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  Wojtek the Bear

  Polish War Hero

  Aileen Orr was born in Dumfries and raised in Lockerbie before going on to study at the London School of Economics. After a few years in banking, she married and became Regional Director of the SCA. She stood for both the Westminster and Scottish Parliament and currently enjoys working with parliamentarians on a variety of issues and all things Polish. She is currently chair of Dyslexia Scotland in the Scottish Borders.

  Neal Ascherson was born in Edinburgh and studied at Cambridge University. A journalist for many years, he has also published numerous books and is well known as an authority on Polish and East European affairs.

  Dedicated to Augustyn Karolewski of Hutton Village, who inspired the writing of this book. He is one of the many unrecognised Poles who fought for your freedom and ours.

  This ebook edition published in 2012 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  Copyright © Aileen Orr 2010 and 2012

  Epilogue copyright © Neil Ascherson 2010

  The moral right of Aileen Orr to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-005-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-84341-057-7

  Version 2.0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  CONTENTS

  Map

  1 The Bear at the Bottom of My Garden

  2 Love at First Sight

  3 Fate Takes a Hand in the Life of a Bear Cub

  4 Runaway Wojtek Heads for Home

  5 Monte Cassino: A Legend is Born

  6 Rationing . . . and a Bear Who Needs 300 Apples a Day

  7 Messing About in the River

  8 Wojtek’s Passion for Country Dancing

  9 The Saddest Day

  10 Bears Galore Send a Message of Hope

  11 Journey into the Future

  Epilogue

  Index

  Wojtek’s Journey

  1

  The Bear at the Bottom of My Garden

  Outside it was one of those beautiful sunny days that make living in the Scottish Borders a privilege: a somnolent summer’s day with hardly a breath of wind to disturb the ripening barley and wheat that stretched out in a great expanse of patchwork fields, heavy ears of cereal drooping off their stalks in the heat. Even the vivid yellow splashes of rape – a relatively new crop on Scottish farms maintaining centuries of traditional agricultural practice – didn’t overpower the gentle beauty of the scene. Beyond the red-brick farmhouse, bees bumbled around lush bushes and hedgerows collecting nectar. Sunwick Farm was, to all outward appearances, a vision of peace and tranquillity.

  Indoors, the house and domestic office phones were ringing off the hook, and I was panicking like mad. Everyone wanted to talk to me about Wojtek (pronounced Voy-check), the Syrian brown bear that used to live at the bottom of our garden, and learn more about the memorial I intended to raise to him, although at that juncture I hadn’t a clue how I was going to get the project off the ground. It had all started out innocently enough. A couple of Scottish newspapers had run articles on my idea to create a memorial for the bear who was officially made a private in the Polish army and who fought side by side with Polish troops during the Second World War before retiring to the Scottish Borders. What I had not bargained for was the way the story had been picked up by the international media. Wojtek had captured the world’s imagination – or, more accurately, the vast diaspora of Polish exiles around the globe. The BBC, Good Morning Australia and news channels in New Zealand, Canada and the US had all reported that he liked a cigarette, a bottle of beer and a playful wrestle with his companions, and that a farmer’s wife in Scotland wanted to commemorate his life by commissioning a statue of him.

  I had always assumed that my fascination with Wojtek, which extended right through my childhood until the present day, was unique, and that apart from a few old soldiers who hadn’t yet faded away I was exploring a minor, if somewhat unusual, historical cul-de-sac. I could not have been more wrong. Wojtek’s appeal is universal. The legend of Wojtek has been handed down the generations by thousands of people. Deluged by e-mails and phone calls from those wanting to share their reminiscences of the bear with me, I began to suspect that, in his own ursine way, Wojtek was as popular as Elvis. And when officials at the Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh pulled me into the ministerial tower at Holyrood to inform me that a small function to celebrate Wojtek’s life was being upgraded to a full-scale diplomatic reception with political dignitaries flying in from Poland, I was sure of it.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment Wojtek set foot on Scottish soil he was a star. Certainly, his arrival from overseas in 1946 produced a Scottish ticker-tape welcome. His first glimpse of Scotland was Glasgow; thousands of Glaswegians lined the streets to cheer him and his Polish regiment as they marched through the city. In the grey age of postwar austerity, he must have been a considerable spectacle. His story was known to the populace and he was regarded as a war hero, so the welcome was genuine and heartfelt. The bear revelled in it.

  By that time, he was, of course, a seasoned military campaigner, having spent 26 months travelling through the Middle East with his comrades, followed by a 32-month stint in Italy where he saw active service as the Allies fought their way towards the heart of Europe.

  Wojtek arrived at what was then Winfield Camp for Displaced Persons on Sunwick Farm on 28 October 1946, and it wasn’t long before news of his presence swept round the community. The villages of Hutton and Paxton close by ensured a steady stream of visitors and, despite rationing, food. For Wojtek, food was the most important part of his life. While he basked in the admiration of his many visitors, most of all he loved to be fed.

  Right from the start Wojtek won a place in Scotland’s heart. It’s also readily understandable why the Polish servicemen held him so dear. Far from home, the bear provided entertainment and fun. He was the child they had left behind, the pet dog they had loved. The day-to-day challenges of feeding him and keeping him occupied also distracted them from the horrors of war, a war that had inflicted unspeakable atrocities and hardships on Poland. At Winfield Camp Wojtek’s ambling presence, a free spirit, lifted the hearts of many men whose future appeared to be non-existent. It banished, if only temporarily, some of the men’s anxieties about the future and gave them a glimpse of the joy of an uncomplicated existence.

  In truth, the life of a displaced person in Scotland in the postwar years was always a mixture of homesickness and fear. The Poles nursed unimaginable emotional pain without ever revealing it to the Scots around them. They came from a country which in September 1939 had been caught between the devil and the deep blue sea – Poland was divided between Russia and Germany in a secret pact between the two major powers. The cruelty of both invaders knew no bounds.

  After subjugating Poland in a few brief weeks the Nazis went on to make it a killing field, establishing six extermination camps on Polish soil including Auschwitz and Treblinka. In these two death camps alone the Germans murdered at least 2 million people, including Poles.

  Meanwhile, East Poland felt the lash of cruel enslavement by Russia’s Red Army and their apparatchiks. In February 1940, Stalin’s ethnic cleansing began in earnest. Men, women and children were roun
ded up and forced onto railway cattle trucks and transported into the secret and inconceivably terrifying depths of Stalin’s Russia. One in twelve of the deported Poles were sent to gulags in Siberia. It is estimated a total of 1.5 million Poles from the Soviet zone were sent to Russian camps. Only a tenth of this number would emerge alive less than two years later, including more than 100,000 fighting men; when Germany invaded Russia in 1941 the Poles’ repatriation was the price Stalin grudgingly had to pay to join the Allies.

  At Winfield Camp, many of Wojtek’s companions from East Poland were among the number freed from Siberia in 1941. Having experienced Sovietisation at first hand, many Poles had no wish, ever again, to place themselves at the mercy of Stalin’s regime.

  In later years many Poles would focus their grief and rage on single atrocities which became an emotional touchstone, a sort of hideous shorthand that encompassed all that they had suffered and lost in terms of families, loved ones, homes and occupations. The Katyn Forest massacre is one such atrocity, which was based on a secret death list drawn up by Lavrentiy Beria, Stalin’s security chief, and intended to rip out Poland’s intellectual heart. An estimated 22,000 Polish military officers, policemen, intellectuals and civilian POWs were murdered. Only approximately 4,400 Katyn victims have ever been identified. In 1943 the Nazis exhumed the Polish dead and blamed the Soviets. In 1944, having retaken the Katyn area from the Nazis, in a macabre exercise of grisly political oneupmanship, the Soviets again exhumed the Polish dead and blamed the Nazis for the massacre. Some eight other known death sites still have not been excavated.

  There is considerable controversy over how much the Allies knew about the Katyn massacre before 1991, when Soviet documents were found that proved Stalin had ordered the killings. In the war years many Poles believed Allied governments colluded in keeping silent about the Soviet involvement because it would have upset other political considerations. These suspicions were never publicly voiced, of course. Winfield Camp’s Polish servicemen were remarkably tight-lipped about such matters. ‘You have to remember that your country took us in and allowed us to stay. You were our friends,’ I was told by one former Winfield Camp serviceman, now in his 80s.

  A Scottish acquaintance told me that he and that same Winfield Camp serviceman had visited the Pole’s homeland in Silesia. As they walked through his native village, the serviceman pointed to a cemetery on one side of the road. ‘That’s the German cemetery,’ he said. ‘That’s where they executed many of the village’s young men, including my brother.’ A few hundred yards further on the two reached another graveyard and he said: ‘That’s the Russian cemetery. That’s where the Russians shot my other brother in their mass executions.’

  I had known the Polish serviceman for more than 30 years and he had never once hinted at the annihilation of his family. When I challenged him about it he said simply: ‘These are things I do not like to think about.’

  The memory of these atrocities was silently endured by the Poles who came to Scotland and, hopefully, a new life. Scotland was the arrival point for all Polish servicemen brought to the UK before being dispersed to camps across Britain. They would barely be settled into one camp before being moved on to another. Tens of thousands finally ended their travels at Winfield or at the many other camps in the Borders and other parts of Scotland. It was a very confusing time for them.

  A lot of the men at Winfield, when they got there, had only a hazy idea of where they were. Large numbers of them were illiterate, having had no formal schooling, so they were unable to write to their families to tell them they were safe. Being unable to read or write in Polish, they were effectively cut off from their loved ones. That sense of intense isolation was compounded by another cruel quirk of fate. In the camps many men did learn to read and write – but in English, not Polish. Thus they spoke Polish, but could not read or write in their native language. It was a strange, convoluted situation created by wartime.

  Living in limbo, as they were, Wojtek’s presence did much to lift their spirits. In 1946, billeted in postwar rural Scotland, they were stateless, homeless and penniless; the only things they owned were a few meagre possessions in a bag – and a bear.

  In other parts of the country, such as the west of Scotland, where the religious divide between Protestant and Roman Catholic was a long-running problem, there was a certain reserve between Polish incomers and locals. However, living in displaced persons camps, the Poles were largely out of sight, if not out of mind, and they didn’t impinge too greatly on local sensibilities.

  In the Borders, attitudes were different. There were no Roman Catholic churches in the area so Masses were held at the camp by visiting priests. But Winfield Camp was located among a farming community, and if there is one thing that commands universal respect in agricultural societies, it is hard physical work. Our new Polish neighbours were good workers. Many of the servicemen came from an agricultural background. They were exceptionally good at working with horses, although they had difficulty in fathoming the completely different way that harnesses were fastened in Scotland. They were also skilled at leatherwork – fast vanishing in agricultural Scotland even then – and were adept at mending harnesses.

  While the Poles offered the local population agricultural skills and a willingness to work, the bear offered friendship and joy. Being country-bred, no one – adult or child – had ordinary domestic pets. Around farms, all animals were required to earn their keep. There was no sentimentality about them. If a dog was too old to work, or took fits, it was put down.

  As a child, I had experience of how creatures from the wild could be brought to accept a human environment and tamed, if only briefly. Indeed, it was something of a school sport, like marbles and conkers: every year, during the breeding season, my school pals and I would catch young jackdaws, having tracked them down to their nests in rabbit burrows. When they were half-grown but couldn’t yet fly, we would remove them from their nests and put them in cardboard boxes, usually old shoeboxes, with air holes punched through the top. Then we would hand-feed the chicks worms, grubs and scraps.

  In a remarkably short time, we were able to go cycling with the young birds perched on our bike handlebars, enjoying the air fluttering through their feathers. Within a month or so the jackdaws’ pinion feathers would grow in and strengthen and when that happened, with their newfound maturity, they became restless. So off they flew. The pet jackdaw season was over, to be replaced by the next childhood pastime.

  Wojtek, of course, was in a different category. He was an ambassador for his Polish friends, and forged links with the Borders community. But he was also an animal unique in the annals of warfare. He had never ever been trained for any of the tasks he had carried out voluntarily with his companions under shot and shell; he considered himself their equal in all respects, and had just helped out when the notion took him. That was a very strange state of affairs for an essentially wild animal, and ran contrary to the accepted opinions of many animal behaviourists. It was not thought possible for a bear to be imprinted with ‘human’ characteristics. Yet in terms of temperament and personality, Wojtek was very much an amalgam of both.

  It was Wojtek who drove me to research the role of animals in warfare. Probably the first animals to be so employed were elephants. Their use in battle is recorded in Sanskrit writings found in the Indus Valley dating back to around 1100 BC. War elephants were deployed like tanks in battles throughout India. The slimmed-down basic ‘model’ would have only a mahout aboard its neck, guiding it into goring and trampling the enemy. More elaborate usage saw the war elephants equipped with armoured breastplates and headgear. Some elephants wore clanging bells or had spears attached to their tusks and others had a military-style howdah strapped to their backs, filled with warriors who rained down arrows and spears on the luckless combatants below.

  The ‘technology’ was soon exported to other countries and used to considerable effect. For many centuries the war elephant was probably the most effective fighting mac
hine available and its military value did not diminish until new weaponry, in the shape of the cannon, arrived on the battlefields of India.

  In more modern times many other animals have been trained to participate in warfare, including mules, horses, dogs, camels, pigeons, canaries, dolphins and sea lions. Millions of them died in the service of their country. In the First World War, even the tiny glow-worm was pressed into service in the fetid trenches of France. Soldiers used them to read their maps in the darkness.

  Horses made the greatest sacrifices in the military lunacies of the First World War which saw cavalry charges against embedded machine guns persist until as late as 1918. The generals were as profligate with their animals as they were with their troops. It has been estimated that some 8 million horses died in the First World War. They did not all perish in the pointless carnage of cavalry charges, of course. The majority died bringing supplies to the front because they were deemed more reliable than mechanised transport and required relatively little maintenance. Quite a lot received no maintenance at all. They starved to death because there were no rations for them. Tens of thousands died of exposure while many more succumbed to disease and injury.

  Dogs, too, were an essential part of the war effort. They were used as runners, carrying messages from the front line back through the enormous web of trenches to army headquarters. Demand for messenger dogs became so great that every police force in the UK was ordered to send strays to the War Dog Training School and the public was encouraged to donate its own pets for training – which they did in very large numbers. They were known by the troops as ‘summer dogs’: ‘summer this’ and ‘summer that’. In the Second World War dogs were trained by Britain in a completely new and more sophisticated direction: they were parachuted behind enemy lines, with their handlers, on rescue missions. Their job was to sniff out explosives and find personnel trapped in the rubble of bombed buildings.