大象传媒

This is a copy of a story I found written by my father in 1975 before his death in 1981. I would love to hear from anyone who met him.

"I spent my 21st brithday in a prisoner of war camp, address Stalag 20a Fort 13 Thorn Poland. I was not the only one to do so as so many were about the same age I suppose all of them had their twenty firts there. It is the deeds that impressed me on that particular day and have ever since.
I had been discharged from hospital and altough I was in a room with about thirty other chaps I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, living daily on the ration of one litre of very weak soup and a piece of brown bread the size of a corned beef tin. Most of the other chaps were sent out to work which was either a good thing or a bad thing depending on what and where the work was. If it was making roads in the middle of nowhere without any hope of sealing, begging or bartering for extra food it was a dead loss as well as energy consuming; on the other hand if it was a job where contact could be made with Polish Civilians or sympathetic German soldiers there was always a chance of getting extra grub, cigarettes etc.

Mos of us most of the time were dammed starving and in pretty poor condition. One teatime I had gobbled my bread down and filling myself up with hot ersatz coffee and was sat envying four chaps opposite who were able to eat a little longer thanks to the loot they had managed to pick up outside: at this point after a little discussion they asked me to join them and share their little extra. I told them I would be a dead loss to them as I was not able to work and they said 'this is why we have invited you to muck in with us'. This was the day my whole attitude to life changed: in the midst of poverty, squalor, degradation and despair these blokes were willing to care for me they will be mentioned for their goodness: Harry Beasley of Leicester: Topsy Turner of Bradford who later attended my wedding: Bill Footitt of Nottingham and John (Something of Leicester or Nottingham I have forgotten his name or exact whereabouts.
A day or two later or it could be weeks, it was my twenty first birthday, the five of us were down to bare rations simply because the gang were on a lousy job where loot or extra grub was not there to be begged or pinched. About six or seven o clock in the evening a bearded sailor stuck hiw head round the door and shouted ' is there a Lazenby bloke in here?' when I replied I was Lazenby he threw a piece of white bread aboutht eh size of half of one of our loaves to me and said 'happy birthday' mate. I only knew him by sight being one of about twelve sailors amongst three hundred or so soldiers, they stood out; his name was Bridham Young (well all Youngs are of course) from the submarine Seal, caught off Norway or somewhere up there. I have never been quite the same person since that day. When I tried to thank him he would have none of it, when I offered to share the bit of bread with my four muckers, they would have none, saying it was my birthday and I should have the extra. What can you say of somrades like these. I never want to experience those conditions again, but I cherish the memory of that day, thoses deeds, and those friends. I can honestly say that my twenty first made me resolve to try to be a man like these men. POW 5774 harry Lazenby

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