Schlafenraum or Bedspace



Schlafenraum or Bedspace


A poem about prisoner of war beds complete with two drawings illustrating camp life.





Three printed sheets


IBCC Digital Archive


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MWilsonRC1389401-170113-030001, MWilsonRC1389401-170113-030002


[underlined] Schlafensraum or Bedspace. [/underlined]

It’s very dark and smelly, dusty too,
Not very comfortable.
Bedboards gone to make a brew,
Or help support a tunnel.

Not one, not two, but three of us
Stacked one above the other,
Just grab a bunk, Eh! Don’t push,
No need to make a bother.

The bottom bunk’s perhaps the best,
For you’ve somewhere to sit,
But when the others go to rest,
The cover you with …. dust.

The floor’s quite handy for Red Cross Box,
Where you keep all your treasure,
Tin plate and mug you use as crocks,
Perhaps a skilly measure.

The middle bed is very small,
Will only suit a midget,
No room to store your ‘stuff’ at all,
Or when asleep to fidget.

Some say top bunk must be the best.
There’s room to breath up there,
Rafters to take the family chest,
Or pinch some power, who’d dare.

No one can drop their muck on you,
As your mate below must suffer,
Y’ can sit in peace to drink your brew,
Away from the scrounging ‘Suppers’

But when all’s said, it ain’t the bed
That make’s your life worthwhile,
It’s the mucker you can trust with bread,
And have done many a while.

Dickie Bird Stalag IVB.

[page break]

[black and white drawing of bunks in Hut 24A]

[page break]

[black and white drawing of the inside of a hut]


Dickie Bird, “Schlafenraum or Bedspace,” IBCC Digital Archive, accessed February 6, 2023,

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