HILDA MASON
In the field at the back at Lostock they had a barrage balloon, and the Americans were there. The Americans used to go round, offering chocolates and things like that to the ladies, and I knew one or two that got pregnant through them. You know we were rationed, and of course nylons were very hard to get hold of because we’d only so many coupons to spend, but the Americans of course always had plenty of nylons and chocolate. So we were warned to keep away! [laughs] I really took heed of what my mother told me, but there was a young lady round the corner from me who didn’t, and I’m afraid to say her parents would have nothing to do with her; she was turned out on the street. I don’t know what happened to her.
NANCY DRUMM
I remember the Americans quite well, really, because they used the park there in West Didsbury, a little recreation ground. On Cavendish Road, I think it was, opposite the school, and they trained there. And they used to walk down Burton Road singing, and they used to be whistling, every morning they did that. They were very sprightly and jolly.
They used to go to the dances, church dances as well to be honest, but also dance halls, like the Plaza and the Ritz, in town.
HELEN SEPHTON
We used to stop the Americans and say, ‘Got any gum, chum?’ [laughs]
We knew that they were American, you know, because of the uniform. You’d see the Jeeps going up and down, and you’d see them walking down Belle Vue way, mostly, down Hyde Road. Maybe they had a bit of free time, because Belle Vue then was the focal entertainment part of Manchester, really, wasn’t it? It had a dance hall, it had the wrestling and boxing booths, it had everything – it had a zoo, it had a boating lake, but the main attraction would have been the dance hall. [Belle Vue Park was the base for the US Army 8th Air Force Service Command.]
ALICE CAMPBELL
Oh yes I remember them well, because two of my cousins – of course, we’d started drinking then – so we used to go to town, and the Americans would pour in, and they would just order and fill the table, and if you were around – which we were – they would say, ‘You can have that, lads, because we’re moving on.’ And you never paid for anything. They bought it, and left it for anybody, you know. They were great. They were only lads like our lads, you know.
(North West Sound Archive)
SEVEN
COMING
HOME
THYRA MATHER
There was a lot of noise going on outside in the street, and my mum went out to see what it was, and it was all these buses with very dishevelled soldiers. They were what they’d brought back from Dunkirk, and they brought them to the local baths [Cyprus Street, Stretford], so they could have a bath. And of course all the mums were out at the front, with tins of this and tins of that, and I think it was a tin of fruit that my mum gave this soldier, and he said, ‘Just hang on a minute, hang on a minute, I want you to have something for your little girl.’ And he felt in his pocket and out came this [shows a small gold crucifix]. It was black, it had gone all black, and he give it to my mum in her hands and he said, ‘Now, you’ve got to look after this for this little girl, see that she always has it with her.’
The following are extracts from the POW escape story of my late father, Ellis Phythian Snr DCM (1919–1996), a private in the Cheshire Regiment. A resident of Bullock Street, Hulme, Manchester at the outbreak of the Second World War, he was wounded and taken prisoner when his platoon was cut off from the Dunkirk retreat in May 1940. His third escape attempt took place on 31 March 1943, this time from Stalag XXI-D (Fort Grolman) in Poznań, Poland, where he had been a POW since January 1942.
Private Ellis Phythian Snr, DCM, at the outbreak of war. (Author’s collection)
I awoke after a fitful night at 6 a.m. to the early morning appel. It was cold and miserable. I looked through the window with its iron bars, and saw outside through the shaft of light shed through the window that it was raining: a mixture of sleet and rain falling into the moat which surrounded us. Despite the bitter cold outside my blanket, the thought of what lay ahead seemed to kindle a fire inside of me. I hurriedly dressed, and, leaving the room that housed myself and the twenty or so other inmates, I made my way to the place where my ‘civilian’ clothes were hidden.
When I look back over the years and think about those ‘civvy’ clothes I can’t help smiling. The trousers were heavy-duty pyjamas dyed black; there was a khaki shirt also dyed black; and the jacket was an old sports coat I had begged off a Polish girl whilst out on a previous work party. It had obviously seen better days, and I had guarded it with the greatest care for many months. I completed my ensemble with a Polish-type cap, with ear flaps to prevent one getting frost bite in the ears. Donning this doubtful attire quickly, I then put my own uniform on top of it, placing the cap in my pocket.
[As a member of a work party of POWs, Phythian was taken by tram to the worksite on the other side of Posen. His plan had been to hide in one of the trenches that had been dug for drains, but to his dismay he discovered that the trenches had been filled in.]
On the worksite was a cabin where we had our meagre midday meal, and a long line of toilets. The latter were made of a light tongue and groove assembly, so I decided to get permission from the guard to use the toilet. Out of view, I would then kick out the rear side and thus get away. So I approached one of the four guards and asked if I could use the toilet. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but be quick about it!’ Thanking him, I made my way in. Once inside, I looked for a cubicle with rear boards that looked loose, and entered. Quickly I tore off my outer clothes revealing my ‘civvy’ gear. Through a crack in the woodwork I saw a group of Polish labourers approaching the toilets. I waited until they were almost up to me and then kicked out the back of the cubicle, striding out amongst them.
The situation would have been ideal if the Poles had stood their ground, as I could have mingled with them and got further away from our party, but unfortunately they panicked and scattered away from me, leaving me quite exposed, despite my trying to pull them back towards me. However, I managed to keep calm and walked on in the same direction in a quite unhurried way without looking back, nor to left or right.
It had become light now, and the sleet was beginning to fall again. After about three or four miles a sudden loud whip-like crack sounded in my ears, followed closely by another. I stopped in my tracks, heart pounding, expecting at any moment to be shot, but nothing came. My legs shaking, I walked on, and I was passed by a huge army truck lumbering along the road. As it passed, I noticed it was a diesel with fumes trailing behind. Realising I had been startled by a backfire, I laughed nervously to myself.
[The original intention had been to rendezvous with a sergeant, who was to have maps, compass and a supply of non-perishable foods. However, the sergeant failed to turn up, so Phythian, having waited all day, decided to carry on alone. After receiving some slices of bread and margarine in a Polish woman’s cottage, Phythian made his way to the nearby railway line. Here he spent the night hiding in some bushes, and eventually, as dawn broke, jumped onto the steps of a goods wagon of a slow-moving west-bound train and hid in the brake cabin.]
After a while it was quite light and the train shunted into a sort of siding alongside some barrel-shaped wagons; perhaps they contained something like wine. Just as I was about to disembark and sample another train, this time a passenger train shunted onto the next line: it was full of German soldiers! It was not long before they got the same impression I had and tried to open one of the huge barrels. After a while one of them was successful and opened the large tap on the side of one barrel, filling his steel helmet with wine. I watched all this from my hiding place until, to my relief, my train made a sudden jolt forward and started to move. I was soon away from the soldiers and the wine.
[The train reached Frankfurt-am-Main just as an air raid was taking place. Although the tracks were badly damaged, Phythian left the train and walked westwards until he was able to jump on board another west-bound goods train. He cross
ed the border into France just beyond Saarbrücken.]
I had not eaten for days now, but the thirst was truly agony: I had to have water. As we shunted over the border into France I spotted a German policeman with a huge Alsatian dog inspecting each wagon on my train. As he came along the line, I managed to jump clear of the track to try and shake off my scent. I scrambled towards where I had spotted a shallow ditch and lay low while the policeman inspected the place I had just vacated! I saw the dog sniff the brake cabin and then look around to where I was hiding, but luckily the guard took no notice of this and pulled the dog’s head back before proceeding along the line. To my relief he disappeared around the corner. It was then I noticed that the ditch I was lying in had water in it. Finding an empty wine bottle nearby I filled it with the doubtful looking greenish water and drank it through cracked lips. It tasted rather like urine, but I didn’t mind as it supplied a service!
[Phythian now continued his journey by goods train as far as Nancy. Here he left the train and followed the railway track on foot as far as the town of Toul, some 15 miles (24km) west of Nancy.]
In Toul I again took a chance and knocked on a cottage door requesting food and water. A French woman answered and gave me a meal. She said she would bring someone who might be able to help me.
The ‘someone’ turned out to be the village priest. He was a large stout man, wearing the cloth of his profession, a black square hat and a long black cassock. He came slowly towards me with his right hand hidden under his cassock, his eyes penetrating and searching. I told him I was an English POW on the run, and gave him a brief résumé of my experiences, to which he listened with narrowing and widening eyes, mouth opening and closing with surprise (he spoke very good English).
After I had finished talking, I got the frightening feeling that this good priest did not believe my story. He brought his hand out from under the cassock and my heart leapt as I saw he held a small pistol. It was evident he had doubts about my genuineness. He warned me that if I proved to be an infiltrator, I would receive the business end of his weapon. However, I managed to convince him I was who I claimed, so he then proceeded to give me a map, a few hundred francs, some sausage and ration tickets for bread, then gave me instructions as to the route I must take.
He told me first to go to St Dizier, where I was to contact a one-legged barber (you may smile, but that was the God’s honest truth!) who would direct me to Vitry-le François.
[St Dizier is 50 miles (80km) west of Toul. The barber – who gave Phythian a welcome shave – gave directions to Vitry-le François, 18miles (29km) further on. Having walked from Toul, at Vitry-le-François, Phythian made contact with a Resistance cell.]
I was approached by one Marcel Robert, one of the French Resistance group. He asked me for some means of identity so I produced my Stalag Disc 42450 and a letter from my niece I was carrying, the last one I had received in the POW camp. These satisfied him I was who I said I was.
The next day I was moved to a small empty newspaper shop on the side of the river Ornain. To get from the shop I had to cross a wooden bridge, as the original had been sabotaged, so it was guarded by a German soldier. I entered the shop with some trepidation as I was to be left there on my own for two days, dangerously close to the bridge guard.
Eventually Marcel came to me with a small pick-up type van which was loaded with long French loaves. To smuggle me past the guard he told me to get in the back of the van while he covered me with the bread and then a canvas cover. Then, my heart pounding, he took me right under the German’s nose, over the bridge and away to near Châlons-sur-Marne, our next hideout.
At this house I had a clean-up and borrowed a pair of trousers. From there I was taken by Marcel Robert on to Paris.
I arrived in Paris in about the middle of May, and hid out with the Lebon family in Rue Denfert-Rochereau for ten to twelve weeks, during which time they were my only real contact with the outside world.
It was during this period of time that there was a purge on by the Germans which meant that I had to move temporarily from the Lebon household. I was taken by escort to a flat in the Rue des Bons Enfants. It was there that I experienced a most terrifying incident. A lorry loaded with Germans was passing by the block of flats where I was staying when suddenly someone threw a hand grenade from one of the windows into the lorry, wounding and killing some of the Germans. Immediately the flats were surrounded by the troops and an intensive search of the building for the culprits commenced. The two old ladies whose flat I was staying in had the presence of mind to roll up a small handkerchief, insert it into my mouth and wind a huge bandage around my face so I looked like I had mumps, hoping it would hide my poor French and not give me away.
An artist’s impression, based on an old photograph, of the Rue des Bons Enfants in central Paris as it would have appeared during the Second World War. My father was hiding out in one of the upper storeys of the apartment block on the right when the hand grenade was thrown into the passing truckload of German soldiers. (Phil Blinston)
I lay in the bed thus, shaking like a leaf waiting for the heavy knock on the door, when quite suddenly the noise of searching Germans subsided. Apparently the Gestapo had discovered that the missile had been thrown from the other side of the road. So it wasn’t necessary for me to perform my masquerade, but it was still a nerve-wracking experience. The street was kept under close watch for a while after this incident.
At the end of twelve or so weeks back at the Lebons’, the Resistance people informed me that I must be prepared now to carry on my journey as I had been there too long, and to stay there any longer would have been dangerous.
Quite openly I was taken to Bon Marché in the centre of Paris where they took a photograph of me. I was then given false identity cards and work permits which allowed me to work in various parts of France.
[The Resistance also supplied Phythian with a rail ticket as far as Toulouse, from where he proceeded on foot to Tarbes. After short stays in Pau and Lourdes he crossed the Pyrenees, again on foot.]
The huge challenge and mighty grandeur of the Pyrenees spread before me. It took us two and a half weeks to cross them, and that could be a tale on its own. I say ‘us’ as through the last part of my journey I had met up with other escapees, and now our small band had become ten in all. US airmen, RAF airmen, and a couple of characters who were silence itself: I never knew them to say a word to the rest of us all along the journey into Spain. Halfway across we were suddenly fired on by German planes patrolling the border but our luck held out.
We were interned in Spain, but eventually we were released when they discovered we were not armed. A Major Haslam, Military Attaché in Madrid, came to me. Shaking me by the hand, he congratulated me on having made it to a neutral country, and before long I was in the British Embassy in Madrid, where I was given a new suit of clothes and a decent meal. I was placed in the Hotel Mediodia awaiting transport to Gibraltar. I was, to say the least, on top of the world.
After arriving in Gibraltar in October 1943, I had another wait for a convoy leaving North Africa laden with troops after their African victory. I was to wait two weeks for the convoy but eventually we joined up with it and made a wide sweep into the Atlantic to avoid the U-boats, out around the Bay of Biscay, along the coast of Ireland up to Scotland and the Mull of Kintyre, straight up the Clyde into Glasgow and freedom!
[Having returned to his regiment, Private Phythian was awarded the DCM by King George VI the following February.]
BOB POTTS
My dad didn’t come home on leave very often. I only saw him about six times during the entire war; mostly that was in 1944, when he suddenly turned up at the children’s home in dress uniform – wow! He looked like an officer. I think the matron took a fancy to him, because she was single, and she was the same age as my dad. She made him a cup of tea and kept him all to herself for half an hour. He was a good-looking fellow, my dad, bit of a ladies’ man.
HELEN SEPHTON
My f
ather didn’t come home until I was seven, because that’s when the war ended. I didn’t know him. There was this stranger walking through the door, I was absolutely in awe of him because I didn’t know him. They talked about your dad, and he’s fighting, and this that and the other, but you don’t take it all in as a child. Then when he walked through the door, this stranger in this uniform, and he was tall, he was 6ft tall, and I was instantly afraid of him. And that stayed, because it was impounded by the fact that he was a very strict man. He never showed any emotion; he never put his arms round any of us or said anything gentle to us. It was all like he was still in the Marines, it was all ‘stand up’, ‘sit down’, ‘come here’, ‘do that’.
This will mean giving up the job, going back home to four walls and washing up again. Or sharing the responsibility of the children, getting used to having a man coming in at regular times …
Even if you can do a clever thing or two with dried eggs, he is likely to expect something rather better.
Manchester at War, 1939-45 Page 14
