Rite of Passage Book Review

Recently finished a great book about WWII bomber crews entitled Rite of Passage: A Teenager's Chronicle of Combat and Captivity in Nazi Germany, and highly recommend it to readers with an interest in WWII bomber crews and the Prisoner of War experience. Click on the hyperlinked book title for more information. Readers can get a signed copy for the same price as a traditional trade paperback in a bookstore. Would make a great birthday, Christmas or Chanukah gift for the WWII aviation buff on your list. My review follows:

"Many books have been written about bomber crew experiences in the skies over Europe in World War Two. And many have been written about the Prisoner of War experiences of those crewmen who were shot from the skies. What makes Ray Matheny's book stand out is the meticulous attention to detail and his eye for description. Matheny's book was originally popular in Germany in translation, and only recently has it become available to the American reading public. Matheny was a top turret gunner/flight engineer aboard the B-17 'Deacon's Sinners' of the Eighth Air Force's 384th Bomb Group. Graced with dollops of mechanical and technical aptitude, he is so trusted by his pilot and copilot that he becomes, in essence, a third pilot on the crew, flying the plane for hours while the pilots catch up on their sleep. He describes the interpersonal dynamics of his crew in great detail, and I found this to be fascinating. The pilot, a frustrated fighter pilot wannabe, who takes unnecessary risks with the airplane. The copilot, perhaps justly feeling that he is more qualified and at times resenting Matheny's flying time. Each man on the crew is fleshed out so that the reader can identify with him. This becomes a double-edged sword when the crew is shot down, killing most of the men. And that is where Matheny's adventure takes on a completely new twist, as a prisoner of war in Nazi Germany. Matheny gives the reader an intimate glimpse of POW life, and of the long march near the end of the war that the emaciated POWs make to stay ahead of the advancing Russian Army.

The book, filled with three-dimensional, carefully drawn characters and situations, stands out in the many books I've read over the years in this genre. I cannot recommend it highly enough. A major addition to military aviation history"

Link: Ray Matheny's Wikipedia Biography

Tale of a Prisoner of War: The Irv Rothman Story

Irv Rothman and I talking about his WWII experiences, Dallas, Texas, October 8, 2009. (Photo by Drix DeGuy)

Irving Rothman, POW#777, 95th Bomb Group Reunion, October 2009. (Photo by Rob Morris)

Irving Rothman looks thin and fit as he bustles behind the bar at the Red Feather Club on the seventh floor of the Marriott Solana in Fort Worth at this year’s 95th Bomb Group reunion. He and his family have been tending the donations-only bar at the 95th Bomb Group reunions for years now, bringing a vast store of good booze to keep the attendees happy and the talk flowing in the late evenings after the Fireside chats. Irv’s wife, Nina, is a para-Rabbinical and conducts the religious events at each reunion. Irv’s son and daughter-in-law also pitch in behind the bar, pouring drinks and making sure everybody is happy.
But sit down with Irv, as I did, and listen to his story, and you will see, from time to time, his eyes fill with tears and his voice catch as he remembers his wartime experiences, especially his months as a Prisoner of War in Germany.
Irv starts out by giving me his service number, 1532991, and his Prisoner of War number, 777. He has them both imprinted in his brain and in his heart.
Irv was a young engineer/top turret gunner on the J.E. Foley crew, B-17 #25918, better known as Heavenly Daze, when a January 11, 1944 bombing mission to Brunswick went bad. “We were bombing Brunswick, I believe a ball bearing factory,” he recalls. “We’d lost all power to our turrets, so I left my post in the top turret and went down to fire the nose gun. We had a runaway prop on the Number Two engine, and our plane fell out of formation. By the time we got it fixed, there were three Me 109s having fun with us. Those pilots knew we didn’t have any working turrets and they stayed in our blind spots. I couldn’t get a gun on them.” The three Me 109s poured lead into Heavenly Daze as the crew fired what guns they could bring to bear on the attackers.
“Minutes later, Keefer, the copilot, kicked out the escape hatch in the nose and yelled ‘Get the fuck out!’ My parachute was up in the cockpit, so I went and grabbed it. Then I tried to get over the catwalk in the bomb bay to check out the guys in the back of the plane. The fire was so bad that I couldn’t make it through. I figured maybe they’d already jumped so I jumped out the bomb bay.
“I was in a slow spin, and I couldn’t remember for the life of me how to stop the spin. Finally, I put my arms out in front of me and that helped. I landed in a field, a textbook parachute landing, but it just happened, it wasn’t skill. I sat up, and the first thing I saw were a farmer’s wooden shoes. ‘Good’, I thought, ‘I must be in Holland’. I’d learned all about how the Dutch wore wooden shoes. But I hadn’t known that German farmers also wore them!
A civilian cop came and got me and took me to a barn. Here, he took my coveralls. I was wearing my blue electric ‘Bunny Suit’. He pointed his gun at me and told me to march.
We went into a village. As we walked the cop yelled ‘Babi Killer’, and ‘American Luftgangster’ and ‘Juden’. Well, I knew enough German to know what Juden meant. When we got to his house, he took the chrome-plated chain off his dog and chained my hands behind my back. Then he told me to go stand in the corner, facing the wall.
He then had his friends come look at me. He didn’t think I spoke German so they spoke freely in front of me.
“’I have an American luftgangster here. See what he looks like,’ the cop told people. The people who came by cussed me out.
“Well, I’d had my coffee that morning and I had to get rid of it. I had a translation card in my pocket and found the line for ‘I got to go’, and he took me to a haystack.
“At nightfall, the Luftwaffe came and got me. One of my officers was also with them. Then we met up with James Foley, our pilot, who had been the last man out of the plane. He’d bailed out at very low altitude but survived.
“They took us by truck to Frankfurt-am-Main. The Dulag interrogation center was located there. They normally kept guys there for a week but there were so many American flyers to process that I was only there five days. We’d lost sixty bombers that day, that’s six hundred men.
“The only person I saw during that time was the jailer, twice a day, when he took me to go to the latrine. My cell was about as long as the bed, with an equal amount of space to walk next to the bed. There was a window up by the ceiling so I had a little light. After five days, an interrogator sat me down and told me he knew everything about me already. The only thing he didn’t know was that I’d been to Bremen twice. He only knew of one mission. That was the only thing he didn’t know about me. This interrogator, a major, said he’d lived in New York and knew Governor Lehman when he was governor of New York.
“’I want you to know that we are not persecuting the Jews,’ the major said. ‘That is all American propaganda.’ I knew better. All I gave him was my name, rank and serial number.
“The next day, they loaded us on a streetcar and took us to the railroad station. There were three or four of us and a guard to protect us. Mainly, he was there to protect us from the civilians. The city had been heavily bombed.
“The train took us to Hydekrug, East Prussia. This was an established POW camp, and we were the first Americans to get there. They put us in the British compound. It was well-established. We got our food parcels every week. We had books, musical instruments, Red Cross uniforms and blankets. In all, it was very livable. We were there close to a year.
“Then something bad happened. We heard the rumble of German artillery. They evacuated us by train to Memel, now known as Dnask. We got on an old tub and they jammed us into the hold so tight that there wasn’t enough room to move. There was no sanitation, only a bucket at the top of the ladder. The whole voyage, I was afraid of getting sunk.
“We got to the port at Stettin. Here, they handcuffed men together in pairs. I was handcuffed to Sol Sussman, my bunk mate. They took us to a place called Gross Teychow. On the way, I talked to one of the German guards. He had lost his only son, his wife, his daughter, pretty much his whole family, in bombing raids. He said to us, ‘Boys, it’s not your fault. It’s that corporal in Berlin. You’re only doing what you have to do’.
When we arrived at the station, there were German Marines there with dogs. They had lined up on either side of the road leading into the woods. Every so often along either side of the road was a mounted machine gun. They were trying to get us to run off the path so they could shoot us as escapees. We had no idea what was at the end of the road. Was there a camp? Was there a hole they were going to dump us into? We didn’t know.
“They made us run. We had no idea how far we’d have to go. Was it a mile? Ten miles? We ran. Sol went down. I pulled him up and we ran on. Thankfully, there was a camp at the end of the road.
“After we were in the vorlager for three days, they put us in the camp. I was one of the lucky ones. I was put in a normal barracks. A lot of the prisoners had to live in ‘dog houses’, small huts that held eight men that were so small you couldn’t even stand up in them. At this point in the war, we were losing so many men that the Germans couldn’t build the camps fast enough.
“After a while, we heard the heavy artillery again. It was time to leave. They put some of us on a train to Stalag Luft III. The rest of us marched. They told us the march would take three days. Before we left, we took extra clothing and cut it up to make pockets, and we sowed the pockets onto our pants to carry stuff for the trip. Some of us also had made knit caps out of extra sweaters, using a toothbrush handle as a knitting needle. They didn’t look good, but they helped keep us warm.
“The first couple of nights, we had barns to sleep in. After that, nothing. Most of this is a blur to me. We slept on the ground. Two men, back to back, for warmth. It was the coldest winter in Germany in fifty years.
“I marched with the slow marchers. This group left earlier in the mornings and the men who were unable to march slowly, were put in wagons. These were farm wagons, with steep sides. Only the men on the edges could lean against the sides. The men in the middle had to stand. Can you imagine that? These wagons had no springs. You would feel every bump, every pebble. The Germans would requisition horses from local farmers, and then return them the next day and get new ones. When we were unable to get horses, men were harnessed to the wagons and men pulled them. We lost between five and ten percent of our men on that march.
“We finally arrived at the Elbe River. We never traveled on the main roads because they needed those for troop movement. A doctor showed up. His name was Dr. Cantor, and he was a POW as well. We had two guys who had swollen feet as big as footballs. The doctor had me administer the chloroform and he cut holes in these men’s feet and wrapped the slices with gauze bandages so they could drain.
“On the march, either you couldn’t go at all or you went all the time. Dysentery was the worst. The diarrhea drained your body and killed you. We had no medicine for it. So we made charcoal, and ground it up into a fine powder, and then we ate it. It was terrible.” Irv’s eyes fill with tears. He raises his hands to imitate a man eating out of cupped hands. “Men eating dust. Dust. To stay alive.”
“We got to Stalag 11-B. This was an international camp. There were a lot of American soldiers there who had been captured in the Battle of the Bulge. They put us in a huge tent with straw on the floor.
“While I was there, I celebrated my 21st birthday. I was there from March 29 to April 16, 1945. We hadn’t had a bath or shaved in weeks. I tried to rub the dirt off my face after breaking a hole in the ice, but it didn’t come off.
“Finally, on April 16, a tank pulled up to the camp. It was a British tank. A guy got out and told us, ‘Sorry, guys, we can’t get your out for about three days.’ That was fine by me. They took us to Halle, and we were deloused. They gave us C-rations, which are essentially just a rich stew. If we ate more than one cup of it, we got violently sick. Our bodies were not used to the rich food.
“From there, we were flown to Brussels by the British. The deloused us again, we were able to take a bath, and they issued us clean British uniforms. This included Eisenhower jackets, the kind General Eisenhower wore, and they were really sharp. After they gave us a medical checkup, they took us by train to Namur, where we were turned over to the Americans. They took back our British clothes. I really wanted to keep that Eisenhower jacket but they took it back.
“We then went to Camp Lucky Strike. We had another round of checkups. While I stood in line, a doctor shoved a thermometer in my mouth and told me to get out of line. All I wanted to do was go home, but he insisted, and it turned out I possibly had the beginnings of rheumatic fever. They checked me into the hospital for rheumatic fever and malnutrition, and put me on a series of penicillin shots.
“Finally, they book me on the ship John Erickson and I came home.”
“We lost two guys in the camp. One guy went nuts and climbed the wire. They shot him. The other incident was strange. We were locked into the barracks at night and the only thing we had to go to the bathroom was a five gallon milk can for sixty men. Naturally, we tried not to use it if we could help it. One kid had to go to the bathroom pretty badly, and that morning, the guards had unlocked the doors twenty minutes early. The kid didn’t know and he went out of the barracks to go to the bathroom. The guards shot him. And then, they would not let anyone go out and help this guy until it was time to come out. By that time, he’d bled to death.
“My experiences are with me, every day. They have colored my life, but they have not controlled my life. Life just has to go on.”

Old Glory Flies Again at the Culler Household

You can't keep a good man--or a good flag--down. Dan Culler with his repaired Prisoner of War and American flags yesterday, September 8.

Book Review: HAP HALLORAN 'Hap's War'

I received Hap Halloran's 'Hap's War' today, along with the pictured card and two photos Hap annotated on the back. The top photo shows Hap getting inducted into the American Combat Airmen Hall of Fame in 2001. The bottom photo shows Hap with Enola Gay pilot Paul Tibbetts in Great Bend, Kansas, a few years back. Tibbetts passed away a little over a week ago.

Today in the mail I received my copy of Hap Halloran's 'Hap's War: The Incredible Survival Story of a POW Slated for Execution" by Ray 'Hap' Halloran with Chester Marshall. This book is a real piece of World War Two history. First of all, I cannot believe the incredible value of this large hardback book, which Hap sells himself out of his home in Menlo Park, California. The price, includiing shipping, must make this book the best buy in America, even if it were to come unsigned. However, Hap took the time to personally inscribe the book and also included two photographs of himself, one with Paul Tibbets, the Enola Gay pilot, and the other of himself after being inducted into the American Combat Hall of Fame in October of 2001. On top of that, he took the time to include a personalized card.

For those of you who have never heard of Hap Halloran, he is one of the most celebrated heroes of the Pacific War. He overcame incredible odds to survive as a Japanese prisoner of war after his B-29 Superfortress was shot down over Japan on January 27, 1945. His tale is one of torture, starvation, and ultimately, survival. It was Hap who was taken to the Tokyo Zoo and put on display in a cage as an example of what the terrible American invaders looked like. This was the low point of his life, according to him. What is more amazing is that this former POW has just returned from Japan, where he is an honored speaker about the effects of war and is an advocate for peaceful solutions to problems where possible.

Hap and Japanese survivors at the Peace Park in Japan.

I highly recommend that anyone with an interest in WWII buy this book from Hap. There is a hyperlink below in his biography from which to order.

The book is filled with Hap's story, his ordeals, and his ultimate triumph. It is also filled with rare photographs. The book is a large hardback and even came Priority Mail in a matter of days.

Hap's Prisoner of War Armband from his Japanese imprisonment. POWs in Japan were treated brutally.

Hap Halloran, you are one of a kind. Thanks again for the book, and even more, for your service to our country and the cause of freedom.

Below is Hap's biography, taken from his website at: http://www.haphalloran.com/

The Autobiography of Raymond "Hap" Halloran

Ray "HAP" Halloran, was born February 4, 1922 in Cincinnati, Ohio of parents, Paul and Gertrude Halloran; the second of 5 boys.

Shortly after Pearl Harbor (December 7, 1941) Hap volunteered for the Army Air Force at Wright-Patterson air base in Dayton, Ohio.

He completed training as Navigator (Hondo, Texas) and Bombardier (Roswell, New Mexico) Volunteered for training in new bomber (B-29). Trained at Smoky Hill Air Base in Salina, Kansas. Our crew of 11 was referred to as "Rover Boys Express". We were assigned to 878th Squadron, 499th Bomb Group VH, 73rd Wing, 20th Air Force.

After completion of operational training in Kansas we spent a short period of time in Lincoln, Nebraska; then Herington, Kansas where we received our brand new B-29 (flown to Herington from the production line at Boeing Wichita Plant). We then received orders to fly to Mather Field, California; then to John Rogers Field, Honolulu. We then flew to Kwajalein Atoll and our final leg was to Saipan in the Northern Marianas Islands. We traveled alone the entire trip.
Saipan was the base of operations for the 73rd Wing in that battle against targets on the Japanese mainland.

On our forth mission against Japanese targets we were shot down on a high altitude mission against target 357; Nakajima Aircraft plant in Musashino on the west edge of Tokyo.
A twin engine Japanese fighter plane (Nick) came in head on and critically damaged our plane (V Square 27). The comfortable temperature in our pressurized B-29 immediately assumed outside air temperature of -58 degrees. We lost two engines and our major controls within the plane. We were doomed; we fell behind the formation. We realized we must abandon our plane over enemy territory east of Tokyo.

Painting of our B-29 V Square 27 passing Mt. Fuji on bomb run against Target 357 1/27/45.
All crew members were alerted to necessity to parachute. (Tail Gunner Dead). I left the bomber thru the front bomb bay (nose wheel blocked normal front escape route).

I fell free for an estimated 24,000 feet before opening my chute at about 3,000 feet over Chiba Prefecture East of Tokyo. Japanese fighters closed in as I hung in my chute. One saluted me from in close. A rarity. Six of The Rover Boys crew did not survive that day.

As could be expected I was treated brutally by civilians before being taken on a truck to Kempei Tai torture prison in downtown Tokyo across from the moat at the north end of the Imperial Palace grounds. I was confined in solitary in a cold dark cage in a wooden stable near the Kempei Tai headquarters building. Food was a small ball of rice several times a day; no medical treatment. Silence was a firm rule except during interrogations. One desperately tried to survive.

Survived the massive low level March 10th, 1945 fire raid on Tokyo by fellow B-29 crews. The fire, heat, smoke and resultant firestorm was terrifying. Never expected to survive that night.
Shortly thereafter I was removed from my cage and taken to Ueno Zoo where I was put on a display naked in a tiger cage and civilians could walk in front of cage and view this hated B-29 prisoner. I had lost perhaps 80 or 90 pounds by then and my body was dirty and covered with running sores from bed bug, flea and lice infestation. Conditions were extreme. I cried (a form of relief) and prayed constantly.

Was moved early in April 1945 to Omori Prisoner of War facility on SW edge of Tokyo. Was with fellow B-29 prisoners and other Americans including Gregory "Pappy" Boyington and 8 survivors of the submarine Tang. What a wonderful thing to be out of solitary and being able to talk with fellow B-29ers. We each had a space 24 x 70 inches. We learned to live together under a demanding situation. Food was the dominant subject of all conversations. We were subject to bombings and strafings by our planes. Our facilities were not identified as a POW compound. Those were extremely difficult days as we tried to survive.

The war ended on August 15, 1945. We were liberated from Omori on August 29th by Marines in landing craft and taken aboard the Hospital ship Benevolence in Tokyo Bay. Spent two weeks in Benevolence (not physically fit to travel). Was on the Benevolence when the Peace Treaty was signed on the battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay on September 2, 1945. Admiral Halsey visited me in my room on the Benevolence.

Eventually flown home. Spent months in Ashford government hospital in West Virginia. Adjustment to normal life came slowly. Experienced almost 40 years of nightmares; very disruptive to my family life. In the early years after the return from POW days I absolutely tried to wipe out all those bad memories of my time in Japan. I failed.
Finally in 1984 - after much preparation and help from the US ambassador, Mike Mansfield, I returned to Japan. I hoped I could void all my memories of "those long ago days" and view people and places as they are presently.

Positive results slowly became evident in my outlook, feelings and judgments.
Understanding and reconciliation became a reality.

I have subsequently returned to Japan seven more times and visited all the major cities and with much help able to meet Isamu Kashiide, the pilot of the Nick plane that shot us down in 1945; he died on June 3, 2003. Also visited with Kaneyuki Kobayashi a former good guard.
Eventually made many new friends including Saburo Sakai, WWII Zero ace. We golfed and did air shows together. He died of a heart attack in August of 2000 while guest at a luncheon with U.S. military officers. At his request I continued to mentor his daughter, Michiko. She graduated from Trinity College in San Antonio, Texas.

By invitation I speak to groups in museums, temples, Peace Parks and other assembly points throughout Japan. Among other places on my 2002 visit I spoke to groups in Peace Parks in both Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Many of those folks were there (or their families impacted) on August 6th and 9th in 1945. They also were seeking closure almost 58 years later. I was guest and keynote speaker at dedication of a new museum on Tokyo on March 9, 2002. 31 folks from Tokyo, Kyoto, Yokohama, Hiroshima, Osaki, Nagasaki and other cities visited my home in August of 2002.

I also exchanged emails on frequent basis with historian friends in Japan and tour with them on my return visits. My return visits to Japan generally include visits to Saipan, Tinian and Guam.
I left the military service in the latter part of 1946. The road to normalcy proceeded slowly. In 1958 I joined former Consolidated Freightways, an eventual 3 billion dollar motor carrier and was associated with them for 44 years. Attained position of Executive Vice President and member of the Board of Directors.

I have three children. Dan lives in Boca Raton, Florida. Tim is presently relocating to Brentwood, California. Peggy lives in Redwood City, California.

I live in Menlo Park, California and travel extensively (over 5 million commercial air miles). Have done things with ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX, History and Discovery Channels and participated in a Dan Rather NBC "Victory in the Pacific" two hour special in 1995; filmed in US, Pacific and Japan.

There isn't a day that goes by that my memories do not flash back and recall events of those long ago days. I remember Rover Boys who did not come home. I have visited their graves in Punch Bowl National Cemetery in Honolulu and in Portland, Oregon.

I appreciate and love Freedom. I appreciate even the simple things in life. I know how fortunate I was to survive and come home.

I refer to all the days as "Bonus Days." Now that I am in my golden years I refer to them as "Double Bonus Days!"

He has also written a book called "Hap's War" in 1998. You can order one through this web site. For more information, click here.

September 20 Named National POW/MIA Recognition Day--May We Never Forget

National POW/MIA Recognition Day, 2007

A Proclamation by the President of the United States of America

America has been blessed by the brave men and women of our Armed Forces who have answered the call to defend our country and protect liberty around the world. On National POW/MIA Recognition Day, we honor a special group of patriots: those who have been prisoners of war and those who are still missing in action. We remain forever in their debt, and we renew our commitment to them and to their families never to rest until we have accounted for every missing service member.

To commemorate this day, the National League of Families POW/MIA flag is flown over the White House, the Capitol, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Korean War Veterans Memorial, the World War II Memorial, and other locations across our country. This flag is an enduring symbol that reflects our solemn commitment to our courageous service members who have been imprisoned while serving in conflicts around the world and to those who remain missing. America will always remember these heroes, and we underscore our pledge to achieve the fullest possible accounting for every missing member of our Armed Forces.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim Friday, September 21, 2007, as National POW/MIA Recognition Day. I call upon the people of the United States to join me in honoring and remembering all former American prisoners of war and those missing in action who valiantly served our great country. I also call upon Federal, State, and local government officials and private organizations to observe this day with appropriate ceremonies and activities.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this twentieth day of September, in the year of our Lord two thousand seven, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-second.

GEORGE W. BUSH

I echo President Bush in saluting my friends, living and passed away, who were POWs in World War Two: Don Lewis, Delbert Lambson, Frank Murphy, Herb Alf, Lyle Shafer, Mozart Kaufman, John Carson, Lee Kessler, Fr. Joe Sellers, Ken Blythe, Ed Herzig, and Aaron Kupstow. I apologize if I have inadvertantly left anyone off the list.

I also salute men who were deprived of their freedom in Switzerland and Sweden, including: Dan Culler, Sam Mastrogiacomo, Norris King, Bob Long, Cyril Braund, and Charles Cassidy.

We Will Never Forget.....That's a Promise.

North Carolina Airman, B-17 Pilot, Gets His DFC 63 Years Later

Vincent Fonke, far right, gets his Distinguished Flying Cross from Lt. Gen. Christopher Kelley (Fayetteville Observer Photo)


Thanks to Richard Havers for alerting me to this feel-good story about a deserving Air Corps veteran.

"It took nearly 63 years to be recognized for his heroic efforts flying a B-17 bomber over Germany in World War II, and 85-year-old Vincent Fonke might never have been lauded at all, except for a persistent and curious young captain who heard Fonke’s story years after the war.

Fonke, who lives in Fayetteville, North Carolina, was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross at a ceremony Friday morning in a Pope Air Force Base hangar. About 300 airmen, veterans and relatives — including his wife, Belle, and his seven surviving children — watched.

“I never dreamed anything like this could happen,” Fonke said. “I’m overwhelmed.”

The Distinguished Flying Cross, established in 1926, is presented for heroism or extraordinary achievement during aerial flight in combat.

Fonke was flying a B-17 bomber — one of the Flying Fortresses of the 324th Squadron of the 91st Bomb Group — on the morning of Aug. 16, 1944. His convoy was attacked over Eisenach, and six planes were shot down.

Fonke leveled his plane after taking a hit. He saw a fire between two engines on the wing.

“That made my hair stand up straight because all the fuel was in the wings,” he said.

But Fonke didn’t bail out. He rang an alarm bell and ordered his men to jump. He held the craft steady until they were safely gone.

Fonke was captured by the Germans and held in several prisoner of war camps. He was liberated by the U.S. 3rd Army in April 1945.

Fonke spent 30 years in the Air Force before retiring as a colonel.

Years after World War II, Fonke spoke publicly for the first time about his ordeal to a group of graduating soldiers. A young captain in the audience pledged to find documentation in the national archives of the attack on Fonke’s convoy.

That persistence, along with testimony from the plane’s surviving tail gunner, led U.S. Rep. Bob Etheridge to pursue the medal Fonke received Friday. Etheridge is a Democrat from Lillington.
“Sometimes the exploits of our heroes fall though the cracks and don’t get the decorations they deserve,” Etheridge said.

The crowd gave Fonke a standing ovation as Lt. Gen. Christopher Kelly, vice commander of Air Mobility Command, pinned on the medal.

As the applause continued, Fonke stood alone in the middle of the stage, shaking his head gently, a slightly embarrassed grin on his face.

“He never lost the intense spirit and pride of being an American airman flying for his country,” Kelly said.

Eric Sinclair of Dunn, a former state commander of the American Legion, was among the veterans watching the ceremony. As with Fonke, Sinclair started in the Air Force as a mechanic.
“I never got as high as he did,” said Sinclair, who served 10 years and finished as a master sergeant.

“You wonder sometimes why it takes so long for things like this to happen,” Sinclair said, “but it’s well-deserved.”

This story was written by Staff writer Gregory Phillips of the Fayetteville Observer.