On the ground ... D-Day continued ... And then captured

We were still being shot at. In the final descent I had completely forgotten about it. Man can do only one thing at a time. My fear of the landing consumed all my attention. I asked the pilot if he knew where we were. He didn't. It was obvious that we were in enemy territory, but how far from the front or from the drop zone no one could even guess. Although it was by now almost automatic, we made no attempt to untie the jeep. Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry started to get out. I crawled out the door to my left. I stood outside the glider putting on my heavy Browning automatic ammo belt. Either it wouldn't fit around my waist while I was seated behind the wheel or, what is more likely, I found it uncomfortable. I got it on, grabbed the rifle, and headed after Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry, who took cover in a ditch two hundred yards ahead. Bullets flew over the glider as I ran for the ditch followed by the new man. As I ran I could see out of the comer of my eye moving human figures to my left.

The new man and I reached the ditch together and jumped in. It was about three feet deep, with a six-foot bank behind it. We crouched down and looked around. By now the last of the flight was passing over the area. We could see it a half-mile ahead of us. Flak was still bursting all around them. Another C-47 was burning far over beyond the flight path. Shortly after we got in the ditch, five or six German soldiers came up to the glider. We moved farther away to our left but ran into fire from Germans coming down a draw that ran parallel to the field. Machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere and going over our heads. There was hardly any doubt that we were spotted. We tried to go to our right but saw men coming down a road on that side of the field.

We asked one another, "What do we do?" There were five of us. "Do we fight it out or what?" We quickly discussed trying to get contact with the other glider loads, of which there had to be, by our count, at least two. That could be from ten to thirty men. They had dropped out of sight. In the confusion we didn't know where they had landed. The firing on us increased. Again, "What do we do?" One of us wanted to make a run for it. The rest had nothing to say. It was self-evident: we fight or surrender. Someone suggested that we'd better surrender and take our chances. The rest agreed.

We threw our weapons and ammo belts into the bushes behind us, after hurrying to damage or destroy them as much as possible. The German soldiers at the glider had moved to the road. During a pause in the firing, with our hands over our heads, we came out of the ditch and walked toward the glider. The Germans in the ditch by the road called out to us and motioned us to come to them. We did. When we got on the road they got out of the ditch and motioned us to get in. I was totally unemotional and not in the least afraid. I was, on the contrary, very objective. If they had shot me I would have been completely surprised. It never crossed my mind.  Why, I don't know, except that they didn't look like killers.

They searched us, took some personal things, left others. With my hands still raised over my head I looked them over. They were a mixed lot. Good-looking, poor-looking; young, old. Some of them looked like home guards. There were about ten of them. They motioned and told us to get out on the road. We were marched a half-mile and into an apple orchard. We sat down. We looked around and waited. The apples were ripe and red. I ate a couple. We waited. Birdwell, Gerry, and I, who had been together for nearly three years, admitted, in different tones, that for us the war was over. We'd had it. All we had to do now was sweat it out. I was much more confident than they that the war in Europe would be over soon.

The Germans drove the jeep up to the orchard gate. I said to Gerry, "That's the third jeep I've had shot out from under me." He laughed. Sergeant Birdwell was not frightened but was more apprehensive. The new man said nothing, but his eyes were wide open. We were piled into the jeep and driven a mile down the road to a collection of houses that seemed to make a small village. The place was filthy with Germans. It was, we later found out, Division Headquarters. The front was miles away. Everything was peaceful. We were taken to a barn or shed. Soon other glider loads began arriving, familiar faces. I had no idea where in Europe I was, but I suspected that I was in Holland.

[Note: Bill Stigall never spoke about any of this to his family, nor did he join any post-war veteran's organizations. But at the end of his life, he did share experiences with a fellow veteran he had met nearby. And once Bill had died, we found a tranche of letters and notebooks that tell a more "compelling" story of his experience. These may come later: the originals have been donated to the WWII Museum in New Orleans.]