As soon as I was born in Dec. 1939, dad was ready to get into the war so that it wasn't finished before he could show his metal for the Fuehrer. He was with the Panzers and it wasn't long before he realised that this gig wasn't going to be over by Christmas 1942 because the Russkies had a lot more weaponry than the Wehrmacht thought. Only through unbelievable luck or blessings, he survived and found himself in POW camps in Siberia. The night before my tenth birthday in 1949 he came home. His arrival changed our lives wonderfully, more than wonderfully it affected my behaviour; my teachers thought it a miracle which, of course it was. He could belt my arse lovingly and most effectively. We were so lucky compared with the many, many who didn't survive the madness.
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