Prodding German Soldiers With Sticks In A Local POW Camp. How My Dad And Uncle Turned The Tide Of World War II.

Let me begin by stating, for the historical record, that my Dad and Uncle were not officially listed among the Allied High Command’s top strategic masterminds.

This is because the Allied High Command, in its typical bureaucratic fashion, insisted on “formal military training” and “actual participation in major battles,” whereas my Dad and Uncle specialised in a lesser‑known but clearly decisive theatre of operations: the local POW camp behind the allotments, where they heroically prodded captured German soldiers with sticks.Now, some historians  the picky ones  will claim this activity did not technically alter the course of the war. But these historians were not there. They did not witness the sheer psychological impact of two determined British lads armed with sticks, a sense of duty, and absolutely no adult supervision.According to family legend, the POW camp was guarded by a single man named Cyril, whose primary qualification was owning a hat that looked vaguely authoritative. Cyril’s approach to security was what experts call “relaxed,” meaning he spent most of his shift smoking and complaining about the price of beer. 

This left my Dad and Uncle free to conduct what they proudly referred to as Special Operations, which consisted of approaching the fence, poking sticks through it, and shouting things like “Oi! Fritz! Surrender properly!”The German soldiers, who by this point were thoroughly done with the war and mostly wanted a cup of tea, responded with the weary politeness of men who had been shouted at by actual artillery. They would raise their hands and say, “Bitte, stop poking,” which only encouraged my Dad and Uncle further, because nothing motivates a British child like being told not to do something.

My grandmother, upon discovering this extracurricular military campaign, marched down to the camp and informed Cyril that if he didn’t keep an eye on her boys, she would personally report him to “the council, the police, and possibly the vicar.” Cyril promised to be more vigilant, then immediately went back to moaning about the price of Beer.

But here’s the thing: my Dad and Uncle genuinely believed they were turning the tide of World War II. They had seen newsreels. They had heard Churchill’s speeches. They knew Britain needed heroes. And while they couldn’t fly Spitfires or command tanks, they could jab a stick at a German corporal until he sighed heavily and walked away.And isn’t that the essence of British wartime spirit? Doing what you can, with what you have, even if what you have is a stick and a questionable grasp of international conflict.

Years later, when asked about their contribution to the war effort, my Dad would say, “Well, we kept morale up.” My Uncle would add, “And we kept Fritz on his toes.” Neither man ever admitted that the German soldiers were probably more amused than intimidated, but that’s not the point. The point is that in their minds — and therefore in family history — they were instrumental.So yes, while generals planned campaigns and nations clashed, two boys in a Northumberland POW camp were carrying out their own mission: ensuring the enemy never forgot that Britain was watching. 

Even if Britain was only about five feet tall and holding a stick.