Life in Poetry

Here’s a poem on page 3 of my father’s war log that was written by someone in his barracks. It must express something of what it was like to be in Stalag Luft 1:

The house we spent in forced content

The long awaited “Big Event”

The written letter that ne’er appears

That the folks at home at last had heard

The sandy soil so easily blown

The barbed wire fence not so easily flown

The sports field and trodden path

The weekly showers and bucket bath

The baseball games and passing girls

The long-haired men with feminine curls

The huge mustache and shaven head

The soiled beard and straw filled beds

The shuttered windows and systematic search

The tunnel diggers with mud besmurched

The “Klim” can pans and make shift lamp

The fireless stove when days were damp

The Red Cross parcels and “Jerry” rations

The Red Cross clothes and self-made fashions

The turnips, cabbage and lowly spyds

Many time wet and covered with mud

The margarine, jam and cheese and fish

That made a rough untempting dish

The weighty bread we had to toast

The “D” ration chocolate we loved the most

The long sought toothbrush and awful paste

That rivaled the food in bitter taste

The modern plays and concerts too

The plaques, works of art and barley glue

The posten towers and bright spot lights

That search the camp through the night

The sirens wail and droning planes

The flying boats and whistling trains

And last but not least in the G.T.O

Our Kriegie friends, every Tom, Dick and Joe

An artist in his barracks did this sketch. And here’s another poem titled “Kriegieland”

Keiegie life is full of strife

With trouble ever brewing

Worried about that girl or wife

While cooking, washing, sewing

The bugle calls us twice a day

To roll call, what distraction

The sirens warn of air raids

Flak guns go into action