I Marched with Patton, page 15
I glanced at Parker, weighing at least 225 pounds. No matter how big Jackson’s mouth was, I didn’t think Al would want to mess with him.
“Anybody know any more about Munich?” I asked.
The men shook their heads.
“Okay.” I said. “Get your gear together. We’re pulling out.”
31
Munich 1945
The final battle for Munich began on April 29, 1945, when four U.S. divisions—the Twentieth Armored, the Third Infantry, the Forty-Second Infantry, and the Forty-Fifth Infantry—converged from the outskirts of the city. Some sectors were well defended against this opening drive. However, the city itself was captured quickly, as the German defenders there offered only light resistance, on April 30.
The troop carrier bounced down the dirt road heading toward the front lines. Dust flew and settled over us. We figured that the back road kept us fairly well concealed from enemy fire except from the air, although our P-51 Mustang fighter planes were doing a good job of keeping the sky clear. As we crawled along, it was obvious that our driver was playing it safe. We soon transferred to our own truck.
Mr. Parker had picked up the pace after some adjustments were made on the truck. We kept traveling a significant distance to the east and then south. Munich was only about seventy miles from Austria, Hitler’s birthplace, which Germany had annexed in 1938. Mr. Parker pulled up, and we stopped at a crossroads. The rest of our unit was standing there waiting for us to show.
“You boys looking for a ride?” he called out the window.
“You bet!” Walt Brandon hollered back.
“Hop in,” Parker called back. “We’re on our way to see the Oz.”
The men climbed in, and we were off again. As we got closer to Munich, our unit could see smoke on the horizon. The sound of gunfire carried a long way. We were certainly picking it up like a resounding echo. The truck kept moving until we came to another checkpoint.
“Where you men headed?” the sentinel asked.
“We’ve been ordered to hunker down in Munich,” I said. “We’re with Patton’s Third Army and were sent to Munich until further orders come through.”
“We’re finishing up cleaning out any resistance right now,” the guard said. “You’ll need to go around before you drive straight into Munich. Apparently, they can use some help this side of the city. Take the side road.”
We continued down the road. The noise of gunfire grew louder. The results of a recent skirmish became evident. Debris was scattered across the road. A few vehicles were still burning. A German Focke-Wulf 190 had crashed in a field just off the road. The airplane was a capable fighter but must have simply gotten too close to antiaircraft fire. Ahead we could see the outline of a small town. A few clouds of smoke were curling up into the sky, but other than that, everything looked so quiet we guessed the residents had either run for the hills or were hiding in their cellars. One very large building looked like a manufacturing plant of some sort. Could be a center for producing Messerschmitt aircraft. We kept rolling.
Northwest of Munich, we crossed a railroad track that ran along the edge of the town of Dachau. Not far ahead stood a large metal fence and gate. Barbed wire had been strung everywhere. On the top of the entrance, stretching clear across the two lanes, was a sign that read “Arbeit Macht Frie.” We pulled to a halt.
“Anybody know enough German to translate?” I called out.
“I’m no German school student,” Snuffy Smith said, “but I did study a year of German my first year in college before I joined the army. I think that says, ‘Work makes you free.’ Not exactly an invitation to a vacation.”
A couple of sentinels walked up to our truck. “Headquarters sent you?” the guard asked.
“No, we’re on our way to Munich.”
“You can’t get in there yet,” the guard said. “We need some help here. We’ll let you in if you can give us a hand.”
“Sure,” I said.
The guard looked me square in the eye. “Hang on, ’cause you’ve never seen anything like what’s inside this place.”
Our truck rolled through the iron gate, and immediately the odor hit us. Death hung in the air like a maleficent fog. We stopped, and the men got out. We could see barracks and buildings. Barbed wire lined the perimeters. On the far side of the camp stood a blackened brick chimney. The crematorium, I realized with horror.
A guard walked up to us. “We need help feeding these prisoners. They are literally starving to death. It ain’t a pretty sight.”
I nodded. “Where do you want us to go?”
“Walk down the corridor in front of you. At the far end, survivors are standing in line waiting.”
We headed toward them. At the end of the first long building, I stopped and stared. At least a dozen bodies were piled up like a cord of wood. Most were naked, with arms and legs sticking out like broken tree limbs. They looked like all the muscle had shrunk away from starvation. I gasped and could hardly move on.
“Oh, my God!” blurted out Mr. Parker. “Never seen nothing like that in my whole life.”
I couldn’t speak, so I just waved my hand and we continued walking. At the end of the next building, a barbed wire fence held back a crowd of prisoners. They cheered and waved to us.
I looked into their sunken faces and could only blink. Some of their eyes looked empty, like all life was gone. Empty, like they had seen so much death that nothing was left but despair. Their heads were shaved, their cheeks drawn. Some didn’t even have pants on—only long, black-and-white-striped prison shirts that hung to their knees. Their thin legs looked like nothing more than skinny poles that could barely support their bodies. Interspersed among them were a few teenage boys. Their faces were dirty and splashed with mud, like they had not washed in two lifetimes.
Still, they kept cheering and waving. Some of them seemed almost hysterical with joy that we had taken the camp. We kept smiling and waving back, but when I glanced at my men, I could tell they were having a hard time digesting what they could not avoid seeing. We were walking through hell itself.
We came to the end of the row, where a line of prisoners were standing, waiting to get a bowl of soup and some bread. An army attachment kitchen had been set up and was distributing food. I walked up to a sergeant overseeing the operation.
“What do you need us to do?” I asked.
“These men are starving,” he said. “When they get food, they wolf it down, and that causes serious digestive problems. Actually, it can kill them. They’ve got to eat slowly and in small amounts. Your men can watch them and make sure they don’t damage themselves. Just pick out one of them when they come out with the soup and bread in hand and keep them in low gear.”
“Will do,” I said.
I looked at my six. “Everybody got it?”
They nodded.
We walked over to the front of the line and waited. A walking skeleton hobbled out with a bowl of soup in one hand and bread in the other. Both hands were shaking. His emotionally wrinkled face looked if he was about to cry. I followed him, and he sat down at a makeshift table. I sat down across from him.
Along the way, I had learned a few German phrases. I wondered if he spoke English. “Sprich Englisch?”
He tasted the soup and closed his eyes for a moment. “Ja, in der tat.” “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Great. You know some of the language.”
The man took a deep breath. “Ja,” he said slowly. “I was once a teacher. An English teacher in a gymnasium.”
“Eat slow,” I said. “You will make yourself sick. Slow down.”
He rubbed his mouth and nodded. “Y-y-es. It’s been so long since no food,” he said with a strong German accent. “So long.”
“Why would a schoolteacher be in a concentration camp?” I asked.
“I publicly opposed the Nazi party line,” he explained. “I not would teach my class about National Socialism as best ideal. Me, they arrested, and I endured four years here.”
“Four years!”
“I believe so . . . Sometime it hard to remember . . . hard to . . .” His voice drifted away.
“Just eat a bite of the bread,” I said. “A small bite.”
He nibbled at the crust.
“Do you have a family?”
“My wife . . .” He stopped. “I think still alive she is in the town of Küstrin. I don’t know. I hope.” He grabbed the soup bowl and took a big gulp, then lowered it slowly to the table. “I know,” he acknowledged. “Slowly.”
“I assumed the prisoners were all Jews,” I said.
“Some are. Lots of Roman Catholic priests in here. Some gypsies. Everyday people. Even famous clergyman Martin Niemöller was here. If the Nazis didn’t like you, they hauled you into here.”
“They made you work?” I asked.
“Constantly,” the teacher said. “We cultivate plants in field. Sometimes fall in dirt.”
“Horrible!”
The prisoner looked up at me. His lip trembled. “Thank God you come. You save our lives.”
I looked around. Everywhere, broken, starving men were gawking at us. Pitiful, sick, emaciated human beings. The only specter that reigned supreme here was death. Ghastly, undignified death.
32
Catching Our Breath
Night was falling when we left the Dachau concentration camp. We had helped a multitude of prisoners get fed as well as taken care of others. One never got used to what has to be done in such a ghastly place. Along the way, we met a variety of men who wanted to bow at our feet and treat us like conquerors from the Roman Empire. We tried to reassure them that our only interest was in helping them survive. Just treating us as friends would be fine, we said.
I kept thinking about Eli Cohen and what he’d told me about pogroms and the persecution of the Jews through the centuries. It just didn’t compute fully until I spent the afternoon in Dachau. I’d gotten a good sense of the problem when we worked our way through Buchenwald, but this horrible place seemed more personal. I thought I had the full picture earlier, but I didn’t. It was incomprehensible.
Near the end of the war, religious leaders of all kinds had been put in one barracks. Roman Catholics, Protestants, priests, and other clergy were bunched together like cabbages piled on top of one another in a grocery store. We learned eventually that one-third of all the Catholic priests in Poland were incarcerated in Dachau. We discovered also that many of the prisoners were forced to work in an adjacent manufacturing plant making Messerschmitt airplanes. Any mistakes on the assembly line were rewarded with a bullet to the head.
Nighttime didn’t seem the best moment to enter Munich. With the shooting being so recent, we might make a good target for some rogue sniper still on the loose. Instead, we stayed in the town of Dachau for the night. There were plenty of empty houses around, so we settled in. Most of the town was gone. We guessed people had been scurrying to save their lives. Dobson and I found a nice little villa that looked like it had just been prepared for us to walk in and kick up our heels. There was even a hunk of roast beef in the cooler and a stock of wine bottles. We could grab a good night’s rest. Believe you me, we washed our hands about three times that evening.
Around eight o’clock, a lieutenant showed up to reassure us that we could enter Munich in the morning. He believed the streets had been cleared of snipers, but the city was not in good shape. We could see the sights that were left, but there wasn’t much going on. Actually, a couple of beer halls had survived the bombing. He couldn’t tell whether they’d be friendly or not, but they certainly wouldn’t give us any static. The average citizen had decided some time ago that the Nazis were defeated and Germany had lost the war. They were simply facing the facts even if Hitler and his cronies couldn’t read the handwriting on the wall.
“Lieutenant, where are you from?” I asked.
He set his helmet on the table. “You probably never heard of the place, but I grew up in an old gold rush town in the mountains of Colorado. Ever hear of Fairplay?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but I bet you never heard of Weleetka, Oklahoma.”
The man laughed. “Man, we ought to get an award for coming from weird places.”
“How did a town get a name like Fairplay?”
“Had to do with the gold rush days, when people were stealing one another’s claims. Fairplay became the county seat of Park County, high up in the Rocky Mountains.”
Mr. Dobson held up a bottle. “Pour you a drink? We found this wine in the basement. It’s good stuff.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Dobson poured him a glassful. “We’ve had a grim day. Worked in the concentration camp over there.” He pointed over his shoulder.
The lieutenant shook his head. “Ain’t nothing more grim than war. At least that’s what I always thought until I hit this place. I’ve had to rethink my ideals. The Nazis have to be the most frightening aberration that ever hatched from a rotten egg. They even did diabolical medical experiments on the bodies of the prisoners. Just cut ’em up.” He took a big gulp.
We didn’t say anything for a while.
“I heard General Patton speak once,” the lieutenant said. “He said that we had three things that led to victory. The first was strong, patriotic men. The ‘dogface’ GI Joe types that are mentally clever and physically strong. On the other hand, the German soldiers came from a different world. They were certainly obedient enough, but they were rigid and lacked the ingenuity that was natural for our guys. When it came to trading blows with the enemy, we came out on top because we were more innovative.”
“Interesting,” Dobson said. “What’s the second factor?”
“Patton thought the skillful labor and excellent production that we have in America meant that we could deliver the goods to our fighting men overseas without stopping, just as we have in this war. That’s no small accomplishment, and Patton applauded what we do at home.” I smiled. “Occasionally we hear about Rosie the Riveter. When I was welding in California before I turned eighteen, I saw women working there just as hard as men. Quite a sight.”
“And number three?” Dobson asked.
“General Patton believes in superb leadership that can produce a comprehensive strategy and the kind of field tactics that leave the enemy guessing. Patton is the master of those skills. He left the enemy sitting there staring at the wall without a clue about what would come next. Absolutely amazing! In my book, he’ll go down as one of the greatest generals in history.”
“The times that I saw him,” I said, “he was inspiring. The man literally was walking confidence. When he waved at you, you could tell he was in total control.”
“The trouble was that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and his opinions rattled everyone from the politicians to the top commander,” the lieutenant said. “I think Eisenhower has been afraid Patton will pop off and start World War III with the Russians.”
“No love lost there,” Dobson said. “Anything left to see in Munich?”
“We were there earlier in the day and found the streets deserted. Rather scary situation riding through the city where Hitler got his start. Came in nice and slow because the enemy could be hiding anywhere, waiting for us. We weren’t creeping in behind a tank or with dogs to sniff out the city. All we had was our jeeps and rifles. Gave us the creeps.”
“How far did you go in?” I asked.
“Got clear to the center of the city. As we got closer to the Marienplatz, the center, we began to see some people. Then when we got to the center, we found a small crowd. Most of them were really old and probably couldn’t have gotten into the Volkssturm, Hitler’s last stupid idea. They clapped like we were their liberators. Those old Germans waved like we were their last hope. I thought that was stupid. Here we were capturing the city where Hitler’s movement began, and which had also published the Nazi propaganda newspaper, and they’re treating us like heroes? These people probably had it better than just about anybody else in Germany, and they wanted us to think we had set them free? Who were they kidding?”
“I imagine they were scared to death,” Dobson said.
“Probably,” the lieutenant replied. “Amazing how these supposedly fierce enemies could quickly fall into line when they knew they were finished. One of our guys told me that they found a police station and figured soldiers or officers might be in there, ready for a fight to the death. The soldiers knew they had to confiscate any weapons that were on these Germans. They cautiously walked in with their rifles ready to fire. To the soldiers’ surprise, the police gave them a military salute. They had already boxed up their guns. Each pistol had two tags. One was the number of the weapon and the other the name of the officer who had been issued the weapon. Our boys just couldn’t believe it. All their weapons were in a box on the table. I think all that’s left is some sort of final skirmish out there around the Munich Airport. Other than that, you should have no problems.”
“Thanks for the update,” I said. “Appreciate the insights. We’ll be going in tomorrow morning.”
The lieutenant stood up and put his helmet back on. “Enjoy your stay. The city is all yours. Compliments of Mr. Hitler.”
33
R&R
The sun broke through the window and woke me. As it swept across my face, I felt like it was washing away some measure of the agony and unspeakable memories from the day before. But then suddenly I was back in somebody else’s bed simply trying not to remember those shrunken faces and emaciated bodies strung across the ground. We knew the war couldn’t last much longer, and for some reason we didn’t understand, we were supposed to enjoy ourselves in a bombed-out city where a huge number of the population had disappeared.
For once, we weren’t in a hurry. I got out of bed more leisurely than usual. I had seen enough destroyed cities and beautiful ornate buildings reduced to a pile of dust that I wasn’t in any more of a hurry to get to Munich. The city couldn’t be ten miles away at the most, but I wanted to take it easy. Mr. Dobson had stayed across the hall and probably wasn’t in any more of a hurry than I was.
