The Bomber Boys (22 page)

The bruised gunner began a difficult trek down the mountain. At times the snow was nearly waist high. As darkness fell and temperatures plunged, Lyon’s wet clothing began to freeze. Far down in the valley, he could see the lights of a village. He trudged on, knowing his chances for survival were dwindling.

Lyon’s capture, and rescue, came when a civilian with a rifle intercepted him. The man directed the shivering airman to a
nearby farmhouse. Once inside he placed his rifle in a rack over the fireplace and offered Lyon a seat at a kitchen table. Soon a woman appeared with a large bowl of hot soup. Lyon smiled his thanks.

The airman was joined at the table by the entire family, as they shared their evening meal. Three young girls, whom Lyon estimated to be between five and nine years old, stared across the table at him, giggling occasionally. After dinner, he took a chocolate bar from his escape kit and divided it between the three grateful children. Later he was given dry clothing and shown into a room with a large feather bed. He was asleep in two minutes.

Lyon was awakened the following morning by the inviting smells of a country breakfast cooking in the kitchen. His “captors” seemed delighted to see he was thawed and well rested. After breakfast, the airman sat with the man and tried to communicate. Lyon spread his handkerchief escape map on the table.

“Where are we?” he wanted to know.

The man understood and pointed to a dot on the map labeled Brixen, Italy. Encouraged, Lyon inquired, “And how do I get to Switzerland?”

His host smiled and shook his head. The airman could not tell whether the man was indicating that such a winter’s journey across the Alps was impossible, he was unwilling to aid in any escape plan, or he simply did not understand the question.

Since he had entered their home, this Austrian family had treated the young American flyer like a welcome guest. Lyon was beginning to allow himself to believe there was hope they would not turn him into the German Army. Lyon was churning butter for the wife when there was a hard knock at the front door. The two visitors were both in uniform—a teenage boy garbed in Hitler Youth attire and an armed German soldier.

Before he was led away, the young airman shook hands with the couple who had brought him in from the cold and had very likely saved his life. Positioned between his two guards, Lyon headed down the mountain to Brixen, or Bressanone, as it was known in Italian. He allowed himself one glance over his shoulder. The three little Austrian girls stood on the front steps of their house waving goodbye.

 

 

 

In the building at the antiaircraft battery, five bloody and wounded American airmen could find at least two things to be grateful for. They were alive and for the time being, they were still together. Their training had prepared them for the fact the Germans would interrogate each of them personally. When a German major entered the room the Americans became silent.

Art was the first to be questioned. Before asking him any questions, the German officer opened Art’s coveralls. He found the navigator’s escape kit, which contained, among other items, a map, a compass and fifty dollars in U.S. currency. He also discovered a pack of Camels. The German smiled and tucked the cigarettes inside his jacket. “Thank you. I accept this as a gift.”

“You’re welcome,” Art responded. He had no intention of giving the Germans any information except his name, rank and serial number, but he did plan on being polite and nonconfron tational in his refusal.

The German major slipped up on his first question: “Well, you might as well tell us . . . we know you came from Foggia. And we know you were flying B-24s.”

Art repressed the impulse to smile. “I’m sorry, Major. I can’t tell you those things. I am Second Lieutenant Arthur Frechette Jr. My serial number is 02065531.” Art answered each of the German officer’s questions exactly the same way. Grant Dory was the next to be interrogated. He followed Art’s lead, politely
giving only his name, rank and serial number. And so it went with the other three captured airmen.

The German interrogator did not seem surprised or angered at the American bomber crew’s lack of cooperation. At the end of the questioning, he ordered the guards to take the prisoners to another room where there were some cots. Grant Dory helped carry Art. Beyond cuts and abrasions, the tail gunner was the only one of the five Americans who did not seem to have suffered any serious injury.

Art was not only the most severely wounded, he looked terrible. He had banged his head while he had been tumbling down the mountain—a gash on his forehead had caused him to bleed “like a stuck pig.” The injury looked worse than it was. What really concerned Art was the lack of feeling in his feet. The Germans put a heating element near his feet, but he could sense no improvement. He tried to keep the thought from developing, but Art knew if he did not get medical attention, he could be facing amputation.

Later in the day, Art was placed in a horse-drawn cart, along with Wheeler and Ferguson. As soon as the men realized they would be transported some distance, they urged the guards to allow Pearson to also ride in the cart. For some reason, the Germans refused to believe the pilot was really injured. Pearson was made to hobble along behind, with the aid of Dory.

The journey down the mountain was a painful one for Art. His feet finally began to thaw, and the pain was like none he had ever experienced. Each jolt of the cart added to his misery.

One of the guards was able to understand when the Americans inquired about where they were being taken. “Brixen,” was the German’s reply.

When they reached the town, the first thing Art noticed was that Brixen did not look like an Italian village. The houses and shops all had an Austrian or German appearance. Indeed, though
it was on the Italian side of the border, Brixen’s inhabitants were mostly Austrian.

As the prisoners passed down the street, civilians began to gather around the cart. Each of the American airmen had heard stories of downed airmen being killed by angry German civilians. Could it also happen with Austrians? At this point in the war, Brixen’s residents were mostly women, old men and children. It was the women who ventured closer to look at the prisoners.

What Art saw on the women’s faces as they gazed at him was not anger—it was pity. Some shook their heads and made the sign of the cross as they looked at his bloody head and mangled clothing. As the women turned away with sad faces, Art wanted to tell them, “Hey, I’m going to be okay!” Just then his feet throbbed with intense pain. Maybe the women of Brixen were right.

 

 

 

The prisoners spent the night in the Brixen jail. They were fed a meager meal by their guards but were given no medical attention. Art found he was able to use his fingers well enough to hold a piece of black bread. He still worried about losing his feet or toes, which continued to feel cold and numb. At the same time, there was ever-increasing pain.

It was nearly dark the following day when three of the American aviators were loaded into an ambulance. Lyle Pearson and Grant Dory were missing. Art wondered if he would ever see the pilot or the tail gunner again. The going was slow over the narrow Alpine roads. The driver had to find his way without the use of headlights. Art knew, at this point in the war, the Germans could not risk traveling during daylight hours. American fighters flew in almost daily to shoot up anything that moved—trains, troops, trucks and even ambulances. A red cross on the
top of a vehicle did not mean much to the Thunderbolt and Lightning pilots. The Germans had a reputation for painting the medical designation on just about any type of truck.

After around two hours, during which Art judged they had covered some twenty-five miles, the ambulance arrived at the town of Bolzano. The Germans called it Bozen. The town was large enough to have a hospital, and the men received some medical aid there. Art desperately needed painkilling medication but he was given none. He guessed the drugs were as scarce as fuel for the Germans, but he would have welcomed even an aspirin. His feet continued to thaw, and the warmer they became, the more unbearable was his pain. The navigator’s one night in Bolzano was agony.

The next morning, Art was feeling surprisingly better. The pain in his legs, feet and right arm was ever-present but the worst seemed to have passed. Again about dusk, the Americans were put into an ambulance for a two-hour ride to the city of Merano, which lay even deeper in the Alps than Bolzano.

 

 

 

For decades before the war, Merano and its valley had been a favorite resort for skiers, winter sportsmen and tourists. The town was completely Austrian in appearance and mood. In fact, Merano had once been the capital of the Tyrol region of Austria. At the end of the First World War, the Treaty of Versailles had made Merano part of Italy, at least officially. Art thought the town, with its narrow tree-shaded streets, inviting resort hotels, and old Gothic cathedral, was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen.

But even this remote part of the Alps had become engulfed by the war. The German military had taken control of all the hotels and had turned most of them into hospitals and convalescent centers for its wounded.

Now the three American airmen were separated. Art was
saddened to say goodbye to Wheeler and Ferguson, holding on to the faint hope they might be reunited later, if only in a prison camp. At the same time, he was very hopeful that at last he might get the professional medical attention he so badly needed. It was between eight and nine in the evening when he was taken from the ambulance. Almost immediately he found himself in an operating room, surrounded by German doctors and nurses.

Three hours later, Art was awakened by the sound of laughter and singing. He discovered that most of his body was now in casts—one covering each leg and an upper-body cast that encompassed his chest and right arm. The doctors had left an opening in the cast, near the elbow, so they could change the bandage there. He could smell the sulfur-based medicine they had applied to his arm wound to fight infection.

There were two other patients in the room, wounded soldiers, Art assumed. The happy voices, both male and female, that had awakened him seemed to be coming from somewhere down the hall. And they were coming closer. Minutes later, the door opened quickly, and several German officers and civilian women entered the room. The officers were wearing their dress uniforms, and the women were in evening gowns. They were all very happy and brought with them the not unpleasant smell of alcohol and perfume.

Everyone was speaking at once but seemed to be saying the same thing. Art knew very little German but immediately understood what they were saying: “Happy New Year!”

It had completely slipped his mind that 1945 had arrived. One of the officers came to Art’s bed and spoke to him. In the best German he could speak, Art replied,
“Ich bin Amerikaner.”

The German’s smile grew wider. He clicked his heels together and gave Art a crisp salute. The officer’s companion had overheard Art, and she reached out to shake his hand. “How do you do?” the beautiful woman asked in perfect English.

“Fräulein.”
Art smiled back, enjoying the opportunity to meet someone who spoke his language. “You speak English,
Fräulein
. Where did you learn how?”

“How do you do?” the woman said and smiled.

Art soon discovered that “How do you do?” was the extent of her English skills. As soon as the other officers and women heard that Art was an American, there was a great excitement and everyone had to meet him. He was amazed at the friendly welcome he was receiving but thought the whole scene a little surreal and amusing. Three nights before, he had been drinking gin with his buddies in Foggia, and now he was in the middle of a New Year’s celebration with the enemy.

So it was that Art Frechette headed into 1945, seriously injured albeit on the mend and a prisoner of war—but for the time being, in the hands of friendly captors. What did this year have in store for the Allies, the Germans and him personally?

January 1 brought another encounter with German civilians. The two wounded soldiers in the room were visited by friends and family members. One of the visitors was a girl around seven or eight years old, and she was dressed in a colorful wide skirt and a crisp white blouse. She carried a basket of apples and after giving one to each of the room’s other occupants, she approached Art. He smiled at her and held up his hand in mild protest.

If the little girl felt any apprehension, Art did not see it. She smiled and placed an apple in his hand.

By the end of the day, Art was beginning to feel extremely warm. His mind seemed to be working in slow motion and his vision was blurry. His fever grew stronger, and he lost track of time and his surroundings. It was two days before the fever broke and his head cleared. The head physician of the hospital was standing by his bed when Art awoke.

The doctor spoke English well enough to give Art a description
of his wounds. He had sustained a fracture of the left knee-cap, torn ligaments in the left knee area, a severely sprained right ankle and a fractured right elbow. In addition to the broken bones, he had suffered a concussion, lacerations to his forehead, and all of his fingers and toes and his face showed the symptoms of frostbite. He was going to live but recovery from his injuries would be slow.

When the doctor informed Art he would soon be transferred to a room where “you can be with your comrades,” the navigator felt better. But when he was taken to his new room, the two other men there were not members of his B-17 crew after all. They were American airmen, however—two crewmen of a B-24 Liberator that had been shot down a day or two before Art’s bomber had been hit.

His two new roommates turned out to be godsends. Confined by his wounds and casts, Art could clumsily hold a fork with the frostbitten fingers of his left hand, but he could do little else for himself. The two other Americans were not badly injured and took it upon themselves to help their brother airman. For two weeks, they cut his food, shaved him, washed him, and sat him on the pot. When the B-24 crewmen were deemed healthy enough to be sent to prison camp, Art hated to see them go, but they had seen him through the initial bad days.