Mr. Write's Page

Happy Father’s Day.

When it comes to beliefs and belief systems, I’m a physics and chemistry kind of guy. I like to see the proof of things.

Ask me to accept something on faith, and I‘m not only skeptical, but suspicious. Omens, telepathy, clairvoyance? No thank you.

Not that I claim to have all the answers. Plenty happens that I can’t explain, even when common sense tells me a logical explanation must exist.

Take, for example, this story from the Smith family, 1944. Maybe you can explain it. I can’t.

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During World War II, my father, the second Walter Smith, was a bomber pilot in the Army Air Corps. He flew combat missions over Eastern Europe.

Returning from one of many bombing raids on the Ploesti oil fields in Romania, Dad’s B-24 was shot down over Bulgaria. He was missing in action for several months. During that time, the family knew nothing of his fate — only that he was MIA.

I, the third Walter Smith, was just a year old when Dad shipped out for Europe. Mom took me to Macon, where we lived with her family. For a while, Dad corresponded from Europe, and we knew he was safe.

Then one morning back in Dad’s hometown of Savannah, my grandmother shocked the family with a startling story.

She reported that during the night, she awoke to find my father standing at the foot of her bed.

He told her that his aircraft had been shot down, and he had been captured. He wanted her to know that he was alive and well, and to have faith that he would return safely home. Then he was gone.

My grandfather, the first Walter Smith, dismissed it as only a dream.

The next day, two Air Corps officers arrived at our house in Macon. They brought Mom the news that Dad’s bomber had been shot down, and the aircrew was missing in action.

I can only imagine the anguish this brought to the entire family. And I can only imagine the prolonged chatter about my grandmother’s “vision” the night before.

Months passed, and nothing more was learned. Through it all, my grandmother stood firm in her belief that Dad was alive and safe and would return.

Then, one morning in the fall, a cousin of the Smiths called my grandmother with astonishing news. The night before, the woman had heard Dad being interviewed on NBC Radio from Italy. He was identified on the air as Major Smith from Savannah, and she recognized his voice.

The news report said that eight months earlier, when Dad’s bomber was hit by anti-aircraft fire over Bulgaria, the crew parachuted to safety. They were captured by Bulgarian soldiers and taken to prison camp.

The camp housed over 300 Allied POWs, most of them aircrews. Dad, the senior officer in the camp, became prisoner commander.

Months later, when the war began going badly for Bulgaria, many of the Bulgar camp guards deserted. The prisoners were able to overcome the remaining guards and take charge of the camp. They commandeered a train and rode it to freedom in Turkey.

All of the POWs were aboard except Dad. He had stolen a plane and escorted the train from above.

It was sensational news in Savannah, and it was the family’s first acknowledgement in eight months that Dad was alive.

Soon, he telephoned home. He was weak and malnourished. He had no knowledge of his mother’s “vision.”

For a while, Dad recuperated in an Allied hospital. The war ended. For several months, he remained in Europe attached to a military police unit that tracked down accused war criminals. Among those he arrested were several Bulgarian officers from his own prison camp.

Dad came home and left military service for a time, but he soon returned to the Air Force. He switched from bombers to jet fighters and saw considerable air combat in Korea.

His military career lasted 25 years. After that, he had other careers — 20 years in banking, 10 in real estate. In his later years, he spent a lot of time at the computer, working on his investment portfolio.

In 1965, 20th Century Fox released the film Von Ryan’s Express, starring Frank Sinatra and Trevor Howard. It was an over-the-top wartime adventure about a group of Allied POWs who steal a train and escape from their prison camp in Italy.

Dad said the idea may or may not have been based on his experience. He said it was a long war. Millions of soldiers fought, and they had millions of stories to tell.

Or, he said, maybe the plotline simply came from a screenwriter’s imagination.

Not long ago, I talked about my grandmother’s “vision” with Aunt Betty, Dad’s sister, who lived through it all.

Betty seemed surprised I brought it up. She filled in some missing details, and she said my grandmother was always “sensitive” to things of this nature.

That raised an eyebrow. The things we don’t know about people we think we know.

Over the years, most members of the family seldom spoke of the event at all. To them, I suspect, the episode was simply inexplicable.

Dad mentioned the matter several times while I was growing up, but the last time was years ago.

Sometime in the late 90s, I asked him about it again. At the time, he was preoccupied with his tax return, and the matter didn’t interest him much. Besides, he said matter-of-factly, he had only a dim recollection of the details.

On Father’s Day 2002, six months before Dad died, I remember watching him open his gifts.

I remember thinking about my grandparents, and others who lived through the war years, and my father stealing a train and an airplane in the Balkans at age 26.

I watched him enjoy not just one serving of blueberry pie and ice cream, but two.

Dad never passed up seconds on dessert.

My grandmother, Stella H. Smith, 1894 – 1969.

My father, Walter A. Smith, Jr., 1917 – 2002.