On a number of occasions immediately after the completion of a 12-hour shift, certain of the exhausted men were marched to the marshalling yards to off-load railway trucks which were heavily laden with coal-briquettes. The daily ration consisted of 125 grams of bread, a watery-soup made from turnip and potato peelings, and on rare occasions a heaven-sent minute portion of horsemeat-sweet to the taste and certainly not unpalatable. The rations were hardly sufficient to sustain life and it was necessary to barter for food with whatever one had of any consequence, little enough, with the French and the Dutch who were blessed indeed to be more adequately fed - such as this may have been. This appalling way of life and the hunger pangs which seared one’s innards were alleviated by an all too rare heaven-sent issue of an international Red Cross food parcel, and an infrequent parcel of clothing and cigarettes from a far-off and never to be forgotten place called home. The succour provided by the Red Cross to World War II P.O.W.'s was one of the miracles of that war and will forever live in the minds and hearts of the men who were fortunate enough to receive it. Concerts were organised and brought some little relief from the permanent state of depression from which the men suffered so deeply. A rugger match on a small area of uneven and rough ground which was played between the springboks and the lions lifted flagging spirits somewhat and became a talking point long before and long after the epic tussle. Towards the end of 1944 excitement ran through the camp when men of a British air-borne division taken prisoner after the abortive drop on Arnhem 1 on the 17th September 1944, were brought into the camp. The intrepid parachutists brought with them a breath of clean fresh air, and an optimism which was catching - a glimmer of hope, a taste of freedom at long last! They disseminated the latest and authentic news of the war which had been denied to the P.O.W.'s for so long - news of the successes on the eastern and the western fronts, of 1000 bomber raids25, of mastery in the air, and of the overwhelming array of men and machines amassed against the Germans. A ray of hope like a sharp slant of sunlight entered the minds and souls of the beleaguered POWs. They knew now that they had but to survive the rigours of their lives and that one day - please dear God - one day, they would be free men once again. Freedom a thought to be delicately savoured. But survival and freedom were, in fact, a long way off. The optimism of yesterday was quickly dispelled by the news of the well-nigh successful German offensive in the Ardennes in December 1944 and with the curtailment of the issue of Red Cross parcels, coupled with the bitter and unrelenting winter weather clutching the men in its icy grip, dispirited and forlorn, they entered the new year of 1945 in a mood of great despondency. The atmosphere was one of gloom and doom. The compound was commanded by a despot of a man - a tyrant - Oberveldwebel Koenow who ruled the camp with a rod of iron clutched in a mailed fist - literally as one of the prisoners (a 3rd Jock) will testify. On returning one evening from his shift at the mill, he was set upon by the camp guards and pistolwhipped into a bloody mass almost unrecognisable by his mates. He was accused of disseminating anti-German propaganda amongst - the Russian prisoners, what utter nonsense!!
25
See “Oubaas” van Zyl’s account in Italy – HBH.
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