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I am a son of Edward Duncan Walker, East Lancs Regiment, (Rank Pte; No:338815), one of those POWs, who was captured at Dunkirk and marched east across Europe to Stallag VIIIb camp in Poland. Five years later, in freezing snow, he was forced marched back west away from the advancing Russians. He hardly spoke about this time, but when he died 12 years ago, we found a postcard in his wallet, on which he had scribbled a log of the forced march. I wrote this poem:

Postcard Not Sent

I held the postcard gently
knowing how close I was to my father,
as close as ever in his life.
It was as if I was with him
in that dreadful time,
when his freedom had been brutally ripped
from him and was told what to do.
I know this was the worst that could happen,
…to be strapped to someone’s leash.
On the front, was a picture of a German hotel,
looking just like a holiday postcard,
but on the back, was a neat log of a painful journey.
A forced march from a POW camp, Stallag VIIIB in Poland,
driven by the Germans, fleeing from the advancing Russians.
In my father’s strong neat hand
an entry for each day with a number of kms walked,
place at the end of each day, and miscellaneous comment -
½ loaf, no rations, frostbite, slept in barn.
The card was full of entries,
38 days, from Mon Jan 22nd to Tues Mar 6th 1945
588 kms, 16 to 34 kms per day staying odd days at places along the way
Gorhitz, Bautzen, Lazaret, Kamenz, Konigbruck,
Radeberg, Meissen, Lommatzsch, Dobeln, Leisnig,
Bad Lausick, Deutzen, Zeitz, Koni..haff, Steudnitz.
I gently caressed this card, soft with age.
I guess it must have been in his breast pocket.
It suggested why he couldn’t share his past with us.
But now at this age where I see death ahead
I am drawn to and understand this relic of pain
and aloneness, which formed his life.

At the side of the road, huddled in the snow
he gazed at the hotel on the card
and snatched a short stay, a fleeting visit
to sounds and feelings remote from all this.
And that is where I am going right now
to find this place, check in and be with him,
where sheets are soft and meals are served
in summer sun and fresh mountain breeze.

Sincerely
Duncan Walker

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