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Veterans Day
Nov. 11th, 2005 02:45 pmI may have mentioned it once or twice in here, but my grandfather, my dad's dad, was a tailgunner in WWII. He was shipped over in 1944 (hadn't even seen my dad born yet), was in the air not long afterwards. During his tour of duty, his mighty B-17 Ol' Buddy flew more missions than most bombers ever had a chance of doing. During that time, my grandfather, Paw as we called him, kept a diary. While it was more of a mission diary, he made notes on many things in flight. One website actually quotes from Paw's mission diary, noting what bomb targets and plane damage was like.
One fateful day, a day in which my grandfather's plane was out of service and a ground spare was used, his crew was shot down. In the spiraling plunge to earth, the tail section broke and my grandfather jettisoned with parachute, breaking his leg upon landing. Many of the plane captains above presumed all aboard were lost, including Paw. Of course, he had survived. And was taken prisoner by the Germans.
I don't recall how long he was a POW, but I do know it was a grueling experience that he didn't want to discuss. Ever. Most of his meals consisted of just onions, bread and water. After his return, he wouldn't touch an onion to save his life. In fact, he could detect onion molecules at one part per million. He survived, though, intact, using all the cliched things that you hear about: Red Cross packages, hand-sewn winter outerwear, and even a tin-can heater bellows, to make a warm meal of the cold food given to him.
For decades, he would not talk about his war time, even though the 34th Bomb Group would meet every year. Finally, in the 1980's I believe, my father and my uncle convinced Paw to attend one of the events. There were dozens of Army Air Force veterans there. One captain, upon seeing my grandfather, turned white as a ghost. "I watched your plane crash. There was no one that could have survived that, yet here you are." After that, Paw attended those reunions every year till his death.
He also began talking about his tour of duty. He recalled the people he flew with. He detailed the missions that stood out. He described the Germans he liked. And the ones he just as soon have sliced open with a Buck blade. The Army thought my grandfather was dead, and had cleared out his locker. Later the Germans, by way of the Geneva convention, did let them know he was not KIA.
There is, on the wall of my grandmother's house, a box containing the remnants of my grandfather's war. His purple heart. His flight diary. German marks. Nazi POW documents. His picture from right after his capture. And the article speaking of his return, where he saw my father for the first time, and ate what my great-grandmother described as a "holiday-sized pot of hen gumbo". Not much else.
While my own father was a Green Beret paratrooper during Vietnam, he wasn't deployed to the combat zones. Paw remains in my mind as the war hero in my family. For this Veterans Day, I drink to him, his crew, his beautiful plane, and all the men that have fought the good fight for freedom in this great country.
One fateful day, a day in which my grandfather's plane was out of service and a ground spare was used, his crew was shot down. In the spiraling plunge to earth, the tail section broke and my grandfather jettisoned with parachute, breaking his leg upon landing. Many of the plane captains above presumed all aboard were lost, including Paw. Of course, he had survived. And was taken prisoner by the Germans.
I don't recall how long he was a POW, but I do know it was a grueling experience that he didn't want to discuss. Ever. Most of his meals consisted of just onions, bread and water. After his return, he wouldn't touch an onion to save his life. In fact, he could detect onion molecules at one part per million. He survived, though, intact, using all the cliched things that you hear about: Red Cross packages, hand-sewn winter outerwear, and even a tin-can heater bellows, to make a warm meal of the cold food given to him.
For decades, he would not talk about his war time, even though the 34th Bomb Group would meet every year. Finally, in the 1980's I believe, my father and my uncle convinced Paw to attend one of the events. There were dozens of Army Air Force veterans there. One captain, upon seeing my grandfather, turned white as a ghost. "I watched your plane crash. There was no one that could have survived that, yet here you are." After that, Paw attended those reunions every year till his death.
He also began talking about his tour of duty. He recalled the people he flew with. He detailed the missions that stood out. He described the Germans he liked. And the ones he just as soon have sliced open with a Buck blade. The Army thought my grandfather was dead, and had cleared out his locker. Later the Germans, by way of the Geneva convention, did let them know he was not KIA.
There is, on the wall of my grandmother's house, a box containing the remnants of my grandfather's war. His purple heart. His flight diary. German marks. Nazi POW documents. His picture from right after his capture. And the article speaking of his return, where he saw my father for the first time, and ate what my great-grandmother described as a "holiday-sized pot of hen gumbo". Not much else.
While my own father was a Green Beret paratrooper during Vietnam, he wasn't deployed to the combat zones. Paw remains in my mind as the war hero in my family. For this Veterans Day, I drink to him, his crew, his beautiful plane, and all the men that have fought the good fight for freedom in this great country.
