Old Comrades
We were twelve days in an unheated train, with wooden seats, two guards per prisoner, travelling up through all the lower European countries. What a dreadful journey. Black bread, occasional soup, a little German sausage, little sleep and hopeless conversation. The Grand Tour, indeed! Eventually we arrived at Frankfurt, the infamous interrogation centre known as Dulag Luft. In the streets of the city, where it was already very cold and snowing, I remember my first shock at seeing a large squad of Russian prisoners, mainly women, who were being marched through the streets, clad literally in rags and old bits of blankets, without shoes, but with rags and newspapers wrapped and tied around their feet. These people were treated as slave labour, and I was to learn a lot more about such treatment in the next 15 months.
At the interrogation centre, I was strip-searched and placed in a single narrow cell, containing an iron bed, and given two thin blankets and a hard pillow. My shoes and personal possessions were taken from me. Small meals were given, consisting of dark, rye bread and thin jam for breakfast, with "ersatz' coffee made from roasted acorns; thin vegetable soup and another piece of bread for the midday and evening meal.
I stayed in this cell for four days, relieved only by being allowed to go to the lavatory by summoning the guard when necessary, and by my interrogation. At the latter, I was told by my interrogator that I could be "shot as a spy" if I did not answer all the questions put to me. I insisted that I was required by international law to give only my name, rank and number. As in Greece, it was obvious that much was already known about my squadron, where I had flown from, etc. I gave the minimum information that I thought would satisfy the officer, and was allowed back to my cell.
On one of my visits to the toilet, I managed to whisper a few words to another prisoner there. We were, of course, forbidden to communicate, and each of us had his own sentry overlooking our activities. The other prisoner was George Lloyd, a navigator from a bomber squadron, with whom I became close friends.
After four days at Dulag Luft I was sent to Stalag IVB, at Muhlberg, central Germany, and from here my P.O.W. adventures really began. Incidentally, the rest of my Squadron mates finished their tour of operations, and were back in England in time for Christmas 1943. I often think I was unlucky. I could have been with them. However, I would undoubtedly have gone on to another tour, probably on Mosquitoes for flying operations, over Norway and Europe, and who knows? I might have "bought" it. Instead, it was my dear mother who was the victim. Killed by a V2 rocket on our outer London home, before I arrived back. More about that later.