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It is January 1945 and the bitterest winter Germany had known for 50 years with temperatures 30-50 degrees below zero and snowing, when advancing Russian forces once again made evacuation the order of the day. [We were forcibly evacuated from Stalag Luft VI, Heydekrug, East Prussia (now in Russia), with no idea where we were going].

After the 250 mile journey by sea piled below the decks in the filthy holds of the rusty tramp steamer Insterburg and then train to the notoriously brutal camp Stalag Luft IV [Gross Tychow, Pomerania (now Poland)], we were again given orders to prepare to move and told we could only take what we could carry. I decided to make a back pack for ease of carrying my belongings and, if possible, secure enough should the opportunity to escape present itself. A shirt bottom was sewn across strongly, then the sleeves sewn at the cuffs to the bottom of the shirt to make straps to fit over my shoulders, the neck opening left to enable pack to be filled and then buttoned up for security .

Packing as much food as I had and other items the march of over 500 miles and 60 days to the camp of Fallingbostel from Gross Tychow in Pomerania began. Not many miles were covered in the first day so sleeping in the open came very quickly. Checking the frozen ground I gathered sticks and twigs of wood to make an insulation between myself and the ground and so fitfully slept. I'm not quite sure whether anyone froze to death that night although on later days morale was lifted when it also happened to a German guard. Interminably the cold days followed and if at all possible I searched for a barn with the hope I would also find some type of food. Heaven bless the day I found a farm where they were steaming potatoes for the pigs, luxury seems a most inadequate word after trying to live off swedes taken from a field.

Day after day tramping along with blistered feet caused by foreign shoes that were hard material and a size too big, life took on a monotony that led to the hope that possibly something different might occur. One day after halting for the night I came across a flour mill during my roaming. Breaking in I found a small bag and filled it with flour and proceeded to find water and wood, lighting a fire I started to make the most unappetising flapjacks imaginable, but then they were food and sustaining and lasted a few days. I carried a small amount of flour for a time afterwards.

The guards had orders to shoot without warning anyone trying to escape but after several days and not being fit for active duty and over age they seemed to be in a worse physical state than the P.O.Ws and found the guns too heavy to carry and so lost a lot of interest. The days that followed were only varied by the type of resting place, and once being awakened by squealing of a pig. Looking through a crack in the barn I saw two men trying to kill a pig with a pick axe, one astride the animal and holding it by the ears and the other hitting it on the head.

One other time life was indeed cruel and after eating my customary swede, I was suddenly most violently ill and spent two-three days with dysentery in a deserted old farm building, using some of my remaining food I lived on powdered milk and sultanas. Eventually strength returned and once more took to the road.

Later, meeting a column of refugees trudging along with their worldly possessions piled on hand carts and one horse drawn, I was appalled at the harrowing sight. The look of utter hopelessness and despair on their faces made my situation look insignificant compared to their plight. I gave the remainder, about half a tin, of my Klim powdered milk which I had so carefully carried over the preceding few weeks to a woman with a young baby.

A few days later I found a comfortable space in an outbuilding in what appeared to be a farm but with various types of military equipment spread about. After settling down I felt a strange uneasiness and couldn't get to sleep so in the end I decided to leave and move on further down the road. Later that evening 1 was lying down a short distance away when I heard the noise of aircraft and suddenly they attacked the base I had just left -my lucky night. Some time later I caught up with the main party again and went with them to Fallingbostel [Germany] for a restful 3 weeks.

Leaving Fallingbostel with a group I quietly slipped away at night fall to begin what I hoped would be the last part of my journey to freedom. Two days later I met up with an American soldier and we travelled together for some time sharing the hunt for food before parting company to go our separate ways. Many things happened over the next few days -too numerous to mention individually and some hard to believe so long afterwards.

One occasion when resting near a wood six spitfires appeared out of the blue screaming down in a steep dive in a rocket attack on something in the wood, from the return fire it must have been a German base, being too close for comfort I quickly moved away. Being without basic items is a serious discomfort and I well remember one occasion when finding a potato in a ditch and some rock salt put out for cattle it made a most appetizing titbit, the first salt I had tasted for weeks.

Variation being the spice of life, one day turning into a lane I thought for once the heavens are smiling down on me as I came across two horses harnessed to a cart and standing unattended. Opportunity presents itself only once it is said so I gently climbed aboard and we walked casually on our way, from the look of horses, one fat and one thin, I don't think they could have managed a trot or even a quick walk. Looking like a dishevelled slave worker from a farm no one took any interest in me, so much so that a German soldier jumped on the back for a lift later that day.

Quietly carrying on our way the silence was suddenly broken by the deafening sound of shells exploding. The heavy artillery was pounding away at German positions some short distance away although it felt as I was in the middle of a battle. Sheltering under a railway platform I could see trees in the distance being cut down. Silence eventually reigned and I emerged to find a British forward reconnaissance unit close by, with light armoured vehicles. Identifying myself they gave me iron rations - I still have the tin today - they pointed me in the right direction. Shortly afterwards a bus pulled up and everyone including the driver got out and disappeared into a building.

Temptation was too great so I left the horses and took the bus and drove in the direction given by the soldiers. Several miles down the lanes I turned into the main road and suffered the greatest shock imaginable. As I turned I joined what appeared to be a German armoured unit going to a conflict. With heart in mouth I drove side by side expecting eruption any moment when after about 2 miles we arrived at a cross road, there stood a single British soldier directing traffic. They were going into surrender and he pointed them in the correct direction.

He directed me to the river and a pontoon bridge saying the British camps were on the other side of the Elbe, apparently I had crossed Luneburg Heath. I made the crossing safely although the bridge swayed a little and successfully reached the army camp. After de-lousing and medical check I stayed for about 2 weeks before being taken to Brussels.

Staying in a hotel I relished the almost forgotten luxury of a life I sometimes thought I would never experience again. Lying in the first hot bath for a long time I heard the broadcast that announced the cessation of hostilities. A few days later I was flown to England for medical and identification checks. Complications arose however when the colour of my eyes differed from the records, an independent female was sent to clarify the colour. We stared into each others eyes until it was declared after a few days that I was me and finally allowed to go home foot sore and weighting about 6 ½ stone. 3 months and nearly 1000 miles after leaving Stalag Luft IV, I was mercifully back in civilisation.

For other stories by Mr Martin, see ‘1st 1000 plane bomber raid, Cologne 30th /31st May 1942’; and ‘2nd & 3rd 1000 Plane Bomber Raids & capture by the Germans’.

This story was entered by Jenni Waugh, ´óÏó´«Ã½ Outreach Officer, on behalf of Victor Arthur Martin, who accepts the site’s terms and conditions.

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