Bill Clark's War, 7 of 8 Chapters, He was Captured 4, Released 1, Escaped 3

As the war situation was moving to a close and the Allies seemed to move faster than the Russians, the Germans had to put us on the road again en route to Berlin. What would we do there, even they didn’t know. So, there we were again, early morning, collecting rations, attending to what footwear we had, making sure we had salt and matches. These two items were invaluable when on the loose in Italy. It was now February 1945.

The column of prisoners was about ½ a mile length and five deep, and when we were allowed to stop whistles were blown and the guards would make us sit on the roadside. Their dogs were ferocious, like mastiffs, with a terrible set of teeth. Our rate of progress was about fifteen — twenty miles a day. On one occasion when passing a cemetery, the guards were told “Guten Deutches”. Our humour was not appreciated. Each night we would be put in a barn, but although the guards tried to make an effort, rations were not always forthcoming. Morale got very low, and after several weeks of this, it became apparent that all the guards were not present. They were deserting in appreciable numbers.

It was then that I was unintentionally paired up with another South African white (Boer). How I came to be mixed up with these chaps I’ll never know. They were rugged individuals with one track minds, that no-one was more important than they. It was while with him that we witnessed one of our fellows who on a rest break, had, like on other various occasions, sat near a potato clamp and started digging with his hands, behind his back, to get some spuds. The guard with his dog appeared not to notice, but one word to the dog and that fellows hand was torn to shreds. The guard laughed like mad and we pleaded with him to call the dog off. Eventually when the prisoner was free, his hand was pouring with blood and with a filthy torn up shirt to wrap round his hand, that chap had to travel with us on that journey. There was no medical aid available.

We were travelling through what we understood to be the Black Forest. Wide tracks were made through it, and the occasional village, although the occupants did not show themselves very often. March 1945. It was while on this part of the route that my South African companion and I decided to have a go at escaping.

The drill, while on the road, was to put up your hand and shout to be excused for toilet purposes, and the guard would O.K. it. Having acquired a reasonably tough stick (to assist us lame ducks with our walking), we fell out of the column on the toilet pretence and gradually disappeared into the forest.

Escaped!

We had covered about a mile when, to our dismay, one of the dogs was tearing after us. It was a terrifying time. The pine forests are planted with the usual German precision, in perfect rows, so that it it’s possible to look down a row a few hundred yards. This dog came bounding up and my partner and I waited with our sticks and belted it continuously — long after it was dead - to make sure.

That event stayed with me for two to three years in the way of nightmares. Our minds were still on that fellow’s hand and we knew what the dogs could do.

After that episode we continued putting miles between us and the column, gradually making our way west as the sun was sinking — the only compass bearing we had. It was on this run that I learned a lot about the countryside. That evening, just as the mist was rising and the darkness was falling, we dug a small hole and lit a fire, knowing that the smoke would mingle with the haze. To our alarm, the barking of dogs was heard. Out went the fire and we stood wondering what direction they would come from. After several minutes’ things quietened down and on looking down the rows of pines we saw heads popping around the trunks, and then popping back when our heads appeared. It was the deer, they were as curious as we were, and then we discovered that they bark like dogs — what a relief.

But nature hadn’t finished with us yet. We found the ground was dry so decided to bed down. We were tired and exhausted, but sleep just was not to be just yet, soon, we heard what must be rifle fire. The bangs were very close and although we looked in all directions no one was around. For a minute or two the bangs would stop, and then there would be a dozen together.

At first we didn’t know what to make of it. The fact that we were in a nervous state probably maximised the situation, but the fact was the huge cones of the pine forest were contracting after the warmth of the day and the noise they made was incredible. We were to find out that in the mornings the effect was the same.

For the next few days we kept walking, keeping to the edge of the forest, not meeting a soul, but using the deer as they drank in the streams in the little valleys in the front, to let us know if anyone was about. Eventually we came to a break in the forest where it would go away to the east and our destination was west. So it was decision time. It often happened between P.O.W.s when a problem arose about direction. Always it was splitting up time, as no one wanted the responsibility of changing the opinion of his partner, only to find that his way had led to recapture.

It was while we made this decision that two German soldiers came upon us out of the blue and asked us what we were doing there. We told them, (fortunately I was wearing my Italian coat) replying in Italian, that I worked for the local farmer. They were satisfied and asked for cigarettes which we did not have. Anyway, they left us and went on their way. I was convinced they were deserters making their way home. So my South African partner and I parted company, we knew we were not far from the lines, so decided to be responsible for our own destiny, with no hard feelings.

I waited until dusk to cross these fields and open country and after several miles I came across a shed, similar to an allotment shed at home, so I decided I would stop in there. I had just settled down when I heard women’s voices outside shouting “Ello, Ello”. I was unable to see them through the darkness but explained that I was a ‘Kriegsgefangener’ (prisoner of war) and that I was ‘sehr hungry’ (very hungry): and ‘krank’(sick). They answered that the Gestapo were near and that if I stayed where I was, they would bring ‘Liebenshmittels’ (food). I told them O.K. and they went. I also ‘went’ I did not intend to wait until they returned. I travelled on through the night and rested in a wood when dawn came.

I travelled on my own during the whole of April ’45 and I cannot remember ever having a wet night. There was someone up there looking after me because I never got a cold and never suffered any ill- health.

I had several near shaves, a German soldier who had obviously been watching me from his house called and ran after me but I was not stopping and he gave up in the end. A ‘fraulein’ came past me on a cycle, she thought I was Italian, but she noticed my khaki battle dress underneath and cycled away as quickly as she could.

I knew I was getting close to the line as the gunfire was very regular now. Another ‘fraulein’ called out to me to stay at the farm, it was obvious that looking after an Englishman would go down well when the allies came, but I wasn’t having any. I came across two Italians working in the field and explained to them that if they came with me they would soon be free, but they wouldn’t come. Well, I walked on and on for several days, eating raw spuds, baked spuds, boiled spuds and that was the menu for the month of April.

One evening, when I was feeling that I would never get to the other side, I was walking along a forest track, when I discovered slices of white bread, soaking wet from the dew, but very welcome. Looking around I discovered empty 25 pound cartridge boxes. I recognised them as I had handled thousands of them in Blighty and in Libya. I was ecstatic, but it’s not much fun when you can’t share your joy. Having convinced myself that our boys had passed this way, I kept walking through the night and when dawn came I was approaching a village.

I normally skirted any habitation, but this time I was going to walk through the village. It was 25 March 1945. The first thing that caught my eye was the white flags hanging from the windows. I kept walking along the middle of the lane. I could feel that I was being watched from behind curtains, but all was very quiet. I eventually came upon a ‘beergarten’ and I walked in to find an old man, obviously the inn keeper. He eyed me up and down and in my best German I said, “Haben Sie bröt bitte? Ich bin sehr hungry”. He had a young girl with him, about 10 years old, he went to the cupboard and brought out a piece of black bread about 4" square and cut two thin slices, explaining that that was all the bread he had. I took the bread, wished him good fortune and went on my way. No one else came out of their house while I walked through the village.

It seemed strange that after finding the 25 pound cartridge boxes, that I hadn’t come across any more signs of the Allies, it must have been a patrol. Anyway, I kept walking all that day and towards the evening I could hear a continuous roar, which, as I got nearer, was an autobahn, with traffic roaring up and down. I got closer and watched from a ditch. It may be surprising, since I travelled west all the time, but on watching the lorries and carriers go by, I was struck by the white star painted on each side of the vehicles. Now before I was captured in Libya, no vehicles had that sign, so what was I to make of it? Could it be the Russians?

With no one to discuss it with, I had no alternative but to get closer, and I eventually made out that some drivers had the R.A.S.C. badges. So, with great delight I stepped out to the side of the road, waving and thumbing a lift, but nobody would stop. Then I realised that my faithful Italian overcoat made me look predominantly Italian. So, not without a thought that it had served me well, I discarded it. Whereupon a jeep stopped and a driver and two mates from the Royal Army Medical Corps got out. They could not believe that I had come through from the other side, although I was not aware that there had been some heavy fighting! Right away, out came the cigarettes and chocolate. They apologised that I would have to sit between two dead guardsmen. When they asked me where I wanted to go, my ready answer was, ‘take me to your cookhouse’.

They dropped off the bodies at a first aid centre and then told me they were passing a Transit camp for repatriated P.O.W.s and they would take me there. To my astonishment, I discovered it was the camp 357 that I had left when I started the Big Walk. It was then the fact that I was really free came home to me.

The camp had been transformed from a P.O.W. camp into a pleasant army centre. When I arrived there was a Band of the Royal Artillery playing in the compound with ex P.O.W.s sitting around. I was taken to a hut, given a shower, -the first for many weeks- and some fumigated clothes for temporary wear. Then, in another hut, I was given a kit bag and told to help myself to the tins on the shelves. It was like going round a miniature supermarket. On top of that, I was given the priceless gift of 200 cigarettes. From there I was directed to a hut where the other ex P.O.W.s were staying. Not more boards to lie on, but blankets. The result of all this treatment was overwhelming, there was a cookhouse ready to serve up meals but apart from a mouthful or two I could not eat. The men detailed to look after us must have been a little disillusioned with our behaviour. Conversation seemed to come hard at the time, each with his thoughts. A long time would be needed for us to settle down to normality.

It was during the next morning that I met up with my South African ex partner, he had quite a story to tell. It appeared that he had walked into one of the Allied patrols just as they were bringing in some prisoners. The officer, he said, offered to let him help himself to rings and watches which were being taken off the prisoners (it happens on both sides). To his credit, he refused,- like most of us, he had had enough.

The announcement came that prisoners of five years would be off home today, 4 years tomorrow, and I would be the next away!

White bread was coming into the camp and the Daily Mirror with pictures of the Belsen victims. We knew nothing about all this, yet the camp was only twenty miles from us.

At last my turn came, I’d had an army haircut and looked a little more presentable. Although having no teeth didn’t quite make me a pin-up boy. We arrived at the airport at Hanover and on the tarmac were Red Cross ladies, who had several tables full of cigarettes, biscuits and food of all sorts. We were told to help ourselves and after acquiring a second kit bag, commenced filling up with cartons of cigarettes. It may seem that we were greedy and ungrateful, but for a long time possession was everything.

During the time in Italy a few pieces of wood, a match and half a cigarette was like gold-dust. Not having settled in to our new way of life, we intended to grab as much as we could, but we could not eat. Everything was too rich for us, we could only settle for bread. Anything else meant a rapid run to the latrines.

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