Crystal's Song (3 page)

Most of the men, like Tam Glass and young Eddie Gibson, had been called up in December 1939, and had been given the very minimum of basic training before being shipped off to France on 19 April 1940. What was so galling was that word had spread through the ranks that the British High Command already knew the defence of France was a lost cause! And now here they were, being ordered to capitulate and submit to the glorious but merciless Third Reich, just as the French had done!

Fred was running a quick eye over his men when he discovered young Billy Morrison was missing. “Where in the name of heaven is Private Morrison?” he bellowed.

“Fraternising with some French chick, for sure,” suggested Tam with a chuckle.

“The one in Rouen?”

“Aye, Sarge. And she’ll be his
ruin
afore lang, nae doot,” quipped Tam, who was still highly amused.

“But how on earth did he get there?”

“Billy came across an auld motorbike – and bein’ such a handy wee bloke got it goin’ again in nae time – an’ the last we saw was him riding off some wye yonder,” chipped in George, pointing vaguely westwards.

The sudden rumble of approaching tanks silenced everyone. Men prayed silently; some crossed themselves; all stood up straight as the usual German calling-card of gunfire heralded the enemy’s arrival. Unnerved by the barrage, eight of the English lads grabbed their rifles and decided to make a dash for it into the cornfield that bordered the village. “Dinnae dae that!” Fred shouted as loud as he could. “If you’re caught with guns at the ready they’ll mow you down. Come back here! It’s useless to make a stand. Believe me, I would take them on if I thought we could win – but I ken it’s useless!”

The men ignored Fred’s plea and disappeared into the field just as the first tank loomed into view, flanked by a platoon of infantrymen. “Raise your hands, boys,” ordered Fred.

“Might as well,” conceded Tam. “’Cause let’s face it, lads. We’ve been shafted an’ the bloomin’ war’s over for us.”

Eddie nodded. “See, if anyone had telt me when we were called up that six months later we’d be throwing in the towel somewhere in the middle of France – what’s the name of this blinking wee place, onyway?”

“Mauquenchy. Just outside Rouen,” said Fred knowledgeably.

Once the foremost tanks had taken up position on either side of the square and the German infantrymen were grouped around them with their rifles at the ready, Tam noted that they had left a straight open corridor. He was just about to remark on this to Fred when a jeep-type vehicle driven at speed appeared on the horizon and eventually halted abruptly a few feet from the capitulating British. The driver, whom Tam judged to be a batman, jumped from the vehicle and ran to open the door for the German Oberleutnant, Gunther Wengler. Tam could do no less than admire the man. He was, without a doubt, what the Führer wanted the world to acknowledge: that German officers were all fair, pure-bred Aryans, who wore the Third Reich uniform with panache. In Gunther’s case it was more than mere swagger, for he strode with an air of military resplendence, yet always seemed both cool and debonair. The desired effect was heightened as he rhythmically whipped his cane upon his highly polished boots.

Gazing at the immaculate officer, Tam thought, “Aye, son, you may have a batman to press your uniform, spit and polish your boots and run your bath, but are you as lucky as me with a lovely Dinah at home?” Instinctively, Tam felt under his armpits where sweat from a long overdue wash mingled with the exudation of the panic he was trying to keep in check. To keep himself under control, he let his mind escape into a dream-world where his thoughts were back home with his beloved Dinah. A sly smile came to his face when he remembered how every Saturday night she would get into the bath beside him and wash the weariness from his back and massage his aching bones until they relaxed.

Tam’s daydreaming stopped abruptly when he realised that Fred had called on Andy Young, who was fluent in English, Scots, German and French, to act as interpreter for himself and Gunther because, for all his poise, Gunther could speak no English and Fred had no understanding of German.

“Our glorious Field Marshal Erwin Rommel has instructed me to advise you men,” Gunther explained through Andy, “that you are now all prisoners of war. You will be treated by us in accordance with the Geneva Convention. Along with all our other prisoners you will be taken by truck to Scramen and then you will march to Amstelveen. He also hopes your detention won’t be long.”

“March to Amstelveen?” exclaimed Fred. “But that’s over a hundred miles away.”

Andy nodded. “Aye, it’s about two-hundred and fifty kilometres in foreign money. So everyone better make sure they’ve all got their heavy boots on – and that’s every man amongst us!”

“And where to, after that?” came an anxious chorus.

Andy spoke to Gunther again before answering, “He says he’s been told we’ll then be taken by barge to Wesseling …”

“Where in Hell’s name is Wesseling?” demanded Tam.

“Somewhere in Germany,” explained Andy, who went on to add that from there they would then go some three hundred kilometres by truck and train to their POW camp, Stalag XX1B, somewhere in Poland. What he didn’t know was that their journey would take them two months, mostly being frog-marched in the sweltering summer heat with little food and water. Even when they were transported by truck and train they would be so tightly crammed that it would be impossible to lie down. He was just about to tell them that he’d been told that during the march people might try to give them food and water but that if anyone did accept such things they would be shot.

There would have been a vehement response to this declaration had it not been for a sudden volley of rifle fire that rang out from the cornfield and was obviously aimed at the German soldiers. Everyone dived to the ground, while Gunther snapped his fingers and, without uttering a word, signalled with his right arm to a vehicle at the back, which resulted in a truck reversing towards the field. Once in position, its tarpaulin was raised and a machine gun was menacingly revealed. “Naw, naw!” yelled Fred, rolling across the ground and grabbing Gunther’s arm. “They’re just scared bairns. Let me talk to them.”

Gunther, quite unmoved, brushed Fred’s hand away and again raised his right hand. A second later he dropped it sharply and the cornfield was sprayed by a hail of bullets.

The fusillade seemed to go on for ever. When it finally ceased, all that could be heard were a few pitiful moans from the field. Gunther and Fred were the first to stand up and, with Andy’s help to translate, Fred begged to be allowed to go and rescue the wounded.

By now, the howls of rage that were being screamed by the British prisoners at their captors resulted in them being forced at gunpoint against the wall; and all that Fred could do was to yell frantically: “For heaven’s sake, will you all just
shut up
!” Once order was restored, he turned to Andy, asking him to intercede yet again with the officer. Eventually Gunther was persuaded that the ambush from the cornfield had nothing to do with the men who were lined up at the wall, but were simply fellow-Britons hoping against hope to save them. After pondering for what seemed an eternity he reluctantly agreed that Fred might go into the field. Only three of the eight lads who had run into the field were still alive. Two were unscathed and the other, a handsome eighteen-year-old, was near to death. Fred cradled him in his arms until he breathed his last.

Speaking through Andy once more, Fred persuaded Gunther to allow the two unwounded men to join with the group rather than have them shot. Fred eagerly agreed to take full responsibility for their future behaviour; otherwise they would be summarily executed – as indeed would Fred himself!

The verbal contract was finally sealed with the two men formally saluting one another. Then the distant roar of a motorbike approaching at speed drew everyone’s gaze towards the far end of the village. There they spied the errant Billy Morrison whooping and waving his rifle wildly towards them.

“Billy, Billy! Get off that bleeding bike, you blasted idiot. Throw doon your rifle and get over here,” screamed Fred – as did all the men.

The chorus of frantic pleas from his buddies, who couldn’t bear to see another young man needlessly shot, resulted in Billy braking so fiercely that he catapulted himself over the handlebars, his rifle flying through the air before coming to rest at the feet of a German soldier. Fred immediately raced over, kicked the rifle out of Billy’s reach, grabbed him by the collar and yanked the bewildered young man to his feet before dragging him over to Gunther, who disdainfully demanded to know where Billy had been. “Is it normal,” he asked, “for British soldiers to behave in such an unruly and unacceptable fashion?” Andy smiled before explaining that Billy was much sought after by the local mademoiselles and, since both the tea ration and the bromide pills had run out, it was impossible to control Billy’s philandering!

“Ja, Ja,” chortled Gunther before adding, “We, the victorious and superior German army, acknowledge your resilience in defeat.” He then raised his hand once more, saluted Fred, clicked his heels, and climbed aboard his vehicle.

Stretching to his full height, the sergeant turned to Andy and snorted, “Now, this is no for translation, see? But for all who understand the King’s English, I’m saying that it’s only the bloody opening skirmish they’ve won – no the whole bloody war!”

In later days, Fred would always admit that they were fortunate to have met such an honourable and professional soldier as the German lieutenant, Gunther Wengler – others would prove to be far less principled.

“So this is what they ca’ a prisoner o’ war camp,” Tam observed. “Looks mair like a broken doon refugee ghetto to me.”

“Right, lads. You’ll be housed in the five huts in front of us and you’ll then be allocated a bunk. And once you’ve settled in, you must fill in your details on pieces of paper.” Fred now brandished a small notebook in his right hand.

“Why? So the Jerries can use oor details for propaganda?” challenged Billy.

“No, son. It’s the Red Cross that wants them so they can notify your families that you’re a prisoner of war but safe.”

Tam shifted nervously from foot to foot before leading Eddie, Andy, George and Billy towards the nearest hut. Once inside, they sank down wearily on their bunks. The seemingly interminable marches, where only the minimum of food was supplied, had taken their toll. Tam remembered how they had each been given four slices of bread and a lump of cheese before they set out on the first march. Being ravenous, they devoured the food immediately. What they hadn’t realised was that the march would last three days and no more food would be provided during that period. Looking at each other they realised they were all at least two stones lighter as a result of their starvation diet on the journey and that the eating of buttercups, daisies and nettles hadn’t really helped. Some glanced down at the army boots that they had kept so highly polished as recruits and which were now completely worn through. They had lost so much on the long trek to this POW camp, some even their lives, and all now accepted that their precious freedom was lost for the time being. Tam’s thoughts, as usual, travelled back to home. How was his wife coping, his Dinah who leant so heavily on him and who always seemed to be in need of entertainment? He remembered the last dance, in the YMCA hall at the corner of Restalrig Crescent, just before he left. Dinah of course had to be up on the floor for every dance. She was in her element with the Paul Jones dances, having a different partner every few minutes and all of them under her spell as they not only admired her grace and expertise in dancing but loved the way her blonde hair was swept up at the sides and imprisoned in tortoiseshell combs – not to mention the intoxicating smell of her Mischief perfume. Sighing, he acknowledged to himself that Dinah would survive, no matter what – but then he wondered how his bairns would cope, especially Phyllis.

Reaching into his top pocket for a notebook and pencil, Andy began to write out his personal details. That put an end to Tam’s musings, especially when Andy passed the book to Eddie who then added his information. All too soon they had all written in the book except for Tam, who made no attempt to do so but simply stared long and hard at the meagre pages. No one spoke, but Andy went over and sat down beside him. “You illiterate, Tam?” he asked quietly.

Tam jumped up and shouted, “No, I’m no! My mither and faither mightnae hae been churched but they
were
married – in the registry office – ye ken, the one in Fire Brigade Street in Leith.”

Shaking his head, Andy stood up. “I know you’re no a bastard. What I was wondering was if you could read and write.”

A deep flush crept up Tam’s neck and face before he nodded his head in abject embarrassment. “So I cannae read or write. So what? I’m the best shipwright – that’s a carpenter ye ken – that Henry Robb’s ever had.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. But listen. I might have only been there a year but I’m the best English teacher David Kilpatrick’s ever had. So, as we’re going to be marooned here with precious little to do, how about I teach you to read and write, while you teach me how to hammer a nail in straight?”

Tam let a few minutes pass while he pondered on how he could explain to Andy, who was so brainy, that from five to seven years old he’d had one infectious disease after another and so missed the first two years of his schooling. And when he did get to school, he was put into the juniors where the teachers considered him an idiot because he could neither read nor write. This assumption resulted in him being labelled a lost cause and he was largely left to his own devices. Tam now reluctantly acknowledged that his teachers’ inability to help him adequately might have been due more to the fact that there were fifty other bairns in his class than to the staff not bothering! Finally, he gave Andy a slow nod to confirm that he wished to be taught.

“Good,” said Andy, relieving Tam of the notebook. “But in the meantime I’ll fill in your details.”

“Naw,” was Tam’s emphatic reply as he stretched out his neck, “I’ll fill them oot mysel’ once you’ve got me writing.”