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  “Who else would it have housed?”

  “Germans. Japanese. Prisoners of war were shipped back to the U.S., putting an ocean between them and whatever front they had fought on. Some were sent here to St. Louis. If the Germans behaved, they were even allowed off-base passes. Many stayed after the war, having taken local brides in the ethnically German community.”

  “Really? Americans marrying Nazis?”

  “Not all Germans were Nazis. Hitler came in second in the 1932 election with only about 36% of the vote. He was able to consolidate power only because the Nazis were the largest party among many. Once in control of the Reichstag, he was able to maneuver himself so he could take power when Hindenburg, who won in ’32, died in ’34. Most of the guys sent here were apolitical troops, unaware of the excesses of their leaders. It was not until later in the war, after it was essentially over, that we caught the people responsible for the true evil. The guys here mostly were not Gestapo or SS. The ones allowed off-base liberty were not the few actual Nazis who were imprisoned here.”

  “Did they keep the Nazi true believers in Building 28?”

  “Not necessarily. However, prisoners were employed across the base doing various jobs that needed to be done. Everything from janitorial duties to skilled labor jobs like electricians or plumbers.”

  Interlude

  Basement, Building 28

  May 2, 1945

  SS-Obersturmführer Wolfgang Bader was working, unsupervised, in the basement of Building 28. He was applying his knowledge of electrical engineering to work as an electrician. When he was captured by the Americans, he was wearing the uniform of a feldwebel, the German Army’s equivalent to a sergeant or staff sergeant in the U.S. Army. Fearing a schutzstaffel, or SS, officer would be mistreated, he told his captors he was a humble electrician drafted into a war he did not want.

  The Americans asked him to renounce the Führer and the Nazis, which he did. He explained his SS blood tattoo resulted from being treated in an SS hospital, where it was standard practice for medics to give the tattoo to the non-SS military under their care. He passed muster and eventually ended up in St. Louis, which proved comfortable. He performed his work well, taking pride in it, and found himself rewarded regularly with off-base passes. He started going to a German Catholic church where he met and soon started dating a third-generation Aryan girl.

  It was difficult at first. Many of the congregants had sons fighting in Europe and did not approve of German prisoners of war dating their daughters who were now more American than German. It was difficult for men like Wolfgang, but not impossible.

  Adalie Neumann was a pretty blonde woman whom he was planning to marry, and he planned to then remain in the United States. It took great effort to convince her family he was a good man and not a Nazi. Eventually, when he asked her father for her hand in marriage, the elder man agreed.

  However, his thoughts were not with his beloved today. His captors were celebrating. Hitler was dead, and his captors were passing around copies of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch as the news broke in the U.S. They were celebrating the death of the man who had lifted Germany out of the morass following their humiliation at the end of World War I. He feigned happiness, but it wore on him. He threw himself into his work. He was working on the wiring for the structure built at the dawn of electricity by helping replace the paper-clad wiring.

  He heard the door open and glanced over his shoulder to see corporal Levi Schwartz of the base military police, or MPs, enter. “Corporal Schwartz—”

  “You fuckin’ Kraut, SS son of a bitch!” the corporal yelled, his voice booming in the partially subterranean room. The man was very pissed. “You fucking liar!”

  “What did I lie about?” Wolfgang asked, palming a razor knife behind his back.

  “Everything. Not being in the SS. The fucking swastika you carved into the retaining wall by the sundial!” Corporal Schwartz yelled.

  The accusation made it difficult for the German not to smile. He carved the symbol into the stone wall capstone as a sign of anonymous defiance for having to deny his true beliefs.

  “I told you—”

  “Shut up! I saw you, but you have the CO wrapped around your finger. He believed you over me. But not anymore.” The MP stopped about 10 feet from the prisoner, his hand moving down to his holstered Colt .45.

  This was it. The SS officer recognized the look of murder in a man’s eyes. He had one chance. He was close enough that he could easily beat the MP’s draw, so he lunged, wielding the knife from behind his back.

  Corporal Schwartz was ready for the attack. As the Nazi rushed him, the MP kicked, landing the blow in his attacker’s gut. Wolfgang crumpled over.

  Schwartz pulled his .45 and stepped over his victim. “I know. I know you were at the pogroms. I had family there. They spoke of an SS-Obersturmführer Wolfgang Bader. There was a picture of you with my aunt. We know. We know you censored their letters, but we have a code. We knew what they were really telling us about. What they were really warning us against.” He pulled the trigger, placing a round in the other man’s abdomen.

  “Fucking Jew! Your kind ruined the Fatherland!” Bader cried out in anger. He heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above them, scurrying to respond to the shots fired. “I won’t die. They will stop you! They will save me, and you will be court-martialed!”

  “Heil Hitler!” SS-Obersturmführer Wolfgang Bader said, extending his right hand in salute. Rage and hatred filled his heart. “Heil Xa—” he started to shout as he saw the flash of the muzzle—the last thing he ever saw.

  “You’re right,” the corporal said softly, strangely calm.

  May 7, 1961

  It was Sunday after another drill weekend, and Master Sergeant Eric Hale was working late, making sure his men got paid. He was also trying to figure out if trying to get promoted to senior master sergeant would be worth it. He was not getting any younger and had been thinking of retiring right before the Military Pay Act of 1958 authorized two new enlisted pay grades.

  It would be a decent boost to his retirement. He had been active throughout World War II and called back for Korea. The Air National Guard had given him a chance to finish his military career at home at the McDonnell Aircraft Corporation factory in North St. Louis building jet fighters. He was tired and wanted to be able to go home to his wife and enjoy her company a little bit before going to bed and getting up early for work.

  His body was aching. In World War II, he served as a ball gunner on B-17s over Europe. Master Sergeant Hale had received two Purple Hearts as a Flying Fortress crew member. In Korea, he was a tail gunner in a B-29 Superfortress. On a ferry flight from the United States to Japan, his aircraft crashed in a rice paddy. He had been knocked unconscious as his forehead bounced off the sight.

  The flight engineer, who was also injured in the accident, ran to the back of the burning aircraft to pull his comrade out of the smoldering hunk of metal. That man was on the fast track to sew on chief master sergeant, and Hale could think of no man better for the new rank. He thought about giving Leo a call as he shuffled paperwork.

  The master sergeant signed the last pay document and put it in the envelope to give to the pay clerk. He left his basement office to drop it off in the squadron clerk’s office and then go home. He shivered as he passed through a cold spot. The NCO paused to listen for the HVAC; he could not hear it.

  He suddenly felt something on the back of his neck, like someone’s cold hand. As the hairs on the back of Hale’s neck stood on end, he turned around and came face-to-face with a translucent human figure in a black SS uniform. A skull peered at him with black, soulless eyes beneath a black peaked hat, complete with the iconic skull and crossbones.

  Master Sergeant Hale gripped his chest as he felt his heart stop.

  Chapter Six

  In order to get some night shots of them driving, Dick and Mary followed behind Jared on the drive to the next building. Outside the fence line of the Jefferson Barracks Air
National Guard Station, much of the original base had been turned over to St. Louis County to become a park. Many buildings were converted from military use to schools, Catholic churches, or several museums. The Old Powder Magazine was one of the museums and was not far. However, since they needed footage for Dick’s voiceover, the short trip was stretched out.

  “After Airman Dunn left, we headed over to the Old Powder Magazine. Normally, my walks are less restricted, but since we are investigating a military base and public property, we had to get permission to be here at night and access buildings that would normally be closed. This meant that I could not necessarily go where my guides would normally tell me to go.”

  The Old Powder Magazine was a nondescript, gray stone building surrounded by a fence made of the same material as the structure it guarded. A county park ranger had opened the museum and turned on the lights for the TV crew. Dick led the group inside but only stayed there for about five minutes or so.

  “I don’t think there is much going on inside the building. However, there is someone outside the building.” He led his wife and Jared around the outside of the fence. “Someone is guarding this place. He feels it is his duty to remain here. To remain vigilant.” He stepped away from the building and toward the woodline. “I see a man. He is wearing a Civil War uniform.”

  “North or South?” Mary asked.

  “North. He’s Union and very proud of it.” Dick stopped near what could have been a game trail for the numerous deer infesting the park. “I can sense he feels concern for a fallen comrade. He may also feel a little betrayed.”

  “Was there a battle here?”

  He shook his head in answer. “Not a battle but . . . violence. Like a murder or assassination. No—he was not a big enough target to be the victim of an assassination. He was targeted as part of a raid.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sometimes Dan helped book guests for the show. Today he made arrangements for a meeting with Major (Retired) Darryl Goodman at Café Telegraph, a popular restaurant just outside Jefferson Barracks Park. He arrived before Jackie and the retired soldier to set up the camera and sound equipment in the room used for group events. He sat quietly and waited for the star and her interviewee to arrive.

  “Today I’m meeting with a retired officer from the Army Reserve unit on JB. His name is Darryl Goodman and, as a major, he commanded troops in Afghanistan following 9-11. He has a Master’s degree in military history and has specialized in the military history of St. Louis. He is also a paranormal investigator for a local group of ghost hunters called the Midwest Paranormal Investigative Society. Darryl has published a book about the haunted history of Jefferson Barracks called The Spirits of Jefferson Barracks.”

  Dan looked up when he heard Jackie’s voice and her heels clicking on the cement floor.

  “Hi Dan, is Darryl here yet?”

  “Nope.” Dan was a man of few words. He stroked his goatee as he tended to his camera equipment.

  Jackie went to work setting up for her interview with the retired major. Focused on her notes, she missed him sneaking up behind her.

  “Hello, Agent Bierman,” a male voice greeted her from behind.

  She startled a little and stood up. “Yes, sir.” She extended her hand and a smile.

  “It is good to meet you. I hear you want to talk about ghosts at JB.”

  “Yes. Dan, are we recording?”

  He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “We are recording. Do you prefer Mr. or Major Goodman?”

  He laughed. “Just call me Darryl. Is there a particular ghost you want to talk about?” He turned the tables on her as he turned the interview into a conversation.

  “Yes, actually.” She found herself at ease with his conversational tone. “The sentry at the Old Powder Magazine.”

  “That is an interesting case and one that is more legend than verified history. So please take what I say with a grain of salt. Some of it is my personal theory and conjecture. Going back to Missouri during the Civil War, it was a slave state that trended toward supporting the Confederacy. In fact, Lincoln marched a sizable force into the state to occupy it and keep it in the Union. There were several battles with some of the progenitors of the Missouri National Guard.

  “Here in St. Louis, you had this enclave of Germans who actually held loyalty to the U.S. and not the CSA. It was an important naval chokepoint—”

  “Naval chokepoint?” she interrupted. “Missouri is landlocked. What would have been its naval importance?”

  “Because of the Mississippi River. The Confederates were running smuggling operations up and down the old muddy river since it was, and is, a significant waterway. So much so that the state organized a Naval Militia in 1902. It saw action in World War I. So, think of it as a brown-water navy.”

  “Brown water?”

  “Same thing as saying river. The Confederates were interested in raiding JB for arms and munitions stored there. They would picnic close to the fence to make observations about what was going on inside the base, looking for weaknesses in the perimeter and perhaps locating the best places to raid. For a beleaguered force with limited access to arms and munitions, the best target would be the Old Powder Magazine.

  “From what I’ve read, the commanding officer decided to double security. Also, Missouri was a divided state. Southerners were settling the rural areas to spread slavery. However, the St. Louis region was a heavily German area, and they tended to be very pro-Union. So, legend has it a corporal and private were on patrol, and the corporal was a German who was held in high regard. He was paired with a private who was less trustworthy. A raiding party chose their shift to attack, at the end of which the corporal was dead from a shot between the eyes.”

  “What about the private?”

  “He was found unconscious. It looked like someone hit him with the butt of a rifle. He claimed he stepped to the woods to relieve himself and that the next thing he remembered was waking up to his fellow Union soldiers responding to the sound of the gunshot that left his partner dead.”

  “Do you believe the private’s story?”

  Darryl shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. I have no reason to believe either way. The evidence just does not exist for either his innocence or guilt.”

  “Is that it? The end of the story?”

  “Nope. Fast forward to World War II. The U.S. is using JB as a training base and storing munitions here, so you have heightened base security. Some of the sentries started claiming they were seeing a Civil War soldier over by the Old Powder Magazine. It got so bad that it soon became a discipline issue. Some soldiers were refusing to patrol at night, even under threat of punishment. In one case, a Private Sean Dunn went absent without leave. He dropped his rifle, stripped off his jacket, and, by some accounts, he shit—oops, sorry. I mean by some accounts he, uh, pooped himself. They found him at his mother’s house not far from the base.

  “They brought him back to the base, and he was found mentally incompetent at his court-martial. They gave him a medical discharge.”

  “How many ghosts do you think are at JB?”

  He laughed. “Lots. There was a duel right outside the gate to the Old Powder Magazine. Allegedly, people see the ghosts of one of the duelists there. In the parade field, a woman in white can be seen looking for her lover or a lost child. In the cemetery, there are women looking for dead children. One soldier has been seen standing before two graves, pointing to one and then the other while mouthing words that cannot be heard.”

  “Wow. What is he doing? Was he buried in the wrong grave?”

  “No one really knows.” He shrugged again.

  “Any other good stories?”

  “Well, since you mentioned you were called in by an Air Force officer, this next story is appropriate. In the 1980s, three Air National Guard NCOs were leaving Building 28 after working late into the evening and noticed the light on the third floor was left on. They sent the lowest-ranking guy up there three times to turn it off. Each tim
e he claimed he turned the light off, but by the time he got back to his comrades, the light was still on.”

  “You mentioned that you are a paranormal investigator. What do you think was going on?”

  Darryl paused and stared into space, considering the question and all the potential answers. “Well, we’re talking about places where people congregate. There are good times and bad. Happiness and sadness. All of this leaves energy behind. The more people, the more residual energy. Military bases tend to attract this sort of energy. People come to them to learn to kill; in many cases, they do kill there.

  “You also have people from all over coming to one place and bringing their illnesses. I remember basic training. One day I am here in Missouri, the next day I am at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, surrounded by people from every state. One gentleman was from England, another from Puerto Rico. All of us with germs that are normal to ourselves but totally alien to the guys in the bunks on either side of us. Now imagine someone bringing something lethal at a time when medicine is primitive and unable to counter something like the Spanish Flu or an outbreak of consumption.”

  “Is that why some ghosts are just noises or faded images and others are fully formed like the German corporal?”

  “Kind of. In some cases, you have pieces of the person left behind. Other times, they leave behind a more complete version of themselves. These are the so-called intelligent hauntings—the ones that interact with people.”

  Interlude II

  Old Powder Magazine, Jefferson Barracks, Missouri

  September 16, 1862

  Corporal Herman König was on the night patrol; he was a local boy who, like most Germans but unlike the rest of the state, opposed the Confederacy. The soldier’s parents were Bavarian immigrants, and the family felt a strong sense of loyalty to their new home. When the call went out for volunteers, Herman answered.