NORTHUMBERLAND HAY

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 378, 20 September 1946, Page 30

NORTHUMBERLAND HAY

(Written for "The Listener’ by

JIM

HENDERSON

LL day long we worked toA gether in the hayfield. In the hayfield high on the fells of Northumberland, with never a tree to be seen, with only the groundlarks rising in sudden agitation be‘fore us, and the black corbie (carrion crow) watching from the stone wall. They were in battledresses dyed brown, the two German prisoners of war, and on their heads were dark khaki "caps, cut as those worn by the Afrika Corps, back at Sidi Rezegh in the last weeks of 1941. And together we worked, the four of us, side by side, spreading out the dampened kiles (haycocks) before the new sunshine; in the afternoon piling the dried, hay into pikes, great grass mounds topped with weighted sacks built only in Northumberland. ' The Jerries worked with a_ will. Bruno, 44, once a civil engineer, when spoken to replied in good English. He had brown wavy hair, long, and eyes of brown. His free, broad smile showed strong teeth. He gestured gracefully with his hands. é Franz, two years older (éx-school-teacher), had a crumpled, weatherbeaten face. -He wore spectacles. His hair was cropped closely. Between us, we completed a pike. . "Voon-der-baar."’ I cried. "Vun-der-full,’ Franz grinned. We are working together now, for peace, thought I to myself, forking over the hay to Franz. Oh, the hell with war, he’s a good chap, and so is Bruno. Then I thought: if it wasn’t for them I'd be walking 50 per cent better, and George (Dunkirk-wounded) would see ‘with two eyes instead of one. Then I thought of the Germans we had mutilated. But always came the answer to pity: Well, they started it. (Jerry equivalent: They encircled us.) ON the way to the hayfield, George, at, 29 the owner of the farm, and I had passed other Germans digging black peat, groping and toiling amongst the muck and slush of the oozing trench. "The proper place for the Master Race," said George, "down in a ditch." He said if he had his way he’d keep ’em working hard in England for six years-"for six’ years they kept us at war, for six years we should keep them working at peace-here. Same conditions: a few months off for good behaviour, but any slacking-shot.. Too soft, that’s what we are, too soft." : Mrs. Robson came acrées the field with our tea and sandwiches. We all ate and drank together. Four years ago eS Fk ee ; At six o’clock, our joint task over, we went back to George’s farmhouse, the two Jerries disappearing into their rooms at the end of the building. But after supper I said to George: "Mind if I yarn with that English-speaking joker Bruno?" "Go right ahead, boy." So for

20° minutes I yuinad to brown-haired Bruno, prisoner from the Channel Islands in May, ’45. : RUNO, very cordial, said the main camp (holding 3,000 German officers) had been quite comfortable, radio sets were permitted now, and the wellstocked canteen had "sometimes a little beer." Cigarettes ran from 10 to 25 weekly. "The kitchens in the camp are managed by Germans, so we have German meals." Many prisoners: were seriously learning English: Widely-varied educational classes included _farmwork, architecture, electricity, mathematics, book-keeping and languages. "We can also listen to lectures. about politics, religion, philosophy. The lecturers afe English or German. They are very interesting and frequénted." I asked why he, in common with tila other officers, volunteered to go farming. He replied: "Because we wish to become . acquainted with the English people, their feeling and their customs, and sbecause we intend to show the English that there are Germans who are no barbarians. We are hoping that there will not take place any future war between our two nations if they know each other." The Y.M.C.A., sending books and newspapers, working hard to make P.O.W. life easier, and the Commandant of the camp "is a perfect gentleman and does his best to make our prisoner time easy." As for correspondence, a prisoner may write to anyone living outside England and the Channel Islands. Hé is allowed each month four postcards (seven lines) and three 24-line letter forms, which reach home within three weeks. A letter to a prisoner takes a fortnight from the English Zone, 10 days to three weeks from the Russian Zone, and from four to five weeks from the American Zone. "Do you ever think we will. ever be at war with each other again?" "Neither before the Second World War nor at present have been unfriendly thoughts against England or the English people." "Do you think we will be at war with Russia in the next ten to twenty years?" "We shall not hope that there will be a war between England and Russia because Germany would be the battlefield; that will mean Germany and the German people would be destroyed perfectly." Asked if many desired to migrate, he answered: "Of course, because life in (continued or: next page)

(continued from previous page) Sermany will be a very strong struggle n future. All the German people (about 70 million) are pressed between Rhine end Oder (rivers) and if the nations of Europe cannot soon find each other under fair conditions for each people, also for the Germans, there seem to be only two ways to mitigate that struggle: starvation or emigration." He then said how in the Channel. Islands he had read an illustrated book on New Zealand, and "the beautiful country" seemed as remote as a dream. "But we feel there will be much hatred against us." "Anything else I can write down?" Bruno said, with much feeling: "We hope that we shall be sent home that

we shall be able to build this peaceful and democratic Germany." ; [LATER George said: "I still just ‘can’t trust any one of ’em." At 10 o’clock we pitked up our handlamps and started off to bed. Near the foot of the stairs two caps were hanging. They were the dark khaki caps of the two exiles-the two P.O.W.’s. George held his lamp so that the light fell full upon them. They looked very lonely, hanging there side by side, all by themselves. We stood in silence. Then, at the same moment we noticed something: different about the right-hand cap. Tucked inside the band was a tiny sprig of flowering heather, freshly-picked. George ("Too soft, that’s what we are, too soft") licked his lips. "The poor baskets," he said, very softly.