The officers were taken away in a truck and all the uninjured men were marched away towards Abbeville. Quite a long way to march they thought. They had no idea that they were setting out on a march that would take them up into Belgium and across Holland. They were tired and excruciatingly hungry. They would march for six weeks with barely any normal food and sleep on the ground where they stopped each night.
The other half of the battalion got away to the south and skimmed round the edge of St. Valery-en-Caux and managed to get to Le Havre and home to the UK not knowing that Ian’s C Company and the remnants of D Company were now prisoners of war. The rest of what was left of the 51 division converged on the town of St. Valery-en-Caux. They had hoped to be evacuated from Le Havre but Rommel and his Ghost Division swept rapidly down and across to the sea to cut off their escape route. Once in St. Valery, General Fortune refused to surrender and the town was shelled heavily for two days. When ships eventually arrived to take off the besieged 51 the weather was turning bad and Rommel's guns were in good position above the harbour to sink or turn around the rescue vessels. On June 12 it was eventually over.
Many years later Ian Black and his comrades would maintain that they were captured at St. Valery probably because they had heard mention of the other St. Valery on the Somme. The two towns of the same name are less than fifty miles apart. With so much movement, forward, back and sideways it is little wonder that they didn’t really know exactly where they were.
In any case be it Belloy, St Valery-en-Caux or any point between there and St. Valery-sur-Somme, those who hadn’t died or escaped were, by the middle of June, plodding north–east and a long way from home. And back home Churchill, in a seven-page presentation on June 18th, told everyone that “This was their finest hour.” Was he a brilliant orator? Or was he an incompetent idiot? Or was he a war hungry zealot?
The Chateau de Belloy survived, more or less. Today it has one less floor than it had then. Hiding sleepily behind the trees, just visible from the road, it offers few clues to the passer-by of its heroic moments.
The Chateau Belloy
15. STALAG XXA
France to Poland, June to July 1940
Hungry bellies, angry minds, tired souls and hurting wounds, united in profound depression, officers, middle ranks and common soldiers, they marched north from Abbeville up by Lille across into Flanders in Belgium. About twenty miles a day, easy for these men a few weeks ago, now each step was an agonising effort. The disappointment of losing, the humiliation of giving up and the sad loss of friends would have been enough to wear them down but their physical condition also deteriorated rapidly.
Quite a number had some form of injury but still had to march, including Ian, with his bandaged knee. In the few days of fighting they had effectively not eaten or slept. Now they slept on the bare earth and there was no provision of food. Along the way some French women offered food and water as they passed but these women were brutally beaten back with rifle butts by the guards. At the moment of capture the men had been dealt with surprisingly cordially. They had fought as soldiers against professionally disciplined enemy soldiers. But their captors were forward advancing troops whose main purpose was to continue their advance, bury their dead and push on. Prisoners were passed back to second and third line forces who wanted to be able to tell their grandchildren that they had whipped the British.
While still in France and Belgium the temptation and the practicality of escape existed so the line of march was strictly and cruelly imposed. A few unfortunate lads with the beginnings of “the runs” were summarily shot for moving out of the line to relieve themselves behind a tree. On the 14 of June just before they entered Belgium three members of C Company slipped away. Sandy MacDonald, Ginger Wilson and Willie Kemp (the lad with the grenade), all from Ballachulish, parted from the rest and escaped south into Spain. In later years they became something of a folk legend around the Highlands. They were stopped several times and each time spoke only Gaelic, so that they were miraculously allowed to go on their way. They arrived back in Scotland in late July and were subsequently decorated. But the escape of a few made life more hazardous for those left behind.
On the other hand this was war, not renowned for its niceties. With the Geneva Convention all captured personnel expected reasonable treatment. However, inexperience, incompetence, fear, disorder, all more prevalent in the rearguard lines of any army, could easily lead to thoughtless cruelty. Remember the German officer, caught by the Oban lads? What became of him? He was marched south at bayonet point as the captured Scots marched north. A and B company had marched all night on the nights of 6 and 7 so on the 8 they were nervous and irritable. They came upon a German patrol. The prisoner called out. He was bayoneted to death. Was this fair treatment under the Geneva Convention? Or was it the common spontaneous action of men at war? Was it any different to the men who were executed for going to take a shit behind a tree? War is the demon not the soldier.
It is doubtful that the captured Scots would have had much sympathy for the German officer. By the time they had their first meal they had been marching about four days so that effectively they had been a week without food. From the end of May until the middle of June about thirty thousand joined this march, one third British, two thirds French. The British lads had nothing but their uniforms and tin helmets while the French had bits and pieces of equipment.
On the fourth night they stopped and the French cooked up a scavenged soup, mostly of nettles. The Highlanders got their share in their tin helmets. Tough luck for those who had thrown their helmet away. Sometimes they passed apple trees, sometimes peaches or cherries by the roadside but many were not fully ripe and often aggravated the tummy problems. There was no formal issue of food until they stopped in Flanders on the 23 of June. Red Cross officials were there to monitor the situation and provide a little bread and some food was given by the local people. With the Red Cross watching, the bullyboys were less in evidence. Prisoner lists were registered so from then on there was some small measure of protection.
Up and on, they arrived on the 3 of July in the town of Hulst in Holland. Hulst is like an island, surrounded by canals, and at that time was the convergence point of coal barges. All the British prisoners were separated here from the French and loaded onto these coal barges. At first they were forced to go below and the hatches were battened down. They set off east towards the Rhine and the stench and black coal-dust became intolerable in the July heat. The guards here were older men, more tolerant, and they opened the hatches to let the prisoners breathe. At least here nobody was shot for going behind a tree. Bodily functions had to be performed hanging from a pole across the water. They weren’t shot for falling off but quite a few had to be fished from the canals. The older guards also allowed the Dutch people to give them food and drink but there was only one stop in the three-day journey.
They arrived at the Rhine port of Emmerich on the 3 of July, wretchedly hungry, filthy and ridden with body lice. Nobody was in any doubt that they were on the defeated side. Nobody felt inspired to think that “This was their finest hour.” The next day they were crammed into railway horse-wagons, forty men, a bucket as a toilet, a lump of black bread, some water and the doors barred shut. They rolled on, destination unknown and with a couple of stops to empty the buckets they arrived at their final stop on July 11. They had been on the move for over a month but they still had a few miles to march.
Torun, Poland, one hundred miles north of Warsaw, birthplace of Nicholas Copernicus who first proclaimed that the Earth was round. Torun was and still is a beautiful little gingerbread town on the banks of the wide flowing Vistula. At that time the Germans had renamed it Thorn. South of the river in an area called Podgorz was a group of stone forts. This was the base of the prisoner of war camp designated the name Stalag XXA. This was the end of the line.
Not everyone from the Argylls went to Stalag XXA. The officers went to Oflags in Germany. After that the fighting units were significantly separ
ated, firstly by injuries, then by the long straggling march and then they were broken up randomly and sent various places by the guards. When Ian arrived at Torun there was nobody in his immediate group that he had fought alongside. Later as some came from St. Valery there were a few that he knew or had seen from other regiments. The main camp was a fort called Karola Kniaziewicza but to the Germans and their prisoners it was Fort 13. It is, nowadays, a training base of the Polish Airforce. There were 16 forts in all, used in varying ways as part of the prison camp.
At first sight Podgorz was, for Ian, not unlike his homeland of Barcaldine and Appin. Walking from the station to the fort reminded him of the walk from the station in Benderloch to Teenie’s house at Baravullin. There were old pine trees, sycamores and elms and scattered patches of silver birch trees much like home. The houses were small and few in number, wooden or stone built, some with corrugated iron roof but most with red tiles. Chickens picked at the earth and dogs barked as they passed down the wooded lane. But this was not home. This was a foreign land. Faces peered from behind curtains as they went by, disappearing quickly when a guard came into view.
Yes, the landscape was very like Lorne area but something was missing. The hills, the mountains, the large looming Ben Lora, the purple, heather covered mountains of Mull, always there in the background. This country had no hills. This country had no heather, no bracken.
“Strange!” Ian thought, “this land where trees are the same but the undergrowth so different.” How long would they be here? What would they do in this foreign land? Where were they? Murmured guesses passed up and down the marching line. Someone asked a guard. Poland. What the hell were they doing in Poland? The irony was lost on most of the bedraggled column of Scots. Britain had entered the war in virtuous defence of Poland. Here they were now, captive, in the land they were supposed to defend.
Each man had to strip while his filthy clothes were washed. Each head was shaved, a welcome move since it got rid of the lice. Later with the clothes returned a number was hung around each man’s neck and his photograph taken. They were now officially prisoners of the Third Reich. Ian Black was number 16622.
They were surprised to find a community of prisoners already established. The forts and the few outbuildings were occupied by those who fought the rearguard at Dunkirk. Many from the other regiments who had tried to take the bridgehead at Abbeville had just arrived two days before. They were busy at work erecting enormous tents. Within the next week, when the remnants of the 51 Division arrived, the numbers of British inmates would swell to eighteen thousand, mostly living in tents. The town of Torun across the river had a population less than half of that. There was going to be good business for the sawmills of the area as tons of wooden boards began to arrive for the construction of huts before the winter snows descended.
On the 31 of July the Red Cross sent an inspection team to check on the conditions within the burgeoning camp. They compiled a seven-page report on the situation of the prisoners, living quarters, nutrition, hospital facilities and urgent requirements. They praised the excellent level of administration within the camp and were assured by the Kommandant, Major Widner, that should the British Red Cross supply extra underwear, toiletry items and food it would be fairly and efficiently distributed to the prisoners. Unfortunately this report did not land on the correct desk in Whitehall till the end of September and the snows of winter would be well on the way before the first parcels began to arrive. In the meantime the International Red Cross had already started to try and fill the gap. But for the next few weeks the 18,000 hungry stomachs received a daily diet of watery soup made from bad quality potatoes and kale leaves.
The hospital in Fort 14 came in for more severe criticism. Medical care was adequate but the building, dark, unventilated and unsuited to the purpose. The situation was aggravated by a large number of men whose injuries would deem them “unfit for normal duties.” Immediate repatriation was the Red Cross recommendation. This proposal was readily accepted by the Germans. They did not want these men. They had no use for them and no great wish to spend critical resources caring for them. But the corridors of power in Whitehall were not about to jump to the demands of the Nazi Hun even if rubber-stamped by the Red Cross. Many had to wait till the beginning of 1941. Some never made it through the winter.
The first word on everyone’s mind was escape. How could they escape? Tall wooden watchtowers, trigger-happy guards, high barbed fences and not the slightest notion of where they were nor where to go. Escape had only one easy answer, only one route. With chronic illness or injury they went to the hospital. The Germans had agreed to repatriate anyone shown to be unfit, so it was simply a case of finding a chronic illness that was not too chronic.
Ian swallowed a small piece of silver paper from a cigarette pack. He told a guard that he had to see a doctor urgently.
“Was ist los?” Asked the guard.
Ian clutched at his stomach. “It’s an ulcer, a duodenal ulcer and I think it’s going to perforate. I need the doctor urgently.”
He was marched off to Fort 14, half a mile down the lane, feigning pain all the way. He expected to be taken for an ex-ray but instead joined a line of other “walking wounded” most of whom seemed to be no worse than himself. A young lad came out of the doctor’s room, buttoning up his clothes.
“Some bloody doctor! He just asks if you smoke and then tells you cigarettes are bad for the stomach seelbern folly,” said the soldier, mispronouncing the German for silver paper. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
Eventually it was Ian’s turn. The doctor didn’t even look up.
“Tell me, soldier! Do you smoke?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you do with the silver paper? I do hope you haven’t been eating it. It can scratch your insides, you know. We may have to pump your stomach if you do that. Now, tell me. What’s your problem?”
“Aye, well, I had some stomach pains but they seem to have gone away. I think I’m OK now.”
He went out and joined a small group of others waiting, looking a bit humble. They were marched back to their tents at double time. Poor Ian, thirty years later he would receive a war pension mostly on the basis of stomach ulcers caused by prison food.
16. THE NEWS HITS HOME
Benderloch, June- December 1940
Calum MacKenzie came home. He got away at Dunkirk. With him, and the few that got away, the news hit home. Some of the boys were not coming back. How many had died: how many were prisoners: nobody knew. The newspapers and radio were full of the marvellous evacuation at Dunkirk. Nothing was said about the 51 Division left behind. A deep worry settled into the Scottish Highlands; memories of 1914-18 and the losses sustained by the 51 Division. Mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, loved ones all began to worry.
Everybody knew that something had gone wrong but news came in wisps of rumour. Nobody could say for sure what had happened. It was all very unclear. Despite the rhetoric and upbeat reports on the withdrawal at Dunkirk nobody could fathom what had happened and even less what part the 51 played in the picture. The problem was that France had capitulated and the entire Highland Division, with few exceptions were killed or taken prisoner. There was no positive communication link by which the British Government could receive this news and impart it to the families. They knew in their hearts what had happened but official confirmation took some weeks.
About 250 of the 8 Argylls got back home, many of whom were from Oban, but they couldn’t tell anybody about the fate of their loved ones. They simply didn’t know who had died or who was in captivity and in any case they were recalled quickly to band together a new 8 Argylls to go to North Africa. All across the Highlands and Western Islands and down to the Clyde Valley thousands of parents, wives, lovers, families and friends had to wait till around August to know about their men-folk.
On the 10 of August Donald MacKenzie received a small buff coloured postcard, “ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE”. He was in the gar
den and took the card from the postman. It was the fold-over type that was opened by tearing away the sides and top. Opened up flat it was Army Form B. 104-83A.
“SIR OR MADAM” it began but with the “or madam” crossed out.
“I have to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that (No.) 2975808 (Rank) P/te (Name) Kenneth Keith Stewart MacKenzie (Regiment) Gordon Highlanders is a Prisoner of War in Stalag XXIA Germany.
Should any further information be received concerning him, such information will at once be communicated to you.
Instructions as to the method of communicating with Prisoners of War can be obtained at any Post Office.”
Donald didn’t read the signature at the bottom. His hand was trembling as he turned back into the cottage to tell Jessie. He remembered how, as postman, he had delivered the same card to so many families in the last war. At least it wasn’t the other more dreaded B104 that informed people equally coldly that Number, Rank, Name and Regiment was reported missing in action and everyone knew that “any other information received” would most probably be that the serviceman had died. At least Kenny was alive. Maybe soon he would write.
In fact his postkard arrived two days later along with one for Teenie from Ian. The prison camp postal service was quicker than the British War Office. Both cards were equally brief just saying that they were prisoners but that they were alright. Teenie’s sister Katy received the postcard from her husband Gillies before the B104 from the Army. Ian’s B104 notification went to his father at the Rest Home in Oban. In many ways the MacKenzie family felt “lucky”. All but Calum were in prison camps goodness knew where but they were alive. Around the villages there were families who received sadder news. After the initial apprehension about the three “boys” there was great amusement on receipt of a letter as they tried to get their tongues round Kriegsgefangenen (Prisoners of War).
Across the Bridge Page 10