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This account has been retyped from original documents handed to Cecil Horace Maycock’s son. The originals, on German ersatz paper, were bound into book form many years ago. It is a book that contains many photographs, sketches and church services from the various camps, in which C. Horace Maycock, late Northamptonshire Regiment, ex-prisoner of war, and his comrades, were incarcerated.

Capture in Tunisia

‘I see not a step before me as I tread on another year; But I’ve left the past in God’s keeping — the future his mercy shall clear; and what looks dark in the distance may brighten as I draw near.’

Through the difficult days of captivity this verse was constantly before me, suggesting, as it did, a brighter path in the distance, to which the course of time — with faith — must ultimately lead me.

The full beauty of these words came to me at the close of my last hour of freedom, which, as time does, ticked unconsciously away. I was completely unaware that, at the stroke of twelve, liberty, like the glory of Cinderella, should vanish entirely.

Christmas morning, 1942

The stroke of midnight, the end of the day and the beginning of another, heralded no ordinary day dawning. Indeed, it was Christmas morning 1942 that was being ushered in beneath Tunisian skies — and where was I?

It so happened the Northamptonshire Regiment, with other regiments, were to put in a Christmas Eve attack against the Germans. The 5th Northamptons, to which I belonged, had been allotted the course through the hills.

It was a 48-hour strenuous trek, in which 36 mules died in one night from exhaustion. The mules carried supplies and ammunition. With the deaths of some of the animals, food, already in short supply, was jettisoned in order to load the ammunition on to the backs of the remaining mules.

Inside enemy lines

We eventually arrived at our objective, a place named Tabourba, some 24km (15 miles) from Tunis. We had lost our only wireless set during the rough journey. It had fallen off a mule and been damaged on the rocks. Consequently, we did not know that this particular attack had been cancelled. In our ignorance, we, the Northamptons, were marching on alone to attack the enemy six miles inside his own lines.

It was a difficult trek through rough winding paths and over rocky hills. Therefore by the time we reached our objective both men and mules were tired and hungry. Nonetheless, the battalion took up its positions.

My company, A, was forward position. We occupied a few rocks or boulders facing the enemy, who were a field distant, firmly consolidated at the top of a hill. Our battalion headquarters were at the opposite end of the field. B, C and D and Headquarters companies were situated on our flanks and at the rear, respectively.

Seeing by the light of tracer trails

Action commenced between 7:30pm and 8pm. It was already growing dark. Neither side advanced but kept up a steady volume of fire against the other’s positions. This continued until nearly midnight.

Just before midnight the commanding officer contacted me at battalion headquarters and gave me instructions to proceed to my own company. I had left them earlier in the forward position. I was to fetch my commander, who was to report to the commanding officer on the present situation.

I proceeded to cover the distance to A Company lines. Darkness had completely descended. The only light was the glowing red trails left by the tracer bullets of the enemy as they successively poured across into our lines. It had rained heavily for some time, and I could only proceed slowly as my feet sunk into the ploughed, boggy earth.

The response came in German

At length, without incident, I reached the rocks that were A Company’s position. The area was enveloped in a strange stillness. I could hear nor see a thing. I wondered if I had come to the right place. Perhaps I had wandered in the darkness.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the blackness of the night I knew I was in the right place. But I could still see no sign of life. I whispered two words, my company commander’s name, softly in the darkness. Just those two words were enough. Imagine how I felt, expecting my comrades’ encouraging response, when the reply came back in German.

A gun to my head

Like all mortals in danger, instinctively, I thought, My God. I immediately flung myself flat on the ground, only to discern, to my greater horror, a sentry’s rifle. It was pointing at my head some five paces away from the other side of the boulder that separated us.

It seemed ages before I could collect my thoughts. I visualised many happy scenes past and wondered if I should see another Christmas at home. I prayed for deliverance until I could no longer bear the strain of that gun staring me in the face. I prayed for at least a speedy release, for death, from the prevailing suspense.

Neither came. However, as suddenly as he had appeared, the sentry, and his gun, vanished. I thought that perhaps, after all, I was unobserved. Could it all have been an hallucination, caused by the strain of events? But, lo! it was not so, and only too realistic.

My rifle refuses to fire

From behind three other armed soldiers approached. I knew it would take a miracle for my rifle to fire. How could I expect it to do so? It had been soaked by rain for 48 hours. With no care or attention, its bolt creaked more like a prison gate than a weapon of defence.

While I was thinking of a way out, I saw quite close to me the dead body of an English soldier. In that instant I realised the truth of what must have happened. The Northamptons had been driven from their position. And it was now occupied by Germans.

Playing dead

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. There seemed no way out alive — so why not pretend to be dead?

I immediately tucked myself in close to my dead comrade. Even in death he gave me comfort, because he was English. But that didn’t work, and how could it have done? However one may suffer from a cold sweat, a living person is never so cold as the tomb.

It was too bad it didn’t work for there was no time to do more. The contrast between the living and the dead is great. Indeed the difference between us two English comrades lying together behind the rocks of Tunisia that dark night must have been glaringly obvious.

Equally obvious was the ugly fact that dawned on me that Christmas morning, as 1942 was ushered in. My liberty was about to be blotted out, with peace and goodwill far removed from me for some time to come. So, like a cloud, the darkest hour descended. I was borne away into the wilderness.

Read Part 2 of this story.

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