Trafford Publishing: NAME, RANK AND SERIAL NUMBER: Survival at Stalag VIIA

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NAME, RANK AND SERIAL NUMBER: Survival at Stalag VIIA

by James P. McClelland, Edited by Tom McClelland

135 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #05-1805; ISBN 1-4120-6894-0; US$15.95, C$18.34, EUR13.10, £9.17

James McClelland fought in World War II's Italian campagn. He was wounded and captured by the Germans. In this autobiographical report, he reveals his innermost feelings of fear, suffering and hope.

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About the Book About the Author Excerpts Catalogue Information

About the Book

James P. McClelland was an ordinary Californian who wound up in extraordinary situations as a result of joining the Army and being sent into action in Northern Italy. He was thrust into some of the bloodiest fighting of World War II. In this memoir of his adventures, he reveals his innermost feelings of fear, suffering and hope.

Private McClelland was with the 88th Division of the U.S. Fifth Army when he went into combat in October 1944. Within three days of battle against the Germans in the rugged Appenine Mountains, he was one of five survivors of a platoon of forty the day he was wounded and captured. His seven months of captivity included a boxcar trip to Germany, living in cramped quarters in Bavaria's Stalag VIIA, dodging allied bombs while doing cleanup work in Munich, toiling for a gestapo agent, and facing a starvation diet for seven months of captivity.

After the war, he put his story on paper, but never had it published. He died of a heart attack in 1973.

The typewritten manuscript rested in a closet for thirty years. His son, Thomas McClelland, was motivated after watching the film "Saving Private Ryan." He reread his father's story and realized it was a poignant piece of information. He decided to edit the work. It took three years. Tom visited what was left of Stalag VIIA, walked the streets of Munich where his father had dodged allied bombs, even stood on Gesso Ridge in the Italian Apennines, close to the place where Private McClelland had been wounded and captured by the Germans.

The editing was necessary because the senior McClelland had limited experience in writing. His education was limited to high school in the Missouri Ozarks. Nonetheless his life-threatening adventure in combat and captivity was a valuable narrative, one worth preserving to add to the volumes written about World War II.

About the Author

James P. McClelland was an ordinary Californian who wound up in extraordinary situations as a result of joining the Army and being sent into action in Northern Italy. He was thrust into some of the bloodiest fighting of World War II. In this memoir of his adventures, he reveals his innermost feelings of fear, suffering and hope.

Private McClelland was with the 88th Division of the U.S. Fifth Army when he went into combat in October 1943. Within three days of battle against the Germans in the rugged Appenine Mountains, he was one of five survivors of a platoon of forty the day he was wounded and captured. His seven months of captivity included a boxcar trip to Germany, living in cramped quarters in Bavaria's Stalag VIIA, dodging allied bombs while doing cleanup work in Munich, toiling for a gestapo agent, and facing a starvation diet for seven months of captivity.

After the war, he put his story on paper, but never had it published. He died of a heart attack in 1973.

The typewritten manuscript rested in a closet for thirty years. His son, Thomas McClelland, was motivated after watching the film "Saving Private Ryan." He reread his father's story and realized it was a poignant piece of information. He decided to edit the work. It took three years. Tom visited what was left of Stalag VIIA, walked the streets of Munich where his father had dodged allied bombs, even stood on Gesso Ridge in the Italian Apennines, close to the place where Private McClelland had been wounded and captured by the Germans.

The editing was necessary because the senior McClelland had limited experience in writing. His education was limited to high school in the Missouri Ozarks. Nonetheless his life-threatening adventure in combat and captivity was a valuable narrative, one worth preserving to add to the volumes written about World War II.

Thomas McClelland is a retired public relations man who lives in a Sun City retirement community in Roseville, California.

Excerpts

As a thirty-five-year-old infantry replacement with the U.S. Fifth Army, I had been assigned to a company in the 88th Division, the so-called Blue Devils. It was the inglorious fall season of 1944 in the rugged Apennine Mountains of northern Italy. Our division had been activated in Italy in December 1943, almost a year before the replacements of which I belonged arrived on the scene. Having suffered heavy casualties, many fighting men had been pulled ten miles to the rear of the front line when I arrived. The troops got a few days rest while being built back to normal strength with replacements. Then they would go right back to the front, taking over for those holding the line in their absence. We were in an obscure replacement camp near the village of Moradeccio, north of Florence. I had been transferred from one camp to another since I arrived in Italy in mid-July after a thirteen-day cruise on a Liberty ship landed me in Naples. From there I was transferred often in one troop truck after another. On one movement we were even boarded on a captured German train.

We followed the combat trail of the 88th Division, passing where their previous battles took place. We went into Rome but had no time for sight-seeing. I saw the Colosseum and some of the old dungeons where the prisoners were allegedly fed to the lions. I missed St. Peters and other attractions. We were on the move. There was little or no war damage done to Rome, but sight-seeing would have to wait. -----

The real winter was coming to the Apennines and it was extremely cold on this early grey morning. Our breathing was visible in front of us. The rain had stopped and it was quiet on our front. The only moving things, besides us, were the ominous clouds crowning the hill ahead of us. The forest was dead quiet on this day. The fall leaves which had been slightly colorful when we first entered this fracas were dormant and drab on the muddy grounds. It was so quiet, it seemed as though the birds had followed the local citizens in evacuating the area. Our heavy boots squishing through the mud were our main sound effects. We were unaccustomed to this eerie silence. American artillery was silent. The Germans were not making a peep. After passing the foxholes where we spent the previous night, we began a gradual ascent. I could see the long line of men ahead of me as they followed the terrain upward and onward. Each man walked cautiously, rifle in readiness.

Constantly, I scanned the surrounding area, always looking for a ready-made foxhole. The men at the front of our company were far ahead as they approached the crest of the hill. There were only two other men behind Joe and me. We were always concerned about running into land mines, but there were none, probably because the Germans had plans to counterattack.

Suddenly, from unseen and unheard command, the enemy opened up. Machine guns fired at us from concealed positons on two sides. We had no place to go. The rain of death had our men scampering recklessly in all directions while trying to return fire at the same time. I took a leap and landed in a small crater made from an enemy shell. The gunfire slowed to single reports which were heard over the screams of our dying and wounded. One of the men behind me was standing up, holding his wounded shoulder. All he could say was, "Now I can go home." Over and over he repeated his phrase, never seeking cover. He stood there too long. He would not be going home.

Way up front I saw two of our GIs with their hands in the air as a German marched them over the hill. A few of our rifles were still firing, so I thought I should participate. This was war, real war, and I was fighting for my life. I saw a German and took aim. I dropped him with a single shot. I could see no other German at whom to shoot. The firing died down.

I joined Joe between the logs and we stayed as hidden as we could for what seemed to be an hour. Most of our fighting companions were dead. I would learn later that only five of forty of us survived the onslaught that morning. A voice over a megaphone, definitely German but speaking in broken English, said "Up gets, you two Americans. Raus!" We were captured. -----

Another one of our mates reported meeting a German lad of about fourteen years. He spoke decent English. After some bartering a trade was planned. The boy would return as soon as he could with a half dozen tooth brushes and some tooth powder. His pay would be made in cigarettes which had much value on the open market. The boy did not return before the POWs had to leave. It was a big loss for them. None of them had a toothbrush since being captured. I didn*t have one, either. Our dental hygiene was suffering along with the rest of our bodies. And everyone had bad breath, not to mention body odor. -----

Some things never change in the military. We were lined up for morning roll call, actually a head count, and to get our day's work assignment. Jimmie, Joe and I had lined up side by side, hoping we would get to work together. "I want two tichler," said an officer.

Joe whispered to me, "Let's take it.* We stepped forward. We had learned that volunteering in the military was not the thing to do, but we made a commitment. We had no idea what a tichler was, nor what a tichler would do. We were bluffing and hoped we would get away with it.

For all we knew we would be assigned to clean a shit house. Whatever, we were making our own destiny. We had learned that small work details are best, providing more advantages for scavenging for food from civilians.

A Gestapo agent, clad in meticulously clean civilian clothing with a Swastika pin in his lapel, exchanged salutes with the man in charge, and took us with him. We took our customary place walking in the gutter. He walked on the sidewalk. He talked hardly at all to us. After walking several blocks, we came to our assignment. A badly damaged house needed repairing. A tichler, we would figure out, was a carpenter. For the next several days, our duties would be to repair the home of our Gestapo boss man.

We knew vaguely of the Gestapo being a secret police organization of the Third Reich. They were notorious for their brutal dealings with ordinary people. They were spies within the system and would turn in traitors without blinking an eye. They were responsible for rounding up communists, partisans and Jews, we had heard. Anyone who was considered to be a threat to German rule could be jailed by someone representing the Gestapo. They had a reputation for using vicious interrogation methods in order to obtain confessions. We were a bit uneasy working for this man. He had clout and could not be trusted.

To order the book directly from Tom McClelland go to: www.mcclellandfamily.com/POWbook.html

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To pique your interest in Stalag V11A in Moosburg, Germany, visit Moosburg Online.

James McClelland wrote many letters home during his internment, and most of them were saved. You can read the text from these letters at McClellandfamily.com.

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