As a young teenager in New York, my access to fun things was limited. We did not own a radio, and I was too young for the pool room and bowling alleys. Besides, I never had any money. The one pastime I really enjoyed was the movies. Especially the Saturday afternoon serials. I remember my mom would give me a dime to go see three hours of movies on Saturday afternoon, but first I had to clean up the house. Yes, I would be smiling as I was scrubbing the kitchen floor because that would be the last chore before Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon and my favorite cowboys, Buck Jones, Hoot Gibson and Tim Macoy. They were all waiting at the Chelsea theater. The cowboys all had one thing in common. They all carried pistols. My favorite Tim Macoy was a 2-pistol man. Westerns were very popular, and cowboys were the heroes of my day. You can understand our fascination with pistols.
During World War Two, every soldier I knew wanted to own the best pistol he could get his hands on, me included. One of the most popular was the German P38. It was a futuristic looking automatic pistol, like the ones Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon would carry. I packed one of those for a while and like my favorite cowboy, Tim Macoy, I also had a pair of French six shooters, which I lost in a German river when I had my Jeep shot out from under me. I also owned an Italian Beretta, a French 25 caliber and a German Walther. Of course, you know that all this information leads to how I got my most prized souvenir.
We were chasing the Krauts in Germany when we overran this beautiful village nestled in the foothills of a mountain. It was a picturesque hamlet, untouched by war until then. Since we were the victors, the spoils belonged to us. We spread out and did our thing. I spied this beautiful manor and claimed it as my own. How? By being the first one up the steps and pounding on the door. If I thought there were any Kraut soldiers in the house, I would say, “Kommen rause mit der hande hoch!” A less greedy soldier would have waited for help. This time I just knocked loudly.
After a while, the large door slowly opened and there, standing before me was a well-groomed man, about 60 years old, who looked like he might be a butler. The next words out of my mouth were, “Haben ze schnapps, camera, pistole, gewehr?” Translation. Have you any booze, cameras, pistols, rifles? Before the man could respond to my question or demand, I heard this refined voice come from inside the house. “Show the American soldier in Hans.” Spoken in accented English. I charged in and was met by this stately woman about 55 years old. I asked her the same question I had just asked the doorman.
She looked at Hans and told him to bring me some refreshments. I was hoping it wasn’t coffee or tea. I stood there, looking furtively at the door. Right then I didn’t need any company. The spoils were all mine. Hans returned carrying a tray with a decanter and one glass on it. I was tempted to pull a Bender and go for the bottle, but I remembered my manners and played the grateful guest. I poured a big serving and sucked it down in one gulp. It was Brandy. The classy lady offered me another and I filled it up again. It was great booze.
You know, I had this feeling I was being set up for something. She then told me she had this pistol that she would give me if I did her a favor. For a good pistol, I would promise her anything, and did. She then told Hans to bring me the gun. When I saw it coming, I couldn’t hide my excitement. I saw this wicked looking holster and belt. Very rare and valuable. The Luger inside the holster was the best I had ever seen. It was manufactured in the year 1913 with all the gunsmith symbols stamped on the side. I would be the envy of Troop “A”. Owning it would give me prestige, dignity, and even nobility. The gun was in perfect condition. One of a kind. Now it was mine. No longer would I carry the stigma of an outsider, a replacement. Now I would forever be one of the boys.
But now I had to pay the piper, so I asked the Lady of the House what her favor was. She explained to me her son, who was wounded and home from the Russian Front, was hiding in the cellar. Her favor was to see that no harm would come to him. I assured her he would be safe. When Hans turned him over to me, he had his arm in a sling. What seemed strange was that he was wearing an army privates’ uniform. It looked like it was homemade of the finest cloth. A private in the infantry? No way.
As I looked him over, I spotted his wristwatch. I was about to confiscate it when from behind I heard the voice of Sergeant Kennedy whispering to me. “No, no, not in front of his mother”. What seemed stranger to me was that Sergeant Kennedy was not a humanitarian. He grabbed the prisoner and led him out the door double time, with me in hot pursuit. I wasn’t a humanitarian either. When I finally caught up with them, the Sergeant had taken his watch. I asked him for it, and he told me to get lost. “Don’t be a pig”. I had the Luger, and I wanted the watch too?” The code was you catch them, you robbed them. Yes. I wanted the timepiece, but the Sergeant outranked me, and they say possession was 9/10 of the law.
Nearing the end of the war, he got his just desserts. He shot himself in the hand with a German pistol he had confiscated, and he didn’t get a Purple Heart. You want to know why? I had cursed him with the Italian evil eye. After Sergeant Kennedy shot himself in the hand, the captain posted an order banning the carrying of German pistols. Too many accidents.
Editor’s note: Sgt. Kennedy is Sergeant Thomas N Kennedy (32735677) - originally from Kilmarnock, Scotland.