Sam’s Military Memoirs - B-17 Queen of the Sky



Sam’s Military Memoirs

We’ll start with Pearl Harbor – I was 19, living on a piece of land – it couldn’t be called a farm – near Tucker, GA. Before the draft could get me, I volunteered for Aviation Cadets. Was going to be a hotshot pilot. Problem was, I had to wait until I was called; which turned out to be several months later.

Until then, I got dirty looks from people who saw me – a healthy guy of draft age, but not in uniform. I was happy when my notice came on February 3, 1943 to report to Nashville, Tenn. for Cadet Training.

We began training, full of excitement; then it happened: our entire class – 500 altogether – was eliminated from cadet training. Our records showed the official reason: PHYSICALLY UNFIT FOR MILITARY AERONAUTICS!

Turned out the real reason was that until now, aerial gunners were strictly voluntary; but with the news that the average life of a gunner in combat was 6 seconds, volunteers quit volunteering. And since bombers had to have gunners, our entire group of 500 were to be gunners.

We protested, screamed, etc. – physically unfit to fly in the front of a plane, but fine to fly in other parts of the plane!

Despite our protests, we were sent to Gulfport, Miss. For basic training as privates; along with the warning to our new commanders – “They’re washed-out cadets and mad at the world. Treat ‘em rough!”

So we went through basic training; a few weeks at the small base at Gulfport; then we walked the few miles to Keesler Field to complete basic training.

Completing basic training, we were promoted to Private First Class, and rode on our first troop train to Denver – Buckley Field, actually – a few miles east of town. Here we started Aircraft Armorer’s School – studying machine guns, bombs, etc.

After a few weeks there, we were moved to Lowry Field, a few miles closer to Denver, where we were introduced to power turrets, bomb racks, etc.

We were given Class A passes, which allowed us to go into town when we weren’t busy training. Denver was a pretty town, with pretty girls who were usually friendly to the G. I.’s. I actually managed to date a couple – new experience for me!

On July 20, ’43 we were sent to Las Vegas, Nev. – to what is called Nellis AFB now. Was called Rattle Snake Bomber Base back then. This is where we became aerial gunners – we fired shotguns at skeet and trap, machine guns mounted on posts in the ground, in the back of pickup trucks, and handled power turrets with twin 50 caliber guns. Then we got to flying AT-6’s – twin cockpit planes, with a 30 caliber gun mounted on the side of the cockpit. We shot at a sleeve target towed by another plane. Luckily, we didn’t hit the tow-plane. Or maybe we were just too good.

I don’t know if there’s a connection, but today being my 59th anniversary – was shot down on 4-27-44 – maybe that’s why I was thinking about my gunnery days.

Anyway, we were there July, August, & September – hottest part of the year. We were fed salt tablets daily – our fatigues were sweat-soaked most of the time. One day we had a rain shower – I watched raindrops fall and evaporate before hitting the ground.

For gunnery practice, we fired machine guns that shot BB’s; some shot .22’s. Reminded me of a carnival, with moving targets. Then we graduated to .30 caliber guns, mounted on posts in the ground, with moving targets out in the desert. Finally, the real thing -- .50 caliber machine guns on posts. First time I fired a .50, I thought it was going to come off the post and hammer me into the ground.

Skeet shooting was more fun. We used pump shotguns and followed the usual procedure. In case you’re not familiar with it, see the sketch following.

[pic]

A man in each house had a little contraption that scaled clay discs, called clay pigeons, out for the gunner to shoot at. Low house threw them up and away; high house threw them almost level and across in front.

The gunner started at station 1, yelled “Pull”, the low house pigeon went out and was shot at. Then the yell, “Mark”, and the high house scaled one out. Two shots, then the gunner moved to station 2 and repeated the process, then to 3, etc. When he reached station 8 and yelled “Pull”, both houses flung their pigeons at the same time. If the gunner was good – or lucky – one shot would get both.

Since none of us had shot skeet before, the sergeant had to show us how to do it. “Stand here, left foot at this angle, right foot at this angle; raise the gun to your shoulder, lower it a few inches, then yell “Pull”.

I was familiar with shooting my little .410 shotgun wandering through the fields and woods, shooting at quail, etc.; but I tried his system. Missed the first four times. I moved to station 3 with gun dangling in my hand, yelled “Pull”, jerked the gun up, and shattered the clay.

The sergeant chewed me out. “That’s not the way to do it!”

“I hit it, didn’t I?” I was surprised at his attitude. “We’re supposed to hit the target, aren’t we?” I turned, yelled “Mark”, jerked up my gun and pulverized the pigeon.

The sergeant hesitated. “Well – OK.” Doing it my way, I hit every target the rest of the round. But the sergeant admonished the rest of our group not to try my method. Following his instructions, they did all right.

The ultimate in skeet shooting was done later, after we’d gotten familiar with the shotguns. The back of a pickup truck was fitted with a kind of seat behind the cab, facing backward. A framework of 2x4s surrounded the bed.

The action consisted of my almost sitting on the seat, with my shotgun. Another G.I. stood, half behind me and on my right, with three boxes of shells. After I’d shoot, he’d insert more shells in my gun.

The truck went slowly around a huge circle; several miles in diameter. Scattered alongside the road were “low houses”, on either side. As the truck met a house, a clay pigeon would scale out – in any direction.

When I heard the mechanism release its target, I had to look around, try to find the target, then shoot it. One time it might be barely above the sagebrush; next time scaling high, over the road.

By the time we completed the circle, I’d fired 75 shells. My shoulder was sore, and I was sweat-soaked. Someone else kept track of my hits and misses. I don’t recall how many I hit. All I know is – I survived!

One reward for completing the gunnery course was a 4-hour pass into Las Vegas, a few miles west. The town at that time was like a Western movie set – saloons and gambling halls on both sides of the main street. No bright lights.

The only “night spot” was the Hotel El Rancho Vegas, at the far end of town. My main memory of the town is seeing a bearded prospector leading his burro down the main street, and no one paying attention to him.

Next time I saw Vegas was in the early ‘80s. The millions of lights everywhere were blinding. I’m just glad I got to see it BEFORE.

On Oct. 16th, we were promoted to sergeant and sent to various bases for assignment to flying crews. I wound up at Pyote AFB, in the far western part of Texas. I became the tail gunner in a B-17 crew. The entire crew is shown here:

Lt. Winans C. Shaddix Pilot

Lt. George Sullivan Co-pilot

Lt. Harry Tennenbaum Navigator

Lt. Cole M. Dailey Bombardier

Sgt. James M. Lee Flight Engineer

Sgt. Fred H. Erb Radio Gunner

Sgt. William Cornelius Waist Gunner

Sgt “Horizontal” Herdzik Waist Gunner (he did not go

overseas with us)

Sgt. John Pontzious Ball Gunner

Sgt. Hugh Hamilton Tail Gunner

We spent 3 months flying around that part of the west – day flights and night flights – even did a little air-to-ground target shooting, until the local ranchers decided we were shooting their cows.

On January 26, ’44, we headed overseas – to Grand Island, Neb., then to Manchester, N.H., to Goose Bay, Labrador – lots of snow and cold there! Took over two weeks to get to Nutts Corner, Ireland – landed there on Feb. 12th.

A couple days there, then about 3 weeks at a place near what is called the Wash, in the northeastern part of England. We got a refresher course in skeet shooting among other things. I got the feeling that we were just waiting until there was a place for us somewhere.

On March 11, ’44, we were assigned to the 349th Bomb Squadron, 100th Bomb Group, and began flying missions – sorties, they called them. I was in on the second and third raids over Berlin, among other places.

Johnny, our ball gunner, didn’t like having to fly in that little ball turret, so he talked me into trading places on a mission. Luckily, it was an easy mission, but I agreed – This is not position in which to fight a war. If you’re aiming your guns horizontally, your shoulder blades are closest to the ground; your rear end is aiming at the enemy. Your legs wrapped around the twin 50 gun barrels, and your hands up over your head, moving the turret and firing the guns.

My position in the tail was much better – kneeling on two pads, sitting back on something like a bicycle seat, and leaning forward on a padded sheet of steel. Arms go around the steel to fire the twin 50’s

The only time I got hit by enemy fire, I was lucky. Explanation: my parachute – a chest pack with two big snaps – was behind me, out of my way. Over my fleece-lined clothes, I wore the parachute harness, with two rings in front; a big metal buckle in front, also. We always wore a flak vest over everything – with strips of heavy metal inside it. When I got hit, I was leaning forward. A piece of flak came up between my knees, up between the flak vest and parachute harness. It was as big as my thumb – it hit the buckle; the vest kept it from going out, so it went in through my clothes and imbedded in my stomach muscles. It didn’t really hurt – I don’t think – but when we were out of danger, I reached in to get it. Felt a few drops of dried blood. Didn’t mention it to anyone. Didn’t want a Purple Heart for something insignificant.

I was shot down on April 27, ’44 – less than two weeks before D-Day. Everyone know the invasion was imminent – didn’t know which day, thought. The Germans were ready. They were gathered all along the French-Belgian coast. We were making short flights across the English Channel, attacking the German installations.

On my “Big Day”, we made our usual short flight, landed home safely, and then we’re told we were to make another raid – No. 13. Something told me this was it. Anyway, we loaded up again, hit our target somewhere down in France and headed back – probably 100 bombers or more in our formation.

Nearing the channel, a lone battery of anti-aircraft guns fired at us. The five burst of flak blew our plane out of formation – no other plane was touched. The flak cut our fuel lines, and killed 3 of our 4 engines, but luckily, no one was hit.

The plane struggled along on one engine, losing altitude, of course. We threw out flak vests and everything we could to lighten the load. Finally, a few minutes later, fire broke out in the one engine. Shad, the pilot, said, “That’s it, boys. Get out!”

I snapped my chute in place and went up into the body of the plane. I’d promised the ball gunner that if this ever happened, I’d be sure he got out of the turret, but he was already out of the plane. The others were either out, or ready to jump. As I went out the door, I had the thought – make a delayed jump – don’t pull the ripcord too soon – they won’t see you as long. Yet, out of the plane, I counted to 7, said “this isn’t enough” – pulled the ripcord anyway. I waited to see the chute open, but nothing happened. The ripcord – a chrome hand-sized loop attached to a wire that holds the chute together – was still in my hand. I looked at it, ran my left hand down the wire – totally disengaged.

So I stuffed the ripcord into my pocket – don’t ask why – and pulled the flap on the chute; then the chute opened and blossomed above me. Hanging there, swinging around, I looked around for the first time. Saw two other chutes in the distance – lower.

It didn’t take too long to hit the ground. Three thumps – feet, rear end, then the back of my head. Sitting up, I saw the chute collapse in front of me. Unhooking it, I stood up, brushing Brussels sprouts off. I’d landed in a woman’s garden.

Several civilians ran toward me, smiling and talking, but I didn’t understand them. Women hugged me and kids shook my hand. Probably thought I was starting D-Day. I tried to get away – they were showing the Germans where I was. A woman caught my hand and pulled me into her house and into her basement. Hearing thumping upstairs, I went through the basement window and across the yard. Another woman pulled me into her kitchen and gave me a glass of milk.

As I gulped it down, two Germans came in the door with guns leveled at me. I drained the glass, sat it down, and raised my arms. Couldn’t understand the words, but no problem with the gestures. They followed me outside and motioned me to the side of a small building.

I’d been wondering why I hadn’t felt any fear so far, I’d felt surprisingly calm. It wasn’t until a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, facing the wall, that my knees began to quiver. Thought he’d shoot me in the back, but he checked me for weapons.

We wound up in what was probably the office of the chief of police of the town, which I think was named Ardoy, Belgium. It was on the Belgium-France line. Five of our crew was there. We stayed there most of the afternoon; then were taken to the State Penitentiary in Brussels. Spent 10 days in a typical cell; then on May 8, we took a train trip down the Rhine Valley to Frankfort. Saw the famous castles on the Rhine – over the guard’s machine guns.

Frankfort was the Interrogation Center, evidently. We were separated, into various cells, and each one was officially interrogated. They also notified the Red Cross that we were POWs, and that the Americans should be told. We were issued clothing, tooth brushes, razors, etc., and left on May 16.

We spent 4 days crowded into a boxcar; the train made its way across most of Germany and up to Heydekrug, in Lithuania, near the Baltic Sea. We heard a few planes strafing something during the day, and bombing at night. None of us in “my boxcar” was hit.

May 20, we were introduced to Stalag Luft VI, the abbreviated way of saying the German words for Prisoner of War Camp for Air Force. It was a huge square, cut into 4 compounds; everything surrounded by 10 foot barb wire fences. Inside each compound was a small guard rail – 1 x 4 boards on posts about knee-high. This rail was about 30 feet from the fence. We were told that the guards in each tower in the corners of the compounds had orders to shoot anyone who put a hand or foot past the rail.

The two months we spent in Luft VI were fairly quiet. One incident I remember was the result of some POWs digging a tunnel down through the floor of a room, and under the ground outside, heading past the fence. The soil there was partly sand, so a hard rain would collapse the tunnel. This happened shortly after I got there, and the Commandant had us all line up at attention. He pointed to the collapsed tunnel and asked who did it. No answer. He pulled a small pistol from his belt and started screaming, threatening to shoot all of us. Finally, he calmed down and laughed. He said in perfect English, “If you boys want to get out of here, you won’t use your hands; you’ll use your brains!”

The Russian army was gradually getting close; so on July 15, everyone in the camp was taken to the coast, a few miles away, and put into the hold of a ship named Masuren. We were jammed in so tight that few could sit down. We stood, over 24 hours, until reaching Swinemunde, near Stettin. There, we transferred into boxcars for a trip down to Kief-heide, northeast of Berlin; another two days.

The famous Bayonet Run, from the railroad to Stalag Luft IV, about two miles, we made on July 18. Handcuffed into pairs, a short POW to a tall one, carrying boxes of Red Cross food, we were forced to run, by our guards, young German soldiers. They kept jabbing with bayonets, and hitting with rifle butts; not enough to kill, but enough to draw blood. A German doctor finally told them to stop; he didn’t have enough supplies to fix them up.

Once we got inside the Compound, we were put into what we called dog houses; about 7 feet wide, 18 feet long, and a tall person could stand up straight only along the center ridge. We had 10 men in each, sleeping side by side.

One stormy day, I stood in our doorway, with Fred Erb, my radio gunner, behind me. Another row of dog houses was in front of the row we were in. Suddenly a bolt of lightning split the ridge of the dog house in front of us. The force slammed me into Fred and we both hit the back of our place, stunned, but not really hurt. The lightning killed one man standing in the other hut, blinded two that were sitting up, and stunned the others who were lying down.

I don’t remember much about the winter there. Have heard since then that it was the coldest, roughest winter in many years.

Anyway, on Feb. 6, ’45, about 10,000 POWs were evacuated from Stalag IV, Russians approaching again. We were put into groups of 100 to 200, with a few old Germans for guards, and headed west. We stayed on back roads, leaving main roads for military use.

When available, we would take over a farm and sleep in the barn. Any food we could find was eaten. If no barn was handy, we slept under bushes, in a field; wherever. Fortunately, I’d acquired a big British overcoat, so I’d wrap it around me; draw up my feet and sleep.

Food was always a problem. As spring came, I got dysentery for several weeks. As the days went by, I decided if nothing is put in, nothing can come out. So for 3 days I ate nothing, but had to run anyway. So much for my logic!

As we wandered along the roads, if a POW had to find a bush to relieve himself, a guard would tell him to catch up; the rest would continue at a slow pace. Somewhere along the line, I decided not to catch up; just wait awhile and catch up with another group. The guards didn’t care by now – it was obvious that the war was almost over.

We had trouble with British fighter planes, too – probably young, inexperienced pilots who had not gotten in on the real fighting. Occasionally, a pilot would figure our group was part of the enemy, and dive down to strafe us. One day, it happened, and I hid behind a fair-sized tree. When the idiot finally left, I found one guard and four POWs lined up behind me.

The afternoon of May 2, ’45 found our group in the barnyard of some farmer, trying to cook what food we’d scrounged, when a British jeep came up and the British captain said, “Boys, you’re free men!” The guards handed their rifles to any of us who’d take them, and tried to make friends with us. After things settled down, the captain told us to be in the town a few kilometers away, at 10 A.M. tomorrow. Trucks would be there to take us some place.

We waited in the town – don’t recall its name – all the next day – no trucks. So we broke into small groups and kept going west. Two other guys and I stayed together. We started eating better then – several German civilians were afraid at first that we would harm them, but when we showed we’d be friendly, they invited us in and fed us.

A few days later, I think we were in Belgium. We hit a British camp, introduced ourselves and were promptly taken over, food, showers, sprays – “certified disinfested”, and assigned to a tent, where we were to stay until they could fly us to England and turn us over to the Americans. When they said it would be two or three weeks, we slipped out of our tent that night, avoided their sentries and kept going west.

Twice more, the same thing happened – British camp officers would do and say the same thing, so we kept heading west. Officially, I’m still AWOL from three different British groups.

The third time, we were in the outskirts of Brussels. The British had taken over a 3-story hospital. They gave us the same story, and were putting us in beds on the third floor, when the entire city seemed to erupt. War Was Over!! We wanted to go in and celebrate, but – “Sorry, Boys!”

Soon as our hosts were downstairs, we tied sheets and blankets together and slid down the outside, into a private yard. The Belgian woman had seen us – she kissed each of us, took us through her house and pointed out the way to go.

The next couple days – I think – are vague. We were obviously liberated POWs, and everything was free to us. We had no money, of course, but I had my first coke, beer, hot dogs, steak, fries, milkshakes, etc. in over a year. Don’t recall getting sick or drunk, although I might have. The whole city went wild!

When things settled down a bit, we headed west again; thumbing a ride, hopping on a train; whatever. Found a Red Cross hamburger stand somewhere. We had no money, but they were selling; not giving. We tried to explain, but –

It was probably May when we finally arrived at Camp Lucky Strike, somewhere in France; an American place set up for the purpose of getting us back to the U.S. We were given cots in big tents, 3 meals a day, plus eggnogs between breakfast and lunch. I weighed 118 pounds when I got there; gained 20 pounds in two weeks. Didn’t take long to get back to my original 150 pounds.

We – the entire camp – several thousand ex-POWs – were tired of waiting to get home. Several politicians came over to tell us how grateful, etc. – we walked off, leaving them to pollute the air with their words. Our dispositions were getting sour.

About mid June, General Eisenhower, his brand new five star insignia shining, flew over with several other generals. They walked down the aisles of tents in the rain, to talk with us. As it happened, Ike himself came into our tent. He sat down on a cot and explained the situation. There were thousands of us, and a few boats. Couldn’t fly us, impossible. So we had a choice – fill the available bunks in boats, go home, while the rest wait for the boats to return – or pack the boats with more people. Not as comfortable, but – We gave him a chorus; GET US OUT OF HERE!!! SOONER THE BETTER!! Ike said “Fine”.

Two days later, June 20, they began loading us on ships. We slept on deck and everywhere. My dates here aren’t too good, but about a week later, we wound up at Camp Patrick Henry, VA. – in the hospital. Several hundred of us had developed hepatitis – probably from drinking water from the side of roads.

There were several wards filled with us. I remember the doctor – Colonel – telling us they knew what we had, but didn’t know how to cure it. We were guinea pigs, he admitted. Their idea was to fill us with pills – probably vitamins – and no exercise. Best position – flat on our back. Get up only to go to the bathroom.

After a few weeks of this, some of us began to feel better, so with the outside grounds covered with trees, bushes, and walkways through them, my two buddies and I got shoes and bathrobes, sneaked out and began walking around in the sunshine and fresh air. About a week later – we had blood tests every day – our Lt. Doctor called us in to find what we were doing. We were getting much better than the rest. So what were we doing?

We figured – in the interest of medical research – so we told him about our going outside.

He proved he was a good lieutenant, but a poor doctor; he chewed us out, read the riot act, threatened to have us court-martialed for disobeying orders, and told us to get back in our beds. The next couple days we three behaved ourselves, but the outside was calling.

Once again, we were wandering around quietly, listening to the birds, etc. Hearing an unusual noise in a clump of bushes, we tiptoed over, to see our doctor and a nurse – both supposed to be on duty – enjoying themselves. We backed away and went back to our cots.

That afternoon, we three confronted the doctor, now in his office, and told him we were cured and wanted out. We cut off his blustering with a threat to tell the Colonel where he and the nurse were this morning.

Next day, special orders were out – we three were cured and assigned to our next duty. I never did find out what happened to the rest of the sick POWs.

My “next duty” consisted of a trip home for a couple weeks, to let my family see that I was OK – still in one piece; then back to the base at Greensboro, N.C. My official discharge was on Oct. 31, ’45.

A few months at home, then mid July, ’46, I drove up to Pembroke, N.C. – I’d gotten a 1937 Chevy – and helped Mike Hunt move his family down to Eglin Field, FL. He and I had been together off and on through the War, including Stalag IV. He was shot down a week after I was.

Anyway, he stayed in the Service, and was assigned to Eglin Field. So we moved his wife, Norma, a very nice person, and their three little daughters to Florida. I got a civil service job on the base, and stayed with the Hunts. They found a house large enough so I had my own room.

My job at Eglin was clerk non-typist; so the main thing I did was type up a new base phone book. A big portion of personnel at Orlando A.F.B. was being transferred to Eglin, so I had to type names, etc. consolidating them.

This lasted about two months. Humidity was too much – clothing mildewed hanging in the closet, and rust formed on my gun and camera, no matter what I did. I went back home.

I’m not sure why – probably because all my life, I’d wanted to live out west – but regardless, I’d sold my car and taken the bus to San Francisco. And the middle of October, ’46, I was working for United Air Lines as a reservations agent. They flew about a dozen of us to headquarters in Chicago, for three weeks of training.

For some reason, we weren’t flown back – took a train, Pullmans, so it was comfortable. Only excitement there was because one of our girls had fallen in love with a nice guy in Chicago. They wouldn’t be separated, and he had no ticket. So our group managed to smuggle him all the way to Frisco. The happy couple got married shortly after he found a job.

Being a res agent was fun for a while, but too much sitting, with head phones on, and pushing buttons, got tiresome. May ’47 found me back in Atlanta, working for the city as a mobile X-ray technician. This was better – another guy and I setup a chest X-ray unit in office buildings, schools, etc., and gave everyone a free chest X-ray. After we developed the film, Dr. Burch would scan it, and when a picture didn’t look right, he’d have the person come in for a big X-ray.

I liked the people I worked with; especially a cute young brunette named Avanelle – I called her Gypsy. We dated several times. She seemed to enjoy my taking pictures of her. But – something happened. My health was slipping. Turned out I was being exposed to too much radiation from the X-raying. So I left that job.

My health began getting better almost immediately. I got into photography partly through Robert Warren, my cousin and closest friend. He went through the War as an aerial gunner in the Pacific. I rigged up a darkroom in the bathroom and managed to make some money from taking pictures of babies, portraits, etc.

As usual, I don’t recall just why I did it, but the first of August, ’49, I went to Fort MacPherson, outside Atlanta, and reenlisted. This time, I was in the U.S. Air Force – no longer the U.S. Army Air Corps. It was fairly recent that it became a separate branch of the service, like the Army and the Navy; nothing to do with the Army.

Anyhow, I was sent, with two other enlistees, on the train, to Lackland A.F.B. near San Antonio. As a re-enlistee, I became a Private First Class, and got just a refresher course in basic training. I asked for, and got, training for office work, which was called orderly room work.

Next stop – Fort Francis E. Warren, near Cheyenne, Wyo where I went through Clerk-Typist School. Learned to type and was appointed assistant instructor in English. I joined the Camera Club that was on the base; and we got to take a bus trip to Colorado Springs, Royal Gorge, and the Garden of the Gods. We took pictures everywhere.

About the first of January ’50, I was back in San Antonio, this time in Brooks A.F.B. Later that month, I was promoted to Corporal. I met Sgt. William Fritsche one day. We talked awhile, and then he asked if I’d like to go to Alaska. I said when do we go? He took me to his C.O. Major Polivka; we talked a few minutes, and I was suddenly payroll clerk in 3rd Radio Squadron, USAFSS, which was to go to Anchorage soon. I couldn’t have been happier! Sgt. Fritsche, I learned, was Chief Clerk in the squadron.

My new squadron – about 100, altogether – went by train to Pittsburg, Calif., near Oakland. A few days there, then on a ship which stopped at Seattle, then up to Whittier, Alaska. A train took us on to Elmendorf A.F.B., just north of Anchorage.

We were assigned to a cluster of Quonset huts and a few large buildings, which became the orderly room, mess hall, supply building, etc. About ten men were in each hut. We were left to ourselves to one side of the main base.

About this time, June 25, ’50, the Korean War was officially declared.

Getting ourselves established and organized, I was promoted to sergeant in August, and in November, became Staff Sergeant. Evidently, being a re-enlistee helped – Sgt. Fritsche became a Warrant Officer, and the Major appointed me Chief Clerk, over the six other clerks in the Orderly room. I reported to the First Sergeant, adjutant (a new lieutenant) and Major Polivka, the Commanding Officer.

Since I seemed to be more familiar with a camera, the Major made me unofficial squadron photographer. I had to take official pictures in black and white, so I could develop prints myself in the base photo lab, and send copies to our headquarters at Brooks A.F.B. Since I’d been taking color slides with my old Leica, -- 35 mm --, I bought a twin lens reflex camera for the black and white pix.

In the next year, we started detachments at Nome, Naknek, and Adak, and as work on them progressed, the Major sent me to take pictures and send copies to Brooks Field. With my two cameras, I’d take scenery pix with the Leica for me, and black and white pix for headquarters.

When I was not on duty, I spent much time – sometimes overnight – wandering around the foothills of the Chugach Mountains, just east of the Base. Did some fishing and hunting.

On one trip farther into the hills, Ship Creek, the small stream that flowed through the Base, formed pools around boulders; and we found the pools to be loaded with Dolly Varden trout and not enough food caused them to mature when they were 9 or 10 inches long. We’d toss a salmon egg on a small hook in to the water and immediately jerk out a trout.

One afternoon, I squatted by the stream, cleaning the trout we’d caught. Tossing the discarded parts into the pool caused the water to boil, like in a fish hatchery. I was washing blood off my hands, when a trout nipped my finger, and I flipped him into the air. The idea hit me; I wiggled a finger in the water, a nine-inch trout approached it, I cracked him across the back with my sheath knife and picked him up. Repeated the procedure several times. Only time I ever caught trout with a sheath knife!

Wildlife in the area was unusual – moose were everywhere and rabbits – snowshoe hares, actually – and squirrels were not as plentiful. Dogs were seen in packs occasionally. A Fish and Game man told me one day that the dogs were left behind by people who came here, got a dog, and when they moved away, would turn the dog loose. The dog packs were vicious enough to chase away the wolves that were no longer in the area. The man told me, “Always carry a gun, even if you’re fishing. If you see a dog, don’t hesitate – shoot him!

Moose season came around, and Mark Cross, a guy from upstate New York, wanted to shoot one. The meat could be used in the mess hall; and Mark had shot a deer back home, so –

He borrowed a 30-06 rifle, I took my .22 Hi Standard pistol that I took everywhere, and my camera, and we hit the woods. After a couple hours of wandering around, he saw a young bull moose about 100 yards away, in a small meadow. Mark fired, the bull went down, and Mark went berserk. “I got a moose! I got a moose!” He dashed over to the bull and started jumping up and down, still yelling.

I went over, and saw the bull trying to get back on his feet. I yelled at Mark to shoot him – put him out of his misery. He kept jumping and yelling, waving the rifle around. The moose managed to get his front feet under him, and reared up. I drew my pistol, stuck it in his ear and pulled the trigger. He dropped as if struck by lightning, dead.

Mark gradually calmed down. Realizing the bull had to be cleaned, etc., he took off for camp. Luckily, there was an unkempt road not far away. I stayed with the moose. Less than an hour passed, and a pickup truck with a winch in back showed up. A cook and two other guys were with him. The cook cleaned the bull; the winch hauled it into the truck. The entire squadron had moose meat for over a week. I had fun with mark, telling him he couldn’t kill the bull with a 30-06; I had to do it with a .22 pistol.

The moose meat was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone; so much that the Major called me into his office a week or two afterward, and said, “Sergeant, I’m giving you a direct order: You take whoever you want and go back into the woods; and don’t come back until you have another moose!” I saluted sharply and said, “Yes, sir!”

He laughed and explained. “General Lynn will be here next week, and he said he wanted to try a moose steak.” General Lynn – I’m pretty sure of his name – was our commanding general, in Brooks AFB.

I got Andy Shroyer, probably the best hunter we had, he picked out another man and we took off. It was almost too easy. Near the meadow where Mark had shot his bull, we saw another young one. Andy fired; the bull went down – period. Andy began cleaning it, while the other guy ran back to camp. Again, the truck came, took the bull to camp, where the cook, who was a good butcher, took over.

A few days later, the Major and I flew out the Aleutians, in the plushed-up B-17 that belonged to General Olds, the commanding general of Alaskan Air Command. General Olds’ personal pilot flew it – he wouldn’t let anyone else touch his plane. His personal crew chief was with us, of course. We were to pick up General Lynn at Attu, where he was coming from Japan.

Clouds covered most of the Western Aleutians from 10,000 feet down to about 100 feet from the ground. No problem – the pilot would be “talked down” to the runway, since the plane was being tracked on their radar screen. Lower and lower we came – I could hardly see the plane’s wing tips.

The ground operator coached the pilot, “You’re right over the runway; come on in.” We had wheels and flaps down, almost at stalling speed, when we broke through the clouds. We were over tundra; the runway off to the right about 100 feet.

The B-17 hung there, shuddering, as the pilot shoved throttles forward, pulled up wheels and flaps; then almost a jump, and we went back up through the clouds. Surprisingly calmly, the pilot said to the ground operator, “Shall we try again? I’m coming back down.”

This time was smooth as silk. The pilot stopped at the end of the runway, where he and the Major joined another officer in a jeep. The crew chief drove the plane across to where it would be parked. Before we got there, an idiot lieutenant came across in another jeep, right in front of us. Rather than make mince meat of the officer, the crew chief locked one wheel and spun the plane – into a big ditch. The left wing crumpled. Another crew member and I had been standing in the radio room; my hand was on an upright pipe. He bounced against a wall, breaking something; I’m not sure what. I was swinging like a chimpanzee from the pipe.

Later, when things were settled down, the pilot called General Olds, “I piled your B-17 in a ditch; can you send your C-54?” The C-54 arrived next day; we met General Lynn and flew back to Elmendorf. No more problems.

It turned out General Olds and Lynn were old friends. General Lynn had several aides with him. The only one I talked with was a major with more knowledge of photography than I had. He talked of taking cameras apart to adjust something.

Naturally, they had a welcoming party a couple days later, at the base Officers’ Club. Major Polivka had me there, to take pictures of everyone. I was using the small, blue, gas-filled flashbulbs – they were faster than the regular ones.

The wives of General Olds and other officers were there. Two non-coms were serving drinks, etc. Major Polivka was having a ball – we even had two admirals from the Navy with us. He kept urging me to get a good angle – the flash was so quick that after a couple shots, they ignored me and the flashes.

I’d shot almost a full roll of film, when the Major pointed to General Lynn and Mrs. Olds sitting on a sofa. Once again, I pressed the button, only this time the flash was accompanied by a bang that sounded like a .45 going off. The blue bulb broke off its base, hit the General in the chest, and then clattered across the floor.

Someone screamed, the General jumped up and shouted, “Sergeant!” A glass crashed on the floor. Someone made a comment about a jealous husband.

I stood there frozen; trying to figure what went wrong. I picked up the bulb, said, “Sorry, Sir.” The Major with General Lynn came over, put his arm around my shoulders and looked at the bulb. Said he’d heard of this happening but had never experienced it. Told me to relax – don’t let it bother me. Then he talked to the General and everyone settled down.

A few minutes later, my major came over, pointed at two officers – one was an admiral – and told me to get them; as if nothing had happened. It took all my nerve to insert another bulb, aim and shoot. Back to normal – flash and that was it. I took about half a dozen more pictures – with my fingers crossed.

The General and his aides left a few days later. I never heard what happened to the B-17.

Later – I’m not sure of the dates – I was reassigned from Chief Clerk in the Orderly room, to Intelligence Specialist – and spent my days behind the Fence, which enclosed the Radio and Intelligence area. At least, now, I could go in and out, under the watchful eyes of our own guards.

Through the winter, our men were sent in small groups to Ladd AFB, near Fairbanks, for a class in Arctic Indoctrination. Teaching us to survive in the Arctic, no matter what the situation was. My luck was still with me – I went up in early March. Aside from a few days in a classroom, listening to an instructor, we spent several days out in the open. My camera helped me and evidently – I spent as much time taking pictures of everything as I did, building fires, making shelters, etc. I learned by watching, rather than by doing.

A few weeks later, orders were cut, for me and Ed Campbell, a tall young guy, to fly to Nome, to “inspect intelligence facilities”. We flew to Fairbanks but bad weather between there and Nome eliminated flights to Nome for several days.

So, since we had beds assigned to us at Ladd AFB, we wandered around the tiny hills and tundra around the base, taking pictures of the scenery. Suddenly a jeep appeared. Two APs (Air Police) jumped out, pistols pointed at us. They took us back to AP headquarters, and turned us over to a lieutenant. We had identification, etc., but my camera bothered the officer. What had I taken pictures of? He had to take the camera. There was a war going on, etc. –

I’d almost a full roll of pictures, mostly taken other places. So I managed to talk him into taking the film, but not the camera. I told him it was color film – it couldn’t be processed on the base. This was back in 1952. He said they could do it. If after the film was processed, the pictures were okay, he’d send the pictures to me.

So, as Ed and I stood facing the lieutenant, and the two APs beside him with their pistols leveled at us, I wound the film out of the camera, took a fresh roll of film out of my bag, pushed the lead strip in, put the exposed film in the bag, and – reluctantly – handed the unexposed roll of film to the officer. I told him again, the base technicians couldn’t process color film – they’d ruin it, but he insisted they could.

Back in the barracks, Ed was scared when he found out what I’d done. We’d probably be shot as spies. Next day, we got a flight to Nome, did what we had to do, and flew back to Elmendorf. Haven’t heard any more about the incident.

This was in May, but Nome still had plenty of snow. One of my memories there is a young woman in a parka, pushing a baby buggy with tiny runners instead of wheels.

About a month later, most of our original group who brought the squadron to Alaska was flown to McCord AFB in Washington. Reached Brooks AFT on June 14, ’52. Since I was due to be discharged in a few months – I wasn’t going to reenlist again – I was given odd jobs, instead of a permanent assignment.

Only job I remember was helping a captain who had, among other duties, the job of reading recommendations from commanding officers of our detachments around the world. They were recommending promotions for enlisted men who deserved to be promoted to the next higher rank. Since the Table of Organization didn’t permit all promotions, my captain was to decide which sergeant, etc., would be promoted this time. This was a monthly decision.

For some reason I didn’t know, the captain had me read and make the decisions; then he would sign the recommendations. So for two months, I had the privilege of deciding the promotions of sergeants who already out-ranked me. No one knew it except the Captain and me, so –

Finally, on Oct. 17, ’52, my military career ended. What was past was now history. I was a lowly civilian.

April 6, 2003 – Hugh Hamilton (Sam)

................
................

In order to avoid copyright disputes, this page is only a partial summary.

Google Online Preview   Download