The Coffee House Philosopher

My next contact with former inmates from the Alva German POW camp occurred when their 50-year reunion was held in Alva in 1995 at the Sirloin Stockade (now a closed Mexican restaurant.) Stan Almgren was the owner/manager at the time. Roughly thirty-five former POWs were present at the banquet, and German dinner manners were very much on display for local citizens in attendance – especially for the Alva ladies.

As an example, if an Alva woman were being introduced to a former POW, the ex-soldier would snap to attention, click his heels loudly, bow deeply from the waist, gently take the lady’s hand, and with very smooth confidence, look up into her eyes and kiss her hand. The whole series of actions was completed in one continuing graceful sequence, which had clearly been thoroughly practiced. The ex-POW would then rise and follow up these acts with a formal spoken pleasantry concerning how privileged he felt from having the opportunity to meet the Alva lady.

The whole “German manners thing” was done with such a natural aristocratic flair it left most of the American men in the room feeling totally inadequate socially. If any American male had tried to perform the same act, an audience’s reaction likely would have been, “Oh come on now, you need to practice this one a lot before trying it!”

The effect on most of the American ladies present (both for observers and the participants) was one that caused them to noticeably swoon, and “put an earthy glow in their eyes.” And further, the clear message in the lady’s eyes to her husband was, “Now take note of how this is done, peasant, because this is how a real gentleman treats a lady!”

But despite the impressive display of polished social behavior, I definitely had the feeling that this Teutonic group must have been more than a handful to subdue during WW II. In fact, the former POWs would have been difficult to control at the time of the reunion, when they were in their seventies. They had a lively upbeat nature, in some cases to the point of being almost boisterous. And in general, those I met who spoke English, did so with a supreme grammatical confidence that would have easily given rise to their reputation as being “snobby supermen” in 1945.

As one of the few Americans present at the reunion that spoke some German, I roamed around the Stockade’s banquet room, trying to assist in translating the combinations of spoken language, eye expressions, and hand gestures that passed for communication between various parties. Most of the German being spoken was of a dialect that made it difficult for me to understand. (It was sort of like a cockney Englishman speaking to an American from southern Louisiana.)

One of the POWs present related an experience he had at the Alva camp wherein a group of POWs barricaded themselves into a room during an altercation, and the door had to be broken down by American guards. One of the Alva residents present at the reunion with (then) mayor Johnny Barton said, “I know that story is true, because I was one of the guards assigned to get the situation under control.”

During my trips around the room, I noticed a tall former POW sitting off to himself, obviously reflecting on things that happened in Africa and America over a half century before. He had a bit more of an aristocratic bearing than most, and the other ex-POWs seemed to be avoiding him. The man didn’t speak a word of English, but by using my rusty German, and supplementing it with significant amounts of sign language, I was able to make out that his name was Egon Uhlmann, he too had been in the Afrika Corps, and that he had been the driver of a car for a German general. He often mentioned the name of Rommel.

Soon some of the other POWs who spoke passable English joined us, and confirmed that Egon had indeed been the former staff car driver for Erwin Rommel. One of Egon’s most important non-driving responsibilities had been to keep an adequate supply of ammunition in the car for German MG 42 machine guns, which became known to American GIs as “Hitler’s buzz saw.”

Each MG 42 devoured ammunition at a mind numbing rate of up to 1,500 rounds a minute – which was over twice that of American machine guns. Due to the intense heat being generated during firing, the gun was generally supplied with two rapid change barrels and asbestos gloves. Barrels could be changed in less than ten seconds.

A German military fighting unit of the time would perhaps have three or four of MG 42 teams providing the majority of its firepower. Most of the other personnel in the unit were supplied with slow firing bolt action rifles, and their job was to protect and support the MG 42 teams. In contrast, an American fighting unit counted on its firepower to be supplied by most of its personnel being outfitted with semi-automatic weapons (such as the Garand M-1), which were in turn supported by much slower firing machine guns.

While the majority of former POWs tended to be a bit forward socially, Egon was a quiet pensive man, who spent most of the reunion by himself. He and I had lunch a day after the reunion, and we exchanged addresses in order to keep in touch. Afterward when we exchanged letters, he wrote to me from his home in Germany, and his villa in Spain. His handwriting was not easy to read, and he often was apologetic that such was the case. Marlisse Weber offered to help me when I was unable to make out parts of his letters.

Egon was in the process of getting a typewriter when his letters stopped coming in the year 2000. Today I cannot view the lone red and cement-grey watchtower still standing from scanty remains of the Alva POW camp without thinking of him.