by Sean Longden
I don’t really know what I was feeling. In the back of my mind was the thought that my mum and dad didn’t know where I was. I was just one of thousands walking to Germany. I thought the war was lost. The Jerries made it clear to us that we were beaten – you didn’t need to understand German to know what they were saying! What was to stop them getting over the Channel? I was just thinking ‘What’s going to happen now?’ But I don’t think any of us realized we were going to be there for five years.
Back in January, when Ken Willats left home to report for training, he had hardly even imagined himself as a soldier, let alone dared to think he might end up as a prisoner. Yet as he marched, day after day after day, he realized he had to adapt to his new existence:
It was survival of the fittest. The human body and the human being tend to adjust to the conditions that exist. Self-preservation was the predominant thought. One just thinks of oneself. Everything was new and unknown so we didn’t really know if the war was over – or if it was just beginning. It was a strange time for us all. My feelings were dulled by the extreme physical conditions. To be honest with you, the morale was defeatist. There wasn’t too much anger against the Germans – only when they kicked the buckets of water over. I think we all thought we’d been unlucky. Let’s face it, we weren’t trained soldiers, we were just there because we had to be. So we just thought it was hard luck.
Willats’ memories of the final stages of the march reflected the feelings of so many. They had reached the end of their physical and mental tether, they were exhausted, filthy and starving. More importantly, they were facing something none had been prepared for:
It was the lowest point of the war. It was not so much physical as mental. It was my most desperate time. I didn’t know what was in front of me. There was apprehension about what was going to happen to us. I can remember walking along in the pouring rain and a huge may fly hit me right in the middle of the forehead. I didn’t have the strength or the inclination even to raise my hand to wipe it off. I just trudged on with this bug on my face. So I must have been in a pretty low state. I didn’t have much left. It was particularly bad for the regular soldiers. It hit them hard. I had the advantage of not being too patriotic. You hear stories about prisoners of war marching along in step – we didn’t. We just meandered along feeling in the depths of despair. We didn’t even talk to each other. We just struggled on. There was no enthusiastic – or patriotic – conversation with anybody.
Drained by almost three weeks of incessant marching, Eric Reeves began to reach a stage where it seemed he and his comrades were detached from the rest of the world:
We didn’t know where we were going. It seemed it was all over. When you’ve blokes there who were captured at Calais and they said they’d been at the coast and not got away – we thought Britain had lost the war. We didn’t know anything about Dunkirk, no one had heard of it. So we thought the war was finished. It was completely dispiriting. And the Germans loved to tell us we would never get home. They said we would have to stay in Germany and work for them for ever.
As the marches progressed and more men began to join the columns, including those who knew about the Dunkirk evacuation, the situation began to seem even more desperate. Those men who had believed the initial defeats were merely a setback were appalled to hear that the army had fled from France. For Les Allan, marching into Germany surrounded by starving men, all with ‘the shits’, their uniforms increasingly filthy, the realization of how serious the defeat had been was a blow. This was the lowest point, his morale was shattered, how could they ever recover?
Fred Coster shared these feelings. He was convinced the war was over and that Britain had been defeated. Yet, while he admitted it to himself there was one group he wouldn’t share his thoughts with: ‘We didn’t admit it to the Germans. If they approached us and said the war was over we laughed at them. But inside we thought Britain can’t stand this. We were done for.’
Uncertain of what lay ahead, the vast marching columns began to converge on Germany. The routes they took were many and varied. The earliest prisoners, those captured before and during the Dunkirk evacuation, were directed to the Rhineland city of Trier from which they were entrained for stalags across the rapidly expanding Reich. Some marched all the way from northern France, passing through Belgium and Luxembourg, growing ever more exhausted with each footfall. Others were put on trains at Cambrai and Bastogne, completing their journey by rail. The men who went into captivity in the latter stages, including the 8,000 or so men of the 51st Highland Division, took a more northerly route. Some were sent to the River Scheldt, from where they travelled by barge to Germany. Others travelled straight through Belgium to Maastricht in the Netherlands. There they too were put on barges to take a trip down the Rhine to Dortmund.
Those who entrained at Cambrai had to listen to the singing of German troops waiting for trains to the front. Laughing and jeering at the prisoners, they mockingly called out the words of ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’. The irony was not lost on the prisoners, all of whom had troubles but most of whom had abandoned their kitbags in the fields and rubble of France. One group of officers, who had been separated from their men, were among those who joined the train at Cambrai. A group of sixty-five of them were crammed into a single cattle wagon, the floor an inch deep in coal dust. When they complained about overcrowding, six of the men were allowed to leave. For the fifty-nine men remaining, the journey lasted for two days.
Other officers passed straight through Cambrai, staying overnight in a shed where the latrine seemed to have been used by all the thousands of prisoners passing through the town. The next day they were taken by truck to a barbed-wire enclosure in a field beside a river. The dandelions that grew in the field made a welcome meal for the tired and hungry officers. It was not a restful night. All night they had to listen to the sound of their guards firing at the crowds of Senegalese troops sharing the field. The next day they found some relief, stopping for the night in the garden of an inn. Able to trade with Belgian civilians, they furnished themselves with soap, towels and toothbrushes as well as desperately needed food. It was not just the food that helped lift their morale. The Belgians helped raise their spirits by telling them that the British always lost the first battle but then won the one that really mattered – the last one. Then they laughed and said they would prefer that the British didn’t always lose the first battle in Belgium.
This group of officers were lucky. Washed and fed, they were then transported by cattle wagons to Trier, where they moved into a POW camp. They were made to travel with only forty-five men per wagon. It was far removed from the overcrowding most of the prisoners would experience when they left Trier.
The experiences of the prisoners in Trier differed from group to group. Some were marched directly through the city to the railway station, then sent on their way further into Germany. Arriving in Trier on 3 June, while the Dunkirk evacuation was still under way, the officers settled down to a dull routine of starvation rations in which weak vegetable soup was the most exciting food on offer. It would be another four days before the other ranks from their unit, who had not been travelling by truck and train, caught up with their officers and marched into the stalag. In that time they discovered the Germans were continuing to discriminate against the British, making them wait until last to be allocated bunks.
As the other ranks finally approached the stalag they passed vineyards whose workers paused to watch the dishevelled hordes using up the last of their energy to trudge uphill. Still their torment continued, as hausfraus leaned from windows to hurl abuse at the prisoners. One group were even serenaded into the camp by a German band that appeared to be playing for the pleasure of assembled German officers who were eager to enjoy the spectacle of the ragged rabble marching into captivity.
Within the stalag the prisoners were appalled by the conditions. The failing health of the marching men resulted in those with stomach upsets having used the grounds as a toil
et, fouling the earth if they were too weak to reach the latrines. One of the men, who was at first shocked as he entered the camp, soon found himself adding to the mess. It earned him a beating from a guard but, he reasoned, it was better to risk a beating than to foul his trousers. The paper used in the latrines seemed to be blowing all around the camp and the latrine walls were stained where those without paper had wiped themselves with their hands, then wiped their hands on the walls.
The issue of hygiene, though long forgotten during the march, once more became a concern. The filthy prisoners were desperate to wash themselves and welcomed the fact that showers were available to them. One soldier entering the shower block was amazed to see mirrors on the walls. It was a shock finally to catch a glimpse of an unrecognizable figure, with wild matted hair, a bearded chin and skinny body. That was not his only shock of the day. A fellow prisoner informed him he would need to keep watch on his uniform while he showered. He was astounded – surely no one would steal the wretched remnants of his uniform? He was wrong; it seemed the men within the camp would pinch everything and anything that was left unguarded.
And so began their introduction to life as prisoners of war. Just as on the march, food continued to be a problem for the prisoners. Arriving in Trier in the evening, with the rain pouring down, Ken Willats’ column was marched to the stalag, where the word went round that food would be available: ‘They said there would be soup for anyone who had a container. I still had my helmet so I joined this long, long queue. We stood there in the rain for hours. Eventually I reached the front where there was a hatch they were serving from. I put my helmet up to the hatch but he just said “Finished” and slammed the hatch shut. So I never did get any soup.’
Not all the groups of prisoners were given the opportunity to rest when they arrived at Trier. Instead of being marched into the stalag, they were sent straight through the city centre to the railway yards where they were soon loaded on to cattle wagons to continue their journey. For many, passing through Trier was one of the lowest points of their entire experience as prisoners of war. For most this was their first time in a German city and their first opportunity to acquaint themselves with the people of a nation that would be their home for five years. It was an inauspicious start. This was one of Europe’s great cities. It had some of the best Roman remains to be seen anywhere – an almost completely intact gladiatorial arena, a magnificent bath complex and the imposing Porta Negra. This enormous arch had once marked the very edge of Roman civilization. It was the gateway to the Roman Empire through which slaves had been transported westwards, destined for the slave markets of Rome. Now the journey had been reversed and a new horde of slaves made their way into the latest of Europe’s empires.
Eric Reeves was among a group who reached Trier on 9 June – before the 51st Division had even surrendered. The journey from Abbeville had exhausted Reeves, bringing him to the point at which he cared little about what was going to happen to him:
We marched straight through the town. I can always remember going through the arch. It was a Sunday and all the women were in their best clothes – they had hats with flowers in them. We thought they were going to church. But as we marched through they were spitting and shouting things at us. It was degrading but you couldn’t feel angry – you were like an outcast. We hadn’t got a clue what they were shouting but the spitting was enough for us! It was a low point. But we’d reached the point where we didn’t care – all we were interested in was food. You had to remember that at that stage nothing else mattered – no one ever talked about anything else. We’d forgotten about sex, all we concentrated on was food.
Too desperate to care about the hail of spittle and the venom directed at them by the Germans, Reeves and his fellow prisoners passed straight through the city:
It was the end for us. We’d been through so much. But I’m sure the only thing that kept us going was that we weren’t alone. There were about five thousand of us and we were all in the same boat. So you find the strength from somewhere to keep going. Also the biggest fear you have is of appearing afraid. You did everything you could to appear brave – you might have been dying inside but you never moaned or let them know. We kept silent. We were unwashed and unshaven – I hadn’t got any shaving kit anyway. They marched us to a coal yard in a railway siding and that was where we lay for the night.
The celebrations indulged in by the local population as Reeves and his comrades entered the city were not an isolated incident. The prisoners’ memories were centred around the physical and verbal torment they suffered. The final days of the march may all have blurred into one another but the experience of reaching Trier remained etched in their minds. The vast, swaying swastika banners, festooned above the baying crowds as they celebrated the subjugation of these remnants of the British and French Armies, all served to heighten their dejection.
It was as if everything had been designed to humiliate the prisoners. Old women spat at them, youths raised their arms in Nazi salutes and mocked the pitiful wrecks that shuffled through the city. Even the stark contrast between the Sunday best worn by the civilians and the filthy attire of the prisoners just served to deepen their misery. As Les Allan trudged through the streets on his way to the railway station, these scenes made a distinct impression upon him:
The reception from the civilians was horrendous. The British never kick a man when he’s down but they were the opposite. We were being humiliated. It was the period of the march that I shall never forgive them for. They were mostly women and children. You don’t expect it from them. They were enjoying their victory. They were on Cloud Nine. But funnily enough, I never lost faith that we would win in the end. That was the one thing that kept us going. We said, ‘Keep smiling lads – one day we’ll get our own back.’ And it was worth it in the end.
Also arriving from Abbeville was Ken Willats, who was struck by the scenes: ‘The reaction was awful. They were lining the pavements, spitting and swearing. We were presented as hostages of their success. It was a total picture of the Nazi regime. There were big flags hanging across the road. The civilians were at the very top of their enthusiasm – venting their hatred of us. They were jeering as if they had been whipped up. We were despairing.’
After just one night’s rest, Graham King and his exhausted comrades were raised from their slumbers and marched downhill into the city of Trier. Once again they were given no food and sent on their way with empty bellies. The reception they received as they headed for the railway station was the same as that given to the others who had been greeted by earlier crowds: ‘In spite of the early hour, the good German citizens of Trier were lining the streets to welcome us with stones, insults, manure, ordure, eggs (rotten) and anything else that could do us harm, the more serious the better.’
In the last days of June – almost a month after the completion of the Dunkirk evacuation and weeks after the first prisoners had passed through Trier – some of the 8,000 prisoners who had marched from St Valery arrived in the Belgian town of Lokeren. At Lokeren they were relieved to find themselves transported in small, open wagons on a narrow-gauge railway, packed thirty men per wagon. The train moved so slowly that civilians were able to approach and openly hand them food. Gordon Barber recalled being thrown a sweet cake that resembled cold Christmas pudding. In these wagons they crossed into the Netherlands.
When they arrived at their destination they were herded towards a coal barge. After an issue of bread, its surface dry and lined with mouldy cracks, they were crammed on board in conditions that would become familiar to so many of their comrades. Tommy Arnott watched as one group refused to enter the darkness of the hold: ‘So the Germans turned their fire hoses on them. When the water and dust subsided they came out like the proverbial “niggers” – I shouldn’t be using that word nowadays but it was OK then – and it fitted the description.’6 Those remaining on deck blessed their good fortune. Those forced into the holds were trapped below in the darkness, since the ladders had been remove
d to prevent their escape.
Memories of these latter stages of the journey tend to be sketchy. Even those who had faithfully recorded the towns they passed through could do nothing once locked inside the holds of filthy coal barges. The journeys by narrow-gauge railway went from either Moerbeck or Lokeren, taking the prisoners to Terneuzen or Walsoorden, both on the River Scheldt. From there they travelled upriver, then through canals to reach the Rhine.
On the seventeenth day of their march, some of the men captured at St Valery eventually reached the Dutch town of Maastricht. Here they were allowed to receive food from the local branch of the Red Cross. What they received was like manna from heaven. Each man ate as much as he could, desperate to recover a little of the strength he had exhausted in the weeks before.
One of the groups greeted by the Dutch Red Cross reported that the half-inch-thick slice of bread they received was all they had to sustain them on a five-day journey by barge. For the whole of the journey the prisoners, who were so tightly packed they were unable to sit down, were not given any water. Just as on the march, this group noted how the Germans had fed the French prisoners. This led to inevitable friction between the two factions since the British prisoners locked in the holds began to faint due to thirst and hunger.
At Walsoorden on the Scheldt, a group of 1,000 prisoners, including 300 British officers, were marched on to the Dutch paddle steamer SS Konigin Emma to complete their journey into Germany. Once they were all on board there was hardly any room to sit down. Both the holds and the unventilated decks were crammed with men. There was no food available for them except for an issue of mouldy bread. From the Scheldt they steamed through canals, then into the River Waal, through Nijmegen, then joined the Rhine before disembarking at Hemer forty hours later. The British officers were moved in groups of between twenty and forty men to a building where the rooms gave just enough space for each man to lie down on the straw-covered floor. For five days they shared the basic toilet facilities with a group of French colonial troops. After that ordeal was over they were sent, without rations, on a thirty-four-hour train journey to the stalag that would become their home.
