How true it is that all the best things in life are free - but here we are, prisoners and not free men - ah, yes - but the air we breathed, the beauty all around us, of the mountains, hills, the fleecy clouds fleeting across the sky like swansdown - the new experience of being in Italy - the ability greater than ever before - to appreciate life, even though our state was now so humble.

Marching in columns of four abreast, dozens of guards lining the road ahead, as we reached them they fell in at the side of us. Hour after hour we marched, and as we marched, through village and hamlet, the Italian peasants stood and stared at us. Some of them tried to give us bread and water, only to be arrested by the Italian police.

I managed to get a piece of bread from one, an old woman who threw it into the column. I had caught it, and although stale, it broke the monotony a little and as I chewed it, it nearly broke my teeth as well. The poverty of the Italian peasants appalled me, and made me wonder how Il Duce received so much hero-worship. Or did he?

On, on, on. The guards were now getting exasperated with us all, because our pace was getting slower and in a short time, it would be almost impossible for us to go any further. The sun sank in the West, we had walked far enough for one day, and word was passed along the ranks for all to sit down in the road. And sit down we did, in the middle of the road, watched by the inhabitants of the town. The guards started shouting and some even put a bullet up 'the spout', but the lads stayed put. A sergeant major who spoke Italian told the officer in charge to give us food, or carry us by lorry to our destination.

After much shouting and arm-waving, the officer said that we were to march another half-mile to a railway siding where we should eat before going on to our destination. A few minutes later, we were on our way again - food is a marvellous incentive. But the half-mile turned out to be two hours march, and now an armoured car patrolled up and down the column with a soldier caressing a machine gun. It was dark when we found ourselves in a railway siding, and then hustled into cattle wagons. 35 of us in each wagon and two guards, but no food.

Since leaving the ship in Brindisi, we had walked for nine hours and all I had eaten were a few grapes that had fallen off a cart and the piece of hard bread given to me by the peasant woman. The night was cold, and as we sat in those wagons, on the floor there was not even any straw that even animals would be given. Sitting there, with my back against the side of the wagon, my mind wandered back over the happenings of the past few months, and although our present position was grim, we had much to be thankful for. Reminiscing, we could have been killed in action, shot at capture, died in Bengasi with hundreds of others ; drowned in the Mediterranean, torpedoed by our own subs. Well we might take Proverbs 3 verse 5-6 as our motto - 'Trust in the Lord with all thine heart. Lean not to thine own understanding, in all thy ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy paths'.

Yes, life at its worst is still worth having, and there were chaps in worse conditions than these somewhere in the world. On another war front, perhaps, chaps were feeling sorry for us. Who knows? While my thoughts were drifting, I heard a man sobbing - but the train rumbled on; one could hear the men moving to try and get comfortable, but of no avail, thus a torrent of abuse would pour forth.

Early the next morning, the train was running along the Adriatic coast, the line being about 200 yards from the edge of the sea. The guards had slid the door open in order for us to see the scenery - I would rather have had eggs and bacon. The country here was very flat, and out at sea one could see the fishing boats with their white sails silhouetted against a blue sky, and a calm sea, houses along the sea edge had written on them 'Viva La Duce'. At one house, one could hear the voice of a woman singing 'Mamma Mia', the words floating from the window from which a broken shutter hung.

We were now passing through Foggia, and looking through the open door we could see Fascist soldiers standing on the station platform. The train slowed down, and the Fascists started jeering at us, but we were immune from this. One of the lads left them a present as the train moved off. He threw the box which had been used as a latrine in the wagon at a bombastic sergeant, and the resultant feature was that he had his uniform camouflaged free of charge. A dirty trick maybe, but I had never seen or heard such laughter from our lads. Even the guards laughed. They obviously had no time for sergeants.

Two hours later, the train slowed down and stopped in the station of Bari. Slowly we climbed off the train, glad to stretch our limbs once more.

This ship was flying the Italian flag with the German swastika at the stern. The passengers were talking of home - but having no prophets in our midst, could hardly tell when we should see England again.We must trust in God - trust and keep on trusting that he who looked after the sparrows should surely have mercy on us.

Darkness fell and the hatches were made fast, and as I tried to get some sleep, could hear the throb, throb, throb of the engines - in the hold, an occasional sigh of 'Oh, God' or the murmurings of one saying 'Darling, how long'. A man in pain would mutter 'Oh, my stomach', as the gripping pain of dysentery tore at his stomach, another nearby is having a bout of malaria and his teeth can be heard chattering, and all around could be heard the curses of men who have just received a blow in the face from the boot of another who has just decided to stretch his legs!

Those long hours seemed like an eternity - with constant attacks of cramp in the stomach and legs which made one wince with pain.

On the second day out from Bengasi, we were allowed to climb up the ladder to the deck, go to the latrine and get a breath of fresh air for a period of five minutes. During this period, a young fellow had climbed halfway up the ladder when he shouted to those below 'Sorry mates, I can't hold it!'.This young man, suffering from dysentery, just dropped his trousers, but the stench was awful for hours - but I suppose one can even get used to foul smells in time!

I did manage to get on deck once during this trip just as we were passing the island of Crete; why we went near Crete in order to get to Italy I never knew. The island looked so peaceful now after its bloody battles of 1941 - Suda Bay, Heraklion, Carea! One could hardly believe that this island of grapevine terraces being the place of horrible slaughter where blood flowed as wine from crushed grapes.

'Non pu aria!' said an Italian guard. 'No more air!'. Was that Italian humour? Oh well, back to that seething mass of humanity below deck, back to the foul air, sweaty bodies and empty guts! When I arrived back, boxes of rations were being lowered into the hold. We had an issue of the usual tin of horse meat and four biscuits instead of one. This was the second issued we had on this trip in nearly three days and were told that it would be the last on the Stella della Mare.

So it looked as though we should soon be arriving in Italy. Another ship was now in convoy with us and I assumed it was full of prisoners like ours.Whilst eating our horse meat, the whole ship shook from end to end. An explosion rent the air, shouts of excited Italians were heard from the deck, and minutes later all hatches were battened down. It was quite gloomy, but the hatch lights have now been switched on. The engines appear to be going faster, as though the order of 'full steam ahead' has been given. It was getting hotter, and one wondered whether it was to be another Black Hole of Calcutta.

The men have got over the initial shock of the explosion and are debating on the possibilities of getting to Italy or to Davy Jones' Locker. One suggests the RAF are bombing the ship; that suggestion is soon overruled as only one explosion was heard. The next suggestion is the right one. An Allied submarine in the Mediterranean has seen two unescorted Italian merchant vessels and has attacked. One was sunk, with all hands and hundreds of Allied POWs.

It could have been this ship, but it was not to be. A few hours later, the engine stopped, and we had arrived in Italy. The hatches were removed and one could feel even here in the bowels of the ship, fresh air sweeping in. We on the bottom deck were told to move out first. Gathering my overcoat which I had bought in Bengasi for £3, and my haversack containing shaving kit, which had never been used since my capture, I climbed the ladder.

Reaching the top, I walked over to the port side of the ship and gazed at the new country. This was different from the sand of the desert which I had seen for nearly 12 months. In the distance, the mountains, and sweeping down to the sea, the terraces of vineyards. This was Brindisi and in the harbour were the Italian destroyers we had heard and read so much about. No wonder the Royal Navy rarely saw the Italian navy - for here at Brindisi were about 25 destroyers tied up - lack of fuel or guts to leave harbour to fight I knew not, but there they were.

Within an hour we were marching along the dusty roads of Italy - in an enemy country, yes, but it was grand to put ones limbs into action once more.