“Campo 59,” from Robert Dickinson’s diary, “Servigliano Calling,” is one of three poems by Robert’s friend Denis Crooks.

Campo 59

A glorious life is a prisoner’s life,
No better could you find.
Our battles done, no bitter strife,
Just ease and piece of mind

Our fags are issued every week,
Our parcels too from Rome.
Across the skies Red Cross planes streak,
To bring our mail from home.

No cares have we, with food and sleep
Our days and weeks abound.
But let me give you just a peep,
Into our daily round.

At seven the coffee, half mug full,
Is brought round to our beds.
And having drunk, we once more pull,
The blankets o’er our heads.

And there in peaceful bliss we rest,
Until the hour of nine.
When section sergeant as a jest,
Comes calling “rise and shine”.

At sound of Iti’s bugle call,
On check parade we go.
They come and count their P.G.’s all,
Within their Campio.

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Robert Dickinson’s amazing diary, “Servigliano Calling,” contains 34 poems written in camp by Robert’s fellow inmates during World War II. In the weeks ahead we will share all of these poems in individual posts.

This post contains one of the longer poems, “The Alphabet.”

The Alphabet

A is for “Aussi”, our “Comrades in Arms”
Who’ve left far behind them, their sheep and their farms.
Good fighters and jolly, the pick of fine men,
Who like their brave fathers are fighting again.

B that’s for British, now aren’t we all,
And to keep the flag flying soon answered the call.
We came in our millions to fight if we must,
For what we considered was true, right, and just.

C is for capture, a term that’s not nice,
But there’s always some who must pay the price,
We’ve all done our best and no ones to blame,
So don’t be downhearted, don’t think it a shame.

D reminds of Dunkirk, which all Germans say,
Was a farce, and that we ran away.
But twenty five Germans to each British three,
To my way of thinking, was our victory.

E is for eating, but sad to relate,
That term’s forgotten, we now masticate.
The meats is all gristly, the soups weak and thin,
And if we were at home, would go straight in the bin.

F is for freedom, so dear to our hearts,
But seems Oh! So distant in these foreign parts.
But freedom will come, have patience and smile,
Old Churchill himself said “its just for a while”.

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