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Selzer on POW death march

      Jack F. Selzer, of Bonne Terre, now deceased, was held prisoner of war in Stalag 12A in Limburg, Germany.  He was moved to Mulburg, Germany by boxcar and escaped the last part of April 1945 from a death march.  He was picked up three days later by the 9th Armored Division.  The only other survivor was Carl Irmsdier, who now lives in California.

     Selzer served in the European Theatre was a Tech 5 with the 10-4th Infantry. 

     The following was written by Selzer before his death. 

To Be A Prisoner of War

      To be a prisoner of war is to know hunger.  I am not talking abut the hunger you feel when you miss your lunch or when you can not stand your diet.  I am talking about hunger from the lack of solid food for weeks and months.  Hunger that gnaws at your vital organs and strips the flesh from your bones.   Hunger that forces you to eat anything and everything available...black stale bread made from sawdust, watery soup infested with worms and made from garbage, rotten potatoes and turnips dug from the muddy fields, and, if you are lucky, hot water to wash it all down. 

     To be a prisoner of war is to experience cold.  Not the cold, blustery Minnesota winter when you wish you had worn your gloves. I am talking about standing for hours in soup lines in freezing weather pelted by sleet, feet numb and fingers nearly frozen.  You are sick, your body is racked by uncontrollable shivering and your mind is a mask of pain.  Dysentery knots your stomach, adding to the misery.  You begin to wonder if death is far away.  It never comes...it merely teases you. 

     To be a prisoner of war is to experience fear.  Nameless terror as you lie packed into a railroad box car, doors locked and barred, while attacking aircraft bomb and strafe and not knowing if you will be blown to bits the next second.  The terrible fear of catching a horrible disease that runs rampant throughout the camp and no medicine or strength to fight back.  The fear that you might never again be free. 

     To be a prisoner of war is to experience anger and deep depression.  Anger knowing that your enemy counterparts, imprisoned in the United States, are well fed and clothed.   Thoughts of family and home lock your mind in bottomless depression and is perhaps the cruelest torture.  Anger at your captors and wishing for their death. 

     To be a prisoner of war is to suffer the agony of rehabilitation in a suddenly alien world.  It is the frustration of trying to cope and fit into a society that seems foreign and unable to relate to your experiences.  It is the resentment you immediately feel for those who have never felt what you have, seen what you have, and whose personal problems pale by comparison.  It is the recurring nightmares that will plague you for the rest of your days.  It is the nagging questions, "What was it all for?  What good did it do?  Who cares?"

 The DAILY JOURNAL, St. Francois County., Wednesday, April 26, 1995.

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