大象传媒

For some reason after this, I started getting a fear of being killed or maimed; it is difficult to reason it out, it was not that I was an heroic figure, far from it, I鈥檝e been terrified more often than I care to think about, but the thought of being killed had just not occurred to me, I took my chances with the rest of the blokes without undue thought, but this was different, I was starting to look over my shoulder, wondering if there was a mine in the ground where I walked and if the next mortar bomb would blow me apart!
In short, my nerve started to go and this horrified me as I wasn鈥檛 sure if I wouldn鈥檛 break under pressure, but, as luck would have it, it never came to a show-down as the war was just on finishing, but as we consider the number of good men who were made 鈥榥ut cases鈥� because of the war I just think "there but for the Grace of God, go I.
The next place on the agenda was another concentration camp, at a place called Sandbostel, about 20 miles or so down river from Hamburg. This place was nowhere as bad as Belsen but the Germans had once more broken every rule in the book, as it was a combined POW and civilian concentration camp. This was definitely not allowed.
The area was two camps, both sides being separated by a narrow road and the ever-present barbed wire. On being shown around the POW compound by a South African, it impressed me by its neatness and cleanliness, and to mind, nobody but nobody, can ever make British or Commonwealth troops drop their standards, no matter what the pressure or conditions imposed upon them. A pox on anyone who tries to denigrate these troops to me, they are the salt of the earth, magnanimous in victory, unbroken in defeat.
But when I went across the road it was a different kettle of fish entirely, although not in the same league as Belsen (what squalor could ever equal that?) it assailed the nose with the usual stink of urine and excreta one had come to associate with concentration camps, and the half-mad inhabitants listlessly dragging the rags, skin and bone that passed for their bodies around and around the compound.
The more lively ones, presumably those who hadn鈥檛 been incarcerated for long, beseeched us to give them food and cigarettes, but this was forbidden, as I have previously said, because of the damage it would do to them but when we were once more on the outside, some bloody fool, no doubt inspired by compassion, threw a couple of un-opened tins of corned beef to them, and the ensuing fight for them was utterly sickening; ears, eyes were torn off in the struggle for possession, and by the time the troops interfered and separated them, there were seven dead and about twenty more or less badly injured men on the ground. To such depths can people descend when the veneer of civilisation is removed by hunger and degradation. I was very glad to get away from that place but the spectacle that had taken place haunted me for weeks afterwards.

Before we got as far as Sandbostel, there happened an incident that had light relief and tragedy in it.
I was with the Guards Armoured Division when we laagered at some largish village or another, it鈥檚 name I can鈥檛 remember, and is of no importance, and I was idly watching the drivers parking their tanks for the night. This was done by the simple expedient of driving a tank through a house and then driving back in and parking inside it; the tank was ready for instant use, but very cunningly concealed from the air. Very crafty.
Well, out of this particular house shot a uniformed person, whom I grabbed, and discovered that he was a French soldier who had been taken POW and allotted to a local farm to work. The Germans did this a lot with the French apparently. On discovering who he was, I started talking to him and, in the course of conversation, asked him if there was any local Gestapo around, as Dennis and I dearly wanted to get hold of one or some, and expected the usual negative answer. He said there wasn鈥檛 any Gestapo but the local baker was the village informer for them and was of some political standing.
On hearing this I was overjoyed, took him with me to get one of my mates, and then got the Frog to show us where the baker was living, which he duly did and we marched into his place and arrested him at gunpoint. He was absolutely terrified and, using the POW as an interpreter, questioned him about his Nazi activities, but, frightened though he was, he kept on saying that he wasn鈥檛 really a Nazi but was forced to act as the village spy (we never really ever met a self-confessed Nazi!) and the only way he ever gave the Gestapo information was by telephone. We decided that he was 鈥榮mall fry鈥� and would turn him over to the nearest unit for surveillance, but the officer we saw quite definitely didn鈥檛 want to be lumbered with a civilian and said,
鈥淣辞.鈥�
鈥淲hat the devil will we do with him鈥� said we. 鈥淭ake the evil bastard into the yard and shoot him.鈥� said he.
Stalemate! He was a quite senior Officer but to execute someone is very different, to impersonal shooting in an action and we weren鈥檛 very happy at all, but took him into the yard just the same.
Now our tame Frenchman hadn鈥檛 got a clue as to what had been going on and asked me what the score was, so I told him and he looked very pleased, but added that, before we shot him (he was quite certain we were going to!) just pretend to do it as he was certain that he knew where the local Gauleiter was and if he thought the end was nigh, he would tell.
This information was passed on to my mate who, in accord with myself, thought it was an excellent idea, so we stuck him against the wall and, whilst making a great play of inspecting our pistols, the POW told the Nazi exactly what was going to happen to him, no doubt embellishing it a bit, unless he told where his boss was. The upshot was that he gibbered with fear and spilt the beans 1 He knew where he was, he was a terrible man, an executioner, a murderer, and this and that, and he would show us his house and point him out.
We piled into our jeep, and following his directions, came to this large house in the village. 鈥淚n there,鈥� he said.
We were absolutely stunned because the house was the headquarters of the Military Police. This was a pretty state of affairs; the local Gestapo chief living in the same house as the British Military police! It was farcical. However, out of the jeep and up the stairway into the house we went and I asked for the Commandant of the Military police, who was a friend of mine, a Captain in the Rhodesian forces, who had been seconded to the British Army and was working with the Military police. After the usual greetings - long time no see, etc. I decided to have a bit of fun with him.
鈥淣ice house you鈥檝e picked for your H.Q. Who owns it?鈥�
鈥淥h, a Herr XYZ鈥� (I can鈥檛 remember his name).
鈥淚s he still here, then?鈥�
鈥淥h yes. He and his house- keeper look after us fine.鈥�
Change of subject.
鈥淐aught any worth-while Nazi鈥檚 yet?鈥�
鈥淣o, none at all鈥� 鈥�
How would you like to take the district Gauleiter?鈥�
鈥淢an, do you know where he is?鈥�
鈥淵es鈥� 鈥淐ome on then, tell. I鈥檒l get some of the MPs and we鈥檒l bring him in.鈥�
鈥淚s it worth a few beers and a meal?鈥�
鈥淪top buggering about, Jock, of course it is.鈥�
鈥淲ell, you won鈥檛 need the posse, because he is here in your H.Q. It is Herr XYZ.鈥�
The look of utter amazement, followed by consternation and rage that chased across his face had to be seen to be believed. He let out a bellow
鈥淗err XYZ, kommen sie hier, schnell, schnell鈥� and the Herr appeared at the top of the stairs and, on seeing us put on his arrogant look which he swiftly took off when the baker put the finger on him.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 him,鈥� he said, and with that the officer bounded up the stairs, grabbed him by the necktie and pulled him, banging and crashing, down the stairs to the floor below and then booted him for good measure.
鈥淵ou effing Nazi pig,鈥� he said, 鈥渞otten Gestapo swine, pretending to be a good German, living in, of all places, the Military Police H.Q. I鈥橧I never live it down if this gets out鈥� and much more in similar vein, accompanied by the odd bit of mayhem.
Eventually we stopped him and said that if he would send for the Field Security Police, we would tell them that we had picked up both of the Nazi鈥檚 and brought them to him and then nobody would ever had happened.
This we did, and a Sergeant turned up, questioned him and said that he wasn鈥檛 high enough up for the Field Security to bother with, but he said if you take them to the local POW cage I will see that they don鈥檛 cause any bother. This we did and when they were behind the wire, the FS Sergeant called the other prisoners to order and said something to them, upon which the Herr XYZ fell down in a faint. Nobody rushed to help him.
When the Sergeant came out I asked him what he had said to the other German POW鈥檚.
鈥淥h鈥� he said, 鈥淚 told them that these two were Gestapo.鈥�
The next morning their dead bodies were found in the compound. After this incident, we asked the Frenchman if he was going back to France and he said yes, but wasn鈥檛 going to walk, he鈥檇 rather wait for repatriation, but wasn鈥檛 looking forward to the delay, so we pulled a string or two and put him on a convoy going back to Holland, requesting the driver to try to get him on another convoy going to Belgium or France; after all, one good turn deserves another. Before he went he told us about a building that Germans used to visit at different times. Would he show us? Of course, and off we went.
This proved to be a fairly large hut, with a very-securely padlocked door and window, which was curtained, so we couldn鈥檛 see inside, so, fired with the thought that it just might contain lots of Nazi loot, we decided to break in; but the thought was easier than the deed and the door resisted all our efforts to break it down. Stalemate! Not quite.
鈥淪tand back鈥�(in my very best John Wayne style) 鈥淚鈥檒l shoot the lock off!鈥�
Pulling out my gun which was a Colt .45 automatic, I blasted off three or four shots at the lock, and received the fright of my life, for instead of the door flying open, sagging on its hinges, the damned bullets ricocheted back and around us, and, with un-military haste, we threw ourselves on the ground.
Sheepish wasn鈥檛 the word for it, and when I looked at the other two, who were rolling about with laughter and very ignorantly I thought, was advised to fix a bayonet and charge it; some people have no sense of drama.
Eventually we got the door open, and by the beds in it and the bits of clothing, male and female, we reckoned it must have been a junior league brothel. No loot, no nothing. Oh well, you can鈥檛 win any of them it would seem.

The end of the war was imminent and we received word that Hamburg was surrendering, and got our orders to go into the City and record the surrender, but the information wasn鈥檛 quite right as the surrender had been negotiated outside the City, and we blithely set off in our jeep to do the job we had been given and drove up the road past shipyard after shipyard wrecked by Allied bombings, without seeing any sign of activity; there was about twenty miles of this utter destruction and it was very eerie, no sign of life at all, and by the time we arrived in Hamburg it dawned on us that we hadn鈥檛 seen a single British soldier around, and for that matter, there wasn鈥檛 any German soldiers about either, excepting two German officers whom we came across at the lakeside in the town; we got out of the jeep and approached them, hands on holsters, really not quite sure of how to approach them, when one of them said, in impeccable English,
鈥淵ou won鈥檛 need that, Sergeant, we aren鈥檛 armed, and the war is over!鈥�
I鈥檓 not the type to be rendered speech-less, but on this occasion I was; a day or so ago we would have tried to kill or maim one another, and now we were meeting face to face, and they were eager to chat. Apparently their war was over, as they had been ordered to stay behind in Hamburg to hand over to the British, as per the surrender terms, whilst the rest of the German troops had gone towards the Danish border, still a fighting force, while waiting for the coming Armistice which was going to be signed on Luneburg Heath very shortly.
They told us all this, and we didn鈥檛 know whether to believe them or not, so we did the only decent thing possible - 鈥榳ould they like a cup of tea?鈥�
The non-English-speaking officer looked enquiringly at the other German, who translated our offer; he listened, looked bemused, and said something to the interpreter and we both looked enquiringly at him.
鈥淢y friend says that he had been informed that the English always solve their problems by drinking tea, but never really believed it! Neither did I, but yes, we will have some tea with you!鈥�
I remarked that only half of us was English, the other half was Scottish, we solved problems with a drop of whisky, so with the British, repeat, the British desire for compromise, would you like a drop of whisky in your tea? Swiftly translated, they both started a Teutonic belly laugh and agreed. Out came the Primus and the battered kettle and in no time at all a good old British 鈥榗uppa鈥� liberally laced with the Dew of the Highlands was being drunk by the four of us, all chatting like old pals who had met up after a long absence. For a moment I almost felt sorry for having helped to despatch a few of them, but my better nature asserted itself and threw off the temporary bout of conscience.
They invited us to their H.Q, which was a large hotel just down the road, and the four of us got well and truly 鈥榮loshed鈥� with schnapps and whisky. During the drinking and eating (they had some marvellous food, presumably all from Denmark; the German other ranks might have lived off bean soup, wurst and black bread but, my word, the officers didn鈥檛!), we carefully avoided mentioning what a shower of crummy bastards they had for leaders, with the exception - and they said it first) that Himmler (the Gestapo chief) was the most evil man in the world; nobody was safe from his police, military or civilian, and they ranted on between drinks about him. I got the feeling that they had nearly been nobbled by them over the plot to kill Hitler nearly a year or so ago, so to cheer them up we told them about the Gauleiter and his minion, whom we had shoved into the POW cage and what had happened to them, and, naturally we had a toast to the damnation of all S.S. and Gestapo.
We asked them if we were German sergeants would they entertain us like this they were horrified at the thought and were astounded to learn that our officers shared the same food and often the same billets as the senior NCOs whilst on active service.
Eventually the party broke up, we were shown our room and, to show our gratitude, we locked the door and stuck the dressing-table against it, just in case they got any peculiar ideas about adding our scalps to their collection, during the night, but all was well, the night passed peacefully, and the next morning we had some breakfast and departed without seeing them again.
It was only sensible, as when the British troops arrived, all would be military and very formal and we could have been clobbered for consorting with the enemy, I expect, so best leave well alone and be content with an experience that I doubt any other soldier had ever had. So we motored back to our H.Q. for a fresh set of orders, which were to go with the troops who would be heading for Kiel.

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