I wake up with
a bright warm light shinning in my face, but this time it isn't our tour director
with his casual invitation to breakfast. As I join the land of the living
the pieces slowly come together. I can see it is daylight and for a change
the sunshine is streaming in through the window. Wonder of wonders as I look
out the all I see is bright sunlight with no rain or clouds. Then the penny
dropped as I remember we aren't flying today, we are off any loading for five
days. In theory we are supposed to fly one day and be down two or more days,
however this never works out because of battle damage to planes, and the availability
of crews. I look over at some of the empty beds and think about bloody yesterday.
The reports were over 60 some planes lost over Europe and 5 over England,
which means an additional 650 empty beds this morning in the 8th Air Force.
I muse over the
battle of yesterday in the skies over Germany with everyone's maximum efforts
of placing our bombs on Schweinfurt. I can still see the flaming planes, the
parachutes, contrails, explosions and smoke, plus the charred bodies. The
flak and bullet riddled planes as we struggled home to our field here in England.
Today there will be no punishment of the long hours at sub zero temperature,
and breathing oxygen in the uncomfortable oxygen mask because of the thin
rarefied air. The next five days is ours to do what we want.
During breakfast
(no fried eggs today, only Spam [marque déposée
de pâté en conserve] and the leather powdered eggs),
we were advised we could get 3-day passes. We wondered whether it was they
felt sorry for us or was it no airplanes that could still fly. But we weren't
going to argue the point.
Before picking
up our passes we proceeded to the Base Chaplain's office to check on the info
for going to London. They could tell what trains to catch and where to stay.
There existed a very comfortable relationship with the Base Chaplains. To
me this was one of the finest groups of unsung heroes during the war. They
always let you approach them on your terms as they had a fine sense of our
feelings. They were the ones who insisted we be given leave, and probably
had more insight as to how effective we could perform than the Flight Surgeons.
These same men flew missions so as to better understand what kind of a world
we were living in, and the trauma we were experiencing. They of course all
had a key interest in your soul but the primary consideration was our spirit,
in looking back now they were always there for us. I believe in a "Supreme
Being", but am not a deeply religious person. I still distinctly remember
on that mission at the height of the air battle when it seemed as if we could
take no more of uttering "Oh Lord My God Is There No Help" and distinctly
hearing a voice saying "TRUST ME". I knew we were not alone in that
plane.
I have seen a
Protestant Chaplain give last rites to a Catholic crewmember who was about
to die, as there was no priest available. The following is a letter one of
our Chaplains wrote of his experiences with the Group, which gives an insight
to these dedicated men.
The Rev. Thomas
B. Richards was appointed as Chaplain to the 351st Bomb Group on November
1942, and served with the Group throughout the war returning to the United
States in June 1945, and finally being discharged in July 1945. He returned
to his former position as Chaplain of the US. Penitentiary at Lewisburg, PA,
for a further two years before moving to Rochester, NY to assume the Directorship
of the Men's Service Center Halfway House, where he remains to the present
time. He has also lectured, taught, and held consulting posts at the University
of Rochester, Rutgers University, and the Strong and Genesee Hospitals. The
holder of a Masters Degree from Rochester University, and a Doctors Degree
from Bucknell University, he still lives in Rochester NY. Our thanks to Rev.
Richards for this charming paper in which he reflects on his days at Polebrook.
"It's
hard to look back. I find that I have been putting it off. I've been telling
myself that I would go the attic one of these days and rummage through the
old letters and records and materials relative to the old 351st. I have finally
done so, and those two years at Polebrook have come alive again.
I was one
of the first few officers assigned to the original cadre of the 351st in Spokane,
WA, in the early summer of 1942. I remained with the Group throughout the
war, from training in the states into combat and back home again. I had a
total experience, as a Chaplain, and one I shall never forget. I know many
of our ground and flying personnel intimately; I got to know their wives and
families; carried on correspondence with the people back home, and in some
cases, had the sad task of "lying them to rest with honor" as the
war carried through to its ultimate conclusion.
I have not
forgotten the many who "paid the ultimate price", and I still feel
a deep sadness when I think of them, to realize that they have been dead all
these years, and the rest of us have been spared to live out our lives in
a reasonable normal fashion.
So, it's good
to think of those days at Polebrook - good for the soul - and it should make
us doubly grateful that we are still here to tell about it. l think of the
early morning briefings, the hot coffee and the powdered eggs, the aborted
missions, the missions I flew as an observer, the little chapel that was always
crowded on Sundays, the dances at the enlisted and officers clubs, our English
guests, Clark Gable's entourage (he made us famous and ruined our security),
the services I conducted for the British airmen at the Rothschild convalescent
mansion nearby, the people I married and; the people I should have married,
the MIAs land the KIAs (missing in action & killed in action), the cold
English winters and those miserable pot bellied stoves, my capable and loyal
clerk, Sgt. Mancke, and my organist, Capt. McCutcheon, the weather officer...It
goes on and on, but now that I've started, I'm not going to stop now! I think
of the bicycles and skinned shins, my uncomfortable jeep, and the many beer
runs I made to a brewery outside of London (in the line of duty), the terrible
cold in the waist of a B17 when we poked our 50 caliber's out at the attacking
fighters, the frightening rocking and shuddering of the plane as it made its
way through the flak, the assembly at the control tower to count the returning
planes, the countless visits to quaint little towns all over England on behalf
of the personnel who wanted "permission" to marry (the CO had to
give his OK, but I had to do the investigating), the time we marched into
the Peterborough Cathedral and I preached the sermon, the 48 hour passes and
the 7 day leaves, the hospitality of the Scotch people, the flying bombs that
first terrorized London, the high price in barter of a few country fresh eggs,
the brussel sprouts, the dark bread, the robust Land Army girls, and the first
time I saw a B29, and the realization that we had the most dependable, and
the real workhorse of the air war, in the B17.
I think of
Billy Conn's boxing show in the large hangar, those long walks on the perimeter
to visit the ground crews, the cable announcing my first born, which failed
to mention the sex.
I think of
the beautiful little pub in Oundle and the good friends at the Oundle School,
the vicar at the Polebrook Parish, the wedding we solemnized there in company
of the better part of the 508th Squadron.
I think of
those many trips to the air force cemetery outside of Cambridge, the sinking
feeling as I saw those crosses grow and grow in number, the German boy prisoners
on burial detail, and the letters we wrote to the folks back home.
I think of
the musical comedies which could be seen in provincial English towns during
the war, I think of the tea time in Coventry in a bomb-blasted shop with the
wind blowing through without impediment (testimony to English character),
those marvelous little English London Jitneys, the Red Cross Club in London,
and my failure to salute a two star general and the lecture he gave me!!
I think of
the heavy losses we suffered early in the war, how things improved when we
got longer range fighters, the respect we had for the German air force, and
how we marveled that the Spitfires had been able to save the Island, that
little patch of green.
I think of
the beauty of the English springtime, the lush green of the countryside, the
castles, the pubs, the churches, the indomitable people --indomitable people....
Come to think of it, it was quite an experience, and something to live through!
They tell me things have changed, but I'm sure "there will always be
an England"...
We all decide
to go to London as a crew. Being naive we picked up passes to go to London,
and made our way back to quarters to change into our uniforms and pack our
gear. Showered and with our shoes shined we changed to our class A uniforms
which smelled slightly of aviation fuel from our own cleaning efforts. The
quarters were full of advise about London. "Man, them Piccadilly Commandos
will give you such a dose it will peel your jewels right off you." A
gunner from Chicago warned us cheerfully. "Just keep those 'French letters'
that's is what the Limey call them - handy and you will be alright. Don't
worry if you run out it's easier to get a condom in London than a bar of soap.
Even the newspaper boys on the corner sell them. I wouldn't be surprised if
they didn't sell them with fish and chips" he chuckled. We had all heard
many stories about the wild and wicked London, with all the pubs, the cavernous
dance halls, the hotels with real sheets and warm baths. Then there were the
girls---The Piccadilly Commandos and the Hyde Park Rangers who prowled the
streets turning tricks in doorways or under park benches. There also nice
girls, who after dinner and drinks and dancing hopefully might invite you
home for a weekend away from war.
We proceed to
the main gate catching the ancient bus to Peterborough for the afternoon express
to London, which was jammed. GIs poured from the train platform into the ancient
train swamping it even spilling over into the corridors. The conductor's whistle
blew and with a cloud of steam the train slowly pulled out from the station.
The ochre and green landscape that was England slid by and after about two
hours the rural countryside began to melt gradually. The clusters of stucco
cottages along the track thickened into settlements spreading almost to the
horizon. Then the train plunged suddenly into a series of short tunnels rose
again gently and braked gliding to as steamy halt. We were in steel canopy
of Kings Cross Station in London. As soon as we were off the train we could
hear the shrieking of the air raid sirens and were quickly herded into the
many areas of the Underground (subway), as there was an air raid in progress.
Here we are trying
to get away from air raids and find ourselves in the middle of one! We only
heard some dull booms and felt some shaking. The worst was the mass of people
who very stoically stood around and waited for it to end and then be on their
way. It was apparently old stuff to them, and soon someone started to sing
"Roll Out The Barrel" with everyone joining in. "Come Yank"
get singing! How fast that hour passed.
We did get some
excellent instructions of where to go and what to see. The directions were
something else. In addition to trying to understand the "Cockney"
accent was their directions were far different than what we were used to :
"When you come out of the "Underground" bear left and go to
the Chip Shop, then cross the street and follow that street until you see
the "Old Spoon" Pub, and so on. This was always ended by "YOU
CAN'T MISS IT". We were used to directions using street names and for
so many specific blocks, so we were as confused as when we had asked the question.
While we were leaving the station many of the children came up to us and ask
"Any Gum Chum".
We made it to
an "English Pub" which is a social place and described as "Everyone's
Home away from Home". It is a "British Institution" and cannot
be created outside of its native land because the people who drink there make
a pub. "The Local" is an organic part of the community, and the
"Regulars" seem to continually prop up the bar.
We lined up for
a beer, which we knew, would be warm, but not as warm as the hospitality of
the patrons. They soon discovered we had taken part in the mission to Schweinfurt,
which was in today's London papers. Everyone bought us a drink, and we had
not yet learned to say: "Same Again" which was a custom to return
the drink. We always found the English people were very cordial to us and
treated us as visitors who came to help in the war effort. The Royal Air Force
personnel were also quite congenial, however the other branches of service
had the basic attitude of "Over Sexed -Over Paid -and Over Here".
Our pay scale was about twice that of the English Military, which they always
resented as we were all doing the same thing, plus the habit many Americans
have of leaving their change on the bar. This to the English was showing off.
Of course we
had a lot of "Bastards" who felt if it wasn't American or American
made it wasn't any good. They could be found in any Pub bragging very loudly
that they had come over to finally win the war for the British. Of course
someone once said the British and the Americans are two people separated by
a common language. We all found out soon enough what that meant. Trucks are
"lorries", flashlights are "torches", and the movies are
the "Cinema". There are also things you shouldn't say in polite
company, such as a "bum" isn't a panhandler; it is something you
sit on. Another item are some of the weird sounding phrases. If they suggest
"to send someone to knock you up" don't be shocked, it is to wake
you up in the morning. Another phrase "keep your pecker up", it
isn't what you think it is. Other things like driving on the left side of
the road, and having the money based on an impossible system, which doesn't
seem to make any sense. Of course there is the warm beer. You soon realize
these are the things, which are England, just as we look at baseball, jazz
and Coca-Cola. You look and listen before you start to tell the British how
much better we do things. They do want to hear what life is really like, as
most of what they know is only the "Hollywood Version" of wild Indians
and gangsters. We came to Britain where our homes were safe with no one dropping
bombs on them night after night, food is plentiful, and the lights are on.
The people may look a bit dowdy, however they have been taking it since 1939,
and all of Britain is a war zone. Everything is rationed, all clothes and
food. The food ration for a week is 4 ozs. of bacon or ham, every 4 weeks
16 ozs. Of jam or marmalade, 8 ozs., of fats (4 ozs. must be margarine), 8
ozs of cheese, and 16 ozs of hard soap. I always felt somewhat reluctant to
accept invitations to dinner unless I could contribute to their rationed lives
by taking food with me or ration coupons. All clothes are rationed and wearing
old clothes is considered good form.
Approximately
146,740 British civilians died from bombing, which had gone on night after
night. The whole of Britain, which includes England, Wales, and Scotland,
is hardly bigger than the state of Oregon. Each man guards his/her privacy,
and is equally careful not to invade another one's privacy. Sitting on a train
with you without striking up a conversation doesn't mean they are being haughty
and unfriendly. They are paying more attention to you than you think, but
don't want to appear intrusive or rude. The British dislike bragging and showing
off, but like your frankness as long as it is friendly. They are interested
in what it is really like in America, but don't tell them how much better
we do things.
There was usually
someone sitting at the piano playing the songs like ("Roll Out the Barrel,
Lili Marlene, I've Got Sixpence, Bless' Em All, Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant
Major, We'll Meet Again, The White Cliff's of Dover, When the lights Go On
Again, etc.") with all the pub singing along. They say these are the
songs that won the war.
It seemed no
time at all until the "Landlord" put a bar towel over the beer pumps,
and in a very loud voice said, "It's Time, Gentlemen" and everyone
gulping the last dregs from their glass. We found that all British Pubs were
on a very strict time schedule of a few midday hours and then usually from
5:30 to 10:30 in the evenings. We exchanged names with our newfound friends
and ask how to get to "Rainbow Corner" the Red Cross Center we had
been advised as a good start to find a place to stay.
Two of the Locals
offered to guide us there after we explained the trouble trying to understand
their directions. As we left the Pub we found ourselves somewhat unsteady
on our feet, what had appeared as warm watery beer really had a kick leaving
us feeling if we had been slugging down mixed drinks. English beer runs about
8% as against our 3.2%.
We proceeded
up one street, cut through kind of an alley, and in no time none of us had
any idea where we were or what direction we were going - the next thing we
were there. The Red Cross had space for us so we checked in. They gave each
of us a worn towel and a small piece of soap, and told us the showers are
upstairs and down the corridor. I made my way upstairs and stood in the shower
for a long time in the luxury of the warmth of the room with warm water coursing
over me. As I looked around there were other men in the shower standing languorously
beneath the hissing shower heads lost in that strange inner solitude produced
by a prolonged lack of privacy. With these pleasant sensations we made our
way to our assigned beds. With all the excitement and the alcohol nobody was
awake very long. The next morning we were up and at 'em to see all these things
we had read about in the history books : Westminster Abbey, St. Pauls, Big
Ben, Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, and of course Piccadilly Circus.
In the daylight
as we made our way to see "Big Ben" which is symbolic of London
and one of the most patriotic sounds as it strikes the hour. Shortly before
striking the hour it plays a short melody known as the Westminster Chimes
in the clock tower of the Houses of Parliament. We also saw the terrible destruction
of the bombing raids. News pictures could not show blocks of nothing, burned
out skeletons of buildings, a wall standing here with a bathtub dangling down,
and looking directly into someone's bedroom as there was no wall. We had heard
about the bombings, but were not prepared for such total destruction, and
held nothing but admiration for the English people continuing on in the face
of such calamity. We were soon looking up at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament
as it struck the hour. The thought occurred to me that huge old clock was
saying, "Hey, I'm still here, you haven't beat me yet".
I can still
remember as many others of our age group the Edward R. Murrow broadcast "This
is London Calling" and hearing Big Ben chiming in the background. This
to me was seeing history as we then proceeded on toward the "Houses of
Parliament". I can remember seeing pictures from the books in school
of all these things.
Of course "Piccadilly
Circus" was something else, and we soon heard "'owbout it love,
around the corner for a pound?" A voice cooed to us from nearby as we
passed. Which revealed a parted overcoat revealing a very short skirt and
a pair of nice legs in high heels. They were everywhere, the Commandos, wandering
the streets, waiting in doorways, hovering at the entrance to the underground,
plying their trade. When you took a good look at them, none of us were that
desperate.
By now we were
all ravenous, and there in front of us was a Fish and Chip Shop, which was
frying (because of the lack of fish, many such shops were not always open).
The fish was cod and dipped in a batter I have never seen duplicated here
and done to perfection, the chips (french fries) were golden brown, and the
whole lot was wrapped in newspaper, which seemed to add to the flavor. You
ate as you walked and I'm still convinced the newsprint had something to do
with the unique flavor. The English usually put vinegar (malt) on both the
fish and the chips. We then looked for a Pub, and found they are all closed
until about 5 or 6. We didn't learn about the "Off License" (a small
store which sells bottled liquor) until later.
We managed to
stop a taxi and all of us managed climbed in to go to Westminster Abbey. This
is an inspiring building and huge. It seems to throb with the pressure of
humanity both present and past. As you enter you are struck with the beauty
and the architecture especially the stained glass windows. You stare at the
congregations of white marble figures, some of them frozen in unnerving positions.
I believe all of us felt the sacred sanctity and were walking on hallowed
ground as we walked over the British heroes buried in the floor. There are
many parts and chapels to the Abbey and many areas were closed to entry, and
to see it all would take more than a day.
We decided we would return to the Pub we had been in last night, however no
one remembered the name or where it was located except it was between Charring
Cross and the Rainbow Center. I remembering thinking we are 10 men who a year
ago did not know even each other and are now bound together as a unit. We
were all common ordinary people from all walks of life who had been immediately
thrust into life threatening emotions. There had been thrust upon us in a
very short time a limited technical and emotional preparedness for what we
were doing to win this war. All of us felt our own way life had been threatened
with everyone jumping in to get the job done so as to get on with our lives.
We were well aware we were our youth, but with no regrets. All of us were
now well acquainted with fear. Knowing full well the specter of death continually
hovered over all of us on a daily basis. She seemed to be patiently waiting
for the proper time to gather us to her bosom for that trip to an unknown
country from whom no traveler returns. You could feel the camaraderie that
had developed between men of totally different backgrounds and personality.
We soon all
piled on to a double decker bus and ask the attendant about the pub. She told
us there must be 50 pubs between Charring Cross and the Rainbow Center. She
would tell us where to get off and if the pub sounds noisy try it out. The
attendant soon beckoned to us and we all piled off. We soon found ourselves
in a repeat of the pubs from last night. People kept telling us to go to the
dance hall at Covent Gardens. How we made it there I don't know, but there
it was. It was filled with foxtrotting couples moving as if in formation around
the crowded floor. The orchestra was an imitation of Glen Miller/Tommy Dorsey,
and really quite good. There was the RAF blue, American olive drab, Canadians,
Australians, French, Land Army Girls, WAAF, Wrens [Women
Royal Naval Service] , Civilians, and you name it. An American
Red Cross Girl asks "Pappy" (the oldest member of the crew) to dance,
and believe or not he accepted. Soon we were all dancing, because if you weren't
someone was sure to ask you. We all danced, chatted, and watched and what
a memorable time. It was late when we left after exchanging addresses and
telephone numbers from partners we knew we would never see again.
The next morning
we were hung over, and the breakfast of kippers, powdered eggs and weak coffee
didn't help too much. There was no agreement of where to go on this last day,
so we all agreed we would meet at the Kings Cross station to catch the train
back to Peterborough at 1800 under the clock, (so did everyone else).
Eddie (Navigator)
wanted to have lunch at "The Savoy" and I agreed to come with him,
if he would also go to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. Eddie was the youngest
on the crew, and somewhat timid, but we all had a hand in helping him grow
up. The night on the town must have changed him as he walked into the Savoy
as if he owned the place going past the doorman, and charged to the head of
line waiting to get into the restaurant. I was still blinking in amazement
when we were immediately seated. We were stunned at the prices, but were in
for a pound so what. I can't remember the food being any better than anywhere
else, but the wine was delicious. We then found the Wax Museum, which I can
remember vividly to this day how real all the models looked including Hitler
and Churchill. I have been in several wax museums since, but none have left
that impression on me. We then proceeded to the "Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe"
not without difficulty in finding it. I can still remember the narrow winding
stairs, but no one seemed get in each other's way.
Time had gotten
away from us and we made a mad rush by taxi to make it back to the Kings Cross
Station. When we arrive it seemed everybody else had agreed to meet under
the clock. Plus finding there was more than one clock. We eventually found
everyone and had to run to catch the train. Soon we were all asleep, and the
next thing I knew "Pappy" was shaking me to wake up as we were in
Peterborough and the next stop was Leeds. We managed to get everyone awake
and in a stupor off the train, but some of us had misplaced our tickets. The
guard finally let us through shaking his head at the "Yanks". We
were starved and found a restaurant open under the bridge, which was serving
spam, eggs (powdered), and chips. Oh, how wonderful they tasted although the
thought of them today I wouldn't touch them.
Arriving back
at the base we were all exhausted, but what a wonderful feeling of getting
away. We never again went on leave together although many times we would pair
up and go different places. Later I was to go with Bill (Ball Turret Gunner)
to Blackpool where I met my wife.
Wally
Hoffman, Dec. 2001
Retour à
l’introduction
Retour au choix thématique
