How starving German POWs mistook American corn for cattle fodder—until the first bite
The Taste of Survival: Anelise Schmidt’s Journey in Captivity
April 18th, 1945. In a field of mud and shattered trees outside Wessel, Germany, the rain didn’t fall; it seeped from a sky the color of slate. A chilling mist clung to everything, wrapping around Aubberhell and Anelise Schmidt of the Luftwaffe Auxiliary Corps. Their world had shrunk to the sodden collar of her great coat and the rhythmic sucking sound of boots pulling free from the glutinous earth. The air was thick with the smell of defeat—a foul cocktail of wet wool, diesel exhaust, and the metallic tang of fear. The war was not ending with a bang but with a long, drawn-out whimper.
Around Anelise, the wreckage of the Ruhr pocket lay scattered—once-proud soldiers now reduced to hollow-eyed columns of men and women shuffling west into the arms of the Americans. There were no more orders, no more signals to intercept, no more codes to decipher. The ether was silent. The only command left was to walk.
The Moment of Transition
As the column crested a low rise, Anelise lifted her head, her blonde hair matted and dark with rain plastered to her forehead. Below them, the source of the engine noise became clear: a convoy of U.S. Army GMC trucks idled, their olive drab hoods slick with water. Soldiers clad in uniforms, helmets low, M1 Garand rifles held loosely but ready, watched the procession with unnerving stillness. They were younger than the newsreels had shown, their faces impassive and weary, embodying a terrible kind of professional disinterest.
To them, this was not the dramatic fall of a Reich; it was a long, tedious day of processing human inventory. Anelise felt a knot tighten in her stomach, a cold dread that had nothing to do with the damp. This was the moment of transition—the moment she would cease to be a soldier, an auxiliary, a citizen, and become a prisoner.
A sharp whistle cut through the air. American officers, moving with an unhurried authority, began directing the flow of people. Men to the left, women and medical staff to the right. The separation was swift and impersonal. Anelise found herself shunted into a smaller group of about 200 women, nurses in stained aprons and signals auxiliaries like herself. She caught the eye of a girl no older than 17, whose face was a mask of terrified confusion. Anelise gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod—an acknowledgment of the abyss they now faced.
The Reality of Captivity
The command to drop all weapons seemed absurd; who among them had a weapon left? Their only possessions were the clothes on their backs and the gnawing emptiness in their bellies. It had been three days since Anelise had last eaten a real meal—just a stale piece of bread and thin, greasy soup. Hunger had become a constant presence, dulling her senses and sharpening her fears.
The truck bed was cold and wet as they were ordered to sit on hard benches. Anelise found herself pressed between Helga, a cynical flak corporal from Berlin, and Lenny, the frightened girl. The only sounds were the groan of the truck’s transmission and the soft stifled sobs of Lenny beside her. As they drove through the German landscape, Anelise felt as if she were seeing it for the first time as a foreigner—ruined farms, a church with its steeple blown away, a child’s doll lying face down in a puddle. This was not the triumphant homeland from the propaganda posters; it was a cemetery.
After what felt like an eternity, the truck lurched to a halt. The canvas was thrown back, flooding the interior with gray light. “Rouse, everybody out!” The command was harsh and impatient. They climbed down into more mud, facing a vast open field enclosed by coils of fresh barbed wire and wooden watchtowers standing like skeletal sentinels. This was their new world—a muddy patch of earth under an indifferent sky.
For two days, Anelise existed within the confines of this temporary prisoner of war enclosure near Rejogan. The initial shock of capture had evaporated, replaced by a monotonous, soul-crushing routine of waiting—waiting for food, waiting for news, waiting for the rain to stop. It never did. The women were segregated from the tens of thousands of male prisoners by a single strand of wire. During the day, they huddled together for warmth, blending into the bruised tones of the earth and sky. At night, they tried to sleep in shallow hand-dug trenches, covering themselves with their great coats as the cold seeped up from the ground.
The Struggle for Dignity
Anelise found tentative companionship with two other women: Helga, whose defiant glare was her only defense against despair, and Lenny, who seemed to shrink with every passing hour. Helga muttered about their treatment, expressing her anger at the American guards who watched them with a bored indifference.
The hunger had transcended mere discomfort, becoming a physical entity clawing at Anelise’s stomach. It made her dizzy when she stood too fast, filling her dreams with visions of her mother’s kitchen—the smell of roasting potatoes, the sight of a perfect loaf of rye bread. She woke with a gasp, the phantom tastes turning to ash in her mouth.
On the third day in the enclosure, a low rumble broke the monotony. It was the sound of heavy trucks. A wave of motion passed through the enclosure as people stirred, eyes fixed on the main gate. Hope—a dangerous and almost forgotten emotion—flickered to life. “Food,” Lenny whispered, the word a prayer.
The trucks, a pair of GMC 2½-tonners, pulled to a stop just inside the gate. The tailgates dropped with a crash, and American soldiers began unloading large steaming metal pails. The sight—and more powerfully, the smell—was electrifying. It was the scent of something hot, something cooked. It was the smell of salvation.
The Moment of Truth
A line began to form, a shuffling, desperate queue that snaked through the mud. There was no pushing or shoving, just a fragile, unspoken agreement to maintain a sliver of dignity. Anelise, with Helga and Lenny in tow, joined the line. Her heart hammered against her ribs as they inched forward. She didn’t care what it was; it could be the thinnest turnip soup, and it would be a feast.
As they approached the front, the atmosphere shifted from despair to tense anticipation. Anelise reached the front of the line, holding out her small dented tin cup. The soldier in front of her—a boy with a smooth, unlined face—plunged a ladle into one of the pails and dropped a thick yellow cylinder onto her plate.
Anelise stared at it, recognizing it as corn on the cob. It was the kind of corn she had seen before, but never served to people. It was animal feed, a coarse hard corn grown to fatten pigs and cattle. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. This was not sustenance; it was a final calculated humiliation. They were being fed like livestock.
The Choice
The line behind her stalled as the women saw what was being offered. Faces hardened, disbelief turned to cold fury. One woman shoved her plate back at the American soldier, declaring, “We are not animals!” The protest spread, and women began to drop their plates in the mud, rejecting the corn as an insult.
Anelise looked at the corn in her hands, feeling the weight of the decision before her. She remembered the young soldier Klaus, who had died from a gut wound, his last words a delirious whisper for water and bread. Hunger was the true victor of this war, and pride did not fill an empty stomach.
As she looked around, she saw the faces of fellow survivors, the desperation in their eyes. The choice was stark: surrender to humiliation or embrace survival. With a deep breath, Anelise lifted the corn to her mouth, feeling the warmth seep through her fingers. As she took a bite, the sweetness exploded in her mouth, a revelation that brought her back to life.
The taste of survival was sweeter than any bread she had ever known. As she chewed, she saw the women around her begin to follow suit. The dam of pride had broken, and soon the air was filled with the sound of desperate eating. The quiet, life-affirming sound of chewing echoed through the enclosure, a testament to their shared humanity.
A New Reality
In the days that followed, the corn became a new reality for the women. It arrived daily in steaming pails, enough to stave off hunger but never enough to feel full. They learned to savor each bite, stretching the meager rations to last longer. Anelise found her status changed; the other women looked at her differently, acknowledging her act of courage that had given them permission to live.
PFC Frank Miller, the young soldier who had served them, began to recognize Anelise in the crowd. He saw her quiet dignity and the way she ensured Lenny received her share before eating her own. One day, he spotted a particularly large ear of corn in the pale and selected it for her, their eyes meeting in a moment of mutual recognition.
The corn, once a symbol of degradation, transformed into a lifeline, bridging the gap between captors and captives. Anelise understood that the Americans were not the monsters of propaganda but overwhelmed soldiers doing their best in a chaotic situation.
Conclusion
Anelise Schmidt’s journey from soldier to prisoner encapsulates the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity. The M1 Garand rifle had provided American soldiers with unprecedented firepower, changing the dynamics of warfare. Yet, in the aftermath of war, it was the simple act of sharing food that forged connections and restored dignity.
As Anelise navigated the complexities of captivity, she discovered that survival was not just about physical sustenance but also about reclaiming her humanity. The taste of that first bite of corn was not merely a meal; it was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the will to live persists.
In the end, her story serves as a powerful testament to the enduring strength of individuals caught in the tumult of war, highlighting that hope can emerge from the most unexpected places, even amidst the mud and misery of a prisoner of war camp.
