BEHIND NAZI LINES: My Father's Heroic Quest to Save 149 World War II POWs - Hardcover

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The story’s dialogue came from statements made by Andrew Gerow Hodges, Michael R. D. Foot, and the POWs that attended the Samford Reunion on January 25, 2002. These were video-recorded and included in the award-winning documentary For One English Officer. Other dialogue came from POW diaries, newspaper articles, military records, recorded statements, letters, telegrams, correspondence, and conversations with living participants and family members of participants. Some of the dialogue was created in a logical sequence to match documented stories and events.

All stories and events in this book happened just as they are described and can be documented by records, newsreels, military information/records, etc. All characters in this book are real, and appear in the story as they did in the real life events. The names of Schmitt’s nephew, Walter, and sister, Greta, were created. Schmitt had a sister and a nephew, but their names could not be found. The German sentry in Lorient, Klaus, was a created name/person.

The names Léon Spanin (his birth name) and Léon Rollin (his pseudonym) are used interchangeably throughout the book. He is also referred to by his nickname, Leo.

PART ONE

THE FIRST EXCHANGE

There was one man . . . on the Allied side, armed only with his wits and a Red Cross badge.

—HARLAN HOBART GROOMS, JR., COLONEL, U.S. MARINE CORPS RESERVE (RETIRED), PAST PRESIDENT OF THE BIRMINGHAM BAR ASSOCIATION, BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA, USA

ONE

A CROSS, A FLAG, AND A DANGEROUS JOURNEY

Thursday, 23 November 1944, Thanksgiving Day, 94th Infantry Division Headquarters, Châteaubriant, France

Andy Hodges had been handed a job no one else dared to accept—a direct order from Major General Harry J. Malony, commander of the 94th Infantry Division, headquartered in Châteaubriant, France.

“It’s a suicide mission,” Malony’s chief of staff, Colonel Earl Bergquist, had told him. But Andy had his orders, even if he’d most likely become the target of a German bullet.

However dangerous the assignment, deep down Hodges welcomed the opportunity to serve his country. He thought about the lives that were depending on him—men with families in America, France, and Britain—mothers, fathers, wives, and siblings who waited for a word of hope about their loved ones recently declared missing in action. He hoped he could save the POWs held in the St. Nazaire prison camp. The prisoners were cold, hungry, and becoming deathly ill. They needed help, and quickly.

On that dismal predawn morning in late November, a cold rain spattered the sleeping French countryside. Andy placed a white flag in the jeep’s front holder, climbed inside, and began his trek toward enemy lines. Probably, no one expected his arrival on this day. In his hand, he carried a copy of a letter, dated November 21, 1944, typed in German on American Red Cross stationery. It was addressed to the camp’s Kommandant—whoever he was.

“An den Deutschen Kommandanten, St. Nazaire,” it said. That’s all. No specific name.

I hope the Kommandant has already received the original letter I sent beforehand. But I have no way to know.

The letter he held was his protection, his only defense, if he were stopped, questioned, and searched. But he knew it would provide little security against so brutal an enemy.

In seven or eight hours, back home in Geneva, South Alabama, Thanksgiving Day would dawn. He wanted to be there, sitting in his chair around the big family table, with his new bride and toddler son, his parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and longtime friends. He could almost smell and taste the traditional oven-baked turkey and cornbread dressing, marshmallow-crowned sweet potato casserole, last summer’s homegrown canned tomatoes, and pumpkin pies his family would feast on that day. But the whole world was at war, and he had his orders.

Dinners at home will have to wait—till next year, or the year after that. I sure hope I get to sit at my family’s Thanksgiving table again one day.

As he drove slowly down the narrow path from Châteaubriant, he shined his flashlight on the old, crinkled map of France, the only one he could find. When he reached Chauve, he stopped and checked the tangle of thread-like roads that branched out like a spider’s web from the small Allied-occupied village southeast of St. Nazaire on the western coast of central France.

Only about four miles to Saint-Père-en-Retz. That is, if I take the right road.

He picked up a pen and carefully marked the route he had been advised to take. It was in the French language and was confusing.

Northwest along Les Epinettes. Les Epinettes becomes Le Bourg. Stay left along the Rue de Nantes.

Andy’s sense of direction wasn’t so bad, but, except for a few words, he knew no French.

Maybe if I’d played less football and studied more languages in college, I’d be better equipped for this mission. At least I could read this map.

He worried about the accuracy of the faded map for the Vannes-Angers region of France, and how much the area had probably changed during the years of war. He ran his hand through his thick brown hair and sighed.

Must trust the map. No other choice.

Alone in the foggy, wet darkness, the twenty-six-year-old, tall, slender Alabamian continued his journey toward enemy territory. As he drove, his stomach knotted and burned. Bile rose and stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard but couldn’t dislodge it. He clutched the steering wheel tighter with each mile he traveled.

As he inched forward toward St. Père-en-Retz, he moved farther away from the Allied-controlled countryside, and closer toward the barbed wire blockade that ushered him into the German-occupied seaport pocket of France. He was thankful for the jeep’s canvas top that protected him from the rain—a perk granted to him by Malony. He shivered as the west winds blew in from the Atlantic and made the eerie fog twist in surreal shapes across the still dark countryside.

The German lines can’t be much farther.

Andy’s heart beat faster. He wondered how a German sentry would react to a lone American, wearing Red Cross insignias, driving a jeep sporting a large white flag, appearing ghost-like and unexpected at the opening in the concertina wire fence separating the combatants.

He’ll shoot me. That’s how he’ll respond.

Before he was ready, he was there. He saw the wire barrier within a few yards of him. He stopped the jeep and sat still, quiet, his eyes closed. In his mind, Andy envisioned the faces of the people he loved, as they would gather later that day around the family’s table. He saw his young bride, Mary Louise Shirley, the popular campus beauty who had fallen in love with him—Andrew Gerow Hodges, Howard College’s rising football star. Number 15.

Mary Louise Shirley—beautiful, brilliant, educated, from a good family—how did I, a poor country boy from South Alabama, ever get such a fine girl?!

Andy shook his head, smiled, and thought about the baby boy born to them a year after they married—Andrew Gerow Hodges, Jr. “Little Gerry” was almost two years old the summer Andy left Alabama to join the war effort in France.

The faces of Andy’s father and mother appeared next in his mind. He felt unusually thankful for his dad at that moment, a poor horse trader with little or no education, but a loving father who had taught his three sons great lessons in moral ethics, wisdom, honest hard work, and good common horse sense. He thought about his mother, kind, selfless, loving, and dedicated to her boys.

Poor Mom. I wonder if she’ll be able to handle emotionally receiving the missing-in-action telegram—or something worse—that might come before Christmas—if I don’t make it back from this mission.

For a brief second, a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him. He’d never felt so alone and so far away from those he loved, from those who had always offered him unconditional love and support.

I had a choice. I could’ve stayed home. I chose to come and serve.

Andy rubbed his left shoulder. The old college football injury still caused him pain. A teammate’s violent blow had ruptured his biceps tendon. But the suffering caused by a damaged deltoid didn’t hurt nearly as much as the military’s 4-F classification that came as a result of it. Andy was in excellent physical shape—a well-built, trim, muscular college athlete. But when the army medics had examined his left shoulder, they declared him unfit for military service. The news was unexpected, shocking, and caused Andy deep grief. He watched his buddies eagerly march off to war, and he agonized over his humiliating 4-F status. Finally he could bear it no longer. He knew the physical injury could keep him out of the United States military, but it could not keep him out of the American Red Cross. If the U.S. Army forbade him to come in the front door with his college friends and other recruits—well then, he could just join the American Red Cross and come in through the back door. And that’s exactly what he did.

He had chosen to come, leaving a wife and son, and a good-paying job, so that he could serve alongside his comrades, and help win this war against Hitler. The 94th Army Infantry Division, stationed in France, was glad to have him, gave him the rank of captain, and made him their ARC senior field director. Andy’s dedication to duty, dependability, and courage in difficult situations quickly earned the confidence and respect of Malony as well as Bergquist. The commanding officer had given him critical missions he’d entrust to no one else. Andy was doing his part, even if a small one, and inside he felt real good about it.

As Andy faced the wire barrier, he pondered how to proceed. He had witnessed firsthand the depth of German cruelty toward Allied soldiers. He felt the urge to turn the jeep around and go back to headquarters—back to the safety of Châteaubriant and the 94th Division. But he knew he couldn’t. If he’d learned anything from his father, it was determination and duty, not backing down when the going gets tough, and doing the best job you can do—even if it kills you.

And this trip might do just that.

Checking the security of his ARC collar pins and the Red Cross badge on his left shoulder, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, and somehow found the courage needed to move forward. He had no weapon, no protection—other than his wits, a letter, a white flag, and the Red Cross insignias.

I hope it’s enough.

Driving slowly to the wire, Hodges stopped abruptly when he saw a surprised German sentry running from the woods, pointing his automatic weapon and screaming: “Achtung! Halt! Achtung!” [“Look out! Stop! Your attention!”]

Here it comes. This ballgame may be over.

TWO

THE SPY

24 August 1944, St. Nazaire Sector, Brittany, France

Captain Michael R. D. Foot had proved himself a skilled assassin. As a member of Britain’s Special Air Service (SAS), whom Hitler called the “terror troops,” he had participated in many demanding and dangerous missions. This one, however, would be his first foray into German-occupied France. In the summer of ’44, Britain’s SAS commander ordered the young Foot to infiltrate the St. Nazaire sector of Brittany to hunt down a particular vicious German officer.

“A certain German, by the name of Oberleutnant Bonner, in the Sicherheitsdienst [SD], is causing us much trouble. He has been especially cruel to our POWs. Find him. Capture him if you can. If you can’t, then kill him,” the commander ordered Foot.1

Michael knew about the Sicherheitsdienst—the Nazi Party’s intelligence and security body, created by Heinrich Himmler in 1931. He’d personally seen the results of their unlimited power—given to them by Hitler himself—to deal with all opposition to the Nazi government. Foot eagerly accepted the assignment, and parachuted into Normandy, ready and eager to begin his secret mission. On August 22, he secured a jeep, hired a French SAS driver named Caplan, and together they wormed their way along narrow roads and set out to infiltrate enemy lines.

“Make haste, Caplan,” Foot ordered his driver. “We don’t have much time. Let’s get this job done and get out of here.”

Foot and Caplan spoke little as they sped down dirt roads toward St. Nazaire. As Foot saw the countryside pass by, he thought about the long list of military heroes sprinkled throughout his prominent British family—his great-great-uncle, the Royal Navy’s first sea lord, Jackie Fisher; his paternal grandfather, who had achieved the rank of major general; his father, Brigadier General Richard C. Foot, head of London’s air defenses; and himself, an SAS captain. He held his head a little higher. He felt proud—of his family, of his father, and of himself. He knew he had a legacy to uphold, and that he could never fail. He’d rather die than face embarrassing his distinguished father, or disgracing his celebrated British ancestors. Military failure was not an option for Michael Foot.

Foot watched closely for German machine gun nests hiding along the roadsides. He had been warned about Jerries crouching and hiding beneath and behind the thick hedgerows that grew in this part of France. He knew the Germans feared the SAS, the elite United Kingdom forces, one of the toughest in the military worldwide. He had heard of the unfortunate fates of SAS members when captured by the enemy, and the fact that few SAS men had ever seen the inside of a German POW prison camp. Most had been shot on sight, no questions asked.

As Caplan drove in the area near Savenay, the English officer thought about the recently failed Operation Bulbasket—a military disaster.2 He remembered that just the month before, a group of SAS members had been captured near Poitiers, France.

That was a bloody mess, a really bad show. Those mucking Jerries. They should all be shot for what they did to those SAS members.

Foot instinctively winced when he envisioned how thirty of these SAS men had been savagely tortured and executed by a German firing squad. He scanned the area around him, feeling an uncharacteristic moment of fear.

If I’m captured, I’m dead.

Suddenly, without warning, Caplan slammed on the brakes. The jeep’s wheels skidded to a stop at the edge of a steep drop-off in the middle of the road.

With his right hand, Foot grabbed hold of the windshield to keep from falling out.

“Caplan! What the blazing . . . !”

“The bridge! Sir, the bridge across the canal is gone!” Caplan shouted. “We’re lucky we didn’t go over!”

“Go around another way, mate!” Foot ordered, straightening himself in his seat and checking his wristwatch.

“Sir, there is no other way. We’ll have to go back. I’ll turn the jeep around. It might take a moment.”

“Do what you must!” Foot scowled. “Just chivvy on and hurry it up!”

Foot climbed out and stretched his long legs. It took several tries for Caplan to reposition the...