by Millie Gray
“Ja, Ja,” chortled Gunther before adding, “We, the victorious and superior German army, acknowledge your resilience in defeat.” He then raised his hand once more, saluted Fred, clicked his heels, and climbed aboard his vehicle.
Stretching to his full height, the sergeant turned to Andy and snorted, “Now, this is no for translation, see? But for all who understand the King’s English, I’m saying that it’s only the bloody opening skirmish they’ve won – no the whole bloody war!”
In later days, Fred would always admit that they were fortunate to have met such an honourable and professional soldier as the German lieutenant, Gunther Wengler – others would prove to be far less principled.
3
“So this is what they ca’ a prisoner o’ war camp,” Tam observed. “Looks mair like a broken doon refugee ghetto to me.”
“Right, lads. You’ll be housed in the five huts in front of us and you’ll then be allocated a bunk. And once you’ve settled in, you must fill in your details on pieces of paper.” Fred now brandished a small notebook in his right hand.
“Why? So the Jerries can use oor details for propaganda?” challenged Billy.
“No, son. It’s the Red Cross that wants them so they can notify your families that you’re a prisoner of war but safe.”
Tam shifted nervously from foot to foot before leading Eddie, Andy, George and Billy towards the nearest hut. Once inside, they sank down wearily on their bunks. The seemingly interminable marches, where only the minimum of food was supplied, had taken their toll. Tam remembered how they had each been given four slices of bread and a lump of cheese before they set out on the first march. Being ravenous, they devoured the food immediately. What they hadn’t realised was that the march would last three days and no more food would be provided during that period. Looking at each other they realised they were all at least two stones lighter as a result of their starvation diet on the journey and that the eating of buttercups, daisies and nettles hadn’t really helped. Some glanced down at the army boots that they had kept so highly polished as recruits and which were now completely worn through. They had lost so much on the long trek to this POW camp, some even their lives, and all now accepted that their precious freedom was lost for the time being. Tam’s thoughts, as usual, travelled back to home. How was his wife coping, his Dinah who leant so heavily on him and who always seemed to be in need of entertainment? He remembered the last dance, in the YMCA hall at the corner of Restalrig Crescent, just before he left. Dinah of course had to be up on the floor for every dance. She was in her element with the Paul Jones dances, having a different partner every few minutes and all of them under her spell as they not only admired her grace and expertise in dancing but loved the way her blonde hair was swept up at the sides and imprisoned in tortoiseshell combs – not to mention the intoxicating smell of her Mischief perfume. Sighing, he acknowledged to himself that Dinah would survive, no matter what – but then he wondered how his bairns would cope, especially Phyllis.
Reaching into his top pocket for a notebook and pencil, Andy began to write out his personal details. That put an end to Tam’s musings, especially when Andy passed the book to Eddie who then added his information. All too soon they had all written in the book except for Tam, who made no attempt to do so but simply stared long and hard at the meagre pages. No one spoke, but Andy went over and sat down beside him. “You illiterate, Tam?” he asked quietly.
Tam jumped up and shouted, “No, I’m no! My mither and faither mightnae hae been churched but they were married – in the registry office – ye ken, the one in Fire Brigade Street in Leith.”
Shaking his head, Andy stood up. “I know you’re no a bastard. What I was wondering was if you could read and write.”
A deep flush crept up Tam’s neck and face before he nodded his head in abject embarrassment. “So I cannae read or write. So what? I’m the best shipwright – that’s a carpenter ye ken – that Henry Robb’s ever had.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. But listen. I might have only been there a year but I’m the best English teacher David Kilpatrick’s ever had. So, as we’re going to be marooned here with precious little to do, how about I teach you to read and write, while you teach me how to hammer a nail in straight?”
Tam let a few minutes pass while he pondered on how he could explain to Andy, who was so brainy, that from five to seven years old he’d had one infectious disease after another and so missed the first two years of his schooling. And when he did get to school, he was put into the juniors where the teachers considered him an idiot because he could neither read nor write. This assumption resulted in him being labelled a lost cause and he was largely left to his own devices. Tam now reluctantly acknowledged that his teachers’ inability to help him adequately might have been due more to the fact that there were fifty other bairns in his class than to the staff not bothering! Finally, he gave Andy a slow nod to confirm that he wished to be taught.
“Good,” said Andy, relieving Tam of the notebook. “But in the meantime I’ll fill in your details.”
“Naw,” was Tam’s emphatic reply as he stretched out his neck, “I’ll fill them oot mysel’ once you’ve got me writing.”
Andy nodded, but Fred, who had just come into the bunk-house, warned, “That’s fine, son. But the folks back hame will be told you’re missing … presumed … is that fair?”
“Maybe no. But isn’t that all the more reason for Andy to get a move on wi’ his teaching me?”
By the end of two months, with the help of the only book available to the prisoners – Andy’s precious Holy Bible – and a dusty floor that acted both as blackboard and exercise book for writing on with a sharpened stick, Tam, whom Andy judged to be well above average intelligence, was reading and writing well enough for him to put pen to paper and now his details were on their way to the Red Cross.
The lack of writing material, however, was not the only concern for the group. Their rations appeared to grow less and less by the day and the men were becoming increasingly despondent. Fred did his best to keep their spirits up with exercise, quizzes, football and choir practices but as time passed it became ever harder. Andy, being the academic of the group, realised that if they stayed on this starvation diet they might all suffer serious consequences. He therefore suggested to Fred that he speak to the prison commandant and request a better diet – or at least more of the poor one!
Fred sensed that the commandant had been expecting him because he immediately insisted that more food would be made available if the men were willing to work in the factories situated just outside the camp. This proposal, as had already been explained to the commandant, was totally unacceptable to Fred. No way could he ask his men, nor would they consent, to assist the Germans to win the war. The commandant smiled. “No, I am no longer asking you to work in munitions. What I’m offering now is more food, including some meat, if your men will take up work in the sugar-beet factory.”
Fred hesitated. He had brought his men thus far with the loss of only four. If they could not have more food, then disease, especially dysentery, would soon take hold. He therefore solemnly advised the commandant that, since his men were British, they valued democracy – which meant he could not give a decision on the proposal until he had consulted his men and a vote had been taken.
Fred spoke first to Andy about the trade-off and both agreed that most of the men were still in their formative years and it was vital they be kept as healthy as possible … even if it did mean working for the Germans. Having explained their reasoning to all concerned, Fred and Andy both hoped for an affirmative response but none was forthcoming. The men were outraged and the majority refused point-blank to have anything to do with the proposal and even likened it to the bribe given to Judas! After a few minutes, however, Billy amused everyone by asking whether there would be any young lassies working in the factory, because if so he personally would be happy to give it a go. Fred shook his head. Undernourished as he was, Billy was still prepared to chase
any skirt he could find. Billy’s wishful thinking seemed to give Charlie’s confidence a much-needed boost and he surprised everyone by asking if there might be any way of smuggling some of the sugar beet back to camp. A short silence followed before Tam replied, “Well for a bloke like me, who was trained in Henry Robb’s shipbuilding yard back in Leith, a bit o’ smuggling wouldnae be a problem!”
Fred began to feel relief seeping into him as he realised the mood was gradually changing but, before he could take a vote, Andy asked why on earth they should risk their lives by stealing some of the sugar beet. And he was astounded when the chorus went up, “Moonshine! Moonshine!”
They were only into their third week of working at the factory when the moonshining came into full operation and the immature alcohol was being flung over their throats with gay abandon on Saturday nights. As soon as the liquid hit their stomachs it exploded like a fire bomb and gratifying intoxication lit up their bleak world. Their lives were also enriched by the acquisition of a dilapidated wind-up gramophone and a single record of ‘Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree’, by the Inkspots, which had been secured from the guards in exchange for a flagon of the moonshine! The music, although not in strict tempo, was adequate for any dance – whether tango, quick step or waltz. The exhilarating rhythm seemed to capture the inebriated souls of men who were expert in ballroom dancing. They would eagerly ask any comrade who couldn’t dance, “Are you dancing?” and every reply was, “If you’re asking, then I’m dancing.”
There were no apparent inhibitions in this deviation from normality and each man felt that by the time he was released he’d be expert enough to show Victor Silvester how to do that slow, slow, quick, quick, slow routine with absolute mastery! When those Saturday nights were over, the men would throw themselves down on their bunks and let their yearning thoughts turn to home and their loved ones.
Tam naturally wondered how Dinah was coping and whether she was looking after his five bairns properly. Eddie thought of Betty and wondered if in the recent letter she had sent she was trying to hint that she too had been called up. All she said was, “I’ve changed my job. No longer in the printers. In my new job I have to wear a smart blue costume!”
And Billy, for all his philandering, would fall asleep wondering if his sweetheart, bonnie Violet Mackay, would still be keeping herself for him. Of all the women he had wooed she had been the only one not to surrender her virginity to him. He snuggled into his blanket while he recalled her saying, as she pushed him gently aside, “No, Billy. Not until our wedding night!”
4
Trying to make herself a little more comfortable by wriggling on the palliasse, Senga felt as if she’d been conned. She had been assured that life in the country would be just like it was in the films. Nice people. Good food. Plenty of fresh air and rest. And she could even expect to be dancing along the yellow brick road like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. But now, one week into her ordeal, as she saw it, evacuation was just another name for slavery! Johnny, candle in one hand, was climbing up into the hay loft and loudly asking her and Tess if they were asleep.
“Asleep?” Senga sniffed, while trying to hold back the tears. “Sleep is what I do in class and now they think I should see a nurse or doctor to see if I’m consumptive or have sleeping sickness!”
Tess rolled over from her palliasse beside Senga, leant over and gently stroked her hair. “There, there, bairn,” she urged, “I think I might have got a message out to Granny Kelly asking her to come and rescue us!”
“You did?” exclaimed Johnny as he flung himself down beside his sisters. “That’s just great. How on earth did ye dae it?”
“Well, d’you mind how Sheila Thompson’s mammy was asked to take her home on account of her having impetigo and no one willing to take her in?” Johnny and Senga both nodded. “Well, I asked her to take a letter to Granny Kelly.”
“Where did ye get the paper?”
“Och, Johnny, where d’ye think I got it?” Tess smirked. “Tore it out of my exercise book, didn’t I. Anyway, back to Sheila. She did promise to take the letter to Granny but she said she didn’t ken when she’d be able to get it to her.”
“Hope it’s right away,” observed Johnny. “And look here, Tess. Did you put in the letter hoo I’ve to get up at half past five in the morning and feed the pigs and then clean out their sty afore I go to school?”
Tess looked askance at Johnny. “No, Johnny, I didnae. Same as I didnae say Senga and I were up at the same time and I had to milk and feed the cows before going off to school and that Senga had to look after the hens.”
“But Tess,” girned Senga, “if you didn’t tell her that and about us being made to sleep in the barn because the farmer’s wife says aw us bairns that come from Leith are lousy …” Senga hesitated as she thought of everything else she wanted to tell her Granny and then blurted out, “And also that we’re being fed worse than the pigs …”
“Fed much worse! We’ve had nothing but porridge since we came here. Hot porridge, mind you, in the morning but freezing cold porridge for our tea,” Johnny lamented.
“Look, all I could say in the letter was for Granny to come and rescue us and to bring the cruelty man with her.”
“But why just that?” complained Senga.
“Because that’s enough, especially as we’ve been told to watch what we say and not give the Germans any important information – you know, careless talk costs lives! Besides, the idea of anybody being cruel to us will sure be enough to have Granny rushing here and then we’ll see if that blooming farmer can scare the living daylights out of her, the way he does us.”
* * *
Patsy was standing on a chair slapping another coat of gun-metal blue paint on the lobby walls of 6 West Cromwell Street. Nothing, not even this dishonestly acquired paint from the shipbuilding yards, seemed to deter the bugs that frequented the stair nowadays. Patsy honestly believed that this ever-increasing plague was another way of Germany attempting to sap the resilience of the folks in Leith!
She had just bent down once more to dip her brush in the two-pound syrup tin that housed the paint when she became aware that someone was coming into the stair. “Oh, it’s yourself, Etta. Slumming?”
Giving an involuntary shudder, Etta stared at the condemned building and the only thing that helped mask her disgust was the urgent news she had to impart. “Patsy,” she began hesitantly. “Listen. You’ve got to come. Dinah needs you. I just couldn’t get her calmed.”
Patsy’s hand flew to her mouth. “No Tam, is it?”
Etta nodded. “Telegram hasn’t exactly said he’s been killed – but it does say he’s missing and – well, as you know, that usually means – at least presumed …”
Patsy scratched her head. “Oh Gawd, he’s the only one I know that would put up wi’ my Dinah. Good grief! You ken what this means?” Etta shook her head. “Just that I’m gonnae be left wi’ her. Isn’t life one blinking boo-row?” Whenever Patsy said “boo-row” she really meant “bugger”. Etta understood and nodded.
A long silence followed, while the two women just stared at the walls, the floor, the ceiling – anywhere but at each other. Finally, Patsy said, “I’ll get my coat. Oh I’m forgetting I’ll hae to tell poor Mary … Och for sure, nae mother should lose her bairn. Against nature, that is!”
The women had just left the stair when a young girl raced up to them and asked, “D’ye ken where Mrs Kelly bides?”
“I’m Mrs Kelly,” said Patsy and was surprised when the lassie pushed a note into her hand before starting to flee back the way she’d come.
“Remember,” the lassie hollered back. “It wasnae me that gied you that letter!”
Patsy unscrewed the paper and read Tess’s heartfelt plea. “Well,” she said to herself, “you bairnies’ll just need to bide and thole it the noo. Your mother and your Granny Glass are the first priorities!”
Another three long wearisome weeks had passed since Tess asked her pal to deliver the letter to her g
ranny. On their fourth Saturday afternoon in captivity (as they saw it) the children were wondering what they could do next, as it seemed evident that either Granny Kelly never got the letter or else she didn’t believe they needed rescuing. Running away and trying to walk back home had become their favoured solution and they were busily working out how best to do this, while the rain came pelting down the barn roof, when the door was suddenly flung open. The three children huddled together, thinking they were about to be summoned to do some more back-breaking work, when a familiar and beloved voice called out, “You in here, Tess, Johnny, Senga?”
The children all shouted, “Goody, goody! It’s Granny,” and they all began to scramble quickly down from the loft.
“So it’s true you’re being kept like pigs?”
Johnny nodded as he took his granny by the arm and guided her over to the ladder, but Patsy only climbed enough of the steps to let her see into the loft where the three palliasses and the three worn blankets were lying side by side. Angrily, she descended and gathered her three grandchildren into her arms. As she rocked them to and fro they were quite shocked to hear her mutter, “Bastards! Bloody bastards!”
Releasing the three children at length, Patsy told them to go and collect their things. “Everything?” asked Senga, with growing excitement.
“Everything. Not another minute do you spend here. And once you’ve packed everything, meet me outside.”
Tess’s eyes popped when she emerged into the daylight to see that her granny was walking into the farmer’s house, accompanied by a police sergeant. Signalling to Senga and Johnny to follow, she quickly made her way over to the window, where the three children had a grandstand view of the kitchen and the outcome of Granny’s meeting with the farmer and his wife.
