The West
Country POW "Association" at Stalag VIIA,
February 1944. Did they all make it?
Life became moving from dawn to
dark and then literally dropping to the slushy
ground, exhausted, cold and hungry. A piece of bread
and a prune became my diet; for dessert came the nut
inside the prune stone, after sucking the stone until
it dissolved. On the second or third morning I began
to suffer badly from chafed thighs, due I suppose to
the effects of the serge trousers continually rubbing
during the hours of marching. Some of the kriegies
discovered that their possessions were becoming too
heavy and began to discard items. Lo and behold, one
morning I came across a pair of pyjama trousers,
discarded by somebody as being unwanted. I quickly
picked them up and stripped down at the side of the
road; this was nothing new, being done all the time
when nature demanded and, believe me, it was nature
in the raw! Donning the pyjama trousers and up slacks
again, this was the remedy for the rubbing of the
serge trousers and I wore those pyjama trousers
continually until I arrived home. Were they dhobeyed?
No, sir; they finished up almost as a second skin!
What did we live on? Not very much.
An occasional issue of a part of a loaf; once there
was a packet of biscuits each. When you realise that
something like twelve thousand of us from Stalag
VIIIB were on the move, plus the numbers from the
working camps, the supply of food in that winter must
have drained resources and it became the luck of the
draw just where one stopped and dropped for the
night. We very rarely moved onto main roads and were
kept to country lanes, thus meandering like a
wandering stream, hoping to stop in a village, to
find a barn or doorway in which to sit for the night.
On one occasion my group happened
to be passing through a village when the order to
halt came and I was fortunate enough to be outside a
house with a recessed doorway, into which I promptly
dived, to create my boudoir for the night. I started
reorganising the contents of my pack, for I would be
leaning against it all night, and an idea struck me
as I was putting the soft contents against my back. I
took a cake of soap and, after telling Panic Smart to
watch over my billet, stood up and knocked on the
door. Just about to give up as a forelorn hope after
what seemed to be a long period of waiting, the door
was opened by a lady who immediately wanted to know
the reason for disturbing the family. I showed her
the large cake of perfumed soap and let her enjoy its
smell, all the time keeping it in my hand, in case
she snatched it and shut the door. Then I asked if
she could give me any bread in exchange for the soap.
I was invited into the cottage and there met her ten
year old son and her mother. I was obviously a
Kriegsgefangener, because they had seen from the
window each side of the street lined with bodies
lying all over the place. Just who was I? When I
explained that I was a sailor, a Kriegsmarine, and an
Englander, they relaxed somewhat and I was told to
sit at the table. It seemed that as long as I was not
a Russian we might be able to do business. They had a
great fear of the Russians; as far as the younger
woman knew, her husband was missing on the Russian
front. She had had no communication since the
original message and just hoped he was a prisoner. I
didnt know whether to be glad for her or sorry.
Germany and Russia did not participate in the
International Red Cross and from the state of the
Russiam P.O.W.s and remembering those endless rows of
burial mounds at Freiburg, if her husband was alive,
he was not having a very good time. By now
Grandmother was holding and smelling the soap and
saying: "Schoen", which to me meant good.
The family had a small-holding at the rear of the
cottage and by the looks of the place, it needed the
attention of a man. I was given a cup of black ersatz
coffee. At the same time I noticed I was sitting on a
cushioned chair. The last time I had sat on anything
cushioned was on the mess seat on ML 1030!
The younger of the two women brought a loaf of
home-made bread and some saccharin granules, which
she put into a paper bag and, after nods between the
two women, she brought a large piece of what seemed
to be a Madeira cake, which as youngsters we called
seedy cake. I was then asked if I would
like to stay with them and work for them, in case the
Russians came, hoping the presence of an Englishman
would be of help to them.
During our days of wandering the
Rev. Welchman often joined in, occasionally carrying
the pack of anybody not up the grind. He would always
say: "Pick em up and put em down;
were marching on to freedom!" The em
meant feet, so I was anxious to keep with the crowd,
moving to freedom. I declined their offer and took my
leave of them, not forgetting to take the victuals in
exchange for the soap. Outside on the doorstep I
shared some of the bread and cake and during that
cold night I thought seriously about that offer, but
when move-off time came that next morning I was glad
to move off with the others.
Came one morning late in February
when I remember waking to a strange smell, a thaw in
the weather had set in and the strange smell was that
of the earth where the snow had disappeared. That in
itself was good news, meaning that the temperature
was rising. But at the same time it became a bloody
nuisance because there was slush everywhere. Boots
let in water and the ground was wet come bedtime,
with nowhere to dry anything. Ever since leaving
VIIIB I had not taken off my boots; one did not dare
remove them because they would freeze. Now it was a
case of wring out socks and hope to find a dry road.
On the march one changed groups regularly, moving up
the crowd or dropping to the rear, just for a change
of conversation.
I remember the morning of the thaw
saw all the various types of sleds being abandoned,
no longer being able to be pulled over the snow. And
with the sleds went articles which were superfluous
when everything had to be humped on a back. By this
time the shoulders and back ached continuously due to
the rubbing of the pack straps; it became a case of
alternately carrying by hand to ease the aching
shoulder bones. Even when the snow and the frost had
disappeared there were no takers to ride in the cart;
that cold, piercing wind was still in evidence and
the only relief was to curse Jerry and Hitler and all
of his forebears. It seemed that we were being kept
out of civilisation, wandering along the country
roads. I remember on one occasion we did strike the
Autobahn - the motorway - and we were all surprised
to see the string of horse-drawn carts, loaded with
men and material on the move. The obvious subject of
talk amongst us was why the soldiers werent
marching. Nobody knew, and I couldnt work out
in which direction they were going, because of the
dark, low-clouded sky. We all hoped that they were
going to the Russian Front, because they were
travelling in the direction opposite to us. On one
occasion we passed a contingent of uniformed
youngsters of the Hitler Youth Movement, fully armed.
Some of them so young and so small, and seeing us
they sang one of their morale-building songs:
"Wir fahren gegen England." We
couldnt help but shout: "This will be your
last fahren!"
On one rare memorable night my
particular group was fortunate enough to stop outside
an empty barn, so together with a couple of the
guards we were allowed in to spend the night. There
was straw on the floor, almost knee-deep, and that to
us was Paradise. And even deeper into Paradise was
the fact that beneath all that straw were grains of
wheat, so we promptly emulated chickens and delved.
Wheat contains flour, so find, chew and eat as many
grains as possible, and what do you know? Even the
guards joined in with us! They must have been on
short rations as well. One Sunday we rested all day
on the outskirts of a farm, but in open air in the
fields. Around the edge of the fields a stream was
flowing, so we were able to half strip, shave and
have a good wash. Word syphoned along that a good
number of N.C.O.s were nearby, so I made it my
business to contact them, to see how Jack Adams was
faring. I found him, but he was not the Jack Adams I
had known. He was sat on his pack, looking completely
demoralised and sorting through some of his socks, of
which all I could see had holes in them. He had not
fared very well on the march and I invited him to
come and join my group, but he had made friends with
some of the N.C.O.s and preferred to stay with them.
He had no wool with which to darn his socks; I had
some bits and pieces which I fetched for him, we
chatted for a while and arranged to meet up at home,
especially at my wedding. We said cheerio and that
was the last I ever saw of him. He died on the march.
You might well ask, after reading
about the march, how life carried on when just
moving, sleeping and hoping for a barn in which one
might find some sort of comfort. One evening my group
was fortunate to be near a barn when the halt for the
day came and - lo and behold - at one end of the
outside of the building was a mound of onions. How
they came to be left there and not bagged and stored
was anybodys guess, but there they were. Now, I
dont like onions - often wish I did - but just
cant stomach them. But on this occasion I
remembered how my Father liked to eat an onion: skin
it, sprinkle salt on it and just bite into it, like
eating an apple. Hunger is a great leveller so,
taking a chance, I picked the largest onion I could
grasp. I picked away the skin; there was no salt in
evidence, so, closing my eyes, I bit the largest
piece possible. I quickly chewed and swallowed and
then wished I had never laid eyes on the thing. There
was the smell and then the taste, then came the
revolt from my stomach when I regurgitated that
mouthful and carried on urging and urging on an empty
stomach, with the smell of that damned thing coming
from my mouth. I remember somebody saying:
"Dont you want that onion, Jack?" and
it was taken from my hand and I was heartily pleased
to be rid of it. The only solace was to drink water,
which did little to alleviate the taste in my
stomach. Yet I still envy people who can eat raw
onions and enjoy such dishes as liver and onions.
We went through some bad patches on
that hike. On another occasion the group in which I
happened to be at the moment of stopping at the end
of the day found itself in a field, near where a
large body of German soldiers was encamped. On the
outskirts of their camp was a cluster of buildings
which seemed as though they could be the supply
buildings for those in transit. Outside one of them
was an armed guard and this building turned out to be
the kitchen. Remember that when I commenced the march
I had nine cigarettes, but in exchange currency with
the soldier racketeers ten cigarettes were needed to
acquire a loaf. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I
sort of drifted over to the guard and asked to see
the Feldwebel to exchange cigarettes for bread.
Surprisingly he allowed me to enter; I suppose that
cigarettes were in such short supply the guard
thought he might be doing the Feldwebel a good turn.
I was inside a kitchen right enough, because it
housed several cooking vats, each containing large
pieces of pork, which could be seen boiling merrily
away when the cooks lifted the lids. Upon reflection
I could have been in dreamland, because none of those
two or three cooks took the slightest notice of me
and I could only stand in that kitchen like Ali Baba
in the cave. I was hoping that my nine cigarettes
would be my "Open Sesame". Somebody must
have told the Feldwebel that a disreputable-looking
specimen was in his clean kitchen, because he
appeared shouting: "Was ist los hier? Was
brauchen Sie?" I told him I had nine English
cigarettes for a loaf of bread. "Neun englische
Cigaretten fuer einen Brot." He became
interested when I showed him the nine cigarettes in a
round tin. Then he replied that he had a loaf of
bread for ten cigarettes and shrugged his shoulders.
So I asked him if I could have three quarters of a
loaf for nine cigarettes. "Drie viertel Stueck
Brot fuer neun Cigaretten?" But no dice, he was
adamant about ten cigarettes or nothing and, what is
more amazing, he just said: "Los", meaning
for me to leave the kitchen, whereupon he and the
cooks went into a small room at the end of the
building, leaving the place unattended. That was
enough for me. As quick as a flash I lifted the cover
of one of those vats, stuck my hand in, grabbed a
large piece of pork and secured it inside my jacket.
How I did not scald my hand in the process I will
never know. I felt no pain at all and no heat seemed
to emanate from the piece of pork inside my jacket. I
closed the lid of the vat and promptly exited the
building.
The guard outside saw the lump
under my jacket and just asked: "Gehts
gut?", meaning was all well, thinking it was a
loaf of bread. I answered that all had gone well and
sped back to my billet, where Panic was minding the
fort. But that was not the end of the lesson - no,
sirree! By chance there had been the issue of a small
amount of bread to each person, perhaps because we
were fortunate enough to be billeted for the night
near the transit camp. When I found our bedding place
Panic could hardly believe his eyes as I brought
forth the hot pork, and we lost no time in having an
evening meal of bread and hot pork. Silly me. Of
course the pork was enjoyable and some of it,
together with a small piece of bread was saved for
the next day. And a good thing too! Had we eaten all
of it, we would have been dead! During that night the
hot pork worked on us like a tin of Epsom Salts. I
awoke to the feeling of gripping pains in my stomach
and the next moment I was dashing for the hedge,
because my bowels were moving strenuously. No sooner
was I back to my billet than, heigh-ho, off again.
Well have those actions been called the
trots. One didnt dare to walk! Came the
dawn and Panic called me all the silly sods he could
think of. But the cold pork and the small portion of
bread proved to be a better repast.
Luckily, for some reason unknown to
us, the next day was a rest day - thank goodness. The
Rev. Welchman came amongst us with a sergeant in the
Parachute Regiment who had been captured at Arnhem
and he cheered us up immensely by telling us of the
advances made by the Allies. From his information we
could almost see a light at the end of that long,
dark tunnel. It was on that day that we again saw
uniformed members of the Hitler Youth Movement, all
fully armed, and they were just boys. We all crowded
to the edge of the field as they marched along the
lane past us; we learned that they were going in the
opposite direction, towards the Russian Front. Some
of them seemed to be hidden in their over-large
helmets and greatcoats, which touched the ground.
There must have been some copious weeping among some
mothers about them. Surprisingly enough, we stood in
silence as they marched past. We felt an inward sense
of sorrow for those poor young sods. Did they become
lost souls in Russia in the aftermath of the war,
when Russia became one of the victors? Has any
survivor from Russia written about his life behind
the barbed wire in the manner of my experiences? I
would like to read it, should such a book be
available.
Later, after the war, when in
Lincolnshire I saw German and Italian P.O.W.s being
loaded into trucks to be conveyed back to their camps
at the end of the day. I could not but compare with
the end of a day when I marched in the roads, winter
and summer for four miles or more, back to barbed
wire and cabbage soup. I apologise for injecting a
mournful note into this episode. We were now into the
month of March and beginning to walk along wider,
tree-lined roads, still without a clue as to where we
were and still not touching any large towns.
These wider roads had deep trenches
on each side and we were warned that at the sound of
an aircraft approaching we were to dive into the
nearest trench. Seemingly, to enemy aircraft we were
Allied forces and I suppose that in an aircraft
flying at two hundred miles an hour in a dive,
discernment would be difficult. On one occasion we
did have to dive into the trenches when an Allied
aircraft machine-gunned a section in which I was at
the time. In his efforts the pilot felled a large
tree by gunning it. Imagine what those bullets would
have done to a human body! Once again the RAF was
blamed and many choice epithets were hurled skywards.
Upon reflection, there must have been many large
columns like ours from different Prisoner of War
camps, occupying the roads in that trek westwards.
Plans were made for the leading group each day to be
prepared to form the letters P O W with bodies, but I
dont recall that the plan was used. Aircraft
continually flew high above us, I suspect merely as
observers. Because our large contingent made the
newspapers, Mabel was able to follow our progress.
Once a large aircraft flew low over us and bundles
fell from it. We all thought of food, of the famous
"K" rations that the Americans often told
us about. But no, they were bundles of front-line
newspapers, which served two purposes. The first was
to keep us up-to-date about the progress of the war;
the second I will leave you to work out for yourself.
At least we had the consolation of knowing that we
had been recognised. Even the elderly guards were
pleased at being under the supervision of the Allies
and far away from the Russians.
We marched through the outskirts of
a town, which we learned was Braunschweig (Brunswick)
and it seemed to be a ghost town. The streets were
empty; rubble and debris which had once been
buildings was piled high and blackened by soot on
each side of the streets. We saw nobody and I could
not help but reflect upon the stories told by Peter
Martin almost two years previously. Parts of Plymouth
must have looked like this, but verbal descriptions
could never create such a picture. When we arrived at
the outskirts of that town we were covered with soot,
which our countless feet had disturbed whilst passing
through. Once back in the country we were glad to
find a stream and have a sluice and shake out
blankets and greatcoats. Once again we were back onto
country roads and passing through villages, which
also seemed to be empty, without even barking dogs or
honking geese to challenge us. We had each received a
packet of Knackerbrot biscuits; I still have the
empty packet in my ditty box, and after that food
seemed to be left off the agenda.
Then, one evening the section in
which I happened to be was halted in a lane outside a
field of poultry and just on the other side of the
wired hedge was a cluster of hen-houses. Hunger
creates recklessness and I reasoned that there could
be eggs in the nearest hen-house. And so, long after
darkness had set in I managed to climb over the
chain-mesh fence, thinking all the while that I was
making enough noise to wake the dead. Fortunately the
nest boxes were fitted externally so, cautiously
lifting the covers, I was overjoyed to find an egg in
each of the half dozen or so boxes. I stowed them so
carefully inside my battledress blouse - oh so
carefully - not to break any of them, climbed the
hedge again and crawled back to my billet, to
discover that the eggs were made of china, duplicate
things to represent eggs in the nest boxes,
supposedly to fool the chickens. They certainly
fooled me!
All of the conversations on the
march at this time were about freedom: how we would
be released, who would first make contact with us.
The general concensus of opinion was that any day now
we would see parachutists dropping from the sky
together with their large containers, usually
containing arms and ammunition, but this time
containing food, glorious food. Some of the more
knowledgeable bods were talking about self-heating
tins of food; fantasy ran riot, but the staple joke
to the married men was the old question:
"Whats the second thing youre going
to do when you walk in the door?" And the stock
answer was always: "Take off my pack." It
still raised a bit of a laugh, although conditions
then didnt give us much to chuckle about.
"Pick em up and put em down, you are
on your way to freedom."
By now my greatcoat was heavy, my
pack was heavy and my once-new boots were wearing
thin. We were not marching for such long periods and
at the end of one days march my group was
halted in a village street; we happened to be outside
a bakers shop. Twas an opportunity not to
be missed. I took my set of thick vest and long-john
underpants from my pack and entered the shop. Of
course the baker looked at me with suspicion and my
heart sank down into my boots when, on looking
around, I could see no trace of bread on the shelves.
Without giving him a chance to throw me out I showed
him the set of underwear and asked him to exchange it
for bread. I definitely had him interested and he
called to somebody in the back room who, upon
emerging, turned out to be his wife. When I explained
that the apparel was similar to submariners
issue the old lady was hooked. Their son was a
soldier on the Russian Front and she just knew the
goods would be ideal for him next winter. They did
not seem to have a clue about the state of the war
and I certainly wasnt going to disillusion
them. Then the bartering began and my hunger had me
demanding as much as possible. But it seemed that
their stock was heavily rationed and two loaves was
all they could spare. Afterwards I was taken into the
bakehouse to see a French P.O.W. who was the
bakers assistant. In our joint kriegie German
language he told me that the village was almost empty
of people. Anybody fit had been taken off for war
work and he was also convinced that the end of the
war was in sight. I was given a cup of hot, black
ersatz coffee with saccharin, which was most welcome,
and the two loaves, which I quickly hid under my
greatcoat. I was loathe to leave that warm bakehouse
and suggested to them that perhaps I could sleep on
the floor that night, but my appearance was against
all the hygiene of a bakehouse, added to which was
the fear of being found harbouring a P.O.W., so it
was plain that the couple wished me to leave the
building. And so it was back into the street with
bread to last for some days and a lighter pack, which
meant that the straps would not be digging so
painfully into my shoulders.
By this time my body was beginning
to feel the strain of the continual walking and the
fact that I had lost weight became self-evident. I
was continually tightening the cord of the pyjama
trousers; sitting on hard ground became painful, so
the blanket became a good ally. Towards the second
half of March I was drawing towards the end of my
piece of string and, upon reflection, I can well
understand how Jack Adams had been feeling when I
visited him. There was very little energy and
inclination and when Jerry said: "Los,
raus!" we just did as we were told. There
finally came a time when a large number of us were
billeted in the empty kilns of a brickyard. We just
lay on the floor of the kilns, which were covered in
inches of brick dust. Soon the lice became evident
and by now I had become an expert in looking for the
small ones and the eggs in the seams. Then dysintery
struck, and that seemed to be the end. I remember how
we had to dig trenches in the brickyard and fix bars
over them as latrines. Came one occasion when, with
nothing inside me, I still had to dash to a bar and,
whilst sitting there, I just had to say:
"Please, God, help me." As I said that
short prayer I remembered that time in the boat when
we were nearing the shores of Crete, when I opened my
big mouth about prayer. It made me think that perhaps
nobody was listening to me.
As I was pulling up my trousers a
German soldier with a dog came to me and told me to
accompany him to the block in which the soldiers were
based. For now soldiers with dogs had taken over;
there was no sign of the aged guards. Outside was
another P.O.W. and we were to carry an empty milk
churn which had contained their soup back to the
brickyard kitchen. I thought to myself: "Here I
go again; nobody up there is listening."
Together with the guard and the dog we carried the
heavy, empty churn to the kitchen. Nearing the
kitchen, I saw the high entrance had a flat roof and
- wonder of wonders - I could see a turnip on the
flat roof. It seems that nobody else had seen that
wonderful sight and, once again back outside the
entrance, after waiting to make sure that the coast
was clear, I lost no time in taking possession of
that beauty. Somebody up there was listening, and
chewing pieces of that turnip so slowly was heavenly.
At last something was going down into my stomach.
Hunger, being the great leveller, makes one think.
Didnt all the great artists work better when
hungry? Perhaps thats open to speculation. I
reasoned that perhaps where that turnip came from
there could be more, so when nobody was in evidence I
prowled around the back of the kitchen to find a
mound of rotting turnips. They were certainly
smelling, but on digging into the mound I was able to
find just a few that werent completely rotten
and, cutting away the outside, I was able to salvage
some pieces. Washed off under running water, we had
another supply of stomach-fillers. After a number of
days in the brickyard - I dont know how many -
we were just left to our own devices. Hanging around
the cookhouse became forbidden and the guards and the
dogs could readily dissuade anybody who tried. At
least there was a supply of water so we could wash
our filthy selves.
One morning the aged guards
returned and that was the signal to "Los"
and "Raus", so once more we were on
the move. We moved and slept in the same old manner
for some days until we walked into a town whose name
I will never forget: it was called Duderstadt. We
halted in the street and I found myself being marched
into a church. Together with many others we were
packed tightly into wooden pews. At least I was
sitting on my blanket and, being packed in so
tightly, I felt a delicious sense of warmth. I was in
a pew with a number of recognisable colleagues and,
perhaps because of the Sunday School experience and
some church-going, we all sat silently in that place.
Looking toward the pulpit at the east wall on the
left hand side, in coloured glass from floor to roof
was a representation of the Lord holding out his
hands to me. Whether it was the warmth, the weakness
or the coloured glass representation I shall never
know, but I found myself quietly crying.
Self-consciously looking around I found that many
other weary, filthy fellows were crying as well. Once
again I asked my God to help me and see me safely
home and in my prayer I promised to be as helpful as
was possible to others in return for His help. This
perhaps may seem sanctimonious, but in my later years
of life I have been given the opportunities to offer
help to others, which perhaps has been a way to say
"Thank You".
Apparently we had been packed into
the church in order to make way for a convoy of enemy
material, and we were in the warmth for a short while
before the sounds of the familiar terms rang in our
ears and we were on the road again. That experience
will live with me forever.
Somebody discovered it was the
month of April; the days were certainly warmer, but
the nights were still cold. Then we stopped on a
farm. There were cows and hundreds of chickens, but
we were hemmed in by the guards and the chickens were
"STRENGST VERBOTEN". But at last we were
told the Germans were no longer able to support us
and that we would stay for the foreseeable future,
surrounded by untouchable chickens. And that was on
Thursday 12th April, 1945.