Hardly able to see outside, it was a long time before we knew we were going in the obvious direction, westward. There was the usual waiting in sidings, even the guards did not know our final destination. This, the slow progress and the discomfort, must have made the journey seem much longer than it actually was, and as it got dark we moved into what appeared to be a huge marshalling yard. There was not enough room to lie down, so sleep was out of the question◦– even more so when anti-aircraft guns started firing and bombs could not only be heard but felt to be dropping not far away.
It was not long before the bombing intensified◦– we were in for a major raid. The doors were kept closed so no one could see if markers had been dropped or get any details whatsoever of what was going on. It was terrifying to sit there just waiting for a bomb to come through the truck roof or to be blasted away by a near miss. Being so cramped and securely detained added a fear of utter helplessness. No one spoke, we all knew what each other was expecting and just waited for it, and did not even think about food.
The bombing stopped, as it should have done in an RAF raid which went according to plan, almost as if it had been controlled by a switch. We, on the other hand, did not recover just like that and even if there had been enough room to lie down and sleep, it would have been impossible for some time. Thinking of the aircraft returning home after the raid, it occurred to me that Lancasters from my squadron could well have been among them, which reminded me yet again of my hopeless position; in the hands of the enemy, entirely at their mercy. Our boys, if they were lucky enough to get home safely, would have a good meal of bacon and egg waiting for them after de-briefing, and a good bed. Then the following evening, if they had been stood down from operations, they would be off to the pubs and cinemas of Grimsby followed by a fish and chip supper. It was painful to think about; but then the other possibility came into my mind: perhaps they would not get back safely and perhaps they would not be as lucky as I had been.
Early next morning we moved off again, and later that day arrived at our destination, Stalag 357, close to the small town of Follingbostel, thirty miles from Hanover, on the windswept plains of north-western Germany.
Stalag 357 was part of a large complex of camps based around the German barracks on the outskirts of Fallingbostel. I don’t think it was newly built, but it could only have been partly occupied before our arrival. The combine I was with in Poland managed to get into a hut together, so we soon settled in. All the huts were very similar if not identical; the threatening Posten boxes were there, occupied by two guards, leaning on their machine guns ready to mow down anyone attempting to fight their way out through the wire, and the hopeless atmosphere that all prison camps have was certainly there. The swede soup would still only be eaten by starving men and we consumed it just as greedily. The one seventh of a loaf of black bread went no further to satisfy our needs, so things were much the same except our lifeline, the Red Cross food parcel supply, became more and more sparse. This was not because they were not despatched, but because of the damage being inflicted on the internal transport system by the Allied air forces, even the Commandant admitted this. A case of good news bringing bad news.
As the winter began to take over, the lack of the Red Cross parcels really began to show: people got even thinner and the ones who were normally just a little bit tubbier showed it most. Very few continued to walk the circuit, and no football games were played. Apart from roll call, when attendance was never excused, and perhaps a very quick wash, most of the day was spent lying in the bunks trying to keep warm.
The war news was good in France, with rapid progress being made, and on the Russian front, but in Belgium, in our direction, there always seemed to be holdups or even reversals. It seemed we would die of starvation long before liberation.
It began to seem that escape was our only chance of survival; dangerous thinking but it did seem that we were approaching a time when it would be a case of doing something or dying. A member of our combine had previously noticed that a small toilet block was unusually close to the wire and had often seriously discussed the chances of concealing oneself in the building until after dark, and then it would only be a short crawl to the wire, and as the soil was soft and sandy tunnelling under and out should not be difficult. This did not appeal to me at all, for one thing I had not forgotten two prisoners being shot dead attempting something similar at Stalag Luft VI. Also, no help would be forthcoming from the Escape Committee as it was already discouraged, if not totally forbidden by the powers that be, after D Day.
Despite this, the escape plan was given more thought, and we started to discuss the finer details. We would have to get some help from the Escape Committee and were about to approach them when a terrible thing happened. It was some time in the late evening when we heard two or three shots fired in the distance. No prisoners were allowed out after dark, so all we could do was hope that it was nothing serious, but it was.
Next morning at roll call it was announced that two prisoners had been shot dead while attempting to escape, but no further details were given. Later on, from other prisoners, we learned that it was at the exact spot where we were considering the possibilities of getting out. We were shocked to say the least but could not resist going to have a look where it had happened, and there we came across a terrible scene. There was blood and bits of flesh everywhere, which to some who claimed to know, proved that they were shot at very close range, not while running away, and they were certainly inside the wire. The whole incident was very sad and very shocking but when in the hands of such an enemy, there is no justice.
The winter of 1944-45 was the longest, coldest and by far the most miserable time of my life. Christmas Day brought no cheer, in fact it made things a lot worse by reminding everyone of what we were missing. We still got the BBC news but it gave no cheer, reporting the setbacks in the Ardennes area of Belgium, for what seemed an age. But then came news of that wonderful and courageous operation by the Paras, when they captured the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem, and it raised morale beyond belief◦– it seemed that liberation was imminent. The main force, however, was not able to battle their way up to them, and the Paras had to surrender their gain after a fierce battle, so it was back to doom, gloom and helplessness.
A few days later we got some idea of what the Paras had been through in capturing the bridge. Having been taken POW, those considered fit enough to walk were brought into our camp; they all looked pitiful. They were all very dirty of course, but there did not seem to be one who was not wounded in some way, and on top of this, they had come at a time when we had nothing to give them, either in food or medical help. They were kept together in a distant part of the camp, so we did not have much contact with them. Dixie Deans, our Camp Leader, would have done all that he was able to in order to make them as comfortable as possible and none of us would have begrudged it if he could have found just a few Red Cross parcels from somewhere to help them in their plight.
As the better weather came, so too did news of the war improving. People got weaker and thinner, but a light was appearing on the horizon. Our forces, the British Liberation Army, were actually on German soil and continuing to move towards us. We began to ask, ‘How long will it be now?’ The Germans have nowhere to move us to, we thought wrongly.