Continued from previous post…..
One recalls the eventual arrival at an open compound with its double line of barbed wire fence; the panic of a prisoner who tried to scale the barbed wire and escape from this human rat trap, and the sharp bark of German rifle as he slumped to the ground. Poor devil… he never stood a chance, but sheer dementia had banished all reason before he steeled himself in adjustment to a situation which he had probably never contemplated. Possibly most of us had envisaged a lost limb or hoped for a slight ‘blighty’ wound which offered a short respite from the horror of stinking trenches and that black morass of mud which had all the quality of a sucking quicksand. But – Prisoner of War – how many had ever considered that an option? Military manuals gave little space to such a possibility. You were told that you were not compelled to afford anything other than your name, age and rank to anyone seeking information which could possibly be of use to the enemy, in the event of your being captured. Such a possibility seemed to be ruled out, really. The situation was most unlikely to arise.
Well, it had that day for thousands of men, whose future was clouded in nebulous speculation. Nobody could offer you anything tangible to bite on. For a long time ahead, in fact, there would be little of anything to bite on. Starvation was a word one had never used, much less contemplated as a possibility for oneself. Still, you would learn to allay that gnawing hunger pain which gave you a sickening nausea as your inner mechanism clamoured for sustenance. The British naval blockade was doing this to millions of Germans too, to a lesser degree perhaps, but you could derive little comfort from this knowledge.
Food, always FOOD, became an absolute obsession. All conversations revolved around it, making its lack even more devastating. If those nocturnal junketings with friends offered temporary euphoria or satisfaction, stark reality of your plight would crash into your mind as soon as you awakened. Then back to the endless discussions on the unchanging theme. God. What fools we were, just turning the knife in the wound with those gastronomic repetitive exercises of the past. Menus of London eating houses. Joys of the ‘Cheshire Cheese’, where you selected and served yourself from a loaded Dumb Waiter or sideboard. ‘Sam Isaacs’, the fish restaurant with the inevitable succulent chips. Even the merits of trotters and tripe, whelks, oyster bars, jellied eels. Your choice conversationally was endless. But oh, the futility of it all.
Then at long last: parcels from home, and those Red Cross parcel days which gave life a new colour and hope and courage. You even invited a friend to ‘dinner’. The liquid from the pork and beans tin with added water made soup – of a kind. The remaining beans, mashed with the odd potato salvaged from your daily German soup ration, provided a pâté. Satisfying and quite Mrs Beetonish. Rice and milk – one tin between four guests – from the Red Cross parcel. This could be stretched by the further addition of water; the only commodity still plentiful. Occasionally a biscuit, with an infinitesimal portion of cheese. All swilled down with issued ersatz coffee of crushed acorns, if you could stomach that beverage. Then an Abdulla cigarette, passed round for a ‘drag’ until you got to the pin at the smoked out butt end, all rather like an Indian Pow Wow pipe of peace.
Then conversation and ‘experiences’ of men who, before the war, had followed diverse occupations: diamond mining, timber felling, Canadian trapping, District Commissioner in India. Life had become fuller again as stomachs became fuller. An occasional discussion on religion brought on your own realisation of how little thought you had given to this subject, and you recalled a little shamefacedly that Drumhead Service when you and thousands of other new prisoners had knelt and given thanks on that Easter Sunday, some days after capture, conducted by that South African Padre with one arm only and one eye. He who refused to be repatriated on account of his disabilities because, as he said, “I can do God’s work in a Prison Camp.” And then you thought of the little camp chapel, with its dwindling attendances as parcels became more plentiful and the war news from the Western Front and the High Seas gave hope of a return home. As one cynic remarked, “Let’s hope the Almighty has a sense of humour,” as he recalls that pious service of thanksgiving on that first Easter in captivity, when “Morgens, caput” seemed quite a possibility.
Josiah Roger Lloyd Atkins
Many thanks to Forces War Records for allowing me to use this article, and I would encourage everyone to visit their excellent and very informative site.
If you would like to view the original article, it appeared in Forces War Records Magazine dated January 2016, and is available at the following link:-
www.forces-war-records.co.uk/magazine/issues/2016/01/content/assets/basic-html/page-I.html