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The following story is for my Grandad Ted (1924-2004). It follows his experiences in WWII. From joining up to the sinking of his ship and being a prisoner of war.

Grandad this is for you. With much love xxx

The Bedouin

August 1939. Aged 15 years and 3 months.
He had to be 15 and ¼ to join. Terence Doyle, number TX 177385. This would be how he was known by many, for nearly six years. Those six years, were childhood years taken away by a man’s game, war. He didn’t know that at the time of course. At 15, the idea of joining up meant excitement. How could he have known? He was eager to start this adventure. He had been wondering what it would be like. How big would the ship be? What would he see? He had never left Birmingham before and he wondered what would be waiting for him outside this area where he had spent his whole childhood life so far. He knew he would be away from his family, but they would write, anyway he would see them soon. They would hear all about his ship and they would be so proud when they saw him standing there in his uniform. He looked around the room, his mother, brothers and his sister and brother in-law, they were all there. Had he known what would happen to him in the next few years, he would have realised how special his life was now.

June 1945. Aged 21. West Bromwich. Front living room.
He had received the card in the post that very morning. Typical, it was supposed to let his family know that he was on his way home. He remembered filling it in two weeks before. ‘Number TX 177385:I am safe and well’ it had read. Safe and well, he had thought; he considered crossing that part out. Only he knew that if he had, they would not have sent it. Of course it should have reached home before him. It would have too, had they not put it in the box destined for the USA, by mistake.

On his return, they had decorated the house. He wasn’t a number anymore. He was Terence but not the Terence that had left six years ago. All his family had rallied round him. After he was taken prisoner his family had had an agonising wait, all they knew was he was ‘Missing, presumed dead’. Three words, though when they were said they sent such huge shockwaves of fear. After this they had occasional cards from him, they were so impersonal as he had to tick the boxes that applied to him. He understood the pain that his family would have suffered, he too had often wondered about their lives back home and would think about what they might be doing. Yet one thing was clear, they could not possibly understand what had happened to him. What had changed him from a young boy to a grown man.

May 1945. Aged 20. Moosburg, POW camp. 8st in weight.
They retreated two weeks ago now, but they still stand guard around the camp. The Geneva Convention states they should. It will be three years next month since his freedom. To think he joined this for the uniform. An overcoat. Of course he knew the war was on its way, but never believed it would arrive so soon. The Yanks had arrived when the Germans retreated. All he had to do was to wait, surely they would soon be on their way home. What would it be like when he got back? He closed his eyes and thought about his family, his street, would it be the same? This was one way to see the world. How was he going to describe it to people back home? He wouldn’t know where to begin. He found it hard to believe that he was going back home, back to normality. It seemed a distant memory.

The last two years have been tiresome. He never realised Europe was so vast. To think this is where he started off and now two years later he’s back. Yet things are so different now. The last time he was here in this camp they were carrying out medical assessments to see what jobs they could give their prisoners. After that they were sent to Blechhammer, to a slave camp, a sub-camp of Auchwitz. The survivors of the Bedouin were not the only ones there. There must have been 12,000 Jews, amongst other nationalities. He had heard that the Jews had to march each morning to whatever work was in store for them, they were bare foot, whether it was rain or snow. He often felt fortunate when he looked down at his boots, but at the same time he pitied these men who had had their last scrap of dignity taken away. His boots were a Godsend on the 3-mile walk each morning. With a selection of jobs to try his hand at, it kept his sanity. Painting, labouring, making bunkers, and the best of all- grave digging. One day when he was doing a painting job with a fellow prisoner a German soldier left two loaves of bread next to them. They were so hungry that they were prepared to risk everything and take them, one each.

He stayed in Blechhamer right up until the Russians made their advance. They knew they were coming because they had heard the guns. The stories that had been told meant that all of the prisoners’ dreaded being picked up by the Russians. They knew who they had killed. One of their evil captors, Spere, his name was, wanted to march them all right towards the Russians. The panic and the fear could be sensed throughout the camp. Luckily for these men they were moved away from this advancing danger.

Along with his fellow captives and friends, with whom he spent every day of his life, he was made to march. A march that would take over his life for months. They would be made to cover approximately twenty five miles each day, only stopping at night to sleep in a barn, which they would take over. Three and a half months in the same clothes meant that he felt lousy. After Blechhamer they crossed Poland and Czechoslovakia, until finally reaching their final destination of this horrific ordeal- Moosburg.

During the march he was hungry, lice ridden, and had no idea where they were being taken. Whilst marching through Czechoslovakia an old woman came out and as he walked past she handed him a cake. He took it and put it into his shirt, he couldn’t risk the Germans seeing it. Once he reached the barn, he took it out of his jacket, the hunger was incredible. Disappointment soon took over as he realised what she had given him. It was caraway seed cake- the cake he associated with funerals. He couldn’t eat it now. Luckily he managed to swap it for some German bread that another prisoner had stolen.

August 1943. Aged 19. Chiávari, Italy.
After spending the last 12 months here, he had picked up some basic Italian. The food they were been given certainly did not constitute a meal. 6oz of bread a day with soup, which was mostly macaroni, this too was measured out to half a pint per person. If he ever had meat it would be one small piece per person and it would be hardly enough for a couple of mouthfuls. The only vegetables they got were in the soup, it was certainly not a healthy diet. Just months earlier on the ship their meals were prepared for them, and they got to choose what they wanted. At the time this was taken for granted but now he was getting thinner as the food became more and more scarce. He stopped to remember why he had been on the ship on that fateful afternoon. His career prospect, would you believe. Before the war he worked 48 hours a week for 12 shillings. Joining the navy had meant that he had straight away saved money on his travelling to work expenses.

He had made one friend here, one person who he confided in and felt comfort. Eric, his name was. The conversations they had reassured him that he was not alone, that there was someone to share in his pain. He felt sure that was why the guards had done it. They had been allowed to play football one afternoon, it was rare to receive such a reward and so they had jumped at the chance. What was to unfold would stay with him forever. The ball was kicked over a wall, and Eric had been the courageous one to ask permission to retrieve it. The furtive guards had given permission, and as he climbed over they shot him in the back. Through anger at the killing of his best friend, Terrence picked up all he could find, stones, and started pelting the killers. The two weeks that followed in solitary confinement gave him lots of time to contemplate what was happening to him. It also gave lots of time for the nightmares of what these men were capable of.

He realised that his freedom had been taken away, in many ways. It was not only his freedom to come and go as he wished, or the freedom of his actions, but they had managed to restrict the freedom of this thoughts. The letters he was able to send home painted a rosy picture of war, he knew better than to tell of his true experiences. He too received letters from home, they had often had large parts of them blackened out, he guessed why. They were intercepted and he knew the people back home would be running down his captors. Seeing the black spaces often reassured him that people could see his captors for what they really were.

July 1942. Aged 18. Castelvetrano, Sicily.
He had been there for a month now, but it felt like his whole life. Remembering family back home, kept him going throughout the frightening experience. The journey there had been by train, sitting on wooden seats all the way meant that it was uncomfortable. They had finally been given a card to send home. He was glad he could tell his family that he was alive for he was sure they would have been worried. His captors would certainly not have reassured people back home. It pained him to have to sign to say that he was ‘being treated well’. He wasn’t being treated well but he needed word to reach home that he was alive. If there had been any excitement left in him after that afternoon on the ship, then it had soon disappeared. He was no longer so enthusiastic, he felt drained. He no longer wanted to be here and at night if he were lucky enough to fall asleep he would dream of being back home, in the security of his family.

At first it had been difficult to adjust to the rules and routines as a prisoner of war. He had been forced to learn fast, as he knew this would be the only way to survive his experiences. There were others around him who understood what he was going through, though most of them were older than him and had chance to grow up before they came here. He had done most of his growing up aboard a ship, on missions of life and death, the remainder of it would be done he supposed wherever they decided to take them.

End of June 1942. Aged 18. Pantelleria, Sicily.
He had heard they were to be taken to mainland Sicily now. They were all being rounded up. He and the others from the ship had been there for a week. The Italians had taken them there almost immediately. Out of the ‘Suicide Strait’, the name had said it all. It was so dangerous to take the ships through there, past the Italian ships. That had been where the ship sunk, where she would finally rest. It was also where their lives were changed.

It hadn’t hit home at this point exactly what was happening to him. It was rumoured that 28 men had lost their lives in the event that had changed the course of his life. 28 friends had never made it out of those waters. Just three weeks ago he had tuned 18. He was too young for this.

15th June 1942. Aged 18. Aboard HMS Bedouin. Mediterranean- Strait of Sicily.
They did not expect to be here. They had believed they were heading on a Northern convoy towards Russia. Ending up in the Mediterranean had possibly saved their lives. Had their ship been sunk in the Russian waters, then it was sure there would have been far more casualties in the oceans.

When he had woken up that morning he would never have imagined where he was now. He could see a ship coming towards them. All he could think was how cold he was. The water had earlier looked so calm, but now it wasn’t so inviting. It felt like sharp knifes all over his body. It was dusk and he feared that if they were not picked up soon then they would perish in these waters. That was why he had felt such relief when he had seen the ship coming towards him. As he was pulled out of those icy waters, the warm air hit him and it felt as though nothing could hurt him now.

He had remembered going into the water, and what happened before that had seemed so unreal. He felt sure that on his return his brothers would never believe the stories he had to tell them. They had met up with the Italian navy just off the Algerian coast. In the battle the ships structure suffered severe damage. He was not sure exactly what had happened at this time, but he knew it was serious as dense smoke appeared all around him. Bedouin had now stopped. The smoke was spreading and he knew they were in trouble. It wasn’t long before they could no longer see the Italians. He guessed they had retreated. He was almost afraid to see what damage had been done. Other crew members had started checking. It was not long before word got to him that they had been hit twelve times by 8 inch shells. Not all had exploded, but the damage had been done. He knew there and then that they needed to do something quickly. All 213 men on board came together for those few hours with one thing in mind, to save their ship. A splinter from a shell had perforated the gear casting and had started the fire in the gear room. They could not move the ship as the main and steering engines were dead.

The events had gone by so quickly, he wished they would slow down, little did he realise at this point that time would certainly slow itself down. HMS Partridge had taken the Bedouin and her crew in tow. The feeling of relief was soon overturned when he saw two Italian cruisers preceding towards them. The tow line between the ships was slipped and although they got one engine running disaster loomed. The sky was suddenly filled with a thundering noise and as he looked up he saw it. An Italian torpedo bomber raced in from starboard. He watched as it was hit by one of the destroyers guns and came crashing towards them.

Time slowed down. He now saw everything in slow motion. He fell to the ground when it hit them. He felt himself and the ship moving. She was rolling onto her side and every effort he made failed as he entered the once inviting water.

December 1941. Aged 17. Christmas.
Christmas dinner this year was different to back home they had been given rice in their stew. Apart from that Christmas didn’t exist on the Bedouin. He stopped to think back to his last Christmas at home. How things were different. A family Christmas. Nobody could have imagined where he would be now. He found it hard to imagine another family Christmas. This would surely be one that he would remember for years to come. Although he didn’t know if he would make it home for another. This Christmas had come amongst a long, bitter, hard-working winter. He had certainly felt the strain at this time. The cold nights were the worst, and the thought of going into those icy waters. He now found himself sharing HMS Ashanti’s experiences in the Lofoten Island expedition. These would have been testing times for anybody. But this young boy felt the pressure of being kept away from his family.

September 1941. Aged 17. First experiences on HMS Bedouin.
His first experiences aboard HMS Bedouin were misleadingly calm. Most of the exercises they had undertaken in the earlier days had passed without problem. Their exercises had included amongst others, chasing German u-boats.

When he first stepped on to the ship, he had admired the work that had gone into her. She had just had a refit, it was his first journey aboard the destroyer and he didn’t know what he would be doing or where they would be going. They were not allowed to know, though he often wondered why as there would be nobody to tell anyway.

He climbed aboard the ship, that pivotal moment where his life changed forever. Even at this point there was no way he was prepared for what would be in store for the crew of this ship. All he knew was that his dream had come true. He was playing his part in the war, he was going on an adventure that would take him to places that he had only dreamt about. He was going to see the world in a whole new light.

August 1939. Aged 15 years and 3 months.
His mother was undoubtedly proud of him, yet somewhere in her mind was the fear of uncertainty. She too was unaware of what lay beyond this place that they called home. What would happen to him? When would she see him again? He stood before her, with his excitement ever prominent, her child. His face looked back, his eyes opened wide. The last few weeks had been a blur, he had signed up and then come home to tell his family. At first it didn’t seem real, Terence Doyle of West Bromwich, off to war with the men. If only he had known then how his life would change and how he would uncover a whole new world, a world that nobody else would ever come close to seeing. If only somebody had told him that the excitement would be short lived and the nightmares would soon begin, for only he and the other sailors would truly understand the sinister thing that is war.

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