The fighting is now less than 20 kilometres away and we can hear the guns at night. There are aircraft overhead. But they are spotter planes for the artillery. There is little or no German opposition. They are just falling back because they are sick and tired and hungry. Our camp is left with only a few guards. The supplies are almost finished. Everything has been distributed. It is now almost the end of April 1945, it is warm in the sunshine, and the tanks of the 7th British armoured division are advancing in line and are within sight. There is a mad roar as the tanks just drive through the barbed wire entanglements.
Many of the British prisoners had been in captivity since Dunkirk. One airman was taken prisoner on the first or second day of the war, when his plane crash-landed in Germany. Within an hour of freedom ambulances, Red Cross units and Salvation Army mobile units as well as Church Army units were now distributing food, cigarettes and clothing with the result that many simply made themselves ill eating. We remained in camp for three days until all the bed patients who were well enough could be removed to hospital in Britain. The Americans were first to go. They travelled south in long convoys of trucks.
We left on the third day and travelled about seventy miles south by road to a camp already prepared. We lived in tents. Next to the camp was a big airfield. The following day we flew to Brussels in Dakota aircraft, where we stayed for three days. From here we flew to Horsham in England in Sterling bombers. It was the journey in the Dakota twin engine plane that interested me most. It was my first time in a plane and I enjoyed it thoroughly. It was not unlike being in a bus on a rather bumpy road. The plane lost height over woods because, I learned, of air pockets. It was a beautiful sunny day and we got a grandstand view of the south of Germany and Holland, which had been a gigantic battlefield. The roads and fields were littered with burned out tanks, trucks, motor vehicles and planes of all descriptions. Just north of the river Rhine was the worst. There I seen dozens of gliders. I remember the stories we used to hear about the Rhine Crossing. There were many attempts made but all had failed. A German guard once told me that a crossing had been made successfully. But after several days’ severe fighting we had been driven back. That was the worst news of all. The Prison Hospital at Düsseldorf was terrible for rumours or stories. We heard the war was over several times. We heard Churchill had arrived in Germany to talk peace. We heard New York had been bombed and all women and children had been evacuated. But the only reliable information came from the new prisoners coming in straight from the front. This was the information the German guards relied on. One day at 11B a guard, knowing I was new in the camp, asked through an interpreter where I had been taken prisoner. But I misunderstood and told him where I had just come from, which was Düsseldorf. I gave him to understand that we had crossed the Rhine. The guard ran away shouting excitedly and it was a long time before I was able to grasp the situation.
I did not like the way some of our men behaved towards the German guards when it became clear the war was almost over. It happened in only a few cases. I am happy to say a very small number of prisoners insulted and laughed at the guards and jeered at them and made life intolerable for them. This was an awful pity because I found the German soldier to be a good and clean fighter, at the front, in hospitals and prisons. The doctors and nurses were good and kind, friendly and helpful. The officers and guards respected the prisoners, and gave them what little they had. I was hopping mad when I heard that some prisoners made serious complaints against the staff of Stalag 11 B. I even heard that some officers were sent to prison for alleged ill-treatment of prisoners. But by the time the news reached me it was too late to do anything. I did, however, make a report to the competent authority of my own personal experience.
I spent my three months’ holiday in Leeds because it was convenient to attend the hospital for treatment. My right leg was completely healed in a month. It took several months before I was able to regain the full use of my right hand. I was stationed in Edinburgh for the last six months of my service, and it was here I met an officer, Lt Malcolm Stewart who I had helped to carry from the minefield on Walcheren Island, and he told me he could dance quite well with his artificial leg (he lost his leg from below the knee). I was demobbed in December 1945 and discharged about six months later.
15
I Return to Civilian Life
I was employed on inspection work for the Ministry of Supplies in the north of England and travelled to various factories where government uniforms were being made. I worked mainly in Leeds, Middlesbrough, Newcastle, Dewsbury and Bradford. It was my job to examine and pass or reject the finished garments. I found this work very easy, but interesting, as I liked the travelling about to various factories in different towns. I had never worked in English factories before, where suits are mass produced, and are manufactured almost completely by machine. It is so much different to the old handicraft method.
The man I served my time with at home after leaving school often talked about mass-produced or modern methods, where a garment was handled by 50 or more people, which cut down the cost of production, resulting in a cheaper suit, which was more in keeping with present-day requirements, after all people of to-day didn’t want a suit to last ten years, like their fathers. They wanted something cheap to be cast off after a year or two. This new divisional system, as it’s often called, is said to have been started by a group of Russian Jewish tailors who began to work their way westwards during the last 100 years, due to economic and political conditions at home. The new methods of manufacture require far less skill, as each person is only responsible for one operation, for example pockets, linings, collars, sleeves, etc. The main reason for this new system was cheap labour. Children could be taught a single operation in a matter of weeks. Tailoring was once a trade for men, but now there are about three women to every man, probably because they seem to be more efficient in mass production methods, and also due to the shortage of men from 1914 until 1918, when this divisional system really got a grip in this country.
This job lasted almost two years and I must say I was beginning to really enjoy life. I had learned to mix and enjoy people’s company instead of being the odd man out. I was no longer afraid of people. I had learned to cast aside that terrible inferiority complex. I didn’t blush or tremble when I met superiors. I didn’t jump out of my skin when my name was called. Yet I was not afraid to fly in an aircraft, and thought it strange when I seen a fine big healthy looking chap having to be assisted on board the Dakota. He was ill all the journey. I found out at the front, that other people had fears as well, and the different way in which they were affected. One officer we had whenever he went on night reconnaissance patrol, lost his voice and had all the symptoms of a severe cold, but was well again next day. One chap who was terrified of mines after seeing several people blown up when they walked on to mines, always got pains in his feet and legs when walking through fields where there was likely to be mines. Yet when walking along the road he was in perfect health. We had another chap called Spud Thompson. He was in charge of the Bren gun, which was always out of action at night. The gun was out of order so it wouldn’t fire. I feel sure that this gun was deliberately put out of action so that he would not give his position away by firing. For a whole week I tried to get a chance to strip down the gun because I think there was a faulty part, which was put there on purpose. On my last night at the front when we were attacking Waldefeucht we were depending on the Bren gun for support. I said to Thompson on the way to the village, I hope your gun is OK. He answered, it’s no good, it won’t fire. I made up my mind there and then to have the gun examined the following day. This same chap didn’t like doing guard duties at night. It was the practice for the sentry to hand over a pocket watch to the next man, but when the morning came the watch was always an hour or two fast. Instead of doing an hour on sentry, Thompson would do half an hour, and put the watch on half an hour. It took us a whole month to find out who the culprit was. I caught him by borrowing a second watch and checking
the time when he was being relieved. He actually put the watch on half an hour on two occasions the same night. This man was a proper show-off and a bully behind the line.
Yes I had beaten most of my fears. I learned to cycle, I learned to drive a car, but failed in the test, which didn’t worry me because I feel I could pass another time. I learned to swim, and done a lot of mountaineering whilst in the Himalayas. So there was a good deal to be thankful for. I was afraid of going in the boxing ring, not so much of being hurt as being laughed at. I did eventually put my name down and entered the ring at the depot in Berwick on Tweed. But my opponent had such long arms I couldn’t get near him.
I was made redundant from the Ministry of Supplies with forty others for economy reasons. After working a year in Leeds and Halifax in factories I decided to take a holiday in Dublin with a view to settling down there eventually. It was during the winter of 1948-9 I caught the train to Liverpool and the night boat to the North Wall. It was many years since I had been to Ireland and the last few years had made me almost forget my school days which by now was just a bad dream. I had just been unlucky in going to a bad school at a bad time. It was all so long ago and nothing like that could possibly happen to-day. What really made me forget was the fact that during the last twelve years I had only met a handful of Irish people. But now I was getting ready to disembark in a country where there was a lot of my own people. It was about 7 a.m. when I put my bag in the left luggage office at Amiens Street Railway Station, before having a walk round for an hour or two, before looking for accommodation. My first impression of Dublin was good. Previously I had only passed through it and didn’t take much notice. But there seemed to be a lot of business as the people rushed here and there on foot or on bicycles. I was quite pleased with what I saw. I bought a paper and had breakfast and moved into a small hotel near the city centre. About eleven I wandered out again. There was less activity now but I didn’t think much about it. I wandered into a public house where I imagined they got first-hand information, economically. I made conversation with the boss or landlord by asking him to have a drink. He refused by saying ‘I don’t drink that stuff, I only sell it.’ He appeared to have a load on his mind but wasn’t unfriendly. We had a chat. ‘What are you doing in Dublin?’ he asked. ‘Oh, just came over for a holiday from Yorkshire’ I answered, ‘and to look for a job.’ ‘What are you talking about man? A job in this city? Sure, there’s a stampede every night for the boat to get away from it.’ But I said ‘the city appeared to be busy enough this morning’. ‘What’s wrong with you man, sure it’s only mass they were going to.’ ‘If they spent only half as much time working as they spend praying we should be a happier people. Dublin is the most religious capital city in the world. Yet we have the greatest percentage of rogues and bloody liars. My house has been broken into three times in the last year, and the last time I was robbed they even took away my tea and sugar.’
I spent the next few days going around the clothing factories but they were sacking people because of lack of orders. I did however hear of a small factory near Guinness’ Brewery, where there may be a chance of a job. It was late in the evening when I got there and found everyone kneeling down saying the rosary. I was told they always spent the last quarter hour praying.
I decided against going home just yet, and promised myself that I would probably do so next summer, so I returned to Leeds, Yorkshire. On my first evening in Leeds I met Christy Joyce, a tailor I used to work with. He said he was on his way to the Fenton Hotel and ‘would I care to come along’. As we were standing in the passage having a beer we could see into the public bar, and Christy recognised a chap he knew, and said ‘Let’s go into the public bar, I want you to meet a tailor called Tom Thornton, a chap with one leg.’ As we were being introduced, Thornton recognised me immediately, and before I had a chance to speak ‘O yes, I know Peter, we met in Ballinrobe’ said Thornton, and as he did so gave me a wink. There was no mention of Letterfrack (I have never been to Ballinrobe). When Thornton and I were alone for a few seconds, he said very quickly ‘Don’t say anything about Letterfrack, if ever you want to speak about the school, always call it the SHIP.’ It is the most awful disgrace in the world to be identified as a boy from the Christian Brothers. I had forgotten about this and I had actually told several lads about Letterfrack including Christy Joyce.
I arranged to meet Thornton the following night. This is the news I received the following evening. Mr Griffin was dead. Brother Dooley became manager after I left. Brother Vale had entered a mental home and had since died there. Big McLaughlin (or Kangaroo) was in a mental home. Joe Baker, who had been severely beaten by Brother Fahy and left bleeding from the mouth and nose, had died shortly after leaving school.
I went to London where I heard wages were much higher than in the Midlands, and found great changes since 1935. In spite of the bombing, and the great shortage of houses, the population had increased by several millions. I spent a day in the east end, and found that whole streets had disappeared. Later I went to north London to find digs but was shocked and amazed to learn that the Irish were most unpopular. Most landladies simply shut the door in my face when they learned I was Irish. They usually asked what nationality you were. This was a new experience to me. One landlady was more friendly and advised me to go to the Irish quarter. I said I didn’t know that there was such a place. ‘Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘Camden Town is where most Irish people live. There they can get drunk and fight as much as they like. We always had Irish lads here until they started going about with bombs in their pockets, just before the war.’ ‘I am sorry,’ she added, ‘I don’t wish to offend you, but your lads are too big a risk.’ Every word cut into me like a knife. I didn’t look for digs any more that day, but wandered about the streets, I couldn’t think clearly any more.
I stayed in an expensive hotel that night, but never slept. The following morning I was thinking of returning to the Midlands but changed my mind. This would only be running away. I must stay at least long enough to see for myself whether or not this is true, and try to find out the cause of such behaviour and the best way to find out would be to move into Camden town. I wasn’t worried about a job just yet. Besides, I understood there was plenty of work in my trade.
I tried a number of boarding houses in Camden town, and was offered digs in three different houses. It just meant moving another single bed into a room where there were already six or seven people sleeping. There was no such thing as a chair or table or even a wardrobe. Such furniture was only in the way and took up valuable space. I tried another house but would have to share a double bed, which I refused, explaining that I was a poor sleeper. I was told to come back later in the evening as there may be a vacant single bed in the room upstairs which was an attic. There had been a boy there for a week, but he had not been seen for several days, and she wasn’t sure whether he was coming back or not. His money was overdue. His bed had not been slept in for two nights. But there was an old suitcase under his bed. This meant nothing as lots of chaps often left their old clothes behind. I returned later that night and was given the single bed. I shall probably never find out what happened to Paddy Rooney, the lad who slept there before me. At least that was the name I seen on an envelope I found under the bed. The landlady informed me that ‘it was the normal routine for the lads to leave without saying anything. It would be a good thing if people were compelled to give a week’s notice’. She told me about a chap called Pat Tracey who stayed there for several months, and left owing two weeks’ rent. She would not have known where he was, only for her husband happened to drop into the barber’s down the street. Pat had told the barber he was going back to Ireland but didn’t think of telling the people he stayed with.
The lads in my room were nice enough. Three used to go out to work early and come straight home for their tea except when they decided to go straight into the pub from work. This often happened on Friday night, and they would arrive home any old time between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. They al
ways brought back a few bottles of beer, and fish and chips, and of course they had to wake me up for a drop of beer and a few chips. Martin Joyce from Ballina had been a P.O.W. in Italy for two years. He was taken prisoner in North Africa. He was an awful man for talking and would often sit on my bed until three in the morning, telling stories about his captivity. I often went to the post office with Martin on Saturday to write a letter for him to his brother at home. The writing was never done in the digs in case anyone should find out that Martin was illiterate. Martin thought it a terrible disgrace not to be able to read or write. I told him I had two brothers who could neither read nor write on leaving school. But one has since learned and is now quite good. I told Martin that he could learn very quickly because he was very intelligent and he had a good memory which was true. I did start to teach him and he was progressing favourably but got tired after a week. He just would not persevere. Once he said ‘I can’t learn because I am too stupid.’
Once in the room one of the other lads passed a newspaper to Martin to let him read an interesting article. Martin glanced at the paper for a few minutes pretending to read it. Instead of saying, ‘Please read it for me, as I am illiterate’, he gave to understand that he had read the paper, which was all so foolish and unforgivable. Why be ashamed or afraid to admit something which is a fact? It seems to me that Martin is going to go through life telling a lie, a lie which is all so silly and can never do him any good. On the other hand, it could be the basis of an inferiority complex, which may be injurious to his own health.
Every Saturday night was like the New Year in Scotland. There were people coming in at all times. I heard a clock strike four as the front door banged for the last time. There was talking and singing and the wireless was full on downstairs. There was one or two arguments outside in the street which sometimes finished up in a fight. But there was no fighting in the house during the time I was there. I never realized how many were in that house until Sunday morning. I heard people moving about just after 8 o’clock. But the rush hour was really between 10 and 11. Over twenty chaps had to get washed and shaved and have their breakfast before eleven o’clock mass. There were three sitting for breakfast in a rather small kitchen, but the last sitting was always late for mass which didn’t seem to worry anyone. It was a very quiet house after eleven. Everyone went to mass, or at least gave to understand they were going. But I know that many didn’t go because I used to see them standing piously outside the pub at 11.45 a.m., with both hands in the trousers pockets of their blue suit, and giving an occasional glance down at their brown shoes.
Founded on Fear Page 25