Plummet

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I scream as I’m thrown face down on the floor toward the rear of the fort.

 Just a moment ago I was crouching on the adapted bike seat which shoves itself far higher into a man’s back-end than any object really should go.

 I was scanning the densely foggy sky for aircraft from the cramped tail-gunner’s compartment of Skippy, my flying fortress.

 Watching the planes to our right and left, I was in a kneeling position, looking out over my guns.

 . . .

 We’re spiraling and falling.

 Flashes of blue, green and brown shoot through the tail window.

 The plane is spinning fast!

 Whatever happened threw me flat on my face. 

 Twisting to the right in a tight circle, the fortress spin broke the ammo trunk loose, so it’s now pinning me to the left wall of the compartment.

 I need to grab my parachute.

 I can’t move.

 How will I get to my chute?

 Impossible to move, my body is pinned flat against the wall.

 I must get to my chute!

 Straining every muscle, I try to shove or lift the ammo trunk with all my force.

 Nothing, I’m not moving.

 I try again, shoving with all my might against the plane’s ribbed interior.

 Nothing.

 I have to keep trying!

 Using every ounce of strength within, my whole body shoves against the wall and the ammo trunk; legs, arms, back, even the back of my head, but I can’t move it.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t just stay here while this plane crashes.

 . . .

 I can’t move and I can’t stay.

 . . .

 I have to move.

 With what’s left of my energy, I compel myself off the wall, pushing every last sinew until the heat of the pain forces me to stop.

 I can’t.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t get out.

 I can’t stop this.

 . . .

 Is this it?

 Falling to the ground in a plummeting plane is how I die.

 This is how I die.

 THIS IS HOW I DIE! I yell, girding myself with the vocalization of this realization.

 In another few minutes I’ll be dead.

 . . .

 Time is slowing down.

 Looking up through the tail window I can see only fog above.

 There is no sense of place.

 No here, nor there.

 Do not be anxious about anything.

 In every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to G-d.

 The ribs of the plane dig into my body as I’m forced ever more against its hard metal walls.

 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your G-d will be with you wherever you go.”

 Images begin streaking across my mind.

 My mom’s face.

 My dad reaching out his hand to me as I prepared to board the train when I left for basic training.

 The softness of Emily’s lips when we last held each other.

 “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

 What have I done with this life?

 I could have given the toy car back to Jack.

 . . .

 Why did I not ask Emily to marry me?

 . . .

 What difference have I made?

 . . .

 “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your G-d goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

 . . .

 What is this all for?

 . . .

 I’m not getting back to Kentucky after all, am I?

 . . .

 Why is this taking so long?

 If I’m going to die, why does it have to take so long?

 Get it over with!

 GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!

 This is not ok.

 Come on!

 HURRY UP, DAMN IT!

 . . .

 “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your G-d. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 . . .

 Time is fascinating.

 Most of it we don’t even notice.

 It goes by.

 Yet, at the end, it takes FOREVER!

 If it had taken this long through everyday life, I’d be dead by now.

 . . .

 WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?

 . . .

 Going to college is no longer on the table.

 I would have liked college; the learning, the slower pace, the peace.

 This falling is peaceful.

 . . .

 Am I already dead?

 Is this what death feels like, this peace?

 The plane has been plummeting for so long, maybe I’m already dead.

 If this is death . . . I’m ok with it.

 . . .

 A raspy swishing sound breaks my thoughts.

 Looking out, no longer up, through the window I see the tops of trees float away as the fort scrapes along them.

 GROUND!

 . . .

 We’re gliding down!

 . . .

 WE’RE NOT FALLING, WE’RE GLIDING DOWN! I yell out.

 Just then, the plane comes to an abrupt and jerked halt.

 Thrown forward, I bump my chin against a side-rib of the plane too hard, but the ammo trunk is moved a bit in the crash.

 That’ll bruise.

 . . .

 We’re on the ground!

 WE’RE ON THE GROUND! I yell.

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 . . .

 I’ve got to get out.

 The ship might be on fire.

 Shoving with what energy I have left, I’m able to nudge the ammo trunk a bit.

 It’s working now!

 Gathering all the strength in my arms and legs, I shove again.

 Again, a bit of a nudge.

 Keep at it.

 Use it all up, get out!

 UUURRRGGGG!!!!! I grunt as I shove again.

 More movement, it’s sliding now.

 AAAUUURRRHHHGGGHH!

 I GOT IT!

 I can rise!

 The ammo trunk is finally off of me.

 Raising my sore, and exhausted body off the wall of the downed fort, I dig my way out of the strewn shell casings, broken ventilation station, and other debris which had been tossed about as the plane spiraled down.

 My eyes scan the space looking toward the bulkhead door.

 Wow, the side of the ship is bashed in.

 Glad I wasn’t pinned against that wall.

 Turning the handle on the bulkhead door, I’m shocked by what I see.

 Or, don’t see:

 THERE’S NO PLANE!

 . . .

 The tail must have come apart from the rest of the plane, coming down by itself.

 What happened to the rest of the crew?

 As I remove my oxygen mask and headset, I scan the wreckage for another pair of shoes.

 Picking them up, I then exit the tail compartment of what’s left of Skippy.

 I gotta get away from here.

Sgt. James Radey was the tail gunner of “Skippy” a B-17 from the 301st Bomb Group, 253rd Bomb Squadron. He became the only survivor of his crew on January 11, 1944 when his squadron was in route over Greece. Visibility due to weather was barely past the wingtips of the aircraft, causing two bomb groups to collide head-on. Eight B-17s were destroyed, claiming 64 airmen’s lives. 17 men survived the crashes, Raley the only one to do so without using his parachute. Walking away from a four-mile fall in the broken tail section of a destroyed bomber, Raley suffered a cut to his chin and some bruises on his shoulder. Miraculously, the bomber’s ripped away tail section, with Raley inside, had just the right lift and weight distribution for it to “float like a leaf” and land relatively softly in a clump of pine trees. This was Raley’s 13th mission.

After the war, Raley visited the families of all of his lost crew, married, wrote an autobiography of his experience and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force after serving in Korea and Vietnam. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. From the day of the crash onward, he always considered 13 his lucky number.

Gunther

Emerging from the fog just outside Chaumont-devant-Damvillers, my combat spread platoon halts, as Chambers (on point) signals movement ahead.

A staccato series of shots ring out from their position, flying high above our heads.

Even though the shots are high, muscle memory drops the platoon in one, seemingly, coordinated move.

No one wants to be the last to die in this war.

Turning my head toward the fire, I can make out the faint shapes of stahlhelm (German helmets) in a crater by the side of the road.

“Their warning us” Powell says, shifting his rifle under his body to his left side so he can clear his line of sight to the enemy.

I look back at Powell, my Sergeant now.

We used to be pals and equals.

His eyes lock with mine.

He probably knows what I’m thinking right now.

Reaching his right arm toward me, he gently says “It’s not worth it, not now.”

I turn my head from him, toward the enemy machine gun.

If I could get that before the end, I’d make things right.

Rising as I pull my bayoneted rifle up from the frost-covered mud, I feel Powell’s hand on my right thigh.

“STOP” He tries to grab my rifle as he yells.

Far enough away, so he can’t get a grip on me or my weapon, I slip out of Powell’s reach as I break into a run.

We’re so close.

I can redeem myself before it’s all over!

DAMN IT, GUNTHER, I SAID HALT! Sgt. Powell screams at me as I get within 25 meters of the enemy.

Other men of the 313th, Baltimore’s Own, yell for me to stop as well.

“It’s almost over!”, “Don’t do it Gunther!”, “They’re not worth it!”

I can capture them.

I can show how American I am.

Just aware of my approach, the gun crew waves at me.

Within 20 meters I can see through the fog the expression on their faces change.

They know I’m not stopping!

“Go. . ., Go Back!” they yell, attempting to wave me away.

One holds a watch up on his right arm, while showing two fingers with left hand.

“Almost 11, GO BACK!” another yells.

I can’t go back, there’s no going back!

Within 10 meters the German who seems to be in charge screams, “NO TIME. . ., STOP. . ., OVER!”

I’m not stopping till I make things right.

At 5 meters I scream “SURRENDER!” at the top of my lungs as I race forward, firing a round to emphasize my point.

The man behind the machine gun shifts its barrel to aim directly at me.

They won’t.

Within 2 meters I can see the soldier behind the gun looking at the one who screamed for me to stop.

He then looks down, before pulling the chain which is attached to the trigger of the gun.

I’m American!

Private Henry Gunther was the last American to be killed in World War I when he was shot through the head at 10:59 am on November 11, 1918. Gunther, who until recently had been a Sergeant, was demoted when a letter he wrote advising a friend to avoid the war because of the horrible conditions at the front was caught by Army censors and delivered to his commanding officer. A Baltimore boy of German parents, Gunther may have felt compelled to prove how American he was, rather than ending the war in disgrace. The next day Private Gunther was recognized by General Pershing, the American Expeditionary Force commander, as the last American to die in the war. He was restored as a Sergeant, awarded the Divisional Citation for Gallantry in Action and the Distinguished Service Cross, and is honored to this day with a plaque in France recognizing him as the last allied soldier to die in the war. Before the war Henry Gunther was a bookkeeper at the National Bank of Baltimore and had a girlfriend, Olga Gruebl, who he intended to marry. He is buried at Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery in Baltimore.

Investigations about the last day of the war reveal possibly 11,000 allied soldiers were killed or wounded between the time the armistice was signed at 5 am and the cessation of hostilities at 11 am. The reason for this was French commander-in-chief Marshal Foch refused to allow a cease-fire. The news of the armistice was spread instantly to units across the front on both sides, but the officers in charge of Allied units mostly maintained the attack, despite the fact all German units would surrender their positions at 11 am. To put this number of deaths in context, it was very high for a single day in World War I, even though it only captures about five hours of active combat, and it is greater than the number of soldiers who lost their lives on D-Day, June 6, 1944 when the allies stormed the beaches of Normandy to begin the liberation of Western Europe from the NAZIs. Gunther may have been striving for redemption that day. What of the other 10,999, of which more than 3,000 were American?

Pure Joy

Bumping the door frame as they enter with a seemingly heavy large box, the two women in matching green outfits barely manage to carry it into the front room of our orphanage.

“What is it? What is it? What is it?” a quickly gathering crowd of small orphans demand of our nanny while scrambling to help carry the load.

As excited as the other children, I rush to help, tripping over the loose cardboard base of my shoes.

Holding my hands as high as their six years of growth can reach, I try to help keep the box from falling.

I’m helping, just as nanny says to do!

“I don’t know,” nanny replies, tiny uplifts of her lips framing her lined and skinny face.

“Who brought it?” four-year-old Heda tugs at nanny’s dirty skirt by letting go of the small section of box she had been holding up.

I want to be next to nanny.

I lower my hands from the box, pushing them together before shoving them like an arrow between Heda and nanny.

“It was left by Santa.” Nanny offers, her bony fingers curling over Heda’s fragile left shoulder.

Touch ME!

Love ME!

I’M helping.

Many of the others start jumping up and down, holes in the bottom of their flimsy shoes flitting in sight as their feet rise with squealing delight.

The box starts rocking as its weight is shifted between bouncing kids.

Notice ME!

I push up against Heda; my bigger body moving her away from nanny.

“See ME helping, Nanny?” I ask while looking up into the strained face of nanny.

“Yes, thank you for helping.” Nanny replies, a smile coming to her face as she places her left hand on my right shoulder.

All the other kids are jumping.

I want to stay with nanny.

Rocking from the many heights and altitudes of hobbling holders, the box starts to tip over.

What’s in it?

One of the women in the matching set of green pants and shirt, with a white armband on which sits a red plus symbol, starts to lose her grip on one end of the box.

It crashes to the floor, its contents spilling out from a crack in the side.

Squealers gather, blocking my view for a moment before the contents are revealed to all.

SHOES!

THEY ARE SHOES!

NEW SHOES!

We scramble into a big pile, each of us trying to grab at the shoes.

“There are enough for everyone,” Nanny calls out. “Please look for matching pairs. Everyone will get a pair.”

I just need two!

Grab any two!

Tim elbows me.

Greta kicks him with her socked left foot.

I grab two which look alike.

They look so new!

So Clean!

So Big!

Nanny and the two women in green are on their knees now, moving through the cluster of kids to check each pair of shoes, exchanging the non-matching pairs with each other.

“Check mine, Check mine!” I call out, handing my two toward nanny.

She turns toward me, taking my two shoes in hand.

Please match!

Oh, Please!

Handing them back to me with a full smile, she says, “Hans, you chose well. These will last you a long time.”

“THANK YOU!” I blurt as I dive onto nanny’s shoulders, almost dropping my shoes.

She picks me up as she rises, turning a little so I’m facing the door.

This is the greatest day, EVER!

A small squeeze by nanny around my body comforts me before she puts me down.

I scurry over to the stairs to look at my shoes.

As I sit, I gaze at them.

I can’t believe we got SHOES!

One in each hand, I bring them to me for a giant hug and sniff.

They smell new.

They feel strong.

They are BEAUTIFUL!

Thank you Santa!

Thank you!

Tilting my head to the sky while hugging the shoes tight, I can’t believe this day.

THANK YOU!

THANK YOU!

THANK YOU!

Six-year-old Austrian orphan Hans Werfel shows true JOY in this photograph from 1946. A photographer from LIFE magazine captured the moment Hans sits alone with his new pair of shoes. The shoes were a donation from The American Red Cross, and thus the American people to the war ravaged of Europe. Hans was one of millions of orphaned children from the war. Yet, in this moment, there is nothing but Joy in his life. A new, clean, solid pair of shoes is all he needed to feel such bliss. War often leaves behind the innocent with nothing to their name. How many orphans are there from The 20th Century’s War? At least, in this instance, one found ecstasy from the simplicity of a pair of shoes. What would bring you such Joy? What can you do to help those suffering the ravages of War today experience such joy themselves?

This is Werfel, six-year-old Austrian orphan, hugging a new pair of shoes from America. For nearly five years LIFE reader Mrs. Richard Henry Wehmeyer kept this picture as a visual object lesson. "Every time I heard some petty complaint," she says, she told friends about the little boy with the new shoes, un unfolded the clipping to shoe them.

As Mrs. Wehmeyer said in her letter "This picture of a child's ecstasy over a pair of shoes has meant something personal to me for a long time." It is a special attribute of the photograph that it lasts so long - in a treasured clipping, and in the memory.

LIFE magazine

September 24, 1951