蜜芽传媒

I was transferred with thirty other men, from Fort Rauch to Camp 21Dd14 at Krotoszyn, 100 kilometres from Poznan. It was sited in the countryside, next to a hospital and consisted of wooden huts. We were not made welcome; the rest of the camp kept its distance, and we were labelled 鈥渢he Poznan Crowd鈥�.

We were set to work on a land reclamation project, about 2.5 km from the camp and soon found that the amount of work specified for a day could easily be completed in half that time, giving us time to play football in the afternoons. This arrangement seemed to suit the German authorities and the contractors. Before long, lightly wounded soldiers from the hospital gathered on the touchlines to support the matches, while others cheered from the hospital windows overlooking the field. It became very competitive; 鈥淭he Poznan Crowd鈥� played the rest of the camp and there was even an 鈥淓ngland v Scotland鈥� international. The principle of 'agreed work' continued to everyone's mutual advantage until the project was inspected by a party of SS officers. They announced there was no such thing as 'agreed work' and that we would work for a full day under their supervision. We therefore resolved to work as slowly as possible. The more they ranted and raved at our lack of progress, the more we slowed down. They were furious and kept us working until late at night, but it didn鈥檛 make any difference. Eventually they gave in. We resumed 鈥榓greed work鈥� and the task was finished in no time at all.

Unlike other prisoners in the camp, who shared their Red Cross parcels in pairs or possibly groups of three, our group shared between the entire group of thirty, and after a while we saved up stocks of tea, coffee and biscuits. Quite a social atmosphere developed within our rooms, and games of cards and dominoes became popular. Rounds sawn-off from fir trees served as dartboards and darts were improvised from spent cartridge shells scrounged from the guards. As confidence and proficiency grew, we issued a challenge to the rest of the camp.

The 'Grand Tournament' proved hugely successful and as a final flourish we produced refreshments and everyone shared our carefully conserved cache of luxuries. It helped to break the frosty atmosphere between ourselves and the rest of the camp and other activities sprung up round the camp. Harry Tossel and a chap named Stonier, had a background in amateur dramatics and set about organising a concert party in our hut. A colourful poster advertised the event and included an invitation to the German Commandant. I accompanied an evening of songs, monologues and one-act plays at the piano to everyone鈥檚 enjoyment. It was a grand evening and once again, refreshments were served at the finale.

The arrival of Red Cross parcels each week was a moment of particular joy. It was like delving into a box of precious treasure - l/2lb of tea, tins of powdered milk, egg, corned beef or meat loaf, stew, bacon, fruit, vegetables, salmon or sardines, cubes of Marmite, a bar of chocolate, and a bar of soap.

Families and friends could write to us as often as they liked and could send a parcel of clothing every quarter. Woollen jumpers, gloves, socks and balaclava helmets were always most welcome. Thanks to my relatives, I received a supply of cigarettes each month. They were much better than the foul German Junmac cigarettes available at the camp shop. They were nothing more than a cardboard tube filled with blackcurrant leaves. But, best of all, English cigarettes were the nearest thing we had to hard currency.

The Germans only interfered with the parcels on one occasion, and that followed an escape attempt from another camp when items were found on the escapees. For a while, tins had to be pierced and the contents used straightaway, but a sensible arrangement was eventually reached, whereby parcels were held in a central store and withdrawn as required under the supervision of a guard who pierced the tins on issue. The contents diminished as the war progressed and we were thankful for supplementary parcels from the Canadian Red Cross. The packets of pure coffee they sent us could demand almost anything in barter from the Germans.

Dried raisins and prunes were used to make wine. We fermented a mixture of fruit, sugar and yeast in some churns which we had scrounged and strained the contents were into screwtop bottles obtained from the hospital. These were laid in a hiding place underneath the floorboards and left to brew.

At roll call one night, a guard was startled by a frightful bang, followed by a succession of explosions. He began shouting and reached for his revolver. Fortunately, we were able to calm him and explain that there wasn鈥檛 an air raid attack, just exploding pop bottles. So ended our venture in wine making.

After fourteen months at Krotoszyn, we returned to Fort Rauch and were assigned to clearing up damage caused by recent bombing raids on Poznan. A German civilian took charge. He was 6 feet 4 inches tall and as broad as a barn door, typifying one's idea of a Prussian officer, but as long as we got on with our work he didn鈥檛 harass us. One morning we found him crying on his office steps. His wife had been bombed out of her home in Germany and was coming to join him at Poznan. The man was in despair because he had nowhere for her to stay.

He was a decent fellow, so we decided to help him. In the next three days we gathered enough timber for a room to built on the side of his office and to be furnished with rough-hewn furniture. The lady burst into tears when she discovered what we had done and adopted our work party as if we were lost orphans; mending tears in shirts and darning holes in our socks. This reminded us that common humanity still existed in the hearts of ordinary people even in the midst of war

In August 1944, the camp was ordered to pack and assemble in the courtyard. No destination was given but it was clear we would not be returning to Fort Rauch. As a final ceremony we allowed the guards to share the secret of the camp radio and placed the upturned table on trestles on the parade ground to reveal the hiding place. Luckily, they accepted this in good spirit.

We marched to the railway station, boarded cattle trucks and in insufferable heat travelled south to Lamsdorf, near the Carpathian Mountains. It was more of a staging centre than the work camps we were used to. Sergeant Major Lord, the Senior British Officer, put me in touch with two fellow prisoners from Reading; Les Joyce, who was soon repatriated to England, having been wounded in the leg, and Alan Chittenden, with whom I鈥檇 been at school. Then I made a strange encounter, for walking towards me one morning was Tommy White, whose family owned a garage in the town. He looked straight through me, and denied he was Tommy White when I greeted him. He relaxed after a while and in the course of a walk away from buildings and possible eaves-droppers, explained he had assumed the identity of Flying Officer Monk, who was making an attempt to escape. The subterfuge worked. Monk reached England and wrote to Tommy, who retained his new identity until the end of the war.

The wail of air-raid sirens interrupted our first meal at Lamsdorf. Instead of diving for cover, the inmates climbed onto roofs and pointed at the aircraft circling the camp thousands of feet above. It was as if the camp had chosen the camp as a rendezvous point. I could hardly believe this extraordinary sight. When the aircraft returned from the raid, camp veterans were able to calculate how many planes had been lost. Indeed, it was not unusual for airmen to join us a few days later, having been shot down. Just as I thought the last of the bombers had limped away, I heard the swish of a plane diving and dived underneath a hut. Two explosions followed in quick succession. I thought that a terrible mistake had been made and that the camp had been targeted. I was correct in one sense: a Mustang escort fighter had dropped a surplus fuel tank and blown a hole in the perimeter fence. The camp was frantic with activity when I emerged from shelter and a dog guarded the space in the fence. Raids became a matter of routine, but the first was both exhilarating and unnerving.

Lamsdorf was an enormous complex with separate compounds for Australian, New Zealand, African, French and Canadian prisoners, and these were sub-divided according to service and rank. Movement was permitted, though we had to return for evening roll call. Life was well organised and each day a list of activities was displayed in the orderly room. One notice caught my eye and I joined the camp choir, conducted by Bob Tullet.

He was an inspirational character and announced that we would present Handel's Messiah for at Christmas There was no shortage of musical instruments, which had been acquired through the Red Cross, but the sheet music was in short supply. Bob divided us into our respective parts; first tenors, second tenors, etc, and dispatched us to transcribe our parts onto scraps of paper as the one person who had the music called out the notes. This took three days and then we started rehearsals, sometimes with a flute for accompaniment. When Christmas Day arrived, we had to perform it three times to meet the demand for tickets. For a while, it was possible to set aside thoughts of hunger and separation from home, and share the message of peace in the story of Christ鈥檚 birth.

The New Year brought news that we should pack and prepare to move. The temperature fell below zero, and five feet of dry, powdery snow lay on the ground as Captain Gibbons, the Senior British Medical Officer, led a thousand-strong column of men out of Lamsdorf in a westward march to Germany in mid-January 1945. The Germans believed they were protecting us from Russians who were rapidly advancing from the east. Instead, we were obliged to take our chances with cold, hunger, sickness and exhaustion.

Towing my belongings on an improvised sledge, I helped supervise the sick, who were allowed to ride on a horse-drawn cart. Frostbite was the most immediate danger and I constantly searched around me for telltale signs, rubbing affected areas to revive circulation if the colour of a man's nose or ears changed. Blisters and sore feet also caused great discomfort and sometimes led to infection, which could only be treated with blue gentian.
The first night was spent in a barn large. On other occasions we took refuge in a network of small prison camps and hospitals that Gibbons located on an earlier to repatriate a group of prisoners. At each stop, he offered medical help to locals and in return they gave us food and took care of prisoners too weak with sickness to continue. The survival of so many was due largely to the leadership of Captain Gibbons.

Sadly, there were casualties along the way. At least one prisoner became crazed by the dazzle of the snow and monotony of the landscape that he ran off, to be shot down by a guard. Perhaps it was a release: he may have fallen by the roadside to freeze to death.

After three months, the column crossed the River Elbe, climbed a hill to Meizen barracks. After three days rest, we set off again, on what would be the final leg of a 500-mile journey. On 8th March, we reached Frankfurt am Main. The sound of gunfire seemed to draw closer every day, fuelling hopes that we would soon be liberated by the Americans. News was confirmed that Captain Gibbons accompanied the Camp Commandant into the city and that formal surrender had been arranged with representatives of Allied forces. The camp would be handed over to the Americans at 10 o'clock the next morning.

For many, the anticipation of release after years of privation, became too much to bear. One man beckoned me to his bedside in the makeshift hospital, drew a photograph from his pocket, and pressed it into my hand. 'My wife', he said. 'It won't be long before I see her now.' With that he took a deep breath and passed away in my arms. Eleven men died that night. It was one of the most distressing experiences I had encountered. I became so upset that in the end I could not respond to any more calls for help.

The first tank arrived at precisely 10 a.m., 8th April, and came to a halt outside the hospital hut. A young officer greeted Captain Gibbons and announced that we were no longer prisoners of war. His eyes caught sight of a man lying in a pitiful state inside the hut. 鈥淕ee whiz!鈥� he gasped as I scooped the lice from the hollows of the man鈥檚 cheeks and eye sockets. The American stared in disbelief and pushed his helmet to the back of his head.

Ambulances began to arrive and men were gently lifted from their beds and taken to a nearby field-hospital. Fearful men would become ill from over-eating, Gibbons took charge of the ration boxes which had been distributed through the camp. The American officers were less strict with their own men, and many were sick as a result.
Evacuation got under way and after a few days only Captain Gibbons, Sergeant Knight, the Senior British Warrant Officer, an interpreter, 10 other men and myself, were left. Eventually we climbed aboard a lorry and drove to a nearby airfield. An army of black servicemen were on hand to swathe our bodies with soap under piping hot showers. We emerged as bright as shining pins, and free of lice for the first time in 5 years. More soldiers were on hand to rub us dry and then I joined a queue to be issued with uniform. I boarded a Dakota as a fully fledged GI., and was greeted by a full military band when I arrived at Orley, Paris.

We set off for England almost immediately, though not before stocking up with ring doughnuts, chewing gum, cigarettes, and steaming coffee at the canteen. The aircraft touched down at Oakley, Oxfordshire; setting foot on English soil for the first time in five years was an emotional moment. After a meal, we set off for Beaconsfield and picked up a hitchhiker on the way. When he realised we were liberated POWs, he insisted on stopping at a pub so that he could honour our homecoming with a pint.

The formalities were completed at Beaconsfield with multiple form-filling. I took my place in line before a parade of trestle tables, where a stack of 12 forms awaited my name, regimental number and signature. Once the final form had been signed, I exchanged my GI combat clothes for a brand-new uniform, already displaying my chevron and regimental and issued with money, ration vouchers and 6 weeks' issue of NAAFI chits.

My family imagined of course, that I was still in Poland. I could remember the telephone number of my cousin, Sid Slade, found a telephone box and gave him a call him, giving little thought to the lateness of the hour. He was so surprised by my voice that he dropped the phone. I told him that I was safe and well and hoped to be in Reading the next day. He promised to pass the news straight on to my parents. I slept well that night.

The next morning I was issued with a rail pass and took the train to Reading. It had changed little in my absence and I caught a bus home. 6, Gloucester Road was festooned with red and white bunting and Union flags. The front door was open, so stepped in without knocking, dropped my kitbag in the hall and walked through to the front room, where everyone was seated in a circle. 鈥淗ello, everybody鈥�, I announced boldly. The embarrassed silence was broken when my mother began to cry. My father soon followed her and then I joined in. They had so looked forward to this moment, but imagined I would arrive with style in a taxi. Instead I had taken them by surprise.
I spent my first days visiting friends and catching up on news. My former clergyman, Father Tappenden, suggested that I spend some time at Southbourne, but within a few days of arriving I was taken ill with jaundice and admitted to a Red Cross Hospital. My body weight had dropped to below 8 stone, and I had no strength or resistance to fight the illness. The next 6 weeks were spent on a diet alternating between, black tea and toast, and beef tea and toast. When I finally came to drink tea with milk and sugar, it was so insipid that I reverted to black tea, a taste which remained with me until I was 65.
On posting to Morpeth for medical examination, I was horrified to discover that I was classified C3; the lowest standard of fitness. I was sent at once to RAMC Barracks at Scarborough for convalescence. The gentle nursing and careful diet 鈥� each morning I was expected to drink a pint of milk on parade 鈥� gradually restored my health, and after one year I was declared Al.

I was ready to resume civilian life and in September 1946 left the army and joined Reading Borough Police Force.

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