Valentine’s Day will be different this year. Not because I don’t have a sweetheart (I do). And not because I won’t get roses (I will).
This Valentine’s Day I will be reflecting on the 71st anniversary of my father’s capture by the Nazis in World War II. Yes, it’s an odd thing to commemorate on a day set aside for love. But to Dad, this was an episode in his life far more significant than any Hallmark holiday.
Years ago, Dad told his story to my nephew Gavin, who worked up a small but powerful book for family members tracking dad’s trials.
It was the winter of 1943 and he was a tank gunner in the Army’s 2nd Battalion, 1st Armored Division. The Americans — together with the British — invaded North Africa to roust the Germans, who controlled the Mediterranean coast, blocking the planned Allied invasion of Italy.
The scene, as dad never tired of pointing out, was just like early moments of the movie Patton. There was, however, nothing Hollywood about dad. He traveled those dusty unpaved African roads and fought on the fiery battlefields as a G.I.: Private Jerry Adam Polach. Dad was with his crewmates when the Germans in their powerful Panzers swept down from the mountains. The superior firepower was too much for the Americans. Dad’s tank was hit, as were many others. By days end, 1,400 GI’s were captured, their tanks abandoned in flames.
Yes, it's an odd thing to commemorate on a day set aside for love. But to Dad, this was an episode in his life far more significant than any Hallmark holiday.
Dad remembered the Germans hollering, “Halt.” He and his friends said their goodbyes, thinking they were to be shot. Instead, the Germans took them to a local schoolhouse where they were “stored” until they were flown to Italy. From there, they were driven in small German boxcars to Stalag VIIA, northeast of Munich. They were deloused and given minimal clothes. According to Dad, if it weren’t for the other prisoners — Australians, mainly — who shared the little food they had, he and his fellow Yanks might not have survived.
Eventually, the Red Cross sent in care packages that included things like cheese and crackers, little cans of soup, and cigarettes. There would be quite a bit of trading among the prisoners — and even bartering with the German guards.
Dad was moved to other camps and conditions were harsh. There was little food and water. And when things weren’t going well for the Germans, they would take it out on the prisoners. One time, dad and others were forced to put bags of coal on their backs and march up and down the hills for hours.
Liberation came on April 22, 1945. At that point, dad was in Stalag IIIA, close to Berlin. The Germans abandoned the prison knowing the Russians were close. Dad said his liberators were a sight to behold. He called the Russians “rugged individuals.” And they treated the Americans well. He came home but never forgot the War.
So this Valentine’s Day, the first one since my dad’s death in September, I will commemorate his capture and celebrate his courage. I recently received a medal from the United States government honoring my father’s service and his more than two years internment as a prisoner of war. It is so much better than any valentine I could ever get.
