A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 3 Interrogation

Dulag Luft was a specialised transit camp set up by the Luftwaffe, in the suburbs of Frankfurt am Main, to interrogate all captured Allied airmen before they were transferred to the permanent camps dotted around German territory.

We were informed during aircrew training about some of the methods used by the staff there to extract the information they were seeking. During lectures given by RAF Intelligence, 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. However, we were also 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 a 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?’ and ‘What was your target?’, would be slipped in when you were off your guard.

‘Don’t get drawn into a seemingly innocent conversation’, was the strong advice always given. We were also warned of the extensive use of microphones at Dulag Luft and, shockingly, the presence of one or two RAF personnel who had turned traitor. Still wearing their uniforms, they mingled with new prisoners, trying to get information for their German masters. Absolutely disgraceful, but true.

Benefiting 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, as it was too late to do anything about it. Little did I know then what the consequences of this would be, as it was to be used very strongly against me at Dulag Luft.

The journey from Frankfurt railway station to the interrogation centre was made, surprisingly, by tramcar but, with us prisoners as the only passengers, our guards had full control. On the way we could see that the bomb damage inflicted by the Allies was dreadful. It was 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 United States Air Force’s method of carpet bombing.

Our party arrived, thankfully without further civilian interference, and we were quickly escorted into what must have been the main entrance of Dulag Luft. Here we were immediately subjected to the first instance 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, to foil the enemy radar. It was known to us by the code name Window (it was later referred to as Chaff). 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 so.

We were immediately singled off and I was led into a room staffed by three or four very arrogant Luftwaffe airmen. I was ordered to strip everything off. With no consideration given to any of my injuries, I was then forced to stand on one side of the room while my clothes were thoroughly searched by two of the airmen. I could sense that their objective was partly 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 battledress, and another great exhibition was made of cutting off one of the buttons that would also serve as a compass. The passport photograph and the buttons were designed to enable us to forge documents and enable us to escape should the opportunity arise. 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.

When they had finished thoroughly searching my clothes, they threw them back at me and then, showing their ignorance, made fun of my fine silk and wool long johns that had recently been issued to counteract the cold during flying duties. ‘We modern Germans stopped wearing these old-fashioned things years ago,’ was what they implied here. (Actually, they were a great comfort at all times during a cold winter on a north Lincolnshire airfield.)

Then the door was opened by two armed guards and I was marched off along what seemed to be endless corridors, to what was to be my cell for the next nine days. I had barely got inside when the door was slammed shut and locked. It was the start of the most miserable, lonely and anxious 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 in the wall, was a small barred window. On the bed, in a heap, were 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 felt that I wanted to read it. I got onto the bed, because there was nowhere else to be, and lay down. There was no sound of any description from the adjoining cells and I knew I was utterly alone.

I remained isolated 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 its smell as Ersatzkaffee, an inferior grain coffee, and two thin slices of the very dark, sour tasting bread that I never thought I would ever consider eating, let alone crave, as I was to do during the very hungry days I was to endure as a prisoner of war.

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 the shock or concussion, or perhaps both. Even so, I remained conscious of the fact that I was unbelievably lucky to have escaped with my life and to be so lightly injured. I kept thinking of the crew. I knew that David 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 done had he been able to do so. His turret would almost certainly have been the prime target of the attacking fighters.

Our pilot, navigator and bomb aimer, trapped down in the nose, would have stood little chance of being blown clear, as David and I were. I thought about them continuously as I lay in my cell, but knew better than to enquire about them now, as this would have almost certainly connected me to an aircraft and to a squadron, which might have been information of which my interrogators would make use.

I must have slept for some time before being awakened 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 POWs in Germany. The remaining part was at midday, consisting of a bowl of swede soup which was no more than boiled swede and three small potatoes. This inadequate ration alone would have resulted in slow starvation, unless, before that, because of weakness, prisoners would have succumbed to 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 Order of St John) Canada and the USA. 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.

Shortly after my first full day in the cell I became 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 beneath 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 activity was made by, what I guessed to be, the guards marching along the corridor in their heavy boots. 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, ‘Out,’ and I was marched off to face my first interrogation.

I was led into a large room and the guards withdrew. I was kept waiting while a smartly dressed Luftwaffe officer sat at a desk, appearing to study some papers. Obviously, as I see it now in my comparatively old aged wisdom, he was applying more psychology. After what seemed an age he motioned me to sit down opposite 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 savoured the effect of this bombshell for several more minutes, before reminding me that I was not wearing RAF identity discs. I tried to defend myself against this charge by pointing out that I was wearing RAF 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 for nothing.

He then said, ‘You do not appear to belong to an aircrew either.’ His accusations were terrifying, but at the same time, I thought, ‘He knows about David.’

I was returned to my cell, no doubt to be given time to dwell on my predicament.

Eventually the door was flung open once more and I was led back to my tormentor. 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 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 guards to take me away to face the firing squad.

But next came some relief when he suddenly said, ‘Right, if you are who you claim to be, tell me the places where you were trained?’

I refused to answer, as I knew I must not, even to save my own skin. Feigning 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 RAF establishments in Great Britain, listed in alphabetical order, along with whatever unit or squadron was stationed there. He had urged me to look at it, obviously thinking it to be a trump card, but at that moment his telephone rang and he had to take his eyes off me while he answered it. Flicking quickly through the pages of the book, I was able to test its accuracy by looking for two airfields that I knew to be new. They were not listed, which gave me a little bit of satisfaction, thinking, ‘He does not know everything then’, but this did little to allay my fears.

The telephone call must have been more important than grilling me, for while he continued with it the guards entered and took me back to my cell, 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. I had had plenty of opportunity 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. As a result, I was so terrified of what I was about to encounter that I did not notice that I was being taken off in a different direction this time. It came as a surprise then, 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 the RAF Intelligence to be on guard against this approach, it was a great relief 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?’ he asked.

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 were there in force, guarding not only the doors, but all approaches.

It turned out 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, as the current 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. The new equipment was given the codename Fishpond and secrecy, we were told repeatedly, was paramount.

I was too shocked to answer immediately, but an answer 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. There he gave me my second demonstration of its qualities. Nothing else was asked or said before I was returned to my cell.

The difference in this man’s attitude made me feel even more uncertain. To start with I had been accused of being an agent and now I was being asked a question that only an RAF operational wireless operator would know about.

Any hope I might have built up was lost when, nearly two days later, I was marched off to face my first interrogator once more. Neither his attitude nor 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.’

Back home we had heard a lot about the Gestapo and its brutal methods, so his threat was indeed chilling. He would be aware of this, so added, ‘And we all know what they will do to you, don’t we?’

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

Before dismissing me, he again asked about my aircrew, 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 attitude again differed greatly from his colleague and, in what appeared to be a friendly manner, he tried to get me talking about technical details. He was not very persistent, which made me suspect that he too knew I was going to the Gestapo and thought there was no point in wasting his time with me.

I was soon escorted back to the solitude of my cell.

In the afternoon of that day a different fear came from an unexpected source. 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 Americans using their method of carpet bombing. It was terrifying.

Adding to my worries, I recalled that during the lectures which were given about this place, we were told that we would usually be kept for ten days. ‘If they keep you for longer’, we were told, ‘be aware because you are probably telling them something or they think that 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.

The next day saw another dreaded session with the espionage man, as I came to label him. 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 to name them, so that graves can be marked in the proper manner.’

I knew, and I am sure he knew, that they could not all be from my aircrew. Looking back, of course this was his ploy to get me talking, but I could not see that at the time, so I was mystified, suspicious and baffled. Failing to draw me on this subject, his stern and aggressive manner returned, and he delivered what I sensed to be my final, grim warning.

‘This is now a matter for the Gestapo,’ he barked, whereupon the guards entered to march me back to my cell. I slumped on my bed no longer thinking that he was bluffing. There was no doubt in my mind now◦– I was on my way to be tortured and then shot.

Terror struck in the early afternoon when the unsettling sound of boots came to a smart halt outside my cell. The door was flung open and two guards stood looking at me for the final time. After what seemed to be an age 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. My feet felt very heavy and my knees went weak thinking, ‘I am on my way to the Gestapo, first to be tortured and then shot.’ Then, as we halted at a door that appeared to lead to the outside, the even more frightening thought came to me: ‘They are going to shoot me now.’

When the door was flung open, however, I was pushed not into a yard with a firing squad, 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 indescribable. I was not to be shot. My interrogation was over, and I was amongst the boys again. Then I was greeted by the rather splendid sight of David coming towards me with his usual grin at its best.

I think I was the last prisoner to join the group and soon learned that they had already been told that they would be leaving for a prison camp that day.

We must have been a very sorry looking bunch gathered there. Several, like David and I, were bandaged up and some were limping rather badly. We all looked very dirty, as there had been no washing facilities during our incarceration and 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.

In an adjoining room we were pleasantly surprised to find some food had been set out for us; nothing exotic: biscuits, cheese, tinned meat and a delicious fruit drink, but it tasted so nice after the sour black bread and swede soup. The meal was not down to the generosity or compassion of our captors but had come from Red Cross parcels and was set out by a work party of British POWs who were held at Dulag Luft. Looking back, 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 I cannot remember any talk at all; not out of a sense of duty, but because all interest was centred on the food, which all went far too quickly.

After this brief and unexpected treat, we were each handed another. The American Red Cross had provided an attaché case which, although made of cardboard, was very strong and contained a towel, soap, a toothbrush and paste and some shaving gear. These items were of no immediate use without water but were very much appreciated and were to become treasured possessions in POW life.

Also available, for those in need, were boots from the Canadian Red Cross. The boots I had been provided with at Tempelhof airfield◦– you may recall I had somehow lost one of my own in the air◦– 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 a marked prisoner from the moment I put them on. I hope he recorded their return or I might yet get a bill for them.

All flying clothing had been confiscated (those who had managed to evade capture for a time, would have discarded and hidden theirs to look as much like a civilian as possible) so it came as a pleasant surprise when RAF greatcoats were then handed out to everyone from the Red Cross store. Those coats were to become invaluable as we were destined for what was probably the most northerly Stalag for Allied prisoners, and warm clothing was something we would all need to face the cold, harsh German winter.

We must have looked a very strange party as we left Dulag Luft on that cold February afternoon. Dirty, ragged, bandaged and limping, but each carrying a brand-new attaché 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 civilians. On the other hand, the guards escorting us might not be so skilled in protecting us or have reason to be, as we had all been fully interrogated now, and were of much less value to our captors.

We were quickly loaded on to waiting lorries under heavy guard and transported to a railway goods yard not far away. They stopped alongside a train made up of goods wagons which instantly reminded me of those shown on the Pathé Newsreel, 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; at least in that respect I was spared apprehension.

RAF 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 POW camp, where the accommodation would be very comfortable, with adequate sports facilities and all the comforts of modern life. No doubt the poor Jewish people were deceived in a similar fashion in the earlier days to make the task of transporting them to their deaths a little easier for their evil captors. 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 it had a lot to do with the truth being so unimaginable, no one would have suspected it.

Our guards remained very efficient and quickly got all our party 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 with the interior divided into three sections by heavy timber and barbed wire. The centre section, where there was a sliding door on each side for loading purposes, was occupied by three or four armed guards. We were detained in the two end sections, with only a narrow door, securely bolted from the centre section, being the only possible means of escape.

The friendly company of other Allied airmen was a vast improvement on the loneliness and anxiety of Dulag Luft and 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. Little did I realise that this was a relative luxury and, as the journey was only going to take a day or two, far worse journeys were to come during my long captivity.

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 a small coal burning stove, which they used to make a hot drink, that ersatz coffee, but 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.

The night soon passed with several stops being made. With each stop we thought 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 one of the doors open a crack, and apart from being grateful for the fresh air, it allowed some view of what was going on outside and told us that we were travelling north, towards the Russian Front.

While waiting patiently in yet another siding, it could be seen that trains passing in our direction were made up of flat platform trucks 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. In other carriages the seriously wounded could be seen lying on stretchers. Although they were the enemy it was still shocking to see them in such a condition.