Shot Down - Missing In Action

Incidentally, some have wanted to post comments to some of my posts but didn't want to put their e-mail address on a public forum. Not to worry. Your e-mail address is not shown, just your comment. (Example. Go to Blog Archive on the right and select 'The Box in the Attic'. Curser to the bottom and you will see there was 1 comment. Click on it and the comment opens. It says: Papa,

Thank you for sharing the difficulties you faced just being a soldier. You say people bury themselves to deal with the trauma they faced each day. But perhaps it is more than that? Don't you think you had to become a different person and that today both people are part of whom you are?

Dawn

September 3, 2007 11:39 AM

It only reveals what she wanted to reveal; that she is my daughter. No e-mail; nothing else.

Homecoming

By Wesley Carrington Greayer

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

Tail Gunner on Edward Glotfelty's Crew

493^rd Bomb Group

The SS Uruguay, a luxury cruise ship before the war, had been converted to a troopship and had transported thousands of soldiers and airmen between the new world and Britain. On Eastbound trips, they filled the ship to capacity with young, healthy men in the prime of life. These men were among the brightest and most physically fit the nation produced.

Thus far, on Westbound voyages, the SS Uruguay carried mostly the casualties, the mentally and/or physically impaired men returning from combat. They were the refuse of war.

On this particular trip the SS Uruguay transported returnees from the air battles over Germany. They were all damaged goods. Of the eighteen-hundred men who were still breathing, there were three hundred airmen returning for 'section-eight' and other 'medical' discharges and fifteen-hundred airmen who had finished their tour. There was a fine line between the fifteen-hundred able bodied men and the three hundred disabled and section-eight candidates. All fifteen-hundred able bodied men suffered from battle fatigue and mental and physical ailments to one degree or another. None were as mentally or physically fit as they were when they left the States.

Forget about the loss of hair (which fell out by the handful). Forget about the nervous tic, the stammer, the lapses in concentration. Forget about the heart murmur and soaring blood pressure. Although these men had no visible scars and were judged sane, combat had left its mark. You can't take a man through the gates of hell thirty-five times and bring him back unchanged. Airmen quickly learn that this wasn't like playing cowboys and Indians. They were all on 'death row.' This was Russian Roulette with a loaded gun pointed at your head. 'On Alert' meant their 'execution date' was set for the next morning. Cigarettes glowed throughout the night as they awaited their wake-up call. At dawn they choked down their last meal. After the briefing, the Catholics on the crew stopped off to receive communion and 'last rites'. If you hadn't realized it before, that woke you to the fact that you were about to die. Only a miracle could save you. The zombies walked to their chariot of death. As each man entered his solitary execution chamber, he prayed to his own God for a miracle. Each man sat in solitary confinement, his ball turret, his nose turret, his top turret, his tail turret, or by his waist gun, his radio, or his bombsight. Only the pilot and copilot were too busy flying to have time to think. If the guillotine misfired, and you came back unharmed, you knew it was a bonafide miracle, for while you were escaping . . . you witnessed executions all round you, both in the air and on the ground; for not only were you the 'condemned man', . . . you were also the 'executioner'. You played God as you dropped bombs and executed men, women, and children on the ground.

In any event, you soon realized it was just a temporary reprieve. In a day or two a new execution date was set. You would have to survive thirty-five scheduled executions to earn a reprieve.

After each mission the crews were de-briefed. Intelligence officers gathered information on the success of the mission. Each man gave his eye witness account of the casualties while medical officers observed and evaluated the 'mental' condition of each crew member. They used no stethoscopes, took no blood pressures, or other physical measurements. A person flying missions could never 'pass' a physical-physical. That's why no physicals were scheduled from the moment you shipped out until (hopefully) you returned home. Medical officers only looked for signs that someone might flip out. They had to make certain no one was about to damage the equipment. All physicals could wait until you had finished your tour to see when you could be put back into inventory and sent out again.

Somewhere around mid-tour the missions began taking its toll. Some men went bonkers while others teetered on the verge. When the medical officers decided a crew was 'Flak Happy,' the crew was given leave. They were sent to an English Manor House in the countryside for ten days of pampering, with breakfast in bed, horseback riding, tennis, golf, croquet, punting on the Thames, and any of dozens of indoor games. They were allowed to 'look at' but could not 'touch' the gorgeous females on the Red Cross and Manor House staff. Once flak-leave was over, they were not 'as good as new'. They still had their head twitch, their St Vitus-dance arm jerk, their stammer, their lapses in concentration, but they were judged fit enough to complete their tour. The crews were returned to death row and the whole routine began over. By the time their tour was over, they were all ready for the funny farm. This time, however, they got no rest cure, no pampering, no counseling; they were scrap; used up worn out; they were put on a ship to be dumped back in the USA to recover as best they could on their own. Some never made it.

When they arrived home, their families and friends threw parties to celebrate. They shook their hands, drank toasts to their health, patted their backs and said, 'good show.' Everyone put on a happy face, and smiled for the camera.

But, alone in their bed at night

their friends and loved ones

silently mourned

and cried themselves to sleep.