Frederick jump school brings back memories

Bert Collier wonders why he didn't die long ago.

"It makes me think I was born under a lucky star,” he said.

Collier was at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked. Later, he nearly suffocated while parachuting into the pitch black skies over Normandy. Then he jumped into Holland from such a low altitude he could see surprised enemy soldiers sunbathing. He endured bitter cold and starvation during a siege at Bastogne, Belgium. Each time, the bloody encounters would claim most of those around him.

"I was too young to die,” he said.

However, from age 25 to 26, Collier was always one of the "old guys” heading into battle. Now 88, Collier, a native of Martha who lived in Bethany and now in California, was in Frederick last week along with other World War II veterans. The vets visited with about two dozen people from across the United States and Europe attending a "jump school” sponsored by the World War II Airborne Demonstration Team.

Among the vets was a man Collier hasn't seen since D-Day — Lloyd Neblett, 88, of Tulsa, who flew the plane that dropped Collier's platoon before the plane's wingtip was severed. Also there was Bobby Hunter, 83, of Gunter, Texas, Collier's radio man during many battles.

"I think about it every day,” Hunter said. "You can't keep from thinking about it.”

The men are a disappearing breed, among about 4 million veterans still alive from the 16 million who served. Some of them, like Collier and Hunter, have traveled to Europe to visit places where they fought, places where the people still appreciate what they did. Not like here, Hunter said.

"When I came back from World War II, nobody ever asked,” he said.

Most WWII veterans "know they weren't appreciated,” Hunter said. That's why most don't talk about their experiences to nonveterans. "They don't know and they don't want to know.”

However, if you ask, Ron Tollison said, the old guys will tell you. Since hearing Collier's story, Tollison, 53, of Shamrock, Texas, has been asking a lot. He's become a World War II historian, collecting tales from the warriors who are dying off at a rate of more than 1,000 a day.

"Anywhere I go, whenever I see an elderly man in his 80s... I ask if he's a veteran.” Most are, he said, and "they'll tell you that story. It's on their minds.”

The stories are many and varied. And amazing. Like the night of June 5, 1944, when another "old man” among soldiers, Neblett, 25, guided his C-47 over the English Channel with dozens of men aboard. Flying in the darkness "in and out of the junk” — cloud cover — at about 600 feet, only small shrouded lights on the tops of the wings kept him from colliding with other planes.

As he approached the drop zone in blackness above Normandy around 1 a.m., the Germans, who seemed to know "where and when and how many” planes were coming, poured on the anti-aircraft fire.

"We just held our heading to the best of our ability,” Neblett said. "Our drop in our group was right on target.”

One of those aboard was Lt. Bert Collier, who was leading the 2nd Platoon of D Company, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Division. Collier noticed straps on a bag holding his grenades and other gear had loosened. Struggling to cinch it just before exiting the left side of the plane, he accidentally pulled a cord that inflated his "Mae West” life vest, squeezing his chest under his tightened parachute harness.

"From the moment my chute inflated until after I reached the ground, I couldn't breathe,” he said.

Meanwhile, in the plane, Neblett felt an impact, and the plane veered.

"The whole thing happened pretty quick,” he said.

Neblett regained control quickly, which was fortunate at such a low altitude. Although he lost contact with the rest of his formation, he nursed the plane back to base. He later discovered a supply bundle dropped from another plane had severed 8 feet of his wingtip, including an aileron.

Back on the ground in Normandy, Collier recalled, "I was in a hell of a mess.”

Gasping for air, Collier had landed in boot-deep mud and water. The wind was blowing.

"My chute was dragging me through this water and these reeds,” he said. "You could see tracer bullets going everywhere.”

By Dec. 19, the Germans had surrounded the Allies defending Bastogne, among them the 101st. German surrender demands drew Gen. Anthony McAuliffe's famous reply, "Nuts!” and the Allies rebuffed repeated attacks by superior German forces. Resupply planes were thwarted by overcast skies, and the Allies were running out of ammunition and food. They didn't even have adequate clothing. Half the casualties among Collier's men were from exposure.

"It got down to 18 below,” Collier said. "Snow everywhere, freezing fog.”

Allied forces led by Gen. George Patton finally broke through Dec. 26, but the 101st continued fighting there until Jan. 17, when Collier was evacuated because of an abscessed kidney. Through it all, the 101st held its ground, recalls Bobby Hunter, who joined Collier's platoon as a radio man after the invasion.

"They broke through a time or two,” he said, "but we kicked them right back out.”

D Company kept getting "smaller and smaller all the time,” he said, while his platoon took 45 men and two officers into Bastogne.

"Twelve of us walked out,” Hunter said.

Like the others who survived, Collier still wonders why he was among them.

"I didn't carry a rabbit's foot,” he said. "Something, or somebody, was looking out for me.”