Kitty blinked. Beulah was right. The object was stationary, not floating. And no one was on it. “But I saw him,” she almost sobbed, not wanting to give up the vision.
“You’re seeing things,” Beulah told her. “There’s no man out there.”
Embarrassed and sick at heart, Kitty sank down onto the hard bench. She looked at her feet, her hands, anything but the water.
In her mind’s eye, she saw him still. And for a fleeting moment, she thought that she could run out there, swim to him, pull him from the water—again. Hold him in her arms—again.
But he was gone…gone forever.
The truck jerked into motion. She refused to look back. She didn’t want to see the beach, the waves crashing on the shore, not ever again.
****
The French countryside gradually changed into city streets. Fields into houses into buildings. One truck followed another as they wound their way into the famous city.
Paris. She was in Paris.
But for her, there was no excitement, no joy, just gratitude the Germans had retreated. Some said the war would be over by Christmas. Oh, dear God, she hoped so. Too many had already suffered, died. It was all such a useless endeavor. Surely Hitler would realize the Germans couldn’t win, that they should surrender and stop the madness.
Their truck had barely entered the city when it left the convoy and turned south. Their destination was Versailles, the new home of SHAEF, not the famous palace, but the town surrounding it. Eisenhower didn’t want his staff distracted by the infamous Paris night life.
When they finally stopped, Kitty climbed out and stood on the sidewalk with eleven other WACs. They stretched their legs and surveyed the old apartment building looming before them.
An Army officer greeted the WAC lieutenant and gave instructions. Kitty overheard him say the building had been vacated by German troops the month before. The lower floors already quartered an earlier contingent of American and British women, who were currently working in the various SHAEF buildings in the area. They would occupy the empty top floor.
He waved his hand as he gave directions to the building where they would be working.
“Walking distance” she heard him say. Kitty hoped that didn’t mean a mile-long hike. Judging from the hours they’d devoted in London, she didn’t relish walking a long distance to her quarters after a twelve-hour shift.
Kitty and the others lugged their duffle bags up the narrow stairway. The fourth floor consisted of two apartments. The lieutenant directed Kitty and six others into a two-bedroom apartment with one small bathroom and a makeshift kitchen. The place was filthy. The smell revolting.
She and two other WACs were assigned to one of the tiny bedrooms. It contained three cots crammed side-by-side. No dresser, no chest, no closet. A board covered a broken window pane, but light filtered through the dirty glass above. No curtains softened the starkness.
Kitty deposited her bag on the cot nearest the window and looked around in disgust. The place smelled musty, with the lingering odor of urine and unwashed bodies.
She wondered if the other apartment was as bad as this one.
Someone behind her commented that the water in both the bathroom and kitchen worked. That was good. At least they could start cleaning.
They organized themselves into teams with each pair assigned an area to clean. They found buckets and mops and soap in the cellar along with primitive wash tubs that apparently served as the laundry.
It didn’t take long to discover that the water only worked part of the time. Too much demand and it cut off. They also found that it was cold. No hot water in the whole building.
The stove in the kitchen didn’t work, and no one was quite sure how the place might be heated. At least the weather remained mild and clear. Open windows provided much needed fresh air and sunshine dried the freshly washed linens.
Soldiers appeared downstairs laden with K rations, enough to last a week, and essential supplies. The nearest mess hall was eight blocks away and shared with male Army personnel. The K rations would give them something to eat if they missed the limited serving schedule.
“Great!” one girl complained. “No hot food. No hot water.”
“Might as well make the best of it,” another encouraged.
“We signed up ‘for better or worse’ and this must be the ‘worse’,” another joked.
“And I thought the Army would be better than getting married.”
“Wonder what Eisenhower’s digs look like.”
“A darn sight better than this.”
Kitty listened but didn’t join in their banter. She kept quiet and to herself these days. Maybe after a while, after they settled in, she’d try to be friendly. But right now, it took all her energy to keep going.
Instead she scrubbed the floor and walls until her hands were raw and her body ached.
She wanted to work, wanted to bury herself in the many tasks assigned to her. She didn’t want to think…or feel.
She’d always hated traveling, moving from place to place, getting used to new situations. Once she settled in to working she’d be okay, she told herself. She could do this. She could survive. She had to. She couldn’t let them down, not Ted, not Milton. They believed in her, so she had to do it, for them.
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?”
Kitty's War Page 30