Getting Even

By Kurt Willinger

World War II destroyed countless lives. Getting even recounts the daring exploits of ordinary people who fought to prevail as they were caught in the maelstrom. An innocent young girl scarred by her debasement at a Nazi concentration camp, a green army private who survived a massacre in a Belgian forest, a war-weary captain of the Jewish Brigade determined to exact revenge on the Nazis, a lovestruck young American medic who won his prize through mortal combat, and a captured American flyer imprisoned in Stalag Luft 1 who ultimately uncovered the secrets of the Reichs most advanced technology.

Thrown together by fate, these disparate individuals courageously surmounted the obstacles before them and triumphed. This is their story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543427189

Kurt Willinger

After service in the Air Force as a jet fighter crew chief and a brief stint with Pan Am Airways as an engineer, the author spent some years as an advertising creative director on Madison Avenue. Willinger has penned five books, all related to WWII. Getting Even is his latest. His other works include the novels, The Spy in a Catcher’s Mask, Fly Girl, Dead for Awhile and The American Jeep in Peace and War, a non-fiction history of the iconic vehicle. He has also contributed to several anthologies of short stories. The author and his family reside in Connecticut.

Book preview

Getting Even

Kurt Willinger

Copyright © 2017 by Kurt Willinger.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017908819

ISBN:      Hardcover          978-1-5434-2720-2

                Softcover           978-1-5434-2719-6

                eBook                978-1-5434-2718-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/05/2017

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Part 1 Facing The Enemy

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Part 2 Getting Even

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Part 3 The Survivors

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

Dedicated to

Antoinette Capelle

Lilly Malnik

Irving Weinberger

Three survivors I have been privileged to know

And, of course,

Doris

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Gayle Campbell, who so graciously consented to read the first draft of this book, and by doing so, will no doubt accrue merit toward subsequent incarnations.

To Col. (Ret.) Gary Hooker, F-16 pilot, who so kindly contributed to the editing of the flying sequences in this book.

To Sammy Ginsberg, my Florida neighbor, for the loan of both his name and his special brand of optimism.

To B-24 pilot, Warren Rogers, friend and mentor, who was held in Stalag Luft 1 and recounted his experiences.

The model for the character, Major Norbert Jeske, is a composite of two Eighth Air Force fighter aces, Hub Zemke and Francis Gabby Gabreski.

To my son, Jeremy, who ceaselessly asked, Is the book finished yet? Yes, son, it’s finished.

If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

If you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shall we not

revenge?

The Merchant of Venice

Shakespeare

PART 1

Facing the Enemy

Never think that war,

no matter how necessary,

nor how justified,

is not a crime

E. Hemingway

1

Ernest Hemingway characterized the 1914-18 war as the most colossal, murderous, mismanaged butchery that has ever taken place on earth. He could hardly have foreseen that in a mere twenty years time that butchery would begin anew.

There seems never to be a shortage of groups with diverse philosophies who detest each other and charismatic leaders available to direct them to actualize their belligerence.

When the Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, invaded Ethiopia, Africa’s oldest country, under the pretext of protecting Italian nationals and General Francisco Franco staged a right wing coup in Spain, supported by German troops, aircraft and armor, these actions emboldened German chancellor, Adolph Hitler to set his dreams of conquest in motion. When the Fuhrer marched on the Rhineland, the Allies protested but did nothing. Hitler had correctly gauged the timidity of his adversaries.

In the winter of 1938, Hitler’s soldiers annexed neighboring Austria to the cheers and tossed bouquets of its German speaking population. He then carved up Czechoslovakia and later defeated Poland after a mere month of resistance.

At the fall of Poland, the British and French issued the bellicose declaration that a ‘state of war’ existed between themselves and Germany. But no action was taken to help the Poles. The French, more interested in securing their own borders, hunkered down behind the Maginot Line, the ‘impregnable’ concrete barrier of gun emplacements and fortresses built in the 1930’s. This Gallic ‘Great Wall’, however, extended only to their border with neutral Belgium.

The Germans circumvented the French fortifications and attacked from the north by way of the Netherlands and Belgium. In WWI, the rough and wooded Ardennes proved impassable to footsoldiers and horse drawn artillery. In 1940 German tanks and half-tracks traversed the forest with ease. Belgium, the Netherlands and France fell easily and their Jewish populations were methodically rounded up and deported. The destination of many of these captives was the Bergen-Belsen Camp.

In addition to serving as a prisoner of war camp, Bergen-Belsen functioned as a holding facility for Jews, homosexuals, Roma and political undesirables. It was from here that these enemies of the Reich were to be routed to their ultimate destinations. Although thousands upon thousands died at Belsen it was never intended to function as a death camp. The overcrowded facility would propagate rampant epidemics of cholera, tuberculosis and typhus. Of the estimated 120,000 souls interned at Belsen, nearly half died of disease or starvation.

A special section of the camp was set aside to serve as an ‘exchange camp’ where prominent or wealthy Jews were kept until they could be ransomed for cash or exchanged for German civilians interned in non-occupied countries.

It was in this special section that the Mendler family was held. The small family consisted of Aloise Mendler, the son of the founder and current chairman of the Mendler-Goerke Bank of Brussels, his wife and young daughter. Ideal candidates for ransoming. A trio of SS officers at the Belsen camp, however, were contemplating a more entrepreneurial scheme, believing that a greater sum could be acquired more quickly from the wealthy Jew’s personal holdings than through the more arduous ransoming procedure. On their own initiative SS Majors Otto Holstein and Hans Wegelein and Captain Helmut Gersdorf of the commandant’s staff, chauffered Mendler to Brussels and coerced him into opening the bank’s vault. The vault unfortunately was empty, having been looted during the early days of the occupation. In order to recoup what the SS officers perceived to be their loss, they brought Mendler to his home and had him open his bedroom wall safe. All that was found was a few Belgian francs and a number of leather-bound books that held a stamp collection. The enterprising SS men were disappointed and angry. They had anticipated a rich and easy haul. As they were about to toss the stamps in the trash, one of the guards recalled that their commandant, Hauptsturmfuhrer Josef Kramer, was a briefmarke semmler. He saved stamps. Perhaps if Commandant Kramer was presented the collection, he might show lenience to their unsuccessful foray.

Commandant Kramer angrily dressed down his officers for their unproductive ‘freelancing’ but accepted the consolation of the volumes of stamps, albeit with tepid grace. When his men first presented him with the collection, Kramer showed little interest in the albums.

You do understand that any cash you might have found would be the property of the Reich. You are actually fortunate there was no money to tempt you. You could easily have been shot. And I, guilty of fostering your corruption. You will speak no more of the incident. Clear? Now, the three of you, out of my sight.

As his men were leaving the office, the Hauptsturmfuhrer placed the several volumes of stamps in a cupboard. He did this roughly as if he had great disdain for the Jew’s collection.

In Commandant Kramer’s initial examination of the collection he immediately perceived the quality and value of the stamps. Alois Mendler collected only the finest specimens. And those bound in leather were his most prized. What Kramer failed to note was the presence of one of philately’s singular rarities. In a slender Moroccan binder, behind some pristine early Russian postals, the banker secreted a glassine envelope containing the rarest stamp in the world; the British Guiana one cent magenta. A stamp that Aloise had acquired for himself in 1937 at silent auction as a secret and indulgent salute to myself. At the time, the stamp would easily command 35,000 Francs.

Banker Mendler had originally acquiesced to accompany the Nazis on the promise of transport documents to neutral Spain for himself, his wife and daughter. Aloise Mendler never returned from his excursion to Brussels. No travel papers were ever issued.

Mendler’s wife, Hedwig, a strikingly beautiful woman, now without husband, was transferred to the Freude haus, a six bedroom dwelling a short walk from the camp entrance. The house was built in 1935 for the family of the general who commanded the original training grounds.

Five young and attractive women were kept in this house. They were well fed and clothed and the house was kept meticulously clean. There was even a ‘house mother’, a middle-aged woman named Rosalia, who tended to homemaking chores, served as bartender and scheduled the ladies. She was known as tante Rosalia. It was understood by all that their ‘good’ treatment would continue as long as the needs of the SS officers were seen to. Hedwig Mendler’s daughter, Annette also lived in the house as a sort of mascot. The pretty, naïve eleven year-old appeared to enjoy the attention she received when she would show off for the officers by performing her dancing school leaps and pirouettes. The presence of this innocent child somehow gave the place a more home-like atmosphere.

Mama, do you like the German men who come here? Annette once asked her mother. They are very handsome in their uniforms.

No, my dear, Hedwig answered. But we must make them believe we like them, otherwise they will hurt us. And we mustn’t let that happen. Understand?

I think so, mama.

In the early months of 1944, Hedwig Mendler fell ill and was taken away. Before she left, she told her daughter, Annette, "You must live, my darling. You must do anything in order to live. One day this will pass and you, and I, when I’m well, must be alive to see it. Remember, do anything, anything, to survive, my dearest girl."

In the interest of variety, it was decided that the pretty Annette, with her light brown hair and ready smile, would replace her mother in the Freude haus.

The regular Freude haus patrons graciously offered the honor of the girl’s deflowering to their commandant, Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer. With mock solemnity he accepted their gesture. Acknowledging the cheers and bawdy encouragement of his subordinates, Kramer stood at the door of the girl’s room while he mugged lewdly for his men in a pantomime of a matador steeling himself for the ring.

Kramer entered the room and, without a word, shoved the trembling girl down on the bed. He was quick, mounting Annette without tenderness or humanity. The commandant didn’t even bother to remove his boots or his uniform blouse. When he was done, Kramer exited the girl’s room grinning triumphantly as he buttoned his trousers to the clamorous approval of his men. Annette was left alone for the rest of the day. When Tante Rosalia attempted to enter the room, Annette ordered her out. As far as the other girls were concerned the conceited little show-off received her just due. Annette was desolate, her childish view of life utterly dashed. Later, alone in the dark, frightened and hurt, she realized two things; that her mother was never going to return and what she must do in order to survive. Annette was fourteen.

2

Pas-de-Calais

France

Having gobbled up most of Europe with remarkable ease, the Armies of the Third Reich seemed unstoppable. Now, paused at lands end in France, the Fuhrer contemplated the Island Kingdom across the Channel. Peering through his tripod-mounted Zeiss binoculars, he could make out the shoreline of England through the distant haze.

Mine for the taking, thought Hitler. After a few weeks of bombs falling on their heads they will beg to surrender. They are finished.

Now Hitler turned his attention to the east. Beyond Poland to the territories of Ukraine, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia and the vast expanse of Russia.

As the armies of the Reich advanced, more Jews were rounded up, more of those whom the Reich deemed untermenchen, sub-human, were arrested and imprisoned. Some are placed in dedicated extermination camps, others in labor and prison camps. All of these camps take an enormous toll of lives while the leaders of the Allied countries refuse to accept the unthinkable.

Some prescient Jews manage to escape to South America or to the States and even Palestine. This small stream of outcast men, women and children, stripped of their homes, community and possessions, are grudgingly accepted by the British administrators.

Many of these immigrants and indeed some of the Palestine-born sabras, as they were called, express a desire to stand up and confront the Nazis. To join in the fight. To even the score. When they offer their services they are rebuffed. The British administrators worry that militarizing Jews might disquiet the Arab population.

In light of the threat to their home island, loyal Britains from every corner of the Empire flock to England to bolster its defenses. This results in a diminishment of troop strength in His Majesty’s Middle East Forces and underscores the practicality of utilizing the manpower available in Palestine. Subsequently the Jews of Palestine are grudgingly permitted to enlist in the British Army.

3

The King David Hotel

British Eighth Army Headquarters, Jerusalem

The King David Hotel is a pink limestone structure of seven stories situated on Julian’s Way in the venerable city of Jerusalem and serves as Headquarters, British Eighth Army, Palestine. On the second floor, an interior chamber had been set aside as a lounge for command officers. It boasts a well stocked bar, fine cigars, leather chairs and oriental carpets. Game animals adorn the walls with brass plaques attributing the kills to past and present notables of the Empire. It was in this room that the one-eyed commander of Eighth Army, Middle East Command, was having a whiskey with one of his subordinates.

Historically, they’re simply not fighters, insisted Sir Archibald Wavel. Lack the stomach for it.

We sorely need the manpower, Brigadier. With proper training, British training, I believe we can make them fighters.

Can’t see it, old man. They’re sure to make a hash of the training. Devious lot, the Jews.

But they’ve got incentive, sir. A chance to answer back the Germans. That’s no small motivation.

Well, perhaps, Wingate. But won’t they then become our problem? If they learn, I mean.

I dare say they’ll have their hands full with the Arabs once the Hun’s been dealt with.

Yes, true. But you must understand my position, Wingate. I’m caught between the Foreign Minister and Churchill. Bevin wants to placate his precious Arabs. Churchill is playing to the soft-hearted press. Then there’s the matter of keeping the oil flowing. Ships, factories, tanks. Lifeblood of the Empire, oil. And what if you do train them up and they fail? It might not be in them to be fighters. I foresee the potential for a grand cock-up. We’ll look like fools. All of us. Including you, Wingate.

What if we gave them an audition, asked the colonel.

Audition?

Yes, sir. Utilize some of them on a small scale. See how they fare in the field. Many of the new arrivals speak perfect German. Interrogations and infiltration might well be their cup of tea. Why, with the proper uniform, one of their chaps could walk right into Rommel’s headquarters, give the old Desert Fox a good kick in his Heinie heinie.

Ha! Sir Archibald almost spilled his whiskey. That’s something I’d like to see, Wingate, said the General, raising his glass and toasting the image of his opposite number receiving a kick in the backside. Try them out in the field, you say, the General pondered.

Yes, sir, said Wingate. If they acquit themselves well, we can be encouraged toward a greater role. Regiment strength, perhaps.

Hmm, I like it, Wingate. Let them prove themselves, as it were. I like it. Very well, carry on, Wingate.

Sir.

In many small operations, the British Army began making effective use of German speaking Jews in actions against the Nazis. Their unit was designated SIG; Special Interrogation Group, and their prime function was the questioning of German prisoners and the infiltration of enemy units. In time, and after a series of successes, the Jews of the Special Interrogation Group began to earn the respect of their British colleagues. Success inevitably led to more complex and dangerous operations.

4

Tunisia

North Africa

Slightly southwest of coastal El Hamma on a windswept stretch of Tunisian desert, the Luftwaffe, under the cover of darkness, established a secret refueling base. Moving a squadron of divebombers from the large Libyan air base at Sidi Rezegh 440 miles northwest, to a desolate area in Tunisia would significantly extend the reach of their operations. Fuel was trucked in, tents erected for pilots, gunners, maintenance crews and mess facilities. Trailers for Operations and Communications were hauled in along with water tankers. Every aspect of a combat base was made portable, up to and including work stands, stores of replacement parts and food supplies.

Now the Stukas were well positioned to attack the newly landed American forces at Casablanca and Oran and British tank columns from Alexandria. This secret forward base situated on a dune-free Tunisian plateau placed the Stukas at the very throats of the Allies.

On this clear, moonless night nearly every aircraft of JG27 stood fueled, canopy locked down against the interminable sand, bombs and machine gun ammunition at the ready. Airmen and ground crew were observing a ten p.m. lights-out in preparation for tomorrow’s dawn takeoff.

A single aircraft of the Jagdeschwader had been pulled off the line, its nose tented as its unbalanced propeller was being replaced under work lights. The maintenance chief, Feldvebel Binder, was confident that the job would be completed well before the dawn scramble.

Apprearing out of the opaque desert dark, a Kubelwagen approached the perimeter guard of the refueling station. It bore FP registration plates; Feldpost. Its headlights were covered in canvas except for a two-inch slot that offered slight visibility to the driver but virtually none at any distance beyond a few yards. The scout car had followed the tracks in the sand made by the trucks and tankers as they established the base. Its driver, Feldpostamtmann Ernst Zolling, pulled up to the guard post.

"Guten abend, Gefrieter," the postman greeted the sentry.

The gruff guard looked over the vehicle, its cheerful driver, the canvas bag of mail and then at the passenger. "Und ihm? Vo ist ehr?" And this guy? Who’s he?

"Egon Schmid. Leutnant Schmid," said the slender flyer.

"Ehr ist ein flieger, said the driver. Ein austausch."

Aha, said the guard, giving the tall, platinum blond Stuka pilot a quick once-over.

"Und so, mench, ich bin hungrig," said the postman.

"Abholen!" The sentry waved them on.

The vehicle drove unhurriedly toward the newly erected tent city beside the flight line as its occupant’s eyes adjusted to the desert dark. Beyond the flat-packed sand airstrip sat the Stuka’s; eleven teutonic birds of prey, lined up precisely, gull wings poised, spatted non-retractable landing gear canted forward like the talons of a Brobdingnagian raptor, their cooling system mouths agape as if silenced in mid shriek. The Junkers Stuka was neither modern nor streamlined. With its two-man crew of pilot and rear gunner it was essentially an airborne dump truck, slow but lethal to objects on the ground. In the air it was a Dodo; an airborne snail, somewhat ridiculous and an easy mark for its sleek and streamlined adversaries. But this Dodo was effectively savaging Allied tank columns and supply lines. It was the assignment of the newly arrived postman and replacement pilot to remedy that situation.

Having been put ashore at Moreth by a borrowed American landing craft with muffled exhausts, the captured Afrika Korps Kubelwagen was reconfigured with Feldpost plates, a canvas bag of mail and two occupants, a postal driver and a replacement pilot. Both wearing perfect uniforms right down to their decorations, underwear and, in the case of the postman, home-knit socks. These two British sappers, refugees from Cologne and the Pfaltz region of Germany, were in reality Avigdor Sapir and Egon Liebeskind, corporals in the Eighth Army’s Special Interrogation Group and volunteers for the assignment of disrupting the activities of this clandestined squadron of enemy dive bombers.

Egon and Avigdor sat in their vehicle, engine off, lights out. For several minutes they watched for movement, attempting to pinpoint sentries. It would be fully three hours before dawn’s first glow. Alles ruhe. From beneath the mail in the canvas duffel, the Jewish commandos pulled fourteen individual cigarette pack-sized pasteboard boxes of thermite explosive. From his uniform blouse, the flight lieutenant produced two handfuls of pencil detonators, color-coded for time delay. The white tipped detonators were selected for the task at hand. Timed to allow one hour, nineteen minutes before igniting, hopefully providing sufficient time to escape.

Each man then attached a silencer to a 7.65mm Walther PPK pistol and, with pockets bulging with packs of thermite, dismounted their vehicle and made for the flight line. In the dim light, Egon, the man dressed as a pilot, appeared to be the taller and more slender of the two sappers. His partner, Avi, was of medium height with a distinctly athletic build. Together, this slightly mismatched pair headed toward the parked aircraft. Suddenly the men froze. Approaching them noisily were a group of Germans dressed in white. These were obviously cooks getting a start on the squadron’s breakfast. They were going to pass close enough to touch Egon and Avi. Egon was considering slowly backing up into the dark when Avi’s voice interrupted the quiet.

Mensch Meier, vie fiehl cost deine eyer?

Ach, sie sind gans teuer, one of the cook’s responded, breaking up the kitchen crew as they continued on toward the distant mess tent.

The translation of this conversation: Meier, my man, what’s the price of your eggs? The joke was in using a Jewish name in asking the price of eggs. The cook’s reply was, Oh, they’re very expensive. Naturally, the Jew would overcharge.

Ironically, it was the purchase of hundreds of eggs each week from local Tunisian chicken farmers that led British Intelligence to discover the new Luftwaffe facility.

Egon regarded Avigdor, impressed by his partner’s chutzpah. The pair paused as the cooks cleared the flight line, shook off the close call and refocused on their mission.

Avi and Egon crossed the runway and walked the dozen or so meters toward the parked aircraft. Once there, they split up. Sapir took the right six Stukas, Liebeskind, the other five.

"Kerl! Caffe." Fella! Coffee, shouted Corporal Sapir.

"Ausgetscichnet!" Outstanding!, said the sentry, leaning his rifle against the Stuka’s wheel spat and hurrying forward. The barely audible clink of the Walther’s firing pin striking the cartridge primer close upon the sound of a slug piercing tropical weight cotton preceded the man’s drop to the ground. A second ‘clink’ certified the job. Along the other line of aircraft an identical sequence of events was taking place.

Only two sentries. What marvelous good luck. Now the two counterfeit Nazis turned their attention to the Stukas. As a thermite packet was placed inside the cowl flaps of the engine of each aircraft the pencil fuse inserted in the thermite was given a forceful bend. The fracture of the internal glass vial of each pen was audible. In one hour and nineteen minutes the first of eleven explosions would hopefully occur. While thermite itself does not explode, the 5,000°F heat generated would be sufficient to melt any metal in its vicinity and in all likelihood ignite gas fumes, oil or hydraulic fluid residue invariably present in and around an engine of a line aircraft. Since there were extra thermite packs, the two center aircraft in line were given a bonus of an extra offering. His Majesty’s saboteurs were generous tonight.

Now for the getaway. The pair climbed back into their postal Kubelwagen and unhurriedly drove north past the aircraft and into the night. This as yet unnamed base should only be a short drive to the Mediterranean. Despite the limited visibility they soon increased their speed to a pace just short of reckless. After an hour of undulating cross country travel through the dunes, the Volks odometer asserted that they had covered forty kilometers.

We should already be there, Avi said in Yiddish.

Keep going, urged Egon in German as he impatiently tapped his compass.

It’s soon going to be dawn, fretted Avi.

Shouldn’t we be hearing explosions? asked Egon.

Too far, said Avi.

They rumbled another eight kilometers.

Are we lost? We should be seeing the sea by now. We must be lost, pleaded Egon. This German compass is…

Then they both smelled it. The sea. The landlocked, tideless, salty, Mediterranean.

On the coast, almost within earshot of an axis garrison, a beached six man inflatable raft awaited them. Some three hundred yards off shore, a British patrol boat with all lights extinguished rocked in the gentle swell. No one in the garrison, manned by an Italian infantry regiment, noticed the activities on its nearby beach. Leaving the car with the distributor cap and rotor in his pocket, Egon followed by Avi, clambered down the crumbling cliff and sprinted to the raft as it launched and stroked for the ship. A few yards from the ship, Egon tossed the distributor parts into the drink. The Limey sailors in the waiting cutter sank the inflatable after they hauled the men aboard.