A Covert Chapter Opens For Fort Hunt Veterans

But at night, Michel and Mandel maintained an air of mystery with the dance-card girls, snapping back the reply of "P.O. Box 1142, ma'am" when asked where they were stationed, they recalled.

Further explanation was forbidden. The more than 3,400 prisoners who stayed there were off the books, too, partly because operations at Fort Hunt were "not exactly legal" according to the Geneva Conventions, the National Park Service said.

When it all ended, Michel and Mandel went their separate ways, kept apart by the code of silence. They raised families and had long careers, Mandel as a chemist in Bethesda, Michel as a mechanical engineer in Alexandria.

They met again last week at a Fort Hunt they barely recognized. A family reunion was underway nearby, and a moonbounce wiggled under the weight of children as Beach Boy tunes wafted in the air. It was a far cry from their recollections of roaring Jeeps, the German prisoners and high-ranking officers storming by.

They revisited the place of cloaked memories because Bies had found them.

Bies, 27, is a cultural resource specialist with the National Park Service, schooled in archaeology and obsessed with military history. The wide-brimmed Smokey Bear hat and crisp uniform of the park service suit him all right, but he is more comfortable in piles of documents in a National Archives research room than in the hills of Virginia.

He was working on a series of signs that the park service was planning to place throughout Fort Hunt. They would detail the fort's transformation from a picnic area in 1942 into a major military installation with more than 100 buildings, guard towers and a tangle of electric fences.

Bies hopes to create a full archive of oral histories recorded from the interrogators. He envisions a visitors center that would display the stories, declassified reports and photos he has found. He even imagines installing World War II-era speakers like the ones that were planted in prison cells, piping in German conversations that intelligence officers translated and picked apart.

Then, early this year, a woman on a guided tour of Fort Hunt told a park ranger she thought that her neighbor used to work at Fort Hunt, which today is a park managed by the George Washington Memorial Parkway. The ranger passed Michel's name on to Bies, jump-starting a race against time and old age to find the veterans and record their histories.

"A lot them, unfortunately, have passed away," Bies said. "They're very frail, and this is really the last chance that many of them get to tell their stories. One of them even died since we interviewed him."

He and other Park Service rangers have sifted through reams of documents in the National Archives and have come up with a few names. Almost all of the interrogators were Jewish immigrants from Germany; some lost entire families in the Holocaust. They were recruited to P.O. Box 1142 for their language skills and, in the cases of Michel and Mandel, their scientific background. But the full rosters were kept secret, and many of the declassified documents are missing.

Bies tracked down Michel in Kentucky, where he had moved from Alexandria to be near his family because of his failing health. The former interrogator, who had immigrated from Landau, Germany, before the war, was overjoyed to talk about his time at P.O. Box 1142.