Normal
life came to an end for my father at the age of 21 on the morning of
June 12 1940 in the French coastal town of St Valery-en-Caux. Along
with several thousand men of the 51st
Highland Division of the British Expeditionary Force, he was marched
off into captivity by the German army.
Although he had been
brought up in a Christian home and had committed his life to Christ
while still at school, my father described himself at age 21 as ‘a
nominal Christian’.
Liberated after five
years of captivity on May 5th 1945 by an American army
unit, he returned three days later on May 8th to his home
in the village of Aberlour in Scotland; the experience of war and
captivity had changed him in soul, spirit and character forever. His
Christian experience, life and witness, now far from nominal!
The day before the
surrender of his unit in 1940, my father prayed in desperation as he
waited for the next German attack. He recalls the moment in his
retrospective of the war years in his book, ‘We’ve Been a
Long Time Coming Boys’:
“As I lay there, I kept
wondering when our navy would come in. We would soon be on board ship
with such a great story to relate. All the weeks now behind us would
seem like a bad, nightmarish dream. Escape somehow we must — but
how, I could not quite imagine or tell. It was then that I thought of
my family and friends, of loved ones who doubtless would be worried,
but I knew would be praying for me.[1]
Yes, prayer was the answer, of this I was sure. And so, as we waited
for the action to begin, I started to pray, something like this:
‘Dear Lord Jesus Christ, in your mercy please get us out of this
mess. If you do, I promise most sincerely to serve you as never
before.’ It was not a genuine prayer. It was only a desperate plea
for help and I guess God in Heaven, who knows the thoughts of our
hearts, could quite easily read my intentions that day. I often
wondered later if He smiled and said “I will, sometime, but not
now.”
However, within 36 hours
my father experienced a real answer to prayer.
“When the German tanks
eventually appeared and rumbled down to surround us, we must have
looked a pretty rag-bag dishevelled body of men. I was quite near our
Brigadier as he turned to his driver, Ronnie Gordon, and throwing his
steel helmet to the ground, said “Gordon, give me my red hat”.
These were to be his “famous last words” as our commanding
officer. Unfortunately for him, the red hat trick did not work. The
German tank commander passed him by and by mistake, chose the brigade
major, thinking him to be the officer in charge. He was ushered away
for special privileges, while we, the brigadier included, were
ordered to form up, or so we inferred, and move off towards the
rising of the sun, that is, the East. Who would have dreamt that this
eastward march would extend to 450 kilometres and take us through
France, Belgium, Holland and on to Wesel on the borders of Germany.
None of us imagined this would happen to us, but unfortunately it
did.
We had no problem that
first day — just a long hard foot-slog. For eleven hours we dragged
ourselves along without one single break, no drink, no rest. Through
ruined villages well-known to us earlier that year, we trudged
relentlessly on. Sometimes a kindly face would appear at a door and
someone would invitingly leave out a pail of tempting water on their
step. 'Dixies' in hand, we would join the rush for a drink. If a guard
got there first, he would kick over the bucket, tumbling its contents
to the ground.
About midnight, we
reached their goal. It was a hurriedly-constructed make-shift camp in
the form of a barbed-wire enclosure. In here we were packed like
sheep in a pen with just enough room to lie down. That day, in the
blazing hot sun, we had covered at least thirty miles.
Morning call came in a
most unusual and dramatic fashion. Just after sunrise, around five I
should guess, our prison gate was opened and a young bull was driven
into our field. Goaded on by the guards, it began to charge through
among the sleeping bodies. It was the most effective “alarm clock”
I have ever seen in my life. We were all on our feet in a jiffy.
Then, an S.S. type of guy, as ugly as the bull itself, came in with a
group of his henchmen. He could speak a little English and made
himself quite clear. We were a bunch of dirty, filthy Englanders.
(That excluded me. I was a Scotsman). We would all shave at once and
be ready for inspection when he returned for parade.
Meantime, he was on the
hunt for machine-gunners. Obviously, they were to be the prime target
for his wrath. Unfortunately for him, our machine-gun boys were not
to be found. Evidently, they had given a good account of themselves
in the recent action, but by now all their badges had disappeared. In
his frustration and rage, he pounced on two young lads — French
Moroccans they were — and led them away. Out of sight, behind some
haystacks, several shots rang out in the clear morning air. We all
knew what that meant. He had taken his revenge on two defenceless
North African boys whom he had never seen before. So much for the
rules of war!
I see from my diary that
we were left in our enclosure that day. Two bits of information have
been hurriedly scribbled down. One is that we were given neither food
nor drink from our captors the whole of that Thursday. After all, it
was the 13th of the month. What else could we expect!
The other entry reminds
me that Alex produced a small tin of corned beef. What a God-send
that little tin was, for he was good enough to share it with me. It
had inadvertently been left in our radio truck the previous day.
Spotting it as he passed by, Alex had the good sense to put it safely
away in his gas-mask bag. Neither food nor drink was provided for us
yet again. I shared my emergency chocolate ration with Alex that day.
It was sewn into my battledress trouser pocket and preserved in a
little brass-coloured tin. I wasn't what you would call a sweet tooth
at any time, but never did plain chocolate taste so good as now.
Next morning, orders were
issued to line up for food. This was it at last, we thought. After
four days in German hands, they must have got themselves organised —
that is, foodwise at least. Would it be a three course meal? My diary
records it, “just half a ladle of watery soup”. Then, with shouts
and shoves and kicks, it was impressed on us that we were on the
march again. That day, we stumbled on for another thirty kilometres —
still in the heat of the sun.
Thirst was my problem
now. Hunger I could endure, but oh for a drink of water. I clearly
remember making a vow that, if I ever got back home, I would invest
all my savings in Hay's lemonade factory. In my imagination, I would
sit down with a crate of their No. 1 and drink until I burst. What a
fool I was to think like this. I had forgotten all the lessons I had
been taught at Sunday School — that is, until now.
All at once I was
reminded about the prophet Elijah. When there had been no rain in
Israel for more than three years he sat down and prayed — and
suddenly it rained. Taking off my cap as we were marching along, I
lifted my eyes to the sky and prayed “Lord Jesus, you know all
about thirst. You had to ask for a drink at Sychar's Well and at the
last, on Calvary's Cross. How much I long for a drink. Please help!”
Honestly, I did not
really expect a miracle to happen. The days of such things seemed to
have gone long ago. Mile after mile we kept trudging along and then,
all at once, my prayer was answered and in a most spectacular way. A
sudden summer shower, literally from ‘out of the blue’ began to
pour down from the heavens on our heads. That would not have helped
my burning thirst very much had we not been passing an old farm-house
just at that time. The heavy down-pour was too much for the old rhone
pipes and water came gushing out on to the road. Two of us ran with a
ground-sheet and catching as much as we could, we drank our fill of
the stuff and shared the precious water around. Here was an answer to
prayer, the first of so many I was to experience from the One who
knew our needs. As we set off again, I just took off my cap once
more, and said “Thank you Jesus, Lord.” I felt like the man who
wrote the popular old hymn which runs like this:
What a Friend we
have in Jesus
All our sins and
griefs to bear
What a Privilege to
carry
Everything to Him
in prayer.
You know, I had never
thought of prayer as being a privilege before.”
Now I know why that great
hymn, ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus, written by Joseph M. Scriven
in1855 was one of my father’s favourites. During his time as a POW
he had experienced answers to prayer which confirmed what he had read
in his Bible: ‘If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask
whatever you wish, and it will be done for you’. (John 15v7)
Prayer is indeed a great
privilege which should be exercised frequently by all believers.
My late father’s book
can still be obtained via Amazon.
‘We’ve Been A
Long Time Coming Boys’ by Charles Morrison, Published by Albyn
Press ISBN 0284 98840 5
"After
I returned home in 1945, I learned that a local Church Minister - The
Rev. Harry Stoddart - and my father met every morning at 7 a.m. to
pray for me. In 1948, I met Rev. Stoddart's niece, and in 1949 we
were married in Glasgow — by Uncle Harry Stoddart".
No comments:
Post a Comment