RAMPS
Chapter Two
April 21, 1945
"Colonel. Colonel Hogan." Newkirk gently tapped the sleeping officer's shoulder. "Sir, we're at the airfield."
"What?" Hogan blinked away the cobwebs and rolled off the stretcher he had sacked out on.
"There's our plane." Carter excitedly pointed out the open back door of the truck. "Look!"
Hogan, still a bit unsteady after suffering, along with a large number of the other prisoners, from the illnesses and deprivations of the final months before liberation, gazed out at the organized chaos of a captured German airport. A C-47, engines running, waited at the end of a runway, while a plane took off from another. Corpsmen were in the process of removing wounded men from several ambulances, while other soldiers unloaded cargo from the waiting plane.
"We'd better move fast," Hogan said to his men. "Other planes are probably stacked up."
A sergeant carrying a clipboard noticed the new arrivals and came forward. He approached LeBeau, who had jumped off the back of the truck.
"You from Luft Stalag 13? We'll get this unloaded and put on board. You can all head over to the plane," he said in one breath. He left without waiting for an answer.
"You heard the man," Hogan, who was somewhat amused, cracked loudly. "Let's get this show on the road." Ignoring offers of assistance, he gingerly jumped off the back of the truck. Seeing the wounded, he said, "On second thought, if there's not enough room on the plane we can wait."
Hogan was stopped by the medic who had accompanied them in the hour-long drive from camp.
"Sorry, sir. You'll all need to be checked out at the hospital as soon as you get in. And they wanted you there yesterday. Orders."
"We can wait, Corporal."
"Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm just letting you know what I was told to tell you, sir. It's a big plane and a big facility." The corporal looked at Hogan's men for help.
"We'll take care of it." Kinch winked at the medic, who wished the team a final good luck.
After the files, footlockers, and other personal items were put on the plane, Hogan and his senior staff sat down in their jump seats on the side, while the small group of wounded sent over from aid stations were secured in the back. It was a sobering experience for Hogan and his men to see the results of recent ground combat located so close to where they had spent the better part of the war. Once the plane took off and leveled out, Hogan left his seat and made his way to the back where the wounded were being cared for.
Mindful that he was still not feeling one-hundred percent, he made sure he did not get too close to the stretchers. Carter unbuckled and followed closely behind.
"Are these men all from the same company?" Hogan asked one of the flight nurses.
"Yes, sir. These are some of the ones stable enough to handle the flight out. They were ambushed by civilians shooting at them from buildings. We heard there were German kids and old men waiting for them."
Carter paled. "We heard SS were shooting or hanging their own civilians. The ones that wouldn't cooperate and start fighting."
A medic nodded. "It's a miserable war, sergeant."
Hogan remained silent. He knew things these men did not know, and he refused to add to their already heavy burden. He looked over at the soldiers on the stretchers, imagining the horrors they experienced.
LeBeau and Kinch, both lost in their own thoughts, remained in their seats. The sergeant, who had spent his time in camp as an equal, worried about what would happen to him once he set down at the American-run evacuation camp. Would he be forced to move into a segregated area? Kinch closed his eyes and tried to calm the butterflies forming in his stomach.
The French corporal, so excited and cheerful during the last days before liberation, attempted to squelch a sense of utter apprehension. True, he had been in Paris three times during his imprisonment, but he also knew that a great deal of his country was in ruins, many of his friends were missing and countless others were dead. Like Kinch, LeBeau closed his eyes and waited.
While Carter continued conversing with one of the medics, Hogan, still attempting to stave off a lingering cough, quickly moved back towards the front and collapsed into his seat. He buckled up and glanced over at LeBeau and Kinch.
"Hey, Kinch," Hogan whispered. "You all right?"
"Never better, sir." The sergeant opened his eyes. "You?" He took a good look at Hogan. The colonel was slightly pale and clearly exhausted. Yes. He had to make damn sure the medic's orders would be followed.
Hogan took a good look at his radioman. The normally unflappable sergeant appeared a bit flustered. Although the colonel had an idea of what must have been bothering Kinch, he decided now was not the time to press it.
"The wounded back there. They're all kids," Hogan mentioned.
Kinch sighed. "So were a good percentage of the men in camp, when you think about it."
The plane hit an air pocket, which Hogan and his men ignored. Groans from the wounded in the back could be heard over the noise of the engines. "They all grew up too fast," Hogan commented. "You know, kids were shooting at them from attics. Kids and old men."
"Not surprising," Kinch replied. He shut his eyes again. "Over a decade of propaganda and fear drummed into you day after day."
"You got that right," Hogan muttered. He turned his attention to LeBeau and Newkirk, who were clearly lost in their own thoughts and obviously fighting nerves. "LeBeau?"
The Frenchman had been staring into space, but quickly answered. "You need something?" He began to unbuckle his belt.
"No." Hogan stopped him. "Just wondering how you were doing. You've been awfully quiet."
"I'm afraid to look out the windows," LeBeau admitted. He thought he was ready to stare down at his country, and then something held him back. Fear, regret. He wasn't sure. The corporal looked down at the floor and began to nervously twiddle his thumbs.
Hogan nodded in understanding. "I'll try and get you out of the camp as soon as possible. The brass decided to fly over, so hopefully you won't need to go to London with the rest of us."
LeBeau was grateful. "I didn't know. Thank you. I have family and friends I need to track down. But, I do want to go to London, eventually."
"So does Olsen. Track down family, I mean," Hogan replied. "Hopefully this will all be over soon."
"The war or the debriefing, Colonel?" Carter had slipped back to his seat without the other three noticing.
"Both, Carter. I think the debriefing might last almost as long."
"I heard that, sir." Newkirk commented. "If that's the case, I might escape for real."
That got Kinch and LeBeau laughing.
"I may be right behind you, Newkirk," Hogan replied. Relieved at the change in his men's demeanor, Hogan leaned back in his seat and pulled his crush cap over his eyes. "Let me know when we get there." Like many military men, he was blessed with the ability to nod off at the drop of a hat. His men weren't far behind.
April 21, 1945
1600 hours
As they approached Le Havre, the crew notified the medical personnel and the sleeping passengers that they would be landing shortly.
Trucks and ambulances quickly drove over to the stopped aircraft. The wounded were gently taken off the plane, placed in the ambulances and transported to the hospital located by the edge of the runway. While a group of soldiers unloaded their gear, Hogan and his men were escorted to yet another truck and driven to the hospital as well. They deplaned and stared in amazement at the tableau in front of them. There were tents and fabricated buildings as far as the eye could see; a welcome sight considering the heavy damage the area incurred towards the end of the war.
"Holy cow," Carter said. "Look at the size of this place."
"The Army Corps of Engineers," their driver said proudly.
Wilson, Olsen and Baker, notified of the plane's arrival, were standing outside the hospital, fidgeting.
"Hey guys!" Carter, the first one to exit, greeted the trio.
"So?" Olsen grinned.
"The tunnels are gone. Kaboom," Carter answered with a surprising lack of enthusiasm.
Wilson, seeing that Hogan was still a bit slow, walked over.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, concerned.
"Coping," was Hogan's response.
"Good. This way, sir." Wilson pointed to the long hut housing one of the medical units lining the runway.
"Report, Wilson." Hogan asked the medic. "All accounted for?"
"I'm happy to report we're all accounted for. This unit houses everyone evacuated from the infirmary, plus a few others. Some have been discharged. They're all over there." Wilson pointed in the distance. "They put the rank and file in three hangars."
"I bet they're antsy."
"The barracks chiefs have control of the situation," Olsen added. "We're in a few tents." He pointed. "They're behind the hangars. You can't see them from here. That's where you'll be heading. After you're all checked out first."
"You mean we have to see the bloomin' doctors?"
"Regulations, Newkirk." Wilson explained. "Everyone has had a quick once-over."
"I suppose," the corporal muttered.
There was a lot of grumbling as they walked into the building, but attitudes quickly changed as they were reminded that this particular camp hospital came with nurses. "Maybe this isn't so bad," LeBeau whispered to Newkirk.
LeBeau, Newkirk, Kinch and Carter were ushered into a closed off area where they were examined by a cordial but efficient army doctor and an equally cordial nurse.
"I'm going to visit my men." Hogan headed towards the beds; but he was quickly blocked by Wilson. "Out of my way, Sergeant."
"I'm sorry, Colonel. Not until you're checked out. Besides, you could be contagious."
"You didn't think so in camp."
"I prefer to have a doctor make that call, sir."
Wilson steered Hogan into another cubicle. "Major Maddox. This is my C.O." Wilson introduced the two.
"Please take off your shirt, Colonel. It's good to see you arrived. I've heard a lot about you from your medic."
"Great," Hogan replied, as he unbuttoned his shirt. Jokingly, he added, "nothing good, I presume."
The major smiled. "I wouldn't say that. Okay. Breathe."
After Hogan's men were given extensive exams, they were released and given instructions to eat small frequent meals and to drink plenty of fluids. Unfortunately for the colonel, his doctor ordered a chest x-ray and a hospital bed.
"You can't do this," Hogan protested. "I have to start debriefing. And I have 900 men to process out of here." The prospect of all the work that needed to be done weighed heavily on the colonel. He felt like he was letting all of these men down. All of his men had sacrificed their freedom. Given the choice to leave, the vast majority agreed to stay in Luft Stalag 13 and help with the operation. As far as Hogan was concerned, even one extra day of dealing with bureaucracy and paperwork was one day too many. The rank and file deserved better.
"Sorry, sir," the doctor replied calmly as he was handing over the chart to a waiting nurse. "My orders outweigh your orders and your general's orders."
Wilson could read Hogan like a book. The colonel was becoming frustrated and angry, and that was not good for his health. "The entire control group has arrived," Wilson reminded Hogan. Seeing Hogan begin to stand, the medic immediately regretted his words-which had the opposite effect of what he intended. "Sir, please sit down. They're here to help expedite everything." He understood Hogan's need to move forward. He was as anxious as everyone to get out of Europe. But, his primary loyalty was to the health of the prisoners under his care; whether or not they were in camp or the evacuation center
"You put him up to this," Hogan said to Wilson
"No, sir. How could I?" Wilson, his arms folded across his chest, stood his ground. "We only just met."
"He didn't." Kinch, hearing the commotion, poked his head around the curtain. "Everything okay?"
"No," Hogan replied.
"Colonel Hogan is being held over for observation and some tests," Major Maddox informed Kinch.
"Oh. That's good," Kinch said. "I mean. Don't worry. We'll notify the control group for you."
Realizing he was being unreasonable, Hogan acquiesced. He mentally chided himself. "Fine. And the rest of the men. What about them?"
"Kinch can speak to them. Go with the nurse, sir." Wilson prodded him.
"This way, Colonel." The nurse gave Hogan a smile. The colonel sighed, grabbed his shirt and walked away.
"Feel better, sir." Carter said 20 minutes later. He, the rest of the senior staff, and Wilson had waited for Hogan to come back from x-ray. He was in bed, being poked and prodded.
"Thanks, Carter," Hogan replied.
"A spot of real tea is what you need. That will take care of things."
When he was attached to the RAF, Hogan realized what he had been missing when it came to tea. His family jokingly dubbed him a tea snob. "You're probably right, Newkirk, but I doubt they'll know how to make it the right way. This is an American base," Hogan reminded the Brit. The colonel tried to get comfortable. Although he wouldn't say it, he still didn't feel like himself, and he was grateful to finally have a chance to enjoy a real bed with real sheets.
"Oh, well. Never mind then. I won't 'old it against them, guv'nor." Newkirk offered a small grin. "At least you'll be able to get a spot of real coffee."
"So, how was he really, the last few days?" Wilson and Kinch were on their way to find the group of officers who had come over from London.
"Tired. Could barely make it up and down the tunnel ladders. But he was in a good mood. We were keeping an eye on him and updating the medics who were still there. But don't tell him I told you that." Kinch laughed.
"We were lucky we didn't lose anyone at the end," Wilson commented.
"I know." Kinch thought back to the last few months, recalling the pall and terror hanging over the camp, as one soldier after another fell ill and ended up in the infirmary.
Luft Stalag 13
March 15, 1945
Hogan was trying to ignore both the grumbles in his stomach and the tightness forming in his chest when the tap on the door interrupted his paperwork. "Come in," he coughed.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Newkirk glanced at the pile of work on Hogan's desk. The other prisoners often forgot that their C.O. had responsibilities besides the operation.
"You're needed in the infirmary. Wilson sent a guard to fetch you."
The colonel wasted no time. He threw on his jacket, hurried out of the office and into the barracks, where Corporal Langenscheidt was waiting. "What's the problem?"
"Don't know, Colonel Hogan. Take some gloves. It's very cold."
"Here, sir." Carter tossed a pair over.
The colonel noticed Langenscheidt had lost weight. It was no secret that both the guards and civilians in the area were also suffering. The cold was having a detrimental effect on Hogan, and he had to stop once to catch his breath.
"Are you all right, sir?" Langenscheidt asked with concern.
"Yeah, let's go."
"I need to get back to my post." Langenscheidt left Hogan at the door of the infirmary.
The colonel stepped in. "Wilson, what's up?"
The medic turned around. "Three more came in today. I'm going to begin having to treat the men in their huts."
"Maybe we can convert the rec hall," Hogan suggested.
Wilson shrugged. "If the pneumonia is viral, it's contagious. The patients should be isolated." He paused and looked.
"You're staring, Wilson."
"Sorry. One more thing." The medic lowered his voice. "It's Glassman."
"No improvement?" Hogan asked.
"He's worse. And we're out of penicillin. In case this is bacterial, I'd like for him to have the best shot."
"We asked for another drop," Hogan said as he followed Wilson further into the building. The signs of respiratory infections were obvious. Most of the men were coughing, while several were sneezing.
"I've had to tap into the emergency medical supplies in the tunnels, Colonel."
"What's with the gastro problems?" Hogan coughed. "Excuse me."
"That's spreading. It may be just a symptom of everything else. The bad food supply. Weakened immune systems. But if they catch a respiratory infection on top of it…"
"Morning, Colonel." One of Wilson's assistants, carrying a thermometer, walked past. "103, Sarge."
"Let me see him," Hogan ordered. He followed Wilson towards the other side of the hut, stopping to say a few words to the other patients.
"Over here, sir " Wilson whispered. He pointed to the last bed in the room. Another assistant was attempting to cool the patient down with a damp cloth.
"Can you get me a chair?" Hogan asked. "Sergeant?" he asked the man in the bed who was pale and sweating. He got no response. "Sergeant Glassman," he repeated, this time more firmly.
Glassman opened his eyes, and turned his head in the direction of the voice.
"Sorry, sir." He coughed.
"It's all right. Heard you weren't feeling too well."
"No, sir." Glassman closed his eyes as just the effort of talking tired him out. Although his fever was high, he was shivering.
Hogan gently picked up the man's dog tags and saw that Glassman was only 21, quite a bit younger than the average age of the men in camp. He recalled it was around 26. The sergeant didn't stir at the movement as Hogan gently set them down. "What now, Wilson?" he asked the medic as they moved a few feet away.
"If we don't get the fever down..." Wilson shook his head. "Or he'll drown in his own fluid."
"God." Hogan closed his eyes for a moment. "All those chances we took and now this. Oh, and two of the men in my barracks are coughing. Mills and Garth." Hogan stifled a cough.
"I'll try and get over there. And you're coming down with something."
"How did you guess?" Hogan offered the medic a tired smile. "Don't worry about me. Listen, Olsen is out scouting for supplies. I'll let you know what he comes up with." Hogan went back over to Glassman's cot and sat back down.
"You watch yourself, Colonel," Wilson touched Hogan's shoulder. "Last thing we need is for you to get worse."
Hogan remained at Glassman's side for several more hours; getting up only when the Kommandant came by to inspect the infirmary and assess the situation.
"Thanks for coming by, sir."
Klink's mouth was covered by a handkerchief. "They're my responsibility as well," he said. "I'm afraid I can't offer any encouragement," Klink said in a quiet voice. "We're low on food and medicine and I don't see any improvement in the near future."
"We are rationing and everyone is cooperating," Hogan replied.
Klink looked at the colonel for a moment and noticed his complexion. The man did not look like himself.
"You have good control over your men, Hogan. Let me know if there are any changes in anyone's condition."
Klink left and Hogan resumed his vigil by Glassman's bedside. As conditions in camp continued to deteriorate, Hogan knew that Klink must be losing hope as the war dragged on and the Third Reich's prospects dimmed. It was unusual for Klink to directly offer Hogan a compliment, and Hogan wondered if Klink was either trying to ingratiate himself, or if his latent humanity was coming to the surface.
For a short while, Glassman continued to sleep, but when he began to rouse, his breathing was rapid, and he appeared to be frightened. "Where are you from, Glassman? Hogan asked, although he already knew the answer.
"The Bronx, sir."
"Yankees fan?"
The sergeant attempted to nod.
"Hmmm. I'll let you stay, I suppose. I like the Red Sox, but I won't run you out." Hogan received a small smile. He grabbed the wet cloth, and pressed it on the sergeant's forehead.
"I don't think officers can do that, sir. Play favorites with baseball fans, I mean."
"If that was an option, no one would be in the army." Hogan felt Glassman's forehead. It was still burning. Without thinking, Hogan took the man's hand in his own.
"I think he fell back asleep," Hogan told Wilson a short while later. He gently extracted his hand, and stood up and stretched.
"You did a good thing today, Colonel," Wilson said as he walked Hogan back to the barracks.
"He was terrified, Wilson. So were some of the other men. I mean with everything else… I have two jobs." Hogan lowered his voice. "Commander of the operation and Senior POW Officer. Sometimes one has to take precedence over the other. How are Mills and Garth?"
"I switched bunks, so they're as isolated as possible. Schultz knows." Wilson answered. "But it's a given some others will be hit. Carter's looking thinner, which I never thought possible, and LeBeau seems really tired."
"He's been dealing with the food situation," Hogan said. "I'll get him some help. We can move those two into my office," he said as an afterthought.
"No," Wilson insisted. "You stay in there. Oh, and I brought my bag." He held it up. "I want to give you a once over. I can hear you're starting to wheeze."
"Good news," Kinch hustled over as soon as Hogan and Wilson came through the door. "As long as the weather holds out, we're getting a penicillin drop tonight."
This last drop likely saved not only Glassman's life, but others as well. However, towards the end of mid-March, Hogan's condition, as well as the condition of more prisoners and guards, worsened.
Author's notes:
thank you Abracadebra for her beta work on this story
There's no reason why you can't enjoy both tea (The British way) and coffee. I do. For those who don't know me-my dad was English. He was from London, growing up in the East End. He and his family emigrated to the States in '49 and educated my mother and her family on the perks of British tea. Not that we didn't have tea bags as well, but we referred to that as Schmatta tea. (Borrowed from Yiddish שמאַטע (shmate); originally from Polish szmata.) in this case, defined as rag. My dad's father used to cut open tea bags and store the loose tea in a container. But as far as I can remember, we were able to get loose British tea (Typhoo) in some of our grocery stores on Long Island.
According to various memoirs and documents, I discovered that wounded soldiers and liberated POW's shared some flights.
The C-47 has windows. (google images). It's possible some did not, but I didn't see any such photos.
Checking on the research I conducted for my 2009 story, The Stalag 13 Gazette, I determined that liberation of Luft Stalag 13 could have taken place on April 19th. This is based on fighting around Dusseldorf and the Ruhr. I'm of the opinion that the camp is located in the Dusseldorf area.
According to multiple sources, the average age of an American POW was 26.
approximately 4 percent of 260,000 American and British POWs died in Europe. There were 48,000 men in Lucky Strike in May of 1945
Penicillin does not work on viruses; only on bacterial infections. I assume Wilson would know this. (I wrote this chapter 10 years ago; looking at it now—-considering what is happening at the moment with the covid virus—-well, it makes me cringe.) It would have been difficult for the Germans in the area to get hold of the drug. Rationing for the Germans started before the outbreak of the war. Despite the spoils stolen from occupied territories, the civilians suffered nutritionally. Production of the drug was increased to the point that by D-Day millions of doses were available. See my note under the reviews for links and explanations.
I'm going under the assumption that Hogan is either from Bridgeport, Connecticut or spent time there, and adopted the Red Sox (from Boston) as his preferred team. (although that city is actually closer to NYC than Boston. Oh well.) This is only because the NY Mets didn't play their first season until 1962, LOL. (as you can see from my profile, I'm a long-time Mets fan) I will forgive Glassman for being a Yankees fan. The Yankees and Red Sox are one of the most well-known sports rivalries in the United States. Glassman happens to be my paternal grandmother's maiden name. Pasternack (one of the POW's in the first chapter) is my mother's maiden name.