Page 123

[FOUR]

The Prison

The International Tribunal Compound

Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany

2305 25 February 1946

When Second Lieutenant Paul J. Dowsey, a member of the class of 1945 at West Point, had four days before being transferred to the 26th Infantry, 1st Division, from the 18th Infantry of the division, where he had been a platoon leader in Baker Compound, 1st Battalion, Colonel James T. Rasberry, who commanded the 26th Infantry Regiment, had given him a surprisingly cordial and informal welcome.

“Pull up a chair, Dowsey, and have a cup of coffee while I give you the skinny on what we do here.”

He had begun by telling Dowsey that “Jack Mulaney”—by which he meant Colonel Jackson Mulaney III, commanding officer of the 18th—had selected him for transfer because, of the five second lieutenants taken out of the Infantry Basic Officer Course at Benning before graduation because of a severe officer shortage and flown to Germany and assigned to the 18th, he was “the only one who seemed to be able to find his gluteus maximus with either hand and without supervision.”

“While I’m sure the Officer Basic Course is nice to have, I’ve always felt that it was sort of a waste of time for people like you and me, who had already been taught at Hudson High which end of a Garand the bullet comes out of.

“There are a large number of really despicable people in our prison, the most notorious of whom are Hermann Göring and Ernst Kaltenbrunner, whom we have been charged with keeping fed, locked up, and alive until the trials are over and we can hang them.

“You will be one of a dozen company-grade officers who serve as assistant wardens. You will be the junior of them, the others having been in the Army about a year longer than you have. You will have the privilege of commanding a fine group of enlisted men, seventy percent of whom are yet to celebrate their nineteenth birthday and fifty percent of whom have yet to learn how to drive.

“But thirty percent of your troops are fine non-commissioned officers. I’m sure you remember being told on the Plain that sergeants are the backbone of the Army, and that a wise second lieutenant is he who keeps his mouth shut and his ears open when around a good sergeant.

r /> “Welcome interview over. Sergeant Major Kinsey, one of the latter, will now turn you over to First Lieutenant Paul Anderson, the senior assistant warden, who will not only clue you in further but almost certainly quickly remind you that Norwich graduates are commissioned into the Regular Army with the same date of rank as those who graduate from West Point. You are dismissed, Lieutenant Dowsey.”

Dowsey jumped to his feet, popped to attention, and raised his hand to his temple.

“Permission to withdraw, sir?”

“Welcome interviews like this traditionally end with the commanding officer saying, ‘My door is always open.’ This interview differs from the traditional in that I mean it about my door always being open.”

—

Lieutenant Paul J. Dowsey watched as the ex–U.S. Army ambulance with its red crosses painted over and bearing French Army markings pulled up to the door of the prison.

“Here it comes,” he announced unnecessarily to the soldiers with him, a technical sergeant, a sergeant, a corporal, and two PFCs.

“I can see it, Lieutenant,” Technical Sergeant Woodrow Thomas said, which reminded Dowsey what Colonel Rasberry had said about how second lieutenants should behave in the company of Regular Army sergeants.

And Sergeant Thomas was a splendid example of that breed. A Combat Infantry Badge was pinned to his Ike jacket breast. Below it were colored ribbons representing the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and the Purple Heart. The latter two had insignia representing the second award of both medals.

He had seen the sergeant in Colonel Rasberry’s outer office awaiting with three other teenaged soldiers to be welcomed to the 26th. His youthful face did not fit with the sergeant’s chevrons, and Dowsey decided he had to be older than he looked.

The next time he had seen him was when Sergeant Rasberry had introduced him.

“Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Wagner. The colonel assigned him as our interpreter. He speaks fluent Kraut.”

“You’re German, Sergeant?”

“Pennsylvania Dutch, sir.”

“Put those Thompsons at Port Arms, for Christ’s sake!” Tech Sergeant Thomas snapped. The two PFCs obeyed the order.

A jeep and then a Ford staff car rolled up beside the ambulance.

Lieutenant Anderson got out of the jeep and an enormous, very black captain got out of the staff car.

“Good evening, sir,” Anderson said. “How may I be of assistance to the captain?”