An American Glider Pilot’s Story

Chapter 1: Early On

The C-47 turned right to a heading of 270 degrees and roared over Utah beach with the Horsa glider in tow. The minute the English Channel slid under the wings and fell away replaced by Normandy countryside all hell broke loose. Tracer bullets curved up in graceful arcs any direction the two glider pilots looked. Sphincter muscles clinched as each bullet seemed to be aimed directly at what the two twenty-year-old pilots were sitting on. The glider pilot in the left seat reached up, pulled the release lever and the three-hundred foot nylon tow-rope leaped away from the hitch. The nose came up, speed dropped off and all of a sudden it was very quiet in the giant Horsa glider. As the rope fell away a 90-degree turn to the left was smoothly executed as a potential landing site was selected. Now on base leg for the selected field the pilot said as he turned onto the approach, Give me fifteen degrees of spoilers, Bill.

Absolutely nothing happened and both pilots knew instantly that if the air actuated spoilers weren’t working the brakes were gone also. Without a word being spoken both glider pilots knew they were in a heap of hurt. Any hope of a normal landing was long gone as the glider, loaded with 7,200 pounds of artillery ammunition, sailed down the field at 90 miles per hour indicated airspeed. The 88-foot wing span glider touched down about halfway down the length of the field, hurtled on with airspeed falling off but still at 60 mph indicated, slammed into the trees at the end of the field tearing off both wings as the fuselage came to rest in the next field. The date was June 6, 1944—D-Day. The mission was Elmira, a little piece of Overlord.

But all of this was years in the future on March 6, 1923, when the slippery, red bundle of life came yelling and kicking into the world. Gale Ammerman was born on that windy March day to Lyman and Iva Ammerman in their home in Sullivan County, Indiana.

The Ammermans’ were poor at the time, but had not always been. Lyman had held half-ownership in a small coal mine, but that was in the past as he struggled to feed the seven mouths in a family that would end up with nine. My father was a part-time coal miner, part-time share cropper.

My earliest memories were talk of coal miner strikes which involved pitched battles between striking miners and strike breaker goons brought into Sullivan County from large cities such as Chicago and Indianapolis.

Sometimes there was a steer or a few pigs to kill for winters’ meat, but rabbits, quail, ducks, and any other game which could be trapped or shot was important.

Early education was in a one-room school house where grades one through six were taught by one teacher. It was not uncommon for me to witness fights between very big sixteen- and seventeen-year-old sixth graders and the teacher. One requisite for being a teacher was to be able to whip the local bullies. It was not an ideal situation for a budding scholar, but no lasting harm was done as I would go on to earn a Doctor of Philosophy degree at Purdue University after the war. (Good old GI bill!)

At age fifteen I left home to take a job baby-sitting an elderly neighbor lady, milking her cows morning and night, feeding the chickens and horses, and doing farm work on Saturdays. I held that job until graduation from Duggers’ Union High School on May 5, 1941.

The necessity of milking the cows and my other chores on the farm made it almost impossible for me to participate in sports. I did go out for football in my freshman year and played end. I was making the freshman team okay, but practice after school, walking ten miles home and milking from one to six cows was simply too much. Of course, it made milking too late anyway, and just was not acceptable.

With little hope of going to college I enrolled in shop classes specializing in welding. By the time I graduated from high school I was an excellent welder, both electric and acetylene, and was at home operating shop machinery.

I told the shop teacher, I’m going to join the Air Force and go to airplane mechanics school at Chanute Field. I’ll get 21 dollars a month.

The shop teacher shook his head in disbelief and said, Man I can get you a job making 21 dollars a day.

For the junior-senior prom (which in those days was called a reception) I borrowed a 1931 Chevrolet which was a convertible but unfortunately did not have a windshield. I drove the ten miles to the school by way of several gravel roads. Dust on such roads is devastating to human eyes. When I arrived at the prom I looked like I had been operating an arc welder for a week without a hood, or had been on a week-long drunk. Fortunately my girl friend, Jane Burke, was a sympathetic person so she didn’t run away screaming when she saw me.

My God, what happened to your poor eyes? Jane asked.

That’s what driving a Chevy convertible on gravel roads with no windshield does to you. I’m a mess.

Oh well, come on. Lets enjoy ourselves anyway. It can’t be helped, Jane replied.

We went arm in arm into the gymnasium to the sound of Jimmy Dorsey’s recording of ‘Green Eyes.’ I was not schooled in the fine art of dancing. With four lovely sisters it is a wonder I had not been taught to dance, but the Ammermans were just not dancers. Jane, on the other hand, born of Irish-English parents who were relatively well off, was a skilled dancer in addition to having a fine singing voice.

The lovely evening was filled with the fine music of the time: ‘I Hear a Rhapsody,’ ‘You Made Me Love You,’ ‘I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire,’ ‘Star Dust,’ ‘Amapola,’ ‘Elmer’s Tune,’ ‘Til Reveille,’ and many other romantic tunes. It was a bittersweet time with separation looming on the horizon as Jane knew I was going to enlist in a matter of days. Kay Kyser and his ‘Til Reveille’ was a tune of special sadness to us as the party wound down to a close.

Chapter 2: Enlistment

Bob Ring and I graduated on May 5, 1941, and traveled to Terre Haute with Bobs’ sister, then on to Fort Benjamin Harrison at Indianapolis by bus.

At the reception center for volunteers a sergeant said, Get your duds off and line up over here. The line moved slowly past several medics who had the job of determining whether or not the enlistees were warm and to be sure a light shone into one ear didn’t come out the other side.

At one station the doctor said, Bend over and spread your cheeks. What a shock to a green recruit who had been out of Sullivan County only half a dozen times before. But I hadn’t seen anything yet.

At the next station the medic said, Skin her back and milk her down, son. Okay, you’ll do. Get over there and put your clothes on.

Some time went by before Bob and I had an inkling of what in hell was going on. But a few months at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri, changed all of that. A fantastic vocabulary was rapidly developed.

The two recruits along with a dozen or so others were sent to Jefferson Barracks for basic training. With the cool days of May but a faint memory the broiling days of July and August were something quite different.

Up at 0500 hours, double-time to breakfast, eat in fifteen minutes, double-time back to the barracks area, calisthenics, and then the real fun.

A corporal who came up to just above the level of my shoulder bawled out at the top of his lungs, All right, fall out, police up the area. I don’t want to see anything but assholes and elbows. Get every cigarette butt, piece of paper and candy wrapper. If it’s out of place, pick it up, if you can’t pick it up paint it.

The morning was devoted to close-order drill with marching up and down, to the rear march, to the rear march, to the right flank-march, halt, attention, forward march…

It was obvious to anyone who gave the times even casual consideration that war was looming on the horizon. Those already in the armed forces during the summer of 1941 gave it considerable thought, not in fear, but in their ignorance more in anticipation. Afternoons were given over to cutting, piling and burning brush so that Jefferson Barracks could be enlarged.

Hot… man I’m here to tell you, hot was redefined in those woods in August 1941. In twenty minutes clothes were soaked as wet as they would have been had one jumped in a pond of water. When permitted a drink break what a shock with the first swallow.

What in hell is this stuff? I shouted

Goddamned salt water, Bob replied.

If you don’t want any, move your ass out of the way and get back to work, the corporal snarled. What the hell did you expect, a root beer float?

Basic training completed, Bob and I were assigned permanent guard duty while awaiting space to become available at Chanute Field in Rantoul, Illinois. We were on duty six hours and off eighteen.

It wasn’t too bad duty except for the job itself. I was put on duty at the Section Eight ward. My job was to man the guard station at the top of a steep flight of stairs and to open the cells at meal times and stand by when inmates had to be put in straightjackets.

One prisoner thought he was a member of the Fisher family who made automobile bodies for General Motors. Hour after hour he shouted at the top of his lungs, Bodies by Fisher. At times he got violent and had to be restrained to keep him from harming himself.

The orderlies would say, Open the cell.

Before that was done at least four orderlies would stand by as the poor soldier was as strong as a horse. Very often the inmate would be out of the straightjacket by the time the orderlies were back at their stations, and the whole thing would have to be repeated. It was a circus, but a very, very, sad circus.

In the meanwhile Bob was assigned to duty at the prisoner compound. It became his lot to escort six to eight prisoners around the base as they policed up or cut grass or swept the streets. He carried a short-barreled 12 gauge shotgun loaded with buck shot. His greatest concern was that he would have to use the gun one day.

On a sweltering late August morning at five o’clock the sergeant yelled, Up and at ‘em men. We’re going to town.

We dressed quickly falling out into the street one at a time. In ten minutes all twenty-five of us were lined up in three rows in the company street.

Attention! shouted the sergeant. Now listen up men, Lieutenant Armandy has instructions for you.

The Lieutenant walked out in front of us. He looked up and down the ranks several times before saying a word. He selected his words carefully as he spoke.

Men, we have been detailed to downtown St. Louis to act as riot control police. As you may have read in last night’s paper there is a strike and there have been some fights amounting very nearly to riots on the picket line. We will patrol the area and stop any riots that flare up. You will be issued sawed-off shotguns and five rounds for the weapon. You will load all five into the magazine but do not put a round in the chamber. Keep the piece on safety until ordered to do otherwise. Get breakfast and be back here in thirty minutes. Dismiss the men Sergeant.

You heard the man. Be back here in exactly thirty minutes. Dismissed

We scurried for the mess hall on the double, grabbed a tray and were put through the chow line ahead of anyone else. Breakfast was two pieces of toast, a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a piece of ham ladled out onto the trays, and a cup of black coffee grabbed as we moved quickly down the line.

Between mouthfuls Bob muttered, Are we to shoot those workers who only want a living wage?

God, I hope not, I replied. My dad has been a coal miner and share cropper all his life. He was one of the strikers who helped get a living wage for the miners at the Baker mine at Sullivan.

The food wolfed down, we scurried back to the barracks. We lined up as we had been before, and the shotguns were issued. We climbed into the back of a six-by-six truck, the engine roared, and we were off to St. Louis.

I whispered to Bob, What are we going to do? I don’t want to be a strike breaker.

Bob replied, I don’t either but what the hell can we do?

Can we just shoot over their heads, Bob? I asked.

You do and they will court-martial your ass so fast it’ll make your head swim, and you know it.

Damn the luck, Bob. I know you’re right, but I still don’t intend to shoot any striking worker, I replied.

Me either, Bob replied.

The truck slowed, pulled off to the side of the street and rolled to a stop. Sergeant Jilks came around to the rear of the truck and pulled the canvas flap aside.

We’re going home men. The St. Louis police have the situation in hand.

A cheer swelled up from the men in the trucks.

Thank God for small blessings, I said to no one in particular.

Amen, was the response from several sources.

Chapter 3: Airplane Mechanics School, Chanute Field

Finally on August 1, 1941, orders came through for Bob and me to go to Chanute for technical schooling. We had requested aircraft welding, but to our dismay Bob was assigned to the welding school and I to airplane mechanics. Although we were able to get together for a beer now and then our paths were diverging rapidly. Bob would go through the technical school as an aircraft welder, finally go through flight training and be shot out of the night skies over Tokyo when his B-29 was shot down late in the Pacific war.

I settled into the life of a student in the airplane mechanics school. It was a little over 100 miles from Rantoul to Sullivan, so trips home for weekends were not too difficult. Much to my surprise the courses in structures, instruments, engines, and the other topics were not especially difficult with a little study.

After the last class on Friday, I double-timed to the barracks, showered, put on my Class A uniform, packed a razor, and clean shirt, and skivvies in a handbag and headed for the gate with a weekend pass in hand. My first ride took me down south on through Champagne-Urbana to Tuscola. In less than ten minutes I was in a 1939 Ford going east to Rockville. My next ride was to Terre Haute and the next to Sullivan. All in all the 135 mile trip had taken two and a half hours. It was a simple matter of walking around the square in Sullivan, after a beer at the hotel, until I saw Max Blue, an old friend and schoolmate who lived near Farnsworth where my family lived. Max took me home which was on the road to the Blues’ home. After a warm welcome with cups of coffee in hand the Ammermans caught up on news until bed time.

Dad, why don’t you build a house on my fifty acres? You can have an acre free if you’ll get the surveyor to lay it out for you. Pick your spot, and it’s yours, I said.

I may want to do that but not just now, my father replied.

My mom added, That would be so nice… to get out of this place and off the old railroad grade.

What will you do tomorrow, Gale?

I’m thinking of going after a couple of rabbits. I dream of a pot of beans, some corn bread or light buns and fried rabbit. The Swiss steak in the mess hall is very good, but sometimes the urge for some home cooking is overpowering, like right now

I was up at seven o’clock, had two eggs, toast, milk gravy and coffee. Warmly dressed I picked up the old Stevens pump, 12 gauge, full-choke shotgun and half a dozen number six shells.

Brother Max came out carrying his .22 rifle and asked, "Mind if I tag along?’

Hell no, come on. Let’s go get supper. We talked little as we walked side by side off through the woods south toward the I.C. railroad. We stayed well down in the valleys always looking up the slopes for rabbits. Of course I was perfectly willing to take a couple of quail or even a pheasant if the opportunity arose. But pheasants were rare in Sullivan County, although they were fairly common on the prairies of northern Indiana and Illinois.

I was slightly ahead as we walked slowly along, content to be in the woods together whether or not we found game.

Max slowed, walked a few paces further and said quietly as he stopped, What’s wrong with that one up there? Too skinny for you? He slowly raised the .22, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot reverberated up and down the valley as a nice cottontail rabbit leaped once, kicked feebly a few times and lay still. Max walked the 25 feet, picked up the rabbit, put his foot on its head and pulled, leaving the head on the ground. He threw the rabbit down, pulled out his pack of Camels and lit up.

Give it a few minutes to bleed, he said softly. Why did you walk past him, Gale? I thought you were hungry for rabbit.

Go to hell, smart ass. I’ll get two for your every one.

Max picked up the rabbit, tied a piece of cord around the back legs and fastened it to his belt.

"Let’s go, if you are rested enough. I only smoked to give you time to catch your breath. Sitting in