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.