Der Oberst (The Colonel) by Constantine Gochis

I know for a fact that my father was an officer at a Prisoner of War Camp in Florence, Italy during World War II, during part of his tour of duty. He told me some stories over the years. One was that one of the prisoners was an artist, who did portraits on copper of his German contemporaries, did a portrait of my father while he was in the camp. My father got that item and others of potential nostalgic value back to the Bronx, where, to his lifelong sadness, it was burned in a refrigerator fire in his family's apartment. Overall, the impression I got of my father's time working in the camp was that he was enamored of the prisoners, both German and Italian. This story suggests that early in his experience there, just after as he calls it "a major breakthrough" by American troops, he was less enamored of at least one German officer. The thing is, I know the context is true. I also know that he saw things that he didn't like to talk about, like most returning vets of that era and eras before and after. But whether he had this encounter with this particular prisoner, I cannot say. He never told me this particular story.

DER OBERST

I was the Receiving Officer of the Prisoner of War Camp when our troops made a major breakthrough.  My compound had ten stone-topped tables, perhaps chest high to the average man.  Each post was manned by a non-commissioned officer and a Private soldier to assist in searching the incoming prisoners.

My function was supervision, and in this regard, I went from one post to another, depending on the necessities of the moment.

The ten lines were practically interminable.  As far as I could see, the uniforms were the gray of the "Wehrmacht", the German army, now thirsty, hungry and compliant.

My attention was suddenly caught by an anomaly.  Post three was in the process of searching a bedraggled Italian soldier, almost hidden in a shabby overcoat that was several sizes too big for him.

Behind him stood a tall, resplendent "Oberst" or Colonel, immaculately correct in uniform, from shiny boots to an impressive array of campaign ribbons, including an Iron Cross.  

"What a contrast," I thought.  One of Hitler's "Herrenfolk" a veritable Siegfried, leaning over a mud-caked, reluctant co-belligerent, who clearly, in the lottery of life might have been a Caruso, perhaps a Caravaggio, or even a Lucky Luciano, the latter having expiated some of his sins for which he had been deported to Sicily, by assisting our OSS in the invasion.

The Italian was emptying his voluminous pockets of dark grey shears, perhaps several dozen, when the wooly repository was emptied.  This was probably loot from one of his past campaigns.

"Why shears?" one might ask.  "Why not," one may answer, "if that's all there is to collect as a conqueror."

The "Oberst" leaned forward to get a better view of the merchandise, lifting the visor of his exquisitely embroidered cap. 

"Ach," he said, "Inferior Italian manufacture."  His English was flawless, though accented, as if just out of Hollywood casting.

It was now his turn.  He stood briefly erect as if expecting his usual assistance, then reluctantly bent to empty the magnificent leather luggage at his feet.

Clearly he had done better than the Italian soldier.  The first item he produced was an ornately engraed silver scabbard that housed a stiletto.  Without doubt, it was pure silver, the design worthy of a Benevenuto Cellini.  It may have been a Cellini for all I know.  There followed fins of gourmet identity, a jar of Russian caviar, and lastly, a bottle of champagne.

"I will be allowed to keep this," he said, his hand still clasped around the neck of the bottle, more a statement than a question.

I shook my head in the negative.

"You know I have rights under the Geneva Convention," he said.

I thought of a moonless night on an Italian hill, where some months before, a German soldier tossed a "potato masher", a German grenade, where I was standing with my machine gunner and another soldier.  The image of this eliptical trajectory came to me in slow motion.  I recalled that I did not hear the explosion, but I was still alive.  The machine gunner and the soldier were dead; the machine gun itself no longer functional.

There followed the inevitable mortar attack.  The missiles, equipped with whistling devices to augment the terror, rained on us mercilessly.  Then silence, the sound of dying, the pleading of the wounded, some calling my name, some the usual cry "Medic! Medic!"

But there was no help.  The night was long.  I could not move one way or the other without body contact with the dead soldier on my left and the dead machine gunner on my right.  In the morning, the dead were borne on their GI blankets, one soldier on each corner, to a slatted six by six truck, piled like cattle for disposal.  The soldier on my left was a big man, and heavy. One combat-booted leg scraped the ground, as he was borne, like Hamlet, to the "battlements" of the truck.

The resplendent Colonel waited imperiously for my reply.

There are no words that can frame a reply, even to this day.  I took the bottle of champagne from his reluctant grasp and smashed it against the stone table top.

"I will speak to your Commanding Officer," he screamed.

He did.

I was reprimanded by the Commander.