Wojtek the Bear [paperback] Page 3

  To understand why and how it happened we have to go back to the beginning.

  3

  Fate Takes a Hand in the Life of a Bear Cub

  Sometimes life is most mysterious. It takes only a small, apparently insignificant event to pivot a life onto a completely different path – like missing your lift to work and then meeting your future husband on the next bus. The Spanish have a lovely proverb about such random events that change everything: ‘God writes straight in crooked lines.’

  So it was for Wojtek. By sheer good fortune, he was saved from the worst fate imaginable – life as a dancing bear.

  It was April 1942, the tail-end of winter in the highlands of Iran. Despite the sunshine, the wind was still tinged with the snowy breath of the Zagros Mountains. A few hours earlier the military convoy had passed by the 4,000-year-old city of Hamadan, one of the most ancient cities in the world, and had begun the steady climb into a province of long, harsh winters and short, pleasantly cool summers.

  This particular contingent of soldiers was slowly wending its way towards Palestine, the mustering point for the 2nd Polish Corps being created and armed there. Although they didn’t know it yet, they were eventually to become its 22nd Company, Polish Army Service Corps (Artillery). The convoy had stopped at the roadside for some food, a brew-up and a chance for the soldiers to stretch their legs. It was uncomfortable sitting for hour after hour on the hard, narrow seats of army lorries as they bumped and jolted their way along the rough, potholed roads of the remote uplands. However, these men had no complaints; this stop-and-start slow journey was like a holiday to them after enduring the privations of Siberian work camps, and besides, as the Scots saying has it: ‘When you’re marching you’re no’ fighting.’

  As ever, no matter how empty the Persian landscape appeared, their passage had not gone unnoticed. In that barren spot, from out of nowhere, a barefoot young boy appeared carrying a hessian sack. He looked like so many of the half-starved youngsters the Poles had seen on their journey along the western side of the Caspian Sea – skin and bones, with enormous brown eyes in a pinched, undernourished face that had timidity and hope written over it in equal measure. In his grubby burnous the Poles supposed he was a shepherd lad from the village they had passed several miles back. Unblinking, he stared at the men, watching every bite they took. The men recognised the signs; they had known it themselves. The boy was starving. They beckoned him over. Feral child that he was, hunger overcame any fear of strangers. In no time at all, the boy was wolfing down the billycan of meat he was offered.

  When his initial hunger had been assuaged the boy began to relax. Lance-Corporal Peter Prendys looked curiously at the sack tied around his neck, which appeared to be moving. Pointing at it, he pantomimed the question: what is in the sack? The boy replied in a dialect which no one understood. To the men’s immense surprise, when they cautiously loosened the bag’s ties, the small black snout of a bear cub pushed out. The men gently lifted him out to get a better look. He was a scrawny, unkempt little thing, obviously not properly fed, but there was something about this defenceless, woebegone creature, no more than a few months old, that was immensely appealing.

  Through sign language Peter and the men asked the boy where he had got the bear. Slowly they winnowed out the story: hunters had killed the bear’s mother and the boy had found the cub abandoned in a cave close by its den. It is much more likely, however, that after shooting the she-bear the hunters had actually taken her cub and given it to the boy to look after. That was how things were done in that part of the world. What the boy didn’t tell them, because it was too difficult to do so, was that the little bear’s future was already mapped out, and it was one of pain, torment and misery. In the culture of the region, if he survived to adulthood, which was far from being a certainty, he would become a dancing bear.

  Right across the Middle East, dancing bears in the street were a commonplace sight at souks, fairs and entertainments, and were popular with children and adults alike. But few enjoying their antics had any concept of the cruelty involved in their training and of their lack of proper care. There was probably no animal more neglected and abused in the name of so-called street entertainment.

  Captured from the wild and their mothers usually slaughtered, the hunters would sell on cubs like Wojtek to owners who hoped to make a living out of them. When partially grown, the bears first, without benefit of anaesthetic, had a hole pierced through either the sensitive septum of their noses, their mouths or even their palates, through which either a metal chain or rope was introduced. Trained with these restraints in a most cruel manner, the bears were forced to stand upright until they would do so on command or in response to a goad. Often the roughness of the chains or ropes caused sores and constant pain, as did the coarse edges of muzzles made for the bears out of poorly cured leather. In many instances the bears had also been declawed.

  But perhaps the worst aspect of it all was that there was no good living to be earned out of street bears. Their handlers made only a few coins a day; barely enough to buy themselves enough food to eat, never mind properly feed their unfortunate charges. As a result of near constant malnutrition, poor quartering and lack of any medical care, the bears’ health rapidly deteriorated. Indeed, many went blind from vitamin deficiency, and even more went mad. The lucky ones died young.

  Before we start congratulating ourselves that here in Scotland we are a more humane and less primitive society, it should be noted that the dancing bears whose lives started out in the Middle East and the Balkans were regular entertainments at Highland and agricultural shows across Scotland right up until the 1960s. In the Assembly Rooms at Dumfries there is a large sepia photographic print of a giant bear standing in Dumfries High Street with its minder, a small foreign man with a short stick in his hand. The bear is on a chain and is wearing a muzzle. Judging by the models of the cars in the street, the photograph was taken around the 1930s. I have always detested the picture.

  That, then, was the fate that awaited the scruffy little bear being fondled and stroked by Peter Prendys and his companions as they debated whether to buy him. Roadside bartering was a way of life for the convoy. Whenever they stopped at villages small crowds would congregate, trying to sell them dried and fresh fruit, cheese, milk and anything else the troops wanted. At some villages local artisans would make them up metal pots and other implements to order, on the spot, in return for cash. They always wanted US dollars, whenever possible, because it was a much stronger currency than their own.

  The boy, despite his youth, was no different. He indicated he was prepared to sell them the bear cub for dollars. But neither Peter nor his friends had any in their possession. They clubbed together to offer him some local currency and a few other goods, including a bar of chocolate and even a Swiss army knife. The boy looked doubtful, so the Poles flung in what turned out to be the deal clincher – a large tin of bully beef (better known to us as corned beef; the name ‘bully beef’ is a corruption of the French term for tinned boiled beef, bœuf bouilli).

  Quickly the boy gathered up his booty, placed it in his sack, and vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived. Why he sold the bear to them, rather than await a better offer – which he would undoubtedly have had through trading him as a performing bear – no one knows. Perhaps he had difficulty finding food for him; or perhaps he thought the cub was going to die anyway. A friend of Peter’s said to me, years later, of that strange transaction: ‘It was the bully beef that swung it. Peter always told me that. He said the boy wasn’t going to sell until the bully beef was added.’

  The Polish soldiers looked at each other and grinned. They had acted completely on impulse, without a thought for the consequences. They now owned a bear cub. Oh, yes. Just what was needed in the middle of a world war. The officers would go off the deep end when they found out about the bear. So, naturally, they did what any self-respecting soldier the world over would have done: they didn’t tell.

  What on earth possessed
them to buy the bear is open to numerous interpretations. Of course, the little cub was cute and its utterly vulnerable state engendered instant sympathy. It had been ripped from its natural existence and propelled into a completely alien lifestyle, so the bear and the Poles shared a common plight. But I believe the explanation is a lot simpler: the men needed something to love. By the time they had discovered, through trial and error, that the cub didn’t eat meat yet and was a furry fiend for diluted condensed milk fed to him via an old vodka bottle with a piece of rag in the neck acting as a teat, they were emotionally committed and tossing around names.

  After a brisk discussion, they came up with Wojtek; it was an apt choice. The pet name of the Polish Wojciech, it meant ‘happy soldier’ or ‘happy warrior’.

  By common consent, Peter Prendys was appointed Wojtek’s guardian, a role he accepted without protest. Aged 46, Peter was considerably older than the rest of his comrades, many of whom were in their late teens or early twenties. Born in 1895, he was very probably the oldest soldier in the company. That age difference brought with it a lot of respect and quiet authority. He certainly would have had the confidence and experience to handle the bear cub and, just as crucially, the patience. In army records held by the Polish Institute and Sikorski Museum, London, it was noted that Peter could read and write. This was a matter of some importance, because many of the soldiers were semi-literate or had missed out entirely on formal education; they were a lost generation. In the area from which most of them came, much of the literate and intellectual classes had been eradicated or removed. Thus, those who were teachers or had some level of book learning were greatly prized among the Poles. Being able to read and write made Peter a much-sought-after non-commissioned officer. He was the man who wrote and read letters for many of his comrades.

  Despite his self-effacing manner, Peter had a quiet authority about him and the men looked up to him. However, even that status didn’t save him from run-ins with senior officers. It took just two days before he encountered his first bear crisis: Wojtek’s presence in the convoy was discovered.

  Not that it took any great detective work. Out in the open, and alarmed by a large and predatory-looking bird circling above him, the cub scampered back to the safety of Peter’s truck, and ran slap-bang into the arms of the company sergeant who was on his morning tour of inspection. As the soldiers anxiously gabbled an explanation, Wojtek worked his magic. The sergeant instantly fell under the spell of the little bear and, being a goodhearted fellow, he promised to keep the men’s secret until an appropriate moment arose for him to tell the commanding officer that they had an additional passenger on the trip.

  They needn’t have worried about the outcome. When the commanding officer, Major Chelminski, finally met Wojtek he was very taken with the little chap and for several weeks even let him sleep overnight in his tent in a portable wash basin. These sleeping arrangements continued until a small tent was eventually made available for Peter and his new charge. It was an extraordinary concession for an NCO to be given his own personal quarters, but Major Chelminski realised the bear cub was an extremely valuable asset. More than just a military mascot, around Wojtek the men’s morale was sky-high.

  With quiet efficiency, Peter fed and cared for the young cub, who scampered after him everywhere like a young child whenever he was released from his restraining tether. Although he had his own bed, in the middle of the night the cub would often slip in beside Peter seeking warmth and comfort. Peter’s comrades used to tease him and call him Mother Bear, but Peter only smiled at their jests. In fact, what they were saying was no more than the truth. In the wild, male bears have nothing to do with their offspring. Cubs are raised solely by their mothers. That Peter was Wojtek’s surrogate mother was never in doubt. Whenever he was frightened or tired or in need of a cuddle, Wojtek would run to Peter and whimper until he was lifted up onto his knee. There he would sit, contentedly sucking on one of Peter’s fingers.

  On chilly evenings Peter would take the little bear into his army greatcoat and fasten it up so that both were protected from the cold. Cocooned inside, Wojtek would quickly fall asleep, lulled by the men’s voices and the boom of Peter’s laughter as they sat around their campfire swapping tales and jokes late into the night.

  Remarkably quickly the little bear adapted to the company’s routine. Very soon he was playing tag with the men in and out of the trucks. When he was a little bigger he enjoyed the rough and tumble of mock wrestling matches with the men. Standing upright, Wojtek would let his opponent place his hands against his front paws and try to push him backwards. This went on until the bear fell over and landed on his rump – still a feasible proposition at that early stage of his development.

  When he was fully grown the wrestling matches became team events: groups of soldiers would try to rush him and knock him over. Roaring with delight, Wojtek would take on all-comers, batting them around like skittles. Occasionally, to ensure a steady stream of contestants, he would let the men win. Wrestling, of course, came naturally to Wojtek; if you have ever seen wildlife TV programmes featuring bears, you’ll know the cubs are always play-fighting – a necessary part of learning new skills and developing muscle tone.

  When they arrived at Wojtek’s very first army base in Palestine, Wojtek set about mastering the art of tree climbing. He had a couple of false starts where his friends had to use a long ladder to fetch him out of overly high palm trees. The young cub learned that while going up palm trees was pretty much a doddle, it was married to the tiresome, but equally important, business of coming down. In his early climbing days, Wojtek simply let go and plummeted onto the ground beneath, hoping for a soft landing; as he scaled greater and greater heights this was no longer a viable option and he had to learn to descend by himself.

  Wojtek’s arrival in Palestine with the men meant that for the first time he experienced army life under canvas in one of the scores of static camps that were springing up all over the Middle East. As any old sweat will tell you, one dictum is true of army life: ‘Hurry up and wait.’ For Wojtek and his comrades, that was very much the case as General Władysław Anders set about overcoming the political hurdles Stalin had placed in his path to prevent the Poles re-arming and fighting as the 2nd Polish Corps alongside the British in the Western Desert. There was a protracted period when many Polish military outfits in Palestine were pretty much marking time, during which they went on plenty of training exercises and military manoeuvres; the general worked hard to transform his poorly equipped army, drawn from a mish-mash of disparate resources, into one of the most feared fighting forces of World War II.

  4

  Runaway Wojtek Heads for Home

  For the best part of a year Wojtek’s base camp was in Gedera, a village situated on the fringes of the Negev Desert, in what was then Palestine. Being a military transport outfit, the men were required to ferry supplies, and sometimes troops, all over the Middle East. There were short runs accomplished in a single day and also week-long journeys that involved them staying at other camps. All was grist to their mill. But what it meant for Wojtek was a series of highly interesting journeys to all manner of countries including Syria, Iraq, Egypt and occasionally the Lebanon. He loved nothing better than sitting in the cab of Peter’s lorry with its side window open, staring out at everything he could see. He was addicted to travel and the excitement of going to new places.

  The stimulus of near-constant tourism gave him a pretty low boredom threshold when he was back in his regular camp and there was no one to play with. And when Wojtek was bored, inevitably mischief followed. As a half-grown cub he was always exploring and pushing at the boundaries of good behaviour. Peter confided to my grandfather in a rare moment of frankness about Wojtek’s escapades that a bored bear nearing full adulthood was a nightmare. And no wonder. When Wojtek was fully grown and in his prime he weighed in at some 500 pounds and, upright, stood well over 6 feet tall. Adolescent or fully grown, Wojtek often found himself in ‘jankers’ on a teth
er, because of some mischief.

  The men were remarkably tolerant of his misdeeds, even though tidying up the mayhem Wojtek would leave in his wake created a lot of additional work for them.

  When not falling foul of pesky army regulations, Wojtek led the life of an officer and a gentleman. Most mornings he left Peter’s tent before Reveille and went for a walk round the camp, hoping to encounter the morning’s duty NCO, who usually had a biscuit or some sweetmeat for him. Then he would amble over to the cookhouse for breakfast, which included cereal, milk, bread and marmalade, biscuits and whatever else he could scrounge. Having been weaned at around six months of age, he was omnivorous, like his breed, and had a passion for fruit and honey, the latter given to him by the men from their own rations. After breakfast he would then head off looking for someone to play with. Being of a most amiable disposition, the Happy Warrior didn’t mind whether the playmates were human or animal.

  In his early days as a cub, one of his favourite pals was a large Dalmatian dog which belonged to the camp’s British liaison officer. From their first meeting they were firm friends. They would tear through the camp, the bear in hot pursuit of the Dalmatian. Just as Wojtek looked like he’d catch the dog it would suddenly skid to a halt and, unable to stop himself as quickly, Wojtek would go tumbling head over heels. Neither dog nor bear cub ever tired of their boisterous game, and the outcome was always the same.

  Despite having settled well into army routine, it was at Gedera that Wojtek made his one and only attempt to escape from his companions. Why he went AWOL can only be guessed. Perhaps he was bored because all of his companions were busy about their duties and he had no one to entertain him. Or perhaps he had picked up some scent that reminded him of his former mountain home – bears have an exceedingly keen sense of smell. The simplest explanation is that he was trying to escape the interminable desert heat that, in the summer months, was often so fierce it was impossible for troops to carry out military training manoeuvres. There is no doubt that Wojtek, with his thick fur, was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to keeping cool.