I celebrated my
wife’s birthday on April 22, 1945 by crawling out from under a
railroad trestle somewhere in the western part of Germany, and
surrendering to a scout party of the US. Army 45th Infantry
Division. And "surrender" is exactly the word I mean, too.
My companion in the adventure, John Maksymic and I were the
first allied prisoners of war these American troops had encountered
and they were taking no chances. They were all too aware of the kind
of deadly tricks they could encounter from a desperate and resourceful
enemy.
The story of how we got to that railroad trestle began when
Stalag Luft III was evacuated in January, 1945. The group I marched
out with eventually wound up at an abandoned Italian prison camp in
Nuremburg. This camp was a far cry from Stalag Luft III; it had open
bay sheds for barracks, filthy and loaded with bed bugs and every
other kind of vermin known to mankind.
While we were there we had front row seats to some of the most
spectacular sights I have ever seen. For 14 straight days the
Americans bombed during the day and the British bombed at night. From
our vantage point about two miles from the rail yards, we could see it
all, and it was spectacular.
We felt relatively safe because the bomber crews knew where we
were and we also had some concrete slit trenches that had been made
for outdoor latrines but had never been used. Admittedly we were a
little apprehensive during the first American daylight raid through a
thick overcast – we had never hear of radar-controlled bombing.
We had been at Nuremburg about two months when the rumors
started that the Gestapo was going to hold all officer personnel as
hostages to be used to bargain with when the time came from them to
surrender, which everyone knew was not too far off. The rumor got more
believable when we saw some of the men in their long black leather
coats in the vorlager of the camp. Mac and I decided it was time to
go, reasoning that we would rather die trying to escape than to take
our chances with the Gestapo.
We picked a night when the British were bombing because on
these nights all lights were out, including the sweeping searchlights
on the guard towers. On the night of April 1st or
thereabouts we managed to climb over the fences using a piece of
siding from one of the latrines to walk over the coiled barbed wire
between the fences.
It was after about three weeks of walking at night and sleeping
during that day that we arrived at the point under the railroad
trestle. During this 21-day trek we were recaptured once. We walked
right into a German forward scout post. I guess the Germans were as
surprised as we were, and for reasons known only to God, they didn’t
shoot us.
We were being marched back toward the interior by two German
GIs, sleeping in barns at night and stopping for food along the way at
farm houses in the country and at little home cooking cafes in the
villages. It was while we were in one of these little cafes that Mac
and I thought that our time had come. There was a sudden loud
explosion and the building started collapsing around us. Needless to
say, the Germans went one way and Mac and I went the other.
After we got out of the building we ran to a wooded area just
outside of town and from there watched two P-51 Fighters strafe and
destroy the little town with 50 caliber machine guns. The town was a
motor pool and truck depot for the Germans, which they were out to
destroy. And that they did, believe me!! It is only by the Grace of
God that I am alive today. A few nights later we holed up under the
railroad trestle and that was our ticket home.
The American scouting party we surrendered to marched us back
to their headquarters with our hands held high and there we stayed in
the custody of the Military Police while they check out our stories.
In my case they contacted the 303rd Bomb Group in
Molesworth, England who verified that Lt. James H. Fisher, Serial
Number AO753783, a B-17 pilot, had been shot down on April 29, 1944,
was reported captured by the Germans and held at Stalag Luft III. When
Mac’s story checked out too, they treated us royally.
After dining in their field kitchen on pork chops and cherry
cobbler, we were given a little car that had been "field
requisitioned" from a German civilian and were allowed to make
our own way back. We were given directions to a field hospital where
we were given a cursory physical.
While waiting at the hospital, we met two pilots of some kind
of small airplane that could handle short-field landings and takeoffs.
Their job was to pick up and return crew members of downed aircraft.
They took us to Brussels where they had a building with four
apartments all to themselves. They had found the basement stacked with
Seagram's 7-Crown, apparently left when the Germans evacuated. Three
drinks and I passed out. While I was there I also had my first ice
cream in more than a year. After we spent a day sightseeing in
Brussels, they flew us to Paris, where we checked in with the American
Command at Allied Headquarters.
After we received a $300 pay advance and a new outfit of
clothing at the PX, we were allowed two days of sightseeing and
entertainment, including the Follies. Then we proceeded to Camp Lucky
Strike for the boat ride home.
