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.

230

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.

More on the Farm (Chapter 24 conclusion)

 After Essen we lingered at the table or outside the house making some land of hashlike conversations. In a fortnight my strength returned. I arrived in Hurlach soft in the arms, weak in the hands, and unable to sit straight without effort. Although I did no real work for two weeks, all the extra food, including a few swiped potatoes, a bed not only free of bugs but also soft and comfortable, the freshness of the air, and the sense of freedom did marvels for my physical and mental health.

Life in the barracks was as noisy as a subway ride. All conversations were shouted, or so it seemed. The actions of the villagers continually amused us. Many of us were city men, and watching women pull wagons through the spring mud, getting them stuck, and watching the men of the village laughing at the women greatly amused us. One POW related how his father, on some occasions, had to take a swat at his mother, as the village men did, "just to put the old lady in her place. You have to swat 'em sometimes."

"Yes," one POW volunteered, "some of these women in Hurlach go about saying what good husbands they have, although the husbands beat 'em up."

One of the POWs was somewhat shell-shocked or just plain nervous as a result of bombings. The appearance of Allied planes or even an alert for them made him jittery. He was frightened to death of being bombed or strafed. It looked as if we'd have a time with the ex-paratrooper if we saw much action at Hurlach.

As my strength returned, I enjoyed working in the fields. It was a blessing to be in the country away from the perpetual sight of destruction, away from bombed Munich. I was alone in the fields many days, and on one such day, I saw the majestic Alps, for the first time. They were, so I was told, sixty to ninety miles to the south. I saw them gray and white over distant green pines, set in a blue sky on a sunlit, clear day early in April. A year and a half before, in August, beyond those Alps, south, and across the Mediterranean Sea, I had stood on the site of Carthage.

Looking north across the Mediterranean, I had thought of Hannibal crossing those far-distant, unseeable Alps. Now, having sailed half the length of that sea, westward around Spain, northward along the edge of the continent of Europe to Saxon Land, and thence to Gaul, I had finally landed beyond those Alps in the land of the "Huns."

Before I realized it, spring came to Hurlach and the world was green again. As the earth warmed and planting continued, I wondered what it would be like to live with Mavis on a farm in America. What I really thought was, Would Mavis enjoy farming in America as she had in Tipperary? What really happened was that our visit to the Markendales, our walk with ]Eck through his plot of ground, came back to me and was tied in with Hurlach. I just dreamed in the warm sun and gentle spring, filled with the hopes of Hurlach. Half of what I wanted from Hurlach, improved health, was accomplished. Only freedom remained. As March slipped into April, my constructive work for the Germans paled, and with the return of my health, I was ready to do useful work for myself. 

Arriving one morning at the farmhouse, I was informed that at any moment I would be expected to assist at a birth. No army training there. Ivan, the Bauer, and I were seated at Essen when Marie came clumping into the room shouting at her father and Ivan. This was normal, so I figured she was asking her father if he wanted more freshly baked bread. But the Bauer got up quickly and waved Ivan and me to follow him down the hall and into the cow pen. One of the cows needed a little assistance. The Bauer roped the cow's head to the feed bin and tied another rope to the calf, now visible at the other end of the cow. With a rope secure to the forelegs of the calf, we pulled. We pulled and we pulled. And we produced a calf. It was, for me, a traumatic experience. Once in a lifetime, in far-distant Bavaria, deep in southern Germany, I was involved in birth.

Everyone was delighted with our new calf. It would have been fun to have talked to the family about it, but we never surmounted the language barrier. We ate, watched one another, mumbled short phrases, and passed food, and Marie kept coming into the room shouting to the little boys, "What do you want, huh?" The huh came forth with a great jarring and explosion of breath not unlike that of a large animal belching. Once in the room she'd repeated the question three or four times: "What do you want, huh? ... Huh? Huh?"

At the table the two little boys sat across from me. Evan, age four, grew more and more to resemble an incipient Gestapo agent, with ingrown feelings for meanness. One day he grabbed the beer mug his father had finished. He discovered it to be empty and therefore asked for mine. "Komrn, comm," he said in a demanding voice. I instinctively hated him. Although the language barrier was operating, the tone of "Komm; comm," left no doubt that he demanded my mug of beer. We stared each other down. 

One day in the fields I picked a few bright spring flowers and showed them to Evan. "Komm, comm,"  he said, in the same demanding voice. Pour years old and he wants what I got,I said to myself. I pointed to the great field of flowers and walked away. I tried to feel kindly toward the children, Evan and Herman, as I tried to trust those in uniforms. I could not like the children or trust the soldiers.

One day at noon an Essen salesman in army uniform came to the door selling religious pictures. He displayed his wares for the Bauer, who noisily ate his sauerkraut. The Bauer didn't want any pictures, but they conversed for some time, after which the Bauer sent Marie out on an errand. She returned with an egg and gave it to the salesman. He left soon after. Fresh eggs were scarce in cities. I was aware that on Sundays, now more than before, people from the cities came out into the country seeking fresh food or any kind of food they could get. 

Work, war, and the church seemed to cover the extent of the lives of the people of Hurlach. Work was first before the others mentioned. They never seemed to tire. My Bauer worked from sunup to dark.  Activities of the church sent forth the women dressed in sober black. The local priest was forbidden to speak to the Kriegies. Rumor had it that he had been imprisoned six months for doing so.

There was much slave labor in Hurlachz Poles, French, Yugoslavs, Ukrainians, Serbs, and we Americans. Most of the men and women, Americans excluded, were of peasant stock, hard workers. Some of them, in American slang, "had found a home." There was a Russian girl who, it was said, until she came to Hurlach had never eaten with utensils but grabbed her food with her hands and who, when shown her room, didn't know what the bed was for. She, they said, was living better than in Russia and would probably stay after the war Mess her government had other ideas. Some of the slaves had been in Hurlach five years. Another Russian girl worked on the farm next to ours. Her body, short and stocky, was somewhat distorted as if from the weight of too many pitchforks of hay or manure. Her dress was plain, dark, of some heavy material, fitted loosely about her, and hung ten inches off the ground. The dress did not, however, conceal either the heaviness of her legs or their grotesque bow that caused her to weave from side to side as she walked. Her gestures were graceless, jerky, and incomplete. She was ill at ease when I looked at her.

My Bauer had, from time to time, a hired German girl. She said to me, "Americans niche guest arbiter." Although I justen (understood) her, I played ignorant. She insisted on breaking the idea down word by word. "Americans...do...not...like.. . to. .. work. . .hard." So, I answered her, "Yes, Americans," pointing to myself, "do not work hard for Germans." (This was not true of all Amedcan ome worked as hard as the other slave laborers.) She, however, got the idea. After a few weeks myBauergot the idea, too.

On a warm April day Ivan and I rode the oxen-pulled wagon out to cut some hay We leaned back on gunnysacks of pinecones and conversed in Italian, German, Spanish, Yugoslav, Polish, Russian, and English. It was a hit-and-miss affair, one word of one language followed by one word from another language. It was murderously ungrammatical and was greatly augmented by gestures and identification of objects by pointing. As we rode along, I told him about America: big farms, a large country, many automobiles, great freedom, much food, many nationalities, great highways, big cities, and small villages. I also told him for the twentieth time that he worked too hard for the Bauer. I said, "Germans no damn good." He understood and agreed. But it was no use. Once in the field, Ivan swung away with the big scythe while I peeked away.

One of the few laughs I had in months came that afternoon when I attempted to halter the horses. I gave up on the oxen, but I did know about horses. I got the halter near the horse's head. He tried to help by tossing his head into the halter, only I didn't understand this. So Ivan took over. He lifted the halter about even to the horse's head, whereupon the horse, as if he were mad as hell, shoved his head through the halter with one fast movement. I was so surprised I burst into laughter. It was the first belly laugh of the spring.

One afternoon, the Bauer and I took a long horse-and-wagon ride to a nearby village. There was a rise in the road, and I had a view of the surrounding countryside. It was dotted with Hurlachs. The essential pattern was repeated across the green and variously patched rolling valley: a cluster of buildings; small, neat checkered divisions of land, some green, some newly plowed, a few timbered. The impression was the very opposite of the United States: no lonely farmhouses set beside or off from the road; no large, sprawling acreage; no, or few, roaming cattle, nary a wasted square yard. From the distance I could read the time on one of the two sides of the church tower of Hurlach. I used to wonder what the farmers on the non-clock side did about the time of day.

Riding back to Hurlach, the Bauer and I passed the House of the Cat with Three Paws, where Marco lived. Marco was a delightful spaniel who knew all the Kommandos and spent several nights in the barracks.

As I rode along, it seemed to me that the houses of Hurlach were pleasant enough. Some had grotesque little religious statues placed in niches in the walls. Each house in Hurlach bore a number; I saw some in the nineties. As we rode into town, the church bells chimed the quarter hour and later the half hour. I was keenly aware that more soldiers had come to Hurlach and were quartered in private homes like Hessians during the Revolution. There was also an increase in refugees. The additional soldiers and refugees, combined with the ominous increase in air activity over Hurlach, was rapidly bringing to an end the pastorate peace that had been mine in Hurlach.

 -- end of Chapter 24 --

The Farm: Chapter 24 [Part 2] The Bauer's wife and Ivan the Realist

 The Baue's wife lay in the graveyard across the narrow road

from his farmhouse/barn. He had three children. The daughter's

age I couldn't determine, she was a coarse, crude young woman

weighing about 170 solid pounds. Standing in her bare feet or in felt

shoes she was about five-six. When she moved, she was like a

steam-driven locomotive, with great power and much noise. When

she spoke, it was a shout. Her name, for some unfathomable reason,

was Marie.

There were two small boys. Evan, a four-year-old, was very

small, self-reliant, aggressive, selfish, and crude. He was wire, like

the Bauer. The other boy, Herman, age three, had a painful limp or,

rather, a twisted leg, which he dragged slowly as he moved. He was

irritable, seemingly a little stupid. He sometimes shouted loudly.

Herman was heavy like Marie.

There was a fifth member of the family-Grandmother. She

was old but well preserved, wore long black dresses, sat at her own

table, and was immaculate in her eating. She was a submissive

Frau. She never initiated conversation, never spoke until spoken

to--and then only briefly, with moderate animation, modulated in

tone and rather pleasant. Mostly she sat in her stiff-backed chair

silently sewing, reading, or eating.

The last member of the household was Ivan, who lived in the

Bauer'shouse. Ivan was twenty-two, a Yugoslavian prisoner of war.

He had two brothers in the village, also POWs. Ivan was likable,

husky, of medium height, well built, rather handsome, and keenly

curious about America.

On my second day in Hurlach, my Bauer, carrying a pitchfork,

motioned me to join him, and we walked a half-mile beyond the

perimeter of the village to one of his several small fields, which bordered

on other strips of cultivated land. He skipped the nomenclature

of the pitchfork and went right to work demonstrating its use

to me. He then turned and said, "]a?" I reluctantly took the pitchfork,

said, "la," and went to work spreading manure. He watched

me for a few minutes, then, rather sadly, turned and went back to

his barn in the village.

As soon as he was out of sight a feeling of exhilaration swept

over me. It was the first moment in six months that I was not either

behind barbed wire or watched by a German soldier. I was completely

alone...almost free. For two hours I puttered away at the

manure, but mainly I enjoyed the aloneness and the sunshine and

the blue Bavarian sky. It was a kind of preview of days to come.

At 10:30 Ivan came for me and we walked into the village to the

Bauer'shousefor Brotzeit-bread and a bowl of milk. After Brotzeit,

I worked around the barn with Ivan.

From the first day I gradually informed Ivan that I had not

come to the farm to work-not really-but to eat and grow strong.

Ivan laughed at first and now and then tried my way of life but kept

slipping back and working like a slave.

At 12:00 noon by the golden clocks on two sides of the church

steeple everyone in Hurlach got back to the farmhouse for Essen. At

Essen all the family sat down to eat: at my table were the Bauer,

Evan, Herman, Ivan, and I. Marie, clodhopping like a ponderous

bull, finally charged in and threw her huge body into a chair.

Grandmother sat quietly at her small personal table apart from us

by six feet. The Bauel's three cows ate away in the barn fifteen feet

from us. There was no need for music at meals, there being plenty of

other sounds. At Essenwe had sauerkraut, dry spaghetti, potatoes,

or rolls, but no butter or jam, which was frustrating, since I had

been trying for months to get those three, rolls, butter, and jam,

together.

I spoke no German; they, no English. Ivan spoke Yugoslav but

by now could communicate with the Bauer in German. One day at

Essen, Herman, age three, refused to shut up while the Bauer was

talking. His father warned him, but Herman hollered on. The Bauer

warned him again. Herman hadn't learned to talk yet; he just

shouted. The father slapped the boy across the cheek. Herman

screamed. The father said something to Herman about keeping

quiet and raised his hand to slap him again. Herman choked up. He

continued to blubber, letting a tear run down his dirty red coarse

cheeks-but he barely cried. That was my first illustration of

parental discipline German peasant style.

Herman, who with a moderate amount of manners could have

been a sweet boy, was at three developing two distinct gestures

almost similar. Which gesture came first was hard to say. Herman

would throw an arm up over his face to cover his eyes. He did this

almost instinctively when you moved or looked in his direction.

Herman never approached adults in a gentle or childish manner

but belligerently, with his arm raised in the second gesture, which

offered you the back of his hand. For a three year-old Herman was

quite strong.

Most of the afternoons I worked with Ivan, but sometimes I

accompanied the Bauer out to the fields. Once or twice I worked

with Marie planting potatoes. We cut the potatoes and planted the

eyes, of course. I found bending over time after time wearying.

Marie worked on without a stop, puffing and steaming but tireless

as an iron machine. We plowed some, and I hitched oxen to a wagon

and drove out into the fields. I was never very successful with oxen

or with plowing. We pitched hay, but I was never very successful at

that, either. We sawed wood, but I soon tired doing that. My old

skills as a goldbrick were serving me well, and I would disappear

until the Bauer discovered my absence and sent Ivan to look for

me-in the hayloft usually, searching for eggs. I became adept at

getting the egg before the hen announced her presence. Later in the

spring I got an egg back to the barracks every other day. They were

marvelous. While someone watched to see that the guards didn't

come in unexpectedly, I soft-boiled the eggs. The stealing and cooking

of eggs, or of any other food from the farms, was strictly forbidden.

The fresh eggs were the first I had eaten since North Ireland,

fifteen months before.

I always showed up around five o'clock, when we had

Brotzeit-bread, cheese, and butter (occasionally jelled meat).

Sometimes we had beer. It wasn't very strong, and there wasn't

much of it. It came as a complete surprise. At some Brotzeits it was

every man for himself, Marie included. A large pan of potatoes was

set in the center of the table, bread placed beside the potatoes, and

beer in mugs at our places. At some secret signal the boys, Marie,

the Bauer,the Yugoslav, and I went at 'em. And it was every musketeer

for himself, with spoons flashing and no plates allowed. Marie,

like a hungry sow, sopped up the potatoes and bread, somehow

drawing a watery sound from solids. (How she did that I never discovered.)

Evan and Herman's noses running, the Bauer shouting,

Ivan getting in his licks, me mine, and all the while Grandmother

sitting calmly, sedately, at her table eating.

After Brofzeit we got the cattle in, if they were out, which they

seldom were, there being little grazing land. I managed to fool

around doing some nontaxing job until Essenat seven-coffee and

bread. It was a tiring day-all those Essene and Brotzeits, all that

dodging of work, all that trying to get Ivan to slow down and stop

killing himself for the Germans.

Ivan was incurable. He was, in fact, afraid of the Bauer. Ivan

had plenty of strength in his back, but he lacked something in other

ways. He was of a single mind about the Russians. "They'Il win the

  war," he said, "and then they won't cooperate." I waved him aside.

Ivan may have been in a sense a slave. He was also a realist.                                

The Farm: Chapter 24 [Part 1]

 The Farm: Interlude Pastorale

Early one morning in the middle of March 1945 I walked out of Stalag

VIIA for the last time. The walk itself was an act of freedom.

Rumor informed 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, 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 VIIA or of

having any thoughts on the matter. As usual, it was first things first:

roping boxes, forming a column, marching. Reaction to Stalag VIIA,

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 school, 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 Postens were

lost. That was humorous, except that lugging three heavy boxes

tired me.

In the middle of the afternoon we left the fourth train and

walked about ten miles--in the wrong direction. The twelve of us

wandered through a small German town, winding up at the railroad

station, where we spent the night lying on benches. I ate dinner

from my two British boxes, much to the obvious envy of

civilians who came and went from the station.

The next morning we set out on foot. At 10:30 we arrived at

Hurlach, a village of five hundred. We went immediately to a large

building that was sort of half-castle, half-manor house, located near

the center of town. We met the Kornmunderfiihrer, the German soIdier

in charge of farm Kommando 4065, who took us on to our quarters,

where two American POWs were in bed, feigning a fever. Our

two Postens from Stalag VIIA and the Fiihrer left us and the POWs

took over. Quickly and with relish, they wised us up to life in

Hurlach, our work there, and the news of the world, explaining, as

initiates to novices, what they had picked up in six months onKommundo.

We who were underfed were a scrawny lot. In contrast to us,

they looked like superman.

I came to the Kommandowith with high hopes. In spite of many past

disappointments, I hoped I was going to a farm where there would

be food, sunshine, and a release from confinement. We entered our

new barracks through barbed wire, and that was a disappointment.

The news that we'd be locked up together at night was a disappointment.

But the information that during the day we'd have five

meals(Essens) sounded good. The obvious health of the two Americans

was encouraging.

Our barracks was either a former stable or a carriage house.

There were a number of double bunks, a few chairs and tables. It

was clean and orderly. We ten new men picked out bunks, dumped

our three boxes on them, first testing the beds for comfort. It felt

good.

In the afternoon two young soldiers, our new Postens, came

into the barracks and told us to follow them. Our door led into a

barbed-wire enclosure about twenty feet square. Once we passed

through the enclosure, we were in Hurlach. I followed the guards

through the village, which centered around a Catholic church with

a single four-sided steeple pointed at the top in a triangle-shaped

liI<e praying hands. I was delighted that it was a Catholic community.

That meant many holidays and no work.

The village lay against the side of a small rise in the ground, so

that as I walked through the town I could see stretched out far to the

south a great fertile plain. On clear days, I was told, I would see the

Alps. The church was the pivot of the town. Hugging it and

enclosed by a high brick wall covered with cracked cement was a

graveyard. Moving in concentric circles with interwoven lines were

the farmhouses, barns, stables, and dirt roads or lanes leading out

to all the fields.

As I walked past the houses of Hurlach, they seemed of a pattern,

brick covered with cement and whitewashed or, in some cases,

washed with pastel brown, rose, or cream. Nearly every house had

green shutters and red-tile roofs. The tile, I later discovered, was

laid across rafters and secured by hooks on the reverse side. The

barns, sad ancestors of the great red barns of the United States, were

unpainted.

My first walk continued through the village past a few stores,

but into no store section. The bakery, creamery, blacksmith, and

garage formed a part of the owner's farmhouse and was subsidiary

to his main occupation: farming. All the ground about the house

was cultivated to the last inch in gardens, both flower and vegetable.

A few Windows had pots of flowers, which bloomed later in

March and April. Most farmhouses turned out to have wood piles,

manure dumps, homemade wagons, bicycles, oxen, horses, cows,

chickens, ducks, a great urine pump piped from under the floor of

the stables, pits of potatoes, cabbages, and beets.

There was a schoolhouse separate from the church with two

steeples topped with onion-shaped cupolas. As I walked through

Hurlach, it was clear that the largest building in town, other than

the church, was the one to which our barracks was attached. It had

the appearance of a feudal manor house, although it bore the date

1896. (I have since learned that Hurlach was founded in A.D. 1140.)

It was a three-storied square, awkward building housing a number

of families, most of whom seemed to be refugees from cities. In the

stables or carriage houses were thirty-eight American prisoners of

war forming Kommando 4065.

The two young Postens led us in an informal group past a

dozen farmhouses and finally stopped at one. The Bauer (farmer)

came out from his work dressed in a dark shirt and trousers and

exchanged a few words with the Postens. We lined up and the Bauer

looked us over, like a Roman of old surveying Grecian slaves. In

some ways the world changes but little. What he was looking for in

a slave I don't know, but surely physical strength was important. I

was not selected. We passed on to the next Bauer, who repeated the

actions of his neighbor. Again I was not chosen. Somewhere near

the end of the line a Bauer selected me. On what basis he made his

choice I can't imagine. I was noticeably thin, and if he'd seen my

arms, which resembled straws, he would have been utterly dismayed.

But after all, I was cheap labor - five meals a day.

I followed my Bauer into the barn, where I met a young man,

Ivan, who conveyed to me, in a hodgepodge of German and English,

the Bauer'swishes. Ivan, a Yogoslav slave, and I soon became

acquainted. At five o'clock we moved from the barn into the adjacent

house, sat at a table in the front room, and joined the Bauer at

Brotzeit (a word I learned immediately)-cheese, bread, and butter.

Ivan and I went back to work, and at seven o'clock I was givenEssen

(a word I learned that morning in the barracks)-coffee and bread.

The Bauer gave me a blanket and a large feather comforter. One of

the Postens came by, and I joined other POWs and returned to the

barracks.

By the time I got to the barracks, most of the men were back

from their farms. The room was very much alive. late from my Red

Cross boxes, exchanged experiences, and, from the resident group,

learned that several Bauers had radios and, although strictly forbidden

by the Nazis to do so, were listening to Allied broadcasts. The

U.S. Army was again on the move and one day soon would be at

Hurlach. At nine o'clock I was instructed to put my trousers and

shoes outside the door of the barracks. Who would think of escaping

without his pants? The door was locked, the trousers and shoes

carried into the guard's room, which adjoined ours, and lights

turned off.

It was immediately apparent that the men I now lived with

were in great health. They had plenty of food, cigarettes, and rest.

Consequently, sex was back in the conversation. In fact, I was back

with the same discouraging lot of men that I had known all over the

United States and Europe loud and childish. I was struck by the

fact that this group was a sort of club and that the men were playing

at being grown up, much as children play house. They were men

grown too rapidly old and touched, therefore, with a certain theatricality. 

They felt they must be men now that they had truly been

through so much and were so independent. Depending on one's

perspective, they could seem sad or comic.

A young man from North Carolina spoke about his Bauer with

such a mixture of dialect and poor English as to sound almost foreign.

Five or six exuberant men from New York exchanged banter

across the room, delivered at full volume, devastating in its Brooklynese.

All the resident POWs exhibited a certain rambunctious

good fellowship. For the benefit of us anemic ones and to assure us

that good things lay ahead, we were let in on the fact that some of

the local Fraulein were available. But be careful! Life was almost

good again.

At 5:15 A.M. the Postens turned on the lights and came in to

awaken us and return our shoes and pants. We responded slowly

and were finally moving at 6:00. We walked out of the barracks

through the barbed wire in a haphazard column, peeling off at our

Bauer's barns. The Postens, once this duty was completed, disappeared

for the day My daily life was spent with the Bauer and/or

Ivan. Most of the Kriegies (for some reason the word Kriegie, prisoner,

was used more on Kommandothan at the stalag) had been

doing the same thing for six months and were like one of the villagers.

I soon learned my routine of duties. I started the day working

with the Bauer cleaning out the cow pens, gathering some eggs,

pitching hay, or cutting wood. At 7:15 we sat down at the table for

Essen--coffee and bread.

My Bauer was about forty, slender, with hard lines in his

weather-toughened face. I became his greatest disappointment.

Once he had a better look at my arms I could read his thoughtsnicht

arlbeiten, aironworker. He was so right. I did well to pick up a

shovel, much less carry anything on it. He spent a good deal of time

getting and keeping me on the job and stopping me from corrupting

his "hired" hand, Ivan, the Yugoslav.

215

End of Chapter 23 - After Christmas 1945

 We had few visitors in South Lazar, but every few days a

young Serb came through the barracks dressed in a green-and-red

uniform with a GI knitted cap giving, in his limited English, a

cheery greeting: "How do you do, goddamn! How do you do, goddamn!"

One evening a POW got the biggest laugh of the winter. He

arrived from Munich with the detail and while fully clothed called

for attention from the top of a table. In the presence of those near

him he started to unload. He dug into his coat and turned up five

loaves of bread, piling them neatly on the table. The audience

increased as he pulled from his jacket, one at a time, five more

loaves, piling them on top of the others. From inside his shirt, like a

magician, he produced six or seven more loaves, the pile now taking

on the proportion of a pyramid. From inside his trousers, by

now shouting and lolling himself with bravado and us with laughter,

he drew forth four or five more. Eventually he stacked up

between twenty and twenty-five loaves of bread. I have no idea

whether he dealt directly with a bakery or with several Germans. It

was a fantastic performanceout of The Arabian Nights.

Going and coming on the Munich detail, I passed a compound

housing troops from India. The yard beside their barracks was used

to dry their turbans, which they strung like colored streamers crisscrossing

the area. It was an extraordinary sight to come upon in

prison. The men walked about the yard in twos and threes conversing

while worldng with the bright and many-colored wrappings,

their long black hair released and falling below their shoulders.

Many American POWs, ignoring or being unaware of, or indifferent

to, the fighting reputation of these men, thought they were

funny as hell.

In the small yard beside our barracks, walking was not especially

inviting. One February morning, after days of darkness, the

sun broke through the overcast sky and fell brightly upon the eight foot-

high barbed-wire fence. The fence was covered with a deep

frost. The sun softened that cruel thing made by man. The barbed

wire glistened in the shining sun of a bright, clear morning. The sun

and the wire formed exquisitely lovely patterns running around the

yard. It was nature's way of beautifying while humanizing man's

ugly invention. The prison fence that had hitherto been too brutal to

handle became for a few moments an object too tender to touch. I

was enchanted by its crisp loveliness, a loveliness so fragile that li1<e

thin blown glass a man's warm hand might destroy it, so delicate

that his warm breath would dissolve it. The barbarous bits, sinister

and cruel, now encased in frost and sun, made a delicate fabric and

changed our inhuman enclosure into a dainty trellis that might

serve to bound a fairyland and not a prison.

Deep into February the temperature fell sharply and the nights

grew intensely cold, so cold that the stars seemed frosted in the winter

sky. The sky itself seemed colder, a blue-black cold with white frosted

red-fringed globes for stars. Under this boundless sky a

sharp wind whipped the prison yard, while a chilling moon

flooded the compound, highlighting the shiny black-tarred roofs of

the barracks. I stood in the moonlight and thought of Mavis and

reflected upon our secret code-"moonlight on the roofs of Ballyemena"-

by which she would know that I was in combat. It was five

months since silence had fallen upon me and since I had heard from

her. I had no idea if she knew anything at all about me.

Personal relationships in South Lazar labored under the pressure

of darkness, within and without. I found everyone around me

annoying. There developed in me an unwillingness to care anymore

about friendships. Weeks of sunless days, each day with the

threat of further reduction in rations, each trip to Munich more

hateful, drove me into a desperate need for change and for freedom.

I volunteered for a farm Kommando and waited each day for the

authorities to let me know.

In the meantime the constant darkness, the shortened tempers

sparked by emptiness, the long dreary days arguing with Lynn

Smith and being nettled by everyone slowly pressed me to the point

of wanting to scream out and to run into the yard and plow through

the barbed wire. Anything to get out of the barracks, out of the

enclosure, out of prison. I felt inside me that I was about to crack up.

I feared a nervous breakdown unless something happened to get

me out of the darkness. Days passed and there was no word about

theKommando.I gave up hope. I wasn't even sure anymore I wanted

to go. The isolation, the frustration, and the confinement had

brought me close to a nervous collapse when suddenly, one day in

the first week of March, the glorious sun appeared and the tension,

like a passed sore stabbed by a lance, collapsed. The next day I was

notified that my farm Kommando would leave immediately.

210

After Christmas as a POW: Growing despair

At the beginning of February a flood of POWs poured into Stalag VIIA. The German breakthrough in France and Belgium accounted for the increase. The event had no name then; now it is known as the Battle of the Bulge. I was aware only of the overpopulation. As the men crowded into Stalag VIIA, I was suddenly separated from Stubbs and Coppola and moved to another compound called South Lagar. Although uprooting and dislocation were by then a way of life, I missed the companionship of Stubby and Coppola. 

South Lagar was a hole. The floors, unscrubbed for weeks, were dirty Heavy population forced the bunks to be placed eighteen inches apart. The narrow aisles were cluttered with blowers, wood, and personal belongings. There were no books to read, no entertainment. There was no electric light. Our single source of illumination was a carbide lamp a German guard made out of a coffee can. There was one heat stove about four feet high. There was no stove for indoor cooking, and the one POW who had a stove refused to allow others to use it. Those of us who preferred to heat water or cook hot food for dinner went out into the yard to do so.

The Windows of the barracks were boarded halfway up against the cold weather. The interior of the barracks was therefore dark and dreary, which made for severe confinement. The effect of this gloomy environment on us was immediate; normal irritation bounded into aggressive annoyance. Some of us became as untouchable as thorn trees.

A POW who bunked next to me named, Lynn Smith, was as prickly as the fruit on top of a Tunisian cactus. He seemed constantly on guard against the human race. I found no smooth and easy way to converse with Lynn. He talked endlessly about the books he'd read, which he probably had, except that he never seemed to have absorbed them. According to the Stanislavsky method of animal identification, Lyme was a porcupine, easily ruffled, a humorless and selfish man; no length of acquaintance or shared affliction altered these attitudes. Even though he made a fairly presentable first appearance, it was strange how the men somehow got his number and stayed away from him. He constantly apologized for his young wife, whose picture he showed me, accounting for her inadequacies by way of the differences in their ages. He was self-conscious about his marriage and, although he talked on many subjects, wound up being crude about them all. It is entirely possible that Lynn Smith was a nice guy, but circumstances altered cases.

The coming and going of the Munich detail in South Lagar was a dreadful experience. Once the lukewarm soup was distributed, in the evening, I gathered up some wood and went outside to cook my dinner. More and more it seemed important to protect my health. Many of us brewed coffee, cooked Spuds chopped up in Spam in a blizzard of snow. In the blowing wind and snow, frantic for fear that I, or someone near me, would tip over the tin of food and jittery while carrying it inside avoiding bumping into someone, I finally got to my bunk, removed my shoes, set up a box, nervously poured the hot water, and buttered the toast while at the same time passionately vocally spitting out my hatred of all Germans who made it necessary for me to eat the miserable dinner.

The daily tensions under which we lived in South Lagar produced additional tensions. The misery of waiting for the end to come, waiting to go home, day after day, week after week, month after month, through the cruelty and exposure of winter was trying in the extreme. The accumulation of unproductiveness packed the waiting days with waste, emptiness, and exasperation. We could not see the end. 

About the first of March, the food radon was visibly reduced. There was but a dribble of mail. Some POWs had received ten letters, some eighteen, some none-I had yet to receive one. Distribution of Red Cross boxes was uncertain. But the hunger in February and March was not for food and mail alone. It was for music, for newspapers, for bed sheets, for magazines, for money, for a change of clothes, for light, for a chair, for plates, knives, and cups; for a bed, for warmth, for affection; for sympathy; for love. Lice and fleas were, naturally, more abundant in South Lagar.

We developed a skin disease that started at the ankles and ran eighteen inches up the leg, appearing also at the base of the spine, in the crotch, and on the wrists. Scratching only raised welts and produced sores. Festering rumor was a disease in South Lagan. Our faith in the war's end was like a weathercock in turbulent winds: now all hopeful, now all despair.

Post-Christmas ... continued (Chapter 23)

 Life in the barracks was more disagreeable after Christmas. Deprived, as we now were, almost entirely of cigarettes and subsisting on a minimum of food, we were even further from the cocky, sexy guys of Garrison. We were in truth as ordinary as dung, and as obnoxious. When times were good-that is, when food, supplies, and sex were sufficient-comradeship flourished or was at least possible. Now comradeship dragged its feet. 

Thievery became a way of life. One man recalled, "In my company you could lay a ten-dollar bill on the bed all day; no one would take it." A half~truth at best, but possible in a company or platoon. But in prison, where life ceased and existence throbbed for its being, men could no longer be trusted. It was a bitter twist that all of life, humor, fellowship, love, even honor, should lie not in the mind or heart of man but in his stomach.

In the darkness and gloom of January and February tempers got short. We all knew that men stole from their friends. I taunted a fellow POW into saying, 'Why shouldn't I steal from him? Some body stole from me!"

There was no response, but he irritated me and I shot back at him, "If you'd steal from your friend, you'd probably steal from your family." He held his tongue, but I couldn't mind. I threatened him with, "If you ever steal from me I'll beat hell out of you." He answered me sharply with, "How do I know you didn't steal from me?" I screamed back at him, "I admit you don't know!" We simmered down and walked apart.

Nights in prison were all the same, except that Saturday night was special. We usually could expect the next day off-and that was good. But Saturday night in civilian life had been date night for many of us. The backlog of feelings about Saturday night made it a lonely night. Sunday afternoons the Germans treated us to recordings played over the sound systems in the yards. We listened to beer hall songs and waltzes by Strauss and other instrumental music. 

Sundays we cooked, slept, or dreamed. We dreamed of going back to the farm, buying a car, staying in the house, and never leaving it, spending all the back pay we would get (or would we?), going into business, wondering about the job we had left. Some of us were convinced that there would be a depression after the war, that there would be another war in twenty years, that we had better look out for the Russians. Most of us just dreamed of getting out. One of the most unexpected happenings in a place of unexpected happenings was the surprising amount and superior quality of entertainment. It was as varied as the men and nationalities.

Aside from individuals such as the mountain boys from West Virginia with harmonica, violin, and guitar music, supplemented by yodelers, we had barracks shows: British, Anglo-American, French, American, and Polish. One night three Poles, friends of the American- Polish POWs in our barracks, arrived with a clarinet, piano accordion, and vocalist. They had been captured in Warsaw, partisans fighting with General Bor, and were professional musicians. 

In addition to a wide variety of popular songs and folk melodies, the vocalist sang light opera. The biggest and best show of all was given by the French: three violins, three  accordions, sax, drums, bass viol, guitar, and vocalist. They performed on a platform in the center of the barracks. We stood or sat around them in a semicircle while others lay on bunks or kept milling about restlessly, as if the music brought unconscious kinetic memories of dancing. Still others built fires, boiled water for tea or coffee, cooked their dinner.  Coppola and Stubby joined me on my new bunk.

In spite of the sour stench of garbage, the dank mustiness of wet wool, the offensive odors of unwashed bodies under rancid shirts and coats; in spite of noisy and noisome gas attacks; of arms and legs infested with enlarged, passed and putrid lice bites; in spite of all these there was, miraculously, an atmosphere of an intimate café.

The superior quality of the music, the foreign atmosphere that permeated the barracks, the light chatter heard throughout the performance all aided in creating the most remarkable and striking illusion of a nightclub. There were nearly four hundred POWs packed tightly into the dimly lit room as the music of the tango, waltz, and fox-trot was intermixed with  classical and semiclassical. Waves of delicious sound washed back and forth across the room. Grey smoke poured from the many drilled holes in the steaming stoves; blue-and-white smoke shot upward from the international cigarettes, each with its own peculiar and pungent fragrance, the German being the most unforgettable. Smoke and sound intermingled and enveloped the room, obscuring the rough bunks and tables, pushing the drab walls and spotted ceiling out of sight, enchanting the six dim naked lightbulbs, and saturating the barracks with the illusion of Paris, the Paris of one's imagination. It was a café inMontmarte.

We still had the emptiness of our lives, the barren, lonely, cold, dirty, unfriendly, and filthy existence that had been ours for weeks. It was true that we were getting snatches of Red Cross boxes and a promise of mail, but the war seemed as far from being over as ever, in fact, the news was worse. Yet the power of music transported us for a few brief moments to the heights of forgetfulness. It was then, and remains now, a haunting moment in the life of many men, of many places, of wide and wondrous differences, all brought together by the common denominator of music. We listened and dreamed and our thoughts went far beyond the barracks back over the sights and sounds we had encountered in recent weeks and months. A single phrase conjured up the purple African sky, a blue Mediterranean view of the sea over green pines, a dark green and brown English moor, the wet green flavor of French rain in Normandy, or an image of home, westward, somewhere between the two oceans. All of us soldiers, all of us prisoners, all of us waiting, all with a single wish, for two hours bound together forgetting irritation and difference, joined in the joy of music.

... 

Chapter 23 - After Christmas

 I missed Christmas (Chapters 21-22) so I'll have to catch up with them at the end of this year (2022 hopefully), so I'm just pressing on ... these chapters involved OCR (optical character recognition) from Adobe pdfs and then cut/paste into Blogger. Some errors in transition are likely.

After Christmas

Prison life was an intensification of army life. After long days of training in garrison and field followed by the hardships of combat, I was conditioned for survival. In January 1 called upon that background, for it was the beginning of our most difficult time in prison.

The days were drenched with irritation. They were long and dark and cold. We lived with the knowledge that until spring there would be little or no military advance, except in the air. The only advances that interested us were those that led directly to our release. Our world became a kind of quagmire, a stagnant pool of immobility. We saw no hope of release until late spring or summer.

We worked through gloomy January into grim February. Increased air raids on Munich, increased work details. We went out every day. Newly captured soldiers arrived from Italy, from across the width of France, from Belgium, from Holland, and from Germany. The compound was further flavored by Czechs from Prague, Russians from Minsk, Britons from New Zealand, Australia, and England, men from Yugoslavia, Poland, and France. 

As winter worsened, no branch of the service, it seemed, escaped capture: reconnaissance men, tank men, infantrymen, paratroopers, and gliderrnen; signalmen, wiremen, artillerymen, medical men, rear-echelon men-all streamed in from the walloping the Allies took in the winter of 1944. 

In prison our spirits went down. Munich was bleaker than ever; the slush-filled streets, freezing railyards, scarcity of wood, diminished food rations all checked our desires to volunteer for work.

"I don't know about your shoulders, Stubby, but mine hurt," I said.

Stubby responded by shifting his wire-wrapped bundle of wood from one shoulder to the other. It was so cold that we wore every piece of clothing we owned, which in turn was heavy and bundlesome and tended to pinch off the circulation of blood. We had walked blocks and blocks in the now-darkening afternoon. We halted to let a broken-down streetcar cross our path. Small, stockily built Russian women worked to keep the rails clear of the black snow. We stopped in front of a restaurant and could look through the drapes in the window. 

Coppola, who was wearing a Hungarian twin-pointed cap and whose head and face was wrapped in an olive-drab GI towel, said, "I wonder what it's like to eat in a restaurant?"

"You mean with knives, forks, and a tablecloth?" I said, and added, "Along with some wine?"

Coppola smiled. In the freezing cold, conversation was hard to come by. It looked warm and civilized in the restaurant, even in stinking Munich. Somewhere along our daily walks we sloshed past the infamous beer hall where, as it were, it all started. Any one of the baroque buildings could have been it. 

It was almost four-thirty and dark when we reached the boxcar. It had a stove that an old Posfen kept warm with wood we and he had brought from town. It certainly must have crossed our minds that at any time we chose we could overpower him, or both guards when there were two. In Munich we could escape almost any moment during the day, in the streets, within buildings, in the switchyards. We could escape while traveling from Munich to Moosburg. The train went through Friesing, a good-sized town, but also through much open country. We knew the route well, knew the woods and the fields. Coming back at night, with the door open, we could have jumped. Not until Moosburg or even until roll call the next morning would we have been missed.

Why didn't I escape? Or why didn't more of us escape? A few tried. Most of them were caught and returned to camp. Some did not return. Where were they? Did they make it over the Swiss border? What did happen to them? We had rumors that they were shot, but we had no facts. It was hopeless to think of escaping from camp-guards were all over the place. It was easier to escape from outside the camp. Why didn't I? I was in a U.S. military uniform, visibly not a German soldier. It was too dangerous to be alone in Munich. The least that could have happened was recapture and some slight punishment; the most, death. The same was true of the countryside. In addition to German civilians, military personnel were everywhere. It would help to secure civilian clothes, and maybe there were some in the bombed buildings, but to get it out was not easy.

It never occurred to me that any part of my military duty was to escape or to overtly torment, frustrate, confuse, irritate, or even destroy the enemy. I was a well-trained goldbricks this training flowered in German prison camp. Perhaps my thirty-three years and military experience conditioned my attitude and actions. Heroics were out. I was not interested in pushing any further my diminishing percentage. I decided to sweat it out where I was. To sweat and wait. That proved to be difficult enough.

"Coppola," I said, "what'll you do when you get out of prison? Aren't you afraid you'll no longer give a damn?"

He thought for a moment and answered, "Could be." "There are a lot," he continued, waving his arm toward the men in the boxcar, "who'll never do anything again." 

I said, "Maybe you'll take off for a couple of years and read all those books?"

"Right now," Coppola answered, "I'd just like to sit in the sun of Nogales. just sit and soak up the heat."

"Under a big sombrero, eh?" I said.

Stubby groaned and moved his stiff legs out from him and, changing positions, said, "I might come join you. I never want to see winter again."

We finally heard the whistle, and the train left the yards. It rattled and banged and rocked without a stop through the darkness to Moosburg.

When we got inside the barracks I found the Monster's bunk vacated. I grabbed it. Why he left or where he went I don't remember. He could have gone on a farm Kommando. These were volunteer groups that periodically left the compound. We understood that each POW who joined a Kommandogroup got two Red Cross Boxes, mittens, other clothes, and the promise of better food on the farm.

We also knew that the work would be harder. But then, too, there was the hope of being free on the farm. This was countered by the knowledge that so long as we stayed in a stalag there was safety from air raids and there was safety in the numbers. Finally, friends were sometimes separated on the  Komrnandos.

Life in the barracks was more disagreeable after Christmas. Deprived, as we now were, almost entirely of cigarettes and subsisting on a minimum of food, we were even further from the cocky, sexy guys of Garrison. We were in truth as ordinary as dung, and as obnoxious. When times were good-that is, when food, supplies, and sex were sufficient-comradeship flourished or was at least possible. Now comradeship dragged its feet. Thievery became a way of life.

One man recalled, "In my company you could lay a ten-dollar bill on the bed all day; no one would take it."

A half~truth at best, but possible in a company or platoon. But in prison, where life ceased and existence throbbed for its being, men could no longer be trusted. It was a bitter twist that all of life, humor, fellowship, love, even honor, should lie not in the mind or heart of man but in his stomach.

In the darkness and gloom of January and February tempers got short. We all knew that men stole from their friends. I taunted a fellow POW into saying, 'Why shouldn't I steal from him? Somebody stole from me!"

There was no response, but he irritated me and I shot back at him, "If you'd steal from your friend, you'd probably steal from your family." He held his tongue, but I couldn't mind. I threatened him with, "If you ever steal from me I'll beat hell out of you." 

He answered me sharply with, "How do I know you didn't steal from me?"

I screamed back at him, "I admit you don't know!"

We simmered down and walked apart.

Nights in prison were all the same, except that Saturday night was special. We usually could expect the next day off-and that was good. But Saturday night in civilian life had been date night for many of us. The backlog of feelings about Saturday night made it a lonely night.

... to be continued ...

An Actual Shower of Frogs, Tunisia 1943

From WJ Stigall's WWII memoir, A Shower of Frogs

Chapter 4: Kairouan and a Shower of Frogs

The day of July 9, 1943, was very much like every other day in Tunisia. The single exception to the deadly sameness of our life was the sense of imminent action. Nothing was more certain about the days and nights around the Kairouan arc than that they would be pretty much the same. The same olive-drab uniforms, the same uninspired chow, the same marches, the same faces rising out of the same bodies, the same sameness. If one felt lucky, he might try a fig from off the tree or grapes from merchants in the nearby village of El Elen or Skrina. The result was usually diarrhea. The smells of the day went the distance from obnoxious arrogant camels to the fragrant jasmine, from dirty dishwater to the sweet-smelling oleander. 

The sameness was occasionally broken by a drive into an Arab village, passing on the way small donkeys, dirty-looking "Arabs" and once a magnificent group of wild horses racing one another madly along the dust-filled fenceless roads. As we were driving back from Kairouan one afternoon, a dark cloud came over the camp and it rained water and hundreds of tadpoles, which squirmed around on the hood and floor of my jeep. We thought it very odd, being pelted by small living forms from the sky, each about half the size of the head of a pencil. [With the editor's apology about the characterizations: WJ Stigall loved North Africa, including the people there. Hence his quotation marks.]

By then we were so used to the strange sights of Tunisia that only later, when my honesty was questioned, when it was thought that there was upon me "the spell of Arabia" or that I had a Moses complex, only then did I search for the scientific explanation for this "plague" of frogs. 

Water, in being blown up from the ponds, also sucked the infinitely small tadpole. Fierce winds, common in Tunisia, blew both water and tadpoles some distance and eventually dropped the living matter with the rain.

Christmas 1944 as a POW (continued)

Christmas 1941 continued (Chapter 20 of A Shower of Frogs) 

December 7, 1941, had wrenched us from our peaceful pursuits. Discharge day would send us back to peace. Between these dates was a host of experiences as numerous as the cosmos and as varied as snowflakes. If we were to pick out one vexation in prison that crowned all other vexations it was the sense of wasted life. In normal military life this sense was staggering; in prison, it was an insidious and corrupting force. It gnawed away at the nerves of us all, both old and young. It gave us a sharp sense of the irreplaceable quality of lost time. Waiting. Waiting, Waiting. Men chose the Munich detail to avoid thinking about it, only to sit in a boxcar for five hours-waiting.

Food was certainly our immediate practical concern. It was also easier to talk about. While our tongues told of the hunger, our eyes reported the waste. Few of us could articulate the waste; all could speak of food. In early November and December, until it grew cold, I spent hours walking in the yard adjacent to the barracks.

I was sometimes joined in my deliberate pacing by Coppola, Stubbs, or someone else. Usually I paced by myself. At the time I felt I could never again visit a zoo. That feeling passed. I neglected to count the steps it took to encompass the yard, but as I remember it, it was about half the size of a football field. I walked around counterclockwise (being a suppressed left-hander). I would alter this by pacing back and forth on the longest side.

I walked beside one of two eight-foot barbed-wire fences that were separated by a long zigzag trench, six feet deep, with sides supported by logs. At the corners of the yard were guard towers built of logs rising to a height of twenty feet and manned by one or two German soldiers with a machine gun. Across from the long side of the yard, fifty yards distant, was a British camp where vigorous soccer games never ceased to amaze us Americans. How did they

have the strength for such frivolous exercise? At one end of the yard, I could stand and look a mile away into a forest. Late in autumn some of the trees turned color and were reminiscent of Tom Wolfe's description of America in old October. It was a neat twist of irony that I should be in Wolfe's beloved Bavaria, but not as a tourist, while at the same time remembering his impressions of the Nazis in Germany, while all this was mixed up with thoughts of America at Halloween. Looking out beyond the fences to the far distant fields, I remembered the corn stalks and pumpkins on the plains of Illinois, which led me to recall a line from Robert Sherwood's Abe Lincoln in Illinois: "And this too shall pass away" I was comforted and sustained by this thought during the winter of our incarceration.

Except for news brought in by recently captured prisoners and from unreliable information drifting around camp, I lost contact with the world. The silence within the glider when free of prop wash was symbolic of the silence that surrounded me. I was cut off not only from the men I had known for nearly three years, from my friends at home and in England, but also from the life of the world.

The Germans gave us blank forms for written messages. Never believing they'd really be delivered, I nevertheless sent a number of them. I knew that for some period of time my correspondents would be unaware of my whereabouts. The silence that surrounded me went out from me. There was nothing I could do about it unless the letters got through to them. (Many did.) This worried many of us, and as Christmas and New Year's approached our apprehension increased.

***

We all sat about, in the closing days of December, just before Christmas, wondering and speculating on whether we'd get one Red Cross box apiece for Christmas, as had been rumored. We listened for the sound of the truck that brought the boxes. We'd heard the truck, run to the window or door of the barracks to check. It was usually the garbage or coal truck. We kept looking, kept hoping, as we approached Christmas Eve.

182

Christmas 1944 Continued

Continuing on from our September blog post ... 

British prisoners seemed like men older than Americans. They looked like middle-aged men, especially the sergeants. Many Englishmen were gray-haired, their faces deeply creased with lines, and many of them wore heavy, serious looks. Regarding battle talk, the English were more apt to comment on equipment, always calling the German Merry. The American talked about his experiences, frequently overembellishing his adventures. I was always amazed to watch the English soccer games played with considerable energy, energy I could not have spared, energy Americans simply did not have. It was a sobering experience to realize that many of the British soldiers had been three to five years in prison. ... 

During the long hours of the 218 days of prison life I, like all the other men, spent the days sleeping, eating, preparing food, talking, scratching my bites, pacing around the yard, reading, thinking. There was ample time to think. I listened to stories, a million of them, in diverse dialects from Manhattan to Mississippi: from men who were in civilian life salesmen, bartenders, bricklayers, a man who was a fashion designer, a professional gambler from Alabama, a New York orchestra leader, a Harvard freshman, men who were carpenters, teachers, truck drivers, grocerymen, farmers, a whiskey salesman, a CPA, a welder, the lean, the lame, the potbellied, the far-sighted squinting with the nearsighted, the colony of gluttons, the POW who at thirty-three had the mind and emotions of a below-average child of ten, the dazed man who, in spite of a wife and three children, couldn't remember the date he sailed, arrived in Europe, or was captured, the Brooklynites who argued over their inane game of naming favorite movie stars: men of Polish, French, Danish, Irish, German, Mexican, Czech, Jewish descent. 

Prison life was naturally a true conglomeration of us all. But even with the understanding that World War II was the common man's war and that we comprised a common man's army and with the knowledge that the army had quotas to fill, it was appalling that so many poor specimens of mankind were sent on so perilous and important a mission and were forced to face so brutal and so coldly calculating an enemy as the Germans. 

There were many pleasant moments while sitting in the warmth of the sun in the semi quiet barracks relieved of the agony of the Munich detail. I read, wrote, thought, and reflected upon all the many strange places I had been during the three years of a journey from home-a home to which someday, I would return. I wondered at the resiliency of the human body and mind to adjust to so widely varied a set of environments and experiences that had been mine and hundreds upon hundreds of us ordinary men from America. Not one man among us could ever have imagined one iota of the life he was destined to live, the multitude of men he came to know, the kaleidoscopic experiences that were to be his. Before it happened he would have disbelieved it could; years afterward he still has doubts that it did happen. It was all too incredible to be believed, too momentous and monstrous to comprehend, he too small a cog in it to see much more than the next cog. In the rare moments of quiet in prison, in comparative safety withdrawn from action, nearly uninvolved even with the immediate life, a man could catch a glimpse of the enormity of his times. 

In garrison life, seeking privacy, I went to the furnace room of the barracks, writing into the night. I wrote in jeeps, in a truck cabin, in the dungeonlike holds of ships, in fierce wind and sandstorms within a tent in Tunisia, in candlelit private homes in Naples, in a library in North Ireland, a British barracks in Scotland, a shattered Norman farmhouse, a tent in England, the floor of Stalag XIIA, and on the splintered surface of a table in Stalag VIIA. It would seem that most anyplace would serve if one had to write, including the Service Club, whose thundering blasts of full-volumed jukebox contained so encompassing a cloud of sound that one found at the center a vacuum of silence.

More on Christmas, 1944

 Chapter 20, continued

Once Stubby and I had finished eating we played cribbage, I wrote some notes, we read (if the light was good enough), and we listened to music. A POW named Smoky a western yodeler who imitated a well-known radio singer and whose popular ballad was "The Wabash Cannonball," rendered this selection time and again.

We had a trio who sang popular songs with a mixture of corn to the accompaniment of a comb and toilet paper. On Sunday nights there was a Methodist group who sang loudly. There was a hillbilly quartet whose favorite song was "How I'd Like to Hear My Mother Praying."

I called across the room to Leonardo, who was visiting his friends Cortez and Trez, "Coppola, ask them to sing 'Besame Mucho'!"

"Si, amigo," he answered, smiling.

I had firm command of ten words of Spanish. With Coppola and his Spanish-speaking friends it was noblesse oblige. We heard much singing in prison, but none was so wonderful as that of Trez and Cortez. They harmonized while seated at the table or lying in bed from opposite sides of the room. Their voices blended in romantic Spanish and Mexican ballads. They sang beautifully together and were, for me, the sole musical treat of barracks life. 

At ten o'clock the guards turned off the lights. One POW was assigned every hour to fire duty. Usually he sat at a table under a single lightbulb covered with a tin can with both ends removed. For lack of anything to do or because they were tired or cold, most of the men were in their bunks by ten. A few stayed up to shoot craps, play cards, or just sit around the single light falling theatrically on the rough table. Gradually we all drifted off to bed, leaving the solitary guard. When called upon, Stubby, Coppola, and I pulled our guard turns one after the other.

By one o'clock I found the barracks still but not silent. It was a meditative time. It was hard to hold the mind in the barracks and on the life at hand. I wanted to move to fantasy: I wanted to go home.

During my hour stint I sometimes paced the length of the barracks. I walked from restlessness, to keep awake, and to keep in condition. 

Once the weather became too severe to walk comfortably outside and if I missed the Munich detail for a few days, it seemed important to exercise.

In the semidarkness of the dim barracks deep in the night, there was a stillness broken by a multitude of human and nonhuman sounds. I was never unaware of the presence of 150 men, even if all were asleep. I, like every other man in the room, had spent hundreds of nights in rooms crowded with sleeping men and knew well the sounds of night sleepers. The difference in prison was in the physical condition of the barracks, the beds, and the men. In the prison barracks I could hear the slow, steady breathing of men. There were low vocal sounds of moaning coming from a man's deep dreams. Since I dreamed more in prison, I assumed others did. The actionless, frustrated, lonely life produced an active dream life. I heard scattered sounds of snoring and coughing; I heard the crackling of excelsior in the sacking, the squealing of wooden frames and taut wires. Hardly a full minute of absolute silence went by before a pair of heavy shoes hit the floor and a POW went clumping and scraping his long way to the latrine. The buckles on the combat boots jingled and clicked; leather was scraped across the soft wooden floors and sounded all the way to the exit. Now and then I heard a scratched match followed by a quick flame. Frequently there were articulated sounds: something between a sigh and a groan, a word would come forth clear and startling in the dark night. A full sentence was blurted out from a darkened corner of the barracks, almost magnetic in its insistence and clarity When the temperature dropped to zero, the effect on the kidneys brought men out of bed until the passing of POWs was like ants coming and going to a hill of sand. The lice, fleas, and bedbugs bit and scratched in the night, and men vigorously scratched them in their sleep or would suddenly awaken, sit up in their bunks, and in fury scratch their legs. All night long gas attacks, gas on the stomach, punctured the silence. I heard the swift scratching noise of a rat over the rough floor, a door slamming, and, in late winter, the fierce wind blowing against the thin walls, shaking the glass panes, rattling them.

One Sunday in December it was announced that all who wished could attend a performance of The Barrette of Win pole Street in the theatre building. At two o'clock one of the sergeants joined a German guard and took several of us through the compound to a barracks that contained a row of seats and a slightly raised curtained stage. Elizabeth Barrett and her sisters and female friends were all played by British prisoners of war. They were costumed in the Victorian period, and appropriate furniture included a chaise lounge of green velvet. The cast got a number of unintentional laughs from the mixed American, British, and French audience. Not all of the men were thoroughly convincing as females, but the actor playing Elizabeth Barrett was totally convincing. Who he was or whether he was, as rumor told, a well-known female impersonator made no difference. The situation was so characteristic of British adaptability, as well as needs, that it provided for me one of my memorable experiences in the theatre.

... to be continued

Other memories of Sept 11

Here's a picture of my Dad in front of fascist HQ in Sicily after it was seized by the Allied invasion from North Africa. 

His parents later received this picture with a note from General Patten's widow saying the General had this photo on the mirror all through the war. Every day he would look at this picture and say, "Now there is my kind of soldier, why can't some of those sons-of-bitches I have in my command be like him?" 

William J Stigall, Jr. 
Sicily, 1943

[It's a 9/11 memory because my Dad was in a hospital north of NYC when the attack occurred, and we could see the World Trade Center burning from our apartment that night. For us, 9/11 meant as much that it was his last "good" day on that awful day, awful week.] 

December 1944 - Chapter 20 - A winter in prison

December in Prison

It was the first of December 1944. Coppola, Stubby, and I were settling down for a winter in prison. I had 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 possible. He almost never spoke, but when he did it was in a quiet tone, agreeable and simple. He loved to talk about the farm from where he came. I never knew his name, but in spite of his utter gentleness, the word monster forced itself upon me.

Across the bunk from the Monster was Arriga, whose large body supported a huge head with an enormous jaw and arms that swung freely from his heavy shoulders. His hair was dark and twisted: it lay scattered over his head, a part of it dropping from a low hairline into his eyes. Arriga's hands were gigantic and moved awkwardly, as though they were unskilled in the simplest of human activities. His body was covered with lice and flea bites grown into festered sores. The itching irritated Auriga, so he sat up in bed with his shirt and trousers off, scratching his bites with uncontrolled passion.

He was like an ape in a cage sitting on his top bunk endlessly, silently seemingly enjoying the ecstasy of scratching. Normally Arriga's face was a blank. However, when angered he flared up or grew sullen and surly and, when prodded to it, was riled to animalistic violence. The suddenness of his temper was frightening. But normally he was quiet, even childish. Arriga would move slowly across the floor dragging his unlaced shoes and sit down at the table with his "stamp pictures" and various souvenirs he had collected from Munich. He handled them, over and over again, moving them about on the table in some personal pattern. With his heavy hand he copied drawings from other men's sketches. He was twenty-four and had been in the army since eighteen months before Pearl Harbor. Arriga's mother had to OK his volunteering for the army. As he told it, "I was sure scared that she wouldn't do it." Arriga could neither read nor write and was (according to him) declared unfit for overseas duty. He was captured fighting on the western front.

We all worked on the Munich detail, and on evenings when we got back early, around six or seven, there was time to thaw out beside the stoves, heat water, play cards, talk, sing, lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling at the patterns formed by the wire against the scalding above one. There was also time to bake puddings. The puddings were made with bread or round, crisp Canadian crackers ground down into crusts. Chocolate, raisins, powdered milk, prunes, butter, sugar (or any part thereof) were mixed and stirred up in a homemade balding pan. The puddings were baked either in the brick oven in the room between the barracks or in a homemade stove tied, for security, to a pole in the center of the barracks. The brick oven contained one section partitioned off with shiny tin panels on which the delicious puddings were baked. In the barracks, the community stove was a German adaptation. It was there when we came; we simply added numerous holes for the individual blowers and homemade ovens. When Red Cross boxes arrived containing all the ingredients for a pudding and wood was available, the fragrance of the culinary delights balding in the ovens saturated and smoked the barracks.

The puddings took from fifteen to twenty minutes to bake. Most men did their own balding, but some paid another POW one cigarette to stand by and feed the oven wood. If wood was scarce, we paid a German guard one cigarette for the wood. The balding of puddings was one of the principal activities of prison life. We stood around the stoves waiting our turn to use them; we stood about just to watch others using them; we stood and griped because some men failed to contribute their portion of wood; quarreling, bitching, kibitzing, we stood and shared, open-mouthed and with ravishing hunger, at the glowing puddings going in and coming out of the ovens.

 -- to be continued -