The last post

And that was as far as Fred Woodward got with his wartime diary. I have no idea why he stopped banging it out on his little grey portable Smith Corona, but as he's been dead more than a quarter of a century, there is little point in asking.

However, he did do an interview with a local paper in Stevenage about his exploits, which I've put up here. How I wish he'd finished his diary; it would have been absolutely fascinating, and I'd be able to ask him why he wanted to go back to Moosburg after the war.

Fred Woodward was a smashing writer, a smashing man, and I do miss him.

So I had another chip on my shoulder and seeing a Britisher behave like this to win favour with the enemy made my blood boil. This interpreter might just as well have put on a German uniform.

It was getting cold as we marched into the Italian barracks in Verona. Passing the sentries on the gate who gave the Fascist salute as the German officer in charge of our guards passed them. We crossed the barrack square, through a tall gate into a barrack compound. Round the high walls sentry boxes reared their ugly shapes against the night sky. We were halted and led into the barrack blocks.

I was put into a large wooden hut containing about 50 three-tier bunks. In ten minutes, the room was full up, so much so that I climbed up to the top of my bunk and stayed there for the next hour, hoping every minute that someone would come in and say that the Italians wanted to give us some grub. An  hour passed and nothing happened. All of us had a mattress filled with straw but we had no blankets.

A bugle broke the stillness of the night air and when silence reigned again, the lights went out. So there was nothing for it but to lay down and sleep without blankets. It was nothing new. I believe most of us could now sleep quite well in a bed of thistles.

Morning came, and at 6am, a voice shouted "Coffee up!" On the barrack square, two Italian soldiers stood with a large bin of coffee, and from a lorry at the side of the soldiers we were issued with a bowl from which we would eat and drink. It was the usual type of acorn coffee, but it was warm and wet.

In ten minutes we were all back in the hut waiting for the next move of the German commandant. At 11am we were all taken on  parade for a roll call. 200 of us lined up and after the count, were taken in groups of 20 to see a German officer, who said we were to go to Germany the next day to work in German factories. The sergeants and warrant officers among us told this officer that under the rules of the Geneva Convention, he could not make us work for the Reich. He stood up and shouted that we were not in any position to refused and would do as we were told.

When I went back to the hut, I noticed a chap lying on the bunk underneath me, wearing civilian clothes in a PoW camp. He introduced himself as Francis Harvey, a driver in the Services corps. He, like myself, had been captured in Tobruk. He had the features of an Italian; good-looking, fine, chiselled features and black wavy hair, height 5' 10". His story was that a few weeks earlier, he had been a member of a working party on a farm near Mantova and decided to escape.

Suceeding in this, he had contacted a Contessa who had told him to contact some friends in Vicenza town in the north east of Italy. He was not a big man, and the Contessa decided that as he was slim, he could be disguised as a woman.  Dressed as such, he was put on a train at Mantova and his journey began without incident. Things began to get ticklish when German soldiers began to make eyes at him and offer to date him.

I said he must have been well made-up to attract such attention, and he said that the Contessa had told him to dress himself and take the clothes  he thought would suit him best from her wardrobe. He had chosen a black two-piece costume and close-fitting hat. A fur stole and jewellery were added. I had to laugh when he said he had worn a girdle in order to attach his stockings.

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.

*Salutes new readers*

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

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!

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

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

BATTLE DIARY

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

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

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.

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.