The Durhams D-Day Diary, Sgt Charles Eagles, 9th Battalion Durham Light Infantry: Part 7: How four Durhams without rifles captured 100 armed Germans.

THE tables had been turned. Four of us - members of the Durham Light Infantry - had survived a massacre at Lingvres only to be taken prisoner by the Germans. But during the night, our captors had discovered that they were cut off, surrounded, and that, if we didn't mind, they would like to surrender to us. All 100 of them!

Now we had to get all 100 of them back behind our lines without being shot by our own boys.

We resolved that the safest way to walk through the no-man's land to the British lines was if I and the German major took the lead, followed two or three yards behind by Corporal "Woodie" Wood accompanied by the Panzer tank commander. A German corporal and our private would bring up the rear, and we'd leave the rest of the Germans - the other 97 or so - dug safely in their wood until we could come back for them.

I still wasn't too happy with the plan, and the German major - politely spoken with an English education - read my mind. "Perhaps if I give you my pistol," he said in his perfect English, "that would show my intentions are honourable."

As he handed it over, I think we all found this surrender rather embarrassing.

I tucked the pistol between my belt and tunic top (how I wish I had kept it, but I later swapped it with a Canadian for some cigarettes - and I've never smoked), and he held out his hand.

After 60 years, I cannot recall precisely what he said, but it was something like: "I wish you luck that you may come through this conflict unharmed."

With that, in formation, we set off down a track to a minor road and headed for the nearest village. It was probably only half-a-mile, but it seemed like ten. It was a harrowing journey, me side-by-side with a German major and sporadic firing in the distance.

We came to a crossroads where the British were dug in. I could see them in their slit trench, a light machine gun resting on top of it and pointing straight at us. My heart was pounding as they spotted us and lined up their Bren guns on us.

We continued walking steadily, no sudden movements, but hoping against hope that they'd spot our light-coloured flag - it was supposed to be a white flag of surrender but all we could find between us was a dirty vest.

"Hold your fire," I bellowed. "Make way for the Durhams."

A thick Scottish voice yelled back: "You could be bloody Germans."

Woodie fired back: "Don't be so bloody daft, Jock."

"Get an officer down here now," I shouted, getting more and more concerned as these lads were rather wild-eyed and may well have discovered a bottle of the local tipple, Calvados.

Fortunately, a lieutenant appeared. I told him our story and the German major confirmed it. It was agreed that Woodie and I would return with four men and bring back the rest of the Panzer men.

Before I left, I walked over to the major and said: "I am sure you will be treated with respect for the way you have treated my men." I unashamedly gave him a salute out of utter respect.

As I walked passed the Panzer corporal, I squeezed his arm and nodded. "Good luck," I said. He smiled.

We retraced our steps and were astonished to find the Panzer Lehr men, three platoons of Germany's crack troops, ready assembled. God! When I saw how many there were, I nearly died. I hadn't even got a rifle - and neither had Woodie.

He led this long line of 100 or so Germans towards captivity and I brought up the rear. Everything went like clockwork. Most seemed pleased that it was all over for them and they were still alive.

The whole operation took one-and-a-half hours. We reached the British lines and stopped, and our prisoners just carried on walking into captivity.

It was extraordinary.

As they disappeared, Woodie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Four members of the 9th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry, without a rifle or even a knife or fork between them, had taken prisoner 100 armed Germans.

Looking back from the distance of 60 years, I now see that in the course of those one-and-a-half hours we had become veterans ourselves; me at the ripe old age of nineteen-and-a-half, Woodie a more mature 28.

I would never be the same man again. I had matured, and I walked tall.

Adapted by Chris Lloyd

* Tomorrow: Part 8: Drink