My POW Days

by Private Les Manning, 2/7th Battalion, 6th Division, Crete

On 20th October, 1939, when just 26 years old, I found my way down to the Hawthorn Drill Hall in Melbourne, Victoria and joined the Army. Soon after saying goodbye to my family I arrived at Pucka and was assigned to 2/7th Battalion, C Company, named “Mud over blood”.

Our troops eventually set sail after some basic training and over the next couple of years we saw action in Egypt, Libya and Greece where I nearly lost my life on 19th April, 1941 when a bomb exploded very close to me and blew the tin hat off my head. It was my 28th birthday.

Our troop ship the Costa Rica was bombed and sunk on the way to Kalamata and after a rescue at sea we found ourselves on Crete waiting for another ship to take us off the island. No such luck, we were stranded for about four weeks and left to fend for ourselves before our colonel told us to go with him and head for the hills. Eighteen of us spent the first night in a cave. The next day, three of us wandered off, starving hungry and with blistered feet to try and find a boat after seeing some of our boys catch a lift on a barge to Libya.

We spotted a small boat pulling into an inlet and I approached them to ask for a ride. A young man walked slowly towards me and tapped me on the shoulder. I told him I didn’t have any cigs and he took a pistol from inside his shirt and poked it deep into my stomach. I got a hell of a shock – these blokes seemed to be Poms because they were dressed like them. We were rounded up and marched off to join other men from our battalion. The prisoner holding compound at Skenes was a stinking hell hole and most of the men were struck by one illness or another. The old barracks were filthy, lice and flea infested ruins and we suffered dysentery and leg infections from the biting b***tds. Some men lost their battle there. If we had stayed much longer we would have all died of unnatural causes.

Eventually we were loaded up and sent to Athens where we watched the poor Jews get a hell of a time at the end of Jerry’s rifle butts. This is when we started to see the cruel side of them.

Soon it was our turn to be herded onto railway cattle trucks by screeching Huns and their rifle butts. It took seven hellish days with no food or medicine before we arrived at a large camp outside Hammelberg. The men were a pitiful sight. We were shown the showers and felt lucky to have got out alive after noticing that the ceiling was covered with suspicious looking nozzles. Our rags were confiscated and fumigated. One bloke had left a spud in his pocket and it was half cooked when he got it back. We were numbered and my coat was stamped “K.G.” which was German for POW.

We were absolutely starving so I decided to raid the storeroom for some bread. The windows had no bars so I leaned out onto the first floor window ledge ready to jump when it gave way. Sure enough I hit the ground with a thud. Lying in three feet of snow I checked for any breaks before making my way to the kitchen. Just around the corner, an Alsatian guard dog started barking and I thought, “This is it!” A guard came to check out the noise but he went back inside and I thanked God.

That night I stole two loaves and showed others where to get more. Luckily the padlock was hanging open on the hasp so it was fairly easy to get inside. There was hell to pay next morning when we lined up with swollen bellies.

One of the boys tried to escape but was caught and beaten with fists and boots. We all called out, “Leave him alone you Hun bastards,” and they threatened to shoot us on the spot.

The next day we were transferred to Geroldshausen. Local farmers came to villages where our men were lined up like slaves and they picked out prisoners to work for them. They asked us what work we did in “Civvy Street”. I had been a baker at home, but they weren’t very impressed with my efforts at the village bakery. I only lasted one day before being sent to do odd jobs for a mangy Hun. While shovelling snow one day, the house Frau called out for me to come to the door. She showed me inside and gave me a lovely hot bath and new clothes to wear. She was a kind old lady married to a Hun mongrel.

We left Geroldshausen for Wittighausen and were put to work keeping the rail tracks in good condition. Our living conditions got worse as we moved up the line. One day, six of our men were spotted carrying a bath, a big beautiful concrete bath. It was great for us; at last we could wash this war off us, at least for a while. That bath went wherever we did.

Through the months working on the railway we’d watch extra long troop trains slowly make their way to the front with frozen soldiers crammed inside. It was one of the coldest European winters on record, with temperatures down to 28 degrees below zero.

One day, while I was working on the line, a civilian charged at me yelling and grabbing my fork for no reason. We ended up wrestling until I let go. He went flying backwards and I ended up at Würzburg Station, Bavaria on the way to my punishment. At the station were American Air Force boys in a terrible mess after being shot down. After an overnight stay wondering where in hell they were taking me, I soon found out. For the next three backbreaking weeks I ducked friendly fire in between loading trucks with tons of broken rock at a quarry. I met a Tasmanian who showed me the ropes and became a mate.

Back at my old kommando, Red Cross parcels filtered through and they saved our lives on more than one occasion. But a suspicious Hun took a dislike to me so my parcels were always late and broken.

For some prisoners, escape was their main pastime even though being caught meant spending seven days in the cooler with nothing but bread and water. One of the boys was nearly caught making a compass. A guard came into the barracks, saw it, and was told it was a “gizz gong”. The guard didn’t wake up to our joke and reckoned we were mad. We reckoned they were all mad.

One day my mate and I were given bicycles to go to a nearby village for work.

After riding a while, we sped off from our young German minder. He was yelling “Slow down” in German, then French and finally as he was left eating our dust we heard in good old Aussie lingo, “Go slow, Aussie bastards”. It made us laugh. At the village he told us he learned English at school.

News of the war was getting through and we knew it was only a matter of time before it would be over. It was 31st March when the Yankee tanks rolled up the road. Our guards took off and we were finally free!

We ran out to meet Patton’s 3rd Armoured Division and they gave us rifles to guard a few hundred prisoners they’d taken.

On that day one of our boys called out “See you” and jumped onto a tank headed out of town. A sniper got him with a single shot and there wasn’t a dry eye amongst us.

The Yanks were marvellous and took us to a huge building in Paris where we saw doctors, dentists, had showers, got new uniforms and plenty of food (but no girls!). At Le Havre we caught flights with the RAF boys to High Wycombe and then on to Gowrie House in London. While I was on leave I had a set of teeth made and met the Duchess of Kent. I was sitting in the dentist chair with my mouth wide open at the time.

On 8th May, 1945 the war was declared over in Europe and we all went crazy in the streets of Brighton. The Poms really knew how to throw a party.

The Dominion Monarch left London in May with us on board and we arrived at Sydney Harbour in early July. It was the first time I had been on Aussie soil for six long years, what a feeling!