Wojtek the Bear [paperback]

by Orr, Aileen;

  Not unnaturally, Wojtek was a big attraction to local children, who would often come up to the camp to see the huge, exotic animal. For them the excitement was simply to get close, to stroke his fur or to give him a titbit, which he always accepted most politely. However, one day a local boy decided to play a prank on Wojtek, by wrapping a sweet paper round a stone and giving it to him. Wojtek, who had a very sweet tooth, swiftly unwrapped his present using his highly mobile and dexterous lips. When he discovered he had been tricked he let out an angry roar and with lightning speed grabbed his tormentor. The squeals of the captive boy and Wojtek’s roaring quickly brought Polish soldiers running to investigate the commotion and Wojtek released the boy. Order having been restored, they questioned the lad about what had happened. Shamefaced, the boy confessed, and it was he, not Wojtek, who got the telling-off.

  While Wojtek was eternally fascinating to children (and he liked them too), adults weren’t immune to his charms and often would stop by. One of the most regular visitors was my grandfather, Jim Little. He called in several times a week to check that the men in the camp had everything they needed, and no trip was complete without a social call on Wojtek. Bear and man would stand there of an evening, communing sociably, Jim chain-smoking as usual. Every so often the bear would hold out a huge paw, asking for a cigarette and would usually be given one, which he ate with great gusto. Oddly enough, the cigarette always had to be lit. If it wasn’t he would throw it away. He only ate lit cigarettes. Perhaps there was an aroma of burning tobacco that he liked, or perhaps they had to be exactly the same as the cigarettes the men had in their mouths; no one has ever solved the mystery. He never appeared to burn himself as he chomped on them.

  It was a strange friendship between my grandfather and the bear. They may have shared the same small vice of cigarettes but there their paths diverged. My grandfather was a staunch teetotaller while Wojtek would have sold his soul to the devil for a bottle of beer. He had a huge liking for alcohol and obviously enjoyed its effect. He was rationed to two bottles of beer a day when it was available. But on high days and holidays, when he talked his way into a bottle of wine, he occasionally got tipsy and would go about the camp, as they say in Scotland, ‘by the light of his eye’. A Happy Warrior, indeed.

  On occasion, Wojtek’s bear side outweighed his human traits. When it came to food he was an incorrigible sneak thief, always with an eye out for the main chance. One bleak autumn day, with a bitter wind blowing in off the North Sea which was visible from the camp, Wojtek was on the prowl. Coming from the cookhouse was the magnificent smell of freshly prepared food. The scent was irresistible for a hungry bear. Everyone was aware of Wojtek’s weakness for food so around the cookhouse strict security was always observed. The doors into the kitchens were always firmly closed because Wojtek’s fellow soldiers knew that if he spotted a chink in the cookhouse defences there was absolutely no way of stopping him if he decided to make a lightning raid. When a 500-pound bear is on the make, and hellbent on going through an incautiously open door to reach food, you just have to get out of his way.

  This particular day there were no doors open, and unsuspecting kitchen staff, many of them local girls who arrived daily to prepare meals for the camp, were going about their usual chores. Wojtek, when he was casing the joint, had noted the kitchen windows were open to release the steam and heat from the boiling pots and pans in the kitchen. The scent of the cooking was irresistible. With a great deal of misplaced optimism, he crept up to one of the Nissen hut windows and started to climb through it.

  Peter Prendys, hearing first screams of alarm, then howls of laughter, knew instantly that the bear was involved. He dashed to the cookhouse as Polish servicemen began appearing from all directions. There they found Wojtek firmly stuck in the metal-framed window, half in, half out.

  Head in the kitchens, body outside, he was struggling frantically to escape. With the smell of food still in his nostrils, he was still bent on getting inside – a task that was becoming even more difficult because a group of soldiers were clinging to his body and hind legs and were pulling him in the other direction. Watching this bizarre tug-of-war, the local workers trapped inside the hut didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. After some considerable time, Wojtek was extracted from the window and given a thorough dressing-down by Peter for his bad manners and disgraceful behaviour.

  No one could chastise Wojtek like Peter. When on the receiving end of one of Peter’s scoldings, the bear had a well-practised penitent’s routine. First he would pretend to cry, covering his eyes with his huge front paws. Then, after a decent interval, he would peep through them to check Peter’s reaction. If the response was good, without being told, he would go into submissive mode and lie on his back as a sign he was sorry. But if Peter was still angry, Wojtek would stay in his childlike ‘crying’ position until Peter stalked off, or until forgiveness had been made clear.

  The cookhouse window incident proved to be a one-off. Later, when passing the building, Wojtek would sniff wistfully but confine his activities to loitering hopefully at the door. Occasionally his sense of mischief would get the better of him – and he would give the door a quick push if it was ajar, and then beat a hasty retreat. He was no doubt testing the water to see if anyone reacted; there was also a chance that by announcing his presence scraps might be forthcoming. But he had learned that a certain level of behaviour was required – namely, that he stay outside.

  The camp servicemen had to be careful with discarded tins, especially those with jagged edges which could have injured him; Wojtek was always on the lookout for new food sources. No receptacle was left unexamined. Whether placed in rubbish bins or buried in the ground, it would take only a moment for him to unearth a tin and extract the most meagre morsel of discarded food with his long claws. Thus nothing was left to chance. Tins were flattened and bottles emptied of their contents. The men knew the keen Wojtek nose was part radar, part windsock; if there was a food source to be found he quickly homed in on its scent. But his ability to unearth hidden scraps of food was not always unerring. Often it depended on which way the wind was blowing; if he was upwind of a cache of forbidden tins he didn’t pick up its smell.

  Wojtek’s keen powers of observation alerted him to upcoming entertainments at the camp. He very quickly realised that the preparation of large pots of coffee indicated that a gathering of sorts, either for singing or dancing, was in the offing. Another giveaway was the sudden surge of activity in the ablutions hut as the men prepared themselves for the evening ahead with their limited grooming aids. Carbolic soap, Brylcreem and a decent comb were about as good as it got, but there were the occasional gifts of scented soaps or lavender water (in lieu of aftershave) which added to the sense of occasion. The men took great care with their appearance. In fact, it was not unusual for them to paint their fingernails with clear varnish. That may sound somewhat effeminate, but that was far from being the case. They were as tough as (varnished) nails.

  Preparing for a dance when Wojtek was around was sometimes difficult. To the bear, the badger hair shaving brush was always of great interest; so too was the tasty shaving soap which he licked from the shaving mug. As for the act of shaving, that was a wonderment and he would force his way up close to watch the procedure. There must have been many a soldier who went to the dance with a few shaving nicks thanks to Wojtek’s unwanted attentions.

  The bear was also fascinated by mirrors. Gone were the days when, as a cub, he had run away, unnerved by the sight of his own reflection. It should never be forgotten that Wojtek didn’t know he was a bear; he regarded himself as an equal among equals with his comrades. So it was obvious these night-time revels were just as much about him as anyone else.

  Wojtek was not averse to being groomed himself. Anything from a scrubbing brush to a small comb was used to pander to his ego. He considered himself an extremely handsome soldier. He loved to be clean and well groomed, and he was in peak condition when he was living in the camp. His regular
forays up trees often left him quite dishevelled but this was quickly put right by his attentive comrades. Wojtek had several batmen working diligently to make him presentable at all times. But being a bear often overtook his ‘human’ side, and when a muddy puddle looked too inviting to resist he would jump in, undoing all their good work. At this point Peter usually intervened and scolded Wojtek. The bear would stomp off in a huff, but his passion for food and human company always took precedence over hurt pride.

  Even in the worst periods of rationing and shortages after the war, there was one commodity the Polish soldiers never went short of – boot polish. Having been in the company of humans for so long and never having shown any interest in boot polish, everyone assumed he would not eat it. And then one day he did. Not only did he smear the contents all over his face and paws, he also got it inside his mouth. Because he had hidden the tin from sight, no one knew how much polish he had eaten, if it indeed was polish. There were all kinds of dangerous substances lying around, a hangover from the war years. Many of these surplus supplies had been left intact since the nearby airfield had been mothballed. The problem was that without the tin the men had no way of knowing precisely what he had eaten. In the end, Wojtek sheepishly volunteered the large, empty tin of Parade Black polish. Surprisingly, he suffered no after-effects.

  These were the lighter moments of camp life. There were less pleasant experiences for Poles in Scotland and that was one of the reasons my grandfather visited Winfield Camp so regularly. Jim had a tremendous respect for the Polish soldiers, especially their bravery, fighting qualities and sheer levels of endurance. When I was small he used to say to me: ‘If it wasn’t for the Poles, you wouldn’t be standing here as you are now, free. You owe them everything. Never you forget that.’

  It was a strange thing for him to tell a little girl, and, to be truthful, I did forget until my involvement in this project brought it all back again. By then, of course, I had discovered just how much the United Kingdom owes Poland, and I now understand why my grandfather believed the Polish war effort was instrumental in the defeat of Germany. In the Battle of Britain, when the average survival period of fighter pilots was three weeks, it was Polish pilots who fought side-by-side with the RAF.

  But my grandfather’s viewpoint was not one universally held by the Scots, or indeed, the United Kingdom. Despite the creation of the Polish Resettlement Corps, rampant xenophobia, shamefully fanned by some MPs and officials in the Home and Foreign Offices, saw the Poles traduced as reactionary Fascists for their hatred of Communism. The Poles’ anti-Soviet views were not popular among a public still deeply influenced by UK war propaganda which had been highly supportive of the Russians and silent on their treatment of the Poles.

  Indeed, no Polish servicemen were invited by the UK government to take part in the official British Victory Parade in June 1946 – save for a last-minute invitation extended to Polish airmen after complaints by a handful of MPs. The invitation was declined, the airmen – who had fought in the Battle of Britain – preferring to show solidarity with their Polish colleagues so roundly snubbed by the British Establishment.

  Then, of course, there was the issue of employment. Although there were huge manpower shortages, particularly for coal miners and agricultural workers, trade unions agitated for – and got – a government regulation which forbade potential employers from taking on Polish workers: ‘Foreign labour can only be employed when no British labour is available and willing to do the work.’

  In many areas this was interpreted by officialdom as meaning vacancies had to be left open just in case British workers might want the jobs at some time in the future. Jobs remained vacant while Poles were forced to search for work further afield.

  Clumsy handling of the situation reached its absolute nadir when the Attlee government was forced, following an ill-tempered debate in Parliament, to introduce special guidelines to stop Polish musicians playing at dances and socials. The regulation stated: ‘No Member of Polish Units shall play in uniform in public outside the precincts of his camp, whether for a fee or otherwise.’

  That mean-spirited ordinance was most certainly ignored in the Borders. Polish musicians regularly played in schools at Christmas time and at dances they organised at the camp. In fact, the local policeman was in the band! School children loved classroom visits from the camp’s musical groups, and would giggle when they sang well-known songs and carols in Polish instead of English. The men would play instruments such as penny whistles made from tins and cannibalised war surplus. These often would be left behind as presents for the schools.

  But it was the carefully crafted toys which the children, scrubbed clean and smelling of carbolic soap and camphor, their little faces wide-eyed with anticipation, were waiting for. The men would spend months making dolls, dolls’ houses, animals for miniature farms, and many other beautiful toys.

  In postwar Scotland, a party with entertainment and presents was a welcome break from a life of relative poverty. Many of the children had lost their fathers and older brothers in the war. Shorn of family support, they were being raised by mothers holding down low-paid jobs. Luxuries were non-existent. So a party with entertainment, parcels and sometimes a bear out in the school playground (Wojtek wasn’t allowed in classrooms) was almost too much to take in. Those few moments provided memories to be held for a lifetime. Many of the men, of course, had left behind their own children or young brothers and sisters in Poland. For them it was an opportunity to recapture something of the magic of Christmas, as seen through the eyes of youngsters.

  The harshness of reality was never far away. Displaced persons in Scotland had to report every fortnight to the local police station. By the time Wojtek and his companions arrived at Winfield Camp in October 1946, in Scotland there was one Pole to every 141 Scottish nationals; in England and Wales there was one Pole to every 322 English and Welsh nationals. And the strains were showing. Only the year before, 800 Polish soldiers had decided to boycott the Scottish Borders town of Peebles and not fraternise with the local population because the local council had asked the government to send them all back to Poland. In Fife a somewhat illiterate poster campaign was launched:

  ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

  Your Home and Job demands that you

  STOP POLISH INVASION NOW.

  STAND EASY and you’ve ‘Had it Chum’

  In Edinburgh only three months before 22nd Company arrived at Winfield Camp, there were press reports about embittered Polish soldiers creating a disturbance at a public meeting held under the auspices of the British Council, and chaired by the lord provost. They booed and catcalled the Polish ambassador, who was making the main speech, and they eventually had to be ejected by the police.

  Fairly typical of the anti-Polish letters politicians were receiving from the public was the following: ‘. . . it is time they were back in Poland, great lusty fellows simply idling about with nothing to do (but frat with our girls) while Poland needs them now. I am sure you will regret it if you do not act boldly and sensibly and order them to return, they are all without exception anti-Russian and have no good word for our fine, brave allies.’

  It was all a million light years away from Churchill’s rhetoric when prime minister. In his pledge to the Poles at the end of the war, he told the House of Commons: ‘His Majesty’s Government will never forget the debt they owe to the Polish troops who have served them so valiantly and to all those who have fought under our command. I earnestly hope it may be possible to offer them citizenship and freedom of the British Empire, if they so desire . . . But so far as we are concerned we should think it an honour to have such faithful and valiant warriors dwelling among us as if they were men of our own blood.’

  That ringing endorsement was largely ignored. The UK civil service, numerous organisations, unions and politicians, local and national, and even the military, were keen to repatriate the Poles as fast as possible. Forced repatriation was used, but the UK authorities also employed more subtle methods,
tactics extended to the Borders.

  My grandfather told me that when the army’s top brass discovered that soldiers from the King’s Own Scottish Borderers were regular visitors to Winfield Camp they ordered Scots servicemen to encourage the Poles to opt for early repatriation. The KOSB were well aware of what was happening on the ground in Poland under the harsh new Soviet regime. They knew no man returned without consequences and many went back only to be branded traitors. Their fate was sometimes death or imprisonment. With this in mind, the Scots soldiers defied their orders and told the Poles exactly what they knew, soldier to soldier. Some Poles did not believe it and returned to Poland anyway, homesickness outweighing the rumours and warnings. Whatever happened, there were no letters received back in Berwickshire when the men left for Poland. Severe censorship meant it was many years before any record of what happened to them could be traced. Even then the information was pitifully thin.

  The idea that Scots soldiers could be used for political purposes, after all they had been through, seemed to my grandfather a slight on them as well as the Poles. It was very clear to him that the politicians of the day knew precisely what was going on in the Poles’ ravaged homeland. But for political expediency, the inconvenient truth about life in postwar Poland was kept strictly under wraps while Stalin, who enjoyed the touchy-feely nickname of ‘Uncle Joe’ in the West, was promoted as the saviour of the Eastern bloc, not its oppressor. It was because of this my grandfather hated the UK’s ex-Communist minister for labour and national service, Ernest Bevin, with a passion. When Jim bought his first television in the early 1960s, he would switch it off any time a Labour politician came on. He never trusted the Labour party or any member of the trades union again, believing that if they could sell out the Poles, they could sell out the military. Yet he had come from the left.