The remarkable true story of how 4 Aussie soldiers escaped a prison train in WWII
Here we were, four Australian soldiers, trudging along the edge of a railway track in the middle of the night, somewhere in the centre of northern Greece. We were all in high spirits for we had just escaped off a German prisoner-of-war train which had left Salonika some two hours earlier bound for Germany. Our escape from the train had been unpremeditated. However, from the time some 56 of us had found ourselves packed jam-tight into a cattle truck, we were sure there would be no way we would be willing to see out the expected eight-day journey to Germany in those conditions.
There was absolutely no comfort in our situation, no seats to sit on, or even room where one could lie out flat. We either had to stand up or sit with our knees up under our chins, and as there was insufficient room for everyone to do the latter at the same time, everyone had to take turns at standing up. To make matters worse we were rotten with dysentery, which had plagued most of us from the first couple of weeks after we were taken prisoner on Crete some two months earlier — 31 May 1941, to be exact. We were also emaciated, lousy and unwashed, and altogether not a pretty sight.
The cattle truck is a pretty common sight around Europe even today but during the war it was the sole means used by the Nazis for transporting millions of people to places they didn’t want to go. It is a rail box wagon about six metres long, three wide and two high. It has a sliding door on each side about 1.5 metres wide reaching from floor to ceiling. With the door closed the only ventilation inside was through two small openings about 50 centimetres wide and 35 centimetres high, placed high up under the roof at one end of each side wall and open to the elements. In our wagons these were crisscrossed with strands of barbed wire stapled to the outside of the wagon at about 10-centimetre intervals.
In true German fashion it was planned to stop the train every hour and unload the prisoners a wagon at a time for us to attend to the calls of nature on the side of the track. But dysentery waits for no man, so, not long out of Salonika, one of the corners of the wagon was cleared for use as a toilet. In spite of this, and hampered by the darkness and the crush of bodies, people at the far end were often unable to make it in time. It is not hard to imagine the results.
On the way back to the train after the first stop, and eyeing the window from the outside, someone said, ‘You know it would be pretty easy to escape from this bloody death-trap if we could only get out that window. Once out we could swing around the corner of the wagon onto the buffers and jump off from there.’ We all looked at each other but had our doubts.
We got back into the wagon and started to discuss the possibilities. After a while we came to the conclusion that it was worth a try. If we got onto the buffers and waited for the train to slow down going up an incline before we jumped off, we could roll away in the darkness.
First up we tried putting our hands through the wire while standing on the back of one of our mates, who was kneeling on the floor, and trying to lever the wire off the outside with our mess knives. However, neither our backs nor our equipment were up to the task and we soon had to abandon it. Then someone got the bright idea of lifting up one of our lightweights horizontally and getting him to kick the wire off with his army boots. We soon gave this a try and when it seemed to be a goer, decided to attack it in earnest after the next train stop which would be soon due. There were no guards on the outside of the train while travelling (these were to come later). Our guards travelled in a passenger coach at the end of the train, the prevailing blackout conditions preventing them from looking out.
Soon after the train was nicely on its way again we attacked the barbed wire with a vengeance. At first it seemed hopeless but slowly, gradually, it started to budge. After about 20 minutes and many changed shifts, one end of each wire had been freed and bent back out of the way. We were ready to go.
It was obvious we would have to get through this small window feet first if we were to avoid doing ourselves an injury if we slipped. We soon worked out that the best way to do this was to stand with our back to the window and, while clinging to the shoulders of a couple of mates in front, have two others lift up our legs and feet from behind and feed them through the opening.
Little Leo Barnden, who had had first go at kicking at the wire, was first to leave and was soon out of sight. I was about sixth in line, being preceded by Joe Plant, ‘Aussie’ Osborne, Noel Lumby and Reg Clarkson, all members of the same army platoon. Reg had agreed to wait for me on the buffers so we could get off together, in case we got separated from the others. Once outside, it was relatively easy for us to swing around the end of the wagon onto the buffers although it was pretty hairy making the leap as the train slowed down. Nevertheless we both got off safely — triumphant, if somewhat shaken.
The arrangements were that once we were off the train we could walk back along the track until we met up with Leo, who would be waiting for us where he got off. We would then all head off east, moving by night and hiding by day, and eventually make our way into Turkey, which was a neutral country at that time. None of us had much of an idea of what was involved in this but, fired with the enthusiasm of escaping, we did not much care.
Thus we found ourselves — Clarkson, Osborne, Lumby and Foster — picking our way along the track hoping to meet Barnden and Plant further ahead. It was incredibly dark and the going was difficult. As far as we could make out, it was open country with not a glimmer of light to be seen anywhere. We had been walking for 10 to 15 minutes and I figured we must be getting close to where Leo had got off the train, when ‘Aussie’ kicked something soft and heavy with his boot. He stopped, bent down, peered at it for some seconds in the darkness and finally picked it up.
‘Bloody hell! It’s an Aussie army boot!’ he said, somewhat surprised. ‘A small one.’ And with a cry of anguish, ‘Gawd, it’s got a bloody foot in it. Leo must have slipped when he jumped and fallen between the rails and the wheels cut his foot off.’
We stood still, straining to hear cries or moaning of any kind — stunned that our little mate could have come to such a tragic end — but all was quiet.
Before we had a chance to organise there was a loud pained exclamation from ‘Aussie’. ‘Aw shit!’ he cried, and then started to laugh. ‘The bloody boot’s full of shit!’ and he proceeded to throw it away from him as hard as he could and rub his hands in the dirt as though to erase forever the thought of that horrible thing.
It is easy to guess what had happened: someone on the train, caught in the grip of dysentery, had used his boot as a toilet and pushed it out the window. Four frightened soldiers breathed a great sigh of relief, collected their wits, and proceeded on their way. We never did find Leo or Joe that night. After walking another 20 minutes along the track we concluded they must have set off together eastwards on their own.
Unfortunately none of us had any idea how far it was to Turkey or what type of country we would have to traverse before we got there. Of course we had no maps or compass. We set off in silence at a cracking pace, thinking that if we could put 15 to 20 miles between us and the railway before dawn, we would place ourselves out of harm’s way. We could then find some place to lie up during the day and continue our journey, moving by night. Food was going to be the problem, for we had only the meagre rations the Jerry had given us for the train journey, but we were confident we should be able to live off the land.
This was all very well in theory, but unfortunately didn’t work out in practice. We had been captured nearly two months, were all rotten with dysentery and had been forced to work hard by our captors, on starvation rations, clearing the wrecked German transport planes and troop gliders which had crashed or been shot down on the Maleme aerodrome in Crete.
After a couple of hours’ marching we began to tire. We must have been a good 10 miles from the railway. What initially had appeared to be flat country turned out to be quite undulating and crisscrossed with wadies or dried water courses. This had held up our progress so we were glad to call a halt and camp for the rest of the night.
We slept fitfully and, cold and stiff, were relieved to see the arrival of dawn. As soon as it became light enough we began to look around and saw a group of houses, a village, a couple of miles away. ‘Let’s get closer,’ said Reg. ‘We might be able to scrounge something to eat before anyone gets about.’ We made our way closer to the village, keeping out of sight as best we could, until we were about 100 yards from the nearest house.
We kept watch on the house and after a while a young man came out and hesitantly started to move in our direction. He stopped a short way off. We thought the game must have been up and decided to send someone out to meet him. Lumby agreed to do this, showed himself and went out. None of us could speak Greek, nor could the fellow speak English, so things were a bit difficult for a while. He could see from our uniforms that we were British (if not Australian) soldiers, and it was soon evident that his sympathies were with us. He motioned Lumby to go back and lay low, and he would bring us out some food and water. True to his word he appeared shortly with some farm bread, cheese, tomatoes and an array of vegies from their garden, the like of which we had not seen for months.
Towards evening the young fellow came over with an older man, obviously his father, bringing us more food. The father seemed pleased enough to meet us, but showed his concern that we should not stay where we were, so close to the house, as they were afraid of reprisals from the Germans if they found us there. By gestures, they told us that they would take us, after dark, and hide us up in the hills, about a mile away. We would be able to stay there in a safe place until we recovered our strength and they would bring us food each night. As soon as it got dark they led us around the village and into the hills.
We ended up at what looked to be just like a typical biblical sheepfold: a sheep yard fenced with a dry-stack rock wall, with a gate at one end and a little roofed shack for the shepherd at the other. It was an ideal hiding place for us, for we were well out of sight and had a good long-distance view if anyone tried to approach.
The village people were peasant-type farmers and the kindest people one could ever wish to meet. Word gradually spread of our presence and before long they had organised themselves to take turns to deliver food to us on a nightly basis.
One of the first things they wanted us to do was to shed our army uniforms and don civilian clothes and thus make ourselves less conspicuous if Germans happened to come our way. We kept our army pay books and identification discs. After we had been in the hut a few days, one evening at dusk we saw three men approaching up the track. We recognised Viachios but not the other two. Then we realised it was Joe Plant and Leo Barnden – they too were decked out in old civvy gear and had their hair dyed a dull jet black as they were both naturally blond-headed. Joe and Leo had been taken in hand by Greeks in another village. The local grapevine must have told their benefactors of our presence, so they’d brought them to join us.
There were now six of us in the little hut: Leo Barnden, Reg Clarkson, Noel Lumby, ‘Aussie’ Osborne, Joe Plant and Norton Foster, all members of the same platoon of ‘B’ Company, 2nd/11th Battalion AIF.
The group of six stayed in the area for some two months, assisting the villagers in raking up grain stubble and baling it. They were then taken to Salonika and escorted to a remote coastal area where British submarines made occasional visits to rescue escaped prisoners and stragglers from the Greek campaign. All six, who had enlisted at Northam, WA, in November 1939, were thus repatriated eventually to Australia.
The Listening Post, Winter 1996 – Autumn 1997.
Norton Henry Foster was born in Melbourne on 7 August 1919, enlisted at Northam, WA, on 10 November 1939, was discharged with the rank of private in November 1945 and died 16 February 2004.
Noel Percival Lumby was born in West Maitland, NSW, on 20 April 1916, was discharged as a corporal in December 1945 and died 7 February 2010.
Reginald Thomas Clarkson was born in Dongara, WA, on 28 October 1917, was discharged as a private in September 1945 and died 17 January 1970.
Henry John Osborne, nicknamed ‘Aussie’, was born in Birmingham, England, on 30 September 1911, and was discharged as a corporal in September 1945.
Joseph Vernon Plant was born 7 May 1916 in Merredin, WA, was discharged as a lance corporal in September 1945 and died 4 September 1998.
Leo Edward Barnden was born 19 January 1918 in Geraldton, WA, was discharged as a private in August 1945 and died 17 October 2012.
This is an extract from Great Australian World War II Stories edited by John Gatfield and published by ABC Books.
Image credit: Australian War Memorial.