Monday, July 6, 2020
Sunday, June 28, 2020
The Box Car Ride ... continued
We quickly learned two German words: Vasser and Luft, water and air. Whenever we stopped and the guards, who rode in a separate car, were outside our door, we shouted out to them, "Guard, Vasser! Guard, Luft!" They ignored us or told us to shut up. We banged on the door. The guards either screamed something that sounded threatening or let us bang. Among ourselves we argued whether air or water was more important. Tempers grew short. Cigarettes were running low. Early in the morning one POW thought he heard a plane overhead. He was mistaken. The quibbling and bickering over water, air, and a place to sit continued into dawn and the next day.
All of the first day we sat. The sun was warm on the top of the boxcar, and we sweated. We tried to get more air in the car: no answer. During the day we heard distant planes, but none came over or near us. Outside, there was activity, guards walking up and down, conversation among them. No action. Shortly after dark, with frightful suddenness, planes swooped down over us and strafed the area. We later learned that the train engines were blistered with machine-gun fire and disabled. We sat all night and waited. Before dawn we started again. Most of us were groggy or half-asleep but conscious that at last we were getting clear of the switchyards. We traveled without a stop into the next day.
By ten o'clock on the second day it was warm in the car. Whenever we stopped, the guards appeared outside the door, but the door did not open. By noon it was sweltering in the car; we began stripping off clothes. The day passed without water, food, or air. There was no chance to stretch our legs or walk around. What cigarettes were left were smoked down to butt ends and passed around among six or seven men. One man had a tweezer and held the butt a little longer, passing it to a friend or two. We stopped numerous times but got no response from the guards. One POW spoke German and was persuaded to tell the guards about the Geneva Convention regulations regarding POWs-whatever these regulations might be.
The third night the tension in the boxcar was rising-or, more exactly, the irritation increased. We were hungry and thirsty. The air stank: the only method of relieving ourselves was to use a five-gallon milk can left for that purpose. The cap on the can didn't entirely prevent odors from escaping. When the train was moving it was difficult to use the can. It was at best a tremendous effort to climb over many men to reach it. One man didn't make it to the can.
On the morning of the third day the door was opened and some loaves of bread and a few hunks of cheese and butter were thrown in. The door was immediately shut. We tried to get the guards to reopen the door, to no avail. We now had nearly a full milk can. None of the bread was cut, which made distribution an almost insurmountable task. We had a few knives, so, arguing and quarreling as to the size and number of slices per portion, we cut the bread into pieces. A few men went without bread. Some got cheese, some butter. Some none. Each time for the remainder of the trip when the door was opened and food tossed in, there was endless bickering and quarreling.
On the fourth evening we got water: some did; some didn't. By now it was clearly a case of every POW for himself, quite literally for himself, if he wished to survive. A few of us worked together. Stubbs and I stationed one of us near the door to assure us of at least one portion.
Next day we spotted, outside the car, an American officer, a POW. After much arguing he got the guards to open the door. We were not allowed out; we spent our energies keeping men from crowding around the opening, blocking the entrance of air. In a short time the door was shut, but the officer, who was surprised at our condition, got the guards to remove the boards on the windows. Strong barbed wire covered the openings, but we had more air and light. The officer returned to his car, the guards to theirs, and the train went on.
By the fourth day the unshaven, hungry men ran entirely out of the buddy system. It was "to hell with my buddy." The milk can was removed; helmets were now used, the contents thrown out the window. The eighteen-inch square window would allow, once the barbed wire was kicked out, a not-too-large man to squeeze through, drop the ground, and make a run for it. There was big talk about it. Two paratroopers slipped out.
On the afternoon of the fourth day the train came to a screeching halt. We could hear and see the guards running away from the train. Someone shouted, "Planes!" Inside the boxcar there was sudden panic. One man was screaming and kicking against the door. Several men hollered out to the guards, "Guards! Open! Guards! Let us out!" Other men shouted back at them, "Shut up! They ain't lettin' us out. So shut up." A man yelled, "Why not? They can't shut us up in here." "If they let you out, you'll escape; that's why. So shut up."
The German-speaking POW was trying to get the guards to answer him: "Posten! Posten!" A couple of men begged the guards to let them out. There was no response.
We heard the planes at some distance; they were far off. We waited. They never came near. The guards returned to the train. We shouted at them again for more air. The train continued on its way.
During the fifth night a few men stretched out on the floor and stayed put until shoved over and made to sit up so all could at least sit down. By now our muscles were stiff, our hipbones bruised from the hard floor, and we itched from the straw. We sat with our heads resting on our chests until our neck and back ached. We then stood up, exchanging places with others. It seemed colder the fifth night.
Some attempt was made to cooperate and take turns lying down or lying together for warmth against the cold. Most of these suggestions were futile. Time and again the train stopped for interminable waits, would suddenly jump forward and stop after fifty yards. Again we'd wait.
... to be continued
All of the first day we sat. The sun was warm on the top of the boxcar, and we sweated. We tried to get more air in the car: no answer. During the day we heard distant planes, but none came over or near us. Outside, there was activity, guards walking up and down, conversation among them. No action. Shortly after dark, with frightful suddenness, planes swooped down over us and strafed the area. We later learned that the train engines were blistered with machine-gun fire and disabled. We sat all night and waited. Before dawn we started again. Most of us were groggy or half-asleep but conscious that at last we were getting clear of the switchyards. We traveled without a stop into the next day.
By ten o'clock on the second day it was warm in the car. Whenever we stopped, the guards appeared outside the door, but the door did not open. By noon it was sweltering in the car; we began stripping off clothes. The day passed without water, food, or air. There was no chance to stretch our legs or walk around. What cigarettes were left were smoked down to butt ends and passed around among six or seven men. One man had a tweezer and held the butt a little longer, passing it to a friend or two. We stopped numerous times but got no response from the guards. One POW spoke German and was persuaded to tell the guards about the Geneva Convention regulations regarding POWs-whatever these regulations might be.
The third night the tension in the boxcar was rising-or, more exactly, the irritation increased. We were hungry and thirsty. The air stank: the only method of relieving ourselves was to use a five-gallon milk can left for that purpose. The cap on the can didn't entirely prevent odors from escaping. When the train was moving it was difficult to use the can. It was at best a tremendous effort to climb over many men to reach it. One man didn't make it to the can.
On the morning of the third day the door was opened and some loaves of bread and a few hunks of cheese and butter were thrown in. The door was immediately shut. We tried to get the guards to reopen the door, to no avail. We now had nearly a full milk can. None of the bread was cut, which made distribution an almost insurmountable task. We had a few knives, so, arguing and quarreling as to the size and number of slices per portion, we cut the bread into pieces. A few men went without bread. Some got cheese, some butter. Some none. Each time for the remainder of the trip when the door was opened and food tossed in, there was endless bickering and quarreling.
On the fourth evening we got water: some did; some didn't. By now it was clearly a case of every POW for himself, quite literally for himself, if he wished to survive. A few of us worked together. Stubbs and I stationed one of us near the door to assure us of at least one portion.
Next day we spotted, outside the car, an American officer, a POW. After much arguing he got the guards to open the door. We were not allowed out; we spent our energies keeping men from crowding around the opening, blocking the entrance of air. In a short time the door was shut, but the officer, who was surprised at our condition, got the guards to remove the boards on the windows. Strong barbed wire covered the openings, but we had more air and light. The officer returned to his car, the guards to theirs, and the train went on.
By the fourth day the unshaven, hungry men ran entirely out of the buddy system. It was "to hell with my buddy." The milk can was removed; helmets were now used, the contents thrown out the window. The eighteen-inch square window would allow, once the barbed wire was kicked out, a not-too-large man to squeeze through, drop the ground, and make a run for it. There was big talk about it. Two paratroopers slipped out.
On the afternoon of the fourth day the train came to a screeching halt. We could hear and see the guards running away from the train. Someone shouted, "Planes!" Inside the boxcar there was sudden panic. One man was screaming and kicking against the door. Several men hollered out to the guards, "Guards! Open! Guards! Let us out!" Other men shouted back at them, "Shut up! They ain't lettin' us out. So shut up." A man yelled, "Why not? They can't shut us up in here." "If they let you out, you'll escape; that's why. So shut up."
The German-speaking POW was trying to get the guards to answer him: "Posten! Posten!" A couple of men begged the guards to let them out. There was no response.
We heard the planes at some distance; they were far off. We waited. They never came near. The guards returned to the train. We shouted at them again for more air. The train continued on its way.
During the fifth night a few men stretched out on the floor and stayed put until shoved over and made to sit up so all could at least sit down. By now our muscles were stiff, our hipbones bruised from the hard floor, and we itched from the straw. We sat with our heads resting on our chests until our neck and back ached. We then stood up, exchanging places with others. It seemed colder the fifth night.
Some attempt was made to cooperate and take turns lying down or lying together for warmth against the cold. Most of these suggestions were futile. Time and again the train stopped for interminable waits, would suddenly jump forward and stop after fifty yards. Again we'd wait.
... to be continued
Monday, May 25, 2020
Thursday, April 23, 2020
The Boxcar Ride
... everyone who lived through World War II had their own story ... this may have been the most difficult of Bill Stigall's ... a POW somewhere in Belgium or Germany ... being moved to boxcars that after the war would be synonymous with the worst of the war. The GIs didn't face that horror, but it was hard enough - SP
Chapter 16: 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 came 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 came 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. It 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 trains coming and going. Someone suggested that we were now in the switchyards. It developed that a number of us were not going to lie down at all, since those who got in first held grudgingly to their places. We began to argue about spots to sit. There were several noncoms in the car, but they chose to remain silent. It got colder during the night.
Finally the train started again and ran jerkily forward across switches and tracks for half an hour. It stopped and waited. The train then backed up to the switchyards. For the rest of the night the train sped up, jerked to a stop, started again, ran for fifteen minutes, banged to a halt, started again. I spent most of the night sea ted against the wall of the car or standing up in my position, stretching my legs and then trying to squat down or sit down. We sixty English-speaking POW s settled down to live together.
Chapter 16: 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 came 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 came 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. It 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 trains coming and going. Someone suggested that we were now in the switchyards. It developed that a number of us were not going to lie down at all, since those who got in first held grudgingly to their places. We began to argue about spots to sit. There were several noncoms in the car, but they chose to remain silent. It got colder during the night.
Finally the train started again and ran jerkily forward across switches and tracks for half an hour. It stopped and waited. The train then backed up to the switchyards. For the rest of the night the train sped up, jerked to a stop, started again, ran for fifteen minutes, banged to a halt, started again. I spent most of the night sea ted against the wall of the car or standing up in my position, stretching my legs and then trying to squat down or sit down. We sixty English-speaking POW s settled down to live together.
Stubby ... a friend in the midst of it all
One of the chalets was larger than any other and was situated outside a town named Doorn, which rang a bell. I told the soldier marching beside me, whose name was Stubbs, that that house could be where the former kaiser of Germany had come to live when exiled by the Nazis. Stubbs appreciated the irony of our being marched by German troops past the former kaiser's retreat.
Clyde Stubbs was a short, wiry, a little less than average in height, and was consequently called Stubby. What he lacked in height he made up for in aggressiveness. I discovered, while walking through Holland, that he had been home in Iowa on D day, June 6. He had been driving trucks on the Alcan Highway. He was shipped out of the States through a replacement depot and landed in my tent in England. A month later he flew a jeep into Holland. He was about to have the most crucial experience of his life.
Clyde Stubbs was a short, wiry, a little less than average in height, and was consequently called Stubby. What he lacked in height he made up for in aggressiveness. I discovered, while walking through Holland, that he had been home in Iowa on D day, June 6. He had been driving trucks on the Alcan Highway. He was shipped out of the States through a replacement depot and landed in my tent in England. A month later he flew a jeep into Holland. He was about to have the most crucial experience of his life.
Thursday, February 6, 2020
In captivity
A guard ushered me into the front room of a Dutch home occupied by the Germans. I was told to stand in front of a small table. Seated at the table were two German officers, beyond middle age, smartly dressed, well groomed, slightly Prussian in appearance. Several guards stood behind them and to the sides. The officers were examining papers. In reasonable English one of them, without looking up, questioned me. I gave him the required answer: my name, rank, an serial number. He ignored my answer and gave me in return the number of my regiment. He further identified me as a member of the Eighty-second Airborne. I was greatly tempted to point to my division insignia. He asked me a couple of questions regarding what units came on this flight, who remained, and who were coming next. He could not have asked a more uninformed source. He was looking through my dispatch case and said, "You are a singer, eh?"
This startled me. It must have been obvious. Perhaps I grunted a, "Huh?" He continued to look at my letters, which I had received that morning and which I should never have taken with me. He said with more emphasis and with more accent, "You are a singer?" I probably grinned and grunted again. I wanted to sing for him to prove that I was not a singer. I stood there. He asked me where we were going. I repeated my name, rank, and serial number. He waved me out. I was escorted through the door, passing another prisoner on the way. Upon reflection I assumed that some reference to theatre was translated by him into singer. I was returned to the shed, where I joined a couple dozen other American prisoners of war. There we spent the night. Before morning the sliding door opened and two men who had eluded capture during the day joined us.
The next morning we climbed into a truck and were driven out to a highway that was a scene of intense activity. Transports of German troops passed each other going in opposite directions. German troops patrolled crossroads; motorcyclists raced along the highway. Barricades of wooden crosses and barbed wire periodically blocked the free flow of traffic. There were some evidences of bombing. The situation was different from anything that I had seen. I was far behind enemy lines. I was, in fact, in German-occupied Holland, which at the time was under severe attack by Allied forces. I had, in Italy and France, seen roads during and immediately after combat.
I had even been behind the lines in Normandy during combat, but in the security of the U.S. Army. I was now in the hands of the opposition in the land of a member of the Allies. It was a new experience. The sun was bright and warm, the sky clear and fresh. The weather, in fact, was superb. I was in great health. There was lots of excitement. And, as far as I was concerned, the Allies would be through in a few days to rescue us.
Somewhere near a town, the sign of which had been knocked down or removed, we unloaded and began walking along the right side of the highway. Later we left the highway and followed paths through fields and along canals. There were about thirty American POWs guarded by five German soldiers. We marched a few hours, then stopped to rest. There was certainly opportunity to escape. There was talk about it. I imagine someone tried it. Some may have succeeded. I do not remember that any did. The sun remained warm, the air crisp and clean, the fields green, the sights, once we left the highway, pleasant, and walking was easy. ...
I have never been able to pinpoint the location of my capture and walk; however, we entered and went to the center of a large city. Here we stopped and were well fed by a group of Dutch ladies dressed in uniforms similar to those of the Red Cross. They were very gracious. The Germans wanted to hurry us along, but the Dutch women argued and insisted that all of us get a good lunch.
The country we walked through was especially beautiful. There were many small groves of evergreens. All along the road we saw exquisite homes or, rather, fairy-tale chalets. They were small, some two-storied, placed in gracious parks or other carefully landscaped areas. The buildings were wood with delicate filigree rimming on four sides. The houses and the trimmings were painted in outlandish colors. Each house had some red, green, yellow, and black. They were the gayest sight I saw in Europe. After so much destruction, dirt, and filth, they were a joy to the eye and spirit.
[Unfortunately, such joy was to be short-lived.]
This startled me. It must have been obvious. Perhaps I grunted a, "Huh?" He continued to look at my letters, which I had received that morning and which I should never have taken with me. He said with more emphasis and with more accent, "You are a singer?" I probably grinned and grunted again. I wanted to sing for him to prove that I was not a singer. I stood there. He asked me where we were going. I repeated my name, rank, and serial number. He waved me out. I was escorted through the door, passing another prisoner on the way. Upon reflection I assumed that some reference to theatre was translated by him into singer. I was returned to the shed, where I joined a couple dozen other American prisoners of war. There we spent the night. Before morning the sliding door opened and two men who had eluded capture during the day joined us.
The next morning we climbed into a truck and were driven out to a highway that was a scene of intense activity. Transports of German troops passed each other going in opposite directions. German troops patrolled crossroads; motorcyclists raced along the highway. Barricades of wooden crosses and barbed wire periodically blocked the free flow of traffic. There were some evidences of bombing. The situation was different from anything that I had seen. I was far behind enemy lines. I was, in fact, in German-occupied Holland, which at the time was under severe attack by Allied forces. I had, in Italy and France, seen roads during and immediately after combat.
I had even been behind the lines in Normandy during combat, but in the security of the U.S. Army. I was now in the hands of the opposition in the land of a member of the Allies. It was a new experience. The sun was bright and warm, the sky clear and fresh. The weather, in fact, was superb. I was in great health. There was lots of excitement. And, as far as I was concerned, the Allies would be through in a few days to rescue us.
Somewhere near a town, the sign of which had been knocked down or removed, we unloaded and began walking along the right side of the highway. Later we left the highway and followed paths through fields and along canals. There were about thirty American POWs guarded by five German soldiers. We marched a few hours, then stopped to rest. There was certainly opportunity to escape. There was talk about it. I imagine someone tried it. Some may have succeeded. I do not remember that any did. The sun remained warm, the air crisp and clean, the fields green, the sights, once we left the highway, pleasant, and walking was easy. ...
I have never been able to pinpoint the location of my capture and walk; however, we entered and went to the center of a large city. Here we stopped and were well fed by a group of Dutch ladies dressed in uniforms similar to those of the Red Cross. They were very gracious. The Germans wanted to hurry us along, but the Dutch women argued and insisted that all of us get a good lunch.
The country we walked through was especially beautiful. There were many small groves of evergreens. All along the road we saw exquisite homes or, rather, fairy-tale chalets. They were small, some two-storied, placed in gracious parks or other carefully landscaped areas. The buildings were wood with delicate filigree rimming on four sides. The houses and the trimmings were painted in outlandish colors. Each house had some red, green, yellow, and black. They were the gayest sight I saw in Europe. After so much destruction, dirt, and filth, they were a joy to the eye and spirit.
[Unfortunately, such joy was to be short-lived.]
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
On the ground ... D-Day continued ... And then captured
We were still being shot at. In the final descent I had completely forgotten about it. Man can do only one thing at a time. My fear of the landing consumed all my attention. I asked the pilot if he knew where we were. He didn't. It was obvious that we were in enemy territory, but how far from the front or from the drop zone no one could even guess. Although it was by now almost automatic, we made no attempt to untie the jeep. Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry started to get out. I crawled out the door to my left. I stood outside the glider putting on my heavy Browning automatic ammo belt. Either it wouldn't fit around my waist while I was seated behind the wheel or, what is more likely, I found it uncomfortable. I got it on, grabbed the rifle, and headed after Birdwell, the pilot, and Gerry, who took cover in a ditch two hundred yards ahead. Bullets flew over the glider as I ran for the ditch followed by the new man. As I ran I could see out of the comer of my eye moving human figures to my left.
The new man and I reached the ditch together and jumped in. It was about three feet deep, with a six-foot bank behind it. We crouched down and looked around. By now the last of the flight was passing over the area. We could see it a half-mile ahead of us. Flak was still bursting all around them. Another C-47 was burning far over beyond the flight path. Shortly after we got in the ditch, five or six German soldiers came up to the glider. We moved farther away to our left but ran into fire from Germans coming down a draw that ran parallel to the field. Machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere and going over our heads. There was hardly any doubt that we were spotted. We tried to go to our right but saw men coming down a road on that side of the field.
We asked one another, "What do we do?" There were five of us. "Do we fight it out or what?" We quickly discussed trying to get contact with the other glider loads, of which there had to be, by our count, at least two. That could be from ten to thirty men. They had dropped out of sight. In the confusion we didn't know where they had landed. The firing on us increased. Again, "What do we do?" One of us wanted to make a run for it. The rest had nothing to say. It was self-evident: we fight or surrender. Someone suggested that we'd better surrender and take our chances. The rest agreed.
We threw our weapons and ammo belts into the bushes behind us, after hurrying to damage or destroy them as much as possible. The German soldiers at the glider had moved to the road. During a pause in the firing, with our hands over our heads, we came out of the ditch and walked toward the glider. The Germans in the ditch by the road called out to us and motioned us to come to them. We did. When we got on the road they got out of the ditch and motioned us to get in. I was totally unemotional and not in the least afraid. I was, on the contrary, very objective. If they had shot me I would have been completely surprised. It never crossed my mind. Why, I don't know, except that they didn't look like killers.
They searched us, took some personal things, left others. With my hands still raised over my head I looked them over. They were a mixed lot. Good-looking, poor-looking; young, old. Some of them looked like home guards. There were about ten of them. They motioned and told us to get out on the road. We were marched a half-mile and into an apple orchard. We sat down. We looked around and waited. The apples were ripe and red. I ate a couple. We waited. Birdwell, Gerry, and I, who had been together for nearly three years, admitted, in different tones, that for us the war was over. We'd had it. All we had to do now was sweat it out. I was much more confident than they that the war in Europe would be over soon.
The Germans drove the jeep up to the orchard gate. I said to Gerry, "That's the third jeep I've had shot out from under me." He laughed. Sergeant Birdwell was not frightened but was more apprehensive. The new man said nothing, but his eyes were wide open. We were piled into the jeep and driven a mile down the road to a collection of houses that seemed to make a small village. The place was filthy with Germans. It was, we later found out, Division Headquarters. The front was miles away. Everything was peaceful. We were taken to a barn or shed. Soon other glider loads began arriving, familiar faces. I had no idea where in Europe I was, but I suspected that I was in Holland.
[Note: Bill Stigall never spoke about any of this to his family, nor did he join any post-war veteran's organizations. But at the end of his life, he did share experiences with a fellow veteran he had met nearby. And once Bill had died, we found a tranche of letters and notebooks that tell a more "compelling" story of his experience. These may come later: the originals have been donated to the WWII Museum in New Orleans.]
The new man and I reached the ditch together and jumped in. It was about three feet deep, with a six-foot bank behind it. We crouched down and looked around. By now the last of the flight was passing over the area. We could see it a half-mile ahead of us. Flak was still bursting all around them. Another C-47 was burning far over beyond the flight path. Shortly after we got in the ditch, five or six German soldiers came up to the glider. We moved farther away to our left but ran into fire from Germans coming down a draw that ran parallel to the field. Machine-gun fire was coming from somewhere and going over our heads. There was hardly any doubt that we were spotted. We tried to go to our right but saw men coming down a road on that side of the field.
We asked one another, "What do we do?" There were five of us. "Do we fight it out or what?" We quickly discussed trying to get contact with the other glider loads, of which there had to be, by our count, at least two. That could be from ten to thirty men. They had dropped out of sight. In the confusion we didn't know where they had landed. The firing on us increased. Again, "What do we do?" One of us wanted to make a run for it. The rest had nothing to say. It was self-evident: we fight or surrender. Someone suggested that we'd better surrender and take our chances. The rest agreed.
We threw our weapons and ammo belts into the bushes behind us, after hurrying to damage or destroy them as much as possible. The German soldiers at the glider had moved to the road. During a pause in the firing, with our hands over our heads, we came out of the ditch and walked toward the glider. The Germans in the ditch by the road called out to us and motioned us to come to them. We did. When we got on the road they got out of the ditch and motioned us to get in. I was totally unemotional and not in the least afraid. I was, on the contrary, very objective. If they had shot me I would have been completely surprised. It never crossed my mind. Why, I don't know, except that they didn't look like killers.
They searched us, took some personal things, left others. With my hands still raised over my head I looked them over. They were a mixed lot. Good-looking, poor-looking; young, old. Some of them looked like home guards. There were about ten of them. They motioned and told us to get out on the road. We were marched a half-mile and into an apple orchard. We sat down. We looked around and waited. The apples were ripe and red. I ate a couple. We waited. Birdwell, Gerry, and I, who had been together for nearly three years, admitted, in different tones, that for us the war was over. We'd had it. All we had to do now was sweat it out. I was much more confident than they that the war in Europe would be over soon.
The Germans drove the jeep up to the orchard gate. I said to Gerry, "That's the third jeep I've had shot out from under me." He laughed. Sergeant Birdwell was not frightened but was more apprehensive. The new man said nothing, but his eyes were wide open. We were piled into the jeep and driven a mile down the road to a collection of houses that seemed to make a small village. The place was filthy with Germans. It was, we later found out, Division Headquarters. The front was miles away. Everything was peaceful. We were taken to a barn or shed. Soon other glider loads began arriving, familiar faces. I had no idea where in Europe I was, but I suspected that I was in Holland.
[Note: Bill Stigall never spoke about any of this to his family, nor did he join any post-war veteran's organizations. But at the end of his life, he did share experiences with a fellow veteran he had met nearby. And once Bill had died, we found a tranche of letters and notebooks that tell a more "compelling" story of his experience. These may come later: the originals have been donated to the WWII Museum in New Orleans.]
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