Wojtek the Bear [paperback] (10 page)

But it was the carefully crafted toys which the children, scrubbed clean and smelling of carbolic soap and camphor, their little faces wide-eyed with anticipation, were waiting for. The men
would spend months making dolls, dolls’ houses, animals for miniature farms, and many other beautiful toys.

In postwar Scotland, a party with entertainment and presents was a welcome break from a life of relative poverty. Many of the children had lost their fathers and older brothers in the war. Shorn
of family support, they were being raised by mothers holding down low-paid jobs. Luxuries were non-existent. So a party with entertainment, parcels and sometimes a bear out in the school playground
(Wojtek wasn’t allowed in classrooms) was almost too much to take in. Those few moments provided memories to be held for a lifetime. Many of the men, of course, had left behind their own
children or young brothers and sisters in Poland. For them it was an opportunity to recapture something of the magic of Christmas, as seen through the eyes of youngsters.

The harshness of reality was never far away. Displaced persons in Scotland had to report every fortnight to the local police station. By the time Wojtek and his companions arrived at Winfield
Camp in October 1946, in Scotland there was one Pole to every 141 Scottish nationals; in England and Wales there was one Pole to every 322 English and Welsh nationals. And the strains were showing.
Only the year before, 800 Polish soldiers had decided to boycott the Scottish Borders town of Peebles
and not fraternise with the local population because the local council
had asked the government to send them all back to Poland. In Fife a somewhat illiterate poster campaign was launched:

In Edinburgh only three months before 22nd Company arrived at Winfield Camp, there were press reports about embittered Polish soldiers creating a disturbance at a public meeting
held under the auspices of the British Council, and chaired by the lord provost. They booed and catcalled the Polish ambassador, who was making the main speech, and they eventually had to be
ejected by the police.

Fairly typical of the anti-Polish letters politicians were receiving from the public was the following: ‘. . . it is time they were back in Poland, great lusty fellows simply idling about
with nothing to do (but frat with our girls) while Poland needs them now. I am sure you will regret it if you do not act boldly and sensibly and order them to return, they are all without exception
anti-Russian and have no good word for our fine, brave allies.’

It was all a million light years away from Churchill’s rhetoric when prime minister. In his pledge to the Poles at the end of the war, he told the House of Commons: ‘His
Majesty’s Government will never forget the debt they owe to the Polish troops who have served them so valiantly and to all those who have fought under our command. I earnestly hope it may be
possible to offer them citizenship
and freedom of the British Empire, if they so desire . . . But so far as we are concerned we should think it an honour to have such
faithful and valiant warriors dwelling among us as if they were men of our own blood.’

That ringing endorsement was largely ignored. The UK civil service, numerous organisations, unions and politicians, local and national, and even the military, were keen to repatriate the Poles
as fast as possible. Forced repatriation was used, but the UK authorities also employed more subtle methods, tactics extended to the Borders.

My grandfather told me that when the army’s top brass discovered that soldiers from the King’s Own Scottish Borderers were regular visitors to Winfield Camp they ordered Scots
servicemen to encourage the Poles to opt for early repatriation. The KOSB were well aware of what was happening on the ground in Poland under the harsh new Soviet regime. They knew no man returned
without consequences and many went back only to be branded traitors. Their fate was sometimes death or imprisonment. With this in mind, the Scots soldiers defied their orders and told the Poles
exactly what they knew, soldier to soldier. Some Poles did not believe it and returned to Poland anyway, homesickness outweighing the rumours and warnings. Whatever happened, there were no letters
received back in Berwickshire when the men left for Poland. Severe censorship meant it was many years before any record of what happened to them could be traced. Even then the information was
pitifully thin.

The idea that Scots soldiers could be used for political purposes, after all they had been through, seemed to my grandfather a slight on them as well as the Poles. It was very clear to him that
the politicians of the day knew precisely
what was going on in the Poles’ ravaged homeland. But for political expediency, the inconvenient truth about life in postwar
Poland was kept strictly under wraps while Stalin, who enjoyed the touchy-feely nickname of ‘Uncle Joe’ in the West, was promoted as the saviour of the Eastern bloc, not its oppressor.
It was because of this my grandfather hated the UK’s ex-Communist minister for labour and national service, Ernest Bevin, with a passion. When Jim bought his first television in the early
1960s, he would switch it off any time a Labour politician came on. He never trusted the Labour party or any member of the trades union again, believing that if they could sell out the Poles, they
could sell out the military. Yet he had come from the left.

Meanwhile, against this backdrop, proprieties were to be observed by duplicitous officials. There was a battalion of government officials, military advisers and local dignitaries checking on all
aspects of the men’s welfare. Even the bear had to be given his own medical MOT. Not unnaturally, among the bureaucrats there was confusion when Wojtek’s name appeared on the medical
list of the visiting doctor, but he knew exactly who Private Wojtek was and called in his friend the vet to give him an examination. State protocol required all the men be given adequate medical
attention since many had received wounds and injuries in their military activities; as a serving private, that courtesy extended to Wojtek, too.

Thus the men of 22nd Company found themselves walking something of a tightrope when it came to gaining acceptance within the community. Their officers were punctilious in ironing out any
problems which arose and did all they could to develop and cement good relations with the local movers and shakers. To be fair to the
Borders, many people liked and accepted
the Poles despite being woefully ignorant of their culture. The Poles, perforce, had to learn about the Scottish way of life irrespective of the language barrier and they quickly made up their
minds that most Borderers, if a bit reserved, were friendly folk who responded to their overtures. In this regard Wojtek proved a brilliant ambassador. His presence always broke down barriers.

To help fraternisation most rural areas established branches of the Scottish–Polish Society and Winfield Camp was no exception. They held regular functions, had special speakers brought in
to address them and they looked after the men’s welfare. At one of their meetings it was decided to make Wojtek, whom the newspapers had dubbed the world’s most famous bear, an honorary
life member. The motion having been passed, the meeting was adjourned so that a delegation could take him a bottle of beer to celebrate his elevation to the ranks of the good and the great.

True to form, Wojtek provided an unexpected finale to the event. Across the road from the camp – and, strictly speaking, out of bounds – was a pond where he had been playing with a
tyre, diving in and out of the water and batting it about. Tiring of the sport, he left the pond and leapt out onto the road, straight into the path of a lorry driving past the camp. Swerving
violently to avoid him, the shocked driver went nose-first into the pond. That, however, was the least of his worries. Seeing a large, curious bear approaching him, he jumped out of the cab and ran
for dear life. Wojtek loped after him. The terrified man, who turned out to be a German former POW, spotted a tree and began climbing it in the vain hope of escaping the bear’s
unwanted attentions. Naturally, Wojtek followed. He had never treed a man before and was enjoying this new game.

Man and bear climbed higher and higher, Wojtek snorting with enjoyment. With the sort of comic timing worthy of a Charlie Chaplin movie, the delegation, led by a kilted man holding a bottle of
beer, put in an appearance. The group stopped dead in its tracks at the spectacle. By sheer good fortune, Wojtek’s guardian Peter happened to be among their number and he immediately ordered
Wojtek to come down. With a last lingering look at his new playmate, the bear did as he was told.

Even though the odds of finding employment suitable to their talents were stacked against them, the Polish servicemen at Winfield Camp were excellent traders and quick to exploit any
opportunities that did arise. They bartered for additional foodstuffs and small luxuries like soap, trading cigarettes and vodka, the latter which they made in great secrecy in an illicit still.
Even today, more than 60 years on, former camp residents won’t admit openly that they had at least one still on the premises. They were surrounded by the natural ingredients they needed:
grains such as rye (which is used in traditional Polish vodka), wheat and corn. Other substitutes for the distillation process such as potatoes and potato peelings were also easily available and
even molasses (used in some animal feeds) were to be had – all coupled with wonderful, clear Scottish water.

Being a country area, there were many ways to get around the shortages quietly. It wasn’t exactly the highly organised black market that existed in urban areas, but if someone bagged a
brace of rabbits or netted a good-sized salmon from the river there were opportunities to trade for other commodities.

The camp cultivated its
The camp cultivated its own vegetable patch, which enabled the soldiers to create Polish dishes, much to their private relief. The Poles had
difficulty in coming to terms with Scottish cuisine. With the sea virtually on their doorstep, families had access to a regular supply of white fish. Because of that, fish suppers were part of the
area’s staple diet. Deep fried fish in batter was something the Poles, used to eating carp, had never encountered before. And, frankly, they found it inedible. Wojtek assuaged their guilt at
wasting food – a ‘crime’ of the first order – by gobbling up the abandoned fried fish.

Although rationing was still in existence, Berwickshire was a good place to be food-wise, for man and beast. A plentiful supply of eggs, milk and butter meant a great deal of home baking was
possible; the missing ingredient, of course, was sugar, although most homes had a good supply of honey which could be substituted. Sugar rationing continued for some time after the end of the war
so sweetened condensed milk was very popular. Soldier and home baker alike luxuriated in its intense sweetness and velvety consistency; it was as pleasing to the eye as to the palate. Once a tin
was opened, even the lid was carefully scraped of all residues. So precious was even one tin of sweetened condensed milk that Wojtek always was excluded from the secret moment when it was opened.
The men mixed the condensed milk with coffee, a concoction that amazed the locals as tea was the staple brew for the Scots. The Polish mixture was deemed foreign, but more than acceptable, and it
administered an almighty, and most welcome, kick. Wojtek, however, never got to experience the delicacy that was sweetened condensed milk – it was too highly prized to be shared with even a
popular bear. Besides, he had such a sweet tooth that if he had tasted it there was every possibility that he would have torn the camp apart in search of more.

As the months rolled on, a trickle of letters arrived from home. The much-longed-for mail did not always contain good news and much of it was censored. The destruction of so many towns and
cities in Poland during the war meant media communications were still limited and the men relied on family and friends for real news. Many personal and tragic stories unfolded.

When the post came, Wojtek, often aware of any change in his comrades’ mood, would sidle up to them and pretend to read the meagre pieces of paper in their hands. Used to constant
attention, he would normally expose his more childlike qualities in the form of a tantrum or a sulk if he was ignored. But when the letters arrived his behaviour changed. He would sit close beside
the recipient, offering the comfort of his great bulk. The letters often contained stories beyond all endurance. Relatives lost or dead, yet joy at finding that one sister or brother, or aunt who
had survived by some miraculous act of fate or by the courageous hand of some unknown stranger.

For those who had no good news, Wojtek was always there. Animals living with humans are able to read the emotional language of our bodies rather than the words we utter. And Wojtek instinctively
knew when a man needed the comfort of his presence. He just sat close and kept still.

The sight would have given any self-respecting water bailiff apoplexy: disporting himself in the River Tweed, one of the world’s most famous salmon-fishing rivers, was a
large and boisterous bear. Even those with the most rudimentary knowledge of such animals know that, when it comes to salmon, bears are killing machines.

At pre-war tariffs, taking a salmon beat for the season cost a small fortune equal to many an annual salary, and the river was rigorously patrolled to ensure non-permit holders and poachers
didn’t fish its waters. During the war the issuing of licences for the River Tweed was suspended and people fished freely for prime Scottish salmon to augment their food rations. However,
bailiffs and local ghillies really didn’t approve of uncontrolled fishing, whether netting or angling, and now that the war was over kept a close eye on fish stock levels. They weren’t
overly keen on exotic strangers like bears invading their domain, either. But the bear in question was Wojtek and he wasn’t interested in catching Scottish salmon, he was indulging himself in
his second-greatest passion (after food, of course) – the joys of messing about in the river.