A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 5 Life Behind the Wire

The course of one’s life can be greatly altered by a single event and, although I had no idea at the time, there soon occurred one such instance in which fate was, once more, to be kind to me and make a significant difference in the way I was treated in my POW life.

The Germans had decided to shake things up a bit and we were told by the guards to pack up our meagre possessions as we were to be moved across to K lager. While David and I were not moved into the same hut this time, he was placed in a hut just opposite; we were still in close and easy contact.

Settling into my new hut I could see distinct signs of more organisation, which was understandable because most of the prisoners there had been in captivity for considerably longer than us new arrivals. They were very welcoming, 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 as it was so precious.

Interestingly two of the group or combine, as each group was known, were from my squadron. They had both been in the Bag, as our internment was sometimes referred to, for around two years. I had to bide my time to catch up on old times as talk of the squadron was only safe when walking the circuit.

The first example of organisation in K Lager came on my first day there, when a smartly dressed man wearing collar and tie, which was 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 was posted on each of the windows and the door was closed, and all went quiet. In a cultured voice, very similar to that of a BBC announcer, he spoke out, ‘This is the news in English’, and he went on to read from a sheet which contained, what we would call today, news headlines.

A little trick that the newsreader 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 the German news bulletin, and he would switch quickly to this, which was perfectly legal.

Although this service, which sometimes took place twice a day, was eagerly anticipated and greatly appreciated, it could dampen the spirits a touch as the progress of the war appeared to be very slow or static at times. We were impatient waiting for the day when soldiers would come, break down the gates and set us free. It wasn’t until some time after the war was over that it was revealed what a bitter and courageous struggle the armies had made to make the progress they did, on all fronts, and we realised how even more grateful we should all have been for their sacrifices. I think the media, as it is called today, tended to emphasise the good bits and not tell of the bad. Perhaps they were made to do this to boost morale at home, however, 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 to K Lager all new arrivals were instructed by their various hut leaders to attend a meeting. No reason was given, we were just told to be there. It turned out we were to be seen individually by a panel of 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, to realise that I was being interrogated by them to ascertain whether I was genuine RAF or not; I soon saw the sense in what they had done.

My identity verified, they wanted to know all 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 followed and then I was thanked, reminded to keep my trap shut, then, with a wink and a smile, dismissed. 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.

While it didn’t do to dwell on such matters for too long, thoughts did drift back home to your loved ones. Our only contact was by letter, but such luxuries were few and far between. Prisoners could write a lettercard home once a month. It was known by us that this would be heavily censored before leaving Germany, so it was difficult to know what would be allowed through. Likewise, we could receive one letter a month.

I had found myself thinking about Adelaide quite a lot, as you can imagine◦– I later learnt that she did not receive news that I was still alive, inside a prisoner of war camp, until quite a while after I had been shot down. I would always be excited on the rare occasion a letter got through but, for whatever reason, we only received one or two letters from each other during the whole time. I was extremely glad to get the first and pleased to know that she was still thinking of me and hadn’t written me off.

Sadly, that happened quite a lot, even married chaps had news come through that their wives had gone off with somebody else. They were referred to as Dear John letters; I think the term originated from the POW camps. They were devastated. You have nothing and then that letter arrives. They just had to cope with it; like a lot of other things. You tried to help them along but some of them took on a bitter attitude. It must have been terrible news for them.

I can remember another letter from Adelaide’s younger sister, Barbara, which gave me some idea what was happening back at Husbands Bosworth. Although only twelve-years-old she managed to conceal meaning in her ‘innocent’ letter. I guessed that her words ‘It’s all quiet on the Sulby Road as usual’, must surely mean the opposite and that meant the Wellingtons must still be roaring overhead and the Drome was still training aircrew. I knew that, ever since the Drome was opened, the aircraft noise on Sulby Road was continuous and deafening and therefore it could not possibly be ‘usual’ for it to be quiet. This was a small, but welcome psychological boost for someone isolated from Churchill’s battle roar.

Prisoners were also 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. While 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 could be sent more frequently, fared even worse. They too came indirectly, but, being smaller, were probably easier to pilfer. You might say now, knowing about the dangers of smoking, that was a good thing, but in those days we were led to believe that smoking was good for you, as it calmed the nerves and helped a person think more clearly, and that it was a great social asset. Consequently, probably nine out of ten men smoked, including me, and quite a lot of women. In a prison camp, cigarettes took on a whole new dimension, they were currency, so the few non-smokers and the lucky ones who fared a bit better with their cigarette parcels, such as the Canadians, could buy things from other prisoners. I must say at this point, the Canadians were always generous to their hut mates and 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 prisoners who were talented in drawing and, by using a photograph as a guide, could produce a portrait in pencil. Some were remarkably talented and I sometimes wonder if any of them ever became professional artists later in life. The number of items that were bought and sold for cigarettes was never large and became almost non-existent 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 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 it was also very risky.

It was years after my POW days before it occurred to me what a lot of clever work was done by our Camp Leader and his aides in obtaining items and the services of people from the outside. It all had to be thought through very carefully because of the risk of counter intelligence. For example, 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 probably reveal its hiding place.

Many things would have to be secretly obtained towards an organised 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 as they endured severe austerity in that sort of thing. Perhaps some of the goods had to be first exchanged for Reichsmarks before the objective could be achieved. Whatever had to be done was for the good of us all, and this group of courageous 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; I don’t think they did.

I had been in K6 some weeks, when at around 5am, guards burst into the hut and ordered everyone out. 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 kept standing there for some considerable time. It would become obvious in a short while that others in the hut had guessed what this was all about, but nothing was said. Eventually we were ordered back inside the hut. I happened to be one of the first back in, so got a front seat you might say, to see all that took place.

Right in the lead, with his own personal guard, was Jock, our Room Leader, and he was escorted into the small room where the night latrine was housed. Jock, like the Camp Leader, did not have to shout to make sure everybody knew he was in charge. He was a quiet mannered Scot, who on first acquaintance 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.

I could see when I got to the door of the latrine room that nearly all the space was taken up by a group of sinister looking civilians. 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; they appeared almost exactly like the Gestapo were portrayed in the films shown at my local cinema back home.

The latrine drum had been pushed to one side and a paving slab 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. I had no knowledge of the tunnel, but I hadn’t long joined the hut and those working on it would never have told of its existence because they weren’t really sure who I was; I could have been a German plant for all they knew.

Jock had been hustled into a position by his escort to stand on one side of the shaft so that he was facing a man who must have been the senior Gestapo officer. The German took his time to stare at Jock before he 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, stood with a puzzled look studying the hole with disbelief, for what seemed another age of time. The Gestapo man became even angrier, made visible by his face becoming 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. He was now standing almost at the side of a very angry and impatient Gestapo officer, the kind who were not known for their kindness to prisoners. Jock now moved slowly and thoughtfully to the opposite side of the shaft once more and looked into the hole again. Eventually, when he was ready, he scratched his head, then turned to the officer and, with his face the picture of innocence, said, ‘Well look at that, rats.’

The Gestapo officer exploded. He threw his arms in the air and his whole body went up with both feet well clear of the ground. He was barely in control of himself. Spitting and fuming as he did so, he screamed back, ‘Rats? Rats? Do you think we are stupid?’ Then, without waiting for Jock’s answer, he motioned to the guard who had escorted Jock in, shouting, ‘Cooler.’ The guard sprang to attention and off they went with Jock 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 Camp Commandant, which was lenient. Perhaps it was 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 usual.

Life went on in K Lager and we were always hungry, sometimes very hungry. While 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 tantalise 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 mouth-watering menu of eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding and 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. 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 more enjoyable. The distant pine trees surrounding the camp appeared a little less mournful and forbidding, but the craving for food continued.

June 6, 1944, started as a miserable day, dull and windy, and the secret radio bulletin had told us it was Derby Day in Great Britain. Some of those more interested in horse racing had organised a simulation of the race out on the parade ground; a bit like a huge Ludo game scratched out on the ground. Punters could lay bets in cigarettes with self-appointed bookmakers, but the race never finished.

As the race progressed some very, very important and breath-taking news began spreading amongst the POWs◦– the Allies had landed in Normandy that morning.

It was only after the news had been posted on the official German notice board, and individuals read the notice twice over to make sure they had read it right, and then raced back to their huts, that the news was spread. As it did so, 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 invaders who had not been wiped out would be driven back into the sea. This claim was not even discussed by us POWs to my knowledge. As far as we were concerned, the Allies had landed and that was that. 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, even the most pessimistic were now speculating on when we would be freed. Little did we know of what was to come◦– that it would take far longer than we could anticipate and that for too many, liberation never came, while thousands had to suffer terrible hardship before they were returned to their beloved homelands.

As a week or so went by, with no significant advance from the beachheads, a feeling of anti-climax 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, as the weeks wore on, even the most pessimistic were asking, ‘Will it be next week or the week after when the British Liberation Army will smash down the gates to set us free?’

At some point in July 1944 we noticed an obvious change in morale amongst the Germans who were guarding us, which I believe was shared by all German forces, wherever they were serving, and probably all German citizens as well. This followed the attempted assassination of Hitler in East Prussia, which could not have been that far from our Stalag in the north of the country.

The first sign of change was at morning roll call when at its 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 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, and reminded them who was boss. (What we did not know then was that control of the Allied prisoner of war camps was handed over to the SS commander, Himmler, following the assassination attempt.)

The new salute, however, was a mere detail of the change and thankfully 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 it 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◦– that of being posted to the Russian Front◦– gradually came to light. Some of our guards had already been there and, quite unofficially of course, being sure they could not be overheard, would disclose some of the horrors they had been through there. They declared that the Russians were not like British or German soldiers◦– they were ‘animals’ and did not care how many of them were killed in gaining an inch of ground.

Knowing this, but not risking a blow from a rifle butt by saying it to anyone but a guard known to be a bit amiable, who 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’, 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 were revealed in April 1945, ordinary Germans claimed to have no knowledge of the Gas Chambers or the primitive barbaric burning of the bodies. However, 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.

I couldn’t help but wonder: if we, in a prison camp had got to hear it, then it was hardly unbelievable that the saying, and its sinister meaning, would not be known to most of the German population.

Another sign that gave us some measure of hope came late one afternoon as a Dornier 217 flew over very low, and it was obvious that it was in serious trouble. One engine appeared quite dead and the other was sputtering badly. 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. The 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.

Around this time, I was to get some welcome news of a different kind. Quite by chance, I was talking to a fellow prisoner who was also an airman in Bomber Command, when it became apparent that he knew that my old love rival’s plane had also been shot down over Germany and that he had probably been taken prisoner. While I obviously felt sorry for him, on another level I was quietly pleased that my rival in love was also ‘behind the wire’ in a German Prisoner of War Camp.

Our thoughts of when we were going to be liberated by the British or American forces coming from the west or the south were fuelled 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 much louder and more intense. The coming of the Russians was confirmed 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 amongst us predicted, ‘they will not bother getting us out, they will only think of themselves; East Prussia is part of Germany, you see.’ Even the pessimists thought they were right. We were not able to find out at that time because two days later we were all on the move.