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.

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