On we went, sometimes just a step ahead of the bombing raids, other times soon after. We passed civilians and soldiers going both ways – like us, looking for somewhere safe to go. What else could we do but keep going? We were marching at gun point so we didn’t argue, following wherever we were led. The officers tried to plan the day’s march and rest stops. An officer would send a party of guards ahead to look for somewhere suitable for the night. It might be a barn or stables or in more populated areas, they found railway stations, churches, factories and the remains of bombed buildings. Later we found ourselves commandeered to clear bombed areas and railway lines, doing yet more slave labour for our German masters.
Thank God for a decent pair of boots! My army issue boots had seen me through a hell of lot over the past five years. Now my lovely new soft leather boots, the best quality my mother could afford, would do the same. Unlike the army issue ones, which had to be broken in, mine gave me no trouble. They were a perfect fit and I managed to keep them in good order on The March. Without them I would have been in deep trouble. Look after your boots and they will look after your feet. If you can stay upright and just keep going then you had a good chance of getting through it all.
And that’s what I did: kept going.
A lot of men were not so lucky. There were fellows with dreadfully worn-out shoes which let in the wet and rotted their feet; some didn’t have anything to wear and had bits of material wrapped round their feet like bandages. I heard of somebody who had his wooden work clogs on when his camp was suddenly evacuated and his feet were permanently damaged by wearing them. So good boots were essential to your health and survival.
The most important thing to remember was not to take off your boots, not just because of the fear of frostbite, and your toes going black, but because they could get stolen or you might never get them back on your feet. Sad to say, it was every man for himself out there. If you left your boots somewhere at night they would be gone by morning. If you were lucky and they were still there, either your feet would have swollen so much or the leather frozen solid over night, or both, that you wouldn’t be able to get them back on. If you couldn’t walk, and your mates couldn’t carry you, and the cart was full of the injured, sick and dying, then you were left behind.
Keeping warm was also a matter of life and death. I didn’t take my clothes off for at least six weeks. I walked all day and slept all night in them. I was in a shocking state most of the time. Never mind the stink; everybody was in the same boat. Not washing or shaving, hair and beard matted with filth, skin crawling with fleas and lice. My skin hurt, red raw from me scratching through my clothes or at any bits of exposed flesh. Like so many things in my life – during those lost years of imprisonment, I got used to it. It became normal. There were more important things to worry about anyway. We didn’t dare take our clothes off or we would have died of cold so we tried to keep every part of ourselves covered as much as possible. Nobody wanted to get frostbite or catch pneumonia. When the weather got better and everything started to melt, there was plenty of water around to have a quick wash in a puddle or stream, however basic it was.
Later we stopped at stalags en route and work sites and, when the weather was better, if there was a tap or stand pipe it was a treat to wash your face and hands. We didn’t dare take off our clothes and certainly not our underwear when we got a delousing.
[16 March]
Sid, Laurie & myself just deloused.
An important enough event, I made a note of it on the back of the group camp postcard I had kept with me. I think all we got was a puff of DDT powder on our heads, down our underpants and inside our vests. I don’t remember where that happened or who did it. Somebody obviously took pity on us or just didn’t want any more lousy prisoners around. But of course it made no difference as the blighters all came back pretty well straightaway. Same clothes (unwashed), same sleeping arrangements (cheek by jowl) and same fleas (offspring ready for action).
Now lying in barns waiting to move again
The best place to settle down for the night was somewhere with straw. If you were lucky and found a barn or hay loft, you could climb up and bury yourself in the hay. Lovely stuff. You could move it like sheets and then tuck your feet under. It wasn’t warm, it was boiling. Marvellous. Imagine walking all day in thick snow and in the freezing cold and finding that for bedding. Wonderful. Failing that, a cowshed would do with cows preferably because they gave off so much heat. Failing that, huddle up with your pals or anybody; you couldn’t afford to be choosy. It was Shakespeare, I believe, who wrote, ‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows’ and I certainly experienced that first-hand.
If you couldn’t keep warm it was even more important to make sure you kept eating – anything to keep your strength up. Years as a POW conditioned me to starvation rations and my stomach shrank considerably. I learned to eat whatever was put in front of me and make the most of what I was given or I scrounged or stole. Obviously I learned my lesson the hard way when I turned my nose up at that cold soup served on the farm the day, when I chucked it on the ground and was attacked by Jan, the guard. No point in being squeamish or fussy about what you put in your mouth or you would starve to death.
The thought of food was always in our minds. Every minute of the day and night, waking in the early hours with a gnawing pain inside from the hunger. Jimmy, Laurie, Sid, Heb and I were used to eating rubbish food, with the occasional luxury of a Red Cross parcel and extra farm produce we nicked. Searching for food (anything edible) was second nature to us. Even more important than before in these harsh conditions. We had no idea what was round the next corner.
We preferred keeping at the back of the group, trailing behind the long straggly column of men, with the guards spread out ahead. We were able to go off on our own or in pairs to forage – like our night raids through the barbed wire fence. There were farm buildings and empty houses where the owners had fled and we checked for food and water. Then we caught the group up and shared our booty or kept it until we stopped for the night.
Fields were deep in snow and ground frozen solid so it was impossible to find anything edible growing. I do remember, however, eating raw turnips (ghastly because they gave you belly ache), dock leaves, sour as crab apples, and wild chives. It might be only four or five mouthfuls but it kept you going. We searched pig sties. I ate stinking, rotten left-over pig swill from troughs and examined slurry for scraps. I found some tiny, small potatoes in the mud and shit and took handfuls to a stream where I washed them. I filled my pockets up and we had them baked on a piece of tin over a fire that night. We all played our part in finding extra life-saving food.
One day Laurie and I were looking round some old farm buildings when we heard a squealing noise. Laurie went to investigate and came back with a little piglet under his arm which was struggling to escape. There was a metal drum nearby so Laurie got the piglet by its back legs, swung it hard, smashing its head against the side. Bang! Killed instantly. I did feel sorry for the little creature. I know it was necessary but I couldn’t have done it, not even to save my life. Laurie was a butcher in civvy street and not squeamish about animals – dead or alive.
We returned to the group and Laurie had the dead piglet under his coat. ‘Pork for supper,’ he said, opening his coat an inch to show the others. When we stopped for the night, it was Laurie’s job to cut up the carcass and we roasted it in the fire. I don’t know when we had last eaten any meat. What a glorious smell! Roast pork and crackling. Fat dripping down into the fire making the flames spit. Oh, the taste! We had a fine meal that night and there were even a few scraps left for our friends.
I was only a greengrocer’s assistant after all. What would you expect me to do? I couldn’t have done without Laurie the time I found the fish heads. We were passing through a village and I was looking around, keeping half an eye open for the guards when I came across a dustbin left on the pavement. The others were up ahead so I stopped for a quick look. I lifted the lid, peered inside and saw a load of fish heads among the rubbish. I wondered how long they had been there. I would have to see what the others had to say. So I picked about a half a dozen out and wrapped them in a bit of newspaper which was inside and carried the packet stuffed inside the front of my coat.
‘What you reckon?’ I said to Laurie as I pulled out the packet and peeled back the paper. We both took a sniff.
‘I think they’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Give ’em a try.’
