Chapter 11

CRUISING IN THE HELL SHIP INSTERBERG

The inhabitants of Heydekrug had turned out to line the roadside to watch the raggle-taggle procession of Kriegies pass on its way to the railway station. Children standing with their mothers probably tasted chocolate for the first time in their lives, generously handed to them by prisoners elated by the absence of barbed wire. Old men scrambled to collect liberal sized cigarette butts tossed away by the more ‘wealthy’ prisoners. Many of us, not knowing what the future held or where the next meal was coming from, wisely hung on to everything we possessed. We wondered how long it would be before these people were watching Russian tanks and troops passing through Heydekrug, to disturb the peaceful isolation from the sounds and ravages of total war.

One Kriegie wore a cardboard placard across his chest proclaiming ‘Uncle Joe for King’, which was soon confiscated by a goon. Uncle Joe Stalin had a large following in the camp, simply because his army was on the offensive and advancing towards East Prussia while Allied troops were still bogged down in their Normandy beach-heads. As soon as they broke out and went on the offensive, and to liberate Paris, the Eisenhower and Montgomery team would top the popularity polls in the Stalags.

As soon as we arrived at the railway station we were loaded into cattle trucks that were waiting in a siding for us. The trucks had been adapted for the transportation of human beings and in them we experienced what must have been the feelings of millions of poor souls who, having been considered unacceptable to the Master Race, were conveyed to concentration camps and their deaths in the gas chambers. It was a feeling of utter degradation. The trucks were divided into three sections, and were partitioned by two barbed wire screens across the width of the truck. The two end sections held the prisoners, and the centre section was for the guards. We each had sufficient room to sit with our knees up under our chins, while the goons had room to lie on the floor. As the goons were also being posted to the new camp there were one or two in each truck.

It was rumoured that we were going to Memel, and there embark on a ship that would sail to Germany through the Baltic Sea. None of us were too enthusiastic about sailing through the submarine and mine infested waters, including the Germans.

Two miles out of Heydekrug, we passed through Tilsit (now Sovetsk) and then a few hours journey to Memel. At Memel, the train went on to the quay and came to a standstill opposite a rusty old coaster, bearing the name Insterberg on its stern. The ship had a U-shaped hull, comprising two holds, one fore and the other aft of the bridge and, sandwiched between the bridge and the engine room, were the stores and crew’s quarters. The holds were covered, except for a small hatch to give access.

Like the animals embarking on the Ark, we trooped across the gangplank two by two, one Kriegie to be steered to the forward hatch and the other to the aft hatch. We were made to leave all bulky baggage on the deck, but I managed to hold on to my rucksack with a little food in it. Descending a twenty-feet steel ladder to the bowels of the ship, I found myself standing on the propeller shaft housing, and it was necessary to make use of footrests to finally stand in the well of the hold. In the half light the hold looked cavernous and a potential deathtrap. The floor was coated with a thick layer of coal dust, and there were pools of stagnant water in the well. The arched top of the propeller shaft housing was occupied by Kriegies along its length, and they were going to regret their choice of place to sit down. To find a place to settle, I had to clamber over bodies until I was perched on the side of the hull. It was a most uncomfortable position, but I had no option other than to get used to it. If I lost my balance, I would roll on to Kriegies below me, and although they would have cushioned me from injury, there would be many moans and groans of protest. The hold was soon filled with 400 Kriegies, each with just sufficient room in which to squat. There were sanitary arrangements, but it meant picking one’s way through knee deep humanity, climbing an energy-sapping ladder to the deck, and then going through an embarrassing procedure of relieving oneself on a wooden chute overhanging the side of the ship. The guard at the hatch was armed to the teeth. In addition to a sub-machine gun, several stick grenades were stuck into his belt.

The crew of the ship appeared to be Russian, and they were controlled by a detachment of Kriegsmarine – German Navy. The Insterberg was escorted by an E-Boat, which continually circled the ship during its voyage.

The hatch was battened down overnight and, in the pitch darkness of the hold, we were left to worry over all sorts of nasty things that could befall us during the voyage, such as striking a mine or being torpedoed. There was only about a quarter of an inch of steel plating between me and the Baltic Sea. I tried to form some sort of contingency plan to put into practice should there be an emergency – anything to increase my chances of survival. Everything was so nightmarish. The darkness of the hold had a claustrophobic effect on me, and I was most unhappy with the whole situation.

Many Kriegies suffered from seasickness and, although the ship had not yet put to sea, there was soon an overpowering stench of body odour, diarrhoea and vomit. There was no ventilation and the air was also thick with tobacco smoke. It was too much to expect men to refrain from smoking – it was the only nerve steadying remedy available to us.

The ship did not put to sea until the following morning. Suddenly the engines came to life, causing the ship to vibrate excessively. This was accompanied by the sounds on the quayside as the crew went through the casting off procedure. Then a loud clanging noise came from the propeller shaft with every revolution of the propeller, and this was to continue for as long as we were at sea. It must have been sheer purgatory for those who chose to sit on the shaft casing.

During the seventy-two hours we were on the Insterberg the Germans provided us with neither food nor water. To climb the ladder and be allowed on deck to gulp in fresh air were the moments of pleasure on the voyage. On one visit, I thought I could make out the coastline of Sweden in the far distance off the starboard beam. However, I quickly dismissed any thought of diving overboard and trying to swim to the neutral country. I would not get very far from the ship before I was riddled with bullets from a sub-machine gun and, in my physical condition, I would soon succumb to the waves anyway.

From time to time the hatch would be opened and a goon would peer into the gloom of the hold to see if we were behaving ourselves. One great fear was that one of his grenades would drop out of his belt and fall amongst us. Whilst it was not supposed to explode with its pin still in, that was no consolation – it would still give someone a nasty bump on the head. There must be some ICRC rules that forbade the transport of POWs in a coal boat through the Baltic.

Many of the 800 prisoners sweltering in the holds became seasick and, in the absence of medication, all those unaffected could only sympathize and endure the stench.

It was by far the longest voyage I had been on. Once my parents treated me to a day trip on the Royal Daffodil paddle steamer from London Tower Bridge, navigating the River Thames to Southend Pier. Ice-cream, candyfloss and cockles, and then back again – they were happy days!

We had to be very careful with what little rations we had with us, such as biscuits and cheese. This was all John Hooley and I had to eat during the time we were on the ship. Jake Akehurst, who was in our party, managed to get hold of a can of water from right under the noses of the goons, but there was only sufficient to wet our lips. The heat in the hold was oppressive in the daytime and not a lot cooler at night. The sound of snoring was made even louder by the acoustics of the hold.

In comparison with many in the same predicament, health wise I had fared exceptionally well, apart from the painful stomach cramp as a sprog Kriegie, and my brief encounter with ‘Attila’. However, I was concerned about the weight I had involuntarily lost while on the Insterberg; weight that I could ill afford to lose. At night we would try singing songs like It’s a long way to Tipperary to keep our spirits up, and also to show our captors that we were far from downhearted in spite of the atrocious conditions. I was still worried about how I would manage to get out of the hold in an emergency, and I came to the conclusion that there was no way I could get to the hatch before Kriegies were clinging to the steps like wasps swarming around a stick of rock. I was most concerned about my safety.

On 19 July, after three long days at sea, we berthed at Swinemünde, about thirty miles east of the V-weapon research establishment at Peenemünde. Being unaware that we were near land, as the ship scraped along the quay, my first thoughts were that the noise was caused by the horns of a mine. I was relieved to hear the sounds of the crew mooring the vessel and lowering the gangplank.

It took some exertion to climb the ladder, but as we walked ashore in bright sunshine, it was a wonderful feeling to take in fresh air and to feel concrete under my feet. It was a warm sunny day and we had docked in a large bustling naval base. Opposite the train of cattle trucks, and astern of the Insterberg, the battle cruiser Lützow was riding at anchor with its swastika pennant fluttering in the breeze. Offshore a flotilla of U-boats basked beam to beam in the sunlight.

As we assembled to be counted and allocated a cattle truck there was an air of uneasiness. The Kriegsmarine heavily outnumbered our normal guards; they were much younger looking, and could have been fresh from the Hitler Youth Movement – fanatical and dangerous teenagers. They glowered at us and, holding their rifles across their chests with fixed bayonets, they seemed to be spoiling for a fight. Our goons had acquired a few more dogs.

We became more troubled when the Kriegsmarine produced a large supply of manacles, and began to chain Kriegies together by the wrists in pairs, two feet of chain linking the two bracelets. These extreme measures by the combined services of the Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe gave us some concern for our future. John Hooley and I were not going to be manacled if we could help it and by holding hands, and joining those manacled without being seen, we were still holdings hands when the supply of manacles ran out – leaving no more than half a dozen of us free. We were then crammed into the cattle trucks.

Standing behind the barbed wire partition, our black grimy faces streaked with sweat, we resembled paid up members of the NUM in the pit cage after a stint of working at the coalface – we also stank like a camel market. No sooner had we settled in the trucks, when the air raid sirens sounded about the base. Our arrival at Swinemünde had coincided with a daylight air raid, and within minutes the smoke making machines sited about the complex were belching out a choking smokescreen which blanketed everything, rendering the vessels and harbour installations difficult to see, and accurately bomb, from the air. To be manacled, caged and a target for Allied bombers did cause us some concern. Things were getting out of hand.

As the suffocating smoke found its way into the trucks, and the goons put on their gas masks and helmets, we could only cough and retch until tears streamed down our dirty cheeks. Soon the steady drone of the bomber force could be heard, to be accompanied by the sound of heavy flak. As the aircraft flew overhead, the nearby Lützow and other warships opened up with their big guns, the noise rising to a crescendo until it seemed that all hell had broken loose. The truck nearly jumped its tracks as bombs rained down, some exploding too near for our peace of mind. At the height of the raid, the flak, coupled with the earth trembling explosions, produced a terrifying cacophony of sound. Our guards had every reason to panic and seek shelter under the trucks. Some were trying to hide alongside railway sleepers and they trembled uncontrollably with fear.

We felt the train was in a vulnerable position as it stood in the open on the quayside and the danger that a bomb would toss our truck into the sea was uppermost in our minds. We would have no chance to escape as we sank to our watery graves.

After forty minutes of savage conflict, the sound of battle abated, to be replaced by the noise of urgent activity around the base. The goons rejoined the trucks, and it was very apparent that they were displeased with having to endure something so warlike as an air raid; it was infinitely more dangerous than guard duty in a Posten box, where the odd Kriegie could be murdered from time to time without punishment. They would soon be getting their own back on the Terrorflieger Gefangenen in their charge.

A pall of smoke still shrouded the base when the all clear was sounded, and this prevented an assessment of the damage caused in the raid and, possibly, it saved our train from being lined up in the bombsight of some Allied airman. The Lützow and our cruise ship Insterberg appeared to have survived the attack unscathed.

After waiting another hour or so in the sweltering heat of the truck, we left Swinemünde for the seventy-five miles journey to Gross Tychow, near Schneidemühl (now Pila) in East Pomerania, arriving in the early afternoon. After alighting from the train, all 800 prisoners were paraded beside a platform. We were surprised to see that the Kriegsmarine were still with us, some of whom were wearing light running shoes. About one in three was armed with a sub-machine gun.

We were called to attention as a Luftwaffe officer, later to be identified as Hauptmann Richard Pickhardt, one of the Abwehr officers at Stalag-Luft IV, mounted a trolley to address us. For ten minutes he stormed and raved about the destruction of German cities by Luftgangsters and Terrorfliegers, mentioning Berlin, Cologne, and his home town, Hamburg, and stressed the civilian death toll. His tirade was intended to agitate and inflame the passions of the Kriegsmarine, and there is no doubt that he succeeded. The situation was getting more frightening by the minute, and there was nothing at that stage to confirm that there was a prison camp at Gross Tychow. At Pickhardt’s signal, we were made to jog from the railway station and through the village. The local civilians spat, jeered, and waved their fists at us, and were obviously trying to encourage the goons to make life even more unbearable for us.

As we left the built up area and turned onto a cart track cutting a sward through tall pines, the escort turned on the pressure. Out of the sight of the civilians, they instantly set about us with the bayonets, rifle butts and dogs. From a steady trot, we were made to stampede with the dogs snapping at our heels, and were running, weaving and dodging to avoid the jabbing bayonets and swinging rifle butts. The Kriegsmarine were in their element showing no mercy. They enjoyed every moment of it. With knives they would cut away packs from Kriegies’ backs, knowing they could well contain cigarettes and chocolate. Anyone falling by the wayside through exhaustion, would be bayonetted or struck by a rifle butt. I found myself dodging and leaping over fallen comrades who had either stumbled or dropped with exhaustion, with the partners in chains desperately trying to pull them to their feet while under attack themselves.

As I passed one goon standing astride a fallen Kriegie, I heard a pistol shot. Believing that the goons were intending to shoot the stragglers, I found enough energy to accelerate until I was up with the front runners. Things would have been easier if I had got rid of my pack, but I did not want to face John Hooley, whom I had lost in the panic, if he came through still carrying the food in his rucksack. He would not have been too pleased to find he had no change of clothing.

It was a terrible experience because, for all we knew, we were going to be herded into a clearing and massacred. The Germans were quite capable of doing that.

After about two miles the stampede began to lose its impetus. So many Kriegies had either collapsed through exhaustion or were lying seriously injured on the trail. The head of the column had thinned out, many of the older goons leaving the Kriegsmarine to keep up with those still running like hell.

I was determined to make a dash for it into the woods if the opportunity presented itself, but realized that this was exactly what Pickhardt wanted. Every few hundred yards there was a manned machine gun almost hidden by the trees and foliage.

In one part of the lane, many of us had the pleasure of trying to trample a fallen goon into the ground. He must have been at death’s door after being jumped on by heavy booted prisoners. One went completely berserk, repeatedly smashing his guitar over the head of an Alsatian dog until he killed it. It was absolute panic and chaos.

After two-and-a-half miles and what seemed an eternity, we ran into a clearing with a POW camp in the middle of it. John Hooley and myself, not being hampered by manacles, were in front as the column concertinaed up to the front gate. We collapsed with exhaustion, but I was delighted to be at the gates of a prison camp. To me it was a kind of sanctuary.

After regaining our breath, many of us wanted to go back down the trail to assist our fallen comrades but were prevented from doing so by the Kriegsmarine. It took an hour or so before the last of the stragglers, including the walking wounded, joined us at the gates of the camp. While we waited, we held an inquest touching upon the unsociable behaviour of the goons, especially the Kriegsmarine. We soon came to the conclusion that the whole episode had been orchestrated by Hauptman Pickhardt in a calculated attempt to force us to break ranks so that the machine gunners could mow us down ‘whilst attempting to escape’.

After releasing all those who had been manacled, the Kriegsmarine left to take their loot of cigarettes, chocolate and other items of prisoners’ property back with them to Swinemünde, and probably to boast about their day of action with the enemy.