FIVE WASTED YEARS

Hugh Mackinnon concludes his reminiscences on his wasted years 'in and out of POW camps in Germany during the Second World War. Hugh was a sergeant with the 14th Platoon Argyll and Sutherland Ilighlanders and was captured very early on in the hostilities.

On being caught on my fourth escape attempt I was put into jail in Duisberg with my two other escapee mates. Only on the third day were we let out for a wash and a shave. At the same time the guards let out five young girls who were in cells on the same floor as us. I noticed that their blond hair was more or less shaved off.

When we were finished washing we got orders from a guard, who was just a private, to stand to attention, face the wall and have our noses and knees touching the wall. The three of us refused to obey his order. We didn't know whether he was going to shoot us in the back of the head or not. He got mad and shouted that he would get the Prison Commandant.

While we waited the nearest girl asked if we knew why they were in jail. We didn't. She said that they were jailed for being too friendly with our boys who worked in the prison factory.

The Commandant arrived and queried our rebellion. We told him that we were not going to take silly orders from a private. He put us back in our cell, sighing. He was more of a person than a German.

Shortly afterwards two of the girls arrived in the cell next to us. I don't know what happened to the others. The girls started knocking on the adjoining wall, shouting "Sing something, Englanders!" I shouted back equally loudly, "We're NOT English! We're Scots and Welsh!"

The Welshman was a great singer and he opened up with 'Old Man River' but did not get very far with it. Our cell door opened and there was the same young guard telling him to be quiet or his mouth would be closed with adhesive tape - and more.

Two days later, after endless petty provocation from that guard we got orders to go to the Commandant's office. He gave us a friendly talk and told us we were going to be sent back to the main came - Stalag IXC. He advised us to stay put when we got there as escaping at this latter stage of the war could be very dangerous. lie never said as much, but there was a rumour about the war ending. I ie obviously knew of our reputation as escapees.

Stalag IXC was a very good camp. But there was only one thing wrong - it was built on solid rock. No chance of tunneling out of that one.

Throughout my POW life I suffered from toothache. Eventually I was taken to a dentist who was a very young lady. She told the guard to go and get himself a cup of coffee and come back for me in half an hour. Then she told me that she was not allowed to use painkillers on prisoners. But she was very nice: she extracted five teeth and I didn't feel a hit of pain. I hope she is still alive and well. She was younger than me.

The hospital camp was run by doctors and dentists of different nationalities. All POWs of course. They made a very good job of my teeth.

One day I was walking along a ward between two tiers of beds when someone shouted my name. I went to investigate. Who was it but Bill Craig, the policeman's son from Tobermory! I knew him well from before the War. He was one of the poor unfortunates dropped into Arnhcim. He was getting out of hospital the same day as myself and also being sent to Stalag IXC. I got him into our combine and he stayed with us until the four of us landed in England together. But that was a good hit later on.

We were not long at Stalag IXC. Soon we had to get ready with what belongings we had. As we marched, as we now knew, on the long last march home, we saw, day after day, terrifying bombing by our own crowd. And there we were in the middle of it. Some of our crowd were mown down by American planes.

Bridges and trains were in smithereens. Several milk lorries straffed, milk pouring along the road. Graves also at the side of the roads. I particularly remember our boys burying a German soldier who had been caught in the tire. They made a lovely job of it, very tidy.

We rested in barns at night. The straw was plentiful and most comfortable. It was at one of these barn stops, next to a small village, that an American tank came and took our guards away. We were all told to stay put and await organised evacuation.

But us four were having none of that - we decided to go it alone. We made friends with a local family to find out the lie of the land and get supplies. They were looking forward to the end of the war as much as us. There were two brothers and their wives, three daughters and two grandsons. Two of the daughters had lost their husbands on the Russian front.

One of the brothers was a bit of a warrior. I identified with him. We got hold of a car - a Mercedes - and headed for the nearest town to get supplies. Ten stones of flour and tins of meat we left with the family, taking enough for ourselves to keep us going. We had such good crack with them we were almost sad to part. I often think of them and wonder what their lives are now.

But of course, we wanted to get home. We motored right across Germany, heading for France or Belgium, whichever came first, running out of petrol several times. Interestingly, our own soldiers wouldn’t give us fuel. The Americans gave us plenty.

One evening we were stopped by the British Military Police and told to stop as there was a curfew. We spent the night in a guesthouse. What luxury! But, pre-dawn we got on the road again before anyone knew. We hadn’t got all that way just to stand still. By this time we had got hold of revolvers.

That afternoon we pulled up at a roadside wood. Nature was calling…

In the wood there was a public path and walking along it was a well dressed gentleman. As he passed he called ”Did you get away from the ba…..s, then?" He had spotted the broad arrow painted on the back of our tunics. This smart gentleman was none other than William Joyce – better known as ‘Lord Haw Haw!’

We crossed the border into Belgium with no bother and found out where the bombers were landing. We asked one of the pilots for a lift home. “Yes,” he replied, “but you will have to travel in the bomb racks.” W didn’t care. Any rack would do to get back to Britain.

The plane landed at Horsham in Kent. After a wash and fresh clothing, arrangements were made for us to travel home on leave. I’ll never forget the train journey north. Celebrations everywhere.

I stopped off with relatives in Glasgow and caught up on all the family news. Then the boat back to Coll. I’d landed on the island many times in my dreams whilst in all those POW camps.

When my leave was up I got word to go to Maryhill Barracks for a health check and then report to the barracks at Leeds. There I got my discharge – and civvy clothes. The War was finally over and so were those five wasted years…