Hero Found: The Greatest POW Escape of the Vietnam War (4 page)

The immensity of Germany’s third-largest city, which had 1 million residents, amazed Dieter. Heavily damaged by Allied bombing during the war, Munich had been completely rebuilt, preserving its prewar street grid. New low-slung modern buildings that looked out of place on grand royal avenues stood alongside magnificent nineteenth-century structures that had miraculously been spared.

Dieter arrived at the consulate several hours before dawn. It was winter, and the temperature had dropped overnight to below freezing. Sitting on the icy steps of the consulate waiting for it to open, he “nearly froze to death.” Eventually, a group of employees arrived, among them a tall, bald man with the key to the front door. He looked down at the shivering Dieter with something akin to disapproval. Dieter followed behind them into a hall with a high ceiling, and went to the men’s room to try to make himself look more presentable. Later, when Dieter’s name was called, the tall man turned out to be the consular official who would interview him. After the man solemnly shook hands with him, Dieter eagerly began talking. When he said that he would soon finish an apprenticeship with a tool and die maker, the official became interested. “America needs craftsmen,” he said. Smiling at last, he added that Dieter must be serious if he would sit outside the consulate “all night long” in the freezing cold waiting for his appointment. Dieter decided not to admit that he had no extra money to spend on a hotel, as he still had to pay off the balance of his steamship ticket after putting down a deposit. The rest of the day Dieter spent filling out numerous forms and taking a physical examination.

Back home, Dieter returned to Mr. Perrot’s shop to finish his training before being permitted to take his final test. On the appointed day, he was grilled for nearly two hours by a panel of eight judges—headed by Mr.
Perrot—that included a master carpenter, a metalsmith, and other tradesmen. He was asked about the qualities of zinc, copper, lead, steel, and other metals, as well as the use of various tools. Then, he was handed an intricate blueprint to follow at the lathe. When he finished, they examined his work. Asked not a single question about it, he was dismissed. Dieter left convinced he had flunked, an outcome that he had no doubt would have been the doing of his boss. Flunking the final test normally meant having to do another year as an apprentice—another year that Mr. Perrot would have him for “slave labor.” Dieter, however, had other plans. Heading home, he bade his family farewell. Strapping on his backpack, which was already filled with everything he was taking, he grabbed his official documents and set out to hitchhike 400 miles to Bremerhaven, the North Sea port from which his ship would depart for America. He had already sold all his possessions, including his homemade skis, a newer bicycle he had built, and a kayak he had picked up in trade. In fact, Dieter sold the kayak “three times to three different people,” all of whom showed up to retrieve it after he left.

Residents of Calw—the birthplace of the novelist and Nobel laureate Hermann Hesse, who had apprenticed years earlier in the same blacksmith shop for Mr. Perrot’s brutally abusive father and used the experience as material for his book
Beneath the Wheel
—were in agreement that the cagey and charismatic Dieter Dengler would grow up to be either very successful and rich, or “the biggest gangster ever” and in prison.

For three weeks Dieter passed the time
in Bremerhaven, lingering near the docks while he awaited the arrival of his ship. He slept in empty cargo crates and ate green bananas and other perishables that fell off the conveyor belts snaking from the holds of cargo ships. He also scavenged for edible leftovers in garbage cans behind waterfront restaurants. Having been assured by the shipping line that all the food he could eat was included in the price of his passage, he couldn’t wait to get a decent meal aboard ship.

When the ocean liner SS
America
arrived, being pushed dockside by a cast of tugboats, its great size was beyond belief to the young man from the Black Forest. The 33,000-ton vessel was longer than a city block—more than 700 feet from bow to stern. Built in 1939 to carry 1,200 passengers in three distinct and separate classes (cabin, tourist, and third class), with a crew of 640,
America
had been converted to a troopship during World War II. Converted after the war to again carry civilian passengers, and painted in the iconic red, white, and blue of the prestigious United States Lines—even on the two finned smokestacks designed to minimize wind resistance in gales—
America
was the most graceful and well-appointed liner flying the U.S. flag.

Dieter watched in awe as the passengers filed down gangplanks, many of the men dressed in fine suits and the women in fancy dresses and feathery hats. Gleaming Cadillacs and Lincolns were hoisted from a forward cargo hold onto the pier, where well-heeled passengers waited to drive away.

When he finally boarded the ship for its return run from Bremerhaven to New York—with port calls at Le Havre, France, and Cobh, Ireland—Dieter was ecstatic about his future. As the mooring lines were released and the ship inched slowly away, a band on deck played “
Auf Wiedersehen.”
Friends and relatives on the ship and pier waved tearful good-byes. The song beseeched travelers not to stay away too long, but Dieter “had news for them.” He didn’t want to come back. For him, an “era had come to an end,” and he knew it. Nobody on the pier was waving good-bye to him, and he was ready for his adventure in America.

Compartments for third-class passengers were located in the bow section of the ship, where the motion at sea was most pronounced. Dieter was assigned to a room with three other men, and his first food aboard ship was a “strange American hot dog” on a bun with only ketchup. Not long afterward, when the ship hit the choppy waters of the North Sea, Dieter became seasick. He couldn’t eat much after that—missing out on those all-you-can-eat meals he had so looked forward to. Miserable, he mostly stayed in the room “heaving for ten days.” Occasionally, he dragged himself to the dining salon so he could bring back fruit and sandwiches. He marveled at the bowl of oranges kept filled on the table to which he was assigned. He had usually seen an orange only at Christmas in his stocking, along with cookies and a new pair of socks knitted by his mother. Although he was able to eat very little, he was unwilling to waste food, and hoarded what he could like a squirrel preparing for an early winter.

At four o’clock in the morning on May 12, 1957, passengers awoke as word spread that the Statue of Liberty would soon be in view. Although still weak, Dieter went topside on wobbly legs and joined a crowd at the railing. And then, “the most beautiful sight” he had ever seen appeared in the morning mist. Here, at the gateway to America, it did not escape Dieter that Lady Liberty’s radiating torch was pointed in the direction he wished to go: skyward.

Back in his room, he put on a long shirt that had been his grandfather’s. Keeping the tail out, he tied a length of string around his thighs, and filled the shirt with his collected foods. He slipped on a German army overcoat to conceal his stash. Grabbing his backpack, he went up on deck to stand in the long line for U.S. customs and immigration, which had set up processing stations on deck. When he finally made it to the front of the line, a customs official checked his documents. Looking hard at Dieter, the official yanked on his bulging shirt. All the fruit and sandwiches spilled out.

Everyone started laughing, and Dieter turned beet red.

He thought about the people back home who had laughed at his plan to go to America and become a pilot. Nobody lived such childish dreams in such difficult times. He had been selected and trained to be a tool and die maker, and that’s what he was supposed to do. “You’ll end up dead or in jail,” one hometown skeptic had warned him.

Dieter was sure that a U.S. jail was exactly where he was now headed.

“No food allowed,” said the official, waving Dieter on.

When he was finally off the ship, Dieter entered a “whole new world” filled with masses of people, porters, buses, trains, and taxis. He wandered until he found Aunt Clara—waiting with other sponsors in a large building—under the letter D. Off they went to New Jersey in her big car, which to Dieter’s astonishment had windows that went up and down when a switch was pressed. Driving through a tunnel, Aunt Clara explained they were underwater, and that his ship had recently passed overhead. It was incomprehensible to Dieter.

One of the papers he had signed at the consulate in Munich directed him to report within ten days to a selective service office to register for the draft, required of foreign males between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six living in the United States. Dieter did so a week later in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Although he was processed as 1A—available for unrestricted military service—no peacetime draft was then being conducted. A short time later, in nearby Newark, he walked into a U.S. Air Force recruiting station with wall-to-wall posters of military aircraft in flight. Years later, Dieter well remembered the question he asked that day, and the answer he received.

“Will I be able to learn how to fly?”

“You will, son. You’ll go to flight training in Texas.”

That sounded fine to Dieter. He took the test, passed, and signed up as of June 7, 1957—twenty-six days after stepping off the ship from Germany.

No one told him that only officers became pilots in the air force, and to be an officer you had to go to college. Dieter entered the air force as the lowest-rank enlisted man—pay grade E1—on a four-year enlistment.

A few weeks later he took his first airplane ride: a charter flight with other recruits to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. They arrived in July, in boiling heat, for basic training. That was as close to flying a plane as Dieter would get as an enlisted man in the U.S. Air Force.

By the time basic training ended, Dieter knew he had been “conned” and there would be no flight training for him; he also knew that there was “no way out.” After a lengthy period in which he worked in the mess hall peeling potatoes, he was assigned to the motor pool at Turner Air Force Base in Albany, Georgia. He spent nearly two years washing cars and changing tires in the Peach State but “never saw a peach orchard.” In Georgia, Dieter borrowed an officer’s flight suit and posed in front of an air force jet for some “deceiving pictures,” which he mailed to Germany. The skeptics there had been right: he was not flying planes in America. But he was not going to let them know that, because he had no intention of giving up his dream.

After two years Dieter was transferred back to Lackland, where he became a driver in the motor pool. After passing his high school equivalency test and receiving his GED, Dieter registered at a local community college, San Antonio College, and took several night classes, including introductory algebra. He was delighted to receive a B in algebra, since he had little math background. He next took college algebra, basic English, and history. He applied for citizenship and passed the test. He held up his right hand and was administered the Oath of Allegiance to the United States in a San Antonio courtroom packed with other new U.S. citizens from around the world.

At the behest of General Curtis E. LeMay, who believed that “every airman should be capable of defending himself and his country with small arms,” the U.S. Air Force Marksmanship School was established at Lackland in 1958. LeMay, then the vice chief of staff of the air force, believed that its small-arms training was inadequate, and wanted a program to
improve marksmanship. Initially, seven officers and twenty enlisted men were assigned to the school, among them the best competitive pistol and rifle shooters in the air force. A twelve-week course was developed to train new instructors who would return to their own bases and teach shooting to combat aircrews and security personnel.

In 1959, there was a search for airmen with shooting or gunsmithing experience to join the staff of the marksmanship school. Because of his training in tool and die making, Dieter was transferred to the school and assigned to the gunsmith shop for on-the-job training with firearms. He learned about the muzzle velocity of various types of rounds, their maximum range, and how to strip and reassemble firearms, and he was soon maintaining and repairing all types of standard and modified handguns and rifles. He found himself “surrounded by shooters in an organization dedicated to shooting,” including one instructor (Frank Tossas) who became the first air force rifleman to fire a perfect score over the National Match Course, and another (Frank Green) who would go on to win a silver medal in shooting at the 1964 Olympics. All personnel assigned to the school were “allowed and encouraged to shoot,” not only on the practice range but on teams that traveled to various matches. Dieter learned the techniques of great shooters, including controlled breathing, consistent aim, and trigger control—squeezing rather than pulling a trigger. By the time he was honorably discharged from the Air Force in 1961, Dieter was a skilled marksman.

Dieter headed for California in his 1938 Plymouth, which he painted fire-engine red with surplus paint given to him by the fire department. Unable to save anything on his pay of $72 a month, he camped along the way because he could not afford motels. He drove to San Francisco, where his younger brother, Martin, was living after coming to the United States a year after Dieter. Martin was a journeyman baker by then, and attending college.

To most people, Dieter and Martin sounded alike—their accented English was indistinguishable, seeming to come from the same source. Physically, however, the brothers were not alike. Dieter was lanky; five feet nine inches tall and weighing 150 pounds. Martin was two inches shorter and stockier. If they had played high school sports, Dieter would have been on the soccer team, and Martin on the football team. What one got with Dieter
was lightness and quickness—sometimes in all directions at once—while Martin showed sturdiness and reliability. Both brothers had a fair complexion, light brown hair, and brown eyes; in Dieter, the eyes twinkled with mischief.

The brothers, who had grown up sharing a bedroom, were again roommates. For a time, Dieter sold advertising space for a magazine, then shoes; he took a string of other jobs to make ends meet. He enrolled at City College of San Francisco, where Martin was a student. When it was time to study, however, Dieter was “more interested in going to the beach with the California girls.” In his first semester—spring 1961—he had a B-minus average for 12 units, but in the fall he flunked elementary French (even though he had taken French in middle school) and received a D in a business course and a C in intermediate algebra. It was no coincidence that he applied himself and received his highest grade in a course that would be helpful for piloting a plane: air navigation, an astronomy course, in which he received a B.

Dieter had a new plan for becoming a pilot. He had learned about the Naval Aviation Cadet (NAVCAD) program, which required an associate of arts degree. After that, upon completing more than a year of intense training—including learning to fly—he would be a commissioned officer and naval aviator. He now set his sights on graduating with a two-year degree.

Like most college students, Dieter also enjoyed himself, dating a bevy of girls and partying with Martin and lots of new buddies. There were surfing trips to nearby Santa Cruz and skiing trips to Lake Tahoe—a five-hour drive in an old VW van Dieter bought for $185 and kept running, thanks to his days in the motor pool. Everything was done on limited funds. Most of the time Dieter didn’t have any money, and on those occasions when he did have cash he was too frugal to spend much. Before leaving home to go skiing, Dieter would wedge in, next to the engine, a couple of cans of Skippy dog food. When he arrived at the ski resort, he would park, raise the hood, and stand in the parking lot enjoying a hot meal before hitting the slopes. Dieter thought that with enough ketchup, Skippy tasted “like corned-beef hash.” Among his friends, he soon earned a reputation as an “indiscriminate eater.”

Rather than spend money on his clothing, Dieter collected unclaimed clothes left in classrooms, at the gym, on park benches, and at bus stops. Some days he returned home with a couple of shirts and a pair or two of
pants or shorts. One Christmas, Martin wanted to buy Dieter new slacks and decided to confirm his size. In Dieter’s closet were pants with waists ranging from twenty-eight to thirty-six inches.

When it came to car maintenance, Dieter could do it all, including rebuilding an engine or transmission. Certain items that had to be acquired from time to time, however, weren’t always within Dieter’s budget. He kept a can of spray paint that matched the blue-gray of his van. When he couldn’t afford a new tire, he would take a cruise through neighborhoods at night looking for another VW. When he found one parked, he would jump out, remove a wheel from the other VW, and swap it for his own wheel with the worn tire. Then he would spray the new rim his color and drive away. It was the kind of scavenging he had often done in Germany. Dieter looked on it more as a form of barter than as thievery. After all, he gave up his own wheel and tire in trade.

Martin accompanied Dieter on many skiing, hunting, and fishing trips. At all three sports, Dieter excelled. Martin was especially impressed by Dieter’s new proficiency with high-powered firearms—the only gun he had fired in Germany was an old BB gun—observing with his own eyes that his brother was a “fantastic shot.” When they went to a rifle range in Pacifica, south of San Francisco, Dieter caused the gong to go off repeatedly by hitting the bull’s-eye 300 yards away. Precision marksmanship combined with his outdoor experience made Dieter a great hunter. Too, when anyone downed game, he was ready with a sharpened hunting knife to do the cleaning, skinning, and butchering—skills he had learned working for the butcher in Calw. The brothers loved camping together. Harking back to their childhood days in the Black Forest, they often “played survival games.” Dieter would set traps, using string, hooks, and bent branches to snare small game as their mother had taught them years earlier. They would soon be roasting rabbit or other wild game on a spit over a roaring fire. Then there were the wilderness scenarios on which Dieter would constantly challenge Martin. “Martin, what would you do if a bear came in from that direction?” Or: “People are chasing us, Martin. What do we do?” One time while skiing at Squaw Valley, Dieter dug himself into the snow and had Martin bury him up to his neck. It was an exercise to see how
quickly he could get out of an avalanche, Dieter explained. Then he went to work extracting himself.