Ret. Maj. Arnold Kohn finally tells his story of the secret POW camp that changed the world.

Ret. Maj. Arnold Kohn, a former intelligence officer who helped keep so many critical national secrets hidden for so long, would just as soon keep things quiet now. While soldiers of his era have enjoyed waves of ceremonies, Kohn, who lives in Pacific Grove, has seen no such honor. He doesn’t seem to mind. As he tells his story, he says that he’d prefer not to be identified. “Can you just call me your ‘source?’ ” he asks.

The secrets he guarded for more than half a century tie into some of the most momentous events in recent US history: the end of World War II, the major maneuvers of the Cold War, and the success of the NASA space program.

Only recently were the government documents describing the secret POW camp where he worked near the tail end of World War II declassified. And only recently, nearing the end of his life, did he decide to share what he had locked in his mind with people outside his trusted inner circle.

Kohn doesn’t focus much on the fact that he was an important figure in one of the most important intelligence operations the country has known, that he helped win a race against the Russians to capture and then recruit the top scientists in Germany, or that he played a role in transforming Nazi scientists into key contributors to American society. Nor does he dwell on the fact that his experience gives him a rare perspective on the current national debate about the treatment of captured enemy combatants. Kohn prefers to focus on life’s humorous ironies, in his own irreverent way.

Kohn has written a three-volume personal memoir (unpublished) describing his remarkable life and military career. Even here, he doesn’t seek to define a decisive record of what he has experienced. His purpose, instead, seems to have been to entertain his wife of 60 years, Helen, who once held her own top-secret clearance at the POW camp: “As long as Helen was laughing,” he says, “I kept writing.”

He writes in the epilogue: “Several times during the period in which I was writing these words I would find myself questioning my reasons for doing so… Do I expect, or really want, anyone to read this? I am not sure that I really do. If they did they might miss the joke.”

Sitting on the couch in his Asilomar home, he is surrounded by cultural artifacts from the diverse posts where the Army stationed Helen and him. The kitchen is a wood-paneled transplant from Bavaria; the Shoji-styled sliding doors leading to the bedrooms were inspired by their time on Okinawa; and a set of elegant carved-wood chess figurines are the work of a noted German craftsman. Kohn patiently blinks his eyes – one blind and a stunning cloud of silver and blue, the other clear and penetrating – and downplays the significance of what took place during the final throes of the last World War.

“I have a bias about certain things,” he says. “One is flag waving. The other is so-called ‘heroes.’ In combat, I would have sat on anyone who thought he was going to be a hero – he gets people killed.”

Kohn, who turned 90 this summer, speaks in a steady tone that reflects his desire to interpret events as he has always seen them: as no big deal – just him doing his job.