I went out the left side of the cockpit (I think it was supposed to be the right side) and I hit my right knee on the horizontal stabilizer; I pulled the rip cord, chute opened, and I swung once and hit the ground—hard. After landing I noticed I had burns on my arms and legs and had hurt my ankles and back on impact. I knew I had to get up and survey the situation. I found myself in the middle of acres of farmland with nowhere to hide or take cover. I could immediately see the situation was hopeless and there was no way I was going to be able to avoid capture.
In the distance, I saw a crowd of about ten people coming toward me and at the same time a flight of four P-51s flying at about 200 feet flew over checking out the situation. My reaction was get the hell out of here—you can’t help me! As the civilians came closer I took out my .45-caliber automatic, removed the clip, and tossed each in opposite directions. I could see that the civilians were hellbent on doing me in, and I didn’t want them using my own gun on me.
At the same time they reached me, a Luftwaffe sergeant stationed in the area came roaring up on his motorcycle, pulled out his gun, and protected me. Shortly thereafter, a group of town officials showed up, and the sergeant agreed to let them take me into town.
As we arrived in town a lot of people, including children, were crowding around to take a look. I was brought to an official-looking house and placed in a room with five or six older men. One was the Bergermeister and another was in a police uniform. His left hand was artificial, made of black leather. He pulled out his Lugar and wanted to shoot me on the spot. They questioned me and emptied the many pockets of my flight suit. I always carried a rosary with me, and upon seeing it, they were astonished. How could this murderer of women and children be a Catholic? The questioning started to get rough, and an angry crowd was gathering outside, so the Luftwaffe sergeant said that was enough questioning. He took me out of the building, put me on his motorcycle, and headed toward the airfield he was stationed at. On the way he told me why the townspeople were so angry. Several days earlier some P-51s strafing in the area blew the head off a three-year-old girl. At the airfield, I was put in a very small cell and questioned by the Gestapo for about three days.
Every night we had to go to the bomb shelter because of RAF night bombing raids. I felt very uncomfortable in the confined space of the bomb shelter with all the Germans staring at me. While at the airfield, my jailor, a Luftwaffe sergeant, could speak a little English and I could speak a little German, so we were able to communicate quite well. He told me about the testing that was being done there on new types of aircraft and how he thought the war was about over. His main concern was that I would give him a note saying he treated me fairly, and I did.
After about four days at the airfield, I was taken to the rail station where I was loaded in a boxcar that took me to Stalag 11. While waiting to be loaded, a German railroad employee gave me a shot of schnapps—wow! When I arrived at Stalag 11, the camp was practically empty. It had been going through evacuation because of advancing Allied Forces. I stayed there overnight and found out there were about 100 British enlisted troops still there.
The next morning, we were all rousted and started on a long march to the east. We were on a forced march for about ten days, during which we were constantly under attack by patrolling Allied fighter aircraft. Of course, they did not know we were POWs. Our German guards were really ticked off at the fact that we had Red Cross parcels to sustain us and they had black bread and water. They were usually able to get some substantial food when we spent the night at German farms sleeping in the barn. We, too, were able to scrounge an egg or two.
German army vehicles were almost at a standstill. They were unable to maneuver because the roads were completely clogged by thousands of refugees on bikes, walking, pulling wagons, etc., etc. It was complete pandemonium with thousands going east and thousands going west. German army personnel on motorcycles were scooting up and down the roads trying to establish some semblance of order, but it was completely hopeless. We ended up at a POW camp at Luckenwalde.
It was called Stalag 3 and was near Berlin. Most of the prisoners were Russian and Scandinavian but also included, to my great surprise, Captain Tracy and the B-17 crew members shot down on 10 April. They all arrived at the camp shortly after being shot down. Tracy told me he landed in a river, was OK, and remained there the entire time we were strafing the airfield. The Germans were taking pot shots at him while he was in the river, and he had to do a lot of maneuvering to avoid being hit. He said that on his last pass, he was hit from the rear with a 20mm cannon shell that passed through the cockpit, burning the seam of his flight suit, and continued into the engine. He was wearing the proof of the story.
After our group stopped strafing the airfield the Germans pulled him out and brought him to a building nearby. He was leaning on the building when, to his utter amazement, here comes Herman Göring mad as hell yelling and cursing, pulling out his Luger, which he pointed at Tracy several times while calling him all sorts of names. Finally, they took Dick away and brought him to Templehof Airport in Berlin. There he joined up with Sgt. Frank E. Lewis and Sgt. Paul Krup, both of whom were crew on 2nd Lt. James W. McAfee’s B-17 of the 398th Bomb Group. They were only seconds away from the drop point, and already had the bomb bays open, when a Me 262 attacked.
Sergeant Lewis told me of his ordeaclass="underline"
Our B-17 exploded only seconds after I came tumbling out of it. As I was approaching the ground at about 1,000 feet I could see I was being shot at by what appeared to be civilians on the ground. As I landed three German soldiers appeared and protected me from the civilians; then two of them took me to Berlin and Tempelhof airdrome. I was barefooted. My boots had slipped off when my chute opened and I was left with my felt-electric socks that were quickly tore up while I was running from the German civilians. I cut up my feet badly and had to hobble around like I was walking on hot coals. Walking like that on the streets and subways of Berlin must have looked insane. Two things struck me about Berlin. First the utter destruction we had wrote on the city with our bombings and second when I went into the subways that were brightly lit and spotlessly clean. The contrast was surreal. In the subways, the Germans, mostly women, were hollering at me “swine” and other words that I finally figured out were “terror flier” and “Chicago gangster.” At Tempelhof, I learned from the Luftwaffe people that the soldiers that saved me were SS troops and the Luftwaffe people hated the SS. I found it ironic that a Luftwaffe pilot tried to kill me in the air and civilians tried on the ground, but it was the SS soldiers that saved my life. The Germans at Tempelhof treated me well, and I ate in their mess hall with my guards. I was alone for several days before a P-51 pilot showed up—it was Capt. Richard “Dick” Tracy, and we were shipped off to Stalag 3 at Luckenwalde.
I often wonder if Göring was so pissed because I destroyed the Condor he was going to try to escape in. I found out later the Fw 200 was one of Hitler’s Condors.
Tracy, Lewis, and Krup (who could speak fluent Russian) had been planning an “escape” prior to my arrival. I went along with it. The plan was to go under the fence—security was practically nonexistent—and work our way toward the Russians. Within about 5 miles we were able to join a Russian tank unit that was fighting its way west and north.