Riding Through History: Dachau, Nuremberg, Colditz, Prague & Auschwitz — Veterans’ WWII Road story

Four British Army veterans ride Ducatis across Europe to confront the hardest chapters of World War II—and to share them with honesty and respect. In this episode we visit Dachau Concentration Camp, Courtroom 600, Nuremberg Trials, Colditz Castle (Oflag IV-C), Patton Memorial Museum, Plzeň, Lidice Memorial, Operation Anthropoid sites in Prague (Heydrich ambush & Church of Sts Cyril and Methodius), Stalag Luft III, Żagań (The Great Escape), and Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Expect a powerful, thoughtfully filmed military history travel documentary: veteran reflections, on-location narration, museum access, memorial etiquette, and cinematic 4K multi-camera footage captured on the move. We pair real-life military stories (1970s–2010s, BAOR/Cold War Germany), quiet moments of remembrance, and the camaraderie that got us through service—and still gets us down the road. If you love veterans’ stories, WWII history, motorbikes, rugby-banter energy, and purposeful travel, this is for you.

What you’ll get:

• Clear context at each site + why it matters today
• Respectful storytelling from those who served
• Practical rider notes, route tips, and kit insights

Subscribe for more Riding Through History episodes—sailing, skiing, restorations, and life after uniform—then share this with someone who values remembrance as much as adventure.

Transcript

A short ride west of Munich brought us to Dachau Concentration Camp, a sobering and emotionally weighty stop on our journey. It is the kind of place that grips you by the collar and refuses to let go until you confront the very worst of humanity — and rightly so. We spent several hours moving quietly through the grounds, filming where it felt appropriate, and simply absorbing the atmosphere. The preserved barracks, the watchtowers, the crematoria — each one a stark, unflinching reminder of the atrocities committed here. The silence was unlike anything I have ever known: not merely the absence of sound, but a stillness that seemed to press down upon your chest. We spoke little, because Dachau demands reverence. It is not a place for chatter; it is a place for remembering.

Riding away from Dachau was harder than arriving. The engines hummed beneath us as always, but the mood was heavier, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. It felt almost indecent to ride off into the sunshine after what we had just witnessed. And yet, that’s the strange balance of a journey like ours — you carry the weight of history with you, but you must also keep moving forward. The road doesn’t pause, and neither can we. By the time Nuremberg’s spires began to edge over the horizon, the silence between us had softened. We weren’t shrugging off the sorrow — you never really do — but we were letting the rhythm of the ride and the promise of the next chapter help us breathe again.

Afterwards we rode in reflective silence northwards to Nuremberg, the city where justice was served in the most historic courtroom of the twentieth century. It felt fitting to follow Dachau with a visit to the Palace of Justice, where the Nuremberg Trials had been held. There was something profoundly satisfying about standing in the very chamber where some of history’s worst criminals were made to answer for their deeds — as if, for a brief moment, the universe had balanced its books. Naturally, we filmed as we went, our commentary delivered with more gravitas than usual. No winks to camera this time — some places demand solemnity.

By late afternoon our stomachs were growling louder than the Ducatis, so we checked into a cosy little hotel just outside the old city walls. The receptionist looked mildly alarmed at our road-dusted Ducati apparel, though she thawed instantly once Johan admired her traditional dirndl. (He’s shameless, and it worked.) Dinner that night was Bavarian comfort at its finest — schnitzel the size of a satellite dish and beer served in a glass large enough to swim in. We rounded off the evening quietly, jotting down editing notes, uploading footage, and digesting not just the feast but the weight of the day’s experiences.

Colditz Castle — legendary fortress of wartime escapes and improbable ingenuity — had long sat on our bucket list. Now, thanks to its unlikely reincarnation as a youth hostel, we could at last live out our POW fantasies (albeit with plumbing that worked and no risk of being shot). We were billeted, rather fittingly, on the Commandant’s side of the castle. Our quarters were a dormitory that screamed “minimalist Cold War chic”: four bunk beds, a modest en-suite with a surprisingly powerful shower, and a table with four chairs that looked as though they’d been requisitioned from a school dining hall. Basic? Undeniably. Clean? Spotless. Historic? Beyond measure.

Downstairs, the cookhouse awaited — an echoing hall lined with long tables, stainless steel trays, and that unmistakable institutional aroma of boiled vegetables and schnitzel done to within an inch of its life. You queued with a tray, were served by cheerful staff (possibly descendants of the original guards), and then dutifully cleared up after yourself like well-behaved inmates. Over breakfast we found ourselves sharing a table with a lively group of German teenagers on a school trip. They were equal parts curious and amused by our presence: four veterans on tour, dusty from the road and buzzing with questions about tunnels and gliders. One lad admitted, rather sheepishly, that he had only come because he thought the place was haunted.

We signed up for the full three-hour guided tour, led by a dry-witted chap who clearly adored every tale of derring-do. He marched us through escape attempts ranging from the classic “tunnel under the floorboards” to the utterly bonkers “glider in the attic.” The ingenuity of those POWs was mind-bending: false walls, fake uniforms, papier-mâché heads — at times it felt like a real-life episode of Mission Impossible, except starring British officers with impeccable moustaches and an alarming disregard for captivity. The glider itself, reconstructed a floor below its original launch site, looked at once absurdly delicate and utterly brilliant. We stood there in awe, half-hoping someone would shout “clear the runway!” just for effect.

The museum was the final cherry on the Colditz cake. Packed with relics, escape tools, and uniforms, it brought everything to life in glorious — and occasionally grim — detail. We took our time, soaking up the atmosphere and even slipping into character now and then. Johan, for example, dusted off his old “distract the guard while I crawl through the vent” routine. He still had it. By the time we broke for lunch in town, our heads were brimming with stories and our hearts full of admiration. We set off once more, chattering like schoolchildren just freed from detention.

From Colditz, we pointed our trusty steeds southeast and thundered towards Plzeň — that glorious Czech city known equally for its world-class beer and for its liberation by General Patton on 8 May 1945. Our target was the Patton Memorial Museum, a gem of a place honouring the American forces who swept through the region with boots polished and tanks rumbling at the tail end of the war. Most visitors probably walk in quietly to admire the artefacts; we, however, arrived in full “veterans on tour” mode — helmets in hand, cameras at the ready, and still faintly scented of motor oil and adventure.

To our delight, the curator — a wonderfully enthusiastic gentleman sporting a moustache that looked as though it had liberated a town or two on its own — granted us permission to film. We chatted away like old comrades, trading stories while he listened with a twinkle in his eye. When we offered to share our finished footage for use in future museum documentaries, he practically lit up. “Děkuji!” he exclaimed, shaking our hands as though we’d just handed him the plans for D-Day.

Then came the gem: he told us of Plzeň’s annual tradition. Every May the city explodes into a week-long celebration of its liberation by the Americans — parades, re-enactors, concerts, and enough Stars and Stripes to make Uncle Sam himself blush. “You just missed it,” he said with a wistful smile. Typical. Trust us to roll into the birthplace of Pilsner just after the beer-soaked liberation bash. Still, he made us promise to come back — and next time, we fully intend to, preferably armed with flags, cameras, and a ready supply of hangover remedies.

From Plzeň we pressed on eastward, our pilgrimage carrying us to Lidice — a name that still echoes with sorrow. Once a quiet Czech village, it was obliterated by the SS in June 1942 as brutal reprisal for the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich. The Nazis not only massacred the men and sent the women and children to camps, but, in an act of grotesque theatre, filmed themselves doing it. To stand there is to wrestle with disbelief that such evil was ever real. Today Lidice remains preserved like a sacred wound — quiet, green, hauntingly beautiful. The museum holds photographs of those who perished: faces frozen in time, names that whisper on the wind. We arrived just as a Czech school group were being guided through the grounds. Some of the children giggled at first, but within minutes the silence settled over them like a blanket. History speaks for itself when you’re standing on its ashes.

From Lidice’s heavy stillness, we rolled on into the vibrant energy of Prague — the city of spires, beer, and espionage. We checked into a rather swish hotel with a secure underground garage for the Ducatis; history may be dangerous, but leaving one’s bike on a capital’s pavement is positively reckless. That afternoon we went in search of the corner where SOE-trained resistance fighters ambushed Heydrich, “the Butcher of Prague.” The site has changed beyond recognition — cars honking, trams rattling, and electric scooters weaving perilously through it all. It wasn’t quite the heroic street corner we had imagined, but the history still lingered, faint as gun smoke carried on a breeze.

We knew the story well. Codenamed Operation Anthropoid, it unfolded on the 27 May 1942, carried out by Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš — Czech patriots trained by the British Special Operations Executive. Their target was Heydrich’s open-top Mercedes-Benz, ambushed in broad daylight with a daring that still beggars belief. Gabčík’s Sten gun jammed, but Kubiš’s grenade struck true, wounding the Reichsprotektor. Though he clung on for a few days, infection claimed him in the end. His death unleashed unspeakable reprisals — not least the annihilation of Lidice. Bravery and tragedy intertwined, oil and vinegar in the cruellest of dressings, and every bit as hard to swallow.

Later we made our way to the Church of St Cyril and Methodius, where the resistance fighters had made their final stand. The church still stands — calm, stoic, as though quietly guarding their memory. Outside, bullet holes pit the walls like ghostly fingerprints; inside, a solemn memorial lists each man who fell, holding out against impossible odds. Standing in the crypt where they fought to the bitter end was profoundly humbling. We lingered there in silence, aware that in moments like this we weren’t merely documenting history, we were standing inside it.

The reprisals that followed Operation Anthropoid went far beyond Lidice. The Gestapo’s vengeance reached into the church itself: the Bishop of the Orthodox Church and several priests were arrested, later executed for their supposed complicity or their silence. In the days that followed, an estimated 13,000 people were arrested, interrogated with unspeakable cruelty, and around 5,000 were murdered — some in secret, others before firing squads. It was not justice the Nazis sought, but terror, and they wielded it with chilling efficiency.

Entire villages were wiped clean off the map. Lidice was razed — its men shot, its women sent to Ravensbrück, and its children — those not stolen for “Germanisation” — murdered. Ležáky, another small village, suffered the same fate after being accused of sheltering the resistance. This was not merely destruction; it was obliteration, an attempt to erase memory itself.

We took our time to reflect and pay our respects before packing the bikes once more, still trying to process the scale of the atrocity. With heavier hearts, and a deeper respect for the resilience of the Czech people, we saddled up and quietly rolled on towards our next destination. History, after all, doesn’t live only in textbooks — it lingers in the silence of the roads we ride.

The Ducatis were still behaving like absolute saints — no tantrums, no warning lights, and mercifully no roadside hunts for missing bolts. It was as if they sensed we were on hallowed ground and chose to mind their manners. Our next destination was one that had lived in Johan’s and Stephen’s imaginations for years: Żagań, Poland, the site of Stalag Luft III — the infamous POW camp forever linked with The Great Escape. This wasn’t just another stop on our Riding Through History tour. This was pilgrimage territory.

Back in Mr Forbes’ history class, we’d been utterly spellbound by the tales of Stalag Luft III — daring tunnel escapes, improvised compasses fashioned from melted phonograph needles, and German uniforms stitched together from RAF blankets and Red Cross parcels. Those stories weren’t just lessons; they were adventures etched into our young imaginations. I still have my original tattered paperback copy of The Wooden Horse and The Great Escape, tucked away in the drawer of the new study like a relic of childhood dreams, its pages dog-eared from too many re-reads.

We booked into a charming, slightly old-fashioned hotel just outside town — more “Cold War chic” than luxury spa — but it was spotless, welcoming, and, most importantly, offered secure parking for the Ducatis. We planned a two-night stay so we could do the place justice, not just rush through with a few snapshots. The next morning the weather seemed to sense the weight of where we were headed. Grey skies hung low, a soft drizzle in the air, and a hushed stillness that lent a quiet, respectful tone to the day’s purpose.

We began at the Stalag Luft III Museum, a compact but utterly absorbing place filled with models, artefacts, and displays that brought the camp to life. The centrepiece is Hut 104, painstakingly reconstructed by a team of Royal Engineers in the early 2000s. Stepping inside, you immediately grasp how cramped, cold, and claustrophobic life must have been — and just how much courage it took to dig a tunnel beneath your captors’ boots.

After an hour or more soaking it in, we wandered out to where the camp itself had once sprawled. Today it’s mostly forest, the outlines of foundations half-swallowed by undergrowth. Yet with the help of maps and superb signage, the place took shape in our minds. And there it was: the site of Tunnel “Harry,” marked out from entrance shaft to exit. We traced its length, shaking our heads when we reached the spot where it ended — thirty feet short of the tree line. So close you could weep. Or curse. Or, in our case, both.

We filmed it from every angle we could think of — Johan sending the drone high for sweeping shots of the forest, while Stephen delivered a piece to camera from the marked tunnel entrance. I busied myself with moody stills of the trees crowding in around the site, their silence heavy with memory, while Marlin scouted out the place where Tunnel “Tom” had once run before its discovery and destruction. The ingenuity of those men still boggles the mind: bed boards pressed into service as tunnel shoring, powdered milk tins fashioned into ventilation tubing, even a tiny forge built from stolen stove parts. It was equal parts brilliance and desperation — proof that hope, when caged, finds a way to dig.

Later we made our way to the site of the “Wooden Horse” escape — surely one of the most ridiculous and yet utterly brilliant feats in the annals of POW ingenuity. Standing there, picturing those men vaulting and handstanding day after day to mask the digging beneath, we agreed it was more than courage; it was theatrical genius. A display board set out the details of the escape, complete with a nod to the film where Eric Williams — one of the actual escapees — served as adviser. You can even pace out the tunnel’s length, which of course we did, with all the solemnity of schoolboys trying not to grin.

We also found the faint outlines of the camp’s old theatre and chapel — ghostly reminders of how the POWs fought despair with performance and ritual. Imagine Hamlet staged in a converted latrine. If that isn’t the true British spirit, I don’t know what is.

To round off the day, we visited the haunting memorial to “The Fifty” — the Allied airmen executed by the Gestapo after their recapture. It is a monument of quiet dignity, built by the surviving POWs with their own hands under German supervision. We stood before it with tears rolling silently down all our faces, unable to stop them, nor wanting to. A little further across the site lay the cemetery for countless Russian and Czech POWs, their fates often harsher still, and so poorly recorded that many graves bear only numbers instead of names. The silence there was crushing.

We spent nearly eight hours walking those grounds. Between the museum, the woods, and the filming, Johan’s watch claimed we had logged over 20,000 steps. Our legs ached, our hearts were heavy, and our memory cards were overflowing.

As we rode back to the hotel under the dusky Polish sky, not a single word passed over the intercoms. Some places insist on silence. Stalag Luft III is one of them.

Back at the hotel that evening — feet up, boots off, and a restorative cold beer in hand — we fired up the laptop and went live for another episode of Riding Through History. For once the Wi-Fi behaved, and our makeshift broadcasting studio — essentially a corner of the room with a Stalag Luft III brochure propped up as a backdrop — did the trick nicely. The stream turned into one of our liveliest yet: questions flying in, comments lighting up the chat like a Christmas tree, and viewers piling in faster than Johan could refill his beer glass.

Our subscriber count was ticking upward like a London parking meter, and we couldn’t have been more chuffed. Of course, the dramatic backdrops and historic sites did their bit, but a huge slice of the credit belonged to our backstage wizards: Tom, Jimmy, and Mary. Their editing wizardry could turn a trip to the laundrette into a BBC documentary. Quick cuts, sweeping drone shots, spot-on pacing, and just the right dusting of background music gave each episode its polish. They made us look better than we had any right to.

That said, I like to think our on-camera charm didn’t hurt either. Somehow we managed to look as though we knew what we were doing — most of the time — and the sheer fun we were having proved infectious. Vinka’s animated storytelling, Marlin’s razor-dry one-liners, Johan’s accidental history lectures, and my own dubious attempts at humour (usually involving props) all seemed to hit the mark. Maybe, just maybe, what people really connected with was four old friends out for an adventure — getting muddy, occasionally lost, and laughing the whole way.

By the time we wrapped the livestream — nearly two hours later — our voices were hoarse, the local beer had left us cheerfully tipsy, and we were still chuckling about the viewer who asked whether Marlin was single and which Ducati she rode (we never did work out which answer they were after). We shut the stream down, raised one final toast to our audience, and promised more mischief from the road tomorrow.

The next morning, after demolishing a breakfast hearty enough to fuel a platoon — because no journey ever begins well on an empty stomach — we set about packing the bikes with the ease of muscle memory. Panniers clicked into place, top boxes loaded, visors wiped, headsets synced. What had once been a faff was now second nature, almost ceremonial in its rhythm. With the sun breaking through the morning clouds, we rolled east across the Polish countryside, skirting Katowice and pressing on toward Auschwitz.

We had all read the books, seen the documentaries, but nothing prepares you for the sheer, soul-crushing scale of Auschwitz. Rolling through the gates beneath the infamous brick archway, the railway tracks still cutting through the middle like a cruel scar, was enough to chill the blood. The silence pressed down as if the very air carried memory. We parked the bikes quietly, almost sheepishly, and walked the length of the camp to where the skeletal remains of the gas chambers and crematoria still stand. It is almost impossible to put into words. Overwhelming. Haunting. You feel very small indeed.

Inside the barracks, history hit us like a physical blow. Behind glass walls were piles of shoes, worn down to scraps; mountains of battered suitcases, still bearing names and addresses neatly painted on by hands that never returned; children’s clothes folded as though waiting for little bodies that would never wear them again. The sight of tiny shoes — scuffed, buckled, some no bigger than my palm — broke me. Tears blurred my vision, and I wasn’t alone. We all stood there, silent, tears rolling down our faces, each of us trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Every object whispered of a life interrupted, a story cut short. It was not numbers or statistics here it was faces, families, and futures stolen. Walking those long, echoing corridors, I felt both unbearably heavy and strangely fragile, as if grief itself had seeped into my bones. It’s one thing to read about cruelty on a page; it’s another to stand in the very place where it happened, to feel the walls remember. Auschwitz does not allow you to look away, nor forget the experience.

By the time we reached the exit, we were drained. It felt wrong to speak, wrong to disturb the silence of that place with anything as ordinary as words. We walked slowly back to the bikes, the railway tracks stretching away behind us like an open wound that would never heal. Even the sun, which had broken through earlier in the day, seemed muted here, as though the very sky understood.

Strapping on our helmets felt almost indecent, like putting armour back on after being stripped bare. None of us said a thing as we rolled away. The engines were soft at first, subdued, as if they, too, were reluctant to break the quiet. Auschwitz had left its mark on us — not just as travellers, not just as veterans, but as human beings. Some places don’t let you leave; they stay with you, etched into your soul. This was one of them.