I SHALL never forget the eerie silence in the garrison cinema. It was rare for any emotional moment to pass without some ribald comment.

Acts of heroism were normally accompanied by scathing catcalls especially if the hero happened to be American.

The audience were almost all seasoned veterans of many an action. But this occasion was different.

We were watching the first newsreels following the liberation of Belsen, Buchenwald and, I believe, Auschwitz.

Everyone sat in stunned silence as we saw immaculately dressed enemy officers going about their duties with a casual indifference to the human squalor and suffering around them.

We saw children lining the perimeter fences with a realisation they had just escaped a fate in the gas chambers or, more horrifying, direct into the furnaces.

And then someone spoke. Just three agonised words that seemed to say it all. "Poor little bastards."

JOHN HINTON,

Worceste