World War 2 Is Not Over: A Combat Infantryman's Experience in a German Pow Camp

By Frank Yarosh

This book is an exciting personal WW2 story which holds the reader’s interest from beginning to end --- a true “page turner’ of fast moving events. Written in a non-sophisticated language style, Frank shares intimate happenings, thoughts and details of some of his harsh experiences while in intense combat, cruel captivity and a frustrating afterwards. The reader will find the wartime events enlightening and somewhat entertaining in an unusual manner.

After registering for the draft when 18, at Lopez, PA. Frank was called up March, 1943, and after completing three months of intense combat engineering training at Fort Lewis, WA, he was offered officer candidate training at Fort Belvoir, VA or the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) at Brigham Young University, BYU, Provo, Utah.

Since General “Ike” needed infantrymen for the invasion of France in 1944, Frank reluctantly had to leave BYU and was assigned to Company C, 1st Battalion, 274th Regiment, 70th Division, Camp Adair, OR. As a youngster, Frank was a tough, outdoor type of kid, since his boyhood life included lots of hard work during the 1930 depression years as well as trapping, fishing and hunting. All contributed to a terrific background for the rigors of becoming a well-trained infantryman. After completing three months of rough training in the swamps of Oregon, he was selected and qualified to attend West Point. After much deliberation and consideration of West Point requirement to serve many years after graduation, Frank elect6ed to stay with Co. C as an infantry scout.

Within a short time, Frank and his outfit were shipped to Marseilles, France, in December 1944. By Christmas time, Frank was on the West Bank of the Rhine River in frigid, snowy northern France. On January 4, 1945, he was assigned to lead a large scaled attack as a scout onto Phillipsbourg, France. He barely survived the horrors and ordeals of eyeball to eyeball combat until being relieved on January 19, 1945. His unit was recognized for successful tenacious combat against well-seasoned German troops.

While going to another assignment on January 20th, Frank fell off an icy snow covered mountainous trail and severely sprained his left ankle. He was assigned to a snow covered large concrete pillbox on the Maginot Line with three other infantrymen to spy on nearby German troops. At midnight on January 21, during a blizzard, a white clad Waffen S.S. Troop patrol fired explosives into the isolated pillbox and Frank and his buddies became prisoners of war.

Frank’s recollection of his five hour interrogation by a face slapping German Intelligence officer in an isolated farm house somewhere across the Rhine in Germany was intense and of a dramatic movie scene quality that shook him to the core of his being. Transport in a crowded filthy 40 and8’s boxcar for five days through Germany was the beginning of cruel treatment by his captors. Besides the train being strafed by American planes, since it was not marked, the prisoners were spat on and sworn at by civilians in train stations.

Stalag XI-B at Fallingbostel in Northern Germany near Bremen was filled with thousands of POW’s from the many nations that Hitler had conquered, as well as captured Allied troops. Many POW’s died each day and were buried in mass trenches. Frank’s barracks, filled with sad looking American GI’s, was unheated and loaded with lice. Since he was not an officer, Private 1st Class Yarosh had to work digging out tree stumps without breakfast or lunch after walking about 4 miles to the proposed V2 rocket site.

Supper back at the barracks consisted of one slice of dark hard bread and maybe two small cold boiled potatoes and a cup of weak cold soup. This slim diet soon produced a skeleton frame on many POW’s. Since Frank had an excellent knowledge of the Russian language, he made many dangerous nighttime trips to the nearby Russian compounds to buy vegetables with American cigarettes. Th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 13, 2001
• ISBN: 9781477163160

Frank Yarosh

Frank was born in 1924 and raised in Lopez, PA. During his three years of Army military service during WW2 he was awarded the Bronze Star and Combat Infantry Badge. He graduated from Bucknell University in 1949, with a BS in Chemical Engineering and retired from the Philadelphia Gas Works in 1987 with 37 years of service as an executive and Registered Professional Engineer. Yarosh is married to the former Margaret F. McHutchison. They have two sons, Alan and Scott and seven grandchildren. He currently resides in Erdenheim, PA.

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Copyright © 2001 by Frank Yarosh

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CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I

PROLOGUE

II

CHAPTER 1

NOT CUT OUT FOR THE MILITARY

CHAPTER 2

GOING TO THE FRONT

CHAPTER 3

GLIMPSES OF COMBAT1

CHAPTER 4

MAGINOT LINE PILLBOX

CHAPTER 5

CAPTURE

CHAPTER 6

INTERROGATION

CHAPTER 7

LIMBOURG: STALAG 12A

CHAPTER 8

BOXCAR JOURNEY

CHAPTER 9

FALLINBOSTEL - STALAG 11 B

CHAPTER 10

WORK DETAIL

CHAPTER 11

FOOD

CHAPTER 12

RELIGION

CHAPTER 13

LICE

CHAPTER 14

LIBERATION

CHAPTER 15

ENGLAND

CHAPTER 16

HOME

EPILOGUE 1

EPILOGUE II

EPILOGUE III

ENDNOTES

DEDICATED IN

LOVING MEMORY

OF OUR FIRST GRANDCHILD

LINDSAY HILL YAROSH

8-15-88

12-9-88

ILLUSTRATIONS

Order to Report for Induction

Combat Infantry Badge

Stalag 12-A Identification Card

Prison Camps

Missing In Action Letter

Knife

Sullivan Review-Missing in Action

British ID Card

Sullivan Review-Liberation Notice

Western Union Telegram

Discharge Certificate

Bronze Star Medal

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply indebted to Dr. Peter T. Gariti, Director of Research Operations, at the Department of Veterans Affairs Hospital, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Peter, who has a special thorough knowledge of the ordeals of many American ex-prisoners of war, urged me to write about my unusual experience. During the initial writing process, Peter provided supporting encouragement and constructive comments.

A special warm thank you to Mr. Robert L. McNeill, Jr., a long time friend, who reviewed the initial draft. Bob enthusiastically offered significant encouragement and generously arranged for a professional review of the initial draft.

Dr. Gae Holliday, a professional writer, reviewed the first draft of the narrative. Gae’s constructive criticism and supporting encouragement led to a drastic re-write of the initial work. I am deeply indebted to her literary expertise.

I owe a special debt to Military Veterans, Messrs. Charles Armbuster and Elwood Hill, who made significant stylistic suggestions and offered periodic support.

I also wish to thank Mrs. Charles French, Mrs. Deborah Ann Yarosh and Mrs. Thomas Scherphorn, who spent hours transcribing my longhand into a word processor.

My sincere gratitude goes to my sons Alan and Scott and Alan’s wife Julee, who offered constructive suggestions and periodic encouragement.

My greatest debt, however, is to my beloved wife, Margaret, who provided objective counsel and emotional sustenance in endless measure.

While they all helped make this account possible, only I can be blamed for any mistakes.

I

PROLOGUE

Since 1945, many excellent books and articles have been published dealing with the European phase of World War II. Until my retirement in 1987, I have refrained from the difficult task of changing good and bad memories from images into descriptive words for the following two excuses. First, because of the unavailability of uninterrupted time. Secondly, the great reluctance like many other combat infantrymen and ex-prisoners of war (POWs) to recall unpleasant events including an apprehension of not being believed. In this manuscript, I will attempt to honestly share with you some intimate happenings, thoughts and details of my experiences while in combat, captivity and afterwards. The non-sophisticated language style, with a minimum of cuss words, is mostly first person, present tense, of a twenty-year-old American soldier in the 1940’ s. No attempt has been made to exaggerate the events depicted or flower them with unusual adjectives or adverbs. In addition, actual names of some involved characters have been purposely altered or omitted. The author hopes that the reader will find this narrative enlightening and entertaining without any sex and little humor. Unfortunately, both categories were practically non-existent.

Overall, the author considers this account to be a catharsis since it helps to eliminate an old complex by bringing it to a present day consciousness by recording the vivid memories in words for historical purposes.

II

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CHAPTER 1

NOT CUT OUT FOR THE MILITARY

Frank, did you hear that a guy called Hitler in Germany is going to invade Poland? asks my twenty-one year old cousin, Peter.

No, is my short reply.

Well, I have a gut feeling, Frank, that this is bad news for this world-including us!

Peter quickly adds in a monotone voice, Someway, somehow, someday, you and I are going to be involved in a war.

It is a bright hot morning in the summer of 1939. I am only fifteen years old and working as a laborer with Peter on a dam project near my boyhood hometown of Lopez, Pennsylvania. I receive a dollar a day (12^ cents an hour) including a cold sandwich lunch. During this time of my life I have to think twice as to where Germany and Poland are located on the globe and have little interest in activities beyond Lopez.

During the cold winter months, I check my musk-rat traps along the banks of the Loyalsock Creek every morning prior to attending high school classes. We ice skate on the same creek and burn old rubber tires strung from wire ropes on trees at night to provide some illumination. Fishing for catfish in nearby Beaver Dam ponds is a favorite sport during the hot summer months.

Hunting for rabbits and pheasants with Pop’s double barrel shot-gun is fun during the fall months. Such is my busy life in this period, without concern about Hitler or any other world leader.

Pop and Mom, like many other parents in the early 1940’s, become more anxious about the course of the war. Periodically, they attend military funerals for a few older town boys who enlisted in the service and were killed in faraway places. Small Gold Star memorial flags appear in front windows around town.

On my eighteenth birthday, I register for the draft in accordance with the law. I toy with the idea of enlisting and getting my obligation completed as quickly as possible. Voluntary demands of loyalty, duty and responsibility towards my country are present in my serious deliberations. Pop senses my situation one evening and suggests, Wait for your turn, Frank. Within six months of registering for the draft the long awaited notice arrives on March 17, 1943. Quitting my job as a laborer at an Army ordinance works near Williamsport, Pennsylvania makes me realize that I soon will be sadly missing the big weekly pay checks. I recall the depression years in the early 1930’s when a nickel a week allowance from my parents was a big event.

On the day prior to leaving for induction into the Army, Mom makes a request and Pop gives me advice.

Mom says with sadness in her voice, Frank, whatever you do, please don’t make me hang a Gold Star flag in our front window.

Pop makes a short odd speech to me in the back yard as I leave the outdoor toilet. What you did in there, wiped your rear end with your right hand, is done by all people in this world if they have a right hand. They are not any better than you, nor are you any better than them. You’re going to meet all kinds of people; treat them with respect and kindness and I hope they treat you well. Come back to us alive!

The next day, March 27, 1943, when I raise my right hand to pledge allegiance, I give serious thought to my Mom’s and Pop’s words and silently make a vow to myself. I shall return alive and well to Lopez and my family, regardless of future events.

The long troop train, with wide-eyed me aboard, leaves the Army depot at New Cumberland, Pennsylvania with blackout shades drawn against the darkness of night. Its destination is as unknown to me as to my three new buddies from nearby towns. As the train chugs on into the daylight hours, we stare out the windows at our first glimpses of America. Loneliness creeps into my mind and body as the days drag by, and the distance from home gradually grows bigger as the train moves slowly westward. On the seventh day the train enters the railroad yard of a large Army camp. A nearby soldier asks a passing officer, Where are we? and the sour-faced old second lieutenant replies, Fort Lewis, Washington.

My only other trip outside of Pennsylvania has been with our high school graduating class to New York City, less than 150 miles from Lopez. My heart sinks as I suddenly realize, Fort Lewis must be about three thousand miles from home.

After completing three spring months of intensive combat engineering training in the beautiful evergreen forests of Washington, I am in top physical and mental condition. My boyhood life of hard work including trapping, fishing and hunting is a terrific background for the rigors of Army life. I fit into the routines like a hand into a tight leather glove. My overall knowledge of the world and people is greatly broadened during these three months. My feeling of well being is almost as high as the beautiful snow-capped peaks of Mount Rainier, which I can see clearly on the few rain free days at Fort Lewis.

One early morning after breakfast, my big aloof squad sergeant orders me to report immediately to the company commander on the double. Tall Captain Plaum tells me in a deep husky voice, Private Yarosh, you have a high intelligence quotient. The Army is offering you two options. One is Office candidate School in Fort Belvoir, Virginia; the other is the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP). After a brief discussion, I select ASTP. Why not get a college engineering education rather than become a second lieutenant is my quick decision.

When I arrive at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City for processing in June, 1943, the five-man board of high ranking officers strongly suggest that I become a linguist (Russian language) rather than an engineer, since I already know the language. The language school is located at the University of Iowa. I insist that I want to become an engineer. I cannot visualize earning a living after the war by just talking the Russian language. The board reluctantly agrees with my reasoning.

Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah is my next assignment along with five hundred other servicemen. The first three months of college studies is difficult. I am in competition with others from strong big city high school backgrounds. Nevertheless, I keep working hard, remembering Mom’s often repeated admonition to read and study, otherwise you will end up a coal miner like Pop. My class ranking among the five hundred climbs up from 325th to 14th after more than a year of read and study, study and read! I am like a sponge absorbing everything in sight. Then the joy of learning all came to an end suddenly. In mid-1944 we hear that General Eisenhower needs infantry troops in Europe. That means us. As I sadly board the troop train for Camp Adair, Oregon, I stare pensively at the big white letter Y on the side of a large mountain bordering the campus. Well, I selfishly think, that ‘y’ may stand for Young (Brigham) but to me it stands for YAROSH.

I quickly adjust to the life of an infantryman getting used to my new constant companion, The Garand Rifle, in Company C, 274th Infantry Regiment, 70th Infantry Division. The training is rigorous, hard work. The sophisticated commissioned officers and cocky non-commissioned officers are tense and strictly business in their attempts to quickly develop a fighting unit. Since I have some college education, they seem to single me out for special assignments requiring some limited intelligence, such as map reading, scouting and special weapon demonstrations. At times, I strongly resent being singled out, but remain silent. Pop and Mom are not too pleased to hear of my new activities and the strong possibility of a dangerous overseas assignment. I have no strong feelings pro or con, since I am fulfilling my duty with regard to my sworn oath at induction time. I am grateful to the Army for almost completing my sophomore year of a free engineering education.

On a warm, sunny day while leading the First Battalion and Company C as a scout on a training maneuver, I meet the top guy of the Army. As I work my way through a swampy, heavily forested valley, towards the bottom of a fairly steep bushy hill, I hear many explosions of artillery shells and sporadic rifle firing. When I reach mid-hill and look upward to survey the terrain, I suddenly spot an officer sitting on a rock, looking through binoculars pointed at me. Some other officers were to his rear. When I nearly reach him I am sweating profusely. I see several stars glistening in the sunlight on his shoulders. I immediately come to attention, present arms, and almost fall over backwards because of the steep incline. Simultaneously, I think to myself, Holy shit! This is General Marshall! The elderly pleasant faced general smiles, returns my salute and says, At ease, soldier! He adds, I’ve been watching you for sometime. Good job! Have a drink! I signal my buddy Sam (the second scout) at the foot of the hill to halt. I remove my canteen from my belt pouch and guzzle the remaining warm water. What is your name, soldier? the General asks.

Private Yarosh, sir.

He broadly smiles and says, Good luck, private! and then strongly suggests, You’d better get the battalion moving again.

As I walk away from the general, I think to myself, Nice man. Why aren’t our officers as friendly as he is?

One late June afternoon, I am instructed to report to our dignified, handsome battalion lieutenant colonel whom I had met on several training maneuvers while acting as our company scout. The colonel, from behind his polished oak desk, tells me, Frank, the Army is looking for candidates for the next West Point class starting in September. I believe, according to your records and performance, that you would be eligible for consideration except for one item. Your IQ is a bit short, the Point wants soldiers with IQs of 130 and higher. There are two other battalion soldiers who are going to be re-tested tomorrow. Would you like to join them and see if you can raise your score? I hope you will agree to take the tests. West Point is a great school. I enjoyed it.

Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity, Colonel.

The three of us sit at separate tables sweating over the questions during timed periods. A couple of days later, the Colonel requests my presence in his sparsely furnished, drab battalion office. He vigorously shakes my wet hand and smilingly says, Congratulations, Frank. Your IQ is now considerably higher! If you agree, I’ll process the necessary papers. You will be informed when to take a tough physical at the camp’s main hospital. Also, you will be screened and questioned by a high-ranking board of officers who are all grads from the Point. If you pass, you will immediately leave us and be assigned to a prep school somewhere in the Northeast until August. For your information, one of the other two soldiers tested also got a high score.

I come to attention, salute and say, Thank you, Colonel!

With my head held high and a racing heart, I slowly walk back to my barracks. I silently tell myself, I am not going to tell a soul, not even Mom and Pop, of the good news. Suddenly, a tight feeling develops in my chest. A feeling of apprehension goes through my thoughts about going to West Point. Is it the wooden parade of soldiers in blue-gray uniforms? The black-plumed hats marching to a measured drum beat? I remind myself of the distaste I have of Saturday morning parades for the ego of the general of the 70th Division who doesn’t know me from Adam or Eve. Nevertheless, I did decide to go through the testing process, thinking I might fail for some reason or other.

After the various tough physical tests are completed, the Colonel proudly states to me on a Friday morning, Frank, congratulations again! He hands me a packet of multi-colored official looking papers and says, Here are your orders. Be at this office at 0800 hours tomorrow. My driver will take you to the station to catch the 1000 hours train for Chicago. I’ve told your company commander. Take the day off and get packed.

We shake hands and the Colonel returns my salute. Chills run through my body.

I wash and clean my clothing and return my rifle and other equipment to the supply room. I think of my parents, sisters and brother and how thrilled they will be to have a son and brother at the prestigious academy. Then after dinner in the mess hall, I begin to have second and third thoughts about making the rest of my whole life a military one. I decide to go to the Post Exchange and do some more serious thinking.

I buy a few dark brown bottles of three-two beer (3.2 % alcohol by volume) and a small chunk of ice to chill the weak beer. I sit in the outdoor garden in the warm spring night air. I spend a couple of hours just sipping cool beer and occasionally chatting with friends from my company, but not about the burning issue in my mind. I finally leave the brightly lit beer garden and head towards my dark barracks, my mind still preoccupied with swirling thoughts of West Point.

I have little fear of going to the Point since I already have completed almost two years of engineering studies plus combat engineering basic training and recent infantry basic training; but I do have a strong apprehension about committing myself to a military profession. I silently say to myself, I love this great country like Pop and Mom, and I am fulfilling my current obligation according to the law. But to voluntarily spend the rest of my life, giving and taking orders for the sake of discipline. That is a big concern to my twenty-year-old mind. I think of past commissioned officers and sergeants who controlled my life, men in a hurry with little compassion similar to machines. Not once did any of them ask, How do you feel? How are your parents? Where are you from? At times, I wonder whether they belong to the human race. I question if I want that type of life style. I already know I hate parades. After the war , what did the Army do in peacetime besides