In which Owen, during WWII, fraternises with the enemy...
In WWII Italian and German Prisoners of War were brought to farms in Norfolk and others all over the country from their prison camps to work on the land. They were actually a vitally needed workforce in agricultural areas like ours to keep food supplies going because nearly all our local farm workers (unless listed, like I was, as being in the reserved occupation of agricultural labourer) were away fighting. My father had fought in the trenches at Arras and other battlefields in WWI and his experiences meant he was determined I should not go to fight if he could help it. He asked his neighbour and local farmer, Bob Smith, to take me on to work for him so I could avoid conscription for as long as possible. I was in the Home Guard though - and I have a story or two to tell you about that in future articles.
I remember one cold frosty morning in 1944, aged 18 or 19, going out with my gun down Brick Kiln Lane and walking past a group of Italian POWs working on the fields. They were meant to be hoeing weeds among the sugar beet but were really much more interested in getting a campfire going to keep them warm as they stood around while they heated up a cooking pot. Being idle was, unfortunately for the local farmers, something the Italian POWs were particularly good at! The farmers all preferred German POWs if they could get them as they were far more disciplined and worked a lot harder. We were not really meant to mix with these prisoners - there were rules against fraternising - but they were mostly young men like me and a bit exotic compared to the locally born friends I had grown up with, so I took the trouble to get to know a few of them over time.
I was a good shot and that day it wasn't long before I shot and killed a rabbit. I'm not sure why because our own cooking pot needed filling but I decided to give it to the POWs. They were very grateful and had it skinned and in the pot in less than 30 seconds. Sadly, as mentioned before, they were never that quick with their work! The British soldier in charge said it was very generous of me to donate it to them given that all us locals were on food rations too with very little fresh meat available.
I recall these POWs would make snares from horse tail hairs to catch small animals and birds that would also end up in their cooking pot. They were very good basket makers too. They would cut hazel sticks and weave wonderful strong baskets from them. My mother bought one for a few shillings which lasted many years.
My wife Sheila was born in 1935 and grew up in nearby Winfarthing during the War years. Her dad Charlie also worked on a farm with Italian POWs. She told me she was with Charlie on the farm one evening when some local young boys started fighting and one of the POWs became extremely distressed. He shouted "no fight, no fight" and broke the boys up because, as he later explained, he had seen enough fighting to last a lifetime.
I sometimes think that these days we don't really know we are born.
Extra detail to supplement this tale comes from from David Nicholls whose family lived in Bunwell: "After the war when Dad (Arthur Nicholls) was still working on Greenwood's farm they had a Polish “Displaced Person” working there. These were men who had come to England during the war, either fighting for our side or as prisoners of war and who didn’t want to go back to Communist ruled countries. These DP were housed in the POW camps but with no guards and open gates.
Dad said to this man. “I don’t know how you can afford salmon in your sandwiches every day”. He replied that he bought it in his local shop for 10 pennies a tin, it was called Whiskas and he would bring Dad a tin - but Dad declined the offer! Greenwood's also had Italian POWs during the war. but they were lazy and would steal eggs and vegetables so Mr Greenwood said he didn't want them again and they were replaced by German POWs. These were good workers and they used to bring me presents of wooden toys made in the camp. One day I was in the orchard of Mr Greenwood's farm and one German POW was turning the handle of the grind wheel. The other was sharpening a knife. I looked around but Mr Greenwood, Martin nor my Dad were anywhere to be seen. Propaganda had told us that Germans used babies for bayonet practice and so I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me!"
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