A World War II Ultimate Sacrifice

A World War II Ultimate Sacrifice

Julius Bjorn when he was a toddler (his father is holding him)

My Uncle Julius Bjorn Johnson

On a June evening in 1943, Julius Bjorn Johnson, “Barney,” the first eldest son and second of nine children born to J.B. and Bina Johnson, made the ultimate sacrifice, giving his life to save the lives of hundreds in the Dutch town of Roermond-Deer in the Netherlands.  

Julius Bjorn, “Barney,” was born on January 4, 1916.  As a youth, Barney worked with his father J.B., fishing on his father’s commercial fishing boat, and later moving on to the goldmines of Ontario, where he worked as a miner.  

In 1940,  he enlisted in the RCAF and was posted to England in 1942 for his training as a flight engineer.  Two years later in November of 1942, Barney Johnson was placed in the 419th Moose Squadron, and on the night of June 24th at 2240 hours (10:40 PM) seated within his engineer’s compartment on a bomber plane, a Halifax JD147, took off on his 21st and last, bombing flight.

Crew of the Halifax JD147

Burton Norris Jost—pilot, 31, Canadian (3rd flight)
Ashley William Alfred Bruce- bomb aimer, 21, New Zealand 

Earnest Baily Pope- navigator, 27, English ( 23rd flight)
Julius Bjorn Johnson—flight engineer, 26, Canadian (21st flight)

Lesley Barker— M- upper gunner, 22, English
Robert Edward Austin, tail gunner, 24, Scottish
Robert Oscar Evens Goodwin, 24, radio operator, Canadian

The crew of the Halifax JD147 were based in Middleton St. George (in central England) on Goosepool airbase. When an airman finished his 25th flight, he was grounded, no more flying, and his duties then changed to ground and instruction service.  

Barney Johnson was only four bombing flights from achieving the safety of that ground service on June 25th, 1943.

On the night of the 24th to the 25th of June 1943, Bomber Command had planned an attack on the town of Wuppertal Elberfield, Germany.  600 planes from dozens of airfields all over England were deployed.  Barney's bomber plane, the Halifax JD147, was the first to be given the take-off command from the Middleton base.

The German's soon picked them up on their radar, and the two seater Messerschmitt ME110, piloted by Oberfeldwebel Reinhard Kollak, and his navigator Unteroffizier Hans Herman, was deployed.

The Messerschmitt ascended briskly, maneuvering behind and under the Halifax, shooting at and missing the Canadian bomber’s wing, then descended rapidly to avoid the Halifax gunfire.  From the tail turret,  Tail Gunner Austin spotted and fired at the Messerschmitt which, returning fire, hit the right wing and the outer engine of Halifax.  The Canadian bomber exploded in flames at 1:11 AM.  Jost tried to extinguish the fire by guiding the plane into a dive, a maneuver that sometimes succeeded at high speeds, but did not this time.

Without delay, Jost ordered the crew to stand-by for bailout.  The first to jump (near the railway station Maasbracht and Linne) was the New Zealander, Bruce.  Austin, the Scot and tail gunner, was next, landing in Leropperfield.  The two British airmen followed Austin: Pope, the navigator, and Barker, the Middle-upper gunner, bailed close to Hammerfield. 

Then, the engines dropped from the wings. The first engine fell, trailed by the second and third.  Only the three Canadians, the pilot Jost, the flight engineer Johnson, and the radio operator Goodwin were left in the failing Halifax which was still in the air but barely, flying beneath 350 feet over and just clearing the populated area of Roermond-Deer.  Somewhere among an electric company, concrete factory, and the Peele and Packing Company, Radio Operator Goodwin bailed.  His parachute, on fire failed to open, and he free-fell to the ground, breaking his back.
  

Near a radio tower, the Halifax JD147, manned only by the pilot Burton Norris Jost and his flight engineer Julius Bjorn Johnson, began to crumble.  The tail and  both wings had fallen off, fragmenting in an open field, and over half of the fuselage succumbed to fire.  The cockpit and only a short piece of fuselage, landing gear out, skimmed the Hambrook and crashed, burning in a Hammerfield area crop field.  In the cockpit, unable to save themselves, were Jost and Johnson, who died on duty side by side.

The New Zealander Ashley Bruce was hidden by the locals until July 29th of that year until he was discovered and sent to a POW camp near Fresne, Germany.  Robert Austin, the Scot, injured his leg in the fall; he was captured and interrogated for several days before being sent to a POW camp near Frankfurt, Germany.  Earnest Pope, English, wounded his ankle, was captured and joined Austin in the POW camp near Frankfurt.  English 2nd gunner Lesley Barker’s parachute, half burned, didn't fully open; Barker, who had been shot in the ankle, broke his back in two places and spent the rest of the war in a German hospital.

In honor to and in remembrance of the three Canadians—Jost, Johnson, and Goodwin—of the Halifax JD147 who sacrificed their lives so that others would live, stands a memorial in Roermond, Netherlands.  

The memorial reads: 

“DEDICATED TO THOSE CREW-MEMBERs OF HALIFAX B-11JD 147VR-C

MOOSE 419 SQUADRON ROYAL CANADIAN AIR FORCE WHO ON 25th JUNE 1943 GAVE THEIR LIVES TO SAVE ROERMOND-DEER
FROM DISASTER

LDR. BN JOST DFC AGE 32
AGT. JB JOHNSON AGE 27
FG. OFF. ROF GOODWIN AGE 24”

Alongside is a plaque fitted upon the stone. The inscription on the plate of that plaque reads:

ON PERFORMANCE OF A MISSION WAR IN THE NIGHT 25-06-1943 BOMBER WAS THEIR FAILED TO FIRE.

THREE MEMBERS OF THE SEVEN STUBBORN CREW
IN CANADA, ENGLAND AND NEW ZEALAND
Sacrificially generous ON
TO SAVE THE LIVES OF MANY CITITZENS
KEEPING THEIR UNIT AS LONG AS POSSIBLE IN THE AIR. ULTIMATELY collapsed HALIFAX OUTSIDE THE CULTIVATION OF ROERMOND-DEER DOWN THE HAMMER FIELD

THIS MEMORIAL WAS CREATED AS A TRIBUTE FOR heroism THE THREE KILLED CANADIANS.

OFFERED BY LIVING FOUNDATION MIDDLE Linburg BGV THE OFFICIAL OPENING OF THE “BERLAGE STATE” ON 13-10-1997, CANADIAN “‘THANKSGIVING DAY.’”

*This information is from part of a typed document called Yearbook Heemkunde Roerstreek, M. Th. P. vd Steen” Dec 1982 and from “Mission - Wuppertal” written by Johann V. Johnson (younger brother of Julius Bjorn Johnson).

Duck Soup

Summer 1962

Draw a picture of summertime in your mind -- hot muggy summertime in the Midwest; steamy summertime in 1962 before air-conditioning -- armpit staining, brow-wiping, fan-waving, sweltering summertime.  Now sketch in a mom, dad, and three kids.

This is a story that's a little like the story about stone soup, a soup that's made up of more than stones. Duck Soup is a story that's about more than ducks (and although the story doesn't involve soup, it does include ducks).  

The summer of 1962 began with a bang, or rather a rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat. My family had just moved from Marshalltown, Iowa to Monmouth, Illinois. Mom and Dad sold the house, the animal hospital -- Dad's veterinary practice , packed us all up and followed the Mayflower moving van with all of our toys and furniture to Illinois. We moved into an old brown two story house that had a fire place, 1940's wallpaper in every room, and a fabulous backyard that was big, covered in overgrown bushes and refulgent with daisies.  That winter,  we discovered that we were sharing our home with another family -- mice. My mother, never one to let anyone or anything get the best of her, set out daily mouse traps and my 8-year old sister emptied each one (she had no fear). 52 mice in all. My mother kept a tally.  But the mice weren't a problem that summer.

Shortly after we'd moved and settled into our "new" old house, and my sister and brother and I had made friends with the neighbor kids, Larry & Gary, a city crew set themselves up directly across from our house and began tearing up the street with noisy loud drills. Rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat. My dad, fortunately for him, was at work (testing herds of cattle for brucellosis, which I'm sure seemed infinitely more fun to Mom than being home on a 100 degree summer day with three kids and a crew of burly men breaking the concrete street up into small pieces). Thankfully, Mom decided that rather than stuff cotton balls in her ears and suffer through it (the result of which would've been a very crabby mother), she packed a picnic lunch and took my sister, brother, and I to the park.

That weekend, Dad drove the family and another picnic lunch to the lake. For some reason, women and girls wore bathing caps then -- some were plain and others were flowery.  My sister and I wore plain white bathing caps, but I have no idea why we had to wear them. They didn't keep our hair dry.  Anyway, we had a wonderful time on the manmade beach, splashing in the lake, making sand castles, and  eating our lettuce, lunch meat, & butter sandwiches (my parents spread butter on every sandwich, no matter what else went on it).

By now, you're probably wondering where in the world are the ducks?  Sorry, no ducks at the lake.

The next day, I woke up with the worst earache of my short life. Within a few days, after multiple rounds of warm ear drops, my ear canal filled up with pus (ick, I know!) so, of course, I had to go to the doctor.  My sister had also come down with a virus, a twofer for the doc.  One problem, though, we'd just moved and left our beloved Dr. Wells behind in Marshalltown.

With Dr. Wells remotely tucked away in the cornfields of Iowa and two sick kids on her hands, my mother turned to our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Pearl Allen (we always called her "Mrs. Allen" but her wheel-chair bound husband went by his first name "George"; I have no idea why.) My mom & dad's respect for older folks was enormous, so it made no difference to them that Mrs. Allen had at least 4,000 cats and was a member and staunch defender of the John Birch Society, a radical right-wing organization. Mrs. Allen wore pinafore aprons that completely covered the front of her dresses and nylon hose rolled half way up her calves that I couldn't help but stare at in wonder given my newly budding fashion sense. Her thin hair was pulled into a tiny bun, white with streaks of yellow that to my 10 year old eyes looked like pee. "That's what happens to blonde hair when you get old," I told my blonde sister. Mrs. Allen loved to have political debates with my dad over a cup of tea in her huge kitchen that smelled mildly of cat urine, silent George stationed in his wheelchair beside her and a portable potty next to him. It was cheap entertainment for Dad, and he liked both Mrs. Allen and George.  Oh, and the walls of the Allen's house were also papered in a 1940's wallpaper. (Paper-hanger must've had a one-day sale.)

So after Mrs. Allen's doctor recommendation, we all (except for Dad who was again testing herds of cattle for brucellosis because that's what Illinois state vets did) climbed into Mom's old green Oldsmobile (which my mother had fondly named Betsy) and drove to our new doctor's office. In the small inhospitable waiting room, I leafed through a LIFE magazine and happened on pictures of Marilyn Monroe climbing out of a swimming pool in a nude body suit, promoting her upcoming movie Somthing's Gotta Give. I remember thinking skeptically that she didn't look naked in her nude bodysuit when I was called into the examining room and given a shot of antibiotics (in my rear-end; why is that always the spot, I asked angrily), prescribed medication, and then it was my sister's turn. Her diagnosis and treatment were much different than mine. The doctor determined that she had a case of meningitis and she was immediately admitted to the hospital.

I don't remember that my mom and dad were distraught that my sister was in the hospital with meningitis but that was most likely because I had become even more ill.  Within two days, I'd gained 10 pounds in water weight and could barely walk a block without having to sit down to take a breath. One night, my parents heard me gasping for air, so my dad stayed with me all night, holding my head up.  The next day he threw out the little green pills that looked like M&M's that I'd been prescribed. Evidently, I was allergic to the medicine - chloromycetin. Meanwhile, my sister was still in the hospital but my dad soon had her discharged when he noted that even though he and my mother had to wear surgical masks when they went into her room, the nurses and orderlies flitted in and out with nothing on their faces. My sister had been misdiagnosed.

The day Mom and Dad brought my sister home, Dad traveled to a farm, bought two white pekin ducks and a large kiddie pool, filled the pool with water, let the ducks out of the carry pens, and made us kids go outside (well, he actually didn't have to make us go outside; we were entranced with our new feathery pets). Playing outside with the ducks, my sister and I quickly grew healthy again (and my brother remained healthy). Mrs. Allen and George had a new interest other than cats, tea, and the John Birch Society:  for hours every day, they sat outside, watching our ducks swim while my siblings, our new friends Larry & Gary, and I played tag and hide & seek, darting around trees and skulking into bushes.

Duck soup!  

Sometimes a Hat is More Than Just a Hat

In 1962, I lived in Monmouth, Illinois (a college town), and my most prized possession was a wig hat. Wig hats were the hot fad of that year, and I had to have one. Interestingly, the wig hat hair was similar to the hair of  troll dolls, and in fact, the hair on the hat I owned was the same color, white, as my own troll doll's. That the hat was my treasure may seem odd unless you consider that ​I was 10 years old, and although not a budding fashion model by any means, I did feel quite stylish in the hat and a pair of black stretch pants which I wore nearly everyday (my mother had to sneak into my bedroom while I was asleep to wash them), so yes, they were covered in fiber pills and the knees bagged out two inches from my legs . The coolest part of the stretch pants was the stirrups that kept the pants from riding up (I assume that was the purpose of them).  But, I digress.  My wig hat was the thing, the chic thing, de rigueur. My weekly, almost daily, outfit combo of my wig hat (always neatly combed into a pixie hairstyle) and the black stretch pants (and whichever sweatshirt I could grab) was usually accessorized with a long strand or two of pink plastic beads (to complement the white hat, of course). 

I remember with bright and colorful sparkles attached to the memory the first time I set eyes on the hat that became a status symbol of such great importance, I was reluctant to take it off at school (teachers reminded me

  gently at first, then not so gently, when I stubbornly refused to remove it and stick it inside my desk or when I'd sneak it back on -- as if they wouldn't notice).  But, I digress again.  My first glimpse of the gorgeous wig hat was inside a softly-lit women's dress shop downtown.  There it was, my white beauty on a hat stand, displayed with other hairy hats of different colors - black, grey, brown. I, however, was in love with the white hat at first sight, and my mother, who was always very practical and quite thrifty, oddly purchased it for me.  I think, no actually I believe, she did so because the idea of that hat on me, a 10 year old kid who spent most of her time playing with neighborhood kids, climbing trees,  or curled up somewhere reading, amused her greatly.  

And so, with hat box in hand, I glided out of the store not touching the sidewalk with my feet and at least a block ahead of my lovely and benevolent mother.

Pulling the Lion's Tooth

A lion's tooth or dandelion is a somewhat (by which I mean greatly) underestimated flower (some say weed) of which there are 250 types. Consider that.  Called also cankerwort (by someone, no doubt, who despised the poor things) & puffball (by one who liked to blow on their fluffy parachutes, scattering them hither & thither around the world), the dandelion is touted as a health food. Imagine!  What flavor of dressing would be delicious on a cankerwort salad?  (or should it be called a lion's tooth salad? Nothing like the petal of the lion to fill one full of vim & vinegar!)  A lion's tooth salad, fava beans, & a nice chianti, please (hold the liver).  No, these darlings most certainly must not be eaten as a salad or any other way.  Why, they have hollow stems, basal rosettes, & ray florets for goodness sake! and, they're YELLOW.

(Although, come to think of it,  I might like a glass of dandelion wine now & again.)

The Bowl

an iron gate

yawns open

wild roses white on

white braided hair trail

sanguine dust

on baby feet

and stone

cicadas whisper vespers

by Diann Hays

Sunflowers

a sweating summer day
and an unshaven boy
together in a cranky pickup truck
jolt down a gravel road

overalls and ball caps
nearly hidden
behind sunflowers
wave callused hands.

cigarette smoke blows out
the window

limestone dust and pebbles
spit out in a sagging hiss
from beneath bald tires

a rattle down the road
with a big-boned dog
that barks at everything
and nothing

vanishes behind a tall corn crop

afternoon sulks on
and somewhere a hawk screams.

a small orchard sighs

peach-laden branches
dangle like broken arms.

bereft leaves on an elm tree stir

sunflowers –
great wide heads lower.

by Diann Hays

Barefoot

madness

doesn't arrive

in army boots,

wiping mud on

clean carpets,

announcing it's

moved in &

conquered -

it happens

like a whisper -

like a secret

between ghosts -

it happens imperceptibly -

sand in an hour glass

sifting from top

to bottom -

it walks barefoot

at night

laughing,

quiet-like

shhhhh

shush

hush

leave a window open

for crazy to slip out

at midnight

into damp air &

shadows -

wet foot prints

on lamp-lit sidewalks &

a dog's sharp uncertain bark -

only moonflowers

see it drift back inside

by Diann Hays