End of the box car ride ... to the POW camp

Conclusion to Chapter 16, The Box Car Ride in A Shower of Frogs 

On the eighth day the train stopped; the guards slid back the door and ordered us to get out. Their insistent repetition of, "Raus; raus," left no doubt that the word meant "get out and hurry up."

But we were no longer in a hurry, no longer in a hurry to get out or to do anything. The guards, each afflicted, it would seem, with high blood pressure, kept repeating that mouthful of repulsive sound: "Raus." Our eagerness to walk about, to stretch our legs, to get some air, to relieve ourselves was subdued by stiffness, depression, contempt building into hatred. Those near the door went out; the rest of us rose from our cramped positions on the floor and moved toward the door. There was a three-foot drop to the wet ground. Some of us climbed down; some jumped. All the while the guards, acting under the influence of superiors walking above them on a small rise, kept hollering and shouting in a demanding voice, "Come! Come! Raus! Raus!"

It was late afternoon, the sky dark and the air damp and heavy, as if it had rained for days. We were bone-tired, dirty, smelly, hungry, with ten days' growth of itchy beard. Some of us were constipated; some had the Gls; all were lousy with fleas. Some had set expressions of determination; a few were still curious, a couple laughing; a proportion were beaten in spirit. However, most of us, each in his own manner, were set for self-preservation. The German guards in their ill-fitting dark gray ankle-length overcoats with ammunition belts buckled over their coats and around their middles, carrying bolt-action rifles, worked furiously to get the ten cars of POWs into a formation. After they assembled us in a column of fours, we right-flanked and in long wavering lines scrambled up a six-foot slimy incline. We slipped and slid clumsily as we climbed to the top, where German noncoms standing on the road above us added their insistent, "Come! Come!" to that of the guards. Once on top, we re-formed into a column. The guards marched us hurriedly along a road a quarter-mile to the entrance of a camp. The view included a complex of high barbed-wire fences with twenty-foot-tall guard towers every fifty yards, each manned by one or two German soldiers with a machine gun. We passed through two gates, each made of logs and barbed wire.

Once inside, we were lined up in a military formation with a front of about forty men. Guards frisked us for weapons, knives, and who knows what else. Smooth-faced, well-groomed, boot-shining Luftwaffe officers, their blue uniforms neat and pressed, stood ramrod straight in front of us. They inspected us, marching smartly up and down our lines. They were so real they looked like actors from central casting, Hollywood. I wanted only to spit upon them. We stood in formation for two or three hours while the Luftwaffe went through the procedures of admitting us to Stalag XIIA.

Speaking English, one informed us, in fact promised us, better treatment if we gave them no trouble: no escaping, doing as ordered, etc. At last we had plenty of air to breathe, but standing up for hours was not our longest suit at the moment. The ground was wet; it was intensely cold. The waiting was insane.

The officers in knife-edged jodhpurs turned us over to the heavy-booted noncoms, who marched us off to a brick building. Inside, we were ordered to remove our clothes, carry them to an adjoining room, and hang them on hooks provided. We were led into another room-a shower room. At that time in my life I was not aware of Nazi gas chambers, so I took the shower offer literally. The water was warm, but there was no soap. Our clothes, which were being deloused, were returned to us, and we marched back outside.

We stood in formation, waiting while the other POWs showered and were deloused. Food finally arrived. We had no mess equipment, and the food was soup-a kind of weak slop. Somehow we got cans and drank some. The griping, quarreling, and pushing among the Americans for food began at the first serving in prison. After we ate the soup, we entered a barracks and were given a blanket. Most of us stretched out our full length on the unmoving brick floor and fell asleep. 

End of the war ...

This isn't a commemoration of  September 2, 1945. It's a commemoration of the end of the war for William Stigall in June 1945 after his release from the German POW camp, recovery in England, and a still harrowing voyage across the Atlantic to New York.

Introduction: Bill Stigall's Shower of Frogs, a World War II memoir

Hello, folks. This is a simple blog about a book written by my father, William J Stigall, quite a few years ago (published in 2001 but written in the mid-1980s). It is about his World War II experience in Europe via the 82nd Airborne, and his time in a German POW camp. It's a rather caustic view of the war by someone who hated war but hated the Nazis more.

I've re-written this "Introduction" so it occurs out of order -- I've been adding the first page of various chapters, mostly sequentially, over the past several months. But sometimes I get out of order and since this is a blog rather than a website, I don't seem to be able to reorder the past blog posts.

A Shower of Frogs is available via Amazon at:

http://www.amazon.com/Shower-Frogs-World-War-Memoir

I've reproduced a few paragraphs of the book , as well as some posts from his letters home that weren't published, and I will add additional pages as time passes.

I hope you find it interesting. Regards -- S P

So ends A Shower of Frogs by William J Stigall, Jr., a World War II memoir

Twenty-two days out of England we passed the Statue of Liberty.
In two hours I was at Fort Dix. In thirty minutes, to my total surprise, I was on one of dozens of telephones provided for POWs, talking to my parents. I learned that my brothert just returned from sweeping mines off the southern coast of France, was in Los Angeles waiting word from me. I wired him a prearranged message that would bring us both to Chicago:

Home is the hunter,

home from the hills,

And the sailor,

home from the sea.

252

So ends A Shower of Frogs by William Jasper Stigall, Jr., my father. I think it's a good read and a unique insight into World War II.

I'd like to make the book more widely available -- it was privately published and although available on Amazon.com, not widely accessible. I have about 200 copies that I will sell at the Amazon price (including shipping).

Feel free to contact me via this Blog, or at Frogs96822@gmail.com

-- Sam Pooley

Chapter 26 -- Flight to Freedom

Chapter 26

Flight to Freedom

Wednesday morning, April 25, the lights went on and the Postens came in. "Arbeiten today," they said. Everything seemed normal. We dressed. A POW who knew, or acted as ifhe did, said, "You hear the P-38s during the night?"

"Yeah."  "When did the artillery stop?" "About dawn." "What a moonlight?" said one POW. I went to my Bauers, worked, had breakfast and Brotzeit. The morning passed without incident save for news circulating surreptitiously among POWs that the Americans were getting closer and closer. At one o'clock we were bowled over when our Postens told us that we could wander about Hurlach or, if detailed to work, do so at the farmhouse, not in the fields. Americans were eighteen kilometers (10.8 miles) from Augsburg, or thirty miles from us. It was this that set off the following events.

We and the Germans knew that if the Americans were that close, then tanks, ranging far out, could at any moment be in Hurlach. In the woods to the south of town Bauers (soldiers) and Volkstroms (home guard) intensified the digging of gun emplacements.

The POWs, this time, were not invited. We had to decide to either make a break for it before returning to the barracks or take a chance on one more day. We were afraid that once locked up we'd never get out.

During the afternoon I watched the villagers. I watched the skies. I tried to get news from Bauers who were now openly listening to Allied broadcasts, and I listened for artillery. I heard music. I traced it to the castle manor, where I discovered one of our POWs and a young Posten playing a double-piano version of

231

Christmas Day -- Chapter 22 -- Shower of Frogs

22

Christmas Day

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

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

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

months we enjoyed the luxury of sleeping late undisturbed by any

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

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

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

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

clouds drifting across the deep blue Bavarian sky above the green

pines and firs outside the camp.

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

today?"

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

a loaf of bread."

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

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

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

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

The same conversation took place up and down the row of

bunks and across tables, one of which was especially decorated

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

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

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

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

evening.

"Hot stuff! Hot stuff!"

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

beef, undoubtedly horsemeat, about two inches wide and thinner

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

193

Chapter 20: December in Prison -- William J Stigall, Jr.

20

December in Prison

It was the first of December 1944. Coppola, Stubby, and I were settling down for a winter in prison. 1had 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

171

,

Chapter 18: Another Boxcar Ride: We go south

18

Another Boxcar Ride: We Go South

Suddenly, without any preparation, the Germans selected 700

American POWs, marched us to the railroad siding, and jammed us

in as before, and we were off on another journey we knew not

where. We left without our daily rations and without a new Red

Cross box, which somehow we had expected to get. It was the middle

of November. We had not yet been given overcoats, and blankets

were turned in. In that land of high blood pressure the guards,

shouting and gesturing, worked to get us in the cars. As before, a

milk can was provided and the doors locked. The train started with

determination and continued for many hours. The first two days

were a repeat of the former trip-no food, no water, a calculated

effort at bestiality.

We, however, were different men now. Behind us was a long

boxcar ride and several weeks of prison life. There would be few

surprises this trip. There would be no false hopes or great expectations.

We were alerted to long hours of waiting in switchyards.

We'd experienced want of water, food, and air. We would remember

the frustrating and maddening necessity of dividing bread and

cheese whenever the swines of society chose to toss it in the car.

We'd find ways this time to stretch our legs. There would be more

readiness to deal with the claustrophobic conditions. There might

even be a little cooperation, now that we were all Americans in the

car. Of course there would be a stronger sense of self-preservationin

several meanings of the words.

Yet it was surprising, what happened. We had learned very little.

The disorder was, if anyth.ing, greater now that we were really

hungry. When, after sixty hours, the Legitimate Bastards of the

human race opened the door and dumped in some food and water,

some men did not get any. There was still the galling problem of

157

Chapter 16: The Boxcar Ride

Dear readers -- this is the chaper where my daughter had to stop for a while. For it is where Bill Stigall headed east to the POW camp just as so many others headed for those other camps. Whether he knew the parallels at the time, I don't know. But we do now. -- SGP

The Boxcar Ride

On the third day just before dusk we arrived at a railroad Siding where there were ten small wooden boxcars about half the size of American boxcars. The guards slid back the doors and we were ordered in. About thirty of us climbed into each car. We sat down or lay down, taking up most of the floor space. The guards ordered thirty more into the car. We protested that it would be overcrowded, but thirty more carne in. The door was pulled shut and locked. There were two small windows, with shutters, on either side of the car, eighteen inches square, five and one-half feet up from the floor. The windows were boarded up from the outside; air carne through the cracks in the car. Straw covered a part of the floor. It was getting dark. We had not eaten since noon and were hungry.

We maneuvered about in the car finding a way to sit down or, if possible, lie down. It was apparent that not all could lie down at one time. lt got stuffy in the car, so we called out to the guards, asking for more air. No response. It was night. An hour passed. We waited.

The men in the car were mostly Americans, with a sprinkling of French and English Canadians. One man had an arm in a sling, one a painful jaw injury. Another hour passed. There was constant shuffling for positions in the car, made more difficult by darkness. We sat and we waited.

We were perfectly aware that we were a prime target for Allied aircraft. The fighting in Holland could not be far from us, certainly not far as planes fly. Transportation to and from the battle area was bound to be observed. A switchyard was the worst of all possible places. We sat in the siding near the switchyards. It was a test of nerves. We waited.

Around midnight the train started; we traveled a hundred yards; we stopped. We stood still for another hour. We heard other

143

Chapter 10: Interlude

Interlude


It was now the middle of November. We were somewhere in the cold North Atlantic. We heard the high-pitched, pulsating honk of seagulls. They swooped above us crying with delight as they dived into the garbage-filled wake of our ship. Experienced seamen, as we now were, we smelled land. Rumors and guesses got all mixed up with wishes and hopes. The choices were as extravagant as the longings. Scotland, Norway, Ireland, Greenland, Iceland, England, of course, and wistfully, the States. I do not recall the moment of docking on the east coast of North Ireland. But I vividly remember the first images. They persisted and are with me stilI. One visual: the lumbering, ponderous Cydesdale horses pulling small solid wagons loaded with whiskey barrels over the cobbled streets of modern Belfast. One auditory: the joyous and friendly sound of Irish voices speaking the cadences of my native tongue.

The horses astonished me, as did many other things in North Ireland. The voices comforted me, as did many other things in North Ireland. I came to this sweet and soft green land weary from dirt and rubble, frustrated from long confinement in the hold. Depression quite literally hung about me. For seven months I had lived exclusively with American men. Since mid-April I had spoken only to soldiers, lived only with soldiers, even in the center of Naples. I came to North Ireland having almost forgotten about ordinary society.

Whoever chose Ireland chose well. In my veins is a dribble of Irish blood; it was not indifferent to the sights and sounds of North Ireland. If man is distinguished from his fellow animals by his peerless power of speech, he ought to exercise this power. The need to reach out beyond the limits of my associates was great but unfulfilled.

My heart and tongue were starved for fresh communication.

67

Naples, Part Two: The Second Month

Shower of Frogs, William J Stigall, Jr. page 52

Naples, Part Two: The Second Month

After a month Naples began to recover from the Nazis/ occupation/ systematic rape/ and violent departure. Time ran out on the delayed-action bombs. Immediate mass starvation was halted. The electric and water systems were put in order. Civilian transportation/ sewage disposat and telephone exchanges were repaired. The harbor was miraculously cleared. Air raids were infrequent and not seriously destructive. The war moved fifty miles to the north. Pulsating life and a little gaiety returned to Naples. Shops and restaurants found some supplies with which to operate. Excursions to the ancient city of Pompeii and the storied Isle of Capri were offered soldiers. Refugees/ such as the Puccini lover/ returned to the city. Something was done about former Fascisti. Fraternization took over. The medics set up round-the-clock prophylactic stations. We began training again. A few companies left the division and joined the Fifth Army on the Volturno River. Officers requested jeeps and jeep drivers to get them to and from their evening dates with nurses. The celebrated and magnificent Neapolitan weather turned wet/ cold/ and dark. Uk for me/ deteriorated into disappointment. After twenty months of army life/I had seen about one week of socalled combat. Bitterness and sourness seeped into my life/ and there were long second thoughts about my place in the army/ the effort of the United States in the war/ the problem of loneliness/ the mental and emotional confusion caused by the contrasting nature of the Neapolitans/ and the possible effect on all of us of the ugliness/ destruction/ dirt/ filth/ decay/ and stagnation.

The Eighty-second Division was given the job of patrolling the city of Naples, first great city to fall to the Allies. After a month we were able to turn this job over to the civilians and return to training. I was particularly irritated because of this. The few days of combat

Chapter 6 -- Naples -- Shower of Frogs

And we return to The Shower of Frogs by William J Stigall, Jr.

http://www.amazon.com/Shower-Frogs-World-War-Memoir/dp/0533135354/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1261548494&sr=1-1

Naples, Part One: October-November, the First Month

My first contact with the great city of Naples came somewhere near its very heart, the contact a few muffled voices in the gloomy dark sometime after midnight. The words were Italian. The voices came from faces in barely discernible bodies huddled beside dark buildings. My jeep came to a halt at a street crossing. There was silence. Then, "Americano?""Si"

The bodies came to the side of the jeep. We spoke no Italian, they little English, but enough was exchanged to learn that the few remaining Germans had left the city early in the morning. In their leaving the Germans had heaped upon their former ally a burden of senseless destruction and heartless hunger.


At that moment and for the next two months I experienced a mixture of emotions about the Neapolitans. The mixture was manyleveled, many-sided. It led to a confusion of reactions, a condition I shared with many American soldiers. On the one hand, the Italians deserved this punishment. They had cheered and strutted to a fat and pompous Mussolini. They had joined fates with Hitler. They had been our mortal enemy in North Africa and Sicily and were still fighting against us in Italy to the north of Naples. On the other hand, forgiveness seemed the larger need. In defeat, in humbled poverty, what canone do but present one's worstself7 Ifsome of the actions we were to witness in the days to come seemed like prideless beggary, if the life they lived seemed dirty and undisciplined, it was countered by a warmth of humanity, a wealth of smiles, and a vibrancy and passion for life not visible in every American.