Authors: Robert Ryan
The new man shuffled, even though he had on a stout pair of boots – many of the prisoners were reduced to wearing wooden clogs – and his shoulders were slumped. His bag of
possessions was clutched tightly to his chest and he dumbly followed the
Feldwebel
’s instructions without glancing around to take in his new home. His face was oddly immobile, as if it
had been paralysed or covered by a flesh-coloured mask. You didn’t have to be a doctor or detective to know that the man was broken. Krebs led him to Block 2, which formed the base of the
U-shaped building that comprised the officers’ billets, herding him like a sheepdog with one of its charges until they disappeared inside.
Watson turned back to his ward. In his morning surgery he saw dozens of minor complaints from prisoners, but there were only four in-patients that day: one bad case of boils, another of what
could be TB, one with frostbite from trying to dig out under the fence on the coldest night of the year, and Private Martins, whom the other patients suspected was malingering. After all, the
infirmary was the one room in the prisoner-of-war camp that was kept warm round the clock, with a ready supply of wood always available. So it was a magnet for those who simply fancied a spell in
the heat.
In the main barracks – converted from the stables of a once-grand estate – the men had taken to burning their bunks in the freezing days of the new year. January had been mainly kind
since then, but still a few hours in the infirmary were much coveted. However, Watson had come to the conclusion that Martins’s symptoms were very real, as he had missed the Sunday football
match against the Germans. He couldn’t play very well, but he was rather skilled at barking the shins and clumping the ankles of any guard foolish enough to get the ball. It was the highlight
of the man’s week.
‘Well, Martins,’ Watson asked, ‘any improvement?’
Martins, a sharp-faced fellow in his thirties, was an orderly, one of the other ranks kept on site to look after the officers. They had their own barracks and were little more than glorified
footmen. The alternative for such non-officers, though, was forced labour, in German factories, quarries or the salt mines. Complaints, therefore, were few and far between.
‘Still can’t stand up, Major. Room spins and I fall down. Like I just got off a merry-go-round. And I see that flashing.’ He used his fingers to demonstrate the on-off bursts
of coloured lights that had been plaguing him.
‘That’s the migraine.’ Watson had determined he was suffering from Ménière’s disease, probably caused by the shell that blew Martins out of his trench and
into no man’s land, where he was taken prisoner by the Germans. Not that the diagnosis did either of them much good. There was no treatment for the sudden, debilitating attacks of dizziness,
nausea and the accompanying visual disturbances.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him, Major,’ said Captain Tyrell, the man with a cluster of angry boils on his bottom that were so bright they could double as streetlamps.
‘He was bounding around the place like a March hare before you came to do your rounds.’
Watson raised an eyebrow as a query to Martins.
‘It comes and goes.’ The private lowered his voice. ‘They don’t like sharing a ward with a regular soldier, that’s the truth of it, sir. Think they should have an
officers-only ward.’
‘We’re lucky to have an infirmary at all.’
It was Watson’s third POW camp. He had been captured in no man’s land in France, having been blown out of a tank near Flers. From there he had been taken to a field hospital behind
the German lines, then a giant holding and processing facility on the Belgian border, a mainly French camp near Cologne, and finally shipped on to join his fellow countrymen at Krefeld II. This was
by far the most benign and well equipped of the three. Halbricht, the commandant, had even built the prisoners a theatre and, although food was desperately short, he made sure that at least one
meal a day was something more than potato water and turnip skins. It was best, however, not to ask about the provenance of the meat the kitchen produced.
‘You ever play tennis, Martins?’ Watson asked.
‘Tennis?’ he replied with some degree of incredulity. ‘I’m from Bermondsey, sir.’
‘I think we can rig a net up over by where that Canadian has his hop, step and jump. Eye-to-ball co-ordination, that’s what we’ll try. Retrain your brain.’
‘Good luck with that,’ muttered Tyrell.
Watson looked down across the unoccupied beds at the officer, but the words his mouth formed were snatched away by the blast of wind that swirled in with the dried leaves from the open door.
Feldwebel Krebs was there, along with Lieutenant Barnes from Block 2. Between them, hanging from their necks, was the newly arrived prisoner. And from the look of him, he was busy bleeding to
death.
The section of London between South Kensington Tube Station and Knightsbridge was the nexus of the operation to try to feed and clothe the thousands of British servicemen being
held prisoner in France, Belgium, Germany and beyond. The War Office’s Central Prisoners of War Committee had moved into premises at Nos 3 and 4 Thurloe Place, in the shadow of the mighty
V&A. The Red Cross occupied an adjacent building. A short stroll away, the British Prisoners Aid Society was now situated in an elegant home overlooking Hans Gardens. It had been donated by
Lady Greatlock, rent free, and its four floors were stuffed with supplies to be parcelled up and sent to the prisoners. A similar arrangement pertained at 22 and 25 Thurloe Gardens, the home of the
British Prisoners of War Food Parcels and Clothing Committee. These grand houses had been gifted by Sir Richard Burbidge, the managing director of Harrods, with No. 25 used for administrative work
and parcelling and No. 22 acting as a storage depot.
It was in the main packing room of No. 25 that Mrs Gregson, formerly of the Voluntary Aid Detachment and, subsequently, a spy for Winston Churchill, chalked a list of POW camps on a board, while
behind her three dozen women sat at benches, deftly assembling parcels from the various foods laid out before them. Most wore gloves. Despite the stoves and open fire, the house remained cold. Day
after day, the temperature outside was struggling to stay above freezing. It made many of them even more aware of the plight of the prisoners.
‘Right, ladies,’ Mrs Gregson said as she copied the names from a piece of paper provided by the Red Cross. ‘The camps here are the ones that are confiscating tinned goods.
Holzminden has been added to that list in the past day or so, and there are reports from Dortmund of seizures. Where there are no tins allowed we substitute jars or packets of jam, bacon, sausages,
extra cigarettes, rice, oats, maize, curry powder, dates and raisins, Oxo and Marmite. Now we also have a list here of new prisoners, so I need some volunteers to help make up a set of New Capture
parcels. Miss Hood, thank you, Mrs Nichols, Miss Kinney.’
She moved the three women into an adjacent, windowless room which, as well as tables laden with food, contained shelves of clothing and ‘comforts’ such as razors and toothbrushes.
Every new prisoner received a parcel of towels, shirts, vests, drawers, handkerchief, a muffler, a cardigan and gloves as well as shaving and bathing equipment, hairbrush and comb, a knife, fork
and tin opener. They just had to hope that the recipient wasn’t moved before the parcel made its tortuous way over the Channel and through a neutral country to the designated camp.
Mrs Gregson, although the head of department, also mucked in with the creation of the boxes, carefully following the kit list pinned to the wall. Once she had learned that her friend Major
Watson was a prisoner of war, she had thrown herself into the work of alleviating the suffering of the incarcerated men. Repatriated prisoners had told of terribly harsh conditions in some camps
and that only parcels from home had enabled them to survive. It wasn’t a deliberate policy of privation, they said – the Allied blockade of the ports meant most of the German population
was also suffering from malnutrition.
She tried not to think too much about exactly how Watson was faring in all this. It made her lose focus, and even feel a little weepy, when she pictured him in a freezing hut somewhere in
Germany, eating his Maconochie rations from a tin. They had been reunited in Suffolk, when she had been asked by Churchill to be his eyes and ears at a top-secret establishment developing the
so-called ‘tank’. These adventures had brought her and Watson close although, if she was being frank, the exact nature of that closeness eluded her. It didn’t do to dwell too much
on those feelings. He was her friend and confidant – she had even told him about her brief affair with a married officer, now killed – which was enough to be going on with. And,
whatever the ultimate reason, she very much wanted him home in England.
‘So, have you news, Mrs Gregson?’ asked Miss Hood, a birdlike creature in her late teens who could sometimes be heard lamenting the devastation the war had had on her social life
since she came out.
‘About?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
‘Whether the Queen is coming?’
This was a constant rumour. Queen Mary had already visited the premises of the Central Prisoners of War Committee and the Red Cross. The feeling was that BPOWFPC deserved a show of royal
approval.
‘I have not,’ said Mrs Gregson truthfully, ‘although I know the secretary has put in a request.’ The secretary was related to the Queen’s lady of the bedchamber, so
the petition was likely to find its way to the keeper of Her Majesty’s appointments. At least she hoped so – Mrs Gregson had to admit ignorance of the machinations of the Royal
Household, whereas some of her subordinates had encyclopaedic knowledge of the hierarchy at Buckingham Palace and the other royal residences. And if they had contacts within one of those
residences, they were quick to mention it. Mrs Gregson was doing important work, she knew, but the constant reminders and reaffirmations of social status that occurred minute by minute at the
voluntary organization were ultimately very tiresome. There were those, she was certain, who resented her elevated position at No. 25 simply because she was not mentioned in Debrett’s.
‘Don’t forget to put in the PR postcard,’ said Mrs Gregson, scooping one out of the rack and laying it on top of the socks and shirt. The men were meant to send the Parcel
Received card back to show the supplies were getting through.
There was a knock at the open door. Mrs Gregson looked up to see the slender form of Major Neville Pitt of the War Office. He had his cap in his hands and a slight colour on his cheeks as he
always did when confronted with a room full of women. He reached up and tugged at his moustache, as if checking it wouldn’t come away in a stiff breeze.
‘Mrs Gregson,’ he said, ‘do you have a moment?’
‘Of course.’ She tried not to catch the eye of the others as she put the final item in the box.
Pitt, of similar age to Mrs Gregson, was relatively young for a major. He had been denied front line service because he had lost an eye, now replaced by a false one, in a polo accident; he was,
by all accounts, still a useful player. He was a good head taller than Mrs Gregson and as she stepped out into the hall he stooped down to whisper in her ear. ‘Do you have time for a cup of
tea?’
‘Well . . .’ She glanced into the New Capture room, where the three women were apparently engrossed in creating their parcels. A giggle, though, escaped from within, followed by a
very unladylike snort. ‘Possibly.’
‘I have some news,’ Pitt said, pushing home his slim advantage.
‘Really? About?’ Not the bloody Queen again, she thought.
‘About Major Watson.’
A suspicious cast clouded her features. ‘Good news?’
What kind of fool was he to bring glad tidings about a man he considered a rival for this woman’s affections? Not that Pitt had ever met this Watson, but he knew the man once boasted some
minor celebrity, and that Mrs Gregson clearly bore him some affection. Some deep affection, he might add. However, he told himself for the hundredth time that Major Watson could only be a father
figure to someone like Mrs Gregson. He himself was a far more suitable match. Some considered her too frisky and forthright, but, Pitt thought with her confident manner and red hair, she made all
the other women look positively bland. And news of the old boy brought such palpable joy to her, that he could use the lift in her spirits to suggest a dinner before he travelled to The Hague.
‘Very good news, Mrs Gregson,’ he said, managing what he hoped was a shy smile. ‘Very good news indeed.’
Before he could say any more she had turned on her heel and left to fetch her hat and coat.
After lunch and the afternoon
Appell
– the camp roll call – Watson took a brisk turn around the main compound with Colonel Isbell, the Senior British Officer
at the camp. The tall, elegant Isbell had been incarcerated for two years, but managed to keep himself whip-smart. His hair was neat and oiled, the uniform beautifully pressed and he was shod with
the glossiest boots in the camp. Having a pair of dedicated orderlies at his beck and call helped in such matters, of course.
The compound echoed to the sound of hammers striking nails. A stage was under construction for the scratch orchestra that was being assembled from the inmates. It would double as an open-air
theatre for the reviews that were proving so popular that no single hut could contain the ever-growing audience. The Krefeld Players had been forced to put on matinées of
Two Merry
Monarchs
to meet the demand. At the moment the weather was benign, but winter could sweep back in just as rapidly as it had departed, scotching the idea of outdoor shows until spring. Still,
the labour was a reward in itself for the prisoners, many of whom welcomed the physical exercise of sawing and hammering. Watson often wondered about the wisdom of not requiring officers to work;
sometimes, enforced idleness could be as much a punishment as forced labour.
‘How is the patient?’ Isbell asked.