Patsy, slamming the door shut again. “We’ll wait till the coast’s clear.”
“Why?” asked Dinah.
“Because it’s enough to know your own sorrows without broadcasting them,” Patsy replied. “Besides, I know how Mary feels about losing her son.” Patsy’s thoughts then drifted back to the heartbreak she’d suffered when all the children she’d carried for nine months had, with the exception of Dinah, never breathed a breath.
Both women stayed silent until no more sounds could be heard from outside. When they judged it to be safe, Patsy reached out to open the door but stopped abruptly when Dinah asked, “Why are we going round to Hawkhill playing fields? Surely it would be better to keep her here where no one will see her.”
Patsy sighed again. “What? Can you no smell the gas in here? The windows have been opened ever since I came in and the place is still stinking and claustrophobic.” Dinah cast her eyes upwards once again as her mother continued, “No one will be there at this time of day playing football or hockey – so that means we’ll be able to walk her round the pitches in the fresh air until she’s fully recovered!”
“And how long will that take?” demanded Dinah, as she opened the door.
“As long as it takes,” hissed her mother, pushing Mary forward. “Probably … two or three hours … at least!”
12
The relentless wind tore at the clothes that five years in captivity had rendered ragged and useless to protect the emaciated forms of those who had survived the hospitality of the German prisoner of war camps – the infamous Stalags where the norm for prisoners was either to be worked to death or killed by starvation. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the resilient men of the British Army, who had been taken prisoners in June 1940, just after Dunkirk, had now been trudging for a whole month – from 16 February to 19 March 1945 – either in bare feet just swaddled in cloth or in well-worn clogs they had manufactured for themselves, their army boots having long ago disintegrated with the long forced march into captivity.
This new trek had been a consequence of the German guards realising that if they did not move the prisoners (whom they hoped to use as a bargaining tool) towards the advancing American army they would have to surrender to the Russians, who were relentlessly advancing from the east.
Fred could fully understand why the Germans didn’t wish to hand themselves over to the Russians, whose mother-country they’d invaded and who were guilty of the most inhumane treatment, not only of Soviet soldiers but also of civilians.
What he couldn’t understand was why they should have embarked on a march they knew would take over a month when they were aware they couldn’t even supply their prisoners with enough drinking water, never mind food or shelter. There was also the continual air bombardment from the Allied forces, which had the men diving for any cover they could find.
Irate shouts of, “Well, that’s it then,” emanating from Tam Glass and Eddie Gibson put an end to Fred’s marching forward and he wheeled about to face his men.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “Surely Billy Morrison hasn’t gone AWOL again.” Fred was referring to Billy’s bold escapades to find any food or indeed anything that could be used to make life easier. Escapades that were growing ever bolder as the German guards became lax, due to their realisation that it would soon be themselves who would be marching along with rifles at their backs.
“Naw,” replied Tam. “Look!”
Fred’s eyes were focused on the small horse that had willingly carried the cooking pots and bedding. She was now lying prostrate on the ground, quite obviously dead. “Poor sod,” he thought. “Like ourselves, over-worked and starved beyond endurance!”
“What’ll we do now?” asked Eddie as he began to unload pots and blankets from the animal.
“Well, as we’ve not had a decent meal
“Why?” asked Dinah.
“Because it’s enough to know your own sorrows without broadcasting them,” Patsy replied. “Besides, I know how Mary feels about losing her son.” Patsy’s thoughts then drifted back to the heartbreak she’d suffered when all the children she’d carried for nine months had, with the exception of Dinah, never breathed a breath.
Both women stayed silent until no more sounds could be heard from outside. When they judged it to be safe, Patsy reached out to open the door but stopped abruptly when Dinah asked, “Why are we going round to Hawkhill playing fields? Surely it would be better to keep her here where no one will see her.”
Patsy sighed again. “What? Can you no smell the gas in here? The windows have been opened ever since I came in and the place is still stinking and claustrophobic.” Dinah cast her eyes upwards once again as her mother continued, “No one will be there at this time of day playing football or hockey – so that means we’ll be able to walk her round the pitches in the fresh air until she’s fully recovered!”
“And how long will that take?” demanded Dinah, as she opened the door.
“As long as it takes,” hissed her mother, pushing Mary forward. “Probably … two or three hours … at least!”
12
The relentless wind tore at the clothes that five years in captivity had rendered ragged and useless to protect the emaciated forms of those who had survived the hospitality of the German prisoner of war camps – the infamous Stalags where the norm for prisoners was either to be worked to death or killed by starvation. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the resilient men of the British Army, who had been taken prisoners in June 1940, just after Dunkirk, had now been trudging for a whole month – from 16 February to 19 March 1945 – either in bare feet just swaddled in cloth or in well-worn clogs they had manufactured for themselves, their army boots having long ago disintegrated with the long forced march into captivity.
This new trek had been a consequence of the German guards realising that if they did not move the prisoners (whom they hoped to use as a bargaining tool) towards the advancing American army they would have to surrender to the Russians, who were relentlessly advancing from the east.
Fred could fully understand why the Germans didn’t wish to hand themselves over to the Russians, whose mother-country they’d invaded and who were guilty of the most inhumane treatment, not only of Soviet soldiers but also of civilians.
What he couldn’t understand was why they should have embarked on a march they knew would take over a month when they were aware they couldn’t even supply their prisoners with enough drinking water, never mind food or shelter. There was also the continual air bombardment from the Allied forces, which had the men diving for any cover they could find.
Irate shouts of, “Well, that’s it then,” emanating from Tam Glass and Eddie Gibson put an end to Fred’s marching forward and he wheeled about to face his men.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “Surely Billy Morrison hasn’t gone AWOL again.” Fred was referring to Billy’s bold escapades to find any food or indeed anything that could be used to make life easier. Escapades that were growing ever bolder as the German guards became lax, due to their realisation that it would soon be themselves who would be marching along with rifles at their backs.
“Naw,” replied Tam. “Look!”
Fred’s eyes were focused on the small horse that had willingly carried the cooking pots and bedding. She was now lying prostrate on the ground, quite obviously dead. “Poor sod,” he thought. “Like ourselves, over-worked and starved beyond endurance!”
“What’ll we do now?” asked Eddie as he began to unload pots and blankets from the animal.
“Well, as we’ve not had a decent meal
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