© Michael Page · Permission to share the memoirs of Arthur Page, Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy), has been granted by the family of Arthur Page.

Read also  “Arthur Page’s Memorable Walk,” “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 1,”  “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 2,” “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 3,” and “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 4.”

Chapter 20—The Valley of the Cremona

From the beginning of our sojourn in the Cremona Valley, we two ex-POWs gradually merged with the neighbourhood. Neighbours became aware of us, began to pass the time of day with us, talked about us in their homes or with other neighbours. Many people came to know of us, coupling a protesting Piet Van Rensberg with me as the ‘due inglese di casa Tamburrini’ (the two English of the Tamburrini Family). He gave up, as a bad job, explaining the difference between an inglese and a sud africano.

From the beginning of our sojourn in the Cremona Valley, we two ex-POWs gradually merged with the neighbourhood. Neighbours became aware of us, began to pass the time of day with us, talked about us in their homes or with other neighbours. Many people came to know of us, coupling a protesting Piet Van Rensberg with me as the ‘due inglese di casa Tamburrini’ (the two English of the Tamburrini Family). He gave up, as a bad job, explaining the difference between an inglese and a sud africano.

But though folk spoke of us in neighbourly gossip, not one spoke of us to the ‘wrong people’. The Tamburrinis simply had no fear of betrayal through a near neighbour. To put it in an Italian way, “Their lips were sewn” on this subject, where authority was concerned. There seemed to be a hint of the ‘omerta’ or silence of the Mafia in all this.

It was not long before neighbouring families would have missed us had we not been there. We became accepted habitués. For instance, we came to be expected at the tiny kindergarten school for children under six years of age each weekday morning. It stood at the crest of the hill that rose above the house and, to save Blandina time and a tough climb, we would escort the two children, Dumiglio and Giuliana to school. It was our first job of the day, performed long after the other adult members of the family had been up and busy with the farmyard chores. We soon became Ettore and Pietro to the neighbours.

Thus, we dwelt in seeming safety in a kind of neighbourhood camouflage. The valley lacked radios and newspapers, but occasional war news would penetrate into the valley to remind us of the war:  an Allied attack held up, some atrocity perpetrated by the German SS or republican fascists in Rome or some other city. Now and again, closer to home, someone might be dragged off to disappear into the German Penal System for some infringement of wartime edicts, especially worrying when it concerned the harbouring of escapees. There were certain other exceptions to this tranquillity to come, but for some time the war seemed to leave us alone.

We made ourselves scarce if strangers paid a call or if we were warned of more remote visitors. A case in point was when the padrone of the farm made his periodic visit of inspection to collect his dues and so on.

But we did not hide when members of the clergy from Corridonia came during the Church Rogation days to bless farm, hearth, and family and to receive much needed gifts of farm produce. We were included in the blessing. I can never recall being in danger from the Italian Catholic Church. Rather the reverse for they were always sympathetic to escapees, were they Allied Forces, Jews, or Slavs. There were dozens of us inside the Vatican City. The Assisi clergy went through great peril to rescue Jews.

The valley also sheltered, in a farm not a half-hour walk from our farm, a German soldier who had deserted the Wehrmacht. Piet and I made him a visit and conversed as best we could in pidgin Italian and schoolboy German. The contadini treated him with the same consideration as they treated us. Some time later we paid a further call, but he had packed his gear and gone. Poor devil; I have often wondered what could have happened to him.

One of the families in the valley had a daughter named Maria Papete who was as blonde as I and as rosy-cheeked as an English girl and very good to look at.

She was of marriageable age, about twenty, and when the sun shone strongly she was often released from farm or housework and then she would be found on a grassy slope just by the river bleaching her ‘bottom drawer’ material.

It is natural that in Italy, the seat of Roman Catholicism, the Church and its people should hold marriage and the family unit in high regard. This was certainly so in the provinces of wartime Italy and to a great extent still is to this day. So in those days girls prepared for marriage with almighty man. Marriages were arranged or encouraged, the girls could say no of course, but it seemed to me to be very much a marriage market in which bargains were struck and each partner was expected to bring material provision to help toward the successful functioning of their married life. I suppose it made sense when compared with the meeting by social chance of our couples and the sudden decisions to marry for ‘luv’.

It appeared that the woman, by custom, provided amongst other items the bed linen, and to this end Maria would spread long narrow strips of material (linen I believe) and kept them doused with water from the Cremona, close at hand, by means of dipping in it a large tin fixed to the end of a long bamboo cane. Old Sol then did his task of slowly bleaching the cloth as the water dried after being liberally sprinkled over the cloth.

Maria had possible marital expectations that awaited confirmation on the return of a local warrior from the Italian army now cut off from the homeland because of the Balkan debacle. Many an hour did I pass with her, chatting or just enjoying the watching of her as she tended her ‘bottom drawer’.

The process was long and slow, but Maria had plenty of time—another year and a half of bleaching in fact before his return, for return he did. The bed linen must have been bleached to a spotless white by then.

Her family were generous in not resenting the time I spent with her for, strictly speaking, I was breaking a social code in being alone with a young woman without some mild form of chaperonage, such as others of her acquaintance being present—even if just limited to just one other lady. Doubt or rumour can easily sully a woman’s reputation, whereas young Italian men get away with far more freedom yet still expect an innocent, blushing bride at their elbow when they stand before the altar. Anything less they would no doubt construe as a ‘just impediment’.

So, but for her family’s unusual liberality, I could have been considered ‘cattivo’ (of bad reputation), brought shame on Maria, and tampered with her chances in the marriage market; not a light responsibility. In British terms everything was thoroughly above board of course. We enjoyed each other’s company, our acquaintanceship answered a need for both of us, we admired the looks and ways of each other, and we grew quite fond of each other I believe.

Pietro Tamburrini took me to visit Maria forty-eight years later. It was a surprise call. She and her husband, he who had returned from the Balkans, lived in an old-style farm on the ridge which divided the Cremona and Chienti valleys. We drove into the farmyard, the dogs barked, and out they came and leaned over the balcony at the top of the outside flight of steps that climbed to the front door, to see who had called. Maria had kept well, was little changed and I recognised her even before Pietro did, for he had not seen her in years.

Pietro reintroduced us, and Maria said no, she did not remember me. We were offered the usual, time-old hospitality, the house wine was good and gradually we talked about the old days. We passed a pleasant hour and at one juncture Maria’s two grandsons, little lads of about eight and ten, added to our pleasure by making an appearance. They were the apples of their grandmother’s eyes.

When we left Maria saw us down to the car and I was able to say quietly to her, “Tu sei ancora un bel pezzo di donna” (You are still a fine-looking woman—literally, a fine chunk of woman). She laughed and shook my hand, squeezing it. I was glad for I think she did remember me. It had been pleasant taking a brief glance back at younger times when both the then-present and future had seemed so precarious and to find that all had gone well.

Gradually Piet Van Rensberg and I extended our wanderings about the Cremona Valley and our acquaintance. Sometimes in late evening we would climb up the winding cart track to the Corridonia–Monte San Giusto road to just short of Corridonia itself. Friends of Mike Kruger and Yank had a house there and, by arriving just as darkness fell, we could slip in unnoticed to hear the radio news, ‘Radio Londra’ in fact.

One late spring evening we set off to do this after our meal whilst it was still light. By the time we reached the road on the ridge above, the light of day was fast fading. This was just as well for, being near the town entrance and on a strada automobilstiche it was time to go carefully. Keeping our eyes skimmed in the gloom, we continued our way with caution. Suddenly we both halted simultaneously. Ten yards ahead of us at the edge of the road was a large bush. At the far side of it, hidden by its foliage but revealed by the glow of their cigarettes, were two or three men smoking and waiting. This could only mean trouble.

We stood quite still but ready to run and waited for their movement. Their cigarettes glowed and dimmed as they puffed, but no sound came from them. Neither did they move. They must have seen us. What were they waiting for? We dared a glance at each other, inquiringly. Something was eerily wrong. They would have at least said something by now. We stared at them once more and to our amazement their numbers seemed to increase! This broke the spell. They were glowworms! We could see more of them now in other directions. Of course we could, for it was growing darker by the moment. What a relief! and what fools we felt. But it had looked real enough a few moments earlier.

We gained our destination and there our Italian acquaintances enjoyed the joke. This was the season for the ‘lucciole’ or fireflies. This was our first nocturnal walk for some time, and we had not noticed their increasing appearance hitherto. Journeying up the slope the fading daylight had been too strong for them to be seen, until we reached the road and the bush. The Italians promised us an amazing sight when we made our return downhill, and so it was. As we descended the track the fields around and below us revealed the phenomenon of thousands of flickering, glowing fireflies.

Summer makes its presence felt early in Italy. The Italians call it the poor man’s weather for no expensive protection from cold is needed. You worked in the field in vest, pants, and trousers—barefoot of course. Blandina’s washing day problem was much reduced as a consequence. Wartime Italy suffered from the problem of the three esses: lack of sugar, salt, and soap. Sugar you mainly did without. Soap was home-made by processing animal fats. Rough salt was sometimes found in local rock and Artiglio Tulli back in Verchiano had seriously contemplated journeying to the Adriatic with his mule to bring back three barrels of sea water for boiling down for the salt content, which stresses the needs of the times. Ash from the fireplace figured importantly in Blandina’s washing day activity, though I do not recall how it was employed in the cleaning. With a war literally on her doorstep the Italian housewife had problems.

The contadini had no lack of ingenuity in coping with their shortages. A few inches of string would provide a wick which, when dipped into a piece of old crockery adapted to holding some form of home-made oil, recreated the invention of their forbears of two thousand years ago, the Roman lamp, that very same which was pictured in our schoolbooks of the mid-twenties and always reminded me of an elegant teapot. Even rough candles were fashioned from the leftovers of the kitchen. These and the carbide lamp lit rooms at night.

When the fields and crops demanded less attention, time was set aside to gather materials such as cane-like reeds from the river, pliable sticks from riverside trees and even stuff from the maize stalks was utilised. Then much working time would be given over to weaving baskets, box-like containers with lids, mats and even lattice work screens to provide shade from the sun. Pietro was expert in this skill due probably to his strength of hand and finger.

At the age of eighty-three he was still doing similar work making cane fishing creels as a cottage industry. The frame and materials were provided by some distant padrone at regular intervals and the finished articles, collected and paid for.

Chapter 21—Interlopers

In addition to trusting our valley neighbours, a further feeling of security came from the state of the roads which stretched from the towns and linked the various farms that were dotted about the valleys. The roads that joined the towns with one another were well metalled, third-class roads but, because of the hilly terrain, very winding. The others were little more than cart tracks, often narrow and tortuous. Even a motorcycle could not travel along them at great speed. 

As the crow flies the towns were but a few kilometres apart but, because of the winding roads, much more distant from each other in time. The steep hills were not easy to traverse and the lesser roads bad. Thus, the farms in the valleys could be fairly close to a town in distance, yet still quite isolated. Military speaking, a fast, surprise visitation would have been rather difficult to achieve, and why would they wish to make the effort anyway? 

Yet at the cost of a two- or three-mile walk into town the farming folk, isolated in the valleys, weekly went to Mass in town, shopped (for what it was worth in war time), did business, and were quite urbanised. It was a warming sight to see the Tamburrini family setting out for Corridonia to go to Mass in their Sunday best, shoes carried in the hand for wartime economy’s sake, to be put on just before entering the town for appearance’s sake.

Larger towns such as Corridonia generally had some form of fascisti republicani authority and a German presence. Yet, below in the valleys, cheek by jowl, developed an increasing partigiani activity only a short distance away. So Corridonia had its fascisti and Tedeschi soldiery, and the valley of Cremona could boast of Guglielmo’s Red Star Banda near us and a Royalist Banda further east, the opposing factions separated by perhaps a three quarter of an hours walk. Both bandas recruited from Corridonia and district of course. Other towns built up their own bandas.

Guglielmo was a dark haired, stocky Italian from Corridonia, where his house and wife were. Quite near to us was the base of his banda, which also sheltered for brief but frequent periods, the odd girlfriend. To the famiglia Tamburrini they were rather ‘cattivo’ (naughty) because of their ‘goings on’—not the partisan but the amorous variety.

Incidentally Guglielmo, having adopted the Red Star, must have resented living in a town which, in recent years, had had its name changed from Pausula to Corridonia by Il Duce as an honour to its outstanding but dead fascist citizen one Corridone. Mike Kruger and Yank were well acquainted with Guglielmo and his group and, at need, could borrow guns from them.

Despite our sense of security, our farmstead was caught napping by one Tedeschi surprise visit, and Mike and Yank’s farm caught by another, both rather different in character.

The family, Piet, and I were all hard at work one cloudy morning, thinning out with our zappas in a field just below the house, between it and the stream. The Germans surprised us because they resorted to an outdated form of military movement ideally suited to the region: cavalry! At least it was a form of temporary cavalry, or mounted infantry, probably using locally recruited horses. The road from town approached us via a re-entrant hidden from our sight on the other side of the river by a rise and a belt of trees. Thus, the surprise was complete. Our warning came as the patrol cantered noisily across the wooden planking that bridged the Cremona.

They were actually following the steep road up to the house, but at one juncture it seemed that they were making straight for us at a gallop. It must have been this amazing sight of cavalry, but what did we two veterans do? We panicked and ran. Alas, in running from them we were running unwittingly towards the house, the worst choice of all.

Entering up the outside staircase and through the front door we then realized our error, dropped down through the trap door into the stables, ran out into the rickyard and, for want of better cover at really short notice, tried to press into the rick.

One horseman must have entered the stable from the far side of the house for his horse’s head emerged from the exit we had just vacated, then slowly the whole horse and rider appeared, they circled the rick from my left. right around until the horse’s head appeared on my right and then I found myself staring, as though hypnotised, at the circular rim of a Walther automatic pistol. I stuttered one or two “Mama Mias” and a “Iesu Cristu” to advertise my adopted nationality. If any one of them could speak good Italian the game was up. I had visions of the whole family lined up against the wall facing their guns. Thank God, I had myself taken the two kids to school that morning. At least they would only be orphans.

We were lucky. Their Italian must have been negligible, and we both were taken for a couple of Italian lads trying to avoid labour conscription. So far so good.

Pasquale had appeared, probably from the wine cantina, and he was brilliant. Doubtless fortified by a glass or two of the ‘home brew’ he calmly announced he could have food placed on the table immediately, sufficient for a dozen people, should that be their need. He cut right across any further interest in me or Piet and drew their attention to him. The others also gathered around and this too helped to diffuse their interest. Pasquale held their attention, and the saints of Loreto must have been guarding him that day for, amazingly, the leader of the patrol suddenly barked an order and the patrol of seven or so men galloped out of the farmyard and took the track to the next farm along the hillside.

Later that afternoon we heard that they had taken from the next farm all the hams, pork, and other meats that hung, perhaps too conveniently, from the farm kitchen. Its padrone was the very man who had been ‘king’ of line of shearers at haymaking time.

Possibly the object of such patrols was to remind the contadini that anti-German cum fascist activity would quickly bring war’s ‘frightfulness’ upon them. Perhaps too they hoped to draw the partisans out and prompt them into a fight.

This was unlikely at this stage of the year’s campaigning, for the partisans must wait the expected Allied advance before showing their hand. It was much wiser in this well populated and semi-urban mixture of hilltop towns and farmland to evade the enemy or even disappear into thin air by dispersing, temporarily, to their homes in town or on farm during such activity. The community’s well-being and safety had to be considered.

The Allied offensive would begin on May the 11th, Monte Cassino would fall and the breakthrough of the Gustav Line be achieved by the 25th. They would be in Rome by June 4th (two days before the landings in France). After that the Germans would be in full retreat and the partisans time would come bringing some ‘frightfulness’ and house burnings, it is true, but the enemy would be harassed and hurried. 

Until then the war only impinged occasionally upon the valley, sometimes in peculiar ways. For example, in taking one of our frequent strolls across the river to visit Mike and Yank, they accosted us before we reached the house. Their Italian family and, indeed, our two friends had been surprised by an unexpected caller wearing the uniform of the Mussolini-led republican fascist military. Our two had made themselves scarce, but not before the visitor recognised them for what they were. The fellow was home on leave to Corridonia and, being interested in their daughter, was paying his respects to the family. Yank had already contacted Guglielmo and borrowed a pistol for he and Mike, not knowing how much a fanatic fascist the interloper was, intended waylaying him and eliminating him. They could not leave to chance the possibility that he might report the family for harbouring escapees. Naturally we said we would give them a hand.

We waited among the bushes near the house for hours, during which time we had the unusual experience of contemplating the carrying out of a cold-blooded murder. In addition, we tried to forecast the affect it would have on the young man’s family, on authority, and the valley. We needed to reassure each other, frequently, that it had to be done. At one point Yank sidled back to the farmyard and managed to attract the girl’s attention and so let her know our intentions. I can imagine she must have had a lot on her mind as she returned inside the house.

Another hour dragged by and then she reappeared and made her way to where we lay among the bushes. In a torrent of words, she fervently assured us that she had challenged him about the extent of his loyalties to ‘the party’ and the problem we were all wrestling with, that he had no intention of saying a word about Mike and Yank and that he was only in the militia for want of option and merely waited better times and opportunity to extricate himself from a losing situation. This was a relief, but Yank still was not disposed to give the chap the benefit of the doubt. With that the girl pleaded that he was really very sweet on her and would never harm her family, speaking in such fashion that Yank gave in, reluctantly. He kept the gun for a day or so longer, however.

He had reason to call on Guglielmo again in the not distant future because of an event brought about by my own perversity.

Once more Piet and I were paying our two chums a visit when they met us, this time to report that there was a patrol of four Germans in the house! The enemy, armed and accoutred, had just walked in through the front door which, as usual in hot weather, was open. Even now they were sitting in the kitchen for the family had quickly plied them with hospitality. Mike and Yank had kept quiet and sidled out at the earliest opportunity.

There was something curious about it. There were no other troops about, so it was no rastrellamento. They must have come all the way from Corridonia on foot which was unusual to say the least; such a distance into possible ‘bandit’ country? Most unwise! No officer! Perhaps a feldwebel? They had not noticed.

I had done thoughtless things in the past, especially during the period I was alone, probably having been motivated by boredom or need of company. I had nosed into little towns, private gardens, and such places as though wanting to make something happen when it was quite unnecessary and far more prudent to pass them by. Sometimes these little excursions had proved interesting, once or twice even useful and had, at times, necessitated rapid, undignified retreat. So far I had been lucky.

My curiosity was certainly piqued. Perhaps I wanted to show off. It could be that I fancied my chances at passing myself off as Italian, after all I was wearing my better black suit with wide-brimmed, black trilby style hat, all very smartly Italian. “I’m going in and look them over” I announced. “Come back.” “Don’t be a fool.” The shouts followed me, but I was on my way.

This farmhouse had a flight of steps up to the front door and I should have changed my mind halfway up them. As it was, I was no sooner at the door, which stood ajar, than, with a “Permesso”, (May I come in?) I was in the kitchen. With some mouths agape the family members present responded to my “Buon giorno”, albeit it with widening eyes and raised eyebrows. Otherwise, the scene was that of a polite social gathering.

I made the usual opening remarks to my Italian acquaintances and said goodday to the Germans who were seated quite relaxedly at the table. Perhaps it was my smart suit, but I stood out a bit in this company and I obviously had drawn the Germans’ interest. Their Italian was frugal and outlandish, which was a blessing, and so their attempt to converse stumbled along. When I spoke, it was with as rapid a speed as I could muster to give some credence to my being Italian. I also chipped in with my little bit of German and they responded in kind. They asked where I came from, so I said I was visiting local friends but came from Foligno where there was some risk from Allied bombing. Everything seemed to be going well. They were not overbearing and appeared to have no specific mission so, when I thought opportunity offered, I said “arriverderci” and turned to leave. To my horror they stood also and, as far as I could gather, were determined on accompanying me. There I was again wishing I had chosen prudence not curiosity. At least I was drawing them away from Mike and Yank’s place—but where should I go?

I certainly did not intend to go to casa Tamburrini but I got it from them with reasonable clarity that they wished to go to the place where I was staying. I now had plenty to think about as we made our way down the track that led to the wooden bridge that spanned the Cremona. Once there I could turn right for home or left for Corridonia.

By this time, I reckoned that my South African chums would be raising the alarm with Guglielmo and his followers, if they had not done it already, and they would certainly be tracking us. We passed just below the farm of the Pepete family in which they showed no interest and still no idea came to mind as to how to extricate myself from this mess. As we neared the bridge I had, in desperation, decided to turn left for Corridonia when it started to rain. ‘Bonta divina’, bounty from above, pennies from heaven. Short of the bridge on the right side of the track was a small holding between the track and the Cremona. I did not know the owner well, but it was worth the chance. I suggested to the Germans that we shelter there from the rain and sup some more wine.

Something was strange about this patrol. They cooperated most willingly, almost enthusiastically. They had none of the grim looks and reflected none of the business-like intent of the other patrol.

Augusto Gatti the owner obliged immediately, straightaway summing up the situation. He ushered us in and, for want of better seating in his small kitchen, showed us into an upstairs bedroom where we could sit on the bed, provided glasses, and left a bottle of wine before retreating downstairs again. Meantime, the shower of rain was quite heavy, and I hoped it would not pass over too soon.

I kept the talking going in pidgin Italian and German as best I could whilst hoping as I had never hoped before. I kept the wine flowing. Suddenly boots rushed up the stairs. Up jumped the Germans. I tensed to throw myself flat. A gun was thrust through the door. “Alze le mane”, shouted a mop-haired young partisan before being literally pushed into the room by eager heroes behind him. No need to translate; their hands flew up.

“Ye verdoempt skellum” called my Boer chums upon our being reunited outside. I had given them a worrying day plus plenty of rushing and tearing about. But Guglielmo and his band were well pleased with the rescue exercise I had afforded them and with the swift, successful manner in which they had implemented it. They were the rightful heroes of the day.

It turned out that the four ‘Tedeschi’ were in fact Russian Ukrainians, many of whom had allied themselves with Hitler’s hordes against their old-time enemy the Russians. These four, I believe, were not unwilling prisoners and were well treated by Guglielmo’s Red Star Banda. He had the honour of handing them over to the Allies at a later date.

Not long after, the Royalist group of partigiani captured two veritable ‘Tedeschi’ soldiers. We went to visit them at their farm HQ a half-hour’s walk eastward along the valley. They were of a different calibre and still full of fight. One attempted to run for it when left in the charge of a rather juvenile guard. He was fortunately cut down by Sten gun bullets before he was halfway across the Cremona, otherwise he might have brought German frightfulness back with him into the valley. By this time though, the Wehrmacht were becoming busily preoccupied with their own survival. June was not far off, and the campaigning was well and truly on.

Chapter 22—Two Final Escape Ventures

We based ourselves in the Cremona Valley for a while, and for most of the time lived with the Tamburrinis. Farm work, the various happenings, and our own inclinations kept us pretty fully occupied during that time. We made two escape attempts in addition to the Porto Recanati fiasco.

Allied agents were about the countryside, so rumour had it. We even heard of the occasional sighting of British Army personnel, fully armed, equipped, and uniformed, grim faced on some mission or other. I suppose that now the Italian Navy had been neutralised or was working on the Allies’ behalf, it must have been fairly easy to land agents behind the lines. Piet himself was sure that some high-ranking British officers, including a relation of the Queen, who had been held prisoner in his officers’ camp, had effected an escape by submarine. Word had it that such escapes were very much a possibility. So we were to find.

Indeed, there were such agents, most of them Italians now under British or American command and we finally made contact with one. Mike Kruger and Yank were honoured with a visit by one such and were informed of an escape route south to the line by way of ‘safe houses’. The idea was to operate an organized, more assured way of moving south, providing food, resting places, and routing advice along the road. It would more certainly avoid trouble spots than the hit or miss, often blundering efforts of the uninformed escaper. As the front-line zone was reached, local guides aided you through the final section.

Mike and Yank held the whereabouts of the first safe house in their heads. We made our way down following a route parallel to—but further east of—that made by me and my three other friends from Servigliano last year. I cannot recall place names, but it took two days of purposeful walking to reach its vicinity.

At this stage, Mike and Yank began making discreet enquiries to check that we were in the right district. It was still afternoon. We were lucky, for the contadino we asked actually had an English escaper staying on his farm, probably from Servigliano prison camp which was only 10 or 15 kms north of our position. We could afford to be quite open with him in going into details, and it turned out that he knew the position of the very house we sought and something of its use. Moreover, he had bad news. Only a few days beforehand its occupants had been taken into custody by the republican fascist authority.

This was a nasty shock. To have our hopes dashed so soon along the route, to hell with our disappointment! What of the poor devils, perhaps even at this moment being questioned with typical Nazi charm, and all for trying to help the rather undeserving us. We felt sick. 

From what the English lad told us, life for escapers and their Italian helpers was no bed of roses in this area. It was cursed with the presence of an ardent fascist named Rosciole who enthusiastically pursued a campaign to enforce the dictates of his regime. He was the bêtes noires of the ex-POWs hiding in the district and a source of worry and fear for those Italians aiding them. They also lacked the partisan strength that might put the matter right.

Without knowledge of the next safe house (if it still was safe) we decided to backtrack to the Cremona Valley. Yank assured our compatriot that he would try to persuade our local partisans to come down and deal with this local fascist tyrant. He did indeed try, but Guglielmo would have none of it. He had enough to occupy him in the Corridonia area, including looking after mad fools like me!

The Allies entered Rome on June 4th. Hopes were high and it was about this time that our next escape opportunity developed.

Once again, another Italian special agent was in the district, recently landed somewhere near Porto San Giorgio and, no doubt with the help of the local Italian Resistance (I have our old friend Ercule Ercule Professore delle belle Lettere in mind), was sending trusted local ragazzi (young men) scouring round for British or American ex-POWs. Those contacted would be guided to a collection centre at a remote farm near the mouth of a river entering the Adriatic in an isolated part of the coast. From there the agent would superintend their transfer to the position for embarking in a submarine bound for somewhere south of the line.

The night of departure arrived. This could well be it. We were packed, our young guide arrived with one or two other escapers in tow. We hugged and kissed the family—yet again. “Sbrigati” (hurry up). We were off.

It was a fast, hard walk. The teenaged guide showed no mercy and set a tough pace. We had to be at the collection point before dawn. We made it in good time and it is my guess that we arrived at a farm in the ‘pianatura’ (peneplain) of the River Tenna a few kilometres from the coast.

Soon after we arrived, we breakfasted Italian-style, but the coffee was good. There were already twenty or so of us gathered there. Whilst it was still very early morning, we were issued a cigarette ration and food and drink to eat ‘al fresco’ during the day. We then spread out in small groups round the edges of the fields where there was some cover, well away from the house. Thus dispersed, we had a good chance to get away in case of alarm. At nightfall we gathered in to return and eat a substantial meal in a large barn and then slept in straw on the floor. All was well under control and very well organized.

The agent, who always carried a Thompson submachine gun, was a calm, intelligent leader and spoke good English. He explained what he needed of us clearly, demanded the minimum of movement during daylight, little noise at night, and no smoking after lights out. He obviously had requisite radio contact to make the whole operation possible.

With so much to look forward to the discipline of us all was impeccable. After two more days spent on these lines it was departure time. We were gathered near the farm in daylight and the agent spoke to us again. He now had the latest and final information regarding the operation. With clarity and frankness, he explained the ‘sub’ could only take a certain number of passengers, that we were too many and so some of us must be eliminated from the escape. The dangers involved in guiding so many men, albeit in small groups, from here to the embarkation point would dictate the method of elimination. Those blonde, fresh skinned, too obviously Anglo-Saxon types were not to go. Nobody grumbled, even myself, and I was one of the first to be eliminated. Immediately Piet, every inch an Italian in appearance, volunteered to stay and was soon followed by Mike and Yank. Of course, I told them not to throw their opportunity away, but I must admit that I was thankful and relieved not to be left on my own once more.

To cheer us up the agent assured us that the Allies would reach this area in but a week or so, that we had only to keep our heads down and all would be well. So, we returned to the Cremona Valley having missed by a hair probably the last such escape from Central Italy. The rest embarked safely.

Chapter 23—The Mountain Comes to Mahomet

Not long after our return to Casa Tamburrini we began to realize how truly imminent was the prospect of the Allied advance reaching us. There was also the grim prospect of the Wehrmacht’s presence in the vicinity before the joy of seeing the first khaki uniform. Where would the most savage fighting take place? Imminent liberation brought imminent problems.

Since the beginning of the war there had not been such a rush of good news. The Germans were retreating in Italy, on the Russian front, and the Allies had a firm bridgehead in France. For us though, the significant news was the German retreat in Italy.

More than this what really made an impact on our hopes was the activity that went on around us. Firstly, was the frequency of Allied fighter plane activity, busily strafing any military vehicles that dared to move in daylight. We saw Spitfires operating just beyond the hillcrest that separated us from the Chienti Valley, swooping down on the Porto Civitanova–Foligno Road, to be followed by the rattle of rapid cannon fire and finally a pall of black smoke rising vertically and lazily above the crest top to denote a palpable hit. Along the main coastal road, the Wehrmacht’s main supply route east of the Apennines, it was reported that engineers were digging slit trenches every few hundred metres along the highway’s fringe to give some degree of protection for military vehicle personnel under air attack.

The partigiani had obviously been given the word to go for their activity rapidly increased. Towards the eastern end of our valley one group, in waylaying German traffic travelling from Monte San Giusto to Civitanova lost their first dead casualty, a young fellow named Mario from Corridonia.

The Tamburrini menfolk dug a deep hole and buried everything they thought worthwhile to hide. Piet and I built a platformed hiding place up in a tree on the slope above and some distance from the house. It concealed us very well and, one day, when we were lying in it after adding some finishing touches, it was put to the test. A middle-aged man taking a stroll stopped immediately below us and stood gazing across the valley for some minutes without being aware of us. I could have stretched down and knocked his hat off with ease but fought back the temptation.

Then came the great news. The German presence in Corridonia was leaving. Then again came the stunning news that they were building defensive positions in the hills in the northern bank of the Chienti Valley. This put Corridonia in the Allied front line. As yet there was no sign of Allied troops. The various partigiani marched into Corridonia. They now formed our sole protective line.

Events had separated Piet and me from Mike and Yank for a day or two. We paid them a call at their farm and found that they had gone into town with Guglielmo’s banda. We followed them quickly. This was an experience we had longed for, that I had longed for ever since I had looked upward from the inside of the campo concentramento at Servigliano towards a similar town that hung above we prisoners of war, the town of Monte Giorgio, the first of the medieval hilltop towns to arouse my curiosity. What an experience to walk around such a town without let or hindrance. We had been near the main gate of Corridonia at night, but that was all.

The medieval, narrow streets of Corridonia lived up to my expectations, nurtured for over a year. It was a most rewarding experience to walk about such a town without one’s nerves on edge. Unless the Germans decided to make a fresh assault on the town there was nothing to fear except the odd mortar bomb that was sent over every now and again. In any case these mostly hit roofs, the narrow medieval streets being so protectively narrow.

For the first time since leaving San Martino back in the Apennines we entered a bar, but not a homely osteria della compagnia (country inn) but a more sophisticated town bar with shining chrome and glass shelves. Instead of only vino locale there were other drinks such as Grappa, the Italian equivalent of gin or schnapps and even a birra Perroni was obtainable.

Authority had been wrested from fascist hands and the town was governed by a partisan committee. The new town council were now issuing free rations from military stores including lots of meat, including steak. Life was sweet.

For a while, understandably, we played truant from Casa Tamburrini, leaving the family when their harvest work could have done with our help. We met other ex-POWs from the surrounding countryside. There were invitations from the generous townsfolk to partake in meals or for a night’s accommodation; and there were girls, lots of lovely girls—but all of them well behaved or nearly well behaved. With such joy and celebration, I repeat, life was sweet; and we were safely through the German line, or it had passed safely through us.

After a day, or perhaps two, I went back home to Casa Tamburrini but soon succumbed once more to the lure of Corridonia. With the harvest in full swing the family had no time for such nonsense. On the way back to town one morning I passed by casa Pepita and walked uphill towards the town on the track we had so often used to approach town for radio news. 

I stopped to chat to an Italian acquaintance in his house by the lane when suddenly the sound of a motorcycle approaching literally petrified us. It will be hard for you to visualise, but we had been living in a country where the combustion engine was entirely in the hands of the enemy and could only signify trouble.

Such vehicles meant Germans. As far as we knew the Germans had counter attacked. My acquaintance ran into his house, returned carrying a Berretta automatic pistol, thrust it into my hand (there were many such weapons about, carried about by deserting Italian soldiers after the Armistice) told me to defend myself, and disappeared back into the house.

I sought cover and on came the motorbike down the rough track. Who was on it? None other than Mike Kruger. He spotted me, stopped, and waved. He told me that the partigiani were fairly certain that there were Allied troops in Monte San Giusto and, needing an English-speaking courier to contact the troops rumoured to be there, had enlisted him to do the job. He was just getting used to the bike before going there.

We returned to the town and Mike set off along the road that for some kilometres ran along the top of the ridge that divided the Cremona Valley from the Chienti Valley before it swung south to descend to Monte San Giusto. His dust attracted the Germans, who pursued it with mortar fire from across the Chienti River. We followed his dusty progress until it was safely out of sight.

Some hours later he returned leading a column of Allied vehicles bearing men of a Polish Battalion. He had wisely chosen a route less noticeable to the Germans and Piet and I were among the crowd who awaited their arrival. The partisans had decided to march their men towards the advancing Poles, thus making a triumphal meeting; but the Polish commander, fearing it might create a muddle, and wanting to assess the military situation quickly and act accordingly, waved them aside so they too lined the road into the town. I cannot truly recall our feelings, but everybody was tremendously happy and enthusiastically greeted the Allied troops. It was one of the moving moments of my life to see those smiling, waving Poles, so confident in their bearing, passing us by. But, by now, the Germans had an inkling as to what was going on and sent a barrage of mortar fire to break up the celebrations.

Piet and I joined Mike Kruger and were introduced to the Polish Commander who spoke excellent English. He needed information quickly. We, for our part, explained the situation as we knew it and this, together with information supplied by the partisans, decided the commander to send out a patrol. Being on hand, Piet and I were quickly co-opted as guides and were soon leading a patrol down through wooded country along the slope leading to the plain of the Chienti River. The river itself was about two or three kilometres from town.

We kept to the trees as best we could, but ‘Jerry’ had spotted us and was soon warning us to keep our distance with mortar and 88 mm fire. We were bracketed by mortar bombs. We all clung to and hugged Mother Earth, and Piet and I did not ignore the irony of having just celebrated reaching freedom only to be about to be blown to kingdom come within a half hour of the event.

We were relieved to regain the safety of the town, not without casualties, and in reporting our findings tried hard to conceal our relief for fear of showing a lack of martial ardour. The German presence seemed well established on the far bank of the river but there seemed to be nothing hostile this side of it. The bridge was still intact but probably mined.

Chapter 24—In the Front Line

The euphoria of liberation seemed to continue for several days. Everybody was so intensely relieved that the ‘front line war’ had passed over us so lightly. Life went on fairly normally, considering that Corridonia was now in the front line itself. Mortar bombs or the occasional 88 mm shell reminded us of this every now and again but seemed to do little damage. Perhaps they were aimed mainly at the Polish positions just north of the town. A slowly lengthening row of temporary graves just outside the town showed the Poles casualty figures in more significant manner than any mortality returns and reminded us that we had a war on our doorstep.

We remained in this atmosphere for two weeks or so, except for popping back ‘home’ to see how the family were doing.

It was interesting to observe the military build-up of the Allies and make comparisons with the weaponry we saw and the weaponry of a year ago. The new Lee-Enfield rifle now had a two-range sight only of one hundred yards and three hundred yards instead of the former sight ranging from 100 yards to 2,000 yards. The rifle no longer turned into a modern pike by affixing a twelve-inch bayonet to its muzzle. Instead it was graced, or disgraced, according to how you look at it, by a spike similar to the old marlinspike of my old Boy Scouts’ knife as approved by Baden-Powell himself. It would need a hell of a lot of thrust to make a penetration. The section Bren-gun seemed unchanged but section leaders and above carried the Sten-gun rather than the rifle or American Thompson submachine gun. Obviously, the British Army was no longer capable of, let alone relied upon, the accurate musketry of the ‘Old Contemptibles’. Our musketry seemed to be the victim of the economy of simplified mass production and had been downgraded in quality.

On the other hand, it was an improvement for it must also mean that the British Army were getting rid of the ‘Over the top and the best of luck’ mentality. At the beginning of the war we were still doing frontal assaults in echelon formation, ‘Give ’em the cold steel they don’t like it’ and all that stuff. Now the stress seemed to be on longer range killing with heavier guns.

The bigger stuff had indeed changed for the better. The Boys anti-tank rifle had been consigned to the past to join the longbow and the crossbow, all equally inefficient at knocking out tanks. It was replaced by a piece of stove piping through which, by means of the thrust of a strong spring, was thrown on a goodly sized armour piercing projectile at a tank with every chance of stopping it. This was the PIAT (Projectile Infantry Anti-Tank), one to each platoon. We could have done with those at Tebourba.

The two-inch anti-tank gun was now a battalion weapon, whereas a year ago it was allocated to the brigade.

Our tanks, too, carried a cannon of much increased calibre, as we were to see as we travelled south at a later date. As yet tank support was still to reach the Corridonia area. When Piet and I spotted a hull-down armoured vehicle with turret and two-inch cannon it turned out to be, not a tank, but an armoured car, much to our surprise.

It looked as though the Allies had a winning team. The Russians were advancing, the Allies were pushing inland in Brittany, our troops were on the move in Italy and we had got through the line. It was a joyous time to be living in. We savoured each day as we ranged about Corridonia enjoying the luxuries of town life.

Then one morning the ex-prisoners were rounded up, paraded, reminded that we were once more under military discipline and given twenty-four hours to clear up our local affairs for we were to move south the next day.

There was just time to return ‘home’ to Casa Tamburrini and make our farewells. Expecting to be back in uniform soon, we left most of our gear behind. Alas, I forgot to seek out and pack the map given to me by my well-wisher in the restaurant in Consuma. That would have been treasured as an heirloom and would have proved of great help in writing this story.

Corridonia was not to remain the front line for long. Our troops continued their advance northward but complete victory over the German Army in Italy would not be achieved until the April of 1945. To assist the landing in the south of France, ‘Anvil’, scheduled for August 15th. Field Marshal Alexander would lose seven divisions, whilst at the same time Kesselring was to receive eight more from Germany. So the Gothic Line the latter prepared at the northern tip of the Apennines held our advance for one more winter. The Po Valley and Alpine Italy were to continue suffering the German presence.

Chapter 25—Homeward Bound                   

In the back of a lorry, we journeyed south along the main strada statale number 16 which hugged the coast. Today you hurtle down the multi-laned Autostrada majestically ignoring hills and rivers, running parallel to, but slightly inland of old route 16. The latter wound behind or through the seaside towns crossing the many river estuaries narrow and wide needing countless bridges, a simple two-laned road typical of the thirties. Wehrmacht engineers had blown up most of the bridges in far less time than it took our engineers to replace them with Bailey bridging or build short detours so that rivers could be forded. But this they did. They must have constructed many a mile of Bailey Bridging and I do not doubt that some of it is still in use.

The north bound carriageway was much busier than the south. We passed imposing columns of military material and men. A large army was on the move. Tanks too, lots of them. I had never seen so many. The larger types were on the carriers. Everything moved slowly but steadily except for the hold-ups made at the problem producing river fords, and except for the motorcycle traffic, nothing could avoid them. Their riders, crash helmeted and in bush shirt and shorts had a ghost-like appearance being completely covered from head to foot in a coating of the grey-white dust of the Italian second class roads. It was an uplifting experience to see the Polish troops in the Chienti valley about to be reinforced in such mighty fashion. The days of retreat after retreat were over.

For the poor old infantry, advancing up the leg of Italy must have been tough going, semi-amphibious, just one attack after another across defended rivers.

When we were unloaded at Pescara our outlandish appearance as English civilians attracted much attention from the uniformed lads who massed about the place. We had to make explanations many times over. By lucky chance there was a strong representation of South Africans forces nearby in the shape of a squadron of their air force operating from local airstrips. My three Boer buddies were passed over to them and, of course, they took me with them.

For the Squadron we were very unusual visitors and they received us with much pleasure and kindness. The very next day we were kitted out in drill uniform with plenty of accessories and spares and brand-new pairs of their service boots which were not unlike the British officer’s boots being a sophisticated brown in colour.

Many of the Squadron personnel were from Johannesburg, and as that was my three chums’ home ground, they shared a common feeling of hometown neighbourliness. We stayed several days and were given generous consideration despite their being busy with operations. Back in Jo’burg the squadron must have been based locally for a surprising number of the personnel were related; cousins, brothers, even father and son, and all from that area.

One night we spent an evening in a nearby town going, for the first time, not as escapees but as uniformed British soldiery. We found our relationship with Italians in shop, bar, restaurant, or street so strangely different. North of the front line we were treated more as a part of the people, obligated to each other against the Tedeschi; rather akin to the camaraderie between all classes in England in the perilous Battle of Britain days. Now we were treated with some deference, more as a source of income, a valued customer, and an ally of course. The uniform certainly put distance between us and them.

Perhaps a slight over correctness of attitude on their part was due to the presence of an Italian infantry regiment in the town who, although wearing British uniform and accoutrements as did all Allies, were certainly resentful of any undue favour being shown, especially by the girls, to us temporary guests in their country, even if we were their comrades. Understandable, I suppose. I am certain they cooperated fully and well in action.

We thoroughly enjoyed a very pleasant stay with the squadron, which included one or two side trips to spend convivial social evenings with some of their personnel. It was terminated when two flying officers became due for some leave. They intended to spend this in Naples and Rome and, perhaps to justify the provision of a jeep for this junketing, they were to take us with them to Naples.

So, with our group of four and our newly provided military possessions in the back behind the two officers, and in an open jeep in fine weather, we set off to cross the Apennines once again. The journey also was a sight-seeing tour for we went on a very round-about route making a huge circular detour via Aquila and Rieti and down to Rome. Then we took a quick look at where the Anzio Bridgehead fighting had taken place whilst Piet and I had been helping the Yankee fliers back in Croce della Rocca Franca. The temporary cemeteries showed how bitter it had been. Then we traversed the Pontine Marshes to join the Appian Way which led us to the coastal road. Finally, we halted to enjoy that well-known picture postcard view of the Bay of Naples far below us with Vesuvius smoking still in the distance. Then we descended into the city to be engulfed in its narrow, canyon-like streets swarming with its ‘paisani’ or town citizens. When forced to slow down we had trouble keeping the light-fingered street urchins from pilfering our possession. Great survivors, of necessity, were they.

Almost at the end of a very long day our two flying officers were able to shed their responsibilities to those Authorities responsible for collecting together this motley army of ex-Italian POWs and really begin to enjoy their leave. We were, over the next few days, undergoing medical checks, visits to the dentist and quartermaster stores; we were even issued badges of rank and campaign medal ribbons. We also began to draw Army pay once more. Apart from all this life was one long holiday.

You have probably heard it said that for every soldier in the front line it takes a dozen or so more to keep him there fully armed, equipped, fed and healthy. In the military establishment we found ourselves in Naples we were naturally amongst such army personnel and many of them we found to be grand company. But we also experienced the nastier natures within the back echelons.

The rear military administration also employed many Italian civilians. These were of both sexes and served as cleaners, cooks, for office work, as barbers, laundering and so on. It was most noticeable how the ex-POW from the other side of the line was by far and away more polite and thoughtful towards them than, alas, was generally the case.

There were occasional wild parties arranged in the various messes to which local ladies of dubious character would be invited, and also some civilian staff—many of whom evaded such invitations, being family folk. At one party we attended, whilst chatting and drinking with some mess members one of them held forth about young women he had been interviewing that afternoon regarding a typist job. One of them, an especially good looker, he had asked to return this very night regarding further details about the job. She would get it of course providing she slept with him, about which she knew nothing yet. Loud laughter. when she arrived, to our horror, she was obviously a well brought up, serious 16-year-old, intent on helping out her family who were finding it hard to cope in the war situation. It was obvious that she did not know what form of entertainment awaited her so, before she could be slipped a drink, Piet and I took her in tow and persuaded her to let us escort her back home to mama as the party was very adult and not for her. She was wise enough to see our point and acquiesced. In any case the quartermaster sergeant concerned was old, ugly, and carried an outsized beer paunch.

My South Africans went home long before we Britons did, so the time to say goodbye soon arrived. Piet and I never exchanged addresses. South Africa was on the other side of a much larger world in those days, and it seemed pointless. I have regretted it since. For almost a year we had been inseparable mates, tramping mile after mile, sharing everything, running risks. We disagreed but never quarrelled. I had met Piet when I badly needed a good stolid chum and he had been all that. Life was strangely different for quite a while after he, Mike, and Yank had gone. “Vackers ye, ye verdoempt skellum ye”. (With apologies for the spelling).

The landings in southern France had meant little available shipping for home for some time so we were sent to an Army rest camp at Salerno for a while. Among us were a few of my old comrades from the Second Battalion Hampshires such as the laddie who had sung ‘Ave Maria’ that Christmas Eve 1942 in the Sicily concentration camp, Sergeants Gary Edwards and Ginger Rickman and a few others. Their appearance on the Naples establishment scene had been most timely for me coming as it did shortly before my three Boer pals left for Africa. The two named I had known since 1940. They were recalled reservists who had served in India and bore a campaign ribbon for active service in some small war on the North-west Frontier. Rejoined in ’39 they saw more service in France, then the advance into Belgium, action on the River Lys, the retreat and escape at Dunkirk. We had been together in ‘ticky Y’ Company before I had been transferred to X Company in ’42 and they had given me much guidance and advice, much needed by a mere Peace-time Militia man joined only in ’39.

At Tebourba Ginger had received two shrapnel wounds in his back from which he had now fully recovered. He was a short, stocky, strong, and fit man, an ex-champion boxer in the Battalion and a good man to have around in a battle or a barroom brawl. Gary Edwards and I were to be sent overseas again, together in ’45.

The Salerno rest camp was adjacent to the landing beaches of ’43 and, being in one of those areas where the Italian-type malarial mosquito flourished, was under full-scale anti-malarial precautions so we slept in tents sweating under mosquito nets. It was Gary and Ginger who learnt that the Battalion was resting in camp near Capua, the very town a bit north of Naples where had been our second prison camp. After the Tebourba Battle the remnants had to await rebuilding with reinforcements so had been withdrawn from the battle area. Later the renewed Battalion had replaced the 2/4th Battalion, joining the 1/4th and the 5th Battalions in the 128 (Hampshire) Infantry Brigade. They were all together at this camp. We could do no other than pay them a visit. It was easy to wangle lifts northward in army trucks and it was not long before we found them. Most of the battalion were strangers to us of course but we soon encountered with loud whoops of surprise, some of the old faces. There was an erstwhile sergeant major of W or Z company now promoted to lieutenant quartermaster, a young blonde sergeant and one-time ’39 Militia man like me, still alive and kicking, and Quartermaster Sergeant Paul Lesaux a very good chum of mine. He was one of the very many Channel Islanders who recognized the Hampshire Regiment as their own it being the Mainland County Regiment most conveniently placed to their islands.

He recounted his version of the battle to us. Being a Quartermaster Sergeant, he was in the rear of the Rifle Companies’ positions say a mile or so back. Even so the German armour had penetrated into the valley where Battalion stores and kitchens were positioned under the command of our previous Regimental Sergeant Major, now promoted to Lieutenant Quartermaster. I was told that he was seizing opportunity for a quick bath in a collapsible tub but in moments was out, dressed, and ready to meet the occasion, dried or still wet I do not know. Major Brehaut, an esteemed company commander, had been killed recently much to our sorrow and Major Le Patourel had been posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for leading six volunteers at Tebourba to wipe out three machine gun posts (which they managed to do). They were, as you may have guessed, both Channel Islanders. The six men had been killed but Le Patourel was a prisoner but badly wounded. All honour to him but what decoration did the other six get? News had reached Brigade HQ that some of the old second battalion were back. Our old Regimental Sergeant-Major, at the time of the battle, now promoted to Captain Quartermaster, wanted to see us so Paul Lesaux took us to his domain. He showed great joy at seeing us and hugged, and I do believe, kissed us—each and every separate mother’s son of us—shouting, “My old boys, my old lads.” He addressed each one of us by name and we were tremendously bucked up by the generosity of his greetings. Eddy and Ginger he knew of old, naturally, having served with them in India. He took us into Brigade HQ and personally arranged with the sergeant cook a slap-up meal in his very kitchen.

After our meal we found that he was not finished with us by half. He escorted us into the Officers’ bar, Paul Lesaux as well, all of us other ranks, where we imbibed what we pleased, on his bar account, for the rest of the evening. He introduced us to every officer who came in from Brigadier downwards and upwards with the words, “Meet some of my old boys”. It was one of the happiest nights of all. I cannot remember how it ended but, next morning, apparently we had behaved as sergeants and gentlemen. It really marks the fitting end to my ‘Bella Passegiata’ (pleasant walk) in Italy.

There followed a stay in another rest camp at Bari. I had a spell in 98th Field General Hospital with Fibrositis of all things. Then back to Naples and a ship at last; the voyage across was on far safer seas than in ’42, docking in Liverpool at the same berth, I like to imagine, that we had left from. Next afternoon I stood rather bewildered at the edge of a London Terminus, Waterloo I think, wondering what to do next. A slowly moving taxi drew up. The driver could see that I had just arrived back from somewhere across the water. He took me all the way to the Angel, Islington to help me on my way back to Walthamstow, for nothing. I was going to have a happy welcome home that I still remember to this day. Ginger Rickman was going to arrive back to a home blasted by one of Hitler’s secret weapons but a day or so before. Never would he see his wife and children again. We helped him drink his sorrow away when our month’s leave was up.

Epilogue

So, thanks to the Italian peasantry and the ordinary man (and woman) in the Italian street we ex-Prisoners of War came home, but for the unlucky few. We had been sustained, some of us for up to a year and a half, despite danger and severe war-time shortages. Those who had housed us learnt to overcome the ever-present fear of savage fascist reprisal. Those Italians who, in helping us, were discovered, suffered the rigour of the concentration camp or quick death. We who were caught with them merely resumed POW status.

Neither the ex-POWs repatriated from Italy nor the average British citizen, it appears to me, really appreciated the enormity and the massive scale of this Italian effort spontaneously undertaken by the ordinary provincial all over central and northern Italy. Perhaps this was because they were ‘merely’ ordinary citizens acting unassumingly.

The significance of their effort seems to have been also largely overlooked by the government and the media of those times except for a few miserly cash handouts.

Imagine the facts reversed, with the average British parent needing to consider the daily wants of a wandering army of foreign soldiery within their borders. How would they have reacted in the face of peril to relations, especially their children? The thought helps to put the Italian effort into perspective.

In September 1993, some modest local ceremonies took place and plaques were raised to salute the fiftieth anniversary of the events thrust upon the Italian people by the Armistice of September 8th. The plaque at Servigliano acknowledges, ‘la immediata e coraggiosa generosita dimostrata dal popolo Italiano’, (the prompt and courageous generosity displayed by the Italian people). This generosity should have been acknowledged well beyond the parochial confines of tiny Italian towns. Malta deserved its George Cross. Surely Italy merits a similar gesture? Is it too late?