Tail End Charlie-In Ole #605: The Adventures and Misadventures of a W.W.Ii Flier

By Richard Wentworth Moulton

When 17-year-old Richard Moulton joined the Army Air Corps in 1943, he little dreamed of the yearlong, life-and-death drama he would endure. Shot down over Slovakia, he was imprisoned, released and finally hidden in a cave with six other Americans. Recaptured by the Germans, subjected to torture by the Gestapo, who claimed he was a Russian spy, he was finally liberated by General Patton’s 3rd Army.

The story of Moulton’s return to Slovakia more than a half-century later is a touching tribute to the hospitality, kindness and courage of the many Slovakians who fed him and hid him from the Nazis, always at the risk of their own lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 2, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462813360

Richard Wentworth Moulton

Richard W. Moulton was awarded four Purple Hearts and the Air Medal. He gave an extensive deposition to be used at the Nurnburg trials.

Book preview

Tail End Charlie-

In Ole #605

The Adventures and

Misadventures of a W.W.II Flier

Richard Wentworth Moulton

Copyright © 2002 by Richard Wentworth Moulton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWARD

CHAPTER ONE

High Hopes

CHAPTER TWO

The Demise Of Ole’ 605

CHAPTER THREE

For You The War Is Over

CHAPTER FOUR

The First Escape

CHAPTER FIVE

On The Move—One More Time

CHAPTER SIX

The Gestapo

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘For You The War Is Over’—Again

CHAPTER EIGHT

On The Home Front

CHAPTER NINE

The Great Transition

EPILOGUE

WHERE THEY ARE TODAY

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DEDICATION

To the wonderful people of Slovakia:

In May 1998, S/Sgt. Richard W Moulton, ret., 15th Air Force.

459th Bomb Group. 758th Squardon, presented this plaque

to Mayor Vladimar Medlin, in Modra, Slovakia.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to many friends who contributed to the factual content of this narrative. They include: Pat Zambo, Tomas Brynda, Nandor Mohos, and, of course, Hans Taubinger, without whose encouragement this never would have been written. Vera Hrivnak graciously helped with some of the translations. Since I’m not a professional writer, I owe special thanks to my family and friends who are pros in this specialized field. They include George Sipp, John Parkyn, and Virginia Moulton.

missing image file

Figure One

FOREWARD

I

N SEPTEMBER

1938, Czechoslovakia was forced to cede the German areas of Czechoslovakia—or the Sudetenland—to Nazi Germany. On March 14, 1939, the Slovakia state declared its independence and the following day the Germans annexed Bohemia and Moravia.

In 1944, at the height of World War II, the American government was encouraging the Slovakian army to rise up in resistance. It was into that atmosphere that our crew bailed out over the Hungarian-Slovakian border. I was one of the fliers who landed in Slovakia.

Although we were technically prisoners of war, many of the Slovakian people cared for and protected us. However, when the Germans arrived in force to reoccupy the country during the summer of 1944 the Slovakian military released us with vague directions about how to reach safety.

In the mid-1990s a local newspaper in the small Slovakian town of Pezinok ran a 50-year recollection about the days when these fliers were their captives. This began an e-mail search by Hans Taubinger, who was raised in Modra, Slovakia, to locate these fliers. He wanted to write a follow-up story for the Modra paper about what happened to the Americans after their escape.

His search led him to my grandson, Richard W Moulton III, who sent word that I think it’s my grandfather you want. He was shot down during World War II. For years my family had urged me to write about those war experiences. Now, through the urging also of Mr. Taubinger, I tackled the story. I was one of the youngest of our group, and we have found that most of the other fliers have either died or their memories are beginning to fail.

So here is my story. It is not a hero’s tale. It is simply one story about one young soldier during a very interesting time in our history.

CHAPTER ONE

High Hopes

W

HEN WAR WAS

declared in December 1941, the furthest I had been away from suburban Boston was a week’s trip to Washington, D.C. and New York City. I was in my junior year in Melrose (Massachusetts) High School. For my senior year I was transferring to Williston Academy, a boarding school in western Massachusetts. (Actually, Williston encouraged me to enroll for two years, repeating my junior year.)

It was at Williston, during the winter of 1942-1943, that my classmates and I began to review our options. Our hell-bent desire to join the charge against the Germans was typical of 17-and 18-year-olds throughout the nation. Like most of my classmates, I chose to enlist in the Army Air Corps, rather than wait to be drafted. We were young, naive and looked on the war as a great adventure.

After my first year at Williston, I scheduled a written test to be taken on July 5, 1943 for the U.S. Army Aviation

Cadet program on Battery Street in the financial district of Boston. I was soon notified by mail to report to the old Armory on Commonwealth Avenue, where I was given a physical examination and more interviews. An Army major informed me that the usual process for 17-year-old candidates was to take up to a six-month deferment to return to school and then be called to active duty

That sounded feasible to me and I went home planning to return to Williston in September 1943. My birthday was July 25th and a few days later I received a postcard informing me to report for active duty in two weeks. What a surprise! I went back to see the Army major who had told me about the six-month deferment. He seemed amazed that I was not ready to report for duty, stating that he had received a letter from a Richard W. Moulton requesting to go on active duty. It turned out that it was from a different Richard W. Moulton, someone who hailed not from Melrose, but from Newton, another Boston suburb.

Although I did not have to report for active duty, the major suggested that it would be wise to leave in August because this group was being sent to Miami Beach for its basic training and not to some less desirable place like Mississippi or North Dakota.

Exactly one month after my 18th birthday, on August 25, 1943, I received a new identity: 11139177, U.S. Army Air Corps. I was on my way to Miami Beach, Florida, to begin three months of basic training before heading for Aviation Cadet training to become a pilot. At least that was my plan when I enlisted, but I found that in the Army my plan was not top priority to the military brass.

In Miami Beach, once-elegant oceanfront hotels had become the living quarters for the U.S. Army’s officer school candidates and for the recruits who were receiving basic training. I was assigned to the Clevelander Hotel on the corner of Ocean Drive and 11th Street, in what is now calledthe South Beach Art Deco District. The usual issue of blankets was waived, since heat, not cold, was