‘Wunderschön!’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Back in the cell, I thought of how, an hour or so ago, I had faced my death. Now I faced life; and I knew that for me it would never be the same. From now on, every minute, every event, every person, every thing; every sight, sound and smell would be precious, because I had so nearly lost them. I would be living on borrowed time; precious time; wonderful time; and I would never forget it!
The Luftwaffe, when it arrived, was disappointing. It consisted of a young lieutenant and a Gefreiter or private as a guard. They seemed intent on showing the Gestapo and SS that the Luftwaffe could be just as coldly efficient as them. They saluted smartly as the prison guards turned me over to them. The lieutenant produced a pair of handcuffs, snapped one on my left wrist and the other on the wrist of the guard, and marched me off.
Outside a small military car with a driver was waiting to drive us to the nearest railway station. It seemed strange to be standing on the platform among the ordinary German civilians, but, if they were surprised or embarrassed at the sight of an enemy pilot manacled between his two captors, they showed no sign. In fact, I felt that my guards were more ill at ease than the other passengers.
When the train came into the station, we installed ourselves in a second-class compartment, the other passengers crowded in after us, and we settled down for the journey. I tried to engage the lieutenant in conversation. It wasn’t easy, but I learned that his name was Albrecht and he came from Koblenz. I knew that it was on the Rhine where the Mosel winds through the hills covered with the vineyards that produce the light Mosel white wines. He was proud of his homeland and of being a Rheinländer, and I realised that Germany still with its regional loyalties, was behind in the historic march of European countries towards nationhood. Maybe that explained the fanatical desire of the Nazis to weld the country into one Vaterland, ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!’ I learned that the guard’s name was Schneider and that he was a Bavarian. And all the time I was thinking of a way to escape. But not only was the compartment crowded, the corridor was also jammed with people standing, and even a trip to the lavatory, manacled to the guard, was out of the question.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To Frankfurt, but first to Berlin where we have to change trains.’
The mention of Berlin reminded me that, just before being shot down, we had been planning a renewed series of raids on the German capital now that the Normandy beach-head was secure.
I remembered the date. At 12.30 two waves of bombers, escorted by as many long-range fighters, the Fourth covering the target area as usual, would converge on the centre of Berlin with the Friedrichstrasse Bahnh of as the bomb-aiming point.
‘What station do we arrive in?’ I wanted to know.
‘Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof,’ was the reply.
‘When do we get there?’
‘Just after twelve mid-day.’
The sirens were already howling as we pulled into the great railway station. People leapt from the train and joined the rush towards the air-raid shelters. We followed as best we could with me manacled to Schneider and Albrecht holding my other arm, afraid of losing me in the confusion.
The Luftschutzraum was well sign-posted. We went in through thick concrete walls, and went down solid concrete stairs into a large concrete cellar. There were wooden benches, but, as they crowded in, it was clear that most would be standing. Like most airmen, I suffer from claustrophobia in crowded, confined spaces, and, as the hum of the approaching air armada became audible, I longed to be up there with my boys at thirty thousand feet in the clear, free air.
There was a hush in the air-raid shelter, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the holocaust they knew was about to explode around them.
I’d been in air raids before, but this was like all of them put together. The noise deafened our ears and numbed our brains. The explosions came over us in waves, threatening to crush the life out of us. The dust in the air suffocated us. Through it all came the terrified screams of women and children, and even men.
I counted the squadrons of bombers and thought of the men I knew up there, the pilots holding their course on the bomb run in spite of flak and fighters; the bombardiers peering down through the nose perspex and toggling out their bombs. To them the inferno we were in was nothing but a series of blinking lights on a map, followed by little mushrooms of smoke. They couldn’t imagine the agonized faces that I was looking at in the dim light of the naked light bulbs.
Suddenly it stopped. There was nothing but the staccato bangs of the flak; and the whimpering and crying.
Then, to my surprise the siren sounded a steady wail. There were shouts of ‘All clear!’ and people started to get up.
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘It’s not over yet. More are coming. There’s a second wave!’
They stopped and stared at me. The lieutenant looked at me, questioning. I nodded. He turned to the crowd and said. ‘He knows!’
Almost immediately the siren howled its warning again. The crowd moved back and steeled themselves for the new onslaught. It came.
If possible it was worse than ever. It seemed impossible that even the thick reinforced concrete of the bunker could resist the terrible blasts.
Finally it was over. All eyes were directed towards me. I tried to read those looks. Some were full of hatred, but most were just dumb and dazed. They had stopped asking why. They had lost their feelings of hate and patriotic fervour. They were old and tired. They were only surviving.
The lieutenant asked, ‘Now?’
I nodded.
Slowly we moved out; out of the bunker into Hell on earth. It was a maelstrom of ruins, blazing buildings, crashing walls; – and everywhere bodies; writhing bodies, maimed bodies; dead bodies. At the entrance of the bunker, there was a hideous scene. Many had been running to the bunker, but hadn’t made it before the bombs started to fall.
Everywhere the fire and police services were swinging into action. They were organizing military personnel into rescue squads to help them in their unequal task. It was the London Blitz all over again, but a hundred times worse.
A security officer came up to the lieutenant. ‘Come on! We need you and your men!’
‘I cannot leave my prisoner.’
‘There are people dying in that rubble.’ He looked at me. ‘He can help too – or do you just kill people?’
The lieutenant was undecided. ‘Will you parole yourself? Will you give your word as an officer and a gentleman that you will not take advantage of this and try to escape?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It is the duty of any officer to escape.’
In the pathway in the middle of the street, which wound between the hills of rubble on either side, rescue teams were carrying stretchers, and guiding wounded victims to the ambulances. There were weeping women, dazed old men, whimpering children.
I nodded to Albrecht. ‘I’ll give you my word. Let’s go!’
It was hard to believe that this inferno had been the bustling, beautiful, dignified centre of the magnificent city of Berlin, probably the most impressive capital of Europe. Now the great sweep of Unter den Linden was reduced to a winding path between piles of rubble. Behind the hills of bricks and broken masonry were the skeletons of the buildings. Most of them dated from the late 1800’s or early 1900’s and they were solidly built. This was particularly true of the outside walls. As a result, the inside of the buildings was often gutted, and the floors collapsed, along with the roof, while the walls stayed relatively intact. Often the tall buildings became chimneys with the flames roaring up inside the floors to the roof, until the roof and one floor after another crashed down to the stronger ground floor, until often it too collapsed under the accumulated weight, and the whole mass crashed into the cellar, and it was in the cellars that the people from the apartments in the whole building took refuge during the air-raids.
That was the scene we found in the first building we went into. I ha
d got rid of my handcuffs and we had joined a rescue team. We fought our way into what had been the ground floor. It was a jungle of fallen masonry, burning rafters, twisted girders, and everywhere smoke and dust.
As we groped our way in, bits and pieces, large and small, kept crashing down. So far the ground floor seemed mainly intact, except that the stairs from the cellar had been carried away, preventing the victims below from emerging from their refuge. The shouts and cries from the cellar indicated that there were casualties down there, and an urgent need for haste.
The team leaders started in, but then had to recoil. The debris hanging down from above started to fall. Then there was a louder crash as the ground floor gave way under the weight.
When we came back into the dust and gloom, we saw a gaping hole in front of us. From the depths below, there were now only moans and whimpers. Above, sections of the upper floors, steel girders, burning wooden beams and skeletons of walls continued to fall. The rescue team didn’t hesitate. They were experienced and efficient. Ropes were dropped into the gloom below and secured above. The older, heavier men stayed above to handle the ropes and haul up the slings and stretchers. The younger, more agile light-weights were assigned to the job of sliding down into the cellar to dig out the victims, alive, dead and dying, to bring them to where the stretchers, slings and ropes were waiting to be hauled up to the surface.
Most of the men in the security and rescue service were too old for the armed forces. As one of the younger ones, I was immediately selected to go down. One of the older men stopped me, took off his helmet and put it on my head. The lieutenant and the guard followed me down the swaying ropes. These were old buildings, and the cellars had been deep. It seemed a long way down before my feet touched the piles of rubble in the cellar. We followed the leaders and started to dig into the debris, to release those trapped beneath it.
First, it was simply a question of guiding those who were still able to walk to the shaft where the rescuers were waiting. There were not many of these. They were mostly elderly women, crying loudly, moaning softly or just stumbling along, dazed and silent.
Then came the next phase, releasing those who were trapped under girders or rubble. When we had freed them, they could seldom walk, and had to be carried or dragged to the shaft where a medical team gave them what emergency treatment they could before they were lifted out, and separated the living from the dead. Most of the bodies we brought out seemed more dead than alive, but we handled them all with the same gentle tenderness.
It was gruelling work. Moving the debris was back-breaking, but we had to keep going. The moans and cries for help wouldn’t let us stop. The dust and smoke choked us and never settled as the smouldering ruins kept collapsing.
Towards the end we were all close to collapse with fatigue. Finally there was only one pile of rubble left to shift. A protruding leg told us there was at least one more body under it. With aching backs and lacerated hands, we slowly moved enough to make sure there were no more bodies.
Suddenly one of the men at the front let out a yell.
‘There’s another cellar here!’
We all moved up to look. A few steps led down to a small doorway in the thick wall. There was no door left; just a low opening. As we looked through it, we shook our heads. It was almost blocked with masonry. There was a small opening under a fallen girder. When we peered through it, we saw that the cellar beyond was choked with smouldering debris.
‘Nothing alive in there!’ and they turned wearily away.
I started to follow. Then I heard it. Almost inaudible, unbelievable, but unmistakable, it was the tentative cry of a baby!
‘Wait!’
The others turned round.
‘There’s a child in there!’
‘No!’ It was the security officer speaking. ‘Nothing could still be alive in there! Besides there’s no way we can get in there without some heavy equipment.’
‘I can get through!’ And indeed I was probably the only one slim enough to squeeze through.
‘It’ll collapse on you!’
‘Listen! Can’t you hear it?’ It wasn’t easy to hear, but I was sure of it.
‘Well, at least take the rope.’
He tied a rope around my waist, put his hand on my shoulder, and wished me good luck with the slogan of the German coal miners.
‘Glück auf!’
I was surprised at his concern. ‘I’m not a miner, you know.’
‘Ja! I know who you are!’
I had to wriggle my way through the tangled mess like a snake. It reminded me of burrowing through the hay in the barn when I was a kid on my uncle’s farm. I had to lift every kind of obstacle to worm my way through. The danger was, it seemed to crash down again behind me, blocking the way back.
Occasionally I would stop, partly to rest, partly to listen for the fragile cries. Finally I emerged into an area that was at least a little more clear. It was also a little lighter. Looking up, I could see the sky through some of the holes in the ceiling.
Then I saw the body of the woman. At least I saw the upper part of her body. The rest was covered with rubble, and a girder lay across her back. I saw her blonde hair covered in dust. She was lying face down. I turned her head to look for signs of life. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the dirt and dust, it was a beautiful young face. The eyes were closed, but the body was slightly warm. I gently pulled an arm from under her, and felt for a pulse. It was feeble, but it was there. I tried artificial respiration, but the girder was in the way. I put my mouth to hers, trying desperately to breathe life into her.
The eyes opened. She started to move, but the girder was pinning her down. I turned to try to free her, but she seemed to be protesting, feebly but urgently. I bent over to hear.
‘No. I’m dying. Here! Take her!’ She twisted her body as well as she could. I put my arms around her and tried to lift her.
Then the cry came again, still muffled, but close. With a great effort she took from underneath her the child she had been shielding. She was a golden-haired angel about two years old. Two blue eyes peered at me solemnly through their tears.
‘Take her!’ I could hardly hear her now. ‘Take her and promise me. Take care of her – always!’ There was a terrible urgency in her whisper. ‘Promise! Please!’
‘You must have relations. Where are they?’
‘All gone! Promise!’
‘Where is the father?’
‘Gefallen!’
I remembered they used the word ‘fallen’ in the First World War.
‘Promise! Before it’s too late!’ She was hanging on desperately waiting for my answer.
‘But I’m not German!’
‘What then?’
I pointed upwards. ‘American!’
She looked confused and pained. ‘I’m dying. Promise me!’
‘I promise!’
A look of relief, almost a smile came over her face. ‘Danke!’ Her head dropped.
The child turned and put her arms around her mother’s neck. Slowly I pulled her away and took her into my arms.
That’s the way they found us whey they finally dug their way through. They tried to take her from me, but we clung together. Out in the daylight, I was still dazed, and when the First Aid team came up to take her from me, I fought them off. They shrank back surprised at my vehemence. An official looking woman in a Red Cross uniform came up.
‘What’s the meaning of this? We’ll take over.’
I turned away. ‘I promised.’
My guard was beside me. He had the handcuffs in his hand. The lieutenant was behind him. I looked at him. He nodded.
The Red Cross woman came to take the baby. I still held on. The lieu tenant put his hand on my shoulder.
‘I promised!’
Slowly he took my arms from around the child. He did it gently. I knew it had to be. The Red Cross woman took her.
‘Where will she go? How can I find her? I promised!’
The woman look
ed at me with hatred. ‘Gangster! Terror-flieger!’
The guard snapped one bracelet of the handcuffs on my wrist, and the other on his own.
The train to Frankfurt was to leave from the Charlottenburg railway station. By some miracle the S-bahn elevated railway had been kept running. Once more I found myself handcuffed to my uniformed guard surrounded by a hostile crowd. But even here in Berlin after days and nights of bombing, there was not the hatred I expected. The mass of people on the S-bahn seemed more dazed than bitter. They obviously were not inflamed by the vicious Goebbels press campaign against the gangster Terror-flieger. There was even a trace of the famous Berlin good-natured humour. In fact they were not much different from the crowd in a London tube. The train was terribly crowded. A little old lady got squeezed between me and my guard.
‘Give me a little more room, will you!’
She was being pressed against the arm which was handcuffed to the guard. I raised my arm and showed the manacles. ‘Sorry!’
‘Himmel! You’d have been better off staying in jail!’
Everyone laughed.
The train came to a halt. A young woman was about to get off when she remembered the bunch of flowers she had left in the luggage rack and from which she was now separated.
‘Meine Blumen! My flowers!’
I was taller than most of the crowd in the train. With my free arm, I reached up to the rack, took the bunch of flowers and passed it over the heads to the young lady.
‘Danke schön!’ she said cheerily.
‘Bitte schön!’ I replied.
On the train to Frankfurt, we settled down again in a public second class compartment. The lieutenant, aware of the reaction of the other passengers when they saw the handcuffs, made a suggestion.
‘If you give your parole again not to escape, we can take off the handcuffs. I trust you.
‘No! Thank you!’
I was constantly searching for an opportunity for escape, even if the chances looked slim whilst I sat pressed close to Lieutenant Albrecht on my right and handcuffed to the guard on my left.
Albrecht was obviously upset at my refusal to give my word.
Tumult in the Clouds Page 22