by David Roy
Occasionally, the Germans would want men with special skills to come forward. Welders and riveters were in greatest demand. Chippies and electricians also got their chance to escape from mere labouring. Few of the soldiers had such skills, however, and they continued to toil in the multifarious tasks allotted to them by the Germans or by Ankoplar without much complaint. On occasions Sam got the opportunity to drive one of the dockside cranes and soon became skilled in its operation. He unloaded stores from the holds of freighters and dumped rubble into the backs of lorries as the rebuilding of the docks continued.
Sam even allowed himself some optimistic thoughts now and again. In some way the work he did stimulated him and raised his spirits. He could put aside any notion of collaboration - increasingly, it was an irrelevance - and make plans for his future. That the plans changed daily didn’t matter. He’d go back to Belfast and get a job at the shipyard. Get married, have children, buy a house. He didn’t want anything special. If his little country got turned over to the Republic…. well, what did it really matter? Everyone was allotted one life only - he would switch his loyalties away from his country and to his family. This was the sort of change in allegiance which people made anyway without even realising it. Some people, never felt much for their country in the first place.
One morning the prisoners were taken to a green-painted wooden hut and asked to sit down. For some minutes they sat in alone, each man thinking his private thoughts. Any break from their routine was a cause for great curiosity, tempered by morbid concern. Both of these could easily become the starting point for wild rumours but this was not allowed to happen as it soon became clear why they had been brought to this place. A German NCO in a black uniform stamped into the room and ordered them to sit up. They complied just as an SS officer entered. Salutes were quickly exchanged and the officer, removing his peaked cap to reveal his perfect, brilliantined blonde hair, began to explain the reason for his visit.
‘The German Armed Forces are looking for volunteers to fight the Russians in the East’, he began. Sam had forgotten that elsewhere in the world the war continued. ’The Russians are a race of barbarians who need to be destroyed and you could help the Reich by fighting against them.’ The officer smiled. He had never yet managed to get any of the British prisoners to volunteer at this point in his little speech. The truth was that he had got precious few to volunteer at all. The same was true of all the conquered peoples except for the Latvians, Lithuanians and the people of the other tiny nations that had suffered under the yoke of Stalin’s communism for years. They wanted to overthrow that regime no matter what the cost to themselves might be, whereas the Western Europeans had no concept of Russia, its people, its regime….
‘You will be trained and paid as German soldiers. You will have the same uniform and equipment, the same privileges and leave. You will be able to take pride in yourselves again and know that you are involved in something which is important to the freedom of humanity.’ The irony of those words was not lost on anyone in the room, except, it seemed, the man who spoke them. Whoever had brain-washed him, had done a better job than he was currently doing on the prisoners. There was no response from the men seated before him but undaunted he continued. ‘I will give each of you a form to complete if you would like to volunteer for duty. You can give the form in to Mr Ankoplar. Thank you, gentlemen.’ The forms were duly passed around. The guard ordered the men to sit up and the officer left the hut. At once one of the prisoners a big Welsh man, screwed up his form and threw it on the floor. Sam wondered if he might regret his haste and his obvious contempt but at that moment Ankoplar appeared and chivvied them outside. He knew that there would be no volunteers from this group. After all these years he could tell.
Russia, March 1943
The Russians had moved their heavy industry behind the natural protection of the Ural Mountains and the German offensive had become bogged down in the thaw. They had killed millions of them - these untermensch - and yet there were millions more. They didn’t seem to care how many they lost but Germany didn’t have the luxury of endless supplies of cannon fodder, of course. Losing disaffected Poles and Czechs to the Russians was one thing. Losing an entire Romanian Army, even - that was acceptable. Losing Italians - that was inevitable and made no difference to the conduct of the war. But to keep losing Germans by the tens of thousands…. that was unsustainable. And how could these primitive people produce tanks that still worked in the cold and aeroplanes that seemed impossible to shoot down?
Of course, General Paulus’ handling of Stalingrad didn’t help matters and nor did the fact that the summer offensive actually began during the spring when the ground was thawing out and marshy. Now it was warm enough to actually start the engines of their tanks and planes but the former simply got stuck in the mud and became sitting ducks for the Russian’s T34s which did not. Hitler might almost have marvelled at the way in which the Soviets fought under any conditions had he not been so infuriated by his own commanders’ inability to make headway. If he heard many more reports about the swarms of Soviet tanks laden with fanatical infantrymen unafraid of death, over-running German positions he would soon start replacing his generals. He had mentioned just such a thing to Rommel, his favourite commander. Rommel had remained tight-lipped lest he become one of the replacements.
Hitler was keen to help his Japanese allies in their struggle against the Americans and of course, if they in turn opened up a second front against Russia, well that would suit the Reich’s needs very well. With Italy’s dominance in the Mediterranean and Japan’s dominance in the Pacific a whole new world was possible in which Germany took the lead. Every possible economic resource would be at their disposal, particularly oil and rubber, as well as unlimited manpower and the chance to create the master race. The master race needed its slaves - now they were plentiful. In addition, his scientists in Norway were working on the production of the heavy water needed for the atom bomb, whilst others under von Braun worked on missiles to carry these new atomic weapons. Who would challenge Germany then? He was certain that if the U.S. was soundly defeated in the Pacific that it would withdraw back into itself and become that sleeping but largely impotent giant that it had traditionally been. For all of this to come true all he needed was victory over the USSR….and yet it proved elusive.
Freedom
Sam simply couldn’t believe that he really had the choice of whether to serve in the German Army or not. Surely ‘no’ was not a good enough answer. However, he heard nothing more and continued to work at the dockyard for some weeks. It was bizarre that his masters - so diligent and organised and so desperate - could simply allow a negative response. There had to be a reason. Perhaps their other volunteers had been useless to them when it came to the actual business of fighting or perhaps their greatest value to the ever-expanding Reich was as labour.
With the prisoner's help Devonport soon became a fully operational Kriegsmarine base and home to several capital ships, some of which had been commandeered from the French. Their work done, they were returned to the POW camp. There were rumours that British yards in the North and Scotland were now building aircraft carriers for the Germans but none of these would be in service for some time of course. The prisoners started to get an idea that life outside was returning to normal. Yet there was no doubting the fact that they were still completely in the thrall of the Reich without even the illusion of freedom that the general populace must be enjoying.
They began to receive daily papers - the same titles that had existed prior to the war. Sam had rarely read a paper before but now found himself desperate to know what the world of journalism had to say about the new Britain in which they all lived. He didn't understand how they could be allowed to print newspapers at all - until he read one and was disappointed. It was clear that there was no news really. Not news as in, ‘the truth’, at any rate.
The stories were the work of some German stooge, the tone and content most un-British. Gone was the irreverence and s
candal that made the British papers so entertaining, so biting and in its place came thinly disguised Nazi propaganda. One of the first stories he read was about the Royal Family. It began, ‘As King George skulks in his mansion in Ottawa, the British people begin to get back to their normal lives working for the German Reich. At last these two great nations are able to work for a common cause - the defeat of Communism….’
He couldn’t bring himself to read any more.
At the start of May, Sam and another group of POWs were summoned to the little parade square outside the commandant’s office. A bull-necked Geordie Corporal from the Pioneers eyed Sam with contempt. They had had a long-running spat after serving in a work party together. The Pioneer, obviously tired of digging latrines, something which could perhaps have been viewed as his raison d’etre, decided that he would take on a supervisory role relying upon his sheer size to dissuade any of the other men from protesting too much. This tactic failed with Sam and the two had become embroiled in a scrap in which Sam had taken a beating and the Pioneer had lost any respect which might have been his due. From that moment on the burly pioneer had few friends. It had been a lonely time for him. Sam deliberately avoided him from thereon in.
The men stood in the warm spring air, the silence broken by the faint noises of the prisoners going about their daily business. 'Daily business' meant having a stroll and a chat about things that had been discussed countless times before, over ground which had been trodden countless times before. There wasn’t a man who wasn’t bored to near distraction by the routine but they were uniformly helpless to bring about a change. Mentally they were just as caged as they were physically. Their aspirations were stillborn, their consciousness stymied.
Above them a squadron of German bombers practiced the delicate manoeuvres needed to get them into formation. They saw this type of routine training often and it had long since ceased to be of even the slightest interest. If the German authorities intended to release them only when they were broken in spirit, then, supposed Sam, they could let them go any time. Sam, for one, felt incapable of mischief. His train of thought drifted on in this formless way for several moments before some shouted instructions brought them shambolically to attention. The commandant spoke.
‘It has been decided that you men are to be released from this camp. You will be given some money and some travel warrants and allowed to go home. The Reich will endeavour to find you work and help you to settle back into your lives. We want you to enjoy living in the greater German Reich.’ The words washed over Sam. He had never seen the commandant before, never heard him speak. He was surprised at how old he was, like someone’s granddad in fancy dress. He was happy to hear of his release only in an abstract way as if the news applied to someone he knew quite well rather than himself. It was an anti-climax - less than that maybe, because he was being released into a world which he expected to be familiar and alien in equal measure. Furthermore, he couldn’t envisage the way in which he would make his way from this isolated camp back to his home in Belfast. He was sure that the new leaders of his country felt little responsibility for his future, so long as that future precluded him from becoming a burden or an ‘undesirable element.’ Then of course they would take a great deal of interest in him.
‘We will also give you some new clothes and documentation so that you can work and pay your taxes.’ Taxes! They didn’t miss a trick. ‘Are there any questions?’ There seemed to be none but Sam suddenly put his hand up just as the commandant was turning away.
‘Yes?’
‘Will I be able to get home to Northern Ireland, sir?’ The old officer looked confused. He turned his head to find an answer but there was no help at hand.
‘Northern Ireland?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m from Belfast.’
‘Sergeant, take these men away and you….’, he pointed at Sam, ‘you stay.’
Alone and apprehensive, he waited there for some time. It occurred to him that the easiest solution to his transport problems, as far as the Germans were concerned, was to make him disappear. They had a certain degree of expertise in these matters. When he returned, the Commandant had an NCO with him, a fat, avuncular chief clerk whom Sam had never before clapped eyes on.
‘This is Staff-sergeant Ebbinghaus. He will try to arrange the correct travel warrants for you. Travel to Northern Ireland is not easy but it is not impossible either.’ With that he disappeared back into his office, presumably to wonder what this fate would be when his camp was finally empty. Too old for Russia - he hoped.
The office was like any orderly room, in any camp, run by any army; filing cabinets lined greyly against the walls, collecting the paper detritus that told of men’s lives, as ham-fistedly banged out by one-fingered typists on ailing, black typewriters. Swirls of cigarette smoke filled up the gaps left by the useable air as it was drawn into phlegm-filled lungs and expelled again as clerks produced yet more sheets of boring detail. They knew only paper; dissecting, rejecting, accepting, referring - and made decisions that were sanctioned by no-one, yet executed by someone. Mail dropped into sacks as other mail dropped out of sacks, a slithering flurry of brown paper. Officialdom crowded in upon officialdom, stifling thought and killing their souls by increments. Yes and no, life and death, stay and go. Paper clips, ribbons, rubber stamps - a nasty, closed little world. Ebbinghaus smiled as he revealed his kingdom. Here he was God. The wife in Detmold who hen-pecked him held no sway.
‘Corporal Beattie. Come this way. We must try to get you home.’ He left Sam standing by the front desk and scurried off to find timetables, blank warrants and his secret weapon - his personal rubber stamp. That stamp could open doors, metaphorically, of course, and he would wield it in such a way and with such precision that not only was he displaying the efficiency of the German Army but his own bureaucratic skill. Eventually after much stamping, stapling and leafing he handed Sam a little sheaf of paperwork which told of a journey he would make through post-war Britain back to his familiar home in Belfast. This was it. Why didn’t he feel something, wondered Sam?
The lounge was full of lorry drivers in tweeds jackets and hobnail boots. They smelt of oil and sweat and bathed in cigarette smoke as they drank at the bar. This was their life. Had it been interrupted by the war? None of them looked like ex-soldiers but perhaps that wasn’t a fashionable look at the minute. Sam watched them as they supped and chatted but felt no personal need to have a drink here or at this time. That could wait. Everything could wait. He would sit down to a family meal with his mother and father and later have a bottle of stout with the latter as his mum fussed around and tidied. Sam realised that he was smiling.
A thin rain fell as the ferry drifted into Belfast docks. To his right Harland and Wolff put together an aircraft carrier for the German Navy, building the hull, layer upon layer and to the right the Black Mountain towered over on the city like a squat troll and led the eye to the busy wharfs where grain and coal were unloaded by ugly battleship grey cranes, streaked with rust. Men - Ulstermen - scurried about as they always had done. They were still rough, decent, industrious men but no longer free. Sam shook his head sadly not yet realising that freedom had almost ceased to be a concept which mattered. Freedom? What was freedom anyway? Men were always slaves - just sometimes they didn’t realise it.
As the ship drew in close to the quayside, the drivers made their way down to the vehicle decks leaving Sam, one other ex-soldier and a young mother with two girls, the only foot passengers. He recognised the prison camp pallor of the soldier and the ill-fitting, oddly-styled suit, much like his own. These suits they gave out weren’t new. He didn’t like to think too hard about where they had come from. In the mother he saw expressionless eyes and something - more than a look and less than an aura - which transcended mere despair. He was nearly certain that she was a war widow, returning home to be back in the bosom of her family. Suddenly he could see with astonishing, almost supernatural clarity the scene as she learned of her husband’s death. The sudden
end of hope. The effort it took to fight back the tears and be brave for the children and the stoical acceptance of their joint fate. The unseen horror of her private moments and night-times; it was there like the open pages of a kitchen-sink melodrama. The ship bumped harshly into the quay sending them all sideways. Its metal sides groaned and juddered as the engines began to fight and churn at the green water below. The youngest child began to cry as Mum picked her up and brushed her down. It was an instinctive reaction. It made Sam long to be home even more - amongst his own people, no matter who the new bosses were.
The gangplank was a flimsy thing which bounced alarmingly as they descended. Sam watched the young woman as she guided the children down, instructing them to hold the handrails and not to run. She herself held onto only one handrail, the other retaining a firm grip on a small leather suitcase - the only piece of luggage that any of them had. The only other foot passenger followed some distance behind. When Sam turned to look for him he noticed that he limped badly. Two men in plain clothes checked their papers as they stepped onto the quayside, seeming to take much longer over it than was strictly necessary. One man, late forties with crew-cut grey hair leafed through their documents, saying nothing, whilst his colleague, much younger with long hair slicked back from his forehead in the style of a Hollywood gangster, watched with a detached sort of nonchalance. They had the bully’s demeanour. They were hard, unsmiling men who took pleasure in their inherent menace but had never been called upon to earn the respect which others had to show them. Neither spoke but did so in a way which told of their origins more eloquently than any words could ever do; from the gutter, of the gutter…. a German one at that. But these were men with enough guile to find a safe job, with a veneer of respectability, where their unusual talents would be a boon.
The older man snatched Sam's paperwork from his hand. In a different time and in a different situation Sam might have snatched it back for pure devilment, but the world in which he might have done so was gone forever. Now he just stood placidly and looked at some point in the distance, without ever taking in one single detail of it.