By now Jerry
was heavily committed in the war against Russia and each
day a civilian would be missing from the track workers.
Enquiries about what had happened to the missing civvy
were always met rather quietly with: "Fuer ein
Soldat, gegen Russland." And to rub it in, the
worker would be asked when it was his turn to go, which
would be followed by the answer: "Ich weiss
nicht." When marching to work we saw posters
appealing for gifts of warm clothing for the soldiers on
the Eastern Front; this was their
"Winter-Hilfe" - winter help - appeal. Because
of working on the tracks in the cold winds many of us
suffered from badly cracked lips, and the more you licked
them, the more painful they became.
One morning, dark and
cold, we had Harry ask the German Sergeant Major, who
always conducted the rapid countings, whether we could
have some sort of cream as a protection for our lips. We
were told to be like the gallant German soldiers on the
Eastern Front, who used the wax in their ears to rub on
their lips. Just try it. This Jerry was built like an oak
tree and one of the few who did not sport the toothbrush
moustache which most men had, to copy their beloved
Fuehrer. Instead, he sported a large Hindenburg-type
decoration. When he spoke, those guards jumped.
Whilst at work we were frequently
photographed, to be used as material for propaganda. Each
month there was an edition of a newspaper for P.O.W.s,
called "The Camp"; the issue didnt quite
work out to one each so a rota was arranged for turns to
keep a copy, worth its weight in gold as toilet paper -
after reading all the lies, of course. One Sunday, which
in the early days was a day off work, Dolmy came round to
tell us to save five camp marks, so that we could
purchase a copy of Adolph Hitlers "Mein
Kampf", printed in English. He showed us a specimen
book and of course the initial concensus was "Not
bloody likely". Then, with afterthought, the penny
dropped. The book was very like an older type Holy Bible
- masses of pages made of good quality thin paper. Were
we going to buy those copies and read about Hitlers
struggles? Yes, three pages at a time in the toilet!
Could we buy more than one copy? No, owing to popular
demand by kriegies to read the valuable work,
restrictions to one copy per person had to be enforced.
Poor Dolmy was delighted with the reception, not knowing
to what use the end product would be put! Over a
weeks wages to buy bog paper, but it was good
economics - and good reading, because there was nowt
else.
Harold Siddall and "Andy
Andrews" in December 1941 - the first winter
as POW's
Once again strong buzzes permeated
about the elusive Red Cross parcels; Jerry promised an
issue at Christmas, but then put a damper on it by kindly
telling us that the R.A.F. had bombed Lubeck, a port in
the Baltic where the neutral Swedish ships, chartered by
the Red Cross, unloaded those necessary supplies. How we
hated the R.A.F.! They were nowhere to be seen when we
needed them on Crete and now, of all places to drop their
loads, they had to bomb Lubeck. Jerry certainly knew how
to twist the knife! The next excuse was that the railway
tracks from Lubeck were being continually bombed by those
"Terror-Fliegers". I dont suppose any of
our compatriots had ever seen the contents of a Red Cross
parcel, but each evening we slavered over the possible
contents of those beautiful boxes. On one occasion when
hunger racked us and the subject just had to be food,
somebody organised a verbal competition about the best
sort of meal. Of course the descriptions varied and the
quantities would have made it impossible for a dinner
plate to be large enough. But one bloke took the biscuit.
He described how his Mum scooped out the inside of brown,
roasted potatoes and filled them with some of the creamed
interiors. Then, when the menu was completely described,
somebody asked him what his Mum did with the rest of the
scooped out potato and he calmly replied: "She
throws it away." A howl of anguish arose at this and
she was hated for throwing away succulent food. Such was
the power of hunger in those days, again not helped by
the biting wind and the snow.
Snowballing had long
since ceased - how we hated the stuff! We had to make an
effort at work, just to keep warm. The most affected
parts were the feet: boots leaked in the snow, socks and
Fusslappen became wet and the chances of drying them were
nil; we just put them between blanket and mattress and
let body heat work. Many developed chillblains on their
toes and fingers and it was murder for them once we
returned to our rooms and body heat raised the
temperature. I count myself fortunate that I was not
afflicted by this. The Aussie, Harry Woodward, developed
an ulcer on his shin, but there was no treatment for it.
There was always a queue hoping to report sick, but the
German doctor didnt seem to know the meaning of the
word. Anybody who collected "zwei Tage
Bett-ruhe" - two days off work - was very lucky. It
was a case of no work, no pay and, what is more, no
midday ladle of cabbage water.
"Regulation
issue" Christmas card sent by POWs at the
end of 1941
On one of those nights tramping back to
the barracks, the wind was bitterly cold and the snow was
blowing in every direction; we entered the camp and after
the usual endless standing whilst being counted and
signed for, the Feldwebel told us that there was mail in
the huts. With a whoop and a holler we dashed indoors to
find that some lucky sods had letters; whilst there were
not many, Bob Andrews had received one from his Mum. Jack
and I were not so fortunate, so Andy read his to us.
There was no mention of the parcels for which we had
written. Several lines about what the Red Cross was
doing; apparently parents and wives of prisoners were
being put in touch with one another, but nothing about
food. Here and there lines were blacked out by the
censors.
One of the guards was a photographer by
profession. When war was declared he was on the dockside,
waiting to board a liner and emigrate to America. Instead
of boarding, he and all the male would-be emigrants were
rounded up and before they knew it they were in the
German Army! Being a professional photographer, he was
able to wangle a job in the propaganda department of the
Army. In anticipation of emigrating he had learned a
little English and from his conversations during some of
the propaganda sessions he let loose that he hated the
Army, Hitler and anything they stood for; but this was
always expressed in a very low voice. He was forever
wanting to learn new terms and English phrases, so of
course he was taught some choice expressions by us!
Then, Hallelujah! At our first
Christmas there was an issue of Red Cross parcels. We
arrived back at the lager to see a huge van leaving and
all we could hear from the camp guards was: "Rote
Paeckchen!" And we just couldnt believe it.
Once counted, there was a dash back to the barracks room,
consume the soup, bread and spuds and bubble with
anticipation. Then came the news that the issue would
consist of a parcel between two men. Those wonderful
boxes were bound by strong white cord, so here was our
first clothes line to rig up in the room to dry our
washing and the boxes could be used to give each one a
sense of privacy. A few years ago, Mabel and I had a
holiday on the island of Jersey and one of the places of
interest we visited was the German underground hospital,
carved out of the ground by Russian P.O.W.s. At the
entrance was a Red Cross parcel box and the sight of it
momentarily dimmed my eyes, as they watered from the
memories. Pardon me for digressing; lets get on
with the story.
What was in that wonderful Red Cross
parcel? Writing this part of the yarn on the afternoon of
Christmas Eve 1993, a cold, dry, sunny day, looking at
the blue sky from my breakfast room window, I find myself
racking my memory to recall what was in that box. Here
goes. A two ounce packet of tea, a tin of rice pudding, a
tin of condensed milk, a tin of meat and veg., a packet
of Yorkshire pudding mixture, a tin of margarine, a tin
of meat-loaf, a packet of hard biscuits, a tin of jam and
a tin containing fifty Gold Flake cigarettes. There were
other items as well, but my memory fails me.
The boxes were kept in a store
controlled by the Germans and the bloke in charge was the
American German, our enemy, the "bar-steward".
We were told all tins had to be opened and emptied in his
presence, in accordance with the Geneva Convention. He
obeyed these orders to the letter initially and, since we
had only one dish each, he was not averse to putting
several selections in one dish. Thus one could leave the
store with portions of jam, rice and meat-loaf all in the
same dish. We were allowed to take the cigarettes
separately. Of course this could not be allowed to
continue and we lost no time in hunting out Dolmy to ask
him about it. Even the British doctor could do nothing
and we three musketeers had to carefully plan what to
collect in our three dishes, to put together a satisfying
feed as economically as possible. At least we were able
to make drinking mugs out of the empty tins. Try to
imagine, if you can, piping hot tea flavoured with
condensed milk! Paradise! Definitely a better start to
the day than Jerrys mint tea.
But a drink of tea requires boiling
water. In the hut there was no provision for this and
Jerry in the cookhouse wasnt interested. So how was
this problem overcome? It was here that cigarettes became
the currency. There was a German civilian general
handyman in the camp; he called himself a carpenter,
which in German is "Tischler", so he was called
Herr Tisch in deference. He was bribed to produce some
electric flex and a connection. With these items an
enterprising inmate joined each end of the twin flex to a
razor blade and the other ends to the connection. With
the razor blade immersed in the can of water and the
connection plugged into the light socket, we had a heater
which rapidly boiled the water. We had to immerse the
razor blade before plugging in and disconnect before
removing it; in this way we could make a brew in turns.
Of course the fuse for lighting wouldnt take too
much of this, so when Jerry wasnt about somebody
stuck a nail in the fusebox. We had no more worries, but
its a wonder the place never burned down. Innocents
abroad!
I have mentioned the string which
secured the parcels. We were asked to donate any spare
string to the Aussie sergeant major, with no questions
asked. The outcome was that two under-sized lads on our
work party, one Aussie, the other Welsh, wove hammocks
from the string. One evening they disappeared from the
Tick-Tocking party and made their way to the railway
goods yard. They had gained the necessary information
secretly and in the dark they slung their hammocks
between the axles of a goods truck, which became part of
a train travelling to St. Margarethen in Switzerland -
and thus they had escaped. They were the only two in our
camp to achieve this. We knew they were successful
because the sergeant major received a picture postcard
from his "nephews", lording it up on holiday in
Switzerland.
Our rooms services were not
measuring up to the work requirement as Tick-Tockers for
the German railway. I wonder why? Anyhow, we were sacked,
and our feelings were not hurt. But this meant we would
not be kept at Arbeitslager 2780A because the railway was
not employing us. So it looked as though we would be
heading back to Stalag VII A, and this was not a bright
prospect. That weekend Dolmy came into our room and asked
if amongst us there were any what sounded like
"mourers". We thought about it and realised he
was asking for masons. The Firma Winkler was losing its
two masons, called up in the Army, poor sods, and
replacements were urgently required to work on a
drain-laying contract in Munich. Now that was the way for
Andy and me to avoid returning to the Stalag. So we told
Dolmy that we were masons; this part is laughable. When
he enquired as to our "mourer" status we
didnt understand, so he had to dig out his
interpreters book to find the necessary words.
Andy, being a bricklayer, was a Steinmaurer and I, being
a plasterer, as I told him, was a Mortelmaurer. And we
were accordingly employed by the Firma Winkler. Dolmy
also brought the news that the whole room was going to be
employed because of anticipated call-ups.
So the next Monday morning we mustered
to the call of Firma Winkler. The next part may be
humourous now, but at the time was not so comical. When
mustering inside the barrier gate, the fussy German
corporal, who seemed to be always querying and poking his
nose into whatever was going on, asked me if I was a
Maurer and when I replied in the affirmative he followed
up with the question: "Bist Du Freimaurer?" To
me it was all the same, so once again I answered yes. At
this he began to slash me across the face with his gloves
and for a moment I could only stand flabbergasted. Then I
let out a roar and called him a good few Anglo-Saxon
lower deck titles. With this uproar going on we were soon
surrounded by armed guards, who must have thought that I
was attacking the silly sod. This was enough to draw the
solid oak Feldwebel to the scene, accompanied by Dolmy.
There followed screaming questions and screaming answers
until Dolmy was able to intervene. It seems that being a
mason was acceptable, but being a Freimaurer meant that I
was a Freemason and an abomination in the sight of Hitler
and his cohorts, about on par with Jews. The only thing I
knew about Freemasonry was that Uncle Stan and Uncle John
had been members. And so after explanations the Feldwebel
blasted the corporal for poking his nose into affairs
which did not concern him, so Dolmy told me. He had the
corporal standing to attention, stiff as a ramrod, this
being as near to an apology he could offer to me, an
enemy, whilst he dished out the blast, and when we
marched off, old Nosey was still standing there. Of
course on the way to the workplace I had my leg pulled
something rotten by the lads and even Hurry Hurry told me
that the corporal was "schlecht", which means
rubbish. Such was life!
We arrived at the place of work to find
we would be digging a very deep trench at the side of a
fairly long street, the objective being to lay large
diameter pipe sections in the bottom of the trench to
make a rainwater drain. Each of these sections was
pre-cast in concrete and Andy and I would be the
pipe-layers and would build the interceptor pits along
the system. Initially we were with the diggers; of the
two tools I found it easier to use a pick, the soil and
the strata was loose, so a couple of grunts with a pick
ensured a bit of a spell whilst the shovel brigade took
over, and those lads had to throw the diggings fairly
high onto the upper stage of the scaffolding, from where
it was shovelled into heaps at the side of the street.
This went on for a couple of days and then Dolmy cycled
onto the scene. We must have been making some progress
because Herr Winkler seemed satisfied until Dolmy asked
where the two mourers were; when he saw Andy in the
bottom of the trench digging, he blew up. The mourers
shouldnt be digging, they should be mouring, but
really at that time there was no construction work for us
to do. The outcome was that we went to assist the
surveyor, handling the T-shaped boning rods, with which
he ensured the slope on the bottom of the trench was
correct. Heavy work that! In my earlier writings I
mentioned the Standard Inn, where I was a member of the
darts team; the Manager was called Percy Hemer. Just keep
this in mind.
With a section of the digging in the
trench completed there arrived a lorry-load of pipe
sections. There was no space to store them, so the garden
of a hotel opposite was commandeered. The hotel was
called "Ost Wirtschaft" and the owner was a
Michael Hemer! Any relation? I dont know, but just
fancy having to enter Kriegsgefangenschaft to find
another Hemer! Seems as though I am waffling.
With the pipe sections in the
Biergarten, Andy and I came into our own. Before laying
the pipes in the drainage site, the insides had to be
sealed with a cement wash; the pipes being almost a yard
in diameter, we were able to crawl inside to do this.
Adjacent to the beer garden was a house with a metal
railing balcony. Now the Honorable Robert Andrews was
gifted with not too bad a voice and one morning Andy was
inside a section of pipe, slapping cement wash all over
and busily singing the "Woodpecker Song". It
didnt sound too bad and suddenly we heard a call
which sounded like "Harold", so I scrambled out
of the section of pipe for a look-see. Nobody in sight,
but again came the call and this time I realised it was
"Allo!" I looked up and there, standing
on the balcony, was a vision in the form of a girl with
long blonde hair. Andy was still singing away inside his
section of the pipe and I have to admit the tune was not
too bad. The vision asked me if I was English and after
my reply she wanted to know the name of the song coming
out of the pipe. I called Andy and when his eyes had gone
back into their sockets he proceeded to give the girl the
full Bob Andrews treatment. He had a charming smile and a
pleasant voice and was soon able to enlighten her. Her
command of the English language was good and she appeared
to have a number of records of the latest songs, mostly
sung by Bing Crosby. But the "Woodpecker Song"
was new to her and would Bob sing it again for her? Like
a lark on the wing he obliged and next she dropped a
folded sheet of paper together with a pencil for him to
write out the words. Just like Romeo, had there been a
suitable trellis Bob would have personally delivered the
missive to the balcony, but twas not to be, so the
song sheet was delivered wrapped in a stone.
She was full of thanks and asked what
she could give us in return; the spontaneous answer was:
FOOD. She left the balcony and we waited, but neither she
nor food materialised, so it was back to work, slapping
cement inside those cylinders of concrete. The day passed
with no more "Allo"s and it ended like
any other day at that time. The next morning came another
"Allo" and there was the girl. She
motioned for silence with a finger to her lips, looked
around as a cautionary procedure and then dropped a
newspaper package. Immediately opened, it contained the
cob end of a loaf, four small tomatoes, some salt in a
spill of paper and a sheet of paper requesting the words
of any of the latest songs we could think of. Now I am
not a lover of tomatoes, but the shared bread and two
tomatoes with salt was as good to me as the Manna was to
the Israelites in the time of Moses. I had forgotten the
taste of salt and its succulence made me realise what I
had been missing.
Now we had to play this game carefully,
not to expend the repertoire too quickly, so we began
with the words of "Little Old Lady" - an
earlier song by Bing Crosby, threw the pencilled song
sheet to her and Andy, once more inside a pipe section,
sang the song a couple of times. Then once more she left
the balcony. We must have been progressing favourably
because after a couple of inspections Herr Winkler left
us alone and Hurry Hurry locked the garden gate, so as
far as he was concerned we were secure. The
"Allo"s did not come every day, but when
they did there was always the cob of bread, four tomatoes
and salt wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. The newspaper
was invaluable; it helped with the learning of German
words, which at times proved very difficult because the
text was in Gothic print. The parts of the
"Volkischer Beobachter", cut into six inch
squares, helped to take the strain off "Mein
Kampf" and we asked the girl for more newspaper -
for learning German, of course - and occasionally we
would see a complete newspaper come sailing over the high
railings of the Biergarten. On one occasion the girl was
on the balcony, listening to Andy rendering the latest in
the repertoire, when a newspaper came over the railings;
I climbed to see who the supplier was and saw a lady
pushing a bicycle. She put a finger to her mouth, mounted
the cycle and rode off down the side-street. When asked,
the girl told us the lady was her mother and that her
father had been killed early in the war. We asked how she
came to have a collection of records and she told us her
brother was a guard on the railway, who frequently
travelled to Switzerland, where he had bought them.
Eventually enough trenching had been
created for Andy and I to begin the pipe-laying, with
each section resting on two bricks, the joints plugged
with oakum and sealed with cement. We would lay the
sections fairly quickly, build inspection pits, with
special sections into which we fitted metal crampons as
foot rests; then we returned to the garden to treat the
awaiting sections. One morning, whilst Andy and I were
working in the Biergarten, following the awaited
"Allo", the girl asked us if we were allowed
out of camp on Sundays to walk around Munich and was
astounded when we fell about laughing at the suggestion.
I still had my beard and my blonde hair was a respectable
length and she told me that, being tall and
blonde-haired, I would easily pass for an example of a
Saxon German. She had thought that because we were
workers in Germany we had a certain freedom, like many
conscripted workers from occupied countries. When we
asked why she had raised this question, after much
careful looking around as, she replied that, firstly, it
would help her to increase her knowledge of English and,
secondly, if we were always so hungry we could buy some
bread and tomatoes. This was the opening which we had
been seeking. Wrapping some of our Camp Marks in a piece
of newspaper weighted by a stone, we threw the parcel up
to her and asked if she could buy anything with our kind
of cash - preferably a loaf of bread. Of course she had
not seen any of this rubbish before and said that if we
had German money her mother would buy us a loaf of bread.
It was then a case of "on thinking
caps". The camp guards were rationed to three
cigarettes a day, when they could find them, and the
latest supplies were from Russia. Each consisted of a
cardboard tube, at the end of which was a small cylinder
of black tobacco, which meant that after a couple of
sucks from the cardboard tube, cigarette finito! The name
of those cigarettes was Mokri Superb. What a mockery! So
our cigarettes became currency, but the only snag was
that a guard was in trouble if he was caught smoking an
English cigarette. Those who could not obtain our
cigarettes would sell a fortunate comrade down the river.
The best was to deal with a guard who was on his way home
or on weekend leave, because he could collect a food
ration ticket for three days. We found Hurry Hurry was
due for leave and persuaded him to do a deal for his
bread coupons and German Marks. Both Andy and Jack
smoked, but I didnt, so there were enough
cigarettes in the kitty to do a deal and we were able to
obtain the cash and coupons. The next time the vision
appeared on the balcony we threw up to her our supply of
one-Mark notes with a request for bread to be purchased.
The next "Allo" came from over the garden
railings, this time from the girls mother. She was
asking for the bread coupons, which we had completely
forgotten. So next day, following the welcome sound of
"Allo" from over the railings, we gave the lady
the "Brot-Marken", as they were called,
entitling the purchaser to so many grammes of bread. The
girls mother, whom we called "Meine
Frau", must have been sympathetic to Andy and me
because she often shopped with her bicycle and stopped by
the railings and rang the bell of her bicycle. As long as
we could supply the bread coupons she would not take the
money and became a good friend.
Shop
where working tokens could be exchanged for
(mostly worthless) articles. Right hand notice
says "IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE!" Photograph
taken in 1942
Our Red Cross parcels
issue worked out roughly at one between two at
three-weekly intervals. On one occasion we were issued
with a parcel each and agreed between the three of us to
give Meine Frau one of the two-ounce packets of tea. When
the bicycle bell tinkled, we threw the packet, wrapped in
newspaper, into her shopping basket and motioned her to
ride off. Some time later from the balcony came the
"Allo" and there was the girl with her mother.
The girl had tried to teach her mother to say "Thank
you very much." But mother finished up crying and
covered her face with her apron before going back into
the room. Meine Frau was good to us. On another occasion
we had received an issue of goodies from America in the
form of toiletries, including toilet paper. We each
received several cakes of soap and agreed to give one to
Meine Frau. I remember it quite well; the soap was a
large, bath-size piece with a swan embossed on it, and it
was perfumed! The mother had difficulty organising her
tongue to make the "th" sound, but she was
learning to express her gratitude, and that was all that
mattered. I say again, during those hungry days before
the arrival of those parcels Meine Frau was good to us.
You remember me calling the Yankee
German a bar steward. (Say it quickly and you
will get the message.) He started a racket when we went
to the parcel store to collect an item or two. He would
place the chosen tin on the store counter and go through
the motions of opening it. If you gave him a couple of
cigarettes he would just open the tin; if not, he would
empty the contents into the dish with other choices. No
cigarettes and there would be a mixed dish. He must have
been his own downfall, flashing the cigarettes around,
because not long after starting his racket he disappeared
and, according to Hurry Hurry, he had been sent to the
Russian Front. There were great rejoicings when we
learned this and even greater rejoicings when the Camp
Commandant allowed us to have the parcels in our rooms.
The next requirement was a source of
heat; such foodstuffs as meat and vegetables tasted
better when heated. The German photographer became the
initial supplier, bringing in boxes of Meta Tablets, a
form of compressed methylated spirit which burned with a
clear blue flame. I cannot remember the precise details:
suffice to say that cigarettes were the main form of
payment, followed by the two-ounce bars of chocolate
which came in the Red Cross parcels. His propaganda
visits were usually short-lived, so we had to cultivate
other guards and with them chocolate had priority; they
were fearful of being seen smoking English cigarettes in
camp. You must realise that chocolate was a source of
food and we were reluctant to part with it. Surprisingly
enough there were bods in the camp who were always ready
to swop their chocolate for cigarettes. The Lady Nicotine
must have had a stranglehold on them.
Somewhere in the camp an enterprising
kriegie had done a deal with somebody on the outside and
come into possession of a circular electric hob. The news
of this achievement spread through the camp like
quicksilver; in no time at all negotiations were under
way to purchase something similar. Those electric hobs
were very expensive and cigarettes were the necessary
currency. So the occupants of each room pooled cigarettes
in order to have two rings per room. Some civilian was
onto a good racket, being able to deal in such a
commodity, because by then everything was diverted to the
war effort. Each room had to wait until the shutters over
the windows had been closed externally, then the two-way
adaptor was fitted into the light socket and, according
to the roster, meals were produced by the groups at the
top of the list. I had previously written about having a
French Army water bottle, which was shaped like the Ace
of Spades on a playing card. With a tin opener on a
soldiers knife I cut out one side of the water
bottle, hammered a piece of wood into the neck ring and -
hey presto - there was a frying pan. Each morning the two
cookers were placed in an empty Red Cross box and stowed
in one of the two cupboards.
Of course, this luxury couldnt
last. Trouble came when the consumption of electricity
had risen beyond all expectations and the nail in place
of the fuse wire was found. There was a hell of an uproar
and cries of "Sabotage" exploded from every
German mouth, and sabotage was punishable by death! Of
course to Gerry there was no accounting for this extra
demand for power; the lighting was about half a
candle-power and the kriegies were using Meta tablets.
Puzzlement all round, but not for long. Next evening on
return from work we found everything from each room
outside on the ground: beds, bedding, cupboards and
contents strewn everywhere and we had our first visit
from the Gestapo. They were of all shapes and sizes, but
readily recognisable by their long black leather coats
and their grins, together with the confiscated electric
rings and one idiot holding up the nail which had done
such good work in place of the fuse. We were made to form
up outside our blocks, while a senior Gestapo member
worked himself up into a frenzy and, according to Dolmy,
declared that everything except fresh air was
"strengst verboten". The supply of Red Cross
parcels was stopped, the hot shower once every ten days
was stopped, mail in and out was stopped and anything
else he could think of was stopped; plus we would be
rigourously searched each time we returned from Arbeit!
So there!
Once released we gathered the contents,
made the room ship-shape and waited for the supply of
rations from Gerry; even our Meta tablets had been
trodden on and ground underfoot. There must have been
some chastisement served out on the other side of the
barbed wire. Next morning we were counted and counted,
the Camp Commandant was there and everybody seemed to be
trying to outshine the others, shouting louder than the
next counter. On the march we could usually converse with
the guards, to help improve their English, but not today.
Of course we could talk amongst ourselves and the main
topic was how to get around the suspensions. The only
shot in our locker was to copy the French method, which
was passive resistance. In other words, dont
refuse, just work as slowly as possible without
completely stopping. We adopted an Italian expression:
"Dopo domani, Giorgio", and it was a case of
putting off until tomorrow what you can avoid doing
today. The word spread throughout the camp that dead slow
was to be the speed.
Amongst our camp members was a working
party whose job was to unload large railway trucks and
disperse the goods to other trucks for onward transport.
Of course the goods trucks had to meet a schedule and
this was soon upset. The trench diggers on our party
worked so slowly that the Biergarten was piled high with
pipe sections; very few sections were laid. Herr Winkler
wanted to know why production had become so poor. We told
him that in camp there was "viel Hunger",
because Red Cross parcels had been stopped and as a
result we had no strength. Each morning dozens of us took
turns to report sick; it came to nothing, but we had to
wait in camp until the Gerry M.O. appeared to pooh-pooh
all hopes of time off, then guards had to be found to
march us to our workplace. Dolmy had to ride around every
work group, explaining to the bosses why the work rate
was falling and to confirm that the delivery of Red Cross
parcels had been stopped. This didnt go down too
well, since the civilian strength was so sadly depleted
through the demands of the armed forces. All that
remained was an elderly force of civilians - and not too
many of them.
It was necessary to keep our room clean
and tidy, but we had to organise our own cleaning gear.
So we procured two pieces of wood from Herr Winkler and
had him drill a series of holes in them; then we knotted
two pieces of Red Cross parcel cord to the flat wood; one
piece became a hand scrubber and the larger became a
floor brush. One kriegie from each room was allowed to
"go sick" each day and it was his job to brush
out the room, tidy up the place and scrub the floor with
the improvised hand scrubber, using scraps of soap when
available, and sand when there was no soap. Because I was
the only sailor in our room and because of the high
regard in which the Navy was held, I was elected
"Zimmer Fuehrer", i.e. Room Leader, but because
I was also a mourer I was not allowed to take a turn in
having a day off work to do the "sauber machen"
- cleaning, that is. We agreed to make a few rules
amongst ourselves and one was a Navy rule. In the Navy,
anyone guilty of leaving an item of clothing outside his
locker would find that it had been put into what was
called a "scran bag" and could only be
retrieved on payment of a piece of soap, which was then
used to keep the mess deck clean. No soap, no item
returned and, as the owners name was stamped upon
each item of clothing, the miscreant was soon recognised
and would face the wrath of the "Chiefie". So,
when soap was available, we agreed in our room to follow
this example, and of course scraps of soap were better
than sand.
In the days of writing this story I am
plagued by arthritis in every joint of my body. One
morning in 1942 I awoke with the most excruciating pain
in my left shoulder and any movement was horrible, such
that I had to report sick. Being a mourer, at first any
chance of being allowed to report sick was firmly denied.
But I finally convinced the Feldwebel that I was in great
pain and he allowed me to remain with the "dead and
dying". The British Army Medical Officer, who had
little power, took me to the medical hut to be inspected
by the German M.O. "Abandon hope, etc." After
swinging my left arm around as though he wanted to unwind
it from my body, he asked me what service I was in and
where I was captured. He had me sit down and tell him
about our action off Crete and recount the events leading
up to captivity. He was enthralled and commented that the
long hours in the sea had eventually taken their toll.
Wonder of wonders, he gave me a sick note for the
Feldwebel: "Drei Tage Bettruhe." This meant
three days in bed and I collected six of what I think
must have been aspirins. The Feldwebel looked at me in
amazement when he saw the sick note, entered my number,
5850, in his notebook and told me that I would be my
rooms cleaner for the next three days. So much for
Bettruhe!
On the third day I reported to the
Feldwebel, only to discover that I had to carry a
thumping great sack of boots to the railway station, to
be returned to Stalag VIIA, where they would be exchanged
for an equal number of repaired boots. Of course I would
be accompanied by an armed guard. By the time we had
reached Munich Station that sack of boots weighed a ton.
At least we rode in a passenger compartment, but no-one
else was allowed to join us. We arrived at Moosburg and
trudged to the Stalag, where I took the sack of boots to
the French cobblers workplace, after receiving
instructions to be at the main gate by a certain time,
early in the afternoon. Whilst waiting for the repaired
boots ther French cobblers gave me a bowl of thick
cabbage soup and a bag of their hard biscuits, so the
journey had become worthwhile. Once at the main gate, I
was collected by my guard and we trudged to Moosburg
Station, to ride back to Munich.
Alighting at Munich Station, the guard
took me to a newspaper stall and told me to wait while he
went off somewhere. With the sack of boots on the ground,
I just stood there looking at civilisation. After a short
while a German woman armed with an umbrella came toward
me and began to gabble away to me in an agitated manner,
her voice becoming louder and louder. I couldnt
understand a word she was saying so I turned away from
her and with that she set about me with her umbrella. By
now there was a ring of civilians around us and all I
could do was protect my head; she was certainly good with
her umbrella. It seemed ages before the guard came onto
the scene and at first he thought that I had caused the
ruckus. There was screaming and shouting until he
snatched the umbrella from her and roared at her,
whereupon she began crying. It seems that her husband had
been killed fighting the French and, seeing me by the
bookstall in a foreign uniform, she thought I must be
French and decided to extract her revenge. The guard
bellowed and I recognised: "Englander!
Kriegsgefangener!" He took me and the boots to the
station exit and back to the camp. By means of
gesticulations and my little understanding of the German
language, the guard conveyed to me his wishes that I
should not report the incident on the station platform.
He should not have left me alone while he sloped off on
some nefarious expedition and stood to face the wrath of
the Feldwebel. Of course, the guard was not allowed to
get off scott-free; he had no Brot-Marken, so I settled
for a few German Marks. Twas all grist for the
mill, mdears.
Whilst writing this piece, for what it
is worth I have remembered the name of the Feldwebel -
Herr Weiblinger, although it adds no value to the
particular reminiscence.
Of course, by now each party was
thoroughly searched upon return to the camp from work.
Several of us had, through barter, obtained German
Meerschaum pipes and on this occasion I had obtained a
supply of German Marks. Knowing that a search was
inevitable, I had to figure where to hide the Marks. Out
came the Meerschaum pipe, the money was stuck in the bowl
and pipe in mouth I marched into camp, was body-searched
and, seemingly all clear, was allowed to enter the
compound.
Meta tablets again became the source of
heat supplies, so with the aid of the razor blade
immersion heater and tablets we could have our cuppa and
heat the contents of a desired tin from the parcel.
Because the "Lagergeld", camp money, could
purchase very little in the camp canteen, we soon began
to accumulate fairly large sums of useless paper and on
Saturdays had a fair amount in hand. Razor blades, blocks
of toothpaste and tins of dubbin were all that were on
offer and even now I still have a couple of Lagergeld
pfennig notes in my kriegie wallet. More about the wallet
later.
Eventually the road works with Firma
Winkler ended and on the last afternoon Herr Winkler gave
each one of us six plums. There were many shouts of
"Auf Wiedersehen" and as we paraded to be
counted Andy and I saw Meine Frau standing by the
railings. There was no sign of the vision, no more
"Allos" from the balcony, but as we
marched away and passed our benefactress we shouted:
"Auf Wiedersehen! Wir Kommen wieder!" But of
course we never did, although I am sure we left pleasant
memories with that good lady. I wonder if the
Ostwirtschaft Gasthaus escaped the rigours of the war. Is
the house with the balcony still standing?
Jack, Andy and I were still together,
which was the main thing and, what is more, we shared
everything. Personal parcels from home were starting to
dribble in, but those first requested food parcels never
saw daylight. Even money Gerry never sent them. The
personal parcels were mainly items of clothing: woollen
gloves and mittens, plus the ever-welcome balaclavas,
which were going to be so needed in the coming winters.
Sometimes there would be a bulk issue of scarves, gloves,
socks, etcetera and frequently there would be a note from
the knitter, inviting a reply. I wonder if any permanent
attachments ever came from the rationed reply letters.
As I have written, the civilian workers
numbers dwindled and a day or two after finishing with
Firma Winkler our room was told off to work for the Firma
Best and once again Andy and I were the mourers. Work for
the Firma Best was varied. The civilian in charge of the
day-to-day jobs was a Czechoslovakian called Mendle. He
sported a Hitler moustache and was never backward in
giving the Hitler salute whenever Dolmy came around. On
one occasion the whole crowd of us were engaged in making
a road towards what we thought to be another prison camp.
We unloaded ballast from railway trucks and transported
it in wheelbarrows to make a road from the goods yard to
the main gates, over which there were those words I will
never forget: "Arbeit Macht Frei." During the
several weeks on that job there was always an unpleasant
smell permeating the air. Many years later, when teaching
at St. Nicholas School in Sidmouth, I experienced that
smell again and when I asked the school gardener what was
causing the smell, he told me he was burning pork bones
from the school kitchen. The place where we had been
building the road was called Dachau.
On one occasion we had to make a
concrete platform in a covered part of the goods yard and
after concreting the area it was decided it should have a
layer of cement and sand covering it. Andy and I, being
the mourers, had to do this and the work took several
days. On the Saturday it was obvious that the work would
not be completed in normal working time, so Dolmy was
sent for to agree that the others would go back to the
camp with the guards and Mendle would bring us when the
work was completed. It was mid-summer in 1942 and we must
have completed the work about six-ish. So we began the
walk back - actually walked on the pavement, instead of
in the road. Mendle took Andy and me into a Biergarten
which was patronised by Auslanders - recruited workers
from occupied countries. Here he bought each of us a half
litre of beer and in our mixed German we talked about our
respective homes and families. Then he took us into the
pub and bought us each a bowl of soup with a cob of
bread, and it was good. That evening was the end to a
very rare and perfect day; we sauntered along the
pavement, discussing life in our own particular German;
the sun was warm and existence was not too bad, until we
came to those grim reminders: gates, barbed wire and
German soldiers. Here waiting for us was the Feldwebel,
standing like an oak tree. Andy and I were checked in,
Weiblinger checked us thoroughly, just in case Mendle had
gone soft, I suppose, then through the inner gate of
barbed wire, where it seemed that the sun had even
stopped shining! It was a very depressed sailor who sat
quietly on a stool that evening, keeping himself to
himself. If only Subby had collected us that morning at
Sphakia! I would have still been 91819, instead of 5850.
The next morning it was back to work;
on a part of the platform where an office was to be built
and here Andy came into his own. He became so
enthusiastic at being back to his tools that we all had
to dampen his enthusiasm; the building of the office was
going to take a long time. Andy concentrated on the
corners of the building and I worked to the string line,
laying the courses of bricks. From somewhere or other a
civilian bricklayer materialised and seemed to think that
he would take over the job; he was surprised when he
discovered that Andy was a P.O.W. He began to complain
that Andy and I were not good enough to build the office;
about me he was correct: parts of my walling wandered
like a dogs hind leg, but Andy knew his onions.
When he built keyed arches over the windows and doors,
the civvie brickie had to concede. Strangely enough he
disappeared - to the Russian Front, I hope. After the
completion of the office there was no more building work
and our party was engaged in anything that seemed to be
urgent.
By now Russian P.O.W.s were in
evidence, being used in large numbers. Often, when
arriving at the base, we would be loaded onto a lorry and
taken to a railway depot to offload ballast at various
points where Russians were doing the Tick-Tocking work.
There seemed to be swarms of them on each job; they
seemed to be getting in each others way, a motley
crowd, dressed in a similar manner to when we were first
kitted out. We had one contract to unload a large number
of goods wagons filled with sand; each day saw us at the
rail depot, shovelling sand into lorries. Because of the
war effort petrol was scarce and the fuel for the lorries
came from wood which, when heated, gave off a gas which
was used to fuel the motors. This required the gas to be
collected in a large bag fitted to the lorry; I believe
that something like this was tried in this country, but I
cannot recall seeing any.
You will remember me writing about the
three Australians, one of whom was Harry Woodward. He
developed an ulcer on one leg and the sore became such
that a depression developed. There was no treatment for
this sore and we agreed that he would be the one to go
sick each day to clean up the room and rest his leg as
much as possible. Eventually a French soldier, a medical
orderly, came to the camp and told Harry that the only
cure would be to expose his leg to sunshine, commencing
with short periods of exposure and gradually lengthening
the periods. Sure enough, this treatment did the trick
and the ulcer disappeared. Another casualty was a
room-member called Archie Goodchild, who lost all his
hair. The prescription for treatment was to have his bald
head covered with shaving soap and then shaved with a
safety razor. Every evening we took turns to shave
Archies head and, believe it or not, some signs of
hair began to appear - not all over, but in patches. Once
the signs of hair began to appear Archie thought that the
travail of head-shaving was over, but not so; every
evening his head was shaved billiard-ball clean until the
French medical orderly agreed that the treatment should
cease. The whole head of hair did not grow again,
although small tufts of gingery hair appeared and stayed.
Eventually the Firma Best dispensed
with our services and because of the call-ups to serve on
the Russian Front the civilian labour employed at the
railway goods yard became almost non-existant. So we were
sent to the Hauptbahnhof once again. Not Tick-Tocking
this time, but emptying goods trucks at the Central Goods
Yard. We worked in groups, so Andy, Jack and I contrived
to work together. All the groups had a chief goal: look
for parcels or packages that could contain food and
spread the word of the whereabouts of the truck
concerned. We often came across boxes of biscuits, canned
sardines, tins of fruit and, frequently, dried fruit.
Each group had a civilian overseer, very elderly or
medically unfit. The goods yard contained a large number
of platforms at which the trucks were placed overnight.
Each morning our civvie would collect from the office the
numbers of the trucks and the platforms at which they
were standing; our job was to open the trucks and
disperse the contents, according to destination. We each
used a two-wheeled trolley, to which was attached a
hinged steel platform. Large boxes could be carried by
opening out the platform, which also became a handy
weapon for ramming the boxes to ascertain their contents.
When we found food boxes, after dipping in, we would move
along the platform, singing a song about food, something
like "Boiled Beef and Carrots" and sing out the
platform number when passing. Then the damaged box would
be buried beneath the remaining contents. There were
occasionally very long wagons en route, if I remember
correctly, to Nuremburg, where there was a flying school,
specialised in glider training. These long wagons
contained glider parts, which came in for special
treatment from our trollies. Packages for Nuremburg would
be stacked around the glider parts and, since the long
wagons commenced their journeys at the glider factory, we
were seemingly never under suspicion of causing the
damage. The goods yard overseer was an elderly man, short
in stature and very obese, always spic and span in his
German Railway uniform. One had to watch out for him; he
moved silently and one never knew where he would pop up.
The German word we used for "platform" was
"Buhne", so of course he was called the
"Binney Fuehrer". We learned to discover the
whereabouts of the Binney Fuehrer before cracking open
any containers. One could hear shouts of "Binney
Fuehrer?" and others would shout back the platform
number, where he was to be found. Once he caught me fair
and square, as I will recount later.
Now the episode of the sardines. Part
of our uniforms was cloth gaiters which buttoned around
the bottom of the trousers and over the top of the boots.
Late one day Andy and I were loading the same wagon and
found a container of small tins of sardines. We promptly
stuck two of these small tins into each side of our
gaiters, just as the whistle was blown to sound
"fall in" outside the office. Being last to
arrive, together with Jack we made up the last three,
were counted off and were ready to march when the Binney
Fuehrer demanded a search. Those tins of sardines became
red hot. The first three stepped forward to be searched
by the guards and we slowly shuffled forward to our fate.
Just a couple of threes before us and Hurry Hurry
exploded, complaining that he had done enough; his food
would be cold, our soup would be cold, we had miles to
march and enough was enough. So we marched off, breathing
sighs of relief and the tins of sardines suddenly became
cool again. Once back in our room and locked in we had to
display our wares and explain how we had found them late
in the day, with no time to share the knowledge; we had
not broken any of our rules. Those sardines came in very
useful during one of the long spells between Red Cross
parcel issues!
By now our hair had grown so much that
we needed the services of a barber. The cost of living
was certainly increasing because a haircut cost a couple
of cigarettes. One offered camp money -
"Gefangenschaftgeld" - but no dice; cigarettes
or go unshorn. I havent described Jack Adams too
distinctly, but he was a handsome looking lad. His
complexion remained brown, doubtless from his service in
Palestine; his hair was black, with a sheen on it, such
that the secretary of Binney Fuehrer took a shine to
Jack. Now, she wasnt a lass you would look at
twice, being stockily built and with slightly bowed legs.
Jack didnt make it his business to learn much of
the German language and when she cornered him in an empty
goods truck I dont know how they conversed. Suffice
to say that each morning she would appear on the main
platform and enquire: "Wo ist mein Johann?"
This we soon learnt meant: "Where is my John?"
Give him full marks: he tried to avoid her, but she
invariably brought a bag of buns, so Andy and I always
contrived to know where she was, knowing we would have
our share. Betty Albrecht was her name and poor Jack was
ragged unmercifully; he could deny as much as he liked;
he spluttered and decried, but as long as the buns came
regularly he knew he had to conform. I can still hear
Betty Albrecht asking: "Wo ist mein Johann?"
The shout would echo around the platforms from us until
somebody would provide the answer and away she would
trot. Poor Jack!
I have mentioned that once the Binney
Fuehrer caught me fair and square. We had been plagued
several days by the Gestapo; they popped up in the trucks
and kept watch on the platforms, so we decided that we
would break open as many boxes as we could and hide them,
put boxes in the wrong trucks and alter destination
labels, just to keep the Gestapo busy. On this particular
morning, I had found in a truck a carton of
"Pudding-Pulver", custard powder. I duly broke
open the carton and put a packet of powder into each of
my gloves, intending to ditch them in another truck, when
in walked the Binney Fuehrer. He saw the busted carton
and asked me if I had broken it. Of course I denied it,
so he called a guard to search me. I kept the mittens on
my hands, raised above my head, and the guard found
nothing. Then it was "Brotzeit" for the
civilian workers, time to gather in the works canteen. He
followed me and when I took off my mittens he grabbed
them and, of course discovered the packets of
Pudding-Pulver. That made his day. He exploded and, when
he finally calmed down, had one of the guards take me
back to camp. On the way back the guard asked me why I
had bothered to steal Pudding-Pulver, which was of no
value to us, and I explained it was to give the Gestapo
something to do. He agreed that the sooner they left us
alone the better; they were all "schlecht".
Back at the camp the Feldwebel was sent for and he seemed
to think there was something wrong with me for bothering
to steal such a useless article. So with Dolmy I was
arraigned in front of the Camp Commandant and explained
that everything we did was to keep the Gestapo busy and
how they were behind our backs wherever and whenever we
moved. Now my crime meant that I should be sent back to
Stalag VIIA for punishment, but instead he gave me five
days calaboose; this was solitary confinement
in a prison cell at the end of the guards block, on
bread and water. We later learned that at about that time
the Commandant had received news of the death of his
third son, who had been killed on the Russian Front.
And so I collected my blanket from my
bunk, together with my toilet gear and went to the other
side of the wire, where the guards hut was situated
and was duly ensconced in the small room. In it was a
single bunk on which was a well-used mattress which
contained very little straw. There was no window and the
room was illuminated by a low wattage electric lamp. My
guard turned out to be the sort of caretaker of the
block; he certainly wasnt physically fit enough to
be a soldier, but a soldier he was. He had a smattering
of English, mostly football jargon. His claim to fame was
that he had visited Wembley to see an international
football match and as a youth had played as an amateur
for an Austrian national youth team. He too had a desire
to improve his knowledge of the English language and
would often open the door of the calaboose to converse.
Should anyone walk along the passage the guard would call
out: "Abort, ja, ja." as though he was about to
take me to the toilet and he would remark to the
newcomer: "Englander immer Abort gehen." as
though he was always taking me to the toilet. For five
days I had as much water as I could drink and a seventh
of a loaf of bread each morning; on two mornings he
brought me a mug of hot mint tea, which was most welcome.
From our exchanges it seemed the guards were sympathetic;
anything to upset the Gestapo was welcome, but to take
Pudding-Pulver meant that I was a few coppers short of a
shilling - a Dummkopf! After the working parties and
guards had returned, the evenings were long until just
before lights-out, when I would be taken to the toilet,
before being locked in for the night. I remember the long
nights when I lay sleepless and reminisced, wondering
where the Subby was and what had happened to Taffy, the
coxswain, Tommy Shiels, the Seaman Gunner and to Syd
Pownall, the Ordinary Seaman, who all went into the bag
with me.
Time dragged until I was taken out of
the calaboose and Dolmy took me to the Camp
Commandants office. He told me that I would not be
sent back to the Stalag, but would resume working with
the Hauptbahnhof Partei - and would strictly leave
Pudding-Pulver in its carton! Next morning I mustered
with the gang and, heighho, off to work we marched.
The year of 1943 was well on its way
and this was the year of the fall of Stalingrad. I
dont know if you are familiar with an Ouigee board;
it apparently functions with people in a sort of
spiritual seance, spelling out letters to form answers to
questions. Remember the mess-deck buzzes? Our camp
thrived on them; we had blokes who spent hours searching
the Holy Bible, especially the Book of Revelations, to
discover the outcome of the war. A pity we couldnt
lay hands on a copy of "Old Moores
Almanac". Anyhow, back to Stalingrad, which was
surrounded by the Russian Army, trapping thousands of
Germans with no hope of escape. Apparently the Ouigee
board during one of the seances had spelt out the answer
that Stalingrad would fall to the Russians and of course
this was splendid news to us, especially as the Allies
had also gained a foothold in Italy.
By dint of bribery here and there
enough parts had been obtained to make a small radio set,
put together by a lad who was a member of the Royal
Engineers, and each evening the set was assembled to hear
the B.B.C. news. The aerial was a copper wire poked up
the chimney. Now each day in the local newspaper, the
"Volkischer Beobachter", a map of the
battlefront around Stalingrad was printed and was
obviously a propaganda effort to sustain the population,
because it bore no resemblance to the information given
out on the B.B.C. news. Brotzeit came and as usual the
civilian workers gathered in front of the notice board.
There was an initial silence as they seemed to ponder on
the reason for the two lines of battle and then they
began their comments. Of course we had agreed to say
nothing, in case we divulged any knowledge. The news soon
spread and in came the Deputy Binney Fuehrer; when he saw
the map he literally exploded. I have previously written
how the Germans scream and shout when enraged, but this
fellow really foamed at the mouth and was beside himself,
shouting "sabotage" before ripping the
offending sheet from the board. To help the chaos
continue, we asked the civvies what all the fuss was
about, to be told that it was the different situation
about Stalingrad that caused the upset and there were
threats that the Gestapo would be investigating, which
worried them somewhat. The old Ouigee board professed
correctly, because Stalingrad did fall to the advancing
Russians and many, many thousands of German troops were
captured, poor sods. Hitler had decreed no retreat.
By now, Allied bombers were
occasionally visiting Munich. On our Sundays off work at
the railway goods yard we were taken out to fill in bomb
craters in the roads and one could not help but see the
warning notices on the bombed building about looters
being shot. One weekend saw a very heavy snowfall and we
were taken out to work at clearing the streets of snow.
There was a supply of shovels and wheelbarrows and the
procedure was to take up the manhole covers in the roads,
load the snow in the wheelbarrows and tip it into the
manholes. Just as today people will stop and watch
construction or demolition work in progress, it was not
long before the wheelbarrow operators had attracted an
audience. Before tipping snow down the hole they shouted
down to the non-existent member below such questions as:
"Are you all right, Charlie?" "Are you
keeping warm, George?" or "Look out, Ted,
heres another lot on its way." Anything to
ease the boredom, and the goofers seemed quite impressed,
especially when a tipper would wait for George or Charlie
to get out of the way before tipping the snow. Jack Adams
was one of the wheelbarrow tippers and one time he
tip-toed with his barrow of snow to the manhole and, with
his fingers to his lips for silence, looked around at the
goofers before upending the snow down the hole. He then
held his sides and began laughing loudly, as though he
had tipped the snow over the unaware, but actually
non-existent worker below. The goofers were silent for a
moment, Jack was cavorting around like an idiot; and from
the crowd, carrying her umbrella, came an elderly lady,
who proceeded to wallop Jack soundly. Of course, the shoe
was on the other foot and we all had a good laugh at
seeing Jack ducking and weaving to dodge the efforts of
the old girl. It took a guard to convince her there was
nobody below and she had to look to make sure before
going on her way with the other watchers who were moved
on. I cant help but think that Grandma in the Giles
cartoons of the Express must have been copied from that
old lady. Perhaps not so comfortably built, it being
wartime.
Then came the news that the Allies had
made great progress in Italy and hope began to flicker in
our bodies. Strangely enough, none of us throughout those
years ever considered that we would lose the war, even
though the early times of captivity were harsh. Now we
were hearing news of successes. Conditions in camp life
improved. Wooden tubs appeared, with which we could go to
the boiler house and collect hot water to dhobey our
clothes. Whenever Red Cross parcels arrived we were
allowed one each intact to take to our room.
German
ration card for one day's supply, 1943
At about this time
Canadian Red Cross parcels began to arrive and, as good
as the British parcels were, those from Canada made it
seem Christmas had arrived with each issue. In each
parcel was a tin of butter, a tin of bacon, a large box
of very hard biscuits which, when soaked in cold water,
swelled to become large pancakes. Imagine how they filled
the belly when eaten in dry form! Also included in the
parcel was a large tin of dried milk powder and these
tins were cleverly made so as to be converted easily into
drinking mugs, or sectionalised to become part of a
chimney stack. Besides these items was a flat tin of
delicious chocolate and a packet of Sun Maid raisins.
Paradise gained!
Being a non-smoker, I was able to
exchange some cigarettes for chocolate; some of those
blokes just had to have another cigarette. I remember one
Autumn when dried leaves from trees were collected and,
using paper from "Mein Kampf", the "dying
for a smoke brigade" would roll their own
cigarettes. The smell was awful and the accompanying
coughing was harrowing, but it seemed like paradise to
some, as they related the best way to cure the various
types of dried leaves.
One evening I was approached by Tisch,
the camp carpenter, who opened by talking about my
girlfriend at home and how sorry he was about the
separations. This led him to talking about his own family
and how his daughter would soon have her twenty-first
birthday. His wife would dearly love to make a birthday
cake for the occasion but, sad to say, she could not buy
any dried fruit. Was there any chance of possibly
purchasing a packet of raisins? On thinking caps. He
didnt have much to offer, but the subject of eggs
cropped up. Shades of bartering in Gibraltar, but instead
of trying to force the price down we had to increase the
price and in the end were able to demand twelve eggs for
a packet of raisins. He couldnt manage to raise a
dozen at one go; he would have to approach other members
of the family and we agreed to wait. And so eventually in
his workshop we collected twelve eggs and handed over a
packet of Sun Maid raisins - and at the same time managed
to wangle a slice of the birthday cake for each of us!
What did we do with those eggs? I remember that we had
two boiled eggs each but, strangely enough, how we
consumed the others escapes my memory. One could suppose
that having eggs for the first time in a couple of years
would remain in the memory, but no; sorry.
I have written how conditions in the
camp improved after Stalingrad, such that we were no
longer searched when returning from Arbeit. Of course
this worked in our favour; we could take chances with
what we could find in the goods trucks. On one occasion
somebody found a box of Army grey woollen socks; we lost
no time in gathering a couple of pair each and luckily on
entering the camp there was no search. One clever lad in
the room reasoned that when the pilfered carton was
discovered there was bound to be repercussions, so for
the time all of the socks should be hidden. But where?
Just keeping them in our Red Cross parcel boxes would not
do, so what was to be done? Ponder, ponder, think, think.
You may recall in my description of the room, how it was
illuminated by a low wattage electric light bulb, which
hung low and gave off a feeble light, leaving the upper
reaches of the room in comparative darkness. So, taking
advantage of this, we strung a clothes line made of
string from the Red Cross parcels high up in the ceiling
and hung the socks on the line; they were all but
invisible. It was agreed they would remain there for the
foreseeable future and that we would keep quiet and wait,
in case the Gestapo paid us a visit. They did shortly
afterwards and questions were asked about grey socks
destined for the gallant soldiers on the Eastern Front,
poor sods. Vehement denials, of course, so we were
allowed, after inspection, to carry out our Red Cross
parcel boxes and wait. Once again they went to town in
the room, throwing the mattresses out and emptying them
of straw; beds, followed by lockers, table and stools
were taken outside. The room was finally empty and then
they looked for loose flooring. Finally they came out and
admitted there were no socks to be found. The upshot was
that this time we were allowed to fill our paillasses
with fresh straw after replacing the room contents, and
the socks were still on the line, up in the gloom of the
roof! And they stayed there for a considerable time
afterwards. Feldwebel Weiblinger often asked us what we
did with the socks, when checking us in and out of the
camp. Occasionally he would slap on a search when we
returned, but no socks. We always blamed the theft on the
Auslanders and eventually this was accepted. Upon
reflection, taking the socks was an act of complete
foolishness, when they were destined for the Wehrmacht in
Russia. Had we been caught, we would probably have had a
rough time from the Gestapo; but needs must when the
devil drives!
On thinking back about our episodes
while working at the Hauptbahnhof, I realise we did our
best for the war effort - ours, that is. Once a truck was
filled and locked, it became the job of one of us, while
the others kept watch, to remove the destination label
from its cage and swop it with one from a truck bound in
the opposite direction. We often waved those wagons
goodbye as they were shunted out. The only wagons which
could not be redirected were the extra-long ones, which
contained glider parts and were going to a set
destination. We managed to obtain a spanner to remove the
drainage bolts from the axle oil boxes of the wagons;
then we urinated in the empty oil boxes after replacing
the drainage bolts. A skin of oil would float on top of
the urine so that the axle boxes would seem to be full of
oil; for good measure a handful of gravel would be added.
On many of the wagons was stencilled the exhortation:
"Die Raeder muessen fuer den Sieg rollen." i.e.
"Wheels Must Roll For Victory". Did our efforts
help to combat this? After all, they did chuck in their
hands. Every little helps, as the old lady said as she
------ into the ocean!
One evening, marching back to camp, we
were halted by the guards for some reason or other; on
the pavement watching us was an Italian soldier. He was
dressed in what must have been his best uniform, because
he certainly looked smart; the uniform included a
topi-type piece of headgear, sporting a mass of cockerel
feathers of differing hues. Alongside us, he must have
stood out like a hotel commissionaire. In our working
party was a lad from the Kings Royal Rifle Corps, a
London lad of Italian parents, who spoke Italian
fluently. So as we waited in the road Peter Bonetti began
speaking to the Italian soldier and when we moved off
again the soldier walked with us, all the time talking
with Peter. He had been wounded, hospitalised in Munich
and was very lonely, being disregarded by everybody. This
was apparently how much the Germans valued their Italian
allies. The soldier would have come in if allowed, but no
dice. Once inside the gates to be mustered, Hurry Hurry
harangued Peter for lowering himself to talk to an
Italian. He said that we should have learned a lesson
from having them as allies in the Great War. Dolmy
happened to be nearby and wanted to know what all the
fuss was about. When Peter explained that he was of
Italian descent and was practising his use of the
language, he was reminded that he was a British Italian -
and that made all the difference.
One Saturday in the Summer of 1943 one
of our lads who was suffering from malaria paraded
wearing his greatcoat, because his fever was causing him
to shiver and shake. Present at the parade was the Camp
Commandant, who was an elderly, high-ranking officer.
Because the permitted number had been considered sick,
there was no chance of our lad being excused. The Camp
Commandant eyed us up and down and the next thing we knew
we all had to wear our greatcoats; he wasnt having
the Englaender marching to work in different stages of
dress. And the two guards had to wear their greatcoats as
well, all marching about four or five miles on a hot
Summer morning, because one of us was trying to keep
warm. Hurry Hurry was supposed to have had the day off to
attend a wedding locally and its cancellation didnt
leave him too happy. After cabbage soup time he took the
lad suffering from malaria and sat him in the
workers canteen, left him the rifle and bayonet to
look after and went to the wedding. He came back just
before finishing time, merry and bright and on top of the
world. We still had to wear our greatcoats on the march
back to camp on that warm summer evening!
Hurry Hurry eventually went on leave
and his place was taken by a very unpleasant specimen. On
his first day with us he fixed his bayonet to his rifle
and repeatedly made threatening gestures towards us.
Apparently he had been wounded in a delicate place whilst
fighting the British in France and seemed to think that
he could take it out on us. Came a delivery of Red Cross
parcels and with them a supply of cigarettes, but on this
occasion it worked out something like a parcel between
three and a small number of cigarettes each. The next
morning, when at work, Mr. Nasty, with bayonet fixed,
demanded a cigarette from one of the Australians, who
told him to get stuffed and refused to hand one over. Mr.
Nasty promptly stuck the bayonet into the Aussies
stomach and actually drew blood. Of course there was an
uproar and we all adjourned to the canteen. We had a
discussion and one of the lads, who had been a newspaper
reporter in civvie street, prevailed upon us to give a
cigarette when demanded by Mr. Nasty. At this we all
demurred, but he said he had a plan to get rid of that
guard.
Mr. Nasty soon tried his threatening
moves again and was quite pleased with himself when
cigarettes were forthcoming. Now, part of the German
soldiers uniform was a leather belt on which were a
number of pouches, ostensibly to hold cartridges, and Mr.
Nasty began to put the cigarettes into his pouches. Being
new to guard duties, he apparently had not been warned
about possessing prisoners cigarettes. Came the end
of the day and back to camp; when counted in the usual
procedure was to pass through the barbed wire gate into
the compound, but on this occasion the ex-reporter
shouted to us to stand fast. Feldwebel Weibling wanted to
know why and was told we wanted to see the Camp
Commandant and refused to move. Dolmy came on the scene
and eventually the Camp Commandant appeared. When Dolmy
heard the charge against the guard he just would not
believe it, until he was told to look in the guards
cartridge pouch. There they were, all those prized
cigarettes; then he saw the cut on the stomach of the
Australian soldier. The cigarettes were handed back and
the Aussie was taken to hospital. The guard was led away
and Dolmy apologised on behalf of the Commandant. Honour
was satisfied. We did not see that guard again and were
told that he was considered to be slightly deranged and
had been sent to the Eastern Front, which meant facing
the Russians.
Over the four years of
captivity a large number of personal parcels had been
sent to me, but sadly I must report that not many reached
me. Mabel and my Dad were able to collect clothing
coupons from the Prisoner of War Section of the Red Cross
at Mutley Plain in Plymouth, essential for the purchase
of clothing and footwear. Mabel collected and bought wool
to knit socks and gloves for me; indeed any parcel
containing socks was most valuable. One personal parcel
which did manage to arrive contained a pair of Naval
pattern boots, Wheatsheaf brand, which Mabel
had purchased from the Plymouth Cooperative store. I
decided to keep them for a rainy day, if ever such a day
could occur in a kriegies life; more about them in
a later installment of this reminiscence.
Hand-coloured
Christmas card sent to the future Mrs Mabel Siddall in December 1942
An elderly guard arrived
to take over the duties of Mr. Nasty. On the first
roll-call he called my name twice and came to look me
over well and truly. We marched off and when we arrived
at the goods yard he took me to one side and began to
tell me the history of my name. To him it was most
certainly Seidl and not Siddall; I must have been of
German extraction, being tall and having blond hair and
blue eyes; most certainly my forebears could be found in
Saxony. He was of course called Seidl. I joked with him,
saying perhaps I should call him Uncle and with every
roll-call he pronounced my name Seidl. Did our forebears
come from Saxony?
Remember I had written how I stuffed
German marks in the bowl of my pipe when entering the
camp. These pipes were Meerschaum, similar to those used
by the Bavarians. Andy, Jack and I obtained one each from
our civvy boss and a French P.O.W., who was the camp
cobbler, set up a business of carving intricate designs
on the bowls. For me he carved the Naval crest, the
German swastika and eagle emblems and the date of
captivity. We were told to look out for sheets of leather
in the trucks and I found a large sheet of
soft green leather, which I smuggled into camp by
wrapping it around my body under my tunic. In return for
this, the cobbler made a wallet each for the three of us.
I still have the pipe and the wallet, among the
memorabilia of that life.
One day there was great consternation
in the canteen, when the "Volkischer
Beobachter" newspaper reported severe setbacks in
the Italian campaign. The civvie workers talked about the
numerous hospital trains that passed through Munich
station. Then came the day when the newspaper divulged
the news that the Wehrmacht was retreating to set up new
lines of defence. To us, this was history repeating
itself, for we had heard this when our lads were
retreating in France in 1940. So the writing was on the
wall for their Italian campaign. All we could talk about
was how our P.O.W.s in Italy would soon be free when our
forces over-ran the camps. From later conversations with
P.O.W.s who had been brought from Italy into Germany,
most of the Italian camps had been well to the North of
that country. Eventually, with the writing on the wall,
the Italian forces sought an armistice with the Allies in
1943 and opted out of the alliance with Germany and
Hitler. This left a large number of P.O.W.s in Italy no
longer in captivity, but, as events turned out, there
were no orders to take advantage of their freedom. A
postwar film called "Hogans Heroes",
although fictional, aptly shows the indecision in these
cases. As the German forces retreated northwards into
Germany they made it their business to scoop up all of
the so-called free P.O.W.s and transport them by cattle
truck into Germany.
These events also had an effect on my
life. Because such large numbers were being transported
into Germany from Italy the question of accomodation
arose. The solution seemed to be to transport us to
Northern regions to make space for the former Italian
P.O.W.s. So one Saturday, early in October 1943, we were
told to be ready to move out of Arbeitslager 2780A, to
return to Stalag VIIA at Mooseburg. Hot showers were laid
on and the Camp Commandant decided to clean out the Red
Cross parcels store. So next day we each collected three
Red Cross food parcels and duly called that day Mad
Sunday, primarily because we hadnt seen so
much food in a long time and because some of the inmates
seemed to go mad! Because we were leaving, the Commandant
decided to put on an inspection in the afternoon. The
word went round to put on a show for him; boots were
dubbined, any parts of brass on badges, gaiters and belts
were polished with toothpaste. And so we paraded outside
our huts, ready for him to inspect our living quarters.
When he approached our hut the Australian Sergeant-Major
called us to attention and old drill memories brought us
up with a movement as one man. He inspected us and our
quarters, as he did at every hut, and to each of the
groups he saluted and remarked: "Sehr gut".
And so on Monday morning, some with
packs on their backs, all with Red Cross parcels, we
footed it to the Hauptbahnhof goods yard, to be loaded
into the same type of wagon in which some of us had been
working a few days before. The fat Buehne-Fuehrer was
there and we told Jack to wave to Betty Albrecht, but he
wasnt too keen. Once again we were boxed, but not
for so long this time and eventually we de-trained
outside Mooseburg station to trudge to Stalag VIIA, where
"Arbeit macht frei". There had been quite a
number of work camps rounded up by the time our lot
arrived. We were housed in one of the lower compounds at
the bottom of the long main road. The huts were exactly
as we had left them almost two years previously. I
grabbed a paillasse, made of some ersatz material, and
crammed into it as much straw as possible. Then, with the
paillasse and the rest of my possessions, I entered the
hut, found a bunk, ensuring that Bob and Jack were close
by and, as we had done so many times before, just sat and
waited. Upon reflection, in comparison with life in the
Stalag, some of the later days in Arbeitslager 2780A had
seen us almost spoiled. Now in Stalag VIIA once again it
was back to the large nail in the fuse box and
razor-blade electric heating to make a brew of tea or
heat tinned food. The next morning I discovered along
with everyone else that the straw was the same as the
first issue; the fleas were still there and we must have
provided a fresh supply of blood to augment their menu.
It was a case of itch and scratch, itch and scratch. At
least we had the contents of the Red Cross parcels to
relieve the agony and therefore the luxury of foregoing
cabbage soup.
The compounds were left open, so the
three of us were able to seek out a French P.O.W. who had
been particularly kind to us in our early days in VIIA.
He had been captured at the Maginot Line and had no idea
of soldiering, so he told us in his broken English.
Before the war he had been a representative of the
manufacturing firm, Courtaulds; called to serve in the
French Army he was captured uninjured. He had given us
some of his ration of hard biscuit in those early days
and, being so hungry at that time, we must have seemed
beggars. So we visited him and took him a tin of jam. We
had visions of a meal of bread and jam, but he had other
ideas, opening the tin and eating the jam spoonful by
spoonful! It was then that I learned that what we call
jam, the French call confiture, and the
phrase bread and jam didnt seem to exist in their
vocabulary.
During that stay in VIIA, I developed
beri-beri; my feet and ankles disappeared in a swamp of
liquid and as I walked my feet flopped in front of me. I
went to the medical quarters, where a doctor from the
South African Army examined me. I was so surprised to see
the depressions remain in my ankles, or where my ankles
should have been, when he pressed his fingers on my legs.
"Beri-beri," he said and gave me a container of
Bemax, a type of bran. I was to eat as much of it as I
could in one session, without drinking. It was hard
going, because Bemax is a very dry substance. The next
morning I was in a dash to reach the toilet and with
relief, I just stood there and let the liquid leave my
body. I wondered when it would end. Having a pee was one
thing, but as ridiculous as it may seem, this was bliss
and the signs of beri-beri went with the urine! I made
sure I polished off the remainder of that Bemax!
One day we were suddenly rounded up and
confined to our compounds, there to see the arrival of a
large number of Russians put into the compound adjacent
to ours. The wash places and toilets for both compounds
were in one building, with just a partition separating
them. Somehow or other the Russians made a hole in the
partition and soon our lads were passing cigarettes to
them. In no time that small hole became man-sized and
soon the Russians were in our compound and then in our
hut, with our fellows sharing their posessions, mostly
scarves, balaclavas and, of all things, soap. They were
soon missed from their compound and quickly an armed
Feldwebel together with armed guards entered. The word
spread to the Russians and they rapidly exited our
compound, via the toilets, back into their compound. Of
course, dozens of men were leaving the toilet - far more
than could be possibly accomodated in the place. When the
Feldwebel discovered the hole in the partition he laid
about them with his rifle and beat several Russians to
the ground. Then the guards joined in and we began to
curse at them. It seemed as though they were scared at
being surrounded by the Russians. They panicked and began
firing their rifles. As we continued booing, they turned
their rifles on us and began to fire over our heads. That
ended our protest and we all dived for our hut and
safety. Next came a number of guards with German Shepherd
dogs, large creatures with large teeth and long pink
tongues - the dogs, I mean, not the coal-scuttle helmeted
men. They came into each compound and cleared them; one
didnt argue with those dogs and we were locked in
our hut. Somebody must have worked all night, because
next morning the partition had been completely rebuilt
and the Russian compound was empty. They had left the
Stalag. Whether they were en route for elsewhere we never
knew, but they certainly caused havoc in the short time
they were with us.
And so came the news that we kriegies
bound for destinations new; but where? Nobody was
telling. Once again there came the guards with their
clipboards, checking identity discs and counting. As
usual, each guard seemed to arrive at a different total
from the others and we longed to hear the word
"stimmt", which meant they all agreed. My
memory dims as to how long we remained in Stalag VIIA. I
know it ran into weeks; we began to look for the daily
potato and bread ration to augment the dwindling Red
Cross parcel supply of Mad Sunday. By now we were in of
isolation, contained in the compound, waiting for the
cattle trucks. Apparently Jerry needed as many trucks as
he could lay his hands on to transport the bodies that
had been rounded up in the North of Italy. And the fleas
were still feeding!
My story must go back to somewhere in
1942, and this will have relevance, as will be seen
later. In preparation for the invasion of France a trial
attack on the coast of Dieppe had been planned and
carried out, using mainly Canadian forces. These forces
were badly mauled during the attack and Jerry had a field
day beating them off, inflicting severe casualties and
taking many prisoners. Early in the attack the Canadians
took German prisoners and to prevent escape tied the
hands of the German soldiers behind their backs. In the
ensuing attacks by the Wehrmacht the roles were reversed;
the Canadians became prisoners and the tied Germans were
freed. What a furore when this was discovered by Jerry!
There were eventually repercussions, as you will see.
Returning to 1943, somewhere in
October, my failing memory recalls, we were at last
collected, trudged up that long main road of Stalag VIIA,
where "Arbeit macht frei", and once more
boarded a cattle truck of ten chevaux or forty hommes,
but Jerry still couldnt read French. At least Andy,
Jack and I were still together. Crash went the sliding
door and bang went the latch; history was repeating
itself, except that we now had some bits and pieces in
our posession. First job, sort ourselves out; second job,
yes, you guessed it: attack a corner of the floor to make
a hole as soon as the train moved. The train stopped well
outside Munich station and our wagon door was slid open
for each to receive a loaf of ersatz bread and a small
tin of meat, so we knew the journey would take several
days. Jack and Andy had their Army issue water flasks, so
if we were careful we would not fare too badly, relying
on Jerry to stop the train for occasional purposes - even
the engine had to take on water. Whereas the first train
journey from Salonika to Mooseburg is impressed on my
mind, this train ride does not invoke many memories; it
was long, with few stops, excepting that as it became
dark the train stopped overnight, but not for our
convenience: the inferior coal being burned gave off
showers of sparks and Jerry was afraid of air attacks.
So we arrived in Upper Silesia, at a
place called Freiburg, almost on the Polish border.
Unloaded and counted and counted, we waited until at last
we moved off to Stalag VIIIB, where once more
"Arbeit macht frei". While VIIA seemed large,
the main road of this place seemed to go on forever,
gradually ascending. This was a really large Stalag, laid
out as usual with the wired compounds at right angles to
the road. Here, for me, disaster struck. There were
selected compounds for private soldiers and the like, for
non-commissioned officers and for Naval personnel.
Because of this, Andy, Jack and I were separated, each to
his respective compound. The one for Naval P.O.W.s was at
the top of the road and we were isolated.
Once again I was alone for a time
because I knew nobody. Naval P.O.W.s seemed to be
something of a novelty to the Germans. There were not
many of us and we were kept in of isolation, locked in
the compound. We could communicate with those in the
adjacent compound, Canadian soldiers captured at Dieppe,
who revealed that the reception they received from Jerry
when attacking Dieppe was no surprise. Apparently in the
pubs in Newhaven on the night before sailing the barmaids
had told them that they were going to Dieppe. So it is no
wonder that Jerry was waiting for them!
After a couple of long weeks of
isolation, for which there seemed to be no reason, the
compounds were opened and I lost no time in going to the
private soldiers compound in search of my first
kriegie friend, Bob Andrews. Luck was with me: he had
been detailed to go on the working party, to an
Arbeitslager, which was a timber yard or sawmill. Upon
learning this I immediately sought out the British
Sergeant Major to volunteer to go out with Bob. No such
luck; being a Naval rating I was confined to the Stalag.
For some unknown reason Jerry was not letting any Naval
bodies outside the Stalag confines. And so I lost touch
with my very dear friend for a couple of years.
The next step was to visit the
N.C.O.s compound to look for Jack Adams, and I
found him, handcuffed. Adolph Hitler was so incensed
about the Canadians at Dieppe tying the hands of German
prisoners that he ordered all N.C.O. Prisoners of War in
Stalag VIIIB to be handcuffed during daylight hours. Many
guards occupied the huts during the day, first to prevent
the kriegies resting on their bunks, but also to unlock
the handcuffs of any unfortunate who needed to visit the
Abort. They deliberately took their time to perform this
and there must have been some near misses among the lads,
who quite frequently reached bursting point. It
didnt take long for someone to turn the key of a
sardine tin into a key to unlock the handcuffs and that
eased the crisis somewhat. In our Naval compound we heard
that on the coldish Autumn mornings the N.C.O.s would
parade in their greatcoats to be counted and handcuffed
and in the evening paraded minus overcoats to have the
cuffs removed. And Jerry never seemed to catch on!
The other drawback was that Jerry had
stopped all mail, incoming and outgoing. Before this, we
had only been allowed to send one air mail sheet and one
postcard a fortnight; now these were stopped, as were the
Red Cross parcels and the fortnightly shower. Because our
compound was at the top of the road the water supply was
often non-existant, due to lack of pressure from the
water tower, which stood in the guards compound. We
often had to wash and shave in the middle of the night,
when pressure was high enough for the water to reach our
compound. Our huts were of the standard Stalag pattern,
with a washplace between two huts and each hut had an
enclosed fire, where the smoke followed a tortuous
passage before exiting via the chimney. The supply of
ersatz coal was minimal and the heat given off was almost
nil.
I have forgotten to write about my
first impressions when approaching Stalag VIIIB. It was
in the middle of moorland, with clear ground as far as
the eye could see. As we approached I could see endless
rows of what appeared to be numerous potato clamps. What
we did not know was these were the graves of hundreds of
Russian P.O.W.s who had died of typhus in their Stalag,
not so very far from VIIIB.
When my compound was finally opened,
dozens of long-time occupants of VIIIB came to look for
friends. Surprise, surprise, in came a soldier who went
to school with me and had lived three doors down from me
in old Cornwall Street - a lad called Jackie Woodley. He
was as surprised as I was when we met and we had a good
old chinwag, exchanging news. He had been wounded at
Dunkirk and carried shrapnel in parts of his body, as a
result of which he was rated unfit for manual work and
employed in the tailors shop in the camp, repairing
uniforms. He had a good look at my uniform before he left
and a day or so later I received a note to report to the
tailors shop, where Jackie exchanged my Army uniform for
an almost modern outfit, together with an Army greatcoat,
which was an excellent fit and reached almost down to my
ankles. What an extra blanket that coat made in the very
cold winter nights.
The hut in which we Naval personnel
were billeted must have stood empty for some time because
many of the fittings had been purloined by others. Many
of the windows were devoid of glass, some missing panes
replaced by sheets of tin made from Red Cross parcel
tins. A number of huts had chimneys sprouting from
windows, with fireplaces made from oil drums. Several of
us banded together to search for an oil drum and in no
time one appeared, which was surprising, seeing that
Jerry salvaged anything and everything. The next problem
was to find something to be used as a tool for bashing
the drum into a sheet of metal and here the firebars from
the cold combustion stove came in handy. Various patterns
from other huts were studied and a couple of us set to,
to form the sheet into a stove. The soil in the compound
was of sandy clay nature and this, mixed with straw from
the bedding, made a type of fireclay to line the stove.
As I have written previously, tins from Canadian Red
Cross parcels, when sectioned together, made ideal flues
and chimneys. The next problem was to obtain fuel.
Because of the shortage of civilian
workers in the forests near the camps, volunteers were
taken from the compounds daily to trim trees and cut down
selected ones to be used as pit-props in the coal mines,
not so very far away where, incidentally, Prisoners of
War worked. Some horrible stories about life and
treatment in those mines were told by injured lads who
had been unfortunate enough to be graded A1 when examined
for work. The forest formed a perimeter around the
moorland, but each side was a good distance away; to
reach it meant passing through a village where the main
part of the population was made up of geese who would
honk and rush up to us as we passed. We all vowed that
when the war ended and we were released, a goose would be
the first meal - one each at that! An aged forester would
be waiting when each work group arrived and the first
requirement was to provide three cubic meters of pit
props, skinned of bark. After that we could forage for
dead wood for ourselves. Sometimes there would be a
horse-drawn cart, into which timber was loaded for the
Stalag cookhouse. When felling trees, any young dead
trees were felled and piled for distribution at the end
of the day; these, together with what we could find, made
a bundle for each of us to carry back. For such a long
walk with a load on the back, two saplings would be
inserted into a bundle to rest on each shoulder. Because
of this heavy load, frequent stops were made for short
rests.
Our Naval hut soon filled, when sailors
who had been P.O.W.s in Italy arrived. They had been
shunted into Germany almost as soon as the Italians
sought an Armistice. With them came a number of members
of the Merchant Navy from many different countries; these
were billeted in the hut at the end of ours. These bodies
shared many different languages and , parading around the
compound for exercise, each passing group would be
gabbling away in a different language. Of course, their
hut had been ransacked for anything usable long before
they arrived, just as ours had been while empty. One day
a Merchant Navy bod came into our corner to find the
bloke who had made our fireplace. His group had
obtained an oil drum and would I help them to
make a stove? Glad of something to do, I helped them form
a shape similar to ours; the trusty firebar made an
excellent tool. The man who had approached me was from
Haiti and when the job was completed all he was concerned
about was that he had nothing to give me but his
gratitude. We were all in the same boat, so rewards were
not looked for, but he added that he was a servant of his
religion and that Obeah would look after me for helping
him. Strangely enough that incident had disappeared from
my memory and it is only through travelling back down
memory lane that it has surfaced. I remember him saying:
"Good for good and bad for bad. Obeah will help
you." Its amazing now that I should recall
him; he was such a big lad, in spite of existing on such
meagre rations.
For a time one of the compounds
contained captured RAF bods, many of whom were flight
crew shot down whilst on bombing runs. One of them was a
Flight Sergeant, Peter Martin, who hailed from Plymouth
and was able to tell us about the state of the city after
the decimating bombing it received in 1941. He described
and named whole streets which had disappeared. This took
a lot of believing, especially when he said that almost
all of Fore Street had gone, together with the good old
Royal Sailors Rest. No more threepenny jugs of
soup, games of snooker and hot water baths with a drop
more hot water for a cigarette! Together with Jack Adams,
I pumped him dry of all the news he could remember and we
realised that we didnt have much to return to when
we went home. But there it was, we knew we would go home
one day.
By now Jerry had dropped the handcuffs
skylark; the members of the N.C.O. compound were allowed
out, so at least Jack and I could get together. But not
Andy; he was out somewhere working in a lumber camp and
lucky not to have been sent to a coal mine, as many had
been. I am not certain whether the year was 1943 or 1944,
but talks had been going on about repatriation of wounded
Prisoners of War on an exchange basis regulated by the
International Red Cross in Geneva. Buzzes abounded and
the most excited in Stalag VIIIB were the hospital
orderlies and bandsmen, who served under the Red Cross in
wartime; some of them would also be repatriated to care
for the severely wounded on the journey home. Eventually
the negotiations came to fruition and a number of P.O.W.s
who had lost arms or legs came to the camp and were made
ready for repatriation. Seeing one-armed bods in the camp
didnt seem so unusual, but the sight of one-legged
bods was unusual. In each compound at roll-call a camp
doctor lectured us on the treatment of these repatriates,
especially those who had lost legs. We were not to assist
them unless really necessary; in order to make them
become independent, they had to be encouraged to manage
for themselves. Some of them came around the huts looking
for lost friends and I remember some saying when they
arrived home they would have to be ready for good-natured
old ladies offering sympathy and help when crossing
roads, but they werent going to have any of that
here.
As with all negotiations, time seemed
to stand still for those lads, so one day the British
doctors decided to put on a cricket match between the
one-arms and the one-legs, and what a game that turned
out to be! There was no rule about eleven a side in those
teams and there was much laughter and derision among them
as they lost balance and fell when trying to perform the
elementary movements of bowling and batting. We, the
audience, were told to applaud and offer our advice,
which became barrack-room stuff and the players soon
returned the compliments with expletives, cursing
themselves, their rivals and us in particular. The game,
such as it was, served to unleash much of their stored
hates and anxieties as they unloaded all of that pent up
abuse. When talking to some of those who had lost an arm
it was surprising to find they had difficulty in
maintaining balance when turning rapidly or throwing a
ball, due to the missing wing - as they
called the lost arm.
Came that day of the start of
repatriation. With the medical orderlies who would care
for them, they were isolated in a compound; the Red Cross
officials came and, together with the Jerries, counted
and checked, counted and checked until all were
satisfied. Finally, with everybody else confined to
compounds, they were off. To me, for a long time
afterwards that place really became a Prisoner of War
Camp. Anything and everything seemed to set a raw edge;
roll-calls seemed to go on forever, guards with dogs
seemed to be at the roll-calls more frequently; letters
from home seemed to have much more of the censors
black-out strips on them, as though they too had decided
to join the misery game. I just wanted to be alone in my
misery and often sought places in the compound to be by
myself. I recall one occasion, sitting alone and moping,
when a skylark rose from the grass near me and fluttered
overhead, singing its own sweet song. On any other
occasion that birds song would have been welcome,
but I remember shouting at it something like: "Why
dont you bugger off, you silly sod, living in a
prison camp?" But the bird hovered and sang. To me
that long main road was the nearest thing to freedom,
being able to walk for a fair stretch without coming up
against barbed wire. In my daydreams about the time of
release, I often sat on the bank at the top of the road
outside my compound and I could see and hear a Scottish
regiment, resplendant in kilts, bagpipes playing, come
marching up the road to release me. Even these days, when
recollecting my thoughts, if Scottish soldiers with their
pipes appear on television, I cant help saying to
Mabel or to myself: "You didnt come up my
road." Those days must have been the time of being
"wire happy", which happened to everybody at
some time or other. During those despondant days
conditions deteriorated to such an extent that members of
the International Red Cross came to inspect the camp. By
that time Stalag VIIIB was living up to its name of being
an awful place. The outcome was that Jerry agreed to
change the camp. He did - he changed the name to Stalag
344, so Stalag VIIIB ceased to exist! And nobody seemed
to notice; the International Red Cross didnt make
any more inspections.
Kriegies in the RAF compound had
somehow put together a miniature radio set and on
D Day, as the nine o clock news gave
the information about the invasion landing; it was soon
spread from compound to compound and I knew that my
Scottish regiment would soon arrive. But it didnt.
From then on, just like everybody else, I daily expected
to be released. When the invasion of France seemed to be
established, Jerry began to ease up a little. For
example, we werent kept standing for such long
periods at roll-call; the word stimmt came
sooner; supplies of hot water were laid on - not from the
taps, but via the "Kuebel", whereby two bods
could go to the kitchen and collect a container of hot
water for dhobeying purposes. These expeditions were
between specified times, to ensure return to the kitchen
for evening soup. Upon reflection, we were still sharing
a loaf of bread between seven and took turns to have the
ends of a loaf, which would not be quite as large as the
middle portions. When a ration of boiled potatoes was on
the menu they were still laid out in rows of descending
sizes, according to the number of hut occupants. Before
the war, when serving in H.M.S. Revenge and H.M.S.
Repulse, it was the job of mess members each
evening to peel the potatoes and to have them taken to
the galley in a spud net, ready for the next
days dinner. The issue of potatoes was made at a
set time daily from the spud locker by a
Royal Marine and it worked out as so many shovels-full of
raw potatoes per mess. Upon reflection, how did German
cooks issue the boiled potatoes? Not by shovel, I
presume.
And so the days dragged by. With the
end of the summer weather in 1944 and the realisation
that winter weather would slow the advance of the Allied
forces, there came the knowledge amongst us that we would
not be set free that year. The daily news from the nine
o clock broadcasts was no longer distributed on a
regular basis, in case Jerry should discover the set.
Whether there was more than one radio in the camp is open
to speculation, but in any case news of the Allies
progress was brought to our hut by an Army padre - one
for whom I have great respect, as future of writing will
divulge. He was the Rev. D. Welchman, a tall, slim man,
who always wore an Australian Army issue hat, which made
him look so much taller. There was one time when I had a
touch of the flu and was bunk-bound by permission
of the compound Feldwebel, which meant I was excused from
attending roll-call for so many days. Feeling pretty
awful and in the depths of self-pity, because no-one else
would give me any, there came a voice saying: "How
are you feeling, old chap?" And I, without thinking,
replied: "Bloody awful. How do you think I
feel?" Then I surfaced from under my blanket and
greatcoat to see the Rev. Welchman standing there. I
tried to apologise but he told me to think nothing of it;
an expected answer to a daft question. "Sorry I
cant bring you any grapes or oranges," he
said, "but buck up. The news is good and you will
soon need all your strength." We chatted for a while
about Plymouth and then he left. That visit did me a
power of good, in spite of the lack of grapes and
oranges!
We decided to organise a football team
and from somewhere or other the name of Sligo Rovers
appeared and that was us, a team made up from Navy,
Marines and Merchant Navy. Amongst us was Joe Brown, a
Petty Officer Joiner, or "Chippy" as he was
known in Naval jargon. Joe was a survivor from
H.M.S. Glorious,
the aircraft carrier sunk on her way back from Norway.
Joe was rescued from a Carley Float, a type of raft, and
taken to Norway, by then very ill, suffering from
pneumonia. He was taken to hospital, showed signs of
recovery and was set to be transported to Sweden when the
Germans marched in and Joe was in the bag. Cousin Stan
was also in the Norwegian campaign, serving on H.M.S. Hardy,
a destroyer in the attack on enemy shipping in Narvik.
The Hardy was sunk and beached. Stan was able to
reach the shore, where he was taken in by a Norwegian
family, clothed and housed for a time and subsequently
shoved over the border to Sweden before Jerry marched in,
and from there he reached home. When I was in the
Repulse
watchkeepers were detailed to serve in the cruisers Ardent
and Acasta, which sailed with the Glorious
and were also lost in action. I could have been detailed
to serve in one of them, but then my time had not yet
come to make the acquaintance of Jerry.
The so-called football pitch was in the
Naval compound and Sligo Rovers had a fair few games.
Even the German guards, when off duty, would be
spectators at the games and among the twelve thousand of
us there were some good teams. A good match was always
between a team from Stalag VIIA and Stalag VIIIB; even
the Camp Commandant would have a seat at those matches.
He didnt come to watch Sligo Rovers
The snow came early towards the end of
1944. After the snowfalls the sky would clear and that
cold North wind would make its presence felt. The huts,
with their floors of concrete, were not very warm places
in which to dwell, so after morning roll-call everyone
who could walk would spend long periods tramping around
the perimeter of the compound. We yarned about this and
that, mostly about the latest news. There was an
understanding that each member of a group had to be
recognised; one never knew when Jerry would slip a
mole into the compound.
At Christmas 1944 there was a Red Cross
parcel issue of one between two men. Over Christmas the
sky was blue and the sun shone without any warmth. I am
not certain of the exact day, but one morning close after
Christmas the air was filled with a loud droning sound.
On looking to the clear blue sky we could see hundreds of
silver bomber aircraft which seemed to be meeting high in
the sky over Stalag 344. Somebody in the know said they
had come from Italy and Britain to join up and proceed to
somewhere like Breslau. Of course we all cheered our
heads off, but there was a most depressing sight when a
bomber began to fall out of formation; obviously shot
down, this silver speck fell, twisting and turning, like
a leaf in autumn. We looked for parachutes to open and
tried to count how many had appeared from the falling
giant. From what we were told, many of the airmen froze
to death on the way down. But what a sight it was - the
first Allied plane since the String Bag flew
over us and waggled its wings when leaving Crete for
Egypt in 1941.
By now the RAF compound held a number
of American kriegies and I remember one in particular,
named Joe Kaljinowski. Joe had a grandmother who lived in
Breslau and he was hoping when he was released to make
his way there to visit her, but it was not to be. From
the news over the hidden radio we knew that the Russians
had commenced their big push. When the wind was in the
right direction, the faint sound of guns could be heard,
which had quite a morale-building effect. It was obvious
that the guards were worried; by this time all the active
Jerries had been replaced by elderly men and instead of
the normal infantry rifle, each guard had an older, long
rifle with long bayonet to match. But the guards with
dogs were still in evidence.
Then very early in 1945, late one
afternoon came the compound Feldwebel to tell us to pack
our possessions. We were going to march westwards. Each
night the sound of guns could be heard and the sky was
lit by the flashes. "Russkies kommen?" we would
ask. "Ja, ja," was the worried reply. Seeing
those elderly Germans with their obsolete rifles reminded
me of my Dad, when I saw him early in the war, on guard
outside the local gasworks, with a rifle with the safety
catch on. He didnt know one end of a rifle from the
other!
The winter was very severe, with snow
deep on the ground. I packed my few belongings in an army
pack, which I had previously bartered for with
cigarettes. While sharing the Christmas Red Cross parcel
with another kriegie, I opted for a packet of dried
prunes and a packet of custard powder; these, together
with nine cigarettes, comprised all remaining from
Christmas. I then took off my old boots and put on my
brand new pair of "Wheatsheaf" boots which
Mabel had sent me many months before. I had also received
two sets of pink, thick vests and long john pants from a
bulk issue of underclothing. Together with toilet gear
and another cake of American-issue soap with a swan
embossed on it, wearing my long greatcoat and my blanket
wrapped around my shoulders, I prepared for the trek
westwards. Joe Brown had taken a bunk to pieces and
somehow had made a sled; he told me that when I desired I
could let my pack ride with his gear. The early night was
dark and the snow was deep when we paraded in the
compound. The camp must have been evacuated compound by
compound because we, at the far end of the road seemed to
be kept waiting endlessly before finally being given the
order to move off. At the main entrance to Stalag VIIIB
or Stalag 344 we had to form into a single line and
shuffle forward in stops and starts until coming abreast
of a cart where each one of us was given a whole loaf of
prison camp bread. A whole loaf!