We held the rear, fighting hard to keep the enemy at bay. Hundreds of men lay dying, but lots more got away.
It was' Dunkirk,' as many know, it was not the place to be: We fired our gun! Our hearts beat fast, to see the boats at sea

Our mates rushed the beaches and quickly climbed aboard Knowing that our safety was not so well assured.
An enemy shell silenced our gun, and all my mates were dead, my khaki uniform, red with blood and an enemy soldier said,

"For you Tommy the war is over", and gave me a cigarette. It took one glance for him to see, we were no more a threat.
The searing pain, then blackness and I awoke to find it was in an enemy hospital, I almost lost my mind.

My ID-tag lost in battle, I did not know my name. Many comrades in the hospital were suffering the same.
'Missing believe dead' read the telegram sent home to my wife. But by now I could see, this was no after-life!

To a P.O.W. camp they took me, known as Stalag XXB It was there, I was to learn the depth of misery.
I felt it was my duty to escape from there! Where to go? I did not know, nor did I really care.

But I was caught! And taken back for punishment galore. Rifle butts knocked out my teeth, and made me very sore.
Waves of pain washed over me. They would not let me slumber. When suddenly, I realized, I knew my name and number.

My memory came back to me. It was like coming out of Hell. Now my Family could be told I was alive and well.
Years passed by! Then one day, we were told to march. More mates died along the way, the treatment was very harsh.

We had so little clothing. No protection from the cold, that is why it?s now known as, ' The Death March', I am told.
I rolled over in the snow, and fell into a ditch. I did not bat an eyelid, or make one single twitch.

I lay like that for hours, after the marchers passed by, I knew should I be discovered, I would surely die.
Slowly I crawled out of the snow, crawled up the slippery bank and coming down the road I could see an American Army tank.

Tears of joy ran down my face, I really was elated
At last! After all these years, I had been liberated!

I dedicate this poem to my Father Edward Alexander Apted (known as Alec) Cpl in Royal Artillery British armed forces. and all the POW's of WW11.

My Father told me this story when he came home after five years as a POW .

The photograph above is of me that Dad carried with him. It has the POW stamp Stalag XXB stamp


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