CHAPTER 3
World War II

World War II was declared and many things changed. There was an atmosphere of patriotism in the air. People were singing the songs of World War I and a new one: "We'll hang out our washing on the Siegfried Line."

Like other young men, I had dreamed of adventure. I would join the Air Force and I would be a spy. What happened was that common sense prevailed and we, the students, were gathered at Bishop Waltham's to await the future decisions of the superiors. Rossington Hall had been taken over for use by the military. The superiors decided that since many of the French seminarians had been drafted into the army, there was ample space to accommodate the English seminarians at Kerlois in France. Kerlois was situated near the West Coast in Brittany, a distance from the war zone and had never in history been affected by the French wars. It was safe!

The war had started. Soldiers were everywhere but nothing was happening. A group of us, about thirty students, crossed the Channel. Everything was dark, and we crossed France at night with many changes of trains. Soldiers were everywhere in evidence of this war.

Finally, we came to Hennebont in the west of France. The house where we lived was called Kerlois, meaning 'House of Louis'. This house in Breton had been originally built to accommodate about one hundred students of another religious group. We learned that about 1910, this group had been expelled from France and somehow the White Fathers had taken over the massive building.

(Source : Celia Bermingham, sister of Fr Kevin Wiseman)
Kerlois, 1940. The inscription reads : "Seminaire des Pere Blacs — Hennebont (Morbihan) — L'Entrée")

Although the seminary building was huge, it was stone cold. Food was plentiful though, in many ways, strange to our tastes. We had huge loaves of uncut bread and if we needed a slice, the one nearest to the bread would cut a slice, hand it to the others and then replace the loaf on the stone floor.

(Source : Celia Bermingham, sister of Fr Kevin Wiseman)
The inscription reads : "Seminaire des Pere Blacs — Hennebont (Morbihan) — La Cour Intérieure")

Below : Scribbled on the back of the above postcard is Fr Wiseman's map of Kerlois

Everything was made of stone inside the building and it seemed just muddy outside. Most boys wore slippers for inside and sabots (wooden soled clogs with strips of rubber tire nailed under them) to protect and soften the noise. I was prejudiced against wooden shoes and, to tell you frankly, I did not have the money to buy any.

We had arrived in time for New Year's Day 1940 to celebrate a very important new decade. There were separate classes for the English students since we had two priests with us (Jack Maguire and Jan Deltyke). We all ate together in the dining room and listened to stories read in French recto tono and, in theory, we mixed with the French students when we went for walks.

The seminary was situated near the West Coast of France, Hennebont, and once or twice I walked to the coast and looked out at the Atlantic and daydreamed.

The vision of war was always in our minds. French students on leave would come to visit, wearing their uniforms. We got sketchy news of the fighting and the monotonous life made me just dream of adventure. In June something did happen. The Germans who were on the east side of the inpregnable Maginot line, came to the west, not through the line but to the north via Holland and Belgium. And so they came into France. Things were becoming exciting. Different reports came to us and refugees arrived from Belgium and from the eastern parts of France. Now what would we do?

This was strange. There was a conflict of power over the use of obedience. One holy and wise old French priest whose nickname was Babbas, supposedly had revelations from the Virgin Mary. He told us: "You English boys, go away. France will fall and you will be in trouble." We listened to this old man who appeared holy and asked: "What shall we do?" The actual superior said, "Wait for orders."

Left : Babbas, a holy French priest who taught Philosophy.

Poor Jack Maguire, the one all of us could really relate to, was in a quandary. He was only a couple of years older than most of us in the group. I heard in later years that the superior of the White Father's house in Nantes, about fifty kilometers away, had information from his brother, General Huntzinger, that the French would give in and English boys should be sent away. His message was sent through various routes by mail, telegram or telephone but was never delivered. It was a very complex situation. I personally passed no judgment on it. I think the hand of God was somehow present there. Our decisions ended when we saw the reality of life. German troops in shining boots were marching in perfect unison along the road to Lorient.

We were caught! No, we were not caught! We would escape into the south of France on the other side of the line of demarcation.

Our group of about thirty, packed enough baggage with just what we could personally carry, and went to the station to take the train to Angers, as far south as it was possible to go. We spent the night somewhere. The next morning, quite refreshed, thirty odd British who were speaking poor French set off in groups to walk to the Pont-de-Ce, a bridge over the Loire river. I believed that once we crossed over the bridge we were in Zone non-occupe. This was not true. The line was quite a distance to the south.

Our groups gathered at the house of a priest and we slept in a school on the condition that we would return to our seminary in the west. The priest was under the impression that anyone aiding someone who had no reason for doing so to pass the line would be shot. We slept, ate and returned to Angers and the railroad station. But there was a big surprise. The Germans were checking everyone's papers. So to avoid this, we gathered together someplace, split up into two or three groups and began a trek of two hundred kilometers on foot.

It was a hot, beautiful day but I wore a black suit and packed a heavy overcoat. I do not know whether I had a change of underclothes. I suppose nothing mattered at that time.

At one village where my group reached, the parish priest welcomed us. He gave us bread, pork drippings and a cask of wine. It was heavenly. Adventures had begun in earnest. There was also a stop at the Melleray Monastery to rest up and eat its "smelly" cheese. (In later years I often ate a similar cheese, enjoyed it and thought about the very first time I had it.)

All good things came to an end and we reached the seminary of Kerlois at Hennebont. A mixed reception was endured: "Why are you back here? Why did you listen to those idiots (those who had warned us not to cross the line into Free France)?" But we were back and were now sleeping in our own beds at last for a Iong, long time.

Next day, July 15, 1940, all non-French residents were required to present themselves at the Mairie (now called the Abwehr), where our group of thirty or so was divided into British and non-British. The Brtish were taken outside, lined up and marched through the streets of Hennebont to the prison camp which had been set up for several thousands of French soldiers, sailors, and many colonial troops. As we marched through the streets, the soldier in charge of operations knew a Mr.Chamberlain, famous for his meeting with Hitler in 1938, who carried an umbrella and those who happened to have taken one with them were required to carry it on their shoulders like a rifle.

We were escorted to the field. It had rained all day and the field was muddy. We had been given a large piece of canvas and were told to build ourselves a shelter for the twenty-two British citizens. Moreover, no communications were to be allowed with the French prisoners. A French official protested and somehow we were billeted in two adjoining stables complete with straw on the floor, eleven people in each. This was to be our home for the next several weeks. The food was atrocious; it was meant to weaken men who had never fought and blamed their defeat on the officers who had sold them out. A simplistic statement but with some truth. Anyway, the main food was beans cooked in washing soda. I ate because I was starving and immediately rushed for the open pit latrines and emptied my guts. This unfortunately developed into dysentery. Since it was forbidden, I loved talking to the French or, more so, listening to them improved my French and became more picturesque. Most of the time the weather was warm. Then came the order for us to pack and leave for a huge camp of 45,000 men.

We walked, then went by train and arrived at this huge grouping of people surrounded by barbed wire. The first question we asked was, "When do we eat?" and upon giving the number of our division were told, "You get a meal once in three days, and your division ate yesterday."

I know that we as a group were under a large sheet of canvas; it was dusty and warm. A French officer came by and gave us a tin of meat, quite small, and a ridiculous gift for so many of us. But like the miracle stories of Jesus, something did happen. A bugle call sounded each day and we all lined up in battalions or companies, and were inspected by the camp authorities. I think there must have been thirty or forty thousand men in that camp. It was the third day, and we were lined up in our motley uniforms: White Father's gandhoura or gown, covered by a douilette or black overcoat, plus a black clerical hat, and the whole thing covered in dust. Along comes the inspection team, which included a general who had one hand. He stopped in his tracks, looked at us, and in amazement asked what kind of regiment we belonged to. He was fascinated and gradually the story came out. He found out that we were not soldiers, but student priests who were English. He would not hear of our staying in this camp, so he gave instructions that we were to be moved to another camp where there were some other British civilian prisoners.

We travelled in the back of a truck and came to this heavenly camp where we were given a wooden hut with a load of straw and told to clean up and make ourselves a comfortable place to stay. There was food in this camp, two cooked meals a day. There was running water and, for the first time in a long time, I had a bath with water and soap and felt like a king.

In this camp, there were some French soldiers who went off each day to work. There were some Spanish men, women and children, a connection with the Spanish War, and some other British men and the crew of an Irish boat that sunk in the Atlantic. It was like summer camp. We could be clean, eat reasonably, and the only fly in the ointment was a very bad toothache that troubled me. I was not allowed to leave the camp to go to a dentist and there was some talk of letting me wear a French soldier's uniform just so I could get out to a dentist. It never came about because we all got moved on to a labour camp near Saumur.

I remember a warm afternoon in the fall marching with my blanket, containing all my possessions, draped over one shoulder like the French soldiers did. We walked for what seemed to be several miles along a barbed wire fence skirting the road and saw huts outside. There was a man who looked at us curiously from the other side of the fence and one of our group asked in pidgin German, the lingua franca of the camps, "Is the food good in this camp?" The graphic reply was "keine Fleisch, Scheisse!" (no meat, unfortunately).

I remember very little of the weeks we spent in this camp. I do recollect that the first time we were put out to work, I collapsed with weakness and ended up in the infirmary where I stayed with dysentery. Aferwards, we were moved to a British internment camp at St. Denis, situated outside of Paris. We travelled by train, we walked and, as a very sick young man, I was rescued by a Jewish doctor with Palestinian papers, who gave me some medication and left to hide in a corner. Eventually, our group of twenty-two White Fathers were installed in a single room complete with beds, bunk style one over the other, a stove in the middle of the room and some tables and benches.

I wanted to die. The doctor came to see me and persuaded me to eat some bread to make me stronger. Finally, I got over my sickness and a new life began in St. Denis. This camp in was quite well known. It was near Paris and the Swiss authorities would come and inspect the conditions. Visiting German VIP's would come to see the "Englanders." The building was a barracks, built to house Napoleon's regiments. We claimed that the bugs in the building traced their ancestry back to these soldiers. There were numerous bugs.

A barbed wire fence had been erected around the building and was made large enough to contain a parade ground, which also served as football field. Each morning and evening, we stood in parade to be counted and inspected. There was one internee named Mr. Neibergal who spoke German, and addressed us on behalf of the German Commandant. I think he spoke in French since there were more people who knew French than English. When that misery was over we were dismissed and waited for the welcome call of the bugler. His name was Arthur Briggs, a black man who sounded the reveille for food and for parade.

(Source : Celia Bermingham, sister of Fr Kevin Wiseman)

The P.O.W. camp at St Denis, on the day of Tonsure. Fr Paul Moody, at the back on the right, is standing next to Fr Wiseman. (L-R) :
Back : Geddes Gerry, Gerry Taylor, Gerry Napper, Tom Rathe, Vincent Batty, Dick O'Brien, George Fry, Kevin Wiseman and Paul Moody
Middle : Gerry Pitt, George Penistone, Jack Maguire, Tom Morton, Tom Dooley and Tom O'Donnell
Front : Peter Walters, Joseph O'Brien (?) and Francis Copping


The group of two thousand internees were all men, and in theory, all British. There was a kernel group of British men of English, Welsh and Scottish background. There were others from Canada, Australia, South Africa and parts of the British Empire. Then there was a mixed bunch of people of mixed parentage who had opted to be British, than say, French. We also had many Jews who had left Poland and the diaspora. They had gone to Palestine and were turned away, however, but not without obtaining a British "Laissez-passer," so when the pinch came they could claim to be British and thus spend their war with us rather than in the extermination camps in Germany.

I remember one of them stopping me one day and saying in Yiddish or slang German, "Your name is not Wiseman (as pronounced in English) but Weissman, meaning White Man."

Christmas 1940 was joyful. There was a solemn High Mass in the theatre. There must have been about fifty priests in our camp, and the singing was assured by French Canadian priests. Our captors gave us potatoes boiled in their skins for our meal. It was a treat after the regular diet of cabbage soup, which had been our constant fare.

The prisoners who had family or friends in the Paris area had regular visits from their people. I think it was each week or every two weeks and, on these occasions, they got parcels of food, white bread and provisions. You see, our normal diet was cabbage soup served to each chambree. Our chambree had twenty-four men, and we had a huge gamelle, which contained the cabbage soup. In the morning the same gamelle was also used for coffee, made not with coffee but with roasted barley and stuff.

In the evening we had a loaf of bread for every four men. Most of us ate by groups of four. We would cut the loaf into four equal parts and took our share. Whoever was the cutter of the day would take the last quarter. When the bread was distributed, there was also a serving of meat, e.g., some kind of sausage, occasionally cheese, or jam. This might sound little, but as my health improved I ate with relish. I got stronger. I could also go to a real dentist, a Mr. Hill who did not believe in pulling teeth but who worked carefully filling teeth, doing root canals, and generally did what modern dentists do today. One thing he did which would not be deemed okay today was to light a cigarette after each operation. Sometimes he continued to keep the cigarette in his mouth while performing the next operation.

The men who had family outside were allowed to have visits from the family, who brought them food, a change of clothes, or even luxury items. Some of the clergymen were also lucky to have friends who visited them and were provided with the same service. There was a small minority of us who had no contacts on the outside. We were underprivileged and those who had gifts of food from outside would give their prison rations to the "cabbage soup boys," the crazy English boys, who wore white robes and played football, all on a diet of cabbage soup.

A group of people who were recruited by word of mouth wanted to visit the people in prison. It was patriotic; it was part of the gospel, so the marraines came into. being. These marraines (godmothers) were matched up with prisoners, and my eventual marraine was Germaine Crussard. She was a well-to-do Parisienne, with no children, who had lots of connections and numerous stories to encourage and give you hope. For four years she came every two weeks to see me for thirty minutes. She brought me food and clothes.

As the years went by commodities outside got scarcer, but thanks to the Red Cross things became more plentiful on the camp so that I could give her a tablet of soap. Germaine always said that she was not religious but was inspired by patriotic motives as well as humanitarian motives to do the visiting and to recruit more marraines for those without. (The end of Chapter 11 explains about this marraine.)

Christmas 1941 was sort of the anniversary of a whole year of us being together. Friendships had been made and cemented. I think the first one of Our White Father group had gone sick and died. Billy O'Shea died of cancer about this time.

There were many characters in our internment camp. There was Brother Camille, or Frere Bobard as he was nicknamed. He was an Englishman with a colourful past that included some commitment in the Spanish Civil War and life in monasteries in different parts of Europe. When we joined forces, he looked like an old man in his fifties, always wore a copious brown robe of the Trappist Order and shuffled around in hand-made shoes. His nickname of Bobard (rumour) came from his ever-ready offer of a bit of good news gleaned illegally from the B.B.C. or some other Source and I suspect from his own imagination. He had so many contacts. He knew everything even before it happened and, on one occasion, I knew this to be true. He came into our room with some cans of condensed milk, a very valued commodity, and asked me to trade them for cans of sardines. I did so willingly.

A few days later, he went out of the camp together with several other internees on the back of a covered truck to go to the hospital to be deloused. The process was roughly this: you took all your possessions in a bundle, went to this hospital in Paris, were stripped and put all your clothes into a fumigation machine. Then you took a bath in some sulphur baths to get completely cleaned. Everything went as normal. They got their clothes back and off they started for St. Denis, all cleaned up and bug-free. On the way, the traffic was stopped by the military police. Something had taken place that they were investigating so everyone had to stay put. The guards and internees got out of the truck to stretch their legs while waiting. Camille did likewise, got to talking with the bystanders and when the alert was lifted and everyone got back into the truck, Camille was not around. They presumed the old monk had gotten lost in the crowd and brought in a police unit with a P.A. system to put out a call to help this poor old monk back to his truck but he was no where to be found. After quite sometime we learned that he went back to England in a monastery and a life of silence!

Talking about Brother Camille brings to mind other picturesque characters. There was Brother Francis, a Franciscan student who was always draped with his habit and foot sandals. He was always up to all sorts of tricks that were not approved of by some clergy people. Then came John of God, the King of the black market. This market was rampant in our camp and in many other places. This was how it sort of took off: each prisoner received a ration of cigarettes, which at one time was a tin of fifty every week. Those who were smart were able to build up a stock when prices were low and sell when things got short. I think cigarettes were the main item because English tobacco were otherwise unobtainable and, as a consequence, became in demand in Paris.

Before leaving the characters from among the clergy, I should mention the most numerous group of us all. They called themselves the Fraternite Sacerdotale. They were all French Canadians and during the course of the War, the majority of them were ordained priests. Their order was a strict style of life, with adoration and prayer, and they stuck together. Their superior insisted that the Fraternite priests were obliged to wear their cassock all the time and this excused them from manual work. Then there came a huge consignment of clothes from the Red Cross. There were boots, sweaters, underwear, and jackets but how would they make an equitable distribution? The story went round that a little "gift" was handed over to the committee and the members of the Fraternite were first in line for the distribution. So they came out with tweed jackets, sweaters, and thousands of men later got a pair of socks or, in my case, a pair of long underpants.

What a transformation it was to see these black-gowned priests all turned out in sports jackets and bow ties.

My friends were happy about my underpants and they asked me to model for them, which I did, and then they chased me all over the camp but that is not the end of the story. I gave the underpants to Germaine with a tablet of soap for washing and she unraveled them and made me the most wonderful sweater from the wool. And that brings us now to the end of 1941.