I was in the Army Reserves in the mid-90’s. My MOS was 91D – Operating Room Technologist. As such, I didn’t drill at the 452nd Combat Support Hospital with the rest of the medics. I went to the Zablocki VA Hospital, off of 49th and National in Milwaukee.
There wasn’t much going on in the OR suites on the weekends. We occasionally got a dressing change or a wound-vac case. When an appendix or gall bladder came in it was a rarity unto itself, as government surgeons didn’t work on the weekends. These patients got transferred to other hospitals on the off-hours. Government schedules and all that.
Otherwise we would make sure the rooms were ready, did sterile processing, trained on sutures and dressings and such. It wasn’t a bad gig. Knowing that the military’s focus of perpetual readiness and task-oriented missions push themselves to the front of the line, things could have been worse. The Army was sometimes boring, had brief bursts of activity, but mainly the mission was being where you were supposed to be when you were supposed to be there.
Hurry up and wait.
I just described what to expect when enlisting in the US Military.
One day we went down to lunch. On the way to the VA cafeteria we went through a few med-surg units, some common areas, a day room, and a lobby. The veterans there were usually solitary, but those that grouped themselves in small collections of older or elderly men seemed amiable enough. Many of them were in wheelchairs. The common factor they all shared were vests or hats that had their unit patches, awards, or conflict theaters where they served. There were lots of black Vietnam hats with gold piping, and leather biker vests that featured the POW-MIA patches prominently displayed across the front and back. Often the patches matched the arm tattoos.
We waited in line just outside the door to the cafeteria. We were wearing our BDU’s, Battle Dress Uniform, which were the older camouflage uniforms that were phased out in favor of the ACU, or Army Combat Uniform. While standing there, we were next to a few of the old-timers in wheelchairs. They made small talk with us, smiling and nodding as we were well-mannered and respectful to keep the mood light.
One of the guys wore a Korean Veteran hat. He was old and haggard and had a tilt to his shoulders, as if he had suffered a wound that didn’t heal quite right sometime in his past. But his eyes were wise and he had a small smile that implied he knew more than he was letting on. Only in passing he greeted us and had a few nice things to say, to which we smiled and nodded and were polite as young members of the Army were to their older peers in the Army.
I noticed he had the slightest German accent. I am part German by blood and took German in college, where my professor told me my accent was Bavarian. His accent was more pronounced, more formal. Understand, the inflection of his words was so subtle that it would have been easy to miss, sort of like the difference a Milwaukee and Chicago accent. Outside of this area, most people have no idea that there is a difference.
But I heard it.
So, we went through the line and got some lunch. But the thought tugged at me: what was a German wearing a Korean War hat doing at the VA?
The next day he was there, in the same place, sitting in his wheelchair on a sunny patch of floor right outside the cafeteria. I took the time to greet him and exchanged some pleasantries. Listening to him talk confirmed what I had heard the day before, so I asked him about it.
“Oh, my speech…yes, I am German, I came over on the boat back in 1920. I was raised here, though my parents never quite picked up the English language.”
That was common enough of immigrants, even to this day. The parents speak their native tongue and never pick up the new language, while the kids learn to speak both as a matter of course.
He leaned forward and gestured me closer, as if he had a secret. I sat on one of the cheap vinyl chairs that lined many of the walls in the hospital to meet him at eye level. His eyes, pale blue and slightly cloudy, were intense. I felt a little uncomfortable.
He told me that he finished in the Army in Korea. But he started his military career in a different role.
“I enlisted in the Wehrmacht. Ein unterofficer im der armee.” He said softly and winked at me.
I must have looked at him with quite the expression, because he sat back in his chair and smiled at me.
He was a sergeant in the German army. During WWII. Seriously. This guy, right here, just admitted he fought for the Germans. Against the allies. Against us.
At first I thought he was full of shit. But he didn’t strike me as a guy who got through life with a charming smile and loads of BS. Not to mention he was in the VA, the place where only veterans get medical care. So, at the very least he was a Korean War vet.
German Army guy. Why not? I played along, trying to not let my skepticism bleed through the conversation.
I asked questions. He answered questions. He told a story. I listened. That was what convinced me, just sitting there and listening to him talk. He didn’t just tell me a story, he told his story like he was just there. The memory was fresh, fifty or so years later. It was the same for all vets that tell their stories, the powerful memories that stay fresh in the mind.
Only these memories were from a soldier in the Wehrmacht.
I talked with him several more times over the course of drilling at the VA. Since I only went to drill once a month for a weekend, this process took several years. Some days he wasn’t there, some days I was busy. But I had gotten enough of his story to paint a picture of who this man was before he became the soldier that everyone knew at the hospital.
It was several years later when I decided I was going to write his story. I had already been discharged from the Army (an Honorable Discharge, high five!) when I contacted Veterans Affairs to see if I could find him. Unfortunately, I didn’t write any of his story down. I didn’t even have his name. The only thing I knew was that he was a Korean War vet and his general physical description.
The VA couldn’t help me. Without his name or SSN, unit number, or room number, there was nothing they could do for me. Plus, I wasn’t family. Then they really weren’t going to tell me anything.
Shortly thereafter I went down to the hospital and asked around. No one knew anything either.
The story of this man was, to me, far too important to be forgotten. It had to be told. On top of everything, this man told his story to me. I happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear what he had to say. And just like the saying goes, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’
What I wrote is an expansion of his story. There are details from what I can remember written as plainly as I could, to keep the integrity of his information correct. In other places, I filled in the blanks, as I wanted the spirit of his account to come through and be as engaging as possible. Allegiance Divisible is based on a true story. He is the American who fought for the Germans and was captured by the Russians. It is his story of honor and pride, his pain and sacrifice, during the most polarizing time of the 20th century.
DAVID F. MAIER 