大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War Site by John Hughes, for Three Counties Action, on behalf of Ken Derrick, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

ROTKOPF

We were in Lubeck, Northern Germany, just after the surrender and the end of the war in Europe. After the fighting, there was much work to do to establish some sort of order and stability. We were keen to go home ourselves, but before that, one of our jobs was to demobilise German forces. For ordinary soldiers of the Wehrmacht, this was usually a simple matter of delousing, showering, returning personal things such as letters, photographs and any other possessions, and giving them some Occupation money to take them home, where possible. Not all had a home to go to as home was either destroyed or in the Soviet occupied territories and therefore not accessible. Most were glad to be out of the war and they were polite and grateful for the help we gave them.

The SS were a different story. Each member had their blood group tattooed on their arm. Where these were found, or where some had tried to cut or scrape them off or were trying to hide among ordinary soldiers, they were put in lorries to go elsewhere for further investigation. Many of the escorting troops had seen what the SS had done in concentration camps and other places and were not too gentle in getting their charges on board. Staves with barbed wire wrapped round were freely used and we fully understood the feelings that were running so high.

One night, near our billet, we found a young boy, less than ten years old, scavenging for food in the bins. We befriended him and learned that his father had been killed on the Eastern Front, fighting the Russians. He and his mother lived in a nearby tenement building in an area that had been damaged by bombing. They were always hungry. We all chipped in with food and soap for them and the boy came to us every day and we visited his home. Because of his red hair, we called him 鈥淩otkopf鈥� or 鈥淩edhead鈥�. Life was hard for him and his mother. She had been badly treated even by her own country鈥檚 troops and was grateful for all we could spare, particularly the soap, which was a rare commodity then.

One night, ENSA (Entertainments National Services Association) put on a show. In one of the turns on stage, I danced with Bernie Winters, both of us dressed as fairies but wearing hob-nailed boots. Rotkopf and his mother were invited and enjoyed the evening away from all their troubles.

Then, as was usual, we were given immediate notice to move. No time to say good bye. As our tanks formed up and rolled out of town, Rotkopf ran up and raced alongside our Sherman, tears streaming down his pale face. We were afraid that he might fall under the tracks but could do nothing but wave and wish him luck.

That was the last we knew of him. I often wonder if he remembered us British soldiers and thought kindly of us in the post-war years..

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