A couple of months ago, editorial writer John Carlton and I were at the elevator and he mentioned his father was a photographer during WWII. John went into detail about some of the photos and diary entries made by his father John G. Carlton. I thought it would make nice blog entry for Veteran’s Day.

I hope you enjoy a small piece of history by John and his father.—Gary

John G. Carlton, third from right, is shown in a picture taken during WWII.
Click here to see more photos.

“December, 1944. Target: Blechhammer North Oil Refinery. Altitude: 28,400 feet. Load: 8 500 pound general purpose bombs fitted with screamers.

“Our first raid into Germany proper. . . .Flak was intense and accurate; the most accurate yet. It was boxed up in front of us and sent up in barrages. We received considerable damage. There was a hole in the left side of the waist, just forward of the armor plating. Two pieces went through the roof of the navigator’s compartment. Got a hole in the Plexiglas in my upper local (turret) from flak. No personal injury.”

Among the keepsakes I inherited from my father were a box of Kodak photographic paper and a battered red diary from 1945.

Inside the box were prints of pictures my father had taken during and just after World War II. Only my family and the men my father flew with have ever seen them before now.

Inside the red diary, brief narratives describe 29 of the 30 combat missions he flew. The first was on Tuesday, Nov. 7, 1944 — four days before what we celebrate today as Veterans Day.

“February 8, 1945 Target: Vienna.

“When we went down that Vienna “flak alley,” it was beautiful. I don’t believe I have ever seen anything so dangerous that appeared so beautiful . . .You simply stood and stared at it. It’s so seldom that we really (witness) the spiritual beauty that only the eyes of a flier can see.”

Like a lot of veterans, my father rarely talked about his time in combat. Reading his diary for the first time was a revelation — a peek into the mind of a man I thought I knew so well. He had always been a strong presence in my life. Somehow, he’d kept a big part of his shrouded in mystery.

As I read the entries in his familiar hand, I thought about millions of other American veterans. They’ve done their duty, then returned to live the lives that had been interrupted their service. Veterans of World War II are dying at a rate of about 1,000 a day. Soon, they will be gone. Despite all that has been written and said about them war, too many of their stories will disappear with them.

“December 25, 1944. Target: Brux. Altitude: 27,500 feet.

“Weather was as near perfect as possible and our target area was clear — too God damn clear. We were in the second wave — number 7. As we went over the target (15 seconds before bombs away), Lawless in number 5 position received a hit that went right through the radio operator’s seat (or rather, where the seat was) and out the top of the waist. Three men injured slightly — mostly shock. Thank heavens the radio operator was over working on the flak jammer when it happened.

“The next instant, we receive a hit exactly through the center of #4 turbo. It was an unexploded 105 mm shell that went went clean through. Luckily it missed the fuel tank by inches and didn’t hit any control cables. But best of all, it didn’t explode inside the wing. This really was an Xmas day massacre.”

Like many of my generation, I grew up with World War II. I couldn’t get enough of it. Now I am older. I have a daughter of my own. I think I understand why my father never shared the details of his experiences.

But the diary and pictures — and an extraordinary stroke of good luck — gave me an opportunity to recapture his lost story. In 2004, just after I received the keepsakes, the 97th Bomb Group held a reunion in St. Louis. That’s my father’s old unit. I had the chance to interview two of the men he flew into combat with.

“December 29, 1944 Target: Innsbruck railroad marshaling yard.

“Over the target, the bomb bay doors wouldn’t close so I had to get out on the catwalk and close ‘em. Could see the flak below and see the bombs hit. What a bastardly job. God damn such carelessness in letting a ship take off in that condition.”

My father’s pictures and words provided the broad outlines of an extraordinary story. His two former crew mates — John Vasquez and Tom Fahey — filled in details. They explained the significance of some pictures. In places where my father used what to him was familiar shorthand, they gave me the heartbreaking back story.

“March 15, 1945. Target: Ruhland oil refinery. Altitude: 21,000 feet.

“Cullie tucked her in for the last time today. This morning over Lake Lasina at 13,000 feet, a ship from the 340th (squadron) collided with 757. Six got out of the 340th ship. We lost nine men, including Wolfie from foto, Alexander Barlogg and a lot more familiar names.”

“Cullie” was Ed Cullen, the co-pilot in my father’s original crew. He was flying as pilot of “757″ — a B-17 whose six-digit tail number ended with 757. Two days earlier, he’d received news that his wife had given birth to their first child, a little girl. He died that day with all but one member of 757’s 10-man crew.

Among the dead was Alexander Barlogg, the ball turret gunner. He hung beneath the plane in a Plexiglass sphere, guarding against enemy fighter attacks from below. He had flown with my father’s crew when Tom “Blackie” Blackmore, their regular ball turret gunner, was sick. The mission on March 15 was to be his 30th and last. Had he survived, he would have been sent home.

“February 20, 1945. Target: Vienna oil refinery. Altitude: 26,700 feet.”

I said before that the diary describes 29 of the 30 missions my father flew. The only one without a detailed narrative is this one. It’s the one he didn’t come back from. Or at least the one he didn’t fly back from.

Just after dropping a load of bombs on the refinery — as the big bomber was banking sharply to the right to get away — it was hit by a burst of flak. Shrapnel from that explosion peppered the right outboard engine of the four-engine plane, knocking it out. The B-17 limped away toward Yugoslavia, where it eventually crashed.

One of the pictures in this set shows that damaged engine on the long slow descent. Another shows the group of Yugoslav partisans who smuggled my father through enemy territory to a meeting with British commandos. They arranged for a C-47 transport plane to land behind German lines. It carried my father and the other members of his crew back to Italy, where they resumed flying missions.

My father’s time in combat helped to shape his character, but it was only one small part of his life — and just part of what I learned when I began poking around. I found out about pictures he later took for the CIA, and a horrible secret he carried with him to the day he died (both stories, perhaps, for another day). But what fills me with the most pride is how he lived every day of his life. Even after I came along – when the echo of flak had long since disappeared and his final mission had been flown.

My father’s was an amazing story. There are countless others about other veterans — soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines. Most of them have never been told.

We’d like to see your pictures, and hear your stories. It’s a small way to say thank you to veterans who have done so much for all of us. And to preserve the stories that would otherwise vanish forever.

–John G. Carlton