Medford mail tribune., March 26, 1961, Image 42

JF'ninily Weelcly J march 26, mi
Shot down behind German lines during the war, a U.S. Senator tells about his amazing
Escape to Freedom
adventure and the people who taught him a priceless lesson
as told to Theodore Irwin
By HOWARD W. CANNON U.S.Sena.or from Nev.d.
Sen. Howard W. Cannon (D.-Nev.) is a qualified
jet command pilot in the Air Force. In World War
II, he served five years in the Armed Forces, en
listing as a first lieutenant and emerging as a lieu
tenant colonel. His 15 decorations include the Dis
tinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with two Oak
Leaf Clusters, Purple Heart, Presidential Unit Ci
tation, and the French Croix de Guerre.
One recent morninc, I received a surprise
birthday gift from a friend of mine in the
Pentagon. It was an oil painting of a war scene in
Holland, depicting two shabbily dressed "farmers"
crossing a bridge near a bombed-out village. In
congruously, in the foreground, there was a large
apple from which someone had taken a bte.
The painting was by Col. Roy Weinzettel of the
U.S. Air Force, who had been an Intelligence of
ficer in our wing during World War II. I was one
of the "farmers" shown escaping to freedom.
The scene holds deep meaning to me, and I hope
it will to all Americans as well as to the rest of the
free world. Now, for the first time, I am telling the
full story behind the picture.
As operations officer with the 440th Troop
Carrier Group, I had copiloted the lead plane
dropping paratroops over France on D-Day. On
Sept. 17, 1944, during the Allied invasion of Hol
land, our mission was to discharge 'chutists over
the Arnheim bridge. Col. Frank X. Krebs of Chi
cago and I were the pilots in the lead C-47 plane.
Flying through heavy flak over enemy-held ter
ritory, we dropped the paratroops and started back.
I saw two Allied planes catch fire and another
binning on the ground. As we turned for home,
climbing to 3,000 feet, I thought the worst was over.
Our Plane Is Lost
Just as we passed Breda, we were hit. I heard a
terrific explosion in our left engine. The left pro
peller vanished, there was a huge hole in our side
and companionway, and the cockpit was a sham
bles of broken glass. With controls gone, the ship
began to nose down in a spiral. I rang the signal
bell ordering the crew to bail out.
Hydraulic fluid from the shot-out lines spurted
all over us, almost blinding me. I groped for my
parachute but slipped on the fluid and fell on my
face. When I regained my balance, I had a hard
time getting out of my flak suit, but I finally hooked
on the 'chute pack and managed to reach the cabin
door with the aid of Colonel Krebs. The rest of the
crew had already bailed out.
I had never jumped before. Hardly able to see, I
dived. When my parachute billowed out, I was at
an altitude of about 800 feet.
As we drifted with the wind, German patrols be
low started shooting at us. To put it mildly, it was
For llirne days, Somilor Cannon one Colonel Kreli'
hid in n "room" bonenfli n waodpilti as a
battery (if German litis kept .shells whizzing by.
IllUSTRATION BY DONN AlBRIGHT
uncomfortable. Landing in a potato field, we got
rid of our 'chutes and ran for cover to a ditch as
Germans on bicycles headed through the field to
ward us. With me were Colonel Krebs, who had
broken his left arch in the fall, and TSgt. Frank
Broga of Chester, Mass., our crew chief.
We lay flat on our backs in the watery ditch, tall
brush and grass pulled over us. Our .45s were
cocked while we listened to the searching Germans
yelling and jamming bayonets into piles of straw.
After an interminable time, they left.
Then, suddenly, a Dutch farmer was standing
over us. He motioned to us to stay hidden. When
we couldn't understand what he was saying, he
pointed to my watch to 9 o'clock. We caught the
idea that he would return after dark.
Could we trust the farmer not to give us away?
Some of our flyers had told us not to expect any
help from the Dutch because they were "first
cousins of the Germans" and the only way to talk
to them was with a .45. For the next five hours we
sweated it out.
Toward dusk, we crawled under a pile of straw.
When the farmer finally returned and we could
see he was alone, we emerged. We followed him to
the top of a hill. There we came upon two men in
uniform. In a quick reflex action we pulled out our
guns. They only grinned at us. It turned out they
were local policemen, both in the underground.
With the policemen slowly riding their bicycles
ahead of us, we started the longest walk I've ever
taken. The Germans would have shot without
warning anyone out after curfew without special
permission identification. Three times we encoun
tered enemy patrols, but the policemen tipped us
off, and we kept out of sight until the patrols passed.
Reaching a farm, we were hidden in a shed.
Then came the Dutch "reception committee"
all the neighboring farmers bringing bread, cheese,
and hot milk. Everyone there wanted to shake
hands with us. It gave me a singular feeling of
brotherhood that I had never before experienced.
At 2 a.m., we moved on, Krebs riding the han
dle bars of a policeman's bicycle. At the home of the
local underground leader, in the little town of Au
denbosch, Colonel Krebs' foot was treated by a
doctor. Sergeant Broga and I slept in the attic of
the police station. After two days we were given
police uniforms and, riding motorcycles, boldly
proceeded to the city of Breda.
We Have a Cozy Hideout
For three weeks, our home was a department
store that had been closed to civilians, although the
Germans often came to requisition items. Our
"bedroom" was the upholstery department, and
naturally there was plenty of furniture on which
to sleep. Whenever the enemy barged in, we
scooted out through a tunnel to the home of the
store owner across the street. Or, if we didn't have
time, we'd climb through the trap door in the ceil
ing of the elevator, push a switch that put it out
of order, and sit on its top until we were safe.
We ate mostly potatoes, cooked in the store's
deserted restaurant kitchen, and occasionally had
a sort of meat stew. Food was scarce, and it must
have been a hardship for the Dutch to feed us.
I knew, too, that by hiding us the Dutch were
risking their lives every hour. Collaborators were
busy informing on anti-Nazis and revealing hidden
Allied fugitives. Every day we were told of Dutch
citizens being rounded up and executed for taking
part in underground activities.
In our department store, other American, British,
and Canadian flyers kept joining us until there
were 13 too dangerous for so many wanted men
in one hideout. We had to split up into pairs.
Colonel Krebs and I were presented with civil
ian clothes, ration books, birth certificates, and
forged identification papers complete with photo
graphs, our own fingerprints, and official seals. I
was "Hendrik van Gils," a city clerk, and Krebs
was a schoolteacher.
The Long Trek Back Begins
The superb efficiency of the underground con
tinued to amaze me. Even our brown paratroop
boots, a sure giveaway, had been dyed black. If
we were caught in civilian clothes, we'd be shot
as spies, so the underground kept our uniforms
for that emergency.
In the next few weeks we hid in closets of sev
eral homes and then under the floor in the home
of a Dutch officer who had spent 18 months in a
Nazi prison. His spirit hadn't been shaken. To keep
busy, we did household chores and buried his
heirlooms in the cellar. Every now and then, Ger
man search parties came through, and we felt we
were endangering the family. We decided to make
a break to the Allied lines.
Setting the day, we asked for complete new sets
of identification papers and some old clothes. The
Dutch came through with their usual finesse. Colo
nel Krebs became a farmer carrying a hoe. I was
his hired man with an armful of twigs for fire
wood. He could speak German, but I knew only a
few words of the language, so I tied a bandage
around my neck. If we were stopped, Krebs could
say I had a sore throat and couldn't talk.
At a predetermined hour we walked down a
street until we came to a bridge where two 14-year-old
boys were munching apples. This was our
recognition signal. I pulled an apple out of my
pocket and took a bite. (The apple and the bridge
are shown in the oil painting.) Whistling cheer
fully, the boys assigned to be our guides walked
ahead of us as we trudged along.
We had 15 miles to go on foot, through road
blocks and patrols in no man's land. Every two or
three miles, our young guides would change, so
that none would be found too far from home a
serious offense to the Nazis. To skirt some
towns, we followed ditches and climbed through
barbed-wire barricades. Other times, we couldn't
avoid walking by sentry posts, but we had
learned to say "Moron" ("Howdy") to the guards.
UMttMiSxA . -
Senntor Cannon ( r.) and Colonel Krebs reminisce
over their war experience depiclcd in painting.
Occasionally, the boys were stopped, and we
plodded on until the youngsters caught up.
At the end of that nerve-wracking day, we ar
rived at a farmhouse scarred by shelling. In the
yard, a woodpile covered the bottom of an old silo.
The widow who owned the farm pulled aside a
'few sticks of wood and pointed to a small "room"
under the brush. Even some food awaited us.
About an hour later, a battery of German 88s
rolled up nearby and started firing. They were so
close we could hear a German officer give his
orders to fire. For three days shells were whizz
ing around us both ways. The farmhouse was hit,
the barn knocked down, and two sheep killed. That
meant fresh mutton, served graciously by the
widow to her eight children and the two Ameri
cans in the silo.
In the middle of the fourth night, the 88s pulled
out and an eerie silence settled over the farm.
Next morning we ventured out of our room under
the woodpile to stretch our cramped legs. Then we
heard voices of a patrol moving up. We were about
to dash back to shelter when our ears caught the
clear sounds of familiar slang. They could only be
GIs! A few clays later, we were back with our out
fit, after 42 days behind enemy lines.
Shortly before that Christmas, after the Breda
area was liberated, Colonel Krebs and I loaded a
plane with clothes, C-rations, candy, soap, and
cigarettes all contributed by about 50 men in our
outfit. This mountain of supplies was heaped into
a trailer and jeep which we took along in our
C-47. Landing near Breda, we retraced our steps
in the jeep and trailer, passing out our tokens of
gratitude to those who had helped us.
This is the simple story of the oil painting now
hanging in my Senate office in Washington.
It is not a profile of heroism by a couple of jit
tery American airmen; the real heroes are the
Dutch people. Colonel Krebs and I were symbols
of the free world. We were important to all these
vanquished but unconquerable people who treas
ured the dignity of liberty.
When I parachuted into Holland, I felt I was
nothing someone small and unimportant a speck
in the universe leaving a disabled plane for a hos
tile country. When I left Holland, I sensed I had
accomplished far more than our original mission
I had learned from the "defeated" the true
meaning of freedom and how we must never give
up fighting for it.
Fnmili Weekly. March 2C, 1361
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