The Battle of Aachen

It was September of 1944, the Allies were pushing into Germany from the west, and the Battle of Aachen was about to be fought. This time I was a German citizen, or should I say, we were German citizens, as I was with my wife and her sister too. Our homes had been bombed out, and with nowhere left to turn, we became refugees wandering across the countryside, with only a couple of small suitcases holding all that was left of our meager belongings.

Now, things were not going well for us. I had a brother some seventy kilometers away and we were making for there, but somehow we got turned around and disoriented. We had no compass, as no one had thought to bring one along. We did have a map but just couldn’t find any worthwhile landmarks to place ourselves on it. And if you have ever traveled with two overheated, overtired, and over-argumentative women, well you can only imagine what I was going through. The fighting, the blaming, and the bickering were getting as unbearable as the hot sun shining down on us. To top it all off, I was injured too.

Yes, I had a bad leg, a broken ankle, or just a sprained one, who knew for sure. All I knew is that it hurt like hell. We would make our way for a little while, with me hobbling along, but it would be too painful and I would have to stop often to rest. Progress was awfully slow, and since each of us knew we were the one who was right, but not agreeing on that direction, only made the going more frustrating. I had to stop and rest again.

How did it happen? Why, I stepped on a mine, while I was scouting ahead to protect you two, I might add. The laughter at that from my wife hurt my ears. “Are you kidding me? You idiot! You stepped into a hole because you were not paying attention to where you were walking, as usual. We should have never listened to you, and you know we are going the wrong way, let me see the map again...”

As so it goes on that way, just like that. Speaking of people we should have never listened to, that reminds me of someone. The Fuehrer had always done right by us, I always thought. Put everyone back to work, put food back on the tables, knew how to get things done, he did. Brought pride back to Deutschland, at last after being shamed from that damned Versailles treaty. We could again stand tall and proud. It seemed anyway. Well...war is never good, but sometimes it is necessary, and, on the radio it seemed he had a good reason for everything he was doing. He wanted peace, or so he told us, it was everyone else who dragged us into this. I believed what I was told...

As a loyal citizen I had my copy of Mein Kampf, but you know, I guess I never really read it. Maybe I should have. They say now everything he did was all in there, the attack on Russia, all of it. Really? Didn’t anybody read it? It put me to sleep. The war was okay while we kept winning, it was easy to get caught up in it, the excitement of it all, almost a fever in a way. Every great leader expands his territory, right? Through conquest? It is what is expected, it has happened over and over through history. There was victory after victory, and we started to think we were better, started to really believe it. Now everyone you meet says no, they hated him all along, never liked him from the start. How easy the opinions change as the wind blows the other way. The truth is, we all believed in him.

But things have definitely gone too far now, have gone very, very badly. It was all wrong, terribly wrong. We oughtn’t have done it, any of it, but now it is much too late. He lied to us, he really did, he deceived us. And now it seems the old bastard is determined to drag us all down with him, and I’m not sure where to turn. We really are not bad people, you have to understand this, we just had a bad boss. I never voted for him.

As I rested sitting on the suitcase they started fighting again. I don’t know what started it this time, the direction we are going, who has how much money hidden, or the time of day. They started screaming and hitting each other with their little umbrellas they use for shade. Oh, how these two sisters can fight! At least I am not in the middle of it this time, but the noise, I put my hands on my ears and shook my head, and then painfully rose and tried to pull them apart. “Lets keep going,” I said, and at last they stopped quarreling and we moved on. If it just wasn’t so hot out...

Suddenly we heard a vehicle approaching from behind. A military vehicle, who could it be, the Allies? Should we hide? No, they are some of our boys, speeding past in a kubelwagen. My wife desperately waves for them to stop, and thankfully they do.

The driver screamed at us, “What are you all doing out here? Don’t you know the Allies are behind us? There is going to be all hell unleashed here in a few minutes, you have to get out of here now, get in!”

So we hurried and piled into the kubelwagen, and as we did so I could here a plane flying overhead. I glanced up – it was American. Looked like reconnaissance, an observation plane. As we drove off I started hearing gunfire all around me. There were our boys, German soldiers dug in all around us, some of them taking pot shots at the plane with their rifles. All that time they were right ahead of us, laying in wait. We were much too naive to have even noticed them.

Following in our procession was a troop transport truck, and it pulled in behind the dug in line and parked out of the way, the soldiers inside quickly jumping out. Seeing I had the injured leg, the kubelwagen driver pulled up to the truck and let me out, and I quickly pulled myself into the back of it and out of sight. Hopefully I would be safe there. The kubelwagen sped off again with my wife and sister still on board, where they went to I did not know. Luckily for me there was a medic still in the truck, and he tended to my leg with some first aide supplies. Other than that there was little to do but hunker down and hope I didn’t get hit with the battle closing in.

Out the back of the truck I could see in the distance the Allies approaching. The German soldiers turned their guns in their direction and started firing. I could hear the bursts of automatic machine gun fire, and the deeper booms of artillery guns going off, accompanied by clouds of smoke. The medic finished with my leg and calmly sat on the bench in the truck across from me. How can he be so calm? I am terrified, the shooting is getting closer, and there is nothing really protecting me here in this truck. I laid down on the bench to try to keep a lower profile.

Outside I heard the distinctive sound of a plane coming in and swooping low over the battlefield. That was no spotter plane this time, that was a fighter. I briefly leaned out of the back of the truck to have a look. Yep, a fighter all right, and American. I could see the plane circling around to come in for another pass. I heard the engine sound grow louder as it approached again, and then swooped in, engine screaming, its machine guns blasting at the ground in a successive trail. I saw the bullets cut across several of the men close to me. That was enough for me and I ducked back into the truck. The medic hopped out and started to help the men who were hit.

The Allies drew closer. I could see them through the smoke jump out of their trenches, run closer and duck behind new cover. They also had several jeeps and half-tracks that had approached uncomfortably close. These vehicles had mounted machine guns that were blazing away in my general direction. I heard the tinkle sound of several rounds glancing off the truck. I again went to a prone position on the bench, better to make myself less of a target, even an accidental one. My fear grew as the battle became so close it was enveloping all around me. At this point I no longer cared who won, I just wanted it to end. Again the fighter plane came in for another pass.

(My view looking out from inside the back of the truck. Notice the crowd watching the battle on the right.)

Then I heard a different sound, the sound of metal tracks squeaking and the deep rumble of a diesel engine. I ventured to peer out around the side of the truck again, and off in the distance coming out from between the trees was a Tiger tank, slowly rumbling along towards the battle. Now, here we go! The Allies as far as I could tell didn’t have any heavy armor present, so this should put the Germans at quite the advantage. The Tiger entered the battlefield and started firing its main gun, blasting at the Allied positions in clouds of dust and smoke. The Allies quickly sought cover and began to retreat. Their fighter plane continued to make strafing runs but this was useless against a Tiger tank. It looked like the Tiger had free reign in this battle and the Allies were done for...

But wait, what was this? I heard a loud engine ramping up in the tree line nearby, a tree ripping sound, and then crashing forth from the trees burst an American tank, a Sexton by the looks of it, and it began to pursue the Tiger. All this time the Allied tank had been hidden in the woods right next to our line. How could this of happened? They had waited until the Tiger had passed by so they could pull out behind it. The Tiger crew heard this happen and quickly wheeled their tank around to face this new foe. But the Sexton was moving fast and was already passing the Tiger. That thing really moved!



The Tiger fired over and over but could not make a hit, as it couldn’t turn its turret fast enough keep up with the Sexton. Rotating on its tracks seemed faster than moving the turret. The Sexton was literally moving so fast it was running laps around the Tiger. But eventually their luck ran out and the Tiger scored a hit. It was too much for the Sexton and it came to a halt near some surprised German troops in their trench.

These German ground troops turned their attention to the American tank, lobbing several grenades at it and firing upon those who tried to exit. The fate of the tank crew was not clear but I don’t think there were any survivors. With the American tank out of action the tide of the battle began to turn in the German’s favor. The Allies kept getting pushed back with the Germans advancing to fill in the void. It certainly looked like the Allies were going to lose this round.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. At this point in the war I really didn’t think Germany could win. What was the point in fighting on? How many more people have to lose their homes to the bombs? How many more have to die? My loyalties are torn. Yes, I am German, but part of me wants to see the Allies have their victory so this can all be over with. That would be the best thing I think. But to speak this way would be treason and surely I would be shot. But please, just let it be over soon.

I seemed to be getting my wish, in this battle anyway, as it seemed to be winding down. In the distance I could see the Allies retreating into the woods, with many of them surrendering with their hands in the air. Yes, the German Wehrmacht has won this battle, but I know its not over. The Allies will regroup with reinforcements and will be back. Then it will all happen over again. More shooting, more killing, and more misery. Hopefully I can find my wife and sister and be out of here before then. But where will we go? We have nothing left, no home to go to, no food, hardly any money, and nothing but destruction in every direction we turn. Looking around outside the truck I found my wife lying near a shell crater, and she is not moving. Dear God, no...

The battle participants now spent some time looking for any unspent shell casings lying on the ground. Of course only blanks were used, and the empty shells were spread all over. Then the ropes are dropped, and the crowd, who has been watching the whole battle unfold, are unleashed onto the battlefield. Hundreds of people begin to stream across the ground, the children looking for the spent brass shell casings to keep as souvenirs, and the adults begin talking with the reenactors. I spent some time talking with a few people, and I even posed for some photographs with the other refugees. Quite a crowd had gathered around the Tiger tank, which seemed to be quite a draw. Well it should be, as it was the actual prop tank used in the filming of the movie “Saving Private Ryan”.

As the crowd clustered around the tank, I scanned over the people and noticed an elderly gentleman who had hung back and was watching from a distance. He wore a baseball cap with the distinctive lettering “POW WW II” on it. Ah, here was a real veteran, the real deal, yet no one in the crowd was paying any attention to him. I made my way over to him and struck up a conversation, asking where he had served, and where he had been a POW.

Turns out he participated in the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes area on the western front in 1944. When I asked him how he was captured he laughed, saying it wasn’t too exciting how it happened. Several members of his unit were sleeping in a bunker when their position was overrun by the Germans. Even in a war people have to sleep. They were simply woken up by the Germans and taken prisoner. He was then taken to the Moosberg prisoner of war camp in southern Germany.  This immediately rang a bell with me as I had just finished reading the book “The Longest Winter” by Alex Kershaw, which had specifically mentioned this POW camp.

So I had to ask, “Is it true, what I read, that in that camp the lice were so big you could hear a popping sound when you squeezed them between your fingers?”

“Yes...its true,” he said as he held up his fingers to show just how they would do it. I had to shudder. I just couldn’t imagine being in the camp and going through all that. We talked a few minutes more. He seemed to like my old timey clothes and we even compared the suspenders that we were both wearing. I asked him what he thought of the battle he had just witnessed. He looked out across the battlefield at the people milling about, scratched his chin, and said it was not bad. He added, “But you know, that was over 60 years ago,” and with that he turned and walked away. Whatever issues this veteran may have had from his experiences, it was obvious he had gotten over them and moved on.



I enjoy meeting and talking with these veterans when I can. I feel lucky to have the opportunity to do so as someday there won't be many left. In my eyes truly the Greatest Generation.

All color photos by Rey.
All black and white photos courtesy of the Lockport Township Park District. 

A House that Nobody Wants

As Lori and I were taking a drive out in the country last summer we came across this house. I have seen these before, and I have named them a “House that Nobody Wants”. This one is a good example of an American Foursquare, probably built in the early 1900’s, and in this rural setting, a classic prairie farmhouse.

So what happened? Looking around provided a few clues. The mailbox by the road had the names of a couple on it, and was itself the model of a little house, probably built by the owner. Now it was smashed off its pole and hanging precariously above a little flowerpot. Maybe these names were an older couple that had lived in the house? Maybe they had passed on, leaving the place to heirs who didn’t care much for an old farmhouse? Whatever the case this house was now sitting empty and neglected. They don’t last long empty like this, and within a few years a house can become uninhabitable and beyond being able to save it.

I have a little daydream of finding such a house, one that nobody wants, a nice farmhouse out in the country, and fixing it up as a nice little place to live (hopefully complete with a barn out back for various Red Barchettas). This one didn’t seem too far gone yet, it seemed like there was hope for it, and I wrote down the address to try and look up some information on it later. Of course, not really ready to move just yet, I ended up forgetting about it.

Recently I remembered the house again and decided to drive by and see how it was doing. And it was...gone. Just like that. Vanished. I had to check that I was in the right place, but yes, this was the spot alright, and looking closer I could see the filled in spot where the foundation used to be. And this really bothered me. In this age of McMansions and crammed, look alike subdivisions, that a house like this, a house with some history, some character, would just be considered surplus to society and of no use. Give it to me for a good price and I would have fixed it up. Oh well, another one gone, there are not too many of these left in this area.

I really like this photo, as it was probably the last one taken of a house with a hundred years of history including the joys, struggles, and lives of the people who lived there. I wonder who they all were? How did their stories unfold?

-Rey

BMW Motorcycle

Here's something for the motorcycle fans out there. Here I am last weekend perched on an old BMW motorcycle with sidecar, this one built in the 1940's for the German Army. I believe this is an R75 model, complete with an 8mm machine gun mounted on the sidecar. Notice even back then the horizontally opposed boxer cylinders BMW's are known for.



(Of course this is the way I made most my way across France, on this stolen cycle, until it broke down and I had to ditch it)

Part 2: The Partisan Attack

This is Part 2 of the story, if you have not read Part 1, "The Occupation", which can be found in this blog, please read it first.


Part 2: The Partisan Attack


We were proud to have our small resistance group, consisting of myself, Pierre, and several other men from town, formed and beginning operations. One problem was that we were all not quite sure what these operations should be. We had a couple of meetings in a hidden location during the dead of night to discuss it. The first meeting someone brought a jug of whiskey, which was generously passed around, and as a result not much else was accomplished that night.

The next meeting we discussed how we could try to disrupt day to day life for the Germans. We could sabotage communications in the area by cutting telephone wires and power lines. We could also try to damage equipment, such as slashing tires on vehicles, putting sand in petrol tanks, cutting horses loose, and other ideas similar to those. It was also decided to try and build a radio transmitter so we could keep in touch with other groups in the area, since telephones were now unreliable and most likely tapped. Maybe with a transmitter we could even contact England, but that I think was a bit of wishful thinking. The first thing the others wanted to do was start up a newspaper, just a single sheet one, to help spread the ideas and attract other members. That sounded okay, I supposed, but Pierre and I were looking for something with a little more action.

I brought up my intention to attack the head Nazi officer and his accomplices at the cafe. Immediately everyone was very cool to the idea. Nobody seemed to want to commit to what they said was a hasty, dangerous task. They understood why I was angry, and what my motivations were, but in the end the others advised against it. They said it was just too risky for a new, small group like ours to pull it off. Instead they suggested popping the tires on the car he was using, or throwing rocks through the window of the bedroom he was sleeping in. I shook my head at them. This sounded like child’s play to me. Pierre was the only one on my side, so if we did it, we would have to do it alone.

I knew if I really wanted to get the Nazi officer I would need to have a plan, so after the meeting, at home, Pierre and I talked it over. The real problem was that we did not have any weapons, no guns at all. The Germans had confiscated them all when they arrived. There were rumors of a few hidden guns at some of the outer farms, but it would be too risky to get one and bring it back into town, plus we weren’t exactly sure where they were. We decided we needed a gun, and the best way to get one was to steal one from the Germans. There was usually a group of soldiers drinking at the outdoor cafe, and they always leaned their rifles up against a tree just behind them. I could sneak up and take one when they were not looking. Pierre had other ideas too, he was going to try and obtain a German Wehrmacht uniform. A plan was starting to come together.

It worked splendidly. Silently I walked down the boardwalk behind the tree by the outdoor cafe and could see the soldiers at the tables, drinking and talking amongst themselves. Some of their guns, as I was hoping, were leaning up against the tree. I casually reached out and picked up a rifle, just like that. If seen I was going to say that it had fallen over and I was only righting it back to its place. I hesitated just a moment, to listen for any reaction, and hearing none I held the rifle parallel to the side of my far leg, out of view up against it, moving it with the motion of my steps. Reaching the end of the boardwalk, I turned the corner around the end of the building, and was out of sight in a flash. Once safely hidden, I examined the gun more closely. It was a Karabiner 98k, the standard German service rifle, and it was loaded with five rounds. Yes, this would do very nicely. I noticed the year 1918, the date of manufacture, stamped on the barrel. Interesting, this weapon was made at the end of The Great War, and here it was being used again in the next.

Pierre had some good luck too. He couldn’t obtain a whole uniform, but he was able to trade some bottles of whiskey with a low rank grunt soldier for a pair of uniform trousers and black boots. They were the plain wool green trousers all the soldiers were wearing. It was half a uniform anyway, and Pierre had an idea how to get the rest. Down the street a short distance from the cafe near a wagon was a place where a guard was posted every day. This soldier had injured his hand, he had cut it while using a can opener, and it was bandaged up. He would not be able to put up much of a fight. He also had a rifle. If we could take him out, to mug him or something, we would be able to get the needed uniform jacket, cap, and another rifle at the same time. It was risky, but we felt it would be worth the effort.

We proceeded with the plan. I hid the rifle I had stolen previously around the corner of the building in some bushes, near where the soldier with the injured hand was standing. We made sure that the Nazi officer that I wanted to get was present at the outdoor cafe. We did this by casually walking down the street and pretending to inquire about the price of a drink. No one seemed to notice us. He was there all right, the Nazi who killed my parents, seated at a table. We doubled back around the building and prepared to mug the guard from behind. We would have to move fast, get him out of sight and his uniform jacket off, before he was missed.



It was now or never. We rushed up around the corner, Pierre ahead of me, and without hesitating he grabbed the German soldier from behind, covering his mouth with his hand so he could not cry out. Bracing the back of the guard’s neck with his other arm, Pierre quickly pulled back on his head, and I heard a little crack, and the soldier went limp as he lost consciousness. I took his rifle, and together we dragged him around the corner of the building. Pierre was already wearing the traded for trousers and black boots, and he undid the buttons on the man’s tunic as fast as he could, with that on and with the cap he would appear just like the guard. I ran over to the bush to retrieve the other stashed gun, and Pierre followed, buttoning up the tunic we had just stolen from our victim.

“How do I look?” he asked with a wary half smile.

“Not bad, that will do. Now hurry, take both of the guns.” I replied back to him.

He slung one gun over his shoulder, and held the other in his right hand. Then he grabbed me by the arm with his left, and yanked me along onto the street towards the cafe. The plan was to have Pierre appear to be the posted guard, and he had just caught me with the rifle stolen earlier from the cafe, and he was bringing me in under arrest. We got within six meters of the cafe tables and I glanced up, seeing my intended target, just as he, the Nazi officer, also glanced up. He looked pleased with what he saw; the offender who had stolen the gun had been apprehended, good work to his eyes, and he started to nod with approval.



Suddenly my hands sprang into action. Quick as lightning I grabbed the rifle out of Pierre’s hand, aimed it at the Nazi officer and pulled the trigger. I could see a look of confusion on his face as my gun fired with a crack. Quickly I pulled back the bolt, ejected the shell, shoved the bolt forward and fired again. Over and over again I fired, working the bolt back and forth as fast as I could, changing my aim slightly with each shot. On my cue Pierre had retrieved the other gun from his shoulder, and had also opened fire, shooting just as quickly as I was, although I hardly noticed him.



During the chaos that ensued it was hard to tell exactly what was happening, it was all moving so fast. Soldiers were falling, the tables were overturning, and people were shouting and running. Some of the Germans were scrambling and reaching for their guns. We had figured between the two of us we should be able to hit all the enemies present at the cafe, and then make a clean getaway. A silence suddenly descended, our rifles only held five rounds each, and we were both out of ammo.





Just then I heard a sound behind me and turned to look. Two German soldiers had heard the shots and were hurrying down the street towards us. We weren’t going to be escaping that way. In front of us at the cafe a couple of the soldiers had risen to their feet, one with a rifle, the other with a pistol. Suddenly this all seemed like a really bad dream, we were trapped. Looking for any kind of cover, I ducked behind the nearby wagon.



Crouching, I fumbled with and tried to reload my gun, in a futile attempt. Shots rang out, as I inevitably knew they would. No warning shots this time. I saw Pierre fall further out on the street. I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen, and clutched at my stomach as I slowly went down on the pavement.



This is it, I thought, this is the end for me. And what was I doing here? Why did I try to do this foolish act? For revenge, for pride? In the end it will not help. I might get some of them, but then they will only send more. I was only lowering myself to their level. I wasn’t even sure if I had hit the Nazi officer, the killer, it all happened so fast. I really didn’t even care anymore. Why was any of this happening? Had the world gone crazy?



The Germans dragged me closer to the cafe, inspecting my wounds. I lay there on my back, gasping for breath. They stood above me, I could see their faces looking down at me. 1918. That’s all I could think of. It was the year engraved on the barrel of my rifle. I had noticed it when I was loading it earlier. 1918, the year The Great War had ended. We had already settled all this, it was over, there was supposed to be peace. Why was it happening again? Had we maybe, somehow, gone too far?

Had we been like the big kids on the playground, kicking Germany into submission, so even when he lay there, beaten and bloody, we kept on kicking, making demands for money and reparations that could never be fulfilled? Until he became so poor, so hungry, so desperate to survive, that he looked to someone, [i]anyone[/i], who could promise to turn things around and help him back up on his feet. Only this time the kid was different, this time he looked up at his alleged oppressors with an icy stare and a half smile that made the big kids pause, and step back with a chill running up their spine.

And then, as I lay there, the spreading darkness overtook me, as it did the world.


Alors que la nuit descend sur moi, je me demande si je vais jamais voir la lumière du jour nouveau. Mon cœur se remplit de désespoir.

The Occupation, June 1940 in the north of France

The Occupation




June 1940, in the north of France,

What was happening to my country was beyond belief. For several days I had been traveling, first by motorcycle, until that broke down, and then briefly by train, but that too came to a halt. Then it was on foot, trying to make my way across the countryside, trying to avoid the main roads. I have come from Lyon, where I reside in the south, and making my way north, back to the farm where I grew up, to help my father and mother during this situation, to see, to know, that they will be okay. I was unmarried, there was no family to depend on me in Lyon, so leaving was not a difficult choice in those times of turmoil, to go and try to protect the family that I did have.

The war had not been going well for France, that I knew, but I was not expecting this. Nobody seemed to know anything for sure. Passing west of Paris, the roads were filled with people walking, carrying suitcases, with carts full of belongings, and weary looks on their faces. Those few with automobiles were not getting anywhere any faster, and I had seen several stalled out, out of petrol and blocking the road. One father was out of his vehicle offering any amount of money for some gasoline, but there was none to be had, while his worried family waited in the car. I wondered what would happen to them.

They were evacuating from the city. But really, did it have to come to that? Could it really be that bad? My eyes saw people everywhere, on the roads trying to get away, but not a single German soldier. I asked them over and over what is going on, what have you heard, but always they don’t know, always only the rumors that the Germans are coming. But I thought, no, it cannot be, France cannot fall, it is just a panic, people were being irrational. I refused to believe it. After that I stayed away from the roads, traveling instead across the fields, finding a barn to sleep in when I needed to.

Finally I made it to my parents’ farm, on the outskirts of a small town near Caen. At least it was where the farm was supposed to be, but something was very, very wrong. Their house, the house that I grew up in, was gone, burned to the ground. There was nothing left but a pile of sooty ashes and the naked chimney reaching up to the sky. There I stood feeling horrified and confused.

In the field in front of the house’s remains there were tents set up, a camp, with men milling about. I could see their horses and their bicycles, and their guns. There was a sign posted, it read “353 Infanterie”. It was the Germans. They were here. But why? Why in my little hometown? There was nothing here of any significance. I cannot believe it. Keeping my head down I walked past the camp, trying not to attract any attention. My thoughts were to make my way into town and try to find someone I knew, to learn what happened to my farm, to find out where my parents were.



Making it safely past the camp, shortly later I came upon something else that did not belong. Now what was this, a small striped guard shack at the side of the road, manned by two soldiers? It was a German checkpoint. They were trying to control who enters and who leaves the village, and probably searching everyone too. This didn’t sit well with me, people should be able to go where they want, well, except these Germans. Already I could feel my freedoms slipping away. I wondered what I should do. Go back, and try to go around somehow? That would look very suspicious, and besides, I had nothing to hide, so I proceeded up to the checkpoint.



At first the guards didn’t seem to notice me, and I thought I might just walk on through. But then they looked up, and shouted, “Halt!” and then demanded to see my papers. I wondered what they were so angry about. Luckily I had my “Carte Identité”, or identity card, in my pocket. It was issued in Lyon, and authorized to travel to Caen, so everything was legal and should be okay. Nervously I watched their beady eyes slowly go over the card. I decided to instead look down, and started to count the holes in the worn leather of my wing tip shoes. The weather was warm, and I could smell the odor of the German, and it was apparent he had not bathed in some time, it reminded me of how the bears smelled at the zoo.


My identification card


Being much bigger than these two Germans, I felt like I could knock them down with my fists, and show them who is boss. I thought about the burned house, and could feel the anger welling up within me. But no, they had rifles, and the commotion would surely attract attention from the nearby camp. No, it was best to cooperate, for now anyway. Just like that, he handed me back my identity card, grunted something, and motioned me to move along. Well, I thought, that wasn’t so bad after all, maybe I can get along with them. I nodded back to him and continued on my way down the street into town.

From the bushes I heard a whisper, “Hey Rey, over here!”

Finally a friendly face, it was Pierre, my boyhood chum, mon ami from when I was growing up. I was really glad to see him. We went and sat together at a picnic table under the shade trees, making sure no one was nearby to hear, and he filled me in on the situation. The Germans had come, and some of the officers were staying in the nicer houses in town. The owners had no choice and had to accommodate them. Some of the local girls were even starting to glance and smile at the occupiers. It was really all too much to bear.

“But Pierre, what about my parents, where are they? Have you seen them?” I asked him.

He looked down, and shook his head very slowly. “I am very sorry” he answered, “but they did not make it”

I was shocked, and tears started to fill my eyes. No! I was there to help them, they can’t be gone, they just can’t. Things were going from bad to worse. I buried my face in my hands.

He explained how my parents did not want to give up their farm, that my father resisted and tried to fight them off. A German officer, now the commander of the village, had pulled out a pistol from his belt, and with a smile on his face, shot both of my parents dead point blank. This officer, described as short and mean, was staying in a house here in town, and could often be found drinking at the local cafe. I decided there and then to avenge my parents’ death, to hunt down and kill this Nazi officer who was responsible, no matter what it takes.

Pierre could see that I was distraught and upset. Knowing I had nowhere to go, he invited me to come and stay with him at his house here in town. It was a good old house, but was in poor condition, needing a whitewashing, so the Germans were not interested in staying there, and had left it alone. When we arrived we had a good meal, some wine that he still had left, and then set down to talking. I told him how I wanted to get that officer, the merciless killer, to relieve the village of that presence. He understood, and said that he would help me.


Pierre's house


I stayed there in the house keeping a low profile, and a couple of weeks passed by. We heard on the radio that the armistice had been signed, and the war was all but over. France had lost, of course, and the Germans outside were here to stay. It was a reality that was hard to deal with. I thought for sure the British would have come to our aide, and I’m not sure what happened to them. We all sat on our haunches and watched as it happened to Poland, and now the world seemed to only watch as it happened to us too. Oh, will the madness ever end?

One day I was walking through town and I saw him. There he was, the short Nazi officer, my new nemesis, the one who had pulled the trigger against my family. He looked up and saw me too. I guessed he didn’t like that I was bigger than he was, and felt the need to exercise his authority, to hassle me and give me a hard time. Kind of like how a little dog needs to make a lot of noise to make himself bigger than he is. This cocky little officer started shouting at me and demanded to see my papers.



As he looked over my card, like at the checkpoint earlier, I began to get angrier and angrier. It was plain to see how big I am compared to this little pipsqueak. I could easily pound his Nazi face into the pavement, if it wasn’t for his big rifle, and his buddies close by keeping watch. No, I must bide my time until the opportunity is right...



Just then, I turned and ran. I did not mean to do it, it just kind of happened, like an involuntary reaction. I don’t think I was afraid of him, no, that was not it. I was more afraid of myself, of my anger, of what I was thinking of doing to him at that moment. I had to get away before I did something I could not control. Behind me I heard a shot ring out from his rifle. I fully expected a sharp pain to shock me somewhere on my body, but I did not feel it. Luckily for me, he had only fired a warning shot into the air. It was enough though to bring me to my senses, and I stopped, and raised my arms in surrender.





He laughed, saying, “The big guy is not so tough after all!”
Arresting me himself would be beneath him, so he had one of his underlings do it instead. An even shorter German grabbed me by the arm and led me away to another group of soldiers, and they made me drop to my knees while they searched me, kicked me, and humiliated me in front of onlookers.



Then I was taken to the nearby jail. There I had some time to consider what I had done. They did let me out later that same day, since I had not really done anything, but really I think they just didn’t want to have to feed me.

Back at my new home, Pierre reprimanded me for my careless actions. He explained how running away could have ended very badly. I was lucky the Germans were in a good mood because of their victory. Pierre then told me that he and some of the other men in town were thinking of forming a resistance group, to do whatever they could, to resist the occupiers. He had heard talk in town that similar groups were beginning to form all over. We would resist in a planned organized way, to maximize the effectiveness and minimize the danger. This all sounded good to me, so I told him to count me in. It would definitely help me with my plan to get that Nazi officer.

To be continued with Part 2: The Partisan Attack


Le Occupation: Que les ce qui ne peut pas être changé doit être enduré. Courir Rey courir!

Anzio 1944

The following story may seem way, way out there, but it is all true, I swear it, every word I tell really happened to me over the Memorial Day weekend a few days ago, as unbelievable as it may sound.

As promised, the story of my weekend continues…

The time machine has now transported me to Civitavecchia, Italy, and it remains 1944, in the midst of World War II. My name is Giovanni, and I am an Italian citizen. I am also a partisan, a member of the Italian resistance, and a spy. My group understands the Germans and their occupation are not good for Italy. We also know il Duce is not good for Italy. My sympathy lies with the Allies, and I help them any way I can.

Now I am waiting to board the train bound for Anzio, Italy, the Anzio Express, to meet with the rest of my resistance group, who are waiting for me there. It is a cool day, dark and cloudy, and the rain is falling, lightly but seemingly without end. There are a lot of German soldiers milling about on the railway platform, which makes me uncomfortable, and as luck would have it, it seems I have booked passage on what looks to also be a German troop train. It’s too late to change my plans now, I have to take the risk and ride the train.

It is time to board. The long line of people start climbing the steps into the cars and find their seats. I slip in among them, and although the train is filling fast, I find an empty seat where I can sit alone. I try to pick a car where no German soldiers are sitting. So far so good, and the train begins to slowly pull away. I take a look around me at the other passengers. Everyone seems to look pretty normal, and I relax a bit and lean back in my seat. A girl comes down the aisle, asking for and stamping the tickets.

Suddenly there is a German soldier at my seat. I try to look out the window and ignore him, but he demands to see my identification card. I take it out of my jacket pocket and hand it to him. My ID is a forgery, but it is in the new style with the blue cover, as opposed to the old white ones that are easy to counterfeit. I hope that it fools him, and I slowly look up at his face as he is looking it over. Then he barks, “Come with me”, and yanks me out of my seat by my jacket, and roughly pushes me ahead of him down the aisle. I see the faces of the other passengers look up to see what the commotion is, and then I am pushed into the next car, brought to another seat, and told to sit down. This car has many German troops in it, and apparently they are suspicious of me and want to keep an eye on me. My ID card, however, is returned to me. Maybe it has worked and fooled them after all.

My Italian identification card:


I take a look around at my new surroundings, troops are here and there, mixed with some normal civilians. Behind me is a mother with her young son of about nine years old. I lean back in my seat and check the bulge in my suit jacket inside pocket, in it is hiding a Walther P38 pistol. I am beginning to wonder if I should have brought it on the train at all, and not pitched it in the weeds. Ah well, it might still come in handy. I look out the window at the passing rural farm fields. The rain continues to fall, it has been a very rainy season, and there is much pooling of the water in the fields. A light fog is also setting in. The clacking of the train wheels and the faint conversations around me almost begins to lull me to sleep, but I cannot let that happen, still my eyelids start to droop.

Suddenly the train lurches, the brakes have been applied hard, and my eyes dart open wide awake, something is happening. The troops in the car all rise to their feet and begin looking out the far windows across the aisle from me. I stand up to have a look at what the spectacle is, there is nothing around here, no station to stop for, nothing but wet soggy fields. Then I see them, two figures in army uniforms hurrying across the field. My eyes widen, and I catch my breath. Americans! They have come this far? How did they get here? I squint and take a closer look, but it is hard to see in the rain and fog. They are airmen I think, pilots, shot down and parachuted to the ground, and they are probably lost.

The German commander is shouting orders, and a group of soldiers all detrain, loading their weapons. We are all watching from the windows. The airmen do not put up a fight, and I see their arms raised in surrender to the advancing Germans. They approach and hold their guns on them, and begin searching the Americans. They seemed to stand there for the longest time, such a somber scene with all the dark clouds, fog, and rain falling all around them.

Finally the two captured airmen are brought aboard the train, and we are off on our way again. Just as the train is leaving I catch a glimpse of something at the edge of the field. It is a soldier, lying on the ground, hiding in the weeds. I look harder, and there are more with him, all hiding, more Americans I think. I look around, and it does not appear as if anyone else has spotted them. All except the boy behind me, who has seen them also, and he tells his mother. But he is just a boy after all, and the mother does not seem to take him too seriously. The American prisoners are brought through our car down the aisle, and I stare at them with all the others, to not look would be suspicious of me. I try to make eye contact, but they are looking down and do not see me. The boy tries to get the passing German soldier’s attention, but he ignores him. If only the boy would keep quiet!

The prisoners are kept moving and are taken into the next car. Everything seems quiet again and the train continues down the track. The same German who had moved me to this seat starts walking down the aisle. As he passes the boy tugs on his sleeve to get his attention, and the soldier stops. The boy then tells him everything that he saw, that there was another soldier hiding in the weeds. I think to myself, the boy is a traitor, please keep quiet and do not tell. But really he is thinking he is doing the right thing, after all Italy is allied with Germany, or was, and many no longer know where their loyalties should lie.

I speak up and tell the German the boy is young, he does not know what he is talking about, and he is making up stories. I tell him I also saw what he saw, it was a scarecrow that had fallen down in the field, it is nothing and pay the boy no mind. The German responds to me by saying, “What are you, a funny man?”, and then punches me in the stomach. I slouch over in pain, and I’m afraid it is too late to diffuse the situation. I might have just made a big mistake, as now they are taking the boys words very seriously. The train once again is stopped, and we begin backing up.

Shortly we arrive at the same field where we picked up the airmen. Many German soldiers get off the train with their rifles and begin looking around. The boy points to where he had seen the soldiers, who seem to be gone. There is nothing but the sound of the rain drumming on the roof. Suddenly I hear the crack of gunfire. It’s the Americans! They have launched an attack, it’s an ambush! Some of the Germans outside are caught unaware and are cut down by the bullets. But they soon begin returning fire, and it is all gunshots and confusion, soldiers running this way and that. More Germans get off the train to join the fight. We are all watching from the windows, I suppose we should be getting down for cover in case of a stray bullet, but we are all in awe watching what is unfolding before us.

The Americans seem to be getting the upper hand. They are well concealed and can shoot the Germans as they get off the train. The fighting goes on for around fifteen minutes, and the Germans are losing many men. So far the Americans are not targeting the train itself, because of the civilians inside. The German commander does not want to fire from the windows, or the train itself could become a target. The Germans do not know how many Americans are out there hiding, the commander is unsure what to do, and finally decides to surrender. The Germans all throw down their guns and raise their arms.

I cannot believe this has happened! The Americans board the train, and have the German commander at gunpoint, and go through the cars, taking the guns they find. I wonder what they are going to do next, take the whole train? What about the civilians? Should I tell them who I am? Before I can decide what to do, it is over. The Americans take back their captured prisoners, leave the train, and are gone. I think that there were not as many of them as the Germans had thought. This is an embarrassment for the Germans, they should not have allowed such a small force to overcome them. They quickly regroup themselves, rearm, and get the train moving again, hoping to pretend none of this ever happened.

This whole time, the boy sitting behind me, the little tattletale, was in complete awe of the battle. Once we were safely away, that original German soldier came back to thank him for telling about what he had seen. Apparently this soldier never got off the train to help fight, and came through unscathed. But now the Germans were very suspicious of me. Why did I try to talk them out of turning around? Obviously I must have known something.

They came to me and demanded to see my identity papers again. I handed them the card, then they asked how did I know about the Americans? They began pawing at my jacket, trying to search my pockets. Surely they would find my pistol. What to do, what to do? Before I could decide, I had my right hand wrapped around the P38 pistol’s grip, and started to pull it out from my pocket. Will I shoot? It didn’t matter because I couldn’t get the gun out. The cocking lever on the back was caught in the corner of my jacket pocket. It was completely stuck. The more I pulled and struggled with it, the more caught it became. By now the German was shouting for help, and trying to get the gun away from me. The commander rushed in, in his long leather trench coat, and calmly unhooked the gun from my pocket, and held it in the air for all to see, “See? He is a spy!”

Two Germans roughly pulled me out of my seat and led me down the aisle to an area between two cars. There they gave me quite a beating with their rifle butts. Then, slouched over and staggering in pain, I was led back to my seat, where I was left with a guard. I looked at the boy, who seemed satisfied with this turn of events, and muttered to him, “That German is lucky my gun was stuck in my pocket!” My guard told me to shut up and punched me in the stomach. The rest of the trip I stayed hunched over and kept to myself, and we arrived in Anzio without further incident.

I was expecting to detrain and be further interrogated by the Germans. When we pulled into the station, to my amazement, my guard got up and left. No one seemed to be paying attention to me at the moment, so I slipped into the crowd, got off the train, and was free. I’m sure some heads will roll because I got away, but that was not my problem. I set out to find my comrades at the set meeting place.

Upon reuniting with my resistance group, they filled me in on the current situation. One of our female members has been able to obtain valuable information about the location of German positions, but unfortunately she has been captured. She will be traveling through the area on a trolley with two German guards. Our mission is to stop the trolley, overcome the guards, and get our girl off.

The rest of my group was able to obtain an automobile, and the plan was to park the car next to the tracks, raise the bonnet, and pretend we are broken down and working on the motor. Since my pistol was taken, my friends gave me an MP 40 Maschinenpistole stolen from the Germans. We all assumed our positions on a hidden curve of the tracks and waited for the trolley to arrive. I hid my gun behind my legs so the trolley driver would not see it.

After a while we could hear the trolley approaching. We tensed and got ready, looking down at the car and tinkering with it. Two of us had hidden their rifles in a pile of sticks and made like they were carrying it as firewood. The trolley slowed down, not sure what to make of this scene. One of our group raised his rifle, and fired a warning shot into the air. Then the rest of us all raised our guns menacingly. The trolley hit the brakes and screeched to a stop. One of our guys jumped into the trolley and held the German guards at gunpoint. They were so startled, and seeing all of us outside backing him up, they surrendered without a fight, and came out with their hands up. I grabbed the first one and led him away, then we got our girl out, and I urged her to “Go! Go!”, and she ran away, safe.

I was leading away the second guard off the trolley when I saw them. A row of German troops hiding in the weeds at the top of a nearby hill. Only then did I realize the error of my ways. How could I have been so foolish! Of course they let me go so easily from the train so they could follow me and find the core group. They opened fire on us as the shocked passengers on the trolley watched from the windows. We were hopelessly outnumbered so I began to run towards a nearby tree for cover, squeezing off a couple of rounds at the Germans as I ran. As I reached the tree I felt a burning sensation in my right shoulder blade. I had been hit. I had never been shot before and always wondered what it felt like, but what I can tell you now is that it burns, like someone is holding a fire to your skin. I scrambled behind the tree, crouched down, aimed the MP-40 and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The weapon had jammed. I fiddled with the bolt, desperately pulling it back, trying to get the gun to function, but it was hopeless. I was not having any luck with guns today.

Looking out I could see most of my group had also been hit, lying in different places, with a couple stragglers still shooting at the Germans. I started feeling weak and dizzy, and fell on my back, I couldn’t stay upright any longer. Breathing heavily, I stared up into the sky, and felt the tall grass up against the sides of my face. It became strangely quiet just then, the Germans had won the battle, and were starting to search the bodies. I looked again at the trolley, at the startled eyes of the passengers inside staring back at me. I hope they know that I did it for them, that I did it for Italy, for freedom, and against German oppression. I hope our girl got away, to deliver the information to the Allies, and I think I know that she did.

The trolley’s bell clanked twice, and then drove away down the track out of sight. I suddenly felt much better, and I got up from the ground. I was pleased to see the other members of my group also getting up, and brushing themselves off. Some of the Germans were even helping them up, giving them a hand, and we all exchanged grins as we did so. The Germans went back to hide in the weeds. We assumed our positions near the car once again, because we could hear another trolley coming down the track. Our girl is back in there and needs to be saved again. We would perform the trolley skit multiple times throughout the afternoon.

I said at the beginning of this story that every word is true, and it is, with a little imagination of course. We were volunteer reenactors putting on a show for the public at the train museum with some World War II historical significance. There were even some World War II veterans there that day watching. We were using blanks in the guns, so they sounded real enough, and my left ear is still ringing. We lost that small fight, but later in the weekend there was a feature battle where the Allies were victorious.

I know this is a long story, but I wrote it for fun, and for those of you with the patience to make it to the end (all 3 of you), thanks!

So this is what I did over the Memorial day weekend. I could of done all that…or went to a barbecue.

A photo of our little band of resistance fighters. Who is that guy on the far left that looks like Tom Joad? That is yours truly, Rey.

North Platte Canteen

Okay Foodies, here is what I did over the Memorial Day weekend. The train museum near me was having a special event, so I went along and took a trip in the time machine, the destination: Nebraska 1944. It was a recreation of a wartime troop train making a stop at the famous North Platte Canteen, complete with tables of treats and many good things to eat:



In the book section I briefly mentioned I was reading “Once Upon a Town”, a book all about the story of the North Platte Canteen, the legendary railroad stop where during the war dozens of volunteers took the time to prepare food and snacks for the troops heading by rail across the country. They were nervous young men, many leaving home for the first time, and heading off to war and a future that was uncertain. This was the way for the people of Nebraska to show their appreciation to them for what they were about to do. For the troops, it was one last taste of kindness and compassion before the ugliness of war, a little bit of heaven before the hell to come. I can only imagine what it must have been like to pull in to the station and find that surprise waiting.



I had read the book the week before, and now it was here unfolding right before my eyes. I was one of the volunteers at the museum, and I was dressed in period clothing so I would blend in as one of the townspeople, here waiting to greet and welcome the troops.

Before me were the tables of goodies, and what a mouth watering sight it was. There were dozens of sandwiches: ham, turkey, and peanut butter ‘n’ marmalade. There were home made cookies of all flavors, chocolate chip muffins, a birthday cake, donuts, rice crispy treats, bags of popcorn, and popcorn balls. Along with all that, there were also oranges, apples, hard boiled eggs, Hershey bars, and chewing gum. Hungry yet? And to wash it all down, hot coffee, Coke in the little bottles, juice, and my favorite, cucumber water. Cucumber water? Yes, this was a new one on me too, it’s a trick to make well water taste better, you float some cucumber slices in the water (with no sugar added), and it masks the well water taste. A note about the items, most were home made using vintage wartime ration recipes, so some things I didn’t even recognize.



Suddenly we heard a train horn in the distance. The troop train was arriving! The Platform Girls grabbed their baskets of goodies and hurried forward to greet the troops. The train slowly pulled in to the station and came to a stop. The troops poured out of the cars, smiles on their faces, and came forth to receive their happy surprise. One soldier hugged one of the girls, sweeping her off her feet, twirling her round and round. Then it was all eating, laughter, handshakes, hugs, and good times for all.





So, did I get to try any of the goodies? After all, it was for the service men, not regular civilians like me. But in the end there was plenty for all, and after a while a Platform Girl came to me with her basket and offered me a treat. I said, “Only if there is enough for the boys first”, and she assured me that there was, she had already been around to them all three times. So I began to dig in! Everything was absolutely delicious. The unique recipes used meant everything tasted different than what you get at the store, or even from a bakery. I ended up eating a small sample from just about everything (except the meat sandwiches, which were gone). It was a very memorable eating experience.



At one point a girl came around and offered me a popcorn ball. I had read in the book about these popcorn balls, and they are a very special item. Back in the day, single girls would put their name and address on a little piece of paper and hide it in a popcorn ball, so a lonesome soldier could have a pen pal and someone to write to. The popcorn balls ended up being responsible for at least two marriages I read about, maybe even more. “Somehow we find each other” Indeed! So I slowly ate my popcorn ball, wondering what I might find inside, and sure enough there was a little note inside. What a nice surprise that brought a smile to my face:


(All photos by Rey)

But that is not all! It was time to enter the time machine once again, next stop: Anzio, Italy. To be continued...