We also got to know about the Russian advances.
It was decided that when the time of liberation eventually came, it would be wiser to keep a low profile and not take any part in case the Russians got us confused with the Germans. Lectures were always being arranged to help us pass the time. One that will always remain in my mind was that given by a Palestinian PoW, who had been a university history lecturer in civilian life on the subject of the Russian advance towards Germany. He told us that the Russians had tanks that went a hundred miles non-stop in a day, clearing everything in their way. They then stopped and waited for their infantry to catch them up, then off they went to advance another hundred miles. He went on to forecast the dates key towns would fall to the Germans over the coming weeks and went so far as to state that our camp would be liberated at 11am on 3 May 1945. We were extremely impressed.
Our grave-vine kept us informed of the fall of the towns he had mentioned and, time and time again, he was proved right. The Russians were certainly working to his timetable. Came the date he had forecast for our liberation and you would have cut the atmosphere of expectation with a knife. We were all up early but could hear nothing. If the Russians were advancing towards us, they were being very quiet about it. Was our release imminent? Yes, indeed it was!
On the very day that the lecturer had forecast, one of the boys came into our hut and said, “They have arrived!” “What, Red Cross parcels?” said Robin Hood. “No, the Russkies,” said that chap. We immediately went out to see what was going on. Our first sight of the Russians was some soldiers on carthorses. The account of this moment in the British press, which I was able to read at a later date, stated that the PoW of Stalag IVB were liberated by Cossacks, giving the impression of a mounted troop dashing in to the rescue! Some Cossacks! What we saw were a few soldiers mounted (for some reason) on what looked like coal-cart horses. The next thing was that the gates of the Russian compound were opened and out came the Russian PoW, marching in triumph with flags and standards and a full military band! We were dumbfounded. How they had hidden all this equipment, no one could tell.
The lecturer had been spot on. But Robin Hood went up to him and said, “You were wrong! They came in at 1115. You said that out would be eleven o’clock.”…”Robin,” the chap replied, “if brains were gunpowder, you wouldn’t have enough to light a fag!”
The Russians arrived at Stalag IVb at 1115am on 3 May 1945. At first, there was chaos and confusion with everybody running here and there and going back to the huts with various bits and pieces of news. We were then advised to keep a low profile in case the Russians proved to be trigger happy. It was feared that they might not be able to tell the difference between the PoW and the German guards. However, it became clear that we had at last been released from German custody – and it was a funny feeling, hard to come to terms with.
Nevertheless, after a while, we ventured out from our huts and, hearing a lot of noise coming from the direction of the football pitch, we went out to find out what was going on. An almost unbelievable sight met our eyes. Some German guards, stripped of their uniforms, had been literally harnessed to the latrine vehicle. – a big tanker generally pulled by oxen. On the driving seat sat a Russian soldier, holding the reins and brandishing a whip and making the hapless German gallop round and round the pitch!
After watching this “fun”, which we did with ever increasing incredulity, we went back to our huts, where we found that some of the men had been to the German Commandant’s office and taken as souvenirs some of the papers and photographs relating to their own capture. At once, we decided to do likewise and made our way toward the self-same office with a view to “liberating” our own papers but, by this time, the Russians had mounted a guard on the premises and so that was that. We were a bit disappointed but this feeling soon evaporated when we got back and found that, although they did not intend to let us have our records, the Russians had released Red Cross parcels to every hut. We had a “Freedom Feast” there and then!
In our hut, we had some Americans, who had been captured during the Battle of the Bulge. They were very young and not world-wise enough to be patient like the rest of us. They decided that they weren’t going to be confined and so off they went to explore the town, returning two hours later laden with cigarettes etc, plus all sorts of crazy items of loot. We were not interested in doing anything like that – we just wanted to hang around and be ready for any orders that would lead to us getting out of the place permanently and on our way home as soon as possible.
We couldn’t concentrate on anything else and we thought that it would only be a matter of hours before our liberation took place. Tired of keeping such a concentration of hope, even our patience wore thin and we decided to follow the example of the Americans, with the exception that we did not intend to load ourselves up with a lot of stuff. And so, after an early meal, off we went to explore the town. As we went out, we saw that the flags of all the allies had been put up over the main gates including a large Italian flag, which somebody told us was the fifth Italian flag to be hoisted, the previous ones having been torn down. We enjoyed the thrill of being able to walk out of those gates!
At a leisurely pace, we continued on our way into the town. What was it going to be like in post-war Britain, we wondered. Our conversation during our walk consisted largely of putting that post-war Britain to rights.
We came to the railway bridge and, as we crossed it, we were so deep in discussion that we hardly noticed the Russian guard but just as I was passing him, he hailed me in a cockney sounding voice. “Hello there, townie”, he said. I stopped and looked back in amazement. “How come you speak English?” I said, “and with a cockney accent, too?” He laughed, “I have been in England often,” he replied, ”because I was on the Russian timber boats that used to sail to and from the Surrey Commercial Docks – and many was a good time I’ve had in London!” “But if you were a sailor, how is it that you are in the army?” was my next question. He explained that whilst on shore leave, he and everyone in the port at that time and who were aged sixteen to sixty had been press-ganged into the army.
Of course, we stayed there reminiscing with him for some time but, before leaving, we asked him to write a note in Russian to the effect that we wanted tobacco and food. We thought that this would come in useful for us. He smiled at our request and told us that few Russians could read and write but he happily did what we asked. We thanked him and continued on our way but we were to meet him again within a few days and have a meal with him. His note, however, didn’t do us much good: we were unable to obtain by means of it any of the little luxuries that we had envisaged.
We made our way to the railway station and, on route, we came across some fellow PoW, who said that they had found a place where you get what passed for beer in Germany but this did not sound very attractive. We reached the station, which was guarded by the Russians and decided to try our luck with the Russian note but in the end it proved a forlorn hope that we were going to get any foodstuffs or tobacco. Entering the main booking hall, we showed the sentry the note. To our dismay, it looked at it as though it was quite unintelligible and then he fired his rifle into the ceiling to summon the guard commander. With equal bewilderment, he studied our note and then took us out to some railway trucks. When he opened the doors, we could see that the trucks were laden with German uniforms, clothing and equipment – certainly nothing that we wanted and nothing in the way of food. We thanked him as best we could and set off back to the camp in order to console ourselves in the usual way with a brew-up. “So much for the Russian chitty”, we thought as we regretfully dumped it.
On the way out of the station, we saw a large crowd of women – about two or three hundred of them – marching down the hill, singing and shouting at the top of their voices. They all seemed to have reddish hair and were tattooed on their arms. It turns out that they were Hungarian slave workers who had just been liberated from a munitions factory and the colour of their hair was due to have been working with cordite.
On arrival back at the camp, we found a lot of activity going on. Some very large American troop-carrying trucks had come in and were lined up, ready and waiting. There were at least fifty or sixty of them and they were all being loaded with the PoW. Off we went – back to our hut to gather up our things and in next to no time, we were out there standing in the queue for “the bus home” but, as we awaited our turn to board a vehicle, an American top sergeant came along and said, “No British troops – only Americans.”
We asked why, but got no reply. “Typical!”, said a sergeant of the Royal Berkshires. “We have shared our Red Cross parcels, food, everything, with them and they treat us like this!” We didn’t give in that easily and approached an American officer to ask why we were being left behind. His answer was that every nation was to be responsible for its own troops. Some time later, the convoy pulled out and we noticed that the Americans had some German women with them. They waved to us and we saluted them in reply but the way we felt, I’m afraid that our acknowledgements consisted of raspberries and Churchill’s V-sign in reverse. After they had gone, we had nothing else to do but return to the hut for our usual consolation – a brew up. We discussed the situation, put the matter to the vote and decided that the best thing would be to stay put and await developments.
The following day, we were told that arrangements had been made for our return home but the hours went by and nothing happened. Some of the men couldn’t stand it any longer. They said they had waited long enough and were going to make their own way home – so off they went. Another day dragged by. The next day, our cockney Russian friend took us to his canteen for a good meal. If we saw anything in the shops in the town, he said that we should just take it! We thanked him for the meal and his advice. However, we knew that the last thing we were going to do was that. Having been released after such a long time as prisoners, we certainly did not want to be put behind bars for looting.
Our leisurely stroll back to camp was suddenly interrupted by a sergeant major’s barked instruction to get back at the double, as arrangements for departure had been made. “How many times have we heard this before?” was our reaction. But, nevertheless, we quickened our pace back to the camp where the men had formed up in groups and obviously ready to go. Someone told us to be quick as we would be moving out shortly. Once again, we got our things together and out we came to join the throng. A newly-arrived Second Lieutenant, who looked all of nineteen years of age, was issuing peremptory orders to get fallen in – and to hurry, or he would “put us on a charge!”
“Where did he come from?” someone asked. “His Mummy sent him”, was the prompt reply of some wag! We received no information whatsoever and no trucks arrived to take us home. Eventually, we were given marching orders and we marched out of the camp. This was not like we imagined it would be – but, at least, so we thought, we are marching to freedom. We crossed the River Elbe and, when we arrived at our destination, it was to find ourselves in prison again. – this time, a civilian prisoner guarded by Russian troops.
We learned that we were in official Russian territory, the river being the Yalta Agreement boundary in the division of Germany between the allies. So we had been taken from American to Russian territory – from one prison to another, from being guarded by Germans to being guarded by Russians. We were all keen to have another chance of seeing “Mummy’s boy”, but we certainly were not going to salute him! However, we never saw him again.
At this new location, there was a building inside which everything seemed to be a shambles – no organisation whatsoever. In disgust, I walked out through a gate leading to a compound where there were a few huts for workmen. Inside one of these, I found some other PoW and so, claiming a place, I put a few belongings down and then went to ascertain what was going on. One of the PoW that I met was a South African sergeant. “It looks as if we shall have to fend for ourselves,” he said, “we shall ourselves have to decide what to do.”
There were about twelve of us in our particular hut and, for the present, all we could do was just sit and wait. A couple of hours later, some soup was to be had and also some black bread. The next morning, we decided to go scrounging and, as the South African could speak and understand German, he said that he would be the spokesman and so, leaving one group to guard our hut and our few belongings, we split in fours and ventured forth. This proved to be a good idea: we fared ok for food and, therefore, we decided to keep to this foraging routine as, by the standards then applying, we considered we were living comfortably. This way of life went on for some time during the lengthening days of May.
Then, there was some sort of new development, which came to nothing, however. The Russians erected some tables and found some women soldiers who could write, this being an attempt to record all our details. A whole day was devoted (I should say “wasted”) in carrying out this work and the end result was that only about fifty names had been taken. It was such a disaster that the Russians soon called a halt. The next thing was that they decided they would have a band to “play us away”. All the instruments provided must have come from a museum. The Sousaphone was one of the first ever made: its horn pointed up into the air. There was a deterioration in the weather and the Sousaphone proved to be an ideal receptacle in which to catch the falling rain!
We were given to understand that we could leave as soon as the band could play “Tipperary” and so, once this was achieved, off we went to the station. “Hooray – a train!” was our first reaction but then we realised that we were not going to experience any luxury, the usual goods truck being the order of the day. We were all set to go when “Robin Hood”, the Sherwood Forester, decided to visit the toilet. Off he went – and off we went! We never saw Robin again.
Eventually, we arrived at an airstrip. There were some bombers – Halifaxes, I think they were. After getting aboard, we were told that in order to get the tail lifted we would have to go to the front, near the pilot, as we were weighing it down at the back but at last we took off. We were on our way!
Our destination was Brussels and, from our observation during the flight, it seemed to us that there was not a single building with a roof on all the way there. On arrival at Brussels, we were issued with new uniforms to smarten up a bit and we boarded a plane for the final part of our journey. By then it was 27 May 1945. The Russians had entered Stalag IVB on 3 May and, during all that time, we had been drifting around looking forward to this moment.
The long wait had been equally trying for my wife, Rose, because nearly all other PoW had come home. We were among the last.
When I arrived at my house, Rose greeted me – “Where have you been?” she asked.