The Fighting 69th Infantry Division Association, Inc. Vol. 57 No. 3 ...

GERMANY (Continued from Page 23)
"I'm Mike. How ya doin'?" Somehow I sensed it would
not be a good idea to use "Robare." I replied, "Hi, Mike.
I'm Bob." Throwing my bag into the back of the jeep, I
climbed in beside him. Mike gunned the engine and we
headed toward the Bavarian hills.
Passing through the city with the shells of buildings
along the way revived what I had forgotten while in
Paris. Every time there was a breeze, the dust from
the ruins would sweep into your face.
As we passed one large, sprawling building I noticed
a red-and-white striped guardhouse in front with
white-helmeted MPs checking papers of people on a
long line. Mike glanced at the building and commented,
"There's the courthouse where they'll have the
trial. Right now there's a guy sitting in a cell who owns
the plant where we're printing the Stripes. He put out
some Nazi rag and was the chief Nazi in Bavaria.
"Anyway, we've got a pretty good set-up in Altdorf.
We've taken over about six houses for editorial, printing,
administration, motor pool and living quarters.
I'll drop you off at the place where you're going to stay.
It's called the Eisenhower House and they have their
own dining room. There's a gal who runs it named
Katie. She grew up in the States and when the war
broke out, her folks took her back here."
As we drove into Altdorf we passed through an old
stone arch and streets that apparently had escaped any
war damage. "Here we are," said Mike as we pulled
into a graveled driveway of a white, three-story h011se
with black open shutters and a half-timber style.
Mike honked the horn and within seconds a blond,
teenage boy wearing short leather pants came out of
the front door and ran down the steps toward us.
Taking my bags from the back seat, Mike handed it to
the youngster. Again gunning the engine, he waved
good-bye and sped away as I yelled out, "Thanks, Mike."
"I'm Eric," said the teenager as he put the bag onto
his shoulder. "I'll show you your room, sir." As we
walked into the house I saw that we were in the dining
area with only two uniformed men sitting at a table.
A waitress wearing a black gathered skirt, embroidered
with floral design, and a white bodice entered
the room. As she headed to the two men seated at a
table she looked at me and said, "Hello, you must be
Mr. Wiemann. We've been expecting you. You can have
lunch whenever you're ready. I'm Katie."
"Thanks, Katie," I answered. "See you soon."
Eric led the way up the stairs to a second story room
near the stairs. As he put the bag down I noticed there
was a single bed next to a window, a small chest of
drawers and a desk. A bath towel and face cloth hung
from a rack next to a small sink. Pointing down the
hall, Eric said, "The bath is just two doors down." I
gave him two marks in our occupation script, thanked
him and he left.
- 24-
Mter washing and changing my clothes, I headed
for the dining room and found a table overlooking the
hilly scenery. Katie had just finished serving the two
men at a nearby table and came over to me. She was
an attractive lady, probably in her late twenties.
"Today we have a German dish of beef cooked with
onions and tied with string. With that we have noodles
and string beans. For dessert we have apple strudel
with coffee or tea."
That French bread and cheese from Paris were consumed
long ago somewhere between Paris and Altdorf.
"Katie," I said, "I'll take three of everything." She
laughed, walked back to the kitchen and a few minutes
later I enjoyed a type of dish unknown in
Monsieur Henri's kitchen.
Mter the meal I introduced myself to a group of
civilians who had begun their meals a little later.
They said that they were copyreaders and pointed to a
single-story cement building visible from the dining
room, as the sight of the newsroom. "We begin at about
eight in the morning," added one of the group. I
thanked them, decided to go back to my room, unpack
and rest up before reporting the next day.
Following a hurried breakfast and knowing that my
job would be to get the news stories ready for editing,
at seven a .m. I walked to the newsroom and found a
man sitting at a table reading what probably had come
over the wires during the night. I recognized a horseshoe-shaped
table near him as where the copyreaders,
sometimes called rim rats, sit at the edge. Within the
so-called horseshoe and facing the copyreaders is '
the slotman who doles out the stories selected by the
managing editor. Mter the copyreaders review the
stories for accuracy in content and writing, they prepare
the "heads" over the items to describe them
briefly. Upon approval by the slotman, the items then
are sent to the printers.
As I entered the room and approached the man at
the table, I said, "Hi, I'm Bob from the Paris office."
He looked up, said, "Hi, I'm Ken, Managing Editor.
Welcome aboard. I guess you know what to do." He
showed me a pile of teletypes that had come in
overnight. "Bob, just sort them out for me and if I find
something for rewrite, I'll give it to you."
In about an hour the copyreaders and the slotman
came in and took their places at the horseshoe-shaped
table. As the morning wore on, an item was held up by
the slotman. "Hey guys, look at this. It's an A.P. about
Hitler being impotent. How's this for a head? 'Fuehrer
No Furor in Bedroom." A few snickers followed and
their heads bent over their stories, the rim rats
returned to their work. By midafternoon Ken turned to
me and said, "Bob, you can take off. See you in the
morning."
One day I noticed children playing near our house
and occasionally some of the paper's staffers would
throw them chewing gum or a couple of chocolate bars,
(Continued on Page 25)