Bill Clark's War 4 of 8 Chapters, He was Captured 4, Released 1, Escaped 3

Conditions could not have been better that night, we intended making the break opposite the German guardroom. Their coming out of a lighted room into the dark did not make for good guarding. Also we had what the English would call a ‘horse trough’, a stone bath with a tap one end for drinking water. This tap was never turned off, certainly that night. We (the intending escapees) consisted of a North Country chap — I never knew his full name, only as John and an enthusiastic Algerian who backed out at the last moment. (I met up with him a year later in Bavaria).

As I mentioned, conditions were perfect, it was teeming with rain, really torrential, the trough tap was fully turned on and the guards stayed in their boxes to keep dry. So John and I (the Algerian was around but gave no help) got cutting the trip wire first. This meant one of us holding the wire with two hands, while the other cut between, so the wire didn’t spring back and make a noise.

John and I took turns cutting the wire and folding back the ends. It was my turn to complete the gap in front of the guardroom, then go back into the camp again to collect our bits and pieces and tinned food from Red Cross parcels. We told the officers what had been done so far and they had to allow us time to cut our way through the outer perimeter. This we did, it seemed to take hours, the pliers were getting blunt and each wire seemed tougher than the last.

Then we were through and scrabbled madly up the side of a hill, which proved to be a mountain broken by a road half way up. We had to be careful crossing the road as the Germans were returning after a night out and were straggling along at various intervals. We began this escape about midnight and dawn was breaking when we reached the top of the mountain and it began to level out. All the time we expected to hear shots being fired, but there was nothing. We discovered later that the officers also got away, and the guards didn’t discover the hole until six o’clock the next morning, when the guard changed. There was real pandemonium, but that is another story.

John and I had made it, and although exhausted we felt great. We settled down to eat our food. In the distance we saw a farmhouse and wondered whether it would be safe to call in. The problem was soon settled. Two children, who put us in the picture about their home, had seen us. They said the Germans (Tedescis) never came up as high as we were. So we went to this farmhouse where we were made welcome, and made a Red Cross mug of coffee which was enjoyed by one and all at our expense.

We left the family and with a loaf of bread made our way south with the intention of meeting up with the British forces who we thought could not be far away now. (They were actually stuck at the River Sancro and holed up for the winter).

It was on this journey that I began to wonder at the beauty of the mountains and the countryside. The views were wonderful and the feeling of being part of it and free was very agreeable. That apart from interruptions, I was able to pass the next three months without knowing where I would be, where I would sleep or eat, never to need any money, or anything to barter was, to me, strangely astounding.

John and I made a good partnership; we both had similar attitudes, the ‘what will be, will be’ type, and it served us well. It was a cat and mouse game with the Germans. Every now and again they would send patrols up into the villages to take prisoners, and sometimes the local menfolk from the villages for labour. We often got to a village to find there were no menfolk. It was tragic to see the old women pulling wooden ploughs, trying to hide the few cattle and livestock from the raiding Germans. To try keeping the smallholdings going for their own existence as well as hoping their menfolk would return.

As we crossed the mountains it was necessary to find the path (Muleteer) and that was not always easy. Although the path could be seen at a distance, when it came to finding the beginning, the villagers had camouflaged it, and also their stores of food were hidden in caves, not exactly refrigerated but cool. We discovered that these people had not advanced much from the biblical days. Everything was basic.

Up in the remote mountain villages these people could neither read nor write. They had never been outside the valley or seen the sea. They were visited from outside by a ‘Padróne’ who dominated them mercilessly. To them he was the Messiah. So when the P.O.W.s passed through these places we were not always welcome, as we were not a good influence on the villagers.

They marvelled that we could read and write down some sort of route for the next day. Because we were not fluent in Italian sometimes when we couldn’t understand what they said they would shout at us thinking that would make a difference. They were lovely people, so simple, yet trusting and I found from other P.O.W.s that they had had similar experiences of ‘Padrónes’ exploiting the villagers with penances which meant they lived like ‘Lords’, while the rest of the village was barely existing.

John and I had a system that worked pretty well. We would walk all day long, sometimes twenty to twenty-five miles, and rest up on Sundays. We would wait outside a village towards evening and watch; invariably a peasant would come by, and we would ask him if there were any ‘Tedesci’ about. On his reply we would go into the village where the ‘Padróne’ would send us to the end of the huts, where an old widowed lady would make us some ‘Polento’ or Minestrone, from ingredients subscribed by the rest of the villagers for hospitality towards people passing through, P.O.W.s etc.

It was normal procedure, though on some occasions we spent an evening with a family, but there was always a risk that someone would report them to the Fascists or Germans. In some cases the ‘Padrónes’ were Fascists and gave the villagers a hard time.

On one occasion we were wet and cold as well as hungry and we came upon a village and the ‘Padróne’ told us to clear off, and got a bit out of hand with his attitude. So, John and I got into his house without invitation and sat in his chairs and told him that we would not go unto we had eaten. If he told anyone we would say that he had invited us and that he was recommended to us as a P.O.W helper. Well, he found no answer to that but to give us a smashing meal and he was charm itself. So we warned him that if we were recaptured we might let slip his address so he had better be nice to other P.O.W.s.

On our travels we were deeply impressed by the kindness of these poor people. Invariably they had very little to offer but would share what they had. One meal we shared, which on reflection would appear amusing was called ‘Polento’. It apparently originates from the north of Italy where all the best ingredients were used. Down south amongst the peasants during these times the ingredients were limited.

The procedure was as follows: - A large black pot suspended over a fire of sticks, brought to the boil and then maize was poured in and a type of porridge was made, then a capon which had just been killed, no bigger than a pigeon, was plucked and baked. The head and legs were included (it was ready to die anyway). Then the table was cleared, having been scrubbed and was perfectly clean when the pot of porridge was tipped onto it, making the impression that Vezuveus had erupted. When the porridge had reached the edge of the table, chicken pieces would be placed in the centre and the drill was to eat the porridge, making your way to the centre, but without any outwards signs of greed.

Sometimes success was not always advantageous. Have you ever tried chewing the comb of a chicken? This sort of a meal was shared with the family, and ten people around the table were not infrequent. Although we were glad of something warm to eat, we discovered that we were full up for a very short time.

It was during this time that we began to notice that the villagers were very sparing with the bread, and as we travelled on we got the message to go to ‘Gavelli’. At first we did not comprehend, but eventually gathered that a band of men were forming a resistance group up in the mountains at a place called ‘Gavelli’. It appeared they were drawing on the villagers for their rations, which did not help or please the people. So we took the Muleteer up into the mountains, with our last gift of bread and kept walking.

After a day or so and high up in the slopes John and I were talking casually when a voice came out of the blue and said ‘Dove andari’ (where are you going?), we looked around but could not see anyone. For many minutes we were plied with questions in Italian, but not seeing anyone it was difficult to answer even if we had of understood Italian. Whoever it was, was watching us carefully, and after a few frustrating minutes he revealed himself by waving a piece of cloth across the valley at least a mile away.

It was amazing that we did not have to shout but speaking in a normal voice we could converse as if we were standing together. We told him we were English and were looking for the resistance group. He told us to follow the Muleteer and he would meet us, which he did, then took us another few miles to the encampment.

There must have been fifty men standing around, and there was little welcome as far as we were concerned. I understood afterwards that most of the English P.O.W.s only wanted some food and then to pass on. As we approached these fifty-odd men some of their faces seemed familiar. Yes, we knew them from Spoleto prison. The story they gave us was that soon after we were taken away, the Yugoslavs planned to escape at night, overpowering the guards and taking over the prison even though they still had an approach road to get down to the main gate, with guards at intervals.

Well, they managed to overpower most of the guards but those nearest the gate heard the scuffle and alerted the Germans stationed nearby. Evidently all hell broke loose but most of the Yugoslavs used the nearby viaduct, making their escape, though it was a perilous descent for them.

Others who charged the main gate were mown down and the poor old blind man who had interpreted for me had lost his minders and run into the gunfire and was killed. That really upset me. The Yugoslavs and Italians were as surprised as us to see each other again and we all got on well together.

Later that evening we were very aware that this was no social occasion. We met up with the leaders of this operation and they didn’t take kindly to our intention of passing on and trying our luck to reach the British lines. We managed to ease the situation by promising, if successful to let the Allies know about ‘Gavelli’ and arrange an airlift of stores and ammunition.

We had to stay a few days for no apparent reason, but while we were there we came across a German prisoner who had been shot in the thigh. It appeared he was a Despatch Rider and with another one, had been shot when the resistance ambushed a convoy.

The resistance had brought the German about 10 miles to their hide-out, only to dump him in a stable, since they had no medical aid whatsoever.

The poor chap was eaten up with gangrene, yet when we spoke to him he was cheerful and accepted the situation calmly. We felt utterly ashamed, but that didn’t help him. He died before we left Gavelli.

It was a great relief to leave Gavelli. A plaque has been put up near the gateway of Spoleto Prison commemorating the escape of the prisoners and their forming of the first Partisan group in Italy. I feel they could have been kinder to the local villagers and to leave the wounded to those who were prepared to look after them. Nevertheless it was a patriotic and brave thing to do.

Once more we resumed our journey.

After travelling for several weeks we were unable to use our boots any longer, although we had repaired them and packed them with goat skins. They reached the stage where only the tops remained, and further repairs were impossible. So we discarded them and managed with the goat skins and got the locals to weave sandal type footwear. Footwear was always a problem particularly when the weather became unsettled.

We came upon a village where we were told that to carry on south we would need to cross a high range of mountains called the Grand Sassa, and that we were in luck as a group of four students were crossing in the morning and they would show us the way. It was imperative that we started early so that in one day we could get over and well on the way down the other side before nightfall.

From previous experiences we had learnt to check our water as with good intentions the villagers would fill our bottles with ‘vino’ and we would discover that half way up a mountain we would want to sleep instead of pressing on.

On this occasion it didn’t happen and there were several rivulets on the route. So we started at daybreak escorted by the students and a man from the village who led us about two miles to where the muleteer (pathway) started, clearing the bushes to find it and carefully replacing them after us. Without this muleteer we would have had to be experienced mountaineers. The students set a fast pace and we found it difficult to keep up but realised it was very necessary.

The water from the rivulets was very clear and cool and kept us very refreshed. By about eight p.m. we hit the snow and had to go gingerly as the tracks were difficult to follow. As we crossed the summit the snow was quite deep but fortunately we reached the other side within the hour, and started our way down at dusk. I suppose this must have been during the month of September and the contrast of temperatures from the valley to the summit made us move as fast as possible.

As it happened we got down in daylight much to our relief and made our way to a village. Before we got to it we passed through a small forest where we were surprised to find about 50 women and children, all collecting chestnuts, bagging them up to store for the winter. They were very good to us and gave us bread and wine. Although we were very tired we helped with collecting chestnuts until it was completely dark.

The students left us and went on their way but returned an hour later with someone who proved to be a Doctor; he invited us to accompany him to his ‘hotel’. We accepted gratefully, it was all cloak and dagger. The students waited at different corners and gave signals. On arrival, a woman who turned out to be Swedish led us very quietly up to the Doctor’s room and set out the table so that we dined with him. The meal was wonderful, but all the time the Doctor insisted on the window being kept open, although we were feeling cold. Then he gave us a pull-over each and it dawned on us that we didn’t smell good, not having had a bath for weeks and sleeping with the farmyard cattle which were kept on the ground floor of the farmhouse. It was the villagers’ form of central heating, we must have smelt terrible.

The Swedish landlady was very kind but apprehensive in case the rest of the guests knew of our existence. After the meal she took us up to the attic and we slept on a spare mattress. She told us we must leave the Hotel at 3.30 a.m. in case the Germans came to the village. She was there at 3.30 a.m. frantically hurrying us up to get out. The Doctor directed us to a path which led to the foothills and we left.

It was less than half an hour when shots were fired and a raid was made on the village, and we were grateful later for her vigilance in getting us out on time. That was a wonderful experience, eating a wonderful meal, having a comfortable sleep, short though it was.

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