My dad, Leslie Slater, died 18 months ago aged 92. He had been desperate to sign up early in WW2 but was too young. In 1940, he applied again giving an incorrect date of birth which was not questioned, and he joined up on 1at of August 1940 aged 17, proudly following in his father's footsteps in the Sherwood Foresters.
In March 1944, whilst on secondment to the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, dad was captured in Anzio, Italy awaiting the arrival of American forces. Dad endured a terrible time in a near-concentration camp Dulag 132 run by Italians in Laterina outside Florence and he and other prisoners were treated very poorly. I have dad's diary, and he later wrote "remember Florence Les, 23rd Mar 44 to 13th Jun 44, you were starving, lousy, wretched".
In June 1944, with the camp under threat of approaching American forces, all prisoners were marched 13 miles to Montevarchi station, and taken by train through Northern Italy and the Austrian Alps to Stalag 7a in Moosburg. Dad wrote in his diary that the scenery from his cattle truck across the Alps was the finest he had ever seen. Compared with Italy, dad was very well treated in Stalag 7a but it did not stop him looking in the distance every day at the distant church saying a prayer, and he told us repeatedly as kids that it was only the constant view of the church that gave him hope. Dad was lucky enough to be part of the Munich based work detail, initially travelling by rail each day to clear up after constant bombing, then working in the Lowenbrau brewery before it too was bombed.
For the final six months, dad was a waiter at the Lowenbrau beer gardens, serving what beer was available to German officers. Dad was allowed out in Munich with his POW overcoat on, and learned pidgin German that he continued to speak until he died. Indeed in his last five years suffering from dementia, he spoke German a lot - though no one knew what he was on about.
I have just returned from Munich, following in dad's footsteps. The trip to Lowenbrau beer Keller was very moving, but not as much as when I got off the train at Moosburg and the saw the church and Minster steeples, visible for miles. Sadly, hardly any locals in the new town, built on the original camp, knew where the monument was and we only found it after considerable effort. The camp train station is no longer there but the line is still visible. The only real records of the camp are in the town museum, run by a lovely chap who has papers, pictures, artifacts etc donated over the years and he holds a great visitors book full of stories.
As we left, standing on the town station, a thunderstorm came and disappeared all within five minutes, leaving clear skies and a perfect rainbow exactly over the church, a sight I will never forget. If you can, go visit the place before all records are erased. I hope the candle I lit in the Minster for dad burns forever, as the churches kept him going and they are now part of our family history.
