Page 7: A Prisoner of War Remembers
5542 Sgt Maj P S Norton, Campo 54, PM 3300, Italia |
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After the completion of the byre hide-out things were becoming really dangerous, so that we spent a considerable portion of the daylight hours in it, and all the hours of darkness. There was just room, inside, for us to sit hunched upright but insufficient to accommodate boots and packs comfortably at night. Accordingly, it was incumbent upon the man nearest to the crib entrance to hand in six boots, and three packs, when danger threatened, and to re-spread the hay over the crib entrance. My two companions appeared to sleep pretty soundly, judging from their snores, but I certainly couldn't under these exacting conditions. I think that my insomnia, and the quick-wittedness of my companions, one night saved us from recapture and Domenico and his family from an even worse fate. Late that night I heard the distant sound of German voices and I was the first man in. I quickly, and silently, awoke my sleeping neighbour who likewise did the same to the last man in. The latter had just replaced the hay over the crib entrance, after (thank goodness) handing in, in the dark, the six boots and three packs, when there was a terrific banging at the byre door with the equivalent in German of "Open up." Domenico was quickly on the scene, opened the door as requested, and stayed while the Germans made a thorough search of the byre. Several times they bayonetted the manure heap and I shudder to think of the consequences if their bayonets had been a little longer and had encountered the wood under the manure. Before withdrawing to search the rest of the barn, one German urinated on the manure heap, luckily with no discomfort to those below. This search, a thorough one, and to the fruitlessness of which I think there can be no greater tribute to Domenico's astuteness, was obviously the result of some Fascist supporter reporting Domenico to the Germans as a harbourer of escapees. It could have been occasioned by the sight of our khaki shirts hung out to dry (not the colour of Italian uniforms) or possibly some tactless remark of a trusted friend. However, shortly afterwards Domenico was arrested and taken to Civitella for interrogation by the Germans as a suspected harbourer of escaped Prisoners-of-War. Vincenzo, dejectedly, informed us of this fact and said that we must leave immediately. He had a supply of bread with him and said that he was taking us to a grotto high up on Monte Viglio. It took hours and hours to get to this cave in which we remained until Civitella was relieved, by Kiwi troops, several weeks later. A map, kindly given to me by the Intelligence Officer of the relieving New Zealand troops, shows the height of Monte Viglio as 2156 metres, and our new abode was very near the summit. It was obviously hewn out, centuries before, by bandits preying on travellers in the valley below, and was hidden by a large boulder in front. It was well above the snow line when we arrived, the melting snow causing hundreds of drips from the roof. Our drinking water was melted snow, a most unsatisfying tipple. Vincenzo suggested that we should lay in a good supply of firewood which we should dry in the sun before using. If we did this, there would be very little smoke, and it would be reasonably safe to keep a fire going night and day, as the boulder in front would prevent the fire from being seen from below. We carefully carried out these instructions and I was surprised how quickly the drips ceased, and that very little smoke, if any, issued from the cave entrance. Vincenzo said that one of the family would meet us in a selected and secluded spot at midnight on Sundays and Wednesdays with a supply of bread. Remember that, at this time, Domenico was held by the Germans in Civitella, yet the family still made arrangements to feed us. It is to the great credit of my two companions that they undertook this bi-weekly expedition on their own, without demur, as, unfortunately, I was then far from well. It was not a matter of a quick descent and a somewhat slower return. They would leave about 3 pm one day and negotiate the steeper slopes at dusk, arriving in the dark at midnight as arranged. Their return was somewhat slower, so that their total absence was about twenty-seven hours. I recollect that, on one occasion, a frightening thunderstorm arose after their departure. I don't think that ever before, or since, have I felt so much alone and scared. We were all delighted to learn, shortly after, that the Germans had released Domenico and allowed him to return to his barn. Luckily, he was very friendly with the mayor of Civitella who, wise man, displayed no animosity toward the Germans. The mayor protested that Domenico would never dream of aiding Allied escapees, with the result that Domenico was freed after three days of interrogation. Even in the cave, life was not devoid of interest and incidents. A lover of birds, but never an ardent ornithologist, at first I appreciated the calls of the cuckoos below, followed later by the sweet notes of innumerable nightingales. But, under the circumstances, and remembering happier times recalled by their utterances, I almost, but not quite, began to detest them. One day, when the snow had practically disappeared, apart from the deeper chasms, (which Domenico had already informed us were used by the peasants for refrigeration purposes), and after ascertaining that the "coast was clear", we ventured to the top of the mountain where we found a plateau covered with spring flowers, most of which appeared to be of a pansy or viola order. For some weeks a German sentry was posted on a rocky prominence some thousand feet below us. As he swept the mountainside from time to time with a pair of binoculars, it was apparent that he was on the lookout for escapees. A case of the watcher being watched. After some weeks we were joined in the cave by the three protegés of Domenico's brother, Giovanni. When we saw the large numbers of our 'planes on bombing expeditions, my companions insisted on celebrating the sight with another slice of pane (bread), with the result that our three days' rations were sometimes consumed on the first or second day. Once, when our 'planes must have been very active, for we had eaten nothing that day, Vincenzo unexpectedly appeared bearing a huge container of cooked tripe and the good news that it was generally believed that the Germans were "on the run." My companions "fell to it" with great gusto but, tripe being a dish I simply cannot stomach, I declined my share, hungry as I was. Some three months later I was in the Military Hospital at Wynberg in Cape Town undergoing various tests after my return. I was put on a special diet which appeared to consist of tripe (foul), brains (ghastly), boiled fish (horrid), and chicken (good). One day a young nurse brought me a plate of tripe and onions for lunch which I immediately refused. She informed me that I would eat it if I was really hungry. I then recounted the above episode to her, after which she always brought me food that I could eat. |
