The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise's)

The Stove in Barracks 3 © Tom Barker

But then, just in case someone was spying on him, he would set off and make for the next tower, but when he got to that one he would not tarry because it could be seen from the Camp Commandant's Office. If the Camp Commandant was in a bad mood and noticed a Postern taking shelter from the elements instead of trying to catch pneumonia for the Fatherland, he could find himself on the next train for the Russian Front, where if one yawned, one could choke to death as the breath froze in one's mouth and acted like a gob stopper. And although this rain was wet, it was a lot warmer than the frozen wastes of the Russian Front. The sooner the Guard got back to the other tower, the sooner he could get into shelter again.

Inside the barrack room it was warm and for a moment I felt a bit sorry for the bloke who's only choice was to put the muzzle of his gun into his mouth and pull the trigger, rather than walk outside in this miserable weather, or possibly be transferred to the Russian front anyway. The wind was gusting, blowing the Guard's greatcoat open at the front so that all the front of his trouser legs were soaked with rain water. Clouds obscured the moon and it was a miserable night, to friend and enemy alike.

In the Sentry towers the Guards were stamping cold feet and although they were wearing gloves or mittens they looked uncomfortable and not very happy in their work. Every now and then they would move to the other side of the wooden Guard tower as the wind would blow the rain at an angle into the tower. Bored, they would switch on the powerful searchlights and the brilliant beam of light would reach out over the camp searching into the shadows. Tonight the powerful light beam would be struggling to spot a target because of the falling rain that looked like falling jewels as they cascaded through the light's beam.

I thought, "Well they started it all so let 'em get on with it, and I'll go lay on my bunk and ponder on how I can stuff it up for them a bit more."

But having got comfortable on my bunk, I would close my eyes and think about Turner's fish and chip shop in George Street back home in Barton-on-Humber in Lincolnshire England. And the cake shop with cream buns and iced cakes, sitting under those bright lights, and the fresh bread smell oozing out every time someone opened the door to go in and peruse the whacking great ham sitting on the bacon slicer on the counter. Then my reverie was broken by the bloke in the next bunk, "You alright mate?" he queried, looking at me concerned, and the book he had been reading was now laid on his chest.

"Yea, why, wot's up?" I asked.

"Nowt," said he. Then he continued "Ony ah eerd yu whimper, ah thowt as mebbe yu had got summat caught a'tween t' bed boords, app'n?"

"Not on these rations", I quipped. So I put him at his ease and assured him all was well, but mentioned I was day dreaming about my favourite cake shop.

"Oh aye." says he, his face lighting up, "Me mam used tu let me 'elp 'er when she wer cookin'. She allus sed ah wer a bit like me Dad, ----"an' wuz reet good at puttin' cream inti tarts." "An' wot abaht when yu get a bag wiv 'ot chips in it an' all that vinegar is in one corner an yu 'owd it up an' suck it aht?".

I thought, "Yea, happy days indeed"

Then some one was thumping the end of my bunk. "Mail up!" said a voice, and the face peering to see if I was awake would disappear from the end of my bunk and I would get up and wander over to the stove area where most activity was on a cold wet day. I waited there for the bloke with the mail. It's funny, but when waiting for something good to happen, why does it always take so long? I mean, we stood there like silly beggers as if hypnotised by the closed door.

One bloke waiting with us noticed two blokes playing draughts and went over and pointed to an obvious move. The other bloke gave him a bitter look, then got up and said "Ok smart ass, yu play 'im an' if 'e wins you give 'im a biscuit cos 'e aint gerrin' wun o' mine."

One favorite pastime of mine was to make useful items out of empty tins that had been sent to us in Red Cross packages containing dried milk and the like. We had another bloke in our hut and he was also a tin basher. We would spend hours working out new ways to use tins that at home would be discarded the moment they were empty. But in this place everything was perused with a view to "What can I make useful out of this?" I made an assortment of sailing boats and one boat I made was powered by an old wind-up gramophone motor. Acquired by agreeing to make a boat for a Guard who had a son who was interested in toy boats.

Having told me he had an old wind-up gramophone but the spring was broken I said, "Take out the clockwork bit, but remember and bring the handle also, and I will do you a swap for a sail boat. He was highly delighted, but so was I, because it would make a nice change to making tin trays all the time. The Guard got his boat and I got my wind-up motor. For what it is worth the spring was not broken, it had just come off the retaining peg on the drum. But I stripped it right down and having cleaned it, I oiled it, and re-assembled it, and re-bent the spring so it would not come off again and it worked like a charm. I made numerous baking trays, frying pans, blowers for cooking on, and a wall clock.

I was proud of that wall clock, and when I first started to make it, there were cries of "Bloody nutter." And "It'll never work" and "D'yu think it'll keep good time, and, "In yer dreams mate!"

One bloke walked away muttering, "That bloke is in a dream world, an if 'e meks a clock I'll ger 'im tu mek me a pair 'o bleedin' wings tu fly oot ov 'ere."

And although some blokes would moan, "Do we have to listen to tick f-n' tock aw day and night?"

Some blokes would argue "Yea, well it drowns aht yu miserable bleedin' winjin', don' it!"

We would get an empty meat loaf tin and cut the bottom out, then cut along the seam and by crimping instead of cutting the corners thus making it water tight, we made a flat tin tray about a half inch deep. Now if we felt like it, we could make some chips from potatoes if we could get some potatoes from somewhere.

Hawksly Hill was a R.A.F. Spitfire Pilot and resided on a top bunk. He sported a big blond handle-bar type moustache and mop of blond hair. Reading a girlie magazine and chortling "Gawd, do you believe that?" as he turned the magazine this way then that way and wishing the picture of the topless girl was in 3-D so he could poke his eyes out.

When the bloke in the tin bashing business making the tin tray started bashing on this tin, Hawksly lowered the magazine and drawled lazily, "I say old thing, do we have to have all that noise, do go somewhere else to bash that bladdy thing." "Ask the guard if you can have a transfer to another camp, preferably in Siberia, what?" and someone else would rally to Hawky's cause

"Yeh, f-k off, why don' yer an' tek yer f-n' tin wit' yer".

However, all this banter would cease as soon as the door burst open. And it's funny, but at home, speaking for myself, we were always brought up to opening and closing doors quietly. In the house you walk, don't run, and so on, but in a P.O.W. camp you have to get in first, and it's every man for himself, and if you don't do it some one else will, y' know, that kind of mentality. However, enter the Mailman, and the first time I was a bit disappointed, I can't explain why but when I saw this bloke dressed like we were and I felt disappointment and cheated. I didn't expect him to look like Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny staggering under a massive sack bulging with parcels of goodies from home. But when a scruffy bloke needing a shave, wet through, with this pathetic little half of a hessian sack with a canvas strap sewn on it slung over his shoulder, the size of which indicated it's maximum capacity was a small package and about half a dozen letters, my spirits fell. Was it any wonder a lot of faces also fell when the mailman withdrew his hand from the sack with only a few letters in it. Water was beginning to collect round his feet as rainwater dripped from his clothes.

Meanwhile there was a buzz of conversation until a voice screamed "QUIET!" It was as if some one threw a switch. You could hear a pin drop. "Roit, lissen fer yu name" said the Mail man,

"There's no one called Wright in this barracks Postie." piped up a thin voice, to which the Postie glared and sniffed,

"Aw Gawd, there's a clever bugger in ivvery barracks"
"Smiff" growled the Postie"

'ere" piped a voice.

"Jenkins", said the Postie,

'e went fer a s--t piped the voice.

"Pandora" the same voice

"e's on't same box 'avin' a s--t wit' Jenkins"-----"ah think?"

"Death" said the Postie, and the proud owner of the name sniffed loudly,

"If you don't mind old boy, the name is De-Ath, with a hyphen," and some wit chortled

"'fust un fits better, ah meen jist luk at' 'im."

But De-ath defended himself with, "Your no Robert Doughnut" and someone else volunteered

"Yu mean Donat, and De-ath said bitterly,

"I mean Doughnut, look at him, face like an a--hole, with a tongue."

"Go have a wash and shave, then you can be a neat and clean looking a--hole with a tongue, A--hole."

"Tenny."

"Over here." and my heart leaped. I had a parcel, and when I opened it I found a carton of cigarettes and a pair of woolly socks.

"Right pay attention" cried the Mailman, and pausing until it was quiet again he said "I have been asked by the escape committee, and he paused because the door had opened and a bloke so muffled up against the wild weather outside he had to struggle to shut the door against the wind which was trying to wet the bed nearest to the door by blowing the rain into the hut at such an angle. The bloke had taken four strides into the room before he got to the end of the wet patch now on the floor inside the door.

"I have been asked," began the Postie, and watching the bloke now removing all his anti-storm gear, "To inform you all that if any of you have got anything lined up for the next four or five days to forget it." Now because he recognised the bloke as one of ours, he continued with the message, "A tip has been passed to us that the Gestapo and S.S. are out in force looking for a bloke who has been busy in our area blowing things up and they are extremely dischuffed so we have to keep our heads down for a while until it blows over, o.k.?", and disappointed murmers of

"Yea, yea, we hear, f-k off why don't yer and dig up some more mail."

Since I did not smoke, the cigarettes in the parcel were as good as money - for barter that is. I must point out here, to save you from being confused later, that my real name is Tom Barker of The Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, but I had changed I.D. disks with a R.A.F. bloke while in the showers. I was now, as far as the Germans were concerned, Harry Tenny, R.A.F. Tenny and I had agreed that any letters that came for us were to be held by the senior Brit in the camp and were to be delivered when and wherever possible to the rightful recipient. Because parcels were bulky and could not be smuggled so easily, we agreed to keep and use each other's parcels.

This masquerade did have a dual purpose. One reason was to get the real Tenny back to England. Being short in the Air Crew Department they could put a fully trained bloke to good use. I, on the other hand had a sneaky feeling that the SS and Gestapo might suddenly wake up to the fact that where POW No 12244 (Tom Barker) was, a lot of trains were being tampered with. So far my sixth sense had kept me out of trouble, so I was inclined to take notice of it. I did think that if indeed Tenny got to England as Tom Barker, Tom Barker would no longer be in Germany, so Jerry could not possibly find him. But if Tom Barker (Tenny) got caught, Jerry would match finger prints and photo's and realise he wasn't who he was supposed to be. Then they would look for the real one and both of us would be given a sharp tap on the back of the head with a 9mm slug next to a hole in the ground supplied by yours truly and the real Tenny.

Well Tenny did escape from a work commando and got caught. And I perspired. Even today I cannot believe that the Germans never latched on to who he really was. The Germans always appeared to be so thorough. Also Tenny was dark with brown eyes and stood about 5ft 6ins while I was blond with blue eyes and stood at near enough six feet in my boots. I think what put the Germans off was that when I was taken POW and had my pic taken I was so brown from the sun in the desert, plus I was minus hair and the poor food we had been given so far had altered us and it would have been difficult for an expert to pick me out. The only way to tell for sure would be fingerprints.

After a while in the cooler, the last time I saw Tenny, he was waving to me from the back end of a work Commando going out of the main gate. So I wandered back to the stove and got my empty meat loaf tin with the wire handle on it.

Nimbly nipping into the wash house adjoining our hut and nonchalantly nicking half a pint of H2O from the nearest tap, I nipped back to the warm stove. And put my tin next to all the other tins that were gradually getting warmed up and had a natter with another bod, who like me, was waiting patiently for a brew the noo. When it brewed I was going to raise my tin mug to Barker (Tenny) and hope he made it the second time round. A couple of tins in the middle were boiling merrily.

Sadistically I thought for a brief moment, "If they can't be bothered to check their tins, then let the buggers boil dry." But since my Mother had always taught me "Be nice." I looked at the little metal tag attached to the handle and read the number and shouted the numbers so the owners could come along and dunk their tea bags into them. Sometimes the owner was pre-occupied, and if five minutes later the tins were still there boiling away, then you would remove them from the hottest part of the plate and put them on the outside of the group of tins on the plate. As tins boiled and were removed, the outsiders inched their way to the hottest part of the plate in the middle and of course they in turn boiled, so everyone was happy, well! lets just say in this given situation they were a bit extra chuffed. One removed ones tin when it boiled by using a metal hook, because the wire handle could, and did, sometimes burn fingers.

One could not put paper or cards on a tin, and someone tried to paint a number on his tin, but because the stove would sometimes be red in the middle it would burn these off. Then one enterprising bod came up with these little disks about the size of a penny. Made from tin lids and a number stamped on each, the number would be stamped on the metal by holding a nail and tap tapping it with an iron fish plate (that's the metal bar with four square holes in it.) The curious will find two of these locking one railway line to the next with four heavy nuts and bolts. The square holes were punched in instead of round ones being drilled so that the bolts that had square shoulders just under the head would engage into the square holes and then if and when the line needed repairs, the nut could be removed without the lot turning due to rust caused by the weather.

"Where on earth would one get a fish plate?" one might casually warble. Well, when in adversity, one nicks anything that's not nailed down, even if one doesn't need it at that particular time. There is a special name for that kind of junk, it's called, "Come in handy gear." One wouldn't believe the gear some blokes stored, nails, bits of wire, one bloke had a metal washer from the bolt that secured two fish plates together between two railway lines, and as he lay on his bunk he would juggle it down between his fingers, and one of his mates in the next bunk said to him one day, "Yu gittin' pretty good wi' that thing aint yu" and matey with the washer looked at it wistfully and replied

"Yea, it reminds me of somethin' but ah can't quiet put mah finger on it." "But if Jerry locks me in the cooler ahm goin' tu crawl through that little hole", indicating the hole in the washer, "And ahm away". One could buy a number tag with wire to attach to one's tin, and it would cost two cigarettes.

The stove was simplicity itself, a brick layer had built an oblong box of bricks about the size of a dinner table with a hole at one end to feed fuel into and an iron plate about a quarter of an inch thick was laid on the top. About six inches from the floor inside the stove were iron bars set into the brick-work so as when the wood burned away, any ash could fall through onto the concrete below. We would take it in turns to clear and empty the ash daily. Also the top of the stove would get a good scrape to remove any food that had spilled on the plate causing smoke and cinders.

A bloke called Coulson was a R.A,F. bod. He was also a good painter, and our stove had a brick chimney which was about two feet square. On this chimney was a notice board where local gossip and notes about 'wanted to swap, one tin of meat loaf for a tin of herrings', or 'two fags for a hair cut', or 'tin of sardines for a packet of custard powder', and so on. Coulson the painter was painting a picture of a Lancaster 4 engine bomber. I sat for a while and watched him, "You paint?" he queried after a while, glancing side ways and not missing a brush stroke, and I replied

"Yes, but not like that."

"Ah you paint in oils?" he asked with a smile.

I said, "No, I meant my painting is pathetic." and he with a grin said

"Practice and you will get better. But whatever you do don't give up on it". Today I paint with oils - gratis Coulson. Coulson also painted a girlie picture about two feet square. If you have ever seen those pics the Yanks had on their bomber aircraft of a girl in a tight blouse who looked like she was a water melon smuggler and had legs all the way up to her lungs with what looked like a hump behind each knee, encased in equally tight shorts or mini skirt.

When that pic was finished and hung on the peg above the notice board, word got round the camp and it looked like Sutherby's in London had just announced that they were giving away free antique furniture. There was a queue outside our hut, you would not believe and that was next doors mob. Wait till word gets to all the other huts! Cries of "Move on through the hut once you have had a look. Just don't stand there adjusting your under wear." were coming from the occupants of the hut because suddenly it was getting difficult to move past our notice board because of the crowd drooling over our new pin-up girl.

The next day, to cries of woe, the picture was removed by order of the hut leader. Someone countered this by suggesting it would be a good cloak for a map, so in due course we got the picture back. But as soon as the door was bolted for the night it was turned round and on the other side we had a map of where the Russians were and where the Allies were. Flags were stuck in so any one could wander past and see the latest moves, but at midnight it was turned to the wall again, minus the flags, just in case Jerry decided to catch us by surprise and do an early (like two a.m. in the morning) search.

One of the problems we had with our stove was, if some one tried to escape, whether he got home or was recaptured, made no difference. Our fuel for the stove would be revoked for about a month, and instead of hot showers, we got cold ones and if the Commandant's missus said "No" when he went home for the weekend, he would come back and we would get no parcels for a fortnight. So, with no fuel, we had no heat and we could not cook, but if it was winter time with no heat to warm the Barracks and ice forming on the inside of our window panes due to condensation, it could get to be a bit parky.

This situation became more aggravated, because when one can't get warm, one soon begins to devise ways to stimulate the flow of blood. And one bloke had a valid point in that he suggested that if we did press-ups and other exercises we had nothing to show for the energy used. On the other hand, if we dug a tunnel, we had something to show for it. Also, if the Commandant suddenly woke up to the fact every time he stopped our fuel we dug tunnels to keep warm and perhaps go somewhere where it was warmer, he might think again next time he is about to cancel our get-warm gear.

Sometimes a chap would lay on his bed a bit despondent, until suddenly his face would light up and he had a great idea.

"Now if I had some boards I could shore up the sides of the tunnel and collapses would be a thing of the past." Boards? ding ding," Under everybody's bed, there are lots of boards made for the job, so without more ado, now and again every Tom, Dick and Fred would nick a few boards from this bed and a few from that bed when the owner was abroad trying to flog his spam for fags. Because the fuel ration had been stopped, some lads had been nicking boards from beds other than their own to make a brew on the stove, and heads were being scratched to queries of, "I thought Jerry had stopped the fuel issue, so how come they are making tea?." And it was not long before the penny dropped. We had in our midst a, or perhaps some, bed board bandit, or bandits.

So a notice was posted on the notice board. "It has come to my notice that there is a BBB in this hut (bed board bandit) and I will not rest until the culprit is apprehended!"

Some one had pencilled in over the next line, "Or until I get some replacement boards. Signed, Big Fred, Barracks Chief." Due to the fact that some blokes were now trying to sleep balancing on three bed boards, instead of the issued twenty, it was not long before we got two or three blokes during the night turning over and dropping in on the bloke below to cries of

"S--t, where did you come from?" and "f-k off, this is my bed!" and "Oh, so sorry, I thought yu looked lonely, so ah dropped in fer a quick chat." and the angry owner, having been wakened just when he was chatting up Betty Grable in his dream, retorted,

"Well now yu had yu f-n quick chat, ger aht me bed afore ah does yu a mischief!"

And the next morning you might see one or two blokes in the showers with a distinct mark across their backsides and shoulders that resembled the graining pattern of a pine plank. You would also be juggling with your health if you passed a remark like

"Looks like yu 'ad a rough night."

Well ah meen! one could feel sorry for the blokes. But when they slowly turn and focus their bloodshot red rimmed eyes on the speaker, and one might snarl

"F-k off afore yu ger a bunch o fives in yer gob!" it is then with a limp smile and hugging the wall, one scampers out to the safety of ones bunk leaving wet foot prints leading all the way to ones bunk, and one has a fervent wish for some ferns or the like to brush over the wet marks so they don't lead to ones bunk. Only when they are dry and can no longer be seen, does one relax and even think of sleeping.

Next day the scouts would be out foraging for more boards, and it got to the stage where one or more of our blokes were sleeping on the floor. But this had it's hilarious moments. You see, Jerry had built all these barracks on stilts so the dogs at night could roam underneath and thwart any attempted escape in the downward direction, from a barrack room, that is. The blokes lay on the floor, and while trying to get to sleep, would perchance hear "Sniff, sniff" from somewhere under the floorboards. And some crafty devil sees a knot in the wood and pushes it out, and the dog, now attracted by a kissing noise emanating from this hole in the wood above, investigates it with his nose. The bloke above knows that it is a physical impossibility for the dog to lift his leg and squirt through this knothole above its head. So assisted by gravity he leaks on the sniffing nose instead, and the dog retreats sneezing and whining and shaking a now wet smelly head, while a smirking bloke above is nudging his mate and chuckling,

"The dogs are really p----d off tonight"

Some blokes would overcome the fuel shortage by approaching me with a slack hand full of cigarettes with the request,

"Make me a blower mate" and I would get some tins, the main one being an empty Canadian powdered milk tin (Klim) and after about an hour I could swap a blower for said fags. So now clutching his new blower, the bloke would make a beeline for the wash house. There, a scrap of paper and a couple of twigs would soon have a blacksmith's forge going before you could say "Stroll nonchalantly to starboard." But even that had it's downside, because soon lots of blokes had blowers.

In the morning, when the first brew was being made, Jerry thought the barracks were on fire. Then all hell seemed to be let loose. Whistles would blow and an armed contingent of Guards surrounding the irate Camp Commandant would stomp into our compound.

"Vas machen sie hier?" ( What is going on here ) snarled the German Sergeant, and the Camp Interpreter trying to sound like an Oxford Dux asked

"The camp Commandant would like to know what you are trying to accomplish with all this smoke? Are you trying to signal someone?"

Some burly bloke would laugh and say with a grin,

"Mornin' tea mate, yu know, drinkies." and because the Germans looked at him stony faced, his little laugh petered out and he groaned,

"Aw Gawd, why bovver?"

When we showed the irate Commandant the source of the smoke, he was quite carried away by our ingenuity. As he was leaving he turned and wagged a finger at us, and the interpreter translated his parting shot.

"I don't mind you burning rubbish, it keeps the camp tidy, but woe betide anyone caught breaking wood from the barracks to burn! --- Oh! …and by the way, stop p-----g on my dogs."