大象传媒

On a level stretch of road somewhere in the region of Sidi Barrani we were discovered by one of our own aircraft. At first it did a wide circle around us which gave time for the vehicles to halt and for everyone, both the Italians and their prisoner captives to disperse among the scantily spaced boulders on either side of he road. The plane made a run over the convoy of vehicles and apart from one short burst of fire at the start of the run it took no further action to engage them.

It was obvious that the pilot had become aware of the trucks passengers because after a second run it flew off much to the relief of the Italians who had emerged from their cover and waving their rifles were cheering the departing aircraft. The prisoners despite the danger that it could have put them in would have liked to have seen a more vigorous attack on the vehicles which may have given them the opportunity in the resulting confusion to escape.

Our destination was a makeshift prisoner of war compound near El Adem on the escarpment overlooking Tobruk. The prison compound comprised of an area of desert ringed by coiled barbed wire. Inside the entrance had been erected a tent for medical purposes, otherwise the compound was completely barren. There was no water laid on, neither were there any toilet facilities. The small compound was packed to capacity, representatives of many regiments from the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, both white and coloured rubbed shoulders together.

Upon arrival senior NCOs were called upon to organise the prisoners into groups of fifty. Up to this time we had received nothing to eat since our capture and nothing to drink since Mersa Matruh. I called out for all personnel of my Corps to assemble around me and I was staggered by the response.

Recognising many faces from among the assembled prisoners I then asked for all members of my unit, 14 Company RASC, to fall in separately. I was both surprised and shocked when some one hundred and fifty answered to my call. This was the frightening evidence of the mauling our unit must have received in the recent engagement. I was not to know, but 7,000 prisoners had been put in the bag at Mersa. Add this to the 30,000 taken at Tobruk, the Eighth Army was certainly taking a pounding.

Later I was able to circulate among them and gather first hand accounts of what had happened. I was told many individual stories of isolated actions and heroism. From them I heard of the deaths of old friends, one case in particular of a sergeant, an old comrade of the Palestine days, killed when lying beneath his vehicle and engaging the Germans.

I was also told a story concerning the Canadian swashbuckling Lofty. According to one of his platoon drivers he was last seen in a bid to escape capture, defiantly racing across the desert in his vehicle and provocatively flying the Jewish Star of David flag from a sword attached to his truck. This was the same flag that the unit had been given at Lydda railway station the morning that we had left Palestine.

Much later I was to learn that on a casualty state compiled by remnants of the unit in Egypt on the 2nd of July 1942, the day when all hope was given up of further stragglers coming in from the desert, there were only 23 survivors from the desert debacle, the remainder had either been killed or taken prisoner

A mobile water tanker was brought to the outside of the perimeter wire and an attached hose from it was passed into the camp. The drinking water was rationed out to one mug per man and there were long queues and further delays when the one water tanker went off to be refilled.

During the afternoon of the first day a small truck came into the camp and the prisoners were ordered to gather around it. Tins of corned beef were thrown from the back of the vehicle into the mass of prisoners and at the same time a camera had been set up to film the incident. The senior NCOs tried to curb and stop the scramble for the tins knowing that it was a propaganda set up and would no doubt provide pleasing scenes for the Italians in Italy when pictures of disorderly and dishevelled enemy prisoners portrayed fighting and scrambling for food appeared in their newspapers and on their cinema newsreels.

Conditions were extremely bad. Two mugs of water a day and after the first day a small tin of Italian type corn beef and a hard tack Italian biscuit each evening.

With the absence of toilets to relieve themselves the prisoners had to go to the furthermost point of the camp and drop their trousers. This at times attracted the sentries fire, but whether it was with malicious intent or because the prisoner was near to the wire was not known.

Morale was low and it was here that I experienced the first grumbling of indiscipline. In reply to orders mainly given for their own benefit there were those who responded with.

"You can't give us orders. In here we are all in the same boat."

Later the same prisoners would say when it suited them.

"You're a bloody NCO, you've got the stripes on your arm, why don't you do something about it?"

There are the good and the bad, the strong and the weak and the conditions of the makeshift camp at Tobruk singled out the worse of them. Probably they were the same moaners and groaners who can be found in any regiment. Fortunately they were in the minority, but their presence and barrack room lawyer attitude in a prison of war compound did little to help.

Our stay at the camp was short, about five days. We had lost count of time, the days no longer meant anything, whether it was a Sunday or a Monday, it was all the same to us All that mattered was food and water, and in the scorching heat of the day the latter was the most important, we could never get enough to drink.

It was realised that the compound could be no more than a staging point, its lack of sanitation and inadequate water supply was a catalyst for decease and disaster and it would be only a matter of time before the encampment would be in the throes of an epidemic. We were all well aware of this, but were in the hands of our captors and could do nothing about it.

Suddenly and without warning we were marshalled together and marched in a long column out of the camp and down the winding road into the port of Tobruk. I could but not help remember the times that I had driven down this same road, never thinking then that one day I would be trudging along it as a prisoner.

Waiting for us at the docks was a dirty small one funnelled tramp steamer. We were all ignorant of our final destination and assumed that it would be Italy, but this rusted wreck was more like a coaster and not something capable of taking them all across the Mediterranean.

The ship was German because in addition to the German flag it was flying, on a raised platform and manning what looked like an anti aircraft gun were German marines. The embarkation of the prisoners was carried out amid some confusion. It was the intention of the Italian guards to cram the prisoners below decks, but the prisoners baulked at the idea, not wanting to be enclosed below deck in the stifling heat.

The Italian sentries were of poor quality. Pathetically they pushed, plodded and finally pleaded for the prisoners to go below deck and although armed with rifle and bayonet they could not achieve their object. It was obvious that this greatly amused the Germans who made no offer to assist the Italians and provided that the prisoners did not climb into their gun positions they were content to accept the situation. Finally the ship sailed with a large number of the prisoners cluttered about the decks.

The small ship never headed out into the Mediterranean, but billowing out clouds of black smoke from her solitary funnel she hugged the coast travelling westwards. This was pleasing to the prisoners who had no wish to leave Africa. They well remembered the backward and forward triumphs and disasters of the previous desert battles and were nourishing a hope that an Allied advance would liberate them; it was in their interest to stay in Africa as long as possible.

Throughout the night the small vessel steamed westwards and early the following morning it tied up to a jetty in the port of Bengazi. It was mid morning when we disembarked and marched from the dock area and then through the main streets of the town. At a major crossroad the traffic had been halted to allow the marching column of British prisoners to pass. I well remember a drawn up Gharry with two women passengers. They were both European and possibly were the wives of Italian colonist. As our group passed them the two women stood up and spat at the marching men and from the expression on their faces their language was far from complimentary.

On all sides could be seen the damage and devastation brought about by the Allied bombing. Our destination was a prisoner of war camp on the outskirts of the town. A large barbed wired compound had been erected opposite what the prisoners thought was an Italian barracks.

Inside the compound were small tents each one accommodating about eight men. There were open ditch latrines, but water was still scarce with none available for washing and shaving.

The camp was overcrowded, it was said that it was holding more than 20,000 inmates. Regularly each evening the prisoners were given a grandstand view when bombers dropped their vicious loads over the dock area. The raids were met by anti aircraft fire, the shrapnel from which often landed in the camps enclosure. Dysentery was rife prior to the arrival of our contingent and soon it had affected us.

Circulating the camp and brought in by the latest arrivals were rumours that Rommel had been stopped just before Alexandria. It was the optimistic hope of the dispirited prisoners that a rejuvenated Eighth Army could be once again advancing and the longer that they could remain in Bengazi the greater was their chances of rescue.

The days seemed endless and the hot oppressive sultry nights made sleeping difficult. It was during the sleepless nights that our innermost thoughts and worries surfaced. I was constantly thinking of Leah. Had she been told yet of my capture? How would she react to the news? Would this give her father a further opportunity to harangue her and point out her folly in marrying me a British soldier? If the news brought into the camp was true, that the German advance had been stopped, then this was good news. If true, it would relieve me of all fears for her safety. Had there been a German occupation of Palestine, it would be a different story.

It was widely talked about that the Italians wished to move them to Italy, but were being prevented from doing so due to the activeness of the British navy who were now the predominant force in the Mediterranean. In corroboration of this there were two occasions in our particular compound when we were roused in the night and formed up at the gates only to have the movement cancelled at the last moment and the hard tack rations that we had been issued with for the journey withdrawn.

Then came the evening when we were moved further than the camp gates. We were marched through the streets of the darkened town and embarked on a large cargo ship. This time it was an Italian vessel and the embarkation was carried out more professionally. We were forced below decks and the hatches battened down.

I lost count of time that we spent in the crowded suffocating conditions. Latrine buckets had been placed in the hold, but with the motion of the ship they were soon slopping and spewing their overflowing contents. So crowded were the prisoners that they had difficulty to find a space in which to lie down and even this was made impossible due to the deteriorating condition of the floor space caused by the overflowing buckets.

In its efforts to evade the patrolling British warships the prison-ship with all its lights extinguished zigzagged its way in the darkness across the Mediterranean.

It was the hopes and prayers of the prisoners sweltering in the stinking hold that the Royal Navy would intercept her. This was the last chance of deliverance for them. They were nourishing the hope that Churchill aware of their predicament would surely not allow them to be taken to the Italian mainland.

They were clutching at every straw, but it was all wistful thinking. They were not to be rescued. There was no British navy coming to their assistance, in the depredations of war they were expendable and already they had been written off.

It was early morning and the sun had yet to rise above the encircling hills when the ship dropped anchor just off the port of Brindisi nestling on the Adriatic heel of Italy. The hatches were thrown open and the clean crisp sweet smelling morning air fought a battle with the holds escaping foulness before reaching its human cargo.

Climbing out of the holds we were all mustered on the deck and as we gazed shoreward at the Italian coastline it was finally brought home to us that all hope of liberation was now behind us.

In Africa and even during the sea crossing there had always been the chance that we might be rescued, but what chance did we have of that here in the enemies homeland.

Filthy and dejected we climbed down the rope ladders to the small lighters bobbing in the sea below us.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.