Corn on the Cob: How American Abundance Shattered German Propaganda in a WWII POW Camp

In the muddy fields of a transit camp near Kublans, Germany, in April 1945, the final days of World War II unfolded not with gunfire, but with a simple meal. Thirty-four German women, captured as auxiliary workers in the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht, sat on wooden benches, their uniforms tattered and faces gaunt from months of starvation. They had expected cruelty from their American captors—propaganda had painted the Allies as barbaric. Instead, they were handed trays of hot food, including bright yellow corn on the cob, grilled and dripping with butter. “Is this pig food?” one whispered in horror. But within an hour, laughter echoed through the camp as the women devoured the corn, licking butter from their fingers and asking for more. This seemingly trivial incident—a bite of corn—challenged everything they believed about their enemies and bridged a cultural chasm forged by war.

The story begins with the women themselves. Analise Breni, a 23-year-old signals auxiliary from near Cologne, had spent the war routing communications in a concrete bunker. She surrendered in a farmyard, hands raised, after American forces encircled her position. “I thought they would shoot us,” she later recalled. Alongside her were Renati Stalberg, a military nurse who had treated wounded soldiers with no morphine or bandages; Walrod Feifer, a telephone operator from Berlin; and Alfred Latiman, a 19-year-old anti-aircraft helper from Frankfurt. These women, conscripted to free men for the front lines, had believed the Reich’s promises of victory. By April 1945, with the Western Allies advancing, they faced capture. Staff Sergeant Virgil Tibido, a Cajun from Lafayette, Louisiana, led their processing. Raised on gumbo and jambalaya, Tibido understood food’s power to connect. “Meals are sacred,” he often said, echoing his mother’s teachings.

The American military’s logistical marvel underpinned this moment. By 1945, the U.S. Army operated the largest supply system in history, shipping 800,000 tons of supplies daily across the Atlantic. Trucks like those on the Red Ball Express hauled rations—coffee, sugar, flour, powdered eggs, tinned meat, and corn—from ports in France to the front. POWs ate the same as soldiers, per the Geneva Convention, but also as strategy: well-fed prisoners didn’t riot or spread disease. Corporal Emmett Lindfist, a Swedish-American from Minnesota, wrote home: “We unloaded crates of Iowa corn today. The Germans stared like we’d delivered gold.” Private Lester Simansky, a farm boy from Nebraska, worked the field kitchens, feeding 1,200 men in hours. Breakfast: powdered eggs and toast; dinner: meat, potatoes, and bread. The Germans received identical portions.

Corn, a staple in America, was alien to Germans. In the U.S., farmers produced over 3 billion bushels annually by 1945. Sweet corn was grilled at picnics, boiled at dinners, and served at fairs. But in Germany, corn (called “Mais”) was livestock feed—chopped into silage for pigs and cattle. No respectable family ate it. When the women saw the grilled cobs, glistening with butter, they recoiled. “They are feeding us animal feed,” Hannal Fikner muttered. Oty Drexler, an administrative clerk from Munich, pushed her tray away: “They think we are animals.” The cultural divide was stark. Germans had grown corn for centuries, but never for humans. Americans saw it as comfort food.

Private Delbert Martinelli, an Italian-American from Brooklyn, New York, grinned as he served. “Corn fresh off the grill. You’re gonna love it.” The women hesitated, their pride wounded. But hunger won. Analise Breni, eyeing the Americans enjoying the same meal, picked up her cob. One bite exploded with sweetness—tender kernels, smoky char, creamy butter. “This is not pig food,” she gasped. Walrod tried it next, then Renati, Hannal, and even Oty. Laughter erupted as they devoured seconds. “My god,” Walrod exclaimed. The camp transformed. Meals became moments of connection. The women helped in kitchens, organizing trays and cleanup. Renati, with her nursing efficiency, streamlined distribution. Mechild Weedderman, a barracks supervisor, enforced order. Walrod discovered Private Woodro Pettigrew, a Black soldier from Georgia, playing harmonica. Evening concerts followed, blues melodies bridging divides.

For the Americans, this was routine. Tibido, from Louisiana’s bayous, treated prisoners humanely, sharing water and blankets. Lindfist, from Minnesota’s lakes, noted the shift: “They stopped treating us like enemies. Maybe it was the corn.” Pettigrew, homesick, played music that reminded everyone of home. Simansky, from Nebraska cornfields, taught grilling techniques. These men, from diverse U.S. backgrounds—Southern Cajuns, Midwestern farmers, urban Italians—embodied American abundance. Their well-fed, healthy appearance contrasted with the women’s starvation, dismantling Nazi propaganda of American “mongrels.”

The war ended May 8, 1945, but the women stayed in camps weeks longer. Released, they returned to a ruined Germany—cities rubble, families scattered. Yet they carried memories: hot meals, kindness, and corn. Analise told her mother: “It was sweet, nothing like pig feed.” Families doubted at first, but stories spread. American aid followed—food shipments rebuilding infrastructure. By the 1950s, sweet corn entered German diets, grown for humans, stocked in supermarkets.

In 1987, Germany’s “Stimmen der Generation” oral history project interviewed survivors. Analise Breni Sauer, 75, laughed: “We thought they mocked us. Then we tasted it. That moment, I knew we’d been lied to.” The corn incident, small in war’s scale, changed minds. It showed enemies as humans, propaganda as false. Food, not bombs, bridged gaps.

American soldiers like Tibido, Simansky, and Pettigrew returned home—Louisiana gumbo, Nebraska fields, Georgia melodies—carrying their own lessons. The camp near Kublans became a footnote, but its message endures: abundance and kindness can heal divides. In a world of conflict, a shared meal reminds us of shared humanity.