Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  “Baseball?” asked Jim. “You mean not just catching and throwing, but baseball as in baseball games?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  The idea excited the others, who all began talking at once. Someone produced a glove and another threw out a ball, and before long the guys were outside playing catch and discussing how and where to erect a ball diamond. Gene squatted down and Ray tossed him a few pitches.

  “Don’t worry, Gene. I won’t hurt you!” Ray said with a laugh. “No forkballs. I know you want kids someday.”

  Gene waved him off with his right hand. “I need to get my gear on again, Ray. I feel naked without it.” Ray nodded as he wound up and dropped a fast ball right into Gene’s mitt. The pop brought a smile to both their faces.

  “That sounds good, huh Gene?”

  “Yeah, Ray. It sounds real good.”

  It didn’t take Gene long to notice that the Germans seemed more than a little interested in American baseball. Every time their guards gathered outside the wire to play catch, a crowd of the enemy would do the same on the other side of the wire. They would stand there for hours, watching the players pitch, catch, and even hit once in a while.

  One day, about ten days after the meeting to figure out a way to resume playing baseball, Gene was off duty playing catch with Dave MacIntyre. The ball sailed over Gene’s head and landed inside the German pen. The prisoners stood and stared at the ball, unsure what to do.

  Gene walked toward the fence. “Hey,” he shouted. “Toss it out here.” Gene waited, but no one moved. It was then he remembered a guy named Mueller spoke English. “Is Mueller there?” he asked. “Mueller, throw me the ball, please.”

  The group of prisoners shuffled about and Mueller stepped to the front. He nodded toward Gene and was walking over to pick up the ball when one of the other prisoners said something in German. Mueller stopped in his tracks. Gene asked for the ball a second time.

  “I’m not asking you for any war secrets, buddy. I just want you to toss me my ball.”

  Mueller said something back to one of the other prisoners Gene could not understand and then bent over to pick up the ball. Instead of throwing it, however, he held it up and examined it carefully, like a jeweler might examine a precious stone. When some of the Germans began to chuckle, Mueller dropped the ball. Before it hit the ground, however, he began kicking it up and down in front of him. Up and down, over and over, never missing or dropping the ball. Several Germans began clapping and laughing, horsing around as Gene and Dave watched, mesmerized by Mueller’s fancy footwork and coordination.

  When it became apparent their guards were enjoying the show, Mueller stopped kicking and the ball dropped right where it had been to begin with.

  “Thanks for the show, Mueller. Now, would you throw me the ball!” By now several other Americans had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

  Mueller turned and walked away. He lifted his left hand over his head and extended his middle finger–the universal language. The Germans began whistling and applauding with delight. Even a few of the Americans broke out in laughter. Gene was smiling too, scratching his chin as he pictured Mueller kicking the ball around in the air. That guy, he concluded, was likely one heck of an athlete.

  When someone explained to the camp commander what had happened, arrangements were made to open the gate and retrieve the ball. Gene had never been inside the camp. He walked through the gate and across the yard. With the ball secure, he began walking out with it. Instead of leaving, however, he stopped and turned to face the prisoners. Gene extended the ball in front of his body and dropped it—just as Mueller had done. That, however, is where the similarity ended. The German had deftly kicked the ball from side to side, never allowing it to touch the ground. Gene, however, missed the ball entirely and nearly joined the ball on the ground. The Germans erupted in hoots of laughter. Smiling widely, Gene pointed at Mueller and gave him an approving nod. While the prisoners were still laughing he picked up the ball, laughed himself, held it up above his head like a trophy, and walked out.

  That night, as he lay in his bunk sweating up a storm and slapping at the bugs buzzing around his face, the faint traces of an idea began to take root in his mind. “How would it feel being held in a prison pen in Germany, thousands of miles from home with your family thinking you were dead?” he wondered. The more he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. “Maybe … just maybe …” he thought as he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

  Although he had not slept that well, Gene woke up with more energy and excitement than he had felt for some time. He could not wait to get on duty. Later that morning, as he was pacing the perimeter of the wire, he spotted Mueller and tried to engage him in conversation, though without success.

  When he saw Ray approaching he waved at him and trotted to meet the pitcher halfway. “Ray, I’ve got an idea!”

  “What’s new?” Ray chuckled while he studied the excitement visible on Gene’s face.

  “We’re going nuts here in Louisiana doing nothing right? We’re ballplayers, and there’s no one to play ball with.”

  “Brilliant, Gene. I hadn’t noticed. Who let you in on that secret?” Ray chided him.

  Gene offered a half-mocking look in return and replied, “Just listen to me. I’m serious.” When Ray nodded his understanding, Gene continued. “There are 15 of us, but at least four are on duty at any given time, and sometimes six, right? So the best case scenario is that we can only field eleven players for a game.”

  Ray looked perplexed. “Gene, field for what? We don’t play games, and we don’t have a ball diamond to field anyone on. Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We don’t have eighteen guys to play ball. We don’t have two complete teams, right?”

  Ray nodded slowly. “Right. So what’s the point?”

  A small smile creased its way across the Sesser native’s face. “We have all of these Germans just standing around every day, more bored than we are …” By this time Gene was wearing a giant grin like a Halloween mask.

  When Ray realized what Gene was proposing, he rolled his eyes and snorted with disbelief, “Gene, you losing your mind? Those guys are Nazis! You want to play with the enemy?”

  Gene gave him a determined look. “Yeah, I do. Come on, Ray! You saw Mueller with that ball! He’s a natural athlete. I bet lots of them are. We can find eight to ten more like him in that pen and then teach them to play baseball!” The idea energized Gene with a rush he had not felt in weeks.

  Ray was not impressed. “Gene. You’ve lost it. As harmless as they might seem now, those guys really are on the other team! They don’t just want to outscore us. They want to kill us!”

  “I don’t think so,” Gene answered with a shake of the head. “They think the same thing—that we want to kill them. I don’t wanna kill anyone. Do you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So, what makes you think they’re any different than us?”

  Ray raised his eyes in mock thought and said, “Well let’s see. Poland, Belgium, Holland, France, Russia …”

  “Ray, be serious, because I am.”

  “I know you are, Gene,” the pitcher replied. “Tell me, how many men have you killed in your life?”

  Gene frowned. “You know I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Precisely. Can you say the same thing about the guys in the pen?” he asked, tilting his head toward the Germans. “They came from a U-boat. How many ships did they sink? How many American, French, or English boys did they kill without warning? Hundreds? Thousands? You and I have played baseball all our lives. They spent their lives learning how to be soldiers so they could kill people like you and me.” The more he spoke, the more agitated Ray became. “Do you think they gave it any thought when they torpedoed ships and condemned people into the freezing ocean in the middle of nowhere? No! The only regret any of them have is that they got caught.”

  Gene shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’re sailor
s, Ray. They aren’t SS, and they aren’t even Wehrmacht. Nothing like that. As misguided and horrible as their cause is, they are just sailors, and they killed in the line of duty, just like us—or just like we would have if they had needed us to and we weren’t baseball players.”

  “Gene Moore, you could not be more wrong. Take this Mueller guy, for example. He may seem harmless enough behind that fence, kicking that damn ball around. But don’t you think he would slit your throat in a heartbeat if he thought he could get outta here and make for the coast?”

  Gene sighed, his confidence lessened a bit after Ray’s reality check. “Maybe you’re right. Still, they don’t make policy. I mean, do you sit and discuss strategy with FDR? I doubt any of these guys dine with Hitler and throw a dart on the map to see which country to invade next.”

  Ray shook his head and reached out and punched Gene on the shoulder. “Come on, buddy. We have a fence to walk.”

  Heinrich Mueller watched as the pair of Americans walked the wire, neither speaking to the other. Although he had been some distance away, he overheard enough of the conversation to know that if the American guard asked to speak with him again, he would gladly do so.

  Chapter 17

  Playing with the Enemy

  After tossing and turning all night, tired but unable to sleep, Gene rose before dawn the next morning, showered quickly, and walked across the tree-lined path to the commanding officer’s barracks. Commander William “Dirty Bill” Arbeiter was an early riser, and Gene was happy to see him standing in the doorway performing his trademark ritual: drinking a bottle of warm Coca Cola in the morning. It was about 6:00 a.m.

  “Motor Mechanics Mate Third Class, Warren E. Moore, sir. Permission to speak.”

  The colonel returned his salute and waved him inside. “Have a seat, sailor. What did you say your name was?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gene answered as he walked inside and took a seat in front of the largest desk he had ever seen. It was littered with stacks of paper, empty soda bottles, several books, and a pack of Lucky Strikes that looked as though it had seen a boot heel. “Warren Moore, sir. They call me Gene.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Gene cleared his throat and began. “Sir, the mission our Navy baseball team has now is guarding these prisoners. Most of us are hoping and praying for a career after the war in the Majors, but we need to play ball, sir. I can feel my skills deteriorating every day I don’t play.”

  To Gene’s surprise, Arbeiter looked sympathetic about their plight. “That’s right. You’re the catcher. I love baseball, and used to play some in my day. There’s lots of room around here. Can’t you find a place to practice when you’re off duty?”

  “That’s just it, sir. We can throw and catch, and bat a little, but we need to play real games, and we don’t have enough players to do that.”

  The officer’s face suddenly took on a hard countenance. “Well, I’m sorry son, but there is a war on. Guarding these prisoners is more important to your country right now than your career in the Majors. There’ll be time for your career once this war’s over.”

  “Yes, I understand fully, sir,” Gene continued. “We all appreciate the fact that service to our country comes first.”

  “Good,” answered the commander while nodding. He reached over and searched for a cigarette in one of the crushed packs, pulled out a crooked stick, straightened it gently, and then lit it with a chrome Zippo lighter, which he snapped shut with a click. A blue anchor was emblazoned on the side. Arbeiter drew deeply from the cigarette and exhaled two streams of smoke from his nose. The look on his face told Gene he was surprised the young sailor was still sitting in the chair.

  Gene was not about to give up. “What I’m asking, sir … well, let me put it this way. These German prisoners, they’re going as crazy as we are. Because of their unusual status, sir, their loved ones think they’re already dead. They get no mail, can send no mail, and have no access to the Red Cross.” Gene watched as the officer drew hard on the cigarette and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I think the longer they sit around behind that fence, the more time they have to figure out how to escape, and the more bitter they become.”

  “Okay, Moore, so now you are an expert on POWs. Where you going with this? I have still not had my breakfast yet and I am getting hungry—fast.”

  Gene gulped and then blurted out, “We’d like to teach them to play baseball. You know, give us something to do, and give them something to do. It’ll be great for our morale and it won’t hurt theirs.”

  Arbeiter crushed out the smoldering Lucky Strike and leaned forward across the desk to glare at Gene. “Sailor, that dog don’t hunt with me! It is completely out of the question! I don’t care if they’re bored, and I couldn’t care less about their morale—they are lucky we rescued their Nazi butts instead of leaving them to feed the sharks. In fact, I care more about the sharks! If they try to escape, let ‘em. You will shoot them. If you don’t shoot them, I’ll personally shoot you. Hell, son, this is not a resort or summer sports camp for bored ex-Nazi Hitler Youth who decided to see the world aboard a damn U-boat! I hope they die of boredom. There will be fewer of them I have to feed.”

  Gene was not expecting Commander Arbeiter to welcome the idea, but he was hoping he would at least be willing to take it under consideration. “Yes, sir, I understand completely. But they are sailors, sir, just like us—well, not just like us, but sort of like us. Their killing days are over.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” the commander replied, patting down the crushed cigarette pack a second time and pulling out a pair of Lucky Strikes. He put one behind his ear and lit the other. Reaching down behind his desk, he picked up a balloon made from a large cellophane bag. “Have you heard about this little stunt yet?” he asked.

  Gene shook his head. “No sir.”

  “Last night, your sailors—you know the ones, the guys with funny names who are just like you except they speak a different language, invade friendly countries, and are now behind barbed wire—made this damn balloon out of cellophane and filled it with hydrogen gas!”

  “Hydrogen gas?”

  “That’s right. They made the gas by mixing some cleaning chemicals together. They’re not a dumb bunch, Moore.” Arbeiter held the bag aloft. On each side was a paper Iron Cross with the words “U-505 lives!” written on it. “The Germans released several of these things over the camp fence hoping someone would see one, have some sympathy, and get word back to Germany they are still alive!”

  Gene swallowed hard and said nothing. Arbeiter smiled at him, revealing a row of teeth stained from years of tobacco smoke and warm soda. “And you start my day out by marching in here and asking whether we can open an international school of baseball? Is there anything else, or was that your only brilliant idea for the day?”

  “Sir, may I speak again?” Arbeiter nodded in reply, leaning over to set the balloon down. “Sir,” Gene began, “it’s not my intention to entertain the prisoners. My only goal is to keep the United States team in good shape. So, if you allow us to play, you would be doing our side a favor—a huge favor. And what can that hurt? I think it can only help us and American morale. Besides, there are many other American guards here, and they can watch us play when they are not on duty. So could the locals.” Gene paused. “It’s been a long war for them, too.”

  Arbeiter flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette into the top of an empty Coke bottle. He offered the pack to Gene, who declined. He appeared to be softening. Gene could sense it. Arbeiter was warming up to the idea. “Moore, let me get this straight. You want to put a bat in the hands of one of these krauts? They would like nothing better than to see us all dead, and you want to put a weapon in their hands? Do you realize how many good American men these Nazi elites have killed, not to mention how many Brits, Canadians, and French? Moore, I understand what you are trying to do, but I don’t see how I can do it safely, without my superiors coming down on me like a ton of br
icks.”

  Gene leaned forward in his chair, excited by the small opening the officer was inviting him to exploit. “Only one at a time will have a bat, sir. And the guards around the field will be armed. I don’t see them running into the woods or swamps. I think they’re more afraid of the snakes than they are of us. They won’t leave, and if any try, they will be shot and they know it. It’s at least two hundred yards to the fence and the trees. I’ll personally shoot them, sir.”

  The officer reached up with his right hand and rubbed his eyebrows. “This is the craziest thing I have heard in a long while, but let me think about it. If the Navy even thought for a moment I would entertain the idea of letting Jerries play baseball, they’d probably bust me down to seaman and transfer my sorry ass to the Pacific!”

  “Yes sir, I understand.”

  Arbeiter’s voice and manner, however, no longer matched his rhetoric. His tone had softened considerably. “Look, Moore, I’m sympathetic to your problem. Believe it or not, I’m even a little sympathetic”—he held up two fingers, with an inch of space between them—“to theirs. But they are still the enemy. Believe me, son, none of us wants to be in Louisiana. The war is over there,” he pointed with his forefinger. “It’s on the open seas. I’m bored silly, too.” He slapped a mosquito on his cheek and looked at his hand. “The bugs that bite around here never take time off.” Arbeiter picked the remnants of a large insect from his hand. “Do you know what the state bird of Louisiana is, son?”

  “Ah, no sir, I don’t.”

  “The mosquito.” He shot Gene a glance. “Are we through here?”

  Gene smiled and chuckled. “Commander, earlier you said you liked baseball and even played some.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What position?”

  “Look, Moore, don’t bullshit me.”

  “Just give me a few weeks with these guys, sir, and we’ll give you a good game to watch. I promise. Think of it this way, commander—we will be using Yankee ingenuity here.”