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Stalag Luft One
Or Vacation with Pay, My Stay at the German Rest Camp
for Tired Allied Airmen at
Beautiful Barth-On-The-Baltic
ALAN H. NEWCOMB
Stalag Luft One originally published in 1947 as Vacation with Pay: Being an Account of My Stay at the German Rest Camp for Tired Allied Airmen at Beautiful Barth-on-the-Baltic; Destiny Publishers Haverhill, Mass.
NOTES CONCERNING THIS MANUSCRIPT
Second Lieutenant Alan H. Newcomb enlisted in 1942 in the Aviation Cadets and received training in Texas as a pilot. In the fall of 1944, Lt. Newcomb went overseas to England as a co-pilot on a B-l 7 crew and was attached to the 401 st Bombardment Group, 8 th Air Force.
On his seventh mission, he and his crew were forced to bail out from their burning airplane and he became a prisoner of the German government. He was taken through Germany to Stalag Luft 1 , one of the largest Air Force detention camps, and was held there until the camp was liberated by Russian soldiers in May, 1945.
While Lt. Newcomb was in durance vile at Luft 1 , situated at Barth-on-the-Baltic, he kept careful and accurate account of all the phases of prisoner of war life and of his relations with the Germans. Paper being unobtainable, this diary was written on German toilet paper, and carried on his person to escape confiscation by the Nazis.
On his return to the United States, he transcribed the diary from its original toilet paper manuscript, wrote a narrative prologue leading up to the opening entries in the diary, and a final chapter bringing his life and his reactions to the current American scene up-to-date.
The manuscript is enlivened with extracts of prisoner of war poetry, written in camp and preserved in the logbook assembled by Lt. Newcomb. This logbook also contains sketches and photographs of camp life and surroundings.
CHAPTER ONE
Pappy Mohler rolled over in bed and cocked a reproachful eye at me.
Ten dollars? he protested. Now, Newk, for why would you want ten bucks in this Newfoundland wilderness? From what Ive seen of it, its the one place where you couldnt spend a nickel if you had one.
Experimental research, Pappy, I explained. Mathematical probabilitiessome of the boys are investigating the law of diminishing returns
Or in words of one syllable, said Pappy, you crave to sit in on a crap game. Newk, you oughta stay out of such. They get you nowhereI should know.
Just a little late, I realized that waking your prospect for a quick touch out of a sound slumber on a frosty, cloudy day wasnt the best way to float a loan.
Lieutenant Mohler was my first pilot in the shiny new B-17 we were flying from Nebraska to England, by way of Newfoundland. I hadnt known him or the rest of the crew very long; as a matter of fact, I had been with them only a week as a replacement co-pilot. But Herb Corwin, our navigator, had assured me that Pappy was a soft-hearted hombre who was ready to part with ten-dollar bills on occasion, even to a new acquaintance like me.
Pappy was an interesting and colorful character. He had been, at various times, a policeman, a restaurant owner, a numbers racket man, a taxi-cab driver, and only he knows what else. He hailed from Salt Lake City, but had seen, in a somewhat checkered career, many men and many cities. Since he was twenty-nine, much older than the other fellows on our crew, he assumed a fatherly air toward us all and gave out with a great deal of free advice, some of it, I must admit, very good advice.
How about Henry and Herbie? he queried, They got money.
Herb did have, but those burglars hes playing with took him to the cleaners. Henry, I think, is doing all right.
Henry Kaczorowski was the bombardier on our crew. Pappy grunted: Oh, so theyre in it too.
Yeah. Tell you what, Pappy, let me have the ten and Ill split my winnings with you, I offered generously, hoping against hope that there might be winnings.
Oh, skip it, said Pappy. Heres your ten. And good luck!
The financial transaction completed, he rolled his rotund body over to the wall to shield his eyes from the semi-pseudo-sunlight that foggy Newfoundland supplies to tourists during the month of July. Clutching the ten-dollar bill in my presumably lucky left hand, I hurried across the sandy parade-ground to the barracks where the crap game was noisily progressing, providing a release from the monotonous tension of the camp.
Perhaps I should mention that the date on the calendar in the mess hall, as I had observed it that morning, was July 22 nd in the warlike year of 1944. Only the week before I had been waiting around in Kearney, Nebraska, as a replacement co-pilot. For some reason, Mohlers crew had lost their co-pilot and I was introduced to the men with whom I was going to combat just three hours before we took off from Kearney. It was a good crew and I considered myself fortunate to be one of their number. In the quick way that men who fly together automatically become fast friends, I was already Newk to them, and already I had a line of their varied characteristics. Pappy was easy-going, Herb downright lazy, and Henry nervously active, but they all worked together well in the plane, and I seemed to be fitting into their routine.
As I opened the door of the barracks, Herb Corwin, who was slouching against the wall observing the game, caught sight of me, and his ever-sleepy eyes brightened a little.
Did Pappy come across? he inquired. It was Herb who had suggested I make the touch. I nodded. Herb gestured toward the game
Look at Henry! he exclaimed, hes hot!
