大象传媒

Like many men who served in World War II my Dad Jack Longworth was always loathe to talk about his wartime experiences and my deepest regret is that I never encouraged him to discuss them. He died in 1998, so alas his memories died with him.
The following information was reported in our local newspaper in 1944, and so as not to infringe copyrights, this is my version of that article.

In 1940 my Dad was working as a collier at Plank Lane Colliery in Leigh when he was conscripted to join the army from his home in Westhoughton, Lancashire. He became a Private in the Worcester Regiment and after a few weeks basic training he was shipped out to Sudan. Very quickly he was involved in fierce fighting in Eritrea, the hardest and toughest battle being for Keren, quite a shock to the system, as the furthest away from home he had ever been before was Blackpool.
My Dad was present at the formal surrender of the Duke of Aosta who was the commander of the Italian forces and Dad was chosen, with other comrades to present arms for the distinguished prisoner,
When Abyssinia was freed and the Emperor re-established at Addis Ababa, the British troops were given a well earned break to rest.
The next place he was sent to was Cairo where the troops had to wait for three weeks for new equipment to arrive. From there they were moved up the desert to meet Rommel's forces. He was in the second seige of Tobruk, and in June 1942 formed part of a small force comprising of the ever memorable Knightsbridge "box".
In that month of June, 1942, he was taken prisoner by the Germans and handed over to the custody of the Italians. For four weeks, along with other soldiers, he suffered appalling conditions at an Italian prisoner of war camp at Tripoli. As food and water were in very short supply, men died every day. A small ration of black bread was all they had to keep body and soul together.
They were then taken across Italy to a camp at Capua, a place that has become notorious amaong British Prisoners of War. The food was even more meagre and there were just two cold taps for 400 men. Their clothes were "alive" with lice and the Italian guards were dirty and unshaven.
There was yet another transfer to Marsala at the end of a month, the move being seen as "from the frying pan into the fire" where as many as a dozen men were dying every day. To further depress the men, Red Cross parcels did not arrive for eight consecutive weeks. The local population were the chief suspects.
The next move was to a working camp south of Milan, an improvement on previous places, although the farmer they were working for was not the friendliest of men.
In September 1943 came the news of an Italian armistice and with it a completely new prospect for all the British Prisoners of War in Italy.
My Dad's reaction was to try and reach the allied forces in the south, a quest on which he spent 14 fruitless days. Realising that this plan was not getting him anywhere, he decided to turn right round and head for the Swiss border. By this time he had resorted to, as the newspaper article said, "obtained civilian clothes by his own initiative" which I presume meant stealing.
Unfortunately in one of the villages where he stayed an informant told the German occupying forces and the place was quickly surrounded and searched by a squad of Nazis.
My Dad, along with three servicemen he had as his companions were in the village all night and remained undiscovered. They dived deep into a hayrick where they remained in safety, despite German bayonets being prodded and poked in the straw, fortunately, not deep enough.
After a train journey north they eventually reached the welcome sight of Switzerland and spent the next ten months there recovering their health and strength, my Dad was just over 7 stone in weight by then.
After being in Montreux for part of the time he crossed over into France via Geneva where members of the F.F.I. were waiting to present arms.
He was 27 when he got back to England. He then had a six week holiday with my Mother Lily. At one point she had had the dreaded telegram saying that my Dad was "missing" and it was a long time after that that she finally got the word that he was safe.
He would have told you himself that he was one of the lucky ones as he never so much as got one single scratch, and for that I am truly thankful.
MY DAD, MY HERO, JUST AN ORDINARY MAN.
(Hazel Ratcliffe nee Longworth). 17th March 2004.

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