Trafford Publishing: 8 to 80

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8 to 80

by Dr. Glen Filberth

223 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0308; ISBN 1-55212-906-3; US$22.50, C$25.95, EUR18.50, £13.00

From an abusive stepfather to leaving home, to working as a transient freight train laborer, to being a cowboy, to working his way through college, this is 8 to 80, the true story of Dr. Glen Filberth. This riveting tale includes Filberth's memories of being a World War II bomber pilot, a prisoner of war in Hitler's Germany, and of starvation and extreme cold. Upon return to the United States, Filberth treated ailments as a physician.

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About the Book

8 to 80 is the true story of Glen Filberth, a man who was a Doctor, a wartime Bomber pilot, and a prisoner of war for over one year under brutal starving conditions. In youth he was an abused boy by a stepfather. Having a strong desire for a college education, Filberth braved traveling as a hobo on freight trains to obtain profitable work. He worked on western ranches, civilian conservation camps, and fought forest fires in the mountainous terrain of Idaho.
Finally, Filberth worked his way through college to obtain Doctorate Degrees in Naturopathy and Chiropractic. In WWII he enlisted as an Aviation Cadet for Pilot Training. His training in planes including the twin engine Fighter P-38. After getting his wings he was assigned to pilot a B-17 Bomber, until, after flying seven missions over Germany, he was shot down and became a POW. After more than a year of many abuses he was liberated and returned to the States to resume his Illinois-based natural healing practice. In 8 to 80 he tells of many successes in relieving and even curing many so-called incurable diseases, with diagnosis made by reputable clinics and physicians. This book includes letters from thosepatients.
He writes of his family life, their sports and experiences that were interesting. He writes of hunting, fishing, golf, bowling and water-skiing, and includes many pictures, depicting the lifestyle. Everything that he assumes would be interesting to the reader is included within 8 to 80.

About the Author

Dr. Glen W. Filberth lives in Lakeland, Florida. 8 to 80 is his life story.

Sample Chapters

Chapter 4
The Hoboes

    Next, I headed for Montana. I had written a letter to my mother's cousin Renzo Mumbower. We had been told he was a cattle rancher. I wrote him that I wanted to work as a cowhand or cowboy and that I would get to Montana when I could get there. "Help find me a job if you can't use me."
    I had read every Zane Grey novel that I could get and I wanted experience that would possibly help me to write western novels. I had won a county contest on an essay that I had written, and hoped some day I could write western novels. I was willing to take some knocks for experience. I was really a bit scared at my adventures but knew I had to do something to learn about the world.
    I began by having quite a new experience riding freight trains and living the life of a hobo. I was too proud to beg for food, so for the next ten days I ate very little.
    I left uncle Ed's hitchhiking to Galesburg, Illinois and caught a freight train to Burlington, Iowa. There, I found an open boxcar on the C B & Q railroad and got in with three hoboes going to Burlington, Iowa. I started a conversation with my fellow travelers. Some hoboes don't talk much, but they could tell that I was new at this, and asked me. "How long have you been riding the rails?"
    I was glad to talk to someone, and answered their question. "I'm just starting, so I don't know anything about it yet." They never said anything more for a while.
    Eventually they decided to educate me and also learn where I was planning to go. One of them asked me, "Where are you going and why are you riding the rails?"
    I quickly responded. "I am going to Montana to work on a ranch. I can't afford any other way and I want the experience." They agreed and I could tell that they liked me. They started to teach me some hobo lingo and to tell me the best way to select the best trains, called manifests, for long fast trips with greater distance and fewer stops.
    They explained, "A manifest only stops at what is called a division point some times three to five hundred miles apart. If you catch a local freight it stops at every little jerk water town. We are on a manifest for Omaha, Nebraska."
    We talked for some time. They said we could lie in one end of the boxcar and go to sleep if we wanted to. I wasn't sleepy, so I sat at the door and looked out at the country side. The other hoboes ("Bo's") went to sleep for quite a while.
    When we got near Omaha, they gave me a little advice on staying clear of the "bulls," as they called the railroad detectives. One of them said, "Son, in Omaha the bulls are really mean." I soon found their advice helpful. I later met two hoboes. One was beaten up real bad by a bull, while catching a freight train for Lincoln, Nebraska They advised me to take a local to Lincoln and not to try the manifest. This was because a bull would usually ride the manifests out about six miles and beat up, or throw any hobo off the train. As the train slowed going up a grade about six miles out, the bull would hop off.
    I stayed with these hoboes and caught a local. It was slow, and stopped at every siding, leaving cars or picking up box cars. Finally, we got into Lincoln, Nebraska. We got off the train at the edge of the freight yards. We learned early to walk to the other end of the yards, at any division point, in order to catch the train. We could walk through the yards but we should never get on a train unless in an open boxcar except when it is pulling out. The "highball" signal was two full whistles from the engine starting to leave the division point. This was the instructions given me by my first three hobos in route to Omaha.
    We were able to evade any contact with the bulls in Lincoln. We caught the train we wanted to, in spite of its reputation of having a lot of very tough bulls. We rode the train to Hastings, Nebraska and got off, before we were put off by the bulls.
    I went to the "Hobo Jungles" where there were about fifty hoboes. The Jungles was a place where hoboes gathered to cook up stews, wash their clothes, and exchange stories and experiences about hobo travel.
    This was my first time to meet the hobo known by all hoboes as "The King of The Hoboes." He was a tall, lanky man of middle age and spoke with leadership, which all hoboes accepted.
    I was invited to share in a cook up of hobo stew, which I thought was the best stew I had ever tasted. It was the first meal I had had since leaving Galesburg, Illinois. I had not contributed to its contents. I soon learned it was my expected duty to mooch, beg, get bread, meat, or beans for the next cook up.
    I had never begged or asked for a handout before. One of the Bo's saw me, as I went behind a boxcar. I was trying to get out a one dollar bill, which I had hidden in the hem of my trousers, under my belt.
    I went to a grocery store and bought a loaf of bread. When I returned to the jungles and gave my loaf of bread as my contribution to the next meal, one of the hoboes felt to see how soft the bread was. He declared that I had purchased it, because the bread was too fresh for any store to just give it to me. He announced me as being some sort of a traitor, or rich kid with money, and too much pride to ask for a handout. I then became afraid of my associates.
    Next day we were gathered around the campfire, in the jungles, with The King of The Hoboes. We were discussing how we were getting out of Hastings. The bulls had declared that they would force us to walk or hitchhike, and that no one was riding a freight train out.
    The King of The Road said he was going to go to the head bull and confront him. When he returned, he said that all of us who were going West, were going to go with him. He was certain that we could get in a boxcar on the next manifest. He said he had told the bull that he had better permit us to leave on this train, or be prepared to shoot all of us. He also told him that we would get him if he started any trouble. We all loaded into the open boxcar without any confrontation. We all learned respect for the King of the Hoboes. He was truly a leader to respect.
    While I was with this group on our way to North Platte, Nebraska, the hobo that had seen me getting the dollar bill from my trousers was sticking too close to me. I wanted to get separated from him before I would get high-jacked or robbed. It was not uncommon among the hoboes to be robbed when they found someone with money.
    In North Platte, I caught a local freight. I'll never forget this hobo trying to stop me and hollering that that was not my train. I never saw him again. Thank goodness! However, I again saw the King in the Jungles of Laurel, Montana.
    I got to Valier, Montana, with seventy-five cents left in my pocket. I walked the last thirty miles. I had been sidetracked at a siding, about thirty miles short of my destination. I walked on ranch roads and sometimes across fields. I inquired, of the ranchers I met, about work. One rancher told me, "I will hire you in about three weeks, as a rider on a cattle drive. I am trailing a herd about sixty miles north, to graze up near Glacier National Park during the summer months. I will pay you forty-five dollars a month, and you will eat from the chuck wagon, and sleep in a sleeping bag. I will sell, or loan you a horse and saddle with a lariat rope and chaps & spurs and needed clothing."
    I told him, "That is wonderful for me and I will be back in three weeks. I will need to have you take from my pay what I will owe you for my needed equipment if that is OK with you."

Chapter 23
World War II - Flying Missions Overseas

    Our first mission came up. We were given the first position of our squadron, about the safest position from enemy attack. It was a long mission, over most of Germany.
    There was heavy cloud cover over our primary target in Germany, so we turned to our secondary target. It was also under heavy cloud cover. We were flying at a low level for the B-17's, about thirteen thousand feet, and were getting a lot of anti-aircraft flak and some attacks from German fighters. My position was helpful, allowing us to get fewer hits than the other bombers in our group. We had received twenty-nine hits of flak, but nothing crippling.
    Finally, we heard an announcement! With our primary and secondary targets being under cloud cover, we were to bomb the Port of Stettin. We bombed in formation. We were at eleven-thousand feet. Our bombardier toggled with the other bombers. When we turned away from the bomb drop, we felt an updraft, and went up about one thousand feet. We didn't know why we had felt the updraft until we returned to the base. We had hit a munition's factory, causing a terrible explosion, that killed over one thousand workers. Our plane, Brown Nose, had twenty-nine holes to repair.
    Upon returning to base and having a coffee cup of Scotch whiskey, we were interrogated.
    For being our first mission, it had been long and hard. Out of 21 planes in our group, we had lost three. We had flown for eleven hours and ten minutes. My eyes were bloodshot from flying into the sun all day. What a tough initiation it had been to wartime bombing. Not being a talented writer I can't begin to describe the inner feeling that I had at this time. I was trained to expect war conditions and it was still a very rough adaptation for me to make. I loved our country and respected our military enough to be obedient to what ever they commanded us to do. I could see that I was committed to give my life and at this time it seemed that this is what would happen. I could only trust my life to the All Mighty.
    Our second mission was easy as we had no battle damage. After our second mission, I had a notice on my bunk that the flight surgeon wanted to see me. I wondered why, so I went to his office. He told me that he had a request from a colonel at another base that he was looking for a chiropractor. Through a record search, he had found that I was one. The colonel had a sciatic condition that had only responded to chiropractic in the past. He asked me, "Would you give him a treatment?"
    I answered, "I would be glad too, and I am glad to be asked."
    Our flight surgeon gave the colonel a call, and he came to the flight surgeon's office. I checked him over and gave him an adjustment. The colonel was pleased, and I told him I was happy to be asked to help him.
    Our third mission was to bomb Hamm, Germany. It was a tough mission, with so much flak that you could almost walk on it. We'd feel it hit, but it never affected the flight characteristics of our well-built plane. We returned to England with only one plane lost.
    Our fourth mission was called a milk run. A very easy mission. It was just over the French coast of Paude de Calais. It became famous, later in the war, for our invasion forces. Anyway, it felt good to get another mission and still be alive and flying.
    Our next mission was to be the "Big B," which meant Berlin, although it was on the outskirts of Berlin. We were carrying a bombay full of leaflets. I can never forget reading one of those leaflets. Although I could not read German, the headlines read, "WO EST DE LUFTWAFT?" We were asking the Germans to come up and fight. I didn't want to see them, but our job was to get the German fighters shot down before our invasion. We dropped two casket-sized boxes of these leaflets which exploded in the air and drifted all over Berlin.
    Our fighter craft always did a good job when they got into a dog-fight with the Germans. We lost some planes, but we were very successful shooting the Germans fighter planes down. Our fighter craft were superior to the Germans. and our fighter pilots were wonderful. I was so envious of them because I so much wanted to be a fighter pilot, especially when we would have P-38s in our escort.
    We had many flak holes in our plane, but returned to England for instructions for our sixth mission. Mission number six was not a milk run but we received no battle damage to our plane.
    After finishing six missions (one fifth of my thirty), I felt a bit lucky. I remember writing a letter to my brother-in-law. I wrote, "I think I might make it through my thirty missions." I also told him if I was M.I.A. (Missing In Action), I'd probably be a P.O.W. (Prisoner Of War), and to assure my wife and family that I wasn't going to die easily. Furthermore, as I had lost my luck at gambling recently, that was supposed to be in my favor.
    I had lost my shoe box full of English notes. I had loaned four-hundred pounds ($1,600.00) to a crew of officers in our squadron. They had already finished ten missions and were given a leave for "R&R" (Rest & Relaxation). I had already won so much of everyone's money. I was ashamed, and afraid my luck would turn against me in my future missions.
    Our seventh mission was to drop fragmentation bombs over an airfield near Oberhoffenpoffen, Germany, where there were many Messerschmitts. It was a long distance from our base in England, but not far from our 17th air corps of bombers in Italy. It was difficult for us to understand, but we were not supposed to understand. We were briefed on our mission and would fly it.
    We made up our formation. As we were crossing over the enemy coast into Germany, I had an intuition of enemy flak. I spread out a little from the formation. Almost instantly, a burst of anti-aircraft came between my plane and the plane on my right. The flak burst was right where I would have been if I hadn't moved out a bit. I was always praying during that time, and I thanked God for helping me. We felt battle damage, but nothing critical.
    We had other flak along the way. We were very near our target, when I noticed a great number of planes at ten oclock high. I assumed they were our fighter support, since we hadn't seen any of our fighter escorts for a long time. At this point, we were expecting our P-51's for support. At a distance, these planes could be ours.
    A short time later, I saw four P-51's flying toward the great number of planes above us and realized that they were the German's! ME-109's. It seemed only seconds before the whole wing of ME-109's were attacking our bombers. We were on our bomb run and not allowed any evasive action maneuvers. It was terrible! I had one plane come directly at ours, so close that I thought he would fly into us. He shot us up pretty badly.
    I saw the plane on my right blow up in mid-air and disintegrate. The plane in front, and higher than us, was bailing out. We feared that we might hit someone in the air. It seemed the world in which we lived was gone. We had gone over our target zone, and only a few planes were in sight. It looked as if we had all been shot down. I had been busy feathering engine number one. Engine number three and four were running, but could not be controlled. Engine number four was running wild, and was not responsive to controls. Our group and squadron were gone. We were flying by ourselves! There is no way of describing my emotions which I felt at this time. I was working too hard to realize my fears and feelings. I had to think of what would be next for me to do. I knew we were in deep, bad trouble! Our group and our squadron were gone, we were flying by ourselves!

Catalogue Information