Sign Here, Sir

I was travelling from London to Newport, South Wales by rail when a disembodied voice with a Pakistani accent informed passengers that there had been an accident in the Severn Tunnel. The unsympathetic voice went on to say we would continue our journey via Gloucester and that any delay was regretted. British Rail (as it was then called) did not believe in giving away anything more than the briefest details about things that go wrong, and we were shunted off in a north-westerly direction at Swindon not knowing if there was a dead cow on the line or if there had been a complete collapse of the tunnel.
My son, who was with me, expressed surprise that the train could reach Newport by another route. Being Clifton educated and brought up in the tradition of that great engineer of the 19th century, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, he had never heard of the 'romantic route' that wound its way through the Cotswolds.
For me it was a journey I had not travelled for well over 40 years and it brought back memories of the time when I was a young subaltern serving at the Welch Regiment depot in Cardiff in 1947.

One day I received a telephone call from the Adjutant saying he wanted to see me. Such a command usually meant something had gone wrong, so I moved with leaden steps from my office on the 30 yards shooting range to his office in the main block.
"Enter," he bellowed as I knocked on his door. "I've got a job for you." I had already learnt to be cynical about any of the Adjutant's jobs, so I waited with some anxiety for the punch line.
"I want you to go to London next Saturday. You'll travel by train, spend the night in a hotel and the following morning you'll collect three German generals from the Prisoner-of-War cage in Kensington Gardens."
I had spent 18 months in various Army units training to be an officer and being subjected to every sort of challenge and situation an officer might be expected to deal with, but that order took my breath away. The Adjutant continued: "The Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant has booked you into a hotel adjacent to the cage for senior German officers in Kensington Palace Gardens. Report there at 0900 hrs on Sunday morning, collect the generals and take them to Paddington railway station. From there you will proceed to Island Farm Prisoner-of-War Camp, Bridgend where you will hand them over. Any questions?" I knew that the question: ‘Any questions?’ did not mean that I should actually ask a question, so I replied: "No thank you, sir," saluted and marched out.
I had been to London only once and that was when I was a boy just before the start of World War Two. The capital was a place to be avoided during the war as it took a considerable pasting from the Luftwaffe and was the last place to go for a week end. When I arrived at Paddington railway station, I took a taxi to my hotel in Kensington and during the evening went out to see the bright lights of the west end.
The following morning I had breakfast, paid my bill and then walked a few hundred yards to No. 8 Kensington Palace Gardens, a former stately home that had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war (the area is now known as ‘Billionaires Row’). A young corporal in the Military Police was sitting behind a six foot table in the reception area. I introduced myself and said "I've come to collect three German generals." He nodded his head and pushed towards me a pad of Army forms 108 on which was written: 'General Heinricci – General Dittmar – General Schmitt’. He turned his head towards the far end of the room and bellowed: "OK, you guys. Over here."
From the deep leather sides of a huge sofa appeared three dignified figures wearing strange uniforms which looked as if they had been made from blankets. They approached, clicked their heels and gave me a 'British' salute. "Sign here, sir," said the corporal.
The driver of a 15 cwt truck helped me with my suitcase while the three generals picked up their kit and climbed into the back of the vehicle; we then set off for Paddington.
The train was at the platform and my generals followed me like three well trained spaniels as I led the way to a first-class carriage. As soon as we had placed our luggage on the rack, steam gushed from the engine and we were on our way to South Wales.
I had been fairly accurate in my guess that their uniforms were made from blankets but, somehow or other, these high ranking German aristocrats wore them with such panache that I, in my new service dress and Sam Browne belt, felt in awe of them. They all spoke perfect English and with me, their reluctant gaoler, they struck up a friendly rapport.
Up until the time we boarded the train, I had no idea where they had come from. I was amazed therefore when they told me they had been on leave with their families in Germany. Knowing now what conditions were like for German in that bitter winter of 1946-7, the generals were indeed fortunate to spend some of those freezing months in warm huts in Island Farm Camp, Bridgend.
As we travelled through the Berkshire and Wiltshire countryside, my three prisoners talked about the war. They spoke about Hitler and Rommel, about the campaign in Libya and the invasion of Russia. Each had played an important part in the German war effort and their conversation, spoken in English for my benefit, was fascinating.
When we arrived at Swindon, because it was a Sunday and the day of the week when maintenance work was carried out on the Severn Tunnel, we were diverted towards Gloucester. This did not mean much to me, but when I felt pangs of hunger at about midday, I realised there was no buffet car on the train and that I had not brought any haversack rations with me. The generals, appreciating my plight, most generously shared their rations with me. The kitchen staff at the prisoner-of-war cage must have been kept on since pre-war days as I had never seen such delicious packed meals, including two bottles of wine.
The train, after a long and tiresome journey via Gloucester, eventually arrived at Cardiff, where we had to change before going on to Bridgend. My parents lived in Barry, about ten miles away, and I usually went home at week ends if, for no other reason, to get my laundry exchanged. I therefore gave General Heinricci a shilling and told him to go with the others to Platform 2, buy four cups of tea and wait for me while I telephoned my mother.
I had to go down to the main entrance to the station and wait in a queue until a telephone was free. When I managed to get through, I said: "Hello, Mother, I'm sorry I will not be able to get down to see you today. I'm taking three German generals to Bridgend." I had to hold the ear piece of the telephone at arm's length as my mother hurled questions at me about the 'enemy'. "Where are they now?" she yelled. "On platform 2 having a cup of tea," I replied. "What!!!!," she screamed. "Get up there at once before they escape; you'll be court-martialled." I tried to explain to her that 'escape' was the last thing they had in mind, but it was no good. She had lived through two world wars and the only place for Germans, as far as she was concerned, was in their own country or behind bars in ours. "I'll bring my washing home tomorrow," I said. When I arrived on platform 2, General Heinricci handed me a cup of tea and four pence change.
The Bridgend train came in about ten minutes later and we all climbed aboard for the last stage of our journey. A truck was waiting outside the station and within a few minutes we pulled up at the reception centre at Island Farm Camp. It was just like a return to school after the 'hols' as lots of high ranking officers turned out to greet their friends and hear news from home.
The driver was waiting to take me back to Bridgend railway station, so I bade farewell to my prisoners. Once again there were smart clicks of heels and British salutes before we shook hands.

For the next 18 months, I used to pass Island Farm Camp once a week when I took recruits under training at Maindy Barracks, Cardiff to the shooting ranges at Porthcawl. I often used to see German officers taking exercise as they walked unescorted along the side of the road. Field Marshal von Runstedt was easily recognised by the two walking sticks he used. I kept looking for 'my generals', but I never saw them again.

Since I wrote this story in 1991 I have discovered some interesting facts about my three German generals:

Generaloberst Gotthard Heinricci.

He came from a military family which provided soldiers for whatever regime was in power in Germany since the 12th century. On 20th March 1945 he succeeded Reichsfuhrer-SS Heinrich Himmler as Commander-in-Chief, Army Group Weichsel on the Eastern (Russian) Front. He was given responsibility for the defence of Berlin on 17th April 1945 but was sacked by Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel 12 days later after he, contrary to Hitler’s instructions, ordered withdrawal. He knew that death awaited him if he was caught by the Russians so he crossed the River Elbe and reached the comparative safety of British lines. He was taken into captivity on 28th May 1945 and was eventually released on 19th May 1948.
He was awarded 20 medals during two World Wars. Of particular interest are the two medals he received from the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha which are very rare. The Carl Eduard War Cross was awarded only 97 times in WW1. During WW2 the most prestigious of all his medals was the Knight’s Iron Cross which he was awarded on 18th September 1941.


Generalleutnant Kurt Dittmar.

This officer was six years younger than General Heinricci being born in 1891. In July 1941 he commanded 169th Infantry Division during Operation Polarfuchs (Polar Fox), an attack on Russia from Finland with the objective of cutting the Murmansk railroad. The attack ran out of steam in mid-September 22 miles short of its objective. Dittmar became ill and was evacuated on 29th September 1941.
From April 1942 to April 1945 he was the official military radio commentator of the German Armed Forces. Known as ‘The Voice of the German High Command’, he was widely respected and was listened to not only in Germany but also among the Allied monitoring staff.
When he realised that Germany had lost the war, he made his way to the River Elbe (the limit of the Allied advance), crossed in a small boat near his birthplace of Magdeburg and surrendered to American troops on 23rd April 1945. He was held as a prisoner-of-war in America and Bridgend (South Wales) before being repatriated on 12th May 1948.
General Dittmar was awarded nine medals during WW2, the most prestigious being the German Cross in Gold awarded for his participation in the attack on Russia from Finland.

Generalleutnant Artur Schmitt (no photograph available).

He was born in the Rhineland in 1888 and must have set a record in the German military hierarchy by being captured in each of the two World Wars. He joined the Bavarian Police in 1920 but rejoined the Army in 1935. In September 1941 he was appointed Commander Rear Area 556 in North Africa and a few months later was given command of a division. The British Army launched Operation Crusader in November 1941 and after a few weeks of alternate advance and withdrawal, General Rommel was forced to retreat to El Agheila south-west of Benghazi.
General Schmitt and his division were left behind in Bardia, several hundred miles behind British lines. South African troops began their attack on 30th December 1941 and the town was taken on 2nd January 1942.
General Schmitt was captured and sent to Cairo; later that year he was sent to a POW camp in Canada. He returned to UK in 1947 and spent some time in Island Farm POW Camp, Bridgend before being released in October 1947.





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