A BANDSMAN AND BARBED WIRE
The Memories and Experiences of RMBX425 Musician K R MacDonald
22 May 1941 – 8 May 1945

PRELUDE

HMS Gloucester entering Malta March 1939

As dawn broke, on the 23rd of May 1941, I was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the islands of the Aegean Sea, so near and yet so far as they appeard to be. During the night, their dim outline had provided the necessary impetus for us to strive even harder, as we paddled the Carley float towards land; but in the cold light of a new day, it became heartbreakingly evident, we had made little progress. The prevailing currents had apparently kept the raft in virtually the same area as the previous evening.

Again and again we asked ourselves, ‘What happened to the destroyers?’ ‘Why hadn’t they returned to pick us up after dark?’ We would never know the answer to that question.

The Band Mess, HMS Gloucester, Indian Ocean Christmas Day 1939 (Clockwise) Scott, Hacker, Cooke, Ellis, Main, Dillon, McAvady, Muir, Brisley, Quantrill, Fisher, MacDonald The 5 absent were closed up at defence stations

My thoughts returned again to the dramatic events of the previous day aboard Gloucester… The continuous air attacks during the forenoon, with ‘near misses’ that had destroyed or badly damaged most of our boats and Carley floats … The frequent reports passing through the TS of the alarming shortage of anti-aircraft ammunition… The brief respite at noon, barely time to draw soup and corned beef from the galley, (the last substantial meal we were to have for a long time)… The resumption of the air attacks, increasing in intensity, until several direct hits, including an ariel torpedo, slowed Gloucester down, until she was dead in the water, on fire and sinking… The struggle to escape from the rapidly flooding 6" TS, and the effort to reach the shambles of the upper deck… The trauma of abandoning ship and then being machine-gunned in the water… The elation on sighting and reaching the Carley floats that had been cast overboard by the cruiser ‘Fiji’ (But for this generous gesture our casualties would have been much higher; it was tragic that ‘Fiji’ was sunk later that day, with heavy loss of life, including most of her Band).

HMS Gloucester sinking after she was hit

I was brought back to the reality of the present situation by a wave sweeping over the raft. The wind had now freshened and waves were frequently breaking over the float. I gazed again at my six dead former shipmates in the raft. We had been fourteen at nightfall, two more would die before we were picked up later that day.

‘Why’ I thought. ‘Why had men who were not wounded, with everything to live for, given in so easily, so soon, with hardly a struggle?’ We had certainly done our best to encourage them to keep going; to try to get them to take their turn on the paddles; to urge them to keep moving their limbs as much as possible to aid the circulation; but it was all to no avail. We learned later that a similar tragic situation had occurred in all the other rafts. Unbelievable as it may seem, several hundred men, the majority uninjured, had expired in less than twenty-four hours, without fear or complaint, as if seeking death willingly… ‘Why?’

It was a subject that we, who were fortunate to survive, were to discuss later at great length, and we could only conclude that perhaps the following facts could have influenced their minds, sufficiently, to cause them to lose all hope and thus abandon the struggle to survive.

1. The feeling of hopelessness, that grew as the night wore on, when it became evident that the destroyers were not coming back for us, and the grim apprehension we then felt, that daylight would see the return of the Luftwaffe, and the machine-gunning again, with all its horrors.

2. The firm conviction we all held, that Gloucester would not have been sunk if she hadn’t expended all her anti-aircraft ammunition. We had been so proud of the fighting efficiency of our ship, this was a most bitter blow to swallow. We knew that early on the morning of the 22nd, a signal had been sent to the flagship reporting the precarious state of our high-angle ammunition; only 18% remaining; but this report had either not been received or was ignored. The reason has never been explained. Naval historians writing years later, have agreed that the use of Gloucester and ‘Fiji’, with such a shortage of anti-aircraft ammunition, was a gross blunder, and that both ships should have been withdrawn from the operation and returned to Alexandria to re-ammunition.

3. The recollection of the hard times we had endured, during the previous twelve months operating in the Eastern Mediterranean, and the casualties we had sustained during that period, could have caused those who died that night, to decide… ‘Enough is enough.’

Perhaps these three facts could have been the principal cause of the tragedy?… ‘Perhaps?’ We shall never know.

I can think of no more fitting obituary to all those who died in Gloucester’s final action, than the words of Admiral of the Fleet, Viscount Cunningham, in his autobiography, “A Sailor’s Odyssey” ( Hutchinson, 1951)… “Thus went the gallant Gloucester. She had endured all things, and no ship had worked harder or had more risky tasks. She had been hit by bombs more times than any other vessel, and had always come up smiling. As she left Alexandria for the last time, I went alongside in my barge, and had a talk with her Captain, Henry Aubrey Rowley. He was most anxious about his men, who were just worn out, which was not surprising as I well realised. I promised to go on board and talk to them on their return to harbour; but they never came back. I doubt if many of them survived, as they were murderously machine-gunned in the water. Rowley’s body, recognisable by his uniform monkey jacket and the signals in his pocket, came ashore to the West of Mersa Matruh in Eygpt, about four weeks later. It was a long way to come home”… “It was indeed.”

It must have been late in the forenoon that we heard the sound of aircraft, and then sighted two, flying low over the sea, dropping flares; and as they came nearer we recognised, with a feeling of dread, the yellow painted noses of our adversaries of yesterday; but to our overwhelming relief, they soon disappeared.

Shortly after this encounter we sighted a small vessel which, after executing frequent alterations of course towards and away, causing acute anxiety and frustration with every movement, finally to our immense relief, came alongside the raft and we were hauled inboard.

In the euphoria of being saved, the nationality of the crew, with their strange uniforms and unfamiliar language, did not unduly concern us, as we gratefully accepted mugs of water and hunks of bread from them, and it was only when we were hustled down into the forepeak of the boat, which to our astonishment was crammed with other Gloucester survivors, did we learn the crew were German! And then it slowly sank into our waterlogged brains, that we were now prisoners of war! But our gratitude in being rescued, indeed, in being alive, overshadowed all thoughts of what the future held in store for us; which, in view of the events that lay ahead, was perhaps just as well!

Kythra Bay, from the personal photgraph collection of KR MacDonald

Early that evening we were landed, on what we later found to be the island of Kythra, and as we disembarked we noticed the body of one of our former shipmates lying on the upper deck. He had died shortly after being picked up. We buried him three days later. On the rough cross that one of the survivors had fashioned from boxwood, his name was inscribed with a red-hot nail, …Ordinary Seaman Kenneth Bicknell, aged 18 years, HMS Gloucester…

I would like to think his body still lies there, on a hillside on the island of Kythra, overlooking the area where Gloucester went down; but I presume his remains have long since been removed to a War Graves Cemetery.

OVERTURE

The island was occupied by a German Army unit of company strength, who escorted us to a large house on the waterfront, there to be arrayed, (those who were able to stand), against a high wall in the garden.

Standing in this ominous position, facing a squad of German soldiers with their rifles only too obviously operational, did little for our morale, and caused me to wonder why they had gone to the trouble of rescue, if we were now to be shot! The answer to that question was qualified to a certain extent, when a tall German, obviously an officer, came forward and said in excellent English, “You bastards can thank your lucky stars you were picked up by the German Navy; if it had been left to me, I would have shot the bloody crowd of you!” He followed this very ‘reassuring’ opening address with first the good news. “We cannot feed you.” “We have only sufficient rations for ourselves.” The good news? “I will inform the local population that some of their gallant allies have arrived uninvited, and if they choose to feed you, so be it!” He then turned about and stalked off.

Whilst trying to assimilate this outburst, we were counted, and then herded none too gently into the house, where we collapsed on the bare floorboards and sank into blissful unconsciousness.

When we opened our eyes the following morning, it took some little time to fully comprehend our whereabouts, as the dramatic events of the previous forty-eight hours, slowly seeped through our fuddled minds; but the apprehension we felt concerning the future, was eclipsed by the agonising stiffness of our bodies, and when the guards opened the door and ordered us outside, it was with the utmost difficulty that we dragged ourselves into the garden. However, with the aid of the sun, our aches and pains slowly began to ease, and before long our bodies regained a semblance of normality.

We now had the first opportunity of identifying our fellow survivors, and discussing the fates of former shipmates and messmates. I was then able to establish that at least six members of the Band had got away from the ship and had been seen in the water, but their final fate was unknown.

There were seventy-eight survivors on Kythra: two officers, (the Navigator and Surgeon Lieutenant), and seventy-six ratings, including a Sergeant and six Marines. It would come to our knowledge later, that a further five survivors had been picked up and landed on another Greek island; they would join us at Salonika. We were then still hopeful, that some of the ship’s company might have been picked up by our own forces or perhaps some rafts may have reached Crete, but alas, this was not to be. It was many months before we received confirmation we were the only survivors from Gloucester. Eight-three from a ship’s company of nearly eight hundred! The full casualty list was not published by the Admiralty until June, 1945. Our ravenous hunger was now our most immediate concern, so we were more than delighted when a party of islanders with a convoy of donkeys carrying baskets of food, arrived at the house around midday. These good people were to feed us every day, and without their magnificent assistance we would have been in dire straits. A doctor accompanied them, and with the assistance of the Surgeon Lieutenant, tended to the wounded. These were later flown by seaplane to the mainland.

It was on the third day of captivity that we learned, through an English speaking guard, the reason for the hostile reception accorded us on arrival by the tall officer. Apparently he was one of the few survivors from a flotilla of coastal steamers and caiques, attempting to reach Crete to land weapons and stores, which were intercepted and destroyed by our surface forces on the night of 21/22 May, and according to him the survivors were machine-gunned in the water! The guard also informed us that the vessel which had picked us up, had been engaged on an air/sea rescue operation, searching for survivors from this flotilla, and quite by chance had come across Gloucester survivors! We realised more than ever, how extraordinarily lucky we had been!

On the 4th of June, we sailed from Kythra in three caiques, on a journey which would take us from the sunny Mediterranean to, eventually the cold Baltic Sea! Unfortunately, we would be denied the personal services or expert guidance of Messrs Thomas Cook or Thompson Ltd., on this very exclusive tour!

In retrospect, we had little to complain of concerning our treatment, during the thirteen days spent on the Island of Kythra. Thanks to the local inhabitants, we had received adequate food, and although only possessing the clothes we had been wearing when picked up, our feet had become used to the absence of footwear and Kythra had prepared us, certainly physically, for the grim rigours of the future of which then we were fortunately ignorant!

FIRST ACT

Early on the morning of the 7th, we arrived at the badly damaged Port of Piraeus where the reception committee of German Military wasted no time in showing their hostility and enforcing it with their rifle butts as we were herded into vehicles.

After a long trip, we arrived at a transit camp on the outskirts of the City of Corinth.

The conditions in this camp were appalling and the ten thousand odd British and Commonwealth prisoners, captured in Greece, were existing in holes dug in the sand, with no medical or toilet facilities, with a daily food ration of a loaf of bread between ten men, a cup of ersatz coffee and a bowl of cabbage water soup. It was no surprise that many were showing signs of dysentery and other complaints, and we learned that ‘trigger happy’ guards had been responsible for numerous deaths. The Germans had already commenced moving large groups of POWs to the North of Greece, and we therefore considered ourselves very fortunate when we learned we would be leaving this dreadful place within thirty-six hours!

We marched to Corinth railway station, and after being issued with a loaf of bread and small tin of meat paste, were crammed into cattle trucks, fifty to a truck; the doors were locked, and we set off on a journey we would remember for a long, long time. It was impossible for everyone to sit down at the same time, and there was certainly no room for anyone to lie down. It soon became a situation of survival of the fittest; the bigger you were, the more space you could command! There were fourteen from Gloucester in the truck, and we were fortunate in being congregated in one corner, where we introduced a watch-keeping routine. Seven sat down, whilst the remainder stood and endeavoured to keep the mob at bay! After approximately four hours, we would then change places.

The only ventilation came from four small grilles, high up in the sides of the compartment, each approximately two feet by one, and being in Southern Greece in June, the temperature can be well imagined! Two large tins had been provided, one for use as a toilet, and the other containing the drinking water, which by the time the soldiers had drunk from it and filled their water-bottles, and we had scooped out what remained with our hands, it was empty, and the biggest ‘pongo’ in the truck then took possession of it as his throne!

The toilet tin was a different story. The last person to use it had to remain sat on it until the next customer required its services. The fact that several of the soldiers were suffering from dysentery didn’t exactly improve the situation, so what with the stench, the temperature, the lack of drinking water, and the chaotic cramped conditions, it made the ‘Black Hole of Calcutta’ appear like a drawing room in Buckingham Palace! But unlike those poor unfortunates of long ago, our ordeal was about to be terminated!

We had been travelling for something like twenty hours or more, when the train screeched to a halt, the doors flung open, and with the guards shouting “Heraus” “Heraus” we thankfully crawled out into the glorious fresh air! Dawn was just breaking, and whilst trying to gain normality, the guards goaded us into the semblance of a square, and a German Officer addressed us, speaking through an interpreter. It was brief and to the point. “Due to your action in demolishing rail bridges and tunnels during your retreat through Greece, from here onwards, you will be marching!” “Any prisoner who falls out or tries to escape, will be shot!” He obviously had a sense of humour, for he added, laconically, “Don’t rush, this isn’t Dunkirk!” So began a memorable marathon! Destination, Salonika.

At first, we welcomed the release from the nightmare of the train journey, but as the sun rose higher in the sky, the lack of food and especially water, began to take its toll, but on approaching the first village, once again the good Greek people came to our rescue. They were waiting with bread, fruit, eggs, and above all, water! At first, the guards attempted to prevent this magnanimous gesture, but they soon relented and we gratefully received the villagers’ offerings. It was to be the same at each village we passed through! We knew that they could ill-afford their generosity; they were a poor people in a poor country, ravaged by war, yet they gave what little they had. They were magnificent!

We approached the foothills of a range of mountains, and began ascending a steep winding pass. As we neared the summit, a British Sergeant Major marching beside me, said, “Do you know where we are?” I mumbled something like, “No, and I couldn’t care less!” Ignoring my obvious lack of interest, he continued, “We retreated down through this pass, eight weeks ago”. I replied, “How very interesting” or words to that effect. He pressed on, “This is one of the most famous passes in history! This is Thermopylae! Around 490 BC, three hundred Spartans under their leader, Leonidas, held this pass against the full might of the Persian Army under Xerxes, and died fighting to the last man!” His brief discourse on ancient Greek history went right over my head and I muttered something like “Good show” as I stumbled on, ‘picking out the soft ones’, with my bare feet! But then I was suddenly struck by the full significance of what he had just said, and I retorted, “Pity you bastards hadn’t followed their example, then perhaps I wouldn’t be here now!” As they would say today, it went down like a lead balloon!

From the summit of the pass we could see the town of Lamia on the horizon, our objective on that first day, and at the foot of the mountains we were blessed with our first respite, before moving on to the town, to spend the night sleeping in a damp field.

Looking back after so many years, I have ceased to wonder at the strength and resilience of the human body, when I think of the treatment mine was subjected to during those early weeks of captivity; but it made me appreciate for the first time, the amazing ability of nature, to adapt the human body to meet the most outrageous of circumstances.

By the time we reached Salonika, days later, the column was certainly depleted. How many escaped or died during that journey, we never know. The subject of escape had been discussed by Gloucester survivors whilst at Corinth, and we had concluded it was better to forego any attempt to escape, until such times as we had been registered with the International Red Cross, to spare our next-of-kin further distress and anxiety.

The transit camp at Salonika, a former Greek Army barracks, was a slight improvement on Corinth; at least we were accommodated in barrack rooms, albeit unfurnished, and rat and lice infested, but the conditions there were shocking. It was a place of despair and depression, hunger, sickness and death, for dysentery and other illnesses were rife, and the death toll was high. It was ironic, that although the camp hospital boasted the full medical staffs of the former Military Hospitals established in Greece for the campaign, there were few medicines available apart from aspirin and charcoal! (the latter for dysentery). The doctors, in despair, had little to offer except their bedside manner, and as there were no beds in the hospital, this placed them at a distinct disadvantage! Their daily pleading to the Germans for medical supplies fell on deaf ears.

The future looked desperate, so the news of our imminent departure for Germany was received with profound relief, overshadowed however, by the thought of another ghastly journey by cattle truck! We were not to be disappointed! We left Salonika on the 24th June, and if we thought our previous journey was appalling, this was to be a nightmare! To this day I do not know how I survived that dreadful journey. Apart from a short break every twenty-four hours for the issue of bread and water, we were incarcerated in that filthy hell on wheels for an unbelievable thirteen days! In our truck alone, there were two deaths, and in spite of protests, their bodies were not removed for several days. We were never to know the total death toll of that horrific journey. Our ordeal came to an end on the 7th of July, when we arrived at our destination, Wolfsberg in Austria!

Stalag XVIIIA, situated between Klagnefurt and Graz, southwest of Vienna, was an established prison camp, occupied mainly by French POWs, which had been recently extended to cope with the large influx of arrivals expected from Greece and Crete. The British sector was staffed by veteran POWs, (Dunkirk Harriers!), and compared with Corinth or Salonika, was a veritable holiday camp! Accommodation included bunks with straw filled mattresses! and the food surpassed anything we had previously experienced; but alas, it was too good to be true; our stay there would be brief. Within forty-eight hours, barely time to recover from our ordeal by rail, we would be on our way to an ‘Arbeit Kommando’, a working camp.

The short time spent in Stalag XVIIIA was fully occupied with a ‘joining routine’ comprising among other things: official registration, clothing issue and surprisingly, a medical inspection, which though perfunctory, included an anti-tetanus inoculation in the left breast! (Thus there would be no restriction on the use of the arms for manual labour!)

The clothing issue was interesting if only for its variety, and consisted of former French Army clothing. Among other items, I was given a pair of powder blue cavalry breeches complete with 2in gold stripe down each side, which must have at one time graced the legs of a giant Cuirassier! And my neglected feet were awarded a pair of wooden sabots! A vivid green tunic with scarlet facings completed the ensemble! Arrayed for the first time in my former French Army glory, caused one of my ‘oppos’ to remark, "Bandy, at last! Dressed like a real Dogger Bank Dragoon!" So in possession of an official POW number, (Kriegsgefangenen Nummer, 1409), dressed in my ‘Ruritanian’ splendour, and with a swollen left breast, I could now consider myself well and truly, a ‘Guest of the Fuehrer’!

Finally, came drafting into various working parties, and for the first time since capture, we were to be separated. This was a bad blow. We had ever been gregarious, and had always retained that strong bond of comradeship which is only forged in times of extreme adversity, and of which we had certainly had our fair share, both during the commission and in recent months, but we accepted the dispersal as inevitable. I was further disappointed to find myself the only Gloucester survivor, detailed with a group of soldiers, to join an ‘Arbeit Kommando’ at a place called Trassicht.

HMS Gloucester Royal Marines Band 1958

to be continued...