Chapter 13

FORCE MARCH 400 MILES TO FALLINGSBOSTEL

In a fit of uncontrollable shivering, and teeth chattering like castanets, I eased myself off the logs, to spend a frantic few minutes stamping and slapping to restore circulation to my numb and frozen body. It was a no win situation; I either wore myself out trying to keep warm or I suffered from exposure.

The overcast snow-laden sky completely blotted out the stars and, already disorientated, I set about determining which direction was east. I decided that the sides of the trees bearing the most snow were likely to be facing in an easterly direction. When I left the wooded area behind me, I simply rotated through 360 degrees until the breeze or wind was strongest on my face and hoped I was then facing in an easterly direction.

The night seemed endless and I seemed to trudge for miles deep in thought. I was confident that I was at last on my way home and my imagination ran riot at thoughts of landing in Blighty. When dawn eventually broke, I was delighted to see the first signs of another day were appearing over the horizon directly ahead of me.

Travelling in a wide and snowbound expanse of countryside, I was well away from signs of habitation. There were isolated farm buildings but they were too far away for their occupants, if any, to pose any sort of threat to me. By foraging for food on these farmsteads, I planned to keep pressing on until I made contact with a forward echelon of the Red Army, and I also prayed that it was making better progress than I was.

On one occasion I spotted a column of people in the distance and off to my right. I guessed that they were prisoners moving westwards, possibly a party that had left Stalag-Luft IV after our column.

Before it got dark, I had the good fortune to come upon a potato clamp, and I wasted no time in digging into the mound with my bare hands. After eating my fill, I stuffed my pockets until the extra weight became a problem. Prayers come so readily in adversity, although seldom deemed necessary in more happier circumstances, but I truly thanked the Lord that evening.

During the afternoon, being ready to drop, I crawled under an upturned cart at the edge of a field, and half a mile from what appeared to be farm buildings. Wrapping myself in a blanket and curling up, I was soon sound asleep. I awoke to find it was blowing a blizzard outside, and it was perishing cold. For the next two or three hours, I spent my time alternating between sleep and jogging around the cart to maintain circulation. It was a crazy existence, in which I smoked the last of my cigarettes. Time and time again, I would cock my ear and listen intently for the sound of gunfire, but all was frustratingly quiet. I set off again while it was still light. It was becoming vital that I keep moving for as long as I could, and rest only when I was on the point of collapse.

It was another long and arduous night, made more difficult by having to make detours caused by wide streams and deep snowdrifts. As dawn was breaking, I found that the road on which I was walking led downhill to a hamlet. Rather than repeat the mistake I made in the Moselle Valley after my parachute descent, I turned off the road and started to climb a ridge overlooking the hamlet. I was no more than thirty yards from the road, when the ground gave way beneath my feet and I dropped into a dugout, landing with such a jolt that I bit my tongue.

This mantrap was probably the work of the local Home Guard as a defensive position overlooking the east–west road through the hamlet. While the Home Guard had been disbanded in the UK after the threat of invasion had passed, Hitler had called upon his male pensioners and teenagers to take up rifles and bazookas, and prepare themselves to repel all invaders.

The dugout was four feet deep and thirty inches in diameter. It had been covered with twigs which were hidden under a layer of snow.

It was too great an effort for me to climb out of the dugout just then, and I took a chance that, for the time being, the Home Guard would have no need to inspect or take up their defensive positions. Although rather cramped the dugout was snug and out of the freezing wind.

Some time later I was alerted by the sound of engines ticking over. Cautiously, I popped my head through the branches over my shelter hoping to see red stars on the sides of tanks, but instead of Russian tanks, I saw the black and white crosses clearly visible on the sides of German half-track troop carriers. There were three of them parked along the side of the road, and there was a chorus line of soldiers busy etching patterns in the snow. A small group of officers had their heads together studying what must have been an ordnance map. The engines were kept running for about thirty minutes while the soldiers frolicked in the snow and became involved in a friendly snowball fight, some coming to within yards of my hideout. That was too close for my comfort. They were young and looked like recruits in new uniforms, compared with the battle weary and unkempt veterans I had seen on the troop trains.

It was with great relief that I heard the convoy move off to make its way through the hamlet, accelerating towards the front line that could not be so many miles ahead of them. I guessed that their next battle would be infinitely more deadly than a snowball fight.

The presence of military units in the area boosted my morale and, whether by imagination or not, I convinced myself that I could detect the distant sound of gunfire.

The road leading through the hamlet was a busy one, with military vehicles passing through it in both directions, often in convoy like the troop carriers. The hamlet itself appeared deserted, the inhabitants were either in hibernation or had fled before the Russian advance.

As soon as darkness fell I decided to make a move. I was not prepared for the difficulty I had in trying to extricate myself from the dugout. After squatting all day with my knees under my chin, I had lost all feeling in my lower limbs. As a result of the paralysis, I had to lever myself out with my elbows and this was far from easy in the confined space. After a supreme effort, I managed to ease myself out to lie panting in the snow. It seemed ages before I managed to restore the circulation into my legs and to be able to stand. It was a most anxious time and I had to admit to myself that I would be unable to carry on much longer in my condition.

I had not travelled far before it began to snow again, not heavy, but enough to make visibility poor and the going hard as I skirted the hamlet. I was really in trouble, light-headed, terribly weak and now I had vertigo. After all the effort, I doubted whether I had travelled a total distance of more than ten miles since leaving the column and the Russians had probably halted to consolidate their line of advance.

As I stumbled through the night, barely able to keep on my feet, I began to hallucinate. The first mirage was of a giant stack of Red Cross parcels towering in the snow before me, but it was only a split second before the vision disappeared. The next occasion was when I was about to take a hefty bite out of a handsome luncheon meat sausage, when it, too, vanished. I was really out of sorts and to make things even worse I found myself struggling against a blizzard, which was no mirage.

Suddenly I came upon a hut beside the lane I was following, and hoping to find some shelter I made my way over to it. I was almost on top of the hut, when a voice from within it ordered me to halt and put my hands up. Inside was a sentry fumbling for his rifle, and in a voice that betrayed his panic I was again ordered to halt. As I leaned against the Posten box I must have looked like nothing on earth to him and I did not know whether to laugh or cry. So much for that attempt to reach freedom. I wanted to sleep. The Luftwaffe sentry had an impediment in his speech, and insisted that I gave him the password or produced my ID card. I showed him my Kriegie dog tags and explained who I was, and that I had somehow become separated from my column. This flustered him, and he almost passed me his rifle to hold but thought better of it as he cranked away at his field telephone to summon assistance. He jabbered away on the telephone, trying to explain to the person on the other end that he had detained a prisoner trying to gain access to the airfield. While were waiting for the escort to arrive, the sentry was almost apologetic at having to detain me and under any other circumstances, I suppose I would have felt sorry for complicating his war.

We were soon joined by a sergeant and an airman. They appeared friendly, but I was left in no doubt that they would not hesitate to use the pistols they were holding if it became necessary. After I had repeated who I was, they showed some concern about my physical condition; they even supported me between them. As we left the Sergeant good-humouredly kidded the cock-a-hoop sentry that he would be recommended for the Iron Cross 1st Class for behaving with total disregard for personal safety in detaining me. We walked for two or three hundred yards to a large country house. Several Junkers Ju52 transport aircraft were dispersed either side of the approach to the house. They were snowbound and anchored to the ground and, from the sort of weather we were having, they looked as though they were going to be grounded for a long time.

My recollection of the events during the following twenty-four hours is vague but, after I had satisfied the Germans that I was a bona fide Kriegie, I was given food and facilities to wash and shave in hot water. Next morning I woke up to find myself in a large armchair in a dimly lit cellar crammed with furniture and bric-a-brac. I had no idea how long I had slept, but daylight was shining through the outside grating behind a high window. I felt a lot better in myself, and was so comfortable that I was reluctant to leave the chair; instead, I rearranged the blankets and dozed off again.

I was aroused by the friendly Sergeant holding a tray. On it was my breakfast of two boiled eggs, a piece of bread, and a mug of coffee. With some difficulty we managed to carry out a reasonable conversation. He apologized for locking me in the cellar, adding that it was on his commanding officer’s orders as a safety precaution. Officers of higher rank visiting the airstrip and seeing me could insist that Hitler’s directive, that escaping POWs should be shot, be complied with. This possibility caused me fresh anxiety, despite the good thinking on the CO’s part.

The Sergeant went on to say that I was to be taken to a POW column to continue my journey westward as soon as one could be located. There was a search team out already looking for such a column.

I had wandered on to a temporary airstrip which, flying weather permitting, supplied the Wehrmacht divisions on the Eastern Front with food and equipment. The house had been commandeered by the Luftwaffe, its previous wealthy tenants had only recently been evacuated.

The CO was in a dilemma. He would either have to destroy his aircraft before being overrun by the Red Army, or take a chance and hang on with the hope that weather conditions would improve so that he could fly out.

I was then left alone for a couple of hours, before being visited by the CO. A major, he was at least fifty years of age and wore many decorations. With him were three young pilots. The Major asked me if I was feeling better and observed that, whilst he admired my spirit, to escape in conditions where the temperature had dropped to minus twelve degrees centigrade was to be discouraged. And furthermore, there was no way I could have got one of his aircraft off the ground.

The Sergeant and a corporal joined the gathering and reported that a column of prisoners had been located. The Major wished me luck, and I thanked him for his kindness and consideration with all sincerity.

Once again I had been treated with decency by the true soldiers of the war, and I did not want them to suspect that I was as lousy as a hedgehog. The warmth and comfort of the cellar had reactivated the little blighters and I barely refrained from frantically scratching myself.

After leaving the cellar we passed a comfortable room with a roaring log fire, which I vaguely remembered from the night, or it could have been two nights, before. The Major was standing with his back to the hearth and, with a smile he warned me that if I ventured near his aeroplanes again I would be shot. I believe he meant it.

I sat beside the Sergeant on the back seat of a Kübelwagen (Volkswagen Jeep). A corporal drove the car and he had his work cut out negotiating the lanes and road covered with ice and drifting snow. After a mile or so we came to a roadside inn. After parking the runabout behind the premises, my escort took me into a cosy parlour and sat me on a bench beside the fire. We were then joined by two, not unattractive, females who fondly kissed and embraced the airmen. This was a bit too embarrassing for a Kriegie who had not been near a woman for nearly two years. Staring into the fire, I warmed my hands and wondered what was going to take place next.

I was introduced to the landladies, and it was explained how I came to be sitting in their parlour. From that moment I was treated like a celebrity by the two ladies. They handed me a stein of beer and were full of admiration for the Engländer who had tried to steal one of the Luftwaffe’s aircraft. While they were so nice about everything, I made no attempt to disillusion them.

The beer helped wash down a meal of bread and sausage, but I soon began to feel bloated and woozy. The beer was strong. The airmen must have enjoyed an intimate relationship with the charming ladies, and I concluded that the temporary presence of the Luftwaffe at the nearby estate must have brought excitement into the ladies’ lives. As I left the inn I was handed a large loaf of bread, and I could not have been more delighted with such generosity. It was only after I had got well away from their premises that I realized that they still had my Kriegie ID discs which they looked at out of curiosity. Whether the discs had been kept as souvenirs I could not say, but being abroad in Germany without them could lead to complications.

We motored on for at least thirty miles before we caught up with a column of prisoners. I tucked my loaf out of sight in my blanket, not wishing to share it with complete strangers unless absolutely necessary. After the Sergeant had a word with the goon who appeared to be in charge of the column, I was reprimanded and then allowed to join the end of the column which was made up of about 1,000 Americans who were the last to leave Stalag-Luft IV. They were dubious about my familiarity with the two Germans in the runabout, and who had gone back the way they came, waving goodbye. I explained all, and was soon trading potatoes for Lucky Strike and Camel cigarettes.

It was back to the same routine again. So much for that attempt to reach Uncle Joe’s troops.

Being the last column out of the camp, the Americans were finding that the farmers along the way had already given as much food as they could to the other columns, and I realized that I would have to be careful with the few potatoes and bread I had left.

A couple of days after I joined the column we stayed at a farm on the outskirts of Neubrandenburg. We were told that the goons were endeavouring to find out where we should be taken next, and we were issued with half a loaf of bread each.

We resumed the trek westwards, making heavy going of it. My feet hurt terribly, but I dared not take my boots off as I would never get them on again. I had to get used to being a cripple.

Sometime in February, we queued at one farm for a piece of bread. I hid the bread under my blanket and went out scavenging in the farmyard for anything worth eating but, with two or three hundred other prisoners with the same thing in mind, the search proved fruitless. As I entered the barn, I spotted a Kriegie hurrying away from my patch of floorspace. I knew instinctively the something was wrong and, on checking under my blanket, saw that my bread ration was missing. I hurried over to where the suspect thief was kneeling, but no words of accusation from me were required. He turned and shamefacedly handed back my bread. The sheer relief of successfully recovering a few ounces of black bread was sufficient to dismiss from my mind any thought of retaliation by physical violence. In any event, I was in no condition to sustain an assault on anyone. Given the opportunity, we would steal food; the only difference in this unfortunate episode was that he had committed the sin of stealing from a fellow Kriegie and he would have to live with that. This particular fellow avoided me from then on.

During the hourly rest periods we would listen intently, hoping to pick up the sound of gunfire from the easterly direction. We had no idea how the war was progressing as the last news we received was while we were still at Stalag-Luft IV. For all we knew the Allied armies could be only a few miles away although there was no sound of gunfire to confirm this hopeful thinking.

We shambled through, or bypassed, towns with such names as Waren, Parchim and Ludwigslust as the cruel winter turned to spring and we also left cartloads of sick Americans behind.

With the clearer skies, we occasionally witnessed aerial scenes reminiscent of the Battle of Britain, with heavy formations of Flying Fortresses and Liberators of the US 8th Air Force leaving their telltale contrails as they flew on to their targets. Although now protected by the P51 Mustang fighters, the formations were still savaged by the tenacious Luftwaffe fighters. The gallant losers, friend or foe, fell out of the sky in slow motion, with minute white dots or parachutes even more slowly following the heavy metal down.

Starvation and dysentery were now taking their toll in the column. We all looked gaunt and emaciated and even the goons were faring no better. I think we all knew that we could not go on much longer, marching because the Germans did not know where to put us, especially as the Allies were on the offensive in the west. Hitler’s army was on the verge of defeat, his airforce overwhelmed, his navy neutralized, and his cities razed to the ground. It was little wonder that some of our escorts looked upon us as objects for retaliation and could still be brutal and heavy-handed. Some of the more prudent goons, sensing that the shoe would soon be on the other foot, became a good deal more considerate towards us in the hope that they would be dealt with more leniently when the day of reckoning finally came.

The Wehrmacht, refugees and other Germans using horsedrawn transport also had their casualties. We passed many bloated carcases of horses, with their legs rigid, like discarded nursery dobbins. The stench and attendant buzzing insects certainly put us off any thought of cutting out steaks although we would have still relished a bowl of diced horsemeat stew there and then.

At the last barn I stayed at on that march, I found a number of sacks of dried peas. I prised two boards away from the side of the barn near where I was lying. Squeezing myself through the narrow opening, I crept through to a store shed to try the outer door to freedom – I hoped. The door was locked and secured, and any noise trying to force it would have attracted the attention of the sentry, wherever he was. Instead, we had to be content to fill our pockets with dried peas before I replaced the boards. When we moved off next morning many of us waddled down the road like animated beanbags – all pockets and midrifts bulging.

On 28 March we thankfully climbed into cattle trucks at Uelzen railway station. We were squeezed in the trucks until there was standing room only, and in the confined space we reeked like a refuse tip in a heatwave. We were very relieved to learn that it was only a journey of fifty miles to Fallingbostel on the Lüneburg Heath.

From the railway station we walked a mile or so to Stalag IIB POW Camp. It was situated approximately thirty miles due north of Hannover and had been built on wild scrub and woodland; one could understand why the surrounding countryside had been designated a tank and artillery training area. A large camp, it was originally built to confine Allied soldiers, but now the German administration was overwhelmed by the influx of airmen from the east. It now held something like 40,000 starving prisoners.

Within an hour or so of entering the camp I was delighted to meet up with my pals whom I had not seen since I left the column in February. Alan Hamer confirmed that Jake and Mitch had left the column the same time as I made a break for it, and they had not been seen since. We could only conclude that they must have made contact with the Red Army and were free, unless something serious had befallen them. There was not a lot of news to catch up on, and we set about foraging for food in a camp where prisoners were dying of dysentery, battle wounds and despair.

At a distance of just over two miles to the north of Stalag IIB was another camp at Örbke. A few months earlier prisoners were evacuated from Stalag IIB in Thorn, Poland and most travelled by train to a new camp at Örbke. Although it was basically a camp for army POWs and airmen were in the minority, Dixie Deans still kept his authority as the airmen’s camp leader.

Stalag IIB smelt of death which was always present from malnutrition, typhus and unattended combat wounds. Stacks of makeshift coffins outside the wire fence would have to be replaced as they were used to bury the dead. At that time the conditions in the camp were just marginally better than at a concentration camp a few miles up the road at Bergen-Belsen.

One slept in the Lager where there was a suitable place to lie, and the days were spent chatting with pitifully thin and bewildered men who as guardsmen, paratroopers and glider pilots, had been captured since the D-Day landings, especially at Arnhem and during the Ardennes offensive. I managed to trade a paratrooper’s jumping jacket for a handful of dried peas and my greatcoat. Already I was preparing for the next opportunity to escape. We were given very little food by the goons and, despite all my efforts, I was unable to get myself on an army foraging party which left the camp daily to find a potato clamp to obtain some food, whatever it might be.

During my stay at Stalag IIB, I managed to take my boots off to have a look at my feet. They were as I expected them to be, absolutely filthy and anti-social. I stank. I was amazed to find that I no longer had any toe nails, they having come unstuck from my feet and lodged in places which increased my discomfort on the march. Lack of calcium and continual foot-slogging were the suggested causes of toe-nail shedding. Nothing could be done to remedy the problem in the circumstances. It involved considerable effort, not only to get my boots off but also to get them on again after I had managed to get rid of some of the filth. Not being in the peak of condition I puffed and blowed – and swore at the GI issue brown boots.

Like most of the Kriegies, I was beginning to take on the appearance of a dirty tramp who never shaved. With hair on head and face growing ever longer, it became increasingly difficult to recognise mates one had not seen for weeks. Hunger was with us all the time and despair.

We were in the camp for ten long days, witnessing death and starvation on a frightening scale, before we were paraded ready for another march away from our advancing troops. The British Second Army was advancing on Osnabrück, no more than eighty miles to the west. It was rumoured that we were bound for the Harz Mountains, a picturesque area a few days march from Fallingbostel due south. Fifty of our colleagues had already been murdered following their escape from Stalag-Luft III, and I had no reason to believe that the Germans, particularly SS Units, would not commit further atrocities against their prisoners, even at this stage of the war. I was far from happy with the way things were turning out.