The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise's)

Weihnachten (Christmas) 1942 © Tom Barker

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief and care;"
from Solomon's Proverbs

"Nah lose mein Herren, alles rous zum appel, mach schnell bitte!" (Now rouse yourselves Gentlemen, everyone out for roll call, make haste please") The voice speared into every room in the wooden barracks and probed into every corner and ear 'ole like a vicious circular saw suddenly encountering a six inch nail embedded in the plank it was slicing through. Then other voices suddenly joined the barrack room Opera with,

"Why don' you f-k off 'ome and drag that big African Zulu off yer missus yu Kraut back stud, instead o' bovverin' us on Christmas day?"

The German Sergeant was used to all the barracking and most of it he didn't understand anyway but laughingly replied,

"Ach, yoo Englander hev fanny zence off hoomer ya!" "Therr iss no verk today becauz, it is Saint Nicholas day, bat ve mast hev a roll call ya? Nah lose, rous mit ihr!" (Now hurry! out with you)

Then the Barracks Chief, who was a Sergeant of the Welch Guards yelled, "O.K. lads everyone outside, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can get back into our bunks and get warm again."

Stalag 3D P.O.W. Camp was near the small village of Teltow and not far from Berlin and housed about three hundred and fifty captured British Soldiers, ranking from Sergeants to Privates that had been captured in action against the Third Reich in the Desert or Crete and Greece. When we were first moved to this camp we found out it was a labour camp. One bloke on finding out it was indeed a labour camp, complained he was in the wrong camp since he was not pregnant, despite the fact we had been screwed around plenty, not only by our own people, but also by the Germans since being captured on Crete.

We were issued with a meagre bread ration per man in Salonica in Greece, and informed it had to last us four days till we reached our destination in Germany. Actually, it was nearer to eight days when we finally got to Luckenwald P.O.W. Lager where we were documented then issued a number plate to wear round our necks and sent to various camps and forced labour. One reason for the longer rail journey from Salonica in Greece to Luckenwald in Germany was the fact that all German Military transport had priority and all other transport was side-tracked for hours to allow these supply trains through.

The P.O.W. Number Plates we were forced to wear had three long gaps through the middle and the wearer's name and P.O.W. Number was stamped on it twice, once above the slots and once below the slots so that when the wearer got shot by a stroppy Guard who just didn't like him the Guard would then grab the disk and remove it from the neck of the now dead wearer and shove it into the man's mouth, then trapping the mouth shut with one boot the Guard would twist the disk and it would snap off leaving half of the disk in the dead man's mouth for identification of the body later. The Guard would hand in the other half of the disk to the Lager Commandant and report the incident as anything he cared to dream up. The old favorite excuse was, "I called for him to halt but he kept running." and a shrug would close the file.

But there were mixed feelings among some of our lads on this Christmas day.

"Jings! et's Christmas, an' ah hevnie even goat a cracker ti poo."

Another ventured, "I'd rather be out at work than lying here staring at the bloody ceiling and thinking about grub all the time."

Then another wit added, "On these rations owd mate, it's a waste o' time pullin' owt!" (anything)

And since no food would be in the offing until in the evening when the middle gate would be unlocked ready for the, "Dixie rush" we had learned to make do with no breakfast and no lunch and had got used to just one lousy meal a day that tasted like it had already been digested, then hot water added and stirred, then poured into our trough. However, having mustered into three ranks, the lads now awaited Herman the German to count us off. The Camp Commandant's timing was impeccable as usual, as he strutted through the gate like some Roman Emperor coming to check and pick out the Prisoners who were going to be fed to his lions today, just as the Guard was finishing the count.

The Camp Commandant, who, before the war had been a village school teacher, accompanied by another Guard, stopped near the gate and warbled, "Good morning Gentlemen."

The German Sgt, having completed the count, then waltzed up to the Camp Commandant and saluting reported, "Alles richtig, Herr Commandant" (all correct)

"Danke." ( Thanks) replied the Commandant.

Then wishing us, "A Merry Christmas Gentlemen." the Germans turned and left us to our own devices and the Guard locked the gate to our compound.

Those were indeed long days and are well remembered by those that tarried there at the time. But there is an old saying that, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." and on this particular Christmas day the heart suddenly got a lift like we all got four birthdays all at one hit and on the same day. As soon as the Goons were gone and the gate had been re-padlocked, the bloke with the key made to fit the lock on the canteen hut had enlisted the aid of some of his mates to watch for the Camp Commandant leaving the Camp to go home and spend Christmas with his family. With the Camp Commandant gone, the gate would remain locked till he got back in possibly, three days time. As soon as the car was seen leaving the Camp, the bloke with the key was into the canteen and moving the few empty cider barrels until he got to the one at the back.

About six months prior to Christmas, this bloke and his mates had been stock-piling any dried fruit they could lay their hands on. Most of it was dried apple rings acquired from some of the Guards, but then suddenly the Red Cross parcels began to trickle through and even though two men had to share one parcel, it proved to us that God had not forsaken us altogether. Some parcels contained sugar and dried prunes or apricots, and also, would you believe it - apple rings? Also tins of milk and cigarettes, plus choc bars and honey.

Two of the blokes were like a couple of magpies gathering all the dried fruit from all the blokes who got dried fruit and stuffed it into one of the wooden forty gallon casks and kept it out of sight of prying German eyes. They boiled water and added that to the barrel, then added sugar and yeast, etc and let it ferment and added a breathing tube. A week later, someone bribed a Guard who supplied us with a gallon of Schnaps, over a period of a month and despite the temptation, the lads whacked it all into the barrel.

From time to time the morning debate was, "God willin' the still is still distillin'?"

One morning report was like listening to someone discussing his mother's operation. "They 'as removed the tube an' she is breavin' more easy nah. But termorrer they is going ti whack a bung inti her ole an' she can sit theer an' ferment fer a couple o' months, then she'll be right." Some months later I heard they had removed the breather tube and knocked a bung into the hole and waited with fingers crossed muttering a prayer, "Pack yer gear lads an' keep yer 'eds dahn, cos if that bugger blaws afore Christmas, there'll be no bluddy barracks left!"

After the soup issue that Christmas day and with the gate locked again, the barrel was tapped and the contents tasted by all the lads who were now like a swarm of flies round a dead horse. Since the barrel had not been disturbed, someone had made a pump out of a bit of black rubber pipe that looked like a length of hollow rubber shoe lace and now the liquid was being siphoned out of the barrel - thus not disturbing the mixed mud in the bottom. The first indication that something was not quiet right, was when one bloke tentatively tasting the brew, gasped and clutched his throat, "Bloody 'ell!" he gasped, "Wot silly sod yuz put paint strippers in theer?"

The next day it was agreed it should be watered down a bit to cool the bite a bit. But even with water added, most had tears streaming down their faces, but continued sipping and suddenly ended up looking for a place to sit down before they fell down. One bloke who had had a sip from his tin mug, felt suddenly giddy and went to lie down and fell asleep, but when he awoke the next day and made a brew of tea in his tin mug the stirring teaspoon poked a hole through the bottom of his tin mug. Half an hour later, the rafters of Stalag 3D were resounding to the hymn, "Bread of Heaven, feed me till I want no more." Sunday morning roll call came round and on the parade, as the Guard passed each man counting, that particular bloke winced and swayed a bit and the Guard asked, " Sind sie Krank? (Are you sick?) and the bloke replied,

"Nah mate, just pissed, hic!"

Then the Guard backed away gasping and waving his hand like a fan in front of his face since he was down wind of the bloke answering the question and it was then he noticed that almost everyone on parade was glassy eyed and swaying to stay upright. Later it was suggested that we get a barrel ready for next year and invite the Guards to test our brew while we scarpered into the wild blue yonder.