Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

  The guards reported all prisoners accounted for, and Becker mounted the podium. He looked no happier than Timmersby, who eyed the SS officer with undisguised hatred. The kommandant kept his words brief.

  “We are joined by Standartenführer Keisinger and Major Treider of the Luftwaffe,” Becker said. With no further words of introduction, he yielded the podium to Keisinger.

  Keisinger clomped atop the wooden platform, his jackboots gleaming. A leather trench coat shielded him from the chill. His hat bore the SS skull insignia, purportedly signifying an SS man’s willingness to die for the German people. Wilhelm saw a simpler meaning: the pointless carnage brought about by the ideology behind that black uniform.

  “I see you are enjoying a life of leisure, courtesy of the Luftwaffe,” Keisinger said. He emphasized the last word in a way that dripped contempt for the air force. “But the SS requires more than leisure from a few of you. While we are here for inspections, we will conduct interviews with select prisoners.”

  Timmersby, face reddened, strode toward the podium. “I protest this,” he shouted. He tried to say more, but Keisinger cut him off.

  “Silence,” Keisinger ordered. “Guards, take him to my temporary office. The rest of you, we will come and get you if we need you. For now, you are dismissed.”

  The kriegies did not disassemble immediately. They stood in place and watched two SS noncoms lead away the senior POW. Timmersby kept up a defiant front, his back straight as a mast. As he passed, one of the RAF kriegies offered a two-finger V-for-Victory sign. For his effort, the RAF man received the butt of a Mauser in his stomach. He doubled over and fell. Two other POWs helped him to his feet.

  What could the SS want with us now? Wilhelm wondered. He noted how thoroughly he had come to identify with the POWs. Yes, us. Despite the X Committee’s suspicions, he felt more in common with Allied prisoners than with the Germans who guarded them. There were Jews among them, just as there were Lutherans and atheists. And no one cared.

  He doubted the SS would kill Timmersby and the other “select prisoners” outright. Maybe Keisinger hoped to glean information from high-value POWs as a crumbling regime scrambled for whatever advantage it could find.

  But who could the other “select prisoners” be?

  By the middle of the afternoon, Wilhelm learned he was one.

  Two SS guards burst through the doorway of Hut 4B. Wilhelm and Karl had just sat down to tin cups of weak coffee. Wilhelm had taken only one sip when the door banged open and cold air rushed in.

  “Meade,” one of the guards barked. “Thomas Meade.”

  Karl and Wilhelm locked eyes. What could they want with “Meade,” who was just another junior officer? Had Wilhelm’s real identity finally caught up with him?

  It seemed likely. So many little threads might have unraveled Wilhelm’s cover: His Kriegsmarine watch, stolen when they were first captured. A careless word spoken with a German accent. An alert clerk noting that a naval officer had gone missing in the same city on the same day as the downing of several American fliers.

  So now it ends, Wilhelm thought. By my wits and the kindness of an American, I have lived a few extra weeks. But my survival was never the point. My crew was the point. Maybe, just maybe, they didn’t die on a useless suicide mission, because they couldn’t patrol without an executive officer. And the navy didn’t have a lot of spare execs to replace me.

  Just hold on to that thought, Wilhelm told himself. It will carry you through until the firing squad chambers their rounds.

  The guards evidently spoke no English. They said nothing except “Thomas Meade,” and they gestured mutely with their weapons. They marched Wilhelm across the frozen compound, through a side gate, and down the road to the Kommandantur.

  There, in the camp headquarters complex, the guards ushered him into a small wooden office building. They placed him in a bare room furnished only with a table and straight-backed chairs. They shoved him into a chair, tied his arms behind him, and left.

  Wilhelm noticed light patches on the wall where maps, diagrams, or pictures of the Führer had recently hung. Until this morning, perhaps, this had been just another office. Now it had become an interrogation room, much like the one he’d seen before.

  So this is probably not my execution chamber, Wilhelm realized. But why interrogate me, or “Meade,” again?

  An hour passed. His arms grew cramped and his bladder grew full. Exactly the point of keeping him here, he supposed. Soften him up for questioning.

  Stay alert and keep thinking, he told himself. They may not intend to shoot you immediately, but you will need an agile mind to survive this day.

  Boots clomped on the plank stairs outside. A moment later, the door swung open. In waddled Treider. His clothing was wrinkled and, as before, he needed a shave. Behind him came Keisinger, whose uniform was as immaculate as Treider’s was sloppy. Everything on the SS officer shone black and silver except the red armband with the swastika. Clearly, one man took pride in his branch of service, though God alone knew why. The other apparently did not relish his ground role in the Luftwaffe. The flightless bird wants a black uniform, too.

  The two SS guards came in with Treider and Keisinger. Keisinger carried a file folder. He opened it and perused a sheet of paper.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Meade,” Keisinger said. “A pleasure to meet you more directly than during appell.”

  Wilhelm did not reply. His arms hurt and he needed a restroom. Treider stepped forward and leaned so close, Wilhelm could see the red veins across the whites of his eyes.

  “Standartenführer Keisinger feels we went too easily on you on your first interrogation at the dulag luft,” Treider said. “I tend to agree. So we will talk again, and you will tell us more.”

  You’re an American, Wilhelm reminded himself. Act like one. Talk like one. For every syllable.

  “I already toldya,” Wilhelm said. “I was a navigator. Not the best one, but that, uh, ain’t my fault. They didn’t tell me much.”

  Treider grabbed Wilhelm by the hair. Yanked his head back to force his eyes upward. Wilhelm glared, seethed. In the ring, he could have destroyed this fat man in seconds.

  Don’t get emotional, Wilhelm told himself. A battle of fists would be glorious, but this is a battle of wits. This man’s failed ambitions have curdled inside him to create a meanness of spirit. Use that, Wilhelm thought. Use everything you know.

  “Those of you who did not tell us much will tell us much today,” Treider said. “We do not have time for your fanciful excuses anymore.”

  Time? What is their rush?

  The booms in the distance are their rush, Wilhelm realized.

  As the Russians advanced, the prisoners would either be moved or liquidated. This was a last effort to extract information from them.

  “In some of our other facilities,” Keisinger said, “we have a range of methods to loosen tongues. Not here. Hermann Göring sees you as worthy adversaries, though I will never understand why. Yet, he has the ear of the Führer, and we must follow his orders.”

  “If it were up to me,” Treider said, “I would introduce you to those other methods. But I do not have a knife or a needle. I do not have poison gas or a blowtorch. I have only my pen, for writing.”

  With great ceremony, Treider pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and held it up. Issued by the Party, the cap featured an inlaid swastika. For a moment, Treider looked like some comical fat man about to perform a magic trick: I will make this pen disappear.

  Treider passed the pen to one of the guards, who stepped behind Wilhelm. The guard placed one hand on the back of the chair. With the other hand, he slipped the pen between the fingers of Wilhelm’s left hand. Positioned the pen across the main knuckle of his middle finger. Pressed hard.

  Pain shot through Wilhelm’s hand and all the way up his arm. He arched his back and clenched his jaw. His breath hissed between his teeth.

  “I suppose that hurts,” Treider said with a smirk. Wilhelm t
hought about what his ungloved left jab could do to that smirk.

  The guard released pressure on the pen and Wilhelm’s finger. Wilhelm relaxed the muscles of his back and settled into the chair.

  “What do you want from me?” Wilhelm asked. He felt sweat popping out across his upper lip.

  “We want to know about the radar on your bombers,” Keisinger said. “Let us begin with the simple things. Where in the aircraft is the radar unit located?”

  “I don’t know,” Wilhelm said. And, of course, that was the truth.

  I could not give them this information if I wanted to, he thought. Mein Gott, they will break all ten of my fingers.

  Treider nodded to the guard behind Wilhelm. The pen crushed against Wilhelm’s knuckle once more. Pain seared through his hand again, only worse. He turned his eyes to the ceiling and stifled a scream. The sound that came out of him turned into a series of grunts and gasps.

  “You will never fly again if we cripple your hand,” Treider said.

  Wilhelm glared at him. He thought of a rejoinder, and he could not resist voicing it.

  “Kinda like you never flew at all?” Wilhelm said.

  Treider’s face flushed. He stepped forward and slapped Wilhelm. The stinging blow turned Wilhelm’s head. Then he felt the pen grind into his knuckle again.

  Despite himself, Wilhelm cried out. He cursed himself for giving Treider the satisfaction. His bladder throbbed as though it would burst. Wilhelm fought to control it, tightened his loin muscles. Sweat now beaded on his forehead and ran into his eyes.

  “Let us dispense with insults and get down to business,” Keisinger said. “Again, where is the radar located?”

  Wilhelm considered his answer. Why shouldn’t he just guess? That couldn’t hurt the Allied cause, and if he kept silent, he might lose the use of his hands.

  “Amidships,” Wilhelm said. Scheisse, he thought. That is not aviator language. Think, think, think.

  “Where, ‘amidships’?” Keisinger said.

  “Uh, near the radio operator.” Another guess.

  Keisinger scribbled notes. Treider watched him write, and he beamed as if he’d just made a breakthrough.

  “So,” Keisinger said, “the radio operator also operates the radar?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Yet another guess. But it made sense. Radar was a form of radio.

  Keisinger made another note, then glanced up from his folder.

  “Very good,” he said. “And what is the manufacturer and model number of this radar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The guard clamped down with the pen. Wilhelm cried out again. This time, it felt as if his fingers would break like dry twigs. When he arched his back, his shirt tightened across his shoulders as if to rip at the seams.

  “Surely, you recognize a pattern here,” Treider said. “ ‘I don’t know’ is the wrong answer.”

  “I . . . I wouldn’t know the model number. I’m not the guy who uses it.”

  Wilhelm sucked in long breaths, forced himself to concentrate. Primarily, he concentrated on not losing his water. Then he tried to think through the pain. Now his fingers hurt even when the guard released pressure. He blinked to clear the burning sweat from his eyes.

  “The control panel for this radar,” Keisinger continued, “what does it look like?”

  “Switches and knobs,” Wilhelm said.

  Again came the crushing pressure. This time, the pain was too much. Wilhelm let out a full-throated scream. He felt a few drops of urine escape, but he tensed every muscle in his midsection and stopped it.

  “We need you to be a bit more specific,” Keisinger said.

  Now they will break my fingers, Wilhelm thought. I have nothing more to give them. They might as well ask me Roosevelt’s telephone number.

  Think, he ordered himself. Mein Gott, think. But I know nothing of American bombers, except what it’s like on the receiving end.

  The receiving end. Yes, Wilhelm thought. I do know about that. Turn it around and use what you know.

  “Look,” Wilhelm said, “I don’t operate the radar, so I can’t tell you how it works. But I can tell you we use it against your U-boats.”

  Both Treider and Keisinger looked straight at Wilhelm. Keisinger began writing again.

  “Now we are getting somewhere,” Keisinger said. “Perhaps you are not so stupid, after all, Lieutenant. Please go on.”

  No, I am not stupid, Wilhelm thought. But you two are probably ignorant of naval tactics. What I tell you will be news to you, but of no harm to Karl’s colleagues still in the fight.

  “We think your U-boats can detect the radar,” Wilhelm said. Of course, they could, for a time. Wilhelm’s crew used to employ something called a Biscay Cross, named for the Bay of Biscay, where it was so often needed. The Biscay Cross consisted of two crossbeams strung with antenna wire. It received radar signals and warned of an attacking aircraft’s approach. Wilhelm had stood many a watch on the bridge with the Biscay Cross affixed above him.

  “Very good,” Keisinger said. “Very good. But why do you believe the U-boats can do this?”

  “We use the radar to find them on the surface. But sometimes, as soon as we turn it on, they dive.”

  Keisinger and Treider exchanged glances as if they’d just extracted major intelligence. Such morons, Wilhelm thought. He decided not to tell them the rest of the story: The Biscay Cross had become useless. The Allies learned simply to change the radar’s wavelength, and U-boats recharging their batteries on the surface once again became sitting ducks.

  “You have been most helpful, Lieutenant,” Keisinger said. “Take heart, you have not betrayed your country. On the contrary, you have aided it by shortening the war.”

  No, I have not betrayed my country, Wilhelm thought. But you have.

  40

  Courage Is Contagious

  After the SS came for Wilhelm, Karl spent the rest of the day worried sick. Worried that Wilhelm might never return. Worried about who else Keisinger and Treider would interrogate. Worried whether his own turn would come for questioning under torture.

  They never came for Karl, but they pulled out McLendon, Fox, and several other kriegies. Karl could not begin to guess why they made those choices. When the guards marched Wilhelm back into the compound, Karl felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Wilhelm looked all right, except he was cradling his left hand. Karl met him outside Hut 4B. As soon as the guards left, Karl asked, “What did they do to your hand?”

  “They almost broke my fingers, but I got them to stop.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I told them something they thought they wanted to hear.”

  Karl’s mouth dropped partly open, and he furrowed his eyebrows. “What could you possibly tell them that wouldn’t get you killed?” he whispered.

  “Long story. But I heard a Yank expression a while ago that sums it up quite well.”

  “What’s that?”

  “ ‘If you can’t dazzle them with diamonds, baffle them with bullshit. ’ ”

  Karl laughed out loud. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. “All right,” he said. “Someday I want to hear the whole story, if we get out of here alive.”

  When darkness fell, the booms sounded again. By now, the report of heavy guns had become a nightly occurrence. Karl knew little about ground weaponry, so he couldn’t identify the shells by their sound. But sometimes a high-pitched whistle preceded the detonations, as if the sky itself were ripping apart. The explosions varied from piercing cracks to ground-rattling thuds.

  After supper, the kriegies in 4B gathered around Sparks’s radio with a sense of dread. McLendon, their block commander, still hadn’t returned from interrogation. Sparks put together his radio and posted a man on watch. He tuned in the BBC, and the POWs learned the Red Army had taken Warsaw. As if to punctuate the broadcast, an explosion vibrated the floor.

  “Sounds like they’re taking a lot more than Warsaw,” Sparks said.
<
br />   Before anyone else could comment, the kriegie on watch turned and hissed, “Somebody’s coming.”

  In moves too quick to follow, Sparks took apart the radio. Three prisoners snatched up components, and in seconds, all the pieces had disappeared.

  “Relax,” the watchman said. “It’s McLendon.”

  When the block commander appeared in the doorway, Karl drew in a sharp breath. McLendon cradled his hand like Wilhelm had done, except splints covered two fingers. Bruises discolored his cheeks, and his lower lip was split.

  “What happened, Captain?” Sparks asked.

  “They roughed us up pretty good,” McLendon said. He spoke as if it hurt to talk. “Beat the hell out of Timmersby. Fox, too.”

  “Sons of bitches,” Sparks said. “They broke your fingers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did they ask about radar?” Wilhelm said. “That’s what they wanted from me.”

  McLendon stumbled to the table and lowered himself painfully into a chair. Sparks got up, went to the stove, and poured him a cup of tea.

  “Yeah,” McLendon said. “They wanted to know if we used it on U-boats.” He gave Wilhelm a hard look. “But mainly they wanted to know about the X Committee. Did they ask you about that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe they saved those questions for those of us who’ve been here the longest.”

  “Wait,” Sparks said. “They know about the X Committee?”

  “They didn’t call it that, but they know we have an organization.” McLendon sipped his tea, crossed his arms on the table, and rested his chin on them. Sighed hard. “If anybody had given up any names, we’d probably know it by now,” he continued. “They’d have been dragged off and shot. I checked with Timmersby on the way back. He said everybody’s accounted for.”