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My Story, by Robert H. Berly
Jr., 450th Bombardment Group, 721st Bomb Squadron, 1944-1945
[Part 1] [Part 2]
Shot Down
All our good luck charms skipped a beat on 11 December 1944 when we didn't make
it back from my 13th mission (9th sortie). This mission started out with several
unusual features. It was to be a 15th AF maximum effort mission and all heavy
bombers (about 850) would be hitting targets within a 20 mile radius of Vienna,
Austria. All of these targets had significance in Axis petroleum production. My
target was northwest of Vienna and was the Fleuresdorf oil refinery. Another
difference which had significant effect on the outcome of this mission was the
fact that our box leader was flying the first mission he had flown since having
a nervous breakdown (battle fatigue) about three months previously. There was
nothing unusual about flying to the target except that since I was number two
aircraft (left wing on the lead ship) in a seven-plane box and since my copilot
had only five sorties by this time and since I was flying the plane I sat in the
copilot's seat. My intent was to turn over the controls to my copilot on the
return trip and at that time it would have been easier for him to fly formation
from his normal seating position.
The number 2 plane usually carried a special camera and a volunteer cameraman
and this we did but we still had only ten men aboard because my navigator had
gone to Bari, Italy (about 90 miles north of our base, for special sinus
treatments. This unusual manning, three commissioned officers and seven enlisted
men, got us special attention later and made an even greater impression on the
Germans since another plane that went down only five miles from where we did
also had an unusual crew. They were checking out some "Mickey" navigation
equipment (radar) and had six commissioned officers (four were majors, which was
also unusual) and only four enlisted men. This was an unusually clear winter day
with not a cloud in the sky and we could see almost anything we wanted to except
the target area which had been obscured by a dense man-made smoke screen. We had
been briefed to rally left 7 degrees immediately upon dropping bombs in order to
avoid flying directly over a known concentration of anti-aircraft guns but for
some unexplained reason our box leader took our formation over this gun
emplacement. It was such a clear day that the German gunners could track us
visually and they didn't waste a shell bracketing in. The first barrage was very
damaging to our box. Three of the seven planes took bad hits, my plane and two
others. I heard later that one plane was able to make it back part way and land
at an American base in Northern Italy and the other plane crash-landed in
Yugoslavia and the crew survivors were rescued by partisans.
We weren't that lucky! My right rudder was shot off and we had flak damage
throughout the plane and my #4 engine was knocked out and oil pressure was gone
so quickly that I couldn't even feather the prop. I was getting erratic readings
on the gauges for the other three engines. We received hits from several shell
bursts in quick succession and with the loss in power of one engine (which was
significant at our altitude of 26,500 feet) I quickly lagged behind the
formation. I got on the VHF radio and called for fighter cover but got no
response, nor did we ever get any fighter protection. In a matter of minutes we
lost engines 1 and 2 and were making a fairly rapid descent with only one
remaining engine. The automatic pilot was inoperative and we had several gas
leaks - some over the bomb bay had 100 octane fuel running down the corrugations
of the bomb bay doors. My regular flight engineer was in the bomb bay tying rags
around gas lines to try to stop the leaks. On this mission another member of the
crew was being checked out as a flight engineer, having taking extra training,
so I had the help of two people in this area. I had given the crew orders to
lighten the ship as much as possible and they had thrown out 50 cal guns and
ammunition, emergency radio, life raft, and everything else that was loose. They
were using the fire ax in an attempt to chop loose the ball turret but didn't
have time to complete the job.
Up on the flight deck, the copilot and I had our hands full just trying to
prolong our glide to get as far as possible from the target we had just bombed.
By the way, we knew we had hit the target because we left flames shooting up
through that smoke screen two or three thousand feet high. It was quickly
apparent that we couldn't trail our squadron back to Italy so I asked Smitty, my
bombardier (who was also navigator on this mission) to plot a route to the
Russian lines, thinking we could at least get back to Allied-held territory.
About that time another piece of shrapnel came up through the folding map table,
through the map Smitty was studying and shattered the astrodome which was
directly in front of the windshield. Smitty came up onto the flight deck about
this time and we gave up any thought of heading to the closest front lines.
Later we learned that this was a lucky decision since the Russians didn't teach
their ground troops aircraft identification but just instructed them to shoot at
anything that flew over.
We stayed in the air about 40 minutes after first being hit and covered about 75
ground miles which took us over Hungary. By this time we had descended several
thousand feet and our #3 engine had become an undependable power source since it
caught fire several times. I stationed my "second" flight engineer by the right
waist window and when he reported engine flames reaching back almost to the
window, I would switch off the engine ignition and my other flight engineer
would shut off the gas to the engine (the gasoline valves were mounted on the #6
bulkhead in the forward bomb bay). As soon as I would get the intercom message
that the flames had extinguished we would turn on gas and ignition and try to
start this remaining engine. We did successfully restart it twice. We didn't
realize until we compared notes later how close we were to a catastrophic
explosion these last few minutes of flight. The engine fire was bad enough
without the gas leaks in the bomb bay.
My luckiest day
By this time we were flying down a valley which was criss-crossed with drainage
canals and couldn't see any way through the surrounding mountains so at 1500
feet I gave the crew the bailout signal and six of them left by way of the
camera hatch and the rear of the rear bomb bay. Two jumped from the front of the
forward bomb bay. As soon as the copilot made the intercom check he jumped. We
were down to about 800 feet then and I was at the controls to manually keep the
plane in a straight path (since the automatic pilot was out and one propeller
was still wind milling). When I saw the copilot jump I attempted to get up from
my seat and follow him and it was then that I discovered my electric suit
plug-in cord was caught under the seat. To release it I had to swing my feet
back in front of the seat and slide the seat forward and during these seconds
the plane was uncontrolled so I was beginning to feel some urgency to get out. I
pulled my hands out of my electric gloves, leaving them still plugged in and
leaving my silk gloves on. By now the plane was down to 300-400 feet so I didn't
bother to step down 30 inches to the bomb bay cat walk but dived headfirst from
the flight deck and out the forward bomb bay, pulling my parachute rip cord at
the same time. I took the opening shock of my backpack 'chute on my chest
harness strap while I was still head down and had oscillated only about twice
when the backs of my heels hit on a downward back swing. I touched down in the
snow-covered backyard/garden of a Hungarian farm house and tumbled head over
heels as the wind caught my 'chute canopy and dragged me head first through a
picket fence. I tried to collapse the 'chute but my silk gloves just slid down
the nylon shroud lines until the canopy dropped over a four foot bank into a
little creek and collapsed itself. By this time I was so tangled in the shrouds
that I had to use the knife I had strapped to my leg to cut myself free.
Captured
We had bailed out in a rural area which at this time of the year was a peaceful
scene with the snow-covered fields and farm houses scattered all around. I
didn't see any signs of life but realized that our plane had circled around
behind us and crashed and was burning. I was very conscious of my bright yellow
"Mae West" (inflatable life preserver) against the white snow and I got it off
and wadded up my 'chute with it and stuffed them both under the overhanging
grass lip of the stream bank. Just as I got all this out of sight I glanced up
and 20 feet across the stream two soldiers in brown uniforms were standing there
watching me. They each had rifles held loosely in the crook of the arm but
didn't appear menacing at all. They motioned for me to walk down to where I
could cross over the stream, which had running water about 4 inches deep. When I
got over to their side they immediately relieved me of my .45 automatic and my
escape kit. When I saw them close up I thought at first that I had been lucky
enough to get to Yugoslavia and fall into the hands of the partisans because I
knew that they wore brown uniforms with buttons with a crown on them (signifying
loyalty to the king). Just a little while afterwards I learned (even with the
language barrier) that the Hungarian Army also bad brown uniforms with crown
buttons. The three of us crossed back over the stream and they took me to the
house near where I had landed. By this time we had drawn a crowd of about a
dozen people and the lady who appeared b live there was raising sand about me
being brought into her house. They proceeded to strip search me in front of the
"crowd" but I was too numbed by all these events to have any modesty left. I had
a few American coins in my pocket which I was carrying for the return of the
time when they, instead of "invasion money" would be legal tender and the
soldiers promptly grabbed these souvenirs. I was held in this farmhouse for
several hours before two German officers came up and took me in charge. There
was no road so we walked down pathways and crossed ditches on plank bridges
leading back in the direction from which we had flown down the valley.
Last respects
Approximately a half mile from where I had landed they took me by the crumpled
body of my copilot. He had landed in a marsh and it looked like every bone in
his body was broken. The dye pack on his "Mae West" had ruptured and
yellow-green dye had discolored him all over. The rip cord on his parachute had
never been pulled and the only explanation is that he could have failed to
realize how low he was and could have then reverted to a procedure stressed in
training. This was to count to ten to allow time to clear the falling aircraft
before pulling the rip cord. The German officers directed me to remove one of
his dog tags and give it to them. Later, we were assured that he was given a
Christian burial.
Not the best spot to bail out
At this point I began to wonder if I was the only . survivor and I was only
mildly interested in a young Hungarian soldier trotting along beside us (we now
had several dozen Hungarian soldiers and civilians, as well as the two Germans
escorting me). This young soldier wanted to know if I knew his brother who lived
in Buffalo, New York but his only English that was understandable was when he
tried to sing "Lady be Good". All this while we tramped another half mile or so
through the mud and snow. Finally we approached a primitive looking installation
which resembled a western movie adobe fort with thick masonry walls and several
thick walled buildings. It was then that I learned that fate had led me to bail
out my crew within 1500 feet of a Hungarian Army garrison. I was led inside the
walls to a little one-room building and upon being pushed through the doorway
was immediately greeted by all the other members of my crew. This cold and
drafty dirt-floored "brig" was to be our home for the next several days. Walls
were several feet thick and appeared to be masonry, stuccoed with concrete (or
baked mud) and there were no doors nor windows in the openings. An armed guard
was stationed at our door and once a day our food was handed to us. This food
consisted of one bowl (approximately 3 quarts) of wormy bean soup - you could
see floating worms in it. No spoon was furnished so the bowl was just passed
from one to the other of those who wanted to partake. I found that six of the
crew had touched ground within 50 feet of one another and where surrounded by a
ring of naked bayonets before they un-strapped their parachutes. Smitty, at 230
pounds, easily the heaviest of the crew, had badly sprained a knee on landing.
It was some days later before he got any medical attention and continued to have
trouble with this problem. He had to be assisted in walking for weeks.
Apparently he had come down a little faster than the others. All of the crew
except the pilot and copilot used 28-foot snap-on chest pack 'chutes. The pilots
wore backpack, 30-foot 'chutes all the time they were in the plane; the theory
being that in an emergency they wouldn't have time to snap on a chest pack.
A Scout-is....
All of the crew were picking on the young blond waist gunner from Pontiac,
Michigan who we all knew was still a member of his Boy Scout troop back home.
The boys were accusing him of freezing from fear when the order came to jump. He
vehemently denied this, saying instead that he was just waiting out of curtsey
to let somebody else go first. This in spite of the fact that he was blocking
access to the 10 inch catwalk which was the "Jumping platform". It turns out
that somebody behind him pushed him off so they could then jump. Fortunately
they all survived.
We found out that the civilians in the nearby little town of Papa, Hungary had
reason to be antagonistic toward "terror fliegers". Sometime prior to our flying
down that valley, a plane returning from a mission had used the town as a
"target of opportunity" and had bombed an area, believed by the inhabitants to
be of no military value. When a plane experienced some difficulty which
prevented dropping bombs on the designated target they couldn't land with bombs
in the bomb bay so the pilot used his judgment as to what to drop them on. You
could have various malfunctions in any equipment as complicated as a B-24.
On one mission we were carrying 1,000 pounders when my engineer came up on the
flight deck to tell me that the front shackle on the top bomb on the left side
of the forward bomb bay had come loose and had allowed the forward end of the
bomb to drop down and rest on the bomb underneath. This in itself was bad enough
since it would probably jam both these bombs and prevent them from dropping.
What was even worse though was the fact that the arming wire had pulled out of
the fuse and the fusing propeller was just spinning merrily along. Nobody knew
when the bomb had dropped down so we didn't know how close the bomb was to
detonation. We were around 20,000 feet and had been on oxygen for some time;
this meant that any physical exertion without oxygen would soon leave a person
panting for breath.
When my bombardier (Smitty) was advised of the problem he and the engineer both
tried to get on the catwalk to try to re-shackle the bomb but there just wasn't
enough room for two people to even stand there, let alone lift a bomb, so Smitty
put his shoulder under the nose of that 1,000 pound bomb, lifted it back up and
re-shackled it by himself. He had to be lifting several hundred pounds and he
didn't even have an oxygen mask. I don't know how he reinstalled that arming
wire but I was mighty glad to know that he stopped that little propeller from
spinning right behind my back!
After two days in the "Brig" several German guards showed up and we started what
turned out to be a 30-day trip to the POW camp where we would spend about five
more months until the war in Europe ended. Our transportation took many forms
during the month of travel from mid-Hungary to the northernmost area of Germany.
We walked, hitch-hiked on civilian wagons and trucks, rode in numerous military
vehicles, crossed Vienna in a street car, and rode in freight and passenger
trains. The first day's travel was a little upsetting because we traveled in
daylight. We went only about 20 miles to Gyor, Hungary but along the way the
civilians were very antagonistic. They spit on us and threw rocks at us and one
time several farmers lowered pitch forks and made as if to run us through. Our
guards actually had to threaten the civilians with their rifles to keep them
from doing us bodily harm. We were put in the jail in Gyor and the first of a
long series of interrogations by a local burgomaster (mayor) took place. After a
while these interrogations became almost an accepted routine - from this time on
we were moved mostly at night and locked up in the local jails during the day.
Each burgomaster took his turn at interrogation while we were in his jail.
Apparently they all studied the same course.
They all spoke English although sometimes their outdated American slang tipped
us off that it had been a long time since some of them had been in America.
Interrogation always started out with extreme courtesy even though it was
usually a one-on-one proposition with an armed guard standing behind you. They
would offer you a cigarette and usually say, "For you der var is ofer" and if
you only responded with name, rank, and serial number, they would express
extreme anger. Next came a scene where they would revile you, your mother, the
USA and anything else they thought you might hold dear. Usually they would run
through these steps and then abruptly end the interrogation and send you back to
the cell with the others.
My radio operator was Jewish and he was mortally afraid that based on this
information (on his dog tags) they would single him out for special attention. I
had to get him aside and reason with him several times to persuade him not to
throw his dog tags away. My argument was based on the fact that they were
already screaming at us that they knew we were spies and as such were subject to
being executed. Dog tags weren't much comfort in a situation like this but I
figured the absence of them would help build the false case if they were so
inclined. The Germans certainly were aware that he was Jewish because sometimes
when they locked us up in jail cells they would put eight of us in one cell and
put my radio operator in a separate cell by himself. I can still hear one German
guard telling him "Rotenberg, Rotenberg, you're asking for it and you are going
to get it!" We were all fearful for him that day.
We crossed Vienna on the night of 16 December about midnight when the streets
were pretty well deserted. There were a few civilians on the streetcar and they
obviously were disturbed at the spectacle of an American prisoner of war (my
flight engineer) trying to strike up a conversation with the attractive female
street car operator. Our guards appeared unconcerned but when I saw how the
other passengers were reacting I told Torre to behave before he got all of us
lynched. This was the only time I saw the "Beautiful Blue Danube"; it was muddy
brown.
Christmas 1944
On the way to Dulag Luft the nine survivors of my crew had the same five German
guards for several days and soon realized that four were elderly men but one was
a retarded young man. They were not unfriendly and would show us billfold
pictures of sons who were flying ME109s or FW-190s. One night, close to
Christmas, we were riding across the German countryside in a completely
blacked-out train and the fourteen of us were in a compartment by ourselves when
one of the crew started singing Christmas carols. We remembered "Silent Night,
Holy Night" was originally a German hymn when the guards chimed in and sang it
in German as we were singing in English. We were so crowded in the compartment
that two of us took turns lying on the overhead baggage racks. One sudden stop
threw me from the luggage rack to the floor where I sustained a slight cut on my
left wrist. The little scar from that is a reminder of the only "war injury" I
suffered during my tour of active duty!
On another train ride - this time in a boxcar - the train stopped a long way
from the town and we had to hop down about six feet to an embankment and walk
along the tracks to town. The four older guards and some of my crew had already
jumped down and were waiting on the rest of us. The young guard made a couple of
false starts toward climbing down but realizing he wouldn't be able to climb, he
prepared to jump. His rifle was a hindrance to jumping so my engineer held out
his hands and this young German guard handed him his rifle without a moments
hesitation. It was only after he was standing on the ground reaching up to
retrieve his rifle that he realized what he had done. He had a real sheepish
look on his face as all of us (German guards included) had a big laugh at his
expense.
We spent one night in Schweinfurt, Germany on the way to a holding camp at
Oberursel, Germany. It was at Schweinfurt that I experienced some slight
physical abuse during the "standard" interrogation. While the guard held a rifle
to the back of my head, the husky interrogator reached across his desk, grabbed
me by the throat and neck and lifted me clear of the floor - I weighed only 142
pounds then. I'm quite sure he couldn't have lifted Smitty like this when it was
his turn for interrogation!
The camp at Oberursel was nicknamed "the cooler" and was used as a holding pool
to feed prisoners at an even rate through the main interrogation center, Dulag
Luft. We stayed at Oberusel six days and then moved to Wetzlar, Germany (Dulag
Luft) which was about 20 miles north of Frankfurt-on-the-Main.
Dulag Luft was the psychological interrogation center where expert German
interrogators plied their trade. Here I was placed in solitary confinement on
the second floor of a huge masonry building. The single window was covered by an
outside shutter which caused total darkness in the room. There was a single
light bulb hanging from a drop cord and there was a small electric heater in a
corner. The light and heater were turned on for about 30 minutes a day. The bed
was an iron frame cot that had three narrow board slats laid head to foot
instead of having any springs. There was no mattress and the two blankets had
been deliberately shortened so you couldn't cover your shoulders and feet at the
same time. This was significant because they had taken my shoes and belt and put
them outside my locked door "to keep me from escaping". You pulled a string
which raised a flag outside your door to get bathroom privileges and when no
other prisoner was in the hall (and when the hall guard felt like it) he would
let you out to go down the unheated hall to the unheated bathroom.
I was held at Dulag Luft for five days, during which time I was called in for
interrogation twice. I think the second time was the result of our "three
officer-seven enlisted man" crew since the other unusual crew had been captured
just five miles from us. The first interrogation was very impressive. The German
Hauptmann (captain) had a big scrap book on his desk when I was taken before
him. He opened this book to a page devoted solely to me and my crew! It was
amazing to see a copy of the orders assigning my crew at Lincoln, Nebraska and
to see various newsprint clippings such as the ones sent to my hometown paper
when I got my wings and commission or moved form one duty station to another.
The fact that was hardest for me to accept was that this was not just
"information" but was actual copies and clippings! This interrogator told me the
base that I had taken off from on my last ill-fated mission, gave me names and
rank of officers at the base (he missed one promotion which came through just a
week before I left the base). He even went so far as to describe the pose of
each of the "Varga girl" murals on the walls of our officers club back in Italy.
The idea was to show us they knew "everything" but in the process of this
presentation he would casually slip in a question about mission routing or bomb
fuses. He told me that they had recovered our B-24 intact but I knew this was
inaccurate since I saw it burning. One surprising thing that he could
substantiate and something that proved their thoroughness was his statement that
they trailed us with a light observation plane on our 75 mile path and later
recovered everything we threw out to lighten the plane. He showed me a closet
full of this stuff.
They either surmised that we were too dumb to be useful or else they just made
up a trainload to send to a permanent POW camp but, whatever the reason, I was
glad to leave Dulag Luft. I saw Smitty for the first time in a week and as they
were loading officers on the freight train to go to Stalag Luft I we had brief
contact with the enlisted members of our crew as they were being loaded in other
boxcars to be sent to a different camp. By now, we had been issued POW dog tags
and had become reconciled to the fact that to the Germans we were
Kriegsgefangenens or as we called ourselves, "Kriegies". My new dog tag number
was 6901.
We were going through the railroad marshalling yards in Berlin about noon one
day and were already a bit edgy because we knew it was a favorite 8th Air Force
target and that they liked to hit just at noon. Sure enough, air raid sirens cut
loose and POWs and guards headed for the underground shelter. We had to stand by
the entrance while the German civilians rushed past us - giving us some pretty
dirty looks. When our turn came to enter this dank, underground concrete room we
saw immediately that there were no lights in the room. After the looks we had
received I felt like I'd rather take my chance with the 8th AF bombs than German
civilians. Our guards made us sit in one corner and they sat,
shoulder-to-shoulder between us and the civilians. It was still an unpleasant
hour or so Smitty and I were sent to Stalag Luft I which was a camp for American
and British flying officers. It was located about three miles from Barth, a town
in the Pomerania district of Germany and was on a peninsula in the Baltic Sea,
and was just sixty miles across the water from neutral Sweden. When we first
arrived at Stalag Luft I we were given a Red Cross Capture parcel nicknamed "Joy
Box" which contained toilet articles and such things as a woolen blanket, two
shirts, socks, and underwear. Up until this time we had not had a change of
clothing since being shot down or even a razor to shave with.
I noticed that other POWs were a little withdrawn for the first few days and
understood later when told that I had to be privately recognized and identified
by at least three people before anybody would speak freely in my presence. This
was to prevent the Germans from sending in a "ringer" to pick up information. It
took only a short time before I saw dozens of former acquaintances-it was just
about like "old home week" when I looked around a bit.
Stalag Luft I
Stalag Luft I consisted of four fenced compounds which altogether accommodated
about 7,500 commissioned flying officers. Twenty five hundred of these were RAF
and many of them had been prisoners for about five years. I was put in North 3
Compound since it was the last one to be built. There were nine buildings
(called "blocks") with about 200 men to a block. There were also two separate
latrine buildings in our compound. The whole compound was surrounded by two 8
foot high barbed wire fences about ten feet apart. Coils of barbed wire filled
the space between the two fences and seven guard towers were spaced around the
perimeter. Inside the fence was a single strand of barbed wire mounted on two
foot high stakes located 30 feet from the fence. This single wire was the
"warning wire". If you crossed this wire without receiving specific permission
from the guards in the tower they could (by their rules) shoot without warning.
This was a German distortion of the rules of the Geneva Convention, which,
agreed to after WWI by both Germany and the USA were to govern treatment of
prisoners-of-war. Another strictly German interpretation said that if three or
more POWs attempted escape at one time it would be considered a "mass
insurrection" and no warning would be given before they would be fired upon.
Each room in a block was approximately 16 ft by 24 feet and was occupied by 24
men. One whole wall and a portion of another had three tiered, built-in bunks of
rough sawed pine boards. We also had a 3 ft by 6 ft table with two benches and
in one corner was an European style, tiled, stove which had to double for
heating and cooking. Several months before I got there a "community" mess hall
between North 2 and North 3 had been used for cooking and eating facilities but
after it burned down, all food preparation and eating was on an individual room
basis. Food was apportioned out to the rooms whenever any type food was
available. We were supposed to receive on American Red Cross food parcel per man
per week and this was to be supplemented with fresh vegetables and/or other
German foods. Transportation disruptions (and willful withholding) prevented a
normal flow of Red Cross parcels and actual food shortages prevented us from
having food furnished by the Germans. Food was never plentiful but there was one
particular 6 week period when all we had was bread and water. If the bread had
been anything other than the "braun brot" made from barley and potatoes we
wouldn't have made it. This bread had no yeast except the natural yeast in Irish
potatoes and was baked as long as three months before we got it (the date was
stamped on the top and baked in) and it was sour and very hard to cut. Even when
we were so hungry we had to toast it before we could eat it. I got blisters on
my hand when it was my turn to cut it. We tried to cut the slices to about 1/8
inch to dry it out better and to make it seem like it was going farther.
Sometimes when it was being hauled in on an open wagon a few loaves might fall
off into the mud but this was of little concern to anybody since it would just
be wiped off and put back on the wagon. This didn't affect either taste or
appearance.
This real shortage of food occurred near the end of our incarceration and since
I had been a Kriegie only a few months I lost only fifty pounds (which brought
my weight down to about 90 pounds). During this same time, those who had been
there several years lost eighty to ninety pounds. During this time we were prone
to blackout if we tried to stand and "counting" formations (normally held twice
a day) were suspended. I really don't think our camp guards could do much about
the food shortage because we found out after our release that the German High
Command had diverted the Red Cross food parcels and many a high ranking officer,
when caught fleeing the front at the end of the war, would be found to have a
vehicle full of these food parcels.
Food preparation in the rooms and just ordinary living in the room brought out
the good old American ingenuity in that diverse bunch of people. When we got
food parcels we salvaged the tin cans and lead foil, paper, and cardboard. Since
the Germans were understandably reluctant to provide us with any tools we had to
make our own. We could take a table knife, sharpen it on a stone, hook the point
under a nail in a floor crack and shear tin can metal as good as with tins nips.
We could fasten two can tops together to make a pulley and by unraveling a web
belt and braiding it we could make a drive belt. We used a series of pulleys and
belts to create a blower with which we could produce boiling water in a 3 gallon
container (which had an 8 inch bottom) in approximately five minutes, using only
cardboard for fuel. We also made Kriegie lamps with tin cans and wire and web
belt wicks, which burned shoe polish which came in some parcels. We needed to
augment our lighting. There was only one light in each room and since the wiring
was knob and tube we quickly rigged up a spare light bulb (obtained through a
trade with a guard) with wires by notching the insulation of the incoming wires
(on top where it wouldn't show) we could just hook the light bulb on the wiring
and then have two lights. This helped only when the Jerries left the electricity
on. They seemed to think we should go to bed early, however, and turned off all
electricity about eight o'clock each night. Before this hour they had already
closed our outside doors and barred them from the outside and we were required
to close shutters to darken our window. Every night when it was lights-out time
we took great comfort in being able to tell the Germans what to do. Two thousand
voices in concert would sing out with "Turn 'em off", "Turn 'em on ", Turn 'em
off", "Leave 'em off". It always worked because they always left them off.
When guards bolted our doors from the outside at night they expected us to stay
in our building all night. We had other plans though since we had a little
crystal radio which we could assemble every night to listen to BBC and get the
latest news. Once we got the report on the war we printed a single sheet news
bulletin which then had to be passed from building to building and compound to
compound. That little radio was taken apart each day and several different
people each carried one part so an unexpected body search wouldn't cause us to
lose this contact with the outside world. By the way, we always knew more about
what was happening on the war fronts than our guards and they frequently asked
us what was happening.
Getting back to our need to move about under cover of
darkness; we soon devised a means of lifting the outside bar from inside but the
Germans had started turning trained Doberman Pinschers loose in the compound to
keep us in. Our next step was to take the salt/pepper mix from the food parcels,
entice the dogs to the door and throw pepper in their faces. This deadened their
sense of smell for about an hour; which was all we needed. When the Germans
discovered that we were using pepper for this purpose they began withholding the
salt/pepper mix when the food parcels were opened. This deprived us of salt
which we quickly found was a necessary item in our meager diet. This forced us
to trade with our guards to get pepper or salt. The average Kriegie didn't need
pepper but almost everybody had a little personal block of salt.
We had good self-imposed discipline in the camp. We were set up like an American
air base with our American Commander and his staff. Each compound compared to a
squadron and each block compared to a flight. Normally the German Commandant was
a Hauptmann (Captain) and our commander was a full Colonel. When the Commandant
wanted to pass information to us (or express displeasure over something) he
didn't talk to us directly but talked through our Commander. As a rule, we stood
formation twice a day to be counted. We assembled in flights and had 213 (zwei
hundert und dreizehn) people in our building. While we were being counted the
Commandant would be standing in front of us talking to our Commander. If the
weather wasn't too bad we could make the count last an hour or more by people
shifting from one file to another while the counters were moving up and down
counting.
A sense of discipline also carried over into other areas of our everyday life.
One such was our POW - German contacts. It had been realized early that we had
some things that the German guards didn't have (mainly through food parcels) and
of course they had many things we didn't have. A system of trading or bartering
was the obvious answer but indiscriminate trading would have pitted Kriegie
against Kriegie. The solution was to appoint (elect?) one trader from each block
and establish a barter list - this not only established an equivalent value for
POW items but also set up tentative values for commonly traded German items.
This system was very effective in making available such things as a block of
salt, an extra light bulb, or a pair of scissors (to cut hair). I was fortunate
in not smoking so I always had my allotment of cigarettes (from parcels) to
trade.
Guards
As originally established, Stalag Luft I was a POW camp for flying officers and
was run by the Luftwaffe. They were much more sympathetic toward flyers than
were later guard troops. When the Luftwaffe left for the battle front the German
Marines took charge of the camp. From all accounts they were quite brutal. We
saw evidence of the brutality when another POW camp was over-run as the front
lines advanced. Rather than give up the POWs the German Marines marched them
many miles to Stalag Luft I. Some of these POWs got out of hospital beds and as
they faltered along the march they were prodded with bayonets. No live POWs were
left behind. One fellow had fallen many times until a big British Sergeant
finally picked him up, slung him over his shoulder and carried him, virtually
unconscious, the last few miles. When we soaked off his bloodstained undershirt
we counted 67 bayonet holes punched through it.
After the German Marine guards left for the front the Wermach (army) became the
next guards and by the time I got there, they had been replaced by the Volkstrum
(Peoples Army like our National Guard). These last were mainly WWI veterans or
physically or mentally handicapped young people not suited for front line duty.
Most of the guards wore old type uniforms with such things as wrap-around
leggings. At the very last they came into the compound only in groups and many
times only one would have a firearm. The others might have bayonets strapped to
their belts.
It was cold while we were at Stalag Luft I and our only bathing facilities were
in the separate building latrines. These buildings had half-walls, no doors, and
no windows just open space for the wind to blow through. It took nerve to shower
under those conditions although a good bit of time warm, (never hot) water was
available. We formed little groups of four or five and egged one another on with
insults and encouragement until we finally took an occasional shower. Not
surprisingly we all had body lice by the time we were repatriated. One thing we
didn't get in the Joy Box was an extra pair of pants. We had one extra pair for
our block (213 men) we called them "floaters" and we signed up weeks ahead to
have them one day while we washed our one and only pair. By the time we washed
them our pants could have stood alone had we taken them off. We never undressed,
however, especially those of us who had arrived in the winter. Our bedding
consisted of one blanket over bare pine boards. I had salvaged some
mono-filament nylon from a parachute shroud line and I "sewed" up my blanket to
make a sleeping bag of sorts. Some of the fellow who had been there in the
summer time had collected straw and grass to make a mattress. By the Geneva
Convention rules, any POW with corporal rank or above could not be forced to
work but many officers volunteered for farm work during the summer months just
to overcome boredom.
Russian fellow prisoners
The Russians were not signers of the Geneva Convention rules so German-Russian
POWs did not have any protection what-so-ever. Several days after our capture a
captured Russian fighter pilot was moved along with us for about three days. He
was small in stature, only about 5 feet tall. Russian fighter plane cockpits
were so cramped that only small pilots could fit into them. This fighter pilot
was a cocky little fellow and obviously doing a lot of bragging (in Russian)
when the guards were not present. At night, locked in a cell with us, he would
pull out a small automatic pistol he had hidden in his high-top boots and by
signs he would indicate what he planned to do to our guard when he returned. He
was a little less brave in the cold light of day, however, and when we were
exposed to any civilians he always managed to be in the middle of our little
group. He was separated from us in a few days and we didn't hear from him
anymore.
The Germans seemed to deliberately degrade any Russian they captured. At Stalag
Luft I they had a full Russian Colonel loading sewage from our latrines into a
tank wagon and taking it out to dump on fields. In spite of this menial work,
this fellow was always happy and cheerful. We knew he was living under more
rigorous conditions than we were so in spite of the guard's prohibition we found
ways to smuggle chocolate "D" bars, cigarettes, etc to him whenever he was
around. Sometime after hostilities were over we heard that Joe Stalin would not
recognize any justification for a person allowing himself to be captured as a
POW and with this attitude he was executing many repatriated Russian soldiers
and exiling others to Siberia. I have often wondered what happened to "our"
Russian Colonel.
V-Mail
The Germans permitted us to write "V-mail" letters but after we were freed we
found all of our mail in a storage room; apparently they just wanted to monitor
our mail to glean information. The US Army mailed some of these letters after
the war and my folks at home received some of them 6-8 months after I got home.
I'm sorry they couldn't have gotten at least one while I was a POW. The only
word they had after the initial MIA message was a telegram from the
International Red Cross which stated that I was a POW and that "word would
follow from the hospital." I was never in a hospital but they couldn't know
this. Getting this as a last message and hearing nothing for six months they
were reconciled to eventually hearing bad news. The first word they received was
my cablegram from France after we were liberated.
All Kriegies had a lot of extra time to kill and this held true especially in
North 3. About a third of our compound was in a salt water marsh. The buildings
were on "stilts" and walkways between buildings and from buildings to the high
ground where we met formations for counting were piled brush about two feet high
capped with dirt. With the water table so high there was no tunnel digging in
our compound though hundreds were dug (at least started) in other, older
compounds. The Red Cross and the YMCA had, over the years, provided some books,
musical instruments, play scripts, and athletic equipment. These items were all
put to good use. It was "verboten" by the Germans to write or keep a diary so
with such a challenge, almost everybody had some form of diary. If a "body
search" turned up a diary this earned a Kriegie a few days in solitary
confinement. Our elaborate security system usually provided us a few minutes to
stash diaries or contraband room equipment (such as light bulbs). From the time
our door guard yelled "Goon up" until they got inside to rooms usually took a
few minutes with all the delaying tactics the POWs at the door provided.
One of many pastimes we got involved in was sand-casting tiny model airplanes,
insignia, etc. When our heating/cooking stove was in a heating mode we melted
lead foil, with which raisins or prunes were wrapped in the food parcels, or
salvaged and collected the one drop of solder that was on the top of each can
which contained a meat product. We made sand molds and made first a rough shaped
casting. When this was smoothed up it became a pattern for the next casting.
Progressing through several steps and refining the pattern each time we finally
produced identifiable likenesses of B-17s, B-24s, and several fighter planes.
These tiny lead planes were among the few souvenirs that I brought back from
Stalag Luft I.
Shortly before I arrived at Stalag Luft I Col Hubert Zemke was the POW Commander
but during the time I was there Col "Gabby" Gabreski was our commander. Very
little was left to chance when it came to the important things in the life of a
Stalag Luft I Kriegie. There was an underground "committe" who had become
prisoners by deliberate intent. Each of these men knew only two others in their
group. They came in with silk maps and button compasses and were in control of
any attempted escape action. We couldn't try unilateral escape without the "XYZ
Committee" approval because any unsuccessful attempt brought down the wrath of
the Germans and always produced heightened security efforts. This included
probing the grounds with iron rods in a search for tunnels. It could nullify
months of tunnel-digging effort which might have permitted a number of people to
escape if digging could be completed. There had been some successful escapes
during the time the camp existed but I don't think any occurred while I was
there.
Russians again
We could hear guns on the Russian front for days and had begun to feel like they
would never get there. We knew by BBC broadcasts that Patton was being held back
and consequently it would be the Russians that we'd see first. Then one morning
we got up and there were no guards in the towers! We had a hurriedly called
formation where we learned the burgomaster of Barth had surrendered the town to
our commander (we were the only POW camp which "captured" a town during WWII).
The Germans were terribly afraid of the Russians and wanted us to put Americans
in each home in hopes of keeping the Russians out. Our commander wisely refused
this panicky request and immediately sent groups of POWs to the German airfield
nearby to "sap" the field for mines and repair the radio. We were in radio
contact with the 8th AF in England in very short order. We knew standing orders
existed for an air evacuation of Stalag Luft I POWs should the base be liberated
or even just overrun for a brief time. Things weren't to move that smoothly,
however, the crack Russian tank corps (with women tank drivers) whipped through
our area and they were quickly gone. They were followed by "bandit" troops.
Mostly Mongolians who were heavily armed and there for the prime purpose of
subduing the civilian populace. This, they did quite well, but they made no
distinction between German civilians and American or British POWs. The Russians
kept us confined in the immediate area for about two weeks. Insisting all this
time that we must walk approximately 300 miles to the Black Sea and be evacuated
by water. During this time some of us visited Barth and on the way were shocked
to discover that some of our erstwhile guards had killed their whole family and
then committed suicide rather than become Russian prisoners. These Russian
troops didn't recognize USA or the American flag. We saw an actual instance of a
soldier breaking off a water spigot off the wall and expecting water to flow
from it. They were child-like in their love of a wrist watch but liked it only
as long as it ticked. When a watch would wind down they just hunted somebody
with a watch and took it. I saw such an encounter. An RAF officer had managed to
keep his personal watch through the years as a POW. (The Germans confiscated
"hack" watches as military equipment as soon as we were captured.) When the
Russian pointed to his watch the RAF officer nodded negatively and the Russian
put a German Sten automatic pistol in his face and literally shot his face off,
took his watch and walked away. The Russians killed more POWs in two weeks than
the Germans had killed in six months.
Political Prisoners
Another incident that has always stayed in my mind was the sight of German
political prisoners coming up out of an underground factory and seeing sunlight
for the first time in several years. This factory, which manufactured artillery
gun sights, was located adjacent to our camp for safety form potential Allied
bombing attack. The Germans also stored camouflaged airplane wings all around
our camp for the same reason.
Finally the Russian Commander agreed to let us be flown out. The 8th AF brought
in B-17s with wooden platforms in the bomb bay and as many able bodied POWs, as
could crowd in, sat on these platforms and were flown to Le Havre, France (Camp
Lucky Strike). Sick or disabled POWs were flown out in C-46s and C-47s.
Before we left the camp, we ransacked the office and retrieved any personal
records we could find. It was then that we saw a signed order from Heinrich
Himmler, head of the Gestapo, directing the camp commander to kill all
prisoners-of-war rather than permit them to be liberated. We never knew whether
this order was not obeyed out of kindness of a German Hauptmann's heart or
whether it was just that he no longer had the capability of shooting all of us.
It was at this time that we discovered that the machine guns in the towers were
wooden guns. We never knew when the real guns were swapped out.
Freed
We were sure glad to be in France instead of Germany and there we stayed for
about a month while they tried to get us in shape to come home. My weight was
down to 90 pounds but many former Kriegies were in much worse shape than I was.
Red Cross "food" tents were set up all around the camp and we were directed to
eat as much as we wanted al l day long. This amounted to a few swallows of a
milk shake or half a doughnut. Stomachs were so shrunken that it took over six
months before we could consume a normal meal at one time.
Going Home
We returned to the USA on a Victory ship, which was at least a little better
style than the Liberty ship we had come over on. When we got back to Camp
Patrick Henry once more we learned that the number one song on the "Hit Parade"
was "Don't Fence Me In" and considered the title to be very appropriate for all
of us repatriated Americans!
Home
Immediately upon landing I shipped out to Fort Bragg where orders were ready to
send me home for 60 days "recuperation leave" after which I was to report to
Miami Beach to receive orders. During this time the Japanese surrender ended the
war in that theater and I received a telegram extending my leave 30 more days
and directing me to report to San Antonio, Texas. During this 90 days at home I
had discovered
that now that food was plentiful again I was no longer hungry so I was very slow
in regaining lost weight. This was very disturbing to my folks but apparently
this was a natural reaction. When I reported to San Antonio I found that I was
slated for a discharge rather than reassignment. They were so swamped with
processing discharges that they turned around and sent me to Greensboro, North
Carolina where I was actually discharged from active duty on 13 October 1945.
I completed my course of studies at Clemson and with my degree in Electrical
Engineering finally started to work in my profession. I had gotten married
before my senior year at Clemson and it was a little disturbing to my wife and
me that in November 1951 I was ordered to Maxwell Field for reclassification for
possible Korean War duty. It turned out that they had plenty of multi-engine
pilots who were not wearing glasses so they didn't want me and sent me back
home. I stayed active in reserves for the next 17 years and finally went on the
inactive list with rank of Lt Col in 1968.
Today (5 May 2011) Bob Berly is a very respected resident of Plantation Estates in Matthews, North Carolina.
