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Out of the Turret and Into Hell: WWII Aerial Gunner's Story - Stalags 7A and 17B - Life of a Prisoner of War

by V. Elaine Benson

227 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0252; ISBN 1-55212-852-0; US$23.50, C$27.55, EUR19.00, £13.50

Out of the Turret and Into Hell is a ticket to the simple honesty for which we are all striving. It is the story of one family's journey through the difficult times of the Depression, and the son who wanted to fly.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Presented as a retrospective from the memory of a young boy who grew to manhood, it recounts with humor and wisdom, how five young brothers, dropped off at an orphanage, confirmed: "Us Benson boys are tough..." and how a strange, nightmare premonition brought the one who became a WWII ball turret gunner through the trauma of battle, capture and German prison camps. When a story moves one to rekindle a part of his soul he has all but forgotten in the busyness of living, it is more than a story... it is a gift. If willing, the reader will turn to his inner truths to the peacefulness of remembering that part of himself. Out of the Turret and Into Hell is an invitation for an unforgettable journey.

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About the Author Vicky Elaine Benson is a full-time careperson for her 100% disabled, retired Air Force veteran husband, Earl. Married over twenty years, she feels her objectivity is well-developed in regards to projecting his life story in a manner that will keep the reader laughing, on the edge of their seat, and feeling as if they are with Earl al the way. Born in Dearborn, Michigan, in 1951, Vicky began a writing career with this novel. She earned a diploma from the Institute of Children's Literature in 1998, and continues to improve her writing skills. Her goal: "Write well enough to enable a touching of the heart."

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Excerpts

From the Introduction

    In the spring of 1931, a Connecticut orphanage opened huge mouth like doors. Five frightened brothers were swept into dank grayness, swallowed up like unwanted puppies dropped off at a pound.
    Nine-year-old Earl Benson sensed this as he and his brothers were assigned beds and told where to put belongings.
    I'm the reason we're here. The dream says I'm bad, doesn't it? Why won't it go away? Why is God punishing me?
    He couldn't remember when the dream had first appeared, but it was long ago, and always the same formidable nightmare. It would take a dozen years and a major global conflict to shed meaning on the frightening vision with its oppressive aspects.

From Chapter Three - Eggshells

    "C'mon guys!" Kenneth said, too cheerfully. Grabbing suitcases, he started out the door. "Let's get these bags out to the car." Earl and Red looked at Howard. Johnny and Ernie stayed put on the couch. Howard nodded.
    Struggling with suitcases, they made their ways down the steps and over to the back of the car. Ernie ran to Pa.
    "I know! We're going on a trip! A big one! Are we going to New York State to see Aunt Min? Aunt Min's your sister, huh, Pa? Are we going there to live with you?" John Henry looked up at his wife, who stood on the porch holding baby Robert. He gave her a thoroughly disgusted look.
    "You haven't even bothered to tell them..., have you?" Hazel shifted her child from one hip to the other and glared.

From Chapter Eight - You're Out

    February, 1938, Earl had his paycheck from the mill.
    "It's not fair. I'm right, doggone it, and she's wrong!"
    He cashed it, headed for home, then steeled himself as he walked in. Ma faced him, hand out, as he entered the kitchen.
    "Give me your check." Stomach churned as it headed for his throat. Confidence abandoned him.
    Gotta stand up to her. He swallowed hard.
    "I already cashed it, but here's my rent money." He produced a crisp ten dollar bill. Ma moved toward him. A chill, cold as ice, filled with fear, swept the length of his spine.
    Snatching the bill, she glared at him.
    "This ain't gonna work. You know the rules. Now, where's the rest?" Angry fingers swept over his empty shirt pocket. He stepped back as she reached for his pants pocket.
    "Come on. Out with it!" Earl brushed her hand away.

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    Late August, 1941, after working for Butler for just over a year, Earl was driving a fully loaded dumptruck to Unionville.
    He spotted Bobby Pelletier alongside the road, arm outstretched, thumb extended, and pulled over. Bobby ran up, waving.
    "Hey, Earl! I gotta catch a lift into town. Can I ride with you?" Earl tapped the top of the steering wheel.
    "Bobby, ole buddy, you know the rules. It's illegal to let minors ride." Bobby looked at him.
    "Come on! I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important! Let me ride, just this once. Please?" Earl looked skyward.
    "Okay..., but hurry, and keep down, so nobody sees you."
    Bobby climbed in. Earl checked his rearviews, then pulled onto the road. Bobby grinned, then began to talk his ear off.
    Driving along, absorbed in conversation, Earl was looking at him when the driver of a car, two cars ahead, slammed on his brakes to turn into a driveway. The elderly man in the car ahead of the truck, jammed on his brakes to keep from running into the turning car. Earl looked in the nick of time.

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    "Son..., you could be sentenced now. This would give you a record and I'd place you on probation.... You've never had a record, seem to be a clean-cut, hard-working fellow, so you have another choice, but I don't want your decision today."
    The judge paused, cleared his throat, then continued.
    "I understand Uncle Sam wants volunteers for the armed services.... Son, you've a choice..., probation and a record, or enlistment into the service of our country. I'll see you back here in two weeks for your response. Court is dismissed."

from Chapter Eleven - The Fifth Mission

    Twenty bombers flew out of Thurleigh toward their intended target, the Erla Works, a Ford factory in Antwerp, Belgium. Ross' crew of ten, counting himself, was ready. Earl scanned the skys from his turret, and talked to himself.
    "Squadron looks good and strong this morning. Neat, the way the light reflects across the sky..., real pretty." Nearing the target area, he watched for the enemy.
    "Had good action my last four missions.... What will they hit us with today? Well, it doesn't matter, 'cause I'm ready....
    "Bogies!!" Fighters were on them before they could reach the target and drop the load of bombs. The elite Luftwaffe hit hard. Earl counted seven fighters queuing up in front of them. Wings lit up as they came in. Folkerwolfes barrel rolled through the formation. Ross shouted into his headset.
    "Bogies, twelve-o'clock low! Get 'em, bellygunner!" Earl tracked, spun the turret, fired several bursts, and knocked two fighters from the sky. More came in from a direction that made him realize the guys up front were having trouble getting shots at them. Ross was counting on Hovekamp in the upper, and Earl in the lower turret, to make the shots. Earl lined one up.
    "Come 'n get it, ya Nazi bastard!" Bullets bounced off the rounded metal of the turret, shaking it with sharp vibrations.
    Relief swept through him when the fighter went down. The enemy knew the angle to use. Fighter after fighter came in, eleven and twelve o'clock level, disabling two engines. It was almost impossible to fire back because of interrupters on the guns, which kept crews from shooting props off of their own planes. Ross' B-17 lagged behind the formation.
    "Bogies, twelve o'clock high! Upper turret, why aren't you firing? Fire! We get the bastards off our backs, we'll go home tonight!" Hovekamp responded.
    "Can't, Sir! Vibration'll break the windshield!"
    "To hell with the windshield! I ordered you to fire!"
    Hovekamp laid the big guns down tight against the cockpit roof. The panels vibrated over Ross' and Gate's heads as he knocked two fighters from the sky. Ross bulled the nose of the plane up and down to give upper and lower gunners better advantage. He was out of formation, and the group behind them was too far back to give any cover.
    Communication between Benson, Ross, and Gates was uninterrupted until a twenty millimeter cannon shell exploded to Ross' left. It hit in the leading edge of the wing, leaving him no rudder, aileron, throttle, or intercom. Gates took over at his set of controls. Ross saw the formation make a left turn.
    "Only one way this bird's gonna catch up." He leaned toward Gates. "Left turn! Let's try to cut 'em off at the pass!"
    It became apparent..., there was no way of making this happen. Fear clutched at the lieutenant's stomach. He realized the Luftwaffe was about to have a field day.
    "We're losin' it, Ray!"
    "Not if I can help it," muttered Gates, bulling the nose up. Miller yelled into the intercom.
    "Take 'em down, Benson!" Earl downed the fighter.
    "Yeah! Way to go, rascal! Keep after the lousy bastards!" A twenty millimeter whizzed by Sid's ear, and exploded against the oxygen tank. Shouting erupted as Ross, Hovekamp, and Bowles were hit with schrapnel. Miller heard loud hissing as oxygen leaked from the big tank. It should've exploded, he knew that. He'd seen planes explode into a million pieces. Ross, stunned, a piece of skull ripped away, fell onto the control panel. The plane shuddered..., rolled, then dove.... straight down.

from Chapter Twelve - Revelations

    American prisoners were dismayed at the Germans' interpretations of the Geneva Convention. Each rare letter Earl got from home was censored, barely readable, and full of blacked out lines. His letters were cryptic: "This place reminds me of the beautiful spot on the hill on the right side of the road coming into Unionville. It has a big building, just like it, surrounded by vast green lawns." He was referring to the mausoleum and the cemetery.

from Chapter Thirteen - A Walk Through Freising

    The train stopped at Krems, Austria.

    Most of the prisoners stepped down from the cattle cars, but many were carried out. Earl climbed down and looked around the depot. A few civilian passengers, neatly dressed ladies and gentlemen, stood on the platform. When they saw prisoners urgently dropping their pants, and smelled the horrific odor of feces and the stench of vomit from the cattle cars and men, they covered their noses, and turned away in disgust.
    The prisoners were not welcome here. The filthy Americans were spat upon and cursed by passersby while being unloaded, and during their five mile force march up the road.

from Chapter Fifteen - Cats Have Nine Lives

    Spring arrived, with half-frozen mud and rain to stand in during roll calls. Disease ran rampant throughout the compounds. Earl became ill, felt feverish, and was so weak, he went to bed. He had trouble breathing.
    "Can't.... be.... sick. Get up, Benson...." He sat up, then collapsed. Gene carried him to the infirmary.
    "What seems to be the problem?" asked the doctor.
    "Throat's fulla crud..., hurts.... like hell..., can't breathe."
    The doctor peered into his throat, and saw it was full of thick pus nodules.
    "It's Diptheria.... I'll have to put you into isolation."
    Earl stared down at his hands.
    No...! God..., this can't be happening.... Isolation... is death... You make it out, fine. If not..., well, too bad, you die....
    "Try these pills.... Benson?" The doctor's voice floated into his thoughts, penetrating through fever and pain. Earl blinked, then looked up at him as he repeated, "Sergeant, I want you to take these sulfa pills. It's all I can give you." Earl stared at the doctor's face as he took the pills and a cup of water.
    "Oh, man! It's in your eyes, the way you said it..., I'm.... gonna die." He choked down the huge pills. As they made their way past the painful nodules, tears moistened his eyes.
    A guard was summoned. Earl was half-carried into a barracks which was encircled by strands of barbed wire. The smell of death encompassed him as he was put to bed.
    Days passed..., days that took him in and out of consciousness. Too ill to pray..., a mere shadow of a man..., skin and bones rattling and hacking inside an eighty pound body..., he waited for death. Night after long night, half conscious, he listened to men dying around him.
    "God..., if You're going to take me..., take me! But..., please..., don't do this to me.... Please....." He tried to lift his head, but couldn't..., the tears in his eyes were just too heavy.

from Chapter Sixteen - Just Which Side of the Fence

    April 10th, of 1945, the prisoners, under close guard, were force-marched out of Stalag XVII-B. The cleaned up saboteur now hid among the Americans.
    Most of the Russian prisoners had been ground troups. When the camp was evacuated, thirty-five to forty thousand Russians walked out.
    Every prisoner coming out of Stalag XVII-B was well aware he had a long, perilous trek ahead of himself. American and British troups were approaching from the west. Russian troups were coming in from the east. The Germans were caught in the middle; the prisoners at their mercy.
    As the men walked, day after day, in bitter cold sleet and snow, ears, noses, feet and hands froze. They got one bowl of soup and a slice of bread per day, but sometimes didn't get that.
    Several days passed. Sticks were found, helping men walk, until the wood was added to night fires. Frozen hands and feet thawed each evening and refroze each day.
    Almost another week passed. Walking, daylight to dusk, the group headed toward Braunau and the border of Bavaria by the Inn river, two hundred and eighty-seven miles from Krems.
    They were strafed with friendly fire by American, English, and Russian fighters. The Red Cross had indicated that prisoners were to wave their hats so everyone would know they were Americans. Everything happened so fast, that some flyers didn't get the word, and.... there were many casualties.
    Earl's friend, Gene, walked beside him. Halfway into the treacherous journey, at Linz, Austria, they were about to cross the Enns river bridge. As they approached, shells dropped by allied forces exploded around them. There was no turning back. Men screamed. Everyone ran, trying to get across the span.
    Earl got to the bridge as a bomb exploded, knocking him flat on his face. Blood curdling screams came from behind him.
    He raised and turned to look for Gene, who'd just been there..., right on his heels, but his friend was nowhere to be seen.
    Bloodied men rushed by, almost stepping on him. Some carried or dragged injured. Earl struggled to his feet.
    "Gotta find him!" Panicked men pushed by; more rushed at him, blocking his view. He ducked through them and..., saw Gene..., pinned..., like a rag doll on a clothesline, his limp, lifeless body hung on the side of a concrete building..., smashed against the wall by the same concussion that had knocked Earl down. Blood ran from ears, nose, and mouth. Eyes..., that moments before.... had been filled with hope and determination, now stared..., wide open in death.

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    Almost three weeks passed. Weeks filled with agonizing pain, discomfort, hunger, fear..., suffering. In no man's land, starving, half-frozen skeletons put one foot in front of the other.
    Many men..., too many..., have been killed each day.
    Others fall, and die on the road, too sick to endure another moment of torture. The Russian front is coming up the Danube Valley, and the prisoners from Stalag XVII-B are being force-marched right out in front of them. The prisoners have to move fast in order to avoid being caught in the middle of a heated battle between Russian and German forces, both of whom are pressed toward them by Patton's troups. Earl peers ahead and sees a large group of prisoners coming at them.
    The distance between them closes, then someone ahead of him says, "Gawd..., they're Jews!" Earl shadows his eyes.
     "They're going the wrong way." The group moves closer. He stumbles..., mouth falls open.

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Catalogue Information

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