by Tom Young
The jangling of keys interrupted Karl’s worrying.
Name, rank, and serial number, he reminded himself. Nothing else.
A guard pushed open the door, then snapped to attention and saluted. The man who entered the room did, indeed, look like a disfigured ogre. Burn scars covered the right side of his face. Black patch over his right eye socket. The man wore a spotless Luftwaffe uniform with the insignia of a hauptmann, or captain. Karl noted a Luftwaffe pilot’s badge: an eagle clutching a swastika. The captain was thin and carried himself with casual grace—or was it arrogance? He held a folder stuffed with papers. The man’s youth surprised Karl; he looked to be in his middle twenties.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Hagan,” the captain said. Fluent English, but with a distinct German accent. He offered his hand.
Karl wondered what to do. He had already decided he would not salute a German of any rank. But he’d not considered lesser courtesies. Before he’d had a chance to think it through, he stood, took the captain’s hand, and gave it a firm shake.
He immediately regretted it. Damn it, he thought, what if they’re filming this from a hidden camera?
Headline: AMERICAN PILOT MAKES FRIENDS WITH GERMAN CAPTORS.
Think, Karl, he ordered himself. Think, think, think.
The Kraut captain seemed to read his mind.
“Do not worry,” the captain said. “We are not filming this. We do not seek to embarrass you. As I’m sure you know, we have bigger concerns.”
Yeah, he’s very fluent, Karl thought. Smooth bastard, too.
“I suppose you do,” Karl said.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the captain continued. “I am Hauptmann Eric Kostler, and I flew 109s before I let one of your Mustangs get behind me for a fraction of a second. That was all it took.”
“Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?”
“Not at all. This is purely a professional matter.”
Yeah, Karl thought. You’re my pal. We’re just a couple of pilots doing a little hangar flying. I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I ain’t that stupid.
Karl returned to his stool, and the captain took the desk chair. The captain opened the folder and said, “We have a few questions, just to make sure the Red Cross gets the right information and your family knows you are safe.”
“Karl Hagan,” Karl said. “First Lieutenant. Five-two-four-one-nine-eight-seven-three.”
Kostler nodded. “Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “Name, rank, and serial number. We have that already.” He looked through his papers and glanced up at Karl. “We also know you were assigned to the 94th Bomb Group, 331st Squadron, based at Rougham Field in Bury St Edmunds, England. And that your home is in Pennsylvania, and that you come from a German family.”
A twist of nausea churned through Karl’s gut. How could they know so much? Don’t let him see you sweat, Karl thought. Act like it’s no big deal.
“If you know all about me,” Karl said, “then why are we talking?”
“As I said, Lieutenant, it’s merely for the benefit of the Red Cross. To make sure they get the right information to the right family. Your country has many people of German extraction. Surely, you are not the only Karl Hagan.” Kostler reached into a pocket, withdrew a fountain pen, and unscrewed the cap.
Karl folded his arms. “Karl Hagan,” he said. “First Lieutenant. Five-two-four-one-nine-eight-seven-three.”
Kostler pushed his chair back and placed his feet on the desk, one boot over the other. He let several seconds pass in silence. Then he said, “You have no idea what I would give to fly again. When I was stationed outside Rome, I met this Italian girl. Ho-ho, what a beauty. Talk about high performance. What about you? You have a girl back in England?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Kostler shrugged. “Relax, Lieutenant. We both know where this war is going. Your armies are closing in. Your bombers are crushing our cities. It’s over. And for you and me, it is really over. You could not possibly betray your country now, even if you wanted to.”
You are a smooth one, aren’t you? Karl thought. “Well,” he said, “since it’s over, we might as well not waste each other’s time.”
Kostler shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. But, tell me, what’s it like to fly the heavies? I’ve always flown single-seat fighters, but I think it must be nice to bond with a crew.”
Don’t even think about steering me into that subject, Karl thought. If you think I feel bad about my crew, you’re right. But it won’t get you a damned thing. Except maybe an ass-kicking. Might be worth taking a bullet just to put my fist against your jaw.
When Karl answered with only a silent glare, Kostler again seemed to read his mind. “My apologies,” he said. “I don’t know if you lost any crewmates, and I didn’t mean to bring up a painful topic.”
The apology seemed almost genuine. What the hell?
“But tell me,” the captain continued, “is it fun to fly something that big? I heard one of your colleagues say it’s like sitting on your front porch and flying your house.”
“Yeah,” Karl replied, “it’s big.” Not exactly classified information.
Kostler put down his pen and steepled his fingers. “With all that multiengine time,” he said, “you can probably get a good airline job after you get home.” He pointed to his eye patch. “Sadly, I do not have that option anymore.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Yes, well, the fortunes of war.”
Kostler picked up his fountain pen again and tapped it on the desk. He let the conversation pause for several seconds. Then he asked, “Did you ever fly one with a Mickey?”
Karl began to sweat. He hoped the captain didn’t notice his reaction. No, he’d never flown a B-17 with a Mickey. But how did the Krauts even know about that? And how did they know the slang term? Probably from some dumbass who blabbed—maybe right here in this room.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Karl said. “Mickey Mouse?”
“You know very well what I am talking about,” Kostler said. “Your H2X radar.”
So that’s what this was all about. Radar. The Krauts feared new Allied radar technology as much as the Allies feared new German rockets.
Karl shook his head. “Don’t know a thing about it,” he said. That was close to the truth. The Pathfinder ships carried the Mickey radar set to locate targets in bad weather and bomb through clouds. But Karl had never flown a Pathfinder.
“Come on, Lieutenant. You must have at least seen one somewhere.”
Karl did not speak. He didn’t blink. He didn’t respond in any way.
Maybe now is when they get tough, Karl thought. He steeled himself for more questions. He steeled himself for a beating. But to Karl’s surprise, Kostler changed the subject.
“Very well,” the German said. “So that we do not, as you say, waste one another’s time, I will tell you something about what’s ahead of you.”
What followed wasn’t an interrogation. It sounded more like an in-briefing. Karl got the impression that somebody had told Kostler to ask about radar. Once he’d done that, he’d filled the square and just didn’t care anymore. The gearshift in the conversation came so abruptly that at first, Karl wondered if it was another interrogation technique.
“The Luftwaffe runs the camps for downed airmen,” Kostler said. “Or we did, in any case. The SS exerts more influence now, so be careful.”
Kostler went on to explain that the Luftwaffe tried to follow treaties on handling prisoners of war: Officers were housed apart from enlisted men, and officers did not have to perform manual labor for the enemy.
“I would like to say we treat you as fellow airmen,” Kostler added, “and officer camps are a little better than those for the enlisted. But supplies are growing short for all of us. You, me, everyone. And the camps are getting crowded.”
The German flier seemed almost regretful. In some ways, he reminded Karl of Albrecht.
“This is no doubt an unpleasant experience for you,” Kostler continued. “But be thankful you wear the insignia of an American officer and pilot. I hear rumors of other kinds of prisons for other kinds of prisoners. Certain guests of the Reich face far worse conditions.”
This was no interrogation technique. It was damn near a confession.
“Why are you telling me all this?” Karl asked.
Kostler lifted both hands off the desk. The gesture looked nearly like . . . surrender. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Several seconds went by in silence.
“One more flight,” Kostler said finally, pointing into the air with his index finger. “Do you know what I would give to pull back on the stick and lift into the sky one more time?”
“It gets in your blood,” Karl said.
“Yes, it does. A very good way to put it.” Kostler folded his arms. “And now, Lieutenant,” he said, “I must apologize. You see, I have to follow the rules. I asked you about the H2X radar. You told me nothing. So you must go to the cooler.”
“Cooler ”?
Kostler must have noticed Karl’s expression. “Solitary confinement, Lieutenant Hagan,” he said. Then he shouted, “Guards, take this man away.”
33
Length, Beam, and Draft
Wilhelm’s fears had run wild ever since the guards had taken Hagan for questioning. He knew his turn would come soon, and he supposed this day would not end well for him. Surely, an interrogator familiar with Yank fliers and their ways would see right through him. How could one fake that flat accent, that swagger, that attitude? Yes, imitating a Brit would have been easier; even passing as a Frenchman would have seemed simple by comparison. Wilhelm had spent time in France, speaking the language, eating the food, bedding the women. But America might as well have been the moon.
On the other hand, who would think to look for a Kriegsmarine deserter in a transit prison for Allied aviators? Maybe Wilhelm had managed to find the one safe place for him in Germany.
The emotional pendulum reminded him of his first patrol. As the U-boat wolf pack headed to intercept the convoy, he expected to meet a painful death by drowning or suffocation. To spend eternity on the bottom of the Atlantic. But at other moments, he believed his training and the Reich’s technology would prove more than adequate. Within a matter of hours, he swayed from cold-sweat terror to senior-cadet bravado. And back again. That day seemed a century ago, the history of someone else. But today, Wilhelm felt the same crests and troughs of fear.
Finally two Luftwaffe guards came for him—the same two guards who brought the food carts at each mealtime. Something about their manner seemed different. Whenever they brought food, they exchanged easy banter with the kriegies, perhaps enjoying the chance to perfect their English. Or their American English, to be precise. They seemed to bear these enemy prisoners no ill will. If they were thoughtful men, perhaps they actually felt grateful to the kriegies for giving them a job that didn’t involve frozen death on the Eastern Front.
But when they called for “Thomas Meade” and beckoned for Wilhelm to come with them, they seemed . . . sad. Curiously, they had not appeared that way when they’d come for Hagan. What had changed? What did they know? Had Wilhelm’s identity already caught up with him?
Yes, a dulag luft is a highly unlikely place for a navy deserter, Wilhelm thought. But we Germans are nothing if not good record keepers. A place for everything, and everything in its place. And a ledger to track it. If an entry does not look right, a phone call or a telegram can clear the matter immediately.
The guards led Wilhelm down a corridor in silence. He decided to try his act on them; he had precious little time left to practice, and surviving the next hour might depend on his limited thespian skills. In a low voice, concentrating on every syllable, Wilhelm called on new slang he’d learned during the past two days: “What’s eating you boys?”
“Your interrogator, Major Treider, is a bastard,” one of them said.
“Shh!” the other responded.
The news came like a ping from an American destroyer: Danger was closing in, and there was little Wilhelm could do about it. He resolved simply to hold on to his honor as he defined it. Wilhelm no longer had a country to betray, but he hoped he would not betray himself.
Sunlight burned Wilhelm’s eyes when the guards opened the outer door. He squinted, held up his palm to block the glare as if opening a U-boat’s hatch into a bright day. He’d not been outside since the night he and Hagan arrived, and the march to the interrogation afforded him his first real view of the camp. Twenty wooden barracks stood along either side of a muddy compound. Tangles of razor wire lined the outer fence, and a pine forest lay beyond the camp perimeter. Kriegies stood outside in knots, talking and smoking. Most wore various combinations of American uniforms; others appeared to be Brits or Canadians. Their eyes followed Wilhelm as he passed. From their expressions, he gleaned no hint about what lay ahead of him. Though they all looked thin, none looked as gaunt as the starving Jews he’d seen at Valentin.
He shivered as he walked across the prison grounds; his new American field jacket from the Red Cross failed to keep out the chill. But at least now he had the costume for his stage play.
On the other side of the compound, the guards made Wilhelm wipe the mud off his boots. They ushered him into a room and sat him on a stool before a desk. Then they locked the door and left.
No one entered the room for an hour. Wilhelm listened closely, like a U-boat’s sound man at his station, waiting for any noise that might signal trouble. He heard nothing—no shouted questions, no screams of torture, not even a typewriter’s clacking.
Finally footsteps came and the rattle of keys. The door swung open to admit two guards he’d not seen before, along with a heavyset Luftwaffe major carrying a folder. Wilhelm presumed it was Treider. The major did not wear a pilot’s badge, so Wilhelm had no idea of the man’s training and background. Intelligence, perhaps? As a U-boat officer, Wilhelm knew more about the American and British Navies than the German Air Force.
“Stand up when I enter the room,” Treider shouted.
Unsure how to respond, Wilhelm hesitated. How would an American react? Wilhelm rose to his feet, but he did it slowly while attempting a smirk.
The major crossed the room in two strides and stood with his nose just inches from Wilhelm’s face. Or inches from his neck, to be exact. The Luftwaffe man stood a few inches shorter than Wilhelm. Up close, Wilhelm noticed beard stubble, angry gray eyes, bad breath.
“You had better show some respect, Lieutenant—or whatever your rank is,” the major said, “or I will have my men teach you respect.”
This major missed his calling, Wilhelm thought. Perhaps he failed at pilot training. In any case, he seemed more suited for the SS than the air force.
Treider sat at the desk and ordered Wilhelm to return to the stool. He opened the folder, which contained only one sheet of paper.
“Meade is your name, correct?” Treider asked.
“Correct. Lieutenant Thomas Meade.”
“Give me your identification tags.”
So this is how it ends, Wilhelm thought. Do not betray yourself.
“I, uh, lost them.”
Treider stared at Wilhelm for several seconds. “You what?” he said.
“I lost them.”
The major said nothing. He simply cut his eyes at one of the guards, then tipped his chin toward Wilhelm.
Instantly the guard fell upon Wilhelm. Grabbed him by the collar of the field jacket. Lifted him from the stool. Propelled him two meters across the room and slammed him into the wall. Wilhelm felt his head crack against the brickwork. The guard swung him away from the wall and threw him onto the floor. He landed on the ribs he’d cracked during the bombing at Valentin. Pain wracked Wilhelm. His vision grayed.
The guard stood over him, leering. The sight put Wilhelm in mind of the SS goon who had tormented the Jewish eisenkommandos. He wanted to leap to his feet and
smash the man’s face with a left jab and right hook. But he knew that would ultimately bring more pain on himself. When navigating a strait littered with sharp rocks, one needn’t steer into trouble deliberately.
“How could you lose your identification tags, you imbecile?” Treider asked.
Wilhelm sat up, placed his hand on his side, winced. “I don’t know,” he said. “I had them when we were captured.” Careful about the accent, he reminded himself. “Your SS boys beat us. My dog tags must have fallen off then.”
“And well they might have beaten you terrorfliegers, the way you bomb our cities, our women, and our children.”
Wilhelm shrugged. The guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back to the stool.
“Do you have an identification card, anything at all?” Treider asked.
Wilhelm shook his head. “Those SS boys took my, uh, wallet. And my watch.”
The Luftwaffe officer seethed. Wilhelm understood why. Very German of him to want a card or a tag to match with a record. Here was something that could not be documented. Would this fat major accept the story, or would he make dangerous inquiries? No turning back now. The tide would sweep Wilhelm according to its will.
Treider scanned his file folder, then slammed it onto the desk. “Your case is very curious,” he said. “Normally, by the time we interrogate a kriegie, we already know his base and unit, his hometown, his crew position, and more. On you, we have nothing.”
“Thomas Meade is a common name.” Did I offer that too quickly? Wilhelm asked himself. Do not protest too much, as the English say.
“I am aware of that, imbecile. How could you be so stupid, so lax in discipline, as to lose all manner of identification?”
Do not speak to me of military professionalism, you overweight file clerk, Wilhelm thought. But while his emotions raged, his intellect calculated. Yes, he decided, I am a stupid, lax, undisciplined American. A dummkopf.
“Well, just go ahead and yell at me for it,” Wilhelm said. “It is—it’s not like I, uh, ain’t been yelled at before.”
