Many of the details of my experience as a prisoner of war in Germany during World War II remain quite vivid. The exact order and dates of the happenings have, of course, long since left me. Even a very limited diary of daily occurrences after I was captured would now be invaluable in recounting those days.

I did for a period of some 20 days keep in my inner garments such a diary which, for that interval, escaped the notice of interrogation and search. By that time, however, I had lost interest in the project and had either thrown the papers away or passed them around for a use more urgent to prisoners afflicted with inevitable dysentery.

At any rate, now convalescing from surgery, I am reminded and inspired by my affable hospital roommate's bout with a yellow jaundice condition to write my memories of POW life, a brief but discouraging portion of which was spent suffering from yellow jaundice.

In the closing weeks of December 1944, portions of the 70th Infantry Division, a fresh unit from America, took positions along a relatively quiet sector of the Rhine River near Strasbourg, France. A victim of Uncle Sam's cancellation of Army air cadet training programs, I had, since the previous May, been a rifleman in Company I, 275th Infantry Regiment of the 70th Division. Retaining its old cadre, the division had refilled its ranks with those of us who were deflated transfers from air cadets and Army special training programs as well as new draftees.

Now after seven months of intensive infantry training we were across the ocean, tasting foxhole life on the Rhine River bottom. We slept in barns or warehouses, even an abandoned kiln, and though a few artillery exchanges were taking place in the area, we were hardly becoming accustomed to combat. All this would abruptly change.

On the evening of Dec. 31, 1944, before we could eat a long-awaited hot supper, we were hustled aboard trucks and hauled northward to meet another desperate offensive thrust of the Germans. This one was nearly 100 miles south of the Bulge area, and though neither as strong nor as well supplied as the Bulge offensive, this move by the Wehrmacht was making considerable progress. The nature and importance of this challenge was, as usual, unknown to us as we swung and bounced over the narrow French roads on this New Year's Eve.

At midnight we entered Niederbronn in open trucks with M-1 barrels pointing skyward, barking their greeting to the new year. The noise briefly brought officers from the warmth of their truck cabs to quiet things down.

I Company bivouacked for the remainder of the night in an idle foundry. Bill Schafer and I, who were scouts for our squad, pooled our blankets and lay close together for warmth, but Bill complained of cold feet. We rearranged the packing material which we had spread under us, tucked the blankets tighter around our feet, and shifted our heavy GI coats. I debated whether we should remove our boots, but Bill, not long from the Ozarks, enjoyed shedding his footwear.

In the morning, Sgt. Henning lighted the squad burner and we had a sumptuous breakfast prepared from a "10-in-1" carton. It was the first and last time that some of us would ever enjoy this innovation in field rations, and through the hungry months to follow I would clearly recall the smells and tastes of this meal - bacon, string beans, ham, fruit, potatoes, the works.

In late afternoon on Jan. 1, 1945, I Company moved forward at a point beyond Philippsbourg in what we were told was the Vosges Mountains of the Alsace region. The Germans in this offensive thrust below the Bulge area were desperately trying to salvage an offensive. Their main effort in the Ardennes was bogging down. According to the American Heritage Publication on the Battle of the Bulge, Hitler called this alternative offensive "Nordwind."

Later I learned from companion prisoners of war that the "Krauts" had broken through portions of several other American divisions. I had on this night of gathering darkness a curious mixture of apprehension and pride at being a green scout on the extreme point of the Third Battalion, 275^th Infantry, approaching enemy lines. Before the night was over, I was to learn how utterly efficient the Wehrmacht could seem once it had assumed an offensive.

The roadway passed across narrow open valleys and past a clustered farmstead or two which lay abreast of some large wooded hills. The early winter evening grew swiftly into blackness and I could scarcely follow the road which would shortly lead to disastrous confrontation.

The innocent courage of those of us on the point of our advance would most surely have been shaken had we known how close we were to established German positions. We were mistakenly advancing into the darkness beyond our planned objectives.

The column behind froze in the blackness, as did I at the German challenge: "Halt there!"

More experienced soldiers would have plunged immediately into what cover the roadside afforded. Then a sudden burst of fire from °brrrp" guns from an angle above the road sent me sprawling into a shallow defile beside a narrow strip of asphalt-like road covering. After a moment of shock, our M-1s and one BAR started answering the incessant fire from the German machine guns. The BAR was some 40 yards behind. That had to be Monds. Schafer, Hennings, and Strauser between us were silent. They must have been hit. At length our return fire, especially the BAR, gave the Germans pause. Perhaps this was to better locate our scattered positions, for when they opened up again some of their tracers lodged in the asphalt a few feet in front of my nose as I peered up under my helmet rim.

Another long train ride was ahead of us. This time we were shipped to a much larger camp, Stalag IV-B, some 85 miles south of Berlin. The trip was long and cold with little food and water. There were many delays and some close bombardments by Allied planes. One blast rocked the car and threw debris against it. Another sharp blast blew open a ventilator window on the car, but this one, it turned out, was the blast from a German antiaircraft gun close to our stalled railcar.

One condition was much improved. There could be no more than two-thirds the number of men per car that was on our previous trip.

Stalag IV-B materialized out of a cold, gray night on the flat sands of northern Germany. The geographical location associated with the camp was Muhlberg, but the town was far enough away that we could not see it. IV-B was an immense compound of drab structures. The buildings were long, low, barracks-like, and they housed many thousands of British and Russians POWs. It was to be my home for some two weeks.

My most vivid memories of our barracks were the nights in them. There was just room for all the exhausted men to lie down in the unheated building. We lay in groups of three to preserve warmth, and arranged outer garments and old German shelter halves over and under us. We were only beginning to learn from the British the fine art of improvising in a prison hut. Very soon we learned to pull our tortured feet close to us because some dysentery victim was always staggering through the darkness toward the door, trampling over frostbitten and trench-foot-afflicted feet. I believe I have known no pain greater than that suffered for 10 minutes following the mauling of one's frozen feet by a stampeding, dysenteried POW. Older, more experienced hands would have known to nest down as far from the door as possible. We actually had no choice, coming in as we did at night to an already crowded barracks.

Very early in our stay we were processed through a shower and delousing unit common to German prisons. These bare brick and stone structures had a waiting room where we completely disrobed, leaving our boots stashed in the room, but tying our garments all in one bundle to be sent through a steam delouser.

Two things were luxurious about the whole procedure. One was the hot shower where we could observe our flattening bellies but still muscular limbs, and let the warm streams of water splatter over our blue, frost-bitten feet. The other was picking up our bundles of steaming clothes after shivering stark naked for a half hour in the waiting room. It was fortunate that one did not know until later how similar the procedure was to the gas chamber execution of the Jews.

Communication with the outside world was evident when one visited the British barracks. The "Limeys" had pajamas,towels, a few toilet articles, and some utensils which they had received from home or had improvised. Many of these fellows had been prisoners of war since the 1942 days of Rommel's success in North Africa. They had spent many rough months earlier in their captivity, especially under the "Eye-Tyes" (Italians). Their lot, however, had decidedly improved as they were located in the more permanent prison camps in Germany. Connections with home through the International Red Cross had become common, though slow, and frequent delivery of Red Cross food parcels from Australia, New Zealand, Britain, Canada, or the United States were made. The intent of the Red Cross was to make a parcel delivery to every prisoner each week. When they were successful, a prisoner could live tolerably well.

I personally, however, never received a whole parcel. We had to divide the parcel among four and, once, even five men. This became difficult with a hard chocolate bar or a can of milk powder, but we eagerly managed. During my four-and-a-half months as a prisoner of war, I was recipient of only about four such divided deliveries, but I believe they contributed considerably to my survival. The small work camp to which I would soon go either could not or did not receive the regular quota of Red Cross parcels which went to most large camps, either officer or enlisted camps. The military ring squeezing in on Germany probably shut off Red Cross connections, too.

The fare of the Russian prisoners which I could observe in the week at IV-13 was considerably poorer than ours. To my knowledge they received no Red Cross parcels. I suppose Stalinist Russia had nothing to do with the International Red Cross. Their clothing was scantier and shabbier than ours. They were undoubtedly long-term prisoners of war. Yet, they had a look of sinewy toughness. I saw one Russian stalking about in the space between our barracks on two stub legs whacked off above the knees. His empty pants legs were folded up and tied below his buttocks. The high death rate of Russian and German prisoners in each other's clutches is a matter of history.

In late January another group of several hundred of us able-bodied Americans was entrained for a work camp or "lager." This trip was more tolerable than previous ones. When the train was stopped on one occasion, the guards let us out of the cars to relieve ourselves and stomp our freezing feet in the snow. The cars were not more than half as crowded as on the trip to Ludwigsburg. Our rail destination was a small station and village bordered on one side by sharp bluffs and on the other by the deep channel of the Elbe River, not far from Czechoslovakia. We were soon lined up and taken on an exhausting, winding trek up the steep bluffs and over hills onto the gently rolling countryside which was now changing from pine forest to open fields. Still inside the wooded area, we were suddenly upon the lager.

For some reason, Lilienstein either was or became the name of the place. It was enclosed by a high barbed wire fence and included an area of perhaps three acres. A number of familiar long, low barracks-like structures were standing inside, but these were neither on the ground nor on a concrete foundation. They sat about a foot above the ground on rows of pine stakes or posts three to four inches in diameter.

Within a couple of days our routine was becoming better established. We were taken in groups of 25 to 35 and lodged in rooms of other barracks. These rooms we called "huts." They were about 15-feet square, having one entryway and two small windows against the outside wall. The inside wall formed the backside of another but which opened onto the

other side of the building. The other two walls, of course, adjoined huts on our side of the barracks. Four-decked bunks with straw mats would serve for sleeping and as a hiding place for valuables.

Valuables included hoarded bits of bread ration, a tidbit from a Red Cross parcel, a potato or rutabaga pilfered from a storage pile near the work site, or even a testament which the Germans had failed to pick up for "checking." A small wood stove was located near the inside wall of the but in the six-footwide open space between the bunks.

The morning routine began with a ration of "erzats" which was a hot drink made of roasted acorns and grain or perhaps something worse. Unless we were very thirsty, we usually declined the delicacy. Before many moments passed, a guard would open the door and call: "Raus gehen," meaning: "outside."

This gentle approach got little response and the huts did not fully come to life until a guard poked his rifle barrel through the door and roared some obscenity in kraut, then shouted: "Raus!" or "Louse!" of which there were plenty, and "Schnell, schnell." The guards did not call a roll of the prisoners, but each morning a count of all the men in the lager was made. The count would continue until the krauts were satisfied with the number. This could take an hour or more as they often had to search the huts for stragglers, only to have someone else sneak back into a but before the recount was complete.

This frequently caused delay in our departure for work, thus shortening our work days.

Out the gate and down the trail, through the trees, the guards moved us to work. Into the open fields some 200 yards stood the "engineer's" shack. It was near an open trench which was progressing eastward.

We took our tools and began digging, usually at a snail's pace unless a guard or engineer was close by and insisting on progress. The trench being dug for the water line was about four feet deep, two feet wide at the top, and approximately one foot wide at the bottom. The bosses were very insistent that the foot of topsoil be windrowed some five feet back from the trench and the remainder of the excavation stacked nearer the trench. As the trench deepened, part of the prisoners stood beside the trench, clearing away what others threw out. To the disgust of the engineers, progress was slow. The stubby one did much storming and cursing, his favorite outburst being °sacramenta." We christened him: "Sacramento." Often, he would impatiently grab our pick or shovel and demonstrate the proper use. We would stand back in faked awe at such an efficient performance.

Not far from camp, across the trench from where the engineer's shack first sat, were long piles of stored vegetables. The piles were perhaps 12 feet wide at the base and six feet high, and lay in three rows about 200 feet long. They had first been covered with layers of leaves and straw, then several inches of dirt. We soon discovered the contents of the piles and then followed a game of cat and mouse which would continue for as long as our work was in the proximity of vegetable piles.

It was impossible for bosses and guards to watch everyone at once and soon one or two Americans would slip out of the trench and run

for the shelter of the potato piles where they would fill their pant legs above their boots or the loose blouse above their belts or even both. Onions and rutabagas might also be in the fare. As often as not, the absence of some workers would be discovered. Sacramento shouted and waved his fists, and guards would send a bullet zinging over the vegetable piles. More than one GI was caught, buffeted around a bit and forced to release his treasure. Another might jettison his take and flee back to the trench as a bullet cracked overhead. But even an apprehended pilferer might retain a couple of stray potatoes or an onion in some of his increasingly loose garments, and the whole effort would have been worth it. The most accomplished poacher of vegetables was a tall, gaunt American Indian named Hummingbird. He could slip away from the work gang, lope along with his head ducked below the crest of the piles, fill the clothing on his long frame, and be back in the trench before Sacramento or the guards missed him.

As the time passed, and our weight and strength diminished, it became apparent that the guards and even Sacramento were ignoring a limited amount of pilfering. One evening as we were coming in the prison gate, our guard, "Snake Eyes," saw a large rutabaga drop from the sleeve of the overcoat which I had slung over my shoulder. He quickly motioned for me to pick it up and no more was made of it. In retrospect, this bit of pilfering from the Krauts was justified in the sport it afforded us as well as the food it provided.

As we became better acquainted with the guards, and as their reputations grew, we gave them names. The names usually revealed our contempt for them, as in the case of "Hollywood." Hollywood was quite tall, wore black boots, was already developing a "German belly," and thought himself very handsome. He liked to appear very affable in front of a group of us, but could turn treacherous and deceptive in forcing men out of the huts, or reporting us to his superiors.

One of the first to be named, Hollywood clearly earned our disdain.

Another we christened "Bull Neck" because of his thick, short neck and the way he was always twitching his jaw and neck while twisting his shoulders. Bull Neck was said to have received numerous wounds on the Russian front, which may have accounted for his twitches and foul disposition. Unlike Hollywood, he was always sour and meannatured. On one occasion Bull Neck had charge of a detail which included me. We carried some items to the German kitchen and quarters at the south end of camp. While we stood waiting for a few minutes in the building, I noticed a large pile of potatoes behind me. I succumbed to temptation and snatched up a couple of fistfuls to stuff inside my clothing. Almost as though waiting for one of us to try it, Bull Neck bounded over before me and began cuffing me in the face with all the strength in his twitching shoulders.

I dropped the potatoes, but as we filed out of the building, I noted that I could scarcely feel the effect of his blows. Yet Bull Neck had had his day.

"Redhead," so named for the color of his hair, rapidly gained our dislike. Nothing pleased him more than to find something to roar about. He loved to make searches of the men in front of the barracks. Since capture, I had carried the snapshots of family and friends in the lining of my heavy GI shirttail. Unfortunately, Redhead singled me out for search one morning and discovered the snapshots. From all the vitriol and noise which followed, one would have thought I had made an attempt on der Fuhrer's life. Redhead's day had been made.

My suntans were wrinkled, but I didn't mind. It was just a mile and a half down a dirt road and I'd be home. Summer insects were humming and the sweet scent of clover blossoms in the meadows drifted across the road.