Margarete Schulz stepped down the gangway onto British soil, her Wehrmacht auxiliary uniform stiff with salt spray and three weeks of fear. Her hands trembled not from cold but from the certainty that she was about to die.
Around her, sixty-seven other women shuffled forward in silence. No one spoke. Speaking drew attention. Attention meant selection. Selection meant a bullet.
But the British sergeant standing at the foot of the ramp simply checked a clipboard, nodded to a translator, and said something that made no sense.
Credit to : WW2 Edge Stories
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