大象传媒

Enlistment
My uncle, the youngest in a family of seven children, joined the Gordon Highlanders soon after the war broke out. As a very good looking young man, and a bit of a dandy to boot, he wanted to belong to a crack regiment, especially one where tartan kilts were worn. As far as we know he had no certain claim to be truly Scottish except for the fact that his surname was Watson. Scottish nationality was one of the requirements of service in this fine regiment but, under the circumstances of war, I imagine that not too many questions were asked. Another sign of the times was the abandonment of the traditional kilt in favour of tartan trousers which took much less precious fabric to make. This was a great blow to my uncle who was, nonetheless, determined that his proud mother should see him in a kilt, if only once. So he borrowed one from a friend, obtained a twenty four hour pass and travelled all the way to London from Scotland to display it to her over supper 鈥� a journey that took best part of a day each way in those days. He had an ebullient sense of humour and it must have been that, coupled with determination and reasonably good health that helped him to survive what was to happen to him over the next five years.

Captured
After a relatively short time on active service, he was captured at St Valery-en-Caux with the 51st Highland Division who, under the command of General Fortune, were ordered by Churchill to remain in France and fight with French forces defending Dunkirk, while the other allied forces were being so famously repatriated. There were two frigates waiting off shore to take them off when the job was done but, as the French capitulated, a thick fog came down and these ships were unable to land so, they turned away, leaving the remaining soldiers to their fate. Years later, Wally happened to meet a man in a pub who had been a sailor on one of the frigates. In uncharacteristic rage he said 鈥淚 could easily bash your face in. Five years of my life is what you cost me 鈥� five bloody years鈥�.

The march
As they were marched through Lille in Belgium, a cockney female voice called out to Wally from the crowds. A fat lady was urging him and three of his mates to break ranks and slip into a small caf茅. She had settled in Belgium during World War I and set up business in the caf茅. She hid them in the cellar where barrels of wine were stored and were they were evidently free to consume what they wanted. It is easy to imagine what a comfort a little wine was to these recently condemned soldiers and how one glass might lead to another. Three days later they were discovered, slightly the worse for drink, by German guards who had missed them from the ranks and set up a search party.

He was temporarily imprisoned in France and then began the long march across Germany to Teschen within the borders of Poland and to the camp called Stalag VIIIB, very nearly the furthest camp from the French coast. This must have been a gruelling experience. They were bitterly cold, starving, dirty and crawling with lice but miraculously they were alive. Dead bodies lay on the ground and he said later that there were two kinds of soldiers 鈥� the quick and the dead.

A letter from a schoolgirl
At home, his family knew nothing of his ordeal but they did at least know, long before they would have heard through War Office channels, that he was alive and had been taken prisoner. A young Belgian schoolgirl had asked him for his address and written to his mother in faltering but sincere English. That letter is kept by Wally鈥檚 widow and I have a copy of it. Yes, he did come back and meet the love of his life. They married and raised two children. He died later, not from cold and starvation, but from cancer that takes so many of us.

Life in the camp
Wally鈥檚 letters (which were censored of course) conveyed little about the grim reality of life in the camp. We were to learn more about that from post-war films than ever he was prepared to recount after his repatriation. He wrote about how good it was to have letters from home and how welcome the Red Cross food parcels were. Later, he would tell us some of the more amusing aspects of it all.

The food parcels typically contained concentrated foodstuffs that were easy to transport and were considered nourishing, as well as a few cigarettes for pleasure that were sometimes bartered with the German guards for other food. To Wally and his mates, dried fruit and sugar suggested just one superb possibility 鈥� alcohol! They made a sort of wine until they hit upon the idea of constructing a still to make it into 鈥榟ooch鈥�. This they did by sawing off a piece of metal pipe from a German motorbike that they found parked outside and hey presto!

They managed occasionally to supplement their appalling rations (mostly potato soup) by cooking one of the Alsatian guard dogs that patrolled the camp. Prisoners from the Australian Outback, no doubt sheep shearers back home, were particularly adept at catching the dogs and breaking their backs. The meat tasted delicious, he said, but a bit on the gamey side.

Another story that I remember him telling us was about a period when, because of some attempted escapes, the POWs were handcuffed for a time. They were temporarily released to join a queue for meals (such as they were) and then secured again afterwards. Among their ranks was a locksmith who unlocked their handcuffs again so that the soldiers could rejoin the queue and take another meal. The practice of handcuffing was very quickly abandoned. And so life went on for five years, the only relief from boredom being the game of guard baiting, and card games. My cousin told me recently that her father would never join in card games or board games at home in the years to follow.

Released to Hell
The events leading up to the end of the war filled us with expectation, not only of peace but of the return of the war prisoners. For Wally it was a different expectation. Unsubstantiated rumours must have swept the camps but the POWs in Stalag VIIIB knew that they were close to the Russian advance. Far from reassuring them, the news filled them with fear. If they were taken by the Russians, there was every chance that they would end up in the work camps of Siberia instead of returning home. The Germans eventually decided to evacuate the camp. There followed an unbelievably long and miserable march back through Germany in the depths of a severe winter 鈥� a march through hell. It took some months and the details have been documented in The Last Escape.* How these men, who had been undernourished for five years, withstood the cold, the hunger and continual slog through ice and mud is nothing short of a miracle. Many of them did not.

Wally back home
I was nearly thirteen when the war came to an end and I enjoyed answering the telephone when it rang, always hoping that the call was for me. The instrument was one with a dial at the bottom of a shaft and the mouthpiece at the top. The earpiece hung on a hook at the side and had to be replaced to end the call. Imagine my surprise and delight when I rushed to answer it and heard my uncle鈥檚 voice. I was in a frenzy of excitement and all I could think of saying was 鈥淲hen can we see you 鈥� when can you come to us?鈥� 鈥� 鈥淣ot yet awhile I鈥檓 afraid鈥� he replied. He told me that his feet were wrapped in newspaper instead of boots and that he would have to spend some time in a rehabilitation centre to be washed, deloused and carefully nourished back to health before he would be allowed to see anyone. I listened 鈥� amazed at what I was hearing. Then he asked quite quietly 鈥淚s your mother about?鈥�

[Much of what I have written here has been recounted to me by my aunt, Margaret Watson, who not only knew and loved the jolly, sociable side of her husband, but was also aware of the private side to his character; the Wally who would disclose only what he wanted people to know or what he could bear to recall, and only then after a beer or two.]

* The Last Escape by John Nichol & Tony Rennell, published by Penguin Viking 2002

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