Derna

Twenty four of us were marched off and told to get into a German truck, one of about 20 waiting on the road, our ride to Derna had started. About 100 miles over the desert road - the road that had been shelled by the Navy time out of number. The truck stopped once on the road and the German guard sitting with us in the back of the truck opened a tin of peaches and shared it with all of us. Just a tit-bit, but a good gesture!

Late in the evening, our truck entered Derna Pass. From the top we could see on our left, Derna drome, which bore the scars of RAF bombs,and the pile of wreckage proved that the bombs had found the target. As we turned in the pass, we stood up and looked out of the side of the lorry and at the bottom, I could see Derna itself, looking like a small sand model.There are about eight hairpin bends in the Derna Pass, for the road has been drilled out of a solid face of rock, and one false move by any driver could mean a crash over the side of the road to the bottom 1,600 feet below.

As we neared the bottom, we could see the wreckage of trucks and tanks whch had catapulted from the top. The town of Derna was not badly damaged, for, in the previous pushes, the British had bypassed the town owing to the fact that the mountain road was the only exit.

Just outside the town wall we arrived at the Arab cemetery and Derna fort. Right turn, found our truck in the cemetery, and among the graves sat prisoners like ourselves, surrounded by barbed wire. This was the initiation into our lives behind the wire.

At the entrance, we were handed over to the Italians! 'Presto, presto!' shouted the new guards and our entrance behind the wire was hurried by cracks across the back with the butt of a rifle. The only space behind the wire for us was a few square feet per man. On rough estimation, there were over 2,000 of us sitting in an area half the size of a football pitch, and we were hungry. How long would we be here? What and when would we eat? These were the questions we would be asking for months, perhaps years, and in time we should get apathetic and indifferent to life, not caring what happened to us. But we must remember we are members of the Bulldog Breed, not lap dogs!

After claiming my foot of ground, sitting down with my knees up to my chin; more prisoners were coming in, the guards bullying, and shouting 'Presto, presto, Inglese porki' - hurry, hurry, English pigs.

Pigs - ah, I guess we should be called worse before long. But who is this outside the wire? It looks as thought it might be the German Pathetone news. About six Germans all armed with cameras were shooting pictures of the English and colonial troops, and alongside them the Italians were doing likewise. At first, the reaction of the lads was to turn their backs on them, but German cunning came to the forefront, and when cigarettes and chocolates were thrown over the wire, hundreds of men made a mad stampede for the prize. What a photograph! In Germany, I could see the film caption: 'Starving English soldiers from Tobruk rush for chocolate'! After hundreds of men had fought for the spoils, I could see the victors brandishing their smokes or chocolate, whilst the vanquished walked back to his foot of ground, holding a black eye or a bleeding nose. What an exhibition!

This exhibition soon caused a feeling of remorse to come over the men, thus many turned the battery of cameras once again. Smiling, and with fingers showing the 'V'-sign, they stood. The shooting of films ceased, and revolvers were drawn, guttural shouting started, and bullets found their way into some of the chaps. Several fell to the ground, mortally wounded, they had insulted the Fuhrer and Il Duce!

For that we should not eat, and for two more days we did not have that pleasure.