Posted on 11/11/2001 1:56:07 PM PST by Rightfield14
The first day Pioli spent with the veteran combat group, he saw the B-17s returning from a mission. It was then that the glamour and the thrill of combat faded. He learned about the custom of counting parachutes from a crippled plane. He also learned that some of the things he saw in the movies were more than a tired Hollywood cliche. Pioli also realized and resigned himself to the likelihood that he would not survive the war.
“The veteran crews paid little attention to us. Outside of the polite greetings, they wanted to avoid any close friendship,” said Pioli, “since one or the other of us was certain to go down sooner or later.”
The intelligence reports that were given to them before a mission were often erroneous. Pioli never believed them.
It took little time for the adventure-seeking young bombardier to become a jaded veteran who expected the anti-aircraft fire to be nothing like that described in their daily pre-flight briefings.
“The mission takeoff was both awe inspiring and frightening. It seemed as though every B-17 ever built was lined up, with engines revving," Pioli said. “Your actual takeoff was frightening when you thought of what would happen if a bomb laden B-17 would be so unfortunate to crash. You breathed a sigh of relief when you were safely airborne.”
The first mission that Pioli flew took him over Yugoslavia. He doesn’t really remember anything about the target, but he will never forget the fear. The smoke and fire of the anti-aircraft weapons marked the skies all around them. Now that they were under fire, the hours of training and the dreams of glamour seemed like they were part of another world. His hands fumbled miserably as he tried to feed in the bombing data. Despite his fear, he still managed to successfully drop his payload on the lead Bombardier’s target.
“After one mission, and almost overnight, I was a hardened veteran,” he said. “I was still perpetually scared, but now I seemed to accept it and keep it under control.”
Pioli came to accept the fact that there would be some losses in battle. He saw it as an “occupational hazard.” Yet he never became so callused that he stopped anxiously counting the parachutes coming from a spiraling B-17.
“If the count was less than ten, you felt great sorrow for those who had bought it and were going down with the ship," said Pioli, “and then the unwelcome guilty feeling of elation that you were still spared. I was totally spent and emotionally drained after each mission.”
The last mission that Pioli flew started so uneventfully, on a sunny April morning. Suddenly, the skies were filled with German fighters. The military’s official report on the mission said there were 20 to 30 ME109s attacking them. It seemed like several times that to the young bombardier. The B-17s gunners desperately tried to keep the enemy off of them. Their guns fired upon anything that pointed its nose in their direction.
“The plane began to fill with smoke,” said Pioli, “and the pilot spoke those fateful words: ‘We’re going down. Everybody get the hell out!’”
The crew’s navigator wasted no time in jumping from the plane, but the young Second Lieutenant had some difficulties. At first, he was unsuccessful getting out the door. He eventually jumped from the plane headfirst, which catapult the bombardier into a spin, tumbling head over heels. The violent force of the chute's opening immediately compounded the queasy feeling of airsickness in his stomach.
As he came down, he could make out a group of uniformed men below. He could also see the flashes from their rifles as they shot at him. When Pioli slammed to the ground, his ankle popped and he quickly lost consciousness.
He awakened to the shouts and curses of some angry Hungarian civilians. Undoubtedly, they were looking to avenge the hardships inflicted on them by the Allied bombers. They mobbed the young bombardier; they spat on him. Only the arrival of the German soldiers prevented them from killing the injured Pioli.
Rescued from the angry Hungarian civilians, the German soldiers placed the prisoners in a truck headed for Gyor. As they entered the town, Pioli could see the results of their bombing. The young Catholic bombardier was shocked and confused when a Hungarian priest shouted bitterly and shook a fist at him.
They entered Budapest, crossed the Danube River, and drove to what Pioli believed was the Hotel Metropole. Once inside the lovely ballroom, they were given some black bread to eat.
“Then, lo and behold, who walks in but a Luftwaffe pilot, preening like a peacock and so resplendent in his bemedaled dress uniform. He pompously informed us that he personally shot us down and he was going to do the same to the rest of the ‘Americanish Luft Bandits,’ as he referred to us. He was the most overbearing individual I have ever met. I looked like a street person alongside him.
“I was covered with vomit, unshaved, dirty, and an ankle that was throbbing like your worst toothache," Pioli said. “I told him all Americans didn’t look like me and one day he would get his due. He laughed.”
In the days to come, Pioli was insolated inside small, dark rooms. He was often interrogated with a Luger pointed at his head. The prisoners were terrorized, beaten, clubbed with rifle butts, and routinely subjected to multiple inhumanities.
Rounded up and herded into boxcars like livestock, the prisoners were eventually taken northward into Germany. As Pioli passed through the towns and countryside, the Red Cross once refused to give them food. Like the angry Hungarians at Pioli’s capture, the locals treated them like animals.
“I thought we were liberators and why didn’t they treat us as such," Pioli said. “But war for any noble cause is hell for the poor people who live in it. I can now understand their attitude towards us.”
It would be another long month before his father and mother learned of their son's fate. Missing in action since April 13th, Pioli's parents wouldn't receive the telegram from the adjutant general's office until May 13th. While Pioli languished in prison, his parents rejoiced that he was still alive and his father passed out cigars at work the following day.
As a prisoner at Stalag Luft III, Pioli would experience the entire spectrum of physical and emotional tortures--fear, bitter hunger, bouts of deep depression, numbing cold, chronic boredom, and endless despair.
The German captors were often curious as to why Pioli, obviously of Italian descent, was not fighting against the Allies. The prisoners discovered that the regular German guards could occasionally treat them with some degree of humanity. The same could not be said for the butchers in black uniforms or full-length leather coats, the evil members of the Gestapo or the German SS, who visited their camp occasionally.
“We stood in the cold and snow for hours, guarded by these SS brutes. Their eyes told you that one untoward move and you were dead,” Pioli said. “We sometimes played games with our guards, but not these guys. You just knew they were cold-blooded killers. I can only sympathize with those poor souls who were held in the SS death camps. They would tear your heart out without the least provocation.”
While they endured day after day in prison camp, news would occasionally filter in about the progress of the war. For weeks leading up to the D-Day invasion of Normandy, there were rumors that the Allies were getting ready to invade France. The significance of that event was not lost on any of them. More than warm clothes and adequate food and water, it gave them the one thing a POW needed more than anything else: it gave them a sense of hope. The sooner the Allies broke through Hitler's much-vaunted Atlantic Wall, the sooner they would all be liberated.
“The British compound seemed to get everything quicker than the Americans," he said. "And when we first heard that the Allies had invaded France, a lot of hats went into the air."
Robert Pioli and his fellow prisoners survived the summer, but the brutal conditions of the coming winter only brought them more hardship. Things would only get worse.
“January, 1945, was snowy and bitter cold. One just shivered and tried to endure," Pioli said. “Despite the weather, our spirits were high. We knew the Russians had taken Brelau and were within a 100 kilometers of our camp. Liberation was days away. Your emotions went wild. You just couldn’t imagine in your wildest dreams that you would soon be home and warm again.”
On the evening of January 27th, the Germans told the prisoners that they would be leaving the camp in 30 minutes. They would be leaving on foot, taking nothing with them except articles of clothing. After some reconsideration, the Germans opened the food stores to them. Along with their additional clothing, the prisoners were also permitted to take food along with them on the trip. Pioli, who was nearly ravenous from hunger, couldn’t resist the urge to gorge himself on the unexpected bounty.
"I ate as much as I could on the spot. I can recall sitting in the snow and cold and opening a one pound can of cold, greasy Spam and downing it in one gulp," Pioli said. "The Spam almost made me sick to my stomach, but I didn't care. It was a great feeling. To my disappointment, I couldn't eat more at that sitting. Little did we know that the meager amount of food you could carry was to sustain us for days."
Pioli and his fellow prisoners marched out into the cold, snow, and bitter wind on January 27th. They walked for days in hip deep snowfall and bitter sub-zero conditions. Fearful that they would be shot if they did not continue walking, many of them listened over their shoulders for gunshots when they were forced to leave one of their own behind. But unlike the Japanese and the Bataan Death March, the Germans did not follow through on their threats. A horse drawn wagon picked up the sick and exhausted stragglers.
"The first rest stop was near a multi-laned Autobahn. I burned my log book and any paper I had to get some warmth," Pioli said. "The log book was my prized possession. It contained camp sketches and a detailed daily diary of camp life. I do regret not having it today, but it all went up in smoke for a good cause."
The prisoners found some brief respite from the cold when they were permitted to spend the night in a Lutheran church, then the barns of a German farm. A few days later, they took shelter inside of a pottery factory in Muskau. While there, Pioli and the other POWs gloried in the heated building and the first hot running water that they had seen in months. They stayed there at the factory for three days. As brutal as the conditions had been for Pioli thus far, nothing had prepared him for the ordeal that was yet to face them.
Leaving the warmth and comfort of the pottery factory, they were once again trudged out into the snow at gunpoint. The Germans marched them to a rail yard in Spremberg, where they were once again crowded into railcars. Packed in so tight that the doors would barely close, the men could not all sit down. They had to take turns, half-standing and half sitting in various shifts. The sides of the car were coveted spots for the men, because the walls gave some support for their tired, aching backs.
"The doors wouldn't be unlocked for 36 hours. Men who endured the march completely broke down. Some cried. We all were irritable and argued over any inch of precious space," said Pioli. "Sanitary facilities were non-existent. The smell of vomit, urine, excrement, and unwashed bodies was overpowering.
"During the brief stops, we would bang on the wall and beg the guards to aid the sick, but to no avail. They paid no attention. Water was unavailable the entire trip," he continued. "The continual rocking of the car and the darkness caused my motion sickness to return. I was sick and miserable the entire trip. One poor guy kept calling for his mother."
After several days, the train stopped briefly and opened the doors. The men scrambled outside to relieve themselves. They stretched; they walked around; they enjoyed the fresh air. In a futile act of resistance, Pioli and the other men stubbornly refused to get back on the train. It took German automatic weapon fire to get them back onboard. The doors would not open again for another three days.
Reconciling themselves to their situation, the men humored themselves and passed the time by starting rumors about their eventual destination. A person in one corner of the car would spread a far-fetched story. The story would grow until it bore very little resemblance to the original.
"Our final destination was Moosburg, Stalag VIIA, a huge sprawling encampment in southern Germany, near Munich," Pioli said. " Stalag VIIA was a barren aberration, nothing but barbed wire fences, guard towers, and drab, shabby buildings as far as you could see."
Already filled to capacity, Moosburg was unable to sustain its latest shipment of prisoners. Food and water were scarce and the fuel for heating soon was quickly depleted. The sanitary facility was a huge multi-holed outhouse that the Germans eventually failed to clean out on a regular basis.
"The compound was infested with lice, bedbugs, and vermin. Everyone was covered with bite marks. You spent your spare time scratching and body hunting the creatures," Pioli said. At night, rats would run through the barracks and across your bunk. You briefly wondered how edible they would be, but things were never that bad." In March and April, the bombing around the camps escalated and the German security decreased. Pioli and his fellow POWs could visit the other compounds and renew acquaintances. The uninterrupted Allied bombings increased as the days passed. Fighter planes would routinely strafe the area around them, always pointing their guns outside the camp. Once more, it gave Pioli hope.
On Sunday, April 29, 1945, an Allied P51 fighter plane flew over the camp so low that he nearly skimmed the rooftops. The pilot waved to the men. Outside, a furious barrage of gunfire erupted and the bullets started hitting inside the camp. The POWs, fearing that they would be killed in the liberation effort, clung to the ground for safety.
"As suddenly as the gunfire started, it stopped and the silence was deafening. Then came the rumbling of the tanks. The most beautiful people in the world--the 14th Armored Division," Pioli said. "Their tanks came crashing through the gate. Those poor GIs, we mobbed them. They were literally covered with humanity. We were overjoyed to see their friendly, smiling faces. "And then the most dramatic and emotional moment I have ever experienced occurred. Off in the distance we could see the Stars and Stripes slowly being raised over the nearby town of Moosburg. It was indescribable; there was not a dry eye in camp," he continued. "I still get emotional when I think back to that moment. The flag may just be a symbol to many, but to me it's Moosburg and that day in April. I love to see our flag flying!"
Pioli and the newly released men of Stalag VIIA learned that there was to be no warm food for them immediately after their liberation. They learned that Patton's army moved so far and so fast that they left the field kitchens miles behind them. The GI's had little to offer them, so the gaunt bunch of POWs would have to wait.
"Then lo and behold, over the horizon came the man himself, General George S. Patton! He was just what one expected--shiny helmet, trench coat, pearl handled six-guns, and always standing in the shiny jeep. What a figure, impressive to say the least!" Pioli said. "He seemed to take one look at us and gave the order 'Feed these boys!' Field kitchens materialized out of nowhere. The next day they were baking bread and giving us hot food. We had white bread. First time I saw white bread in over a year. It was like angel food cake. The man was my hero!"
Despite being advised to stay in the camp, Pioli finally decided that he could not remain in the "cesspool" of Stalag VIIA any longer. Venturing into Moosburg, Pioli and a British Captain were able to obtain lodging in the home of an elderly German couple. Upon learning that the two men were not the feared Russians, they gladly gave the weary strangers a place to sleep. The couple also offered to share their meager rations of food, but it was refused. Pioli was more than satisfied to sleep in the big, comfortable bed, with the feather quilt, for the next three days. The former POW repaid their kindness with one of the war's most valuable and fiercely craved commodities, American cigarettes. After exchanging some heartfelt good-byes, the gentleman was overjoyed with their transaction.
For his return trip to the United States, Pioli boarded the U.S.S. General Gordon. Believing that they would receive special treatment for their status as officers, the men were surprised when they saw the sleeping quarters. Their bunks were little more than strips of canvas, approximately a foot apart, attached to a pipe framework.
"We promptly told the sailor that there was some mistake. We were officers and where were the staterooms. He laughed and laughed," said Pioli, "and gleefully informed us, as only an enlisted man can, 'Hell, there are 2000 men coming aboard and every SOB is an officer. This is your stateroom.' I wouldn't have enjoyed a stateroom anyway. I was seasick the entire voyage, never leaving the bunk except to get sick."
Pioli recounted to me how several of the POWs--remembering their months of hunger in prison--would steal the food rations from the lifeboats. Then they could cache it away for safekeeping. In vain, the captain routinely pleaded with the men to return it.
The first night back in the states, these returning officers were confined to the barracks in Fort Dix. But Pioli and some of the other POWs wanted to visit New York City. After much time in prison and their experiences dealing with sadistic SS officers, they were certainly not intimidated by their Army superiors on the home front. Later that night, they scaled the fence and went into the city.
"Nobody scared us," he said, laughing. "We saw a hell of a lot better guys than them over there."
Taking advantage of the GI Bill to go to Perdue University, Robert Pioli would study engineering. After graduation, he went to work as a chemical engineer with Union Carbide.
He and his wife, Roberta, were married in 1949 and are the parents of seven children. The two of them reside in the quiet community of Devola, just outside of Marietta, Ohio.
Bob Pioli has an engaging personality and a marvelous sense of humor. He laughs heartily and often. Time has been kind to the man, because he looks much younger than his 78 years. I greatly enjoyed the brief time I spent with the couple.
Pioli stubbornly scoffs at the idea that he did anything special. Moreover, he doesn't believe the experience changed him much, but he does acknowledge that his time as a POW made the normal, everyday worries and frustrations of life seem rather trivial.
"In my case, it is much ado about nothing. I don't feel like I did very much during the war," Pioli said. "I know heroes and I wasn't one of them."
On that count, Robert Pioli, the airsick crewman who became a bombardier on a B-17, is wrong!
Just look at any of the pictures of these World War II airmen, scarcely out of their teenage years. You will see them smiling broadly, their hats jauntily cocked to one side. They were young, proud men, in the primes of their life, filled with all of the reckless vigor of youth. Although they recognized that they might die, these brave young airmen boldly stood ready to take on the world.
Yet these same proud, young men faced shame and humiliation that, for many of them at the time, was a fate worse than death. Our POWs were regularly subjected to personal indignities that most of us can scarcely imagine, even during our worst nightmares. They were caged and transported like animals. They were physically abused. They faced these repeated tortures of the spirit and the mind so that our country might forever remain free. No, these young men did not die in the war, but it is certain that they were never the same after it. The indomitable American spirit still managed to overcome the harsh realities they faced on a daily basis. And it is certainly not hyperbole and embellishment to suggest that the actions of these men were indeed heroic.
Their memories can be recorded and saved for posterity. Their stories can be told and retold, but the innumerable volumes will never adequately describe the incomparable levels of suffering that these young men endured.
There is no question that Robert L. Pioli and these men were heroes. And the world has never seen their equal!
I thought this would be a good thing to honor all of our veterans. God bless them and America!
This is my grandpa! It’s amazing to read this story, because he’d never talk about it to us kids.
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