As the excitement died away so too the temporary improvement in my health and, feeling dreadful again, I was glad to return to my bunk. Had I suffered an illusion? I thought, after only a short time. Was it something that happened with dysentery? Thankfully, I fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep, which lasted until quite a reasonable time the next morning, when I awoke feeling a bit better. One good thing about my illness was the craving for food was almost gone, and, although liberation was eagerly awaited, getting better was perhaps my priority.
It was around mid-morning, on April 16, 1945, as far as I can ascertain, when a great cheer rang out throughout the compound. At the time I was in the hut on my own, so I could not ask what it was all about. Quickly though, two of the original escapees rushed in shouting, ‘They are here. They are here.’
My health had improved further so I was able to react to this almost unbelievable news by getting up quite quickly, and, with a bit of urging from the boys, was able to hurry down to the main gate. Sure enough, there stood an armoured car, with its occupants unable to get out because of a cheering crowd surrounding it. When they eventually managed to disembark, our liberators were able to identify themselves as members of the Royal Irish Hussars, part of the 7th Armoured Division.
Soon after, other armoured vehicles of the same Regiment arrived, and there was a great deal of handshaking and backslapping. Gifts of food, cigarettes and chocolate bars were gratefully received, and the atmosphere of our prison was completely changed from misery and despair to one of hope and happiness within minutes. The way we were liberated was completely different to what I had visualised. Everything seemed so organised. The soldiers looked clean and, apart from their tin helmets and a varied assortment of arms at the ready, could well have been fresh from the barrack square. None were seen to be marching, there were vehicles of every description making up this highly mechanised spearhead.
Two soldiers of a Scottish regiment proudly pulled back the canvas cover of their 5cwt utility vehicle to show me inside. It was immaculate, with everything neatly stowed away and in pride of place, properly hung on hangers, were their full ceremonial dress uniforms.
There was not a lot of the sound of warfare that I was expecting to hear, except of course for the artillery barrage, only gunfire was in short bursts coming from many different directions, and not from a concentrated front all moving together, and that’s how it continued for some days.
By the end of Liberation Day, I was feeling much better in health and the feeling of being free was really indescribable, but I could not instantly take food for granted. A soldier had given me a tin of corned beef that morning, we had also been assured by the Army that each man would be receiving the normal rations from tomorrow onwards, but even so, I carefully measured and ate one quarter of the meat, saving the rest just in case I awoke from a teasing dream.
The next morning we were asked, not ordered, to attend a meeting down by the main gates, where an Army officer introduced himself, saying it was his job to attend to our welfare. Then he started with a very serious warning about the uncertainty of the military situation around the camp. Explaining that while he could well understand that we would have a great urge to get out from behind the wire, he strongly advised that we be patient for a little longer because there was still strong enemy resistance close by. Only the road was known to be clear, but even that could come under fire at any moment.
This advice was followed for a few days. I think we were all quite content to gloat over the exciting rations that had already been delivered as promised, and just look out from the main gate at the terrific amount of military traffic that flowed past.
Once the sounds of warfare had moved further away, someone said it would be nice to have a fresh egg as well as the daily food ration. A farm could be seen across a valley about a quarter of a mile away, not the one the tank had attacked, so four or five of us thought it must now be quite safe to venture out to see what we could persuade the farmer to part with.
We found only women in the farmhouse and had to reassure them that we had only come to ask for eggs. We must have been a ragged looking lot but they produced around half a dozen eggs, and then we were off. As we were climbing the slope, back towards the camp, the noise of some movement was heard. We could only guess that it came from within a group of small trees just to our left, and then eight or nine German troops came out from the trees just below us. Our surprise was quickly outweighed by fear; we were like sitting ducks, completely unarmed and outnumbered. Whatever any of us had been taught, in our early days of training about fieldcraft, would have been forgotten, so it must have been just natural to drop to the ground and remain perfectly still, hoping that we had not been seen.
It seemed like ages, crouched there hardly daring to breathe, when another group emerged; this time British soldiers, armed with all sorts of automatic weapons covering the Germans in front of them. The Germans were prisoners who had just been taken. Momentarily, and rather stupidly, we thought we were in the clear, but how would our soldiers know we were not another group of the enemy? We certainly did not look like RAF personnel. Should we remain as we were, hoping that we would not be noticed? Wisely, one of us stood up with both hands in the air shouting, ‘RAF prisoners of war.’ The soldiers brought their prisoners to a halt and swung their weapons to cover him, then, carefully, we all stood up, holding our breath, waiting to see if we were going to be accepted or shot down.
Eventually they lowered their weapons, and only then did we slowly walk over to them. We felt very embarrassed at our stupidity, but any apologies were brushed aside and while two or three of the soldiers kept an eye on the prisoners, we were feted and showered with chocolate and cigarettes. Then, for me, came yet another fright. I had been talking to a corporal about being a POW, telling him about the hardest bits, when he suddenly pulled the sling of a Tommy gun he was armed with over his head and tossed the weapon over to me, saying what he thought about all Germans. Then, quite seriously, he said, ‘Bump this lot off.’ As I started to protest he went on to say, ‘Go on, it’s alright, nobody knows we have them.’
First there was the shock of how hot the gun was, then came the weight of it, but just the thought of killing these wretched young Germans with it, in cold blood, really made me feel sick. It was an unlawful execution, and I had no stomach for that. I knew instantly that I would sooner kill myself; I could not pass that gun back fast enough. Looking back, I like to think the corporal was joking, but I am still not sure. If I had done what we were all strongly advised, and stopped in the camp, the situation would not have arisen.
It had been agreed long before that if we were liberated, those who had been in captivity the longest should be the first to go back to Great Britain. As a comparatively new POW that put me well down the list. Now that liberation had come, we had been told apologetically that the process of getting us out of the war zone could be a lengthy one, as the roads were in a poor condition and advancing columns must have priority. This did not seem to be a great disappointment to anyone. We now had plenty of food, were released from the possibility of mass execution, the Army were doing more than we expected to make us comfortable, the weather was fine and, although all letters still had to be censored, we could write home.