It was May 10th, 1944, and we were on our way to Fresnes Prison in Paris, France. There were 6 of us: 3 Americans, 2 Canadians, and a Brit under the watchful eye of 3 German guards. As the train sped toward our destination, one of the guards, who spoke good English, asked us why we were fighting the war. He thought Hitler knew best and the world should follow his leadership. We tried to explain to him how much we valued our freedom and didn’t want Hitler to tell us what to do. We told him that in our country our freedom meant that we could even talk against the government. This was a concept that the German guard could not understand. “In Germany,” he said, “you would be shot if you spoke out against the Third Reich.” 

When we arrived at the prison, we were a bit surprised as each of the guards shook our hands and expressed hope that our comrades would soon come for us. I think they were eagerly awaiting an expected end to the war. Hitler was losing: he had already lost Africa, and now bombs were dropping on Berlin. Most of the countries of the world were allied in the defeat of Germany. I’m sure they were sick and tired and, like us, just wanted to go home to their families.

 

The six of us were placed in a cell with two Frenchmen. One of them was experiencing his second time in prison, after having been incarcerated as a political prisoner during WW I. Every day the Frenchmen would receive food parcels from home that included a lot of cheese. They were very generous and made sure that everyone had something to eat. One day, the food parcel contained cheese that had maggots in it. As usual, the Frenchmen offered a serving, but I was very leery about eating it. So one of the Frenchmen graciously ate the maggots and gave me the “de-loused” chunk of cheese. I gratefully ate it without a second thought.

 

The same Frenchman would occasionally become upset and start ranting about how the Americans were only in France to make time with the French girls and weren’t interested in the debarkment. “One day,” he would say, “the debarkment will come.” Turning to the East, he would say with a kick of his foot, “Then, out goes the labarsh!” Then, turning and kicking to the West, he would continue with, “Out go the Americans!” I find it interesting that, to this day, the French seem to still maintain this same attitude.

 

Each day, we would be let out for exercise. One day, on the other side of the wall, I could hear someone singing the song “Always” in very good English. Later, in the latrine, I got on the prison intercom system (talking through the pipes that connected to latrines on the other levels) and asked about whom I had heard singing. Surprisingly enough the voice on the other end was the man I heard. He had been an attaché before the war. He explained that right now, the Germans were trying to verify who we were. He said that if we were truly downed airmen, we would be okay and eventually be transferred to a prisoner of war camp. It was somewhat reassuring to hear his words. 

On June 6th, 1944, the day of debarkment came. The Frenchmen began marching around the cell on the news of the invasion and singing the Marseilles. I didn’t know the words but joined in the marching and singing. It was the most fun I’d had in months, and my spirits were lifted considerably. Unfortunately, that same day, I came down with a sore throat. 3 days later, a group of prisoners were given physicals. By this time, my throat was really sore, and it was getting difficult to swallow. I was also feeling very weak. The doctor gave me some white tablets to take. I had no idea what they were, but by this time, I didn’t care.

 

On to Wiesbaden 

The next day, we were loaded on a train to Wiesbaden, Germany. While on the train, I experienced my first bout with true rage when the guard wouldn’t let me have a drink to wash down the tablets. My throat was so swollen that I could hardly swallow. The only way to get the tablets down was to crush them into a powder with my teeth and slowly let the saliva carry it down my throat. By the time we arrived in Wiesbaden, I could no longer walk. I was carried to a holding cell in a police station. I was left there on my own, but I was so sick, I didn’t know which end was up. I never gave up hope though; somehow I knew that God wouldn’t let me die in this prison cell. The gunk in my throat was getting so thick that I was beginning to gag. I used my fingers to pull mucus and chunky junk out of my nose and throat just so I could breathe. We sat in our cells for 2 weeks. The rations were barely enough to keep us alive. Finally, we were taken one by one out of our cells, across a square to a house where the Gestapo would interrogate us. When my turn came, the guard who was taking me tapped his gun as if to say, “If you run, I’ll shoot you.” Hell, I could barely walk, let alone run. I would have fallen flat on my face. At the interrogation, all I gave them was my name, rank, and serial number. I found out later that, of the 20 prisoners who were interrogated, 14 told them what they wanted to know. They sent them on to the POW camp for final processing. The remaining 6 of us who held out were put back in our cells, 2 per cell, and given half rations. I was feeling better but still having a hard time keeping the food down, so the half rations didn’t affect me so much.

 

The cells were only about 40 inches across. At night, we had a steel cot that we would put down to sleep. We had to lie on our sides and turn at the same time. They wouldn’t let us put the cot down during the day so we could take turns sleeping, so, needless to say, sleep was not plentiful. There was a pot in our cell that we used as a toilet. A prison trustee emptied it twice a day. The days dragged on and on and boredom was our biggest enemy. I was glad and surprised they didn’t take away the New Testament the chaplain had given us. It would be a source of entertainment and inspiration for many days to come.

 

At the end of the cells, there was a window out of which you could see the third floor of the prison where they housed the women prisoners. At night they would sing German songs, and the music added a pleasant atmosphere to this inhospitable place. My cellmate was a sergeant from St. Louis, who had been shot down 6 or 7 months ago. He was held captive for so long in a French prison that he was speaking more French than English. Two or three cells down there were Canadians and some British soldiers. I found out later one of them was making eyes at a woman up on the third floor and sending notes to her through the prison trustee. Later, when the Germans would finally move us to a regular POW camp, he would discover that the beautiful woman was really quite ugly with only a few teeth left in her head. I think the fantasy was the most important thing anyway, so it really didn’t matter. The day we would finally get moved out of here was still a long way off. One of our on-going fantasies was a huge home-cooked meal. One day, after my appetite had returned, we received smoked fish complete with the head. I was so hungry I ate the whole thing. I was surprised at how much meat you could actually get out of a fish head. Our cell was above one of the offices and every time the phone rang, the guy in the cell next to ours would say in a low, creepy, dark voice, “Hello, hello, hello.” Sometimes it would make your hair curl. The guards would take the guy out and beat him every day, and he would cry like a baby. It was very bad for morale. Not much good for him either.

 

At some point, after two weeks of half rations, one of the Canadians passed out twice, and we all agreed that it was time to tell the Gestapo what they wanted to hear. The next day, the second round of interrogations began. 

I was sat in a chair facing the interrogator. He asked me about the markings on our plane, what routes we flew, what bases we were using, and who our squadron commander was. My questioning was short because I told them we had only been there 7 days and only followed the lead group. Basically, I didn’t know anything that they didn’t already know. Two days after the questioning, the six of us were sent by train to an interrogation camp. 

We watched in awe as the train pulled into the nearly demolished Frankfort station. The town was virtually destroyed by the allied bombing campaign. We were on the only usable rail. They took us to a police station that had also suffered bomb damage. On the way to the station, we were spit on by some of Hitler’s Youth. It made me sad to see these young people who had been brainwashed by the teachings of a madman. There was also an old lady who came up and spoke to one of the guards. The guard shouted “Nein! Nein!” as he pushed her away. We would see the old lady again after we were put into our cell. She was from the German Red Cross, and she gave us coffee and donuts. It was the first taste of regular food we had had in weeks, and it was delicious. I didn’t have full appreciation of the event then, but now that I’ve worked with the Red Cross, I am impressed by how this old lady was truly living the code of the organization and what they stand for. She was bringing aid to those in need, even though we were the enemy.

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(Ed note: Years later, my Dad would be full time volunteer with the American Red Cross. Both he and my Mom would go on to help with some of the hurricanes that hit in the south and Dad would be a part of the "blood run", carrying blood and blood products from Kalamazoo to Lansing. Dad always felt it was his payback for what the Red Cross had done for him during the war.)

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