Metz, France
Support Unit (SU) Metz

Appendix "C"

On the second weekend before Christmas, three RCAF trucks rolled out through the gates of No. 4 Fighter Wing. They were loaded with more than 15 tons of used clothing, toys and food – donated by the 6,000 personnel, their families and associated civilians, of Canada’s NATO Air Division.

Their destination, Vienna, Austria, and Hungarian refugee camps in the surrounding area.

In a specially civilianized staff car, we caught up with the truck convoy at the American Rest Hotel at Chiemsee, about 60 miles past Munich on the Autobahn. There, we had the RCAF markings on the trucks painted over, and early the next morning set out for the Austro-German border near Salzburg. The German and Austrian guards greeted us cordially and, being sympathetic with our mission, facilitated our passage into Austria. All 11 members of our party were in civilian clothes.

Director of Red Cross Hungarian Relief in Austria is Mr. Raymond T Shaeffer, an able, tireless man in his late forties, who was formerly assistant to the President of the American Red Cross. In his conversation with us, Mr. Shaeffer emphasized the great need that existed for help for the 160,000 (at that time) refugees who had escaped across the border into Austria. He underlined the fact that 75,000 of these people were still in this small country which was doing a fantastic job, but one that was, of necessity, falling far short of the requirement. He was warm and sincere in his thanks for what the Canadian Air Division was going to help.

The next morning, the convoy drove south towards Wiener Neustadt. It consisted of the staff car, a massive semi-trailer and two stake trucks. We had been directed by the Red Cross to drop off eight tons of supplies at the Canadian camp in the Artillery Kaserne, five tons to the Finnish camp, three kilometers down the road, and the remainder to the British camp, about 10 kilometers away.

We followed the two large buses into the Canadian camp and as we pulled to a stop saw haggard refugees stumbling out of the buses, carrying children and with their few possessions in battered suitcases or done up in large handkerchiefs. They looked dazed but happy that they were on their way to the New World.

Mr. Ruben Baetz, young, energetic and obviously capable, greeted us in his stark, furniture-free "office" when was a bedlam of pleading refugees, decision-asking Red Cross people, and helpful Austrians during the entire time we were there. Mr. Baetz with six women Red Cross workers is running what IRC officials rate the most efficient refugee camp in Austria. The Canadians accomplish this by the simple expedient of working an average 16 hours day, seven days a week.

Despite the turmoil, Baetz took time out to personally guide us around his camp. The Artillery Kaserne was the pride of the Austrian Army during the Second World War. But that was a long time ago. The Allies bombed many of the buildings out of existence and when the Russian occupation forces left, they took everything movable with them.

The Red Cross was faced with a ramshackle collection of battered buildings, only three of which could possibly be rehabilitated. And in these there were no heat, toilets, windows and not a stick of furniture. In a couple of weeks, they had new windows, "privies" and a heating plant installed, a makeshift kitchen and were putting up rudely-built wooden beds.

When we arrived, the camp was in a state of chaotic efficiency. Refugees were arriving by the scores without warning and somehow or other the small Canadian Red Cross group was managing to get them settled down with minimum of fuss and bother.

First, the escapees are allotted ration cards that entitle them to blankets, a dish and a tin spoon. They are then assigned barracks. Family groups are billeted together, single men and women in bunk-bed dormitories.

The camp can’t afford the luxury of mattresses, so the refugees are handed burlap sacks which they fill with straw. Walking through barracks, you have the impression you are in a stable.

However, within a short time the Hungarians have their temporary homes brightened with wild flowers, pictures cut out of old magazines, crucifixes and the few children’s toys with which they were able to scrape.

Food is cooked in mammoth soup pots, transferred to buckets by a huge ladle and spooned into the Hungarians bowls, which they shove through a slot at the front of the kitchen. The refugees queue up, sometimes a hundred deep, for their meals. There is no dining room, and when they have their bowls full, they walk back to their quarters, about 40 yards away, and eat in their rooms.

The menu has an unmistakable sameness about it, day after day – goulash, goulash and more goulash, interspersed with the odd meal of salt pork and beans. There is a ration of dark bread, and children receive an adequate supply of milk.

We ate a meal with the refugees and found the goulash excellent. It is highly spiced, particularly with paprika which the Hungarians love, and you hear no grumbling about the food from the camp inmates.

The monotony of the food parallels the monotony of the daily life in the Kaserne. There is little or nothing to do, other than wait and wonder when you will start on the long journey to Canada.

Baetz has an almost unlimited labour supply, as practically all the men are eager to work to show their gratitude to the Canadian group for what they have done for them. Within moments after we arrived, a band of Hungarians was hard at work, helping our drivers unload the semi-trailer.

According to the Camp Director, the supplies couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. They had very little in their warehouse and, by the next day, refugees were at work prying our cases open. We were there at the time, and it was a treat to the ears to hear them exclaim over the quality and quantity of the Canadian donations. Baetz volunteered the opinion that the Air Force clothing was in better condition and cleaner than any other contribution they had received. And he was also grateful for the efficient manner in which the Air Division supply staffs had carefully sorted the clothing and marked the contents of the crates in three languages – English, German and Hungarian. It saved a great deal of valuable time for the hard-pressed Red Cross workers.

Within a few days of our visit, 600 of the refugees in the Kaserne were scheduled to leave for Canada via Genoa. Baetz assured us that many would be wearing the Air Division gifts, and as a matter of fact, before we left, RCAF trousers and raincoats were becoming conspicuous around the camp. One Hungarian youth was proudly marching around in a black leather wind-breaker with a No. 4 Wing crest on the back.

The food was also appreciated, as it would give some variety to the humdrum menus, and provide much-needed canned milk and fruit for the younger children. One Hungarian had never before seen bouillon cubes, which 2 Fighter Wing had sent by the case. Baetz had quite a time explaining that all you had to do was pour hot water on them and you had nourishing soup. When he finally got it across, the Hungarian was delighted.

Our next port of call was the Finnish camp, and there we ran into the same enthusiastic welcome. The camp director, however, kept thinking that it was an error; he couldn’t get it through his head that the Canadian Air Force wanted to help a Finnish camp. But he didn’t argue, and in a few moments, our truck was backed up to the warehouse and being unloaded.

Most of the refugees in this camp were being processed for the United States. While we were waiting for our truck we were introduced to a group of reporters and photographers from Boston, New York and Washington. When they heard what we were doing, and how much had been donated by such a relatively small outfit, they immediately scratched out notes for stories. One photographer from National Geographic Magazine took a series of photographs of the unloading and requested that we provide him with a complete story; which, of course, we did.

The British camp was a former Luftwaffe barracks and was much the poorest of the three we saw. The British Red Cross team was cheerful and cordial, but even more overworked than the Canadians. One woman, in her fifties, told us that she was up every morning by 7:00 am and rarely got to bed before 1:00 am.

The camp director, Mr. George Bolton, referred to our donation as a "God-Send" and took us to the warehouse, where we saw that all that remained were a few dilapidated cardboard boxes of usable clothing. Lines of Hungarians soon formed outside the warehouse in hopes of receiving a share of this unexpected bonanza.

Wherever we went in the three camps, we were besieged with questions about Canada. Usually, the questioners could speak only a few words of English or French, but they managed to convey their enthusiasm for and curiosity about our country. In the British camp there were 110 Hungarians whose only desire was to get to Canada.

While at the Canadian camp, one of the Red Cross women had mentioned that they had a big problem obtaining carrying bags. By the time the refugees were ready to leave for Canada they had accumulated a few belongings but had nothing in which to carry them. It occurred to us that Air Force type kit bags would be ideal so we put in a call to A/C Clements in Metz and within hours 4 Fighter Wing had been authorized to purchase more than $500.00 worth of kit bags.

The next day we worked on arrangements for the arrival of the Bristol freighter which would bring in some of the new goods purchased in England with part of the $30,000 we had collected. At the same time, we attempted to make arrangements to go down to the Austro-Hungarian border to see the entire operation from the time the refugees crossed into free territory. We wanted to do this so that we would be able to report on the entire operation from beginning to end.

As members of a military force, we knew it would be difficult to obtain permission. However, our good friend, by now, Mr. Shaeffer, came up with a solution. We were made temporary members of the Red Cross, equipped with Red Cross armbands, and provided with a Red Cross car and escorts in their grey Red Cross uniforms.

Our guides were Mrs. Marguerite Wilson, Information Officer for the Quebec chapter of the Canadian Red Cross, and Mr. A Batten, of Hamilton, also an executive with the CRC, both of whom were on loan to the League of Red Cross Societies.

The mud was ankle deep along the roadside and the heavy mist was raw and penetrating.

Andau is an overnight stop for the escapees and it is not a very pleasant one, other than the fact that they are at least out of strife-torn Hungary.

When we entered the gasthaus, operated by the Austrian government, we saw a large, cement floored room, with a high raftered ceiling, garish open lights hanging down, and furnished only with a few rough hewn benches and empty beer barrels. Heat was supplied by one pot-bellied wood stove at one end of the room, plus the human heat of the people.

Straw had been strewn around the perimeter of the room and refugees were sleeping the sleep of the dead on it, crowded body-to-body. Those who had not been fortunate enough to get space on the straw were sitting vacant-eyes, faces grimy, clothes mud-caked, looking into space. Others, too tired to sit up, were curled against door jambs, or stretched out on the bare, cold concrete, sleeping, oblivious to the glare of the overhead light or dampness of the floor.

We talked, through a Red Cross interpreter, to one woman in her early twenties who had walked 35 kilometers that day carrying her husky year-old baby in her arms, and with a five year-old boy tugging at her skirt. The woman was dressed in clothes that we would throw in the rag-bag, and on her feet she was wearing old soccer shoes, with string for laces. Her cotton stockings and lower skirt were soaking wet and covered in mud. A face that with makeup would have been pretty was grey and haggard, the lips as white as chalk.

We learned that the boy had been handed over to her by his parents. For some reason they could not get away and asked that she get the boy to freedom. He sat all night, holding back tears, obviously tired, but refusing to go to sleep in the hope that his mother and father would arrive. We came back to Andau at 4:30 am and he was still keeping his flickering eyes open. His parents had still not shown up.

Despite the language problem we learned of many other harrowing experiences. One man, leaning against the door jamb, nervously chain-smoking, told us he had been separated from his wife and young daughter by Russian gunfire and he had escaped into Austria two weeks previous. First he waited at the reception center and then started the rounds at the refugee camps, vainly seeking his family. Now, he had returned at Andau and intended to stay every night in the hope that his wife and daughter would somehow get through.

Another young Hungarian told us about his escape. After the revolution failed, he and his fiancée were imprisoned by the Russians. They were held for a week and then turned over to the Hungarian secret police who interrogated them in a fiendish manner. His fiancée had been driven insane, so, knowing her could do nothing more for her, he made a break and managed to escape.

Two nights prior to our visit, Mrs. Wilson, of the Red Cross, had been at Andau, and had been astonished to see a fifty-year-old man come hopping in the door without legs or crutches. He had lost one leg above the knee and one just below. Despite this handicap, he had made a 17 kilometer walk through the woods to the border, with the aid of nothing but a short, foot-high stick. While the condition of his stumps was appalling, Mrs. Wilson was amazed by his cheerful attitude.

We also learned from Red Cross workers of another woman who escaped, then went back into Hungary when she found that her 16 and 18 year old sons had not made it. Both boys had been active in the rebellion and had been captured by the Russians. Ordered deported to a Soviet concentration camp, the boys were rescued from a Russian truck by an entire village who surrounded it. The mother escaped at the same time but when she learned that her sons were still with friends in Hungary, she made her way back and personally guided them to Austria.

There is no running water in the "reception center". In the alley at the back is a barrel of water. When the refugees arrive they use this water to wash the grime from their faces and hands, and the mud from their boots. You see them standing around in groups, propped up so they can scrape the thicker layers of mud from their boots with sticks. The escapees consider their boots their prize possessions because with good footwear they can walk considerable distances.

Even more shocking, there is only one crude toilet for the hundreds of refugees in the reception center.

In the shack at the back of the dancehall is a canteen, run by a team of elderly German and Italian Red Cross ladies, 12 hours on and 12 hours off. These old women hand out mugs of coffee and watery hot chocolate with black bread and cheese sandwiches. The refugees who are not too tired to eat, wolf down the sandwiches.

Twenty yards to the rear of the reception center is an old schoolhouse that has been requisitioned by the Austrian government to provide slightly better facilities for the Hungarian women with babies and the expectant mothers. Canvas camp-cots line the walls of the small school room. Here a single British Red Cross nurse, Miss Hopkins, works timelessly.

Miss Hopkins is in her sixties and her deeply lined face betrays the arduous workload she carries. When asked, she told us that she had had only three hours sleep in the past three days. The reason was plain when we looked around the room.

On the cots were babies and working over them were one or two Hungarian women. Almost all the babies are drugged by their parents or sympathetic doctors for the escape journey to prevent them from crying and giving their position away to the Russian and Hungarian police patrols.

Often, the parents overestimate the dose required and under Miss Hopkins direction the mothers must work all night, rubbing the limbs and slapping the faces of the infants. They permit the babies only ten minutes sleep an hour, and once an hour, strip them and douse them with cold water. In this way, the drug is worked out of the system. At least one infant has failed to come around.

It is a pathetic and moving sight to see these women, some on the verge of collapse themselves, slapping their babies whose only desire it to go to sleep.

The escapees arrive at Andau from the canal bank in two old Volkswagen buses that shuttle back and forth over probably the world’s worst road.

We were offered a ride down to the canal in one of the buses and it was one to remember. Operated by Swiss and Hungarian students, the buses have had the rear seats removed so that 17 refugees can be "sardined" in at a time. Going down the bus was empty and we jolted, dipped, careened our way along with heads thudding with the roof every few feet. The seven kilometer run takes a half-hour that seems like ten.

Suddenly the headlights cut through the gloom and drizzle and danced over a narrow stretch of water. Silhouetted briefly on the other side, we saw a group of refugees waiting to come across.

Here the bus turns around on the crest of the small hill overlooking the canal. We learned for the first time that at this point the Hungarian border arcs back about 75 feet inside the canal. The vehicles, sticking to the letter of the law, wait for the Hungarians at the brow of the hill.

We, of course, went down to the canal bank. It was about 1 a.m.

Low fog hung over the canal and a fine rain soon drenched us. We were warmly dressed in flying boots, sweaters and double layers of clothing, but we were cold.

Across the canal, which at this point is only 100 feet across, we could dimly make out the darkish blob that was a refugee group, sheltered somewhat by high bushes. About 30 yards down their side of the bank was a tall lookout tower. A Swiss Red Cross worker who was with us spoke Hungarian and he called across the canal in a low, sheltered voice a question as to whether there were Hungarian guards in the tower.

The whispered reply was obvious to us all. "Yah, there were soldats in the tower."

We stood in a close knot for a few moments waiting for something to happen. After all, we were only observers. Then, it dawned on us that something was wrong. There was no movement across the canal.

Our Swiss guide determined from the Hungarians that the boats had stopped operating some 15 minutes previous. We searched the bank for the boat and the Red Cross worker hacked down a tall sapling to probe the shoreline. A Hungarian youth who was with us tried wading out in an attempt to hook a raft that was stranded in mid-stream, but the water was too deep.

Vainly seeking the boat, we had a feeling of utter frustration. There were the refugees a scant 30 yards away; we could hear the children whimpering, and occasionally a hastily muffled cry. And there we were – helpless to assist them.

Although the canal is not too wide, it is deep. And on that particular night, it was bitter cold. Some refugees have tried swimming across but it is a risky business. We were told of one family that had made the attempt, with the father carrying their baby. The mother and father made it all right but the bay was drowned on the way across.

Just as we were about to give up hope, two youths materialized out of the gloom. One was an American, who had temporarily given up his studied at a European University, and the other was a teen-aged Hungarian boy scout. They went immediately to a clump of bushes well behind us and dragged out a small two-man rubber dinghy.

They had been operating the boat across the canal this night, just as they had on many nights before, but had left for a few moments to get warm.

Within moments, we were helping them to get the dinghy into the water and playing out a long length of rope as the American paddled his way across the canal. The rope was twice the width of the canal and with it were able to operate a fairly fast shuttle.

The first load was three children, one a baby. Slipping in the greasy mud of the canal bank, we reached down and pulled the baby on shore. It had been drugged, and, being well bundled, seemed peacefully oblivious to the human drama in which it was participating. The young children were covered in muck, their teeth clattering with the cold. We did our best to keep them warm under our coats.

There were more children, then the women, some frantic with worry about their children. Many tears were shed as mothers were reunited with their youngsters.

The refugees were a mixed bag as far as dress was concerned. Some were not too badly attired at all. A few of the women, knowing they couldn’t take much along, decided to wear their Sunday best, and it was an incongruous sight to see a middle-aged woman squishing up the canal bank in a sequined, satin dress, with a mud and thorn covered bush jacket over it.

Many refugees had rags tied around their shoes to help keep the water out, and some wore three or four layers of clothing for warmth and also to give them a little start when they started life anew in the free world.

Few refugees had suitcases. The majority carried only sacks or string bags. One woman with three young children under the age of seven had nothing but a string bag tied to her wrist so that she could tend her brood. She had shepherded them all the way from Budapest and just as she was pulled from the dinghy, on free territory at last, the string bag broke, and all her worldly possessions cascaded into the mud.

They consisted of a few black bread sandwiches, a couple of pairs of socks, a child’s shawl, a small religious statue and a tiny stuffed doll. When she saw what had happened she burst out crying and hugged her children to her. We did our best to restore the articles to the family.

This episode and many like it brought forcibly home to us the incredible courage of these people. We tried to picture ourselves giving up everything we had worked and saved for, except what we could carry, then striking out with our children to run the gamut of Russian soldiers, border guards, and police patrols through swamp and bush country, to escape to an almost unknown new world. We came to the obvious conclusion that whatever motivated them must have been very compelling indeed.

One woman had managed to sell most of her belongings before she left and had her sweater stuffed with Hungarian money. On learning that it was next to worthless in Austria she at first looked dismayed, then brightened and said, "Well, at least I’m free".

Being foggy, it was a fairly heavy night for refugee traffic. There is very little activity on the clear nights because Communist patrols set off flares along the border. The escapees are either driven back by shots over their heads, or picked up and deported to the East. Consequently, the Hungarians hide out in tall brush or in barns along the route. Refugees tell of many poor Hungarian farmers close to the border who share their food and homes with escapees every night.

About 3:30 in the morning we had a startling experience. We reached down in the darkness to pull out of the boat not a refugee, but a uniformed, armed Hungarian soldier. As we were on Hungarian territory at the time, this was a disconcerting development.

As the men came ashore, we had been giving them cigarettes and we did the same with the soldier. We soon learned through our interpreter that he was engaged in helping the refugees escape. He, himself, intended to cross over eventually but he wanted to remain at his post as long as possible to assist others. Each night he made one trip across the canal to cadge a cigarette.

After a few moments of smiling conversation, he pinched his cigarette, tucked the butt into the pocket of his quilted tunic, and stepped back into the dinghy for the return ride. As he disappeared into the mist, we wondered whether he would be able to estimate correctly the critical point at which he had to make his escape before his anti-Communist acts became known to his superiors. We sincerely hoped so.

One Hungarian youth bounced ashore with a grin from ear to ear. He had obviously been keeping his strength up with the aid of a bottle of Slivovitz. He clasped us in his arms and proceeded to demonstrate, pointing his fingers like a gun and ducking behind rocks, how he had dispatched 10 Russian soldiers. We quickly bundled him off to the waiting Volkswagen for fear that his colorful antics would attract less friendly soldiers than our previous guest.

It was 4:00 a.m. when the trickle of refugees stopped. It was still dark but faint fingers of dawn could be seen on the Hungarian horizon. For the first time we began to feel weary, and decided it was time to leave.

We bounced our way down the "World’s Worst Road" and stopped once again at the Andau reception center.

The influx of refugees had completely swamped the limited facilities at the dancehall. We had to push our way into the hall. There was simply no room to sit down, let alone sleep. All around us were the same blank, heavily creased faces of utter exhaustion.

One young couple, to keep awake, were reading poetry to each other in turn from a well-thumbed book.

Three old ladies, whom we had helped out of the canal hours earlier, elbowed their way to us and one, who spoke excellent English, pleaded with us to help them get a barrel on which to sit. They didn’t expect a place to sleep; merely something on which to sit. They had heavy bundles strung to their wrists and we could see the string cutting into them.

We sought out the camp supervisor, who by that time looked as depressed and weary as the refugees, but she patiently explained that it was impossible to attempt to organize the available accommodation. This was our first experience, she realistically contended, but she had to face these tragic situations night after night. It was dreadful, she agreed, but nothing could be done about it. Many of the men who had sitting space had walked twice as far as the old women and were at least as tired. Who was to say which ones most deserved a seat?

As we returned to the three old ladies, we saw this look of hope drain from their faces as they read the decision in ours. However, one of us searched around and found three old Cigarillos in an inside pocket. We went to three men who were squatting on barrels, heads hung over in utter fatigue, and by gestures got across our offer of the small cigars in exchange for the barrels for the old ladies. They discussed it for a moment and then agreed.

As we left the Andau reception center, the three old ladies were contentedly perched on their barrels and the three men were puffing happily on their cigars.

It was daylight by the time we got back to our Vienna hotels, and after a short nap, we resumed our work on the arrangements for the aircraft’s entry into Austria.

Because we had made bulk purchases of new goods in England, the League of Red Cross Societies requested that we turn over the aircraft’s load to the Central Depot in Vienna, for distribution to refugee camps all over Austria. They pointed out that it was unlikely that any one camp could use the entire shipment of 1000 dozen diapers immediately, and that these very necessary gadgets were in short supply everywhere.

It was another foggy day when the Bristol Freighter landed at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport. Mr. William Barton, new First Secretary of the Canadian Embassy, and Miss Mary Dunlop, Second Secretary were on hand to welcome aircraft captain F/L Charles Thrasher, of 30 AMB, and his crew.

Two large International Red Cross trucks, white with red markings, backed up to the open nose jaws of the Bristol and seven Austrian soldiers helped the crewmen unload it. In addition to the diapers, the shipment included blankets, children’s underclothing, and kit bags picked up at No. 4 Fighter Wing.

When the Bristol was unloaded and the trucks on their way to the depot, we ran the staff car up a ramp and into the aircraft, and started the return journey.

But that isn’t the end of the story. Since that time, a second Bristol has landed at Vienna with another four tons of new clothing, diapers and blankets, and there is still more to come. As we write this, plans are being made for another truck convoy to Austria, containing both new and used materials.

We have also learned that the American student with whom we worked on the canal, has been captured by the Communists, and there are rumours that he has been executed.

The story is far from over; refugees are still crossing the border, living in squalor, requiring food, shelter, clothing and care. Many individuals and groups in 1 Air Division recognize this continuing need and are acting accordingly.

Signed by:

(ES Light) W/C
SORA (P)

(WM Lee) S/L
SOPR