Fred Woodward's WWII Diary

Salutes new readers

2011-11-20T02:20:00.001-08:00

I think a lot of you may have come from Twitter, but just to say that it's very heartening to see interest in Freddie's diary. It's not unusual to see this kind of thing on the net, but I know that my Dad would have been delighted that so many people are interested in what he had to say. Anyway, here's my favourite picture of me and him (when I was cute and blonde. Not so much now).

New readers, please do start from the beginning, and please do leave comments - I am interested to hear from anyone who might have any memories of my Dad, as his diaries are incomplete and I would love to be able to fill in the gaps of the things he didn't finish.Clair

2011-11-19T15:00:00.000-08:00

Two minutes later the wooden gates have closed behind us. Once inside we are told to queue up and prepare for another search, but goodness knows what they expect to find after the search we had in Bari camp. The search did not take long owing to the fact that the guards searching us were soon to be off duty and were anxious to get finished.

Looking around the camp I could see that there were only a few other prisoners in the place and one said that he had arrived a few days earlier with the first inmates. The camp itself had been built originally as a wine factory and had only been built in a short time. The buildings, brick built, were large and in construction like large hangars. These were to have been the vat rooms and were large and airy and in a few weeks we were to know just how cold these buildings were.

It is now the middle of October and since our arrival a few days ago, we have all decided that this camp is not a luxury camp. When we entered our new billet we saw that our sleeping spaces were allocated and marked out on the floor by chalked lines. In the space we were to place a bundle of straw which the Italians had given each man as we entered the billet. Two blankets were issued later and that was a blessing for many of us were soon using one as a shawl when we went on roll call and on our walks round the compound.

Every morning we went on parade for the daily count and at mid-day had our issue of rice and tomato puree, a small soya flour loaf and a spoonful of sugar. At 6pm another roll call and at 8pm coffee and 'skilly'. When Red Cross parcels did come, it was amusing to see the lads 'brewing up'.

In each compound was situated an area 20 yards square roped off and was only to be used for the purposes of cooking. When Red Cross parcels were to be had these brewing grounds were a hive of activity, and as time went on, ingenious contraptions were to be seen working full pressure to give a quick brew with the minimum amount of energy used. The first time any of us had brewed up here we had used pieces of brick on which rested our tin of tea. The fuel used had been the staw on which we slept, and kneeling down had blown a the straw, lit from the embers of an earler fire. By the time the tea was boiling, the contents of the tin was tea and burnt straw. As time passed, most of us started to build small tin stoves and instead of blowing the fire, made a small fan to do the job for us, this being operated by the means of a handle.

The base of the machine was usually a board taken from the bunks which were issued after we had been in the camp about a month. The rest of the machine was built from the tins of the Red Cross parcels. Scissors could be brought off the guards for a few cigs and these were to cut the tins to the neccessary shape and size.

Although we now had bunks in which to sleep, we found that as the weather was so cold it was neccessary to spend most of the day under the blankets. It is near Xmas and most of us were now walking round in rags. When it was neccessary to go on parade for roll call we would use one blanket as a skirt, the other as a shawl. Something had to be done about this, so a deputation went to the Commandant asking that some form of clothing be issued to the lads. The answer was that the Red Cross had dispatched British uniforms but that they had not yet arrived. In the meantime, Yugoslav uniforms would be issued as a temporary measure. The lads were overjoyed when these were issued, for although most of us looked likd the cast of a comic opera, it was certainly great to be warmer in these non-heated billets.

Xmas came and the Italians gave us all double rations that day, and an issue of vino. Each billet had a little Xmas show and the talent found was really astounding and it was wonderful to laugh and forget we were prisoners for a moment. The day ended, we went to bed and dreamed of loved ones at home wondering just what they had been doing. 'Peace and goodwill towards men'; that is what we wanted to see, but would it be this year or next? One must just keep on trusting that all would be well for us all soon.

Great footage!

2010-02-01T16:11:00.000-08:00

Can't spot the Pater, but great viewing nevertheless...

(TORBRUK - 1941 - 1942) (aka TOBRUK - GERMANS IN THE DESERT)

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BATTLE DIARY

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2009-11-08T15:30:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-06T13:01:00.001-07:00

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!

Photographic evidence

2009-04-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Interesting links

2009-01-03T16:33:00.000-08:00

This New Zealand site has details of the facilities at the Italian camps.
More Bengasi details.

2009-01-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Bari Camp

2008-11-16T12:05:00.002-08:00

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp...my brain was numb, my feet sore, my leg festering again and the pangs of hunger tearing at my stomach. My thoughts were directed to earth again as we marched past a fascist barracks and stones and abuse were thrown at us. We could eat neither, thus it was just forget what was behind and press on to Bari concentration camp.

The camp! The camp! This cry came from the front of the column. Visions of food, water and the chance of a bath came to mind. We halted near the tented camp, and after a wait of an hour, were told it would be two days before our entry would be possible owing to overcrowding.This was a transit camp and a batch of prisoners would be leaving in a few days.

So we had to put up with the alternative. We were marched along the bank of a dried-up river near the camp, down some steps to the river bed to a point where barbed wire stretched across. Through the gate and again we were behind the wire. As usual, the first question was 'When do we eat?'.

Again, as at Bengasi, we had to form up in groups of fifty and the groups numbered a Sergeant Major in charge of each group. From the main camp, an Aussie had got out when he heard a few hundred 'new boys' had arrived. He was anxious to hear what news we had. His 'gen' to us about the camp was not very pleasant. We should wait in the river bed for at least two days. Sleep on the rocky ground,the sky our blanket. Food would be brought once a day. A new word was now added to our vocabulary, 'skilly' . This was the food of POW's in Italy, and consisted of macaroni and boiled in about 20 gallons of water, and laced with olive oil. After two days, we would go into the camp, in the same groups of 50. First, our heads would be shaved, passing from the barber we would get searched and all valuables taken from us. That over, we would have a shower and all clothing would be de-loused. One man in ten was interrogated.

Haircuts, searching, de-lousing and bathing over, we should go into the camp, have blankets issued and a straw paliasse. We should sleep in tents, 30 men in a tent, our length of stay would be six weeks at the most, as it was only a transit camp. That first evening, we had our initiation to 'skilly', and all agreed that it was the best skilly we had tasted!

During the day, I had traded a pair of plimsolls with the Aussie who I found out was on the staff of the camp, employed as a barber. He brought me four tomatoes and a piece of bread (not exactly profiteering on my part) but I spent a happy five minutes eating this 'picnic lunch'.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we moved out of the river bed. Being in Group 3, , I was soon on my way, for I was anxious to get a shower, for the lice on my body were making themselves too comfortable and getting free board and lodgings which I was not happy to give them!

It was not long before the news was heard that all hidden money was to be confiscated if found on us. In the lining of my overcoat I had hidden days earlier £17 - 10, guessing that we would be searched anyway; nevertheless, taking a chance that it would not be found.

Inside the camp, six Aussies were waiting for us, all of them employed as barbers.Bundles thrown on one side, we waited in the queue for the shears to cut our matted hair off. I sat down on the wooden stool - no word being necessary as to how I should like it cut. These barbers gave the same cut to all of us, regardless of rank. Three, four, five or six months growth all fell to the ground , the Aussie cursing all the time as the sand in my hair played havoc with his shears. After cutting, the head was shaved.

Haircut finished, and feeling quite light-headed, I walked to the tent where the Italian officers were waiting to search us. There were several others being searched and now it was my turn. Arms above the head, trousers down to the ankles, boots off. Clothes and person searched, nothing found on me except lice and dirt!

2008-09-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Hell Ship

2008-07-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

Late in August, 3,000 of us had the order to move, thus we had visions of Italian vineyards, letters from home, Red Cross parcels and water, water, water. Ah, the thought that we could use water ad lib.

It was a very strong rumour that we were to be sent to Italy the next day and we knew that not until we arrived in an officially recognised prison camp could we write or receive letters. We had been prisoners now for over three months, those at home had no doubt received the War Office telegram, 'Missing, believed Prisoner of War'.

It was in the early hours of the morning when we marched out of Bengasi camp. March? Crawl was more like the operative word. A long, slow march, every step a terrible effort, and on arrival at the Cathedral Mole where we were told we could not go on board the ship until it had been unloaded. In the harbour, we could see the torn hull of a giant cargo ship, another on its side belching forth a German Panzer from the hold which was now under water. There it was rusting away, useless to the German Reich.

Our hope was that the RAF did not decided to bomb the Mole while we were there, because we would not stand a dog's chance.

For hours we sat on that quay, waiting to get away on board that ship. It was an Italian merchantman, Stella dalla Mare; Star of the Sea, by name. When the last box of ammo was unloaded, the guards led the first prisoners on board and at the first hatch, told them to climb over the top into the hold and climb to the bottom. Soon, the shouts of 'Presto!' were rending the stillness of the afternoon as the guards prodded the lads over the top.

At last it was time to go over. A ladder stretched down to the bottom, four decks down into the bowels of the ship. With Dutch courage, I climbed over the top and started climbing down, down, down; it seemed endless. The bottom at last. I looked around; it was so gloomy. I could hardly see a thing. 'Get off my bloody feet, mate,' says a voice. My eyes get accustomed to the gloom and I can see the conditions are like those at Derna camp, just enough room to sit down with knees up under my chin.

As the holds began to fill up, the heat became oppressive, and those men with dysentery could not climb the ladder owing to weakness, so just had to relieve themselves on the spot. When we had been below deck for about three hours, the smell became almost unbearable, and we should perhaps be here for two or three days. On the evening tide, the engines burst into life and one was reminded of a poem learned at school:

He saw the ocean liner ploughing the foam,
Saw her decks - heard the thrash of her screw,
He heard the passengers talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew

2008-07-12T13:53:00.000-07:00

During August, we found our rations were being cut to three loaves between five men, three cigs between five men and a number of senior NCO's demanded an interview with the Italian commandant. He saw them and explained that no cut had been made by the Italians and it was up to those NCO's present to make their own investigations.

The climax was reached a few days later, when late one evening, two Sergeant Majors in charge of rations were seen walking from the ration tent carrying a large wooden box apiece. As they walked towards a group of NCO's who had been shouting to them to hurry because they were hungry, it appears the investigating NCO's realised the Sergeant Majors were going with these boxes to the shouting group, so they acted quickly, tripped up the two SM's, and as they fell to the ground, the boxes spewed out tins of bully beef, bread and cigarettes. There were enough rations here to serve at least two groups of 50 men and these SM's were taking them to a small group of eight. No wonder this little band looked so much fatter than the rest of us.

This evidence was proof of reasons for the occasional cuts in our rations, but what punishment was to be meted out to these men? I heard later that they were thrown in the latrine pits and left there. Later, a man was caught stealing rations, and was taken to the Italians, who lashed him to a post outside the camp and was made to sty there for six hours during the hottest period of the day. A pitcher of water stood about three feet from his feet. What a punishment! This man went raving mad before he had been there for three hours.

Thus, the weeks went on - men still sell ling all they had for food. Some had sold everything except the trousers they wore. All went to fill and satisfy that aching void. How apathetic my fellow men became is now beyond my comprehension.

Oh, death where is thy sting? Grave, thy victory? God knows we had died time after time - in our thoughts, we had seen ourselves crawling on hands and knees to the slit trench latrine and reaching its abyss and falling into eternity.

2008-06-24T16:44:00.000-07:00

How strange, but her we are, a mass of human flesh and blood, striving hard to keep the body alive, yet under these conditions men are giving much thought to the needs of the soul. Thus, in Bengasi camp, men were being drawn together in a bond of brotherhood, as members one of another - whose God is the Lord!

Every evening, one would find in the camp little groups of men drawn together in the bond of love and fellowship, to thank God for His preserving power and praying earnestly that He would bring them safely through this time of tribulation. It was nothing to sit for hours in these meetings and listen to the story of what God meant to Bill Brown or Jack Jones and in the crowd, to hear the heart-rending sobs of a man who had through these testimonies had been convinced of his need for Christ in his life. One was reminded of the scripture; 'In this world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world'. How strange it was that when under stress and strain men began to turn to God, and this was certainly the case in Bengasi camp.

One of the fellows who led these meetings, Harry, a grand lad from Manchester would during the day cut the hair of all who required it. When he had finished cutting, the recipient would ask 'How much?'. 'All I want is a smile.' A smile, yes, indeed, a smile was one of those rare gifts in those days. The grim determination to live was the picture on the face of most of the men.

Harry was not to see many more months on this earthly sphere, for he died, alas, in a prison camp in Italy after spending several terrible weeks in Swani Ben Adem camp, west of Bengasi. This camp became known as the 'hell camp' amongst the POWs. When I heard of Harry's death, i was confident that his example of Christ-likeness was a real blessing to all with whom he had come in contact.

I have in my possession today a dilapidated New Testament which Harry gave me in Bengasi camp. In the flyleaf is a message written by a friend of his. It is faint now, but I can just read the words 'To one who became a brother to me. May God bless and keep you always until we meet again. Ernest 23/11/41'. Harry had become a brother to many of us, and his smiling face always a pleasure to behold.

Towards the end of July, the RAF began to bomb the harbour at Bengasi, and at night now, the air raid warnings would sound and we would sit and gaze at the myriad colours of tracer shells whirling through space, hoping that none of the planes would be hit. Soon, we heard a shout and the lads started to point at the sky; lo and behold there were 15 Flying Fortresses. What a sight! Two were shot down by excellent AA fire, but not before two ammunition ships had been blown up in the harbour and mines had been laid!

Ant so life went on - my abscess had burst and my leg was healing up very slowly. The sand fleas were becoming very annoying, and lice were marching over our bodies in their hundreds. It was now a daily ritual to strip off and kill every louse and eggs one could find. Most of us were still wearing the clothes in which we were captured. They had not been washed, hence the armies of lice, lice, LICE! Nearly every man had grown a beard, not through choice, but one could not afford such a luxury with only a pint of water a day.

2008-06-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

Bengasi camp was situated two miles outside the town, at the side of vast salt flats, and to escape meant traversing these on one side, the open desert and to the West, the sea to the North and the barracks to the East.

Betweeen July and September '42, that camp; had about 30,000 prisoners behind the wire. Men from Tobruk, Gasala, Knightbridge Mersah Matru and El Alamein. The men captured in Tobruk felt they had been betrayed for '30 pieces of silver'! A percentage of the men were fortunate and had small bivouacs - made out of Italian groundsheets - and although no good against the cold nights and rain (if any) were indeed an asset against the hot desert sun.

Life in camp was indeed grim, for hunger, malaria, dysentery and malnutrition were not taking their toll on the men. As aforementioned, we were in groups of 50 for the purpose of ration issue and daily roll-call. Every day at noon, the senior NCO went, usually with two OR's from each group, outside the wire under escort to the Italian food stores across the road to collect the daily ration. This was one hard biscuit, 4" square and half an inch thick, a small tin of bully beef, which was in actual fact, horse flesh; a cigarette ration of two per man. Water was issued late in the afternoon at the rate of one pint per person which was to be used for washing and drinking. The water cart often forgot to deliver, so the lads just had to go without.

Once a week, we were issued with a hot mash of lentils and later had black bread issued instead of the biscuit; although weighing only 150g and tasting of sawdust, it was a change from hard tack.

Sanitation was terrible, and in due course was responsible for most of the sickness in the camp. It was so crowded that many men slept along the side of the latrines - if they could be called that! Long trenches 15 feet long and about six feet deep were dug alongside the wire. No seating accommodation provided, no privacy! So many of us were suffering from dysentery that it was not long before another pit had to be dug, and as it was impossible to fill in the old trenches, the horrible stench attracted flies by the million and spread the disease. It became a common sight to find a man dead at the side of these pits, and indeed, sometimes in the pit.

Daily at 10am, an English officer, a POW like ourselves, called at the camp to give medical attention. He and his orderly worked for hours in the sweltering head. The queue for treatment appeared to be endless, and sometimes the officer had to call it a day when the issue of aspirin, Epsom salts and quinine had been used up. It took me three days of queuing to get my leg attended to, and when the orderly saw my leg, stated that he had nothing to put on it, so I must just try to keep it clean.

At one period in the camp, statistics of death were as high as 20 men per day. After weeks of the camp diet, most of us looked like skeletons covered with a thin layer of skin, and so weak that each time we attempted to stand up, we inevitably fell down again due to blackouts and giddiness.

It now became necessary to obtain more food, or slowly starve to death. The Italian guards wanted Egyptian pounds as they thought they would be spending their next leave in Cairo or Alexandra. Our predicament was a golden opportunity to get the money. So they started offering loaves of bread, the same loaf which was our daily issue. No wonder the ration was short every day. The ration had been cut recently to 4 loaves between 5 men. At first, these guards charged £1 per loaf - later the price went up to £5 a loaf because of the demand. Twenty cigarettes cost anything from £1 - 5 - 0 to £3, and as money was expended, men sold wedding rings, watches, fountain pens and even their boots for bread. How the Italians gloated over our misfortunes cannot be expressed!

I saw men sell wedding rings, eat the bread of exchange, and then cry like a child, full of remorse.

A colleague of mine wanted a smoke. I had money but he had not, thus he offered me his overcoat for £3. I haggled and said it was more important for him to be warm than have a smoke, but of no avail, he just had to smoke, and with tears running down his face, he said he would kill himself if I did not make the exchange. I took the coat, he the £3 - he was satisfied. So was I, for I could now sleep at night.

2008-05-16T14:21:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Bengasi in the early hours of the morning, passed through the Cathedral Mole that had so often been bombed by the RAF; through the town where the prisoners were herded behind barbed wire 12 feet high.

The lorry stopped, we dismounted and marched to a large compound, given a tin, and told to get in the queue to collect a ration of rice. Hot, steaming rice flavoured with tomato puree, this was indeed ambrosia!

Feeding finished, we were put into a small compound and told we should be searched in the morning. Searchlights swept the compound every few minutes and during these sweeps I could see that hundreds of others like ourselves were lying on the ground. And so to bed, the stony ground, the stars overhead, but I felt I should sleep now that I had eaten, and after standing all those hours, could sleep anywhere. So I slept.

Foxes have holes, the birds of the air their nests, but prisoners of war have the ground on which to lay their heads.

Daylight came, and all the treasures we desired to keep, ie photographs, watches, rings, money etc were buried surreptitiously under the sand until after the search. It was not long before the Carabineri Police came and searched, and they stated they only wanted anything that could be used to help us escape, ie knives etc. But when the search was made, they took everything of value from the lads who had not buried their valuables - I was glad I had.

After the search, those of us who had some foresight dug up our worldly goods as the police left the compound, and in groups of 50, were marched into the main camp which was to be our home for the next three months.

Derna II

2008-05-15T11:59:00.001-07:00

No food for nearly four days, men were becoming weak and sick,two had committed suicide, one by cutting his throat with a jacknife, the other attempted to jump over the wire, only to be shot in the stomach by an Italian guard.

Late that evening, we heard that the Italians were taking us to Bengasi next morning. It was obvious that all of us could not be taken in one batch. 2,000 prisoners was a lot of human cargo and dozens of lorries would be required to transport us, but as yet, we did not know the Italians.

It was now dark, and as always the desert night was cold. Sleep evaded so many of us, for it was necessary to keep an eye open just in case the Italians did decide to feed us in the middle of the night. Sleep, did I say? No room to stretch, no blankets, just the rocky ground for a pillow, and my leg was painful. I had managed to take out four pieces of shrapnel, but there were still a few pieces still remaining. The field dressing I had put on in Tobruk was still quite alright, and I knew that no Florence Nightingale would be round to dress it, tonight or any night!

At dawn, I noticed a queue of men at the exit of the compound; although half-awake I jumped up quickly and fell backwards, for my leg was now very painful. I sat up for a few moments, put my hand on my leg, only to find I had no feeling in it. It was numb.I panicked -had I got gangrene? I undid the bandage, the pain made me moan for a few seconds. A few minutes later I could feel my leg again. I realised what had happened - the bandage on my leg had been tied too tight.

After collecting my thoughts and picking up my haversack, I walked over to join the end of the queue at the gate, my watch said it was 6.15am.

We stood for eight hours, then the first batch moved out, and as the first men passed the guards, they were issued with one large biscuit and a small tin of Italian bully beef, which was to last until Bengasi was reached after 13 hours truck ride, and to crown it all, every man had to stand.Fifty men in the lorry, fifty in the trailer - indeed, human cargo!

I managed to get out of that nightmare - late in the afternoon,and by then the men were frantic - many had been knocked out by the rough handling of the Italian guards who had used rifle butts on their heads with great accuracy. The lads just had to get past that gate for then they could get a morsel to eat.

Another hundred of us were out, the lorry was waiting and we climbed on board. Many of us sat down, only to be told to stand. We had more on board when 20 got on but still the guard told more to mount. Another load of Inglese were ready for transportation to Bengasi.

We were off! The diesel engine of the lorry echoed over the stilness of the desert. We all swayed as one man as the lorry turned its way westwards. One hour, two hours, and still we went on, on, on, the fumes from the engine were making men sick and as they tried to put thier heads over the side of the lorry to vomit, the evening wind of the Scirocco just sprayed the 'matter' all over us. How petrifying, but who cared? The guard sitting on top of the cab just laughed! It was during this ride to Bengasi that I developed a terrible toothache and abscess. My leg was throbbing with pain and before reaching our destination, was delirious with pain - but nobody paid any attention. Every man had his own particular troubles now, and one could not call for Dr Jones!

Our journey had one amusing incident! The lorries stopped at Cyrene, which is on the coast road between Derna and Bengasil. Another lorry had caught us up since we had left Derna. We all hoped this stop was for food, gut it was to change over the guards. While this was being done, an Italian officer complete in uniform - for the bedroom - pyjamas and dressing gown, his army cap on his head - came running out, brandishing a revolver, threatening to shoot any of us who dare speak while the lorry was in his town. After shouting at us for a few minutes, the lads started laughing, for it was indeed funny to see an officer in this attire, holding his hand like a naughty boy. As the truck moved on again,the Fascists who had been standing around watching booed and shouted at us. In reply, we, like Tommy Tucker, would have sung for our supper.

So that was Cyrene. As the lorry moved on with two new guards to watch us - two dirty Senussi Arabs - I remembered the story of the man of Cyrene in the scriptures who carried the cross of our Lord. It was up to me during the coming months or years to bear my cross of hardships,pain and tribulation, for the reward would be to return home again to loved ones.

The present position was that I was standing in this lorry, it was now getting cold and dark. An hour ago, a man had fallen off the lorry, and its wheels had passed over him,but the lorry just sped on, the exhaust fumes still making us feel ill. Perhaps that lad had not been killed, he was, maybe, lying on the desert road, unable to move because of his injuries, hoping that the white horse of death would soon arrive and take him off.

Derna

2008-04-21T13:01:00.000-07:00

Twenty four of us were marched off and told to get into a German truck, one of about 20 waiting on the road, our ride to Derna had started. About 100 miles over the desert road - the road that had been shelled by the Navy time out of number. The truck stopped once on the road and the German guard sitting with us in the back of the truck opened a tin of peaches and shared it with all of us. Just a tit-bit, but a good gesture!

Late in the evening, our truck entered Derna Pass. From the top we could see on our left, Derna drome, which bore the scars of RAF bombs,and the pile of wreckage proved that the bombs had found the target. As we turned in the pass, we stood up and looked out of the side of the lorry and at the bottom, I could see Derna itself, looking like a small sand model.There are about eight hairpin bends in the Derna Pass, for the road has been drilled out of a solid face of rock, and one false move by any driver could mean a crash over the side of the road to the bottom 1,600 feet below.

As we neared the bottom, we could see the wreckage of trucks and tanks whch had catapulted from the top. The town of Derna was not badly damaged, for, in the previous pushes, the British had bypassed the town owing to the fact that the mountain road was the only exit.

Just outside the town wall we arrived at the Arab cemetery and Derna fort. Right turn, found our truck in the cemetery, and among the graves sat prisoners like ourselves, surrounded by barbed wire. This was the initiation into our lives behind the wire.

At the entrance, we were handed over to the Italians! 'Presto, presto!' shouted the new guards and our entrance behind the wire was hurried by cracks across the back with the butt of a rifle. The only space behind the wire for us was a few square feet per man. On rough estimation, there were over 2,000 of us sitting in an area half the size of a football pitch, and we were hungry. How long would we be here? What and when would we eat? These were the questions we would be asking for months, perhaps years, and in time we should get apathetic and indifferent to life, not caring what happened to us. But we must remember we are members of the Bulldog Breed, not lap dogs!

After claiming my foot of ground, sitting down with my knees up to my chin; more prisoners were coming in, the guards bullying, and shouting 'Presto, presto, Inglese porki' - hurry, hurry, English pigs.

Pigs - ah, I guess we should be called worse before long. But who is this outside the wire? It looks as thought it might be the German Pathetone news. About six Germans all armed with cameras were shooting pictures of the English and colonial troops, and alongside them the Italians were doing likewise. At first, the reaction of the lads was to turn their backs on them, but German cunning came to the forefront, and when cigarettes and chocolates were thrown over the wire, hundreds of men made a mad stampede for the prize. What a photograph! In Germany, I could see the film caption: 'Starving English soldiers from Tobruk rush for chocolate'! After hundreds of men had fought for the spoils, I could see the victors brandishing their smokes or chocolate, whilst the vanquished walked back to his foot of ground, holding a black eye or a bleeding nose. What an exhibition!

This exhibition soon caused a feeling of remorse to come over the men, thus many turned the battery of cameras once again. Smiling, and with fingers showing the 'V'-sign, they stood. The shooting of films ceased, and revolvers were drawn, guttural shouting started, and bullets found their way into some of the chaps. Several fell to the ground, mortally wounded, they had insulted the Fuhrer and Il Duce!

For that we should not eat, and for two more days we did not have that pleasure.

P.O.W.

2008-04-05T13:44:00.000-07:00

Tramp, tramp, tramp - across the blazing desert sand we marched to the great expanse of sand reserved for the thousands of 'Englanders und Kolonial Truppen' who had been captured. What was to happen on arrival?

On the horizon I could see a seething mass of humanity and as I walked along the road, which I had come along the night before my capture, I could now see the shattered shells of the burnt-out tanks, English and German, a gun blown up, its torn barrel looking like the peeled skin of a banana, and nearby, with eyes staring at the sky, a shattered body. Whose son? Husband? A body, now so still and gruesome in that posture of death, to be buried in a corner of some foreign field that is forever England!

'Tempo, tempo!' shouted the German guards, meaning 'Hurry up, no time to waste!'. At last, we reached that area covered by the seething mass of men, we were told to all sit down and wait. Wait, wait, wait! Our lives were going to be this for the next three years. Yes, but back to the present. When do we eat, when do we quench our thirst? When? When?

How long we waited, I know not. But I vaguely remember in the early hours of the next morning being woken by the shouts of men calling 'Food and water up, come and get it!'. The ration was one tin of salmon between 12 men, and three English biscuits, all no doubt from the Base Depot in Tobruk, so Jerry was not being big-hearted, but he could have given less, or none at all. A little water was given to each man; it made many of us sick because it had been bought along in Diesel cans!

It was a nightmare for the next three days; no food or water, cold nights and blazing hot days. German transports were going through all day, loaded with ammo and the food from the dumps in Tobruk. Nearly all the transport we saw was our own, and I began to ask myself whether any of the regiments fighting there had destroyed any of their vehicles?

Before moving off in convoy, the Germans had painted the emblem of the Afrika Korps on the side of each lorry, so they were ready for the next push towards that pearl of great price, the Suez Canal.

On the fourth day of capture, we were given a few Army biscuits and the rumour spread that we were to be handed over to the Italians. Food was now becoming a problem to the Germans, for they needed all the food they could get from the dumps in Tobruk, as Rommel's army was now hammering on the doors of Egypt. Those food dumps were of vital importance to Rommel, so it was of vital importance that we were handed over to the allies of the Reich for safekeeping and feeding. Thus, on June 26th, we started moving on. What next?

************************

Barren wastes of rock and sand,
Dry, unfertile desert land,
Spiked wire on every hand,
Prisoner of war.

A hopeless host of angry men,
Croweded together in cage and pen,
Far off it seems from humankind,
Prisoner of war.

Queuing for hours in blistering heat,
Receiving a morsel of bread and meat,
Glad of even scraps to eat,
Prisoner of war.

Ill, unkempt and underfed,
Trading rings and watches for bread,
Chill, sandy shingle for a bed,
Prisoner of war.

Herded together like flocks of sheep,
Bullied and driven from dawn till sleep,
Their hearts filled with hatred deep,
Prisoner of war.

Cut from the news of the outside world,
Sifting the truth from the taunts that are heard,
Silently keeping their flag unfurled,
Prisoner of war.

Striving to keep alive their hope,
Failing at times beyond their scope,
Hugging themselves with rumour and hope,
Prisoner of war.

Last Action II

2008-03-30T14:36:00.002-07:00

Morning came, and with it the certainty that within a few hours, we should be rounded up like so many head of cattle and herded behind barbed wire.

After a snack, I sought to ravage among Army trucks for some clothing, for if capture was near, it was up to me to get all I could now; it might be months before the Germans gave us any. I was lucky, for one of my gunners saw me and shouted 'Sergeant! I thought you had been killed!' All the lads who had been with me were safe and were 50 yards away collecting clothing from our own Battery Q stores which was situated on a three-ton lorry.

It was good to see the lads again and soon we were talking about the happenings of the last few hours before the fall of Tobruk. In the scramble for clothes I managed to get a better pair of khaki overalls and a forage cap, and I was fixed up better than some.

My watch said it was nearly 8am, and the Germans were on the move again, the fighting had broken out again near the harbour, or was Jerry firing to tell us he was on the way to get us? Captain Roy called us all together for a roll call, 38 of us. The Sergeant Major was there, 5 Sergeants, and 32 other ranks. Roy told us of the certainty that the chances of evacuation were very remote. The surrender was certain, more certain was our capture by the Germans in the next hour or so. The C.O. had been badly wounded and was in Tobruk hospital, so Captain Roy was now in command.

'Sergeant Major.'

'Sir,' replied he.

'We are going on a recce, you and I, and the rest will stay behind and destroy all the vehicles and anything else that might be of use to the enemy.'

'Stay here, sir, while you are safe! Why go on a recce when you are safe here?'

'Sergeant Major,' replied the Captain, 'are you coming or not?'

'I am not refusing, sir, but only speaking for your own good.'

'Very well, Sergeant Major, I shall go alone and deal with you later.'

Thus alone went the Captain, only to be stopped a few minutes later by the ugly muzzle of a Spandau. Yes, this was it! There on the escarpment above us and in the wadi itself were dozens of Jerry infantrymen. Our job of destroying the trucks had been done, but only just in time.

All was pandemonium now, within the hub of voices one could almost imagine oneself in Caledonian Market. The Germans were rounding us up and a few lads paid the penalty for trying to resist capture. 'Komm! Komm! Komm! Schnell!' shouted the Germans.

'Komm'. Ah yes, this must mean 'come', yes, I had better go, that Mauser in my back doesn't feel too comfortable. And so I started on the long, long trail to the place called home. England, my England; how long, how long...

Last Action

2008-03-27T15:55:00.000-07:00

It was not long before one gun had received an 88mm shell through the recouperator, and shrapnel had seared through the intestines of a gunner who had remarked earlier 'I came out of Dunkirk, but will not come out of this'. Thus he was our first casualty in our last action.

Hell had broken loose , the German tanks had broken thought the perimeter defences and were driving forward towards the town, but our guns were in the way. Two 3.7 AA guns had been sent to the escarpment above the Tobruk cemetery earlier in the day to support the South African Artillery just in case The Hun decided to attack from the eastern side of the perimeter. He attacked just after we had dug in, the Stukas diving above, sighting us, and then we saw the bombs leave the plane, screaming towards us, but Lady Luck was with us and they fell harmlessly into the open desert.

Looking towards the wire, I could see the Hun heavy guns blasting a road through the minefield, and in a short time, the tanks were through. But what had happened to the South African Artillery?Not a round had been fired by the 25-pounders to stop the tank advance. During a lull, I had orders to take 10 men into a dugout for our ration of bully and biscuits. Sitting there, we could hear the staccato rattle of machine guns on the perimeter and the rumble of tanks could be heard now in the distance.

Boom - crash - shells were falling all around us, the gun crews were now in position on the 3.7s, ready for anything. 'On target,' shouts a gun layer; seconds later an HE shell is on its way towards a German tank. 'It's a hit!' shouts Reggie, the No 2, so now, its armour piercing shells to finish it off, and finish it off they do. The turret has been knocked off and a couple of Jerries jump out, screaming, with clothes ablaze, rolling in the desert sand, but their screams are soon silent.

The range finder and predictor looked a sorry sight as I looked from the dugout, for the blast of the guns firing at zero elevation had twisted them out of recognition. As the noise of battle died down, I dashed across the open desert to the gun pit, receiving shrapnel wounds in my legs as I did so. Did the gun position officer want my men on the guns as the instruments had been blown to pieces?

As I stood in the gun pit, I could see that both guns had been destroyed and the crews, most of them dead. Sergeant Cummings lying there as though asleep, Mason, his young body torn to pieces by shrapnel. I was reminded of that poem by Rupert Brook, 'If I should die, think only this of me, that there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England'.

'Don't just stand there, man, ask for orders or act on your own initiative for once,' I thought. But there was nothing I could do for the men still in the dugout, the wounded were being attended to, the dead beyond attention in this world.

I limped to the foxhole of the Lieutenant, but before reaching it, he came out shouting 'Get out, every man for himself, back to BHQ! Those are the OC's orders!' That was good enough for me - my men could get into Tobruk before the Hun was in possession of the position. 'Every man for himself,'those were my orders.

Ten men in my charge, they must be told, thus again a painful dash to that haven of refuge. Those lads needed no second order, they were told to get into the wadi, get a lorry and drive to BHQ in Tobruk. In two minutes, they had gone, and it was time I went, too. The Germans were now strafing the position, and the smell of burnt bodies drifting in the breeze. I was off, but when I reached the wadi, all the trucks had gone. Alone, with Germans sitting in unfriendly Panzers on the escarpment above.

Was this the end, was I to receive a short burst from a Spandau or a Mauzer? What's this? A British truck? Yes, indeed, one of our own. A second Lieutenant is driving and I shout for him to stop, but he would not, until I stood in front of the truck.

'Stop, Sir, I am coming with you.' So I went on a nightmare dash across the Gubbi Plain, past Tobruk Cemetery, but what do I see on the horizon? My heart bounded - British tanks, three cheers, we are safe! Ah, but don't get too excited; you have never seen British tanks like that. Well, whatever brand they were, we kept on going, and we went past them to be greeted, quite handsomely, with bursts of MG bullets, and guttural shouts of 'Halt! Englander!' . Half a mile to go, and with warm hind-quarters and severe palpitations, we reached our headquarters.

Our news was received with awe and amazement, for most of the HQ staff had just come back from a swim and had no idea the enemy were within the gates of Tobruk. We were surrounded so it was up to us to do something about it. But what?

It was now growing dark, we had been on that escarpment for nearly six hours, it seemed a lifetime and now a small band, sadly depleted in numbers, moved towards Wadi Audar to await further news, for although the Navy had said 'No help for Tobruk', we believed that after dark, they would arrive and take us off.

And so, darkness came, and with it, the news that Tobruk had fallen to the enemy, so now it was rest. Amid the sand dunes now lay the shells of broken, mangled men. The ugly shape of a Panzer silhouetted against the background of the blazing petrol dump. The whine of bullets broke the stillness of the night, like a myriad of stars glistening in the sky.

So the garrison had fallen, but until morning we were free and could still wait to see whether a miracle would happen by then, after all, the Navy may attempt to evacuate some of us!

I was tired, hungry and bewildered over the fact that General Clopper had surrendered to the enemy. After all, the garrison was in a better position to hold the enemy than the gallant Aussies and Tommies who had held out so gallantly against almost impossible odds. We had more men, armour, ammo and enough food to hold out for months. I felt in my own heart that we had been sold - on reflection, the South African battery of 25-pounders positioned on our flank of the escarpment had not fired one round during that action.

Later I was to learn that when the Germans captured the position and the guns, they were intact, and the South Africans there made no attempt to evade capture.

'Are you hungry, chum?' a voice greeted me from a cave nearby.'Why, yes,' I replied. On entering the cave, I found three lads of the RASC who had rations on their trucks for a whole armoured brigade, but unable to get through, had stopped here and had been issuing rations to the lads waiting in the Wadi. What a feast we had - sausages, apple pudding, pineapple and cream and the invariable cup of char!

I ate until I could eat no more, sleep was next on the agenda. Thus, a weary, worn and sad man slept, yes, with a faith that all would be well in the morning.

Prologue

2008-03-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

My late father, Fred Woodward, wrote these brief - and incomplete - diaries of his experiences in World War II thirty-odd years after the conflict. He died in 1993, and I have a feeling, wanted to share these experiences with other people. He served in the Army, and fell into German hands at Tobruk in 1942.

I thought that putting these entries into a blog was a way of recording his experiences for a wider audience, and anyone interested in military history, and how it affected Sergeant Woodward and his comrades.