Late in August, 3,000 of us had the order to move, thus we had visions of Italian vineyards, letters from home, Red Cross parcels and water, water, water. Ah, the thought that we could use water ad lib.
It was a very strong rumour that we were to be sent to Italy the next day and we knew that not until we arrived in an officially recognised prison camp could we write or receive letters. We had been prisoners now for over three months, those at home had no doubt received the War Office telegram, 'Missing, believed Prisoner of War'.
It was in the early hours of the morning when we marched out of Bengasi camp. March? Crawl was more like the operative word. A long, slow march, every step a terrible effort, and on arrival at the Cathedral Mole where we were told we could not go on board the ship until it had been unloaded. In the harbour, we could see the torn hull of a giant cargo ship, another on its side belching forth a German Panzer from the hold which was now under water. There it was rusting away, useless to the German Reich.
Our hope was that the RAF did not decided to bomb the Mole while we were there, because we would not stand a dog's chance.
For hours we sat on that quay, waiting to get away on board that ship. It was an Italian merchantman, Stella dalla Mare; Star of the Sea, by name. When the last box of ammo was unloaded, the guards led the first prisoners on board and at the first hatch, told them to climb over the top into the hold and climb to the bottom. Soon, the shouts of 'Presto!' were rending the stillness of the afternoon as the guards prodded the lads over the top.
At last it was time to go over. A ladder stretched down to the bottom, four decks down into the bowels of the ship. With Dutch courage, I climbed over the top and started climbing down, down, down; it seemed endless. The bottom at last. I looked around; it was so gloomy. I could hardly see a thing. 'Get off my bloody feet, mate,' says a voice. My eyes get accustomed to the gloom and I can see the conditions are like those at Derna camp, just enough room to sit down with knees up under my chin.
As the holds began to fill up, the heat became oppressive, and those men with dysentery could not climb the ladder owing to weakness, so just had to relieve themselves on the spot. When we had been below deck for about three hours, the smell became almost unbearable, and we should perhaps be here for two or three days. On the evening tide, the engines burst into life and one was reminded of a poem learned at school:
He saw the ocean liner ploughing the foam,
Saw her decks - heard the thrash of her screw,
He heard the passengers talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew
Saturday, July 12, 2008
During August, we found our rations were being cut to three loaves between five men, three cigs between five men and a number of senior NCO's demanded an interview with the Italian commandant. He saw them and explained that no cut had been made by the Italians and it was up to those NCO's present to make their own investigations.
The climax was reached a few days later, when late one evening, two Sergeant Majors in charge of rations were seen walking from the ration tent carrying a large wooden box apiece. As they walked towards a group of NCO's who had been shouting to them to hurry because they were hungry, it appears the investigating NCO's realised the Sergeant Majors were going with these boxes to the shouting group, so they acted quickly, tripped up the two SM's, and as they fell to the ground, the boxes spewed out tins of bully beef, bread and cigarettes. There were enough rations here to serve at least two groups of 50 men and these SM's were taking them to a small group of eight. No wonder this little band looked so much fatter than the rest of us.
This evidence was proof of reasons for the occasional cuts in our rations, but what punishment was to be meted out to these men? I heard later that they were thrown in the latrine pits and left there. Later, a man was caught stealing rations, and was taken to the Italians, who lashed him to a post outside the camp and was made to sty there for six hours during the hottest period of the day. A pitcher of water stood about three feet from his feet. What a punishment! This man went raving mad before he had been there for three hours.
Thus, the weeks went on - men still sell ling all they had for food. Some had sold everything except the trousers they wore. All went to fill and satisfy that aching void. How apathetic my fellow men became is now beyond my comprehension.
Oh, death where is thy sting? Grave, thy victory? God knows we had died time after time - in our thoughts, we had seen ourselves crawling on hands and knees to the slit trench latrine and reaching its abyss and falling into eternity.
The climax was reached a few days later, when late one evening, two Sergeant Majors in charge of rations were seen walking from the ration tent carrying a large wooden box apiece. As they walked towards a group of NCO's who had been shouting to them to hurry because they were hungry, it appears the investigating NCO's realised the Sergeant Majors were going with these boxes to the shouting group, so they acted quickly, tripped up the two SM's, and as they fell to the ground, the boxes spewed out tins of bully beef, bread and cigarettes. There were enough rations here to serve at least two groups of 50 men and these SM's were taking them to a small group of eight. No wonder this little band looked so much fatter than the rest of us.
This evidence was proof of reasons for the occasional cuts in our rations, but what punishment was to be meted out to these men? I heard later that they were thrown in the latrine pits and left there. Later, a man was caught stealing rations, and was taken to the Italians, who lashed him to a post outside the camp and was made to sty there for six hours during the hottest period of the day. A pitcher of water stood about three feet from his feet. What a punishment! This man went raving mad before he had been there for three hours.
Thus, the weeks went on - men still sell ling all they had for food. Some had sold everything except the trousers they wore. All went to fill and satisfy that aching void. How apathetic my fellow men became is now beyond my comprehension.
Oh, death where is thy sting? Grave, thy victory? God knows we had died time after time - in our thoughts, we had seen ourselves crawling on hands and knees to the slit trench latrine and reaching its abyss and falling into eternity.
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