大象传媒

17/11/03
I transcribed my father鈥檚 story from tape recordings he had made. I don鈥檛 speak German so have written his words or phrases phonetically.
L Flynn

BILL TURNER
P.O.W. 1943-1945
Royal Fusiliers 鈥� 9th Battalion

Chapter 1

I was captured at Battapaglia on the Salerno landing in Italy, September 9th 1943. Prisoners were transported to Stalag 7A at Munich. Then two weeks later taken by train across to Stalag 8B, not far from Breslau. The camp was called Lamsdorf and it was not far from the River Nysa. Brieg was somewhere nearby.

After being photographed, fingerprinted and registered, I was now Kriegs gefangener 32590. I was put into the RAF compound in the middle of the camp. It was placed in the middle because the Germans considered the RAF to be more intelligent than army personnel and they were further away from the outside perimeter wire. Douglas Bader was in the next hut. Most of the RAF were bomber crews and fighter pilots. My first roll call the next day surprised me because as we were counted in fives, guards were coming along handcuffing us. However, as the guards moved away, a couple of RAF chaps followed up with sardine can keys, unlocking the handcuffs and throwing them onto the floor. This reprisal was because when the Canadians raided Dieppe they took German prisoners and handcuffed them to bring them back to England after the raid. However, the prisoners鈥� boat overturned and the handcuffed Germans were all drowned. So all of the Dieppe Canadian POW鈥檚 were handcuffed every day. The Dieppe compound was next to the RAF, so the RAF used to stand at the wire every morning jeering at the German guards. The guards got fed up with this and decided to handcuff the RAF and as I was among them, I was handcuffed too. While I was in that compound an RAF pilot crocheted a woollen hat for me. I wore it all through the cold weather and I still have it today.

While I was there, I was asked if I would like to swap over with an RAF chap who could become me so that he could get out on a working party to try and escape. I would assume his identity and receive his parcels from home. Wandering round the camp in the day I spoke to some of the old Kriegies (prisoners) who warned me to be careful of the RAF chaps. (They had a nickname for them calling them 鈥榃ingers鈥� 鈥� short for wings.) During an escape attempt they might sabotage, hit a civilian foreman or fraternize with women, all of which were forbidden and offences warranting a court marshall. If subsequently caught and returned to the Stalag they might swap back their identity with you, not mentioning that a court marshall would be coming up in your name In such a situation it was of course useless to say it was not you. Everyone was wary of Wingers.

In the Stalag there was a theatre and the shows put on were very professional. Now to put on a good show you need girls or course but out of the thousands in the Stalag it was no trouble to get the type you needed. The only trouble was they needed strong arm men to protect them when they were not on the stage. There was also a call for strong-arm men to help in Block 4 鈥� the 鈥榖omb happy鈥� and 鈥楽talag happy鈥� nut cases. Extra rations were promised to volunteers.

I do not want to dwell too much on my time at 8B because so much was going on and I could make a tape about this on its own. My story took me away from Stalag 8B. However it is important to give some background of the time I was there.

I left the RAF compound to go into Poland and work in a coal mine near Katavice. There were 300 men working 12 hour shifts. Some POWs put their fingers and hands between the buffers of the wagons to get away from the working party. I had a bad knee so I played it up and managed to return to 8B. I was put into Block 4, Hut 2. This hut contained 120 men. In charge was an Australian Sergeant Major. There were Aussies and New Zealanders there. I assumed they had been taken prisoners in Crete or Greece. The bunks were 3 tiers high and the hut was always very cold. I slept on the second bunk up from the floor. Around me were a mixed lot. The English chap underneath me was very clever. He was an expert on Sport and knew all the details, dates and times. The only problem was he was 鈥楽talag Happy鈥�. He only shaved one half of his face one week and the other half the following week. He had a filthy mug that he never cleaned and he ate and drank everything out of it.

At this time the Swiss representatives were negotiating POW repatriations with the Commandant of 8B and POWs were trying all sorts of tricks to be selected. There was a chap called Sawkins who kept us in fits of laughter every night with jokes and country sayings. He lay all day on his bunk with 2 pennies on his eyelids making them droop. Then he would walk round the camp bumping into the posterns (guards) because he could not see them. He did get onto the repatriation medical. Unfortunately the silly sod entered for a boxing match and was recognised by the German officers who always had ringside seats.

I shared a parcel with an Aussie who gave me his address, 81 Blaxland Street, Sydney. He was a real 鈥榖ludger鈥�. Anyone from outside a big town was a 鈥榗ow cocky鈥�. Others around me were one known as 鈥楳M鈥� because he told us he had won an MM and another, a Cockney from Poplar in the East End who the Aussie had nicknamed 鈥楽lasher鈥�. On the top bunk was a New Zealander who did nothing but talk about wild weekends in a boat, boozing up the Wonganooi River and he was forever letting us know that not a lot of love was lost between North and South Isle. The Aussies hated all the New Zealanders and kept on about 鈥橤undiguy鈥�.

The Aussies told us never to go over to the toilets after dark in case we were mistaken for someone who was going to be duffed up.

As time went by people moved into other compounds. I eventually got to the top bunk and so did Slasher beside me. Because of this we started to share Red Cross food parcels.

A Red Cross parcel contained 16 articles of food and when it was available it should have been one parcel a week each. We did not always receive it because we were told the Royal Air Force had bombed the railways. When issued it had to be one parcel between 2 on Tuesday, sharing the contents and the same on Friday. All of the tins were stabbed by a postern or in front of him to let the air in. This was so that they could not be put aside to aid escapers. In bad moods the Germans would break open tea packets, chocolate, prunes, biscuits etc. and mix them up in the box. When we complained to the British Commandant about this the Stalag Commandant responded,
鈥淭he Geneva Convention states whenever possible British prisoners shall receive a Red Cross parcel with 16 articles inside. It does not say how you receive them.鈥�

In such a situation we shared a mixed up parcel twice a week becoming 鈥榤uckers鈥� because we decided to 鈥榤uck in鈥� together, sharing not only the parcels but any food we got daily together. Some teamed up into fours. Unless someone stayed behind when you went out and left your parcel of food, 9 times out of 10 it would be gone by the time you returned. To get over this you had to scrounge or make a bag if possible to carry with you on your shoulder. This was known as a 鈥榬ackets bag鈥�. It was also handy to carry anything that was going at the time.

Barrack Room 2 was a very special room in the camp because every evening tables were put up and covered with blankets. Hut 2 became the main gambling casino with bets going on and thousands of cigarettes going from one side of the table to the other on the roll of a dice. My mucker and I would lay on top of our bunks in the evening and through thick hazy smoke, sometimes with the smell of the orient, we would take it all in.

In a POW camp cigarettes are money. Money gives power and there are always hangers on. The lads running the school took a percentage of each win. One day they received a letter demanding a cut from the casino earnings, threatening to slash up those running the show if they did not come across with a pay off. In my opinion they were Scots lads from the Gorbals in Glasgow. It was their type of threat 鈥� a razor blade sewn into the peak of a cap. This night, laying on our bunk, waiting for the game to start, a big Aussie jumped up on the table, read out the demand, then produced an open razor and said.
鈥淚f I catch anyone talking of slashing anybody, they will have me to reckon with.鈥� No more was said.

Up until then my mucker had only been known to us as Slasher, or Slash and things could have got a bit dodgy. He was always talking about West Ham Football Club and West Ham Speedway. His idol was Champion Speedway rider Bluey Wilkinson who had let him push his motorbike on and off the track. So Slasher became Bluey. His surname was Uden but we never mentioned it because the German word for Jew is Uden. Sometimes his behaviour was a bit strange as he was 鈥榖omb happy鈥�. He got very depressed, even suicidal, so he needed someone to keep an eye on him. There was no harm in him. He was a nice bloke.

By this time some of the sick and badly wounded had arrived back in England and so many tales were told by ex-prisoners about 8B that the Germans decided to change 8B to Stalag 344.

Whilst in 344 I was very surprised that 9 out of 10 POWs captured at Dunkirk in the early part of the war spoke so little German, as it was possible to go on courses run by British professors. It was possible to pass exams under the auspices of the Swiss delegation, which were accepted back in England. I signed up for lessons in German but after a short while the frustrated tutor took me aside and said he thought I would do better learning to speak English properly before I tackled another language!

Bluey and I were out every morning, mooching around the perimeter, talking to other POWs, watching football, looking at swop shops set out on the tables by established POWs, getting into the Dieppe compound and chatting to them. They nearly all came from Montreal. One warm day we were on our usual mooch round when we passed a huge concrete tank that held water in case of fire. There were a few scattered around the camp. We wondered if it would be deep enough to swim in. The next day we were sitting on the wall with a piece of string and a stone, testing the depth. Of course the lads passing thought we were both stalag happy and called out smart remarks about fishing. The incident would not have been worth noting except that two days later the guards were going mad, turfing us out into the compounds, hitting out with their rifle butts and shouting,
鈥淕et out! Get out!鈥�
They had discovered a dead body floating on the top of the water tank. We found out later it was a 鈥榝erret鈥�, a German dressed up as a POW. Someone had done him in and dumped him in the water. Two days before we had been testing the depth!

The Germans pumped out the water and bits of hand and fingers were found. The Gestapo were around for a long time.

I met a 2nd Battalion Royal Fusilier who had been captured at Dunkirk. He advised me to get out on a working party if possible because typhoid broke out in the camp in summer. He had been writing to a girl for a long time and she had promised to marry him. He had his pay signed over to her and we said,
鈥淒o you really think she will be there when you get home?鈥�
After the war I contacted him. The girl had waited for him and they got married. What faith Bert Rowe had!

Listening to older POWs who ran away hoping to escape I very soon came to the conclusion that if those chaps, who had either lived in Europe before the war, taken holidays or worked abroad and maybe could speak French or German, had got recaptured despite their previous knowledge, what chance would I have if I did get away and which way should I head?
Bluey had been captured in the desert and was a POW in Italy. He had told me that life could be a lot better inside a lager of workers. In 8B there were over 40,000 POWs but working parties were smaller groups, never over 300, so we trooped off to the 鈥榓rbiets鈥� compound 鈥� a sort of job centre. We spoke only a few words. Looking on the list we saw work on farms, stone quarries, mines and factories and so on. Then we came across E119 a 鈥榟oltzfabric鈥� 鈥� four men needed in a village called Mankendorf in Czechoslovakia. We put our names down along with two Geordies. This meant our leaving Block 4 and transferring into the arbeits compound awaiting transport. We spent about a week there and then set out on a train with a guard to Mankendorf.

The moment we were on the train there was a feeling of freedom. No more barbed wire and we were sitting on the train among ordinary people again. You must remember that we had been in the desert since 1942 and had no contact with our own kind since then. We could not understand anyone on the train but just the surroundings made us feel normal again.

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