大象传媒

We had decided en route that we should make for Brussels in Belgium, realising that, with its large airport, there was every possibility of a flight direct home from there. Completely satisfied at last that we were far-enough away from the fighting zones to avoid getting involved in any of the skirmishes still going on, we now made our way towards the big motorways which we had previously avoided. Our early attempts at hitch-hiking were unsuccessful. The lorry drivers appeared oblivious to our appeals for a lift as they pushed their trucks along in convoy at high speeds, travelling back empty from the front line, anxious no doubt to get back to their bases before dark.

We were just about to give up in despair and pack it in for the night, feeling utterly frustrated by the sort of treatment we had been given, when a big American truck pulled up alongside.

鈥淲here are you guys aiming for?鈥� queried the driver, whose helmet seemed much too large for him as it framed his little wizened face.

鈥淎s far down the line as we can get!鈥� we chorused hopefully.

With a jerk of his thumb, he motioned us to hop in the back. We certainly needed no second bidding and had just about clambered over the tail board when the lorry gave a terrific lurch forward almost throwing us to the floor. Laughing heartily, partly with relief, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible as the truck rolled on down the autobahn. At last, I felt we were really getting somewhere.

Passing along the great wooded areas with the road making a wide sweep as it descended into a valley, we were presented with a panoramic view of the convoys of trucks with their supplies neatly tarpaulined moving towards us in the opposite direction on their way up to the front, looking like little toys set up in some huge scenic nursery.

With every cell in the body crying out for sleep and lulled by the hum of the wheels and the gentle sideways rocking of the truck, not many moments later we had passed from the world of consciousness with all its cares to the land of sweet dreams.

It was dark when we arrived at the G.I. base at Kassel, where we spent the night as guests of the American army. We needed no great persuasion from the little driver to get into the 鈥榗how line鈥�, as he called it, where the rations served up to us were something in the nature of a royal feast in comparison to what we had been used to for many months at the POW camp. The bread seemed snowy-white and sweet-tasting like cake in contrast to the sour taste of black bread. The Americans were very generous and, with obvious good intentions, offered to take us to a camp not very many miles away where they said there were British troops stationed; but this was just what we did not want. We realised that, as soon as we had reported in to the British authorities, we would probably be sent to the nearest POW camp for repatriation through the usual channels, which would probably take weeks, maybe months before we would get home to our families.

The next few days followed on much the same pattern of pulling in at various American army camps. We took great care in avoiding the British units. On one occasion, we arrived at a base one evening to find a mass of jubilant and excited G.I.s packed tightly around an open stage that had been erected especially for the purpose of putting on a concert where Mickey Rooney was doing his song and dance routine, his antics sending them crazy with delight.

We finally arrived at Brussels on 8th May 1945 with one thought predominant in our minds - to get back to Britain as soon as possible.

Brussels, the Belgian capital, was a strange mixture of old-world grace and elegance with its narrow, cobbled streets and its stately eighteenth-century mansions and magnificent buildings surrounding the beautifully-designed squares, with barely a stone鈥檚 throw away from them the modern very sophisticated buildings and many restaurants and caf茅s, their canopied entrances adding much colour to the scene. Crowds thronged the streets amidst great scenes of excitement as the news had just been received that Germany had surrendered to the Allies. We learned later that the whole German army had capitulated, the instrument of surrender being signed by General Jodl, the German Chief of Staff, at the headquarters of General Eisenhower at Rheims and by Field-Marshal Keitel the next day in Berlin, the Allied signatory there being Russia鈥檚 Marshal Zhukov.

The Russians regarded the Rheims capitulation as a preliminary formality as only a junior Russian officer was present. While Mr Churchill was broadcasting the end of the war on 8th May 1945 at 4.00 p.m. Russian radio had been broadcasting the children鈥檚 programme, a pleasant little story about birds and rabbits, so Russia did not announce the end of the war in Europe until 9th May. V.E. Day came a day later for Russia. Prague had not been liberated and the western allies thought this a mere detail; the Russians did not.

There followed rows over the repatriation of Soviet prisoners and other Soviet citizens whose return was delayed. An angry statement of the Yalta repatriation agreement was made later.

After reporting to the authorities at the large airport in Brussels, where all our particulars had been taken, we were told that we would be on a flight leaving for England around midday the next day.

That evening, bubbling with the news that fighting had ceased in Europe, Brussels went berserk. Celebrations went on through the night, wine and beer flowing freely from bars and caf茅s, the streets and squares filled with heaving masses of people singing and dancing, deliriously happy at the realisation that the long-awaited peace had come at last.

On reflection, I could not help but think of something I had read recently in the sayings of Lao-Tse, the great 6th century B.C. Chinese sage in his impressive words on 鈥榃ar-Victory鈥�.

鈥淲eapons are disastrous implements, no tools for a noble being. Only when he cannot do otherwise does he make use of them. Quiet and peace are for him the highest. He conquers but he knows no joy in it. He who would rejoice in victory would be rejoicing in murder. At the victory celebrations, the General should take his place as is the custom at funeral ceremonies. The slaughter of human beings in great numbers should be lamented with tears of compassion. Therefore, should he who has conquered in battle bear himself as if he were at a festival of mourning鈥�.

In my story, I have mentioned but a handful of the men alongside whom I lived and fought and consider it an honour and a privilege to have known, those who wore the famous parachute badge on their red beret.

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