the aircraft�s crew chief.
Receiving no response from me regarding his probably very accurate assessment of the aircraft loss problem, he continued by telling me that I was a �little late� in arriving in England and that the majority of my provisional group arrived ahead of me. Again he was right. We had delayed two days at Bangor, Main for repairs from a hail storm encountered in route to Bangor from Grand Island, Nebraska . Standing behind his desk, he opened what appeared to be a large ledger or book. He then informed me that I was in pilot class 43A, graduating on the 4th of January. He appeared to run his finger down a column and then advised me that many of my classmates were already �guests of the Reich.� He asked me if I remembered a classmate named Chester Lott. He informed me that I would be able to join Lott at a main prison camp as soon as I was released from the Dulag.
It was now time for some questions, but first he asked about my health and general treatment. For the first time I spoke and told him that my cell contained fleas or some type of bug and that I was afraid of infection from the bites. He stepped forward, had me raise my shirt above my abdomen and viewed the swellings on my chest. He then glanced at bites on my leg. He assured me that he would provide some relief, but that he needed my assistance on just one problem. He then went on to explain that there had been some recent changes of personnel in the 401st Sq. and that he didn�t have the name of the new commander of the squadron. He went on to say that he knew that a Captain McPartlin had recently taken over as operations officer but all he needed was for me to verify the name of the newly assigned Squadron Commander. Once again I provided no response. The German officer then directed his secretary to call for a guard escort to return me back to my cell.
I was surprised to find that I was not taken to my previous cell but was taken to a cell that appeared to be located in the same building where the interrogation took place. Adjacent to the large barred cell where I was placed was a shower room. After a few minutes in this new cell, a guard appeared with soap and a large towel. Apparently my appeal for some relief from the fleas had been given some consideration. The guard indicated to me that I was to strip and he would collect my clothing for cleaning or delousing. I removed my wings, and insignia and entered the shower room carrying only my underwear and shoes . The shower was the first chance to clean up since being captured and the soap helped to relieve the itching and burning from the bites.
After the shower I was returned to the adjacent cell, but discovered that my clothing had not been returned. Fortunately the temperature was not cold in the cell because I was now without my flying jacket, flight boots, trousers, shirt and socks. I sat on the cot in the cell, wearing only under clothing and shoes as I contemplating the turn of events and reviewed the one-sided discussion with the interrogator. It was very apparent that the German officer had gained, perhaps only recently, a great amount of knowledge concerning our mission. I suspected that he already knew the name of the squadron commander of the 401st Squadron. Major Gillespie was the commander, but I had no idea how long he had been the commander. In fact, my crew was so new in the organization that we were acquainted with only a few members of the B-17 crew force.
It was several hours before I saw or heard another voice, and by this time it was apparent that I had made a big mistake by complaining about the vermin bites. I was now in a location that was completely isolated from the other prisoners and there were no windows to peer out side. I remembered the discussions by other prisoners while in the previous cell that the average stay at the Dulag was 7 days and supposedly, by that time, the Germans had either decided the prisoner had no information of value or the information obtained was sufficient to satisfy the interrogator. There were rumors that several prisoners were still in solitary confinement after several weeks and these prisoners were probably those who had been captured days or weeks after their aircraft had been shot down. Some had been hidden by �under-ground� operatives prior to capture by the Germans.
When the guard brought a cup of soup and bread late in the evening I asked for the return of my clothing. The guard shrugged and left without further acknowledgment of any kind. I remained in my underware for the next two days, seeing no one but a guard to escort me to a latrine once a day and provide me with water and bread three times a day. I was no longer being served the daily cup of soup and I was becoming increasingly aware of being very hungry. The only advantage to the new cell location was that there were no apparent new flea or bed-bug bites.
It was the third day of confinement since the interrogation and I still had no clothing. Sometime in the morning I was lying on the cot, half-asleep, when the cell door suddenly opened and a guard handed me a huge, heavy overcoat. He grinned and exclaimed �Rooski , Rooski,� several times as he motioned for me to put the coat on. This coat had belonged to a large man and when I put it on my hands were buried in the sleeves and the coat hung only inches above the floor. The guard continued to grin as he led me out of the cell and back to the interrogation room. The same German officer-interrogator met me at the door of his office and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. His glance at me was also one of amusement. I tried not to show my embarrassment but I was seated with nothing on but shorts, shoes and the overcoat. The guard had addressed the officer as Hauptmann, so I finally realized that the officer was a Captain. Although he had introduced himself at the beginning of the first interrogation, his name continued to elude me.
The interrogation began with a question as to whether or not I had been assisted in care for the flea bites. He had me open the overcoat and he gave a cursory glance at the condition of the swellings. After this brief examination I told him that I needed my clothing, flying boots and jacket returned. His response was that I had been provided an opportunity to tell him the name of the �new� 401st Bomb Squadron Commander and that my degree of cooperation would assist me in obtaining my clothing and insure that I would be sent to a an established prisoner of war camp where I would receive clothing , have comfortable living conditions, letters from home and freedom from solitary confinement. I once again stated that I would provide only my name, rank and serial number. This meeting was short. The German Officer informed me that in view of my lack of cooperation he could not predict when, if ever, I would be sent to the main prison camp. I was again escorted back to my cell.
Late that same afternoon the guard reappeared and informed me that I was to be transferred to another prison camp. I told him I would not go willingly unless I had adequate clothing. A second guard showed up and after a discussion left the area only to reappear with something rolled up into a ball. Both guards entered the cell and it was obvious from their actions that they would not hesitate to use force if necessary to remove me from the cell.
I was handed an old blue heated flying suit. These suits were shaped like winter long-johns; had a flap opening in the rear and a plug-in cord dangling at the waist. Designed to be worn under the flying clothing and plugged into an electric heat outlet in the aircraft, they were utilized primarily by the waist gunners and some lower ball turret gunners as protection from the freezing air encountered at high altitudes. I had no choice but to put on this oversized monstrosity. Outside the building a formation of prisoners was being assembled. The two escort guards left as soon as I got in line with other airmen scheduled for departure to a new prison location. The apparel worn by the prisoners was, for the most part, that which they were wearing when captured. I was the only one in sight with an open-flapped electric flying suit topped by an overcoat that once belonged to some Russian giant. Bill Runner was also in the formation and his reaction when he saw me was total disbelief followed by laughter. I joined him in laughter and in so doing lessened the inward humiliation I was fighting to control. I decided that I would just have to stop worrying about my appearance and concentrate on staying healthy and most important, alive.

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