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Across Europe - Homeward Bound S/Sgt. Trefry A. Ross - 765th Bomb Squadron It was dark as the inside of a blacked-out room with the lights out, or so it seemed when we slipped through that hole in the fence. Having not the slightest idea of which way to go, or how to get there, we started walking. We didn't have to worry about the Germans as we were now in Russian occupied territory. Daylight finally filtered through the pines alongside the road and we saw the stirrings and heard the rustlings of people getting up from their make-shift camps of the previous night. Fortunately for Frank and I, English being an almost universal language, we were always able to find someone to converse with and soon acquired some directions. I remember one place where we stayed. Frank and I were surrounded by people of diverse backgrounds. Many ethnic groups were represented, ages varied greatly, and many spoke English, some quite fluent, some barely understandable. They all had one thing in common; they were so proud to be able to speak English, and we would talk for hours. They would ask over and over how they were doing. Of course we would reassure them that they were great and it was wonderful to see them break out in big smiles when told that. You'd think they had accomplished an enormous feat of some sort; and in retrospect, I guess for them it was. We soon found that, due to our appearance, people knew we were Americans; something we hadn't thought of. So far we hadn't run across any other Americans. You can't imagine the various modes and types of conveyances we managed to acquire or find usable. Sometimes we would catch a ride on a truck, then we would hop a freight. We even were picked up by some Russians, gentry I presumed, in a carriage. A carriage right out of the movie "Gone With the Wind". Hell! I had never even seen one of them thar contraptions' before. I can only speculate upon the background of the owners of the carriage but, from their mode of dress one would be led to believe they 'had money', as the saying goes. I might dwell a few moments here as to why one found a carriage in a war zone. You see, the Russian army (or I should say, the Russian army's rear guard) consisted of the soldiers families and civilians on the move. They knew they were going to Berlin, and they knew Berlin was far away - and in between where they were coming from and where they were going was plenty of land and other goodies' to be taken. So the 'front' army moved fast to kill the Germans, and the 'rear' came slow to take over. Thus it was that we came across the conglomeration of people and conveyances of various sorts - as we wended our way to Odessa - or so we thought. We soon met our first Russian resistance. You see, the roads and byways were almost always filled with refugees, people of all Eastern European countries - that had been mostly political prisoners - all trying to get back home. Well to alleviate the chaos, looting, etc., the Russians established in each city, town, or village a central mess hall where you could get a nice warm, filling meal. Lodging was also provided for the night. The only catch (and catch it was); you were usually escorted by Russian soldiers to an interrogation center where your identity was established and upon completion of the interrogation ceremony you were assigned a room or dormitory to await transportation to one's home country. It didn't take Frank and I long to figure out what was going on - about one night! The Russians didn't have much of a guard or restriction on movements, so each morning after a good meal and warm place to sleep, we would nonchalantly wander off to the nearest road and continue on our way. Needless to say, once we were aware of this situation, we knew we had a meal and bed awaiting each evening so we would conveniently let ourselves be 'captured' at night - and the next morning we would be on our way to our next 'capture'. Another interesting and, bordering on hilarious, situation was Frank and I posing as officers. It was one evening after our 'capture' and while eating with the general populace - we noticed a table at the head of the hall seating a dozen or so people. They all had various insignias representing their rank - obviously from different countries, noticeable of course, by their uniforms. Well, Frank, not being one of them there slow ones says, "Well, Tref, tomorrow night after our capture you and I will be eating at the head table". "What the hell are you talking about Frank? You saw all the brass, and we're only sergeants". "Shit", says Frank, "it only takes a few minutes for us to change from sergeants to officers". That night during our proverbial capture and interrogation (and don't forget now, each capture and interrogation is in a different city or town, a hundred or so miles down the road) Frank is a Lt. Colonel and I chose to be a Major. The Russians never doubted our stories, our clothes were the remnants of uniforms, flying uniforms, and we had no insignia. There was no doubt we were fliers and Americans, so the Russians took us at our word. That night we were escorted to the head table. "Son-of-a-bitch,'' I said to Frank, "look at that joker who's sitting there!'' It was an American Captain, among others of various rank. "Keep your cool man," quips Frank, "he's not a flyer and he hasn't ever seen us before, nor will he see us again after tonight." Well the evening passed uneventfully - you'd have thought we were having dinner at the officers' club. Frank and I by this time were quite adept at prevarication and I'm sure would have been elected honorary members of any 'liars club' in existence. The next morning as Frank and I slowly 'escaped', we bade fond farewell to our 'fellow officers'. Frank and I often wondered what ever happened to the people that stayed in the cities and towns. One interesting fellow we met one night was a General from Yugoslavia, Romania or some other country. He had been at this particular place for sometime, said the Russians were going to give him a car and wanted us to stay until the 'car' arrived and he would take us to his villa and then see that we would be flown home. We had a few reservations about the outcome for many reasons - and I don't think I have to mention what his reaction would be upon finding out we were not the members of society we pretended to be. One day while walking with quite a group of displaced persons (as we were now called) - as usual, strung out single file on both sides of the road, we saw up ahead people suddenly diverting their direction of travel and diving for the seclusion of the shrubbery alongside the road. It was almost comical and the reaction was instantaneous and unplanned - also, it reminded one of a row of dominoes falling over. Frank and I were at first unaware of the cause but soon heard the low flying aircraft and the splaying of bullets. "Goddam!" I yelled at Frank, "Hit the dirt" Keerist we were being strafed!! - as far as I know no one was hit and it was all over in a few moments. A few days later, (Frank and I were alone at the time) we were stopped in mid-day. This was somewhat unusual, but after chatting with the Russian officer for awhile it was apparent we were getting a little too far East for the Russian's comfort. We didn't know if there was something they didn't want us to see or what. Anyway, we finally convinced the officer we were just trying to get to Odessa and he wrote us out a pass. Of course it was written in Russian and for all we knew it could have said, "take these damn fool Americans out and shoot them", but evidently the pass was legitimate for it helped us through what appeared to be a couple of nasty situations. Speaking of nasty situations, Frank and I were probably the original 'babes in the woods', or more like it - 'babes in the deserted towns'. Little did we know Russian soldiers had been left behind to kill looters and thieves. We would nonchalantly walk into a town and go into a store and rummage around. We didn't take hardly a thing. I don't know why, but I presume it was a subconscious act knowing we could carry only so much and then the agony of the choices to make. It seemed hardly worth the while. Occasionally we saw some soldiers but they paid scant attention to us. It was while on one of our 'so called' forays we met two other fellows - not of European descent I might add. One was a Britisher and one was an Australian. A couple of the most ingenious fellows you would ever want to meet. We four made quite a group, and decided to travel together. Not one of us, luckily, were apprehended or approached for being in town, let alone, being in the stores. By now the weather was beginning to get a little warmer. Summer was almost here and it was a warm sunny day when we approached a typical German village. It had a strange feeling about it. Not many people about; it looked as if they had all just left - leaving what few there were behind - for what reason I do not know. Well, the few that were there were people like us, displaced persons looking for food and a night's lodging. As presumed, the original inhabitants had just up and left. Apparently the Russians hadn't given the Germans much warning and so the Germans fled in panic, leaving everything behind. The apartment we chose was completely furnished - with place settings on the lace tablecloth - clothing, pictures on the walls, and cupboards and - dresser drawers filled with personal items. Needless to say, we made ourselves right at home - and so did numerous others. It was almost as if the village had come back to life. Sundays were an idyllic interlude from the daily routine. With the exception of Frank and I, Americans, and the Britisher and Australian, the rest were Europeans and had to have their Sunday afternoon soccer game. It was almost as if there was no war and we were in suspended animation living in a small world all our own. So it was - Sundays we went to the park for the soccer game, and afterwards sat around and talked in English with our 'ardent admirers'. It was on one such day we were just sitting around listening to the radio. Yes, our apartment even had a radio! What a spot to ride out a war, eh? - fully equipped apartment, Sunday soccer games, 'teaching English' to fair damsels and other things - and even a radio. Well, everyone, it seemed let out a yell almost simultaneously, for over the radio came word that the war had ended! That is, the war in Europe. "Gee Frank, you know what this means don't you?" Frank replied, "Yea, I guess the party's over and we might as well head back West. The hell with going on to Odessa." So, the next day the four of us packed what few belongings we had and headed back west. We weren't so much fired up for dallying and sightseeing now, so instead of picking our way along the back roads, we went in search of an autobahn (the forerunner of modern freeways in America). Much to our surprise they were practically deserted and we made no progress as far as getting some transport. The Aussie, who had been captured by the Germans in North Africa and had been a prisoner-of-war three years, more or less, spoke fluent German and he decided to acquire some bicycles. We didn't get them all at once, but as some poor innocent farmer rode by on his prized possession, he was suddenly confronted by four scroungy looking 'civilians' who wanted to abscond with his 'bike'. I can't vouch for the exact exchange of verbal insults or aggressive language, but in the end we all had a bicycle to ride and the poor farmer had one more possession to chalk up as 'missing in action'. We topped a hill late one afternoon and saw off to our left, in a secluded valley, a small village that had all the trappings of good meals and a warm night's lodging - plus. We pedaled on down and, much to our surprise, found it relatively untouched by the war. The Russians had used the autobahn and in their haste had overlooked this small village. Obviously, the Russians had much bigger prey in mind, and by then were on their way to Berlin. Anyway, we were standing on a corner wondering what to do next when we were approached by a middle-aged man who spoke perfect English and introduced himself as "Wally Lange"; and all of a sudden we had our lodging for the night. The meal was an experience all of its own - but first, about Wally Lange. He had immigrated to Australia a number of years before, where he had become a carpenter. He had saved some money and decided to return to Germany for a visit with his mother. He couldn't have picked a worse time, for during his visit war broke out and Wally Lange was virtually a prisoner in his own country. Anyway, he invited us to his home - where we met his mother - and they offered to put us up for a few days. His mother began to prepare a meager meal. It was quite apparent they hardly had enough for themselves let alone enough for four 'starving road-runners'. The ingenious Australian who had been traveling with us remarked, "Let's go see what we can scrounge." - and telling Wally and his mother to wait awhile, we took off. It was time for a lesson in the German language and 'POW diplomacy', meaning - "Too bad assholes, we're here to take what we want and tough shit ole buddy buddies." We didn't have far to go before we came upon a farmhouse with a number of chickens running around in the front yard. The Aussie, speaking fluent German evidently asked politely if we poor ole ex-POW's could have a couple of chickens. The response was obvious - not only in tone of voice but by the menacing gestures. At this time 'ole Aussie' said, "Come on lads, grab a chicken and haul ass." No further instructions were needed. We managed to get three chickens before the lady of the house, screaming and with raised pitch-fork, rushed from the house. Back at Wally Lange's I asked 'ole Aussie' what the lady had said and he replied, "She said things to me in German that would make a whoremonger blush." - and that was that. I didn't ask him to elaborate. We had a simple but ample meal that night and also the next morning. Our original plans were to stay a few days resting and seeing the sights. That morning after breakfast we were wandering about the village and had an almost simultaneous meeting with two of the most diverse people that one could imagine. (Which, by the way, would have a most profound effect upon our immediate plans.) First, as we stood on a corner, a Jeep appeared, almost it seemed, out of nowhere - an American Jeep that is! It had a small American flag flying from the radio antenna and was being driven by a solitary figure dressed in civilian clothes. At the same moment the Jeep was sighted, a most gorgeous blond specimen of German femininity was also sighted - however, at much closer range. So it was a most confusing spectacle for any observers. I was yelling at the Jeep to "stop, stop" - (I can't describe how excited I was to see an American flag). Frank was yelling "stop, stop" to the blond. Each of us, of course, had a quite different motive in mind. Well, as mentioned previously, here were the 'diverse two'. The Jeep stopped and the blond stopped - and there we were. The driver of the Jeep was a Red Cross official on a short holiday. He was, of course, an American, and was looking for his parents whom he hadn't seen or heard from for years. The blond was a local village girl and seemed to be quite intrigued with Frank - and so we had two lively conversations going on at once and, as it turned out, a 'whole new ball game', as the saying goes. Up to this point, Frank and I had been together approximately five months. Now we would separate. The Jeep driver was on his way back to the American lines (I don't know why I use the term "Jeep driver" instead of "Red Cross Official", or some other description, but I guess ''Jeep driver" seems more personal - for that's what he was more than anything else). He was in a hurry and said he would take us to the American forces at Leipzig, but we would have to leave in a few hours. He was on his way to a nearby village and would return shortly to pick us up. It didn't give us much time to 'contemplate our navels'. I didn't need any time - I was on my way home and was ready to depart! Frank and the Australian elected to stay behind as they were by now firmly entrenched in the blonde's life', and also with the blonde's girl friend. So, it was with mixed emotion that the Englishman and I bid 'fare thee well' to Frank, the blonds, the Australian POW, Wally Lange (the other Australian and our host) and his mother. I exchanged addresses with Wally Lange and subsequently learned that after the war he was able to return to Australia where he married and resumed a normal life until his death some years later. Jesus! I never experienced such an antsy three hours before the Jeep arrived. I don't think I budged an inch from the place where I had first spotted the Jeep - not even to take a leak. I wasn't about to miss my ride! We didn't go directly to the Americans, but had a night's lay over across the river from Leipzig. The Jeep driver spoke fluent German and had made a number of contacts and acquaintances (I presume during his official business). We were to spend the night with one of these acquaintances - a German family. The Englishman and I didn't really know for sure what was happening. The Jeep driver wanted to know if we could scrounge some food from the mess hall of an American troop detachment guarding the bridge near the river at Leipzig. It was our first encounter with American troops since our departure from P0W camp and we felt like 'assholes' asking for a handout - but the mess sergeant was quite considerate and gave us a good assortment of 'goodies'. We were then taken by the Jeep driver to a house to meet the German family. It was quite an emotional experience. Even to this day I don't know exactly what the Jeep driver's motive was for taking us to the German family. It was evening when we arrived - the family consisted of the old mother and father, a daughter about the same age as I was (then 23), the daughter's friend, a girl a little older, and a small child (the daughter of the friend). We were to have dinner and stay the night - as explained to us by the Jeep driver. He would "be back in the morning to pick us up", he said, as he departed - and so we began our evening. The daughter's friend spoke passable English and the Englishman spoke passable German. My contribution was passable 'pig-latin'. Anyway, after a few glasses of wine we began to relax and enjoy ourselves. It was at the end of the meal, after several hours of 'fraternization' that it hit me! Here we were having dinner in the enemy's home - only days after cessation of hostilities! What the hell were we thinking of? The answer was not long in coming. Our enemy? - were we not their enemy also? - and what had the evening's conversation revealed? I had been a prisoner of war, the daughter's friend's husband (father of the little girl) was at this very moment a prisoner of war of the Americans'. Something in common? During the meal, the mother goes to the fireplace and takes down a picture from the mantle. It was the picture of a young German soldier in uniform - she is showing it to us and babbling in German. I don't understand what she is saying but it is all spelled out in her emotions. She's very upset, crying and quite disturbed. It's apparent the young soldier in the picture is her son, brother of the daughter of our hostess - and is dead. We share an intimate feeling. I can't help but think - that could be my mother wailing over me. What is so different the world over? - nothing - we are all flesh and blood, we all feel, think, eat, sleep and most of all, live. So what's this all about? It's about war and how no damn good it is, I'm thinking. This warm, friendly, good smelling room could be my room back in the good ole USA - she's my mother, I am thinking - she's crying over me. Nothing's different! Why, oh why do people have to fight? The picture slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor - snapping me out of my moment of 'hallucination' - then deathly silence - everyone looking at everyone. The spell is broken by the little girl saying, in a universal language, "Momma, momma, I have to pee-pee." The mother by now has calmed down and we resume the evening, in strained silence for awhile. Finally, the dishes are cleared from the table and the table pushed to one side. Wow! This can mean only one thing. Back home when the table is pushed to one side, it means dancing, or trying to. Hey Ma! Look, I'm dancing! What the hell's going on, I'm wondering. We've had a nice meal, a nice visit, the old folks have paid their respects and departed for bed, the little one is also in bed! I'm beginning to get ideas. Aw, no Tref I'm saying to myself, this is getting too good to be true. Records miraculously appeared, to be played upon a 'gramophone' which also had appeared. According to the 'word' of someone whose name fails me at the moment, a pairing of males and females occurs spontaneously, fortuitously and (most of the time) agreeably to the parties concerned. I got the young one and Englishman got the older one. The evening proceeded predictably - we danced - it was great! We had a little more wine - great! We even had some leftover cheese - also great! - and some Spam - not so great! Needless to say, time passed rather swiftly in this mode (as opposed to the 'dinner at the table' mode). Now comes the inevitable moment when one's thinking, "Jesus, I'm getting pooped. Where the hell am I going to sleep?" Mentally I'm counting rooms, people, beds, and the more I count and the more I see, more and more the conclusion is that it is going to be more than I could hope for. Could it be true! Yep! It was! The Jeep and the Jeep driver appeared the next morning, as promised, right on schedule. We bade farewell to our 'gracious and charming hosts' (as the saying goes), clambered into the Jeep and roared off towards the west. We crossed the river at Leipzig and were deposited at the end of the bridge. At last we were 'back home' - this was American occupied territory and now we were on the last lap. I remember asking an American soldier for a cigarette and he gave me a half pack of Lucky Strikes. The Englishman couldn't believe it. A whole half pack of cigarettes? He said he probably would have gotten only one cigarette from his cohorts. I find that hard to believe, but at the time he sure seemed elated over our gift, but at the same time quite embarrassed and wanted me to return all but two of the cigarettes. I told him, "forget it mate, they've got lots more". Perhaps he was right - maybe the 'Limeys', God bless their souls, weren't as fortunate as we were. Anyway, we sure enjoyed them thar smokes. I didn't realize it at the time, but sitting there enjoying our smokes was our 'swan song' so to speak, or 'arrividecci, hasta luego, or so long ole buddy'. Whatever language you use, it was 'good-bye'. We were sitting along side of the road contemplating the spirals of smoke and wondering what was next. Anyway, before I knew it he was gone; just like that! Couldn't hardly believe it - but he was! As we were sitting there, a lorry (or truck as we call them) stopped. He no sooner stood up, said good-bye - and he was on the lorry heading for England. Keerist, had hardly time to get to my feet before he was gone - no hail and fond farewells - no exchange of addresses or bon voyage ole Englishman! Before I knew it, he was gone! I was taken to an abandoned German airfield at Halle. (It was a collection point for American POWs and, when enough POWs were assembled a troop train was formed and we were transported to Le Havre, France.) The trip from Leipzig to Halle was an event I won't forget. It was my first flight in an aircraft since I was shot down! I really didn't have much time to think about it - which was good I suppose. I don't know if I would have done anything different than I did - which was merely to walk out to the aircraft climb aboard, sit down and wait for whatever would happen - which, of course, was nothing out of the ordinary. However, it did seem rather strange to be in an aircraft as a passenger and not a crewman. The trip itself was uneventful - not even rough air - and upon landing and departing the aircraft I thought, "That wasn't so bad after all. I might even try flying again some day" |
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