The German Prisoner

When I was four years old during what must have been the winter of 1943, my mum, my sister Helen and I were living in a rented cottage about two miles from Wem. My Mum was born in Wem and we had moved there to escape the bombing as our house in London was badly damaged by a V1 which flattened nine houses next to ours and left our house standing alone at the end of the road. My Dad had remained in London unable to leave his work.

I revelled in the freedom and space of the countryside — such a contrast to a terraced house in Merton Park. I loved the garden full of apple, damson and greengage trees and playing in the dell next to our house and walking up “the rough” as we called the woods at the back of our cottage with my Uncle Alf. I particularly liked it when, two mornings a week, Walter Dean, a local farmer would bring his carthorse to pump water from the well in our back garden using the “ginny ring” and pole, up to the big house at the top of the hill for Mrs Clegg who would ring a bell when her tank was full.

The war seemed a long way away from Palms Hill despite the passing convoys, American soldiers, Polish refugees, German P.O.W.s, Spitfires, Hurricanes and all the exciting things which a four year old could marvel at.

This one winter’s morning mum was talking to Walter Dean at our front door, when there came walking up the road a lone German prisoner of war. He was in his late twenties, tall with a pale face, and walked with purposeful strides. As he passed our front gate he gave us a long hard stare which made me feel very uneasy, and we gave him a long hard stare back. Even I knew it was unusual to see a single German, they were always in fives or sixes going to work on local farms and mostly with a British or American soldier, and they wore distinctive fatigues with a large diamond shape sewn onto the back of the tunic. This man was dressed in this way.

“I wonder what he’s up to” said Walter Dean, I think I’ll take a walk up the hill and see where he goes”

“You go with Mr. Dean and then run back and tell me what happens” mum said to me and I needed no second bidding.

We followed the man about fifty yards behind. Every now and then he would glance round to look at us. At the top of the hill the road takes a slight bend as it goes over the crest and we lost sight of the man for what we thought would be a short space of time but when we reached the top and we could see right along the straight level road there was no sign of anybody. The trees and hedges were bare and we could see right across the fields on either side of the road. No sign of him. The nearest buildings were about half a mile away. He had not had time to reach them and there were no deep ditches to hide in. we were mystified. The field on the right had heaps of swedes or mangels dotted about waiting to be carted away to the farm.

“Perhaps he’s hiding behind one of these tumps” I suggested to Walter Dean.
“We’ll have a look shall we?” he replied.
So that is what we did, walking up and down between the piles of root crops, but there was still no sign of him. In the end we gave up the search and ran back down the road and breathlessly related the news to mum. She dismissed the matter with,
“Oh I expect you didn’t look properly”
But I know we did and to this day, sixty years later, as I travel that road, which I often do, I never fail to wonder where he disappeared to and it still remains a mystery.

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Genevieve Tudor of the BBC Radio Shropshire and CSV Action Desk on behalf of Philip Wheeler and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.