Axis Sally

By Robert Livingston

This is the story of an aspiring actress. Mildred Elizabeth Gillars, who found herself in wartime Germany, where she worked for Radio Berlin, the propagandizing arm of the Nazi Regime. Known as Axis Sally, her radio show attempted to lower both civilian and military morale through the dissemination of propaganda. After the war, she was arrested in Berlin by American authorities and later tried for treason in the United States. Though she was convicted of treason and sentenced to prison against a backdrop of national anger and derision, many questions lingered as to the fairness of her trial, including the role of the press, the federal government, and the witnesses who testified against her. This is the story behind the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663219374

Robert Livingston

Robert Livingston was a high school history teacher in Los Angeles for thirty-seven years. He taught U.S. History and Government, Economics, and Comparative Religions. In retirement he joined a local Kiwanis Club and supervised three high school Key Clubs. He has written four books, each of which explored America's racial history in the military and in our national pastime. He has written extensively on the causes of World War I and the reasons behind Japan's attack at Pearl Harbor.

Book preview

Other Books by Robert Livingston

The Sailor and the Teacher

Travels with Ernie

Leaping into the Sky

Blue Jackets

Fleet

Harlem on the Western Front

W.T. Stead and the Conspiracy of 1910 to Save the World

AXIS

SALLY

ROBERT LIVINGSTON

45744.png

AXIS SALLY

Copyright © 2021 Robert Livingston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1936-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1937-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/12/2021

CONTENTS

Dedication

A Few Words

Chapter 1   The Dedication

Chapter 2   The Request

Chapter 3   The Meeting

Chapter 4   The Unconvinced

Chapter 5   The Impostor

Chapter 6   The Hunt

Chapter 7   The Fugitive

Chapter 8   The Challenge

Chapter 9   The Unhappy Skeptic

Chapter 10   The Unwanted

Chapter 11   The Rebel Girl

Chapter 12   The Unwritten Book

Chapter 13   The Rebel Girls

Chapter 14   The Unholy Trio

Chapter 15   The Best Man

Chapter 16   The Other Lord

Chapter 17   The Deadly Duo

Chapter 18   The Landing Beaches

Chapter 19   The German Professor

Chapter 20   The Ohio Vixen

Chapter 21   The AWOL Pilot

Chapter 22   The Unwanted Child

Chapter 23   The Flight Home

Chapter 24   The Witnesses

Chapter 25   The Appeal

Chapter 26   The Key Questions

Chapter 27   The Final Jury

DEDICATION

To my good friends upon whom I have foisted my writing…

A FEW WORDS

Most people have a bit of curiosity running through their veins and are fascinated by the ‘what if’s of history. Of course, the what might have happened possibilities are never answered easily or fully. They do, however, tease and provoke. They can cause heated debate. This is especially true if we relished a different outcome. If President Kennedy had survived his bullet wounds? If the 9-11 attack had been averted? If we had responded sooner to the climate change crisis?" No matter. It is always a challenge to joust with history and to parry with the actual events, knowing full well that in the end what eventually happened will always have the last word.

Two years ago, I researched and wrote about a young American woman, Iva Toguri, who found herself stranded in wartime Japan after the Pearl Harbor attack. I attempted to retrace her life and to understand how she became a traitor, the infamous "Tokyo Rose, who broadcasted over Radio Tokyo. In doing so, I tried to envision a plausible reinterpretation of her effect on American citizens in the post-war period in light of new information. I injected into this controversy Robert Samuels, my alter ego, and a reporter working for the San Francisco Chronicle, who was on a quest to determine whether or not Iva was indeed a traitor. The twists of history carried him along to determine what really happened so many years ago.

In the process of researching Toguri’s story, I came across the name of Mildred Elizabeth Gillars, who was also convicted of treason for her radio broadcasts on behalf of Nazi Germany during World War II. At the time of her trial she was better known as Axis Sally, and for some, the Bitch of Berlin. I decided to investigate and write a sequel. Once more, Samuels’ quest was to determine if the guilty verdict reached by the jury was correct. And was it still possible for Gillars to find redemption in a world steadfastly critical of her traitorous broadcasts on behalf of the Nazi regime? Samuels pursues this challenge. In doing so, he uncovers a story as unbelievable as that of Tokyo Rose.

One additional word; Mildred Gillars was employed by the German National Radio Service, which was known as the Reichsradio or Reichsrundfunk. For the purposes of this story, I refer to these German names as simply "Radio Berlin." Finally, certain dramatic liberties were taken, of course, to enhance the impact of the story, while, hopefully, I remaining faithful to what actually took place.

I trust you will enjoy the story.

Robert Livingston

Northridge, California

2012

CHAPTER 1

THE DEDICATION

San Francisco – A Few Years Ago

The storm was gone now.

No longer did ponderous, grayish dreadnoughts move in battle formation, clashing above the city, firing mighty broadsides across the night sky. Nor were there crescendos of ear-splitting thunder and flashes of jagged shafts of lightning reminding those below that mere mortals are but pliable clay in the hands of fickle gods who, if they choose, would toy with their lives. Such was the world of those who would challenge their fate.

The storm left the city drenched after three days of heavy rain, and, for some, a city now cleansed of its sins. A bright sun hovered lazily above the Bay Area, a brilliant, flaming celestial ball bringing warmth and comfort to those who lived and worked among the towering skyscrapers of Market Street or in the uniquely charming communities that etched the San Francisco landscape from the lower Mission to the beach-fronting Sunset District. The air was crystal clear, charmed by a gentle Pacific breeze that ruffled ship flags in the Marina and leafy branches in Golden Gate Park before lapping at carefree children at play in the Richmond. The great bridges, touched by the same soft winds, gleamed in the bright sunshine, one a metallic gray connecting the touristy Embarcadero to Oakland’s busy, blue-collar port; the other, suspended high above the Straits of the Golden Gate, a string of orange and reddish cables that united the Presidio with Marin County and the entire Northern California coast.

The very same breeze gave Bagdad by the Bay an air of expectancy. It was as if the city, built on seven hills, were holding its collective breath awaiting one more fling of the dice by the vagaries of time and history. Such was this day.

The Celebration

In the lower Fillmore District the crowd was already gathering. Over 500 students were seated on portable plastic chairs just beyond the infield between second and third base. This kept them off the still damp grass of the baseball field. Overtaxed custodians had worked through the night setting up the chairs, which were cashiered from schools around the city. Another hundred or more parents and community folk, a few standing but most seating patiently, awaited the morning’s events on still more chairs procured at the last possible moment. On a metal riser erected for the celebration, located approximately where the pitcher’s mound was found, the day’s dignitaries, all dressed stylishly, were seated, less than patiently, waiting for the cue to start the celebration. All but three elected officials that is…

The Mayor, compulsive by nature, was constantly walking about the riser pressing the flesh of all within the reach of his lanky arms and passionate handshake. The man was always in motion, unwavering in his excessive need to campaign regardless of time or place. Politics was his life, and most agreed he was good at it. Somehow he found a tenable ethical balance between a little-off-the-books kickbacks, or what some referred to as rather innocent corruption, while at the time conducting the people’s business in an efficient, if not in a generally cost-effective manner. At least that was what his supporters claimed. His face, as always, was nicely tanned, this time from a recent business trek to Acapulco on the city’s dime to drum up trade with the locals.

Nearby was the Superintendent of Schools who was, as was his way, sitting ramrod straight with one ear cocked to the ground to catch the latest rumor, whisper, or gossip about the schools, and any comments concerning the superb job he believed he was doing. If you weren’t sure about this last point, one had to only ask him. Though a shy man, he was not opposed to tooting his own horn. He was scrupulously honest. No dollar was wasted. No scandal attended his administration. He was also a cautious man who weighed each decision with the preciseness of a fine watch.

Adjacent to the Superintendent was the school board President, a devotee of pomade by the pound. His hair was, as always, slicked back, smooth and shapeless, a sort of miniature runway waiting for planes that never quite arrived. For some, his hairstyle suggested the way he ran the Board, smoothly without a hair out of place. Today, however, as he looked out at the assembled folks, he had a satisfied look to his countenance, which hinted at pride and accomplishment for which he was willing to take full credit.

For these three, all products of personal ambitions and the periodic need to stand for reelection, it was nice to see such a large turnout and, hopefully, the media to cover the day’s events. Though they would never state it publicly, one thought ran through their collective mentality: so many people, so many possible votes come election time.

Also on the riser was an older man in a wheel chair. Unlike the others, he was unelected. He was a guest of honor, a former Marine with lifeless legs, which were covered by a lovely quilt fashioned in patriotic colors and festooned with a large American eagle. He wore a light sports jacket, tan in color, and beneath the quilt brown slacks clung to his waist before draping downward, only to be tied in a bunch. Sitting on his immediate right was a tall, handsome young man with strong, deeply blue eyes, who kept a vigilant, but compassionate watch on his wheel chair-bound charge. Where others wore tweed sports coats and stripped suits just off the Brooks Brothers racks, he donned a CAL jacket emphasizing his temporary role in life as an EVENTS STAFF employee of the university.

Sitting somewhat nervously on the immediate left was a rather attractive woman approaching the outer limits of middle age. She was dressed professionally, which meant modestly for an assembly of students and parents: a dark, wool dress, fashionable black boots, and a short coat, again black in color. She was the new principal of the school hosting the day’s celebration. In her lap, which she glanced at frequently, she held a 3 X 5 card with her prepared words carefully written down. What she had to say was important. She was prepared to do a good job. She needed to do a good job.

For these people, all part of an incessant struggle during the past year to build and name a new school, it was rewarding to finally have this day.

Gazing at all this was the electronic eye of the KRON television camera as well as other stations. They were here to mark and record the culmination of a remarkable story and the beginning of a school venture emphasizing pluralism and idealism in public education. Through the magic of television news there was a wonderful human-interest story here. The print folks were present too with their notebooks and off-brand ballpoints. Tomorrow’s Chronicle and Examiner would banner the story, and, along with appropriate editorials and commentaries, retell the dramatic events leading to this day. It was a good day to be in the news business. It was nice to have a story with a happy ending for once. Even jaded reporters enjoyed a respite from the daily carnage afflicting the city and providing testimony to tragic human events. For once, assuming the city enjoyed a crime-free day, the old adage, if it bleed, it leads, might take a day off. But that, of course, was a mighty big assumption.

Lingering in the crowd toward the back and eschewing sitting down was a couple best described as in the twilight zone between middle age and senior status, between membership in the auto club and newly minted Medicare enrollees. They looked like a couple who had spent years together by dress (conservative) and demeanor (quiet alertness), and in the way they frequently finished each other’s sentences. And, of course, it was true. Forty or more years of marriage does have that effect. By standing they could see all, and what was about to take place was important to them. They didn’t want to miss out on any of it.

Robert, when will they begin?

Patience, my dear Lynn. Remember, this is a city function. Time stands still until…

Just at that moment, the Mayor went to the podium and asked all in attendance to join him in the Pledge of Allegiance, which the students knew by heart, and the parents tried to remember. Following this, the Mayor said a few appropriate words ending with, What a great occasion this is for our city. Polite applause greeted his few words.

Next the Board President added words of welcome including an oft-quoted line during the next few days: We believe in this experiment. Students fully participated in naming our new school and its five major buildings. It paves the way to a better future for all our community. Even politer applause greeted his utterance.

The Superintendent reaffirmed what had been said earlier, remarking that the road has been hard and difficult, but here we are at last. He then said, At this time I would like to introduce your new principal, Miss Rachel Samuels. The applause was sharper and longer. Of course, it was difficult to discern for whom the clapped hands were clapping for, the Superintendent or the new principal.

Robert, our moment. Our daughter…

No, Lynn. Her moment…

The principal, still somewhat anxious, checked her note cards one last time and then, after placing them aside, spoke in a surprisingly calm manner, even to herself.

My name is Miss Samuels and, just as you are the first class in this school, I am the first principal. I take great pride in this dedication ceremony. It is an honor to say that today School Site 1776 will officially opens its door to 521 students as Freedom High School.

In response to this the new student body rose and applauded, whistled, hooted, and yelled for a full minute. The students, it appeared, needed to stretch their legs. A moment later the new principal continued.

This incoming class represents the diversity and pluralistic makeup of San Francisco, as do the buildings in which students will pursue academic achievement and a high standard of ethical behavior. History walks with you in these buildings. For those majoring in literature, Building A, now named after Martin Luther King, invites you to harness the magic of language, and to soar, as did Reverend King, in creating a better world based on merit, not one’s racial or ethnic background. For the mathematics and computer-focused students, Building B is named for Cesar Chavez and offers you a home in which to advance your studies just as he tried to advance the hopes of migrant workers toiling in our agricultural fields.

Robert, she’s so eloquent.

She is, isn’t she?

Building C, bedecked with microscopes and telescopes, awaits those who would peer deeply into the hidden world of the atom, while others stretch their imagination to explore the heavens above. Fittingly, the world of science will honor in name and action Dr. Sun Yat-Sen, who studied medicine and sought to create a modern China free of foreign domination. The baseball field where we sit today and the almost completed gymnasium will recognize a native citizen, Joe DiMaggio, who swung for distant fences in the pursuit of excellence in athletics. For our future teams we will always seek the same effort.

She’s coming to the last building.

At last, Lynn…

And for those of you prepping for a future legal career or a place in government to do the work of the people, we offer you Building D, which proudly reminds us of the price of liberty and the meaning of freedom within our starry understanding of active citizenship. The name of Iva Toguri will honor and adorn this hall.

She did it, Robert.

Almost.

"I would be remiss if I did not introduce one other person, Mr. Michael Simms, the man known to many of you as the Warrior."

Michael Simms and Tokyo Rose

Slowly Michael Simms propelled himself across the riser toward the principal. Unbelievably, the attending students and others were hushed. Not a sound was heard except for the scraping of the wheel chair. The principal handed him a microphone. Without any preamble, he began.

Many years ago I dropped out of high school during my senior year. I was not yet eighteen. I lied about my age and enlisted in the Marine Corps. I was young and immortal and I wanted to avenge Pearl Harbor. In 1943 I waded through blood-streaked coral waters at a hellish place called Tarawa. Bullets cut me down before I ever reached the beach and only the bravery and skill of a medic saved my life. I came home with lifeless legs and spent months in a VA hospital. I was eighteen years old, and my life, I thought, was over. Truly, I wished I had died in the Pacific. I was angry. I withdrew into myself. I rejected the affection and assistance of others. Self-pity devoured me.

Michael Simms hesitated. His voice cracked, even as his chest heaved. His whole body, mind, and soul, it seemed, strained to continue, but continue he did.

"Last year I heard that Iva Toguri, whom I remembered as the traitor, Tokyo Rose, might have this school named after her. I could not bear this. I tried to stop this from happening, sometimes not too wisely, or legally. Eventually, as new information about Mrs. Toguri emerged due to the research of a reporter for the Chronicle, Mr. Robert Samuels, I was forced to reassess my view. It was slowly apparent to me that Mrs. Toguri did not broadcast propaganda during World War II, that she was not a traitor, that she should not have been imprisoned, that a pardon was rightfully forthcoming, and, that I was wrong. Yet, until I met her at a board meeting last year, I still harbored painful memories and a cold heart. What she said to me has been recorded and, if you will bear with me, I will quote her, for what she said changed my life."

46499.png

Mr. Simms, we have each suffered incalculable loss. You, rifle in hand, lost your legs defending America on a lonely beach. I lost my family and freedom defending our country behind a microphone at Radio Tokyo. Each of us was transformed by Pearl Harbor. For you, the attack required a call to duty. At the opposite end of the world, I was stranded in the heart of the enemy where I, too, answered the call to the extent I could. You challenged the foe from outside. I did so from the inside. And each of us paid a high price for our willingness to defend America.

46499.png

Her words, Michael Simms reminded the students in particular, "were almost poetic in nature. They were certainly, for me, a painful reminder of a mystical bond that existed between us, between a once youthful woman and an under-aged Marine. She went on to say:

You answered America’s call during a desperate time against a foe who seemed truly alien to you, and it is understandable that my name and face could only remind you of the past. Simms, an Irish name, and Toguri, obviously Japanese, two names, two cultures, two languages, yet each connected by their undying love of this country, and again, we each paid so dearly for this love. If I could, I would give you back your legs. If you could, you would, I believe, give back to me my dead infant son and my estranged husband, and my family that was so unfairly forced into a relocation camp during the war. And not to mention the eight years I spent in jail on the basis of perjured testimony.

But we cannot undo the past. We are bound together, I think, by a human tragedy. Michael Simms, I ask you to forgive me for the transgressions you attribute to me. I want you to remember me as a person who made mistakes but never uttered a word against our country. I remained loyal to America during the war.

"As Mrs. Toguri spoke, I knew she was right. I could feel her pain, yet my own suffering still hardened me against her words until she said with heartfelt conviction:"

Michael Simms, you can either sit in a room, as you do now and feel sorry for yourself, or you can go outside and look ahead. I have always tried to look ahead. I have tried to forget the past. I believe in what I did. I tried to sabotage the enemy’s propaganda. I have no regrets for doing that. You did what you could do. You should have no regrets. I don’t hate anyone for what happened. You shouldn’t hate anyone either. It’s time for us to make peace.

Mrs. Toguri was right. It was time to stop hating. It’s time for all of us, to stop hating. It was time to make peace with our demons. And this I have tried to do. And I remind you, the new students, as you walk through the building named after her, remember a woman, now recently pardoned by President Ford, as a person who was never a traitor. She was a tiger who never changed her stripes. She was always loyal to our country.

With that, Michael Simms stopped. Seconds passed… Then the quiet was broken by long minutes of uninterrupted applause as those in the crowd, many with tearful eyes, all captured by the humanity of the moment, broke out in a sustained rendition of God Bless America. Finally, as the song’s last words drifted away, an emotionally spent gathering returned to its seats to hear the principal’s final words.

"You should know that the Board of Education has offered Mr. Simms a job at Freedom High. He will work in the library. You should also note that your student council has adopted a motto for our school recalling Mr. Simms’ last words before the Board a year ago to this day: ‘It’s time to move on.’"

Again, there was applause, spirited and heartfelt.

I ask you to stand now and applaud not just your new school, but those who will walk with you while you attend Freedom High, those who in the past contributed so much in the progressive march of humanity. Upon their shoulders you will seek your education always sheltered by the trials and tribulations of their day, even as you deal with future challenges in your own lives, challenges which begin in thirty minutes when instruction commences.

And, as the principal had requested, applause rang once more. The audience, young and old alike, stood, applauded, and again whistled and howled, and generally voiced and gestured their delight at the dedication of the new school. It was a moment to be remembered.

In time, the dignitaries departed and the parents returned to home or work, and, with quiet, but labored efficiency, the custodians folded and collected the portable chairs for transport, while others picked up assorted items from the still damp grass. The baseball diamond would be left pristine.

Two people did, however, linger.

Robert, this was a day never to be forgotten.

I couldn’t have said it better, Lynn.

Our Rachel was wonderful.

Spoken like a proud parent.

Too bad Rachel has to work today. It would be nice to go out.

She is the principal, Lynn.

Duty calls?

Right.

The Mysterious Woman

Even as they spoke, endearingly and happily about their daughter, fate squeezed into their lives, changing forever the day’s opening day celebration.

An older woman approached them. She was in her late-60’s or more, though those things are difficult to judge. She wore a long, dark brown coat that totally encased her, leaving only her black, rather modest and prudent low-heeled shoes showing. Unlike many women today, she wore both patent leather gloves and a black hat resembling a cup cake for the lack of a better image. Her sensible wardrobe was fit for a cold day. She walked straight toward the obviously happy parents, her eyes intently focused on them.

Mr. Samuels? Mr. Robert Samuels?

Do I know you?

"The reporter for the Chronicle, are you not?"

Robert Samuels really didn’t want to admit to his professional calling. Today of all days he just wanted to be a happy dad enjoying his daughter’s grand moment, and free of a news deadline. He just wanted to have lunch with his wife at the Golden Valley, a local Chinese restaurant they often frequented. He didn’t want any complications. Still, he had been a Boy Scout. It was difficult for him to lie, even to lightly fabricate. And he was also, if the moment called for it, capable of being gallant. That he had a nose for a story was a reality he quietly bore with a mixture of joy and dread. That said, he had to acknowledge the woman

Yes, I work for the paper, he said.

Heaving a sigh of relief, the woman said, Thank God, I wasn’t sure I would find you in this crowd today."

Aware of her husband’s discomfort and with her stomach churning for heated egg rolls, Lynn said, Perhaps Robert might speak with you later. Would tomorrow be okay?

Yes. I’ll be in the city for another day, perhaps longer.

Well then, Samuels said.

But, if I could speak with you beforehand, I would be most grateful.

I’m afraid…

Today, now, please.

You don’t understand. My wife and I…

Mr. Samuels, I’m an old woman and I’ve traveled a long way to see you. I need to speak with you. I must speak with you.

A long way, you say?

Ohio.

Lynn caught it first. A certain frantic edge to the woman’s voice, a quiet desperation bubbling just