Just Doing My Job: Stories of Service from World War II

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I could see the Stardust , burning brightly and spiraling down in a steep spin. Relieved to be out of the doomed bomber, I resisted the urge to pull my ripcord. I looked at my watch. I was about to land in occupied France. I surveyed the ground beneath me and saw electrical transmission towers bisecting the barren and rocky hillside below. The chute flew out from the pack on my chest and cracked the air with the retort of a rifle shot as it opened above me.

Just Doing My Job: Stories of Service from World War II

A strong wind pushed me toward the high-tension power lines and I envisioned myself entangled in the wires. I made one last rotation before hitting hard on my back against the rocky ground. I saw the Stardust pass behind a hill and explode in a ball of fire, the brilliant flash followed by a loud thunderous clap. I checked my wristwatch. The wreckage lay between me and the heavily fortified German-occupied coast of France. I gathered my chute, removed my life jacket and throat mike.

Stuffing them under a large bush, I covered the makeshift burial site with the few available rocks. An automobile passed on the bluff above me and I prayed that the occupants were more interested in the burning plane than in the white silk parachute that landed me safely on French soil.

Unsure of my precise location, I kept the smoke of the wreckage at my back and alternated running with rapid walking in an attempt to put as much distance as possible between me and the fallen Stardust. The barren, rocky terrain eventually gave way to a thick wooded area. I heard the sound of chopping and the guttural growl of what sounded to me like German.

I made an exaggerated detour, avoiding the area and then continued in a north to northeast direction. After hours of walking, I stumbled upon a stream that cut through the forest. I stopped to wash my face and hands and filled the small bladder from my escape kit with ice-cold water. Believing I needed to get as far away as possible from the downed plane, I continued picking my way through the woods.

A dog barked as I passed a small farm, causing my heart to race. Winter nights come early and the sky rapidly darkened around me.

Silence reached out in every direction. I found myself alone, hungry and afraid. The seriousness of my situation slowly penetrated my overactive brain. I knew nothing about the Allied airmen routed out of France by members of the French Resistance. On my own in an enemy-held country and unsure of my next move, I returned to the small farm and climbed into a haystack for the night.

I offered a prayer of thanks for my safe delivery from the burning Stardust and asked for safe passage through occupied territory. Restless sleep came in short stretches, punctuated by long, cold hours of worry. I feared the dog would hear me climb out of the haystack in the morning and desperately hoped no one would discover and follow my trail. I knew the Germans would find the wreckage of the Stardust and look for survivors. My spirits sank further as I contemplated the dismal future. When the first reaches of dawn streaked the sky with pastel watercolors, I returned to the stream, washed my face and hands, refilled my water bladder and then followed its course through the woods.

I crossed over the water at a small footbridge and took a path that led in a northeasterly direction, eventually climbing to the top of a hill partially covered with trees and shrubs. From the summit, I saw a valley filled with row after row of grapevines and divided by a simple lane that ended with a cluster of small homes. Working my way down the hill, I sat in the shelter of a stand of trees and watched as a man labored in the vineyard nearest me.

When he worked his way to the end of the row, I stood and crossed the short distance to the edge of the field. I am hungry and thirsty. Not more than 15 minutes later, a man and woman emerged from the house. He carried a French-English dictionary and, when they drew close, they both shook my hand. The man opened the book and pointed to the word ami , then to the French word for resistance, and then, with a smile, to the word safe. I breathed a grateful sigh of relief; I found myself among friends.

The wife carried a basket that contained a loaf of bread, cheese, a roll of hard sausage and two bottles of wine. She laid a tablecloth on the ground and spread out what, for me, after so many hours of not eating, truly was feast. I ate quickly while they watched.

Using the dictionary, the couple told me that someone would come for me after dark and take me to a safe place. I thanked them for their kindness and retreated a short distance up the hill where I would be sheltered from view. I finished the food, stretched out in the sun, dozing on and off throughout the afternoon. The tinkling of tiny bells awakened me and I found myself surrounded by a flock of grazing sheep.

When darkness fell, the husband returned with his brother. He indicated that I was to follow them and they would lead me to a safer place. We stopped at the house and dropped off the empty basket. The wife brushed both of my cheeks with a light kiss and wished me Godspeed. We emerged into the dark night and walked across the uneven ground through rows of dormant grapevines, their branches catching our pant legs as we passed by.

See a Problem?

We trudged through neighboring vineyards, up steep hills and across overgrown fields until we finally reached the main road. Within minutes, we heard the soft whistle. Keeping low, we hurried across the road, ducking into another large vineyard.

Finally, we came to an isolated lane that led to a large dark house that looked deserted from the outside. Two of us stayed back, hidden behind trees, waiting for the soft whistle. Bright light flooded the interior. Seven or eight people sat around a table, lilting French conversation, melodious and flowing, filled the room.

A few of the guests spoke English making it possible for me to explain that I was an American pilot and that my plane had been shot down while participating in a bombing raid on Salon-de-Provence airdrome. I repeatedly asked if they had news of my crew, but no one admitted knowing anything other than the fact that six or seven parachutes had been spotted.

That gave me reason to hope that most of my crew made it out of the plane alive. Our hostess served a dinner of fried rabbit, oven-browned potatoes and a spinach casserole. My mouth watered and my stomach growled. The food tasted wonderful. I washed it down with numerous glasses of wine and finished the meal with hot cookies and crisp apples. I learned that my new friends were members of the French Resistance, community members who went about their normal daily lives, but aided efforts to defeat the Germans whenever possible.

They were crucial links in the underground chain that actively rescued Allied airmen. The Resistance replaced my uniform with civilian clothes. They gave me a pair of dark trousers, a plain black belt, a long-sleeve shirt and a French navy-issue sweater. A heavy navy-type peacoat with ordinary buttons and a heavy black knit cap completed my disguise. The only things I kept were my long johns, socks, shoes, wristwatch and dog tags. Exhausted after a sleepless night, I turned in around I climbed into a feather bed with a thick feather comforter and plump feather pillows.

I immediately drifted off and slept soundly through the night. Around eight the next morning, my hostess awakened me with a soft knock on the door. I could smell the food before she brought the tray to the bed. I sopped up the yoke from a soft-boiled egg with several slices of bread coated in jam. The ersatz coffee tasted bitter and she apologized for its poor quality. I assured her it tasted fine.

The absurdity of awaking in the comfort of a feather bed with the warmth and smells of a hot breakfast served to me versus spending a cold and frightening night in a haystack was hard to comprehend. Two of us climbed into the back. I noticed my companion carried a small British-manufactured Sten submachine gun. The van, powered by a strange charcoal burning engine, was not particularly powerful, and several times we climbed out and pushed the little vehicle up a hill. At dusk, we pulled into a commercial garage that had closed for the night.

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We made our way to the rear of the building, where four people waited for us in a small office. Greeted with handshakes, they invited me to sit in an unoccupied chair. They passed around a small box of cookies. I helped myself to one. Fumbling, I dropped the cookie onto the very dirty floor. I picked it up and started to toss it into a wastebasket. He reached over, took the cookie from my hand, brushed the dirt off, and handed it back to me.

On and on she went, questioning me in detail about my fellow crew members, their hometowns, and our mission. I learned later that it was her job to establish my true identity as an American and not a German plant inserted to trap members of the Resistance. Had I not thoroughly convinced her, I would have been shot as soon as we left the area. Discovery guaranteed either immediate transport to Nazi concentration camps, or, more likely, instant execution.

The night turned pitch black by the time we left the garage. We alternated driving and pushing the little vehicle for hours, eventually parking in front of a deserted house at the top of a steep hill. My escorts made sure the blinds were securely drawn before turning on any light. The house, a vacation home nestled on a creek in the mountains, served as a safe house for the Marquis, a collection of rural guerilla resistance fighters.

My new hosts pulled together some food for dinner. The stories involving prisoners are a challenge to read, and war has some real atrocities. You can't help but be grateful for these people and what they did.

If this is an audio book, I would love to listen to it, in their own voices. There are so few WWII veterans left, I would love to give them the chance to tell their stories, and I would love to learn from them. Aug 19, Frank rated it it was amazing. An excellent read portraying the experiences of various people during WW II.

A good look at the divergent makeup of the folks that contributed to the War effort during WWII and their personal stories. Robert rated it it was amazing Sep 16, Sep 18, Karen rated it liked it Shelves: Not great for research but enjoyable in a "The Greatest Generation" way. Cindy Novak-delaurell rated it it was amazing Sep 24, Diane Fessler rated it it was amazing Jul 16, Avonlea rated it really liked it Oct 12, Arttie Parker rated it it was amazing May 31, Ashutosh Dikshit rated it really liked it Nov 10, Maggy rated it it was amazing Jul 07, Vaughn Phelps rated it it was amazing Mar 01, Howard Phillips rated it liked it Mar 06, Susan Petrich rated it really liked it Jul 02, Casey rated it really liked it Oct 08, Amy marked it as to-read Apr 23, Andie marked it as to-read Jun 14, Amy marked it as to-read Oct 14, Heather marked it as to-read Oct 24, Douglas added it Feb 16, Kelly marked it as to-read Mar 24, Edward added it Nov 03, Carolyn marked it as to-read Sep 06, Kathy Kelly added it Sep 14, Clifton Britt marked it as to-read Dec 11, Ruth added it May 25, Tiana marked it as to-read Jun 09, Raphael marked it as to-read Aug 13, Felishia marked it as to-read Oct 01, Mike added it Jul 10, Inknscroll marked it as to-read Feb 29, Libby Myers marked it as to-read Mar 02, Baco marked it as to-read Mar 12, Michelle marked it as to-read Apr 09,

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