After travelling north from Rome, we arrived at a place called Latrina. Here, in a huge quarry, the ever methodical Germans were sorting their prisoners into some kind of order – Indians in one group, Americans in another, and British in a third one. I was just about to assist them in their sorting exercise by moving towards the British group when I was stopped in my tracks: some bright specimen of a German officer had decided to put the “Irish Troops”, as he called them, into a separate group and so prisoners from the Irish Guards, the Inniskillings, the Irish Fusiliers and, of course, the London Irish were herded together and led to another part of the quarry where there was some bunks.
The German guards issued us with a blanket each and we settled down to try to get some sleep – but conditions were not good as these bunks were in the open, with nothing in the way of a roof overhead!! About ten o’clock that same night, a guard came and told us that we would be en-training the next day for a prison camp in Germany. He also told us to be ready early as they would be dishing out some tea for breakfast. Tea! What welcome news! I didn’t need telling twice about getting up early, because when I was first captured my foremost thought had been that I’d probably never have another cup of tea for the duration as I knew that the Germans drank coffee – and here we were being offered tea for breakfast! I realised that it would almost certainly be without milk and sugar but never mind. I could live without those as long as I had a taste of real “Rosie Lee” first thing in the morning.
When morning came, lo and behold tea was being served but, to my immense disappointment, it wasn’t the real thing at all. It was green – some sort of mint tea, made from mint leaves. I have never felt so let down – so mad! Disappointment wasn’t the word. After this upsetting experience and in very low spirits because of it, we had to prepare for our long journey, which commenced by us being marched down to some railway sidings. There, having become separated from my comrades, I now found myself the only Rifleman with about seventeen other “Irish Troops” and being put into a good truck along with bales of straw and an empty forty gallon oil-drum. The straw was for bedding and the oil-drum was for toilet purposes. After being counted and then counted again and again – at least ten times – we were finally locked in and our rail journey began.
We had been travelling for about two hours when the train halted. The doors of the truck were unlocked and flung over. Confronting us were eight or nine Germans, all hollering and shouting. We were ordered out and searched. One of the Irish Guards in our truck had got hold of a bread knife and had tried to saw through the flooring and his efforts had been heard by a guard, who was apparently sitting on top of the truck. To render useless any further escape attempt, the officer in charge of the train ordered us to remove our trousers and then we were told to get back on board.
Once again, we were securely locked in and our journey re-commenced. Being very tired and fed up, I got some dry straw, put it into a corner and went to sleep. How long we travelled for, no one could fathom. We completely lost track of time. The oil drum fell over several times and the straw was now wet. Everyone’s spirits were at a very low ebb. Several times, the train stopped and when we heard truck doors banging and voices, both English and German, we thought that we were due for a temporary release but nothing happened: our doors remained firmly locked. We were not to know at the time but our truck had writing on one side denoting that its occupants were dangerous and were not to be let out. Every time the train stopped, these instructions were clearly on view.
The dreadful journey seemed endless. It must have lasted two days or more. Eventually, we were conscious of the train pulling into a station and stopping. At last, our doors were opened. After a few moments, shouting broke out. We had heard enough shouting before when we locked in and now that there was a chance of getting out, there was more shouting and it sounded even angrier this time.
On the platform before us stood what we took to be a German, who was in a state of complete fury. Some German soldiers responded to his commands by helping us out of the truck. We were in a bad state – stiff and very weak as we had not had anything to eat during all this time. They led us to some platform seats and sat us down and the officer brought some Red Cross nurses to us who gave us some really excellent chicken broth. It was smashing and very welcome. We could feel a bit of life coming back into us.
The officer in charge of the train was summoned to appear before the officer on the platform. The latter, still in a state of fury, bellowed and shouted again – this time at the other officer. So violent was his tirade that at one stage I thought he was going to strike his colleague. We watched in amazement and our amazement increased when he paused and suddenly calmed down. Turning to us, he said in perfect English, “I apologise to you on behalf of the Austrian people for this unwarranted treatment. We are not to blame for this.”
It turned out that we were at Innsbruck and that he was an Austrian doctor. It was then that we found out about the writing on our truck. Fortunately, when we pulled into Innsbruck, it had been with the other (blank) side facing the platform. The Austrian doctor had our now very insanitary truck replaced with a clean one. We were then loaded up again and we were once more on our way but now in much better form.
Eventually, journey’s end was reached. The doors were opened and the guards ordered us out. This time we stood, still trouser-less, shivering in snow! We did look a pretty sight. The guards brought us our trousers and dumped them on the ground. It was every man for himself. I snatched the first pair I laid hands on and, with my usual “luck”, found that I had landed myself with a pair that came up to my chin – they had belonged to an Irish Guardsman. However, the muddle was easily remedied and soon we were marching towards the prison camp. As we approached the gates, we were astonished to see prisoners inside playing football and other sports.
At the gate through which we entered stood a middle aged German Unter-Offizier, the tallest and thinnest man I have ever seen, who shouted out in English, “Ho, ho! They’ve captured St Patrick!”… “Come here,” he said pointing to me. He had noticed the piper’s badge on my sleeve. “Do you play the pipes?” he asked. I nodded. “Follow me,” he said. Not knowing what was coming next, I walked behind him. I later learned that this officer had been nicknamed “Slim” by the POW boys. The prison camp consisted of very long large huts and we entered one of these. It contained many two-tier bunk beds. Stopping beside one of them where a prisoner was lying down, “Slim” kicked the wooden side of the bed. “Where’s your pipes?” he said to this prisoner, who I later discovered was Pipe Major Neil of the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders, who had piped his battalion out of Tobruk when it fell.
The pipe major got up and handed me his pipes. “Sorry, Jock,” I said. “Don’t worry – it’s alright,” he reassured me. “Slim” led me away to a sunken road within the camp and signalled me to play. I blew up the pipers and, as I tuned them up, I was surprised at their excellent condition. “Good,” said “Slim”… “Can you play the ‘Bearing of the Grin’, ‘The Minsiterial Boy’ or the ‘Peeler’s Goat’?”….”Yes”, I said.
I later learned that that he had gained what English he had in 1914-18 when he himself had been a prisoner war. He had been incarcerated in Ireland, near the Curragh and it was here that he had discovered Irish music. Up I blew – and played for him the many Irish tunes he requested. He listened intently and, with increasing pleasure, bordering on delight! As he listened, he tapped his feet in time to the music and nodded his head, which caused his helmet to wobble something awful. The recital went on for twenty minutes or so and then we returned to the hut to give the pipes back, with thanks to Pipe Major Neil.
My mind was very much on food and, after leaving the hut, “Slim” took me to where the rest of the new intake of prisoners were standing in a queue. “Right,” he said, “You can go first.” He seemed to have enjoyed the playing and I thought he was rewarding me by placing me at the head of a line up for grub.
“My luck is changing”, I thought. But I was wrong. From my viewpoint, at the front of the queue, I could see a medical orderly coming to the end of a session of inoculating some black Americans and I saw that the German method was not to inoculate into the arm but into the chest with a large needle. It was soon my turn and, bang, in went the needle! The orderly pushed it so hard that it hit a bone. The force he exerted pushed me over and down I went on the floor. The men behind me laughed. “Blimey, George has fainted,” one said. I was not the only one to hit the deck that day!
Next, we were taken to another building, told to undress and put our clothes in a bundle on the floor. A door opened and we were herded inside. Then, it was closed behind us and for some ten minutes, jets of hot water sprayed on us from about four pipes round the hut. Then, the hot water was turned off and replaced by warm air to dry us off. Afterwards, outside the hut, we found our clothes had been disinfected. We sorted them out and got dressed and then were led to yet another hut where, sitting round a table, was a team of interrogators. The first one asked the questions in English and then he appeared to translate the answers to his neighbour, who in turn spoke to his neighbour and so on until the replies reached the clerk at the table, who evidently wrote them down in German.
In my case, this method seemed to progress satisfactorily until I was asked what my civilian occupation had been. I told them I had worked on the railway as a van guard. The clerk at the end couldn’t find this word in his dictionary so back round the table came the question. “What are you talking about?” So I had to imitate a train by puffing and blowing. Something got written down on my interrogation sheet and I was dismissed. All this before getting anything to eat! I had been formally inducted into Stalag IVB at Muhlberg, between Leipzig and Dresden, where I spent the next eighteen months as prisoner of war – POW No 278823.
There was some compensations: Red Cross parcels came in from various parts of the world. We were issued with these once a fortnight – one parcel between nine of us – and so I didn’t have to wait until I got back to England to get a cup of tea. We even had milk in it – the Canadian parcels contained some powdered milk called “Klim”, which of course is milk spelt backwards. We also got a fairly good supply of German potatoes. Another bonus for me was, as I had mentioned previously, that one of the other prisoners was a German specialist – an eye specialist, who treated my injured eye with poultices of tea – an excellent remedy which effected a cure!”