Opening Moves

My prime interest has always been the World Wars, probably because I grew up with their first-hand effects upon my family. The Great War laid my family low, my great-grandfather’s three brothers, and two cousins, permanently entrusted to the soil of France, from where none returned; there were no tales of heroism or of horror brought home from the front in the Great War.

Whereas, for the conflicts of 1939-1945 and 1945-1947 stories abounded, tales of great-uncles and family friends who perished in the sands of North Africa, fought in the waters of the North Atlantic, were enslaved as prisoners in the jungles of Burma or who died violently on the farmlands of Germany. I would polish an array of medals for Granddad on the occasions he ventured out for reunions and events, and I often listened to the conversations of old men around tables on a warm summer’s eve, when stories of those times came alive in their words.

I always wanted to write something; not just something to satisfy my own desire for the immortality of a writer, but something that would pay tribute to the good and brave of all sides who fought and died in those difficult years.

I suppose I was destined to write this particular book. By accident, happenstance or coincidence I came into possession of the knowledge to construct this account, varying from the writings of participants, through official documentation that I hunted out onto personal interviews with surviving combatants or their families.

Synchronicity took over, that turn of events that make that of which you mused possible if not likely, and Madame Fate started to weave her web over me, delivering into my possession the means to do something really special.

The first set of memoirs that came into my hands were those of SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Rolf Uhlmann, formerly of the 5th  SS Panzer Division “Wiking” and whose exploits in the conflict are now the stuff of legend. A hand written personal journal of his war that was never published was offered to me to consult by the woman into whose hands it had been entrusted, on her explicit understanding that I would faithfully reflect its contents. This I now do Krystal, in tribute to both of your men, so lie easy in your eternal rest.

It was my privilege to meet with the family of the legendary SS-Standartenfuhrer Ernst-August Knocke, who were able to furnish me with private papers and anecdotes as told them by their husband and father. It was they who secured me an introduction to a secretive and proud group of men who were vilified in the days after the German surrender, despite the sacrifices they made in the name of their country. To all of you my thanks, but especially to Anne-Marie, his wife, and a woman I greatly admire.

On my first trip to Russia, an official research visit to some of Russia’s Military museums, I was approached in my hotel by an old gentleman who knew surprisingly much of my purpose. He offered to loan me an unpublished document written partially by Colonel [Polkovnik] of Tank Troops Arkady Yarishlov, referring to his role in the Great Patriotic War from 1941 through to its bloody end when it was entrusted to one of his comrades. That comrade then gave me the responsibility to use it wisely and ensure its main author received the laurels he truly deserved. I hope that I have done so and honoured a brave man. To Stefan, who completed the writings, translated them, and filled in missing information, I thank you for seeking me out and entrusting me with those precious documents and the story of a true soldier.

Gaining access to the fourth set, namely the soon to be published memoirs of Vladimir Stelmakh, was more bizarre. A shared moment with an old man looking at a famous battle-damaged tank in the Kubinka Museum led to an enduring friendship and access to the kind of intimate information historians can normally only dream about, particularly your intermediary work with the family of one of the Soviet Union’s greatest General’s and heroes and the incredible documents they permitted me sight of. Without your direct support for my cause, much of the important events in Moscow during September 1947, one of the most remarkable elements of the history of World War Three, would never have been fully known. Thank you my friend.

The fifth set I had access to all the time but never knew it. My grandfather, Major John Ramsey, was something of an amateur writer and left many papers relating to his wartime exploits, typically penned in a self-effacing fashion as befitted the modest man he was. My grandmother casually told me of their existence over Roast Pork one Sunday, shortly after I returned from my trip to Russia. It never occurred to her to offer them beforehand and never occurred to me that such things existed. Of his actions, we British know much already. Thank you Nan. If only I had been old enough to understand the nature of the medals I diligently polished!