Survivor of the Long March

he was stroking the front of his jacket. We looked surprised. ‘Ja, for ze clothes.’ I couldn’t believe it but it was true. He showed us the equipment, a couple of cross-cut saws and some choppers, pretty basic, and demonstrated how to cut and fell a tree, chip off any smaller lower branches and saw the trunks into the required lengths for stacking and then transportation later.

For some reason he chose me to record how much we did each day. He gave me a notebook and pencil to keep a tally of the wood we cut down. We measured areas off in square metres, marking them out with small poles. Four men worked on one area and four on another until we’d done ten metres. But instead of writing ten down, I would write eight which I thought would give us a bit of slack if we had a bad day or needed to take it easy on another. Then we could add those two onto another day to make it up. We had targets to reach and the ranger trusted us to do a good job. He didn’t have the time himself to stand around in the cold counting all the timber we had cut and stacked. So we did a good job as we did not want to get into trouble. We liked it out there; we didn’t feel as though we were under the thumbs of the German authorities.

The ranger went off and left us to it, returning from time to time to check on our progress. It was hard work but we were our own masters pretty much, enjoying the freedom we had. We could stop and have a break when we liked. We always carried our bowls and spoons and we had brought some food with us, bit of bread and butter saved from the night before, maybe something left from a Red Cross parcel to make a small meal. As we were miles from anywhere, we were able to build a little fire to keep ourselves warm and we melted a bit of snow in a bowl, add a few tea leaves which we had saved in a twist of paper and put in a pocket before leaving the camp. Bob’s your uncle – a nice cuppa cha!

Jimmy was in his element. I suppose he imagined he was back on his Drumochter Estate. As game-keeper, he was responsible for the shoot and looked after the birds and organised the beaters. He was a very good shot and told us about taking part in national competitions down at Bisley. It was pity he didn’t have a gun there; we could have done with a bird or two for the pot for supper. Instead Jimmy talked about life on the country estate where he worked and the changing seasons and the beauty of a life outdoors. He pointed out trees and plants to us and identified bird calls as we sat in a clearing warming our hands by the fire.

I remember going to see Jimmy in the Highlands of Scotland in 1960, driving with Lily and our son Brian, in our first new car, a Ford Consul, which cost ?600. Jimmy wasn’t expecting us and I didn’t know his address exactly but enquired when we got to a village near where I thought he lived. I asked at the post office if they knew him and sure enough I was directed to his cottage nestling in a hillside. Fortunately his wife, Catherine, was home but Jimmy was working up on the hills. She went outside to the back of the house and gave a loud whistle through two fingers which was some sort of signal. A moment later we heard a whistle answering back from far away and she replied to that with a different whistle. When Jimmy eventually appeared, carrying a dead lamb over his arm, he not only he knew to come home, because he had visitors, but also to bring something to put in the pot for supper.

We quite often glimpsed deer through the trees while we were there but they were shy creatures and we never got really close to any. One day, however, I was sitting quietly on my own on a tree trunk when an adult male deer, a lovely russet colour with dapples of cream on its back, emerged from the trees and stopped at the edge of the road running through the forest. He looked from side to side and when he saw that it was all clear and there was obviously no danger, he stamped his little hooves on the ground to signal to the others that it was safe. A whole herd appeared, mothers and babies and all, and followed him off into the safety of the forest again. Moments of solitude and beauty like this were precious then. They helped restore your spirit and give you the strength to carry on.

Of course, we took advantage of our time in the forest to collect kindling wood and bring back what we could for the stove. But one day, I had another idea. As we were measuring up a trunk for cutting up into the required lengths, I remarked that a piece of that would make a good dartboard. I think it was the rings inside that reminded me of the score board with the bullseye in the middle. The others agreed it was a terrific idea and it would cheer the other chaps up. I thought it would make a change from playing cards or our homemade snakes and ladders. Football was impossible in bad weather so some indoor competition would be good. ‘OK, Chas, over to you.’

I was getting quite good at this woodcutting caper so I sawed off a section. Boy, was it heavy! So I took off my overcoat and wrapped the block in it and carried it like that. Our guard who came back to collect us did not say anything when he saw me in just my tunic and trousers. I thought he would think, ‘What’s he doing without his coat on a cold day like this?’ It was freezing cold. But he was only interested in getting us back as fast as he could so he could get back into the warm and enjoy a plate of Bratwurst and tot of schnapps. So I carried the block of wood wrapped up in my overcoat all the way back to camp. At last I had something to contribute. When I showed Heb the piece of wood and explained about turning it into a dart board he said he could do that.

The next time he went to the blacksmith’s shop to work, Heb saw a man’s bicycle leaning up against a wall outside. When nobody was about, he removed some spokes from the wheels. Because they were long he had to fold them in half to get them in his jacket pocket in order to sneak them back. We used the spokes to make the rings and the numbers on the darts board. The chap who was making the darts whittled down bits of wood for the body and cut bits off a spoke to use as the tip. There were plenty of chicken feathers floating around the place so he had no problem making the flights and between us we managed to make a dozen darts. The dart board went down really well with everybody and we even started a league table for different teams in the dormitories.

Unfortunately, during one of the inspections, the officers turned up and found them and confiscated the darts and the board. ‘Verboten,’ – forbidden. And holding up a dart as though it was a deadly weapon. ‘Nein. Nein. Schlecht.’ – No, no, bad. But a month later we made another board and started playing again. Heb was still working at the blacksmiths shop and he had enough spokes left to make another lot.

It was important to keep up morale with activities like this and also to be able to get one over on the Germans. The feeling of victory, however small, felt good but sadly did not last. You never knew what was round the corner to bring you down with a bump again.

One time we were sent out to help a local farmer with muck spreading. It took a couple of days to cover the acres and acres of land. Farm workers had been collecting manure in their carts for a while from all over the place, stables, cattle sheds and pigsties, I imagine, and transporting it to the fields to deposit in heaps ready for us. We came along in our work parties with our spades and worked slowly spreading the stuff over the ground. We were working in a field near a large farmhouse when we heard the sound of an engine as it came along the road towards us. Anything like that was of interest. It was such an isolated place we wanted to know what was going on. Was it someone coming to check up on us? Then we saw this big, black, shiny official-looking car approaching, which pulled up on the road outside the farmhouse.

Two German officers got out. I’m sure they were SS from how they were dressed in their sharp uniforms, shiny, high boots and the way they carried themselves, stiff backed and marching purposefully. They went towards the house where a Polish couple lived with their son, whom we learned later had already been taken off to a concentration camp. They banged on the door. When it opened they pushed in and we heard a woman scream and a terrific row going on. The officers came out dragging a man down the front steps. He was struggling and shouting, and the more he did, the more tightly the officers either side held him. His wife was screaming and trying to stop the men taking her husband.

The officers had originally intended to take the man away, I believe, but they decided it was not worth all the trouble. One of them let go of him and came across the road and started walking towards us. Oh, God, what’s going on? They’re coming for us now. I looked down briefly so that I didn’t catch the other man’s eyes. One of our guards went across to meet the officer to find out what he wanted. They spoke for a moment and then our chap came back towards us and took spades from the two nearest of our fellows. He then joined the officer and walked onto the road and went with him. As the other officer held the man down, they set about beating him again and again about the head until he fell to the ground in a heap. The officers got back in their car and drove off leaving the man dead on the ground. Our guard came back with the spades and we carried on working.

Next morning on our way back to finish our work in the fields, we had to walk past the body, which was still lying on the road side, unrecognisable now as a fellow human being.