It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Writing the book, “Flying with Dad,” has delivered what I can only describe as gifts that I couldn’t ever have predicted or understood. Meeting and getting to know Joe Haenn unleashed more of them.
One of the stories included in “Flying with Dad” was an April 1945 bombing run, which I posted about on the 467th Bomb Group’s Facebook page.
Christine Herb White saw the post and asked for a copy of “Flying with Dad” for her 103-year-old grandfather, Joe Haenn, who’d been an assistant crew chief at Rackheath air base in England during the time Dad was stationed there.
I learned that Christine’s mother, Judie Herb, lived in a town nearby, and that Joe lived in a personal care home just a few miles from me. The Lutheran Community personal care home was on lockdown because of COVID-19, so I set out to prepare a care package.
I baked some cookies and bundled them up along with a large-print version of “Flying with Dad.” I drove to Telford and left the package, which staff delivered to Joe’s room. Judie called me the next morning to say that Joe had read 120 pages in one evening.
The delight in her voice was a joyous balm to my own stay-at-home existence. Books, newspaper articles, copies of Facebook posts and cookie delivery would now be a part of my weekly life, as were regular phone conversations with Joe.
I also continued to write and post details of Dad’s other experiences from 1945 to Facebook. There was the April 27, 1945 crash of the B-24 called the Wabbit that my father was on during a training mission gone awry. Dad had climbed up out of the escape hatch at the top of the plane, slid down to the wing and jumped to the ground, breaking his leg. Official reports of the crash say that he was the only crew member injured.
My hair curled when I read Christine’s comment on this Facebook post: Joe had been the assistant crew chief on the Wabbit, one of the people responsible for keeping the plane in top notch shape and ready to fly.
“The nose of the plane was so badly damaged,” Joe said on our next phone call. “I couldn’t see anybody getting out in one piece.”
His answer gave me chills. My father’s normal position as a navigator during bomb runs was in the nose of the plane. For some reason, during this training mission, he wasn’t in his usual spot and was instead up on the flight deck. I couldn’t help but think how lucky Dad and I were that he was in the wrong place at the right time. I was born some 20 months later.
Soon Joe’s care home began allowing socially distanced visits. I made my first appointment and was soon sitting outside a large picture window looking in at Joe looking out. The package I’d brought contained a print-out of the Facebook post, and of course a container of cookies.
I’ve been drawn back to Joe and his care home every week. I asked Joe if he ever got close to any of the B-24 crews also stationed at Rackheath.
“No, I didn’t want to know when they didn’t come back.” He paused for a moment, then he said, “There was one crew I remember. The pilot’s name was Stout. I never knew what happened to him or his crew.”
I asked him how to spell Stout. He thought perhaps S-T-O-U-D-T. I said I’d do some digging, and I just knew who to contact, J. Peter Horne, researcher for the 467th. He couldn’t find any records of a pilot by that name, and on my next visit Joe said he thought other crew members included Murray and Knott.
Peter found a record of a Damian J. Murray crew. Murray was the pilot, his co-pilot was Benedict A. Staudt, and the engineer was one Leslie J. Knott.
I shared the email I received with Joe: On 06 Aug 44, The Group attacked Hamburg Ger. Just prior to the target, 41-29373, “The Monster/Flak Magnet” was hit by flak. All the crew except Navigator Seymour M. Giltz were taken POW. Sadly, Giltz was KIA. I’ve attached the Missing Air Crew Report (MACR.)
The MACR lists that Giltz was interred on 8 Aug 1944 in the Hamburg-Schnelsen Cemetery.
I told Joe that every crew member except Giltz had returned to the U.S. at the end of the war. I watched Joe’s face. His eyes misted just a little and his shoulders dropped. He stated simply, “It’s good to know after all these years.”
Perhaps a month later, I received a phone call from Janice Graves. Her sister, Loretta, found the story of Joe and her father, Benedict Staudt on the internet. They said their father had written a memoir shortly before his death, and they gave me permission to share it with Joe.
If I hadn’t written “Flying with Dad,” I’d never have met Joe Haenn, Joe would never have known what happened to the Staudt crew, and I’d never (have) gotten to know my father as I did. What other gifts might be hidden in my father’s stories from WWII?
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