A Raid Over Berlin

Chapter 7 Stalag XX-A & Stalag 357

We were escorted into the main camp and fitted into huts where a few more could be squeezed in. I had already been separated from my old combine since prisoners, as might be expected, were not allowed personal preferences; you went where the guards directed you unless you wanted to be helped along by a rifle butt in the back.

Five or six of us new arrivals were put into a hut where senior Army NCOs 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, having been quickly taken over by the Germans and brought here.

We were soon on good terms with them◦– 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 preferred the Germans.

Stalag XX-A was in many ways quite different from Stalag Luft VI; most notably, there was much more space to walk around in◦– but it was equally 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 so 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 vice 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 the locals were on our side.

Before becoming a prison camp, we learned that this establishment was a Polish Army Officers Training Centre. 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. Most unusually, prisoners were allowed to be out of the huts until it was dusk and, taking advantage of this, a comrade and I had stayed out almost to the limit and were hurrying back to the hut before any shooting started.

Bill Frost, my companion, was a slightly built man who, as we were walking along chatting, suddenly disappeared, but it must have been a second or so before I realised 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 the next day, that we had been walking over land that had been 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 envied.

Attached to, but not housed inside the camp, was 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 just seemed to bounce off, and sometimes they would 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 received.

One morning I witnessed a minor act of sabotage, 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 by three armed guards. Unusually, the guards were taking a more practical part in the work, not the hard stuff, but indicating where the holes were to be dug and so on. This caused them not to be watching what all of the work party were doing at any one time, and, as each fresh hole was being dug, one of the Russians, who had managed to hang back unnoticed, was pulling up the posts that had previously been carefully set vertically in the holes, one at a time. 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 occasionally and grinned broadly. 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 its other qualities, but since it was time for our luxurious midday swede soup to be dished out, I did not wait for fear of missing it.

On another occasion as I and another prisoner were out enjoying the extra walking space around the camp in glorious sunshine, we heard a jingling noise. We immediately recognised the Camp Commandant in all his military splendour, driving a very smartly turned-out pony and carriage. We knew better than to ignore him, but what could we do? Somehow the correct procedure flashed into our minds, from those punishing weeks we had spent in the early days of training and square bashing. We simultaneously 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 our direction, and how he managed it without losing his balance, I don’t 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.

Another incident has remained lodged in my mind. I can’t remember which Stalag it was, but in the surrounding woods military exercises were constantly in progress. Occasionally 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, fortunately not the main gun, but from a machine gun. I was not there at the time, but I did get a dramatic account from someone who was. The toilet blocks were quite long, accommodating a number of people, but with no privacy of course. That was alright as one could sit and chat to a neighbour, but on this particular occasion tranquillity 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 do no more than drop inside at the feet of the long row of people seated there. The whole place became empty very quickly. Some time later an official apology from the CO of the offending unit was posted up on the notice board; our Commandant must have taken some action on behalf of his prisoners, and to think we did not think he cared that much about us.

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.

Our stay in Poland did not last long and we knew that we would more than likely be moved on again when we started to hear what must have been Russian guns in the distance.

We did not get too excited about liberation, however, having learnt our lesson in the previous camp and, sure enough, I believe it was around September 1944, there was a hasty but calmly executed evacuation and a march back to Torun railway station. Once there we found the goods trucks were waiting with the usual security measures in place, but this time we were packed in even tighter; there was barely room to stand.

Hardly 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 our final destination. 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 appeared to be a huge marshalling yard. There was not enough room to lie down, so sleep was out of the question◦– even more so when anti-aircraft guns started firing and bombs could not only be heard but felt to be dropping not far 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 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 RAF raid which went according to plan, almost as if it had been controlled by a switch. We, on the other hand, did not recover just like that and even if there had been enough room to lie down and sleep, it would have been impossible 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. Our boys, if they were lucky enough to get home safely, would have a good meal of bacon and egg waiting for them after de-briefing, and a good bed. Then the following evening, if they had been stood down from operations, they would be off to the pubs and cinemas of Grimsby followed by a fish and chip supper. 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 as lucky as I had been.

Early next morning we moved off again, and later that day arrived at our destination, Stalag 357, close to the small town of Follingbostel, thirty miles from Hanover, on the windswept plains of north-western Germany.

Stalag 357 was part of a large complex of camps based around the German barracks on the outskirts of Fallingbostel. I don’t think it was newly built, but it 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 Allied 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, with rapid progress being made, 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.

It began to seem that escape was our only chance of survival; dangerous thinking but it did seem that we were approaching a time when it would be a case of doing something or dying. A member of our combine had previously noticed that a small toilet block was unusually close to the wire and had often seriously discussed the chances of concealing oneself 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. Also, no help would be forthcoming from the Escape Committee as it was already discouraged, if not totally forbidden by the powers that be, after D Day.

Despite this, the escape plan was given more thought, and we started to discuss the finer details. 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 it was 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 at 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 had 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. The whole incident was very sad and very shocking but when in the hands of such an enemy, there is no justice.

The winter of 1944-45 was the longest, coldest and by far the most miserable time of my life. Christmas Day brought no cheer, in fact it made things a lot worse by reminding everyone of what we were missing. We still got the BBC news but it gave no cheer, reporting the setbacks in the Ardennes area of Belgium, for what seemed an age. But then came news of that wonderful and courageous operation by the Paras, when they captured the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem, and it 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 the Paras had to surrender their gain after a fierce battle, so it was back to doom, gloom and helplessness.

A few days later we got some idea of what the Paras had been through in capturing the bridge. Having been taken POW, those considered fit enough to walk were brought into our camp; they all 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 medical help. 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 order to make them as comfortable as possible and none of us would have begrudged it if he could have found just a few Red Cross parcels from somewhere to help them in their plight.

As the better weather came, so too did news of the war improving. 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 towards us. We began to ask, ‘How long will it be now?’ The Germans have nowhere to move us to, we thought wrongly.

As always, the rumour circulated, followed by the reality that our hopes were shattered once again. Come early April 1945, we were on the move once more. No one had any idea where we were going, not even a rumour about that, but sure enough, section by section, hut by hut, the camp was being emptied. 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 later by going out with the others.

I don’t know how I ever did it. I am not, and never have been, 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. 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 emptied huts were left open, but none of the guards went back inside to check that they were now 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 thinking of the benefits of the opportunity I thought I could see, and instantly wanted to put it into action.

With this optimistic attitude I quietly revealed its simplicity to four or five fellow POWs who were standing with me, and they were instantly convinced that it looked like a winner; so, we acted. 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. 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 turned out to be◦– don’t leave the Stalag, let the Stalag leave you; but we certainly did not feel like cracking jokes as we were still very, very frightened. While we continued to lie between the bunks, not daring to get up, I started to think to myself, ‘We are going to get away with this.’ but then I remembered the dogs. I had not given them a thought in my plan, but now I thought, ‘That is what they will do, send one or two guards round with dogs and 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 started to think that if they were going to check the hut they would have done so by now, as it was getting dark. Eventually I thought it 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. With the door closed we at least had a feeling of more security and, as long as we did it very quietly, we could talk together.

Without noticing, we had already gained something from our escapade◦– it had stopped us craving for food but the cravings soon returned, as they always did, and we decided to take stock. Fortunately, in the days before, when we had realised we would have to make a run for it at some point, we had manged to squirrel away what little spare food we could find. Luckily, a few Red Cross food parcels had got through fairly recently, allowing a quarter parcel per man, so we were comparatively well off for food as we made our bid for freedom. A little extra bread had also been issued because of the move; that meant there was no telling where or when the next issue would be.

Someone amongst 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).

When it was completely dark it was agreed that it 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. He returned shortly, just as stealthily, 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. 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 were no longer any daily BBC news bulletins or even rumours◦– we could only conceal ourselves 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 out of our field of vision.

By this time, we were getting worried about our food supply. We were used to meagre rations but now there was nothing at all on the horizon, only the hope of a quick liberation. The truth, unfortunately, was emerging that we did not know when that would be.

Next came a dramatic change in the situation: some of the prisoners who had left our compound had been returned◦– not all of them came back◦– and their guards had gone off and left them unguarded. We later learnt that, with the advancing Russians and Allies, it was absolute chaos out there; not even the Germans knew where they were going, and some decided to return the prisoners to the camp before fleeing. 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 had achieved nothing, and that we might as well have gone out with the rest, was banished when we heard about their journey.

We were told of a horrific attack on the marching column by our own RAF Typhoons, firing rockets and then being strafed with cannon fire. 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 who went on the march suffered badly. They were forced to keep going, but where to? Even the guards did not know. They had little food or water and had to try to sleep anywhere. Lucky ones were in leaky old barns that cattle were considered too precious to be kept in or a ditch, still wet from the winter rains. The more we mixed and talked to those who had been on the march, the more we appreciated how we had benefitted from going into hiding and staying put.

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 now we were in a far worse position◦– there was nothing.

No Man’s Land was often referred to in accounts of World War One by the veterans of that war, and it occurred to me that that was where we were 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 were? 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 part of 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 it would come crashing down on us, even if we did not receive a direct hit. The roof danger was somewhat self-inflicted as during the long cold winter the meagre fuel allocation to burn on the tiny stoves in the huts was stopped entirely; in desperation we allowed self-appointed structural engineers who, after some study of the structure while lying on a top bunk, decided which of the timbers could be removed with reasonable safety and burnt. The barrage continued with no let-up in its intensity until just before dawn. 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 and left undiscovered.

I had experienced being bombed by the Luftwaffe in the earlier part of the London blitz, being shot down over Berlin, witnessed the terrible effect of carpet bombing by the USAAF in Frankfurt am Main, but I found that having artillery shells passing just overhead, for so many hours, was the most frightening experience 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 between 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. We were getting 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. Everyone was very noticeably getting weaker. It took 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 in the day the thought struck me that something edible might have been left in the German kitchen, a place prisoner would have had absolutely no access to normally, and this inspired me to get up and investigate. It turned out to be a wasted effort, there was not a scrap of anything inside, so I quickly returned outside, where I 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, I stirred up the rotting, slimy mass with my fingers, hoping that some still edible ones could be found. The smell was foul but that was no deterrent, and a few, considering the desperate need, were found that were at least part edible.

Back at the hut I was declared a hero when I returned with my dubious prize. The few rotting 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 small homemade stove, with the fire boosted by a hand driven fan, based on the same principle as a forge, that 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 thousands of prisoners of all nationalities 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 crowded. The few prisoners who were brought into our compound were mainly Russians who preferred to dig holes in the ground instead of going into near vacant huts. From somewhere they acquired rusted sheets of corrugated iron to cover them, making a kind of burrow, and, unbelievably, lit fire down inside them. They appeared perfectly content to live like this; presumably it was an improvement on what they had endured previously.

Soon after the potato feast, I became ill with a high fever and diarrhoea. I felt as though I was surely going to die; in fact, at one point I wished I could have done so. Throughout the night I had to get up to use the latrine. I blamed the potatoes, but early next morning one of our group, who had suffered no ill effects from eating the potatoes, 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◦– the British Medical Officer and some of his orderlies had returned to the camp, but there was a long queue waiting to see him. Ungratefully, I just groaned, but then thought this my only chance of survival. I laboriously donned every piece of clothing I had, wrapped a blanket around myself, and set off. Long before I got to the medical hut I was in a 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 impediment to progress up the queue because everyone had to do the same and, eventually, I reached the hard-working Medical Officer.

As expected, his surgery was very primitive. He sat at a bare table and in the background stood an orderly. The Medical Officer seemed to diagnose my complaint quickly; ruling out it being caused by eating the potatoes, he said I was suffering from dysentery 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.’ Then it was ‘Next please’. I struggled back to the hut thinking I had not gained much for my efforts and felt extremely deflated, but it was only the next day when the whole situation took a dramatic turn for the better.