The headline of the 1944 newspaper clipping reads:
Lt. Ted Lauterbach Reported Missing In Action In Italy
Mr. and Mrs. P.A. Kauterbach of Sac City, Iowa received the sad news the first of the week that their eldest son, Lieutenant Theordore G. Lauterbach is reported missing in action over Italy since March 18. Ted was a co-pilot on a large plane and for a time was with General Doolittle in Africa. He had been in the service of his country for nearly two years, having been in the Army Air Corps during all that time. He went overseas in August of 1943. The message which informed his parents that he is missing stated that a letter would follow at a later period. It is hoped that better news will be forthcoming soon and although he is now missing, that he may have been forced down in friendly territory, or at least that he is still alive.
Better news, as it turns out, did arrive. Now, nearly eighty years later, his daughter Teresa has shared a typed manuscript with The Living Stories Collective that describes the experience of this brave young man.
B-17 bomber pilots; Lt. Lauterbach is third from left
In his own words….
March 18, 1944
The mission scheduled for this day was to target the group of Nazi fighter bases situated at the head of the Adriatic Sea, including Udine and the auxiliary fields surrounding it. A very successful raid had been executed January 31st, with our support fighters, P38s and P47s, flying the length of the Adriatic from near Foggia to the northernmost part of the sea at approximately ten-feet elevation. This strategy enabled us to elude the enemy’s radar and at that time effected quite complete surprise, catching the Messerschmitts and Fooke-Wulfes yet on the ground. A very brief period of time after our fighters had raised their havoc and departed, the heavy bombers of the 15th Air Force started dropping their bombs on these fields. Well over a hundred enemy fighters were destroyed.
The strategy of the January 31st raid was to be repeated on March 18th. In addition, the heavy bombers were to feint east, over Yugoslavia, to make it appear that they were heading towards Vienna, which had been the target the previous day. At the proper time, they would then turn left and approach the target from the north. Each group would then head for the particular air strip designated as its target.
The mission, while not exactly a milk run, was not felt by most to be a particularly hazardous one. I had been to Udine on two other occasions, and these had both been relatively easy missions.
We were awakened about four-thirty by the usual method of a whistle outside our tents. Starting the gas stove and dressing by candlelight in our tent was routine, as was the long jog to the mess hall for powdered eggs and coffee. Then came another jog in the still-dark, cold air to the group briefing room. The briefing room was actually part of a large house which had been requisitioned by the Air Force as headquarters.
During the briefing, the officers of the crew obtain information as to timing: time to start motors, time to taxi, take-off, and rendezvous with other groups, time over target, and time of return. There are pictures of the target, and a very complete description of the weather above, to, and from it. This weather information will have been obtained during the night by sending a fighter plane at high altitude over the target. Also, intelligence reports on the number of anti-aircraft guns to be expected, the likely number of fighters, and any other bits of pertinent information.
Then comes the ride by GI truck to the airport, which was about four miles away. The enlisted personnel are briefed on the airplane. On this particular mission, we had a bombardier and navigator in the group who had just arrived, and this was to be their first mission.
When I think back about whether there was anything peculiar or unusual about this sortie, I remember nothing in particular about the routine of grouping, or of leaving the coast of Italy.
We crossed the Adriatic on a northeast diagonal, and soon after crossing, in complete contrast to what intelligence had led us to expect, we were met by a number of fighters. Our position was neither unfavorable nor favorable as far as the formation was concerned, but the last ship in a formation is usually considered to be a sitting duck for fighters. I adjusted my assessment of the hazardousness of the mission immediately upon seeing fighters so early. I glanced at the clock. It was 9:45, exactly.
We were not supposed to be over any especially heavily guarded territory, and I was very surprised to see what looked like heavy flak bursts off our wing.
Then it came with a roar. It was a rocket shell fired from a Messserschmitt. It blew away the partition between the bombay and the cockpit, throwing our upper turret gunner on the floor. Also, it apparently hit our oxygen and oill valves, for a tremendous explosion and flame reached up into the cockpit. With an order to bail out, and after waiting to pull the crash buttons (IFF radar set, and bell-ringing apparatus) I started reaching into the flames to grab my parachute, which was tied to the back of my seat.
Seeing that it would be impossible to emerge by the instructed way, i.e., the bombay, I made my way below to the bombardier’s and navigator’s hatch. The turret gunner was already ahead of me. The parachute was of the snap-on type, and I had already gone through the motions in my sleep of how I would foul everything up if the split seconds were really ticking against me, but everything came in fine due order, and there was no foul-up here.
The fire was so hot and an explosion so imminent, that there was no choice but to jump immediately. I can see that a pondered thought on this might persuade one that maybe after all you better ride it out, but there was no time for pondering here.
And so…out.
It is just a matter of discipline to make yourself fall a long way. I had talked to boys that had been shot at while falling in parachutes, and I was sure I wanted none of that. At the same time, I was not sure of my judgment as to how far the ground was from me, and so eventually I pulled the cord. I don’t particularly recall my sensations while falling, but somehow I must have been able to think rationally, because I was conscious of these decisions being reached.
It is a damned well mean blow that the parachute gives you, as graceful as photographs tend to show it from a distance. But finally it tamed down and the oscillating ceased except for an occasional wind gust. I could count eight parachutes, but could not completely turn around. Also, I could watch our ship, the Sad Sack, come lower in its smoking dive. At that time, it seemed that I was actually being carried upwards by the air currents. Then the group of our planes following us came over.
This was a grandstand seat to a big air show. The Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts diving and climbing around the B-17s, machine gun and cannon bursts. I had free fallen about two-and-a-half miles, so I was not too concerned that they would come down on me.
And then you suddenly got a glimpse of the terrain below, and the thought struck you that you had better learn something about it, because this view was extremely temporary. Before I could make a time study, I could see that I was gaining on it at a helluva rate. Moreover, I seemed to be drifting into a sheer cliff. I tried what I remembered reading about guiding parachutes by pulling at one side of the rigging, but it seemed to do no good.
From 300 feet up, it was just a plunge, and then I was in snow up to my hips, and my parachute was rigged in a tree. Exhausted, winded, and emotionally numb, I pulled the parachute from the tree. Then I pulled out a cigarette.
It seemed hopeless and perhaps foolish to look for the others. None were within a mile of me, and this was heavy snow in the Alps. I should seek cover.
Below me, perhaps a half mile distant, was a house in the valley. As I smoked and studied everything about me, I could make out the figure of a man cutting outside of his house. He was busily engaged, and I had to assume that he did not know I was here, an assumption that was not easy for me to make. I looked at my watch. It was exactly 10:00. It had taken fifteen minutes for this whole thing to happen.
I was clothed in a regulation flying suit af a brown color, and I thought I would be better hidden below the snow line, so burying my parachute in the snow, I started climbing down from the mountain.
Quite a way down, I fell into a thicket of trees and bushes, which occurred to me as being a place to hide, at least temporarily. I unwrapped my escape kit, finding $48 in American money, a compass, some chewing gum, tow or three cloth maps, some benzedrine, some water purifier, some hard chocolate, and some medical tape.
Now I started to hurt. The flames had caught my face for long enough to raise blisters over most of it, burning off all my eyelashes and eyebrows in the process. It had also burnt the leg off my flying suit. In addition, a couple of ribs felt as if they were broken from the tug the parachute had given me.
Surprisingly enough, one of the emotions I felt was relief. This was the last combat mission I would be ordered out on, regardless of how things turned out later on.
Editor’s note: There seems to be a gap here in Lt. Lauterbach’s manuscript. From this point on, he is with another member of the group who, like him, has escaped the attack, but there is no explanation of how they met up.
March 19, 1944
The dugout was filled with snow. In line with the theory that it is utterly foolish to do anything in the first 48 hours after being down, we did not start a fire. I had a lighter which promised to be a source of fire for some time. (The lighter had been purchased by Zeb Jackson, who had been sent to Capri for a rest cure.) It was also enough to light the thirty or forty cigarettes that I had left. We talked about starting a fire, but I ruled against it. The smoke would be a tattle-tale to any searchers who might be out. So we huddled together like sheep, full of desperately cold shivers the whole night.
The decision, from a strictly safety standpoint, was to remain in this cove for two days. After that length of time, the hue and cry would likely have faded. Then we would have a greater chance of facing what open spaces were necessary to find someone who might be able to help.
During the night there was an intermittent repetition of machine gun bursts distinct enough to place them, I suspected, within one or two miles of us. It was difficult problem to figure out the reason for these, and the only two things I could attribute them to would be local partisan activity agains the Germans, or the training of German troops.
At about the first sign of dawn, church bells commenced ringing, and you had to know that in the valley the very old, the very young, and the women who had been spared the call of war, were being called to the Catholic church.
By this time, we were both so cold that we understood that if we stayed in this hole in the ground throughout the day and night, we should either commence to freezing to death, or would be so sick that it would be against all probabilities to make any progress. At any rate, capture, which might be expected in more cases than not, however we worked it, would be preferable to freezing to death.
So in the two hours after sunup, we pondered our course. The difficult fact was that we had more or less been dumped in the open, and outside of the knowledge that we were within the borders of Austria, Italy, or the Balkans, we had but two things that would allow us to approximate our position. One was our intended route. Another, the compass that was included in our escape kits.
We also had a map and a view of the outstanding mountains of these Julian Alps. There was one particular peak to the southeast that was especially impressive—snowcapped, and peaked. With the aid of the compass and cloth map, and with knowledge in my mind of the intended route of the group, I was able to spot our position quite closely. It did turn out that this position estimate was surprisingly accurate, considering the vague facts that induced the positioning.
So we crept stealthily from our hideout and over the hill on the other side of it. There was a brief valley…and then we commenced our first climb over mountains. This one had about two feet of snow on it and was heavily wooded with tall fir trees. It made for hard and slow going. About noon, we reached a ridge on top. This we followed for several hours, at length coming to a crest which either led to the left or to a valley straight ahead. On this crest there were several boulders twelve or fifteen feet high. We went to the sunny south side of these and lay down to rest, for our physical condition was none too good.
Now the 15th Air Force appeared in the sky. I don’t know where they were going, but I do know that we were joined later by several who were on this mission, for it turned out to be another costly sortie.
One odd thought that occurred to me to talk about someday was that they should make parachutes that were capable of soaring from the ground to airplanes as they were doing their usual stint.
We could catch a vast expanse of valley below and to the right of us. In the middle of the plain at the right and running parallel to our morning walk another plain intersected, and at this place there was a small village, containing about 25 dwellings, and complete with a tall Catholic spire from the church. The village was in the open, and it appeared quite impossible to approach it in any direction during sunup without being seen and recognized. The entire valley appeared green, and with spring approaching, it looked very lush to us; there was still a considerable amount of snow on the mountain.
Directly below us was a road running from our left (which we took to be the road to Yugoslavia) and to the right where the village was located. At various times during the afternoon we could see either a cart with animal and driver, or a soldier patrolling the road.
From our calculations we concluded that this road must eventually reach Yugoslavia, so we made our decision to walk it by night. Because we had been unable to sleep the previous night, we lay down in the sun, hoping to sleep, and intending to head right as soon as night fell. But sleep would not come, so later in the afternoon, we crept down the mountain, which was mainly bare of cover, to within a few yards of the road.
We had noticed signs reading “Forreste Militiare” and that, plus our experience in finding a dugout cave, convinced us that this was a training ground for troops, and we were more convinced when we composed ourselves beside this road, for my companion lay down on a hand grenade. I don’t know whether it was alive and good, but I do remember getting rid of it very cautiously.
We waited until dark. With no sleep, and with a damnable nervous tension, we waited. Now we had used all of our escape kit chocolate. There was some water purifier left, some gum, our maps, and our compasses. And benzedrine.
Now was the logical time for the benzedrine, so we took enough to keep us awake for the night, plus more.
When it commenced darkness, we took to the road. We walked nervously for an hour or two, without incident. At a crook of the road, we scouted stealthily and both believed we could see lights, as if from a station inordinately close to the road. With safety in mind, we decided to skirt this, leaving the road and taking to the hills at the left. We climbed high.
We both saw the campfire. We dove. It was actually far enough for us to have escaped their most watchful eyes and vigilant ears, but there we lay.
I don’t know whether it was the pressure of no sleep, the benzedrine, or the built-up tensions of months of combat flying and losses, but I have since resolved that the sounds we heard in the wood, and the figures we saw in the dark, were imaginary...though they were real enough that night.
We decided that we didn’t really know where we were going. that we were not going to be able to explain ourselves to anyone who would ask, and above that, would not be able to choose our time and place unless we operated during daylight with a great deal of caution.
So, being very chilly, we skirted the road with the idea in mind of climbing the mountain we had descended that afternoon, finding the large rocks, and building a fire behind them.
But the way up the mountain was so much more difficult than coming down had been! Finally, it became so difficult that we would force ourselves to take thirty steps up, then lie down and rest. Eventually it became apparent that we wouldn’t make it at all.
Now some wild animals started rushing in our vicinity. I have since decided that they must have been wild boars. These did not frighten us much, and as soon as we left their vicinity, we lay down, about halfway up the mountain.
March 20, 1944
We were again unable to sleep, due perhaps to the benzedrine we had taken earlier on the previous evening. As soon as the darkness faded sufficiently we moved down by the road so as to reconnoiter it before crossing it.
As this side of the mountain was the south side, there were only patches of snow, and when we were forced to walk through them, we walked backwards, thinking it might pay in case anyone tried to trail us.
We sat by the side of the road in a clump of bushes for perhaps half an hour and as nothing seemed to be moving around then, we got to our feet and dashed across the road into another clump of bushes on the other side. We had just gotten settled there when, from around a bend in the road about a hundred yards east, there came a German soldier, obviously on a patrol of the road. He came down the road and passed but a few feet from us. We held our breath, for we had forgotten to walk across the road backwards, and we were only too conscious of the mud tracks our flying boots had made. However, he passed us without taking notice. Then we observed that he was meeting another soldier coming in the opposite direction on the road. They met, stopped, smoked a cigarette, and we could hear them talking in guttural German. But what really aroused our fears was that the second solder was accompanied by a large dog.
While we lay frozen, they eventually parted, and the second soldier continued his way up the road in our direction. When he reached the tracks we had left on the road, he stopped and looked in our direction, scanning very closely. Our flying suits were an olive drab and blended with our cover almost to perfection.. The dog took no notice and eventually the soldier turned and continued his patrol.
I am certain that the reason for the patrol was to detect and capture U.S. flyers. That they did not succeed was only due to our good fortune.
We removed ourselves from the vicinity of that road by a series of jumps, running from one group of bushes to the next, diving into them, then waiting until we had checked that all was clear, picking our next objective, and repeating the operation again.
We passed quite near a farmhouse on one occasion and were nearly discovered there. The farmer was sawing wood in his yard and came after a timber just a few feet from our hideout. However, he did not see us.
By noon, we were almost exhausted. Also, we were very hungry. Neither of us was feeling well, and we were worried about catching pneumonia if we continued to expose ourselves to the elements at night. We noticed a small village only a few miles away and decided to find a place of shelter on the outskirts of that village, in a barn perhaps.
Our frame of mind now permitted us to take a more direct and vulnerable route than we would have considered before. We would follow hedgerows and fences if possible, but would also expose ourselves in the open if we thought it necessary to reach our objective, which was a place some distance from the village, where we could observe the village before nightfall The odds were so overwhelmingly against our escaping capture that all we were really doing was attempting to forestall this as long as possible.
We finally reached a spot that was in the proximate vicinity we had decided upon. There was a garden there, and we hoped that perhaps some kind of winter vegetables might be in the ground, but we had no luck in finding any.
After we had been in this spot for half an hour or so, we noticed a man with a team of horses and a cart leaving the village, and a wagon track sort of road led to a patch of ground some distance away. We watched him unload his cargo, then retrace his route back to the village. Some time later, he reappeared again and repeated the operation. He did this perhaps four or five times, and we decided that come dusk and his last load, we would approach him for assistance.
We crept up to the ground that he was treating. It was manure that he had been hauling to a garden. When he returned and had his load about half unloaded, we walked up to him.
He appeared quite frightened at first. Since neither of us could speak Italian more than enough to barter for eggs or vino, we did not attempt to explain our complicated situation to him in Italian. We repeated, “American flyers”, flapped our arms, and pointed to the sky. Also, we made motions to show him we were hungry.
He was still frightened. He shook his head, meaning, I guess, that he could do nothing for us. We stuck around. When he had completed unloading his cart, he turned around and headed for the village, and we followed him. Then he took hold of our arms and led us around the cart so it was between us and the village. We were both figuring that the odds were that he would turn us over to the Nazis once we got into the village, but now it looked like there was at least a chance that he might be trying to help us.
It was now quite dark. We went down a narrow street, still on the outskirts of the village. He stopped, went into a house, and presently returned with a woman. She pointed to a door and led us down into a basement. She lit a lamp and made signs that she would return, and she did, bringing with her a bottle of wine.
She poured us a glass full and made signs as if asking if we were hungry. We signed back, quite avidly, in the affirmative. She went upstairs again. It seemed to us that we had been very fortunate to find this place, and with the effects of the wine on our empty stomachs, we felt good for the first time. It seemed apparent that this woman would not turn us over to the Germans. At length, she reappeared with bacon and two eggs, which didn’t look like nearly enough for us, as glad as were were to get anything. But we were quite surprised to realize that this was all we were able to eat.
Before we were finished with the meal, two men entered the room. One could speak English brokenly. He said that he and some others would try to help us. They would find a place for us to sleep tonight. He told us there was a German patrol in the town right now, but that we would stay here until they had left. The other man had, in the meantime, left, and while we were still engrossed in what our English-speaking friend was telling us, he returned with four or five others. The lady whose house we were in also sent her children down. Others arrived. More wine was served. I remember a little girl pinned a stickpin on my flying suit. By the time the English-speaking friend had signaled that it was time to go, I made a count of the Italians in the room and there were 19! Our feelings of admiration and gratitude went to these brave people who had the fortitude to defy the Germans who held their country. And they did so even though we were still at war with this part of Italy, and that we ourselves had, just a few days prior, been bombing their cities.
There was quite a party that left the village. About ten of us, including two or three women. We had not yet been told where we were going, but at any rate it was a good two-hour jaunt. We suspected that we were going to some outlying farmhouse. Then we started climbing mountains. Eventually, the man in the lead stopped before some heavy bushes, turned, and pointed at them. A couple of men pulled the bushes aside and gestured for us to go in. We were astounded to see that behind these bushes was a large cave. We could see the outlines of its mouth, and we stepped in. I lit my lighter, and we saw the extent of it. The dimensions were roughly twenty by thirty feet, and straw covered the floor.
As soon as everyone was in, there was no time wasted getting ready for bed. We just picked a spot, gathered enough straw for a pillow and cover, and went to sleep. We now had our first sleep since Saturday morning.
March 21, 1944
We were awakened quite unwillingly, though we did not show it, shortly after dawn. Our man took us outside. The others were still sleeping when we left.
We started climbing higher in the mountains, climbing for a way, then descending, but always netting a higher altitude after each cycle. Now we found what sort of condition we were in. Our guide did not seem to tire at all, but he would patiently wait for us when we decided we had to rest.
We continued this all morning, and about midday we came upon a tent about the size of the U.S. Army’s perimeter tents. Outside, on the snow, lay a freshly killed deer.
Inside, we got our first look at the Partisans. They were seated around on their bunks. I would estimate that there were about 25 of them. In the center of the tent was a fire with a large iron kettle full of meat and vegetables. Rifles and machine guns were scattered about the tent.
They motioned for us to sit down. Our man, however, declined and stated that he had to leave. We shook his hand and thanked him profusely. They gave him a bowl of food and he departed.
No one of that group could spak English. However, as we were there for some time, we did indulge in quite a bit of sign language, most of which was meaningless to the other party. I remember that I would answer “buono” to about anything they would try to convey to me, and one of them, in a humorous mood, pointed to me and said “buono” and they all laughed.
They spent quite some time singing, and it was good music. Then we ate, and they insisted on filling us up, which we needed badly, and we appreciated it as only truly hungry people can.
We were assigned a guide, and in the afternoon took off for another unknown destination. He made us understand that we would cross the frontier between Italy and Yugoslavia that afternoon. The snow was quite deep, making walking difficult.
As we approached the boundary fence, our guide left us to reconnoiter. He returned, and we followed him. We made the actual crossing through a wooden pillbox on the boundary fence by climbing into the pillbox and down on the other side.
We arrived at another village about dark and were assigned to a house. Then we were taken to an inn and fed. A man there asked for our identification papers. We gave him all we had, and he typed up passes for us. We never had any use for these after the next day. Then this man took us to the back room of the inn and asked us if we recognized the guns on the floor.
They were US 50-caliber machine guns of the same type as were on our B-17. He said that our aircraft had crashed near this village and the Partisans had recovered the guns and ammunition from it. We asked if he knew anything about other members of our crew. He said that two had been here yesterday. He said they were going to try to get us together. He told us that the Partisans held this village now, but the Germans could take it any time they wanted to, and the Partisans would just move into the hills and attack the Nazis whenever they had them outnumbered.
As to what happened to the rest of our crew, he did not know.
We returned to the house that we were to sleep in that night and went to bed.
March 22, 1944
We slept late this morning, and when we did arise, we thanked our hostess, and returned to the inn where we had eaten the night before. There we had a good breakfast.
An elderly woman approached us and told us that she had lived in the U.S. and had a daughter there. She gave me a letter to post if we ever got to the states. She said that they had been unable to communicate for several years now. She gave us a pound of butter.
About noon, a horse drawing a sleigh appeared outside the inn. The driver placed us in the rear of the sleigh, covered us with blankets, and we were off on another leg of our journey.
During the early part of the afternoon, we saw many Nazi planes circling the territory. At about two o’clock, we reached another small village. Two Partisan soldiers took us from the sleigh and into a large office room. Here we were interrogated, I guess in order to establish without doubt that we were not German spies traveling as downed airmen in order to learn the details of the underground. We were asked by a man who described himself proudly as an intelligence officer questions such as what bombing mission we had been on, what type of aircraft we flew, the bomb load capacity of our airplane, etc.
Then we re-boarded the sleigh and continued. My cigarette inventory was just about depleted, but at one small village, our driver told me cigarettes could be purchased at one of the inns. I brought three packs.
Around four o’cock, we came to another small village where a large group of men came out to meet us. They said that in the building, I could meet the German pilot who had shot me down. This seemed to me utter nonsense, but when they asked if I would like to see him, I said I would.
We entered a large room, and they brought forth this captive. He was very short and his face looked like a caricature of the typical kraut. An interpreter was furnished, and we talked for about half an hour. He showed me snapshots of his brother fighter pilots at their base sunning themselves in beach chairs surrounded by ME 109 fighters. He described the time, our place in the formation, and the location near enough that it could easily be true that he was the one that had shot us down He said he had been shot down about ten minutes afterwards.
He told the interpreter on the side that he was surprised by our looks. U.S. flyers were being described as gangsters who resembled apes, and I think he was also genuinely surprised that we could act civil towards him. He gave me his German pilot’s wings, which I still have, and he said he was lucky, because the war was over for him.
I later found out how lucky he actually was.
The driver of the sleigh had reached his destination here. Another guide was furnished and we again took to the mountains. We ate at a small farmhouse, and after walking until about eight p.m., came to a large house situated by itself at the top of a mountain.
We walked in, and there was Cliff Magnusson and Smitty. My God, we were glad to see them, and they us! They had been there for a whole day before we arrived.
Of course we rehashed all of our individual stories, and they were quite similar. When I told Magnusson about the German pilot who claimed to be the one who had shot us down, he said that he had been told that this man was being held captive, but they had not seen him.
They told us that this was a way station of the underground system, that they had stayed here alone the night before, and the only man who seemed to have anything to do with the place was a part-time Partisan. This fellow soon appeared. He was a powerfully built blonde, and he could speak a little English. He told us about some of the projects that the Partisans were engaged in locally, such as the blowing up of railroads, and the ambush of small numbers of German troops. We asked about the large numbers of villages that were apparently “safe” in this vicinity. He said that the activity of the Partisans made it safe for the Germans to occupy any village unless they occupied it in large numbers. Their practice was to “capture” these villages temporarily, about every six months, loot them of food, livestock, poultry, and valuables, and then withdraw, taking all able-bodied males with them.
I told him about seeing the German pilot. He said he knew about that, and that they planned on killing him tomorrow. I must have registered repulsion at the idea, for he stated that neither the Germans nor the Partisans took each other’s prisoners, and there was no place to keep them anyway. Also, they had killed their own badly wounded men rather than letting them fall into the hands of the Germans.
This was a two-story house, and we later climbed upstairs and went to bed.
Editor’s note: The narrative ends abruptly here, and I am left with many questions about Lt. Lauterbach’s life and events that followed. But I am grateful to his daughter, my dear friend Teresa Ann Lauterbach, for sharing this with us. His attention to details makes the experience tangible in ways I would never have thought about. I believe it haunted him for the remainder of his days, but he and his wife June raised a beautiful family, and I also understand that he was recognized as a hero, and he surely knew he had made a difference. I’ll try to learn more and add to this, but in the meantime, I am honored to host it on our website as a tribute to him and all the brave men and women who fought for democracy. We must never forget that we dwell in the light of their sacrifices.