American Air Force

In the morning when we came out, we heard that the plans were changed.  The American Air Force was sending cargo planes for us, and we would be picked up very soon.  In about an hour we were marched out of the camp.  I was hungry, tired, and the sores on my legs bothered me a lot.  I decided as we were leaving to abandon all my things except what I wore and my letters and pictures.

We marched out of the camp.  I had even left my precious coat.  The airfield was about a half hour’s walk.  We did see people carried out of a civilian prison.  They seemed to be in terrible conditions.  I was glad we were hurried past them.

We saw the planes, and they were ours.  The crews were Americans.  We boarded the planes, and we were free.  I tried to think of going home, but all I could think about was that I’ll never be hungry again.  I’ll never go to bed miserable because I was hungry, never, never, never.

As I remember it now, there was very little conversation in our plane.  I didn’t think of the past 18 months.  Now I experienced a new panic.  I was surprised that I felt an uneasiness at the idea of going home.  I didn’t want any change.  I hadn’t heard from anyone now for at least three months, so I had no idea of what may have happened over the last four months.  It took at least three to four weeks for a letter to get to me.  What changes could have occurred in the last 18 months.  Between the pain from my sores and my constant thoughts of food, I had had very little interest in anything else now for months, and here I was rushing off in an airplane to a new situation that I hadn’t had time or energy to think about.

We had been told we would be taken to Camp Lucky Strike in northern France for medical checkups, supplies, and arrangements for our return to the United States.  We landed about a half hour after our takeoff at an airfield where the Red Cross had arranged refreshments.  These refreshments were very bland.  I remember the milk, real milk that I hadn’t seen or tasted for so long.  But what else was there I don’t know.

©Joseph H. Harrison 1999