June 2012. We are again surrounded by Ritchie Boys. Bob and I sit in the auditorium of the U.S. Navy Memorial Heritage Center in Washington, DC. The men we are here to honor enter the theater and find seats. Many walk with the aid of a cane or leaning on the arm of a friend or relative, but others appear to be as physically spry as their minds are nimble. None of them can be younger than 85, and many are into their 90s. We have all gathered for a three-day symposium titled Camp Ritchie and the Legacy of the Ritchie Boys.
Organized by the National Parks Conservation Association, the event begins, as such occasions usually do, with a color guard presentation and opening remarks. The keynote speaker is younger than most of his audience by probably 40 years. An active colonel in U.S. Army Intelligence, he tells us that the Ritchie Boys were, and still are, “the Gold Standard” for intelligence work because of their integrity, ingenuity, and effectiveness. They “got information in a way that never stained their souls,” the colonel says. He continues, “They had the most important quality of an effective interrogator—empathy—and sympathetic common sense.”
Both before lunch and after the break, we are treated to panels made up of Ritchie Boys who share their experiences both during their training and in Europe during the war. Sy, though born in New York, spoke German at home. He tells of his amazement to hear so many languages spoken in the training camp and his envy of the officers who had Italian POWs who were chefs to cook them fancy meals in the officers’ mess. Max remembers the children’s camp on the other side of the lake from the training center, a camp filled mainly with young girls. Many men in the audience nod and smile at this common memory. Peter, a graduate of the 10th class, says, “Going through France with the Third Army was a joy ride.” Then he tells of his adventure when attached to an infantry company during the assault of Metz. Alfred explains his work with a group who created propaganda leaflets in German to be dropped over enemy-held territory.
The second day, the group loads into a bus. We are off on a field trip to visit Camp Ritchie. For the men it is a nostalgic journey, and for many, it is a chance to show their wives and children a place that was a formative influence. I am thrilled that I will soon set foot on the location where much of Immigrant Soldier takes place. After an hour on the freeway, followed by a pleasant drive into the verdant hills of Maryland, we arrive at the crenelated gates that Herman first walked through in the summer of 1943. It is a powerful experience.
During the tour of the camp, now owned by a development corporation and no longer a military base, the men show their excitement. They stand in the aisles of the bus and point out landmarks to their friends. They discuss the way things used to look—where the mess hall and the barracks stood, and of course, where the young girls’ camp beckoned from across the lake. Some of the World War II era buildings remain—the chapel, the building that resembles a castle, the officers’ club, and a row of classrooms, their windows obscured by layers of dust. I let my imagination fill the rooms with young soldiers, Herman among them. I envision serious students eager to learn what they will need to be able to return to Europe and help defeat their nemesis, Hitler. Bob, who was in the army in Korea, is especially moved as he pictures the buildings and parade grounds filled with the youthful versions of our elderly travel companions. He wanders off for a closer look at the deserted classrooms and returns feeling he has had a glimpse 
into the past. He is pleased to have taken some photos that he thinks will be great.
In the gym of the community center, there are displays, photos, and tables set for us to enjoy a buffet lunch. Bob and I share a table with Santo Asaro, his son, his daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren. The meal turns into a happy, Italian family occasion. Santo, who grew up in upstate New York, tells us that he was an acrobat before joining the army and being sent to Camp Ritchie. His spoken knowledge of the Calabro-Sicilian language was put to use during the invasion of Sicily.
The food is good and filling, we have time to wander around and talk with some new faces, men, like Santo, who have come only for this part of the weekend, and then we climb back into the bus for the return trip to Washington, DC. The day has been busy and emotional. I was a newborn infant when Herman walked the same paths at Camp Ritchie. In 1943, as he contemplated his future as a soldier, he could not have foreseen that someday his story would become a novel.
On the ride home, the bus, which on the way out resounded with conversation, is quiet. Low voices mingle with snores and sleepy sighs. I have seen Camp Ritchie. An
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