behind this barbed wire fence.’
12
The Worst Winter
Beautiful but deadly, that’s what winter was like. A white landscape with the ghostly shapes of pine trees and rooftops layered with snow like a wedding cake, picture postcard. But stay out in the Arctic winds unprotected and you would die.
Winters were long and hard, lasting from October to March. Dark mornings merged into dark evenings with nothing in between. It felt as though spring and warm weather would never arrive at Langenau and we would be stuck there for ever, forgotten and freezing to death. We spent half our time clearing snow and ice away in order to get out to work and the other half freezing our balls off doing whatever work we were ordered to do outside. The cold and damp got permanently into our bones. No amount of hot soup, burning firewood or layers of clothes would warm us up. I was hardly ever out of my uniform and overcoat during the winter months. I worked and slept in all the clothes I possessed when it was really, really cold.
The army greatcoat was both a curse and a blessing. It was made of dense thick wool and as I got thinner so the coat got bigger and heavier. It flapped about my legs when I was working and it felt like wading in treacle when I made my way along the muddy rows of beets. The coat dragged me down as I bent over further and further with my nose nearly touching the beet tops and my boots stuck in the ground. The bastard Germans had a trick of moving the marker point in the fields from where they had paced out the number of rows we had to do. So when I looked up to see if I had nearly finished there was always another row.
On the other hand, we wouldn’t have survived without our coats. They were our blanket at night, our defence against the bitter cold by day and an eternal comfort; so they really saved our lives. By God, didn’t they keep the wind out! There was room to wear layers of clothes underneath and still be able to move in it. The wide lapels overlapped at the front for extra protection for the chest. With the collar turned up I could keep out the worst of the icy winds. Sleeves were long enough to cover my hands, and pockets big enough to carry my forage cap, eating utensils, identity documents, letters and photos. I still kept Lily close to my heart, her photo in the top breast pocket of my uniform blouse.
19 January 1945. Evening. That’s when we heard that we were leaving the camp. When our work parties returned from work, one of the officers called us together and said, ‘Pack everything, we’re moving’. We had to be ready for six the following morning. Why the hurry? Why did we have to leave at the crack of dawn?
We were going, leaving the only home we had known for nearly five years. You get used to a place, don’t you? You get comfortable and get used to your little routines. Never mind that it’s a cramped dormitory in a damp house behind barbed wire fences, in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country. Never mind that you eat little and work long hours at gun point; that your hands are blistered and cracked from work and your skin red raw from scratching fleas. You have your mates, your own tiny corner where you can pin up a photo, keep a few bits and bobs, read your letters and be alone with your thoughts.
All that was coming to an end.
The place was abuzz – inside and out. We were excited at the prospect of something happening at last. Prisoners and guards were busy, men everywhere trying to get their things together, sort themselves out. There were chaps looking for stuff they had saved or hidden for a rainy day. Now was that rainy day – or rather snowed- in day. We five set to work straightaway as we talked and sorted what belongings we had.
‘Another camp,’ said Laurie. ‘Wonder what they’ve got in store for us.’
‘Nothing good,’ said Heb.
‘A change is as a good as a rest,’ said Sid.
‘It’s freezing out there!’ I said. Little did we know that the winter of 1945 turned out to be one of the worst of the twentieth century with temperatures falling as low as -25°c. ‘Abso–bloody-lutely freezing!’ I added.
Jimmy echoed my sentiments with something incomprehensible.
‘Hope it’s not far,’ said Heb. ‘I’m exhausted just thinking of going.’
We all thought we were moving to another work place. We had no idea that the Russians were advancing and the war was coming to an end. It would have been so much better for us if we had known what was going on so we could have made plans. Bloody silly time to move. Why couldn’t they wait until the weather got better? We had no idea what was in store.
I had never really stopped to think about what would happen at the end of the war. I always wondered how we would know it was over and how we would get back to England. I didn’t imagine that it would end like this – our journey back to freedom and civilisation.
As soon as we left the camp and passed through the gates and wire fences, we realised we weren’t off to another work place. Everybody was there – officers, guards, the lot – and we knew something big was happening. No idea where we were going but I just knew this looked like big trouble. Memories of that first march from Abbeville to Trier and journey by the cattle truck came back to me. That’s where it had all started.
I did the silliest thing when I knew we were leaving. Like everybody else we wanted to take everything we had. Over time fellows had collected or made quite a few knick knacks and souvenirs: matchstick models, animals and figures whittled from wood, stones picked and polished. Some had Red Cross boxes and bags that they had begged, borrowed or stolen. I got into one of the barns where I remembered seeing some storage boxes. That’d be good for carrying my stuff, I thought. I didn’t expect we were going far. If I could find a really strong cardboard box, not too heavy, I would put all my belongings in it.
My letters were the most precious things I possessed and I had a real stack of them. Nearly five years’ worth. I wasn’t going to leave them behind. I had odds and ends left from my last Red Cross parcel (bit of chocolate, some biscuits and a few cigarettes). I had my spoon and bowl, shaving kit, towel, bit of soap, spare pair of socks, trousers and my old boots.
I decided to wear my new boots which my mother had sent me, and keep the old ones as spare. Because of the extreme cold, I was already wearing pretty much all the clothes I owned including my spare underwear and my fireman’s jumper over my uniform. I packed my old boots and everything else neatly inside the box and tied it up with some string – the stuff made from twisted brown paper which came with the Red Cross parcels. I was ready to go.
What on earth did I look like? There I was holding this huge box out in front as though I was Father Christmas looking for some kiddies to give them their presents. I soon realised how stupid I was. There I was battling through the snow drifts against the icy winds, my arms aching and my feet skidding on the slippery ice- impacted roads as I tried to keep up with the other men marching out into the white wilderness.
I wasn’t alone though in trying to carrying everything. Nobody had said, ‘Look men, take only what you can eat or wear. Dump everything else.’ It could have saved a lot of trouble later on. Me and the other chaps soon started throwing things away as we went along, to lighten our load and make it easier to walk and not fall behind the column. We kept the absolute essentials and ditched everything by the roadside. God, how I wish we could have kept it all. We had little enough to show for our five years of slave labour but it was all precious to us.
So that was how I came to lose all my letters and cards from home and most of my photos. I kept two envelopes, from mother and Lily’s last letters, and placed a couple of family photos inside along with my Army Service Pay Book. I’m looking at the Pay Book now. It’s not actually in that bad a condition considering what it went through; amazing it has survived. The cover is creased and water stained and it still smells of tobacco smoke. On the inside pages I can read about the vital statistics of my younger self, that I weighed 130lbs and was medical classification ‘A’ on enlistment. I can also pride myself that I fulfilled the Instructions to Soldiers ‘You will always carry this book on your person.’ I had my dog tag round my neck, the belt my friend made from the tops of old army boots round my waist and everything else stuffed into my many pockets.
Jimmy, of course, was better equipped. He was born to be out of doors and always on the go. Like a good Boy Scout, or gamekeeper, I should say, he knew to ‘be prepared’. He always carried an assortment of useful
