Chapter 9

STAMMLAGER-LUFT VI, HEYDEKRUG, KÖNIGSBERG

We left Stalag-Luft I in October 1943 and retraced our steps along the cobbled road to Barth railway station. In preparation for the long journey to East Prussia, we had adapted spare shirts in which to carry our worldly possessions. The tails of the shirts were sewn together, and then the cuffs were also sewn to the tails to make shoulder straps. Everything was stuffed into the homemade rucksacks via the collar opening. It was surprising how much the rucksacks held and how weighty they became.

At the railway station we were each given a loaf of bread and a lump of sausage to last us until we reached Stalag-Luft VI. We were then shepherded into cattle trucks and packed so tightly there was just enough room to sit with the rucksack. It was my first experience of travelling like an animal and I was not too impressed. When the sliding doors were closed, the only interior lighting was provided by four small windows, two on each side of the truck near the arched roof. These windows were criss-crossed with barbed wire on the outside. The doors were secured on the outside by the goons.

Once the train got underway, we took it in turns to stand at the windows and give a running commentary when anything of interest was taking place and to see what the goons were up to when the train stopped.

During the time at Barth, Kriegies managed to acquire all manner of sharp instruments, and we were soon beavering away at the timber floorboards above one of the truck’s axles. One Kriegie had even managed to acquire a bayonet which he put to good use, whittling away at timber that was still tough to chip despite its age.

Our first long stop was at Stettin (now Szczecin), a Baltic port at the mouth of the River Oder, where we were shunted onto a siding for a few hours. We were allowed out of the trucks in batches and taken under escort to a public toilet on one of the platforms. Apart from any other consideration, this privilege gave us a good opportunity to stretch our cramped limbs and to take in the layout of the marshalling yard. By this time a number of the trucks had been vandalized, and when one hole was sufficiently large enough to allow a small person to squeeze through, he would be off as soon as it was safe to drop out of the truck. Before this could happen at Stettin, however, we were on our way again.

On the journey between Stettin and Danzig (now Gdansk), there were many more stops in sidings. Trains passed us heading west, packed with wounded soldiers, giving us some indication of the ferocity of the fighting along the River Dnieper. It was a terrible war!

On the way it became necessary for the train to make a number of unscheduled stops at rural stations. The tin buckets placed in the trucks for toilet purposes were quite inadequate and frequently needed emptying. The doors would be slid open, and the goons would stand well back while we piled onto the track to hastily drop our trousers and foul the permanent way. A few hundred bare bottomed Kriegies squatting along the up track was truly a sight to behold. The goons standing guard every few yards lost all enthusiasm for their work, and would turn away as though to dissociate themselves with the unsavoury business. They were confident that a Kriegie was not likely to make a dash for it with his trousers round his ankles.

One time some civvies and services personnel waiting on a station platform were treated to the rare spectacle of several hundred Kriegies squatting and performing well along the track. The engine driver shunted the train forward the length of a few trucks, and exposed the exhibitionists to those waiting on the platform. The females shrieked and turned their backs in disgust, while the menfolk remonstrated with the goons for allowing such a disgusting display. This episode was one of embarrassment to all concerned, but it provided many a laugh during the rest of the journey to East Prussia.

Travelling for hour upon hour through the Polish Corridor, along with thirty-nine other sweating bodies in a cattle truck, is not to be recommended under any circumstances. Bearing in mind that many Kriegies were suffering with diarrhoea, the sticky combination of smells, both human and farm animal, in such a confined space was something to which we soon had to become accustomed. Cigarettes helped to some extent, although the smog they generated caused chronic coughing spasms. Also the draughts caused by the fast moving train made our eyes stream. It was a most uncomfortable journey by train.

Watching from one of the windows, I would be surprised at the primitive agricultural implements still being used by those working on the land; some workers were pulling ploughs and actually performing the work of shire horses. There was very little mechanization to be seen on the farmlands and in the villages. Groups of people waiting at level crossings were either on foot or were in possession of a pedal cycle. Occupied Poland was an unhappy country, and it showed on the faces of its inhabitants.

The hole in the floor would soon be big enough to squeeze through. My wire cutters came in useful, but I was more convinced than ever that they would not have cut through a strand of barbed wire. We all ‘chipped’ in by taking turns at gnawing away at the timber, until the palms of our hands blistered and bled. It was a race against time, as every mile we travelled was taking us further away from the friendly occupied countries of the west. Sweden was an option, but it would be difficult to smuggle aboard a ship bound for that country. The ports were watched and the Baltic Sea was patrolled by Kriegsmarine (German Navy). There was also the possibility that one of the many sympathetic Polish families could be contacted and provide shelter until an escape route was organized.

The progress of rail rolling stock, non-essential to the German war effort, was so frustratingly slow. It took no less than forty-eight hours to travel the distance of just over 200 miles between Barth and Danzig. On arriving at Danzig, we were shunted into a siding in the huge marshalling yard. Although it was almost midnight when we settled down, the yard was well floodlit and goons with their dogs patrolled along either side of the train. However, as the night wore on, the goons’ patrols became less frequent and their presence less obvious. Excitement mounted as we waited patiently for the right moment for one of us to try his luck.

Suddenly the stillness of the night was shattered by the sound of someone shouting in German, and at the same instant several shots sounded near to our truck. This commotion was followed by a lot of goon activity, culminating in a khaki-clad figure being carried away by two stretcher-bearers. After a ten minute lull, there was another flurry of activity as the entire guard detail of goons was summoned on duty to surround the train. The doors of the trucks were then slid open and a goon climbed into each one, where he was to remain to watch over us for the rest of the journey. Our resident goon soon found the hole in the floor, and smilingly wagged a forefinger reprovingly. We had been naughty boys.

At the next halt we learned that it was an American who had been shot, possibly fatally, while trying to escape. He had covered no more than a few yards before he had been spotted by a goon and shot. Although we were saddened by the turn of events, it was, however, a fact that sudden and violent death was now a way of life. I had mixed feelings about the tragedy. On the one hand I could not help feeling quite vindictive towards the Yank who had frustrated any further chance of escape, and on the other hand, it could be said that he was the one to test the temperature outside – and found it bloody hot.

After a change of locomotives at Königsberg (now Kaliningrad), we eventually arrived at Heydekrug. The camp was five miles from the border with Lithuania and twenty-five miles from the Baltic Coast, the nearest town being Tilsit (now Sovetsk). It opened in June 1943, and was larger than Stalag-Luft I at Barth. It was quartered with four Lagers ‘A’, ‘K’, ‘E’ and a spare, with the Vorlager butting on to Lagers ‘A’ and ‘K’. The camp had been built on flat, sandy terrain, in the middle of a large forest clearing. Initially it was built to contain British, Commonwealth and American airmen of NCO rank. Each Lager was equipped to accommodate 2,000 Kriegies, and those who had been transferred from Dulag-Luft and Stalag-Luft III in June occupied ‘A’ Lager which was full to capacity.

After passing through the Abwehr for the strip search and documentation, we were given the ‘freedom’ of ‘K’ Lager. As at our previous camp, everything was new in the Lager and we could choose our rooms and bunks. We were given a talk by the British Man of Confidence who, in this camp was Warrant Officer J. A. G. ‘Dixie’ Deans. He was a sergeant pilot flying a Whitley aircraft during a raid on Berlin in September 1940, when he was shot down and taken prisoner after baling out over the German–Dutch border. With his long experience as a Kriegie he soon established himself as a neutral leader who quickly earned the respect, not only of his ‘flock’, but also of the Germans with whom he came into contact. Apart from looking after the welfare of the Kriegies who had elected him to office, he did everything possible to assist a viable escape plan. He was the one who carried the secret radio, codenamed ‘Canary’ from Stalag-Luft III to Heydekrug right under the inquisitive noses of the Abwehr, who would have been delighted to put their hands on it. Contained in the motor compartment of a portable gramophone, this valuable piece of ‘homemade’ equipment was known to only a few trusted Kriegies. Shorthand notes were made of BBC broadcasts, a transcript of which was brought round to each barrack block and quietly read out to an intent audience. This way we kept abreast of events outside the barbed-wire.

The barrack blocks were similar to those we left at Barth, and also featured a gap beneath the floor allowing inspection from the outside of the buildings. Each block contained nine rooms, each large enough to accommodate fifty Kriegies. Once again we had the full complement of bedboards. The table had bench type seating and there was a black cast iron stove with a month’s supply of coal bricks. A corridor ran the length of one side of the building, with a latrine seating two at the end.

The barbed-wire fences, tripwire and Posten towers, were standard as at Barth, but there were many more warning notices stuck in the ground just behind the tripwire. A typical example was: ‘DANGER OF LIFE! WE SHOOT! WE SHOOT WITHOUT WARNING OR CALL WHENEVER YOU TOUCH OR SURPASS WIRE OR POLE’.

Each of the three Lagers that were occupied was a self-contained unit with its own leader. Sergeant Victor ‘Nobby’ Clarke, who succeeded Sergeant Barnes at Stalag-Luft I, was the leader in ‘K’ Lager. As ‘E’ Lager began to fill with American airmen, Technical Sergeant Frank Paules was elected their leader. Dixie Deans in ‘A’ Lager, by virtue of his experience and seniority, spoke for the whole camp and had unrestricted access to the camp commandant.

The three Lager leaders and the padre were the only Kriegies permitted free range within the confines of the camp. They met from time to time to discuss welfare matters, exchange information and convey the many grievances to the camp Commandant through Dixie Deans.

The two Abwehr officers were Major Reshel and Hauptmann Thome and, in a camp that was to eventually hold over 8,000 in a period of a few months, there was quite a considerable establishment of ferrets.

The daily appell was conducted in each Lager, where the parade ground also doubled as a sports field. Games where a ball is used had to be played with some restraint to avoid the loss of balls in the rough beyond the perimeter fences. Any ball that came to rest in the prohibited zone behind the trip wire could only be retrieved at the discretion of the goons in the towers. In most cases they were menacing and uncooperative, returning the balls to the parade ground overnight. As the balls were in short supply, this meant that a game had to be abandoned in some instances. Where a game was an important one and there were many cigarettes at stake, some of us took on the might of the Luftwaffe just to retrieve a football or a baseball. We would stand in groups near to where the ball lay beyond the tripwire, and as soon as we were satisfied that the goons in the Posten towers were looking elsewhere, one of us would dash for the ball and get back in the crowd before being seen, or in some cases, before the goon could aim a gun. This was a silly and dangerous game, but with nothing better to do it was a means of getting one over on the goons – and a ball back into play.

All RAF aircrew NCOs automatically received promotion on the anniversary of the date they qualified as aircrew. In the case of Dixie Deans, he was a sergeant at the time he was shot down but he had been in captivity long enough to qualify for promotion to the rank of warrant officer. Sergeants shot down before May 1943 would be promoted to warrant officers by the time they were liberated. Notification of promotions would be received several weeks after being promulgated in the UK – the Lager leader would hand a chit to the person concerned, shake his hand and congratulate him. There would not be a booze-up to celebrate the rise in rank and pay. There would be a quick calculation to decide how much the rise in pay was worth and, to ensure that the money accrued interest during captivity, a two-thirds allotment would be made over to next-of-kin to bank. This arrangement was not always satisfactory, however. Because of hardship at home, genuine or otherwise, some single men returned only to find their nest egg had been spent as soon as the allowance had been drawn from the post office. The lump sum they received from the RAF averaged out at £1.6s.0d (£1.33p) for every week in captivity.

As soon as I got settled in the barrack block, I decided that it was an opportune time to pull out of the combine I had joined at Barth. The combine was too big, and there were endless arguments concerning the unequal portions of food doled out and the un-suitability of the menu to some. Nobody volunteered to be ‘mother’ to hungry Kriegies for long, particularly after being threatened with violence. I went into a combine with John Hooley because there were less to satisfy but even so one had to be very careful to avoid a quarrel over rations.

The attitude of the goons towards us was getting even nastier and we had not been in the camp long before there was a shooting. A Kriegie named Kenwell had finished a bit of washing and, perhaps absent mindedly, he tossed the bowl of dirty water over the trip wire. This must have incensed a goon in the tower nearest the place where Kenwell had been doing his laundry, for he raised his rifle, took aim, and shot the unsuspecting dhobi-wallah in the arm. Sergeant Kenwell did not hang around for another shot, he dashed for the safety of his barrack block. He had to have treatment for a shattered bone and, after the wound had been dressed, he spent fourteen days in solitary confinement in the cooler for good measure. We took great care from that day on when disposing of dirty water.

Bert Symons and Bill Ostaficiuk were still in the same Lager, but now in a different barrack block to mine. The fact that they were living apart from me was not because of any strained relationship. It was simply the way things turned out and, in the long term, I would be glad that we had separated. About this time, however, we did learn on the grapevine that Geoff Hall was in ‘A’ Lager. He came into our Lager with a group of theatre-goers to see a show, and made contact with Bert before returning to his Lager. Geoff was the last before Steve to bale out of our aircraft and managed to evade capture for something like forty-eight hours. He had been experiencing hallucinations before he was captured near the village of Nennig, south-west of Trier. He was captured by an army corporal accompanied by an aggressive member of the Hitler Youth Movement. The youth was the more antisocial of the captors and, prodding Geoff with a bayonet, kept insisting that the Engländer Terrorflieger should be summarily executed. Although Geoff was hungry and rather lightheaded and prepared to let events take their course, he strongly resisted any suggestion that he should be sacrificed at the instigation of an adolescent in uniform but still wearing short trousers. Geoff was spared and taken to Trier and then to Dulag-Luft. After a period of interrogation, he was moved to the main Lager until Stalag-Luft VI at Heydekrug was completed. He was in one of the first batches of Kriegies to occupy ‘A’ Lager in the new camp in June 1943.

In one delivery of mail a Kriegie received a most distressing letter from one of his relatives. The fact that the writer of the letter inferred that the Kriegie was a coward for surrendering to the enemy, could not have been more clear if a white feather had accompanied it. These insensitive missives, perhaps written in ignorance rather than spite, were by no means uncommon. The ‘Dear John’ letters were other morale destroyers which, in many cases, were the first and only correspondence Kriegies received from their girlfriends or fiancées.

These painful, and sometimes bizarre, letters were displayed on a notice board for all to see and either have a jolly good giggle or jerk a few tears in sympathy. Examples of the type of letter that were displayed or otherwise circulated the camps were as follows:

A Kriegie in his second year of captivity was to learn that he was the father of a bouncing baby boy, and what should it be called? We all had a name for the newborn.

The wife of another poor lad rejoiced in the fact that she was pregnant by a Yank called Chuck, but ‘not to worry because he was a decent guy who was going to send some cigarettes regularly’.

‘Cousin Fred has been taken prisoner in Sicily, and mum was wondering whether you could pop round and see him.’

‘Do you manage to get to any dances?’

‘It’s now four years since you were shot down. Mother and I have discussed it and have decided that it would be better if I divorced you.’

‘I’m calling our friendship off, as I would rather marry a 1944 hero than a 1939 coward.’ The recipient of this callous piece of news from home was a pilot who was seriously wounded when he was shot down during the early months of the war. We considered this a classic.

Once every three months kinfolk could send ‘personal’ parcels to Kriegies if they so desired. Their maximum weight could not exceed 10lbs and they contained clothing and shoes. Every parcel received at the camp was examined by the goons, and many items of clothing and shoes would be damaged beyond repair in the search for secret messages or contraband. A Kriegie requesting a pair of slippers would have to wait a total of six months for a reply – post took about three months each way. One hopeful asked for a nice warm sweater in a letter to his girlfriend. Six months later she wanted to know if she should knit a vee or roll neck, and what colour he had in mind. I am sure she meant well, but I am not sure he ever received the sweater. In many cases insensitive post was one of the causes of mental illnesses which tended to accelerate the physical deterioration of many Kriegies, thus sapping the willpower and stamina necessary to endure the marathon marches across Poland and Germany that were to be our lot in a few months time.

A frequent vexation of the spirit occurred when the goons aroused us during the early hours of the morning, to make us stand in our underwear, or pyjamas should one be so lucky, while our rooms were systematically searched. They would search for escape items and the secret radio receiver which we referred to as the ‘Canary’. One of the Abwehr sergeants, a sadistic Ukranian bully, towered above us. His own subordinates were terrified of him, because he would show them no mercy. I nicknamed him ‘Attila’. While a ferret would be bent over a bunk diligently searching for any hiding place, the inviting posterior would be too much of a temptation to ‘Attila’; he would give the goon’s backside a hefty kick and then curl up laughing. He was a dangerous psychopath whose aim in life was to inflict injury to others and hope for some retaliation so that he could have reason to draw his Luger and kill. One day I was to be his victim – just for kicks!

It was a beautiful summer’s day, and I was leaning on the wooden rail surrounding the static tank that was being used as a model boating pool. I was suddenly aware of ‘Attila’s’ presence beside me, and at the same time of an excrutiating pain in my right foot. He had penetrated my foot with his pointed probing stick, challenging me to do something to ease the pain. I did. I knocked away his stick and half ran, half limped, away as fast as I could and got lost in the barrack blocks. I still bear the scar and, as I dared not seek medical attention, it turned septic and took several weeks to heal. I avoided ‘Attila’ from then on.

The American ‘E’ Lager soon filled to overflowing and subsequent intakes came into our Lager. I had to share my bunk with an air-gunner named Pedro Fernandez. He was an interesting character from San Antonio, Texas. He insisted that it was one of his ancestors who killed Davy Crockett at the Alamo chapel. He would hold the room spellbound with his yarns of prospecting for gold in the Yukon, of keeping a whorehouse in Whitehorse, and being a film extra in westerns. He had a never ending repertoire of bawdy rhymes and ballads, including the classics ‘Eskimo Nell’ and ‘Dangerous Dan McGrew’. I could recite them off by heart, but they are not the sort of entertainment for a meeting in the church hall.

When the freezing weather came the Canadians were able to indulge in their national game of ice hockey. Buckets of water from the static tank and latrine were relayed along a human chain and sloshed onto a section of the parade ground. After the first layer froze, the pitch was marked out with a blue powdered dye. Then more water was thrown onto the area until it was fit to skate on. The ice hockey equipment was provided through the YMCA by charitable organizations in North America, the skates being the strap on type rather than the skating boots. I was surprised to find how much the hockey sticks helped balance, and I was soon playing a reasonable game although I was by no means an expert. It was something different to take an interest in.

Although for some weeks we had been receiving less than a full parcel of food each, it was necessary to prepare for, in my case, the first Christmas in captivity. This meant putting some food by so that we could have the nearest thing to a slap-up meal on Christmas Day. Biscuits were saved to powder down and mix with raisins to make a cake. Prunes were for dessert. For booze we fermented raisins and swede jam to make a concoction that was guaranteed to paralyse, blind or produce acute alcoholic poisoning, if consumption exceeded half a cupful. We were treated to a one-off delivery of American food parcels specially packed with Christmas in mind, for they contained a tin of turkey breasts and also a tin of Christmas pudding. On Christmas Day we were visited by a couple of the more acceptable goons who would do favours to our mutual advantage. They joined in the spirit of Christmas and staggered back to the Vorlager hoping they were not in for a surprise posting to the Russian Front. The day’s festivities were rounded off with a sing-song, the only musical instruments being combs and mouth organs – and Bill and his guitar. He was unable to get the hang of that thing somehow.

A lot of our time in winter was spent outdoors pounding the circuit. This was a method of economizing on the coal ration, to use it for cooking and some warmth overnight. The two blankets and a greatcoat were quite inadequate in an East Prussian winter, when the wind never ceased to howl.

One pastime for the Kriegies promenading round the circuit, was to throw snowballs at the goons in the Posten towers. This was great fun until the object of our attention turned nasty and menacingly aimed a machine gun in the direction of a rapidly dispersing crowd of Kriegies. With so many snowballs zeroing into the Posten tower with unerring accuracy, it was little wonder that the goons would turn nasty. That was the object of the exercise.

On a social visit to Bert Symons on one occasion, I found him composing poetry. He was not alone in this form of pastime, as many Kriegies fancied themselves as budding bards. Bill struggled with his guitar, and spoke more like Noel Coward every day.

Over in ‘A’ Lager, Geoff Hall studiously passed his time by wading through the books he obtained from the Lager library. He hoped to enter the teaching profession some day, and was studying the subjects, particularly English grammar, which he felt would be of benefit to him at a teachers’ training college. During the winter months I endeavoured to advance my education to some degree, as it had suffered during my schooldays by having to attend six different schools and leaving at the age of thirteen years to go to work to supplement the family budget. I also studied the German language, just in case I had to make a practical use of it some day. There were plenty of goons on which I could try out the exercises. And, although they would listen to what I had to say with interest, their expressions soon turned to bewilderment as they walked away slowly shaking their heads. Nevertheless, as the months passed my German improved. I also read a dog-eared copy of the German National Socialist Party’s blockbuster by Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf. Gripping stuff!

I was to be concerned at a letter I received from Joyce, which was taken up by a lengthy apology for sending me a letter breaking off our relationship. Fortunately, this letter of reconciliation overtook the ‘Dear John’ letter in the mail, otherwise I would have really been in the doldrums. By then we had been parted for nearly a year, and I prayed so much that our love would endure until I got home.