Posted on 11/11/2013 11:54:19 AM PST by Kaslin
I recently took my two teenage sons to a talk by Frank Kravetz, a 90-year-old World War II veteran who survived Hitler’s Nuremberg prisons. Frank published his story in a memoir, Eleven Two: One WWII Airman’s Story of Capture, Survival and Freedom.
Frank’s ordeal began in November 1944 during a bomb-run over Germany. He took his regular position, crammed into the tail of a B-17. The target was Merseberg, a major industrial area. He flew amid an air armada of 500 heavy bombers—each carrying eighteen 250-pound bombs—escorted by 900 fighter planes.
While the Americans were ready for business, so was the Luftwaffe, which set aside every aircraft to defend Merseberg. Frank’s plane came under hot pursuit by German fighters. Frank took them on with a twin .50 caliber machine gun. It was a dogfight, and Frank was shot badly. His B-17 was filled with holes. The crew had to bail.
Frank was bleeding profusely. His buddies tried to get a parachute on him, but it opened inside the plane. They wrapped it around him, trying not to cross the chords, and tossed him out. To Frank’s great relief, the chute opened. Instantly, the deafening chaos quieted, and Frank floated like on angels’ wings.
The tranquility halted with a rude thump as Frank hit the ground and tumbled like a shot jackrabbit. German soldiers seized him.
Thus began “a lousy existence,” or, as Frank dubbed it—“Hell’s journey.” Destination: Stalag 13-D. In the end, Frank’s weight dropped to 125 pounds.
Frank’s liberation came April 29, 1945, by Gen. Patton’s Third Army. For any fan of Patton, Frank’s account will bring a lump to your throat: “After the flag was raised, and within a few hours of our troops arriving in camp, Gen. Patton rolled in, sitting high in a command car. His very presence was awe-inspiring. I stood there staring at Gen. Patton, our liberator, appearing larger than life.” Thousands of emaciated, ecstatic POWs chanted, “Patton! Patton! Patton!” Some fell to their knees, overcome with emotion. Standing in the car, Patton seized a bullhorn and spoke: “Gentlemen—you’re now liberated and under Allied control. … We’re going to get you out of here.”
Embracing Patton’s every word, it finally hit Frank: “I’m going home. I’m really going home!”
As Frank was moved out of his camp en route back home, he had a stop in Rheims, France. There, just as unexpectedly as encountering Patton, he sat in a room with fellow wounded GIs when he looked and suddenly saw Gen. Dwight Eisenhower stroll in. The soldiers jumped to their feet to salute the Supreme Allied Commander. “Sit down, boys,” the former Kansas farm-boy humbly said, “I should be standing for you.”
Frank eventually got home, first arriving in New York City and then hitchhiking all the way to East Pittsburgh. He unceremoniously arrived at his folks’ front door—no trumpets, no dramatic music, no parade. He hugged his mom and dad and sat down. He found his sweetheart, Anne. They’ve been happily married ever since.
As Frank recently shared his story in a classroom at Grove City College, my two teenage sons were riveted. After his talk, they met Frank, who eagerly shook their hands.
As he did, I was struck by this realization: If my teenage boys live to be Frank’s age, they’ll live to nearly 2090, roughly 150 years after World War II. They’ll be able to tell teenage boys that they shook the hand of a World War II veteran who met Generals Patton and Eisenhower.
That’s an amazing thought. It would be like any of us right now meeting an elderly person who met someone who stretched back 150 years to the Civil War, someone who stood in the presence of Ulysses S. Grant or perhaps even Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg.
Gee, when you think about it that way, America doesn’t really seem all that old.
I shared that thought with a friend and colleague, Darren Morton. In turn, Darren told me about his late grandfather, born in 1909, who could remember parades as a little boy where Civil War vets were present. After one parade, one of those vets recalled that, when he was a boy, his grandfather took him to meet an elderly vet of the Revolutionary War. “So,” Darren told me, “I touched the hand of a man who touched the hand of a Civil War vet who in turn touched the hand of a Revolutionary War vet. We are not a very old country.”
Indeed, we’re not. Like Darren, like my sons, I encourage everyone to meet these vets before they pass on. Hear their stories. Someday you’ll be able to pass on your own story about meeting someone from that old war not-so-long ago.
Kind of like passing the torch.
““Sit down, boys,” the former Kansas farm-boy humbly said, “I should be standing for you.” “
I like Ike.
As of last year Harrison Tyler was still alive and healthy, and as far as I know he still is.
Harrison Tyler is the grandson of President John Tyler, 10th President of the United States, four before Abraham Lincoln.
http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2012/01/president-tyler-grandson-alive.html
President Tyler may have not have been the best President but he seems to have lot in common with Abraham.
The Fonz; Heeeeeyyyyyy
Heartwarming story, especially on this Veterans Day.
One need not go back too far, as the story indicated, to get close to the origina of this country. In the Ken Burns mini-series on the Civil War, there is a scene from 1938 where some of the very few remaining survivors of the Battle of Gettysburg gathered at the site once more, to commemorate the 75th anniversary. Those guys were probably a minimum of 90 years old, most probably 92-95. My father was 5 at the time, and though he never met any of them, he COULD have - and those same vets COULD HAVE met a very old Revolutionary War vet.
Not too far a stretch to reach back 237 years. As much as this nation has accomplished, this puts into perspective how short a time in which it has been done - historically, it is the blink of an eye.
My heartfelt thanks to all of our vets for what they’ve done for this country while in uniform (and most for what they did after their direct service, though not all of them - yes, I’m talking to YOU, John McCain). Thanks also to their families - because waiting for news (or no news) about your loved one fighting thousands of miles away has got to be one of the most difficult burdens in life.
Assume the veteran in the photo is not Frank Kravetz, since he’s wearing a combat infantry badge and not aircrew wings.
I was wondering myself where he got the CIB.
I talked to the man who designed the Republic SeaBee (and the homebuilt Spencer AirCar) back in the 1970’s at Oskosh. He told me about his father, who designed the Spencer Carbine and showed it to Abraham Lincoln.
He looked really old, but I thought that he meant his grandfather, not father. Since the Internet came about, I found out that he really was the son (not grandson). Evidently, he was a very late surprise with a younger wife.
Awesome!
I worked with holocaust survivors for some time.
One survivor told me that when he speaks at us military installations he makes a point of saying he saw captured us airmen in the camps being treated worse than any of the Jewish prisoners.
He said he saw multiple us airmen buried up to their necks on the grounds. Germans would physically abuse the even in that state.
It broke my heart to hear it.
American holocaust survivors all refer to American military personnel as liberators. In our most poignant stories we have no idea what they have sacrificed for us.
My mother said her grandmother told them many stories of the Civil War. It is very interesting when people are touched by history and willing to pass it on.
My parents were both 42 when I was born. Not exactly Tony Randall territory (father at 72) but my maternal grandfather was born in 1870 and moved from Michigan to Nebraska via covered wagon when he was a boy.
That is so cool.
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