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.
Chapter 54
October 1918
Later in the month, we were informed of a move to a more permanent facility. Hauptmann Hahn seemed pleased to send us packing deeper into central Bavaria. This time the closed train windows did not create oppression, as the weather was cooler and the journey was a short three hours. At Ingolstadt station our boots were returned for the five mile march to a country fort, appearing rather out of the Middle Ages with its crenelated walls, moat, and drawbridge.
“Velcome to Fort Prinz Karl, officers of the enemy. I am zee Kommandant, and I ride, how you say, zee high horse. I see everything.”
This greeting was from Hauptmann Fuchs, who talked strong but looked weak with hunched shoulders, unkempt dark-brown hair, blue Aryan eyes, and a mustache he had evidently been trying to grow since puberty. He looked uncertain as he explained that, since we were not expected, there was no food, but for four marks a week we would be fed well. Being familiar with that story, we freely accepted it and instead conspired about ways to manipulate this vulnerable soul.
After settling in, the days again passed with tedium, but the three of us were together. In spite of the brick walls and haunting grass roof of the castle, the room was quite warm. We were free to move around and to make acquaintances without interference from the guards. Escape talk again surfaced, albeit not serious, as we bantered about how easy it would be to negotiate the moat. Even if we did, we would not last long in the near-freezing temperatures.
One day I strolled alone through the hallways and passages of the complex building, smoking a Turkish Murad. After moving past a grand stairway that led to the main level, I came to a cordoned-off section, which had chairs and rustic tables lined along the wall. An elaborately decorated double door was just visible in the darkness at the end of the hall.
Stubbing out my cigarette on the concrete floor, I pushed past the movables to get to the doors. Locked! I hesitated, looked behind me for spying eyes, and then pushed gently. There was a little give. Pushing harder, then shoving, the right door opened so hard I had to catch its handle to stop it from violently banging the inside wall.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see before me a magnificent ballroom with enough space to hold all of the three hundred prisoners held at Prinz Karl. I moved cautiously inward, being careful not to trip over unnoticed furniture, and was able to pull aside large velvet draperies. As light filtered in and dust drifted down onto my shoulders, I saw more chairs, long tables, small sideboards, and a lectern at the front.
But the prize was sitting there in the center of the far wall—an old Bechstein. I strode to it, gently rubbed dust off the signature plate, C. Bechstein, and looked at its inlaid woodwork casing. Ah, the German obsession for precision in their hand manufacture was embodied in that instrument. Staring at the piece under the dim light took me back to central London where my grannie would sometimes take me for tea. We would pass Bechstein Hall and its related shop on Wigmore Street as we returned to Marble Arch station. Pianos that were built for British royalty and shipped all over the world were on display. I wondered if the currently deep-seated anti-German sentiment in Britain extended to such brilliance as the Bechstein piano.
I carefully raised the cover to expose the keys, gently plunging one black, one white, then another black. Not wishing to draw attention, I quickly covered them. How long had they been asleep? Who had owned this musical masterpiece?
. . .
“You gotta come quickly!” I had burst through the door of our room, startling both Howie and the Vicar from afternoon slumber. After rebuffing my excitement, they hurried after me down the stone corridor and into the large room off the inside passageway. Emboldened by the attendance of my new accomplices, I ambled over to the piano
and brashly opened the cover.
Gently tapping out “Chopsticks,” I asked, “What do you make of this?”
The Vicar looked delighted. “I make happier days ahead.”
“Quite so, Bobby!” howled Howie.
Both of them turned to take in the room, glancing from end to end, looking up at the giant, gaudy crystal chandeliers. The delight in their eyes spoke loudly that they were thinking as I was. “Do you think they will allow us to use it, to have sing-alongs?”
The Vicar nodded as Howie spoke. “Why don’t we find out? But let’s not ask, let’s just do it. Fuchs is soft, and surely even the Hun can see the usefulness of a music hall, eh?”
I beamed with excitement. “All right, let’s call for a concert, shall we? I think I can render up some songs from memory. After all, we had lots of practice at Ochey and Xaffevillers, Villeseneux too.”
“Splendid. You work on those ivories, and I’ll spread the word.” Howie’s grin filled the room. “How about tomorrow evening for a couple of hours before curfew?”
I sat at the keys and thought of tunes that I had played in Walthamstow. Ten years back to that Easter in ‘08, back to all the wonderful times that the piano inspired. Music had such a wonderful ability to transport one to events, happy and sad, but memorable nonetheless. It was through music I would most remember Cissy, from the music at the Savoy, and the music at Fortnum tea, to the music of our love, from quiet hums to loud orchestras. And as Dr. Mott used the piano as therapy at the Maudsley, I would bring music to this jail. I wanted to bring comfort to the other prisoners. This was my chance to meet my commitment to be a positive voice, their positive voice.
The next evening’s concert involved most everyone, from inmates to jailers. We had left little choice for Hauptmann Fuchs but to accept our intrusion into the ballroom since, by the time the guards had rousted him, we were already well underway. We counted on his indecisive nature to give way to acceptance. With this little bit of manipulation, it thankfully did.
Even for the guards who had been hastily placed at the entrance and in every corner—after all, the kommandant could not know if our British flyers were hatching some secret, sinister plot—this was a welcome diversion as they tapped their toes and hummed along.
Oh, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez-vous.
You might forget the gas and shell,
But you’ll nev’r forget the mademoiselle!
Hinky-dinky, parlez-vous.
We were careful to select songs that were not obviously offensive to our enemy or those that mentioned war, for to provoke them now would be pointless. The hostility we all carried in our hearts would not find anger, at least not through these means.
Dusk and the shadows falling
O’er land and sea;
Somewhere a voice is calling,
Calling for me.
This rule made our selection somewhat difficult due to the vast number of anti-German songs sung over the war years and lyrics that made traditional songs bawdy. Still, we were able to sing with gaiety many songs that the Germans in the room did not understand to represent the free, decent life we had all been fighting for.
I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts;
There they are all standing in a row.
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head.
Give them a twist, a flick of the wrist—
That’s what the showman said.
In this way we passed the days practicing and the evenings singing. Having stumbled upon the ballroom that day, and exposing that beautiful piano was a heaven-sent message that we were to be all right, to endure our time left in captivity.
Chapter 55
November 1918
Toward the middle of November, during an interval at one of our concerts, rumors were circulating that an armistice had been signed between the Austro-Hungarians and the British-French entente. That night we went to bed optimistic, excitedly chatting until the wee hours in the darkness.
The next morning, at our typically precise eight o’clock roll call, we were assembled in the yard under a light snowfall, waiting for the kommandant to emerge from his quarters. With shuffling to keep warm, we all wondered why an officer who invariably practiced precise Germanic punctuality would be late. Eventually he emerged in a clear state of agitation.
Hauptmann Fuchs sputtered a few words in his native German, his body gestures signaling a troubled mind. He stopped, stared at the ground, then with much gusto raised his head and shouted out a message that none of us understood. Breathing heavily, he focused on us, peering up and down the rows as his chest heaved in and out.
With cheeks puffed and his blue eyes popping, he spoke in English, necessarily slowly and methodically.
“Zee German army is strong, more than any other. Love for Germany is forever in the minds of its people. Germany defended its land against the cruelty of France and of England and later from the Americans, all of whom cut off our food supply by illegally blockading our ships. Zee ships were peaceful, only trying to supply our starving citizens.” Fuchs puffed himself out while his voice went suddenly shrill. “You! You who bombed our cities and killed innocent people, you are evil and you are wrong.”
I thought of how zeppelins and massive Gothas had spread terror among Londoners and Parisians night after night, raining bombs down on innocent people. How Germany started this conflict by first invading neutral Belgium, then France, and only then did the British army sail cross the Channel. And only then did America intervene.
Nearing exhaustion, the hauptmann’s voice shrank as though he was defeated. He stared stoically at us. We listened to every word, anticipating his message through the tears welling in his blue eyes, willing him to say what we wanted to hear. “You who bombed my people, you know that Germany fought best. Germany did not lose zee war; Germany did not surrender.” And with a bellowing voice, shrill with passion, “Deutschland ist Mutig.”
Your troops may have been brave, but your leaders were craven, I thought.
He paused, not giving us what we wanted to hear, holding back as a tear rolled down his cheek. He was too proud to check it. “You had many numbers, many men. The Americans with their millions caused this stop. Count von Oberndorff has not surrendered; he has only signed zee armistice.”
A roar of cheers erupted, a deafening chorus as hats and anything loose were thrown into the air, each of us hugging whomever stood near. The kommandant was in a rage, unable to understand this undisciplined, chaotic outbreak, eventually turning in disgust to return to his quarters.
. . .
Later that day we learned the armistice had been signed one week earlier on 11 November. In spite of asking and badgering, there was no information about our release. While the German penchant for documentation and order was well known—we would expect them to be diligent at double-checking their prisoner roster—they were acting capricious by not opening up about our liberation.
While we continued with the sing-alongs, they were not well attended as thoughts of freedom affected hearts and minds. Other distractions such as signing a parole document allowed freedom every afternoon from one to five to walk anywhere, from the countryside to the villages. We had the luxury of going around to various settlements along the Danube River to buy food. Some of us even walked the five miles to Ingolstadt, as the exercise was another happy diversion.
Walking through the countryside, we noticed how poorly the local people were and realized there was opportunity that would benefit both sides. The camp was well stocked with rice, tea, and other staples, and as the kommandant had all but disappeared, security was slack. We were able to make exchanges with the villagers for butter and eggs. In perspective, the situation seemed dire since we knew we were returning to a better life, whereas these people would be left behind in extended misery. What had Germany achieved?
Chapter 56
December 1918
While life got better, we were still not free, nor were we given the hope of a
repatriation plan. With such apprehension, the mind plays tricks such as obsessing about being left behind. The tedium wore us down as the days turned into weeks. “How much longer, Bobby? It is our right to be returned, yet here we fucking sit,” complained Howie one day. “This endless waiting—can’t take it much more.”
I put my hand on his shoulder in the same manner he had soothed me those many times in our Fee. “It’s cruel, I know. Surely it’s in violation of the Hague Convention.”
The Vicar sat up. “The Germans don’t care about conventions. They violated them from the outset. A war they damn well started, a war in which they introduced chemical gas and slaughtered Belgian civilians. Damn and blast them!”
“I’m fucking mad too,” I said. “No one telling us anything, and now we sit here forgotten. So many other chaps in France and England must be returning to their families by now.”
After his prior outburst, Howie sat in a contemplative mood, seeming to mellow as he sank into a deeper level of thought. “Well, I suppose those like us that didn’t die are frustrated, but when you think of it, the millions left behind dead in the mud, those poor bastards don’t have the hope we have now.”
His comment made us uncomfortable, the Vicar taking on a reflective look. “Yes, that is true, and we must be patient. No point chomping at the bit. I doubt even our guards know what’s happening.” I leaned toward the Vicar in an affirming gesture. “You know, that’s a good point. It’s rumored the kaiser is in Holland, the German government has all but disappeared, and who knows who is running their defeated army. These chaps have been left to fend for themselves, probably as frustrated as us. Chaos, I’m guessing.”
“Perhaps it’s better to be locked in here than loose on German soil,” opined the Vicar. “And thinking about it, I heard there are over a million of us POWs to liberate. Now, that must be chaotic.”
Howie sat upright, some of his impatience returning. “Still, we’ve been here almost a month after the hauptmann’s sermon, and there’s been no word from anyone about anything. It’d be nice to know something!”
Seeking Courage Page 38