‘Does that mean you are going to try to escape?’
‘It means I’m not going to parole myself. It’s my duty as an officer to try to escape.’
‘Why? Who says so?’
‘That’s what I believe.’
‘Then I’ll have to prevent it!’
He took his Mauser pistol from its leather holster, flicked off the safety catch, and slipped it back leaving the leather flap open.
‘I’m sorry!’ he said.
The train was soon out of the city and rattling through the countryside.
I tried my first plan.
‘May I go to the toilet?’
‘Of course!’ The lieutenant nodded to the guard. He stood up. I held up my manacled wrist for the lieutenant to unlock it. He shook his head.
‘Only if you parole yourself.’
So I remained manacled to the guard through the whole procedure.
Even when I washed my hands, the two of us struggled to get to the diminutive wash basin, handle the taps, fill the basin, rinse our hands and dry them, while the train rocked and swayed. We struggled out of the narrow door and found the lieutenant waiting outside with his pistol drawn. The three of us stumbled back to our seats.
‘OK?’ asked the lieutenant.
‘Great!’ I said. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever done that with an Honor Guard!’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I wanted you to parole yourself. You did it in Berlin, and you were wonderful. Why not now? There’s no possibility of escape. Even if you got away from Schneider, I’d have to shoot you! I’m sorry!’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’ He looked at me seriously. ‘You see, if you escaped, I should be shot.’
‘No!’
‘Oh yes! Believe me!’
I believed him.
But I still racked my brain to find a way to escape. I considered even the wildest schemes. The main problem was that I was handcuffed to the guard Schneider, but it was Albrecht who kept the key. I even thought of going to the toilet again with Schneider. He was smaller than me, so the plan was to grab him just as we got close to the outside door of the train, throw the door open, and leap out with Schneider in my arms. I would hope that Lieutenant Albrecht would not accompany us the second time or, if he did, that the suddenness of the action wouldn’t give him enough time to shoot me. The real problem, of course, would be freeing myself from the handcuffs that bound me to Schneider.
Another plan was to make a grab for Albrecht’s pistol, which was now in an open holster, with its safety catch off, hold it to his head, and force him to unlock the handcuffs. Here, the problem was that, knowing Albrecht, he would call my bluff. Also, Schneider, being manacled to me, could throw all his weight away from me and pull me away from Albrecht. He would then have all the others in the compartment to help him overpower me. I looked at Albrecht. He smiled at me, a warm friendly smile. He wouldn’t believe I could pull the trigger on him.
So I had to revise the plan. I decided that the first priority had to be getting out of the handcuffs. Using the key seemed to be out of the question, but Albrecht himself had given me an idea when he clicked off the safety catch and left his holster unbuttoned. He wore his pistol on his left side and that was the side of my free right hand. Of course, his right hand was resting on the holster, ready to draw, but I hoped that during the long journey to Frankfurt he would relax, and the moment would come when I could whip the pistol out of its holster, put the point of the muzzle on the large lock on the bracelet on my left wrist, pull the trigger and blow the lock.
Because of the heat, the window in the compartment was lowered. This meant that there was an opening about three feet wide and almost two feet high. I reckoned I could dive straight through it before anyone could stop me.
Things seemed to be going my way. Albrecht, Schneider and I had been going since at least four in the morning, and had worked flat out after the air-raid in Berlin.
Schneider was much older than Albrecht or I, and he was the first to succumb. His head was soon resting on my shoulder, and he was fast asleep. Not long after, Albrecht was asleep too. His hand had fallen away from his pistol. Swiftly, but smoothly I slipped the gun out of the holster, bringing my other arm around at the same time. I put the muzzle to the lock of the bracelet and pulled the trigger.
There was a loud click! And nothing else!
Schneider was looking at his hand in disbelief. I turned to the lieutenant. He was eyeing me perfectly relaxed.
‘It wasn’t loaded,’ he said casually.
It took a little while to sink in. Then I started to laugh. Albrecht smiled, and then began laughing with me. The others in the compartment looked at us as if we were mad.
As we stepped out of the train in the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, I was surprised that it was not more seriously damaged. The glass roofing was gone, but the main walls were still standing. Like most of the public buildings built in the golden days of the Kaiser’s Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire before World War I, the main railway stations were massive edifices constructed of thick heavy stone. Like the great cathedrals, built almost like the pyramids, these monumental landmarks were remarkably resistant, not only to incendiaries, but even to high explosives.
But when we came through the great central portal into the Bahnhof Platz, it was as if we were standing in a bowl, the sides of which were a rubble of bricks and stones cascading down from the skeletons of the few walls left standing. In front of us was what had been the Kaiserstrasse. Between two hills of rubble, like a small stream meandering through a valley, ran a small winding path. It was so narrow that, being handcuffed to Schneider, I had difficulty passing the pedestrians coming in the opposite direction. Twice Schneider fell against the piles of rubble, and I helped him up.
At the bottom of the Kaiserstrasse is a park, the Taunus Anlage, and it was here that we were to start the last stage of our journey. Albrecht consulted the timetable posted on what looked to me like a street-car stop, and checked his watch.
‘We have twenty minutes to wait. Would you like to see something of Frankfurt?’
‘Of course’
‘Komm!’
We went first to the end of the Taunus Anlage closest to the River Main. Here we saw the partially bombed-out Frankfurt theatre, the Schauspielhaus. It was half destroyed, but I could see it had been a beautiful building; not large or pretentious, but in beautiful taste.
‘Eighteenth century,’ said Albrecht.
Then we walked to the other end of the Taunus Anlage: the Opernplatz. Here we saw the burned out shell of the Opera house. It was a magnificent example of German nineteenth-century architecture; far more imposing than the Schauspielhaus, over-whelmingly impressive; even more so because it was a burned out ruin. Like the Schauspielhaus, it was a noble, tragic monument of accusation and reproach.
The three of us stood and looked for a few minutes. Then we turned and walked back through the park.
A few miles north-west of Frankfurt, at the foot of the Taunus hills is the town of Oberursel, and it was here that the Luftwaffe had established their Interrogation Centre. We arrived there in the little electric tram which still winds its way from the Taunus Anlage to the lovely towns of the Taunus.
At the entrance to the centre, Albrecht unlocked the handcuffs. He and Schneider first saluted me, and then warmly shook my hand.
‘Thanks!’ I said.
‘It was a pleasure!’ he said.
The Interrogation Centre went by the German name: ‘Auswertestelle West’. I expected the worst, but nothing about the place was as expected. In the first place, Oberursel was a charming, sleepy town, behind which rose the gentle slopes of the Taunus hills, covered with beautiful trees, with here and there an old castle, perched above its village. There was no industry there in those days, and it was far enough away from Frankfurt, to have escaped bombing. The houses were either solid granite monuments of the Kaiser’s Reich, or quaint, half-timbered gems of older days, some having rem
ained unchanged and as neat and clean as in the sixteenth century.
The centre itself was a collection of drab wooden barracks, which contrasted with the neater, older buildings of the town, but there was none of the sinister atmosphere one would expect around a German interrogation centre.
Even inside the atmosphere was somehow surprisingly relaxed. I was taken to a sort of small reception area. The facilities were obviously overloaded. Not only were there large numbers of US fighter pilots; there were also American and RAF bomber crews coming through. Sitting on a wooden bench were two American officers. The Captain greeted me:
‘Hi, Major, join the club.’
Behind a sort of window, like a bank teller was a German private busily writing. Another German soldier was standing beside the wooden bench.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What’s the drill here?’
‘This guy seems to be the receptionist. He checks you in.’
I looked at the other soldier.
‘I guess he’s just a visiting fireman,’ said the Captain.
When it was my turn, I gave my name, rank and serial number. We were then moved to what I later learned was referred to by both POW’s and Germans as ‘The Cooler’. This was simply a row of small, clean, simple cells leading off a long corridor. Before I had time to get bored in my cell, a guard came in and asked me to follow him.
We stopped in front of an office door. The guard knocked, a cheerful voice said, ‘Herein’, and I stepped into a small cluttered office and the door closed behind me. A good-looking young man in the uniform of a Luftwaffe private looked up at me. I didn’t know it then, but I was in the presence of Hanns Scharff, the Luftwaffe’s Master Interrogator.
I stood at attention, steeling myself to give only name, rank and serial number, regardless of threats or even torture.
He got up from his desk and came towards me, hands outstretched and a charming, broad smile on his handsome face.
‘Well, Goody! We’ve been waiting for you for a long time! I’m delighted to see you!’
Goody was a nickname used by only some of my closest friends, and, occasionally, as a call sign on missions.
‘Look!’ he went on. His English had only the slightest trace of an accent. ‘You’re in my Hall of Fame. These are the top VIP’s (that’s Very Important Prisoners) I’ve been waiting for.’
I found myself looking at a photograph of myself pinned to the wall. There were also pictures of Zemke, Gabreski, Blakeslee, Godfrey, Gentile, and a few others.
Scharff was happily chatting on. ‘You’ll soon be seeing a lot of your friends from Debden. Some of them you probably thought had been killed. We’ve got Peterson, Bunte, Clotfelder, Van Epps, Mills, Oh! And your close friend Millikan. I’ll try to arrange for you to go to Stalag Luft III. That’s where Millie is.’
He was right. I had thought many of the list he recited were dead. What’s more, he went on to give me the latest news of the Group. Glover had taken over my job as squadron commander. Bob Mirsch’s wife had had a baby boy.
‘But it’s too bad you missed last night,’ he said. ‘The Fourth Group were celebrating their one thousandth victory. One thousand destroyed. It was a great party. They invited Bubbles and the rest of the gang from The Rose and Crown in Saffron Walden, and many a toast was drunk to you – and other absent friends!’
He talked of my friends as if they were his friends, as if he was part of it, and understood it, and was a member. It was a brilliant performance, and I could see that it could have a tremendous effect on a depressed and lonely POW, expecting brutality, even torture, from a vicious enemy. He would suddenly find a friend; a friend who knew his friends and his squadron – almost one of the gang.
I prided myself that I recognised his tour de force for what it was. I was amazed at his intimate knowledge of personal details of the Group and its pilots, and couldn’t imagine how he had amassed so much information; but there was a hint of the flourish of the magician pulling rabbits out of the hat that strengthened my determination to show no flicker of surprise, nor volunteer any comment. In fact, I resented this impertinent young German outsider intruding on the privacy of my Group.
But Scharff seemed blissfully unaware of my cold silence.
‘Sit down, and relax,’ he said, waving me to one of the two armchairs, while he slipped behind his desk. ‘We have something very urgent to do. We must send a telegram to your mother to tell her you’re OK. Unfortunately she was informed that you were missing, presumed dead. God knows why. Just the usual Pentagon confusion I suppose! Now, let’s see; what’s her address?’
I remained silent.
‘Well, it will be in your file,’ he continued. ‘I have it here on my desk. Let’s see: “James Alexander Goodson, born New York City, 21st March 1921” – Ah, you’re Aries, I might have known it – “University of Toronto …”.’ He mumbled through a complete and accurate curriculum vitae, including such details of the fact that I had been on the Athenia, and that I spoke French and German. Finally he came to my mother’s address.
‘Ah! We had to bring this up to date just the other day. You probably haven’t heard yet. Your mother has moved down to Nassau in the Bahamas.’
He wrote out the address. ‘Now, what would you like to say?’
‘You’re on your own.’ I didn’t know why he was going through this farce. Surely he didn’t think I would believe that I could simply send a telegram from a POW camp in Germany to my mother in Nassau, Bahamas.
Scharff ignored my lack of cooperation. ‘How about: Alive and well as Prisoner of War, Love Jim.’
‘James!’
‘What?’
‘James! She calls me James.’
‘Good! James! Now we’ll send this through the Swedish Red Cross. She should have it in about three or four days.’
It was some time before I learned about it, but he was absolutely right.
The next day, I was back in Scharff’s office. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Feel like a walk?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course!’ He looked shocked. ‘I just thought you’d like a walk up into the Taunus. It’s very beautiful. Also, you’ve still got some shrapnel in you. We have a nice hospital up there. They can take a look at you.’
He was right. It was beautiful! We walked through woods of beautiful beech and pine. We passed quaint old half-timbered buildings with ancient painting and Gothic writing on their spotless walls and beams. Most had bright red and white geraniums in window-boxes. It was a Hansel and Gretel setting. The contrast between ancient and modern was striking. Scharff proudly pointed out the large towers and metal discs on top of the Taunus hills which were part of a pre-war telephone-television system, which he said was the first in the world.
Then he pointed to where the ruins of the castle of Kronberg rose above the town.
‘There’s also the castle of the Princes of Hessen in Kronberg. It was the home of Friedrich and his wife, Princess Victoria, the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria of England.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Friedrich’s father, Kaiser Wilhelm I, didn’t give up the throne till he died at the age of ninety-three, by which time Friedrich was dying of cancer. Friedrich was an Anglophile, and he and Victoria had a dream of bringing England and Germany together to guarantee the peace of Europe. It’s interesting to think that if Wilhelm had died at a normal age, or even if Friedrich had had a normal lifespan, there would probably never have been a First World War, and, therefore probably no Second World War either. No millions of dead on the Western Front then; no millions of dead on the battlefields and in the cities now; and all that hanging on happenstance.’
Scharff looked at me in amazement. Europeans were always surprised when Americans showed a knowledge of history.
‘Maybe you don’t agree with that. Maybe you are of the Gibbons’ belief that history is governed by economic and social forces rather than the Macaulay theory that great men and their deeds mould the fate of nations.’ I was showing off
now, but Scharff seemed genuinely intrigued.
‘The Nazi philosophy is that great men and great nations shape the future,’ he said. ‘The Führer and the great German nation will rule the destinies of nations for years to come.’
‘And of course you, as a fervent Nazi, believe that too.’
‘Of course!’ he said.
‘Of course!’ I said.
I looked him in the eyes and smiled. It took a moment or two, then he smiled back.
‘Well, you have to admit that Hitler has accomplished great things and revolutionized Germany!’ he said.
‘He was smart enough, or lucky enough to epitomize the ambitions and desires of the German people. He was voted into power, and even now I’m sure he has the vast majority of Germans behind him. If he hadn’t been in the right place at the right time, saying what the Germans wanted to hear, he would still be an unknown house painter. Social and economic forces made him, and social and economic forces will break him!’
I waited for a reaction from Hanns. I waited in vain.
‘You don’t agree,’ I said.
‘Are you interviewing me or am I interviewing you?’
‘You don’t ask me any questions,’ I said. ‘So I’m just making conversation.’
‘The trouble is, I know all about the Fourth, and all I need to know about the details of your air force career. I even know how much you know; so I know that you don’t know anything that I don’t already know.’
I believed him. ‘So when do I leave you and move on to POW camp?’
‘What’s your hurry? Don’t you like it here? Believe me, it’s more pleasant here. I enjoy talking to you, and I had hoped you liked talking to me.’
‘Of course I do. And I’m in no hurry at all to leave this lovely spot. In fact, if the Princes of Hessen have excess room in their Schloss, I’m available.’
‘Well, I could try to arrange for you to visit the castle, but it might be difficult.’
‘Don’t put yourself out, Hanns. I’ll come back after the war and spend some time in Schloss Kronberg.’ I was quite serious. Very often I have said to myself, one day I’ll do this, one day I’ll live there and so on; and no matter how remote or unlikely the prediction at that time, in many cases, it actually came true. I liked to think it was a question of setting one’s sights on something and dedicating onself to achieving it, but it might be nothing but sheer chance. Anyway, in this case, after the war, when my friend Pertram had persuaded the Princes of Hessen to convert their castle into a hotel, I spent many a night there, overlooking the magnificent trees sent from all over the world as wedding presents to the ill-fated Royal couple; chatting with my friend Westrich, the great and charming lawyer, who lived next door; and even sleeping in the room which had been left unchanged since Queen Victoria slept there.
Tumult in the Clouds Page 23