Letter From Home

When I was in Combat in WWII, my Dad sent me the following poem, expressing some of his terror.

A Parent is Apart From the World

By Philip Joseph Greayer, 1944

Your parents will never harm you

Nor cause the slightest hurt

Your home is a haven

Where come right or wrong

There's always a refuge

For you my dear son

And if in your absence

You've veered from the right

Come home my son

And together we'll fight.

It is not what I'd wish of course

But if it should be

That you must hurt someone

Then let it be me

We know an army of boys

Will fight better than men

They are less advanced

On the civilized road

So turning them back

Is much easier then.

 

When you went away to fight

And left us "so alone"

I cried throughout the night

For my boy to come home

And when home you came at last

As I thought, to stay

Soon you were fretting

To be off and away

To be roving and roaming

Anywhere,- but here.

It's not you that I blame

'Tis the evil of war

Which casteth out love

While it casteth out fear

And then it was over

What wrongs you have done

Should be paid by the nation

And not charged to you, my son

For they made you fight

While you were yet a boy.

Your young mind was warped

By the National greed

Who bade you to march

And to fly and to heed

You were not taught as a boy

to be just a military toy

But I too have sought

With the rest of the greedy

So it ill becomes me

To be sore at the needy

You are good enough!

My first book was 'The Box in the Attic'. An editor at one of the largest NY publishing houses read a chapter at an SDSU writer's conferece, and said, "All you need is an Agent". I sent her a Query and this was her response:

Dear Wes,

I cannot possibly accept unagented manuscripts, because there are literally thousands of very interested potential writers out there and I do not have time to screen each of their work. What I meant in San Diego is that you have to have an agent in order to try to get EPIPHANY published. I know you met a number of them. The LMP is available in every library and on line and is the phone book of the publishing industry. I wish you the best of luck.

When I told her 'that was a catch 22'. she responded:

Writers get agents every day without being published. That's why every editor in town sees hundreds of first novels every year. Use the LMP and get an agent. You are good enough!

This is the chapter the Editor read.

The Box in the Attic

By Wesley Carrington Greayer

Author of The Tornado Struck at Midnight

(ISBN 1-59129-729-x)

(Availble at Amazon, B&N and your local bookstore)

And when the thousand years have expired, Satan

shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out to

deceive the nations which are in the four corners of

the earth, Gog and Magog, to gather them to battle:

the number of whom is as the sand of the sea.

(Revelation 20, 6,7)

Chapter I

On Tuesday, 21 May 1935, Adolf Hitler stood, glaring down at members of the German Reichstag. Pounding his fist on the lectern, he raved, "Whoever lights the torch of war in Europe can wish for nothing but chaos." It was the Biblical prophesy come true. From that day, sixteen-million American boys about to enter manhood, put their private lives on hold while the drama on the world stage played out. It would be ten years before the world would find peace again. In the war that followed fifty-five million lives were lost plus another 11 million were exterminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps throughout Europe. (Gypsies, political prisoners, homosexuals, blacks, Jews, mentally and physically disabled, and just about any human that Hitler did not deem worthy of living)

But . . . the true number of casualties were as the sands of the sea.

Halfway round the world, at the exact moment of Hitler's oratory, a rooster crowed, heralding the dawn and awakening Winfred C. Grant from a fitful slumber. The boy reached down to pet his dog, Nip, lying beside him on the bed. Nip, a black and white mutt was a mix of boarder-collie and a half-dozen other breeds. Winfred rolled out of bed and stretched. This day would test his mettle. The scar, where a hunter's misguided bullet grazed his forehead, showed white against his young, sunburned face. Stepping to a window, he looked eastward. Dark clouds on the horizon matched his mood. A low-rumble and bright flashes on the horizon, like distant gunfire, quickened his pulse. He saw nothing to crow about.

Pulling on a pair of cutoff trousers, he slapped Nip on the rump, and said, "Come on, old buddy, I see a storm brewing off Atlantic City; it's time to get moving."He hurried downstairs and out into the warm spring air with Nip by his side. Jogging across a cow pasture and hurdling a stream, he soon reached the top of a small mound that folks in these parts called Molly Pitcher Hill. Blood had spilled upon this soil. Shielding his eyes from the early morning sun, he gazed warily at a hawk swooping low overhead in slow, lazy arcs. The hawk's shadow, like a swastika, sped over the ground and panned across Winfred's face. A shudder ran down his spine as though he had stepped on his own grave. Fear pierced his heart. Winfred's boyhood dreams were full of ghosts and headless horsemen. Though devout Methodists,every week after church his family sat round a table and conducted a seance, and communed with the dead. Last night, before he fell asleep, he saw the Angel of Death standing at the foot of his bed. Terrified of the supernatural he shook off thoughts of witchcraft. He tried desperately to find a rational explanation for his qualms.
There must be a wounded critter hiding nearby.

Issuing a curt command, Winfred said, "Nip, heel."

The eerie feeling persisted.

Perhaps a snake or other wild creature is about to strike.
Withdrawing his knife from its scabbard he tested its edge against the stubble on his chin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck and chest. Grimacing, he pressed two fingers to the wound, wiped the blade on his pants and returned the knife to its sheath on his hip.

Not-yet fifteen he looked every-inch a man, his sunburned torso and legs offering an image of an Indian warrior stalking his foe. Winfred marched grim‑faced down the narrow trail leaving the imprint of his toes and the balls of his feet in the dust. No sound marked his passage, a habit formed from solitary years spent in the woods with Nip as his only companion.

Upstairs, in Winfred's home, his sisters, Ann and Beth lay in bed whimpering. A year and two years younger than Winfred, respectively, they had blue eyes, milk-white skin, and the prim, well-scrubbed look of young girls from a Jane Austin novel. The bright yellow, daisy-covered wallpaper on their bedroom walls contrasted with their mood.

"We may as well stop crying, Beth, there's nothing we can do about it."

Red eyed, Beth said, "But gee, shouldn't Mom and Dad have told us what was happening?"

"Why? So we could worry about it for six months. We've been on Relief for two years, for gosh sakes. If we had half a brain, we could have figured it out for ourselves."

Beth looked puzzled. "Tell me what's going to happen now. I'm not much good at figuring things out."

Ann walked to the window and raised the sash, letting in the spring breeze. "What Mom and Dad said. They have to sell everything at an auction to pay off our creditors."

"What are creditors?"

"Oh Beth! People we owe money, like the grocer who fed us for a year before Mom applied for Relief."

"Why did he do that?"

"Because he's a nice man and knew Dad would pay him someday, . . . I guess. Gee-whiz, how-the-heck do I know?"

"Where will we go?"

Exasperated, Ann said, "We'll move to New York. Mom must have a job, what else? After Dad lost his job in Kalamazoo, it was up to her. She was at Aunt Baby's in New York for over a month. We were so busy playing house, we never wondered why."

"Winfred runs things around here. Didn't he know? "

"Winfred is in a daze half the time. Never know if he's dreaming of playing Tarzan with Nip, or writing one of his poems. I'd like to kick him in the slats to wake him up. Dad's the one acting strange, sitting around every night with his head in his hands, weeping, while we kids clean up and put ourselves to bed."

"Glad I'm not Winfred."

"Yeah, poor guy."

"Why didn't he let Dad do it?"

"Guess he figures he has to be a man."

"Yeah. At least we're girls; we get to cry. "

Downstairs, in the billiard room, a Churchillian head sat atop a blacksmith's shoulders. This was Percy Grant, Winfred's father. The picture of John Bull, it was a picture that did not deceive. Born a Cockney, within the sound of Bow Bells, he had communed with spirits since he was a child. Though only a corn-chandler's son, he had read all the classics in the London library, and by the age of eighteen he was a self-taught engineer determined to become a country gentleman. In London, he debated politicks every Sunday in Hyde Park. Always dressed in a three-piece-suit with coat and vest, he placed a dollar in every pocket, including the four pockets in the vest; said he didn't want to 'disappoint the pickpockets'. Winfred felt his father was serious. His father never passed a beggar without sweetening the pot and in the NY subway his father always used two shoeshine boys; one for each shoe.

In 1925, Percy purchased twenty acres of land halfway between Spotswood and Jamesburg, in New Jersey, containing a small homestead called Bide a Wee Cottage. Then with hand tools and a missionary's zeal he transformed the cottage, brick by brick and joist by joist, into a modest Manor House. Filled with the wonder of creation, Percy never slacked his pace. He sang hymns while he worked and greeted each day with his favorite ballad.

(Author unknown)

Oh me father is a backer and he slaps along with me

Each morning in the wintertime he has to rise at three

And as he stands a'shiverin' a'puttin' his trewsers on

I bobs me head beneath the clothes and I begins to hon

Oh it's nice to get up in the morning,

When the sun is beginning to shine,

At four or five or six o'clock

In the good old summertime.

But, when the dew is dewing

And it's murky overhead,

Oh it's nice to get up in the morning,

But it's better to lie abed.

All this while Percy spoke to the spirits and their guidance made him an irresistible force, possessing the Midas touch. By 1928, when his modest three story mansion was complete, the Gods had smiled on him. He had made a fortune on the stock market and was able to hire servants to care for his estate. Fancying himself The Great Gatsby, he began throwing lavish weekend parties.

His prosperity lasted six-months at most. First the stock market crash in '29 wiped out his fortune. Then, after fifteen-years as Chief Mechanical Engineer of the Diamond Electric Company in Elizabeth NJ, he found himself jobless and penniless. When the electric company shut off their power, they were again reduced to kerosene lanterns, fetching water from a spring, and using an outhouse. Percy tried to carry on, living out of a suitcase for months at a time, and traveling to the far corners of the nation to find work, but, it was his wife, Rose, who delivered the coup de grace. Percy withdrew her letter from his inside coat pocket and read:

4 May 1935

Percy,

You may be happy to sit by the window communing with spirits and remembering your past triumphs while the house falls down around you, but I can wait no longer for you to recover your manhood.

I'm tired of living in the wilderness a mile from the nearest neighbor and three miles from a grocery store.

I'm tired of walking to town to call the doctor when the children are ill or wasting an entire day traveling to the dentist in New Brunswick whenever someone has a toothache.

I'm tired of fetching water from a spring, heating it on a kerosene stove, and hauling it upstairs to fill the tub for each person's bath.

I'm tired of washing clothes in a galvanized tub, drying them on a clothesline, summer and winter, and of ironing them with a flatiron heated on the stove.

I'm tired of making beds, preparing meals, cleaning house, burning trash, and feeding the animals. I'm tired of canning vegetables, of gathering berries, and of baking bread, pies, and cakes.

I'm tired of killing chickens, plucking feathers, and removing their heads, feet, and innards to prepare Sunday's dinner. Sit and mourn if you like, Percy, but I'm tired and I'm moving to New York with the children.

Rose.

Percy blew his nose on a freshly laundered handkerchief. While returning the letter to his pocket, he gazed wistfully out the window, tears leaking from his eyes . The Dukes' brand new 1935 Chevrolet, Mrs. Derby's old Model T, the Walters' 1930 Model A and several horse drawn wagons were parked under the maple trees on the front lawn. Children spilled out onto the Grant estate, followed by their parents, everyone eager to see how far the mighty had fallen.

The vultures are gathering. They've come to pick my bones.

A green-ribboned sunbonnet said, "Mr. engineer ain't so high-and-mighty now, him with his hoity‑toity accent, showin' off buying sodas for all the riffraff hangin' about at Kumka's Creamery."

A chin-high starched collar said, "Came plumb from New York by taxi. They'll not be leavin' that way."

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Corncob pipe wheezed, "Weren't 'portant enough for their parties or playing on their tennis court. Strictly for their New York City guests."

Corncob junior said, "Looked out back Paw. Cain't find the tennis court now. All covered with weeds."

Sunbonnet huffed, "Those weekend guests with their Pierce Arrows, Stern's Knights, and Essex town cars are just memories now."

Mariner's beard scratched his chin. "Shouldn't gloat, but we farmers can still put vittles on our tables."

Parrot nose said, "His Mrs. never fitted in here. Hear tell she was raised in some South American country with servants and all. Sure got her comeuppance when she applied for Relief."

Sunbonnet said, "What else could she do? Had three young'uns to feed."

Mr. Sunbonnet cleared his throat and said, "Now, give her, her due, Maw. That Mr. of hers was too proud to apply for charity."

"Sunday-school teacher said, "Felt bad seeing that old man with his crooked leg pushing wheelbarrows full of cement on a WPA road gang. Hardly seemed right for such a dignified gentleman."

Handlebar-mustache laughed. "Whatever he gets ain't zactly charity. When all is said and done it's not likely he's earnin' five-cents an hour on the WPA."

High-collar said, "Hold on there. May be slave labor but we're paying for it. My income taxes jumped to twelve-dollars last year."

Mariner's beard said, "Thinks he's a Senator or somethin', always dressed in a three-piece suit and tie, even when he's pushin' that wheelbarrow of cement."

Train-conductor said, "Sakes alive, give the man credit. Only man with book learnin' in these parts. Went door to door getin' signatures for that petition. Stopped Penn Rail cold. Would be no trains in this town a'tall, otherwise. No one could've done it 'ceptin' him."

Black Derby looked pensive. "Felt real sorry for him last Christmas Eve. Was clumping home on that gimpy leg through two foot snow drifts, carrying an axe and dragging a small spruce for their Christmas tree. Looked plumb wore out." Derby took off his hat and wiped the sweat band with his red kerchief. "Gave him a lift. When I dropped him at his front door, he thanked me and asked if I'd give him three nickels for his pocket watch. Wanted his kids to have something Christmas morning besides the string of popcorn his wife decorated the tree with."

Sunday school teacher said, "They're precious chiren. Memorized their catechism like little angels. Earned their Bibles for perfect attendance at Sunday school."

A purple dress with a large brimmed hat placed her hand alongside her mouth and whispered, "Hear tell they're devil worshipers."

Anxious to confirm the rumor, parrot-nose said, "My Ambrose followed them home from church one Sunday. Peeked through a window and saw them sit round a table, join hands, and sing hymns with their eyes closed. The table began a'rockin' and Mr. Grant started speaking to the dead. My Ambrose skedaddled right home, white as a ghost."

Ducking under the limb of an oak tree, Winfred entered a small clearing in the surrounding wilderness. Red faced and dripping with perspiration, Mr. Schmidt was cutting logs into two‑foot lengths with a bucksaw. He said, "Looks like somethin's frettin' you, Winfred."

"Need to borrow your twenty‑two rifle, Sir, if I may?"

Mr. Schmidt placed another ten‑foot log on the sawhorse, and continued his long, easy strokes with the bucksaw. It was May, but menfolk often cut wood over the summer months. It took five cords of oak and a cord of pine to see them through the winter. They worked outdoors from sunup through mid-afternoon. The New Jersey mosquitoes owned twilight.

"You're no hunter, Winfred. Gunter often asks you pheasant huntin'. You always refuse."

Winfred made no response. Nip flushed a rabbit and gave chase. Winfred's sharp whistle brought him back quickly. Reaching down, Winfred grabbed Nip's muzzle playfully, and said, "Good boy."

A newscaster's voice cackled from Mr. Schmidt's huge radio, powered by two six‑volt automobile batteries propped on a sawhorse, nearby. Reaching for the volume knob, he muttered, "Damn noise."

He turned off the voice prattling on about Franklin Delano Roosevelt's latest Fireside Chat. Giving Winfred a knowing look, he said, "Anythin' I can help you with, Winfred?"

Winfred grimaced. "No. He's my friend."

Mr. Schmidt laid his saw aside and unlocked the shed. "Sure you don't need the twelve‑gage?"

"No Sir. Couldn't use a shotgun."

Mr. Schmidt opened a chest filled with ammunition boxes and guns of various sorts. Withdrawing a twenty-two rifle, he ran his palm down the barrel. After checking the magazine, he handed Winfred the empty gun. "How many shells?"

"One, Sir."

Mr. Schmidt reached back, retrieved a shell and handed it to Winfred.

"Thank you, Sir."

Winfred marched off with the gun cradled in the crook of his left arm. Winfred jammed the shell into his hip pocket next to the fifteen cents Mrs. Brush had given him. Yesterday, before sundown, he had earned ten cents for stacking a cord of wood for Mrs. Brush. Mrs. Brush wrote short stories for Collier's and read all Winfred's poetry. She liked Winfred; felt he should be a writer. Always gave him a nickel extra, saying, "Winfred, promise you'll save this for college."

As he entered a cornfield, Winfred recalled the first time he stumbled into that magic place. I was four and we'd just moved to Spotswood. Corn-silk perfume filled the air and a gentle breeze rippled the cornstalks. The swishing blades whispered a song to me. Sunlight filtering through created hypnotic patterns of dancing light and shadow on the undulating hills and furrows of my enchanted land.

Mother had just read us Alice in Wonderland and I felt I had walked through the looking glass. Then I happened upon a group of pumpkins growing among the cornstalks and was sure of it. Can still feel the thrill as I selected the largest pumpkin I could carry and lugged it back home. Couldn't wait to see Mom's face when I gave her my treasure. Mother lauded her brave little man. I was in heaven.

Winfred laughed. Then, God lowered the boom. There was a loud banging on the front door and an irate farmer demanded payment for my thievery. I plunged from heaven straight into purgatory. Felt I'd committed a mortal sin.

He charged a king's ransom for my innocent blunder, too. It was unjust of Mother to make me pay the farmer's demand from my meager hoard. Mom said I was being taught a lesson. Some lesson. She got the pumpkin and I was branded a thief.

Winfred's mother, Rose, sat in the potting shed, gazing vacantly at the broken pots. Her diminutive stature, delicate features, and sleight build belied her strength, stamina, and iron will. She had the proud look of the aristocracy, and her swarthy complexion, dark brown eyes, and black hair reflected her Portugese-Madeiran ancestry.

Rose fretted at how easily duped she was.

When I met Percy, it seemed my dream come true. He took me everywhere by taxi: the museums, the Metropolitan Opera, all the Broadway plays, and Carnegie Hall. We dined at the best restaurants, and he tipped lavishly including the head waiter and the Maitre d'. With his cultured British accent and free spending ways, he charmed me and my entire family. But, after our three children were born, he deposited me here in the wilderness so he could realize his childhood dream. We worked like Coolies. When the hard work finally paid off, we became the envy of Middlesex County. It was wonderful.

Then the Stock-Market crash plunged us from luxury to poverty. Too proud for charity, Percy kept up appearances by going into debt. We lost everything.

I had to go into the city to find work. It was terrifying. I'd been taken care of all my life. Now I know what our servants felt like, kowtowing to our every wish, but I took control. Thank heaven ladies in Trinidad learned to make their own clothes. Ten‑dollars a week isn't much, but we'll get by until Percy gets a job.

Rose sighed as she thought about her predicament. She got up and looked out the window.

Hope the children will be all right. They've never even seen a newspaper, except that one Percy brought home from the city about Lindbergh flying the Atlantic. Winfred still has it tacked to his bedroom wall. Says he'll soar like an eagle, one day. Poor dear, he's such a dreamer.

Rose put her hand to her forehead as she continued to reminisce.

The girls have one-another, but Winfred is on his own. Sometimes I feel we push him too hard. He's so tall and grown up I forget he's just a child. With Percy only coming home on weekends, Winfred has been the man of the house. He's been my little man since he was six. I don't know what I would have done without him. Ann says he's so serious, his classmates call him grandpop. She shook her head. Grandpop, that can't be good. Breaks my heart that he wouldn't allow Percy to do 'it'. Oh well, tomorrow we'll be in New York and he'll get a new start on life.

With Nip at his heels, Winfred bounded through a field of knee‑high, golden, wild rye. Whirling around quickly, he hugged Nip to his chest playfully and rolled about in the hayfield. When Winfred freed Nip, the old dog ran around like a puppy, he was so happy.

Entering a small forest bordering the West side of the pasture, Winfred closed his eyes and breathed in the musky smell of oak and pine and decaying vegetation. This was his favorite wood. He'd grown up among these trees, beside this river. He came here to dream, and to pray. After today he'd never return.

Winfred dug the shell from his pocket and gazed at it. Grimacing, he inserted the shell in the magazine and propped the gun against a tree. He watched Nip rolling about scratching his back. Nip was a wild dog, a dog of the forest. Winfred recalled how he and Nip became friends.

"I chased you many times, boy, but you always vanished, like a ghost."

Winfred scowled. "One day, on this very spot, I found a ball of black fur covered in blood and left for dead by a hunter who had shot you full in the face with a load of buckshot."

He slapped Nip on the rump, playfully. "Nursed you back from dead, didn't I fella."

Nip looked up and licked Winfred's hand.

"No need to thank me, boy, you've repaid me a thousand times. You're my true friend, aren't you, Nip? sitting in the middle of the road every day waiting for me to return from school."

Nip wagged his tail.

"Since that day you've never left my side except to chase every car that happens down our road. Thought I'd lost you that day you got ahead of yourself and let that fool-car run you down. But, you're a tough little bugger. You pulled through."

Winfred got up and brushed the seat of his trousers. "Now just lie there, Nip, and take it easy, I've got work to do."

Winfred was well prepared for his ordeal. His schooling had begun early. He was only three, when he had broken his toy and was on the verge of tears when he heard his father's voice, like the voice of God, booming down from above.

"Winfred, be a man. Men don't cry."

Winfred didn't cry. He was too terrified to cry. He never cried, not even on this day. Winfred withdrew his hunting knife from its scabbard and loosened the soil at the base of the tree. He dug deep, scooping out the soft, loamy earth with his hands. Carefully, he lined the bottom of the pit with twigs and moss, making a soft bed. When he finished, he said, "OK Nip, help me find some rocks."

Winfred picked up an eight‑inch bolder and set it on the ground in front of Nip. "Help me find this kind."

Nip sniffed at the rock. Then they ran along the riverbank, gathering a huge mound of boulders. Winfred carried them back to the tree and piled them alongside the pit. Now he was ready.

Sitting at the base of the tree with Nip on his lap, Winfred poured out his lament to his friend. "Oh, God, will I ever learn to expect nothing but pain in this life? Mom raised us on fairy tales and Bible stories. Filled our heads with sugar and spice: the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; they lived happily ever after; Santa Claus will come on Christ's birthday and reward all good little children. Nothing seemed too far‑fetched to us kids. If Christ fed the multitude on two fish, surely Santa could zip around the world on Christmas Eve and fill the stockings of all good little girls and boys.

"When I was six, I tried so hard to be good. For months, I got up at dawn and did my chores: hoed weeds in the garden, cleaned the rabbit hutch, left them fresh water and carrot greens, fed the chickens, and checked the outhouse for toilet paper. Then I sat here, by the river, with you, Nip, and the Sears Roebuck catalog, dreaming of baseball bats, outfielders' gloves, and electric trains. Christmas morning I dashed downstairs with my heart full of hope. I got a white handkerchief, . . . an orange, and . . . a nickel.

"I'm sorry, old friend, but the bank has repossessed our home and we're moving to the city. You're a wild dog, Nip, you'd never be happy there." Winfred patted Nip on the head, and said, "This is Christmas morning, Nip, and we have to say goodbye. Our fairy tale is over and I have to set you free."

As Nip looked up with . . . blind, . . . trusting eyes,

Winfred placed the muzzle of the gun on Nip's temple

and sent a 22 caliber bullet crashing through his skull.

Shot Down - Missing In Action

Shot Down - Missing In Action

By Wesley Carrington Greayer

493^rd Bomb Group, Tail Gunner on Edward Glotfelty's Crew

Author of The Tornado Struck at Midnight (ISBN 1-59129-729-x)

(Availble at Amazon, B&N and your local bookstore)

Nineteen days after D-day, on 25 June 1944, the 493rd launched mission numbers fourteen and fifteen. They scheduled twenty-six bombers for St. Avoid, France, and twenty-six for Romilly-Sur- Seine, a Ju-88 air base 100 miles east of Paris, near Troyes.

Glotfelty's crew drew the Ju-88 air base, described at the morning briefing as a "Milk Run." Now on their sixth mission, things were looking up. Today they were veterans, no longer in danger of self-destruction. Surviving seven missions would improve their chances of completing their thirty-five-mission tour of duty to about fifty-fifty. In the Eighth Air Force, a fifty-fifty chance of survival made them feel like they were home free. Perhaps they could do some Christmas shopping?

As advertised, the flight to the target was uneventful. On this sunny summer morning there was no flak, no fighters, no weather - a scenic tour of France- a classic Milk Run; delightfully boring. From his tail turret, Wes Greayer enjoyed the spectacular view of the channel and speculated that had their route taken them 200 miles further south, he would have had a birds-eye view of the Normandy beachhead. Imagining the terrain crammed with men and equipment actively engaged in destroying Hitler's war machine was all that kept him awake. The calm before the storm. Were it not for the routine roll call every few minutes, half the crew could easily have dozed off. But at the end of the bomb run, the moment Bombardier, Norm Loney, released the bombs and yelled "bombs away", all hell broke loose. A single burst of flak had damaged engine number two; the prop wouldn't feather; the engine began running away. Ed couldn't maintain airspeed and watched helplessly as the other 35 planes in their formation flew rapidly away leaving them . . . a-l-o-n-e, alone . . . in a sky full of Jerry fighters spelled . . . trouble, . . . t-r-o-u-b-l-e.. . . They were about 280 miles from Debach and no one was eager to crash in enemy territory or ditch in the channel. Enemy fighters were always on the lookout for stragglers. Ed faced the daunting task of nursing a disabled ship across 200 miles of enemy territory and 80 miles of open sea. No one was dozing now.

Ed turned Automatically toward the west where, . . . if they succeeded in traversing the 280 miles, . . . they would land at Debach, England where 29 more deadly missions awaited them! . . . Had they chosen to fly 250 miles the other way, . . . eastward . . . toward Zurich, Switzerland, it would have meant the end of the war for them. . . . But, it never crossed their minds. Everyone on board began calculating how best to get back to their home base. The 'nonswimmers', and there were a few, voiced their dread of ditching in the channel.

"How about Normandy?"

The allied invasion had established a six-mile-wide beachhead on Normandy, so Normandy was another option. This route added 130 miles to their trip, and there was the added threat of enemy fighters, but it would avoid much of the heavy flak and give them an alternate landing site in friendly territory before having to decide to cross the channel. It seemed like a reasonable precaution. They decided to head for Normandy. Norm Loney gave Ed Glotfelty a heading of 330 degrees and an ETA of 09:40, but not knowing the exact location of the fighter strips on the beachhead, his figures were half guesswork.

The ball was now in the gunners' court. As Ed headed toward Normandy all eyes anxiously scanned the sky for Jerrys. Luckily, a group of American P-38s saw them first. The moment they spotted the P-38s heading their way, a cheer went up. The twin booms of these "Little Friends" made them easy to recognize. Not much danger of mistaking one of them for a Jerry. The pilot of one Lightning nearly stuck his wingtip into the waist window as he gave the crew his thumbs-up signal.

Their ship, EDIE, shook, shimmied, rattled, and rolled. It seemed EDIE would surely come apart at the seams. The noise was tremendous. They were losing altitude, and the pilot, copilot, and engineer had their hands full just keeping EDIE, flying. But heading toward the channel flying formation with four P-38s gave the crew a wonderful sense of security. Despite the shaky condition of their ship, they knew no Jerry would add to their predicament.

With EDIE doing the rumba, Ed ordered the crew to prepare for bail-out. Wes snapped his chest pack to his parachute harness, opened the camera hatch, and sat with his legs dangling and braced himself with his hands on each side of the open hatch. Looking straight down, he waited for the order from Ed to jump. Harry Baker, ball gunner, Dennis Hall, waist gunner, and William Toney, radio-operator, each with their chest chutes on, lined up behind Wes, ready to go. Up front, Norm Loney, the bombardier, and Clark Henry, the nose gunner, also stood poised. Still over enemy territory, no one was eager to bail, but they would all go the instant Ed gave the order. Like the Captain of any ship, Ed would be the last man to leave. Any delay by any of the crew would further risk his life.

On the way to Normandy, they debated the pros and cons of their various options. From Normandy there would still be about 210 miles to their base with half of it over water. What were the odds of crossing the channel successfully with a crippled ship? Should they try it? They expressed their opinions freely and the crew was roughly evenly divided, but if they lost another engine they would wind up in the drink. Some wanted to go-for-broke; who knew why? Perhaps they had a hot date back in Debach? Ed listened to each man's opinion carefully. Every man's life was on the line, so no one was pulling rank . . . but, Glotfelty was captain of the crew and his decision would be final, vote or no vote. . . . Within 50 miles of Normandy the number four engine failed and the question became academic. With two engines out and others likely to fail at any moment they were on their way down. Now it was a race to the beachhead before they ran out of altitude.

Approaching Caen, Ed and the others could see a grand panorama. Hundreds of ships, large and small, dotted the Normandy shoreline. Tanks, infantry, and huge stockpiles of stores were plainly visible. Many barrage balloons protected strategic emplacements and the stores of ammunition. Two airstrips were clearly visible, one a hastily built steel-mat, and one a concrete runway. The concrete runway looked much more inviting for landing a heavy bomber.

They arrived over the airfields at 12,000 feet. Ed watched the direction of takeoff and landing of the fighters using the airstrips, which told him the direction of the wind. Ed circled the concrete runway and began the let down in the right direction to land upwind. As Ed did this, Wes was sitting in the camera hatch, looking straight down. Wes suddenly saw flashes of gunfire.

"Whoa, there Ed, it's too hot here. If we get any lower those Jerry snipers will part my hair."

"Roger, Wes. I'll haul-ass and head for the steel mat."

Harry said, "Jesus, Glad we didn't bail over here! They'd have picked us off like clay pigeons."

Approaching the landing strip, Ed said, "We're getting too low for bail-out, guys. Assume your ditching positions." Ed called to the guys up-front. "Norm and Clark, time to join the others in the rear." (No one flew in the nose during takeoff and landings.)

The bombardier and nose turret gunner crawled through the bomb-bay and joined the others. Baker and Greayer assumed positions on each side of the bulkhead door separating the waist from the bomb-bay with their backs against the bulkhead and their hands clasped behind their heads. The other four crew members sat in front of Harry and Wes with their backs against the man behind and their hands clasped behind their heads.

Ed throttled back the two remaining engines as he made the final turn to line up with the runway. As he leveled off for landing, he shoved the throttles forward. . . . Silence. . . . The engines didn't respond.

He bellowed, "Wheels-up," as he slammed the stick forward and kicked the rudder hard to slide the ship to the side of the steel mat. Placing the ship into a steep dive to maintain airspeed and prevent the wings from stalling, they plunged straight down. Everybody aboard was mentally hauling back on the stick and silently praying that EDIE would not live up to one of the B-24s' nicknames, 'the flying coffin'.

ED hauled back on the stick just in time, pulling the nose up and setting EDIE down on the dirt alongside the runway. (Had he belly landed on the steel mat they would have met instant death as the plane and mat would have rolled up into a ball.)

As the ship slid along on the dirt the inside filled with a dense, choking, impenetrable cloud. Someone yelled, "F-I-r-e!," as the ship slid to a stop. Everyone jumped up and scrambled to the Plexiglas waist windows. Frantically tugging on the windows, trying to escape, they found the windows wouldn't budge. . . . They were trapped! They'd be roasted alive! (The crash had distorted the fuselage and locked the windows fast.) They should have removed the Plexiglas windows before the crash.

Still tugging on the window, Wes looked round to find himself alone. Loney had spotted the open camera hatch in the floor and within seconds the crew had exited through the space between the belly of the plane and the ground. Wes lost no time in following them. Emerging on the right side of the plane, he saw the ship in shambles. Running around the right wingtip, toward the front to check on the others, with the others in close pursuit, Wes saw the nose of the ship folded under the fuselage. With tears streaming down every face, they continued to circle, thinking the others were dead.

Meanwhile, when the ship, Edie, stopped sliding, the pilot, Ed Glotfelty, copilot, Jon Appleton, and engineer, Gene Cromer had climbed out the top hatch, emerging on the left side. They started circling toward the tail, looking for survivors. As Wes and the others rounded the front they spotted the others and gave a shout. The two groups converged. The emotion of that moment was overwhelming. They realized they were all OK. Tears of joy, or whatever, streamed down every face, as they embraced one another. It would be impossible to experience another such emotional high in a lifetime. Brothers under the skin they were not, . . . but at that moment they were bonded. The crash had demolished the plane, but they were all alive and uninjured. Before they crashed Jon Appleton, the copilot, had cut the ignition. There was little danger of fire. The cloud inside the ship was merely dust kicked up by the plane as it slid on the dirt alongside the runway.

The plane sat about halfway down the strip with the left wing extending across the runway. The engines were all ripped off and strewn about on both sides of the wreck. It didn't seem possible that anyone could have emerged alive. Only now, as they congratulated one another, did they notice they still had their chutes on their chests! With less than eighteen inches clearance between the camera hatch and the ground it was hard to figure how they all had slipped through this tight space so rapidly, when they exited the plane.

They had crashed in Juno sector of the beachhead, the portion held by Canadians. Hundreds of Canadian military quickly gathered round, gazing with disbelieving eyes at the demolished ship and the surviving crew. The distant thunder of guns reminded them that a war was raging a scant eight miles away. Troops were in need of air support. Without pause, British and Canadian Hurricanes began taking off from each end of the airstrip - each fighter peeling off to the right as they passed each other over the downed bomber. Had this not been possible, the lives of this crew would have been a poor trade for the lives of the ground troops that may have been lost. As the crew milled around congratulating themselves and telling their story to ground personnel, a crane moved into position and began tearing EDIE apart. They needed to clear that runway. They would use dynamite if necessary to remove the bomber.

As Wes was chatting with a Canadian Army Corporal, the soldier asked Wes if he would go back aboard and find something from the ship he could have as a souvenir. As Wes crawled back aboard, he wondered why he hadn't thought of that possibility. Wes went to the flight deck and was able to wrench the clock from the instrument panel. As Wes crawled out of the camera hatch he slipped the clock into the pocket of his fatigues. (Wes had dressed in a set of long-john underwear, his electric flight suit, covered by his fatigues, to cope with the sixty degrees below zero temperature at bombing altitude.) Wes told the soldier he was sorry, but he was unable to find a souvenir. (To this day his lie still bothers Wes.)

After the medics checked them over, they were debriefed, providing information for the Canadian officers to relay to the 493^rd headquarters. Having completed the formalities they climbed aboard a six-wheeler for the trip to the beach. Once there, they watched the soldiers unload tanks and other military vehicles from the British LST that would transport them to London. The LST wouldn't set sail until the following morning, so since it was early afternoon and would be hours before they could climb aboard, Harry and Wes stowed their gear on the beach and began scouting the area.

Woha! What a sight to behold! One wondered at the drama played out there just 19 days before. Thousands of boys had died on that beachhead to secure the spot where they had landed; it was too painful to think about. Shallow depressions covered the beach where a few days earlier Canadian boys, seeking protection from the withering gunfire from the blockhouse overlooking bluff, had scooped out a bit of sand, trying to create a shelter. Still clearly visible were streaks in the sand made by frantically clawing fingers. Harry and Wes were thankful that those boys had secured this sanctuary for them to land on, but at what a horrendous cost? . . . Above their heads, a huge German blockhouse on the prominent bluff had a commanding view of an immense stretch of beach. Harry and Wes climbed up and explored the fort. They estimated the concrete walls and roof were 14 feet thick. Blockhouse guns were fired through a narrow slit protected by a thick steel door which opened only long enough for the guns to fire. Cruisers and battleships accompanying the invasion had rained shells on the fort, but the shells simply bounced off leaving minor chips on the outer surface. It was a simple accident that wiped out the blockhouse crew. A shell from a ship had, miraculously, entered through this slit while the door was temporarily open, knocking out the bunker.

Harry and Wes continued West, to the first French town set free in the Juno sector. Stopping outside a church, two girls, displaying a bit of cleavage, confronted them. There were smiles all-round and some lame attempts to communicate, but the language barrier proved insurmountable. Although the girls seemed more than willing to continue their flirtation, but after their recent brush with death neither boy was ready for adventure. There wasn't enough time for romance, so they settled for a coy smile and sisterly/brotherly kiss on the cheek as a parting gesture.

They boarded the LST at 2100 hours. In the morning, when the tide lifted the LST from its moorings on the sandy bottom, it would sail for London. Before hitting the sack that evening, Wes thought about all the boys that stormed the beaches on D-day. He wrote a few lines in his diary.

On D-day the allies struck.

Boys ‑ charged the foe

and ere they reached the shore

they were men -

dead men

The LST sailed at 0900 hours on 26 June 1944, landing at East India Docks - London at 0400 hours the next morning, 27 June. The 300-mile trip had taken nineteen hours. The crew reported to the area commander and received chits for their lodging, and orders to return to their base on the 28^th. They also received free-rein of the London PX, but since they had no money, this was to little avail. (When they left on their mission the day before they could hardly know they'd wind up in London.) Nevertheless, as this was their first time in London since they arrived in England they headed for the PX just to take a look around.

Their sojourn turned into an exciting adventure. Soldiers were a common sight in London but not airmen in flight gear who had obviously just returned from combat. Dressed in their electric flying suits, fleece-lined flying boots, parachute harnesses, and carrying their chutes, they looked at like conquering heroes. People stared in awe and as they strode through London. They were greeted with lots of stares and a few "God-blesses." One lady, who reminded Wes of his mother, rushed up with tears streaking her face; embraced him, and planted a kiss along with her "God-bless." It was a heady experience.

When they entered the PX, all business stopped. They were a sensation. Every salesgirl gathered round to hear their story. As they left, one of the young women handed Wes the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of every woman in the place. This bonanza assured them the would have dates on all their later trips to London.

Lying in his bed at the Salvation Army, that evening,, Wes listened to the buzz bombs flying overhead and recalled all that had happened since they left Lincoln, Nebraska on Mothers day, only six weeks ago. It seemed more like six years.

Returning to their base on Wednesday 28 June, they were shocked to find that, like the "Three Bears,"'someone was sleeping in my bed.' Storming into the OR they learned their beds had been assigned to another crew. No information about their safe landing in Normandy had been passed on to the 493rd headquarters and when they failed to return they had been reported MIA! Fortunately, no War Department telegrams were sent home. Unfortunately, the press had gained the information and in each hometown the local newspaper headlined the crew member from the local area, reporting him MIA. Newspapers always seemed eager to be first with bad news. Thus, many a sweetheart not in the official channels of communication assumed them dead. This spread heartache far and wide.

From his first mission, Wes had recorded all his missions on a 3 ft x 3 ft piece of drywall attached to the wall, next to his bunk. When he failed to return from his sixth-mission, a gunner sharing the Quonset hut listed him as MIA. Wes amended the log.

MISSION LOG

25 June 1944 Mission # 6. --- MIA

AMENDMENT

25 June 1944 Mission #6-- Troyes Area (Romilly-Sur-Seine Airfield) 50 100 lb. GPs - shot down - Crashed on Normandy Beachhead - Canadian JUNO Sector (S theater) - Boarded LST 9 PM - sailed with the tide at 9 A.M. - 26 June - Landed East India Docks - London 4 A.M. - 27 June - returned Wed. 28 June to find we were reported MIA! and another crew was in our beds. Evicted crew -

Next day, a reporter from Stars and Stripes came over to get their story. When asked of his most vivid impressions, Lt. Loney answered, "We have only the greatest admiration for the courtesy and efficiency of the RAF, RCAF, and the Royal Navy in returning us to England. Having had a ringside view of the invasion front, we are proud to be allies of our British friends who are ramming the front closer to Berlin."

The reporter promised to send a copy of his story to each of their families The story appeared in the STARS AND STRIPES on Thursday, July 20, 1944.

At the completion of Five Combat Missions each crew member had earned the Air Medal. In their absence, it had been awarded posthumously. After their return they collected their medals and their pilot, Edward R. Glotfelty, was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his exploits in Normandy. Ed threatened to refuse the medal unless all members of the crew was also awarded the DFC, but the crew voted him down unanimously. A high-ranking officer from Eighth Air Force headquarters traveled to Debach to perform the ceremony, after which the crew received a 'surprise' 48 hour pass. They immediately went back to London for a party attended by twenty or more of the PX girls. Many a wartime romance began at that party, and a great time was had by all. Six-months later when their tour ended, many tears were shed. Letters kept the embers alive for a few months - but then, . . .

And they did survive 29 more missions. Mission number 35 to Frankfurt, Germany was on 24 December 1944, CHRISTMAS EVE.

Wes entered the details in his mission log.

MISSION LOG

Mission #35. Frankfurt Sunday 24 December - Airfield - Clearest Day Ever - Not a Cloud - Destroyed Airfield -- 9 & 1/2 Hours - Moderate Flak - 20,000 ft. - Saw ME 262 - I didn't shoot. He didn't attack either.

The End WE ARE GOING HOME.

They all sent telegrams home:

DEAR MOM AND ALL

FLEW MISSION NUMBER 35, OUR LAST MISSION, TODAY 24 DECEMBER STOP

WILL BE HOME SOON STOP

The families received their telegrams on Christmas day, . . . the perfect Christmas present.