Spring Hill: Eight Miles South of Troy

Well, the federal government was holding thousands of German war prisoners and was pressed for some way to accommodate this problem. So it was decided that certain ones of them would be assigned to farms in some areas of the country for the purpose of helping gather the crops. Alabama was one of those states, and Pike County was one of the areas they would work. Daddy had investigated the possibility of participating in this program, and our farm was one of the ones selected. These prisoners would participate in the peanut harvest. This harvest was a three-phase endeavor. First there was the stage of stack pole and crosspiece cutting. Then followed the digging stage, and finally the picking stage. They would work in the digging stage. This was the time the peanuts would be plowed up, shaken, and stacked for drying before they could finally be picked.

To say the least, this was a touchy situation. Six months ago, these men were our enemies, and now they would be working on certain farms. There would be no guards for them, and the farmer would be responsible. There was also the community unrest. People didn't feel safe, and there was plain hatred for these Germans. It was truly an unsettling situation, but Daddy and Mother had decided on this program and were determined to give it a try. Our family had been deeply involved in the war. All three of mother's brothers had been inducted into the service. Uncle Bill had been involved in the European theater almost from its inception. He landed in North Africa, went on to Sicily, and finally participated in the invasion of Italy, with no break from early 1942 to early 1945. Uncle Edwin helped train crew members of the bomber squadrons who flew bombing missions in both theaters, and Uncle Martin had served stateside. Our oldest brother, Jack, was drafted into the Marine Corps and would have wound up in the Pacific had the war continued. We were deeply involved as a family.

Our involvement in this program caused some buzzing throughout the community, and our parents could understand this, but Daddy simply needed the help these men could offer. We didn’t have a farm truck to haul them to and from the Troy camp, so Daddy made arrangements with Mr. Matt Reddock to borrow his truck. In return, when our peanuts were finished, he and the older boys would work for three days helping to gather Mr. Matt’s peanuts. This practice of swapping work was common in our community.

We had five prisoners assigned to us for the duration of the time it took to dig the peanuts. Their time would start on a Monday morning. Of course, I was in school and wouldn’t be there until midafternoon. My mind wasn’t in school but on the phenomenon taking place on our farm. Everybody seemed to know the Germans were working on our farm, and it was the conversation for the day. I was too young to work in the peanuts, but not too young to tote water to the workers. As soon as I arrived home, Mother put a jug of water in my hands and directed me to carry it to the field where everyone was working. I remember being apprehensive about seeing the German men for the first time. All my young life I had heard the term “Germans,” and it had never been used in a complimentary way. I didn't know what to expect. I gained confidence when remembering that Daddy, Leon, Paul, Fred, Frank, and Charles were working with them and everything should be all right. I wondered what these people would look like. Were they monsters, or like something I'd never seen before? How did they talk, and what were they wearing? How would they respond to one so young as I? All these things were coursing through my mind, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of all the workers. My first thought was to search out Daddy. He was looking straight at me and called me to him. “Come here, Dickie", I heard him say. I went straight to him while looking all around me for any German monsters, but all I saw was just plain men. Everyone looked alike, and all were working. There was a stranger standing with Daddy. “Albert, I want you to meet my youngest son. His name is Mack, but we call him Dickie,” Daddy said to the stranger. Instantly the stranger stuck out his hand and said in the strongest voice I'd ever heard, “Hello, Sticky! You are a nice-looking young man. I am Albert.”

I remember replying, “Hello, sir! Would you like a drink of water? It's fresh from the pump.”

“Yes, I will like some of the water, thank you.”

Thus began a friendship that lasted until Albert died in 2011.

From here began the rest of my life—a life that would always be better as a result of this experience. Daddy began introducing me to the other four German men. Hans had been given the job of putting up stack poles and crosspieces. He had received a foot wound in the war and hobbled quite badly. He was unaccustomed to our very hot weather and had asked permission to pull off his pants and work in his shorts. Daddy granted his request, and there he stood in his army shorts. “My youngest son, Dickie,” Dad said.

Hans spoke very little English, but he bent over, shook my hand, and said, “Hello, Sticky.” Then he busied himself with the work at hand.

It was funny to me how the two had not pronounced my name with a D. Instead they used an S. I surmised quickly they could not make the D, sound, and for the two weeks, I was “Sticky.”