A POW of the Germans… and the Russians

Sgt. Kenneth J. Bergin, 14 Platoon, Charlie Company, Regina Rifle Regiment - at the time these experiences took place

It may be best to start this story with a little humor because it becomes very serious and very grim.

14 Platoon, Charlie Company arrived in Cliete, Belgium, on 5 October 1944, at about 1500 hours and occupied a farmhouse on the outskirts, which in turn was occupied by the owners, a young middle-aged couple. The wife was in the house and the husband was somewhere in the fields.

Under the able command of Lt. Jimmy Cameron, 14 Platoon settled in and the troops were given permission to use the summer kitchen to relax and take advantage of bottles they had acquired in previous actions. Being very friendly troops, they invited the lady of the house to join them; she adamantly refused. When the husband came home that evening, he was extended the same invitation; he also refused.

Meanwhile, Lt. Cameron and I were in a front room pouring over maps and plans for the coming attack on the Leopold Canal which was to take place in the morning, when our runner came in and asked if either one of us wanted to sleep with the wife. Dumbfounded, we looked at each other, and I can still see Jimmy turning beet red from the collar up, I guess he saw the same on me. We went to the back of the house to find out what this was all about and while questioning them we discovered that whenever the Germans occupied their home they insisted the wife sleep with the officers. Well, when we assured them that was not the way of the Canadian Army they relaxed, sat down with the guys and proceeded to get drunk. The fellows later tucked them into their bed and we marched off to the Leopold.

Now comes the serious and grim part.

Battle assignments

For this coming operation Lt. Cameron was ordered LOB (left out of battle) and it fell upon me to lead the platoon across the canal. The early morning hours were very dark and cold, but the weather was of little concern as our thoughts were on the job ahead. We eventually arrived at the canal and were assigned boats for the crossing. When the time came, we crossed in pretty good shape even though we were under mortar, machine gun and small arms fire. On reaching the north side, we spread out along our side of the embankment (the water side).

Major Gass, as Charlie Company CO, had preceded us and was entrenched on the top of the embankment with his HQ. The order of advance for the morning was 15 Platoon left, 14 Platoon center and 13 Platoon right. By that time, hell had broken loose with heavy enemy machine gun fire raking the top of the embankment and as well as coming from our right rear. This led me to believe there were Jerries to our right and behind us, on our side of the canal. This caused heavy casualties amongst our men, as there was absolutely no cover on our side of the embankment. I ordered an advance and led the platoon over the top, but the enemy fire was so heavy that those not killed or wounded had to reverse their attack and regroup. I managed to reach and drop in on Major Gass and, after a short briefing, I returned to the platoon position to rally the few remaining men for another attempt to cross the embankment. Before we could proceed, Major Gass’s runner reached me with orders to return to the Major’s position. Just as he finished uttering these orders, a burst of machine gun bullets struck him, killing him instantly. I ran and crawled back to Major Gass’s trench but by the time I got there, he and the men with him had been killed. I scrambled back once again to gather what was left of 14 Platoon. Rfln. Raymond Graves and three or four others went over the top, Graves was on my immediate left and he was killed immediately. I angled off to the right and landed in a trench containing Lt. Black and four other members of 13 Platoon.

About mid-afternoon, the Jerries got within range of our trench and lobbed in a couple of potato mashers (hand grenades). Two of us grabbed a grenade for the return trip, but before we could get them clear, they exploded in our hands, wounding five of the six of us including Lt. Black. The next thing we knew, there were several Germans standing above us pointing their schmizers at our heads, shouting in German, “hands up” and “come out.” There was nothing more we could do; we complied. I still don’t know why they spared us; it would have been so easy for them to wipe us out there and then. Everything seemingly had suddenly become quiet, no resistance on our right or left, leading me to believe we had lost our entire company.

So begins my experience as a POW of the Germans.

Captivity

The officer in charge of our German captors could speak English and after a cursory search for weapons, he permitted us to bandage each other’s wounds. As we were doing this, we were located on the dry side of the canal. He asked who was in charge of our group and since Lt. Black was practically out on his feet, I confessed to having the honor. He then surprised me by saying he would have his men escort us back to our boats so we could cross the canal and rejoin our own troops… if I would guarantee the safe return of his men.

Needless to say, I quickly accepted his proposition and gave him my solemn promise that no harm would come to them. Off we marched with high hopes — which didn’t last very long. As we approached the point where I thought the boats would be, the two Germans assigned to escort us apparently changed their minds, wheeled us north and marched us to a group of buildings a half mile or so from the canal. There, Lt. Black and I were separated from the other four and placed in a little brick shed under guard. Our hopes were rekindled as our guard began to tell us that he was a Polish conscript and Hitler was a SOB. We began to plan an after-dark escape back to the canal with him in tow. I think he was about convinced to go, but just as night fell other Germans hauled us out and again, dashed our hopes to the ground.

We joined the other four men of 13 Platoon and the Germans ordered us to carry their stretcher cases. Due to our wounds, there were four men to a stretcher. Lt. Black and I were on the rear of one and as we stumbled along in the dark we soon came to a flooded area, walking over wooden catwalks. As I mentioned before, we had not been searched very thoroughly, consequently, Lt. Black and I still had our platoon books, maps and aerial photos of the area under our jackets. We dumped the wounded Jerry into the drink and in the confusion that followed as he was screaming and hollering along with the guards, and threatening to shoot us as we jumped into the water to fish out the Jerry, we managed to stuff the papers under the catwalk without the guards knowing. We came damn close to being shot.

We retrieved the wounded Jerry from the water, placed him back on the stretcher and eventually dropped him off at an aid station. Even though we were exhausted from our labors and suffering from our wounds, the Germans did not give us any medical aid, instead they marched us throughout the night. About dawn we arrived at what we thought was a small village, but discovered most of the buildings were concrete structures painted to resemble houses. Our guards placed us in an unoccupied pigpen for safekeeping.

During the course of the day we were taken one by one to the bunker being used as HQ and interrogated. The German officers couldn’t understand how Canadian soldiers could be so dumb — not knowing what the plans were or even who their company commanders were. I surmised that no one gave any more than their name, rank and serial number.

Moved again

That evening, 7 October, we were loaded on a truck and driven into Breskens to a building being used as a hospital. What a sight! There were wounded Germans lying all over the place — and more coming in — I had to wait until midnight for my turn on the table (mess hall tables used for operating). Thank heaven they still had some ether, but it didn’t take much to knock me out. I woke up the following day with my wounds dressed in sulfanilamide powder and paper bandages, surprised to find myself still alive and surrounded by other wounded Canadians. I believe it was about this time that I lost contact with Lt. Black and the others from Charlie Company. After recuperating for a couple of days, I was moved with several other Canadians from different regiments, from Breskens to Middelburg on the Isle of Walchuren.

While in the hospital in Middelburg, we came in contact with members of the Dutch underground who said they would try to arrange our escape. Unfortunately, we were moved again, this time by barge to Gouda, Holland. The underground did manage to radio out information about our predicament, which was picked up in Boston and relayed to my family in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, voiding the “Missing In Action” notice, for the time being anyway. I think the Germans were keeping us a jump ahead of the advancing troops.

After a stay in Gouda we boarded a train loaded with wounded Germans. Our destination was unknown, but we correctly guessed it would be somewhere in Germany. During the journey, the train stopped several times and was evacuated due to strafing by Allied planes. Boy, the Jerries got real mad at us because of it, too! We finally got through in one piece to a place called Fallingbostel, Germany, where we detrained and marched to Stalag XI B. This camp was a conglomeration of French, British, Belgian, Dutch, Russian and Canadian, although not many Canadians. The camp was so huge that I only saw a small part of it.

About 6 or 7 November, orders were issued for NCOs to prepare for a move the following morning. Preparation meant figuring out a way to steal one of the two blankets we had been issued on arrival. At great risk, some of us folded and wrapped a blanket around our waist underneath our jacket (we didn’t think we could get away with both blankets). On the march out of camp, we managed to pass the search without detection and again, with the destination unknown, we were marched to the railroad and jammed into boxcars in such numbers it was standing room only. We eventually devised a system whereby we could take turns sitting and resting awhile. The journey was about three days and nights and took us through many bomb-blasted German towns and cities including Berlin and Frankfurt — this made us feel a hellava lot better. Finally the train stopped and we were ordered to detrain, line up and march.

Life at Stalag VIIIC

We arrived at Stalag VIIIC outside of Sagan, Upper Silesia, which was comprised of different compounds: one for South African whites, one for South African blacks, another for Indians, etc. (These follows had been taken prisoner during the North African campaign.) A high wire fence and barbed wire entanglements separated each compound. As we entered this camp, the Germans divided us into groups and assigned us to different compounds and barracks. Fortunately, I, along with a couple of fellows from the Royal Winnipeg Rifles and a couple from the Canadian Scots, were turned over to the South African whites — what a great bunch of guys. They took us under their wing and tried to make our miserable lives a little more bearable.

Since the day I was captured, 6 Oct (actually some days before), I had not been able to remove my uniform, except for my boots and jacket occasionally. Even in the hospitals, we lived in our uniforms and needless to say we were getting pretty raunchy. It was around 12 Nov and we finally had an opportunity to shower and clean up a bit and live like kings. Our beds were stalled wooden bunks with a thin straw pilaster and two blankets. Meals consisted of very watery turnip soup and a boiled potato a couple of times a week, a daily piece of black sawdust bread and, oh yes, don’t forget the sauerkraut — so rotten it was barely edible. About once every two weeks, if transport was available, Red Cross parcels would be issued — about eight pounds each — and one parcel was divided between six men.

After leaving the hospitals our medical treatment was nil and our wounds were not healing. My right hand and arm were very badly swollen; my hand approached the size of a little football, the leg wasn’t much better. When we settled into Stalag VIIIC there was a building set aside as a hospital and I came under the care of a French doctor. All he could do was clean the wounds and reapply the sulfanilamide powder and paper bandages, but even with this minimal treatment there was an improvement.

The Jerries kept the fellows occupied with numerous roll calls, having us stand out in the cold for hours at a time and forming work parties for outside the camp. Commissioned officers and NCOs were not required to work, but they could volunteer. Prior to our arrival, some of the guys had acquired enough parts to assemble a radio they kept hidden and brought out at news time. To a degree, this kept us informed as to what was happening on the Western and Eastern fronts. As we were in Upper Silesia (southeastern Germany), we were most interested in the Eastern front. Not being familiar with the countryside or the location of towns, we were not sure where the Russians were located or how fast they were approaching — until one day the Jerries ordered everyone out for a medical inspection to determine who was fit enough for a march. I was the only Canadian, that I was aware of, who was classified as unfit.

Freedom?

The following day, approximately 12 Feb 45 the whole camp was lined up and marched off back into Germany, leaving me and about 50 or 60 others behind to fend for ourselves. We broke into the Red Cross stores and took what the Jerries had left, which was just enough to provide each man with one Indian Red Cross parcel — not so good for a hungry Canadian, I got very sick.

About 14 Feb, the camp was overrun by the Russians. What an army: men, women and children bundled up in their quilted uniforms. I’d swear some were so small that the butt of the automatic weapons they carried dragged on the ground, while the muzzles extended above their heads.

Initially we were glad to see them, but they hadn’t been there very long before the Germans started shelling the hell out of the camp. The prisoners who were left behind, including me, took refuge in the hospital building. The Russian commander promised to have transport come in and take us out, but after surviving the fighting and shelling all around us for the next couple of days, we lost faith in the Russkies promise and decided we had enough. A fellow from the British army and one from the South African army (who could understand German quite well) and myself, planned to break out on our own.

Escape

On Sunday morning, 17 Feb, the three of us gathered what little food we could, some medical supplies and I was lucky enough to find a greatcoat. With these meager possessions we went out through a hole in the fence with the intention of heading south to Austria or Czechoslovakia, but in order to avoid most of the action, we found ourselves dodging east and southeast.

On the evening of the first day of what we thought was our freedom, we arrived at a village and identified ourselves to the Russians and made them understand we were going to stay there for the night. They were good enough to point out a certain house we could stay in, explaining that the rest had too many bodies in them. No sooner had we occupied the place, they selected the house for a first aid station (and they were busy that night). As we departed in the morning, we discovered that the soldiers who had died from their wounds during the night had been piled like cordwood in the backyard. Without saying goodbye, we took off.

We avoided trouble all that day and arrived in Sprotteau for the night. After inspecting several houses, we finally found one that was not occupied by dead German soldiers and civilians.

The next day we came across a pile of abandoned and wrecked bicycles. With a little hard work and ingenuity, we managed to assemble three usable bikes. Thinking we had really accomplished something, we went whistling and pedaling down the road. After riding a few hours we stopped at a farmhouse, parked the bikes by the door and went inside hoping to scrounge some food. Upon leaving the house, much to our dismay and chagrin, we saw three Russkies pedaling furiously down the road on our bikes. That was the end of that, and our faith in the Russians quickly diminished.

Our next stop was Waltersdorf on 20 February and we continued on to Lubin, where we came across a couple of Russian officers sitting at a table on a street corner. They insisted we join them for lunch consisting of a big, fat piece of pork, a loaf of black bread, a couple of bottles of spirits (similar to vodka) and a jug of water. First, we had to check out the spirits with a toast to the armies and all the Lend Lease equipment that was going by. To teach us how to drink in their style, they poured the spirits in one glass, water in another and, holding one in each hand, they had us take a drink of alcohol — which burned our lips as it approached our mouth — then a quick slug of water to put the fire out. Well, after feasting on the fat pork, black bread and alcohol, you know what the results were — I was as sick as a dog for a couple of days.

After leaving these two, we were stopped by some officers who insisted we change our course and go in the direction they pointed out. We did, until we got out of sight; then reverted to our original line of travel. We found out why they were so insistent: just outside of town was a field absolutely littered with civilian bodies, so many that instead of walking around them, we picked our way through them.

Russian captors

Soon after, Russian soldiers approached us and stuck their guns in our ribs and marched us into town and locked us in a house. They provided us a meal and it was certainly welcome. So, we found ourselves prisoners again but in the morning we discovered the door unlocked and found a way to do a disappearing act — albeit not for long. Late that afternoon on 22 February, Russian troops, using their weapons, persuaded us to accompany them to a town called Stroppen, where were locked in a room along with two Polish men and women (civilians) that the Russians had previously stashed there. Early that evening two big, burly Russians in their quilted uniforms, fur hats and guns came into the room and began arguing with the Poles, who then turned to us for support, telling us the Russians wanted to take the two women out for the night. We joined the protest, so the Russkies turned on us; they were very angry and threatened to shoot us. Then they took off their hats, jumped up and down on them for a while, calmed down and gave us a lecture on Russian culture before they left — without the women.

We were held there for two days before we escaped in a pouring rain, but our freedom didn’t seem to last very long. Later that day we were taken into custody and moved to a place we called Olesno, the location of Crown Prince Wilhelm’s palace. This became our jail for the next nine days.

All the towns and villages that the Russians captured were systematically looted. Anything and everything was loaded on Lend Lease trucks and carted back to Russia and the Prince’s palace was not spared. Front line troops depended largely on long, narrow, horse-drawn wagons for their ammo and supplies.

When we arrived at the palace, we found a number of people of different nationalities already imprisoned there. As days passed, others arrived; apparently the Russians were rounding up all the prisoners who were trying to escape and wandering around. Food consisted of a bowl of so-called barley soup and a very small ration of black bread. There were no sleeping accommodations provided, just your uniform and the hard wooden floor. Because of these conditions, the three of us decided to get out and try to scrounge some bedding and whatever food we could.

When the opportunity came, away we went. We came upon a row of houses adjacent to the estate and we each selected a house to search. I entered the yard, and lo and behold, found a live chicken. I followed, or rather, chased that chicken to the backyard where it ducked into a little shed. By the time I got there, the chicken had escaped through a hole in the rear.

Poland

The night of 5 March, the Russians loaded everyone aboard trucks (by this time they had corralled a couple of hundred of us) and away we went through the dark, ending up on the evening of 7 March in Katowice, Poland, where we were assigned the upper floors of an old school. When we entered, we noticed a group of battered and beaten men and women on the ground floor. We were ordered not to mingle or fraternize with these people, but like any good soldier, we disobeyed and went below to hear some of the saddest horror stories you could imagine.

These were Jewish Europeans who had been confined to Auschwitz concentration camp, a short distance southwest of Krakow. The Russians had liberated Auschwitz and were holding them there with the promise of shipping them home, but not giving them any specific time when this might occur. Their heads were shaved, their noses, jaws, arms or legs had been broken and their eyes were blackened; they were starved to skin and bones. Their clothes were anything they could lay their hands on — tattered, torn and dirty. Each one had a number tattooed on their arm and stomach. Even in our hungry, half-sick and uncertain condition, we felt very fortunate in comparison. They did not know what their future was going to be — their faith in Russian promises was waning. They begged us for any writing material we had so they could write a little note home, believing that we would reach civilization long before they would. I managed to get half a dozen notes before the guards realized what was happening and ordered us upstairs. (I mailed these notes when I arrived back in England.)

Train travel to Russia

On Thursday morning, 8 March, the guards took us on a walk to the railroad where the Russkies had a train waiting. We were crowded aboard the train but remained in the railroad yard for two days before leaving on 10 March. Halfway between Katowice and Krakow at about 1400 hours, the drunken Russian operator wrecked the train. Five boxcars immediately behind the one I was in were reduced to kindling, causing eight deaths and seriously injuring 33 others.

Instead of helping the injured prisoners pinned in the wreckage, some of the guards began to loot the dead and injured until we got an officer to stop them by pulling his pistol and threatening to shoot the looters. Finally, the Russians got things back on track and we arrived in Krakow at about 2200 hours. We stopped over on the 11th and left again on the 12th, heading for Lemberg (Lvov). My diary says we arrived there in five days; it would be 1600 hours on 16 March.

Whenever the train stopped on our journey through Poland and Russia, women and old men would gather around the train begging for anything they could get. To raise a little money for food, some of the fellows removed their dirty old underwear and waved them out the door, auctioning them off. Real dirty ones would bring five rubles and some in a little better shape would sell for 10.

I decided to sell my great-coat and had it bid up to 200 rubles. A friend I had made in the boxcar somehow acquired a package of five needles, so as a lark we attempted to sell them. We almost caused a riot amongst the women who began to fight one another over them, but through the bidding, he got five rubles each.

At some of the stops, civilians had produce strung along the tracks for sale. With the money from our sales we bought a loaf of bread but before we could buy boiled eggs or sausage, some Russian soldier picked my pocket. I had neither a coat nor money — and not much food as we were sharing amongst four. Meals during the journey were prepared aboard the train in a big black cauldron and consisted of a little canned horsemeat cooked into boiled barley with the husks left on.

We resumed our journey at 0600 hours on 17 March and on the 18th we found ourselves traveling through what the Russians called “bandit country.” Bandits stopped and boarded the train, subsequently killing one Russian guard and on the 19th, the train was delayed at a bridge over the Bug River; again the guards drove off another bandit attack. Finally, at 1520 hours the train crossed the bridge safely while everyone prayed and crossed their fingers that it wouldn’t collapse. We traveled all day on the 20th and for the first time we were told our destination was 36 hours away: Odessa, Russia. It was a long 36 hours, and we arrived in Odessa the morning of 23 March 1945.

In Odessa we detrained and marched to a building somewhere in the city and were ordered to strip to the skin, bundle our clothes and take them to a steamer for delousing (by this time the lice were as big as ants). As we approached the steamer we were greeted by a young Russian woman, she took our clothes and placed them in the steamer. In the next room we encountered a Russian woman doctor (not so young); after an examination we went to a shower room. From the showers we passed through another woman doctor who fixed up our wounds a bit and then went back to the steamer for our clothes. We were marched off to another building that served as our billets. While there we heard rumors of our departure — it couldn’t come too soon to suit me, but we remained in the billets for two days.

Homeward bound!

Then, on 26 March, we hiked down to the docks and there was the Duchess of Richmond. What a beautiful sight! We boarded but did not sail until the next day. The Duchess was an British ship with a crew and personnel along with great medical teams and some great chefs with special diets for our special needs. That was the first day that we felt free again, no more shot and shell, no more armed guards.

The ship sailed through the Black Sea, arriving in Istanbul, Turkey. We continued on, stopping at Naples, Italy, and Gibraltar. We anchored in Scotland at 1300 hours on 13 April and disembarked at 1630 hours on the 18th — we continued on to Aldershot, arriving there on 19 April.

While in Aldershot, I volunteered for the Army of Occupation, but I was turned down flat and given a choice: the South Pacific or home. I didn’t take long to make a decision — I chose to go home.

Editor’s note: The times, days, dates and places related in this article were taken from notes in a little diary that Ken kept from the time he left Stalag VIIIC until he landed back in England. This story was submitted by William McFarland of Hemet, CA, as a tribute to Ken, who passed away in 2000.