Journey IN ITALY

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 4, 26 March 1945, Page 26

Journey IN ITALY

By

Capt. M. J. Mason, M.C.

Captain Mason left New Zealand with the 25th Bn. in the Third Echelon. He fought in Greece and Libya, and was captured at Sidi Rezegh in November, 1941.

CC W/ho IS the senr officer here?” vv asked the S.S. sergeant. A greying South African Major came forward to the barred opening. “ Well,” continued the Nazi, “ you personally will be responsible if any one escapes out of this truck. And tell your co-prisoners that my men have orders to shoot to kill any one who so much as puts a finger outside this wagon. You understand ? The major nodded. He understood, and we others understood, too, what the Nazis meant. There would be no cajolery or foolery with them, they were not easygoing Italians to be bluffed and badgered as the mood took you, but tough customers, to be watched carefully. Clearly thev meant business.

But, even so, we just had to escape. For were we not on our way to Germany itself, and condemned to Lord knows how many years more of confinement ? And had we not put up with enough during the twenty-two months we had been in Italy since our capture, in the second Libyan offensive of November ’4l ? Certainly prison life was better than death, but not much better. Well, then, if there was a possible chance of getting away, we must seize it, and take the risk.

There were twenty-seven of us in that truck standing in the goods-yards of Mantova, North Italy. We were all officers, either South African or New Zealand, and had all come from Campo di Concentramento, No. 47, Modena, where there had been about a thousand of us. We had thought on the night of

September 8, 1943, when the Italians had announced the news of the Armistice and had enthusiastically shaken hands with us through the wire, that our troubles were at last over and that our captivity would soon be just a memory. We had gone to bed dreaming of home and planning what we would do when we reached Egypt once again and what we would eat for that first real civilized meal. But things had not worked out right, and the next day, instead of starting on that so deeply longed-for trip home, we found ourselves captives again : this time of the Germans, who had quietly, efficiently, and bloodlessly taken over the whole camp, complete with inmates, from the Italiansour new Allies. Well, you can imagine the feelings that this state of affairs caused. Freedom had been snatched from under our very noses, and that after we had held it in our grasp. Tantalus himself had had to tolerate less than we. What to do ? Escape ? Yes, obviously. But how ? It had been virtually impossible to get away, even with wild-shooting Italians — it would be absolutely so with straightaiming Germans. There was only the one —to be prepared, and to hope that in the bustle and confusion of the move north there would come a fleeting chance.

And so the sad trek commenced. The first party left at the unholy hour of 3.30 a.m., and was a pitiful sight as, with disappointed faces, they trudged off bearing on their backs their worldly belongings. The second party followed the next afternoon, while we of the last group, most of whom had done a lot of manceu-

vring to get into that band, believing for some strange reason that it would offer better prospects, left a day later still.

The R.A.F. had been operating in the Po Valley, and signs of its handiwork were evident. It was because so many railway junctions were unusable and so many bridges across the Po were damaged that the first stage of our journey was made by motor-lorries. These were driven by boys barely over sixteen, and the one in charge of ours, I’ll swear, had never shaved, and should still have been at school. But he did his job as well as any man, and watched us so carefully and so competently that there was never a chance for an instant of making a break.

The unhappy party duly escorted to Mantova Station at about midday, our driver and his co-fledglings left us to the tender mercies of our guards for the railway journey, who also were too young for soldiering—by our standards, at any rate. Be that as it may, the S.S. sergeant in charge knew how to work them to best advantage, and with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of accomplishment they herded us into the goods-wagons which were to take us to Germany. Every one has heard of the famous “ 8 horses, 40 men ” chalked up on the sides of troopcarrying box cars. Well, this was not one of that kind— was a smaller edition, a“ 5 horse, 25 men ” type. Even so, the Nazis did not let it rest therethey had to cram an extra two in for luck.

As soon as the train got under way we started to take stock of the situation. Our wagon was about third from the rear van where the guards travelled, with machine guns mounted to fire along both sides of the train. The trucks were closed at each end by narrow double doors which were bolted from the outside and wired tightly together in addition. Apart from two closely grated narrow windows there was only one other exit—a heavy sliding door immovably locked. All told, the prospects of breaking out seemed pretty slim, and the whole set-up ■one to try the patience of a Houdini. The only bright spot, and a small one at that, was that there was no Nazi in the truck with us, so that at least we could try out ■our schemes undisturbed.

First off we tried to remove the window grating. But the screws were rusted firmly in, and tugging at the narrow bars even by groups of five or six produced nothing but torn hands and strained muscles. No, it was obvious we had to look elsewhere.

Then we turned our attention to the big side door. Immovable at first, it remained so despite every heave and kick and push and grunt. Another avenue was closed. That left us only the doors at either end. These at least would have to yield; the alternative was too grim to contemplate. So with redoubled energy we worked on : straining, puffing, tugging, and lunging. We panted away for some two or three hours, and all the while the train was clacking steadily on, bearing us to Germany. Would they never budge? And even if we did get them open we still had to jump from the moving train, risk the reaction of the Germans, and, on top of all that, make our way back to our own people. Surely Fate would help us with at least the first step. But no, the doors remained firm.

Now the train is slowing down. We peer out and see railway tracks and wagons everywhere —we are in the goodsyards of Verona. And then we notice a strange —one huge railway engine, belching smoke and vapour in every direction as it drags eight other huge engines. Whoever saw a train made up of nine engines in such a manner : suddenly the explanation dawns on us — Nazis are taking them all off to Germany.

The S.S. sergeant gives us permission to open the side door and to leave the truck. Gratefully we stretch ourselves and try to snatch a word or two with the fellows from the next wagon. They tell us they have succeeded in breaking open one lot of end doors and that during the darkness they are going to make a break. Lucky fellows.

When we are moving again we discuss their good fortune. If they can do it, perhaps we can. So we return to work. But still no luck, and night is upon us. Oh, well, perhaps later on. So we settle down to sleep as best we can But Jim Stone of the long legs is restless. Perhaps if we did this, and he put his legs so, and we pushed . . . He

did and we did, and lo ! the wire is snapped. Now, if only we can force the doors apart enough to get a hand through and slip back the bolt. Damn it, we can’t. But never mind, what about the other end.

So Jim puts his legs just so again, and we push and crack ! the other wire is snapped. Surely we can open these doors a bit and slip that bolt . . .

Two hours later, our forearms bruised and sore, we give up. So near and yet so far, and the train is still making good speed. We both lie down regretfully and try to sleep ...

“ I’ve got it open ! ” It’s the little South African lieutenant shaking me by the shoulders. “My arm is pretty thin and I managed it.”

We can hardly believe our ears. Stumbling forward to the end of the wagon, we find he has spoken the truth. Both doors are open, and we can get out on to the buffers. We must have a look round and see what is what.

“ Crack, craaack ” —the bullets whizz by. Down on the floor we go and close both doors to. Were they firing at us ? They could not have seen us. But they might have —you never know. Better wait a bit.

And there is the train slowing down. Close the doors more, the Jerries might see them. For at every stop the guards left the van and patrolled the sides of the train, inquisitive, keen-eyed, looking for trouble.

Here comes one now. Cripes, he’s looking at our doors. Click ! he’s pushed the bolt home !

The train starts again : another burst of fire. And then another. What are they firing at ? There’s a third, they must be firing along the train to frighten us just in case. Well, they’re succeeding. Let’s open her up again. “ Come on,

Springbok, do your stuff.” The doors swing back again, and we’re out on the buffers once more. Yes, they must have been firing for intimidation- —nothing has been hit around here.

Let’s have a look at those footplates. Bit high, aren’t they, about 4 ft. And if you touched that signal wire when you jumped you’d break your neck. Yes, and if you hit one of those telegraph-poles, or picked the wrong moment and crashed into the side of a cutting or a paling fence, it would not be so hot either.

Still, it is that or Germany. “ Let’s go, Jim.” “ 0.K.” Return for our escape kits and get going. Back we go, grab up

those haversacks carefully prepared for such a chance as this, and return to the footplate. Confound it, she’s rounding a bend, and that darn full moon is shining straight on to us. Back a bit, eh ? Don’t want to take too many risks. “ O.K. Jim ? ” “ Righto. Hullo, hullo ! ” It’s Bernie Young from the next truck; they’ve opened their door, too. “ Well, boys, what do you think ? Risky all right : if you don’t break your neck, the Jerries’ll probably get you. She sure is pelting along.” “ Look out . . . Jerries ! ” Bernie and Co. pull back quickly, and close their door. We do the same. Somebody said they were patrolling the roof like they do in the States. Cripes, hope not. The train slows down, finally halts. We hear the Nazis walking along the track. Here comes one to our truck again, and click ! he’s rebolted the door for the second time. Lucky he is not too curious, or perhaps he thought it was another one he fixed up last stop. Whew ! You never know with them ... -

The hours pass by, the moon is higher than ever. Two o’clock goes, then three, then four. Will we never get moving ? If we don’t start, by daylight we won’t have a chance. Come on, driver, get on with it. Hoping and cursing we doze off . . .

A jolt, she’s off. Up with you, Springbok, now or never.” But the Springbok is slow and five minutes pass by. Five awful minutes. Is it worth the risk ? Perhaps I’ll be killed—better another year in Germany than death here on a lonely Italian railway-line. She’s moving pretty fast—perhaps it’s too chancy. Cripes, I’m afraid. My hands are wet, my mouth is dry, I’m sweating all over. Will I, won’t I, will I, won’t I . . . ? Oh, she’s open. Jim is first out. I’m next. A footplate each. Whew ! look at that track whizz by. And

see that damn wire—just the right height to upend you. Crack, craaack ! They’re at it again. To hell with them. O.K. Jim, I’m with you.” I shut my eyes, pray a moment, and leap. Crash ! I’ve broken my chest. I hear the train behind me, and I’m full of stings down my right side. Did they hit me ?

“ Are you O.K. ? ” It’s Jim. “ How are you, Jim ? ” “ I’m jake.” I pick myself up and feel all over. I can breathe all right, but these darn stings. Ah, thank the Lord—they’re acacia prickles. My knee is wonky, too, and so is my thumb. Jim suddenly breaks into a grin. “ Look,” he says. I look, and there are the rear lights of the train, vanishing slowly into the distance. “ We’re sweet. After all this time, Jim. Put it there, boy ! ” And so, exultingly, in the middle of an Italian vineyard just south of the Austrian border, we shook hands as free men for the first time for nearly two years.