Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

  Two distant booms emphasized McLendon’s point. And got Karl thinking: Yeah, it’ll be over pretty soon. What will happen to Wilhelm then? He’s damned near transformed himself into an American. Why not make it official? When we get liberated, just find the highest-ranking officer on scene and tell him the whole story. Especially the part about Wilhelm refusing to identify Jewish POWs. Give him asylum in the United States. Hell, the navy would probably love to know what he knows about U-boats. Get him a job, too.

  Karl waited for a chance to speak to Wilhelm privately. When the kriegies spread out across a wide highway shoulder, Karl pulled Wilhelm aside.

  “Buddy,” Karl whispered, “I know you love your country. But like you’ve said yourself, your country may not love you right now. What do you think about coming home with us?” Karl explained how he thought it could be done, right down to the part about working for the U.S. Navy.

  Wilhelm took the last drag from his Camel. He dropped the butt, crushed it out with his boot. Looked across the fields as if trying to focus on something barely within sight.

  “I will think about this,” he said.

  * * *

  A few days later, the kriegies entered Stalag VII-A in Moosburg. They found the camp overcrowded to suffocation. Prisoners from stalags all over Germany streamed into the place. Karl and Wilhelm bedded down in an open-bay barracks built for about a hundred men. Now it housed four times that many. Latrines filled. Food ran short. Men stood in line for hours to get to a water faucet. Karl could not guess how many POWs were in Stalag VII-A, but it was at least tens of thousands.

  They found one silver lining: With so many men to watch, the guards couldn’t keep a close eye on anyone. Guards seemed scarcer, too; Karl supposed some of them had just slipped away to go home. Listening to the news on Sparks’s radio became almost a casual routine.

  The kriegies learned that American forces had invaded Okinawa, part of Japan’s home territory. The two sides joined a furious land and sea battle: Kamikaze pilots crashed into U.S. vessels, and American airplanes destroyed the Japanese battleship Yamato—one of the largest battleships ever built.

  One evening near the middle of April, the radio brought news that stunned the men into silence:

  “The Press Association has announced that President Franklin D. Roosevelt is dead. Initial reports say the president died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia. Harry S. Truman has taken the oath of office as president of the United States.”

  Some of the men wept. Karl felt only a cold emptiness. Roosevelt had been president for almost as long as he could remember. He’d always assumed FDR would continue leading the country at least through the end of the war.

  Wilhelm placed his hand on Karl’s arm and whispered, “My condolences. I wish I could admire my leaders the way you do.”

  Later in the week, Karl, Pell, and Fox ran across Padre—the bomber pilot and would-be minister from North Carolina. Padre wanted to hold a prayer service for the Roosevelt family and the United States. Kriegies—Christian, Jewish, and even the agnostic—gathered in the center of the compound.

  As Padre finished his remarks, a faint buzz rose in the distance. Not the thunder of heavy bombers—more like the clatter of a lawn mower. Karl shaded his eyes and scanned the clouds. He spotted a speck that grew larger until it took the form of an L-4 Grasshopper, the military version of the Piper Cub. A little scout plane.

  The Grasshopper descended and circled over the camp. It flew close enough for Karl to make out the white star on its fuselage. Kriegies shouted and waved.

  The L-4 rolled into a steep bank. It dived low, skirted the treetops, and flew away.

  “That means our boys are close,” Pell said, “and now they know where we are.”

  43

  Ivory-handled Pistols

  The ground war came to Moosburg during the last week of April. One afternoon, kriegies spotted tanks on a hill a few kilometers from the prison. After dark, shellfire thumped in the distance and grew louder as the night deepened. The explosions made sleep impossible, but Wilhelm could not have slept, anyway. He faced a life-changing choice. Karl—God bless that crazy Yank aviator—had offered to help Wilhelm become an American. Not simply in accent or appearance, but in fact.

  That could mean opportunities Wilhelm had never dreamed of, and quite possibly save his life. Who knew what a German deserter might face after the war from hateful German diehards? Who knew what any German might face from vengeful Allied victors? What if he wound up in a Russian zone of occupation? Wilhelm could well imagine how the Russians might treat German prisoners, after the carnage of the Eastern Front.

  But leaving Germany would also mean wrenching himself away from everything he’d ever known and everyone he’d ever loved. What if he never saw his parents again?

  Very soon, Wilhelm would have to decide. And he’d have to decide in a sleep-deprived state, with limited information, perhaps with firefights swirling outside the fence.

  In the small hours before dawn, Wilhelm finally drifted off to sleep, still fully dressed. He got little more than a nap. At first light, shouts woke him from outside his hut.

  “Look at that!” someone called. Pell’s voice.

  Prisoners cheered and laughed. Wilhelm sat up on his cot, rubbed at sleep in his eyes. Stumbled outside.

  On the hill to the west, two panzers burned. Flames swathed both machines; only the muzzles of their main guns extended clear of the fire. Twin columns of smoke churned into the sky. The panzers rocked as their ammunition exploded.

  An hour later, rifle fire crackled outside the camp. Some kriegies took cover from stray bullets. More adventurous souls climbed atop huts for a better view. The guards melted away. Some fled, and others might have gone outside the perimeter to surrender, Wilhelm supposed.

  The POWs grew more excited by the minute. “Today’s the day, buddy,” Sparks told him. The men laughed, waited, watched. They sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “Rule, Britannia!”

  Wilhelm, however, felt a forty-fathom sadness. Not for the defeat. Awful as it was, he believed defeat had to happen for Germany to enter any hopeful future.

  But it would enter that future without him.

  The clear light of morning washed away his doubts. He had started a journey back in Bremen that he would take all the way to its logical end. He would leave his home, his family, all of his old friends—what few may have survived. He wanted to go to America.

  Having just taken such a momentous decision, Wilhelm wanted to be alone—in a place where that was impossible. He needed time to wrap his mind around what he was about to do, to let his resolve crystallize. The nearest thing he found to solitude was a corner of the camp’s fence line, with kriegies crowded around him. He placed both hands on the chain link and stared out at the forest, the hills, the burning wreckage of the panzers.

  Cheers from the other side of the compound interrupted his thoughts. Wilhelm turned to see men surge toward the main gate.

  A tank clattered along the road just outside the camp. White star painted on its side. An American tank, Wilhelm noted. Smoke sputtered from its exhaust. Fire stains marred its turret. Hand-painted letters along its side read: From Bastogne to Berlin.

  A new unit slogan, or a statement of intent.

  The tank shuddered to a stop. The machine clanked and growled, turned toward the camp’s main entrance. Kriegies lined the fence; they waved and cheered.

  The tank’s hatch opened, and a crewman emerged wearing a tanker’s helmet and goggles. He pushed his goggles up onto the helmet, revealing grease-rimmed eyes. The man was chewing bubble gum.

  “Any of you boys know the way to Newark?” the tanker asked.

  The prisoners laughed and talked over one another. One POW called out in a loud voice, “Yeah, you start by busting right through here.” He pointed at the main entrance, held shut by loops of chain.

  “Not a problem,” the tanker said.

  He blew a
bubble, popped it, and spat out his gum. Dropped beneath the hatch and closed the cover. The engine revved. The tank lurched forward and crashed through the gate. Chains popped, fence posts splintered, and wire mesh got crushed beneath the tank’s tracks.

  The men went wild. They shouted, threw hats, hugged one another. A stranger embraced Wilhelm and cried, “It’s over, Mac. We’re going home!”

  Wilhelm moved with the crowd toward the front of the camp. He looked for Karl—and found him running among the men.

  “There you are,” Karl said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” The Yank pilot placed both palms on Wilhelm’s shoulders. “My friend,” he said, “it’s time to decide.”

  Wilhelm’s eyes welled. His throat clenched as he spoke. “I have,” he said. “I would like to go with you.”

  A broad smile spread across Karl’s face. He threw his arms around Wilhelm and laughed. Broke off the embrace and said, “I was hoping you’d say that. I can see it right now. Someday you’ll bring your American wife over to my place for martinis and a game of bridge.”

  “We should not get too far ahead of ourselves.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” Karl said. “This will take some doing, and we’ll have to find the right guy to talk to.”

  Some of the troops on the tanks began throwing packs of cigarettes, gum, and other treats into the crowd. Kriegies shouted, laughed, and chased after the goodies. But Wilhelm and Karl simply watched—the Yank with obvious satisfaction, and Wilhelm with a storm of mixed emotions.

  “Hey, guys,” one of the tankers called out. “You’re gonna get a special visitor pretty soon.”

  Wilhelm looked at Karl, who shrugged. They didn’t have to wonder long. Less than an hour later, a well-polished Packard glided through the front gate. A flag with four stars decorated the front fender. The top was down; the general in the rear seat wore a polished combat helmet and a tightly knotted tie with his service coat. POWs parted to make way for the vehicle. Many snapped to attention and saluted. The Packard stopped, and the general stood on the running board. He wore a pair of ivory-handled pistols—which Wilhelm thought ridiculous.

  “I bet you sons of bitches are happy to see me,” the general called out. The crowd roared.

  “Do you know who that is?” Karl shouted over the noise.

  Wilhelm shook his head.

  “George S. Patton.”

  Wilhelm knew the name: the man who had clashed with the Afrika Korps in Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria. This general had bested some of Germany’s most brilliant officers. Eccentric in his dress, Wilhelm thought, but a truly formidable soldier.

  With the aid of a bullhorn, Patton spoke to the prisoners for a few minutes. He offered encouragement and thanked them for “helping me kick Kraut ass.” Some of the kriegies took the general on a tour of the camp.

  A retinue of officers trailed General Patton. Wilhelm and Karl watched them inspect barracks. Their boss shouted profane disapproval of the overcrowded conditions.

  “I wish the kommandant hadn’t already run off like a little bitch,” Patton fumed. “I’d choke his ass right now.” As the general spoke, he stabbed the air with his lit cigar.

  “I’d love to meet him,” Karl told Wilhelm, “but we got things to do. And the best thing we can do right now is catch one of his staff.”

  When Patton went inside the camp’s administrative office, Karl addressed a major standing outside. Wilhelm’s heart raced like a bilge pump. His fate might turn on this conversation. His fate might turn on the attitude of this major. Was this major the right man to trust? We have to trust someone, Wilhelm thought, and we’re running out of time.

  “Sir,” Karl said, “if you have a few minutes, I have one helluva story to tell you.”

  “I’m all ears, Lieutenant,” the major said. He extended his hand, and Karl shook it. “Name’s Bill Neal, by the way.”

  “Karl Hagan. And this is Lieutenant Thomas Meade. Except that’s not his real name. Or rank.”

  Major Neal folded his arms and gave Karl a dubious look. Yet, his manner still seemed friendly. His uniform was clean and neat, as Patton would have certainly demanded. But his boots were not polished and his sidearm was a standard-issue .45.

  “Let me introduce you,” Karl continued, “to Oberleutnant Wilhelm Albrecht. German Navy.”

  Neal placed his hands on his hips. His mouth dropped open and he started to say something. He checked himself and continued to listen in obvious confusion and amazement. Karl told how he’d met Wilhelm in Bremen, how they’d evaded capture for a time. How Wilhelm had defied the SS at Stalag Luft XIV.

  “Sir,” Karl said, “I might not be here if not for him. He deserves to come to America.”

  Neal opened a pocket flap and pulled out a field notebook and pen. “How’s that last name spelled?” he asked. Wilhelm answered, and Neal scribbled as he spoke: “The French are processing German prisoners. He’ll have to apply through them. I’ll try to get word to them to expect a good guy.”

  “Can’t he just stay with us?” Karl asked. “Process with us?”

  Neal looked up from his pad. “Come on, Lieutenant,” he said. “You know my boss. You think he’d just let me slip a Kraut in with you guys—no offense—even if he’s a good Kraut?”

  “But the French—”

  “I know,” Neal said. “Probably not real magnanimous with Germans right now.” He glanced at Wilhelm. “Look, Albrecht,” he continued, “I’m impressed as hell with your story, and the Frogs will be, too. Just tell it to them like you guys told it to me.”

  Wilhelm doubted “the Frogs” would be so easily impressed, but Neal offered no alternative. “How do we find these French officers?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Just stay right here and they’ll come to you,” Neal said. “We got three or four of the camp guards in custody. The French will be along in a day or two to pick them up.”

  Karl locked eyes with Wilhelm and sighed hard. Raised his arm and scratched the back of his head, his expression as if he’d taken a sip of vinegar. “All right,” he said, “if that’s the best we can do.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Lieutenant,” Neal said, emphasizing Karl’s lower rank. “Really, I’d like to be more help. But the war’s not over yet.”

  Wilhelm took the major’s meaning. Patton’s staff—and the Allied forces in general—did not have a lot of time for special cases.

  The general and most of his entourage departed later in the day, leaving behind a few NCOs and junior officers to look after the kriegies. Technically, the POWs were free now. Yet, they had to remain behind barbed wire because there was no safer place to put them.

  That afternoon, the kriegies threw the biggest celebration Wilhelm had ever seen. The American flag fluttered over the camp. Champagne, cognac, cigars, and candies appeared; Wilhelm supposed Patton’s men had brought them all the way from France. Perhaps they’d been saving the treats for the fall of Berlin, but, in soldierly generosity, they shared them with POWs. Men puffed from Romeo y Julieta cigars, then passed them to the next kriegie. A stranger shoved an open box toward Wilhelm. He thanked the man, took a chocolate-covered cherry, and popped it into his mouth. The liquid sweetness nearly brought him to tears with memories of Christmas. The prisoners—or ex-prisoners—also took sips from bottles of Moët. Wilhelm marveled that the bottles had survived a long overland journey—not to mention tank combat.

  Occasionally a man would take a deep drink too quickly, then nearly choke on foaming champagne. His buddies would laugh and clap his back as the embarrassed kriegie spat white suds.

  “That’s not your daddy’s rotgut, dumbass,” one POW remarked.

  The loudest laughter came from a gaggle of men in the back of the compound. Wilhelm and Karl went to investigate; maybe Karl expected to share the joy of liberation with old friends. Goodwill and happiness.

  They found something entirely different.

  At the center of the group sat four men with their hands tied. Bruises marred
their faces. One had a bloody lip. Another suffered a black eye. Dirt flecked their matted hair.

  Four German guards. One of them was Gunther. Something, perhaps a boot sole, had left a deep abrasion across his cheek. Blood oozed from the scrape and dribbled onto the collar of his uniform.

  A soldier lifted a bottle, took a swallow of champagne, and spat it onto Gunther’s uncovered head.

  “Hey, that’s alcohol abuse,” someone called. More laughter.

  Gunther stared straight ahead and said nothing as foam and spittle streamed through his blond hair.

  “Stop it,” Karl said.

  The soldiers and kriegies fixed their eyes on the Yank flier as if he’d spoken blasphemy. Finally one of the troops said, “We’re just having a little fun with these Krauts, sir. Serves them right.” The man wore the stripes of a U.S. sergeant and a patch that Wilhelm now recognized as that of a tank battalion.

  Karl pointed to Gunther. “That one’s all right,” he said. “He treated us okay.”

  The sergeant shrugged. Swayed as if drunk—which he probably was. “He’s a fucking goose-stepper,” he said. Cleared his throat, brought up a gobbet of mucus, and spat at Gunther.

  “I said stop it,” Karl called out.

  The sergeant turned toward Karl. “You been sitting out the war while we been doing all the fighting,” he said. “And you ain’t in my chain of command.”

  Karl lunged at the sergeant. Grabbed him by the throat with both hands. The sergeant’s eyes bulged. A vein throbbed across his temple. He fell back three steps, and Karl stayed on him.

  “I’m in your chain of command now, asshole,” Karl said through gritted teeth.

  The sergeant dropped his hand toward the Colt holstered on his web belt. Karl tightened his grip.

  “What?” Karl asked. “You gonna shoot me in front of a thousand witnesses?”

  Karl released the sergeant’s neck. He grabbed the man by the shirt and shoved him onto the ground. Then he turned toward the guards’ other tormentors.

  “Anybody else wanna talk to me about chain of command?” Karl yelled. Wilhelm had never seen him so angry. His blood was up, literally. Red splotches darkened his neck.