My first 23 missions were in the tail, the last 5 would be as a radio operator. As a tail gunner I had the comfort of being able to fight back. But the radio operator position was not a very defensable position from a standpoint of having a chance to do any real shooting. On the B-17F model the radio operator removed an over head hatch at the rear of the position and then brought his 50 caliber gun out on a rail to fire out of the opening. The gun was mounted on a ring and would travese vertically and horizontally but with a very limited field of fire and limited ammunition. On my final mission this gun nearly came to be my undoing.
I manned this new position with my new crew on the B17F named "What a Tomato", piloted by Lieutenant Dave Rohrig. Lt. Lloyd Haefs was the Bombadier. Tech Sergeant Dave Hiskey was the Engineer. Staff Sergeant Louis Crawford, who I think was from Jackson Mississippi, was the Lower Ball Gunner. Staff Sergeants Horner, a Native American from Oklahoma, and Walter Chesser were the Waist Gunners with Horner being on the left and Chesser on the right. In the tail was S/Sgt Corely. Some of the other names are blanks to me. This was the crew which with I flew my last missions.
In my change of crews I seem to have gotten onto a crew destined to have hard luck. Or maybe the missions were just getting harder. Of the five missions I flew with them, each mission should have been a sign of impending disaster to me. Only we all too often fail to see the signs. But we nearly went down on our fourth mission on about December 14th. Six days later we finally were blown out of the sky.
We were flying lead on my fourth mission with them when fighters jumped us and wounded the tail gunner S/Sgt. Corley. As I said before, as a tail gunner you wanted to keep the enemy over 800 yards away or they were likely to really punish you. I will always believe Corley got us in trouble by waiting for them to get a bit closer in hopes of making a kill. He already had a previous kill and possibly wanted another. At any rate they hit him and then went to work in earnest, riddling the plane with cannon fire. They took the right wing tip off all the way to the airelon and also damaged the hydraulic system to say nothing about the jagged foot long holes all back through the fuselage. The plane looked like a sieve and developed a severe vibration, shudderring and vibrating like a washing machine with a bad load. We were out of formation and battling to save our butts when our fighters arrived and pulled the bacon out of the fire. One of our wingmen rejoined us and was really encouraging. He kept telling the pilot, "I don't think your going to make it Dave," words everyone wanted to hear.
Then in this same period of time we were again jumped by fighters and I embarassed myself by announcing I had been hit. On one off the passes several rounds entered the radio room and into a Chute bag on the floor which had been painted with a lot of red paint, a fact I had not previously noticed. The dust and the excitement and seeing the red paint immediately convinced me that I was hit and bleeding and I excitedly announced "I have been hit!". Another look and a touch showed the blood to be very dry red paint. I quickly corrected my excited announcement.
Well, despite our wingmen's dire predictions our pilot did not listen to him and never gave the order to bail out. I was glad. Although it was touch and go, we did make it back. But the airplane, "What a Tomato", was somewhat of a sick bird and would not go with us on our next flight.
Our next time out would be on a plane named "Eager Beaver". It was a B17F that had made many missions and scored some kills. Well known in the 96th, the Eager Beaver had been used before by the Squadron Commander Maj. "Buck" Caruthers. Our first and final mission we were assigned to on the Eager Beaver was a strike on the Aloysis Airdrome at Athens, Greece.
B17F Eager Beaver
The Aloysis mission was supposed to be an easy target. It turned out to be anything but as enemy fighters took a heavy toll of our relatively small group of bombers. As we approached the target heavy and extremely accurate 88 mm flak started to rise and we took some bad licks. We were lead plane at an altitude of 21,500 feet approaching the Indicated Point, the point where the bombadier takes control of the plane. Since the bombadier needs a steady plane to aim the bomb drop, no evasive maneuvers can be made from the IP until the bombs are away. As we approached the IP, the flak grew heavier. Just as we made the IP all hell broke loose. I heard the pilot ask the bombadier how he was doing. Haefs answered "I am going to let them go any second Dave". I then reached for the front radio room door, which opened onto the bomb bay, so I could advise when the bombs were all clear of the plane. At that instant I found myself holding the handle and no door. We had taken a severe hit under the aircraft in the area of the bomb bay. I turned to the rear of the plane and grabbed for my mike cord to advise the pilot of possible damage. As I did so, I observed another 88 burst over and straight behind the vertical stabilizer, just aft of the plane. Then the rear radio room door splintered and struck me in the face.
A third flak burst had struck us at the waist door or slightly aft of it, severing the entire tail from the rest of the plane. I never saw the blast. Immediately afterwards I could see someone struggling amongst the dust and smoke in the waist as the plane rolled over on its back. We were at 21,500 feet and headed down. The engines of the plane were screaming.
I found myself looking at the ground through the top of the plane, straddling the radio gun with both feet hanging out in the slipstream. There was no way I could get out. Realizing that I was trapped, I tried to cover my fear by fainting, but it didn't work. For a moment I thought "This is going to cut my legs off." Then the full realiztion hit me, "No, it is going to kill me." My only thought now was "Please God I don't want to go to Hell." Somehow I found the strength to extricate myself and went back through the waist and bailed out the end of the falling bird. I can still recall the moan of the engines, the jagged metal of the torn fuselage and the jerk I gave the ripcord on that back pack. Now I was floating in the air. Below us bombs were going off, above us 88's were exploding. Sounds of bullets or flak whistling by convinced me I was being shot at so I spilled the chute to become a tougher target. It oscillated so violently that not only did I become sick I also worried that the chute would turn all the way over and collapse. That passed and I then began to take stock. I had no serious wounds, just some surface wounds and splinters from the door. As I neared the ground I looked down and could see that I was going to land in a field. I also spotted two infantry men with rifles and bayonets approaching. Capture was imminent.
The Germans did not approach as fast as the ground. I do not recall ever having parachute training, which may explain why I was looking down as I landed. I never would have believed the landing could be that rough. It was like jumping from the second story of a building with nothing to ease the fall. The German soldiers arrived immediately and demanded that I get to my feet. After taking the time to stay on bended knee and thank God for being spared, I stood up and entered Captivity.
From that moment on December 20, 1943 I began my life as a Prisoner of War at the hands of the German Military. I was, of course, not the only man who became a Prisoner of War that day. Shortly after my capture I was reunited with a number of men from the squadron who had been shot down that day, including two of my crew mates. I soon learned what became of some of the others on my plane. The movement I saw in the waste as the plane rolled over was some of the men struggling to bail out. One, the ball gunner, Louis Crawford, explained how he luckily had the door of his turret open when the plane was hit. He was dumped into the plane as the plane rolled on her back, his chest pack fell into his lap. Like me, Crawford landed safely and was in relatively good condition. The right waist gunner S/Sgt Walt Chesser had either dumped his chute or it was damaged as he went out and was able to get it deployed. Unfortunately, he broke a leg when landing. Up front Lt. Lloyd Haefs, the bombadier, went out but struck his head on an unknown object. He was captured on landing. He sustained severe injuries and was unconcious for approximately two weeks. This was all of the crew captured by the Germans. Much later I would learn that Staff Sergeant Horner, the left waist gunner, had also gotten out of the plane and then evaded capture.
My second day of captivity saw myself, Crawford, Chesser and other survivors from another crew loaded on a Junkers JU52 Trimotor and headed from Athens to Solonika, Greece. We were held there for thirty days during which time we under went some minor interrogation. Some time in late January we were all loaded on a German troop train and embarked for Germany. This trip was eventful only that somewhere around Yugoslavia our train was briefly attacked by some partisans. We momentarily had hopes of freedom, however it was apparently more of a hit and run type attack and other than wounding some of our guards it amounted to nothing.
We arrived in Frankfort am Main and were marched through the streets surrounded by German soldiers, while some very hostile citizens viewed our parade from curb side. A very frightening experience and one I never would want to have again. I can understand the hostilities and appreciated the protection our guards gave us. We marched on to our destination, the interrogation center, where we spent the best part of two weeks. At the interrogation center we were placed in solitary confinement and taken out one by one to be interrogated. The order of battle and other information the Germans had was absolutely astounding. They had volumes of it and were seeking more. One of the items of great interest was information about a Super Bomber, which was the B-29. I am certain none of us helped them in this regard for we knew nothing. I spent about a week in solitary and then was turned loose to join the others, it seemed this was about the normal time to try and get information.
Early in February 1944 several hundred of us were loaded onto box cars for a trip by rail to our assigned Stalag, which was Stalag Luft VI in Hydekrug, East Prussia. The box cars were very crowded and it was our first taste of what would be our life for some time to come. About the third day out I became very ill and some of the POW's that had a bit of medical experience diagnosed my problem as acute appendicitis. After about a day of this some kind soul was able to convince the train Commadant that I needed medical attention and I was removed from the train and taken to a German military hospital in Thorne, Poland.
The Doctors there operated on me and placed me in a recovery ward with English POW's that had been captured at Dunkirk. The operation appeared to be a success and I was expected to recover in about six days. However, the suture used was not sterile. A few days after my surgery infection set in and the Doctor reopened my stomach without benefit of any pain killer and inserted a drain. The pain was almost more than I could bear. In about two weeks I was taken to Stalag XXA near Thorne and joined the United Kingdom troops being held there, including more British prisoners from Dunkirk. I was treated royaly by these men as I was a Staff Sergeant and a Yank. Living at XXA was not bad at all, the camp was well organized and food was not a scarcity at this time. I do not recall the exact time but it must have been May or June of 1944 when orders came through to send me to Hydekrug. This was a solo train trip with a guard that delighted in showing the LUFTGANGSTER off at every railroad stop, not a pleasent journey as I was the prime exhibit for numerous Hitler Youth groups that seemed to convene at each railroad station.
Arriving a Hydekrug, I was greeted by many old friends as well as Chesser and Crawford from my crew. I was also quickly briefed on the routine of the conduct at this particular camp. Life was not nearly as nice as it had been a XXA with the British soldiers. I also quickly had news that my twin brother was back in the 8th Airforce doing a second tour on B-17's. Everyone that saw me wanted to know, "Wing Ding, when did they get you?" I would have to quickly explain that they had me mixed up with my twin brother, Eugene Carson. It was here also that I learned we had all been reported killed as no one was seen getting out of the plane when it broke in half.
In mid July 1944 it became necessary to evacuate Stalag Luft VI due to the Russian advance. About 2500 of us were jammed into the holds of two dilapidated coastal coal tramp steamers and spent five days on the Baltic enroute to the German port of Swinemunde. Looking into the hold reminded me of fishworms in a can. Men that were ill or suffering from wounds were stacked in there with no thought of comfort or survival. Rather than go into that, I stopped on the ladder half way down into the hold and took a seat on the prop shaft there. I sat there clinging to the ladder for the entire trip. This trip was a horror of horrors. No water to speak of, no means of relieving the body. There were no sanitary facilities at all. The Germans allowed only one man at a time to go topside to relieve himself, one man of the roughly 1,250 in the hold. I think I made one trip up but it is one of the periods that is no longer vivid in my mind. One of our group went topside and jumped overboard, he was immediately machined gunned. On debarking we loaded on box cars. Our shoes and our home made knapp sacks were taken from us and placed in the other end of the car. We were then handcuffed in pairs. Many of the group was ill or wounded. In my case my appendectomy was still draining. We spent an uncomfortable night in the box cars as the train traveled to our unknown destination.
In the morning we reached a railroad station and stopped. We were permitted to retrieve our shoes and belongings but remained in cuffs as we were directed to fall out alongside the tracks. We were greeted as we came out by young German Marines. They had dogs and fixed bayonets and were being whipped into a frenzy by a German Captain. The march to the new camp began and soon turned into a run with the Captian's raging shouts urging our guards on. As we double-timed between the cordon of guards, they liberally used blows to keep us moving. To lag behind meant jabs with a bayonet or a blow from a rifle butt, to fall meant dog bites as well. It was not a pretty scene. I was handcuffed to a New Yorker, a Jewish man named Adler, and he was of course concerned. In order to protect ourselves I told him to get rid of his pack as I did mine and we moved into the center of the column as it would give us some protection. There we tried to avoid any damaging blows, stabs or dog bites. This strategy worked and saved us from any major damage as the column ran a distance of one or two miles to Stalag Luft IV, our new camp.
Once in the new camp we were released and settled into some hastily constructed tents. All sorts of rumors prevailed about our future and all we had for any defense was a table knife. I spent a lot of time honing an edge on my knife and had no idea of ever giving my life up readily. However things settled down and Stalag Luft IV was finally completed. Although the beginning at Luft IV was rough it slowly got around to being reasonable survival. Food in camp was bad for the most part, scarce and poor. We supplemented it with our Red Cross food when we got it. Personal hygiene was never good and cold weather as winter approached was always a problem. Mail caught up with men and even an occasional parcel from home, but none for me.
As the fortunes of war turned against the Germans we were forced to evacuate our camp again as we had Stalag Luft VI. Only this time for the majority there was no mode of transportation other than "Shanks Mare", on foot. On February 6, 1945 we set out on foot into one of the toughest winters Europe had experienced in a long time.
I had obtained two GI blankets and sewed them into a sleeping bag with shoe strings. I also had a GCI overcoat and a pair of new shoes. I had gotten my hands on Jello packs and any other small food item available in preparation of a tough trip. I buddied up with a man now deceased, a Leo J. Landy from New Jersey. He was a tough Irishman and a good choice. We later became separated and I formed up with another man, a Jack Kettler if memory serves me correctly. The days were long and ardorous with snow storms, slush and snow on the roads. Hunger, wet feet and frost bite joined us in this mindless trek to nowhere. Constant companions were the body lice and dysentary. When fortunate we would find a barn to sleep in but there were several occasions where no shelter was avaiable. It is difficult to impart what my personal thoughts were but I kept going by thinking of getting home to my young wife, having a home and raising a family. Had I known what the furure held in that regard I am uncertain to how I would have handled it. I never took my shoes off at night. I basically wore them for 57 days then switched to the new pair I had carried and traded the old shoes for a loaf of bread. As we marched Spring approached and life was a bit better, except for the lice and constant hunger. We kept it going one step at a time, much of it has been erased or pushed to the back of my mind, this I found the best way to ease the pain of the ordeal and take care of life as new days were ahead of me. To this day hunger or the thought of it is difficult to deal with. We were still marching when Liberation came in late April 1945 at Bitterfeld, Germany on the Moldau River by the 104th Timber Wolves, an American Infantry Division. The date was either April 27 or 28 but I do not honestly remember. As we marched through the front lines at Bitterfeld a pair of P51 fighters flew over us, canopies open and wings wagging. I am sure I was not the only man that choked back sobs of joy, our incredible journey was coming to a happy ending. German soldiers were also in the line of marchers coming in to surrender rather than to stay and face the on coming Russians. I noticed that the men in the trenches were all very young or maybe they looked that way.
As to the march we had just completed, it had lasted 86 days and covered approximately 600 miles. Although it ended in Freedom for myself and the other survivors, many others were not so lucky. Over the course of the forced march, the lives of about 1500 POW's were lost to disease or starvation or at the hands of German guards while attempting to escape.
After we crossed into friendly lines, there was no close control of us. Another guy and I bummed a jeep ride to Halle with a Sergeant . We holed up a couple of days at the German Air Field. They several out of commissioned aircraft and we convinced the local Military Government to give us some rations and a BMW motorcycle for a bit of pleasure. We laid around and a C-47 came in a day later. We immediately talked to the pilot, a Colonel, and convinced him of who we were and he loaded us up for a return to Rhemes, France where we were deloused and given clean clothing as well as food. The next journey was to Camp Lucky Strike where all POW's were shuttled.
Since my twin brother, Eugene, was flying out of England I managed after a week or so to convince the authorities that I should go to London. The crossing was made in some sort of British ship and somehow I managed to get to London. At the Rainbow Corners Red Cross Club in Picaddilly Circus I made inquiries. A kind woman name Adele Astair (Fred Astair's sister) knew my brother and managed to contact him. We met on the evening of VE day and London was absolutely wild. It was one of the happiest and greatest moment of my life.
