Ken Birch
World War Two Experience (1998)

I was born on a Montana ranch and reared on an Iowa farm. I graduated from Marcus, Iowa, high school in 1937 when the Depression was still present, and work was difficult to find. My desire was to continue education so, in search of employment, worked on a farm in Iowa, a Montana ranch two seasons, and by 1940 was in Chicago working in room service of a first-class hotel. I left Chicago with enough funds for a year at the University of Minnesota but family financial needs terminated this by midterm.
In 1941, I was enrolled at Long Beach City College, Long Beach, California, but the Draft Board refused to let me finish my year. I had a hernia operation and then joined the Army in April of 1942 and shipped to 301st Ordinance Regiment, Camp Sutton, North Carolina. I tested and passed Cadets for the Army Air Corp in September 1942. After failing the color vision recheck at Nashville, I elected to stay in the Air Corp and was sent to Gunnery and Radio school. In 1944, I joined a B-17 bomber crew. After overseas training, I went to the 91st Bomb Group, 322nd Squadron, at Bassingbourn, England.
I flew my first mission a week after D-Day and I witnessed my friend's ship blow up from a flak hit on that first mission. After 13 missions, we checked out as squadron leader.
Sometime in September, our crew was the leader of the squadron, the group, and the 8th Air Force. The target is not important, as we were recalled because of weather deep in Germany. We had gone through the weather and ended up with only six ships to select a target of opportunity. We decided on a bridge near a small town. As I watched our bombs walk across the town, we were at only 22,000 feet and were an easy target for flak gunners. I first noticed an eight-inch round hole where my head had been only seconds before. I also saw that my ammunition had been cut in two and I was out of oxygen. I crawled forward, where I saw the waist gunner lying on his back with his foot blown off. I knelt beside him and took a couple of quick wiffs of oxygen from his walk-around bottle. I checked his injury and he had been taken care of, for the moment.
The engineer then asked for help with the radioman. I was lifting him under his shoulder when the engineer just walked away. I tried lifting him alone, thinking he was an anoxia case. My left hand reached down to lift and, through my gloves, I felt a warm slippery hold. I looked down and he was disemboweled.
Next, the engineer asked for help again. Our wheels had come down from flak damage and needed to be brought up, as down wheels were a signal of surrender in the air. He, on one side of the bomb bay and I, on the other, cranked the wheels up while we were spread across the bomb bay with doors open. We did this without having either oxygen or parachutes.
It took three months to repair that ship, and a totally new tail. The next mission for that plane would be on November 2, 1944.
I had an older brother in the 9th Infantry, 2nd Infantry Division, who was at St. Lo in the month of July, when we flew ground support for the breakout. Someone dropped short of the target line, injurying and killing many Americans. I demanded to know from my navigator if our target was achieved. I found my brother, whose wounds came after St. Lo, in a hospital not too far from Bassingbourn. I spent my days off with him and, later, he visited Bassingbourn several times. On October 31, 1944, we met in London for farewells, as he was returning to the front. Speaking without thought, I simply stated that I would not finish my missions. He tried to assure me otherwise. Going back to base that night, that thought totally consumed me. I checked the schedule board and we would be flying on November 2. I spent the entire night before dreaming of flying a horrible mission: I dreamt I was tied down in the plane by my ammunition (that had come out of the box) and I struggled and struggled before finally getting free and bailing out. Awakening, I did land on my feet beside my bed.
On our way to breakfast on the morning of November 2, 1944, I told each and all several times that we would be shot down on this mission. The radioman took stock of my remarks and took his .45 with him. I suggested that he not do so as a .45 is a poor joke when compared to a Lugar and just showing it could be costly.
We took off with maximum gas and bomb load and we were icing on takeoff. We had to sideslip to get by a small tree on the end of the runway. Our target was the Luna chemical plant at Merseberg, the most guarded target in Germany. This was my fourth time on this target. When we arrived at the IP, we went up one angel due to heavy flak on the target. We were the last group off the target and five minutes after target, an ME163 came vertically straight up just off my tail and went on to 35,000 to 40,000 feet, where he did acrobatics. This is a trick attention-getter used to divert attention away from an attack area.
Meanwhile, a company of 60 to 75 fighters, flying wingtip-to-wingtip about five deep closed in on our rear. I tried to put the information on intercom, but someone was jabbering on it and holding down on the button, so I could not talk. I then started firing both my machine guns. I had an ME109, who was at about eleven o'clock just high from level and he broke away and dove in a column of smoke. Now the man on the intercom was screaming, yelling, wanting to know what's what, but never let up on the button. I saw the red and pink burst of gunfire just out of my window. I could not communicate because of the screaming and holding down on the intercom button. The plane filled with smoke and I still could not communicate. I finally heard someone say "Stay with the ship. We are going home." Those were the last words I heard on the intercom.
The smoke cleared from the ship, and I returned to the fight. I hit another 109 at two o'clock, just high from level. He, too, dove into a column of black smoke. I tried the intercom and it was dead; my oxygen supply was zero. I decided I must go forward for oxygen. I got as far as the rear wheel well and saw nothing but fire ahead of me. I was out of breath and thought I had a kink in my oxygen mask and unhooked my right side (the farthest from the fire). I tried to return to my station and the plane went into a flat spin. All I could do was to hang on in a crouched position on the catwalk. The centrifical force finally let up. I salvoed my flak suit and attached my parachute. My door did not release, so I wrapped my arms around my chute and hit the flapping door with my head. I then did a number of sommersaults and when I finally looked up, I was close enough to a supercharger to touch it. The engine must have been dead, or the props would have hit me.
I was free-falling, my face hurt, and I did not know of the burn, but my flying helmet strap was beating against it. I looked down at my chest and my chute was not there! I thought I must have forgotten to put the pack on. I thought I had about three minutes to live. A horrible fear and near panic lasted for just one moment, and then I thought there was nothing I could do; I might as well enjoy the ride. I shoved the back of my flying cap up and it went up. I watched, and there was my chute pack. It had come detached from its tacking that held it in place on my chest. I hauled it in and discover I have put it on upside down. I dare not change it, remembering my helmet. I must remember that my chute is now for a left-hand pull. When I went through the clouds to about 1,800 feet, I pulled the ripcord and my boots came off. I hear machine gun fire, and I thought someone was firing from the ground. Everything looked blurred to me. When I looked to my right, a plane was coming directly at me, but missed just in front of me. There were two more on his tail, and they were the ones that were firing the machine guns. I saw the first plane dive into the ground. It had swastikas, so I knew it must be an ME109.
I landed in a frozen plowed field and soon discovered I had no hopes of hiding my chute. I injured my right ankle on landing. I ran to a drainage ditch about 100 yards off to my right, in the hope of getting to a forest area that had been to my rear. I ran up the six-foot ditch until I had to stop to catch my breathe. I looked up into two Lugers with two uniformed men commanding me to stop. I turned and ran down the ditch. Two shots rang out. I went back to my entry point and a farmer, who had been in pursuit, started running from me. He went back to my chute and stopped, and I did the same. The two Volkstrum with the pistols came up behind me and the older of the two searched me, saying "Pistol, pistol," as he went around me, patting my pockets. When he got behind me, I felt a terrific blow to the back of my head and had to take a couple of steps forward to keep my balance. I straightened up and he hit me again. I cursed at him and started for him. He started running, and I thought better of it. He and the farmer were arguing about who should take me as prisoner. The farmer had promised me first aid for my face. After being beaten, I decided he was a better bet. He took me to a big steel building that I had seen when I was hanging from my chute. He reached in a bin and brought out a handful of flour, which he threw in my face two or three times. He then turned me over to the engineer of a narrow-gauge railway, who took me to a village, where a young boy threw water in my face. They locked me in grain elevator office until three Luftwaffe officers picked me up and took me to Kothen Air Base, where I sat in a straight chair in front of 80 to 100 employees for 2-1/2 to 3 hours, as some kind of spectacle. I was in pain from my burned face, and it was dripping on my flying suit, which was impregnated with aluminum from the fire. I was then taken to the second floor of a brick building and, with my waist gunner, was told to take care of a United States Air Force lieutenant, who had the presence of mind to bring a first aid kit when he bailed out. But the Germans took all the anticeptics and antistetics, so I could do little. He had a hole in his forhead, such as a small calibre would make. His little finger on his left hand was gone, but his big problem was his entrails were exposed. He was conscious but could not, or would not, communicate. I was then taken to the holding cell in the basement of another building, where I met up with most of my crew. I got to lie down until 8:00 P.M., when I was taken to the basement of the previous building I was in, to get first aid for my face. A Russian girl wrapped my head, except for my left eye, with what looked like toilet paper. It took about an hour or more. All the time I was there, the lieutenant I had seen upstairs was lying on the floor on his back ahead of me. Evidentally he was now in considerable pain, from groans and moans, between which times the Germans were trying to interrogate him. He repeated only his name, rank and serial number. When they asked me to ask him, I told them he had done a good and proper job of giving all the information he needed to. Lieutenant March died in a few hours.
I received a pair of civilian shoes, which had no soles or heels, to last me "until I got to a permanent camp." On November 3, we entrained for Frankfurt and Dulog Luft for interrogation. Train rides were often interrupted by air raids or potential target areas. We arrived in Frankfurt just after a raid and marched to waiting street cars that took us to Dulog Luft. While there, I was confined to a 6 by 10 foot room with only a bed in it and, for most of the time, alone. When I refused to complete a "Red Cross" information sheet, I was told harshly that I could be shot. I heard a sound like a shot in the distance and the interrogator said, "See? There goes another of your comrades!" We then shipped to Stalag Luft 4 at Grottischow Pomerania, arriving late at night, and we were hurried and pushed up a road about a mile or more by guards and dogs. We were then strip searched. While they were trying to look under my bandage, which pained me, I raised my arm to my hip in response. A huge German guard standing behind me that I had not noticed slipped up behind me and hit me with his hand on my facial wound and again on the back of my neck. I was then assigned to a very crowded barracks. There were 13 of us in a 10 by 10 foot room. I slept on the floor under a table for my three-month stay at that camp. Red Cross parcels and packages from home were practically at a stand still, even for the older prisoners. Rations had been sharply cut, and newcomers were not welcomed by fellow Americans. My comrades suspected me as being a German plant because of my head bandage. Hence, I was somewhat isolated and openly referred to as "the goon." Goon is a German guard working for intelligence by evesdropping and censoring any activity among the prisoners.
Several times I tried to get new shoes from the American supply and the click said "No way." The click was a political entourage in this prison camp.
We evacuated Stalag 4 on February 6, 1945. On that day, I had my toilet-paper bandage removed and a doctor said I had some aluminum on my right eyeball. Whether it went in or came out would dictate my vision's fate.
Before the march, I tried again for shoes. I walked into the supply room unannounced and I saw three or more of my comrades cutting up brand new American Army shoes so they could make boots out of them, but they had none to give me. My shoes still had no soles or heels, and I wore them all the time I was a prisoner. The march lasted 86 days. I went 49 days without any food. I went without water for four days, and after one day of water, we had to go three more days without it. This caused most of my weight loss.
Cigarettes were the medium of exchange. I had none, but the old-time prisoners had ample stock. I sold my flying suit to an American who had been a prisoner about a year. He wanted to take home something that showed so much evidence of battle. In exchange, I got a British jacket, French pants, a summer flying suit that I wore as an undergarmet, and a real heavy German Navy blanket.
On the 13th of February, one week into the march, we started early and marched until after midnight or 1:00 in the morning. It was snowing, wet and cold. About dusk, the Germans set up a barrel of noodles and water soup that was lukewarm. You dipped your tin can into the barrel without stopping and consumed it on the go. I upchucked mine shortly after having it. We slept in an open field that had recently been harvested for its trees. We were very wet and cold. There was moaning and groaning all night long. Come morning, there was a young American at our (my partner and me) feet who had died during the night. It was a pitch dark night and, if someone called out, it mattered not. I spent many hours shuffling along looking at not much more than the feet ahead of me. At first, I felt every stone, before losing the feeling in my feet. I liked to dream of favorite foods, like steak, and could actually taste chicken in a cup of warm water. I accepted the fact that I could lose my feet to amputation, should I survive. Survival became a problem of reality as the end came near. We were told by our German comandant that he had orders to liquidate, and he was disobeying them. We had heard that rumor all along. Time and opportunity seemed to be the need to execute it. We were loaded on 40 and 8 cars, 80 to 100 per car, as several different times. At times, some said we went back in the direction we had just come from. Red Cross parcels never came during the march, except just before we were liberated. Our German ration of bread went to the prisoners who had stacks of cigarettes to buy them from the guards. They could purchase 1/12 of a loaf of bread for two packs of cigarettes. During the time we were off of water, I was fortunate to have a Cherokee Indian from Oklahoma give me some colorabies to suck on. This is a beet-like plant that resembles a sugar beet. I lost my combine partner about three weeks from the end. We had split up over lack of food. He tried to beg from fellow POWs and I chose to go without. He did not meet with much success. The last time I saw him, we had just gotten our only Red Cross parcel. He sat cross-legged over the parcel and refused to open it or eat it. Our group moved on to the last stop, where we were liberated by a British Scottish Highland Division. During this long trek, I had trouble with my feet and then I lost feeling. I also had a terrible back pain. I went to a British doctor. He told me he had only aspirin and he would not dare give me that. I remember trying to get up in the mornings when we would have to help each other, we were so stiff from lying in the damp, manure-laden straw or the cement floors. Many of my aches and pains I have today make the experience of those nights come to life.
We went to Luneberg upon being liberated, flew to Brussels, took the train to Camp Lucky Strike, France, and slept most of the time of the next two weeks before getting on a liberty ship for home.

Ken Birch - 1998