Guest of an Ally

Anthony J. Leone

Description

Shot down near Dresden, the author became a "guest" of the Russians.

Sujets

• HISTORY
• Histoire
• Primera Guerra Mundial
• Fuerza Aérea de los Estados Unidos
• Anthony Leone
• World War I
• List of surviving veterans of World War I
• Military
• History of Russia
• Dresden
• United States Air Force
• Première Guerre mondiale

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 15 juin 1993
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781681621401
• Langue: English

Extrait

TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY
TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY
The Front Line of Military History Books
Copyright 1994 Anthony J. Leone
Publishing rights Turner Publishing Company
All rights reserved.
Author: Anthony J. Leone
Turner Publishing Company s Staff:
Assistant Editor: Erik Parrent
Cover Design: Luke Henry
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced without the written consent of the Publisher.
Library of Congress
Catalog Card No. 93-060252
ISBN: 978-1-56311-108-2
Limited Edition
Cover photo: Painting by Colonel Albert Milliken .
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1 - The End
Chapter 2 - The Beginning
Chapter 3 - Preparation
Chapter 4 - Hard Stand to Airborne
Chapter 5 - Flight to Target
Chapter 6 - Truth Will Out
Chapter 7 - The Invitation
Chapter 8 - Reunion at the Bunk House
Chapter 9 - The Invasion of Poland
Chapter 10 - Surrender
Chapter 11 - The Good and the Bad
Chapter 12 - House of Ill Fame and Assignation
Chapter 13 - Befriended by Actions
Chapter 14 - Infamy: The Death of a City
Chapter 15 - Be Our Guest
Chapter 16 - Misplaced Displaced Persons
Chapter 17 - Join the Club
Chapter 18 - The Interlopers
Chapter 19 - Four Eight
Chapter 20 - Our Gypsy Encounter
Chapter 21 - Confinement
Chapter 22 - Seductive Encounters
Chapter 23 - Confrontation
Chapter 24 - Tarzan of the Apes
Chapter 25 - Blackmarket, Blackmail
Chapter 26 - Ersatz
Chapter 27 - The Jolly Russian Giant
Chapter 28 - Love Me
Chapter 29 - Lover s Disappointments
Chapter 30 - Guided Tour
Chapter 31 - Thanks for Nothing
Chapter 32 - Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
Chapter 33 - Seeing is Believing
Chapter 34 - Men? No, Horses
Chapter 35 - Side Show
Chapter 36 - Personal War
Chapter 37 - Made in U.S.A.
Chapter 38 - Survival
Chapter 39 - Continued Survival
Chapter 40 - Rebeldom
Chapter 41 - Expressless Express
Chapter 42 - Murderous Desperation
Chapter 43 - Vindictive Justice
Chapter 44 - Didn t See, Didn t Hear, Don t Tell
Chapter 45 - Cruise
Chapter 46 - Enemy Victory
Chapter 47 - Reward Without Recognition
Chapter 48 - National Security
Chapter 49 - The End - A New Beginning
About the Author
GUEST OF AN ALLY
ANTHONY J. LEONE
DEDICATION
To Colonel Joseph A. Moller for his undying devotion and being a cornerstone in the building of comradeship within the 390th Bomb Group during war and peace. Also to his wife, Dorothy, for her forever living generosity and Moller s Hangar Party.
To Colonel Albert Milliken whose painting adorns the dust-jacket of Guest of an Ally
And to my family and all the families whose prayers instilled faith in the living and blessed repose for the dead.
INTRODUCTION
The feasibility of non politically aligned nations co-existing is or seems to be a matter of conjecture of politically minded men. The situation which is most prevalent, and most advantageous to the politician, dictates his policy. Past experiences of fact, not fiction appear to have absolutely no bearing on his thinking, or presentation of such to the people. Broken promises, insulting and degrading press releases are to be ignored by the people, and we are to believe that they are not the thinking of our leaders.
It is apparent that all discussions are between the high echelon of diplomats, and the matters discussed are presented in a tongue-in-cheek atmosphere of congeniality. This is expected and accepted, for even the devil smiles as he peddles his wares. Therefore we are obliged to accept facts that were obtained under prepared conditions, ideal to the situation, and rose colored to the receiver.
The facts presented in the ensuing story were not prepared or rehearsed, but were obtained under what should have been the most compatible conditions, allies in a mutual cause, not diplomats fencing for political ambitions.
This is a story of non appointed, or elected diplomats, who found themselves representing, and presenting our way of life, as guests of an ally.
CHAPTER 1 - THE END
I felt silly sitting there in my sad sack fitting uniform, without one insignia of rank of assignment. The clothes I wore represented my entire military wardrobe, allotted to me on my return from Russia. It seemed that the custom fitted uniforms worn by airmen were automatically inherited by the survivors of a mission.
They sat and stared, made idle conversation, asking repeatedly, How do you feel? Do you want something to eat?
With long periods of silence between questions, I groped for a way to break the tension. I beckoned to my wife of one month (two years before) to my side, only to find that the tension that filled the room was more apparent in her. The sign above the door, Welcome Home, produced no great revelry.
My mother-in-law announced dinner was ready and we moved with almost funeral speed to the dining room. The dinner was excellent, although any home cooked meal would be a welcome change. I had the feeling that I was the stranger who came to dinner. The conversation remained sporadic, and the words uttered were carefully chosen. My bewildered and questioning looks must have been obvious, and the uneasiness that prevailed remained apparent.
Suddenly, in the loud booming voice he possessed, my father-in-law said, What the hell, are you going to sit around here forever like a bunch of ghouls, treating this poor kid like he s some kind of sick freak? Now that he is here safe and sound, I don t know about you, but I m anxious to hear what the hell happened to him.
I had to laugh when it dawned on me what was happening. They were afraid to ask me about my experiences. It seemed that the papers played up the returning veterans as possible neurotics to be treated with kid gloves. I explained to them that it didn t bother me to talk about my experiences, but that on my first day home, I would rather drink in some home life, and thinking, as I looked at my wife, some married life.
The rest of the day was spent more relaxed, consuming good food, and enjoying informative conversation. Friends and relatives dropped in and out all evening, and although I was pleased and honored by their concern for me, I was wishing away the hours with great anticipation as I gently squeezed my wife s hand, causing a crimson shade to appear in her cheeks, with the feeling that everyone in the room was reading my mind.
The next few days were spent reacquainting myself with friends and relatives, visiting old haunts, demilitarizing myself in general. Running into friends who had returned from the wars, and noticing their complete disinterest in having you relate your experiences or discussing their own, made the task of forgetting and readjusting so much easier. This was not the case of non vets or servicemen who didn t see combat. They seemed obligated to heap praise upon you, either for honest concern or as conscience cleansing, but you made yourself believe that it was sincere curiosity. At home with relatives, you knew it was a pride that they could only share if they knew the facts, and I possessed the facts.
It was the sound of the mailman dropping the lid on the mailbox that awoke me from a nap, and the sound of the door bell that bolted me upright.
I greeted the mailman with, Good morning, and he responded with, Welcome home, as he handed me the mail.
Although I didn t expect any mail addressed to me personally, I unconsciously looked through it. A postcard caught my eye, and realizing its origin, I laughed aloud, more in disbelief than joy. My exclamation brought the rest of the household to my side, from sheer curiosity or concern for my hysterical behavior. Reading it over and over to myself, and shaking my head in disbelief, only encouraged those about me to prod me for an explanation.
What is it? What is it? they all asked in one voice.
I ll be dammed, I ll be dammed, was all I could say, as I examined the postcard from every angle.
I was holding a card that was smuggled out of Russia, informing my wife that I was safe and sound. It wasn t the information that it possessed which caused my anxiety, but the fact that it arrived at all, in perfect condition.
Explaining to those around me what the card represented was telling the end before the beginning. Here I was holding a piece of evidence which had completely evaded my memory, and just as quickly jogged my memory back to the past, when I was the guest of an ally...
CHAPTER 2 - THE BEGINNING
It was cold, crisp, and dark, very dark. The darkness of war is a deep void punctuated by unidentifiable voices, and flashing fingers of light searching for obstacles. Otherwise one becomes a non-combat casualty.
I had checked crew assignments for next day s flight before going to dinner, and my crew was listed to fly. With this in mind, I made an early departure from the non-com s club, and flashlighted my way towards my quonset hut. I can t explain why I detoured to the administration building, which seemed automatic when you were assigned to fly the next day. As I approached the administration building, I could see fingers of light searching out the pennant atop the flag pole which signified by color mission on, standby, or scrubbed. I always found myself with mixed emotions as to what pennant I hoped was flying. I knew as everyone else knew, that each mission completed was one closer to home, but we also knew that each one we didn t fly, was one less chance of becoming a statistic. The mission was on.
The usual sounds, strains of mingled selections of music, undistinguishable voices, could be heard as I entered my squadron area. The voices of self-acclaimed Carusos were heard as I passed the cinder block building that housed all the lavatory facilities, and there were sounds that proved this a man s world, for no barrier existed to afford a man his privacy.
Although the wattage of light that struck me as I entered my quonset hut didn t challenge a cloudy day, it warranted an optical