18. THE CAMP LEADER
MY INITIAL ASSESSMENT WAS that there were about 2,000 of us interned at Warth Mill (1,837 as it turned out later). A collection of soya boilers in one of the halls represented our kitchen. There was a total of four – I repeat FOUR – cold water taps for washing ourselves, our laundry and kitchen utensils.
There were fifty toilet seats arranged in two rows. They faced each other and were separated by a long urinal. This ‘facility’ was located outside the factory and, since no one was supposed to leave the buildings after dark, guards were always on the verge of shooting a person trying to reach the toilets during the night.
Rations began to appear mysteriously, and we had to make arrangements for their preparation. We therefore formed a camp administration.
In the beginning the kitchen was manned by volunteers, but we later set up a labour office and detailed cleaning and cooking duties from a roster of all the internees.
I became the assistant to the Camp Leader, however he suffered a nervous breakdown almost immediately and I found myself running the camp. Our immediate concern, after getting the kitchen going, was to create a hospital. Somehow, we obtained a few beds, but we had no medicine, so we sent a message to the Commandant who immediately appeared on the scene.
His name was Major Braybrook and he was one of the most unpleasant Englishman I have ever encountered. He was a Military Police Corps officer who had lost an eye in the First World War and he had been a PoW in Germany. He hated all things German – and that certainly included us.
Major Braybrook had been commanding the camp for some time and before our arrival it had housed Italian internees. I discovered this when I was working in the document centre where I found tea chests filled with the Italians’ personal belongings, which had been confiscated, and placed in individual sealed envelopes bearing the owner’s name. Most of these envelopes however had been torn open and a collection of articles such as wristwatches, razors, prayer books, wallets and family photographs, were falling out all over the place.
‘The discipline in this camp,’ announced the Major ‘would be strict.’ To him we were PoWs and he wasn’t concerned with our past history. We had better not make any trouble, or there would be plenty of trouble for us.
There was no mention of the medical supplies we had requested and running that camp under such a Commandant was far from easy. Many suffered nervous breakdowns and there were attempted suicides, threats of a rebellion and hunger strikes to deal with.
Many of Braybrook’s officers however were on our side. The interpreter, Major Carstairs, did what he could for us, including obtaining some urgently needed drugs behind Braybrook’s back. For our own sakes, he begged us not to make any more complaints. I remember his reasoning to this day: ‘The man is a bloody sadist who revels in your sufferings.’
We managed to smuggle a telegram of protest to the International Red Cross and a representative of that organisation put in an appearance shortly afterwards. He walked all over the camp, accompanied, of course, by Braybrook and whilst we could tell that he was visibly shocked he told us there was really nothing he could do. We were not German PoWs and the British Government did not have to answer to the German Government for anything happening to us, even if that involved violations of PoW conventions. He could, he said, ‘Do no more than make unofficial recommendations.’
After the Red Cross man had left, and during a meeting of all internees, a hunger strike was proposed and almost started. I got onto a table and made my first public speech, with a Sergeant sent by Braybrook listening.
‘This,’ I told the gathering, ‘is not England. We are the victims of one man who is exploiting his temporary powers. Ways can and will be found to put things right. However, if we stage a hunger strike, it will be Braybrook who makes out the report and it will most certainly turn the authorities against us. We might not have an opportunity to state our case and we would run the risk of being regarded as a bunch of troublemakers.’ I went on to suggest we should wait until the right opportunity presented itself at which time we could raise our grievances. I must have made a certain amount of sense because the idea of a hunger strike was dropped.
One of the officers came to our aid by suggesting we write a letter of complaint to the War Office – which Braybrook, under Army regulations, had to grant – we did but the result of that complaint never became known.
We were then ordered to prepare a nominal roll of all internees, to be made up by age groups: 18-25 years, 26-35 years, 36-50 years, 51-60 years and those over 60. Meanwhile Braybrook had hit upon an idea that he thought would torture us. He called us together at regular intervals to tell us of the latest successes of the Allied Forces, thinking we would hate to hear of defeats inflicted upon the Germans. He was quite surprised at the applause that greeted each of his announcements.
When the list of internees was complete, the Commandant addressed us once again. ‘The War Office,’ he pronounced, ‘had ordered the camp to be dissolved. Some of you will be sent to Australia, some to Canada and some to the Isle of Man. Transport will be leaving, according to age groups, starting tomorrow’.
The implication of this arrangement, I realised at once, was that every family in the camp would be split up. As Camp Leader I raised this point immediately. ‘That,’ said the Major ‘would be too bad and those are my orders.’
There were some heart-breaking scenes as we left the camp. An old blind man begged Braybrook to be allowed to stay with his son who led him about. Refused! An invalid, tears streaming down his face, implored the Commandant to let him remain with his two sons. Refused!
I stood near two of Braybrook’s officers whilst this was going on. ‘The bastard,’ said one of them, ‘he’s lying about those War Office orders.’
Thank God this all ended well. There ensued the most colossal muddle in connection with the shipments to Australia and Canada. In the end, nobody went, but a lot of luggage did. It was far better to lose that than a father, or a son, and they all were reunited on the Isle of Man.
For some of us however our troubles did not cease immediately.
We were put on a train to Glasgow, transferred to buses and taken to a camp that was beautifully situated in the hills of Scotland, near Dunoon. Glenbranter had been a forestry camp in the grounds of a fine old country house belonging to Sir Harry Lauder, the Scottish comedian. My group reached the camp at 21.00 hours. We de-bussed and were ordered to fall into ranks of three. We remained standing there for well over an hour, in the pouring rain. Then the Commandant appeared with a group of officers, all well protected by raincoats.
He inspected us, a roll was called and finally, after another forty minutes, we were designated huts, which contained the usual boards and trestle beds with one blanket each and no mattress.
The interpreter, Captain Smith, addressed us the following morning and introduced the Commandant Major Dunne. Then came a familiar note. We were told to behave. There was a war on. We had been locked up for good reasons – and ‘for the duration.’ We would be alright if we kept the discipline.
We did ‘keep the discipline’ but we weren’t alright. The food was appalling. We were refused a canteen and for weeks we were denied the right to write letters, and there was no sight of any incoming mail.
We complained to the interpreter and were immediately ordered on parade.