Prisoner of War (POW) #74324

By Robert Stermscheg

Real heroes aren’t born. Rather, they are ordinary people who have risen to meet seemingly insurmountable challenges in the face of adversity. What really defines a person is the way they face those obstacles and overcome them. We don’t have to look to Hollywood to find examples; in fact, we need look no further than our backyards. My backyard, that is. My father, is such a man.
From humble beginnings to confinement in a German POW camp, he endured incredible hardship. But with his first taste of freedom, he was once again placed at the mercy of self-serving and corrupt men in communist post-war Yugoslavia. As you turn these pages, laugh, shake your head, or perhaps even shed a tear as you step into his world and catch a glimpse of a man who never gives up.
This is a true story. Through the harrowing escapes and close calls of my own family history, it is my hope that people everywhere can look inside themselves to find the courage to become men and women of character, like my father, POW #74324.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Stermscheg
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9780981372945

Robert Stermscheg

Robert Stermscheg, born in Europe in 1956, was exposed to many wonderful writers – Edgar Rice Burroughs, Alexandre Dumas, and of course Karl May. He appreciated how they opened up a whole new world to our imaginations through their portrayal of life. His parents were of Austrian descent, and as a result of his father’s occupation as an electrical engineer, he moved several times in his early childhood. His father kept a steady supply of books to broaden his son’s education, including a repertoire of Karl May books.The entire family moved to Canada in 1967, eventually settling in Manitoba. Robert was involved in chess, hockey, flying, but always kept up his interest in the German language. His passion to share the works of Karl May, largely unknown in North America, resulted in the search for English translations. After retiring from a satisfying career with the Winnipeg Police Service in 2006, he had the opportunity to pursue his dream—translating one of Karl May’s novels into English. His wife, Toni, embraced his dream and encouraged him in the writing process. She supported him in this new venture by being a proof reader.In 2006, Robert consulted with Nemsi Books, a publisher willing to take on new authors, and embarked on his first book, The Prussian Lieutenant, based on an earlier work by Karl May. His first book was well received, encouraging him to continue with the sequel, The Marabout’s Secret. Both books are available at Chapters bookstores, as well as on Amazon. Buried Secrets, the third book, shifts back to France. There is much tension, as the ruling authority prepares for a war with its neighbour, Germany.Robert resides in Winnipeg and is currently working on his fourth book, Captain Richemonte.

Book preview

POW# 74324

Triumph Through Adversity

The Life of John Stermscheg

as told by his son,

Robert Stermscheg

Copyright 2012 Robert Stermscheg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.

ISBN#978-0-9813729-4-5

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of this author.

This book is dedicated to my hero,

my dad.

Acknowledgements

I want to express my appreciation to my wife, Toni, for her support, encouragement, and proofreading.

To my editor and friend, Evan Braun, who was a great encourager, and laboured with me through the entire process.

To Ethel Beck, for her prayers and proofreading.

To Rachelle Painchaud-Nash for her layout and cover design.

A special thank you to Dr. Rita Lüdke, for her kind contribution of the Neubrandenburg information and maps.

Introduction

I have discovered, as you will too, that real heroes aren’t born. Instead, they are ordinary people who have risen to meet seemingly insurmountable challenges in the face of adversity. The obstacles that life throws at each one of us are not there to defeat us; they are the stepping stones the Creator has placed in our lives to refine us. Everyday, we end up facing new trials, some that we handle well while others seem to overwhelm us. What really defines a person is the way he or she faces those challenges. It is in those times that an average man, painfully aware he’s devoid of super-human powers, gathers up within himself those God-given talents and natural abilities and uses them to overcome life’s challenges. What can easily turn into defeat has the inherent potential to become a testimonial of a man’s character, a reminder that each one of us has what it takes to courageously face the ‘storm’ and stand our physical and moral ground.

I want to introduce you to one such individual, someone who persevered and whose confidence never faltered. He lives to share his triumphs, not to boast about them, but to stand as a lasting encouragement to his family and friends. I want you, my reader, to meet my hero, my father, by revealing him as God made him—not perfect, but humble, caring, and an inspiration to us.

For me, this all started in March 2007, and in a place that to many would seem most unconventional for the sprouting of new ideas—a ski hill. My father and I had travelled to the town of LaRiviere, known to most Manitoban skiers as Holiday Mountain, for a little spring skiing. My father has always enjoyed outdoor activities, especially getting up on the slopes. I know what some of you ski aficionados might say, Slopes? Hills? In Manitoba? Even though Holiday Mountain only has about 300 foot vertical rise, it’s good enough for the day.

We skied in the morning and came down to the chalet for lunch. Being good old Austrians and savvy with our spending money, we had brown-bagged it and were sitting in a section reserved for non-paying customers. At the table next to us were two skiers, already in their sixties, judging by their appearance. They had, like us, brought their own sandwiches and snacks. I couldn’t help but notice that they had quite an array of food: several varieties of cheese, German sausage, pickles, even herring. But what really drew my attention wasn’t the food so much as their conversation; they weren’t speaking English. In this part of Canada, it wouldn’t have been unusual to hear them speaking French, but instead I heard German. One of the men later introduced to us as Lorenc, was dressed in a red and white ski suit and sported slicked back silver-grey hair, complemented by a well-trimmed beard of the same colour. He was leading the conversation, his hands gesturing animatedly to make his point to his friend, John, a man well-tanned and also in his late sixties.

Hearing my boyhood language was irresistible, so I took the initiative to introduce myself. When they heard that we also spoke German, their faces lit up and they invited us to join them at their table. Introductions were quickly made and before I knew it we were engulfed in conversation about life in Winnipeg, and our mutual love for the outdoors. Somewhere in between bites of salami sandwiches and sips of Budweiser Light, my father spoke of his previous job as an electrical engineer, and of his past employment at the nuclear power plant in nearby Pinawa. Dad and Lorenc traded jokes and stories, and it wasn’t long before Dad reverted to his younger days, telling them of his life in Europe, including being drafted into the Yugoslav army, heading off to war, and his eventual imprisonment in a German prisoner of war camp. I sat there fascinated, listening to those familiar stories I had heard so many times in my youth, but now sensing that there was something slightly different about them. I couldn’t quite place it at first, but then I realized that I was paying more attention, perhaps because I was now older and embarking on a career as a writer. In that moment, I saw the potential of bringing his many stories to a broader arena.

As he continued with his war stories, it all came together and guided me to an inward resolve: I had to write my father’s biography, not because of monetary gain or simply because he was my father, but because he did lead an amazing life. His perseverance really does lend itself to invaluable lessons, which need to be passed on to the next generation. On the way home later that afternoon, I had a nagging doubt that I wasn’t going to be able to pull it off. After all, writing a biography doesn’t just happen overnight, even when the subject is still alive and bursting with information. Yet one of the qualities I inherited from my father is persistence.

I reflected on the best way to accomplish my goal, so I chose to write the following account in the first-person, as I’ve heard my father so often recount those stories. It is the best way to recount my father’s life, and by hearing it this way, in his own words, it is my hope that you will lose yourself in his adventures, just as I have over the years.

And the rest, they say, is history.

Robert Stermscheg

Winnipeg

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Prologue

1. Beginnings

2. Early Life

3. School

4. Maribor

5. Military Duty

6. World War Two

7. Neubrandenburg

8. Starting Over

9. The Communists

10. Elektrokovina

11. Hydromontage

12. Angela Bauman

13. Children

14. The Escape

15. Mannheim

16. Moving to Canada

17. Edmonton, Alberta

18. Pinawa and WNRE

19. Retirement

Epilogue

About the Author

Endnotes

Prologue

Attention! I need six volunteers, a voice shouted, interrupting the quiet morning.

Under ordinary circumstances, that might have been a harmless-sounding statement, yet what followed was anything but harmless, or ordinary. The reality of the situation was that the sergeant wasn’t asking for volunteers. It certainly wasn’t a request, judging by his sharp, cutting tone. I was used to taking orders, having been trained in the Slovenian military, so these shouts sounded strangely familiar, albeit for one thing—they were in German.

"Macht’s schnell!" bellowed the guard, telling me to make it quick. That brought me back to reality. I realized, along with the rest of my barrack mates from Blockhouse G, that the German sergeant didn’t care who the six volunteers were, or how they were selected. We knew all too well what would happen if we hesitated too long… He would absolve us of the chore and pick six random faces.

Life as a prisoner of war (POW) in a German Stalag¹ was no picnic, despite how Hollywood depicted the experience through a weekly dose of Hogan’s Heroes. By now, we had become used to little food, crowded living quarters, and hard labour. The rewards were one more day to live, followed by more of the same.

An opportunity to ‘volunteer’ for a job was a reprieve from the daily grind and sometimes proved beneficial. If luck was on our side, the work detail would take us out to one of the nearby farms. The work would be just as arduous, but perhaps we would be fed real food for a change. I stepped forward with five other men. As I did so, I could nearly read the faces of those around me: He’s young enough. Hopefully he’ll survive what the Germans have lined up today. I’m glad I don’t have to go this time.

The camp was situated on the outskirts of the city of Greifswald. The main building, an unfriendly, cold, concrete and steel structure, had been transformed from a former military warehouse that, at one time, had been used for the storage and maintenance of tanks. The inside perimeter of the structure was subdivided into smaller units. Each compartment was separate, divided from another via concrete and steel. I suppose this was done for safety reasons. With the presence of machinery, fuel, and other volatile liquids, even ammunition, a fire could be contained and prevented from spreading. The tanks were no longer there, but the space had been allocated and converted into a camp for housing military prisoners. Where at one time tanks, machines, and spare parts had been kept in storage, row upon row of bunk beds, stacked three-high, now housed flesh and blood people. In the center of the vast warehouse were rough-hewn chairs and tables, where we would eat our meals.

Next door to this huge concrete mass, and separated by a manned barbed-wire fence, was a two-story administration building. Placard signs were placed on the fence at 50 meter intervals in the five main languages—French, English, Russian, Serb, and German—warning us that any prisoner approaching the fence would be shot. The camp Kommandant’s office was situated on the second floor. The rest of the buildings were out of our view and, of course, inaccessible to prisoners.

By 4:30 in the afternoon, after working hard all day to the point of exhaustion, we were released from the work site. Our guards marched us back to camp, situated near a railroad yard. Around 5:00 we arrived, hungry and exhausted, only to learn that the evening ‘meal’ had already been distributed to all the barracks. Everything had been consumed, right down to the last crumb. We were told that it was customary for prisoners on work details to be fed on site, and so they had assumed this was the case with us.

The news hit me like salt being poured into an open wound. A couple of my co-labourers complained, and one man even ranted about the unfairness of it all, while the rest collapsed onto their bunks. What could I do? The food was gone, and no amount of pleading or cajoling with the sergeant would bring about a change of heart. Famished, exhausted, and despondent, the others withdrew and crawled into their bunks, angry, yet wiser for the experience. As for me, I was more than disappointed. I sensed such a feeling of injustice rising up within me that I couldn’t ignore it. I decided to take matters into my own hands and left the safety of the barracks.

I hadn’t formulated a plan. All I can remember is that I was driven by an inner determination that went beyond reason: Hunger! Our barracks were situated near the administration building, and a short wooden gangway connected them to the perimeter of the compound. In the center of the massive fence was a narrow opening, fortified by razor sharp barbed wire, and complemented by an alert and armed sentry.

I approached the German guard and called out that I wanted to see the Kommandant. This in itself was a risky endeavour, since a prisoner didn’t just walk up to a sentry unannounced. The Germans were sticklers for rules and regulations, and breaching them was dealt with harshly. The guard watched my approach and challenged me right away.

"Halt! Geh zurück!" he ordered.

Although I am fluent in German, I ignored his command to stop and go back. I kept walking. The soldier removed the rifle from his shoulder and pointed the attached bayonet at me. Thinking back on it later, I realized what a foolish decision this had been. He had every right to shoot me. I repeated over and over, in German, that I wanted to see the camp Kommandant. Perhaps my German stopped him from shooting me in the head.

"Halt! Mensch, bist Du verrückt? The guard’s eyes widened in surprise when I stood my ground. Man, are you insane?"

Not about to be deterred, I repeated my request. The sentry motioned with his bayonet for me to back up. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was the futility of my predicament or my feeling of injustice over the way we had been treated—in any case, I simply reacted. I grabbed the bayonet, ignoring his instruction, and committed myself to an uncertain outcome. This act in itself should have been ample justification for the guard to have me shot. As bizarre as this was, the sentry didn’t fire, but tugged back, trying to retrieve his bayoneted rifle from my grasp. I hung on with all my strength, now realizing that if I let go, he probably would shoot me. We were now in a sort of tug of war, with both of us shouting at each other. The sounds of the ensuing commotion drifted up to the open window of the nearby administration building. I didn’t know it at the time, but the open window led to the Kommandant’s office.

By sheer providence, the Kommandant was not only in his office, but must have heard the verbal exchange. He poked his head out the window for a better look. At this point, I let go of the bayonet and came to attention. The guard, relieved to have his weapon back, presented arms for his superior.

"Was ist los?" Major Zimmermann, the Kommandant, called out austerely. What’s going on?

The guard was duty-bound to reply. Major, he replied, in German. This prisoner has gone mad. He insists that you listen to his complaint about food rations.

I will come down myself, the major said.

While Zimmermann made his way down, the guard looked at me with an air of finality. "Mark my words, you are a dead man." There was the faintest trace of pity in his voice.

When the major arrived, he was in full uniform, which included his forage cap and tunic. Even though it wasn’t the dress uniform, his pants were clean and pressed, the boots had a high gloss, and his tunic was immaculate, decorated with pilot wings and the iron cross with oak leaves. He made a formidable impression as he approached with a slight limp. Although he was only in his late thirties, he was known to be a no-nonsense officer. It was rumoured he had been shot down in his Messerschmitt, which explained how such a young officer had come to be a camp commander and was no longer ‘in the field.’ The major, though not ruthless, didn’t put up with incompetence from any of his men, his officers included, and was thus feared by all.

I saluted and waited for the major to address me. He looked me up and down, as if deciding whether or not he was going to make short work of me.

Your number? Zimmermann asked.

"74324, Herr Major," I replied in German.

Perhaps hearing his own language, spoken by a prisoner, softened his approach. State your complaint, he ordered a little less gruffly.

I related my story, short and to the point, without laying any blame on the guards or embellishing my part. He seemed to listen attentively, and a furtive smile crossed his lips. Once I had finished, he turned to the guard and ordered him to fetch the subordinate in charge of the work detail. Not two minutes later, a sergeant came running. He stopped in front of the major and saluted smartly.

"Feldwebel! Zimmermann addressed him, pointing at me. Was this man in your harbor detail this morning?"

The sergeant, well aware of the officer’s penchant for authority and discipline, assumed I was about to receive some of the same. "Jawohl, Herr Major! He was there, one of six men assigned to the task."

Did they work all day, and to your satisfaction?

Yes, Major.

Were they fed?

No, Major. They received only water.

Why only water?

I don’t know, sir.

The Kommandant turned to me and said. You, come with me.

The sergeant’s mouth dropped as he stared at me in disbelief. Taken aback, I followed the major directly into the officer’s mess. He approached one of the cooks, startling him by the impromptu visit.

Get two pails and fill them to the brim—no leftovers, Zimmermann instructed the cook. He then addressed the sergeant. Make sure this man gets the pails, and then escort him back, he instructed. He then turned and abruptly left the mess.

I stood there mesmerized, watching as the cook followed the order. Once I had my two pails, filled with what smelled like heavenly cuisine, I was escorted back to the gate. The former sentry, not believing his eyes, this time allowed me to pass without a challenge.

"Mensch, Du has ein Schweinsglück, he murmured incredulously. Man, you don’t know what luck is!"

In the meantime, the nearest barrack house had emptied, the men having been alerted by the earlier commotion. I walked back to my barracks, amongst the shouts and well wishes of all. I entered our blockhouse, heralded a fool by some and a brazen hero by others. Naturally, I shared my newfound rations with the other five men of my detail. I still remember dozens of arms reaching out toward me, hoping to get a small morsel from the pail. Naturally, I gave much of it away.

For once, there was ample food for the starving men of German Stalag IIIC.

Chapter One

Beginnings

We all start somewhere. Some are born