Later that morning an armed escort marched us to the train station. We arrived in Mannheim and were paraded through the streets under jibes and threats from the local citizenry. Again in prison, they kept us together for questioning, enticing us to give up information with the promise of food and hot drink. We soon got the gist of the game—there was no food, never would be, so we kept quiet. In disgust, our jailers transferred us back to Mannheim station. As burdens, they wanted us out of there.
With the rolling lull of the train and in exhaustion, Howie and the Vicar dozed. As we sped along the banks of the Rhine, I struggled to keep my anxiety in check, the anticipation of what was to come robbing me of the ability to sleep. I irritably watched the guards watching me, their bodies as gaunt as to belie their authority. I faintly smiled at the thought that without their threatening Maschinengewehrs strapped over their shoulders they would be defenseless.
. . .
At Karlsruhe we were hustled to an old hotel on the prominent Ettlinger Strasse, a clearing depot from which prisoners were transferred to permanent camps. It was whispered to us by orderlies—themselves POWs—that the inmates referred to this as the Listening Hotel since it was devoted to intelligence collection. Even though we had little strength or appetite for talking among ourselves, it was good to be forewarned of the eavesdropping practices.
The constant uncertainty about where we were to wait out the balance of the war was wearing on me. And we were missing the euphoric atmosphere that had been building among 100 Squadron flyers about a likely armistice. Howie was locked in one room, while the Vicar and I were in another. Our prison garb smelled, and the hot soup we were given tasted like decaying kitchen rubbish. The room we were assigned, while once of upper-crust décor, was now unclean and unkempt, smelling of earlier prisoners’ presence. Early the next morning, I was summoned to an elaborate room decorated in gaudy gold and maroon to meet a cheerful blue-suited civilian, fiftyish. He stood from his desk to shake my hand but did not introduce himself. I immediately sensed a dislike for him.
“Lieutenant Pitman, how are you?” The masquerading civilian did not wait for an answer. “I am a historian, having permission from the German military to conduct research. Will you answer my questions?”
This impeccably dressed man with a perfect command of English aroused my suspicion. I was cognizant that I had recently bombed his homeland and should appreciate any courtesy offered, but his demeanor was irritating. Perhaps that was part of a strategy of breaking down prisoners to make them talk.
I shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You are an Englishman, yes?”
“No.”
“Your accent is not Flemish, nor French?”
“No.”
“You are perhaps Canadian, then?”
I knew he would recognize my positive body signal. “Yes.”
“You are Protestant, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You are a British subject?”
“Yes.”
“You are career British military?”
Jutting my chin out, I hissed, “No.”
Blue-suit strode toward me, stopping just in time to avoid banging his nose into mine. He stared into my unblinking eyes and feigned an accusatory tone. “Yes, you are!”
I shook with rage, risked losing control, knowing that is what he wanted. “No.”
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
“Ah, joined up for the cause, for your King, to fight his German cousin, yes?”
I stared straight at his face but with a detached feeling that, for the moment, removed emotion. However, I did feel the deep-seated hunger striking at my patience.
“Canada! O, Canada! You haven’t seen your family for three years, yes?”
I hated this man, obviously German intelligence, skilled in manipulation. “Yes.”
“And your girl, you miss her?”
I knew he was planting a wild guess, but he hit the target. Seeing me well up, he knew it. “Yes, very much.”
The suit chuckled annoyingly as he crowed, “Ah, you do speak in sentences. Well, a little.” I sensed he counted on having me emotionally contained. “You miss your girl, haven’t had the ficken-ficken for a long time, ja?” That struck me as intolerably crude and had the opposite effect, as I was not going to allow this Hun to irritate me with boorish references.
He strolled casually around the room, while I remained in place, and then lit a cigarette before leaning back on the front edge of his desk. “Now, from where did you fly before your aeroplane became a gift to the kaiser?”
“The other side of the lines.”
“How long was the flying time to reach Darmstadt?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How much petrol did you carry?”
I continued to stand rigid, staring ahead. “I do not know. I am not an air mechanic.”
“Another sentence—very good. What bombs did you carry?”
“Cannot answer.”
“Do you refuse to answer these questions, to interrupt my research?”
I stood there, steeling myself against hunger and against this man’s crudeness in reference to Cissy, not knowing if I was making things worse for myself but refusing to let his manipulation win. “Yes.”
And still the interrogator held a calm level of patience, which I responded to with a rigid countenance, again jutting out my chin and pursing my lips. “What is your peacetime occupation?”
“Student.”
“Ah, perhaps a student of history, like myself?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“The law.”
“Oh-ho! The British common law. Tsk, not the Book of Civil Law, the more cultured German code.”
I shook my head.
“You are in the British air force, yes? The Royal Air Force?”
“Yes.”
“You were crew on what type of machine?”
“No comment.”
“You were attached to what aerodrome?”
“No comment.”
“Where was this aerodrome located?”
“No comment.”
“Come now, Lieutenant, your comrade in the room opposite provided this information. Perhaps you could cooperate like him so that my records are impeccable, yes?”
There was no way that Howie had responded any differently from me, nor would the Vicar when it was his turn. “No comment.”
“Lieutenant, these questions may seem to be of military importance, but really they are for my invaluable research that will be used to save millions of lives in the future. Where was your last bombing target?”
I’d had it. Listening to this spy lie about his reasons for the information and knowing it was for military purposes sent me to the edge. I abandoned care, resigned to whatever repercussions I would have to face. “Sir, you are aware that I am under instruction from my government not to respond to military questions, and yours are frankly of a damned military nature. You do not fool me, and I will not provide any further answers. I’m done!”
I was shocked at my impulsive response. Immediately after uttering it, I wondered if it was courageous or just plain stupid. Yet he pulled back, his expression showing surprise at my obstinacy. Blue-suit returned to his desk, and in the time it took to light a cigarette, the guards miraculously returned to escort me back to my cell. The Vicar was in turn taken away, allowing no opportunity for me to prep him.
. . .
The next seven days were difficult, as we were allowed only one outside hour a day for air. Howie was permitted to rejoin us in our “hotel” room, and we were not badgered any further for information. We talked to calm each other, but questions hung over us like a black shroud. What if this war lasted another year, another two years, and Germany could no longer feed its people due to our continued naval blockade? What if the Central Powers won with a dictatorial Germany leading the Western world? In either case, our welfare was doomed, yet we continue
d to talk down such fear. We needed to have faith that our side would prevail. Throughout, I kept my sanity by talking to the others and by thinking of safe places, just as Cissy had so tenderly suggested. In fact, it was thoughts of strolling the Chilwell estuary, arm in arm with my beloved that kept me most sane.
One day our uniforms were returned, and we were abruptly marched to the train station along with other prisoners. We rumbled through lovely countryside, passing villages and rich farmland untouched by bombs and trenches or the cratered churches that were seen all over France. The invader had utterly destroyed foreign countryside without as much as a blade of grass in his own backyard knocked out of place. Any expectations that we were to be quickly imprisoned in a lush, green environment were destroyed by the rumor we were to be on the train for thirty hours.
Howie was looking pale, sweat dripping off his forehead. “I’d rather be dead. It stinks in here, can’t breathe.”
The Vicar sat up, looking as pastoral as he could manage in the rare air. “No, you don’t, you really don’t, because we will survive this. Right, Bob?”
As I attempted to speak, I coughed, the dryness in my mouth reminding me that I felt similar to Howie. “Yes, we will get through this together, all of us.” I stood to open the fold-down window above my seat in the fourth-class compartment, but was pushed in the back with a guard’s rifle muzzle.
He screamed loud and clear, turning the rifle butt up to the window to slam it shut. “Nicht offnen!” An Irishman in the row beside us explained about the Hun’s obsessive concern over escape. I looked back up at the window.
The Irishman watched my puzzled look. “Aye, I agree, smallest-possible child couldn’t fit through, an’ to tink they’ve even locked up our boots.” He held out his stocking feet as if to prove the point.
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 my
self 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.
Seeking Courage Page 37