Chapter Thirty-Three

Flanked by guards, they straggled through the gates and into yet another fenced compound. About one-hundred and fifty men, all American officers, had traveled by train to the town of Sagan and then walked the mile or so from the wooden platform beside the tracks to this camp. Since entering the barbed-wire walls of Stalag Luft III, they’d been photographed for their POW identification cards, stripped, and issued prison clothing which consisted of an assortment of used clothing taken from previous arrivals. Despite it being mid-August, the new attire included a heavy overcoat.

Ted fingered the rough wool coat remembering his arrival in England the February before. He’d needed the wool in the cold, damp English winter. But now in the heat of August, just carrying the heavy garment made him sweat.

The reality of his situation sank in. This was a permanent camp, and he would most likely be here for a long time, long enough to need the winter coat he held. He was a prisoner—deep in Germany, a very long way from the Allied invasion front, from England and from Kitty.

Prisoners surrounded new arrivals, gawking at them as if they were strange creatures. Some recognized old friends or acquaintances and called out to them.

Ted scanned the faces, some gaunt, some hard, a few friendly. None looked familiar. No one called to him. Despite the crowd, he felt alone.

He didn’t know if anyone else got out of the Sally Ann. He had a vague memory of another parachute, but it could have been from another bomber. If any others had been shot down on the same mission, they’d been scattered across the continent and could be in any one of the dozens of POW camps in German-held territory.

Other prisoners herded the newbies into a large building. Inside it looked like a crude theater with chairs and benches lined up facing a raised stage.

They’d barely relaxed in their seats when the order “Attention!” rang out.

Everyone jumped to their feet.

A full bird colonel strode to the front and climbed the stairs to the stage, his rank recognizable only by the insignia on the cap he wore. He introduced himself as Colonel Wilson Bendix, senior officer and commander of Center Compound, and he left no doubt that they were back in the Army.

“You are American soldiers, and until Germany is defeated, you will act like soldiers.” The colonel’s handle-bar mustache added drama to his sobering speech. “They have told you that the war is over for you, but that’s a lie. They are still our enemy.”

Hands on hips, the intimidating officer paced the stage and looked from man to man. “If you don’t believe it, then disobey or get out of line and see how fast they shoot you. They don’t give a damn about the Geneva Convention.” His eyes bore into Ted as if his words were for him alone. “They may control your body, but they don’t control your mind. So stay sharp. Remember who your enemy is.” His gaze left Ted and moved on to another airman.

Ted released his breath. He hadn’t expected to be chewed out so soon after they arrived. But the colonel’s words woke him up, made him realize that even the relative safety of a Prisoner of War camp did not mean he was out of the war. His life still hung in the balance, nothing assured.

Like floating on the ocean in a life raft, he thought. He hadn’t gone down with the ship, and he hadn’t been killed by the civilians, but he hadn’t made it to the safety of shore either. The image of an angel pulling him from the waves comforted him. She was with him, even here.

The colonel went on to explain the command structure within the camp and the rules about the warning wire. Strung thirty feet inside the fence, anyone crossing the wire could and would be shot by the guards in the “Goon Boxes,” as they affectionately referred to the guard towers. He also related the story of the escape attempt the previous spring from the British compound. After the escapees were recaptured, the Germans had executed fifty men in retaliation. The colonel made his point. The Germans would kill anyone who tried to escape.

On their way out of the building, after the sobering speech, they were issued eating utensils and a single roll of toilet paper with instructions to take good care of these treasurers.

Outside, Ted stood in silence, while others milled around him.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “You Theodore Kruger?”

“Yeah. I’m Kruger.”

“Callahan.” He frowned and made no offer to shake hands. “Come with me.” His words were terse as he turned and walked away.

Ted hurried to follow him. All around him the newly arrived prisoners headed in different directions, toward different buildings.

The camp consisted of neat rows of buildings laid out with the military efficiency of the Germans. The man called Callahan led him toward two long wooden structures with doors in either end. They turned right and went between the two barracks toward a second row. Ted glanced between the structures as they passed. He estimated the distance between the buildings to be four or five feet. A barbed wire fence as tall as the rooftops with warning wire loomed beyond the second row of buildings. The warning wire, just as the colonel described it, stretched across the open area in front of the fence, knee-high and sobering.

Callahan stopped at the end of one of the buildings and pointed to the markings.

“This is block forty-seven, your new home. They’re all numbered, and they call them blocks—as in cell block—not barracks. Inside there are rooms called combines. You’re in combine four. Okay?”

Ted nodded, then asked, “Are there just Americans in this camp?”

“Yep. In the center compound we’re all Americans. There’s Brits in another. And all kinds of nationalities spread around.”

“How many compounds are there?”

“Dunno. I don’t get around much.” A wry smile accompanied his sarcasm.

He opened the door and led Ted inside.

Callahan pointed to a room, and Ted stepped inside. Hand-made wooden bunks stood three high. Ted counted five of them crammed into the tiny area and wondered how fifteen men would squeeze in without crushing each other. A small table and some stools filled what space there was in the center of the room.

A man who’d been sitting on one of the stools got to his feet. Ted noticed another man lying on a middle bunk.

Ted nodded to them.

“This is Kruger. Your new roommate.”

Ted glanced back at the man standing in the doorway, then turned to the one standing before him, stuck out his hand and smiled. “Ted Kruger.”

The airman eyed him suspiciously. Slowly he reached out and shook Ted’s hand. “Lynch. Al Lynch.” He pointed to the man lying on the bunk. “That’s Jackson. He’s not feeling so good.”

A single step brought Ted to the bunk. He reached out and the man took his hand. “Jackson,” Ted acknowledged him. From the black eye, busted lip, and assorted bruises, Ted understood why the man was under the weather.

“You’re up there.” Lynch pointed to a top bunk.

Ted looked up, then tossed his meager belongings up onto the bed. He took off the heavy overcoat while studying the structure. The boards across the end and the narrow space between each bed had him wondering how he would climb up there.

“Lynch here is the Combine Fuhrer. He can fill you in on how things work around here.”

“Thanks, Callahan. I’ll take it from here.”

Ted jerked around and stuck out his hand, “Thanks, Callahan.” He repeated the name, so he would remember it. As a youngster he’d figured out that knowing a person’s name went a long way toward making a friend, even with an unfriendly type like Callahan.

The man narrowed his eyes before taking Ted’s hand. A hint of a smile softened his face as their hands pumped up and down.

In the narrow hallway, several men pushed past Callahan forcing him back into the room. Ted recognized a couple as they went by, new prisoners like him who had just arrived.

“I’ll be back later. Gotta see who the major wants to talk to.” Callahan disappeared.

“That’s our last bunk, so we’re full up.” Lynch commented. “The other Kriegies should wander in before mealtime then you’ll meet them.”

“The what?” Ted asked.

Lynch gave a little, humorless laugh. “Kriegies. It’s short for the German word ‘kriegsgefangener’ which means prisoner of war. So that’s what we call ourselves—Kriegies.”

Ted knew the German word for war—krieg, so it made sense.

“There’s a lot to learn here. How we share our Red Cross packages, take turns cooking, cleaning up. There’s a little kitchen area all the combines on this end of the block share.”

“Okay,” Ted agreed. “Just tell me what I need to know. I’ll do my best to fit in and go along with your routine.”

This was his new home. After being confined in a cell for weeks, completely alone, it would be an adjustment. But a welcome one.

****

“I came down in a town. I remember the buildings were damaged. I hit hard, my chute jerked me, and I was knocked out. Next thing I know I’m being pummeled by civilians. They had me in the street, a whole bunch of them, hitting me, kicking me. Got a pitchfork or something in the ribs. Then some German soldiers showed up. I was bleeding pretty bad from the gash on my head.” He lifted his too-long hair to show them the ugly, red scar. “And I must have had some busted ribs in addition to the stab wound.” He could still feel the pain, like his chest was caving in. “Anyway, they took me to a hospital.”

“How long were you hospitalized?” the major asked.

“I don’t know. A week, maybe. A lot of it is just a blur.” Ted still had headaches, but he didn’t want to tell anyone. No point in it. He figured they’d go away eventually. “I do remember the day they took me out of there. There was me and two other guys who’d been wounded. A couple of guards took us to a train station. It was more like they were trying to protect us from the civilians than trying to keep us from escaping.” Ted thought of the terrible sounding shouts of “Terrorfliegers” and “murderers of women and children.” The looks of hatred in their faces needed no translation.

“Where did they take you?”

“I remember seeing a sign for Frankfort. We went through the station there and on to a place called Oberursel.” Ted noticed the officer nodded ever so slightly. Evidently he knew the place. “It’s an interrogation center.”

“How long were you there?”

“I counted twenty-eight days. In the cell I was in, I saw where other prisoners had marked on the wall, so I figured maybe I should do the same. I started my own set of marks.” Ted remembered how the days had run together. His cell had had no window, so he’d used delivery of his meager meals as a time table. “I…I could have miscounted, but it’s pretty close.”

Ted didn’t want to think of his stay there, didn’t want to talk about it. But he knew he had to. These men were the compound’s organization X. They controlled everything. They had the only direct communication with the Germans. And they had the power to make his life here miserable. Or even have him removed, put in another camp, if they didn’t trust him.

When they’d brought him here, they’d told him that the two men who had given him the tour of the compound had been trying to determine if anyone could identify him. No one had. Which, to these suspicious minds, meant that he could be a spy. A German plant to feed them information about what went on among the prisoners.

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. Name, rank, serial number.”

The officer looked skeptical. Grumbling noises from the others, hidden in the shadows, declared their disbelief.

“You were there for four weeks, kept in isolation, and yet when the German interrogator spoke with you, you said nothing.”

Ted could feel the sweat sliding down his spine. “I didn’t tell them anything about the military. I swear.”

“But you did talk about yourself.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ted nodded in response. He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. He’d talked to the guy, all right. After days of silence, listening to the German talk, Ted had started telling stories, not from his military life, but from his life before that, growing up. And he’d told them about his German grandparents. That had probably been his mistake. Why they’d kept him so long.

“What did you talk about?” Major Burnside asked.

“I talked about growing up, playing basketball, moving around from place to place. That sort of thing.”

“Did you tell them about your family?”

Ted looked into the major’s eyes. Their intent stare bore into him. He had to tell them. Tell them all of it.

“Yes. You might as well know. My grandparents are German. They immigrated from Germany over forty years ago.”

“And you told the Germans about them?”

“Yeah.” Ted nodded. “They figured out that I spoke a little German. And my name, too, I guess. Anyway they assumed I had people from Germany.”

“And they used that—to get information out of you?”

Ted nodded. “They wanted to know if I had any relatives in Germany. I told them I didn’t know. And that’s the truth. I’m sure my grandparents have kinfolks over here, but I don’t know any of them.” Ted was pleading now. He desperately wanted these men to believe him.

“This guy, this German. He tried to convince me he was my friend,” Ted continued. “He wanted me to help them. To be a stooge for them.” Ted looked the major straight in the eye. “But I refused. I told him I hated Germany and all it stood for. I didn’t want anything to do with them. I even told him that they could threaten to shoot me, but it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“So they sent you here.”

“Yeah. I guess he finally gave up on me.” Ted drew a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He’d done all he could to convince them.

The major pushed away from the table and stood. He moved into the shadows to join the others. Ted could hear their whispers but couldn’t make out what they were saying. These men held his fate in their hands. He could only wait for their verdict.

After a few minutes, Major Burnside turned back to face Ted.

“You can stay, for now. But know that you will be watched. We don’t like having men in the compound that no one knows.”

Ted stood. “Thank you, sir.” A wave of relief swept over him.

“Keep your nose clean.”

Someone opened the door and light flooded in. Outside, Callahan waited.

“Take him back. He’s okay—for now.”

****

Ted took up his daily routine of walking the perimeter of the compound after the morning appell or roll call. Twice each day the Germans lined up the prisoners in the camp’s open field and counted them, by block and by combine. Only the sick were allowed to skip this daily routine. They were counted by guards who went into the blocks and located each soldier.

As he rounded the second corner, someone shouted. “Hey, Bear!”

Instinctively, Ted turned at the sound of his old nickname.

He saw a man moving slowly toward him. Each step was an effort for the pale prisoner.

“Kruger, is that you?”

The man looked vaguely familiar. “That’s right. Ted Kruger.”

As the Kriegie came closer Ted studied him, trying to come up with a name to match the face.

“Wynn. Paul Wynn.” The man stuck his hand out. “Six hundred and third squadron. I was the navigator on the ‘Special Delivery.’ We went down in March. Remember?”

Ted pumped the man’s hand. Memories flooded back. The barracks at Allsford. Briefings from eons ago.

“Sure, I remember you. Glad to see you.” Ted had forgotten about the other crews who’d been shot down. He heard about them at the time, but he hadn’t wanted to think what happened to them. They were just gone.

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” Wynn asked. “Did you get separated on the way down? Mine did. Haven’t seen a single one of them since they rounded us up.”

Old pain stabbed through Ted’s chest. His crew—gone. And a second one, gone now, too.

“I was wounded. Grounded for a while. The Miss Bonnie went down after that.” Ted looked at the ground. He couldn’t face the man, then he felt a hand on his arm.

“I get it. All of us here get it.”

“I was with another crew”—Ted met his fellow airman’s gaze—“when I got shot down. Don’t know if anybody else got out.”

“Yeah.” He nodded sympathetically. “I think they intentionally do that. Separate us.” He put his hand up to cover his mouth and coughed, a deep rattling cough.

“You okay?”

He tried to nod but coughed again. After a minute or two, he was able to speak. “Got this cough I can’t seem to throw. Had it since last spring. It’ll get better, then I’ll get wet, chilled, and it comes back.”

“Don’t they have a doctor around this place?”

He smiled. “Not here. I’ve been in and out of what they call a hospital, but I’ve never been bad enough for them to ship me out to a real one.” He patted Ted’s arm. “That’s good, I guess.”

Ted noticed the two men who took turns shadowing him standing nearby. He called to them. “Come on over here. This man knows me. He can vouch for me.”

Wynn looked around as they approached. “Sure I know him. Ted Kruger. We were stationed together at Allsford. Same group.”

Relieved at finally finding someone who could identify him, Ted relaxed a bit. Maybe now he’d be accepted.

He noticed a basketball hoop mounted to the side of one of the buildings. “Do any of you guys play basketball?”