Time has eroded my memory and I cannot recall the exact January day I marched out of Stalag III-C. The Russians were fast approaching and the Germans were scrambling to distance themselves from the Red onslaught.

We were all assembled at the main gate in preparation for an ordered evacuation of the camp. Stalag III-C had been my home since late October 1944, and in a way I feels a sense of relief to be on my way out of the place. Life in III-C was boring and the weather was beginning to turn cold, making the days more depressing.

We had no idea where the vast Red Army was, but each day had brought new news of their rapid advance. There was a feeling throughout the camp that perhaps we were to be liberated by the Russians. It was obvious now that the Germans had other ideas and were not going to abandon us.

We were taking our time packing our meager belongings onto makeshift sleds while being prodded by the Germans to move along. It was snowing and the cold was penetrating my standard issue field jacket. I was not prepared for a sustained march in this dreary January weather. I had grown up accustomed to bitter Minnesota winters, but this day felt the coldest of all to me. The angry gray sky seemed to cloak me in its frigid mantle, making my Minnesota roots seem placid by comparison.

Among my scant possessions was a scrap book, of sorts, issued to me by the Red Cross. I treasured this book above all. Even the scraps of black bread, the few cigarettes and the gloves I had found were subordinate to this valued book. I had listed my favorite foods, names and addresses of buddies, poems, descriptions of my POW life and my dreams for the future in this manual. Much of my time was spent in recording trivialities and daily impressions of my woebegone existence in this wretched place. Somehow I knew that what I had written would, some day, be a valuable asset to the past. This book should have been the key to the gaps in my fading memory. I wrack my brain today in a vain effort to recall dates, names and places. That book could have filled in the vanished details that I try desperately to recollect today. It was not to be.

A light snow began to fall as the POWs slowly assembled on the wind-swept road leading away from the camp. The German guards were muttering orders in the language that I never could fully understand. They seemed anxious to leave and their actions expressed this yearning. Several staff cars were already on the way belching blue smoke from the exhaust pipes.

Looking back at the camp I could see many POWs still making their way to the road under the constant prodding of the guards. I surveyed the scene once more by taking in the sight of the dismal barracks and the wire fence topped with rows of barbed wire. The guard towers were empty and stood in silent witness to the mass evacuation taking place. I was glad to be leaving this dreadful site. Standing with the gathering POWs, I also had a sense of fear of the unknown. Where were we going? Why? Were the Russians near? These questions were soon to be answered.

The column began to move slowly down the road. I was perhaps in the middle of the swaying ranks pulling a sled loaded with our paltry possessions. My scrap book was solidly secured under the belongings of my buddies. The cold penetrated the dubious protection of my field jacket and added to the anguish of my existence. Each step was taking me nearer to a fates that I could not fathom. I tried to concentrate on pleasant thoughts. My mind's eye was flashing pictures of my family and home to my brain which was already filled with images of the past. The guards were trudging alongside of the column, occasionally flapping their arms in an attempt to ward off the numbing chill of this wintery day. The muted clank of the marching column and the equipment of the guards were the only sounds other than the whine of the wind. I accepted the cold, not as a friend but as an adversary, determined to predominate my very being.

The silence was broken with what sounded like gun fire. I thought I could hear occasional small arms fire. It appeared to be coming from somewhere ahead of the column. In spite of this, we continued to march on. Now the sound of gun fire was unmistakable. The staccato voice of the machine gun was familiar to me. I was the light machine gun squad leader in the infantry and that sound was lethal. The “whomp” of mortar fire was added to the clatter and these shells began to land in the open field to my right.

Panic immediately set in and the column broke ranks. POWs began streaming from the road into the field where they were subjected to murderous shell fire. I am certain that many men were killed and wounded by this bombardment. Automatic fire continued to rake the column and for a moment I was frozen in my tracks. Instinct took over and I turned and fled back toward the camp. In my desperation to escape the melee unfolding before me I abandoned the sled. Forgotten were the possessions piled on the sled and, worst of all, my cherished scrap book. I miss that record of all my fears, hopes, drams and desires above all else. I would dearly love to see it again and I bemoan the loss of that book almost daily.

Personal safety was now my number one goal. I have never run so hard and fast in my entire life. I ran past stumbling German guards who gave no hint of the super race conception held by so many of their kind. Fear was etched on their faces and equipment and weapons were flung aside in an effort to lighten their retreat. As I ran, it dawned on me that the Russians must have thought the long column of POWs was German troops. We were not waiting to find out.

I ran past a house on my left where several wounded POWs were attempting to enter. I hesitated for a second and considered the thought of trying to get into that sanctuary with them. I did not waste any more time mulling this over and continued running down the road. The sound of exploding mortar shells and small arms fire was now more insistant as I neared the camp. Many POWs had stopped at the camp's gate and were considering going back into the compound. It seems that the rumor was there were air raid shelters there. In all my time in III-C, I did not see air raid shelters, at least not for POWs. I opted to stay outside of the wire with many others. Regular German combat troops were now in evidence and it became obvious that I was in the middle of a pending major battle.

A German officer in combat dress ordered us to form up. He told us, in good English, to move out again or he would have us shot. With that bit of happy tidings, we began to march out once more. We had not proceeded very far when Russian automatic fire found us again. This time we broke ranks and ran toward the town of Kustrine. The German troops did not stop us as they were too busy preparing for their own destiny. We fled past them toward what we thought should be safety and perhaps liberation.

Continuing toward Kustrine, we passed “Panzer Faust” teams digging in along the side of the road. Many of these Germans appeared to be no older than teenagers, with a few of them younger than that. They paid us scant attention as they squatted in their assigned positions. All were grim faced and I am sure oblivious to what seemed to lay in store for them from the approaching Red Army. Leaving them to their fate, we quickened our pace toward Kustrine.

The first thing I noticed upon reaching the town was the absence of people. It was as if the inhabitants were aware of the impending doom that could possibly overtake them. Doors were closed and window shades drawn. These precautions would be slight protection if the Russians came charging through the town.

We were entering the town as if invited, but there was no welcoming committee to greet us. Walking along we examined each house for potential safe keeping. We became despirate in our quest for some place that could offer us cover. We felt that it was just a matter of time until the two armies clashed. None of us wanted to be caught, unarmed and helpless, in the midst of a fire fight.

A particular out building looked as though it could be the refuge we were seeking. It was a small wooden structure located in the rear of a house. There were fifteen or twenty of us, and we managed to squeeze inside much like sardenes in a can. There was no room to sit and barely enough space to allow the battered door to close. It did not take us long to realize what this cubbyhold was not adequate for our immediate needs. We were about to exit this ramshackle chamber when the door was suddenly flung open. An old German civilian stood in the doorway, pointing a bolt action Mouser rifle at us. He was saying something in those guttural phrases which indicated that we should get outside. Once out in the street he uttered a phrase we all understood, “March.”

The old codger was in control and it was evident that he was enjoying his roll as our captor. He was marching us out of town toward a fate that none of us were enthusiastic to experience. As we marched along the grizzled old Nazi was mouthing a cadence. He was acting like a drill sergeant he probably was in World War I.

Moving along, the sound of gun fire reminded us of that we might expect when we vacated the town. The ancient German paid no attention to the sounds of the distant battle and he kept up his meaningless cadence. Sereral of us weighed the idea of jumping the old geezer and getting rid of him. As we were about to put our plan into action, a middle aged lady came out of a house across the street. She shouted something at the wrinkled German that made him stop and point at us. The lady advanced toward him, shouting, and it was obvious that she was scolding him. He appeared to be crestfallen. Throwing up his hands, he began to walk back into the town. Whatever the lady said to him probably saved our lives and at least a fractured skull for the German.

Beckoning us toward the house, the lady led us to a wooden shed in the rear. It looked to me like a tool shed or storage building. It also seemed to be substantial, although considerably weather beaten. The building was quite spacious and several POWs were already inside, also guests of the German lady. The planks, making up the walls, were not butted tightly together and offered a glimpse of the world outside. The interior was dark and various tools and sacks of grain were scattered on the dirt floor. In any case the structure afforded us a reasonably safe place. This building was to be a haven from the fire storm that was soon to engulf us.