大象传媒

Life In A Prison Camp by Eric E Bartlett ex-POW

I have not the space to go into full details of P.O.W. life, but suffice it to say the five years of my incarceration were like a terrible nightmare to me.
For the first eight months the Germans worked us sixteen hours daily, and, of course, we were suffering from malnutrition, bringing in its wake the dreaded body lice. Until a laundry service was available we were allowed to wash our clothes in the nearby river. Nevertheless, the lice bred in their thousands, and for about nine months we were infested.

Ernie and I were registered at Stalag VIIIB, the first camp for British P.O.Ws. We were the lucky ones: we had regular supplies of Red Cross parcels, arriving as early as January 1941. As a result general health conditions improved, and we settled down to make the best of a bad bargain. We volunteered at the outset for a working party and were sent to a paper factory as slave labour.
The locals spat at us as we marched through the village, shouting after us "Chamberlain, Chamberlain" and laughing derisively.

Somehow we prisoners remained sane although it was surprising that this was so. Those who lost their minds were in the minority. I remember one chap, Jack Hughes, from Newcastle, who confided in me one day, sadly: "Eddie, I've had it. I can't stand it any longer" I had often heard this remark before, so I dismissed it from my mind. Next day, however, Jack was found hanging in the camp lavatories. Poor chap: camp life had really got on top of him at last.

The Germans did their level best to organise camp activities and encouraged play-acting, dancing, etc. I got into no real trouble with my captors, beyond being classed as a lazy worker, and how they hated me for this. The "Meister" (foreman) ---a staunch Hitler supporter -- would often shake a warning finger at me and say: "You may as well get used to working now, because when we win the war you will be detained here for fifteen years."

Boredom and depression in the camps was inevitable, but British tenacity to overcome troubles scored one hundred per cent. In 1943 we were drafted into coal-mining 750 feet below and joined working party E.744, near Sosnowitz, Poland.

In this camp I met some of the greatest chaps in the world, British, Scots, Irish, Welsh, New Zealanders, Australians, South Africans, all possessing a wealth of talent, including dress designers, actors, bricklayers, engineers, factory hands, chemists, musicians.

With a little bit of planning we put on Camp Concerts which proved a great success, and truly amazed our captors. I was interested in songwriting and wrote several compositions to fit the stories for the shows and had the pleasure of hearing my songs whistled by P.O.Ws. and the Germans, too.

Another interest was journalism, so I had a bright idea. I would attempt to amuse myself and my fellow P.O.Ws. by editing a camp newspaper to appear weekly. Thanks to the camp Commandant I obtained a large supply of writing materials from the American Red Cross. I received some assistance from others who were interested: they supplied cartoons and occasional articles.
The first edition was well received, and I feel it helped, perhaps in some small way, to raise the camp morale.

One day I wrote a juicy article condemning the Fuhrer himself. It was entitled "Who is this man Hitler?" It caused a bit of a stir in camp circles. No small wonder it eventually caught the discerning eye of a German interpreter, who was furious and demanded that I be dealt with. I was severely reprimanded. Orders were given by the German Commandant that my paper must cease publication immediately.

This was a major blow to me because I had thoroughly enjoyed the work and its rewards. I was told that I was a trouble-maker, and that in Germany trouble-makers were dealt with according to the orders issued by the Fuhrer himself.

I was transferred to another coal-mine, working twelve hours daily, along with a batch of other trouble-makers, and our rations were reduced.

During 1944 the severe winter caused many serious illnesses amongst the men. Red Cross parcels ceased, due to the bombing in Western Germany. Letters from home were irregular, and eventually none came at all. We survived on a pint of vegetable soup, six potatoes and three slices of bread daily.

We experienced regular periods of intense depression: skies seemed forever grey. We began to wonder seriously if the war would ever end, and, being fed with Germany's slick propaganda, had doubts if England would win in the end.

There were few escapes: those who did part company from the Camps were either recaptured and given special treatment, or shot immediately. A Jewish Camp containing men from Palestine was situated near ours. I recall the fate of six Jews who were - believe it or not - allowed their freedom. providing they returned by sunset. Alas -- the P.O.Ws. kept their part of the bargain, only to be shot down dead at the prison gates.

The Gestapo often visited us, ripping up barrack-room floors, turning out lockers and bedding, searching for escape tunnels and secret radios. We had a radio, but it was never discovered. There
were no clever escape tunnels as described in Eric William's book THE WOODEN HORSE.
Two British P.O.Ws. from our camp tried a novel escape plan. Cleverly masquerading as members of the opposite sex, they made for the local railway station and asked for tickets for a prospective journey. The German booking clerk was puzzled by the size of their hands and held them in custody. A good try, which didn't quite come off!

The Beginning Of The End

Hopes soared a little when we disbanded camp in 1945, and commenced "The Death March", as it has been named. Altogether we covered one thousand miles, from the coal-mining area near Auschwitz Concentration Camp, across Czech-territory, into Bavaria. This trek was carried out under severe winter conditions, freezing temperatures, icy roads and snow.

Each night after a long march we billeted in farm buildings, with only the straw coverlet, sometimes just the stars as a ceiling. Food rations were obtained as we passed from town to town. I have known days and nights when after a gruelling march we were unable to obtain as much as a cup of coffee, and when normal rations were unobtainable, we stole vegetables from farms and fields. Still, this was war: and it was all part and parcel of P.O.W. life.

I must say here a word of praise for our German masters: if any man was unable to muster the strength to continue "The Death March" he was allowed to ride on the wagon carrying German Kitbags until he could be given proper medical attention.

It will forever remain a miracle to me just how I ever managed to survive the strain of the three months march under such conditions. Sometimes I felt I had reached the point where I would surely crack up, but thanks to God I struggled through, Hitherto I had not been one for saying prayers regularly, but during this period I did so each day, and my prayers were answered.

Soon, however, the curtain was to fall on this never-to-be-forgotten chapter of my P.O.W. life. Rumours reached our ears that very soon the war would be over. I knew from experience, the guards who marched alongside with us every inch of the way felt the same as we did. The end couldn't come soon enough.

The morning of April 29th dawned just like any other day, but it turned out to be the day we had all been waiting for: it was journey's end. All the German guards, with the exception of one or two soldiers, deserted us at the State farm where we had billeted on the previous evening. By late afternoon, tanks of the 3rd American Army, under the late General Patton, thundered through the village and came to a halt fifty yards or so along the road. We were so overcome with emotion that we were laughing and crying at one and the same time. Friendly voices informed us: "The war is over, Germany has been defeated."

The Yanks showered us with gifts of cigarettes, took the remaining Germans as their prisoners and told us to make contact with General Headquarters, Regensburg, Bavaria, five miles distant.
"Get back there, make yourself known, and you will be flown home to England," they instructed.

It seemed too good to be true, as three weeks later Ernie and I stepped from a Dakota onto good old English soil. We were given a warm reception by the W.V.S.

Two days later we were on our way home for a welcome indefinite period of leave from the Army.

Home again to all the familiar sights and sounds: we could scarcely believe it was true. So much had happened during those long weary years, and now it was all over and done with.

Six years ago I had joined up with the colours as a young man of twenty-three, weight 11st 11 lbs, fit and healthy. Now in 1945 I was 7st 7 lbs, very nervous and run-down.

I had indulged in self-pity long enough, however. When I heard of the plight of our men under the Japanese, the inhuman treatment they were receiving deeply disturbed me.

I had survived the physical and mental torture of five weary years under the Swastika, and I thanked God for it.

In conclusion I shall always remember with nostalgia the life-saving work done by the British Red Cross Society. God bless them and may they forever continue to receive the financial response they so richly deserve.

Written in March 1955 by Eric E Bartlett

Author's note added later: my reference to the clairvoyant on the first page is regrettable, but I was not fully aware at that time of the falsehood connected with mediums, horoscope readers etc.

Eric E Bartlett was born 4th June 1915 died 12th November 1998
He served during the war as a Private in Kings Own Royal Regiment and his Service Number was 5500673.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.