Seventy years later the gloves are in remarkably good shape. The leather has not cracked, the seams are tight, and the woolen lining is still subtle and fresh, despite two lifetimes' worth of use.
"These were my dad's," Richard explained of the gloves. When he was in grade school, Richard wore the gloves. They were excellent in wintertime. "I used them to throw snowballs. I didn't think anything of it."
Clearly, the gloves were a product of a different generation. They were practical, useful, and built to last. Here they were, seven decades later, still as good as the day they were made. One could slip them on and throw snowballs with them yet. However, there was one unique feature about the gloves; a facet that suggested their original intended use was not an innocent snowball fight. They looked like mittens, except the index finger was split. Even when wearing the gloves, the user's trigger finger was available.
Richard explained, "My dad was a waist gunner on a B-17 over Europe. He had a pretty unique World War II experience, to say the least."
Dad was born in Hanover, Germany, in 1914. This was a result of a unique twist of fate - his parents were children of German immigrants and had met, and were living, in the United States prior to World War I. They traveled to Germany to visit relatives when WW I broke out, and were thus stranded. As a result, Dad spent his childhood in Hanover. His parents did not make it back to the United States until Dad was 7 years old.
When the United States entered WW II, Dad was living in Calumet City, Ill., a south suburb of Chicago. Despite his strong German heritage, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and entered basic training at Jefferson, Mo. He graduated from Radio Operator School in 1942, and then Aerial Waist Gunner School in 1943. He was sent to North Carolina for commando training, and by December 1943, Dad had achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant. He was then shipped to England with the 11th Tactical Air Command Squadron. His contribution to the war effort would be as a waist gunner in a B-17 bomber, operating a machine gun at altitudes so high that his hands would freeze to the weapon without proper gloves.
At some point during this time, there was a knock on the door of his parents' home in Calumet City. When Dad's mother answered, she saw two men, smartly dressed in suits. In what would become one of her favorite stories to tell, they politely questioned her, asking, "Where do your allegiances lie? With the United States or Germany?" Obviously, the government had learned of her son's German heritage and was taking no chances.
Dad served overseas from December 1943 to October 1945. As a waist gunner, he participated in a number of bombing missions over Germany. Without question, his childhood memories of growing up in Hanover were never far from his mind, nor was his familial tie to Germany. One of Dad's cousins was a pilot in the Luftwaffe; he could have been one of the many otherwise anonymous targets Dad lined up in his sights.
One mission in particular would stand out from the others. There was, as always, the preflight briefing - complete with aerial maps of the intended target. This day's mission was a bombing run on the city of Hanover. Dad's grandfather owned a hydraulics factory; in fact some of Dad's extended family was still living in Hanover. But, to back out of the mission was inconceivable. He went ahead, as always, but would later tell his children that he could recognize features of Hanover from his childhood while on the bombing run.
Dad was eventually grounded when a round of flak exploded close enough to the B-17 to burst his eardrums. He was transferred to an equally hazardous position: calling in P-47 air strikes from within occupied France. He was placed in command of a half-track and drove through France; so precarious was his position that he "completely wore out three Thompson submachine guns in the process."
During this time, Dad captured six German prisoners. Using American ingenuity and his ability to speak the language, he had them ride on the fenders of the half-track in order to prevent snipers from targeting him. It worked - Dad survived the war, and in the process was able to keep all six prisoners alive until Germany surrendered. The prisoners lived, even though a group of Italian partisans wanted them executed.
As a weird twist of fate, after the war Dad became a partial heir of the very hydraulics factory he helped bomb in Hanover. While vacationing in California in 1975, he excitedly took his son Richard on a tour of the Queen Mary, on which he had ridden to England and had been used as a troop transport ship during World War II. At the EAA Airventure in Oshkosh one year, he was adamant about going for a ride in a B-17.
When he passed away, the thoughts, emotions, perceptions, and reflections of his experience in the war was condensed to a handful of light-hearted stories that he had told to his children. Those, and the gloves. Dad thought to keep the gloves; he then gave them to his son, to use in wintertime. It was a simple yet profound gesture, just like the little things in life would mean more as time went on.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
"These were my dad's," Richard explained of the gloves. When he was in grade school, Richard wore the gloves. They were excellent in wintertime. "I used them to throw snowballs. I didn't think anything of it."
Clearly, the gloves were a product of a different generation. They were practical, useful, and built to last. Here they were, seven decades later, still as good as the day they were made. One could slip them on and throw snowballs with them yet. However, there was one unique feature about the gloves; a facet that suggested their original intended use was not an innocent snowball fight. They looked like mittens, except the index finger was split. Even when wearing the gloves, the user's trigger finger was available.
Richard explained, "My dad was a waist gunner on a B-17 over Europe. He had a pretty unique World War II experience, to say the least."
Dad was born in Hanover, Germany, in 1914. This was a result of a unique twist of fate - his parents were children of German immigrants and had met, and were living, in the United States prior to World War I. They traveled to Germany to visit relatives when WW I broke out, and were thus stranded. As a result, Dad spent his childhood in Hanover. His parents did not make it back to the United States until Dad was 7 years old.
When the United States entered WW II, Dad was living in Calumet City, Ill., a south suburb of Chicago. Despite his strong German heritage, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and entered basic training at Jefferson, Mo. He graduated from Radio Operator School in 1942, and then Aerial Waist Gunner School in 1943. He was sent to North Carolina for commando training, and by December 1943, Dad had achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant. He was then shipped to England with the 11th Tactical Air Command Squadron. His contribution to the war effort would be as a waist gunner in a B-17 bomber, operating a machine gun at altitudes so high that his hands would freeze to the weapon without proper gloves.
At some point during this time, there was a knock on the door of his parents' home in Calumet City. When Dad's mother answered, she saw two men, smartly dressed in suits. In what would become one of her favorite stories to tell, they politely questioned her, asking, "Where do your allegiances lie? With the United States or Germany?" Obviously, the government had learned of her son's German heritage and was taking no chances.
Dad served overseas from December 1943 to October 1945. As a waist gunner, he participated in a number of bombing missions over Germany. Without question, his childhood memories of growing up in Hanover were never far from his mind, nor was his familial tie to Germany. One of Dad's cousins was a pilot in the Luftwaffe; he could have been one of the many otherwise anonymous targets Dad lined up in his sights.
One mission in particular would stand out from the others. There was, as always, the preflight briefing - complete with aerial maps of the intended target. This day's mission was a bombing run on the city of Hanover. Dad's grandfather owned a hydraulics factory; in fact some of Dad's extended family was still living in Hanover. But, to back out of the mission was inconceivable. He went ahead, as always, but would later tell his children that he could recognize features of Hanover from his childhood while on the bombing run.
Dad was eventually grounded when a round of flak exploded close enough to the B-17 to burst his eardrums. He was transferred to an equally hazardous position: calling in P-47 air strikes from within occupied France. He was placed in command of a half-track and drove through France; so precarious was his position that he "completely wore out three Thompson submachine guns in the process."
During this time, Dad captured six German prisoners. Using American ingenuity and his ability to speak the language, he had them ride on the fenders of the half-track in order to prevent snipers from targeting him. It worked - Dad survived the war, and in the process was able to keep all six prisoners alive until Germany surrendered. The prisoners lived, even though a group of Italian partisans wanted them executed.
As a weird twist of fate, after the war Dad became a partial heir of the very hydraulics factory he helped bomb in Hanover. While vacationing in California in 1975, he excitedly took his son Richard on a tour of the Queen Mary, on which he had ridden to England and had been used as a troop transport ship during World War II. At the EAA Airventure in Oshkosh one year, he was adamant about going for a ride in a B-17.
When he passed away, the thoughts, emotions, perceptions, and reflections of his experience in the war was condensed to a handful of light-hearted stories that he had told to his children. Those, and the gloves. Dad thought to keep the gloves; he then gave them to his son, to use in wintertime. It was a simple yet profound gesture, just like the little things in life would mean more as time went on.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
