|
Originally written only for his family, I have posted Ken Williams' story in full, apart
from a few paragraphs near the end, because it is just so full of fascinating detail ... |
WORLD
WAR TWO AND BEYOND
|
When Pearl Harbor
was attacked on 7 December 1941, I was a second year engineering
student at Purdue University. The following mid-January, when registering
for the second semester, I spotted an Army Air Corp recruiting table
near the entrance of the registration building. It had been one
month since war had been declared and the entire nation was caught
up in a patriotic fever. I had a private pilots license since I
was sixteen years old so felt that I should volunteer. I was nineteen
years old and the draft at the time was for twenty-one year olds.
Also, engineering students with a 3.0 average or better were draft
exempt. So, I was certainly not joining the Army Air Corps to avoid
the draft but did it because I was outraged. I was not alone in
this, most all other Americans felt the same. I went to the recruiting
table and volunteered. I passed the physical and written exams so
tore up my class registration cards. I was then was told to go home
and wait until I was called. There were not enough training facilities
available to accommodate all the new volunteers. I worked as a junior
draftsman in Cleveland until I was sworn in as an Aviation Cadet
on 30 March 1942 and sent to Kelly Field, San Antonio, Texas. Much
to our chagrin, instead of starting our flight training, we were
placed in a labor force to clear land, dig ditches and to build
the new Army Air Corp Reception Center. We were not even issued
uniforms, just two flight suits and a cap. My flight suits were
at least a size 48, the crotch reaching almost to my knees. Initially,
we were not even issued shoes or boots, I wore my civilian "Saddle
Shoes" while digging ditches. We lived in tents and spent the
next three months on the working end of a shovel under a blazing
Texas sun. We were a very disillusioned bunch. The only consolation
was, that as Aviation Cadets, we were paid seventy-five dollars
a month vs. the twenty-one dollars a month paid to other recruits.
Finally, on 4 July 1942, I was sent to Primary Flying School at
Ballinger, Texas. From there to Basic Flying School at Waco, Texas
and then on to Advanced Flying School at Eagle Pass, Texas. |
I graduated from
flying school, Class 43-B, at Eagle Pass, Texas on 15 February 1943.
From a class of 120, I was one of the eight happy Second Lieutenants
assigned to fighter training, reporting immediately to Richmond,
Virginia. There we flew our first fighters, P-40s [Curtiss P-40
Warhawk] and the then new P-47-Cs. On 29 March 1943, I was assigned
to the 354th Fighter Squadron, 355th Fighter Group at Philadelphia
flying P-47-Cs, affectionately known as "The Jug" due
to its shape. There we flew interception patrols and did air-to-air
gunnery training off the coast of Atlantic City. On 29 June 1943,
we sailed on the Queen Elizabeth for England. We arrived at Steeple
Morten, England in early July 1943. We flew P-47-D Thunderbolts
until January 1944 when we switched to old P-51-B Mustangs. Up until
this time, we had done a few dive bombing missions but we had primarily
flown bomber escort missions. However, if we had enough fuel after
escorting the bombers and had no enemy air opposition, we could
go down on the deck and look for targets of opportunity on our way
home. |
The Luftwaffe, in
the hope of conserving its fighter strength to help repel the coming
invasion of Europe, were refusing to give battle except under the
most favorable of circumstances. Yet, the alarming numbers of Luftwaffe
fighters had to be destroyed before D-Day which had been set for
early June 1944. So, if they were not to be found in the air, then
they would have to be sought out and destroyed on the ground. Colonel
Glenn Duncan, Commanding Officer of the 353rd Fighter Group, suggested
to Major General William Kepner, Commanding General of the 8th Fighter
Command, that sixteen volunteer pilots be given special intensive
training in the art of ground strafing. The concept was approved.
Under Col. Duncan, the unit was irreverently called "Bills
Buzz Boys", Bill being General William Kepner. The new squadron
was to be comprised of volunteers from four different fighter groups.
I decided to volunteer because the P-51-Bs that we had received
were old aircraft with many problems and they only had four guns
vs eight in the P-47s. Also, I had just lost my buddy because the
wings of his P-51 had folded as he was pulling out of a dive following
a Me-109. Naturally, as soon as I volunteered, we were issued new
model P-51-Ds that were great and had six guns. In February 1944,
I was one of the sixteen volunteers selected to fly with Col. Duncan.
The goal was to destroy as many German aircraft as possible. We
flew specially equipped P-47s. Instead of the original Curtis Electric
propeller, we had Hamilton Standard paddle-blade propellers to provide
greater speed and rate of climb, electric bomb releases vs. manual
lanyards for better bombing accuracy and API (Armor Piercing Incendiary)
ammunition for better fire power. We were attached to the 353rd
Fighter Group located near Metfield. The 353rd was also commanded
by Col. Duncan but we flew as an independent squadron. Col. Duncan
would take us out in flights of four to practice navigation while
flying on the deck. If we pulled up over trees when we could have
cocked a wing and gone between the trees, you would be sure to hear
from him. As we flew around the British countryside learning to
navigate at near zero altitude, we must have upset many cows, horses,
and probably their owners. The missions that we were being trained
for was to fly a horseshoe shaped pattern deep into Europe. The
route would include as many known German airfields as possible.
We were to fly at about 12,000 feet so as to be able to see any
airfield activity and still be above the range of small arms fire.
If we spotted any activity on an airfield, we would continue on
for about twenty miles until out of visual range. Col. Duncan would
then dispatch a flight of four back to attack the target. At that
point, the squadron would be flying away from the target. The attacking
flight would then roll over on its back and do a split "S"
back to the target. We would pull out just above the ground at full
throttle, hug the ground, and in excess of 400 mph, navigate back
on the deck to attack the target. The idea was to gain an element
of surprise. In addition, the hope was that flying close to the
ground, we would give the enemy gunners less time to identify, aim
and shoot at us. Also, flying close to the ground while crossing
the center of a German airfield, the airdrome perimeter defenders
might hit each other when shooting at us. If we lost the element
of surprise and came under fire prior to reaching the target, we
were to break off the attack, split into pairs and fly around the
airfield to attack another day. In the month of March 1944, in eight
missions, Bill's Buzz Boys lost two pilots, plus myself missing
in action, 3 P-47s, and 13 P-47s damaged. For these losses, the
squadron claimed 14 enemy aircraft destroyed, 6 probably destroyed,
14 damaged on the ground, 17 locomotives, 1 boat, 1 hanger and strafed
nine flak towers. We successfully changed the Luftwaffe's policy
of conserving planes. No longer could they keep them on the ground
and use them only when it was to their advantage. From then on,
the Luftwaffe would either have to come up and fight in the air,
where it could be mastered, or be destroyed on the ground by roving
Allied fighters. |
On Sunday, 26 March
1944, I was a First Lieutenant and had just been recommended for
promotion to Captain. This was to be my 64th mission. Our mission
that day was to fly deep into south-central France. We were to find
and shoot up as many German airfields as we could find. As this
was a maximum range mission, we would carry a 108 gallon drop tank
to extend our range. We departed our base at the first crack of
dawn to fly to a Spitfire base in southern England to top off our
fuel tanks. This was necessary in order to provide the maximum range
required for this mission. The belly drop tanks had only about a
3" ground clearance and the main wheels of the P-47 are wide
apart. The Spitfire base was a grass field and not perfectly level.
Guess what! Straddling small knolls while landing, the drop tanks
on four of the sixteen of our aircraft bumped the ground. They were
jostled just enough on the racks to break the glass feed tube. The
feed tube was glass so that when you dropped the tank in flight,
the tank would break cleanly away from the airplane. A broken feed
tube would prevent the fuel in the drop tank from being utilized.
Naturally, the Spitfire base did not have replacement feeder tubes
for our P-47s. My aircraft and the aircraft of the number four man
in my flight had broken tubes. As flight leader, I took my wingman's
undamaged aircraft and sent him back to our base in my P-47, "Hell's
Angels II". He went back with the other three disabled birds.
The element leader in my original flight now became my wing man.
As a flight leader, I now was leading a flight of two planes instead
of four. |
It was about eight
am when we finally departed the British base for our mission into
France. We were flying at 12,000 feet and about 125 miles south
of Paris, between Tours and La Chartre. There we spotted the German
airfield called Chateaudun. We could see aircraft and activity on
the ground. After we had flown on out of sight of the airfield,
Col. Duncan ordered Red Flight (mine) down to attack. So Al (Stud)
Star, my wingman, and I rolled over and down we went at full throttle
hugging the ground back to Chateaudun. As we approached the airfield
I could see the ground around us being kicked up by enemy fire.
The rule was that if we did not have the element of surprise, we
would break off the attack and fly around the target. As we obviously
lacked surprise, I called "No Joy, Break Left". I started
to roll away and saw that my wingman was continuing on. He was known
for not listening to his radio. The theory was, that when attacking
an airfield with four aircraft, each aircraft would absorb 25% of
the defensive fire power thus increasing the individual survivability
odds. So with that concept in mind, to help Stud, I rolled back
onto the target to help absorb some of the defensive fire power.
As I approached the near edge of the field, I saw a He 111 (a twin
engine bomber) being serviced by a refueling truck. One quick burst
of API ammo and they both blew up in my face. It was like flying
into a brick wall. As I came out of the other side of the explosion,
my engine had stopped and the canopy was covered with oil. Instinctively,
I pulled straight up. That was a wrong move. I was going straight
up right in the center of the airdrome. This let every perimeter
defense gun shoot at me. With no engine noise, I could hear and
feel my plane being hit. One shell came over my shoulder through
the canopy and shattered the instrument panel. Shrapnel hit my knees
and hand. I kicked the plane over to get out of the heavy fire that
I was receiving and back to hugging the ground. I could only see
through the lower left corner of the canopy due to the oil covering
it. With the engine out, I was just coasting from the speed of my
dive. At this point, I was probably a couple of miles beyond the
airfield and hugging the ground. I hit the mike button and said
"Red Leader here, I have had it and going in". I later
learned that the squadron had heard my call and the one that I had
earlier made to Stud. At about this time my left wing was blown
off, probably by an 88mm in a flak tower. With the loss of the left
wing, the right wing, due to its lift, rolled the aircraft 270 degrees.
The right wing then hit the ground breaking it off. The plane flipped
on its nose tearing the engine off. Just the fuselage, with me in
it, bounced across a field ending up on its side. I survived only
because I had crashed in a soft recently plowed field in a P-47,
the most rugged aircraft of its time. By instinct, I reached to
simultaneously push the two red buttons to blow up the IFF (Identification-Friend-or-Foe)
radio to prevent its use by the Germans. There was no noise of a
detonation. The impact of the crash had probably already detonated
it. Next, I reached for the thermal bomb to burn the airplane. It
was about the size of a spray can of paint and in a clip on the
side of the cockpit. I removed the cover, struck the ignitor and
threw it down in the cockpit. Why I was taking time to try to burn
this wreckage I'll never know. I was just reacting by instinct to
the things that I had been trained or told to do. All of this took
place in a split second. I unbuckled my harness and parachute and
crawled out. Taking a quick look around, I started running across
the plowed field away from the German air base. When I couldn't
run any more, I threw myself down into a recently plowed furrow
to get my breath. It was then that I realized that I was still wearing
my bright yellow "Mae West" life vest. What a target!
I quickly buried it in the soft dirt and took off again running
toward some woods. As I approached the wooded area I saw that it
was on the other side of a small stream. Half swimming, half wading,
I crossed the stream into the woods. Wet and exhausted, I threw
myself on the ground. About this time I heard aircraft and looking
up saw that it was my squadron circling back to see what had happened.
I later learned that they had spotted the wreckage of my plane and
concluded that there was little chance of my survival. Based on
their report, the letter sent to my parents by the chaplain was
not an encouraging one. However, I was officially listed as "Missing
in Action". By now, it was about nine o'clock Sunday morning.
As my buddies flew away and eventually back to England, I suddenly
felt so terribly alone. What now? |
I did not have to
wait long. I soon heard German search parties so I started moving
away from the airfield, staying along the stream and in the woods.
I heard some shooting and assumed they were trying to scare me out
of hiding. It scared me all right, but only to make me continue
to move on as fast as I could. This went on until mid-afternoon
and I was running out of energy. I stopped to explore the contents
of my escape kit. The escape kit was in a pocket that had been sewn
inside my leather flight jacket. Among the items in the kit were
silk maps, a tiny compass (that I still have), malt energy tablets,
pep pills, French money, four passport pictures, and a French phrase
card. I ate a malt energy tablet and pushed on. By late afternoon
I finally ran out of adrenaline and had to stop I found a hiding
place and decided that a pep pill might help. Soon after taking
the pill, I passed out. I found out later that the pep pills knocked
out about 10% of people using them. For me, it definitely did not
work as an upper. Luckily, the Germans did not find me. I woke up
very early the next morning to find myself cold and miserable. A
wet snow had fallen over night and I was still damp from crossing
the stream the day before. I was so stiff and sore that I could
hardly move. For the first time I realized that I had been hurt.
My back and shoulders hurt, probably from the shoulder harness restraining
me during the crash. My forehead had a big lump and bleeding from
bouncing off the gun sight. My hand and legs hurt from shrapnel
wounds. All in all I felt miserable and scared. I had no idea what
to do next. I even thought about trying to find my way back to the
airfield and steal an airplane. As desperate as I was, I had to
admit to myself what a long shot that would be. I just stayed where
I was for some time trying to get warm. Pretty soon I heard the
German search parties. Time to move on. |
A sidelight here.
I was injured in an auto accident in 1999. While in the hospital,
to determine the full extent of my injuries, they did a complete
body Cat Scan. Interestingly enough, the Cat Scan showed two old
injuries, one on each side of my neck. These injuries had to have
come from the shoulder straps restraining me during the crash in
France. No wonder that I was hurting so. |
So all that second
day the game of Hide-Go-Seek continued. At the end of this second
day, just before dark, tired, hungry, cold, and hurting, I found
myself in a marsh. I found a path that was like a ridge running
above the marsh area. I decided to follow it and almost immediately
heard voices. I left the path and hid in the bushes. Soon, I saw
three women walking along a path in the woods. Two were older ladies
and the third was a young lady in her twenties. We had been taught
in Escape-Evasion classes to only approach a single person for help.
The reasoning was that when approaching two or more people, though
they each might individually be willing to help, each might be reluctant
to do so for fear that one of the others might turn them in. I was
too desperate to worry about that possibility and had no fear of
being overpowered by them. I stepped out onto the path and frightened
them half to death. Having had only two years of high school French,
I used the French phrase card from the escape kit to ask for help.
The younger woman, looking at the card, immediately started to scold
me in perfect English. She had read the statement "Do Not Display
In Public" printed across the bottom of the card. I was embarrassed
but relieved to find someone who could speak English. I asked her
for help. She turned to the two elderly ladies and began to speak
to them in French. It was obvious that they were frightened. Finally
she turned to me and explained the circumstances. The two older
ladies were her aunts. One of the aunts had just lost her husband.
The young niece, I later learned, was named Suzanne Mathieu and
was there from Paris for her uncle's funeral. She finally convinced
her two frightened aunts to allow me to go to their home but they
appeared very apprehensive. The Germans had already searched their
village twice looking for me. Suzanne told me to follow them at
a discreet distance. If anyone was to appear, I was to get off the
path and hide. So off we started on the short walk to the village
of Tre Marboue. It was dusk and soon to be dark. As we approached
the village, here came a woman pushing a baby carriage. I left the
path to hide and wait while they all had a conversation. It seemed
like forever. Finally the woman with the carriage moved on. I was
worried that I had lost my new friends so hurried the best I could
to catch them. I soon found them moving slowly on. They then entered
their house and motioned me to come in. |
Once safely in their
house, the two aunts became very solicitous of me. Neither one of
them could speak English. They helped me out of some of my damp
and dirty clothes. I was wearing my leather A-2 flight jacket and
had a flight suit over my Forest Green wool shirt and Officer Pink
pants. I also was wearing British escape boots. The boots were European
style oxford shoes with attached sheepskin lined uppers. The upper
portion could be removed by cutting the stitches. That night, with
a borrowed knife, I cut the stitches. Now with the tops removed,
I had ordinary European styled street shoes. After I removed the
boots, jacket and flight suit, they could see my bloody pant legs.
The ladies became concerned and asked me to remove my trousers to
look at my wounds. The wounds looked worse than they really were.
But one of the ladies left and returned with a doctor. They cleaned
up my legs and hand and washed the dried blood from the lump on
my head. Since the Germans were still searching for me, Suzanne
said that we must leave by train for Paris early the next morning.
I needed civilian clothes so the aunts altered some clothes for
me that had belonged to the deceased uncle. I was to wear a beret
and an old suit over my own pants and shirt. Why I wanted to keep
my uniform on, I don't know. Perhaps I was thinking that I would
need warm clothing to wear while crossing the Pyrenees mountains.
We had been briefed in Escape-Evasion classes that this was the
usual escape route for allied airmen from occupied France into Spain.
I left my flight suit and leather jacket for the women to dispose
of. I took off my flying school class ring and crash bracelet and
with a pin that they gave me, fastened the ring and bracelet to
my underwear. While all of this was going on, I was given some food.
It was a short night. When they woke me it was still dark. After
getting dressed and having something to eat, Suzanne and I were
ready to leave for the train station. I tried to thank the two ladies
and offered them some Francs from the escape kit. They would not
accept the money, I think that they just wanted me out of there. |
Suzanne and I walked
to the Marboue train station arriving just as it was showing first
light. She bought two third class tickets and gave me one. She had
told me not to act like we were travelling together, to keep a distance
but in sight. Of course the train was late. Allied aircraft were
disrupting rail traffic more and more. As we waited, it began to
get daylight and other people were arriving at the station. I kept
moving around the platform avoiding people. I did not want anyone
to try to start a conversation with me. Each minute seemed like
an hour before the train finally arrived. We boarded the third class
coach and sat on long wooden benches. It was about 125 miles to
Paris. |
I have to deviate
here. Remember my escape boots, now oxfords? Back at our base we
had them half-soled so they would be rugged enough for the long
hike out over the Pyrenees Mountains, the usual escape route from
France. The half -soles were a rubber composition just like those
on GI boots. Across the edge of the half-sole toward the heel was
molded the words "US Army". Now back to the story. |
Besides Suzanne,
there were only a few other passengers in the coach. My legs were
hurting so I put my legs up on the bench. Soon I noticed a woman
trying to get my attention. She was indicating to me to put my feet
down. I was a little puzzled why my feet weren't allowed on a wooden
bench. I looked at them and then realized she was alerting me to
the "US Army" on the soles of my shoes. Needless to say,
my feet were firmly planted on the floor for the balance of the
trip. We finally arrived in Paris at around noon. |
Suzanne had briefed
me before we had left Marboue on what to expect and how to act upon
reaching Paris. Since I had no identification papers, I should try
to enter the passenger area of the station mixed in with as large
a group as possible. The Germans were not checking everyone but
I was to try to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was to go ahead
to buy Metro tickets, walk back and give me a ticket. I was to follow
her at a distance, sit near her on the Metro, get off when she did
and follow her to her apartment. Following this plan, I joined in
with a group of people and successfully entered the station. It
was huge, like Grand Central Station in New York City. It was packed
with both civilians and German troops. I could not find Suzanne
in the crowd. My knees became weak from fright. I felt that if I
could not sit down, I would fall down. The benches were all full
and there was no place to sit down. I was terrified. What do I do?
Where should I go? After what seemed an eternity and fighting panic,
I finally spotted her. I don't know what I would have done or what
would have happened had I not found her. She came up and slipped
me a ticket (I still have the ticket stub). We got on the Metro
and I took a seat a couple of rows behind her. Before we left the
station, a stout German female soldier took the aisle seat beside
me. Near panic again, especially when I had to crawl over her to
get off. We arrived at the apartment without incident. I was surprised
at the apartment building. It was at least upper middle class. I
later found out that some German staff officers and their families
were living in the building. Suzanne's apartment was small and on
the third floor. She had brought some food with her from Marboue.
We had something to eat and then she left to shop for food and I
later learned to make some phone calls. I was exhausted and immediately
fell asleep. |
We soon fell into
a routine. Suzanne would go out each morning to shop for food while
I would try to exercise and flex my legs. Food was severely rationed
and the two of us shared what food Suzanne could find with her single
ration card. She always insisted on giving me the largest portions.
She was able to get me a wooden handled tooth brush, an aluminium
container of tooth paste, a safety razor and a packet of Gillette
Blue Blade razor blades (I still have them all). My 22nd birthday
occurred a couple of days after our arrival in Paris. Suzanne made
me a cake. It was made from unbleached flour, no baking soda, no
icing. It was about the size of a pancake and not much thicker and
it had a match for a candle. I will never forget it. We would listen
to BBC on the radio for the war news. We kept it very low as it
was forbidden to listen to BBC and German families lived in the
building. I learned more about Suzanne. She seemed to come from
an upper middle class family. She had a chateau north of Paris and
this apartment. She did not work. Her brother had graduated from
the French military academy equivalent to our West Point. He was
a regular officer in the French Army when France fell. When France
fell, some of the French military fled from France to Africa and
England to fight as the Free French. Others stayed in France and
organized an underground resistance force. Suzanne's brother was
in the latter group. I had lucked out again, Suzanne had the contacts
and was working to get me into the underground system. Personally,
I grew very comfortable. April in Paris with a young woman and having
little or no responsibility for anything. What a great way to wait
out the war! However, I was still a prisoner as I could not go out
of the apartment. After a couple of weeks, the bubble finally burst.
She told me that a friend was coming. He was her brother's classmate
at the military academy and he too was in the resistance force.
She would find a place for me until he could get me into the underground
system. I never met or saw him to my knowledge. |
So on to my next
residence in Paris, not too far from the apartment. Suzanne and
I walked to the house of Madame Nahon. Madame Nahon was a widow
and had a son, Guy, living with her. Guy had been in the French
Army in the medical corps when the French Army was defeated. He
was now working as a pharmacist. They were both very good to me
and Madame Nahon really mothered me. After a couple of days, Suzanne
came to tell me that she had gotten me into the Underground. I said
my good-byes to the Nahon's. Guy gave me a tin of Nestle's condensed
milk. It had a sweet creamy vanilla taste and tasted so good. Madam
Nahon gave me two small handkerchiefs. One had the day that I had
arrived at her home, "Wednesday", embroidered on it for
my mother and the other for me (I still have the handkerchiefs).
It was there that I also said my last good-bye to Suzanne. There
was no way that I could thank her enough. She had done so much for
me and at such great personal risk to her own life. I then followed
Suzanne to the park, "Place de la Nation". There she passed
me on, with a nod of her head, to a lady sitting on a bench. I followed
the new lady to her place. Odette Ernest was an older lady, spoke
perfect English and was very much in charge. She was an active member
of the Underground. I found out after the war that she had helped
a number of other Allied air crew members to escape. After the war
she was honored and presented with the M B E "Member of the
Order of the British Empire" and the title "Dame"
the female equivalent of "Knighthood". I was surprised
to learn that she was a British subject. She also received the Croix
de Guerre from the French Government. Really quite a lady! The next
day, she led me to a park were we both sat on different benches
and waited. Finally, a man came by and with a nod of her head, she
indicated that I was to follow him. |
It was shortly after
noon when this contact was made. He led me all over Paris for several
hours. My legs began bothering me. Just when I was beginning to
wonder how much farther I could walk, he turned into an alley. He
stopped, unlocked a door, waved me in, closed and locked the door
behind me. There I was all alone again. It was late afternoon. I
could see that I was in a boarded up restaurant. Shades were drawn
over the windows and some chairs were stacked on the tables but
little else. There was dead silence but periodically I could hear
the rumble of a subway below. I waited and waited, all alone. It
became completely dark and I was beginning to worry again. Finally
I heard the back door opening. In came two men, one had been my
guide earlier that day. Neither could speak any English. Shortly,
another man and a woman entered and someone lit some candles. This
man could speak English and was obviously in charge. He asked if
I was injured in any way. When I told him my knees bothered me a
little, he wanted to see them. I tried to pull up my pant legs and
he saw that I had on two pair of pants. He became very upset when
he saw that I was wearing my uniform under the suit. He told me
to take off all my clothes. When I got down to my shorts, he saw
my injured legs and got all upset again. Apparently, he was planning
to send me out over the Pyrenees to Spain. He sent one of the men
to get a doctor. He also became upset when he saw my class ring
and crash bracelet pinned to my shorts. He wanted me to remove them.
I argued that if the Germans got me down to my shorts that they
had me anyway. Besides, I would be wearing my "dog tags"
so didn't feel that these additional items would make any difference.
I also insisted on removing the wings from my uniform and fastening
them to my shorts. He finally agreed (I still have all these items).
In retrospect, it was stupid to make an issue about the ring, crash
bracelet and the wings. The tradition at the time was that as long
as you were on flying status you would not take off your flying
school ring. After returning to England, I never took the ring off
again until I retired from the Air Force many years later. The other
superstition was that when flying, you wore only your original wings
presented at graduation, not the wings you purchased to wear on
your regular uniforms. I wanted to keep these original wings. He
did insist that I remove my government issued pilots wrist watch.
I wanted to keep it in my pocket but he took the watch anyway. He
was more happy when he found that my escape kit had passport pictures.
He took the pictures and the silk maps from the kit. I argued that
I wanted the maps but he said no. I guess that for security reasons,
he did not want me to be able to follow my escape route using the
maps. He did give me the money and compass from the kit (I still
have the compass and some of the money). The leader began to interrogate
me about how and where I went down and how I had gotten to Paris.
I did not know how much to say in order to protect those that had
already helped me. I soon decided that he already knew the facts
and was just testing me. The man who had been sent out earlier returned
with a doctor. The doctor did a quick check of my legs. He said
that I should not go out over the Pyrenees. That caused a lot of
conversation among the group. Of course I could not follow all the
conversation but I kept insisting that I was okay. After a lot of
talk between them, the leader offered a solution. I could go out
with a British Intelligence Officer by boat if I would be willing
to help the officer if necessary. The leader would not elaborate
or provide any kind of information as to when or where I would be
going. I was in a quandary. As a downed pilot, if captured, I would
end up in a German prison camp. Not a pleasant thought but probably
not life threatening. However, if caught with a British Intelligence
Officer, I could be considered a spy and very well lose my protection
provided under the Geneva Convention Rules of War. If I did not
take this offer, I did not know what the underground could or would
do for me. Finally, I said that I would accept the offer. With that,
two of the men and the doctor took my passport pictures and left.
There I was, only in my under shorts, with the leader and the woman.
They spoke among themselves while I felt quite alone and uncertain
of what was ahead. In retrospect, I often wondered if this man was
the French Officer friend of Suzanne's. |
After awhile, one
man came back with some clothes ... not a suit like I had been wearing,
but some very rural appearing clothing and a beret (I still have
some of this clothing). Some time later, the second man returned
with a younger woman. She was maybe eighteen or nineteen. He also
had a false birth certificate for me and an identification paper
with my passport picture attached (I still have both documents).
I was now a seventeen year old farmer from Brittany. My name was
Jean Tanguy. It turned out that I was going to Brittany. In Brittany,
a different dialect is spoken. This might help cover the fact that
I could not speak or understand much French. If questioned by German
guards I was told that the German troops would probably not be fluent
in French either. After putting on my new old clothes, I looked
like a poor farm boy. They told me that the young woman and I would
leave late that night by train for the Brest Peninsula. There I
would, in time, meet up with the British Intelligence Officer. They
briefed me on how to act on the trip and to let the girl do any
talking that might be necessary. She could not speak any English
but we were to travel as a couple. She too was dressed like a poor
farm girl. They also gave us train tickets, third class. By then
it was late in the evening and someone gave me something to eat.
The first since that morning. It must have been about midnight when
the young girl (they were known as conductresses) and I reached
the same train station that I had arrived at with Suzanne. This
time the station was not as crowded with people but I did not have
to show my identification papers, much to my relief. We soon boarded
the train but we had to wait awhile before it departed. While waiting,
two German soldiers came to our compartment. I think that they had
been drinking. They made some remarks to the girl that I could not
understand. I thought, "oh boy, what now". I don't know
what she answered but they moved on. We settled down for the train
ride to Brittany. (During a recent visit to Paris, we found that
the train station is now an art museum.) |
Shortly after dawn,
we arrived at what I think was the town of Rennes. There we had
to change trains. We did not have to wait long, maybe an hour for
the next train to Morlaix (I still have this ticket). Boarding this
train, I had to show my papers for the first time. The coastal zone
that we were entering was considered a restricted area by the Germans.
The trick was to keep my hand from shaking while holding out the
false papers to be checked. Much to my relief, I was passed right
through. This train stopped at every village and town on the way
out the Brest Peninsula. It must have been about noon when we arrived
at Morlaix. We got off the train and walked quite a distance. Stopping
on a small dirt road in the countryside, the young conductress pointed
to the side of the road and indicated that I was to stay there.
With that she walked on down the road. This was the last time I
saw her. I was not too happy to see her leave and to be left alone
again. I decided to get off the road and get out of sight. I found
a hiding place where I could still watch the road. It must have
been an hour or more later when I saw a man coming down the road.
He seemed perplexed and checking both sides of the road, obviously
looking for something. I decided that he must be looking for me
so I stepped out. He must have been told of my appearance and clothes.
He immediately indicated that I was to follow him back the way he
had come. We entered a village of stone houses. He led me through
a gate into a courtyard containing what looked like a small saw
mill. The man took me into a shed and sent me up a ladder to a loft
above the shed. This man could speak some English. He told me to
remain quiet until he returned. The small bare loft looking down
onto the courtyard had a blanket and a slop jar. It was then about
mid-afternoon. I waited and watched the man as he worked in his
lumberyard. It was late afternoon when two German soldiers came
into the courtyard. Panic time again! To my amazement, they all
began to try to converse and were laughing. The Germans finally
left with a couple of pieces of lumber. At dark the man came up
the ladder with some bread and some kind of soup. I was starved
having not eaten since the night before. He told me to remain where
I was. As tired as I was, I found it difficult to sleep that night
probably because of the uncertainty of what might lay ahead. Early
the next morning he led me into the attached house. There was a
woman making breakfast and a teenage boy. What was to pass as coffee
had string-like things in it similar to coconut shreds but did not
taste like coconut. After breakfast, a young woman, my new conductress,
showed up with two bicycles. She too could not speak any English.
|
It was a beautiful
day and off we went. After awhile a tire on her bike began to go
soft. When she stopped to pump it up with her bicycle pump, I tried
to help her and she got angry. I later learned that in this rural
area men did not help women in such a situation. That was why she
was upset, she had felt that it might be noticed if I helped her.
We pedaled on for a couple of hours until my knees started to give
out. I slowed down and she kept going. Finally I rang the bell on
the bike and sat down on the side of the road. She came back very
angry. I pulled up my pant legs and when she saw my injuries, she
calmed down. We had some bread that she had in her basket and then
pedaled on. This time she let me set the pace. Early that afternoon
we came across German troops on a Field Exercise. They were charging
across a field, hitting the ground, setting up machine guns, etc.
When we rode through their exercise, they raised up from the ground,
probably to watch the girl. More panic time! Later we came to another
village of stone houses. We rode right into the center of the village
to a building on the town square. It was a house that had a general
store attached to it. We parked our bikes in front of the store
and went in. The conductress said a few words to an older woman
there. The woman opened an inside door and motioned me in. That
was the last time I saw that young conductress. |
I found myself in
a fairly large combination kitchen-eating area. Soon the woman came
in and led me to a bedroom. Here, I met the British Intelligence
Officers; yes, two Brits. It turns out that one of the officers
having entered and left Occupied Europe several times, was suffering
from a nervous breakdown. The second officer had been sent there
to help get him out, or if necessary, to destroy him to keep him
out of enemy hands. The sick officer appeared heavily drugged and
always appeared to be so. The other officer and I spent a lot of
time together but I cannot remember his name. Whatever he told me
probably was not his real name anyway. He told of some of his previous
experiences of being dropped into Occupied Europe, including of
one into Germany. These great stories all ended with the message
that you must never relax or forget for a moment where you were.
When I asked him why did the family at the house that I had just
left risk so much by taking me in. The Brit said that they wanted
their son to go to England to become a Spitfire pilot. They had
been promised that he would soon be taken to England for training.
I remarked that the boy did not seem a likely candidate for flight
school so why such a promise. He answered that this was war and
sometimes it was necessary to do and say many things. It also indicated
to me that he knew who this family was even though he had not been
there when I was. |
We were in a household
of a mother and three daughters. The mother ran an autocratic household,
when she said jump, they all jumped. She really was not a very pleasant
person. The Brit said that they were Bolshevics. For the German
troops garrisoned in the town, the building across the street from
the house and store was the German field kitchen. The troops would
line up outside on the sidewalk and the cooks would fill their mess
kits through an open window. The troops would then sit on the curb
along the street to eat. Occasionally a German would enter the store.
We spent our days quietly in a back bedroom. For meals and in the
evening, we sat in the kitchen at a big table. One noon the door
from the store to the kitchen opened and a German soldier walked
in. He didn't say any thing, he just checked the radio to see if
it was on the forbidden BBC frequency. It wasn't, so he walked out
barely glancing at us. Another brief panic! We did listen to BBC
for war news but always made sure it was not left to the BBC frequency
when turned off. I think the Brit Officer also listened to BBC for
any hidden messages in the broadcasts. In a few days it became boring.
I watched through a window as the youngest daughter chopped wood.
The way her muscles rippled when she used the ax quickly squashed
any ideas that I had been entertaining. |
Finally, a man came
and took the drugged Brit away in a small truck. Then within an
hour, a conductress came and left with my Brit friend. Shortly thereafter,
another young conductress came for me. There was little or no good-bye's
or thank you's from the departing Brits to the hostess family. I
did not know how to act when I left but did try to thank them. They
did not speak any English. Later, when I asked, the Brit assured
me that the family had been well taken care of. I didn't ask any
more questions. The young conductress and I started walking. She
had a small basket with some bread and cheese that we later shared
sitting along side of a dirt road. Eventually we came to a farm
with a walled courtyard yard. As we went into the courtyard, a man
came out and in English told me to go inside. My two Brit friends
were already there. This "farmer" could speak perfect
English. I also noticed how well he interacted with the Brits. He
soon made me earn my keep by making me learn French. Before he would
let me eat, he made me learn to correctly identify and pronounce,
in French, everything in the room. I was lucky that I didn't starve
to death. |
One day there was
more activity than normal and BBC was being closely monitored by
the Brit and our host. That afternoon my Brit friend said that we
might be going home that night. I figured that even with all my
moving around, I was still somewhere in the vicinity of the town
of Morlaix, the train station where I had arrived. Still, I had
no idea where the ocean was. Just before sundown, the same man with
the small truck came and with the English speaking host, left with
the drugged Brit. It was almost dark when two conductresses arrived.
One was the same young lady who had brought me there. The Brit and
the other conductress left. My young friend and I soon followed.
The Germans had established a curfew at sundown and it was now dark.
The two of us were very quiet as we walked along. Eventually we
came to an abandoned, partially collapsed house. We went around
back and down steps into what might have been an old fruit cellar.
There we were, the two Frenchmen, the two Brits, the two conductresses
and myself. If this was a scene from a movie, you would have said
it was overdone. A gunny sack over the entrance, a dirt floor, a
partially collapsed ceiling above, cobwebs, and just one candle
for light. We all sat quietly for an hour or so. Suddenly, two big
Frenchmen and a young man arrived. With a very limited command of
English, the newly arrived Frenchmen said that they did not believe
that the young man that they had with them was a gunner from a B-17
as he claimed to be. He had not known the answers to any of the
stock questions the Frenchmen had been clued to ask. Example, "Describe
the unique uniform of US Army MPs in London". They felt that
he could be a German plant trying to penetrate the underground system.
They were ready to dispose of him rather than to take a chance.
The young guy was terror stricken and almost incoherent. He had
been seriously threatened of his life. The Brit agent asked me to
interrogate him. |
In response to my
request for him to describe his military training, base locations,
and a little about the towns near those bases, his story went like
this. He had a widowed mother and younger sister who were struggling
financially. He had sent home almost all of his military pay in
order to help them. As a result, he did not have money to go into
the towns near the military bases so he knew nothing about them.
His stories about the training bases held water. Immediately after
completing his training as an aerial gunner, he had been sent to
Mitchell Field on Long Island, New York. There he had briefly waited,
along with other new gunners, to be assigned as crew to new B-17s
on their way to England. He was soon assigned to a new B-17 passing
through on its way to war. Twenty-four hours later he was at a base
in England. He remembered the name of the base but did not know
its location. He could not remember the names of most of this crew
because of their brief time together. Twenty-four hours after arriving
at his bomber base, he was off on his first mission. His original
B-17 was not ready yet for combat so he had been assigned to fill
in on another crew that needed a gunner. Soon after crossing into
France, this B-17 was hit by heavy flack and blew up. He bailed
out and did not know if any of the others got out or not. He did
not know any names of this crew as he had just joined them the morning
of the mission. He had landed nearby in Brittany and luckily was
immediately picked up by the Resistance Forces. He had not satisfactorily
answered any of the stock questions that they had asked him concerning
his military status. Here he was a day later, convinced that he
was going to be killed. His story was almost unbelievable. It was
just a few days earlier that he had been in the US. No wonder he
was so bewildered. As incredible as his story was, I believed him.
I was convinced that he was an American airman not a German agent.
I told the British Agent so. The Brit had been listening to us and
he agreed. We had a new companion. |
Just after midnight,
the two Frenchmen who had brought in the young Sergeant, departed
They came back after awhile and apparently said it was clear to
go and they departed. I did not see them again. The remaining two
Frenchmen, the two conductresses, the two Brits, and the Sergeant
and I went out into the pitch black night. Led by the Frenchmen,
we soon approached a bluff looking down over water. The Frenchmen
took us to a path, steep at times, down the bluff to the beach.
We were to be on the beach not later than one a.m. and to wait there
until three a.m. for a boat. We arrived on the beach prior to one
a.m. We were warned not to move around the area as it might be mined.
We all quietly huddled together sitting on large rocks. Time began
to drag. The cool damp sea air chilled us to the bone. The two Frenchmen
and the two conductresses who waited with us were also getting anxious.
If the boat failed to arrive by three a.m., they would have to lead
us back from the beach and take us to safe houses. It was almost
three a.m. and we were about to leave. Suddenly, two black rubber
life rafts slipped up onto the beach. The two Brits got in one raft
and the Sergeant and I were directed to the other. The French men
and women were left on the beach to hopefully return safely to their
own homes. No good-bye's or thank-you's were said. In fact, there
had been little conversation after we had left the old house above
the bluff. This was also the last time I ever saw the two British
Officers. |
Our rubber raft
was manned by two British sailors in black garb. They quietly rowed
the Sergeant and I out to a boat similar to an American PT boat.
Surprise! We saw that there were two British patrol boats [MGB 502
(Lt Peter Williams RNVR) and MTB 718 (Lt Rodney Seddon RNVR)]. The British
Intelligence Officers boarded one boat and we boarded the other
boat. Once aboard, the boats began a slow quiet departure. We were
idling out of a rather long narrow bay that I believe was near Morlaix.
As we approached the mouth of the bay, we received a "light"
challenge from shore. With that, the two British boats went to full
power. As we cleared the bay, German "E" boats came out
in pursuit. I don't know how many there were but later someone said
that there were six. As we started to run for it, the boat that
I was on lost power on one of its engines. A running gun battle
started with the Germans. Our crippled boat was just barely faster
than the Germans. The other British boat throttled back to help
us in the gun fight. Our boat [MGB 502] took its first hit, on the
bow just above the water line. As soon as this happened, in spite
of our objections, the skipper ordered the Sergeant and I below.
We could hear the gun battle going on but had no idea of what was
happening. Shortly, a British sailor appeared and asked who was
qualified to man machine guns. Our boat had a 20mm gun (it may have
been a 37mm gun) and a mounted pair of machine guns. The British
gunner on the 20mm gun had been hit and killed. The gunner from
the machine gun turret had taken over the 20mm gun. Now someone
was needed to man the machine gun turret. The Sergeant and I both
volunteered but the sailor took, over my objections, the trained
Sergeant gunner. I was furious being made to stay below during the
running gun fight. But at this point, rank had no privileges. As
we slowly out distanced the "E" boats, the firing slowed
and finally stopped. We had finally gotten out of gunfire range
so the Germans turned back. At dawn, Spitfires arrived to give us
cover and the Germans were gone. Our boat had lost the one sailor
who had been instantly killed by a direct hit. I never learned what
casualties, if any, that may have occurred on the other boat. Before
reaching the port of Plymouth [sic - Dartmouth] England, we were
told to take off the clothes that we were wearing and put on the
British sailor uniforms that they provided. The idea was that anyone
observing us debark would consider us crew members returning from
another night of patrol. As we pulled into the port at Plymouth,
the reality set in. Safe again! No more uncertainty about each day
and what it would bring. Though only about 100 miles away across
the water, Brittany had been an entirely different world. After
we docked, the Sergeant and I were split up and I did not see him
again in England. We had only known each other for about ten or
twelve hours but those hours had been rather intense. |
As an interesting
sidelight, in 1947, a package arrived for me at my parents house
in Cleveland, my permanent military address. Unbelievably, the package
contained all the clothes, false ID papers, and personal effects
that I had acquired in France. After I had put on the British sailor
uniform before arriving in England, I had been forced to leave all
these things on the boat. I was amazed that these things had been
collected and stored since 1944 and in 1947 packaged up and sent
to me! There was nothing of any monetary value, but they did bring
back a lot of memories. |
Also, after France
was liberated, I began to hear from my French benefactors who had
done so much for me. I could not record their names and addresses
when in France for fear, that if I were caught by the Germans, it
would be the end for my friends. Instead, I had given them my parents
address to contact me after the war. I have attached a few of their
letters to this story. My parents sent them packages of food, coffee
and other small items. Interesting enough, Suzanne, of more than
moderate means, became a Communist supporter. Many in France did
for several years after the war. I regret not to have gone back
to France earlier to see and thank them again. In recent visits
to France, the addresses that I have were no longer valid. |
Another sidelight,
in 1988 in Rochester, NY, the phone rang. I was asked if I had been
a fighter pilot in England and had entered the service from Cleveland,
Ohio. I answered yes to both questions and the caller introduced
himself as Richard Faulkner, the Sergeant that I had met in France.
He lived in Skaneateles, about 40 miles from Rochester. I invited
him to come to visit and within that week he and his wife did. He
introduced me to his wife as the man who had saved his life. We
all spent the afternoon reliving our adventure together. He kept
turning to his wife saying, "See, I told you so". Having
been out of the country for less than two weeks, his family and
friends had trouble believing that he had even been gone, much less
believing his combat story. I found that he had no idea where we
had been in France or where we had left from. He recalled how angry
I had been when ordered to stay below while he went to man the machine
guns. He said that he always wanted to thank me for that night in
France. He had researched the records of Allied airmen escaping
the continent prior to the invasion. The list was by sequence of
return. He found his name and figured that by being an officer,
I would be the name before his. Then from military records he had
then been able to find me. Recently, his wife died and he has since
moved to Auburn, NY. |
Now back to the
story. After we docked in Plymouth, I was taken directly to a nearby
British military hospital and put in a private room. There I was
given food and medical attention. I wanted to immediately notify
my parents that I was safe. I also wanted to notify my squadron
of my return. Neither request was honored. Although the British
were doing everything they possibly could to make me comfortable,
they would not let me make contact with anyone. Not until I could
positively be identified as the person that I claimed to be could
I contact the outside world. The escape route that I had been lucky
enough to have been allowed to use was an important part of the
British intelligence system. It was a top secret operation and they
had to be positive that I was not a plant that could compromise
the system. Late that afternoon, I was moved to a bed in a ward
with several other men. I was told that I could not talk to anyone.
Shortly, an American Officer appeared. It was Nick, the 355th Fighter
Group Intelligence Officer. He was asked if he knew anyone in the
room. Looking me right in the eye, he said that he did not know
anyone in the room and turned to leave. I about went ballistic and
hollered at him. He thought it was a great joke but at the time
I didn't think it was so funny. Now, being properly identified,
I was allowed to send a brief telegram to my parents through the
Intelligence Communication Network. I was issued an American Army
enlisted uniform with added officer insignia and rank and taken
to Allied Headquarters in Grovenor Square in London. I was quartered
in a very nice room near the American Embassy. The invasion was
soon to take place so I was continuously interrogated over a two-day
period by a number of Army Brass. As I had been travelling in and
had just left the coastal area of France, they were interested in
what I had seen of German activities. They wanted to know about
the numbers and types of troops, vehicles, defense positions, etc.
I was also queried about the Escape Kit: what I had found useful,
needed, didn't need, etc. From my experience with the Pep Pills,
a recommendation was made that, under controlled conditions, all
air crews should be tested for reaction to the pills. I was provided
plenty of good food but not allowed, except for interrogations,
to leave the suite where I had a room of my own. At night I had
a suite mate. He claimed to have just escaped from France, crossing
over the Pyrenees into Spain. We had been provided Scotch in our
suite and he encouraged me to share the Scotch. Very little encouragement
was necessary. He would talk a little about his experiences but
then would probe me about my experience. I finally determined that
this was another form of interrogation. With plenty of Scotch, in
a relaxed atmosphere and talking with an alleged fellow escapee,
information might come out that would not occur in a formal interrogation
with top ranking officers. The formal interrogations went on for
two days. I was then told that I could not tell the true story about
how I returned to England. I was coached on how to tell a story
of an escape over the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain. This story
was to be told to my squadron when I returned. |
Still dressed in
a GI uniform with officers insignia, I was finally allowed to return
to Steeple Morten and my squadron. On my way to the train station
in London, American Army MPs stopped me because of my non-regulation
uniform. They took me to their Headquarters until the situation
could be straightened out. Welcome home! It was great to get back
to Steeple Morten and my buddies. I told the required story about
going over the Pyrenees at an Escape and Evasion session. I was
presented with the Purple Heart for my wounds and found that my
promotion to Captain had been approved. After being declared missing
in action, my uniforms and personal belongings had been packed into
a foot locker and sent to Liverpool for eventual shipment home.
In a few days, my belongings were returned from Liverpool. Now I
could go home to the USA. |
An interesting role
reversal had occurred between my parents when they received word
that I was missing in action. My mother was rather high strung by
nature and worried a lot about my flying. My dad never visibly showed
any shake, rattle or roll about anything. He was in Washington DC
on business when a telegraph arrived at home in the afternoon saying
that I was "Missing in Action". My mother called his office
and they were able to contact him. He could not arrive back in Cleveland
until the next day. He had to come by train as there was little
or no commercial air transportation available during the war. Their
many friends came to provide support and could not believe what
they found. My mother was the composed, strong one and my dad had
become totally unglued. He would not go to the office or do anything.
He just sat around, unshaven, in his pajamas and robe. Not until
they received word that I was safe, did my mother collapse. Their
friends talked about it for years afterward. |
I have written this
to provide my children and grandchildren a written record of my
part of World War Two. The history of this war is truly history
now but it will never be forgotten by those who lived it. Nor should
the lives of almost five hundred thousand Americans who perished
winning that war be forgotten by anyone. Ever! Nor should we ever
forget the personal courage and sacrifices of our friends and allies
who helped made that victory possible. |
Ken Williams - June
2000 |
Although he knew
the date he got back to England was 16 April 1944, Ken didn't realise
until recently that he and Sgt Faulkner were brought out from the
beach at Beg-an-Fry on the SOE Var Line Operation Scarf. |
Sgt
Richard J Faulkner was ball-turret gunner, and only survivor, of
the B-17 42-39830 'Berlin Playboy' (100BG/330BS) lost over Normandy
18 March 1944. When their mission to Munich was scrubbed, and as
the formation turned around, they collided with B-17 42-37913. There
were only two survivors (including evader 2/Lt Thomas L Lemond)
from the other aircraft. My thanks to Richard Faulkner and Tom Theiss
for this update. |
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