by Gary Moore
Arbeiter stared at him. Gene noticed for the first time that the skin around his eyes was folded into jagged wrinkles, the result of years of heavy cigarette smoking. “Yankee ingenuity? How so?”
“We would be using the Germans to improve our ball game and help our side win the war—in our own small way,” replied Gene, his voice rising in excitement as he spoke. His commanding officer was definitely weakening. “We would be playing with the enemy—sure—but we would be using the enemy, too.”
“Hmm.” Arbeiter stood up and walked to the window, where he spent a full minute staring outside without speaking. After toying with the cigarette behind his ear he turned around to face Gene, running a calloused hand over his tight brown crew cut. “This could be the end of my glorious naval career. You clear with me when and where you practice, and when and where you play. I—and only I—approve the logistics of this crazy idea. And I will pull the plug on this damn thing the minute anyone—and I mean anyone—gets out of line. On either side! Do you understand where I am coming from, sailor?”
Gene jumped out of his chair at the news. He saluted and smiled broadly. “Aye, aye, sir! I won’t disappoint you.”
“You damn well better not.”
Chapter 18
The Berlin Bombers
It was only 6:30 a.m., but Gene was already dragging out the team gear toward the field with the biggest smile on his face anyone had witnessed in weeks. For him, it wasn’t just a game—it was everything that went with it … the whole circus atmosphere in which baseball was steeped. He always looked forward to playing: going to bed early the night before, falling to sleep while imagining the winning tag at home plate, waking up early and putting on the uniform, dragging out the gear. Even hours of endless practice were fun in any weather, rain or shine. There was not a single activity associated with baseball that Gene Moore didn’t love.
He dropped the dirty white heavy canvas bag full of balls, gloves, and bats next to the makeshift plate he and his teammates had installed the week before and looked across the ramshackle field to the pen where the enemy sailors—soon to be the opposing baseball team—were still sleeping. Gene had no idea whether these Germans would like or even agree to play baseball. He hoped they would be excited by the prospect of getting up early every morning and hitting the diamond. “Who knows,” he thought, “this may be the beginning of the Germans adopting baseball as their national pastime!” He unbuckled the bag and began pulling the contents out. “They call it the World Series,” his mind raced. “Maybe someday, there will be baseball all over the world, including Germany.”
When the contents were spread out, Gene stood and stretched, looking again toward the prison pen. A few captives were already up and milling about. One was watching Gene. It was Mueller, the quiet one who could kick the ball. Gene had long ago sensed that German, in particular, was a leader and respected by his fellow prisoners. The others watched him and seemed to measure their responses to situations based on what Mueller said or did. And, he spoke good English, which was a real plus. Gene waved at him, and to his surprise, the German lifted his arm and offered a weak wave in reply.
Gene trotted back to the barracks, where everyone who was not on duty was still sawing logs. He took a big breath and yelled at the top of his lungs, “PLAY BALL!”
No one stirred or said a word.
Gene tried again, “Get up … rise and shine! Today, at The Lumberyard, it’s the Brooklyn Dodgers, U.S. Navy Exhibition Baseball Team, versus the pride of Hitler’s Germany, the Berlin Bombers!”
“Hey, Gene,” Tim Milner mumbled, turning over and glaring at him. “Tell them to go play Stalin’s Moscow Reds, and leave us alone!”
“What? Get up! Let’s get some food and play ball. I did everything but beg to let us play, and you repay me with this kind of lip? Get your candy asses out of bed, and be out on the field in thirty minutes, with full stomachs. We are playing with the enemy, boys!” Gene ran from bunk to bunk, shaking each player, ducking a few swings, and laughing before heading out the door to the U-505 pen. The last thing he had been expecting was a better reception from the Germans than his own teammates.
Gene approached the wire and looked around for Mueller. He spotted him walking the inside track, as he did every morning. The catcher trotted along outside the fence until he caught up with him. “Guden morgen, Mueller,” he offered in German. Please, thank you, and a half dozen other words comprised his entire German lexicon.
Heinrich Mueller slowed his pace, and turned to look at the strange American who was always trying to get his attention. “Good morning to you,” he answered in perfect English.
Gene smiled. “Can we speak in English? I can’t speak German.” Mueller shrugged and nodded.
“I’ve got some good news for you and your friends.”
“The Americans have surrendered?” Mueller asked with a small smile.
Gene chuckled. “That’s funny. You have a good sense of humor. No, we’re still going at it overseas. I came to tell you we are going to play baseball!”
Mueller’s expression lost its smile. “You can go play with yourself,” he replied before picking up his pace.
Gene walked faster to keep up. “Mueller, wait a minute. Stop—please!” Mueller stopped and turned to face Gene. “You think I wanna be here in Louisiana, stuck with you?” continued Gene. “Let me tell you, we hate it here, too. These guys guarding you—me included—are baseball players. You know what that is, right?”
Mueller nodded slowly. “American baseball?”
Gene nodded. “Good. What about making the most out of this lousy situation, and having some fun? What do you know about the game?”
“About American baseball? It is a boring game. Very slow and nothing happens. Now football—German football—that is a real game. You Americans call it soccer. That is hard to play well, and moves fast. The world plays football. Americans play baseball alone because it puts the rest of us to sleep!”
Gene laughed at his answer. “Well, coming from you, that’s a speech.” Mueller furrowed his eyebrows to indicate he did not understand. Gene waved him off. “Never mind.” He tried again. “How would you like to come outside the wire every day?”
Now Gene had his full attention. Mueller looked around, as if sensing a joke or a trick. “Outside? To work?”
“No. To play baseball.”
“Why would I play baseball with you?”
Gene turned his outstretched arms over and replied, “Why wouldn’t you? It’s good exercise if nothing else, and it’s also a lot of fun. You can hit, catch, throw the ball, run. We will teach you and your shipmates. Or you can sit behind the wire doing nothing and wasting away.”
Mueller studied the American carefully, trying to gauge the sincerity of his offer. “Do you have a cigarette?”
Gene shook his head. “No, sorry. I don’t smoke.” He decided to ease into the program, step by step. “Tell you what. We are going to be playing more baseball now, more organized practices over there,” he said, pointing to the open field. “You watch us. If you like what you see, then we will teach you. Okay?”
Mueller shrugged and nodded. “Ja, okay. We will watch.”
Chapter 19
We Have Guns!
The members of the U.S. Navy baseball team spent the next ten days preparing the field, stripping away weeds, building up a mound, and practicing the game. Through it all the Germans watched from afar, standing or sitting behind the wire studying the Americans and their strange game played with a stick and a ball.
At first only a handful paid much attention, but when word spread that the guards wanted to teach them how to play, nearly everyone in the compound found a seat somewhere and spent hours at a time eyeing the proceedings.
After one particularly exciting practice ended, Gene took off his gear and walked over to where Heinrich Mueller was standing. “Mueller, we’re going to do each other a favor,” Gene began.
“You are going to let me go?” the Ge
rman replied sarcastically.
“Yes, but only over to there,” he answered, pointing in the direction of the diamond. “I was trying to explain this the other day, but didn’t do a good job. Look, we aren’t real soldiers or sailors.”
Mueller’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “And those are not real guns,” he asked, nodding his head toward a pair of guards walking around the fence with rifles slung over their shoulders.
“The guns are real, and we know how to use them—and we would if we had to,” Gene continued. “What I am trying to explain is that these guys you see here each day playing ball are part of a baseball team. We were put into the Navy together to play ball. We spent months, for example, traveling all over North Africa playing baseball.”
“Why? Why would you do such a thing? For what purpose?”
“For entertainment,” replied Gene. “To give the real American soldiers—the guys actually fighting—a break from the front … to give them a taste of home.”
“You Americans are not as smart as you think,” Mueller said with a determined shake of his head. “You do it wrong. You should have been playing to entertain the German troops.”
“Why’s that?”
“Baseball could be your secret weapon,” smiled Mueller. “You could have bored us to death and won the war already.”
At that, Gene burst out laughing, “Well, if you find baseball boring, you’ve just been watching the wrong team.”
“What does this have to do with me? I am your prisoner. We just want to go home.”
Gene’s voice took on a more serious tone. “Someday you will. We want the same thing. But since we are all here, there’s no reason why we can’t try to make the most of a bad situation, right?”
“Why do you keep speaking with me about this? I am not an officer.”
“You speak English,” Gene responded.
“Several of us speak English.”
Gene caught and held Mueller’s gaze. “Look, I saw what you did with that ball inside the yard. My guess is you’re an athlete—a good one. Am I right?”
He shrugged and nodded. “I play football.”
“And I bet you are a star, right?”
“I play very good football. If we were not at war, I would probably be on our German national team.”
“I was right. I knew you were an athlete,” Gene answered with enthusiasm. The barriers between them were beginning to break down. “Meuller, if it wasn’t for this war, I’d be playing professional baseball. So would Ray over there,” he continued, pointing to the pitcher who was playing catch with Jim Riordan. “In fact, everyone who guards you here was part of our team.”
Mueller shrugged again. “What is the purpose to this interrogation?”
“This is not an interrogation. I’m asking you to play baseball with us. We want to teach you and your men how to play the game. It’ll pass the time. We can get to know each other, and have some fun.”
Mueller rubbed his light blond beard and thought about the offer. The idea that the enemy would invite him and his fellow Kriegsmarine comrades outside the fence to teach them baseball perplexed the German.
“Hey Ray!” shouted Gene. “Come over here a second.” The pitcher nodded and trotted across the field to where Gene was talking through the wire with the prisoner.
“Mueller, this is Ray Laws. He’s a pitcher. Ray, this is Mueller.” The introduction was a bit awkward, and both men nodded in reply but said nothing. “Ray, tell this guy why we want to teach them baseball.”
Ray replied, “Because we are all bored silly, love the game, and want to pass the time until we get the hell away from this place. And we need to field more players.” Mueller bobbed his head and continued stroking his beard.
“We won’t be talking about anything having to do with the war or your role in it,” Gene assured the German. “In fact, our commander forbids it. Hell, I wouldn’t even know what to ask you. We have no hidden agenda. We just want to play ball.”
Mueller looked at Gene, and back to Ray. Ray looked at Gene, then to Mueller. Gene looked at them both and finally asked, “What do you think? Might be good for international relations.”
Mueller sighed and replied, “I will ask around with my comrades. I mentioned it once, and several liked the idea. Many do not. But some do. A few are angry and think I am discussing things I should not be—what you call collaborating, I think the word is. I will explain to them.” He turned away and took a few steps before stopping to turn back around. “What do I call you?” he asked.
“Call me Gene. Gene Moore.”
“And you?” he asked, pointing at Ray.
“Ray Laws. Call me Ray.”
“My given name is Heinrich,” offered Mueller.
“Heinrich,” Gene continued, “I have an idea.” He told both men what he had in mind before leaving for the colonel’s office.
Felix Kals walked quickly up to Heinrich as he walked back toward his barracks. “Heinrich,” he asked quietly so as not to attract attention. “What did those Americans want with you?”
Heinrich shared what he had been told. When Goebeler and the other crewmen joined them, he repeated the conversation. Felix shook his head. “I don’t trust them. This is just a new interrogation technique. We can get in big trouble if we play with them. We could be shot for treason when we get home.”
“When we get home, the war will be over and no one will be shooting anyone,” another sailor interjected. “What do they want to say to us?”
Heinrich picked a tiny black biting bug from his arm and another from his ear. “Wait, you will see. You will not believe your ears when you hear. These Americans have lost their minds. I have been asked to interpret what they want to say to you—to all of us.”
“What have you been telling them?” Felix asked.
“Nothing!” Heinrich adamantly declared. “I have said nothing and disclosed nothing. I have only listened to them, and agreed to be an interpreter.” By this time several more crewmates had gathered around the men. Heinrich waited for their questions, which came fast and hard. He did his best to answer them.
“Please speak slowly, and in short sentences,” Mueller requested. “My English is good, but slow.”
Thirty minutes had passed. Gene and Ray were standing outside the wire with most of U-505’s crew gathered in front of them. Colonel Arbeiter had listened, grumbled and complained, but ultimately granted Gene’s request to allow the prisoners to approach the main fence in large numbers—something usually forbidden—so he could discuss baseball, and only baseball, with them. Extra guards stood outside, but at a distance, ready to respond if anything unexpected took place. The expressions on the German faces spanned the gamut, from friendly smiles to angry stares. It was also obvious several were quite upset with Mueller. Three had joined to listen, but had their backs to the man.
“Okay, this is most of our crew,” Mueller said when the last few Germans walked up and sat down on the red soil. “I will interpret your words. I will not do more. If they want to play, I will play. If they do not, I would be viewed as a traitor to play with you, and I will not do that.” He repeated what he just said in German. A few heads bobbed up and down in agreement. Others simply sat quietly and glared at Gene.
Ray looked at his catcher, and said, “Seems fair enough to me.”
Gene nodded, cleared his throat, and began. “Thank you,” he began nervously, his mouth suddenly dry. “My name is Gene Moore,” he announced, loudly and slowly, as if the Germans were hard of hearing but spoke perfect English. He waited as Mueller translated his greeting.
“Your guards are part of an American baseball team.” Gene stopped while Mueller spoke. Puzzled, the prisoners looked at one another but no one spoke.
“We would like to teach you to play baseball.” Heinrich repeated the words, and several Germans started to chuckle.
With the preliminaries out of the way, Gene explained his entire rationale for wanting to teach them baseball, how he recei
ved permission from the camp commander, and that as far as he was concerned, they were all sailors doing their duty as they saw it. By the time Mueller finished translating, especially that last part about everyone doing their duty—every man’s ears were up and listening. Duty was something the Kriegsmarine men understood.
Gene continued and Mueller assisted for another fifteen minutes. When Gene finished, he asked if there were any questions. A hand was raised slowly into the air. It belonged to Felix Kals. “We know nothing about this American baseball, so how can these teams be fair?”
“We understand they won’t be fair, but we will not be playing as hard as we can,” explained Gene. “The purpose is to have fun, get some exercise, and keep everyone busy.” He thanked his translator and with Ray at his side, walked away.
When Gene shot a glance over his shoulder, he noted with satisfaction that most of the Germans were gathered around Mueller, jostling for position and asking questions as fast as they could get them out of their mouths. Gene elbowed his friend, who turned and looked back at the prisoners.
“Looks like you at least got their interest,” Ray stated. “Think they’ll actually play? Do you think we can actually teach them?”
“We have guns, don’t we?” Gene chuckled. “We can force them to play.” Both men laughed at the thought of making the Germans catch and throw at gunpoint. “Yeah, I think they will, Ray.” He paused next to home plate, and Ray stopped with him. “Don’t get me wrong here, buddy, but I think that Mueller guy is okay.”
“Do I need to remind you who he is?”
“Nope,” replied the catcher. “He’s a German sailor, and our countries are at war. But let’s face it, he knows they aren’t going to win, and I tend to think the killing spirit is gone.” Both men looked back at the compound when a loud cheer broke out of the large group of Germans kneeling around Mueller.
