Up the Gatineau! Article
This article was first published in Up the Gatineau! Volume 22.
Remembrances 1945-1995
Klaus G. Decker
In 1966 I joined the federal government in Ottawa. As part of the conditions of employment I had to obtain the appropriate security clearances. On the Personal History Form that I was required to fill out was a question that puzzled me for a minute or two. It was: “Are you a veteran?” Eventually I answered “yes,” for I had not only seen military service, but had, in fact, seen war action. ‘What the question did not ask, was: “On which side?”
The year was 1944. With several of my classmates I was drafted to the paraofficial but, in reality, full military service of guarding the gasoline works of Poelitz and the V-2 rocket proving grounds of Peenemuende near the city of Stettin on the Baltic Sea, against air attacks by Allied bombers. As the planes flew higher and higher, we soon graduated from the famous but increasingly ineffective “88s” to larger and longer range anti-aircraft guns. Despite the Allies” stranglehold over the German economy, these guns were still state of the art in weapons design. The gun crews were less impressive, consisting of one Master Sergeant who had lost part of one arm on the Eastern front, ten or so of us fifteen year-olds and a couple of Russian prisoners who were supposed (o carry ammunition. Such was the state of German defence human resources in 1944.
The gasoline plant was clearly visible from our battery’s encampment in a nearby sugar beet field. As a result, we could always tell what would happen. When the plant looked like it was nearing full production, we knew we would have visitors. First, there would be a lone reconnaissance plane, usually a Lightning, coming in clear weather during the day at such an altitude that even our 128-mm. guns could not reach it. Shortly thereafter, during the night, the British, in the tight formation used by Bomber Command, would arrive and drop their bomb loads. Invariably, the next day formations of American Flying Fortresses, often too many to count, would came droning in to finish the job.
We tried our best to stop them. We never did. At best we forced them to drop many of their bombs on the surrounding fields. Most of the time, however, enough bombs hit the target to put the plant out of operation for several weeks. The German war effort would have no gasoline from this plant for a while but we, at least, would have peace and quiet during the period of reconstruction. Then the process would start all over again.
While the Allied bombers did their job, we tried to do ours. From time to time we were even quite successful. The more planes we shot down, however, the more seemed to come relentlessly at us.
One night, in the glare of explosions and the “Christmas Trees,” as we called the flares dropped by the bombers to illuminate the target, we saw a couple of parachutes descend practically on top of us. We were elated with yet another hit.
They must have jumped from one of the last waves as the firing soon ceased. A couple of my buddies and I went to take them prisoner. Despite the adrenaline pumping we were pretty scared; after all, they were murderous monsters, weren’t they? When we found them we were stunned: even though they wore impressive flying suits, the two airmen seemed hardly older than we were. Their faces were etched in fear and their eyes wide with shock. They surrendered as though in a trance. Aside from some bruises, they were both uninjured.
Since we had no prison facilities to speak of, we took them to our miserable quarters. Someone called the military police as required. They said they were too busy picking up other prisoners and we should take their names, rank, etc. and keep them with us till someone would come for them next day.
I no longer remember their full names but one of them, I think, was Frank, a Canadian, who came, and this I remember clearly, from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. I remember, because we could not get our tongues around these words and made him write them down and show us on an atlas where it was. We did not sleep much the rest of that night, even though we had spare cots for Frank and his pariner. We shared our lousy bread and tea and their fabulous chocolate and cigarettes and talked, hesitantly at first, but then with more and more openness and a sense of camaraderie. Whatever initial thoughts we had of locking them up had somehow disappeared completely and the only thing we and the airmen dreaded was the arrival of the MPs.
Most of us were eager to practice our English and gradually Frank and his partner came out of their state of shock and told us of their life in the Canadian West. Frank’s crewmate was a farmer’s boy and he described the vast wheatfields around his farm. Frank talked of his younger brothers and sisters and of his life in Saskatoon. He also told us that one of his grandfathers had come from Germany somewhere. He could not remember the place but did know a few words of German.
Then the talk got around to the war. We had been told again and again about the menace the degenerate Western democracies posed to the great Third Reich; they had been told that everyone in Hitler’s Germany was out to enslave the world but that God was on their side and Right would prevail. One of us countered that God was with us and showed them his belt buckle which said just that, “Gott Mit Uns.”
Gradually we began to doubt the infallibility of these slogans and grew reflective with a mixture of fatigue and confusion. The talk stopped and friend and foe drifted into fitful sleep together. No one stood guard. Soon daylight came and we took our new friends to the canteen for the moming ration of ersatz coffee, rye bread and margarine. We even introduced them with embarrassed pride to our Russian prisoners, now fellow gunners. Frank and his partner seemed somewhat confused but, I suspect, they must have realized the state of affairs in the once invincible Wehrmacht.
Shortly before noon a military police truck arrived with three Allied airmen already in it. One was from Frank’s plane and we shared Frank’s joy in finding another one of his buddies alive. We said goodbye, no longer enemies but simply comrades who had shared of themselves during a few hours of darkness. We did not see Frank or the others again.
Less than a year later the war was over. Germany was in ruins and its soul had been laid bare to the world in shame and hopelessness. The postwar years were long, bitter and hard. I had lost my parents, my home, my pride and my selfrespect. There was nothing to keep me in Germany and I needed to make a new start, There were other reasons, but the memory of Frank and that night were also a factor in my decision to emigrate in 1954 to Canada.
Canada could not give me back my parents, but it has restored my belief in myself and mankind. Canada, with tolerance and an open heart, has given me a country to be proud of, to laugh about and to weep for. It has given me a family, opportunity to make something of myself and hope for the future. For this I have many to thank, and Frank is one of them.