CHAPTER ELEVEN - Subordination again.

Soon Jon found himself billeted in a large tented camp on the outskirts of Boulogne. The days were long and dull, filled mainly with the military discipline on the square. Left right, left right, attention halt one two. God, how I hate and despise all this. No wonder I get reprimanded so often for daydreaming. ts not my idea of war. Where are the bloody Huns and the planes? Havent heard a gun fire in anger yet! And all the film shows in our stuffy canteen is muck - time waster. And the French girls? Dont get far with them with sign language. Football practise is the only thing that keeps me going. Pity There's no boxing. Couldve made a hit there. The beers fine, but it was better on the booth. No privacy either to get my thoughts really together to put on paper With no special friend to share these thoughts with they went spinning round inside his head. His company was delegated a lowly place on the campsite, well away from the main recreational facilities and ablutionary arrangements. They were on the fringe of activities and Jon knew that the Pioneer Corps was apt to be denigrated.

"Well show them," he said to his fellow footsloggers.. "On the football field well get em? How about it? Never mind that we only dig drains and build bridges. Well give them toffs a surprise." Organised football was one of the outlets that Jon enjoyed, so he stirred up the enthusiasm of the motley crowd who had been drafted into the Corps. Mostly they were young lads who had played football in the streets outside their homes. They had brilliant footwork, but their appreciation of working as a team had to be tested.

The Corps were drawn to play men drawn from a battery of Gunners. As no one else came forward to lead the team Jon took on the task. He watched the lads muck around with a ball on a bumpy pitch in their off duty times and he saw they were masters of control, so he selected the fittest and keenest. The team had no formal team gear, and looked a shoddy crew alongside the well turned out and disciplined team of Gunners, whose officers and N.C.Os came to watch from the touchline. There was also a large group of young French girls who seemed to be on the side of the well turned out footballers.

"If we win," Jon said with a chuckle as he gathered his team around him, "Ill guarantee - a party, and I'll guarantee to get some of those French popsies."

"Could do wiv a bi'o skirt," said one heavily booted older man. "Its weeks since I ad my missus. Thas weeks too long. O.K. Ginger, I'll keep yer oop te tha."

The match was soon under way, the officers from the Gunners shouting encouragement in refined voices. With no pattern to their playing but with masterly footwork, the Pioneers put on the pressure. The young French girls first supported the Gunners, but soon they changed their tune, and their shouts of delight echoed round the pitch as the Pioneers sneaked in their goals. They won handsomely, and their reputation in the camp was immediately enhanced. True to his word Jon with signs and smiles arranged for the watching girls to be at the guard room exit that evening. His team had a night to remember, plenty of French wine and plenty of French girls willing to open their legs to a yearning British soldier.

During these months there was time to wonder, to wander, to be bored, to be frustrated. When he managed to be alone Jon formulated his ideas. Waste of time, this. Hanging around, being slotted to do this, to do that. The discipline is mind destroying. WHere's the freedom? Didnt join up to do this. Dont want weekend leave. Got no where to go. Dont get letters either. Most of my workmates spend hours talking about letters. Nobody tells us other ranks anything whats happening. Glad I've a brain in my head to be able to think. Go nutters otherwise. Will try some poetry when There's more time. Still miss a real friend, like Jock and Slater.

Months passed with the monotony bearing down on the waiting soldiers. But suddenly the boredom and stagnation was shattered, as the cold war ignited in a horrifying way. The Germans attacked on a wide front, backed up by their very well equipped army. The advancing enemy forces from the east soon had the Allies fighting a defensive action they could not win.

Within weeks the Allies were forced back and back towards the French channel coast line, Jons unit were stuck at Boulogne. The noise, movement, smell and bewilderment of war invaded the senses. Jon did as he was told, helped to patch up bridges, dig temporary latrines, feeling all the time like a useless cog in an unoiled machine.

What bloody good is a rifle against a tank? Chances of sniping from a window are minimal. Good old Blighty. Could do with another look at her. Could do with a cuppa char. Shit! The Huns are coming round from the back. Whose giving us orders now? Cor, that was close. One of our own bombs too. Means Huns can't be far away. Whats the next step? Swim the channel? Bugger me, think I'm getting the squirts. Too much for the nerves, all this. Jon did not know if he was thinking all that, hearing it, or speaking out loud. With the noise deafening, bodies unburied lying in the streets, dead or dying, word came round to evacuate and head for the docks. With a small group from his unit, Jon threaded his way through the chaos. He did not even stop to shoot at a desperately wounded young guardsman who was begging for a bullet to end his pain. He shrugged off a young girl whose arms were firmly twisted round his neck while she begged to be taken away. Christ, I'm getting hard hearted. Must be the tension. Phew, what a stink. Cordite, burnt flesh, hot metal. Now what? He heard an order for all troops to put their safety catches on their rifles, and even this he did not query. He knew it was to prevent nervous soldiers shooting each other in the back as they crept from street to street amid the German bombardment. Everywhere were acts of courage that bordered on foolhardiness. Sacrifices were abundant. They were all too fearfully in vain. Nearing the dock area he saw a notice written in English, "All officers this way." The arrow pointed down a passage, and at the end of the passage he could see a mast and funnel. Preferential treatment, thats for sure. Spose other ranks are more expendible. Keeping his place in the ragged surging mob took his mind off that question. Soon he, too, saw a ship tied alongside. It seemed already overcrowded with bodies, all squashed into corners, bodies with pale faces etched with pain.

Now it was Jons turn to board. "Hurry up sonny, weve cast off. Youd better jump and hang on." An urgent voice egged him on to act quickly. Jon, his discipline to keep his rifle at all costs a sub-conscious act, changed it from his right to left hand in order to have a stronger grip on the rails, saw to his dismay, that in this very act of changing hands the gap between the quayside and the ship had widened too far for him to jump. "Never mind, lad, well be back soon," called the sailor. The Germans, bombing the harbour, made it quite certain that there would never be a return journey for the loaded boats.

Jon hid under an upturned boat that night, hugging his rifle. He was on his own. As dawn broke he looked across the docks. "God damn it," he muttered out loud. "What a fool I've been to hang on to this darned weapon. If Id dropped it and jumped, Id ve been on that aboat. Look at all these, just lying around. Treasure trove for the Germans when they find them." He stopped muttering and walked hesitantly across the deserted wasteland till he came to a railway siding. He climbed into a carriage already riddled with gunfire. Before long he returned fire at some unfamiliar figures, his first shots of the war. For three days he flitted ghostlike around the town stealing what he could to eat and drink. Numbed with uncertainess he gritted his teeth and followed his instincts, there was no place for reason. In one cellar he came across a group of Guards, Gunners and all sorts, Officers and men. It was a relief not to be on his own, and to be told what was happening all around. There was one battered wireless, and it was here that they all heard that hostilities in that area were to cease. The Guardsmen, professional soldiers to the bone, objected and vowed that they would fight literally to their deaths. They heard too that the Luftwaffe had started to bomb London, wave after wave, wave after wave. In the night a wall of sandbags was made in front of a trench. They sat and waited. The rumble of tanks came closer, and the exploding ammunition made conditions unbearable. While waiting Jon thought How can all this be glorified? None of this will become recorded history, and neither will all this stop a repetition of such a useless waste of life. Perhaps one day I'll write about it, but I dont expect people will be interested. they're all busy in their own worlds.

Then came the verbal and direct order to surrender. There was no mistaking it. This was so degrading for one Guardsman that he swigged a whole bottle of whiskey without a pause for breath and fell unconscious immediately, maybe even dead. Lucky bastard thought Jon as he moved out towards the enemy his hands above his head. His group ran the gauntlet of further explosions and ricochetting bullets as the flames of high octane petrol curled into the sky. The Germans, as though unconcerned at the risk to themselves, continued to whirl their cameras and recorded the whole-sale surrender. It was ideal for their propaganda, and a symbol of the vanity of victory. Coming in close to the cameras, Jon hid the fear inside him, but he knew the cameras had managed a close-up.

Curiously enough, the Germans, as if in cold sympathy waved to the group to lower their painful arms. Jon knew a new unknown future stretched before him, and an experience he had only read about in books was about to begin.

* * * *

The nightmare had started. The Germans, prodding them mercilessly with the butt of their rifles, formed all prisoners into long lines, four abreast, old soldiers toughened by experiences together with young frightened boys tough only by the privilege of youth.

"Here's a bloody test," muttered Jon out of the side of his mouth to a pale spotty lad whose khaki seemed two sizes too big. "Seems were in for a long haul. Got good feet, eh?" The youth looked down at his boots.

"Shuup, can't you?" he whispered. "Snuff to keep upright I'm so shagged. Need a good meal. Wanna get back to Blighty."

"Think we gotta foot it to Germany. Chin up, back straight. Thats what I say." An older man, proud of his uniform, proud of his country, entered into the whispered dialogue. He called himself Sefton. "Just keep going. Its not our fault weve copped it. Come on, laddies, forward" At this moment the column started to shuffle forward, soon the shuffle became a brisk walk. The sun came out, the verges of the road were sharp, unkempt and bumpy, and thirst and fatigue knocked at the door of everymans resilience. There was no stopping. The calls of nature were ignored, the bodily sweat took off the pressure for the need to pee. Only when the sun set was the column led into a field, and the sweat turned cold on the skin. Those who still had a motion to pass tried to find a space away from the mass of men, but it was impossible. They did what they could where they were. A rusty drum of water appeared, and the officers did their best to make an orderly distribution.

"God, damn it, I've nothing to use," said Sefton and he took off his cap hoping to get his allowance in that way.

"One mug to one man," an officer was shouting. "Pass the mug around, come on, come on. Hurry up." Fortunately it was a British Officer and there was no rifle butting. Later a van arrived with bread, plain bread, and again the officers supervised the distribution as fairly as possible.

"Cant march on this," moaned the young lad, who stuck as close as he could to Jon. "Sure I'll fall out."

"If you fall out, youll get one between the eyes," warned Sefton. He seemed able to assess the situation. "You pull your fingers out and get stuck in to just existing." He proffered no sympathy.

That was the first night of several that the column lay out in the open, cold, tired and thirsty. Beards grew, boots rubbed, and stomachs shrivelled. Bread and water was their only sustenance, until one evening a hapless chicken was pecking alongside the moving mass of humanity. Quick as a wink Jon ducked out of line, disregarding the possibility of a bullet from the guard, and clutched the bird to his chest. He tried hard to wring the birds neck, but the louder it squawked the harder it wriggled.

"Get on with it," urged Sefton.

"Hands are too weak," Jon moaned. "Cant get a grip of the bugger."

"Give it to me, and you wring." Smiling in spite of the difficulties, Jon and the older man despatched the bird, while still keeping in step with the moving column. Jon stuffed it inside his battledress jacket.

"Nasty bloody mess," he muttered. "Anybody got any matches?" Word went down the column that anyone with matches should meet up with Jon that night. When the darkness came and the camp guards asleep, Jon managed to make a small fire, and having skillfully plucked the bird he made it edible charring it over the small flame. He ate a breast himself then handed the carcass round. Every bit was wolfed, every bone sucked of nutritional juices. Those who had none looked on longingly, but accepted their fate.

By the sixth day of marching the young boy who had become Jons shadow stumbled. "Cant make it," he said appealingly.

"Either you make it, or you get shot," snapped Sefton, he still showed no sympathy. "We saw others falling out yesterday, remember? Remember what happened to them? Shot through the head. No nonsense, no second chances. Pull yourself together. Look, change places with Ginger, and we'll help you." Carefully Jon slipped into the boys place. Sefton put the boys arm round his shoulder. "Here you, Ginger. Take his other arm." Tired and exhausted, Jon and the old soldier, supported an even more flaked out young man for the rest of the day. "Good for you, Ging, you're a tough un." Sefton flopped down and held his head in his hands. "Crazy world. Only the strong'll make it. Bloody waste of young life. Shouldnt treat us like this. Gotta keep going. Got wife and three kids. Dont expect youngun has a family. Nothing to look forward to. What about you, Ging? You seem quite self contained?"

"Got my thoughts, got the space between my ears. Thats all. My home lifes my business. Somehow I'm getting away from this shit. Not going to be treated like scum. Had enough of that. I'm not twenty yet and havent started to live."

"Watch it, Ging. Watch it. Better to come out alive after however long, than be impaled on a bayonet being caught on the run."

"Well see, well see," and Jon ended the conversation by hobbling to the water queue.

On the seventh day, while it was still dark the sleepy men were ordered to assemble. No food or water was given, and after a short march they arrived at a small wayside station. A goods train with steam up was waiting.

"God! not this. It can't be this. Seen pictures of Jews in trains like this." Sefton went white in the face. "Theyre going to shove us like cattle in these bloody trucks. No water, no air, no sanitary arrangements. Take my advice, Ging, just keep yourself together. Remember, as long as you can breathe, in out, in out, There's a chance. You've still got life, and maybe There's a tommorra. Dont look at the others. Forget what you knew about decency, clean habits. Aim for the end of a truck. Got back support then." Jon listened intently to the long speech, dumbstruck by the acquired knowledge of the older man.

"Cant be as bad as that," Jon tried to alleviate the gloom that was descending all around.

"Wait and see," was all that Sefton replied. The central door ramp of each waggon was lowered, and a block of men were allocated to each waggon. Jon and Sefton urged forward dragging the youth with them. They managed to get a place at the end of the truck and sat down.

"No sit down, no sit down," the unfamiliar uniform of a middle ranking German poked his ugly bloated head round the door. "Stand up." He tapped his revolver. "Sit down, I shoot."

"Cant stand. Legs've gone." The youth started to whimper.

"Wont have to use your legs. Bodies ll hold you up." Still Sefton showed no sympathy. Human bodies, some limping, some hopping, some already weeping with exhaustion, crammed the empty space. There was no chance of a rest, no chance to move the arms for a drink, no chance to pee. The door was closed with a clang, and Jon could hear the bolts pushed across.

"Worse than bloody cattle," muttered Sefton. A Sergeant Major took it upon himself to take the lead. Miraculously he managed to shift positions of some of the men and make small areas for men to sit in and take the weight off their feet. The train moved off shortly, and as midday grew closer so did the heat and smell in the truck get stuffier and more putrid. There was no water, no fresh air. The young boy fainted and was unaware of the foul conditions. When darkness came the train clanked to a halt, and with a grinding and a clatter the door was opened. Fresh air poured in. A guard with his rifle was placed at each ramp. The Sergeant Major, in broken German, sprinkled with broken French and the odd English word, tried to demand better conditions. He asked for permission to disembark for the calls of nature. He asked for water, food, and for medical attention, and pointed to the youth who was propped up on the floor. The guard took one look at boy, leant forward and dragged him by his collar on to the platform. He then peered in and found three more comotose and sick soldiers lying unable to do anything for themselves. He had these three men dragged out and down the ramp, and left lying. The only crumb of comfort that this horrible scene produced was that fresh air was seeping into the carriage diluting the smell of stale sweat and ammonia. Another German soldier came along with a bucket of dirty water and two tin cans. Again the Sergeant Major took charge of distribution. The bucket was retained, and put in a space made by the four sick men. It was much needed to hold urine, but filled up too rapidly and soon was slopping over the edges. Jon was glad he was at the end of the waggon.

"Wont see young laddie again." Sefton sounded upset. "You mark my words."

Still in the dark the train started to move. There were four quick shots. "What did I tell you? Bastards! But youngster hadnt it in him to carry on. Best hes out of it." Sefton had coloured dangerously inspite of his hunger and fatigue. The others in the carriage shifted uneasily. For five days and nights the train chugged on and on, stopping only when darkness had fallen at some small station. Men were dying on their feet, the Germans peered in at the stations and removed them without any ceremony. Water was given nightly, and twice bread was passed around, but conditions were such that it was difficult to swallow. There was no way that any place name could be seen, only the heat from the sun on the side of the carriage told them that the journey was eastwards. On the seventh day the train stopped at a goods yard and they were shunted on to a siding. The doors were opened, and each carriage emptied the cargoes of bedraggled humanity, dirty, exhausted, hungry, some a little mad, and some of course covered in excreta. They were allowed to sit on the platform still in groups. - '

"God! the air. Pure sweet air. Never realised it before," Jon croaked to Sefton.

"Sell my soul for a cuppa," he replied with a semblance of a smile. "Jesus, you look a sight! Just look at us all. Bloody Huns, why do they want to humiliate us. Glad we can't be seen at home."

The guard yelled for silence. Word must have gone ahead that a train of hungry and thirsty men had arrived for a barrel of hot liquid and a barrel of cold water, together with mugs appeared. The hot liquid was supposed to be soup.

"Down the drain, this would have gone, in Blighty. Now its like nectar," whispered Sefton.

"Much the same as I was brought up on - mucky soup. Well, its welcome. Now for some cold water. Not very nice in a greasy cup, but here goes." The two men, one older and one still under twenty, egged each other on. They were oblivious to the needs and suffering of the others, just to survive themselves took all their attention.

At dawn the ragged crowd were bullied, beaten and shouted at to form a semblance of a column. Those who had a spare ounce of energy left over from self survival helped the dying, Jon and Sefton were again a team to drag, lift, push an airman who had no idea what was happening to him or his suroundings. After a short march a large wire fence appeared, barbed wire upon barbed wire, inside were wooden huts, long regimented and soulless. The column were led inside, and made to parade again in rows. Those who fell got a butt from a rifle or a kick from a booted guard. Orders were read out, first in German, then by a translator. Food twice a day, parade twice a day, lights out by dusk. Billets and washplaces to be looked after by inmates. Exercise when permitted. The huts were allocated with bodies till they were full up. Jon and Sefton made straight for the window and the top two bunks. It was every man for himself to get what he thought was needed and get it first. Just to lie flat! Hunger and thirst temporarily disappeared while the bones adjusted themselves. More soup and bread appeared on the communal table in the evening, this time with a plate and mug for each inmate. Some were too tired even to get to the table.

"Things could be worse," laughed Sefton with a wry smile. "We've got bread and liquid, and water for washing, and a toilet. Now, it will be boredom unless were given work, and thatll be damned hard on this diet."

"One thing at a time, please," chided Jon. "I'm not yet used to my loss of freedom, my loss of dignity. Not used to seeing all these shadows of former men, they seem hardly human, and we havent been prisoners that long. Can manage the so called food, near starvation that it is. But dont know if I can manage starvation of my reason. Watch and wait. Thats my motto. Get the old bones rested and the skin clean again. Then well see what tomorrow brings, and tomorrows tomorrow."

"Bit nifty with words, arent you, pal?" laughed Sefton. "Wish I could get news to my family that I've still got breath in my body. What about your family, Ging.?"

"Shut up," Jon replied tersely. "I'm going to try for a kip."

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