大象传媒

I grew up in Reading and joined the Berkshire Constabulary as a clerk when I left school at 15. One Friday evening, early in 1939, I took a train to London and went Wellington Barracks, with the idea of joining the Guards. I was told to come back in the morning and stayed overnight at a Church Army Hostel. I gave my age as 17 the next morning, only to discover that I needed a letter of consent from my parents. They didn鈥檛 approve and I was frog-marched back to Reading.

Uncle Alf was a veteran of the Great War and on hearing about the escapade in London took me to sign up at Brock Barracks, home of the Royal Berkshire Regiment. 鈥淕ive your age as 18,鈥� he advised. On 16th February 1939 I signed up for 4 years with colours and 8 on reserve. Basic training was completed at Caterham, and I was on parade as Guardsman 2616236 Wyatt G. of the Third Battalion Grenadier Guards at Barossa Barracks, Aldershot when war was declared on 3rd September 1939

The Battalion sailed to Le Havre on 15th March 1940 before moving to Le Mans, Arras and Rouen. On 10th April my platoon joined the Vick Force, c/o the Davis Rifles, Vick Brigade, B.E.F. We combined with platoons from other regiments behind the 51st Highland Division, and had no idea we were to defend the evacuation to Dunkirk.

The German aerial bombardment continued relentlessly and then one day we noticed there was no reply from the ground. Nothing! We were called together and told that "The Battle of France' was over, France had signed an Armistice and the B.E.F. had been evacuated from Dunkirk. We felt that it was important to say together, but were told that, 'It was every man for himself'; something that I still regard as an abdication of responsibility.

Seven of us managed to reach Le Havre harbour, only to be greeted by a hail of machine gun bullets. I heard the rumbling of a tank as I took cover. It came to a halt and a young German officer climbed down from the turret. 'Gentleman,' he declared in perfect English. 'Throw your weapons into the water. For you the war is over.'It was 15th June.

He gave us each an English cigarette and ordered us onto a half-tracked vehicle. After ten days travelling about with the 鈥渃ock-a-hoop鈥� Germans, we were dropped at a church which was overflowing with French troops. They were given food, while we had to wait. I wasn鈥檛 having this and tried to join the queue, only to suffer a beating from the French. I found a French cape. It stretched to my feet, and thus disguised I filled a basket with bread, cheese, sausages and drink. Our 'banquet' tasted the better for having beaten off the French, whose dismal showing in defense of their country rankled with us.

When we began marching eastwards, village folk left tubs of cider and wine for us on the roadsides; much safer to drink than water. I kept my eyes peeled for small shops and would set off in search of bread while my comrades, Johnny Gee and George Gracian, held my gear. I would grab a loaf and run back at top speed before being missed by the Germans escorts. They sometimes threatened us with gestures but never took away the food. On 22nd June, we halted in a chalk quarry. The French troops were told they were going home and as they drifted away, the dislike which had been festering for days, grew to hatred

We reached Ostend and drove through the city on a tram. Local people threw us parcels of pork and jam sandwiches, which was a godsend. We were accompanied by a group of French North Africans awaiting liberation. As devout Muslims, they scraped pork from their bread and offered it to us, refusing to accept any jam in exchange. These men stuck to their religion in the face of the fiercest adversity.

We marched to Ghent, and travelled on by barge to Dortmund where we were billeted in the Olympic village for the Berlin Games of 1936. I took off my shirt for a wash and realized I was infested with lice. There were no powders to kill them and no means of boiling clothes, so I set about squashing each louse between my thumbs - a personal battle between my will to destroy and their ability to multiply that continued for five years. . Needless to say who won!

After a week we were consigned to cattle trucks and transported by rail to Rogenfeld. Poland. The area lay in ruins and food was becoming a problem. We seized any opportunity to supplement our rations. A German woman regularly filled a trough with freshly boiled potatoes for her pig, so we waited until the coast was clear, pushed the pig aside and ate ravenously. The arrival of my first Red Cross parcel was greeted like manna from heaven; tea, chocolate, and soap. The German guards would readily exchange a whole loaf of bread for one bar of soap, so the items became valuable for barter. Letters began to arrive, and though they were few in number, we passed them round and shared each other鈥檚 news.

In the bitter winter of 1940/41 we moved to Schubin and slept in a huge marquee, accommodating over a thousand men. Fifteen men were assigned to squares of straw, and each issued was with two blankets. Luckily I still had my cape for extra warmth, for which I was mightily thankful Sheets of ice had to be removed from the roof each morning for the frozen breath of the men formed into dangerous icicles. Food was limited to a ladle of stew or soup daily and a German loaf, usually shared between six, sometimes seven or 鈥� on a good day 鈥攆ive. During the day we levelled the ground in preparation for the erection of wooden huts. Once complete, the camp was designated a Stalag Luft, and became the scene for a mass break-out of RAF officers, immortalized in the story, 'The Great Escape'. My stay was short-lived, as I was soon shipped to Fort Rauch near the city of Poznan.

This was one of many circular forts constructed in the nineteenth century to defend the city. Forty five men, sleeping on three tiers of bunks, occupied each of the former gunrooms. There was a table, benches and a wood-burning stove which also served as a cooker. I joined a grand set of lads who were mostly drawn from north-country and Scottish regiments.

Soon after arrival I was placed in charge of party of 12 men and taken by lorry to a church in the city centre. Thousands of horseshoes were piled in the centre of the nave. They varied in size and some had been sorted and tied in bundles of four, together with the correct number of nails. We were ordered to continue sorting. When I asked how the horseshoes were to be used and was told they were bound for the Eastern Front, I declared that this would constitute war work and contravene the conventions governing the treatment of prisoners of war. We could not follow the order. 'Very well,' announced the officer in charge. 'We will return to camp, but you will be held to account for refusing my orders.'

I was summoned to appear before the Camp Commandant and work was suspended pending an investigation by the International Red Cross. A delegation arrived the next week and I was called to meet them, repeating my objections to the task. They were incredulous when they saw the stack of horseshoes for themselves and had no doubt that it constituted war work. On the other hand, I was asked to consider that the horses would have to work without shoes if we maintained our objection.This seemed reasonable and I conceded the point.

It was a wise decision. The job was indoors and we gained access to a store of first aid equipment. This gave rise to an enterprising business. Triangular bandages were transformed into shorts and shirts and exchanged for tins of meat or jam, and these were used as barter with the German guards. They also made excellent double-jockstraps which ad a valuable purpose.

A supply of dried peas could be obtained by the railway work party. We would open the tops of our trousers and sweep a handful of peas into the awaiting jockstrap. Each day yielded three or four pounds per person, which was a welcome addition to our rations.
By sharing our resources, especially the Red Cross parcels, we had a little surplus to barter with the guards. I was never let down in a deal. They were absolutely honest! Our communal approach meant that our billet lived in relative comfort.

The Germans were constantly amazed by our industry, while we were puzzled by the Germans. They could treat us with civility and respect, yet treated people, who we saw as their fellow countrymen with utter depravity.

I was assigned to a party at the sand and gravel pits and would pass hundreds of Jews shuffling to work. Dressed in striped uniforms adorned with the Star of David, they were barely recognizable as human beings. At the end of the day, their numbers were always reduced from those that set off in the morning.

We could look out from Fort Rauch to the Jewish camp sited in a former sports stadium. One weekend I noticed three tripods had been erected in the centre and that a body hung from each one The Jews had to walk round and witness this as their comrades died in anguish. We sometimes tried to pass food to them. Discovery would result in fearful reprisals, so we were forced to avoid contact.

Another side of German character revealed itself one evening when we were given a day鈥檚 holiday. On assembling for roll call at 10.30 the next morning we noticed that a platform had been erected in the courtyard. Three staff cars drove up and several Germans officers stepped out to take up position on the platform. They announced that they had come to honour British troops. This was greeted with jeers and catcalls, until we realized that a citation was being read. The name of Grenadier Guardsman, Corporal Nichols was called and he was awarded the Victoria Cross. Other men were called to receive awards and notice of their military medals. It was hardly credible; the Germans had come to honour brave men.

At 1.30 one morning, I was ordered out of bed, issued with old clothes and taken by lorry to a barbed wire enclosure next to a railway siding outside Poznan. It was guarded by heavily armed troops and SS. When a train pulled in guards pushed open the boxcar doors and Russian prisoners of war, were forced out. They were in a desperate condition, mostly either crawling or sliding out of the filthy truck. We were given grappling hooks and told to rake out the trucks. We pulled bodies out and laid them on the ground, like bundles of blankets. Once each truck was clear, the train moved forward, the Russians climbed back in and the process repeated itself. A pile of dead began to mount up, but we noticed a sign of life in one man and laid his body away from the rest. An SS officer moved across and asked, 'Why have you placed this body here?' 'He's not dead', we replied. He pulled out a revolver and shot him in the head. 'He is now. Put him with the others.'

Our nightmare did not end when the train was eventually cleared. The bodies were loaded onto lorries, taken to the outskirts of the town and placed in a mass grave. We washed down with disinfectant back at camp and were given an extra ration of food. When I reflect on this and the spectacle within the Jewish camp, I can easily understand the horrors of the concentration camps.

We were determined to maintain our dignity and would march out on work parties with as much pride as we could muster. One day we marched to a Luftwaffe training station to repair a parade ground. The marching was so impressive that a German sergeant major halted his recruits to watch us. 'Look,' he shouted, 'these men are prisoners of war, yet they march better than you.' We found ourselves marching up and down the square so the recruits could see how it should be done and then rewarded with a meal at the canteen. That was our day's work!

Rigby, a cheerful Yorkshireman, epitomized our spirit. He strode about whistling and ordinarily this was tolerated by the Germans. But the mood changed one day and the whistling was interpreted as insulting. He was ordered to stop. This made him even more determined and he whistled even louder. The guard shouted, 'If you don't stop, I will shoot!'Undaunted, he carried on. The guard shot him in cold blood.

Rigby's closest friend became a lonely and sad figure after this. He survived the war but was tragically killed in a plane crash at Hindhead whilst flying home. Both had been jolly fellows, but never lived to enjoy the freedom they so richly deserved.

There were lots of homemade crystal sets round the camp, but we needed something more powerful to pick up the 大象传媒 World Service. Piece by piece the equipment was obtained from the Poles in exchange for chocolate and tea, and once complete the radio was stored in specially shaped spaces cut out in the underside of our billet table. Access was strictly limited, so the transcribed notes of each broadcast were read in specified places. The Germans constantly searched for the illicit radio, but never uncovered the hiding place. In fact, in the process of a search, clothes and blankets were often tossed onto the table, adding to the radio鈥檚 concealment. Sometimes a crystal set would be deliberately planted in the heap and the Germans would leave thinking they had scored a great success.

The exchange of goods between prisoners of war and Germans or native Poles was a thriving business, but it was important never to forget the risks involved, especially for the Poles. At one period, we worked at a saw mill, cutting timber for rough hewn furniture. The Poles exchanged white bread and eggs, normally only available to Germans, for coffee or cigarettes. Perhaps the barter became too lively, for the Gestapo became suspicious and mounted a spot-check as we finished work. This revealed a cache of forbidden goods, which were confiscated and dumped beside the road. A lorry was then called to run over the precious items.

This was the least of our worries; we were more anxious about the Poles in the mill. Fortunately, the spot-check gave them time to hide the chocolate and tea. There was no sign of contraband when the mill was later searched, and the brave Poles were saved from punishment.

Though exempt from war work our labour could be used for civil projects, so for six months I laid a mains sewer in Poznan... The German engineers supervising the work, made sure the trenches were properly shored-up but never examined the base of the trench. This provided the opportunity for a little sabotage. We always left a gap underneath the pipes, so that while they looked perfectly placed from inspection above, they would collapse once the trench was back-filled. We appeared to be working for the Germans, but the work was of no use to anyone.

For a while I worked as a medical orderly under the supervision of the MO, Captain Lansdale, who came from Henley, and the Dental Officer, Captain Crab. One day a fellow arrived with a bad case of pyorrhea; he would have lose all his teeth. A gauze mask was placed over his face and he was anaesthetized with chloroform. As his teeth were pulled they scattered over the floor. When the patient woke up he announced that he had changed his mind and wanted his teeth back. Then he collapsed. Captain Crab picked up the teeth and set them in a plaster cast, which he presented to the patient as an ashtray when he came round.

It was obvious that most of my years as an enlisted man would be spent in captivity and that when freedom arrived I would need a new career. The Church had always interested me since I had served at the altar in my local Anglican Church, so I began to study religion. The Red Cross supplied books on divinity and a primer on Greek and Latin. Thus prepared I led an act of worship every Sunday morning for nearly two and a half years. They were always attended by about forty men, who sang the hymn with great gusto, relying on memory for tunes because we didn't have any musical instruments.

Regrettably, this changed, when a Scottish Presbyterian minister arrived and took over services His interpretation of Christian life was far removed from mine and though I went to services, I withdrew from participation. Others shared my feelings and attendances fell away.

I shared a billet with Jack Naish, a veteran of the Great War, who also came from Reading. He fell ill with consumption and was moved to the Fort Acht sanatorium. He was given a full military funeral when he died. Years later, I was able to visit his widow and presented her with photographs of the funeral taken by the Red Cross. It was a moment of deep emotion.

This story is continued in The Long March Home Part Two

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