369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF

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Those known to have served with
369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF
during the Second World War 1939-1945.

Bollenbach Duane. Lt.
Chancellor Roy L..
Kelly Jack A.. 1st Lieutenant (d.14th Oct. 1943)
Kelly Jack A.. 1st Lieutenant (d.14th Oct. 1943)
Nahmias Leon. S.Sgt.

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1st Lieutenant Jack A. Kelly 306th Bomber Group 369th Bomber Squadron (d.14th Oct. 1943)

My uncle, Jack A. Kelly, my dads' brother and my namesake, was a bombardier and 1st Lieutenant for a B17 crew. His plane went missing on 14th October 1943 on a mission over Germany and the crew were eventually declared dead. His memorial is at the Tablets of the Missing at Luxembourg City, Luxembourg. I never knew my uncle, but now that I am getting older I would like to do more to honor his memory.

Jack A. Kelly

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1st Lieutenant Jack A. Kelly 306th Bomber Group 369th Bomber Squadron (d.14th Oct. 1943)

My uncle, Jack A. Kelly, my dads' brother and my namesake, was a bombardier and 1st Lieutenant for a B17 crew. His plane went missing on 14th October 1943 on a mission over Germany and the crew were eventually declared dead. His memorial is at the Tablets of the Missing at Luxembourg City, Luxembourg. I never knew my uncle, but now that I am getting older I would like to do more to honor his memory.

Jack A. Kelly

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S.Sgt. Leon Nahmias 369th Bomb Squadron 306th Bomb Group

Ever since I was a child, I was fascinated with airplanes and flying. I saved pictures of planes, and had a loose leaf full of articles on anything to do with flying. I wanted to become an aeronautical engineer, and therefore went to Haaren Aviation High School.
When World War II broke out, I, like many others my age wanted to join up. We were going to save our country and the world. At that time we were visited by officers of our armed forces and told that they needed us for a more important job. We were to make model airplanes of the armed forces of our enemies. Some of us were so good at this that we were given honorary positions in the armed forces of our country. This would be influential when we joined up. My honorary position was Ensign in the U.S. Navy. On 3rd of January 1944 I joined the U.S. Army. What happened to the Navy? The Army recruiter made the U.S. Air Corps sound very exciting, especially to an 18 year old. If I volunteered I would have stripes, a snappy uniform, be a gunman on a B-17 and have girls chasing me. Now, how could a wise kid from the Lower East Side of N.Y., brought up during the depression, turn this great offer down? I didn't, and the game of chance started. Camp Upton, Long Island, NY was the first stop for raw recruits. I found out quickly that you address an officer by the title, Sir, and if you forget - especially a colonel - 24 hours of KP on kitchen detail helps you remember. From Camp Upton, L.I., NY to Shepard Field, Texas, for basic training. This section of Texas is called the Panhandle. We called it by other names. At night it was cold, and by 11 am when you were coming back from a 6 am march, you were pealing off your clothes. Not only was it hot, but sandstorms accompanied the heat. It would crawl under the window sills and leave your mouth dry and your eyes sweating. But it started to get you into shape both physically and psychologically. From here we went to Las Vegas, Nevada. Not in town, but out in the desert. Here's where we saw our first planes. We practiced on B-17's. Learned everything possible. Some of us were beginning to realize this was serious stuff. Take apart a 50 caliber machine gun, blindfolded, in a set time, and put it back together. Practice putting on a parachute and jumping to the ground without breaking your leg. Crawling in the desert, watch out for snakes and scorpions, and when you go to town, watch out for the ladies! Now it was time for the main testing, to see if we could fly. B-17's were the last planes that were all open (non-pressurized). B-19's were the first enclosed (pressurized) bomber planes. We would go up over the desert in the afternoon. The heat would rise up from the desert floor, and we would swing up and down and sideways. We'd go up to 12-13,000 feet and suddenly drop 5,000 feet. To me it was great, you'd float. Just make sure you didn't float out of the plane. The test for many was, Did we get airsick? Since we were volunteers, if you threw up and didn't want to fly anymore, this was your chance to say so. No problem. You would go directly into the infantry. There were some who couldn't take flying, whatever the reason. It was timed for graduation. We received our first stripe.
The next stop was Tampa, Florida. A little more training, and then I met the rest of my flight crew: Captain, Co-pilot. Navigator, Engineer, Right Waist Gunner, Left Waist Gunner, Ball Turret Gunner, Radioman, and myself (Tail Gunner). Ten crew members started out together, all very young. One, our pilot, was married. Our ball turret gunner was thinking of getting married. The rest of us were single. My position was tail gunner and assistant engineer. I believe I was the tallest tail gunner the air force had. I was offered another position with another crew being formed. The position of a tail gunner is on his knees, facing out from the rear of the plane, your hands on a 50 caliber machine gun You had your flaksuit on and your helmet on your head, not just to protect your head a little, but also so you could piss in it and throw the piss out the back side of the plane before you and it froze. I didn't want to break up the crew. They seemed like a good bunch of guys who knew what they were doing. That was most important, since our lives depended on each other, and on God's help. We flew a lot of practice missions together and got to know each other better, our strong, as well as our weak, points. Our engineer was from Golden Missouri, wherever that is to a kid who had never left home, except to go to camp for two weeks during the summer. He was the oldest and most knowledgeable. He had already flown 50 missions In the Pacific and could have been an instructor, taking it easy. However, he got involved with a woman and was told that he would be dishonorably discharged if he did not fly another 50 missions. He was great to have along, smart and funny. Boy, could he drink!! With every mission accomplished, he would go off boozing and womanizing. He was as thin as a rail. He introduced me to a potent drink called Southern Comfort. He had been through hell from what we gathered, but didn't speak about it too often. Some of us would try out each others job. Besides being the assistant engineer, I was given the opportunity to fly the plane on our practice missions. Being together, the camaraderie was a great feeling. Of course, in the back of our minds we knew the end we could face, but we sort of buried it. We all graduated. My crew was ready for combat, or so we all thought. We were ready to receive a B-17 plane, to fly it loaded wherever we were sent to. Our first stop was Atlanta, Georgia. We stayed there for about a week and celebrated Thanksgiving. We hadn't yet been told what theater of operations we were being sent to. It was top secret - spies, etc. Our next stop was Bangor, Maine. It was cold and the snow was 8 feet high around the quonset hut we stayed in. We received equipment, clothes, and shoes for flying. The plane was loaded up with equipment for us to take to our destination - England. I found that if you don't move around too much you can fly at altitudes between 10-15,000 feet without oxygen. We took off heading for England, and I headed to the back of the plane. As I was resting there, half asleep, I smelled gasoline fumes. I spoke to our pilot on the intercom. Gauges were checked and all seemed okay. I went back again and after a while I asked the pilot to come back to the rear of the plane, where I was. This time there was no doubt. Regardless of what the gauges showed, there was clearly a gas leak. We changed our heading to Greenland. We never would've made England. I guess someone up there was still watching over me.
We landed at night on 7th of December 1944 in a cold God-forsaken place called Wales. After an overnight stay we flew on to our new base near London. We were needed very badly. Percentage wise, casualties were much higher for the Air Corps than they were for Infantry. Our first few missions over Germany were what I would call milk runs. Some flak, one or two planes lost. This was considered not too bad by the upper echelons. That was it. Just to season us and give us a taste of action. After that every mission took us deeper into Germany. More deadly for both our crews and for the targets on the ground. Cologne, Hamburg, Berlin, and I believe Penemunde. We were taking heavy losses of both planes and crews. As the saying goes, It's funny. Enlisted air force men who flew were given powdered eggs, brussel sprouts, and coffee for breakfast. If you made it back, you were given a hamburger and a shot of booze. If you wanted, you could have the food made for those who didn't return. I don't believe anyone took this offer. We were too tired and too sad for those we lost. Losses were so great that we were told we didn't have to fly 50 missions. That was a joke. Nobody from our group knew anyone who had survived to make it to 50 missions. They then cut it down to 35 missions, then 25. It got worse. They reorganized the air crews, taking one man from every crew so they could man more planes. We lost our right waist gunner to the change. We were now a 9 man crew, leaving us with a vulnerability. But that's war. You follow orders. After all, didn't we have stripes, a snappy uniform, and girls chasing us? The only problem was we were too damn tired and had no time to be caught.
As I said before we were in an open plane. By that I mean that the sides of the plane for the right and left waist gunners were open to the outside. A 50 caliber machine gun was mounted on each side. Being open, we would all get blasted with cold air blowing inside with force. They had not yet figured out how to enclose the gun opening. The same was true for the rear of the plane, where I was stationed on my knees. When you swiveled the 50 caliber machine gun there was an opening on each side of you. Underneath our fleece lined jacket we wore a jumpsuit that was lined with electric wiring to give us heat. When it worked well, it was fine - down to 32 degrees below zero. However, we had many missions where temperatures at altitude dropped well below that. Even our fleece lined shoes were of no use at that point. On one of our missions, we were at 29-30,000 feet. The temperature dropped to about 60 degrees below zero. We were wearing our electric jump suits, helmets, gloves, flak vests. I also had a parachute attached to one side of my buckle harness. The reason for this? I had seen too many of our planes blown up or going down. I felt this would give me a slight edge for survival. On this flight we also wore oxygen masks and goggles. After one of our missions my eyes and the bridge of my nose started to bother me. I was told by the doctor on my base that I had frostbite on my eyes and nose. I was put into the hospital for a few days to be treated and recover. There were those that were fortunate enough to make it to 25 missions. They were sent home. There were some remnants of crews where they had put in 24 missions and still needed one more mission to go home. They needed to add a pilot, navigator, and tail gunner to make a full complement. As I was in the hospital they chose another tail gunner. The pilot and navigator from my crew joined them as well. That night, after the mission was over, my radioman came to visit me. The plane had gone down in the North Sea with the crew aboard. Our crew had sustained its first casualties. We lost our pilot, who was married, and our navigator. If not for the frostbite I would've been on that plane. Call it what you want. Someone was still watching over me. Either that, or luck was still on my side.
There are so many things that happened before my last mission. Some things you remember, some you don't want to, and some that stay with you the rest of your life. The combination of life and war together can be so cruel. You age before you have even had time to mature. We got ourselves a new pilot and navigator. However, we were still short the right waist gunner. The left waist gunner would have to man both positions. One mission sticks out in my mind. The action was the heaviest we'd seen. We faced not only anti-aircraft fire, but enemy fighters coming at us. We lost a considerable number of planes on this sortie. When we returned to base, we were debriefed. We were all trying to figure out why this mission was met with more opposition than we had seen on other missions. Toward the end of my debriefing I made a comment to my debriefing officer about seeing 5 lines down below, 4 parallel to each other and one vertical. His ears perked up. Others came over to question me. Was I sure? Show us again where it was. How high up were we? I told them our altitude was 28-29,000 feet, and showed them on the map where the lines were. I wanted to know what all the excitement was about. They told me that if what I saw was accurate, then this was the site of one of the German rocket launchers aimed towards England that was doing so much damage. What shocked them and me was that I saw all this through camouflage. This is how I found out I was partially color blind. With this condition I should never have been admitted to the air corps. However, on this day, they were awfully glad to have me in the service. They sent another mission the next day to the same location. Flak and fire was very heavy. They confirmed what I had seen and bombed it out of existence.
When you are up in the air and flying close to other crews, everything is on a personal level. What is down below is impersonal. You don't count lives, only the destruction of plants and property. Our last mission was over Dresden, on February 14, 1945. It was mission 13 for us. I had a date waiting for me in London that evening. I wonder if she is still waiting for me. While we flew higher and faster than the B24 bomber, by today's standards we were slow. Our average speed was 250 mph. If we had a nose wind our speed dropped to 175 - 200 mph. But if we were blessed with a tailwind we could go as fast as 300-350 mph. The flight to Dresden took 6 ½ hours approximately, and if you made it back, another 6 ½ hours. Try doing that on your knees in a cramped corner with just a couple of inches of space between you and the thin aluminium skin. From what I gathered, the Germans were trying to hold back the Russians on the Eastern front. Dresden was the last major hub. Factories, munitions, armies and supplies, all in the immediate area. That was our target. The Germans knew it, so did we. If we could knock out Dresden, there'd be no holding back the Russians on their way to Berlin and a shortened war. We all had a job to do and we all wanted to get it over with. It was getting close and then we could all go home. Seven of us were left from the original crew. Not bad, considering that this was war time. As we got closer to our target there was considerably more anti aircraft fire and enemy planes, now with jet powered engines. The first ones capable of flying at 400 or more mph. Our planes were being hit, blown out of the sky by flak and enemy planes. We reached our target and dropped most of our bombs. We circled the target site and were preparing to return to London when we received a call to return over the target area again. All planes with any bombs left in their bomb bays were to finish unloading them on the target. We swung around and tried to recreate our formation, filling in the spaces where planes had been lost. This would give us more protection against the enemy fighters coming at us. This time our plane was at the rear of the formation. We were the tail and the first target for fighters coming at us from our rear. And they came. From the rear, top, sides, and below. They kept shooting at us, and we tried to return fire. But they were so much faster. We were hit so badly that we were on fire. Our ball turret gunner (that's the gunner who sits under the plane), had part of his head blown off. He was dying. When I think about it, here was a young man, barely 19, and his life was over. His name was Alfred Lubojacky, from Lubbock, Texas. He and I had become close friends and would spend whatever spare time we had together. Before we left the States to go overseas he asked me what I thought of him marrying his fiancee. Who the hell made me God, that I recommended that he not do it? I always say he and she would've had a little happiness together. Instead I told him what we both knew was possible - we might never come back. If there was a child it would be an extra burden of his wife to carry. So big deal, I was right. But he's not here to tell me how smart I was. A lot of the young men I knew are not here. The plane was on fire and we were going down. I was still firing my gun when the order came over the intercom to bail out. I was told later on that I may have shot down an ME109. It is not important any more. 20 mm shells from the enemy planes hit me in the tail section. They hit in both arms, left elbow, left thumb, right wrist, and both legs. I found out much later, when I was liberated from PoW camp and sent to a hospital in France, that I have an unattached fracture of the left ulner. I still have about 17 pieces of shrapnel in my right wrist and arm. The crew pulled my friend Al from the ball turret, put a chute on him, pulled the cord and threw him out of the plane. I was lying in the back trying to get my self together. The plane was on fire around the wings and gas tanks. She could blow up at any moment. I guess my pilot and co-pilot did not realize I was still in the tail with all the smoke and fire. There is a small door in the rear of the B17 with just enough room to bail out. I could see both hands and arms were bleeding. It didn't dawn on me that the parachute that was hanging by one buckle might have been hit and maybe had holes in it. Later on I wondered why, in the position that I was in, on my knees that I was hit in my arms and legs, and not my face or my head like my friend Al. I guess it still wasn't my time. I crawled over to the backdoor, got it open, said the Shema (Jewish prayer) and went out. Both arms hurt and I had a tough time pulling the rip cord. It seemed like it took forever, but I am sure it was only seconds. When the chute opened, I looked for enemy planes. They were known to use bailed out crew for target practice.
I wanted to be as far away as possible from the target area knowing what could await me. I pulled the lines of the parachute to guide me so I wouldn't fall into a lake. I looked for places to land where I could hide, but there were none. I landed in an open field in the early afternoon. I could see some people in the distance running towards me. I had a 45 caliber gun with me, but I couldn't use it. I had no strength in either hand. And I couldn't run very far. I buried the gun quickly. I also had a picture of myself in civilian clothes that the air corps had given me to use in case I escaped. However, if I got picked up, they would nab me as a spy. I buried that too in the ground. To me, the man who put a rifle to my head looked like a farmer. I though that was it. I had had it. It's funny. I never feared death, but I did fear being wounded or hurt. Here I was, a young Jewish kid, spunky. I would not take off my mezuzzah. If I was going to die, I was going to die with it on me. I thought maybe it would put me in good, upstairs. Other people came. They marched me through the farm town. They cursed at me and threw stones at me. Why not? I was their enemy. We were slowly destroying the German nation. An officer took over. With the little German I knew, I said, I want to speak with the German Luftwaffe. They took me into an office. It must've been a medic's office. He saw my bleeding right wrist. He put a tongue depressor on it and wrapped some paper cloth around it. He then sent me on my way with my guard. I was taken either to a local police station or a local army base. It was hard for me to tell, except that my interrogators were wearing the SS symbol on their jackets. The questioning began. They took my fleece lined boots away, my watch, and my mezzuzah. I understood part of what they were saying. Every once in a while the head honcho would speak to me in English. I gave them my name, rank, and serial number. Reminded them about the Geneva Convention and told them how we treated German PoW's in the USA. This I remembered. They ate and lived as well as we did, especially in Florida. They questioned me about the planes black box. I wouldn't answer, except name, rank, and serial number. They offered me a glass of water. They laughed at me when I spat it out. It was hot and tasted horrible. What it actually was, I don't know. They started pushing me around. I was getting mad, not scared. It should've been the other way around. They asked me if I knew how many Germans were in the US Armed Forces. They got really mad when I said 3,000,000 - all Americans! I was led to my cell, a 4x8 box. To one side was a small table with a contraption that looked like a head rest half way down. I was forced to lie on it. Either my legs hung down or my back would be on it. I felt tortured either way. They continued with their questioning. They also wanted to know which base I was stationed at, my squadron number, and other things. I wouldn't tell them. I wouldn't call it bravery, I would call it stubbornness. It didn't matter to me. No way was I going to tell them anything. To this day I still don't know how I didn't crack. Maybe it was because I was ready to die then. I was taken down to a dungeon. It was cold. You sat there, not speaking. There were other people down there as well. They would bring me back up for more questioning. They tried to break me. They wouldn't let me go to the bathroom for hours. After a while I just used the corner of the cell. I believe I was kept there for seven days. They kept at it the whole time. We started to hear shelling. It was getting closer. I was brought into the office one day. I remember asking one of the Germans to treat my wounds. The answer was Nein - no. They then introduced me to a German soldier who I could see was disabled. His job was to take me to a prison camp, Stalag Luft (?) on the Western front. I felt if I could escape, I might make it to the Russian lines. We looked at each other. When we went out he said to me in half English, half German, that for the two of us the war was over. He said Kaput.
We got on a train and rode for a day or so. He carried a briefcase To me, it looked like everyone in Europe carried a briefcase. What was in it was some black bread and liverwurst. He shared it with me. He saw that I looked pretty bad. We got off the train and started walking. We stopped at a house and he knocked on the door. I was startled to see a nun. He spoke to her in German and left. She took me inside and I saw that it was set up as a hospital. The nun took my clothes and gave me pajamas. She then took me to see someone who I believe was a doctor. He cleaned my wounds, dressed them, and off I went to a real bed. When I awoke I saw there were about 6 or 7 Allied PoWs in this hospital, all being treated for wounds. Some of them were very badly wounded and in poor shape. They fed me. I was very, very tired. About the third day there one of the sisters came in to see me. She was all apologies. I would have to leave. From what I gathered the doctor found out I was Jewish and didn't want me there. I figured all the German doctors were part of the war effort including those in concentration camps. I guess they forgot what their oath required of them. The soldier who brought me there came for me. I found out he was also a sargent. We were on the road again. At one station we stopped for a while. I saw a group of English soldiers who were dressed spiffily. They were shaven, clean, in uniforms with knapsacks. They saw me and came over. They had been PoW's for four years or more, some since Dunkirk. They seemed to be able to take care of themselves. They were being moved to another PoW camp. They acted very independent. It was as if they were running the show. They removed my bloody, dirty bandages. The Brits apologized for not having the proper equipment to take care of me. They cleaned my wounds as best they could. One of them, a medic, told me that it appeared that my right hand had been broken. He used a stick and some bandages to make a splint and keep it straight. They gave me something to eat, which I shared in turn with my so called guard. What a sorry looking pair we made. They gave me a pack of English cigarettes and told me it was better than money for trading. I thanked them and blessed them, and my guard and I left. We got on our train. Several times during our sojourn we had to run off the train as we were being strafed by Allied planes. I had mixed feelings about this - happy if it meant we were winning, and scared that we could all be blown up. From my guards briefcase we ate black bread and knockwurst. I found out how valuable those cigarettes were. He and I smoked a couple each and then stopped. We found out how valuable they could be and how much more useful they were if they didn't go up in smoke. Once when we stopped, he went by himself to a farmhouse. He wasn't worried about me running away. Not In my condition. I gave him 3 cigarettes to trade. He came back with bread, knockwurst and a bottle of Elderberry wine! And - he gave me one cigarette back! I guess we made our own little party. In broken English and some German, we talked about our families and hopes for the future, and our shared hope that the end of the war was coming soon. Dear reader, what I am writing now I had buried for 46 years. These memories came crashing back after my car accident. War dreams kept coming up. Flashbacks. And the one night, out of a disturbed sleep, they came back hard. I have found myself very disturbed by the hostage situation in Iran and then in Lebanon. I usually turn off the TV or leave the room. I don't see war movies. I try to avoid any thing that shows torture or captivity to this day.
One night, I remember our train pulling into a station in what looked like an industrial area. There were factories, warehouses, tanker cars, loads of stuff. There was a bar with food up ahead. My guard advised me to stay behind in the shadows near the train. He would get us some food and return. He told me the area had been bombed recently with many casualties. He was concerned that if I was seen, I could get hurt. I waited for him to come back. I stayed close to the train. I could see the railyard workers eating and drinking. Two of them left the bar together. hey looked and acted as though they had had quite a lot to drink. This proved to be fortunate for me. When they came close to where I was standing they saw me and came closer. They spoke to me in German. I could see that they were both carrying either a bar, a wrench, or some kind of pipe. It was dark and I was sure of what would happen. What I was certain of was that they were hollering at me in German something like Terror Fleiger, or terror flyer. They came at me. I saw a shovel and grabbed it. I don't know who was more wobbly, them as drunks, or injured me. I do not know how to put this into words exactly. I am a religious person with a moral code. It doesn't make me any better than anyone else. Bombing runs I understood. We were at war. I had visited Coventry, a city of churches bombed out by the Germans. I saw London and other cities, and seen the people, especially the children, who had lost their lives or were badly hurt in the bombings. I didn't think I could take another life. But that night, I believe I did. With all the strength I could muster I hit the first one smack on the side of the head with the shovel. I believe I cracked his skull. He was bleeding badly. I hit the second one in the neck with the sharp end of the shovel. He went down, also bloody. I dragged them, one at a time, to a ditch near the train and rolled them into it. I was breathing so hard and fast. I felt dizzy. I held onto the side of the train. I was in such pain, especially my arms and hands. I was afraid someone else had seen me or would see me and come over to investigate, or worse. The guard finally came back. I couldn't wait for his return and yet I knew if he had come sooner he would've seen me and seen what I had done. Go ahead, count the odds. Which way does a life swing? I didn't care anymore. The train pulled out after a couple of hours. The whole time I was afraid that someone would find the bodies. The guard saw that I was nervous and sweaty. He offered me some food, but I was unable to eat. The more miles the train put between here and there, the better I felt. I believe it took several more days to get to my first prison camp, Dulag Luft 12. Guards, barbed wire, dogs, and warehouses for the prisoners. No beds. The rooms were so overcrowded. Find yourself a foot of open floor and fall down. I heard the International Red Cross would get a package of food in to the camp once in a while, but not often. Dysentery was running wild in our camp. There was no medical attention. No sanitary facilities. Still someone had a pair of dice and even in a PoW camp you could gamble. Not with money, but with cigarettes. I still had half a pack left from the Brits. With them I won close to 100 cigarettes. You would have to see the color of these smokes, as well as their condition, to believe how desperate we all were that they were acceptable to gamble or trade. But they could get me some food, so I traded them. In the mornings the guards had a game they would play. They would come in and holler Arous mit heir - Get Out, and then they would send their dogs in. What a game. Some of us would get nipped by the dogs. I started to learn the ropes. You lived like an animal with no dignity. We were all of us with something or other. I was given PW #11539. Some Red Cross food packages started coming in. Not much, but better than nothing. We were given a half loaf of black bread covered with saw dust. Preservative, we were told. Someone said the bread was 27% sawdust, but who cared? It was something to eat. There was also rancid Canadian butter and a can of banana powder. I no longer remember what else there was. I remember trading my banana powder for a can of meat. Each camp enclosure had a different national group. We were American. On the other side of the fence were Muslim Indians. So we traded. They could not eat spam, so they would throw their cans over the fence. We, in turn, would toss our cans of banana powder over to them. The guards let us. However, what we needed most was medical attention. As I said before many of us had chronic dysentery. Our feet began to bleed as the skin between our toes cracked. Some of us truly were the walking wounded. I met someone in PoW camp who lived four blocks from me in New York City. We had never seen each other before while we were growing up. I never saw him again after we were liberated. But while we were in camp we hit it off. We helped each other, especially as I had the coin of the realm - cigarettes.
I believe we had been in this camp for several weeks when orders came through for us to prepare to move to another camp. This camp was Stalag 7A near Moosberg, Germany. Unless I am mistaken, the camp was not far from Austria. The weather was miserable. We made the first part of the trip in box cars. We were piled in like cattle. If you had to go to the bathroom - too bad. Either you slid the door open, held it in until you were ready to explode, or just did it in your pants. It truly was dehumanizing. Many times while we were rolling we would hear machine gun fire. It was our own planes. They had no idea we were in the box cars as we were between flat cars with tanks on them or with troops in the other cars. Finally we had to jump out and run and hope it wasn't your time to die. Some of us were hit, some were killed. The train could go no further as the tracks had been bombed. We now had to march, walk, or drag ourselves along the road until we reached our destination. We had rain and snow. We were wet, tired, and sick. At night we slept in the woods. Early in the morning we would build little fires and ate from whatever we had left. We would watch as displaced persons and slave laborers were marched down the road to wherever they were going to be put to work or to die. Even in these terrible times there is humor. Using empty cans from our rations we would get water from snow melt or if we were near a farm, use their water pump and then melt and boil the water over our fires in order to get something hot to drink. My guy I met in the camp from New York became my buddy. We shared whatever we had. I told him one morning that I would boil water and start cooking whatever we had. I told him to go to the farm across the road with the two cigarettes I gave him and to trade them for eggs. There were slave laborers working there, many of them women. I waited and waited. He finally came out of the barn, smiling and pulling his zipper up. I asked him for the eggs. He started giving me an explanation that he had made a circle with his fingers to one of the women and showed her two cigarettes, saying eggs, eggs. She nodded yes. I guess she misunderstood me he said, cause eggs were not what I got. I picked up a stick, so mad, and chased him. Everyone around us laughed thinking it was so funny. Later, I did too. But not then. I was hungry. I never forget that when we were in PoW camp at night we would talk about food constantly. How, when we were freed, we would get a chicken, stuff it with bread and chocolate, we would eat this and that and drink and eat and eat and drink. Whenever someone mentioned sex we all laughed. Food was still the stronger desire.
We were ordered to march again. We marched all day. In between the large groups of PoW's the Germans would position their tanks, armored personnel carriers, and troops. Sometimes our planes knew we were PoW's, especially since we made PoW signs in the snow. Sometimes they would go after the tanks and troops that were dispersed among us. The Germans were using us as shields. Some of us made it, some didn't. We were still walking one night to make up time for the day's events. My left thumb was swelling badly from the shrapnel inside it. We had no doctors or facilities, but one of the other PoWs was a medic. He told me that my whole arm was swelling and that if something wasn't done to relieve it I would lose the arm. All he had was a single edge razor. He sterilized it over a little fire. With some of the other men holding me down, he cut into the thumb, drained it as best he could, and wrapped it up in a rag he had, I could feel the pulsations all night and day, but the swelling in my arm was indeed going down. Finally, after so many days, we made Stalag 7A. This was a better run camp. When we arrived we were questioned by our own men. The Germans let us run this camp, under their jurisdiction. We were wounded, and we had still had dysentery along with many other ailments. This camp had a small clinic. The International Red Cross had gotten some supplies to them, including clean bandages and medicine for dysentery. It wasn't all that much help, but it was better than what we had before. All food packages went into a common pool. We had a kitchen. Food would be cooked and shared. Believe it or not, we got musical instruments and shoe polish. A small band was formed. And plays were put on. It picked up everyone's spirits, even when we sang, I'll be Home for Christmas. There was mail and there were tragedies. Someone who had been in PoW camp for three years got a Dear John letter. He wanted to die. He jumped over the camp fence in broad daylight so that the guards would shoot him. We must've been near a target area. One bombing run was so close our camp got hit. Some of us were so sick and weak at this point that we could hardly move. Like others, I was in pretty bad condition. Rumors were running rampant. The war was almost over. We would soon be liberated.
On 29th of May 1945, the guards suddenly disappeared. We knew something was up. We didn't know what. Hitler had given orders to shoot all the Terror Flyers. We didn't know if we were going to be killed or freed. It was so very quiet in the camp and then there was a lot of yelling. Tanks had entered our compound. American tanks. They took us out of there, gave us food and took us into the town. Some of us stayed in a warehouse that had shelves that could be put into service as beds. The next day they flew the wounded to a hospital in France. I was fed ground chicken several times a day. My wounds were cleaned and dressed. They packed and cleaned in between my toes, treating them with medicine to stop the bleeding and to help facilitate healing. At the time I was shot down I weighed about 190 pounds. All of us were muscular. Our group had been the volleyball champs. I was in great shape. When I was weighed at the hospital I came in at 143 pounds. I would not have lasted much longer in the condition I was in. They kept me in the hospital for 5 weeks and then shipped me home on the hospital ship, SS Admiral Benson. When I finally arrived back in New York I found out my mother had had a stroke when she heard the reports that the Germans intended to kill all PoWs who were flyers. This left her permanently partially paralyzed.
There is a lot more to tell after this, but you wanted my history of the war. I have tried to tell as much as I could remember. Other things I'd rather forget. I've written this as it poured out of me. No corrections, no going back. Some of the time elements might be off, but it is the best I remember. At times when its pouring out you don't want to stop writing. You are afraid you'll forget something. Everything I've told is as it happened, nothing added. Probably some left out.
Leon Nahmias

Victor Nahmias

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Roy L. Chancellor 369th Sqdn. 306th

My uncle, Roy L. Chancellor, died on 1st January 1945 returning from a bombing run over Germany. The aircraft went down over the North Sea. The exact cause of the loss was never known. His pilot was 1st Lt Robert D. Stewart.

E Neal Chancellor

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369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF

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369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF
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The Wartime Memories Project - 369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF during the Second World War -

369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF

Logbooks

Those known to have served with 369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF during the Second World War 1939-1945.

The Wartime Memories Project is the original WW1 and WW2 commemoration website.

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Recomended Reading.

Links

The Wartime Memories Project
- 369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF during the Second World War -

Those known to have served with
369th Bomb Squadron, USAAF
during the Second World War 1939-1945.