大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Pat Hayward from WM CSV Action Desk on behalf of Aprella Fitch and has been added to the site with her permission. Aprella Fitch fully understands the sites terms and conditions.

My parents married on August 1st, 1942, my father in his RAF uniform and my mother in a smart summer suit with a beautiful corsage and wearing her sister鈥檚 enormous picture hat, a modest affair which reflected the austerity of the period.
My father was a member of the crew of a Halifax Bomber from 76 Squadron, Bomber Command and as he was shot down in a raid over Germany in July 1943 he was not around when I was born in September of that year. He was imprisoned in Stalag IVB at Muhleburg, a huge camp, and was amongst the first British POW鈥檚 (72 in number at that time) to be incarcerated there. The camp had until then held Dutch, French, Russian, Serbian and Polish prisoners.
All through my childhood and in fact up to the time my mother died in the 1990鈥檚, he never discussed any aspect of his time there. We three children (my sister and brother were born after the war) understood without a shadow of a doubt that we were expected to eat the meals Mother had prepared, and although she was a good cook, between us we had one or two strong objections, sprouts and baked beans seemingly etched on my mind to this day!

Daddy never wasted anything and to this day he will always try to mend or have repaired any item that is functional, but, which for many people would have been considered fit for the bin.

Back to the POW camp, recent publications on POW websites show very graphically the deprivation experienced by many men. Russian prisoners were apparently treated very badly by their captors and as they were not covered by the Red Cross Parcels Scheme, never received the longed for extras which obviously played a vital part in the survival of the prisoners as well as providing the currency for bribing their guards. Prisoners were held in huge, tall wooden huts capable of housing up to two hundred men. It must have been very crowded and in winter excruciatingly cold. My father had a photograph of the funeral of one of his fellow prisoners who had been shot whilst stealing coal for the stove. He alter died in hospital from the injuries sustained in the fracas. Times were indeed desperate.

The camp was liberated by the Russians in April 1945 and prisoners were marched to other holding areas until repatriation could take place. There obviously followed a period of discontent amongst the men and Father was one of those who actually started the journey home on foot. Together with another airman he walked away from the area and began his journey by following the railway lines. Eventually they were picked up by American Forces and transported back to England, arriving in May 1945.

Very small children do not as a general rule have much in the way of early memories, but I do have just one. How, I do not know. However, I can quite clearly remember being pushed in my pram by Mother and there were several aeroplanes in the air. I know Mother said to me, 鈥淵our Daddy is coming home鈥�. I don鈥檛 actually remember the day he did come home or what must have been tremendous celebrations amongst family and friends.

My father is a sprightly octogenarian, coming through his triple heart by-pass operation a few years ago with great spirit. He still makes things, mends anything we ask him to, enjoys watercolour painting at his art class, and is a superb photographer and an expert gardener. He is indeed a wonderful father and grandfather to his five granddaughters all of whom adore him.

Dad, you are the best and we are proud of you.

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