Secret Location

I know I should have written earlier, but this is the first few minutes I’ve had for days (I’m certainly not complaining).

My flight went splendidly, and I arrived in foggy, cold, wet Germany on Sunday. Believe it or not, I certainly don’t mind the change from our ever present southern California sun. The dark dampness puts me in a more Teutonic state of mind. That’s not to say we haven’t been having a lot of fun in the soggy overcast, because we have.

My friend Charley picked me up at the airport and brought me to his house where they had the heat on full blast and the apartment upstairs ready for me. This was the best possible welcome a tired traveler could wish for.

The next day Charley took me out to a cemetery full of 16- and 17-year-olds who were thrown into the line and unnecessarily sacrificed at the end of April 1945. They had a tiny resting place in a sleepy village overlooking vast, verdant fields. The place radiated a quiet respect of the local people for these children so tragically lost 76 years ago.

The next morning Charley introduced me to a friend of his who had been wounded three times on the eastern  front and ended up a prisoner of war in Russia. Harald had been having heart trouble and wasn’t sure we should come. Once we got there and started the interview though, he radiated energy and life and good cheer. He spoke for hours about his experiences, and sometimes he and Charley would get so involved in their own discussions that I’d have to bring them back on track by interrupting with “Boys, boys, can we get back to the topic?”

We went out to a late lunch, and brought Harald back home as it was getting dark. It was such a thoroughly enjoyable day that none of us wanted it to end. He grabbed me in a big bear hug as he left us and walked to his door, and I wondered as I watched him go if his physical burdens might not be lightened more often if perhaps his children or other young people in Germany took the least bit interest in his stories, or his sacrifices.

On Wednesday we went to lunch with a 92-year-old 16th Panzer Division tank commander I met last year who lives a mile from Charley and who saw action in France, Russia and Italy.

This morning Charley and I surely had a banner day planned. Up early, we packed his car full of baggage and headed towards our secret destination, stopping along the way at Becklingen to pay our respects to the British tankers and airmen buried there.  As an honorary member of the British tank regiment he fought against in Africa, the Sherwood Rangers, Charley was surprised and awed to find a grave of a Sherwood Ranger as we made a very short tour. We resolved to go back when we have more time, and the weather is more welcoming.

Later, we arrived at a museum where we had by prior arrangement received permission to interview Charley by the Panzer IV, his tank while he served under Rommel in Africa. Well, it wasn’t HIS tank, but he’d served in one just like it that had been knocked out by the Americans.

We filmed for two hours. Charley is 88, and the museum is unheated. Although he experiences terrible pain in his hands when it’s cold, Charley never once complained and did his best to tell me all he could.

I want to be like him when I grow up.

We warmed up with some hot chocolate in the cafe, left and checked into our hotel, and ran into another WWII tank veteran from the SA Feldhernhalle Panzerbrigade as we sat down to eat lunch at 4 pm.  Heinz had been shot in the gut as a 17-year-old defending Berlin on the Oder front.  Possessed of a fine sense of humor, he made delightful dinner company.  Soon more veterans found us, and we kept adding more tables in a long row at the restaurant.

The one person we missed the most was George Cone, the historian who invited me to join him here last year and who introduced me to these men. He couldn’t make it this year, and without him, his Texan ability to make friends, his wide circle of veterans and encyclopedic knowledge of the battles I feel somewhat small, vulnerable, and lost.

As I went across the street to find another veteran we were expecting, I saw an entire restaurant taken by the Hermann Goering tank division, a bunch of Luftwaffe paratroopers trained in tank warfare. Uncharacteristically, I was suddenly struck by a bout of paralyzing shyness. I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t find the courage to plunge into their midst.

Returning to my friends I explained my dilemma to Charley and texted George in America. With the encouragement of both, Charley accompanied me into the restaurant where we crashed the private party. For a heart-stopping second all went silent as a dozen heads turned towards us suspiciously. I couldn’t speak. Then Charley took the lead and introduced himself to the couples at the nearest table. Mercifully, they welcomed us as the conversations around us started back up.

I needn’t have worried, though, for as soon as I mentioned George the “Texaner” a whole chorus of cheerful responses resounded. Everyone remembered the American whose father had fought against them every step of the way in Italy. After a while with Charley at the high table a couple of these gentlemen agreed to let me come interview them next week.

Going to bed, I thought of how excellent the day was.

Tomorrow we dine.