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War causes changes within those actors who must act in its tragedy. Previous to my part in the Vietnam war, my father and I were distant and sometimes openly hostile towards each other. His viewpoint was one of the paternal figure and mine was one of the revolutionary sibling. This antagonism was probably a product of normal male rivalry and the turmoil of the 1960's that surrounded us. I joined the United States Air Force in 1969 to escape both him and the clashes we would have. While in Vietnam from 1971 to 1972 I was able to experience first hand some of the comedy and the tragedy of war. It was intense in both. I lived the part, and because of it, came back home a different man than I was before. When I returned from the war, I, like most veterans, found it very difficult to talk about it with anyone. It wasn't that I had horrific stories to tell, or that I was particularly embarrassed about what small part I had played in them, it was, rather, that very few people had the basis to understand the dynamics of war. Hence, very few people could share my past reality. That was, until, my Dad and I began to talk to each other again. Of course, I did not know the short time I would have with him after my discharge.
But, looking back, there must have been an inkling about his upcoming death. Dad and I began to have conversations about his war and mine. Out of those conversations and some subsequent research, I have pieced together the defining moment in my Dad's life. I begin with the best recollections I have of a conversation Dad and I had shortly before he died, continue with the story in his own words, and finish with the official government perspective on those events. Part 1 The Capture Dad's story, as he related to me, begins late in the war as the Allied Armies made their push through Nazi Germany. His company was told to take the courtyard in a small German town. The military intelligence about the courtyard was either faulty or nonexistent because when the American Infantry unit arrived, they were confronted with German Armour. According to Dad, they were terribly outnumbered. Regardless of the numbers, Dad and his company fought furiously into the night and eventually found sanctuary in a barn.
According to Dad, his company fought the Germans until they had nothing more to fire at them. What follows, in my own mind, is probably more horrific than the actual fire fight. Dad said that when they realized that they had no chance of winning, they decided to attempt an escape. Being out of ammunition and surrounded by German tanks, it would be a long shot but it was better than waiting for capture or death. Under the cover of night, one by one, the men of the company left the barn in attempt to secret their way through the ring of Germans. Dad never told me whether any of the comrades that went before him ever made it to safety. I doubt whether Dad ever knew or found out. And I, unfortunately, forgot to ask the question. Nevertheless, come the dawn, Dad found himself alone in the barn. The cover of night was gone, and the emptiness of both comrades and firing chamber must have weighed heavily on his mind. He told me that as he was trying to decide what to do, he saw a bicycle lying in the straw of the barn. He hatched a plan of using the bike to pedal his way through the Germans. The Germans must have known about ammunition problem because of the lack of activity from the barn all night. Or, they might have learned the information from a captured soldier who had tried to penetrate the encirclement during the evening. Nevertheless, when Dad got on the bike and began to pedal his way towards the Germans, they did not fire on him, they simply captured him. It must have been a funny sight to the Germans: an American soldier attacking on bicycle against tanks.
Dad was captured in early September of 1944. In Dad's diary of his POW time, he and a fellow named SSgt William Wright wrote the following poem. I believe it says a lot about how those two soldiers felt about their capture and their duty.
The Last and Fateful Stand by Sgt Gordon Pack and SSgt. William Wright January 15, 1945
Our story begins in Germany, The land of our, "Master Race"! The month, early September. That fateful day of disgrace. Our objective was a courtyard, Not knowing of German tanks; The battle was fast and furious, Outnumbered and not a chance. Soon we were surrounded Not a chance of escape in sight But you can bet your life before they got us, They had a "hell of a fight". 'Fellows', our thoughts are many and hopeful, Though our heads our bowed in shame; Our work was left unfinished, And you have caught the blame. Soon 'victory' will descend as from heaven, Comforting our weary mind. Storm clouds will drift away, Revealing "OUR SONS TO SHINE" (The following story was taken from my Dad's diary. I have retained most of the sentence structure and spellings so that the flavor of the story can be appreciated as written by a man and not a scholar.) Part II The Great Liberation By Sgt. Gordon B. Pack of Stalag '3-C' Krustin, Poland This story is "true". Took place in Krustin, Poland, January 31st, 1945 The 31st of January, a day which will be remembered by myself and by many others. I'm sure if we would have had the slightest idea of the tragedy, blood shed and sorrow that lay in wait for us, I probably would not be here today to write this. (Speaking of "we", 2000 to 4000 prisoners of war.) We were able to obtain news from time to time concerning the advancing forces of Russia that were spearheading towards Berlin. I cannot say how we got the news; for the benefit of other prisoners of war that may be using the same source. The last flash we were able to get, by the way which was the last flash for this particular camp, was that the Russians had us almost surrounded into what is known to be a pocket. No doubt our presence was made know to him someway or other; that way anyway our hopes. So, from that last flash, on, we were pretty well in the dark on what was happening; or what to do. So there we were, many hoping and praying that everything would turn out for the best. As each day rolled past our hopes grew higher and higher, for the rumor was humming that we would probably be left in camp without guards if the Russians got too close. The guards were even telling us that we may awake some morning and find them gone. The more of this we heard of course the better we felt and the surer we were of liberation. But it so happened that we weren't left unguarded, as we had hoped for. The night of the 29th, words was passed around to pack our belongings, we might be vacating the camp the following day.The place we were going to was not made known to us as yet, except crossing the "Oder" river and heading toward Berlin. So, looked like we had a long road ahead of us. The next morning came as did all the the rest before. Part of us sleeping, part of us up and about doing this and that as if nothing was expected. Naturally, we had planned all of this before hand. The First Sergeant, company Sgt's and room Sgt's had gotten together and came to the conclusion we were not to leave camp under no circumstances. And too, we hadn't as yet done any packing as ordered. Time was very valuable,and of course everything we could thing of to delay the action was done. Finally, though, we saw it wouldn't last. "Officer Becker", a German who had charge over our block, came around and started telling us to get ready, we were moving. ( Officer Becker, by the way; Even a German we had all grown to hate, was well thought of by us around the camp. Christmas Eve, right after roll call, he came around and wished us all a Merry Christmas, shook hands and talked a while. He loved to talk about America for he also was a prisoner there the last war, and had learned to speak enough English for us to understand. And had often said to us, "I wish someday to return." To this man, we owe our deepest sympathy and respect. Later on, you will find him again, and then you will see why.) This time we started getting ready. It had been snowing and some of the fellows made sleds to put their stuff on , just in case we did take a notion to move. Along sometime in the morning a Jerry Colonel entered the block and started yelling. Company I-one was the first to go. And, so started dribbling out with steps that would make a donkey ashamed of himself. As yet, time was a very, very important item, for the guards were all on edge and we knew they were liable to take off any minute. Co. 1 finally got on their way; next in line was Co. 2 then Co. 3, which was the Co. 1 was in; then so down the line. By now the jerry's had really started yelling and threats we could tell were being made. Still we paid them no mind. Some of the boys started wandering aimlessly around the barracks and over to the neighboring companies to kill as much time as possible. But it had begun to look like we couldn't hold out very much longer. Apparently, Officer Becker had also received orders to get us out, but not, "or else". He came around to the barracks and said to us "Come, boys, let's go, we are going with you.", all the time smiling or grinning form ear to ear just as to say, "good going fellows, just a little longer now and the guards will be gone. " He had no sooner said this when a string of armed guards marched in and lined up and down the streets facing our barracks. The order again was given to come out and get gong, at the same time loading their rifles. Soon, long columns of prisoners were threading their way along the snow filled road. Some pushing, some pulling sleds; others wheelbarrows, wagons and so on to haul their blanket rolls and the few odds and ends they were able to hang on to. Apparently there weren't any definite place it seemed to go to. We had been traveling I suppose to the best of my estimation some 40 to 50 minutes, with not a word being spoken along the whole column, when all at once, all hell seemed to break loose up ahead. We were nearing a small village, and there were hails of leaden death streamed towards us. Machine guns were chattering their deadly song, as rifles cracked and bullets whined all around. Soon, the heavy "boom" of a big gun, then the bursting a shell. Soon another, then another, another. They were all landing in the midst of us. Right where that would do the most damage. Shouts and screams of pain and agony were wrenched from men's lips that were hit by shell fragments and bullets and couldn't get away. Words cannot explain the horror and the blood chilling sounds that filled the air. I, myself witnessed a scene I shan't forget. Panic soon had its way, and men began running every which way, skimming across the fields of snow trying to find cover. One minute, I saw a head on a man's shoulder, the next, there was no head. This man kept going 15-20 yards, then fell to the ground a bloody mass of torn flesh and bone. During the excitement someone yell out, "For God's sake, men, keep down!" But that cry had been better if not uttered. It only seemed to prompt them on. Half of us did manage to stay down, while the rest scattered the fields lining each side of the road. Some were jumping in holes, ditches, sunken places in the ground, behind the few scattered trees that were available. And some were placing their blanket rolls in front of their body for the little protection they offered; which wasn't very much. During all of this someone yelled "Ruskies!" Which means "Russians", the "Ruskies" are here! Someone make a flag, waved a handkerchief to show them we are unarmed. This was done by a sergeant by the name of Herman Curley. We all called him Curley for short. As soon as he had it finished, he rose and started toward the Russians which were about 300 yards from us. We were still unrecognizable at that distance. Curley started but never got there. A rifle cracked and he slumped to the ground a pitiful sight still with the flag of surrender in his hand. (This brave act that no other man had attempted to do should by every last one of us be remembered. For to my opinion, it saved our lives though it very near cost him his.) Now the firing had stopped. A few here and few there started to rise up and walk toward we had found to be three Russian tanks. Pretty soon we all were up waving our hands and almost crying for sheer joy over our liberation. There were danger a plenty yet, but still , we weren't out of German hands. I will go back now to just after the flag was made by Curly. As well as I can find out, it must of been along about that time Curley had started off that another fellow by the name of "Blankenship" got up and started also with his hands up. We were about 15 or 20 behind a little shack beside the road when this particular incident took place. Officer Becker was there too. As Blankenship threw up his hands in surrender, a jerry guard laying behind a clump of bushes shot him for doing so. Though Blankenship was severely wounded, Officer Becker gave him his pistol and Blankenship, in turn, shot the guard that shot him. We found out later, Officer Becker was killed trying to get away. And we were all sorry to hear the news. The rest of the guards were quickly rounded up and made short work of. Not one was left to live. Many were left by the side of the road with not less that full magazine from a sub-machine gun full of bullets in their bodies. There were more men died that day, or I should say in one hour, than I have ever seen, or ever hope to see. Actually, there weren't many Americans killed. But jerrys, if the count were known, it would top 200 or more of them. Part III The Official Line on the Liberation of Stalag IIIc As Compiled by a Joint Soviet/American Task Force In 1996 there was convened a task force to investigate the Russian Liberation of German and Japanese POW camps. I believe it is interesting to contrast what the Official line is on these occurrences in reference to Stalag 3c because so much of it substantiates Dad's diary and some of it could use a little more truth. First of all, there is the story of Sgt. Curly. I think that it is important that the The Joint Soviet/American Task Force begins its report with words about this man. Dad speaks of him twice in his diary. Sgt. Curly is the man who made a surrender flag and was subsequently killed for it. Dad, in his diary does not say who killed him. What follows is the official government words about Curly: "During World War II, the United States maintained a military mission at the US Embassy in Moscow. This mission was headed by Major General John Deane, USA. Part of General Deanes duties included dealing with Soviet General Filipp Ivanovich Golikov, Chief of Soviet Repatriation Affairs. Copies of Deanes correspondence with Golikov are in the records of the US Military Mission to Moscow, now at the National Archives. While reading General Deane's correspondence, an analyst from the Defense POW/MIA Office (DPMO) discovered a letter to General Golikov reporting that Staff Sergeant Herman 'Curley' had died on 3 February 1945, while under Soviet control near Kustrin, Germany. General Deane was requesting information about his death and burial site. Deane also sent messages to Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces (SHAEF) asking for more information on 'Curley'. The only information SHAEF could provide was that 'Curley' had been assigned to the 9th Infantry Division. An examination of the Master List of WWII Deceased, the records of POWs held by Germany, and of personnel records at the National Personnel Records Center for a Staff Sergeant Herman 'Curley' were all negative. During the February 1995 Technical Talks in Moscow, Colonel Osipov provided us with copies of documents from General Golikov's files. DPMO staff, after translating and analyzing the documents, discovered a request for information from the Chief of Repatriation Affairs of the 1st Belorussian Front addressed to General Konstantin Dmitrievich Golubev, General Golikov's deputy. This document reported that an American sergeant, 'German Kerla' and another unknown US serviceman were killed during a bombing attack. Included with this document was a diagram of the burial location at Stalag III-C, Kustrin, Germany. The diagram also indicates that these two individuals were buried in a common grave with identification tags placed in their pockets. The similarity between the two names, 'Herman Curley' and 'German Kerla,'was striking. Additional research now produced the name Herman L. Kerley on the master list of WWII deceased, in the records of POWs held by Germany, and from the National Personnel Records Center. All three sources agreed that Kerley was in German captivity and had never been repatriated. Additionally, the American Battle Monuments Commission (ABMC) verified that Kerley's body had never been recovered. His name is memorialized at the ABMC cemetery in the Netherlands." According to Dad, this man "Curly" was a hero and should have been given that status. The working group continued with their discoveries and made the following report on the "liberation" of Stalag IIIc from the Germans. It is really interesting to contrast their report to the first-hand account by my Dad. Camp. Stalag III-C, Kustrin, Poland Location. In Drewitz, northeast of Kustrin; 52(40'N-14(50'E. Camp population. At its peak, prior to evacuation, Stalag III-C held about 2,000 US ground forces enlisted personnel. Circumstances of liberation. When Soviet forces approached Kustrin on 31 January 1945, the Germans evacuated the Allied POWs by foot to the west. The evacuation column got only a mile or two from the camp before running into Soviet troops, who fired on the POWs killing five before clear identification was made. After this fire fight the German guards fled. The Soviet combat troops continued their advance toward the west, uninterested in the POWs who returned to the camp they recently had evacuated. The US POWs remained at Stalag III-C under their own control for several days before other Soviet troops arrived, about 1-2 February 1945; but even then, the Soviets did virtually nothing to provide for or to exercise control over, the American POWs. The liberating Soviet unit was likely the 5th Shock Army of the 1st Belorussian Front. In early February 1945, the Soviets ordered the POWs to leave Stalag III-C and go to Warsaw, Poland, a distance of more than 200 miles. The Soviets provided no food, shelter, or transport; most of these POWs organized themselves into small groups, perhaps half a dozen men each, and found their own way to Warsaw, walking much of the way, but catching occasional rides on Soviet army trucks. In Warsaw the Soviets organized the Allied POWs into larger groups and moved them by train to Odessa. Accounting of US POWs & other remaining questions. The Germans evacuated to the west perhaps as many as 200 to 300 of the US POWs from Kustrin. The remaining group was evacuated to the east by the Soviets, straggling under little control, therefore precise accounting from this camp is problematic. But the largest group was liberated by the Russians and eventually repatriated through Odessa, although a few Americans from III-C returned by way of Moscow or Poltava. The Veterans Administration list prepared from the Prisoner of War Information Bureau IBM cards contains 1,420 names of US prisoners of war who were returned to military control from Stalag III-C (code 005). And so, the story of my Dad, told in his words and mine come to a close. I believe that his World War II actions changed him as war does to many men. He couldn't have been the man that left Kentucky years earlier. I've read his words many times in the quiet of the night. His wartime experiences create vivid pictures that somehow mesh the boundaries of Vietnam and Germany together and yet still crash against each other like colliding freight trains. The sparks that they throw off are exquisite images and stories that only soldiers could ever understand. For a brief time, from 1973 when I separated from the service, and 1978 when he died Dad and I were different than before. I cherish those five years because during that short time Dad and I were comrades in addition to Father and Son. Dad died April 5, 1978. With him he took the anguish of a hard childhood, horrors of war, and the responsibility of keeping a family intact regardless of everything he had seen and experienced. God Bless you Dad and may you rest in peace. You're many times the man I could ever be.
James Pack
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