Bittersweet Recollections
by Art Rawlings (778) — as told to Elise Rawlings
Page 4
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At this time they searched me, took my .45 along with
a combat knife. When they requested my gun I spun it, causing it to come all apart. This
caused me more abuse and a trip to solitary confinement for several days. There, they
strapped my ankle with a steel bracelet about 4 inches wide and chained me to a post.
These men were very hostile. Their weapons were starvation, deliberate cruelty, indignation
and mind games to demoralize me, causing my spirit to drop to rock bottom.
From there I was taken on a boxcar ride to a German
air base where I was placed in solitary confinement again, for approximately one week.
I was sent to Nurenberg on another boxcar. This one was filled with prisoners; Americans,
French and English.
On the third day I discovered two of my aircrew had
been captured and boarded the same boxcar I was on; Walter Campen and Karl Becker.
The three of us stayed together and were put in a cell together where we remained for 4
weeks. Our only sustenance during that time was one slice of dark bread and water each
day.
We left Nurenberg on a forced march to Moosberg Stalag
7 A. We were with a long column of other prisoners and were kept under guard. We would
walk during the day and bed down on the ground at night. On the march the German troops
herded us along, issuing neither food nor water. The sick and wounded, if too weak to
walk, were killed and left where they had fallen. The same happened to those who attempted
to escape. The POW's existence was largely one of constant hunger and intermittent
bouts of illness, disease and pure misery. I don't recall how long the march actually took.
All I remember is being hungry and my feet hurting, they had been frostbitten earlier and
the toenails were infected and came off leaving my toes in a bloody watery mass.
I was afraid to take my shoes off for fear they would
be stolen even though the soles were worn thin as paper. I made up my mind that regardless
of my feet hurting I would not give up. There were many men that did not have shoes and
their feet were bloody and raw.
One night, on the forced march from Nurenburg to
Moosberg, our column stopped at a farm and someone grabbed a chicken. That chicken
was passed around from one person to another to keep the German guard from guessing
where the chicken was located. Finally he gave up, the chicken was plucked, and feathers
were in everyones pocket. After a fashion a fire was started and that chicken was roasted.
I remember getting a chance to suck on a bone being passed around. Were we ever hungry!!!
At Stalag 7 A there was about 30,000 prisoners (the
barracks were full) and there was no place for Walter, Karl and myself to sleep. We dug
a hole under the barracks where the three of us would sleep. The Germans issued us
one blanket each. We huddled together for warmth but Karl would invariably fart and then
we had to fan the covers or sufficate. Our menu consisted of watered down potato soup
and one slice of black bread and water to drink. There was no water for washing and we
did not have a bath or clean clothes. The latrine didn't have any running water. A very
large round concrete pipe sticking out of the ground was our commode. Deplorable conditions.
Filth was everywhere.
We had been at Stalag 7 A awhile before we started
receiving parcels from the Red Cross. The Germans refused their soup that we had been
getting or anything else to eat when these parcels started arriving. The Germans punctured
the cans of tuna and sardines, etc. The reason for this was if an escape was planned there
would be nothing stored up to eat. Therefore, we had to eat the punctured cans of food
before they could spoil.
During the day everyone walked around trying to find twigs,
or anything else that would burn. It was so very cold, our hands and feet relished the
warmth. We had nothing to do except walk around the barbed wire and razor wire complex.
Past time was spent talking and dreaming of home, family and friends and food. Every
day was a sad day, not knowing, crying a lot.
Our bodies were rank with odor and our hair stank. The
head lice and skin disease was rampant. Bugs were thick and of every kind. We never
knew the day of the week, month, time of day or heard any outside news. We lost track
of time. I had no means of recording a journal of happenings of daily activities since we
were not allowed pencil or paper.
Feeling sorry for ourselves was a given and most of us
were guilty of that. We tried to escape twice. The first time we found a rake and two shovels
and walked up to the guard at the gate. He opened it and we walked out, started raking
the rocks and shoveling a little at a time and kept getting farther away until we were out
of sight. The farther away we got the faster we walked. Alas, about four hours later the
guards with dogs came after us and took us back to camp. They slapped us around
and denied us anything to eat for several days.
Our second attempt to escape happened when the three
of us found a wheelbarrow and a shovel. Again, we got out of the gate, I was pushing
the wheelbarrow. We were free for many hours but the Germans caught us, we were
brought back and I was chained, like a hog, with leg irons in the middle of the compound.
The Germans asked who was responsible for getting the wheelbarrow. I was. The other
two said they just took a walk with me. The Germans strapped me down on the left ankle.
I was out there day and night for several days. To this day, I still have the scars on my
left ankle from being manacled. The skin is discolored and is still painful.
Many days I still think of the hardships that occurred
and I thank God that I kept my trust and prayed that everything would be righted. Sometimes
there was momentary loss of hope but never did I think about giving up.
Remembering home and loved ones took its toll. I
worried about being shot or beat to death.
The weather was always cold, sometimes raining and snowing.
I don't remember any warm days at all. The Germans took my heavy flying pants and
jacket and left me with only a thin threadbare jacket and green flying suit, and no hat.
What a glorious day it was when George Patton's Third
Army liberated the camp during the middle of May 1945. He drove in on a tank knocking
the compound fence down, several other tanks followed. They were there for 3-4 hours.
The German guards were given a chance to surrender.
I asked the advance weapons carrier where he was
getting supplies and he told me from an airfield some distance away. He gave the three
of us a ride to this airfield and we were granted permission from the pilot to fly back to
LaHarve, France. On the way he radioed the MP's and Karl, Walter and myself were taken
to Camp Lucky Strike in LaHarve. There we were treated to a complete physical and
debriefing.
I normally weighed 185-190 pounds but when I arrived
at LaHarve my weight had dropped to 96 pounds. I made a great skeleton with skin! The
camp had a large tent set up for bathing and we took off all of our clothes that we had
worn for the past months. But, first, we were sprayed all over for lice and other skin
defects, then we were allowed to bathe. The camp had personnel in the tent primarily
to assist the ex-POW's to clean up. They scrubbed our backs and feet, gave us shaves
and haircuts. It was wonderful!
Then we were given new khaki clothes and new shoes.
Due to my weight loss I was put on a diet of strained baby food for 3-4 weeks before my
stomach would tolerate food. I slowly gained some weight and strength back and left
LaHarve and flew back to the States.
I was given a 60 day delay enroute from Ft. Oglethorpe,
Georgia to go home. It was sure a pleasure to see my United States again as I boarded
a Greyhound bus from Georgia to Nashville. I took another bus to our lane in my hometown
of Joelton.
My parents did not know I was back in the states. They
did not have a telephone. When I walked in the house, my mother was overcome with
joy. She had received, in the course of my overseas tour of duty, two telegrams saying
that I was missing in action.
Dad, mother, sisters, granddad were all crying with happiness.
After awhile I told my mother that I was hungry and I remember vividly ordering four scrambled
eggs, a large slice of country ham with red eye gravy, 4-5 hot homemade biscuits with
molasses and butter and a large glass of fresh milk, which I consumed with gusto. What
a joy to be home!
I have tried my best to remember these events as they
had happened.
Many years have elapsed. Total recall is not easy after
all of these years. Many of the former POW's have been motivated to relate their wartime
experiences. Their stories are interesting and tragic and extremely valuable. I have been
besieged by many asking that I undertake the effort to put my story of the "fascinating"
tale of my role in World War 11 in the European Theatre of War in writing. I find nothing
"fascinating" about my experiences in the war, and, still, after 64 years find
myself reliving some incidents, mostly the horrors. The scars of the leg iron is still very
visable, my frostbitten feet, both my leg and feet pain me still. But, I thank my God daily
for my freedom, at last, from the beatings, starvation, pains of hunger and sickness,
mental and physical torture, degradation, monstrous conditions in the Stalag, the cold,
solid ground for a bed, intense questioning, solitary confinement, sadness and despair.
I wonder now how I endured the inhuman conditions under which I was forced to live.
I never eat a meal without reflecting back on those
days when I had no meal. During the early years I was awakened with nightmares. Now,
not a night passes that I don't feel the pain in my leg from the shackles of the iron strap
and from the results of frozen feet. How do you wipe away the sad, painful memories of
the past? And erasing the emotional trauma would take longer to achieve. Even then,
somehow, there will always be some permanent residual emotional scars throughout our
life times.
I salute every veteran in America, for without their
sacrifices we would not have our freedom. We, all veterans, paid dearly for it and I thank
God for that freedom and for every veteran.
Arthur L. Rawlings, Jr.
email: emyalr@aol.com
< < Back Back to Our War Stories.
Published with the permission of Art Rawlings, Jr., (464th, 778).
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![[Graphic] Snapshots from the 464th Bombardment Group.](../images/flagd.jpg)