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Goodwill in Wartime by Chris Gibbons

It was December 20, 1943, just five days before Christmas, and the 21 year-old pilot of American B-17F bomber Ye Olde Pub, First Lieutenant Charles “Charlie” Brown, was desperately trying to keep his heavily damaged plane aloft in the skies over Germany.

As recently chronicled in the 2012 award winning book, “A Higher Call” by Adam Makos (with Larry Alexander), the Pub had just completed its bombing run of a Focke-Wulf airplane manufacturing plant in the German city of Bremen, but it was attacked by a swarm of Messerschmitt fighter planes, as well as ground based anti-aircraft guns. The crew fought back as best they could, and even shot down one of the German fighters, but they clearly absorbed the worst of the fight. The bomber’s nose, wings, and fuselage were riddled with gaping holes, and it was leaking oil and hydraulic fluid. Half of its rudder was missing, and one of its engines was out. When Brown asked for a damage report, one of the crew replied, “We’re chewed to pieces.”

Nearly half the members of the Pub’s crew were wounded, their blood splattered throughout the interior of the bomber. The ball turret gunner, Hugh “Ecky” Eckenrode, was dead, his body slumped over the machine gun. His dripping blood formed icicles in the freezing air that now rushed in through the shattered turret’s Plexiglas.

At one point, Brown told his crew that he was going to try to fly the damaged bomber back to England, but he gave them the option to bail out while they were still flying over land. They all decided to stay with their commander. Brown knew that their chances of making it back were slim, but he still had hope.

As the bomber limped towards the North Sea, a dark shape just off the right wing of the B-17 caught Brown’s attention. He looked through the cockpit window and was terrified by what he saw. It was a German Messerschmitt Bf-109 fighter plane, piloted by Luftwaffe ace Franz Stigler. The fighter plane was so close that Brown could clearly see Stigler’s face. The co-pilot of the B-17, Spencer ”Pinky” Luke, said, “My God, this is a nightmare.” Brown responded, “He’s going to destroy us.”

When Stigler initially encountered the B-17, he was prepared to fire. He was not only just one more air victory from qualifying for the prestigious Knight’s Cross, but Stigler also sought vengeance for his older brother August, who had been killed earlier in the war.

But as he closed on the stricken bomber and surveyed the damage, he couldn’t believe that it was still flying. Stigler could clearly see the dead tail gunner and his blood stained jacket. The holes in the fuselage were so large that he could even see the Pub’s crew caring for the wounded.

Stigler, a Catholic who once studied to be a priest, placed his hand on his jacket pocket and felt the rosary beads that were inside. His thoughts turned to his brother, and he also remembered the words of his former commander, legendary German Luftwaffe fighter ace Gustav Rodel, who once told him: “You follow the rules of war for you — not your enemy. You fight by rules to keep your humanity.” Stigler decided that he could not shoot and “would not have this on my conscience for the rest of my life.”

Stigler pulled up alongside the bomber and tried to get Brown’s attention. He was waving his hands and mouthing the word “Sweden” in an attempt to get the American pilot to land his severely damaged aircraft there, as Sweden was a neutral country and only 30 minutes away. But Brown and Luke couldn’t understand what Stigler was doing. They still thought that he was going to attack, and were determined to go down fighting. Brown ordered one his gunners to prepare to fire.

Finally realizing that the Americans would never understand, Stigler saluted Brown and said “Good luck, you’re in God’s hands.” Brown was puzzled, and the image of Stigler saluting him before he peeled away stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Fortunately, the crew of Ye Olde Pub made it back to England that day and survived the remainder of the war. Brown eventually married, raised two daughters, and worked for the State Department for many years before retiring to Florida. But that day in 1943 always haunted him. In the 1980’s, Brown started to have nightmares about the incident, and decided to try and find the German pilot. He diligently searched military records, attended pilot reunions, and placed an ad in a newsletter for former German WW II pilots with the story of what happened.

Stigler, who moved to Canada in 1953, saw the ad and sent Brown a letter in 1990, letting him know that he was the German pilot who spared his crew. As Brown read the letter, tears streamed down his cheeks. When the two finally met in a Florida hotel lobby, they embraced and wept.

Franz and Charlie became great friends, went on fishing trips together, attended military reunions together, and spoke at schools and other events. Charlie even organized a reunion of the crew of Ye Olde Pub that was featured in a CBS This Morning segment in which a video was played for Franz showing pictures of the children and grandchildren of the crew. The message to Franz was obvious, and he broke down in tears. “The war cost him everything,” Makos said. “Charlie Brown was the only good thing that came out of World War II for Franz. It was the one thing he could be proud of.”

Franz Sigler died in March 2008, and Charlie died just 8 months later. Franz once gave Charlie a book with a note he had written on the inside cover, and his words not only reveal his love for Charlie, but also serve as a reminder to all of us of the true meaning of Christmas:

In 1940, I lost my only brother as a night fighter. On the 20th of December, 4 days before Christmas, I had the chance to save a B-17 from her destruction, a plane so badly damaged it was a wonder that she was still flying. The pilot, Charlie Brown, is for me, as precious as my brother was. Thanks Charlie.

Your Brother,

Franz

AFTERWORD

A friend of mine, Pat Mundy, gave me the book, “A Higher Call”, and said “You must read this book. It’s an amazing story and right up your alley.” Pat was right. It truly is a fantastic book that chronicles one of the most incredible war stories I’ve ever come across. An e-mail I received from an Inquirer reader eloquently captured my feelings about the bond shared by Charlie and Franz, as well as my hopes for all of humanity: “Your essay reminds us of our immense capability for love and compassion, but also of our immense capability for savagery, a duality recognized by Abraham Lincoln in his first inaugural address: ‘We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.’ Here’s hoping the ‘better angels of our nature’ prevail for all in the coming year. Merry Christmas.”

More stories of World War II veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and the Korean War, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:

The Bridge by Chris Gibbons

(Edited version originally published in the November 27, 2016 Philadelphia Inquirer)

“The darkest night is often the bridge to the brightest tomorrow.” (Jonathan Lockwood Huie)

I was barely awake on that recent mid-summer morning as I started to read the text from Ed, one of my closest childhood friends. It had been sent hours before, while I slept. My heart raced faster as I read each word. “Oh my God!”, I uttered. My wife sat up in bed, alarmed by the pained expression on my face. “What?! What is it?!”, she asked. I was still trying to comprehend what I was reading and couldn’t respond. “It’s….it’s Ed’s little daughter, Julia. She was rushed to the hospital. She’s really sick. Something in her brain.” I immediately called Ed, completely forgetting that it was 5am in Los Angeles. As we spoke, for the first time in the 48 years that I’ve known him, I sensed fear in his voice.

In the days and weeks following that call, I couldn’t stop thinking about the terrible anxiety and heartache that Ed and his family were enduring, and how life, at times for all of us, can seem so difficult and unfair. I was occasionally overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness in knowing that my friend and his family were struggling and there was nothing that I could do.

It was also during this time that “The Bridge” seemed to be reaching out to me. Although I’ve driven over the bridge at Henry and Valley Avenues in Roxborough hundreds of times in the last 40 years, I hadn’t really given much thought to the teenage years that I’d spent there with Ed and the other guys from our “crew”. But now it seemed that each time I drove over it, something seemed to seep within my sub-conscience, a faint message tantalizingly close to clarity, yet elusive as the wind. Maybe it was just simple nostalgia, or perhaps little Julia’s struggle triggered in me that innate desire, shared by many of us, to return to a simpler time when there was no fear, a time when the pressures wrought by the complexities of life didn’t seem to exist, a time when Ed and I had yet to cross over the threshold from adolescence into adulthood. I cannot say. But something linked to the bridge seemed to be calling out to me with an indistinct message that lay just beyond the periphery of my understanding. I decided to go back to the bridge to see if I could find what that message may be.

As I walked towards the bridge on that hot summer day I wasn’t really sure of what I was looking for or what I’d find, but the memories of my days there suddenly flooded back. I remembered that people in the surrounding neighborhood thought that it was strange that my buddies and I “hung out” under a bridge, and called us “trolls”. We weren’t offended by the name, and actually reveled in the unique identity it created for us. The bridge had a 50 foot x 15 foot leveled, compacted-dirt ledge directly underneath its northern side with a 9 foot floor to ceiling headroom. It became our sanctuary that not only shielded us from the wind, rain, and snow, but also temporarily safeguarded our carefree teen spirit from the ever encroaching world of adulthood and responsibility.

I bounded down the old path that led underneath the bridge and my nostalgic visit to the past quickly became a sobering meeting with the present. It seemed darker and colder than I remembered. Spray-painted, bubble-letter graffiti, commonly found on old Philadelphia warehouse buildings, now adorned the walls. It also appeared that someone was living there as a chair was positioned in front of a still-smoldering fire-pit. There was an old coat, fast-food trash, jugs of water, and a large plastic container strewn around the dirt ledge. All remnants of our days there were gone, and my positive memories of the place where lifelong friendships had been forged were now tarnished by what it had become. It felt strange, yet oddly familiar, and as I looked at the empty chair, I couldn’t help but view it as an ominous warning of a life that may have been.

I walked up the path from underneath the bridge that day, convinced that there was no hidden message to be found there, but as I looked out onto Henry Avenue, I immediately noticed something very odd – there were no cars on the usually bustling roadway. In that silent, surreal moment, I looked across the empty bridge towards the other side, and realized for the first time just how sharply it curved around the bend. You couldn’t see what was on the other side of the bend, or where the road led – just like life.

It was then that I finally understood the elusive message: rather than being a sanctuary, the bridge was akin to a damp cellar in which we hid. It was only when we emerged from underneath it, and traveled on the road above it, did all of us finally reach the unique destinations that awaited us. Many of us were fortunate enough to bring new lives into this world, which brought great joy and meaning to our journeys. But Julia’s plight embodied the fear and heartache that can sometimes accompany us as we travel on the road of life. The key is to confront and overcome these obstacles, rather than try to escape from them.

Thankfully, the news from Julia’s doctors gradually improved with each passing day. It turns out that she has an AVM, a tangle of abnormal blood vessels connecting arteries and veins in her brain, but Julia’s case is highly treatable and she’s expected to make a full recovery. The last time that I spoke to Ed, the fear in his voice was gone and I was proud of the way he and his wife, Adrianna, bravely confronted what has to be every parent’s nightmare.

I drove over the bridge recently, and noticed thin wisps of smoke drifting up from below. It curled up and over the bridge, momentarily morphing into the ghostly apparitions of young boys and drifting far up into the sunlit sky until gradually fading away. I watched it disappear as I crossed the bridge, and rounded the bend, towards whatever destination awaited me on the other side.

AFTERWORD

As I write this in January, 2020, I’m happy to report that Julia has recovered quite well over these last 3 ½ years, and, now a vibrant, young teenager, is doing just fine. In regards to the Bridge, some of my friends thought that I was a bit too harsh in my assessment of it (ie:”… rather than being a sanctuary, the bridge was akin to a damp cellar in which we hid.”), as they have many fond recollections of our days and nights spent there. I have great memories of it as well, but metaphorically speaking, I still believe that the Bridge represented the path that we had to take in order to cross that sometimes scary gulf separating adolescence and adulthood. My friends and I temporarily stopped our journey, and went under the Bridge until we were ready to cross it. Looking back, perhaps I was a bit harsh – because we sure did have a lot of fun there before it was time to go!

More stories of growing up in Philadelphia, as well as the harrowing stories of America’s war veterans, and the triumphs of space exploration can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:

When the Bulge Almost Broke by Chris Gibbons

(Edited version published in the December 16, 2004 Philadelphia Daily News)

The light snow fell steadily in the Ardennes Forest of southern Belgium during the early morning hours of December 16, 1944. The American soldiers stationed in the area slept soundly that night as the prevailing opinion among the Allies was that the German army was in complete disarray and couldn’t possibly regroup to mount an offensive of any significance. At 5:30am that morning, the stunned U.S. 1^st Army division soon found out how badly they had miscalculated.

Eight German armored divisions and thirteen infantry divisions launched an all out attack. It was the beginning of what came to be known as The Battle of the Bulge, the largest land battle of World War II in which the United States participated. Hitler’s plan was to trap the Allied troops in Holland and Belgium, and push to the key Belgian port city of Antwerp. He believed that the alliance between the U.S. and Britain was already fragile, and that this new offensive would further split the relationship, thus buying him more time to develop his secret weapons and rebuild his depleted and exhausted army. Hitler’s plan was dependent upon speed and extended bad weather to keep the Allied air forces grounded. Hitler also believed he had history on his side as it was in the Ardennes that he launched his successful surprise attack against France only 4 years earlier.

The initial hours of the attack were wildly successful for the Germans. U.S. Army units were surrounded or destroyed by the fast moving Wermacht, and large numbers of G.I.’s were surrendering. Sergeant Ed Stewart of the 84^th infantry recalled the initial chaos and fear among the Americans. “The screaming sound of 288s, which was a major artillery on the part of the Germans, is absolutely frightening, it’s a nightmare”, he said. It seemed that Hitler’s impossible gamble just might succeed.

However, on December 17 the Germans made a fatal mistake. On a road leading to the Belgian town of Malmedy, SS troops committed one of the worst atrocities of the war. Some 86 American POW’s were shot in a snow covered field. Those that tried to crawl away were shot as well. However, some did escape and as word spread of the massacre, the tide began to turn as determined and enraged American soldiers, some cut-off from their units and completely surrounded, began to take the initiative and refused to surrender.

82^nd Airborne staff sergeant Ted Kerwood of New Jersey was one such soldier. His unit was quickly rushed in to the battle, and as they approached a bridge in the Belgian town of Bielsaim on Christmas Eve, they noticed a column of German tanks and infantry quickly closing to cross the bridge. A volunteer was needed to run down and set explosives to blow the bridge before the enemy crossed it. Ted said that he would do it. “We just had to go up there and take care of the situation”, Ted told me in a recent interview. “You’re not really scared until after it’s over. You just have a job to do, and you do it.” Kerwood was awarded the Silver Star for his actions that day. The fierce resistance of the U.S. 28^th, 106^th,and 101^st divisions was also a key factor in delaying the German advance. But the most famous example of U.S. resolve occurred in the town of Bastogne, where the surrounded U.S. troops refused to yield to superior German forces. The stunned Germans were told to “go to hell” when they requested the Americans to surrender.

The tenacious defense across the battlefield by the American soldiers soon caused the German advance to slow, and ultimately signaled defeat for Hitler. As the German offensive ground to a halt, it was destroyed by superior Allied airpower when the weather cleared in late December.

This Christmas Eve, be thankful for the many blessings that we sometimes take for granted. Remember that 60 years ago on this date, in the freezing cold of the Ardennes Forest, a determined group of American soldiers helped to ensure the freedom we have today. They spent that Christmas Eve wondering whether it would be their last, and for many of them it was. During this holiday season, take a moment to remember the veterans of this battle, and those who gave their lives, and raise a glass in salute. Remember, that the likes of these men may never be seen again.

This article is dedicated to the memory of Battle of the Bulge veteran Lawrence W. Summers of Roxborough.

Surviving War and the Bitter Cold by Chris Gibbons

70 years ago this month, Philadelphia’s Ed Aversa was among the 1st Marine Division soldiers who were hopelessly outnumbered and surrounded at Korea’s Chosin Reservoir. Their legendary fight for survival during a blizzard is now regarded as the Marine Corps’ ‘Finest Hour’. (Originally published in the November 26, 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer)

It was late November 1950, and the biting wind and snow relentlessly swirled around the 1^st Division Marines at the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea as they desperately fought their way south towards the American held town of Hagaru. Marine Corporal Ed Aversa from the Roxborough section of Philadelphia, began to wonder if he’d make it out of Chosin alive. In the midst of an unprecedented Siberian cold front that gripped the Korean peninsula, as temperatures plummeted to minus 30 degrees, the Chinese had launched a massive, surprise assault against the U.N. forces in North Korea. One of their main objectives was to encircle, and then annihilate, the Marines at Chosin. Although Ed, still spry and feisty at 87 years old, thought that he might die at Chosin, he wasn’t going down without a fight. He smiled at me as he echoed the famous words of his heroic Division Commander, Oliver Smith: “We weren’t retreating, we were just fighting in a different direction.”

But when I pressed him for more details of the battle, his smile quickly faded, and his eyes glazed over as a haunting memory of what he witnessed during the worst of the fighting seeped back into mind. “When we first arrived at Chosin”, Ed recalled, “a truck backed up to the cargo plane we just got off of. It was loaded with dead Marines…naked….not a stitch of clothing on them. Frozen bodies in all different positions. They were so unprepared for the winter, for what happened, that they stripped them of their clothes so they could re-use them. One of our officers said ‘Gentlemen, we are here for one reason now – to survive’.”

In the chaotic days following the Chinese attack, with the army of U.N. forces commander Douglas MacArthur in full-scale retreat, the senior military leaders in Washington ineptly struggled to deal with the crisis. David Halberstam’s brilliant book on the Korean War, “The Coldest Winter” revealed that as MacArthur began to unravel, incoherently mumbling to his aides while refusing to heed the advice from Washington, the Joint Chiefs meekly sat “around waiting for someone else to do something”. But with American soldiers dying by the hundreds each day, there was one senior officer who was outraged by Washington’s impotence and “vacuum of leadership”: General Matthew B. Ridgway. Halberstam detailed a meeting that took place with the Joint Chiefs on December 3^rd that very likely led to the eventual decision to replace MacArthur with Ridgway. It was “another long meeting where, in Ridgway’s mind, they were unable to issue an order…Finally, Ridgway asked for permission to speak and then – he wondered later whether he had been too blunt – said that they had all spent too much damn time on debate and it was time to take some action. They owed it to the men in the field, he said, ‘and to the God to whom we must answer for those men’s lives to stop talking and to act’. When he finished, no one spoke.” When the meeting concluded, Ridgway asked Air Force Chief of Staff, Hoyt Vandenberg, “Why don’t the Chiefs send orders to MacArthur and tell him what to do?” Vandenberg shook his head. “What good would that do? He wouldn’t obey the orders. What can we do?” Ridgway then exploded. “You can relieve any commander who won’t obey orders, can’t you?!”

The drama unfolding in Washington paled in comparison to the fierce fight being waged by the Marines at Chosin. Fortunately for them, a brilliant tactical decision made in the weeks prior to the Chinese surprise attack by 1^st Marine Division commander, Oliver P. Smith, not only enabled the Marines to escape encirclement, but to also inflict heavy casualties on the marauding enemy soldiers. “Oliver Smith was a smart man, and a good general”, Ed said. In early November, Smith expressed concern with his orders to continue heading north towards the Chinese border because he believed that his Marines were walking into a carefully planned and deadly trap. His request to slow their advance was denied by MacArthur, but, unbeknownst to his superiors, Smith cleverly left supplies and established airfields along their route so that they could fight their way out if his instincts were right.

Ed recalled one particular night of intense combat during their withdrawal from Chosin. “An officer said, “anything moving – hit it. They (the Chinese troops) were 20 yards in front of us, and we didn’t know they were there. Then, all of a sudden, they started with the noise – bugles, whistles – anything to try and rattle us. They didn’t know that every Marine was wide awake waiting for them. When daylight came, their dead were everywhere…only 15 yards away…frozen.” As the fighting withdrawal continued, what initially appeared to be a disaster for the Marines, is now regarded as one of their greatest military moments. “When we got to Hagaru, (Marine 1^st Regiment commander) Chesty Puller was standing there with his pipe in his mouth”, Ed recalled, “He said ‘A lot of boys went up that hill, but a lot of men coming down now’.” When the battle finally concluded in mid-December, the Chinese had succeeded in driving the Marines out of Chosin, but at a terrible cost. Although the Marines were outnumbered 8-1, and sustained over 11,000 casualties, U.N. estimates show that Chinese casualties were a staggering 40,000 to 80,000. Chinese General Song Shi-Lun offered his resignation. Unfortunately for Shi-Lun, Ed and his fellow Marines didn’t go down without a fight.

Today, Ed is extremely proud to count himself among the “Chosin Few”, those Marines who stunningly turned certain annihilation into one the most remarkable feats of courage and survival in the annals of military history. He told me that when he looks at how far South Korea has come since the war, he almost can’t believe it’s the same country he left in 1951. “When I first arrived, I thought, what is this place, and what the hell are we doing here? But I look at the country now, and I’m proud of what we did. And the Korean people and the Korean government have not forgotten us.”

In my short time with Ed, I learned that he does not seek recognition, and prefers to keep his emotions in check. Perhaps his most endearing quality is his sense of humor. Following my interview, I put on my coat and said, “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.” Ed shot me a sarcastic look and replied, “When someone says it’s getting cold, I just give ‘em a look and say, ‘Really?’”

More stories of Korean War veterans, as well as veterans of World War I and World War II, can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:

Book Publication: Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life

My new book, Soldiers, Space and Stories of Life, is now available for purchase in Kindle format at Amazon (link below). It will be available in book/print format by mid-August at my publisher’s website, and then in book/print format at Amazon in early September.

The Souls of Dachau by Chris Gibbons

One of the most infamous concentration camps of World War II was Dachau. This is the story of two Philadelphians who were there the day that Dachau was liberated: one a soldier, the other a prisoner.

Originally published in the April 26, 2015 Philadelphia Inquirer.

Ernie Gross (l) and Don Greenbaum in 2014. Photo courtesy of the Holocaust Awareness Museum and Education Center in Philadelphia.

“All the Dachaus must remain standing. The Dachaus, the Belsens, the Buchenwalds, the Auschwitzes – all of them. They must remain standing because they are a monument to a moment in time when some men decided to turn the Earth into a graveyard. Into it they shoveled all of their reason, their logic, their knowledge, but worse of all, their conscience. And the moment we forget this, the moment we cease to be haunted by its remembrance, then we become the gravediggers.” (Rod Serling’s ending narration for Twilight Zone episode “Deaths Head Revisited”)

On the day the Americans came, it was a Sunday, and unseasonably cold for late April. So cold, in fact, that just a few days later a light snow would fall. Current Philadelphia resident, Ernie Gross, was only 15 years old and had just been imprisoned at Dachau that morning. Weak and resigned to his fate, Gross told me that he was simply “standing in line outside of the crematory waiting to die.”

As detailed in Dachau Liberated: The Official Report of the U.S. 7^th Army, a few of the inmates from the east side of the compound suddenly noticed a lone American soldier at the edge of a field outside the camp, and he was running towards the gate. Then, more U.S. 42^nd Division soldiers appeared behind him. Unaware of what was happening outside the gate, Gross was puzzled when “all of a sudden, the Nazi guard next to us threw down his weapon and started to run.”

Excited shouts in disbelieving tones echoed within the walls of the compound in multiple languages: “Americans! Americans!” A prisoner rushed toward the gate, but was shot by the Nazi tower-guard. Undeterred, more prisoners ran towards the gate. The American soldiers opened fire on the guard tower, and the SS guards surrendered. One of the guards still held a pistol behind his back, and was shot by an American soldier.

“The Americans were not simply advancing; they were running, flying, breaking all the rules of military conduct”, wrote Dachau prisoner and Turkish journalist Nerin E. Gun. The 7^th Army soldiers, primarily from the 45^th “Thunderbird” Division and 42^nd “Rainbow” Division, had been told by newspaper reporters about the camp, and rushed to liberate it. But nothing could have prepared them for what they would find at Dachau.

Philadelphian Don Greenbaum of the 283^rd Field Artillery Battalion attached to the 45^th Division remembers that as his unit approached the camp they were stunned to find numerous abandoned train rail-cars which contained thousands of decaying corpses. He told me that as the soldiers entered the compound, they were “sickened by the sight of thousands of emaciated prisoners who looked like walking skeletons.” As chronicled in The Liberator by Alex Kershaw, soldiers from the 45th Division moved through the camp and found metal poles where naked prisoners had been tied while guard dogs tore into them, a building where prisoners were subjected to sadistic medical experiments, and stacks of decomposing bodies left to rot because the SS had run out of coal for the crematory.

Lt. Col. Felix Sparks of the 45th wrote in a personal account that “a number of Company I men, all battle hardened veterans, became extremely distraught. Some cried, while others raged.” Kershaw’s book described SS guards and prison “informers” being torn apart by the vengeful prisoners with their bare hands. Enraged U.S. troops started to execute the Nazi guards until Sparks forcefully stopped them. Private John Lee of the 45^th said, “I don’t think there was a guy who didn’t cry openly that night.”

Those interred at Dachau between 1933 and 1945 were considered “enemies of the Reich” for one reason or another. Ernie Gross said that he was there simply because he was a Jew. Prisoners were from over 20 different countries and numerous religious denominations: Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Greek Orthodox, and Muslims among others. Thousands died there, but the exact number will probably never be known. General Dwight Eisenhower was concerned that someday there would be those who doubted what happened at the concentration camps. He ordered detailed films and photos taken of the camps and requested that representatives from the major newspapers visit the camps so that there would be “no room for cynical doubt.” American soldiers ordered the German citizens from the towns surrounding the labor camps to view the bodies. After visiting the Ohrdruf labor camp, the town’s mayor and his wife returned home and then killed themselves.

Unfortunately, as we approach the 80th anniversary of the liberation of many of WW II’s death camps, Eisenhower’s fears have come to fruition. Despite the film records, soldiers’ accounts, survivors’ recollections, testimony of former SS guards, and physical evidence gathered, there are millions around the world who believe the Holocaust never happened, or has been greatly exaggerated. In 2005, former Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said that it was a fabricated legend, and the Palestinian terror group, Hamas, has referred to it as “an invented story.” Here in the U.S., a 2010 Harvard study found that 31 Facebook groups had “Holocaust Denial” as their central purpose. Recent polls in 2018 and 2019 reveal that 10% of Britons, and 4% of Americans believe the Holocaust never happened. “I cannot understand them,” Gross said of the deniers, and Greenbaum added: “I was there. I saw it for myself.”

Amazingly, after all that he’s been through, Ernie Gross still has faith in humanity. He and Greenbaum will often speak together at various organizations as arranged by the Philadelphia Holocaust Awareness Museum and Education Center, and in 2015, they traveled together to Germany for the 70^th anniversary liberation ceremonies at Dachau. Gross told me that he hoped that his presence there might “change the way people think. Every time you hate somebody, it’s not good. It’s better to help somebody than hate.”

If you ever happen to hear the doubters spewing their Holocaust-denial drivel, remember the stories of the Allied soldiers who witnessed it, the testimony of the survivors and the Nazi guards who experienced it, but more importantly, remember the dead who cannot speak. Then hand the deniers a shovel. And if you fail to challenge them, or if you ever begin to doubt the truth of the Holocaust, grab a shovel for yourself as well. Then, after you’ve buried your conscience, pray to whatever God you worship that you’re never confronted by the souls of Dachau.

Chris Gibbons is a Philadelphia writer. He can be reached at gibbonscg@aol.com

Corpses of prisoners found by U.S. soldiers at Dachau (U.S. Army photo)

U.S. soldiers order German citizens to view the corpses at Ohrdruf (U.S. Army photo)

U.S. soldier stands over the bodies of Nazi SS guards shot by American soldiers at Dachau (U.S. Army photo)

More stories of World War I, World War II, and Korean War veterans can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:

Dunnie’s Red Wagon

By Chris Gibbons

During the early morning hours of Tuesday, June 6, 1944, Philadelphia Mayor Bernard Samuel was awakened by his secretary with urgent news – the long awaited invasion of France by Allied forces had finally begun.

The Philadelphia Inquirer reported that that the mayor, “accompanied by his secretary and a few policemen, went to Independence Hall shortly before 7(am) o’clock. With a wooden mallet he tapped the Liberty Bell 12 times…The tapping of the Bell was carried throughout the Nation over an NBC hookup, and to other parts of the world by short wave.” The Mayor then asked all to pray for a “victorious outcome”, and to “remember the fathers and mothers of those who are fighting on the battlefields of France.”

Word of the invasion spread across the neighborhoods of Philadelphia, and for many families it was the start of a period of great fear and anxiety. Like so many streets in Philadelphia, Stillman Street in the city’s Fairmount section was lined with numerous row-homes that proudly displayed flags with blue stars in their windows, indicating a family member in the service. At the Keenan home, there were 2 blue stars on their flag. “They were for my two older brothers, Joe and Dunnie” Ed Keenan recalled. “I was only 8 years old at the time, but I remember the flags vividly – our’s and our neighbor’s. My brothers, like a lot of the guys in our neighborhood, were alumni of Roman Catholic High School. Joe enlisted during his junior year and was serving in the Pacific. Dunnie enlisted after graduating in 1943, but the last that we heard following his recent Christmas visit home was that he was somewhere in England. On the day of the invasion, and the days that followed, we just kept thinking, ‘Where’s Dunnie? I hope that he’s OK.’”

Unknown to the Keenan’s was that Charles “Dunnie” Keenan’s 330^th Infantry Regiment of the 83^rd Infantry Division was not part of the initial invasion force on June 6th, but was with the second wave of forces that landed at Omaha Beach in Normandy on June 23, 1944. The 83^rd sustained heavy losses during the bitter “hedgerow” battles that followed the invasion as Allied forces tried to push inland. On July 4^th, Dunnie’s regiment began a series of attacks just southeast of the key French town of Carentan. Colonel R.T. Foster, Commander of the 330^th Infantry Regiment, wrote that “we attacked every day for twenty-three straight days, from dawn til dark. We repulsed the enemies’ counter-attacks and we moved forward. We became exhausted, physically and mentally. It showed in our dirty and drawn faces. We lost our closest friends.”

Dunnie’s regiment was met with near-fanatical resistance, as opposing the 330^th were some of Hitler’s best troops: the 37^th and 38^th SS Panzergrenadier Regiments. On July 5th a captured SS soldier from the 37^th informed American interrogators that the Germans were ordered to hold the line “to the last drop of blood.”

Back home in Philadelphia, young Eddie Keenan and his buddies, Billy Lamb, Billy McGahey, and Charlie Czarnecki, wanted to do something to help the war effort. They had heard the radio promotions urging Americans to collect scrap-metal so that it could be recycled for use by the military. “We wanted to try and help the war effort”, Ed recalled. “Some of our older brothers were fighting, and we wanted to do something, too. So we decided to go door-to-door in our neighborhood with my old wagon to collect scrap-metal pieces. But, my wagon was a hand-me-down, and we felt that for an effort like this, we needed to spruce it up a bit. So we got some bright red paint and started to paint it.”

On the day that the boys were putting the finishing touches on the wagon, they were startled by a woman’s voice. It was Billy McGahey’s mother, and she had an odd look on her face. “Eddie,” she said. “You have to go home. Something is wrong with your Mom.” Eddie ran home and found his mother and sister sobbing. Time then seemed to slow down. Words and phrases became jumbled. Something about a “telegram from Washington”…”deepest regret”…”Charles Keenan had been killed in action on July 8^th”. Dunnie was gone, and a gold star would replace a blue.

As grieving relatives arrived to help comfort the family, a despondent Eddie returned to his friends and told them what happened. One of the boys had an idea, and after all of them heard it, they agreed it was a great way to honor Dunnie.

A few hours later, Eddie returned to his home, now filled with relatives and neighbors. He found his grief-stricken father, tugged on his shirt, and said, “Come to the window, Dad. Look outside!” His father walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and there was the red wagon. Emblazoned upon it, in bright white paint, were the words: “PFC Charles T. Keenan.”

His father closed the curtain, and with sad, red-rimmed eyes, he looked down at Eddie. “Oh Eddie”, he said. “Please take that off. It’s too soon.” A confused and dejected Eddie painted over his brother’s name. “I was just a little boy,” Ed told me. “I didn’t understand then why my father wanted it removed.”

The innocence of childhood is often lost to the cruel indifference of tragedy, and life would never be the same again for Ed and his family. “The red wagon fell by the wayside”, Ed said. “The joy of what we had done was diminished after Dunnie died.”

In the summer of 2019, to commemorate the 75^th anniversary of D-Day, and the death of his brother, Dunnie, Ed Keenan returned to a place he had been once before. It is a place of honor, that’s filled with the names of the fallen. And when Ed arrived there with his son, he sought one name in particular: Charles T. Keenan PFC. There, it is not emblazoned in white paint on a child’s red wagon but permanently carved upon a stone cross. And as Ed looked out among the 9,387 gravestones of the Normandy-American cemetery in France, he remembered the wisdom of his father, a World War 1 veteran who understood that there would be a proper place and time for Dunnie’s name – it would be here at Normandy, forever alongside the names of his fellow heroes.

Grave of Charles “Dunnie” Keenan at Normandy-American Cemetery with Purple and Gold streamers and pin of Roman Catholic High School. Photo courtesy of Jack Dougherty – RCHS Class of ’79

Chris Gibbons is a Philadelphia writer. He can be reached at gibbonscg@aol.com

Voyager still carries our hopes of finding that we’re not alone by Chris Gibbons

Originally published in the October 27, 2013 Houston Chronicle and the September 5, 2017 Philadelphia Inquirer

“This is a present from a small distant world, a token of our sounds, our science, our images, our music, our thoughts, and our feelings. We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours. We hope someday, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of galactic civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination, and our good will in a vast and awesome universe.” (Excerpt from President Jimmy Carter’s official statement placed on the Voyager 1 spacecraft)

On Sept. 5, 1977, humanity stood at the shoreline of the ancient cosmic ocean that had been beckoning for generations, and with a massive, rocket-propelled heave, we hurled a kind of message in a bottle out into the vast sea of space. That “bottle” was Voyager 1.

Within its spindly metal framework was a gold-plated audio-visual disc filled with photos, music and messages from the people of Earth. Although its primary mission was to conduct a scientific reconnaissance of Jupiter and Saturn, scientists also knew there was a good chance that the probe would eventually leave our solar system someday and enter the great void of interstellar space.

Consequently, a team of scientists and engineers, led by Carl Sagan, viewed Voyager as a unique opportunity for humanity to send a greeting card into space – a cosmic message in a bottle.

And, like children on a beach, we have patiently watched our bottle slowly drift farther and farther from shore. In 2012, we learned that it finally dipped below the horizon, and we can do nothing more now than simply hope that, someday, our bottle may be found.

Voyager 1 is one of the most successful and remarkable space probes ever launched. It conducted the first detailed studies of Jupiter and Saturn, and its discoveries electrified planetary scientists. As Voyager 1 encountered the Jovian moon Io, it discovered the first active volcano outside of the Earth. It also revealed the ice-covered surface of Jupiter’s enigmatic moon Europa, as well as the complex structure of Saturn’s rings.

Scientists spent years poring over the trove of data transmitted back to Earth by the probe. And although they initially thought that Voyager would cease providing any valuable scientific information after its Saturn encounter in 1980, the rugged probe soldiered on.

Ten years later, Voyager took its final photo – the first “family portrait” ever of the solar system – from a record distance of 6 billion kilometers. The image became famous because the Earth appeared as nothing more than a small “pale blue dot,” inspiring the title of the seminal book by Sagan.

In 1998, Voyager passed another milestone as it surpassed the distance traveled by Pioneer 10, and on August 25, 2012, NASA confirmed that the intrepid probe became the first man-made object to enter interstellar space.

Voyager 1 is now heading in the general direction of the star Gliese 445 and will pass within 1.6 light years of it in about 40,000 years.

The likelihood that another space-faring civilization will someday retrieve Voyager 1 is truly remote. In that extremely unlikely event, it will probably be millions of years from now, when humanity is long gone.

But if Voyager 1 is ever found, we can only hope that those who come upon it will somehow decipher the messages we’ve placed within our bottle. Perhaps they will conclude that on a blue planet orbiting a very ordinary star, there once lived a society of sentient beings whose curiosity and innate desire to explore eventually led them to wade into the mysterious cosmic ocean that surrounded their home.

Perhaps they will also decipher that although the beings from the blue planet recognized that they were a deeply flawed species, one that was prone to violence and a dangerous embrace of superstition, they were also determined to overcome their demons by trying to understand the cosmos and their place within it.

What the retrievers of Voyager 1 could never comprehend is that one of humanity’s primary motivations in sending this message in a bottle was something that couldn’t be placed on a gold-plated disc or etched into the metal chassis of our robot emissary. It is a certain longing that has been troubling us for decades, and it chills our souls whenever we contemplate the size of the universe and the incredible number of stars and planets contained within it.

For each time we have shouted out into the deep, infinite expanse of space and listened for a reply, the only response we’ve received has been a disturbing silence. The bottle couldn’t possibly convey that we have always felt so very alone and desperately hoped that we were not.

AFTERWORD – There are many people who proclaim that the discovery of other intelligent life in the universe would be the single most profound moment in human history. If that were to ever be confirmed, I would have to agree. However, if through some miraculous means we were able to decisively conclude that we are the only sentient beings in the Cosmos, it would not only also be the most profound moment in human history, but, in my opinion, the most disturbing as well.

More stories on the wonders of space exploration and its positive impact on society can be found in the new book by Philadelphia writer, Chris Gibbons: “Soldiers, Space, and Stories of Life”. Amazon.com link is below:

The Lifeguard

By Chris Gibbons – Originally published in the Philadelphia Daily News, August 7, 2007

I recently walked along a deserted beach, momentarily lost in my thoughts until I suddenly came upon a lifeguard stand. It was unoccupied, but as I looked up at the empty wooden seat my thoughts drifted back in time, and in my mind I could still picture the lifeguard.

It’s been over 35 years, but my memory of him hasn’t faded. I can still see him sitting on his stand, with long blond hair and white sunscreen on his nose, slowly twirling a silver whistle around his finger. And I’ll also never forget what he did on that hot summer day in 1972.

For a young kid from Philadelphia’s Roxborough neighborhood, summer was the smell of a freshly mowed lawn, or the squeak of high-top Chuck Taylor’s skidding on the asphalt during a game of wire-ball. Summer was the taste of a hand-me-down baseball glove as you chewed on its frayed laces during a little-league game. It was throwing rocks in the Wissahickon creek, playing wiffle-ball in the driveway, burning cap-gun ammo with a magnifying glass. It was looking up at the stars and wishing that life would always be this good.

To many Philadelphians, summer also meant the Jersey shore.

In July of 1972, my family vacationed in Ocean City. I remember running to the beach as soon as we arrived. The expanse of ocean that greeted me was overwhelming. I was one of 11 children and our home was crowded, but the ocean represented room, and freedom, and possibilities.

That was also the day I first saw the lifeguard. His incessant whistling, and arm-waving was the start of my disdain for him He reminded me of my teachers as he continually interrupted the fun with his shrill whistle: move over, come in closer, and stop throwing wet sand at your little brother.

One day, my little brother Pat and I were bodysurfing. The waves were unusually rough, with the two of us frequently getting tossed around by the surf. After getting pounded by a huge wave, I stood up, cleared the water from my eyes and noticed that I couldn’t find Pat.

I thought he’d been right next to me before the wave hit. Finally, I saw him. He was farther out than he should’ve been. I quickly realized that he was in water well above his head, and he was struggling. He was definitely struggling.

I started to swim out to him, but the water was too rough, and my skinny body wasn’t making any headway. Pat was being pulled out into deeper water as he must’ve been caught in a riptide. I began to panic and started to scream for help. I was thrashing around, and swallowing the salty seawater. Pat was clearly in trouble, continually going under and resurfacing. I was trying to scream, but was gagging so badly that I couldn’t.

I looked out again, and for the first time, I didn’t see Pat. My God, I thought to myself, my little brother has drowned!

Suddenly, something shot over my right shoulder. It knifed into the water just ahead of me, barely making a splash. It quickly emerged, arms and feet flailing like a powerful machine. It was the lifeguard, and he was moving like a torpedo toward my brother. I’ll never forget how quickly he got to Pat.

The lifeguard got Pat out of the water and back to the beach. Pat was OK, but he was spitting up water. A few people gathered around him and I knelt down next to him. We looked at each other and didn’t say anything.

We both had tears in our eyes, but for different reasons. He was a pain in the neck, but he was my little brother and I loved him, and he’d come within seconds of losing his life. You’re supposed to look out for your little brother, but I failed. I looked up at the lifeguard and hoped he could understand what I wanted to say, but couldn’t. I think he did.

In a heartbreaking twist of fate, just a few days after we returned from our vacation, my oldest brother Jack drowned in the Schuylkill River while swimming with friends. Nothing would ever be the same again for my family.

A house in a Philadelphia neighborhood wailed in sorrow that night, and the awful sound of it drifted across the hills of Roxborough. Some of the other houses heard it, and they began to sob as well. It was during that terrible night that a wishful image first came to my mind and continues to haunt me to this day.

It’s an image of a lifeguard stand. It sits on the banks of the Schuylkill River. Sitting atop the stand is a young kid, with long blond hair and white sunscreen on his nose, slowly twirling a silver whistle around his finger on a hot August day in the summer of ’72.

Chris Gibbons is a Philadelphia writer. gibbonscg@aol.com

The Hidden Truths Within a Picture

The Hidden Truths Within A Picture

By Chris Gibbons – Originally published in the Philadelphia Inquirer, December, 2014

“That wasn’t right! My father yelled as his booming voice filled our living room. “You can’t do that to people!”, he shouted at the TV.

“Jesus”, I thought to myself. “What the heck is up with Dad?” It was sometime in the early 1980’s, and a news program had just shown a video of an infamous incident that occurred years earlier, during the Vietnam War.

It’s a chilling video to watch. A North Viet Cong prisoner is standing along a roadside with his hands tied behind his back. A South Vietnamese officer then quickly positions himself next to him, raises his pistol, and fires a point-blank shot to the prisoner’s head. His lifeless body crumples to the ground.

“He’s a God-damned son of a b****! That wasn’t right.” my Dad said again. I was somewhat stunned by his angry reaction. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that he knew the man who was shot. I looked at Dad’s hands, and noticed that they were slightly trembling.

2014 marks the 45^th anniversary of the awarding of a Pulitzer Prize for a photo taken of one of the most infamous incidents of the Vietnam War as South Vietnamese general Nguyen Ngoc Loan executed Viet Cong officer Nguyen Van Lem. AP photographer Eddie Adams and an NBC cameraman filmed the execution, and Adams’ still picture of the incident soon appeared on the front pages of newspapers and evening news telecasts across the U.S. The picture outraged the American public, and it seemed to galvanize the growing anti-war sentiment. The picture soon became a symbol of the apparent brutality of the U.S. supported South Vietnamese regime. In 1969, Adams won the Pulitzer Prize for Spot News Photography.

But the picture didn’t tell the whole story, and Adams later came to regret the damage that it did to Loan. The Viet Cong prisoner who he shot was reportedly part of a “death-squad” that targeted the families of South Vietnamese policemen. According to witnesses, the prisoner was captured near a ditch where 34 bound and shot bodies of policemen and their families were found. Adams later said, “I killed the general with my camera. Still photographs are the most powerful weapon in the world. People believe them, but photographs do lie, even without manipulation. They are only half-truths. What the photograph didn’t say was, “What would you do if you were the general at that time?” Adams later apologized to Loan and his family.

General Loan eventually escaped Vietnam, and opened a pizza restaurant in a Virginia suburb. Unfortunately, he couldn’t escape his past. Word got out to an angry public of who he was. Someone once wrote an ominous message on the restaurant’s walls, “We Know Who You Are F***er.” Loan eventually had to close the restaurant because of the negative publicity. He died of cancer in 1998, leaving a wife and five children. Adams sent a note to the family that read: “I’m sorry. There are tears in my eyes.”

As for my Dad’s reaction that day, I assumed that, like so many Americans at that time, the execution in Saigon was the final straw. The Vietnam War had once sharply divided the nation, but by the late 1960’s even its staunchest supporters had seen enough. I concluded that my Dad finally realized this as well, and seeing the video again that day must’ve brought back those bitter feelings of anger and betrayal. I quickly forgot about the incident, and never asked my father about it.

It wasn’t until many years later that I finally came to understand the hidden truths behind the picture, not only the story of general Loan, but my Dad’s story as well. We had a quiet moment alone in 2008 on the 55^th anniversary of the end of the Korean War, and I asked him if he could tell me of his worst experience during the war. He said it would be too difficult for him to tell me the worst, but there was one incident that still haunted him. Shortly after his company had set up a defensive perimeter around their base in South Korea, two frightened and dirty Chinese prisoners were brought before a company sergeant. This sergeant was a WW II veteran who my father and the other young soldiers in his company admired and looked up to. “We were very young, and often scared,” my Dad told me. “But he helped us get through some of the toughest times during the war.”

The sergeant needed to understand how these two Chinese soldiers had gotten through so he could fix the weakness in their perimeter. If they escaped and revealed the weakness to the enemy, the lives of his men could be at risk. “Ask them how they got through!”, he barked to the interpreter. The prisoners replied that they didn’t “get through”, but were separated from their outfit, and simply hid in covered fox-holes when the Americans moved into the area. The American soldiers unknowingly piled the dirt and barbed wire right on top of them, and the prisoners simply climbed out later and surrendered. “I don’t believe them. Ask them again!” shouted the sergeant, as he raised his rifle and pointed it at the head of one of the prisoners. My father believed the prisoners and was shaken by the horrible scenario that was now being played out in front of him and his fellow soldiers. Again, the frightened prisoners told the same story.

The sharp sounds of gunshots echoed across the Korean sky, as two lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground.

“It wasn’t right”, my Dad said softly as he remembered the incident and vacantly stared ahead. I looked down and noticed that his hands were slightly trembling.

(Postscript: I originally wrote this story in 2008. I sent a copy to my Dad prior to publication to ensure that my facts were correct. After reading it, he immediately called me and told me that he didn’t want it published because one of the soldiers who witnessed the incident with him was severely traumatized by it. “He was never the same again, he had a lot of issues from it,” my Dad said. He told me that even after they returned home, his friend continued to struggle and the remainder of his life was difficult. My Dad was concerned that seeing the story in the newspaper might adversely affect his friend’s already fragile psyche.

My Dad passed away earlier this year, and before he died I asked him if I could ever publish the story. He didn’t mention his friend this time, possibly because he had passed away. My Dad simply responded, “When I’m long gone.” It was then that I knew that the picture and its hidden truths would now haunt me as well, as I realized that there were actually two young soldiers who witnessed the execution that day who were never the same again.)

Chris Gibbons (gibbonscg@aol.com) is a Philadelphia writer. gibbonscg@aol.com