I Marched with Patton, page 20
Word began to get around that the Soviets were not your friendly next-door-neighbor types. All boundaries were fluid, and crossing from one sector into another was a matter of just crossing the street. The French and British were our buddies, but we knew better than to mess with the Russians. Of course, we continued to celebrate the end of the war and the defeat of the Nazis. Most of us were just farm boys used to milking the cows and didn’t want any trouble. But it seemed like the Russians were ready to do just that. Fight! We knew they came from a different world, but their ideas and values seemed to be from four centuries back, when wars were fought with savage intent. As best we could tell, the Russians had little regard for human life.
We kept making the rounds to keep our sector on the up-and-up. The soldiers liked to hit the bars at any time of day, but the business really picked up in the evening. By ten o’clock, the American boozers and rum bums were going at it full tilt, and we had to haul them in and put the fun boys in the slammer. By this time, I had turned twenty-one years old, and many of the men were younger than me. They were particularly vulnerable to a walk down alcohol alley.
Something happens to you when you fight a war and are gone for a couple of years. You forget those values that everybody had when you lived in small-town America. People tried to kill you, and you tried to kill them. You ate dirt when bombs went off, and you tried not to cry when your friends got killed. Stuffing the grotesque down as far as you could didn’t stop the horrors from coming up again. After a while, you felt like you were twenty going on fifty. It was strange: part of you felt like an ancient warrior, and part of you wanted to cry like a baby because of the gruesome images that lingered in your mind.
Fall was approaching, and it was getting colder, which promised further hardship for Berliners. I could tell that the children were having a rough time. One afternoon I watched a group of boys playing soccer in the street. On all sides were piles of rubble, and their ball was nearly destroyed. The boys were thin. I thought to myself: “Here I am, standing around with money in my pocket while these kids are barely eating.” They needed help.
I remembered a hamburger stand up the way. I went back up the war-torn street and ordered $40 worth of hamburgers. (That’s about the equivalent of $573 in 2020.) The proprietor couldn’t believe his ears but went to work flipping those hamburgers as fast as he could turn them. His wife was slicing buns right and left. They finally piled them in three sacks for me, and I started back up the street. The kids were still playing soccer, so I set down the sacks on the remnant of what once must have been a nice outdoor cement bench.
“Hey, guys!” I shouted. “Anybody want a hamburger?”
The boys looked at one another like they were trying to translate my words.
“A hamburger!” I shouted.
“Humbager?” one of the boys called out.
I held up one of the paper-covered hamburgers. “For you!”
The boys looked at one another in astonishment and then came running toward me. When I handed out one, a boy grabbed it like a starving fish going for the bait. They climbed over one another toward me. Some of the boys yelled something I couldn’t understand, and then children began to appear like magic. Little girls pushed aside some of the boys. They wolfed down those burgers like they hadn’t eaten in months. Immediately, their little hands were extended just in case there was anything more in my sack. Of course, $40 buys a lot of hamburgers.
Danke schön! Danke schön! Smiles everywhere. One little girl hopped up on the park bench and tugged on my sleeve. I bent down to see what she wanted, and the child kissed me on the cheek. She scampered down and disappeared up the street. For a long time, I stood there and watched them return to whatever they had been doing. I thought to myself, “That’s what we ought to be doing: feeding the little ones until they smile.”
Most of the time, Edda Muller rode with us in case we ran into a situation that needed translation. I was able to go to our supply depot and find grocery items that she needed. Help with the groceries made a huge difference for her. I could tell how much she appreciated what I was able to give her.
That military stiffness Edda carried when I first met her disappeared, and she began to laugh at many turns in the road. Even though she was some ten years older than me, the age difference, too, vanished, and she seemed like a contemporary. When we ran into trouble on the streets, Edda didn’t back away from wading in to translate and stand with us.
One evening around nine o’clock, we wandered into a bar to make sure there were no problems. She smiled at me and suggested, “Why don’t we have a glass of wine?”
“While I am on duty, I’m not supposed to drink. Got to be completely sober. But you can. Let me buy you something.”
“That would be nice,” Edda said.
“Waiter!” I called out. “A glass of chardonnay, please.”
Edda’s countenance took on a serious look. “During the fighting, stories circulated through Berlin about what was really happening out there.
“Joseph Goebbels controlled the media, and we knew he was constantly printing propaganda, but no one dared speak of it,” she explained. “Nevertheless, the war stories circulated. We kept hearing reports about General George Patton. They said no one could stop his Third Army. He seemed to push relentlessly across the countryside.”
I chuckled. “No one could stop Patton.”
“What made him so invincible?”
I thought for a moment. Patton was a big man, tall, strong. I knew that he’d competed in the first modern pentathlon in the 1912 Summer Olympics, held in Stockholm, Sweden. He finished fifth behind four Swedes in running. Patton was an aggressive fencer and defeated the internationally known French fencer who lost to no one but Patton. The world viewed him as an outstanding athlete.
“What made Patton the man was more psychological,” I said. “We heard stories constantly about his fearlessness. Of course, Patton took reasonable precautions, but he seemed unmoved by anything going on around him as the bombs fell and mortars exploded. No matter what the weather, freezing wind or tropical sun, Patton appeared to care less. When a fierce battle was going on, we all ran for cover. You could get killed by a stray bullet coming out of nowhere. Patton remained unfazed by such obvious dangers. He would come up the road riding in his jeep, with the top down and one gunner on the rear. The general’s flag would be flying, and he would come riding in like it was Christmas while shrapnel was flying around him.”
Edda laughed. “Most interesting.”
“One of the stories came out of our breakthrough out of Normandy at Avranches. The Germans were fighting like hell to close an eight-mile gap in the line. They were sending in continuous air strikes night and day. Our soldiers were running right and left to avoid bomb splinters. The bombing was heavy everywhere. An officer came running in with a secret message for Patton that was in a specially sealed envelope and needed to be put directly in his hands. The officer was looking everywhere for Patton. He finally found him sitting in a deck chair, smoking a big cigar while watching the sky.
“‘What are you doing, sir?’ the officer asked. Patton took a puff off the cigar and kept watching the Nazi aircraft fly directly overhead. The officer with the secret letter looked up at the ominous fleet and worried that a bomb would drop on them. Patton shook his fist at the sky and shouted, ‘Those bastards! Those rotten sons of bitches! We’ll get them! We’ll get them!’ The soldier decided that if Patton wasn’t afraid of the German bombers, he wouldn’t be either.”
Edda laughed.
“He inspired us to not be afraid. With a general like that, we were bound to win.”
“Such was his philosophy?” Edda asked.
“Patton hated war, but he knew that if the fight was unavoidable, the only alternative was to win, and that’s what he went for. Absolute victory. He wanted as few casualties as possible and expected the officers under him to maintain the same standard. If a leader lost too many men, he was replaced immediately. That was his philosophy.”
The waiter set my companion’s wine on the table. “Donku schoan,” I said in my broken German.
“Were the soldiers around you happy?” Edda asked.
“A war is no damn party,” I replied. “However, we kept our spirits up and had many good experiences. Patton’s view of morale was that we had to keep moving forward. He believed that once we dug in, we were sitting ducks for German artillery. In his view, the quickest way to get killed was to hunker down. Consequently, staying on the move tended to keep us in a good mood.”
Edda sipped the wine and looked up at the sky. “Night is coming,” she said thoughtfully. “You must understand that the German people have been through a dark night. Many, many people had hoped that Hitler would do great things for this country. Of course, a great number of people believed in his idea of German supremacy. They wanted to feel superior again. Because of this feeling, they ignored what the Nazis did to the Jews. They just looked the other way.” She drifted back into her private thoughts.
I waited a considerable time. Finally, I asked, “Were you like that?”
“Of course!” Edda snapped. “We all were. It took me a long time to realize we had been deceived. When the army failed in Russia, many people began to suspect something was seriously wrong. The cold realization of defeat settled like a fine dust on the windowsill. Probably the vast majority of German people ignored this reality. Hitler kept saying he had a secret weapon that would destroy all our enemies.” After a long pause, she said, “Our enemies destroyed us.”
We sat there and said nothing. Edda’s eyes glazed over, and for a while she seemed to be a different person. “You are a nice person, Frank. I believe I can be honest.” She took a deep breath. “Defeat is bitter.”
43
Berlin at Night
I knew Edda’s questions about General Patton were prompted by more than inquisitive interest. The word floating around Berlin was that Patton’s intense dislike of the Russians and his penchant for off-the-cuff comments could start World War III. The general had never trusted the Soviets and believed that trouble was inevitable. He had always been an astute student of whoever the enemy might be. Because he read Rommel’s book on warfare, Patton knew exactly what to expect when he confronted the German general’s tanks in North Africa. In a similar vein, he carefully observed the ideas, actions, and brutal treatment the Soviets dished out to the Germans. He knew they weren’t from our world and would do the same to us if a conflict erupted.
The rumors suggested that General Eisenhower as well as others worried that if Patton were unleashed, he might light the fuse that would end up in a gigantic explosion. There were many reasons to fear such a confrontation. Americans had been through a horrendous war that was still going on in the Pacific. The Japanese were finished. Moreover, the war across Europe had created catastrophic conditions that left many people struggling to stay alive. Famine remained a frightening possibility for masses of Europeans. Displaced persons, or DPs, were everywhere, seeking shelter and food. I could see all around me in Berlin how many people were close to the edge. A continuing war with the Soviets would push such people over the cliff.
I was sure Edda worried about the prospect of another conflict in Berlin. She’d had enough of war to last three lifetimes and didn’t want to do it all over again. I imagine the gossip caused her to think about General Patton as the logical general to stop the Russians. I tried to assure her that Patton had no intention of starting another war. I told her he loved battle and confrontations, but he was also a prudent person.
Edda stayed with us on our night trips through the American sector. I usually had a driver who was also a military policeman. The three of us roamed the backstreets and alleys making sure nothing was amiss and none of our men were being bad boys. We picked up the usual count of men who’d had one too many beers or still wanted to fight someone and got their teeth knocked out. Just the usual nonsense that the young and stupid got into.
One day, Edda invited me to her apartment for a home-cooked supper. I put on a clean shirt, slicked down my hair, and even buffed my boots. My driver dropped me off at the address she had given me.
Her side of the street was still intact, but across the cluttered thoroughfare, the buildings were smashed. Some looked like a mortar shell had knocked out all the windows and doors; others had clearly been hit by bombs. The sidewalks on Edda’s side of the street were clear, but many of the windows were boarded up, and the results of war were obvious. I started up the steps that led to the second floor. No artificial light clarified where the steps were, so I reached for the banister. Unfortunately, the wooden railing had been broken and the splintered pieces hung loosely against the wall. I kept walking, cautiously.
The second floor didn’t appear to have any working lights either, but I found the door with her number on it. I knocked. The door quickly opened.
“Ah, the American Army has arrived!” Edda exclaimed.
I walked in and gave the place a quick look. It appeared there was only one small bedroom, while the couch in the living room was also a foldaway bed. In some spots, strips of torn wallpaper hung down. A rug on the floor looked like the Russian army had marched over it. But she’d covered the small, round dining table in the middle of the room with a tablecloth, and two candles threw a soft glow across the room. To say the place was third rate was a compliment.
“I see you have placed candles on the table,” I said. “Very nice.”
“They are among the few items we saved when the Russians came bursting in. Some of my mother’s china endured, but most was stolen.” Edda sighed. “We have to make do with what is left.” Her sister lived with her, but she was gone for the evening and would not be back until late. Very late. Edda suggested that I sit down at the table and let her pour me a glass of wine. “Somehow this bottle was overlooked by the raiders and is a nice wine.” She poured me a glass.
“You have lived here long?” I asked.
Edda shook her head. “No, we had a nice house near the edge of Berlin. Unfortunately, it was bombed and completely destroyed. We felt lucky to settle into this apartment before someone else grabbed it. Right now, Berlin is caught up in great confusion about who owns what and who can collect rent. We hope the mess will be cleared up soon.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure your job with us helps in this struggle.”
“Saved my life,” Edda said. “We are grateful to the army for this position.”
“You do a great job. No problems there.”
She smiled broadly. “As you know, food items are hard to come by. But with you and the army store’s help, I have been able to prepare for you a genuine German supper.”
Edda opened the door on the small oven and brought out a steaming bowl of red cabbage. The aroma swept me away.
“Oh, my gosh!” I exclaimed. “My favorite! I love red cabbage.”
“I think you’ll particularly like the way I prepared it. From your store, you bought me the spareribs that give the cabbage flavor. I believe you’ll find it acceptable.”
“Far beyond acceptable,” I said. “Thank you for preparing such a generous supper. I deeply appreciate it all.”
She sat down and lifted her glass. “Let us make a toast to better days.”
Our glasses clinked.
Edda proved to be an excellent cook indeed. The meal was delicious. We laughed, talked, and had a great evening. For the first time in years, I felt like I was home again. Wolfing down C-rations while standing in the freezing cold definitely dulls your taste buds. Edda had certainly touched my sensitivities.
As we were finishing, she reached over and placed her hand on top of mine. “You know . . . I don’t mind being ten years older than you. You have lived through the worst there is, and it has matured you. Ten years is nothing.”
I glanced at Edda’s hand. Her fingers were long and tapered. They had an elegant grace. I could feel her warmth. I knew where this was going.
“Do you have a girl back in America?” she asked.
I forced a kind smile. “Yes, I do.”
“Oh!” she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “What is her name?”
“Alice. Alice Anderson.”
She didn’t remove her hand. “I suppose you will go back to her?”
“I guess so.” Because the letters had become so sparse, I wasn’t sure exactly how to answer and didn’t want to explain.
“Guess?” Edda smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to have a girl in Germany? In Berlin?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I sat there in silence.
“You know that I made mistakes about Hitler and the Nazis,” she said. “That was yesterday. That past is gone forever, and we are here today. We must live in the present, in this moment. Is that not right?”
“I was planning on marrying Alice when I get back. I still have that understanding. I have to be faithful to her. That’s how I’m put together. I try to be a person of my word. I can’t go back on my relationship with Alice. I just can’t.”
Edda started drawing her hand back. “I see,” she said slowly. “I wasn’t thinking of marriage as much as . . . maybe . . . our having a good time together. I can be your German girlfriend. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Edda, one of these days I’ll get my papers telling me to come home. My assignment will be finished, and I’ll be gone. I might not even have the time or the occasion to say good-bye to you. That’s how my life is. In a moment, I’d be finished. You don’t want that, that kind of relationship. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.”
Edda looked down at the tablecloth and shook her head. “I guess not,” she said hesitantly. “I guess not.” She forced a twisted smile. “Looks like the Germans have lost again.”
44
A Little Marriage Counseling on the Side
Edda accepted that I wasn’t looking for a German girlfriend and played my assignments straight up. She remained warm and considerate, but the romantic overtures were finished. She knew that I would continue to treat her well and gladly buy items for her at our depot supply sources.
