by Catherine Eoff an ex-POW's granddaughter.
Memorial Day means more to me than a day off from school. It reminds me of what an amazing country we live in and how it became what it is today. So many men and women died to preserve our way of life. People need to take time to reflect what our lives would be like if these courageous souls had not fought for what they believed in. To me, Memorial Day is a day of remembrance.
My Grandfather had rarely spoken to me about his experience in war. During the rare occasions when he does, he gets a look over his face that is indescribable. You can see the pain and hurt that the death in war has caused him. At the same time, you can see a great deal of pride.
My Grandfather was a pilot who flew a B-17, was twenty-five years old, and full of the devil. On March 16, 1944, while flying his 42nd mission from Italy to Udine, German antiaircraft shot the plane down. In the attack, the belly gunner in the plane was killed.
When the crew parachuted, German ME 109’s tried to knock the air out of their chutes. My Grandfather landed on a roof and was knocked unconscious from the impact. When he woke, a small Italian girl offered him a glass of wine. Standing behind her, however, were Nazi soldiers with rifles pointed at his head.
From there, he was taken to Milan where he was interrogated. Every question the soldiers asked was answered with name, rank and serial number.
Then he was taken with other prisoners outside Milan. Allied bombers were bombing the area, and the prisoners were hidden underground. My Grandfather saw many men being crushed to death from the impact of the bombs during that night of underground hiding.
The following morning, the prisoners that were still alive were marched to the railroad station. While marching, the people in the village spit and threw rocks at them. They were then put on boxcars and sent to a camp called Stalag Luft III, which translates to “Air Force Officers”. The prison camp was ninety miles southeast of Berlin, Germany. My Grandfather stayed there until Christmas of 1944.
The Russians were going to storm Berlin, so the Nazi commander at the prison camp decided to move all the prisoners to a camp in Moosburg, Austria. The prisoners marched for two weeks with the little clothing that they had and barely any food. All 15,000 prisoners were given spoonfuls of margarine to keep warm. Many men died from either starvation or hunger. Those that survived suffered from severe frostbite. To this day, my Grandfather suffers from poor circulation in his hands and feet due to the frostbite from what is now called “The Death March” of 1945.
By the time they reached Moosburg, it was mid-January. In Moosburg, food was scarce and any food they got was terrible. Some food was even infested with worms. In a barracks, life wasn’t any easier. They were cold, dark and damp. The barracks were divided in half, having six rooms on each side, with a hall the length of the building in the center. In a room, there were about thirteen men. Their beds were constructed of wooden planks with mattresses made of wood shavings and hay. Inside a lot of the mattresses were bedbugs and lice. It got so cold that they finally had to split the beds apart and use the wood to keep their fire going.
While my Grandfather was in Moosburg, he became the barber for his barrack. The men in his barrack played cards, checkers and softball to keep active. They also read, wrote letters home, and kept a garden. However, they weren’t allowed to work outside the camp. Some prisoners that were from the Royal Air Force, dug holes from their barracks, underneath the fence and out of the camp. Eventually, the Nazi’s found out about these holes and would wait for every man to come up before shooting them.
My Grandfather’s camp was liberated April 15, 1945, with General Patton commanding the troops. All the prisoners were then loaded onto trucks and were taken to France, and camped for a week outside Paris. After being given food and clothing, medical attention and some rest, they were taken to Antwerp, Belgium. From Antwerp, they boarded a ship that was bound for New York. At the site of Lady Liberty, many fell to the ground and with misty eyes stared in disbelieve at New York Harbor, a sight they thought they might never see again. With tears of joy streaming down their faces, they knew they were finally home.
Whenever I hear about war, I think of what my Grandfather had to endure. I think of the liberties that I take for granted. We are eternally indebted to all the people that courageously laid down their lives to maintain our way of life. To me, Memorial Day is a day of remembrance and a day that honors the many heroes that have died in service to their country. Their sacrifice has made America what it is today, the land of the free and truly the home of the brave.