With the VE Day commemorations approaching, I opened my father’s war diaries, curious to see his entries from May 1945. In those last few days of the war I found tales of predictable jubilation, unexpected pathos, and deep, needless tragedy. I had planned to spend this week in preparations for Draca’s launch on 14th May, but instead let me share some of Dad’s experiences. His war ended with enough drama to fill a different book.
First, some background. Dad was an artillery Sergeant who fought with the 8th Army in North Africa. One bloody, chaotic night in 1942 his unarmored survey truck stalled in the sand in front of a German tank. They were close enough to hear the turret motors whine as it swung to engage, and for the tank’s shell to pass right through the truck without exploding. Starvation and ill-treatment followed; he wrote of one camp ‘we marched in as soldiers; we crawled out as animals.’ He escaped once, from an Italian camp, was recaptured by the Germans, and faced a firing squad as punishment in a mock execution. In the random lottery of warfare other escapees were less lucky; the experience of burying their brutalised bodies scarred him more than any battle.
From late 1943 he worked in an arbeitskommando, a small labour camp. Their task was to cut a road into the mountainside in the Austrian Tirol. A large chalet they called the ‘Lager’, high on the mountain, became home for 40 or so British NCOs. In comparison to the larger camps, conditions were relatively benign; the local villagers were not hostile, occasional Red Cross food parcels arrived, and their guards seemed content with life remote from senior supervision.
Dad kept a diary throughout his captivity, writing in fine pencil in stolen Italian school exercise books. It is miraculous that they survived; at times Dad buried them in the ground to hide them from searches. My brother painstakingly transcribed them, and recorded hours of Dad’s reminiscences. These too he edited, printed and bound. His efforts preserved Dad’s experiences for future generations.
In the entries below Dad’s words are in italics.
May 1945: Regional capitulation
Wed 2nd May 1945
According to German reports Hitler died yesterday in Berlin and Admiral Dönitz has become Führer. The villagers have been expecting capitulation this week but Dönitz says they will fight to the last against Russia. Matrei [the nearest town] is by all accounts crowded with SS troops, Luftwaffe and ack-ack personnel. We shall certainly hear if not see a little gun play.
IT IS OVER. Over the radio this evening has come the amazing news that the whole German army in northern Italy and southern Austria has capitulated … I don’t know anyone who has had more than a couple of hours’ sleep.
Jubilation and feasting, then needless tragedy
The guards left the gates open, and most simply disappeared. The first action of the British prisoners was to break open the food store.
Thurs 3rd May 1945
Almost everyone up early, bringing everything from [the store] into the house and cooking tremendous breakfasts. I am sure that every single man has at least 3 complete [Red Cross] parcels and we are all living at an amazing and undreamed of standard. Today we have been roaming all over the village and making the most of this new freedom.
[We] were sitting in the canteen when [a villager] suddenly walked in and said that 6 men had been shot by the SS on the Mitteldorf track. I immediately went down there with a fugitive German Sgt Major, half expecting to discover that one or two of our fellows were involved. Instead, however, we saw the most ghastly sight imaginable. Not more than 400 yards below the village an SS Captain had just shot his four young children, his wife, and himself.
The children’s ages ranged from 4 to 11; 3 girls and a boy. All the bodies lay across the path, 3 of the children together, and the Captain, his wife, and the boy side by side some 5 yards away. Every one of them had been shot through the centre of the forehead, yet one of the children had obviously tried to run away for a trail of blood lay some yards along the path, but a loose coloured silk neckerchief was the only sign of a possible restraint.
Whatever his crimes or fears, one cannot visualise the state of mind of this Nazi that led him to such a cold-blooded destruction of his wife and innocent children. There was nothing we could do; even among ourselves we were lost for words. It struck us forcibly that this was not a situation in which [the PoWs] could helpfully become in any way involved, and we gently returned to the Lager.
The last days
The SS man’s family was one tragedy among many thousands as the war drew to an end. The valley below the ‘Lager’ was descending into chaos; by early May 1945 there were rumours of British troops within 40 miles, yet well-armed SS troops choked the roads and villages. They might not have accepted the local capitulation. The last days of the war for Dad would be momentous. I’ll share those entries over the next few days.