A German Soldier's Story

Story 1 was written by my late father who was a German POW in Pembrokeshire in WW2 and Story 2 by his friend and fellow POW, "Uncle" Fred Borgmann. They tell of how they were accepted by the community and also how a national newspaper reporter tried to "stir" up a story about the locals reaction to them as German POWs.

Marina Davids (07/05/05)

Story 1: A German Soldier’s Story

(written by the late Derek Davids)

It is somewhat ironic that my train of thought has taken me and like that of so many of us back in time to places of interest. People I have met, and experiences I have encountered on my travels through the years of my earlier life.

I have vivid memories of countries where I have been, the country and people where I belonged, Germany, but none more so friendly inhabitants of Warren and Castlemartin. They have demonstrated in the passage of time, that they can accept and make a stranger welcome. An attribute that can all too often fail in everyday life, when put to the test.

We are well aware that we must be prepared to accept changes in our lives, and realise many are for the better, as opposed to that — many more could be worse.

I was not aware, and did not anticipate, that such a vast change would direct the course of my life, through unforeseen circumstances that befell so many young men in the 1940’s. My outlook on life would have been comparable, with that of any young village boy in the Northern Hemisphere, whose demands of life were very limited — but not without ambition!

Eager to be trusted with a proud team of horses to work in harmony with nature on the flat, windswept, and often water—logged plains of Ostfriesland in Northern Germany where I was born, where people had their own culture, own language, and were by comparison somewhat reserved in their composure, but by no means tongue-tied. The competitive spirit shown by the farmers was forever prevalent for prize-winning cows, or diets for the best fed horses supposed to be a closely-guarded secret.

It was one of these prominent farmers, by the of Idous Reverts in a neighbouring village called Siegrisum who promoted me as a young seventeen-year old lad to become his “teams man”. I would not have been worthy of the so-called title, had not older men already left the land to take part in the Second World War that was raging in Mainland Europe and taking its toll.

Being eager to please my boss, and having set myself a goal to finish, what we called ‘deep ploughing’ by Christmas 1942, it was to my dismay when he appeared on the horizon, just ten days before the festive season — with the order from higher authority that I was to report for military service within 48 hours.

With a sentimental pat on the necks of my three-horse team, and a fond farewell from the farmer and his family — I had now started on the journey into the unknown, and remember it vividly to this day.
I made an outstanding and meaningful discovery when posted to various countries in Europe - that we actually had much more in common than we were led to believe by so-called ‘learned’ people. Recalling for instance the French farmer who allowed me to work his flail — while threshing his corn, the Danish smallholder who allowed me to plough a furrow, not forgetting the Norwegian trawler man and silver fox farmer who kindly invited me to tea.

It was the second time — and one week before the landing of allied troops, that I arrived back in Normandy from Norway, where I witnessed the suffering and maiming, and general effects of warfare on a scale unimaginable.

Having been wounded in retreat from Normandy to Holland, I found myself at St. Lawrence Hospital, Chepstow — on the disused race-course, from where a number of us were transferred to Warren camp adjacent to the church.

We then had to learn to integrate with the people and the farming fraternity in the local region. It is at this stage, I feel compelled to bring the people of Warren and Castlemartin into focus, because we were the first German Prisoners of War in the vicinity. At the beginning the language barriers presented some difficulty in forming a foundation for a welcoming and lasting friendship. Our first task was the involvement in a major draining scheme on the courses of Castlemartin, under the supervision of local selected men from the village who were in charge of a group of fifteen P.O.Ws. The supervisor of the gang I belonged to was Mr Walter Phillips, who lived in the Pound Cottage, Castlemartin, whom we addressed as “Bismark”, this was out of affection rather than malice. I recall one day when it was my turn to be acting tea-boy for the gang, when Mr Phillips gave me a valuable lesson on how to catch eels in the leet, and to construct a spit over a open fire, in order to supply the gang with smoked eel to supplement the camp rations.

The British officer to whom we were responsible for military matters was Major Smith, who had his office in the camp. I cannot recall anyone having to be disciplined by the Major for insubordination or misconduct in the P.O.W camp. Anyone with theological problems could look for guidance to the vicar of the village at that time, the Reverend Whitby James, who would stint no effort to come and visit us at the camp. It was he who extended an invitation to all.

A drinking trough situated in the West lane adjacent to the churchyard served as a washing facility on account of a failed water supply in the camp, because of atrocious weather.

I was one of many, who moved out of the camp, and into the home, and private dwelling of the then Mr and Mrs W.G Wynne, Mellaston Farm, Hundleton, until Christmas 1948, when I returned home to be officially discharged by the German authorities.

Having spent a six-week Christmas holiday at home, I decided by personal choice to return to Mellaston and remained in Mr Wynne’s employment for twenty-six eventful years. Years - that were augmented with the most memorable experience attainable, in getting married to a local farmer’s daughter, and the enrichment of four daughters and a son.

No one could have foreseen, least of all I, that one day I would have a daughter living in the Pound House, Castlemartin; that I had passed so many times — with innermost thoughts of home as a P.O.W.

In 1961 when being interviewed by a journalist of a national newspaper, in what I would call a “back-door manner”, who was seeking my judgement, on the opinions and reaction of local people and the arrival of German Panzer Battalions on the Castlemartin range in the bar of the Speculation Inn. I convinced him, along with the then landlord, and landlady, Mr and Mrs Jack Hunter of the harmony which we enjoyed together. A photograph taken by the journalist is still on display in the bar, of me and a fellow countryman. Mine hosts being today the nephew and his wife of the above, Mr and Mrs Richard Nelson.

It is with joy that I recall sharing many happy hour over a pint of beer with people from various walks of life — a sense of humour and good nature who were the cream of story-tellers, and characters with whom I had the pleasure to work and socialise with — including my father-in-law, Fred Hathway, who was always a “mind” of local history and dialect theories. But that’s another story!!

Story 2: Another Side to the Story

(Extract from a Tribute to the late Derek Davids by Fred Borgman)

I will never forget the first year German troops came to Castlemartin, Derek had gone to the Spec that evening. A phone message was sent to my then employer, the late Mr D Mason, West Orielton. He walked up to the cottage I then lived in, and delivered Derek’s message “Please send Fred to the Spec, I am in trouble!”. I thought to myself: “This is serious, if Derek is in trouble, for he was a very strong man in those days. When I arrived at the Spec I stood for a few minutes at the window. All I could hear was a lot of hearty laughter. As I walked in, Derek just gave me a little wink! I thought to myself “Can’t be too bad!”

Next to Derek stood a man with a camera around his neck. Derek introduced us. He was a news reporter covering the arrival of the first German troops in Castlemartin, from the Daily Mirror. He treated us to a beer or two and we got involved in a lengthy conversation. He wanted us to say something against the local people. He got a little bit too aggressive for our liking! He took a photo of us standing at the bar. This photo is still hanging over the bar today, I believe. However, the conversation got a little bit out of hand and the late Jack Hunter, our landlord, told us to continue our conversation outside the door.

We talked to this man outside for some time and eventually parted company. This reporter kept his promise and sent the photos. Time passed and the second lot of German soldiers came a year later. The same reporter covered this event again. I stopped him in the street in Pembroke and thanked him for the photos. I also told him that I never saw his report in the Daily Mirror. He laughed, and said “I made a bit of money with the story I had from your friend and yourself. I sent the photos I took and your story to a German newspaper, and told them how well you were treated as P.O.Ws in Pembrokeshire”!

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