My Journey of Captivity: The Story of a German POW

By Helga McKee

Hans Gussmann, a German soldier, endured nearly three years of internment by the Allies after World War II-a forgotten chapter overshadowed by the more well-known tales of prisoners held by the Russians. "Prisoner of Peace" unveils this untold story, offering a true and sometimes humorous account based on Gussmann's prison notebooks and memoirs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leap Write Literary
• Release date: Mar 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893760101

Helga McKee

HELGA MCKEE is not only a co-author of the captivating book "Prisoner of Peace" by Hans Gussmann but also a talented writer in her own right. Beyond her significant role in translating her father's biography, she has independently authored and self-published another book The Extended War Diary of a German POW.Currently, Helga is passionately working on her third book, showcasing her dedication to storytelling.Born in Nuremberg, Germany, and having spent four years in France, Helga's diverse cultural experiences shape her unique perspective. In 1956, she immigrated to the United States, making Tennessee her home. Residing on a small rural farm near Music City Nashville with her husband Willie, Helga is a devoted mother and a proud grandmother with a total of six grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.It's essential to note that Helga McKee is not just associated with her father's book. She has also written a book on her own, delved into the creation of short stories, and continues to actively pursue her passion for writing. Her literary pursuits go beyond a singular project, emphasizing her commitment to bringing her creative endeavors to fruition. Amidst her diverse interests, from music, singing, and dancing to spending quality time with family, traveling, and tending to her summertime garden, Helga is a dynamic and inspiring literary figure in her own right.

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Contents

For My Family

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

For My Family

Iwould like to dedicate this book to my daughter, Helga, who worked tirelessly on the translation and encouraged me to have it published. She has always been my pillar of support, and I am grateful for her unwavering presence.

Next, my son-in-law, Willie, has been like the son I never had. I couldn’t have wished for a better and more caring son-in-law.

Also, a heartfelt dedication to my grandsons, Ronnie, Gary, and Tony, and their wives, Debbie, Jerilynn, and Kelly. Special mention to my great-grandchildren.

In loving memory of my grandson, John, who will never be forgotten.

I love all of you!

Acknowledgments

Iwould like to express my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who has contributed to the realization of this book.

I am incredibly grateful to my father, Hans Gussmann , for entrusting me with the task of translating his autobiography, Hans Gussmann, and for the profound impact his life story has had on my own. Your resilience, wisdom, and unwavering belief in the power of peace continue to inspire me every day.

I am deeply indebted to my husband, Willie, for your unwavering love, support, and encouragement throughout this endeavor. Your belief in me has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

To my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, thank you for your unwavering love, understanding, and patience during the writing process. Your support means the world to me.

I would also like to extend my gratitude to my friends, family, and colleagues for their encouragement, feedback, and support throughout this journey. Your belief in me and this project has been a source of motivation and inspiration.

Lastly, I want to express my sincere appreciation to Leapwrite Literary for their expertise, guidance, and support in bringing this book to life.

Thank you all for being a part of this incredible journey. Your contributions have made this book possible, and I am deeply grateful for your support.

With heartfelt thanks,

Helga McKee

Introduction

When my father, Hans Gussmann, had to have a couple of surgeries on his leg, he was out of work for almost a full year. So, being restricted from driving and walking, he spent many hours sitting indoors and outdoors if weather permitted. His favorite place was under a shade tree in his lawn chair. I guess he became too restless and decided to write his autobiography from the day of his being captured as a German prisoner-of-war until the day of his release. He had kept a small diary in which he recorded his daily adventures, miseries, and attempts at survival. Writing became a great pastime for him and helped him from becoming too bored.

Quite a while later, I asked him one day if he had finished the story on which he had been working so fervently. He said yes that he had and asked me if I would like to read it. I told him that I would indeed like to read it. Well, I was astonished! I could hardly believe that my dad had written what I was reading. I could not put it down. I laughed and cried and realized that there were so many wonderful qualities about him that I had never known before. I was also amazed how well written it was and wanted my children, my husband, my friends, and everyone I knew to share in this touching true story. But there was one problem, it was all written in the German language. I thought, perhaps, when my children were older and in school and I had more time, that I would translate the manuscript into English so that the people who spoke English and not just German could read it.

Finally, after much procrastination, I started on the translation. It was not always easy and many nights I sat up until the wee hours of the morning working. Often my fingers and hand ached, but at times, I was so fascinated that I could not stop.

Then, tragedy struck our family. My youngest son was killed in an automobile accident. Everything in me died with him and it took me a very long time before I could resume the translation. Of course, the manuscript needed lots of help in rewriting some of the expressions and correcting spelling. That was when our dear friend, Nancy Hite, agreed to give it a professional polish. She did a great job and I take this opportunity to let her know how much dad and I appreciate her for the time and energy required for the completion. Nancy is a great lady and a wonderful friend and my writer.

Helga Gussmann McKee

December 19, 2002

Chapter 1

Let me make it clear up front. I was not a Nazi. I was drafted into the German army, the Deutsche Wehrmacht, on April 1, 1939, at age nineteen and a half, during World War II. It was by no means a political army, such as the Sturm Staffel Troopers or the Gestapo, and therefore cannot be called Nazi as so many foreign countries called us then. We did our duties as soldiers only and not to support any cause such as political fascism.

After boot camp and more substantial training, my military orders led me to fight in European countries and from there to the mighty gruesome battleground of Russia. Toward the end of the war, following our defeat in Russia, our way led back to the Rhine River. As master sergeant of arms, weapons and munitions, I went through six years of hellish war and was wounded twice while fighting in Russia. The first time I sustained a serious injury to my left hand while in a foxhole by returning an exploding hand grenade. Part of the debris entered the palm of my hand and exited through the other side. While healing, I was transferred to Berlin, Germany, to the military academy where I was trained to become a demolition expert. The instructor was Wernher von Braun who later headed the space program at the Huntsville, Alabama Space Center. When I had recovered and finished my training, I was sent back to the Russian front for active duty, which by then was November of 1943. My second injury was to my left leg. A Russian tank overran our lines in a fierce battle and came in contact with my leg. That time, I almost lost my leg.

I began to write my memoirs on March 19, 1945, the day I was captured by the Americans and made a prisoner of war and ended these memoirs on the day of release my freedom. I wrote everything as it happened, to the best of my knowledge. I hope no one will be offended by my peculiar expressions, for it is only this way that I can truly describe and tell everything as it was. Six years of war and close to three years as a POW did not exact leave me with a high etiquette vocabulary. During that time, I did not have a name, only a number.

Everything fell apart after the Battle of the Bulge in January 1945. On March 19, the German front was close to breakdown, and General Patton mow occupied Bridge Remagen over the Rhine River in Germany. For days, American tanks near the village of Malmeshein, Germany, surrounded us. Surprisingly, the Americans did not want to fight during the night and make unsuccessful attempts at trying to escape by getting closer to the cities near the Belgium-Germany border where we thought it would be safer.

We were tired, hungry, had worn the same clothes for months, and we knew we did not stand a chance of winning this ridiculous war. We just wanted to go home to our families. With no backup help, it was a losing battle. We watched the English and American Air Force squadrons fly into Germany both day and night, wondering if our parents, wives and children were still alive. No one dare asked the others that question, or make any comment about it, because it was too painful.

Hitler once remarked in one of the speeches I heard him make in my hometown, Nuremberg, If the enemy wants Germany, they will have to walk over our dead bodies to get it. We shall fight until then. It looks that way, I thought, as I sat in a ditch with fifteen other soldiers. I recalled a time my wife and I were riding our bicycles on a highway in Nuremberg before the war and Hitler and his entourage drove by in a shiny black limousine. We had to get off our bikes and greet him with Heil Hitler. At the time, hardly any German people had bad feelings for Hitler, because he did a lot for the working people. It was a surprise and at the same time an exciting event to have run upon him on the highway. My, hoy my thinking has changed, I thought, for now I was sitting in this ditch cursing him for this horrible war.

It was still nighttime on March 19, 1945; we waited for daylight so we could try to go to the village of Malmshein. I heard through a military radio that members of my group, the 46th Volks Grenadir division, as long as there were any left, should meet and resist the enemy as long as there were sunrises. I thought it sounded like a big joke and it sure was crazy with us being surrounded. I decided to wait for daylight and then head down to the village with my men, if the enemy did not occupy it.

At 7:00 A.M., we reached Malmshein, about thirty-one kilometers east of the Rhine River. A sign let me know that the commander in charge of our division was staying at the local schoolhouse. Our meeting was brief. As a master sergeant, I specialized in diffusing bombs, and dynamite, but this time, my orders were to build foxholes, ditches and blockades to keep enemy tanks out. My thoughts and comments on the commander’s orders were such that I do not want to describe or comment on them because I thought they stuck.

We cut down trees and stacked them to keep enemy tanks from coming through. We dug out ditches and foxholes. We were finished by 10:00 A.M., and I felt t was all a waste of time and energy, all of it is so senseless and hopeless. My men and I sat down and rested in the ward March sun. Little was said, but I knew what they were thinking. Their minds, as mine, were home with their families whom they longed to be with and take care of instead, we all were stuck in this damned mess.

As we waited for things to happen, we noticed a very strange occurrence at the schoolhouse. The commander in charge of our division and three other high-ranking officers had all dressed in civilian clothes and were getting in a car. I found out later that they were headed for the Rhine River where they planned to cross and head toward inland Germany and safe territory. After that, a motorcycle appeared with two more Germany officers, also dressed in civilian clothed, who soon disappeared, in the same direction as he others. They never even requested the usual military greeting of Heil Hitler from us as they passed and left only a cloud of dust behind.

We had been deserted and left to our own devices. My men looked at me, and I knew I had to say exactly what they expected. I said, You are now relieved of all duties under my command. You are free to go and be on your own. Good luck. I shook each one’s hand.

We all knew it was over, the war that is. However, was it really over? Would we survive? Then what? We surely did not want to break down now, not after all we had behind us, fighting in the cold of Russia and everywhere else. I glanced toward the village and spotted white surrender sheets hanging out the windows of each house. I did not hold it against those people of my nationality. I understood they did not want to die, nor did they want their village destroyed. I think they all wished us out of there and to the devil with us with the enemy closing in.

Some of my men ran toward barns and hid there. Some went looking for civilian clothing for disguise. When I heard gunfire and American tanks approaching, I hid under a sheet hanging from a window, then ran about like an idiot and could not find anything better to hide inside of than a large culvert pipe. Another soldier joined me in the damp, stinking hole. It was a good place for rats, but right now, it was our hideout from the enemy. Tanks were rolling above us and the noise was terrible. I wanted to wait until nightfall, and then try to make it through the tank barricade. I sure did not want to be taken prisoner of war, nor did I want to be seen by Hitler’s Gestapo and Military Police who were all around the area. If they suspected we were leaving the front, they would have us shot on the spot. Those were Hitler’s strict orders, and they would hold a very short court by tying a rope around our necks and hanging us from the nearest tree. On the way, as we retreated and the front broke down, I saw many German soldiers hung from trees along the road that were caught trying to go home. Many soldiers were intelligent enough to know that it was senseless to go on fighting a war that was already lost.

Right before I crawled in my culvert pipe hiding hole, I saw a hand grenade zoom by and land on top of a barn roof. I noticed then that a whole tank outfit was headed toward the other end of the village to close it off. In no time at all, we were surrounded and helpless. After all, the Americans also had their knowledge of military skills and tried to outsmart the enemy just as we had been taught.

Since there was not any backfire coming from the village, the Americans soon ceased firing and took over the village of Malmshein. I counted eight tanks that rolled over my hiding hole, then several GMC trucks loaded with infantry. Listening to commands given in English, I was sure they were searching the whole village.

My Swiss wristwatch with a lighted dial said it was noon. I figured seven hours until dark, and then maybe around 9:00 P.M., we could sneak out and escape. Those plans ended when an hour later at 1:00 P.M., a barrel of a gun was stuck in my face with a friendly invitation, half German, half English: Comrade, come schnel. The soldier repeated his little verse three more times until the other German hiding with me poked me in the ribs and whispered that soon a hand grenade would send us to heaven if we did not get out. I was only twenty-five and a half years old and I was not ready to die.

We crawled out of our hole, threw down our weapons (gun belt with pistols), and raised our hands above our heads. With their guns pointed at us, the Americans marched us back to the old schoolhouse in Malmshein where all the captives were being held. Ten of my fifteen men were standing there with their hands above their heads. Some had been found in hog pens, others in barns and chicken houses. One was even hidden in a pile of straw soaked in piss and manure.

The first American I laid my eyes on wore a helmet and his face was covered in freckles. His red hair peaked down his forehead. He was chewing gum, and the way he chewed it reminded me of a cow in the pasture chewing its cud. I soon found out the English word for my watch, because he wanted it and took it off my wrist. Good-bye watch, I thought. At least, I was still alive and did not die according to Hitler’s wishes and ideas.

After a one-hour wait, we