Ww2 Pow Quotes

The Germans did not like to use the searchlights, especially on nights when there were British bombing raids on nearby installations. Even the most uneducated German soldier could guess that from the air the sight of probing searchlights would make the camp appear to be an ammunition dump or a manufacturing plant, and some hard-pressed Lancaster pilot, having fought off frightening raids by Luftwaffe night fighters, might make an error and drop his stick of bombs right on top of them. So the searchlight use was erratic, which only made them more terrifying to anyone who wanted to maneuver from one hut to another at night. It was difficult to time their sweeps because they were so haphazard.

He shuddered at the idea of digging beneath the surface. It would be stifling, hot, filthy, and dangerous. The ferrets also occasionally commandeered a heavy truck, loaded it with men and material, and drove it, bouncing along, around the outside perimeter of the camp. They believed the weight would cause any underground tunnel to collapse. Once, more than a year earlier, they'd been right. He remembered the fury on Colonel MacNamara's face when the long days and nights of hard work were so summarily crushed.

Al says when he takes me to America we'll have servants. He says all American wives have servants.' He says a lot of things from the sound of it, Mary thought. Her sister was heading for a fall with that American, she was sure of it. Quote from the first of the Haworth trilogy

From "The Prisoner's Cross". This excerpt is from the author's father's real WW2 Japanese POW journal, and recounts a miracle the author's father experienced there. "It was as gray day, and after I had shoveled the iron scrap out of the last drum, I rested on my shovel.Of-course I checked if any guard was doing the rounds. I had crossed paths with remarkable Christians in the camps. Their insights often offered me just the message I needed at a particular-time, and had nurtured not only my faith, but my understanding of how to live it. Still an anger was welling up in me. The winter was coming; we had now been away some two and half years from our family. We never heard anything after their last visit to the Jaarmarkt. There was an anger about the lostness of years, of being 27 and having already spent three birthdays in concentration camps. Suddenly in a mood of utter anger I kicked the heap of iron pieces which flew back at me and landed on the tip of my boot. My kick, at least, had released the tension, and I was ready to start work again, when I noticed the piece of iron on my boot. It startled me. All the pieces had different forms, leftovers, and cutoffs, waste material, less useful than anything else except to get the dirt and rust off the iron cast tools. I slowly bent over and let the iron scrap rest in my hand. It was in the form of a cross four inches long. I kept staring at it, forgetting all about the guard who might come along at any time. I never speculated how it got in the heap, how just this piece hit-the-door, when I kicked the heap apart, how it landed on my boot. There are a million accidental events that happen on any given day. Somehow, this seemed like a message and an answer to my self-questioning a short time back; what in God’s name am I doing in this God forsaken place? It had been in the same mass of scrap iron for days. I had shoveled the scrap in the rotating drum over and over, to glance off the big implements, and remove the rust. The cross in my mind had always been a big question mark. How could a man on a cross, 2000 years back have any usefulness in our time? Slowly I began to perceive that the event might have a purpose now. Jesus of Nazareth was put on a cross by people who absolutely rejected the unconditional love of God expressed in that cross, and then shared by Christians with others. People came and lived and died by that cross, and the strange power of that cross went on in human beings generation after generation unexplainably. People died for it in fierce confession of their faith, in giving their lives for others. The cross was never totally gone from this world, whatever happened outside Jerusalem in 33 A.D.. Now it had jumped on my boot. I let it roll back and forth in my hand. This little insignificant piece of iron scrap had cleaned far more important pieces of iron, it was only an implement. When I opened the drum several times a day, the big pieces came out clear and well. Maybe being a Christian was doing the same thing.