I pick up the old crisp photograph lying on my desk. This 74 year old piece of paper was well taken care of. The photo accommodates the aroma that all antiques have . I say that it's the smell of old. An unknown face smiles back at me from the photo. He wears a black sheepskin jacket with a big white wool collar, and underneath he wears a nicely pressed summer tan uniform with small golden painted sterling silver wings pinned to the collars. He wears his cap tilted to the side to show his smoothly styled hair. A young soldier barely old enough to drink. A face yet to see war, but soon to enter in the midst a world engulfed in hell. This man in the photo was my great uncle. And in my hands, printed on that small piece, I hold a tragic story. My grandma told me that he had been shot down in the war, and his body was never returned home. No one knew exactly what he did during the war other than that he was shot down.
I felt determined to find out what he did like I had for many other relatives. All I had to go on was a name, Lt Glen R Wrobel. After extensive research I learned the full story. The 22 year old who grew up in Stoddard, Wisconsin and who left 5 siblings and his home to go to Germany and serve as a bombardier on a B-24J Liberator with the 492nd Bomb Squadron. …show more content…
Young German children stood with their bicycles near the wreckage staring in amazement at the steel bird that now lay dead before them. The plane had been so badly damaged that only the tail and wings were discernable amongst the rest of the steel heap. Surrounded by fields and acres of tall white flowers, yet a beautiful sight of the monster of war that has ravaged through the previously undisturbed lands. He nor the other nine men that he had served with for the last two years knew what was in stake for them on July 7,