From.

Prx, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bulls. Today we have stories from Moth Stages around the US, New York City, Cincinnati, Ohio, Kansas City, Missouri, and Traverse City, Michigan. Each of the storytellers in this hour has their own unique experience with various branches of the armed forces, stories from the front lines, both at home and abroad. Our first story comes from Jill Morganthaler. Jill shared her story at an evening we produced in Cincinnati at the Anderson Theater Memorial Hall. The theme of the night was intrepid.

I am a marine brat. My father was a career marine. I adored him. I wanted to be him when I grew up, which wasn't likely in the 1960s. The women who served then, the wax and the waves, they were secretaries and nurses. They weren't allowed to command men. They weren't even allowed to have weapons in Vietnam. Well, 1969, my father got orders for Vietnam, and he sat me down in the living room and he told me I was going to be in charge of my younger brother and sisters. I was not thrilled. My brother could be such a pest. My father reminded me of the military code, You leave no one behind. Even pesky little brothers. Well, fortunately, he returned. When I was 18, I was preparing to go to Penn State University. My father came home from the Pentagon one evening, where he worked now, and he told me that the army was going to try an experiment. They're going to actually train women with men. The experiment was going to take place at 10 universities, and Penn State was one of them. I put in my application, and I was one of 10 women to get a four-year Army ROTC scholarship.

Well, after my junior year, it was time for us cadets to head off to leadership boot camp. All the cadets in the Eastern universities were heading to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In that experimental boot camp, there were 83 women heading to a military post of 50,000 men. I remember when the bus arrived at Fort Bragg, I looked out the window and everywhere there were men. Men. Men marching, men running, men barking orders. I just felt lost in this sea of testosterone. Then when Carol and I, and Carol also was from Penn State, when we started to get off the bus, TV cameras were shoved in our faces and reporters started barking at us, Do you think you're better than men? What do you think of this experiment? Why do you want to kill? I knew things weren't going well when I saw all the soldiers stop and glare at us. I just wanted to disappear into the earth. Well, after Carol and I in-processed, we were heading to the women's barracks, and that's when the name calling started. Butch, bimbo. We stopped at a Coke machine. As I started to put money into the machine, a soldier came up and just knocked me out of the way.

Go home, bitch. I just didn't get it. Why couldn't I serve my country too? Well, I soon got it. The West Point officers were furious because women were about to start at West Point and they couldn't stop it. The enlisted men were furious because once we became officers, they'd have to take orders from a skirt. My peers were furious because they thought women were going to get all the cushy jobs and they all came after us. One morning, we're standing at the bottom of a 50-foot tower. The sergeant looks around. He points at me and says, Blondie, you're first. I climb up to the top of the tower, and the sergeant up there asked me if I know how to repel. I have to admit, I don't even know what the word means. I explained he was going to put me in a harness with clamps and I would bounce down a vertical wall. He told me to back up to the edge of the platform but keep looking at him and lean back. I did. Lean back some more. I did some more. Next thing, I am hanging upside down, dangling 50 feet off the ground.

I can hear the soldiers on top of the platform just laughing their asses off. I'm terrified. I thought I was going to fall to my death. Finally, a soldier repels next to me, he uprights me. By the time my feet hit the ground, I am just frustrated. I mean, every day I was trying so hard to fit in, every day I was trying so hard to just be one of them, and they didn't get it. They didn't get why I wanted to be a soldier and hunt down communists instead of hunting down a husband. But I started to make inroads. One afternoon, we had to turn our uniforms into raffs and float down a river. One cadet, Muskorsky, big guy. He came up and asked to be my buddy, and I asked why. He whispered to me that he didn't know how to swim. Okay, but why me? He told me he knew I wouldn't leave him behind. Yeah, I was honored. Well, by the end of the six-week boot camp, I had a sense of accomplishment. I mean, I survived. But more than that, the army did a peer rating, and my peers had to rate whether they would follow me into combat.

I got a 100%. But then came the day before graduation. I'm sitting outside with my squad of guys, and our commander, Captain Mitchell, comes up. He tells us that the army realized that because there's women at boot camp, there should be a beauty contest.

Yeah.

Ms. Foxhole, 1975. I was disgusted. Really? He looked at me and said, Morgantheller, you're in it. I tried to explain, I don't want to be a beauty contestant. I just want to be a soldier. He told me he didn't care what I wanted. It was an order. At that moment, Muskorsky raised his hand and said, Sir, I'll be in it. In drag. Wow, Muskorsky was watching my back and Captain Mitchell said, Fine. With Morganthaler. Nothing I could do. It was an order. That evening, we're sitting in a tent behind an outdoor stage, and around the outdoor stage are 5,000 men yelling, obsencies. Inside the tent, I'm in a blue cotton dress, the only dress I brought that summer. Muskorsky is in an evening gown. Captain Mitchell's wife, lent it to him. Well, as each of the other women go out on stage and they sing or they dance, and I'm listening to the cat calls, I just feel like I'm about to be thrown to the wolves. Everything I had achieved that summer was about to be just wiped away. Well, soon it got down to Muskorsky and me, and he tried to tell me, Oh, just get out there and get it over with.

Well, I stepped on stage and the men started grabbing my legs. Then they started saying dirty things about my body. I realized I had gone from being a member of the squad to just a bunch of body parts. Now I'm pissed. I'm pissed. I step to the center of the stage. There's no way I was going to dance for them. There's no way I was going to sing for them. I stepped to the front of the stage and I flipped them the bird. I flipped off 5,000 men. And then I did in about face. I marched off the stage through the tent, and then I broke into a run. I managed to hold it in until I got behind the women's barracks and then I broke down crying. I felt so betrayed. I had given the army everything I had that summer. I believed them when they said, Leave no one behind. I cried. Then I heard a thunder of feet and I look up and here comes my squad of men. They are laughing and joking and they grab me in a hug and they're like, Morganthaler, we told Captain Mitchell, don't you put her on stage, sir.

You do not know what she will do.

Then we heard a thunder, more feet. We look up and here comes Muskorsky, still in drag. He gives me the biggest bear hug and he says, Morganthaler, I don't know what you did on stage, but they crowned me Ms. Foxhole, 1975. I went on to serve for 30 years, peacetime and war. As a Colonel in Iraq, I was in charge of the international coverage of Saddam Hussein's trial. When I look back at the 30 years, I am just so proud to have served to have been part of that band of brothers and sisters. When I look back at that experiment, as tough as it was, it really taught me not to ever leave anybody behind. By the way, there never was Ms. Foxhole in 1976.

That was Colonel Jill Morganthler. Jill is the author of a book entitled The Courage to take command: leadership lessons from a military trailblazer. We're sorry to report that Colonel Morganthler died in 2019 during a diving expedition in the Dominican Republic. Jill led hundreds of women and men around the world in peacetime and in war, and she was the recipient of the Bronze Star and the Legion of merit for her lifelong leadership. You can see a picture of Jill and her fellow female cadets at Fort Bragg on our website, themoth. Org. Coming up, a young soldier searches for meaning in the chaos of war when The Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hours is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX.

This is the Moth Radio Hours from PRX. I'm Meg Bulls. The US military is deployed in more than 150 countries around the world. Our next storyteller, Dylan Park, served as a member of a US Air Force Special Operations Security Forces squadron and was deployed to Iraq. Here's Dylan Park, live in Traverse City, Michigan.

After graduating high school, I was looking for a way out of my quiet hometown in Northern California. A military recruiter on campus told me that if I enlisted, they pay my college tuition, I'd get to travel the world. And if I was lucky, I might get to blow some shit up. He sweetened the pot by saying that he'd give me a $10,000 bonus by extending a three year enlistment to a short six year enlistment. $10,000 was a lot of money for a 19 year old, so I was sold. Now, about six months after I finished my military training, I found myself in a place called Kirkik, Iraq, which is one of the largest oil fields on the planet. It's also a hotbed of terrorism and one of the most violent places on the planet. My job there was to patrol the city around the bases perimeter most days, but some days I'd be posted at a front gate or a checkpoint somewhere where I'd spend a dozen hours patting down potential suicide bombers, just praying that I'd get to live another day. Working those suicide gates was like playing this sick lottery, this Iraqi roulette that you didn't want to win.

Over the course of that year, I knew a few guys that weren't so lucky. But for every suicide bomber, for every enemy, and surgeon, there were a thousand friendly faces in Krakuk, and one of those faces belonged to a teenager named Brahim. Now, Brahim was one of a group of kids that would follow us around while we were on patrol. They'd ask us for candy, soda, magazines. They'd want to talk American pop culture, and I entertained them all the time. I loved having them around. But some of the guys in my squad, not so much because after all, we were in this war zone where enemy combatants didn't wear uniforms. But in my heart, I knew these kids weren't terrorists. They were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation, like I was. Burheem reminded me of my younger brother, Rory, back home. At the time, they were both the same age, 16 or 17, and they were both very mature for their age. Rory, when he was growing up, he would follow my friends and I around. By the time he was in high school, he had this very adult sense of humor.

Although he was four years younger than me, he was one of my best friends. We did everything together. Ibrahim had that maturity about him too, but for a different reason. Obviously, he grew up in a war zone. By the time he was a teenager, he'd experienced things that many of us will never experience. I missed my brother a lot that year in Iraq. I think that Brahim filled this void for me because he became like a little brother to me. But while my brother was back home applying to colleges, going to prom, getting dumped by girls, doing things that teenagers do, Braheem was working as a janitor on a military installation in a war zone. Like an idiot, I asked him, Why aren't you going to school? Couldn't that be a way out of here? He looked at me and said, I don't have a school to go to. Ours was bombed out and it's been too dangerous to go back. He said that he was biding time until he was old enough to become an interpreter for the US military because that's where the real money was. He said you could make $200 a week.

See, the US military had this agreement with Iraqi nationals that if they worked a certain amount of years as an interpreter, when their contract was up, they'd be given this special immigrant visa to resettle in the United States. But it was an incredibly dangerous job and at the height of the war, we were losing an average of one interpreter a day. But Ibrahim said that he understood the risks and that he was willing to do anything to help feed his family and to help end the war in Iraq. Now, as that deployment went on, I learned a lot of things about this kid. We became really close. I learned how he was a sole provider for his family in this house that didn't have electricity most days. It didn't have adequate plumbing. Something as simple as personal hygiene was this huge struggle. This broke my heart. I felt partially responsible because after all, I was a cog in this war machine that destroyed this kid's home country. I knew I couldn't do much, but I wanted to do something. When I had a second, I went down to the Minimart on base, and I bought him $20, maybe $30 worth of soap, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, water, just the bare necessities.

The next time I saw him, I presented him this box of toiletries, and he looked at me with tears in his eyes like I had just handed him the to a brand new house. It was an incredibly humbling experience. In that moment, I realized that I wanted to see how he was living. I wanted to see this country from a different point of view. One day, I snuck off base and he gave me a tour of the city. We hailed taxis, hitch rides, walked for miles, and all along the way, he pointed out these historical landmarks. He told me about the Citadale that was built 2,000 years before Jesus was born. He pointed out the tomb of the Prophet Daniel from the Bible. He explained that we were walking around in the oldest region in the history of human civilization, and I could tell how proud of his culture he was. It was incredible stuff. I told him that Campbell, California, the town I'm from, is famous for inventing the fruit cup. Towards the end of that day, we went by a bizarre, this outdoor marketplace, and we stopped for fresh baked bread and kebabs.

I don't know if I'm romanticizing this meal in my head, but to this day, I still think that that may be one of the best meals I ever had. I remember asking Braheem how the bread was so good, even though it was so simple. He looked at me and he rolled his eyes and he said, Because we invented bread. Towards the end of my deployment, Braheem finally got his chance to be an interpreter for the US military. For me, this was bittersweet, though. On one hand, he might be able to provide for his family, but on the other hand, I knew that he had just volunteered his own life. I knew that he had volunteered for his own death and that I was leaving him to die. But there wasn't anything I could do about it. I wished him well and I got on a plane back to America. Now, when I got home, things were different. I was different. There was this ultra-vigulent muscle memory that I have. I remember walking in downtown San Jose with my friends, and I would look at rooftops and windows, searching for snipers, or I'd be at a gathering somewhere.

I'd be at a restaurant, and I would look at the torso of every single person that walked in the building just to make sure that they didn't have a suicide vest on. It was just second nature at that point. And living like that can be hard. It can make a person angry. My behavior was straining all of my relationships. I decided that maybe I needed to change the scenery. I packed my bags and I moved to Phoenix, Arizona. Now, Phoenix isn't a place where I had any connections. I didn't have any relatives or any friends or family there. I just did a little research and it was much cheaper than the Bay Area and it was sunny all year round, so it sounded great. I got to Phoenix. I started a job. I enrolled in college just to add some assemblance of normalcy into my life. But things didn't get better. In fact, they got worse. Over the next four or five years, I struggled with my mental health. I struggled with drugs and alcohol. I couldn't keep a job because I was in and out of the court system and I was even homeless for a period.

But in between weekends in jail and weekends and homeless shelters, I went to class. I was a good student. I ended up getting my college degree and that opened some doors for me. I got a nice job and things were looking up. Then one Saturday morning, I woke up to a dozen missed phone calls and text messages, which I thought was odd. I called my mother back first because her name was the first and the last on the list. When she picked up, there was this fear in her voice that I had never heard before. When she was able to collect herself, she explained to me that my younger brother, Rory, had been killed the night before in an attempted carjacking. At first, I didn't believe it because things like that don't happen where I'm from. Ironically, I had just purchase plane tickets to fly home to spend the holidays with my brother. Only now I flew home to bury him. I remember spending that Thanksgiving in a morgue. Then a few days later, I spent my birthday staring at his freshly engraved tombstone. That Friday when Rory was killed, he was walking out of a grocery store with his best friend.

They were celebrating his new life. He just got a new car, a new apartment, a new job. He was starting his adult life. As he was sitting in his brand new BMW, two men wearing ski masks, brandishing firearms, ran up on him and they told him to get out, but for whatever reason, they didn't even give him a chance to comply. One of the men shot Rory three times in the chest and face as his best friend watched in horror from the passenger seat. I know these details because I watched it. I watched the high-definition security camera footage during his killer's trial. I watched my brother take his last breaths and it's something I could see every time I close my eyes. I'd been through a lot in Iraq. I'd survived suicide attacks and mortar attacks and sniper attacks. But Rory's death caught me more off guard than any roadside bomb in Iraq ever could. I was destroyed. I decided that I should move home to be closer to my family. But before I could do that, I'd have to go back to Arizona to pack up my apartment. When I landed in Arizona, I got off the plane, I exited the terminal, and I remember thinking it was odd that the sky was gray and that it was pouring rain.

I went straight down to the taxi stand and got on the first taxi I saw and we were driving down the 202 and I wasn't feeling very conversational, but the taxi driver didn't know that. He started up that standard small talk, What do you do? Where are you from? Why are you here? That thing. Obviously, I didn't want to talk about my brother's murder, so I half-lied and said, Oh, I just got out of the military a few years ago and I got this new job in California. When I said military, he asked if I'd been anywhere special. I said, Sure, I've been all over the world. I was in Iraq for a year. When I said Iraq, his tone changed a little bit. He said, I'm from Iraq. He said, Where in Iraq were you stationed? I said, In the northeast, in the city called Kirkuk. He paused and he said, I'm from Kirkuk. Just as soon as the conversation started, it was over and I knew something was wrong and I was thinking, What just happened? Did I harm one of his loved ones intentionally or inattentionally? Or maybe he was really anti-war.

If he was, could I blame him? We sat there in silence for miles and I could feel him staring at me in his rear view mirror. I was trying to avoid eye contact by looking out my own window. I was at that moment that I saw that he'd passed our exit and now I was terrified. I told him that he missed the exit and he didn't respond and just took the next exit. When he got off, we went down a few blocks and he just pulled the car over to the side of the road and now the red flags were going off. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I could see him gripping his steering wheel, working up the guts to do something. What he wanted to do, I didn't know, but I didn't want to be there to find out. I grabbed my backpack, I kicked open the door. But before I could get all the way out of the taxi, he grabbed my leg and he turned around and said, Hey, Dylan, do you remember me? It's me, Braheem. I looked at him probably like you're looking at me right now, and I just didn't understand what was going on.

But he sat a foot taller, his voice was deeper, his English was better. He didn't have that goofy bowl cut. But 7,500 miles away from Iraq, there was this kid who had saved my life a lifetime ago. We got out of the car and we were hugging and sobbing in the pouring rain like a scene in the notebook or something. He explained to me that when I left Iraq, he was an interpreter for four years and he finished his contract and got his visa and they asked him where he wanted to resettle. He said he didn't know, but he wanted to go somewhere where the weather was like Iraq. They sent him to Phoenix, Arizona. I had learned a lot of things about survival in the military. There's a segment of training, it's POW training. One of the things they tell you is that sometimes the pain can be unbearable and life can look pretty grim, but you've got to look for these glimmers of hope to keep you going to keep you going that next day. I think that that day on the side of the road in Arizona was my glimmer of hope.

I lost one brother and I got another one back. Thank you. That was.

Dylan Park. Dylan and Brahim eventually lost touch. Dylan believes Brahim has returned to Iraq and contacting him has proved difficult. The Kir-Kuk Regional Air Base where Dylan was stationed was handed over to the Iraqis when the war ended. But when ISIS took control of Kirik, the Iraqi military abandoned it and Kurdish forces moved in. In 2017, the Iraqi National Army retook control, and the hope now is that ISIS is on its last legs. Coming up, two more stories. A family waits for news from the front lines in Afghanistan and will hear a bird's eye account of D-Day. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hill, Massachusetts, and presented by the public radio exchange, PRX. Org.

This is The Moth Radio hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bulls. For members of the military who were deployed, often there are friends and family back home anxiously awaiting their return. Our next storyteller is Frannie Civitano. Her brother joined the army on his 18th birthday. She shared her story at a Moth Grand Slam at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Here's Frannie Civitano, live at the Moth.

My mom joked that my brother enlisted in the army to piss her off. This is because when I was 18 and my brother was 15, our dad died. I moved to college three days later, but my brother was left with the aftermath of a four-person family that almost overnight shrunk down by two people. For my mom and my brother, this was a really rough few years. As soon as he graduated from high school, he enlisted. One of the first things that I learned during my brother's first deployment was that only about 1% of the American population serve in the armed forces. For me, that was a loneliness that I had no idea to expect until I was in it. It was something that nod at me. Every time my phone rang or I went on the internet or I was having fun, and for a moment, I forgot that Afghanistan even existed. Because how should I be able to exist if I'm not thinking about him 100% of the time? Because what if I stop thinking about him and something terrible happens? But I didn't want to pay attention. I did not follow the news.

I didn't set up Google alerts. I didn't want to know. I didn't like calling home because I knew that my mom would want to talk about my brother. She dove headfirst into this. She set up all the Google alerts. She read every book on war. She made a Facebook group to talk to other army moms. She called me one night when I was at a game night in Bushwick, and my heart lept into my throat. I panicked. My mother does not call me. She texts a lot, but I call her. I picked up the phone and she said, He's fine. Your brother is fine. But I burst into tears. She said, I just want you to know, in case you saw something on the news, your brother's army base was attacked and seven soldiers died, but he's fine. Your brother is fine. I was angry after that call, angry that I wasn't scared and upset before she called, but now I couldn't stop shaking. Angry that our settlers of Catan game was ruined. Angry that I felt so guilty for not wanting to think about it. The army invited my mom and me to come to Fort Campbell, which is in between Kentucky and Tennessee, to join other families for a meeting on how to welcome your soldier home from war.

We made a weekend of it. Our first weekend trip together, we got a hotel in downtown Nashville. We tried on cowboy boots. We toured an old print press shop. On the base, we walked into this sunlit meeting room, ready to take notes and ask all the questions. The room was mostly filled with girls my age or younger who were either pregnant or had recently had babies. The officer who was leading the meeting started off by saying he was glad we were all there because our guys coming home had had a particularly difficult deployment. They had lost 48 soldiers in their battalion alone. But we realized quickly that this meeting was not for us. It was focused on the wives who were instructed to dress cute and give their guy sex whenever they wanted it. We were frustrated that we had come all this way and didn't get any answers. My mom and I got drunk together for the first time in a bar in Nashville, alone with the band and the bartender, just talking not as mother and daughter, but as people, as ladies drinking in a bar. I told her about stories from college that I was too embarrassed to tell her about at the time, and she just rolled her eyes and laughed.

I learned that what I didn't know when my mom called me that day to tell me my brother was fine was that she had been woken up early in the morning by an alert on her phone and found out that there was an attack. Then she spent the next 15 hours sitting on her couch, looking out her front window, expecting to see an unmarked car and two officers pull up and tell her that her son had died. Our fear was not that different, but she was wearing hers like an exposed wound, and I was trying to bury it. All she wanted at the end of every day was to be able to say, He's fine. Your brother is fine. That she was thinking about him and worried 100 % of the time. I was so consumed with this guilt of not wanting to think about him and not wanting to worry about him that it didn't occur to me that there was another person in the world, the only other person in the world who really understood what it was like to have him gone. And she was sitting right in front of me. She was my mother.

And that, yes, maybe we were both still lonely, but at least we were lonely together. My brother came home after two tours in Afghanistan alive.

He's.

Different in good and sad ways. I hate that he was 19 and that he saw the things he saw and did the things he did. Is he fine? I don't know. Most of the time, I think that he is. I hope he is. I will never understand what it was like for him over there, and I don't think that he will ever understand what it was like for us here. I worry about him in a different, more manageable, more normal way. Is he dating? Has he taken that midterm yet? I may always be asking myself if he's okay. But today, at the end of the day, I think he's fine. We're all fine. Thank you. That was.

Franny Civitano. Franny lives in New York and works at the New York City Ferry Service. She's also growing her wedding business where she officiales as well as plans people's big day. Her brother is now a drill sergeant in the Army Reserve. Franny worries less about his safety these days and more that given the issues in the world, he might be called upon to deploy again. But for the most part, Franny and her family are all fine, even better than fine. Our last story comes from Jerry Neale. He shared his story live on stage in his hometown of Kansas City, Missouri.

My story starts on the east side of Kansas City. I was born in 1921. Okay, you guys, you figured out hot mess too much for me. The first decade of my life, the 20s, was a very fine, opulent period. I remembered as a small kid how great life was, parties, laughing, dinners, and so forth. But that decade turned into the '30s, which completely opposite became horrible. My grandfather, who had been an entrepreneurial type of guy, had a lot of businesses, drugstores, and so forth in the '30s, was reduced to one drugstore at 18th and Jackson Avenue. That was a store that our whole family lived in, worked in, and lived out of. I remember many, many times working there, watching my grandfather work, Papa, we called him. We'd be a man come in, a lady come in, and Can I talk to Doc? My grandfather was a physician trained pharmacist. He would come out and they would lean over the counter and explain their problem. Papa would get turn around, go back to the prescription counter, and start compounding a liquid, a powder, a pill. He'd bring it out and explain to the person what to do in order to help solve the malady that they had.

That person would say, Doc, I don't have any money. I've been out of job for a year. Can you just put that on a chit? He'd write a little piece of paper, open the cash register and stick it in there, close the drawer, and right there, and he probably would never see any money for that. He did this time after time after time. I learned an important lesson. It's important to help your friends and your neighbors. 1938, I graduated from East High School. I was looking for work and times were getting tough in Europe and Asia and Japan was moving down the island chains and Hitler was taking over one country after another. The war clouds were obviously heavy and this country was becoming very, very concerned about being involved. Fear was setting in, but also a lot of patriotism. I was driving around and I've heard an announcement on the phone about how I might possibly pass a test and get in the Air Force, which I did. The Air Force, the Army Air Force accepted me for pilot training. I can't imagine me. This young kid went behind the years to be a pilot training.

I'd never seen have been close to an airplane. The only plane I ever seen was in newsreels. In any event that I've got my orders to go to San Antonio, Texas, to start my pilot training. I remember that very, very cold January morning where I went down to this beautiful grand station that we have here, and I walked across the lobby and as I approached the stairs, going down to the loading platform, I looked around to these three ladies that were with behind me: my mother, my grandmother, and my aunt who had raised me. It was my nurture and my love. I turned around my little bag and I looked at them. I walked down the stairs and climbed on the train and just this deep sense of melancholy just sucked into me. The first time on my life, I'm alone, totally alone. Went on, rode the train. San Antonio started my year of training as a pilot, which culminated in not only a second Lieutenant's commission, but an aeronautical rating as a pilot. They gave me orders to go to Mountain Home, Idaho, to a place where I would now become a B-24 pilot.

Is this was a huge airplane. In that place, I got all my crew, my other pilot, my navigator, my bombarder, my engineer, radio man, and gunners, and we became a family as we trained. We soon received our movement orders, as they call them, to move to England to a base in East Anglia, which is where we would be pursuing our missions, going over Europe. As we traveled and started to travel out of Mountain Home and went to Lincoln, Nebraska, and we picked up a brand new B24, just like going and picking up a new automobile, new smell and everything. It was wonderful. As we started down across Florida and down Puerto Rico and so forth, every once in a while, we'd pick a little piece of paper out of a place on the airplane, a little note from somebody, worker on the line and said, Good luck, guys. We read those things all the way across the ocean. Wow, boy, we have a beautiful navigator. Only thing he had to guide us across the ocean in South Atlantic was a Sexton, an old type of ship, Sexton. No GPS, no electronic navigation instruments, just looking at the stars and taking us across, he got us there.

East Anglia is a little bulge in England that faces Europe, the continent. From that base, which was all of our bases, the eighth Air Force bases were there in that little area, we started flying bombing missions. The first two missions, that B-24 I picked up in Lincoln, we came back so shot up the plane we could not be flown anymore. They put it on what they called the Boneyard. They gave me another B-24 and the second mission, same thing came back, brought us back, but the plane was gone. I started thinking because everybody was talking about it. At that time, our tour was called 25 missions, but our loss rate was 12, 15% per mission. It didn't take a great mathematician to figure out, There's no way we're going to make 25 missions. What we did is we adopted an attitude of, We're already dead. Forget about it. Just go ahead and do what you've got to do. It worked. Well, remember that day, sixth of June 1944, the order came in. Woke us up at two o'clock in the morning, which was normal for us as we prepared for a mission for the day.

We got up, dressed, went up to the mess hall to get some breakfast. I never ate breakfast. I just couldn't have food on my stomach. But I did sit over in a chair in the corner listening to radio, big band music, 1940s music I loved. Here all of a sudden was this song, String of Pearl by Glenn Miller. My tears just start rolling down my cheeks. Deep homesickness. I don't know if anybody's ever had homesickness, but it's there. It's bad. It's you feel it. Anyway, I'd say, you picked us up in the truck to take us to the briefing room. That tears dried up, forgot all about it. We got in this room, about 250 guys just like me, waiting to see what the mission of the day is going to be. These people were sitting around chatting, smoking cigarettes, telling jokes, story. Others down with their head down between their knees, morose, different emotions, different people. Then our commanding officer comes down through the back door down the aisle toward the platform, which is to tell us what the mission was. Here, he's walking down there with his aides, walking down. He's a full bird colonel that we call the old man.

He's 25 years old. He gets up on the platform and they roll this big curtain back and there is a picture of Europe. Right there, right there, D-Day. We'd heard about it. We knew it was coming. We didn't know when or where, but there it is. We're going to be a part of it. I'm going to be a part of it. We took off across south to part of England, across the English channel at about 10,000 feet to our target in France, which was Cone. I looked up that channel to my left, and I had to be real careful because I was flying formation. I'd glance up and I'd look back where I was going, glance up. I saw from my seating the airplane 7,000 ships in my eyesight, in the channel, all moving toward the continent. I thought, My gosh, has anybody ever seen 7,000 ships? It's a lot of ships. I thought, Well, I could just walk across the water and never get my feet wet. Anyway, we moved on, got to the target con where our target for the day and the purpose of the mission was to destroy a major road junction because the intelligence had told us there were nine German Panther divisions sitting back there waiting to find out where to go.

Our purpose was to make it as difficult for them to move as is possible. Well, we couldn't see the target. We had a solid cloud undercast because bad weather had been affecting that whole part of the country. We circled and we circled and we circled. Finally, the commanding officer said, Back to base, boys, we got to get more fuel. As we started back to base and got back over the English channel, my engineer was, Hey, we're just about out of gas. We're just getting full. Hey, we're getting low. I prepared the crew to bail out. As we got over about the middle of the English channel, about 10,000 feet, all four engines of this huge airplane, about 7,000 horsepower, they stopped. The plane immediately started to and I had to push the wheel abruptly to the far wall to put the plane in a dive, or elsewise we would spin out. As we started diving, totally quiet, no noise, just the rushing wind as we just picked up speed faster and faster. I looked back over my shoulder to see if the crew had been all jumped, they were clear. I think, Oh, my gosh, I still got all these bombs on board.

Sitting back at me, there's 10, 5, 500-pound bombs. Well, fortunately, our training was very good. We had a lever down to base. I pulled that lever, which pulled the pins out of the bomb bay doors. The doors dropped off. All 10 bombs dropped out of their racks. Because by this time, I'm so close to the water, they didn't arm. They just went into the water. But just as I was pulling that plane out to try to pull it out flat and level right in front of me, just like God placed it there, was a gravel bar, a rock bar, right out in the middle of the chair, exactly where I needed to set the plane down. I had no control or that's where the plane was going to be. I pulled it out and as I hit that rock, it starts going across the rock. I'm going like this. The bomb bay doors are out and the bomb bay is open and it's like a giant shovel. It's picking up rock and gravel. The whole rear end of that B-24 breaks off and I leave it. I see all four engine, clink, clink, clink, clink out of the wings.

The greenhouse, the nose is gone and I feel the fuselage underneath the seat. I said, Oh, it's coming around. It's coming up closer and closer. Then we stop. Pilot, the other pilot and the navigator, we three of us crawled out and sat down. We didn't say one word to each other or anything. We were in a stooper. We didn't know for sure we checked our arms today. A few hours, English came and picked us up, took us back to the English Coast. I called the base and they sent an ambulance down because I wanted to tour the mass units on the south of England and go to find out where my crew was. I found one man. Six of my guys that I became close to, very close, like family, they're gone. They should be alive and I should be dead. I thought about that, and it was a defining moment. We have defining moments. That was one of them. I thought I was raised in a fine family, a moral family, but not spiritual. But now I'm spiritual. Thank you.

Jerry.

Neale, served in World War II as a B-17 and B-24 pilot in the eighth Air Force 490th Bomb Group, 849th squadron. And he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. After the war, Jerry remained in the Air Force Reserve, serving in administrative positions. He retired after 20 years as a captain. At the age of 97, he's still serving, volunteering as a mentor to entrepreneurs and business owners. Jerry also sent us some amazing photos. You can find those on our website.

That's.

It for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for The Moth Radio Hour. Your host.

This hour was Meg Bowles. Meg also directed the stories and the show. The rest of the Moth directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Giness and Jennifer Hickson, production support from Timothy Lou Lee. Moth Stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Stellwagon, Symphonette, Moon Dogg, and Glenn Miller. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicky Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hours is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth. Org.