What an incredible irony, too, to find her working in the very plant for the very company that built the bombers flying over her town. It is ironic in a way, too, that the Allies were seen by all the town's people as the heroes when they arrived. She tells me they lived in an atmosphere of fear; not of the war and of the "enemy", but of Hitler and his Nazi party.

Early in the war, when she was only nine or ten years old, they got moved from their farm house into town proper. Into the house of one of her girlfriends, actually her best friend. Her friend's family had "gone on an extended vacation". My Oma and Opa, her parents, refused to talk to the kids about it other than on that level. They were very affraid; affraid not to follow essentially "orders" from the local party officials to fill up the vacant homes of the Jewish merchants in town, as they were being rounded up. Vacant homes in town were very noticable; not so much out in the country. She was too young to really know what was going on, and fully expected to see her friend again. She never did. It creeps her out to this day; she slept in her room and played with her toys.

She was so taken by the friendly (and "cute") allied soldiers that she determined to go see America some day. That day came in 1956, when the husband of one of her girlfiends, and American Army officer, got re-assigned to Fort Lewis (just South of the Seattle-Tacoma area). My mom went along for the ride, just to see America. They arrived in New York and drove cross-country, taking several weeks to do so. She didn't speak a word of English when she got here.

When they arrived out here, one thing led to another, and she met a young Army Sargeant just getting discharched, and ready to embark on a career at Boeing. She still had an eye for those Allied servicemen... Anyway, they fell in love. She never went home. And her husband was working for the company, at the very plant, where all those bombers had been built. Just amazing.

Thanks, Kevin993, for the wonderful photos. That must have been some ride.

BRPORCHE's grandfather (my dad) flew as aerial gunner/flight engineer in a B-17 from about D-Day until the end of the war. My dad never talked much about it, and when asked, simply told me that it was a terrible experience he was trying hard to forget, and that he hoped that I would never have to see anything like it. He's deceased now, and I know very little about his wartime activities. The gov't provided a plaque at his grave that lists his years of service and identifies him as a purple heart recipient--something he never mentioned to me.

He did a second hitch after the war, which he was more willing to discuss, living in post-war Germany and flying peace-time missions. The turret guns were removed and replaced with a camera, and he spent a lot of time taking photos for maps of North Africa.

I think I know why he survived when so many others did not. When I was a kid, we had a neighborhood block party where the men chipped in for a keg of beer and a block of ice. The dads in my neighborhood were mostly WW-II combat veterans, and the more they drank, the more they talked about the war. When they found out my dad had been a B-17 gunner, they requested a marksmanship demonstration. I watched while he shot cigarettes out of the mouths of those brave enough to volunteer. He used a .22 pistol, while sitting in a lawn chair; the volunteers sat in a second lawn chair across the yard. He did this about a dozen times, at dusk, after drinking a significant amount of beer. My dad never missed the cigarette; each time he hit nothing but the cigarette--no one was even scratched. His neighbors told him that they had never seen shooting like that.

Was just in Berlin the past week and got together with some old friends who still live there. One of them flies the medivac helo for the city and is in the process of building a house on the outskirts of town.

He bought an existing house and land and is in the middle of tearing it down to make something larger on the foundation. He started finding things in the walls, attic and basement that got him interested in the previous owner.

Turns out that the man who lived in the house was in the war and commanded a flak battery on the outskirts of Berlin. He passed away last November at the age of 88 years old, and his kids were the ones who sold the property to Gary. They removed the things that they wanted and left the rest. He found the old gents dogtags and other WW2 items that he is saving.

On the same vein, the guy who repaired my 914 and 911 when I lived in Berlin back in the 1980's was drafted into working in a flak battery. He talked about it a bit when he found out I was a pilot and had some interesting stories. He was 14-15 years old at the time. Hans Krage was his name, still remember it and the man very well. Very nice guy and excellent mechanic. Hope he is still around...