John Martin's memoir

John Martin's memoir

A Raid Over Berlin

The story of John Martin's last operation, how he was shot down, escaped the aircraft and was captured. He was interrogated at Dulag Luft in Frankfurt then transferred to various Stalg Luft camps. His story covers episodes in his life until he was repatriated in 1945.

71 printed sheets

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[underlined] A PREFACE. A RAID OVER BERLIN. [/underlined]

Page one and two of my story recalling my W.W.2. experiences were written many years ago, when they were intended to be the complete and only article on the subject.

Some ten or twelve years ago the editor of the monthly magazine of a model engineering society I belonged to, appealed for contributions of interest. These would normally be of a technical nature. Not feeling capable of writing anything of that nature I offered my war story.

Great interest was shown when it was printed and I was urged to write more about “what happened next”, but a move to Wales, and getting settled there, took up all my time for the next few years.

Now, at long last and at the age of 94, I have just got around to completing it. I hope people will read it, and that it will remind those who are old enough of the 55,000 of Bomber Command who gave their lives for our freedom. For me there always has been, and always will be a special memory of those of my crew who died.

John Martin

[underlined] NOTE [/underlined] – to avoid confusion

Ann, as mentioned in the story is Adelaide.

Adelaide was always known as Ann during her time in the W.A.A.F.

[page break]

A short while ago we had an article by Bill Gardener describing his experiences during World War II as a builder of aircraft, now we have an article by a member who used to fly in them.

A RAID OVER BERLIN BY J. MARTIN

During W.W.2. I served as a [sic] aircrew wireless operator in R.A.F. Bomber Command.

The Squadron was No. 166 of No. 1 Group based in North Lincolnshire. (now South Humberside Airport) which was equipped with Lancaster M.K.I aircraft.

This is an account of my experience during and after being shot down over Berlin when four of our crew were killed.

Firstly I must tell you, or remind you that the W/OP in any R.A.F. bomber of that time was for most of the flying time, isolated from the ‘intercom’ system. He would not hear any crew ‘patter’ therefore would not know of anything going on inside or outside the aircraft unless he was directly concerned. He would de described today as a ‘loner’ during flight. So different crew members could give quite different accounts of the same flight.

Everything had gone well for me in my duties, I knew by the clock, 20.00 hours, that we would be just to the North West of the ‘Big City’ and coming up to the target.

I was occupied at the time on the wireless set doing what if I remember correctly was code named TINSELLING. This was to listen out on the receiver covering frequencies given at briefing, and trying to pick up enemy ground to fighter patter. If successful, to then ‘tune back’ the transmitter and swamp the frequency with the noise of one of our aircraft engines.

It was just possible to carry out TINSELLING while standing under the astrodome and reaching backwards to ‘twiddle the knobs’. A bit of a stretch but it allowed me to look out for enemy fighters in the extreme danger area to the rear of the aircraft, assisting the gunners. I was doing this until just seconds before we were attacked. I looked back at the clock, and was alarmed to see the time was 20.10 hours. I moved in great haste to get back into my seat and retune the receiver to receive the Group Broadcast – most important.

This action only prompted by the time, certainly saved my life, “because within seconds of getting seated and before having time to adjust the set, the AURAL MONICA was bleeping out a warning, possibly both our gunners were firing and cannon shells were ripping past my right arm and exploding, showering green burning phosphorus everywhere. If I had remained standing under the astrodome I would have been right in the path of them. The noise was devastating.

I knew our aircraft was severely damaged and immediately switched onto the intercom to hear the skipper giving the order ‘bale out’, ‘bale out’ The navigator and I moved as one man to grab our parachute packs and clip them on.

Following the emergency drill of evacuation, I made to go back down the fuselage and jump out of the rear doors after the mid upper gunner, but on opening the bulkhead door at the rear of the cockpit, I was confronted by fierce flames. The whole of the fuselage between the main spar and just forward of the mid upper turret was ablaze.

I instantly decided that my only chance was to slam the door shut again. Although by this stage of the war the original steel armour had been replaced by plywood, this did give Some psychological comfort, and would have acted as some sort of firebreak and to then follow the bomb aimer, navigator, pilot and engineer out of the emergency escape hatch in the nose.

In the split second that I had the bulkhead door open, I could see through the flames what appeared to be heavy damage to the mid upper turret. The whole thing was leaning over to starboard. Amazingly I saw the mid upper gunner, Bob Brown, climbing out of it.

I could see nothing of what had happened to Dick Walton in the rear turret. Sadly he must have taken the direct stream of fire from the fighter he would have been firing back until the last.

It soon became obvious that the ‘bale out’ from the cockpit was not going according to the drill. In retrospect I think the bomb aimer, Reg Morris, had been badly wounded, or killed, laying in his position down in the nose, and over the escape hatch. It would have been very difficult for the other crew members to move him from above, especially as by this time the aircraft was in a steep dive. The pilot, Jimmy Tosh, quite correctly had left his seat to await his turn to jump. I could see him and the engineer, Dave Alletson, waiting to get down into the nose. The navigator, Jack Mosen, would have been further down out of sight.

I did not feel any urge to join them – perhaps I could sense the hopelessness, and I remember, rather stupidly it would seem, having the Strong feeling that I should not rightly be there, and that I must stand back while they had their chance. The flames I had encountered in the fuselage must have frightened me conclusively because I did not think of trying again to escape that way. I struggled forward, sat in the pilot’s seat and pulled on the controls in an effort to get the aircraft out of the dive, but I knew, immediately that this was useless. The stick just flopped about. I then stood up on the pilot’s seat with a big effort to try to slide back or release the dingy escape hatch. The cockpit roof was so badly damaged that the hatch would not move.

During the time I was doing this, it would only be a few seconds, I could see that still no one had got out from the cockpit. It must have been at this moment I thought I was going to die, because I became remarkably calm, I shuffled back to my table and pressed the two buttons that would have detonated the I.F.F. set, I should already have done this before starting to bale out.

I remember the aircraft diving even more steeply so that I could no longer move at all. I thought of home, my fiancee, [sic] (now my wife) and my mother. What would people at home say when they heard what had happened to me? I thought, still quite calmly.

The next thing I remembered was seeing a huge red flash, no noise of an explosion, then being aware of nothing. I became half conscious momentarily to see a huge piece of aircraft sail past very close, and having a sensation of spinning over and over.

[page break]

It would have been the jolt of the parachute opening that brought me back to Something like consciousness. I new [sic] nothing of pulling the ripcord although of course I must have done so, unless luckily the ‘D’ ring had got caught on the wreckage as the aircraft disintegrated. So I was then dangling on the end of my ‘chute, I could not believe I had escaped. I thought how quiet it was now, I could hear a dog barking, and after a few seconds the all clear, blowing. I soon realised that my parachute harness had been ripped off from my left side and that I must be careful not to lean over on that side or I could have fallen out.

I remember looking down and thinking I was about to fall in a canal, it was in fact a main road, it was wet and illuminated by the moon. Anyway I would have been grateful to drop anywhere.

I shall never forget how, lucky I was, we would have been flying at about 20,000 feet before being attacked, but I reached the ground very quickly after the chute opening. At a guess I would say this happened at little more than 1,000 feet.

I tried to remember the parachute landing drill upon hitting the ground. I was very dazed and being dragged along by my billowing canopy. I was very slow to think. Eventually after collapsing my ‘chute and unclipping the harness, I stood up after what could have been seconds or minutes. I had no idea of time, to find with great relief that I was still in one piece even if a bit knocked about. Both my knees were very swollen, my legs and head gashed, and I suffered a very painful shoulder. I could walk with difficulty and after a few, steps realised I had lost one of my boots.

Slowly I was able to think about what I should do next. I had landed in a field in a semi rural area quite close to the road. There was a hay or straw stack nearby which seemed to be the obvious placed to hide my ‘chute and harness (in retrospect obvious to the Germans too)

I remembered I must get away from the area quickly to stand any chance of evasion, and turned away from the fires of Berlin. Wrongly I suppose I went onto the road, and was immediately challenged by two soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets. I was in no position to argue.

I was taken to a hut not far away on the opposite side of the road, and when inside I could see the soldiers were in fact Luftwaffe personnel, and I think members of a searchlight unit. They were quite kind to me and immediately sent for a medical sergeant who gave me a good deal of time and attention, before finally dressing my gashes in paper bandages. I was given coffee and made to understand that I would be collected by higher authority shortly. I thanked them and took the opportunity of giving away the loose change that I should not have been carrying in my pockets, as souvenirs to the several onlookers, who by this time had gathered to see the ‘Englander’, thinking that the cash could not then be used for any other purpose.

I was taken by car to what I presumed to have been the area Headquarters of the surrounding searchlight units. I was taken upstairs and ushered into a large room (I guess an orderly room) where I was confronted by a sergeant who to my surprise was holding my parachute. This was given back to me after a while, and I was told to lie down on it on the floor some distance in front of a desk. The sergeant sat at the desk, and listened to very German military music, while keeping a very careful eye on me for the rest of the night.

Early next morning I was moved into a wooden hut nearby – part of the living quarters of the unit personnel. They showed great interest in me as they went about their off duty tasks. It would be ‘stand down’ time now I thought as the hut was occupied by some 8 to 10 men. They were generally kind to me, and I was surprised how many of them could attempt some English conversation. I was told by all of them who could, “that for me the war was over” quite enviously, I thought. In the early afternoon I was told that I was to be collected and taken into Berlin, and in a short while was escorted into the street. It was only at this stage that I became aware that the unit was based at a ‘pub’ which accounted for the smell that I had been wondering about. However, I was delighted to see at the kerbside the longest Mercedes car I have ever seen, with two very smart looking Luftwaffe officers in the front, because seated in the back, and despite his bandaged head, showing all the arrogance of Field Marshall Goring himself, was Dave Alletson. He grinned broadly upon seeing me being escorted out.

One of the officers in the front of the car immediately took out his pistol and challenged in good English ‘so you two know each other’. We hoped we had convinced him otherwise. The officer in the passenger seat nursed his pistol for the whole of-the journey, and we were forbidden to speak to each other.

We were driven to Templehoff [sic] airfield and noticed a lot of bomb damage on the way, and on arrival to the airfield buildings. I think we spent two nights at Templehoff [sic] in a cellar, and were joined during that time by several other RAF aircrew mostly looking as knocked about as we were.

The whole party was moved off by train to Frankfurt en Maine and then Dulag Luft for interrogation but I must recall an incident during the journey that could have been very nasty for all of us.

We had been travelling in ordinary passenger trains and had been warned by those of our escort who could speak English, to conceal our identities as much as possible, keep a low profile we would have been told today, because the civilian population is extremely hostile towards allied airmen. This we managed to do until nearly at the end of the journey. We were awaiting road transport at Frankfurt station to take us to Dulag Luff, when a railway platelayer leapt up from the track and aimed a blow with his hammer, or axe, at one of our party. This incident drew the attention of many of the other civilians on the crowded platform and they surged in a mass towards us with obvious intentions. Fortunately the sergeant, or feldweibal [sic] as I was beginning to learn, in charge of the escort was quick to sum up the situation, and pushed us against a wall while arranging his men in the front of us forming a ‘D’ shape with us, the prisoners, as the straight piece.

The escort raised their automatic weapons to keep the irate civilians at bay. After what seemed an age, and by making it quite clear even to our non German ears that he would not hesitate to open fire, the feldweibal [sic] was able to disperse the crowd.

I will always be grateful to that man, although I can now well appreciate the feelings of those civilians.

So I arrived at Dulag Luft the place we had heard so much about during training from Intelligence.

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 3. [/underlined]

Dulag Luft was a specialised unit set up by the Luftwaffe in the suburbs of Frankfurt en Maine, to interrogate all Allied airmen who became prisoners of the Germans.

We were informed about some of the methods used by the staff there to extract the information the [sic] were seeking, during aircrew training. This was in the form of talks and lectures given by R.A.F. Intelligence when we were constantly assured by them, that according to the Geneva Convention, name, number and rank, were the only details a prisoner of war was obliged to disclose to the enemy, and nothing more.

We were warned how skilled the interrogators at Dulag Luft would be in gaining the information they were seeking, and how they might get a prisoner to talk. Typically, pretending friendship, and showing what would appear to be genuine concern that your folks at home would not know that you were safe. “We could inform them” they might say “but we must have a few more details to make this possible”. Then as the conversation went on, questions like “what was your squadron”? what type of aircraft were you in”?, “what was your bombload”?, “what was your target?, would be slipped in when you were off guard. Don’t get drawn into a seemingly innocent conversation, was the strong advice given.

We were also warned of the extensive use of microphones at Dulag Luft, and shockingly the presence of one or two R.A.F. personnel who had turned traitor. Still wearing their R.A.F. uniforms, they mingled with new prisoners, trying to get information for their German masters. Absolutely disgraceful but true.

Benefitting from being forewarned, I felt prepared for that type of interrogation when it came. However, all due to my own carelessness, I was to be subjected to something quite different

Before going to briefing for the raid, I took the opportunity to have a “wash”, and came away leaving my identity discs hanging on a peg in the washroom. I did not miss them until just before “take off”, and did not mention the fact to anyone then, as it was too late to do anything about it.

Little did I know what the concequences [Inserted] consequences [/inserted] of this would be. It was to be used very strongly against me at Dulag Luft.

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 4. [/underlined]

The journey from Frankfurt rail station to the interrogation centre was made surprisingly by tramcar. Quaint, but with us prisoners as the only passengers, our guards had full control.

On the way, the bomb damage was dreadful. Quite extraordinary by comparison to what I had seen during the earlier days of the London blitz, and more recently in Berlin. Whole areas not individual buildings, had been flattened by the U.S.A.A.F.s method of “carpet bombing”.

Our party arrived, thankfully without further civilian interference, and we were quickly, and easily, escorted into what must have been the main entrance of Dulag Luft. Here we were immediately subjected to the first application of “Applied Psychology”. A pane of glass had been deliberately broken in one of the windows, and the hole “stuffed up” with a bunch of the aluminium foil strips that were being dropped by our bombers in certain areas, on a raid to foil enemy Radar. It was known to us by the code name of “WINDOW”. The implication here of course, was “we know what you call this stuff, and you thought it was a well guarded secret, didn’t you?”. Childish, but it did have some effect on me, as it was meant to do.

We were immediately singled off, and I was led into a room staffed by three or four very arrogant Lufftwaffe airmen. I was ordered to strip everything off. With no consideration given to any injuries, I was then forced to stand on one side of the room, while my clothes were thoroughly searched by two of the airmen, on the other.

I could sense that partly, their objective was to ridicule me as much as possible, and make me feel totally humiliated. They made a great show of letting me see they knew exactly where to look for the “passport type” photograph, that was sewn into the waistband of my “battle dress blouse”, and another great exhibition of the cutting off, of one of the buttons, that would also serve as a compass. They then made a great act of gloatingly producing a cigarette, lighting it, then blowing the smoke in my face. “We Germans have everything, you see” they might as well have said. They were certainly well trained to do this job, unless this was their natural behaviour.

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft, A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 5. [/underlined]

Wnen [sic] they had finished thoroughly searching my clothes, they threw them back at me, and then showing their ignorance, they made fun of my fine silk, and wool, “long johns” that had recently been issued to counteract the cold during flying duties. Unofficially they were a great comfort at all times, during a cold winter, on a north Lincolnshire airfield. “We modern Germans stopped wearing these old fashioned things years ago”, was of course implied here.

At what must have been a pre-arranged signal, the door was opened by two armed guards, and I was marched off between them, along what seemed to be endless corridors, and to what was to be my cell for the next nine days.

Before I had hardly got inside, the door was slammed shut, and locked. It was the start of what was to be the most miserable, lonely and axious [sic] time of my life.

The cell was only just big enough to accommodate a narrow bed, and to leave just enough room at the side to allow access to it. At the far end of the cell, high up, was a small well barred window. [circled] O n [/circled] the bed, in a heap, was two, or three dirty looking blankets, and a rough pillow.

I was to learn during my stay as a prisoner of war, that no blankets issued to prisoners of the Germans, gave much protection from the cold. There was a book on the bed, and although it was in English, I never did feel that I wanted to read it. I got on to the bed because there was nowhere else to be, and lie there. There was no sound of any sort from the adjoining cells, and I knew I was utterly alone.

I remained there in my misery, for perhaps two hours, before hearing the noise of some activity in the corridor. Then someone unlocked the door and passed in a small enamel vessel containing what I could by now identify, by it’s smell, as “ersatz” coffee, and with it, two thin slices of the very dark, sour tasting bread, that I never thought I would ever consider eating let alone crave for it, as I was to do, during the very hungry days I was to endure as a Prisoner of War.

[page break]

[underlined] D ulag [sic] Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 6. [/underlined]

Since being blown out of the aircraft I had remained in a state where I think I had never fully regained consciousness. For some days, if someone spoke to me, the voice appeared to come from an unexpected direction. I suppose it was caused by shock or concussion, or perhaps both. Even so, I remained very conscious of the fact that I was unbelievably lucky to have [deleted] d [/deleted] escaped with my life, and to then be so lightly injured. I kept thinking of the crew. I knew that Dave, the engineer, was OK, and thought Bob, the mid upper gunner, would have stood a very good chance of getting out. Sadly I had seen no sign of Dick, the rear gunner, reaching back into the fuselage to get his parachute, as he would have [deleted] been [/deleted], had he been able to. His turret would have almost certainly have been the prime target of the attacking fighter. His, and Bob’s sustained fire, could well have destroyed the attacker, but that would not have lessend [sic] the consequences.

Of the pilot, navigator, and bombaimer [sic], they would have been trapped down in the nose, and would have stood little chance of being blown clear, as Dave and I were. I thought about them continuously, but knew better than to enquire about them now, as this would have almost certainly have connected me to an aircraft, and to a squadron, which might have been information my interrogators would make use of.

For the rest of the night in my cell, I must have slept for some time, and to then be awakend [sic] by the noise in the corridor, when two more thin slices of the black bread were passed to me. I was to learn that I had now received two thirds of the daily standard food ration for P.O.W.s in Germany. The remaining part was at midday, consisting of a bowl of swede soup, which was no more than boiled sweds [sic], and three small potatoes. This inadequate ration alone, would have resulted in slow starvation, unless before that, because of weakness, prisoners would not have been able to fight off disease.

We were kept alive by International Red Cross food parcels. I will never cease to be grateful for them. They came from Britain, (jointly with the The Order of St. John), Canada, and the U.S.A.. Especially appreciated was an occasional bulk consignment of food, sent by the British Farmers of the Argentine. They were largely Welsh settlers there, I was to learn many years later.

[page break]

Dulag Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 7.

Shortly after the start of my first full day in the cell, I was made aware of a large radiator running for almost the full length of the bed, on the opposite wall, because it was throwing out far more heat than was necessary for comfort, and there was no way of controlling it.

As the day went on, the heat became almost unbearable. This continued until late in the afternoon, when it stopped, and the cell became cold, very cold. This happened every day and night for the rest of my stay. It must have been another form of Psychology applied to make life even more uncomfortable. I learned to get some relief from this in the day, by lying on the floor beside the bed, with my head at the door. This allowed me to breathe in the cold air that streamed underneath it.

There was still no sign as the hours went by on that first day, of anyone occupying the cells on either side of me. The only sound of any activity was made by what I guessed to be the guards marching along the corridor in their heavy boots, going past my door. Then at about midday, the “heavy boots” halted, in full military fashion right outside. The door was flung open to reveal two armed guards. One of them ordered me to “come”. and I was marched off between them, through again what seemed to be endless corridors, to face my first interrogation.

I was led into quite a big room, the guards withdrew, and I was kept waiting while a smartly dressed Luftwaffe officer sat at a desk, appearing to be studying some papers. Obviously, as I see it now, in my comparatively old age wisdom, he was applying more Psychology. After what seemed an age, he motioned me to sit down opposite to him. More time was allowed to tick away before he played his “master card”. “I don’t think you are an airman at all” he said “I think you are an Agent, dropped for espionage purposes”.

He sat and savioured [sic] the effect of this “bombshell” for what seemed to me, several more minutes, before reminding me that I was not wearing R.A.F. identity discs. I tried to defend myself against this charge by pointing out that I was wearing R.A.F. uniform. He dismissed this by saying “I can go to Paris and buy any amount of those on the “black market” “meaning that my uniform stood fof [sic] nothing. He then said “you do not appear to belong to a crew either”. His accusations were terrifying, but at the same time, I thought he knows about David.

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft. AIR RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 8. [/underlined]

A poor night’s sleep did nothing to boost my confidence, and when the door was flung open next morning, it was a great relief to see it was only the black bread being passed in.

Probably another two hours passed during which time my thoughts were all about how I could convince this man that I was genuine aircrew. Naming the rest of the crew and revealing the name of my squadron crossed my mind, but remembering the warning from intelligence, “they would want to know more and more”

The door was flung open once more, and this time they had come to take me back to my tormentor, and as I entered his room he was again studying some papers, and again kept me waiting in terror while he chose the moment to order me to sit. His acting was as good as his command of the English language, because even before he said a word, I felt doomed.

“I am still convinced you have been dropped for espionage purposes” he again alleged when he was ready. Then he left me again in misery while he slowly gathered up the papers he had been studying, making me think that that was his final decision. I sat there in increasing terror thinking he was about to summon the [circled] guardsto [/circled] [inserted] sp [/inserted] take me away to almost [circled] certainlyface [/circled] [inserted] sp [/inserted] the firing squad.

But next came some relief when he said suddenly “right, if you are who you claim to be, tell me the places where you were trained”. My refusal to answer came quickly, as I knew I must not do this even to save my own skin.

[inserted] Feiging [sic] [/inserted] Fiegning [sic] irritation expertly, he then tossed a thick book in my direction, saying, “you will not be giving any secrets away, look in there”. The book appeared to be a complete list of all R.A.F. establishments in the U.K., in alphabetical order, and what unit or squadron was stationed there. He urged me to look at it, obviously thinking it to be a “trump card”, but at that moment his telephone rang, so he had to take his eyes of me while he answered it.

Flicking quickly through the pages of the book, I was able to test it’s accuracy by looking for two airfields that I knew to be fairly new. They were not listed, which gave me a little bit of satisfaction, thinking, “he does not know everything then” but this did nothing to allay my fears.

The telephone call must have been more important than “grilling” me, for a while he continued with it speaking in German, the guards entered and took me back to my cell.

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft. A RAID ON BERLIN. Page 9. [/underlined]

Feeling that I was living on borrowed time, and certainly not in the clear, it was almost two days before I was marched off down the corridors again, during which time I had plenty of time to wake up to the fact that even if my captors knew that I was in the same aircraft as David it was no proof that I was a genuine crew member. So I was terrified of what I was about to encounter, and I did not notice that I was being taken off in a different direction this time, and it was a surprise when I was ushered into a different room, to face a different interrogator. This officer presented a friendly attitude, and although we had been warned many times by R.A.F. Intelligence to be on guard against this approach, it was great relieve when he straight away said “now we are both wireless people, technicians, so we understand each other”. He did not question my identity at all, and did not ask any questions for some time, but then quite unexpectedly still maintaining his friendly manner, he fired a question that stunned me. “Were you carrying FISHPOND?”.

About three weeks previously, while still on the squadron, when there was to be no operations that night, all aircrew wireless operators were told to report to the Operations Room immediately. We all wondered what all this was about, as on arrival we could see that Service Police (S.P.s) were there in force, guarding not only the doors, but all appraoches. We were to be introduced to, and given a demonstration of, a new piece of equipment that would not only detect and warn of the approach of another aircraft approaching from the rear, as the present AURAL MONICA did, but would also show the direction it was coming from. It was to be under the control of the wireless operator, who could then warn the gunners over the “intercom”.

“Secrecy was absolutely paramount”, we were told over and over again. The new equipment will have the codename of “FISHPOND”.

I was too shocked to answer immediately, but that was not necessary, because almost in the same breath he said “come with me” and led me off to another room where FISHPOND was set up, and working, and he gave me my second demonstration of it’s qualities. Nothing else was ask [sic] or said, before I returned to my cell.

The difference in this man’s attitude made me feel even more uncertain. First being accused of being an “agent” and now being asked a question that only R.A.F. operational wireless oper- [inserted] ATOR COULD ANSWER [/inserted]

[page break]

[underlined] Dulag Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 10. [/underlined]

Any hope I might have built up was lost, when nearly two days later I was facing my first interrogator again. Neither his attitude or his accusations had changed, and when I again refused to answer his questions, he said “well – you offer me no alternative, I must hand you over to the Gestapo”. We had heard a lot about the Gestapo and it’s brutal methods, in the U.K. so his threat was indeed chilling. He would be aware of this, so added, “and we all know what they will do to you, [circled] don’t [/circled] we?”.

Deep down I still thought he was bluffing, but when I reminded myself that this man has the power to do what he likes with me, justified or not, and there was absolutely no one to even talk to about my predicament, let alone to get help from, this was of little comfort.

Before dismissing me, he again asked about my crew, but accepted my refusal to answer without much pressure, which only made me think that he was not concerned if I did not want to help myself. Back in my cell I was left to “stew” for many more lonely hours.

Next the “wireless man” sent for me again. His approach and his attitude again, differed completely from his colleague, and [deleted] in [/deleted] again in what appeared to be a friendly manner, tried to get me talking about technical details. He was not very [circled] persistent, [/circled] which made me suspect that he too, knew I was going yo [sic] the Gestapo, and thought there was no point in wasting his time with me. I was soon back in the solitude of my cell to get on with my misery.

In the afternoon of that day, a different fear came from an unexpected direction. With the sound of aircraft overhead, there came a terrible feeling that the cell was vibrating, and I was about to be crushed. This was followed by the fear that all the air was being drawn out of the cell. I concluded that although some distance away, this was a “knock on” effect of hundreds of bombs being dropped at the same time, on the same place, by the U.S.A.A.F. using their method of “carpet bombing”. It was terrifying.

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[underlined] Dulag Luft. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 11. [/underlined]

Adding to my worries, I recalled that during the lectures that were given about this place we were told that usually we would be kept for ten days. If they kept you for longer, beware, because you are probably telling them something, or they think you might do. Calculating that this was my ninth day, how could I be sure that they were not getting something out of me?.

The complete isolation exaggerated all my problems. There had been no warning given about this in the lectures.

On the next day another dreaded session with the “espionage man”. His approach this time was surprisingly one of “let’s see if we can get you off the hook”. His manner seemed to be a lot softer, when he went on to say “in a mortuary in Berlin, there are the bodies of six British airmen. all I ask you to do is name them, so that graves can be marked in the proper manner”. I knew, and I am sure he knew, that they could not be all of my crew.

Looking back, of course this was his “ploy” to get me talking, but I could not see this at the time, so I was mystified, suspicious, and baffled.

Failing to draw me on this subject, his stern and aggressive manner returned in giving what I sensed to be my final grim warning, that it was “now a matter for the Gestapo” the guards entered to march me back.

Back in my cell I no longer thought he was bluffing. There was no doubt in my mind now I [deleted] s [/deleted] was on my way now, to be first tortured and then shot.

Terror struck in the early afternoon when the “boots” came to [inserted] a [/inserted] smart halt outside. The door was flung open, and two guards stood looking at me for what seemed to be a long time, before one of them ordered “pick up your belongings, you are leaving”. I only had my battledress blouse to pick up, so with that in one hand, they marched me at what seemed to be a much quicker pace than usual, along the corridors for the last time. My feet felt very heavy, and my knees weak. I am on my way now to the Gestapo, first to be tortured, and then shot. Even more frightening the thought came to me “they are going to shoot me now”, as we had halted at a door that appeared to be leading to the outside. The door was flung open and I was pushed not into a yard, as I was expecting, but into a large bright room crowded with Allied airmen.

They were laughing, talking, and smoking cigarettes, creating an unmistakable atmosphere of wellbeing. My sense of relief was undescribable [sic]. I was not to be shot, my interrogation was over. I was among the “boys” again, and coming towards me was David with his usual grin at it’s best.

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I think I was the last prisoner to be released from the cells that day to join the group in the large room. They had already been told that they would be leaving for a Prison Camp that day.

Gathered there we must have bee [inserted] been [/inserted] a very sorry looking bunch. Several, like David and I were bandaged up, and some were limping badly. All looked very dirty as there had been no washing facilities for us who had been at Templehoff [sic], and there had been none here at Dulag-Luft. Nearly two weeks of grime had been added to the bloodstains and bruises, but we were well aware then, and will never forget that we were the lucky ones.

Figures published many years after the war revealed that of the seven man crew of a Lancaster, the average number to survive after being shot down was less than two, and in a Hali-x fax [sic], about two and a half. The survival rate in the American heavy bombers was probably worse.

In an adjoining room we were very pleasantly surprised to find some good food had been set out for us. Nothing exotic, but biscuits, cheese, tinned meat, and a delicious fruit drink. It tasted so nice after the sour black bread, and swede soup, but of course it all went far too quickly, it was not a feast but so welcome. The meal was not provided through the generosity or compassion of our captors. All the food had come from Red Cross parcels and was set out by a work party of British P.O.Ws, who were held there at Dulag Luft. Looking back, I

I think this could have been allowed and encouraged by the Germans in the hope that we would be put off guard and forget about the hidden microphones we had been warned about, and divulge some information they were looking for, but [circled] I can’t [/circled] remember any talk at all. Perhaps not out of a sense of duty, but because all interest was centred on the food.

After this brief and unexpected treat, the American Red Cross had provided an attache case Although it was made of cardboard it was very strong, and contained a towel, soap, a toothbrush and paste, and some shaving gear. These items were of no immediate use, of course, but were very much appreciated, and became treasured possessions in P.O.W. life. Also available for those in need, were boots from the Canadian Red Cross. The boots I had been

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provided with at Temple Hoff had a very cold and unfriendly feel to them, and I was glad to discard them for a pair of soft, warm, and comfortable Royal Canadian Airforce ones.

We were always told how methodical the Germans were with their records, but unbelievably almost before I had taken the borrowed boots off, a Luftwaffe airman appeared, scooped them up, gave them a brief inspection, and marched off with them. I must have been an especially marked prisoner from the moment I put them on. I hope he recorded their return, or I might yet get a bill for them.

R.A.F. greatcoats were given out to everyone from the Red Cross store. The providence of these must have been with some thought on their part, and perhaps some acquired Intelligence, as in our case all the flying clothing had been confiscated, and for those who had managed to evade capture for a time [inserted] they [/inserted] would have discarded and hidden theirs, to look as much like a civilian as possible. So warm clothing was something we would all be in need of to face the cold German winter, and not yet known to us, we were destined for what was proberly [inserted] probably [/inserted] the most northerly Stalag where Allied prisoners, apart from Russians, were held by the Germans.

Heavy, warm, clothing was an absolute necessity for all the crew of a Lancaster flying at high altitudes except for the wireless operator. This was due, in my humble opinion, to a fault in an otherwise very well designed aircraft. That, being the heating system.

Hot air was ducted from one of the engines on the port side, to enter the aircraft close to the wireless operator’s feet, but there was no provision for the distribution of the heat once inside the aircraft. The navigator, who sat very close to me, got very little benefit from the system, and the pilot, engineer, and bombaimer [sic], non at all. It was designed that the two gunners had to rely on their electrically heated clothing, which was inadequate for the [circled] temperturesures [/circled] often encountered, while the heat being poured in at the wireless operator’s feet, was sometimes [deleted] t [/deleted] almost unbearable, and this could lead him into a dangerous complacency, as he dressed accordingly.

He would wear only his ordinary battledress uniform, and over that the essential safety equipment. A “Mae West” life jacket, and parachute harness of course, had to be worn, A flying helmet had to be worn because it contained the oxygen mask, earphones, and microphone.

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Flying boots were worn as a protection from the uncomfortable heat, not the cold.

We were reminded, and warned of complacency only hours before by our Wing Commander at the “briefing” for this raid. When referring to the general details he said “and you wireless operators take note – you might think you will always snug and warm in your position, but if you get a bit of perspex knocked out you will know all about it. At least take your “white sweater” with you, “which I did”, “even if you do not wear it, take it with you and stow it where you can get at it quickly.”

Immediately upon being attacked, when the cockpit roof was badly damaged, the wisdom of his words was brought home to me. Even in all the “panic” and “shock” I was very aware of the unbelievably instant, and severe drop in temperature. If our aircraft had survived that attack would I have survived the return flight of three or four hours? At best, I think I would have suffered badly from frostbite.

The ”white sweater” was a popular issue of flying clothing. Being heavily knitted in pure wool, it was very warm, and had an added quality. Because it was not obviously “military in appearance, and even when worn with uniform trousers, it might help an airman having been shot down, and in enemy terr tory [sic], to look less conspicuous when trying to evade capture.

Resistance Groups in France, Belgium, and Holland, were aware of the “white sweater”, R.A.F. Intelligence had told us that if contact was made with a Resistance Group, one of the tests they might carry out to make sure that you were genuine R.A.F., and not an enemy Agent “planted” in the chain, was to pluck a strand of the yarn from the sweater and offer a flame to it. If it only smoulded [sic], this would show that the garment was made of pure wool and probably genuine. If the sample flared up, it was synthetic material and the garment not a genuine R.A.F. issue. No doubt the Resistance would soon be made aware that the Germans were now confiscating the genuine article, so the test would be of no value.

We must have looked a very strange party when we left Dulag Luft on that cold Febuary [sic] afternoon. Dirty, ragged, bandaged, and limping, but each carrying a brand new Attache case. Unlike the journey we made coming to Frankfurt, we were not going to enjoy the comfort of travelling in passenger coaches, but neither were we going to be exposed to the very aggressive

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civilians. On the other hand the guards escorting us on this journey, might not be so skilled IN protecting us, or have reason to be as we had all been fully interrogated now, therefore of much less value to our captors.

But under heavy guard we were quickly loaded on to waiting lorries and transported to a railway goods yard not far away. They stopped alongside a train made up of goods wagons and they instantly reminded me of those shown on the Pathe Newsreal [sic] at my local Odeon cinema earlier in the war, taking Jews off to detention camps. Nobody then, outside Germany, could guess what their terrible fate would be, so in that respect I was spared apprehension.

R.A.F. Intelligence had warned us of a ploy that might be used at Dulag Luft. In return for answers to their questions they would offer a quick transfer to a P.O.W. camp, where the accommodation would be very comfortable, adequate sports facilities, and all the comforts of modern life. No doubt the poor Jewish people were deceived in a similar fashion to make the task of transporting them to their deaths a little easier for their evil captors in the ealier [inserted] earlier [/inserted] days. Later in the war they were brutally and unashamedly forced into them. I have never understood how the Nazis were able to conceal their crimes against the Jews from the rest of the world for so long. I suppose the truth was so really unimaginable, that no one would have suspected it.

Our guards remained very efficient, and got all our party quickly transferred into one of the rail wagons, leaving not the slightest chance of any of us slipping away into the gathering darkness. Once inside, it could be seen that security had been well taken care of there, also. The interior had been divided into three sections by heavy timber and barbed wire barriers. The centre section, where there was a sliding door on each side for loading purposes was at all times occupied by three or four armed guards, which gave them full control. We, the prisoners were securely detained in the two end sections, with only a narrow door securely bolted from the centre section, being the only possible means of escape.

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We were not able to appreciate at this stage that we would be travelling in comparative comfort. Although there was not enough room for each prisoner to lie down on the floor of the wagon, there was just enough room while sitting upright along each side to straighten our legs, and also, the journey was only going to take about a day and a half. Far worse journeys were to come later during captivity.

We were soon under way, and in the friendly company of other Allied airmen, I felt this was a vast improvement on the loneliness and anxiety of Dulag Luft. We could see the guards – through the barbed wire, preparing their evening meal. Nothing we would envy at that time, a piece of black sausage, and a hunk of black bread. But a few months later the sight of anything edible, just out of reach, would have been a torment. They also had in their section a small coal burning stove where they could make a hot drink – but then it would only have been that ersatz [sic] coffee, and the heat output of the stove would have been too small to make any noticeable difference to the very cold temperatures that had to be endured by all, even in their section, on board our mobile prison.

The night [deleted] night [/deleted] soon passed away with several stops being made, when at each we thought [deleted] we thought [/deleted] our journey was completed, but as it became daylight the reason for the stops became clear – our train had no priority, and was frequently put into a siding to allow other trains to pass. As it got slightly warmer the guards slid open one of the doors a bit, and apart from being grateful for the stream of fresh air that came streaming in, it allowed some view of what was going on outside and told us that we were travelling north, and towards the Russian Front, for while we were in yet another siding, it could be seen that trains passing and going in our direction were made up of flat platform trucks and carrying field guns and lorries, while trains going in the opposite direction were mainly Hospital trains. Soldiers could be seen standing at the windows, mostly with their heads bandaged, or with one, or even both arms in slings but looking quite cheerful. Supposedly only too glad to get away from a terrible war, and perhaps back home. In other carriages the seriously wounded could be seen lying on stretchers. They were the enemy, but is was still shocking to see them.

It was during the second night that [deleted] we that [/deleted] our rail journey ended. We thought it was

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just another, but extra long wait in a siding, but as it began to get light the guards could be seen putting on their packs and gathering up their rifles. One of the doors was slid fully open when we could see it was now daylight. One at a time the small doors that gave access to the central compartment were unbolted, and we were ordered “out”. Once outside it could be seen that the guard had been considerably strengthened (Probably from Stalag Luft VI) and the prisoners from both compartments were “formed up” much as we would have been in the “square bashing” days of the R.A.F., and marched off.

It did not seem to be a long or arduous march, perhaps even enjoyable after the confinement of the cattle truck, but then arriving at our destination came the sight of the barbed wire. It not only surrounded the Stalag entirely and very securely, but within that there were separate areas known as Lagers, or compounds, which were just as securely fenced from each other, creating prisons within a prison. At Stalag Luft VI there were three compounds “A” “E” and “K”. The fences, it seemed were erected to a standard pattern, for wherever I went they all looked alike. There was in fact always two fences running parallel, about twelve feet apart, and about the same in height thickly stranded with barbed wire, and the gap between them filled entirely with coiled barbed wire. The posts were of natural, unmachined, substantial tree trunks. As would be expected the defences extended well below ground level. At each corner of the wired off areas were Posten boxes. These were platforms hoisted a further ten feet above wire on timber stilts with a roof over which gave the guards who manned them continuously, day and night, an uninterrupted view of both sides of the fences. They were armed with mounted machine guns and rifles, and for night use, searchlights to supplement the overhead lighting around the wire barriers.

Perhaps twenty feet from the “wire”, (as all the boundry [sic] fences were known as, to the prisoners) and on the inside ran the “warning wire”. This was quite insignificant in appearance but the strict rule laid down by our captors was that any prisoner even by just touching it, would be considered as “attempting to escape” and shot without further warning. This rule had to be accepted, and no one in their right mind would ever put it to the test. In youth, “possibilities” are generally not considered at all, and to a great extent “proberbilities [sic], but when I look back in my

[inserted] probabilities [/inserted]

[inserted] [deleted] interrupted [/deleted] [/inserted]

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old age I realise how easy it would have been for a prisoner to accidently fall on to that warning wire, for just inside of it, around the entire boundry [sic] of each Compound, was a well trodden path known as the “Circuit”. This gave the longest uninterrupted walk possible, and it was very popular with most prisoners. In all weathers, but especially on a fine day, the “circuit” would be crowded. Apart from the fresh air, which was so welcome after being shut up in a very crowded hut for many hours, if there was anything to discuss about R.A.F. matters, escape plans, or anything that our captors must not know about, this was the only place where there could not be any hidden microphones, or the enemy not secretly be listening. It was pretty crowded at times, and the chances of someone stumbling and accidently touching the wire, certainly not impossible.

Our party was marched from the main gate through several internal but no less well guarded gates to “E” Lager, very obviously newly opened, and almost entirely occupied by American airmen. We were herded into a large, and for a short time, not overcrowded, hut. There were no Americans in this hut, it seemed we were to be segregated from the Americans by huts, but we could mix with them freely otherwise,, and it was to be a very interesting experience.

In Bomber Command we had the [circled] privelage [/circled] of training with, or even being in a crew with, men from all parts of the then, great British Empire. The larger countries had their own air forces, e.g the Royal Australia A.F. the Royal Canadian A.F. the Royal New Zealand A.F. the Royal Indian A.F. and the Royal South African A.F. Smaller countries in the Empire such as Jamaica were grouped with the R.A.F. but wore a shoulder “flash” indicating their nationality. It was an extreme example of co-operation, organisation, and determination. Because all the training was co-ordinated, wherever in the world it was done, we could come together and [deleted] a [/deleted] work as a crew. My own crew was an example – the pilot did the first part of his training in the U.S.A. The navigator was trained in South Africa, our first bomb-aimer was Canadian of the R.C.A.F. (he became ill and we were not allowed to interrupt training while he recovered) but his replacement although R.A.F. had been trained in Canada. Upon conversion to Lancasters an R.C.A.F. Mid Upper Gunner joined the crew, and a Flight Engineer, who like me did his entire training in Britain – and we all fitted together with no difficulty.

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We soon settled in with the Americans of “E” Lager they were friendly, helpful and interesting, but I found them a little surprising. It must be remembered that there were no trans-Atlantic air services in my youth, even if there had have been, the average person of that day would not have had the leisure time or the money to use them, and the same applied to the luxury sea crossings that were available. Knowledge of the Americans came from the films that were shown at the local cinemas – most popular before the days of television. Ninety five per cent of these were American so we thought we really knew them, and all about the U.S.A. Those of the cities were all “well off” – they took their “girls” out to dinner driving big cars, or hailed a “cab” by clicking a finger and thumb, and there was always one at hand, or, they were “Cowboys”. These were quite different, and spent most of their time at war with the Red Indians showing unbelievable accuracy with their “six shooters” and always winning. In their spare time they would demonstrate their other skill of “lassoing” [sic] wild cattle. The surprise was that in reality they were much us, and back home they did ordinary jobs, to earn an ordinary living. They were perhaps in general a bit more extrovert, especially when playing organized games.

We soon learnt to play “hardball” and “softball” with them and had to get used to what we thought was ungentlemanly “barracking” that went on, to try to put the “striker” off his game. Strong concentration and quick decision, was needed in those games.

It was not long before American airmen were wearing R.A.F. battledress blouses and visa [sic] versa. I did not swop mine, I thought the R.A.F. ones looked warmer and more suitable for the bitter cold Baltic weather.

While walking the “circuit” one afternoon, two guards armed with rifles and fixed bayonets could be seen escorting a boy dressed in knickerbocker trousers and a tweed jacket, through the main gate into our Lager. The boy wore a foreign looking peaked cap, and was grinning in an arrogant and defiant way. He looked far too young to be coming to join us, but was marched straight into one of the American huts, and after a short while the escort left. It was a week or so before I learned the story behind this “boy’s” arrival, from one of the Americans.

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It turned out that the “boy” was a fully adult American airman. During a raid on Germany several months before, his aircraft, a B29 was shot down over France. He managed to evade immediate capture and was given shelter by a French family, at great risk to themselves and he was not “passed on” to a resistance group, as we have always been told would happen by R.A.F. intelligence, but kept by the family as one of them, and he lived quite openly it seemed even occasionly [sic] did a news paper delivery job in full daylight – went to the barber’s shop for a haircut several times and generally lived a normal life. His ability to do this would have been firstly the support given by a very brave family (I was not told what happened to them), and then his remarkable physical appearance. Dressed as a boy, and with his cheeky arrogent [sic] attitude, in a quiet country area, I believe the story. The American went on to tell me that the new prisoner was a “ball man”, which I had already learned meant that he would have manned the gun turret protruding below the belly of the B29, known as Ball Turret, and to be able to even get into one, a man needs to be short in stature, and slim.

Our hut, the non American one, soon filled to capacity, and we had to get used to what life was always going to be in a prison camp. The most common type of huts, I was never in any other, were built together – rather like a row of terraced houses, hurt they only had a ground floor. The upper space was not wasted, as it made room for the two, and sometimes three tier bunks that lined each of the side walls, and placed so close together, it was a tight squeeze to get into them. This arrangement allowed about sixty prisoners to be penned up in each hut, but left little floor space for eating, cooking, or any other domestic task. Fresh air must have been inadequate, because there was always only two small windows at the back, and two similar ones and the door to the front. Before darkness fell the windows were shuttered up, and the door securely bolted from the outside. I shudder to think what the air quality must have been at the end of a long Winter night. In very warm weather there was a concession, the windows were left unshuttered allowing a bit more ventilation, but an attempt to even lean out of them would be risking a fierce attack by a guard dog, or being shot by an [deleted] overacting [/deleted] overactive patrolling guard.

There were no washing facilities in the huts, and the lavatory for night use was a large metal

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drum which had to be emptied each morning into a pit near to the main Latrine block, some distance away. The transporting of it, and it was quite heavy, was made possible by the provision of two poles or shafts, which could be passed through a bracket on each side of the drum. With a man front and rear, and a little practice in getting the balance right, it was soon accepted as a normal daily task. Looking back I suppose it was like carrying a Sedan Chair, with a different sort of passenger. The task was done on a “roter” [inserted] rota [/inserted] basis, and while doing it, the two man team was excused all the other hut “fatigues” so it had it’s good side.

Red Cross food parcels were regularly available when first being at Stalag Luft VI, and I cannot emphasize enough what a life saver they were. Even with them we always felt hungry but we were not starving. They were issued on the basis of one parcel per man per week. Each one was opened under the scrutiny of the Germans, which was understandable, and any tins of food were not allowed to be issued without first being punctured. Once again understandable as they would be very useful for escape purposes. There was a communal kitchen where the meagre potato ration was cooked. These were never peeled, in order to maintain, what little food value they had, and psychologically this was a little comforting as the skin took a little longer to chew. There was a concession with the tins. Unpuctured [sic] ones were allowed into the into the [sic] communal kitchen for immediate use where together with the day’s potato ration, they were made into “corned beef hash” or “salmon clop” which was popular because it made a bit bulk, which was sorely needed. There was only one small stove in each hut, and even that had a totally inadequate fuel supply, so individual cooking was limited to making toast with one of precious slices of bread, if you had enough patience, and this was not recommended by the British medical officer, warning that the toasting of bread destroyed some of it’s food value. After a week or so in the prison camp, the German bread was taking a new image – from being despised, as hunger really set in, it was craved after, and the daily ration of one seventh of a loaf eagerly awaited. The temptation of eating it all as it arrived, was on the advice of more experienced Kriegies (an abreviation [sic] of the long German name for prisoners of war) resisted, but it took strong willpower, and the experience of the long wait for the next issue to see the wisdom of this. The bread ration was issued firstly to the communal kitchen on the strict

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basis of one loaf to seven men, and from there to the huts, and it was here that the unenviable task of cutting each loaf into seven equal parts before an audience of very hungry Kreigies was undertaken. It was done by a volunteer as his share of the daily hut fatigues, and at that time, I am ashamed to admit, I did not appreciate the value of his work. The loaf was not uniform in shape, and although of a standard weight, we had no scales to help decide what was a fair “seventh”, so it all depended on on [sic] his skillful [sic] hand and eye. He was a grocer and provision merchant in civilian life, and no doubt this was a great help. During the cutting process if a crumb of bread fell from the table, it never reached the floor – there were too many hungry bystanders with eye and hand finely tuned to snap up this rare minute treat.

Also prepared daily and distributed by the communal kitchen was the midday soup which was no more than boiled swede. It was brought to each hut in a wooden tub, and as another permanent fatigue, one man had the job of [deleted] laddling [/deleted] [inserted] ladelly [sic] [/inserted] this out to every one in the hut. This was easier to share out than the bread because it worked out that each man’s share could be measured, using a skilled eye and hand with the ladle, and making sure the very watery soup was stirred frequently to distribute the lumps of swede. The only differential in the portions was that the spinters [sic] of wood that came from the tub, became more evident towards the bottom, and it was an acquired skill to [circled] separate [/circled] the swede from the wood, before spitting out.

A very interesting person in the hut was a Frenchman, who came in two or three days after David and I, he could speak English very well and gradually, bit by bit, we heard the almost incredible story of his war to date. At the outbreak in 1939 Maurice was too young for military service but after the fall of France in 1940 he became involved with the Resistance Movement mainly helping Allied soldiers and airmen evade capture and get to Britain where they could join up with their old units, or become part of the newly formed Free French forces. He then escaped to Britain himself in a very small boat, where he joined the R.A.F. and became a fighter pilot. On an offensive sweep over France he was shot down but survived that uninjured, to rejoin the Resistance. Some time later he was arrested during a Gestapo raid but was able to prove, because he had time to put on his uniform, and was already wearing his identity discs, that he was R.A.F. and therefore a prisoner of war according to the Geneva Convention.

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As the air activity by both the U.S.A.A.F. and the R.A.F. increased in the early Spring of 1944 so did the arrival of more newly captured Allied airmen at Stalag Luft V1. Before providing more [circled] accommodation [/circled] our captors were intent on cramming even more into what existed and it was soon rumoured that all R.A.F. prisoners were to be moved to either “A” or [deleted] “E” [/deleted] K Lager.

It was some time before rumour became reality, and in the meanwhile “E” Lager became more crowded, and there was an alarming incident one afternoon. Two guards came into the hut armed with rifles and bayonets, they were accompanied by one of the security guards who were always to be treated with suspicion, as despite their seemingly innocent “just passing by” attitude, they were very much on the look out for any illegal activities or [circled] possessions. [/circled] On this occasion there was just one single purpose, he had come to take the Frenchman away for further questioning. Maurice looked terrible, but there was nothing any of us could have done to help him as he was marched out between the guards, and the “Ferret” which was the name given them by the prisoners, searched his pitiful, left behind, [circled] possessions. [/circled] Happily we did hear r [sic] later that he had been returned to the Camp after his ordeal. Our Camp Leader, or “Man of Confidence”, his official title, was aware of what had happened and demanded to know what the consequences were from the Commandant. It was said that our Camp Leader got full cooperation from him. It was no secret that the ordinary German Military had no love for the Gestapo, or the S.S..

The Camp Leader, “Dixie” Deans had the absolute trust and admiration of all the prisoners. He had that rare quality of being able to get respect from all, and yet he never shouted or threa- [circled] tened. [/circled] He was always calm and collected, and knew just how far to push the Germans and be un-cooperative, without risking a mass execution of those under his leadership, and yet he still earned and maintained the respect of our captors. I will never forget him or cease to be eternally grateful that he was [inserted] THERE [/inserted] to guide and protect us. [deleted] ful that he was there to protect us. [/deleted]

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Unusually, in my experience, rumour soon became reality, and any prisoner who did not belong to one of the U.S. Air Forces was moved out of “E” Lager. David and I were moved to “K” Lager, not into the same hut this time, but he was in a hut just opposite so we were still in close and easy contact. Some months later, however, this would make a significant difference in the way we were treated in our P.O.W. lives.

In “K” Lager there were distinct signs of more organisation, this was understandable because most of the prisoners there, had been in captivity for considerably longer. They were very welcoming in hut K6, and I was invited to join a long established group of five who always sat at the same table, and to some extent shared things, but not food. This was always individual [sic], it was so precious. Interestingly two of the group, or Combine, as each group was known as, were from my squadron, when the Wellington was a first line bomber. Of different crews but they had both been in the “Bag” about two years. Talk about the squadron was only safe when walking the “circuit”. We knew very little because only high ranking officers are likely to know any real secrets, but it was emphasized that the enemy were always listening for. fragments of [circled] information, [/circled] that when pieced together would be valuable to them. [circled] Idont [inserted] sp [/inserted] [/circled] think they got much from our table.

The first example of organization in “K” Lager came on my first day there, when a smartly dressed man, wearing collar and tie (a rare sight) entered the hut. He was obviously well known to all, but me, and they knew what he had come for. Simultaneously space was cleared for him at one of the tables, a man posted himself at each of the windows, and the door was checked for being closed, and all went quiet. In a cultured voice, very similar to that of a B.B.C. announcer (there was only radio at the time) spoke out- “this is the news in English”, and he and he [sic] went on to read from a sheet what we would call today, the news headlines.

A little trick that the News reader had at hand I heard about later, was, that if a “Ferret” came into the hut during the reading, he had at the ready, a copy of a German Newsbulletin [sic], and he would switch quickly to this, which was perfectly legal.

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This was a daily service, sometimes twice a day, if there was [circled] somthing [inserted] something [/inserted] [/circled] exciting going on, but for what at times seemed ages, the progress of the Allied armies was very slow or static. We were impatient waiting for the day when soldiers would come, break down the gates and set us free. It was some time after the war was over that it was revealed what a bitter and courageous struggle the Armies had had to make the progress they did, on all Fronts, and how even more grateful we should all have been for their sacrifices. I think the Media as it is called today, tended to [circle] emphasize [/circled] the good bits, and not tell of the bad. Perhaps they were made to do this to boost [circled] moral [/circled] at home, but I will tell later of one instance where this policy did not go down well with those fighting the war right at the front.

Very shortly after being moved into “K” Lager all of us new arrivals were told by their various hut leaders we were to attend a meeting in a room which I learned later was usually used for education purposes. No particular reason was given- just be there. It turned out we were to be seen individually by a “Panel” made up of from the much respected “old timers” from “A” Lager Some of these claimed they had been in Germany longer than many millions of Germans, which I suppose was true, but they were not rewarded for that. They had earned respect for being clever, reliable people, who had assisted the Camp Leader, in his arduous work whenever needed.

It came as a shock when my turn came to take up the seat in front of them, when I realized I was being interrogated by them to ascertain that I was genuine R.A.F., but later could see the sense in what they had done, because straight on from that they wanted to know all what I had seen during the journey from Dulag Luft, especially the rail traffic. One or two questions about what I was asked at Dulag Luft, and I was thanked, reminded to keep my “trap” shut, then with a wink and a smile, dismissed. Even in those early days I had more sense than to ask what it was all for. I never imagined that in about a year, in a very humble way, and only for about two weeks, I would be helping in this sort of work.

Life went on steadily in K6. Prisoners [circled] were [/circled] allowed to write home a lettercard once a month. It was known by us that this would be heavily censored before leaving Germany so [circled] itt [/circled] was difficult to know what would be allowed through. Likewise we could receive one a month

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from our relatives. Prisoners were allowed a Personal parcel, I think this was only every three months, and even that was not maintained. Not because they were not sent out by relatives – regularly, but they did not arrive. The Germans were not suspected of pilfering them, they were quite honourable in some things. The parcels came indirectly, via a neutral country, so it would be difficult to say where, or how they went astray. Cigarette parcels, which were allowed to be sent more frequently, fared even worse. They too came indirectly, but being smaller were probably easier to pilfer.

You might say now, knowingly about the dangers of smoking, “well that was a good thing” but in those days we were all led to believe that smoking was good, it calmed the nerves helped a person to think more clearly, and that was a great social asset. [circled] Consequently [/circled] probably nine out of ten men smoked, including me, and quite a lot of women, but in a Prison Camp cigarettes took on a new dimension, they were currency, so the few non smokers and the few lucky ones who faired a bit better with their cigarette parcels, the Canadians, could buy things from other prisoners, but I must say at this point, the Canadians were always generous to their hut mates. I enjoyed many a packet of Sweet Caporal cigarettes, they were a great morale booster when times were especially bad.

Cigarettes could be earned in the more prosperous times by a few who were talented in drawing, and by using a photograph as a guide, could produce an A4 size portrait in pencil. Some were remarkably good, and I wonder if any of the artists ever became professional.

The amount of items that were bought and sold for cigarettes was never large, and became almost non [circled] existent [/circled] as 1944 wore on, when even the Canadian parcels were not coming through. Bread was never on sale within the camp – that was priceless, but there were contacts from outside where [deleted] a [/deleted] a loaf could be bought. I did hear that one of the guards was involved but it would have been pointless trying to find out more without having the means to carry the deal through, and very risky.

It was years after my P.O.W. days before it occurred to me what a lot of clever work was done by our Camp Leader and his aids, in obtaining items and the services of people from the

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outside. It all had to be thought through very carefully because of the risk of counter intelligence For instance maintaining the secret radio would require a supply of spare parts and batteries, but if the wrong person was contacted to supply them, it could get back to the Germans, which would confirm that there was a radio in the camp, and [circled] probably [/circled] reveal it’s hiding place. Many things would have to be secretly obtained towards an organized escape bid – clothing, train timetables, and much general information about the locality. This could only have been done with bribery, and the only thing these clever dedicated people had to use for that purpose, to my knowledge would come out of the Red Cross parcels. Cigarettes, chocolate, and real coffee, I imagine would be very tempting to the Germans, they endured severe austerity in that sort of thing. Perhaps some of the goods had to be first exchanged for Reichmarks [sic] before the objective could be achieved. Whatever had to be done was for the good of us all, and this group of [circled] courageous [/circled] people, the Escape Committee, the name they were known by in all Stalag Lufts, should have had special recognition, when they returned home to their various countries, and I [circled] don’t [circled] think they did. The Camp Leader, James Deans, was honoured for his outstanding services.

I had been in K6 some weeks, when at about 5am troops burst into the hut and ordered everyone out immediately, and that meant dressed in whatever we usually slept in. It was still very cold at that time of the morning, despite the improving temperatures by day, and we were just kept standing there for some considerable time. It would become obvious in a short while that others, in the hut guessed what this was all about, but nothing was said. Eventually we were all ordered back to the hut, and I happened to be one of the first in, so got a front seat you might say, to see all that took place. But right in the lead, with his own personal guard was Jock, our Room Leader, and he was escorted right up the hut to the small room where the night latrine was housed.

Jock, like the Camp Leader did not shout to make sure everyone knew he was in charge, he did not have to. He was a quiet mannered Scot, who on first [circled] acquaitance [/circled] might appear dour, but look more carefully, and there was always a hint of humour in his eyes., He did everything quietly and efficiently, and was accepted by all without question.

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I could see when [circled] igot [/circled] to the door of the latrine room that nearly all the space was taken up by a group of sinister looking civilians, and I immediately thought these are Gestapo as they were dressed in long black overcoats, trilby hats with the brim turned down front and back, and leather jack boots. Although concealed, a bulge in their coats revealed that they were armed with pistols, and that was almost exactly like the Gestapo were portrayed in the films shown at my local cinema back home.

The latrine bin had been pushed to one side, and one of the paving slabs had been removed to reveal a neat hole a bit smaller in area than the slab. It was obviously a shaft leading to a tunnel below, and Jock had been hustled into a position by his escort to stand on one side the shaft so that he was facing who must have been the senior Gestapo man on the other, who took his time to stare at Jock until when ready, almost screamed out the question “and what is the meaning of this” thrusting a finger at the hole. Jock, unaffected by his attitude did nothing for what seemed an age, and just stood and stared into the hole feigning surprise and disbelief.

Next, Jock moved around the hole 90 degrees, and from his new position again stood with a puzzled look studying the hole with disbelief, for what seemed another age of time, and with the the [sic] Gestapo man getting more and more angry, made visible by his face becoming redder and redder by the second, until it seemed he was about to explode.

We all wondered what Jock’s next move would be because he could not play this out much longer, and he was now standing almost at the side of a very angry and impatient Gestapo officer who were not known for their kindness to prisoners. But Jock now moved slowly and thoughtfully to the opposite side of the shaft and looked into the hole once more, still without answering the question. Eventually, when he was ready, he scratched his head two or three times then turned to the officer, and with his face the picture of innocence said, “well look at that rats”. Then the Gestapo man did explode – he threw both arms in the in the [sic] air, his whole body went up, with both feet well clear of the ground. He was absolutely fuming and barely in control of himself. Spitting and fuming as he did so he screamed back the questions – “rats?” “rats?” “do you think we are stupid?” and without waiting for Jock’s answer motioned to the guard who had escorted Jock in, shouting “Cooler, Cooler”. The guard sprang to attention and off went Jock,

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giving one of his rare smiles. “The Cooler” was the name given to the detention centre, or punishment cells, where sentences for misbehaviour were served. Usual punishment would vary between one and fourteen days, according to the seriousness of the misbehaviour. Jock was given, I think, four days by the Commandant, which was lenient. Perhaps his way of “getting back” at the Gestapo. Even so the Cooler was not a pleasant place to be in – absolute solitude, and the food was even more sparse than normal.

Life went on in K Lager, always hungry, sometimes very hungry, and it seemed that there was no change in the progress of the war. Prisoners kept each other going morale wise. There was often someone ready to throw himself at the “wire” and make an end to it, but luckily there was always a friend who would boost his spirits enough to prevent this. There was one prisoner who would tantalize those around him, usually just before they were about to get to sleep, by saying loudly what he was going to have for breakfast on the first morning he got home again. He would reel off a tantalizing menu of eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pud [circled] dingand [/circled] lashings of hot buttered toast, accompanied by hot sweet tea or coffee with real milk and plenty of sugar. He would then start to say what he would have to follow, but would always be shouted down, or have something thrown at him before he could do that. Only those who have been very hungry for a long time would appreciate his cruel humour, but it always finished with a laugh, so it must have done a bit of good, and it was only what everyone thought, often.

As the weather got a bit warmer life became a little easier because the mud dried up and a walk round the circuit became a little more enjoyable. The distant pine trees surrounding the camp, appeared a little less mournful and forbidding, but the craving for food continued.

June the sixth 1944 started as a miserable day, dull and windy, and the secret radio bulletin had told us it was Derby day in the U.K. [circled] S ome [/circled] of those more interested in horse racing had organized a simulation of the race out in the parade ground. A bit like a huge Ludo game scatched [sic] out on the ground. Punters could lay bets in cigarettes with self appointed bookmakers, but the race never finished. Some very, very, important and breathtaking news was spreading that could not be made known to everyone simultaneously as there was no loudspeaker system in the camp – it and been posted up on the official German notice board, and it was only as

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individuals read the notice twice over to make sure they had read it right, and then raced back to their huts, that the news that the Allies had landed in Normandy that morning, was spread. and as it did, cheer after cheer rang out from some, while others hid their faces and just cried.

That dramatic news was contained in one first sentence of the German notice, and then it went on to claim that this was just what they had been waiting for – at last, the Allies had delivered themselves to them, and now a pincer movement would be applied, and those of the invaders who had not been wiped out by that, would be driven back into the sea. This claim was not even discussed by anyone to my knowledge. The Allies had landed and that was that, and the wonderful, almost unbelievable news was confirmed when a BBC bulletin was read out in each hut at midday, with such an optimistic account of the progress that had been made, that even the most pessimistic were now speculating on when our liberation would come. Little did we know of what was to come. For many liberation never came, and thousands had to suffer terrible hardship, before they were returned to their beloved homelands, and for all a much longer wait than anybody ever expected.

As a week or so went by with no significant advance from the beachheads, a feeling of anticlimax began to set in. We were not made aware of the bitter battles our armies were fighting in attempting to take the city of Caen, or we would have been much more grateful for what they were achieving, and prepared to wait in our comparative safety. However in the following weeks even the most doubtful were asking, “will it be next week, or the week after when the British Liberation Army will smashing down the gates to set us free”? because the progress was unbelievable, even the most doubtful were saying “two weeks and we will be free”. It was to be much longer than that.

At some time in July 1944 an obvious change was brought about for the Germans who were guarding us, and I believe to all German forces wherever they were serving, and probably all German nationals. This followed the attempted assassination of Hitler in East Prussia, so it would not have been that far from our Stalag in the north of that country. The first sign of change was at morning Roll Call when at it’s completion, our Leader saluted the German officer in charge, as normal, but this was not returned as it always was, with a similar salute, but with a

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salute that everyone knew to be the Nazi one. The right arm and hand was stretched fully forward and slightly raised. It seemed that Hitler had called all his ordinary, purely military personnel to heel, overnight, and reminded them who was “boss”, but the new salute was a mere detail of the change, there was an atmosphere of fear. The guards were not more aggressive to the prisoners, whatever had been inflicted on them was not to be passed on to us, it seemed if anything, that was to be kept secret.

From then on, the ordinary salute was not seen to be used by any German, but some of the fear that we guessed they were under, gradually came to light – that was being posted to the Russian Front. Some of our guards had already been there, and quite unofficially of course, and being sure they could not be overheard, would disclose some of the horrors they had been through there, and declared that the Russians were not like a British or a German soldier, they were “animals”, and did not care how many of them were killed in gaining an inch of ground. So we thought we had some idea of why they dreaded being sent there. Knowing this, but not risking a blow with a rifle butt by saying it only to a guard known to be amiable, and would accept a bit of teasing, prisoners might ask looking very serious, “Russian front Herr Smitt”? They knew what his self comforting answer would be, “Nein nein, too old, too old,” but we noticed that some of the old guards did disappear, very noticeably the German Warrant Officer. He was a very firm man, but fair, and we knew what to do, and what not to do, when he was about. He was not a Nazi, but a true professional regular soldier. We felt safe with him, so although it might sound strange, we thought we had suffered a loss.

When the true horrors of the Concentration Camps was revealed in April 1945, ordinary Germans claimed to have no knowledge of the Gas Chambers or the primitive barbaric burning of the bodies, but just after the attempted assassination of Hitler, remember that was in July 1944, a new phrase began to circulate around the Camp “if you do not behave you will go up the chimney”. This was not used by the guards as a new threat to us, but I imagine it was a thing that they themselves, had been threatened with, to tighten the newly imposed discipline. If we in a prison camp, had got to hear it, then it was hardly believable that the saying, and it’s

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sinister meaning, would not be known to most of the German population in a short space of time, even if they did not already know.

Before we got used to the new order of things for the Germans, our thoughts of when we were going to be liberated by the British or American forces coming from the West or the South were diverted by the belief that we could hear heavy gunfire coming from the East. Within two days we were sure, there was no mistake, it was heavy gunfire, much louder and more intense. The coming of the Russians was [circled] co [deleted] m [/deleted] [inserted] n [/inserted] firmed [/circled] when we could see in the far distance columns of civilians struggling along a road pushing handcarts, and carrying all sorts of possessions. We had seen similar scenes on the newsreels at the cinema when the Germans were pushing their way across Belgium and France in 1940, so knew they were fleeing the oncoming Russians.

Everyone believed that our liberation was imminent. Amateur strategists among us predict [inserted] ed [/inserted] ed, “they will not bother getting us out, they will only think of themselves – East Prussia is part of Germany, you see”, and even the pessimists thought they were right, but two days later we were on the move, with no signs of panic from our captors. It was a hasty withdrawal but well organised.

I think it was the very next day after seeing the columns of refugees, when in the early morning we found that the whole of “E” Lager (the Americans) had already been moved out, and a barricade of armed guards had been set up in our own Lager [circled] seperating [inserted] a [/inserted] [/circled] the two rows of huts. The occupants had already been ousted out from those directly opposite where David was, but I could not catch sight of him before they, carrying all they could manage in hastily made backpacks, were herded off much like cattle, except that the “drovers” were much more plentiful, and had bayonets fixed ready to discourage any slow movers, and it was not long before all the huts on the opposite side were empty, creating a strange silent atmosphere along the whole row.

It was not until the war in Europe was over that I learned from David, and others who went with him, what a terrifying experience all those on their side of K Lager had had, along with the whole of the occupants of E Lager, in their journey to Stalag Luft IV, at Gross Tychow. This was

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still close to the shores of the Baltic but further West, inside Germany, and I believe a newly – opened prison camp.

Although as I have said, I knew nothing of what David was suffering on his journey at the time, I will record at this stage what he told me much later about it, and what I have learned from others who made the same journey.

From Stalag Luft V1, they were marched to the [circled] raiway [sic] [inserted] railway [/inserted] [/circled] station and loaded into cattle trucks, and in which the made the short journey to the port of Memel. There they were loaded onto to a very decrepit, small merchant ship, which was normally used for carrying coal in it’s two holds. After being ordered to leave the packs containing their pathetic possessions on deck, using just one single vertical ladder, they were forced below at dangerous pace, into a filthy hold. The weather by now was very warm, and the heat accumulated in the steel hold almost unbearable, and what they needed desperately now, immediately, was water.

The floor space of each of the two filthy stinking holds was crammed to absolute capacity with hundreds of men. Those on the sides had great difficulty in maintaining a foothold because of the slope, and it was only after a lot of shuffling around that room was found for most men to sit with knees drawn up tight, but the heat problem and the air quality got worse, as did the desperate need for water. Eventually this was provided by lowering just one bucketful down at a time. The waiting, when only being able to watch while others drank, must have been torture.

Although it must have been known that the voyage would take sixty hours, no provision had been made for sanitation. Only a few of the hundreds that had been packed into the holds had been allowed back on deck after the ship set sail to relieve themselves, the rest were expected to make do with a bucket. This was raised up and down by a chain just as the water was, and some said the same bucket was used for both purposes. Whatever, a bucket was soon proved inadequate for this purpose and a bit of the precious floor space in the hold had to be given over to this. With practically no ventilation the stench of this increaced [sic] the misery below.

To add even more terror, it was known to some of the R.A.F. prisoners aboard, that mine laying operations were frequently carried out in this area of the Baltic sea, so every bang on the

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on the side of the ship when it collided with “flotsom” [sic], caused them to cringe, waiting for an explosion. Another thing that caused great concern to the few who had been allowed back on deck after setting sail was that they could see that an E boat was following them. Were the German crew of their ship to be taken off at some point, leaving all the prisoners helpless when it was sunk by gunfire or a torpedo?.

Thankfully after two and a half days, the ship docked at the port of Swinemünde, and it’s cargo transferred back in to what would become, very crowded cattle trucks once more, for a what should have been a short journey inland, but were kept “penned up” like cattle, but with no water overnight.

Next morning as the doors were at last slid open it could be seen that the guards who had brought them from Stalag Luft V1 had departed, and had been replaced with very arrogant and aggressive members of the Kreigsmarine (German navy), and would be the equivalent of the “Hitler Youth”. They were each carrying a bayonet, and made known that they intended to use them by making a great display of sharpening them in full view of the prisoners.

It was obvious that on this final part of the terrible journey, it was the intention of those who had planned it, to provoke the prisoners into making a mass escape. At intervals along the route machine gun nests could be spotted, and moving along with the column was a film crew continually filming, supposedly to record the very start of what was hoped for. It was almost certain that only the strange sort of [circled] disipline [inserted] discipline [/inserted] [/circled] , based on trust in their quiet unassuming leader, Vick Clarke, that prevented this from happening, when he sent word down the line [circled] “dont [/circled] try to run away out of line, that’s what they want”. Probably only someone who has been a prisoner of war would know why everyone obeyed without question.

The column had set off marching headed by a very tall German officer, but his pace was so fast that the prisoners had to run to keep up with him, and the arrogant young sailors running alongside, made sure they did by slashing any stragglers with their bayonets unmercifully, and letting it be seen that they were enjoying it. David was stabbed twice in the back, and he did show me the wounds after meeting up again when the war ended, but told me how others had suffered far worse than he had. He was so modest, and it was not until I read the book by

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John Nichol and Tony Rennell. “The Last Escape” that I learned more fully of the threats, hardships, terror and sufferings that were inflicted on these completely defenceless comrades of mine. How the Germans can bleat about what happened to Dresden in the war I do not know.

Soon after the departure of “E” and our neighbours of “K” Lager, the remaining prisoners of “K” Lager, and all of those of “A” Lager were herded out, after every single person was strip searched at one table, while every item of clothing, and all our other possessions were examined at another. I mention this as an illustration of just how clever, our “clever” men were. 24 hours after arriving at the new Stalag we were having the news from the B.B.C. read out to us in the huts. Although the camp was already occupied , this service had never been available before, so all of the equipment must have been smuggled out of Stalag Luft V1, concealed during the journey, and smuggled through [circled] anoher [inserted] another, [/inserted] [/circled] although not so thorough, search, when we arrived at Stalag XXA, in Poland. There were many speculations made as to how this was done, but no one would have been stupid enough to ask.

After telling of David and his party’s journey, I will just say that our journey was very uncomfortable, and we were very glad when it ended, but when travelling across what seemed to be endless flat country, because the heat was almost unbearable for the guards, the central doors of our truck were slid open, which allowed us to see a little of what we were passing. Actually it was what went past us that caused by far the greatest interest. Someone who was nearer to the wire barrier and would have had a better view of the outside, suddenly shouted come and have a look at this kite (R.A.F. slang for aircraft). So craneing [sic] forward I could just see something in the sky climbing almost vertically, very fast and leaving a thick vapour trail as it continued to climb to a very high altitude, and that was all we were able to see before it moved out of our field of vision. If we had known what we were looking at we would have been very concerned, but it was not until after repatriation, some nine months later, that we heard of the terrible, firstly flying bombs, and then the rocket attacks, that had been rained on London. What we had seen of course, was the V2 Rocket being launched at some stage of it’s development. Perhaps intentionally and very wisely, any reference to what London suffered because of them was kept out of our B.B.C. news bulletins.

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Our slow train continued to rumble across the flat featureless country of this part of Poland for what seemed to be weeks, but in fact it took only two days to arrive at our destination, or at least as far as the train was going to take us, and that was at a place called Thorn, on the river Vistular [sic]. We remined penned up in the trucks, and from what could be seen from the partly opened doors in the centre section it was quite a modern station, with white tiled walls, and smart looking platform. Our guards stood close by with their bayonets fixed at the ready, apparently awaiting orders. It probably was not for long, but having been packed in with hardly enough room to sit down, and certainly not to lie down, we were impatient to get out, and stretch our limbs.

Eventually, and then to only one truck at a time, the guards shouted [circled] “ouse”. [inserted] rouse [/inserted] [/circled] As much as we wanted to, we could not do this very quickly after being cramped up for so long, it was quite painful to move. After each end section had been carefully checked for being empty, a count was taken. Normally this would have been made as difficult as possible for them, that was our duty, but being so relieved to be out of the truck, this was allowed to be done at their first attempt, quite quickly.

Moving along the platform to where the whole train load was being assembled, a sign on a door indicated what someone interpretated [sic] to mean “lavatory”. This time we did our duty by pleading we were in need of this facility, thereby causing more delay. Upon opening the door it could immediately be seen that this was where the “smart” station ended. The floor was bare earth, and in the middle of it was a pit about a metre square. Erected above this was a fence-like support made of rough timber, that allowed an agile or very desperate person to sit on the bottom rail and use the top rail to support the back. I had never seen such a primitive arrangement before or since. However this was not the main attraction. Opposite the door, in the wall was what would, in a more normal situation be a window, was just a hole. The prisoner next to me knocked my arm, and knowing immediately what he meant, moved quickly over to it. In the second or two taken to do this I was thinking “we are now in Poland and might well get some help if we could escape”. Hopes were very quickly dashed – waiting there with bayonets pointing straight at us were two or three guards. We quickly retreated to rejoin the group on the

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platform, and be formed up again out side on the road outside

Once again the march from the rail station to the prison camp, despite having had no sleep for two days, was comparatively pleasant after being crammed in a [circled] raiway [inserted] railway [/inserted] [/circled] truck. At least the air was fresh, and it gave some sense of freedom not being surrounded by barbed wire, just the guards, and even they seemed to be enjoying the march.

I [circled] cant [inserted] ‘ [/inserted] [/circled] recall how far the camp was from the station, but while still in the town of Thorn, or toren, as I have heard it pronounced, I think the column passed what , when I was older and wise enough to know they really existed, a brothel, (it was the done thing to do, to pretend that such places did not exist, in those days) for from several windows of the upper floors of a large building to our left, young ladies waved to us and smiled in a genuine sort of way. Stalag XXB was a long established prison camp, so I suppose they knew who we were, and where we were going and being almost certainly Polish, were showing as much support as they dared. Whatever that was the first time since being captured that I had seen a friendly smile coming from a lady, let alone several ladies, and it felt good.

By the time we arrived at our destination it was getting dark. We were not put into huts, just a bare compound but it was fully secured by the usual barbed wire, and fully manned Posten boxes at each corner. Patrolling the inside was a strong force of dog handling guards, but that was all, there was no shelter except that a few could get under a structure that had only a holed roof, no sides at all. It would not have given proper shelter for cattle. However, it was a warm night, and over a large area straw had been spread. I dont think this was put down for our benifit [sic] perhaps cattle had been kept here previously, but there was plenty of room to lie down and stretch out fully, which everyone did quite quickly, and I had one of the best night’s sleep I can remember. Walking in the morning we became aware that the ground and the straw must have been very wet as our clothing on the side we had been laying was soaked. This was soon forgotten as the sun was shining and it quickly got warm to dry us out. What was unusual, and far more important, was the question, when are we going to get our bread ration?

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We were taken off into the main camp and fitted into huts where a few more could be sqeezed [sic] in. I had already been seperated [sic] from the old combine I was with in hut K6 at Luft VI, prisoners as might be expected were not allowed personal preferences. You went where the guards wanted you, if did not want helping along by a rifle butt in the back.

Five or six of us new arrivals were put into a hut where senior Army N.C.O.s had been long established. Most of them had been taken in North Africa, and had been held in Italy until that country’s capitulation in 1943. They had been most disappointed that they did not get their freedom when that happened, but were quickly taken over by the Germans, and brough here.

We were soon on good terms with them, and they could tell some good stories about their war, in the Desert, and as we were comparatively new prisoners, they wanted to know what was going on back home. We were surprised to learn from some of them how badly they had been treated by the Italians as we always thought they would be a “soft touch”, but these were tough men, and of the two evils, they prefered [sic] the Germans.

Stalag XXB was in many ways quite different from Stalag Luft VI, most notably much more space to walk around in, but equaly [sic] secure. The barbed wire was all there to the standard pattern, the guards were in the Posten boxes with machine guns at the ready, waiting for someone to even as much as touch the warning wire. The food ration was no more generous, set to bring about slow starvation, but the main difference was being with the Army, which expanded the topic of conversation by listening to their experiences, and visa versa. The climate was warmer which perhaps helped to reduce the craving for food a little, and we were in Poland where even if they dare not do anything to help us, we knew they were on our side.

Before becoming a prison camp, we learned that this establishment was a Polish Army Officers Training Centre. Years later, after the war, a Polish man I met told me he had been trained there, it was he who had pronounced it as Toren. There remained evidence that the Germans continued to use some of the land for training purposes, and we learned to be very careful where we walked. Very unusually prisoners were allowed to be out of the huts until it

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was quite dusk, and taking advantage of this, a comrade and I had stopped out almost to the limit, and were hurrying back to the hut before the shooting started. Bill Frost was a slightly built man, and as we were walking along chatting, he suddenly disappeared, but it must have been a second or so before I realized I was talking to myself. Looking back, only his head could be seen protruding above the ground. What had happened was, he had stepped into a hole only just big enough in diameter to take his body, but deep enough for him to fall up to his chin into the ground. Adding to his plight the hole was partly filled with water. It was quite a struggle getting him out. We concluded when discussing his misadventure next day, that we had been walking over land that that had been used for a battle training ground, and these holes, we discovered several more in time, were used in anti tank exercises where a man could conceal himself in the path of an oncoming tank, and as it passed over him he could attach an explosive device to the underside of it, which would explode and disable the tank, when it got a safe distance away. Not a job to be envious of.

Attached to, but not housed inside the camp, in the three camps where I was, there was always a contingent of Russian prisoners who were used to do all the hard manual jobs such as digging trenches, or erecting fences. They were always under guard, and we were never allowed to have contact with them, but we could sometimes see them outside the wire at work, and could observe how cruelly their guards treated them, frequently beating them about the body with their rifle butts for a trivial offence. Strangely, this did not appear to have much effect on the Russians, the blows seemed to bounce off, and sometimes they would just grin back at the guard, which would bring on even more punishment. The Russian prisoners it seemed whatever the weather, were always dressed in thick padded clothing that would have been necessary to face the bitter cold of a Russian winter, and perhaps they thought it was worth wearing in all weathers as it gave protection against the punishing blows they got.

One morning I witnessed a minor act of sabotage going on, and seeing that it was against the Germans, it was amusing to watch. At some distance outside the “wire” a new fence was being erected, probably to make the camp even more secure, and the task was being carried out by several Russians supervised and guarded by about three armed guards. Unusually the

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guards were taking a more practical part in the work, not the hard stuff, but perhaps indicating where the holes were to be dug. This caused them not to be watching what all of the work party were doing at any one time, and as a fresh hole was being dug one of the Russians, who had managed unnoticed, to “hang back” a bit, one at a time pulled up the posts that had been carefully set vertically in the holes, ready for the final firming of the soil around the base. With their attention firmly fixed on the one post being set, none of the guards looked up to take in the whole scene. The “Rusky” as we called them, looked across occasionly [sic] and grinned broadly but inevitably, one of the guards would look up and around, and then the thick padded jacket worn by the culprit, would be tested fully for it’s other quality. It was time for that luxurious midday swede soup to be dished up out of the wooden tub, so I did not wait, for fear of missing it.

It must be said that the Commandants of each of the Stalags I was in, appeared to be in most ways, real professional soldiers, and not Nazis. I think they had no control of the food rations, quantity or quality, but of course I did not have to deal with them, so I can only tell of some small and insignificant details that make me say that perhaps they were not too bad.

At Stalag Luft V1 late one afternoon a Dornier 217 flew over very low, and it was quite obvious that it was in serious trouble. One engine appeared quite dead, and the other was spluttering badly, and before it had passed out of sight, four parachutes opened so it seemed the whole crew had been saved. All the prisoners watching, immediately started cheering loudly. but they were also making rude gestures. This was because they were not at all bothered about the safety of the crew, but they had seen an enemy aircraft crash. The Commandant however had seen the incident from a different point of view. Next morning he had it announced at Roll Call, that he very much appreciated the sporting spirit shown by the British airmen when the German airmen were able to escape with their lives. He meant well.

In Poland, enjoying the extra walking space there, two of us looked up in the glorious sunshine upon hearing some jingling noise, and we could see who we immediately recognized as the Commandant coming along in all his military spendour [sic], driving a very smart turnout of a pony and carriage. We knew better than to ignore him, but what could we do? Being so hot we

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were dressed only in ragged shorts, but we were conforming by wearing Army boots. Somehow the correct procedure flashed into our minds simultaneously. From those punishing weeks we had spent in the early days of training, square bashing. Again, simultaniously [sic] we sprang to attention, did a smart left turn to face the rough track he was travelling on, and remained in that position while he passed by. The most we expected in recognition was perhaps a glance in e in [sic] our direction, but how he managed it without losing his balance, I dont know, but still holding the reins in one hand, he rose to his full height and gave not the newly imposed Nazi salute, but a good and proper military one. We felt quite honoured.

On one occasion, I can’t remember which Stalag it was, but in the surrounding woods military exercises were always in progress, occasionaly [sic] we would catch sight of a Tiger tank and thought how frightening it must have been to face one in battle. One morning prisoners inside the toilet block, which was near to the “wire”, got a sample of their firepower, not the main gun fortunately, but from a machine gun. Luckily I was not there at the time but I did get a dramatic account from someone who was.

The toilet blocks where [sic] quite long, accommadating [sic] quite a lot of people, but with no privacy of course. That was alright as one could sit and chat to a neighbour, but at this particular time tranquility [sic] turned to panic, when bullets came through the wall. Luckily they must have travelled to almost the extent of their range before doing so, as they appeared to no more than drop inside, at the feet of the long row of people seated there. No doubt the whole place became empty very quickly.

Sometime later an official appolgy [sic] from the C.O. of the offending unit, was posted up on the notice board, so our Commandant must have taken some action on behalf of his prisoners, and we did not think he cared that much about us.

Our stay in Poland was not long, we started to hear what we knew must be the Russian guns, but after what happened in East Prussia, we did not get excited about liberation, and sure enough there was a hasty, but calmly executed evacuation. A march back to Thorn rail station where the goods trucks were waiting, with the usual security measures in place, but this time

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we were packed in even tighter, there was barely room to stand. Hardly being able to see outside, it was a long time before we knew we were going in the obvious direction, westward.

There was the usual waiting in sidings, even the guards did not know what our destination was. This, the slow progress, and the discomfort, must have made the journey seem much longer than it actually was, and as it got dark we moved into what we made out was a huge marshalling yard. There was not room to lie down, yet enough to sit without being entangled with another body, so sleep was out of the question, and even more so when anti aircraft guns started firing and bombs could not only be heard, but felt to be dropping not fat away. It was not long before the bombing intensified we were in for a major raid. The doors were kept closed so no one could see if markers had been dropped, or get any details whatsoever of what was going on. It was terrifying to sit there just waiting for a bomb to come through the truck roof or to be blasted away by a near miss. Being so cramped up, and securely detained, added a fear of utter helplessness. No one spoke, we all knew what each other was expecting, and just waited for it, and did not even think about food.

The bombing stopped as it should have done in an R.A.F. raid that went according to plan almost as if it had been controlled by a switch, but of course we did not recover just like that and even if there had been enough room to lie down and sleep, it would not have been possible for some time.

Thinking of the aircraft returning home after the raid, it occurred to me that Lancasters from my squadron could well have been among them, which reminded me yet again of my hopeless position, in the hands of the enemy, entirely at their mercy. They, if they were lucky enough to get home safely, would have a good meal of egg and bacon waiting for them after de-briefing and a good bed. Next evening, if they been stood down from operations, they would be off to the pubs and cinemas of Grimsby, and a fish and chip supper, and it was painful to think about, but then the other possibility came into my mind, perhaps they would not get back safely, and perhaps they would not be so lucky as I was.

At some time early next morning we moved off again, and later that day arrived at our destination, Stalag 357, close to the small town of Follingbostel, 30 miles north of Hanover.

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Stalag 357 was a very large camp, I don’t think it was newly built but is could only have been partly occupied before our arrival. The combine I was with in Poland managed to get into a hut together so we soon settled in. All the huts were very similar if not identical, the threatening Posten boxes were there, occupied by two guards, leaning on their machine guns ready to mow down anyone attempting to fight their way out through the “wire”, and the hopeless atmosphere that all prison camps have, was certainly there. The swede soup would still only be eaten by starving men, and we consumed it just as greedily. The one seventh of a loaf of black bread went no further to satisfy our needs, so things were much the same, except our lifeline, the Red Cross food parcel supply, became more and more sparse. This was not because they were not despatched, but because of the damage being inflicted on the internal transport system by the Allies air forces, even the Commandant admitted this. A case of good news bringing bad news.

As the winter began to take over, the lack of the Red Cross parcels really began to show, people got even thinner, and the ones who were normally just a little bit “tubbier” showed it most Very few continued to walk the circuit, and no football games were played. Apart from roll call when attendance was never excused, and perhaps a very quick wash, most of the day was spent lying in the bunks trying to keep warm. The war news was good in France, rapid progress, and on the Russian front, but in Belgium, in our direction, there always seemed to be holdups or even reversals. It seemed we would die of starvation long before liberation.

Dangerously, it began to seem that escape was the only chance at all. A member of the combine had previously noticed that a small toilet block was unusually close to the “wire”, and had often seriously discussed the chances of concealing one’s self in the building until after dark, and then it would only be a short crawl to the “wire” and as the soil was soft and sandy, tunnelling under, and out, should not be difficult.

This did not appeal to me at all, for one thing I had not forgotten two prisoners being shot dead attempting something similar at Stalag Luft VI, shortly after getting there, and also no help would be forthcoming from the Escape Committee, as it was already discouraged, if not total forbidden by the “powers that be” after D day, but it did seem that we were approaching

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a time when it will be a case of doing something or dying, so the escape plan was given more thought, and we started to discuss the finer details, between us. We would have to get some help from the Escape Committee, and were about to approach them when a terrible thing happened. It was some time in the late evening when we heard two or three shots fired in the distance, no prisoners were allowed out after dark, so all we could do was hope that is nothing serious, but it was.

Next morning at Roll Call it was announced that two prisoners had been shot dead while attempting to escape, but no further details were given. Later on, from other prisoners, we learned that it was the exact spot, where we were considering the possibilities of getting out. We were shocked to say the least, but could not resist going to have a look where it happened, and there we came across a terrible scene. There was blood and bits of flesh everywhere, which to some, who claimed to know, proved that they were shot at very close range, not while running away, and they were certainly inside the “wire”. Very sad and very shocking, but when in the hands of such an enemy there is no justice.

The winter of 19 [deleted] 43-’44 [/deleted] [inserted] 44 45 [/inserted] was the longest, coldest, and by far the most miserable time of my life. Christmas day brought no cheer, in fact made things a lot worse by reminding everyone of what we were missing. We still got the B.B.C. news, but it gave no cheer, reporting the setbacks in the Ardennes area of Belgium, for what seemed an age, but then that wonderful and courageous operations by the Para’s when they captured the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem, and that raised morale beyond belief, it seemed that liberation was imminent. The main force however was not able to battle their way up to them, and Para’s had to surrender their gain after a fierce battle, so it was back to doom, gloom, and helplessness.

A few days later we got an idea whet the Para’s had been through in capturing the bridge. Having been taken P.O.W., those considered fit enough to walk were brought into our camp, and I think they were all put into the same hut, and they looked pitiful. They were all very dirty of course, but there did not seem to be one who was not wounded in some way, and on top of this they had come at a time when we had nothing to give them, either in food or I believe medical help.

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They were kept together in a distant part of the camp so we did not have much contact with them. Dixie Deans, our camp leader, would have done all that he was able to in making them as comfortable as possible, and non [sic] of us would have begrudged it if he could have found just a few Red Cross parcels somewhere to help them in their plight.

As the better weather came, so the war news got better. People got weaker and thinner but a light was appearing on the horizon, our forces, the British Liberation Army, were actually on German soil, and continuing to move eastwards towards us. How long would it be now?, the Germans had nowhere to move us to, we thought, wrongly, and we gaining a bit of optimism had not given much consideration to what a terrific obstacle the mighty river Rhine would be to our forces, so the holdup there only appeared as an irritation, not so in retrospect though, and very soon after it had been accomplished, first the rumour and then the reality, our hopes were shattered once again – we were on the move.

No one had any idea where we were going to, not even a rumour about that, but sure enough section by section, hut by hut, the camp was being emptied, and when it got to our row of huts, somehow I was able to make a decision that could have made the difference between life and death twice, first by stopping in the camp, and again by going out, with the others.

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I don’t know how I ever did it. I am not, and never was a brave person, or a natural leader, but standing outside with several others, watching the prisoners being ousted out, and then marched off, it occurred to me that this operation of moving us out was nowhere near as orderly as the previous ones, and there was an atmosphere of haste and panic about it.

Once formed up outside in front of the hut, that group was quickly moved off somewhere, and the same guards returned to empty the next hut, moving towards us. The doors of the empty huts were left open, but there was no going back inside to check that it was empty, it seemed that there was not time to do this.

I stood there noting all this, with the same bitter disappointment that we were all suffering at not being liberated. It must have been this that led me into disregarding the dangers, and only to think of the benefits of this opportunity I thought I could see, and instantly want to put it into action. With this optimistic attitude I revealed it’s simplicity quietly to four or five who were standing with me, and they were instantly convinced that it looked like a “winner”, and we went back into the hut, to try to make sure we had done all we could do, not in preparation to leave, but to stay.

The plan was so simple. When they came to empty our hut, which we knew they would in just a few minutes, we would make sure that we were at the tail end of the column that would be assembled outside. When it moved off, making sure that the two guards were in front of us, and that we were opposite the door of not the first empty hut, but to give the column time to get going, the third one, we would break away and slip quietly inside, and immediately dive into the narrow gaps between the bunks, thereby concealing ourselves from anything but a thorough search.

This all went well and according to plan, and all we could do for the first few minutes, was to lie there, hardly daring to breathe and hope that our action had not been spotted from the Posten boxes. Gradually the whole area went quiet, and we became a bit more comfortable. It was an unusual sort of escape, if that is what it turns out to be, “don’t leave the Stalag, let the Stalag leave you”, but we certainly did not feel like cracking jokes, we were still very, very, frightened.

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While we continued to lie between the bunks still not daring to get up, I started to think to myself “we are going to get away with this”, but then almost immediately I remembered the “dogs”. I had not given them a thought in my plans, of course I thought, that is what they will do, send one or two guards round with dogs, they will soon “sniff out” anyone left behind. I was back to being as terrified as I was when first starting to make the break.

A while passed, and I began to get my confidence back as I had then began to think that if the [sic] were going to check they would have done so by now, as it was getting dark, and thought it is now safe to shut the door. Crawling across the floor to make it less likely that I would be seen from the outside, I slowly and quietly did this, which gave at least a feeling of more security, and as long as we did it very quietly, we could talk together.

Without noticing it we had already gained something from our escapade, it had stopped us craving for food, but we had given it some thought in our escape plans. A little extra bread had been issued because of the move, and that meant there there [sic] was no telling where or when the next issue would be. For a long time no Red Cross parcels had reached the camp at all, but luckily just in time, a few had got through, allowing a quarter parcel a man, so comparatively we were well off for food, as we made our bid for freedom. [deleted] Luckily [/deleted] Someone among us had remembered we would need some water., (I had not thought about that, either) and had found and filled a couple of Klim tins (dried milk from Canadian parcels). There was never any running water provided in the huts, and in the place where we washed, all the water had to be pumped up from somewhere by a semi rotary hand pump. This was done on a rota system, each hut in turn, providing a succession of “pumpers” on it’s pumping days.

When it was completely dark it was agreed that is [sic] was safe to get up from between the bunks, and sit at a low level facing each other where we could talk quietly, until it was accepted by all that it was now safe enough to have a very careful look outside. One brave person, not me, volunteered to do this, he was made for the job, and hardly being noticed even by us who were carefully watching, he disappeared. Just as stealthily he quickly returned bringing the best possible news. There was nobody to be seen out there, there were no lights anywhere, and as far as he could see, the Posten boxes were empty, and there was no sign of activity at all.

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The escape plan until now, could not have gone any better, but we were assuming and relying on being liberated in a short while. There was no daily B.B.C. news bulletin now, or even rumours, we could only conceal ourselves here and wait, which we did for the next two and a half days. An occasional reconnaissance was carried out, but these only revealed what we thought we already knew, we were the only ones left in the whole camp. Actually we were not, years later, I learned that the Germans had abandoned the intention of trying to move every prisoner from this vast camp, and fled, leaving quite a number unguarded and uncared for in one far removed compound. This would have been away out of our field of vision.

By this time we were getting worried about our food supply, we were used to that, but now there was nothing at all on the horizen [sic], only the hope of quick liberation, and the truth was emerging, we did not know when that would be.

Next came a dramatic change in the situation, the last column of prisoners to leave our compound had been returned, and their guards had gone off and left them unguarded. This was wonderful news, as it indicated that the Germans were losing control, and we could emerge from hiding and mix with those returned.

Any thought that our escape bid had achieved nothing, and that we might as well have gone out with the rest, was banished when we heard about their journey. Firstly to be told of a horrific attack on the marching column by our own R.A.F. Typhoons, firing rockets, and then being straffed [sic] with cannon fire, and that many who were in our hut had been killed, or seriously wounded. It really stunned me to be told that one of those killed was a Canadian who I knew well. He was someone who could always raise your spirits when things were really bad, and to think he was one of those to be cut down so cruelly when freedom was so near, took some “getting over”.

All those who went on the march suffered badly. They were forced to keep going, where to? even the the [sic] guards did not know that. They had little food or water, and had to try to sleep just anywhere. Lucky ones, in leaky old barns that cattle were considered too precious to be kept in, or a ditch still quite wet from the winter rains.

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The more we mixed and talked to those who had been on the march, the more we appreciated how we had benefitted by going into hiding, and “staying put”. Those forced marches that were so cruelly imposed on Allied P.O.Ws. when the war in Europe was so near it’s end, did not seem to be brought to the attention of the world until most who suffered were dead. Yet the bombing of Dresden which was quite necessary and legitimate in total war, appeared to be treated as a war crime committed by the R.A.F. They were only doing what they were told to do. The Russian prisoners held there as slave labour were the only totally innocent ones and it was those who paid the highest price.

Our greatest fear now was not the return of the German forces but that of starving to death. We were half starved before the move, and we were now in an even worse position, there was nothing at all to come until liberation, It was fortunate that the water supply came directly from it’s natural source or that might have been turned off.

“No Mans Land” was referred to in accounts of World War One related by the veterans of that war, and it occurred to me that that, is where we are now. Again from hearing about that war, bitter fighting must be expected before our forces got to us, and how would we fare in that? Did our forces know exactly where we are? There did not appear to be any aerial reconnaissance in the day time, or we would have been out there waving vigorously, it would have been some little thing to do to help ourselves. We had no idea of what to expect, or what was expected of us.

At last something did happen, just after it got dark some five days after the columns were returned, a terrific artillery barrage opened up, shells were passing directly overhead, and they sounded to be very low. The noise was unbelievable, and to add to the terror, the hut, particularly the roof was shaking so much it seemed that in within minutes it would come crashing down on us, even if we did not receive a direct hit.

The roof danger was somewhat self inflicted. During the long cold winter the meagre fuel allocation to burn on the tiny stoves in the huts, was topped entirely. So in desperation we allowed self appointed structual [sic] engineers, who after some study of the structure while lying on a top bunk, to decide which of the timbers could be removed with reasonable safety and burnt.

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The barrage continued with no decrease in its intensity until just before getting light next morning, and for the whole time each second appeared to be our last, brought about by a near miss, a direct hit, or from being trapped under the wreckage of the hut undiscovered.

I had experienced being bombed by the Luftwaffe in the earlier part of the London blitz with two near misses. Being shot down over Berlin, experienced the terrible effect of “carpet bombing” by the U.S.A.A.F. in Frankfurt en Maine, but I found that having artillery shells passing just overhead for so many hours was the most frightening, by far. I fully understood what people who had suffered “flying bomb” and “rocket” attacks in London meant, when they said “of the two terrorising weapons they would rather have the “rockets” even if they were more devastating, because of the terrible nerve racking seconds after the engine of the “flying bomb” cutting out, and the explosion upon landing. They had seconds, which would have seemed like an age, to see who was going to “get it”.

Being young we soon shook off the fear of the night’s bombardment, and “getting some food” became once again the most important thing, and we were getting very seriously hungry at this stage, but where was there to look for food? The Germans had gone, any Red Cross parcel supplies were by now just a memory, and there was no sign that we were about to be liberated, and everyone was very noticeably getting weaker.

It was a great effort to get up from the bunk, and what was the point?, none of the prisoners who had been out on the march would have anything to give away, and it would have been very dangerous to venture out of the camp in search of food. Later on in the day the thought struck me that something edible might have been left in the German kitchen, a place prisoners would have had absolutely no access to normally, and this inspired me to get up and go to investigate.

That turned out to be a wasted effort, there was not a scrap of anything inside, so I quickly returned to the outside, where I had noticed a small heap of rotten small potatoes. With nothing at all to be found in the kitchen this miserable heap took on a new value, and getting down on my knees, stirred up the rotting slimy mass with my fingers, hoping that some still edible ones could be found. The smell would have been foul, but that was no deterrent, and a few, considering the desperate need were found, where at least part of them could be eaten.

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Back at the hut I was declared a hero when I returned with my dubious prize, and the rotting few potatoes that I was able to find were eagerly washed, and the bits that were really inedible chopped off. The wait for the remaining scraps to cook on the “Blower” (a home made small stove, with the fire boosted by a hand driven fan. Based on the same principle as a forge, it had the essential quality of using only a minute quantity of fuel to boil water) was almost unbearable, but to a starving group like we were, it produced by no means a banquet, but a very welcome and much needed, bit of nourishment.

In the past few days possibly thousands of prisoners, of all nationalitys [sic] who had been on the march from other prison camps, were driven in desperation into Stalag 357. Fortunately our compound, just a small part of this huge camp, did not become even near crowded. Most of huts were only partially occupied. Prisoners who were brought into our Compound were mainly Russians who prefered [sic] instead of going into near vacant huts, to dig holes in the ground. From somewhere they accuired [sic] rusted sheets of corrugated iron to cover them, making a kind of burrow, and unbelievably lit a fire down inside them. They appeared to be perfectly content to live in these, presumably it was an improvement on what they had had previously.

Soon after the potatoe [sic] “feast”, I became very ill with a high fever and diarrhoea, and felt I was surely going to die, in fact at one point I wished I could have done. All through the night I had to go out frequently, and all the time I blamed the potatoes, but early next morning one of our group who had suffered no ill effects, came back to the hut with the bad news that there were many others suffering with similar symptoms in the compound. He also had some good news that the British Medical Officer and some of his Orderlies had returned to the camp, but there was a long queue waiting to see him. I ungratefully just groaned, but then thought this is my only chance of survival, and laboriously donned every piece of clothing I had, plus a blanket and set off. Long before I got to the medical hut I was in the queue of many, all looking very ill. It was not just a case of waiting patiently because every so often I was forced to leave the queue and find any sort of privacy to do what I had been doing all night. This was not such an impedence [sic] to progress up the queue because everyone else had to do the same, and eventually I reached the hard working M.O..

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As expected his surgery was very primitive, he sat at a bare table, and in the background stood an Orderly, and it was soon revealed what the extent of his duties were. The medical officer seemed to diagnose my complaint quickly, ruling out it being caused by eating the potatoes, he said I was suffering Dysentry [sic], and there was little he could do to help. With that the Orderly stepped forward offering two white tablets, while the doctor said “take these, go and lie down, and keep as warm as possible”, and then it was “next please”.

I struggled back to the hut thinking I had not gained much for my effort, it only emphasized what a desperate position we were in, cut off from any aid it seemed, from either side, but it was only the next day when the situation took a dramatic turn. It immediately brought new life into me, and I managed to get up and struggle outside to get a glimpse of this long, long awaited happening, and there it was moving very slowly, generally towards us, and appeared to be looking for something.

We knew, because we had spent many an hour gazing out beyond the “wire” at this farmland, that concealed in a barn that was integral with the farmhouse, there was a Tiger tank. If only we could tell them, we thought, but this proved to be unnecessary. Machine gun fire was heard coming from the farmhouse, the British tank came to a halt, and it could be imagined that it was thinking “where did that come from” then the turret was swung slowly round and a shell was fired at the house, quickly followed by another. The farmhouse was reduced to a pile of rubble, but surprisingly there was no sign of the Tiger tank. It must have been moved at sometime while we were locked in our huts, but the problem had solved it’s self, and we had witnessed the first action towards our liberation.

The British tank did not continue to move towards the camp, but veered off to go somewhere behind the ruins of the farmhouse. That was a little disappointing, and nothing else happened that day. What was expected was difficult to say or even imagine. The only guidance anybody had would be based on what might have happened in W.W.1. Hundreds of infantry men with bayonets fixed surged slowly forward bitterly fighting for each yard. It did not appear to be happening at all like that, that’s if it was happening.

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As the excitement died away the temporary improvement in my health also died, and feeling dreadful again, I was glad to return to my bunk. Had I suffered an illusion? I thought after only a short time of getting back there. Was it something that happened with Dysentry [sic] Thankfully I then went into a deep undisturbed sleep which lasted until quiet a reasonable time next morning, when I awoke feeling a bit better. One good thing about my illness, the craving for food was almost gone, and although liberation was eagerly awaited, getting better was perhaps my priority.

It was about mid morning when a great cheer rang out throughout the compound. The hut apart from me was empty, so I could not ask what it was all about. Quickly though, two of the original “escapees” rushed in shouting “they are here, they are here”. My health improved still further, I was able to react to this almost unbelievable news by getting up quite quickly, and with a bit of urging by the boys was able to run down to the main gate. Sure enough there stood an armoured car, with the crew unable to get out because of the cheering crowd surrounding it. It took some time to achieve this, when they were able to identify themselves as members of the Royal Irish Hussars, part of the 7th Armoured Division.

Soon after, other armoured vehicles arrived of the same Regiment and their [sic] was a scene of hand shaking and back slapping. Gifts of food, cigarettes, and chocolate bars were gratefully received, and the atmosphere of our prison was completely changed from misery and despair to one of hope and happiness, in a few minutes.

The way we were liberated was completely different to what I had visulized [sic]. Everything seemed so organized, the soldiers looked clean, and and [sic]apart from their “tin” helmets, and a varied assortment of arms at the ready, could well have been fresh from the barrack square. None were seen to be marching, there were vehicles of every description making up this highly mechanized, “spearhead”, I suppose it would be called. Two soldiers of a Scottish regiment proudly pulled back the canvas cover of their 5cwt. Utility vehicle to show me inside. It was immaculate, everything was neatly stowed in there, and in “pride of place”, properly hung on on [sic]hangers, were their full ceremonial dress uniforms.

There was not a lot of the sound of warfare that I was expecting to hear, except of couse [sic]

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for the artillery barrage, but gunfire was in short bursts coming from many different directions, and not from a concentrated “front” all moving together, and that’s how it continued for some days.

By the end of “liberation” day I was feeling much better in health, and the feeling of being definately [sic] “free” was really undescribeable [sic], but I could not instantly take food for granted. A soldier had given me a tin of corned beef that morning, also we had been assured by the Army that each man would be receiving the normal rations from tomorrow onwards. Even so, I carefully measured, and ate one quarter of the meat to eat, saving the rest, just in case I awoke from a teasing dream.

Next morning we were asked, not ordered, to attend a meeting down by the main gates, where an army officer introduced himself saying it was his job to attend to our welfare and he started with a very serious warning about the uncertainty of the military situation around the camp. Explaining that he could well understand we would have a great urge to get out from behind the “wire”, he strongly advised that we be patient for a little longer because they knew that there was still strong enemy resistance close by. Only the road was known to be clear, but even that could come under fire at any moment. I think we were all quite content for a day or so to gloat over the exciting rations that had already been delivered as promised, and just look out from the main gate at the terrific amount of military traffic that flowed past.

This advice was followed for a few days, the sounds of warfare had moved further and further away, so someone said it would be nice to have a fresh egg as well as the daily food ration A farm could be seen across a valley about a quarter of a mile away, not the one the tank had attacked, so four or five of us thought it must now be quite safe to venture out to see what we could persuade the farmer to part with. There were only women in the farmhouse and first had to reassure them that we had only come to ask for eggs. I think being so glad that was all we wanted, we must have been a ragged looking lot, they produced about eight eggs, and we were off.

We were climbing the slope back towards the camp when the noise of some movement was heard, we could only guess that it came from within a group of small trees just to our left.

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and then eight or nine German troops came out from the trees just below us. Surprise was quickly outweighed by fear.. Here we were sitting ducks, completly [sic] unarmed and outnumbered. What any of us had been taught in our early days of training about “fieldcraft” we would have forgotten, so it must have been just natural to drop to the ground and remain perfectly still, hoping that we had not been seen. It seemed like ages, crouched there hardly daring to breathe, when another group emerged, British soldiers, armed with all sorts of automatic weapons covpons [sic], covering the Germans in front of them. The Germans were prisoners who had just been taken.

Momentarily, stupidly, we thought we were in the clear, but how would our soldiers know we were not another group of the enemy? we certainly dd not look like R.A.F. personel [sic] now.

Should we remain as we were, hoping that we would not be noticed? Wisely one of us stood up with both hands in the air, shouting “R.A.F. prisoners of war” The soldiers brought their prisoners to a halt, and swung their weapons to cover him, then carefully we all stood up, holding our breath waiting to see if we were going to be accepted, or shot down. I [sic] seemed ages before they lowered their weapons, and only then did we slowly walk over to them.

We felt very embarrassed at our stupidity, but any apologies were brushed aside, and while two or three of the soldiers kept an eye on the prisoners, we were feted, and showered with chocolate and cigarettes, then for me came another fright. I had been talking to a Corporal, about being a P.O.W., telling him about the hardest bits, when he suddenly pulled the sling of a Tommy gun he was armed with over his head, and tossed the gun over to me, saying what he thought about all Germans, and then quite seriously, “here bump this lot off”. As I started to protest he went on to say “go on, its alright, nobody knows we have got them”. First was the shock of how hot the gun was, then the weight of it was also shocking, but just the thought of killing these wreched [sic] young Germans with it, in cold blood, really made me feel sick. It was an unlawful execution, and I had no stomach for that. I knew instantly that I would sooner kill myself, an [sic] could not pass that gun back fast enough. Looking back I like to think the Corporal was joking, but I am still not sure. Anyway if I had done what we were all strongly advised to do and stopped in the camp, the situation would not have arisen.

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It had been agreed long before, that if and when we were liberated, that those who had been in captivity the longest should be the first to go back to the U.K. That put me, as a comparatively new “Kreigy”, well down the list. Also, now liberation had come, we had been told apologetically that the process of getting us out of the war zone could be lengthy as the roads were in poor condition and that advancing columns must have priority.

This did not seem to be a great disappointment to anyone. We now had plenty of food, were released from the possibility of mass execution, the Army were doing more than we expected to make us comfortable, the weather was fine, and although all letters had to be censored we could write home. The army Major who was our “guardian”, also censored our letters and he made sure there was as little delay as possible in getting them away. We could not have been in better hands.

He cared for his own soldiers equally. I think it was when I took my second letter to his makeshift office when I found him really upset. He was looking at an English newspaper, they were printed in Brussels and reached the front line only a day old “just look at this rubbish” he said tossing the paper over to me, indicating the front page headlines. They read in the largest of print, that the B.L.A. (the British Liberation Army) were “walking” through Germany, insinuating that there was no opposition. “I’ve lost three of my best blokes this morning, just down the road. There is a bit of wood down there, and the S.S. are hanging on like maniacs. Right, they can stop there until the “flamethrowers” come up later, they will soon shift them. I am not risking any more of my men”. I could tell that he was really upset at the loss of his soldiers, and that he had taken the newspaper headlines as an insult to them, and I thought he was right.

I don’t know if the press were encouraged to report with a bias towards optimism, but a typical report on a major R.A.F. operation would tell of the damage inflicted on the target in detail, but the extent of our aircraft losses would be dealt with at the very end of the article, in as few words as possible. Helpful to the moral of the nation, but many squadron commanders would have the very unenviable task next morning, of informing next of kin that their loved ones were missing, being as optimistic as possible, but knowing that the chances of them still being alive were small. A detail never reported in the papers.

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As the days went by after we were taken into the care of the advancing British forces, the feeling of being in captivity gradually wore off, but the great respect for food was still with me, and that has remained until this day. Each daily ration was gratefully received and that not eaten “squirreled” away beneath first my own bunk, and then a nearby unoccupied one. When the great day of departure for the airfield came, I just could not carry most of it, so it had to be left, with the hope that some of the Russian, now ex P.O.W.s, would find it.

One afternoon when we thought that all the surrounding territory was now “safe”, one of the Guards regiment’s military bands came into the camp, and after “setting up” in the back of their lorry and giving us a wonderful half hour or so of fine, and stirring music, there came an enforced interval. Machine gun fire was coming from somewhere close by, whether we were the intended target or not, no one waited to find out, but the bullets were certainly close. It seemed that the band were used to this sort of thing as they dispersed in a much more orderly manner under the lorry, than their audience, who fled in all directions. In seconds it was all over, no casualties thank goodness, and in no time the band had reassembled, continuing exactly from where they left off with the music, while we, the audience, I think took rather longer to regain our posture and start listening again.

After another two or three days without further incident we were told that we could venture out in reasonable safety and two or three of us walked to the local village or town of Fallingbostel. We discovered a military warehouse there, and it was packed with all sorts of items, mainly German army equipment, and when I look back, if transport had been available, a fortune could have been made. They were all the kind of things soon to be sought after by collectors Paratroopers boots, uniforms, helmets, badges, parachutes and arms. There were more everyday items such as spades, buckets, brooms and tableware, but all clearly marked with the German military insignia. In the basement were large stocks of dried food, such as rice, barley, peas and sugar. With my obsession for food, or the fear of becoming short of it again, I had to take a quantity of each, even if the load was difficult to get back to the camp.

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On another visit to Fallingbostel a day or two later I witnessed something that made me ashamed of our Russian allies. There was an old German civilian man walking along on one side of the street, on the other there were two Russians. They crossed the road making towards him, gesturing by one of them lifting the left sleeve his tunic, that they wanted to know the time. The old German obligingly pulled out his watch to help, but as he did so one of the Russians grabbed the old man by the shoulders while the other snatched the watch and chain. Then they leisurely walked off, smiling, as they gloated over what they had stolen, and no doubt looking for their next victim.

A second visit to the warehouse could not be resisted, which was only two days later but by then almost everything stored there had been made useless. The sacks had been slashed and the contents strewn about. The upper floors had been set on fire, and the water used to quench the flames had drained down to ruin all the dried food in the basement, so I could not add to my already more than adequate store back at the camp. Just as well, for next morning my name was on the list to join the next party to be returned to the U.K.

Although, thanks to the Army, liberation had brought about a wonderful change in our lives, the majority of us were civilians at heart, and that was what we wanted to return to being. It was the simple things of that life like going to the Pictures (the cinema), playing darts at the local “pub”, watching the best local football team playing in the park on a Saturday afternoon, having a “slap up” breakfast on a Sunday morning when you did not have to race off to work, these were the things we had craved to be reunited with, and there was Ann.

I met Ann during my service life, she lived in a village near to where I did my Operational Training course, but it was still a great coincidence that we met, because although she was wearing an attractive civilian dress at the time, she was home on leave from the W.A.A.F. (Womens Auxillary Airforce) and was stationed in Gloucestershire many miles away, so it must have been meant to happen.

Future meetings were few and far between, feelings were exchanged otherwise, by letter, there were no mobile phones of course, and any phones available at R.A.F. stations for social use were so much in demand that it was impossible to pre-arrange a call. But the romance

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did survive the difficulties, even though communication during the time I was P.O.W. amounted to no more than two letters that had been so heavily censored by both the British and Germans that there was little left to read. I was so afraid during that time that I had been forsaken like so many, even the married ones, but I was lucky. We have now been married for nearly seventy one years.

The transportation from Fallingbostal [sic] to the airfield was well organized and to be treated like human beings and not cattle, was much appreciated. There was no luxury of course we travelled in the back of lorries, that stood very high above the ground, but to be helped to get up into them instead of being prodded into them with rifles and bayonets, felt so much better. But being so high up, caused a bit of a fright when it came to crossing a river which was very wide and in flood, it must have been the Elbe, and the original bridge across it which had been destroyed, had been replaced with a pontoon one. This appeared as we approached very stable and safe, and it was, but as our lorry drove onto the first pontoon it healed over to an alarming angle as the portion went down under the weight, and because we were so high up it seemed that we were going to be thrown straight into the river as the lorry toppled over. As the crossing continued I think we all gained a bit of confidence in the safety of the bridge, but glad when solid ground was reached on the opposite bank.

As the journey continued there was much more evidence of the bitter battles that had taken place with destroyed tanks and all sorts of other military vehicles. Buildings completely destroyed, and yet there were some villages showing no obvious signs of damage at all, but no signs of life in the streets.

Our destination was a huge airfield at a place called Deipholz, and that certainly showed the scars of war. There were hundreds of what would have been either shell, or bomb craters that had now been filled in to put the airfield back into service, and used by Allies.

On one edge tents had been erected, and after a good meal this was where we spent the rest of the day, and slept the night. There was no activity to watch from where we were, or even the noise of taking off and landings, but the next day it was different.

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I did not sleep well in the tent, it was quiet enough out on the airfield, and lying on the ground was quite comfortable and warm, so it must have been the excitement of being on the way home that caused me to get little sleep that night, so I was ready to get up, and out of the tent quite early. The weather had remained fine, and quite warm for several days now, and this morning gave promise that it would continue to be very pleasant.

Breakfast was served from a tented kitchen, and eaten standing up. This of course was no hardship, in fact a luxury, it had been a long time since I was handed any sort of a meal, especially on a plate.

From far across the airfield aircraft engines could be heard starting up, and then the aircraft could be seen moving, they were Douglas Dakotas, designed as a civil airliner, but adapted very successfully in many forms to be the “workhorse” not only of all the American air forces, but for all the Allies. After W.W.2. like millions of human beings, it resumed it’s peacetime role and served excellantly [sic] for many years before it could be bettered.

Soon the Dakotas were taking off, and heading westwards towards the U.K. at quite frequent intervals, but as the day wore on it seemed that our party would not be going that day, and we became resigned to that. However we were then informed that because the weather was remaining good the crew of one of the Dakotas had volunteered to do another trip that day.

The weather of course had to be right, but it was the crew who really made it possible, and they had to be backed up by the ground crews at each end of the journey for “between flight” inspections and refueling [sic]. I am afraid that when young such things are taken for granted, we should have expressed our gratitude at the time for their contribution towards getting us home safely, and a day earlier.

Once aboard the aircraft it could be seen that this particular Dakota was fitted out for dropping Paratroops. On each side, inside the fuselage were seats running the entire length, and just a gap on each side for loading, and what must have been very much on the mind of the Paras when going on an operation, also for exit. I thought about it several times, trying to imagine what their feelings would have have [sic] been. There would have been no “ifs” or “buts” they would not be coming back with that aircraft. At a certain point they would be ordered to attach a line from

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their parachute pack to a static line above that ran the entire length of the fuselage. The doors would then be opened, and then from a standing position the Paras would follow each other to jump out. This was the point I thought about most, they were not jumping to save their lives, they could well be jumping to get killed.

As I mentioned previously, before W.W.2. only a tiny percentage of ordinary people had flown in an aircraft, and most of my fellow passengers had been captured early in the war while fighting in the Desert, not having had a chance to fly, so on this first flight they must have suffered some apprehension, and this showed when a crew member who I thought was a pilot left the cockpit and walked down offering everyone sweets and chocolate. With distinct terror in his voice, my neighbour shouted to me “who was that?” I felt quite knowledgeable when I was able to reassure him that there would be a second pilot, or possibly we were on “automatic” for a while.

Another very thoughtful gesture was made by the pilot if it was he who had handed out the sweets, not known to us passengers at that stage, we were heading for an R.A.F. station in Buckinghamshire, so he must have deliberately diverted a bit to the south, and making sure we were all looking forward through the cockpit by getting another crew member to draw our attention, flew straight towards, and then over the white cliffs of Dover. It was a heart wrenching sight, and I could almost hear Dame Vera Lynne singing her famous wartime song. I did not however notice any bluebirds flying over them.

We landed at R.A.F. Wing with not much of the evening light left, members of the W.A.A.F. met us and escorted us to a reception area that was set up in the open, even the weather was continuing to be kind to us. I did not kiss the ground as I always thought I would, but I do remember being very aware of my footsteps when first leaving the aircraft and thinking, “this is what I have been waiting for”.

At the reception area medical orderlies cascaded us with a white powder. No area was left untreated, so one by one we were turned into something like snowmen. I suppose we would have been a rough looking bunch and needed to be treated with caution.

Everybody was so kind and patient especially as our arrival had not been expected.

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The refreshments were soon seen off, and being seated at a real table on real chairs had become a novelty after so long without. The Germans had confiscated the rough tables we used months before, as some sort of reprisal, and we never did have chairs, only rough forms.

Next we all had to see a doctor, which of course was a necessity, but this process revealed the only lack of thought, or organization, that I ever noticed during the whole process of being received back home, and even that made a bit of comedy.

A temporary medical centre had been set up with about six cubicles curtained off to give privacy, and in each one their [sic] was a medical officer in attendance. I was making my way into one of them after being called, when the canvas door of one further along burst open as the patient made a very hasty exit, and following close behind came the medical officer [inserted] a woman [/inserted] shouting “don’t be so damned ridiculous”. I have to explain that in 1945 lady doctors were quite rare, and for a man who might well have rarely seen a woman for possibly four or five years, and then only in the far distance, to be expected to submit himself to being intimately examined by one, was perhaps a little unthoughtful.

I don’t know how the problem was resolved because after my examination, by a man, all was quiet and orderly again, and we were reassembled in a permanent building to await transport to the nearest railway station.

I think at this stage Army and R.A.F. personel [sic] must have been seperated [sic], because the train I boarded went straight to R.A.F. Cosford, the rail station most unusually, was almost opposite the main gate. Army personel [sic] must have gone to another establishment, I hope they were treated as well as were.

R.A.F. Cosford was the main medical centre of the R.A.F. in those days, so I suppose they were somewhat used to recieving [sic] people, and although it was by now about two in the morning, we were certainly received well. We were shown to our accommodation which had been obviousy [sic] well prepared where we could set down anything we might be carrying, and then for each one of us a bathroom was ready with the water already in the bath at the right temperature, large white towels were there waiting for when we had indulged ourselves in a luxury some people had not experienced for four or five years. It was a lovely feeling to be

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submerged in the warm water and lesurely [sic] cleanse one’s self.

Returning to the room where we were to sleep, the top covers of the beds had been turned back, pajamas [sic] were there waiting, and within minutes I was enjoying a sleep that I was to remember all my life.

It would be eleven o’clock before I awoke next morning, and before I could convince myself that all this luxury was not a continuation of a dream, I was rewarded with what might be described as revenge.

When I was attending my first Signals school in the R.A.F. everyone on the course lived in fear of a certain Flight Sergeant. He was not a technical man by any means, he was there for disciplinary purposes, and one of his objectives was to make you realize that you were no longer a human being, and that when he said “move” you moved.

Anyone who is, or has been in the armed forces will have met the type, and this one was a prime example, but the extraordinary thing was that this Flight Sergeant was now offering me, humble me, still lying in a nice warm bed, a mug of delicious hot steaming tea.

The coincidence was unbeleivable [sic], so I could not help telling him where we had met before. He declared in quite a friendly tone of voice, that he thought he could remember me, and mentioning the time and place. Extraordinary.

The day then went on to be quite a busy one, everyone was fitted out with complete new uniform. Further, more detailed medical inspections were made, some interrogation into how our aircraft was shot down, and as to how I was treated as a prisoner. I also got the opportunity to suggest any improvements to “means of escape”, from the Lancaster. I did this vigorouslyt [sic] because the sight of three of my crew trapped there, not able to get out, was still very much in my mind, and always will be.

Later on in the day we were given money, notes and loose change. The coins seemed to be so heavy in the pocket, it took days to get used to carrying them again. What could we buy with them? This presented another problem. But as it became evening that one was solved. Cosford was a a [sic] large R.A.F. station built between the wars, and it had it’s own cinema, so most of us followed the crowd to partake of a pleasure that had not been available for so long.

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Back in those lovely beds, with plenty of space around them, and the clean white sheets, the second night soon passed, and now it was Sunday.

There was still a few more formalities to be got through, badges and ranks to be attached to the new uniforms, and travel warrants were issued. We even had our own individual train times sorted out for us, we were treated like kings.

When we thought that they could not do any more to help us, one member of staff even remembered that we would not have any handkerchiefs, these were never an R.A.F. issue, but some were found and given out, and that was not the end of the care and attention.

During our short stay at Cosford the weather had changed completely, it got very cold and just before we were due to leave it started to snow. Now according to R.A.F. rules and regulations, Summer started on May 1st, and today was the 2nd. but in defiance great coats were produced and issues. We were spoilt beyond belief.

By mid day the whole group was, very self consciously, standing on the platform awaiting the train to Wolverhampton and from there to our various home towns. It was a strange feeling delighted to be there of course, and on the last lap towards what I had been craving for all this time, but felt very much on my own now, and facing a world that seemed to have changed while I was away.

I was glad of the greatcoat not only because of the inclement weather, but it had extra comfort about it, something that had not changed. I could wrap myself up in it until I had got the hang of things again, and got a bit more confidence back.

My parents had moved out of London since I joined the R.A.F. which was a good thing because of the bombing, and the terrible flying bomb and rocket attacks that followed, but rural Huntingdonshire was not so handy, or anywhere near so exciting as my old familiar haunts that I so wanted to get back to. My married sister who lived quite close to the old home could always be relied upon, although I have long ago realized what an imposition this was, to put me up for a night or two when on leave, and this where I was heading to now and that formed part of a remarkable coincidence.

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By the time I had made my connection at Wolverhampton and arrived at Euston it was dark, that was a good thing because I did not feel quite so conspicuous. The streets were now lit again, the chances of more air raids by conventional aircraft I suppose had now been ruled out, but hardly to the pre war standard, so I could still hide a bit in the gloom, and that strangely is what I felt I wanted to.

I had no trouble in remembering my way about, and that there was a local L.M.S. electric service, Euston to Watford, that would take me to where my sister lived, so I was begining [sic] to “get back in”, but the sreets [sic] were so much quieter than I thought I could remember them, with hardly any people walking about. I did pass a woman I knew slightly, and it was a little reassuring when she showed some regognition [sic].

Arriving at my sister’s house there was some delay after ringing the doorbell. In those moments my confidence waned again. Had my sister moved during my absence? or something worse? I did notice a lot more bomb damage had taken place, but all was well, in fact more than well, my home coming, entirely by coincidence, had coincided with a family gathering, and beyond my wildest dreams, Ann was there too.

She had got in touch with my family after her letters to me, were returned to her by the Squadron, and was later told by my sister that I was a prisoner.

That imformation [sic] was first picked up by my brother, who when I was reported “missing” started listening to a radio programme transmitted from Germany. Today, we would say it was “presented” by a person who called himself Lord Haw Haw. He cunningly included at intervals during his programme, the names of newly taken prisoners of war, knowing that this would attract an audience of anxious next of kin hoping to gain news of loved ones, reported missing.

Ninety five per cent of the broadcast would be taken up by exagerated [sic] claims of German successes in battle, aimed at demoralizing the British listeners.

Lord Haw Haw was a British traitor, his real name was William Joyce. He was brought back to England to face trial at the end of the war in Europe, and was hanged at the Tower of London.

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[underlined] Home Again. A RAID OVER BERLIN Page 66. [/underlined]

My arrival coincided with the family gathering, and most of all that Ann was there too, was truly remarkable. It could not have been better if it had been carefully planned.

My mother had received my letters sent after I had been liberated, and passed the news around the family, but nobody could say in advance when I would arrive home.

Ann was on her way back to Gloucestershire after spending most of a ten day leave at her home, and had called to see my sister on the way, not even knowing that I had been liberated.

While the ladies of my family, despite the even more severe rationing that people were now having to endure, were busy preparing a “welcome home” meal, Ann and I were able to get reacquainted, and it seemed to take no time at all. Within minutes it seemed that we had never been parted.

Anne’s leave was due to expire in two days, so in the circumstances, and after much deliberation, sent a telegram, that was usual way to communicate quickly in those days, asking if her leave could be extended by forty eight hours. Within a day the reply was back, “seven days compassionate leave granted, plus forty eight hours”. That was far more generous than expected, and we were more than grateful for that concession.

During those ten lovely carefree days together, there was no question of “shall we go ahead and get married”, it was just when? September sounded nice time, and we were married, on the twenty ninth, but of course before then we both had to return to duty.

The R.A.F. in Britain, to a great extent, had now lost it’s purpose. Germany surrendered unconditionally a few days after my return. The war in the Far East continued with unceasing vengeance, but it seemed that it was not necessary for the bomber and fighter squadrons based in the U.K. to be transferred there. Their aircraft, were now being reduced to scrap metal. In many cases that was being done by the ground and air crews who only a few weeks before had been proudly flying and maintaining them. Most of these beautiful aircraft were smashed to pieces in a most undignified way, with crowbars and sledgehammers. It was not a pretty sight to watch.

However Ann’s unit was to remain active for a while, it was an Advanced Flying Training School. I was to return to Cosford, where I met up with David again, and to learn of his terrible experiences after leaving Stalag Luft VI.

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[underlined] Back into Service. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 67. [/underlined]

Arriving back to Cosford almost the the [sic] first person I saw was David. He looked just as I remenbered [sic] him on the squadron, and as usual he was smiling and looking pleased with life, but he had suffered, and that was when told me about the journey from Stalag Luft VI to Gross Tychow. A little later he was able to show me the bayonet wounds to his back, and although they were inflicked [sic] a year before before [sic], they were still very nasty to look at. He went on to tell of the much harder life prisoners were subjected to, compared with Stalag Luft VI, and then the appalling sufferings he endured when being marched aimlessly during the last weeks before liberation in atrocious weather conditions, with little or no food and water. I was spared all this simply by being on the opposite side of K Lager at Stalag Luft VI, and then by dodging from one hut to another when being moved out of Stalag 357 at Fallingbostel. I never knew what dividends that would pay.

Also upon returning to Cosford I was reunited with, now ex,prisoners [sic] who I had been with at both Stalag 357 and Stalag Luft VI, but it took some time to realize who they were. Not only did they appear much wider and thicker, but also much taller. They were all smiling and radiating confidence. Their recovery was unbelievable.

After only a few days which were spent with with [sic] more medical checks, and form filling we were sent back on leave, indefinitely, to await further orders, but at this point I must tell of a case of extreme ingenuity.

Back at Stalag Luft VI, their [sic] was some organized entertainment in a building the Germans had allowed the prisoners to adapt as a theatre. All tastes were catered for, but on the lighter side an ex professional comedian was always popular. His name was Ross Jones.

During those few days when we returned to Cosford, enjoying a fine summer evening visiting Wolverhampton with David, we met up with Ross Jones. We reminded him of how we knew him, and were told that he also was back at Cosford, but with official permission had already got himself a week’s work at the local Empire, and thereupon reached into his pocket and produced two complementary tickets for the show, about to start.

It was home again for a further two weeks, and was able to spend two days with Ann where she was stationed, having kindly been granted permission by her C.O. to be there.

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[underlined] The Rehabilitation Course. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 68. [/underlined]

I received a telegram telling me to report to R.A.F. West Malling in Kent and when, but with no further details. I knew West Malling to be a Fighter station, or that is [sic] was, so wondered why I was going there.

On arrival David was already there, and I learned from him that we were to have a course of Rehabilitation. I imagined all sorts of strenuous exercising and even revision in “square bashing”, but was soon to learn it was going to be just the opposite.

As the course assembled, several familiar faces appeared. Most of them also thought they were here to be “knocked back” into shape, until we met the C.O. and his staff, who all had a most friendly and helpful manner.

It turned out that we were to have a most interesting and enjoyable two weeks, with most of the time spent visiting the workplaces of local industry, but also benefitting from some wise and helpful counselling.

The visits were to a sweet factory, with generous samples provided, a brewery, only previously dreamed about by most, the Short aircraft factory at Rochester where the famous Sunderland was still in production, and Croydon aerodrome, as airports were known as.

Croydon was one of the few airports in the country, and it served London before Heath row was ever thought about. What made it so interesting, the national airline of that time, British Overseas Airways Corporation, was struggling to create and maintain air services across the world. There were no civilian airliners being manufactured, so R.A.F. planes were being modified to pioneer the new routes that were being allocated, until more suitable aircraft became avalable [sic]. Profiterbility [sic] could not be considered at this stage.

It was explained to us that the Dakota was by far the most suitable because it was designed as a civil aircraft, but it only had a short range. So with great interest we watched Lancasters being modified to fly the long distance routes. Economic efficiency could not be considered. If the opportunity was not taken up immediately to establish a route it could be lost for ever. Concequently [sic] the Lancaster, in it’s modified form and renamed the Lancastrian, would fly the Australia route in several hops. It would need a crew of four to transport only five passengers.

The Dakotas were already flying regular services to some continental capitals including

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[underlined] The Rehabilitation Course. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 69. [/underlined]

Brussels, and this was seen as a great opportunity by two of our party. They had been shot down over Belgium in a Halifax, and had been sheltered by the Resistance with a family there. Cheekily they asked if there was a chance of a free flight. This was granted with the approval of our Commanding Officer who was with us on the visit. We never guessed what a great indust- [sic] was going to be developed from using these makeshift aircraft.

Back at West Malling, David and I made plans to visit the families of the crew who had not survived. Although we knew we should do this, and wanted to, we were quite apprehensive about it, so sought some advice from the C.O. He encouraged us to go ahead, but wisely pointed out that we could not assume that they were all dead, so we must be careful.

The visits were not nearly so as difficult as we thought they would be because the families were so brave. They had accepted that the worst had happened, and did not ask for details of how their sons or husbands had died. Each family made us very welcome, which made us feel much more comfortable with our task.

David made contact with our Canadian crew member confirming that he had survived, had recovered from leg wounds, and was now back home, and looking very well in a photograph he sent.

After some more leave, and with aircrews no longer being in demand, I was posted to Cranwell, the original home of R.A.F. signals, to serve for the final period of my war service, helping to train members of the Royal Dutch Navy, already very competent naval operators, to become air operators.

During my time at Cranwell weekend leave could be taken for granted, so Ann and I were able to see each other regularly, and make plans for the fast approaching wedding. The war in the Far East came to an end, making out future far more predictable, but it was to be more than a year before I was a civilian again.

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[underlined] Last days in the R.A.F. A RAID OVER BERLIN. Page 70. [/underlined]

Now the war was over in Europe and the Far East, life in the R.A.F. was quite different. The terrific pressures that had been imposed upon all the military leaders to bring victory were now over, but our civil leaders had to face the problem of getting the millions of people who had either been conscripted into, or had volunteered to join the armed forces, back to what they had been fighting for, a normal peaceful civilian life.

For many reasons this had to be a slow and carefully controlled process, known as Demobilisation, and everyone other than the “regulars” was given a demobilisation group number. Age and length of service was taken into account to determine this. The lower the number the sooner release was granted. I was 23, and joined up in Sept. 1941, so was allocated Group 44.

The slow pace of demobilisation caused discontent for those wanting to get back to civilian life, and this must have created a bad atmosphere for the “regulars” who now formed only a slim minority, wanting to get on with their chosen career.

I was content to stay at Cranwell for the time being. The living accommodation that we were lucky enough to acquire proved to be very satisfactory. Ann got on well with our landlady, and found plenty to do while I was on duty. Weekends were always duty free so we could visit her parents if we wished, or could visit Lincoln, Newark or Sleaford. Not on a spending spree, there was nothing to buy.

There did come a temptation to give up this comfortable life when it appeared on Daily Routine Orders that experienced aircrew were required as volunteers, to take part in what came to be known as the Berlin Airlift. Some of the now redundant heavy bombers were having to used to take vital supplies to the British Sector of Berlin, all land access being denied by the Russians. There was a good bounty payable, but it also entailed a three year engagement.

This, and the appreciation of how comfortable my life was at Cranwell, and that I certainly would not be able to come home to my wife every evening, easily outweighed my desire to get back to flying duties. The full wisdom of that decision was not revealed until years later because the number of aircrew who lost their lives during that long operation seemed to have little publicity, and it was considerable.

My R.A.F service ended in December 1946.