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[Read Part 1 of this story.]

Sojourn in the wilderness

It is difficult to convey the true meaning of loss of liberty. Those who have experienced it can fully understand the complete turnaround involved, in which a name becomes a number, the man a machine. It is not easy to adapt to an inflicted mechanical atmosphere, to be thrust suddenly into a world that, at first sight, appears devoid of any understanding of human rights and feelings.

I say at first sight because initial contact with anything revolting is distasteful. However, after a time, we eventually become accustomed to circumstances, to whatever conditions are imposed upon us, and at best steel ourselves to tolerate them.

English forbearance

Thus it was in the prison camps, in which, for better or for worse, I was a member. Conditions were contrary to men’s desires. But that attribute of forbearance, found in the English, prevailed over all adversities. No matter how dark the future loomed in the distance, the present was often brightened with the spirit of good cheer. The strong hearted, even in their darkest hour, could still impart it.

PG 98

PG 98 was a camp in Palermo, Sicily. A few tents encompassed by barbed wire, leaving about 100m (100 yards) walking space, was deemed fit to house 500 prisoners. Enormous cliffs blotted out the sun, seen shining beyond the camp. Some 30 or more armed guards surrounded the area. They were an ever present reminder that we within the fold might not question the destiny that had brought us hither.

The ‘death needle’

Sanitary arrangements were inadequate, Red Cross supplies unheard of, and bedding was one blanket to cover the bed boards. If one calls food half a dozen pieces of macaroni that wriggled like worms upon an all clear soup, then that was indeed what we ate. Bread, when the baker called, made a second course. The small, often decaying portion of dead oxen or cheese, when available, could hardly be mentioned in the same breath as a good meal.

Of course we never expected a banquet. We could always talk of eggs and bacon and plum puddings, and imagine that we had had them. I wouldn’t recommend this method as a guide to cheap living. I can not say that I felt any better after a fictitious meal, actually much worse. But then food was the chief topic naturally, except for one other: the ‘death needle’.

We feared becoming ill. It was understood that any patients who were likely to require much attention when entering the infirmary were injected and disposed of by the ‘death needle’. This needs no further comment.

‘Any embers? Any embers?’

Fortunately, after six weeks we were moved to PG 70, south of Rome. And, on the whole, we fared much better here. Red Cross food parcels were received fairly regularly. Cooking our food gave us something to do. We cooked using our individual stoves, the small fireplaces we made from the tins received in the Red Cross parcel.

For our own use and convenience, we improvised cups, plates, knives, pots and pans from what was available. When I say that at one time Camp 70 held as many as 10,000 men you can imagine what the recreation ground looked like when cooking was in progress. The little tin stoves glowed like fairy lights. When fuel was scarce, the call of ‘Any embers? Any embers?’ rang out across camp, sounding like the old town criers of London. The dishes produced from the food parcels were many and varied, a particular one being ‘Sardines with Raisins and Jam’.

Keeping busy

The greatest danger in captivity lies in inactivity. It puts a mental strain upon the mind and gives place to self-pity, causing a defeatist attitude and a weakening of the will to resist. One might then be more easily overwhelmed and crushed by the weight of adverse conditions — in some cases become entirely lost to life.

It was therefore a great blessing to the camp to see, in due course, certain organisations springing to life. Indeed, by the time of the Italian collapse we found Camp 70 running like a young town, with its sports club, discussion groups and concert parties.

Above all, there were its churches — Wesleyan, Church of England and Roman Catholic — which, indeed, when difficult times lay upon us, proved to be leaders of the lost flock. I am proud to write that the Wesleyan padre Douglas Thomson, a former missionary in China, in co-operation with the Church of England padre, did much toward the progress of our churches and the maintenance of high morale among the captives of Camp 70.

An all too brief taste of freedom

On 8 September 1943, Italy collapsed, and the prisoners eagerly anticipated their homecoming. However, freedom was short lived. After nine days’ liberty, a brief heaven on earth, on the morning of 17 September 1943 guards once again surrounded the camp.

German guards replaced the Italians, and for the second time we faced a bleak future empty except of hope, which was all we had left. Captivity is bad enough in itself. But to have survived it and regained freedom, only to lose it again and be thrust back into the wilderness left a wound that took a long time to heal.

Herded into cattle trucks

It took five days to travel to Germany through the Brenner Pass and Austria. Five days herded into cattle trucks, capacity 50 men, with one small grating at the top for ventilation. Only twice in those five days were we allowed to alight from the trucks. You can visualise the state of things as we jogged along in those dismal square-wheeled wagons — perhaps standing in a siding all night because of an air raid, without lights and bitterly cold.

You might have cramp in the legs, but you couldn’t move, because someone had taken them for a pillow. In fact, it was often difficult to find your own legs among hundreds of others: ‘So like a human octopus appeared we, as entangled in a web of limbs we jostled along towards the Fatherland.’

Working on the railroad

It was a great relief when the train halted, and we were able to extricate ourselves from beneath the mass of human cargo. We were taken for registration and as soon as possible despatched in groups to various working camps.

I became a member of a small party of 60 men sent to work on the German railway in Saxon. We commenced work on 1 November 1943. We were given a pick and shovel. With these we had to hammer stones under the sleepers.

It was a most monotonous occupation, except when, out of spite, we would hammer half a brick under the line and enjoy watching the boss’s face when he saw the bump.

A church with three hymn books

In the past I had taken no definite lead in the camp’s organisation. However, as Christmas 1943 approached, I was called upon to initiate the foundation of a church for this new and small community.

The 62 members of our camp, Lager 4F, were billeted in one large room. There were no facilities in evidence to aid setting up a church. We possessed among us three ancient and modern hymn books — but what were these among so many?

The first service took place on Christmas Morning, 1943, before a rough wooden cross. I had chalked the carols on to a sheet of black-out paper, and one violin provided the music for the singing. I intended to continue services each Sunday, but circumstances, which weren’t too good, prevented this until Easter Day, 1944.

My second attempt was a service of evensong during a radio review, a concert given by some of the boys. I chose the last number on the programme for the church. The final result was so impressive that it opened the way to furthering my cause.

The arrival of the cross and altar

Supported by a choir and orchestra, on 7 May 1944 I started my third and successful attempt to found the church. From that day on we progressed weekly into an active permanent church.

An altar was introduced, which, at first we were only able to present with a wooden cross. Within two months flower vases and two altar lights were added. By July 1944, I was happy to announce a gift to the church of a portrait of Saint Leonard The Prisoner’s Saint, donated and painted by a fellow prisoner, Len Manser. This was erected in the centre over the cross, making the altar worthy of its place in the church.

Moving on

It seemed rather a tragedy for the church when it was announced on 8 September 1944 that the camp was destined to move from its country spot into the town of Reichenbach, near Leipzig. I could not take the altar with me on the train. But I did manage to covey it and some furnishings to the new camp. On our arrival I was therefore not entirely without resources to reform my church.

The new camp was divided into three separate sleeping rooms, each of which accommodated 20 men. A fourth room was used for locking up our boots and trousers, which were taken from us each night. You can well imagine the scuffles that often ensued when the air-raid alarm was given, when each man tried to find his boots or tore the trousers from someone who had stepped into the wrong pair.

From boot store to church

I found a great alternative use for this room. I soon commandeered the front wall and erected a new and permanent altar. It stood as a living witness of our faith and hope.

It wasn’t long before a third altar light was introduced. To assist us in remembering the order of the church’s year this was burned only to signify saints days and festivals.

As Christmas 1944 approached I was fortunate to receive the gift of 20 hymn books from the Salvation Army captain. In answer to a letter I had sent to Mühlberg I received a further 15 hymn books. With music from the padre I had known in Italy, this proved a great asset in assisting me in the Christmas festival that was now at hand. Just for the record, the cross and candlesticks were by Bob Lynnon.

Peaceful reflection

A whole year had passed since I first founded the church. I could not help but think of Christmas morning a year earlier in 1943, when we had stood before that black-out paper and rough wooden cross. Here, at Christmas 1944, we stood before our completely furnished altar with its four altar lights. The new cross, trimmed in silver paper, matched the altar covers edged with blue and white.

The newly acquired sanctuary lamp cast aloft its red glow. The white light from the altar candles revealed the silver star of Bethlehem above the portrait of the patron saint of our church, Saint Leonard. On the scroll over the altar stood out clearly the words ‘ Let us now go even unto Bethlehem’.

As the orchestra ended the playing of our National Anthem, the altar, which until now been illuminated only by the light of the candles, was flooded with light as the call to Bethlehem rang out in that triumphant carol ‘O Come all Ye Faithful’.

United in our festival of peace

This most impressive service of our camp church began at 10pm, continuing without interruption until 11:30pm. Those present shall ever remember that Christmas Eve 1944. Although scattered abroad, we were united with the family in our celebration of that great festival of peace.

Our church was the only prisoner’s church in our district. It received visits from many Germans, who came, out of genuine interest and respect, to view the lager Church of St Leonard at Reichenbach, Saxony.

I still have the church service for the memorial services of the late George Duncan (Dunk), who ran the camp newspaper. And many more photographs of groups and funerals, as well as many of the services.

A meal of three potatoes

With the passing of Christmas 1944 circumstances grew more extreme and became rapidly worse. Air raids continued on a big scale by day and by night. Food was so short that after working some 16 hours and more we returned home to a meal of just three potatoes.

We could not expect to spend many more months under such conditions. As time passed air raids became so frequent that work on the railways was made almost impossible. But the Allied armies were fast approaching. Town after town fell before them, and, at last, on 16 April 1945, they stood before the gates of Reichenbach.

Our last battle

So the last battle began for us. Shelling and dive-bombing overcame the town. During the night of 16 April, the shelling was so close to us that we wondered whether we should survive at this, the eleventh hour.

However, at 6:30pm, 17 April 1945, an American in a jeep drove up to the camp and informed us our ‘sojourn in the wilderness’ had come an end.

Two years, four months had passed since the darkest hour descended around the rocks of Tunisia at midnight that Christmas Eve, 1942. With the dawn of 20 April 1945, I could not help thinking of that as we journeyed forth through the ruined streets of Reichenbach — into the glorious liberty that belongs not merely to the captive but is also the true heritage of all the peoples of the world.

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