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What's In a Name
Chapter 6
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
end of June, 1940
The small local resistance cell consisting of a middle-aged veterinarian, an elderly shopkeeper, and their younger friend, Otto, had not done anything to draw attention to themselves. So far, their resistance amounted to listening to banned radio broadcasts and the occasional American phonograph record, the training of dogs to react differently to prisoners and guards, and plotting ways to hinder the German war effort without resorting to outright violence. They had been careful to change their various meeting locations, but as they had known each other for many years, no one who knew the trio would be suspicious of seeing the three men together.
Tonight, however, they were venturing into dangerous territory. With Oskar Schnitzer's acceptance of the missing blueprint and his subsequent discovery of the mine entrance, the three moved from passive observers of the ongoing tragedy befalling Europe, to active participants in the fight against evil.
It was dusk, and Max waited outside the tunnel with one of Oskar's large male shepherds, while Otto and Oskar slowly ventured into the entrance and further into the tunnel.
After walking for about one-half hour, the found their way blocked by a wall of dirt. The two stood in a large room where signs of construction were strewn about the area. Blocks of wood stood leaning up against a shored-up wall. Looking up, the two observed a ceiling stabilized with beams. A table took up space perpendicular to the end of the tunnel. A few lanterns were resting on the table and electrical wires remained unconnected.
Otto scratched his head. He placed the blueprint of the mine tunnel on the table, and held a lit lantern over the paper.
Meanwhile, Oskar rolled out a blueprint of the camp that Helga had lent him. He turned around several times. "I think we are here." He pointed to an area near the lower numbered barracks. As they began to slowly make their way out, Oskar paused and marked a spot on his blueprint. "I believe we are under the dog pen." He grinned.
"Seems we can take advantage of that, no?" Otto asked.
Oskar nodded. "Don't know how at the moment, but I'll keep it under advisement."
Max fidgeted outside, stamping his feet to keep warm. Oskar's dog barked a warning, and headed for the entrance. Max followed; relieved to see his two friends, he said, "Thank God you're all right. Well?"
"It appears pretty stable," Otto answered as he stroked the dog's head. "Hello again, Wolfgang."
The three covered up the entrance, and then took the short walk back to Oskar's van.
"Did it follow the map?" Max asked once they were inside and on the road.
"It appears so, although we're not experts," Otto said.
"I think it passes right under the dog pen," Oskar added. "But I can always bring a dog back in there, and check."
Max thought for a moment. He was older than and perhaps not as cautious in some ways as the two younger men, but he was concerned about their safety. "I'd like to have an engineer look at it. It may be too dangerous to go any further, and any digging may disturb the soil. Who knows what could happen," he said.
"I agree." Oskar said. "But who?"
"Does Lindeman know anyone? Maybe from the old factory?" Max asked.
"No," Oskar replied. "I trust him with my life, but with Helga working at camp, I don't want to involve her father. Otto?"
He shook his head. "I don't know who I can trust anymore."
"I think I do," Oskar replied. "The prisoners."
France had capitulated, and although Klink was shocked at the turn of events, he was delighted to hear that more prisoner transports would be arriving. The next big group was mainly comprised of British and French airmen. Several truckloads of prisoners fresh from the transit camp rolled into the compound. Klink frowned, and looked at his paperwork. "This can't be all the prisoners. I was expecting twice this many." Annoyed, he turned to the camp engineer. "Sunderman, go into the office, find my missing prisoners, and then report back." Gathering his wits, Klink stepped closer to the trucks and waited impatiently while the men jumped off and stood in formation. As each truck emptied, several of Schultz's guards unloaded the meager belongings of the captured men and set them aside in a pile. Rather than meet with each individually, as per the norm, the Kommandant addressed the sullen and dejected group of captured men.
"For you the war is over. You are all guests of the Luftwaffe." He paused as Corporal Langenscheidt translated Klink's crisp English into French. "I am strict but fair. Follow the rules, and no harm will come to you. Once you are assigned to barracks, you will be given further instructions. Schultz!"
The sergeant approached.
"Blimey, he looks like a large teddy bear," commented an Englishman with a Cockney accent. His quip elicited a few titters.
"Silence!" Klink demanded. "No talking in formation. Schultz, start the processing." Klink strutted away, his countenance and bearing not going unnoticed by the same Englishman and the group of men surrounding him. "Throwback," he whispered to one of his comrades.
"Bet he has one of those crazy old hats left over from the last war," said another. "He's got some medals."
"Wonder if he flew?" asked the original troublemaker. He quickly stopped talking as the portly sergeant of the guard approached the formation.
"Get in line," the sergeant ordered. "Raus." He pointed to a set of tables set up in the compound. "English left. French right. The rest of you, over there." One by one, the POWs had their photos taken, forms filled out, and barracks assigned.
Unfortunately, the nationalities were not evenly distributed, and to everyone's consternation, a small group of French and British found themselves assigned to the same barracks.
"This is against the Geneva Convention. We're supposed to be housed by nationality," said a man as he began unpacking the belongings given to him at the transit camp.
"He's right," added a British sergeant.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? Nous ne sommes pas assez civilisés pour vous?" a tall Frenchman complained.
"Qu'est-ce tu attends?" asked a French corporal, who only came up to his compatriot's shoulder. "Regardes ce qu'ils mangent." (1)
"I don't know what you said, but take it back," replied a British corporal.
"He said something about eating, I think," replied the sergeant.
"Stop arguing, please. And try to get along. It's going to be a long war." No one paid any attention to Schultz, who vainly tried to get the group of men to calm down.
Another British corporal, the Cockney, had watched the proceedings with interest. He sidled up to the large man. "What makes you think it will be a long war? Schultz, isn't it?"
The sergeant turned and faced the Brit. "I've already had experience with the last one," he said sadly. "You don't mind living with these French?" Schultz put his gun down and looked at his clipboard. "You are?"
"Newkirk. Peter Newkirk." He pointed to his name. "Figure we're all in the same boat, right? Got to make a go of it. Besides, I don't plan on staying here very long." He lit a cigarette. "Oh, excuse my manners." He offered one to Schultz, who gratefully took the tobacco and sniffed it with appreciation.
"What do you mean? Oh, no. No escapes. The Kommandant would be very angry, I would get in trouble, and you would get hurt."
Newkirk noticed the gun resting against the wall, but didn't say anything. The argument had stopped; the rest of the men stared, as they also noticed the lax behavior, but they did not take any action as they were either afraid of a trick, or perhaps they were waiting to see what the guard would do.
Sensing the sudden quiet, Schultz smiled. "That's better. Now all you boys behave. Get along. This is a new hut, so I have to send over another barracks chief to explain everything. Then you can pick your own. Stay." He pointed at all the men, went to the door, and left the hut.
A British man on a top bunk quickly jumped down, but he was prevented from grabbing the weapon. "What are you doing? He left his rifle!"
"And how far do you think you're going to go with just one rifle?" asked the short Frenchman in English. "Did you see all the guards? You'll be shot."
"He's right, Levinson. Don't be a martyr." The British sergeant, Anthony Collins, walked over to the window and looked out.
Meanwhile, Newkirk opened the door. Spying Schultz heading towards the front of the compound, the corporal strolled out of the door, and trotted up to the sergeant. "Hey, Schultz."
The sergeant turned around. In shock, he reached for his rifle, which wasn't there.
"You left something in our hut."
Without a word, Schultz followed Newkirk back to the barracks, and retrieved his rifle. He quickly gave the men a look and left the building.
"He's an interesting sort, isn't he?" Newkirk commented, as he placed several items on the table in the middle of the room. "Left some things behind."
The men gathered around the table. Newkirk had placed a sandwich, a chocolate bar, and several bullets in the center. He pocketed the bullets, and then grabbing a knife that had somehow not been confiscated, from his pocket, he cut the sandwich into eight pieces, and broke the chocolate into eight pieces as well.
The excitement calmed down the group, and after sharing the food, they began choosing bunks and footlockers.
Several minutes later, Sergeant Chernetsky entered the hut. He introduced himself in both English and French. "Looks like you're all settled," he said after he had warned the men about the towers, the fence, the guards, and explained how things would work.
"Any tunnels started?" Asked the little Frenchman, whose name was LeBeau.
"No." the sergeant replied emphatically.
"No, you won't say until we're trusted, or no, there aren't any escape plans in the works."
"LeBeau, escaping is serious business," the Polish sergeant replied. "Several men have slipped out but were quickly caught. Unless you speak fluent German, have clothes, identification papers, exact knowledge of geography and contacts to get you off the continent, I don't recommend it. I'm afraid we're here for the duration," he said in all seriousness.
"What's with the Sergeant of the Guard?" asked one of the British.
Chernetsky chuckled. "Schultz doesn't want anyone to get hurt, especially himself."
"He left his gun in here," Newkirk informed him.
"Does it constantly. Just give it back. It's not loaded. Don't get him into trouble. He's a decent man for a German," Chernetsky stated.
"And the Kommandant?" asked the tall Frenchman.
"He's a veteran of the Great War. So far, he's been humane. But he'll send someone to the cooler at the drop of a hat. He's probably better than other Kommandants. That's all. You'll need to choose a barracks leader. Let me know at mess who you've picked. I'll speak to the MOC and see about switching men around, eventually. We've got Belgian and Norwegians together in barracks 5 and they don't understand each other. Questions?"
"Yeah. How did I end up in a Luft Stalag?" asked a private, who up to this point had been quiet.
"You're not in the RAF?"
"Nope. Got caught inland."
"Well, you're not the first. It's an odd story, but this is supposed to be Luft Stalag 6, not 13. They mixed up the numbers. You probably were being sent to the other Hammelburg in Bavaria. That's Stalag 13. And Hammelburg with two m's. Klink is trying to get this fixed, but so far, nothing's been done. Don't know why. But from what I know, you're better off staying here. That camp isn't ready yet, anyway. You'd probably still be in transit or riding the rails. The guard that translated-Corporal Langenscheidt. He was sent here by mistake. Klink kept him."
"Dangerous?" asked LeBeau.
"Not so far," Chernetsky replied. "But remember, even if they seem friendly, they're Germans. Don't trust any of them. Oh, and fair warning. It may take a long time to get mail. We haven't seen any at all."
The men unanimously chose Newkirk to be the spokesperson for the barracks. Despite his calm demeanor during the first few hours of imprisonment, inside, he was a different person. Newkirk was still not over the shock of being shot down and captured. He was worried about his relatives back home, and his time in captivity before being sent to this camp had not been pleasant. Although he appeared cocky, he admitted to himself he was scared. This was not the first time he had been imprisoned, but he had turned over a new leaf and with the start of the war, he turned his talents and energy into doing his part. Now, he was in prison again and the only thing he could think of was how to get out. Fortunately, he had kept his German language skills a secret from his captors. For now, he decided against mentioning it to his fellow prisoners, as well.
LeBeau, the short Frenchman with a passion for food, was also mulling over ways to escape. He spoke a bit of German, which was an advantage. Like his fellow French POWs, he was devastated by the defeat of his beloved country, and even more ashamed of the traitorous leaders who had set up a collaborative regime in Vichy. He was willing to kill them with his bare hands if necessary. As he trudged over to the mess hall for what promised to be an unappetizing meal, he glanced over at the portly Schultz. It appeared the missing sandwich was replaced with a plate of potatoes and a bit of meat. The guard finished the plate, and then made a face that told LeBeau that the meal, while filling, was not tasty. He filed that information away for later use. As he and his fellow barracks mates walked, they gave the dog pen a wide berth. Although both LeBeau and another French POW noticed that the dogs in the pen ignored the group of prisoners, they assumed it was because they were a distance away and the dogs were on the other side of the fence. They forgot about the incident by the time they got to the mess hall. What they did notice, and did not forget, were small mounds of fresh dirt scattered near the walls of several buildings.
Klink spent another several hours trying to untangle the bureaucratic mess. He had recently received a score of enlisted ground troops obviously meant for the yet unopened Bavarian camp, and several more privates had arrived with the group of POWs sent over that day. Three truckloads of captured airmen meant for his camp were in parts unknown, and incommunicado, and the tunnel-hunting specialists known as ferrets, he had requested the previous month had, as he feared, been sent to the other Hammelburg. He was now speaking with that camp-again.
"Klink here, from Luft Stalag…Yes, that Luft Stalag. No, we haven't been able to get the maps reprinted. Why don't you try? Yes, that is an insult, and you have better things to do. But we're open and in operation.
"You expect to be ready this summer. Delightful. Now, I am missing three truckloads of men. I have the paperwork, but no POWs. And I believe I have some of your enlisted.
"I can keep your enlisted? Well, we are Luftwaffe not Wehrmacht. No I don't know where I can send them, but I can check if one of the other camps in the area can take them. And my missing airmen? If you see them, you'll return them? That's fine, but where are they now? I have paperwork to send to Berlin and the Red Cross. You don't know and don't care. I understand. Yes, you are going to be very large. I'll take it up with the railroad as you suggest. Thank you. Oh, before I leave, one more thing. Do you have the ferrets I ordered?
"Ferrets? They're little animals…No, not the little animals. The specialists that hunt for escape tunnels. Yes! Those. You don't have them. You've never heard of them? But surely you had a representative at the conference? Yes, I understand. Put in another requisition. Yes, I haven't had any escapes. That is true, so why would I need the ferrets?"
Klink rubbed his head in frustration.
"Never mind. I'll contact headquarters. Good luck with your camp." Klink slammed down the phone, and gulped down the liquid in the shot glass he had thoughtfully set out beforehand. He looked up at Helga, who sympathetically gave her boss a smile.
"Would you like some more, Kommandant?"
"No," Klink moaned.
"A shoulder rub, perhaps?"
"That would be wonderful. Thank you." Klink visibly relaxed as Helga's deft fingers began to remove some of the knots. "What did I do to deserve this?"
"I don't know, Kommandant. But it's not your fault. You didn't make the mistake. And you tried to rectify the error."
"Not hard enough, obviously. But, yes. I did try. Each time this happens, I call Berlin, and they do nothing. I can't fix all the records in all of Germany and the occupied countries. And I can't fix all those maps. Can you imagine how many are out there?"
"No, sir." Helga continued the massage, working her way up to Klink's temples.
He sighed and leaned back in the chair. "What would I do without you?"
Well, without me, I suppose the orders for the ferrets had a better chance of being sent to the correct department, Helga thought with a smile. "It's an honor to be your secretary, Kommandant." And, as Helga realized, it was an honor. She actually liked Klink, even if she did her small part to undermine the war effort. She enjoyed her work; she excelled at it, and she was treated with respect. With that thought in mind, Helga silently berated herself. Perhaps misdirecting the requisition for the ferrets was going too far, she decided. Though, with the numbering and naming error, the mistake could have easily happened without her intervention. She decided to be more careful in the future. After all, it would help no one if Klink was replaced. The next Kommandant could be much worse. She decided a visit with Oskar was in order. "Feel better?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do." Klink leaned forward and clasped his hands. "Once this other camp opens, I believe there will be even more problems, which is horrible to contemplate." He shuddered. "I may need to re-address this. Perhaps go up to Berlin. That's all for now, my dear. I need to think."
Helga quietly shut the door behind her and went back to work. She had prisoner records to check over and file. Meanwhile, Klink thought about his conundrum. The camp was running smoothly, so perhaps it was again time to figure out how to fix the mess he was in, before the mess fixed him.
(1) translation. What's the matter? We're not civilized enough for you?
What do you expect? Look at what they eat?