Leonard Hornbeck

A Screaming Eagle Goes Airborne on D-Day – Twice

Barely recognizable in the false dawn of D-Day, a German grenade skitters across the roadway. Walking directly into its oncoming path is an American paratrooper.

At age 23, Leonard Hornbeck's reflexes have never been sharper. Instinctively, he jumps straight up just as the “potato masher” disappears beneath his combat boots. In that frozen moment of time the grenade explodes between Leonard's legs, propelling him skyward. If the German soldat who tossed the grenade tried to duplicate his feat – performed in the dark – he would have gone through a case of explosives without coming close.

"Hey, ma -- it's me!" In this fading photo mailed home, Hornbeck waves a greeting to his mother, Carrie Jane, as he prepares to board a C-47 for the 3rd of 5 required training jumps at Fort Benning, Georgia.

Hornbeck's sitting across from me now, sporting his customary smile. In a few weeks he'll turn 90. His wife Katherine has planned a party, with relatives traveling to Oregon from as far away as Texas. Among the participants will be Len's two daughters, Paula and Paulette, as well as a scattering of grand-children.
Of the 15,600 potential story tellers who descended by parachute from the darkened skies on June 6, only a fraction will leave a written record of their hazardous undertaking. Hornbeck's voice numbers among the dwindling Curahees yet to be heard.

My chance encounter with Tech Sergeant Leonard I. Hornbeck occurred in a doctor's office. His airborne cap was cluttered with a dozen ceramic pins and decals. I inquired: “The hundred and first?” Big grin. Then: “The five-oh-sixth?” His grin widened. Standing off to the side, Leonard's wife eyed me suspiciously; maybe I was peddling burial plots – or worse, variable annuities.

Hornbeck cautioned me up front about his failing memory. In turn, I confessed to having misplaced a dozen car keys of my own – plus the cars. “Let's you and me try putting the pieces back together,” I suggested. Another mile-wide smile.

I noticed Leonard was stocky, with a fulsome chest and stout shoulders. No paunch. And biceps, I imagined, that still rippled beneath his long shirt sleeves. It's his legs that aren't up to snuff. In recent years Leonard's come to depend on a walker for mobility. “The pain's never entirely gone away from day one,” he confides. Meaning D-Day, 66 years ago.

Beginning in his mid-teens, Leonard spent the greater part of his working life as a logger in northwest Washington State. At five feet four inches, Hornbeck barely exceeds the height of the old growth stumps he left in his wake. Upon reaching his mid-seventies, Leonard finally quit the woods and sold his sawmill. His grandsons recall teaming up with him as teenagers during summer vacations. Says Jeff Coles: “That's when I made up my mind to go to college. I'd look around – ooof! All those trees far as I could see.”

One of seven children, Hornbeck moved north with his family from Roseburg, Oregon to the village of Concrete, Washington in the late thirties. His father worked for the Bureau of Public Roads, a federal agency. Like many of his youthful contemporaries, Leonard was attracted to the mystique of aviation; it was 1941, fascism was aflame in Europe, and the U.S. armed forces were actively recruiting – in certain categories, very selectively.

“I wanted in the worst way to be an aviation cadet – that was the biggest challenge I could think of,” Leonard explains. “So I enrolled in Mount Vernon Junior College to make up for my shortage in math courses, and that helped me pass the written test. What I didn't figure on was failing the physical.” Though he made a number of determined inquiries, Hornbeck was never told the reason. “I strongly suspect they had too many applicants who qualified, and this was their way of letting the surplus down gently – rather than just saying we can't use you.”
Hornbeck then shifted his attention to communications technology, and on completing the college program applied for active duty in the army. Following basic training at Camp Roberts in California, Leonard was assigned to a communications course. But his lust for the wild blue yonder went right on raging.

Enter the paratroopers, center stage. “They were certainly up in the air,” Hornbeck reasoned, “and that's exactly where I wanted to be.” Accepted in l942, Hornbeck began training in the fall at Fort Benning. He completed many forced marches and the mandatory five parajumps required of every applicant, followed by advanced communication schooling. During this period, the recently formed Five-O-Six regiment showed up at Benning. “We had a nickname for those guys –- the Walkie-Talkie Non-Jumpie outfit,” Leonard reveals. “And now here they were. A lot of them were draftees. I was willing to be assigned most anywhere, but not there. So guess what? – suddenly I'm a Five-Oh-Sixer.”

Now an instructor, Hornbeck found himself thrust into the midst of the newly arrived parachutist wannabes. His concerns soon dissipated. “It took about two or three weeks before I discovered that my earlier impressions were completely unfounded. I began to make a few friends. One of them was Bob Plants. Much later on, Bob and I were among a group that took a test to determine who would fill a couple advancement slots. Bob came out on top and at age 21 became a master sergeant. I scored right behind him and went from corporal to technical sergeant.”

The subsequent ocean voyage to England in September 1943 passed without incident, and was soon followed by more intensive training. The 82nd and Hundred-and-First were competitive, both in the air and on the ground. Sometimes it got downright personal, leading to a flash point that begged for a resolution.

Says Leonard: “This one guy, he made a remark or two about my height. He was the arm wrestling champ of the Eighty-Second. So I sat him down and we planted our elbows on a table.” But it didn't end there, Hornbeck adds. When word got out, the reigning champ of the 101st showed up with fire in his eye and a cocked elbow. Leonard pinned him too, for good measure.

Having defeated the reigning arm wrestling champs of the 101st and 82nd Airborne Division's 65 years ago, Len Hornbeck goes elbow to elbow with grandson, Rodney Coles (210lbs).  Note the distressed look on Rod's face!

Hornbeck spent two weeks with a British paratroop battalion, whose members had been bloodied but unbeaten in North Africa. They would likely meet Americans again on French soil, and the Brits thought it important to become acquainted with their allies in advance. “During the visit, they set me up in a swimming class,” Leonard remembers. “Well...I sank like a rock.”

A worse scare for Leonard occurred during a nighttime exercise, one that came dangerously close to undermining the 506's determined effort to reach a certain skill level in preparation for D-Day – date unknown.
“Poor planning, that's what it was,” Hornbeck avows. “Can't blame what happened on high winds or bad weather – there was neither that night.” Whatever the snafu, the sticks exited over terrain that was sharply sloped. Many of the troopers slammed into the banked hillside, resulting in numerous injuries – some serious. Leonard himself blacked out. “My lower torso and back took a beating,” Hornbeck reveals, “and all this happened about two weeks before D-Day. I was still in considerable pain and discomfort, but I never let on once I left the hospital. I'm sure a whole bunch of other guys kept quiet, as well.”

June 5, 1944. 506th regimental headquarters personnel prepare to board a C-47, one of 3 Skytrains carrying command, demolition and communication specialists to Normandy. Hornbeck is among them.

The night drop onto the Cotentin Peninsula was an extremely complex undertaking, with the initial thrust provided by 15,600 paratroops of the 101st/82nd loaded aboard 821 C-47 Skytrains. Leonard's triple-plane element carried headquarters personnel from all three regiments, mainly communications specialists – of whom only a handful were able to locate their regiments late on D-Day. Their first adversary was a fog bank overlaid with broken clouds, encountered just inland. The ensuing confusion resulted in numerous navigational errors. Then suddenly the sky cleared, and almost immediately the night lit up with tracers. Gunner Helmut Grahns, 19, rousted from bed, recalls tracking the aerial convoy with his quad-barreled flak gun. “I was wearing only my helmet, boots and a long night shirt – what a sight.” After the armada had passed, Grahns counted 373 empty 20mm shell casings scattered around his Swiss-made anti-aircraft weapon – plus a pair of crashed C-47s burning a mile away.
Hornbeck's element, unscathed, overshot its drop zone by more than a dozen miles. Time: around 01:30 hours. Estimated altitude: 500-600 feet. Leonard kicked out a pile of equipment bundles, including a SCR 300 radio, then stepped into space. “I don't know how unusual it was, but we had no officer aboard,” Leonard notes. “Bob Plants held the senior rank, and the two of us were in charge. Bob brought up the rear as jump master.”

Any pent-up uneasiness about falling through the night sky was instantly replaced by a dread of the unknown – the unseen fate that awaited Hornbeck and his companions once on the ground. Leonard hit the deck feet first, tumbled in a ball and quickly regained his feet. “All my aches and pains from the night jump in England – they just disappeared. All I felt at the moment was acute anxiety.”

Hornbeck clutched his cricket and started walking. Within 45 minutes everyone in the 18-man stick was accounted for. The group took a compass bearing and set out in the general direction of Utah beach. Plants took the point and Hornbeck the rear. Their objective: to help block any German reinforcements from reaching the landing beaches, and to assist the 4th Infantry division in pushing inland along the southern causeways. The countryside was spotted with occasional flooded fields, mostly ankle deep, bordered by tree-lined hedgerows. Shortly they came upon other scattered parachutists. Among them, a supply officer. The lieutenant wanted to assume command, but after a heated discussion it was decided he best just tag along. “This didn't sit too well, but he was outnumbered,” Leonard chuckles.

The group, now strengthened to about 50 men, chanced upon a country road heading toward the coast. Leonard reckons they'd advanced 500 yards or so, when the grenade from nowhere bounced between his feet. Hornbeck might well lay claim to being the only member of the Hundred-and-First to go airborne twice on D-day and live to tell about it. “The guy closest to me swore I shot straight up in the air for a good fifteen feet. But you know paratroopers – they exaggerate a lot.”

In shock, Hornbeck lay on his back for a few minutes, struggling to regain his breath, then forced himself to his feet. To his surprise –- and relief--- he found he could still shuffle along despite the throbbing pain in his legs and groin. The column resumed its march, intent on avoiding further contact with the enemy in order to reach their assigned area. But that wasn't to be. Within two miles they encountered a sizable force of grenadiers well armed and organized, blocking their way. “They really opened up on us,” Leonard recalls. “We went to ground and returned their fire, but it quickly became evident we couldn't match their firepower. When our ammo began running out, they jumped up and outflanked us. We held a pow-wow and decided it was all over.”

The bitter pill that Hornbeck chose to swallow still sticks in his craw.

“The grenade was a big disappointment to my ego, I'll say that,” Leonard explains. “But surrendering...” His voice trails off. “When you set out on an undertaking the likes of D-Day, the only thing that matters is how you handle the responsibility you've worked so hard to be entrusted with. So in that regard, I feel that I failed.”

The last time Hornbeck saw master sergeant Robert Plants, the latter was speaking earnestly with a German officer. “I'm pretty certain that's how I got off the battlefield,” Leonard notes. “Bob somehow persuaded them I needed immediate medical attention, and it wasn't long before they put me in a truck and off I went.” By late afternoon Leonard found himself in the city of Valognes, 12 miles southeast of Cherbourg. Hospitalized, Hornbeck underwent a physical. A German surgeon scrutinized Leonard's pelvic area, then declared: “Ihre Mannlichkeit ist intakt.” Translation: “Your maleness is intact.” Followed by a toothy Hornbeck grin, it might be imagined – plus a sigh of relief.

“The doctors never found so much as a speck of shrapnel anywhere,” Hornbeck explains. “The explosive shock wave did all the nerve and muscle damage.” Had the potato masher been a fragmentation grenade, rather than a concussion device, Leonard would almost certainly have made the list of 231 Currahees from the 506th regiment who died in the battle for Normandy.

Leonard remained hospitalized for three weeks. On June 24, the Allies carpet-bombed Valognes into utter ruin. Roughly half the hospital was destroyed; Hornbeck's ward only narrowly escaped. The surviving POW patients were transported inland, eventually passing through Paris after numerous interrogation stops and in-transit delays.

“Once we crossed the border into Germany, it seemed nobody wanted us,” Leonard continues. “We were either standing around under guard in open fields or else shunted by train between towns.” At one stop – a city heavily bombed by the British the night before – Leonard and his fellow POWs were hustled out of their boxcars and made to stand in a group on the station platform. Understandably, the mood of nearby civilians became increasingly ugly.

“This German in the crowd came forward, a guy around fifty years old,” Hornbeck continues. “He commenced cuffing my ears, but good. And he wouldn't stop. Finally a couple guards walked over and dragged him away. I'm guessing maybe his family had been killed or injured in the bombing.” Such railway station encounters occurred many hundreds of times during the war, occasionally with fatal consequences.

Leonard eventually ended up in Stalag 111B, a sprawling enclosure located 60 miles SE of Berlin. The camp held a mixed bag of Russians, French, Serbs, Croatians and rebellious Hungarians – some 50,000 captives in all, of whom 5,000 were American and 30,000 were Soviets. Hornbeck's scanty recollection of 111B events appears to be influenced as much by the lethargic atmosphere typically associated with imprisonment as by the dimming passage of time itself. To wit:

Do you remember ever going to a movie? Movies...no. Do you recall seeing any theatrical plays staged by your fellow inmates? No. What about any live musical performances? No. Did you ever visit the camp library? What camp library...? Were there any escape attempts while you were there? No. Was there a secret radio receiver in camp? Not that I ever heard of. Consciously or unconsciously, Hornbeck has blotted these various activities from his memory. Baseball, for example, proved a huge morale builder at 111B, with uniforms that exactly duplicated major league teams in the States. Hornbeck recalls none of it.

The only three items that remain vivid in Leonard's memory: the arrival of Red Cross packages (and their importance), battalions of anti-American bedbugs, and his encounters with what appears to be a remarkable number of German military personnel who once resided in the United States. “ I must have talked to close to fifty Germans while being moved around Germany who claimed to have lived in America. Some of them spoke better English than I did.” On reflection, it's likely that the German POW prison system actively recruited bilingual personnel as a means to enhance communications between captured and captors – including eavesdropping on the always-scheming kriegies.

Sergeant Angelo Spinelli, a signal corps combat photographer made prisoner in North Africa, put is PoW time in Stalag IIIB to good use.  A non-smoker, Spinelli bartered Red Cross cigarettes with a camp guard, receiving in return his Voigtlander 35mm camera with film, which he secretly took some 1,200 photos of camp activities with. 

“The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!” Beginning in January, 1945, the Stalag 111B administration began assembling groups of prisoners for transit. Leonard finally made the list in late February, moving out in a thousand-man group. Its departure had been dangerously delayed, for which a tragic due bill was shortly forthcoming.

Less than an hour into their journey and just east of the Oder River, the POWs walked headlong into a trio of parked T-34 tanks. The Russian tank gunners briefly hesitated, then opened up with automatic weapons fire. The leading element bore the full brunt, with nearly a dozen men falling dead or wounded. As word spread to the middle and rear of the column, the POWs abandoned the road and scattered. The guards simply vanished. With calm restored – the Russians having realized their mistake – a survey was taken and most of the prisoners elected to return to 111B. But Hornbeck and half-a-dozen fellow inmates decided to keep going.

Their journey was a long and perilous one – rather resembling a foot-sore, ragtag excursion with no immediate destination. The intent was to connect with either American or British forces, but none were to be found. Finally acknowledging their dilemma, Leonard and his group crossed into Poland and headed for Warsaw. Food and shelter enroute proved scarce; conversely, nasty surprises were plentiful at nearly every turn. Entering an abandoned house, Leonard pulled back the covers on a down-filled bed in eager anticipation of a blessed night's sleep. But Hornbeck had company; a youthful female stared back, sightless. Either a suicide, Leonard reflects, or more likely the victim of yet another drunken Russian soldier. The Dirty-Half-Dozen, as they might be labeled, also learned not to hitch rides in open trucks, having once been frost-bitten by the onrushing night air. Through it all, Leonard nurtured a soft spot for the Polish civilians who so willingly shared what little they had. “Once we were invited to join some Russian soldiers roasting a pig over an open fire,” Hornbeck recalls. “We filled our bellies but there was still a good bit left over. So I asked the Russians if I could give the rest to some Poles.” A torrent of Russian curse words filled the air, and Hornbeck quickly abandoned the idea.

Continuing their trek, the group reached the Ukrainian border. Leonard was still wearing his tattered D-Day jump suit. Attempting to cross, the POWs were stopped and forbidden entry. But rather than simply sending them on their way, this time the Russians placed them in detention. Weeks passed, and then without warning the group was put on a train headed for the port of Odessa on the Black Sea. On the same train was Bill Pledger, a Buffs regiment British rifleman taken prisoner in 1940 – who spent 3-1/2 miserable years laboring in a Silesian coal mine before escaping.

For Pledger, arrival at Odessa proved to be his 'day of days.' “I remember about a thousand men gathered together – French and American G.I.s mostly, plus some paratroopers from the 101st. It was quite a stirring march to the quay, led by a Russian Army band. We passed by the Potemkin Steps, made famous in the silent film about the Russian Revolution.”

At dockside, Pledger and Hornbeck and all the others boarded the S.S. Highland Princess, a converted cruise ship. Destination: Port Said, Egypt. There, the Americans were segregated and along with other collected ex-POWs yearning for home, took passage to Boston on a Matson liner.

No more boxcars and slop buckets. No more appelle (roll calls) in the pouring rain and blowing snow. No more rotten cabbage soup nor latrine trenches. No more lice-ridden straw mattresses. No more neins and nyets.
Just miles of majestic Douglas fir trees, stretching to the horizon....

John P. Halada

David contacted me recently to say he had just completed a WWII remerance for a friend who was captured in France and later escaped. David has sent me the story and I have reproduced it here with his permission.

WW II Experiences of PFC John P Halada
314th Infantry Regiment, 79th Division
POW in Stalag VIIA (7A), Moosburg, Germany

Background
I grew up in the small Central Pennsylvania town of Palmerton. Working at Bethlehem Steel in the Ordinance Department, I had a deferment. I quit to join the Army Air Corps, but found out I was colorblind. Being too tall for the paratroopers, I was drafted into the infantry in November 1943. I was 23 years old.

We had lots of ethnic Pennsylvania Dutch near Palmerton, so I was quite fluent in German. Hunting was a regular hobby, so I was already a pretty good shot when I joined the Army. Being 6’3” and weighing around 215 lbs made me the obvious GI to carry the Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR). I was also considered a pretty tough guy.
After six months of training I was assigned to a Replacement Contingent. We left for England on the “SS Argentina” and arrived in April 1944. Invasion tension was already high and men with their equipment were practicing everywhere. D-Day was June 6th.

On my departure from England I was just amazed at the unbelievable number of ships and barrage balloons dotting the horizon. When we arrived off of Normandy, I had to go over the ships side and down a seemingly endless cargo net into a bouncing Landing Craft carrying my rifle and full pack. This was a daunting task, but nothing compared to what I was about to face. When ashore, I was ordered to discard my gas mask and join up with my unit. I was assigned to “A” Company, 314th Infantry Regiment, 97th Infantry Division.

Normandy
Although D-Day had been a week earlier, the effects of the battles for Omaha and Utah Beaches were evident in the Channel and on land. Wrecked vehicles, strewn equipment, wounded and dead were ever present. On June 16th we moved out to attack the entrenched German Garrison at Cherbourg. After 10 days of heavy fighting, the bastion fell to the men of the 79th Division. This was our first battle and casualties were heavy.

On July 3rd we began an attack on the small French town of La Haye du Puits. This area was very stubbornly defended and once again casualties were very heavy on both sides. House to house combat was the norm on July 7th and 8th. One of my first and most unforgettable experiences was hearing a seriously wounded German, lying between the hedgerows, calling for help. A Southern boy sought to shut him up and went over and shot him in the head. We almost got into a fight. A few days later, he was seriously wounded. The law of retribution? After witnessing such death and destruction, I asked a French farm lady to fill my canteen with Calvados in place of water.

The Hedgerows
For the next several weeks we made little progress against the German positions anchored at St. Lo. The hedgerows proved a natural barrier and were much more advantageous for the defender as opposed to the attacker. We lost a lot of men and armor trying to gain precious yards.

There were also the minefields. On one occasion, I was 2/3rds of the way across an open area, when Boom, Boom, Boom, delayed mines started going off. My Lieutenant, just 5 yards from me, stepped on a Bouncing Betty, which fatally injured him. Some how, I ran back thru that field to get help without stepping on another mine. We had to leave our guys there until the field could be swept. I had three of my four Lieutenants killed in my two months in Normandy.

On another occasion, I had just dug my foxhole when the “Jerries” opened up on us with their 88’s. I raced back to my shelter only to find two others had already dove into it. I piled on top and lay as flat as I could. WOOM, one went off real close, and I felt this heat and pressure across my backside. A piece of shrapnel had torn the seat right out of my pants. Almost a disASSter, but my good fortune continued.

Almost an “ACE” and meeting “Blood and Guts”
After the Breakthrough at St. Lo and the attacks on the Germans in the Falaise Pocket, we headed towards the Seine. At this time we were part of Patton’s 3rd Army and protecting his flank. Our orders were not to shoot at aircraft, as it would give away our position and strength. They were also much more likely to be Allied than German.

My squad and I were walking across an open area parallel to our vehicles that were on a road. I saw this fighter coming down after the tanks and trucks. When he started strafing, I raised my BAR, led the guy, and opened up with my armor piercing ammunition. Much to my surprise, the plane began to smoke and appeared to crash over the hill. Everyone was either congratulating me or yelling at me when this Command Jeep comes driving over the field. Some General, with a helmet full of stars yells, “Who shot that plane?” Well, everyone backed away, and I’m left standing there with a smoking BAR with about 50 brass casings at my feet. With little other choice, I said, “I did sir.” With that, he said: “Good shooting soldier, you got that Jerry son of a bitch.” He had an officer write down my name, but I never heard anything. When I asked who that was, I was informed that was “Old Blood and Guts Patton,’ himself. Your blood, his guts.”

What “guts” for a General to be up at the very front line. I thought he was great, even though his persistent aggressiveness led to my capture.

Lobbing A Grenade
Another training directive, besides not shooting at aircraft, was to “lob, not throw” a hand grenade. We were moving through a French cemetery on the outskirts of town when a German MG-42 machine gun opened fire from a 3rd floor window of a house across the street from us. With some difficulty, we managed to get to the stone cemetery wall opposite the house with the machine gun. With the yell of “covering fire” I was boosted over the wall and ran to the base of the house and underneath the Germans. I pulled the pin on my grenade and “lobbed” it towards the window. It hit the wall and fell at my feet. I quickly grabbed it, ran into the street and “threw a strike” at the window. The grenade went off right at the window and killed all three gunners. I was real lucky.

A Good Night’s Sleep
As we approached the Seine, I was once again in a forward element. The plan was to pass through this village the next day. My buddy and I saw no activity and decided to move into town to sleep as opposed to a wet and cold foxhole. We went to this French home, had a wonderful meal with plenty of wine and a soft bed. We awoke at dawn and returned to our lines in a two-wheeled horse drawn cart. The camouflaged netting on our helmets was bedecked with flowers. Our CO was beside himself. Later that morning we moved forward only to be met by stiff German resistance. They had fortified the one side of town and did not want to betray their positions to a couple of inebriated GI’s. Another stoke of good fortune.

Capture!
The 314th crossed the River Seine near Mantes-Gassicort about 40 miles Northwest of Paris on August 20th. Myself, along with a veteran Army Ranger named Lt. J. Bacchus occupied a far forward position. We were given orders to withdraw, but he insisted we stay and hold our ground. He said he did not want to take the same real estate twice. On the night of August 21st, the Germans, led by King Tiger tanks, counterattacked. Our position near Fontenoy St. Pierre was overrun and the two of us hid in a under road culvert. Around 10:00 in the morning, some Germans ordered us out or they would throw in hand grenades. The decision was relatively easy.
As was the usual practice, Lt. Bacchus, an officer, was separated from me and I never was able to determine his fate. To my surprise, a German officer asked me if our Captain Flannery was still wearing his lucky combat boots with the big hole in the sole. How they knew this level of detail about our unit was certainly surprising.
As a prisoner, I and other Americans were initially held near the front. Here we encountered what the Germans called “American Automatic Artillery.” There would be a continuous scream, followed by boom, boom, boom…just like a machine gun. There must have been more than a dozen artillery tubes firing in tandem. We had much more firepower, but the German 88 was very accurate and deadly.

While near the front, I witnessed an American fighter get shot down. All the “krauts” opened fir on him with everything they had. The pilot did not bailout after being hit, but rammed his plane into a German arms depot. He was a real hero. I felt bad being a prisoner, but there was nothing I could have done differently. Behind the German front lines was a very dangerous place and I was anxious to get out of there.
Not long after capture, I was united with Bob Greenawalt, another member of “A” Company and a fellow Central Pennsylvanian from Kutztown. We were moved by truck to Amiens, France and then to Chalfonte. On the way, brave French women defied the Germans and passed us loaves of bread and water. From there we went to Stalag XII in Limburg, Luxemburg and on September 4th put on rail cars for a train ride to Moosburg. This trip was far from uneventful as US fighters strafed our locked up train.

Stalag VIIA (7A)
Stalag 7A was located near the Bavarian town of Moosburg, about 35 miles Northwest of Munich. When I arrived it was just for enlisted men like myself. We were given showers to soothe our flea-infested bodies. There were four sections: one for the Russians, which was separate, and one each for Americans, English and French. We were free to intermingle except with the Russians. A double barbed wire fence surrounded the camp and we slept and ate in wooden barracks. My prison ID tag number was 85-79A. The tag was perforated, so it could be broken in two. One half was to be buried with you, the other half to the Red Cross.

As the war continued, the Stalag became even more crowded and conditions worsened. We were all quite depressed when so many American troops were added after the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944. We knew however, that things must have been going in our favor as we regularly watched the endless waves of American and British bombers fly high overhead and bomb the nearby cities. Food was becoming very scarce and Red Cross weekly parcels were inadequate. I went from 215 to 165 during captivity.

Meals were an interesting cultural event. American GI’s would push and shove in line and gobble down their chow. The Brits would be “very proper” and have tea first and call: “Say there Jerry, just place the food on the table while we finish tea.” They would then line up and march to the chow line. The French would periodically decorate their mess tins with dandelions or other flowers to have a more elegant dining experience.
I loved the Brits sense of dry humor. In their latrines, they hung signs that read: “Don’t throw fags (butts) into the urinals, as it renders them almost unsmokeable.” Some of those guys had been there since 1940.

The Chicago Gangster
The Brits got little tins of tea in their Red Cross parcels. One “Tommy” was drying his tealeaves on the windowsill. There was no more tea left in them. I asked if he smoked them. He said: “Oh no, I put them back in the tin and carefully reseal it. I can get two loaves of bread for it in town.” He went on to warn me to “Give the bread to a mate to hide, for they will surely come back after you”.

Some time later, I had the opportunity to go into town and thought I would try this “tea exchange”. I got my two loaves of bread from a German woman but shortly thereafter, she was back demanding the guard to have her bread returned. She told the guard that I was a “Chicago Gangster”. I was searched, but had already stashed the bread.

Six cigarettes could have been traded for a loaf, but the thought to quit smoking never occurred to any of us. Cigarettes were a precious staple of our culture.

The Guards
Overall, the treatment was fair. There were good and bad guards just as there were good and bad internees. One day we were sent by train into Munich to help clean up after the city had been bombed. One Brit, who was suffering from pneumonia and in bad shape, was being harassed to work harder by a guard. I decided to intervene and stepped between the Guard and the man he was bullying. I cussed at him in German and yelled for him to leave the sick alone and comply with the Geneva Convention. With that, he smashed me in the mouth with his rifle butt and chipped of my front teeth. After that however, he left the infirmed alone. I looked briefly for him at the end of the war to repay his hostility, but never located him.

On another occasion I threatened to kill some of our own guys who were stealing food from frail soldiers in the barracks. One of these sick guys, Bill Rosen, came by my hometown after the war to thank me for “saving his life”. I barely recognized him, as I remembered Bill only as an emaciated body in the Stalag.

The Work Farm
In the Spring of 1945, there was the opportunity to get out of the Stalag and help the German farmers ready their fields. When asked my occupation before the war, I explained I was a farmer and raised pineapples. While they didn’t have any pineapple farms, my ruse worked and I was sent as part of a work detachment to assist on a local farm. This enabled me to get some additional food that was essential.

One of the two farms, near Hohenkammer, I worked on was owned and managed by an old farmer and his wife. He hated Americans, but his wife was kind and helpful. On one occasion I was very sick and the “frau” gave me some hot tea with schnapps in it. A guard saw this and admonished her. With that she hit him with her broom and ordered him out of her house. Each night we returned to a central farmhouse where we were locked up for the night. Two other POW’s that worked on the farm with me were Carlton Thomas of Monteagle, Tennessee and a French soldier named Micheau Pierre of Paris.

One humorous farm story was when I was given a new young ox to replace an older one. Two of these oxen were used to plow the fields. The first thing this young bull did was pinning me in the stall when trying to put on a bridle. A hard punch in the nose let him know who was boss. On the road, he kept forcing the other ox into a ditch. After repeated unsuccessful tries at altering his behavior, I decided to whip the older bull and yell left. After a while, the old bull got smart and would gore the young one and they would both stay on the road. When returning a large number of townspeople had lined up to watch how the “Ami” would bring the bulls back to the barn. Much to their astonishment, I drove them right down the road. They could not get over such an accomplishment.

My Escape
Without maps or a compass it was hard to plan an escape. I was also in my POW uniform with triangles painted on that everyone recognized. I also had only wooden shoes. When I heard the sound of distant artillery I knew which direction to go and made my plans to escape from the farm before being returned to Stalag 7A
Late in the day, I picked up a scythe so as to look like a POW farm worker and headed northwest. I traveled mostly at night. One day I came on a farm and figured to hide in the barn. Not long afterwards, I heard two armed and obviously inebriated German soldiers approaching and climbed into the small hayloft. Later one of them started to climb into the loft saying he was going to sleep. Half way up the ladder, the other one grabbed him and pulled him down saying he would fall from there and kill himself. Lucky again.

I continued heading towards the firing. Hiding in the brush I saw an American truck approaching. Experience taught me to be wary of the first vehicle as they were likely trigger-happy. When it passed it was full of German soldiers who must have captured it for their escape.

Friend or Foe
Finally, I noticed a column of American vehicles and infantry approaching. I slowly walked out and explained my escaped POW situation. They were members of the 20th Armored Division, new to combat, and wary of potential of German officers impersonating as civilians or escaping Americans. Being alone and also admitting I spoke German added to their disbelief.

I was then passed to a Doctor or Physiatrist who asked me multiple questions. When asked about baseball, I said I didn’t like it. He asked about Frank Sinatra, and I thought he was still asking about baseball players. After a while, he believed me and I was given a new uniform, great chow, but no weapon. They still were not 100% convinced.

My P08 German Luger
At this time it was late April and the Germans were surrendering in droves. One group of old Volkstrum, accompanied by an SS officer, approached and laid their weapons on the side of the road. I was directed by the 20th to interrogate the officer while others stood back covering them. The officer demanded I salute him and that he surrender only to an officer. With that, I walked to the side of the road, picked up a holstered Luger, pulled it out, and cocked it while walking back. I then again asked the SS officer for information. This time he was very responsive.

With this act, the Americans now believed I was legit and the Volkstrum got a chuckle from the SS man being humbled. I kept the Luger (DWM 6745a) with its holster for personal protection and not as a souvenir. I brought the Luger home with me and had it in my possession for over 60 years.

My Enjoyable Return
Not being a member of the 20th Armored, I was basically free to “find” my old unit now that the war was over. I “signed” for, or rather commandeered an Opel sedan and started back across Germany. I unfortunately encountered a temporary bridge that was unable to accommodate my low-slung Opel. For a while I traveled with another “straggler” named Cutler. We managed to have a great party with some German girls after liberating some wine and food from an obstinate German and his late Doberman.

On my way I did manage to stop in Nancy, France for several days of wine, women and song before heading to Paris. Finally I was reunited with a large contingent of ex-POW’s called “Recovered Allied Military Personnel” or “RAMP” and readied to return to the United States. The plan was to prepare us for the Invasion of Japan.

The Trip Home
We shipped out of La Harve in mid-May on a Liberty Ship. Even this was not without incident as some ships were going straight when others decided to zigzag. The result was our ship was struck by another, but fortunately there was only minor damage except for a lot of frayed POW nerves. Fortunately, after we got back to the States, and the Japanese surrendered in August. I had real serious doubts about my willingness to fight again.

John P. Halada
March 2006