The German Triangle

by Carl Messinger

  As the plane slowed down in a straight line, Matthews applied more pressure to the brakes and reversed the pitch of the propellers. This reversing allowed the engines to slow down the plane and reduced the possibility of burning out the brakes. He knew that maintenance people did not like replacing brakes on airplanes. It made them seem more like a garage-monkey than a mechanic. Matthews smiled as he thought that keeping his mechanics happy was a good thing.

  A jeep pulled out from the side of the runway and moved in front of the C-47. The passenger waved to follow him and the tiny convoy moved to the taxiway, then to a line of other C-47’s, their noses turned up and facing the runway. The jeep turned to go behind them and Matthews followed like a puppy looking for dinner. Making a sharp right, the jeep moved through an unoccupied spot between two aircraft. The passenger waved as a crew chief stepped in front to guide the plane to a stop. Two personnel, one on each side, stood waiting with wooden chocks to place at the wheels when the plane stopped.

  Matthews slowly inched his craft forward, watching the signals from the crew chief. As the plane neared its resting place, the guide moved his hands closer together over his head until finally the hands clasped. Matthews applied the final little touch to the brakes, and the plane settled into its new home. The wheel chocks were put into place and the crew chief signaled to kill the engines.

  The pilots quickly went through their final checklist as the navigator shed his harness and moved to the rear of the plane to open the door. One of the ground crew was waiting to assist with the steps and to help with whatever cargo had just arrived. The navigator handed out the bags of mail, looked around to make sure there was nothing else, then handed out the duffel bags for the crew. He glanced toward the cockpit and saw the two pilots headed in his direction. Without a word, he stepped out the door, down the steps and onto the concrete. Matthews and the co-pilot followed behind him.

  “Sergeant McKensie, Sir, welcome to Rhein-Main,” the ground guide said as he saluted the officers.

  Matthews returned the salute and shook the sergeant’s hand.

  “Thank you, Sergeant, great to be here.”

  Sergeant McKensie motioned to a jeep waiting nearby and the driver moved to the group of men. The ground crew threw the duffels in the back of the vehicle, leaving just enough room for the navigator and the co-pilot. Matthews climbed into the front seat and the driver started rolling past the line of planes toward the operations building. Once inside, they signed in, handed over their personnel files and were assigned a place to stay.

  “Lieutenant Matthews,” the clerk said, “we have found a small apartment in a town just south of here. It is just a temporary thing until we get more billets built here on base. There is a jeep to take you there now and one will pick you up tomorrow morning at 0700 hours.”

  Matthews said good-bye to his co-pilot and navigator and said he would see them in the morning. The jeep was where the clerk said it would be and the driver saluted and helped with the duffel bag. Matthews climbed into the front seat and they smoothly pulled away from the operations building. About a mile or so, they passed through the gate, the guards snapping to attention and saluting smartly. Matthews returned their salute and settled deeper into the seat to avoid the chilly February air. While there was no snow on the ground, the wind was cold, as Frankfurt and Rhein-Main were about the same latitude as the southern tip of the Hudson Bay in Canada.

  The jeep traveled quickly through the countryside, slowing or stopping only at intersections to ensure a safe passage. About fifteen minutes later, a little sign next to the road announced their arrival at the town of Oberstdorf, a small village with cobble streets, clean sidewalks and what looked like one or two main streets. The driver turned right and pulled up in front of a stone house, its windows covered with wooden slats or blinds and no sign of life. The driver shut off the engine, hopped out and grabbed the duffel bag. Matthews climbed out of the jeep and walked the three steps to the door. Seeing no button, he knocked on the door to get someone’s attention. A tiny round opening in the door opened to reveal an eye peeking out from inside. Immediately, the opening closed and Matthews could hear locks being turned. The door opened and an elderly German woman stood smiling.

  Frau Schlegal was close to seventy. She stood about five feet tall, had gray hair which was pulled back into a bun. Her dress, while not new, was clean and neat. Her face reflected the hardships she had endured, the wrinkles effectively covering the beauty that had once been there. But her eyes gave it away. They were expressive, bright, a little child’s eyes, big with wonderment, smothered with excitement. Matthews realized that they were eyes that someone could easily fall in love with. Now if she was only twenty years old, he thought, laughing to himself.

  With broken English, she welcomed him and led him upstairs to show him his appointed room. The driver followed, carrying the duffel. The room was small, but clean and cozy. A big window looked out the back of the house to several hills covered with vineyards, or at least what had once been vineyards. They were mostly barren, but he could see that work had begun to restore them to their former condition. The bed was a double, covered with a huge eiderdown, a quilt stuffed with duck feathers. A small chest stood opposite the bed, a mirror above it, and a washbowl and pitcher on it. A small towel rack on the side of the chest held a clean towel. What looked to be an armoire stood up against a second wall. Seeing no closets, Matthews opened the armoire and found two hangers in it. He closed the doors and looked for the bathroom.

  “There doesn’t appear to be one,” the driver said. He turned and said to the woman, “Toiletten?”

  She smiled and pointed down the hall. They walked down the hall and opened the door at the end. A small tub with a shower head held sway of the far end of the room. A commode, the water tank attached to the wall above the fixture, stood guard. A sink finished the contents of the room. Everything seemed clean and neatly kept. Matthews smiled at Frau Schlegal and uttered his first German word.

  “Gut,” he said.

  She smiled and turned and walked back down the hall and down the steps. Matthews confirmed that he would be picked up tomorrow morning, thanked the driver for his help, and dismissed him. He then went about the business of unpacking his few belongings.

  Ten minutes later, he walked downstairs and found Frau Schlegal sitting in what must have been the living room, a nice fire in the fireplace, sipping a cup of tea and reading a book. He knocked on the door to get her attention, waiting for her invitation before entering the room. She looked up and motioned for him to enter.

  Hesitantly, he took a couple of steps into the room, then brought his hand to his mouth like he was eating, or wanting to eat. She smiled and got up from her chair and walked to the front door. She opened the door and said something in German. Matthews did not understand.

  “Zum Rose,” she said again, pointing down the street. “Essen, Essen,” she repeated.

  Matthews now understood “Essen,” smiled and stared out the door. Before he could get through and outside, she tapped him on the arm. He turned to look at her. She reached into the pocket of her apron and took out a key, apparently a key to the front door. Matthews looked at the key, then at Frau Schlegal.

  “Danke,” he said softly, bowing slightly.

  Frau Schlegal smiled, nodded her head, then stepped inside and closed the door. Matthews looked at the key, found the house number for later use, then turned and walked down the street in the direction that his new landlady had pointed.

  “This is going to be ok,” he thought as he looked for the zum Rose.

  Chapter Two

  Matthews walked quickly down the street, the building on his right acting like a railing to keep him on the straight and narrow. The sidewalk was clean of debris, but cracked in places still waiting to be repaired. It appeared the town had not been severely damaged from the constant bombing by the Allies, or what damage had been done had already been removed from sight and taken away. The ancient cobblestone roa
d showed freshly repaired patches. The new sections contrasted sharply with those which had witnessed the passing of hundreds of years and he wondered if they could talk, would they speak of the passing of Roman soldiers, or perhaps the legions of Charles the Great, whose ancient capital of the Holy Roman Empire was less than one hundred and fifty miles away. He had heard about Aachen and would have to take a trip there sometime.

  In sharp contrast to American neighborhood streets, Oberstdorf’s streets were void of people. The front windows of all the houses were covered with wooden shutters which appeared to be able to be rolled up when desired, exposing the window and thus the inside, to outside conditions. Across the street from the houses a gently sloping hill rose from the street, its incline neatly sliced by rows of grape vines now dormant for the winter. Narrow walkways between the rows allowed for grape pickers to quickly go through their task of collecting the grapes and bringing them back for processing. Matthews thought that would be a back-breaking job and wondered exactly how it was done without winding up crippled.

  The rows of vines rose up the hill and pointed to the ruins of a castle at its top. The castle was small, probably no more than a lookout post used hundreds of years before, and he doubted that anyone had ever lived there. Two of the walls were almost completely gone, and a third was partially destroyed. The single tower rose majestically into the sky, but it too was incomplete, having suffered at the hands of time. He wondered if, like American kids playing cowboys and Indians, the German kids played Roman Soldiers and Germanic tribes. He chuckled at his poor attempt at humor.

  He reached the corner of the block and was about to cross over when he heard a door being opened in the building to his right. He stopped for a minute, thinking of asking whoever it was the location of the restaurant. Two elderly German men came out of the door. They spotted him and stopped and stared. One turned and said something to the other, who nodded his head in reply. Without another word they let the door close behind them, turned right and slowly moved away

  As Matthews looked at the door, hoping that someone else would exit, he noticed a larger than usual stone set into the wall next to the door. Etched in small letters and barely discernible were the words “zum Rose.” No other sign or notice gave proof to what was inside the door and he felt thankful for his landlady who had told him about the name of the restaurant and where to find it. Otherwise, he thought, he would still be walking.

  The heavy and thick outside door opened easily and Matthews found himself in a small anteroom, a second door straight ahead with thick glass windows allowing him to see inside. He went to reach for the second door and found that he had to release the handle of the outside door before he could do it. As he let go of the outside door, it smoothly returned to its closed posture and clicked as it settled into position. Matthews reasoned that the double door kept out the cold air, and the distance between the doors was set so that both could not be opened by the same person at the same time. An effective means of keeping the cold out and the heat in.

  The restaurant was not very large. About six wooden tables stood scattered around the wooden floor, their tops covered with tablecloths of various designs and sizes. Four booths lined the wall to his right and a small bar, probably just for the waitress lined the wall on his left. A couple of stools stood at attention in front of the bar, but they appeared to be there just for show as the bar area in front of them was crowded with a variety of objects to include plants, glasses and dishes. A single wooden rail, once the object of tired feet, stood about eight inches above the floor and ringed the bottom of the bar.

  The place was empty except for two other American pilots sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the floor. They glanced up from their salads as he entered, and he nodded and moved to their table.

  “Hi, Ron Matthews,” he said, introducing himself and stretching out a hand.

  “Hello,” said the closest American grabbing Matthews’ hand. “Tom Reynolds.”

  “Jim Wistick, how are you?” said the second American.

  “Doing well, thank you. Just got into Rhein-Main this afternoon and S-1 put me up in a room up the street till something on base came available. Haven’t eaten since breakfast and the landlady recommended this place.”

  The two Americans laughed and looked at each other.

  “This is the only place in town,” said the one who had introduced himself as Tom Reynolds. “But it’s pretty good, close, and since you’ll be on separate rations for a while, the cost is definitely right. Just hope you like veal, because beef is hard to come by outside of the mess hall. Grab a seat.”

  Matthews pulled out one of the two empty seats and sat down. He reached for a paper menu that lay on the table and scanned its offering. Most of the items he could not understand. Some, like Salat and Beire, he reasoned. Others he had no idea what they were. He glanced over to Jim’s plate.

  “Wiener Schnitzel, breaded veal cutlet,” said Jim, his mouth full of food.

  Tom motioned for somebody to come to the table and Matthews turned to see who it was. An older man had come out of the kitchen and stopped behind the bar. Upon being beckoned, he came toward them, limping very badly on his right leg. But he had a big smile on his face, and his eyes shone bright with anticipation of being able to serve. His clean but worn pants were covered with an apron containing two pockets. Sticking out of one appeared to be a bottle opener or some such apparatus. The other was filled with something Matthews could not make out.

  Herr Kurtz was about 50 years old, give or take a hundred. His gray hair was beginning to recede and the wrinkles on his face made him seem older than he really was, or anyone should be. The gray in his hair was matched by the gray in his eyebrows, and his puffed out cheeks, reddened by a little too much Jagermeister, gave him the appearance of a chipmunk well into his winter storage of nuts. Most noticeably, his right leg seemed unable to function to any great degree. While it provided support when standing still, it was an impediment to his walking. He tried to make light of it but it was obvious that there was some pain.

  “Herr Kurtz, this is Ron Matthews. He is living up the street, probably Frau Schlegal’s,” Tom looked quizzically at the newcomer.

  Matthews glanced at Reynolds and nodded in the affirmative. He reached his hand out to Herr Kurtz and the old German took it into his grizzled hands and shook it vigorously.

  “Es freut mich,” the old man said, his hand pumping up and down like a handle on a water pump, a broad smile on his face. He appeared genuinely happy to see the new American pilot.

  Matthews returned the handshake. “Hello,” he said, lowering his head a little in respect.

  “Was wurst due,” he said as he continued to pump Matthews’ hand.

  Matthews’ face became blank and he looked at his new found colleagues for guidance. They laughed as they explained that he wanted to know what he would like to eat.”

  “Ya, Ya, Essen, Essen,” said the innkeeper.

  Matthews looked confused, thought quickly and then decided to rely on the age-old method of repetition. He pointed to the plate in front of Wistick, smiled, and said, “Das.”

  Herr Kurtz nodded in understanding, let go of Matthews’ hand and turned to go away. The three Americans watched him drag his right leg across the floor and into the kitchen before resuming their conversation.

  “What’s with the leg?” Matthews asked the other two.

  “Landmine,” said Reynolds, “in France,” resuming his eating.

  “You mean we did that to him?” Matthews asked.

  “Well,” said Wistick, “yes and no.” Matthews looked puzzled.

  “It was an Allied mine,” Wistick continued, “but it was WWI, not this one. He was wounded during the first couple days of the war and returned here to be with his wife. He understood he was one of the lucky ones in the village. Most did not return.”

  Matthews wanted to discuss more, but the others were busy eating. He decided to hold his questions to a more appropriate t
ime. He could smell the aroma of food cooking coming out of the kitchen and hear the sizzling oil used in making the potatoes. As if by magic, a small salad appeared in front of him, and before he could turn and say thank you, Herr Kurtz had turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  The salad was fresh, with vinegar and oil dressing scattered over the top. Additional dressing was in the cruets on the table. Conspicuous by their absence were tomatoes, winter not being the season. Instead, some red cabbage was mixed into the lettuce and that, along with both red and white onions, made a wonderful tasty salad. Matthews ate it with great vigor.

  The hot steaming Wiener Schnitzel soon appeared with a pile of Pommes Frites, or French fries, as Matthews was soon to learn. Herr Kurtz stood to the side offering a bottle of beer with a smile on his face. Matthews glanced at the two other bottles on the table and nodded yes. With great flourish, Herr Kurtz grabbed the neck of the bottle and with his two thumbs on either side of the bottle, pushed the metal clasp away from his body. Immediately, the small porcelain top surrounded by an even smaller rubber grommet came loose. He put the bottle on the table, reached into his apron pocket and produced a glass. Taking a towel from his back pocket, he wiped and cleaned the glass before putting it down next to the bottle of beer. Matthews poured a little beer into the glass, took a sip, then dug into one of the best meals he had ever had.

  All was quiet for the next fifteen minutes or so, until all had finished eating. The three Americans settled back into their seats and began to talk about the war, what they had done, and what they were going to do when they got back to the States. Both Reynolds and Wistick were fighter pilots. They had flown against the Luftwaffe for a better part of a year and had handled themselves with a great deal of distinction. While neither was an ace, they had both been credited with several kills. Matthews listened intently, not having anything to say that would compare with their stories.