CHAPTER 5
Sweet Freedom

It happened this way. The door was opened, "Wiseman, pack up." That was easy, I looked for a souvenir and took the Rules of the Prison from the door and hid it in my spare shirt.

I was escorted to the office and they gave me a big envelope that contained my shoelaces, cigarette case, and wallet. I could not sit still until they threatened to lock me up again. Finally my "angels" arrived. They were three military police with the metal insignia around their necks, revolvers in their belts. They all patted their side arms and wagged a finger at me, "Don't try to escape."

I smiled. I was a free man. No one would ever put me in prison again. Somebody said, "Do you speak French?" I replied, "A little."

We got into a military car, two in front and one at the back to keep an eye on me. I was carrying a couple of books — my Imitation of Christ, and a theological book. My companion tried to get me into conversation about Englanders and politics, so I pointed out to him that the author of the book I was reading was in German. Frankly, that was not my bag. All that mattered was that I was now a free man.

This was the first time in three months I had seen the sun and it was shining. There were flowers in the flower stalls, beautiful women were walking the sidewalks, and most of all there was life. I felt inebriated with the whole scene. The driver stopped the vehicle and asked a French policeman for directions to St. Denis. Their French was quite primitive and the man could not understand, so I asked simply, "La route pour St. Denis s'il vous plait." The policeman was relieved and he explained in detail but I was not listening. I was looking at the wonderful world around me.

Whenever we reached a crossroad, the driver would ask for my advice and I pointed to whichever avenue seemed the most probable way. We got lost and my "angels" got mad. They called me a politician, a theologian. They did find a German policeman who knew the city and he gave them clear instructions and we arrived safe and sound at the internment camp of St. Denis.

I was duly signed over to the authorities and the "angels" went on their way. I met the new Komandante of the camp. His name was Gilles and he knew my story and felt it was his duty to warn me to behave a little better in his camp. I was released on the other side of the barbed wire and was welcomed like a homecoming hero. I weighed fifty-five kilograms. My black beard had grown and I was pale from being indoors so I suppose I did look like a prophet from the bible.

It was Friday, May 22, 1942. The whole feeling was exhilarating. Here I was once again with friends, the people I had yearned for during these past three months. After a while, however, it was ironic that I actually missed my cell and the intimacy of being alone.

I remember the meal that I shared with my own carrel, a group of four who shared a table and rations. Tom Dooley, Tom O'Donnell and Philip Carles had saved up some special provisions for this special day. I can remember a can of peas that tasted wonderful but just went through me. I guess my stomach became unaccustomed to such rich food. After eating, I smoked two cigarettes (I had secretly decided not to smoke for a time, but went back to smoking at the insistence of my friends). With all the exciting events of the day and good food, the cigarettes put me on a high and I was feeling like a celebrity.

I spent the whole night awake, getting up with great pleasure the following day for my first Mass. It was Mother's birthday, May 23.

Events became more blurred after this. I was very skinny and was still wearing my black beard. It was a wonderful summer. I had my lessons to learn. I no longer had a direct line to the Lord. It was more complicated to work with people and take instructions from other people, especially from the priests. But why worry? The end was near and hopefully we would be home by September 24 if we play our cards right.

Political events came to back up my prediction. That summer, a Canadian expeditionary force was set out for Paris. Not too many landed safely and those who did make it did not get very far on their way to Paris. (Years later, I met one of them on Qualicum Beach, British Columbia.) The Canadian expeditionary force failed. September 24 arrived and we were still in St. Denis. But life had to go on.

Somehow we got hold of some theology textbooks and, for the next two years, got immersed in the study of Apologetics, taught by Jack Maguire and in Moral Theology taught by Titch Moran. Titch was a White Father priest who had joined our group when he was on his way to England from a minor seminary in France. He was quite bright but at times irrational and was later diagnosed to be schizophrenic. He lived until about 1978 or 1980. Poor man. We played at school (or I should say seminary) together.

At St. Denis, everyone got up at ten minutes to six in the morning. Then we knelt down for morning prayers at 6:15 am and meditated until 7 o'clock when Father Maguire said Mass. Afterwards, those on kitchen duty would collect the gamelle and drink the coffee, and eat a piece of bread that was saved up from the night before.

Whether it was summer or winter, we stood outside in lines, waited for our captors to examine and count us. It was like being in a parade. After dismissal, we usually walked around the grounds and to our room for class. We studied until lunch when those on kitchen duty would go and get la soupe. We would wonder, "What is it going to be today?"

Once or twice a week, we played football on the grounds (see photo below). The Canadians used to play baseball and the other English played cricket. The rest confined themselves as just spectators.

By this time, we were now getting a fairly regular distribution of Red Cross parcels from England and Canada. Each parcel weighed about seven pounds and contained tins of meat, margarine, condensed or powdered milk, crackers, jam, etc. Frankly, we considered ourselves rich by comparison with the people outside the camp, although there was a dearth of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables, but so did people in wartime Paris.

The football team in St Denis camp

The Marche noir (black market) existed. A tin English cigarettes was a very valuable commodity and would be exchanged for food and favours. There was a group of Catholic clergy who were religious and did not smoke but collected everything they could, so they a huge buying power with their cigarettes. Their operator was Pére Labelle. It was always a muted question: "Who is king of marche noir ? Is it Pére Labelle or is it Brother John of God?" Brother John always wore his habit as a brother of the nursing order of John of God and quietly moved around all day making deals.

There was a man called Atkinson who went out of the camp every week, each time carrying two valises reputedly filled with cigarettes. His German guard was more for his own protection than for anything else. I volunteered to work as a hospital nurse or orderly. I would take my theology textbook with me to the infirmary upstairs, check with Mr. De Lisle, the person in charge, talk to the patients and then sit down and be available to help out. I only took temperatures, pulses or whatever there was to do. I enjoyed this job although there was hardly any responsibility ; I got the chance to talk and know different people. I also wore a white coat to wear over my sutane (religious garb) which made me feel special. For one thing, the white coat was always cleaner than the sutane.

The year 1943 was without special significance. It was during this year that Brother Camille came to me and asked, "Have you any sardines?" I said yes. He exchanged his cans of milk with my sardines, which to me was a good bargain. Brother Camille always wore the habit of a Trappist monk. He had been found to be lousy (meaning he had lice in his body and clothes). All the people who were "lousy" were directed to a hospital in Paris to be deloused. They were given a sulfa bath and their clothes were fumigated. Actually, this outing was something of a pleasure.

The sisters at the hospital would try to give the prisoners something special to eat when they came out of the bath. So Brother Camille went along with the rest of the truckload of prisoners. On the way back to the camp after this "ceremony", the sirens sounded. All traffic was stopped ; the guards and prisoners got out of the truck to stretch their legs. Brother Camille did likewise and was seen chatting with the local people. When the sirens went again to indicate the end of the problem, everybody got back into the truck. But where was the old Brother? They looked and looked for him in vain. He had disappeared. There was no news whatsoever for a long time. Later we heard he had made his way to the south of France into Spain and from there to England. My sardines had helped him on the way!

The Basilica of St Denis where we were tonsured
(c. 1943)

On February 2, 1944, we were granted permission to leave the camp with guards so that we could be tonsured at the Royal Basilica of St. Denis and conferred by Rt. Rev. Bishop Touze'. With me were George Penistone, Tom O'Donnel, Garry Gewey, Tom Rathe, Dick O'Brien, Frank Moody, Tom Dooley, Gerry Pitt, Vincent Batty, Gerry Taylor, Francis Copping, Gerry Napper, and Peter Walters. Not all of us, however, made it for the final ordination in 1949.

The bombing of Pearl Harbour brought the United States into the war and we all knew that once the Americans got involved, this war would go quickly. "Anuvver vree weeks," as our Cockney friend used to shout out. The war on the eastern front was not going well for the Germans and, if we noticed anything, it was that rations got smaller and smaller, and our guards got older. We even had non-German soldiers guard us at one time. They were European men wearing brown uniforms and sided with the German armies. They were, however, considered second-class citizens.

The seasons went by and nothing much changed as we entered 1944. Rumours became the order of the day and so did depression—but we must go ahead to D-Day, June 6, 1944.

You may ask what a day was like in our camp. There were about ten barracks in this camp, composed of approximately 2,000 men. The one we were in was a three storey building, built for Napoleon's army in the 1700's. The student boys, all 26 of them, including myself, were housed in Room 537 on the second floor. The double-deck beds were all spread out around the room, with tables fitted in between. There were about four tables in this room where we ate. One of these tables was assigned to Tom, TO'D, Phil and myself. The outside latrine was composed of seven or eight compartments and each one was an Arab style, much like a toilet seat on a floor level. I don't remember how it flushed. Inside the building was an open urinal on each floor (without walls).

Apart from our special morning routine of prayers and Mass, everyone was supposed to be up, bed made, and ready for parade. Arthur Briggs would sound the call to assembly on his bugle and rain or shine we would all line up in the courtyard, according to our room or grouping. A group would come for the inspection, and an officer, his sergeant, and usually another to do the counting. When they were satisfied that everybody was accounted for, there was a call to break ranks. If the weather permitted, most men would then light a cigarette, visit friends and perhaps take a walk around the perimeter of the camp.

Captain Reiner, Colonel Schmidt (the Commandant) and Lieut Leisinger
St Denis Camp, June 1941

About nine in the morning, we students would report to our room and have classes, followed by a break and perhaps another class. Lunch was served at noon and those on duty would congregate at the cookhouse and wait for the gamelles to be filled.

For the first several months of our captivity, or rather our time in St. Denis, we had cabbage soup every day for dinner. I think the first change happened on Christmas Day when we got potatoes that were boiled in their skins and soil. People hated this cabbage soup, and those with families outside who had the means of getting other food would give their cabbage soup to the "White Pops," the boys who wore white gowns and played soccer in this same attire, hence the name the "cabbage-soup boys."

In the afternoon, nothing special happened until the roll call at five o'clock when the commanding officer and his entourage would once again count us, making sure we were all accounted for, and then announcements were given. The commander might have something to say but usually it was Mr. Niebergall who did the talking. He was British but don't ask me from where, and he spoke German, and French, and had a big mouth and loved talking. Finally, there was the dismissal and kitchen duty. At this time there was distribution of bread — one loaf for four men — then something to eat with the bread, such as a little bit of sausage, or jam, and some form of drink.

When the loaves of bread, usually a round dark coloured and about six inches in diameter, were distributed, each table got one or more (depending on the number of people in a table). We presumed the bread was a kind of rye, yet it was not quite the rye bread we know today. It was a survival food that we appreciated at that time. Tom D, Tom O'D, Phil and myself usually shared a loaf. To fairly divide this bread, we took turns slicing it. To make sure it was divided equally, the person slicing it would get his piece last. I believe we learned a valuable way of fairness and restraint from this way of doing things.

All 26 of us students sure learned how to live with one another. Depending on the time of year, people would do different things; in the summer we would walk or just visit one another outside. In the winter, there was "black-out" so it was hardly possible to stay outdoors. There was one winter when four of us played poker every night: Tom Dooley, Tom O'Donnell, Keats, a South African, and myself. We each had a bag of centimes that we banged on the table, shared a tin of cigarettes and, on one occasion a bottle of cheap wine.

There was a cinema projector that some enterprising person had brought into the camp. When he could get a movie it would be shown for a small entrance fee. There was a hall where these shows were given and it was also used for plays and for worship. Yes, the Roman Catholics were the first to use it on a Sunday morning, then the Protestants led by an Anglican priest, a cheerful young man who wore a Geneva gown for the occasion and smoked a pipe.

True, there was little in the way of entertainment, but we became like a huge family; there was always talk . . . people shared stories, news, gossip, and hopes of "getting home."

There were fights, and even international incidents; one I remember distinctly was between the Greeks and the Jews. The Greeks were from the British colony of Cyprus and they spoke Greek, usually in a loud voice. The Jews were from the Diaspora who had gone to Palestine, been refused entry, and came away with a British laissez-passer. So they landed up in a British concentration camp rather than an extermination camp. They spoke Yiddish and kept to themselves. One day, however, there was an argument, perhaps over food, and they chased one another all over the camp, using fire extinguishers on one another.

Life in St. Denis was simple. The only footwear that I owned was a pair of boots and two pairs of socks, one green and the other grey. It was the same pair of socks that I was willing to give to Father Maguire when I thought I was going to be shot. Soon the uppers and bottoms parted and I couldn't wear them anymore. I had a pair of sandals with wooden soles. I used the upper part of the sandals and somehow nailed them on to the base of my old boots, after discarding the upper part of the boots.

It was a cool wet morning. We had our uninteresting class that day and as usual I walked down to the office to check if there were any parcels for myself or for anybody in the group. My number was 1622. I walked against the main drift of the strollers and I kept hearing, "There is a landing in Normandy." I had heard this so many times in the past that I just brushed it off and went back to the room. Others had learned of the rumour but they too had heard it many times before. By the end of the day the rumour had gathered credence and by next day it was news and no longer a rumour . We always wondered, "How long now?" We had access to German-controlled newspapers and after a week they admitted the landings but denied any danger.

We somehow got the optimistic news from the underground British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) which was always embellished. But we waited and there were setbacks. We would ask ourselves, "When will it end?"

Although June 6, 1944 was a wet, rainy day, it was brightened by the stories gathered about the Allies landing in Normandy. During the next weeks, the news was up and down. On day it was good, the next day the allies had been pushed back, according to the German newspapers. Summer came and we spent a lot of time outdoors. Each evening at the corner of our barracks, a group would meet. We called it "Bandmusette" (combo). There was an accordion player, a banjo player and a vocalist. The vocalist, nicknamed "Whitie", was a black man in his thirties. He sang The Yanks are Coming. The crowd would say "Where is Whitie?". He would continue, "Over here! Over there!", pointing to different directions. It was all part of a pre-celebration of hope.

The rest of June and July came. Now things were happening. People across the barbed wire in the apartments were showing us cartons of American cigarettes that were given to them. Some foolhardy American soldiers had gone into the Paris area on motorbikes and stopped at the cafe for a drink. Observers saw their motorcycles with huge seats on their Harleys and they commented, "What a huge arse those guys must have!"

Our guards were by now quite elderly men who were very depressed and would solicit a smile and a cigarette from us by saying, Scheisse Hitler, Deutschland kaput. Finally our day came.

Midnight of August 24, the bells of Paris rang out. The Free French soldiers led by General LeClerc had entered Paris and at two in the morning the bells of St. Denis rang out. We were awake; there was noise and excitement. I said "Many Happy Returns" to Frank Moody. He turned 21 on August 25. He had attained his majority and freedom on the same day.

I for one went outside. It was warm. I saw people from the outside milling into the camp, and men from the camp rushing out. I remember us gathering in the room to share the things we had seen outside. Then Jack Maguire said, "I am going back to bed and there will be Mass next morning at seven." I think I slept a little; there was Mass but no one made coffee for us. So I think we scrounged some wood, lit the stove and made some tea.

I then ventured out, really outside the camp, and walked along the sidewalk. It was scary. I was happy to get back to the security of the camp. An emergency meeting took place and there was a general distribution of Red Cross parcels and the office staff made available any German records that concerned us. I collected a whole wad on my case in 1942. I made a translation of these and later surrendered them to an English intelligence officer, going by the name of Mr. Fish, who would later call me to London to ask questions about Mr. Atkinson, the internee who was working with the Germans. That was a funny day; it was the last of an era and it was unlike that which most of us had dreamed of.

It must have been the following day when a coal truck drove into the camp ground. It came slowly, powered by gasoline, with a huge cylinder which collected gas from charcoal and powered the motor . . . at least it went, if a little slowly. There was a young White Father with the driver and Madame Clarke (one of the marraines).

" Get your belongings, take everything you can lay your hands on . . . food, blankets, whatever."

We piled the truck high and then clambered on top of the junk, en route to Paris. It was a triumph, but not without thrills. The pro-German people and some Germans who had been left behind were continuing to fight. Rifle shots were fired above our heads and someone thought it a good idea to hide the English Union Jack. Our route took us along the Seine by Notre Dame and General De Gaulle drove by on his way to Notre Dame to intone the Te Deum.

Our coal truck brought us safely at last to 33 Rue Friant, where the White Fathers welcomed us. How many? We had started out as twenty-two, but three opted to be Irish and left. Billy O'Shea had died. That made us eighteen, but I think Jim Fry was sick at this time. He died at the end of the war.