Unarmed, Unarmored and Unescorted: A World War 2 C-47 Airborne Troop Carrier Pilot Remembers

By John R. Johnson, Jr.

Merriam Press Aviation History No. 4. First eBook Edition, 2016. Detailed account by a C-47 pilot who flew over the skies of Europe, delivering men and materiel where it was needed. Went through pilot training, and airborne operations flight training with 27th Troop Carrier Sqdn., 10th Troop Carrier Grp. and assignment to 49th TCS, 313th TCW, training in Sicily late 1943. Assigned to the 36th TCS, 316th TCG, November 1943, for Normandy invasion, and Allied advance across Europe. Trained for Operation Market Garden, dropping 82nd Airborne Division. Shot down during this mission he became a POW. Detailing his life as a POW, from capture and interrogation to life in Stalag Luft 1A, through liberation, Johnson includes details of what it was like back home for his family, particularly after he was listed as MIA, including his parents' efforts at trying to get more details from politicians, the Army and members of his unit in England. 35 images.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Merriam Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781576384954

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Unarmed, Unarmored and Unescorted: A World War 2 C-47 Airborne Troop Carrier Pilot Remembers

Unarmed, Unarmored and Unescorted: A World War 2 C-47 Airborne Troop Carrier Pilot Remembers

John R. Johnson, Jr.

Colonel USAF (Retired)

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Aviation History No. 4

Bennington, Vermont

2016

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First eBook Edition

Copyright © 2014 by John R. Johnson, Jr.

Additional material copyright of named contributors.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The views expressed are solely those of the author.

ISBN 9781576384954

This work was designed, produced, and published in the United States of America by the Merriam Press, 133 Elm Street, Suite 3R, Bennington VT 05201.

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Notice

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

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Introduction

This book was written using available documents and personal memory recall after over fifty years of trying to forget, especially the more traumatic experiences and events. My personal diary over part of the early period of my World War II service, plus letters to and from my family, my flight log book and my personal military records also assisted in the reconstruction of many details and dates. Additionally I have quoted or cited others, either as augmentation and/or substantiation, and have tried to give proper credit and/or cite appropriate source data. The time period starts on December 7, 1941, the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. The period ends with my arrival home after I was liberated from a German Prisoner of War camp by elements of the Soviet army in 1945. I sincerely thank my family and Anne Deets Johnson for urging me onward and the encouragement they provided throughout my endeavors. I sincerely hope the reader(s) of my story will experience a sense of being there beside me as they read, and that the stories I have told will be accepted as true first person told history, and will further illuminate an important period of the lives of many patriotic young Americans. For the many, many who never returned, I express deepest sorrow and thank them and their families for the support they provided me that, in turn, allowed me to come home.

—J.R.J, 2012

A Fateful Day

Over Holland in ’44

On a crisp September day

After letting the glider go

Ground fire blew us away

Out of control we fell

Trailing smoke and flame

Then—invisible hands

Cupped and suspended us

Above the ground

Long enough for three escapes

In billowing parachutes

Trapped with no way out

I flew into the ground

Escaped the fire and ran

Into the hands of the enemy

The plane burned on

And—to my dismay

I’d now become

Kriege[1] of the day

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[1] Shorthand for Kriegsgefangenan ( German for Prisoner of War)

Prelude, 18 September 1944

No Time For Fear

TICK—TICK—TICK—TICK, the second hand on the instrument panel clock made a noise almost as loud as the engine noise as each second passed. The Crackle from gasoline and aluminum burning, was intermittently interrupted by the Pop—Pop of bullets exploding in the automatic pistol that hung behind the bulkhead behind my back.

The gray, green and brown patchwork of small plots of ground, enclosed by hedgerows or fieldstone fences, moved rapidly under my wings. I descended—searching—searching for a place to crash land and survive. I would have parachuted out like my crew if I could have. Flames barred my path from the cockpit to the escape door.

My body reacted to my senses in smooth response, and according to the emergency training imprinted indelibly on my brain during flight training. Manipulate undamaged flight controls. Sweep the instrument panel with my eyes. Look left Look right. Look ahead. Reduce power. Keep above stall speed. Down. Down. One thought predominated—Survival. Get on the ground and away from the plane before it explodes.

No room for doubt. A landing spot will appear. Holding partial power for last minute control, I continued descent. Keep the landing gear retracted. Scan the instrument panel. Look outside left, outside right, straight ahead. Repeat. Look!—There it was. A small, green space to my right. Using a little extra left engine power and gingerly applying right rudder, I made a slow, shallow turn toward the nearest edge. Leveling the wings, I gradually reduced power, careful to maintain safe gliding speed. In slow motion the ground moved upward to meet my wings. Now! Ignition off—Fuel off. Impact!

Green branches broomed across the windshield. A blazing ring of burning fuel cast out ahead as tree tops slowed my momentum. The plane, held up by thickly planted young evergreens, slid through and beyond the ring of burning fuel. Tree limbs continued to brush by the windshield until the craft stopped, still supported by the soft bed of trees.

My mind concentrated on one word, Escape! I released my safety belt, reached above and unlocked the emergency escape hatch. I climbed through the opening and jumped down to a still intact right wing, then down between the trees to the ground. Fortunately it was only a few feet below.

I hit the ground running, with the crackle of the burning plane at my back encouraging my speed. Would it explode? Run—Run—Run! 

I ran to exhaustion, then stopped to pant. There’d been no explosion! As I recovered my breath, I sensed company. To my left appeared the round bores of three rifles aimed in my direction. They looked as large as the bores of a twelve-gauge shotgun. Aiming down the rifle sights were three young faces. They looked like teenagers in uniform. Why I hadn’t been shot as I ran from my burning aircraft I’ll never know. Maybe I had been, but was missed. I had been trained to expect such ruthlessness from the enemy.

I stood motionless, and slowly raised my hands. One of the young soldiers stepped forward and calmly spoke to me in fairly good English, For you the war is over. Come. He motioned with his rifle for me to march toward a farmhouse about 200 yards from where I’d stopped running. I could almost feel pressure from the rifle barrels pointed toward my back as we walked.

Was this to be the end of my flying career? A career that had started back home in Frankfort, Kentucky, where I first soloed a Piper Cub on Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941?

Frankfort, Kentucky—May 1943

Sometime in May or June, 1943, after I had received my commission as Second Lieutenant and my silver Pilot’s wings, my mother wrote the following prayer:

Prayer for An Aviator

There are those who pray, when their

Loved ones pass on, that they

May find Rest and Peace in Heaven

I pray for other things.

My dear one, when on earth, loved

High places, speed, and flight

Dear Lord, give him a mission

And strong wings

18 September 1944

Marguerite [Author’s Mother] bolted upright, grasping the blanket closer against the sudden cool gust. Curtains rippled with flitting shadows from the filtered early light. The window mysteriously beckoned. Entranced, she pulled the blanket even closer to shield her from the cool September morning air. ‘I must close it,’ she thought, but it was a different tug that pulled her up and toward the window sill. She shivered as her feet touched the floor. An inner force pulled her toward the half opened window. A sudden brilliant pinpoint flash in the early eastern sky brought a gasp escaped from her lips. An incandescent marble sized ball arced downward and disappeared below the horizon. Riley [the Author’s Father], who had stirred when Marguerite gasped, rose risen from bed, and went over the check on her

What happened? What were you doing?, he asked.

I’m O.K., she replied, her body still shivering slightly. Remembering what she’d seen, a sense of foreboding came over her. She started to shiver uncontrollably. Riley lead her back to bed, tucked her under a blanket, and tried to calm her now audible sobbing.

What now?, Riley softly questioned, stroking her long auburn hair.

Something awful has happened to one of our boys, she sobbed. Then she quickly asked, What time is it? Riley checked his watch on the night table.

Write it down, with the date, and put it in our Bible.

Riley complied. 6 AM, 18 September 1944. He then added a cryptic notation, Something happened in the East.

Chapter 1: The Beginning – It All Started Here

December 7, 1941

I climbed from the cockpit of the blue and yellow Piper Cub I’d just soloed. We were at Black’s Pond[2] Airport on the Georgetown Pike on the eastern side of Frankfort, Kentucky. My family—father, mother and sister had come out to watch. This accomplishment had culminated days and days of dual instruction flying and book study. I was so excited and pleased. I fully expected all three of them to rush forward and treat me like a hero. As I beamingly walked toward, them my kid sister, Rosemary, ran forward shouting: The Japanese just bombed Pearl Harbor. They seemed more concerned over what was happening at Pearl Harbor than jubilant over what I’d just done. I suppose I should have been, considering the impact it would have on the rest of my life. My instructor, Dave, came to my rescue with a beaming comment: Congratulations, J.R. that was a nice landing. Uncle Sam’s going to need people like you real soon.

My family then joined him with their congratulations but my accomplishment was now forebodingly overshadowed by what I’d just heard. I was nineteen, the prime age for a soldier. Officially the war with Japan now only awaited recognition and declaration by the United States Congress. War would also be declared on Germany and Italy since a state of war would exist with them once war was declared on Japan. Japan and Germany, along with Italy, were allied under the Axis Pact and Germany and Italy had no choice but to, in turn, declare war on us, the United States. By the end of the next day these events had occurred.

Realizing I could soon be drafted into the U.S. Army, I formed a plan. My interests for several years had been on airplanes and flying. I would voluntarily enlist and request assignment in the U.S. Army Air Corps. By nightfall I’d talked this over with my close friend and former high school classmate, Ray Moore. He liked the plan and volunteered to join me.

Tuesday, Ray and I hitchhiked to Lexington, Kentucky, location of the nearest military recruiting office and about thirty five miles east of Frankfort. We were told we needed birth certificates in order to enlist. Ray had one back home. I didn’t even know if I had one. Frustrated, we returned.

My parents confirmed I had no birth certificate though my birth was recorded in the family bible. My parents asked why I needed one. I hadn’t told them what I was up to. My father was horrified. He wanted no part of it: No Johnson had ever stooped low enough to be an enlisted soldier. Only those who were destitute and couldn’t make it otherwise, or criminals avoiding jail terms, ever enlisted, he argued. Having once been a local town judge in a small town in western Kentucky, he had probably given young offenders such a choice to keep them out of jail. I don’t believe the actuality of war and its implications had yet weighed very heavily on his mind. They should have. I wasn’t the only one of my family to be affected, being one of five sons. Even his youngest was almost old enough to be drafted. Otherwise, he would have realized that every able bodied male would soon enlist or be drafted and be serving our country in the uniform of one military service or the other—Army—Navy—Marines—Coast Guard.

The location of the Kentucky State Bureau of Vital Statistics was in Louisville. By phone I confirmed there was no record of my birth. If I could, however, produce at least two affidavits, by non-relatives, as to my birth date, place of birth and birth parents, then a birth certificate could be issued. This meant I had to go to Providence, Ky., my place of birth, and search for such willing people.

Ray readily agreed to accompany me on this quest. Armed with the proper affidavit forms, we hitch hiked our way toward Louisville, then continued southwest to Providence, about 150 miles from Frankfort. Arriving on such a cold December day we considered ourselves quite lucky to soon find two upstanding citizens willing to help. That night, a distant cousin allowed us to stay in one of the tourist cabins adjacent to his roadhouse- restaurant and bar. Our payment, since it was Saturday night and the roadhouse was busy, was to help wait tables and serve beer. We also got a hamburger supper, and any tips we could earn.

The next morning, in the freezing cold, we headed home. With the little money Ray and I had earned the night before, we thought we could ride a train back to Louisville from Madisonville, Kentucky. It was the Louisville and Nashville [L&N] Railway. If this were possible, at least we would be out of the cold, a lot warmer and hopefully get back home earlier. It took over an hour to hitchhike the less than twenty miles to Madisonville. There was a train going out, but our money would get us only part way. And, it would take all our money for that, leaving nothing for food. We decided to trust our thumbs again on the road, doubling back through Providence and hitch hiking back up U.S. 41 to Louisville, then U.S. 60 to Frankfort.

Ray and I arrived back in Frankfort no worse off than a little frostbite. I mailed my affidavit and applied for a birth certificate. The certificate arrived during the first week of 1942. On January 9th, Ray and I signed up at the Lexington recruiting office and agreed to report back before noon the next day for travel to the U.S. Army Induction Center at Fort Thomas, Kentucky.

The next morning, Mom and Dad drove me to the Greyhound bus station to meet Ray and to catch the early bus to Lexington. As the bus departed I saw Dad wipe his eyes with his handkerchief, the first time I ever saw him cry.

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[2] After World War II known as Silver Lake Airport until it was later converted to a Frankfort suburban housing development.

Chapter 2: Induction, U.S. Army, Fort Thomas, Kentucky

January 1942

To say that my introduction to the U.S. Army was shocking should come as no surprise to many young men from the smaller cities of 1942. There are two things about my experiences at the U.S. Army Induction Center at Fort Thomas, Kentucky, that stick in my mind. First was the olive drab overcoat I was issued to keep out the cold January winds along the Ohio River. I’d never owned an overcoat before. This one was rather long, reaching halfway between my knees and ankles. It was heavy. It created an unexpectedly heavy burden on my whole body, especially my shoulders. When the coat got wet it was even heavier and smelled like wet sheep!

My second surprise, affecting me even more than the overcoat, was the nature of the cultural environment I was suddenly entering and destined to be a part of, at least for some while. It was soon evident that coming from a small southern community of close church and family watchfulness and protection, had not prepared me very well for the outside culture where I now found myself. In my life, to this point, some things were heaven forbid—un-acceptable in our generally lower middle-class society of hard working, church going folk. An ethic that frowned upon profanity, use of alcoholic beverages, pregnancies out of wedlock and other immoral behavior. Also, I’d not developed the habit of smoking, even though Kentucky was a major tobacco raising state, and a very high level of the population did use tobacco. Saying grace at mealtimes was mandatory in our family, and everyone was expected to attend church regularly and pray often. All this was accepted as normal societal behavior —though there were some exceptions—generally thought of as lost souls until a church revival successfully converted them and set them on the right path. Now, I found myself surrounded by recruits from many cultural levels—levels of upbringing, education, economic levels and family and religious relationships. General conversations lacked personal respect and were heavily laden with derisive terms and adjectives—including foul and profane. I was unaccustomed to hearing God’s name taken in vain in almost every sentence, or the f—- word used frequently for emphasis. If someone was not properly appreciated, he was an S.O.B. Damn was a common expletive. Expressions using the h, s and f words as punctuation seemed necessary for clarification. At first, I was sure all this was due to a lack of conversational vocabulary—later recognizing it as, for some individuals, a sign of youthful manliness, a cover for fear, or a method of control by shock. Of course, there were also those who believed as I did and acted accordingly. I made a real effort to become friends with those I considered non- or least offensive. I must admit that I was not exactly a mister goodie two shoes, and I tried not to come over as a mister holier than thou sort. So, I tried to adapt myself, and did finally become accustomed to my surroundings—even to the occasional use of the expression during communal meals of pass the f——— butter, or bread, or whatever—and without saying please.

It was at Fort Thomas that I became Private John R. Johnson, Jr., U.S. Army, Serial Number 15088229 as I was inducted into the U.S. Army Air Corps. This information was inscribed on my set of two identification tags [dog tags] to hang around my neck for rapid identification in case of injury or death. We took preliminary physical exams, started inoculations for communicable diseases, got GI haircuts [not much left after those shearings] and were issued cardboard clothes mailing boxes for sending our civilian clothes home since no longer needed them. From now on, all our needs were to be provided for—clothes, food and shelter, plus a pay of $21.00 per month for laundry, snacks and entertainment. Seemed fair enough. It was interesting to observe how some of the new recruits used that $21.00. From the constant use of cigarettes and the crowds of beer drinkers in the canteen, I suspected some had arrived with bucks in their wallets and knew more would be coming from home that certainly wasn’t the case for me. Fortunately for many of us, within a few weeks the monthly pay was increased to $30.00—almost a dollar a day—a going wage for some heads of households on the Works Progress Administration [WPA] program during the depression of the early thirties!

Before too many days we received reassignment orders and Ray Moore and I, along with many others, packed our barracks bags, marched to the railroad station and departed for Keesler Field, Biloxi, Mississippi for basic military training—learning to march, how to obey orders, how to handle firearms—care, cleaning, loading and shooting—body building through calisthenics and exercise, plus the completion of immunization series, dental care and general health care. Ray and I had survived the first phase and were to remain together a few more weeks before being separated and sent to other locations for specialized and technical training.

Chapter 3: Loneliness and Mournful Sounds

January and February 1942

What excitement! Ray Moore and I had traveled by train [I’d never been on a train before] through Kentucky, from north to south, then through Tennessee and from the top of the state of Mississippi all the way to the Gulf Coast to Keesler Field, Biloxi, Mississippi. Biloxi is near Gulfport, Miss. What an experience for a young 19 year old whose only other experience out of state, Kentucky, had been a few visits to Evansville, Indiana when we lived in Henderson, Kentucky, during my junior year of high school at the Barret Manual Training High School. We moved to Frankfort, KY in 1939 at the beginning of my senior year at Frankfort High, which was located on the corner of Fourth and Shelby streets.

The U.S. Army Air Corps had a huge complex at Keesler Field. Thousands of Army recruits were sent here for military indoctrination, basic training and proficiency testing for various technical training and/or assignments. There was also a huge center for training radio operators, to which many of the recruits were subsequently assigned. The facilities were rudimentary, yet adequate. We were billeted in open dormitory wooden barracks buildings, each recruit having a cot and a footlocker for clothes storage. This was better than the fate of a lot of recruits who started their first Army days in tent cities.

Time passed quickly at Keesler. Thirty busy days! So much to learn. Handling and firing weapons. Never did make Expert Marksman—even being from Kentucky. Dental appointments—never knew my teeth were in such poor condition [no doubt a result of the 30s depression years]. Straddling the shot bench for immunizations. We all needed so many the clinic set up a long bench that we scooted ourselves down toward medics standing on each side with needles raised. [It was said the bench was used so if anyone passed out he wouldn’t fall on the floor. He could just be pushed on down to the end of the bench and never miss a shot]. Falling out for roll call and short arm inspections; calisthenics; marching drills; kitchen patrol [KP]; and guard duty. Some of our leisure time was spent on yard patrol picking up cigarette butts and candy wrappers off the sand. The ground was mostly sand with very little grass. We carried a bag for the refuse and a stick with a nail in it for spearing the trash. We didn’t have to mow and trim.

A canteen [Post Exchange] was available where one could buy toothpaste, candy snacks, sewing kits, soft drinks, beer and cigarettes. I never drank beer or smoked. Anyway, I couldn’t afford to. By the time I paid my laundry bill, bought my other essentials, and paid my quarters for a government issue [GI] haircut, I had little left even for soft drinks and snacks. It didn’t really matter. We had plenty of food to eat.

There was seldom a problem with sleeping. Generally our schedule was strenuous and kept us ready to hit the sack early. Reveille [our get up bugle call] came all too soon. I remember, just after going to bed, there were times that I felt sad and lonely for home. Fortunately, mail service was good and I was receiving my share of letters from the family. Yet they still seemed so far away. Many times I lay awake wishing I were back in Kentucky. This feeling was often aggravated by the long mournful whistles of trains arriving and departing Biloxi. Yet, the excitement of my new life, what the future might hold, the unknown—all provided a continuous high and a healthy sense of anticipation.

I was excited when I learned of my next assignment—the Casey Jones School of Aeronautics in Newark, New Jersey. I would enter training to be an airplane mechanic. This was about as close as I could expect to be around airplanes, my primary interest in enlisting. [After my sense of patriotism!].

At that time, 1942, to be commissioned as an officer pilot, navigator or bombardier, two years of college education was required. You also had to have 20-20 vision and pass a very thorough physical examination. Since I only had a high school diploma, I was automatically disqualified for pilot training—my ultimate goal.

Soon I was on my way to New Jersey, along with several others most of whom I did not know but with whom I was soon to become real acquainted. It was a long train ride. Over many more states of the United States that I’d never visited. A lot of the travel was at night so I didn’t get to see a lot of new territory. Such experiences were yet in store for me before the year was over.

Chapter 4: Casey Jones School of Aeronautics

February-July 1942

John R. Johnson, Jr. U.S. Army Air Corps, 15088229,[3] reporting for duty, Sir. With this announcement, accompanied by a smart—at attention—salute, I reported for duty on Valentine’s Day, February 14, 1942, as an airplane mechanic trainee at the U.S. Army Air Corps Training Detachment, Casey Jones School of Aeronautics, 88 Mulberry Street, Newark, New Jersey. I had arrived the evening before as part of a group of about sixty (60) recruits having just completed a month of intensive basic military training.

Casey Jones School was in a multi-storied building located within a block or two of the Newark Pennsylvania Railroad Station. Other buildings were part of the complex, but this is where the classes and hands-on training were conducted. We were billeted in a Halsey Street building, and our mess hall/cafeteria was in another building within walking distance. Our class, Class 20-42, was scheduled for 4½ months of intensive training in airplane mechanics.

Our training schedule allowed little time for leisure. The curriculum included: Aircraft Structures; Hydraulics; Propellers; Instruments; Primary Engines; Electricity; Induction; Engine Test; Engine Change; and Maintenance and Inspection. All in 4½ months! Hands-on experience and training was conducted using several aircraft located on the second floor of the building—older military aircraft that had certainly seen better days, then disassembled, moved into the building and re-assembled on the second floor.

The school did have an Honor Pass system. Those few who were whizzes in certain subject areas, such as hydraulics or propellers, could win these passes and get away for weekends to visit New York City—or wherever/whatever.

Generally on Sundays, if there were no training activities scheduled, we could attend church and/or visit the USO activities, the YMCA and maybe dances at the YWCA. Trips to New York fascinated me—as much as meeting girls at the Y or the USO—almost! And, I was learning to dance for the first time. Can you believe it?

New York City—what a Megalopolis. It was only a short ride on the train to the Penn Station in New York. New Yorkers were very patriotic. Nothing was too good for our servicemen. There were so many free activities that not much money was needed. I was not