PRISONER OF WAR STORY

S/Sgt. Trefry A. Ross - 765th Bomb Squadron

It was time to leave.  There had been rumors, but we didn't really know for sure until one particular morning.  Only two of us were going.  A pilot, who had been shot in the back, and I, with my burns.  We were, obviously, well enough to travel.  However, to look at us you'd think we were just arriving instead of leaving.  We were on our way to interrogation in Germany, far from where we were in Czechoslovakia - all the way across Germany to Frankfurt on the Main - three days by train.

They brought us our clothes.  Keerist!  What a sight I presented - my flight jacket had been on fire at one time; it was charred and blackened and had numerous holes.  My flight boots were missing so they gave me a pair of black shoes (good shoes, but they didn't quite match my olive drab uniform) which made my whole appearance just a bit more ludicrous - with a bandage around my head to cover one eye - and my burns - I was quite a sight!  It was the first part of January, the 3rd or 4th, of 1945 - I can't remember for sure which.  It was a typical winter day, cold, gray, ice and snow everywhere.  I didn't realize how cold it actually would be outside as it was nice and warm in the hospital.  I said good-bye to Tom Noesges and the others, and we left - the two of us and two guards.  They would be our 'companions' for the rest of the trip.  They were 60 years old, or older, and in Wermacht uniforms - the last of the old guard, so to speak.

We left the warm hospital lobby and were immediately struck by the cold icy air.  I didn't have an overcoat or heavy jacket, just what was left of the outer portion of my electrically heated flight suit.  We walked, the two guards behind us so we wouldn't take up too much room on the sidewalk.  It wasn't too far to the streetcar.  I couldn't get over the appearance of the people compared to the people of Italy - the southern part of Italy anyway.  The people of Italy were poor.  The houses, the clothes, the roads, everything reflected poverty, and now, here in Brunn (BRNO), Czechoslovakia, it was like home - like walking down Market Street in San Francisco.  Men wore suits, the women had on fur coats, and the whole atmosphere was one of relative prosperity.  I just couldn't get over the sudden change.  My impression of Europe, based on southern Italy, was quite wrong I soon found out.  The rest of Europe which I saw, was prosperous, as opposed to the poverty of southern Italy.

We rode the streetcar to the train station.  The Czech people were friendly, smiled, spoke to the guards, querying them about us I presume.  On the train we had a compartment to ourselves - nothing fancy no Pullman, no berths - we sat up or slouched the whole trip.  The guards were quite considerate.  It was a shame we didn't speak enough of each other's language to really converse.  One of the guards shared leftover cookies his family had sent him for Christmas, and at several of the train stops they would bring us pastry of some sort.  I often felt they thought of us as they would their sons, or at least had a compassion for us because of the discrepancy in our ages.

With the exception of two incidents, the trip was uneventful.  We were still far enough north and east to escape the bombings and strafing that was to come later.  One day I had a fever - don't know what caused it - reaction to the soft time in the warm hospital I suppose.  Anyway, I was out of it for a day.  I was so thirsty - all I could think of was ice cold beer, and kept visualizing pitchers upon pitchers of ice cold beer at the end of the trip.  I know exactly what it is to hallucinate; that night the fever broke and I was fine.  No sickness, no cold, nothing but a fever; never had it since.  We stopped one night at a restaurant (a train stop, like the old Fred Harvey train stops the Santa Fe used to have; like the Greyhound Bus still has).  If you want to eat, you get off and go inside - well, we did - this one night.  It was a beer hall right out of a Peter Lorry and Humphrey Bogart spy movie.  One expected Marlene Dietrich to come on stage and sing "Lili Marlene".  The place was full of soldiers, a scattering of civilians and two POWs.  (Guess who?)  Jesus!  It was noisy - singing. yelling, beer drinking, - lots of sausage, cheese, etc.  I didn't know about "Octoberfests" then, but it was just like an "Octoberfest" - in miniature, as the restaurant wasn't very big.  I felt quite conspicuous with my bandaged head and ratty uniform, not to mention being a POW, but no one paid any attention.  I presume they had seen POWs before.  We didn't have much time, ate our meal and left.  It must have been a favorite spot for soldiers to congregate (or there were other trains) as only a few left when we did, to get back to our train.

The next day we arrived at the interrogation center where I bid farewell to the guards and to my pilot friend - as he was an officer and went elsewhere.  At this point in my story, I would like to mention once again that I am writing this narrative some thirty-six years (in 1960) after it happened.  I realize now that I should have done this years ago.  Most of my experiences are quite vivid, some are vague, and 'by Jove' sometimes I just can't seem to recollect at all exactly what took place as to where and when.  This is one of those places now.  I remember a small room.  It was my first meeting with a working POW.  It must have been my initial approach to interrogation.  I say this because there were only the two of us.  It was quite early in the morning - say about 2:00 or 3:00 AM, upon arriving.  We were served cups of hot chocolate and two slices of bread, with strawberry jam.  'Holy Mackerel'.  I'll never forget how good that tasted!  We were then issued a Red Cross suitcase each.  A small black suitcase containing (and here, again, I should remember everything, but can't quite) a paperback book, a razor, soap, toothbrush, a pair of warm mittens and a black wool sweater that had been hand knit by a Red Cross worker somewhere in the New England states.  It had a tag on it - that's how I knew.  I put that sweater on right then and there; didn't take it off until months later.  I wanted to bring it home, but by then it was infested with little friends that looked like grains of rice, but were by no means as dormant.  Cooties they are called, or for the uninitiated - lice!

I was then escorted to a large barracks similar to the one I was familiar with.  It would appear, at this point, that I was becoming part of a group, a number, the start of order and routine.  As soon as there were enough POWs to make up a 'group', we began processing.  I will use the word 'group' instead of platoon, company, squadron, etc., as there would be, later on, mixed POWs, i.e., Air Force, Artillery, Infantry - all would end up together: whereas in the early part of the war, the Air Force had their own POW camps.  Anyway, after a certain number had arrived, a few each day we began the 'routine'.

Interrogation consisted of a very informal type of questioning.  It was done in a very small cubicle, just enough room for the interrogator on one side of a small table and I on the other.  I was seated in a chair and left alone for quite awhile.  Anyone suffering from claustrophobia would have found these cubicles quite exciting to say the least - all part of the plan I must say.  The interrogator came in after what seemed like hours - probably only about 15 minutes.  We both played the game; I said, "I can only give you my name, rank and serial number - you know that.  He said (incidentally, he spoke perfect English), "OK, you and I both know that, so let's do it this way.  He brought out several thick books, about the size of a San Francisco phone directory, and said, "Look I know you aren't supposed to tell me anything so don't.  Just point to the tail markings on your plane."  Jesus!  You wouldn't believe what he had!  He knew more about the Fifteenth Air Force than I'll ever know.  There were photos of all the group (planes, that is), squadrons, names of squadron commanders, locations ... on and on it went.  I was astounded!  Needless to say, it was quite a shock and I almost succumbed to the attitude of saying. "Hell, he knows more about the Fifteenth Air Force than I do; what little I would tell him won't make any difference", but I didn't.  I did, however, stray a bit and, in light of what he knew already, divulged the names of the rest of the crew as I was very concerned about their locations and outcome.  The only one I had seen or heard of was Tom Noesges.

Well, that was the so called 'dreaded interrogation' and I was out within the hour and back at the barracks.  The others came straggling in.  It had been rumored that if you didn't come back in an hour or so (some didn't show up for a day or two) you were talking.  So all of us who ended up back in the barracks that day were of the opinion that no one had squealed - but who's to know for sure?

Now I can't quite remember where for sure, but I met Tom Qualman and Ed Kasold in a hallway (navigator and co-pilot, respectively).  We met briefly and that was that.  I never saw Tom Qualman again (we do now correspond however).  I did meet Ed Kasold briefly in Santa Monica, California later - at R & R around August 1945; never saw or heard of him again.

In a few days enough POWs had arrived and been interrogated, and now there was a big enough 'group' to travel to our next destination - which was an intermediate camp where we spent a week or so.  We were now meeting POWs from the other branches of the service.  Most of them were in pretty good shape.  I must have presented quite a sight with my bandaged head and burned and blackened jacket.  I hadn't given it much thought, but to most of the fellows I was quite a 'character'.  I hesitate to use the word 'hero' because of my inherent modesty and shyness, but you could see that I made quite an impression, and was always asked to tell 'all about it'.  They didn't realize how much I held them in awe (infantrymen, tankers, artillerymen, etc.).  I suppose we each had seen too many John Wayne movies and really didn't know exactly what the other person actually did.  However, it made for good camaraderie, as we all respected one another and knew for damn sure some kind of action had taken place or we wouldn't have been there.

It was a good compound.  I didn't realize just how good it was until later.  The food was ample and, after practically nothing but black bread, jam and cocoa, it tasted delicious.  There was also a library, courtesy of the Red Cross, and relative freedom to roam - within the confines of the camp of course.  I remember, with humor and amusement, the air raids.  Approximately at noon every day the sirens would wail - we could hear and see the bombers overhead.  We then had to leave our comfortable rooms for the dark and dismal, damp bomb shelters - where we mumbled and grumbled amongst ourselves for such a useless and wasteful half hour or so.  Finally, a few of us would hide under our bunks when the alarm sounded.  They would always have a so called 'bed check' to make sure everyone had answered the call, and supposedly weren't goofing off.  We had just simply gotten tired of running down to the air raid shelter for nothing  Well, this one day the alarm had sounded - we hid - the fellow checking stuck his head in each room and passed on.  Soon it was deathly quiet.  One by one we snuck out of our hiding places, resumed the prone position on our bunks and commenced reading.  All of a sudden someone yells, "Jesus Keerist!, this is a real one, head for the shelter."  Goddam, I never saw such a flurry in all my life; I hadn't realized just how many had been ditching the shelters.  You can't imagine the noise, yelling, doors being slammed open and everyone running for their life!  At least we thought so at the time.  The funniest sight (it was funny even then) was a poor bugger with one leg - on crutches.  "Jesus", you should have seen him go!  Literally flying down the hall!  One foot on the ground, two crutches, one foot on the ground, two crutches - Boy! He was really making time - about 6 feet each thump.  We all just couldn't keep from laughing - it was so comical and ridiculous.  Needless to say, it was all for naught as it turned out to be just another false alarm.

We were beginning to choose friends and 'buddy up' as the saying goes.  This is where I met Frank Powers - a tail gunner from Los Angeles.  We hit it off quite well and, as it turned out, were together for the remainder of our stay in Germany.  Finally, the day arrived when the 'group' had achieved sufficient proportions to warrant a full troop train to take us to our final camp - where we would stay until freed by the Russians.

The "troop train" was quite long, composed of box cars filled with tiers of bunks and a coal stove in the center.  "Side door Pullmans" we called 'em.  It was, of course, still the midst of winter and colder than "a bat's ass in an ice house."  I don't remember for sure exactly how long the trip was, but it was close to a week with all the shuttling around we took.  We were always shoved on a siding while the more important trains went by.  The trip was one I will never forget due to three memorable events; one being an air raid.  We had been sitting in a big rail yard on the outskirts of Berlin.  We didn't know it at the time but we were only 20 miles from our destination.  It seemed like we had been there for days - it had been quite a few hours anyway; then came the air raid sirens.  Shit!  No place to go - couldn't even run!  We heard the drone of the planes; an even carrr-rumph! carrr-rumph! Jesus they're dropping 'em this time!!  They were getting closer and closer - carrr-rumph!  The box cars shook and rattled now.  Someone says, "Aw, you don't need to worry until you hear one that sounds like a 'sssss'."

Just about that time we heard one coming - no loud whistle or screaming like in the movies, but just like a shell going over - a long mournful "whoosh" - only this was not passing overhead horizontally - this sound - this "whoosh" was coming straight down and getting louder every tenth of a second.  "Son-of-a-bitch".  This was it - we all thought!  Everyone had the same idea at the same time - we all dove for the center of the car and ended up piled atop of one another.  What a ludicrous sight we must have presented.  That is the only time in my life I can say I was really scared "shitless".  It had happened so fast, with no place to go.  The sound was terrifying and it seemed that "this was it!"  The bomb landed not far away, but for some reason didn't do anymore damage, or sound as loud, as some of the others.  We sheepishly picked ourselves out of the tumble of antis and legs and quietly resumed our former positions.  No one spoke for a few minutes - by then, the bombers were passing over and it grew quiet.  Another event I'll never forget, and which was the cause of the ... was the manner in which we relieved ourselves.  The train would stop and we were all herded outside to stand or squat along the side of the train tracks.  Now, if you can, imagine hundreds of POWs about six inches from one another, squatting in the open - with their pants down trying to do their "business."  You could look, it seemed, for miles in each direction to the right or left, and all you saw was lily white asses staring you in the face - and to make it just a bit more uncomfortable, you could look up - straight ahead and, nine times out of ten, you would be staring at the back yard of someone's house or farm and, most of the time, someone was staring back at you.  Well, needless to say, I just couldn't do it.  I wasn't the only one however, so didn't feel so bad.  The infantrymen were accustomed to slit trenches, so were not the least bit self-conscious I don't know why the train always stopped on the edge of a town but, thinking back on it now, that's where the sidings were.  Anyway, by the time we reached our main camp (Luckenwalde, near Berlin) I was, as the saying goes, "quite bound up".  I figured it up and it had been eight days since I had a bowel movement.  With the help of some little red pills, the grace of God, and a finger, I managed to clear it out.  Yes indeed, quite a relief.  I knew then how poor ole "Dan McGrew" must have felt.  The prison camp at Lucken about 20 miles from Berlin, was not a typical U.S. Air Force compound.  In the early years of the war, Air Force personnel were kept in camps of their own; the infantry and other support groups were also in their own camps.  Besides the Armed Forces camps, which also consisted of other Allied countries, there were the political or civilian camps housing dissidents of the Hitler regime.  These various of camps had been segregated - but now, because of the war situation, (Germany was losing and did not have the space, nor compounds to keep everyone apart), as Germany retreated to Berlin, so did the POWs.  Consequently, I ended up in a camp near Berlin which was composed of soldiers from all branches of the service, plus political prisoners, most of whom were Russians, with a smattering of Yugoslavians, French, etc.

I will describe the camp and the daily routine, and then tell about some of the memorable events that made life in a POW camp quite interesting - to say the least.  The camp was probably an Army post at one time.  It contained many good sized buildings, permanent made of brick, and reminded me of any typical old Army post in the U.S. - Presidio of Monterey, Fort Ord, etc.  However, we were housed in barracks made of wood - temporary structures which were like the war housing in the U.S.  They were long, low, one-story.  There were bunks, three high, in rows, one row along each side, then an aisle, then another row, (always three high) then the main aisle, and then more of the same thing - another row of bunks, an aisle and the last row of bunks on the opposite wall.  So, there were four rows of bunks, three high, extending the full length of the barracks.  There was a pot-bellied stove in the center which didn't do much good - so we stayed in our sacks much of the time, to keep warm.  The bunks were wood, with 1x6 wood boards for 'springs'.  Each man was given a long gunny sack which we stuffed with straw.  This was our mattress.  It would eventually mat down and then you felt the boards - so you would dump it out and re-stuff it, and then you were all set for another week.  The latrine was located in a separate building about 50 yards from the main barracks.  We had showers, etc.  If you were really fastidious, you could manage to find a faucet somewhere and take a freezing cold wash towel bath.  For the most part, the majority of us would wait for our monthly shower.

The daily routine consisted of nothing - really!  We usually just stayed in our bunks, trying to keep warm, talking about food.  Food and warmth.  It was still winter and snow and ice were everywhere.  We had two meals a day - not much!!  The first was thin soup and a piece of bread.  Later on in the day we had more soup, bread and, if we were lucky, two or three potatoes about the size of golf balls.  I lost about 35 pounds during my stay.  We were always hungry and talked incessantly about food.  That is about all we did talk about - that and what we were going to do and eat when we got home.  One fellow, a little more perceptive than most of us, made the remark (after we had spouted off about the fantastic and enormous meals we were going to eat) "you guys are nuts.  Hell, it won't be two days after you're home - with your guts full - and you won't want anything more.  He just about got killed - here we were starving to death - we thought - didn't think we would ever have a full gut again, and he's telling us the truth.  Anyway, at the time, it didn't go over very well and he was not a very popular person for awhile.  For some strange reason, we never talked about sex, or thought about it.  I never thought I would not have an interest as that's one thing I've thought about since I was around four years old and found out what my 'dickie' was for.  Anyway, none of us thought about it here in prison camp for we were just too darned hungry.  I know no one was thinking about it because no one said anything about it.  Now get two or more men together for five minutes and if a sexual innuendo or statement doesn't crop up - you know you're either in church or the minister's in the crowd.  So this was our daily routine, just lying around in the sack trying to keep warm, and talking about food.  Braving the cold air to walk from the barracks across 50 yards or more of snow covered ground - always 'holding it in' and waiting until the last minute so you wouldn't have to make too many trips to the latrine.  You see, most of us were just 'poor ole city boys' and weren't used to the "outhouse" that so many rural folks used, and of course - the POWs from the rural areas couldn't understand our attitude.

The weather finally broke and one day we found it was actually spring!!  Being from California I was not familiar with seasons - so it was quite a revelation and a distinct change.  The day broke sunny and became quite warm by afternoon.  Everyone was affected by it.  Windows were opened.  A few cold showers braved - clothes and bedding hung out - people began to stir, walk around, exercise; it was the beginning of a new life.  Of course we had a few more dismal days of bad weather, but 'spring had sprung' and from now on the weather would be beautiful!

This was about the time an announcement had been made for all those in need of clothes to sign up and state what you would like or need.  It would appear they had received a shipment of clothes - all kinds - probably from the dead.

from home and we began to jabber.  The interesting part was that we both had grown up in Richmond, went through the same high school, had numerous mutual friends, our parents both worked for the Santa Fe Railroad, etc., but we had never met as Carl was a little younger and a class or two behind me in school.  We talked for an hour or so - reminiscing and comparing notes - then decided to stay together.  As I have mentioned earlier, in the previous camp we POWs had made friends and chosen who to buddy up with - so now there were three of us, Frank Powers, from Los Angeles Carl Groshell and I, from Richmond.  We would remain together until liberated by the Russians - at which time Frank and I would take off on our own.  About this time Red Cross food parcels began to arrive.  Ah! - Yes! - I'll never forget!!  It was to change our whole way of living.  Keerist!  I can't remember for sure whether they came once a week or once every two weeks, but once started we received them regularly.  They were in cardboard containers approximately one-foot square by about eight inches deep.  They contained meat, cheese, powdered milk, coffee, sugar, chocolate, cigarettes and a few other minor items the above mentioned were the important ones because they were not only the goodies: but became our 'money' - or means of barter.

The Russian soldiers were in a compound next to us.  We were separated by a chain link fence about eight feet high.  I never heard any Russian speak English or any American speak Russian - our method of barter was to hold up a pack of name brand American cigarettes, not necessarily a full pack, but just to show what we had, then we would show a number of fingers to signify the amount of cigarettes we would be willing to give for the article the Russian had.  It usually was an item that could be used for cooking and eating; a small metal pot or spoons, knives, forks, etc.  Some of the more enterprising ones of our group would show a pack of Camels, Lucky Strikes or Chesterfields and then insert the required number of cigarettes agreed upon - however, instead of putting good American cigarettes in the pack they would put in some inferior and strong (I mean strong) Turkish, Russian, Yugoslavian or Hungarian cigarettes and then throw the pack over the fence - the Russians would throw the knife, fork, or whatever over the fence and the exchange was concluded.  The poor Russian catching his pack of Camels or whatever, finding he had been duped, would rant and rave in his language.  We couldn't understand what he was saying but we didn't need to understand the language - the obvious result if he could get through the fence left no doubts as to the outcome.

You may wonder why we wanted cooking and eating utensils, the Red Cross parcels we had received contained several tin cans in each and among our group were several tinsmiths or sheet metalworkers.  They would take the cans and, for a number of packs of cigarettes, would make you a blower.  A blower was a miniature forge - about 18" long and 6" wide - it had a small fire box and crank to turn.  You would put a few small bits of wood in the firebox light up and turn the crank.  The fan in the firebox would then blow air on the fire and it would produce an intense heat - one could boil water in a few minutes!  Our favorite dish was a 'Stalag pudding'.  We would take brown bread, sugar, chocolate and powdered milk, mix them together in an empty powered milk can, bring it to a boil on the blower and then let it set.  It was sure delicious at the time.  I was always going to try to duplicate it here at home but never got around to it.  I may yet try it one day.  The first result of our puddings and rich food from the Red Cross parcels was a continuous line of men running from the barracks to the latrine.  We soon learned to take it easy and, as our appetites were satiated, the 'skoots' problem resolved itself.

Since many of the POWs didn't smoke, before long a good number of packages of cigarettes were available.  We used them as one would use money.  You could buy sugar, chocolate, etc.  One fellow set up a dice table and held nightly 'games'.  Some of the lucky ones had close to a hundred packs of cigarettes at a given time.

At this point in my narrative you may begin to think we were having a pretty good time - however, in spite of the better living afforded us by the arrival of the Red Cross parcels, several incidents made life quite exciting, to put it mildly.  The British had their night bombing raids while the Americans had their day bombing raids.  For some reason the Americans didn't drop any bombs close to our compound during the day - however, the night bombing raids by the British were a different story.  Whether the British targets were closer than the American targets, or because of inaccurate night bombing (I don't know which.) - on several occasions we held 'front row center seats' to some fiery spectacles.  The lead bomber would drop a Christmas tree' over the target and the rest of the bombers would drop their bombs on the 'Christmas tree'.  (The 'Christmas tree' was a brightly lit bit of apparatus which was parachuted to the ground from the lead bomber.)  We would watch from the windows and several times had to open them to keep the glass from being broken by the concussion from the exploding bombs.  Close man - close!  One day we were strafed.  Having been a flier I had never been exposed to strafing before and, quite naively, didn't really know what the hell was happening.  I thought someone was upon the roof fixing it - pounding nails with a hammer.  But the ground troops knew damn well what it was and yelled, "Keerist, we're being strafed".  You should have seen the group hitting the floor - fortunately, no one was hit.  Looking back on it I might add it probably would have been an amusing sight for some onlooker to see such a scramble but, at the time, it wasn't funny, - to be sure!

One day the fliers (and only the fliers) were told to line up outside for a special roll call.  None of us fliers had been prisoners very long and hadn't acquired knowledge of any of the German language - so didn't understand what was really happening.  Some of the infantrymen in the barracks had been prisoners for several years and spoke fluent German.  They told us, later on, what we had been through.  It seems Hitler had become incensed over the success of the Allied bombing raids and had ordered every airman prisoner of war shot!  So - here we were standing there in blind innocence, not knowing how close we were to being executed.  Fortunately, the Commandant of the compound refused to obey the order.  It was near the end of the war and the utility of the order, and fear of reprisal kept the Germans there from executing us.  I presume the word was soon received by Hitler that no one was going to carry out his order and, after standing in formation for an hour or so, we were dismissed to return to the barracks - where we learned from the infantrymen the reason for our special lineup!

Another special lineup was held on another day - someone with access to a radio had learned of President Roosevelt's death.  One can only ponder as to the Germans' bewilderment and surprise as we all filed out of the barracks, formed a precise formation, and stood there silently paying our last respects to our Commander-in-Chief.

Once in awhile we were taken for a shower.  It happened so infrequently that I can't remember the intervals (monthly I think).  What I do remember is the place.  It was a huge room with a concrete floor, having numerous drains and overhead sprayers.  We were marched to an anteroom, about 100 at a time, where we stripped, and then proceeded to the shower room.  One had no control over what happened - once we were all inside, the doors were shut and the water turned on - so you had a shower whether you wanted one or not.  Looking around all one could see through the steam was asses and elbows trying to soap up and get rinsed off before the water quit.  I learned later that this was the way many Jews were innocently led to their deaths - hoping for a shower, they would be met with deadly gas instead of water from the overhead plumbing.  To this day I often wonder if the room I took a shower in was ever used for such a purpose.

Day passed into night - and night passed into day - and we slept and ate and thought and listened.  Listened to a soft 'crump, crump'.  It was far away and sounded like a very distant thunder boom.  Each day it sounded closer and louder.  Speculation ran rampant.  We had no news so could only surmise what the sounds were.  At last we knew!!  "The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming".  (Sound familiar? - the name of a very funny movie made some years later than the time of this story.) As the sounds became more frequent, louder, and closer, the German guards became very apprehensive and nervous - then it happened!  One night the Germans disappeared - just up and left!  It was an eerie and strange feeling we had.  By now, we could see the flashes from the Russian artillery and tanks - and when morning came, the Russians came.  They hardly slowed down - right through the fences they came, picked up their Russian POWs and continued on.  It was such quick, methodical and professional maneuver one hardly knew they had come and gone.  Then - quietness and happiness, relief and bewilderment, wonderment and speculation - but no shouts or hurrahs, clapping of hands, or any show of emotion.  At last, "it's all over" we thought - but oh, how wrong we were!  One last thought I had as the Russians departed was, "Goddam, I am sure glad they have left."  I was expecting some surly, mad Russian to come looking for the son-of-bitch that gave him some foul tasting cigarettes.

Well, the Germans are gone, the Russians are gone, and we all thought - "tomorrow we'll be gone".  Like hell we would be gone!  I don't know what we were thinking of but tomorrow came and then another tomorrow, and another - and we still weren't gone!  Rumors were again running rampant - the Americans were coming in trucks to take us out - the Americans were flying in to take us out - we were going to march out - and on and on.  Then we were prisoners again - or at least we thought so.  The ranking officer took charge, formed platoons, issued orders for guard duty, KP duty, etc.  Hell, not only were we POWs, we were back in the army again!

Well, it didn't take long for the disgruntled ones to begin to make plans.  A week passed and no American troops came to the rescue.  We had full run of the camp now - so to alleviate our anxiety and boredom we took daily sorties among the other buildings previously not accessible to us - the German barracks and mess hall, the officers' quarters, the lazzarette (hospital) and the executive offices.  We were able to acquire numerous souvenirs - among which I found a German rifle in mint condition.  However, one night we were rudely awakened and (with panic in his voice and actions) one of the non-coms in charge was screaming, "there is a patrol of the dreaded SS in camp, and anyone caught with souvenirs will be shot".  Keerist! - here we go again I thought.  The proverbial line from barracks to latrine was formed as in haste, frustration and undisciplined scurry we disposed of the souvenirs - and yet one more crisis was faced.  About now - a week or so after our 'liberation' by the Russians - and no action from the Americans - a few of us decided to take off on our own and go to Odessa, on the Black Sea, to try and catch a ride home on a Liberty Ship.  Plans were formulated and one dark night we slipped through a hole in the fence and silently wended our way through the darkness to - what? The two of us, Frank Powers and I, were among the ones leaving.  Carl Groshell elected to remain as he had a bad leg and didn't think he could make the trip.  Frank and I had managed to acquire a map (for several packs of cigarettes) and so we had some idea as to where we were going.  It had to, be east, for heading west meant crossing the Russian front through untaken German terrain and finally crossing through the German front to reach the Americans - a foolhardy and very impractical maneuver at best.  So, it was with mixed emotions that Frank and I left the relative safety of the compound, the many friends we had made, the warmth and comfort of a familiar place - to embark on a new and exciting adventure - eastward!!

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