Chapter 24: Shower of Frogs

24

The Farm: Interlude Pastorale

Early one morning in the middle of March 1945 I walked out of Stalag VIlA for the last time. The walk itself was an act of freedom. Rumor iniormed us that on joining the Kommando we'd be given new clothing and two American Red Cross boxes. We were offered a pair of cotton mittens, two British Red Cross boxes, and 100 cigarettes.

The ten of us argued for American boxes. We took the British boxes, the mittens, the 100 cigarettes, joined two Postens, and headed for the gates with the double set of guards. In a column of twos, lugging three precious boxes roped over my shoulder, two in the front, one in the rear feeling my notes rubbing next to my skin. I walked past all guards, a mile beyond the gate to the Moosburg railroad station.

I have no remembrance of looking back to Stalag VIlA or of having any thoughts on the matter. As usuat itwas first things first: roping boxes, forming a column, marching. Reaction to Stalag VIlA even a backward glance, like most experiences, had to wait upon reflection.

I sat down on a bench outside the railroad station and rested in the early-morning sun. Six schoolboys arrived to take the train, possibly as far as Friesing. They were about twelve years old, dressed alike in blue serge coats and trousers, each with a small peaked cap. They spoke English. I asked them where they had learned it. In grade schoot they said. My conversation with the children was another small step to freedom.

A passenger train arrived; we boarded it, took seats and rode in comparative luxury over the familiar route into Munich. Another small step to freedom. In the battered glass-domed station we transferred to another train, and we rode out of Munich and transferred again and then again.

By noon it was apparent that our Pastens were ...

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Christmas Day -- Chapter 22 -- Shower of Frogs

22

Christmas Day

Christmas Day started whenever a man got up, which was anytime

from 3:00 A.M. to 12:00 noon. The Germans, as they frequently did,

kept their word and did away with roll call. For the first time in

months we enjoyed the luxury of sleeping late undisturbed by any

military information, any Posten screaming, "Raus!," any vicious

dogs. In the barracks there was talking, singing, cooking. Outside

and through the windows the sun shone brightly, and as the morning

went on the day warmed, stayed bright, with pink-tinted white

clouds drifting across the deep blue Bavarian sky above the green

pines and firs outside the camp.

"Any bets, Stubby," I asked, "on what we'll get for food

today?"

"Nope. Your guess is as good as mine. But I could use a third of

a loaf of bread."

Coppola leaned out of his bunk to say, "I heard from a guy

working in the kitchen that we get some meat, mashed potatoes,

and gravy," and added, ''I'm ready."

Jones volunteered, "I could eat a whole roast of beef."

The same conversation took place up and down the row of

bunks and across tables, one of which was especially decorated

with paper bells, tinseled stars, pine boughs, and strings of red,

white, and green crepe paper. Underneath all this was a scrumptious

bread pudding. Over the top of the "cake" in white frosting

were written the words MERRY XMAS. The big party was set for the

evening.

"Hot stuff! Hot stuff!"

The food arrived. It was, for most of us, satisfactory. A piece of

beef, undoubtedly horsemeat, about two inches wide and thinner

than a pencil. A spoonful of gravy with a touch of onion. It took half

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