Kriegie ingenuity and the Melbourne Cup!

Tin bashers such as Tony Gordon, who was noted by Bill Fordyce as North Compound’s ‘official’ tin basher, played a key role in Stalag Luft III’s physical comfort.

(Caricature of Tony Gordon, by Bill Fordyce. Fordyce's wartime log book, courtesy of Lily Fordyce)

As had prisoners of war in earlier conflicts, they produced artefacts which are generally described as ‘trench art’ from materials at hand—particularly dried milk powder tins the equivalent of the Great War’s bully beef tin—including kitchen and table utensils, biscuit grinders, jugs, tea pots, and coffee percolators.

(Klim tin, 'lifted' from the internet so long ago I have no idea where it came from. Sorry.)

The tin bashers also played a key role in the camp’s social life. George Archer sketched ‘Simo’s Masterpiece’, a brewing still manufactured by ‘Brew Fuhrer’ Laurie Simpson, noting that the fractionating column was constructed out of Klim, Ovaltine and cheese tins, joined together with solder from cigarette packet foil.

(George Archer's wartime log book, courtesy of David Archer)

Some became so skilled that tin bashing evolved from the purely utilitarian. Illustrations of percolators, tea pots and coffee pots in Belaria compound’s record of captivity, for instance, indicate that aesthetic form became as important in kriegie manufacture as function.

(Cousens, (ed), The Log: Stalag Luft III Belaria–Sagan 1939–1945. Cheltenham: the author, [1947], p. 193.)

The tin bashers also built chip heaters, ‘blowers’, and stoves. Tim Mayo, for instance, constructed a stove for his room out of Klim (powdered milk) tins, clay, bricks and solder from silver paper. The force draft cooker, known as a ‘blower’ or ‘stufa’, which ‘burns at a fierce heat’, used ‘fuel of all descriptions’. It was particularly useful when ‘fuel is almost non existent’, and is considered by historian Peter Doyle to be ‘the epitome of POW ingenuity’ and an ‘icon of captivity’.

(From Ken Todd's wartime log book, courtesy of Peter Todd)

But given that today will see the yearly running of the 'race that stops the nation', this post particularly celebrates the exemplary work of Bill Fordyce during his stint in an Italian POW camp, PG 78, Sulmona.

 

(Bill Fordyce, in happier times, courtesy of Lily Fordyce.)

He designed the 1942 Melbourne Cup trophy and ‘horses’. The blurry images are from Bill’s log book and the sharp image (AWM) P00631.005 is from the AWM collection. If you look carefully you can see Bill’s name on the stables.

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Introducing William Henry Edwards DFC

One of Stalag Luft III's Australians in the RAF was William Henry Edwards, known as Bill to the family. 

Born on 18 October 1915, Bill grew up in Leichhardt (Sydney) NSW. He applied for and was successful in obtaining a pilot training cadetship at 1 Flying Training School, Point Cook and commenced 20 Course in July 1937. He was in the same intake as Stuart Walch and Jack Kennedy (Battle of Britain), and over lapped Des Sheen’s and Pat Hughes’ 19 Course. Also on 20 Course were Allan Mulligan and Charles Fry who would also fetch up in Stalag Luft III. 

Point Cook 20 Course 1937

Bill, Point Cook, 20 Course. 1937. 

Some of that time is described in my Australia’s Few and the Battle of Britain. But here is the description of 20 Course’s initiation, engineered by Pat Hughes and co (from Pat’s diary) which did not make it into the book:

On 24 July, a cold Victorian winter’s night, 19 Course took the disrobed juniors down to the seaplane hangars. There, they painted them with dope—a flammable lacquer applied to aircraft to weatherproof the fabric stretched over the airframe—and branded some with a cold, and some with a hot, iron. They then sprayed them up and down a ladder with a fireman’s hose before throwing them into the icy sea. Finally, the hapless new boys were knighted on a block of ice with an electric shock. ‘Whoopee’, wrote Pat, as he signed off on his description of the night’s overly aggressive high jinks.

Bill graduated 32nd in class with 64.88%. From Point Cook, Bill embarked for the UK on the RMS Orama, and a Short Service Commission with the RAF.

Bill on the RMS Orama. Courtesy of Ross Edwards.

After completion of his RAF training, he was posted to 211 Squadron RAF, then, on outbreak of war, to 107 Squadron RAF.

He served in the Norway campaign and his sterling service was recognised with the award of a Distinguished Flying Cross. Citation: In April, 1940, this officer was pilot of one of six aircraft which left to attack Stavanger aerodrome and seaplane base. The weather was so bad that five aircraft were compelled to abandon the task but Flying Officer Edwards succeeded in getting through, attacked the objectives and obtained valuable information. On the previous day he was pilot of one of twelve, aircraft ordered to attack the same objectives. Despite a heavy snow storm, which forced him to fly very low, he reached the target and attacked it in the face of heavy anti-aircraft fire. When returning he attacked a Dormer seaplane with his guns and scored hits. On both days this officer displayed great skill and determination, and courage of a high order.

The first Australian awarded the DFC was Dereck French, of Point Cook’s 21 Course, which overlapped Bill’s. The senior cadets, including Bill, according to French, treated 21 Course ‘like the lowest form of animal life’ and they organised an initiation similar to their own which French considered ‘silly, primitive...childish’. But enough of the gossip.

From Norway to France with 107 Squadron and the Battle of France. On 12 May 1940, the squadron was detailed to attack roads near Maastricht. Blenheim IV P4905 was shot down by Me 109s over Bettehoven at 9.25 am. LAC Palmer was killed, Sergeant Luter and Flying Officer Edwards, were captured. Bill was processed into captivity as POW No 326. Two other Australians destined for Stalag Luft III were captured that day: Guy Grey-Smith, whose Point Cook course overlapped Bill’s (and who experienced that silly, childish initiation meted out by Bill’s crowd), and Ian ‘Digger’ McIntosh.

Australians in Stalag XXIB, Schubin, Christmas 1942. Courtesy of David Archer.

Bill picked up the nickname ‘Hap’ at some point and spent time in a number of camps including Stalag XXA, Thorn and Oflag VIB, Warburg. He arrived in XXIB, Schubin 4 September 1942, then, when the North Compound opened, he was transferred to SLIII in April 1943. 

(Bill's grandson tells me that, according to Alex Gould, the original nickname was 'Happy'. George Archer's records indicate that it was then later shortened to 'Hap'.)  

Bill, Christmas 1942, at Schubin. Courtesy of David Archer. 

He was repatriated on 8 September 44 because of medical grounds. George Archer noted in his letter 24 July 1944 that ‘another batch of repats leave this week including three Aussies—Chuck Lark will know them—‘Dusty’ Miller, ‘Hap’ Edwards, and Tom Bax’. The East Compound history notes that information was sent to Britain via repatriated POWs ‘who were briefed by the Senior British Officer and his Staff and learned by heart’. They were then delivered ‘to an Intelligence Officer on arrival in the UK’.

Bill married Monica Hay Fenton Wingate in the UK in 1945. He later returned to Australia where at some point he became a service station proprietor. He and Monica had two children. On 30 September 1955, at the age of 39, he died in Concord Hospital (Sydney) NSW of Myelofibrosis (a serious bone marrow disorder) of which he had suffered over a number of years.

Film 'review' with a difference: Danger Within

This isn’t a post about Australians in Stalag Luft III, but it does cover some of the universal aspects of the POW experience and so, it counts!

 

It is well acknowledged that popular perceptions of prisoners of war in Europe have been shaped by their filmic representation. I’ve only viewed three of the classics—Stalag 17 (1953) The Colditz Story (1955) and The Great Escape (1963)—and only through the perspective of light Sunday afternoon entertainment. Accordingly, I thought I should work my way through some of the classics of the prisoner-of-war genre just to see for myself what aspects of captivity have been presented to a film-living public. Thanks to Clare Makepeace, I have a list and I decided to start with the 1959 film, Danger Within and thought I would write up my ‘findings’.

 

 

There is no need for me to provide a detailed account of Danger Within’s plot and filmmaking—there are very good ones at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danger_Within) and https://bloodymurder.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/danger-within-1959-tuesdays-overlooked-film/ —but I do discuss some important plot points and, while I don’t reveal the ‘bad guy’ I do drop a very big hint and there are lots of spoilers.

As far as I am aware, Danger Within has not been released on DVD and so I had the ‘joy’ of watching a very snow-ridden VHS that was close to the end of its useful life. The blurb on the VHS case exclaims ‘400 plan to escape—one plans to betray!’ and the liner notes claim that it is ‘an exciting drama set in an Italian POW camp during WWII’. Well, I don’t know if I would go quite so far as to say ‘exciting’ but I certainly enjoyed it, perhaps because of my research interest; I am not entirely sure I would have been enticed to watch it otherwise. Significantly for my research, the liner notes also state that the film is based on the true exploits of producer Colin Lesslie and writer Michael Gilbert, the author of the book on which the film is based. Gilbert joined the Honourable Artillery Company when war broke out and served in North Africa and Italy. He was captured in 1943, imprisoned in northern Italy and escaped after the Italian surrender. [https://www.theguardian.com/news/2006/feb/10/guardianobituaries.booksobituaries]

 

 

 

 I read Danger Within—released as Death in Captivity in Britain—a few years ago before I started my current research. I purchased it at a specialist crime fiction shop. Given the blurb ‘When a man is found suffocated to death in an escape tunnel under impossible conditions, British POWs turn detective’, I expected a classic ‘who dunnit’ but found it difficult going and less than engaging, so promptly put it at the back of my bookcase. From what I can recall, there are considerable differences between book and film, including some name changes, more of an interest in crime solving, and the name of the theatre production which covers the mass escape. Given I enjoyed the film, I must revisit the book at some stage if, for no other reason, than to see how the raw material of the book morphed into the aforementioned ‘exciting drama’.

Danger Within is a classic of the British prisoner-of-war film genre and sits alongside other iconic British productions of this era such as The Wooden Horse (1950) and The Colditz Story. I may be researching Stalag Luft III but it seems that there is little difference between this Italian camp and the Luftwaffe’s showcase prisoner of war camp for airmen. Indeed, with only minor script changes (and investment in air force uniforms) the film could very well have been set in Stalag Luft III. Like Stalag Luft III, this fictional camp is a veritable united nations. There are British officers, of course, a Greek officer, and a piano accordion-playing Frenchman. Vincent Ball, as Captain Pat Foster, in slouch hat and Aussie uniform doesn’t have to hide his accent. I spied Lieutenant Commander ‘Dopey’ Gibbon, RN (Andrew Faulds), ‘Doc’ Simmonds of the RAMC (Robert Bruce) and I recognised an ‘Airborne’ insignia but, because of the continual snow storm of my borrowed VHS copy, I can’t tell you who he was! Sadly, given my particular interest in air force history, the snow and erratic horizontal hold made it difficult to focus on background detail, so I couldn’t discern any air force officers.

 

 

The plot is simple. A series of escape attempts in an officers’ camp in Northern Italy, just before the Armistice in 1943, which should succeed, are discovered. The first escaper, who disguises himself as the one of the Italian commanders—so cleverly that not even Lieutenant Colonel Huxley (Bernard Lee) the Senior British Officer (SBO) is aware that it is one of his men in disguise—is caught by the very man he is impersonating just as he exits the compound. He is shot in cold blood in front of everyone, creating a near riot. The escape committee is convinced that they have an informer in their midst, until the likely suspect, Lieutenant Cyriakis Coutoules (Cyril Shaps), is found dead in an escape tunnel. Escape plans continue and the Italians continue to discover the attempts. It is not until the night before the grand scheme for the entire camp of 400 men to exit the tunnel in broad daylight is executed that they discover the traitor.

The camp spy pops up often enough in prisoner of war anecdote, but here, as with the similarly themed Stalag 17, the spy/traitor plays a major role in the narrative. The prisoners may dismiss his possible existence with the death of Coutoules, but his identity is revealed to the viewer quite early on. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been; it would have been much better to leave the great reveal until the very end, when Captain ‘Bunter’ Phillips (Richard Attenborough) discovers his identity. Even so, tension is created in not knowing whether the prisoners will discover him or whether their escape attempts will continue to be foiled, with deadly consequences. Although there is a spy in camp, and a murder, escape is at the heart of this film and it forms the basis for both narrative drama and narrative conflict. In one of the earliest scenes, the head of the escape committee, Lieutenant Colonel David Baird (Richard Todd) and Huxley argue over the importance of escape to prisoners of war. Baird is unequivocal in his belief that it was their duty to escape. Huxley is equally adamant that it is also their duty to stay alive. (The irony in Huxley not putting the highest priority on the duty of escape is that he had made a successful escape during the Great War.) This is a standard set piece to reinforce the central place of duty and survival in an active serviceman’s life, whether he is at the front or behind barbed wire.

Every aspect of prisoner-of-war life imaginable has been crammed into the 101 minutes playing time, including the ever-present guards in the watch towers,  and right from the beginning, this film demonstrates that the active serviceman does not languish in captivity but creates as much disruption as possible to the enemy. Not only that, he actively manages his captivity and displays incredible ingenuity. It also highlights the imperative to survive, not only to continue the war whether behind barbed wire or not, but so the men can return home to their families, poignantly illustrated by Bunter Phillips’ wedding band and photos.

The dual goals of escape and survival are not easy to attain because there is indeed, ‘danger within’. Front and centre, is the betrayal of their escape plans by one of their own. Then, there are the cruel murders of the escapers. Lester (Peter Arne), the first to attempt a brazen escape by walking out disguised as the sinister Capitano Benucci (also played by Peter Arne) meets his doppelganger lying in wait, just outside the gates. He shrugs, acknowledging that the game is up, but rather than being rounded up and sent inside as he probably expects, he is shot in cold blood. There are tunnel collapses, real and staged. There is also psychological danger. Capitano Benucci knows full well how much the men depend on their mail to reinforce their connections with home when he announces that much of the mail was destroyed by fire—again. The men take advantage of many coping mechanisms to stay fit and healthy but for the psychologically fragile, mail deprivation is a serious blow.

 

 

As is typical of British films of this era there is a strong thread of humour throughout the film. (Even a cursory look at wartime prisoner of war logbooks reveals that humour was an important coping mechanism in captivity; you can’t be depressed if you are busy laughing at yourself and your situation.) After the opening battle scenes, the camera fixes on a man lying face down, apparently dead. And then he starts scratching his back side. Dopey Gibbon, who sways wildly as he pours ‘vino’ from a teapot, later reveals himself as a competent pre-escape briefer. The SBO sparks a laugh as he offers his gloved hands for finger printing because he likes to keep his hands clean. I couldn’t help smiling at the heart-warming enthusiasm of the ‘sewer rat’, Lieutenant Meynell (Ronnie Stevens) as he talks about his passion for drains, hardly realising that the all-pervading miasma of sewage makes him socially unacceptable—that is, until he discovers an all-important electrical cable. I laughed out loud at the controlled madness of Major Charles Marquand (Michael Wilding) and his side-kick Captain Alfred Piker (Peter Jones) who criticise the typical British weather while stepping out into ‘the rain’, and then announce that they will have to call for a taxi. Reminiscent of Shakespeare’s clowns, those pseudo mad-types serve a double purpose: while providing light relief they also gently hint at one of the greatest fears of all prisoners of war, barbed wire psychosis (wire happy).

I’ve read a few prisoner of war memoirs in my time and have interviewed a number of former prisoners, as well as members of their families. One of the repeated motifs is a great love of and enthusiasm for Red Cross chocolate. It was a treasured commodity and extremely valuable for trade and suborning the guards. Not surprisingly, chocolate puts in an appearance in Danger Within in another deft scene which combines dry British humour, real-life prisoner-of-war experience, and my favourite character in the film, Bunter Phillips. Here, Phillips tucks into his chocolate and refuses to share it around. The selfishness is understandable as, Phillips explains to his friends, he ‘paid through the nose’ for the treat: ‘five cigarettes and a tablet of soap’. The whip-like retort was, ‘you can see you’re out of soap!’ 

 

 

One thing in which I am particularly interested is altruism. I didn’t have far to look in this film to find it. The Italians find ‘evidence’ that Captain Roger Byfold (Donald Houston) murdered Coutoules, the prisoner believed to be the traitor. Given the cold-blooded murder of Lester, it is patently obvious to the prisoners that the innocent Byfold will be tried and executed. The camp clowns, Marquand and Piker, who have a well-advanced escape scheme of their own, offer to take Byfold with them. Their invitation might have been flippantly issued but it was generous, particularly given that a third man lessened their own chances of success. Chocolate-loving Phillips shows that his selfishness is but an aberration as he gives up his tunnel to the greater effort of the mass escape: he places the common good of the camp above his own desire for a quick and easy exit which would maximise his chances of returning to his wife and child. When the mass escape was planned, it was agreed that lots would be drawn to determine the order of exit (reminiscent of the method used to determine the order for the Stalag Luft III’s Great Escape). Altruistic Phillips, however, did not go into that draw. He volunteered to join the rear party, and is one of the last to leave the camp. (A few years later, Attenborough swaps services and gains a promotion as he graduates from family man and altruistic tunneller in Danger Within to Big X, mastermind of the whole shebang, in the 1963 American film, The Great Escape.) Captain Tony Long (William Franklyn) also puts up his hand for the rear party, but his action is hardly altruistic.

The film’s other set piece, again featuring Huxley, demonstrates that altruism does not occur naturally. Despite the wishes of Captain Rupert Callender (Dennis Price), principal of the camp theatre group, the Rupert Callender Players, Huxley decides that an afternoon production of Hamlet will be used as a blind while the prisoners escape via the theatre hut. Callender claims the players are not ready and perhaps resents the fact that his art will not be appreciated by the audience it deserves. Huxley launches into his lecture: ‘What do you think this place is—a holiday camp?’ The words are no accident. Prisoners of war of all stripes in Europe resented the fact that the Red Cross presented images to their family, and the world, that equated their existence to that of a holiday camp. Huxley continues: ‘Now you listen to me Callender. There’s nothing glamourous about being a prisoner of war. Most of the officers here, including me, and you too, are only alive because we surrendered or because someone senior put their hands up for us. Maybe it’s not our fault but it’s nothing to be proud of just the same. Far from it.’ The upshot was that Callender had no choice. He had to perform whether he was ready or not, whether he liked it or not. His players, then, would be some of the last to escape down the tunnel. Callender was not the only one who resented the decision. One of the bridge players, waiting in the theatre wings, muttered that everything was ‘sacrificed to the cause’. Was this a slight dig at the fact that virtually every man in camp was required to play some role in the escape organisation—as did their real life counterparts in Stalag Luft III? Or just a neat reinforcement that altruism in not inherent in all, and altruistic behaviour for the commonweal often has to be forced.

It is clear that this film knows something about life in captivity and, given the personal wartime experiences of Michael Gilbert and Colin Lesslie, this is not surprising. Examples of ‘real’ prisoner of war experience are crammed in everywhere, as significant plot devices, to provide ‘colour’, and as realistic diversions to escape activity. The escape organisation’s security crew are on the alert shortly after the opening sequence. The watcher settles into his deckchair by the Rugger field, ostensibly reading his never-ending book as he nods the ‘all clear’, the mirror signal is flashed, the clean towel is flashed to signal that the escape work can get underway. (The look-outs are on duty right through the film.) The ‘keep fit-types’ play rugger and golf and keep trim doing PT. There are the gardeners and the circuit walkers. In one scene the artist paints the ever-present guard tower, in another the art class provides a plausible excuse for a pre-escape briefing session. The bridge players play continuously, and later reveal a half regret that they would soon be leaving the ‘security’ of captivity for an uncertain future as escapees and evaders when they remark that this would be their last game behind barbed wire. There’s even the camp pet, a potential table duck who receives a reprieve, ostensibly until Christmas.

Perhaps the most striking example of the legacy of personal experience in the form of significant plot device comes from the discovery Phillips makes after a sand fall in the tunnel where he is completely buried for a time. He couldn’t move his hands at all, and, as such, realised that Coutoules’ damaged hands had occurred not because he had tried to dig his way out of the sand fall but because he had been tortured before death.

I am often bowled over by the examples of ‘kriegie ingenuity’ that abounded in Stalag Luft III. Every aspect of Stalag Luft III’s Great Escape, for instance, highlights the prisoners’ prodigious creative and technical talents. Likewise, in Danger Within, and perhaps the most ingenious is the ‘applause machine’ which audibly disguises the theatre left empty as the prisoners made their exit en masse from the camp. Ingenuity provides an important Deus ex Machina solution. How can they move Coutoules’ dead body right under the noses of the Italians? Round up the keep fit-types, of course. They can display their manly physiques and athletic prowess despite months or years of captivity and, with a ruse of playing piggy-back, can easily whisk the body to a more innocuous place where it can be ‘officially’ discovered.  

There were two small aspects which I found particularly interesting. Indeed, I wondered if they had been drawn from the experiences of the men of Stalag Luft III and their mass escape, given details of if were well and truly in the public domain before either Michael Gilbert penned his 1952 novel or this film went into production, thanks to Paul Brickhill’s post war articles, Escape to Danger, which he penned with Conrad Norton in 1946 and The Great Escape which was published in 1950. Here in Italy, on the night before the escape, the men’s kit was to be inspected because, as the escape committee correctly assumes, there would be someone wanting to take along the kitchen sink, a poignant reminder perhaps that delays occurred in Stalag Luft III’s escape because luggage-laden men got stuck in the tunnel as they trolleyed down. (As it happened, the kitchen sink stayed behind in this effort, but the pet duck’s Christmas reprieve was extended indefinitely when its carer smuggled it out in his battle dress jacket.) The other thing that piqued my interest was that the committee monitored the letters going out before the escape. They wanted to prevent a deluge of ‘last letters’ tipping off the Italians. I haven’t pursued whether or not this occurred in Stalag Luft III, but I was surprised when I recently went through the letters of one Australian who was killed in the Great Escape and noted that the final letter his family received was written a few weeks before he exited camp, rather than in the days before, as I would have expected.

Letters in Danger Within have a dual function. They provide the means by which the traitor communicates his knowledge to Capitano Benucci, but they also signify the link to home and family. The prisoners might not talk about them in this film but family—and in particular wives—are revealed as very much a part of the captivity experience when we catch a glimpse of them in Phillips’ photos and the wedding band he always wears, even when digging. Women, always absent yet ever present in any prisoner-of-war camp, crop up frequently—and often humorously—in different guises, underscoring their significance to prisoners cut off from them physically while trapped in their homosocial environment. We catch a glimpse of tragic Ophelia, as the theatre-types rehearse, Gibbon jokes about old masters and old mistresses, in his pseudo art class, and, while packing his kit before departure, one man wonders if he can take along his photo of a shapely woman. His companion asks for her measurements and announces on hearing them that, at 41, 23, 38 inches, his friend ‘would never get her through the tunnel!’

Women, for prisoners of war, represent the past and the future. For the main part, it is too hard to dwell on either: you can’t relive the past and you can’t access the future until you are released. Even so, real life prisoners of war constantly dreamt of and planned for the future. They took courses, planned their future careers, gambled on when the war would end (usually before next Christmas) and some even designed the homes they would build and live in. In Danger Within, there is almost no reference to a future beyond barbed wire until the final preparations for the escape: ‘This time tomorrow we’ll all be outside’.

While Danger Within very much falls within the prisoner-of-war genre, the spy subplot has a satisfying resolution with the traitor receiving his just deserts. And I am not talking about a piece of Phillips’ chocolate. I won’t tell you how justice is served but, despite being accidental and administered by his ally Capitano Benucci, it reflects the real life punishment meted out to those who betray their countries in wartime. The finale, however, does not reflect the reality experienced by mass escapers. Here, the 400 do get out, and are last seen tearing through the Italian terrain to freedom. Real life mass escapes, however, failed dismally. But this is fiction, and the viewer is entitled to imagine a happy ending. (About 20,000 allied prisoners of war simply walked out of Italian camps after the armistice. Over 5000 traversed the Alps to neutral Switzerland, including 420 Australians. 

  (http://www.anzacpow.com/part_2__escape_from_italian_camps/chapter_1__the_italian_armistice) Some joined guerrilla groups. The majority were rounded up and sent to German prisoner of war camps, including 29 or so Australian airmen who found themselves in Stalag Luft III.) So, suspending any sense of reality, I am more than content to believe that Bunter Phillips will return to his family and, notwithstanding the fact that chocolate is rationed, will have as much as he wants, without having to sacrifice hygiene!

How then, did Danger Within present captivity and the POW protagonists to the moving loving public, 14 years after war’s end? Well, despite Huxley’s declaration, this particular camp did come across as a holiday camp, what with sport, theatre, endless bridge playing and vino on tap, or in tea pot. The prisoners were fit and healthy and had obviously not suffered from any rationing of food and vitamins, as evidenced by the PT boys and the energetic rugger aficionados. They obviously had a decent laundry service because all uniforms appeared neatly ironed and stain free. Indeed, there was no sign of any mismatched, pieced together ensemble. The active serviceman was always on the go, planning and executing escapes, creating diversions, and getting up the nose of their captors. Although there was ‘danger within’, it did look like a jolly-hockey-sticks existence, greatly at odds with the starker images and physical debilitation of the Japanese prisoner-of-war experience portrayed two years earlier in The Bridge on the River Kwai. Viewing Danger Within, I can well see how many at the time (and later) believed that prisoners of war in Europe had had a fairly decent time of it in captivity, and that any similar camp would have been considered a soft billet where everyone had been busily trying to escape.

 

 

(All images, except for the modern book cover, lifted from ‘the internet’.)

Alex Kerr: Shot Down. A Secret Diary of One POW’s Long March to Freedom.

Shot Down. A Secret Diary of One POW’s Long March to Freedom.

Big Sky Publishing, June 2015, 199 pages

ISBN: 9781925275179

$A24.99

Over the past decade or so, I’ve written about Australian pilots in the air war against Germany, exploring, among other things, how they coped in combat and with the after effects of battle. In some cases, their very identity was linked intrinsically to their capacity to fly and, indeed, for some, their need to fly was so strong they thought little of the cost. I began to wonder how they would manage when ‘wingless’, when they were taken out of operations not through combat injury but because they had been captured.

Even from the first day of the Second World War, Germany claimed airmen as prisoners of war. Australian airmen were a minority. Of the servicemen captured in Europe, 8,591 were Australians, and 1,476 of those were airmen serving in the Royal Air Force and Royal Australian Air Force. This equated to approximately seventeen per cent of Australian prisoners. Australian airmen were imprisoned throughout an extensive and ever-growing German prison network and many of those captured in Mediterranean and Middle East actions had previously been incarcerated in Italian camps. Each branch of the armed services managed its own facilities but, even after the Luftwaffe established its own camps, airmen were not confined exclusively in Luft camps. So it was for Sergeant Alex Kerr, a graduate of the Empire Air Training Scheme’s No. 1 Course, who was imprisoned by the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe.

Twenty-year-old Alex had been operational with No. 115 Squadron as second pilot on a Wellington for less than a month when, on 10 May 1941, he and his British crew members were on their way home after a successful bombing run to Hamburg, one of Germany’s most fiercely defended targets.

With little warning, a night fighter announced its presence by firing on, and hitting, the rear turret. The pilot made every attempt to evade but the German fighter pilot fired again. Bullets ripped through fabric and metal and Alex was knocked backwards as he was hit. As the aircraft began to burn, as the fabric-covered Wellington was apt to do, he lay there, cursing the German pilot, and, for several seconds, knew the stark fear of the helpless.

Alex lost consciousness. When he awoke, his fear had gone, replaced by a ‘lulling, lethargic calm, a slowness of movement that could well be fatal in an emergency’, and so it would have been if Dave, the rear gunner who had amazingly survived the attentions of the night fighter, hadn’t shoved him out of the stricken aircraft, thus saving his life.

The West Australian’s injuries were so severe there had been talk of medical repatriation. After months in German hospitals, he was sent to a prisoner of war camp. He had had a relatively easy time of it in the hospitals, even quite enjoying the ‘gentle and friendly attitude’ of medical staff and fellow prisoners. He had even valued kindnesses from orderlies working behind the backs of German guards to acquire treats for the patients. But now, as Alex ‘saw barbed wire close up for the first time’ he ‘realised its grim purpose’. No chance of repatriation now. He was just a number.

Alex was incarcerated in Stalag IIIE, Kirchhain, then Stalag Luft III, Sagan, Stalag Luft VI, Heydekrug, Stalag 357, Thorn and Stalag XIB, Fallingbostel. In the final months of the war, he trudged across Germany in the Long March. After narrowly escaping death when the column was strafed by Allied aircraft, he and a mate escaped to Allied lines and freedom. These are the bare bones of a fascinating memoir which, as indicated in the foreword, reveals a man of great resilience and integrity who demonstrated strength, courage and devotion to his mates.

I will just point out here that this memoir is an important addition to Australian military history. Not just because of some of the particular aspects, which I will touch on below, but because there are significantly fewer accounts by Australians taken prisoner by the Germans. For example, in a review article covering books written by or about Australian prisoners between 1980 and 1989, Hank Nelson listed 48 works. Of those, 40 related to prisoners of the Japanese, two dealt with prisoners of Japan and Germany, and six are about prisoners of Germany and Italy. In his 2002 survey of the ‘prisoner experience as literature’, Peter Stanley noted that of the 500+ books in the Australian War Memorial’s Australian prisoner of war catalogue, three-fifths deal with prisoners of the Japanese, prisoners of the Reich account for a third, and those relating to captives of the Italians take up less than a tenth of the shelf space. The proportions have barely changed. To its credit, Big Sky Publishing’s catalogue includes a number of prisoner of war accounts dealing with captivity in Germany.

But back to Alex. Largely based on the diary he kept during imprisonment, Shot Down is written in such a matter-of-fact style that the reader on occasion has to peer through the lines to the full emotion of living in close confinement without a release date in sight, where ‘wingless’ airmen could not contribute to the fighting war effort and were so isolated from credible sources of war news that they could only trust that the Allies would eventually prevail. It is hard to imagine just what being a prisoner of war meant, but I had a go at it, as I wanted to get a good look behind the lines that Alex did not write, and to hear what he did not quite say.

Imagine living in an environment where there was no silence, in such profound intimacy that every breath, every sniff or snort, every fart and stomach grumble, every nightmare, every mood swing, every shift on lumpy palliasse and bed board-deprived bunk, every surreptitious movement under threadbare blanket was heard by every other man in the overcrowded barrack. Even thoughts were not private because, after living in such close proximity, almost anyone could read them and so, the only real solitude was in the cooler. Just imagine the tension building as men from all walks tried to muddle along with people so different in personality that they probably wouldn’t have bothered knowing them in ‘real life’. Consider trying to be cheery, friendly and tolerant when all you wanted to do was wring the bloody neck of the bloke who spilt the last teaspoon of the communal store of sugar. Imagine having to fill your time with any sort of busy-work just so you wouldn’t go crazy with inactivity. It almost defeats me to picture it, and I am sure it would defeat me to live it.

Alex, however, was made of much sterner stuff than me and despite everything, fared so well that he gained from his experiences. He also demonstrates that community can exist in enforced communal living. Indeed, it is one of the strengths of this memoir that Alex portrays a balanced account of life in a German prisoner of war camp. Monotonous, with great deprivation, yes - if not for regular Red Cross parcels, the men would have starved on German rations - but to compensate, lifelong friendships developed and were nurtured, and the foundations of many future careers were laid. In addition, much was discovered about goodness, kindness and humanity, and evil, in enemy, friend and self.

Like many other camps, Stalag IIIE had some benevolent guards who treated their charges reasonably well along with its share of tyrants ‘who had maltreated us’. Indeed, ‘Stalag IIIE was a camp in which violence had earlier been used and prisoners have been bashed by guards and subjected to harsh treatment ordered by the commandant.’ And so, after they had left Kirchhain, when Alex and his fellow prisoners were asked the names of the Germans who had traded with them, they handed in a list which included only the names of those who had mistreated them, knowing full well that the malefactors would be punished severely. To Alex’s credit, he does not let himself off the hook by refraining to include a story where he and his friends, perhaps understandably, exact retribution, especially when it seems he is not entirely sorry for his part in the scheme: ‘In retrospect it is probable that most of us felt rather guilty about the result’. And here is one of the reasons I like this memoir so much. There is nothing pretentious or literary about it. It is simple and unassuming and Alex is honest and open.    

Counterbalancing the darker side of humanity is a story which reveals true kindness and highlights all that is good about the ‘brotherhood of man’. Harry Calvert, who was older than Alex, had developed a well-earned reputation as Stalag IIIE’s most successful trader. As Alex sat on his bed contemplating how to celebrate his 21st birthday, Harry poked his head in the door: ‘I heard it’s your birthday today’. There were no secrets in a prisoner of war camp. Alex confirmed that it was indeed his birthday. ‘Happy birthday, Aussie’, Harry said, as he placed a precious egg in Alex’s hand. It was the first egg the West Australian had seen for a year, and a gift from a man Alex had barely met, even within the close confines of a prison camp. It was a gesture of compassion and generosity he would never forget.

As well as revealing the positives and negatives of the human condition and how many adjust to life without liberty, Alex recounts little known aspects of captivity in Europe. For example, he and 51 other prisoners tunnelled out of Stalag IIIE. He was on the run for ten days. He never forgot that ‘feeling of triumph and excitement’ during that, and subsequent escape attempts. ‘It was an exhilarating feeling knowing you were winning a dangerous cat and mouse game with maybe a disastrous result if you lost. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins almost continuously.’ Alex was one of the last to be recaptured. Fifty-one of the escapees were returned to camp. But not Harry Calvert, Alex’s birthday benefactor. He was the only casualty, shot for no apparent reason.

The Great Kirchhain Breakout was the largest, most successful escape attempt to date, yet, surprisingly, little has been written about it. Alex’s account is thus more than just a wartime memoir. It is a valuable addition to escape literature and, because of Australian involvement, our military history. So too is his description of life in Stalag Luft III. Rather than the usual officer-centric escape focus of the prolific Wooden Horse or Great Escape narratives, Alex offers a rare NCO perspective of everyday life and friendship in that most famous of camps.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this review, I am interested in how men cope in captivity, and I was concerned that perhaps Alex had not ultimately coped with four years of imprisonment. This wasn’t because Alex had confessed to it (quite the contrary as I will discuss below) but because of the lack of emotion in some parts, such as Harry Calvert’s death, and a dispassionate style which might indicate that nothing had touched him. But Alex had coped and did so remarkably well. His prison life was full of activity such as arts and crafts, sport and music. When the prison education system was established, he signed up. Not only did he relieve the monotony of camp existence through study, but he received the sort of education few Australian lads could ever dream of attaining. He received a Certificate in Social Science from Oxford University (he did so well in this that Oxford considered the standard he had achieved under camp conditions to be equivalent of that required for University Honours) and a Bachelor of Science and Economics degree from London University. If anything, the dispassionate style is a reflection of the fact that Alex felt that his prisoner of war years had not been overly harrowing; ‘they did not seem so important to me at the time’. Yes, Alex had managed well in captivity and there are a number of reasons for this.

At the beginning of the book, when he talks about his formative years, Alex tells of his inbuilt sense of optimism, how faced with new, unexpected experiences he just got on with it. For example, when he was pulled from school because his father’s income had suffered during the Depression, he ‘commiserated with Dad over his loss’, found a job post haste, enjoyed what it had to offer and ‘matured quickly and tasted many new facets of life … made new friends and tried my hand at a lot of new activities…’ Alex could have easily written that at the end of the book and it would have been equally as apt because that is exactly what he did in a succession of prisoner of war camps. He clearly made the most of his camp life and the new friendships it offered. Friends coped better in captivity. They shared food and memories and supported each other. But camaraderie was more than just a means of survival for Alex. He had a gift for friendship, both giving and receiving and his relationships with crewmembers and fellow prisoners lasted a lifetime and beyond. In many ways, this memoir is a testament to friendship.

Shot Down is also a testament to optimism and, looking back, Alex believed his inherent optimism enabled him ‘to bear the vicissitudes of incarceration with fortitude’. Alex would be too modest to claim it, but I think his fellow prisoners’ ability to cope with seemingly limitless confinement would have been enhanced by his natural buoyancy.

That Alex considered his prison experience not so much ‘traumatic but rather exciting and overall beneficial’ is another reason why he survived captivity. So too is his attitude. ‘I had taken a positive view of life and had been determined to take every opportunity while in camp to improve my lot in life’. Apart from planning for his future through education, he grew in self-confidence, assumed leadership roles and developed important life skills. Without doubt, he ‘weathered the storm well’ and ‘came out of prison thankful that my life had so miraculously been saved’. Indeed, Alex admits that being shot down and imprisoned were perhaps the best things to ever happen to him. He survived for one, whereas many from Bomber Command did not. The statistics of his own training group are particularly telling. Of the forty members of his course, only twelve men were alive at the end of hostilities, and nine of them had been prisoners of war. Fully aware of how fortunate he had been, after returning home he promised himself to ‘make the most of the reprieve I had been given. I would live every day to the fullest’. And he did. The former newspaper office boy went on to enjoy a career in academia, where he became a professor and ultimately Deputy Vice-Chancellor of Murdoch University in Perth, Western Australia. Alex’s achievements and life attitude firmly demonstrate that his years spent in captivity were not wasted.

There is perhaps another reason why Alex coped so well in the post-war years. He may not have been entirely sorry for ‘dobbing’ in the cruel camp personnel but he bore no real grudge against those who acted with decency and later accepted the essential humanity of those of the enemy who, like him were just doing their wartime job. He may have cursed the Luftwaffe pilot who shot him down but Alex contacted him after the war and they corresponded. It is clear to me that there was a measure of reconciliation, given and accepted, in their exchange of letters and experiences. ‘I got a good feeling to get so friendly lines from a former adversary’, wrote the former night fighter. For Alex, along with reconciliation, came the answers to questions which had puzzled him for half a century.

Hard core aviation enthusiasts may turn away from this memoir because it is a largely an account of captivity. That would be a mistake. The book includes enough training and operational details to satisfy any aviation nut - Alex’s account of his last op is sheer, nail-biting, storytelling magic. Shot Down is also an incredibly rich life story that even offers a gentle lesson in making the most of difficult circumstances. It is also a significant addition to Australian military, aviation, and prisoner of war history. Uplifting and recommended. It is one of the best POW accounts I've ever read.

This review originally appeared on Aircrew Book Review http://aircrewbookreview.blogspot.com.au/2015/10/shot-down-alex-kerr.html

Addendum. Some time after this review appeared, Alex contacted me and told me that I had 'got it', regarding his experiences. It was a remarkable compliment, and one I treasure. Alex supported my research and gave me permission to draw from his log book (my friend Charles Page photographed it for me as I wasn't getting to WA in a hurry). Alex has figured large in my research since and made 'appearances' in some of my presentations. Just before Christmas 2018 (when I last worked on the thesis draft) I was consulting Shot Down and thinking of him and writing about him. Vale Alexander McBride Kerr, 23 April 1921-30 December 2018.