In captivity

A guard ushered me into the front room of a Dutch home occupied by the Germans. I was told to stand in front of a small table. Seated at the table were two German officers, beyond middle age, smartly dressed, well groomed, slightly Prussian in appearance. Several guards stood behind them and to the sides. The officers were examining papers. In reasonable English one of them, without looking up, questioned me. I gave him the required answer: my name, rank, an serial number. He ignored my answer and gave me in return the number of my regiment. He further identified me as a member of the Eighty-second Airborne. I was greatly tempted to point to my division insignia. He asked me a couple of questions regarding what units came on this flight, who remained, and who were coming next. He could not have asked a more uninformed source. He was looking through my dispatch case and said, "You are a singer, eh?"

This startled me. It must have been obvious. Perhaps I grunted a, "Huh?" He continued to look at my letters, which I had received that morning and which I should never have taken with me. He said with more emphasis and with more accent, "You are a singer?" I probably grinned and grunted again. I wanted to sing for him to prove that I was not a singer. I stood there. He asked me where we were going. I repeated my name, rank, and serial number. He waved me out. I was escorted through the door, passing another prisoner on the way. Upon reflection I assumed that some reference to theatre was translated by him into singer. I was returned to the shed, where I joined a couple dozen other American prisoners of war. There we spent the night. Before morning the sliding door opened and two men who had eluded capture during the day joined us.

The next morning we climbed into a truck and were driven out to a highway that was a scene of intense activity. Transports of German troops passed each other going in opposite directions. German troops patrolled crossroads; motorcyclists raced along the highway. Barricades of wooden crosses and barbed wire periodically blocked the free flow of traffic. There were some evidences of bombing. The situation was different from anything that I had seen. I was far behind enemy lines. I was, in fact, in German-occupied Holland, which at the time was under severe attack by Allied forces. I had, in Italy and France, seen roads during and immediately after combat.

I had even been behind the lines in Normandy during combat, but in the security of the U.S. Army. I was now in the hands of the opposition in the land of a member of the Allies. It was a new experience. The sun was bright and warm, the sky clear and fresh. The weather, in fact, was superb. I was in great health. There was lots of excitement. And, as far as I was concerned, the Allies would be through in a few days to rescue us.

Somewhere near a town, the sign of which had been knocked down or removed, we unloaded and began walking along the right side of the highway. Later we left the highway and followed paths through fields and along canals. There were about thirty American POWs guarded by five German soldiers. We marched a few hours, then stopped to rest. There was certainly opportunity to escape. There was talk about it. I imagine someone tried it. Some may have succeeded. I do not remember that any did. The sun remained warm, the air crisp and clean, the fields green, the sights, once we left the highway, pleasant, and walking was easy. ...

I have never been able to pinpoint the location of my capture and walk; however, we entered and went to the center of a large city. Here we stopped and were well fed by a group of Dutch ladies dressed in uniforms similar to those of the Red  Cross. They were very gracious. The Germans wanted to hurry us along, but the Dutch women argued and insisted that all of us get a good lunch.

The country we walked through was especially beautiful. There were many small groves of evergreens. All along the road we saw exquisite homes or, rather, fairy-tale chalets. They were small, some two-storied, placed in gracious parks or other carefully landscaped areas. The buildings were wood with delicate filigree rimming on four sides. The houses and the trimmings were painted in outlandish colors. Each house had some red, green, yellow, and black. They were the gayest sight I saw in Europe. After so much destruction, dirt, and filth, they were a joy to the eye and spirit.

[Unfortunately, such joy was to be short-lived.]