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This story continues as number A7736295
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… the last two days before I was taken prisoner I was ordered about 100 yards forward of the front line, together with a comrade, to take position in an upturned concrete pipe dumped into the ground. It was about 2m long with a diameter of 1.5m and had a hole cut in the middle so we could get in and out. We both had a rifle (Karabiner .98”) and a machine gun (.42”). It is difficult to remember the details now, after 60 years, but here are the last two days before I had to take my “hands up”.

All of a sudden a motorcycle driven by a soldier appeared, at speed, some 200 yards distance from us, travelling along the road from the direction of Deventer. I stood in the trench in the hole that came up from our pipe, behind the machine gun. My comrade was taking a nap. The motorcyclist stopped to take a look and work out where he was as he didn’t seem to know at that moment, turning his head to the left and right several times. I recognised that he was not one of ours.

I did not squeeze the trigger on my machine gun. I did not shoot in order to let him escape. He must have noticed his situation as, lightening fast, he turned to the motorcycle and off he went. This would not be without consequences for me. It was bound to have been observed; and it was. I was ordered back to see our company commander to make a report. Would I face a sentence of death by shooting or what?

First, I was asked to give the reason that I did not shoot. In the time it took me to arrive at the company commander’s I had got my story straight in my mind. I was clear in what I was to say and said; “I thought he was one of ours”. The helmet was like ours (paratrooper — the unit I belonged to at the very end), high boots like ours — and the same sort of camouflage coloured thin topcoat made from sailcloth. We called them ‘Knochenŝacke’ which means ‘bone-bags’.

At first he refused to believe me and became very loud; and the loudness of his voice was getting progressively worse. Again and again I told him the same story, always sticking to my lie. I have forgotten the name of the commander but, nevertheless, he must have been a good fellow, maybe thinking “Let him go, he is of an age to be my own son”. At least he seemed to know how to behave and I was released. That was very good luck.

I knew that I had saved a young man’s life that day and up until this day I am very pleased that I did.
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Added by: Alan Brigham - www.hullwebs.co.uk

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