REINCARNATION

Aisle four of my local grocery store was the least likely place for a flashback but it happened just the same. While I browsed the colorful shelved foods and sundries, my motorized cart, with all its bells and whistles, died. Confident my doting daughter, Elizabeth, shopping somewhere in the store, would eventually come looking for me, I’d no choice but to wait.

A kind, young man stopped and asked if I needed assistance, but I reassured him I was fine. Apparently, noticing my POW hat, he respectfully saluted me. “Thank you for your service, sir,” he said, as he backed away with a smile.

I got that more often as I aged and found it somewhat comforting that so many young folks cared about veterans, perhaps an appreciation for their freedom. No one really knew the true casualties of war, but knowing life goes on and maybe I played a tiny role in that, makes my heart swell with pride every time I hear those words of gratitude.

Stalled or not, I was content just then, to be free of the confines of my home. Elizabeth was a godsend since her beloved mother passed, but a man my age had to be able to sometimes go it alone. I glanced down at the items in the metal basket fastened to my cart- prune juice, a frozen Salisbury steak dinner, boxed spaghetti, and three yellow bananas. I’d long since worn out the joke about not buying green bananas for fear I wouldn’t live long enough to eat them. At least I wouldn’t starve in aisle for a week or so.

I chuckled like the old fool I'd become when I realized what was missing was the most important essential for my chance of survival in aisle four- water. I had gone nearly two weeks without food before, but I knew I couldn't go more than a couple of days without water. I recognized once again, the worst part of getting old wasn’t losing my mind, or my ability to do certain innate tasks, like putting on those darn compression socks every morning. What I feared most besides losing my daughter, was losing my freedom.

Unable to motor forward, I leaned back on the headrest and waited. I lazily glanced along shelves chocked full of all sorts of things I’d never heard of, like Battle-Toads cereal. It astounded me how much had changed in my 95 rotations around the sun. Despite progress, I remained grateful for the familiar. I was comforted by those few brand-labels, as they appeared exactly as they had when I was just a kid, nearly a century ago. My gaze eventually settled on a lone can of condensed milk with its all too familiar red, white and blue original label which read, Carnation.

There was no time to ponder why all the reminiscences I held so dear, slowly seeped from my grasp, while the nightmares from my past I was so very desperate to leave behind, engulfed me. Memories flooded over me with such force that my inner world drained of color, turning it sepia and bitter cold. There was a metallic taste in my mouth, and I was surrounded by an all-too-familiar smell of decay, sweat, and my own terror. I felt my own ragged breath and saw condensation.

I as no longer in aisle four, or even the store. I was across the deep, unforgiving Atlantic, over those blood-stained beaches, across vast mossy fields, where the bodies of my mislaid comrades, decomposed alongside millions slain, surrounded by buried barbed-wired fencing, rusted rifle casings, and bomber parts. Even after more than seven decades, a war still raged on within me.

****

In winter of 1944, in the throes of WWII, I was a POW in the infamous Stalag Luft III, where just a few months earlier 52 British prisoners attempted an incredible escape. Fifty were caught and executed on the spot. From day one of my arrival, prisoners were randomly shot during 'appel'- roll-call, for no apparent reason other than simply to prove escape was never an option.

Priority Gal, my beloved B-17 was shot down and already buried slag in a mountainside in Austria. After 33 combat missions as a pilot in and out of Germany, followed by year of imprisonment, I no longer resembled a distinguished bomber pilot, just one mission shy of going home, the handsome, pink-cheeked young’un I once was. 

Beaten down physically and emotionally over the course of my internment, I went from the owner of a tall, chiseled physique to that of a limping, reedy teenager. At just 26, my face looked cored, the once smooth skin was etched with daily consternation. There was a constant ache in my gut and my ribs jutted from my flanks like window blinds. Yet, it didn’t deter the lice that festered and feasted on my flesh. I came to understand and somehow accept the idea of survival of the fittest from a vermin’s viewpoint. 

The occasional rations we received from the Nazis were dried or rehydrated with little sustenance or taste. As time dredged forward, trying not to starve to death or die from dysentery became my top two priorities. In this world of war, food trumped money, every single time. And daily, I worried about the fate of my loyal crew, only occasionally catching glimpses of what appeared to be one of my men, ghost-like, shells of their former selves and barely recognizable.

Experiencing joy in prison camp was like finding a pin in a haystack of needles. The Nazis took away all our rights and occasionally gave an iota of human decency back as a rare privilege. Once every few months, each compound received a couple of gallon drums of soup meant to feed more than 100 men. A hot meal was a real indulgence, and we added equal amounts of snow to ensure everyone was fed. The aroma of boiling soup filled the air on those rare and fortunate days, driving starving prisoners to near frenzy. Hunger aside, each spoonful of soup and noodles was savored through moans of pleasure. We wanted the experience to last but we knew it wouldn’t.

The first time I was offered soup in prison, the warm broth nearly brought me to tears. I could not recall the last time I had eaten anything with flavor. At the time, several of us newbie prisoners were seated amongst the experienced in the open area of the barrack where the soup boiled on a makeshift stove. I came to embrace those few and far between meals as they were ceremonial, almost spiritual, everyone gathered as if it were Thanksgiving or more appropriately, the last supper.

While sipping my first tin of soup, a couple of British prisoners, Cambridge University grads, were having a hushed conversation over their soup. The mumblings increased in volume and whispers spread amongst the crowd. All attentions focused on the soup, when we learned one of the Brits had been studying entomology at university before the war and was sufficiently educated in identifying the noodles as having not only two black specks on one end, but also hair-like appendages along the sides. Upon closer examination, the scholar’s classification was indeed correct, the tiny white noodles were maggots.

“It’s protein, eat it, it’s good for you,” said the academic and he slurped what was left of his soup. “The secret ingredient? Melted snow- gives it a salty taste, you won’t even know the difference.”

Another seasoned Brit yelled, “Still tastes like shite to me!” This was followed by uproariously laughter.

After a slight hesitation by us newbies, we followed suit and resumed conversations. No one ever discarded their soup nor were there any leftovers. It went without saying that if we ever made it out alive, none of us would eat soup again without checking closely if the noodles had eyes, snow-salt optional.   

Soup was a distant memory when during a mid-December blizzard, the door to my barracks swung open and a Nazi soldier held a gun to my head and shouted, “Weitergehen!”

I was well-aware it meant move, but where was he taking me in two feet of snow? With the prison camp just downwind from Dachau, captives didn’t need much imagination to wonder if their own extermination was next on Hitler’s agenda.

It had been rumored that American airmen, upon capture, were to be executed on the spot. Although I’d not personally witnessed anything of that sort, as the Russians pushed westward, there was no predicting what a loyal German SS soldier would do to earn Nazi favors. Staying a step ahead of the soldier’s gun nudged into the small of my back, we made our way to the headquarters building.

I only had one secret, a 3-inch piece of shrapnel that had been imbedded in my knee, prior to being shot down. During my interrogation by the SS, the German officer yanked it from my knee, squirted lighter fluid in the wound, and for some reason I never understood, he put that shard of my metal, and dropped it into my flight-suit pocket.

“Consider this a concession prize for losing this war.” He said and patted the pocket.

I had saved that shrapnel, which was hidden in a crevice in the underside of my wooden bunk. That pointed piece of metal was like a precious gem. It represented my plane, my crew, my limp, my survival, and it thus far had eluded the guards.

This was my third prison camp, and I’d always left behind whatever meager belongings I had, but what I could carry. On our last march across Germany in the dead of winter, before arriving in this camp, besides the clothing on my back, I carried an Oxford dictionary, some stale sawdust bread, and my shard of shrapnel. It was all I owned. Had someone found it? If so, I was a clearly a dead man walking.

As we got to the door of camp’s headquarters, I thought, this is it. The guard shoved me into a small inner office and when my eyes adjusted, I found myself amongst a handful of other war-ravaged American prisoners. As I tried to register what was happening, my heart felt as if it would box its way through my chest.

Much to my absolute bewilderment, two German officers were distributing American Red Cross packages from the States, from my homeland. The boxes alone, were priceless in the message they relayed from missed loved ones. I’d heard of these special deliveries but had yet to be a recipient.

A rusted metal desk in the middle of the cramped, dank headquarters office held a few already opened personal parcels. I could only assume with hidden joy; one was apparently for me. I felt like a kid again. With Christmas just weeks away, I had a real touch of nostalgia and lump rose like yeast in my throat. Even though my package had likely spent months in route, I received my “gift” just in time for a morsel of holiday cheer.

The Nazis ransacked the parcels in our presence, then with smiles cold as zippers, begrudgingly gave us the leftovers. My parcel held a copy of Life magazine with a picture of President Roosevelt on the cover, and a pouch of tobacco. Those items were confiscated by the guards, without a second thought.

What remained were Ma’s homemade cookies which had turned to stone during their long journey, a small burlap sack of coffee beans, always a treat, and an item that felt like pay dirt - a can of Carnation condensed milk. I hadn’t consumed any liquids but rusty water in almost a year and the thought of coffee with cream caused a pure visceral reaction.

I held my breath as the two guards tossed the can back and forth in a taunting manner. Bored after a few catches, one of the guards dropped the can into the box and shoved the parcel off the desk in my direction. I caught it mid-air in a move of sheer desperation and to the sounds of their jibes. 

On my way back to the compound, I guiltily ate every crumb of stale cookie. All the while, I felt the pitiful seduction of the coffee and cream. Somehow, willpower won out, and I squirreled away my remaining treasures until Christmas. 

In the days following, I found myself fantasizing about a hot cup of coffee made from real beans with a splash of sweet milk as though it were a romantic date with Judy Graland. During the regular appels at gunpoint, in the deep snow, even in bare feet at three in the morning, the anticipation of coffee with cream from home, warmed my soul. 

When Christmas arrived, there were enough beans to share cups of the hot beverage with several prisoners. The Brits preferred their tea. I knew the condensed milk wouldn’t go far, so I kept it a secret to be shared with only a few of my close bunkmates. The four of us huddled over steaming cups of fresh brew, excited about our delicious prospect. The only ingredient I hadn’t considered was a can opener. How would we open the sealed metal can? 

Deliberating our options, I suddenly remembered my hidden shard of shrapnel. I plucked it from the narrow crevice under my rotted-wood bunk. That, and a boot heel proved just the tools to puncture two small holes in the can. 

All good things must come to an end and much to my regret, when the first drops fell in my cup, I could see the liquid wasn’t white but yellow and watery in consistency. The milk had spoiled. We all released a moan of disappointment. Worse for me, the turned milk ruined a scarce cup of delicious black coffee. Yet, even as I sighed in utter defeat, I was grateful to have experienced those moments of excitement leading up to that sacred holiday. That was what captivity did to a person; made you thankful just to dream.

One of my closest bunkmates, an Australian paratrooper, lifted the Carnation can to his nose. I waited for his grimace at the sour odor but instead he said in an eager whisper, “I’ll be damned, mates! Liquid gold!” The can didn’t contain sour milk at all but rather it was filled with moonshine. 

We behaved like schoolboys who’d discovered a pin-up magazine in the schoolmaster’s desk. Each sip went down smoothly, warming our raw stomachs. When the can was empty, I turned it over to discover a tiny, soldered hole in the bottom. 

I knew Pop spent hours perfecting his plan. First, he had to find where Ma had hidden his moonshine. I imagined him faking a back injury and telling Ma he needed "just a thimble or two, that’s all, love, just a pinch to get the edge off." Ma would begrudgingly oblige, giving away her hiding space, in the process.

Pop then gingerly removed the label, and ever so patiently drained the milky contents through a pinhole. Next, reversing the process, slowly adding his grain alcohol, all the while caching any drops should they fall along the side of the tin can, and taking his own swig or two, along his determined mission.

“I’m needin’ me some false courage here, boy,” I could hear him, down in the basement whispering to no one, as though I was still a kid sitting there on his shoe-shine box, listening to his fascinating stories, curses and all.

He methodically re-plugged the hole, replaced the label, and made his contribution to the parcel, its contents hopefully unbeknownst to the Nazi’s, but mostly Ma, of course. Pop knew she’d scold him for including the devil's drink, but she’d never object to coffee and cream. A secret I prayed Pop and I would laugh about forever.

“They’ll go so well with his favorite cookies I made, darling. What a wonderful idea.” I could hear Ma say.

“They certainly will, indeed.” And, behind Ma’s back, I envisioned Pop winking at me.

It hadn’t taken much for the four of us frail prisoners to get flushed cheeks and giddy from the drink. We were even shushed by the Brits at one point, said we sounded like schoolgirls. It only made us giggle even more.

So far, I'd survived hundreds of endless nights, existing in sleep’s antechamber - a foggy and hideous reality. But in the late hours on Christmas 1944, total relaxation overtook me and the deep sleep I experienced was so wholly gratifying, freedom seemed almost possible. 

For the remainder of the war, I relished the idea that although Pop’s plan was quite risky, it was the exact reaction he’d banked on. As a prisoner of war in Germany, I took personal pride in knowing that back in a coal-mining town in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, Pop had figured out a way to outsmart Hitler.

“Dad, you okay? Ready? Wake up. Got the car parked out front. Dad?”