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This is a story written by my father Paul Hilton, known by his friends as ‘Johnny’ after a ‘Dr Johnny Hilton’ on the radio. My father joined the RAF in the summer of 1941 and became a pilot on bomber command flying Whitley’s and then Halifax’s. On 2nd June 1942, his second flight as a Captain of a Halifax he was shot down over Belgium and made a dramatic crash landing close to a village. After his lucky escape he was captured by the Germans and became a RAF-prisoner of war or as they like to call themselves a Kregie. He was initially taken to Stalag Luft III, near Sagan, Germany. As the war progressed so the prisoners were moved around Europe. First to Stalag Luft VI, near Heydekrug, in the Baltic states, then as the Russians advanced so they were moved to Stalag 357, near Torun, in Poland and finally to Stalag 357 near Fallingbostel, Germany, for the final winter of the war. Whilst a prisoner my father ended up in the dreaded cooler, where you were sent if you were out of line. But perhaps it was not that bad, after months in a crammed hut with 50 men stacked up in bunk beds and a constant card school running at the foot of your bed, perhaps he could get some studying done! Here is my dad’s story.

There are few more shattering sounds than that of a heavy cell door shutting behind you and the bolt going clonk in the lock. There is something positive and very final about it, which gives you a feeling of complete helplessness. There you are, it’s no good banging on the door, and no one will take any notice.

It was early autumn 1943 in Stalag Luft 6, Heydekrug in East Prussia near the Baltic coast. One particular morning a large number of “Ferrets” (security troops) in dark blue overalls with all their tools had descended on our barrack block. They were proceeding to turf us out and tear the place apart. I don’t know what they were looking for, a tunnel perhaps, but they meant business. In the initial confusion we were all milling around and I happened to be close to a table where a lot of the tools had been laid, hammers, crowbars, jemmys, saws, screwdrivers and a large pair of pliers. I took a fancy to the pliers and when no one was looking they quickly disappeared into my trouser pocket. Unfortunately, when I grabbed them they were open and in my haste they clicked shut. One of the Ferrets heard this, looked around and started asking his friends whether any of them had picked up the pliers. I took this as a cue to get lost and started to saunter out of the block. I looked for someone I knew to off load the pliers but before I could get a dozen paces away out of the door I was grabbed and hauled up before the security officer, Major Peschel. He growled something, which I suppose meant, “lock him up” and there I was in the so-called “Cooler”.

The room was six feet wide and nine feet long. It had a double bunk bed with a complete set of boards but no palliasse, a stool and a metal jug of water. The tiny barred window had a “Lichtfanger” a wooden partition on the outside allowing a view of sky or a small area immediately beneath the window.

I sat down on my stool for a while to assess the situation. I did not know how long I was supposed to be there so I had better make the most of it. I was allowed to send a note into the camp for a few things, tooth brush, razor, knife, fork and spoon and a couple of books. One was a German Grammar book, which I was slowly ploughing through. Now here was a chance to do some studying, I could really get some useful work done and might even get some help from my jailers.

There was about half a dozen other inmates in the twelve cells and you soon learned how to make contact and to know the “drill” or mode of life. The legendary WO John Snowdon was already there doing one of his numerous stretches so advice was readily available.

The cooler was a rectangular building with only one entrance and a guardroom just inside the door. A corridor with six cells on either side had a toilet at the far end and a fire bucket of sand near the toilet served as a post box. Only one inmate was allowed out at any one time apart from the half-hour daily exercise when we walked around a large circle well paced apart.

When you wanted to visit the toilet you knocked on you door. The duty guard would come out of the guardroom and shout ‘whelche nummer’ to which you had to reply, in German of course, the number of your cell. In my case ‘sieben bitte’ (seven please). He would then say ‘komme sofort’ (coming) and go back and fetch the key to your cell and by then someone else might be waiting to take their turn.

The cooler was outside the main compound but in the so-called “Vorlager” an outside area but still within the main outer barbed wire fence. Our own medical officer had pronounced the water unfit to drink so we had to have boiled water from the main camp cookhouse. To this we added milk and sugar and tea or coffee. It was understood that the guards helped themselves, which was allowed for at the cookhouse. Food was another problem. We were supposed to be on bread and water with one day of normal food in every three. Sometimes if the guards were willing, a prisoner on his good day would be sent in enough food to feed the others as well. It depended on the guards. There were two shifts of 24 hours each with an “Unterofficier” (Corporal) and two or three men.

One of these shifts I remember well. We didn’t see much of the Corporal but I got to know “Bruno” a thick set chap with closely curled hair and “Franz” a tall gangling untidy type with spectacles somewhat out of line. It wasn’t for the sake of bribery but Franz and Bruno both wanted the quiet life and seemed to respond to common courtesy. Impatient inmates who shouted abuse and banged on their cell doors generally had to wait while those of us who “cottoned on” got the best service, or at least the best that was going. As I was trying to learn German I was soon learning all the best polite phrases and making good progress through my Grammar book.

The population of the cooler was always fluctuation and as the numbers dropped the service improved. We dropped to about three inmates and by then Franz used to knock on my cell door first thing in the morning. I would say ‘come in’ and Franz would hand me my coffee in bed. With a cheerful ‘Guten morgan Herr Hilton’ we would converse for a while, any news, the weather etc. We both seemed to know instinctively that this was sensible way to behave. It cost nothing and generally made the best of a bad job. We were not alone in this. At another time in the same cooler I heard of a German guard trying to learn English who was taught to say ‘Good morning Sir, your coffee Sir!’ I never managed that but to both Franz and Bruno I was always Herr Hilton even though they were both considerably older than I was. Alas, all good things must come to an end. One night the Heydekrug tunnel broke and unfortunately only five or six men managed got away, the remaining thirty odd were dug out and pushed into the cooler with us.

Chaos reigned for a day with up to four to a cell until all were documented and the majority sent back to the main camp to wait their turn for the customary sentence of fourteen days.

For the rest of my time in the cooler we stayed two to a cell. No more coffee in bed and I was now subjected to a companion that talked incessantly.

You now had to wait a long time for the inevitable trip to the toilet. On one of these poor Franz quietly apologised to me for the deterioration in the service but hoped I would understand.

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