I Do Not Like Mondays

Now nearly 79 years ago , an article appeared in a local newspaper announcing that my grandfather on my mother’s side, Joseph George Misulich (April 23, 1909-Feb. 24, 1999), had been freed after a year in a Nazi prison camp. Today marks 25 years since he passed away.

He was the left waist gunner and engineer on a B-17 bomber and was shot down and wounded over Germany. His foot was hurt, but they made him march for miles to the prison camp. Below is most of the article along with some photos he’d sent to my grandmother before that last mission, his twelfth. Though these days are long past, and he’s now passed away a quarter century ago, I stumbled across these photos and materials a few years ago and was thinking of you, Grandpa, missing my old friend.

Here is the article I mentioned as it was printed:

“Joseph Misulich of Johnson City [N.Y.] has been liberated from a German prison camp and is expected to reach this country soon. Word of his liberation has been received by his wife, Regina, of 83 Bernice [Burns?] Street.

Sergeant Misulich, 35, was listed as missing in action over Germany April 11, 1944. The following month, his wife was notified that he was a prisoner of the Germans.

Describes Twelfth Mission

His letters tell little of life in the prison camp. He did describe the day he was shot down:

‘I was on my twelfth mission. The target was Posen [Poznań], Poland. We got hell that day. I don’t dare write too much about it. It’s a big story. You probably wouldn’t believe half of it anyway.’

In a letter dated May 14 [1945], he remarks that he still hadn’t received his back pay, and was borrowing money to buy stationary and stamps.

Made Sleeping Huts

And according to another letter, things weren’t entirely rosy immediately after his liberation.

‘We were brought to a patch of woods about 20 miles from the city of Braunau, right on the Inn River on the border of Austria and Germany . . .

There wasn’t a damn thing in these woods but trees, so with our pocket knives . . . we made ourselves branch huts to sleep in. That was one hell of a job to do with a pocket knife.

We slept on the ground. One morning we woke up and the ground was covered with snow. There wasn’t a day that it didn’t rain, so you can imagine what we lived through.’”

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In the lead photo at the top of this article and the one below that he sent to my grandmother, Grandpa signed them “Love, ‘Joe’,” using quotes around his nickname just as he wrote “Grand Pa” in cards and correspondence through the end of his days. And in wartime, you’ll see he always wore his hat tipped to the left, the opposite side of the rest of his crew members in the group photo. Why was that? I’m not sure. My guess is he just preferred it that way — and also wasn’t bothered by being different.

He was like a best friend to me, and the greatest man I have ever known; he was also the most humble. Read his obituary here.

I’d say rest in peace, Gramps, but actually I hope you still find yourself having an adventure now and then… though maybe that’s just my way of thinking.

Till next time, love,
your grandson,
Aaron

Addendum

If you have read this far, I will tell you there is a lot more of the story that I know, and if you want to hear it, I’ll tell you a bit of it. Though my grandfather wasn’t one to really talk about it, he and I spent many days and evenings together; I used to go and see him on Thursdays, and we would have dinner.

On one of those Thursdays, I began to ask him about that day he was shot down, and what it was like. He told me there was hellfire that day, and their plane had been shot full of holes. It finally pitched down and was going to crash.

The men parachuted out the rear of the plane, jumping through the bomb bay doors. My grandfather remained on the B-17 and was the last to exit. On the way down, there were bullets whizzing by and explosions on some of the other planes, enemy and friendly. It was chaos.

They shot so many holes in my grandfather’s parachute that he was moving very quickly by the time he hit the ground; that is, the chute was barely able to do its job anymore. He hit the ground hard.

Years later, I wondered why my grandfather didn’t have a right big toe. It’s because he smashed it so hard when he touched ground. He picked himself up, but was surrounded by the enemy, obviously at gunpoint. They told him, “March,” and he hobbled along for miles until he reached the prison camp.

The Nazis didn’t quite know what to make of my grandfather. He was wearing a cross — a Catholic cross, one that contains other medals. I wear one like it. It’s the kind of thing you get as a gift upon making your First Holy Communion.

Because he was wearing that cross/ medal, the Germans thought my grandfather might be a priest, or something of that nature. So they sort of left him alone. Regardless, he had most of his right big toe amputated upon arriving at the prison camp.

Some of the other Americans taken prisoner were not “left alone,” but instead were harmed, shall we say. How, you ask? What did they do to them? Well, I knew one man when I was a child who was with my grandfather in the camp — this man is long gone now — who had these strange scars around his wrists. I never quite knew what they were.

I later learned that the scars were from being left chained to a wall for a very long time.

I asked my grandfather what had happened when he was actually in the prison camp. He said that generally, he was treated well, but the American prisoners there were often questioned under intimidation. Big, heavily armed Nazi guards would come around asking the Americans what they knew.

The prisoners would tell them three things: name, rank, and serial number.

My grandfather said that really wasn’t the worst of it; if there was one person the American prisoners didn’t want to see come around, it was this one German woman who would bring a few Nazi troopers with her and do her questioning. To simply repeat name, rank and serial number might result in being beaten.

My grandfather told me about a time when this woman came asking him questions. “What did she say, Grandpa?” I asked. “What did she want to know?”

“She was asking me all kinds of things,” my grandfather replied. “She wanted to know what I knew — all I knew.”

“What did you tell her? What did you tell this lady, Grandpa?” I said.

“I told her three words,” he said. “Go to hell.”

Apparently the woman got very angry at that, and stormed off with her troopers, but my grandfather was unharmed by them.

And that is much of what I know — most of it — about all that my grandfather cared to remember about the whole thing. But that was the kind of man my grandfather was… and to me, the kind of man he is.

He was and is a hero to me, God rest his soul. When his nation and the world called, he answered that call and fought a great evil. And much later, when I knew him, he was a hardworking, gentle, kind, generous man. As I said, I miss him quite a lot, and think of him often.

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