Year: 2023

Begin forwarded message:

From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: VICTOR POPPA … JOURNAL OF HIS LIFE

Date: October 28, 2019 at 12:04:12 AM EDT

To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

When I think of Victor Poppa I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

(I think Victor will be  pleased with this story wherever he is.)

I have been considering this story for more than 40 years.  Should the life  of

Victor Poppa be edited…be sanitized in other words.  Or should it be presented

just the way he wrote it back  in 1984.  I  decided  to be true to Victor and

present the story just as he  wrote it.   Rough and real.  Soft and sweet.

Some people will be disturbed no doubt…

either by  the brutality of the World  War II bombing of Germany or  by Victor’s

sexual exploits  when on the ground.  

alan skeoch

oct. 2019

Take  a moment.  Look closely at Victor.  His face in 1987 needs to 

be burned into your brain.  Look at that smile.  And  look deeper if you can.

VICTOR POPPA was such an unusual man that I have difficulty finding a place

to start my story of his  life.   He was unique in many ways but foremost was

his  ability to make every moment of his life magnetic, humorous and so enjoyable.

VICTOR POPPA:  

alan skeoch

Oct. 2019

As  mentioned  in my story titled “the Last Flight of HX 313, Victor was the tail

gunner in a Halifax bomber that was strafed and  set afire on a  bombing run over

Bourg Leopold on May 17/28, 1944.   He was trapped in his bubble and sure

to die as the big plane pirouetted out of the night sky burning in its death throes.

Then by a quirk of  fate the plane made a violent turn that threw Victor out

to the open bubble.   His  parachute was only attached by one thin strap

and Victor had to pull the strap down to grab the D ring.  When he did so

HX 313 and Victor were separated but both in free fall.

Victor survived but was badly injured.  That much you already know but there

is so much more that I would like to share with you.  Initially I only knew 

Victor from his letters  sent to me in 1984.   He cried when I first initiated

contact with him.  MY letter was sent 40 years after the crash.  Totally unexpected.

Victor was  then living in a trailer camp near Lake Elsinore, California.  Retired

air industry worker who moved to California when the AVRO  Arrow was 

scrapped  by the Diefenbaker government in Canada.  

Sometime around 1990, Marjorie, Andrew  and I visited  Victor.

I had a  short term sabbatical leave from teaching and  we flew to 

New Zealand and  Australia to look at their educational systems at

our own expense.  On the return flight we stopped for a few day

in California to visit with Victor and Louise Poppa.  We had no idea what  

to expect.  Our visit made New  Zealand and  Australia fade into the

background.   

Victor met us at the airport in Los Angelus driving a very large and very

dated Cadilac.  He had a grin a mile wide.  He loved us and made no

pretence otherwise.  In those few days  with the  Poppa family a  lot

of things  happened which are stories  in t themselves so  ‘let me count

the ways’ as the love poem stated.

1) The Cadillac.  It had seen better days at least a decade earlier.  We never

made the trip to Lake Elsinore.  On one  semi deserted  California

road, the Cadillac stopped.  “Damn thing, let’s me down too often.”

It was around 9 p.m. and the problem seemed  easy to me.

“Phone  the AAA and we can get a taxi to your place.”

“Not that easy, Alan.”

“Why?”

“Someone has to stay with the car…can’t leave it by the side of the road…”

“Why not?”

“It’ll get stripped.”

“Surely not…”

“Fact of life here…got to be careful.”

“Who will stay with the car?  Victor , I can stay here…no problem.”

“Would you mind, Alan?   Louise and Marjorie and  Andrew can get home with me

by taxi.  You stay with car and tow truck until it’s  safely put away…won’t take long”

So away  they went by taxi while I was left to mother the Cadillac and wonder

what evil persons were watching from the California darkness.  Probably waited 

only an  hour or so.  Not long.  No incidents.  

My initial image of  California was based on Hollywood.  Great wealth.  Extravagant lifestyles.

Splendour.   Well, Victor did not live that way.  His home was  a long trailer in a sprawling

trailer park where Victor had a lot of space to keep things.  Things?  Lots of spare tires,

fuselage of a light plane with no wings, motor parts…that kind of thing.

2) “You and Marjorie can sleep in this room.”

“Nice.”

“Got to be careful though.”

“Why?”

“Close to the Mexican border…never know who is  passing through.”

“Dangerous?”

“Could  be.   Look under your pillow.  There is  a pistol there.  If someone

comes in through the window shoot first, ask  questions  later.”

(I thought Victor was joking and maybe he was.  One thing certain  is that

there was a  real pistol under the pillow.)

“Nice picture above the bed…sort of contrasts with the pistol.”

(Not sure if I said this or just thought it.  Above our bed was a picture

of Jesus Christ with a  beating heart with words like “love”  and  “peace.”.)

“We are Catholic, Alan, maybe you and  Marjorie would like to come with 

us to mass on Sunday.”

“No problem.”

The picture of Christ and the pistol under the pillow were formost in my

mind by then.  The  two  things just did not fit.  That became  my image

of California.

3) “This is Shadow, our dog.”

“What breed?” 

“Pit bull…good guard dog.”

“Dangerous?”

“Never know around  here.  This is not a gated subdivision.”

“I mean is Shadow dangerous?”

“Can be, but I have a solution to that.  Look here.”

(Victor pulled a baseball bat from behind the front door.  Not just an

ordinary baseball bat but a bat that he had ‘improved’ by driving

long spikes through drilled  holes so that the long  points  were  exposed.)

“What’s it for?”

“Shadow.  If he attacks someone or just attacks another dog, I give  him

a good rap  on the nuts with this  bat.”

“You are  joking.”

“Nope, I take Shadow for a walk every with and take the bat along with me.

You can come with us.”

(And sure enough, Victor was telling the truth.  His  great grin never left

his face all the time we were with them.  The grin fooled me often.}

4)  Shadow was  a nice dog.  He liked  us.   Shadow  made me laugh so

hard one evening that I nearly died.  I  mean it.  I nearly died.  Victor 

saved  my life that evening.  I must tell this story for it shows  another

facet of  Victor.   He had many facets…many skills…a heart so  big

it enveloped all.  That is probably why he was so  lucky with English  girls

when on leave in England.  He was very  heterosexual. Those stories will come later

…in full detail

if I have the nerve to transcribe them.  

“Alan, let me  tell you a story about Shadow.”

“Don’t tell me he bit somebody.”

“Shadow does not bite…just looks like wants to bite if things get tense.”

“Story”

“A couple of nights ago Shadow was eating his dinner.  Bowl  was almost 

empty when a mouse jumped  in the bowl.   Shadow was surprised and  looked

over at me.  Then he looked  back  at the bowl with a furrowed brow.  And

he then  did the weirdest thing.  He parted his lips  and  slurped the mouse

up.  Then looked at me again.  The mouse  was trapped in his mouth between

his lips and  his teeth.  And the mouse was running back  and forth making 

bulges in Shadows mouth.  Shadow was startled.  He  seemed to be asking

me what he  should do with the mouse…not eat it but where could it be released…

set free…where could he put the goddamn thing gently.”

We were sitting in a restaurant when Victor told  me this story.  One of those 

all you can eat places that cater to retired Americans with limited money.  I was

eating some kind  of stew with large chunks of meat.  And  I was  laughing hard.

My image of Shadow  was  so  funny I could do nothing but laugh.   Then

 a lump of meat got wedged in  my assophogas.  Blocked

entirely.   This  had  never happened before but I knew that moment that I 

would be dead unless helped.  I was suffocating while Everyone was  laughing. 

 No one suspected

I  was  on the verge of passing  out…perhaps choking to death.  I  couldn’t

speak.  Precious seconds ticked by.  I then leaped up on the table trying to

gasp…trying to get even sliver of oxygen but failing.  Panic.  It was then 

that people  realized  I was in serious trouble.  I jumped down  from the table…could not 

breathe.  No one knew  what was wrong.

But Victor was a man who knew a crises when he saw one.  He immediately

jumped from his chair linked  his arms  around my back below my rib cage

and gave me one hell of hug.  Bingo!  In that split second the lump of beef

was ejected and I could breathe again.  I will never forget that moment.

“How  did you know  what to do, Victor?  How did you know to give me that hug?”

“I didn’t.  Never saw that happen before.  Seemed you needed  help.”

“Victor, you saved my life.”

“How did it happen,  Alan?” asked Marjorie.

“It was that goddam story about Shadow…made me laugh so  hard I could cry…

make me take a deep breath with a mouthful of food.”

“Why  so  funny?”

“Because I pictured Shadow with that furrowed brow while the mouse was

running back  and forth inside his lips.”

5)  And  of course we talked about World  War II at length.   Victor felt 

devastated  when he returned to England after walking  out of his POW

campt in Germany and trekking with Seeley and  nine French nurses

through the chaotic  ruins of the Third Reich to American lines in what

would become West Germany.  “George Freeman, I called him Hank, was

my best friend…we were both gunners in 424 Squadron, RCAF and that was

a bond but our shared  life together on military ‘leaves’ really made us as 

tight as brothers.   Someday i will tell you about our experiences with English

girls.  We met a lot of them.  George  was about to marry one and would

have done  so had not that JU 88 strafed his middle gun turret.”

“I am writing a story of my life,  Alan…don’t know  what to do with it 

really…let me send  a copy to you…I have a  good  memory for detail.

Maybe you can make something out of it.”

Victor did sent me his hand written journal.  This is only part of the story.  

Part One.   What do I remember most about Victor?  He laughed a lot.

His  face was creased with a few wrinkles that turned upward and not 

downward.  He was always  good  company, a  person people like to spend

time with.

6) My only flying experience with Victor came about almost as an

afterthought.   I did  not know he  owned a Cessna 170.  It was obvious

that he was not a wealthy man since his home was  a trailer in a 

trailer  camp that seemed insecure…need for the pistol under the pillow  

and  Shadow the laughing

pit bull.

“Would you like to go up, Alan?”

“Fly around Lake Elsinore…we  can do that…I own a plane…keep it

near here.  How about it?”

“Sure.”  (I said that with some nervousness as my experience with light

airplanes was not a bed of roses.  Flying in S 52 helicopters in the wilds

of Western Alaska had been exciting when I was a single male of limited 

value to anyone.  And then later aborting a takeoff on a swampy lake

full of deadfalls  in Ontario…and doing the attempt again with a pierced 

pontoon.  And hearing tale after tale of bush flights that failed.   These made

me a little nervous to say the least.)

But I said  ‘sure’ and  Victor drove me to the nearby airstrip where

his Cessna sat.   

“How long have you had this, Victor?”

“Quite a  few years…love to fly…wanted to be a pilot back in the war but

they had lots of pilots and  made me a tail gunner.  I just love flying.

Get in.”

(A Cessna is  a light aircraft…could carry two people and a bit of baggage. 

I notice the paint had pealed  off in several places.)

“Buckle up, here we go.”

Victor was  in his element as we taxied to the runway  and full throttled

our way into the California skies on a clear bright day.

“Important to buckle up Alan, because of that door.”

“What door?”

“Your door doesn’t close properly…easy to push open.”

I tried  to move a little closer to Victor…this flight was not a good idea.

“That’s Lake Elsinore ever there…coming up.”

“Do you fly often?”

“Whenever I can…mostly alone.”

“Why?”

“Louise doesn’t like to fly unless we are going somewhere special

in the interior.”

“Alan, take a look down there…gated subdivisions…more and more of  them being

built.”

“Why…are they needed?”

“Rich people seem to live in fear so they have guards

at the front of their estate homes.  Costs  a lot of money.

The rest of us  live wherever we can find a place   No guards.”

And  Victor circled over one gated community with a fancy Spanish name that

I have forgotten.  

“Can I take your picture Victor….while we are in the air?”

“Of course.”

And this is the picture I want readers to see. This was  Victor Poppa around

1990.  Beside it is his picture when he was a 22 year old gunner on HX 313.

Note one thing.  They look the same.  They  have that devil may care look.

Hard to hold back a smile…determined to live life to the full and prepared  to

share whatever he has with friends.

Now I think you are ready to read  Victor’s  journal.  I have  decided not to

edit his sexual exploits for they are as funny and  sensitive as  Victor’s dog

Shadow with a mouse running under his lips.

THE JOURNAL  OF VICTOR POPPA

(sent to Alan Skeoch in January, 1987, transcribed by Alan Skeoch 2019)

Alan, I am going back to day one in the story of my life.   Nine months after that

gleam  in father’s eye,I was born, August 30, 1921. The last of five children.  My

life up to four was uneventful until one  day as was just standing  in  my back yard

my oldest sister Sylvia approached  me  with one arm behind her back. 

“Victor, guess  what I have for you?”

She handed  me a model airplane with about a  6 inch wingspan with two

wings,  From that day my life was purely  airplanes.   I used to walk to the 

Elliotts airport and watch the airplanes take  off and land.  Mostly Curtiss

Jennies (JN4w’s)  I also remember a  damaged deHaviland Hornet Moth

…a high winged airplane , cabin for 2 people.  I can remember sliding my hand over

the shiny fabric and dream.  Since the airport was near Hamilton bay, we were

also visited by a Vickers Vidette, an English airplane.

Elliott’s airport closed down and a new one opened about an eighth of a mile

from our house. Here they had  four Gypsy Moths (de Haviland)  but the airport

had a short life because the approach and runway  were not ideal.  Finally 

Hamilton’s Civic Airport was built and  lasted until the end of  World War II

when  it became a  housing tract.

Only a mile from home  so I spent as much  time there as  I could.  Enjoyed watching

the  Piper Cubs land  and takeoff.  The Cubs had tail skis instead of tail  wheels.

Hamilton’s first air force Squadron , 424, was formed here. Equipped with Tiger Moths, then

later  Fleet airplanes with 90 horsepower Kenner radial motors.  It was  a big

day for me when a Lockheed 10 landed.  It had two motors and  I marvelled 

at how it could take off and  land  in such a short space. 

Then, for two dollars that I had saved,  I got a ride in a Taylor Cub.  I walked

on the  clouds for days after that one.   One  day  a Piper Cub J3 crashed and

the pilot was  killed.  I looked at the crash soberly but my feelings  for airplanes and

flying were not dampened.

One winter day I was  leaning against the  4 foot fence looking at a Curtiss

Reid  Rambler with its inverted cirrus motor.  The owner Ray C. came to his

airplane.

“Mister, I have 75 cents  to help pay for the gas, could give a ride?”

He agreed but disappeared for a long time.  it was  a really cold day  and

my feet by this time  were freezing So I left,  downcast, not for my 75 cents

but that I had  been let down.  I had come so close to an airplane ride.

The next week end I went back to the airport and while looking at the old

Rambler, Ray C. came  along.  He spotted me.

“Hey, aren’t you the kid that gave me the 75 cents for gas?”

My heart skipper a beat.

“Come on, get in.”

I climbed nto the front seat, Ray  strapped me in.  Soon we  were taxiing to the 

active runway. Before  i knew it we were in the air in this wonderful yellow

airline with tis two  wings.  We flew up towards Hamilton’s so called  mountain where i was treated to 

steep turns, dives, and spins.   The cold day did not matter one bit.  The  wing 

arrangement was called  Sesqui-plane because of the short lower wing.  Had

struts instead of  wires.  At the time, I did not know that Ray’s airplane was a 

retired airplane from early RCAF  days.  All this came to light on looking through

my 1985, 424 Squadron history book purchased  from the squadron reunion in 

the summer of 1985.

“During these tender years I built model  airplanes and  I still do  for that matter. As a very 

young lad I was not familiar with balsa wood so I used my mothers’ kitchen knife to split

pine boards with the help of a hammer.  Mother never said  anything about the abuse

of  her knife.   I used  my imagination a lot.   I made a hanger from a wooden box

wirth my squadrons installed as I whittled.   By he tie I reached  high school my

had really progressed with my model airplane building.

“During  lunch  hours in High School, I didn’t bother with sports or running through

peoples back yards, climbing fences, etc.  Instead I went over to a small building

where Piper J3s were being covered and  later assembled at our local airport. 

I used to enjoy talking to the fellows working  there and smelling that wonderfull

dope they used.  It smelled so ‘airplane like’. (I wasn’t into glue sniffing though.)

To me  a person has not lived until that person visited a place where airplanes

were covered  with Irish linen, then painted.  The smell was like fine perfume.

“About the last year I was  in high school the National Steel Car Corporation of

Hamilton was aproached by Ottawa and asked to build an airplane factory in Malton

just outside Tronoto.  When possibleI would wangle  car  ride from Hamilton to

Malton to see if I could get a job there.  Sometimes  I travelled all that way  on

my bicycle.  And often  I hitchhiked.  Finally i was hired on August 28, 1938.

GAP HERE…A PAGE SEEMS TO BE MISSING SO STORY JUMPS

VICTOR’S FIRST EXPERIENCES AS A VOLUNTEER SOLDIER

“About 100 of us were loaded in trucks and driven to Long Branch, a suburb of

Toronto.   We  were unloaded, marched and line-up.  We  were  each given a 

Ross rifle and handed 10  rounds of .303 ammo.  On order we  were  to load and

fire at will. Bullets hit rocks and whistled every which way.  It was a frightening 

experience.   I almost  dropped my rifle but pulled myself together and fired my

ten rounds.  That was  my first World War II shooting experience.

Just before posting  out on my first pay parade the paymaster counted

out my pay.   I was given $10  more than I was due which I returned and

was thanked for my honesty.  That’s the way I am. 

I was posted to Quebec City where I met my wife Louise  Voyer.  

(Louise was a girlfriend not a wife until after the war.  In between

Victor was  never short of  female companionship when on leave.

And  that is an  understatement.)   Then I was posted  to Belleville, Ontario

to Number 5 I.T. S.  Here we study airmanship, navigation, wireless, etc.

At this school decisions were made about our future  positions and placement.

I did not apply my energy fully asI should have and as a  result I was  offered

the opportunity to be a Bombardier.  Disappointing day. I would not be a 

pilot.

“If I can’t be a pilot, Just make me an air  gunner then.”

“So I was posted #9 Bombing and Gunnery school at Mont Joli, Quebec where

the St. Lawrence River is 20 miles wide.  We  flew in worn out Fairey Battle’s.

Two students at a time.  Bitterly cold.  When we fired our drum fed Vickers 

gas operated machine guns we  would hold one hand on the barrel and

fired until the hand was warm, then  we switched hands.  My flying time

at St. Joli was13 hours and 45 minutes.  I graduated as a  sergeant, given  

leave  and posted overseas from Halifax, Nova  Scotia’

Note:  Victor’s time  spent in Halifax was  disappointing. The “two brands of beer

tasted  more like  dishwater” and finding females was nigh unto impossible

as”they were gun-shy due to the constant flow  of  bodies passing them.”

After a week he shipped  out on the Queen  Elizabeth Steamship with

12,000 other Canadians. “We were  jammed into staterooms, aisles, every

part of the  ship.”  No luxury.  “My bunk was on the  floor with three more on

top of me.  The fourth person slept with his nose  touching the ceiling.”

there were chocolate bars available in he canteen  but the line ups were

long.  The kitchens ran 24  hours a day.  Occasionally they sailed past

cork life rafts that were empty.  This was sobering. Like floating coffins without

the bodies. They Docked after four days 

at Grennock, Scotland then they were sent to Bournemouth for posting. 

Note:  He arrived in England May  20, 1943 and returned  to Canada on July 17,1945 during 

that time he flew 49 hours and 45 minutes  on daylight bombing runs  and  42 hours

and  35 minutes night bombing the last of  which  was May 27/28, 1944 when

HX  313 was shot down and Victor became a  Prisoner of War.  In short Victor 

spent 12 months in active service May, 1943 to May 1944. One year.

He had one amusing comment about that year in England.

“I am Always hungry.”

“On arrival in England Victor was assigned to #22 Operational  Training Unit (OTU) flying Wellington

Bombers which were twin engined aircraft “of Geodetic Construction mid-winged,

70 foot wingspan, crew  of  5, sporting a Fraser back gun turret with four .303

machine guns (Browning), also had  a front gun turret which Bombardier was

resposilble for” in event of  a frontal  attack by a night fighter … a rare occurrence.”

Victor first crew was  Bill Tighe, a recently married Englishman. Bob Irwin

(Navigator), Ken Sweatman (Bombardier), Wilf Wakely (wireless operator) and Victor Poppa

himself (tail gunner). Wilf was experienced  having flown on 6 bombing missions one of

which was the first 1,000 bomber raid on the Ruhr Valley “which we named Happy 

Valley because  of the intense Flak, Searchlighs and  night fighters.”

Wilf Wakely was the only survivor of a Handly Page bomber (Halifax?) so had

experience  with parachute and escape  hatch.  Victor enjoyed the training flights and

the  lectures.  One lecture  saved his life.  Ken Sweatman asked Victor

to come to a presentation on photo flashes.  Later, Victor failed to properly address an

officer and  was told as punishment to harmonize the guns on an aircraft being

repaired.  Bombs had been unloaded safely it seemed.  So Victor paced off a 

target point behind the bomber, set up a harmonizing board, climbed the ladder

into the bomber and began walking along the catwalk to the rear of the plane.

His arm accidentally caught on the arming wire  for the photo flash and pulled out

the pin. Time delay began  ticking. In seconds the photo flash would explode thereby

detonating the other photo flashes  and then perhaps the whole bomb  load.

The photo flash units were bombs themselves though. “At this point I had two

choices either to remove the fuse  or jump out and run hoping I would be far 

enough away to survive the  blast.” Victor knew all the ground crew would die so

he decided to try and remove the fuse.  Success.  “I descended  the ladder and

told the armorer what happened.  He blanched’ as I handed him the fuse.  If  I had not attended

that lecture with Ken I would not be here today.”

While on training flights in England Victor had ‘real fun’ doing air to air firing from

his Wellington gun turret and also “we used  camera guns against spitfires” 

Then they practised  low  flying where Victor coaxed the pilot to get lower

and  lower.  Ken Sweatman got worried  and reminded Victor that “I am  a

married  man as  is Bill” All the same they did fly low  enough to touch the

top of trees, buzz a train and fly through a quarry ‘which was a near miss’. When

they to back from one practise run the ground crew pulled  branches  from

the motors.

“Night bombing was another matter…more dangerous.   Initially we did

circuits  and bumps in the dark…i.e. takeoff and  landing.  Then cross country flights

one of  which  created panic when a fire seemed  to happen just as  the plane

was  on its final approach. “Bill said, ‘I smell fire’ Wilf fired a red  flare and we 

were cleared  to land.   Bill had not bothered lower the landing gear, flaps  were

down.  Bill did a fancy  side slip but we hit the  air cushion between the airplane 

and the runway and  started  to slide, slide, slide…15 tons of  mass takes  a fair 

amount of  runway.  We skidded onto the grass as the tail swung around.  I felt

like an anvil on a chain.  Our airplane did not burn, fortunately, I had trouble getting 

out of my turret as the hydraulic  lines locked once the motor stopped.  The 

Wellington was totalled…ruined…fuselage was  twisted and wing bent up, centre

section spar twisted, propeller ruined, bomb bay a  mess and the bottom of the

motors cylinders mashed.  We got out OK…Bob our navigator cracked a couple

of ribs.  Bill had his log book ‘endorsed” meaning his idea of a fire was  not quite

valid.”

NOTE: Operational training was no piece of cake.  Victor estimated that about half

of the dozen or so  crew  members he started with died before ever getting

to fly a bombing run over Germany.   One crash must have made Victor and

his crew feel really badly as they were partly responsible.

“There were always bad crashes using those tired  old Wellingtons which

were difficult to fly on one  motor. One night in our trading at #22 OTU we were

 doing  takeoffs  and  landings and while taxiing down the runway Bill managed to get one 

wheel off the runway.  As we were trying to get our Wellington back onto the 

runway we heard over our raidio telephone another airplane talking to our tower.

He said he had one engine out.  Tower asked if he could take one more circuit as

we were stuck part way down  the runway.  the pilot said he  would give it a  try.

He  did not make it.

A few seconds later I could see a big flash of flame.  All aboard perished.”

“There was never any talk  about about all of the things happening but every day

we  could see  stretchers leaning  against the hospital  wall with dark brown  stains

from  bloodied bodies.”

NOTE: Victor was young, 22 years old, blessed with a feeling of immortality when he

first arrived  in England.  At OTU that feeling diminished.  He kept a stiff  upper 

lip.

NOTE:  English girls were great distractions for Victor and for many other airmen

who tried to live their lives to fullest for they soon knew their days living

on this earth were numbered.  So sex was an escape and a pleasure…as Victor

graphically describes. Each base provided a big box of condoms. “We  could take

as many as we wanted and did so,” said a friend of mine.

NOTE:  Some  readers may find Victor’s stories upsetting because  the sexual

detail is a bIt rough.  Sorry about that.  These sexual exploits were part and

parcel of bomber command experiences.  Some  are very humorous.  If you  find

sex disturbing stop reading  now.  NOW!

“Wellesbourne  was my first real  opportunity to meet English  girls.  These girls

were easy to get along with and very nice.  Wellesbourne sported  4 pubs.  We would

start down  from 1 to 4 and then back  to #1.  There was a lot of just regular  sex

with these girls.  With some there was a bit more than  that which  I remember with

a smile.  This one girl was  about 5’ 6” and well proportioned and would wait near a

lane for her  prey.  You could do whatever you wanted providing  you were both

standing  up.  One of her first words were ‘you are raping  me you know’ to which

the response  was ‘Uh! Huh’ and kept proceeding. She  was my first experience with

what was known as a ‘knee shaker’.  Later this same thing was done in telephone booths

when it was raining.  It was fun if  a little strange.”

“Another night I was  drinking my way  back to the base and I was well into my cups and

using my bicycle for support.  This fellow I knew had two girls with him.  He said  ‘Vic, I can’t

fuck  them both, do  you want one?’  Sure, I said,  I was given my choice.   My  friends

choice of  words did  not upset the girls.  They were both attractive and eager to get 

on with it.   I got mine down the road apiece and over the hedge.  This time missionary

fashion was great, especially  with one nice  buttock inch hand.  I finally got her  back over

the hedge, kissed her  good night … mutual kiss back.  The next morning on my way to the 

mess hall, the back of my hands were very itchy and I had to scratch them.  After reflecting

on the  problem a bit, I came to the realization that I had  deposited  my girl onto stinging

nettles.  I’ve often wondered how much scratching she had  to do  to her very nice  bottom?”

Dances for airmen were

a regular occurrence across England

“Another high light was when one night a female Cabby offered to take two of us from

our unit to Leamington Spa (about 20 miles from our base) for 10 shillings each.  We had her

drop us off at the local once hall.  I  wasn’t making  much headway until after God save the 

King was sung at the end of the evening..   While passing through the door I noticed this

reasonably shaped female on my left.  I slipped my arm under hers and said ‘Let’s go to the 

park.’  To which she  replied  ‘The park’s closed, let’s go to my place.’  We did not waste words.

Thanks to the blackout my hands were busy. She said ‘I’m glad “.’ ‘Me too1’

I stayed with her all night.  When  we were really into it she said ‘I don’t care if have a baby’…

I said ‘Me, too!’ and kept going.   She told me her name was the Honourable Olivia.  Olivia must

have  been between  35 and 40 years old.  What a body?  and  good-looking.  I was 22 years

old.  I awoke  at 6.45 a.m. and had 15 minutes to get to the base.    We were scheduled to fly

at 8 a.m.   Olivia asked if I could make it on time.   I said sure , ‘I have  7 shillings which is

more than enough for the bus.’  Olivia insisted on giving  me a 1 pound note (worth about

$4.50 Canadian)  I did not have time to argue.  From time to time I have nice thoughts 

about the Honourable Olivia.”

NOTE:  Victor’s RCAF career…would make a good movie.  I like to think that the Honourable

Olivia really wanted a baby…needed one for her biological clock was getting  past its  best 

before date.  Maybe her British  army husband had  been lost in the disastrous early months of the

African campaign…a side story.   Maybe  Victor really earned  that 1 pound note.

But that is  just speculation…fantasy.  Maybe.

FIRST  RAID:   BOMBING OF HAMBURG

(SO intense that  the  streets  caught fire)

“Our Squadron Commander deemed us ready for combat on July 24, 1943.   Our target was

Hamberg.  Mission Number One.  All of our training came to a head.

At the briefing we were told we were  one of 800 airplanes to go  on this raid…mixed bag or Wellingtons, 

Short Sterlngs, Halifaxes, Lancasters. 

 Once  airborne  we each got busy with our own task.

I loaded my four .303 Brownings and cocked each gun in the ready to fire position.  I then switched

on my reflector sight and to my chagrin I discovered the bulb for the reflector sight refused to light up

This was good cause to turn back but I voted to continue anyway and take  the  chance.  We were very 

naive at this juncture and it was almost our undoing.  However the gods were smiling upon us.

We crossed the coast at Scarborough, heading for Heligoland where we met our  first baptism

from “Flak” (anti-aircraft shells).  We  were at 20,000 feet and passed over the German Flak ships

without damage.   We then crossed the coast where the Elbe empties  into the North Sea heading 

inland to Hamberg. More Flak explosions around us.  I heard  the sharp crack from each

shell and saw the black puffs of smoke. I knew we could be hit as the flak was  very close.  The plane bounced.

We were being handed off from one flak battery to another en route to Hamberg.  Then there it

was…the city.  Well lit. Looking down I could make out the streets and see bursts from our bombs

 exploding. Some aircraft carried  250, 500, 1000, 2000 and 4,000 pounders called ‘cookies’.  Others

carried a mixed  bag…some  of the above,  Magnesium bombs (400 to a canister) and last but

not least, 35 point phosphorus bombs.  Phosphorus  was nasty…it would stick to anything  including

flesh.  There were 8 of these to a canister.  If phosphorus stuck to flesh, it began to burn and could only be put out by

sand or water.  So people hit by phosphorus had to be submerged  in  water.  And had to stay in water  

because the phosphorus  would begin to burn the moment a person left the water…burns  in an

oxygen atmosphere.  Phosphorus burning  people who jumped into water had to stay there.  After 

the  war I heard tht the German SS machine gunned their own people to put them out of their misery.”

“This raid  to Hamberg was also the first time we used a device  called ‘window’…little pieces of foil. When cut to the 

correct wave length these strips would confuse German Radar.  Instead of picking up individual aircraft, German

Radar  showed hundreds  thousands of  aircraft.   Our losses  this  night were nominal from the flak

but that did not stop the night fighters.  A Junkers 88 crept up our tail and got within 100 feet  but was

down lower…about 25 feet lower so it remained very close.  Fortunately we were flying in a 

Wellington and from his position we could  have passed for a Ju 88 which has two motors and at night 

we must have made the Ju 88 pilot curious.  Were we an enemy or a friend?  First he put on a  big amber

light then a smaller green light.  I said to Bill to start corkscrewing.  Bill’s idea of  a corkscrew was not

my idea  of a corkscrew.  The Ju 88 followed.  Then, just as we were about to start another

corkscrew, the Ju 88 put on a red light, levelled off and was about to give ua everything he had.

I Said ‘Bill, 360 port, Go!’  Bill slammed us into a 90 degree  bank to Port just as the Ju 88 opened  

up.  Missed us by a split second and  at the same time  we lost him.  Our 360 degree turn was  right over 

the target and right in the middle  of our own  Bomber stream.  Talk about Russian Roulette.

We still had our bombs aboard and Ken  then  let them all go.  Not safe yet.   We  shook off

3 more German night fighters which  Bill handled OK.”

NOTE:           Victor Poppa believed  the German pilot of the attacking  JU 88 night fighter got a bit confused  since

a the Wellington bomber and the Ju 88 looked similar as  you can see.  Victor’s crew were lucky

because  the Ju 88 delayed the attack giving the Wellington time to corkscrew and then dodge

to Port side.   Rear gunners, like Victor, often played  major role in detecting night fighters coming

from behind.  Some felt those Browning machine guns were useless.

Ju 88 German night fighter

Wellington Bomber

“Then  our intercom  went out and I couldn’t get Bill.  I flashed my flashlight up the  fuselage,

Wilf saw  my light and figured something  was amiss.   He  checked  around  and found

he had accidentally disconnected the plug.  Then our wirelesses quit working.  All faults

that could kill us.  Like I said the gods were smiling down  on us.  If  the intercom had gone

out earlier, I would not be here today.”

Note:  Victor and crew got back  to England without another crisis.  There were so many things

that could go wrong on these fights.  Even the accidental disconnection of an electric  plug

could spell disaster.   Tail gunners, many  of them, knew the Browning .303 machine guns

were not very effective so they did not have itchy trigger fingers.  Better, they thought,

was to act a spotters should an enemy  night fighter be attacking.  Alerting the pilot

a top priority.  Firing the Brownings  was a  distant second.  Bursts  of machine gun

fire  might just allow  an enemy night fighter to hone  in on an RCAF bomber.   Victor

does  not seem to have total confidence in his pilot which is never a good  sign in

a bomber crew.

“July 29,  1943, We were  sent out on a practice  bomb trip to Strensell for Ken’s benefit.

That evening  we were to go back to Hamburg for our second mission but this duty was

not carried  out because our ‘Gee’ set would not function.  We got 5 degrees east and  Bob

refused  to navigate.”

 Note:  Abortng a mission was a serious  issue.  By  1943 most crews knew their chances

of successfully completing 20 Bombing runs was slim.  Some crews seem to have looked

for excuses.  Understandable for sure but not acceptable.  An aborted mission was

always suspicious…always investigated.

“A ‘Gee’ set not functioning was  a legitimate excuse to terminate a mission.  Bob  could

navigate  without the ‘Gee’ but refused to do so.   Bob’s nose could get hard at times.”

“JULY 28, 1943, During the day we did an air test and that night were sent out on another 

cross country no doubt penance for Bob’s refusal to fly without his ‘Gee’ set/“

“July 29,  1943:  We were to got to Hamburg again.  Number 3 Mission.  We caught hell on

this  one.  It was a hot summer day.  We  had a total  of 780 aircraft going.  As before mixed 

bag of airplanes.Gradually British production of 4 engined aircraft was  starting to replace

the two  engined Wellingtons.  I’m not counting theShort Serling.  This airplane was a real

dog.  Once loaded with bombs it could not get to 25,000 feet.  Later the Sterlings were

given the  job of towing gliders exclusively.”

“Bill gave full power for take off with around 10 degrees of  flap.   when  we were over the 

trees at the end of the runway I could see the flaps creeping up on their own and we

were starting to settle down to the tree tops, at this point as we were just

skimming the treetops we started picking up more airspeed and slowly started

to climb.

“During the war density of  air was  not known as a  factor in an  airplanes’ ability to lift weight.  The hotter the air the higher 

the  airplane thinks it  is at, hence an airplane with ,say, an  ambient temperature of 115 degrees  might

not get off the ground at all.  Now, say the temperature is 70 degrees  the airplanes’ ability to life the same

weight would be alright.

 “We followed similar course as we had on  our first trip…via  Heligoland, the Elbe River to the target.  

The flak was real close.  They had our altitude right on but we were  off our Port side by 200 feet.

The Flak stayed with us  all the way to Hamburg with  continuous  explosions of  88mm shells.  Over

the target was not much  better.We were briefly caught by  searchlights but shook them off.  Ken was

getting the  bombs off and then he turned  to  get a  look as the  bombs were  released.  Lucky.  A chunk of

flak from below  sent shrapnel through the perspex (plexiglass).  It struck exactly where his head had

been a  moment earlier and continued  up through the instrument panel . Another piece went between

Wilf and Bob and  back  into space.  Shortly thereafter another  shell burst above me and one piece went

into our carburetor down into our supercharger and  we lost 500 rpm to our port Port motor and stayed

that way for the rest of the trip.

The fires were fierce on the ground.  Detial of  city blocks burning were easy to see from our 20,000 feet

altitude .  Bomb  flashes bursting  around the fires were also easy to see. The super race was  now gettng

its’ due.

“A master searchlight was coming up on our Port side. I  said to Bill to get ready to dive to port. ‘Go, Bill, Go!’

and  Bill slammed the wheel left and  pushed down.  We shot through the light.  Ken said  ‘Jeez’ then I saw a

this great big Halifax with the master searchlight and smaller searchlights exposing him to everything

that could  shoot him down.  His  bomb bays were were open as he was letting his bomb  load go.  I could

even see what kind  of load he had…all one type of  4 pound magnesiums (144 to a canister) and  it 

seemed thousands were spilling out.  This  poor fellow had to continue flying straight and level for

two minutes while his aircraft camera  took pictures of where his  load  had  landed.  Ken’s  comment…’Geez’

was Ken’s exclamation as we dove just in front of the Halifax I  just mentioned. That was real close.

Note:  I am not sure if the Halifax bomber Victor watched  was shot down or not.  Seems it was.

“Columns of smoke were higher than  our altitude of  20,000 feet. On our return to base and just as we crossed the English coast, 

looking back some 300 miles I could see Hamburg  burning.

“We were cleared to land.  As  we were crossing the runway  threshold I could see the fog following.  The poor devil 

coming in behind  us never made it and  I don’t know  where he  went as fog was right down to the deck.

When we  reached the  far end of the runway and  were now on the taxiway, there was a person trying to signal Bill

instructions.  Bill could not make him out.  So I  said ‘Bill, I’ll jump out and  get his instructions.’  This I did.  I used

to wear my parachute tight.  As  a  result when  walking I was stooped down slightly.  Lucky.  Anyway I was

starting to jog back to the man on the taxiway.  I stopped. And  noticed  the man was pointing his finger upwards.   

Turned and  looked up and here was  our port side propeller going ‘Tick…Tick…Tick’.  One more step and  I

would  have been  beheaded.  I stooped  clear, gave a thumbs up thank you and climbed

back into my turret.  I have  often wondered  why I stopped that moment…was it mental telepathy that

said  ‘Stop and  look at the man on the  ground’? His  mind must have been screaming at me.  After I plugged

into the intercom I said, ‘Bill, why didn’t you shut down the  power on the left Port Engine, when you saw what

was about to happen?”, Bill said “Vic,  I was petrified!”.

We parked the  Wellington “J” HF 541, went to the debriefing and had breakfast.   This was our third mission to Hamburg

anti tiook 6 hours and10 minutes.

On August 2, 1943 we were again selected to go to Hamburg…fourth mission. The  weather was not the greatest. In fact

was so vicious that more than  half  our squadron turned back.  However, since we lost mission #2 we  decided to see

it through.  Once we crossed the enemy coast the flak followed us all the way to Hamburg.  We plowed through numerous

cumulonimbus (word?) clouds with up and down drafts where thunder,  lightning , wing icing,  St. Elmo’s fire, cloud

cover was  about 10/10ths .  Hamburg was still burning from our previous fires.  We could see  the glow  of the fires

through the clouds.  We found a small hole in the clouds  and Ken satisfied himself that we were over Hamburg and

then he let our bombs.  We returned to base by another route avoiding  the Flak.  Once landed we were debriefed

as usual.

“Photos showed that we laid waste to nine square miles.   In addition to our four raids the American 8th air force

(USAAF)  pasted Hamburg with daylight raids.  The american effort was modest in numbers. Approximately 75

B 17 Flying  Fortress aircraft.  This was the USAAF first taste of deep  penetration raids into Germany.  The fires

in Hamburg were so intense that the asphalt on the streets flowed like lava…a fire storm so intense that the

oxygen was consumed and people suffocated in their air raid shelters. There  was  no respite.  People rebelled.

Where possible some people began  looting but that was difficult for the wind created by the fire storm was hurricane

force.  Apparently there was  terror everywhere.  From our altitude we did  not see all this  misery.  Better them

than us I suppose.

“Back  home  we  went to breakfast and with no sleep we reported to our respective flight authorities to see

if anything was on and, sure enough,  we were posted on battle  orders.  This was to be mission #5, August 3,

1943.  As tired as we were the  ground  crew got pre-flight preparation underway on our  Wellington.  Lunch

time came and went.  As usual we had the gut wrenching feelings.  The possibility of death being  foremost.

The feelings are never any different…they  tore us apart but as the acton increases a calmness descends.

“This time we are using Wellington “P” LN 448.  Dinner time arrives …the only time in the squadron that 

we ever received  bacon  and eggs.  Sort of last meal kind of  feeling.  Like  the hangman is ready  to

trip the trap. Then comes briefing time and  we  then find out where we are to go.  A one  aircraft mission.

Unusual.  We  are expected to fly into the Bay of  Biscay targeting the harbour of  St. Nazere on the west

coast of France where  the Germans have  submarine pens and other types  of shipping.

“Five aircraft from other squadrons  are to go elsewhere into ‘Festung Europe’ so that is all the enemy had to

contend with tonight.  Our orders were to cross  the French coast at approximately 13,000 feet and gradually

drop altitude until we were in a  position to make our run.  Our attack altitude must not be no greater  than

100 feet.  We had to make a visual sighting of  a particular island and from this visual start a timed run towards

the harbour and  after an exact number of seconds drop our two 1500 pound  mines.  All of  this precaution was 

necessary as the mines were a very secret kind and our side did not wish the Germans to know their intended use.

  So far everything was going fine, however, we were in fog at 100 feet.  Hopefully Bill was

reading  the altimeter for our briefing had stressed forcefully that we ‘must’ make  our attack at exactly 100 feet.

Bob was getting excellent ‘Gee’ flashes and said 

‘Vic,  stand  up in your turret and  look down, we are just about over the

island…we must have a visual of the island, if not, then we  have to take our mines  home!’

‘Coming, coming, Now!’

“No visual for me.  Because of the fog, I could not see the  island.  Instead I got a burst of shells

from  a  20  mm Quad.   The quad gunner missed my face by 20 or 30 feet.  Close…Real close.

So close  that it was easy to see the caliber and there were enough tracer shells to see how

close his aim was to our airplane’s centre line.  The German had our airplane  right on.  Had he

pulled the trigger a split second sooner he would’ve parted our Wellington into two  distinct parts

right at the centre line.  The gunner probably picked up our red exhaust stacks and the noise

from  our motors.   He likely even had time to set his guns vertical and  just wait for us to pass over.  

It was that easy for him.  The gods again smiled on us. We  did not get our visual therefore

our mines were not dropped.  No point in doing a second run because  the  fog was very thick.

And, had we tried, we would have been hit by  that gunner and  20 mm Quad. We crossed  the

French  coast  in a climb and then  back across the English Channel to our base.  The armourers

then were obliged remove the mines.  This  mission lasted 6 ours and 20 minutes.

 

“August 5, 1943.  We are to go out again so  we went through our usual routine.  At briefing

we  were to go to the Ruhr Valley.  I do not remember the intended  target by name.  It was  a

bayonet factory which employed 50 people.  The buildings  all around the factory were hospitals

where thousands  of  injured from Hamburg were taken and others from  previous  air raids.

It was  in fact a hospital town.  We  were sending 600 bombers to get the bayonet factory and  its 50 employees

and in the process  wipe out the whole town. “After the briefing our C.O.  said it was  quote, ‘O.K.’

if we emptied the hospitals.  I  felt real squishy in the  stomach.  Not the usual nervousness preceding

a mission.  I did not like  the idea of  hitting  hospitals.   Our aircraft was bombed  up anyway and

just as we were taxiing for take  off a red flare  was fired.  The mission was scratched and  I think

everyone  was relieved.  Getting Krauts one way was fine with me but not by deliberately hitting hospitals.

“Sir Arthur  Harris was chief of Bomber Command and  fondly called  ‘Butcher Harris’ by Bomber

command aircrews.  This mission to the Ruhr could  technically  have called  a  war crime.

Note:  Much  has been written  about Sir Arthur Harris and  the carpet bombing  of German 

cities.  He was  never dissuaded by critics.   Did Harris know about the huge number of

German civilians were killed in his thousand  bomber raids?  He seems to have known.  One day

he was stopped for speeding in England.  The police officer asked  ‘Do you  want to kill

somebody?  To which Harris  responded ‘That’s my job to kill people.’  After the war, when

the massive devastation of German cities was seen by Allied  troops there were second

thoughts  about the actions of  Bomber Command.  This  ‘after the  fact’ criticism hurt the

feelings  of  Allied Bomber Command aircrews.

“August 6, 1943,   During the day we flew  Wellington “W” HE82 for an air test  then in the

evening we were ordered go up on our third command  Bullseye and cross country flight

which  was a test of British  air defences…searchlights and  night  fighters. We  were coned

by shearchlights and  supposedly shot down by a  Bristol Beaufighter (2 motor kind).  It’s a good

thing all was fun and games. This flight took  4hours  and 45 minutes.

August 13,  1943:Our squadron (427) was moved from Eastmoor to Leeming, a peace time

air field in Yorkshire with permanent buildings.  The really big news today is that our  crew

is going to switch from 2 motored Wellingtons to 4 engined  Halifax’s

AM  I GOING TO SURVIVE?

(The  thought that ran  through every airman’s mind)

The odds were against survival.  Young airmen came to that conclusion early in the career.  No doubt many 

joined  the RCAF because it sounded  exciting.  To fly.  Each person on an aircrew was expected to complete

a tour of 30 flights  over enemy territory.  Only 16% managed to reach this goal.  Some of these airmen

even continued  to fly, i.e. more than 30 flights,  in spite of the long odds against them. 

 Most, like  my cousin George Freeman,

looked forward to completing 30 and retiring from active  bombing.  George Freeman even volunteered  and

joined extra  crews  to get the 30 missions completed  as  he planned  to marry if  he survived.  He did not

make it as HX 313 was shot down May 27/28 1944 and  he was likely  killed  in his upper  turret bubble.

In the big picture there were 120,000 members of  the Allied  Bomber Command of

which  55,573 died.   Of these deaths,  9,919 were Canadians, a death rate that 

was  very high for a country with a small population like Canada.

  Statistically that meant that a  member of RACAF  Bomber

Command in a Halifax bomber only had a 17.3% chance of  survival.*

Perhaps  the darkest way to explain what happened to these young  men is to consider it this way.

For every 100 men in Bomber Command 45 were killed, 6 were badly hurt, 8 became Prisoners of War and

41 returned to Canada with no visible scars.  That does not include the mental  scars which for many

were deep  and long lasting.  And that is perhaps  why few  airmen wanted to talk about their experiences.

END PART 1

NOTE:  THIS  IS PART 1 OF THE VICTOR POPPA  JOURNAL/DIARY WHICH HE ENTRUSTED TO ME

BACK  IN THE  1980’S.   PAGES  1 TO 29.   AN EARLIER EXCERPT WAS TITLED  ‘THE LAST FLIGHT

OF HX  313’…A FOUR ENGINED HALIFAX BOMBER.  I HOPE VICTOR’S  SEXUAL  EXPLOITS IN THIS

FIRST PART OF  THE STORY ARE READ  WITH AMUSEMENT RATHER THAN DISGUST.  IT IS  IMPORTANT

TO REMEMBER THAT RCAF AIR CREWS WERE  AWARE THAT THEIR  LIVES COULD BE  TERMINATED

AT ANY MOMENT.  THE GIRLS THEY MET KNEW THAT AND MANY  OF THOSE GIRLS  KNEW THAT

THEIR LIVES HAD SUDDENLY BEEN CHANGED FOREVER.

THE MARCH

Nothing in Shakespeare could match the impact of the short speech delivered in the middle of the second act of “You Can’t Take It With You” at the South Compound Theater on the night of January 27, 1945. Making an unscripted entrance, Col. Charles G. Goodrich, the senior American officer, strode center stage and announced, “The Goons have just given us 30 minutes to be at the front gate! Get your stuff together and line up!”

At his 4:30 staff meeting in Berlin that very afternoon, Adolf Hitler had issued the order to evacuate Stalag Luft III. He was fearful that the 11,000 Allied airmen in the camp would be liberated by the Russians. Hitler wanted to keep them as hostages. A spearhead of Soviet Marshal Ivan Konev’s Southern Army had already pierced to within 20 kilometers of the camp.

In the barracks following Colonel Goodrich’s dramatic announcement, there was a frenzy of preparation — of improvised packsacks being loaded with essentials, distribution of stashed food, and of putting on layers of clothing against the Silesian winter.

As the men lined up outside their blocks, snow covered the ground six inches deep and was still falling. Guards with sentinel dogs herded them through the main gate. Outside the wire, Kriegies waited and were counted, and waited again for two hours as the icy winds penetrated their multilayered clothes and froze stiff the shoes on their feet. Finally, the South Camp moved out about midnight.

Out front, the 2,000 men of the South Camp were pushed to their limits and beyond, to clear the road for the 8,000 behind them. Hour after hour, they plodded through the blackness of night, a blizzard swirling around them, winds driving near-zero temperatures.

At 2:00 a.m. on January 29, they stumbled into Muskau and found shelter on the floor of a tile factory. They stayed there for 30 hours before making the 15.5-mile march to Spremberg, where they were jammed into boxcars recently used for livestock. With 50 to 60 men in a car designed to hold 40, the only way one could sit was in a line with others, toboggan-fashion, or else half stood while the other half sat. It was a 3-day ordeal, locked in a moving cell becoming increasingly fetid with the stench of vomit and excrement. The only ventilation in the cars came from two small windows near the ceiling on opposite ends of the cars. The train lumbered through a frozen countryside and bombed-out cities.

Along the way, Colonel Goodrich passed the word authorizing escape attempts. In all, some 32 men felt in good enough condition to make the try. In 36 hours, all had been recaptured.

The boxcar doors were finally opened at Moosburg and the Kriegies from the South and Center Compounds were marched into Stalag VIIA.

MOOSBURG – Stalag VIIA

Stalag VIIA was a disaster. It was a nest of small compounds separated by barbed wire fences enclosing old, dilapidated barracks crammed closely together. Reportedly, the camp had been built to hold 14,000 French prisoners. In the end, 130,000 POWs of all nationalities and ranks were confined in the area. In some compounds the barracks were empty shells with dirt floors. In others, barracks consisted of two wooden buildings abutting a masonry washroom with a few cold-water faucets. Wooden bunks were joined together into blocks of 12, a method of cramming 500 men into a building originally intended for an uncomfortable 200. All buildings were hopelessly infested with vermin. As spring came to Bavaria, some of the more enterprising Kriegies moved out of the barracks into tents that had been erected to accommodate the stream of newcomers still coming in from other evacuated stalags. Some men chose to sleep on the ground, setting up quarters in air raid slit trenches. The camp resembled a giant hobo village.