大象传媒

This story is taken from a manuscript by Lawrence Travers Dorins, and has been added to the site with his permission by Bruce Logan. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

One person's identity has been obscured out of respect for his family's privacy.
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SYPNIEWO WILKENWALDE

One of our fellow inmates at the camp was a Londoner named W**** who was an orphan and had been brought up by his married older sister. He had done what many young men had done in the time of high unemployment before the war, joined the army. It was W**** who first opened my eyes to what was happening in Northern Ireland when he told us of the treatment of Catholics by some members of the R.U.C. which he had witnessed during his service there. W**** was liked and respected by his fellow prisoners; someone who could be relied on and who would give sensible advice.

He also had a good but sceptical sense of humour. I remember his comment on the value of the New Testaments which many soldiers carried. After the first shock of action and capture many could be seen reading them but later, as things settled down and some tobacco became available, the thin paper was much in demand for rolling cigarettes.
Rifle regiments with some of the Guards, had been flung into Calais as the Germans got there and held them back for some time. They were sometimes teased by cracks that they had landed, drawn a Red Cross parcel and joined the queue for Stalag. They had in fact fought valiantly. Lillywhite, a guardsman, used to tell the story of exchanging machine gun fire with Germans at the other end of a street when, during a lull, a door half way down the street suddenly opened and an old man, carrying two buckets of water, crossed the street and disappeared into a house on the other side.

The prisoners quarters were in what had been the pub's function room. It had a stage at the front and outside, beyond the camp fence, was an emergency air raid refuge for the guard on duty. W**** quickly saw his chance and dug a short tunnel from under the stage to the shelter and was able to arrange sandbags at the back to allow him to come and go without causing suspicion. It was pretty safe anyway, because the guards never went in there. Suddenly things went wrong and we got up one morning to a great deal of shouting from very excited and not very happy guards. We were turned out into the yard and were made to stand in lines while we were counted several times. All of us knew that W**** had been going out at night to see a young woman who lived alone, not very far from the camp. After so many years, and sadly, without anyone to turn to for help, the details are somewhat blurred. I am not sure if they caught him coming home, if a guard had inspected the shelter, or if someone had talked carelessly or an informer had tipped them off. The girl, who was pregnant, promptly disappeared and, according to people I talked to in Poland in 1997, was on the run from the Gestapo for the rest of the war. I think she was able and courageous and probably, through help from friends and the resistance, she remained free. W**** was sent back to Stalag in Thorn. After the war he had a letter from the Polish authorities asking if he wished to claim his daughter and her mother. I think he agonized over it for some time before he refused for a variety of reasons, among them, he was unemployed, had no home of his own, his relationship had been fleeting and unusual. It was a sad time for everyone concerned. The Polish girl married and I think his daughter is also married.

One day the German customs officers arrived, dressed in their smart green uniforms, to take the contents of the distillery. One thing which always struck me was the variety and good appearance of the uniforms from railwaymen to civil servants. They took some of our lads to do the heavy work, moving barrels etc. The local rumour was that it had always produced brandy but now the product was used as fuel for aircraft. The prisoners managed to get a bucket full back to the camp. Although they diluted it with water it had a devastating effect on those who imbibed. I remember one man, who was on a list for repatriation with an ulcer, sitting slumped at a table groaning and wishing he could die quickly. I think the guards had also been given a share.

In Wilkenwalde I had for some time been assistant to the pigman. Jobs around the farmyard had advantages. There was a limited degree of freedom and one could sometimes chat to the girls or other workers and when it was cold the sheds with the animals were warm. Also, there were opportunities for a little barter, chocolate or soap, or cigarettes for extra bread, sometimes the gift of an unwanted sandwich. The worst thing about it was that the guard used to wake me at about five in the morning. When I was ready he let me out and I walked up the road to the farm, opening my eyes at intervals to avoid any obstacles. If I arrived first at the pig unit I went in, switched on the lights and grabbed a pitchfork and waited for the rats that had been feeding in the pens to make a run for their hole behind the meal bin by the door. They were so quick that I don't think I ever hit one. My next job was to fetch the Shetland pony from the stables, hitch it to the small cart and back it through the double doors and up the six foot wide gangway of the pig unit. The pigman and I cleared the dung from the pens on each side, moving the pony and cart along as we moved from pen to pen. I then took the dung to the heap and saw to the cart and pony. When we had piglets I used to hold them while my boss castrated them with his sharp pocket- knife, wiping it afterwards on his trousers. During the morning his son would bring a large sandwich and out came the knife to divide it between us. I always enjoyed it.

Some of us settled quite well on a working party and the prospect of moving was very unsettling. It was a gamble. Perhaps the new place would be better, perhaps much worse. There were some people who could not settle and would abscond and wait in the nearest town to be picked up by the police.

It depended on the police whether you were roughed up but you would certainly be sent back to Stalag and punished and then sent out on another working party which was the object of the exercise. Serious attempts at escape were mostly made in officer鈥檚 camps where they did not work and there were people available with the skills to forge documents, make uniforms, clothes, etc. I heard that it was not possible for a civilian to travel more than fifty km. by train without special written permission.

They were very security conscious and I remember especially the poster which was plastered all over the place. A shadowy figure with a wide brimmed hat, rather like the old advert for Sandeman鈥檚 port, with the message, "Feind h枚rt mit." The enemy is listening.

Sometimes we felt very homesick. These feelings could be triggered by many differing stimuli. A letter from home, meeting someone from your own part of the
world, hearing a favourite song or accent, a sound or a smell. Captivity produces this sharp feeling of longing for a magic place called home with all the good things remembered and all the bad times forgotten. Perhaps that's why the return does not always come up to impossible expectations.

One day someone was mixing chloride of lime and as the smell reached me a longing for home swept over me. I was reminded of the Boys Brigade camp near Seddlescombe and the smell of chloride of lime which had permeated the earth latrines. New mown hay was always a very evocative and perhaps more delightful smell. I had been sent a copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury and poems like Gray's Elergy in a Country Churchyard conjured up visions of tranquil English villages. I also read some of Trollope's novels which became very popular during the war as a refuge from harsh reality. As time passed feed became increasingly difficult to find and in the end I became a real swineherd, out on the fields with the pigman and his dog. It was hard work with pigs running hither and thither and getting them back to the farm at night was a nightmare.

In the forces it always seemed that when you were happily settled in a place you were suddenly moved and here it was no different. The order came to move.

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