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!!