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Mr. Jim O. Simpson in 2006 This is a brief account of a long story regarding the knitting of a rug I made, mainly of used wool, in a prison of war camp in Germany, during the Second World War (1939-45). This rug was knitted in Stalag IVB Mühlberg on Elbe, Saxony, Germany. I arrived in Germany on the 9th of October 1943, landing near Hannover at two minutes to two in the morning. I was a trifle upset because the C.O of our squadron was flying the Lancaster, and was supposed to be showing our 'Rookie' crew on their maiden sortie what to do. This flight to Hannover was his 40th mission; God only knows where he flew the other thirty nine sorties, for his example was so insidious, it showed with devastation what not to do. The result was we were shot down by a night fighter at a range of half a mile or so, at the height of 21,800 feet. Five of the crew died, three parachuted to terra firma safely, becoming uninvited guests of Hitler. During transport to prison with many others, especially some Yanks, who informed me that I would lose my large white rolled neck naval pullover, as the "Jerries" were confiscating most warm garments to send to the Russian front. So first opportunity I dismantled it, ready to be unravelled and rolled into balls of wool, and it worked. I later bought another white naval pullover for fifty cigarettes, which were the currency of the 'Camp.' After some months in the prison I realised it was almost impossible to escape to the west, being situated so far in the heart of Germany and not knowing the language, which was a must. At about this time I had gathered quite a few worn out pullovers, some lousy, some not. Boiling the garments for a few minutes kills the lice and their eggs, and it did not seem to hurt the wool very much. I knitted a few pairs of socks for some who were eager to escape, but they all seemed to return rather crestfallen, but; with socks intact. With this result I gathered enough wool, so I started teaching some of the lads to knit, about forty in all. They were really good lads, especially the R.A.F. boys. They were helpful in getting more old worn out pullovers to delouse, dismantle and roll into balls of wool of many colours. I had Red Cross Parcel boxes of balls of wool, especially the white wool, which was to be used in the White Map of Australia, which I had envisaged to be able to produce for the centre piece of my rug. The Jerries were very curious about these boxes of wool, but accepted my explanation for them.
After nearly twelve months in prison I started to plan the design and details of how to use the knitting needles as pencils to draw the map and its surroundings. The map I drew was a bit faulty, with the positions of the islands in Bass Strait, and the other mistake was made with the Barrier Reef. I had drawn the original map with the Barrier Reef to the Thursday Island, but when I knitted to about Cairns, somebody turned up with a Red Cross book map of Australia, which put the Barrier Reef finishing opposite Cairns. I was reluctant to accept this as being correct, but as I was in a minority, I was told I was too obstinate, especially not with a college education, I unwisely relented. Noting that I was educated in the bush, and as it so happened in my youth I had painted the Australian Coat of Arms many times for friends, and I knew it to be correct, so to take a rise out of these College graduates I asked them to draw me the Australian Coat of Arms. It amazed me to find that out of thirteen Aussies, not one had it right. Really pathetic! The red wool for the Coat of Arms was from a new pair of Canadian Hockey socks, and I knitted another pair of ordinary socks for the good hearted Canadian. I managed to get the right sized knitting needles from the handles of Italian Dixie can pan handles, about 10 inches long when straightened out, the size of number 8 fencing wire. I used sixteen, and sharpened them on the cement ablution block floor to be reasonably suitable. The rug itself was knitted in one piece, the Coat of Arms and all. The Crown Jewels were worked with a needle and coloured wool, five crowns for the Cross of St George for NSW's, one crown for Victoria's Southern Cross, and one crown in the centre of the Maltese cross for QLD. The knitting time to make this rug was about six weeks. The winding of the wool, some well worn, some reasonable, to make it twelve ply, took many months to get a reasonable article to knit with. There were hundreds of small sections or worn wool joined together to be reasonably even. I had no trouble with the Germans in making this article, as a matter of fact they were rather astonished with the finished product.
After being released by the Russians, conditions for food and welfare became chaotic. I was absent foraging for food when our Compound marched out to Riesa, and only for my good friend, Rudd Penny from Brisbane, I would have lost my ring. He knew I was out, so he collected the rug, bag of all sorts, and left word with the English Tommies what he had done. I was very grateful for this act of goodwill, which was so prominent amongst our boys. After returning to the Stalag IV from the foraging exercise, my mate, a New Zealander and I, made haste and caught up with the rear units of our compound, and I was able to collect the rug and bag of all sorts from Rudd. I only stayed the night at Riesa; for the Russians began fencing in our barracks to stop escaping, and at that time, one of our boys' acquired wireless, 'Winnie' was yapping about the Polish question of occupation by the Russians. We were a bit worried that we could end up pulling barges at the Volga. Word was around on the grapevine that the British were going to pay eight shillings per head for allied prisoners to the Russians. It was quite apparent we had to fend for ourselves, so we left Riesa very early next morning on our push bikes, which we had salvaged from a scrap the 'Ruskies' had with SS troopers on a lonely road through a forest, which crossed our path while returning to the old Stalag IVB the day before. My 'Kiwi' mate, named Jim Buckham from South Island, New Zealand, was a little older than myself, well built and strong, very essential for survival in this sort of existence. A few miles out of Riesa we ran into about a dozen Russians, ten of them laying down drunk, apparently on wine which came from a place where they made vinegar out of it. Two of their members were not drunk, and when they seized our bikes, we had to take rather immediate drastic action. Jim knew what to do with his fellow, quietly was the order of the operation. They were all over armed, and if they started shooting, it would bring more of their mates. I strangled my fellow until he collapsed and went quite limp. He had three lugers in his belt, too many, and I made sure his hands could not reach them. We tossed each Ruskie down the bank of the autobahn, hopped on our bikes and rode flat out. We had only gone about two hundred yards, and to our surprise, they recovered enough to start shooting in our direction. We needed no further encouragement to make full speed ahead. We rode to the Mulde River, the boundary of the Russian and Yankie sectors. There the American on duty with a Russian would not let us cross the narrow swinging foot bridge, we were totally rejected by the American classing us as refugees. There were hundreds of displaced people waiting closer by to cross the bridge. Other large bridges had been destroyed during the German retreat, so temporarily this little foot bridge was the only way to cross this deep little river about fifty yards wide. Anyone who tried to swim the river, were fired on while trying to do so. The Russian, with the American on duty, recognised us, as he had come out of Stalag IV and showed thanks for the food we had given him some months before, by indicating to the Yank to let us over. Once in the American Section, everybody seemed quite happy. We managed to get a ride from near where we crossed the Mulde River to Leipzig, some fifteen miles, in an American Army truck. They treated us very well by taking us to their mess to have dinner. They were astonished when we picked up white bread and ate it as cake. We had never tasted better bread, for we had been used to "Jerrie" bread which consisted of 40% wood pulp, 30% of potatoes and 30% rye flour. After dinner we managed to have an interview with the Commanding Officer of the American department for the repatriation of Allied prisoners. We were told they would give us clothes, etc and take our bikes and my bag of junk, then fly us from Halle to Reims in France, where the British would take charge. I told this Officer I could not let them take my bag, because I had some cherished mementos in it; so we had better get on our bikes and ride to the English Channel coast, then get a boat and cross the channel to 'Pommie Land.' "Before you do what you say, let me see what is in the bag," he said. We pulled out the wire needles, then the rug, and spread it on the clean floor of his office. He looked, questioned and said "it seems to be made in one piece, I wish my wife was here." Jokingly I said, "you must hate to have to bring her to this place." He said she was a keen knitter and had never "seen anything like this. You can keep your bag of mementos intact and don't lose them. We will fly you to Halle tomorrow." We went by bus from Leipzig to Halle that afternoon, and flew out of Halle in a DC3 next morning, and landed in Reims, France. After being deloused again, we boarded a Lancaster near Reims, and flew over the old battlefields of the Somme with the old trenches still visible. It was a pleasant sight to see the Cliffs of Dover and the grand old England on or about the 11/5/1945. The British people were very good to us, the W.A.A. F's even gave their milk ration up to help get the Ex POW's on the road to good health after restricted diet of POW life. We left England in the ship Orion, on 8/8/1945 from Liverpool via Panama, Wellington in New Zealand, arriving in Sydney on 9/9/1945. I was very grateful to come home after three years overseas. Now, fifty years old in good condition, my rug is a target for the National War Memorial to preserve for future generations to look at. If I let the Memorial have it, I must sign an agreement giving them full ownership of the rug. Government with their mad ideas to sell or privatise everything we own, brings to notice 'Can they be trusted?' The memorial people are good and honest, but so-called do-gooders when in government become a problem. This rug measures approximately 6'1" X 6'4" and weighs eleven and one fifth pounds.
Written by J.O. Simpson on 10/12/1995 |
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