大象传媒

Brotherhood of Veterans of the Greek Campaign. 1940-41.

Chapter. 2.

Hell on 鈥淓arth鈥�, A Prisoners Lot.

By L/Corporal Frank Gill. 580 Company Royal Engineers.

At a British temporary Hospital in the Cecil Hotel Athens, operations on my arm were carried out by a British Doctor and British nurses attended to our needs; this was another world amongst people who understood our language and needs. However, our comfort was short lived, the staff were evacuated and Greek nurses took over, quickly followed by the arrival in the wards of German soldiers; we were now prisoners of war.

The Germans insisted that we sign a statement we would not try to escape and the news that Athens had fallen to the enemy seemed insignificant in relation to the dreadful predicament we were in. Our minds were occupied with the agony of surviving each day with the torment of constant pain and the worrying thought of when, if ever, we would be fit again. The decision to remove my dressings was a disaster, as they neared the wound it was stuck solid and the pain as they probed was unbearable; they recognised the state I was in and stopped. The days that followed were shear hell, twisting and turning in bed, unable to sleep day or night and using cigarettes as a drug to try and ease the agony. The desire to be comforted by the presence of family added to the trauma; I prayed for mother to be by my side and take away the pain, just as she did when I was a child. But alas we were miles apart and I had to suffer alone.

My wound started to bleed again, soaking the bandages and the bed, so it was panic stations to the operating theatre and from then on my condition improved daily. At another hospital my arm was set in plaster but, after a few weeks, had to be removed due to infection; what a mess, puss oozing from the wound, skin peeling from my hand and blisters all over my now very thin arm. By now I was beginning to feel stronger, the burns were slowly healing on my face and I was starting to look like my old self again. But the days were long and the nights even longer, not so much now due to the pain but to the mind troubled by thoughts of the predicament we were in. An Aussie Doctor suggested a skin graft on my arm but it never happened; a crowd of wounded from Crete took priority and the sight of those desecrate bodies with missing limbs and scorched skin made me feel ashamed that I considered myself badly wounded.

From this overcrowded hospital I was moved to an old Greek Barracks with no glass in the windows, wooden planks to sleep on and the whole building alive with black blood sucking Bugs; what a way to live. They would come out at night hell bent on sucking us dry and they loved me; just one Bug was enough to bring me out in large itching lumps and, not content with that, they found a new home beneath my plaster. Those nasty little beasties infected my wound and the plaster had to be removed; from hen on I had to attend the dressing centre daily. We had to queue for hours for our one hot meal a day, a meagre inadequate ration which just kept starvation at bay and, when the queue ended, it was a battle of the fittest to scrape a little extra from the empty pots. With only one useful arm each, my mate and I could not even compete.

Almost every day men would jump the wire in an attempt to escape, some were successful, others recaptured and some shot in the attempt. One day, when the guards were firing at some escapees, we all moved towards the gate; the Huns turned the guns towards us and started firing into the air, needless to say we all withdrew pretty fast. Things were hard, outlook very bleak, no future, just a dim reality of depressing hopelessness but, in some way, the pain of my wounds kept insanity from the door. In the absence of a skin graft the flesh would not skin over and the Vaseline dressings did nothing to help. However, an Aussie orderly, who had been a male nurse, suggested that Elastoplast, direct on to the wound may stop the weeping; after about four days the removal was agony but the skin did start to dry out but, in so doing, pulled up the skin on my lower fingers and I could not straighten them. With my face burns, weeping flesh and a shrunken hand, I was beginning to look and feel like a freak; therefore I decided to use my disabilities and applied for repatriation. They said my radial nerve had severed and I would never regain the full use of the limb; this was very upsetting since I had no desire to return home as a cripple however, a specialist assured me that, after a skin graft, I would retain most of it鈥檚 use, so there ended my repatriation attempt.

After those months of moving between hospitals and camps, surviving on a starvation diet, fighting off blood sucking bugs, and struggling with the discomfort of Sand Fly Fever, Dysentery and Scabies, we were on the move again. This time it was to a ship in the harbour, battened down in the hold with two days bread ration, not enough to feed a Pigeon, and one plank removed to allow air into our hellhole. The journey took four terrible days, sailing along the coast, being buffeted about in filth and squalor and ending in Salonica, Northern Greece. Soldiers stood along the quay with fixed bayonets, obviously expecting trouble and there was. Four hundred men battened down for four days with no extra food was a recipe for disaster and the Germans not only knew it but were prepared to enjoy it, the spectacle of starving angry men reacting in an aggressive manner, giving them the opportunity to beat us with their rifles.

I now began to recognise that my character was changing fast; from being a happy carefree youth to a non-trusting aggressive animal. Hate built up inside me for I loathed being subdued, I hated being treated below my status and placed under threat, I despised anyone with a rifle and wanted to smash each and everyone who came between me and my freedom. I decided that I would learn enough of the German language to be able to show and express my feelings; I was not alone, all around me men were beginning to show their anger at this forced repression. We were lined up and paraded through the streets as a spectacle to show the Greek people that the Germans were the victors. Many who were ill and unable to march were beaten and dragged through the streets to another Bug ridden camp where we were treated to a bowl of lentil soup and a third of a loaf of green mouldy bread; this wasn鈥檛 bad, but anything is good when one is starving.

After a sleepless night due to the bugs and trying to sleep on a floor with no blankets, we were paraded for a head count and some were missing, they had escaped through a manhole in the yard. Given two loaves of bread and a tin of meat between two we marched again through the town to a railway station; I felt ashamed being subjected to such humiliation, a bedraggled rabble, once proud soldiers, now just a pathetic spectacle. Herded into cattle trucks, 34 in each, no room to move, all doors locked and nothing to keep us warm on a journey into the unknown that lasted eight days. We stopped at Belgrade and the locals gave us lemon tea along with whispered hopeful messages. During that journey we were lucky if they let us out once a day for a water ration and personal relief; at one stop we found an empty can which we used as a urinal. This we used to great effect; when stopped in a siding, with the Germans patrolling outside, we would empty our full can just as one walked past then dive to the floor, just in case bullets came through the side. This was our first attempt at retaliation and certainly not the last.

We eventually arrived at Lamsdorf on the Polish border and marched to a prisoner of war camp, Stalag V111B. Inside a barbed wire compound with fences eight foot high and Machine Gun turrets at intervals, housed in brick huts with no glass in the windows, we knew that this was the end of the road for some time to come. The sight of all this was soul destroying, the sudden realisation that your freedom had now completely gone. A faint light appeared at the end of this dark tunnel when it was announced that, due to our condition, we would be given half a Red Cross parcel each; this was no fine gesture by the Germans, the prisoners from Dunkirk already in the camp had opted to give theirs up, what a wonderful much appreciated gesture.

With hair shaved off and deloused we were lined up, photographed and given a number to be registered under the Red Cross; we were now protected under the Geneva Convention, for what it was worth but, up till now, anyone shot for any reason would merely have been recorded as killed in action. Guard dogs patrolled the grounds at night denying us access to the latrines; this was unacceptable and a means to get rid of them was planned. Empty tins were cut to give sharp edges and the dogs attracted to the windows with food, they could not resist and were badly cut up by the tins; vicious, cruel, acting like animals ? , that was what we had become and the dogs were removed. The latrines were just a long bench over a hole which soon filled up and was alive with rats which had a taste for your privates, given the chance and a number of men were badly bitten; an empty tin held over the vulnerable area was uncomfortable but necessary. Now, in the month of September, the nights, with wind blowing through the huts were very cold and the issue of two blankets each was a great help, but the plague of lice and Bugs continued to fester the body and the mind.

After the upheaval of moving around from one camp to another, to settle somewhere, although in unacceptable conditions, was an exhausting relief. However the boredom of inactivity, locked up behind this barbed wire, allowed the mind to dwell on dreams of possibility resulting in deep depression, therefore an opportunity to join a working party was welcomed. So, at 5 am we were escorted out of camp down to the Railway Station and ordered on to cattle trucks; oh god no , not gain, but this time the doors were left open and two guards travelling with us. Three days later we arrived at our destination in the dark, waited till morning, then marched off carrying all our kit. Eventually we arrived at an old almost derelict building, enclosed as usual in wire and were issued with two worn out blankets full of fleas, but what鈥檚 new. The place was called Mittel Langenua Holenelbe in Sudetenland on the borders of Czechoslovakia . We were split into three groups and picked out by the firm bosses like cattle, a humiliating situation I had to endure many times during those four years of imprisonment, to work in a quarry- lime kiln factory-railway yard.

Our group of eleven were detailed to work in the quarry which was one hour walk away and included about three miles of hills. Initially the walk was very difficult and depressing because of our poor physical condition but this was winter time and, as spring approached, our body adapted and the journey became easier. The food, inadequate to sustain us for the physical work we had to do, got less and less with no Red Cross parcels to supplement our meagre rations so, after a lengthy debate, we decide unanimously to go on strike and refuse to work. When morning came, twelve had changed their mind and lined up outside ready for work; this was a bitter blow for the remaining twenty of us but we decided to continue with our protest, despite the bruising from rifle butts. The commandant realised we would not submit and called off the animals after they had removed everything from our room; given no food or water we were finally locked up for the night. After a cold sleepless night, huddled together for warmth, we were again asked to go to work but, although we felt weak with pangs of hunger gnawing at our stomach, the answer was still no. A Troop of soldiers arrived from the local barracks, lined us up outside, and threatened us with their rifles before giving us ten minutes to get our boots on or else. Fearful of the outcome from these animals we paraded for work, but our protest was fruitful and the food did improve.

As usual, although we may have scored a few points, the German won. It was just a few weeks later when our work party was disbanded and we, the trouble makers, were moved to another camp. What a blow, we arrived at the Krakow coal mines camp, packed to overflowing with POW鈥檚 working in three coal mines. Working here was a nightmare and one man, after failing to escape by climbing up a mine shaft and being forced to climb down again, chopped a finger off with an axe to get excused work. I also witnessed a Kiwi pour boiling water over his feet in an attempt to get sent back to a Stalag but no such luck, he was treated in hospital and sent back down the pit. From our very first trip down the mine there was trouble, we failed to fill the required number of skips during our shift time and, when we started to walk back to the shaft, we were threatened with a revolver and force back to complete our quota. We purposely took our time and, after twelve hours, were allowed up in the cage; we were met at the top by the bully boys with rifle butts flying and the punishment was terrible. In the showers our bruises were swelling fast and those who fought back had open wounds from the kicking they had received.

My mind was made up, I had to get away from this death camp before I became insane, so worked painfully on my bad arm to create a badly swollen wrist. It took some time but it worked and I was returned to Stalag V111b. where, during the usual search, comments were made about my few photos to which I objected and they answered me by throwing all my personal things including letters on to the fire. Those letters, the only thread between you and another life far away, read and reread, living each word of home and those you loved and longed for, your only link with sanity in this world of hate and revenge. Alcohol from a home made distillery, terrible poisonous stuff, helped a little at times but some paid the penalty for over indulgence; two men decided to climb the wire and were shot in the act. There was no way they cold have climbed the second fence but those trigger happy guards could not resist the opportunity to kill.

Once again I was sent out on a working party, this time on the railway at Hindenburg; the billets were good, coal fires and hot water, I even had a bath, my first since Egypt 1941. Christmas came, another new year 1944 and once again hoping this will be our last year in captivity. Depression became worse every year, the will to continue being sapped daily, there were many suicides and mental illness became more common as time went by. My knowledge of the language got me in trouble again and I became a marked man, being dealt with by the guards at every opportunity with violent rifle blows behind the head; once again I used the swollen wrist to my advantage and was posted back to the Stalag.

Nothing had changed, a stew sent out one day had dead maggots floating on top; the M.O condemned it but that made no difference, we were hungry and just scraped the maggots off. Put on to another work party, my morale was rock bottom and we decide to try another escape, there was gunfire around which was frightening but we made it to the loft in a barn. We rested all day waiting for dark and when it arrived so did a patrol of soldiers, we were back in the bag once again but this time fearful of being shot as escapees.

Our next move was a forced march across Europe which brought many days of hunger and frequent dives for cover from the bombs of British planes; this brought many slanging matches with nervous guards and sadly a number of the POW鈥檚 died on the way. Those of us who survived ended up in Austria where, on 28th of April, four years to the day of our capture, we were set free from this bondage by the American forces. It took some time to accept it was not a dream, our tired mind and bodies took time to adapt to the change in circumstances but it did eventually soak in and a short time later I arrived back in England. Only now did I really feel I was free.

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