On a Turning Tide

by Ellie Dean

  Once those bombs had run out, Jim went back into his own trench and, with bullets whizzing over his head, lobbed off several grenades and used his Tommy gun to fire back. He was too occupied to see how Big Bert was doing.

  The battle for Hill 170 lasted thirty-six hours and ended in victory for the British, ensuring that the 54th Japanese Division’s escape was cut off. Further landings by the 25th Indian Division and the overland advance of the 82nd (West Africa) Division made the Japanese position in the Arakan untenable and they made a general withdrawal to avoid the complete destruction of the 28th Japanese Army.

  Jim didn’t feel like celebrating, for fourteen men in his platoon of twenty-four had been injured, and six of his positions had been overrun by the enemy. He was nonetheless inordinately proud of his men, for they’d held on through twelve solid hours of continuous and fierce fighting until reinforcements had arrived. The combined brigades had lost 45 men with 90 wounded; the Japanese had lost almost 400.

  Jim joined the other officers in brigade HQ, which had been set up on Hill 170, and looked around for Big Bert. Bert was big and burly enough to stand out in any crowd, but Jim couldn’t see him, and the first pang of dread began to gnaw at him. About to ask the man sitting next to him if Bert had been injured, he was silenced by the loud voice of his commanding officer calling for order.

  The man began to speak, his expression solemn. ‘The battle of Kangaw has been the decisive battle of the whole Arakan campaign, won very largely due to your magnificent defence of Hill 170.’ He went on to talk of the number of decorations for gallantry that would be awarded, including a posthumous Victoria Cross for Lieutenant George Knowland.

  ‘Mention should also be made of the posthumous George Cross to be awarded to First Lieutenant Albert Cummings – or Big Bert, as he was affectionately known by us all.’

  Jim sat there, stunned, as the man continued. ‘Big Bert was a larger-than-life character who could always be relied upon to do his duty. He fought bravely and without thought for his own safety, and was last seen standing defiantly on the top of his trench firing his rifle at the advancing enemy. When he ran out of bullets, he snatched up a Tommy gun and fired at will to protect his men in the trench, and was mortally wounded by returning enemy fire. The magnificent heroism shown by men like Lieutenants Knowland and Cummings ensured that our successful counter-attack could be launched from the vital ground which they had played such a gallant part in holding.’

  Jim had to swallow the lump in his throat and maintain a stiff façade until the man had finished talking. The moment he was dismissed, he hurried outside and went to snatch up his backpack and find an isolated spot down by the water where he could mourn in private.

  He couldn’t believe that Bert was dead – that all that brawn and courage and downright pig-headedness had been wiped out; that they’d never get drunk together again, or swap tall stories. He stared out over the water, his eyes brimming as he remembered the fun they’d had in India on their last leave, and all the things they’d gone through since their arrival out East.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon and the land was plunged into tropical darkness, he pulled the small flask of whisky from his pack and raised it in a toast.

  ‘Here’s to you, my friend. Try not to cause too much mayhem up there, big man. You’ve earned those wings. Sláinte.’

  Stalag Luft III

  Sagan, Eastern Germany

  Air Commodore Martin Black pulled up the collar of his ragged flying jacket to try and ward off the bitter cold as he trudged through the deep snow covering the sixty acres of compounds. The temperature had plummeted to below zero before Christmas, and now that it was late January it seemed to be getting colder by the day. With their clothes rotting on their backs and their stomachs constantly growling from hunger, the prisoners were struggling to cope with the icy weather.

  Stalag III was administered by the Luftwaffe, and housed captured Allied airmen from Britain and the Commonwealth as well as a huge number of USAAF personnel who’d been arriving in droves since the previous October. The camp had grown considerably since Martin and the others had been snatched from the jaws of death at Buchenwald, for it now had five separate compounds, North, South, East, West and Central, each housing kriegies, as they called themselves after the German word for prisoners of war, Kriegsgefangene. Each compound consisted of fifteen huts, measuring ten by twelve feet, each of which housed fifteen men in five triple-deck bunks, and it was rumoured that there were now around ten thousand inmates.

  Martin was duty pilot that evening, which meant it was his turn to follow one of the guards, or goons, as they called them, so he could warn the others of his location and then carefully record his movements in a log book. The eight-hundred guards were either too old for combat, or young men convalescing after long tours of duty or from wounds. Unaware of the connotation of their nickname, and having been told it stood for German Officer Non-Com, they accepted it happily enough.

  Due to the fact these men were Luftwaffe personnel, the prisoners had initially been accorded far better treatment than they’d expected, and Deputy Commandant Major Gustav Simoleit had even ignored the ban against extending military courtesies to POWs by providing full military honours for Luft III funerals. However, the last few months had seen less food and medicines coming into the camp, and the guards had become jittery and much stricter.

  Martin’s boots were leaking and he could no longer feel his toes, but as the goon hurried into the administration hut to join the large group already in there, his curiosity was piqued. The atmosphere in the camp had felt charged these past few days, and something had definitely stirred up the commandant and his leading officers.

  Rumours were flying about, as they always did, but this time perhaps there was some element of truth in them, which was deeply worrying. There had been stories of Hitler ordering mass evacuations of the camps in Eastern Germany, with thousands of kriegies being forced to march for miles in appalling weather, because the Russians were rampaging towards Germany, determined to conquer Berlin.

  Martin crept closer to the hut and huddled out of the wind to try and overhear what they were saying, but although he’d learned a good deal of German during his long incarceration, the voices were too low and muffled to catch anything helpful.

  He gave up and trudged back to his crowded hut where the presence of fourteen other bodies at least raised the temperature a few degrees, and there was the possibility of a cup of hot tea from the last of the Red Cross rations.

  ‘What ho, Martin,’ said Wing Commander Roger Makepeace through his hacking cough. ‘Have you found out what the goons are up to?’

  Martin shook his head and poured himself a cup of very weak tea. There was no milk or sugar as usual, but as it was hot and wet, he didn’t really care. Cradling the cup in his cold hands, he let the steam of it thaw his face. ‘How’s young Forbes?’

  Roger grimaced. ‘Sick bay is full to the rafters and there’s not much the medic can do without proper medicines. Forbes is fighting the fever, though, and as he’s young, he stands a chance of getting through it.’

  Martin nodded and sipped his tea. Allan Forbes had saved his life when he’d been shot down, and although he’d been young and full of energy when they’d been captured, dysentery, the poor rations of late and a chest infection had turned him into a shadow of the boy he’d been. Martin could only hope he wasn’t about to follow the legion of dead prisoners who now lay beneath the snow in the camp cemetery.

  He was about to climb into his bunk when the bells for appell began to clang urgently throughout the camp. The men looked at one another, for it was almost eleven at night, and most roll-calls were in the morning.

  ‘Perhaps we’re about to find out why they’ve had ants in their pants these past two weeks,’ muttered Roger, scratching at his head lice.

  ‘That would be a first,’ someone else piped up. ‘They don’t tell us anything.’

  ‘Perhaps the Russians really are o
n their way,’ said another.

  They trudged down the steps to find that the wind had dropped to a freezing stillness and it was snowing again. Lining up, they saw that each compound was doing the same, and knew that something was definitely up.

  Their fears were soon confirmed. They had an hour before the camp was to be evacuated.

  Roger and Martin spent the time making sleds from the bed slats so they could carry any of the injured through the snow, whilst others collected the thin blankets for extra cover, stuffed their pockets with every last morsel of food and packets of cigarettes, and stashed the precious letters from home in their inside pockets. Every stitch of clothing, however threadbare, was pulled on, and boots were stuffed with paper in the hope it would keep out the wet.

  On the stroke of midnight the entire camp, including the sick, was ordered to assemble once more. It was snowing hard and the temperature had plummeted even further, and they stood there shivering as they were divided into groups of three-hundred with goons to guard them. Martin, Roger and the others from hut 8 stuck close together, making sure young Forbes was safely strapped to one of the homemade sleds, and swathed in blankets.

  The barriers between the compounds were opened, and at the commandant’s signal, the ten thousand prisoners began to trudge slowly through the main gates and, in the darkness, start the long trek down the snow-covered avenue of trees.

  None of them knew where they were being sent, but for the next six days they were force-marched over sixty-three miles, struggling through thick snow in temperatures as low as minus seven. They rested at night in factories, churches, barns, or in the open, and with little or nothing in the way of food, decent clothing or medical care, the effect on already weakened bodies was devastating.

  On arrival at Spremberg, they were crammed into cattle trains and taken nearly four hundred miles north-west to a naval camp in Bremen.

  During this mass exodus their numbers were quickly decimated by starvation, frostbite leading to gangrene, and typhus which was spread by body lice and the general unhygienic conditions. To Martin and Roger’s despair, the dead had to be left behind in ditches, forests and by the roadsides – and when young Allan Forbes succumbed on the third day, they were both too dispirited and weak to even feel sorrow or shame as they stripped his body of blankets, boots and coat and left him beneath a scraping of snow.

  Stalag Luft IV

  East Prussia (now Poland)

  It was now early February, and deep snow covered everything as the temperature continued to drop. Freddy Pargeter and Randy Stevens had thought Stalag Luft VI was bad enough, with its sadistic guards and lack of decent food and medical care, but Stalag Luft IV had shown them they’d truly arrived in hell.

  The guards were inclined to bayonet or kick the POWs on the slightest whim, their dogs were vicious, and captured escapees were shot immediately. The forty wooden barrack huts were surrounded by high fences of barbed wire and each housed up to two hundred men. They’d managed to stay together, but in their section of the camp, there hadn’t even been bunks for them to sleep in. None of the huts had been heated, latrines were out in the open and there were no proper washing facilities, so they were plagued with lice and dysentery as well as hunger. The distribution of Red Cross parcels and clothing was rare and the medical supplies less than adequate.

  Freddy and Randy had long since lost the energy and enthusiasm for escape attempts. It was all about survival now, and as they could clearly hear the sound of the Russians’ heavy artillery fire in the distance, it seemed that liberty was at long last in reach.

  However, they’d also heard the rumours that tens of thousands of POWs were being force-marched west, and so it had come as no surprise when the appell had been called, and the eight thousand prisoners were sent off in blizzard conditions for a destination unknown.

  They were carrying all their possessions in bundles on their backs as they helped one another through the thick snow. Both were very weak, for they’d lost a lot of weight from starvation and dysentery. Randy also had frostbite in his feet and hands, but they both knew that should they fall or lag behind, one of the guards would put a bullet in their head.

  The ordeal they shared with their fellow prisoners would last for almost three months, cover over nine hundred miles and cause over one thousand deaths. It would become known as the Black March, and those who survived were haunted by it for the rest of their lives.

  24

  Cliffehaven

  It was mid-March, and Ron had just finished an exhausting two hours of exercises in the gym and the physiotherapy room. He walked with a bit of a limp, and his back really hurt if he tried to lift anything heavy, but he was feeling positive and much stronger now the prospect of going home had become a reality.

  He’d washed and pulled a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, and was now sitting beside Peter Ryan in the day room overlooking the Memorial’s dreary back garden, which was only just recovering from the harsh winter. The sun was bright and the sky clear, but having poked his nose out through the door, Ron knew it was still bitterly cold.

  He had arrived at the hospital the day before the young Australian pilot was brought in, and because Peter was Rita’s friend, Ron had made it his business to visit him every day. The lad was very poorly and a long way from home, but despite the age difference, they’d got on well, and as bones and scars had begun to heal, they’d whiled away many a pleasant hour talking about their families, the women they loved, and the lives they’d led before the war.

  However, the head injury Peter had sustained on that crash-landing meant that he still suffered from severe concussion, which caused mood swings and dizzy spells, and when he wasn’t feeling quite the ticket, he would become morose and uncommunicative. Today was one of those days.

  ‘We’re a couple of old crocks, I reckon,’ muttered Peter once the squadron of planes had flown over and they could hear one another again. ‘I’m fed up with sitting here with nothing to do all flaming day.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Ron said. ‘I’ve got more than enough to do just getting myself up and about – and it wouldn’t hurt if you did the same. You’d certainly feel better about things if you stopped moping about and let Rita visit you.’

  ‘There’s no point, mate. What use am I to a girl like that? She’s better off finding someone else.’

  Ron had had the same thoughts about Rosie when he’d first been hospitalised, but it was worrying to hear such things voiced by one so young. Peter was in his late twenties, and although his injuries had been quite severe, they were no longer life-threatening. These dark moods were doing him no favours. ‘To be sure, it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking about what Rita might want,’ Ron told him.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ scoffed Peter. ‘What about you and Rosie?’

  ‘She’ll have her wedding when I’m fully fit,’ he said firmly. ‘I admit I thought like you at first, but I never refused to see her, not even in the darkest days. Poor little Rita was devastated when you turned her away and told the nurses she wasn’t to visit again.’

  ‘I don’t want her to see me like this,’ Peter grumbled, sticking out his plastered leg and plucking at the bandage that swathed his head.

  Ron grunted. ‘As if she cares what you look like. She was just relieved you weren’t dead like poor young Matt.’ He regarded Peter evenly. ‘It took a long time for her to get over him, you know, and when she finally allowed herself to fall for your dubious charms, how did you repay her?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Peter. I thought you were made of sterner stuff, and I don’t like the way you’re treating her.’

  Peter sighed. ‘I don’t mean to be a mongrel,’ he admitted, ‘but I had plans for me and Rita, and now I’ve got this weakness in my head and can’t fly again, what have I got left to offer her?’

  ‘Your skills as a mechanic,’ said Ron, who was fast losing his patience. ‘Look, son, it might feel as if the world ha
s ended because you can no longer fly, but there are a hundred and one things you can do instead. If you’re really serious about Rita, then talk to her, for goodness’ sake. She can’t read your mind.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You do that,’ Ron replied shortly. He grabbed his walking stick and got to his feet. Waiting until he was quite steady, he walked slowly out of the room, his left foot still drooping slightly and dragging. It wasn’t the boy’s depression that was making him restless, but the need to keep exercising so he could go home to Beach View at the end of the week. This place, and everyone in it, was getting on his nerves.

  He was still encased in a plaster jacket, and his legs and back ached from the physio’s pummelling, but at least he was upright again, and the erotic dream he’d had last night had definitely brought about a significant stirring down below. It might not mean he was back to his old self, of course, but it was a definite sign that he was on the mend in more ways than one. The real test would come when he and Rosie were alone together.

  Peggy and everyone at Beach View had really missed not having Harvey in the house since Alf had taken him in, and so when Alf had brought him in this morning after his early walk, it had been a joyful reunion. She’d been tempted to keep him, but knew she simply didn’t have the time to walk him twice a day, what with having to visit Ron, look after Daisy and go to work, and so there had been a few tears as Alf had taken him away again.

  Poor old Harvey had looked quite bewildered, but Alf had promised to call in more often, and to try and sneak him up to the Memorial this afternoon so he could see Ron.

  ‘I don’t fancy his chances,’ said Rita. ‘Matron’s a proper tyrant, and if she catches him there will be an almighty row.’

  Unfortunately for the patients at the Memorial (but making life considerably easier and calmer for the staff and patients at Cliffehaven General), Matron Billings had been transferred back to the Memorial and had swiftly imposed her iron regime there.