The sun has disappeared and the darkness falls. Most of the lads are trying to sleep. Sleep takes the mind off food for a few hours. Jack Mason is asleep in the corner, just underneath the steel-barred window, the same type of window through which I was to escape a few months later. Charlie Forsyth, the shy boy in the RAMC, has just urinated into his empty Red Cross box and is stepping over the sleeping bodies to the window, through which he will pour out the urine. He reaches through the window and tips the contents out, but some of it runs though the box into the mouth of Jack Mason, sleeping in the corner. He was asleep, but he is certainly awake now, spluttering and cursing at poor Forsyth.
'What the bloody hell is going on?' 'S, s, s, sorry, ch, chum,' mumbles Charlie, 'couldn't help it, it's dripping.'
'Dripping? That's the queerest bloody dripping I've ever tasted!' shouts Mason at the top of his voice. All were awake now, but heartily amused at the incident.
Soon, it is quiet again, except for the rumble of the train as it heads its way north. The cold night air is coming up through the floorboards. I try to sleep, but my mind wanders back...
The cold and grey, a winter's day,
Before the break of dawn,
The guns are still, there's such a chill,
So early in the morn.
The field is hazed, the men half-dazed,
Their nerves are highly-strung,
They take the strain, an awful pain,
For zero hour has come.
A moment's spell, and then a YELL,
Word has come to charge,
Bared bayonets flash, wild men dash,
Over No Man's Land at large.
The silence broke, the guns have spoke,
Stark death fills the air,
The surge is on, the strain has gone,
There is no shirking there.
Their faces set, their goal they'll get,
Their object is to win,
They are gaining ground, their voices drowned,
Beneath the bullet's din.
Then, at last, the worst is past,
A battle's given birth
Each picks his man, fulfils his plan,
And bodies fall to earth.
The fight is fought, its life was short,
No greater deed is done,
There's time for rest, but not for jest,
A battle had been won.
I had cramp and woke up rubbing my legs, and soon had the blood circulating again. It was light now and many were eating the last morsel of food. I ate mine and wished for a drink of good English tea to wash it down.
Some of the lads are standing at the grille, looking out. Two of them have their noses through the bars, and for good reason, as someone has used the corner of the wagon for other purposes than sleeping. No wonder that corner of the wagon is deserted, and this end is so cramped. 'Dirty bastard!' says the little chap with the Ronald Colman moustache. 'Who was it? Why, it's poor old Forsyth again - dripping and now this!'
My watch has stopped, but guess the time is about 8am. A running commentary is being given by Jimmy James, who has levered a bar out of the window and has half his face outside. 'Pulling into a station, boys!' he shouts, 'give you the name in a sec!'
The train stops before we reach the station. A few minutes later the train starts to go back, but Jimmy says we are going onto a branch line. As the train goes on round a bend, Jimmy shouts that the train is only half the length it was when it left Bari, so somewhere, at some stop, some of the lads had been taken in another direction, to another camp. Fifteen minutes later, the train stops for the last time as far as we are concerned. We have arrived at our next camp!
The wagon doors are slid open, and gathering our small belongings, jumped down to the ground. Looking to the left, we all see great wooden gates ahead. This is our new home, Campo PG70, Monturano, Italy.
Irritable guards tell us to march towards the gates, but half the lads are urinating on the railway track, and themselves are in no mood to be pushed around. Presto! Presto! shout the guards, as slowly we make our way towards the gate. As we get nearer, I note that mounted machine guns are trained on us from the sentry box above the gates.
* This chap was also in PG70.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
It is now the end of October and one cold morning, a fatigue party were detailed to bring home the long-awaited Red Cross parcels into the camp. This was indeed good news, and the morale of the lads was raised tremendously. Smiles were to be seen again and before the parcels were issued, men were saying how they were going to eat the contents. One was going to eat his in one go, another ration himself to so much per day, another was going to keep his until all had eaten theirs and then they could watch him eat his. Knowing the men at this time, this one would be lucky to see any of his parcel if he kept it after the others had eaten theirs!
At 2pm, the first issue of parcels was made. I had not seen such excitement for a long time. All of us stood in the queue like a lot of excited schoolboys. At the head of the queue stood a wooden table, at which sat two Italian officers, nearby stood a British officer. Each man in his turn walked to the table and saluted, a parcel was then given to him which he opened in front of the issuing officer, all the contents put on the table in front of the Italian, who, with great gusto, plunged a spike into every can of food. The chocolate was broken into little pieces, just in case a map was concealed!
This piercing of tins meant the food had to be eaten quickly anyhow, and was done in order to prevent men hoarding tins of food in order to make an escape, which we were told was a prisoner's first duty. So the pierced tins were put back into the box and carried back to our tents.
What a tuck-in we had! 24 hours of bliss. After so long without decent food - of starvation and malnutrition - this issue of food caused much distress for a few days. The contents were grand, but after an orgy of stewed steak, Spam, apple pudding, raisins, biscuits, butter, chocolate, milk, sugar, tea and cheese, the bliss of this in a few hours turned to great distress, and many could be seen rolling on the straw in agony. Sickness and diarrhoea were the prevailing feature in the camp for the next few days. Many blamed the Red Cross for their predicament, most blamed themselves.
600 of us moved out of the camp in late October. The march to Bari station was so different from our march to the camp a few weeks earlier. The soldiers, many of whom had stoned us earlier, now stood near the barracks, staring at us, not a word of abuse coming from their lips. Perhaps the news was good for us, perhaps the war was at an end, perhaps we should be home for Christmas -perhaps!
Nearer the station, children stood and smiled, some said 'Buono Inglese, la guerre quasi finere'. The war to finish soon! Yes, if that was true, the news was good. Water was offered to us by the children, and the guards did not stop us from taking it from them.
It was obvious to all that something great had taken place, and we climbed on the cattle wagons with light hearts. The wagons had no seats, no straw,and I had no overcoat or blanket to keep me warm tonight. I could only hope that we were not to travel far.
It is noon, and all seems still. The guards sit on the ground near the wagons, munching bread and salami, we sit watching, hoping that perhaps one guard is not hungry today. Before the train moved off, and wagon doors locked, we were surprised to receive a bag of food for our trip. Opening the bag, we found two salami sandwiches.After our parcel eating experience, we had learnt to treat our stomachs with respect, so did not scoff the food all at once, after all, how long was it to last?
At 3pm, the guard's siesta finished and the train moved off. Hour after hour the train thundered on -the wheels rumbling on the track appeared to be saying 'To another camp, to another camp', on, on, on. It is getting stuffy in the wagon, 40 bodies crowded into such a confined space. Anyway, it gives the fleas and lice a chance to change their abode if they want to!
At 2pm, the first issue of parcels was made. I had not seen such excitement for a long time. All of us stood in the queue like a lot of excited schoolboys. At the head of the queue stood a wooden table, at which sat two Italian officers, nearby stood a British officer. Each man in his turn walked to the table and saluted, a parcel was then given to him which he opened in front of the issuing officer, all the contents put on the table in front of the Italian, who, with great gusto, plunged a spike into every can of food. The chocolate was broken into little pieces, just in case a map was concealed!
This piercing of tins meant the food had to be eaten quickly anyhow, and was done in order to prevent men hoarding tins of food in order to make an escape, which we were told was a prisoner's first duty. So the pierced tins were put back into the box and carried back to our tents.
What a tuck-in we had! 24 hours of bliss. After so long without decent food - of starvation and malnutrition - this issue of food caused much distress for a few days. The contents were grand, but after an orgy of stewed steak, Spam, apple pudding, raisins, biscuits, butter, chocolate, milk, sugar, tea and cheese, the bliss of this in a few hours turned to great distress, and many could be seen rolling on the straw in agony. Sickness and diarrhoea were the prevailing feature in the camp for the next few days. Many blamed the Red Cross for their predicament, most blamed themselves.
600 of us moved out of the camp in late October. The march to Bari station was so different from our march to the camp a few weeks earlier. The soldiers, many of whom had stoned us earlier, now stood near the barracks, staring at us, not a word of abuse coming from their lips. Perhaps the news was good for us, perhaps the war was at an end, perhaps we should be home for Christmas -perhaps!
Nearer the station, children stood and smiled, some said 'Buono Inglese, la guerre quasi finere'. The war to finish soon! Yes, if that was true, the news was good. Water was offered to us by the children, and the guards did not stop us from taking it from them.
It was obvious to all that something great had taken place, and we climbed on the cattle wagons with light hearts. The wagons had no seats, no straw,and I had no overcoat or blanket to keep me warm tonight. I could only hope that we were not to travel far.
It is noon, and all seems still. The guards sit on the ground near the wagons, munching bread and salami, we sit watching, hoping that perhaps one guard is not hungry today. Before the train moved off, and wagon doors locked, we were surprised to receive a bag of food for our trip. Opening the bag, we found two salami sandwiches.After our parcel eating experience, we had learnt to treat our stomachs with respect, so did not scoff the food all at once, after all, how long was it to last?
At 3pm, the guard's siesta finished and the train moved off. Hour after hour the train thundered on -the wheels rumbling on the track appeared to be saying 'To another camp, to another camp', on, on, on. It is getting stuffy in the wagon, 40 bodies crowded into such a confined space. Anyway, it gives the fleas and lice a chance to change their abode if they want to!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Photographic evidence
Well, I did promise ages ago, but I had a top e-mail from Ian in New Zealand commenting on pater's pic as the Sheikh of Araby. Here are some more pics of him - in Egypt. Click for bigger, obviously.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Words cannot express the comfort of that first night under canvas, on a bed of straw, two blankets and hoping hearts. In the desert we had grumbled:
Out here in the desert we often feel sad,
Things might be worse, but if they were they'd be bad,
We try to keep smiling, but here comes the rub,
We're 400 miles from the nearest pub.
The lads at the base can still drink a toasts,
Swilling their beer and forgetting our post,
It's hard to keep smiling, to be of good cheer,
When we're 400 miles from a nice glass of beer.
At home the Canadian is making his call,
The beer's in the cupboard, the wife's in the hall,
She sends us a wire saying 'Hope you are well',
But we're still 400 miles from the nearest hotel.
Churchill has promised 'blood, toil and sweat',
It might be a promise, it might be a threat,
We wish he could provide us with two-seater cars,
To drive 400 miles to the nearest bars.
In our holes in the ground, we lay down and dream,
Of days spent fishing from the bank of a stream,
Or of nights fire-gazing, sat on the rug,
But we wake up and find we're still 400 miles from the Bottle and Jug.
There is no beer here in this camp, bu the thought of a constant supply of water thrilled us, and it was strange to see chaps filling bottles and bringing them back to the tent, just to look at it. Others would fill their tins with water and pour it over themselves, soaking themselves and their clothes.
We awoke each morning to the sound of a bugle note of the Italian reveille, thus we all returned to the realities of life - forgotten for the moment the bed of straw, constant water supply and the prospect of Red Cross parcels. It was time for roll call, after which a cup of ersatz coffee would be issued, this was made from acorns, first ground then roasted.
After roll call, the day was our own to do as we liked, but the things we most wanted to do were not inside the bounds of the camp. The day would be spent talking about food. One man would tell of an evening out in the West End of London. In detail, he would speak of his attire, evening dress, his wife on his arm, a mink stole around her shoulders, her body sheathed in a black taffeta gown.
They walk to the front door, the taxi is waiting. In half an hour they have arrived at the Cafe de Paris. A commissionaire opens the door, the driver is paid, and into the restaurant they walk. It is now 9pm and for the next three hours they eat a fine four-course meal, laced with the appropriate drinks.The evening finished off by an hour on the dance floor, dancing to the music of Ambrose.
Another would tell of his mother making a lovely steak and kidney pudding for dinner, with apple tart as the second course. Then, the comic would say all he wanted was a meat pudding the size of a house with him in the middle to eat his way out!
This constant talking about food was tribulation to all of us, and with mouths watering, we would get up and get away from this tantalising conversation. Nearly all the morning had been spent talking about good, wholesome food and now it was nearly 1pm - this was the hour for 'skilly'.
At 5pm, a loaf of bread was issued, and at 7pm, ersatz coffee again. Although conditions at Bari were better than those at Bengazi, it was not long before we were becoming melancholy. Rumours ran wild. Deliveries of Red Cross parcels had been coming every day now for a week, but still it was 'skilly' and acorn coffee, without milk or sugar. Winter was coming on and none of us had sufficient clothing for cold weather.My one and only shirt had now been thrown away, as there was more hole than shirt. I was still wearing the overalls I had in Tobruk, but these were now quite threadbare. My £3 overcoat had been stolen since we arrived in Bari camp. It had been taken one day while I was collecting my skilly. Of course, no-one knew about it. Self-preservation was the code of life, I had to accept my loss.
Out here in the desert we often feel sad,
Things might be worse, but if they were they'd be bad,
We try to keep smiling, but here comes the rub,
We're 400 miles from the nearest pub.
The lads at the base can still drink a toasts,
Swilling their beer and forgetting our post,
It's hard to keep smiling, to be of good cheer,
When we're 400 miles from a nice glass of beer.
At home the Canadian is making his call,
The beer's in the cupboard, the wife's in the hall,
She sends us a wire saying 'Hope you are well',
But we're still 400 miles from the nearest hotel.
Churchill has promised 'blood, toil and sweat',
It might be a promise, it might be a threat,
We wish he could provide us with two-seater cars,
To drive 400 miles to the nearest bars.
In our holes in the ground, we lay down and dream,
Of days spent fishing from the bank of a stream,
Or of nights fire-gazing, sat on the rug,
But we wake up and find we're still 400 miles from the Bottle and Jug.
There is no beer here in this camp, bu the thought of a constant supply of water thrilled us, and it was strange to see chaps filling bottles and bringing them back to the tent, just to look at it. Others would fill their tins with water and pour it over themselves, soaking themselves and their clothes.
We awoke each morning to the sound of a bugle note of the Italian reveille, thus we all returned to the realities of life - forgotten for the moment the bed of straw, constant water supply and the prospect of Red Cross parcels. It was time for roll call, after which a cup of ersatz coffee would be issued, this was made from acorns, first ground then roasted.
After roll call, the day was our own to do as we liked, but the things we most wanted to do were not inside the bounds of the camp. The day would be spent talking about food. One man would tell of an evening out in the West End of London. In detail, he would speak of his attire, evening dress, his wife on his arm, a mink stole around her shoulders, her body sheathed in a black taffeta gown.
They walk to the front door, the taxi is waiting. In half an hour they have arrived at the Cafe de Paris. A commissionaire opens the door, the driver is paid, and into the restaurant they walk. It is now 9pm and for the next three hours they eat a fine four-course meal, laced with the appropriate drinks.The evening finished off by an hour on the dance floor, dancing to the music of Ambrose.
Another would tell of his mother making a lovely steak and kidney pudding for dinner, with apple tart as the second course. Then, the comic would say all he wanted was a meat pudding the size of a house with him in the middle to eat his way out!
This constant talking about food was tribulation to all of us, and with mouths watering, we would get up and get away from this tantalising conversation. Nearly all the morning had been spent talking about good, wholesome food and now it was nearly 1pm - this was the hour for 'skilly'.
At 5pm, a loaf of bread was issued, and at 7pm, ersatz coffee again. Although conditions at Bari were better than those at Bengazi, it was not long before we were becoming melancholy. Rumours ran wild. Deliveries of Red Cross parcels had been coming every day now for a week, but still it was 'skilly' and acorn coffee, without milk or sugar. Winter was coming on and none of us had sufficient clothing for cold weather.My one and only shirt had now been thrown away, as there was more hole than shirt. I was still wearing the overalls I had in Tobruk, but these were now quite threadbare. My £3 overcoat had been stolen since we arrived in Bari camp. It had been taken one day while I was collecting my skilly. Of course, no-one knew about it. Self-preservation was the code of life, I had to accept my loss.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
One officer took the photograph of my fiancee from me. I objected strongly and argued that he had no right to take it. He threw it back at me and ordered another search to be made. My overcoat was taken and the lining ripped out; the Egyptian pound notes fluttered to the ground. I stood motionless as the officer picked them up with a look of triumph on his face. He laughed and asked whether the photograph was worth £17-10-0. I said nothing!
Next, he took my particulars - name, rank and number.'What regiment are you in?'he asked. I refused to tell him. He stood up and struck me across the face, stating that he must know, and for my insolence I would not get a receipt for the money taken from me. I then told him that I did exactly what he would have done had he been in my shoes. That remark flattered him, and a receipt was forthcoming.
Next to the showers. All clothes were taken off, made into a bundle and put into a delousing machine. The machine looked like the boiler of a train and the clothes were put into the front of it. The door was shut and the steam pressure turned on. The steam killed all the lice, but we were soon to find out that it hatched the eggs that rested in the seams of our clothing. While this was going on I went under the shower. What ecstasy! What delight! As the hot water ran down my body and the dirt of months mingled with the soap, I realised that it was the first shower I had been under for nearly a year. My last bath had been had in Suez in November 1941 - it was now September 1942.
My three minutes were up, and my ecstasy was disturbed when an Italian guard prodded my backside with a pointed stick. Several of us grabbed this guard, a lad of about seventeen, and held him under the shower while another prodded his rear with the stick. We released him and in his soaked uniform he ran from the shower, sobbing.
Showers over, we collected our clothes, dressed, and with our shaved heads must have looked like a host of men from another world. During the last few months we had got so used to each other with long hair and beards, so the effect of our bald heads made most of us look more like skeletons than ever before. Our hope now was that Red Cross parcels would soon be issued in order that we might get some flesh on our bodies.
Some of us expected to be put in the cells, if the young guard came back to his superior officers after reporting what we had done to him, but nobody came. And so to the tented camp; each tent had room for 20 men to sleep. The floor of my tent - as were the others - was covered with straw, and after collecting two blankets, I claimed my position and lay down.
It was late now, and the lights round the camp glittered, and the sentries lounged in their sentry boxes. No meal was forthcoming that night, so sleep and silence fell on the camp. Hungry men, weak in body and some in mind, warm and comfortable in comparison to the past months in Bengasi, of the Hell Ship, and lately the river bed. Indeed,'foxes have their holes, the birds of the air a nest', and tonight Allied POW's have somewhere to lay their heads.
Next, he took my particulars - name, rank and number.'What regiment are you in?'he asked. I refused to tell him. He stood up and struck me across the face, stating that he must know, and for my insolence I would not get a receipt for the money taken from me. I then told him that I did exactly what he would have done had he been in my shoes. That remark flattered him, and a receipt was forthcoming.
Next to the showers. All clothes were taken off, made into a bundle and put into a delousing machine. The machine looked like the boiler of a train and the clothes were put into the front of it. The door was shut and the steam pressure turned on. The steam killed all the lice, but we were soon to find out that it hatched the eggs that rested in the seams of our clothing. While this was going on I went under the shower. What ecstasy! What delight! As the hot water ran down my body and the dirt of months mingled with the soap, I realised that it was the first shower I had been under for nearly a year. My last bath had been had in Suez in November 1941 - it was now September 1942.
My three minutes were up, and my ecstasy was disturbed when an Italian guard prodded my backside with a pointed stick. Several of us grabbed this guard, a lad of about seventeen, and held him under the shower while another prodded his rear with the stick. We released him and in his soaked uniform he ran from the shower, sobbing.
Showers over, we collected our clothes, dressed, and with our shaved heads must have looked like a host of men from another world. During the last few months we had got so used to each other with long hair and beards, so the effect of our bald heads made most of us look more like skeletons than ever before. Our hope now was that Red Cross parcels would soon be issued in order that we might get some flesh on our bodies.
Some of us expected to be put in the cells, if the young guard came back to his superior officers after reporting what we had done to him, but nobody came. And so to the tented camp; each tent had room for 20 men to sleep. The floor of my tent - as were the others - was covered with straw, and after collecting two blankets, I claimed my position and lay down.
It was late now, and the lights round the camp glittered, and the sentries lounged in their sentry boxes. No meal was forthcoming that night, so sleep and silence fell on the camp. Hungry men, weak in body and some in mind, warm and comfortable in comparison to the past months in Bengasi, of the Hell Ship, and lately the river bed. Indeed,'foxes have their holes, the birds of the air a nest', and tonight Allied POW's have somewhere to lay their heads.
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