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Falling Down for the Count

by Rebecca Sroda and Albert Williams

273 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1597; ISBN 1-4120-1219-8; US$27.50, C$32.40, EUR23.00, £16.00

Transport yourself back to WW II, through letters, journal entries, and telegrams, and feel the emotions of a young man as he joins the Army Air Corp and becomes a POW.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Falling Down for the Count is a fact based account of one enlisted man's experiences during WW II. Beautifully written letters, preserved by a loving mother of a large Italian-Welsh family give the reader a glimpse into daily life in the US Army Air Corp during two brutal years of WW II combat. Journal entries chronicle passage to England, missions on a B-17, and the awful truth about POW life at Stalag Luft I in Barth, Germany. Poems, diaries, and artful pen and ink drawings illustrate the tenacity and perseverance of the creative human spirit when forced to live in a hopeless situation. From beginning to end, the story captures and holds its audience, taking them on an emotionally charged armchair journey into WWII.

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About the Author Rebecca Sroda collaborated with her father to publish Falling Down for the Count to assure that the world would not lose this rich piece of WW II history. Since graduating from University of Michigan's Rackham Graduate School, she has taught at several colleges and universities, the last ten years at Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College in Asheville, North Carolina.

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Sample Excerpts

INTRODUCTION

8 years old:
"Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn."
"Where did you learn to talk like that, daddy?"
"From a prison camp guard."
"You went camping in prison?"
"A long time ago."

10 years old:
As soon as my teacher turned on the overhead lights, I returned to the comfortable reality of my 4th grade classroom and was immediately aware of the emergence of two intense emotions: embarrassment and confusion. The welling tears in my eyes embarrassed me because I was 10 years old and didn't want my classmates to see me cry. And I was confused because I couldn't understand why no one else seemed to have a heavy heart as they watched the film about the Holocaust. Some of the boys laughed because they saw naked bodies, but I had seen bodies with lost souls - bodies 2 seconds away from becoming carcasses. I imagined the smell of the wooden bed slats layered one on top of the other with barely any room to squeeze between and thought if I could concentrate on the rough feel of the wood against my fingers, I could keep my tears at bay. My fingernails cut deep into the pads of my thumbs as I felt the splinters penetrate my flesh. My troubled head was filled with unanswered questions: How did these people quell the ache of missing their families? What kept them from giving in or giving up? How could they maintain hope in such a depressive situation? Quite a heavy history lesson for a sensitive 10-year-old girl.

12 years old:
I was 12 years old when I learned my father wasn't the man I thought he was. The revelation came as I stood behind my mother who was seated in a chair at my Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ron's kitchen table, and listened to my father spin the tale of his capture, internment, and liberation from prison camp in Barth, Germany during WW II.

Every Christmas my parents visited their brothers and sisters to share in some holiday traditions and spirits. As kids, we didn't mind making the visits because it was a chance to play with cousins and their new toys and eat a lot of Christmas cookies. I'm not sure how the topic of my father's story was brought up that Christmas*whether it was the time of year that triggered his reminiscing or my uncle Ron asking about his experience, but, lucky for me, I happened to be there as the transformation of my father took place.

I stood and listened with weak knees to the tale of a 20- year-old man who answered a draft into the army air corps to defend his country, and do what he thought was right. After I heard his story, my father stopped being a regular guy and I never looked at him the same way again. He had attributes that were never there before: he was brave, hopeful, had stared down death and found strength in his soul to survive the omnipresent fear, hunger, and boredom known only to POWs.

Until that moment my father was just a regular guy, a man who rose each morning before the rest of the family to work a job as a resident engineer at Chrysler Motor Co. Everyday he returned home at 4:30, took a nap on the sofa with his hands folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. After eating dinner he would retreat to the solitude of a basement corner, sit on a stool, smoke a pipe, and contemplate -just what, we never knew.

In the following years, my father revealed more details and showed us souvenirs of his time spent as a prisoner of war. He had used his god-given artistic talent to occupy himself and create beautiful pictures of an ugly war. He was a prolific writer and keeper of diaries so without deliberate intention, had documented a part of history. His poems, pictures, and diaries captured us and took us to the camp in Barth, Germany, where he spent 166 days fueled by hope and the dream that one day he would return to the familiarity and comfort of his home and large family.

FIRST LETTER

January 30, 1943

Dear Ma,

Well, how is everybody back home? I hope you're not all freezing to death in the cold Michigan weather. Did you receive my telegram? Say hello to all the kids for me, and tell them to write. I'm taking advantage of this opportunity to write, due to the fact that they keep us so busy. I've been in the army exactly 15 days now.

As yet, I haven't been all through St. Petersburg, but will have more time later. It is one of the best and most beautiful summer resorts in Florida, so I'm told. The houses and hotels are clean and beautiful, or I should say spotless. It seems funny to see someone mowing a lawn this time of year instead of shoveling snow. And, I never saw so many tame squirrels in all my life.

The majority of the people down here are old and very nice. Their attitude toward the soldiers down here is swell. Most of the houses and hotels have palm trees in front of them, or some other kind of trees unknown to me. Even some of the restaurants have palm trees in front of their doorway, which make them look cool and inviting. At any rate the trees, flowers and shrubs are green all year around, unlike Michigan where there is a period of sparse and brown. I will tell you more about the city in my next letter.

I suppose you are wondering how I am and what I'm doing. I'm in the U.S. Air Corps. As yet I don't know what branch but I will know in a couple of weeks. I think that I was very fortunate to get sent down here. Today the temperature varied from 80 to 85 and I got a little sunburn. The food down here is better than that at Fort Custer. It hardly seems possible that just a few days ago we were marching in a foot of snow and now we are marching in shirtsleeves, so to speak. I have to keep pinching myself to see if I'm dreaming. I don't know when I have ever been so happy.

We are living in some of the best hotels in St. Petersburg. There are four soldiers to each room. We have our private bathroom, which includes a bathtub, medicine cabinet, etc. We also have a closet to hang our clothes. And, to top that off, a rug on the floor. There are four beds to a room and we each have a dresser for toilet articles and underwear. One of my roommates is Willie Schultz from Lakeview High School and the other two are from East Detroit. Chuck Crellin and Felix Galatioto are also down here but in a different hotel. They must have kept all the Michigan guys together.

Last nite our flight went to a boxing match. There is one every Friday nite. Of course they are only amateurs but it sure was thrilling.

Well, Ma, it's almost time for lights out, so I'll have to sign off, as I am pretty tired. Write soon, and don't forget to tell the kids to write.

Love,
No. 2 Son

August 24th, 1944 - Thursday
Well! What do you know? Today was my first mission. Finally! Little did I know what I was getting myself into. The target was Weimar, a suburb southwest of Leipzig, Germany. We flew ship 383, and dropped 10 - 500 lb. RDX bombs. The flak was moderate to intense, and we flew a 9 hr. mission, round trip. Before flying over the target, the group negotiated a 180 degree turn, coming in from the rear of the designated target so that when bombs are away, we are headed towards our home base. Good thinking!

We were flying due south of the target. I was stationed at the left waist position and had an excellent view of the sqd. ahead of us making their bomb run. The sky was black with bursting flak. Their Bombay doors were open. Just before bombs away, I saw one of the B-17's take a direct hit in the Bombay. What I saw next was a huge explosion, and a large ball of red, orange, and white flame. I blinked my eyes, and to my horror, I could see enormous chunks of the B-17 still in flames, plummeting towards earth. Nine good men gone in the blink of an eye. Dead! Blown to bits! I thought, My God! We have to go through that yet. I was so nervous with my stomach in a knot and my mouth dry. I was sweating and it's 50 below zero up there . There was nowhere I could hide. I looked around, Len Johnson was flying right waist and didn't even see it. I don't believe the tail gunner saw it either, nor the radio operator, nor the rest of the crew. If you weren't looking in the direction of the target at that instant, you would have missed it. I wished that I had looked somewhere else, in that brief moment. That terrible sight hasn't left me

Well, right then and there I wanted to go home to my mother. I asked myself, what am I doing up here? Why didn't I stay with the 322nd Sqd. in Westover Field, Mass. on the ground where it's safe? Hindsight!

My pilot banked to the left and made his 180- degree turn. In a matter of minutes we were on the bomb run. I could hear the flak bursting. It was awesome! When our Bombay doors were opened, I was so tense, waiting for a possible explosion. My pilot performed evasive action, trying to out guess the flak. The bursting flak buffeted our ship. Rays of sunshine streaked through the ship, where no sunshine was before. But only small holes so far. Suddenly, I heard over the intercom, "bombs away". What a relief! But we weren't out of it yet. Flak was still bursting about. After a few nervous minutes, the flak began to ease up. We had an oxygen check; everyone checked in, no one was wounded. Just lucky!

We were out of the range of the flak. Great! We still had to keep an eye out for enemy fighters, all the way to the coast, a long haul. Hours later, I saw the coastline ahead. We began our descent to a lower altitude, about 10,000 ft. over the North Sea. We took off our oxygen masks, and relaxed a little. Dick Seely, our tail gunner, left his position, as did Joe Geller, our ball turret gunner, and joined Len Johnson and me in the waist of the ship. We looked at one another, but said nothing. After all, we saw what Hell was like. Only 24 missions to go. Shit! On to debriefing and that much needed shot of whiskey.

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Catalogue Information

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