Art was the first to be questioned. Before asking him any questions, the German officer opened Art’s coveralls. He found the navigator’s escape kit, which contained, among other items, a map, a compass and fifty dollars in U.S. currency. He also discovered a pack of Camels. The German smiled and tucked the cigarettes inside his jacket. “Thank you. I accept this as a gift.”
“You’re welcome,” Art responded. He had no intention of giving the Germans any information except his name, rank and serial number, but he did plan on being polite and nonconfron tational in his refusal.
The German major slipped up on his first question: “Well, you might as well tell us . . . we know you came from Foggia. And we know you were flying B-24s.”
Art repressed the impulse to smile. “I’m sorry, Major. I can’t tell you those things. I am Second Lieutenant Arthur Frechette Jr. My serial number is 02065531.” Art answered each of the German officer’s questions exactly the same way. Grant Dory was the next to be interrogated. He followed Art’s lead, politely giving only his name, rank and serial number. And so it went with the other three captured airmen.
The German interrogator did not seem surprised or angered at the American bomber crew’s lack of cooperation. At the end of the questioning, he ordered the guards to take the prisoners to another room where there were some cots. Grant Dory helped carry Art. Beyond cuts and abrasions, the tail gunner was the only one of the five Americans who did not seem to have suffered any serious injury.
Art was not only the most severely wounded, he looked terrible. He had banged his head while he had been tumbling down the mountain—a gash on his forehead had caused him to bleed “like a stuck pig.” The injury looked worse than it was. What really concerned Art was the lack of feeling in his feet. The Germans put a heating element near his feet, but he could sense no improvement. He tried to keep the thought from developing, but Art knew if he did not get medical attention, he could be facing amputation.
Later in the day, Art was placed in a horse-drawn cart, along with Wheeler and Ferguson. As soon as the men realized they would be transported some distance, they urged the guards to allow Pearson to also ride in the cart. For some reason, the Germans refused to believe the pilot was really injured. Pearson was made to hobble along behind, with the aid of Dory.
The journey down the mountain was a painful one for Art. His feet finally began to thaw, and the pain was like none he had ever experienced. Each jolt of the cart added to his misery.
One of the guards was able to understand when the Americans inquired about where they were being taken. “Brixen,” was the German’s reply.
When they reached the town, the first thing Art noticed was that Brixen did not look like an Italian village. The houses and shops all had an Austrian or German appearance. Indeed, though it was on the Italian side of the border, Brixen’s inhabitants were mostly Austrian.
As the prisoners passed down the street, civilians began to gather around the cart. Each of the American airmen had heard stories of downed airmen being killed by angry German civilians. Could it also happen with Austrians? At this point in the war, Brixen’s residents were mostly women, old men and children. It was the women who ventured closer to look at the prisoners.
What Art saw on the women’s faces as they gazed at him was not anger—it was pity. Some shook their heads and made the sign of the cross as they looked at his bloody head and mangled clothing. As the women turned away with sad faces, Art wanted to tell them, “Hey, I’m going to be okay!” Just then his feet throbbed with intense pain. Maybe the women of Brixen were right.
The prisoners spent the night in the Brixen jail. They were fed a meager meal by their guards but were given no medical attention. Art found he was able to use his fingers well enough to hold a piece of black bread. He still worried about losing his feet or toes, which continued to feel cold and numb. At the same time, there was ever-increasing pain.
It was nearly dark the following day when three of the American aviators were loaded into an ambulance. Lyle Pearson and Grant Dory were missing. Art wondered if he would ever see the pilot or the tail gunner again. The going was slow over the narrow Alpine roads. The driver had to find his way without the use of headlights. Art knew, at this point in the war, the Germans could not risk traveling during daylight hours. American fighters flew in almost daily to shoot up anything that moved—trains, troops, trucks and even ambulances. A red cross on the top of a vehicle did not mean much to the Thunderbolt and Lightning pilots. The Germans had a reputation for painting the medical designation on just about any type of truck.
After around two hours, during which Art judged they had covered some twenty-five miles, the ambulance arrived at the town of Bolzano. The Germans called it Bozen. The town was large enough to have a hospital, and the men received some medical aid there. Art desperately needed painkilling medication but he was given none. He guessed the drugs were as scarce as fuel for the Germans, but he would have welcomed even an aspirin. His feet continued to thaw, and the warmer they became, the more unbearable was his pain. The navigator’s one night in Bolzano was agony.
The next morning, Art was feeling surprisingly better. The pain in his legs, feet and right arm was ever-present but the worst seemed to have passed. Again about dusk, the Americans were put into an ambulance for a two-hour ride to the city of Merano, which lay even deeper in the Alps than Bolzano.
For decades before the war, Merano and its valley had been a favorite resort for skiers, winter sportsmen and tourists. The town was completely Austrian in appearance and mood. In fact, Merano had once been the capital of the Tyrol region of Austria. At the end of the First World War, the Treaty of Versailles had made Merano part of Italy, at least officially. Art thought the town, with its narrow tree-shaded streets, inviting resort hotels, and old Gothic cathedral, was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen.
But even this remote part of the Alps had become engulfed by the war. The German military had taken control of all the hotels and had turned most of them into hospitals and convalescent centers for its wounded.
Now the three American airmen were separated. Art was saddened to say goodbye to Wheeler and Ferguson, holding on to the faint hope they might be reunited later, if only in a prison camp. At the same time, he was very hopeful that at last he might get the professional medical attention he so badly needed. It was between eight and nine in the evening when he was taken from the ambulance. Almost immediately he found himself in an operating room, surrounded by German doctors and nurses.
Three hours later, Art was awakened by the sound of laughter and singing. He discovered that most of his body was now in casts—one covering each leg and an upper-body cast that encompassed his chest and right arm. The doctors had left an opening in the cast, near the elbow, so they could change the bandage there. He could smell the sulfur-based medicine they had applied to his arm wound to fight infection.
There were two other patients in the room, wounded soldiers, Art assumed. The happy voices, both male and female, that had awakened him seemed to be coming from somewhere down the hall. And they were coming closer. Minutes later, the door opened quickly, and several German officers and civilian women entered the room. The officers were wearing their dress uniforms, and the women were in evening gowns. They were all very happy and brought with them the not unpleasant smell of alcohol and perfume.
Everyone was speaking at once but seemed to be saying the same thing. Art knew very little German but immediately understood what they were saying: “Happy New Year!”
It had completely slipped his mind that 1945 had arrived. One of the officers came to Art’s bed and spoke to him. In the best German he could speak, Art replied, “Ich bin Amerikaner.”
The German’s smile grew wider. He clicked his heels together and gave Art a crisp salute. The officer’s companion had overheard Art, and she reached out to shake his hand. “How do you do?” the beautiful woman asked in perfect English.
“Fräulein.
” Art smiled back, enjoying the opportunity to meet someone who spoke his language. “You speak English, Fräulein. Where did you learn how?”
“How do you do?” the woman said and smiled.
Art soon discovered that “How do you do?” was the extent of her English skills. As soon as the other officers and women heard that Art was an American, there was a great excitement and everyone had to meet him. He was amazed at the friendly welcome he was receiving but thought the whole scene a little surreal and amusing. Three nights before, he had been drinking gin with his buddies in Foggia, and now he was in the middle of a New Year’s celebration with the enemy.
So it was that Art Frechette headed into 1945, seriously injured albeit on the mend and a prisoner of war—but for the time being, in the hands of friendly captors. What did this year have in store for the Allies, the Germans and him personally?
January 1 brought another encounter with German civilians. The two wounded soldiers in the room were visited by friends and family members. One of the visitors was a girl around seven or eight years old, and she was dressed in a colorful wide skirt and a crisp white blouse. She carried a basket of apples and after giving one to each of the room’s other occupants, she approached Art. He smiled at her and held up his hand in mild protest.
“Ich bin Amerikaner.”
If the little girl felt any apprehension, Art did not see it. She smiled and placed an apple in his hand.
By the end of the day, Art was beginning to feel extremely warm. His mind seemed to be working in slow motion and his vision was blurry. His fever grew stronger, and he lost track of time and his surroundings. It was two days before the fever broke and his head cleared. The head physician of the hospital was standing by his bed when Art awoke.
The doctor spoke English well enough to give Art a description of his wounds. He had sustained a fracture of the left knee-cap, torn ligaments in the left knee area, a severely sprained right ankle and a fractured right elbow. In addition to the broken bones, he had suffered a concussion, lacerations to his forehead, and all of his fingers and toes and his face showed the symptoms of frostbite. He was going to live but recovery from his injuries would be slow.
When the doctor informed Art he would soon be transferred to a room where “you can be with your comrades,” the navigator felt better. But when he was taken to his new room, the two other men there were not members of his B-17 crew after all. They were American airmen, however—two crewmen of a B-24 Liberator that had been shot down a day or two before Art’s bomber had been hit.
His two new roommates turned out to be godsends. Confined by his wounds and casts, Art could clumsily hold a fork with the frostbitten fingers of his left hand, but he could do little else for himself. The two other Americans were not badly injured and took it upon themselves to help their brother airman. For two weeks, they cut his food, shaved him, washed him, and sat him on the pot. When the B-24 crewmen were deemed healthy enough to be sent to prison camp, Art hated to see them go, but they had seen him through the initial bad days.
Without his two friends, the hospital room felt lonely. Rarely would a nurse stop in to check on him. His convalescent care was minimal. Art estimated there were more than two hundred wounded German soldiers in the hotel-hospital. The small medical staff was overwhelmed.
One pretty young nurse, however, seemed particularly attentive to Art’s needs. He asked her if she might find something for him to read. She agreed to try but soon reported back that she was having difficulty locating a book written in English. She vowed to keep trying, and one day she walked proudly into Art’s room carrying a thick book with a very worn cover. She assured him it was the only English-language book in the entire hospital.
Art looked at the contents. The book was a collection of poetry and essays. The copyright date was 1870. Not exactly what he had been hoping for, but it would help pass the time. He thanked the nurse, who appeared happy that he approved. Over the next few days Art found himself memorizing a few of the book’s poems, for lack of any other mental stimulation. One poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, entitled “A Psalm of Life,” became his favorite. The young airman especially liked the two opening verses:Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Within a week, Art was assigned two new roommates. They were German soldiers, both of them named Hans. The older of the two referred to the other as “Hanslow,” or Little Hans. Art’s knowledge of the German language increased dramatically in the following days. Both of the Hanses were eager to hear about life in America. Art was equally interested in Germany and its people. All three men stayed away from any talk of their military jobs out of respect for their patriotic duties. However, the hospital staff provided current newspapers and sometimes, if the paper contained a story about an Allied air raid, the younger Hans might ask, “Why are you bombing Germany?”
Art refused to be pulled into an argument about the war, and the conversation soon returned to safer topics. He quickly grew to like his new roommates. They helped him do some of the things he still could not do for himself. On the day he took his first feeble steps, supported and encouraged by the two Germans, Art was only slightly happier than Hans and Hanslow. In return for their help, Art gave the two Hanses his daily ration of four cigarettes, which the nurses brought him the same as they did for each of the German patients.
Hanslow even gave Art a sponge bath once, after a nurse ordered him to do it. The young German, however, exercised the soldier’s universal right of complaint. He griped about it in German the entire time it took him to give the bath. Art was surprised at how much he was able to understand. His German language skills were rapidly improving because of his interaction with his roommates.
As the weeks of recovery passed, Art had the opportunity to get to know other German soldiers. One was an eighteen-year-old Austrian who was assigned as the room’s fourth patient. The young man was a draftee, and he hated life in the German Army. He was not reluctant to tell Art, “The war is lost for Germany. The sooner we get out of it, the better we will be.”
The unhappy soldier became silent when a wounded German officer began dropping by to chat with Art. The officer spoke excellent English and the two men enjoyed their friendly conversations. As with Hans and Hanslow, Art was careful not to talk about his crew or its operations. The topics usually were confined to the American and German lifestyles. But the German officer did express one political belief that Art was to hear repeated many times by other Germans: “When are you Americans going to realize that the real enemy is the Russians? Why do you not join us and we will defeat the Russians together?”
Art was also visited by an English-speaking stranger who claimed to be a representative of the International Red Cross. Something about the man did not seem right. Art’s suspicions were confirmed when the stranger showed more interest in details about other crew members than in Art’s health. His inquiries left Art with the impression that some of his B-17 buddies might have evaded capture.
Of course, he knew at least four other crewmen were in custody, and he had personally seen the body of another of his bomber mates. He provided no information to the “Red Cross representative.” Each time the man asked him a question, Art shrugged and replied, “I don’t know.” It did not take long for the impostor to realize he was going to get nothing from the American airman. Art was glad to see the pretender leave, but it was disappointing that he could not speak with someone who was actually with the Red Cross.
All things considered, his life as a prisoner in the enemy hospital was not so bad. His roommates and the hospital staffers were friendly, the food was passable, and seated in a wheelchair, he was even allowed to attend nightly movi
es with the other patients.
There was one thing that bothered him greatly. He wished there was some way to get word to his family that he was alive. When the fake Red Cross man had introduced himself, Art’s hopes and prayers appeared to have been answered. Back in Groton, the Frechettes received official word from the U.S. government that their son was missing in action, but few details were provided. Soon afterward, a follow-up letter from the acting commander of the Fifteenth Air Force, Brigadier General C.F. Born, arrived. As Art’s parents read Born’s letter, his horrific words stunned them: “. . . the bomber received a direct hit by flak in the bomb bay . . . No parachutes were seen . . . His personal effects have been assembled . . . they will be sent to the designated beneficiary.” The general’s final sentence left the Frechettes little hope: “I am proud to have had him in my command.”
By mid-February, Art had recovered well enough to hobble around the hospital hall with the aid of crutches. He had become a familiar sight to the doctors and nurses who greeted him with smiles. On the morning of the fifteenth, everything changed. When he said a friendly, “Good morning,” to his roommates, they ignored him.
Taking his morning exercise walk, he encountered nothing but silence and angry expressions from the normally genial hospital staffers. Many of the nurses seemed to be on the verge of tears and some wept openly.
The American could not imagine why he was suddenly being shunned, but he decided it was probably best to stay in his room as much as possible, at least until he had an understanding of what was going on. Later that day, one of his roommates silently handed Art a German newspaper. Art read the front-page story: British and American bombers had struck the old city of Dresden with devastating results.
The Bomber Boys Page 17