Louise's Chance

by Sarah R. Shaber

  The major looked at Merle – not with approval, I thought. ‘How come you speak German?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look much like a refugee.’

  ‘I’m an American,’ Merle said. ‘And I’d never been out of Texas before the war started.’

  ‘I don’t trust Germans,’ the major said. ‘I was in the First World War too. I was captured and spent a year in a POW camp in Erfurt. They gave us stewed acorns to eat.’

  ‘I speak German because I learned it from my grandparents, who were immigrants,’ Merle said, his face flushing. ‘They arrived here in 1889. I’m an American.’

  Miss Osborne placed a warning hand on Merle’s arm.

  The major shrugged. ‘All right then, let’s get down to business,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk.

  We pulled our chairs over to his desk. Lt Rawlins stood behind Lucas, leaning against a file cabinet.

  ‘Please take notes, Mrs Pearlie,’ Miss Osborne said.

  I pulled out my steno pad and a pencil. I hadn’t had a chance to review my shorthand manual yet, but I figured I could muddle through.

  ‘We’re here to interview your German prisoners of war,’ Miss Osborne said to Major Lucas. ‘Our mission is to identify those who might be able to assist us and recruit them for an OSS operation.’

  ‘As double agents?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘We need them to deliver black propaganda materials behind German lines in Italy and perhaps inside Germany itself.’

  ‘You can’t trust a one of them. Whoever you send behind German lines will betray you.’

  ‘We don’t think so,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘Our research tells us that ordinary German soldiers can be successfully recruited. Especially if we ask them to do tasks that don’t directly result in German deaths.’

  ‘They’re all Nazis, whether they are party members or not. I spent a hellish year in their company in 1917. I understand the German personality very well.’

  ‘The OSS has done advanced psychological studies in this area,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘We’re convinced we can recruit suitable men who will be eager to shorten the war and spare their families and friends.’

  ‘Whatever you say; it’s your mission,’ Lucas said. ‘You’ll just have to figure it out for yourself. I’ll do what I can to assist you, of course. I’m eating dinner tonight in the German POW mess hall. Would you like to join me? You can get a first look at your subjects.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Miss Osborne said.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Do you have a driver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have him drop you off before the main gate to the stockade just before six. Lt Rawlins will meet you and escort you to the mess hall. Oh, Lieutenant, give Miss Osborne a list of the German internees.’

  ‘One more question,’ Miss Osborne said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I understand that two of the German prisoners died at sea?’

  ‘Yes. They simply vanished, and there’s only one way to disappear at sea. Overboard. The ship’s captain and security officer investigated and concluded the men had committed suicide.’

  Lt Rawlins escorted us outside.

  ‘Let me orient you to the camp while it’s still daylight,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to go inside the stockade; it would be easier to see it from the watchtower.’

  We clambered up a long ladder and into the square confines of the watchtower. Two MPs saluted but Rawlins put them at ease and they returned to their stations, keeping watch over the camp with rifles ready.

  ‘Those tents you saw when you drove in, the ones that are outside the stockade fence, that’s where camp personnel are living until the prisoners’ barracks are completed. We have an officers’ mess and club, a hospital, a PX and a laundry. Everything you’d find in a regular military camp.’

  We turned around to view the prisoner-of-war camp itself. I guessed it was about fifteen hundred feet from where we stood to the other end of the camp, which I could see was bordered by a road. It wasn’t quite as wide. Three double rows of tents filled the compound.

  ‘Most of the camp is occupied by the Italian prisoners of war. As you’re looking at the camp, the lower section of tents, on the left, are the Germans. We strung another stockade fence between them.’

  ‘Why did you separate the Germans and the Italians?’ Miss Osborne asked.

  ‘The dagos hate the Krauts’ very guts,’ Rawlins said. ‘Have you heard what the German military is doing in Italy? The Italian people are starving. The Germans have requisitioned all eggs, meat, milk, vegetables and fruit. German troops are firing at hungry crowds storming food shops. They’re looting the occupied regions, not just of food, but also of gold, silver and art. The Roman Catholic church has closed all its churches except St Peter’s because of plundering.’

  ‘No wonder the Italians hate them,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve set the camp up so the Germans have separate mess tents, PXs, infirmaries and football fields. The Italians stand at the fence and scream insults at the Germans all day long. If they were housed together we’d be breaking up fights between them constantly.’

  FIVE

  Once back in our quarters Miss Osborne sat down on her bed and pulled off her shoes.

  ‘My God,’ she said, ‘what a day. I’m glad we flew instead of drove, aren’t you? Otherwise we would still be out there meeting people.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. And then, just for my own planning purposes, I asked, ‘Do you fly often?’

  ‘As much as I can,’ she answered, unbuttoning the waistband of her skirt and heaving a sigh of relief. ‘What did you think of flying?’

  If I wanted to be successful at this job I knew what my answer had to be. ‘I thought it was grand.’

  ‘After a while you’ll think of it no differently than a jeep ride,’ she said.

  I doubted that.

  I followed Miss Osborne’s example and took off my own shoes and loosened my clothing while Miss Osborne rummaged in her suitcase. She pulled out a flask.

  ‘Bourbon?’ she asked, holding the flask toward me.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, thank you!’ I answered.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not one of those teetotalers,’ she said, pouring hefty shots into two GI-issued metal cups she produced from her suitcase. ‘I hate to drink alone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, sipping mine gratefully. It wasn’t a martini, but it would do.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘what did you think of today?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. I wasn’t accustomed to being asked my opinion by my boss.

  Miss Osborne propped her pillow against the wall and leaned back, stretching her legs out on the bed.

  ‘I’d like to know your impressions, Louise, that’s all,’ she said.

  I collected myself. I intended to keep this job, so I wanted whatever I said to be well considered. And diplomatic.

  ‘Start with Merle,’ she said.

  That took me by surprise. I liked Merle, but that wasn’t what Miss Osborne was looking for.

  ‘He’s impatient,’ I said. ‘And says too much in public. He’s too impolitic to work in the field.’

  ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to him, but if he doesn’t improve he’ll have to be satisfied with forgery. Why do you think I chose him for this mission? Other than the shortage of translators.’

  I didn’t have a clue. Best admit it instead of waffling.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  Miss Osborne nodded and swallowed a slug of bourbon. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I like an honest person. I chose Merle because he is so colorful. I mean, that accent! Those boots! Wonderful distractions for anyone he’s interviewing.’

  ‘Like us,’ I said. ‘No one expects serious business from women.’

  We finished our bourbon. That and the aspirin I took after we arrived soothed my aching back and headache.

  ‘Back to your impressions,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘What about the ca
mp commander, Major Lucas, what did you think of him?’

  ‘He wasn’t what you would call combat ready,’ I said. ‘I think he probably came out of retirement to do this job. And he had a bad opinion of all Germans, whether they are Nazis or not. Even Americans of German descent.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we’ll see much of him. I expect his XO runs the camp. What’s your impression of Rawlins?’

  ‘He seems competent,’ I said. ‘But he’s young and fit; I wonder why he was assigned this duty. A prisoner-of-war camp in the States is a backwater station for a young military officer.’

  A knock sounded at the door.

  ‘Are you decent? Can I come in?’ Merle called out.

  ‘Sure,’ Miss Osborne answered him.

  Merle entered our room. ‘Do you two know that I am the only human being quartered in a four-story barracks? It’s loony.’ He sniffed. ‘You’re drinking bourbon!’

  ‘Want some?’ Miss Osborne asked. ‘Did you bring a cup?’

  ‘No,’ Merle said.

  ‘I’ll rinse mine out,’ I said. Going into the bathroom I ran water over my cup. I didn’t want another drink myself. Having Miss Osborne as my boss was going to require all the mental alertness I could muster.

  Miss Osborne poured herself another stiff drink and filled Merle’s up until he said, ‘Enough!’

  She looked at me. ‘You don’t want another?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘One is enough.’

  ‘Wise woman,’ she said. ‘I inherited my tolerance to bourbon from my father, fortunately for me.’

  Merle loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

  ‘Interesting day. I was surprised at what Lucas said, that those German POWs killed themselves on the way to the States,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make sense. You’d think they’d be elated to leave the front.’

  ‘We don’t know they killed themselves,’ Miss Osborne said.

  ‘But Lucas said they did,’ Merle said.

  Miss Osborne turned to me. ‘Louise, what do you think?’

  ‘I suspect the authorities just assumed that they committed suicide,’ I answered. ‘I haven’t heard any real evidence that they did. Just that they vanished, and overboard was the only place they could go. And they were German prisoners of war. I doubt the ship’s captain cared enough to investigate.’

  ‘What else could have happened to them?’ Merle said.

  ‘They could have fallen,’ I answered. ‘Those POWs were packed like sardines on the transport ship. They were allowed two hours a day outside in shifts. I saw a picture of it in Life. They filled the entire deck, from bow to stern. I mean, they could have been sitting on the rail and fallen overboard when the ocean surged.’

  ‘Or they were helped overboard,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘By one of their fellow prisoners.’

  ‘You mean murdered!’ I said, shocked. ‘Why?’

  Miss Osborne shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But if there’s a murderer in our POW camp I’d like to know who he is.’

  Private McVey stopped the jeep at the stockade gate. The guard in the watchtower overhead leaned over the rail to scrutinize us, his rifle at the ready. An MP stationed at the gate greeted us and took the papers McVey handed him, examined them, then handed them back. ‘Welcome to the Fritz Ritz,’ he said, waving us inside the stockade. The gate closed behind us with a metallic clang. We were inside a prisoner-of-war camp, along with over sixteen hundred Axis soldiers and their jailers. I felt a surge of excitement and anticipation. I’d recovered from the airplane flight and was thrilled to be away from the Registry and its jungle of file cabinets. This was an adventure!

  We climbed out of the jeep in front of the German mess tent. Inside three men waited for us at a head table guarded by two more MPs. Major Lucas and Lt Rawlins and a third person, hidden by Rawlins’ body, were drinking from cut crystal sherry glasses that looked tiny in their hands. Colored mess attendants in spotless white uniforms were loading up three cafeteria stations with steaming containers of food. It smelled wonderful! I hadn’t had a meal since breakfast and I was ravenous.

  Lucas offered the three of us sherry, but taking Miss Osborne’s lead, Merle and I declined.

  ‘If you say so,’ Lucas said, refilling his own glass. ‘I cannot watch these men eat the same rations as an American soldier without fortification.’

  Rawlins moved aside, revealing the third man in the group. I would have known him anywhere. He was in his late thirties, fit and dressed conservatively in a blue suit and dark tie, like all G-men. His fedora sported a small yellow feather stuck in the hatband.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie, it’s good to see you again. You must think I’m shadowing you,’ the man said.

  ‘I don’t think it, I know it,’ I said, shaking his hand.

  ‘You’ve met, obviously,’ Rawlins said to me. He turned to Miss Osborne and Merle. ‘This is Agent Gray Williams, our FBI liaison.’ I knew there was an FBI agent assigned to every prisoner-of-war camp, but I never expected that the agent attached to Fort Meade would be a man I knew and would rather never have seen again.

  ‘Let’s get our food,’ Lucas said. ‘The prisoners will be coming in soon.’

  The mess boys loaded my plate with thick slices of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, rolls and real butter, until food filled my plate to its edge. I selected a wedge of blueberry pie for dessert. I’d almost forgotten what a meal without the limitations of rationing could look like.

  Once we were seated at the head table the prisoners filed in.

  Each German prisoner wore a GI khaki shirt and trousers, with ‘PW’ stenciled on the back of the shirt. Their ranks weren’t obvious, but I’d bet my dress shoe ration stamp that the poised, confident prisoner who sat at the head of the table closest to us was a high-ranking officer.

  Williams, who had sat down next to me, leaned over and said in a low voice, ‘See that one?’, nodding at the prisoner I’d noticed.

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  ‘He’s SS-Sturmbannführer Dieter Kapp, Waffen SS. Major Kapp to you. He commanded an SS flame tank platoon in North Africa. He’s the ranking prisoner here and the POW’s spokesman, their commanding officer really, and a hardcore Nazi. The prisoners don’t use the latrine unless he says it’s OK.’

  ‘Waffen SS!’ I said. I looked at Kapp more closely. He was thin and wiry with deep-set blue eyes and narrow lips, sitting almost at attention in his chair. The men on either side of him looked uncomfortable being there. Yes, I could picture Major Kapp strutting around in a coal black uniform with ‘SS’ tabs on the collar and a skull and crossbones patch on the cap.

  ‘Kapp is the only prisoner who speaks English,’ Williams said. ‘And none of the guards speak German. We have a German translator assigned to the base, but he’s spread thin. So Kapp is our only conduit to the prisoners most of the time.’

  ‘Over there,’ he continued, nodding toward the group again, ‘the one with light brown hair and a scar, Lt Bahnsen, he was conscripted out of a Lutheran seminary. He was a navigator for the Luftwaffe. His reconnaissance plane was shot down and he was the only survivor.’

  That crash must have been the cause of the livid red scar that began on the man’s temple and coursed down his left cheek. Whatever had caused it had barely missed his left eye.

  ‘And the small dark stocky one on our Lutheran’s right, the one with big hands, he’s just a private. Hans Marek is his name. But he’s an ethnic Pole, he can’t love the Nazis.’

  Williams squinted, searching the Germans for another face. ‘I don’t see Jens Geller,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’s ill. He’s another fellow I wanted to point out to you. Whenever the German translator comes by the camp Geller peppers him with questions about the war. Apparently he has brothers still in the Wehrmacht. He might be someone interested in the war ending sooner rather than later. Anyway, those three men would be good candidates for your team to interview.’

  I shot my eyes at him. ‘You
know our mission?’

  ‘Of course. I’m the FBI’s ears and eyes here.’

  ‘Just what does that mean?’

  ‘Mrs Pearlie, you know what information interests Director Hoover.’

  Yes, I did. Director Hoover was interested in any scrap of gossip, dirt or intelligence he could collect on almost anyone in the United States. Only children were exempt from his curiosity, and I wasn’t sure about that.

  Cynicism aside, the FBI was in charge of counterintelligence inside the United States. Williams would want to know if any of the prisoners had family or contacts in the country, training in sabotage or an inclination to escape and create havoc.

  ‘I can count on you to relay any information you learn in your interviews that I should know,’ Williams said, ‘can’t I?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. I wasn’t about to share anything with Williams unless Miss Osborne instructed me to, but I saw no reason to tell him so.

  ‘You’ll start the process tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The sooner we begin, when the prisoners are still disoriented from the trip, the more likely we can penetrate their defenses.’

  ‘You’re only interested in the Germans, am I right?’ Lt Rawlins asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I scanned the alphabetized list he’d given me. No Rein Hermann, thank goodness. ‘The Italians will be interrogated by another team.’

  ‘They’ll be easier nuts to crack,’ Rawlins said.

  After dinner Lt Rawlins had asked me to come back to his desk in the administration building to pick up the prisoner information he had set aside for me, leaving the rest of our dinner party to chat over coffee in the officer’s lounge.

  ‘Does this include the names of the two Germans who died during the crossing?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, here they are, the ones marked with crosses.’

  Rolf Muntz, twenty-five, and Hurst Aach, twenty-three. I wondered why men so young, escaping the battlefield to ride out the rest of the war many miles away from it, would want to kill themselves.

  ‘Do you want their paybooks?’ Rawlins asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I’ll need them back as soon as possible.’ Rawlins handed me a stack of booklets about the size of passports. Every German soldier had one of these paybooks, called a Soldbuch, which contained much more information than pay records. Up to seventeen pages long, the booklets contained all a German soldier’s records, including pay, awards, stations and home addresses. Merle would have quite a job translating them all.