The author signs, "Martin Brech (Adjunct Professor, Philosophy & Religion, Mercy College; Ex-G.I., Finally Free)"
Yeah, well, what about the OTHER "holocaust?" Was it real?
From: hengist
By Martin Brech

FORTY-FIVE years ago, I witnessed an atrocity: the deliberate
starvation of German POWs by our own army. History, written
by the victors, suppressed all news of this atrocity until James
Bacque, a Canadian author, published his brilliant expose,
OTHER LOSSES. This book is a best seller in Canada, a sensation
in Europe, yet is virtually unavailable (censored?) in the U.S.
Our major booksellers told me their distributors are not handling
it. When I prevailed upon a small, independent bookstore to order
direct from Canada, the publisher told them they would be the only
store in New York State to carry the book.
This in 'the land of the free'?"

Fortunately, Pat Buchanan called attention to OTHER LOSSES
in his January 10, 1990 column. He wrote:

  "Conclusion: the U.S. Army killed ten times as many Germans in
POW camps as we did on battlefields from Normandy to V.E. day.
(German POWs) had their rations cut below survival level until
they were dying at rates up to 30% of exposure, starvation and
neglect... Red Cross food trains were turned back and U.S. food
shipments sat on the docks...One French officer said the U.S.
camps reminded him of Dachau and Buchenwald...The book
blames Eisenhower. 'The German is a beast,' Ike had written...
But that was not how the Canadians and British felt, who treated
their prisoners justly...It was not the view of General Mark Clark,
nor of Patton...Ignoring the book is not enough."

Pat Buchanan's courageous column inspired me to help end the
cover-up of the atrocity I had witnessed. I wrote letters to several
newspapers which were, of necessity, short and incomplete. Now
I would like to finally free more of my painful memories, hoping
to be heard, so that this will help us to acknowledge our share in
the "banality of evil", cleansing ourselves with the truth. Perhaps
we as a nation may then put this behind us with some integrity
and with some hope for redemption.

In October 1944, at age eighteen, I was drafted into the army while
a student at the NYS College of Forestry. Largely due to the "Battle
of the Bulge", my training was cut short, my furlough cut in half,
and I was then immediately sent overseas. Upon arrival in Le Havre,
France, we were quickly loaded into boxcars and shipped to the front.
By the time we reached it, I had developed mononucleosis severely
enough to be sent to a hospital in Belgium.

By the time I left the hospital, the unit I had trained with in
Spartenburg, South Carolina was so deeply into Germany that
I warn placed in a "repo depo" (a replacement depot) despite my
protests. I then lost interest in which units I was assigned to because
non-combat units were generally not respected. My separation
qualification record states that I served mostly with the 14th
Infantry Regiment, during which time I guarded prisoners of war
and served as an interpreter. During my seventeen month stay in
Germany, I was transferred to other outfits also.

In late March or early April 1945, I was assigned to help guard a
POW camp near Andernach along the Rhine. I had four years of
high school German, so I was able to talk to the prisoners, although
this was forbidden.

Gradually, however, I was used as an interpreter and asked to
ferret out the S.S. (I found none.)

In Andernach, between 50,000 and 65,000 prisoners, ranging in
age from very young teens to very old men, were crowded together
in an open field surrounded by barbed wire. The women were kept
in a separate enclosure which I did not see until later. The men
I guarded had no tents or other shelter, no blankets and many had
no coats. Inadequate numbers of slit trenches were provided for
excrement, and so the men lived and slept in the mud and increasing
filth during a cold, wet spring. Their misery from exposure alone
was evident.

It was even more shocking to see them eating grass, sometimes
throwing it into a tin can containing a thin soup. They told me they
did this hoping to ease their hunger pains. Soon their emaciation
was evident. Dysentery raged and, too weak and crowded to reach
the slit trenches, they were increasingly sleeping in excrement. I saw
no sign of provision for water, so the thin soup was their food and
water for the day. Some days there was bread, less than a slice each.
Other days there was nothing.

The sight of so many men desperate for food and water, sickening
and dying before our eyes, is indescribable. Even now, I can only
think of it momentarily.

We had ample food and supplies that could have been shared more
humanely, and we could have offered some medical assistance, but
did nothing. Only the dead were quickly and efficiently taken care
of: hauled away to mass graves.

My outrage reached the point that I protested to my officers, but
I was met with hostility or bland indifference. When pressed,
they explained they were under strict orders from "higher up".
No officer would dare to systematically do this to over 50,000
prisoners if he felt he was violating general policy and subject
to court martial. The term "war criminal" was just beginning to
come into fashion.

Realizing my protests were useless, I asked a friend working in
the kitchen if he could slip me some extra food for the prisoners.
He too repeated that they were under strict orders to severely
ration the prisoners' food, and that these orders came from
"higher up". But he said they had more food than they knew
what to do with and would sneak me some.

When I threw this food over the barbed wires to the prisoners
I was caught and threatened with imprisonment. I repeated the
"offense", and one officer threatened to shoot me. I naturally
assumed this was a bluff, but I began to have some doubts after
I encountered a captain on a hill above the Rhine shooting down
at a group of German civilian women with his .45 caliber pistol.
When I asked, "Why?" he mumbled, "Target practice," and fired
until his pistol was empty. I saw the women running for cover,
but, at that distance, couldn't tell if any had been hit.

This is when I more fully realized I was dealing with some
cold-blooded killers filled with moralistic hatred. They considered
the Germans sub-human and worthy of extermination; another
expression of the downward spiral of racism. Articles in the G.I.
newspaper, Stars & Stripes, played up the Nazi concentration camps,
complete with photographs of emaciated bodies; this amplified our
self-righteous cruelty and made it easier to imitate behavior we were
supposed to oppose. Also, I think, soldiers not exposed to combat
were trying to prove how tough they were by taking it out on the
prisoners and civilians. At least, many combat soldiers told me
later they would not have tolerated this, for they combined hatred
with respect for a courageous enemy.

The prisoners I spoke to were mostly simple farmers and workingmen,
as ignorant, albeit nationalistic, as many of our own troops. I heard
many versions of "my country, right or wrong, my country," which
we still hear in our own country today.

As time went on, many of them lapsed into a Zombie-like state
of listlessness. Others, maddened by thirst, tried to escape in a
desperate or suicidal fashion, running through open fields in broad
daylight towards the Rhine to quench their thirst. They were mowed

Some prisoners were extremely eager for cigarettes, saying they
took the edge off their hunger. Accordingly, some enterprising
G.I. "Yankee traders" were acquiring hordes of wrist watches and
rings in exchange for handfuls of cigarettes or less. When I began
throwing cartons of cigar-ettes to the prisoners to ruin this trade,
I found myself threatened by rank-and-file G.I.s also. At least this
taught me an indelible lesson: how wrong majorities and authorities
can be.

A bright spot in this gloomy picture came, oddly enough, one night
when I was put on the "graveyard shift", from two to four A.M.
Actually, there was a graveyard on the uphill side of this enclosure,
not many yards away. My superiors had forgotten to give me a
flashlight and I hadn't bothered to ask, being disgusted with the
whole situation by that time. It was a fairly bright night and I soon
became aware of a prisoner crawling under the wires to the graveyard.
We were supposed to shoot escapees on sight, so I started to get up
to warn him to get back. Suddenly I noticed another prisoner crawling
from the graveyard back to the enclosure. They were risking their
lives to get to the graveyard for something; I had to investigate.

When I entered the gloom of this shrubby, tree-shaded cemetery,
I never felt more vulnerable, but somehow curiosity kept me going.
Despite my caution, I tripped over the legs of someone in a prone
position. Whipping my rifle around while stumbling and trying to
regain composure of mind and body, I soon was relieved I hadn't
reflexively fired. The figure sat up, moving erratically. Gradually
I could see the beautiful but terror-stricken face of a woman with
a picnic basket nearby. German civilians were not allowed to feed,
nor even come near, the prisoners, so I quickly assured her I approved
of what she was doing, not to be afraid, and that I would leave the
graveyard to get out of the way, telling no one.

I left the graveyard as quickly as possible and sat down, leaning
against a tree at the edge CF the cemetary to be inconspicuous and
not frighten the prisoners. I imagined then, and often since, what it
would be like to be a prisoner under those conditions and meet a
beautiful woman with a picnic basket. I never saw her again, but I
have never forgotten her face.

While I watched, more prisoners crawled to and from the enclosure.
I saw they were dragging food back to their comrades and could only
admire their courage and devotion. As I walked back to my quarters
at the end of my shift, a nightingale and I were singing -- both felt a
touch of spring.

(I originally did not intend to reveal the following incident, for it
moves into a realm termed "mystical". However, for me, it was an
extremely significant experience, changing my life, providing a light
no darkness can extinguish. It must be told, hoping it will foster

On May 8, V.E. day, I decided to celebrate with some prisoners
I was guarding who were baking bread, meager amounts of which
the other prisoners occasionally received. This group had all the
bread they could eat, and shared the jovial mood generated by the
end of the war. We all thought we would be going home soon, a
pathetic hope on their part. We were in what was to become the
French zone, and I later witnessed the brutality of the French
soldiers when we transferred our prisoners to them for their
slave labor camps (see below).

However, on this day we were happy.

After chatting with them about the potentials of peace for the rest
of our lives, I decided to risk a gesture of trust that objectively
would seem foolish. I emptied my rifle and stood it in the corner.
They tested me further by asking to play with it, and I agreed.
Intuitively I felt I could rely on their sense of honor not to attack
me, for they knew they too were being tested. This thoroughly
'broke the ice', and soon we were singing songs we taught each
other or I had learned in high school German ("Du, du, liegst mir
im Herzen"). Out of gratitude, they secretly baked a small sweet
bread and insisted I take it, explaining it was the only possible gift
they had left to offer. Expressing my gratitude with a lump in my
throat, I put it in my tight "Eisenhower jacket" so I could sneak it
back to my barracks. I later found an opportunity to eat it outside.

Never had bread tasted more delicious, nor conveyed to me a
deeper sense of communion while eating it. A wonderful feeling
pervaded me, gently opening me to an intimation of the Oneness
of all Being. Through those prisoners I sensed the ~cosmic
presence of what has been called the Christ, Buddha-nature, or,
perhaps most aptly, the Ineffable: cosmically present, but hidden
and apparently separate, until revealed in the wholeness of the
giving of the self. Even within the horror humans had created,
I was taught a path to redemption may open by taking a first,
tentative step in the direction of love, understanding and forgiveness.
This above all the prisoners taught me: not only are we all potentially
humane humans, there is divinity within us waiting for us to dissolve
the defensive shield of ego. I was pleased to discover later the words
of Matthew 25:34-46, expressing the potential within prisoners and
all who are at our mercy.

Shortly after this experience I was plunged into even greater horror.
Some of our weak and sickly prisoners were being marched off by
French soldiers to their camp. The truck we were on first passed
another truck picking up bodies along the side of the road, and then
came up behind a slowly moving column of men. Temporarily we
slowed down and remained behind, perhaps because the driver was
as shocked as I was. The French soldiers were apparently incensed
at the poor condition of our prisoners, not only for labor but for
marching to another camp. Whenever a prisoner staggered or
dropped back, the French clubbed him to death and then dragged
him to the side of the road. For many, this quick death might have
been preferable to their prolonged suffering. Even gas would have
been more merciful than our murder by neglect in our slow 'killing

When I saw the German women held in a separate enclosure, I asked
why we were keeping them. I was told they were "camp followers",
selected as breeding stock for the S.S. to create a super-race. We
provided them with tents but they were extremely hungry. I spoke
to some and must say they were still spirited and attractive. However,
I believe I was objective enough when I told all concerned that I didn't
think they deserved our treatment.

As an interpreter, I was able to prevent some particularly
unfortunate arrests. One somewhat amusing incident occurred
during a pre-dawn raid we conducted on a town to discover Nazis
or arms. An old farmer was being dragged away by some soldiers.
I was told he had a "fancy Nazi medal", which they showed to me.
Fortunately, I had a chart identifying such medals. He had been
awarded it for having five or more children! Perhaps his wife was
somewhat relieved to get him "off her back", but I didn't think one
of our 'death camps' was a fair punishment for his contribution to
Germany. The soldiers agreed and released him to continue his
"dirty work".

Famine was spreading amongst German civilians also. It was a
common sight to see German women up to their elbows in our
garbage cans looking for something edible -- that is, when they
weren't chased away.

When I interviewed mayors of small towns and villages, I was told
their supply of food had been taken away by "displaced persons"
(foreigners who had worked in Germany), who packed the food
on trucks and drove away. When I reported this, the response was
a shrug or an expression of helplessness.

Although the Red Cross coffee and doughnut stands were available
everywhere for us, I never saw any Red Cross in the prison camps
or helping the civilians. While my girlfriend had all the "contraband"
doughnuts she could eat, most Germans had to share their meager
hidden stores and wait until the next harvest.

This hunger undoubtedly made many German women more "available",
but, despite this, rape was incredibly prevalent and often accompanied
by additional violence. I particularly remember a charming eighteen
year old girl who had several unsuccessful suitors and was "just friends"
with me, who had the side of her face smashed with a rifle butt and
was then raped by two G.I.s. The casual shooting of German civilians
also continued, usually by drunken soldiers who would tell of this as
something amusing. All too many G.I.s gave the impression they were
1ike animals released from cages, free to do what they liked because
they were dealing with yet a lower species of animal, a reverse
racism, inflamed by our propaganda. However, even the French
complained to me that our rape and drunken destructive behavior
in their country was excessive. When we had arrived in Le Havre,
we had been given booklets instructing us that the Germans had
maintained a high standard of behavior with French civilians who
were peaceful, and that we should do the same. In this we failed

So what? we might still say. The enemies' atrocities were worse
than ours. Certainly my experiences were only of the last phases
of the war, when we were already clearly the victors. The Nazi
opportunity for atrocities had faded and ours was unleashed.
But we might have learned the simple lesson that two wrongs do
not make a right. Perhaps we might even have broken the cycle
of vengeful retaliation and unbridled hatred, fed by racism, that
has plagued human history and blighted human potential all to
long. Instead, we committed our own atrocities and now are
clinging to a cover-up. That is why I am speaking out now,
forty-five years after the crime. We can never prevent individual
war crimes, but we can, if enough of us speak out, influence
government policy. We can reject government propaganda that
depicts our enemies as subhuman and encourages the kinds of
outrages I witnessed. We can protest the bombing of civilian
targets, which still goes on today. (I will never forget the sickly
sweet smell of rotting human flesh rising from the shattered
remains of the cities and towns I entered.) And we can refuse
ever to condone our government' s murder of unarmed and
defeated prisoners of war.

I realized it's difficult to admit witnessing a crime of this
magnitude, especially if implicated oneself. Even G.I .s sympathetic
to the victims told me they were afraid to oppose so massive a
policy that would surely seek to cover its tracks. I never heard this
directly from an officer, but it was the belief of the rank-and-file
G.I.s I spoke to that we were not to "talk" because, first, no one
would believe us, and second, we would surely get into trouble.
They all insisted it was better not to talk, and slowly I too realized
it would be futile and dangerous. That is, until now, thanks to
James Bacque and Pat Buchanan. This is not to say the danger
has passed. Since I "spoke out" recently, my mailbox has been
smashed and I have received threatening phone calls. But I believe
it is worth the risk. Writing about these atrocities has been a
atharsis of feelings suppressed too long, a liberation, and perhaps
will remind other witnesses and citizens -that "the truth shall make
us free, have no fear." And, in any case, "the truth shall out".

We may even learn a supreme lesson from all this: Hate is self-
destructive; only love can conquer and evolve all as One.

  Martin Brech
  (Adjunct Professor,
  Philosophy & Religion,
  Mercy College;
  Ex-G.I., Finally Free)
LET'S STOP KIDDING OURSELVES!  9-11 was an Israeli-backed spanking on our
collective American bottom! A Boeing 757 DIDN'T pierce through six walls of the
Pentagon (impossible + no aircraft debris), a late model cruise missile did the job;
the Twin Towers DIDN'T collapse due to heat (impossible), demolition charges
did the job;  there were NO Arab hijackers (the jets were guided electronically);
and the Zionists/Judeo-Christians now in control of the United States are traitors
to the U.S. Constitution... as well as being mass murderers.This has been a Zionist
WAG THE DOG operation from the start, deadly serious for our elected leaders
WHO KNOW WHO'S GUILTY, and an Arabian Nights charade for Mom and Pop
in Littletown, U.S.A.! It's an info war! Forward this to the world!