OneOfMany
Well-Known Member
An excellent read on the P-47 is written by Robert Johnson. It is his history of him and his Jug flying for the 56th. A must read.
Grant
Grant
Met a WWII Fighter Pilot tonight ***UPDATE
- Thread starter goldfish65
- Start date
-
goldfish65
Well-Known Member
...since he lives in South Carolina I managed to contact him and invite him to have a steak dinner with me. I felt very honored to be one-on-one with him. He made amazing contributions in the years after the war too.
The point I would like to make is, if there is any way you can talk to one of these men, you should do it. Especially if you're a young person...when I was young I didn't realize what these veterans did...and in very little time they will all be gone and we will miss out on getting to know these role models.
MOBodyman
Well-Known Member
Great advice...my Dad was a WW2 veteran. I never thought much about it growing up and time got away as we got older. He passed away in 2008 and I regret deeply not talking to him about this service (very much) and thanking him for it.
Dallas
nothingbutdarts
Well-Known Member
Please let us know how the dinner went!
And Thank him for his service from us here at FABO also!!!! I sure like my FREEDOM!!!!
goldfish65
Well-Known Member
We went this past Thursday. We both had shrimp cocktail, big steaks, and a glass of wine. I know the manager well and he went out of his way for us. I learned that after the war he bought a small metal fabrication business and expanded it to employ 900 people!
Also I learned there was a problem with the batteries exploding in the planes, which happened to him, and he crash-landed in a residential area but was able to bounce off a tree and a shed and avoid killing anyone, though he was badly burned and injured. He did not want to go back home and have his wife see his injuries, so he was able to get some leave and heal up and go back into combat.
By the way, I did thank him from all of us on FABO.
Yes, I read that one as a teen. Great read. I just found another memoir by a P-47 pilot -- "Fighter Pilot", by William Dunn. He was a volunteer for the RAF before the US entered the war, and became the first US ace flying a Spitfire. Later he was transferred to the US Army Air Corps and put into a P-47 -- that's a big change. But he said he loved both airplanes, for different things. After his tour in Europe, he went straight to China, and stayed on after the war fighting for the nationalists against the Communists. He finished as an acting lt. colonel and wing commander, but on return to the US, the brass wouldn't even confirm his promotion to captain, and mustered him out. So he reenlisted as a technical sgt. -- that's dedication.
The Republic Thunderbolt had a lot of nicknames -- I like the one the RAF used: "Repulsive Scatterbolt". It may not have been pretty, but it was tough.
nothingbutdarts
Well-Known Member
Dedication! He healed up and went back into combat.
How nice of you to do that for him! this man helped keep Americans in jobs which means he kept on serving his country.
Thank You for honoring him, and for passing along our gratitude!
Dallas, my Dad was also a WWII vet. He spent his time, in the South Pacific. We also didn't talk much about it, not because I wasn't interested, but he mostly didn't like to talk about it.
Denvermike
Well-Known Member
My father in law was a navigator in B-24s in England during WWII. His plane was shot down on his 27th mission. He was the only one of a crew of ten to make it out of the plane. He spent almost a year and a half as a POW. He stayed in and retired from the Air Force in 1972.
Benji
Active Member
This has to be one of the most touching accounts of two enemies who became best friends. A true story of a B-17 bomber and a Luftwaffe fighter pilot over Germany on 20 December 1944. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Brown_and_Franz_Stigler_incident
Here is a painting of the incident. http://www.valorstudios.com/Images/Franz-Stigler-Charlie-Brown/Bf-109-pilot-Franz-Stigler.jpg
Benji
Here is a painting of the incident. http://www.valorstudios.com/Images/Franz-Stigler-Charlie-Brown/Bf-109-pilot-Franz-Stigler.jpg
Benji
MOBodyman
Well-Known Member
Sometimes when I would ask my Dad something about his time in the Army, he would just say he didn't remember much about it. But sometimes when his brother came to visit, the stories would get started..
Dallas
goldfish65
Well-Known Member
Sad not to be able to hear from him anymore, but not sorry he left peacefully at 94, to reunite with his wife whom he missed terribly.
Here is a link to a story that shows what a fine humanitarian he was. His unit "adopted" this severely injured French farm girl and nursed her back to health, which went against Army regulations. Years later Wally and his wife hosted her and her daughter for a reunion. In the second photo, he's on the far left. Notice the girl is looking right at him.
http://www.142fw.ang.af.mil/news/story.asp?id=123361404
Here is a link to a story that shows what a fine humanitarian he was. His unit "adopted" this severely injured French farm girl and nursed her back to health, which went against Army regulations. Years later Wally and his wife hosted her and her daughter for a reunion. In the second photo, he's on the far left. Notice the girl is looking right at him.
http://www.142fw.ang.af.mil/news/story.asp?id=123361404
my dad fought 4 years of WW11 and 1 in Korea. I wish he could have talked about some of his experiences there, but he could not. he mentioned it all maybe 3 times in my life...
SoulSurvivor
Well-Known Member
My dad was in the 1st Provisional Marine Brigade during the Korean War. He never talked about it except that he was Gunnery Sergeant assigned to call in military strikes. His radio man was killed the first day. I have his IBM M1 Carbine he carried.I didn't realize to what extent the action he saw until I read this These guys were bad ***:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1st_Provisional_Marine_Brigade
Thank every veteran you see. I even try to buy them their meal and a lot of times someone has already beatin me to it.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1st_Provisional_Marine_Brigade
Thank every veteran you see. I even try to buy them their meal and a lot of times someone has already beatin me to it.
GaryS
Well-Known Member
There are not too many good things about getting old, but one is having had the honor to serve with so many men who fought in WWII. My first NCOIC was decorated for valor in the Philippines; My OIC was in the 10th Mountain Division in the Italian campaign; one of our officers was a member of Gen. Chenault’s Flying Tigers in China, and another was a Tuskegee Airman. Many others were only discovered when required to wear their uniforms with all awards and decorations displayed. The quiet guy who never even mentioned being in the war, but wore numerous ribbons bearing a “V” for valor. One sergeant shocked everyone when he appeared in formation wearing the Medal of Honor. He’d been awarded it on D-Day in Normandy, but had never told anyone in the unit. I’m embarrassed to say, but at the time they were only fellow airmen, not the symbols of selfless patriotism they are today. All were humble and often reluctant to talk about the war, but their immense pride was evident when they did.
I recall one visit I had a few years ago with one man who served, and I’d like to share it with you.
I met a hero the other day. Normally, you might expect to meet a hero at a public event with the media present and politicians vying for camera time, but I met him in the service waiting room at an East Texas car dealership.
He stepped down out of his pickup just like any normal person, talked to the service writer and left it to have the oil changed.
He was a senior citizen, as we like to call them now, and as he walked across the driveway you could see that age had taken its toll. He was stooped and his skin was weathered by the Texas sun. He flashed a friendly smile as he headed my way, choosing an outdoor seat over a stuffy waiting room with a blaring television. He was an unimposing guy…jeans, boots and a straw cowboy hat. The hat wasn’t big, or fancy, or expensive like Hollywood cowboys wear. It was a working man’s hat…the kind you wear to shield you against the weather, but it was his go-to-town hat, too. He looked average in every way…medium height, slender build, glasses, and…well, just average looking as Texans go. He wasn’t a body builder, but he appeared fit for his age. He sat down on the bench beside me and we exchanged greetings.
The warm, morning sun had just cleared the hills behind us, and we both commented on the beautiful morning. He carried a Max Brand novel in his hand, but after we exchanged greetings, he placed it on the bench beside him and we struck up a conversation. He had already acquired my interest and I wasn’t going to let him read if I could indulge him in conversation.
We first talked about retirement, and the good old days, and cotton farming, and raising cows. He said he’d loved the idea of raising cattle since he was a kid in high school many decades earlier, but had to forego his plans to put some time in the Army.
It was then that I learned I was sitting beside a hero…a WWII combat vet. I asked him which unit he had been in…though I should have guessed. The former US Army Corporal was a native Texan and a member of the 36th Infantry Division…the Texas division…when they were sent first to Africa, and then to land on the Italian coast at Salerno in 1943.
After some general conversation about the military, he got this look in his eye. He was far away in another time, and in his soft East Texas draw, he took me along. I didn’t object.
He said he had wanted to tell his children and grandchildren all about war, but despite the urgings of his family, he was embarrassed to do so. I told him to respect his family’s request. They weren’t trying to humor an old man, they were truly interested. He said he had recorded part of his story on audio tapes, but hadn’t gone into the detail about many of the things that still filled his mind. One of his grandchildren had copied the tapes on a CD, but what he had recorded wasn’t everything he wanted to say...there was still so much to tell. All the little things.
He wanted them to understand what it was really like to be scared every day, but to hide the fear with jokes and bravado, like young men in combat always do. He wanted to explain what it felt like to be exhausted, and hungry, and cold, and wet, for weeks on end. What it was like to look across an open field at the enemy whose job it was to defeat you by taking your life, and knowing you would soon meet him eye to eye. He wanted people to understand what went on in your mind when you saw friends die in an instant, and what it was like to cheat injury or death by a turn of fate’s card. He wanted to tell them that the way you dealt with it was to get rip-roaring drunk when you could, or to find a private place to cry until you couldn’t cry anymore. He told me several stories about individual battles, and what had happened to him and members of his unit.
The stories were not boastful tales of triumph, but rather one man’s account of his tiny role in a brutal war fought between powerful countries. He never bragged that he had done anything more than what was expected of him as a member of a mortar squad. I don’t know if he was awarded any individual citations. He didn’t say, and I didn't ask, but he did say he was one of only two men in his original company not killed or wounded. He marveled at his good fortune, but mourned the loss of so many friends. He didn’t complain or speak ill of the government that sent him to war. It was something that had to be done and he was obliged to do his part. His pride was apparent, but his deeds were not demanding of praise or comment. And there was no anger in his voice, only the need to explain how it really was. I was eager to listen, and he was willing to talk about it.
You might wonder why, without medals and fanfare, I’ve referred to the Corporal from Texas as a hero, but that’s easy to explain. He belongs to a generation that’s rapidly disappearing; a generation we’ve selfishly taken for granted…and they’ve not complained. Not enough of us are cognizant of their personal sacrifice, nor appreciative of how they built the world we live in today. The young soldiers that went to war did what was asked and expected of them, and they did it to the best of their ability. Like so many veterans I’ve talked to, he didn’t come home with expectations of being treated special. He did his job, and then he came home to rejoin society and start a family. He could finally get back home to raise cattle and to live the life he loved. When you are a real hero, that’s what you do. No demands. No whining. You quietly get on with life. I’m certain he’d be embarrassed at being called a hero, but in my eyes, he and his generation are all heroes. Their sacrifice allowed me all the comforts I now enjoy, and their labors have given the modern world a standard of living that couldn’t have even been envisioned when they were young.
All too soon the mechanic returned with his truck, and our conversation had to end. I could have listened to him for hours, but like anything good, a small amount makes you appreciate it even more. He apologized for bending my ear, but in my mind, he was passing on a personal record of history and I thank him for both the lesson and the pleasure of his company. We shook hands and I watched him walk away. It was time to do what modest heroes do. It was time to go home and check on the cows.
I recall one visit I had a few years ago with one man who served, and I’d like to share it with you.
I met a hero the other day. Normally, you might expect to meet a hero at a public event with the media present and politicians vying for camera time, but I met him in the service waiting room at an East Texas car dealership.
He stepped down out of his pickup just like any normal person, talked to the service writer and left it to have the oil changed.
He was a senior citizen, as we like to call them now, and as he walked across the driveway you could see that age had taken its toll. He was stooped and his skin was weathered by the Texas sun. He flashed a friendly smile as he headed my way, choosing an outdoor seat over a stuffy waiting room with a blaring television. He was an unimposing guy…jeans, boots and a straw cowboy hat. The hat wasn’t big, or fancy, or expensive like Hollywood cowboys wear. It was a working man’s hat…the kind you wear to shield you against the weather, but it was his go-to-town hat, too. He looked average in every way…medium height, slender build, glasses, and…well, just average looking as Texans go. He wasn’t a body builder, but he appeared fit for his age. He sat down on the bench beside me and we exchanged greetings.
The warm, morning sun had just cleared the hills behind us, and we both commented on the beautiful morning. He carried a Max Brand novel in his hand, but after we exchanged greetings, he placed it on the bench beside him and we struck up a conversation. He had already acquired my interest and I wasn’t going to let him read if I could indulge him in conversation.
We first talked about retirement, and the good old days, and cotton farming, and raising cows. He said he’d loved the idea of raising cattle since he was a kid in high school many decades earlier, but had to forego his plans to put some time in the Army.
It was then that I learned I was sitting beside a hero…a WWII combat vet. I asked him which unit he had been in…though I should have guessed. The former US Army Corporal was a native Texan and a member of the 36th Infantry Division…the Texas division…when they were sent first to Africa, and then to land on the Italian coast at Salerno in 1943.
After some general conversation about the military, he got this look in his eye. He was far away in another time, and in his soft East Texas draw, he took me along. I didn’t object.
He said he had wanted to tell his children and grandchildren all about war, but despite the urgings of his family, he was embarrassed to do so. I told him to respect his family’s request. They weren’t trying to humor an old man, they were truly interested. He said he had recorded part of his story on audio tapes, but hadn’t gone into the detail about many of the things that still filled his mind. One of his grandchildren had copied the tapes on a CD, but what he had recorded wasn’t everything he wanted to say...there was still so much to tell. All the little things.
He wanted them to understand what it was really like to be scared every day, but to hide the fear with jokes and bravado, like young men in combat always do. He wanted to explain what it felt like to be exhausted, and hungry, and cold, and wet, for weeks on end. What it was like to look across an open field at the enemy whose job it was to defeat you by taking your life, and knowing you would soon meet him eye to eye. He wanted people to understand what went on in your mind when you saw friends die in an instant, and what it was like to cheat injury or death by a turn of fate’s card. He wanted to tell them that the way you dealt with it was to get rip-roaring drunk when you could, or to find a private place to cry until you couldn’t cry anymore. He told me several stories about individual battles, and what had happened to him and members of his unit.
The stories were not boastful tales of triumph, but rather one man’s account of his tiny role in a brutal war fought between powerful countries. He never bragged that he had done anything more than what was expected of him as a member of a mortar squad. I don’t know if he was awarded any individual citations. He didn’t say, and I didn't ask, but he did say he was one of only two men in his original company not killed or wounded. He marveled at his good fortune, but mourned the loss of so many friends. He didn’t complain or speak ill of the government that sent him to war. It was something that had to be done and he was obliged to do his part. His pride was apparent, but his deeds were not demanding of praise or comment. And there was no anger in his voice, only the need to explain how it really was. I was eager to listen, and he was willing to talk about it.
You might wonder why, without medals and fanfare, I’ve referred to the Corporal from Texas as a hero, but that’s easy to explain. He belongs to a generation that’s rapidly disappearing; a generation we’ve selfishly taken for granted…and they’ve not complained. Not enough of us are cognizant of their personal sacrifice, nor appreciative of how they built the world we live in today. The young soldiers that went to war did what was asked and expected of them, and they did it to the best of their ability. Like so many veterans I’ve talked to, he didn’t come home with expectations of being treated special. He did his job, and then he came home to rejoin society and start a family. He could finally get back home to raise cattle and to live the life he loved. When you are a real hero, that’s what you do. No demands. No whining. You quietly get on with life. I’m certain he’d be embarrassed at being called a hero, but in my eyes, he and his generation are all heroes. Their sacrifice allowed me all the comforts I now enjoy, and their labors have given the modern world a standard of living that couldn’t have even been envisioned when they were young.
All too soon the mechanic returned with his truck, and our conversation had to end. I could have listened to him for hours, but like anything good, a small amount makes you appreciate it even more. He apologized for bending my ear, but in my mind, he was passing on a personal record of history and I thank him for both the lesson and the pleasure of his company. We shook hands and I watched him walk away. It was time to do what modest heroes do. It was time to go home and check on the cows.
goldfish65
Well-Known Member
Thank you GaryS for sharing tht powerful chance meeting. I can relate as my few meetings with Wally also left me wanting more and he was humble and never boastful. Yet for all he had lived through, his love for his wife was what he spoke about most longingly. Now he is resting in peace with her.
68gtxman
I used to reMember
May God bless them all! Thanks for sharing the stories!
zigs
Well-Known Member
Glider pilot ? NOW THAT TOOK BALLS. My hats off to your Grandfather.
zigs
Well-Known Member
I've met Pappy Boeington a couple times . He was from Yakima where I live. couple times a year He would sign pictures and books on Veterans day. Very interesting person.
P-47D is akin to a hemi road runner. If I ever get BIG BUCKS, I'm buying a T-Bolt.
I met a P-51 pilot at the Grosse Pointe War Memorial, one time. He was a at a military/firearms show. He talked with me about ME262's. He shot down 2....and said he could only do it when they were taking off or landing. Otherwise, they were damned near impossible to shoot down.
I met a P-51 pilot at the Grosse Pointe War Memorial, one time. He was a at a military/firearms show. He talked with me about ME262's. He shot down 2....and said he could only do it when they were taking off or landing. Otherwise, they were damned near impossible to shoot down.
What a great thread with great stories. Thanks for sharing.
When I opened a gas station in the late 80s early every morning.I had a guy that came down to buy cigarettes and he use to hang out for a few to get a break from his wife and three daughters. He told me one morning about how he was in the second wave of D-Day. It sent chills down my spine how he described that event. Watching Saving Private Ryan was EXACTLY how he told me what he went through. Scary stuff. Those guys (kids) did a tough job. Something I'm not sure many people could handle. We'll never see a generation like that again.
When I opened a gas station in the late 80s early every morning.I had a guy that came down to buy cigarettes and he use to hang out for a few to get a break from his wife and three daughters. He told me one morning about how he was in the second wave of D-Day. It sent chills down my spine how he described that event. Watching Saving Private Ryan was EXACTLY how he told me what he went through. Scary stuff. Those guys (kids) did a tough job. Something I'm not sure many people could handle. We'll never see a generation like that again.
jamay
Member
My father, his brothers, and my mothers brothers all served in WWII except one who served in Korea. Only one left.
When I was young and had the time to spend and talk with them about their experiences, I didn't any more than a couple of times. When I got older I wanted to but didn't take the time. Problem is that they were getting older to. Now they're gone.
If you have the opportunity, take the time. Buy em lunch. Let them know you care and are proud. That goes for the young guys too.
When I was young and had the time to spend and talk with them about their experiences, I didn't any more than a couple of times. When I got older I wanted to but didn't take the time. Problem is that they were getting older to. Now they're gone.
If you have the opportunity, take the time. Buy em lunch. Let them know you care and are proud. That goes for the young guys too.
thanks you GaryS for sharing that.
I know my dad lived thru 4 years of WW11. he could not talk about it and even though just a kid I sensed that. I understood some of the mental scars he held.
I did hear just a little of what he did in the south pacific. his squadron were flying boomers with the guns removed and cameras installed for aerial recon. fighter jet escort. probably he was in a better place than ground fighting on those islands!? I have a couple of phots of his bunch on one of the islands.
after service ho could not set foot on a commercial airplane. he made their l;ast tripby car to visit me in "83 the year before he passed.
I did hear just a little of what he did in the south pacific. his squadron were flying boomers with the guns removed and cameras installed for aerial recon. fighter jet escort. probably he was in a better place than ground fighting on those islands!? I have a couple of phots of his bunch on one of the islands.
after service ho could not set foot on a commercial airplane. he made their l;ast tripby car to visit me in "83 the year before he passed.
SoulSurvivor
Well-Known Member
Gary, I really like reading your post. We see these 'old timers' and I always offer to help if I can without it making it sound like charity but as a thank you. But I do that with every veteran I see. I, too, was at the Dodge dealer getting an oil change. This 88 year old Marine sat outside with me while we waiting. He was soooo humble. I paid for his oil change for his 1978 Dodge Power Wagon D200 before I left and didn't tell him. Clean as the day he bought it. He was a proud, humble, widowed man. It was a honor to spend 30 minutes with him.
-
