Derna II

No food for nearly four days, men were becoming weak and sick,two had committed suicide, one by cutting his throat with a jacknife, the other attempted to jump over the wire, only to be shot in the stomach by an Italian guard.

Late that evening, we heard that the Italians were taking us to Bengasi next morning. It was obvious that all of us could not be taken in one batch. 2,000 prisoners was a lot of human cargo and dozens of lorries would be required to transport us, but as yet, we did not know the Italians.

It was now dark, and as always the desert night was cold. Sleep evaded so many of us, for it was necessary to keep an eye open just in case the Italians did decide to feed us in the middle of the night. Sleep, did I say? No room to stretch, no blankets, just the rocky ground for a pillow, and my leg was painful. I had managed to take out four pieces of shrapnel, but there were still a few pieces still remaining. The field dressing I had put on in Tobruk was still quite alright, and I knew that no Florence Nightingale would be round to dress it, tonight or any night!

At dawn, I noticed a queue of men at the exit of the compound; although half-awake I jumped up quickly and fell backwards, for my leg was now very painful. I sat up for a few moments, put my hand on my leg, only to find I had no feeling in it. It was numb.I panicked -had I got gangrene? I undid the bandage, the pain made me moan for a few seconds. A few minutes later I could feel my leg again. I realised what had happened - the bandage on my leg had been tied too tight.

After collecting my thoughts and picking up my haversack, I walked over to join the end of the queue at the gate, my watch said it was 6.15am.

We stood for eight hours, then the first batch moved out, and as the first men passed the guards, they were issued with one large biscuit and a small tin of Italian bully beef, which was to last until Bengasi was reached after 13 hours truck ride, and to crown it all, every man had to stand.Fifty men in the lorry, fifty in the trailer - indeed, human cargo!

I managed to get out of that nightmare - late in the afternoon,and by then the men were frantic - many had been knocked out by the rough handling of the Italian guards who had used rifle butts on their heads with great accuracy. The lads just had to get past that gate for then they could get a morsel to eat.

Another hundred of us were out, the lorry was waiting and we climbed on board. Many of us sat down, only to be told to stand. We had more on board when 20 got on but still the guard told more to mount. Another load of Inglese were ready for transportation to Bengasi.

We were off! The diesel engine of the lorry echoed over the stilness of the desert. We all swayed as one man as the lorry turned its way westwards. One hour, two hours, and still we went on, on, on, the fumes from the engine were making men sick and as they tried to put thier heads over the side of the lorry to vomit, the evening wind of the Scirocco just sprayed the 'matter' all over us. How petrifying, but who cared? The guard sitting on top of the cab just laughed! It was during this ride to Bengasi that I developed a terrible toothache and abscess. My leg was throbbing with pain and before reaching our destination, was delirious with pain - but nobody paid any attention. Every man had his own particular troubles now, and one could not call for Dr Jones!

Our journey had one amusing incident! The lorries stopped at Cyrene, which is on the coast road between Derna and Bengasil. Another lorry had caught us up since we had left Derna. We all hoped this stop was for food, gut it was to change over the guards. While this was being done, an Italian officer complete in uniform - for the bedroom - pyjamas and dressing gown, his army cap on his head - came running out, brandishing a revolver, threatening to shoot any of us who dare speak while the lorry was in his town. After shouting at us for a few minutes, the lads started laughing, for it was indeed funny to see an officer in this attire, holding his hand like a naughty boy. As the truck moved on again,the Fascists who had been standing around watching booed and shouted at us. In reply, we, like Tommy Tucker, would have sung for our supper.

So that was Cyrene. As the lorry moved on with two new guards to watch us - two dirty Senussi Arabs - I remembered the story of the man of Cyrene in the scriptures who carried the cross of our Lord. It was up to me during the coming months or years to bear my cross of hardships,pain and tribulation, for the reward would be to return home again to loved ones.

The present position was that I was standing in this lorry, it was now getting cold and dark. An hour ago, a man had fallen off the lorry, and its wheels had passed over him,but the lorry just sped on, the exhaust fumes still making us feel ill. Perhaps that lad had not been killed, he was, maybe, lying on the desert road, unable to move because of his injuries, hoping that the white horse of death would soon arrive and take him off.