Loyalty is a commodity which seems to be in short supply these days, even in Christian circles. It’s such a pity because Christians are supposed to be marching to the same beat in ‘the Lords army’.
During World War 2 my father came to experience real loyalty from his
fellow inmates in the POW camp outside the city of Danzig in Poland where he
was held for five years. Although most of the prisoners had no Christian faith,
many had a deep seated need for spiritual comfort in their adverse
circumstances.
There were two incidents which I feel worth recording, regarding those
Sunday night efforts of mine. Both had a touch of the ridiculous and also of
the wonderful, when you pause to consider how the Good Shepherd can look after
his sheep.
The first hiccup arose when we were issued with postcards to send a
weekly message to our friends at home. We were allowed three of these cards per
month plus one single-sheet letter on which to write our correspondence.
Without exception, all my mail was addressed to my parents in Aberlour
Scotland. After I had preached my first sermon, I was so excited about it, I
had to let off steam on one of these cards. Of course, I did not count on the
German censor's office staff. Naturally, these cards were to pass through their
hands. The first card went through all right although I had written on it,
“Spoke to men for first time. Read Ps. 23 and Jn. 10”. No doubt this jargon
must have seemed strange to the ignorant German mind, but I got away with it
without comment the first time. But then, each week, there were more mysterious
writings — Rom. 8 (Romans, Chapter 8) and Eph. 2 (Ephesians, Chapter 2) and so
on.
Eventually, some keen mind in the censor's office decided that there was
a spy in the Quadendorf Camp and these were secret messages in code. Such
treachery must be nipped in the bud. Consequently, I was put on the carpet and
asked to explain what was going on. I'm not exactly sure who grilled me about
the matter. It was certainly a guy from the censor's brigade. After many
tedious explanations, I was able to convince him that these secret codes were
merely texts from the Bible. They were the references I used in our Sunday
Half-hour each week. Can you imagine what a fool he must have felt when he made
his report to his office on his spy-catching affair. I feel sure he must have
decided he would wreak his revenge on me for this stupid mistake. Some days
later I was summoned to our guards' office. There, I was handed an
official-looking type-written letter in someone's best English. In it were laid
out the Prison Camp Rules. All public meetings were strictly verboten (forbidden) unless notice was given
beforehand. Thereafter, an interpreter must attend at all times to hear what
was likely to be said. After all, sedition, insurrections or even an escape
might well be hatched up or planned.
Unfortunately at that time, we had a guard who revelled in causing
trouble. We called him Chinny because he seemed to be born without a chin. I
sometimes wondered if his ugly face may have prompted him to dish out the
rotten tricks he got up to, whenever opportunity came his way. Now must have
seemed to be a good chance for him to stamp out the first signs of rebellion in
our ranks. Sunday Night Assemblies must cease forthwith. This, he made
abundantly clear. Frankly, I did not know what to do. I retreated to our
billet, tail between legs, and decided to consult the other men. Their decision
was swift and completely unanimous. “Carry on, Schuster,” they said, “and we
will all stand by you.” Mind you, I did not know what was to be involved in
standing by me, but I did two things. I prepared as usual and then I prayed.
Sunday evening came and I had started my sermonette and was getting into
top gear when the billet door was flung open. There, framed in the doorway,
face livid, arms akimbo, stood Chinny. For a second, I hesitated. The
atmosphere was electric. Suddenly, the silence was broken by big Joe Wathen. He
said quietly but firmly, just the two vital words, “Carry on”. Staring the
guard straight in the eye, by the grace of God, I did as Joe said. I carried
on. Chinny tried to stare me out, then wheeled on his heel, and slammed the
billet door. The victory was ours. “Not by might nor by power, but by my
Spirit, says the Lord Almighty”.[1]
Chinny never interfered on a Sunday night again.
The second incident I want to record about our Sunday Church Services
was a different kettle of fish, as we Scots would say. It really began with the
arrival at our camp of another new boy, Tommy Danes, from Glasgow. Tommy
claimed to be a welder, but I doubt if he knew much about the job. He also
aspired to being a comedian, but his repertoire was pretty limited and his
jokes soon began to wear a bit thin. As a matter of fact, Tommy never really
fitted in with the rest of the boys. One day he decided he had had enough of
our camp and disappeared during the morning stint of work. At midday soup time
Tommy was missing and we were all locked in our hut while a search was quickly
organised. Later that day, the fugitive returned under escort. I don't think
the German High Command was much troubled by this escapade, if we might call it
that. Tommy had lain in a ditch until a convoy of German trucks drew up on the
main road. They were on their way to the Russian front and had stopped to get a
meal. With all their men dispersed to their field kitchen, Tommy emerged from
his hiding-place. With hands held high and “camarading” all the way, he
approached the only soldier left with the wagons. The German looked him up and
down with disdain and told him to come back when the Officers had finished
their meal. Thus a heroic attempt at a Colditz-type adventure came to a halt
and Tommy was returned to our headquarters camp.
Alas, we poor souls had to bear the brunt of our guard's wrath. After
all, our Unteroffizier, Big Jim as we called him, decided that if he was in the
black books with his superiors, he would take it out on all of us. Consequently,
he decided on two strategies. The first was to burst into our billet in the
middle of the night and shine his torch on our blissfully-sleeping faces. That
could really make you jump. His second ploy, however, was the one which caused
me not a little anxiety. He issued orders that when work was finished for the
day, all trousers must be handed in to his office immediately. To my annoyance,
this was also to include a Sunday. Here was a tricky situation for me. I could
not imagine myself holding forth from the Bible in my shirt-tails. What to do?
Clearly I must pray about this, and I did, several times a day.
Few preachers can have ministered in such circumstances. It speaks
volumes for the loyalty of my father’s fellow prisoners that they stood up for
him in the cause of Christ when needed, even although their faith was weak, or
in some cases non-existent.
‘We’ve Been A Long Time Coming Boys’ by Charles
Morrison, Published by Albyn Press ISBN 0284 98840 5
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