Fred’s squad members spent the rest of the morning exchanging background information and discussing their situation. Escape looked difficult if not impossible, but they could take steps to address things like security and communication. Lamason had said that airmen who were fluent in other languages should talk to other prisoners and see what they could learn about camp organization, and whether it was possible to scrounge additional clothing, shoes, blankets, cups, and other essentials. Fred, whose French was the best of the group, was asked to do what he could.
At 1100, sergeants from another squad were sent to collect buckets of warm “soup” and the usual dark bread. Fred thought the watery soup contained grass, although there was an oily skin at the surface. Near the bottom of the bowl he found the source of the oil — a small, greasy bit of meat burrowed by maggots. The maggots were distasteful, but Fred was so hungry that he ate them anyway. Some of the airmen rejected the maggots at first, although over time, they would come to accept them as a matter of course. For dessert, as a special treat, Fred received a small, moldy, sprouting, raw potato.
The airmen had yet to solve the clean water problem. Although it was only their second day at Buchenwald, more and more of the airmen, Fred included, were experiencing stomach cramps and diarrhea. He found himself periodically looking for a partner for a trip to the abort. Although necessary, it could hardly have been more unpleasant. Dysentery was near-universal, often so severe that a prisoner’s bowels let loose prematurely, soiling his uniform and splattering the surrounding ground. The constant arrival and departure from the abort had churned the already damp soil into a swamp of fetid goo that squished up between Fred’s toes and glued itself to his bare feet. He tried his best not to dwell on the sensation nor its potential health consequences.
Fred had just come back from one of those trips when the call came for appell. This time things went smoothly. Fred’s group quickly formed up, and the squads marched in formation to their position in the assembly. This time the SS guards who entered Little Camp were led by SS-Rottenführer (a corporal designated squad leader) Hans Hoffman. Hoffman, in his early 40s, was short (5’4”), heavyset, and armed with a stout club. His uniform was black, rather than gray-green, which indicated that he wasn’t German but an SS volunteer. He had a dark complexion, and an unpleasant and violent personality. He had not seen the airmen before, so he gave them special attention, moving down the lines and scrutinizing each individual. The airmen, used to stern inspections, remained motionless and held their gaze fixed on infinity. Hoffman was just starting to inspect one of the British squads when he drew his Luger and struck one of the airmen, opening a gash in his temple.69 He then turned, furious, to Kindinger, waving the pistol and giving him an earful. Kindinger, through a translator, relayed that the man had been standing at attention with his hands clenched, and to the Germans, clenched hands were a blatant sign of disrespect, potentially indicating hidden contraband or even a weapon.
Other airmen received lesser abuse — cuffs, pokes and whacks — as Hoffman moved through the lines, but he eventually moved on to the other prisoners in the assembly. Under his vicious scrutiny, the appell was longer than usual, and by 2000 the men had been standing for almost three hours.
When the counting was finally completed and the assembly was dismissed, Fred and many others rushed to wait in the long lines at the abort. Afterward, he tried to find a comfortable position to get a few hours of sleep before it was his turn to stand watch. It had been a long day, but with a plan in place, he felt much better about their chances of survival.
THE THIRD DAY
The next morning was very similar to the first: early arousal, ersatz coffee, and morning appell. Hoffman did not return, and appell was quickly concluded. Shortly after the dead had been dragged off to add to the pile, a handcart arrived to take bodies to the crematorium. It had been two days since the last pickup, so once again, the badly decomposing corpses were removed and the remainder left to ripen in the sun.
Although the airmen were still hungry, the general mood was upbeat. They now had organization and a guarded home base, uncomfortable though it might be. People were talking quietly about what they would do after the war. One of the officers suggested planning reunions where they could reminisce and swap stories nobody else would believe. They decided to call it the KLB Club, rather than the Buchenwald Club, and Ralph Taylor designed a logo on a scrap of paper. Men from each national group were designated as club leaders: Blackham, Taylor, Mutter, Jackson, and Chapman for the British; Prudham, Kinnis, Harvie, Watson, and Hodgson for the Canadians; Powell and Brown for the Americans; and Johnston for the Australians and New Zealanders. Brown told Fred’s squad all about the plans that afternoon, and Fred got his first look at Taylor’s logo. Brown said that meetings were planned at five-year intervals, and that they’d gone so far as to decide what to charge for annual dues, although for the moment, IOUs would be accepted.
At the evening appell, SS-Corporal Hoffman returned with his squad, and another airman received an education in the proper way to stand at attention. What Fred found most disconcerting was that there was absolutely no warning given. One moment Hoffman was strolling along seemingly at ease, and the next he was striking out in a rage. Shortly afterward, Fred had a glimpse of the brutal enthusiasm Hoffman brought to his work. A young, Polish prisoner suffering from dysentery had asked the guard for permission to go to the abort. As usual, permission was denied. In the hour that followed, the lad soiled himself, and when Hoffman saw this, he took a baton and beat the boy to the ground, kicking him repeatedly after he was unconscious. Throughout the process, he was shouting that prisoners were worthless animals, unfit to survive.70 After the guards had left and the assembly was dismissed, the young prisoner’s friends carried him away. Several days later, Fred heard that he had died from his injuries.
THE FOURTH DAY
The next day was quiet in Little Camp, the appells proceeding slowly but without the presence of Hoffman. After morning appell, an SS officer came to escort Lamason to a meeting with the camp commandant, SS-Oberführer (Colonel) Hermann Pister. On his return to Little Camp, Lamason told the officers that he had gotten an audience but not much else — their future was still a mystery. Fred was sorry to hear that, but he wasn’t too surprised. Even if their presence was a mistake, he found it unlikely anyone in the SS would admit it.
The previous night had been noticeably cooler, and Fred’s squad was delegated to comb the grounds for scraps of paper, wood, leaves, and anything else that would burn. If they could get a fire going, they could boil drinking water and toast their bread, which could only help the flavor. It would also be a source of heat if the nights grew even colder, as they were sure to do.
That day, August 23rd, the airmen had many visitors. Fred saw representatives from the various nationalities and factions within the camp as a whole. All sought out Squadron Leader Lamason to get news and forge some form of an alliance, both against the Germans and against other factions. It was clear that the internal politics of Buchenwald was complex.
Fred spoke with several French civilians who had been part of the resistance. They were looking for protection from the Communists, who assigned fellow prisoners to work details outside of the camp. Many of those assigned to such work details, which were known as kommandos, did not return. Ed Ritter, a B-24 airmen Fred had gotten to know, spoke with several Polish Communists who wanted an alliance against the Germans, thinking that additional men with military combat experience would ensure the success of an uprising. Their enthusiasm was dampened somewhat to find that some of the airmen were officers, rather than members of the proletariat, but compromise was part of life in Buchenwald. Fred and Ed passed these entreaties along to their officers, but the senior officers had decided to be congenial to all parties, but not to commit to any particular faction. This tactic had unexpected benefits. In an attempt to provide incentives for an alliance, several blankets and a number of additional bowls and cups were given to
the airmen. Instead of having no blanket at all, Fred and Sam would be sharing a threadbare covering.
Around the time the afternoon “coffee” was to arrive, Fred saw the guards speaking with two prisoners outside Little Camp. After a time, they were allowed through the gate, and once within the compound, they headed directly for the airmen. Fred assumed they were representatives from yet another faction within the prison. But as they approached, he realized that they were speaking English, and they sounded very British. One of them asked to speak with their commanding officer. Lamason stepped forward and introduced himself, whereupon the visitor said he was Kenneth Dodkin, and his colleague was Christopher Burney. They were the leaders of a group of 37 British SOE71 agents who had been captured by the Gestapo, transported to Buchenwald, and assigned to Block 17. Although it was technically an isolation barracks, the rules were not rigidly enforced by the kapos assigned as guards. The three men went off for a private meeting. Afterward, Lamason briefed the officers, and the officers relayed the information to their squads.
With the arrival of the airmen, there were 205 Allied military personnel in Buchenwald. If they could obtain arms, they would be a force to be reckoned with, especially when backed by volunteers from the French, Communist, and other factions in the camp. The basic plan was to break out of Buchenwald and head southwest through the surrounding forest to reach a small Luftwaffe airfield called Nohra, five or siz miles away. The Nohra base was said to be lightly staffed, and if the airman could seize one or more planes, they could use them to escape Germany. However, they would first need to obtain weapons and figure out how to escape the confines of Little Camp and the more heavily secured main camp. But to Fred, those were mere details. There was no way these goons were going to keep them in this hellhole.72
THE FIFTH DAY
The next morning, 24 August, began like the others, with an early arousal followed by the bizarre coffee surrogate. Despite its curious flavor, Fred, Sam, and Ed were glad to have some, as they had been part of the late shift guarding the airmen’s portion of the compound. Just after the midday appell, the men heard a faint rumbling sound that gradually increased in volume. Fred, who could diagnose sick or healthy engines by their sound, told the rest of his squad that those were B-17s.73 Before long, the engineers from other squadrons were agreeing, and soon they could see formations of planes approaching from the southwest.
The men were interested and excited, but not concerned, because their first thought was that this was a bombing run targeting industrial areas to the northeast. When the air raid sirens started wailing, they decided the target must be Weimar. Excitement finally turned to alarm when they saw the first of several marker flares falling from the lead aircraft in the formation. Buchenwald was the target! The airmen looked around and realized that there was no cover and no means of digging a trench for shelter. So they stood and watched as first the lead plane and then those that followed opened their bomb bay doors and dropped their bomb loads.
When the bombs actually started descending, it was abundantly clear that they were going to land very close to their position, and with no other options the men threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their arms. After a brief pause that seemed like an eternity, the first bombs landed. The sound was deafening, the ground shaking violently as rocks, timber, shards of steel, and debris of all kinds rained around them. Tremendous explosions followed, some from the bombs and others from within the buildings of the adjacent factory, and the men were bounced around on the rocks like rag dolls. Screams of pain and fear were lost amidst the roaring of the fires and the concussions of the explosions.
The bombing was relentless. The first wave of bombers dropped 1,000-pound high-explosive bombs in a swath that ran right across the Gustloff Werke, the large factory complex by the railway yard,74 and continued across the administration buildings and through the SS housing area. The planes that followed dropped firebombs along a trail that started at the Gustloff Works and extended across the Deutsche-Ausrustungs-Werke (German Armaments Works), the small factory complex inside the camp.75 Because the latter was a munitions plant, the firebombs triggered a chain reaction that sounded like the end of the world.
Little Camp had been out of the direct path of the bombing, but the open area where the airmen were lying was relatively close to the munitions facility, and when it blew, they felt like the ground was trying to throw them into the sky. Shrapnel whistled over the airmen as they hugged the dirt. Fortunately, only one airman was injured by flying debris.76
The smoke blotted out the sun, flaming debris filled the air, primary and secondary fires raged and roared, prisoners in the main camp were screaming and running, and Fred could hear shots being fired as frightened guards, fearing an uprising, shot anyone approaching them. The last few planes in the formation flew lower than the others, dropping propaganda leaflets that fluttered down across the camp like confetti.
In the aftermath, as the planes headed off, Fred stood and took stock of the situation. Although none of the high-explosives landed outside of the factory area, firebombs had drifted into the prisoner areas, setting fire to several barracks as well as the disinfection station where the airmen had been processed on arrival. Good riddance, he thought.
A party of SS guards entered Little Camp, shouting for the terrorfliegers to line up. Lamason and the other officers gave the word, and Fred hastened to join his squad as they assembled at attention. He steeled himself for the possibility that they were to be shot in revenge for the bombing. Well, at least he’d seen the Germans given a beating. But rather than shoot them, the guards escorted them into the main camp. They were taken to the area known as the Appellplatz (roll-call square), where the prisoners in the main camp area were counted each day. It was a large open area with a Nazi flag on a flagpole and a narrow band of staging that ran parallel to the fencing.
The appellplatz was adjacent to the main entrance to Buchenwald, and Fred could see the ornate iron gate at the entry, which stood open, adorned with welded block letters saying Jedem das Seine. Spierenburg and Scharf translated this as “You get what you deserve.” Fred thought that under the circumstances, the phrase had ominous implications. Before the gate was a clock tower with a large Nazi flag hanging from it. Teams of SS guards with machine guns were watching them from platforms at roof level. By gestures and blows, the men were ordered to remove their hats and stand at attention while they were counted yet again.
Lamason was pulled aside, out of earshot, to receive instructions. On returning, he spoke to the squad leaders, and Fred learned that the teams were being sent to assist the guards in fighting the fires that threatened to spread further, and if possible, rescue victims from the rubble. Some squads went to the burning barracks and administrative buildings, but Fred’s squad was assigned to the German Armaments Works. In the distance, beyond the train yard, Fred could see the Gustloff Works burning furiously. The immediate concern, however, was to save the camp itself.
It was tough going. Fred was barefoot, and the ground was strewn with debris, shards of metal, shattered rocks, still-smouldering pieces of wood, and chunks of broken glass. His tender feet — he’d only been barefoot for a few days — were soon bleeding from multiple cuts and scrapes. When he reached the factory, it was a pile of rubble with small fires burning. The immediate priorities were to fight fires, clear rubble, and rescue trapped prisoners. So despite the smoke and the heat and the injuries to his feet, Fred did his best, working with Sam to move debris, and beat out small fires with scraps of cloth wrapped around their hands.
The SS guards were distracted, and there were too few to keep track of what every prisoner was doing — the main thing was that work was being done. Once Fred realized that, he passed the word to his squad members to keep their eyes peeled for small items of potential use. Fred found a few coins, scraps of cloth, several bullets (probably for a pistol), and what looked like the trigger assembly from an M-1 carbine, although he doubted the Germans used
that particular rifle. He secreted these treasures in his pockets and rolled into his waistband.
With blisters on his hands, and painful, bleeding feet, Fred wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest. But there were still survivors trapped in the debris, and he couldn’t ignore their cries. So he pushed on, clearing wreckage and carrying the injured and the dead from the shells of still-burning buildings. The gruesome work continued until the light failed.
At the end of the long day, the airmen were rounded up and returned to the appellplatz. It was an eerie scene in the flickering light of the fires that still raged unchecked on the other side of the train yard. Off in the direction of the laundry, Fred could see a vertical column of flames that could only be the oak tree he had admired on that strange first day. It was burning like a beacon. Through the clouds of passing smoke, he could see wounded prisoners everywhere, and dead bodies scattered around them. Fred had lost count of the number of dead and injured prisoners he’d seen in the rubble of the German Armaments Works. Some had been wounded in the bombing, whereas others had been shot, probably for trying to leave their station in the air raid. Tired, filthy, hungry, thirsty, and soaked in rapidly cooling sweat, the airmen were led back to Little Camp. The water system was inoperative, so there wasn’t even a trickle of water at the abort. Fred was saddened to realize that there would probably be no coffee the next morning. It might be terrible stuff, but it was better than nothing.
Betrayed: Secrecy, Lies, and Consequences Page 15