David Wetherill's Poppy Field.I've been fortunate so far in life. Due to my veteran status and past employment, I've known many combat veterans from all branches of service and from several wars. Each one I knew had an inner strength forged during a time in life when he underwent duress the average civilian would never experience. The more severe their ordeal, it seemed, the greater the strength.
Perhaps that's a product of the will to live, or maybe inner strength is the will to live brought to the surface of personal reality. And too, I think a strong spiritual conviction is necessary to keep inner strength from abandoning us when we need it the most.
Whatever it is, Dave Wetherill was a man with an inner strength that drew others to him. He expressed that strength in many ways. You could hear it in his words, his laughter, and read it in his eyes. He spoke of family and friends, of sharing his love of music, and his pride in fellow veterans.
I found him to be a quiet gentle man. A man I liked almost at once. And I'm the kind of combat veteran who shuns crowds, feels most comfortable sitting facing a door when I'm in an unfamiliar place. Normally, I don't warm up to strangers. But oddly, Dave was not a stranger when we first met. Not that I knew him from the past. I didn't.
My wife and I started a small writer's group in Mount Holly, New Jersey, posted a flyer at local libraries, ran a small reader ad in a local paper, and Dave called to join us.
He attended weekly, offered kind advice, like the fact that clouds scud across the sky. They don't drift. He shared with us the newsletters he edited for his WWII outfit, the 571st Squadron. He was a co-pilot Crew 91. Their B-17 bomber was shot down over Germany. David was badly injured, and spent many months in Stalag Luft One. He spoke of other members of their organization, and about their dwindling numbers.
Then, one night he gave us a copy of two articles he'd written for the newsletter. It seemed there was one member he missed more than any other. The man who didn't live to join, the hero who was left behind.
His pilot went down with the plane, and David never forgot him, never stopped honoring his friend George Massa.
With his family's permission, I'm posting his articles in two parts. The first is titled: Poppy Field and is below. I'll post the follow-up titled Poppy Field Found tomorrow and let you meet this extraordinary man.
This Veterans Day, let's all honor the silent heroes that live among us, like my friend David Wetherill. And remember that those men and women honor the fallen every day as Dave's articles explain.
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NEWSLETTER FALL 1995 Page 19Poppy Field
by David W. Wetherill
On Memorial Day last year, I was interrupted in my studio by the ringing of my phone. I’d been at work for more than an hour, so the disturbance came as a small relief.
“Hello.”
A man’s voice said, “Is there a David Wetherill there?”
“Yes. Who wants him?”
The voice continued, “I’m looking for a David Wetherill who was a copilot on a B-l7 flying over Germany in World War Two.”
“I am such a person. Who are you?”
“My name is Leo Massa..." My heart fairly leaped. “and I’m looking for the man who was my brother’s copilot. My brother’s name was George, George Massa, and..."
“I guess I’m your man. I was copilot on George Massa’s crew.”
Leo became very enthusiastic. Almost overjoyed. We talked for nearly an hour and ended our conversation after each had promised the other that an early meeting would take place.
The meeting was set for a couple of weeks later, with Jean and me driving to the Massa home in North Jersey. We planned to leave home in time to eat lunch on the way and arrive by 2 PM. Quite naturally, we fell into a discussion of the interesting news we’d picked up from my phone conversations with Leo. It was possible, I decided, that I had met Leo on the occasion of my meeting with George’s parents, at their Brooklyn home, in the summer of 1945. That was my first move after arriving home from my stay in Stalag Luft One.
Although I had realized, from the report I had received from Bill Reulbach, our toggleer, at the time of our first meeting on German soil, at Dulag Luft, that George had to have still been on board our B-17, still carrying its bomb load, when it hit the ground, I knew that no official word of his KIA status had reached the Massas. It, therefore, had become my first duty to meet with them and tell what I knew.
He had been only fifteen at the time, but Leo was sure that he had been present at that meeting, and when I mentioned some of the details, he became more convinced of it. I had reminded him that George’s sweetheart, Lisa, a beautiful Finnish girl, had been present. He remembered Lisa but has long since lost touch with her. I had mentioned to Leo that only after my visit to the American Military Cemetery at Cambridge, England, in 1984, and my subsequent inquiries in Washington, that I had learned that George’s body had been identified and brought home to be buried in the Military Cemetery on Long Island.
Leo had then explained to me that the identification must have taken place after a period of time, because he had information about a grave in Germany that had been George’s first stopping place. I was eagerly looking forward to more details.
We arrived at the Massa’s lovely suburban home at about the appointed time. As we parked our car, Leo appeared in the driveway, followed by his wife, Sinikka. A warm greeting then took place. At first, I saw only slight resemblance in Leo to George, but as the afternoon slipped by, I was able to see certain characteristics that I had come to know in George. And, it occurred to me, George would have looked some different by now, if he were still alive.
I answered many questions from Leo about what kind of a pilot, airplane commander, officer, soldier, and man George had been. My answers were all confirming that he had been the best in each category. Then I wanted to know more about the burial that had taken place in Germany. Leo handed me two sheets of lined paper with a penciled letter written on them. This letter, and its subject, had been mentioned on the phone, earlier.
The letter is quoted, in its entirety, below:
I was a member of Co. K-3rd Inf. 424th Division, which arrived in Dietersheim, Germany in May 1945, as a guard unit to 150,000 German war.
Just outside of Dietersheim, in the Rhine Valley, was a beautiful poppy field. As I walked among the flowers, I came upon a lone grave of an American soldier. It was so beautiful I came back to it each day.
I was curious to know more of this boy who rested alone in the quiet of the hills, and I learned he was buried by the townspeople of Dietersheim with full church services. They made him a large crude cross from the deep forest close by, and each day they came to water the potted plants, which they placed upon his grave.
I wondered about his parents, and how pleased they would be if they could only see this final resting place of their boy. As I had no camera, I decided to make a sketch - perhaps locate his family and give it to them. I had only an old German map, on the back of which I made this drawing.
I have also a few poppies, which I picked from the grave when we were ready to leave. It's been a long time ago, but I still keep thinking of MASSA, his grave, the good people of Dietersheim, and his family. I should like to go back some day and visit that grave again.
B. Kruczek, ---- St., Cleveland, Ohio
While I was reading the letter, Leo left the room, and returned in a moment with a framed picture that had been hanging on the wall just inside his front door. I took it and examined it. It was a beautifully drawn pen and ink rendering of the grave described in the letter. After spending some minutes admiring the picture and appreciating the thoughtfulness of the artist/discoverer, we talked about Leo’s heretofore unsuccessful attempts to locate the man who had been so caring and thoughtful and we talked about the town, so far not totally identified, whose people so caringly took George’s body and provided so lovely a resting place for it.
In a little while, Leo produced George’s diary. It seems George had kept a record of his impressions of his daily encounters. I haven’t yet held the diary in my hand, but Leo has promised me he will give me the opportunity to do that on our next meeting. He did read certain pages to me, such as George’s feelings about one particularly frightful mission (11/30/44— “Oh, the prop wash! I was so scared I couldn’t stop shaking.”), and my introduction to him (7/7/44—”I met my copilot today. He’s a swell guy.”)
There were emotional pings and pangs all afternoon, and I guess there will be a few more before this subject is filed away. To quote one observer of our reactions to all of this, “It’s amazing how the need to know survives 50 years later.”
Note: Although Leo Massa has searched, and Bill Reulbach, our crew’s toggleer who lives in the Cleveland area, has more recently searched, B. Kruczek hasn't been located. Nor has the town of Dietersheim.
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1 comment:
Thank you for your Veterans Day post. Hope you will drop by mine tomorrow.
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