by Tom Young
They turned over the tables; metal dishes crashed to the floor. POWs cursed under their breath. The guards kicked down bookcases, knocked over shelves, flipped mattresses. With their crowbars, they pried up floorboards. Planks groaned and cracked. Dust flew.
“Looking for your wife, Fritz?” one of the kriegies muttered. “She was here all last night.” He said it a little too loudly, and a guard heard him. The guard slapped him, then turned back to the search.
They found nothing but an empty can for that processed meat the Americans called “Spam.” They acted as if they’d found an arms cache.
“Was ist das?” one of them said, holding the can high.
“It’s an empty can, dumbass,” a kriegie said.
Some of these Americans displayed panache under pressure; Wilhelm had to give them that much.
“And perhaps you save it for a scoop?” the guard said, switching to English. “Scooping the dirt?”
By this time, McLendon and Hagan had entered the hut. Hagan looked a little frightened; the block commander looked disgusted. A guard with a crowbar pushed and shoved through the men to reach McLendon. He placed the crook of the crowbar under McLendon’s chin.
“You like to dig?” the guard said. “Perhaps you dig your grave with this scoop.”
McLendon glared at the guard, but did not react. The naval officer in Wilhelm wanted to call these simpletons to attention and dress them down for unprofessional behavior. But, of course, that part of him was no more. Here, he was only Thomas Meade. Kriegie. Flyboy. New guy from New York.
“Look at the can,” McLendon said. “Do you see any dirt in it? It’s just a piece of trash.”
The guard pressed upward on McLendon’s chin with the crowbar.
“I hope you do try to escape,” the guard said. “I will personally beat you to death with this.”
The guard lowered his crowbar and turned away from McLendon. He and his four colleagues began tossing sheets and blankets, scattering cookware. Now they seemed not even to search, but simply to try to make as big a mess as possible.
When they could find no more beds to rip up or shelves to dump, they gathered at the doorway. As they left, one of them called out in heavily accented English, “Your maid has now much work to do.” The remark brought laughter from the other guards.
McLendon slammed the door behind them and muttered, “Bastards.”
“You okay?” Hagan asked him.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” McLendon said, rubbing his chin.
“All that, and they didn’t find nothing,” a kriegie said.
The comment made Wilhelm curious: What was there to find? And where could it be if not hidden under floorboards?
“These guards ain’t exactly their best and brightest,” another man said. “They put their high-speed guys on submarines and airplanes, and they send their morons here.”
True enough, Wilhelm thought. True enough.
The kriegies went to work remaking their beds, picking up their books, gathering their cookware. Wilhelm made a point of helping the other men and not just picking up his own belongings. He couldn’t tell whether the effort garnered him any goodwill; the men hardly spoke to him except for the occasional “Thanks, bud.”
The cleanup took until suppertime. In the evening, some of the kriegies brought steaming pots from the cookhouse. They ladled out bowls of a soup made from beets and potatoes. It wasn’t very good, but it was hot and filling. Wilhelm sat beside Hagan. He felt better now, a little less stiff and sore. They ate in silence and listened to the prisoners’ conversations.
“Gave the place a good going-over today, didn’t they?” a prisoner said.
“Yeah,” McLendon responded, “and they’ll just get meaner as they lose the war.”
The block commander spoke as if confident of his prediction. Yes, the Reich was losing—and badly.
But how do these men know? Some have been prisoners of war for two years.
How much news do they get here? And by what means? Questions swirled in Wilhelm’s mind.
“They might have had an inspection today,” a third kriegie said. Gestured with his spoon as he spoke. “The little visit they paid us might have been part of that.”
“Probably,” McLendon said.
“What kind of inspection?” Hagan asked.
“Ever since the escape attempt over at Stalag Luft III,” McLendon said, “the SS has been dropping surprise inspections on all the prisons. They think the Luftwaffe’s too soft on us.”
The mention of the SS churned the acid in Wilhelm’s gut. He slurped from his spoon and chewed a chunk of overcooked beet, but he had little appetite now.
“They’ll have a lot more to bitch about pretty soon, now that the Russians have rolled into East Prussia,” another prisoner offered. “And when the Russkies get here and see how they’ve treated their boys on the other side of that fence, they’ll be mightily pissed.”
Good heavens, how does this man know such a thing?
Wilhelm believed prisoners of war should be treated decently, to be sure. But that didn’t require giving them intelligence briefings. A kommandant would naturally want the POWs to know as little as possible about the war. Of course, fresh prisoners entering the camp would bring some news, but with this level of detail?
“You guys want another update tonight?” a kriegie asked. A small, thin man with a dark moustache. On his sleeve, he wore a patch that depicted a cartoon rabbit holding a carrot and riding a bomb.
“Thanks, Sparks,” another man said. “But maybe we better hold off if the SS is sniffing around the camp.”
“After the way they busted up the hut today,” McLendon said, “I think they’re through with us for now. Tonight’s as safe as any night.”
“All right,” Sparks said. “Lemme finish eating, and I’ll rig her up.”
Rig up what? Wilhelm looked at Hagan, who simply shrugged.
The man they called “Sparks” wolfed down two pieces of black bread, wiped his hands on his trousers, and rose from the table. He went over to the stove, which sat on a brick base. Sparks removed a brick and withdrew a coil of wire and three other small objects. He moved down the row of bunks and lifted a mattress. Reached through some sort of opening in the mattress, and found a block of wood not much bigger than a cigarette pack. The block had what appeared to be electrical components attached to it—perhaps diodes or resistors.
Sparks moved to the bookshelf and selected a volume. Opened the book and, from a recess cut through the pages, took a tiny cylinder with wires wrapped around it. Then he found an empty Spam can, the same one the guards had discovered earlier. On the table, Sparks began assembling a makeshift radio.
What ingenuity these men had; they reminded him of his U-351 crewmates. He was so impressed that he broke his usual silence. “Fantastic,” he said, in his best American accent. “How did you learn to do that?”
“I was a radio operator before I went to pilot training,” Sparks said.
“Old Sparks is our window on the world,” McLendon said. He turned to another of his men. “Charlie,” McLendon said, “ain’t it your turn at lookout?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie said. “Let me know what I miss.”
The man named Charlie got up from his seat and took a position by the door. Cracked the door open and peered out.
“Coast is clear,” Charlie said. “I’ll cough if I see somebody coming.”
“That’s the drill,” McLendon said. “All right, Sparks. Do your stuff.”
Sparks moved his tuning coil. Static and hum sounded from within the Spam can. Then came a faint warble of voices, first in German, then in English. The men leaned in, strained to listen. Sparks stopped moving the coil when he found the frequency he wanted. Wilhelm shut his eyes to listen more closely, the same way his own audio man used to listen for the screws of a U.S. destroyer. His ears adjusted to the cadence of a tinny Yank voice: “. . . direct from important overseas stations, reporters of the Columbia Broadcastin
g System present the latest political and war news, brought to you by Admiral appliances. Now, here’s Douglas Edwards.”
The newsman described Japanese attempts to regroup following their naval defeat at a place called Leyte Gulf. Wilhelm had scarcely followed news from the Pacific; the Philippines might as well have been on another planet. The Russians had crossed the Danube.
How in the name of Neptune had they moved so quickly?
Fierce fighting raged near the French town of Metz, close to the German border. Patton’s Third Army surged against panzer attacks. Churchill called for Frenchmen to rally around de Gaulle.
Wilhelm had known for months the war was going badly for the Reich. He could tell that purely from the short life expectancy of a U-boat on the surface. But he’d never heard such foreboding details; this report stood in stark contrast with Nazi propaganda broadcasts. Berlin described a fantasy world with new superweapons in development, fresh reserves called up, unrest in Allied capitals.
For a few seconds, the broadcast drowned in static until it became unintelligible. Wilhelm feared the signal would not come back, but Sparks moved his tuning coil ever so slightly.
“We usually get the BBC,” Sparks said. “But this sounds like an American broadcast skipping off the atmosphere.” The signal returned more clearly than before, just in time for Wilhelm to hear: “We take you now to Eric Sevareid in London.”
The newsman Sevareid reported on ministerial sessions about how the Allies would take over the German economy. He spoke in dispassionate terms about running the farms and factories of a defeated Reich. Skilled and unskilled labor would be mobilized; Germans up to age sixty would be compelled to rebuild their own nation. Some would go abroad to repair the countries their armies had smashed.
Mein Gott, Wilhelm thought. In their zeal to make us gods, the Nazis have made us slaves.
Inside these meetings, Sevareid implied, German defeat was taken as a given. No doubt the ministers were correct, given the headlines at the top of the broadcast.
Then why in God’s name did the fighting continue? Every life lost from now on is a waste, Wilhelm believed. Yes, he thought, I saved my honor by losing it. I did not squander the lives of the good men on my crew. Maybe the U-351 never departed on its suicide mission. Perhaps the crew, or at least some of them, would survive the war. If so, they might spend a few months digging potatoes for the Poles, but at least they would eventually go home.
At the door, Charlie gave a thumbs-up signal. McLendon gestured for Sparks to let the radio continue playing.
The broadcast turned to U.S. domestic news. Franklin D. Roosevelt had recently won an unprecedented fourth term as president. Wilhelm looked around at the Americans. None appeared surprised; most seemed pleased. The newsman noted that Roosevelt would begin the new term with a new vice president: Harry S. Truman, a senator from the state of Missouri. Wilhelm had never heard this name.
When the broadcast ended, Sparks dismantled the radio. He placed the various components in their hiding places, and the kriegies turned in for the night.
Wilhelm lay awake considering all he’d learned. Russians across the Danube. Stalag Luft XIV was in eastern Germany; Soviet troops could crash the gates within weeks, if not days.
How would the German guards react? They could melt into the forest and leave the prisoners to fend for themselves. They could evacuate the camp and force-march the POWs elsewhere. Or they could simply execute every single kriegie and be done with it. Everything depended on who was giving the orders at the time.
Even if the prisoners suddenly found themselves free, they could find themselves free amid lawlessness. They might wander a landscape filled with desperate Germans, Russian troops drunk on victory and schnapps, and common criminals unconcerned about consequences.
Wilhelm recalled a concept from his military studies, now more troubling than ever: For civilians and POWs, the end of a war could become its most dangerous time.
38
The X Committee
Dawn came with a hard freeze. At the morning roll call, kriegies stood with their hands stuffed in their pockets against the chill. Frost coated the few blades of grass in the compound. Men shivered and cursed in impatience as each name was called out. When roll call ended, Karl chatted briefly with bunkmates, their breath visible in the cold morning air. But the real reason he lingered outside despite the weather was to get a private word with Albrecht.
“You feel up for a walk?” Karl asked.
“Yes,” Albrecht said. “I don’t hurt so much now. I would like the exercise.” The two men began strolling the camp perimeter.
If we’re gonna die here, Karl thought, we might as well do it on a first-name basis. “It was all a test, Wilhelm,” Karl whispered. “By the way, call me Karl.”
“Very good, Karl,” Wilhelm said. “But what do you mean about ‘a test’?” He wrapped his field jacket tightly around himself.
“The radio. Now that we know they have it, they want to see if they get another raid. They want to see if we rat them out.”
“ ‘Rat them out’?”
“Sorry. I mean, they want to see if one of us is a spy and tells the Germans they have a radio.”
“We would never do that,” Wilhelm said. “But, of course, they don’t know that. And yes, I wondered why they trusted me so soon with such a fact.”
“It’s because they don’t trust you at all, buddy.”
“But why would they risk losing the radio? Such a treasure.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they think we’re so close to the end of the war that it doesn’t matter. Or maybe this guy Sparks is such a scrounger, he can just make another radio from a shoestring and a nail.”
“He’s very resourceful. He would make a good U-boat officer.”
Karl chortled. “Yeah, don’t tell him that.”
“Indeed not.”
“Listen,” Karl said, “here’s the other thing. I gotta get you and Billy Pell together, since you’re supposed to know each other.”
“Yes. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll fix that today. And remember—you got shot down with him and you haven’t seen him since. You’re really glad to see him. Ham it up like Cecil B. DeMille is directing.”
“I’ll try.”
Karl noted that Wilhelm was using contractions, sounding more like an American. And it seemed to come more naturally. That was a good thing—their lives could depend on it. Karl decided to kick it up a notch. He dropped his voice to the quietest whisper he could manage. “When you meet Billy, let people hear you, and use some slang. You ain’t seen him in a dog’s age. Stuff like that.”
“ ‘A dog’s age’? This makes no sense.”
“Of course, it doesn’t. Your being here doesn’t, either.”
For just an instant, Karl thought he saw a sparkle of mischief in Wilhelm’s eyes. Closest thing to humor he’d ever seen from the guy.
“Well,” Wilhelm said in pure, flat Yank, “you got me on that.”
Karl chuckled. “Damn, that’s good,” he said. “Keep it up.”
Wilhelm rolled his eyes. “Good heavens,” he said.
Karl wanted to rush to find Billy Pell. He knew the meeting between Pell and Wilhelm would be an awkward little stage play, and he wanted it over as soon as possible. But Karl had chores assigned, and he did them first. He drew laundry duty, which he hated. For four hours, he scraped shirts, trousers, and sheets against a washboard. Wrung them out and hung them to dry inside the washhouse. His fingertips shriveled in the cold gray wash water. If he ever got married, he vowed, he’d make sure to buy his wife one of those fancy machine washers to spare her this god-awful drudgery.
He pulled laundry duty with three other men, all of whom had lived in Stalag Luft XIV for at least a year. They had learned to read the camp, to see the signs for what they were, and to notice everything.
“It’s getting real bad over on the Russian side,” one of the long-timers s
aid. A navigator from the Bloody 100th, so named for its heavy losses. His leather flight jacket had dried and cracked with the passing of German seasons.
“How’s that?” Karl asked.
“I watched them during their roll call this morning. I swear to God they were holding up dead men to be counted. Four or five, from what I could see.”
Karl stared at the nav. “Why in the world would they do that?” he asked.
“For the food ration. They’re all starving over there.”
“How do you know they were dead?”
“In the cold, you could see everybody’s breath. But not theirs.”
“The Jerries don’t view us as their natural enemies,” another laundry kriegie said. A Brit from Coventry who had gone down in a Lancaster. “But they hate the Slavs as much as the Jews.”
“Good Lord,” Karl said.
All that separates us from those starving Russians, Karl thought, is a few strands of razor wire and a few lines of policy. And that policy could change at the stroke of a pen! Especially as the war goes worse and worse for the Germans.
Karl left the washhouse with his fingers desiccated and aching from the cold water. He cupped his hands and blew warm breath into them as he scoured the compound for Billy and Wilhelm. He discovered Wilhelm in front of the chapel, smoothing the dirt and stones with a rake.
“You done?” Karl asked.
“I was finished an hour ago,” Wilhelm said. “I see little point to this task.”
“Me neither. Let’s go see if Billy’s in his hut.”
At Hut 6A, smoke curled from the stovepipe. Karl could hear men inside chatting and coughing. His heart thudded as he rapped on the door, thinking: This little act better look convincing. Wilhelm stood behind him on the steps. Pell answered the door, and Karl cocked his head toward Wilhelm. Met Pell’s eyes as if to say: You’re on.
“Tommy boy,” Pell cried. He pushed past Karl and grabbed Wilhelm around the neck like a roughhousing schoolkid. “Damn, it’s good to see you. Thought you were a goner.” The two men stumbled together into the graveled compound.
