We
continued our journey apparently bound for Frankfurt-Am-Main which
seemed rather circuitous probably because of the bomb damage to the
rail yards. It was dark before we got off the train and boarded a
street car. We rode to the north side of Frankfurt. We got off and
walked down a cinder path for perhaps a quarter of a mile when we
came to a group of one story barracks. If this was a barracks for
American flyers it was extraordinarily quiet I thought. I soon found
out why. Our names were called and we proceeded one by one into the
barracks. Finally, there was one name left and one prisoner, me.
The names did not match.i
The Luftwaffe officer said, “Perhaps, Sgt. McClure, you would
like us to send you back.” I thought that was a good idea.
This place was
Dulag Luft, the Luftwaffe interrogation center for allied aircrews.
When I entered the barracks I was escorted to a room for a personal
search and brief interrogation. Afterward, I was escorted down a
long corridor with doors every few feet. Around a corner, down a
similar corridor, around another corner to a cell. The door was
opened by the guard and I was in the cell by myself. This was the
reason the barracks were so quiet without the usual American
horseplay and card games. The electric heater was on. The room was
hot. A small cot with a blanket were the only furnishings. To signal
a guard to go to the latrine required turning a knob on the corridor
wall. A metal flag would fall perpendicular to the wall and
eventually a guard would escort me to the latrine. Twice a day a not
very tasty soup, some bread and synthetic German coffee were
provided. Anyone who has tasted German war-time coffee can’t help
but wonder why the Germans continued to fight. Lack of good coffee
should have been reason enough to surrender.
For three days
I was held in solitary confinement with no human contact except for
the non-verbal trips to the latrine. One brief encounter through the
wall with another American concluded when we agreed it was probably
better not to talk. Finally, I was taken by a guard back to the room
I had been in the first night. A Luftwaffe officer and a Sergeant
were present. My bloody wrist watch with broken hands and a ring was
taken with the promise to return these items after the war. The
officer asked me to fill out a form with blanks for the names of all
the crew and some other information. I told him I can’t do that.
He asked me why not? I said I was told not to provide any
information other than name, rank and serial number. He asked who
told me that? He then proceeded to tell me that I belonged to the
5th
Wing, 97th
Bomb Group and the 340th
Bomb Squadron. I didn’t know we were in the 5th
Wing.
The
interrogator continued: “You are very lucky Sgt. McClure. Our
records show that nearly all of your crews are killed.” I
remembered that group intelligence said to remember one thing: the
enemy will try to make you believe they know all about you.
Remember, if they knew it all, they wouldn’t be interrogating you.
It was clear
to the interrogator and to me that a waist gunner was not likely to
have any important military information and with that the interview
was concluded. On the way back to the cell the guard said: “You
know, Sgt. McClure, we could make you fill that form.” I was on
the point of putting my foot down and saying, Oh Yeah? then I
thought, why push your luck and make things more difficult. Back in
solitary again.
Later that day
I was taken out of solitary to another group of barracks with other
American and British airmen, officers and enlisted men together. It
seemed good to be back with people again. Our ball turret gunner,
“Red” Hall was there and I was glad to see him again. For the
first time I began to experience real hunger. Food was very sparse.
There was never enough to satisfy one’s appetite. I began to dream
about how good it would be to walk into a White Tower and order a
half dozen hamburgers. Food began to become increasingly important
and the subject stayed that way for the rest of my captivity.
We were here
for a few days, fairly pleasant, sunny spring days except for the
constant hunger. One day, I was standing by an American Captain who
told me he was a P-51 pilot and had ditched his plane in a lake. He
said he blackened both eyes on his gunsight during the ditching. He
was very angry about being captured. It was around 10 o’clock one
morning when a group of about 40 Me-109s appeared overhead climbing
to the northwest to intercept another 8th
Air Force bombing mission. A Luftwaffe officer was standing by him
and the American, pointing at the Me-109s angrily shouted at the
German: “You call that God-damned thing a Luftwaffe? I’ll take
‘em all on single handed!” I thought the American stood a good
chance of being shot on the spot, then and there. I moved away from
him. The German officer just laughed.ii
I met a
friendly chap from the Royal Air Force. He was Pilot Officer
Luffman. His Lancaster bomber had been shot down. We discussed the
habit of crews naming their aircraft. Americans usually chose a sexy
painting of a young women with an appropriate name. Luffman
described the name of his Lancaster. It was the “Excalibur”
named after King Arthur’s sword.iii
The painting on the aircraft was a muscular bare arm protruding down
through a cloud with a sword in hand and a bloody swastika on the
tip. I was impressed with how much more appropriate the Royal Air
Force was in naming their aircraft than the Americans.
The skyline
surrounding Dulag Luft remains fixed in my memory. There was a
church steeple visible above the tree tops that surrounded the camp.
To the north was a multi-story pink building with red crosses painted
on the roof.iv
It was here I received the second treatment of my wound. When the
bandage was removed, there was a neat hole the size of an eraser on a
lead pencil. It seemed to be healing nicely. I momentarily felt a
little weak. For months afterward, however, pieces of metal would
surface and I would pick them out of my skin. There was one American
who was very badly injured. He was in a body cast from his waist up
and including his head with only space for his eyes and mouth. His
right arm was extended at the shoulder by a brace at a right angle so
that his elbow was even with his shoulder. I don’t know who he was
and I never saw him again.
i
There is a misspelling of my name in copies of German documents
relating to our crew contained in the National Archives Missing Crew
Report Nos 03582-03584. That probably accounts for the confusion at
Dulag Luft.
ii
On pages 61,62 of a chapter titled "Blue Mediterranean Skies"
in Volume Two of Edward Jablonski's "Airwar" there is a
description of Captain Allen Bunte of the 4th Fighter Group who, in
early April 1944 hit some high tension electric wires. His P-51
caught fire and he ditched the airplane in a lake and was captured.
The coincidence is extraordinary. I am certain the American Captain
at Dulag Luft was Captain Bunte.
iii
Excalibur: King Arthur's sword, which as a boy, he alone was able
to draw out of stone in which it was fixed. When the King lay
mortally wounded after his last battle, he ordered the faithful Sir
Bedivere to go to the water and throw the sword into it. An arm
rose to catch it, brandished Excalibur three times, and then
disappeared.
iv
In 1965, while assigned to the Headquarters, United States Air
Forces Europe, in Wiesbaden, C/Msgt Don Wilson and I discovered we
had both been in Stalag 17B. We drove to Frankfurt to find the old
Dulag Luft. We asked directions at a police station near the main
railroad station. They happily gave us directions where they
thought it might have been and we found the old site on the north
side of Frankfurt near the I.G. Farben building. The only remains
visible were the mounds of earth where the barracks had been, but
the skyline, including the church steeple, was the same. The only
inconsistency was that proceeding down the road to the site, we
passed a very large multi-story hospital. In the entryway was a
dedication plaque which stated the Luftwaffe hospital had been built
in 1939. I do not remember it. Perhaps the building where my
wounds were treated may have been a part of it. Don and I meet
regularly at the annual Stalag 17B reunions. We have exchanged the
same Christmas card for several years by scratching out the other's
name so as to avoid spending money for a new one. Each accuses the
other of being too cheap to buy a new one.