The following story is based on the actual experiences of veteran John Repp, a 2nd Lieutenant of the 15th Air Force during World War II. Repp flew B-24s as a co-pilot, serving from February of 1943 to June 1945. For nearly six months, Repp was a POW, held at Stalag Luft I, a German camp on the Baltic Sea. Mr. Repp earned a Purple Heart for a for shrapnel to his knee, in addition to a battle star that his entire crew was awarded. He grew up and still lives in Canton. He has retired from his 38 year job with IBM, but continues to work part-time in the mornings.

Shades of Gray

Luck is a funny thing. Sometimes, when you really need it, it never shows up. And then there are times when you don’t expect it, and all of a sudden, luck’s looking your way. The strange thing, is that no one really understands it to begin with; it’s not a tangible thing that you can pin down, examine, and then memorize so it stays with you through life. Some people have good luck, and others don’t. To have good luck is just, well, lucky. John Repp would be one to agree with above viewpoint regarding luck.

It was December 2, 1944. John was 20 and about to discover how lucky, yet unlucky at the same time, a person could be. Flying the B-24 with 1st Lieutenant George Maheu, John gave no thought to their mission. It was the fifth his crew had embarked upon, and it was no different than the previous ones. This particular objective was to bomb an oil refinery in Germany, but not a single member of the crew could have prepared himself for what was to come.

Things were going perfectly until the crew was forced to fly through a heavy barrage of flak. After several minutes of navigating through the intense onslaught of artillery, the plane received its first hit. The nose turret was torn completely off, propelling the nose gunner back into the plane, miraculously uninjured. The bombardier, however, had received a serious knee injury; a piece of shrapnel had gone completely through the joint. John, though unaware of his own injury, had also received a piece of shrapnel to his knee.

As the nose gunner attended to the injured bomber, continual hits damaged the engines. Number one was on fire. Number two overheated. Number four suffered electrical failures. Perhaps it was bad luck; and their “luck” did not improve for nearly 40 minutes. Lieutenant Maheu finally gave the order to bail out.

John grabbed his parachute, and without thinking, jumped from the plane. You didn’t really think in war, you just reacted. He was young and had learned quickly. The rush of fresh air filled John’s lungs as he began his fall. As he pulled the string, releasing the parachute, he saw them. German soldiers scurried across the ground below, like black ants in an open field. Unlucky once again.

As John landed, he attempted to gather up his parachute. The woods was calling to him, and all he had to do was make it to their security. Yet the field was large, and luck once again seemed against him; for before John could run, he heard yelling: “Pistola, Pistola!” At first, John had no idea what they were talking about, but soon realized that they wanted his weapon. Uncertain what to do, John raised his hands. The Germans seized his .45 automatic, and after John showed them how to use it, he was taken to an Interrogation Center.

Six other members of John’s crew were found and taken captive. In their eyes, they were all extremely unlucky; they were all prisoners of war. The six men boarded a train and were transported to Stalag Luft I, a German prison camp on the Baltic Sea.

Conditions were awful. Twenty four men in a small room. Three tier bunks lined the walls: Eighteen on one side, six on the other. Food rations were small and inadequate. Men would look forward to the Red Cross rations that would come occasionally. These rations brought a variety of foods, and the boys were pleased to take a break from the German jams and coffees which they considered to be ‘fake’. Imprisoned, cut off from his family, and unsure of his future, John spent time constructing various items out of anything he could find in the camp. A cheese-grater and several other items later, May arrived, marking almost six months as a prisoner. John had celebrated his 21st birthday, Christmas, and Easter all within the confines of that awful camp. Besides surviving and being alive, things couldn’t get much worse. John seemed to be facing his worst string of luck yet.

But on May 1, 1945, John’s luck changed. The Russians liberated Stalag Luft, and John was transported to France, where he waited for a ship to bring him back to the United States. While waiting, he anxiously wrote a letter to his parents, letting them know that he was fine and filling them with relief, for they only knew that John was MIA. John returned home in early June 1945, a very lucky man.

Perhaps John’s ‘bad luck’ wasn’t really bad at all. Perhaps it was good luck in disguise, hiding behind a crashing plane and a prison camp. Perhaps it was a distinct type of good luck, one that brought him home in the end.

You see, luck’s funny that way. You never know when it will turn up; and when it finally does, it’s nearly impossible to tell whether its good or bad. It will always be like that, completely unpredictable. Never black, never white. Only shades of gray.