The heavy cannonading in the east told the American POWs in Kommando 64/VI that the war was almost over. We had survived the brutally cold Baltic winter in this satellite labor camp of a German stalag and were now enjoying the first tenuous rays of the spring sun. Meanwhile, the Russians were drawing up their forces along the Oder River, just 50 miles away, for their final drive into the heartland of Germany. Prison life would soon be over, at least for the Americans.

As prisoners, we had tried to look like lousy soldiers. Early every morning, before we were taken out to labor, we were lined up to be counted. Appell, the Germans called it. On returning at night, we were lined up for another Appell. The second count made certain that the same number that had gone out in the morning had come back at night.

We were lined up in files of five, and the guards marched by, counting by fives: fünf, zehn, fünfzehn, zwanzig. But we never lined up exactly, and we kept shifting positions, making it difficult for the guards to get accurate counts, particularly in the semidarkness of the Baltic winter.

The Germans thought we were sloppy soldiers. But, if we could confuse the count, someone who had slipped off from his work station to get out of the cold for an hour or two would have more time to sneak back into the formation before the Germans could get an accurate count. More important, if someone had actually escaped, it would take the Germans valuable time to figure it out. Sloppy was embarrassing—but useful.

On the morning of April 13,1945, as we were whacking away at the slowly thawing earth with our picks and shovels, our Vertrauensmann (intermediary with the Germans) dashed up. “President Roosevelt died yesterday,” he told us breathlessly.

The Vertrauensmann was an American POW chosen by the guards, largely because of his command of the German language. He stayed with the guards in their hut and had access to their radio. He was therefore an excellent and reliable source of information.

At his news, we leaned on our picks and shovels, as we were wont to do at any excuse. “He did?” someone asked rather flatly. “So, where are the Russians now?” inquired another, pursuing a more pressing issue. We were not terribly excited about American politics. Most of us had been too young to vote in the 1944 election.

Someone asked, “Who is the new president?” No one knew. Finally, one of those leaning on a shovel said he thought that the new president had been, before becoming vice president, a relatively insignificant senator from the Midwest.

At this point, the Vertrauensmann said, “Let’s hold a retreat ceremony in Roosevelt’s honor!”

Despite our lack of strong political convictions, we all agreed that this was a fine idea. Winter was gone,