The War Widow
William Kelly Durham
Published by William Kelly Durham at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 William Kelly Durham
Cover design by Kari Lynch
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. Ezekiel 37:2
Nuremberg, Germany
November 1946
The wind had picked up, joining the misty rain. A perfect night for an execution, Petersen thought as he peered out the window of the guards’ day room. It was just like one of those Hollywood pictures: the dark, stormy night, the guards sitting around waiting, the chaplain in the corner saying prayers. Of course this time, there would be no midnight call from the governor’s office staying the sentences. And, truth be told, Chaplain Gerrity wasn’t praying. He was still fiddling with the radio, trying stubbornly to pick up stray radio waves from Saint Louis, where his beloved Cardinals were battling the Red Sox in Game 7 of the World Series. Colonel Gaffner, in a rare concession, had allowed one phone call into the prison at the end of each inning. After seven innings, the Cardinals were up 3-1 and Gerrity was happy. He was swapping jibes with Sergeant Gamble, a rabid Boston fan. The phone rang and Gerrity pounced on it. He jotted some notes on a piece of paper on the table. When he hung up, he was frowning. ‘Well, damn!’ he said to no one in particular, assiduously avoiding Gamble’s face. ‘Two pinch hits! Two! What are the odds of that?’ He tossed the pencil down in irritation.
‘What’s the scoop chaplain?’ Gamble asked hopefully. Gerrity related that the Sox, after two pinch hits to lead off the eighth, had made two outs. Then, Dom DiMaggio had laced a double off the right field wall of Sportsman’s Park to score two runs. Going into the bottom of the eighth, the game was tied at 3 all. ‘How I hate to go on duty!’ Gamble groused picking up his helmet liner and slapping it down on his head. ‘I’m gonna be down there looking through a door watching a guy sleep and you’re gonna be up here twiddling the dials on that radio. I bet you pick it up as soon as I leave. Let me know when you get the next call, will ya chaplain?’ Gamble pleaded. He left the dayroom and headed down the spiral stairs to take up his post in front of Goering’s cell. It was 2200 hours.
Petersen was reading the Saturday Evening Post. Actually, he was holding the Saturday Evening Post; he hadn’t read a word in several minutes. His eyes were fixed on an article about Broadway’s resurgence following the end of the war, but he could not focus. He glanced again at the wall clock. Two minutes had passed since his last look. Half of him wanted the clock to move faster, to get this night over with. The other half wanted to avoid looking into the eyes of Goering and the others as they marched to the gallows. The ringing telephone startled him. Gerrity grabbed it. ‘Yes,’ he shouted into the handset, ‘go ahead.’ The chaplain scribbled a note. ‘Praise God!’ he said. ‘Yes, thanks!’ he hung up. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said gleefully, ‘I must go inform Sergeant Gamble that the mighty Cardinals now own a one run lead going into the ninth!’ Gerrity reported that the Card’s Enos Slaughter had scored from first base on a Harry Walker double to left. According to his report, the ball had come back in to Sox shortstop Johnny Pesky, but Pesky held the ball, thinking that Slaughter had stopped at third. ‘OK if I break the news to Gamble?’ Gerrity asked Petersen.
‘OK, sir,’ Petersen agreed, ‘but keep quiet out there. And chaplain,’ Petersen added with a smile, ‘be gentle.’ Gerrity chuckled and headed toward the door, but he stopped, a puzzled expression on his face. Then Petersen heard it: running footsteps clattering on the metal stairs followed by shouts. It was Gamble, charging up the spiral steps and yelling. ‘LT Petersen! Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong with Goering!’ Petersen was on his feet, dashing for the door, where he collided with Gerrity, who had stopped short, and Gamble who had barged in. Petersen pushed Gerrity out of the way and spun Gamble around.
‘Go!’ he shouted. Together, the two thundered down the stairs toward the cell block where the highest ranking survivors of Hitler’s Third Reich sat awaiting their executions.
Chapter 1
John Petersen looked up at the Palace of Justice, the most imposing structure left in the city of Nuremberg. Halfway between Nuremberg’s rail yards and the Pegnitz River, just west of the old city, the Palace was both large and largely undamaged after six years of war, making it an oddity in Nuremberg. Most of the sprawling city lay in ruins with thousands of decaying bodies still buried beneath the rubble. Standing five stories tall, the building was capped with a steeply sloping, red tile roof and was protected by a low brick wall topped with wrought iron pickets. At the corner of Fuertherstrasse, an armored car covered the west approach to the building. Just off the courtyard, outside the fence, a Sherman tank stood guard. In front of the Palace, jeeps, staff cars and the occasional Volkswagen waited in parallel rows. A warm sun filtered through the trees, leaving a mottled pattern of sun and shade on the dusty brick of the courtyard. A hint of a breeze rustled the leaves and carried a sickly sweet odor of decay from the river just north of the Palace complex.
Petersen stepped through the iron gate, gripping his bag in his left hand. He returned the salute of a soldier, standing in front of his striped sentry box, and entered the building. As his eyes adjusted to the dim hallway, Petersen spotted a building directory posted on the wall to his right. His destination, the Internal Security Detachment, was on the second floor, up two flights of stairs and down the right hand corridor.
Petersen paused outside the detachment office, took a deep breath and opened the outer door. Two Army sergeants glanced up then immediately resumed their work, one pecking out a report on a battered typewriter, the other fiddling with the dials of a radio that was filling the office with static. The room was brighter by far than the hallway, with haze filtered sunlight streaming in through two large windows. Blue ribbons of smoke curled toward the ceiling from unfinished cigarettes. ‘Be right with you lieutenant,’ said a thin, dark haired corporal, pouring a cup of coffee into a mug. Petersen watched as the corporal dumped a spoon full of sugar, a true luxury in Germany, into the coffee. Holding the mug carefully, the corporal took it to a side office, knocked, entered and pulled the door closed. Within seconds, he reappeared and walked back to his desk. ‘Now sir, what can we do for you?’ the corporal smiled.
‘I’m 1LT Petersen, reporting for duty,’ Petersen replied.
‘Oh, yes sir. Corporal Wilson, sir. May I get you a cup of coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ Petersen answered.
‘Sir, if you will have a seat, I will let the colonel know you’re here. Do you have your personnel folder?’ Wilson continued. Petersen handed over the Army’s official record of his existence. Wilson obviously knew the routine and Petersen wondered how many lieutenants he had ushered in and out of this place since the war ended.
Petersen sat down in a wooden chair as Wilson knocked on the office door he had exited only a few moments earlier. Again, Wilson disappeared inside. Petersen ran his fingers through his short cropped brown hair. At 5 feet, 10 inches, he was slightly taller than average with a lean build. He considered himself in good health despite having spent five months on the front lines as the war in Europe came to a lumbering close. As he waited, his eyes drifted over the small sitting area of the Internal Security Detachment office. Four wooden chairs surrounded a low table covered with old issues of Look magazine and more recent editions of Stars & Stripes. Three ash trays, all at capacity, and a tired looking floor lamp with a split shade, completed the furnishings. Petersen’s fingers migrated to the short scar above his right eye, an old wound from another place and time. His middle finger traced the scar as he waited. A clock on the plastered wall showed the time as 1100 hours. Petersen was figuring what time it would be in Texas when Wilson returned. ‘Lt Petersen, if you please, the colonel will see you now,’ he said. Actually it didn’t matter in the least if it pleased Petersen or not, as they both knew. His orders had been specific and succinct: report for duty to the Internal Security Detachment, Nuremberg no later than 1 August 1945. No further explanation had been given, nor would Petersen have expected any. The Army did what it did without explanation and most often, it seemed, without reason. Petersen straightened his tie and his green Army blouse, squared his shoulders and proceeded to the inner office door, the two sergeants oblivious to his presence. He knocked on the door and heard a muffled voice from inside, which he took as permission to enter. He pushed open the door and stepped into a large office, quickly noting the location of the heavy, ornate wooden desk and the colonel seated behind it. Petersen stopped short of the desk, snapped to attention, saluted and said, ‘1LT Petersen reports for duty, sir.’ Colonel Douglas Gaffner returned the salute and, standing, extended his hand. ‘Welcome to Nuremberg LT Petersen!’ he smiled. Gaffner’s voice was loud, almost a shout, but his smile seemed genuine. Shaking hands, Gaffner steered Petersen to one of two large armchairs standing next to a small side table. ‘Have a seat.’ Douglas Gaffner was a stocky man of about 5 feet, 8 inches, weighing nearly 200 pounds. His shoulders were broad and if his gut seemed to lap slightly over his belt, he still appeared more muscle than fat. His leonine head was covered with short, wiry gray hair. He looked tough, battle-hardened, with a creased forehead and squint lines around his eyes. As he sat down, Petersen sneaked a quick look at the uniform blouse hanging over the back of his dark leather desk chair. Gaffner’s ribbons included a Purple Heart and Bronze Star. ‘So, you were with the 84th Division? I see from your file that you have been in theater for about 10 months,’ prompted the colonel, looking up from the file spread across his lap.
‘Yes sir. I was part of the division’s original complement. We got to France on 1 November and went right on up to the front. We saw some action around Geilenkirchen and then we were pulled off the line for a few days right before the Bulge.’
‘And then you went right back into the lines, didn’t you?’ the colonel suggested.
‘Yes sir,’ Petersen replied. ‘That’s the coldest I ever was.’
Gaffner chuckled, ‘Those were desperate days.’ He leaned forward, set the file on the side table and adopted a more formal tone. ‘Lt Petersen,’ the colonel jabbed a thick finger in Petersen’s direction, ‘the work we are doing here is important, not just to the victims of the Nazis or the folks back home, but to posterity, if you know what I mean. The International Military Tribunal has an opportunity to write a new chapter in world history—a chapter that says national leaders are responsible for what they do. I take this opportunity seriously and I expect my officers and men to do so as well. To me, that means a high level of professionalism in everything we do. As staff of the Tribunal, everything we do must be beyond reproach. No impropriety--hell, not even a hint of impropriety,’ Gaffner spoke in machine gun like bursts, leaning forward like a sprinter in the blocks. ‘Our job is to ensure that these criminal bastards get a fair trial before they’re hanged. And I don’t mean a trial that just looks fair, I mean one that is fair. You’re going to be one of the officers in charge of the cell block. We’re going to have VIPs and press in here all the time, not to mention the Red Cross and family members and lawyers. Now, I don’t mind the Red Cross and I must confess I am a little curious about what kind of families these monsters may have, but I cannot abide lawyers and I don’t trust the press!’ Gaffner waved his hand as if swatting away an annoying insect. ‘At any rate, the cell block must be maintained in a high state of police at all times. Prisoners must be monitored and protected, fed, bathed, exercised, medicated, supervised, moved to and from the court room and under our control every minute of every day. That’s where you come in.’
‘Yes sir,’ answered Petersen as soon as the colonel drew a breath.
‘You will work in the prison facility and will report directly to Captain Stevens. Any questions?’
‘No Sir.’
‘Eager to get started are you?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Now listen son,’ Gaffner said as he leaned forward, fixing Petersen with a penetrating stare, ‘I am dead serious that we do our part in this deal. No crap Lieutenant. The whole world is going to be watching what goes on here, even the Japanese, ‘cause their turn is coming next. We are not going to foul this up. Got it?’
‘Yes sir!’
‘Good man,’ exclaimed Gaffner, slapping his hands on his knees and standing. Petersen sprang up as well. ‘Welcome aboard young man,’ said Gaffner, smiling and again extending his hand.
‘Thank you sir,’ said Petersen, as the colonel guided him out of the room.
As the door closed behind him, Corporal Wilson was on his feet. ‘LT Petersen, may I give you a hand with your bag?’ he said picking up the gray over and under bag Petersen had left in the small waiting area. ‘I‘ll take you to meet Captain Stevens.’
Wilson led Petersen out the rear of the Palace, across Behrenstrasse to a complex of sturdy looking three story buildings with tiny windows. The buildings radiated away from the Palace of Justice like spokes from the hub of a bicycle wheel, forming a semi circle on the north side of the building. The whole complex was surrounded by fencing, topped with rolled barbed wire. Wilson headed toward the building on the far right. ‘Captain Stevens will be in the cell block sir. He’s been working over here most of the last week trying to get it ready,’ Wilson explained. Ready for what? Petersen wondered. How much work do you have to do to get a jail cell ready?
As they approached the building, Petersen saw ‘C Wing’ stenciled above the door in black paint. Above that, a security light on a metal arm stuck out over a small concrete landing. Petersen stepped inside, his eyes adjusting from the bright sunlight to the dimmer light of the cell block. The oppressiveness of confinement dampened his spirit. He looked up to see three levels of cells surrounding an inner courtyard. Spiral metal staircases at each end of the cell blocks provided access to the different levels. A four foot wide walkway stretched the length of each row of cells. Affixed to the walkways’ heavy iron rail was thick gauge chicken wire. The wire reached from one level to the next level and from there to the next level as well. The wire completely enclosed each block of cells, adding to what looked like already formidable security. In addition, the wire fencing formed a metal canopy, hanging above the courtyard, stretching between each level’s facing cell blocks. The only passageways through the fencing were the spiral stairs. Though not given to claustrophobia, prisons made Petersen decidedly uncomfortable.
‘Go ahead and get started on the numbering,’ said a tall, thin man wearing an olive drab coverall to a young buck sergeant. ‘We can move the furnishings in after we’ve inspected them again.’ The man turned toward Wilson and Petersen whose approach he had observed. ‘Good morning,’ he smiled in greeting. ‘Good morning sir,’ replied Corporal Wilson offering a salute. Petersen quickly followed with a salute of his own. ‘Captain Stevens, this is 1LT Petersen. The colonel sent him over.’
‘Thanks Corporal Wilson,’ Stevens said returning the salutes. ‘I’ll take him from here. Tom Stevens,’ said the captain gripping Petersen’s hand with a hard, strong hand. ‘Where you from?’
‘Texas, sir,’ answered Petersen.
‘No foolin’?’ asked Stevens. ‘I had a platoon sergeant from Texas. What part?’
‘Quitman, sir.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘There ain’t a whole lot to it, sir. A couple of stores, two, three dozen churches.’
‘Bible belt, huh?’ laughed Stevens.
‘Yes sir,’ grinned Petersen.
‘Well LT Petersen, you sure as hell ain’t in the Bible belt anymore,’ Stevens said looking up toward the higher levels of the prison. ‘But I think we’re gonna need all the divine intervention we can get. Come on down to the office and let’s get you settled in.’
The prison office was a converted cell closest to the ground level entrance Petersen had just used. Stevens walked around behind a metal desk, picked up the telephone and called the billeting office. Stevens seemed the opposite of the colonel. He had dark brown hair and dark eyes. He was taller than Gaffner but Petersen judged he weighed twenty to thirty pounds less. He seemed casual, almost easy-going when compared to Gaffner’s intensity. ‘I’ll get one of the men to show you the way,’ Stevens said. ‘Get settled in. Learn your way around and report back here at 2000 hours. There’s still a lot of work to be done before our guests arrive and we’re already getting the men used to working in shifts.’
After a stop at the billeting office, Petersen caught a ride in the back of a jeep to the Grand Hotel where he would be quartered until more permanent accommodations were located. The hotel was less than 4 kilometers from the Palace of Justice, but it might have been in another world. Nuremberg’s desolation dwarfed in scale anything Petersen had previously witnessed. In village after village, his infantry company had not only witnessed devastation, but had contributed to it. As the Allies had slowly pushed the German defenders back beyond the Rhine, American industrial capacity had made it far more desirable to fire tank and artillery shells into suspected enemy strong points than to risk the lives of American boys. The result was town after town with few intact structures. Here was Nuremberg, the destruction multiplied a thousand times. The jeep cruised down Fuertherstrasse, the main east-west route through the city. Petersen felt the warm sun on his face as he watched the roofless, wall-less ruins pass by. The road was partially blocked in several spots by small mountains of brick and rubble, causing the driver to pull over to allow oncoming traffic to pass. All of the motor vehicles on the road were military, though there were still plenty of horse, mule and even ox drawn wagons and carts plying the streets. A long line of ragged people, many of them German soldiers still in uniform, trudged in both directions along the side of the road. Some carried backpacks laden with belongings. Others pushed small carts. The line seemed endless, stretching both east and west, each weary walker struggling along a never ending road to someplace better. Dust from the rubble swirled in the draft of every passing truck, coating vehicles and people with a fine film of white.
The Grand Hotel had indeed been grand. Located a little more than 100 meters from the Hauptbahnhof, or main train station, tucked in among the old city, the hotel had been the most luxurious in Nuremberg, featuring fine accommodations and an attentive, discrete staff. It had survived the Allied bomber offensive, but just barely. Parts of the building were still roofless and large chunks of masonry were missing from the exterior. Wooden scaffolding climbed the wall above the main entrance. The Army’s billeting office had quickly commandeered the building in anticipation of the needs of first the civil affairs staff and then the International Military Tribunal. As a result, the hotel enjoyed a high priority for repairs. The building and its adjacent alleys were teaming with workers trying to fix the most obvious damage. Petersen was assigned a small room at the end of the third floor corridor on the Hopfenstrasse side of the hotel, about as far away from the lobby as one could get and still be under the same roof. To get to his room, he had to walk over wooden planks stretched across gaping holes in the passageways, some of which plunged three full stories. The room was comfortable, but dingy, the result of years of war and several weeks of Army use. The only light came from the window, as electricity had not yet been restored to this wing of the hotel. Still, all Petersen really needed was a place to unpack and sleep and the privacy and relative quiet beat the hell out of the accommodations Petersen had so far enjoyed in Germany.
Chapter 2
After a short nap, a look around the hotel and a quick bite to eat in the officers’ mess in the hotel’s basement, Petersen hitched a ride back to the prison complex. Captain Stevens was still working, reviewing requisition forms with an NCO. Stevens quickly introduced Petersen to staff sergeant Hottle, then got back to business. ‘LT Petersen will be officer in charge on our evening tour of duty,’ the captain explained to Hottle. Turning to Petersen, he elaborated, ‘I want you and Sergeant Hottle here to inventory all the furnishings going into the cells. Once you have accounted for all of it, tables, chairs, bunks, mattresses, I want you to inspect it.’
‘To make sure it’s clean, sir?’ asked Petersen.
‘Yes and for anything else you can think of too. Look for anything that could be used as a weapon or a signaling device. Anything that doesn’t belong doesn’t go in. Keep a list of the ‘anythings’ that you find and we’ll go over it in the morning. If you need me tonight, Sergeant Hottle knows how to get in touch with me. Any questions?’
‘No sir. We’ll take care of it.’
Stevens said good night and left for his quarters, a private home commandeered some weeks earlier by the Army. Petersen and Hottle began their task by taking the requisition forms and counting item by item the furnishings stacked in the wide corridor between the cell blocks. The cells were small, smelling of fresh paint and lit by a single overhead fixture. Each cell would get an iron cot with a mattress, small table to be used as a desk and a chair. Thick, wooden doors sealed each cell from the corridor. The door was equipped with a round peephole as well as a one foot square service panel which folded out toward the cellblock. The opening behind this service panel, cut into the door at chest height, was itself covered with a heavy metal grate. Opposite the door, on the long axis of the cell, was a barred window, which in the daytime allowed a clear view of the prison yards. Nestled into the corner immediately to the right of the door, was the toilet, the only part of the cell that could not be observed from outside the door.
Petersen and Hottle pulled out three cots and two chairs as unserviceable because the legs were of different lengths, causing each to wobble. Two of the mattresses were covered with mold. These were also set aside. By midnight, they had accounted for and carefully inspected each piece of furniture.
Petersen took a break, walking up the spiral steps to the day room on the third level where sandwiches and coffee were available to personnel on the night shift. Climbing the steps he saw guards on duty outside the cells on level 2, where some prisoners were already in residence. Even in the middle of the night, guards rotated among 4 cells each, on a constant watch of their prisoners. No more than 30 seconds were to elapse before a guard peered in to observe his assigned prisoners. Grabbing a ham and cheese sandwich and cup of black coffee, Petersen sat down and watched off duty guards engaged in a card game.
‘Good morning.’ Petersen looked up to see a round-faced man of about 22 peering down at him. He was wearing a first lieutenant’s silver bar on his collar.
‘Howdy,’ Petersen said, standing and introducing himself.
‘Pleased to meet you John. I’m Robert Bentley Simmons. I’m on Colonel Amen’s interrogation staff. You are new here, are you not?’ Robert Bentley Simmons asked.
‘That’s right,’ replied Petersen. ‘How about you?’
‘Indeed not,’ Simmons said. Simmons had lively blue eyes and full lips framing a perpetual grin. He was slightly shorter than Petersen, but heavier with an almost cherubic appearance. ‘I have been here for 2 months already. The Allies knew a couple of years ago that we were going to prosecute the top Nazis and they had all of this,’ he waved his arm in a sweeping gesture that took in the prison and the adjacent Palace, ‘in the works for months. As soon as the Krauts surrendered and we settled on Nuremberg as the site for the trials, our interrogation team moved in,’ Simmons explained, his clipped words reminding Petersen of some of the New Englanders he had served with in the 84th.
‘How come you’re out here in the middle of the night?’ asked Petersen.
‘Well, Col. Amen gives us broad latitude in questioning the prisoners. Since none of them has been formally indicted yet, most of them talk pretty freely. There are a couple of them that prefer late night hours.’
‘I haven’t even seen a prisoner yet,’ said Petersen, ‘much less talked to one.’
‘Well, a couple of them are pretty bizarre,’ said Simmons, straddling the back of a chair and leaning in close to Petersen. ‘There’s Ilsa Koch, she was the wife of the commandant at Buchenwald, one of the camps. She is indescribably strange! If a prisoner had a tattoo, she would have him skinned and lampshades made from the tattooed skin.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Petersen stopped eating his sandwich.
‘I kid you not. You wouldn’t believe the stuff these characters did. The amazing thing is they admit to it!’
Petersen shook his head. ‘When do the big shots get here? We’re fixing up the ground floor cell block for the VIPs.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Simmons. ‘It’s a big secret. Gaffner and General Watson, the Nuremberg CO, are afraid there might be some big attempt to break them out of here if the Germans know when they’re arriving.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Petersen.
‘Well John, you’ve seen Nuremberg and you’ve seen the people out on the streets. They don’t look all that menacing to me.’
‘Yeah,’ Petersen said. ‘But it’s the ones you don’t see that you have to worry about.’
‘Spoken like a combat soldier!’ Simmons laughed, pushing the chair back. ‘You’ve got me on that. The closest I came to combat was when this French whore threw a beer bottle at my head. Back to work for me. I’ll see you around, John.’
Petersen spent the rest of the night talking to the soldiers on guard duty. He questioned them about their routine, about maintaining constant vigilance over what could be painfully boring two hour shifts. Following their two hours, they were off four and could sleep, lounge or play cards, billiards or ping pong in the day room. The worked 24 hours on and 24 hours off and nobody much liked the job. The monotony of watching caged men and women move about in a 10 foot by 12 foot cell was exceeded only by the mind-numbing tedium of watching them sleep. Still, Colonel Gaffner had directed that no prisoner was to go unobserved for more than 30 seconds, day or night, and the men were doing their best to carry out their orders. Some of the men were put off by the colonel’s ‘spit and polish’ approach, especially the few remaining combat veterans. These soldiers felt they had endured enough misery for one lifetime and while the quarters, chow, showers and comforts of their current assignment far exceeded those that had been available in combat, they felt they had won the war, done their duty and should be sent home at President Truman’s earliest convenience.
Following his shift, Petersen hitched a ride back to the Grand Hotel. He washed his face, stripped down to a t-shirt and boxer shorts and climbed into bed. It was lumpy, but still the most comfortable bed he’d slept in since leaving England. Although the city was now awake and in the routine of another post-war day, the traffic and construction noises were not enough to delay Petersen’s slumber. He fell asleep rapidly and slept deeply. And he dreamed. He dreamed of his mother, May, and the small east Texas farm where he had grown up. He smelled the aroma of apple pie baking and felt the sweltering heat in the tiny kitchen. Through the open window he saw clothes hanging limply on the line. He watched from behind as his mother worked, her right arm bent at an odd angle. She was always working: cooking, cleaning, washing, watching over him.
Chapter 3
John was asleep, snuggled beneath a warm, wool blanket. He was dreaming of chasing a rabbit. Every time he seemed close enough to reach it, to grab it, the rabbit darted off in a new direction. The screech of the screen door at the back of the little farm house intruded on his chase. Dim light from the kitchen outlined the closed door of his small bedroom. As his mind awakened, he heard the heavy tread of his father’s boots across the kitchen’s wooden floor, heard one of the wooden kitchen chairs shoved roughly out of the big man’s path. John heard his father’s deep voice, muffled through the door, slurred by drink. Quietly, he pulled the covers back and eased his bare feet down onto the floor. John crept to the door and listened. Now he could hear his mother’s voice, soft and plaintive. His father sounded angry, his words coming more quickly with an accusatory tone. John put his small hand on the cold metal door knob and listened, trying to work up the courage to confront his father and defend his mother.
The voices grew louder. John heard the sound of a slap and his mother’s sob. He stood still, hand on the knob, listening, trying to decide what to do. He needed to pee, but he was afraid to venture out of his room, afraid his father would shout at him, or worse. He crossed his legs. The only way to get to the privy was through the kitchen. The only way through the kitchen was past his drunken father. When he could finally hold it no more, John crept to the corner and peed there. He was afraid his parents would hear the splattering of his urine, but they were distracted by an argument of increasing intensity. John climbed back into his bed, the smell of his shame chasing him back beneath the covers.
Chapter 4
Over the next week, the work to bring the Palace and the prison to a state of readiness and presentability continued. Captain Gifford was in charge of repairing and even rebuilding parts of the Palace in preparation for the world-wide attention expected to be focused on the war crimes trials. Courtroom 600, on the top floor of the Palace of Justice, had been chosen as the main courtroom for the trials, but it was judged too small. Gifford’s crew labored tirelessly doubling the size of Room 600, even to the point of raising its ceiling. In addition to the judges’ bench and the defendants dock, a large gallery for the expected visitors and a 250 seat press section were constructed. In concert with Gifford’s reconstruction team, Stevens, Petersen and their men worked daily, and nightly, to complete plastering, painting, repairs, wiring and the myriad of other tasks related to making the ground floor cell blocks suitable for the remaining ‘big fish’ of the Nazi regime. Like Hitler, Himmler and Goebbels had committed suicide rather than surrender. But other Nazi chieftains had survived the war and been captured either by the Western Allies or the Russians. They currently were imprisoned at Mondorf, an Army stockade in Luxemburg, but their move to Nuremberg seemed imminent given the level of activity at the prison. The Allies wanted the prisoners and their lawyers in Nuremberg with sufficient time to develop a legal defense strategy prior to the beginning of the trials scheduled for early autumn.
Lieutenant Simmons was busy, interviewing potential witnesses to assist the prosecutors in the preparations of their formal indictments. Even so, he quickly fell into the routine of dropping by for an evening, or, depending on his duty schedule, early morning visit.
‘Good evening John. How is life at the Ritz?’ he asked on his Friday night visit.
‘Robert,’ Petersen acknowledged with a nod between sips of his Coca-Cola. ‘How’s the Clarence Darrow of Nuremberg?’
‘Not the Darrow my friend, as I am no lawyer, but rather the artiste that makes the lawyer’s perceived brilliance possible.’ Simmons’ eyes twinkled, ‘Why without my skillful interrogation, without my keen ear and comprehensive knowledge of this harsh language, without my uncanny ability to weigh the tone and nuance of each witness’s answers, the lawyer is merely a performer without a script.’
‘So you’re doing OK?’
‘Yeah, not bad,’ said Simmons reverting to a conversational tone and pulling up a chair beside Petersen. ‘Any idea yet when the bad guys get here?’ he asked.
‘You mean the badder guys,’ Petersen laughed. ‘No, but it’s got to be pretty soon because everything’s ready.’
‘And the Army always stays on schedule. Ah John, you have so much to learn! Seriously, my friend, I too have reason to believe they are coming soon, very soon. We received new duty schedules today. As of Monday, we revert to a mostly 8 am to 6 pm work schedule. That’s 0800 to 1800 to you,’ Simmons teased.
‘Interesting,’ Petersen nodded.
‘Simple really,’ Simmons continued the joke, ‘you see, John, the military uses what is commonly known as a 24 hour clock. Once we get to 12 PM, we just keep going so that 1 PM is really 1300 hours and so forth.’
‘Did I mention that I’m an infantry officer, trained to kill with my bare hands?’
‘Actually, I didn’t come simply to pass the time, or to explain it for that matter. I visited the billeting office today and collected a couple of favors,’ Simmons briefly looked away smiling, then shifted his attention back to Petersen. ‘You, sir, are about to receive a new quarters assignment to # 22 Gartenstrasse where you will find the accommodations far beyond your present, and, truth be told, previous standards. Not to mention that your housemate will be cultured, intelligent, entertaining and delightful beyond your loftiest expectations.’
‘Rita Hayworth is in Nuremberg?’
‘No, you dunce! The housemate I refer to is yours truly. Look at this as a God-given, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for intellectual, cultural and, dare I say it, social growth that, when concluded will make you unrecognizable to other infantry officers—not to mention Texans.’
‘Terrific!’ Petersen responded with genuine enthusiasm. ‘Really. That sounds great, Robert.’
‘Don’t get maudlin on me boy,’ Simmons scolded. ‘I may, in the future, have need of your unique skills and abilities,’ Simmons continued. ‘But that will have to be the subject of future discussions as I am late for my next appointment. Good evening to you John.’ And with that, Simmons stood, flipped a casual salute and strode from the room, leaving Petersen slowly shaking his head.
Chapter 5
On Sunday morning, following the completion of his Saturday night shift, Petersen attended Protestant chapel held in a makeshift sanctuary in the basement of the Grand Hotel. Six rows of chairs were split by a center aisle. A wooden lectern stood in front of the chairs, most of which were occupied by Army officers. An occasional civilian suit stood out in the small, olive assembly. Chaplain Gerrity, a Lutheran from Minnesota, had led his congregation through the first two stanzas of ‘Blessed Assurance’ when the officer next to Petersen passed him a folded note. Petersen quickly opened the paper and read ‘LT P report to duty immediately.’ It was signed by Captain Stevens. Petersen placed the worn hymnal on his wooden chair and slipped up the side aisle and out the back of the room as the last notes of the hymn faded away.
With little traffic on the Sunday morning streets, Petersen covered the distance to the prison in just minutes. He entered C Wing and reported to Stevens in the office. ‘Good morning LT Petersen,’ Stevens said.
‘Sir.’
‘Sorry to drag you back so quickly, but the colonel just informed me that the shipment we have been expecting is coming in early this afternoon,’ Stevens explained.
‘Yes sir,’ Petersen acknowledged the import of the statement as his mind raced ahead to the procedures which had been drawn up for the arrival of the VIP prisoners.
‘Colonel Gaffner will be here in 15 minutes to personally brief the men. Sergeant Hottle will be your sergeant of the guard. He is assembling the sentinels right now.’
Petersen took his leave and found Hottle counting heads and checking uniforms. Petersen’s platoon formed up in the wide corridor between the ground floor cell blocks and stood at ease awaiting the colonel’s arrival. Petersen stood front and center, facing the platoon, but with one eye focused on the entrance through which he expected Gaffner to arrive. Precisely at 1000 hours, the door flew open and Gaffner entered like a bull headed for the matador’s cape. His uniform was immaculate, with sharp creases and every ribbon in place. On his head sat a green lacquered helmet liner with the silver eagle insignia neatly centered. In his left hand, he clutched a leather riding crop. Petersen called the platoon to attention in his most authoritative command voice and executed a precise about face. As Gaffner reached the front of his formation, Petersen snapped a perfect salute and announced, ‘Guard platoon ready for inspection, sir.’ Gaffner returned the salute and barked, ‘At ease! Listen up men. This afternoon, a convoy will arrive here containing the prisoners for whom you, and indeed the whole world, have been waiting. These are the worst criminals mankind has ever seen. They have perpetrated crimes which have brought untold misery on tens of millions of people. They have destroyed whole countries, including their own. They have murdered. They have stolen. And now, they will be here under our guard and care until they can receive a fair trial.’ Gaffner was wound up, his eyes flashing. As he continued shouting, he began to strut back and forth, slapping his thigh with the riding crop, his face flushing, his eyes darting from one GI face to the next. ‘These criminals are scum and they are to be treated as just that. These are not prisoners of war. They are the instigators of war. As such, there will be no exchange of military courtesy, no salutes, no titles or ranks. They are not to speak to you or to each other unless in answer to a question you have directed them to answer. They are not to touch each other. They are not to touch you. Our job is to keep these men alive and well until the court renders its verdicts and its sentences are carried out.’ Gaffner paused, seemed to relax for a moment and continued in a more casual tone of voice, ‘Now men, you’ve been reading Stars & Stripes. You know how big these trials are and how the whole world is watching what we do here. This is a chance to show why the United States of America is different and by-God better than any other country in the world. We came over here, we kicked ass and we won this damn war and this time we’re going to make sure it stays won by taking the bad guys all the way out. I know each one of you men will do your duty to the best of your ability. You have good officers and NCOs here to lead you. Be professional. Be on your toes. Lord knows these Hun bastards aren’t going to give up without a fight. Do your best men! Not for me, not for the Army, but for the good folks back home and for the United States of America!’ Gaffner paused, switched his intense focus to Petersen and said in a lower voice, ‘That’s all LT Petersen. Time to get to work.’
‘Yes sir,’ Petersen answered and then ordered, ‘Platoon, attention!’ Petersen’s crisp salute was returned by the colonel who turned on his heel and marched back out the door.
After Petersen turned the platoon over to Sergeant Hottle, he met with Stevens in the office. Cells were assigned. A white strip of paper was stenciled with each prisoner’s last name and taped to the door of his cell. Guard rosters were double checked. ‘John,’ began Captain Stevens, ‘I’m moving you back to days. Most of the activity, once the prisoners arrive, will take place during the daytime. We will be moving them back and forth for meals, showers, meetings with their lawyers and so forth. As officer in charge of the cell block, it makes more sense that you should be here during the day.’
‘Understood sir,’ Petersen replied with no hint of fatigue in his voice. Despite having completed a full overnight shift and having returned to the compound directly from chapel, Petersen’s excitement at knowing the prisoners would soon arrive was all the motivation he needed.
‘Here,’ said the captain, handing Petersen a safety razor. ‘There’s soap in the latrine. Scrape your chin off before the shipment gets here.’
The sentinels, as Colonel Gaffner liked to call them, put on their duty uniforms: jacket, shirt, tie, bloused trousers, helmet liners, web belts and gloves. Sergeant Hottle, meanwhile repeated the cell block standing procedures to the men, peppering them with questions to ensure their understanding of the colonel’s orders. Hottle stood the guards at rest in a loose formation inside the ground floor cell block, out of the light drizzle that had begun to fall. Then, they waited.
Shortly after 1430 hours, a convoy of two jeeps flanking three Army deuce and a half trucks, rolled through the vehicle gate and into the prison compound, leaving tracks in the mud. At its appearance, Hottle called the sentinel platoon to order. The convoy stopped just short of C Wing and an Army major climbed out of the front jeep as several military policemen emerged from the rear jeep and the back of each truck. The MPs quickly formed a cordon around the convoy, their backs to the vehicles, their eyes searching the area for anyone or anything that might pose a threat. Colonel Gaffner stepped outside followed by Captain Stevens and LT Petersen. The major saluted and handed Gaffner a clipboard on which was a cargo manifest. Gaffner looked the list over and nodded. ‘Alright major,’ he said, ‘Let’s get this done.’ The major barked orders and the MPs moved quickly. Their mission was almost complete and they were eager to finish it and make the most famous prisoners in the world someone else’s worry. A pair of MPs lowered the tailgate of each truck and pulled back the rear curtain. Then, they began to assist the mostly elderly men down to the ground. The prisoners stood in loose groups, stretching and looking around at their new surroundings, while their eyes adjusted to the daylight. To a casual observer, the group would have appeared unremarkable. They were, most of them, well beyond middle age, haggard from imprisonment, gaunt from stress and fatigue. Their clothing was shabby and ill fitting, as most had lost weight during their incarcerations. Three of the men stood stiffly, with their hands at their sides and their chins up. They wore the remnants of German Wehrmacht and Kriegsmarine uniforms, from which all insignia of rank and office had been unceremoniously removed. Petersen felt a mixture of awe and anger as he looked at the prisoners. They now seemed so ordinary, yet they had wielded nearly absolute power, had guided the German nation on its suicidal folly, had bled that nation white until it lay utterly defeated and exhausted before its conquerors. These ordinary, old men had destroyed not only their country, but millions of lives. Those who had not been killed outright had lost loved ones and had often been forced to live like hunted animals, foraging for food and fleeing from danger. Like so many other young Americans, the arc of Petersen’s own life had been deflected by these men. Here he stood, on a wet August Sunday afternoon, a soldier in a conquered land about to inherit responsibility for the perpetrators of the greatest tragedy in history.
The last prisoner to climb down from the truck looked around with a smile on his thin lips. Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering, one time head of the Luftwaffe, chief of the Nazi economy and Hitler’s number 2 man, looked around and nodded to the prisoners who had ridden on the other two trucks. He dusted off the light blue trousers of his uniform. When captured by the Americans in southern Bavaria, Goering had tipped the scales at a portly 264 pounds. At Mondorf, he had been placed on a strict diet and his nearly 20,000 paracodeine pills had been confiscated. Under the watchful eyes of the stockade staff and an elderly German physician, Herr Doktor Schuster, Goering had kicked his drug habit, regained energy and trimmed down to 199 pounds packed onto his 5 foot 6 inch frame. ‘Show them your dignity!’ Goering bellowed to his fellow inmates, startling them. ‘We are the leaders of the German Reich!’ His pale blue eyes ranged from face to face, nodding, smiling, lifting their spirits. Immediately, the military prisoners, Doenitz, Keitel and Jodl, braced to attention. The civilian prisoners stopped milling about and stared at the Reichsmarschall as if awaiting further direction. It came quickly, but from another source.
‘Quiet there!’ Gaffner’s voice boomed. Handing the clipboard to Captain Stevens, Gaffner strode forward and ordered the prisoners into two ranks. The military policemen began to step back as Hottle and his men moved forward. Hottle directed his sentinels to form a large rectangle around the newly arrived prisoners. By the trucks, additional men, under the direction of LT Rose, the personal property officer, assisted the MPs with the unloading of the prisoners’ luggage. Gaffner faced the Germans. ‘You are now prisoners of the International Military Tribunal. You will be imprisoned here pending the completion of your trials and the execution of your sentences.’ Gaffner scanned the rows of infamous faces before him, his lips pressed grimly together. ‘You are not prisoners of war. You are criminals. As such, you have no rights. You will not speak unless you are spoken to. You will not speak to each other. You will do as you are told, when you are told and without hesitation. That is all.’ With that, Gaffner stepped back and turned the formation over to Petersen.
The prisoners were marched inside and into the basement of the cell block. There, they stripped and were herded into cold showers. While they showered, their clothes were searched. Before they were allowed to put their clothes back on, the prisoners were lined up against the wall, told to turn around and lean forward. An Army doctor, accompanied by Dr. Schuster, checked each prisoner’s rectum to ensure that nothing was being secreted into the prison. The Allies had learned from hard experience: once in captivity, Himmler had killed himself with a hidden cyanide capsule. Following the medical check, the prisoners trooped up stairs and into their assigned cells. The heavy oak doors were swung into place and bolted. The first watch of guards took up their positions, one sentinel for every four cells. After weeks of preparation, C Wings’ guests had finally checked in.
Chapter 6
Petersen was back in C Wing by 0630 the next morning. He intended to make sure that the prisoners’ first day went smoothly, according to the routine dictated by Colonel Gaffner. He checked in with Hottle, the sergeant of the guard, who reported an uneventful night. Next, Petersen descended into the basement where the prisoners’ mess hall had been set up, the aroma of sausages and potatoes rising up to meet him. Goodman, the mess sergeant, was busily supervising his staff of cooks, but not too busy to grab a white mug and fill it with hot, black coffee for his lieutenant. ‘Thanks Sergeant Goodman,’ Petersen said. ‘Ready for some customers?’
‘Ever ready, sir,’ Goodman replied with a wink. ‘We’ll feed ‘em better than the rest of their countrymen are eatin’ right now, that’s for sure.’
At 0700, Sergeant Hottle sent two of his men through the cell block banging on cooking pots. This crude, but effective alarm clock woke those prisoners still asleep, calling them to breakfast. Each guard lined up his four prisoners and marched them down the stairs into the dimly lit basement. They were met by the pleasant aroma of food. They proceeded down a single serving line while white-jacketed mess attendants dished steaming helpings of sausage, eggs, fried potatoes and toast onto their plates. Black coffee and water were the only beverage options. The prisoners sat on wooden benches flanking two long wooden tables. Guards stood behind them, still vigilant, watching for any unusual movements and discouraging conversation. Petersen, coffee in hand, stood off to the side, observing the prisoners and his guard detail. For the most part, the meal proceeded in silence. Except for Goering. The Reichsmarschall was animated, almost jovial and despite orders to ‘knock it off’ from his guard, kept up a running monologue. Petersen watched and after a few moments moved forward to assist his sentinel. ‘Quiet sir. No talking.’
‘Ah good morning lieutenant,’ Goering twisted around to face Petersen and smiled. ‘I am sorry if I violated the rules. I am simply enjoying this excellent breakfast. My compliments to the chef!’
‘Yes sir,’ Petersen said, considering the absurdity of an Army first lieutenant telling Adolf Hitler’s chief deputy not to talk with his mouth full. ‘But no more talking.’
‘Of course,’ Goering beamed. He held a fat finger up to his thin lips, ‘Not another word. Mum’s the word. That’s the right expression isn’t it?’ His blue eyes danced.
‘Yes sir, that’s fine,’ Petersen replied, turning away as he stifled a grin.
Goering turned back to his food, raising his eyebrows and grinning across the table at Keitel and Jodl.
‘He likes the food,’ Petersen told Sergeant Goodman.
‘Course he does sir,’ Goodman responded, lifting his chin. ‘Best Army mess in Europe.’
While the prisoners breakfasted in the basement, Sergeant Hottle and the oncoming shift of guards were inspecting the cells on the floor above. As a general rule, the cells were to be inspected whenever their occupants were absent. Guards searched for contraband of any kind, particularly anything that could be fashioned into a weapon or any drugs. Colonel Gaffner had made it clear to his officers and men that their duty was to safeguard the prisoners, from external forces which might try to assist their escape as well as from themselves.
At 0735, the prisoners were escorted back to their cells. Each was given a mop and a bucket of cold water with which to swab out his cubicle. PFC Skip Seleck, of Rowley, Massachusetts, had arrived in France in late April, reaching the 1st Infantry Division on May 9, the day after the German surrender. Two months later, he had been assigned to the Internal Security Detachment as one of Gaffner’s sentinels. Seleck, at 19 years of age, was typical of the soldiers assigned to guard detail. More and more of the combat veterans had already accumulated the service points needed to return home, leaving the younger soldiers in their place. As Seleck handed the mop to Goering, the Reichsmarschall slapped it away. Confused, the young soldier bent down, picked the mop up and again held it out to his prisoner. Goering stepped toward Seleck with his jaw clenched, his fists tightened. ‘I am Marschall of the Third Reich,’ he bellowed, ‘not a scullery maid.’ His face contorted and red with fury, Goering continued to browbeat the soldier, ‘You clean it!’ Switching to German and shouting ferociously, Goering launched invectives at the hapless guard, who backed away from the doorway and into the corridor, as Goering continued to close the distance between them. By now, the racket had attracted other guards and prisoners who had stopped their labors to stare open-mouthed at Goering’s brashness. Petersen and Hottle were trotting toward the commotion when they saw Goering stop suddenly, gag and fall to the floor.
‘Fetch the doctor,’ shouted Petersen as he reached the now prone prisoner. Hottle reversed direction toward the prison infirmary. Petersen rolled Goering over on his back. The Reichsmarschall was conscious, but not lucid, his eyes rolling wildly from side-to-side. He was breathing heavily and was flushed and clammy. Within moments, Dr. Schuster had arrived from his basement infirmary, black bag in hand. Schuster was well into his 70’s, tall and dignified in his worn black suit. He had attended the prisoners at Mondorf, earning their confidence, and had accompanied his most famous patients to Nuremberg. Schuster quickly took Goering’s wrist and checked the Reichsmarschall’s pulse. ‘His heart is racing,’ Schuster said to Petersen. ‘It is over 200 beats per minute. He must have a sedative immediately or he could suffer heart failure!’ The doctor reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial of medicine and a syringe. With skill borne of decades of practice, the doctor administered the drug. Schuster and Petersen watched anxiously as Goering slowly began to relax. With his fingers pressed to Goering’s throat, Schuster looked at Petersen and nodded. ‘His pulse is slowing. Help me get him to his bed.’
‘PFC Seleck, lend a hand here,’ Petersen directed the bewildered soldier. The three of them half carried, half dragged Goering to his bed. Schuster laid Goering’s head on his pillow and covered him with his blanket.
At the first alert of trouble from the jail’s office, Colonel Gaffner had sprinted from his office, across the street and into C Wing, Captain Stevens right on his heels.
‘What in T-total hell is going on here!’ demanded Gaffner, skidding to such a quick halt in the cell’s open doorway that Captain Stevens nearly ran into his back. Petersen jumped to his feet as Seleck tried to melt into the wall. Schuster remained calmly beside his patient.
‘LT Petersen?’ Gaffner barked.
‘Well sir,’ Petersen began, ‘the Reichsmarschall…’
‘Stop right there young man,’ Gaffner snapped, red faced. ‘There is no ‘Reichsmarschall’ here. No generals, no admirals, no deputy assistant Nazi ass wipes! You got that lieutenant?!’
Petersen sprang to attention, his face flushing under the colonel’s lashing and looking straight ahead answered, ‘Yes sir!’
‘Now tell me what the hell happened!’ shouted Gaffner, his eyes blazing, his full fury focused on Petersen.
Petersen recounted the incident. Gaffner’s stare shifted between Petersen, Seleck, who could only nod, and Goering, who moaned occasionally.
‘By God!’ shouted Gaffner, slapping his left thigh with his ever present riding crop and shaking his head angrily. ‘Damnation!’
Fortunately for Petersen, Schuster cleared his throat, shifted his focus away from Goering and spoke. ‘I believe colonel that your lieutenant acted appropriately given the medical situation. The Reichs… Herr Goering could have suffered a heart attack if not for the immediate attention LT Petersen ordered. If I may request some cool, damp towels for Herr Goering’s forehead.’
Gaffner looked at Seleck, snapped his fingers and jerked his thumb toward the cell door. ‘Get them.’ Seleck, eager to escape, dashed out of the cell.
Gaffner’s eyes moved slowly around the cell. ‘LT Petersen, assign a man to clean this cell. Doctor, I’d like a full report on this prisoner’s condition as soon as he is stable.’ Gaffner spun around to leave, bumping into Stevens, who was too slow to jump out of his way. Guards and prisoners alike who had drifted toward the uproar now parted to let the seething colonel pass. ‘Back to your duties,’ he snapped.
‘Thank you doctor,’ Petersen said once they were alone with Goering.