Now it was getting very late, and the Burgermeister apologized because he had to lock me up in the local jail. The local jail was a 6 by 8 ft. wooden structure with one door, no windows. Inside there was just a wooden bench. His wife gave me a blanket. The Burgermeister apologized something fierce, then closed the door and locked it.
The following morning, they had a car ready. I was put in the car with the Burgermeister and another man. There were no guns. No bad treatment at all in that village. The villagers there were very nice.
They brought me to Kaiserslautern, where the Gestapo office was. I was taken upstairs into an office in this big building, and told to sit down. I sat. In the meantime everybody in this building had heard they’d brought in a flyer. One of the terror flyers. So they all come to the doorway to gawk at me, crowding the entry.
One of the men started yelling and became abusive. The next thing I knew I was picking myself up off of the floor. I don’t know exactly what happened. I lost consciousness for a moment. I picked myself up and got back on the chair. One of the German officers cleared the room and apologized.
I was brought into see this high class officer – he had the prettiest uniform I ever did see. This officer spoke beautiful English, I could’ve sworn he was an American. He questioned me and got the usual answers. Then, this German soldier with one of those little squirt guns appeared, and I was told to go with him. We went downstairs and I was told to get in the sidecar of a motorcycle. The soldier started it up and we took off across the mountain.
Once we were up on the mountain, he suddenly stopped in a secluded area and got off the motorcycle. He had his gun out and he’s motioning to me that I should get out. I looked at him from where I was sitting in his sidecar and asked, “What for?” He couldn’t speak English, but he responded “Pissin, pissin.” I told him, “Don’t need no pissin,” and stayed put. I guess the good Lord was watching over me and didn’t make me need to go “pissin” right then. When I didn’t get out of the sidecar, he gave up and started the bike again.
After the war I got a letter from that young soldier, his name was Hermann Spies, explaining that he was the driver of the motorcycle. (He sent the letter care of the “Chief of Police, Capitol City of Connecticut.”) His orders had been to take me up on the mountain, execute me while “trying to escape,” and kick me over the side of the mountain.
Instead, this German soldier delivered me to a German Army barracks where I was locked up in the guardhouse. When I was brought in, the first question the soldier there asked after looking at my dog tags was, “Do you know a Manders V. Sidney?” You see, the rest of my crew got picked up the day we got shot down, I did not. So they didn’t know who I was, whether I flew a fighter plane or was with a bomber crew, they didn’t know nothing. So I said, “No, I don’t know a Manders V. Sidney.”
Sidney V. Manders was my waist gunner. As they walked me in to the guard post, I was talking in English to the guard. Just kidding around, hell it didn’t make any difference now – and Sidney started singing. They stuck me in a cell with one little window and a peephole in the door. After everybody left, Sidney and I had a conversation. After two or three days in those solitary cells, they came and got us out. But we were locked in there a couple of times more during air raids.
Eventually, another young German soldier came and we were brought out of our cells for good. His instructions were to take us to the Dulag Luft, which was the interrogation center for POWs at Oberursel near Frankfurt.
This German guard’s name was Heinz Weiss. He was a nice guy. He spoke a little English and we told him that there was no way we were going to try and get away. After all we were in the middle of Germany, and there was no way we were going to try and start a war all by ourselves, so he had nothing to worry about. We rode by train. I don’t remember how long it took, but we eventually wound up in Frankfurt.
We had to walk through the Frankfurt station train station that night, right as the area was being bombed by the RAF. It was not fun, bombs exploding, fire everywhere. At one time, it must have been a beautiful station – like Grand Central station.
While we are going through this train station, Sid, myself, and this German guard with his squirt gun, there was this gorgeous blonde female standing by the stairway going upstairs. Being the girl-watching kind of guy I was, I stopped short and stared. I nudged Sid and said, “Sid, look she’s beautiful.” She had long blonde hair, she was well built, and she was wearing tan slacks and a sweater. I said, “We’re killing people like that.” Sid said, “You dumb SOB, you’re going to get us killed.” Sid and Heinz rushed me away before any irate civilians could see me ogling the girl.
Then an air raid siren went off, so we had to head for the air raid shelter down in the basement. That was another experience. That was something else. We were the first ones in there, down in that great big tunnel.
All of a sudden the civilians start flowing in, and they see the German guard and the two American “terror” flyers. You could tell exactly what was going through their minds. But Heinz was a smart soldier. He pushed us into the corner, then he turned around and pointed his gun in the direction of the civilians. In his language he let them know that he would kill them first. We’re standing there opposite a hundred or so people, thinking “God, we’re dead.” But Heinz wouldn’t allow it. Heinz was one good soldier.
From there, Heinz transported us to Dulag Luft, near Frankfurt, that’s where all the airmen were brought when they were shot down. There were hundreds of American flyers there. We were questioned and our pictures were taken. Each POW was assigned a number, mine was 4554.
When the processing and interrogation was over, I got tossed into solitary – I guess I gave them the wrong answers. I don’t know how long I was in solitary. I don’t know how long I was at Dulag Luft.
The next thing I remember is that we were loaded onto boxcars and taken to a POW camp. The cars were small, crowded, with no food. I don’t remember much about the train ride except that it was a nightmare. After two days we arrived at Stalag Luft IV in GrossTychow, Poland, the newest escape-proof prison camp for American flyers.
Stalag Luft IV
On arrival at Stalag Luft IV, we took a bit of abuse from the sergeant they called the Iron Cross. He was a real sadistic SOB. I was assigned to Compound B, Barracks 2, Room 12. The room itself was 12 x 16 with four-tier bunks on two walls. I was the 25th POW assigned to that room. When I got there, they told me to pick a spot on the floor. A straw mat on the floor was my bed. That was it.
The weather was cold. We had no heat. The camp itself was up in the Polish corridor outside the Town of Steffen, right along the North sea. The barracks were built on stilts, and you could see the daylight though the siding and floorboards. There was one window and a stove, but no fuel.
The food was rotten. There wasn’t any. We had barley once or twice a week. Just plain barley. In the morning, we were treated to roasted acorn coffee. For the evening meal we had dehydrated grass soup, to split between four people, and black bread that tasted like sawdust. When the camp Commanding Officer was in a good mood we were given Red Cross parcels. One parcel to split between four men.
It was kind of rotten. Once or twice I think I was knocking on the Pearly Gates. But for some reason or another I came out of it. I don’t know why.
There were about 10,000 Americans in this camp. Our compound held a couple thousand. Some of the guys had been POWs for two or three years already. Everybody had fleas and body lice. There were no showers and no hot water. There was an out-house of sorts at the far end of the barracks. Dysentery and diarrhea spared nobody.
I got there sometime in the middle of November, but I don’t actually know when. During the day you could do whatever you felt like doing. You could walk around the compound for exercise. We had no equipment, we didn’t have balls or bats, or any of that kind of stuff. The main pastime was playing bridge. We made cards and we played bridge, and had bridge tournaments.
One
day we were so bored that we captured a flea and held a trial. I was the defense attorney for the flea. I lost the case, and the client.
The thing you used for money was cigarettes. In the Red Cross parcels, there were cigarettes. They were all off-branded cigarettes (Wings, Raleighs, Spuds, and so on), not the popular brands. But the German guards liked them.
We had our own “Sgt. Shultz” type, like in “Hogan’s Heroes.” We called him the Green Hornet, because he was always dressed in green. He was from the United States, and his story was that he had come home to Germany just before the war to visit his folks and he got stuck there. He claimed he was looking forward to the end of the war when he could go back to Chicago. He wasn’t too bad. He was a half-assed nice guy, but he was not dumb like “Sgt. Shultz.”
The colonel was something else. He was a little guy, just about my size. He came out for roll call every day, and he had the most beautiful leather coat – when he walked, it flipped open and it had a leopard skin lining. We all would bicker about who it would fit best.
The Iron Cross was a mean sadistic character. For example, every once in a while, at night, the lights would suddenly go on and it would mean a raid. And he would make us all fall out no matter whether you had clothes on or not, and you stood in the snow while they tore the place apart. They would rip the bunks off the walls, make a mess of everything. Then they would order you back inside, giving you just enough time to run inside and shut the door before they let the dogs loose in the compound.
Those dogs were not nice puppies. They were dobies, they were attack dogs. All night, once the lights were out, the dogs cruised the compound. The barracks were up in the air, about 3 feet in the air, so that you couldn’t build any tunnels or hide. You could hear the dogs growling under the barracks. If you walked outside at night, the dogs would get you.
After several months, my hair was down past my shoulders. We had no soap and no razor blades. Once, one of the guys managed to barter for a razor. You stood in line if you wanted to use it. After some bartering of my own, I was sixth in line to use the razor. I finally got to shave, but I couldn’t get a haircut because we had nothing to cut hair with.
That same day, the colonel came in to check the barracks. I had just shaved and my skin looked pasty white because I wasn’t in such good shape at the time. The beard had at least hidden the fact that I had lost so much weight. The colonel singled me out, and through the interpreter asked if I was sick. There was an unwritten rule that you don’t complain, so I didn’t.
We did have Christmas. We connived a branch of a fir tree and we made Christmas. We made tinsel from the foil in the cigarette packs and we had a Christmas party.
We had all been issued a GI coat – the great coat. In my spare time, I had cut the collar apart, saved the thread and made a hood out of the collar so I could walk out in the cold without a hat. It worked fine. For a pack of cigarettes I became the barracks seamstress. I eventually accumulated lots of packs of those off-brands cigarettes that came in the Red Cross parcels, and began to sew them into the lining of my coat.
Talk about how cold it was. It was kind of comical. There was this one fellow with a handle bar moustache, he was so proud of that moustache – it was out almost 6 inches on each side of his face. He had the best one in the whole compound. One day, right after Christmas, he decided to take a walk around the compound. There was snow on the ground and it was cold. He bundled up and he took a walk. After a while, he came back in and he was cussing and he was all shook up. We could hear him as soon as he walked in the building, and wondered what the hell happened. Evidently while he was outside when he exhaled he breathed moisture on his moustache, and it froze. It was all ice. Then he happened to hit it and half of it broke off. He was really upset. Of course, we all got a laugh out of it.
Nobody was depressed. The German guards called us crazy Yankees because we did whatever we could do just to keep our spirits up. And we looked out for each other.
The guards did what they were told. Some of the prisoners were getting barbed-wire happy, talking about going over the fence. The guard towers were manned twenty-four hours a day. Their orders were “shoot to kill” anyone who crosses the wire. One POW didn’t believe it. He was buried outside the camp.
One day in January, there was a lot of excitement in the compound. A wagon came in with a whole pig in it and stopped at the cook shack. We thought we were going to get some real food. Later that day the Red Cross man from Geneva came to inspect camp conditions. We were warned not to complain. After the inspection, the Red Cross man left, and so did the pig.
The Forced March
On the morning of February 6, 1945, they came around hollering in German to get out – fast. We all fell out and they marched us out. Each man was given one Red Cross package.
They marched us out of the compound that day in a column of threes; we didn’t know why. Our compound was the first one to leave.
They started us walking down the road. All day long we walked, until that night just before dark we came to a farm with a big barn. It was one of those communal farms. There must have been two or three thousand of us. They herded us into the barn and then closed the door. That’s it. You’re there for the night.
The next morning right at sun up, they shook us loose, got us outside, and we started walking again. This was in February, it was freezing cold. I guess just the walking kept us from freezing to death. For me, this “short hike” went on for more than 60 days. After the war, they called it the Black Hunger March, because the only food you got was the food you could scrounge. Every once in a while you got a steamed potato that had been steamed to feed the cattle. If we happened to be passing a farm that was doing that.
The German guards walked right alongside us. For the most part, they were not mean, they were not horrible. When you couldn’t walk anymore, the dogs would get you up and you would walk some more.
After a few days, the buddy system took over. Three men who marched together looked out for each other. My buddies were a cowboy from Utah named J.P. Red and a fellow from New York named Jack Gray. Whatever we could scrounge we shared.
I think everybody was sick. Everybody in the entire column had diarrhea or dysentery, or whatever you want to call it. The only time you were allowed to move to the side of the road was to “squat and squirt,” and when you did, it was complete with blood and everything else.
The days were pretty much all the same. Every night we wound up in a barn on a different farm. The day to remember in our march along the North Sea in the dead of winter was February 13th.
On February 13th we started walking at daylight and marched through an area called Swinemünde. We crossed bridges and country roads, always away from people and towns. We marched all day long. Then it started to get dark and there’s no farm or barn in sight. All of a sudden they stopped the column near a big field, and they said, “here tonight.” They posted the guards around us, and wherever you fell is where you spent the night.
We woke up in the morning – it’s a wonder we all woke up – we woke up covered with snow. It had started to snow during the night. The only reason we didn’t freeze to death is that we were all laying down so close together, almost one on top of the other. Our body heat saved us. Anyway, we got through that night and they marched us off.
Some of the guards were sympathetic but could do nothing. They too were tired from marching alongside us. I must have looked real bad because one guard shared his ration with me, which I shared with my buddies.
We were having a scenic tour of northern Germany along the North Sea. There is one thing that I remember about the march that lifted our spirits. We had never gone through a town. Eventually, after about 30-40 days, I don’t remember exactly when, I think around the middle of March, we could see a town or village in front of us. We were coming to a more populated area, and the road we were on was going right though this town. We hadn’t had to do that yet.
As we got close to the town, som
eone from up front passed the word back – We march through town at attention. We all figured that when we walk through the town, and they know we are all flyers, we’re going to catch hell. So somebody up front had passed the word: we march through like soldiers.
As we approached the town, you could see the column start to straighten out – I have to tell you, I was proud to be an American. We were a ragged looking bunch, marching through at attention like soldiers. Nothing happened as we passed through town. The townspeople just stared at us.
By the end of March, the weather was better but most of us were not. The worst part was trying to walk with swollen feet. The guys who weren’t in as bad shape helped the others. Two men helped me because my both my feet and ankles were blown up like balloons. I was down to around 85 pounds and I felt awful.
Fallingbostel
Eventually, in early April, they stopped us at a different POW camp – Stalag XIB Fallingbostel. This was an old camp, originally a British Reprisal camp. This particular camp had all the British colonials that were captured at Dunkirk, and they had been there for three and a half years.
When they marched us all in, the British and South Africans came out and brought the two dozen or so of us who couldn’t walk any more into their barracks. The South African POWs took care of us. There was this Sergeant from Johannesburg who I called Sergeant Red because he had this big red beard. He brought me in and put me on his bunk, and then had the medics take a look at my feet.
Back before the march, I had sewed into the lining of my great coat as many packs of cigarettes as I could scrounge or barter for while I was in camp. I still had quite a few left. Cigarettes were never a problem, if you wanted to barter with a farmer, you could give him a cigarette for a carrot or two.
I pulled cigarettes out of my coat and passed them around to the British soldiers, which they appreciated because they hadn’t had any cigarettes in a long time.
Ever the Patriot: Recollections of Vincent J. Riccio, World War II Veteran and POW Page 4
