大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Bill Ross of the 鈥楢ction Desk 鈥� Sheffield鈥� Team on behalf of Ralph Corps (deceased), and has been added to the site with his relatives' permission. They fully understand the site's terms and conditions.
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A number of Italian soldiers escorted us out of the building into a large square, then across to a large water trough in a far corner. It must have been a public square for in a few moments, we were surrounded by the usual crowd of onlookers. The production of two pieces of white soap caused much whispering among the watchers. They hadn鈥檛 seen white soap for nearly two years. My companion distributed a half block of chocolate between several children gathered around and this caused much consternation and shaking of heads. We knew that the Italians at this time were constantly being told that Great Britain was starving, and a little genuine propaganda, whenever an opportunity presented itself, was never wasted by prisoners of war.

We purposely received our shirts and white woollen under vests so that the people could see them. And, from the whispering that went on between the many people gathered there, I鈥檝e no doubt that we struck a very severe blow at the Italian Propaganda department. Yes, direct propaganda, like direct evidence is far and away the best of all. Having completed our ablutions, we walked back through the crowd and so into our room. Here, they gave us some bread and cheese closely followed by a piece of meat, bigger than I ever saw in a prison camp. Then, feeling a little fortified, I got down to try and snatch a little sleep. An Italian sentry, seeing my intention, disappeared for an instant and returned shortly afterwards with a couple of blankets. From that moment, I refused to be awake to any visitors.

At about 4 a.m. I was awakened by one of the sentries and ushered into the next room. My eyes were still full of sleep and I wasn鈥檛 in the best of moods when I was introduced to the town鈥檚 Chief Of Police, a sour looking individual, about 5鈥�8鈥� tall with a short bull neck and a bald head. He was standing in the middle of the room and looked at me as though he had a grudge against all the world. The way my escort scuttled out of the room at a wave of his hand did much to confirm that first impression. When the sentry had flown, my new acquaintance turned to me and gave me what is usually called, the 鈥榦nce over鈥�. By the look on his face, I gathered, quite rightly that he was not at all satisfied with the inspection.

However, I decided to be polite. I grinned ay him pleasantly and asked in one of the Italian phrases I knew if he was well. I thought he was going to choke. An angry flush overspread his features, wiping the grin from my face in an instant. Muttering something under his breath, he came close to me, placed his bald head under my chin and started speaking in rapid Italian. He had one of those nasty rasping voices with just the hint of a snarl. The sort of voice I have always associated with ex-guards N.C.O.s after having been introduced to the drill square at Caterham. Definitely not the voice of a friend.

On the table beside him was a small pocket edition of English-Italian dictionary. It belonged to my friend. Whilst speaking, he frequently pointed in its direction and although I understood nothing of what he was saying, I gathered from his antics that he thought the book belonged to me.
When I made no response, he began to get a little hot under the collar. In less than a minute he was shouting and roaring and waving his arms around his head like a lunatic. I tried to tell him in sign language that he was making a mistake. It was all to no avail. Quickly, I appealed to an officer reading a book in the far corner of the room. How the devil he could read in that bedlam of noise, only Heaven knows, I don鈥檛. But there was no sympathy from that quarter. That much was obvious for he simply ignored my presence and continued reading, or pretending to. I don鈥檛 know which, but I have my own opinion on that subject.

There was nothing else I could do; I just stood there listening to the discordant voice of my genial host. What he was thinking about me, I鈥檝e no idea, though any man with a speck of common sense would have seen immediately that I understood nothing of the Italian language. But the longer I stood there without saying anything, the worse he seemed to get, until in the end, I tried to quieten this imbecile in front of me. Now, in fairness to myself, I must mention that at this period of my prisoner of war life, I understood very little Italian, in fact, my knowledge of the language extended to only a few words and phrases. However, I decided to have a shot at it.

I raised my hand. For the first time since this interview had started, peace and quiet in the room. Then, in halting Italian and with much study, I said, indicating to the dictionary, 鈥淣ON E MIEI E LA MIA AMICA,鈥� which in English, I now know means: 鈥淚t is not mine, it is my (feminine) friend鈥檚.鈥� Typical of me to get mixed up with the masculine and feminine gender. Still, at that time I didn鈥檛 know this.

My instinct told me that I鈥檇 made a bloomer. The way my interrogator鈥檚 face turned crimson, the way he scowled at me and the way he began doing some deep breathing exercises through the nose and all at the same time, told me better than words could ever have done that I鈥檇 slipped up somewhere in my Italian. There was a profound silence. For a number of seconds, we stared friend to friend, just glancing at one another. Then, appearing to make up his mind, he buttoned up the neck of his tunic with what I could only call a very determined air, and a manner that suggested a very definite point of view. Having completed this operation successfully, he took a deep breath and shook a fist in my face and recommenced his ravings all over again. Well, I鈥檇 done my best; there was nothing more I could do. I simply ignored him, in fact, I had turned away from the man and contemplated the ceiling above. He was mad, that鈥檚 what he was, a raving lunatic. But in ignoring his presence, I committed a very grave error. My conduct only tended to ruffle his feathers more than ever and he closed in on me, still bellowing in Italian whilst jabbing me in the chest with a very blunt forefinger. Now, if there鈥檚 one thing I take exception to it鈥檚 a jab in the chest. I stepped back out of the finger jabbing range. But I do believe the man thought I was becoming afraid of him for he at once closed in and brought the blunt instrument into action again.

It may only have been imagination, but those digs in the chest seemed to get more forceful every time he jabbed and although I knew I was doing wrong, I could not for the life of me restrain my actions at the time. I gave him a push in the chest with my open hand, not a strong push, just sufficient to put him out of range. Imagine my surprise and consternation therefore when he suddenly catapulted back into the small table behind. Only a remarkable contortion of the body prevented him from finishing up in the lying position. The way he snarled when he struggled back into the vertical position, he grabbed me by the battledress and poked his nose into mine, which made me feel just a little uncomfortable. What would have eventually happened no one knows. At that critical stage of the proceedings, the officer who spoke French entered the room. He soon put the matter to rights and the rightful owner of the dictionary was produced for the interrogation.

The Chief Of Police believed (or said he did), that my colleague could speak Italian and that he was only shamming that he could not. Eventually however, with the help of the officer who could speak French, the matter was brought to a satisfactory conclusion. That I鈥檇 made an enemy, I didn鈥檛 doubt, for during the interview with my colleague, the Chief Of Police kept glaring at me with a look that was far from brotherly. You know, the sort of look the Chief Constable reserves for the unfortunate police officers who have to visit his office for purposes other than promotion. In other words, a trifle too hostile for comfort.

At about 6 p.m. that evening, we were both given a meal of macaroni. Even at this time, the visitors were still arriving to view. There was a constant stream of people filing into and out of the room. My friend and I were highly amused. Neither of us could visualise the same procedure being adopted by British Military Authorities. However, it all helped to pass away the time. Soon after we had finished the meal, we were ushered into the next room. There we found quite a number of people gathered together. The majority of them appeared to be friends of the Italian officer in charge of us. There was a number of women present. One man who was present asked many many questions. He spoke French and for more than an hour, he conversed with my colleague. I understood next to nothing of their conversation, but my friend would, from time to time, enlighten me on some of the subjects being discussed. Many of the questions he asked, I have since forgotten, yet a few still stick in my memory. It may be worthwhile to mention those. I remember such as: was Churchill a Jew? Was it true that there was no religion In England except Protestantism, which was of course no religion at all? Was it true that Great Britain was starving? Was it true that British soldiers were supplied with cigarettes containing drugs to make them fight better? Plus a load of other questions, which to us were highly amusing at the time, but I have forgotten them with the course of time. Later in the evening, at about 7.30, someone produced an accordion and began to play. He wasn鈥檛 much of a singer, yet he did try. He was also ably assisted by other people present, excluding us of course. My friend and I began to settle ourselves down to a nice evening鈥檚 entertainment. My colleague was amusing himself with an Italian acquaintance (female). I sat on a chair near our musical friend and prepared to enjoy the music. Things were just beginning to look up very nicely when there was a bellow from the doorway. The Chief Of Police came into the room, closely followed by more members of his gang. As if by magic, the singing stopped. The man with the concertina was certainly the most uncomfortable man in the room and looked as though he would have eaten his instrument, had that been within his power. As it was, he tried to slide it under my chair out of sight; sort of transferring the onus, as it were. He then turned his back on us and tried to appear casual. I remained seated throughout the interval. I could not now see the Police Chief because of the Italian in front of me. And I cannot say that I had any wish to renew my old acquaintance. Recent occurrences were much too fresh at that moment, so, unlike my colleague, I remained seated and did my best to avoid detection. Some kind of an argument took place between the Chief Of Police and the Italian officers in charge of the barracks.

Whilst this discussion was taking place, I noticed that the persons in the room began disappearing one by one. By the time the palaver had ended between the Chief Of Police and the officer, there were very few people left in the place. From what happened next, I conceived that my old 鈥榝riend鈥� had won the dispute.

We were told to get our belongings and prepare for a short journey. We did so and were then taken out of the room and along a passage and into the street outside.

Before I continue with my narrative, I would like to mention that the Italian Police is a military organisation. Every man carries a rifle and bayonet and a pistol. Although I cannot vouch for its authenticity, I am told that they also carry a couple of hand grenades in their pockets during the war. Even without the grenades, every member was a miniature arsenal.

In the street outside, we were very unceremoniously pushed, pulled, butted and shoved between countless numbers of police. After some little delay and a whispered conference between the Chief of Police and some of his subordinates, we set off through the town. The chief, as I had expected, took up his position immediately to my rear, just a little too close for comfort, and every now and then, he gave me a very nasty prod in the back as a reminder. I presumed he was in close attendance. In this manner, in company with my friend, I proceeded to the town lock-up. Arriving there, we were placed in a cell. Here, we once again had to submit to a search, but this time we were obliged to remove all of our clothing. It was an exceptionally well-conducted search. They鈥檇 most probably heard about the knife episode and being police, they were taking no chances. They even examined the linings of our jackets, trousers and overalls, and even our underclothing was subjected to minute inspection. Our boots, especially the heels and soles were thoroughly examined. The result was that they were satisfied. They returned our shirts and pants, then left us alone in the cell. For about a minute, I looked round and I grinned. Yes constable, almost the same as a British police cell. There was the regulation wooden bed, the barred inaccessible window, the electric bulb on the outside, the bell push on the wall and the solid door with the lock on the outside too. Yes, just about the same. It agreed favourably in every respect, except one, and that was the one I was looking for at that particular moment. There wasn鈥檛 one. I examined the blankets, they were a bit rugged in places but appeared fairly clean.

Together we made the bed. The light in the cell went out. I rang the bell. After waiting some time, I rang again, and again, but there was no response. The place was dead. There was only one thing to do now and I did it: get into bed and sleep. In a few minutes, I was dead to the world. Prison beds may be hard and uncomfortable, but on that one in the Italian cell, I had one of the best nights鈥� sleep I have ever had.

Daylight was streaming through the cell window when I awoke. It would be about 6 a.m. Everything was quiet; my fellow prisoner was still sleeping peacefully. That night鈥檚 rest had done me a world of good and as I lay there, I began thinking of my position. In a few moments, I was chuckling merrily away to myself. The irony of the situation struck me as being remarkable. For I could not help but look back upon life in the W.R.C. Many鈥檚 the time I鈥檇 lugged prisoners along to the lock-up, but never in my wildest dreams did I foresee the day when someone would do the same with me. Yet here I was, on a wooden bed in a police cell. There was no doubt about that, a fact which very forcibly impressed itself on me when I sat up suddenly, to feel what I imagined to be a thousand needles sticking in my spine. That flat wooden mattress had certainly done its best to smooth out the rough spots in my anatomy. Having recovered sufficiently from the effects, I sat for some time looking at the bare walls in front of me. I remember very well that I was in a particularly merry mood that morning. There was no apparent reason why I should have been, but the fact remains that I was, and as I sat there, I thought of a particularly good joke. My mind being made up, I decided to put it into practice right away.

I nudged my friend roughly in the ribs and said in an urgent voice, 鈥淐ome on! Quick, snap out of it!鈥� He shot up like a jack in a box, then stopped, as though transfixed. 鈥淥-o-o-oh,鈥� he groaned, sinking slowly back into the horizontal position.

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