Twenty Days in the Reich (13 page)
‘Not before we’ve had our soup!’ was everybody’s immediate reaction. But those fellows, once they got a bee in their bonnet, stood no nonsense. Two-thirds of the soup must have been left, only those, and Guy and I were among them, who were in an early part of the queue being lucky enough to get any. In most cases it had to be eaten, as expeditiously as possible, marching along the road.
It was an eventless march. The total distance according to Joe was ‘only 15 kilometres’, Soon after we started it commenced to rain for the first time since Monday, and only for the second time since we had been in Germany. It rained very hard, and we were all soon very wet. I remember hoping dismally that it would stop raining before we stopped marching, as otherwise I had visions of spending an even more uncomfortable night than the many we had passed already.
The countryside, looking fresh and green in its first moist covering, was more picturesque than any we had encountered since the early days with Karl and Adolf. I wondered if we were getting back into something like the same district, although, like everybody else, I had very little idea where we were. We made two stops only for water, the second of these at Niederjossa, by which time the rain had mercifully ceased, and the sun was doing its best to shine. I had been walking with Guy all day, and we sat down on a pile of logs, taking our last drink of water together – for I never saw him again. All subsequent enquiry as to what happened to him in the eventful hours that followed proved fruitless. I have made attempts to trace him since I returned to this country, but only knowing his Christian name, and not even being able to remember his unit, I have had no success. He just disappeared into the blue and whether he managed to outlive that
memorable Good Friday, and return to tell his own tale, I shall never know.
We had five more kilometres to travel from that last stop at Niederjossa, and we were all, once more, beginning to feel uncommonly weary. The road here was marked off by a stone every 100 metres, which meant ten to the kilometre. Nearly everyone was reduced to counting and anticipating the stones as they came up, in an effort to occupy their minds. My chocolate supply was becoming reduced and my self-imposed rationing had stiffened up to a bite every kilometre and a half! Even the sight of a small Piper Cub ‘spotter’ plane hovering around over the low hills on our left, failed to arouse the excitement that it would have done, had we realised what its purpose was.
We derived some faint amusement at the sight of the Wehrmacht advancing to do battle, moving in the opposite direction to us. The contingent consisted of a motor car towing about ten men and their equipment on bicycles, a spectacle no doubt calculated to put the fear of God into the hearts of any enemy troops that might be encountered. Poor misguided German soldiers – I suppose many would never know what it was that they had been sent out to fight. I’m quite sure that I never realised the colossal might of the Allied armed forces until I saw a little bit of it in action for myself.
Even when the same cavalcade passed us again, now going the same way as we were, we were too absorbed with our ‘kilometre stones’ to take a great deal of notice, or to attach much importance to the event. The stones told us that we had but a bare kilometre to cover, and that, to us, was all that mattered. We were just coming up to the first houses of what looked like a reasonable sized town, and we could see the
bahnhof
over on our right and just pick out the name Niederaula. The air was very still, and I can clearly recall my last reflection as a POW. I didn’t much fancy this time of the day, with the sun shining, to be coming into a town with a railway station. I had seen too much of what could happen to such places in a very short time, and the absence of aircraft in the sky had gone on so long that it must surely be due to be broken at any minute!
Then the miracle happened! An excited chatter broke out among the guards. There was a sudden sharp rat-a-tat-tat behind us, which could only be caused by machine-gun fire. We heard a loud insistent clatter from the rear, and we did not have to look to learn that it was caused by the approach of a tank. We looked wonderingly at our guards. It couldn’t be – it wasn’t possible – but they were all smiles. With shouts of ‘Comrades’, they were already throwing their arms on the ground or handing them over to anybody who would take them.
‘Take cover’ the sharp voice of our CO was getting control over the situation. ‘The first tanks may be Jerries – they may be our boys, but they may shoot first, and ask questions afterwards!’
We dodged into a little pathway separating a house from its garden. There were two whole linefuls of clean white linen hanging out to dry. We grabbed the lot (I don’t know what the poor housewife thought, she certainly never showed up to object). We stood in little groups waiting and wondering, and holding our tokens of surrender above our heads. The first tank was less than quarter of a mile away, and the machine-gun fire was getting more insistent.
‘One man into the roadway, only’ ordered the CO. I don’t know who did the job, but he was presumably a brave man, although we learnt in a few minutes that we need not have worried. They knew we were there because unknown to us up at the front, our party had straggled out, and those behind had already established contact. They were our boys alright, bright-faced, fit, happy and smiling Americans, and never did Americans look so good!
The first few tanks and jeeps did not stop, their occupants being content to smile and wave to us. In about a minute, a jeep pulled in, and a jolly laughing captain got out. Although it took us a while to fully realise the fact, we were free men. Free! Free!
W
e were in a spearhead. The Fourth Armored Division of General Patton’s Third Army, had advanced that day only along that road. We were in the right spot at the right time. It was almost as though from the start of their tremendous sweep they had set out to catch up with us. They had commenced the drive on 15 March, the very day on which my crew baled out. In fifteen days they had pressed forward from the area north of the Moselle river on the west side of the Rhine, over the Moselle, then round and over the Rhine south of Koblenz. They had then rolled on across the German plain, taking in Frankfurt in a mighty encircling movement from the south (only some twenty-four hours after we had left Oberursel). Finally, they had swung round north again and were now in a headlong dash, with Berlin as their avowed first stop. It was Good Friday and it was a miracle, and nobody, not even those who would normally scoff at such an idea, was disposed to dispute it.
For the three hours that elapsed between our liberation and dusk, the mighty armoured column swept on. For an hour or two, we did little but stand by the roadside and admire it. How the Germans with their puny little units trundling along on bicycles or pushing their gear in perambulators, ever had the audacity to try to oppose such a force was beyond our comprehension. There seemed to be no end to it – tanks, jeeps and armoured vehicles of all descriptions were interspersed with supply trucks. The stream pressed on, bonnet to tail, at a speed that left us praising the skill of the drivers. It appeared as though the entire American Army must have turned out for our benefit that afternoon – and we were only in a spearhead!
The actual fighting in that little town of Niederaula was soon over. There was a short sharp battle, when half a dozen tanks sheared off the roadway and trundled over a ploughed field to attack a beautifully camouflaged electric train that was creeping stealthily down from the valley on our left. It was all over very quickly, however, and some of the more adventurous spirits among the ex-prisoners (how quickly we came to object to being described as ‘prisoners’) went with the American soldiers to help take over the train. They soon returned with a case of wine, which was quickly opened to provide a fitting toast.
After that, it was a case of how soon can you get us home. No praise that I can offer can be too high
for the manner in which those American lads made us feel welcome, and the way in which they organised our return under incredibly difficult conditions. Their trouble was that for the moment the traffic was going in the opposite direction. Also, at that time, though it must have become commonplace in the weeks that followed, handling liberated POWs was entirely new to them. There was no procedure laid down, but they knew that all we wanted was to get back home. Somehow or other, they meant to get us there, even if they had to stop the war to do it!
The journey back took a clear seven days, from the time we were liberated until we landed at Croydon on the following Friday afternoon. To attempt to describe our adventures in the same amount of detail as has been given up to now, would I fear, be an anti-climax. Nevertheless, we did have our full share of the fun, before we had the thrill of seeing our native land again.
That night, the Americans did not know quite what to do with us. Rather than leave us behind, they took us with them for about 15 miles to the point that had already been decided upon as their objective for the day. We passed the night in the best manner possible (I enjoyed the luxury of a berth in the front cab of a wagon) amid the roar and racket of the heavy gunfire. It kept us all awake most of the time, but we were far too happy to object to it. We did hope, though, that a stray shell from the other side would not fall on our encampment!
In the morning, the Americans surpassed themselves, laying on hot pancakes, syrup and a fresh orange for breakfast. As early as 8 a.m., three trucks had been organised to take our party out of the forward area, to a spot that would be rather more safe from the enemy. With a long break in the middle of the day, those trucks took us to a temporary German POW cage just outside Hanau. During the whole of that journey, our drivers had almost to fight their way through the still endless stream of American armed might that was pushing on behind the spearhead to consolidate the positions already taken. We were fed on American field rations that day, but a cooked supper was ready for us at night and we felt that life was good.
Hanau, like its sister town Giessen, was another place that had had a terrific pounding from the Allied bombers. Although we drove right through the middle of the place twice on our way to the POW cage (owing to the driver losing his way) and once on our way out, I did not observe a single building that could be considered fit to live in.
At Hanau (or rather the American camp just outside the town), we had a long hold-up, which tested the patience of many of the fellows. The delay was due to the transport difficulty, and whilst we were sure that the CO was doing all he could for us, we felt that he was handicapped because he did not know where to send us next.
There didn’t seem to be anyone whom he could ask who would be likely to supply the answer. Rumour was divided between the speculation that we should proceed in trucks to Trier on the Luxembourg border and thence by aircraft to London, or that we should have to be sent first to some place that was vaguely described as ‘down the road’, where we have to be properly interrogated before we could be allowed to leave the continent.
During our stay at this place, which we reached on the Saturday evening and left about the same time on the Easter Monday, we were billeted in three or four private houses. It was expecting a lot to assume that we should all get beds, but I was lucky enough to share a single one with my old friend Harry, my fellow navigator, whilst two others slept on the floor in the same room. For all its shortcomings, we were unanimously agreed that this apartment was a big improvement on schools, barns or even the cabs of army trucks! The Americans did everything they could for our comfort in the way of food, chocoloate and cigarettes. It is recorded that one poor soldier of the British Army, who had joined our party from another source, and who had been a prisoner since Dunkirk, actually thought that the first slice of white bread given to him was cake!
The women occupants of our houses were very civil and made us as much at home as they could in the circumstances. They were all at their
windows waving us farewell, when at last our contingent pulled out on our way again in the gathering dusk of Monday evening. There was a long hold-up waiting for a convoy to get clear of the pontoon bridge before we could cross the River Main, but once on our way, we made good speed. In less than an hour, we were driving through the ruins and desolation of the fine German city that had once been Frankfurt am Main. What a sin and shame that any so-called civilised nation should allow its cities and people to be so degraded. On a much larger scale, it was Giessen and Hanau over again, although one could spot an occasional building that had enough of it left standing to make it at least partly habitable. The extent of the damage, once again, would have to be seen to be believed but to give some idea, I would say that if one were to take a pocket handkerchief, and black out (say) a piece the size of a penny in the middle, that might represent the bomb damage to a city of comparable size in England (take Sheffield as a fair example); in Frankfurt, the piece the size of a penny could stand for the
undamaged
portion, and there you have the difference. It is no disparagement to the suffering that was Sheffield’s, but a compliment to the might of Allied bombers. How the Frankfurters stuck it is beyond comprehension – to me it was wicked and sinful. I got tired of looking at it as we drove through the streets, but it was war.
There was a strong impression as we left the city that our destination was to be Oberursel, that pleasant little spot on the side of the hill that had some memories for we original five, and a great many more for those among the party who had been detained there at the time that the place functioned as Dulag Luft. Our five, incidentally, were now four, as Diffy had at last fallen victim to one of his head wounds, which had been slower than the rest in healing. The wound had finally, no doubt on account of the limitations of our diet and the lack of rest, festered and turned septic. He had retired into hospital at Hanau, along with our Wing Commander, who was reported to have influenza. We never saw either of them again. Our senior officer was now Jack’s friend, Flight lieutenant Jarman. As the party was now really getting short of officers, it more or less fell to any of the few of us who remained to lend a hand where any organisation was required.
It was Oberursel alright, which was now, of course, in American hands. It was being used as a POW cage for the ever increasing inrush of German prisoners. We were subjected to a brief interrogation, and by and large, I doubt if they really wanted to see us. Whilst they offered us all they had during our stay of twenty-four hours, which included plenty of good food but no beds, I think they were quite glad to see us leave at about 8 p.m. the following evening. They had only been in the place themselves a couple of days, and
badly wanted time to get organised without being bothered with such out-of-the-ordinary influxes as was represented by a party of some fifty-odd liberated POWs. Whilst we were here, Jarman got things cracking to the extent of drawing up a nominal roll of the party, an item which to my mind had been sadly lacking up to now (for with it I reckon I could have traced my friend Guy and perhaps been able to let his parents have a little information, if he was still listed as missing). Although the American Commander said that our next-of-kin would now be notified that we were safe, we thought it quite unlikely that any word would get through before we took it back ourselves.
The next stage of the journey was to be to a place called Stennay on the Meuse in France, which sounded an awful long way from the war and a whole lot nearer home. There were only two trucks to take fifty-eight of us, and we rode in the most fiendish discomfort for eighteen hours, with a halt for breakfast for a bare half hour in Trier. It wasn’t really anybody’s fault that for some reason or other Jack Evans got left behind at Oberursel, because a careful count when the trucks were loaded revealed the precise number that there should be. It was not until the following day that we found we had picked up another stray prisoner, who had been drafted on to our party at the last moment from an unknown source. What happened to Jack, is again unknown, and our little
party of five was now down again to Jack Acheson, Arthur and myself, and we once more found ourselves drifting together.
Yes, it was a nightmare trip, but we were going home and that was all that mattered. Tired, stiff and weary, we climbed out of those wagons at yet another POW cage at Stennay. Once more, the people in charge were not expecting us, though they made every possible endeavour to secure our comfort during our brief stay there. For the first time since we joined forces with the Americans, the thirteen officers in the party found, thanks to the organisation of Flight Lieutenant Jarman, that we could enjoy the facilities of the Officers’ Mess. The food that was served to us there was really tip-top. Throughout the whole of the journey back, I have nothing but the most unstinted praise to offer to the Americans and the manner in which they left no stone unturned to ensure that everything they had to offer (and it was not always very much) was ours for the time that we needed it.
We had our first night’s sleep on a bed to ourselves that night. We awoke refreshed and eager to press on to dear old Blighty. An, extra truck was laid on, and we were told that the trip to Paris would be made under the auspices of their best and most experienced drivers, in a matter of six hours. As the distance was 200 miles, and it had taken us eighteen hours to travel 300 miles the night before, we were inclined to doubt this
information. However, we had reckoned without the quality of the French roads, and the fact that traffic on them was practically non-existent. We tore along at breakneck speed, praying that we had not come through so much and covered all this distance only to finish up in a French ditch. But these drivers knew their job, and with a brief stay for lunch by the wayside, we finally drew into busy unbombed Paris at about 4 p.m., on a beautiful sunny afternoon, three weeks almost to the hour since we had left our aircraft, in such unceremonious fashion. It was, we reflected, a very easy matter to get into Germany, but getting out again had been the very devil of a job!
Paris was all bustle, and compared with the broken cities of the Reich, was full of gaeity and happiness, although we knew that beneath the surface there was a long tale of bitter suffering. Moreover, the people were by no means blessed, even now, when it came to the question of food. We had little time for all this, however, as our transport whisked us round to all the places that it seemed necessary for us to visit. A complete separation was made of Americans from British, and then of officers from other ranks. Thus we said goodbye to all our friends, Arthur included. There were now five of us, Jarman, Jack and myself, and Flying Officers Denis Wathieu, (a Belgian serving with the RAF) and Johnny Cranston, left to uphold the ranks of the British officers and return to England alone.
I had every reason to believe that we got there before anybody else – the first batch, almost, I should think of prisoners liberated by the advance of allied armies from the west (as distinct from the Russians from the east) to return to this country There certainly could not have been many in front of us, at any rate. We were incredibly fortunate – we were billeted in a luxury hotel, the Bedford, had the supreme joy of a really hot bath, a most sumptuous repast (we learnt that the food came from America) and were able to anticipate the thrill of going to bed between sheets.
Meanwhile, we had the pleasure to meet a Major Parr whilst having our meal. He, learning that we had no money, very graciously stood us drinks all round. This gesture was very much appreciated, as was that of the English airman, who earlier in the afternoon had lent us the necessary ten francs to enable us to buy a cup of tea at a NAAFI canteen. We knew that we looked terribly scruffy, and that officers were not allowed in NAAFI canteens, but nobody dared to tell us so, and we needed that cup of tea awfully badly!
