After three or four days,
getting hungrier and hungrier all the time, we walked from Dulag Luft
to the rail yards in Frankfurt, probably a distance of three or four
miles. The yards were a mess of burned-out and bomb-damaged
passenger and freight cars. We boarded a train of four-wheel
Reichbahn box cars. These were the same box cars so often seen in
the films taking Jewish people to the concentration camps. I don’t
know how many men to a car but there was not enough room to lie down.
We could only stand or sit. We traveled for three days and two
nights with very little food given to us. We tried to sleep on the
straw but it was nearly impossible because it was so crowded. We
were let off the train once during the trip when it stopped in the
country for a few minutes.
We arrived in
Krems, Austria about forty miles west of Vienna on the Danube River.
We walked up the hill north of the village and turned east along the
south side of Stalag 17B. It was enormous. I don’t know how many
barracks there were for the allied prisoners who were separated from
the Americans. The American part of the camp on the east side had
twenty barracks separated into five compounds. We could not see the
town of Krems or the Danube River because the terrain to the south
sloped upward toward the bluffs overlooking the river. To the north
and east we could see the flat, rolling terrain for miles and down
the river valley toward Vienna. To the east outside the fence a few
hundred feet away was a wooded area used as a cemetery for the camp.
We became used to the daily sight of seeing dead Soviet prisoners
carried unceremoniously to the cemetery.
 |
| STALAG 17B |
We were
photographed and stripped of all our clothing supposedly for
fumigation. Our heads were shaved and we entered a large shower
room. Too late I realized where we were! Was water really going to
come out of those shower heads in the ceiling or a deadly gas! I
knew about the gassing of the Jews and I experienced the helpless
fear so many others had in similar situations with fatal results.
How did I ever allow myself to be in such a situation! Relief!
Water showered down upon us!
After the
shower, while waiting for our clothes to come out of the
disinfectant, was the humorous situation of being in a room with
dozens of totally nude males, all of them with shaved heads. It was
impossible to recognize a friend unless you looked him squarely in
the face. We quickly found how important hair color and style were
for recognition. We had a hell of a time trying to find our friends.
There was a
welcoming party given by the old timers who shared their skimpy food
supplies with us. It primarily was a small piece of brown bread
spread with a syrupy orange juice concentrate from the Red Cross
food parcels. For a few days we bunked with these guys until the new
compound of four barracks was ready and then we moved. My new
permanent barracks was 31B in the new compound adjacent to the
foreign prisoner compounds. The members of our crew there were Joe
Metz, Bruce Hall, Chester Szymanski and myself. The radio operator,
Joe Hamel, was in the other half of the barracks, 31A for some
unknown reason.
[ This picture added, sketch of Stalag XVIIB, There is an arrow pointing to Dad's barracks.]
Stalag 17B
held 25,600 British, French, Russian and Serbs prisoners of war.
There was a smattering of very oriental-looking prisoners who may
have been Mongols. 4,200 American non-commissioned officer airmen
were held captive separate from the other nationalities. With six
NCO’s per aircraft this represented 700 heavy bombers shot down
over Germany and the occupied countries. Since it was unlikely that
all six enlisted crew survived, the true number was probably more
than 700. A guarded gate and double barbed-wire fences about twelve
feet high spaced six feet apart separated the Americans from the
other nationalities. A warning area was defined by a single strand
of white painted barbed-wire about twenty feet from the main fence.
This warning area was on both sides of the barrier between the
Americans and the Russians. It was also on the interior side of the
fences outlining the outer limits of the camp. The irony of all of
this is that barbed-wire was invented by Americans for the ranchers
of the American west. To enter the warning area was to be shot
without warning. At each corner of the outer fence and at intervals
along the fence were towers with armed guards and searchlights. The
lights were used intermittently throughout the night.
Our new
compound was adjacent to the Russian POWs. We frequently traded with
them over the warning wires and double fences. At the intersection
of the fences separating the two camps with the perimeter fences a
guard tower was located in clear view of our trading activity. The
Russians apparently had access to local farms. They would throw
onions over the whole width of the fence structure (about 45 feet)
and we would throw a pack of cigarettes. Cigarette packs are much
lighter than onions and it was difficult to throw them that distance.
Occasionally, a pack would land in the Russian warning wire area.
The intended recipient would carefully watch the guard in the tower
until he turned away and then run in and grab the cigarettes. More
often than not, the guard would turn, shoot, and kill the Russian.
If an onion landed in the American warning area, the guard would
cover his eyes while we recovered the onion.
As NCO’s we
were not required to work according to the Geneva Convention on
treatment of prisoners of war. This was a disadvantage because we
had no access to barter with farmers for food. This was not the only
American prisoner of war camp run by the Germans. For rosters of the
American prisoners of war confined to Stalag 17B see: “The
Chronicle of Stalag XVIIB.”
The barracks
were one story covered with tar paper. Each half held about 150 men.
In the center, between the two living areas, was a wash room with
metal troughs and water supplied by high mounted faucets. Water was
on for only a short time during the day. There was no hot water. We
could only bath with cold water which had the happy circumstance that
after an ice-cold shower, we felt warm in the unheated barracks. We
only took showers when we couldn’t stand our own smell. Each half
of the barracks had a large tile covered stove near the middle for
cooking and heating. With two small buckets of coal each day, there
was never enough heat. Our body heat was the primary source for
keeping the barracks above freezing.
The daily life
was routine with hunger the constant companion. A morning roll call
by the Germans: “Apel, Apel. Raus, Raus.” Outside in the
compound area we formed a “U” shaped formation by barracks. We
were counted by the Luftwaffe warrant officers who reported to the
German officer and his staff standing in the center with the American
compound chief. One morning we decided not to get out of bed for
roll call. The German took his pistol and pointed it in the face of
Schmidt, our barracks chief, and told him to get us out of the
barracks, now! We did. Later, when someone asked Smitty how big was
that pistol pointed at him, Smitty replied “about this big”
making a sign with his hands of a circle about sixteen inches in
diameter. It no doubt looked that big to him.
I had always
been curious about this country that started World War I. I hoped to
visit it someday. I never dreamed I would actually be in Germany
while it was at war. Standing in the roll call formation twice each
day, I could hardly believe I was in Germany, looking at it’s
military men in uniform while the country was at war. This was more
than I bargained for.
Regularly,
during the winter, a snow ball barrage began between the old and new
compounds. The sky was black with snow balls. With no signal, the
barrage of snow balls turned and descended enmass on the German
officers waiting for the roll call report. Again, with no signal,
the barrage returned to the earlier targets.
After roll
call, we were provided one cup of hot water for breakfast. We could
either shave with it or make a very weak (to make it last longer) cup
of instant coffee. Just enough coffee to cover about a half inch of
the tip of our spoon. We were allowed one bowl, a fragile spoon
(designed to break easily to prevent digging escape tunnels) and two
blankets. I had one American GI blanket and the other was a piece of
drapery. The mattresses, such as they were, were burlap bags
sparsely filled with shaved wood chips which easily packed down and
became as hard as the wood slats supporting them. Some of us
modified our beds by removing the slats and wood base and suspending
the mattresses like a hammock. This was much more comfortable except
that I couldn’t sleep on my stomach.
In mid-morning
a slice of brown bread (we believed was made largely of sawdust) was
distributed. At first it was approximately three inches thick. As
the war progressed, it was reduced to about a half inch per person.
On rare occasions, a very smelly cheese or some kind of indifferent
jam was distributed. The cheese was so odiferous it was clear why
God placed noses over mouths. Once, at Christmas time, we were
issued a one inch piece of blood sausage. One guy found a horse’s
tooth in his piece which led to the speculation that the Germans must
have very large grinders which would accommodate a whole horse.
Horse play was
a way to relieve the boredom and anxiety and uncertainties of
captivity. Irving Wallace was the victim of a typical practical
joke. While he was away from his bunk during the day, we rigged a
piece of string from a nail over his pillow with a knot placed so
that the string could be lowered in the dark over his face without
touching him. On the string, we fastened a piece of that very smelly
cheese before lights out. After lights out, Joe Metz lowered the
cheese to the knot. Irv, in the dark, said: “What the hell is
that smell? Dam you guys, you put that dam stuff all over my
pillow.” Finally, he got up, struck a match and searched his
bedding area for the source of the stink. Not spotting the cheese he
laid down again and soon the abominable smell returned. After a few
more incidents, Wally became frantic, cursing us all in the dark. We
just could not contain our laughter.
There was no
mess hall. Only a kitchen where the food was prepared under German
supervision and brought to each barracks in a wooden half barrel
supported by a wood rod and carried by two American helpers. The
ration was one bowl of de-hydrated soup or five small, frequently
rotten, boiled potatoes. If one menu was served at noon, the other
was served for supper. The only variation was to alternate between
the two menus. Barley soup was our favorite but it was not served
very often. Occasionally, the de-hydrated soup contained insects that
had been inside the pea-like beans. As long as they were dead, we
ate ‘em. It was all protein.
I need to
emphasize the importance of the Red Cross food parcels. Without
them, we would have been in serious starvation difficulty. They were
supposed to be distributed one parcel per man per week. Instead, we
received one parcel for two men at irregular intervals. For one or
two weeks we would receive the parcels and then none for several
weeks. As the Germans issued the parcels, they punched holes in the
cans with a bayonet so the contents could not be stored for escape
attempts. We tried to seal the holes with margarine. The parcels
contained a can of powdered milk (Klim), a can of Spam, a can of
concentrated orange juice or a small can of peanut butter, a can of
instant coffee, a box of sugar cubes, a chocolate bar, three packs of
cigarettes, a block of Velveeta cheese and a small box of raisins or
dried prunes and a can of margarine. The chocolate bar was a “D”
bar consisting of six squares of hard chocolate guaranteed not to
melt in the tropics. It was very tasty and it was used as a medium
of exchange. Everything of value was measured by how many squares of
a “D” bar it might be worth. The cheese was usually spoiled by
the time we received it. The “Elgin” margarine was so bad that
we stuck pieces of clothes line into it and used it for lamps. I
believe it was more suitable to grease covered wagon axles than as an
edible. The Red Cross was the difference between starving to death
and being continually hungry. I will forever be grateful to the Red
Cross for those parcels.
The Salvation
Army was not so perceptive. In the spring of 1945 we received a
limited number of very nice hinged wooden boxes with latches. These
contained athletic shoes, shorts, undershirts and some tennis balls.
They were issued one to five men or some such ridiculous plan when is
was clear from the contents they were designed for one man. We also
received a bunch of hockey sticks, but no ice skates. We promptly
broke up the hockey sticks for fuel. I can’t imagine why anyone
would believe we were in any shape or in a place where those items
would be of any practical use. Even if we had received ice skates,
there was no place to use such equipment and we were far too starved
to waste our energy on needless physical exercise. Hunger was our
constant companion. Food was the continual subject of conversation.
The talent of
all kinds available from the American POW’s never ceased to amaze
me. There were home-made clandestine crystal radios. From these we
picked up the BBC news broadcasts. Each day, a news-reader would go
from barrack to barrack. After posting our security guards, we
learned how the war was progressing. In this way, we were very much
up to date. It was a source of entertainment, however, to
deliberately circulate some reasonable rumor and see how long and
what form it would take to return to its originator. No matter what
language might be required, there seemed to be someone who had grown
up with it and spoke it fluently.
To provide a
source of hot water, some of the group in the barracks chief’s
corner of our barracks developed a very dangerous scheme. The 250
volt lighting wires in the ceiling were connected to two electrodes
made from tin cans. These were very carefully inserted in to a
hand-made metal bucket of water. The water was boiling in a matter
of seconds. The electric meter outside the barracks almost spun
itself off the wall. Fortunately, there were no accidents.
Some were so
clever that two or three gallon water-tight buckets were made from
tin cans. The seams were carefully folded, hammered and joined with
solder salvaged from the seals of the corned beef tins from food
parcels. All kinds of mechanical contraptions to grind the “D”
bar chocolate squares, or hand-cranked blowers to facilitate coffee
brewing fires were hand made. We speculated that if we spent the
time constructing a small section of an aircraft tail assembly from
tin cans, the Germans would have torn the place apart looking for the
rest of the airplane. It was a constant psychological battle between
the brains, wit and skills of the Americans and the Germans who had
the guns.
Our main
recreation and exercise was to walk endlessly around the compound
usually with a friend talking about what we were going to do after
the war, or about our lives before the war. Never did we discuss how
we were shot down. I believe for all of us it was just too painful
and too recent to discuss. A favorite taunt to any pretentious
conversation was to ask the speaker to tell us how he was shot down.
That quickly broke the ego of the speaker. One of our mates (Donald
Price) did have the unusual and sad story of how he became a prisoner
of war. He and his crew were in B-24’s from Italy on their first
mission. They were in a mid-air collision over Yugoslavia and both
crews bailed out. They never saw flak or never saw fighters. We
always had a good laugh about his misfortune.
A small
library was stocked with some books from an organized student group
in Switzerland. I was able to read most of Eugene O’Neil’s
plays, the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini and to read and enjoy
the poems of Robert Service. I memorized the “Cremation of Sam
Magee.” Reading was a way to escape from prison camp. While my
mind was occupied with whatever I was reading, I was free! Putting
down a book brought me quickly back to stark reality. Sometimes it
was hard to believe I was really a prisoner of war. Somehow, I
should wake up and this terrible nightmare would be over. And yet,
it was real. I was here and I was a POW. It could not be denied.
Occasionally,
the Cardboard Theater POW actors would put on a play. One of the
guys was pretty good at dressing as a woman. He got a lot of
whistles and cat calls. On rare occasions, we might see an American
movie. It made me homesick to see that Warner Brothers WB shield at
the beginning of a film. I did not realize until then how much such
symbols impact our subconscious. One German musical film I liked was
titled: “Rund Um Die Liebe”. Some of the music I can recall to
this day. I regret not tracking it down in later years.
The bunks were
wooden structures designed to hold twelve men on three decks, four
men to a deck. Fortunately we only had eight assigned to a bunk so
that we could lower the center deck to a convenient height and not
use the bottom deck at all. As the war went on, firewood to heat
water became increasingly scarce. We were forbidden to burn wood but
we searched under the barracks for scraps left after construction.
When that was gone we began to structurally analyze the barracks and
bunks for unessential structural members. Over time, we removed
every piece of wood not absolutely necessary from the internal roof
beams. We nailed the bunks to the barracks wall so they wouldn’t
collapse. During the winter of 1944-45 it was so cold that one
night, in a snow storm, to the dismay of the Germans, all of the
wooden fence posts of the entire fence between the American compounds
disappeared except for the wire. When we were evacuated from Stalag
17 in the spring of 1945, all the barracks roofs had noticeable sags
in them.
At first we
were allowed to use the outside latrines at night provided we did not
enter the open compound area. Later, the Germans prohibited us from
leaving the barracks at night so we had to use the small latrines at
the end of the barracks by the entry door. This made it very bad for
those who bunked near it.
Air raids
occurred frequently. To this day, the off-key double whine of an air
raid siren is a disturbing sound to me. During the day, the 15th
Air Force heavies would usually approach from the northwest following
the Danube to Vienna. We could see them make their turn to the south
after dropping their bombs and we could see the flak over the target.
I saw one bomber go down in flames near Vienna. I felt sorry for
those men who were dying at that moment and their families who would
soon receive a missing-in-action telegram. At that moment, their
relatives did not know. One overcast day, drop tanks came through
the clouds. They must have been dropped from P-38s or P-51s.
One beautiful
summer morning about 10 o’clock there was an almost inaudible
rumble. It was of such a low frequency that I couldn’t tell if it
was in the air or from the ground. Nothing was visible in the clear
blue sky. To the south was a faint layer of cloud just on the
horizon. Shortly, I realized that was not a cloud. It was vapor
trails! The whole 15th
Air Force was on its way north. It took an hour for formation after
formation to arrive almost overhead. Bomb group after bomb group
streamed through the sky. There was no flak and no Luftwaffe
fighters as the bomber stream continued north. The American air
force ruled the skies over us. It was an impressive sight. The
Germans guarding us had to be demoralized by the overwhelming power
displayed to them. We were ecstatic over the sight.
One day, about
noon, from the northwest, two groups of B-24s approached flying
somewhat lower than normal, probably below 20,000 feet. I was
walking back to my barracks from the library. I thought I saw
something come out of the aircraft. I began to walk a little faster.
In a few seconds, there was no doubt. The 500 pound bombs were
coming down. I ran, we all ran to the zig zag trenches near the
barracks used for air raid shelters. The bombs rained down on Krems.
We could not see the town, but the noise of their descent was
terrifying. Coming down, they did not whistle as in the movies. The
sound was exactly like a freight train moving at very high speed and
not too far away. None of that big sounding rich “boom” in the
movies. The explosions were as deafening as the crack of rifle fired
by your ear. Fortunately, none of the bombs fell on the camp. Later
that day, the Germans asked for cardboard from our Red Cross packages
to patch windows in Krems. We gave it to them.
On another
nice summer morning about 10 o’clock, P-38’s appeared over head.
One formation stayed high for cover. The other began strafing runs
from east to west. We could clearly see them as they dove down in
trail on the rail yards at Krems. The .50 caliber machine guns
sounded like high pressure steam from a locomotive safety valve. It
was more of a roar than the sound of machine guns. After each P-38
completed the run one after the other, they turned clockwise and
roared over our camp at a very low altitude probably not more than
500 to 1,000 feet. We were all standing on the roofs of the barracks
cheering wildly. If only I could have made that short jump to one of
those P-38s I could be on my way home. Sadly, only a few feet
separated me from escape.
The night
raids of the Royal Air Force were spectacular. Shortly after the air
raid sirens sounded, we heard aircraft over head. To the east, a
shower of the RAF multi-colored Christmas tree flares hung in the sky
marking the target. I was standing by one of our trenches with a
fellow named Graham from Georgia. I wagered him that if anything
happened I could beat him to the ground. Shortly, as aircraft passed
overhead, there was the sound of machine guns quickly followed by a
streak of 20mm bursts through the night sky. I fell to the
ground...on top of Graham. To the northeast a few miles away was a
peculiar shower of sparks on the ground. Shortly, we heard a sound
like a truck load of metal pie plates hitting the ground. I believe
what we saw and heard was the night crash of an aircraft. Whose it
was, we never learned.
One of the
very frightening events was to see the Luftwaffe fighters, Me-109s or
FW-190s occasionally buzz the camp. A Luftwaffe airfield was located
near Tulln not too far to the east of us. The FW 190s sounded like
tractor engines. The Me-109s sounded more like our P-51s. Those
sinister black crosses struck fear deep in my heart. My every
instinct was to do something, anything, throw stones, to get them out
of here. It was a cheerful sight one day during an air raid to see a
Heinkel 111k struggling on one engine at low altitude headed
northwest. An Me-109 appeared in the southeast in a dive. We never
saw him pull out. The pilot was probably dead or had bailed out from
a high altitude combat out of our sight. On another sunny afternoon,
a German fighter pulled out of a dive too low and scattered his
flaming junk just outside of our east fence. I ran into the
barracks to tell the guys a fighter just crashed out side our fence.
I was interrupting a card game. The reply, without interrupting the
game or looking up, was: “(expletive) his luck.”
On the sunny
morning of D-Day, June 6, a rumor spread rapidly the long awaited
invasion had begun. About 10 o’clock a dozen Luftwaffe Me-109s and
FW-190s were seen flying west at low altitude. This was very unusual
because American bombers did not usually appear in the area until
noon. We had never seen German fighters at that time of day headed
in that direction. The direction and number of them lent credibility
to the invasion rumor. By early afternoon, our clandestine radio
confirmed the invasion had begun! We were overjoyed! The war will
be over by fall and we will be going home!
During that
summer, we were given a taste of how the Gestapo operated. It seems
an American prisoner was temporarily held at 17B while enroute to
some other destination. He was able to escape and hide in our camp.
One morning we were instructed to take all of our belongings which
consisted of a bowl, a spoon and two blankets outside for a special
roll call. We were held outside all day while the Gestapo and their
dogs searched the barracks for the missing man. Some of our guys
spread as much pepper around as the could to confuse the dogs. We
were passed between two Gestapo men for a picture and personal check.
We had to take off our shirts. If we carried our personal effects
too high and covered our bare chests, the Gestapo had us lower our
belongings. They were obviously looking for some kind of scar or
tattoo.
This procedure
was repeated the next day. At one point while exiting the barracks,
a German guard carrying his rifle over his shoulder, barrel up,
passed a window. Unknown to the soldier, a POW quickly placed a
dandelion in his barrel. Unfortunately for the soldier, he had the
bad luck to pass a German officer who spotted the bloom in the
barrel. We didn’t have to understand German to know what the
officer was saying to the startled soldier who stood at rigid
attention during his severe reprimand.
In December,
1944 the Germans launched their offensive known as the Battle of the
Bulge against the Americans. Our morale sank to rock bottom. Maybe we
will never beat these people. We were hungry. Our food was all but
gone. We talked of the wonderful dinners being served at home. Our
morale sunk lower and lower as the war dragged on through the winter.
We began to doubt the war would ever end. The popular dismal saying
at the time was: “Out the gate in ‘48”.i
i
I re-visited the site of Stalag 17B in 1956. If anyone had told me
in 1944 that I would return as a tourist twelve years later, I would
have said he was out of his mind. We drove up the hill out of Krems
to the plain behind the bluff. I instinctively turned right into a
farm lane. Wheat fields were on each side. Most of the terrain was
under cultivation. I looked around at the features on the horizon.
This was the location. We were standing where Stalag 17B had been.
All of the barracks were gone. There was not a single building in
sight. The wooded area east of the camp which contained the
cemetery was still there. Looking around the farm lane turned out
to be the main street of our part of the camp. In concrete ditches
on each side was the evidence of our times, a GI belt buckle and tin
cans from our food parcels. The only evidence of the barracks were
the shallow mounds of earth under them outlining their location.
Pieces of barbed wire lay scattered around. A three foot high
masonry corner of a building was the only structural evidence. It
may have been the corner of the kitchen. Every single structure,
all of the fences, all of the guard towers, all of the barracks,
every building, everything was gone. The site is now the location
of a small airport.