‘I miss you very very much’: Another Christmas apart.

Charlie Fry and Beryl Smith had known each other for five or six years when he embarked for the UK in July 1937.

(Photo with application for Point Cook cadetship, NAA A9300, Fry, C.H.) 

 A graduate of 20 Course, 1 Flying Training School, Point Cook (ranked 16th with 70.9 per cent) he was on his way to take up a short service commission with the RAF. The couple wouldn’t see each other again for a little over eight years.

(20 Course, 1 Flying Training School, Point Cook. Fry, front row, third from left. Courtesy RAAF Museum.) 

After completing his training in the UK, and a brief stint in 32 Squadron, Charlie joined 112 Squadron RAF, transferring to Egypt in May 1939, flying Gladiators. The couple wrote regularly during their separation, but after almost two years apart they missed each other terribly. As war clouds thickened, Charlie had ‘had a bit of the blues for the last couple of months’ but letters from Beryl—or Bebs—were just the tonic he needed to cheer him up. Photos were also a significant means of maintaining their strong connection and helped him imagine what she was doing back in Australia while he was on operational service. ‘They were lovely snaps of you dear, and [I] would very much like to have some others too if you have them, I can just imagine what a lovely time you must be having’. They also kindled regret at the fun times they were missing out on as a couple. ‘God I wish I were home.’

(Beryl Smith. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

Two months after the outbreak of war, Charlie wrote to Beryl with the question he wished he had put to her before he left Australia. He hadn’t, though, because ‘I sincerely wanted to ask you to wait for me to return home, but I did not dare to, as it seemed so unfair because five years’—the period of his short service commission—‘is a very long time’. After three years separation, and with a new war, however, everything was different. ‘Please darling, this is a proposal: I want to marry you’. Moreover, he wanted her to come to Egypt so they could be together.

(Unattributed engagement notice. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

Beryl accepted immediately, but it was over a month before Charlie received word. He was ecstatic: ‘At last my dream of almost eight years has materialised and I am very proud and happy of what we have so far accomplished. I was out on a desert landing ground when an aircraft brought your cable, and the pilot thought I had gone crazy with the antics that I performed’.

Much as they wanted to, it was not possible for Beryl to cross the world to be with her new fiancé. Within months, 112 Squadron was in action. From Egypt it moved to Greece, and then to Crete. Gladiators had been traded for Hurricanes and Charlie, now a flight commander, was in frequent combat. ‘Crete was being subjected to Stuka attacks and the sky was often thick with Messerschmitts’, he later recalled. On 16 May 1941, ‘a fateful day’, Charlie, or Digger, as he was known almost from the time he had set foot in England, was in battle yet again:

‘They appeared again in the very early morning, followed by Ju88s, Dornier 17s, and Ju52s. Crete was subjected to a great softening-up before the troop-carrying gliders came on the scene. The sky also turned white with the canopies of German parachutists. The tide of our war had turned.’

Charlie was attacked: ‘My Hurricane lay in ruins after I was shot down, but I survived’. 

Injured and unable to fly, Charlie made himself useful. He set about building pens to protect the squadron’s aircraft. As Crete fell to the Germans, and their aerodrome was taken, Charlie attempted to construct another strip in the hills. When he realised there was no hope, he organised the evacuation of the remaining squadron members. As one of his comrades recollected, ‘He used to lay up in the hills during the day, and at night he would take … [his men] down to the beaches on the off-chance of a warship being around. I know there were occasions when he could have made his escape but he preferred, as is the duty of an officer, to remain with his men to the last—good old Digger’.

Charlie succeeded in getting off two officers and three airmen before he was captured on 6 June 1941. He was the last of the squadron’s officers remaining on Crete. And so, lauded his friend, ‘he remained at his post to the last. A good pilot, a good officer, and an excellent leader of men’. (His service in Greece was later acknowledged by a Greek DFC and a British DFC.)

For Beryl, who had regularly received letters from her fiancé, there was only worrying silence and unanswered questions: what had happened to Charlie? And then, on 14 August, ‘It was with gladness and thanksgiving, after many weeks of knowing you to be missing that I heard you were a Prisoner of War. Chas it is impossible to describe how happy and relieved I was to learn of your whereabouts. I sincerely hope you are well and safe’. Four days earlier, Charlie had written his first missive to her since capture: ‘At last I am able to write to you I am very well and uninjured’. It took over four months before those precious words arrived just after Christmas 1941.

(POW identity card, Charles Horace Fry 40047, NAA A13950.) 

(POW postcard, Charles Fry to Beryl Smith, 10 August 1941, received 29 December 1941.
Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

In that first POW postcard, Charlie wrote that he had lost all his photos of Beryl on Crete and asked if she would send him some more. So treasured was her image—and perhaps also conscious of the changes brought about by passing time—it was a question he continued to ask throughout almost four years of captivity. Beryl did not hesitate to respond. Indeed, throughout his captivity, she placed Charlie and his needs firmly at the centre of her life.

She joined the POW Relatives’ Association, she raised funds for the association, assiduously read its newsletter, made contact with other families of captives, spoke with a repatriated prisoner, all to glean information about Charlie and the prisoner of war camps in which he was incarcerated. She diligently worked for his comfort. 

(Beryl Smith. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

She wrote frequently, sent photos, arranged for cigarette and book parcels to be sent to him, contributed financially to parcels sent from British relatives, kept in touch with his family and friends, lobbied for his actions to be appropriately recognised, and sought future career advice on his behalf. She wrote about family, a little about what she did in her limited spare time so he could picture her life but, as a minister’s confidential typist, she could write little of her career.

 (Beryl Smith’s receipts from David Jones for parcels. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

(Letter from Beryl Smith to the Editor, The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 December 1943. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

Beryl provided Charlie with a real link to home. He in turn did his best to maintain that link. As well as his regular letters, he asked the Irving Air Chute company to send Beryl the caterpillar pin which signified that ‘he had saved his life with one our chutes’.

(Letter to Beryl Smith from the Caterpillar Club, 7 September 1943. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.)

(The Sunday Sun, 9 November 1943. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

Most of Beryl’s letters—and Charlie’s to her—focused on their love for each other. ‘My love’; ‘my darling’; how much they ‘missed’ each other. Interestingly, they wrote little of the future, or the life they planned to share with each other. As Charlie’s captivity dragged on, the most important thing for each was to reinforce the strength of their love.

During the course of his long captivity, Charlie spent time in Oflag XC, Lubeck, Oflag VIB, Warburg, Stalag Luft III, and Oflag XXIB, Schubin. On 2 April 1943, he returned to Stalag Luft III. Captivity was not an easy state for Charlie. He endured physical and psychological stresses but he appeared to suffer more from his long separation from Beryl. She too felt the strain of being apart. They tried to be cheerful, but both had doubts about the other’s constancy, and they did little to hide it.

‘Charl, dearest, I love you very very much—it is most anguishing to be separated from you for so long and I am looking forward longingly to the day when I shall be in your arms again. You are the only one I care for (or have ever cared for Chas)—since the very first day I met you … . I sincerely hope, Chas, that you reciprocate my feelings and that these long years apart have not dimmed your ardour for me.’

Both were conscious of the passage of years. On 29 November 1943, Charles wrote, ‘By the time this will reach you, you will have had your 28th birthday. [Beryl was born on 5 March 1915.] Happy returns darling gosh I wish I were here with you darling for I would have lots more to tell you. I miss you darling and hope we shall be together again soon. Cheerio my dear you have all my love, yours for ever’.

(Charles Fry in Oflag XXIB, Schubin late 1942, after their heads were shaven. Fry second from left. 

Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

By December 1944, the strain was almost unendurable. It was their seventh Christmas apart and Charlie’s fourth in captivity. He had sent her Christmas cards in times past but if he had this time, it did not reach her. 

(Christmas Card from No 1 Flying Training School, RAAF Point Cook, 1936. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

(POW Christmas card from Charles Fry to Beryl Smith POW,  postmarked 22 November 1942 while he was in Schubin, received 12 March 1942. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

On 12 December, Beryl wrote again to Charles. It was her last letter addressed to him at Stalag Luft III, yet he never received it. [She typed all of her letters and kept the flimsy.] ‘How are you, my precious darling? Sick and tired of waiting, I guess. I feel that way at times too. Not tired of waiting for you my darling but tired of having to wait.’ It was a poignant letter, full of all the longing a woman felt for a man she had not seen since July 1937. It suggested a silence that, despite the many letters over the years, stretched between them. It hinted at the things that could not be told because of censorship, or because they both recognised that ‘one must keep a happy exterior and write bright cheery letters’, or because some words simply could not be put on paper: they could only be whispered between lovers entwined in each other’s arms:

‘I wish I could express what is in my mind—tell you how I feel and what thoughts I have about life, the war and ourselves … . I really think of some marvellous things to say to you but when I come to write them it is very very difficult. I feel I would like to tell you how much I love you and adore you and that you are the embodiment of all my dreams—that I miss you very very much and am often unhappy and sad about that. I would like to tell you that I dream of the time we will be together and that you will say that you love me and think that I am beautiful … I try to imagine what it will be like to have your arms around me and to feel your kisses.’

As Beryl wondered what she would do when they were reunited—‘Will I rush forward and throw my arms madly around your neck and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you—or will I stand shyly by whilst you embrace your mother and family and wait my turn later on’—Charlie was having a ‘miserable Christmas’. ‘How I would like to be with you there’, he wrote. He had been at a low ebb during the last weeks of 1944 as the hoped-for release in the wake of the D-Day invasion had failed to eventuate. The only joy was the ‘lovely Christmass [sic] present of three letters … Thanks darling they were lovely letters’. Realising yet another birthday was nigh, he wrote, ‘Hope you receive this before your birthday darling with all my love for a happy birthday & may the next one be happier’.

Beryl’s 30th birthday was no happier. Charlie still had not returned to her and, by March 1945, was off the radar. She had not heard from him for weeks. Mail from Germany was irregular at that stage of the war and Charlie had not written since the prisoners had evacuated from Stalag Luft III at the end of January 1945. After months of silence and anxiety over Charlie’s fate, Beryl finally heard the wonderful news that he had been liberated and was back in England. ‘There are no words to express my happiness and joy’, she wrote on 14 May. ‘Oh my darling. I am so happy. I sincerely trust you are in good health and none the worse for your experiences. Gee Charles it is hard to believe after all these years. I can hardly wait to see you, dearest, and to have your arms around me.’

(August 1945, taken at Buckingham Palace just after DFC investiture. Unknown source.)

Charlie was soon on his way, excited to be returning home and to Beryl. On 6 September 1945, as he approached Australian waters six years to the day when he had proposed by letter, he sent the most welcome telegram: ‘Be with you soon for good. Happy excited love Charles’. 

(Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

Charlie disembarked in Sydney on the 9th. Less than two weeks later, on 22 September 1945, Charlie and Beryl married. They were together at last: ‘for good’.

(Cutting the cake. 22 September 1945. Courtesy of the Fry family archive.) 

The Kriegie Commandments

Over the last few months, I’ve been delving into the place of religion in helping the airmen prisoners of war in Stalag Luft III cope with captivity. Some men had profound faith which provided much comfort. Others disclosed a particularly secular—even wryly humorous—relationship with religion.

For many, ‘monotony’ was the key characteristic of life in a prisoner of war camp. One wit, for instance, pointed out that Hebrews 13:8—‘Jesus Christ the same yesterday and today and forever’—admirably summed up their ‘kriegie’ life. Many relieved the boredom with escape work. When the time came to name North Compound’s the three major escape tunnels, George Harsh, who was in charge of security, favoured calling them ‘The Father’, ‘The Son’ and ‘The Holy Ghost’. 

(Author photo from George Harsh: Lonesome Road, Longman, 1971)

Roger Bushell, the escape mastermind, however, vetoed the idea because they would need all the help they could get, and they didn’t want to ‘start out by making the Almighty cross with us’. Bushell then settled on the less irreverent and more anodyne and the tunnels were dubbed ‘Tom’, ‘Dick’ and ‘Harry’.

(Lifted from https://blog.findmypast.com/in-our-prisoner-of-war-records-the-real-great-escapers-1406166255.html)

There were many off duty hours to fill and when they weren’t digging tunnels or carrying out other important escape related jobs, the men were always keen to keep their minds active and stimulated. John Osborne, for example, read religion along with science and philosophy for intellectual interest and a starting point for debate. 

(From the John Carlisle Osborne collection.  Courtesy of Narromine Aviation Museum)

Dick Winn read the Bible and Koran from cover to cover but not for the religious inspiration: ‘these books were so good, because they took so long to read’.

(Dick Winn's POW card)

Some, however, even in times of literary starvation, such as in Stalag IIIA, Luckenwalde after the evacuation from Stalag Luft III, could not stomach the word of God. Bruce Lumsden who carried on the forced march a copy of A Christmas Carol, a hymn book, and his precious Bible recalled that, for weeks, the Dickens ‘was passed around the hut from one to another kriegie, hungry for a read. One or two also borrowed my Bible’.

(Bruce Lumsden and his bible, courtesy of the Bradbeer/Lumsden family) 

Parodying the Ten Commandments, ‘The Kriegie’s Commandments’ exhorted the prisoners ‘to do no arbeit’ (work), or ‘dhobi’ (washing), and to ‘get into as many rackets as possible’. The humour of the ‘commandments’ helped make light of their new life. They also prescribed a formula for harmonious communal living. The ‘commandments’ promoted kriegie safety (‘Thou shalt not walk over the warning wire’) and reflected civilised society’s laws in, for example, the prohibition against stealing (‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s bedboards; nor his palliasse nor his dixie, nor his irons, nor anything that is his’). But they were also subversive. In forbidding arbeit, encouraging their fellows to be involved in rackets, and exposing ‘the rest’, i.e. German involvement in the rackets, the ‘commandments’ also condoned active and passive resistance.

(Courtesy of Alex Kerr)

A shout-out to the kriegie tin bashers of Stalag Luft III

Tin bashers such as Tony Gordon, who was noted by Bill Fordyce as North Compound’s ‘official’ tin basher, played a key role in Stalag Luft III’s physical comfort.

(Caricature of Tony Gordon, by Bill Fordyce. Fordyce's wartime log book, courtesy of Lily Fordyce)

As had prisoners of war in earlier conflicts, they produced artefacts which are generally described as ‘trench art’ from materials at hand—particularly dried milk powder tins the equivalent of the Great War’s bully beef tin—including kitchen and table utensils, biscuit grinders, jugs, tea pots, and coffee percolators.

(Klim tin, 'lifted' from the internet so long ago I have no idea where it came from. Sorry.)

The tin bashers also played a key role in the camp’s social life. George Archer sketched ‘Simo’s Masterpiece’, a brewing still manufactured by ‘Brew Fuhrer’ Laurie Simpson, noting that the fractionating column was constructed out of Klim, Ovaltine and cheese tins, joined together with solder from cigarette packet foil.

(George Archer's wartime log book, courtesy of David Archer)

Some became so skilled that tin bashing evolved from the purely utilitarian. Illustrations of percolators, tea pots and coffee pots in Belaria compound’s record of captivity, for instance, indicate that aesthetic form became as important in kriegie manufacture as function.

(Cousens, (ed), The Log: Stalag Luft III Belaria–Sagan 1939–1945. Cheltenham: the author, [1947], p. 193.)

The tin bashers also built chip heaters, ‘blowers’, and stoves. Tim Mayo, for instance, constructed a stove for his room out of Klim (powdered milk) tins, clay, bricks and solder from silver paper. The force draft cooker, known as a ‘blower’ or ‘stufa’, which ‘burns at a fierce heat’, used ‘fuel of all descriptions’. It was particularly useful when ‘fuel is almost non existent’, and is considered by historian Peter Doyle to be ‘the epitome of POW ingenuity’ and an ‘icon of captivity’.

(From Ken Todd's wartime log book, courtesy of Peter Todd)

But given that today will see the yearly running of the 'race that stops the nation', this post particularly celebrates the exemplary work of Bill Fordyce during his stint in an Italian POW camp, PG 78, Sulmona.

 

(Bill Fordyce, in happier times, courtesy of Lily Fordyce.)

He designed the 1942 Melbourne Cup trophy and ‘horses’. The blurry images are from Bill’s log book and the sharp image (AWM) P00631.005 is from the AWM collection. If you look carefully you can see Bill’s name on the stables.

.

 

 

William Henry Edwards, an Australian in Stalag Luft III.

One of Stalag Luft III's Australians in the RAF was William Henry Edwards, known as Bill to the family. 

Born on 18 October 1915, Bill grew up in Leichhardt (Sydney) NSW. He applied for and was successful in obtaining a pilot training cadetship at 1 Flying Training School, Point Cook and commenced 20 Course in July 1937. He was in the same intake as Stuart Walch and Jack Kennedy (Battle of Britain), and over lapped Des Sheen’s and Pat Hughes’ 19 Course. Also on 20 Course were Allan Mulligan and Charles Fry who would also fetch up in Stalag Luft III. 

Point Cook 20 Course 1937

Bill, Point Cook, 20 Course. 1937. 

Some of that time is described in my Australia’s Few and the Battle of Britain. But here is the description of 20 Course’s initiation, engineered by Pat Hughes and co (from Pat’s diary) which did not make it into the book:

On 24 July, a cold Victorian winter’s night, 19 Course took the disrobed juniors down to the seaplane hangars. There, they painted them with dope—a flammable lacquer applied to aircraft to weatherproof the fabric stretched over the airframe—and branded some with a cold, and some with a hot, iron. They then sprayed them up and down a ladder with a fireman’s hose before throwing them into the icy sea. Finally, the hapless new boys were knighted on a block of ice with an electric shock. ‘Whoopee’, wrote Pat, as he signed off on his description of the night’s overly aggressive high jinks.

Bill graduated 32nd in class with 64.88%. From Point Cook, Bill embarked for the UK on the RMS Orama, and a Short Service Commission with the RAF.

Bill on the RMS Orama. Courtesy of Ross Edwards.

After completion of his RAF training, he was posted to 211 Squadron RAF, then, on outbreak of war, to 107 Squadron RAF.

He served in the Norway campaign and his sterling service was recognised with the award of a Distinguished Flying Cross. Citation: In April, 1940, this officer was pilot of one of six aircraft which left to attack Stavanger aerodrome and seaplane base. The weather was so bad that five aircraft were compelled to abandon the task but Flying Officer Edwards succeeded in getting through, attacked the objectives and obtained valuable information. On the previous day he was pilot of one of twelve, aircraft ordered to attack the same objectives. Despite a heavy snow storm, which forced him to fly very low, he reached the target and attacked it in the face of heavy anti-aircraft fire. When returning he attacked a Dormer seaplane with his guns and scored hits. On both days this officer displayed great skill and determination, and courage of a high order.

The first Australian awarded the DFC was Dereck French, of Point Cook’s 21 Course, which overlapped Bill’s. The senior cadets, including Bill, according to French, treated 21 Course ‘like the lowest form of animal life’ and they organised an initiation similar to their own which French considered ‘silly, primitive...childish’. But enough of the gossip.

From Norway to France with 107 Squadron and the Battle of France. On 12 May 1940, the squadron was detailed to attack roads near Maastricht. Blenheim IV P4905 was shot down by Me 109s over Bettehoven at 9.25 am. LAC Palmer was killed, Sergeant Luter and Flying Officer Edwards, were captured. Bill was processed into captivity as POW No 326. Two other Australians destined for Stalag Luft III were captured that day: Guy Grey-Smith, whose Point Cook course overlapped Bill’s (and who experienced that silly, childish initiation meted out by Bill’s crowd), and Ian ‘Digger’ McIntosh.

Australians in Stalag XXIB, Schubin, Christmas 1942. Courtesy of David Archer.

Bill picked up the nickname ‘Hap’ at some point and spent time in a number of camps including Stalag XXA, Thorn and Oflag VIB, Warburg. He arrived in XXIB, Schubin 4 September 1942, then, when the North Compound opened, he was transferred to SLIII in April 1943. 

(Bill's grandson tells me that, according to Alex Gould, the original nickname was 'Happy'. George Archer's records indicate that it was then later shortened to 'Hap'.)  

Bill, Christmas 1942, at Schubin. Courtesy of David Archer. 

He was repatriated on 8 September 44 because of medical grounds. George Archer noted in his letter 24 July 1944 that ‘another batch of repats leave this week including three Aussies—Chuck Lark will know them—‘Dusty’ Miller, ‘Hap’ Edwards, and Tom Bax’. The East Compound history notes that information was sent to Britain via repatriated POWs ‘who were briefed by the Senior British Officer and his Staff and learned by heart’. They were then delivered ‘to an Intelligence Officer on arrival in the UK’.

Bill married Monica Hay Fenton Wingate in the UK in 1945. He later returned to Australia where at some point he became a service station proprietor. He and Monica had two children. On 30 September 1955, at the age of 39, he died in Concord Hospital (Sydney) NSW of Myelofibrosis (a serious bone marrow disorder) of which he had suffered over a number of years.

'Ever remembered'. James Catanach, Anzac Day 1944

Jimmy Catanach had been a prisoner of war for almost seven months before unburdening himself to his brother, Bill, on 28 March 1943. It had been a long journey from Melbourne, where he had been born on 23 November 1921, to Stalag Luft III, Sagan. He had enlisted in the RAAF when he was 18; was promoted to squadron leader; and had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross for daring raids over Lorient in north-western France, and the German cities of Cologne, Hamburg, Essen, and Lubeck, all before his 21st birthday. The most recent stage of his journey to captivity had begun on 4 September 1942.

Numbers 144 and 455 squadrons had been deployed to Russia as part of Operation Orator, to protect a convoy taking vital supplies to Russia: Jimmy was 455 Squadron’s youngest squadron leader and was lauded as the youngest in the RAAF. He was a lively, boisterous man, much loved by his crew and squadron friends. His commanding officer, Grant Lindeman, recalled that, as they were lined up to depart, ‘Jimmy of course couldn’t restrain himself to wait his turn; he taxied into the first gap in the line and was off like a blooming rocket’. Lindeman had ‘never seen such a wealth of superfluous energy in any individual over the age of twelve as Jimmy constantly had at his disposal. He didn’t drink or smoke; he talked at an incredible speed; he couldn’t stand still for a second, but he hopped about all the time you were talking to him till you were nearly giddy’. In his opinion, Jimmy ‘was a most excellent Flight Commander, and was probably the most generally liked man in the whole squadron’.

Members of 455 Squadron, August 1942. 

L-R: Jack Davenport, Jimmy Catanach, Grant Lindeman, Les Oliver, Bob Holmes. Author's collection

Jimmy was piloting Hampden AT109, which experienced a great deal of flak as it crossed the Norwegian coast. He realised they were rapidly losing fuel. Rather than risk the engines cutting out, he took the first opportunity to land. He touched down safely on a strip of heather adjoining a beach near Vardo, in northern Norway. Jimmy, his navigator Flying Officer George ‘Bob’ Anderson, wireless operator/upper gunner Flight Sergeant Cecil Cameron, lower rear gunner Sergeant John Hayes and their passenger Flight Sergeant John Davidson, a ground crew fitter, attempted to destroy the Hampden, but they were fired on by soldiers from one direction and a patrol boat from the coast. The five were taken prisoner; Bob Anderson and Jimmy were sent to Stalag Luft III.

455 Squadron, April 1942. L-R  Wilson,  Bob Anderson, Smart,  Humphrey, Acting S/L Jimmy Catanach DFC, 

Miller, and Clarke. https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/SUK10124/

Jimmy’s handful of earlier letters to his parents had been upbeat and emphasised his good spirits. His letter of 28 March 1943 was more subdued. He told Bill as much of the truth as he could within the constraints of censorship. He confessed his part in the events precipitating capture: ‘my arrival in enemy territory was far from glorious. I force landed as a result of fuel shortage caused by a sequence of misfortunes, mostly due to my own foolishness and partly due to climate conditions and enemy action’. Although the memory of it still ‘gets me down a bit’ he tried to push recollections aside and conceded that ‘present circumstances are not so bad’. Food, thanks to Red Cross parcels—when available—‘is quite good’ and living conditions were tolerable, if ‘a bit trying’. By far ‘the worst thing’ was ‘the lack of comradeship male & female and the futility of the existence.’ Even so, Jimmy kept himself busy with exercise, cooking, study and reading. But even as he made the most of life behind barbed wired, he planned for his future: ‘The end of the war is the main interest and topic of conversation … I am going to try studying Gem[m]ology & Bookkeeping etc. but am considering the idea of staying in service’.

But, unlike the majority of Stalag Luft III’s prisoners, Jimmy did not experience a life outside of captivity. Almost exactly twelve months after writing to Bill, he was dead, one of fifty Allied airmen—including five Australians—killed in the ‘Great Escape’ reprisals.

 Jimmy after he had been captured after the mass breakout. Lifted from http://twicsy.com/i/6iideb

The men of Stalag Luft III were shocked, ‘shaken and despondent’ when they heard of the death of their fellow prisoners. They held a memorial parade after roll call. They wore black flashes. They observed a period of mourning. They commemorated the dead in their wartime log books. Later, they built a memorial to comrades who had merely been carrying out their service duty to escape.

Sagan Memorial to the Fifty, courtesy of Geoff Swallow

Jimmy’s loss in particular affected his friends: Ronnie Baines who he had welcomed and taken under his wing and into his room on Baines’ first day in Stalag Luft III; Tony Gordon who had trained with him and never stopped grieving for his first RAAF friend; Bob Anderson who had flown with him and whose friendship had been forged under difficult and dangerous conditions.

Ronnie Baines

Tony Gordon and Jimmy Catanach, courtesy of Drew Gordon

 Bob Anderson. Courtesy of David Archer  

On Anzac Day 1944—less than three weeks after they had heard the ‘crushing news’ that most of those who had participated in the mass breakout of 24/25 March had been killed on Hitler’s orders—Jimmy’s Australian friends of North Compound gathered in the theatre with their compatriots from New Zealand. There, Padre Watson took a special Anzac Day service. Afterwards, they assembled for a series of group photographs taken by one of the German guards.

Anzac Day 1944. https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/P00270.027

The Australian ranks were depleted: as well as Jimmy, Albert Hake, John Williams, Reg Kierath and Thomas Leigh had been executed. Dressed as smartly as could be in worn RAAF and RAF uniforms, they proudly declared that they were air force men. On the day in which Australians and New Zealanders, honour their war dead, their photos were as much statements of Australian pride, unity and defiance against the enemy as they were portraits of grief. Last year, Jimmy had stood with them on Anzac Day.

Anzac Day 1943. Courtesy of Ian Fraser

 This year he was missing, ‘his duty fearlessly and nobly done’. But, he was ‘Ever remembered’. 

Jimmy Catanach’s headstone, Old Garrison Cemetery, Posen, courtesy of Geoff Swallow, 

Photographic Archive of Headstones and Memorials WW2 by Spidge

 Jimmy Catanach’s letters are held by the Shrine of Remembrance, Melbourne. I would like to thank Jenna Blyth, Collections Manager, and Neil Sharkey, Exhibitions Curator, who allowed me to consult the James Catanach Collection in October 2016.

Every night about this time: A kriegie's wife writes.

It’s easy to forget that the wives, fiancées and girlfriends of prisoners of war had it just as rough as their menfolk, but in a different way, of course.

I am currently going through the letters of Lola Hutchinson. She had been married to Doug for five years, and separated from him because of overseas service and captivity for four years. 

Doug and Lola Hutchinson,  25 March 1939. Courtesy of Robert Douglas Hutchinson.

Lola wrote to Doug every week and was lucky if she received one letter a month in return. She was in despair because he was badly injured when his aircraft crashed in a minefield near Heraklion, Crete after being shot down by machine gun fire on 22 July 1943. It was a terrible situation. The aircraft was on fire. The pilot had an arm shot off, the navigator had severe head wounds, the second Wop/AG was killed, and Doug had shrapnel wounds to foot (with a large chunk missing), elbow, legs and body. Although severely wounded, he had managed to drag his crew members to safety. Lola knew he was injured but, because of the difficult mail situation—and because he had omitted to tell her—she did not know that he had only been in hospital for a month and was on the road to recovery and out of hospital.

Every letter to him reiterated her worry that he was still seriously injured and badly burnt. And where was he burned? Was it his face? She had no idea if her handsome husband’s good looks were intact. Putting that aside, the strain of the separation was difficult. She missed him and needed to know that he still loved her, as much as she loved him. She also felt the strain on their married life. They were young, and they didn’t have one. Despite censorship and the effects it might have on her husband, she dropped a hint about the strains:

‘I’m hoping and praying for you to be home for your next birthday, wouldn’t that be rather a wonderful thing to happen sweetheart? My dear you should see me now, it’s terribly hot and I’m lying on the floor with only a pair of scanties, a floral skirt and a white open neck blouse on.’

Usually, though, she was more circumspect in her correspondence which, perhaps, was just as well, for both of them. But nothing could stop her remembering their time together, turning over memories and hoping to make new memories when he returned. As she wrote her weekly letter, she listened to the radio:

‘They have been playing lots of new numbers and one of them, a favourite of mine, is “Every night about this time”. It’s funny but when I hear it played I always think of you, somehow the words bring back memories.’

Lola didn’t mention which version but perhaps it was this 1942 recording by the Ink Spots. I can see why she liked it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPNFpeYemAY

Incidentally, Doug received Lola’s letter about four months later. Mails had been disrupted and it was his first letter for a few months. ‘I must say your description of how you were coping with the hot weather was rather vivid. Almost distracting to me’.