Jungvolk: The Story of a Boy Defending Hitler's Reich by Wilhelm R. Gehlen & Don A. Gregory

Author:Wilhelm R. Gehlen & Don A. Gregory [Gehlen, Wilhelm R.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Bisac Code 1: HIS027100
Publisher: Casemate
Published: 2008-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

Saint Nicholas Day, 1944

December 6 was Saint Nicholas Day, the day when children in Catholic countries get small pre-Christmas presents. The weather was clear and cold. Mr. Knauff had applied for some extra flour to do some baking for the coming Christmas season, and the commanding officer had authorized the QM in Bastogne to give Mr. Knauff three sacks of flour and some other supplies. Being in a sort of pre-Christmas mood, he also dispatched a small truck with a driver to take Mr. Knauff to fetch the stuff in Bastogne, where he had to sign in person as the recipient of the goods. After all, regulations have to be followed, war or no war.

In all armies, the QM is either the most loved or the most hated person. They’re all the same. They always treat the stuff they are supposed to distribute to the needy soldier as if it belonged to them personally. They don’t want to part with anything. They are the real misers of any army. Their power is limitless, so to speak. Even the high-ranking brass bow their heads and beg, and never forget to say “please.”

Felix and I had permission to go along as well. There was plenty of room in the truck, which had four seats and a tarpaulin-covered back. The sky was clear of planes, friend or foe (the foe this time around being German). Mom didn’t mind either. After all, I was under the protection of the United States Army. Protection? All the driver had as a weapon was a sort of large bread knife in a sheath dangling from his belt and a carbine in a rack behind us. If the German army wanted to set an ambush for us, I thought, we’d be in real trouble.

Traffic was minimal along the highway leading to Café Schumann. As we climbed up to the crossroad, we met the first American armor. Three Shermans were parked under some trees to our left. The tankers were busy over open fires making breakfast. Tents were their accommodation, I noticed. At the crossroads, a burly MP stopped us and demanded to see the driver’s papers. He looked us over, and waved us on without further word. The driver was fairly good in German and told Mr. Knauff that he was from an American town with the German name of Frankfort. “That’s in Kentucky,” he said. His parents ran a vegetable stall in the market there and he had learned a bit of German in high school. “Isn’t that where the coal comes from in America?” I asked.

“Yes, well, most of it,” he said. “There’s some in West Virginia, too, but their coal is like dog turds. It won’t burn, and for smelting, it’s useless.”

He used the English word “dog turds” so I asked him what it meant in German. He laughed, “dog shit, Hunde Scheiss, understand that?”

“Ah, I know what you mean now,” I said. “We burn coal dust mixed with water sometimes and we call it ‘black cow shit.

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