Epiphany
It had happened so quickly, he barely had time to react. One moment, he was leading his squadron away from a successful bombing run over industrial sites in Hamburg. The next moment, his plane was in flames and his crew was evacuating. His last thought before he jumped; they knew our plans. I was targeted.
Colonel Robert Hogan sat on his cot, leaning up against the wall. His chest throbbed, a result of injuries suffered when his plane was shot down. Thankfully, they were tended to after his capture, but there was no hospital stay; he had been treated and immediately sent to the interrogation center.
He thought he had been here for over a week. Each day was the same routine. Boredom, hunger, thirst, filth, and interrogations. So far, the German interrogators had not resorted to violence. Instead, they used psychological tactics, accusing Hogan of murdering children, or of being a spy. The colonel refused to tell them anything; the Germans would then offer clothing, extra food, or exercise, which Hogan would decline, and he was returned to his overheated cell. The next day, the routine would continue.
Today was different. His meager breakfast had not been delivered. He had not been removed from his cell and taken for interrogation.
He dozed.
His meager noontime meal was not delivered. Nor his evening ration.
He was alone.
He rang the bell for the guard. The first few days, upon request, the guard would bring him water. Today, there was no response.
The next day was the same. No food, no human contact. Thirst was now the enemy. Hogan began to lick the moisture off the walls of the cell.
He knew what they were doing. Eventually, someone would show up, and he would be escorted to an interrogation room. They would offer some water, perhaps some food. And this time, he would accept, because he wanted to survive. But, they would get nothing. And upon his refusal, they would get angry. And there would be consequences. The colonel shivered.
Stop it. You're overthinking. He unfolded his long legs, and stood up. Shaking, he steadied himself by holding on to the cot. Then he began to pace back and forth. The narrow cell was 12 feet long and 8 feet high. Hogan reached the table and chair. Why a table and chair? He had no idea. There was no reason to sit at the table. He had no reading material. There were no writing implements or paper. He had received no toilet articles, no Red Cross packages, and no cigarettes. The treatment was as bad as expected, for like all fliers, he had been briefed. He had been trained. His crew was trained. At the thought of his crew, Hogan became lightheaded. He took a deep breath, as deep as his wounds allowed, and grabbed hold of the chair. He had only his thoughts to keep him company.
Although he had managed to avoid the flak, Hogan had lost three men; all killed in the German onslaught. The rest had jumped. Miraculously, they all managed to find one another after they had landed, but the Germans were waiting.
Hogan's initial instinct was to fight, but they were hurt and stunned, and their pistols were no match for the large German patrol that swarmed all over the downed fliers. The captured men looked to him for signals and reassurance. He could guess their unspoken thoughts. What will happen to us? What should we do? How should we react? Will we be separated?
"Stay calm and do what they say," he ordered as he held on to his side. "I don't want any martyrs."
He glanced at his rear gunner. Rosen was the youngest member of his crew. The Jewish boy was a good soldier. Always did his best and never complained. Hogan could see the terror on the kid's face. Their eyes met. I won't let anything happen to you was the colonel's silent message.
The sergeant seemed to gain strength from Hogan's gaze, and despite his pain, he straightened up and stared ahead.
The captured men sat on the ground for about a half hour until a sigh of relief escaped Hogan's lips. He spotted a Luftwaffe officer heading his way. No Gestapo or SS were anywhere in sight. He stood up, and the rest of his men stood up as well. The Leutnant stopped in front of Hogan and spoke in broken English.
"Colonel." He saluted. "Are you the highest ranking officer there?"
Hogan couldn't return the salute, but he stepped forward. "Yes."
"You are prisoners of Germany, now. You will come to trucks. Then to the train. And then to Dulag Luft. Do you understand?"
It would be easier if we had this conversation in German, Hogan thought. "Yes. But I have some injured men." Hogan was holding on to his right side with his left arm. Blood was clearly seeping through his flight suit.
"You are also injured?"
"Yes," Hogan replied. They would all be considered walking wounded, but he kept silent.
The officer nodded. He walked back to his car and got on the radio. Upon his return, he stated, "We will take the injured to a local hospital for treatment. The rest will go on the train."
"I prefer to have us all stay together," Hogan said calmly but firmly.
"I am sorry, Colonel. But that is not…" The officer fought to retrieve the word from his memory. "Not okay." He then yelled an order in German, and the guards began moving the men towards the trucks.
The uninjured assisted the injured onto their seats, and the trucks drove away from the field. The guards quickly squelched any talking. As they pulled up to a small hospital, Hogan, Rosen, his navigator, and another gunner were helped off the truck. Hogan's co-pilot and the two other crewmembers attempted to follow, but a rifle stopped the three men in their tracks.
Hogan's eyes filled with tears as he thought about those three men. What had happened to them? He had confidence in his co-pilot. The captain would see to the safety of the others. He had to think that.
The doctors and nurses at the hospital silently and efficiently patched them up. A British or American medical unit would have admitted the four; but within a few hours, they were discharged. The pain meds had worn off, and the four suffered through a long and uncomfortable overnight train ride of over 500 kilometers. They were separated upon arrival at the interrogation center, strip searched, and placed in solitary confinement.
His questions about his men went unanswered.
A third day passed with no contact.
The next morning, to Hogan's surprise and relief, the door to his cell opened, and he was escorted to a different interrogation office. It was nicely furnished, and had walls painted in a softer beige tone. One wall held the requisite pictures found in any office in the Third Reich, but some pleasant paintings and photographs graced the other walls.
To the right of the door sat a sofa and two end tables. A credenza was on the opposite wall.
A German officer, Hogan thought he looked to be in his late 30's, sat behind the large, oak desk. He looked up as Hogan and his guard stepped through the open door.
The officer stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. "Colonel Hogan. Please come in and have a seat," he said in perfect English.
Hogan, still a bit unsteady, walked over to the chair and sat down. A pitcher of water, a tea service, a bowl of fruit, and sandwiches were on the desk. Hogan gazed at the map of the facility that hung on the wall. The German sat and leaned forward, clasping his hands. He nodded to the guard, who closed the door. The guard then stood by the credenza.
"Colonel Hogan. I am Oberstleutnant Kranz. It appears your previous interrogator accomplished very little, and may have gone a bit, what is the word? Overboard. I am truly sorry for the treatment you have received over the last several days. While some of us here go for those methods, I do not approve. I find they get us nowhere." He poured some water into a glass, and slid it over to the other side of the desk. Hogan picked it up and drank it slowly. He put the glass down and slid it back to Kranz.
"I'm sure you would like to wash up. I cannot let you have a razor, for obvious reasons, but the guard will take you to the washroom. You will also receive a shave."
Without thinking, Hogan reached for his face, feeling the growth and matted hair.
"And do not worry about the shave, Colonel," Kranz continued. "You are worth much more to us alive." He nodded to the guard.
Hogan realized this must have been a normal ritual, for no words were spoken between Kranz and the guard. He was escorted to a washroom further down the hall. In full view of the guards, Hogan cleaned himself off as best as he could. This was the first chance he had to see himself in a mirror, and he shuddered at the sight. The guard then took him for a shave. After a short time, Hogan returned to the office.
Now that he felt more human, Hogan finally spoke. "What do you want?"
"To get to know one another," answered Kranz in a nonthreatening tone. "I suggest you eat something. I can see you are weak." He poured tea into a cup, placed a sandwich on a plate and pushed it over to the colonel.
Hogan had told himself he would only eat as a matter of survival. After all, the weaker he got, the less he would be able to think straight. Without another word, he took the food, and remembering his training, slowly ate just a small amount.
Satisfied, the German officer nodded. "Good. Now, we will talk. First, I know this is an uncomfortable situation."
Uncomfortable is not the word I would choose, Hogan thought.
"You have some idea of the routine. Eventually, you will be transferred to a prison camp. Oh, forgive me. Cigarette?"
Hogan shook his head.
"Very well. Colonel, I know you are scared. For your men, and for yourself. That is natural and nothing to be ashamed of, of course. You are only human."
I'm too frightened to be scared. With that epiphany, Hogan suddenly came out of his daze. He was frightened. He had lost all control, and for someone of his rank, personality and talents, this was unconscionable. He had taught young men under his command that it was okay to be scared. This was perfectly natural, and he would worry if they were not. This sensation kept men from being too reckless and making deadly mistakes. Going beyond that point-and Hogan had-was akin to suffering from combat fatigue or retreating into a shell. Despite his fatigue, Hogan managed to sit up a bit straighter.
The interrogator removed a file from a drawer. He opened it and pushed a sheet of paper towards Hogan.
"As a measure of good faith, I wanted to show you this. All the men from your crew are safe, and have been transferred to prison camps.
Hogan looked at the list that held the names of his surviving crew and their assignments. The sergeants were sent to the same POW camp. He couldn't be sure of the exact location in Germany. The two surviving officers had been assigned to an Oflag. Was this a ruse, or was this really their fate? He had to hope. "Thank you," he said.
"You are welcome. And now, I will tell you what we already know about you." He handed Hogan another sheet of paper. The colonel's stomach sunk. His command, where he went to school, his class rank, and his ability to speak fluent German; it was all there. How did they get this information? He wordlessly slid the page back.
"So, Colonel Hogan. I studied abroad. That is where I learned English. Where did you learn to speak German so well?" And the games began.
One week later, confident that he had not fallen under the spell of the master interrogator, Hogan moved to the transit center. After speaking with other pilots, he confirmed that, without exception, Kranz treated his prisoners with dignity and respect. Hogan's next stop was to be a small Luft Stalag located near Hamelburg. Now clean and healthy, he had not lost hope; for he left the transit camp with the knowledge that at least one humane and decent member of the German military remained in the Third Reich.
A/N: As I got this up in rush, please let me know of any errors, or if there is anything I can do to improve the story. Thanks!
The quote is from MASH. (said by Hawkeye Pierce)
Information on Dulag Luft from wwwdotb24dotnet. For further description, please see my story, "The Outside Man."
Kranz is modeled after a real-life interrogator stationed at the Dulag Luft. Hanns-Joachim Gottlob Scharff, who did not use any form of physical abuse, was known as "The Master Interrogator." He was so good, that prisoners never realized that they had divulged information. (Small bits and pieces of information were funneled up to a higher level and then pieced together). He used psychological techniques to get prisoners to hold a conversation, although they had been trained to keep silent. He was able to save 6 American POW's from execution by the SS. Acts of kindness by Scharff towards the POW's are documented, and he tried to help sick and dying prisoners. Former prisoners kept in contact with him after the war. Scharff later moved to the United States and became a mosaic artist. Some of his works are on display at Disney World in Florida. According to online memoirs, Scharff was the exception, and other interrogators were more physical and threatening. (Some officers from the Dulag Luft were brought up on war crimes.)
Information about Scharff was retrieved from several sources, most notably, Merkkidotcom