Calling card of SS-Obergruppenführer and General of the Waffen SS Karl Wolff.
With August came the liberation of Paris, which proved almost more than my father could bear. The following excerpts from his letters point to his loss of patience as summer closed in on the autumn of the war itself.
August 24th, 1944
My Dears,
Thank you for your letter, chère Mamo.
Yesterday we learned of the liberation of Paris. I would have given a lot to see the citizens throw the Boches out after 4 years of the most profound humiliation.
It is beautiful here now—a splendid blue sky and nice and cool at the same time.
Kisses,
Walter
* * * *
August 25th, 1944
My Dears,
It’s horrible—with the current events I can no longer study—I have no more patience and I don’t see the reason—even though I have very difficult exams ahead of me. Our troops are in Reims tonight, they will be in Metz and Lille tomorrow—in Brussels soon, if we can continue our push without giving respite to our enemies—without giving them the time to organize the Somme and the Marne fronts. In truth I would like to be there when we give them the “coup de grâce.”
I would like to be a part of their debacle, just as I had to witness the tragedy of the civilized countries—I would like to terrorize them like they terrorized ours. Other than that, nothing new. I would have already called you—but I am not sure exactly where you are right now . . .
The weather is beautiful here—but already cold at night. That’s how I like it.
Well, that’s all for today.
Yours,
Walter
On the second of September, Dad wrote home noting the significance of that date in 1939, when the Germans had invaded Holland and Austria. Almost immediately afterward, my father and Ellen were escorted from their boarding school in St. Moritz back to Brussels for their final months at home, before the impending German attack forced their long journey through the battle zones of Belgium, France, and Spain.
He wrote home much less often over the months to come, and perhaps because I had fewer to choose from, the tone of the letters became more desperate and anxious as the dream of returning to Europe became a reality.
UNITED STATES ARMY
CAMP RITCHIE
MARYLAND
22 Sept 44
My Dears,
I have not written to you in a while, but from my telephone calls you know I’m alive.
Thank you for the shirt and the belt—it was very prompt. Also, for the 3 last letters, chère Mamo.
If I haven’t written, it’s that I have an awful lot to do. The day before yesterday I was notified that I am qualified, among 7 others in my class, to take the exam to obtain the lieutenant’s certificate (directly, without going through OCS [Officers Candidate School]). I accepted immediately. Yesterday I took the exam—it was pretty hard but, compared to the others, I didn’t finish badly.
Since this morning I have been waiting to go before a board, or officer’s commission. If I pass that, I will still have 2 obstacles: the medical exam and the interview with the Commanding General. If I pass everything (frankly, I strongly doubt it), I will be Lt. at the end of next week. But I say again—in view of my age, it could very well be that, being perfectly qualified, I still won’t get my certificate, anyhow . . . ?
It’s like a father waiting for a baby and who would like to know if it is a boy or a girl. I have been waiting since 8 o’clock this morning—that is to say, I have come back for the 3rd time. Qui vivra verra.
Well, it was brief—but longer than most of the interviews. Now, I have to go before the medical board.
Goodbye—have little hope that I will get the position and be promoted to Master Sergeant right away.
Walter
French control sec.
Friday October 13th, 1944
My Dears,
What “a job” I have for the next eleven days! It’s really good. I play a civilian 2 times a day and I get interrogated. For this afternoon, I was assigned the role of the owner of a whore house who wants to make an arrangement with the American army. Boy, will we have fun!
Other than that, nothing new to report from my front. Ah yes, I have a new friend—the 1st Sgt. of the WAC dept. here. She’s good—no kidding—about 21 years old.
You should see me dressed as a civilian—I am wearing gray pants, a black jacket—with the Legion of Honor—(after all, it is an honorable profession) and a big handkerchief that sticks out of my pocket. With that, a hat, and gloves. And for 4 hours of this they pay me $138—a month.
Well, goodbye
Kisses,
Your
Walter
P.S. On my return I found the package. Thanks a lot—but I don’t want any more for the moment, film either. W.C.W.
My father anxiously followed the course of the Allied campaign for the next couple of months. In December, the German army launched an offensive against the advancing Allied army in the Ardennes that became known as the Battle of the Bulge. My father had predicted the Allied riposte in a telephone conversation with his parents, and wrote them on December 29: “My Dears, Under the heading of ‘I told you so,’ what I predicted happened; the Boche offensive was stopped and our counter attack started within 5 days of my ‘prediction.’”
The letters from Camp Ritchie can easily be misinterpreted as mundane, but, reading between the lines, my father’s frustration emerges from the banality. What he chooses not to convey serves to sharpen the larger picture of events unfolding around him, beyond his reach, as history comes into focus. My father yearned to be part of that history. During his year and a half of boredom in the army, he propelled his own advancement, as much as circumstances would allow. By December he had graduated to the rank of master sergeant.
Camp Ritchie card with my father’s rank, signed April 10, 1945.
In April, with the war coming to a close and the Allies achieving unprecedented success, my father felt he had to take action if he was ever going to get back to Europe, so he committed a deliberate act of insubordination. He walked into the personnel office at Camp Ritchie, which was headed by a female colonel, sat down nonchalantly on the edge of her desk, and said,
“Come on now, do something for me. Get me a job.”
“Job? A job? I could court-martial you for this. Now, Master Sergeant Wolff, if you please . . .”
One week later my father was on a plane, and this young man’s dream of giving the enemy the “coup de grâce” seemed finally within his grasp. The boy plagued with memories of having to witness civilized countries overtaken by barbarity yearned to “terrorize those who terrorized our own.” He was not only going to witness the enemy’s debacle firsthand but take part in securing their permanent defeat. But days before he left, the nation suffered another blow. Just as an artist painting his portrait put a daub of red to the canvas, President Roosevelt pinched his forehead with his left hand and complained that he had a terrible headache. A few hours later news spread among Americans that their much loved and revered leader was dead from a brain hemorrhage. In a rare display of heartfelt emotion and fear, he wrote to his thirteen-year-old cousin, Pierre, the day that President Roosevelt died, just two weeks before he would leave for Europe via North Africa:
UNITED STATES ARMY
Thursday, April 12,1945
Dear Pierre,
Thanks a lot for your letters.
Tonight a great man is no longer. We have lost, as the whole world has, a great leader with great experience, with ability and moral integrity.
I am sad and horrified at the same time. Sad for our loss—and horrified because of the possible consequences for the nation and our cause. It is true that the victorious end of the war is assured, but the peace that we hope to establish has lost the support of a great force.
I do not know when I will be leaving. I hope that it will be one of these days. Goodbye
and I hope to see you again!
Cordially,
Your
Walter
P.S. Please give my apologies to your parents, especially your father whom I have not seen since my last stay in N.Y., for not having telephoned before my departure. W.C.W.
PART THREE
Return from Exile
CHAPTER 8
Coup de Grâce: Vetting War Criminals from Mussolini’s Masses
Ritter, a war correspondent from WLW, “The Nation’s Station,” in Cincinnati, looked like an Esquire magazine cut-out of a colonel.
“I regret that I cannot tell you, sir,” said my father in an even but determined tone.
The reporter was a very dignified man with white hair. My father rather enjoyed this little power play and was intrigued by his opponent’s manner and elegance. He was sure that he knew how to have a good time now and then and probably had good taste in food and fun. As Ritter began his line of questioning again, my father turned to his unit to check on his men, who were being weighed and processed. As he did so, another passenger, a civilian, started to argue with him while trying to cut to the front of the line.
“I’m gonna miss my plane, if your boys don’t get a move on it! I paid eight hundred dollars for my ticket!”
Not one to raise his voice, my father countered the yelling by answering in an authoritative, yet courteous tone. It was how he spoke to us, and when he did, whatever behavior was being displayed was silenced. Immediately. He turned back to the man and said in a voice as crisp as his new, perfectly tailored uniform, “Pardon me, sir, but this group of men that you wish so badly to get in front of are ahead of you, and until each one is weighed and processed, you will not move forward.” Without blinking an eye, my father added, “Eight hundred dollars or not.”
It had been a long day of medical exams, injections, paperwork, and all the red tape it took to get the soldiers out of the Air Transport Command building and onto an airplane. They had been told they’d be leaving three days later, but their orders were moved up to 4:30 that morning. Because military intelligence was full of such surprises, as my father pointed out, he and his group stayed up all night to prepare for their new departure time. By three a.m. they had packed everything required, including their personal belongings.
The ATC building was as enormous and complicated as the Pentagon, my father wrote, but as usual he found someone to help him along in the form of a pretty young secretary, who served as his guardian angel all day. With her at his side, he got his unit all of their uniforms and new equipment for their as-yet-undisclosed destination. They were allowed to take sixty-five pounds total, excluding clothing but including overcoat, belt, canteen, and bayonet. Never one to travel lightly, my father had a time packing it all, so he redistributed his short-wave radio and other items he couldn’t do without to the less encumbered. Before their departure, the soldiers were paid and told they were allowed to carry only fifty dollars. Of course, with what my father already had stashed in his pocket, he had too much. Nice boy that he was, he immediately converted seventy-five dollars into travelers checks, leaving him with fifty American dollars. The exact sum authorized.
The sun lowered its weary head to the horizon as the wheels of the C54 lifted off the tarmac and the hum of the silver, four-propeller plane echoed throughout the cabin. At ten after eight that evening the captain made an announcement. Having always looked up at the sky, my father now found himself in the novel position of looking down from 22,000 feet above the earth’s surface. Unable to find traditional writing paper, he unwrapped his official dossier and ripped the brown paper into sheets, fished around, and found a dull pencil with which he wrote:
Extracts From My Travel Journal
2015 EWT. The plane has just taken off from the military airport in Washington, D.C. It was 2010 at departure to be exact. I have a magnificent view. The monuments at the capital are still just within sight behind us, lit by a subtle rose-colored light from the last rays of the setting sun. Because, there, on the ground down below, it’s almost night—The rose is disappearing fast and yielding to gray—which has already become blacker and more impenetrable. In places, lights pierce the evening. Here, above the earth, it’s still day. A golden light enters through the little round windows of our cabin in the sky. . . . If only you could see the celestial scene unfolding before my eyes.
28 April 1945—2150 On Board an A.T.C Plane.
Above Philadelphia. After Our Departure From Washington D.C. At 2010—The surrender of the Boches was announced. The pilots announced the good news. What a shame that President Roosevelt couldn’t have seen that!
2215—At the moment we’re over New York. Shame that we’re flying over Manhattan at this angle, since the plane is covering up some of the view, but I think I could make out the 59th Street Bridge, Central Park, and Hayden Planetarium. . . .
The plane is as luxurious as the rest of the installations at the ATC in D.C. It’s magnificent, a C54 with four engines. The cabin is even pressurized. The seats are velvet and become a lounge chair if you press a button. I’ve never had a more comfortable seat on any form of transportation that I’ve ever taken! Above each seat there is an air vent and a lamp—The steward just came by to serve us coffee, sandwiches, oranges, and cake. The steward is a sergeant, who seems like a fathead but actually is quite nice and makes good coffee.
Oh yes, the itinerary. By the time you read this story, it will be ancient history. Due to that fact, I hope Mr. Censor won’t object if I tell you that from Newfoundland we’ll fly over the Azores to Casablanca, where we’ll stay for two days, and then stop over in Tunis before heading toward Italy for the rest of the voyage. We’ll spend two days in Naples and then on to Florence. I knew it! Unofficially, and from a few simple deductions made during the preparations for our departure, I knew prima that unfortunately it wouldn’t be France, segundo that we’d be going by plane. . . . I have a team of fifteen men with me, several of whom are friends of mine. George Villiers is sitting next to me. He’s Parisian—and as disgusted as I am that we’re not on our way to Paris like our other friend, Merman, who left yesterday with another team. To quote the perfect expression, c’est la guerre! Anyway, we wouldn’t have stayed in France long because the front is in Germany—and if I had the choice between the Boches and the Italians, I would again choose the Italians!
Oh, you should have seen New York and the surrounding metropolitan area. It’s gigantic! It’s an enormous lake of lights—even seen from the air. What a city! What a beautiful view it must be during peacetime, without the partial blackout. But even so, it is unparalleled. Streets, [and] avenues invisible, just an enormous mass—cut only by the Hudson and the East Rivers.
Everyone is asleep now, with the exception of the war correspondent, who is reading. The lamps are designed so the light hits only the person using it. I suppose you’re asking why I’m not asleep. Simple, really, I can’t—I want to write—I need to communicate my impressions to someone! . . .
It seems we’re above Hudson Bay right now. At 0230 EWT, 29 April, we’ll arrive in Newfoundland. The plane is flying so gently, it seems incredible that we’re going 350 km an hour. On a train one could never write like this. And what a beautiful night! Below us, occasionally, is a lake of light that appears then disappears in the distance lost to darkness. In front of us, but still quite far away, one can see clouds.
Tonight, for the first time, I understand with all my soul what the abstract in mathematical terms—in terms such as Eternity or Infinity—represents. I was forced to understand them intellectually but, truthfully, they were just dead words in my mind! Suddenly, I understand their reality, their sense, and their unity. Eternity, Infinity—they are the same in this nothingness, time and space, space and time.
Above, the vaulted sky is resplendent . . . a full moon that reflects off the aluminum wing just like in a Hollywood film. Now we’re flying through some clouds, so beautiful. Like little cotton balls floating in the atmosphere. . . .
29 April 0007 Eastern War Time: Now I’ll stop writing for a moment and, after using the absolutely charming toilet at rear of the cabin, complete with all imaginable comforts, your personal war correspondent will sleep a little.
0255 EWT:
Approaching Newfoundland. The airport. We land, and by bus they take us to a refectory for lunch. Excellent. I discover:
1. the KP don’t seem as miserable as in the US.
2. the little Newfoundlanders aren’t lacking in charm. The little waitress was nice. She told me that all New Yorkers seem a little nutty.
That’s Andy of Newfoundland. The name of the base is Harmon Field. Also, we found out that the armistice is just a story. If it doesn’t happen today, it will happen tomorrow. We left Newfoundland at 0415. Below us, I believe, is Nova Scotia. I see snow, ice. We see the Atlantic and, beyond that, air. We switched aircraft; now it’s for sixteen men.
Still a smooth flight, practically no movement; it has less vibration than a bus, more like a 1942 Packard.
I gained access to my baggage, and henceforth I will write on white paper. It must be pretty cold outside, but here in the cabin it’s too hot, and I’ve turned the fan on above me to cool my head. The guy next to me is a Tech. Sgt. in the Air Force—born in Frankfurt, 38 years old, intelligent, pleasant. He’s from Boston. Also in our group, two buddies who’ve been with me since November 1944. In front of me is a Parisian of Russian parents. He’s a very nice boy. I am so pleased to have someone I can speak French with. He’s a student at Columbia (School of Music). He isn’t yet 19 years old, which makes him the Benjamin of the group. He’s the only one younger than me. The rest are of mediocre caliber and not important. They do what I tell them, at least for now, and everything’s fine.
Someday You Will Understand Page 12
