大象传媒

Warning: This story contains strong language and is part of a longer contribution

6912361, A/Cpl R, Ruffle
1st Battalion, Rifle brigade

This article is about me, my thoughts, my impressions and my opinions.
You can take them how you like, but remember, this is the truth.

After that Willy and I found a place in the queue for our midday nosh-up. Suddenly, an almighty row broke out. What happened was that a sergeant came from the CSMs cubicle with a large can and asked for Sgt. Smith's ration. The sergeant who was serving the pig-swill gave him two measures in his can, then he went to the spud bin and helped himself to three large spuds. He returned to the cubicle and a couple of minutes later another sergeant came out with the same can and asked for the CSMs ration. He was told to get the hell out of it and to tell his mates to queue up like the rest of the men. The CSM came out to see what the commotion was about and he was asked if he had his rations. He replied that only one sergeant had drawn rations and that everything was in order. Then another CSM from another regiment, who was queueing up like a lot more senior NCOs said, in a very quiet voice, "Sgt. Major, if you don't want any trouble, you tell them friends of yours to get in the queue and the man who drew his rations to bring them back 鈥� now.鈥� and then he told the sergeant who was ladling the soup out to hand the ladle to someone else. Apart from one further incident which I shall relate shortly, I did not see any more trouble
during the short time I was in Stalag 8b,. After all, you don't argue with hungry men!
After that, at about two o'clock, we were hounded out on parade and told that we were about to be deloused and have our clothing changed. I think I got my trousers back but then we were all issued with, of all things, a pair of Dutch clogs. We had no boots, and for a while they were a source of great humour but they were to turn into anything but a joke. They caused downright misery - sore feet, bruised and bloody, they became a torture to walk with. Not only was the humiliation of the clogs bad enough, the clothing we were given was a lot of uniforms from different countries. I was thrown a coat that must have belonged to a Polish cavalryman. It came to my ankles and it was a foot too long in the sleeves. I didn't know what to think! I asked to change it, but of no avail. Going back to the hut, the first thing I did was to hack of a foot of cloth off the sleeves and then I hacked off a length that came below my knee. It was not a Burton's job! I wrapped a length of string round my waist as there were no buttons on this tailor-made coat. Together with the hat that I was given that was only held on my head by my ears, what in the name of bleeding hell I looked like, I just don't know! The remarks that were flying about, I don't think I will print here, they were very rude! All I can say is 鈥淏ollocks to the Germans - do what you like. We ain't licked yet.鈥�
Then it was off to get our bread ration. This time the bread was a round loaf, six men to a loaf, and the sweet music of advice given to the poor sod that was doing the cutting up of the portions of bread was not nice to the ear. "Hey, that ain't the middle. Look that part is a lot thicker - make sure they are all the same.鈥� My, it was a job for an expert with a keen eye, and a very steady hand! Even when it was shared out, some miserable sod would say "Blimey, I have got the smallest of the lot!" and someone would reply "Stop moaning, look at my piece!" - and so the moaning went on. You cannot please them all.
After we had eaten, Willy and I had a walk round the bunks to see if there were any of our chaps about from the Rifle Brigade. We met up with a couple of sergeants but it seemed they were as interested in us as if we were strangers. So much for comradeship! It was a feeling that was in all of us. We were in that frame of mind and we could not care less for the next man. It was 'Self, first, second and last 鈥� and sod anybody else.' Put it this way; what sort of man would steal another man's rations? This was done many times. You could not leave anything, even the cloths you put on your feet to stop the soreness while wearing those horrible clogs. Trust was gone, and no, you could not trust yourself.

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Genevieve Tudor of the 大象传媒 Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Mark Ruffle and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions

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