Saturday 3rd – Mechelen’s Diary/Memoir – February 1941

Davids refused to move elsewhere for our discussion, and he would not ask the militia leaders to leave either. Therefore I was presented with the choice between, on the one hand, the humiliation of criticising a fellow officer in front of civilians and, on the other, leaving without making my point. Since we were so recently come to this country, and our reputation was not yet established, I chose the latter course of action: I did not wish these foreigners to gain the impression that we could be disunited, nor let them see that an officer of my country’s army could allow his men to participate in reprehensible acts.

When I re-emerged into the grey winter light in the courtyard, the situation had at least calmed. The civilians were all gone, and now only full-time soldiers remained – plus the corpses and the live, naked prisoners. I spoke to some of these battered, frightened men through our interpreter: apparently they had been officials and administrators in the town government – clerks and desk wallahs, from what I could understand – and they had been ‘arrested’ by the militia because of their close relationship with the former authorities; already this was being referred to as ‘collaboration’, even though the whole population had lived under the same government and served the same masters. It was amazing how quickly these populations could find clear lines of differentiation once the unifying power of an oppressive government had been removed: demarcations of race, social status, and nationalism emerged and were acted upon, [more on this, more subtly – reify] often with an atavistic viciousness that shocked my soldiers, who couldn’t understand such visceral hatred [how theirs was a more politically-/intellectually-driven antipathy – policy rather than gut feeling]. These men were being held illegally, without charge, in the official prison, in a building that supposedly represented the authority of the state and the legitimacy of the law.

I decided that it would be prudent to demonstrate to the population, immediately, that we were an occupying force that recognised the rule of law, and which would not merely do things because they were expedient.

I ordered that the prisoners were found clothes and boots, and that the public were allowed back into the courtyard. I assembled the (now clothed) prisoners behind the tangle of corpses on the cobbles, then mounted a staircase and addressed the crowd through a megaphone. I told them that these men were being freed; that they had committed no crime; that denunciation was no basis for detention; and that the dead men in the courtyard had been unlawfully killed. Doubtless there would be a criminal investigation in the near future to try and determine the identities of the perpetrators. Then we let the prisoners go (the ones who were fit enough – the man who’d lost his eye, and two other men, had been taken to the hospital). The freed prisoners walked gingerly towards the main exit gate, warily looking at the crowds lining the walks: two hours ago these same people would willingly have beaten them to death.

And then it was over. Night was falling already, and we were driven back to barracks, each driver following the tiny red bulb on the tailboard of the truck in front.

On the journey back to barracks my anger became tempered by a cooler desire to take the correct approach to this situation: I would make sure that everything was done properly, and not allow my personal disdain for Davids to skew my strategy. I realised that I did not really have enough evidence with which to approach our senior commander, and so I determined that I would wait until I had a firmer case.

{[Memoir form, not diary…?] Nevertheless, the incident at the bastion was indicative of the dangers that the conduct of the war posed to our men’s discipline and morale. These dangers became increasingly apparent as the local populations took their opportunity to revenge themselves on collaborators, on their former neighbours, and on the ‘parasitic Slavs’ that had been undermining their economy and exploiting the more trusting, honest and gullible [‘Caucasian’] citizens.}

Diary entry, March 3rd 1941:
Newly arrived in the city of [F]. From 0430 to 0800 at the railway station, overseeing unloading of Company vehicles. Usual crowd of gawking civilians at the railings. Crowd the usual mixture of children, idiot men of all ages, and women with ragged clothes and dirty faces. I suppose this at least means that the productive citizens are back in their workplaces. Everyday normality returns very swiftly after the steamroller of war moves along. One of my men (Corporal G., from the third platoon) was badly run over when a truck rolled off one of the rail cars. The brakes had not been securely applied, and no wheel chocks had been used. I have instigated an investigation to determine who was responsible, and then I will instigate disciplinary action. (Corporal G., I have learnt, has died at the hospital. Such stupidity and incompetence.)

March 1oth: Very spring-like here today! Early morning inspection tour of barracks by General M – everything ‘extremely satisfactory, extremely’ (as he always says). Davids fawned quite disgustingly: his smiling face was never more than four feet away from the General’s. It made me feel rather ill at first, but gradually his sycophancy became so obvious and comical that I could only laugh. Shameless.
Very spring-like. White cumulus clouds against a blue sky, and a warmer breeze blowing across the parade square. Noticable that there are more birds singing. A stork nest on a (dead) factory chimney on the other side of the perimeter fence, and I saw some deer at the forest fringe over there. Makes me long for home, and for my darling K. I have been thinking about her often since we arrived, and still await her first letter. (Incidentally, I still can’t quite believe what has happened: that I have met someone like K., and that she has loved me so deeply and tenderly. While I await her letter, and the resumption of our contact, it makes the whole episode seem unreal, as if it happened to someone else. I know that as soon as I see her handwriting on the envelope everything will become real and colourful again.)

Superb rabbit stew from the cook this evening, with local vegetables. No alcohol due to action in the morning. I will be in bed by 10.
March 11th: Action today, consolidating villages in the B-W district. Usual intensity of feeling and range of performance from the men. Started round up at dawn, but action proper started rather late due to transport shortfall (another logistical triumph on the part of the HQ staff). Called a halt at dusk, when remaining detainees (about 500) were dispatched to a local warehouse for overnight storage. Second unit to complete action in the morning.

Excellent brandy and champagne in the mess this evening – drank my share, and I am feeling rather tired. Wish that I could talk to K and tell her how I feel about her. Composed a letter to her but tore it up as it didn’t express what I meant to say. There’s so much I feel and want to tell her, but when I try and put it into words it all becomes tangled up and ridiculous. It’s like I need to be able to write three parallel lines all at once, which she can read together; that would be the way to get her to understand all the things I feel, expressed in the correct way. K, K. Damn, I love that woman. But the whole situation seems impossible. She is so far away and everything is impractical. I will write her another letter in the morning, when I am sober and can think properly.

There was a strange, striking moment during the action today. It happened in the evening, when everything was finished, and we were just tidying up after the detainees had been dispatched to the factory warehouse for the night. The breeze was blowing, but it was still warm. The spring leaves on the trees were whispering in the dusk, as if the trees were talking to each other, and the evening sky had a hint of violet in the whitish blue. It was a very beautiful moment. I thought I could hear water chuckling, like water flowing in a culvert after heavy rain. I stopped and stood very still, with my eyes half closed. Just listening. The sound seemed to grow louder – it was puzzling. Then everything switched – like those illusory pictures that can be a rabbit or a duck, but never both at the same time – and I realised that it was the sound of horseshoes on the road.

It was strange to hear that sound after the work that we had been doing all day. Surreal. The echo and clap of the hooves on the metalled road, the sound coming and going between the tree trunks. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, resting on the handles of their shovels or leaning against the side of a truck.

The horse broke out into the open. It was a pale grey animal that looked ghostly in the fading light, and it was pulling a light-coloured carriage behind it. As the carriage got nearer I could see that a militia man was sitting in the driver’s position, holding the whip and reins uncomfortably, and looking frightened. He hauled back on the reins as he approached us, and the horse pulled up, snorting and complaining at this inexpert treatment.

The driver said “Two more for you,” and tapped on the roof with the whip.
“We’re finished for the day,” I said, “no more business today.”
“That’s nothing to do with me,” said the driver, “I was told to bring them to you. Quite important people, I think.”
“Oh? Oh well, then, let’s have a look.”

One of my NCOs opened up the door and stuck his head inside. I heard him ask some questions, and then he stepped back and pulled down the collapsible steps beneath the doorway. He held out his hand and an elderly man leant on the NCO’s arm as he descended the steps, his walking stick hooked over his free arm. A woman followed him She was about ten years the old man’s junior, and you could tell that she had been very beautiful – in fact, she still was. She was carrying a towel and a small toilet bag. The old man was wearing a pale-coloured linen suit and a straw hat. She wore a long linen dress, bunched in at the waist, and a light-coloured woollen jacket. The pair of them might have been on their way to a summer picnic. They looked at us, confused.

“Excuse me, but where are we to go now?” asked the old man, looking at me. His wife – I presume she was his wife – had taken his arm, in a way that was both supportive to him and reassuring to herself.

I looked at my NCO and raised my eyebrows. He nodded.

“Please go along with my Sergeant here – he will show you the way.”

I watched as the three of them, followed by a couple of soldiers with rifles, disappeared into the gloom of the forest. The old couple’s [pale] clothes left ghostly after images, and it was hard to distinguish where the shadows ended and the people started.

The militia man had disappeared. I wondered what the fuck we were going to do with this horse and carriage.

(c. 1940 words)