The Bomber Boys (23 page)

Without his two friends, the hospital room felt lonely. Rarely would a nurse stop in to check on him. His convalescent care was minimal. Art estimated there were more than two hundred wounded German soldiers in the hotel-hospital. The small medical staff was overwhelmed.

One pretty young nurse, however, seemed particularly attentive to Art’s needs. He asked her if she might find something for him to read. She agreed to try but soon reported back that she was having difficulty locating a book written in English. She vowed to keep trying, and one day she walked proudly into Art’s
room carrying a thick book with a very worn cover. She assured him it was the only English-language book in the entire hospital.

Art looked at the contents. The book was a collection of poetry and essays. The copyright date was 1870. Not exactly what he had been hoping for, but it would help pass the time. He thanked the nurse, who appeared happy that he approved. Over the next few days Art found himself memorizing a few of the book’s poems, for lack of any other mental stimulation. One poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, entitled “A Psalm of Life,” became his favorite. The young airman especially liked the two opening verses:

Within a week, Art was assigned two new roommates. They were German soldiers, both of them named Hans. The older of the two referred to the other as “Hanslow,” or Little Hans. Art’s knowledge of the German language increased dramatically in the following days. Both of the Hanses were eager to hear about life in America. Art was equally interested in Germany and its people. All three men stayed away from any talk of their military jobs out of respect for their patriotic duties. However, the hospital staff provided current newspapers and sometimes, if the paper contained a story about an Allied air raid, the younger Hans might ask, “Why are you bombing Germany?”

Art refused to be pulled into an argument about the war, and the conversation soon returned to safer topics. He quickly grew to like his new roommates. They helped him do some of the things he still could not do for himself. On the day he took his first feeble steps, supported and encouraged by the two Germans, Art was only slightly happier than Hans and Hanslow. In return for their help, Art gave the two Hanses his daily ration of four cigarettes, which the nurses brought him the same as they did for each of the German patients.

Hanslow even gave Art a sponge bath once, after a nurse ordered him to do it. The young German, however, exercised the soldier’s universal right of complaint. He griped about it in German the entire time it took him to give the bath. Art was surprised at how much he was able to understand. His German language skills were rapidly improving because of his interaction with his roommates.

As the weeks of recovery passed, Art had the opportunity to get to know other German soldiers. One was an eighteen-year-old Austrian who was assigned as the room’s fourth patient. The young man was a draftee, and he hated life in the German Army. He was not reluctant to tell Art, “The war is lost for Germany. The sooner we get out of it, the better we will be.”

The unhappy soldier became silent when a wounded German officer began dropping by to chat with Art. The officer spoke excellent English and the two men enjoyed their friendly conversations. As with Hans and Hanslow, Art was careful not to talk about his crew or its operations. The topics usually were confined to the American and German lifestyles. But the German officer did express one political belief that Art was to hear repeated many times by other Germans: “When are you Americans going to realize that the real enemy is the Russians? Why do you not join us and we will defeat the Russians together?”

Art was also visited by an English-speaking stranger who
claimed to be a representative of the International Red Cross. Something about the man did not seem right. Art’s suspicions were confirmed when the stranger showed more interest in details about other crew members than in Art’s health. His inquiries left Art with the impression that some of his B-17 buddies might have evaded capture.

Of course, he knew at least four other crewmen were in custody, and he had personally seen the body of another of his bomber mates. He provided no information to the “Red Cross representative.” Each time the man asked him a question, Art shrugged and replied, “I don’t know.” It did not take long for the impostor to realize he was going to get nothing from the American airman. Art was glad to see the pretender leave, but it was disappointing that he could not speak with someone who was actually with the Red Cross.

All things considered, his life as a prisoner in the enemy hospital was not so bad. His roommates and the hospital staffers were friendly, the food was passable, and seated in a wheelchair, he was even allowed to attend nightly movies with the other patients.

There was one thing that bothered him greatly. He wished there was some way to get word to his family that he was alive. When the fake Red Cross man had introduced himself, Art’s hopes and prayers appeared to have been answered. Back in Groton, the Frechettes received official word from the U.S. government that their son was missing in action, but few details were provided. Soon afterward, a follow-up letter from the acting commander of the Fifteenth Air Force, Brigadier General C.F. Born, arrived. As Art’s parents read Born’s letter, his horrific words stunned them: “. . . the bomber received a direct hit by flak in the bomb bay . . . No parachutes were seen . . . His personal effects have been assembled . . . they will be sent to the designated beneficiary.” The general’s final sentence left
the Frechettes little hope: “I am proud to have had him in my command.”

 

 

 

By mid-February, Art had recovered well enough to hobble around the hospital hall with the aid of crutches. He had become a familiar sight to the doctors and nurses who greeted him with smiles. On the morning of the fifteenth, everything changed. When he said a friendly, “Good morning,” to his roommates, they ignored him.

Taking his morning exercise walk, he encountered nothing but silence and angry expressions from the normally genial hospital staffers. Many of the nurses seemed to be on the verge of tears and some wept openly.

The American could not imagine why he was suddenly being shunned, but he decided it was probably best to stay in his room as much as possible, at least until he had an understanding of what was going on. Later that day, one of his roommates silently handed Art a German newspaper. Art read the front-page story: British and American bombers had struck the old city of Dresden with devastating results.

The German news writers were notorious propagandists, and when Art read that as many as one hundred thirty-five thousand Germans had died in the raid, he had his doubts. Still, he also knew that aside from the expected political slant, the German newspapers were generally accurate when recounting events. There was little doubt that a terrible tragedy had befallen the people of Dresden, Germany.

Even as the young American aviator sat in an Italian hospital bed reading of Dresden’s fate, the city was still in flames. The fires would rage for four more days until there was nothing left to burn.

Dresden had very little military or industrial capacity. The
historic old city was a cultural center that was world-famous for its Dresden porcelain
.
Many of the Allied airmen who were ordered to carry out the raid could not understand why Dresden was targeted. The
why
would be debated for decades or longer, but the
who
responsible for the controversial bombing was easier to identify.

British Prime Minister Winston Churchill had long guided his Royal Air Force commanders in the strategy of the general bombing of German cities, as opposed to the American Air Force theory of “precision bombing” targets of military significance. Of course, the American bomber crews tried their best to be precise on their bomb runs, but there was often collateral damage and the unintentional killing of German civilians. Churchill and his RAF bombing chief, Arthur “Bomber” Harris, saw the demoralization of the German population as a way to bring about a speedier Allied victory. Also, the German V-1 and V-2 rocket bombings of London and other English cities very likely ignited in Churchill a basic human emotion—revenge.

It appeared that Churchill had convinced U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt of the usefulness of firebombing German civilians, or perhaps Roosevelt had his own reasons. Churchill and Roosevelt communicated constantly with each other throughout the war. With the end of the fighting in sight, it was the third Allied leader who worried them as much as the crumbling German army. Joseph Stalin’s massive Russian army was closing in on Germany from the east, and its troops would be the first to reach Berlin. With much of Europe in ruins and chaos, could the ruthless Stalin be counted on to be satisfied with the conquest of eastern Germany?

Two days before the Dresden raid, the three Allied leaders had concluded their conference at Yalta. The main topic of discussion was how to divide control of the occupied countries in Europe. It was a poker game in which the Russian leader held a
strong hand. If the firebombing of Dresden had been planned before Yalta, Churchill and Roosevelt saw no reason to cancel it afterward. The almost complete destruction of a major German city would certainly show Stalin the kind of military power the Americans and British possessed. And that they were not reluctant to use it.

More than seven hundred RAF bombers struck the heart of Dresden on February 13. The majority of the British bombs were incendiaries. Much of Dresden was constructed of old wooden buildings. By the time more than three hundred American bombers reached the city the next day, Dresden was already an inferno.

Besides Dresden’s population of approximately six hundred thousand, up to four hundred thousand refugees fleeing from the advancing Russian army were also in the city when the bombs began to fall. The resulting fires created hell-like wind-storms that roared through Dresden’s streets. Tens of thousands died. The exact death toll would never be known, since many bodies were incinerated or buried in the ruins. After the war, the figure thirty-five thousand would become the (Allies’) accepted Dresden death count.

In the days following the Dresden bombing raid, a nurse came into Art’s room on her usual rounds. He could tell she had been crying. In German, he asked her what was wrong and she broke down in tears. She explained between sobs that she had family in Dresden.

One by one, Art’s roommates and hospital staff members began to speak to him again. He tried to find the friendliness they had once enjoyed. It seemed to him that they were also trying, but the moment was gone. The feeling that, American or German, they were after all just human beings had been lost somewhere in the Pandora’s box of war. Sadly, they were enemies again.

Art had reached the point in his recovery where two of his casts could be removed. Afterward, only the cast on his left leg remained. This allowed him to move around easier on his crutches, although his pace was still slow. He expected any day to be sent off to a prisoner of war camp. From what he read in the German newspapers, in the days following the Dresden raid, the young aviator had to face the possibility that his fate might turn out to be much worse. The news stories quoted Adolf Hitler, who was enraged at the attack on Dresden. The German dictator was threatening to order the executions of captured Allied airmen.

A few days later, Art was ordered to dress in his ragged flight clothes; then he was escorted to the street. There was no firing squad awaiting him there. In fact, there was not even an armed guard. He was simply instructed to walk to the corner and “Wait there for the van.”

Art did as he was told. What else could he do? Any thought of escape was laughable. He could barely walk without his crutches. He waited on the street corner in Merano and soon a Volkswagen van arrived. As he struggled into the vehicle, an American officer greeted him, “Hi, Art, how the hell are you?”

Art studied the man’s face. He had never seen him before. “How do you know who I am?”

The man smiled. “Sam Wheeler was in my hospital, and he told me about your fall. And I noticed your uniform is all ripped and shows signs of friction burns. I figured you had to be Art Frechette.”

The officer was a B-25 Mitchell pilot who had been flying for the Twelfth Air Force when he was shot down. As he and Art chatted, the van stopped at other hotel-hospitals around Merano picking up additional prisoners. One man in particular caught everyone’s attention. He was a black soldier wearing a
German military uniform. Art introduced himself and then asked the soldier his name.