Chapter 53

October 1918

“Velcome to Landshut Sanitation Camp.” The red-haired brute was daunting, not just for his size but also for his fierce Kaiser-like mustache, crimson-cheeked face, and massive eyebrows. Looking agitated, tired, and without patience, he pronounced, “I am your Kommandant Hauptmann Hahn at this most sterilized camp.”

The fresh air felt exhilarating compared to the fetid inside of the train, notwithstanding the wire fences that surrounded us as we stood two deep at attention. “You were not expected, no information of your arrival, so you vill not have food for now. Meanwhile, you vill be insulated.”

Muttering occurred between neighbors and those standing behind with speculation about what the captain had meant by insulate, though no one was willing to raise the question. Hahn raised his fist for silence, and with a firm “Achtung!” stabbed his left index finger into his right upper arm.

It became obvious that the Hauptmann intended to inoculate us when two doctors in white lab coats appeared from around the corner of his quarters. The dreary clouds suddenly made the refreshing air feel cold as we were commanded to strip to the waist to allow the medical team to methodically inject us. Word traveled quietly that, as cholera was known to present a risk in German prison camps, this was for our protection, yet some wondered if the injections were a form of experiment. Regardless, there was nothing we could do.

Hauptmann Hahn stood erect in quintessential Teutonic fashion throughout the inoculation process, which finished when the doctors faced him and with half bows clicked their heels. “You vill provision with good beds. You vill obey orders. You vill be good, ja? You vill not be sinking of running away!”

In his broken English, Hahn spelled out food rationing, even though he had earlier pronounced there would be none. It seemed if we agreed to sign weekly chits against our British bank accounts, he would organize meals from a local pub. We knew there was little chance of surplus food being available in Germany at the time, and that the scheme involved moving prisoner food out of the camp so that it could be sold back to us offsite. We didn’t care whether our banks honored the notes nor that he was laundering funds with the help of the pub owner, so agreed to the plan. We wanted to eat.

“Now, four officers to one room, boots taken every night to prevent the Flucht.”

What began with a slight chuckle became infectious laughter as neighbor looked at neighbor, unable to contain themselves. The Flucht? What was he talking about?

Hahn’s face turned a brighter red, his anger spreading until one of our flyers who knew a little German appealed to him for clarification. When our lad announced that the Kommandant was concerned over escape, the collective nod of understanding caused Hahn to beam. “OK, you think I say no fucked, ja? No, I say Flucht, no running away. Ha ha ha!” In a dangerous display of impulsiveness, he held his Luger up high above his head and squeezed the trigger. We instinctively ducked with the pistol’s explosion, but none of us broke rank. His point was emphasized and understood.

After Hauptmann Hahn returned to his quarters, the guards stepped in to allocate huts. In the confusion, Vic, Howie, and I strode purposefully off to the nearest one and claimed our beds with no regard for permission. The hut was a simple square wood frame, obviously purpose built for the war. The inside was dank notwithstanding a small central brazier with a sheet-metal pipe to the roof. A small table with a mirror leaned vertically at its far edge and a bowl for washing rounded out the Ritz-like adornments.

Howie peered down from the top bunk at me after he had tested his mattress. “You better not have been allotted more straw than me, Pitman!”

“Not possible. You could fold my mattress up and stuff it in your tunic pocket. How about you, Vic?”

“Same, but good Lord, we are dry and this place is fairly clean.” Howie smiled over at him. “But it ain’t an Oxford dorm, Vic!” There was a pause as we contemplated our unknown future.

I wrapped the end of the flimsy gray blanket around my arm as I tested it for warmth. “The question is: How long will our stay be?”

Howie again flung his head over the edge of his bed, smiling. “How long will this war last?”

“That’s the question,” declared the Vicar, “so we ought to just settle in for whatever duration that is.”

“Ah hell, Vic,” I said. “It’s been only two weeks since our capture and already the tedium is driving me a little crazy.” I looked up and over at our fourth bunkmate, the previous interpreter. He nodded congenially, so I decided to proceed with a soft voice. “What of escape, eh?”

“Not a chance, Bobby,” said the Vicar.

“Not so fast,” thundered Howie. “That could make sense, especially if our boys are pushing east toward us.”

“Then we will be released,” protested the Vicar. “Besides, if I understand the geography, we are in Bavaria, a couple hundred miles from Switzerland. I, ah, believe we tried that idea before. Walking to Switzerland is not going to happen.”

Howie knelt up on his bed, excited. “But we could follow the Danube, perhaps even hitch on with a river boat.”

“Howie,” I said, “the Danube flows from the Black Forest east through Hungary, all through hostile territory. I take back my comment, as I agree. We are far too deep into Germany.”

Howie continued, “At least think about it.”

I looked straight up at Howie and with a stern face said, “No Flucht!”

. . .

In the cloudy gloom of that October day, I lay back on my mattress and did ponder escape but dismissed it with remembrance of the miserable walk out of Darmstadt. More-pleasant thoughts took me away to that small Nottingham bistro near the university where I so enjoyed that summer meal with Cissy, one of the most pleasant memories of our relationship. Of my life. Looking at her beauty bathed by that flowing blue dress, her faintly painted lips in a perpetual smile, caused me to beam as I lay there. We had spoken of the future—I wanting a definite plan and she wanting to wait for peaceful times—as we both confirmed our love for one another. Then, standing on the arched bridge spanning the river Trent, we had lightly kissed. We were undeniably, deeply in love.

I committed to myself that image, the memories that would be my refuge, a safe place to shield myself from whatever was to come. If I were to die in this prison, I would carry that gentle remembrance to my charnel. I didn’t recall falling asleep or my cellmates attempting to wake me for evening rations until I awoke with the dawn chirping of the jackdaws. While the others slept, I momentarily crept out into the misty morning, which foreshadowed the winter cold that was to come. The kommandant had agreed that for an extra mark a week, I would be allowed two sheets of paper and two envelopes. So, before morning rations, I returned to the hut and sat at the wash table to write.

2 October, 1918

Dear Papa,

You will have received the telegram that I am now a German prisoner of war. While I am forbidden to disclose my location, be assured it is well within the German territory, not at one of the outposts in their crumbling empire. We are well protected, if you understand my context.

As officers, we are supposedly treated with dignity and with better provisions, such as food and shelter. Well, if these are defined as better, I feel sad about what our regular troops are enduring. As agent over my affairs, you may notice that in addition to my regular pay entries, there will be deductions for prison food. These should be less than one Canadian dollar per week since we agreed with the kommandant’s four-deutsche-mark levy.

While on the topic, Papa, if something were to happen to me, please distribute all of my savings equally to my darling sisters. I know that is a drastic request, but if the war is prosecuted for a long time yet, I’m not confident that many of us interned will survive. The poverty and suffering that we have seen among Germany’s citizens is testament.

Meanwhile, one of our darkest enemies is tedium. The days have turned decidedly wintry under dark, dreary clouds and drizzle. We have little to occupy us since, according to the Hague Convention, officers are not permitted to perform work duties. While I understand its intent, I curse its effect since it makes the days long and boring. One can only play put-and-take for so many hours with pebbles for currency without submitting to indifference with that as well.

As you can see, my one sheet of paper is filled, so I will bid you adieu. Please hug Mama and Grannie for me and send my love to Ethel and Hilda.

Your son, Robert

. . .

2 October, 1918

Dearest Eric & Daisy,

It’s only been a little more than two weeks since I last wrote, but what a change that short time has brought. I am a prisoner of war held in the German heartland, although I am not permitted to explain how that occurred or where I’m being imprisoned. Be assured I am all right and in good health.

With an abundance of time on my hands, I think of you often, especially you, Daisy. I wanted you to know that I’ve managed to find the courage to throw off my grief over Cissy, to move beyond frustration and anger to emotions that are filled with fond, happy memories. I know we both miss her dearly. I sincerely appreciate your allowing me to indulge my feelings, to share our common remembrance. While selfish, that helps me get through the days in cold, cold Germany.

For all our sakes, I trust it is God’s will to presently see an end to hostilities.

With love to you both,

Bob

. . .

We were inoculated every four days, but as time passed were no closer to understanding why. The fifty or so flyers who were interned kept pretty much to their bunkmates except for exercise periods. Orderlies, mostly Italian regular soldiers, performed cleanup and other duties, which made our time waste away even more slowly. As the days dragged on, I found myself drawing on memories more and more, the safe place I had stored away in order to ward off increasing melancholy and the sinking back into dark nightmares.

One rainy day, we were sitting on our bunks whiling away the time, except for Howie, who was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, bouncing a ball off the opposite side. While the rhythmic sound was annoying, we did not interrupt out of sympathetic respect for his having a job to do. Suddenly the rhythm stopped.

“Ever think about the night we force landed?” Howie muttered.

“In what way?” I asked.

“Well, we just disappeared. Xaffevillers wouldn’t have known where we were or whether dead or alive. D8302 gone, vanished! We’ve experienced nights like that, prayed when one of ours didn’t show up. We would then guffaw and trundle off to bed when reality became clear—oh, they’re lost.”

The Vicar sleepily looked over. “What’s your point?”

Howie looked defensive, impatient with Vic’s question. “This time it was us, vamoose, gone, disappeared!”

“Within a few days, the Hun would have wired our whereabouts to Geneva,” I retorted. “Eventually Burge would have received word, you know, Information received from reliable sources . . . Frederick Howard Chainey, previously reported missing, now reported POW.”

But I saw Howie’s point. I knew he was losing faith, perhaps slipping into gloom. Fear was artful, could creep up in the guise of many forms to conquer one’s decency and self-worth. Talking about the event typically helped. “I see your point. We’ve all stifled this conversation for weeks since our capture, and it’s time to air our misgivings, to stop the manly façade and admit we are scared. I know I am.”

“Scared of what, Bobby?” asked the Vicar.

“What our loved ones know or don’t know. Whether they are in mourning or experiencing some other grief.”

Howie stood up and paced. “Or when they received the telegram, did they feel better or worry the days away? After all, they know the Hun is getting desperate and can hardly afford to feed us.”

The Vicar sat up, now alert. “Listen here, chaps. This talk is not good, just getting us worked up.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered. “I think these things need to be said so that we can support one another, be more aware of each other’s feelings to help us through.”

“There’s reason!” said Howie.

Yes, reason was the only thing keeping me sane. My faith had been to keep busy when my deepest courage was threatened. Yet there were no physical tasks here, no keeping busy. In spite of cold nights, poor food, and being incarcerated by a Hun who had lost the resolve to care, I decided to employ a positive voice as my daily work. And after all, I had my safe place.