My World War II Heroes
Dedicated to the American Soldier
War is indescribable hell. It gnaws; it violently wrenches the souls of many. Despite the horror, the sometimes utter confusion, and paralyzing fear during WWII, our soldiers did their jobs - whether they enlisted voluntarily or were drafted to service. There are so many stories about the men and women from – as Tom Brokaw aptly describes: "The Greatest Generation." These heroes grew up at a time when the world was in crisis. They freed not only Europe from the tyranny of a madman but also possibly halted what could have been the demise of democracy.
Of all those daring stories I’ve read and heard about, three poor farm boys stay foremost in my mind, my personal heroes: one who operated radio equipment and performed as a waist gunner in the bombing runs over Europe; another who para-glided from planes while facing mortar fire and ground conflict, in Belgium; and a third who survived not only the various horrors of Pacific theatre action in New Guinea during WWII, but later also in Korea and Vietnam. These are my heroes. I might be just a tad bit prejudiced about them.
Leburn ("Lee") finished his work in the yard in rural Missouri. When he reached the house, his Mother stood just inside the torn screen door, an envelope in hand. Her stoic glance said it all as he recognized the insignia on the letter in her outstretched hand. It was the expected military notice. A duet-sigh resonated through the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Clarence ("Eddie" to most in those days) was enlisting in the army in Kansas (April 8, 1943). When he last kissed his girlfriend back in Atwood, she wouldn’t learn until later that he was leaving for service in the Glider Infantry Regiment of the Army. For three years, letters would be these lovebirds’ only communication.
Virgil, hating farm work back in Oklahoma and after an unfortunate row with his father, left home to escape the farm. After his draft, he flirted with the idea that he might make a career with Uncle Sam. Little did he know he’d deal with a lot worse than plowing – but instead, the hells of three wars while struggling to raise his family.
Lee Townley was our Dad. Our handsome, fun-loving, ornery Dad. He began training for his ‘vacation’ in Europe at the Army Air Forces Technical School in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. According to my Dad’s graduation ‘yearbook,’ producing thousands of highly-trained radio technicians was a tremendous job requiring a vast plant, hundreds of competent teachers, modern training equipment, and a carefully coordinated schedule. I bet my father was surprised to see many female instructors! For three hours every day, he took code in a large classroom. International Morse – "How slowly it went at first." But appealing to their competitive spirit, they raced against the code, "beating it at eight, ten, twelve, eighteen and higher. Code became their tongue, brass-pounding their profession."
Our father’s gung-ho nature earned him a spot in the bombers … two months earlier than average! Oh, what a reward! I never realized that these words were written primarily for the Army Air Corps during World War II, but they definitely speak to the souls of those young men preparing for that action: "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder; climbing high, into the sun; here they come, zooming to meet our thunder; at ‘em boys, give ‘er the gun! Down we dive, spouting our flame from under; off with one … hell-uv-a roar! We live in fame … or go down … in flame. Nothing’ll stop the Army Air Corps!"
WAR JOURNAL – October 2, 1943. (Private John Haggarty of the 533rd Bombardment Squadron, 381st Bombing Group, located in Ridgewell, England): "Six new combat crewmen assigned: T/Sgt Edward J. Senk, Melvin A. Soderstrom, S/Sgts Frank P. Mitchley, John F. Skrapits, Leburn W. Townley, John E. Miskin."
Dad’s first mission as a radio operator, after arriving in England in October 1943, must have scared the wits out of this young Missourian. The crew included his frequent and apparently skilled pilot: George Hansen, co-pilot Bill McElhare, Navigator Staff Sgt. Stan Wright, bombardier Bill Johnson, top turret operator Basil Johnson, and left-wing John Johnson. Also, right-wing Frank Mitchley, ball (belly) turret Joe Panisti, and tail gunner Bill Abbott -- these three men would become his close friends.
[Photos are from my Dad’s personal effects]
Dad’s assigned plane: the B-17 ‘Flying Fortress.’ It served in every World War II combat zone but is best known for daylight strategic bombing of German industrial targets.
Boeing produced the bombers in small numbers in the late thirties and subcontracted with Lockheed-Vega factories to produce later models of the B-17 during the height of the conflict. They supplied over 3,400 of the "F" model and over 8,600 of the "G" model. Some models were equipped with lifeboats for sea rescues, but the primary use of the planes was the raids on European targets. One of the most famous of these planes, The Memphis Bell, completed twenty-five bombing missions over European territory.
Flying in a four-engine B-17 was anything but comfy. The cabin was unheated and un-pressurized, so crews needed oxygen, wool undergarments, and electric flying suits to keep warm and breathe. The bare-bones plane had little room to spare. I have to admit, unfortunately, not from my recollections of conversations with Dad, but from research, I found interesting details: it was equipped with six defensive gun locations. Its primary weapon was the 500-pound bomb. The plane could carry twelve bombs in its rack. Its range is 1300 miles with a full bomb load and 200 miles per hour cruising speed. The top speed was about 325 miles per hour. On its release of 6000 pounds of ordinance, the plane would lunge higher in the air, which required an adept pilot. They had multiple .50-caliber guns and flew in tight formations so the guns of multiple planes could focus on an enemy plane. I learned that the phrase: "whole nine yards" is derived from nine yards of linked ammunition fed through Browning machine guns.
I learned years later that Dad’s ‘ride’ was the lead plane in the first daylight bombing run over Germany. It was a very scary day for him. (And me, still today.)
Meanwhile, on a tropical excursion in New Guinea after a ‘luxurious cruise’ on a crowded liner from the States, Virgil (who later became my beloved stepdad) languished in the bright sunshine. Uh … let’s try that again: he tromped through … mud. Mud, mud, and more MUD. "New Guinea, thy name is mud!" The guys he served with later wrote: "Any picture not showing the abundant supply of that material … wasn’t authentic." The rain came only once a year, but it stayed 365 days, which made living pretty miserable! Clothes wouldn’t dry; mosquitoes ate them alive.
[Above pictures reproduced from: "STRIKE, The Story of The Fighting 17th", my Uncle Duke Walters’ military book. He served in New Guinea at the same time as Virgil, my Stepdad.]
The military posted billboards reminding them to take their drugs for malaria and other sundry ills. And … despite the travel brochures they’d read, depicting: ‘an island paradise with obliging and stunning native women,’ these boys were in for quite a surprise upon arrival. Virgil, being the gentleman he was, wouldn’t even comment on the sight of the ‘beautiful’ native women he’d heard about. Albeit to say … he and all his buddies only dreamed of the sweet-looking, sweet-smelling American girls back home.
He later told me that when he arrived in New Guinea from the ship, they ran fifteen to twenty smaller boats of troops for three days to unload men and supplies. He could view Australia across the bay. When they first arrived, it was quiet for a while. The troops walked about a mile through knee-deep mud and another half mile to the camp, where he viewed about a hundred tents. When he looked west, he said he saw the top of a mountain with a beautiful building – General McArthur’s headquarters. But he never knew whether the General was there.
He and his seven-man crew walked from one side of the island to the other, to the peninsula, and set up positions. They once unknowingly passed under a lone Japanese soldier spying in coconut trees. Virgil believed "that Jap in the tree could have killed him a dozen times; he’d watched me set up all day and never once fired – amazing!" When he was finally discovered, they "just told the Japanese soldier to come on down" and kept him as a prisoner.
The Japanese had installed booby traps everywhere, with strings attached to hand grenades. Walking gingerly, Virgil set up his 50-caliber machine gun, dug a foxhole, and began surveillance out at the sea from his position. The troops routinely used anti-aircraft fire to down Japanese planes. At times, they also fought off an unexpected boatload of arriving enemy. One time, while practicing "landings," they walked through a field full of Japanese bodies. He said he inadvertently stepped on a dead soldier, rotting and smelling, the body fluids splashing up on him. Though he tried washing off his clothes and putting them back on, he said he smelled a month.
Virgil spent a year at this location as a "Machine Gun Sergeant, or Buck Sergeant," before moving north to Luzon and then to Manilla Bay in the Philippines. He described looking north out of Manila; on top of a mountain was a big, dark cross. Said it was "a monstrous size – could see it for a mile." I wonder if he stared a lot at that cross; it must have been a comfort. A young man named Lackernick from Hackensack, New Jersey, became a close friend. They had a big, tough captain from Texas as a commander and went around on small LSTs (landing ship tanks), checking the beach. Their captain pumped them up for action yet lightened things with a weekly five-gallon kiln of homemade booze. Each guy had a canteen cup, and the captain would pour them a drink at dinner. They all played jokes on each other, but at night, it was "all quiet, no lights."
Virgil drew me a descriptive image about a Japanese pilot they called "Washing Machine Charlie," who buzzed them often in a small, noisy plane. He threw out personnel bombs, a foot long, by hand, "like he was scattering apples." Throughout the night, all they could see was the plane’s lights, his psychological warfare keeping them awake and rattled.
These details gave me some thought-provoking images, redefining my definition of "incoming!" Virgil said the shelling was "loud and scary, but you were just too busy to worry at the time." But, if they weren’t worried about defending against the enemy, I would imagine the isolation was a major contributor to their angst. Virgil remained in the Philippines until the end of the war. He made First Sergeant Rank within three years. Seven in his battalion were killed.
At least Lee, flying in and out of Ridgewell, had occasional leave. And … enough for this rakish rogue to form a sparky acquaintance with a pretty lass named Jean in rural England. He would later tell my brothers and me stories about necking (kissing) with Miss Jean while riding separate bicycles down country roads. That must have commanded a bit of navigational skill! Lovely Jean was quite a gal. She worked sixty hours a week at the Ridgewell base doing, among other things, shoveling asphalt from the back of a truck onto the new runways being built. What a trooper!
Dad also had the opportunity to do a bit of sightseeing, but his description of those "castles" wasn’t impressed with the "titled." Said most of them were actually very small. Taking a quote from Shakespeare seemed like "much ado about nothing" to him. When his tour was over, I’m sure it was harder to leave fair Jean than the castles of England. I’m so grateful he’d acquired a sweet friend to pleasantly occupy his thoughts, giving him occasional respite during this terrible time in his life. After returning home to Oklahoma, he was rewarded by marrying a fiery Irish-American redhead named Betty Jo – our beautiful Mother.
"Alright, buddy, get ready. We’re gonna send you on out, and you’ll be released soon." No, that wasn’t the coveted discharge orders from military duty; it was an officer’s instructions right before Clarence (Eddie), my Dad-in-law, was pulled down into Belgium in a glider. He just prayed he’d not encounter any krauts down below with guns already fixed on them … Sorry, Eddie, no such luck.
Eddie served in the 17th Airborne Division from 1944 to 1945. Their shoulder patch had a circle with a black background upon which was an outstretched eagle’s talon in gold. The colors suggested seizing the golden opportunity by the surprise with which airborne operations were carried out. Their motto: "Thunder from Heaven."
With the onset of the Battle of the Bulge, the Division was rushed to Europe by air and sea, entering combat on December 25, 1944. To give some perspective on Eddie’s state of mind and what he experienced, in the 17th’s short but violent combat history, these men incurred almost double the casualties per day of other airborne divisions (which were in combat for longer periods). I can’t begin to imagine, but gliding down out of the sky with German soldiers shooting at them must have been a terrifying sensation. Many were dead before their gliders hit the ground. Eddie’s group included four Congressional Medal of Honor winners, more than any other airborne division in World War II. Unfortunately, we didn’t talk about this, so I don’t know many details, but these facts in themselves tell a vivid story of how frantic the action must have been! Sadly, all four were awarded posthumously.
This was Lee’s view, from his radio tech seat, looking through the bomb galley to the cockpit:
A tight fit! It was a good thing he was slender, as he’d have to squeeze through the opening to relay Morse code messages to the pilot. However, having to move a few times from his main position saved his life on more than one occasion.
Dad would later (reluctantly) tell me stories of seeing men killed by enemy fire right in front of him. Nearly every trip resulted in their B-17 returning, riddled in lacy designs by German bullets. Aluminum and plexiglass presented little barrier to bullets or flak shrapnel. Dad agonizingly described once witnessing a crew member catch a startling chainsaw-like spray of bullets through the plane, slicing off the top portion of that man’s head. The soldier wasn’t a member of their regular crew; he was a one-time fill-in for a tail gunner. Seems so very sad -- like the luck of a bad draw. This is the reality of war.
Dad related how once the top piece on their plane came loose, and a crew member had hold of it, trying to secure it back down, but the man was sucked out the opening. There were several occasions, after moving forward a bit, to relay information to his pilot. Dad backed into his seat, noticing the fresh bullet holes right at the position his head would have been. He would have experienced the same fate as his crew member if he hadn't moved at that particular moment. Fate brought my father home. Lucky for me. That same fate brought me into this world; otherwise, I surely wouldn’t be writing this now. Many of his friends were not so lucky.
WAR JOURNAL: Dec’43: "Nine ships from this squadron were part of the formation; the pilots participating were Lts Gleichauf, Butler, Chason, Crozier, Parsons, Nason, Fridgen, Klein, and Stewart Hanson. Radio operator S/Sgt Curtis E. Hickman died of anoxia on the return trip. His body was taken to the 121st Station Hospital at Braintree, a few miles away."
Our Dad served from August 5, 1942, until October 22, 1945, in the U.S. Army Air Corp, Eighth Air Force, surviving twenty-eight flying missions over Berlin and other targets in B-17 bombers. His last rank was Tech Sergeant. His awarded Decorations and Citations included the European-African-Middle Eastern Service Medal with Two Bronze Battle Stars, the Air Medal with Three Bronze Clusters, and … the Distinguished Flying Cross.
A statistic I found compelling: more U.S. servicemen died in the Air Corps than in the Marine Corps. While completing the required thirty missions in bomber planes, the chance of being killed was seventy-one percent.
The last time Dad climbed aboard a military plane was to return to his base in Oklahoma. Upon ‘landing,’ the small plane flipped over, sliding down the runway, eventually stopping upside-down. Fortunately, the crew all walked away from it. I believe he felt he’d tempted fate enough – he never stepped foot in an airplane again. He passed away over twenty-five years ago and my brothers and I miss ‘His Orneryness’ still.
Our Stepdad, Virgil, not only successfully completed his Pacific tour during WWII but also directed other men in the Korean War and Vietnam conflict. He retired in 1973 after nearly three decades of service. Due to his military experiences, he was very organized and disciplined. Amazingly, after witnessing the horrors of three wars -- the indescribable sounds and smells of death, my stepdad was also a very compassionate, kind, and giving man. Most of what I’ve compiled here, he related to me before he experienced some memory losses. I wish that if he forgot anything about his military career, it was the violent, unhappy memories, not his brave buddies and their camaraderie. We lost this dear man a few hours before his 90th birthday.
Eddie (my Dad-in-law) returned and married his girlfriend, Fera, in Kansas -- another beautiful redhead. He always seemed to have handled his war experiences fairly well; I suppose that was due to being quite pragmatic about it. I believe he felt that it does no good to dwell in guilt. He and his buddies simply did their job and came home. Though he has also passed on and is missed by his family, his military legacy continued in his Marine sons and Navy grandson.
It’s amazing to me how so many young men (and women) can go off on missions such as these, witness the atrocities that routinely come with the war effort, perform a valiant job, and then wearily return home. They’re then expected to re-ingratiate themselves into normal lives, into a public that has no base, absolutely no comprehension of what they experienced. I remember seeing old news clips and pictures showing the excitement at reports of the end of the war: the jubilation and partying – sailors grabbing girls and kissing them enthusiastically. And the gals (whether they knew them or not), seemingly responding in-kind. What wonderful news for a weary nation! But though we’ve seen many romantic images of the war’s end, I don’t believe it really ended so quickly for the weary participants.
Once returning, none of these three men talked much of the war. I’ve heard lots of other family members say the same thing about their soldiers. They had their memories and their nightmares, but many kept those to themselves. Regretfully, I often wish I had asked my Dads more about their experiences, especially since I am now endeavoring to write them down. But, on the other hand, perhaps some of the memories would have been too painful for them to revisit very thoroughly. Of necessity, they made fast friends, but those they lost were a sad reminder. Even though they were all heroes in my eyes, I wonder whether they and many of their comrades felt unworthy to have survived when so many of their buddies did not.
Four-hundred and forty Medals of Honor were awarded during WWII. Sorrowfully, two-hundred fifty of those were awarded posthumously. I’m sure other medals should have been presented; not all valiant actions could be reported. We’re losing these valiant heroes at a rapidly increasing pace. Therefore, we can’t praise these Americans enough – for the sacrifices they made to ensure the continuance of our country’s democracy and the freedom we enjoy. And not only those from World War II, but we must honor all soldiers, sailors, air force, and marines (both men and women) from every war this country has engaged in.
Like his grandfathers in World War II and his Father in Vietnam, our younger son has experienced numerous Seabee deployments in hostile confrontations. Each time, I anguished until he returned to his children, and I always wished him ‘Godspeed, dear son.’ He recently retired as a Navy Seabee after twenty-three years of service.
Throughout the entire history of our country and continuing today, our military heroes sacrificed irreplaceable time with their families, some their fortunes, and many -- their lives. May those who have passed on gain their deserved crown of peace. They deserve our utmost respect. I pray that God will continue to bless our nation and protect each of our troops as they protect us.