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World War II
Experiences
by Robert K. Jones
As I sit writing this
I note that it is July 25, 1995 and 51 years since that fateful day over
Linz. Tonight Peg and I are going out to celebrate “Chop Day”, as we
Kriegies affectionately referred to that day when we had been shot down.
I’m surprised at the few details I remember and most of them may hardly
be worth recording. Enough of that! I’ll now get back to prison camp
details, which really don't make very interesting reading but can fill a
few rainy day moments.
I may as well go into
how we got things that were not in the German or Red Cross rations. The
main way was to ask the designated POW trader for our compound to get
the item and specify how many cigarettes you could provide. The trader
spoke German fluently and was the only POW authorized to even speak to
the guards beyond a curt greeting such as Goot Morgan! If I wanted yeast
or leavening or seasonings he could probably get it and I had lots of
cigarettes. As I recall I was one of three in the room who did not smoke
and some had trouble getting by on 5 packs a week which each Red Cross
parcel contained.
As you will note and
as I’ve said before almost all of our thoughts and actions were
centered on food. On the German black market a cigarette was worth the
equivalent of one American dollar and a bar of American bath soap was
worth in the range of $5. The reason for the rigid control over trading
had to do with the principle of not giving ‘aid and comfort’ to the
enemy. This was, in spite of the fact, that the enemy could and in some
instances did rob the parcels prior to issuing them to us.
There were naturally
some violations of the trading regulations and one violation in January
1945 led to one of the most important incidents of our stay. The POW
Commander of our compound was Col. Spicer, a large imposing West Pointer
and fighter pilot who had been shot down a short time before me. He,
like many of the men including myself, sported a heavy handlebar
mustache, which seemed to impress the Germans greatly. He was very well
liked and respected by all of we POWs as well as by the Germans.
One afternoon he
called a meeting of everyone in the compound. All 2500 of us stood in
front of the raised open-air podium next to the Wheel’s headquarters
barracks while Spicer berated us about illegal trading with the Germans.
The German guards in the compound stood around listening too. At any
rate after reiterating the problem several times and pleading with all
to cease the practice he finished with, as I recall, “I, for one, would
be willing to stay here forever if they would just kill every German in
Germany.”
All of the prisoners
cheered and thought nothing of it until next morning, when a group of
guards came into the compound and marched Spicer out to the cooler,
where he spent the rest of the war in solitary confinement.
He was charged,
officially, with “insulting the German race” which carried a death
sentence if convicted. As much as it seemed laughable to us, they were
dead serious. They did convict him by military Tribunal, and sentenced
him to be shot. This did stir up we POWs but there was nothing we could
do except watch and wait. The Germans seemed in no hurry to carry out
the sentence and kept him in the Cooler for quite a while with an almost
continual string of visitors at 10 minutes each. Finally the Germans
transferred Spicer to a different prison near Berlin and from then on
our only information was by rumor we heard that he was to be exchanged
for a German Col. held by the US under the same sentence for a similar
offense. The war ended before the exchange was consummated.
The next time I saw
Spicer was many years later when in Albuquerque, where I was in the
operations office when he landed in his private P-51 as big as ever and
looking none the worse for wear with that handlebar mustache spread all
over his face. He went back out to his P-51 and
took off, simply telling the tower when asked, “This is Spicer, heading
west”. I should tell about our clothing, which in my case was something
else. When shot down I was wearing the gabardine heated suit and GI
boots and underwear.
At the Dulag they took
away the heating insert but at least left me the shell. When we got to
the Stalag and after delousing and shower we were issued new clothing
that was supposed to be US Army standard issue uniforms which our
country had supplied through the Swiss Red Cross. Since I was not as
large as most of our men the German Guard Quartermaster issued me a blue
British NATO Blouse and overcoat with Olive Drab trousers. It looked
like hell and to my loud complaint they told me that I could get another
issue when my size came in. The war ended and I was still in blue with a
large bust. They issued some kind of GI underwear and T-shirts and two
pair of socks and it was still holding together when I got back to
civilization ten months later. We
had no way to launder
clothing or take a bath although we tried occasionally. That stuff was
washed not more than once a month and was still wearable. Just proves
what I say about wearing out our clothing by washing.
In our compound we
had no showers as such but I did try to take a whore bath at the
washstands once a week. Not as often as some whom I considered overly
fastidious, to the point where I wondered about their sexual
orientation. The latrine had no warm water, which made it very difficult
to get excited about personal cleanliness. All drinking and cooking
water had to be carried from the latrine to our room in a 4-gallon
bucket that each room was issued. Trying to cook and have water to drink
and wash up dishes would have been impossible without the utensils we
made from Klim cans. Klim was powdered whole milk, which was packaged in
one pound cans, and was a major item in our Red Cross parcels. I saved
every Klim can and by hard work and some very rustic tools managed to
make various sizes of cooking pans and water containers. They didn't
last too long so the task was unending.
After the initial
delousing we were marched to Compound one every three months for
delousing and a welcome semi-warm shower. I was fortunate to only get
lice once and managed to get rid of them without too much trouble at the
next delousing. I don't know what they used but it looked and smelled
like lye!
Each man had two bed
sheets and the Germans exchanged one for a clean one every month. There
was a roll of American type toilet paper in each Red Cross parcel, which
was a real boon. The German ration included some TP but I never got
desperate enough to use it except for cleaning up tables and floors etc.
(I have since found similar toilet paper in areas of Europe and even
talked to people there who liked the stuff because it had “fetch”) I had
a towel and wash rag of some type which they also exchanged for clean
ones about once a month but I don't remember any details.
I tried to shave about
every other day, which was not a problem except for lack of hot water.
To get any hot water I had to take a pan of water in from the latrine
and heat it and then go back out to the latrine and shave. (The latrine
was 50 feet from our barracks). We had plenty of shaving hardware as
provided by Gillette in the Red Cross parcels. I never envied the
frontline GIs who never had it as good as we did as far as cleanliness
was concerned.
In the vein of this
thinking I must detail my closest brush with death. I had been napping
one afternoon as was my habit and woke with a desire for a BM, which was
also my norm. At any rate I grabbed my roll of TP and proceeded down the
hall and blithely out the door toward the latrine, which was about 50
feet away. I was about twenty feet from the barracks when a voice behind
me said “Hey Jonesey don't you know there’s an air raid on?” Before I
could answer or even come to a stop a bullet went whizzing past my ear
and I’m sure I made it back to the door in one jump and slid through as
another Kriegie held the door open at some hazard to himself. Looking
out afterward it was easy to see that the guard, who had shot, was very
shook up and distraught. He was looking at his rifle like it had done it
by itself. I, however, was the one in error and was lucky that I got
only a mild chewing out from my fellow POWs. It could have been much
worse since the bullet went through the side of the next block and very
close to another
POW. Most everyone
including myself blamed me for the incident for we had very explicit
instructions to stay in the blocks during air raids. I obviously was
unaware that the alarm had sounded so had some excuse. Following that
incident we initiated a system to be certain that everyone was aware
when the air raid alert signal sounded.
Stalag-Luft I was on
the Barth peninsula about 130 miles north of Berlin and 75 northwest of
Stettin. The USAF and MAP often used the Peninsula as a navigational
turning point and this caused us to have many air raid warnings. When I
was first interned we could and did go out and watch the Air Force fly
by 20,000 feet up and cheer and yell to the increasing danger of the
guards and German hierarchy. They finally ordered us to stay indoors
with doors and windows closed and no waving or cheering during air
raids.
One afternoon prior to
this order we were treated to a real good Air Show when, as we were
watching 5 or 6 training planes from the local training base doing basic
maneuvers over our heads, there suddenly appeared three British
Mosquitoes, which came in from seaward without any warning and shot down
three of the trainers and went back out to sea without us ever getting a
siren. The Germans were furious as we cheered.
A favorite sport of
all was talking when we should be listening which led to many bets with
odd stakes like the one where we all tried to convince the guards that
the war was over so a POW Colonel could win his bet. Several bet losers
went swimming in the sump pond but one of the best was on Christmas day
after evening roll call and before we were dismissed the doors of the
Wheel block opened and two Kriegies came out followed by another
carrying a wash basin and warm water and a towel over his arm. They
mounted the podium and with all due pomp and circumstance the one
dropped his pants
and the second washed
his ass with soap and water before the other to the accompaniment of
cheers and jeers placed a big smacker on the washed spot. It seems that
in the heat of argument in early September when Patton was rolling the
one man had said, “If we aren't out of here by Christmas day I will kiss
your ass in front of the entire compound”. The Germans just laughed and
shook their heads at the antics of crazy Americans.
I must relate
something about the men in the same room with me for some nine months.
Of the 24 I can only remember 5 or 6 very well but I will try to tell
some things that I think were of interest. The most impressive and
strangely my best friend, although he was a leader in teasing me was a
big man named Messerschmidt. (I can’t for the life of me remember his
first name.) He was 6’ 4” and initially weighed 225 with the perfect
yes-shaped build that very few of us had. I guess that the best reason
that I can’t remember first names is because we didn't use them, only
last names or nicknames and few of the latter.
At any rate
Messerschmidt was a former steel production foreman from Pittsburgh. He
had worked in a coal mine when first out of high school and then went
into steel production. I don't know how old he was but probably around
24 and rated my admiration. He didn't have to take any guff from anyone
but he also didn't dish out any. Why we got along well is beyond me but
we did, and I think, to my great benefit.
It was always a
pleasure to watch the way the guards treated him. They obviously admired
him if only for his huge stature and mustache in addition to his name,
which was like a household word in their circle. When ever they had to
call his name for roll call or some other reason they would always stop,
look up and ask “relative of Willie” and chuckle. He and I talked for
many hours about farming from my side and steel and mining on his side.
He worked out a lot with calisthenics and used to tease me for not doing
the same, to which I always replied that it was silly and I could do
anything he could in that line. He was fond of doing sit-ups on the end
of a bench while I sat on his feet and made fun of him. He was never
able to do 100 at a time and I goaded him into betting me that I
couldn’t do a hundred. The bet was five chocolate bars, which he dearly
loved. At any rate I immediately did the hundred and when finished bet
him I could do a hundred more. I was glad he didn’t take the bet but it
certainly got his attention and respect.
Another good friend
was Boychuck (shortened by his Russian father from a family name of
Boychukoffski or such). He too was tall but thin and was of Russian,
Jewish ancestry and from Brooklyn. He was a typical outgoing Brooklynite,
New Yorker who was always able to converse at length on any subject, and
even ones he knew something about. He was always trying to hang a
nickname on each of us and I feared that he would succeed when he came
up with “can-o-woims Jones" but it was too hard to say so passed me by
in a few days. His background was such that he had better command of
Russian language than any one else in camp. He was used as an
interpreter when the Russians relieved us. He somehow succeeded in
keeping the Germans from knowing he was Jewish. I played Gin Rummy with
him a lot and we walked around the compound some. I will mention that
many of the men didn't play cards much, even when we had lots of cards
after Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Another of my roomies
was Costantino who was a wheeler-dealer from Boston and about my size.
He was the one who advised me that the best thing to do if we survived
the war and got home was to use our GI bill benefits to go to Harvard or
Yale and then use that base of operations to meet and marry a rich girl
from Vassar or such and live the good life from then on. He was probably
right but I never was too smart. We were all Second or First Lieutenants
but rank was ignored and most didn't have any insignia. When we flew our
combat missions, I either wore second Lt. insignia or none at all so
after capture I told the Germans I was that rank and it reduced the
hassle.
I don't even remember
the name of the guy who burned the potatoes but we were friendly enough.
He just didn't know how to cook and had no sense of responsibility and
no taste. All of the men served their stints at kitchen police without
complaint and it was really easy since they only worked two days out of
twenty or so.
One other man who I
counted a friend was named Manierre. He had an older brother in our
compound who was a Major and lived in the “Wheel” block. This gave our
room good access to what news was available which leads to another item
of interest.
The co-pilot of our
crew lived in our room also and I got to know him fairly well. He was
2nd Lt. Captain Emory Jones and had come on the crew when Fisher was
made first pilot. His name continued to bug the guards as it had just
after we were captured. He was from San Antonio, Texas and was a great
guy who, like most of us had never done anything of note until he joined
the Air Corps. Some will say that is nothing of note but we universally
thought it was. I never did know how or why the pilot of our crew,
Robert Fisher got himself in a room in the “wheel shed” but he did so I
did not see very much of him.
There were some other
men in the compound who I feel are worthy of mention; Major William
Burke who was leading our 461st
Group on the day we were shot down and one of the few men I’ve seen from
the Stalag since we were repatriated. He was a real good man and was a
fair-haired type with the 461st
until that fateful August 25th
day. When I went to the 46th
Recon wing at Little Rock in 1958 and went to meet the Wing
Commander it turned out to be Col. Burke so we exchanged a few
reminisces.
Another was Major
Barriers who was one of the toughest little men I've ever met. He was
about 5’ 10” and weighed no more than 150 but in an exhibition boxing
match with Col. Zemke, who had been a West Point heavy weight boxer, he
cut Zemke to ribbons and never got hit once. He was also the one of our
group who went out to meet and lead the incoming Russian troops to our
position when we were first freed. He was misunderstood to the extent
that the Russians ran him about 5 miles at gun point before they found
out what he had set out to tell them. No one else in the camp could have
survived that treatment.
Then there was Major
McGee C. Fuller who was a slightly built man of about 130 pounds but
proved to be the heaviest eater I’ve ever met. For entertainment we put
on a pie eating contest one nice Saturday afternoon and the Headquarters
Barracks, “Wheel
Shed”, entered Fuller
to the loud laughter of we spectators when he sat down amid the group of
big hulking entries from the other blocks who had been in starvation
“training” for days. Our pies were chocolate filled crusts made from K-2
biscuits and oleo and if possible were heavier eating than my previously
described cake. There were 11 entries and they sat down at a large table
with their mouths watering and each with an 11” by 15” by 2” deep pie in
front of him. When the signal was given they all started in pushing the
pie in with their hands and trying to stow it away as fast as they
could. All except
for Fuller who sat and
calmly cut his pie into 12 pieces, which he ate rapidly. For the first
half of the contest he was somewhat behind the competition but by about
midway though their pies about half of the entrants had either gotten
sick or quit to go to the latrine that was disqualification. As they
proceeded all ultimately vomited save Fuller who by now was laughing at
the rest and far ahead when his last opponent vomited along side him and
Fuller, laughing, went on to finish his pie. He was a proven champion
and the jeering spectators laughed on the other side of their faces. His
prize was a huge chocolate pie. He was another kriegie that I ran into
later when he joined our B-36 crew at Travis as Second Pilot and we had
many laughs with our friends and families about that incident.
Another character who
merits mention in this chronicle is Haven B. Fairchild. He was a tall
(6’1”) emaciated looking type who made me wonder how he ever got into
the Cadet program. He was from Hollywood and had a high-pitched voice
such that no one ever
referred to him other
than as “Fairy”. If the reader has seen “Stalag 17” he will understand
if I say the character who played the Kriegie intelligence officer must
have been modeled on Fairchild. He was married to a girl named Molly and
was always going around singing “Just molly and me and baby makes
three in my blue heaven”. He lived in the room next door in our block
and was the designated Intelligence officer and dispenser of the
clandestine news from BBC. He really put his heart and soul into his
work. We could expect him to appear at our room every day at about 5 PM
to dispense the latest bits from the radio for that day. Men from other
rooms would congregate in the hall outside in hear him. We had to
station our men around the block to watch for and alert us if “goons” or
“ferrets” approached. With much pomp, Fairy would read from his single
page, all that was worth knowing about the conduct of the war and where
it was heading. Peggy and I stopped in Hollywood on our way from
Randolph AFB to Travis AFB in 1952 and contacted Fairy and his family
for a few minutes and she can verify that he was still the same “Fairy”
and that my description is no exaggeration. Other POWs who had known him
told that he was a very aggressive pilot who really loved to fly combat
but was shot down on his fifth mission with no Germans to his credit.
However we referred to him as a German Ace and he couldn't deny it since
he had 5 American planes to his credit. It seems that when he was in
training two of Joe Foss’s Marine pilots making practice passes on
Fairy’s plane collided. On two other occasions he had crashed training
planes and somehow was exonerated by good luck or political pull. At any
rate he lost his fifth American plane when he was shot down, strafing a
flak tower.
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