Memoires of My Time As A Prisoner
Jacques PALLU
1940-1944
(Translated by Dave Minett)

The Collapse: 12th May 1940.
Mühlberg : May 1940
Colditz
First escape attemp : Christmas 1942
Second attempt : November 1943
Third escape: March 1944
Notes on the story by Philippe Pallu

The Collapse: 12th May 1940

We had just left Pas-de -Calais to go to the aid of the Belgians, whose frontier had been violated by the Germans. On the way we were very surprised to meet Belgian soldiers making their way to the South.
Shortly after our arrival at the outskirts of Gent, we get the order to withdraw.
It's headlong flight!

Around about Landrecie we were supposed to unlimber the guns but where are they? Were is the ammunition?
We could not find our own but were lucky enough to find some we could use.
I have 25mm anti-tank canon. Where are the Germans? Probably to the East. Nobody knows. So we unlimber the guns in every direction.
In the evening, an officer, whom I do not know, cries, "Run for your lives!". Soldiers flee towards the South. I stay with a battery of 75. But alone and without orders, somehow-I do not know how- we take the decision to flee like the rest, that is to say, regain the reconstituted lines of defence to the South. But where?

On foot we pass Solesmes (Nord). There we get provisions in a C.O.O.P store (tins, Ricard etc.) Amongst all the abandoned material on the side of the road we find a perfectly good Belgian lorry. We jump in and one of us takes the wheel. It is, after all, quicker and far less tiring. The civilian population is also fleeing.
Suddenly, we run out of petrol. Where can we find the precious fuel? We find a can and siphon off petrol from abandoned lorries. Everything goes well. We find ourselves a few kilometres from Cambrai, near a level crossing, on a dirt road.

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We get into our lorry and are about to leave when, unfortunately, across the field German tanks appear.
" Hand hoch", "Hands up!". It is the 19th May 1940.

The Germans break the gun butts to make our arms useless and we advance with great difficulty, exhausted, starving hungry and thirsty.
At the side of the road the inhabitants put out buckets of water to help quench our thirst but our "guards" kick them over so as not to slow down the column. Then we are heaved up into lorries. Ouch! I have a blister on my heel as large as a one franc coin.
We arrive thus at St Vith in Belgium, to the North of Luxemburg, after crossing the Ardennes. We, who are prisoners because we have come to help the Belgians, are disgusted to see young Belgian girls welcoming the Germans with flowers, whilst Belgian soldiers (or at least some of them) are making their way to Perpignan.

Mühlberg, Stalag IV B: May 1940

We arrived in Muhlberg on the 27th May. In spite of the hunger which plagued me, I refused to go on a working party commando. So I was allocated a job in an office copying individual files on each prisoner, at the corner of which was our photograph. I still have a copy of mine. Coquelin, a photographer from Poitiers, was given the photographic work. He was from the region where I was born.

During the months in Muhlberg, in Stalag IV B, other comrades who were taken prisoner in July, joined us. They had spent time in camps in France where they had been able to receive parcels from their families. The first Gauloise I smoked made me feel dizzy and I had to go and lie down.

At the end of October 1940 volunteers were asked for to do some work in the camp for officer prisoners. I joined up as a carpenter.

COLDITZ: November 1940

On the first of November about fifteen of us were sent off to Colditz. There full mess tins awaited us! This after five months of suffering hunger! To such an extent that I could not run more than three paces.

A short time after our arrival I was assigned to the kitchen. There, I regained both weight and strength.

Colditz is a fortress from the middle-ages which at one time served as a lunatic asylum (moats, vertical walls, bars in the windows, etc.). At the end of 1940 there arrived the first escaped officers who had been recaptured, Jewish officers and those considered dangerous to the "Third Reich".

Thoughts of escape helped to maintain the morale of all these "indomitable" officers. "Give up? Never!"

There, I had the good fortune to meet some truly great men, both French and other nationalities. (Read the books written about Colditz, notably "Le Grand Refus" of which I have one of the five hundred copies numbered 290, given as a present and signed by Roger Devernay, who has remained my sole and best friend since then).

Roger devernay

Amongst others I must mention:
Lieutenant Michel Girot, killed by the Gestapo whilst attempting to escape (for the umpteenth time).
Jean Medard:
Captain Klein;
Abbot Joly, chaplain and Father Congar;
Lieutenant Jacques Paille;
Gerard Ziegel;

But the one who made the biggest impression on me and whom I shall never forget was an Englishman: Commander Douglas Bader, "the legless pilot", whose courage and guts were the admiration of everyone! When thinking of him, I think also of Patrick Segal and Denis Legris, a one legged jumper and all those who, disabled or handicapped, made great efforts to live like the others and very often succeeded, commanding our respect and admiration.

Julien Kérignard

In this life of captivity which we underwent with the officers, we were able to participate, with them, in the same activities: theatre, music, singing, religious services, language study, sport, etc. Together we celebrated birthdays and feast days. I took German lessons with lieutenant Yung, a professor at the Henri IV university in Paris, in the company of Julien Kerignard and several officers. Julien and I had the most regular attendance.
Roger's patience was tested to the extreme in trying to teach me mathematics and to get me to understand the solution of equations of the second degree.

Jacques Pallu

Roger's patience was tested to the extreme in trying to teach me mathematics and to get me to understand the solution of equations of the second degree.
At that time I intended to prepare myself for a job where I did not have to work at night, nor Sundays nor bank holidays and that was a failure! I became a mechanic with the French Railways.

The clan scout

In terms of a religious and brotherly ideal, we formed a scout group with lieutenant Marc Hubert as our chief and Abbot Joly, our chaplain. It was an extremely nice group where the word brotherly took on its true meaning and it was just so good and so comforting far away from our families and from France.
We went out of the Schloss (castle, which seemed more like a fortress with watchtowers, patrols and roaming searchlights) for the sole purpose of going to the park for a little exercise. For an hour and a half, our eyes could roam into nature, far away, far beyond the walls of our prison.
How lucky we were to have the German Sergeant Karl Schedlich in charge of surveillance of the kitchen. He had the card of the party just like all the Germans at war, but well hidden. He had good heart, a real man's heart. He got permission from the Commandant of the camp to accompany us on Sunday walks.
One day, on going out of the camp, an astonished sentry remarked to Karl that, seeing he was not armed, he ran the risk of returning to the camp alone. He reassured him by showing him his revolver holster…………..Once out in the countryside, he showed us his open holster. It was empty.
We trusted him and he trusted us as well.
Certain of our officers, undoubtedly not very scrupulous, asked us why we did not take advantage of this to escape. Perhaps it is difficult to understand but I could never have forgiven myself for having treated him in such a disloyal way.
It was at Colditz that I had my first attack of nephritic colic. Julien, our nurse, did his best for me with what he had. I suffered so much I thought I was going to kick the bucket! Doctor Leguet and his friends were a great comfort to me.

Ordinances

In the middle of December 1942, I had to leave Colditz with a small group of orderlies. The Germans had discovered a clandestine radio set. Since then it has been said and written that the person who showed the Germans where it was hidden was one of us. Everyone can think that it was me. (Well, that is good for a laugh). However, whoever was subsequently accused by name was not even in the group. Has the mystery been cleared up?

So here I am in a commando at Dobra-L61-near Torgau, Stalag IV D. This commando-a dormitory of about one hundred prisoners-was out in the country. Some worked in a nearby quarry extracting sand. They also caught fish and frogs, thanks to lines with hooks received in parcels.
The German searching the parcels did not know what a hook was for. Others worked in a nearby bigger village. I was sent to Weiland's to make drawing boards. At least I was not working directly for the Germans!
Christmas 1942 was approaching. We benefited from a little respite as the wood machines had to be repaired. During this time we did not work.

First escape attempt : Christmas 1942

Together with a comrade whose name I have sadly forgotten, we decided to give it a try.
It is morning, still dark; we join those who are going off to work and in the woods, we throw ourselves into the ditch on the right. Once the column has gone we get back onto the road and walk and walk, for 20 or 25 kilometres.

Near to the marshalling yards where goods wagons are sorted to leave for France, we hide in a small wood, to await nightfall. But a pointsman spots us and denounces us.
After a few hours we are surrounded by rifles and hunting guns, all pointing at us. Every man from the local village is there, proud of his catch. We are caught but it is so cold that we are not as sorry as we could have been.

Taken back to Torgau to undergo interrogation we pretend that, not at all happy with the commando, we were trying to change. Nevertheless we are returned to Dobra.
A little time later, I am chosen by my comrades to be their liaison man, the "vertrauensman". Those German lessons from Professor Yung are going to be really useful. Our German camp chief, a sergeant nicknamed "The Tomato" comes that evening to congratulate me on my election. I hardly want to shake his outstretched hand, but if it is a question of obtaining something for my comrades I must accept. I reluctantly shake his hand. At that time I did not know that Marshal Petain had done the same thing at Montoire sur Loire, when meeting Hitler.

Given a mission by my comrades, I could not escape, but this new job did not seem to be to the taste of the Germans.

Second escape : November 1943

With several mates, I am send to the disciplinary camp at Muckenberg.

In the factory to which I was assigned, amongst other things, they made carbide, a mixture of carbon and chalk, carried out at high temperature and run into tanks. Above this liquid fusion rose a cloud of incandescent dust which we breathed in whilst greasing and repairing roving bridges which were near the glass roof, painted so that the glow could not be seen from aircraft.

Meanwhile, NCO " The Tomato" had come from Dobra to take charge of this disciplinary commando.
"The Tomato" noticed the disappearance of my coat, which I had hidden and intended to use during my escape. To keep him happy, I pretended to have a tear to repair and put it back on the bed. With Pierre Guiot - also a "habitual offender" and who came from Dobras and was to remain a good friend - we decided to leave this unhealthy place.
And so one evening after roll call we crossed the barbed wire. I learnt afterwards that three other prisoners of war did the same as us on the same day. As a matter of fact, I was lucky enough to see one of them again.

We make it to the railway line and walk along the sleepers, with difficulty as it is dark and the spaces between the sleepers are not all the same. We go towards the marshalling yard at Elsterwerda and have to cross a bridge which has a pointsmans hut next to it. By cheer bad luck the pointsman sees us and catches us in his lights. We have to dash across the fields. What happened next was entirely predictable: running in the dark on this ground covered in bumps, I fall into a hole, as flat as a pancake! I cannot make out the depth of the hole but, dazed, I get up, surprised that nothing is broken.

So we carried on our march to the place where a comrade prisoner is lodging, near to the marshalling yard. He was supposed to help us that night, to look for a wagon and to lock us inside. Two other Frenchmen, prisoners dressed as civilian workers, offered to let us give them whatever we wanted to take with us (letters, supplies, tobacco and other object which we prized). We were supposed to find our package with the fellow mentioned above. But on meeting with this compatriot, there was no sign whatsoever of a package.
There is no question of going back on our tracks. Which is exactly what they had counted upon. We stay hidden there about three days, sleeping on the pile of straw in the barn and at night looking for a train. At last we find wagons labelled in the direction of Stuttgart. We immediately get on but, it is a wasted effort as the wagons stop continuously and at the end of several days we have only covered about fifteen kilometres.

We leave our wagon and decide to try passenger trains, because short journeys of less than 100 km are tolerated and we have some Deutschmarks from Colditz, hidden in an aspirin tube stacked away where you would expect…

Having managed to reach Halle, we are lead to a camp for civilians, which is between Halle and Merseburg, at Bunawerk (a large factory). Here numerous friends can easily conceal us and, with the help of some "coupons", we can go to the canteen to have our meals. We are lucky to meet a priest from Luz-St-Sauveur, who, a prisoner, had made himself into a civilian worker so as to be able to remain chaplain amongst his comrades. He helps us in every possible way: money, clothing, food and encouragement.

Pierre Guiot leaves me to be near his previous commando but I find myself in the company of Victor Martin who is on his eighth attempt. He and I again take a passenger train. We reach Erfurt and then Bebra. There we get into a small commando of Frenchmen, have a quick wash and smarten up a little. But the German NCO is not slow to appear. This spells trouble. It is high time to clear off. So here we are again in the train for Fulda and there, like everyone else, we go towards the exit. It is here that a "Schupo" shouts to us:

" Where are you going?"
"To Fulda"
"What for?"
"To work".
"Where?"
"At the baker's".
"Which one?"
"The one on the market square".

This seems to satisfy him because he lets us pass. In somewhat of a hurry we go towards the departure ticket offices. I ask for two tickets to Frankfurt. I have them in my hand; I pay but, somewhat curiously, I see my mate Totor trying to make himself small; he has seen our "Schupo" coming towards us. The Schupo takes our tickets and asks us to follow him. The ticket clerk collects the tickets, keeps my money and I, flabbergasted, don't have the presence of mind to ask for them back.

Once we are in the Schupo's office, he picks up the telephone and calls the baker shop on the market square. However I do try to make him understand that we lied. The baker replies that indeed he does have French prisoners working for him but that they are all there. Under heavy guard we are taken towards the barracks. As we go we see the train for Frankfurt leaving, but unfortunately alas, without us.
We have been free for eleven days.

At the barracks we are shut in the military prison (surprisingly clean). Through the barred window we see women and children making friendly signs to us: surprising but comforting all the same.

Two or three days later we are taken to a Stalag (camp for soldier prisoners), the IX at Ziegenheim, then shut in a hut isolated from the rest of the camp by barbed wire, the 32.

It is the 5th December 1943 and we undergo interrogation on the 7th. I have to hide my joy when the officer says " We are going to keep you here" because I greatly fear coming across "The Tomato" again.

Already we are thinking of another escape. Freedom, beautiful freedom...
We learn that every day, wagons loaded with ciment, leave from a commando at Wetzlar. Their destination is the Atlantic Wall.

At Christmas well before midnight, the liaison man of the camp, a priest, comes to celebrate mass in our disciplinary hut. A comrade, Germain Farjonel, although Protestant, sings "Minuit Chretien" with Jean Boucherat. After the mass, we organise a snack with whatever we have. We even have wine. There have always been people who know how to get by.

Outside the sentries stamp up and down in the snow. This evening is comforting and although I do not know it at the time, this is to be my last Christmas outside France. The evening finished, we go to bed. Some of us continued songs in the darkness. I will always remember a comrade with a beautiful voice singing:

Some time later I am back in the central camp. I manage somehow- I cannot remember how-with the help of a French doctor, to be assigned only light work in the camp. Winter passes. March arrives. I ask to see the German in charge of allocating prisoners to commandos and declare that I would like to be transferred to the 1426 at Wezlar, where I could rejoin my friends. It is agreed.

Without having done anything about it, Victor Martin is also sent to the 1426.

Third escape: March 1944

On the 21st March 1944 Jean Boucherat and I cross the barbed wire as soon as roll-call is over. It is 8.00 p.m. We reach the civilian camp near the marshalling yard. There we find a train going to St Nazaire. This method of escape is well known to the Germans so the train does not leave until it has been searched. So only as the train is leaving do we get on.
We have to open the central door. It is only during successive stops that I manage to close it from the outside and seal it. Next I get inside the wagon by means of a skylight which closes from the inside. As expected, this wagon contains bags of cement. The train stops. At the frontier I have great difficulty in fighting sleep: a dog barks and Jean does his utmost to keep me awake to stop me snoring. At last with a bit of luck, the train sets off again.

After five nights and four days, the dawn is breaking. We think we are at Chalons and decide to leave our wagon. We have economised the water in our can so as to have some left to wash ourselves a little and to shave. There is no question of going out in the state we are in. We have cement stuck everywhere, especially in our eyes and on our lips. The razor blade tears our skin. We set foot on the soil of France. It is the 26th March 1944.

Walking towards the town the name sign indicates: "TROYES". Jean lets out a cry of joy.
"I have some cousins here!" I throw my last piece of military uniform, a safari jacket, into a drain. We go into a tobacconist where we make ourselves known discretely, since the militia are about everywhere and we are particularly wary of them. The good people of the tobacconist take us into the back of the shop to have a bit of a wash and to eat an excellent breakfast. It is early: we have to wait a while for Jean to go and wake up his cousin. He goes off to Monsieur and Madame Roze. A few minutes later I see a young girl arrive on her bicycle. She asks me:

"Are you Jean Boucherat's friend?"
" Yes!"
"Follow me".

I did not need any persuading. She could have led me to the kommandantur. Happily I find Jean at his cousins house. What a fantastic welcome!!!
A good clean up, breakfast and then bed. I sleep 24 hours at a stretch with just one wee-wee visit. On our awakening a true feast with plenty of wine is set before us, probably by courtesy of the black market. I promise myself as soon as possible afterwards to send a word to both my mother and my fiance but I am not capable of this. You can guess why. Jean goes off to his family, in Burgundy, I think. The next day, having written a letter to my mother and my girlfriend to announce my arrival in France, , I have to take the train to Paris. I am dressed in civilian clothes supplied by a chemist, who is a member of the passive defence but also a member of the resistance. But there is an alert. Nevertheless, the chemist takes me to the railway station at Troyes. In the evening, as night falls, I get out at the Gare de l'Est in Paris. I quickly make my way to Levallois. I know where to find Julien Kerignard in a presbytery. (I think he was released on health grounds). But there, the Parish priest refuses to give me lodging. Julien accompanies me and we leave for Boulogne Billancourt where we spend the night in an unoccupied flat belonging to one of Julien's relations.

The next day, Julien and I go to Monsieur and Madame Devernay's house at 56 rue de la Chapelle. Odette, the wife of their prisoner son Roger and his mother, Madame Max, are also there.

I then learn that Roger has left Colditz and has been transferred to Lubeck with the French officers. I am to stay a month with them which gives me time to find a hotel room.

Monsieur Devernay accompanies me to the first district in the Northern region, S.N.C.F.(French Railways), to see his son Emile who is the district assistant. I got a work permit immediately). I am going to be taken on at the Chapelle depot and will be left alone. Then Madame R. Devernay and Odette accompany me to the Office of Help for Prisoners, rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. Coming out of the underground station Trinite needed certain precautions, roundups being frequent at the exits to metro stations, especially this one.
Odette went out first and if she did not come back after a certain time I was to go up and join her.

There existed demobilisation offices for certain repatriated prisoners (sick and wounded) and clandestinely for escapees. On this score, the Chateauroux team was caught by the Gestapo for having demobilised escaped prisoners. Odette's colleagues get me some false papers and a pass to cross the demarcation line. I go to the office in Macon and get demobilised there on the 4th April 1944.

On the 17th April 1944 I enter the French Railways (S.N.C.F.).
As promised, I sent the clothes lent to me by the priest of Luz-St-Sauveur back to his mother. She replied telling me that her son had been shot at Halle in Germany.

Recently I met Pierre Guiot, my mate of the second escape. He told me that, at All Saints Day 1942, having escaped by passing through Alsace, he hid away at a gendarme's house at Saverne. He had to be especially careful and to hide himself even from his children since, at school, the German teacher, revolver on his desk, made them tell him everything that happened at home.

Jacques Pallu