大象传媒

Stalin had allowed the Poles to form an Army outwith it's borders under the command of General Anders. The young Stanislaw Pawlinski, one of the Poles 're-settled' in the USSR, had been pushed on to a packed train by a mother desperate to see him safe from starvation and disease, and found himself on a journey into the unknown.

My journey without my mother began, and without any experience of coping for myself. My memory is very hazy until one morning I woke up and discovered that the bundle I had under my head for safe keeping was gone. It had contained some food, a shirt mother had made me and a few photographs. I was at a loss what to do. I had a few roubles on me, but that did not give me confidence as journeys in the USSR were very unpredictable.

Some fellow travellers took me under their wing. They were 鈥榬e-settlers鈥� from the part of Poland that I came from, and they had been 鈥榮ettled鈥� in the next town adjacent to Martuk. They were all together in a group and their accepted leader was called Mielanik. There were two brothers of that name. I met one of them in Scotland later on. I was to spend the rest of my journey to Yangiy么l in the company of my new found friends.

One chap, I think his name was Jatsek, was a very accomplished thief. Although he was younger than me he was very self assured, at least he gave that impression. His story was that his mother had died soon after their arrival in Kazakhstan. He was taken to an orphanage intended for Soviet citizens, apparently there were also those for Polish children. He did not like being there and he and his friends were always running away.

When we entered Kyrgyzstan then Uzbekistan and other Mongol States, the countryside slowly changed from the Steppes of Kazakhstan to cultivated groves of peach and Apricot trees. Even better, we could buy some from local traders for roubles. The journey took us through Toshkent and Samarqand. At Samarqand we spent the night in a dilapidated building, which had some beautiful fresco鈥檚, and looked as if it had seen days of grandeur at one time. From Samarqand we travelled onwards to the transit camp by road via the Persian town of Meshed, a holy town.

We were fed, showered, given some clothes and some money. Some time after we boarded some lorries, old buses and any vehicles which could carry people in order to go to the border. It struck me then that there had been very few Red Army soldiers at the stations between Martuk and the border between the Soviet Union and Persia, the very opposite to when we had left Maloryta.

Our drivers were Persians employed by the British and their reputation had reached us before we boarded the vehicles. Once we crossed the border they travelled at high speed, every stop when we had some tea and a snack, the drivers had their own places where they smoked bubble pipes, and as the day wore on they got higher and higher.

From the border the road was descending most of the way to Tehran, which we had learned was to be our destination after Meshed. The only time the drivers were nowhere to be seen was in Meshed, when we spent the night there. We were ushered into a courtyard of the large house, presumably belonging to some rich person. With a blanket each we spent the night beside the pond. In the morning we were allowed into the street and I remember buying cigarettes.

On the journey we were in convoys of many vehicles, and on at least one occasion one of the vehicles went off the road into a ravine. It was carrying women and girls, there were no survivors. It crossed my mind then that if mother had been able to board the train at Martuk she might have been in the vehicle which met such a tragic end. Such was our fate, I was lucky because the convoy after ours was the last one to leave the Soviet Union. Stalin was creating a Polish army in the Soviet Union under the name Kosciuszko, (Polish Patriots of past uprisings).

I foud myself in a tent, in a town of tents, just outside Tehran, where we remained for a fairly long period. I was able to visit a very famous underground Persian market and a Persian air force display outside the palace of the Shah.

Outside our camp there were scores of traders selling everything imaginable, and we felt very rich because already we were getting a weekly allowance. After Soviet conditions it was luxury indeed. We were warned several times that if we were to eat outside of our kitchen issue, to be very wary not to eat rich food or to over indulge. But for all that there were some deaths and many hospital casualties. I remember one in particular, a chap in my tent could not resist buying hard boiled eggs from the traders outside, and eating them in secret. He was dead the next day.

In late Autumn 1942, in the tented city outside Tehran, we were divided into units. Some, who were old enough, were going into the regular army. Some, as civilians, were going to Rhodesia or South Africa. And some, like myself, were going to the cadets or junior cadets. I had made myself a year older, but was still too young for the army. I had miscalculated, I should have made myself two years older and I would have been in the army. I was kidded on by my mates in the tent, about going to the cadets and being 鈥榦fficer material鈥�, but at the time it didn鈥檛 bother me at all.

Meantime we were square bashing, singing patriotic songs and bragging to each other about our exploits, no doubt enlarging some aspects and hiding others; behaving I would say normally. We also had at that time, preconceived political ideas, we were all very anti-Communist. Military life is a monotonous one, so apart from a few memorable incidents, time flew by quickly. Good food, exercise and rest, did wonders to our bodies.

The time in Tehran had to end, and towards the end of 1942, we left the camp. In true military style we were not told where we were going. The lorries were driven by British soldiers. We were mostly using side roads, I can only assume to keep as straight a line as possible to destinations. The roads were rough, dusty and sometimes only marked by large army tins filled with sand. The tins had held dehydrated potatoes and vegetables used in the army kitchens. They had another use, as we were using them as wash basins.

I recall, after a very long and dusty day we arrived at a transit camp weary and numb with fatigue. We were met by Jocks, the first time I had ever seen Scottish soldiers. They were manning that particular camp, and were standing there with enamelled tin cups full of very hot, very strong, very sweet (made with lots of condensed milk) tea. There were many transit camps, evoking memories of camp beds and British army breakfasts. We were going through deserts, scorched earth full of 鈥榖lack as if burnt鈥� stones where we could see no life at all. Through Persia, the Persia - Iraq border, to a transit camp outside Kirkuk.

One could see large oil installations in the distance, probably why the Axis powers were so keen to befriend the Persians and Iraqis. We remained in that camp for a few days, allowing us a very welcome rest, and then on to Syria and then to Palestine, to the place where Be鈥檙 Sheva is now. At the time I was there the Zionists had started their activities against the Arabs. It would be much later that they turned against the British as well, so we were not affected.

We ended up in barracks where we were to be billeted for several months. The built up part of the camp must have been a permanent military establishment, as it had all the trappings of one such as a guard room.

Military life started in earnest, with a routine of getting up in the morning and exercising, ablutions, back on the parade ground for the singing of prayers while we stood at attention, breakfast, lectures in the classroom, dinner, washing up, a short break then military schooling plus training, supper, washing up, a short rest then games or attending to ones personal needs such as washing clothes. Sometimes there would be evening lectures on all sorts of subjects. Most of the days were the same, and we had very few days off, one once a fortnight.

One chap, named Misha, who was billeted in my tent, sticks in my mind. He was supposedly of Polish origin, although he had never been to Poland. He was Jewish and spoke Hebrew, Russian, English and Arabic. He had lived in Moscow originally. He was the most unlikely soldier ever, but could translate instantly from any one of the languages he knew to another. He was very pleasant and easy to get on with, but alas one day he disappeared, as it transpired later so did hundreds of Polish Jews serving in the Polish army. They disappeared all at the same time, and it would appear that it was well organised.

Our life in the cadets was occasionally disturbed by fighting between Zionists and Palestinians. On one occasion they, whoever they were, broke into our armoury. There was no real harm done as we only had a few rifles for ceremonial and training purposes. There were always reports of raids on camps, where they would take anything they could lay hands on. At the same time any remaining Polish Jews, were disappearing as well.

On my 'day off' I would visit Jerusalem, or Haifa or Gaza. Transport was no problem. Anyone in uniform thumbing a lift would not wait very long. Australians especially were good at giving lifts. I started a collection of souvenirs and photographs and my side pack was starting to fill. I became very interested in Arab culture. There were quite a lot of them working in the camps, mostly performing menial tasks. Not all of them were ready to speak to us, as a matter of fact some of them were quite reluctant.

Being army cadets we could not escape square bashing, and we were used on a number of occasions at some parade or another, to 鈥榝ly the flag鈥� so to speak. Being small in stature I was always at the back, so I never actually saw those personages we were parading for.
At one of the regular medical check-ups I was diagnosed as having a trachoma, and ended up as one of two to three dozen who were isolated. Being a highly contagious disease, isolation was total, meaning no lectures. We attended a clinic a few times a day, for treatment by an optician. Other than that we had to remain in semidarkness. So it went on for several weeks, and then on day the optician who was treating us was arrested.

We were sent to a British general hospital and I was discharged in less than ten days. Others whose eyes were badly damaged remained in hospital for a long time. I met one of those who was isolated with me in Glasgow, after the war. He told me that he was one of the witnesses who testified against the optician. It was in a local court, and the optician got ten years jail. Supposedly he was experimenting on us. I was very lucky because the only condition a subsequent examination could find was a stigmatism, which was not the result of the trachoma. The friend that I met was medically discharged from the army and had to wear dark glasses all the time.

Back to my desk, and back to military life. The Cadet force was disbanded and I was sent to Syria and a newly formed unit, for mountain training. I was attached to a Bren carrier unit, and so a new chapter started in my life. My abiding memory of this period is having to carry a machine gun base plate. Very heavy and cumbersome.

We were then transfered to Egypt and more training, in desert warfare, night fighting and so on, took place. This involved a lot of driving around in Bren carriers, making clouds of dust which made you choke.
We ended up billeted within sight of the pyramids. In our spare time we visited them, and other sights including Cairo, where we hunted for souvenirs and generally killed time as best we could. But we knew all the time we were going to Italy soon.

And so it happened, we boarded a Polish passenger ship, which had been converted into the troop carrier 鈥楤atory鈥�. We landed, I think, in Brindisi, and then transferred to an ex Italian naval establishment outside Taranto. In the bay outside there were a number of scuttled Yugoslav ships. Those had been ships of supporters of Mihalovic the Nationalist leader who was out of favour with the Allies. We were supposed to keep an eye on them and also some ammunition dumps, and also a small compound containing some Italian prisoners. It was strange because we were paired with Italians who were pro Allies. Of course those chaps, the Italians I mean, were more interested in what they could get in the way of food, clothing, soap and so on from Allied soldiers. The position of the Italian civilians was grim, they were hungry. Just having come from the same situation I could see it and sympathise, but I must say such sentiments were not universal. 鈥淭hey brought it all on themselves鈥� was a much more common kind of comment.

For a period I was with a unit guarding prisoners between Taranto and Bari, in a very desolate district. I was glad when I was transferred to Taranto city where they were housing German prisoners of war. I was impressed with their discipline, or 鈥榮tand-off ishness鈥�, the exact opposite of their allies, the Italians.

Our platoon found itself with a group of Cypriot non-combatant muleteers supplying ammunition to forward ammunition dumps in the Battle for Cassino. We were doing it under cover of darkness, going over very rocky ground, where fierce fighting had taken place. Gurkha and Indian regiments had fought there, and of course not all bodies had been taken away. The sweet sickening stench of decaying human bodies is unforgettable.

After that stint our unit was transferred to the Adriatic side, and our battalion was following the retreating Germans. The division my battalion belonged to, the Crossovians, had suffered casualties it could very ill afford, and they were scraping the barrel for reserves. On one occasion a Corporal and I were to go for some supplies. We were to go in a Dodge truck, and the last thing I remember seeing was earth splattering on to the windscreen.

The next thing I remember was regaining consciousness in a hospital in Scotland with a priest sitting beside me speaking in Latin, and trying to converse. I understood from this that I had been unconscious for many days, and when I saw myself in the mirror, and saw my twisted face, I burst out crying.

I was told that the Corporal I had been with was dead. The messenger also notified me that they could not find my belongings, especially my side pack. So all my souvenirs and memento鈥檚 and photographs were gone. I never found out whether it was a mine the truck hit or whether it was some other kind of explosion. I had a number of injuries including wounds from small pieces of shrapnel in my body.

I think the people in charge in my unit, especially Captain Adamzcek, were shielding not only myself but also other young soldiers as well as those well up in years. At least that was my impression. There were no heroics in my life. From the lice infested cattle wagon in the Soviet Union to the best possible attention in a British hospital, it was suffering which only years later I could understand.

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