With normal German efficiency, we were marched out of the camp to the waiting cattle wagons. These wagons were from the French railways, for painted on the side of each were the words "40 hommes, 8 vaches" - 40 men, eight cows. In less than an hour the train was moving off, and late in the afternoon, we were sliding into Verona.

On the six-hour journey, all of us in the wagon had just sat on the floor, hardly a word had been spoken. We all felt that this bloody war would never end. A week ago, all thought that the war had almost ended and that soon we should be home again. I had thought of my fiancée Dorothy, now in the WAAF. How was she feeling, would she be very disappointed when she knew that I would not be coming home yet?

Or perhaps I was now out of her mind. It had been months since I had heard from her, and in the last letter, she had said that she was having a grand time with the boys. As a matter of fact, her mother had written more than she.

Thinking of Dorothy during  that journey, I became depressed, and was reminded of Doubting Thomas who had said to the disciples: "Unless I can see and feel the wounds in the hands and side of Jesus, I cannot believe". I felt now that unless I could see Dorothy soon, I should lose her. How could folks at home really appreciate our position as prisoners? For instance, how could I appreciate the feelings of the slaves who had built the pyramids, the galley slaves of the Roman empire, the poverty of India?

Nothing can be appreciated except by experience. My experience so far had taught me that the best things in life are free, and my hope for the world of our future was that all would know freedom from want. That in our time we would experience the brotherhood of man. To see the world in perfect unity. Utopia. What a dream!

Here we were in the sidings of the station of Verona. Time did not matter. Time was to go on. Time, like a vapour, quickly vanishes; here one moment, gone the next. Time meant little to us, but to the Hun, it meant everything.

The train had stopped. Several of the lads stood looking out of the grille to the world outside. We were in the marshalling yards of Verona. There were several trains in the sidings, loaded with human cargo like ourselves. We were soldiers, but the other trains were loaded with civilians. Yes, even women and children, many babes-in-arms. It was tragic to hear the children crying and the women calling for water. These pitiful beings were off to Germany as slave labour. Surely Wilberforce was turning in his grave. Slaves in this day and age.

A certain amount of apprehension reigned in our wagon. What was the next move? The answer soon came. All the wagon doors were unlocked and we were all told to get out. None needed a second telling. In threes, we lined up on the railway line at the side of the wagon. "What's the bleeding Jerries up to now?"says Johnny Mason. "Surely 'e don't fink anybody's slid froo the flipping floorboards and got away."

Three Germans and an Englishman, a man who had acted as an interpreter at our last camp was questioning the men in the wagon in front of us. They reached our group. Casually, the interpreter walked up to me as the Germans counted the number of men on parade.

"Hello, Sarge. What was your job in Civvy Street?" "Why?" I ask. "Well," he said, "the Germans are looking for men who were barbers, clerks and painters. They are to be taken off and send to Germany later."

"That lets me out," I said. "I am a telephone engineer." With that, he walked over to the Germans, who had now completed the count; spoke to them, and the next thing I knew was that the German officer was calling to me to get my possessions from the train and report to them. Yes, I had been trapped into this by  this so-called Englishman.

I collected my few belongings from the wagon and said my farewells to my pals of the last year. Dear old Des Hazelton of the Coldstreams. 'Blondie' Thrower, the RAF pilot. Folks often told him that he was no more of a pilot than Pontious was!

While saying my goodbyes, the lads were ordered back to the train. They were furious, for I had been the only one he had spoken to. it looked as though the Germans were satisfied if they got one man from each wagon to work for them. Of course, they had not got me working yet, and as I walked away from the train, all the lads were shouting for the blood of the interpreter. I saw him and asked him what the idea was. He grinned and said: "I like to eat well!" So now he was working for the Germans as he had worked for the Italians. I was furious, and raised my fist to smash it into his face. It did not connect, for a German guard held my arm behind me in a half-nelson and pushed me to a group of about 40  who had also been taken off the train.

It appeared that this sorting out went on with every PoW train that came into Verona. All those taken off were put into the Italian barracks, and kept there until 400 had been collected for transportation to Germany. To work for the Reich and the Fuhrer. Ha, ha, ha!!

1943 - part two

It is now September, and most of us are looking fit and brown as berries. The camp is well organised, a drama group has been formed and has performed several plays including Pygmalion and The Barratts of Wimpole Street. The Red Cross have sent musical instruments and daily, a camp orchestra play in the open air for the men. So among varied pastimes, the chaps can plan a daily programme of activities.

The food does not improve and the supply of parcels from the Red Cross are not being delivered very often due to the continued Allied bombing of the railways and the lines being used for the passage of troops to the front.

It is now one morning in September 1943 and all of us are on the morning roll call. We have been told to expect an important item of news, so naturally much speculation is going on, with many believing the war is near an end.

"Parade, attention!" roars the Sergeant Major across the parade ground, and as one man, all spring to attention. It is years since I saw the men drill like that. The S.S. states that the Italian commandant has a statement to make. The air is electric with apprehension. The rotund Italian waddles onto the scene and through an interpreter, states that at mid-day, an Italian Royalist General would sign an Armistice with the British High Command in Italy and that from mid-day tomorrow, the gates of the camp would be open and all would be allowed out daily until the arrival of the relieving British force. He went on to say that the Royalists had taken over, and that Mussolini was now their prisoner. All the men were requested to be calm, and behave as gentlemen when the gates were open.

Never in my life had I heard such cheering; few of us realised that our present joy was to be so short-lived.

Two days later, we made grand trips into the local villages and walked along country lanes as free men. How we had dreamed of the day when it would be possible to walk along without an armed escord ad here we were this morning, on parade for roll call.

Early on that Thursday morning, news had been brought in that German paratroops had been dropped a few miles away, and they were marching in the direction of the camp here at Monturano. At the moment, the news was not authentic and we were all told that no man must go more than two miles from camp for the next day or so. Day or so! Hardly had these words been uttered when a burst of machine gun fire was heard outside the camp. Minutes later, German paratroops were standing guard in sentry boxes that had recently housed the Italian sentries.

All of us were ordered to our billets, and told to await further instructions. Within an hour, we were on parade again, but with a difference - the Germans were now in command. The German major said life would carry on as it did under the Italians, and that within a week, all of us would be moved to camps in Germany. The war had not ended and would go on until the Germans had defeated us on all fronts.

And it was so within a week we were told to start packing and get ready for the move to Germany.  Little did I know what was ahead for me. Tomorrow is my birthday - 23 years old - and within a week I am to jump from a train 20 miles north of Verona. Nothing is further from my mind at present, but it is to be.

My group move on my birthday, and all of us are given a small parcel of salami sandwiches for our trip.

1943

The New Year came and the future did not seem at all bright. The camp was by this time well-organised, and one could now plan how the day was to be spent. Roll-call most of us brewed a tin of tea, and until midday would wash clothes; we all now had British battle-dress and a shirt a piece. Overcoats, socks and boots came in February, so most were well fitted out.

One could attend lectures, debates or go to school to learn one of many subjects. The schoolteacher among us had a grand opportunity to carry on their profession. By now, my mind was made up, and it was my intention to escape at the very first opportunity. First, I must learn the language, so attended the Italian class for the next six months.

By June, the life here had become a life of dull routine. Walking the compound, brewing up, attending lectures, collecting rations, and grumbling! Herded together day after day was getting on my nerves, chaps were talking about escape but it was just talk. Of all the escape ideas that were discussed among us, most had a fantastic built-up, then fell like a building whose foundations were built on sand. I felt that a lot of chaps had been reading The Scarlet Pimpernel, or just lived in a world of fantasy.

My own mind was made up and decided that the best plan for escape was to get away when the opportunity came, as it must. Another decision was that I would not speak to a soul of my intentions. Many an escape was foiled by an idle tongue.

In August, my teeth were giving me trouble, so I reported sick. Two double teeth were rotten and they had to come out. Report to the M.O. at 2pm. I saw the M.O, and entering his billet, was told to sit on a box. The orderly stood behind him, and the M.O. casually said: "This is going to hurt you, Sergeant. I have no cocaine or anything else to ease the pain; I have forceps and I shall just have to do my best".

He picked up the forceps and told me to open my mouth. The orderly held my shoulders and pressed down as the M.O. put pressure on the first tooth. The pressure was so great that the tooth was crushed and broken. I spat out the pieces into a bucket and he commenced again. The gum was forced down as one would push a nail cuticle, and the pulling repeated. My jaw felt as though it would break, stars floated before my eyes, the M.O. was cursing, sweat ran down his face. I wondered how long my head would remain on my shoulders, and the orderly was saying: "Sorry, sarge".

Crack! The tooth had broken near the root, and the withdrawing commenced. After another ten minutes, the tooth was out. I was now bathed in sweat and my nervous system had had a great shock. There was still another to come out, so after the three of us had a breather, the Battle of the Ivory Castle began again. I do not remember anything of the second tooth coming out, but apparently, it was harder to get out than the first.

I sat up and gave the orderly gave me a cup of water with which to rinse my mouth. I put my tongue in the cavities, only to find that the second had been badly torn, the gum had been cut with a knife in order to help the M.O. get the tooth out.

The next two days were spent in my bunk, my pal a Coldstream Guard Sergeant getting my 'skilly', As I lay there, the chap in the bunk above spent hours delousing his clothes and person, dropping the dead lice on my bunk with a jest: "From me to you".

From me to you. I hope my fiancée was thinking like that as she posted her cards to me. I had received two letters since my arrival in Italy. My fiancée had joined the WAAFs, and in her one and only letter had mentioned that she was friendly with a chap in the RAF, but I need not worry, it was only a platonic friendship.

Later, I was to know different. It was becoming a general thing for chaps to get letters from home saying their girlfriend wished to break off the engagement. Did these girls think we prisoners were cowards, and had given ourselves up to the enemy?

About this time, four chaps committed suicide. The first was missing from roll-call one afternoon. A search was made and his body was found in tall grass beyond the trip wire. The guards must have been asleep when he crawled through the wire to this tall grass. He had cut his throat, his weapon an issue loaf of bread into which he put a razor blade. In 24 hours, the loaf would be as hard as stone, and could then be used as a knife. This man had received a letter from his mother stating that his wife, with whom he had married on his embarkation, had gone off with a G.I. and had mentioned that her husband was not a man, as he had allowed himself to be taken prisoner. Did everyone have that point of view? Surely people did not thing that chaps gave themselves up because they wanted a rest cure from the enemy?

This man had not killed himself without premeditation, so determined had he been in cutting his throat that his head was hanging from his shoulders when found. So this was the first suicide in the camp, and during the next three weeks, three others did the same for various reasons; one because he thought he should be repatriated, another through melancholia, the others because they had not had a letter from home since they had become prisoners.

Gloom and despondency reigned in the camp for days, and the Padre thought it was his duty to boost the morale of the men, for at the next Sunday service, the sermon was preached from the Psalm that states: "A thousand shall fall at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh to thee". In my mind, this was not the type of sermon to preach under the circumstances, and I had to ask myself who was kidding who.

I left the service that morning feeling that life as a prisoner had to be led with the same zeal as normal living, and despondency had to be eradicated. This sounded to me very idealistic, but life can be lived to the full if the mind is fully occupied and thoughts lifted to an intellectual plane. Putting these into a working operation was another thing.

Most of us in the camp had been in captivity for a year, and our hopes were being built up to the fact that we might be home for Christmas. News had got through to us that the second front had opened up in Italy, and a defeatist attitude was now prevalent among the camp guards.