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Original code by [info]tasha at [info]premade_ljs. Header and modifications by me.
Mon, Feb 26th, 07 // 10:04A - My Life As A POW - Part III
Standing outside the barracks, you realize there are no bunks. You’re making your way to Stalag 4B during one of the coldest winters in history (1944), and the two small horse-hair blankets you hold, already bug infested, aren’t going to stave off the cold winter nights. You watch as groups of men huddle together, vying for the center of the pile. You’ve already heard the rumors that it’s not uncommon to wake up to the dead – a causality of more than just war, but a ceaseless struggle with the elements.

It’s the first week and all you’ve really had to eat is an eighth of a piece of sour bread and what the German’s pass off to you as coffee. Your stomach knots in pain, people scream in agony, other soldiers tell you that the thought of food passes after six weeks... you just have to make until then. In the meantime you work and sleep and crowd together to stay warm. Christmas evening you get a special feast... wormy potato soup. It’s warm and the protein is welcome and the GI’s surrounding you scarf it up happily.

You lean back, remembering the one (and only) shower you had – when they marched you into camp. A long latrine with scalding hot water, your clothes taken away and run through machines to kill the bugs. It’s deceptively similar to those rooms the S.S. crowd Jews into ... but you won’t know that until you return home (if you return). The thought of even that one simple pleasure lulls you into a fitful sleep.

( My Life As a P.O.W - Part III )
Tue, Feb 20th, 07 // 11:20A - My Life As a POW - Part II
Discovering a talent was often the only thing to keep a P.O.W alive. Being an experienced jeep driver weighed heavily in my grandfather's favor. As the S.S. rounded up prisoner's near Mulhberg, P.O.W's received their first lesson in the value of being useful. Prisoner's were ranked and filed in the field and then sorted out. Those found without inherent utility were lined up, their noses touching concrete, hands tied loosely behind their heads... and shot to death by S.S. marksmen armed with automatic rifles. Digging graves became one of his very first tasks.

( My Life As a P.O.W. - Part II )
Fri, Feb 9th, 07 // 7:22P - My Life As a POW - Part I
Imagine, if you will, a boxcar traveling along broken rail lines, moving no faster than ten or twenty miles per hour; in this boxcar, packed like animals, hundreds of American and foreign soldiers of war. The cars, for the most part, are dark, unventilated, filthy, and hot. Little oxygen's afforded, making it a labor just to breathe.

Standing for days, you realize there may be no real end in sight, because there certainly isn’t food. The only water you’ve had was rainwater captured in a dead GI’s helmet from a hole someone broke in the side of the car. Soon you realize you’re no longer standing on solid steel. The ground is soft and broken... the bodies of the dead cushioning each step. It matters little though, your feet are so frozen there are moments you can't feel a thing. And after a march that would surely kill anyone today, from Belgium all the way into Germany, you finally arrive at your destination. Your home. Welcome to Stalag 4B.

( My Life As a P.O.W - Part I )
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