Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  The civilian obviously inspired respect, if not fear, in the others. He beckoned to the chief, and they left the room. Some ten minutes later they were back. The civilian sat down behind the desk and with a wave of the hand, dismissed everyone but his own military escort. The chief was dismissed with the others.

  The man then opened a thin leather brief-case, took out a sheaf of papers and a fountain pen, and prepared to write. Then the questioning again. If I was a French worker, where were my identity papers? Where had I been working? Why was I over a hundred kilometres from Stettin? The interrogator seemed very cool, even bored. He was endlessly patient, simply repeating questions and copying the answers. I had expected threats, badgering, third degree, even torture. I was confused, perhaps even a little disappointed, and also a little apprehensive at the ‘ho-hum’ attitude of my interrogator.

  Suddenly to my surprise, the interview was over. The questioner stood up and his henchmen leapt to their feet. I was jerked to my feet, had my arms pulled behind my back, and an old-fashioned pair of hand-cuffs clapped on my wrists. I was pushed out the door and was soon blinking in the morning light. A military truck drove up, and I was bundled into the back, followed by the two guards. A few minutes later, the civilian interrogator came out, got into the front of the truck, which drove off.

  We bumped over the cobbled roads for over an hour. I reckoned we were travelling north-west.

  Finally we turned off the road and drove up to a forbidding steel door in a brick wall. The heavy door swung open and we drove through into a cobbled courtyard. Things were getting serious. This was a jail!

  I was thrown from the back of the truck and fell face forward on the cobblestones. Almost immediately I was kicked, and prodded with a gun-butt. It was difficult to get up again because of the handcuffs. My two guards jerked me to my feet and prodded me towards the door of the prison. The guards were rough, but, during all my captivity, I never had the impression that there was any malice or deliberate cruelty. It was just the way things were done in political captivity, and if the guards acted less aggressively, their NCO’s and officers would soon show them how to act. I’ve always thought that one reason for the efficiency of the German war machine was the fact that the soldiers were more afraid of their officers than of the enemy.

  I was marched down concrete corridors past helmeted armed guards who snapped to attention with loud stamping of boots which echoed through the barren building. Finally I was thrown into a small cell. It was completely empty except for a folded blanket in one corner and a battered old metal bucket in another. There was no bed but that was probably because no bed could have been fitted in.

  They unlocked the handcuffs, stamped out and slammed the door. I heard the iron bolts being shot across and a key turned in the lock. The heavy footsteps died away. There was no sound. I explored the cell. It didn’t take long. Three concrete walls, one steel door, concrete ceiling, concrete floor; no windows, not even a barred slit for ventilation. The only break in the monotonous surface was in the grey steel door, which itself formed one wall of the cell. At eye-level there was a small closed panel with bars in front of it. At floor level, there was another panel. I tried both. There was no give; no play. I was sealed in.

  This was a new situation for me. Even when I was captured I immediately thought of escape when the right opportunity came along, but I had never considered this sort of maximum security prison.

  I began to realise the French worker story was hopelessly weak. It might have held water if I’d been better briefed on the status of forced labourers in wartime Germany. Although technically they may have had civilian status, they really had little more freedom than prisoners of war. They too were kept in camps and barracks at night, and closely watched at all times. They too were checked and double-checked. Like everyone in the Third Reich their every movement was controlled, and their very existence depended on their identity papers.

  Gradually I was becoming aware of Nazi Germany’s overwhelming phobia. As the tide of war began to turn against them, the German leaders’ greatest fear was not the menace of the mass of the Russian army; it was not the vast fleets of Allied aircraft which were systematically and inexorably destroying German cities; it was not even the threat posed by the massive might of the Allied armies building up in preparation for the invasion of Continental Europe. No, there was another enemy army, even larger than those outside their frontiers, and more imminently dangerous because this force was already right inside the country, and growing daily. This menacing army was made up of the millions of prisoners of war, political internees, and foreign labourers within the borders of the Third Reich. Many of them were highly-trained military experts, all of them shared a burning hatred of the Nazi regime. And there were millions of them. Estimates of their numbers vary wildly, but one thing is certain, they outnumbered the security forces within Germany who were responsible for controlling them, and indeed preventing them from taking over the country. They probably even outnumbered the total number of able-bodied German males left in Germany. Armed forces could be brought back from the front to put down any insurrection, but then the delicate balance of the battle fronts would be upset, with the probability of complete collapse.

  The most amazing aspect of this extraordinary situation was that, although the Nazis recognised it as their greatest danger, the Allies ignored it completely, and never thought of exploiting it. The German leaders and the Gestapo could not believe that the Allies would overlook this heaven-sent opportunity, and their fears influenced their treatment of all foreigners within their borders; political internees, foreign workers, and even prisoners of war, such as the fifty Air Force officers who escaped from Stalag Luft III, were recaptured and shot by the Gestapo. The Nazis from Hitler on down were convinced that the only element missing to set off the explosion was leadership and organisation. Therefore, the Allies would do everything possible to supply that catalyst by sending specialists into Germany either as shot-down aircrew, as foreign workers, or simply by parachute. From the German point of view those potential homefront organisers had to be eliminated as quickly and quietly as possible, and, if some innocent foreigners and bona fide prisoners of war got caught in the net, that was nothing compared to the risk if a real nucleus of officers were able to organise even a part of the vast potential army.

  As I slumped down on the rough folded blanket in my cell nursing my injured leg, I only sensed a part of all this, but the pervading atmosphere of fear and evil in that place made me aware of the fact that I had fallen into a sinister sort of underworld.

  As the hours crept by, I began to understand why people break down in solitary confinement. The feeling grows on one that one is completely deserted, forgotten, almost ceasing to exist and no one knows, or cares, or will do anything about one’s existence. It came as an enormous relief when I heard footsteps outside the door. The small trap door at the base of the main steel entrance opened. A small piece of rough brown bread was pushed through, followed by a tin container with water. Almost immediately, the small grille was slammed shut and I heard a bolt shot home. I was hungry enough to eat the bread, which was obviously very wholesome. This was my first taste of the Kommis-Brot, which was the standard fare of the German Army and all prisoners of war.

  It was about an hour later that the top grille was slid back and a voice said, ‘Kanne.’ I understood this to mean that he wanted the tin drinking pan back, because at the same time the lower grille was opened. Instead of immediately passing the tin back, I put my face to the upper slit and peered through. Since my cell was dark, and the corridor outside was lit, I found myself gazing into the pale blue eyes of a young, blond guard in an SS uniform. I smiled and said, ‘Good evening. I didn’t quite understand what it was you wanted.’

  ‘Kanne!’ he barked again.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I think I understand.’

  I pushed the tin drinking cup through the lower grille. He took it, and the grille slammed shut. He was about to slam the up
per grille shut when I asked him as politely as possible if it would be possible for me to use the toilet facilities. He replied, ‘It’s in the corner there.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I think you understand my feelings. I give my word to cause you no embarassment if you could just escort me to the toilet and back.’

  The slit was slammed shut and that was the last I heard for about three hours.

  Then I saw a shaft of light as the upper slit was opened. When I looked out, I again saw the blue eyes of the guard. Again I tried to charm him. ‘May I ask your name?’

  For a few seconds the blue eyes stared at me and then he replied, ‘Hansen.’

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘That’s a northern name!’

  ‘Schleswig-Holstein,’ he said with obvious pride. ‘Who are you, then?’ he said.

  I decided then that the French worker story was a loser and that I had nothing to lose, and possibly something to gain by telling this youngster the truth. Immediately, his face came alive and he asked me about flying and America until he realised that he was going too far. The grille suddenly slammed shut.

  About an hour later, the shaft of light came again. This time, his voice was an urgent whisper.

  ‘Schnell!’ he said. To my amazement, the bolts were shot back and the heavy lock opened and the big main door swung open. He hustled me down the corridor and pushed me into a primitive toilet and slammed the door.

  ‘Schnell!’ he said ‘I’ve stolen the keys and I’ve got to get them back!’ When I got back to my cell, the door was slammed, the lock was turned and the bolt shot home, but by now I had a fellow conspirator. He had shared with me what, to him, must have been a terrible breach of discipline.

  We now had something in common. He explained to me that he was the night guard and that I would be making a dangerous mistake if I were to speak with the daytime guards. He need not have worried – I knew when he was off duty. There was no conversation possible with any of the others.

  Gradually, our conspiracy was compounded. Not only did he let me out to go to the toilet, but he even pushed through to me the bowl of soup which was served to him in the middle of the night, explaining that the minute he opened the grille, I was to push it back to him, because it meant someone was coming.

  It was five in the morning when I was awakened by a staccato noise. Shortly afterwards, the upper slit in the door slid open and Hansen said, ‘Until this evening. I’m off now.’

  I said, ‘Till this evening!’ and then added, ‘What was that noise just now?’ The question obviously embarrassed him.

  ‘You know,’ he said.

  I said, ‘No – I don’t know!’

  ‘Well, it’s the others,’ he said.

  ‘What others?’

  ‘The other prisoners,’ he said.

  Then it started to dawn on me. ‘You mean …’

  He nodded solemnly.

  ‘And me?’ I said.

  I could see my questions were hurting him.

  ‘You must tell me,’ I said.

  ‘Morgen oder Übermorgen,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after.’

  ‘Friend,’ I said, ‘you know I’m an American flying officer. You must tell the Commandant that I have to see him. I am a prisoner of war and shooting prisoners of war is a crime.’

  His eyes opened in bewilderment. ‘But I can’t talk to an officer! I can only talk to the Feldwebel. He can talk to the Leutnant and he might talk to the Hauptmann.’

  ‘Hansen, my friend,’ I said, ‘you have to do it for me. Not only for me, but for you and all your officers. If I am shot, it would be a terrible crime and everybody would be held responsible when it came to light.’

  He was obviously frightened. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.

  All through the day, I worried and waited, and nothing happened.

  At 8 pm the stamping of heavy boots and crashing of steel bolts echoed through the corridors again.

  ‘’Raus!’ I was marched off between two guards, with a sergeant in command. We stopped in front of a door. The Feldwebel knocked.

  ‘’Rein!’

  The Feldwebel stamped in, came to attention in a stiff brace, and gave the straight-armed Nazi salute, reminding me again that I was in the sinister secret world of the SS and Gestapo rather than the true armed forces, which, at that time, still used the traditional military salute.

  I had hoped and expected to find myself in front of the Kommandant but the Feldwebel addressed him as ‘Herr Hauptsturm-führer’, which was the SS equivalent of captain.

  He looked at me with obvious distaste.

  ‘So! You have something to say to me? I’ll give you five minutes.’

  My German was slow and hesitant, but in those few minutes I was a German-talking fool. I gave my name rank and serial number. I stressed the fact that I was a leading American fighter pilot. I indicated I was known by reputation to Galland, Göring and even Hitler, all of whom would, of course, be furious if anything happened to me. He could confirm my identity by simply contacting the Luftwaffe, who were undoubtedly looking for me.

  He interrupted me in full flight. ‘I don’t give a damn whether you’re a Terror-flieger, an escaping foreign worker, a spy, or a saboteur. In any case, you are an enemy of the Reich, and the Führer has entrusted us with the task of eliminating all such enemies. As for you Luftwaffe friends, what have they done for us? Where are they when you and your murderous friends come over and kill our women and children and destroy our cities?’

  As I listened to him repeating the words of the Nazi propaganda machine, hope drained out of me and fear came in. I felt it as a sick feeling in my stomach.

  It wasn’t only propaganda. Underlying it was the days and nights and years of fear and frustration as they watched helplessly as friends and families were killed and maimed, and historic cities and beautiful buildings collapsed in flame and ruin never to be replaced.

  If we thought of it, we knew we were spreading death and destruction, but dismissed it, as well-deserved retaliation for what Londoners had suffered in the Blitz. What we didn’t know, but should have, was that the reaction of the German population was the same as that of the British: bitter hatred of the enemy and determination to endure and win through so that vengeance could be wrought on their murderers.

  The words ‘Murderers’, ‘Gangster flyers’, ‘Terror flyers’ were constantly repeated in the Nazi press, coupled with the story that America had assembled its gangsters and murderers to man its air force. Photographs of the name on the B-17 ‘Murder Incorporated’ were featured. The campaign was successful. They were ready – even anxious – to believe the worst.

  I had to give up on the Captain, but I wasn’t going to quit. ‘I don’t accept your decision, Sir!’

  That stopped him. ‘What do you mean? Why not?’

  ‘I outrank you. I insist on seeing the Kommandant. That is my right!’

  ‘The Kommandant is in Berlin. He won’t be back till tomorrow.’

  ‘Then we must wait!’

  He hesitated. The argument about priority of rank obviously impressed him, but then he made up his mind.

  ‘No. I have complete authority in the absence of the Kommandant! That’s it! Out! ’Raus!’

  That was it.

  Back in my cell, I sat back on my blanket. I was surprised that I was so calm. Why wasn’t I terrified, or at least frightened? There was no possible escape. The next morning I would be shot. It wasn’t like combat where one had a chance. Even if the odds were against you, you had a chance, and most of us believed in our luck. We had to! Death was something that happened to others. But now, in this hermetically sealed cell, there was no chance, no odds, no doubts – so why did I feel no fear?

  I began to realise that it was because it was inevitable that I was so calm. Nothing I could do would change anything. The die was cast! Fear is indecision. It’s not knowing what to do, when not making the right decision could mean the difference between life and death. The tingling nerves are messages f
rom the brain telling them to stand by for action. The pounding of the heart is to pump the blood for the actions that have to be taken.

  I had taken all my actions, made all my moves and come to the end of the line. It was too late to send messages to the nerves and my brain knew it. I think it was Dr Johnson who said that nothing so wonderfully concentrates the mind as the knowledge that one will die tomorrow … or words to that effect. He was absolutely right. As I sat in my cell, my mind was clearer than it had probably ever been. There was nothing to interrupt my thoughts. The prison was absolutely quiet. Hansen had apparently been relieved of his post, and I could establish no contact with his replacement. So I had the rest of the night – my last night – to think.

  As first I thought of the unkind fate that had dumped me in this mess. If I hadn’t been shot down, I would have wound up the leading Allied ace, but then lots of others had had that chance too, and they ended up dead. You never know what fate may bring but it’s almost never one success after another. Usually today’s hero is tomorrow’s forgotten man. That’s why the ancient Greeks had a saying: ‘Call no man happy till he dies’. But I still felt cheated. It wasn’t fair for my life to be ended at the age of twenty-three. It wasn’t fair to my mother. There was nothing else in her life but me.

  But I was Aries. It was my decision to volunteer for the RAF. I thought of my mother then, but she was Aries too. It was just as natural, as inevitable for her as for me. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. She would be broken-hearted, but not broken. She would understand.

  It was my decision to fly every mission to attack wherever and whenever I could; to risk going down on enemy airfields, to destroy aircraft on the ground, knowing it was more dangerous, but also more effective.

  It was I who volunteered to take out the Me163 prototype. It wasn’t bad luck that my life was now to be snuffed out just as it was getting rolling. If anything I was lucky that it had lasted this long. It was tempting to say I could have played it safer; only flown the missions I had to; only attacked when everything was in my favour; but I knew in my heart that what happened was the expression of myself. I had simply been true to myself. Like a Greek tragedy, my own character almost inevitably led me to this cell.