“You are speaking of German criminals, are you not, Herr Küppers?”
“Yes, but….”
“We on the base fail to see how this involves us. You are not quite correct about control of police forces. German civilian police have been selected to deal with nonmilitary German matters. Black marketeering is one of those matters. We sympathize, but see no way we can interfere with what is a civilian matter.”
“The source of the illegally sold produce is the Bad Kreuznach—Lager Galgenberg und Bretzenheim PWTE. That is the long and short of the matter. The German police do not have the money, authority, manpower, or weapons to deal with the problem; and neither they nor the merchants and farmers of the area have any say in what happens to the produce once it comes into the PWTE. We implore you to put a stop to the profiteering taking place at the camp.”
As soon as he said it, Küppers knew he had been intemperate in his language and had gone too far.
“That sounds very much like an accusation, Herr Küppers. You, perhaps, are not mindful of the great generosity of the Americans and other Allies towards the enemies—the defeated enemies—of our countries. This camp is an example of that generosity. We rehabilitate criminals so that they can eventually be reassimilated into German society without creating the Nazi menace you, like us, suffered from. We are mindful of the extra costs coming from a growing German economy. I will have my G5 and G8 officers look into the possibility of increasing payments for your products if it seems to them that such action is warranted. I suggest that you take up any supposed criminal matters with your local German authorities and police. That is all, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”
The three Germans were not successful in hiding from their facial expressions their contempt for the Americans and especially the general, but they said nothing and departed promptly under guard.
Gen. Gabler turned to his G2.
“Mike, do a background check on those three men. I suspect we’ll find a Nazi or two in the woodshed. Perhaps an object lesson will need to be learned by complainers, and with rehabilitation here in the camp for a few months, we will have a more compliant and grateful population—one that understands its place and—more importantly—learns what defeat means and why they should never allow another militaristic society to raise its ugly visage again in this despicable country.”
The conference room cleared.
Major Saunders caught up with Sergeant Major Briggs before he headed back to the work area.
“Sergeant Major, a word please.”
“Certainly, Major, sir. How may I be of assistance?”
“I need the figures for the last two months. The minefields around the area are fast being cleared, and we are hearing scuttlebutt that we will have to start closing down the camp gradually in the next three or four months. We need to get everyone paid, and our extra operation closed down before then. The general is especially interested in how well the Swiss accounts are doing.”
“I will have the information in your office this afternoon, sir. If I may speak candidly, sir?”
“Of course, Sergeant Major.”
“We may have a problem brewing. There are too many men for us to handle or feed. The Red Cross has become increasingly demanding that they be allowed access to the prisoners. The ODESSA is operating actively in the area, and we know that several of the more senior SS officers interned here are going missing. This is probably related to the trucking in and out of the camp. We will have to address each of those problems.”
“Thank you, Briggs. The general and I are aware of those problems and will have to take measures to control them, but we have to tread lightly or we will jeopardize our enterprise. The ODESSA and certain criminal syndicates are—like it or not—involved in our operation unofficially—of course—but nonetheless actively. It is possible that they know too much and may eventually be an embarrassment to all of us who may have … profited from this windfall of funding.”
“I will see to it at my end, sir.”
“Good man. Keep me posted.”
The POWs, Disarmed Enemy Forces, and Displaced Persons interned in the PWTE lived in squalor in shallow pits in the ground without real shelter. They did not wash, and wore the same clothing every day until they were nearly naked before they were handed a new set. They received an average of 1200 to 1500 calories ration which was inadequate, and the food they got was substandard to be euphemistic. Antoine and his Gebirgsjägers were very aware that they were weakening a little more each day. They saw men who had died of starvation and privation carried away every day. The lack of food made men weak, slow-witted, and a danger to themselves and the rest of the camp inmates. Some of that inhuman treatment was not entirely the fault of the army.
The number of prisoners so greatly exceeded expectations that the army itself had begun to lose track of some of the locations where POWs were held. Organization of the camps was left to prisoners, and starving and brutalized men are notoriously poor humanitarians. In many camps—Bad Kreuznach, Lager Galgenberg, and Bretzenheim PWTE included—society descended to a primeval Darwinian/Hobbesian level of existence, not unlike the conditions in the Russian gulags.
The period soon after August 1945 had been, overall, the worst period; and supplies improved later. However, the black market profits drove previously honorable and honest men to seize the moment to become rich by depriving the despised internees. They convinced themselves that the POWs and “Disarmed Persons” deserved everything they got, and ordinary American soldiers turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to the plight of the prisoners as they themselves grew rich. Swiss banks did a landslide business.
Reports to Washington that the Allies were violating international law regarding the feeding of enemy civilians and both directly and indirectly causing unnecessary suffering and death of large numbers of civilians and prisoners in occupied Germany were received by Allied capitals with indifference. This attitude was guided largely by a spirit of postwar vengeance, and no effective interest occurred to correct the circumstances that contributed to that suffering and those deaths. On the contrary, Washington sent out strict orders to US military personnel and their wives to destroy or otherwise render inedible their own leftover surplus so as to ensure it could not be eaten by German civilians or former combatants.
“We will die this year if we don’t get out of here,” Hugues Beauchamp told his fellow remaining members of the 33rd Waffen SS Division.
It was a statement of the obvious, but all of them recognized the need to do something and soon, there was no need for them to send delegates to the camps.
They all looked to Antoine.
“I have made contact with one of the guards. He is the head of the transport detail that moves food and other supplies in and out of here. He told me about the camp’s deal with the black market to profit by giving us the dregs and selling the fresh healthy food on the outside. He has some contact with the ODESSA which gets part of the food to help former SS people and their families. They informed the American that this camp is going to be disbanded soon, and that we will be transferred somewhere. I pressed him for more information which he would only give me for a price. I have a contact through the fence with an ODESSA operative who provided the money. This is what I learned: we are known to the ODESSA. That means they believe we have a treasure cache and that they can support their SS people. Therefore, it is in their best interests to help us escape. Because of the impending—but presently secret—move, security has been heightened to the point that they cannot help us now. They will find out where we are sent and get us out of that place.”
“If we live that long,” groused Serge.
“I grant you the honor of having made the argument of the day. Hang on and let’s find food. That will be our first priority,” Antoine said.
“And don’t get careless and trip one of the mines,” Jérôme added.
The following morning, Antoine made contact with his guard and with the ODESSA contact.
&nbs
p; “My three men and I have to get out of here in the next three or four days or we will be dead from starvation and overwork, and you will not get the promised payday.”
It was dark and raining, and none of the men had any inclination for light conversation.
“No can do,” the American corporal said, “too much scrutiny on the fences and gates. I will be headed with you to the new camp, but even I don’t know where it is. Once I know, I can let our ODESSA friend here—who shall go unnamed—where you and I are. With that intel, we can get the show on the road for you to disappear.”
Antoine had picked up considerable English during his stay in Bad Kreuznach, and that included army slang, but he was missing some of what the corporal was saying.
“Does ‘no can do’ mean it can’t be done? And does ‘get the show on the road’ mean something like starting a diversion?”
The corporal laughed, “‘No can do’ is pretty obvious, but ‘getting the show on the road’ is an old traveling carnival expression which means that we can do what is necessary to make things happen—things we want to have happen, okay?”
Antoine nodded his understanding.
“My friend on the outside—the one with the treasure—has to have someone to contact,” the American corporal asserted, “Our silent friend here from the ODESSA has got to give me an address or telephone number; so, my friend can contact him. I assure you that I am not a spy for anybody, and I am not a threat,” he said.
The ODESSA operative nodded to the corporal. “It’s okay. Here is the number. Have your guy call between 1900 and 1910 hours every night starting one week from now. He will need to be able to provide a meeting place for the ODESSA people and him, and—absolutely—he will have to prove that he has the moola.”
Antoine gave him a quizzical look.
“The money,” the corporal said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Abstract words such as ‘glory,’ ‘honor,’ ‘courage,’ or ‘hallow’ were obscene.”
-Ernest Hemingway, American novelist and WW1 veteran, in A Farewell to Arms, 1929
POW Camp 63 Brienne le Chateâu, France [Kriegsgefangenenpost 62: POW Post Office], August 29, 1954
Preparations for the move began a week later. Rations were cut to 800 calories. In two days, no one was capable of working, but that was of little concern because the vast majority of the German land mines had been removed, blown up, or otherwise rendered harmless. The Gebirgsjägers largely lay in their ground hollows in misery because of a spate of summer rains. After another screening of the POWs, the Americans began releasing old men and boys of the Volkssturm [Lit. “people’s storm”—which was a German national militia formed in the last months of World War II from conscripted males between the ages of thirteen to sixty years] who were considered to be harmless and even possibly of potential benefit to a new, controlled German economy.
All prisoners were assembled in the open area. A team of army doctors, nurses, and corpsmen made all of the men remove their shirts. Most of them were little more than skeletons.
“Five push-ups,” the sergeant major ordered.
Less than half were able to do even one. All of the Gebirgsjägers were able to eke out five and to struggle back to their feet. About two hundred of the 2,500 survivors were able—barely able—but many of the others just lay down in the mud ready to be shot. They did not even have the strength to protest. The head doctor walked along with a corpsman taking notes. He pointed his finger at the men who had performed the task. He nodded to Sergeant Major Briggs and Major Saunders, then the medical unit returned to the clinic building.
Sergeant Major Briggs barked, “Follow me. No talking in line.”
The two hundred fittest men—a decidedly relative distinction–fell into a queue and followed the senior enlisted man to the front of the building where seven buses were waiting. He ordered them to get aboard and passed out ham and cheese sandwiches and bottles of beer. He even gave each man a package of the Americans’ favorite cigarettes called Camels. Antoine noticed that there were two healthy-appearing men being loaded onto the bus he was on. They were both overweight and were wearing good sturdy working clothes.
“What are your names, gentlemen?” he asked, curious about their late appearance in the Allied concentration camp system, and more than a bit suspicious.
“Berthold Küppers and Rolf Kohns,” the larger of the two men answered grumpily, “what’s yours?”
“Antoine. Antoine Duvalier.”
It was one of the few times Antoine had given his real name out loud in ten years.
“What brings you here? You obviously aren’t POWs. Are you communists or gypsies?”
He laughed when he said it.
“Nein! We are accused of being unrepentant Nazis. We are guilty of suggesting that the general was allowing the black market to steal food from the prisoners to make an obscene profit.
“Are you guilty?”
Antoine asked it with a smile.
“Ja. Ja wohl!”
“Are you Nazis?”
“Ja.”
“Wehrmacht?”
“Nein,” Berthold said with defiance in his face and in his tone. “Schutzstaffel!” he said emphatically, looking Antoine directly in the eye.
“Wie lautet Dein Eid?” [What is your oath?] Antoine asked, posing the central first question of the SS Hitler oath as a test.
“Ich schwöre Dir, Adolf Hitler, als Führer und Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches Treue und Tapferkeit. Wir geloben Dir und den von Dir bestimmten Vorgesetzten Gehorsam bis in den Tod. So wahr mir Gott helfe!” [I vow to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and chancellor of the German Reich loyalty and bravery. I vow to you and to the leaders that you set for me, absolute allegiance until death. So help me God!]
“Also glaubst Du an einen Gott?” [So you believe in a God?] Antoine continued.
“Ja, ich glaube an einen Herrgott.” [Yes, I believe in a Lord God.].
“Was hältst Du von einem Menschen, der nicht an einen Gott glaubt?”
[What do you think about a man who does not believe in a God?]
“Ich halte ihn für überheblich, grossenwahnsinnig und dumm; er ist nicht für uns geeignet.” [I think he is arrogant, megalomaniacal, and stupid; he is not one of us.]
Antoine was joined by Hugues Beauchamp, Jérôme Christophe Mailhot, and Serge Alain Rounsavall.
Serge spoke for the Gebirgsjägers, “You are one of us. Stay close. We work to protect each other.
Berthold nodded, answering for himself and for Rolf Kohns.
A well-armed unit of guards walked onto the bus and stood in the aisles with menace on their faces. Sergeant Major Briggs spoke briefly to the first bus driver then stepped off and returned to the field where the weaker men were still lying on the ground. Major Saunders walked across the field to the small set of barracks that housed the known senior members of the SS and presumed war criminals. The regular POWs and Disarmed Enemy Forces personnel had a fairly large area where they could move about fairly freely so long as they remained ten feet from any fence. The senior SS officers had an exercise area measuring about twenty by twenty feet. They were only allowed out at night; so, they were seldom seen. Major Saunders’s detachment ordered the officers out of their barracks and began to talk to them about the changes taking place in the camp. Suddenly without warning, four of the American enlisted men opened fire on the SS officers, who crumpled like wheat being cut for harvest. Behind them a graves registry unit moved in and loaded the corpses into a truck and took them to the center of the open area and dumped them in a pile. The senior NCO ordered the truck to the dump, and his men loaded the long-standing pile of body bags into the back of the truck and dumped them on the other bodies.
Two men doused the pile with ten gallons of gasoline, then another casually tossed and lit cigarette lighter onto the pile, causing an almost explosive inferno. The graves re
gistry unit and the assassination unit left the open area and returned to their barracks. It was all done with Germanic efficiency. Then Gen. Gabler joined Major Saunders and Sergeant Major Briggs in front of the men lying huddled on the ground. Many of them were crying softly, expecting the worst.
“You men are worthless for work, and our orders do not permit us to execute you; so, today you are free. We will open the gates and put you on the street. Do not venture close to the camp again or you will be shot,” the general said; and he, too, returned to his quarters.
The major and the sergeant major gathered the troops and did whatever was necessary to push, walk, or drag the remaining men and to place them on the four streets running alongside the perimeter fences. Perhaps they thought that the populace would provide food, water, clothing, and shelter. Perhaps not. None of those subhuman monsters deserved even a passing thought, each American thought to himself.
Cooperation was not complete. About fifteen men somehow found strength or were crazed by fear, hunger, and thirst; and they made a sad—almost slow motion—dash for the fence, apparently not aware that the gates were open. The sentries opened fire, and all fifteen were dead before they reached the fence. Grave’s Registry was summoned back and added the new bodies to the still crematory-hot fire. The remaining men still able to stand in the queue for the bus each got a swift blow from an American’s club to punctuate the lesson they had just witnessed, as if any further emphasis was needed.
The buses entered the city streets driving very rapidly. It was immediately apparent why: the streets were lined with furious and sullen townspeople who had only a few days before collecting the dead, dying, and severely ill PTWE concentration camp victims from the streets around Bad Kreuznach. The American guards on the buses were afraid the angry crowd was going to block the streets and attack the buses. That would precipitate an armed response with mass killings of German civilians which would lead to an international incident, which in turn would lead to exposure of the deplorable conditions of the camp and treatment of the prisoners, and would result in America being identified as being no better than the Nazis with their concentration camps and horrific POW camps or the Soviet gulags. The bus drivers were ordered to push full speed ahead and not to stop for anything. The people scattered, and a riot was averted.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 22