The Downed Airman and the Firing Squad

Suddenly I realized I was being fired at from the ground. Looking up, I saw holes in the chute. While searching the landscape for the shooting, I noticed I was floating toward a river. This was the Lippe River, just southeast of Wesel. So as not to become entangled in the shroud lines if I landed in the water, I unhooked the chute buckles and hung from the harness. I released as I came to the water’s edge and landed with one foot in the water and the other on the bank. My chute ended up in the water.

For protection I jumped into an empty bomb crater and looked over the edge. When I saw there were six or eight German soldiers approaching, I realized I was in a desperate situation and prepared to surrender. 

The Germans led me along the river and across a bombed-out bridge, then back along the water’s edge toward town until we reached a house which was well fortified with men and machine guns. At this point I knew I had dropped near a command position. These men were the ones who had been shooting at me while I hung in the parachute. 

I was taken into an underground room built like a bomb shelter under a large stone house. I was searched, my dog tags were copied, and they attempted to interrogate me. None of them spoke English, and though I understood a few words of German (I’m of German heritage and live among the Pennsylvania Dutch), I could not converse with them. 

I knew I was being held by a rather large group of men. There were many passing through, although only about ten were there all of the time. They placed me on the lower level of a double-deck bunk. My guards included a soldier at each side and one at the foot of the bunk. More questions were asked, but language problems made interrogation impossible. After about an hour, a German SS officer entered the room. He was visibly annoyed that I was there. He argued with the officer in charge. Even with my limited knowledge of the German language I knew he wanted me dead. When he left, several of the officers had a meeting. I knew I was their problem. 

I was led from the room, out into an area with a stone wall that was about five feet tall along the end close to where I was taken. I was left standing there with a small group of officers and men who faced me. My thoughts were immediately of a firing squad. The officers were indecisive and there was obvious disagreement between them. After a few moments of this, the officer in charge dismissed his men and I was returned to my place on the bed. 

Late that afternoon or early evening an officer approached me and attempted to converse with me. He pointed to my flight jacket where my name was painted. He examined my dog tags and asked if my name was Kline, and I nodded yes. He asked if my family was from Germany, I told him yes. He questioned from where, and though I never knew, I told him near Hamburg. He told me he was from near Hamburg and had relatives in Pennsylvania. His name was also Klein (German spelling). I hoped I had an ally, or at least someone who might help me. 

As time went on it became difficult to know what time of the day it was. Even by checking my watch in the dim light it was difficult to tell if it was afternoon or morning. So, after what seemed like a very long time (probably the next day), the SS officer returned. When he saw I was still there he was furious. He threw things around, cussed (we Pennsylvania Dutchmen understood that), and came storming toward me. As he got close he grabbed a rifle from a soldier’s hands. Even though I blocked as much as possible with my arm, he still hit me across the mouth with the butt. Pushing the rifle back into the soldier’s arms he stormed out of the room, yelling as he left. 

The rifle butt gave me a big lump, a small cut, and after running my tongue over my teeth, I found that one was chipped. I didn’t have much time to think about it because it became evident that I was going to be moved again. My guards pushed me off the bunk and motioned toward the stairs and door. As we went through the door I saw it was daylight. I was taken back to the walled area and faced another group of German soldiers. Again they were in firing-squad formation. 

It was frightening not only to be here like this, but by now we could hear rifle fire and what was probably mortar or artillery fire. I was certain that this time they would carry out the SS officer’s orders. Shortly however, the commander and Lt. Klein again stopped the proceedings and I was rushed back into the cellar. 

While outside I had noticed there were several different types of uniforms. I thought this odd, but these men were probably remnants of regular army units, including some homeguard; there were several who wore Luftwaffe uniforms. This was a group of whoever happened to be left. 

After this, nothing seemed to take place for quite awhile. Soldiers entered and left, but no one seemed to know what to do next. During this time period I was approached by a Luftwaffe enlisted man. He, like the lieutenant before him, pointed to my name on the jacket. He told me his name was Gross. Translated from German, Kline [klein] means little or small. Gross means large or great. Gross was about five feet tall, while I was six feet. He thought this was hilarious. This was the first time I had felt a release from the tension. 

Hours later, in what turned out to be the second day of my captivity, everything seemed to speed up and everyone became excited. I was asked how many men were on my plane. I refused to answer. One of the German soldiers was trying to explain how a flier died when his chute didn’t open. He indicated with his hands and a piece of cloth (maybe a handkerchief) that the chute was in streamer stage. Since I saw Lt. Becker preparing to jump, I thought it might have been him. Later an American soldier described this same incident to me. No one ever mentioned names, but I always thought it could have been him. We never heard of any other men who jumped in this area. [Note: Squadron records indicate this was probably the case (94th, a, b).]

Soon I was taken outside again. We had not seen the SS officer, so I had no idea what was about to happen. There were about sixty officers and enlisted men in the group. The officer in command faced me, his officers behind him, the enlisted men in the rear. The soldiers were called to attention. The officer in charge saluted in my direction, and then placed his pistol and gun belt on the ground. Then, to my surprise, the entire group placed their weapons on the ground. Suddenly I realized I had about sixty prisoners on my hands.

Somehow I made it known that they were to file out with their hands held high. The first man out had a white cloth; the last to leave were the officers and myself. We walked a mile or two. Finally I saw an American GI. He was crouched in the rubble of a building. Soon the Germans were surrounded by a group of GI’s headed by an American captain. In the beginning, he wasn’t sure that I was an American. After checking my dog tags, he questioned me as to how I got there, and where I came from. Then he welcomed me back to Allied lines. He promised me that the German commander, along with Lt. Kline and several others who had shown me consideration, would be treated the same way. 

I was given directions to the Rhine and so I headed toward the river. When I arrived, however, it was turning dark. I tried to get a ride across the river on an amphibious vehicle, but could not. I stayed on the east bank, probably slept some, and when it turned light again, I got a ride on a vehicle going back for supplies. Arriving on the west bank, I met an American major, told him what had happened, and asked for directions home. He informed me I could not return to the 94th directly. Because I had been a prisoner of war, I would have to return through intelligence channels. This was the first time I realized the extent of my experience. Hereafter I would be an ex-POW, and never again a radio operator.

My next stop was to be a headquarters unit where I was interrogated by a colonel from intelligence. He listened to my story and asked about the mission. From where, to where, type of aircraft, everything. Again, it seemed to me that I wasn’t proving my identity satisfactorily. He told me Germans were crossing the lines in American uniforms and because of my accent, he had to double-check everything.

The colonel was familiar with my home area and so he had one more question for me, by which I could prove if I really was born and raised there. He asked for the name of the trolley which ran between Allentown and Philadelphia. I remembered it was called the Liberty Bell, so named because it followed the route along which the bell traveled while it was being hidden from the British during the Revolutionary War. I was cleared. As we parted, he congratulated me for my conduct while under German control, and told me that when I turned over my German captors I had helped clear a large group which eased the path of our advancing troops. He said he was going to recommend me for a [Silver] Star, but I never heard any more about it.

The next day I was flown to Paris where I took part in a debriefing at the Air Force Prisoner of War and Escapees section. Here I was reunited with Charles Holt, the flight engineer [crew chief]. We did celebrate our reunion! One week later we were back at the good ol’ 94th Troop Carrier Squadron, 439th TC Group at Châteaudun.

While in Paris we had a chance to talk about our experiences, and Charlie told me that when he landed—on the northeast outskirts of Wesel—he hid and tried to evade capture. He was looking out, hoping to meet up with the glider pilots and their troopers. Within a short period of time, probably an hour or so, he was captured by the Germans. He was placed on a vehicle, which he described as a halftrack, and they started driving down the road. He was on the back of the vehicle when they became involved in crossfire. Germans on one side of the road, Allies on the other. The driver was shot and the halftrack went into a ditch. When the shooting eased, he left the vehicle and laid in the ditch a short distance away. While there, he was hit in the leg. He said it was shrapnel that went through the muscle, and though he admitted to pain, he remained mobile. Eventually he was found and attended to by American troops and medics.

Meanwhile here at home my wife, Betty, had to sweat it out. On the day President Roosevelt died, while Betty was nursing our ill daughter and listening to the sad news and the music of mourning on the radio, there was a knock on our door. Betty answered and was met by a close friend who was our local Western Union teletypist. She knew from his expression that he brought bad news. While extending his sympathy, and apologizing for having to do this, he handed her the telegram announcing that I was missing in action. 

The next day she received a letter from Washington. This informed her of procedures to collect GI insurance. For more than a week she could do nothing but worry and wait. Then my first letter arrived telling her only that I was safe and well, and that I would see her soon. Though it was confusing to her, it was also a bright spot with a hope to cling to. She heard nothing more until about the first of May. A telegram arrived saying I was found and had been returned to duty. Several days later she received yet another telegram stating that I was arriving in the U.S.A. and would be home soon. I was reunited with my wife and family on May 7th, just twelve hours before President Truman announced victory in Europe.

Lt. William Grieb accomplished what in my mind was a very outstanding job of flying. With all the damage we sustained, it is my firm conviction that Lt. Grieb held the plane level long enough so that we could jump. I’m certain that he had no alternative but to try to ride it down. Because of this—his heroism and skill—two of us survived, and I owe my life to him.

After the war ended I was visited by the parents of Lt. Grieb, and the mother and brother of Lt. Becker. I tried to describe the mission, and tell them as best I could how their sons were heroes.

At the time Lt. Grieb’s body was returned, his dad asked Betty and me to attend the funeral. I was asked to serve as pallbearer, and to wear my uniform to the service. Several of his friends did also. Before the service Mr. Grieb brought Bill’s three-year-old son to meet me. I was introduced as the man who was with his dad when he was killed. With all the innocence of a small child, he asked me, “If my dad died, why didn’t you?”

My answer to him, after a long wait so that I could compose myself, was, “Billy, because your dad died, I didn’t. Maybe someday you’ll understand.” I never saw this young man after that day. I hope he knows that his dad was a great man in my eyes.

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