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.

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.

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.