Special Smashwords Edition
Captured!
The POW Saga of Frank Battle
A Novel by
Bob Corbin
with
Alexander Doyle
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Captured! The POW Saga of Frank Battle
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2011 by Bob Corbin with Alexander Doyle. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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ISBN: 978-1-935670-64-3 (eBook)
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Version 2011.06.16
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my family and friends for all of their support and encouragement. A special thanks to Robert G. Thobaben who encouraged me to write this book and who also first documented my story in his book, For Comrade and Country: Oral Histories of WWII Veterans, published by McFarland and Company.
Bob Corbin, May, 2011
For my Kriegie friends, Jay Drake and Dallas Smith.
Prologue
Emmett Dumas waited in the hallway. He tried to push out the sensations that crowded his senses, but he wasn't too successful. The thick smell of antiseptic and cleaning fluids tugged at his nose. He knew, deep down, that those smells were hiding the smells of something more. They were hiding the death that walked the halls and the decay that nestled in the brittle bones of the men and women of this retirement home.
Emmett considered himself unique.
He was always very responsive to smell.
As a newspaper reporter, he had been sent on many a scene where there had been a murder, a suicide, or a tragic accident. It wasn't the sight of the blood or twisted metal or the way the splintered windshield glittered like diamonds in the sunlight that got to him. It was the smell.
Always the smell.
He had developed a sense for this particular smell, awareness if you will.
He smelled it now, in this lonely and deserted hallway, with it's brilliantly glaring fluorescent light and the cold echo of the footsteps that approached.
Emmett looked up from his multifunctional cell phone, where he was reading the latest mortality statistics on what he had come to know as the Greatest Generation, the World War II era. The Internet, with its relative omniscience, fed him the facts, but in his heart, he felt it as he sat in this lonely nursing home.
They were dying, thousands a day.
Someday, that number would drop to hundreds by attrition.
And then… ninety–to–fifty.
And then…tens.
And one day, the toddlers who were just learning the whole speaking thing, would completely miss out on the experience he was about to seize upon.
Why?
Because the Greatest Generation would be dead.
And the only thing left, would be their words.
What story awaited him in these halls where lives quietly faded away? For that matter, what story sat in every apartment of this nursing home? What kind of history was slipping away with the barest of whisper?
The Nurse who had been approaching interrupted his thoughts on such an impending loss.
"Mr. Dumas? He's ready to see you now."
Emmett Dumas nodded his head, stood up, with his cell phone in hand, and followed her down the hall.
The Nurse led him to a small apartment. It was nice and cozy, on the second floor of a unique high–rise. The Nurse gestured to the expensive–looking burgundy armchair. Emmett took his seat.
She went into the other room that adjoined this one, pushing a once–hearty and robust–looking man. He was balding, with large tinted glasses.
Emmett leaned forward and shook the man's hand as he extended it.
"Frank Battle, 2nd Lieutenant, POW of Stalag 13," the man's voice was a deep baritone and full of authority.
Emmett was immediately impressed.
He wasn't sure what to expect when he received a call from his wife. It was a unique situation and twist of fate, actually. She had told him about her latest visit to her grandmother, who lived on the fifth floor of this high–rise. She told him that in her visit, she had met this World War II veteran who had a fascinating story and a tremendous fear.
"Honey," he remembered her words last night as they turned in for bed, "I know you're sick of the grisly stories they put you on, day after day. You need to talk to this man. Get his story. Write about him. He just needs someone to listen. To acknowledge what he went through. You won't regret it. I promise."
Emmett agreed to visit with the veteran.
Now, as he activated the application on his cell phone that allowed him to record conversation, he felt…privileged.
"Nice to meet you, Sir," he replied. "I'm here at the request of my wife."
"Yes!" Frank brightened up, "I remember my conversation. She said she would hound you to come see me. I'm very pleased you have. I've been looking for fifty years for someone to record my story, and tell it the way it needs to be told. Seeing as how you are a writer…"
Emmett blushed, "I'm a newspaper reporter. I write the news, Sir. I can't promise I'll write a bestseller, but I'll do my best."
"That's good enough for me," replied Frank Battle.
Emmett pressed the button on his cell phone, and the recording began.
"So…" he asked, "Where do you want to start?"
Frank smiled.
"You know, Mr. Dumas, every great story I've ever read, has started with something in common. Something that we can all relate to."
"What's that?" asked Emmett.
Frank's smile somehow widened even further, "I guess you could say that it started with a woman…"
Chapter 1
Dear John and Dear Lord, I'm in a Forward Position!
Frank,
I know that you have been looking forward to my letters for some time. I've been getting all of yours. But the reason I haven't written until now is that I've been feeling like this is just not right. I'm not right. Not right for you. I'm divorced. I feel like I've got a Scarlet Letter on my forehead. I can't stand it. I just don't feel like I'm good enough for you. You deserve someone better. I know we've had a lot of great times together, and you are so very special to me. But…I just can't live like this. It's too much. So don't write to me anymore. I can't handle that. I hope you make it back safely, and you can come see me if you do. But it's over between us.
I'm sorry,
Jessica
November 25, 1944
Frank Battle sat on his bunk in his officer's quarters as he read. He chuckled to himself. Folding up Jessica's letter, he placed it in a book he had brought from the States: a fellow named Napoleon Hill had written a philosophy on leadership and success. Frank's admiration for Hill, and his subsequent dreaming, earned him the nickname ‘Dreamer’ from his fellow officers. Not to mention that he also talked in his sleep and kept others awake in the night. Many times he was exhausted in the morning, because the other officers had wakened him repeatedly to shut him up. But they also teased him about his "interesting" conversations with nobody in the middle of the night.
Needless to say, morning time was always an embarrassing time for Frank. He didn't know what his buddies would say to him. It was a bit unnerving too.
November 26, 1944
He placed Hill's book in his footlocker and headed out of his office, got into his Jeep, called for Frankie Redbone his driver and radio operator, and Roy, who had been recently transferred to his battery and was riding along with him to the Front to learn Frank's duty as a Forward Observer.
The 84th Division was located in northwest Germany at the time and fighting its way into the Siegfried Line. Frank, an officer who was embedded with the infantry to provide them with artillery support in their missions, was on his way to the front lines to take up his duty as a Forward Observer.
Just before he left, he received a message from Regimental Headquarters to pick up the Padre who wanted to go to the Front.
"So tell me, Padre," said Frank, as they bounced in the seats of the Jeep, "What do you believe in? Coincidence or fate?"
The Padre, from the Regimental Headquarters, a tall lanky man with graying hair, turned his head to look quizzically at Frank, "Why do you ask, my son?"
Frank shrugged, "I don't know, Padre. I just think that too many of my friends believe too much in fate."
"You mean destiny, sir?" asked Sergeant Williams sitting in the front with the driver.
"Destiny…yeah, Williams, that's maybe a better word. I don't know if I believe in destiny. Too many men I've met believe that this whole war is God's will. I don't see it. I see it as some crazy–ass Kraut's grab to have everyone kiss his ass."
The Padre smirked, "That's an interesting way to look at it, my Son. But let me ask you a question."
"Sure, Padre."
"Do you believe that you signed up of your own free will? Or did something compel you to do so?"
Frank thought for a moment.
"Well, to that, I have to say that the Pearl Harbor bombing had everything to do with me signin' up."
Padre nodded in agreement, "Okay, then can you say that you were totally free of your own volition or will to sign up? Were you completely free?"
"I guess not. Because of the influence of the bombing."
"Right! So there was an influence, no matter how small, that affected your decision."
Frank nodded. "I can agree with that."
"So if that is true, then you were not truly free, Lieutenant. You were directed, if not indirectly."
Roy, spoke up, "Some crazy–ass Jap who aligned himself with a crazy–ass Kraut who wants the whole world to kiss his ass!'"
Frank laughed. "I see your point. So you're saying that I've freely chosen to sign–up is not true. Are you saying that everything is linked to everything else?"
"Bingo!" said the Padre.
"And everything has a connection to everything else…."
Sergeant Williams turned around in his seat again, "So, Padre…there isn't anything as free will?"
"Not true free will…no…if we were truly free…I don't think we would know what to do with ourselves," he answered.
"So how does that fit with destiny, Padre?" asked Frank.
"If everything is coincidental, then nothing is planned. You can make no plans. And everything means nothing. You cannot influence anything. Destiny, Lieutenant, is part of the warp and woof of reality. Everything has a purpose. Everything has a reason. Everything happens for a reason and there is an element of good in everything that happens, because a Divine Being is watching over us."
Frank took this in, not commenting.
Suddenly the Jeep stopped in the middle of the street. Frank had been so absorbed in his conversation that he hadn't noticed they had driven all the way through Gereonsweiler. They appeared to be at the edge of the town.
"What's the problem, private?" he asked the Jeep driver.
"I'm sorry, sir," he replied, "I missed a turn. Let me back up."
The next moment, there was a mortar shell barrage. Frank heard a SPAT! behind him. He turned his head and saw a dud mortar behind him that had missed his head by three feet. His heart hammered.
He started to laugh as he felt the adrenaline blast through him.
The Padre looked scared out of his wits, which he probably was.
"Padre!" Frank exclaimed, "I believe you now!"
"What…what do you mean, my son?" he stammered.
"I wish I could drag you up to my position!"
"Why?"
"Because obviously God didn't want you dead right now! Maybe you can be my lucky charm! Wanna come?"
The Padre's eye bulged at the thought, "No, my son…I don't think I want to be your lucky charm!"
As the Jeep then began moving again, more shells fell from the sky, pummeling the town. Frank didn't seem to notice them. He was laughing too hard.
He was invincible.
As long as the Padre was with him.
"Hey Frank!" a voice pulled him out from under a restless sleep. He was covered by a blanket.
Frank blinked and shook his head.
Lieutenant Roy was cooking up something in a tin. They were in the basement of the school building that he and Roy had taken over earlier that day from "the Judge," a lieutenant, who was a lawyer from Texas.
When Frank had first met the Judge, he was cool and collected, as smooth as glass. Frank liked him. He wasn't disturbed by anything. He was as smooth in his attitude and behavior as Bing Crosby was in his best song.
Now, as Frank and Roy approached the three–story schoolhouse where the Judge was stationed, he saw another man altogether.
He was well built, and looked like he was well to do and well fed. But his eyes were pinpoints and wide, shifting constantly from side to side and ground–to–sky at the slightest gun burst ahead of the building. He ushered them into the first floor.
The three of them crouched in the basement of the building. The Judge licked his lips nervously. Frank noticed that as he pulled out a cigarette from his pouch, his hands trembled and shook violently. He could hardly hold the cigarette still for Roy to light it for him.
"Thanks…" he murmured as Roy withdrew his lighter.
"What's the situation?" asked Frank.
The Judge pulled out his map where he had been making notations on it, and began to point with a shaky finger at different positions of the German army. Frank took it all in, glancing at times to Roy, to see if he were doing the same. Roy's face was a mask of concentration.
After the Judge finished, he leaned against a wall and drew in deep drags on his cigarette. Finally, he seemed to be calming down.
Frank said, "Judge, I have to ask…what's got you so spooked?"
The Judge winced as another mortar barrage went off outside.
"You'll see, Frank. You'll see."
After the Judge left, Frank and Roy made their way up the stairs to the third floor, where the Judge had been watching the movements of the troops. The roof was devastated from mortar barrages. They stepped carefully through the debris and took up positions to begin their duty of marking German base positions. They then made their calculations for the artillery to fire on the Krauts.
Just when everything seemed to be calm, Frank and Roy heard, what he could only describe as a real–live banshee screech fill the air. Suddenly, the entire building shook as an 88mm shell ripped through the second floor below them. There was a tremendous boom and crashing noise as entire chunks of walls were obliterated and the roof on which they crouched, trembled like a drunk going through a dry spell.
Seconds later, another 88mm shell shrieked through the air, and the second floor continued to shake and rumble below them.
Frank called to Roy, "Let's get the hell outta here!"
Roy didn't argue.
As quickly as possible, crouching down as low as they could, they exited the third–floor roof and scrambled down the schoolhouse stairs to the basement. The second–story continued to bleed debris and trash. Frank and Roy returned to the classroom they had shared with the Judge and the two of them sat against the wall, wincing every time another 88mm shell slammed with terrific and horrible power into the building.
Time slowed and stretched like a thin strand of spaghetti in Frank's mind. He slipped into one of his daydreams again. He snapped out of it when Roy's hand fell on his shoulder and, wordlessly, indicated that they should go back up top.
It was only then, that Frank realized that the shelling had stopped.
The two of them made their way back up the stairs to the third floor.
They were there for ten minutes before the 88mm shells came again and they retreated back downstairs.
This went on and on…all day long.
By the time night fell, Frank noticed a slight tremble in his hands.
"I'll be damned," he murmured to himself.
That night, Frank and Roy were in the basement of the Command Post with Captain Walsh, giving him details on German movements and positions. An infantryman came in and reported that they had just captured a pillbox fifty yards in front of the lines. Frank was excited. A pillbox was a concrete, dug–in guard post, sometimes equipped with loopholes through which weapons could be fired. As soon as Captain Walsh dismissed the infantryman, Frank could hardly contain himself.
"Sir!"
"Yes, Battle?"
"You know, I could do a much better job if I was in that pillbox, Sir."
Roy didn't say anything; he just looked back and forth between Battle and Captain Walsh.
"I don't think so, Battle. It's too risky."
"But sir, if I were in that pillbox, nothing could touch me! I'd be totally protected!"
Captain Walsh paused.
Frank pressed the advantage, "Captain…we need someone in that box! Roy and I need someplace that is totally covered! We're completely exposed on that roof! If we were in that pillbox…"
Frank, seeing that the Captain was possibly reconsidering, closed his mouth, thinking that if he pressed too hard, he'd get shut out.
Captain Walsh returned to look at he maps they had and marked where the pillbox was. Battle could barely contain himself, but he did. In his mind, he was thinking of how safe he would be from the Krauts.
Finally, after a long time, Captain Walsh turned back to Frank and Roy.
"Okay, Battle, you convinced me. You and Roy will head to the pillbox at 0600 tomorrow morning."
Frank and Roy saluted him simultaneously, "Sir!"
"Dismissed. Now go get some chow."
Frank and Roy left with grins on their faces.
Chapter 2
Pillbox
At 0600 the next morning, Frank met Lieutenant Roy with a runner to take them to the captured pillbox. All night long, Frank had entertained dreams of being safe from the 88mm shells that had honeycombed the school where he had been positioned. From a pillbox, he could work in safety. After spending a day running up and down the stairs of a three–story school building, he now understood clearly why the Judge was so shaken.
His hands had stopped shaking, and he wanted it to stay that way.
The pillbox would give him that.
The three men set off on foot into the midst of the German town.
The morning fog was thicker than pea soup, but that was fine by Frank. The thicker the fog, the more their movements would be untraceable by the enemies’ own Forward Observers. The last thing he wanted was to be pinned down and captured by the Krauts when he was so close to safety.
Frank finally recognized the tune Roy was humming. It was Sinatra's "I've got the world on a string."
Frank smiled to himself.
Once he was in that pillbox, he would join Roy in humming the tune.
Their runner turned to Frank after a couple of blocks into their journey, "LT, there's a sniper down this way…can we take another route?"
Frank wasn't particularly eager to be another notch on a sniper's belt. He nodded his head, "Go ahead. Just get us there, I'm not out here taking in the town like some googly–eyed tourist. Got me?"
The runner, a private, saluted, "Yes, sir!"
Frank returned the salute and the runner turned to the left at the next intersection. Frank and Roy followed behind, confident that they were well on the way to safety. Roy continued to hum Sinatra.
Frank, feeling somewhat secure from the sniper, allowed his thoughts to take him back a couple of years.
It was 1942, and Frank was with his girlfriend, Maryann. There was a Sinatra concert at the local concert hall. His friend Mickey Jones had managed to somehow gain access to the concert hall while Ole Blue Eyes was rehearsing for that night. Mickey and his girl, Rhonda, had encouraged Frank and Maryann to join them for a little B & E. Mickey knew a friend who had a key to one of the stage doors. Mickey had borrowed the key from his friend.
That day, Mickey, Rhonda, Frank, and Maryann used the key to enter the concert hall. Not wanting to get caught and kicked out (or arrested) the four quickly and quietly made their way to the top of one of balconies. There, they sat on the floor for the next two hours, listening to Sinatra croon through hits like "Witchcraft," "I've got you under my skin," and "Nice and easy."
Frank tapped his foot and sank into Blue Eyes' voice, forgetting everything.
A couple of times, Mickey almost gave them away, but Rhonda shushed him when he tried to sing along with Sinatra. Frank playfully punched him in the side when he got just a "little" too loud. Mickey was a goof who always pushed the envelope.
Finally, after a couple of hours, it seemed that Sinatra and the band had decided to take a break. So instead of just sitting there like frogs on a log, the four of them decided to make their way back to the exit. As they turned down the stairway from the balcony, a lone figure turned the corner, and the four of them found themselves face–to–face with Ole Blue Eyes himself.
Frank was slightly taller than the singer, but he didn't notice that. What he noticed was Sinatra's eyes. They weren't blue in this corridor. They were dark. Dark and deep. Frank found himself captured by the man's gaze.
The singer looked surprised for just one solitary moment before a smirk broke out on his face.
"Well…well…look at this!" his voice contained a hint of mirth, "I got myself some fans!"
Frank glanced at Maryann, who could only stare and gape like a scarecrow. Mickey swallowed, and Rhonda squeaked.
"Uh, sir," started Mickey, "Please don't call the cops on us! We just…"
Frank Sinatra waved his hand, to silence Mickey, "Don't worry boy! I'm good to my fans! Why don't you four come to the front row? My treat!"
Frank was overwhelmed.
Maryann and Rhonda squeaked simultaneously.
Mickey just worked his mouth silently, unable to find his voice.
When nobody moved, Sinatra got a serious look on his face.
"Boo!" he burst out suddenly.
All four of them jumped, and Sinatra laughed a deep booming laugh.
"Come on you guys! Follow me!"
With that, Ole Blue Eyes treated the four friends to a private and amazing show. Before long, the band came back, and joined the Chairman. The four of them sat in their seats, completely overwhelmed.
It was the gunfire that brought Frank out of his daydream. He slammed himself against the nearest wall. Roy joined him a mere moment later. Frank shook his head, trying to clear away his memories that threatened to crowd out his awareness of his present situation. The runner was across the street, crouched within a doorway, rifle in hands. He peered out down the street.
The gunfire shattered the silence of the morning fog, crisp and staccato.
But it wasn't anywhere close to them. Now that they heard it again, it sounded like the shooting was happening about three streets over from them.
We need to get to that pillbox!
Again, Frank allowed his thoughts of safety to drive him forward. The three of them waited until the gunfire died down. Finally, after what seemed to be forever, Frank motioned for them to move out and press forward.
The runner took point, and Frank and Roy followed.
The streets were deserted, and as the morning wore on, gunfire began to break out all over. Short bursts to the left and ahead, right and behind, two streets to right, one street behind them. The three men pressed on, determined to reach the Pillbox.
Then, after what seemed a long stretch, the gunfire ceased.
The runner stopped.