He felt a hand on his arm, Mitchell, who said, “Let’s move out. Sounds like there’s a bunch of these guys.”
They marched for a short way, the brush falling away, the grounds flat, and Benson saw a vast spread of wooden buildings, surrounded by tall wire. The road led straight toward a wide double gate, the gate open, more of the men in the striped pajamas standing there, motionless, watching the GIs come. Around him, men began to comment, low voices. Benson felt his heart racing, but it wasn’t fear. Beside him, Mitchell said, “Good God. What’s happened to these people?”
“They’re prisoners, Kenny. The Krauts took off, I guess.”
Prisoners emerged through the gates, more of the tearful greetings, desperately thin men, some barely able to walk, some not moving at all. Behind him, Benson heard the officer, “Keep moving! Get inside the wire! Keep your eyes out.”
Mitchell said quietly, “No Krauts here. They’re gone. They knew we were coming and didn’t have the guts to stick around and explain this.”
The soldiers moved past the gates, and Benson saw many more of the stripe-clad men stumbling forward, some sitting, leaning against the wooden buildings, unable to move. Some were waving to the soldiers, motioning them in one direction, and Benson felt a sudden dread, caught a new smell, the air thick and foul, like dead animals or rotten garbage. The smells grew, sickening waves, much worse, and Benson forced himself forward, one hand across his face. More of the soldiers followed the prisoners, and past the first building Benson stopped, weak-kneed, stumbled, unavoidable sickness, hands hard on the dirt, the smells overpowering him. He fought against it, spit hard, wiped his mouth with a sleeve. He stood again, followed the soldiers moving along the fence, some staying back, others moving into a barrack-like buildings. A group of soldiers had gathered out on the open ground, some turning away, tears, raw anger, much more sickness, and he moved past them, stopped suddenly, shocked by a new grotesque horror. Spread out across the hard dirt were several dozen dead men, the pajamas stained red, the wounds not so old.
Mitchell said, “Holy Christ. They shot them … and pulled their pants down. What the hell?”
More of the prisoners were calling out, feeble voices, some English, pulling soldiers toward the horrific scene.
“See! See what they did!”
“Guards ran away!”
Benson tried to move close, but his mind could not see anymore, and he backed away, heard the soft shouts, feeble cries, hard angry voices, officers trying to find some order.
“Sick men here! Medics, over here!”
The GIs were spreading out past the barracks, some officers taking command, medics scrambling among the prisoners. Benson moved with slow automatic steps, saw men at a closed door, rifles ready, and he felt helpless, didn’t know what else to do, moved up close to them, Mitchell beside him. They pushed the door open, and there were grunts, most of the soldiers backing away, reflex, the odor enormous, pushing them away. Benson fought it, his eyes searching the darkness, saw the room stacked high with corpses, a hundred or more, five or six deep. There was a thick white powder spread over them, and behind him, someone said, “Lime. To get rid of the smell. Couldn’t have been more than a day or two ago. This just happened.”
Benson felt blinded, the smells and the sights too overpowering. He stumbled, heard a crack, fell backward, landed hard, saw the striped cloth, the man’s eyes gone, his back against a fence post. Benson had stepped on the man’s leg, crushed the fragile bone, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing left of the man but skin and skeleton. Mitchell was there, helped him up, Benson’s legs weak, barely holding him. More GIs were coming into the camp, officers and medics, trucks, ambulances, the most able prisoners surging forward, a chorus of pleading, the soldiers responding by tossing out packages of food. Benson wanted to cry, to be sick again, but his body was numb, too many sights, too much of the worst of anything he had ever seen. He tried to speak, confused words, saw Mitchell suddenly collapse, bending over, sick, and then, again. Benson knelt down, put a hand on his friend’s back, felt the convulsions, tried to speak, but his thoughts were chaotic, and he followed the motions of the soldiers, saw more men down on their knees, helpless against so much horror. Prisoners were down as well, some praying, crying, begging, some dying, their last breath preserved for the day when their captors would be gone, when liberation would come, when the nightmare would finally end.
The forced-labor concentration camp at Ohrdruf still contained nearly three thousand prisoners when the Americans entered the gates. Two days prior, on April 2, as the Germans realized the Americans were closing in, they had forcibly marched another nine thousand men out of the camp, a thirty-two-mile journey to the primary camp in this sector, Buchenwald. For reasons no one could explain, before the Germans left, they executed some three dozen men and left them as the grotesque display the Americans had found, each man shot and his pants pulled down, an astounding act of humiliation and inhuman contempt. In the barracks, those remaining prisoners who could speak told the Americans that those who were left behind were thought to be too sick to march, and the murdered men had been pulled aside as a random act, a vengeful message to the remaining prisoners. By the time the Americans arrived, the weakness of so many of those had ended their suffering. Hundreds lay dead, succumbing before the medical help could save them.
What began as an act of kindness by so many of the GIs, handing out chocolate and ration packs, resulted in a new and unexpected horror that only the doctors could explain. The prisoners had been so deprived of nourishment that the sudden intake of food overpowered their ability to absorb it, and through no more than a gesture of goodwill the GIs unwittingly caused the deaths of many of the weakest survivors.
Ohrdruf had not been the first concentration camp the Allied troops had discovered. That was in Alsace, the camp at Natzweiler, which had been liberated five months prior. But those gates had been opened as well, the Germans relocating their prisoners before the Allied troops could actually witness what the prisoners had become, how they had been treated by their German captors. That discovery was made first at Ohrdruf.
Though many of the GIs who wandered through the camp were helpless to give the kind of aid the survivors required, they provided a different kind of assistance that few of them could yet understand. They became witnesses.
SHAEF, RHEIMS, FRANCE
APRIL 11, 1945
Eisenhower listened in silence, Bedell Smith to one side, doing the same.
“General Patton insists in the strongest terms, chief. He’s hoping you’ll bring General Bradley as well, but I would expect he’s already given General Bradley that invitation himself. The find is truly extraordinary. The general believes he may have discovered the entire Nazi treasury. Or at least, the part they hoped to hide. He insists that if you do not at least take stock of the riches yourself, he may have no choice but to find the means to transport the entire batch home. I suggested to General Patton that it could be the souvenir of a lifetime.”
Eisenhower found nothing funny about Butcher’s attempt at humor.
“What about the camp, Harry?”
“Oh yes. General Patton was also quite insistent that you visit Ohrdruf, see it for yourself. He wouldn’t give me much in the way of reasons, said you’d understand.”
Eisenhower looked at Smith, said, “Understand what? Okay, fine. If I know Georgie, he’ll be punching walls if we keep him waiting. Sounds pretty damn intriguing.”
“Which, sir?”
“The gold, Beetle, the damn gold. The concentration camp is something else. I want to see that for myself, make damn sure the reporters don’t blow this stuff up to more than it is. Anybody in the States asks me about it, I want to be able to give them an accurate picture. G-2 says the enemy is shifting people out of these kinds of camps all over the place, pulling some of them back out of the way of the Russians. General Strong is coming for a briefing shortly, and I want to hear what he’s learned about our own boys. We’ve had
too many fliers go down, and I won’t believe the Germans have just executed them. I expect a hell of a load of liberated GIs before this is over. Patton said that this Ohrdruf camp was full of slave labor, none of our boys. Get on the stick, Harry. Tell Brad to join us down there tomorrow.”
“Right away, chief.”
Butcher moved out of the office. Smith said, “Leave it to Patton to make a fuss over a pile of treasure. Not sure what this has to do with fighting a war.”
“I’ll find out. George isn’t about to take a vacation from the matter at hand. If he wants me down there, he’s got more than one good reason.”
Strong was pacing, as angry as Eisenhower had ever seen him.
“It was highly uncalled for, sir. Inappropriate, insubordinate, and damn well dangerous. As far as I can tell, from all reports, the mission was a complete failure. Admittedly, facts are in short supply. No one around Patton is especially interested in pouring out his guts, as it were. I think they’d rather face a court-martial than have Patton as an enemy. Consider, sir, that it took nearly two weeks for us to even learn of this little misadventure. I understand you’re visiting him tomorrow. I should think you’d want to get to the bottom of this yourself, sir.”
Eisenhower, who trusted his chief of intelligence as much as any man on his staff, Bedell Smith included, absorbed his report with deepening despair.
“Go on, Ken.”
“As you can see on page four, sir, casualties amounted to at least two dozen men, plus an unknown number of the American prisoners they were sent to liberate. Patton’s own Major Skinner is missing and presumed captured. From what I can determine, General Patton instructed Major Skinner to accompany the mission as the general’s eyes and ears.”
Smith crossed his arms in front of him, had the look Eisenhower had come to expect from his chief of staff. He knew Smith’s energy wouldn’t allow him to just listen without jumping in.
Smith said, “General Strong, do we know why Patton did this?”
“According to the people I have spoken with, few of whom are willing to testify for the record, General Patton ordered this excursion knowing that the Hammelburg POW camp housed his son-in-law, Colonel John Waters. It is not difficult to speculate that General Patton’s plan was the rescue of his daughter’s husband, no matter what it might cost in men and equipment.”
Eisenhower let out a breath, shook his head.
“I’m not interested in anybody’s speculation, Ken, not even yours. I just wonder why in hell George didn’t feel the need to run this by Bradley, or me? Why in hell didn’t he ask first?”
“You will have to ask that of him, sir.” Strong pointed to the papers on Eisenhower’s desk. “That bit of information is not in my report. I know that General Bradley was just today informed of this mission, sir, and he says in most definite terms that he would not have authorized it. I think we can infer that General Patton took this upon himself, knowing that had he asked, he would have been refused.”
Smith’s voice rose, the man red-faced. “So, because George knew we’d say no, he decided it was best not to ask? Ike, here we go again!”
“I told you, I’m not interested in speculation. From either one of you. Damn him anyway.” Eisenhower felt the old anger, his mounting frustration with Patton’s unique way of running his own private war. “Okay, enough. None of this leaves my office, you understand? General Strong, there will be no further inquiries into this matter until I have spoken to General Patton myself. I want to make damn sure we have our facts straight before someone beyond our reach launches another full-out attack on the man. How in hell do we know that Colonel Waters was in that camp? The Red Cross has been vague at best.”
Strong pointed to his report again. “Sir. Forgive me, but my conclusion explains that in fact, Camp Hammelburg was liberated two days ago, by units of the Fourteenth Armored Division. It seems that Colonel Waters was severely wounded at some point during General Patton’s … um … commando mission. He is in our hands now, hospitalized, as best I know.”
Eisenhower leafed through the report.
“Until I know more facts, I don’t think we should be referring to this as a commando mission. I see here … he sent fifty-seven vehicles, including tanks, half-tracks, and armored cars? How far did they have to go?”
Strong pointed to the papers again.
“Page three, sir. Camp Hammelburg was approximately fifty miles behind enemy lines. Not even General Patton could have assumed the mission would have been successful.”
“You’re wrong there, Ken. Patton thinks he can pull off anything. He’s got nine lives, like a cat. He’s used up half of ’em, but dammit, I would have thought he was through pulling stunts like this. Never mind. I don’t want this in the papers, you understand me? Not a word!”
“Not a word, sir.”
“I’ve got your report, I’ll go over it in detail. Tell me about what you’ve learned about Hitler’s stronghold in the Alps.”
Strong seemed grateful to shift gears, to focus on something that suited his role as intelligence officer.
“They’re calling it their National Redoubt. Indications are that Hitler intends to abandon Berlin and withdraw his last and best fighting troops to the area around Berchtesgaden, which will encompass some of the most difficult mountains and high passes of southern Germany, Austria, and northern Italy. We anticipate that many of those forces that would accompany him would of course be the most fanatically loyal, thus, the Gestapo, the Hitler Youth, and so forth. We do not know how extensive the fortifications are in those mountains, networks of tunnels, anti-aircraft positions, and so forth. Aerial reconnaissance has not been particularly useful, and with the Germans still in tight control of the area, we haven’t been able to send anyone in on the ground. Perhaps we should offer such a mission to General Patton.” Eisenhower started to protest, but Strong knew the line he had crossed. “Sorry, sir. No more about that. In my opinion, sir, we should continue to occupy as much German territory as we can, in an effort to block any large-scale enemy withdrawal to the south.”
Eisenhower pointed toward the map on the wall.
“That is precisely what Patton is doing. Give him credit, once he kicks into gear, no one moves faster. I want him to get across to the Czech border with all speed, and he knows that. It will take one hell of an effort for Hitler to move a sizable force into Bavaria if George is blocking the way. Knowing George, he’ll hope Hitler tries it anyway.” Strong waited for Eisenhower to finish, and Eisenhower sensed the man’s impatient need to complete his report. “Go on, Ken.”
“It is fairly obvious, sir, that considerable airpower should be brought to bear on any such fortifications as we locate them. There is also one other matter that has come to our attention. In various locales, German commanders are issuing a call for what they are labeling werewolves. Simply put, sir, the Germans are going to attempt guerrilla warfare in every practical place for such a tactic. The most disturbing aspect of this is that the orders are going out to the German populace, with emphasis on the young. They are recruiting children, sir. Whether they can put up any kind of serious obstacle to our forces is not a question I can answer, of course.”
Eisenhower slapped a hand on the desk.
“Dammit! I hate that, purely hate it! Don’t sell the idea short, Ken. Think about it. Any German kid born since 1930, all they have known in their lives is Hitler. They haven’t been taught anything else. He’s been dictator since 1933, but that’s just a title. To the children, he might as well be God. We’ve already captured a considerable number of teenage boys who’ve been shooting at us, and some of them were getting good at it. We’ve got to snuff out this kind of thing as quick as possible. The only way to handle that is to grab as many towns as we can, as soon as we can. We have to occupy every square inch of that damn country. I sure as hell don’t want it going back to the newspapers in the States that we’re killing whole flocks of children. But to every GI, there’s a reality to this. If a thirteen-y
ear-old is shooting at you, you shoot back. That doesn’t translate into a patriotic pep rally back home. Put the word out, Beetle. I want every commander to know the danger of this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eisenhower looked at Strong again, said, “That’s all for now, General. Keep your ear to the ground.”
The English intelligence commander had never seemed to grasp the meaning of Eisenhower’s Old West slang. Strong said with a smile, “Wouldn’t do for the men to see me in that position, sir. But we’ll be listening to every word we can pick up.”
“That’s all, General.”
Strong snapped to attention, made a quick nod toward Smith. He backed away, then moved out, closing the door behind him.
Eisenhower could tell that Smith was still angry about Patton. The two men had never been close, and would likely never be. As usual, Smith wouldn’t just let it go.
“Not a word about George’s little maneuver, Beetle. Not one word.”
“I know. I agree. But dammit, Ike, how in hell does he think he can get away with this stuff? How’d you like to be the poor captain, what’s his name, Baum? This poor sap gets the order from Patton to lead three hundred men straight into German territory and bust open a POW camp. No intelligence, no preliminary planning to speak of, no idea what kind of force is waiting for them. They end up fighting their way in, and then, when they find out the enemy knows every move they’ve made, they end up fighting their way out. This isn’t some backyard kids’ game, Ike! We don’t even know what happened to the poor guy, and Patton’s own staff officer is gone too. All they accomplished was adding to our casualty count, and as far as we know, every damn one of those American prisoners was still stuck in that camp.”
“Apparently, not anymore.”