By Philip Handleman

Antiaircraft tracers screamed past Jim Frolking’s P-51 Mustang as he flew over the coast of occupied Holland, heading back to England after escorting a bombing run. He tried to evade the flak, but soon heard a round hit his tail. He could deal with the loss of hydraulic pressure he saw on his gauge, but he had bigger problems as he felt the stick go slack. With the control cables severed, Frolking had no choice but to undo his harness, release the canopy and ditch the fighter.

His group had recently begun flying the North American P-51 instead of the twin-engine Lockheed P-38 Lightning and this was only Frolking’s second mission in the new plane. He liked the Lightning, “the sweetest airplane ever made.” The aircraft’s twin-boom configuration meant that if one engine “went bad, you had another one to fly.” But Frolking felt comfortable in the Mustang, which was well-suited for the long-range, high-altitude escort missions needed to win the war.

The longest, and last, mission for James Edward Frolking would be his most memorable. His 51st combat mission had started well on October 7, 1944. Assigned to the 436th Fighter Squadron of the 479th Fighter Group, the 20-year-old son of a World War I machine-gunner from Cleveland Heights, Ohio, and his squadron mates would be escorting heavy bombers that day to Most, Czechoslovakia (Brüx, in German). The expected flight time was up to seven hours to and from the target, just 43 miles northwest of Prague.

Frolking, a 1st lieutenant by this time, had amassed about 200 combat flight hours since D-Day, when he flew top-cover missions for Allied vessels carrying troops and supplies to the Normandy beaches. “It appeared you could step from one ship to another all the way from England to France,” he recalled after the war.

The Brux mission’s fighters got airborne at 0915 hours, launching from Wattisham Airfield in the Suffolk countryside near Ipswich. Because Frolking’s squadron was known as the Bison gang, his call sign was “Bison 58.” That day he was part of Bison Blue Flight led by his friend and squadron mate, 1st Lt. Victor Wolski.

After rendezvousing with the bombers near the target area, 30-40 Messerschmitt Me-109 fighters approached from below. As Frolking and his squadron released their underwing fuel tanks and dove on the enemy interceptors. Most of the Luftwaffe fighters escaped into low-level clouds.

In the heat of the chase, Frolking and Wolski became separated from the squadron. Running low on fuel, they landed at the newly established British airfield in Antwerp, Belgium, before crossing the North Sea. With internal tanks topped off, they departed together on a direct heading of 310 degrees for Wattisham Airfield.

Pilot James Frolking, a veteran of air combat over Europe, failed to return to base after a mission in October 1944, embarking on an odyssey that involved the kindness of a Dutch farm family.
Pilot James Frolking, a veteran of air combat over Europe, failed to return to base after a mission in October 1944, embarking on an odyssey that involved the kindness of a Dutch farm family.

They were at 5,000 feet over the Dutch coast when the antiaircraft fire found them. Frolking started evasive maneuvers, but took a hit to the tail. The instrument panel’s hydraulic pressure gauge quickly dipped to zero. At first, Frolking thought little of it. The leak would simply mean he would have to manually crank down the plane’s landing gear on approach to Wattisham.

Soon, though, things started to unravel. The right rudder pedal dropped to the floor as Frolking noticed its limp control cable. Then all aileron/elevator authority was lost— his control cables were severed, rendering both the rudder pedals and the stick useless.

Frolking bailed from his plane and yanked his D-ring. As his parachute floated earthward in slow motion, he noticed it was a cool fall day. He felt sick as he watched his Mustang veer out of control, then explode on impact. But there was no time to wallow in self-pity. He was alive because his training had kicked in.

As Frolking followed his plane into the sea, he released the parachute’s suspension cables and unfastened the harness to keep from getting tangled. As he extended his legs, he found to his relief that the water was only chest deep. Fighter crews on over-water missions were outfitted with one-man dinghies. Frolking inflated his dinghy with its CO2 cartridge, climbed in and established situational awareness.

He saw a sandbar with stacks of baled hay about 300 yards away and paddled to it. Wolski circled overhead watching Frolking, but there was nothing he could do but, in a gesture of undying devotion to a wingman in distress, swoop down and buzz his friend, rocking his wings. Frolking waved to his friend as the fighter sped by, hoping that help would soon be on the way.

Wolski used his radio to relay the position of his downed wingman to British Air Sea Rescue (ASR). But as he made his way back toward Wattisham over the North Sea, he found his plane had also been damaged. He was forced to bail and was soon picked up by ASR.

While an ASR boat had been dispatched for Frolking, the sun was setting by the time it arrived in the general vicinity and no sighting was made. As darkness fell, the ASR put the rescue attempt on hold for the evening.

Hoping for rescue, Frolking spent the night on the sandbar. He watched the stars shine brightly in the moonless sky, the serenity a stark contrast to the day’s chaotic happenings.

A trio of P-51 Mustang fighters fly over Nazi-occupied Europe. First Lieutenant James Frolking flew one of these with the 479th Fighter Group and was shot down over occupied Holland in October 1944. He was sheltered on a farm for about a month until the Dutch Underground got him to safety.
A trio of P-51 Mustang fighters fly over Nazi-occupied Europe. First Lieutenant James Frolking flew one of these with the 479th Fighter Group and was shot down over occupied Holland in October 1944. He was sheltered on a farm for about a month until the Dutch Underground got him to safety.

Leaning back against one of the bales of hay, Frolking feared missing his rescuers by falling asleep, so he gulped down stimulant tablets pulled from his survival kit and lit a succession of cigarettes. Thoughts of his mother fretting over his fate flooded his mind since he knew that standard procedure in the case of missing airmen involved the sending of an advisory notice to next of kin.

At the same time, not being able to enjoy the company of his squadron mates back at Wattisham was a deeply felt void. In the 57-page reminiscence that he wrote in 1999, “Down in the Dutch Islands,” Frolking described the loneliness and how slowly the time passed on his first night away from base. “It’s the guys I’ll never forget,” he said after the war, noting that the best part of his service was the camaraderie.

Some time in the night, Frolking spotted the lights of a ship at a considerable distance. Thinking it might be ASR, he quickly ignited a flare, but it jerked out of his grip and landed on the dinghy, burning a hole in it.

At dawn, a heavy fog shrouded the sandbar, but slowly burned off as the morning warmed. Assessing his predicament, he decided to leave the sandbar. He patched the dinghy and inflated it with a hand pump. Two porpoises escorted him part of the way as he paddled toward the nearest sizable landmass.

After a couple of hours, Frolking clambered out of his dinghy onto a dike where he could see two civilian men talking. Frolking had trepidations about revealing himself, but he thought it was now or never.

He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle them, but the men knew immediately that he was a downed American airman who must have recently parachuted into the area. They did not speak English, but they led him to a nearby farmhouse where a family took him in and fed him. It was his first meal in a day and a half. Exhausted and relieved to be in friendly hands, he fell fast asleep.

The next day, the two men from the dike returned, and somehow Frolking and his helpers managed to communicate enough to where Frolking, with his map in hand, realized he was on the Dutch island of Noord (north) Beveland, a rural enclave dotted with farms. German soldiers roamed the island, so caution was his watchword. The good news was that intelligence reports shared earlier with Frolking’s squadron indicated that Allied troops were gaining ground in their march from Belgium to the Netherlands.

Frolking’s odyssey resumed that night when one of his helpers took him down a country lane, then motioned for Frolking to continue down the road. Frolking followed the instructions on good faith, eventually reaching the village of Kamperland. He felt it imprudent to knock on doors this late at night and chose to sleep under a hay wagon until daybreak.

First Lieutenant James Frolking’s family received this telegram from the War Department after he was shot down in the fall of 1944.
First Lieutenant James Frolking’s family received this telegram from the War Department after he was shot down in the fall of 1944.

A horse’s whinny woke him early the next morning and he knocked on the back door of the nearest house. Frolking tried to communicate with the boy who answered using a printed card in the Dutch language from his survival kit. Baffled by the American at the door, the boy, Makail, went to fetch his parents. A few minutes later, the boy’s father showed up with shaving cream on his face, quickly sized up the situation and invited Frolking into the house.

Frolking’s new acquaintances were the van Hee family. The couple provided a meal and gave him the means to wash and shave so that he could feel, as he later put it, “somewhat presentable.” Another man came to advise Frolking with a sheet printed in English that the Dutch Underground was working for his safe passage. Civilian clothes were supplied and Frolking handed over a photo of himself in civilian clothes. All American air crew carried such a photo for creating a fake ID.

The Dutch Underground had devised an elaborate system to help downed Allied airmen, and when night fell it was time to move again. This move entailed an hour-long bicycle ride to a prosperous farm in the village of Kats. Here Frolking met a local constable by the name of Willem “Wim” de Vor, a member of the Underground who spoke English. Wim explained that the farm belonged to Izak and Marie van der Maas, and that they would be putting him up until the Underground could repatriate him. Frolking was then invited into the farmhouse, where he met the couple that would be his hosts for roughly the next three weeks. Their five-year-old son, Huib (pronounced “Hibe”) was in bed asleep.

Frolking spent his days in a windowless second-floor bedroom until dark when Huib went to bed. Izak and Marie did not want the boy to know about Frolking for fear he might inadvertently disclose the information to a playmate, potentially causing the cover to be blown. There would be harsh consequences if the Nazis found out that the van der Maas family was sheltering an American pilot.

Marie brought meals up to Frolking with a smile twice a day. It was usually potatoes, as that was his host’s main crop. There were plenty of apples as well. Frolking especially liked Marie’s pannekoeken, an ultra-thin pancake lathered in jam, rolled up and diced into bite-size slivers. Meat was a rarity. Tea usually accompanied the food.

Within a few days, Wim delivered an authentic-looking ID to Frolking. His alias was “Nico van der Maas,” a purported cousin of Izak. To deter questioning of Frolking, the ID card cleverly listed the holder as “doofstom,” meaning deaf and dumb.

After dark when Huib was asleep, Frolking would come downstairs for dinner. Wim often joined them. The four talked about Holland, America, flying, and the war. When electricity was not interrupted, they listened to BBC radio broadcasts, catching up on the latest war news. Frolking read the few English-language books in the house.

He later wrote that there were nine, but he could only remember Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis.

His local newspaper also published an article regarding the missing pilot.
His local newspaper also published an article regarding the missing pilot.

Things got dicey when the house cleaners were scheduled to come as part of a regular routine a few times a year. Rather than bring suspicion with a change in the appointment, Frolking spent five days at the home of Izak’s mother and father in the adjoining village of Kortgene.

Though Frolking enjoyed his time with Izak’s parents, he saw German soldiers for the first time from behind drapes of a second-floor window. Also, in a potentially worrying harbinger, when he returned to the farm in Kats, German troops meandered about the property. The enemy’s proximity heightened Frolking’s concerns about being discovered.

Near bedtime one night, it seemed his nightmares were about to come true when German officers came to the front door. But they were only looking to spend the night and Izak dared not refuse them. Frolking was alerted and made a mad dash from the house’s sole bathroom up to his hiding place.

The Germans slept in the spare bedroom on the first floor, while directly above them upstairs Frolking did his best not to make a sound.

After about three weeks with the van der Maas family, the Underground was finally ready to transfer him to advancing Allied troops. Frolking was taken by rowboat to Zuid (south) Beveland. There he linked up with the Royal Canadian Dragoons. According to Frolking’s written reminiscence, the first words spoken came from a trooper with the Dragoons’ forward reconnaissance team, who remarked, “We find you guys in the oddest places!”

Frolking asked if he could go back to Kats to thank them for their hospitality, but the Dragoons would not allow it. Disappointed at not being able to express appreciation to his brave hosts but happy to be out of danger, Frolking was driven to Antwerp.

After a comprehensive interrogation Frolking signed a document that precluded him from revealing any information about his time being sheltered. Separately, the interrogating officer expedited a cablegram to Frolking’s mother back in Cleveland Heights to advise that he was out of harm’s way. Eleven days after the War Department telegram had arrived with “deep regret” about the status of her son as missing in action, Frolking’s mother received the new message, which stated: “All well and safe. Please don’t worry. Hope to see you soon. James E. Frolking.”

Issued a Canadian uniform, he was off to take in the night scene in Antwerp, including dancing and a movie.

In 1987, Jim Frolking returned to the area of the Netherlands near the Noord Beveland dike where he came ashore on October 7, 1944. He is shown with members of the family that assisted him after his fighter was shot down by German ground fire. From left are Marie van Der Maas, Patty Frolking, Jim Frolking, and Huib van Der Maas.
In 1987, Jim Frolking returned to the area of the Netherlands near the Noord Beveland dike where he came ashore on October 7, 1944. He is shown with members of the family that assisted him after his fighter was shot down by German ground fire. From left are Marie van Der Maas, Patty Frolking, Jim Frolking, and Huib van Der Maas.

Arrangements were made the following day for Frolking to England. Downed airmen who had come into contact with members of European resistance groups were not permitted to fly more missions in the theater of operations because if downed again and captured, they might be coerced into revealing the identities of those who had previously assisted them. Frolking was flown back to the U.S., where the Army Air Forces assigned him as an instructor on Republic P-47 Thunderbolt fighters. In September 1945, not quite a year after his adventure in the Dutch Islands, Frolking’s active-duty service ended.

But the story does not end there.

Frolking returned to Ohio and became a ticket agent at what is now Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. It was there that the thrill of the pylon heats of the National Air Race in the 1930s had inspired him to join the Army Air Forces as soon as he turned 18 in 1942.

He met fellow ticket agent Patty Lou Schoonover and they married in 1948. They started a family, moved to the Cleveland suburb of Shaker Heights, where they raised sons, James, Tod, and Stephen. Adjusting to civilian life also meant earning a degree with the help of the GI Bill at what is now Case Western Reserve University. In 1949, Frolking completed a management training program at a major Cleveland bank, followed by a nearly 40-year career as an executive at several of the area’s savings and loans.

In the fall of 1960, the Frolkings had an unannounced visitor on their doorstep—a handsome 21-year-old who spoke with a Dutch accent. It was Huib van der Maas, the little boy who Frolking had never met or seen while sheltered in the van der Maas home. Participating in a 4-H Club farm study program in America’s heartland, Huib wanted to be sure to track down the airman who his parents had helped to rescue.

In 1987, Frolking and his wife Patty traveled to the Netherlands for the first time after the war to link up with the van der Maas family and the other members of the resistance who had done so much to make Frolking’s evasion and escape possible 43 years earlier. Izak died in the 1970s, but Marie was delighted to welcome Frolking back after such a long hiatus. Huib translated for the two old friends.

Another reunion of sorts occurred in May 2003. A ceremony was held at Wattisham Airfield (now a British Army helicopter base) to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the base’s handover to the U.S. Army Air Forces from the British Royal Air Force. Frolking was asked to attend as the guest of honor, representing U.S. service personnel who had served at the base during the time it operated under American auspices. The occasion was bittersweet, for while there were flashbacks of the officer club partying and friendships forged in war there was no ignoring the grim statistic that 70 of the 479th Fighter Group’s 350 flyers had been killed in action.

At a D-Day commemorative event along the Lake Erie beachfront in 2015, Frolking and four other D-Day veterans who had either stormed the beaches at Normandy or flown air missions received the French Legion of Honor. For Frolking the medal was a fitting end cap to his other decorations, which included the Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with four Oak Leaf Clusters, World War II Victory Medal, and the French Croix de Guerre. On June 6, 2019, the 75th anniversary of D-Day, Frolking was on hand in Normandy for the solemn commemoration.

Frolking died at the age of 100 in a hospice in greater Cleveland on September 5, 2024.

In the years that followed their wartime experience, Frolking and his Dutch friends exchanged letters. Izak once wrote that he and Marie had spoken many times of Frolking, adding, “We hope with all our heart that you have survived the war unhurt.” Izak expressed regret that Frolking’s sudden departure from Kats meant that there could be no goodbyes. Nevertheless, looking at both Frolking’s hastily-arranged repatriation and the bigger picture, he added, “We were very pleased for you and our liberation.”

In closing his reminiscence of his time spent at the van der Maas farm, Frolking praised his courageous hosts, calling them a “wonderfully unselfish family” that “shall always be in my heart.”


A first-time contributor to WWII History, Philip Handleman is a longtime pilot, aviation author and photographer.

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