(Author: Kenneth Wright, Vol. 81, #1, Autumn-Winter 2026)
EDITOR’S NOTE: In its Winter 2024 (Vol. 79, #1) issue, JA published Alon Shapira’s article ‘”What on earth is there to talk about?” – An act of wartime heroism remembered’ regarding the sinking of the Italian ship Sebastiano Venier on 9 December 1941 and how South African Jewish POW Bernard Friedlander swam ashore with a rope thereby enabling his fellow prisoners to reach safety. The author refers in various places to an unidentified German engineering officer who “by skillful use of his engines and the high wind … managed to get the ship nearer land” after the Italian captain and part of his crew had abandoned the stricken vessel. The identity of that officer had, despite much investigation, to date remained a mystery, but it seems no longer. In his follow-up article to Mr. Shapira’s piece, Kenneth Wright revisits this dramatic incident, providing compelling evidence as to who the hitherto unknown hero of the affair had been and the critical part he played in saving the lives of over 1200 Allied prisoners as well as other crew members on that fateful day.
‘Compassion, even towards one’s enemies, is a sign of nobleness and spiritual perfection.’
[Ostad Elahi – 1885-1975]
New Zealand Infantry soldier, Henry Perske, was ninety-one when he wrote in a 2008 letter that he would love to find the descendants of a certain unknown German engineering officer so he could pass on his gratitude for this man having saved so many Allied POW lives on the Sebastiano Venier.
To understand Perske’s deep emotional urge and that of many others to honour an enemy combatant, one must look back to 7 February 1941. The Italian Tenth Army in North Africa surrendered to British and Commonwealth forces, who were significantly weaker, at Beda Fomm after losing two previous campaigns, with large quantities of equipment, supplies, aircraft, tanks, guns, and thousands of soldiers either killed or taken prisoner.
The Italian dictator Benito Mussolini needed help to pursue his military ambitions in North Africa and so asked his ‘Pact of Steel’ partner, Germany’s dictator Adolf Hitler, to send substantial military assistance. On 12 February, Lieutenant General (later Field Marshal) Erwin Rommel arrived in North Africa with the 5th Light Motorised Division, the 15th Panzer Division, and later, the 90th Light Division. Within three months, Rommel had reversed the Allied advances, and with his skill, tactical success, and innovations in desert warfare, a legend was born. Rommel became known as the ‘Desert Fox’, and the feats of his new ‘Afrika Korps’ spread fear throughout the Allied Army. Rommel’s army was to become a highly effective war machine. As part of the agreement at the time, Hitler and Mussolini decided that all enemy military personnel captured by German forces would be handed over to the Italians for eventual transport to prisoner-of-war camps in Italy. This arrangement was to mean certain death for hundreds of unfortunate POWs even before they reached that country.
As men and supplies had to cross the Central Mediterranean, Axis shipping faced nearly suicidal attacks by the British Royal Air Force and Royal Navy. The sea route between Europe and North Africa became the most dangerous German supply line during World War Two, with the Italian-held port of Benghazi in Libya being the main conduit for desperately needed supplies.
On the night of May 7, 1941, under bright moonlight, a flotilla of British destroyers sailed unnoticed in two groups to within easy gunnery range of Benghazi and shelled the anchored ships and dock facilities, retreating only when the shore batteries finally returned fire. Two ships were left burning and sinking, and the supply line from Germany and Italy was seriously disrupted. In November, the Axis partnership sent thirty transports and tankers from Europe to Africa. Twelve were sunk in the first days of December, and three were damaged. Others were diverted or had to abort their missions as ships in the harbour and dock facilities were being targeted by determined British air raids. Benghazi was also the main staging port for transporting captured Allied military personnel to Italian prison camps. It was here, in the days before 8 December 1941, that roughly two thousand assorted Australian, British, New Zealand and mainly South African troops captured in various battles were held in two large cargo warehouses.
The winter days in Libya are usually mild, but the nights are cold. The men had to sleep on bare concrete floors without blankets or bedding, and the lack of warmth, decent food, and the hardships endured en route to Benghazi began to take their toll. The scant food supplied by their captors typically consisted of a small amount of rice or macaroni with black bread or Army biscuits. Dysentery spread quickly, overburdening the already inadequate latrines.
The afternoon of 8 December was a grey, dreary day with a fine drizzle of rain. The Italian guards began to assemble the bedraggled prisoners for embarkation aboard a cargo ship, possibly bound for Taranto or Brindisi. The only ship available to transport the prisoners was the Sebastiano Venier, a fast cargo ship of 6310 tons. Built by the Lloyd Triestino shipbuilding company in early 1940 for a Dutch shipping line, the ship was originally named Jason, but when the Nazi war machine overran Holland in May, the Italians refused to deliver the ship to the Dutch.Jason was taken over by the Venetian shipping line of Sidarma and renamed Sebastiano Venier after a famous Venetian fleet commander who defeated the Turkish fleet at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. She was powered by a twelve-cylinder Fiat diesel engine that produced 5,500 bhp and had a top speed of thirteen knots. The Italian Navy requisitioned her for service in a fleet of fast merchant ships that could carry supplies for the war in North Africa.
This ship had only recently arrived and was the sole survivor among five cargo ships sent from Italy by different routes, all under a heavy escort of cruisers and destroyers carrying supplies. In November, the Italians dispatched 79,208 tons of material and oil to Libya, of which 29,843 tonnes arrived. In December, the dispatched supplies totaled 47,680 tonnes, of which 39,092 tonnes arrived.
The prisoners were paraded, then split into four roughly equal groups, lined up at the wharf’s entrance, and given two hundred and twenty-five grams of brown bread, which was meant to last for the thirty-six-hour dash to Italy. They were herded single file towards the steep accommodation ladders hanging from the side of the ship. Any hesitation or attempt to slow the boarding was usually met with a vicious blow from a rifle butt or a prod with a bayonet. The one thing immediately noticeable as the prisoners boarded was the nervousness of the sailors and guards, and a few captives couldn’t help but wonder why every guard in sight had their boots laced, knotted, and hanging around their necks, the ship hadn’t having even left the harbour.
There were three holds forward of the engine room and two aft. Each hold was twelve metres deep, with an upper section three metres below the main deck, and access to the holds was via a vertical ladder. Crude but solidly built wooden makeshift latrines had been constructed to hang over the side of the ship just aft of the foredeck. As the prisoners slowly made their way to hold number two, some noticed a lean man of medium height, with blue eyes, brown hair, and weather-beaten skin, wearing a peaked cap and a seaman’s roll-neck pullover, who was directing operations. His manner was brisk and cheerful, his English was fair, and he occasionally helped a prisoner over the hatchway cover to the ladder. A stark contrast to the surly and hostile Italian guards. Once the loading was complete, the hatches were battened down, leaving the prisoners crammed together in the fetid hold, and access to the deck latrines was severely restricted, forcing those suffering from dysentery no choice but to try to reach the latrine buckets or relieve themselves where they lay. The prospect of spending so much time locked in a steel box, with the threat of attack by Allied aircraft or navy, was not lost on the prisoners as the ship set sail for Italy. The ship’s Capitano, Luigi Merini, a fifty-five-year-old reservist called back to duty, had decided not to take the direct route from Benghazi to Italy but to head straight for Greece and hug the relative safety of the Greek coastline. The captain and his crew had already survived some close calls, which might explain the nervousness among the crew and guards. The night passed without incident.
At first light, Lieutenant-Commander E.F. Pizey, the captain of the British mine-laying submarine HMS Porpoise, ordered the submarine to come to periscope depth and began scanning for enemy shipping, unaware that the Sebastiano Venier was roughly 190 kilometres away. Below the Sebastiano Venier‘s deck, the prisoners endured the stench of seasickness, unwashed bodies, filth-covered uniforms, and overflowing latrine buckets that spread their contents every time the ship rolled from side to side. Decent food, clean water, loved ones, or the prospect of an indeterminate time in a POW camp were among the many thoughts running through their minds as they struggled to cope with a situation beyond their control. When land was sighted about nine kilometres to starboard, the guards began permitting the first prisoners above deck to get fresh air, visit the latrines, or stretch their aching limbs. Twenty hours had passed since leaving Benghazi. The strain and tension grated on everyone’s nerves. Only now did some of the prisoners, once on deck, notice that Sebastiano Venier had an escorting vessel – a Spica-class torpedo boat ,Centauro, with a top speed of thirty-four knots. This vessel lacked sonar and offered only limited protection against any attack.
By mid-afternoon on 9 December, the weather began to worsen. The sea started to rise as a strong westerly wind continually blew sprays of water over the ship. The Italians grew concerned they might miss the telltale signs of bubbles from an approaching torpedo because of the sea conditions, so every available man was stationed around the ship as a lookout as a precaution. Any prisoners on deck were quickly herded back into the foul holds. HMS Porpoise, while still on routine patrol, spotted a cargo vessel coming from the southwest, accompanied by a motor torpedo boat escort.
From the Porpoise patrol report: ‘At 1426B in position three miles west of Methoni Point, sighted a merchant ship and escort. There was a strong westerly wind blowing at the time, and the sea was rough with sufficient swell to make depth keeping remarkably interesting. As a result, the range of sighting was only four thousand yards, although visibility on the surface was good. The escort was ahead, and both ships were steering zero seven zero degrees. They were bearing about red one hundred and thirty degrees, and Porpoise was fifteen degrees on the port bow.’
British intelligence at Bletchley Park had intercepted and decrypted Ultra messages concerning the planned route of the Sebastiano Venier. Although it was known that the POWs were aboard, this information was, for security reasons, not passed to HMS Porpoise.
Sadly, at that time, Pizey was one of many submarine commanders who knew that any ship they sank crossing the Mediterranean from North Africa to Italy might have Allied prisoners of war on board, yet his orders were clear and straightforward. To sink all enemy shipping. If prisoners were on board, then so be it. They were considered collateral damage.
It was not until February 1942 that the International Red Cross Committee proposed that all the belligerents adopt safety measures to minimise these dangers. It was suggested that the use of sea transport should be limited to imperative reasons and special recognition signals for ships carrying POWs, and adequate provision of lifebelts and boats. If possible, these ships were to sail in the company of other vessels capable of picking up survivors. The proposals were sound in theory but impractical in wartime. The use of sea transport carrying POWs required special recognition signals and adequate provision of lifebelts and boats. If possible, these ships were to sail in the company of other vessels capable of picking up survivors.
Onboard, Sebastiano Venier, a lookout, had spotted a periscope to starboard and raised the alarm. Nineteen-year-old Luigi Giuliano was standing at the stern of the ship when he saw the torpedo’s wake. He asked his friend what it was, and the reply was that it most likely was a dolphin.
Pizey’s report continues: ‘Turned in fast towards, and steadied on course one hundred and sixty degrees, had time for a second ‘look’ before firing. At 1435, fired four torpedoes spread two lengths. One minute, thirty-five seconds after firing the first, one torpedo, probably the 3rd or 4th, as I think I gave the ship two knots too much speed, hit. Went to one hundred and twenty feet after firing and a/c one hundred and twenty degrees to seaward using speed. Three minutes after firing, the first of twenty-two depth charges was dropped. This went on for about ¾ of an hour, but none were at all close.’
Ninety-five seconds after Lt Cdr Pizey fired his first torpedo, the third torpedo, travelling at about one thousand one hundred metres in roughly sixty-five seconds, struck the Sebastiano Venier low down and just forward of the bulkhead between her number one and two holds. The explosion lifted the ship bodily into the water. For one-hundredth of a second before the bulkhead between these two holds blew out, the unfortunate occupants in number one hold felt the full force of the four-hundred-kilogram warhead. One New Zealand soldier, Private Jim O’Connell, who was in number two hold, describes the horror and chaos immediately after the explosion.
‘Suddenly, all hell broke loose. A roaring sound in my ears. Hatch covers are gone, the bulkhead and ladder gone, the side of the vessel gone, as well as friends. I was on the opposite side under the hatch cover support, hanging onto slats on the wall of the hold and watching water pour in through the great hole blown by the torpedo. Around me swirled wreckage of all kinds. Pieces of the ship, pieces of human beings, some still screaming for help. One poor chap was hanging onto a strip of torn metal, screaming for his mother and father. Very few living men. Just pieces and blood-stained water. One South African was pulled from the water with one leg hanging by a shredded piece of skin. His rescuers cut the leg off and threw it overboard, but he died from loss of blood.’
Two covered hatchways were blasted wide open and hurled to mast height, then came crashing down through open hatchways to kill or maim men who were already struggling in the pouring torrent of seawater in the hold. Terror and the survival instinct gripped everyone, and it became every man for himself. The hold had become a slaughterhouse of mangled flesh and splintered bone. Many had died instantly. Decapitated and limbless bodies swirled around amongst the struggling survivors. Approximately three hundred and nine POWs and eleven Italians died in the attack. Above and below deck, confusion reigned.
The escorting motorboat Centauro saw two boats being lowered, and some Carly floats in the water. In the lifeboats sat Capitano Luigi Merini and part of his crew. They had abandoned the ship, leaving the prisoners and other crew members to the mercy of the rising seas and making the ship vulnerable for Lt Cdr Pizey to finish the job. The Italian authorities later claimed their hospital ship, Arno, arrived around dusk and rescued one hundred and fifty-six Italians, fifteen Germans and six hundred and ninety-one POWs. The accuracy of this claim was fabricated to deflect blame from the Italian government’s responsibility for so many Allied deaths. As will be explained later, it is understood that there were only eight Germans aboard the Sebastiano Venier, and there are no records indicating whether any of them jumped ship.
The prisoners have completely different versions from that of the Italians, starting with the fact that the Arno continued past the stricken ship without helping those in the water. The Arno’s priority was rescuing survivors from a German vessel sunk nearby. Knowing that the captain had abandoned them and had no plans to return, many prisoners, believing the ship was about to sink at any moment, panicked and jumped overboard into the rough sea. How many lives were lost this way is unknown. Others, thinking more rationally, began rescuing those trapped below deck and tending to the wounded as best they could. Many were confused and unsure of what to do, and simply milled around on deck.
It was at this point that the man with the brisk manner and sense of humour, whom the prisoners noticed when they were boarding, appeared. That he was German had already been established. He might have been an engineer with the Kriegsmarine or the Merchant Navy. No one knew, as he was dressed in civilian clothes!
Private Spence Edge, another New Zealand soldier, describes the situation in a letter after the war. ‘For several minutes after the torpedo struck, survivors who managed to get on deck believed the ship was sinking. Fear greatly increased at the sight of comrades jumping overboard. While the survivors milled around on the main deck, they heard a sharp cry from the boat deck rail. A German, in company with the senior Allied non-commissioned officer, was calling for their attention. Speaking through an unknown Allied NCO, he assured the POWs the ship was not sinking and could be saved if all the men assembled and remained over the ship’s stern to ease the strain on what now had become a vital bulkhead.’
The extra weight would help sink the exposed propellers into the water just enough so that once the engines started, they would generate enough thrust to push the ship towards the nearby Greek coast.
‘He [ the German] ordered any medical orderlies to work under their senior man and establish first aid posts to treat the wounded. To men who needed direction even from the enemy, they slowly began to follow orders. The aft deck began to pack with men, crammed together like sardines in the foul weather. Many had almost no clothing to protect them from the elements. The land was barely three kilometres away, and the ship was slowly approaching the land even though the flooded bulkhead acted like a sea anchor. The ship was still at the mercy of the wind and the sea, and without the engines, the ship was directionless.’
Who was he, this German? He could have left with the Italian captain and most of the crew. Why did he stay? Was it pride or a resolve not to be like the Italians and abandon fellow human beings to possibly die, even if they were the enemy? Whatever his reason, the fate of everyone onboard was now in his hands. A strong wind was blowing from due west, pushing the ship towards the land. The German needed to reach his destination before nightfall, but he had no way of knowing what the Greek coastline looked like. To make matters worse, a storm was approaching. To the north lay shallow waters backed by low cliffs. To the south, a broad channel opened between Methoni Point and the island of Sapienza. Between these two points was a mere four hundred metres of rocky coastline. Again, personal memories over time can, and are, notoriously unreliable. One version is that the German, allegedly armed with a pistol, went below to the engine room and made the Italian engineers, who were unable or unwilling to follow their cowardly captain, restart the engines. Perhaps he threatened to shoot them or turn them over to the prisoners.
Regardless of whether the Germans’ actions were real or not, the triple expansion engines had begun to beat, and there was a shift towards a more controlled approach towards land. The German found time to encourage the medical orderlies in their nearly impossible task of caring for the wounded. After the war, in an anonymous letter from a prisoner’s wife, her husband paid tribute to the German. He had shared his experience and said, ‘The German’s manner was kindness itself,’ and he recounted staying by the German’s side despite being ordered to go below deck as the ship approached the coast.
The storm finally struck, with high seas and a forty-knot wind swirling around the ship, making it extremely hard to reach the shore. Everyone watched with great concern, trying to guess what the German might do. Despite the rain, the low cliffs and what looked like the ruins of an old castle came into view from about three hundred metres away. At two hundred metres, prisoners on deck, aside from the men still packed at the stern, saw what seemed to be Italian troops watching the drama unfold from the shore. Directly in front of the ship was a submerged reef. The German expertly used the engines, the forces of nature, and his experience to clear most of the reef before the stern slammed onto the rocks with a terrifying screech of tortured steel plates as they buckled and tore open. The Sebastiano Venier was stuck fast but rolled side to side as the waves battered her weather side. The German had nearly brought the ship beam-on to the shore, but about fifty metres of water still separated her from safety.
The prisoners led the German to the handrail and gave him a hearty three cheers. It was a spontaneous, heartfelt, and genuine tribute to an enemy whose humanity had transcended hatred, ideology, and national pride, bringing them hope. In the chaos of war, it was a moment to hold onto, but sadly, it was short-lived, as the freezing sea and the strong wind pounding the ship reminded the prisoners that they still had to leave the ship and reach the shore, as it could, at any moment, fall apart in the storm. Although the water between the ship and the beach looked pretty calm, there were strong currents and many jagged rocks. As darkness fell and the temperature dropped, each time the waves struck the ship, it rocked slightly. The sounds of tortured metal screaming through the air added to the worry of those on board. While the German was trying to save the ship, the medical orderlies were doing their best to help the wounded, whilst others succumbed to their injuries or simply bore the pain. What is not widely known is the kindness and humanity of an anonymous Italian steward who did his best to supply the prisoners with coffee and food. This man was a godsend to the sick and wounded.
The German was worried about the storm’s impact on the ship and everyone aboard. The plan now was to attempt to secure a rope from ship to shore and climb across the gap to safety, but several attempts made to swim the intervening distance ended in disaster.
A young South African Lance Corporal, Bernie Friedlander of the 3rd Transvaal Scottish Union Defence Force, volunteered to attempt swimming ashore with a light lifeline attached to him. Considering the dangers, it was nearly suicidal, but being a strong swimmer, he made it to the shore. After convincing the Italian soldiers waiting there of his plan, he dragged in a sturdier lifeline and secured it to a rock ledge. Men had to slide down the rope from the ship to the land, crossing their legs and arms over it. The idea was sound, but with the storm causing the vessel to rock, slackening the rope at times and whipping it back tight, those holding on were tossed into the sea and against the rocks. Some lost their lives this way, but many volunteers still stepped forward, driven by a strong desire to reach safety.
The survivors reaching the shore were treated callously by the waiting Italians. They were roughly searched and then herded into a small, concrete-floored warehouse near the beach. The local Greeks tried to give the survivors food and clothing they could barely afford, but they were beaten back with rifle butts or the threat of a bayonet by nervous guards. Just after midnight, the storm peaked, and the waves and wind began to die down. The sea had washed away some of the gruesome human evidence of the torpedo’s destruction. As night fell, twenty kilometres away, HMS Porpoise surfaced under the cover of darkness to recharge the batteries.
At first light, Lt Cdr Pizey set out in search of his latest target. About three kilometres offshore, he brought the submarine to periscope depth and quickly scanned the enemy vessel. It was long enough for him to realise the ship could not be salvaged and that wasting a valuable torpedo would be pointless. He turned and continued his patrol. Sadly, HMS Porpoise was sunk by Japanese aircraft in the Malacca Strait on 19 January 1945.
In the early morning light, activity aboard the Sebastiano Venier picked up again. With the storm passed, the prisoners managed to lower a small lifeboat or cutter and, using a light rope tied from the ship to shore for propulsion, an Italian sailor pulled the boat back and forth. A surviving prisoner claimed that the only reason this lifeboat remained on board was that the German had to shoot two Italians and one prisoner to prevent it from being lost in the chaos after the torpedo hit. Like all personal recollections, it’s wise to remain open-minded about the truth of the statement. Still, the lifeboat was a vast improvement over the lifeline method. The joy of reaching safety was eased by the sight of bodies floating in the clear green water near the shore.
Again, Private Spence Edge describes the Germans’ activities: ‘The German had not forgotten the wounded. He was aware they could not be put ashore via the cutter without subjecting them to additional pain. He prepared a stretcher stiffened by wooden slats and slung it from the lifeline, which was now pulled taut and ready to lower the wounded to the beach. The wounded had passed the night without sedatives to ease the pain, but again, the German tried his best to help by supplying brandy and cigarettes to as many as he could. The medical orderlies had done their best, and it is due to their dedication to duty and their fellow man that many men survived the ordeal. Despite their best efforts, ten died during the night, but thirty made it to shore. The German seemed to be everywhere, encouraging, supervising, and harassing. As darkness approached, many had to stay onboard as the Italians could not, or would not, continue the rescue operation until the morning.’
Once the rescue was completed, the surviving prisoners, lacking adequate footwear and clothing, had to endure the miserable cold of the Greek winter in primitive and poorly supplied transit camps on the Peloponnese under guard, possibly by members of the Italian 59th Infantry Division Cagliari. The prisoners stayed successively in empty buildings near the wreck site, in cells of an old Turkish fort at Pilos, and in Italian bivouac tents set up in a small area at Akhaia on the route to Patras. It was later known as ‘Dysentery Acre’ because of the thick mud caused by persistent rain and snow, and the widespread disease among the captives.
One unknown New Zealand soldier described the conditions at the time. ‘It was snowing, and they [pows]were rounded up to be placed in an open compound, some standing naked except for a blanket. For a month, they remained there with practically no shelter and little food. Disease and frostbite were rife, and the lack of medical treatment contributed to many deaths. The prisoners learned that the conditions were as bad among the Greek population. It was estimated that two thousand, five hundred [Greeks] died every month from starvation, and when the prisoners were changed to another camp and saw the emaciated faces of the Greeks, they had further evidence of the conditions outside the camp.’
A few days later, another Allied submarine, HMS Torbay, fired two torpedoes at the grounded Sebastiano Venier from 1500 yards. One torpedo missed, but the second hit the ship, finally sinking it. What was left of the wreck was scrapped in 1950.
The Italian captain and possibly some of his crew who deliberately abandoned their vessel were later detained. Capitano Merini was stripped of his rank and ordered to face trial. By leaving the ship before it actually sank, he forfeited his chance to deny charges of desertion, neglect of duty, and cowardice, especially since the evidence was clearly visible on the rocks off the Greek coast. There are two accounts of Merini’s fate. One states he took his own life on 11 April 1942. The other claims he was court-martialled and executed by the German forces.
Most of what is known about the unknown German is based on POW survivors’ recollections. All seem to remember only one man. There are many references to ‘a German’ in books, personal letters, and websites about the subject, but no one can identify him or specify what rank he might have held, if any, as he was not in a uniform.
To understand more about ‘the German’, one must return to 22 November 1941 when Benghazi harbour was bombed by the Royal Air Force. One of the casualties was the sinking of the German merchant ship Tinos, which was carrying salvage equipment for the German Navy. A different account states that the Tinos was carrying supplies and tanks. The Tinos was part of the German Merchant Marine [Handelsschifffahrt], which underwent a dramatic transformation during World War II, from a global commercial fleet to a vital military auxiliary.
An Italian naval record obtained in 2020 notes that eight Germans, five Croatians, and two Greeks, possibly part of the surviving crew from the Tinos or other damaged ships, may have taken passage on the Sebastiano Venier to possibly return to Europe.
Of the eight Germans onboard, it’s possible that the prisoners, under immense stress, became confused and thought there was only one. There is no mention in prisoners’ letters, memories, or post-war accounts of more than one. Nor are there any records of the Germans abandoning the ship with the Italians. The Germans and their companions disappeared historically from the wreck site at Methoni Point to an unknown destination. As Henry Perske eloquently wrote in his letter about the mysterious German, ‘It [he] was just like a magician disappearing into smoke and mirrors.’
It is worth noting, however, that recent research has revealed that only three of the eight Germans held officer rank, which would have qualified them to take command after the Italian captain left the ship. They were Herman Beirich, radio telegraph officer; Walter Schulz, Commissioner; and Bernhard Hecht, a Merchant Marine Second Engineer. Another man, Hans Hass, was not an officer but a cadet engineer. Due to his marine engineering experience, Hecht would seem to be the likely candidate to take control of the ship.
As to Bernhard Hecht’s continued service in the Merchant Marine after the Methoni Point shipwreck, French, German, and Italian records revealed nothing until 1944, when he reappeared in Marseille, France.
By August 20, the Port of Marseille had been blocked by retreating German forces to prevent its use by the advancing Allied forces by deliberately sinking one tanker, one cable-laying ship, three passenger vessels, and twenty cargo ships. Historical figures differ on the exact number. It’s possible that Hecht was a crew member on one of the scuttled ships, presumably stranded, and may or may not have been involved in the German defence of the port. As a merchant seaman, he was a non-combatant who may have been pressed into active service. On 28 August 1944, German forces surrendered to the Free French Forces led by General Joseph de Goisland de Monsabert, whose forces captured approximately 11 000 enemy forces. Hecht, now a prisoner, was held in a temporary detention centre or camp before being incarcerated in a more permanent holding facility.
French POW records supplied by the German Bundesarchiv, ZA 13/8550, in 2024, show that Hecht was born on 11 June 1883, married Marie [maiden name unknown] on 25 September 1925, and his POW card listed one child at the time of his incarceration. He was released from the unknown POW camp in May 1946 and returned to his family, who were living in Wilhelmsburg, a district of Hamburg. Beyond this point, further research has proven elusive.
It is important to note, however, that all the known facts about Bernhard Hecht do not conclusively prove that he was the German who took charge of the ship and therefore so ably assisted in the ultimate rescue of the Allied POWs on board. However, based on the available evidence, he appears to be the most likely candidate.
While many heroic deeds went unrecorded during the Sebastiano Venier tragedy, Hecht and Friedlander remained historically linked from Methoni Point until after the war. Lance Corporal Bernard Friedlander was awarded the George Medal; the announcement was made in the London Gazette on 20 July 1945. King George VI personally presented the medal to him on 31 March 1947 during a visit to South Africa. Although only speculation at this stage, it’s possible that Hecht, either before or during his time as a POW, recommended Friedlander for the award. Whether true or not, Friedlander rightly deserves the recognition given to him. Sadly, there was nothing for Merchant Marine Engineer Bernhard Hecht – only references to ‘a German’ in the many stories and personal recollections published about the incident.
If, after so many years since the end of World War Two, positive proof were to be established that Bernhard Hecht was indeed responsible for bringing hope where there was none, it would be a fitting gesture for the governments of Germany, Australia, South Africa, Great Britain, and New Zealand to officially recognise his contribution to humanity through his descendants, if any. Sadly, with the passage of time, it becomes an impossible thought. It could be said that nobody cares anymore. A sad epitaph to one of history’s forgotten heroes. As one prominent website stated as part of their presentation on the subject, ‘The greatest loss for history leaves us bereft of the knowledge of the German witness.’
- Kenneth Wright is an Australia-based historian who has published nearly a hundred articles on subjects of military history interest in various journals.
REFERENCES
It should be noted that the differing versions of events aboard the Sebastiano Venier are based on letters and testimonials from survivors, which, due to the passage of time and frailties of human memory, may or may not be completely accurate.
Mason. Wynne. W. Official History of New Zealand in the Second World War- Prisoners of War; 1939-45. War History Branch. Department of Internal Affairs, Wellington, New Zealand. 1954.[Reference to International Red Cross proposal]
Dalley. Bronwyn. Chief Historian. Ministry of Culture and Heritage. Wellington, New Zealand.
Collett. Martin. The Museum Library. Auckland War Memorial, Auckland, New Zealand. [Permission to use an extract from Jim O’Connell’s letter.]
Edge. Spence. No Honour, No Glory. William Collins, Auckland 1983.
[The author made every effort to locate Mr Edge and apologises for any copyright transgressions.]
Smithwick. Francis. South Tweed Heads, New South Wales, Australia.
O’Hara Vincent. Naval Historian and author. California, USA.
Rohwer. Jurgen Professor, Dr. Military Historian. Weinstadt-Germany.
Vito Zita, Regio Esercito.
Dr, Jan M. Witt. German Naval Association.
