Repatriation of a prisoner of war

by Gerald Maller

I clambered aboard the Dakota clutching my home made holdall with the few possessions I had managed to hold onto over the years. The memory of the flight is rather vague but I do remember flying unhindered over the Rhine, not realising how many lives had been lost by troops fighting across it. The bomb bays were empty, and there were no windows to wave goodbye from, only belts of ammunition weaving round the fuselage. It must have been a complex operation reloading.

Just as I finished eating my first white bread sandwich for five years, the gunner in the centre turret asked if I would like to see the white cliffs of Dover. I couldn't get up quickly enough. What a sight! My heart turned over. Then, to crown it all, Winston Churchill’s voice came crackling over the radio. with his victory in Europe speech.

After landing at Westcott Airfield near Oxford, we were taken by truck to Beaconsfield , where, once our particulars had been taken, we were off to the clothing store for new uniforms. My old one had lasted over fiv years, so it had lots of memories. Volunteer ladies were on hand to sew on badges. It was lovely to meet smiling faces and to know they were enjoying helping us. We were extremely thankful for their dedication.

Next morning, money in my pocket, train warrant stowed away, I boarded a truck to the station. My memory of the train journey is dim but I do recall walking to the bus stop only to find it had been moved. At that point, I realised that my nerves were in a shocking state. In my brand new uniform I must have looked like a raw recruit. When I asked a lady if this was the right stop for Rodbourne. She said “Yes. Are you on leave?” I said “Yes.”That was the extent of my first conversation in Swindon. I felt embarrassed waiting, but the bus arrived at last. I gave the conductress half a crown and she gave two and six in change. [A half a crown was worth two shillings and sixpence – Ed.] I was too embarrassed to say anything, but found out later that thy did not charge troops.

It was about a quarter of a mile home from the bus stop and it was very eerie seeing that nothing had changed. Walking past a local shop where I used to buy sweets as a boy, I saw a lady I knew and said “Hello”. Whether she remembered me I couldn’t be sure.

At home, the front gate was missing (taken away for the war effort) but Mum heard the front door and flew down the passage, hugged and squeezed me before I could put my bags down. Dad, beaming all over his face but with a quiver in his voice said. “Hello Son”, which covered a hundred words.

My sister called with her four-year-old daughter, who said her party piece perfectly: “Hello Uncle Gerald. Ever so pleased to see you.” We have been good friends ever since.

Gerald and his niece Pauline