William Stigall's Shower of Frogs (Chapter 17, Stalag XIIA)
Poverty destroyed group companionship, but it cemented personal relationships. Someplace back in those three days of glorious weather in Holland while walking and singing Stubby and I came to appreciate each other. When we arrived at Stalag XIIA it was obvious to me that Stubby was far from beaten. He had lived a rugged life, had worked on a farm, had been on the bum, had worked as a short-order cook, and had operated a pneumatic drill in the streets of Des Moines. Physically he gave the impression of being knotted. The lines in his face were far too deep for a man of twenty-nine. On the day Stubbs came out of the boxcar with an inch of scraggy red beard and gaunt face, he looked all of forty.
He was wiry and nervous, chain-smoked, and consumed coffee as a habit. Part of his aggressiveness was undoubtedly expressed in pushing a giant truck over the Alcan Highway in the early days of the war. His instinct for self-preservation was strong and healthy. He had every intention of again driving trucks in the States. There was a streak of the romantic in Stubbs, as indeed there is in many truck drivers. The lonely, self-contained life hustling solitary trucks over the unending concrete of the United States either calls for or makes romantic men. By a slight stretch of the imagination Stubbs was a latter-day mountain man combined with a western scout. He was practical and realistic, except on the subject of the Alcan Highway, when the poetry took over.
"How long were you up there?" I asked him.
"Two years," he answered, "and I wouldn't give ten thousand dollars or ten years of my life for the experience."
"You liked it, eh?"
"Bill, you should see the northern lights in December. Nothing like them can be seen in the States. The country is wide open and wild. There are marshes there so deep that a truck can sink into them and disappear."
Stubby had many tall tales, which reflected both his Alcan days and his restless life. One came in time to believe most of the stories. He was,after all, out of Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Saroyan.
Our sleeping quarters became greatly overcrowded, so Stubby and I, along with many others, were moved to a temporary tent, a large circus tent with straw on the ground. Our night's sleep was frequently interrupted by sick men rising and stumbling over us on their dark way to the latrines, blackouts being strictly enforced. Occasionally a guard walked through or a rat ran over our half-conscious bodies.
In late October roll call began at 4:30 and lasted two hours. American POWs would escape on work details and not be missed when the group returned at night. At 4:30 the next morning the Nazis discovered the absence. This always raised the blood pressure, infuriated and irritated the well-organized Luftwaffe officers. They took out their anger on the rest of us. I stood for hours-waiting, hating. After six weeks we were issued German dog tags, which I still have. They were thin rectangular pieces of crude steel or iron two and one-half by one and one-half inches. Mine was stamped: "ST-XIIA." This was followed by 92285-a number I never learned.
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