At 5.30 a.m. there was a stand-to, trying hard to come to terms with an alien scenery of valley, hills and vegetation, the outcrop of rocks in the foothills so perfect for concealing an 88 or a troop carrier. We were on the receiving end of shelling throughout the day, not heavy but enough to get our shovels active and our slit trenches a few inches deeper.
We were then marched off, under heavy escort of SS men and Ukrainians, in the direction of the camp. We were beaten with rifle butts all the way. Whoever, had a decent looking suitcase, had it duly taken from them by the Ukrainians. Anyone who was older, or could not keep the pace of the march, was severely beaten. Having arrived at the camp, the next day, I awaited for the arrival of my wife and child, unfortunately without success.
The stricken ship quickly lost way and became a sitting target. In a desperate attempt to save her, the skipper gave orders to go astern to relieve pressure on the forward bulkheads that were still holding. But I could only watch as our attacker slowly circled the dead ship and come round to the starboard side. I heard his engines speed up as he turned to run in towards us.
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