Chapter 24: Shower of Frogs

24

The Farm: Interlude Pastorale

Early one morning in the middle of March 1945 I walked out of Stalag VIlA for the last time. The walk itself was an act of freedom. Rumor iniormed 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, joined 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 VIlA or of having any thoughts on the matter. As usuat itwas first things first: roping boxes, forming a column, marching. Reaction to Stalag VIlA 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 schoot 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 Pastens were ...

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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

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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

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,

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

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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

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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.

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Chapter 12: This is the Spring (1944)

Chapter 12

This Is the Spring

This is the Spring-the long-awaited Spring.

This the Hour-the breath-abated Hour.

Now is the perilous day approaching,

The waves on the shore encroaching.

This is the Spring, breaking the darkness.

These the Armies, smashing the blackness.

This is the Spring-the long-awaited Spring.

This the Hour-the breath-abated Hour.

3-31-44

It was the spring, and it did lead to a breath-abated hour. But from

early March to June, when my glider was one in a fifty-mile-long

flying train across the Channel, the hundred days were a strange

mixture of impatience, serenity, waste, happiness, boredom, and

beauty. The times bring to mind the analogy of a man's life being

like a tone poem. Various passages of agitation and calm, shifting

moods from vivace to largo, with mucho moderato in the middle. A

series of themes, some abandoned, some recurring. Now and then

passages of intentional monotony, including several beats of

silence. Those hundred days lived at the bottom of the military pile

must have been very different from life at SHAPE Headquarters

and in the United States. Not knowing the date or place of invasion,

making no decisions, seeing no end to repetitive preparations, contrasted

with reams of information, boxes of reports, conferences

galore, and some generally determined week "to go." Or in America,

living under the pressure of newspaper, magazine, and radio

coverage hyped by wild guessing, adding up to plain jitters. The

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