Boredom and hunger marched relentlessly hand in hand through the days and weeks. Christmas was a non-event, dawn turned to day and the day turned to night without anything to relieve the monotony and discomfort. There were no letters or food parcels.
"Where's blasted Red Cross? Used to 'ear of parcels being sent to prisoners. Me mum wrapped parcels lots fer Red Cross," mumbled Chalky White an airman two years older than Jon who attached himself to the group that was forming around the older Sefton and younger Jon. "Could do wiv a beer."
"An some bleedin socks. Feet freeze by midnight. Spose our effin so called ome is sumwhere in Poland. eard abou Polish winds. Freeze the marrow in yer bones, it will." Added moans from the Geezer, another airman, tall and lanky who coughed and wheezed through the night and day. Both Chalky and the Geezer had joined the marching column of prisoners having been shot down, no one knew exactly where. Both were intelligent and honest, both were out for themselves and they fitted in well alongside the firm friendship of Sefton and Jon.
"Can trust those two," Jon muttered to Sefton. "Dont want to get close to too many people. Maybe theyd stab you in the back. Maybe theyd steal and squeal."
"Havent got much to steal," groaned Sefton, "and what can they squeal about?"
"I'm learning German. Havent you seen me talking to the guards?"
"Damn fool you are too, Jon," chided Sefton. "Its a punishable offence to talk to the guards. Thats the kind of thing that could be squealed on."
"I know, I know. But I'm damned if I'm going to stay here to die. Would rather die on the run."
"Crazy, thats what you are," interrupted Sefton.
Jon ignored the remark. "Going to escape somehow, thats for sure, and to do it I must know fluent German. Most Poles speak German, and There's no one here to learn Polish from. You know that. Our guards are all Gestapo."
"Course I know," Sefton seemed ruffled. "But if you escape and get caught then therell be more trouble for us, specially me. Theyll think I've aided and abetted you."
"Ill keep you out of it," reassured Jon. "I know you want to stick it out for your family. Dont blame you." Sefton nodded. "Prhaps Id be the same if Id got someone waiting for me. As I havent, things are different."
"Ah! Thats why you're so tetchy, son." Sefton smiled to himself. "You've always brushed me off when I talked about your home life. You do what you want, but dont tell me anything. Then I can't talk if squeezed."
Twice a day the whole camp, hut by hut, were turned out into the compound for a routine check. The wind howled round the thin bodies, the scant clothing offered little protection. The German guards revelled in the discomfort they were causing, and prolonged the counting of heads as long as they could. The men fiddled and twisted their toes inside the tattered and torn remnants of boots to keep the circulation going, fingers numbed like hanging bananas burned and ached as the circulation stopped. Unsteady bodies were held upright by willing shoulders of those next in line: anything to stop a Germanic roar of rage and the accompanying butt.
"Youd be noticed quick as a wink if you miss the count," warned Sefton, as they shuffled back to their billets. "One short in the line, and theyd be on to it, dogs out, sirens blaring. You've not a hope in hell of getting away."
"Dont you believe it," laughed Jon uncertainly. "And I've got to go quick before I get too thin and emancipated. Couldnt run five miles on this diet, let alone walk through the night."
Everyday as Jon was marched out to the compulsory work in a long thin column, guarded by angry looking Gestapo, he looked at the lie of the land, he watched for possibilities for dodging out of line. The work they were forced to do was in a graphite mine, picking, sifting, seiving the dry and dusty material. For eight hours, with a short stop for bread at midday, the gangs were kept moving. Anyone who stopped or faltered was given the boot or a butt with the rifle. Those who could not continue to work were shot on the spot, dragged to a corner and left to rot. It was hard for prisoner to help prisoner, the supervision was too strict. The graphite dust blew everywhere in the swirling wind. The Geezer puffed dangerously, everybodies eyelids were red and swollen. Noses were blocked with the dust, and sore throats were an added difficulty.
"God, I feel I'll die," croaked the Geezer. "This dust. All on top of me lungs. can't manage much longer. can't any sucker speak out fer oos, fer face masks, or somethin."
"Just look at my fingers," Chalky held out his hands. "All pus round finger nails. Thats cos I got them chapped and broken. Beastly dust as sent em sceptic. The M.Os useless. Showed him, I did. Hoped hed say something."
Jon tackled the warrant officer who was in charge of the railway truck. Jon saw a change had come over this N.C.O who wanted no involvement with the welfare of the soldiers. Nothing came of this encounter.
"Bet that bastard of an N.C.O is doing a deal with the guards. Not sure yet how, but I feel hes lining his pocket for the future somehow." Jon expressed his negative feelings to Sefton.
"What makes you say that?" asked Sefton.
"He just doesnt want to help. Seems afraid of sticking his neck out and getting into trouble. He says weve just got to lump the conditions. Complaining would make it worse, he says. Anyhow I'm going to make a stand, going to try my German on a guard."
"Jest you watch it, lad. An youll get no support from me." Angry shadows passed over Seftons face. "Ill be lookin other way when you get up to monkey business."
"O.K, O.K," Jon re-assured the older man. "Promise I Won't make it difficult for you. Havent got a plan yet. Must wait for it, when ever or what ever it may be."
That morning he whispered a warning down the line at roll call that he was going to make a protest, and appealed for support. He purposely placed himself far away from Sefton. Once again at midday they were lined up in parade form and handed their hunk of bread. The guard then came to give orders to break ranks and continue work. Jon saw his chance. Instinct told him to bring himself and the front rank of prisoners to attention. The men were too dazed with hunger cold and fatigue to question Jons authority, so automatically they too stood to attention. Then Jon shouted in his halting German comments which he had been practising. "This dust is killing us. We must have masks. We must have water on site. We cannot work like this. This does not conform to the Geneva Convention."
Two burly guards came running, rifles at the ready. "Am I going to cop it?" Jon thought. "Dont really care if I do." Anger and rage shook the Gestapo men, their voices grew louder and louder. Jon received a clout on the head, and a boot in his balls. He doubled up and got a knee in the mouth. With bleeding lips and spinning head he tried to make out the abuse which followed. Trying to keep steady and still looking ahead he could sense the line of men had been forced to break ranks and continue work. He was on his own. A Gestapo officer was called. The officer told the guards to load their guns, and then he faced Jon, put a gun to his head, and demanded in broken English whether he was going to work or not. Petrified, Jon tried to capitulate, to say he would work, but the words did not form in his mouth. Instead he muttered his demands, "Masks and water." He stared at the officer with direct eye contact. "Kill me if you want. It Won't make any difference in the end." The officer spluttered with indignation. Animal instinct directed Jon not to lose eye contact. The officer fired two shots into the air, and clubbed Jon to the ground with the rifle butt. The German was unable to shoot a man with his eyes open and staring at him in the face. The prisoners put on a semblance of working as Jon picked himself up, and he saw Sefton discreetly lift his two fore fingers in the V sign. Bruised and crushed Jon made an attempt to work, broken but not defeated. Later he was told that water for washing and some dirty linen had appeared.
Jon was charged with incitement to mutiny and segregated away with other desperados who were incarcerated in an ancient fort, a prison within a prison, many of them on trumped up charges. This frightening ordeal made him realise that his instincts wanted him to live whatever the circumstances. Inside this inner prison the conditions worsened, making what he had experienced before seem like a five star hotel. The single cells were below ground level, six foot by eight foot. There was one small grid in the top corner through which a foul stink seeped. It was the stink from the water of the moat which surrounded the old fort for that was now used as an escapees prison, and the moat was used for sewage and drinking water. Wood boards for a bed, a bucket and a mug and two thin blankets were the only contents of the cell. Soup flavoured with grease and bread was shoved through the door at midday, and acorn coffee when the passage lights went out. Cockroaches and bugs were constant companions. Occasionally a wisp of sunlight peeped in through the grid. There was no warmth or light, the stone floor and stone walls gave out a ghostly ghastly sense of ill ease. The two blankets were insufficient, both on top and the boards were too hard for rest, one underneath and one on top the cold air chilled the bones. Sleep was difficult for the guards thumped at the door what appeared to be every half hour.
Ill put my legs through the arms of my holey sweater, and have the blankets up under my chin, thought Jon, as he tried to make the best of a bad job. But I wish these bugs would leave me along. If I drink the damned coffee it warms my blood and the bugs bite worse, and if I dont drink it I'm colder than before. Got to have the bucket just next to me for a pee, then I dont need to stand up. God! what a life. Wonder if I'll ever be able to write about it, or even make up some poems. Though I'm marking the days off on the wall as I think they go by, I'm losing count.
Whenever the guards made their presence felt, Jon shouted what obsenities he knew. The guards hated him for his insolence.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted Jon. At that moment a guard opened his door while all was quiet and threw a bucket of water across the floor, dirty stinking water. From the tone of the guards voice Jon understood it was to pay him out for his insolence. In a very short time the water had frozen to ice.
Shows how cold it is. Now I can't take my exercise. Damn it. Every day after the soup appeared Jon paced his cell, three paces one way, and three paces back, hundreds and hundreds of times. Feel like a bear trapped in a cage rocking away, rocking away. Sign of dispair, I'm told. God! I'm feeling awful. Worse than usual. Throat is so sore I can hardly swallow. Let alone eat that ghastly bread.
The next few days Jon hovered in the twilight world. His throat swelled to choking point, and the fever raged through his body. He shivered and sweated. Even the guards were concerned when they saw the uneaten food and drink. It was a punishable event to have a prisoner die on their hands, and punishment for a German guard meant being sent to the Russian front, a fate worse than death. The camp doctor from the main part of the prison was called.
In his delirium Jon saw a figure bending over him with a different shaped hat from that of the Germans. - '
"Whats up, Inglis? I'm the M.O. They told me you were pretty rough." The doctor felt Jons skin and put his hands round his throat. "Youre a right old case. Diptheria it is. Thats what the matter with you. Can you hear me?" Jon nodded slightly.
"Get you moved quick as possible to the isolation wing. Get you a better diet too. Form 2 diet will make all the difference. This muck you've been having has run you down so you've lost your immunity. Plenty of diptheria in these conditions. Just hold on till I can get someone with a stretcher. Id like to wring these guards necks. they're inhuman."
"Thank you, sir," a tiny croak came from Jons throat. The doctor was as good as his word and soon Jon was laid on boards, with pillow and blankets, but in a space that was clean and warm. He was in the camp hospital. Fortunately he was on his own. An orderly came in and dried off the sweat and produced another shirt and pants. Without the interruptions of the guards and without the lice and cold conditions, Jon let the diptheria take its course. The Form 2 diet was three times better than the stuff he had endured in the cell.
"Can feel the blood in my veins again, sir. Thank you, sir. You fixed me up just in time." Jon showed his appreciation to the M.O, a young British officer who was doing his best under great stress. Medical facilities were minimal, even the act of boiling the water was a major event.
"Well give you another throat swab in a couple of days, then you must go back to the main camp. Your ninety days was as good as over. Both their damned cells, and our attempts at hospital beds are too much in demand to keep patients once they can fend for themselves." The young M.O had black shadows under his eyes. "There's so much diptheria around its hard to know how to control it. Maybe therell be T.B too with the conditions the Huns keep us all in. So, Inglis, all being well youll be in with the throng before long. And my advice to you, young man, is to keep your head down and your mouth shut. The human body can only take so much abuse. But good-luck to you."
Jon stood up, and brought himself to attention. "Thank you, sir. Youre doing a grand job. But, sir, its in my nature to be a rebel. I'll try not to get into trouble, sir."
The M.O turned and gave a half salute and a tired smile, and with bent shoulders went on his way. His retreating figure looked as if he were carrying the world on his shoulders.
The N.C.O, who Jon felt to be devious and who was now nicknamed Slimey, clocked Jon back into the main compound, checking his possessions.
"Not much to check, Sergeant. But Id like a go at checking your set-up," cheekily Jon taunted the N.C.O. "Gotta funny feeling about you, I have. Got my eye on you."
"Shurrup," snapped Slimey. "You jest got outve trubble. Dont start orf again or I'll ave you an a charge."
Back in the hut with Sefton beaming at him, Jon started to feel human again.
"Youre a right skeleton," laughed Sefton.
"Hows things been going?" asked Jon.
"So so," replied Sefton. "Old Geesers gone. Took bad one night. M.O did what he could. Lungs just packed up. Miss him, I do. And were off the graphite. Work on the rail tracks now."
"How do you get there?" queried Jon, his mind ever active for new possibilities of escape.
"Its certainly not by Rolls-Royce," laughed Sefton.
"Dont think I could manage a days work in my state. Many had diptheria? M.O said it was rampant." Jon came back to the present.
"Think its mostly malnutrition in this hut. Thats bad, very bad."
The harshness of the first winter was starting to decline, the sun shone weakly but it could not dispel the bitter winds which still swept through the camp. Jon felt stronger, but was still to have a final swab taken from his throat to see if he was clear of the diptheria. He managed to get through the day working on the tracks, by going through the motions but putting no effort into the work. The guards did not check the amount of work that was done, their only interest was that the prisoners were kept moving. Every evening Jon, with a mate to accompany him to ease the suspicion of his intent, walk round the whole perimeter of the camp trying to find some loophole through which he could disappear. Nothing came to mind, and he fought the onset of hopelessness. Until one day things were different.
For some unspecified reason, Jons shift were recalled early, so Jon with his mate, this time another airman called Flighty, went on their beat around the perimeters. Flighty too had been in the isolation of the hospital struggling with diptheria. He had been a well built man, but now, though still tall he was skin and bone. He too was due for his final throat swab before he was declared clear of infection. Flighty had been handsome, the twinkle in his eye sparkled when they talked of girls. But he also had a wife and family, so his adventurous spirit was slightly curtailed. On the third time round the perimeter Jon saw his chance. As they were approaching one of the corner machine gun towers he glanced across the 400 yards to the main gate. Beyond the gate lay the German barracks which housed the guards engaged on prison surveillance. But Jon had seen even beyond the barracks. There he saw a sub-section of about fifty prisoners working on a project. They were building a small extention to some toilet facilities.
Jon did not mention his mad brained scheme to Flighty as they walked at their usual steady pace till they were only 200 yards from the main gate.
"Quick march." Jon shouted and straightened himself up and the surprised Flighty did the same. In military step they marched towards the main gate.
"Eyes right," shouted Jon as they approached the guard room. Then he shouted to the guard on duty with as much confidence as he could muster, "We are going to join our working party," and after a few more paces, he shouted again, "Eyes left." The bewildered Flighty did what he was told automatically, he was too surprised to question Jons authority and too used to accepting orders. On marched the determined escapees. They passed the guards barracks. With his red hair and bad prison record Jon feared that he might be recognised. They reached the working party safely, and fortunately unnoticed by the guard on duty.
"Watyer doin, cock?" whispered a grubby worker. "Where in ell ave yer sprung from?"
"We're on the run. Cover for us, for Gods sake."
Word was whispered round that the two extra men had to be covered.
"Well keep on the move. Then they can't count us." An older man, covered in dirt, with a running nose, seemed to take charge. "Well prop a dummy wall on the back of this goddarned hut. You creep in there when you can. Good luck." With a masterly art this information was seeped through to the other workers, the guards were watching but did not suspect anything untoward. Flighty by now was excited and watched eagerly for an appropriate moment to nip behind the hut. As evening approached tension rose, for all knew that the shift would soon end. Fate again was kind. A truck drove up and the driver had words with the German guard. Quick as a wink, with the guard distracted, Flighty pulled Jon into the crevasse made by the false wall, and they flattened themselves on the ground. No one had noticed them.
With hearts pumping they heard the working party being marched back to camp.
"Hope no one splits," whispered Flighty. "Dont know that crew."
"Shh,"Jon put his fingers to his lips. Though they were free the Germans were too near for comfort. The quietness was broken by the guards coming to use the latrines which were only a wooden walls thickness away.
"For Gods sake dont cough or sneeze," Jon whispered as the latrine door slammed and the sound of boots disappeared. "We've got to make a break for it as soon as its dark."
"How in the hell are they going to cover for us at roll call? Thats only a hour off." Flightys thin face was wrinkled with worry.
"Cant think about that," Jon soothed. "Itll be pitch dark soon, and they Won't know which way weve gone. Well get a few hours start."
Jon embraced the onset of darkness gratefully. Both men stood up and started to trudge westwards across the undulating plains following the stars. Freedom had begun. They talked and laughed and hugged each other, forgetting for the moment the thousands of prisoners they had left behind. But the degree of liberty they had as fugitives was limited. They travelled in a hostile country, and both men were unfit and already hungry. The intense cold of the starlit windy night was only kept at bay by their continual walking. The howling of wolves in the pockets of forest sent a chill down their back.
"Dont worry," encouraged Jon. "As long as the wind doesnt change those blasted animals Won't get our scent. Lucky buggers. Those wolves are free."
"Funny sort of freedom. Slinking around at night howling," Flighty tried to joke. "Self-contained they are. Hungry and they kill. Hungry, and what happens to us? Steal? Kill?"
"Think what weve left behind." Jon tried to make Flighty positive.
"Cant think what weve got in front of us," retorted Flighty.
They struggled on till the sun began to cast its tender light on the surroundings.
"I'm exhausted," moaned Flighty.
"And daylights not our friend," said Jon. "Not till we can get out of this damned prison uniform. Gotta get some sleep first. can't think when I'm this flaked out. Look! There's a farmstead."
"Slowly now," said Flighty. "Dont do anything rash."
"See those two haystacks," said Jon, pointing. "Just beyond the houses."
"Yes! I'll settle for the bigger one," urged Flighty. "Quietly does it."
However quietly they stepped the sharp ears of two dogs caught the sound of crackling twigs, and they started to bark.
"Thats cooked it!" Flightys faced blanched with fright.
"Maybe the farmers are sound sleepers," Jon tried to sound cheerful.
Flighty was the first to arrive at the tallest stack, and managed to haul himself to the top. Jon, shorter and desperately tired, could not manage to lift himself up.
"Cant make it, Flightly. Come quick to this smaller one. We can both push down inside, and well keep each other warm."
"Anything to oblige," said Flighty sarcastically. With a heave and a shove, and much wriggling both men had managed to climb the smaller stack and open a way for them to recline in the warm of the straw, well out of view. Both fell into a deep sleep and were only woken up by gutteral voices when the sun was high in the sky.
Gently gently Jon eased himself, still covered in straw so that he could see the owners of the voices. He gripped Flightys hand hard. There was the sound of laughter, and of knife cutting straw, and a general clatter.
"Whew! that was close. Those were bloody Huns, German farmers, by the sound of it. Probably commandeered the farm. Took a great hunk out of the tall stack. The one I couldnt get up. Theyd have taken a hunk out of our backsides if wed still been there. Glad I couldnt manage to climb it." Jon wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"Narrow shave, thats for sure. But what about grub. I'm starving and thirsty." Jon sensed that Flighty was getting irritable.
"Just wait a while. Let those bastards get well away." They waited and dozed, the warmth of the sun gave them a false sense of security.
Suddenly there were more voices, this time in a language Jon didnt know. "Must the the locals, probably the owners," Jon whispered in a tiny voice. The voices came nearer and nearer their stack, and Jon knew that this party too was going to get some straw. He knew it was time for action.