大象传媒

Prisoners Tale Retold.

Chapter 2.

Soon the POW鈥檚 were formed into proper working parties and I was moved to working camp GW87. Here, we were put under the charge of civilian contractors who were building some sort of factory and I was assigned to a firm named Glazer with the task of keeping the civilian builders supplied with cement etc.. It was discreetly decided amongst us POW鈥檚 that we would work, albeit as slow as possible but, for every few buckets of cement we delivered to the builder, we would tip one bucket into the flues of the Power Station that we were building. On completion, the Germans had an opening ceremony complete with Band and all the trimmings. All went well until they started the turbines up and put pressure on the flues which had been partly blocked with cement; the result was catastrophic with cracks appearing from top to bottom and the Germans were not pleased. Of course the civilians, who were eager to cooperate with the Germans, were blamed for the disaster. I relate this story because sabotage was widespread amongst POW鈥檚 and little is known about it. Sabotage was an extremely dangerous activity with a penalty of death if caught.

When a train arrived in the sidings and we were ordered to unload it, our natural instinct of survival prompted us to steal whatever could be used, particularly food to supplement our meagre rations. A train load of potatoes was a gift from heaven and much of the cargo was taken back to camp, secreted in our clothing and stored in the roof space of the huts. So much more was collected than we required that they started to rot with a terrible smell and eventually caused the roof to collapse. The guards were not impressed with this activity and we were all put on a charge with appropriate punishment.

At the end of each day, on entering the camp, a search was carried out on all prisoners and on one occasion a tall man, entering with a clutch of eggs hidden under his hat, was not searched. He must have wanted to prove something because he complained to the OC that the guards were no good at searching. The OC, a very small man, happened to be standing at the top of the office steps placing him above the prisoner and, being very annoyed at the man鈥檚 cheek, said 鈥済o away鈥� and gave him a hefty thump on the head. The POW just stood there with egg on his face, what a blow.

When prisoners misbehaved they were put in a cell ay the end of the block and the rules of confinement were strict; even smoking was forbidden. The Germans never realised that the roof space extended over the cell and the confined prisoner was regularly looked after by his mates, with goods passed down, including cigarettes. To avoid detection when smoking was no problem; the cell had wooden walls and it was easy to remove a knot, blow out the smoke and then replace it when you had a good drag.

At this camp there were workers recruited from other countries and they entered the camp to carry out their duties. I remember an Irish prisoner who spoke fluent German and frequently had conversation with the guards which made the rest of us rather suspicious; never more so than when he escaped from the camp. However we were surprised when he turned up two weeks later under the guise of an outside worker with the story that he had been sent to check the lighting. The guards allowed him in, he attended to the perimeter lights, packed up his gear and left. That night, at lighting up time, the whole lot blew up to a loud roar of approval from the POW鈥檚. We never saw or heard of him again so were never able to ask why he took such a risk; was it just a daredevil act or a gesture to boost the morale of the prisoners.

One of the outside workers was a huge Bulgarian, a horrible man who delivered material to the camp by horse and cart. One day the horse collapsed to its knees and the man began to beat it with a large stick which made me very angry. I swore at him, unusual for me, telling him to stop and he came at me with his stick raised but I avoided this with a raised arm and he grabbed at the throat as if to throttle me. I am of slight build and not tall but, with strength borne of anger and fear, I raised my knee to the man鈥檚 groin and swung a fist to his face; I heard a crunch as my knee made contact and he howled with pain. As he fell to the ground his face caught my fist and the ring I was wearing, a gift from my beloved Peg. ripped the brutes face. His eye came out of its socket as he fell unconscious to the ground and blood was spurting from the wound.

Now I knew I was in serious trouble for striking one of their workers and duly attended an enquiry in the camp Commandant鈥檚 office. I gave my evidence through the 鈥� Vertraunsman鈥� (man of confidence) , another POW who Liaised with the Germans on matters concerning the POW鈥檚. The camp interpreter, Von Gratsoff, a German Officer, was sympathetic with my situation and urgently arranged for me to be transferred to another camp before the Gestapo, who were investigating, put me before a firing squad. I was reluctant to leave without my dear friend Peter and luckily we were allowed to leave together. We travelled, accompanied by a German guard, to Austria where we were eventually put o work on a remote farm.

In our camp in Austria there were about twenty POW鈥檚, providing labour to different farms and I was there for about two years. Life became much more bearable and, with what we could scrounge from the farms to supplement our rations, we were no longer starving. Farming was quite pleasant, except of course for the restrictions on our freedom and absence from family life, but it was an improvement on previous camp routines. There were some highlights, even in prison life, usually created by POW鈥檚 for our own entertainment. The camp had a perimeter fence with double doors, iron bars, double locks and double hinges, which hooked on to the supports. These doors could be unhooked and sometimes we did this simply for a bit of fun and light relief; of course the guards were not amused.

The guards here were more like our own Home Guard and not trained soldiers as at previous camps. One day, whilst in camp, an American plane (B17) was shot down and, as it descended, we could see the crew bale out and appear to be drifting towards the camp. The excited guards laid down their rifles, unlocked the gates and dashed out, left the rifles on the ground and locked the gates behind them. They ran after the parachutes which, by now, were drifting away from the camp and disappearing into the distance. Some time later the two exhausted guards returned, with mission unaccomplished, to find the POW鈥� were on guard and refusing them entry at the point of their own rifles. Taking it in turn to be guardsmen, we kept them out of camp for some considerable time, until they were pleading for us to let them back in. It was certainly not their day but for us, something we giggled about for a long time and a break in the monotony of our boring routine existence.

Looking for extra treats was constantly in mind and one day I asked the farmer for one of the chickens which roamed the farmyard; he said we could only have one if it were krank (sick). So, as he walked away, I grabbed a chicken and proceeded to wring its neck but, unexpectedly, the farmer returned and I hastily dropped it. That poor bird ran off with its neck still twisted looking backwards and I seized the opportunity to point it out to the farmer saying 鈥渓ook, that one is krank鈥�; the farmer could only agree and allowed me to have it, What a treat that was.

Having gained an understanding of the German language I was now 鈥楾he Man of Confidence鈥� and one of my duties was to travel by train once a fortnight, accompanied by a guard, to collect the Red Cross parcels from the HQ at Festenfeld. On one occasion we had travelled with no problem even though there was some bombing on the railway line and, after driving slowly up the steep gradient, we reached the station. Having collected the goods we set off on the return journey on the downhill run and the train, gathering speed rather quickly started to rock. We were being shaken about and I instinctively raised my feet and, pinning the guard who sat opposite me, I braced myself expecting the worst. The train was derailed and turned on its side but, although both winded and shocked, we were otherwise unhurt. We then had a walk of fifteen kilometres back to camp and the guard, a nice chap who was getting on a bit, was not really up to it so I carried his rifle to ease the burden.

Whilst I was the Man of confidence at this camp, a letter arrived addressed to the MoC from a senior MoC at one of the main camps. It contained a POW badge, sent by the YMCA, together with a citation for work done organising sports and other activities whilst at a previous camp in Yugoslavia. It had to be presented to Alan Slocombe so I presented it to myself with all due ceremony. I still have the badge attached to the accompanying letter and am extremely proud of it; especially as I have never seen or heard of another like it, although I am sure there were many issued.

It was Easter 1945, the Germans were retreating, the Russians advancing and, since our camp was close to the Russian front, the interest of both captors and captives were converging. The day came when we were technically free, although still in the war zone, and we were sent to our respective farms to collect a week鈥檚 worth of rations from the farmer. Next morning we set off from camp hoping to get smartly out of the war zone but, as we rounded a hill, we were caught up in a confusion of troops moving back and could not get away. We walked all day but it turned out to be in a big circle and ended up where we had started. Meanwhile the Germans had set up a counter attack, pushed the Russians back which created a gap, and gave us another chance to escape the area.

On this journey, mistaken for the enemy, an American Mustang fighter shot us up but we escaped injury by jumping into a ditch. As our party reformed we decided the group was too large and attracted attention so three of us parted company with the rest, believing it would be safer to get back to the Russian front. However the Russians had been pushed back again so we gave ourselves up to the Austrian Home Guard again for the purpose of obtaining more rations. By this time we were close to the Hungarian border, having made it through the mountains, but were not allowed on the main roads because of troop movements.

Later we marched with the Home guard through Graz, getting rather tired of carrying food and kit so, when we saw a farmer with two hand carts loaded with potatoes, we asked him to sell us one. The farmer鈥檚 wife appeared to be set against this but the farmer obviously preferred the money. We set off again, taking it in turns to push the cart and even managed to do some washing on the way; the clothes were dried on sticks attached to the cart like flags flying on a mast. It was a long trek marching and walking over the Niedere Tauen range of the Alps to a place called Markt Pongau, now known as St. Johann. At one stage, being desperate for water, we approached a hut near three Planes in a field and, risking capture once again, knocked on the door. It was opened by a German Officer and I wondered how we must have looked at that time, but there was no problem, the officer allowed us to fill our water bottles from his tap.

We had marched more than two hundred kilometres from the Hungarian border to reach Markt Pongau and were now back in a large barbed wire enclosure. Soon, our guards got the message that the war was almost over and they started to disappear. We tore down the barbed wire and went into the town where my friend Peter and I discovered the local German HQ. Since our boots were worn out we decided to go in and request new footwear and a German Officer was only too pleased to sign us a chit for a new pair of officers jack boots.

We were no longer the vanquished, we went to a holding camp and were officially released by the American Army. By this time all the German personnel had disappeared and home did not seem so far away now. We were driven to Saltzburg in coaches and flown to Brussels in Dakotas where the RAF picked us up and flew us to Oakleigh near Oxford. Army trucks transported us to Berkhamstead for debriefing, re-kitting and a warrant home with some pay on account. It was not easy to accept that, after more than five years away, I was actually going home.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.