by Tom Young
Again Treider glanced at his guards. One of them kicked the stool. It clattered from under Wilhelm, and he tumbled to the floor. He broke his fall with his arm and skinned the heel of his hand. Felt another jolt of pain through his ribs, but not as bad as before.
“Pick up the stool,” the guard ordered.
Wilhelm got up onto his knees, rubbed his hand on his trousers, then stood and collected the stool from the corner where it had come to rest. Placed it in front of the desk and sat down again.
“So you are used to your superiors shouting at you,” Treider said. “I gather that you are something of a failure as an officer.”
Think, Wilhelm ordered himself. The conversation is going in the right direction. Use this moment well if you want to live.
“I got transferred around a lot,” Wilhelm said. “It wasn’t my fault. I just had, uh, bosses who didn’t like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was with the 94th when I got shot down, but I had been with other units.”
“Other units?”
Wilhelm thought for a moment. What is the terminology? “Bomb group ”? You must get this right, he told himself.
“Other bomb groups before the 94th. I’d get into trouble and they would transfer me.”
“Perhaps this is why we have no file on you.”
Yes, yes, exactly, Wilhelm thought. He looked at the major and shrugged.
“Then we will begin with the basics,” Treider said. “What is your full name?”
“Thomas Meade.”
“Your full name, idiot.”
A middle name, Wilhelm thought. What would be an American middle name? It could be anything. Just something you won’t forget.
“Slocum,” Wilhelm said. “Thomas Slocum Meade.”
The major scribbled onto the paper in his file folder. “Rank?” he asked.
“First Lieutenant.”
“Service number?”
For this, at least, Wilhelm had prepared. From perusing Carlton Meade’s dog tags, he knew he needed an eight-digit number. Not the real Meade’s number, of course. That might have caused Meade’s family to get a false report of his survival and capture. Wilhelm needed a different number. One he could easily recall.
“Six-seven-one-six-two-four-eight-eight.”
Specifications of the U-351: Length of 67.1 meters. Beam, 6.2 meters. Draft, 4.8 meters, and she cruised submerged at eight knots. Where was she now? Still tied to the pier at Valentin, Wilhelm hoped. He prayed she had not taken her crew pointlessly to the ocean floor.
“Date of birth?”
Wilhelm had considered this question, too: What should he say beyond name, rank, and serial number? The more lies he told, the more he’d have to remember. Better to keep it simple and just look like an American who didn’t want to talk.
“Name, rank, and service number,” Wilhelm said. “That’s all you get.”
The major stopped writing and looked up from his paper. He glared with such hatred that Wilhelm almost thought him mad.
“Date. Of. Birth,” Treider enunciated.
“Thomas Slocum Meade. First Lieutenant. Six-seven-one-six-two-four-eight-eight.”
The Luftwaffe officer capped his pen and slapped it onto the desk. Waved a hand at the two guards. Sat back and folded his arms.
The guards rushed at Wilhelm like Dobermans unleashed. One came behind Wilhelm and grabbed him by his jacket collar. Hauled him up from the stool. The other came at him from the front and drove a fist underhand into his stomach.
The blow doubled him over and forced the air from his lungs. The guard behind him let go of his jacket and let him collapse to the floor. He lay gasping, but he could not take in air. For long seconds, he felt he might suffocate like an entombed submariner. Some part of his mind told him: You deserve this. You should have died struggling for breath with your crew.
But no, he decided. My crewmates, those gallant souls, should not die for men such as these goons in this room. If my crewmates are still alive, Wilhelm thought, I am taking this beating for them.
A boot caught Wilhelm in the small of his back. Pain shot through his whole body. He might have cried out if he’d had breath to do so. But he felt glad he hadn’t given these cretins the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Now if he could only keep silent for a little longer.
The next blow landed on the back of his legs, behind the knees. Didn’t hurt much, but forced his legs to fold nearly into the fetal position. Maybe the guards took that as a sign of weakness, because the beating and kicking intensified. A heel landed on the small of his back. That did hurt, like a dagger between his vertebrae. Wilhelm clenched his jaw to stifle a scream. By the time the sound emerged, it came out as a snarl through gritted teeth.
The guard who’d kicked him from behind came around in front of him. Raised a boot inches from his nose as if to smash his face. Wilhelm closed his eyes, waited for a crushing blow.
“Careful,” Treider said.
What is this? Mercy?
If so, a twisted version.
Instead of stomping Wilhelm’s face, the guard kicked him in the breastbone. The impact rattled his damaged ribs. This time, the pain overcame Wilhelm’s willpower. He opened his mouth and let out a full-throated scream. His cry echoed off the walls.
The guards smirked, apparently satisfied. They stood over him, arms folded like tradesmen who’d just completed a task.
“Pick him up,” Treider said. “Photograph him. Process him. In the unlikely event this fool knows anything useful, the cooler may loosen his tongue.”
The guards yanked Wilhelm up by his jacket collar. He tried to stand on his own; he wanted no help from these goons. But when he put his weight on his left foot, pain radiated through his whole body.
Very well, he thought. Let them do the work.
They placed his arms over their shoulders. Treider opened the door and the guards carried him from the interrogation room, his boots dragging on the concrete floor. They dragged him down the hall, turned left, and dragged him down another hall. Stopped in front of an office door, opened it, and dragged him inside.
In the office, a woman in civilian clothing worked at a desk. She looked up and frowned, stared at Wilhelm and the guards who carried him. Wilhelm got the impression she’d seen this before, but didn’t like it.
Across from the desk, an empty chair stood backdropped by a sheet of white cardboard nailed to the wall. The guards lowered Wilhelm into the chair. He took hold of the armrests and tried to steady himself.
So this is why the major stopped them from smashing my face, Wilhelm realized. No evidence of misdeeds in the photograph.
“Camera,” one of the guards said. The woman opened a drawer, withdrew a Leica camera stamped with an eagle and swastika. Passed the Leica to the guard.
“Sit up straight,” the guard snapped.
Wilhelm raised himself so that his spine did not touch the back of the chair. The guard aimed the camera, snapped a photograph.
“Stay there,” the guard said.
Wilhelm sat in the office with the woman for an hour. When the guards returned, one handed him a new identification card.
“If you lose this,” the guard said, “the beating we gave you this morning will seem like a holiday.”
Wilhelm looked down at the card. The photograph showed a tired sailor with dark swells under his eyes, looking fifteen years older than his real age. The wording, in English and in German, identified him as Lieutenant Thomas Slocum Meade, U.S. Army Air Forces. Birthplace, birthdate, and religion remained blank. But under the entry for Lager, it read: Stalag Luft XIV. So they had already decided where to put him. And he would go there as: Prisoner of War Number 8683-C.
34
The New Europe
Three days in solitary confinement felt like light punishment for Karl’s refusal to talk. During that time, he subsisted on black bread and water, along with some thin beef broth. But apart from the lousy food, he suffered no abuse, he had plenty of time to
rest, and the wound on his arm from the dog bite was healing. At the very least, he no longer worried about getting pitchforked by every farmer in the countryside.
Still, he found other things to worry about—especially Albrecht. How was his story holding up? How was he holding up? Karl’s thoughts also kept returning to his crew. What he wouldn’t give now to be back in the cockpit all those days ago, to have one more chance to turn back. He saw the faces of his friends, and he wondered who had survived.
Maybe he’d learn more about their fate when he reached his next stop. The guards had told him—and his POW card confirmed—that he was bound for Stalag Luft XIV, one of the large prison camps in eastern Germany. With luck, perhaps he’d even meet some of his crew there.
On the morning of Karl’s fourth day in solitary, the guards woke him before sunrise. They were the same two guys who had always brought the food around, and they seemed decent enough. One of them said, “I am sorry, Lieutenant, but you must remove your boots.”
“What for?” Karl asked.
“You and your friends are getting on a train today. The commandant doesn’t want you escaping.”
“It’s damned freezing outside.”
“I know. You may keep your coat. But you must remove your boots. We will tag them, and you will get them back at your destination.”
Karl muttered curses, untied his boots, and pulled them off. The guards opened his cell, collected his boots, and led him outdoors. The cold cut through his socks immediately, but all the activity outside kept his attention off his discomfort. In the cold, clear darkness, at least a couple hundred men began lining up in rows. All officers, all without boots. So the enlisted were going somewhere else. Guards moved among the POWs like sheepdogs, some pointing with their fingers, others snarling and prodding with their machine pistols.
Karl noticed his interrogator, Captain Kostler, standing with his hands on his hips, saying nothing. Kostler nodded to him in a manner that seemed almost friendly.
So long, Karl thought. He remembered what Kostler had said about the SS and the POW camps. Now he wished he’d asked for more details.
Another German officer, a lard-assed major, made his way through the kriegies and started shouting orders. “Line up,” the major screamed. “Get in line or we will shoot you where you stand.”
The prisoners shuffled into line more quickly. Karl looked around for Albrecht, but saw no sign of him. Was he already dead or in some Gestapo dungeon?
The major yelled more spittle-flecked orders, and the lines began moving. The prisoners were marched to a rail platform just outside the camp. Each man picked up a Red Cross parcel for the journey.
Though Karl felt eternally grateful to the Red Cross, whatever appetite he might have had left him as soon as he boarded the boxcar. The odor—something between a sewer and a barnyard—overpowered him. The kriegies began retching and complaining, and an American lieutenant colonel shouted something about this being unacceptable. The fat Luftwaffe major slapped him. When the American officer drew back as if to hit the major, a guard jammed the muzzle of a machine pistol into his chest.
The Germans shoved thirty men into the boxcar with Karl. Other prisoners filled boxcars on either side. Atop one of the cars, a guard sat behind a pintle-mounted machine gun; anyone who broke and ran from the train would make an easy target. Inside the boxcars, the men could only stand. No one had room to sit or lie down—and Karl wouldn’t have wanted to lie down, anyway. He had no desire to get any closer to whatever filth mixed with the straw that covered the floor.
After an hour of waiting, the train finally began to move. The boxcar jolted and swayed, and the locomotive’s smoke mingled with the general stink. The men stumbled and struggled for balance. Karl held on to his Red Cross box and tried not to fall into anyone.
As the train chugged along, his need to urinate became more urgent. Karl didn’t want to push his way through the men to reach the single bucket at the rear of the boxcar, but he no longer had a choice. Muttering “sorry” and “excuse me,” he weaved through the crowd. He stuck the Red Cross box under his arm, unzipped, and did his best to keep his urine stream within the half-full bucket.
When he finished, he looked up and saw Albrecht. The sailor leaned into a corner as if he could barely support himself. His Red Cross parcel lay at his feet, unopened. Eyes closed, he’d turned his head to place his nose between the boxcar’s slats for slightly fresher air. Despite the discomfort and smell, Karl felt a rush of relief. If Albrecht was here, it meant his act had held up.
“Hey, uh, Meade,” Karl said. “You okay?”
Albrecht opened his eyes, looked over at Karl. Gave a thin smile.
“Yep” was all he said. Sounded reasonably American, despite apparent pain.
“They work you over pretty good?”
Albrecht closed his eyes, turned his nose back to the slats. Inhaled slowly as if breathing hurt. Nodded.
“I bet you didn’t give ’em nothing,” Karl said. Because, of course, Albrecht had no information to give. At least nothing the Luftwaffe was looking for.
Albrecht shook his head.
“Make some room, fellas,” Karl said. “This guy just took a beating from the Krauts.”
Somehow, the men managed to open enough space for Albrecht to slide down the wall into a squatting position. Hardly comfortable, but maybe a little more restful than standing.
“Hang in there, pal,” someone said.
“How bad are you hurt?” Karl asked. “You need a doctor?” As soon as he asked the question, Karl felt foolish. Where would they get a doctor today? And even if a German doctor were available, Albrecht wouldn’t want to call attention to himself.
“No broken bones,” Albrecht said. “Just very sore.”
Karl puzzled over the sailor’s rough treatment. During Karl’s interrogation, Kostler hadn’t laid a hand on him. Maybe Albrecht had gotten someone different. But whatever had happened, Albrecht must have kept his cool and stayed in character.
For hours, the train rolled through dark forests, shuttered villages, and fallow farmland: Karl caught glimpses between the slats. Someone stumbled and kicked over the urine bucket, and the smell worsened until he retched. At midmorning, the train slowed and groaned to a stop. Karl hoped the journey was over, but when the guards slid open the doors, he saw only a small village’s railway station. Apparently, the train was just stopping for coal. Guards wielded their machine pistols and ordered the men out.
“Anyone running will shoot,” one of the guards called out in broken English. Not exactly what he meant, but the message came through.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” a kriegie responded. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
The men tumbled from the boxcar, stretched out their arms, took deep gulps of fresh air. Karl held back and helped Albrecht down from the train. Albrecht winced and held his side, but he did not complain.
“Where do you think we are?” Karl asked.
Albrecht looked around. “I do not know this village,” he whispered.
Townspeople waited on the platform, presumably with tickets for a more comfortable train. Old burghers in long wool coats glared at the prisoners. Small children gaped. Girls giggled and pointed at the men’s feet, clad only in socks.
On the station’s outside wall, a tattered poster read: Das neue Europe ist unschlagbar. The poster’s weathered look suggested it had hung there for at least a couple of years. Above the lettering, a map depicted an expanded Reich encompassing most of the continent. Arrows pointed outward toward Britain, Iceland, and Greenland, and into the Soviet Union. One even pointed straight across the Atlantic. Karl noted that the slogan, like the map, now seemed a little out of date: The new Europe is unbeatable.
While the train took on coal, guards let the prisoners drink water, eat from their Red Cross boxes, and relieve themselves behind the station. Moving like a very old man, Albrecht lowered himself onto the platform floor and sat with his back to a wooden pillar that su
pported the roof. The guards positioned themselves at intervals along the platform, and the man on the machine gun swiveled his weapon left and right as he scanned the kriegies. His belt-fed cartridges glinted in the sunlight, and no one tried to bolt.
Karl opened his Red Cross parcel. He found crackers, a tin of Spam, two bars of soap, three packs of Lucky Strikes, four ounces of coffee, and cans of prunes, jam, and dried apples. Offered a cracker to Albrecht, who shook his head. Karl placed the cracker in his mouth and began crunching. The salty taste reminded him of home, and it depressed him a little.
The townspeople cast silent looks at Karl and his fellow prisoners. The stares made him uncomfortable; he felt like a zoo animal on display. But no one made threatening gestures. Though any encounter with German civilians worried Karl, it appeared this one would pass uneventfully.
Then a group of Hitler Youth appeared. They tromped up the plank steps to the platform in a column of twos.
The dozen boys looked younger than the Volkssturm kids who had guarded Karl and Albrecht at the start of their captivity. These were maybe twelve or thirteen, and they wore black trousers, khaki shirts, and black neckerchiefs. Each sported one little splash of color: their black, red, and white Nazi armbands. They carried knives in black sheaths on their belts. An old man led them; he wore the insignia of an honorary SS officer.
When the boys saw the POWs, it seemed something dark inside them awakened. The transformation put Karl in mind of an electrical contactor in the B-17 closing on a bad circuit. In an instant, they switched from red-cheeked children to snarling zealots, shouting phrases and catchwords they’d heard in classrooms and on the radio.
“Terrorfliegers,” one screamed. “Luftgangsters!”
“Juden,” shouted another.
“You die,” a third called out in English.
One boy drew his knife and ran toward the kriegies. A guard caught him by the arm, spun him around, and shoved him back toward his friends. The boy offered no resistance. He probably never expected to stab a POW, Karl thought, but he’d been programmed to show hatred toward the enemy. The guard who caught him gave a shallow smile. Approval, apparently. Karl thought the guard looked like a coach chiding a favored linebacker for being a little too aggressive.
