Posted 12:57 am Sunday, November 06, 2011
Tylerite Flew B-17s In WWII And B-26s In Korean War
By JACQUE HILBURN-SIMMONS
Staff Writer
World War II Purple Heart recipient Howard Fish's voice becomes a little edgy when he recalls the tattered parachute that slowed his almost six-mile fall to earth.
As a young navigator, his Boeing B-17 heavy bomber aircraft had been hit by enemy fire over Austria, and its American crew was forced to bail out and take their chances.
Staff Writer
World War II Purple Heart recipient Howard Fish's voice becomes a little edgy when he recalls the tattered parachute that slowed his almost six-mile fall to earth.
As a young navigator, his Boeing B-17 heavy bomber aircraft had been hit by enemy fire over Austria, and its American crew was forced to bail out and take their chances.
It was a rough landing, and life got no easier.
Fish was captured, imprisoned and recaptured repeatedly in a series of incidents that unfolded in 1945.
But the Tyler war veteran and former prisoner of war, now 88, lived to share his harrowing tales and expressed praise for his beloved B-17, a craft that earned the distinction “Flying Fortress” because of its fortitude and grit.
Fish was captured, imprisoned and recaptured repeatedly in a series of incidents that unfolded in 1945.
But the Tyler war veteran and former prisoner of war, now 88, lived to share his harrowing tales and expressed praise for his beloved B-17, a craft that earned the distinction “Flying Fortress” because of its fortitude and grit.
“The B-17 is a tough airplane,” Fish, a retired lieutenant general, said last week. “I did between 700 and 800 hours in a B-17, but I didn't realize at the time just how great it really was.”
A restored B-17 bomber like the one Fish flew in is expected to rumble up next to Tyler Pounds Regional Airport's old terminal for the Experimental Aircraft Association's 2011 “Salute to Veterans” national tour, set for Tuesday and Wednesday with support from the Historical Aviation Memorial Museum.
“The B-17 was the best of the lot,” Fish said.
The retired three-star general, who is uncertain whether he will attend the tour, is a relative newcomer to Tyler, having moved from Shreveport, La., about a year ago, but he's no stranger to the hardships and atrocities of war.
Visitors invited to his home are at once connected to history, not just through the detailed stories he shares, but with the items that seem to define him — numerous medals, photographs and a faded diary detailing the horrors of war as seen first through the eyes of a young man far from home.
Among the honors: two Distinguished Flying Crosses, awarded for heroism and extraordinary achievement during an aerial flight.
He would enter the service at 18 and ultimately serve 37 years in the United States Air Force, working his way to the high-ranking lieutenant general title, which ranks militarily above a major general and below a general.
Fish flew 23 missions in a B-17 and is one of two members of his original crew still living.
Grainy photographs capture a moment frozen in time — fresh-faced young men just starting their journey together.
“One was killed during one of our prison marches,” he said, pointing out a man with a mischievous grin.
Fish went on to fly another 64 missions during the Korean War in B-26s.
In his personal library, he keeps his oxygen mask and three 1945 Western Union telegraphs sent to his family, advising them he was missing in action and then recovered.
It was a second wartime blow to the family — Fish's older brother, a B-24 pilot, was killed in action.
“He (brother) had advised me to get into a B-17 because it was supposed to be a safer plane,” he said. “I followed his advice and survived.”
There were no computers and fancy gadgets in those days to point the way, so navigators relied on their own smarts to map out the path, relying mostly on stars in the dead of night and small handheld compasses by day.
Fish was assigned to the 419th Bomb Squadron of the 301st Bomb Group.
It was November 1944.
Even in war, a routine emerged — assignments were made each afternoon.
Trips over northern Italy and Yugoslavia were somewhat viewed in a positive light as they had lighter enemy fire; assigned missions to Vienna, less favorably.
“A groan would go up in the group,” he said. “That's where we had heavy losses.”
The enemy, feeling the push from Normandy, wasn't quick to throw in the towel.
“Some targets had as many as 1,000 planes against them in one attack,” he said, noting special care was necessary to avoid collision and bombing errors.
“We had to be straight and level, which made us vulnerable,” he said. “The enemy could figure out the altitude … they would put up flak and they would hit some of us. That's what happened to me.”
Fish said his B-17 sustained a hit in the left wing in February 1945, on his 23rd mission.
“There was smoke; it might have been fuel,” he said. “We all bailed out.”
The plane was flying at an altitude of 31,500 feet, almost six miles up.
Crew members wore special clothing and slippers to stay warm in temperatures that plunged to about 30 degrees below zero.
“It (clothing) was plugged into the power supply to keep us warm and toasty,” he said. “When you bailed out, you had the heated slippers, but they weren't very good for walking.”
They had practiced extensively for emergencies in the event they had to bail.
“Conventional wisdom was you didn't open the chute right away,” he said. “By delaying, you got out of the flak area.”
There also was little oxygen that high up, so delaying the parachute's opening meant they could more resume normal breathing, Fish said.
But when his B-17 actually was hit, fear apparently overshadowed the many hours of training.
“I was young, foolish and afraid,” Fish said. “I pulled my parachute immediately and tore six holes in it. The holes were small at first, but they ripped and got bigger.”
As he fell, he stared at the chute, transfixed by its rapid disintegration.
“I thought I was dead,” he said, shaking his head. “I prayed a lot. It took me 26 minutes to get down … and all that time I watched the holes get bigger.”
After resigning himself to the idea his young life was over, hope soon returned.
“I heard a dog bark, so that told me I was getting close to ground,” he said. “Then plop, I landed in a plowed field — sank up to my knees, hurt my ankle. The wind was blowing, and it was hard to stand.”
The parachute released and floated a short distance away, leaving Fish wallowing in the muck.
“I got up and tried to walk but couldn't because of my ankle,” he said. “This considerable group, about 50 people, started coming up. We had heard all sorts of horror stories (about how foreign prisoners were treated).
“The first one who got to me, he was in uniform and spoke a little English, said, ‘Where is your parachute?' They were after the chute because it was made of silk,” he said. “Another pulled a gun. They loaded me up and took me to a camp nearby.”
He was interrogated by the Germans, who ripped away his dog tags and most of his freedom.
“They loaded me up with about a dozen other prisoners in a truck and took us to a gathering point,” he said. “We walked to a box car that was hidden in the woods and started for Frankfurt, Germany. We didn't know where we were going.”
As the senior officer in the group, Fish was in charge of organizing the group and helping care for a wounded newcomer, who had lost both legs and was awaiting transfer to a medical facility.
The prisoners wrote down names, next of kin and sent the information with the injured man, who was said to be heading to Switzerland for treatment.
The injured man was not heard from again, he said, and the information never reached the intended family members.
Prisoners were divided into groups and disbursed to camps around Germany.
“I ended up at Nuremburg,” he said.
The camp was reported to hold more than 10,000 Allied POWs, according to historical accounts.
Prisoners found deplorable conditions — no sanitation facilities, unheated barracks and pest infestation.
“At first, all we could do is stand and look at the filth,” Fish said. “Some snapped out of it quicker than others. We got it cleaned up and organized ourselves.”
Food was in critically short supply. Within weeks, the prisoners were told to evacuate and head toward another encampment, rumored to be in Bavaria.
“We were dubious about being marched to another camp,” Fish said.
Prisoners were divided into groups of 120 each for the journey.
“There were 18 guards and every third one had a dog,” he said. “Dogs were the biggest problem.”
To avoid attracting attention, the men tried to stay together and march in formation, but Fish was soon contemplating escape.
“One night a buddy and I decided we'd had enough of it,” he said. “It wasn't any big deal. We rolled into a ditch and waited until the formation passed by. We got up and we headed west. It was stupid, not smart at all.”
The men managed to lay hands on materials to aid in their escape, but the terrain was rugged and travel was difficult.
They found hidden caches of sugar beets and cabbages and begged for the rest from sympathetic residents.
“To get rid of us, they'd give us food,” he said.
Days later, they were sighted, surrounded and recaptured.
“There were six of us by then,” he said. “We had picked up some along the way.”
The men were placed into a German forced labor camp for safekeeping where Fish would make more attempts at escape.
“We tried twice and got caught both times,” he said. “The third time we made it. There was heavy gunfire all around … we knew the Americans were not far behind.”
In April 1945, Fish was again on the lam from the enemy, but a misstep landed him back into captivity.
“I was in an exposed position so I ran and dived into a small pit,” Fish said. “I landed on three Germans.”
He was again taken prisoner, only this time his captors were more sympathetic, giving him food, beer and schnapps.
After everyone started feeling the effects of the liquor, Fish escaped yet again, finding refuge in a nearby home.
He remembers running to greet the Americans as they walked into the yard.
“I stayed with them until VE (Victory in Europe) Day arrived,” he said. “It was only a week.”
His family soon learned their missing son was alive — a fading Western Union telegram states Fish returned to duty May 13, 1945.
Fish would return to the states and continue his service through both the Korean and Vietnam Wars.
Along the way, he married and raised a child with wife, Jamie, a former Corpus Christi resident.
The couple has been married 63 years.
Back in his comfortable Tyler home, he still reflects on the millions who never made it home.
“There were 16 million men and women, mostly men, under arms,” he said. “I was just one of the guys. I wasn't unique. … I'm getting unique because I'm living so damned long.”
A restored B-17 bomber like the one Fish flew in is expected to rumble up next to Tyler Pounds Regional Airport's old terminal for the Experimental Aircraft Association's 2011 “Salute to Veterans” national tour, set for Tuesday and Wednesday with support from the Historical Aviation Memorial Museum.
“The B-17 was the best of the lot,” Fish said.
The retired three-star general, who is uncertain whether he will attend the tour, is a relative newcomer to Tyler, having moved from Shreveport, La., about a year ago, but he's no stranger to the hardships and atrocities of war.
Visitors invited to his home are at once connected to history, not just through the detailed stories he shares, but with the items that seem to define him — numerous medals, photographs and a faded diary detailing the horrors of war as seen first through the eyes of a young man far from home.
Among the honors: two Distinguished Flying Crosses, awarded for heroism and extraordinary achievement during an aerial flight.
He would enter the service at 18 and ultimately serve 37 years in the United States Air Force, working his way to the high-ranking lieutenant general title, which ranks militarily above a major general and below a general.
Fish flew 23 missions in a B-17 and is one of two members of his original crew still living.
Grainy photographs capture a moment frozen in time — fresh-faced young men just starting their journey together.
“One was killed during one of our prison marches,” he said, pointing out a man with a mischievous grin.
Fish went on to fly another 64 missions during the Korean War in B-26s.
In his personal library, he keeps his oxygen mask and three 1945 Western Union telegraphs sent to his family, advising them he was missing in action and then recovered.
It was a second wartime blow to the family — Fish's older brother, a B-24 pilot, was killed in action.
“He (brother) had advised me to get into a B-17 because it was supposed to be a safer plane,” he said. “I followed his advice and survived.”
There were no computers and fancy gadgets in those days to point the way, so navigators relied on their own smarts to map out the path, relying mostly on stars in the dead of night and small handheld compasses by day.
Fish was assigned to the 419th Bomb Squadron of the 301st Bomb Group.
It was November 1944.
Even in war, a routine emerged — assignments were made each afternoon.
Trips over northern Italy and Yugoslavia were somewhat viewed in a positive light as they had lighter enemy fire; assigned missions to Vienna, less favorably.
“A groan would go up in the group,” he said. “That's where we had heavy losses.”
The enemy, feeling the push from Normandy, wasn't quick to throw in the towel.
“Some targets had as many as 1,000 planes against them in one attack,” he said, noting special care was necessary to avoid collision and bombing errors.
“We had to be straight and level, which made us vulnerable,” he said. “The enemy could figure out the altitude … they would put up flak and they would hit some of us. That's what happened to me.”
Fish said his B-17 sustained a hit in the left wing in February 1945, on his 23rd mission.
“There was smoke; it might have been fuel,” he said. “We all bailed out.”
The plane was flying at an altitude of 31,500 feet, almost six miles up.
Crew members wore special clothing and slippers to stay warm in temperatures that plunged to about 30 degrees below zero.
“It (clothing) was plugged into the power supply to keep us warm and toasty,” he said. “When you bailed out, you had the heated slippers, but they weren't very good for walking.”
They had practiced extensively for emergencies in the event they had to bail.
“Conventional wisdom was you didn't open the chute right away,” he said. “By delaying, you got out of the flak area.”
There also was little oxygen that high up, so delaying the parachute's opening meant they could more resume normal breathing, Fish said.
But when his B-17 actually was hit, fear apparently overshadowed the many hours of training.
“I was young, foolish and afraid,” Fish said. “I pulled my parachute immediately and tore six holes in it. The holes were small at first, but they ripped and got bigger.”
As he fell, he stared at the chute, transfixed by its rapid disintegration.
“I thought I was dead,” he said, shaking his head. “I prayed a lot. It took me 26 minutes to get down … and all that time I watched the holes get bigger.”
After resigning himself to the idea his young life was over, hope soon returned.
“I heard a dog bark, so that told me I was getting close to ground,” he said. “Then plop, I landed in a plowed field — sank up to my knees, hurt my ankle. The wind was blowing, and it was hard to stand.”
The parachute released and floated a short distance away, leaving Fish wallowing in the muck.
“I got up and tried to walk but couldn't because of my ankle,” he said. “This considerable group, about 50 people, started coming up. We had heard all sorts of horror stories (about how foreign prisoners were treated).
“The first one who got to me, he was in uniform and spoke a little English, said, ‘Where is your parachute?' They were after the chute because it was made of silk,” he said. “Another pulled a gun. They loaded me up and took me to a camp nearby.”
He was interrogated by the Germans, who ripped away his dog tags and most of his freedom.
“They loaded me up with about a dozen other prisoners in a truck and took us to a gathering point,” he said. “We walked to a box car that was hidden in the woods and started for Frankfurt, Germany. We didn't know where we were going.”
As the senior officer in the group, Fish was in charge of organizing the group and helping care for a wounded newcomer, who had lost both legs and was awaiting transfer to a medical facility.
The prisoners wrote down names, next of kin and sent the information with the injured man, who was said to be heading to Switzerland for treatment.
The injured man was not heard from again, he said, and the information never reached the intended family members.
Prisoners were divided into groups and disbursed to camps around Germany.
“I ended up at Nuremburg,” he said.
The camp was reported to hold more than 10,000 Allied POWs, according to historical accounts.
Prisoners found deplorable conditions — no sanitation facilities, unheated barracks and pest infestation.
“At first, all we could do is stand and look at the filth,” Fish said. “Some snapped out of it quicker than others. We got it cleaned up and organized ourselves.”
Food was in critically short supply. Within weeks, the prisoners were told to evacuate and head toward another encampment, rumored to be in Bavaria.
“We were dubious about being marched to another camp,” Fish said.
Prisoners were divided into groups of 120 each for the journey.
“There were 18 guards and every third one had a dog,” he said. “Dogs were the biggest problem.”
To avoid attracting attention, the men tried to stay together and march in formation, but Fish was soon contemplating escape.
“One night a buddy and I decided we'd had enough of it,” he said. “It wasn't any big deal. We rolled into a ditch and waited until the formation passed by. We got up and we headed west. It was stupid, not smart at all.”
The men managed to lay hands on materials to aid in their escape, but the terrain was rugged and travel was difficult.
They found hidden caches of sugar beets and cabbages and begged for the rest from sympathetic residents.
“To get rid of us, they'd give us food,” he said.
Days later, they were sighted, surrounded and recaptured.
“There were six of us by then,” he said. “We had picked up some along the way.”
The men were placed into a German forced labor camp for safekeeping where Fish would make more attempts at escape.
“We tried twice and got caught both times,” he said. “The third time we made it. There was heavy gunfire all around … we knew the Americans were not far behind.”
In April 1945, Fish was again on the lam from the enemy, but a misstep landed him back into captivity.
“I was in an exposed position so I ran and dived into a small pit,” Fish said. “I landed on three Germans.”
He was again taken prisoner, only this time his captors were more sympathetic, giving him food, beer and schnapps.
After everyone started feeling the effects of the liquor, Fish escaped yet again, finding refuge in a nearby home.
He remembers running to greet the Americans as they walked into the yard.
“I stayed with them until VE (Victory in Europe) Day arrived,” he said. “It was only a week.”
His family soon learned their missing son was alive — a fading Western Union telegram states Fish returned to duty May 13, 1945.
Fish would return to the states and continue his service through both the Korean and Vietnam Wars.
Along the way, he married and raised a child with wife, Jamie, a former Corpus Christi resident.
The couple has been married 63 years.
Back in his comfortable Tyler home, he still reflects on the millions who never made it home.
“There were 16 million men and women, mostly men, under arms,” he said. “I was just one of the guys. I wasn't unique. … I'm getting unique because I'm living so damned long.”
