The first evening was a nightmare. The sounds of battle were much closer now. The racket of small arms fire and the shrill voice of incoming artillery shells were all around us. We knew an intense fire fight was now taking place in and around the town. Later in the evening, aircraft began to dive and strafe. The sound of the aircraft's machine guns was comparable to that of ripping canvas. The ground shuddered from the force of exploding bombs and the whine of staining engines punished our ears. We had no way of knowing if these attacking aircraft were Russian or German. We did know that their incessant strafing was chaffing our nerves raw. We could only hope and pray that errant bombs or artillery would not seek us out.

Sometime during the next day a young boy came to the door with a supply of bread for us. I can only assume tht the German lady was responsible and had granted us another kindness. After his brief visit I never saw the boy again. I will remember him for his kindness. He most certainly must have braved gun fire to deliver these morsels. These acts of kindness by the lady and the boy were proof that good does exist in the middle of evil.

At this time I can not remember how long I was confined to that shed. Time has eroded my recollection of that particular fact. It was during one of those forgotten days that someone said they could see Russian soldiers. By peering between the cracks in the wall, Russians were said to be seen advancing across an open field. It was then suggested that a volunteer should go outside and meet the Russian troops. This suggestion did not get very far as we all recalled how the Russians had mistaken us for German troops in the first place. No doubt it would have been foolhardy and suicidal to attempt such a meeting in the heat of that ferocious battle.

It seemed as though time spent in that shed was a lifetime. I am sure others felt the same. The frenzied battle must have been going on for several days, but my memory will not allow me to remember exactly. The pandemonium of the battle had left all of us stunned and shaken, especially since we could not perceive what side was winning. I do remember that the frenzied tempo of the confrontation was beginning to subside. We were soon to learn what the outcome of this conflict was. Up to now we all had been guessing as to what our fate held in store. To a man I am sure we were hoping liberation awaited us just outside of the door. As we waited, alone with our thoughts, the shed door was violently thrown open.

Stepping into the shed was a young German soldier. He appeared to be not much older than a teenage. Despite his apparent youth, his manner was that of a seasoned combatant. His mud-splattered appearance and deadly Schmeisser machine pistol he pointed at us gave evidence of recent combat. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him. As he awaited his next move he suddenly asked us if we would rather be with the Russians or the Germans. Despite a heavy accent, his English was surprisengly good. Of course we informed him that we preferred the Germans. We were confident that if we had chosen the Russians we would have found just how deadly that Schmeisser really was.

Having received the correct answer, the young soldier turned and left the shed. We were now left to contemplate what next was to transpire. We did not have long to reflect on what might happen when the young soldier arrived, accompanied by an officer. We were ordered out into the street and the scene that greeted us was one of utter devastation. The house was pock marked by shell fire and part of the roof was missing. The kindly lady, to whom we owed a great deal, was nowhere to be seen. The spectacle before us was akin to a cheap Hollywood war movie. Trees had been stripped of their bark and foliage and the once smooth street was torn up by shell fire and heavy armor. Marching up the street we came upon a burned out tank of unknown origin. Nearby were the remains of at least one of the occupants. What looked like an arm attached to a severed shoulder lay in the roadway. Scattered about were other indistinguishable body parts. Moving further up the street we observed a trench across the road. This was undoubtedly dug to deter the movement of vehicles, but it was now filled with brackish water and dead German soldiers.

It was here that the column was halted and we were ordered to dig the dead out of the mud and throw the bodies into the waiting truck. I pulled a German officer out of the filthy muck and part of his skull fell off. Brains spilled out onto my feet and I immediately threw up.

We continued this grizzly task most of the day and it had been at least twenty-four hours since we'd had any food or drink. Even the sour black bread or the usual thin, worm-laced soup would have been welcome. Once all of the dead were removed from the putrid ditch we were given a small ration of black bread. These rancid edibles had never tasted so good or were so badly needed. Finally we were lined up along a wooden fence and ordered to march. Where we were headed for this time was anyone's guess. We were being led out of Kustrine on the way to hell. Our guess became reality when we learned that our destination was Stalag III-A, near the city of Luckenwalde. Kustrine to Luckenwalde was a long walk and none of us were prepared for such a prolonged, frigid treck.

Our first night on the road was a preview of what hell is like. We were herded into a plowed field and told to lay down. We had no blankets and most of us were attired in nothing more substantial than standard army issue clothing. Sleep was implossible as we lay huddled in fetel positions in an attempt to keep from freezing. The miserable night finally turned into a cold, crisp dawn. We rose from the frozen furrows like robots and prepared to continue the hellish parade. Once again the lack of food was causing painful constrictions in the stomachs of everyone. With each break in the march we would dig rotten and frozen carrots and potatoes from the nearby fields. These morsels would be the mainstay of our meager menue for the duration of this migrationtion.

The march was not without its interesting moments. Passing an airfield our attention was drawn to a particular blue-black Stuka dive bomber. The lumbering plane started to take to the air and it was obvious that it was in trouble. Wobbling to a height of a few hundred feet, it suddenly pitched nose down. With a resounding crash and a brilliant orange plume, the craft disappeared in the holocaust . It was certain that all of us felt no sympathy for the loss of this aircraft or the occupant.

The march was torturous and POWs were dropping out of the column to lie in agony along the muddy road . Their fate was unknown to me as I wearily trudged onward. On our overnight stop we were quartered in a barn which seemed like the Ritz Hotel in comparison to previous conditions. Some of us scrounged around and found a large kettle and contributed frozen carrots, potatoes, weeds and anything that might be eaten and dumped this garbage into the kettle. The result was a passable soup that some of us were hungry enough to relish. On another occasion a few of us ventured into the farm house where the guards had taken refuge. On the kitchen table was a pitcher of cold milk that we hastily drank. The farm lady was in the kitchen and paid no attention to us. I can only assume that at least one or more decent German had taken pity on us.

After a length of time that my memory refuses to acknowledge, we approached Stalag III-A at Luckenwalde, Germany. For the first time I realized that a great number of POWs had not made the march from Kustrine. Many POWs were missing from our ranks. The march had taken a severe toll. The rest of us covered the many miles from the Oder River to our new place of confinement in a rag tailed group that passed through the gates of III-A.

The barracks here were much larger than we had at III-C, but they were no more comfortable. We were marched to a wash house, sprayed with some sort of powder, then ushered inside the building. The ceiling was lined with shower heads and we were ordered to remove our grimy clothing. I think that all of us suspected that these showers could have been used for more sinister purposes. To our relief these were actual showers that afforded little, if any, comfort to our aching bodies.

Our bunks were the familiar planks covered with a tarp filled with befouled straw. This grubby stuffing was a nesting place for lice and they quickly made us their main course meal. Life in III-A was again a depressing experience and one that would last until the Russian Army came crashing through the gates in April of 1945.

We were to remain in III-A until mid or late April. The Russians made no attempt to contact the American Army regarding this so-called liberation and we were confiend to the camp. In effect we were now prisoners of the Russians. A group of us walked out of III-A one day and began a journey to the American lines on the Elbe River. We were finally liberated by American troops. Our POW days had come to an end. The escape from III-C had been short lived and an exercise in frustration and misery