April 24, 1945 End of Chapter 25

-- continued from page 227, Chapter 25, Shower of Frogs

Some men became so belligerent that when food was brought in to them on Sunday morning they sent it back. Sunday afternoon the Kommanderfiihrer came in to collect the boxes. He saw the mess and instantly exploded. It was a sight to see and hear. He screamed and shouted and beat on the table. It was scary. It was also amusing. He bellowed out that the boxes were to go back to Stalag VIIA.

"Why?" he asked rhetorically. They were to be made into shoes. He bellowed that now he'd get his hind end chewed. He got his breath and went on to say that he'd probably be sent to the front. Some joke, I thought. All Germany was a front. It was difficult for some of us to keep a straight face and keep from saying, "Maybe he'll go to the Russian front, God help him." Once he made his exit, we laughed uproariously - or at least some did. Others appreciated the danger of retaliation. Both reactions were understandable. 

In the middle of April, I began to hear the names of cities that lay in the path of the upcoming U.S. armies, the cities that stood between us and freedom. just where they were in relation to me I was never sure, but I heard the names of Augsburg, Stuttgart, Nuremberg, Freiburg, and, of course, Munich. 

On April 20, we had another airborne landing scare, after which we were ordered to follow the Postens. We joined some Bauers and were told to help dig gun emplacements. Again the old wailing about the Geneva Convention. We all dug. We saw less and less of our guards, now, while more and more soldiers swelled the population of Hurlach. Our guards now punched holes in all food cans. We hated the bastards for this.

The time was ripe for rumors, and the town was rife with them. We were to be shot. "It's Hitler's orders," one POW said with conviction. "Where d'you get that stuff?" another asked ."I read it in the paper at myBauer's," he said.

A POW sneaked out his Bauer's paper, and we scanned it for the information. It was not there. No such story. It then came out that a Bauer had told the Kriegsgruppe story just to see what he would do. He fell for it. He was not alone. A radio report came in that 360 American soldiers were found dead in Italy. We concluded that meant POWs. Some felt we'd get the same treatment. Night after night we feasted on a banquet of rumor. Some of us were making plans to escape. Others were picking spots to hide out until the U.S. Army came through Hurlach.

But all was not grim in the barracks. There was vigorous ribaldry. One of the Brooklyn POWs hollered across the room to his Italian buddy from New York, "Hey, Meatball, would the Dagos kill three hundred and sixty Americanos?" The answer was a familiar hand gesture. A POW insisted, "Mix with these people, men." He went on to say, "Get around. Mix in. When they speak, say, 'Nichts verstandl' and they'll bring out the maps."

In anticipation of our departure from Hurlach, Meatball had composed a parody of "You Are My Sunshine." With the women of Hurlach in mind, he sang, "Oh please don't take my Gefangener [prisoner] away." We felt good. Four of the POWs had been together through basic training, action, Stalag, and Kommando. They spent a good deal of time entertaining each other and, Willy-nilly, the rest of us with bad imitations of Englishmen, recitations of the feminine possibilities in Hurlach and how they were overworked, all the while engaging in great bouts of scuffling. 

Red, the Irish-American paratrooper, had dropped into Normandy minus a helmet and rifle. So, for the twentieth time, "Hey, Red, where'd you get captured-England?" "Oh you, Bud," he replied in a loud voice.

Sunday, April 22, as on other Sundays, we cleaned the barracks, bathed, washed clothes, mended and pressed trousers and shirts (God knows what for). We also had time to ourselves. March and April brought to an end my third year in the army. There was no reason to be gloomy, however. Spring had come to Hurlach. 

There was plenty of sunshine, and it was gloriously warm. The evidence of war was many in Hurlach, but around the edge of the village, in the fields and woods, I could hear, without being able to hum a single tune, Beethoven's Pastorale Symphony. It sang through the countryside, and it supported me in the closing days of my prison life.

Tuesday, April 23, we were again ordered to stay in the barracks - nichtarbeiten.I certainly did not object to nichtarbeiten. I was tired of working. I sometimes wondered if the day would ever come when l'd no longer work for the U.S. or German Army. 

Some of us were childishly stupid about the food the Bauers brought in. Joseph, a former Ranger, moody and temperamental, answering a question only if he felt like it, not only refused the food brought in but also wouldn't take the food offered every day at the Base. This spited the Bauer, Joseph believed. Others felt the same about the food brought into the barracks by their Bauers, then ate food from other Bauers.

After the incident with the Kommunderfzihrer, the airborne scares, the digging of gun emplacements, and the rising tempo of military activities in and above Hurlach, we started pulling guard duty in the barracks. Monday we worked. Monday night we stood guard. Rumors reached epidemic proportions. There was greater activity in the guardhouse. Our hopes were up one hour, down the next. It simply could not be much longer now. We speculated on our method of release. Hurlach would probably be overrun by the Americans. But who knows?

Late Tuesday night, April 24, the POW on guard awakened us in the barracks. He was excited. We listened until dawn to artillery fire while low-flying aircraft crossed and recrossed the moonlit sky above us.

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The War Closes In on Hurlach - Chapter 25 continued

Chapter 25  ... continued

On Easter Day I was given five beautifully colored hard-boiled eggs and a piece of the blessed cake. The only other dessert we ever had here, the specialty of the house, was a jelly roll that tasted like a potato pancake. The blessed cake was sweet and was wrapped in a thin paper.

In the barracks on Sunday evening one Kriegie said, "Did anyone get thin paper wrapped around your cake today?''

"Yeah, why?" asked someone. "Make maps," he answered. "Hey!" shouted the redheaded Irish-American paratrooper in a mock serious tone. "You can get shot for that." He brought down the house.

We folded the thin papers and put them away. During the first two weeks of April we experienced a mixture of expectation, apprehension, excitement, and frustration. Air activ­ity increased over Hurlach. The tension in town was expressed by the Bauers, who gathered in groups and talked in low voices. A few more soldiers appeared in Hurlach; more and more refugees crowded into the manor house. Red Cross boxes were limited to two for thirty-nine men, which meant that either communication lines were being bombed and strafed or the Germans had helped themselves. Days went by without word on the advancing armies; then suddenly there would be a report of significant advances in our direction. I began to notice, or thought I did, a barely percepti­ ble difference in my Bauer's relationship to me it seemed more relaxed.

At ten o'clock on the morning of April 9, 1945, American fight­ ers engaged some German planes over Hurlach. The fight lasted about ten minutes; it was exciting. A plane fell in flames, the pilot parachuting from it. The people of Hurlach were delighted until they discovered that it was a German pilot. An American Kriegie was the first to reach him. The American got the parachute off the pilot and cut away his clothes around a wound. The pilot was dead.

The Kriegie said he was dead when he reached him. The Bauers said the pilot was alive when he landed and told the Kriegie that the pilot was shot while parachuting down.

It was a tense afternoon in Hurlach. The air was charged with excitement. Bauers and slaves went their own way, as it were. In the barracks, there were arguments pro and con, laughter over the Bauers' reaction, rejoicing in the American victory. We had mail call and I got my first piece of mail since I flew from England, Septem­ber 23. I learned that my prison letters had arrived, that my family and friends were, on February 15, 1945, in good health, and that Mavis knew where I was.

Ivan met me the next day, saying, "Bauers say American pilots shot German parachuting down." I knew what they were saying and tried to explain to Ivan that it was not true. Ivan insisted, "Bauers say so," and added, "Germans and Americans nicht Kommrades, yes?'' I answered, "Yes," to that but was unable to convey to him the subtle difference between being an enemy and shooting a defense­less man. I tried to show him that I did not think our pilots had done that.

Ivan was unconvinced when he went off to plow alongside the Bauer. I heard Ivan explain to him that I had denied the shooting, whereupon the Bauer stopped his plowing and showed Ivan where the pilot was hit. Ivan seemed convinced. I thought, Ivan is no better than the Bauer.

At the end of March and during the first weeks of April 1945, I heard a new sound in the air over Hurlach. It was identified as a jet sound. Planes rose from an airfield near us with a frightening scream and with ominous swiftness, quickly gaining great speed and height. Two days after the dogfight, American fighters appeared over Hurlach and were followed by bombers who blasted a target about two miles from us. The black smoke rising high in the sky was a gorgeous sight so long as it was two miles away. The next day they returned and bombed a town ten miles in the other direction. Each time, the German earth shook and Hurlach had the impression that the war was closing in.

On the morning of Friday, April 13, 1945, I was loafing along with an axe, supposedly cutting wood. The Bauer had been by to sharpen my skills as well as the ax. He still had not discovered that I was a professional POW goldbrick. He looked at my toothpick arms, and I knew he felt again how he had been cheated on Kriegie distribution day. He had work to do, so he left. I sat down to rest.

Just before noon a Kriegie came by and said excitedly, "Presi­dent Roosevelt died yesterday."  It was a shock. "What happened?" I asked him. 

226

"I don't know," he answered, "but I just heard it on my Bauer's radio."The news went swiftly through Hurlach. They knew Roo­sevelt. With no facility in German, I had no idea of their reaction. Our first reaction was personal. "Boy, that sure fouls up the war," said one POW. "How d'you mean?" I asked. "I don't know, but we'll never get out of here now," he said.

"I doubt if it has any effect at all on the war," I responded. Another POW said, "I'll bet Truman really makes the war go fast." I had to dig to come up with the vice president's name. In Eng­land I had lost interest in the convention, and I had disappeared before the election. I couldn't place Truman.

"That'll sure foul up a square deal for us soldiers when we get back home, won't it?" a Kriegie said.

There was agreement, as we talked about it that night in the barracks, that Roosevelt had been a great president. Some recog­nized the potential effect of his death on the peace, some felt sad­ness in the loss of him, and some felt his personal loss at not finishing what he and we had been through together. 

Spring was now well underway in Bavaria, and Spring had returned to Wash­ington, as I remembered, and I wrote home in Whitman's words: 

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed

A great star fell in the western sky in the night

I mourn and yet shall mourn with every returning Spring.

Our thoughts, which were ever westward, were more so that weekend. For every man in prison, for every man in the army, it was not just that Roosevelt was our commander in chief. It was not only that he was the president. It was that he had been the Presence in Washington during thirteen vital years of our lives, the entire last half of most soldiers' lives.

Saturday night, April 21, 1945, the two young Postens came into the barracks and said that our Red Cross boxes and recently arrived comfort boxes must be turned in. We were furious. The comfort box, a sort of suitcase, was distributed one box to five men - they came months late. The Postens left, and we said to ourselves, "What right have they to the boxes? The hell with 'em." We expended our fury by burning up as many as we could and taking an ax to the gift boxes.

The War Closes In on Hurlach: Chapter 25

The War Closes In on Hurlach: Chapter 25

On Monday, March 26, 1945, the Postens came into our barracks at 5:15 A.M. and announced excitedly, "Nicht arbeiten today."

The response was, "No work? Hurrah!'' Half of us believed him; the other half were not sure. Our first hope: the war was over. Our second hope: an airborne landing near enough to rescue us. Spirited conversation followed, with an expanding of rumors and a rehash of radio information. Six o'clock passed. Six-fifteen passed. We were still in the barracks. News and rumors filtered in during the morning. One rumor: a bunch of Kom­mandos had taken off. 

Facts: There was an airborne landing of 45,000 troops. No information as to where. Jubilation, celebration, elation. Breakfast and Essen were brought to us. Could the worm be turn­ing: Could these Krauts be our friends? The windows in the bar­racks were placed so high on the wall that even when standing on tables we could not see out. If there was any local activity, we were isolated from it.

At one o'clock we were sent out to work. Elation over. Rumors again. No invasion at all. No airdrop. Or was there? At night we brought in reports heard on the Bauer's radios: there was an air­ borne attack near Munich. The next day passed and the next; the week ended. No airdrop. Life returned to normal, except that the news, while not spectacular, was good. We and our Bauer knew the Allies were on the march; of that there was no doubt.

It was now Holy Week before Easter. In Hurlach there was bellringing all during the day. On Saturday I watched a ceremony of parading around the outside of the church. Inside, cakes were blessed. The religious activities in Hurlach, considering my situa­tion, were viewed with some cynicism. The significance of Easter was touched with paradox.