Chapter 20: December in Prison -- William J Stigall, Jr.

20

December in Prison

It was the first of December 1944. Coppola, Stubby, and I were settling down for a winter in prison. 1had finally given up expecting the war to end before Christmas that year. Word had drifted in to us that our mission in Holland had failed and that German resistance in Germany had stiffened and stopped the advancing Allied armIes.

Stubby was lounging quietly above Coppola, who was trying to read by what remained of the light of day. Leonardo had by now a fine full red beard, augmented by a mustache with long, well twisted ends. His slow, thoughtful movements, sometimes seemingly calculated, gave him an appearance of age well beyond his middle twenties. His beard, mustache, and slow gestures suggested a nickname, Pop.

I was stretched out in my bunk with my head turned toward Coppola and away from the fine mist of powdered excelsior that trickled down from the sack above me. "Hey, Pop," I called out to interrupt him, "how long has it been since you've eaten a piece of meat?"

He pulled himself out of the book and slowly, deliberately, time being no pusher of Coppola, thought for a moment, then said, "Six weeks." He ran his right hand repeatedly across his mustache out to the far ends. He added in a low, soft, accented voice, "In France. A week or so before I was caught."

Stubby leaned over to say:. "We had some meat in Holland. Eight weeks ago. Haven't had a piece larger than an inch square since we got here, and that was in soup."

Many unpleasant things could rightfully be said of GI chow, the quality of which depended upon the staff sergeant and his cooks, but even at its worst we had meat two or three times a day. In

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Chapter 18: Another Boxcar Ride: We go south

18

Another Boxcar Ride: We Go South

Suddenly, without any preparation, the Germans selected 700

American POWs, marched us to the railroad siding, and jammed us

in as before, and we were off on another journey we knew not

where. We left without our daily rations and without a new Red

Cross box, which somehow we had expected to get. It was the middle

of November. We had not yet been given overcoats, and blankets

were turned in. In that land of high blood pressure the guards,

shouting and gesturing, worked to get us in the cars. As before, a

milk can was provided and the doors locked. The train started with

determination and continued for many hours. The first two days

were a repeat of the former trip-no food, no water, a calculated

effort at bestiality.

We, however, were different men now. Behind us was a long

boxcar ride and several weeks of prison life. There would be few

surprises this trip. There would be no false hopes or great expectations.

We were alerted to long hours of waiting in switchyards.

We'd experienced want of water, food, and air. We would remember

the frustrating and maddening necessity of dividing bread and

cheese whenever the swines of society chose to toss it in the car.

We'd find ways this time to stretch our legs. There would be more

readiness to deal with the claustrophobic conditions. There might

even be a little cooperation, now that we were all Americans in the

car. Of course there would be a stronger sense of self-preservationin

several meanings of the words.

Yet it was surprising, what happened. We had learned very little.

The disorder was, if anyth.ing, greater now that we were really

hungry. When, after sixty hours, the Legitimate Bastards of the

human race opened the door and dumped in some food and water,

some men did not get any. There was still the galling problem of

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