German POWs Terrified Until Americans Taught Them Card Games

November 17, 1943, dawned in the pine forests of northern Mississippi, where Camp McCain stood as a stark reminder of war’s machinery. Klaus Hartman, a 24-year-old Luftwaffe fighter pilot, sat rigid on his bunk, his hands trembling despite his efforts to steady them. The air smelled of fresh-cut lumber and Mississippi clay, a far cry from the battlefields of North Africa where he had been captured. For three days since his arrival, Klaus had barely eaten or slept. He had been trained to expect execution, torture, or the brutal conditions he had witnessed in Eastern camps. Instead, there was hot water for washing, clean blankets, and—most disturbing of all—persistent American smiles. Nothing in his seven years of National Socialist education had prepared him for this form of warfare.

Klaus’s journey began six months earlier in the scorching deserts of Tunisia. Part of the Afrika Korps, he had believed the propaganda: glorious victories, the Suez Canal within reach, General Erwin Rommel as a military genius. But Allied logistics overwhelmed them. Supplies dwindled, and by May 1943, surrender came. Klaus, emaciated and defeated, was herded into a POW cage, expecting the worst. Yet, the transatlantic voyage on a Liberty ship surprised him. Meals exceeded what he had eaten in months—real coffee, cigarettes, even Red Cross care. The vast ocean and tidy American ports hinted at a nation far from the decadent enemy of Nazi rhetoric.

Camp McCain, built hastily from pine forest, housed over 5,000 Germans in barracks, mess halls, and recreation areas. Surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers, it followed Geneva Convention rules: rules posted in German, enforced consistently. Colonel James Alton commanded with bureaucratic precision, without evident sadism. Guards carried weapons but rarely displayed them aggressively. Prisoners received thorough medical exams, dental care, and treatment for ailments like dysentery. Klaus witnessed a fellow prisoner receive a blood transfusion from American donors—a silent message of shared humanity.

The material conditions shocked Klaus, but the psychological warfare unsettled him more. Guards asked about his family, shared photos, and passed cookies through the fence. He dismissed it as subversion, a tactic to extract information or break resistance. But as weeks passed, his certainty eroded. The Americans interrogated no one; they asked about weather or sports. And sometimes, they asked if he knew how to play cards.

The card games began almost accidentally. Sergeant Roy Mitchell, a 38-year-old mechanic from Tupelo, Mississippi, drew guard duty in Compound C. Quiet and weathered, Mitchell shuffled a worn deck of bicycle cards outside the post. Klaus and others watched from the fence. Mitchell looked up and called, “You boys know how to play rummy?” Klaus understood enough English to grasp the invitation. Friedrich Becker, a former hotel worker with passable English, replied, “Ja, we know cards.” Mitchell grinned, unlocked a gate, and ushered three prisoners in. “Come on then. Let’s see if Germans know anything about American rummy.”

What followed was surreal: Klaus, a hardened Nazi soldier, sat at an improvised table playing cards with enemy guards. Mitchell explained rules in broken German, humming tunelessly. Klaus laid down his first meld—three queens—and Mitchell nodded approval. “Good hand, Jerry.” The nickname felt casual, affectionate, not insulting. They talked: Mitchell about his wife, his garage, his sharecropper father who rose through effort. Klaus listened, struck by the American belief in mobility—hard work yielding prosperity, without resentment toward the rich. “Man works hard, gets lucky. Good for him,” Mitchell said. It contradicted Nazi teachings of class warfare and exploitation.

The games became routine, endorsed by camp administrators as morale boosters. Prisoners taught scat; guards taught poker and hearts. Exchanges normalized relations, fostering trust. For Klaus, they revealed America: abundance, individual liberty, a society tolerating dissent without collapse. Newspapers Mitchell shared showed war bond drives, rationing, and open debates—transparency shocking compared to Germany’s censored press.

Re-education programs deepened the shift. Voluntary discussions, films on American history, and documentaries like one on the Tennessee Valley Authority showed government serving people, not vice versa. Klaus attended out of boredom, then curiosity. He saw democracy’s potential: freedom tempered by responsibility.

By spring 1944, Klaus relaxed. The rigid posture of indoctrination softened. He gained weight on reliable meals, worked forestry details with fair pay and tools. Card games evolved into friendships. Mitchell taught bluffing in poker: “Ain’t just about the cards you’re dealt. That’s luck. What you do with them—that’s skill.” Klaus recognized the metaphor for American individualism—choices shaping outcomes, no central planner dictating strategy.

Christmas 1944 symbolized transformation. Prisoners and guards shared carols; American families visited. Klaus wept, overcome by shared humanity amid ongoing war. As Germany collapsed, Klaus hoped for quick surrender, fearing more destruction. The propaganda sustaining him shattered against American competence.

Repatriation came in March 1946. Klaus returned changed—German in heritage, but carrying American ideals. Ruined cities and revelations of atrocities devastated him. He rebuilt as a carpenter, advocating democracy. The Berlin Wall’s fall in 1989 vindicated his beliefs.

Sergeant Mitchell returned to Tupelo, garage intact. He never boasted of his role, seeing it as duty. Klaus kept half Mitchell’s deck—26 worn cards—as relics of connection. Donated to a museum, they embody humanity’s power: small acts bridging divides, shaping history. In a world of hatred, card games planted seeds of peace.