A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 8 Liberation

I was lying prone on my bed when someone from the hut dashed in to say a British tank could be seen just outside the camp. The news immediately brought new life into me and I managed to get up and struggle outside to get a glimpse of this long awaited happening. I strained my tired eyes and there it was, moving very slowly towards us, appearing 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 which was integral with the farmhouse, 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 and the British tank came to a halt. It could be imagined that they were thinking, ‘Where did that come from?’ Then the turret was swung slowly around 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 some time while we were locked in our huts, but the problem had solved itself 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. This was a little disappointing and nothing else happened that day. Exactly what we had expected was difficult to say. The only guidance anybody had would be based on what might have happened in World War One; hundreds of infantry men with bayonets fixed surging slowly forward, bitterly fighting for each yard. Our liberation did not appear to be happening at all like that, that’s if it was happening at all.

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

It was around mid-morning, on April 16, 1945, as far as I can ascertain, when a great cheer rang out throughout the compound. At the time I was in the hut on my own, 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 had improved further so I was able to react to this almost unbelievable news by getting up quite quickly, and, with a bit of urging from the boys, was able to hurry down to the main gate. Sure enough, there stood an armoured car, with its occupants unable to get out because of a cheering crowd surrounding it. When they eventually managed to disembark, our liberators were able to identify themselves as members of the Royal Irish Hussars, part of the 7^th Armoured Division.

Soon after, other armoured vehicles of the same Regiment arrived, and there was a great deal of handshaking and backslapping. 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 within minutes. The way we were liberated was completely different to what I had visualised. Everything seemed so organised. The soldiers looked clean and, 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 mechanised spearhead.

Two soldiers of a Scottish regiment proudly pulled back the canvas cover of their 5cwt utility vehicle to show me inside. It was immaculate, with everything neatly stowed away and in pride of place, properly hung on 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 course for the artillery barrage, only 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 free was really indescribable, but I could not instantly take food for granted. A soldier had given me a tin of corned beef that morning, we had also been assured by the Army that each man would be receiving the normal rations from tomorrow onwards, but even so, I carefully measured and ate one quarter of the meat, saving the rest just in case I awoke from a teasing dream.

The 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. Then he started with a very serious warning about the uncertainty of the military situation around the camp. Explaining that while he could well understand that 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 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.

This advice was followed for a few days. I think we were all quite content 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.

Once the sounds of warfare had moved further away, 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.

We found only women in the farmhouse and had to reassure them that we had only come to ask for eggs. We must have been a ragged looking lot but they produced around half a dozen eggs, and then we were off. As we were climbing the slope, back towards the camp, 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, and then eight or nine German troops came out from the trees just below us. Our surprise was quickly outweighed by fear; we were like sitting ducks, completely unarmed and outnumbered. Whatever any of us had been taught, in our early days of training about fieldcraft, would have been 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; this time British soldiers, armed with all sorts of automatic weapons covering the Germans in front of them. The Germans were prisoners who had just been taken. Momentarily, and rather stupidly, we thought we were in the clear, but how would our soldiers know we were not another group of the enemy? We certainly did not look like RAF personnel. 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, ‘RAF 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.

Eventually 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 yet another fright. I had been talking to a corporal about being a POW, 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 weapon over to me, saying what he thought about all Germans. Then, quite seriously, he said, ‘Bump this lot off.’ As I started to protest he went on to say, ‘Go on, it’s alright, nobody knows we have them.’

First there was the shock of how hot the gun was, then came the weight of it, but just the thought of killing these wretched 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; I could not pass that gun back fast enough. Looking back, I like to think the corporal was joking, but I am still not sure. If I had done what we were all strongly advised, and stopped in the camp, the situation would not have arisen.

It had been agreed long before that if we were liberated, those who had been in captivity the longest should be the first to go back to Great Britain. As a comparatively new POW that put me well down the list. Now that liberation had come, we had been told apologetically that the process of getting us out of the war zone could be a lengthy one, as the roads were in a poor condition and 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 still had to be censored, we could write home.

The 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 well. I saw this with my own eyes when I took my second letter to his makeshift office only to find 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 frontpage headlines. They proclaimed, in the largest of print, that the British Liberating Army were ‘walking’ through Germany, insinuating that there was no opposition. He went on, ‘I’ve lost three of my best blokes this morning, just down the road. There is a bit of a wood down there and the SS 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 was encouraged to report with a bias towards optimism, but a typical report on a major RAF 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. It may have been helpful to the morale of the nation, but many squadron commanders would have the very unenviable task the 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 slim; a detail never reported in the newspapers.

One afternoon, when we thought that all the surrounding territory was now safe, one of the regiment’s military bands came into the camp and after setting up on the back of their lorry, proceeded to give us a wonderful half an hour or so of stirring music. Unfortunately, there came an enforced interval when machine gunfire broke out from somewhere close by; whether we were the intended target or not, no one waited to find out. It seemed that the band were used to this sort of thing as they dispersed in a much more orderly manner, to shelter 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 on exactly from where they had left off, while we the audience took rather longer to regain our posture and start listening again.

As the next two or three days passed without further incident we were told that we could venture out in reasonable safety, so two or three of us walked to the local village or town of Fallingbostel. Once there we discovered a military warehouse 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. There were all the kind of things soon to be sought after by collectors◦– Paratrooper boots, uniforms, helmets, badges, parachutes and arms as well as 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.

As the days went by, the feeling of being in captivity gradually wore off, but the great respect for food was still with me and remains to this day. Each daily ration was gratefully received, and any food not eaten was squirreled away beneath first my own bunk and then a nearby unoccupied one. When the great day of departure for the airfield finally came, I could not carry most of it, so it had to be left with the hope that some of the Russians would find it.

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 walking along on one side of the street and on the other side, there were two Russians. They crossed the road making towards the old man, gesturing, by one of them lifting the left sleeve of 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. They then walked off leisurely, 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 but, although only two days later, by then almost everything stored there had been made useless. The sacks had been slashed and their 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. I could not add to my already more than adequate store back at the camp, which was just as well, for the next morning I discovered my name was on the list to join the next party to be returned to Great Britain.

Although 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 such as going to the pictures (the cinema), playing darts at the local pub, watching the local football team playing in the park on a Saturday afternoon and 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, of course, there was Adelaide.

At last we were told to make our way into Fallingbostel, from where we were taken to an airfield not too far away to begin the process of repatriation. The transportation was well organised and for once it was nice to be treated like human beings and not cattle. 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. 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 by a pontoon one. This appeared, as we approached, very stable and safe, but as our lorry drove onto the first pontoon it heeled over to an alarming angle 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 crossing continued I think we all gained a bit of confidence in the safety of the bridge but were glad when we reached the opposite bank.

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

Our destination was a huge airfield at a place called Diepholz, which 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 for use by the Allies. On one edge of the airfield 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 was different. I did not sleep well in the tent, it was quiet enough 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.

When morning broke I was ready to get up and out of the tent quite early. The weather had remained fine and quite warm for several days and the morning gave the 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 of all the Allied air forces. After the war, like millions of human beings, it resumed its peace-time role and served excellently for many years before it could be bettered.

Soon the Dakotas were taking off and heading westwards towards Great Britain 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 the fact. 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 groundcrews at each end of the journey. 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 onboard the aircraft, it could be seen that this particular Dakota was fitted out for dropping Paratroopers. On each side, inside the fuselage, were seats running the entire length with 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 on that flight, trying to imagine what their feelings would have 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 their parachute pack to a static line above that ran the entire length of the fuselage. The doors would then be opened and, 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 the war 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 the 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? Was he the pilot?’ 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.