Chapter 7

STAMMLAGER-LUFT I, BARTH

Still rather bemused by what was happening to me, I tried to make an effort to accept the situation and settle into my new surroundings, and so did eleven others who shared the room. The Hut Leader and two other old-timers popped along to introduce themselves and assist in any way they could. It seemed that there were cigarettes galore.

There were spare double-tier bunks in the room, so I managed to get an upper bunk which seemed the most popular. It was near a window and gave me a good all round view of what was happening about me. Each bunk had just enough wooden slats across its width to support a body, although with some discomfort. It was complete with a palliasse, bolster and an army blanket.

The lower bunks were generally preferred by the lame, wounded, the less energetic, those who sought semi-reclusion, and those who suffered with weak bladders. In certain circumstances the lower bunks could be extremely dangerous places, especially after the compulsory removal of slats to provide shoring timber for a well advanced escape tunnel. One false move in the upper bunk would result in either slats being dislodged to thump down to give a sleeping prisoner a rude awakening, or be equally disturbed by the full weight of his bunk mate landing on top of him. These alarming disturbances that always seemed to occur during the middle of the night, caused nerves to fray and most insensitive language to be exchanged; understandably, perhaps, when accidents of this nature could cause serious injury.

Before we had been in the room long it began to reek very much like a rugby players’ dressing room after the match. This was partly because most outdoor ball games were being played by the ‘cream of British and Commonwealth youth’ clad only in the clothes they stood in, and also by virtue of the fact that there was seldom any water other than cold and the laundry facilities left a lot to be desired.

The large table in the centre of the room close to the stove was the forum for many debates on how the war should be fought; the chess, monopoly and card games, and occasionally a place to sit down to have a meal. Meals using the contents of Red Cross parcels were prepared by an individual Kriegie and a combine of two or more Kriegies. There were considerable advantages to be had by joining a combine inasmuch as it provided stricter rationing and the food kept fresh for as long as was required, before opening a can. The loner had to scoff down a tin of pink salmon once he had opened the tin and this was not an economical way of using a food parcel. However, the choice of whether or not to join a combine remained with the individual.

During our stay at Stalag-Luft I there was a regular supply of Red Cross food parcels, resulting in a weekly issue of a parcel per Kriegie. They were mainly British parcels, occasionally substituted with American or Canadian. The weight of a parcel was 10lbs and, although the presentation of the North American differed to some extent, they contained the following canned goodies: stewed or pressed meat, pink salmon, cheese, vegetables, powdered and tinned milk, powdered egg and biscuits. There were also prunes, tea, cocoa, chocolate, porridge, soap, vitamin pills and cigarettes. Whatever the source of the parcel the nutritional value was about the same. In addition to the cigarettes contained in the parcels, there was usually a further weekly issue of fifty with the compliments of the Red Cross.

The minimum weekly ration of food provided by the Germans, as stipulated by the Red Cross, was also about 10lbs in weight and ought to have included fat, meat, bread, margarine, cheese, dried vegetables, jam, sugar, barley and potatoes. The combination of the parcels and what the goons condescended to give us, provided a fairly reasonable diet under the circumstances. Most of us found the energy to play outdoor sports, the most popular games were volleyball, football and rugby. The game of softball was favoured by the Canadians, but this was superseded by baseball as the American presence grew in the camp. All the sports equipment, whether new or secondhand was donated by the YMCA and other charitable organizations and delivered to the camp by the Red Cross.

The food provided to us by the goons was prepared by Kriegies in the cookhouse situated in the Vorlager. To become a cook and commute daily to the cookhouse was one of the most sought after jobs in the camp, but there were seldom vacancies. These cordon bleu Kriegies were old-timers who operated a form of closed shop. They took pains to let us know that the fact they looked better fed than the average Kriegie was purely coincidental and had nothing to do with their voluntary work to ensure our well-being. Nevertheless, until food came to be a lot harder to come by, they were not begrudged the extra mouthful.

The daily ration of black bread was about an inch thick, and was accompanied by perhaps swede jam or liver sausage to make do for breakfast and tea. The midday meal invariably meant a handful of potatoes boiled in their jackets, with barley or vegetable soup or horsemeat chunks in consommé. Occasionally the goons would surprise us with one-off items, such as a large rusted tin of minced herrings canned in Norway, or a job lot of brie cheese that was well past its best, to be shared among so many Kriegies.

Bread and potatoes made up the bulk of the German rations. The potatoes were of a quality rejected for use in pig-swill, but were invariably scoffed with relish in their jackets – there was no waste of food in the camp. Before being cut and distributed, the loaves weighed about 2lb and had the colour and consistency of malt loaf with sawdust as the main ingredient. One soon acquired a taste for the bread which made a tasty snack with cheese topping.

Throughout the day, and sometimes during the night, there would be someone making a snack or brewing up on the stove in the room. Although there was a weekly issue of coal blocks for heating and cooking purposes, the ration was inadequate, and it was necessary to economize by the use of a ‘blower’ whenever possible.

The American food parcels contained a tin of powdered milk bearing the trade name of Klim. These tins were surely designed with Kriegies in mind to be used for the manufacture of air ducting and blowers. They were approximately five inches in diameter and, with the tops and bottoms removed, made a four inch section of air duct. From the solder salvaged from the hundreds of different cans, the sections were welded together to make ducts to channel fresh air to those Kriegies who, with intent to escape, were burrowing like mad six feet below the surface of the Lager.

Klim tins were also utilized to make blowers, table top gadgets for the speedy preparation of drinks and snacks – and ‘glop’. By turning a handle a fan sucked in air which was then compressed and funnelled to direct a draught beneath kindling, such as coal dust, wood chips or cardboard. However, some operators in a particular hurry could crank the handle with such enthusiasm that the gadgets resembled erupting volcanoes – with fallout.

A bowl of glop was a firm favourite with all but a few Kriegies. A mixture of boiled barley and powdered milk it was extremely filling and not unpleasant to eat. When cold it had the properties of an all-purpose paste and was used to stick notices to the wall and pin-ups on bunks, and it was a sealant for draughts.

The goons barred the doors and windows well before darkness fell and opened up again after it became light in the mornings. There was a curfew in force while the barrack blocks were secured, and any Kriegie discovered in the Lager was liable to be shot on sight. The time spent in the rooms was generally occupied by reading books from the small library, studying, playing chess, bridge or any other card game. The gambling schools, which meant nearly all of us at one time or another, monopolized the table playing varieties of poker, pontoon and brag. With cigarettes being reasonably plentiful, in many instances the packets of cigarettes making up the ante were piled high on the table.

Those that wished to be alone would remain in their lower bunks, hidden from sight by cardboard screens made from Red Cross cartons. They would emerge to brew up or make a snack, but were most unsociable. They were more to be pitied and, thankfully, there were not too many of them to a barrack block. They were weird.

There was a secondhand portable gramophone in the room. John Bulford would spend hours listening to long playing classical records while most of us were out in the Lager playing sport or pounding the circuit. It was the turn of the rest of the room to play an album or the Rogers and Hammerstein musical Oklahoma. The album comprised of five 45s, and by the time it could be played no more, we knew the score off by heart. When we exhausted the supply of gramophone needles, we resorted to using the teeth from combs. Amazingly they produced music, albeit so very soft. A packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate was sufficient in most cases to purchase a tin of needles from a goon, although needles were in short supply in Barth.

Before the morning appell, or roll call, there was a stampede to be one of the first to get to the latrine in the Lager. This early morning sprint was to try and wash and shave in tepid water before it was used up, and also to get a seat in one of the WC cubicles before the queues started to form. It was essential to take a paperback novel or a newspaper along as toilet tissues were nonexistent. The cubicles had no doors, and there would be another row of Kriegies sitting opposite busily reading. Eventually, the pages that had been read would be torn out of the book and used as necessary. James Hadley Chase, a bestselling author of many raunchy novels, including No Orchids For Miss Blandish and Road Floozie, would have been less than pleased if he had known what they were being used for in the many camps throughout Germany. The Volkischer Beobachter and Der Tag newspapers, together with the Luftwaffe propaganda magazine Der Adler, were fit for little else than toilet paper.

Underneath the floorboards of the latrine there was a large sump to collect all the effluent, and from time to time it was emptied by a couple of Russian prisoners. Escorted by a goon, the Russians would bring a horse drawn sludge tank into the Lager. The contents of the sump would then be drawn off via a trap door at the end of the building, and then taken to be spread on the fields outside, and usually upwind of the camp.

Fifteen minutes before appell each morning, Percy Carruthers, the Hut Leader, would go through the barrack block to make sure we paraded in good time. Officially, only the sick could remain and be counted in their rooms.

To get on to the parade ground cum sports field, we had to pass through a gate in a barbed wire fence separating the Lagers. A goon had the job of unlocking the gate, waiting by it until the count had been completed, and then locking it again after the parade ground had cleared.

We formed into groups of a hundred Kriegies and in two columns in the centre of the parade ground. Goons were placed around the parade to try to prevent a miscount caused by Kriegies dodging from group to group to deliberately frustrate the goons conducting the count.

The Camp Commandant, Oberst Scherer, accompanied by Hauptmann von Miller, and other goons who made up his entourage, would enter the Lager and take up their positions at the end of the columns. Sergeant Barnes, the Camp Leader, who had been elected to replace Group Captain MacDonald, would call the parade to attention and salute the goon officers. We were then notified of any breaches of camp rules and the punishments meted out by the goons, usually seven or fourteen days in the cooler. The count would then get underway, conducted by two goons who had the intelligence to be able to count in multiples of five. One strutted along the front of the column wagging his forefinger between the lines of five Kriegies and counting out loud, while the other double-checked from behind.

If we were not in a really troublesome mood, parade lasted no longer than it took the goons to get their figures right. However, if it was decided to give them a bad day by having Kriegies hide in all sorts of places in the barracks or under the sandy soil, then we could be standing on the parade ground for hours before the ‘missing’ Kriegies were found. We had all the time in the world, even those who served time in the cooler for being bloody-minded.

As soon as the parade was dismissed there was a general rush to get through the gate in the fence and back to the rooms for another brew up or whatever. With a few hundred Kriegies converging on the gate and pressing to get through, the unfortunate goon who was waiting to lock up would be deliberately crushed against the barbed wire. On one occasion the bolt was carefully removed from his rifle while he was doing his best to avoid the stinging barbs. He would then have a final look round the parade ground to see if ‘Butch’ Reynolds was clear of the Lager before locking up. The dishevelled goon was just as likely to make his way back to the guardroom with a flower protruding from the spout of his rifle. We were past masters at providing our own amusement, however warped it might be.

‘Butch’ Reynolds had walked away from a Hudson light bomber that crashed into a dyke in Holland after being hit by flak. It was never discovered whether he was a born comedian, or whether he was completely round the bend as a result of the crash. He would come on parade last, either pretending to be a cowboy or a motorcyclist. Faithfully miming all the necessary actions, he would unsaddle and groom his horse beside his group in the column, and his prowess on his imaginary motor cycle put Steve McQueen’s antics on a BMW in the shade. He would ‘ride’ around the parade at high speed, cutting up bemused goons, before parking his machine and waiting to be counted. One time he had us all, including the goons, in stitches while he went through the actions of mending a puncture. The goon on the gate was content to wait until the motor cycle was roadworthy again before he locked up. ‘Butch’ was a great character and the Freddie Starr of his day.

There was yet to be a successful escape from Stalag-Luft I, and all those who had surrendered bed slats had high hopes for the tunnel project that was progressing well and would soon be passing beneath the perimeter fence – although its planned course would take it dangerously close to the sump under the latrine.

Soon after the tunnel project began, it became apparent that the ferrets were more active in the camp. They crisscrossed our Lager prodding the sandy soil with long pronged sticks, obviously trying to detect a tunnel. They sent their dogs searching the space beneath the barrack blocks, and even went under themselves to investigate. It was always a possibility that the Abwehr possessed some seismographic equipment to detect the sound of excavation as the tunnel neared the perimeter fence. If this was the case, then it would be sensible on the part of the Abwehr to let the tunnel be a form of occupational therapy for the Kriegies until they were about to break out. It would keep them from getting up to other mischief more difficult for the ferrets to discover.

The Escape Committee made it clear that the first out of the tunnel would be the selected few who had been instrumental in its completion, such as the diggers, the sand disposers, the lookouts and any others closely involved. After they had been given time to get safely away there would be a controlled exodus for those who wanted to take advantage of it. While the sand disposers and lookouts could be spotted from time to time, the diggers and other underground workers were kept out of sight until washed down and dressed.

There was a Polish pilot in one of the other barrack blocks who was an expert in copying the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht metal insignia. After making the moulds from German soap, he cast the insignia from molten solder and silver paper. Blowers were used extensively in the process. Poles and Czechs excelled in this intricate and important work for escapers.

Circuiting the Lager was not only a popular form of exercise, it was a sure way of carrying on a conversation without being overheard by goons. It was also an effective method of dispersing sand from the tunnel. The sand was brought from the tunnel in pouches sewn into the trouser legs of those whose job it was to dispose of it. It was deposited on the ground by releasing slipknots in the trouser pockets. The Kriegies ‘pounding the circuit’ would further disperse the virgin sand which contrasted visibly with that on the surface of the Lager.

I suffered from claustrophobia and had used the Blackwall and Rotherhithe Tunnels with the greatest reluctance. Consequently, I made a point of keeping well away from the escape tunnel contractors in case I got roped in to do a stint underground. I was keen enough to get out of the camp, but unless absolutely unavoidable it would have to be some other way than by tunnel.

I managed to acquire some handmade wire cutters for a small fortune in cigarettes and tobacco but, whilst I felt that it was a useful tool for a potential escaper to possess, it was an effort to snip a prong off my dinner fork with it and I was not too convinced of my ability to penetrate the perimeter fences and coils of barbed wire before the goons turned their attention to me.

For days I would sit in the sand pretending to read or whittle pieces of wood to make a mouse trap. I waited for two things to happen; the cabbages on a Kriegie’s allotment to grow high enough for me to crawl unseen to the trip wire, and the goon in each of the towers overlooking the allotments to look away from my direction at the same time. I reckoned that once I had managed to cover the distance between the trip wire and the perimeter fence unseen, the fence itself would shield me from being spotted long enough for me to snip my way through.

I got as far as the trip wire on two nervous attempts, but with the limited cover the cabbages provided I felt so exposed and vulnerable I gave it up as a bad job. My flight to freedom scheme had to be abandoned completely when all the cabbages were harvested long before they were fully grown. The scheme was suicidal in any event.

All outgoing correspondence had to be written in pencil, and the monthly allocation of writing material was two lettercards and four postcards. It was normal for mail posted from the camp to arrive at its destination three months later. However, the time taken for incoming mail to reach the camp varied considerably. It took about three months to come from the UK, between five and six months from Australia or New Zealand and between seven and eight months from North America. All mail, outgoing or incoming, was subject to strict censorship, and one could only surmise what forbidden sentences the censor had blue-pencilled. Day after day I waited expectantly for my name to be called when the post arrived, but six months was to pass before that happy day arrived.

With few exceptions, after a week or so in captivity Kriegies suffered bouts of excruciating stomach pains. In my case the pains lasted for over a week, and I doubled up on my bunk believing I was going to die. The Medical Officer was little comfort. Although he was unable to provide medication, he did explain that my muscles were simply contracting – being nature’s way of adjusting to the change in diet. After a week of agony and umpteen visits to the latrine, the pains began to subside and I then felt more sociable towards my room-mates.

It was great to once again appreciate the broad humour of the temporary male nurses from the north-east of England, Alan Hame, John Theckston and Larry Bone, whose folks all lived within a bus ride of Wigan Pier. Ken ‘Marmaduke’ Goodchild and Fred ‘Andy’ Anderson, like myself, had homes in the south of England. John Hooley, a veteran wireless operator from my squadron, was shot down a couple of months after I had been in the camp. He managed to get a bunk in our room and we became firm friends. A Canadian from Montreal, he brought news that 427 Squadron was now equipped with Halifax aircraft and operating from RAF Leeming. John and Bill were the only Canadians in the room at that time, but we were soon to be joined by American airmen of the 8th Air Force.

A batch of sprog Kriegies came into the camp each week, and they kept us up with the news from home. Most had been shot down during the preceding few weeks, but a number were from German hospitals and were recovering from terrible injuries inflicted in the air or by irate civilians. By midsummer 1943 the number of Kriegies in the camp exceeded the planned maximum capacity of 900.

The American 8th Air Force, equipped with Flying Fortresses and Liberator aircraft, was penetrating deeper and deeper into Germany in daylight. The many hours spent flying over enemy territory, coupled with the fact that the formations lacked essential fighter cover, resulted in the ‘goddam lousy flak and the sonsofbitches in Fw 190s and Me 109s’ causing a high casualty rate. Particularly during the Americans’ raid on the ball bearing factories at Schweinfurt in August 1943, when sixty aircraft and 540 young Americans, were shot out of the sky by the Luftwaffe.

The khaki uniforms worn by the Yanks, with gaberdine trousers held up by a snazzy chromium buckled belt, lightweight gaberdine windcheater, fur lined trapper’s hat and leather bootees, made a welcome change from air force blue.

Many new arrivals had suffered terrible burns to faces and hands, those parts of the body most exposed when wearing flying clothing. The unmistakable lines could be seen across their foreheads where helmets had afforded some protection from the flames. A few showed blistered skins, their burns considered unworthy of hospital treatment by the Germans. Those who had shrapnel wounds were unable to sit for weeks without some degree of discomfort – at least until their tender places healed. The more serious cases, those considered either mentally or physically incapable of ever again flying on active service, would eventually appear before a visiting Repatriation Board and be sent home on a prisoner exchange basis.

Collectively the Yanks were boisterous, brash, and pretty generally a pain in the neck. However, individually they could be the nicest and most generous people in the camp. Many lasting friendships blossomed between the Yanks and other Allied airmen in the camp and soon, with the swapping of items of clothing, it was difficult to tell the difference between nationalities.

Although I played most of the outdoor ball games, my preferences were volleyball, baseball and soccer. I was also very keen on running and boxing. During my training days in the RAF I was ranked a fairly useful welterweight, and things were fine so long as I was winning my bouts. If I failed to win, I lost interest in fighting and never considered making a career of the sport. It was something to do in the camp, and I spent many hours training with the other amateur boxers in the hut used as a gymnasium. Our trainer, Bob Waddy, was a Canadian and one of the hundreds of commandos captured on the Dieppe raid in August 1942. He had swapped identities with an airman and eventually turned up at Barth. It was difficult for me to understand why a soldier who could be presented with many opportunities to escape while on an outside working party, would change identities with someone else and finish up in a cage like Stalag-Luft I – yet it happened time after time. Bob was a boxing enthusiast and a formidable opponent in the ring.

A number of boxing contests were held in the camp theatre, and there were full houses on each occasion – the Camp Commandant and his senior staff monopolizing the ringside seats. The lack of fitness of the contestants determined that there should be three rounds, each of ninety seconds duration if the fighters managed to remain on their feet that long. Some bouts showed excellent boxing skills, while others bordered on slapstick comedy. A fighter would become physically exhausted, and be almost on his knees by the time the final bell was sounded. Those fans who collected their winnings after the contest, were only too pleased to carry their warrior back to his bunk where he would nurse his bruises and wonder why he ever bothered.

I had lost so much weight in the time I had been a Kriegie that, but for a couple of ounces, I would have weighed in at bantamweight class. I looked like the guy who had sand kicked in his face before he enrolled for a body building course by Charles Atlas, but I had the footwork of a ballet dancer. I won my first fight by a technical knockout. My opponent had a habit of falling back on the ropes, to bounce off in a two-fisted attack. In the last round, more by luck than judgement, I caught him with a right to the jaw as he catapulted off the ropes. With a silly look on his face he reeled about the ring before slowly sinking to his knees. I was so amazed at what I had done, instead of delivering the coup de grâce, I helped the poor devil to his feet and walked him to his corner, apologizing profusely.

Despite the fact that I was a conqueror, Bob Waddy was far from pleased with my performance. I should have shown more of the killer instinct and finished the poor chap off instead of traipsing about the ring like a demented sugar plum fairy. My fans were more appreciative of my boxing prowess, and I walked unaided to my bunk prepared to challenge anyone – within reason.

Bill had somehow managed to acquire a secondhand guitar which he strummed for hours on end. And then he tried to sing along with his strumming, which did not please the other occupants of the room. He just wanted to sound like Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, the singing cowboys: instead, he sounded like a drunken fool in a pub singing contest. And when a few of us started to play our harmonicas it was bedlam, but it kept us from going round the bend.

Being a Welshman, Bert enjoyed playing rugby and singing in the choir. He had moved to another barrack block but we still exchanged social visits.

We had seen or heard nothing about about Geoff Hall since he was spotted at Dulag-Luft.