St. Clair Remembers

At 99, memory of French Liberation still clear to World War II vet

Story by Scottie Vickery
Contributed Photos

As First Lieutenant William E. Massey plummeted 26,000 feet toward the ground, the 23-year-old bomber pilot realized he had reached the end. “This is my last mission,” he thought. “It’s all over.”

It was June 19, 1944, and Massey was flying his 19th mission in World War II when his B-17 Flying Fortress was shot down over Jauldes, a small village in France. Hurtling through the air, he worked frantically, managing to partially attach his parachute to his harness and pull the rip cord just in time.

After a miraculous landing, he spent more than two months with members of the French Underground, who helped hide him and other Allied soldiers and airmen from the Germans.

“We were on a mission that took 76 days,” Massey said, recounting his story just days before the 75th anniversary of the Liberation of Paris on August 24. “I like to tell my story. Most people think that war is just shooting at each other, but there’s a lot more behind a military life.”

Massey, who will celebrate his 99th birthday in November, has lots of memorabilia decorating his room at the Col. Robert L. Howard State Veterans Home in Pell City. There’s a framed map of France – the one he carried the day he was shot down – and a large photo of a B-17 cockpit. A collection of awards dot the walls, as well, including a 2015 letter stating that he would be presented with the Legion of Honor, France’s highest order of merit.

He accepted the award in January 2016 on behalf of all the soldiers who volunteered their services during the war. “They say that 1 in 4 airmen didn’t make it back,” said Massey, who flew with the 401st Bombardment Group of the 8th Air Force out of England.  “So many paid the ultimate price.”

Volunteering for service

Born in Bessemer, Massey was 21 when he enlisted shortly after the U.S. entered the war in 1941. He saw a poster for Aviation Cadet Training and knew that’s what he wanted to do. “I had never been in an airplane,” he said. “I’d never been off the ground. I had such a desire to fly, though, I knew I could do it.”

He had 240 hours of training before his first mission and eventually flew two separate missions on D-Day, the Allied invasion of Normandy. The fateful flight, which he wasn’t scheduled to make, came 13 days later. “One of the pilots showed up drunk, and his crew refused to fly with him,” Massey said. “They asked me if I wanted to just take his place or go with my own crew. We had flown 18 missions together, and I knew what each man was capable of doing, so I chose to take my own crew.”

They were headed for an airfield in Bordeaux. “Our intelligence had learned that the Germans had amassed large numbers of troops and equipment to combat the invasion. The mission was to destroy the airport and as much of the equipment as possible,” he said.

Thirty minutes from their target, they ran into anti-aircraft fire. The cockpit filled with smoke, and Massey knew the plane’s hydraulic system had been hit. “There was no chance in putting that fire out, so I immediately hit the bail out switch,” he said. “At an altitude of 26,000 feet, the temperature runs about 32 degrees below zero. I was trying to buckle my chute to my harness, but my hands were so cold, I couldn’t get them to function right.”

Finally, as the air grew warmer closer to ground, he managed to get the left buckle hooked with about 3,000 feet to spare. “The ground was coming fast,” he said, and he had to decide whether to keep trying to fully attach the chute or pull the rip cord with just one buckle attached.

“That’s what I did, and thankfully it opened clean and blossomed out,” he said. “The jolt was so strong it pulled my boots off. I hit the ground in my stocking feet.”

Massey knew he could see German soldiers at any time, so he hid himself and his parachute in the woods. He tried to catch the attention of a French farmer in a nearby pasture but was unsuccessful. A little later, another farmer came by and seemed to be searching for something. “I took a chance the old gent told him where the American airman was,” Massey said. “I summed that one up just right. He had a horse cart filled with hay. He hid me under it and off we go. Where, I didn’t know.”

Massey spent the night in a barn, hiding in the hayloft. The next day, the man brought two more members of Massey’s crew – 2nd Lt. Lewis Stelljes, a bombardier, and Sgt. Francis Berard, a waist gunner – who had also survived the crash. They later learned that the seven other members of the crew perished on the plane, a reality that still haunts Massey today.

A network of safety

The man who helped them was part of the French Underground, which maintained escape networks to protect Allied soldiers and airmen from the Germans. It was one effort of the French Resistance, which sabotaged roads and airfields and destroyed communications networks to thwart the enemy. It also provided intelligence reports to the Allies, which was vital to the success of D-Day.

“Their job was to be a nuisance,” Massey said. “They were going to look after us, and we were going to stay and fight with them. From then on out, we moved about quite frequently to different houses. We mostly slept in barns.”

Massey fondly remembers a 5-year-old girl who occasionally brought them food, which was getting scarce in France. “It was normally a piece of bread, cheese or a boiled egg, but Lord have mercy, it sure was good,” he said.

Eventually they met a man named Joe, who said he was a member of the Office of Strategic Services, a predecessor of the Central Intelligence Agency. He promised to help them escape. “One night, a cargo plane came in with more ammunition and food,” Massey said. “When it took off to return to England, there were three happy Americans on board. We were on our way home.”

During a debriefing with an intelligence officer, Massey learned that paperwork supporting his promotion to captain had been sent in the same day his plane went down. When he asked about the status, the officer told him, “It will catch up with you.” The promotion never did, and it is one of Massey’s biggest regrets.

“I was presumed dead, and they didn’t promote dead men. I worked for years to get it straightened out,” he said, adding that records from the 8th Air Force were destroyed when the National Personnel Records Center in Missouri burned down in the 1970s. “Getting shot down changed my whole life, but I was happy to be able to do something for my country. My country has done so much for me.”

Massey returned home and attended the University of Alabama, where he earned an industrial engineering degree and met his wife. The couple raised two children and were married for 56 years before she passed away. Massey, who worked for General Motors for 31 years and retired in 1980, continued to fly with a Reserve unit for about six years.

In 1961, Massey, Stelljes and Berard returned to France for the dedication of a monument honoring the crash survivors and the seven men who perished. While there, they visited with many of the people who helped them escape, even reconnecting with 21-year-old Jean Marie Blanchon, who had brought them food when she was 5. Shortly after the trip, Massey was quoted in The Birmingham News as saying, “We were there to thank them, but they were still thanking us for coming over to fight for their liberation.”

For years, Massey continued to correspond with the mayor of Jauldes, who wrote the following in an undated letter to the American airman:

Every year on the 8th of May (Victory in Europe Day) the population goes to the monument and after ringing bells to the dead, the mayor places a wreath and observes a moment of silence. Nobody here has forgotten the sacrifice of your compatriots.

Three Veterans, Three Wars

Stories from Korea, Vietnam and Iraq

Story and photos by Graham Hadley
Contributed photos

Three wars, three generations, three soldiers — all U.S. Marines and all volunteered for service.

And all said, without hesitation, they would do it again.

Retired from service now and living in the Col. Robert Howard Veterans Home in Pell City, the three soldiers recounted their experiences in the military and how that service has defined who they are and how they have led their lives.

Sgt. John Weaver, Korean War

Tough – no better word describes retired Marine Sgt. John Weaver. Even in his 80s, wearing his trademark kilt, the veteran soldier, a member of the elite Marine Recon unit, exudes an unfailing determination and inner strength.

But Weaver says that is not always how people saw him. Before his service in the Korean War, he first had to prove himself in the U.S. Marine Corps Basic Training Camp at Parris Island, S.C. The USMC training is notoriously difficult, and Weaver says he did not appear to fit the bill because, in his words, he is so short.

“At Parris Island, I was the little guy,” he said with a grin. On the obstacle course, the recruits have to scale a tall, vertical wood wall. “Boy did they put it to me on that wall, and boy did I make it over. They never thought I would.

“So, I got a running start, kicked my foot as hard as I could into the bottom board, got a toehold, and launched myself over the wall. My sergeant looked at me and said, ‘Weaver, do that again.’ So I did, again and again,” he said.

That rigorous training only stepped up a notch as he continued to prove himself, earning a spot in Recon. “I was hell on wheels. We all were. Recon was like a Marine Corps inside the Marine Corps. The other soldiers would not even walk across the grass in front of our barracks.”

His small stature quickly became an asset. He could move through places other Marines could not fit, and he did so silently – a trick he learned from his father, who had been in the Canadian military – allowing him to take enemies by surprise.

“That was one of the first things my father taught me. And I remember it to this day. He was tough, too.”

Weaver was also a crack shot, particularly with his two weapons of choice, the Springfield M-1 Garand battle rifle – our main infantry rifle in both World War II and Korea – and the standard military 1911 .45-caliber pistol.

“The first time on the range with the M-1, I put every round through the bull’s eye. I am a crack shot,” he said. Something he has passed on to his children, teaching them how to shoot and safely handle a firearm as they grew up. One daughter is so good she is a marksmanship instructor, something Weaver is very proud of.

That toughness and skillset proved invaluable to Weaver when he was deployed to Korea in the closing months of war in late 1952 and early 1953. During his time in combat, he racked up an impressive list of medals, both from the U.S. military and the South Korean Government, eventually receiving one of their highest military honors, the equivalent of the Medal of Honor in the United States.

Like many veterans, Weaver says he does not often talk about his time in combat, especially with people who have not been there. “Most people who have not done it just don’t understand,” he said.

He does not sugar coat his experiences. “My job was to kill the enemy soldiers. And I was good at it. Very good at it. And I don’t feel remorse for it. Don’t get me wrong, there were times I was shooting them, killing them and killing them, and there were tears in my eyes – they were soldiers, too, and they were doing the exact same thing I was. But I was better at it. I don’t feel bad about it then, and I don’t feel bad about it now. It was what I had to do, kill them.”

At one point, Weaver, three other Marine sergeants and a private were all that was left of their unit, trying to hold a piece of ground against advancing North Korean and Chinese units.

“We kept shooting and shooting. Some of us were wounded, but we kept shooting. That was what I received some of my medals for. I must have killed 200 of them that day, maybe more. There were only five of us left. I kept firing and firing, even after I was hit.

“The other men with me had guts, real guts – guts, guts, guts. I was not going to let them down. Even after I was wounded twice.”

Those five men held out for almost a day against continual opposition from advancing soldiers until they were eventually relieved by U.S. reinforcements.

“They said we killed more than 500 people that day. I am not proud of it, I am not embarrassed by it, I don’t feel bad about it, even now. We were tough, and we had to do it. It was war and that was our job.”

Eventually, in the summer of 1953, the Korean War was halted and Weaver returned home. He never intended to leave his beloved Marine Corps, but he knew if he wanted to be a better Marine, he needed better education.

“I had dropped out of school at 17 to join up. I knew I needed more education,” he said. He began attending school to finish up his high school education and more, always intending to return to the Marines.

“But then I got married, and that ended that,” he said. Eventually he got a job in the food industry, and actually worked for years with a fellow member of the Marine Recon unit who had seen service in Korea.

“We just knew who we were without having to talk about it. We were Marines.

“We were Marines in Korea, we were Marines then, I am still a Marine, and I will always be a Marine. If I could go back today, I would,” said the veteran, steady eyes looking out from under his Marine Recon cap.

His advice for people looking to enlist today? Consider it an honor to serve your country, but make the decision very carefully.

“Those were rough times. I remember every day everything I did then. … It is no little decision to join the Marines,” Weaver said, but he would join back up in an instant..

“I am just an old Marine at heart. I am still a Marine,” he said proudly.

Sgt. Joe Stephens, Vietnam

Retired Marine Staff Sgt. Joe Stephens is quick to downplay his role during the Vietnam War. As an aviation mechanic, he was not on the front lines and only rarely came under fire, usually from missiles or unguided rockets aimed toward his base.

But his actions prove that many of the soldiers on the front lines owe their lives to the people supporting them from the rear.

Like all the other soldiers interviewed, Stephens was not drafted, he volunteered.

Originally from Oxford, the small-town Alabama environment played a big part in that decision.

“I was really patriotic. The flag in school was very important. I was fascinated with history, how we won our independence. I wanted to serve our country,” he said.

But it was a strange time to be serving in the military, the end of the 1960s and beginning of the 70s, with peace protests at Kent State, the deaths of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy and President Nixon’s back and forth on the United State’s position in Vietnam, eventually leading to our withdrawal from the war.

“I volunteered right after Kent State. And after I was deployed overseas in a combat zone, we would hear the news about what was going on back home. There was lots of stress. And there was real racial stress, too,” he said.

But they were soldiers in a war zone and had jobs to do. His was to maintain aircraft, particularly the F4 Phantom, the mainstay multi-role fighter jet for the U.S. military in Vietnam, and the iconic Bell UH-1 Iroquois Huey helicopters that have become something of the symbol of the war for our country. He also worked on the twin-rotor CH-47 Chinook helicopter – another workhorse of the military in Vietnam.

And he loved his work. He was so good at it that, after the war, he was stationed in the United States training others how to work on airplanes stateside until his discharge.

While he was rarely directly in harm’s way, Stephens’ first experience in country was stepping off the transport with warning sirens blaring.

“I was just standing there with my gear and had no idea what was going on or where I was supposed to go. The sirens were going off and people were running everywhere. I eventually followed some other soldiers into a bunker,” he said. There were mountains between them and the enemy and larger American military installations, so they were rarely the target. Still, that day, part of the base he was at actually took damage either from rockets or a missile.

Stephens’ unit was part of the Marine Corps, but they lent support to anyone on the ground who needed it. That need could come at a moment’s notice. So they kept several aircraft at the ready on what he called the “hot pad”, with pilot, mechanics and flight crew on standby 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

“If a unit got in trouble, we could get there as fast as possible,” he said. “We always had three to four aircraft at the ready. We would sit out there 12 hours at a time. We took pride in how fast we could get a plane in the air.

“All of us knew the importance of being able to help our fellow Marines out there.”

And if that 12-hour rotation he had do meant he missed out on leave or other activities, then that was a price Stephens was more than willing to pay. “I even missed seeing Bob Hope when he came.”

Half way through his tour in-country, Nixon started pulling U.S. troops out of Vietnam. Stephens credits his Marine Corps with being crafty – “They started pulling out non-combat troops. I was put on a ship to Okinawa, Japan, and thought I was going home.”

But the Marines knew, despite the order to remove about half their forces from Vietnam, they needed the support for their troops still on the ground.

“So they put us on another ship (the Marine equivalent of a light aircraft carrier) and parked us right off the coast of Vietnam so we could still do our jobs and not technically be on the ground in Vietnam. I had thought I might be going home, but instead we were right back at work” with their aircraft running missions from the ship instead of from an airstrip.

He spent the entire second half of his tour at sea.

Stephens did not mind, it meant he never missed a day of combat pay, though he did say he much preferred being on land in Vietnam.

 “The ship felt cramped,” he said. And they were also at the mercy of the sailors, especially when it came to taking the ship into port for leave either in Japan, Hong Kong or the Philippines.

But for all his time overseas, Stephens does not regret enlisting or any of his time in the military.

“I got to see all sorts of things no small-town Alabama boy would have gotten to do,” he said, noting particularly he got to check off a childhood dream.

“I grew up watching the Mickey Mouse Club and Disney on TV in Oxford. I never thought I would get to go there. But for a while, I was stationed in California. I got to go to Disneyland. I went almost every leave I had. It was a dream of mine to go. Back then, you had tickets for everything. On my last day, I had all these tickets left over, I just gave them to a mother and her son and told them to ‘Enjoy themselves.’ That never would have happened if I had not joined up.”

And better yet, he got to fly in many of the aircraft he worked on. Whether it was for work or travel, he spent a lot of time in the air.

“If we needed to go somewhere or had leave and wanted to go, we would just find a pilot who was willing and we would go.”

Even in peace time, enlisting is a big decision, but even more so during war. Stephens says he would enlist again, but like Weaver, says it is a big decision for anyone to make.

“Today, the military is still a good career, but it is something to think about before doing it. It takes dedication and desire. It is not something to be taken lightly,” he said.

Sgt. James Bryant, Iraq

James Bryant did double duty for his country.

Not only is he a former Marine, after his enlistment with the Marine Corps was over, he signed up with the Army Reserves.

And for Bryant, the military has been a life-saver, literally. He gladly served his country, and the military has returned the favor.

Bryant suffers from Huntington’s disease, sometimes called Huntington’s chorea, a genetic neurological disorder that can be treated, but not cured. It has been described as having ALS and Parkinson’s at the same time and runs in families.

Bryant has served his country as a Marine and the Army and deployed to Iraq during Desert Storm, said his sister, Diane Dover of Ohatchee.

Originally from Panama City, Florida, he enlisted young and was heavily influenced by family members in the military.

“I always wanted to serve my country. Growing up, people like my godfather, who was in the Air Force, were important to me,” he said.

He has nothing but praise for his military experience. In fact, after his discharge from the Marine Corps, he took on several jobs, including working as a professional truck driver, but it never was the same.

“I missed being in the military,” he said, so he signed up for the Army Reserves. “I decided to go back, and it was the best thing I ever did.”

And that decision has had a huge impact on his life today. One of his commanding officers noticed Bryant was exhibiting similar symptoms to one of his own family members and recommended he immediately see a doctor, who made the Huntington’s diagnosis.

Dover said the illness runs in her family, and she has already lost several siblings to it.

And while there is no cure, there are treatments that can make huge differences in the quality of life for patients – the earlier the better. Having the officer spot the problem early on has helped Bryant.

Because Huntington’s affects everything from speech to the ability to walk and fine motor skills, he has moved to the Col. Robert Howard Veterans Home in Pell City, a place he is quick to tell you has greatly improved his life. He says he loves living there, with other veterans and people he can relate to.

“They treat me great,” he said.

And the military has been instrumental in helping cover the expenses for treating his condition and providing a comfortable and active living environment.

His only regret? Bryant is an avid University of Alabama fan. You can instantly spot him in his crimson and white shirt in the common areas of the VA home – but no matter how many times he asks, they won’t let him paint all the walls in his room the trademark Crimson.

But aside from that, he is quick to thank the military for serving him after he has given so much of his life serving his country.

And like the others, he would sign up again without hesitation if given the opportunity.

John Donalson

A Life in the Skies

Story by Carol Pappas
Photos by Michael Callahan
Submitted photos

When Jack Fincher and sister, Linda Wood, were growing up in Roebuck, John Donalson’s family lived across the street. Donalson was the first director of aviation for Alabama and after settling into the suburban Birmingham neighborhood, the family lived at the nearby airport in an apartment above his office.

That was before World War II. After the war, he commanded the Air National Guard for the state, was among the inaugural inductees to Alabama’s Aviation Hall of Fame, patented a steel casting process and became a steel company executive.

But what happened in between is the real story, said Fincher and Wood, both of whom now live in Pell City.

Fincher refers to the decorated war hero simply as “Papa.” In later years, Donalson’s wife and Fincher and Wood’s father passed away, and three years after Donalson’s wife died, “he came out here and proposed” to their mother, Almeda “Boots” Hines Fincher.

She had been a nurse and took care of Mrs. Donalson in her final days. Their spouses died a few months apart in the same year.

Humble hero

Fincher and Woods’ story about ‘Papa’ is deeply rooted in those in-between years when Lt. Col. John Donalson led the main airborne invasion of Normandy – D-Day – 75 years ago. More than 800 C-47s dropped over 13,000 paratroopers into the epic battle that would change the course of World War II and history. And Donalson was the commander.

A photo in his hometown newspaper in Birmingham captured the moment back home, his wife, Blanche, his three children, Beverly, 16, and John Jr. and Eugenia – just toddlers – listening to the broadcast of the invasion on radio in the early morning hours of June 6, 1944. The youngest, John Jr., is seen clutching a photograph of his father.

They may not have been able to understand the events as they unfolded in real time, but Daddy would come home with a chest full of medals and would rise to the rank of Major General.

That’s All, Brother

In the years that followed, the plane that took the lead in the invasion, That’s All, Brother, had gone from its pivotal role in D-Day to a post-war commercial stint to a scrap metal yard when it was salvaged, restored and began its journey anew to Normandy for the 75th Anniversary of D-Day, June 6, 2019.

As part of the Commemorative Air Force Central Texas Wing, That’s All Brother joined 15 other C-47/DC-3 airplanes to retrace the ferry path – United States to Canada to Greenland to Iceland to Scotland to England. In Duxford, England, That’s All Brother and three other planes headed to Normandy to commemorate the anniversary. Then it was on to Germany to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the Berlin Airlift.

In 1945, the historic aircraft was sold to the civilian market and over the next few decades and through multiple owners, it finally was sold to be scrapped in what the Commemorative Air Force described as “a boneyard in Wisconsin.”

As fate has a way of intervening, two historians from the United States Air Force discovered its whereabouts, the CAF acquired it, and through a Kickstarter program, donors and volunteers, That’s All Brother is flying once again.

Fincher was one of those donors and when That’s All Brother landed in Birmingham in May, Fincher and members of his family boarded for a trip of a lifetime. “I was stoked,” said Fincher. “Everybody sat on little tin seats and buckled up with the original equipment.”

He and members of his family were able to experience a step back into time when Papa flew the skies over Normandy. Members of Donalson’s family did as well, aboard a later flight.

After takeoff, passengers could wander around the airplane and cockpit, which had been fully restored to its 1944 look and condition. “It was like brand new,” Fincher said, noting that not a detail was missed. The original paint scheme, even surplus parts from 1944 were used in the restoration project.

“Papa was the command pilot,” he noted. “There were 82 airplanes in his command.” He selected the name, That’s All Brother, “as a message to Hitler.” The actual pilot that day was David Daniels, also from Birmingham, with Donalson aboard in command of the entire operation. Also aboard that day was a Scottie dog, the pilot’s pet. A stuffed dog to commemorate him is on the present-day flights.

“Papa’s plane was Belle of Birmingham,” Fincher said, “but because a radar beacon was required to be installed underneath the lead aircraft, Papa was loathe to cut a hole in the belly of his beloved ‘Belle,’ so he made the switch.”

Looking back

Wood and Fincher pore over old newspaper clippings and a scrapbook as tall as a three-layer cake. The sense of history and heroism, intertwined, is ever present as they turn each page.

They talk of Donalson’s flight with 80 more planes over the English Channel that fateful night with no lights, no radio.

Wood recently discovered his memoirs – 100 pages handwritten in pencil. In typical form of what has been called the Greatest Generation, “there was very little about D-Day,” she said.

In his own words

But in the family scrapbook is the copy of an official report Col. Donalson filed on June 6, 1944, where he had this to say about the day’s mission:

Our second mission consisted of fifty Gliders, thirty-six English Horsa and fourteen American CG-4A gliders.

All were marshalled, that is placed in a double row with tugs attached, so that they were able to take off starting from the front, one tug and glider every 25 to 30 seconds. We put the CG-4A in front because they could get off better. They were led by Maj. Gates who was to form over the field at 1800 feet and wait until all the Horsas were off and formed at 1200. Lt. Col. Daniel and myself were in the first tug with Horsa. Cawthon was all over the sky trying to keep it trailing. We formed up and got on course a little early in order to make our departure point on time. When we passed Cherbourg on our way in, it was quiet as a church-mouse. Guess they used up all their ammunition the night before. Off to our left, the surface convoy was stretched as far as you could see with boats going to the beaches.

There were a line of battleships and cruisers laying off the shore, all quiet at the moment, but waiting to silence any shore battery that was there and headed for our DZ. I had given all the preparatory light signals and was just ready to give the signal for cutting loose when Capt. Cawthon, the Glider Pilot, recognized his field and cut.

We pulled ahead, dropped our tow rope, and turned to head for our base when some Krauts with tommy guns started hitting us. One explosive shell came through and wounded our Radio Operator and Crew Chief. We hit the deck and started home. On the way back, I was checking to see how many planes we had lost. I could account for all but two. One of those had to re-service before he could make it in. The other made a crash landing in France and the crew got back in a couple of days.

My hat is off to the Glider pilots for they did a marvelous job under fire. They landed right on top of the front line with snipers all over the place. As soon as they got on the ground, they were in crossfire from machine guns and the Krauts had their mortar zeroed on the fields. The Glider pilots started returning the following day and are still coming in. So far we have definite proof that three have been killed and feel sure that three more were killed but cannot confirm it yet. Half of our airplanes were hit with small arms fire with the majority of hits in the engine and gas tanks. They are not leak-proof either.

This was our second mission and they were both 100 percent perfect. Considering the number of people involved in the operation, it is almost beyond belief that everyone would do exactly as he should.

There is not much of a report to make on these missions except all went according to plan.

We were the third group in and when we got back to the DP we were still meeting groups on their way in.

The boys are all on the peg awaiting a chance to go back on another mission and getting ants in their pants.

The memoir

Donalson’s memoir comes from a unique vantage point of the days leading up to the invasion as only he could tell it.

When I got to our field in central England, it frightened me that I would be responsible for everything on the field. They had fields all over England and if you became lost, you got on the radio and said Darkey, and a field would give you a course to fly to the field that you wanted to go to.

These were low output radios that you had to be near the field broadcasting to hear them. The first time the airplanes were out on familiarization flight, about twelve got lost over the North Sea.

Maj. Gen. Ridgeway, in command of the 82nd Airborne Division, was pressing me for a practice jump for his men. Brig. Gen. Gavin, his executive officer, was very impatient I made them wait 3 or 4 days while the pilots became familiar with flying at night over England…

I went with Gen. Ridgeway in his car to the drop zone about 10 miles from the point of take off, and the formation arrived at the prescribed time. Just after daylight we stood on the drop zone and had to dodge helmets and equipment falling. One man broke his leg landing on a frozen river. This drop pleased Gen Ridgeway since the old units returned from North Africa had dropped his outfit in a bombing practice area. I believe that was when he picked the 438th to lead the invasion on France.

The night before

In his memoir, Donalson writes about the night before when a Baptist minister gave a pep talk. …he evidently thought everyone was afraid they would be killed…

I followed with my talk and told the men that they were going to attend the greatest show on earth, and they had earned their ring side seat.

D-Day arrives

D-Day was scheduled for the 5th of June and had to be postponed on account of high wind over the channel. We painted three broad white stripes on each wing with three stripes around the fuselage on the night of June 4th. This was done to prevent a repeat of the invasion of Sicily, where the Navy shot some of the Allied airplanes down.

When Gen. Eisenhower cancelled the invasion on the 5th, no one thought to advise the men and women in the office. Someone notified the American press that the invasion had started and with the difference in time, it hit the headlines in the U.S.A. on the 4th.

We had beefed up until we had 18 airplanes in each squadron…which gave us 81 airplanes. Actually two groups.

We had enough brass to line up along the runway for half its length. Gen Eisenhower had been shaking hands with all the paratroops. Lt. Gen. Brereton was in the lead airplane talking to the paratroops. When I was ready to taxi into position for takeoff, I had to ask him to get out as it was time to move out.

We took off and formed over the field waiting for the second half to get into position for takeoff. This was a little before dark. I had split the group in two. I guess you could say 438th A and 438th B…We flew over the channel over a boat off the coast of Normandy. He flashed us an O.K. with his light in the shape of a cross. Also they had rolls of aluminum tape that could be picked up by the German radar to confuse into thinking the landing was to be made at some other place…

Our two sections dropped their paratroops about ½ mile from each other. Gen. Gavin wrote us up for not dropping his units in the same place. We cut our throttles and glided down to 400 ft. to let the paratroopers jump. As soon as the paratroops were all out, we gave the engines full throttle and climbed to 3000 ft. flying over incoming planes.

Coming home

Donalson came home to Birmingham, returning to a life in the steel industry, Air National Guard and with his family, not talking much about the war except in interviews with media wanting to know more about this hometown hero.

In a television interview after returning to Birmingham, Wood said the colonel described the unprecedented air power that filled the sky that day in simple, but vivid terms: “You could damned near walk from one airplane wing to another.”

A newspaper account from Birmingham when he was home on leave paints a picture of  Donalson, the man. “Calm in manner and voice, the Birmingham colonel has eyes that penetrate. Their grayness have the flash, the sharpness of tempered steel…

“He wears the distinguished flying cross with two oak leaf clusters, also the Presidential group citation. Three battle stars are on his ETO ribbon.”

“Your family were pretty glad to see you weren’t they?,” he was asked. “And the colonel—who made history on D-Day—answered as you or anyone else might have answered, ‘Yeah.’ ”

About the man

An engineering graduate from Georgia Tech in the 1920s, he was an engineer for Connors Steel before and after the war. His diploma, Fincher said, “is on a real sheepskin.”

He later formed his own steel company, and he patented his continuous steel casting formula. He and “Boots” lived happily 10 years in Trussville and two years in Pell City until his death in 1987. “They were well suited for each other,” said Fincher.

“Papa was very close to us,” added Wood. “He loved us dearly, and we loved him. He was the only grandfather my kids ever knew.”

“I think Papa’s modesty prevented our knowing more about his historic actions,” added Fincher. “A natural leader: courageous, capable. It makes me wish we had more like him around today. It’s my privilege to have known him and called him, Papa.”

A life of ‘firsts’

Beatrice Muse Price:
Serving with the
Tuskegee Airmen
and breaking barriers

Story by Scottie Vickery
Photos by Wallace Bromberg Jr.
Submitted photos

As she looks back over photographs of her life and loved ones that hang in her room at the Col. Robert L. Howard State Veterans Home in Pell City, Beatrice Muse Price feels the need to pinch herself. “I’ve had a strange life with a lot of firsts,” she said. “It’s been an interesting, interesting journey.”

The granddaughter of slaves, young Beatrice started school at age 4 and never stopped blazing trails. The little girl with humble beginnings grew up to break color barriers in order to serve her country as a nurse during World War II. General George S. Patton was among her many patients, and she made history when she was assigned to help care for the Tuskegee Airmen, the first black pilots to serve in the U.S. military. “We took care of their medical needs and made sure they were in good shape,” she said. “Our job was to keep them flying.” In 2012, nearly 70 years after her service with the Airmen, she was presented the Congressional Gold Medal for her efforts in the war.

At 94, Price can’t think of much she would change about her life. After leaving the Army, she was a nurse at the Birmingham VA Medical Center and started a health and wellness program at her church, which she counts among her greatest accomplishments. Despite growing up during the height of segregation she lived to see Barack Obama become the first African-American president and was among the estimated 1.8 million who flocked to Washington for his inauguration in 2009. Four years later, she was the special guest of U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell during President Obama’s 2013 State of the Union Address.

“Every time I turn around, I’m involved with something that’s made me think, ‘Can you imagine this?’ I’ve never seen any reason to stop with less than you were capable of doing. Now that I look back on it, I can’t remember anything I was afraid to do, and I think that’s why I had such great opportunities everywhere I went,” she said.

Price was born in Bessemer on Jan. 21, 1924, the second of Henry and Frances Muse’s six children. The family moved to Hale County when she was 3, and she grew up on a farm in Greensboro, where her parents modeled strength, courage and determination. Badly injured in World War I, her father was in and out of the VA hospital for much of her childhood. “Mama had to run the farm, and boy did she run it,” she said. “She believed in doing everything possible to make life better for all of us.”

For that reason, Price got an early start on her education “My sister Ruth, who was 11 months older, was afraid of everything, including her shadow,” she mused. “When she went to school, Mama started me too, even though I was only 4, just to be company for her.”

Price excelled in school, despite her many chores around the farm and the time she spent helping to care for her father. That experience is ultimately what set her on her career path. “My father always said, ‘Bea, you would make a good nurse.’ He told me that from the time I was 3. By the time I graduated high school, he had convinced me totally,” she said.

The problem was, she graduated early, at age 16. “You had to be 17 to go to nursing school, so Daddy got a birth affidavit for me. Because of midwives, a lot of people didn’t have birth certificates, so rather than have me sit out a year, he aged me a year on my birth affidavit,” she said.

Despite never having left Alabama, she boarded a train by herself and went to the Grady Memorial School of Nursing in Atlanta, graduating three years later in 1944 as a registered nurse.

During her college days, “segregation was at its height,” she said, and she remembers the superintendent of nurses telling her and her classmates to “go back to the cornfields and cook kitchens where you belong.” The white students and black students were separated, but Price didn’t allow the racism she experienced to affect her focus. She graduated with one of the highest grade point averages among both groups of students.

By the time she finished nursing school, “they were appealing for Army nurses with every breath,” she said. “We had recruiters at school every week or so, but you had to be 21 to join the Army. Daddy got a birth affidavit for college, but he said he wasn’t going to mess with the military.”

Instead, she spent a year in Trinity Hospital, an all-black private hospital in Detroit before becoming a U.S. Army Nurse in 1945. She joined the Army three days after turning 21 and was one of 12 black nurses sent to work at a hospital in Fort Devens, Mass., after completing basic training. “We were the first black nurses there and when they took us to breakfast the next morning, the forks were hitting the plates so hard we were looking to see how much china was broken,” she said with a laugh.

After earning the respect of her colleagues, she was the first black nurse to be promoted to head nurse at the hospital. Although she can’t remember what he was treated for, Gen. Patton was a patient in her ward. “Everyone called him ‘Blood and Guts’ because he was so forceful and fearless,” she said, adding that he wasn’t difficult or intimidating during his stay. “He disappointed me,” she joked.

After being promoted to First Lieutenant, Price was stationed at Lockbourne Army Air Base in Columbus, Ohio, and was assigned to the Tuskegee Airmen. The pilots, who trained in Alabama as a segregated unit at Tuskegee Institute’s Motion Field, were subjected to discrimination both inside and outside the military. “They were trying to be the best they could be in spite of the fact that people didn’t want them to do it at all,” she said. “I enjoyed working with them to the highest.”

Price said she got to know some of the pilots and flew with them on a few practice flights, even taking the controls on occasion. “They had to keep their hours up and they were so happy to have company along, they taught you everything they knew. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you that,” she said with a grin.

After the war ended and Price returned home, she continued her nursing career at the Birmingham VA Medical Center, where she worked for 34 years. She was married twice and has three children, two stepchildren, four grandchildren, five step-grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Through the years, she’s “adopted” some others and counts them as her own. She credits her family and her career among her greatest blessings.

Price rejoiced in 2007 when President George W. Bush presented the Tuskegee Airmen – which included the nearly 1,000 pilots and support personnel such as armorers, engineers, navigators, intelligence officers, weather officers and nurses – with the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest honor given by Congress. In 2012, U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell presented Price with her own medal during a ceremony at her church, Sixth Avenue Baptist.

She is amazed at the honors she has received for what she calls fulfilling her calling.

 “There’s nothing in the world I could have enjoyed more than nursing,” she said. “It has really been the most rewarding career I could possibly imagine. I’ve had a rich, full life, and I’ve just been in the right place at the right time with the right things somebody was looking for. It’s how God works. He finds you and gives you assignments, and you’ve just got to try to carry them out.”

PFC Prestridge

Tales of survival from Omaha Beach

Story and photos by Jerry C. Smith
Submitted photos

General Dwight D. Eisenhower spoke of Operation Overlord as “a crusade in which we will accept nothing less than full victory.”

To back up this solemn resolve, the Allies mounted the heaviest seaborne invasion in world history on June 6, 1944, a World War II event that would become known as D-Day. Hilman Prestridge, a 19-year-old draftee from Clay County, Alabama was there and lives on today to share his experiences.

The numbers are staggering, especially to moderns who haven’t lived during an era when literally the whole world was at war. For this operation alone, more than 160,000 Allied troops, 13,000 aircraft, and some 5,000 ships mounted a concerted invasion of Nazi-held Europe, including a 50-mile stretch of coastline in Normandy, France.

There were five distinct areas of beachhead assault, code-named Juno, Sword, Omaha, Gold and Utah. Of these, Omaha was the most difficult because of its hilly terrain and high concentration of concrete bunkers sheltering German cannons and machine guns.

PFC Prestridge of the First Infantry Division was in one of the first boats to land on Omaha, in the face of withering gunfire from fully-prepared, seasoned troops who had been expecting them for days.

Many drivers of the amphibious landing craft, called Higgins boats, refused to go into the shallowest water, fearing entrapment by grounding or by metal objects placed by the Nazis to snag boats and prevent heavy vehicles from coming ashore. As a result, many soldiers perished from drowning due to the heavy weight of their equipment and a malfunction of their flotation devices.

 

In the thick of the fight

“We had these life preserver things called a Mae West around our waist,” he recalls. “They were supposed to float up under our armpits when you filled them with air, but because we were loaded down with so much stuff, they couldn’t do that and just hung around our waists.

“Lots of men died with their feet sticking out of the water because all that ammo and grenades and backpacks kept them from floating upright.”

He gives high praise to his boat pilot, a brave Navy man who knew what was at stake and carried them into much shallower water that could be waded. But that’s when the real horrors began.

As soon as the front landing door was dropped, heavy machine gun fire began raking his buddies as they stepped off into the water. Many died right in front of the boat. Hilman says those stories about men jumping over the side instead are true, and that some owed their lives to that decision.

“Fact is,” he adds, “we missed the best landing spots because of heavy fog and wind but did the best we could anyway.”

It took several days to secure all five beachheads. “I found a low spot behind one of those tripod tank traps and slept with bullets whizzing just inches over my head.”

The casualties were appalling by any standard, with some 10,000 Allied wounded and more than 4,000 confirmed dead. But it could have been even worse.

“Because the weather was so bad that week,” Hilman explains, (German Field Marshal) Rommel had left the area to attend his wife’s birthday party, thinking we couldn’t land with that kind of weather. The Germans needed aggressive field leadership, and with Rommel gone, they were left without.”

As Hilman spoke of the horrors of that operation during our interview, he had to pause occasionally to gather himself emotionally. One of his most touching anecdotes concerned a tank that had finally managed to drag itself onto the shore, despite most of its unit having foundered in deep water, drowning their crews.

“I heard that tank behind me with those two big engines roaring,” he said. “It came right by me where I was pinned down by bullets over my head. When it passed me, I saw the word, ALABAMA, painted across the back end, and knew things were going to get better. He knocked a big hole in all that barbed wire, so we could get through.”

He also tells of the destruction of a particularly wicked German gun emplacement that had wrought heavy casualties and nearly brought the Omaha Beach assault to a standstill. “We saw the (battleship USS) Texas out there, not far from shore. He put it in reverse and backed way out for a clear shot, then blew that pillbox to pieces with one shell.”

After the beaches were finally secure, an officer informed Hilman that his brother-in-law, Fred Lett, had also landed on another beach, and told him where he could be found. The officer refused permission for Hilman to leave the area but added that his own Jeep was parked nearby with the keys in it, and Hilman was to be sure nobody bothered it. Hilman and Fred had a joyous reunion a short while later.

Hilman’s military career began upon receiving “a letter from Uncle Sam” right after graduating from Lineville High School. His basic training took place at Fort Bragg, NC, where he was selected for Field Artillery training in Maryland. “I was real happy with that idea,” he said. “Artillery gets to stay way behind the front lines, so I figured it was about the safest place to be in a war.”

He relates that his gun crew got into a bit of trouble when they accidentally put seven charges of gunpowder in a field piece designed to use four. The gun survived, but the projectile went all the way into town, destroying a huge tree but luckily doing little other damage.

Those in charge were not pleased, but this was during wartime, so allowances were made. Nonetheless, for no stated reason, they moved Private Prestridge into Amphibious Landing school, eventually thrusting him right into the teeth of the enemy.

“I was worried about it at first,” added Hilman, “but the transfer probably saved my life. The guys I trained with in Artillery were all later killed in battle.

“We loaded up onto the Queen Elizabeth (ocean liner) and wound up in Glasgow, Scotland,” he relates. “We finally were deployed to some place I can’t name in England. The people there were real good to us, and I even got to meet Princess Elizabeth while she was visiting troops in the fields around Dorchester. She was the same age as me, but not yet queen.”

Hilman said none of those in his outfit knew anything about the plans for D-Day; they were simply told they would ship out on June 5th, but their move was delayed until the 6th because of bad weather.

He said the English Channel crossing was pretty rough, and a lot of soldiers got sick, especially after boarding the landing craft. “They told us the waves were 12 feet, but the number I believed was more like 20, but it didn’t bother me. The rougher the water, the better I like it,” he explained.

“We were told to jump off the ship and into the boats when the waves went highest, but a lot of guys broke their legs when they timed it wrong because we were so loaded down with field gear and ammo.”

 Hilman’s outfit was stationed in France until all of Europe had been liberated, then they were transported by ship back to the United States for a 30-day leave before being reassigned to another duty. While America-bound on the destroyer SS John Hood, they were told that their next assignment would be an all-out attack on the mainland of Japan.

Fortunately, before this hellish invasion was launched, President Truman took more direct steps in 1945 to bring World War II to a close. Upon landing in New York, Hilman and his comrades participated in a ticker tape parade celebrating that victory and were soon mustered out of the service.

 

Upon returning to Alabama, Hilman married Vernie Cruise, his high school sweetheart, and settled down. He worked at various jobs that included 10 years at Dewberry Foundry in Talladega before settling down to a career as an electrician at Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind, where “I actually did more work for the school’s athletic department than electrical stuff.”

Now, a 94-year-old resident of Col. Robert L. Howard State Veterans Home in Pell City, Hilman Prestridge is far from retired. He’s been involved in many veterans’ activities, including group visits with his old comrades to various D-Day memorials in America and overseas.

While attending a 70th anniversary gathering at the D-Day Memorial in Bedford, VA, Hilman was greeted by a lady whose two brothers were with Hilman at Omaha Beach. They didn’t survive the landing. She was holding a Bible that one of them carried while serving, which had somehow found its way home.

He’s also revisited the actual spot where he landed in Normandy more than 74 years ago and has an album full of photographs he uses to illustrate their horrendous experience.

Hilman Prestridge is one survivor of only about 5,000 D-Day veterans estimated remaining. He is indeed an honored member of the Greatest Generation.

Thank you for your service, PFC Prestridge.

Honoring a Veteran

Special presentation adds local footnote to D-Day history

Story and photos by Carol Pappas

It would be hard to imagine that when William E. Massey, who enlisted in the Air Force at age 21, could have anticipated what he would witness during his time ahead in World War II.

But as June 6, 1944, approached, 1st Lt. William E. Massey of the 8th Air Force Mission knew he had just one job in mind – “keep the German Air Force out of the air,” he said.

In what would become known as D-Day, Massey, now 91, retold his story to a spellbound crowd at St. Clair County’s Col. Robert L. Howard State Veterans Home with the patience and skill of a seasoned teacher.

By the numbers, 210,000 men took part as airmen, 26,000 were killed, and 28,000 were taken prisoners of war. “One out of every four airmen who went out didn’t come back,” he said.

Massey told his personal story of one of the ones that made it back to a crowd gathered at the veterans home for a presentation. One of his fellow residents, Joe Zeller, built a replica of the 4-engine B17 G called Channel Express, “like the English Channel,” Massey said, explaining that it was the same plane he flew during the D-Day invasion of Normandy, France.

It carried three tons of bombs – a dozen 500-pound bombs called “blockbusters,” he said. In formation to cover the target, 54-81 planes would have flown. With that volume and power, “You can cause a lot of damage,” he said.

Zeller, 3rd class boatswain, served from 1951 to 1955 in the Navy. He built the plane before Massey even arrived at the veterans home, but when he learned that Massey had flown that very plane, he wanted to present it to him. What prompted him to build it? “I think the Lord told me to build that. I think God sent me here.”

In a formal ceremony, Zeller presented the model to Massey who then donated it to the veterans home so others to come may hold and examine a piece of history.

Massey’s son-in-law, First Sgt. Scott Leigh, in full Marine uniform was there for presentation. He couldn’t disguise his pride in his father-in-law. “He is one of the true warriors,” he said.

 

Eye-witness to history

As Massey began to tell his story, the audience’s attention to every detail was evident. His crew’s mission leading up to one of the greatest conflicts in history was to block the route in the Far East, he said. They flew to Iraq, Iran, Kuwait and Syria with the purpose of preventing oil and gas to get to Hamburg for the Germans

On D-Day, he flew two missions to bomb bridges and cut off the possibility of the Germans to reach the beach and combat the invasion.

Massey flew directly over Omaha Beach and Utah Beach. Overhead he could see there was “not room for another canoe out in that water.” The critical factor in the mission’s success was to be dominant from the air. With more than a little hint of pride showing, he proclaimed, “Not a single German plane came up to contest the invasion.”

He spoke of his bombing mission to Berlin a month earlier – on May 7 and May 8. “On May 8, we turned around and went back to Berlin and bombed it again. You can’t imagine the devastation.”

He flew his fourth mission on May 29 to Berlin. The plane was loaded with incendiary bombs. When they were through, there was “no need to come back. Berlin had to be rebuilt from the bottom up. The Germans were defeated actually before then.”

Quoting German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel to Hitler, he prophesied, “If you can’t stop those bombers, we can’t win the war.”

Looking back to that fateful day in June, Massey reflected, “It seemed to be impossible. Those young men gave their all. When you hear what they did, what they accomplished…young men, some only 19, they weren’t afraid. They manned their post and did an excellent job.”

Thirteen days later proved to be a more formidable challenge for Massey. He wasn’t supposed to fly that day, but he had to replace someone who couldn’t go. His plane was shot down. “The plane was on fire. It was filled with black smoke,” he said. “I couldn’t see the instruments.”

The crew was forced to bail out, and he jumped free of the plane but in doing so, he didn’t have on his chute. It was in his hand. “The ground was coming up mighty fast.” He got one side of the chute on, managed to pull the rip cord and the chute opened about 3,000 feet from the ground.

Guardian angel? “Somebody pulled that cord,” he mused.

Once he hit the ground and made it past the enemy, he connected with the French Underground and stayed with them until the end of the war.

His interrogator told him: ‘Lieutenant, your promotion to captain was sent in on the date you were shot down.’ He asked the interrogator if he knew the status, and he told him, ‘Don’t worry. You go home. It will catch up with you.’

“It never did.”