Arriving at the airfield
controlled by the British forces, we said our goodbyes,
thanks and good luck to our departing friends, the like
of which I shall never meet again. In next to no time we
were back in the arms of discipline. Instead of wanting
to discover our identities, we were paraded by officious
British Army sergeants and marched into a hut where we
were deloused by having white DDT powder pumped down the
backs of our necks, over our heads and up the legs of our
trousers. The whole experience was like becoming a
Prisoner of War all over again. I fully expected to hear
the familiar "Los! Los! ‘Raus!
‘Raus!" when we finally exited from that
building, looking like baker’s assistants covered in
flour.
We were then barked at,
to be told to find a trestle table, behind which would be
an N.C.O. who would register our identities and allocate
an aircraft number. When these numbers were put on a
large notice board, that would signify that the holder
could board the plane on the runway. But on the runway
there were no planes in evidence and there seemed to be
crowds of ragtail uniforms crowding the grounds. I found
the trestle table and the Army corporal began entering my
particulars into a ledger. He asked where I came from and
when I answered: "Plymouth", he remarked that
he came from Taunton, saying that we
‘Westho’s’ must look after one another. He
would put my name against a low number flight so I
wouldn’t have to wait too long to be on my way home.
Big deal. He also told me that there was another sailor,
called Venning, from Plymouth to whom he had given the
same flight number. Upon completing these formalities and
literally being set free to my own devices, it was time
to get my bearings about the place.
The first thing I noticed was that
there were no trestle tables laden with goodies, with
uniformed ladies imploring me: "Help yourself,
honey!" It seemed to be a case of find yourself a
billet for the night, listen for the call at meal time
and be prepared for that magic number to appear on the
large notice board. One thing I did observe was that the
last number on the notice board was far higher than mine,
but at the time I gave it little thought; perhaps certain
types of aircraft available had certain sets of numbers.
The meal towards the end of that day was a mess tin of
good thick stew, a packet of biscuits and my KLIM tin mug
filled with hot, sweet tea and I had no complaints.
During the next day planes came and
left with bodies who filed on board according to the
numbers on the notice board. And then the penny dropped;
the numbers were increasing in numerical order and there
was no sign of any lower numbers. Nor was there any sign
of Mr. Helpful when I went to a trestle table to be told
that my plane number had gone before I had even
registered! That meant re-registering with a higher
number and an even longer wait. Then I met Venning, whom
I recognised, but had not known his name. After
commiserating with one another he told me that he had
observed an aircraft standing apart from the runway with
its engines running and a fellow with a clipboard who was
obviously waiting for somebody. With nothing to lose, we
ambled over to the aircraft and enquired of the
clipboard-holder as to the chances of a flight. He was an
R.A.F. officer who had once served on an aircraft
carrier, so when we told him we were Navy, he told us to
stick around. They were waiting for two R.A.F. officers,
but if they didn’t arrive by a certain time, then
the places were ours. The waiting time was only going to
be a matter of minutes because of air traffic control,
but as we waited, hoping the two bods wouldn’t turn
up, those minutes seemed endless. Finally, with no sign
of the missing pair, we were told to scramble on board. I
ditched my French frying pan and my KLIM tin mug and,
together with my well-filled rucksack, was pulled up into
the aircraft with Venning close behind me. Even with the
aircraft door closed, it was some time before the plane
moved and all I could think of was the two missing bods
turning up and we two being bumped off. But it
didn’t happen, and we were U.K. bound.
Card issued by combined Red Cross
organisations to released POW's, April 1945
he aircraft landed at a place called
Wing, where we were loaded into a covered Air Force lorry
and taken to a large house somewhere in London. Venning
and I had said we were Navy and somebody in authority
must have presumed that we were Naval officers. Upon
entering the building, I was asked my name, then a WAAF
orderly came to tell me that she was my orderly and would
show me to my room. The officer who had taken my name
told me to make the most of it and I would be handed over
to the Navy the next day. The WAAF orderly showed me to a
room and asked me if there was anything I wanted.
"Yes please. A cup of tea and a hot bath." In
no time she brought in tea and biscuits on a tray,
telling me that a bath was being prepared.
After a short while there came a knock
on the door; the orderly was waiting to show me to the
bathroom, and there was a white bath full of steaming hot
water! There was a large white towel, soap and a sponge;
so first I had a shave then, look out bath, here I come!
Stepping into that water, the temperature just right, was
a beautiful foretaste of anticipation. But no sooner had
I sat in the bath than I had to scramble to my feet again
in agony. The bones in my backside were protruding so far
that I could not sit on the bottom of the bath. It was a
case of kneeling, which was not so comfortable, but all
in all better than nothing and the hot water was so
pleasant, even to remove some of the DDT powder. Then I
had a look at my bare body and, boy, could I see bones! I
was thin, thin, where my muscles had gone and my knee
joints stood out like Indian war clubs. ‘Twas time
to abandon my good friends the pyjama trousers which had
served me well over those past months. What a story they
could tell in times of plenty of newspaper and those of
no newspaper. Goodbye, friends! I left them in a waste
basket. I searched the bathroom for cleaning gear to
clean the bath. A loud knock came on the door, then a
voice telling me that dinner was being served. I opened
the door and explained to the orderly that I could not
find any bath cleaning gear; she told me that she would
take care of that and was ready to show me the
dining-room.
There were not very many sitting down
to dinner and I must admit I was uncomfortable, sitting
at the table and being addressed as ‘Sir’ each
time I was asked after my particular likes. But it was
heavenly just the same. After the meal, about which I
remember very little, we adjourned to a bar, where we
were allowed two pints of beer, compliments of the RAF,
to welcome us home. The bath and the meal had made me
feel very tired, so I took a newspaper to my room and
turned in to a bed with white sheets - something about
which I had forgotten. I must have just about had time to
look at the newspaper headlines and then knew no more
until I was awakened by the orderly knocking on the door,
telling me that a cup of tea was outside and that
breakfast was ready whenever I chose. On reaching the
dining room I found that there were kippers for breakfast
together with, of all things, white bread! Wonders would
never cease. Venning and I sat together at the table and
after breakfast we were asked to report to the reception
room in the hall, where we were told that when we were
ready a car would be waiting to take us to Paddington
Station. Upon returning to my room to collect my
rucksack, blanket and greatcoat, I found the orderly
stripping the bed. When I thanked her for her assistance,
she replied that it was part of her duties. I asked her
if she smoked cigarettes and when she said she did I gave
her several packets of Camels. She took them and began to
cry, expressing her thanks. And as I said goodbye she
told me to hurry and put on some more weight.
Venning and I were then taken in an RAF
car to Paddington Station, where we were told that we
would find a Railway Transport Officer. Here at the
station entrance was a Naval Master at Arms who had
obviously been advised about us by RAF House. Now, being
clean of face, but oh so scruffily uniformed, we must
have left him wondering who we really were. But when we
began giving him our Naval service numbers he began to
laugh loudly, saying: "You pair of beauties have
been putting it over the RAF, pretending to be Naval
officers." Of course we hadn’t, but it had been
nice all the same. We were the first two ex-P.O.W.s he
had handled so, telling a Wren in the office to make tea,
he sat us down and asked us to tell him something about
when and where each of us had been put in the bag. After
some time he produced a Travel Warrant and Meal Voucher
for each of us, giving us the time of the train to
Plymouth. The train would leave from Platform 1 and we
bagged seats for ourselves and our packs, just sitting
there for a while, talking and slowly recovering from the
excitement of the past few days.
Whilst chatting we noticed that a pair
of red-capped Army policemen were walking up and down in
front of us, looking suspiciously at us each time they
passed. Venning quietly said: "We’re going to
have some fun here." Both of us was attired in
something resembling Army uniforms. I was wearing an Army
uniform and an over-large Army greatcoat, which was
nearly white from the DDT-spraying at the Army airfield,
and shod in American parachutist boots. Like me, Venning
was clad in a motley collection of clothing, also covered
in white powder; in addition, neither of us had had a
haircut for a long time. Those Redcaps just couldn’t
resist their curiosity any longer. One came to stand
behind us while the other stood in front of us, saying:
"Show me your AB 64s." In a put-on accent
Venning replied: "Never had one, old chap." An
AB 64 was a soldier’s identity book; not being able
to produce it meant that the Redcap had his hands on a
couple of deserters. He looked at me and made the same
demand. "Ich nicht verstehen," I said and the
fellow behind us said: "Blimey! He sounds like a
Jerry." Front Redcap told the other one to watch us
while he went to the RTO to phone for a wagon, whereupon
the other one came to our front, telling Venning not to
move and that the game was up. After a while Redcap
Number One came out of the RTO and the Master at Arms
came to the doorway and gave a thumbs-up sign. He called
to the other: "They are a couple of bloody matelots;
leave them alone." And so we were left in peace.
(What a lovely word that is; just let it blow off the
lips.)
We decided it was time to make use of
the Meal Vouchers so, collecting our bags, we went into
the station buffet. It being war-time we did not really
know what we expected to find on the menu, and anyhow a
Pusser’s Meal Voucher wouldn’t run to anything
spectacular. The buffet was empty except for an elderly
lady assistant and when she saw Venning and me, two
rather disreputable specimens of manhood, she could not
help but exclaim: "My Gawd! Where have you two come
from?" We showed the vouchers and explained that we
were returning Prisoners of War and please could we have
something to eat? "There’s nothing here good
enough for you boys," she said, then excused herself
as she walked out of the buffet, shouting for somebody.
She returned with an elderly porter and directed us to
follow him. He took us to the station staff’s
canteen and she followed, to tell everybody there that we
were P.O.W’s and were to be looked after.
No sooner were we seated than an
elderly lady came to us, stifling her tears, wanting to
know why we were home and not her son. Did we know him
and had we met him? What could have happened to him?
Naturally we tried our best to placate her, telling her
there was no reason why the lad wouldn’t show up at
any time.
Our packs were taken from us, and when
we removed our greatcoats there came a gasp as they saw
our uniforms hanging from our bodies. "Feed ‘em
up" became the order of the day, but of course we
could only eat so much and I believe we disappointed them
when they wanted to force so much food into us. There
couldn’t have been many of the station staff
available on the platform for a while because in no time
the canteen was filled with them, wanting to have a look
at us, ask us where we had come from and, the inevitable,
what was it like? Several cups of tea later, when we
seemed to have satisfied their curiosity, the first
assistant whom we had met came to the table and on it put
several pounds in silver coins. There had been a
collection amongst all the staff at Paddington Station
for Venning and me! Can you imagine how we felt? We must
have been the first of our kind to pass through the hands
of that crowd. We shook many hands, received many kisses
and "God bless you" when we went back to our
seat on the platform.
Tucked away near the entrance to
Platform One I spied a small confectioner’s shop.
Now that I had money I thought about buying a box of
chocolates for my Mabel. I went in as bold as brass,
receiving some strange looks from the elderly assistant.
Upon looking round the sparse contents of the shelves I
saw a large box of chocolates and, taking the money from
my pocket, said I would have the box. The lady brought
the box to the counter, quoted the price and said
something about so many sweet coupons. At the time I
really took little notice, busily counting out the amount
required, but with the money on the counter, she still
kept her hand firmly on the box and again asked for a
number of sweet coupons. I asked her what she meant by
sweet coupons; came the inevitable: "Where have you
been all these years?" When I apologised for not
knowing about coupons and explained what I was and where
I had been for such a long time, she gave a gasp and said
she would have to see what she could do about that. She
went to that same staff canteen to tell her story and
returned with more than enough coupons to cover the
amount required. Another "God bless you"
followed me as I left the shop with the box of chocolates
neatly parcelled.
We boarded the train which would take
us to Plymouth North Road Station, for onward transport
to the Royal Naval Barracks. During the long and tedious
journey we could not but help strike up a conversation
with a Petty Officer in our compartment; he had obviously
been burning with curiosity over our appearance and our
conversation about what to expect when we entered the
barracks at Keyham. Recognising us as sailors, he wanted
to know some of our history and then he worked out
roughly how much back-pay we might expect to receive. I
was told to expect an initial sum of one hundred pounds!
I must have lost my breath for a couple of moments as I
heard this - a sum beyond all expectation, and to be told
that this would be only an initial payment, with more to
follow.
And so the train finally arrived at
North Road Station and one of us telephoned to the
Officer of the Day requesting transport - only to be told
to hop on a bus. We were back in the Navy. I suppose if
we had said we had no money for bus fare we would have
been told to walk. So hop on a bus we did and arrive at
the barracks we did, to be told to report to the
gymnasium. I had visions of being told "Top of the
wallbars, go!" at the tender mercies of a Muscle
Bosun. But no, somebody in authority had ordered that we
be held incommunicado until debriefed sometime the next
day and the gymnasium was held to be a suitable isolation
post. As you can imagine, all the excitement of arriving
home had disappeared as we two specimens entered the
domain of the Royal Naval Barracks. Our entry was greeted
by a momentary hush, possibly due to their amazement.
Then a lieutenant said in disbelief at the sight greeting
his eyes: "What in the bloody hell are you
two?" All of my daydreams of arriving home had now
vanished; I don’t know whether I expected a brass
band or a handshake or a pleasant greeting, but after
four years of being Raus’d and Los’d, sometimes
at the end of a bayonet, I was to be put in isolation.
And this time I hadn’t stolen any Pudding-Pulver!
Venning and I just looked at one another, gave a shrug
and I said: "Just a couple of ex-Prisoners of War
obeying orders, Sir." He looked round to a couple of
P.T.I’s standing nearby and they shook their heads.
Obviously he had heard nothing about our orders and soon
came back down to earth. Asking us if we lived in the
Plymouth area and we affirming, he took us back to the
Officer of the Day and said we should be allowed home and
he would take the responsibility for us. He was the only
one to shake hands with us, took us past the guard house,
with instructions to report back to him next morning in
the gymnasium at nine o’ clock.
Remarkably, my Dad arrived outside the
barracks just as I was leaving - such a coincidence. Our
eyes watered as we hugged one another and together in a
taxi we went HOME. Once indoors, the first memory I have
is of seeing a large picture of my Mother, dressed in her
best cherry-coloured velvet dress and wearing on her
wrist a large watch, about which we had often teased her.
My Dad said: "Yes, I often sit and look at it."
And that was the best welcome home I could have wished
for. We talked and we talked about this and that. I
laughed when I heard that he had been shunted out of the
Police service; perhaps the incident of firing the rifle
helped; he was now employed in the Naval Dockyard.
I was pleased to be able to take off
all my clothing. Dad had carefully stored all my civilian
clothes and it was a delight to put on clean underwear,
shirt and trousers, which all hung from my body and made
him gasp when he saw the difference. I emptied my pack
and his eyes sparkled when he saw the packs of American
Camel cigarettes; there was rationing of almost
everything here. Even the pubs ran out of beer early each
evening. Next morning Dad woke me as he was going to work
and, after having a ‘K’ Ration breakfast pack,
I donned my bedraggled uniform and caught a bus to return
to barracks.
Once inside the gates, where the
guardroom was a hive of activity, I was stopped, goggled
at and asked questions. I really enjoyed the feeling of
creating such amazement. There I was, a bedraggled,
long-haired specimen, surrounded by neatly dressed,
uniformed members of the service, blancoed, belted and
gaitered, wondering how I could even enter the gates,
dressed as I was. It was most enjoyable and more than
compensated for the treatment of the previous evening. I
told the duty Petty Officer to phone the Lieutenant in
the gymnasium and in no time I was escorted there.
Obviously that officer had been making enquiries about
the incommunicado business because he worriedly asked if
I had spoken to any newspaper people and was relieved
when I told him I had only been with my Father. He
inspected me in a dubious manner but there was no way he
was going to smarten my appearance, in spite of the fact
that I was going to be interviewed by the Commodore of
the barracks at the first opportunity.
He took me to the Commodore’s
office. I was asked to be seated, coffee was brought in
and he asked for a résumé of my years in captivity. His
secretary was taking notes of the conversation and, when
I had given him the information he was seeking, I was
given a Commodore’s priority card, which for that
day would put me in the front of any queue I would
encounter. The first stop was the sickbay for a joining
routine medical examination. The Medical Officer could
hardly believe his eyes when I was stripped naked for the
exam. First, on the scales, where I hardly weighed eight
stone. I had also developed a harsh cough. As a result of
the medical, I was allowed to go on leave, with an
appointment at a certain date for a specialist
examination in the Royal Naval Hospital.
But first, just like that joining the
Navy routine, I had to be kitted out completely once
more. The priority card placed me at the front of each
line. My new kitbag, with the kit I did not require,
together with new hammock and bedding, all suitably
name-tagged, was put into the Long Leave store. Then to
the Pay Office to collect pay and Leave Pass. There was
some searching of ledgers when it was learned that my
last payment was in January 1941. And so, as the Petty
Officer on the train had forecast, I collected one
hundred pounds as a part payment, a Leave Pass for one
hundred and eleven days’ leave, plus double ration
coupons for that leave, authorised by the sick bay
because of my under-nourished frame.
The expediencies of war determined
that, instead of ditty boxes being issued to survivors
and new entries, small attaché cases would become part
of the kit issue. In no time Jolly Jack had found a
nickname for them and they were dubbed ‘Oggie
Hampers’. With my ‘oggie hamper’ I went to
the NAAFI canteen to see what was on offer in those
rationed times. Because it was nearing ‘Stand
Easy’, a large queue had formed, waiting for the
doors to open. The queue was controlled by a C.P.O.,
adorned in gaiters and belt as a sign of authority. I
went to open the doors and was promptly told by Chiefy
where to go, namely to the back of the queue - and
smartly at that. At this I produced the magical
Commodore’s Priority Card and, after a suspicious
look of disbelief, Chiefy opened the canteen door for me,
at the same time shouting to ‘stand fast’ to
the head of the queue, who must have thought that opening
time had come. Because of not knowing what was available
in the shops in town, I asked a lady server what was in
short supply. She queried why I was in the canteen alone
and when I produced the card again the Manageress took a
look and said: "Let him have what he wants."
Strangely enough, Brylcreem was considered to be the most
difficult commodity to obtain, so I was offered two jars!
With about sixteen weeks of leave ahead of me, I
purchased an ample supply of toilet essentials. The
ladies asked me why I was having such a long leave, and
there were lots of good wishes from them when they
learned the reason. Knowing that I had yet to purchase my
leave allowance of tobacco, I asked the ladies for a
brown paper carrier bag and that left space in the
‘oggie hamper’ for the tobacco.
Eleven a.m. was signalled by six bells
being struck and that was getting near ‘tot
time’, when the daily issue of rum was made. To
purchase my soap and tobacco ration meant that I had to
visit the main victualling store and - surprise, surprise
- I arrived just as the rum was being drawn from the
spirit store. This drawing of the rum, alas no longer
carried out, was a ritual supervised by an officer. The
rum was pumped by hand-operated pump into the measures
for the daily requirement. It has been known for an
unscrupulous pump operator to complete the pump action so
that the pump handle was partly on the up-stroke. With an
unsuspecting supervisor, the pump wielder had an amount
of neat rum at his disposal, the lucky sod - that is, of
course, if he could get away with it! On this day I was
an intruder to that circle, but as one says in the
service: "Act green, keep clean." I acted as
green as a new entry and showed my priority card to the
officer, who immediately softened in his attitude. In any
confined space like the spirit store in a warship or in a
barracks the opening of a cask of neat rum gave off a
strong heady aroma which, when permeating through a ship
via the ventilating system, caused the senses to develop
a hunger; thus one always knew when ‘tot time’
was near. I hadn’t had any liquor for many a year
and when that daily procedure was completed I was handed
over to the Supply C.P.O. He would sell me my ration of
soap and tobacco, as allowed for going on a normal leave
period. First question from him was: "Did you draw
your tot?" followed by: "How long is your
leave?" He was intrigued by the sight of the
priority card and when he learned the story and saw the
number of days leave allowed on my Leave Pass, he gave me
a tot of neat rum. With great bravado I gulped it down in
one draught, which was the recognised action when
consuming one’s tot. The next moment I had to sit
down, when that potent liquid hit my stomach! Generally
the consumption of the tot created two sensations: a
sense of bonhommie, where conversation abounded, and a
sense of hunger where one could "eat a horse and
chase the rider", as the saying goes. For me that
first tot after so many years took away all feelings from
my legs and I just sat there in a feeling of euphoria.
The Chief was talking away about the hardships of the war
but I didn’t hear a word he was saying. I believe
that if Feldwebel Weiblinger had walked into the room I
would have greeted him civily. Slowly, oh so slowly, my
body began to respond to my brain and I realised that the
Chief was talking about the soap and tobacco allowance
for the leave period. For up to fourteen days leave one
was allowed to purchase a half pound of tobacco and a
large bar of soap. Seeing that I had such a large number
of days leave, the Supply Chief suggested that the
allowance wouldn’t be enough and if I had enough
money I could purchase extra, which I did, filling my
‘oggie hamper’. He told me to leave my goods
with him and go to the dining hall for dinner, reporting
back at one thirty to collect and then proceed on leave.
At the dining hall I met Venning,
similarly dressed in a New Entry uniform with no badges
on the arms. At the door we were questioned by a gaitered
and belted Chief who, in all authority conferred by those
items of uniform, demanded in a voice that could be heard
at the barracks’ gates: "What are you and where
do you think you are going?" "Leading Stoker
Venning, going to have my dinner, Chief": answered
Venning. "Leading Stoker Siddall, going to have my
dinner, Chief": I parroted. Now a New Entry uniform
is described thus: it fits where it touches; if it’s
on the small side it will stretch in the wash; if
it’s too big the wearer will grow into it. In
addition, we sported no departmental badges or NCO’s
badges on our arms. Chiefy was ready to perform his act
of authority on this pair of loons until, like a music
hall act, we produced our leave passes and priority
cards. "Open Sesame". All he could counter with
was the time-honoured censure: "Get your hair
cut."
After tea in the NAAFI canteen and
collecting my rations of soap and tobacco, I went to the
Guardroom, through which one passed when going on leave.
Before I had time to show my leave pass a Master at Arms,
on seeing me, queried: "What are you then,
laddie?" I showed him my priority card and leave
pass and, after wishing me well, he ushered me out of the
barracks.
And so I had once more entered the
realms of society; I would be home for at least one
hundred and eleven days!
Almost forty years after my return home
I was given the following poem, written by a returning
‘Kriegie’. It sums up everything that a
‘Westho’ could feel at the end of ‘picking
‘em up and putting ‘em down’ when
approaching freedom road.
HOME-COMING IN
1945
Cliffs breaking thro’
the haze and a narrowing sea,
Soon will my eager gaze have sight of thee.
England, the lovelier now for absence long,
Soon shall I see your brow, hear a
skylark’s song.
Heart curb thy beating - there Channel cliffs
grow.
Eddystone, Plymouth, where Drake mounts the
Hoe.
Red of the Devon loam, green of the hills,
And I am home. God, my heart thrills.
Far have I travelled and great beauty seen.
But oh! Out of England is anywhere so green?
Thankful and thankful again as never before,
One of the Englishmen comes home to his
shore.
Anon.
(A prisoner of war on
returning home to Devon.)
