Click here to return to STORIES page


Fred Eggleston's Amazing Escapades

3 Squadron pilot Fred Eggleston was an outstanding man in many respects.  Born in Melbourne in 1914, Fred was educated at Caulfield Grammar School and Wesley College.  He graduated from Melbourne University in 1937 as a Master of Science with first class honours in physics. In 1938-39, he worked with the Imperial Smelting Corporation in England and Germany.  Upon the outbreak of war, he returned to Australia on the 'Orontes'.  Fred joined the RAAF and trained at Point Cook on what turned out to be the last Cadet course prior to the commencement of the Empire Air Training Scheme.  He was posted to 22 Squadron, (City of Sydney), based at Williamtown NSW, and then to the Middle East where, after a short Operational Training course at Khartoum, Sudan, he joined 3 Squadron, in the Western Desert, in September 1941.

As related in his story below "You've Got to be Lucky", Fred not only survived being shot down and imprisoned by the Italians and Germans, but was also one of those rare POWs who managed to escape to neutral Switzerland.   In fact, Fred was doubly lucky.  His romantic alpine bid for freedom led him to romance of another kind, for it was in Switzerland that he met a local girl, Heidi Tagmann, who was to become his wife of 50 years.  Fred and Heidi were married in Arosa, Switzerland on 7 September 1944. 

Fred's post-war career was with the CRA Mining Group and Comalco, where he made substantial contributions to Australia's development.

 

 

YOU'VE GOT TO BE LUCKY

By Frederic F. H. Eggleston;
3 Squadron Tomahawk Pilot, POW in Africa and Italy, and Escaper

 
Part of the original map that Fred traced for crossing the high Alpine passes at the Swiss Border.


A detailed map of the mountainous landscape that they crossed.

 

PRE-WAR EXPERIENCE AND R.A.A.F. TRAINING

 

After graduating as a Master of Science in Natural Philosophy & Mathematics at Melbourne University in 1937, I had planned to apply for an "1851 Scholarship" to go to Cambridge University and study for a PhD degree. Had I done so, I probably would have been destined to continue in an academic calling as a lecturer or, possibly, a professor at some university.

My inclination was to take a more active role in the community and I joined the Zinc Corporation group which was a large nonferrous mining and smelting company in Australia, connected with the Imperial Smelting Corporation in England.

I spent most of 1938 and 1939 in England working in factories and learning about their processes and methods of organization.

During this time Hitler's Germany began to rear its ugly head.

When I first reached England early in 1938, I was inclined to be sympathetic to Germany which had suffered greatly as a result of the Treaty of Versailles and was trying to regain its self-respect and independence. However, I soon found myself isolated from the people I was meeting and had to do more research to discover that the Hitler regime was something which had to be stopped if our world were to retain what we believed to be civilised values.

During my childhood, I had been brought up to believe that war was something that must be avoided at all costs though my father always had maintained that, if one's country became involved in war, it was the duty of its citizens to be prepared to fight for it.

By mid 1939, it became obvious that war with Germany was inevitable. I used to listen to Hitler's speeches on a short wave radio and the roaring approval of the crowds sent cold shivers down my spine.

England was divided between those who wanted to avoid war and those who were convinced that war would come - like it or not.

In the course of my studies I spent six weeks touring around Germany starting on June 27th 1939, and it became obvious to me that war would commence very soon. The nightly movement of tanks and troops through the streets was frightening.

I remember, flying up the Thames estuary on August 1st 1939, on my way back to England from Germany, I was relieved to see the barrage balloons and took comfort that, at last, England recognised that war was imminent.

I was passenger in a "Focke-Wolf Condor" of the German airline Lufthansa and I have no doubt that the German pilot noted and reported the positions of the defending barrage balloons.

Earlier that year, when I visited a factory near Liverpool in the north of England, a young engineer asked me "what are you going to do when war breaks out?" I replied to the effect that I had not made up my mind. To which he replied: "We won't want you here!" This impressed me and I knew I would have to "do my bit" if and when war came.

Germany invaded Poland on 1st September 1939 and England, in consequence, declared war on Germany on September 3rd 1939. Within hours, Australia also was at war with Germany.

I was in London when we heard Prime Minister Chamberlain's announcement over the radio that England was at war with Germany. It was immediately followed by wailing air raid sirens. I had spent the previous two days pasting brown paper over the window panes to prevent flying glass splinters from bomb blasts. Fortunately, on this occasion, it was a false alarm, and the steady welcome note of the all clear sirens soon followed.

I did not wish to join up in England and decided to return to Australia as soon as possible with a view to joining there. This course of action appealed to my employers who felt responsible to return me to my home country before the war made this impossible.

I came back on the Orient liner Orontes which, to my surprise, was full of young people like myself, with similar objectives in mind. The ship left England on Saturday 23rd September and reached Melbourne on Sunday 29th October 1939.

Following reunion with my family, I made contact with my school and university friends and was astounded to discover that no one realized what I considered to be the great urgency of the situation.

I wanted to join the Air Force but was persuaded to join the Militia at first. I went into camp with 104 Howitzer Battery at Puckapunyal, Victoria, on 13th November 1939 and had a very interesting four weeks there as a gunner in the artillery.

I applied to join the R.A.A.F. on Monday 8th January 1940 and, by pulling a few strings, managed to expedite my call-up. I was ordered to report at No 3 Elementary Flying Training School at Essendon Victoria on Monday 4th March 1940. The course I joined was the last cadet course prior to the start of the Empire Air Training Scheme.

In the meantime, I had taken private flying lessons and got my private pilot's licence. The next 21 weeks were pure joy! We started flying on 5th March and flew without interruption except when the weather was unfavourable. I took to flying like a duck takes to water and was always keen to be in the air.

At the end of the course on 2nd August I had done 127 hours in the air and was classed "above average as a pupil pilot".

 

Essendon Training Class

 

With the other pilots on our course, I was posted to Number 1 Service Flying Training School at Point Cook Victoria on Monday 5th August. We were in the air already by the next morning.

At Essendon, we had been flying DH 60 Gypsy Moths. The Gypsy Moth, predecessor to the Tiger Moth, was an ideal trainer, a biplane and excellent for aerobatics which I enjoyed more than anything else.

At Point Cook, we had Hawker Demons which were military aircraft. These were also biplanes, powered by a Rolls Royce Kestrel engine and superb machines for aerobatics. During our course, I dived one vertically from 18,000 to 8,000 feet and it behaved perfectly.

Our training at Point Cook included aerobatics, formation flying, night flying, cross country flying, air to air gunnery, air to ground gunnery, high level bombing, dive bombing and forced landing practice. I enjoyed every minute of it and, when the course finished, on 13th November 1940, I was classified exceptional as a pilot navigator, and above average in all other categories.

Since I was now 26 years old, there was always a risk that I might be posted to a bomber squadron and I had endeavoured to avoid this by showing my enthusiasm and dash whenever the opportunity arose. Some army friends were in camp at Werribee near Point Cook. Their unit being an anti-aircraft battery, we used to "dive-bomb" them when we passed their camp. One time I completed my "attack" with a complete loop from 100 feet above the ground. Unfortunately, a flying instructor saw me, followed me, and took my number. I was court-martialled and, after graduation, became a Sergeant Pilot whilst my comrades became Pilot Officers. My final report noted that I was "inclined to be overconfident". This, of course, suited me well with my ambition to be posted to a fighter squadron.

 

 

FLYING WITH THE R. A. A. F. IN AUSTRALIA

 

My first posting, after completion of No 31 Advanced Flying Training Course at Point Cook, was to No 22 City of Sydney Squadron R.A.A.F. based at Richmond N.S.W. near Sydney. This was a fighter-bomber squadron carrying out reconnaissance and coastal patrols in the Sydney area.

We were flying Wirraways, which were an Australian adaptation on the North American Harvard Trainer. Nominally, they were military aircraft but, actually, they were little better than a trainer. Nevertheless, they were-fitted with machine guns and could carry two 2501b bombs and were first-class for training in air-to-air and air-to-ground gunnery and for dive-bombing.

I was already flying on 20th November and, from then on, I was in the air whenever weather permitted. The first few weeks were occupied in familiarising ourselves with the new aircraft type; but my log book records two 2 1/2 hour submarine searches off Sydney on 18th and 19th December. Foreign submarines had been sighted off the coast and we were ordered to attack them on sight. They were probably Japanese though Japan had not then entered the war.

On December 19th 1940, I and my observer Corporal B. G. Russell had a narrow escape when the engine failed during take-off for a second patrol on that day with two 250 lb. bombs. I turned back to the aerodrome and landed down-wind, having attempted to jettison the bombs on the river flats. We went through the fence at the east end of the aerodrome and collided with a concrete horse-trough which cut off half the starboard wing before we came to a halt.

We got out of the aircraft and were horrified to see the two bombs still hanging under the wings - the one on the starboard wing having missed the horse-trough by a few inches. In making certain that the bombs would drop unarmed and not explode when they hit the ground, I had failed to deactivate the safety switch and the bombs did not jettison when I pressed the button to drop them.

On 27th December, with Sergeant Keary as my observer, I took off for a coastal patrol to find that there was a fog up to 1000 feet stretching from the Blue Mountains to about fifty miles out to sea. Since there was no chance of landing again at Richmond, we decided to try to carry out our patrol, hoping that, when it was finished in about two hour’s time, the fog would have cleared. Alas, this was not to be, and when we returned to the coast the fog seemed to be as thick as ever. We cruised around for a few minutes, trying to determine our exact location when I spotted Macquarie Lighthouse through a break in the fog. I dived down through the break above Watson's Bay to find that the fog had lifted to about 100 feet above the water. We were running short of fuel so I did not hesitate to fly out through the heads and along the bottom of the cliffs until we reached Botany Bay and then Mascot airport where I managed to land without mishap although the airport was closed due to the fog.

The Commanding Officer of No 22 Sqdn at Richmond, S/L Griffith, was relieved when I telephoned to let him know we had landed safely.

By coincidence, my wife Heidi and I now live in a house we purchased in April 1964 which is within a stone's throw of where that break in the fog allowed me to dive down to sea level and escape to safety in December 1941.

At Richmond, we took turns in doing a "Met Flight" taking air temperatures up to 18,000 feet for the weather forecasters. It was my turn on February 17th 1941 with my observer L.A.C. Crowther. When we had finished taking our readings at 18,000 feet, I decided to try how the Wirraway compared with the Demon in a vertical dive. The result was a disaster! Half way down the engine seemed to explode and the windscreen was covered with black oil. On looking back, I could see the anxious face of my observer and a huge plume of black smoke behind the aircraft. The engine was turning over but had little power. However, I had made my dive close to the airfield and was able to land without the engine and taxi toward the "tarmac" where I was met by the Station Engineer Officer who was not amused.

I was fortunate that my C.O. S/L Griffith vigorously defended my action and no charges were laid against me. The aircraft was a mess! The rear fuselage had been pushed in and the wheel discs bent out. The black smoke had resulted from the collapse of the blower bearing, allowing oil to be drawn through the engine and burned with the fuel.

As a result of my "diving test" the maximum allowable diving speed of the Wirraway was severely reduced, so my experiment had some useful result.

On May 29th 1941, with Sgt. B. G. Russell as my observer, I took-off for an interception exercise north west of Richmond. This took us over the Blue Mountains towards Scone in the Hunter Valley. On retracing our route on the way home, we found that the cloud base had dropped enveloping the tops of the ranges. We were forced to turn back and to try to find a place to land. I remembered seeing a green patch a few minutes earlier which we soon found. It was a real "Shangri-La" in the midst of steep mountains; but I managed to spiral down and land safely to find that we were at Widden Stud owned by A. W. Thompson & Co. This is a famous stud - the champion horse Ajax having been one of its successes. The green patch where we had landed was a prepared airstrip. We were given a grand welcome by Frank. Thompson and his wife Patricia and spent the night with them. There was relief at the Squadron when we telephoned to let them know we were safe.

The next morning we had some Aeroshell fuel sent up from Muswellbrook and took off to spiral up out of the valley and make our way safely back to Richmond Air Base.

After these episodes, it became obvious that there are many hazards to be overcome before a pilot meets the enemy and it was clear that I was blessed with good luck.

As later events have revealed, good luck has continued to be with me. This is why I have chosen the title: "YOU NEED TO BE LUCKY" for my autobiography.

During the first half of June 1941, we had air-to-air gunnery exercises at Evans Head. A drogue was towed behind another aircraft and we tried to fill it (the drogue!) with bullet holes.

On Friday 18th July 1941, my commission as pilot officer was gazetted (back-dated to July 1st) and I was able to join my friends in the officers' mess at Richmond. On Saturday 26th July, I received word that I had been "selected for posting overseas".

Our training in gunnery, bombing, air-combat and night-flying continued and, by August 15th 1941, I had completed 752 hours with the R.A.A.F. At that time, I was classed exceptional as a fighter-bomber pilot and above-the-average as a pilot-navigator and in bombing, and air-gunnery. In the meantime, I had been keeping fit running around the oval every morning.

On Sunday 17th August, I was invited to lunch at the Royal Sydney Golf Club, Rose Bay, by Mr Justice Nicholas and his wife and their daughter Alison Davis. It was a farewell party to my father Sir Frederic Eggleston who was on his way to Chungking as Australian Minister to China, we saw him off on the flying boat at Rose Bay that afternoon.      

-

On Monday 25th August, I reported to No 2 Embarkation Depot at Bradfield Park, N.S.W. and completed formalities including preparation of my identification discs or "meat tickets" as they were called. We were required to write a short personal history which, I realised, was a notice to be inserted in the papers if we went missing. Accordingly, I made it a good one.

On the evening of Saturday 30th August, my aunt Gladys Lister and uncle Leo Lister gave me a farewell party at their lovely home in Wentworth Road Vaucluse. There were many from No 22 Squadron as well as Sydney friends and relatives. Gladys said she would hang out a sheet as a farewell sign when the ship sailed down the harbour.

 

 

ABOARD "QUEEN ELIZABETH" FOR MIDDLE EAST

 

The equipment issued to us at the embarkation depot included a large steel trunk (34"x 20"x 12") and a very heavy army type stretcher with a folding wooden frame. These were to move with us wherever we were posted - even up to our base in the Western Desert, North Africa.

We finally embarked on Monday 1st September 1941. Our ship, "Queen Elizabeth" was anchored mid stream in Sydney harbour. As we drew alongside we could see grotesquely shaven heads at the portholes and there were shouts of "Come on Dubbo!" and "You'll be sorry!" Our companion ship in the convoy, "Queen Mary", already had departed and was waiting for us at Jervis Bay.

We sailed at 1630 hours on Tuesday 2nd September and I could pick out Gladys' farewell sign as we went down the harbour. We went direct to Jervis Bay to join "Queen Mary" and left with her at 1630 hours on Wednesday 3rd September.

Our ships could do more than 30 knots so we relied on our speed to avoid hostile naval interception.

There were about 5000 military and Air Force personnel on "Elizabeth" - mostly army types - with about 120 men of the R.A.A.F. Being an officer, I was allotted a first class cabin. Later in the war, when they were used as troopships across the Atlantic, the two Queens were to carry fifteen thousand men each. They were to use the "hot bed" system - the men taking turns to sleep in eight hour shifts.

The senior R.A.A.F. officer on "Elizabeth" was Squadron Leader I. F.. Rose, a permanent air force man who "knew the ropes". Although there were at least three station adjutants amongst the R.A.A.F. personnel, he decided he did not want to be "buggered about by the experts" so he appointed me adjutant of the R.A.A.F. contingent. The last thing I wanted was such a responsibility but my protests were to no avail. Fortunately there was an R.A.A.F. warrant officer who seemed to know what was required and immediately set about preparing a nominal roll of the R.A.A.F. personnel on board. It had not occurred to me that an adjutant must have a list of the personnel for which he is responsible so I was grateful for his help. However, by the time we reached Fremantle on Monday 8th September, I was "bugger-up-finish" as they say in Pidgin English and I managed to persuade “If” Rose to appoint someone else.

We arrived at Fremantle at 0600 hours and left the following day at 2100 hours. During this brief period, shore leave was forbidden but Flying Officer Lou Spence, whose new bride was in Perth, managed to get ashore. He was the second one to get married prior to going overseas. The other was Flying Officer Andrew W. Barr who, with Lou Spence, had been on the same course with me.

I had mixed feelings about getting married before going on active service. Being single and not having found my own life's partner, I felt it wrong to marry when one's life span seemed strictly limited. Events proved me wrong! I was shot down early and became a prisoner of war. Lou Spence survived the war and became commander of a fighter squadron in Korea (where he was killed in action). Nicky Barr was to become a fighter ace and now lives with his dear wife Dorothy in Queensland. I will never forget Nick and Dot's Wedding in Sydney. We came down from Richmond and the reception was held in a house backing on to the golf course at Pymble. Since it was too late for me to return to Richmond, Nick and Dot invited me to sleep on the floor at the foot of their bed. I gladly accepted!

After leaving Fremantle on Tuesday 9th September, I felt like a new man, having got rid of my responsibilities as adjutant. One evening on deck, giving vent to my new found freedom, I startled everyone in the vicinity with a blood curdling screen. I learnt this dubious trick from Paul Flack who had been on my course at Point Cook and came skiing with me at Mount Hotham in September 1940. When the train stopped for refreshments at Seymour and we were walking along the platform to get a cup of coffee, Paul suddenly gave a deafening scream. In a wave travelling along the platform, I could see all the people leap into the air with fright. It tickled my fancy!

My scream on "Queen Elizabeth" was not well received and there was talk of a court martial but some friend in the army put in a good word for me and the matter was dropped.

No more than a day from Fremantle, the two-up schools started. Two-up was strictly forbidden but the army did not seem to be able to stop it. I am sure the soldiers who conducted the schools were professionals and had enlisted just for that purpose. The schools were conducted in daylight on the open deck in full view of everyone, including the officers. One evening on deck I heard one Lieutenant say "you can't do anything about it for fear of being pushed over the side".

The ship's crew including the stewards were all English. Our steward in the dining room had a delightful cockney accent. One evening, when the service was a bit slow, he complained "the bleeding queues in the galley are three deep!"

We arrived at Trincomalee on the north-east side of Ceylon at 0630 hours on Monday 15th September. I remember that fragrant smell when I awoke early as we approached land. It had been an uneventful trip from Fremantle with no sightings of enemy ships. Trincomalee was a naval base and no one was allowed ashore. We left at noon on the following day, sailing into the Indian Ocean towards the Red Sea and the Suez Canal.

 

 

ARRIVAL AT 3 SQUADRON - No. 71 O.T.U. KHARTOUM

 

The journey up the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea was uneventful and I took the opportunity to write some letters home. Our convoy reached the Straight of Guebael near the southern tip of the Sinai peninsula at 0600 hours on Tuesday 23rd September and hove-to until evening when we sailed away only to return early the next morning. We finally left for Port Tewfik at 2030 hours arriving at 0600 hrs on Thursday 25th September, when we disembarked and went to the Transit Pool at Ismailiya in the afternoon.

After shopping and seeing the sights in Ismailiya and Cairo, we returned to the Transit Pool by road on Sunday 28th, entraining for 3 Squadron at 1730 hours that evening. We were not told where the squadron was located but reported to regimental transport officers at various stops en-route when we were directed to the next stage of our journey. We finally arrived at Sidi Haneish at 1700 hrs on Monday 29th September and were met by Squadron Leader Alan Rawlinson who took us to the squadron at L.G. 102 nearby.

Landing Ground 102, at Sidi Haneish is located in the Egyptian Desert near the Mediterranean coast, about half way between Alexandria and Tobruk. 3 Squadron returned to its base there on 9th September after its participation in the Syrian campaign against the Vichy French which commenced in June 1941.

I was proud to be posted to 3 Squadron R.A.A.F. which had a tradition of excellence as a fighter squadron dating back to the First World War. The squadron had been based at Richmond N.S.W. at the outbreak of WWII and embarked for the Middle East on the Orient liner Orontes on 12th July 1940.

It had participated in the highly successful Wavell offensive in November 1940. Flying Gloster Gladiator aircraft, it had immediate success against a superior force of Italian CR42 fighters during its first engagement on Tuesday 19th November.

Re-equipment with Hawker Hurricane fighters commenced during February 1941 and, during that month, the squadron claimed its first victory against the German Luftwaffe which had recently entered the campaign. The victim was a Ju88 bomber.

After the retreat from Benghazi in April 1941, the squadron moved back to Sidi Haneish and, by this time, its score of victories had reached 69 confirmed plus 14 probables. It had also become expert in making rapid transfer from one base to another, keeping up offensive flying in the process.

News was then received that the squadron was to be re-equipped with the American Curtiss P-40 Tomahawk fighters which were fitted with two 0.5" Browning guns firing through the airscrew and four 0.3" Brownings in the wings.

The Tomahawk was a tough aircraft which could take a lot of punishment. Its performance was better than the Hurricane but not as good as the German Me109 or the Italian Macchi 202. Nevertheless, its toughness and manoeuvrability enabled it to be used with great success in the air battles of that time.

 


3 Squadron Tomahawk Pilots.
Sitting L-R; Wilf Arthur, Bob Gibbes, Tiny Cameron; standing, Wally Jewell.

 

After flying Hurricanes, 3 Squadron pilots had some difficulty adapting to the Tomahawks, which had a different type of rudder control and foot brake. As many as 21 had "ground-looped" on landing; damaging the wings. The C.O., Squadron Leader Jeffrey, decided that the new pilots should go to 71 O.T.U. (No. 71 Operational Training Unit) at Khartoum to convert to Tomahawks.

Immediately after our arrival on Monday 29th September, Peter Jeffrey looked at our flying log books and talked to us about squadron operations. Awaiting our posting to Khartoum, we spent the next ten days learning the cockpit drill of the Tomahawk and familiarising ourselves with the squadron organisation, workshops, armament section etc. as well as assisting in chores such as censorship of letters home. On Thursday 2nd October we visited 451 Squadron R.A.A.F., an army cooperation squadron which was temporarily based at Sidi Haneish LG 102.

The experienced pilots at 3 Squadron talked to us about their operational encounters and checked our progress in learning about the Tomahawk. We read tactical reports of past air engagements and generally absorbed the atmosphere of an active squadron. On Tuesday 7th October, I had a game of handball with Dick Hickson who was equipment officer and who, with the medical officer "Doc" Laver, kept a close watch on all the pilots for signs of fatigue and grounded them if they seemed a bit shaky.

Two of our party - Alan Baster and Dick Taylor - left for Khartoum on Monday 6"' October and the remainder - Dick Hart, Lou Spence, Peter Giddy, Nicky Barr, Les Bradbury, Geoff Chinchen, Tom Briggs and I left on Friday I 10th, travelling by train to the Middle East Pool, where we arrived at midnight.

We had several frustrating days waiting for transport to Khartoum but finally boarded the river steamer "LOTUS" on the Nile at Shellal and sailed at 1400 hours on Wednesday 15th October. The journey up the Nile was most interesting. We were fascinated by the primitive water lifts feeding the irrigation canals. They consisted of a pole with a bucket at one end and a large lump of dried mud as a counterweight at the other, supported by a rope hinge close to the counterweight and operated by one man with the greatest of ease. They had used this system since time immemorial.

We arrived at Wadi Halfa in the Sudan, just across the border from Egypt, at 1730 hours on Friday 17th October and, since we had little to eat on the two day river journey, we set about laying-in stocks of tinned food. We boarded a train for Khartoum at 2000 hours, Nick, Lou and I sharing a first class compartment. Some of the food must have been "off' as we woke the next morning feeling "crook"- especially Nick who had got "stuck into" tins of bully beef and sausages. By 1630 hours that afternoon, when we reached Atbara, we were feeling much better.

Atbara proved to be an attractive town on the Nile. On its way down to Egypt, the river swings out in a great loop to the west at Atbara and rejoins the railway line at Wadi Halfa. The train was not to continue until 2030 hours, so we were able to explore the town. After the journey through the desert from Wadi Halfa, we were delighted to discover the Atbara Club on the banks of the Nile and, being commissioned officers, we were readily accepted as honorary members. Sudan Railways also had a rest house where we were able to have a bath and some supper.

We finally reached Khartoum at 0730 hours on Sunday 19th October and 71 O.T.U. Gordon's Tree, at 0905 hours. To our chagrin, Geoff, Jack, Tom and Brad, who had been in a different group, arrived by flying boat at 1600 hours. However, we drowned our sorrows at the Sudan Club in the evening. The Sudan Club was like an oasis in the drab and stiflingly hot city of Khartoum.

At 71 O.T.U. we attended lectures from 0600 hrs to 1100 hrs the next morning and on the following three mornings followed by an examination on the morning of Friday 24th October. At night, we slept in the open on stretchers under the stars. It was very pleasant after the heat of the day; but I was shocked one morning to find a scorpion in one of my shoes.

My first flight was on Saturday October 25th, in a Harvard two seater trainer when I was checked out by Sgt Smith. After that, it was all solo in single seater aircraft - Hurricanes, Tomahawks and Mohawks. The Mohawk was a Tomahawk powered by a Wright Cyclone radial engine. It was produced for the French during the battle for Europe when aircraft were urgently needed and the in-line Allison engines of the Tomahawks were in short supply. It was hopeless for air combat and suffered engine failure if the aircraft was slow-rolled. We had several forced landings after aerobatics. Fortunately, it was hard desert country and it was possible to land safely anywhere.

I had a bad bout of sinus infection from the Sudan Club pool and was grounded for a few days. However, I managed to do a total of 40 hours and was classed above the average for the course when it concluded on 21st November 1941.

 

At the Sudan Club Pool.
 Standing, Left to Right: Harry Baldwin, Peter Giddy, Dick Tayler, Tom Briggs.  Sitting: Lew Spence, Dick Hart, Nicky Barr, Les Bradbury, Jack Mitchell.

 

After frustrating delays, we set out by train and steamer for Cairo at 1645 hrs on Saturday 23rd and arrived Cairo on Wednesday 26th.

 

 

BACK AT 3 SQUADRON - EARLY OPERATIONS

 

At 0815 hours on Thursday 27th November 1941, we reported to Cairo Headquarters and were greeted by Flight Lieutenant Sewell with the words "The squadron needs you! They have lost nine pilots in the last two days!"

We were suitably impressed with this piece of news!

F/Lt Sewell told us to report to the 267 Squadron hangar at Heliopolos air base at 0800 hours the following morning. Our transport, a Lockheed Lodestar, took off from Heliopolos at 0815 and arrived at Bagush, near Sidi Haneish, at 1000 and we reached LG 102 in time for lunch. 3 Squadron had been at an advanced base – Landing Ground 122 near Fort Madalena on the western border of Egypt - since 13th November. Alan Rawlinson, Wally Jewell, Sgt Baillie and Sgt Simes flew down from LG 122 to LG 102 in the evening.

 

Landing Ground 122 - Madalena near the Libyan border.

 

The second combined offensive, "Operation Crusader", commenced on November 18th following intense air activity with widespread strafing of enemy road traffic and aerodromes, which started on November 14th. A.O.C. Air Headquarters Western Desert was Air Vice-Marshal Coningham R.A.F. The Squadrons involved in the offensive had been paired to fly together as wings and No 3 Squadron had been paired with No 112 Squadron R.A.F, to form No 2 Wing. Wing Commander Peter Jeffrey took command of No 2 Wing and Squadron Leader Alan Rawlinson became C.O. of 3 Squadron.

Prior to Operation Crusader, the "Axis" forces had by-passed Tobruk and crossed the eastern border of Libya into Egypt along the coast to Bardia, Salum and also to Sidi Omar.

Crucial Air Battles, vital to the success of the campaign, took place on 22nd, 25th and 30th November against odds of three or four to one. The intensity of these fighter combats ensured a gruelling experience for those who took part. I missed the first two but participated in the third - my first operation.

Al Rawlinson and I made the flight from LG 102 to LG 122 in formation on Friday 28th November - landing at 1600 hrs after an hour's flight.

3 Squadron was out on two patrols on Saturday 29th November but I missed out on both of them, much to my disgust. Enemy aircraft were not encountered but the experience would have been welcome.

My first operational patrol took place on Sunday 30th November and was a levelling experience for one who felt himself destined to be a fighter ace.

We took off at 0800 hours from LG 122 on an offensive sweep over E1 Adem just south of Tobruk. My position was "Lester 4" paired behind Woof Arthur. We were at 11,000 feet when we saw about 18 Stukas over Bir El Gubi. They dropped their bombs from about 4,000 feet and dived westward - nine in tight formation and six above and behind them. Woof went down in a vertical dive and I followed him down through the Stukas, having a "squirt" at one on the way. I lost Woof and found myself in a melee with Me109's, Macchi 200's, Fiat G 50's and JU 87's (Stukas). I had long range shots at a Macchi 200, a Stuka and a Me109 without any apparent effect and, since I was a number 2 without a Leader, I decided to pair off with one of our fellows who was pumping bullets into a Stuka. Before I could get over to him, a Me109 came up behind him and shot him down.

Our fellow proved to be Tiny Cameron who crash-landed, quickly got out of his aircraft, and ran to some bushes nearby. I circled overhead at about 2,000 feet to try to protect him; but the Me109 strafed his aircraft and showed its contempt for my efforts by looping off the deck and strafing his aircraft again. Fortunately, the German pilot evidently had not seen Tiny leave his crashed aircraft. After his second strafing attack, the Me109 went off towards the west and, a few minutes later W/C Peter Jeffrey landed on the desert near to Tiny's aircraft and picked him up. They took-off safely and flew back to our base - Tiny sitting on Pete's knees, in the single seater cockpit.

It was a great day for the Squadron, with eleven victories and eighteen damaged. The total now was 106 victories and we celebrated our first century that evening. Woof Arthur was at first missing but turned up later in a borrowed Hurricane, having made a forced landing at Tobruk. He had shot down two JU 87's and two G50's.

No 3 Squadron became the first squadron in the Desert to score one hundred enemy aircraft confirmed.

The A.O.C., Air Vice-Marshal Coningham, sent the following message:

"Personal from A.O.C. to W/Cmdr. Jeffrey and the squadron. Congratulations on the squadron's splendid fight which has contributed so much to our present overwhelming air superiority. I regret your casualties but they have cost the enemy dearly. The squadron has been selected for re-equipment with the first Kittyhawks. Good luck."

The casualties since 22nd November included P/O Lane, F/Lt Saunders, F/O Watson, F/Lt Knowles, F/O Roberts, F/O Kloster, P/O Lees, Sgt Simes, F/O Evans and F/O Bothwell.

Roberts and Kloster became prisoners of war; but the others were killed. Simes got back after having been shot down; but was killed a few weeks later. Sammy Lees was a school friend of mine whom I had not seen since leaving Wesley College, Melbourne, at the end of 1932.

The dice of war were rolling closer!

 


30th November 1941 - celebrating 3 Squadron’s “Century” - 100 Victories!   L to R:  Tom Trimble, Bob Gibbes, Al Rawlinson, Wal Mailey, Rex Wilson (Killed in action nine days later), Fred Eggleston, Lou Spence (K.I.A. Korea).

 

On Monday 1st December 1941, Sgts. Rex Wilson and Frank Reid "scrambled" early in the morning to intercept a Ju88 which had been coming over the airfield each morning at high altitude on reconnaissance. Rex hit the port engine and the aircraft caught fire. Two Germans baled out. In revenge for an earlier incident, when one of our pilots, Sgt Parker, had been shot and killed while parachuting from his burning aircraft over Tobruk, Sgt Reid tried to shoot the parachuting Germans on the way down and strafed them on the ground. I am sure that Frank Reid and the rest of us were relieved to hear later that the two Germans had survived unhurt and had become prisoners of war.

On that afternoon, 3 Squadron was "released for reorganisation" and we returned to base at LG 102 flying in formation.

On Tuesday, Pete Jeffrey and A1 Rawlinson went down to Cairo to find out about the Kittyhawks. Most of the other pilots went on 36 hours leave to Alexandria. It was raining all day Tuesday and Wednesday and there was no flying. I spent the two days reorganising my own kit and helping to sort out the kits of some of our pilots who had been reported missing. I also had a letter from my brother Egan, in Melbourne.

On the Wednesday 2nd December, I had a letter from my sister Jean in Melbourne and also one from Pamela Bushell - a Sydney friend whom I had met skiing at Mount Hotham and with whom I had spent many happy hours at Princes Night Club in Sydney during my days at Richmond in 22 Squadron. Pamela had come over as a V.A.D. and was presently in Palestine.

On the following day, we had two squadron formation flights - practising squadron attacks. Al Rawlinson and Pete Jeffrey came back from Cairo - Pete bringing back the first Kittyhawk.

The Kittyhawk was very similar to the Tomahawk but a bit more powerful and had three 0.5" guns in each wing (instead of the two 0.5" guns firing through the airscrew and the two 0.3" guns in each wing of the Tomahawk). The Kittyhawk IA had a top speed of 354 miles per hour at 15,000 feet and a service ceiling of 29,000 feet. The Messerschmitt Bf 109 F2 Trop. (armed with one 20mm canon, firing through the airscrew boss, and one 12.7 mm machine gun in each wing) had a top speed of 373 miles per hour at 19,700 feet and a service ceiling of 37,700 feet.

I did not ever fly a Kittyhawk. I was shot down and became a prisoner of war before the squadron was fully equipped with them. However, the Tomahawk was very much liked, if not preferred, by many of the old hands in the Desert.

 

 

THE LAST DOGFIGHT - CAPTURE, BY THE ENEMY

 

On Friday 5th December 1941, there was no flying - a dust storm being in full swing. We were joined by a batch of new pilots who had spent the night in the desert on the way up. Among them were Dave Rutter and Don Knight who had been with me throughout our training and in 22 Squadron. Dave's father was a great friend of my father. Dave was one of nature's gentlemen with a great deal of pluck and an overwhelming desire to "do his bit". His eyesight was impaired by blurred vision in one eye but, somehow, he had managed to conceal this during his pre-posting medical examination. Don Knight was several years younger than I with a shock of wavy blond hair, smiling blue eyes and bright white teeth. He was a first class pilot and full of dash and enthusiasm - the ideal fighter pilot! The others in the new batch were Harry Schaeffer, Robin Gray, Eric Bradbury, Graham Pace, Lance Threlkeld, Butch Furniss, Joe Lyons, Mac McIntosh and Reg Pfeiffer. During the day, I received the rest of my flying kit - except for my emergency ration, these being in short supply.

We flew with a 0.32" revolver in a holster at our waist and a water bottle slung over our shoulders - the emergency ration, in a sealed tin, was carried beneath the water battle.

There was no flying on Saturday 6th, which I spent reorganising my flying kit and packing unwanted heavy gear into my tin trunk for return to store. Whilst in Germany, I had acquired a Hoehner accordion and brought this with me to the squadron. I was not good at it but Nicky Barr played it reasonably well and kept us all cheerful with his playing and singing. The Hoehner was a source of much fun during subsequent months.

On Sunday 7th, we had formation practice with the new pilots and then packed our gear to send to LG 122.

On Monday 8th, we flew up to LG 122 by Lodestar - the party including Nick, me, Dave, Don, Ron Simes, Robin Gray and Harry Schaeffer. That afternoon, five Me 110's attacked a DH 86 air ambulance coming in to land at LG 122 and shot it down. Two of the Me110s were shot down by ack-ack from the ground!

In the evening, we heard that Japan had attacked Pearl Harbour and that America was in the war.

On Tuesday 9th December, we flew on a wing offensive sweep over El Adem when we were "jumped" by Me109's. One of ours went down in flames. Nick, Geoff and a 112 Squadron Tomahawk went up after five Me109's, while the rest of us formed a defensive circle, each following another's tail, thereby, supposedly, protecting him. I was not comfortable in this manoeuvre because it seemed too easy for the Messerschmitts high above to dive and pick us off one by one. After five minutes we broke the circle and I followed Wally Jewell home. Pete Jeffrey, Dave Rutter, Rex Wilson and Tiny Cameron were missing, and three fires were seen on the ground.

Rex Wilson and Dave Rutter were killed, Pete Jeffrey force-landed at Tobruk and returned that evening. Tiny Cameron force landed and returned two days later. Rex Wilson had been recommended for the Distinguished Flying Medal, having previously had 8 victories. The DFM was awarded posthumously. Sgt Mailey got two Me109F's and Pete Jeffrey one. It was Dave Rutter's first operation!

In the evening, after his return from Tobruk, Pete Jeffrey had a post-mortem with us on the day's engagement. I remembered feeling quite vulnerable in that defensive circle with the Messerschmitts circling above and waiting to pounce. I asked Pete "why didn't someone lead us out of that defensive circle?" "Why didn't you!" growled Pete! I got the message and kept my mouth shut for the rest of the meeting! Pete then turned on Bobby Gibbes with "where did you get to?" Bob replied " Oh! I came home! I wasn't going to stooge around in that circle of death!" In fact, Bob had dived down when we were jumped, his idea being to zoom up and to climb above the Messerschmitts to attack them but when he got up there, he could not find them. I did not know this at the time but I admired Bob's courage in speaking up. Later, he was to command the squadron.

On Wednesday 10th, we had a wing offensive sweep south west of Tobruk but saw no enemy aircraft. On Thursday 11th, we did two 2½ hour protective patrols over Tobruk and again saw no enemy aircraft. Tiny Cameron got back to the squadron on that day, after his force-landing on 9th December. He had walked back and collected lots of loot including a German field service cap and jackets as well as luger pistols, swords etc.

On Friday 12th December 1941, we did a morning protective patrol over Tobruk and landed at E1 Adem, having seen no enemy aircraft. El Adem had just been liberated and there was a crashed Me109 at the edge of the landing ground. We were interested to have a closer look. I noticed that the cockpit instruments seemed quite adequate. We had been told that the Germans were running short of instruments.

After lunch when our aircraft had been refuelled, we gathered around headquarters to hear what the afternoon had in store for us. "We are going to strafe the Derna Road!" said Les Bradbury and rambled on until I told him to shut up as he was making us all nervous.

We took-off from El Adem at 1530 hours. I was leading blue flight with Robin Gray on my left and Nick Barr on my right. Woof Arthur was leading the squadron. I was flying Tomahawk AN 335 which was in excellent condition though we had some trouble with the 0.5" guns in the cockpit which were inclined to jam due to the desert dust ingested during taxiing.

We were climbing into the Sun at 10,000 feet, near the Gulf of Bomba, when we saw a number of Me109's taking off from the German base at Tmimi directly beneath us. There was a lot of chatter on the intercom. Suddenly, I felt my aircraft lurch and looked round to see Robin Gray's aircraft had drifted towards mine and his airscrew was chewing off my port wingtip. With the extra drag from the damaged wing tip, I couldn't keep up with the squadron and dropped away.

I soon found that the aircraft responded reasonably well to the controls and, seeing three Tomahawks of 112 Squadron chasing up after five Me109's climbing after 3 Squadron, I decided to join the attack.

With my height advantage, I was able to dive down and come up to make a quarter attack from below. I was the first to open fire and, though the range was a bit long, I succeeded in breaking up the Messerschmitt formation.

The Messerschmitts turned to join battle and a good old fashioned dog fight ensued. There seemed to be Me109's and Tomahawks everywhere! I made two further quarter attacks from below at Me109's circling to attack. I could see glycol streaming behind each of them but could not claim to have shot them down. I managed to get close behind a third Me109 but, due to the absence of one wing tip, my aircraft flicked on its back just before I pressed the trigger. Meanwhile, I was having continual trouble clearing my 0.5" guns which were jamming!

I got close behind another Messerschmitt and put a long burst into him. I was surprised to sea tracer streaming from my wings towards him. I didn't think we had tracer! Suddenly I realised there was another Messerschmitt close behind me and pumping bullets at me. I flicked into a steep turn and got away from him unscathed but, by this time, I had lost a lot of height and the friendly Tomahawks had vanished.

I was at 1500 feet and. could see three Messerschmitts circling above me waiting for the kill. There were no clouds and I was at least 60 miles into enemy territory so I decided to make the best of the situation and try to get at least one of them. One made a head-on attack at me and I pulled up toward him staring at the yawning hole in his airscrew boss through which his canon was pointing at me. My 0.5" guns jammed again but he too seemed to be having trouble with his guns as he did not open fire. I tipped the joystick slightly forward and went under him with what seemed inches to spare.

The net result was that I lost further height and found myself at 1000 feet with my Messerschmitt friends still above me. I could see two of them and was clearing my 0.5" guns saying to myself "I'll get at least one of you bastards" when I heard a dull "plop" near my feet.

The third Messerschmitt had come up behind me and lobbed an explosive shell into the oil cooler beneath my engine.

I flicked into a steep turn and shook him off but the damage was done and my aircraft was on fire. I was now flying east with a thick trail of black smoke behind me and the Me109 in close pursuit. I opened the cockpit canopy to get a better look but flames and smoke came up around me and I quickly closed it again. This was it! I had to get out fast! I undid my safety belt and disconnected my oxygen line but forgot about my intercom cord.

I flung open the canopy, eased the stick forward - and floated up out of the cockpit into the slip-stream, which swept me back against the tail fin. My intercom cord came adrift and luckily it was my parachute pack which took the brunt of the blow from the tail fin. I found myself spinning like a top but threw out my arms and legs in a spread-eagled position which had the immediate effect of stopping the spin. I was facing down with my arms and legs stretched out and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see my aircraft with its smoke trail fading into the distance with the Me109 close behind. .

The land below stretched out like a coloured map and I could see the Gulf of Bomba to the north. I reached for the rip cord with my right hand but remembering Sgt Parker's fate over Tobruk, decided to make a delayed drop, even though I had baled-out at only 1000 feet. I clutched the handle of the rip cord whilst falling freely toward the land below. It was quite exhilarating, and I was fascinated with the view but, all of a sudden, I could see stones and tufts of grass and I realised I was getting very close to the ground.

I yanked at the rip cord and the parachute opened immediately.

I was relieved to feel the support of the shroud lines. I floated for about ten seconds and noted that there was a strong drift toward the east. The terrain was undulating with rock outcrops but, fortunately, I was drifting towards a flat grassy patch. Fortunately also, I was facing the direction I was drifting. In textbook style, I pulled hard on the shroud lines just before my feet touched the ground. Although this helped to cushion my landing, my feet hit the ground with a jar and I turned several somersaults, finally being dragged along on my head by my still inflated parachute. I was glad at the time that my flying helmet was well padded, otherwise I would have sustained severe head injuries.

After a struggle, I finally managed to release my parachute harness and halt my undignified progress across the ground. With no weight on the shroud lines, the parachute collapsed and lay on the ground near me. I stood up to take stock of the position. By a miracle, I was unwounded and seemed to be uninjured by the fall. A couple of weeks later, I suffered acute back pains but felt nothing when shot down.

I looked around, and immediately saw the Me109 returning at low altitude from the east. He saw my parachute and then saw me and went into a steep left hand turn with the obvious intention of strafing me. I sprinted a hundred yards in eight seconds to take cover behind some rocks just as the Messerschmitt began its dive. He didn't open fire as my cover was good and, as soon as he passed over, I ran to some bushes a few yards away where I had better all-round cover. He did not come back and, I assumed that he and his companions had landed at Tmimi, their base, near-by and that a search party might soon come out to find me. It was 1630 hrs and there were several hours of daylight left. I drew my pistol determined to defend myself.

I was completely transformed! A few minutes ago, in the air, where I had been trained to fight, I had faced certain death with detached calm. I was now on the ground with the chance of survival and was completely scared. I realised I would have no chance of resisting a search party and I dared not move before nightfall for fear of being spotted.

The adrenaline was coursing through my system and my heart was pumping like a steam engine. To the north, behind undulating landscape, I could hear aircraft landing and taxiing at Tmimi. To the south, behind a low ridge, I could hear motorised transports travelling along an east west road which I judged to be Trig Capuzzo. I had a good map and was able to pinpoint my position fairly accurately. I was about 60 miles west North West of E 1 Adem and at least 50 miles into enemy territory. I had a field service water bottle full of water but no emergency ration. However, I had a couple of dozen tablets of malted milk in my pocket to make up in a small way for this deficiency. I also had a neck stud magnetic compass which proved to be invaluable for travel by night. I was wearing battle dress over khaki shorts and shirt with long socks and a battered pair of desert boots.

I was left alone for the rest of the day and set out toward the east an hour after nightfall. I decided to keep away from made roads and tracks for fear of being spotted by passing traffic. The surface was undulating, hard and stony with wadis criss-crossing here and there. I fell flat on my face a couple of times when, in the faint moonlight, I failed to notice that the ground dropped away in front of me. The moon was in its last quarter and set toward midnight. After that, I had to rely on the light of the stars to pick my way. At 2200 hrs, I saw a motor cycle headlight, north, of my position, bobbing along towards the east. I judged it must have been on a made track as it would not have been possible for a wheeled vehicle to travel across the terrain I was traversing. It seemed quite close but I could hear no sound so it must have been at least two miles away.

I maintained my walking direction by using the luminous dial of the compass to pick a star in the direction I wanted to go and walking toward that star. In the early hours, when it was very dark, I found myself within a couple of yards of a camel. I seriously contemplated shooting it for food but thought better of it.

Towards dawn, I found the terrain had changed to stony desert country somewhat like inland Australia. By this time, I had found it necessary to rest after an hour's walk and lay down on the ground until wakened by the cold an hour later. Before daylight, I took cover in some low bushes and did not move for the rest of the day. Every couple of hours, I would suck a malted milk tablet and moisten my lips with water. I refrained from urinating or defecating, with the idea of deriving the maximum benefit from the food and fluid in my body. My nerves were shattered and I was scared every time I heard gunfire from aircraft dog fighting overhead.

I set off again an hour after dark - following the same routine of one hour walking and one hour rest. The going was easier than on the first night with a much flatter surface. After a couple of hours walking, I came on a fairly wide east-west track and, since there seemed to be no traffic, I decided to walk along it for a while. At midnight, I heard a man's voice quite close to me and immediately dropped to the ground to see several human figures silhouetted against the starry sky. My desert boots with their crepe rubber soles were completely silent and I had not been seen or heard. I crawled away into the darkness and made my escape. My impression was that it had been an Italian army unit, camped for the night. I decided that I had better stick to my original plan and avoid all tracks as I continued in a south easterly direction.

At 0100 hrs, I began to see Verey Lights rising slowly into the sky ahead of me. My only means of judging how far they were away was the slowness with which they rose up. This indicated to me that they might be as much as ten miles away. I judged them to mark enemy strong posts, and altered course when one rose ahead of me, only to find that I was walking toward another strong post when a Verey Light rose ahead of me a few minutes later. By the early hours, I was becoming confused - there seemed to be strong posts strung out right across my path and, to add to my disquiet, there were tank tracks criss-crossing the desert around me.

I decided I should try to find a good hiding place for the coming day as it seemed likely I might find myself in middle of a tank battle. I was in luck! Just before first light, I found a shallow hole about six feet long, two feet wide, and eighteen inches deep in the middle of a flat area. I lay down in it, determined to stay there for the day. By lying on my back, I could conceal myself below the surrounding surface.

Shortly after dawn, I heard a truck whirring close-by to the north west of my hide-out. Soon after that, I heard a loud whirring further away to the south east. I lay perfectly still, not daring to put my head up to have a look. I just had to wait developments without revealing my presence. I had not long to wait. Bullets began to zip in bursts right over my hole. I could hear them zipping just before the noise of the distant machine gun reached me. After the firing had been going on for a minute or two, I heard a cry from the truck to the North West, and then complete silence for a few minutes. There was a further whirring sound to the south east which slowly faded into the distance.

All this time, I had been petrified with fear and, to add to my horror, a desert rat had crawled into my hole and was sniffing around my feet - no doubt thinking I was a corpse. At least, I thought, the rat would be edible, so I carefully aimed my pistol at the rodent just six inches from my foot. I fired, and missed! The rat beat a hasty retreat and I took comfort that, at least, I had not shot myself in the foot.

I stayed in my hole for the rest of the day, without moving. After dark I got up and walked toward the truck to the North West. It was an open military lorry and there were two dead Italians lying beside it. They had been the targets of the zipping bullets! One had an aluminium pannikin attached to his belt. There was a piece of parmesan cheese in it but, although I was weak with hunger, I did not feel like eating it.

I found I was fairly close to a road and decided it would be too risky to continue in the direction I had been walking for fear of blundering into a mine field. The area in which I found myself had obviously been closely fought-over and it would have been foolish to remain there. I was weak and demoralised from lack of food and even wondered if I should give myself up.

Eventually, I made up my mind to try to retrace my steps for a few miles and then turn south, in an attempt to reach the front line at a place where the opposing forces were more dispersed and there would be less risk of walking into a minefield.

I set off toward the west, filled with doubts as to whether I could last the extra couple of days which I would need to reach the front line by the route I had now chosen. After walking for a little more than an hour, I heard a voice challenge me from near-by. Since I could not see my challenger and, since it seemed he could see me, I put up my hands, called "kamerad" and waited to be captured. It was an Italian anti-tank battery and I was promptly disarmed, two Italian soldiers struggling with each other to souvenir my pistol.

More about my prisoner of war experiences later. Meanwhile there is a sequel to the story of my demise as a fighter pilot.

Two years ago, I borrowed from Clive ("Killer") Caldwell a book titled "Fighters over the Desert - The Air Battles in the Western Desert June 1940 to December 1942" The authors of this book are Christopher Shores (an Englishman) and Hans Ring (a German). They had access to the records of the Allied and the Axis Air Forces. It makes fascinating reading to anyone who was involved because it gives a day by day account of the air battles which took place.

I was able to deduce from their account that the German pilot who shot me down was a fighter ace - Erbo Graf von Kageneck of Number 3 Gruppe in Jagdgeschwader 27 (III/JG 27). He shot down two Tomahawks over Tmimi on 12 December 1941. These were the first victories of III/JG 27, which was the fourth Gruppe of Me Bf 109s to arrive in the Desert, completing the strength of Jagdgeschwader 27. Their aircraft carried a white shield with a black cross of the old Prussian knightly order. Number III Gruppe was one of the oldest in the Luftwaffe being first formed in April 1937, serving in the Battle of Britain (54 victories) and Russia (220 victories).

Gruppen Kommandeur was Hpt. Erhardt Braune and the Staffel Kapitaene were, 7 Staffel Oblt Erich Gerlitz, 8 Staffel Oblt Hans Lass, 9 Staffel Oblt Erbo Graf von Kageneck. Erba Graf von Kageneck was then the top scoring pilot of the whole Geschwader and one of the highest scorers in the Luftwaffe with 67 victories on arrival in Africa. He was a holder of the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves.

Erbo Graf von Kageneck's luck was to run out just twelve days later! On 24th December 1941, he was hit and wounded in the stomach by a Hurricane of 94 Squadron breaking out of a defensive circle south east of Agedabia.

Kageneck managed to struggle back to base but died of his wounds in a hospital in Naples on 12th January 1942. At the time of his death, I was a prisoner of war in Capua, just a few kilometres from Naples.

During the morning of 12th December, the day I was shot down, ground crews of III/ JG 27 left Tmimi for Maturba. This explains my good fortune in not having to face a search party when I was hiding that evening in the bushes close to Tmimi.

 

 

EARLY DAYS AS A PRISONER OF WAR

 

I was captured during the night of Sunday December 14th 1941, having walked about twenty miles during the three nights I was on the move. My point of capture was about five miles south west of Gazala.

I had absolutely no knowledge of the Italian language and had to use my schoolboy French to make myself understood. My captors seemed to accept my story that I was an Australian fighter pilot and were kind though preoccupied - no doubt wondering what to do with me should they come under attack.

The night was cold and I was sat in the cabin of a lorry, beside the C.O. of the unit, to await dawn. After a lot of brain searching, I managed to say the words "J'aimerai de quoi mange". After I had repeated this several times, my Italian friend got the message and gave me a stale lump of wholemeal bread which was very welcome.

Soon after dawn, a young German liaison officer drove up in a jeep - or the German equivalent of a jeep. The Italians were keen to be rid of me and persuaded him to take me with him. I was able to communicate with him reasonably well, having learnt some German before the war. However, we did not have much to say to each other. I knew he would not be inclined to tell me where he was taking me and he knew that I would not be inclined to tell him anything about our air force dispositions.

Being weak and demoralised, and having wandered free for three nights ending up in capture, it never occurred to me to make a bid to escape. My hands were not tied and it could have been possible to give the driver a karate chop had I known how; but I am sure it would have been beyond my strength.

Toward midday we arrived at the town of Barce, and my German friend delivered me to an Italian prisoner of war compound near the town. I was led to a hut containing other prisoners and remained there for the rest of the day.

In the evening a Roman Catholic priest came to visit me. He could speak perfect English and questioned me about my story. I was given a Red Cross card to fill in with my name and rank.

Later on, some more prisoners were brought in. One of them was an Englishman, Captain "Dusty" Millar who had been in charge of a bren carrier. When we compared notes, it turned out that it was his gunner who had killed the two Italians near my hideout the day before. Dusty and his crew were captured soon after that event, having penetrated too far into enemy territory.

After we had bedded down for the night, I was shocked to hear guttural voices coming from bunks on the other side of the hut. They sounded like Germans! I learned later that they were South Africans speaking Afrikaans.

Next morning we were brought ersatz coffee and a piece of bread for breakfast. We were then called to parade by a diminutive Italian officer. While we were lining up, one of Dusty Millar's English crew told me the Italians had searched him and taken all his family photographs and letters. I was angry to hear this and approached the officer in front of the parade. His response was to scream at me and I retired defeated.

All prisoners were loaded into lorries and we set out towards the west. They were noisy diesel lorries reminding me of machine gun fire. This did not help my shattered nerves. We soon reached .the town of Benghazi, driving straight to the docks where we were unloaded and put on board an Italian destroyer.

We sailed that evening, reaching the port of Tripoli on the Libyan coast next morning, Wednesday 17th December 1941. After disembarkation, we were marched through the town to a field surrounded by high stone walls. I thought, “This is it! Now comes the firing squad!" Throughout the days following capture, I had been conscious what a nuisance prisoners are to their captors and I was half expecting to be summarily disposed of.

About mid afternoon we were loaded into trucks and set off in a south easterly direction, arriving at the prisoner of war camp at Tarhuna after two hours on the road. Tarhuna had the look of a permanent camp - probably a former army barracks. Prisoners were housed in stone huts in compounds surrounded by high walls. There were double bunks - one above the other - with straw mattresses and a couple of grey army blankets. The wash facilities were primitive and the latrines horrifying. The W.C. consisted of a porcelain saucer three feet in diameter with two foot supports near the middle. This was reasonable in principle because one could squat down without coming into contact with the fixture. The trouble was that the water supply had failed and the saucers were piled high with faeces and crawling with flies.

We were a scruffy lot spending the days huddled in our bunks, brooding on our shameful fate and trying in vain to keep warm, fully clothed in our battle dress under the blankets. An army captain from some proud regiment sat on his bunk in the corner for hours without saying a word - obviously ashamed that he had not died fighting rather than be captured. The food consisted of ersatz coffee and bread for breakfast with a piece of hard cheese. For lunch we had watery black soup with some bits of camel meat floating in it. For dinner we had nothing.

On Thursday 18th , the day after we arrived at Tarhuna, I was still very hungry. When my midday soup arrived, I was glad to see a large black lump of meat floating in it. I gobbled it up greedily. By evening, I had violent diarrhoea and nausea which continued over the next three days. I was unable to eat during this period but saved my daily bread and cheese ration in case I should need them later on.

On Monday 22nd we were moved to another compound and I was very pleased to find another 3 Squadron pilot, F/O H.G.H. Roberts, who had been shot down on 22nd November 1941, the day that my school friend Sammy Lees was killed.

Hal Roberts was in his 21st year, seven years younger than I, and was hungry and frustrated after a month "in the bag". As a gesture, I put my saved-up rations on the bed and divided them between us. This was really no great sacrifice because my appetite had not returned after my bout of dysentery. To Hal Roberts however, it was almost a miracle as he was literally starving. We stayed together after that, until we jumped out of a train on the way to Germany nearly two years later and Robbie used to give me his meagre bread ration each morning saying, "Eggie! Keep this for me 'til you eat a bit of yours, otherwise I will eat it all now and I will have to watch you eating with nothing to eat myself!" I was most flattered by this gesture of trust.

In one of his more mischievous moods later on, Robbie gave me the nickname Fuck Fart and Hurry which I did not deserve but my initials F.F.H. were no doubt tempting. Other nicknames I had to endure during my air force years were Stones, courtesy of John Piper, and Scrotum Pole, bestowed by Nicky Barr.

There were two other airmen in the compound with Hal Roberts. They were pilots of Swordfish Torpedo Bombers who had been shot down over the Mediterranean. They were Englishmen and good lads but were posted to different P.O.W. camps and we never caught up with them again. They had been discussing rumours that we were to be transferred to Italy by ship. They were adamant that the torpedo bombers never missed their targets and that our ship would certainly be sunk.

It was the next day that we were loaded in to lorries, taken to Tripoli and loaded onto a large cargo ship. We were lodged in the holds but free to move around restricted areas of the deck whilst at sea. This was essential as the latrines consisted of W.C. seats mounted on wooden frames projecting outward from the deck over the Mediterranean. We were issued with rations for the trip consisting of a tin of Italian "bully beef' and two army biscuits. The bully beef was soft and wet and the army biscuits - made of white flour - were so hard it was necessary to wet them before we could get our teeth into them. Nevertheless, they were very welcome!

We sailed that evening and were off the island of Pantelleria early next morning. It was sunny but the sea was choppy and there was a strong wind blowing from the South. Later that morning, we passed the western tip of Sicily and headed for Naples which we reached the following morning, Christmas Day, 25th December 1941, after an uneventful voyage.

The word must have got out that a shipload of prisoners of war was due and there were quite a lot of people on the dock to greet us or, rather, to satisfy their curiosity as to what the dreaded enemy looked like.

We were disembarked without delay and transported to a camp at Capua, about 35 kilometres north of Naples.

Campo Concentramento per Prigioneri di Guerra Numero 66, Posta Militare 3400, was a large prisoner of war camp with a number of compounds separated by barbed wire fences. Armed guards in elevated pill boxes were scattered throughout the area and around the perimeter.

Hal Roberts and I were assigned to the officers' compound where we met prisoners who had been in the bag for as much as two months and had settled down to some sort of routine. There were Englishmen, South Africans and Australians from the Air Force, Army and Navy with some senior officers among them.

One of these was Lieutenant Commander Palmer, an Australian in the royal Navy who had been running the blockade to Tobruk in a vessel named Maria Giovanni. One day, the engine failed and the ship drifted ashore. Skipper Palmer and his crew became "guests of Mussolini" for the next two years.

Alf Palmer was an inspiration to us all. He strutted around in his duffle coat just as if he were on the deck of his own ship and refused to be downhearted even though things were not going well for the allies at that time.

Things were certainly not going well! After the United States Fleet had been mauled on December 7th at Pearl Harbour, the British battleships Prince of Wales and Repulse were sunk by Japanese torpedo bombers off the coast of Malaya on December 10th.  Singapore, a southern bastion of the British Empire fell on 15th February 1942. As can be imagined, the Italian press made great capital of this and boasted that the Japanese would soon take Perth and Darwin in Australia.

Throughout all this period Skipper Palmer kept our spirits up - he was a tower of strength. Two years later he was to jump out of a train in a tunnel and was wounded in the arm by machine gun fire. He lost the arm and was repatriated. He now lives with his dear wife Jane in Florida U.S.A.

 

 

THE EVOLUTION OF A "PROFESSIONAL" P.O.W.

 

Campo P.G. No 66 P.M. 3400 at Capua was a transit camp and had few of the facilities available in permanent camps - some of which had libraries, recreational areas etc. There were about 150 officers in our compound with ranks ranging from Sub-Lieut to Lt Colonel - half British and half South African including five Australians and three New Zealanders.

We were in two groups - one occupying a couple of wooden huts while Robbie and I were in a group living in a long low narrow building (formerly the camp hospital) with 35 beds down either side of a single dormitory and a lavatory at one end. We had good beds, including sheets, and were very comfortable. Meals were served in a large tent with half the inmates per sitting.

Domestic matters were dealt with by a committee and food was supplied by a civilian contractor - the amount being limited to that allowed to a non-working civilian. Exercise was walking up and down the "wire" with some physical jerks in the morning.

We were allowed a good hot shower once a week. We were issued with camp money at a level depending on our rank. At my level, the amount was barely sufficient to cover messing, leaving little to cover a few essential luxuries such as sweets etc. Soap, toothpaste etc were unobtainable, so we had to wait for these in parcels sent by relatives.

My feelings of guilt were subsiding, but I was urged by a strong desire to let everyone know I was still alive. Life, after all, was still sweet! At Capua we could write cards and letters - one of each per week. Since it was a long way to Australia, my best chance of getting my message out was through contacts in England. One of these was a cousin "Kim" - R.W.G. Mackay, a lawyer who eventually entered Parliament as a socialist candidate for the electorate of Hull in the east of England. Another was my chief, W.S. Robinson, Managing Director of Imperial Smelting Corporation Ltd, based in London. I wrote to both of these - the letter to W.S.R. being as follows:

 

Posta Di Prigioniero Guerra
Campo # 66 P.M. 3400
Italy.   January 1st 1942
 

W.S. Robinson Esq 
60 Avenue Road
London N. W. 7
England

 

Dear Mr Robinson,

You will be surprised to hear from me, especially in the present circumstances. I am a prisoner of war in Italy after being shot down in the Western Desert Offensive on December 12th. My machine was in flames; but I was not wounded and made a safe decent by parachute. After an attempt to reach our lines, I was captured at midnight on December 14th. My health is very good and we are being treated well. The first Red Cross parcels were distributed today and are a great comfort. With communications as they are, there seems to be more chance of getting word through to England, so I am writing to you first. I would be immensely grateful if you would let my people know that I am alright. I am afraid my squadron may post me as killed, as information takes a long time to reach the units. My father's address is "Australian Minister to China, Australian Legation, Chungking, China, via Burma & Lashio ". My brother's address is "143 Queen St Melbourne C. 1.”

All the very best of Good Wishes for the New Year

Yours Sincerely          

Frederic F. H. Eggleston

 

Soon after our arrival at Capua, we were visited by The Papal Nuncio who read a message from the Pope and left gifts such as table tennis, chess etc and a souvenir card for each of us. The Vatican party inspected our living quarters where we were lined up at our beds. As they passed, I touched one holy father on the arm and told him of my wish to get word to my father in Chungking. He was most obliging and gave me a piece of paper to write down my father's address. Soon after they left, I was paraded before the Italian Camp Commandant who demanded to know what message I had given to the Vatican representative. I told him what it had been and he threatened "you had better be right! We have sent a fast car after the Vatican party to verify this". I don't know whether they did intercept the Vatican party but I did not hear anything further from the Commandant.

The Vatican showed compassion and the first word of my safety reached my father through the Vatican Radio. My father was at a reception given by Madame Chiang Kai Shek when the good lady suddenly called for silence to announce that Sir Frederic's son was still in the land of the living. This was a relief to him as he had already received a letter of condolence from Nicky Barr who feared I had been killed.

There was a fall of snow during my first weeks at Capua but it did not lie on the ground for long. Nevertheless, the weather was very cold. During the second week, I developed a nagging pain in the back which manifested itself during the night. I reported to Dr. Kok, a South African medico who was a fellow prisoner of war. He diagnosed the trouble as an injury to the lumber region of the spine and said there was little I could do about it other than to do limbering up exercises as regularly as possible. I followed his advice and the pain eventually went away. From time to time, ever since, I have had back trouble but have kept it under control by doing callisthenics.

The monotony of being locked up was relieved by various experts in our midst sharing their knowledge with us. I volunteered to give lectures on modern physics and got quite steamed up as I put my memory to work digging up the old familiar ground. The only books we had were bibles belonging to two POW padres. I made the mistake of starting with the Old Testament, and faded out after about 100 pages. We could obtain the local newspapers but my knowledge of the language was quite incapable of coping with the daily journal "Il Corriere della Sera".

Some of us were suffering from "desert sores" which resulted from a fungal infection causing flaking of the skin near cuts and scratches on the hands and legs - the lesions being very difficult to heal and becoming raw and painful after a time. For such minor troubles there was a regular medical parade run by the Italians but the first aid centre was in bad repute due to rusty scalpels and generally poor hygiene. When we called for inspection by the "Protecting Power" the rusty scalpels strangely disappeared.

Hunger, boredom and lack of a change of clothes were our main worries but these were later to be alleviated. On Monday 2nd February, we were joined by two other 3 Squadron pilots - F/O Bob Jones and Sgt Tiny Cameron who had finally been captured after several successful attempts at walking back to the squadron. It was good to have the latest news of the war in the Desert and of our comrades. Tiny was in a separate compound but we talked through the "wire". I told him how I had stayed to become involved in a dog fight with my damaged aircraft rather than return to base and face Pete Jeffrey, having done nothing while the others were in the dangerous game of strafing enemy transports. Tiny said: "Fred, you should know that Pete Jeffrey was a good C.O. and not judge him too hastily". I was puzzled at this but I eventually came to the conclusion that he must have heard how Pete had bitten my head off during the post-mortem after my first air engagement. In any case, I was thankful for his kind interest.

One incident that remains in my memory of Capua concerns a canteen which the Italians provided for us to get rid of our surplus camp money. We could purchase ersatz sweets etc and, in our state of continual craving for sugar and carbohydrates, we found this opportunity hard to resist. The canteen was in a separate compound and each of the POW compounds was given a turn to visit the canteen. When our turn came, the officers set out in a reasonably dignified manner until someone pressed forward and the others began to run. While scrambling forward with this scruffy mob, I glanced to my right and was horrified to see the looks of utter amazement on the faces of a number of Indian troops in an adjacent compound as they watched the humiliation of the "British Raj".

We were moved to a permanent camp during the second half of March. The transfer was by passenger train with compartments reserved for POW's. When the train stopped at Naples, we found we could purchase "cestini" which were travellers' lunches containing rare delicacies such as chicken legs etc. These were very popular! We had a guard at each compartment but this did not deter the inquisitive civilian travellers who stared at us through the glass panels separating us from the passage way. Eventually, we could stand it no longer and, at a prearranged signal we made a concerted effort to stare back at the onlookers who visibly wilted and melted away.

Our destination was a former monastery near the village of Padula situated in a lovely valley in the southern Italian province of Calabria in the "instep" of Italy.

 


Padula

 

We detrained mid-afternoon and marched the three kilometres to our prison. It was an impressive edifice and a regular stop for tourists in peace time. The Village of Padula was clearly visible above the walls of the monastery on the slopes at the eastern edge of the valley. The snow capped mountains to the east and west and the wide green valley made a pleasant change from the flat drab surroundings at Capua. The valley floor is 2000' above sea level so the climate is bracing with glorious sunny days. The new camp was designated PG No 35, P.M. 3400.

The quadrangle surrounded by the main cloisters is 120 metres by 170 metres. Senior officers were in rooms off the cloisters and our beds were in the huge corridors above the cloisters. There was a meadow in the grounds for exercising and the dining hall seated 180 comfortably at a sitting. There were 380 officers including 30 Indians who messed separately. The weather could be bitterly cold but we enjoyed beautiful sunny days and soon acquired a healthy sun tan. Rations were a problem as the usual fortnightly supplement of Red Cross parcels had not appeared for eight weeks. An elaborate scheme of vocational training was organised. I did accountancy, company law and German and was to teach physics. The early weeks at Padula marked my first response from the outside world - a cable through the Vatican Radio from my brother Egan in Melbourne and a letter from my cousin Kim in England.

The civilian contractor at Padula must have been a man of great initiative. He seemed to have cornered the entire market for sugar-coated almonds and sweetened condensed milk. These were keenly sought by the POWs. One day we had a bonanza! The contractor brought his condensed milk in large wooden barrels and, on this occasion, one of the barrels fell off his cart smashing open and spreading a sea of sweetened condensed milk over the stone floor of the forecourt. The camp authorities had a brain-wave and invited the POWs to clean it up. We grabbed our pannikins, streamed into the forecourt and scooped up the delicious fluid until there was virtually nothing left. Robbie and I had a wonderful feast cutting our bread ration into small cubes and mixing them with the condensed milk. However, the imbibing of such rich food was too much for some, and sounds of vomiting echoed around the cloisters throughout the night. I remembered my Wesley College Latin Master, Jack Hargreaves, who often boomed forth: "Inconveniences will occur from ingurgitations and excessive feeding!"

One bright sunny afternoon, we were surprised by the sound of fire crackers coming from the village above. By crowding to the far edge of the cloisters, we could just see a procession of men in black hats and long black coats and women in dress clothes. We finally concluded it must be a wedding party.

The Australians were not to remain at Padula for long - being transferred early in May to an "Australian" camp near Sulmona close to the Adriatic coast opposite Rome. We made the journey by train and were fascinated by the magnificent scenery as we crossed the central mountain massif.

 


Sulmona

 

Campo Concentramento di Prigioneri Guerra No 78 Posta Militare 3300 was located near Fonte D'Amore, a village six kilometres north east of the city of Sulmona in the Abruzzi district, not far from Aquila and the Gran Sasso mountain where Mussolini was imprisoned in the Hotel Rifugio di Campo Imperatore after the collapse of the Fascist Regime and later rescued by Hitler's parachutists in a daring operation late in 1943.

The camp dated back to World War I when it was used by the Italians for Austrian prisoners of war. It is situated on a gentle slope close to Fonte D'Amore with an officers' compound at the top and compounds for other-ranks below. The camp was enclosed by high brick walls with brick walls separating the compounds. Elevated pill boxes and guard boxes were located at strategic points around the perimeter and on the dividing walls. A vertical cliff, some two to three thousand feet high, towered to the east of the camp and a chapel was clearly to be seen half way up. How people managed to struggle up there for a service, I never discovered. Some distance to the right of the chapel was a cave in the face of the cliff where the Roman poet Ovid spent part of his life. In the valley, two kilometres to the north of the camp, is a former Moorish monastery now used as a gaol.

 

 

We were delighted to find that the camp at Fonte D'Amore - or Sulmona as we usually called it - was, almost exclusively, Australian. The first I met was Chester Guest, a Melbourne stock broker well known to our family. Then there was Capt. Jack Kroger, who had taught at my o1d school Wesley College since 1934. Jack was a great chap and heavily engaged in vocational training and other essential activities in the camp. Capt. John Fitzharding, an architect from Perth, was in charge of the mess and was a genius in devising useful tools from such things as table knives, forks and spoons. The senior officer was Colonel E. E. Munro - known affectionately as "Bogdew" - and the second in rank was Lt. Colonel "Spike" Marlin. Others included Major Charlie Barton, an Engineer from Brisbane, Major Ronald Charles Rosier, a Veterinary Surgeon of Maryborough Qld, Major Eric Anderson and Lt "Mac" McDonald from Sydney, Lt Bob Donnan, from the N.S.W. north coast, Lt J.L. "Sandy" Mair, son of the former Premier of N.S.W., and Lt. John Morish, of Adelaide. We also caught up with F/O Mort Edwards of 3 Squadron, who had been shot down on his first operation early in 1942. And, of course, our beloved Skipper Palmer had come with Bobbie Jones and Robbie from our previous camp. There were about 50 in the officers' compound which was well organised and we were a happy bunch.

The officers' compound was rectangular - about eighty metres long and twenty metres wide - with a mess building at the North West corner opposite "Mount Royal", the senior officers' quarters, in the south west corner. Other senior officers were in a building half way along the southern side of the compound known as "Half Way House". Robbie and I roomed in "Slum Alley" which was a long low building at the north east corner of the compound containing about twelve shared rooms opening onto a long passage on the north side of the building. The northern walls of the mess building and Slum Alley formed part of the dividing wall between the officers' compound and the one below. The southern walls of Mount Royal and Half Way house were built against the main southern wall of the camp except where Italian store rooms encroached in a couple of places.

Between Mount Royal, at the western end of the compound, and Half Way House, there was open area, about twenty metres long for the full width of the compound where we paraded for roll call and could play basketball. Opposite Slum Alley, at the eastern end of Half Way House, there was a small area against the southern wall of the camp where one of our tunnels was commenced. All the open ground in the camp was covered with white quartz gravel, which made it difficult to dispose of the bright orange soil dug out of the tunnels. There was a gravel road outside the southern wall of the camp and another running diagonally at the south west corner near Mount Royal, inside of which our longest tunnel commenced. The walls of the camp were topped with broken glass and a framework of barbed wire. We were to be at Sulmona for about fourteen months and, as the numbers grew to nearly eighty officers, the compound below was occupied by the later arrivals.

Quite a number of the army officers had been taken prisoner in Rommel's May 1st 1941 Offensive against Tobruk, (although the attack was beaten off, the Germans overran a number of posts on the perimeter) most of them had been in a POW camp Rezzanello on the river Po, east of Gavi in the north, before coming, to Sulmona. One of the officers, Lt Tracey Rowley, in command of an anti-tank troop, was captured at El Agheila on the coast of Cyrenaica after the first Wavell Offensive on 23-02-41. He was the first Australian to be captured by the Germans.

There were several Englishmen amongst us. One of them we knew as "Senussi" had been in the Long Range Desert Group (L.R.D.G.) making raids behind the enemy lines in North Africa. Senussi looked like an Arab and made it more so by lying sweating in the sun all day, acquiring a deep sun tan. There were whispers that Senussi was a worried man - having shot an Italian officer taken prisoner during the Wavell Offensive, who refused to get into a lorry full of Italian soldiers. When Senussi was later taken prisoner himself, there was always the chance that some Italian might recognise him. He was later removed to another camp and I never discovered if they caught up with him.

Most of the Australians had a well developed sense of humour. One of them, Lt Bob Ross of Sydney, was a complete extrovert and spent hours yarning with the guards until he acquired a very good knowledge of colloquial Italian. On one occasion, just for fun, he poked his head above the outside wall of the camp and hurled insults in the Italian language at the guard outside - ducking just in time when the guard opened fire with his rifle.

Athol Hunter was a South African who had joined the A.I.F. and was captured in Greece. He escaped and spent some time with Greek families in Athens before being captured again. He was a very tense person and a born adventurer.

Tunnels were the order of the day and ingenious contraptions were devised to assist the tunnellers. To ventilate the tunnel, an air pump was made out of a suitcase - the lid being lifted up and down by an innocent "bod" pretending to read a book. The air tube - sometimes many metres long - was made of cylindrical tobacco tins received in Red Cross parcels. Bags were made of old trouser legs etc to take the sand out of the tunnels and hide it in the ceilings of the various buildings. The tunnels usually were large enough to crawl along them but sometimes they were so shallow, one could advance only by wriggling along on one's tummy. On one occasion, in the Mount Royal tunnel, the roof fell in on John Morish when he was wriggling along a low section. The accident was soon discovered and John was pulled out by his legs. The Mount Royal tunnel was very nearly successful. Sandy Mair broke through one night to find that the exit was in the gravel path crossing diagonally at the south west corner of the camp. The break-through was earlier than expected and no one was ready to leave.

Although Sandy had done his best to conceal the exit, there was heavy rain over night and a donkey being led down the path put its hoof into the tunnel. The next morning, there was the usual panic with check parades on the basketball area.

I did not take part in the tunnelling - being of the opinion that escape to allied territory was a remote possibility. A book "Within Four Walls" written by Henry Cartwright about his escape from a POW camp in Germany in the First World War, assessed the problem of getting out of the camp as only about 20% of the total operation - getting across enemy territory and then across the frontier being the major difficulties. By a strange coincidence, Colonel Henry Cartwright was now Military Attaché at the British Embassy in Berne and we met him after our escape to Switzerland in 1943. I am not sure whether I would have been able to endure tunnelling. Robbie tried it once in the tunnel opposite Slum Alley but was overcome with claustrophobia as soon as the lid was closed above him.

We were taken for route marches outside the camp every now and then. Quite apart from the welcome exercise, it was great to see some of the countryside. The guards accompanying us were a motley lot - some big ginger headed types carrying light alpine carbines and other little chaps carrying heavy ancient rifles of vintage predating World War L We concluded that, when the rifles were issued, the big chaps had been able to use their strength to push in and choose the light weapons and the little chaps had to take what was left. Some of the guards spoke good English with an American accent. They had emigrated to America but returned to Italy for a holiday and had been grabbed for service in the army.

I did not meet the Italian Camp Commandant who must have been a decent person as we ware treated reasonably well. The basic food ration was a small roll of rye bread each day plus a plate of wholemeal macaroni, some green vegetables and a small piece of hard cheese. Without the fortnightly issue of Red Cross parcels we would have been in a bad way. These contained tins of jam, margarine, cheese, meat loaf, tea, coffee, dried or condensed milk, biscuits, cocoa and a bar of chocolate. There were never enough biscuits for the margarine and jam spreads so we became expert at cutting our bread ration into paper-thin slices. Red Cross parcels and parcels from home were such a joy that Robbie and I swore we would send parcels to each other when we returned home after the war.

At Sulmona, I received lots of parcels from family and friends including text books and light reading. I dissipated my excess energy in studying languages, economics and company management.

There were many nationalities in the soldiers' compounds below us and we were treated to a splendid concert by a Serbian choir on one occasion - the Italian camp staff being also in the audience. There was no shortage of acting ability and we saw "Pygmalion", "The Middle Watch" and other plays very well done. The troops also had a very good band with instruments purchased from the Italians.

Early in September 1942, we heard that Nicky Barr had been taken prisoner and was in a hospital up north with a wounded foot. We expected him to join us at Sulmona but he was sent to another camp. Geoff Chinchen was also taken prisoner and joined us at Sulmona late in October 1942. Jack Donald also joined us later to make a total of six 3 Squadron pilots at Sulmona plus Nicky Barr and Tiny Cameron at other camps.

My sister Jean told me in a letter written mid 1942 that Pete Jeffery had called on her at Robertson & Mullens' bookstore in Melbourne where she worked.

During the first half of 1943, the news of the war became more cheerful and, towards the end of July, we were moved to a camp in the eastern outskirts of Bologna - Campo P.G. No 19 P.M. 3200 - which was an army barracks converted for use as a POW camp. The rail journey from Sulmona took us up the coast to Rimini and thence inland to Bologna. As the train approached Rimini, we could see to the west the independent Republic of San Marino which is conspicuously mountainous in the undulating country surrounding it. The Republic of San Marino was founded in AD 301 and is politically independent from Italy. We could not help wondering what would happen to any escaped POW seeking refuge in San Marino but concluded that, even if given asylum there, it probably would be impossible to arrange safe passage to Allied territory.

At Bologna, there must have been at least 600 officers, some quite recently captured, and others from different camps. Nearly all allied nationalities were represented. Officers were housed in six large wings in open dormitories with very good washrooms at the end of each wing. There was a high brick wall surrounding the barracks and a barbed wire fence kept the prisoners from approaching closer than five metres from the wall. Two parallel barbed wire fences, five metres apart, separated the camp proper from the Italian administration buildings on either side of the main entrance.

 

 

BOLOGNA EPISODE, OFF TO THE BRENNER PASS

 

The POW officers at Bologna were in an optimistic mood. The news filtering through left us in no doubt that the war was going our way at last. Following the battle of El Alamein and Montgomery's successful campaign across Libya and Cyrenaica, assisted by the American landings in French North Africa in November 1942, the Axis forces had been driven out of Africa and allied landings on Sicily early in July 1943 had met with success. A massive air raid on Rome on July 17th was followed in a few days by the forced resignation of Mussolini and the eclipse of the Fascist Junta. Rumours of a separate peace between the Italians and the Allies were in the air. With their commitments in Italy, the Germans probably would not let the country fall without a bitter fight but the news was very exciting.

The Americans made a daylight air raid on Bologna during August and it was heartening to see the Flying Fortresses high above the camp with white condensation trails behind them. No bombs fell near the camp. The POW camp location undoubtedly was known to the allies. Some of the locals seemed to be aware of the comparative safety of our location and, after the air raid sirens sounded; we heard them coming towards the perimeter of the camp like a chattering football crowd.

We began to prepare ourselves for likely possibilities. First we sorted our possessions into three groups. One was to go with us if we were moved to another camp in an orderly fashion. The second was to accompany us if there was an emergency move of uncertain destination with only such things as we could carry. The third was a light pack such as we would need if we escaped and were on the run.

In the meantime, there were talks between the Senior British Officer and the Italian Camp Commandant. We demanded to be set free in the event of a separate peace being signed. The Commandant was told that his name would be in our Black Book if he did not comply with our wishes. The Commandant was friendly but not prepared to commit himself. We suspected he was under pressure from the Germans. We later learned that the local German Commander believed we had been armed and had told the Italian Commandant he would shell the camp and take it by force if the Italians did not hand it over to them.

There was a large canteen at the end of the compound which the Italians had allowed us to stock with local wines like sweet Marsala, a popular drink with our craving for sweet things. The canteen was a great place to pick up the latest "Gen" during drinks after six in the evening.

Things came to a head in the evening of Wednesday 8th September 1943. Walking back from the bar after dinner, I noticed a crowd around the cage gate near the front entrance. Italy had signed an armistice with the Allies on 3rd September - to come into effect when a suitable moment arrived. At 2100 hours, we learned that the Senior British Officer, Brigadier Mountain, had asked the Italian Area Commandant for defence of the camp in view of the large number of Germans in the district. All his requests were turned down flat. There were 30,000 Germans in the Bologna district and our position was not rosy. The Commandant agreed to cut the wire and open the rear gate if the Germans threatened the camp.

Red Cross parcels were issued and all were asked to sleep in full kit ready for instant evacuation. The Italians asked us not to try to get out as straying officers would attract the attention of the Germans. A German patrol asked an Italian this evening if this was a prison camp and got the answer "yes". The Commandant had patrols out and promised to give us reasonable warning of any move by the Germans.

At 0300 hrs on Thursday September 9th, we were awakened by the Italian orderly officer screaming "I Tedeschi sono qui" ("The Germans are here"). We were up in a trice and rushed into the parade ground where the orderly officer directed us to the cage gate. I was in the middle of the pack at this stage but, half way between the cage gate and the main entrance to the camp, I found myself in the front row looking down the barrels of machine guns manned by groups of Germans deployed inside the main entrance. A German voice told us we were surrounded and that we should go back to our barracks. There was instant flight and the rush back to our barracks took no longer than a few seconds.

As soon as we were in our barracks, all doors were covered by machine guns and German soldiers entered shouting "HERAUS!!" - herding us into the space between the two barbed wire fences at the front of the cage near the main entrance. Some officers, including Skipper Palmer, had slipped out the back gate conveniently left open by the Italians but the Germans were not stupid and all were recaptured except for about sixteen.

Whilst we were crowded between the barbed wire fences, we could hear bursts of machine gun and tommy gun fire outside the camp as the Germans rounded up the escapers. As we listened, the German Lieutenant approached and announced: "one of your officers has been wounded" (sic). An English escaper, Captain P.O. ("Podge") Johnson, had been wounded in the hand and thigh by a burst of gunfire as he went down the road to the north of the camp. He died later of shock and loss of blood. He was the only casualty, which was amazing in the circumstances and indicates the excellent discipline of the German outfit that took the camp. Its commander was an army lieutenant aged twenty two.

As dawn was breaking, looking at the machine guns pointing at us from either side, I had visions of a massacre and moved quietly toward the centre of the large crowd of prisoners between the wires. I had read a book "Gaspar Ruiz" about a Spaniard who survived a firing squad when he fell down under his dead comrades. After dawn, we were returned to our barracks and Germans took over from the Italians whom they bundled off. After breakfast, life returned to normal except that our guards were now Germans and the camp was under German control. Our position was now "SNAFU" - Situation Normal, All Fouled Up - and we had lots to talk about during the day.

On Friday 10th September, we learned that the German Company that took the camp had been relieved and that a new lot had taken its place. There was a funeral for Podge Johnson. We learned that the Italian Commandant had double-crossed both us and the Germans. The Germans had had a cordon around the camp since mid-day on September 8th so the orderly officer's show was a "put up" job. The German Lieutenant who took the camp told the Commandant he had put up a shocking and disgraceful exhibition in front of the British. The only

Italian officer remaining was Tenente Cassani who organised our rations. Rumour had it that several prisoners had gone out under the ration truck.

Early on Saturday 11th September, we were told we must be ready to leave at one hour's notice and that we could only take gear we could carry. ( Germany ?? ! ! ) We were told we would go in lorries a distance of about 40 kilometres. At 1430 hrs, we were loaded into 4-ton open lorries - thirty officers and their gear per lorry. The whole camp was emptied except far the "hide-up artists" who concealed themselves in various cupboards and crannies. This was foolhardy as they ran a great risk of being shot by German clean-up squads who used their tommy guns freely.

At 1650 hrs, we were taken through the city of Bologna. Ignoring our sullen German escort, the Italian people were extremely friendly - smiling and waving to us and blowing kisses. We realised immediately that they would help us if we could get past our German guards.

Our convoy arrived at the railway station at Modena at 183o hrs and we were loaded into box-cars (30 per car) for the night. The station yard was surrounded by Germans and bristling with machine guns. It was becoming apparent that our destination was Germany.

On the Sunday morning, the Germans issued us with Red Cross parcels to serve as rations on the trip - they had no rations of their own to give us. We had been allowed out of the box-cars to stretch our legs etc and several got away from the station yard including Ted Paul, from Sulmona, who grabbed a case of fruit from an Italian vendor and quietly walked to the fence, vaulted over it and disappeared. Jack Kroger borrowed a pair of blue Air Force pants from Robbie and tried the same trick but found himself looking down the barrel of a tommy gun and decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

During our period out of the box-cars, we noted that the train was well guarded with a flat car, bristling with machine guns, located between every five or six box-cars. We could not see what was at the rear of the train! The walls of our box-car were timber and there were two sliding wooden doors at the side. The latch looked negotiable, provided it was not to be padlocked or secured with wire. Some of the box-cars were made of steel with wooden floors.

We were herded back into our box car but the doors were left open and we were able to talk to the boyish, German guard armed with a tommy gun outside our truck. I was reasonably competent in the German language and taunted the lad that the Allies would soon invade La Spezia, the naval base in northern Italy, and that it was unlikely he would reach Germany again because the Brenner Pass would be blocked by bombing raids. I desisted when I noticed his trigger finger trembling and decided I was tempting fate.

The doors were finally shut and we left Modena at 1300 hrs. It would have been foolhardy for the Germans to place guards in the crowded box-cars so we were on our own. The boards on the doors were soft and we were confident we could cut our way through to open the latch. The timing would be the important thing! We had heard that POW officers from a camp near Modena were in a similar train following close behind. Our itinerary was to be via Mantova and Verona - thence the Brenner Pass unto Austria.

After a short stop, we left Mantova at dusk. It was a fine night with a full moon. There was some noise of firing guns before we reached Verona about midnight. The Germans were talking about escaped prisoners and the guards were doubled. The train backed down the line at Verona and, thinking the Germans had abandoned the idea of taking us to Germany, we all fell asleep.

We awakened at 0300 hrs to find bright moonlight outside and the train speeding along. Through a small ventilator at the top of the box-car, I was able to read the name Rovereto as we passed through a station. Using a silk map received in a POW parcel, we realised we were well on the way to the Brenner Pass and would have to act soon if we were to find friendly Italians when we got out. Tracey Rowley already was at work cutting a recess in a board near the door latch - leaving a paper thin outer skin that could be broken open at the right moment.

Numbered slips of paper were drawn out of a hat and Tracey Rowley drew number one. Jack Kroger, Barney Grogan, Lex Lamb, Robbie, Johnnie Hall,

Sandy Mair, Bob Jones and Bob Donnan all drew low numbers. I drew number ten with Mort Edwards eleven and Geoff Chinchen twelve. Whilst we were getting ready to leave, I began to think aloud: "We would be crazy to jump! We would lose all our possessions and end up getting shot!" "To hell with that" said Robbie - nursing his gammy knee - "I'm going!" Ashamed, I quelled my doubts and determined to go too. Robbie was recaptured, whilst I was successful in getting to Switzerland!

When the time came to jump, Tracey decided not to go! Jack Kroger and Barney Grogan did not hesitate though the train was moving at a cracking pace. Lex and Bobbie went, then there was a pause while someone was collecting his gear. "Out you go Eggie!" I heard someone shout, and out I went! They threw out my small knapsack which I retrieved. The train was travelling very slowly up an incline. I found myself in a shallow cutting and tried to make myself invisible by lying down on the gravel at the side of the line but the light was brighter than I would have liked and the gravel was white quartz. Our-box car was near the rear of the train and I did not have to contend with one of those flat trucks bristling with machine guns, but I could clearly see a German with a tommy gun on the rear platform of the Guards Van as the train drew slowly away. He was distracted by something on the other side of the train and failed to notice me, otherwise I would have been a dead man!

As soon as the train moved out of sight, I crawled through the fence on the east side of the railway line and found I was in a vineyard. I went through the vines as fast as I could on my hands and knees to get away from the railway line before the break of day. It was 0430 hrs and I had jumped near the village of Lavis, eight kilometres north of the city of Trento. It was Monday 13th September 1943! So far so good!

As dawn broke, I was concerned to find I was close to a busy road. To add to my worries, a German motorised unit stopped outside the fence for breakfast. I kept my head down but was scared that one of them might come into the vineyard to pick grapes or to relieve himself. If that happened, I was sure to be discovered because the vines provided only moderate cover. To my relief, the Germans left after forty five minutes and I was still free! There was a steady stream of traffic along the road and the railway line throughout the day and I did not move one inch - except to pick a bunch of grapes hanging above me. About mid morning, a farmer brought a ladder and picked fruit from a tree just a few yards away. I could clearly see him and I am sure he saw me but he did not bat an eyelid although the tiny boy with him was muttering in an Austrian dialect about all the footprints in the vineyard. I was aware that this area formerly had been under Austrian influence and was worried by the boy's dialect.

Throughout the day, German reconnaissance aircraft flew up and down the valley. At dusk, there were sounds of tommy gun fire and shouts of "heraus" and barking dogs. The Germans were searching for escapees!

At 1800 hrs it was getting dark and I was delighted to see Bob Jones and Sandy Mair crawling towards me. They had been hiding just a few yards away!

We had a snack from my kit and decided we must get away from the road and the railway line before trying to contact peasants. Occasional shouts and bursts of gunfire could be heard in the distance and were unnerving so we waited until midnight when things were quieter.

We started southwards on our hands and knees in the shadows thrown by the trees. The moon was very bright. We went always through fields and heard nothing except an occasional distant shout of "heraus" and some barking dogs. The moonlight was deceptive and, on one occasion, approaching the edge of an open field, we were convinced we could see Germans creeping towards us out of the trees on the other side. After looking for a few minutes, we decided there was nobody there. Towards dawn, we reached a wide stone wall along the north bank of a river which looked too difficult to cross. We retreated, and took cover in a field of corn. It was 0500 hrs Tuesday 14th September and we reckoned we had covered two kilometres from our hiding place in the vineyard.

With dawn, came occasional distant sounds of gunfire and more shouts of "heraus" but we were not disturbed. Soon we became aware of bursts of a high pitched noise which sounded to me like a high speed machine gun. I talked to Sandy about it and he thought it might be a flame thrower. We had visions of being burned out of our hiding place in the corn. Suddenly all hell broke loose! There was a deafening roar of army tanks on the move! We jumped into a shallow ditch near-by, hoping that the tanks would roll over without crushing us. Our fears died down as the noise receded. We realised that the tanks were going down the road. We then surmised that the high pitched noise we had previously heard was the sound of tank crews cleaning the caterpillar tracks with compressed air.   '

After that bit of excitement, we settled down but were discovered by some peasants at 1000 hrs. They were friendly and went off to fetch the local priest who, they said, would advise us what to do. They were back at 1400 hrs with the news that the priest was away. However, they brought us civilian clothes and two bottles of Chianti and said we should try to reach Switzerland which was " just over the hills". We changed into the civilian clothes and left ours with them. We kept our boots, which we reckoned we would need for the long walk ahead. This was risky because our army boots could have betrayed our disguise but we knew the walk would be much longer than "just over the hills". We smeared our boots with mud and manure, hoping to look like typical peasants.

Sandy Mair really looked the part with his neat pointed moustache and his freckled face set off by a smart blue and yellow chequered shirt and dark grey striped trousers. I had a cream shirt and light grey golf jacket and "plus fours" with long socks. Bob Jones had a light shirt with black trousers.

Our Italian friends had not brought food but we finished one of the bottles of Chianti and set off to walk through Lavis at 1530 hrs. We had to go through the village as there was no other track over the railway line leading to the bridge over the river Adige which we had to cross. The Italians remained behind in the cornfield.

I was in the lead with the bottle of Chianti in my right hand. We soon reached the village and, walking in single file, we made our way along a narrow footpath on the right hand side of the road past a row of small houses. I could see a number of the dreaded S.S. German troops walking towards us in the course of searching the houses for escaped prisoners. I held my breath and brushed past them trying to look downtrodden. Our cover held against the Germans, though some smiling Italian girls on the other side of the road left us in no doubt that they knew we were escaped prisoners.

The road came to a level crossing and, as we went over the railway line, a woman in black came over to me and said in Italian: "you are English aren't you!" I said "si" and she said: "There is a German guard on that bridge - take my hand and he will think you are my son". I did this, convinced that I had never witnessed such a brave act. Undoubtedly that woman would have been shot if our identity had been discovered! I dared not look back but I learned later that Sandy and Bob each had taken the hand of one of her two children.

That brave woman could have looked at us and turned away! Instead, she chose to become involved, even at the risk of her life and, perhaps, the lives of her children!

Our party soon reached the bridge and got across without being challenged. About one hundred metres further on, we parted from the brave woman and her children and continued towards the steep mountain slope at the western edge of the valley. It was not long before we approached the village of Zampana at the foot of the mountain. Suddenly, we became aware of a stocky German soldier in black riding breeches standing in the middle of our path with his hands on his hips and staring at us as we came near. There was nothing we could do but continue on our way. He turned as we passed and stared after us but did not challenge us.

We had been party to another miracle!

We reached the bushes at the base of the mountain in a few moments and, as we entered the track to go up, I looked back to see the soldier still staring at us.

As soon as we were out of sight, we streaked up that mountain to put as great a distance as we could between us and that valley as soon as possible.

About half way up, I was overcome by a dreadful weakness and realised this resulted from blood-sugar imbalance following the Chianti I had drunk with the peasants in the cornfield. I emptied out the bottle I was carrying to ensure we would not fall into that trap again. I was so weak, I had to sit down and eat my entire emergency chocolate ration before I was in a fit state to go on.

After an 800 metre climb to the top of the mountain, we reached the village of Fai Della Paganella (1000 Metres above sea level) at 1830 hrs. People were friendly - leaning over their balconies to greet us. We were joined by a young Italian corporal who said he was on the way to Mezzolombardo where he would stay until the war was over. He asked if we would come with him which we did for a few moments until we realised the idea was a bit risky. We parted company and we went in our previously chosen direction towards Molveno. We reached Andalo (1050m) at 2000 hrs in pitch dark and decided to seek shelter for the night, having got away from the Germans and covered about fifteen kilometres from Lavis.

At Andalo, in the dark, we were discussing what to do, when a voice called to us in Italian through the blackness and we were offered shelter in a barn for the night. The owner of the voice said that some of our companions already had passed through and were making their way over the mountains. It did not take us long to settle down in our friendly barn and we slept soundly until dawn. That morning, Wednesday 15th, our host gave us some breakfast and pointed the way to a mountain path which, he assured us, was the best way to Switzerland.

We started at 0900 hrs and climbed without a stop to reach a place called "Malga Spora" (1315m) at 1145 hrs. We had a rest and a wash then continued, crossing the Brenta Pass (2731m) at 1430 hrs. We caught up with our companions at a place called "Tucket" (2656m) at 1530 hrs. They proved to be Don McDonald, Bob Donnan, Gordon Reneau, Pop Sharp and his son Keith. Our host of the previous evening had been the same man who had shown them the path the day before. We went on slowly until we reached a chalet, in the forest above San Antonio. The beautiful mountains we had come through comprised the "Gruppo di Brenta" a part of "The Dolomites", featuring huge monoliths towering up to 3150 meters above sea level. Our chalet was a private one "Rifugio Valsinella" (1513m). There was only a caretaker there. He agreed to give us shelter for the night and we trooped in. He said he had no food and was going down to the village after dark to steal potatoes from somebody's garden. We were not sure we could trust him and slept with the windows open in case we had to make a hasty exit. It was too cold to sleep in the open. We had covered 20km from Andalo.

Our host came back in the early hours next morning. He did not seem to have brought any Germans with him so we dozed off though still apprehensive.

Early in the morning, we asked the way to Switzerland and the caretaker produced a tourist map. He did not want to part with it, so I copied the likely route in pencil on a sheet of paper. I still have that escape map. A thing that impressed me at the time was an arrow pointing from our intended crossing point at the Swiss border with the caption "five hours to St Moritz".

It was now Thursday 15th, the weather was perfect and we set out at 0900 hrs. We decided to split up during the day as our big group could attract the attention of any Germans who might be about and could frighten would-be helpers. We were glad we had done this when an army half-track open vehicle with a German officer in the back seat came cruising up the road. The German officer stared directly at us but the vehicle did not stop.

Sandy, Bob and I reached San Antonio (1122m) at 1000 hrs and had some food at a friendly Inn. We then continued toward Pinzolo but lost sight of the others, spending four hours walking up and down the hillsides looking for them. Meanwhile we were given some potatoes by a good woman and lots of good advice.

We were advised it would be suicide to attempt to cross the mountain passes and were on the road to Madonna di Campiglio when we got word that the others had left for the Val Genova a few minutes earlier. We guessed they must be on to something good and went hot-foot after them. We missed their track at a sawmill near Pinzolo (765m) and wandered into the town. Eventually, at 1630 hrs, someone put us on the track for Mount Mandrone and we caught up with the others at 1800 hrs, just before we reached the mountain lodge "Fontana Buona" (1099m). We were made welcome there by Rozario and Ottilia Frizzi who put us up for the night. We had covered twenty kilometres for the day, but probably walked twice as far.

Before we caught the others, we met a pixilated lady who said she was an opera singer and had sung at Covent Garden, London. She was quite taken with Sandy and insisted on holding his hand as we walked along.

There was plenty of room at Fontana Buona - it being out of season - and we were given rooms on the first floor. The W.C. on the balcony outside our rooms consisted of a hole in the floor with a long vertical pipe leading down to a dunny can below.

 

 

WITH GOD'S GRACE, OVER THE MOUNTAIN PASSES!

 

There were eight of us staying at Fontana Buona on the night of Thursday September 16th. The oldest was "Pop", Lieut. Frank Sharp, born at Newcastle NSW on 6th April 1895, a veteran of World War I and a Hotel Keeper by profession. The youngest was his son Keith, Gunner K.W. Sharp born 17th October 1920. Both were members of the 2/3 Anti Tank Regiment and were captured near Mechili in April 1941, after the Wavell Offensive in North Africa. Pop was worldly, had learned all the tricks and knew all the answers. We got to admire his guts and determination in the face of difficult conditions. He and Keith worked as a team and it was a relief to us, when the mountains made the going tough, that Keith was standing by his father.

Of the others, I was the oldest (28.06.14). I have never seriously aspired to be a "leader of men" but, on this adventure, my companions seemed to accept my plan. Not so Pop! He and Keith were to leave us on the second last day and find their own way into Switzerland! My idea was to avoid all population centres and major roads. This reduced the risk of meeting Germans or Italian Fascists who were more likely to be found in the larger towns. The mountain passes offered the best means of doing this. Our disguise was more suited to mountain tracks and we could move freely during the day. Another advantage was that it reduced the distance we had to cover. The mountain ranges ran in a north easterly direction whilst we wanted to go North West. The distance as the crow flies from the start at Lavis to Livino near the Swiss border is 85 kilometres. To go by road would be nearly thrice that distance, whereas our route through the mountain passes was about 165 kilometres.

My plan involved serious risks. We had been warned that the passes were dangerous. We carried no rations and our clothes were not suited for mountaineering. If the weather broke, we could perish. If the fine weather continued, we stood a good chance of achieving our objective.

The day following our night at Fontana Buona (1099m) was going to be a major test. We had to cover 30 kilometres and cross a high glacier. Our hosts seemed to think we had a good chance but strongly advised us to start early.

After breakfast, consisting solely of a cup of "coffee" made from burnt wheat, we left Fontana Buona at 0400 hrs on Thursday September 17th. We continued up the gently rising Val Genova between steep mountain slopes and reached Rifugio Bedole (1641m) by 0645 hrs. The view from there was awesome but magnificent. We were surrounded by towering mountains with sheer bald rocky slopes, practically down to our feet.

We went straight on and the track became steeper as we made our way to Rifugio Mandrone (2449m) by 1115 hrs. We rested there until 1245 hrs and met a woman and her daughter who were collecting barbed wire from the World War I battle frontier between Italy and Austria to sell as scrap. The so-called wire was more like square steel rod, being 5mm x 5mm in section with horrible barbs attached. The woman was carrying a load of 35 kilograms and her daughter 20kg. She had some polenta (maize pudding) for lunch and gave each of us a slice. She apologised that she had no sauce to go with it, offering coarse rocksalt instead. We were very grateful as it was the first food we had tasted that day. I asked her if she thought the Germans might abandon Italy. "They'll never give in!" she said.

We said farewell and started an even steeper climb to our next objective, Passo Maro Caro (2975m), while the women made their way down with their heavy loads. Pop was feeling tired and lagged behind with Keith. We reached the pass at 1400 hrs and stopped for a few minutes to look at the glacier we had to cross. Some were worried by the menacing crevasses but I doubted if the glacier was very deep and, after the bout of fine weather we had enjoyed, there was no soft snow cover to make it more hazardous. I considered that the going would be relatively easy. There was no track and we had to pick our own way but it was not difficult. It was roughly a kilometre across the glacier and we did this in a little more than an hour, reaching "Tre Laghetti" (Three Little Lakes) (2583m) at 1530 hrs and "Passo Paradiso" (2573m) at 1600 hrs.

The view from Passo Paradiso was impressive. We looked down on a busy road running east from Ponte di Legno (1258m) through Passo Tonale (1883m) which was 690 Metres below us. Ponte di Legno, six kilometres to the west, was not visible but we could plainly see German military transports climbing towards Passo Tonale. To the north, on the far side of the road, in the direction we had to go, we could see high mountains away into the distance. Gordon Reneau was so fascinated, he slipped and nearly fell over the cliff beneath us. We needed to get down and find shelter for the night as soon as possible but there was a need to be careful with the German traffic below. The slopes down to the road were steep and mostly bare with some patches of scrub toward the bottom. We reckoned the Germans would not spot us unless they were searching the slopes with binoculars, which did not seem likely. We commenced the descent without delay and reached the patches of scrub an hour later.

Just before we reached the scrub, we saw someone running up the slope towards us. We could not make out who or what he was but guessed he would be one of the locals. While the others took cover, "Eggie" went forward to meet the stranger. He was a boy of 14 years with a message from his father who was owner of one of the dairies on the other side of the road. He said there were Germans in Ponte di Legno and along the road and that we should remain concealed until after dark when we would be welcome to spend the night in his barn. The father had seen us as we came over the pass and guessed who we were. I thanked the boy and accepted his father's offer. Good luck once more!

After dark, one by one, we crossed the road and made for the farmer's barn. The door was open and we went inside to relish the warmth of the hay. Soon, our good host came out with some polenta - this time, with warm milk. We had found our lunch sustaining and were glad to have another meal of polenta which was a food we had not seen so far in all our time in Italy. The farmer told us we would have to avoid Ponte di Legno which was full of Germans, but his boy would lead us along a forest track past the town to reach the alpine road we would follow for the next stage of our journey. We should leave well before first light!

We slept the sleep of the just and left at 0500 hrs Saturday 18th September with the boy in the lead. He obviously was enjoying the adventure and took us through the forests, down and up slopes, over streams and then, steadily up the mountainside until, at 0700 hrs, we reached Pezzo (1565m), a village 3 1/2 kilometres north of Ponte di Legno (1258m) on the alpine road to Passo di Gavia (2618m) which was our next hurdle. Thanking our brave little guide, we commenced the steady climb to the pass. At 0800 hrs, we were overtaken by four of our POW friends from Bologna - Guy Greville, Dick Dennis, Roger Phillips and Derry McDowall. Meantime Pop was getting tired and lagged behind with Keith.

We reached the pass at midday, and did not stop for long as there was a cold wind from the north and it had commenced to rain. We were surrounded by high mountains but could not see the peaks because of the clouds. I noticed Sandy limping and he showed me a blood blister on his heel the size of a bantam's egg. As we hobbled down the long road, I took Bob Jones aside and asked: "what are we going to do about Sandy? If his heel gets worse, he will have to stop somewhere and we will have to go on!" Bob was noncommittal and I did not pursue the matter. That night, Sandy drained the blister and made it bearable.

We arrived at Santa Caterina Valfurva (1737m) at 1600 hrs, wet and cold. This was a lovely alpine village along the banks of a bubbling stream "Torrente Frodolfo". We had to find shelter soon or we would die of pneumonia! We knocked on the door of an inn named "Albergo Compagnoni" and were invited inside. Our host and owner of the Inn was Tenente Colonello Campagnoni, of the famous Bersaglieri Division which had disbanded after the armistice with the Allies. He made us welcome for the night, making it clear to us however that he was risking the safety of his family and himself by doing so. The Germans had notices posted everywhere that people helping escaped prisoners would be dealt with summarily. He would provide us with a meal and beds for the night but we must leave well before dawn. He approved generally our planned route but recommended we make a detour around Bormio (1225m) which was a big town and bound to harbour fascists and Germans, being on the route from Italy to Austria over "Passo dello Stelvio" (2758m). The Stelvio road passed close to Switzerland, but our chosen point to cross the border above Livigno would be safer since it was rarely used.

We were grateful for his counsel and assured him we would do as he suggested. However, we had to tell him that Pop and Keith were still to come. He accepted this news without demur and suggested we await their arrival before starting our meal. We did our best to dry our clothes until Pop and Keith arrived after dark. Our host served us a splendid meal of pheasant and accompanying delicacies with wine, followed by sweets and coffee. It was too much for Pop Sharp who was so exhausted, he could not hold it down. In fact, we all were exhausted, having covered 38 kilometres from Passo Tonale.

The following morning, Sunday 19th September, we started in the dark along the road to Bormio at 0300 hrs and reached the outskirts of the town at 0500 hrs, covering some 15 kilometres in three hours. Pop and Keith left us on this section, taking a path through pine trees above and parallel to the road. We did not think this necessary as there was nobody about. We did not see them again until after we got to Switzerland. They crossed the frontier at "Passo Val Viola" (2432m) well south of "Trupchen Pass" (2860m) which we had chosen.

As we approached the outskirts of Bormio (1225m) in the half light of the early morning, we could hear the gentle clanging of church bells and saw shadowy figures on their way to early mass. We skirted the town, turning north, and came to "Bagni Nuovi" (The New Baths) (1332m) by 0700 hrs. From there, we took the road westward towards Isolaccia (1345m) and our destination Livino (1816m). The road was too large for our liking, so we branched off soon to take a smaller one on the north slope of the valley. This road took us via Pedenosso to Pradaccia (1640m) at 0830 hrs where we saw an "old" (to us) man in his Sunday best, sitting in the morning sun on a bench outside a log cabin and smoking a cigar. We asked him the way to Livigno and he invited us to breakfast, having already guessed we were escaped prisoners. We gladly accepted.

He said his name was Cesare and introduced us to his wife who was dressed in black like nearly every other woman we saw in Italy. As she prepared the food she tearfully told us that their son was a prisoner of war on the Russian front and she hoped someone was being kind to him, just as they were being kind to us. We heartily agreed. While we ate our breakfast of rye bread and cheese, Cesare chewed his cigar and spat on the earthen floor but he was so gentle and nice, it did not seem incongruous.

We got going again at 1000 hrs, and Cesare came with us to show the way to a short cut to Livigno across the mountains. This would let us avoid the roads and save time. Dressed is his heavy clothes, he took us up the steep grassy slopes like a mountain goat. We kept up with him but it was not easy.

With some parting advice, including the news that there was a dairy along the track, Cesare left us at 1100 hrs and turned for home. We reached the "Bocche di Trela" (2349m) at 1200 hrs and the mountain dairy mentioned by Cesare, an hour later. We rested there and had a drink of milk before continuing on our way to reach the slopes above Livigno at 1700 hrs. We sat down on the grass to rest and have something to eat, having covered 40 kilometres since we left Santa Caterina that morning.

There were some people in Sunday clothes, resting on the grass, enjoying the panorama of the Valley of Livigno 400 metres below and the sun sinking between the 3000 metre mountain peaks away in the distance. These were Swiss mountains but we would have to cross a high pass on the frontier to reach them. We would need to make the crossing at night, using mountain trails and, for that, we would need a guide.

I tried to open conversation with these people but they were suspicious. They thought we were Germans in disguise trying to catch them helping escaped prisoners of war. We were speaking in Italian and one of them said: "say something in German!" I obliged. Immediately he said: "Yes! You are a German!" Normally, I would have been flattered by this inadvertent compliment to my ability in the German tongue but things were getting out of hand. Fortunately, a young Italian soldier had just joined the group and he talked to us for a minute or two. "They are not Germans!" he announced "They are genuine escaped prisoners of war!"

We welcomed this new found ally and told him of our need for a guide to get across the frontier. He grasped our situation immediately and said he could get guides but they would need to be paid. We had no money but offered him our watches. Each of us had a timepiece, some quite valuable. He thought he could convert them into money and took our six watches, promising to be back later. He told us to remain where we were and keep out of sight as there were Fascist Militia in Livigno. He said his name was Eimenegildo Foroni.

He was back in two hours with the welcome news that he had found two guides to take us over the frontier and that he had sold the watch for 6000 lire which would be enough to pay the guides. It was no use worrying whether we had received value for our precious watches. It was worth a watch apiece to get across the frontier. He gave me six 1000 lire notes and told us to wait until it was really dark and then go down to a log hut at the foot of the slope where someone would pick us up later and take us to the guides' cabin on the other side of Livigno. Well aware of all the unpleasant things which could have happened to us if he were a rogue, we believed we could trust him and did not hesitate to follow his directions. After all, there was nothing else we could do!

It must have been near 2200 hrs when we started to go down and 2300 hrs by the time we reached the log cabin in the valley. We were picked up soon after midnight and crept around the town until we reached the mountain cabin where our two guides were waiting. They were stocky cheerful types and said they were contrabandieri (smugglers) - the main items of contraband being saccharine and condoms. They sat back and insisted that we tell them our whole story. Listening intently, they cried "puovere genti!" (poor people!) as each phase unfolded. Partly, of course, they were sounding us out to satisfy themselves we were genuine but they were also playing for time as the weather had deteriorated and it was too dark to be sure of following the track to the pass 1000 Metres above.

We were impatient to get going, always dogged by the fear that someone might betray us, but it was understandable they should want to hear all about us before setting out. Although we must have looked a ragged lot, and the two of them were armed, there were six of us and we easily could have outmanoeuvred them in the dark.

We finally started our last climb at 0300 hrs.

It was now Monday September 20th 1943.

 

 

FREEDOM !!!

 

Our party on the final phase of our escape numbered six plus the two Italian guides: Bob Donnan, Fred Eggleston, Bob Jones, Don McDonald, John Mair, Gordon Reneau.  We did not know the names of the guides.

Throughout our seven days on the run, we purposely avoided learning anything that might help to identify our helpers. If any information like that came to us by chance, we did our best to forget it. We did not want to be in a position to betray our helpers should we be recaptured and questioned. The names mentioned in this narrative were revealed during visits to parts of the escape route in 1976 - 33 years later.

When we commenced our climb to the frontier pass at 0300 hrs on Monday September 20th 1943, we could hear the wind howling in the peaks above. There was light rain, it was pitch dark and very cold. We hoped our guides would be able to follow the track.

Our clothes were inappropriate for such conditions. Bob Jones, in particular, had a thin shirt and no jacket. We tried to make up for this by cutting head and arm holes in a corn sack and draping it around him but this left his arms exposed. It was not so bad when we were climbing but, every so often, our guides in their heavy jackets and breeches wanted to rest and we had to urge them on when the cold became unbearable.

In some places, there was no track and we went straight up a slope so steep that we had to pull ourselves upward by grabbing tufts of grass. In others, we were traversing slippery slopes or moving gingerly along a narrow path with a sheer drop below. A bit unnerving in the dark!

After a couple of hours, the visibility improved as the pre-dawn light filtered through the cloud. It was not so steep, making the climb easier and allowing us to look around. We were coming up to a wide saddle and, with a sense of relief and excitement, we realised this was the frontier pass.

At 0600 hrs, in the grey light of dawn we crested the pass at the southern end to meet a bitter wind blowing sleet in our faces. Our guides led us to the northern end of the pass on the Swiss side where we were able to take shelter in a block-house used by Swiss frontier patrols. There was nobody there but we were able to light a fire to thaw out our frozen limbs. Soon the wind grew stronger and the fall of sleet heavier. It was time to leave. I gave the six 1000 lire notes to our guides.

They seemed happy with the payment and wished us good luck.

Below the block-house, on the Swiss side, there was a steep slope covered with moraine debris. Through the rain, we ploughed our way down, bringing rafts of small stones with us. The moraine ended after 500 metres and we had to pick our way along a zigzag rocky path for a further 500 metres. After that, the path became well defined and it was not long before we came to a flat area known as "Alp Trupchun" (2040m). Later we learned that "Fuorcla Trupchun" (2782m) was the pass we had crossed, and that we were now walking through the Swiss National Park. We had left the block-house at 0720 hrs Italian time which was 0620 hrs Swiss time.

After Alp Trupchun, the path entered wooded country on the right hand slope above a bubbling stream. Suddenly, we saw a group of soldiers in grey uniforms wearing steel helmets coming towards us through the trees. Their helmets looked horribly like German helmets and, for a moment, we wondered if it was a German patrol which had crossed the frontier. Of course they were Swiss and we were mighty glad to meet them. One of them asked us who were we and, thinking by so doing we might avoid internment, I told him in the German language that we were Italian civilians seeking refuge. The Swiss soldier, knowing full well who we really were, said "that is a pity; we have to put civilians back across the border". This horrified me and I told him we were British.

In fact, by international convention, escaped prisoners of war are not interned but free to move about so long as they keep the police informed of their movements. We did not know this at that time.

Our new "captors" hurried us along so we would not get cold in the rain which was now falling heavily. After a while, the valley opened out and the path improved until we arrived at the village of S-chanf at 0930, Swiss time. Without delay, we were ushered into a hotel where an army of Swiss girls materialised from nowhere, rubbed our backs with hot towels and gave us brandy. It was a wonderful welcome. They told us we were the first British they had seen since the start of the war. They spoke English with a delightful accent.

After a half hour of this treatment they told us that the Mayor of the next town, Zuoz, was making a collection of warm clothes for us and that the best thing would be for us to run the few kilometres on foot so we could keep warm. We covered the distance in twenty minutes and, in another hotel, we were given food and a complete change of clothes. They had thought of everything - even long johns. We stayed at Zuoz until 1500 hrs when we were taken by motor lorry to a collection compound at Samedan, arriving there at 1600 hrs. Mr F.K. Naegeli, the British Vice Consul at St Moritz, called on us there and asked if we had any urgent needs.

We lodged for the night at the hospital in Samedan. There was no trouble sleeping. We had walked 25 km from Livigno under difficult conditions.

We spent the morning of Tuesday September 21st at the Samedan Hospital Collection Point. It was full of refugees - Italians, Poles, Free French, Cypriots, Serbs, black South Africans, British and Yugoslavs - a veritable tower of Babel.

Mr Naegeli, and his daughter, Mrs Gartmann came to see us off as we boarded the train for Chur at 1300 hrs. He gave us cigarettes and an advance of 10 Swiss Francs each for pocket money.

The train arrived in Chur at 1700hrs and we stayed the night in a hotel. We met a very nice Swiss Army Warrant Officer Pierre Tuon and had our first taste of beer. Pierre introduced his English wife after dinner.

On Wednesday 22nd, we spent the morning wandering around Chur and left at 1300hrs to travel by train via Sargans, Buchs, Altstaetten, St Margarethen, Rorschach and St Gallen to Wil at 1730h.

Escaped prisoners of war seeking asylum in a neutral country are known as Evaders. Wil was the collection point for evaders of British Commonwealth nationality.

We met Brigadier R. Miles, a New Zealander who had been in Switzerland for six months, Capt J.R. Fishbourne, Lt J. Payne RN, Lt J.W.G. Birkbeck, Lt F.C.L. Raeder and Capt C.J.R. Hardy who were recent arrivals. We had a marvellous meal with them at, "Die Schwanen" and then listened to the BBC news at 2100h.

The Bologna types - Capt G.E.F. Greville, F/L R.B.E. Phillips, Lieut P.C.S. McDowall, Lieut R.W. Dennis, Lieut Frank Sharp and his son Keith arrived at 2130 hours. After much talking and comparing notes, we returned to our hotel, "Hotel Bahnhof".

Another who was at Wil when we arrived was F/L A.D. Beauclaire "Basher" a bomber pilot who came from a prison in Milan.

On the following day, Thursday 23rd, we were issued with some British battle dress clothes and explored the town. It gave me great pleasure to be able to go into a cafe and order a cup of coffee. We were free to move about during the day. There was a moratorium on overseas cables. We were to get a subsistence allowance of SwFr36 per week plus a living allowance of SwFr20 per day. Full accommodation at the Hotel Bahnhof was SwFr10.50 per day. Frank Sharp and Keith left for Buetschwil, which was one of the collection points for army personnel. I developed diarrhoea due to the change from a starvation diet and decided to stay in bed for a day or two.

On the following day, there were some new arrivals from POW camps in Italy, including W/C Peter Bragg RAF (cousin of Sir William Bragg - the famous Scientist), F/L Derek Isles, F/L Bill Rainford, Lt Charles Laidlaw RN, Lt "Torps" Smith RN - the last two from Bologna, having come the same way as us.

My illness improved and I was able to get out of bed on Sunday 26th to stroll around the town with Sandy Mair and Gordon Reneau. Things were going slowly in Italy, the Germans hanging on grimly. In Russia, the news was brighter. More escapers arrived from Italy, including P/O L.W.F. Cookman, Lt J.R. Gordon, Lt G.G. Hardy RNVR, Lt J.M.R. Harvey, Lt Commander Scott-Elliott RN, and Lt. A.D. Shorey - the last three from Bologna, having crossed the frontier on 23rd & 24th September.

On Monday 27th, I was given the job of arranging accommodation for the escapers. Lt Frank Vlok arrived from Italy. In the evening, our hosts arranged a dance for us at the hotel. I told Anna-Marie Bannwart, one of the girls, that Melbourne was my home and was impressed when she asked about the rivalry between Melbourne and Sydney. Her father was the medical practitioner.

The next day, F/L Mackay from the British Military Attaché's Office in Bern, came to advise what arrangements had been made for us. Air Force personnel were to go to Arosa, a ski resort above Chur. We would get a clothing allowance of SwFr 500 and go to Zurich or Bern to buy clothes. Although we were entitled to leave Switzerland, individual attempts to reach allied lines were strongly discouraged by the local British authorities. Sandy Mair, Guy Greville and Arthur Shorey left for Buerglen, another collection point for army personnel.

On Wednesday 29th, I bought a diary and commenced a summary of events from 8th September at Bologna. I wrote to Hedi von Flue, a Swiss girl I had met skiing at Melchsee Frutt in January 1939. I also wrote to Mr Naegeli to try to find the address of the family of Georges Falquier, a Swiss in the Consular Service in Sydney who had married my cousin Pauline Henriques. I had a reply from Hedi who had married but I did not contact George's family. Further arrivals from Italy were Maj A.W. Horton, Capt H.I. Dennis, Capt A. Mentis, Lt J.R. Addison, Lt Peter Foden, Lt J.R. Baynham and Lt F.C. Lorentz SAAF.

On Thursday 30th, I was on a Court of Inquiry with W/C Brag and Torps Smith on the identification of an alleged British civilian Boris Ford-Zovak born 1911 in Milan of English Mother and Russian father. The war threw up problems like this. The BBC News referred to a German proclamation that POWs who don't give themselves up or are found in civilian clothes or who resist arrest by arms will be dealt with summarily by Military Tribunals in Italy. The British relied that such cases have every right as POW's and that it is their clear duty to try to escape from occupied territory. Any German authorities acting against the Geneva Convention would be held responsible.

On Friday October 1st, Hedi telephoned to tell me her married name was Frau Walter Winkler and gave me her mother's telephone number in Luzern. Her brother Bepi also was married and all sent their greetings.

Two new arrivals were Count John de Bendern & Capt A. Mitchell.

Next day was fine and warm and I went for a walk in the country where I had morning tea at a restaurant "Berghof Wil". The lady there, Frau I. Rebsamen, was awfully nice and gave me 21 clothes ration cards and a sheet of soap ration tickets. The countryside was peaceful and very beautiful and apples were ripening on the trees.

On Sunday morning October 3rd, I called at the home of Dr Simon Eisenring who had befriended us when we arrived in Wil. In the afternoon, we heard a broadcast of a speech by Goebbels and were not impressed. I had a long talk with a Swiss who had fought on the German side in France in World War I.

On the Monday, I spent a couple of hours at Dr Bannwart's home and met Frau Bannwart and Therese, Anna-Marie's sister. Lady Norton, wife of the British Minister in Bern, came to see us. I sent my first cable, to The Zinc Corporation in London:

 

SAFE AND WELL. ADVENTUROUS TIMES. PLEASE ADVISE RELATIONS LONDON MELBOURNE. NEW ADDRESS BRITISH LEGATION BERNE. REGARDS. FREDERIC EGGLESTON.

 

A new arrival was Lt Wakelin. We had another dance that evening and I had a long talk with Anny Stuecheli about the progress of the war. Strictly kept Swiss neutrality did not prevent them showing their strong feeling in support of the Allies.

Tuesday October 5th saw seventeen new arrivals and I was busy finding accommodation for them. Lieutenant Colonels J.M. Lee & Tindale-Biscoe, Major Peter Oldfield, Captains E.D. Thomson & G.A. Ledgard, Lieutenants A.A. Kamm, A. McPollock, James Boyle, M. Ashby, & John Watson arrived in the morning, Colonel De Burgh and Captain Phillips after lunch and Capt. F. Lowsley-Williams, F/Lt J.M.W. Smith, Lt P.R. Jensen, Lts. T.W. Elliott & R.H. Jones in the evening. It was good to see Tommy Elliott and Ron Jones who I had been with us in Sulmona and Bologna. They had crossed the frontier only two days before.

The British Military Attaché in Bern, Colonel Henry Cartwright called to see us on Wednesday. He was author of the escape classic "Within Four Walls" about his escape from a POW camp in Germany in World War I.

Next morning, I took Major Peter Oldfield to see Dr Bannwart and had a long talk to Anna-Maria and her sister Therese. In the afternoon, Mich Mentis and I went for a walk over the hills and through a pine forest north of the town. I received a cable from Egan and Jean dated Melbourne 7th October:

 

DELIGHTED HEAR NEWS. OCEANS OF LOVE. EGAN AND JEAN EGGLESTON.

 

Next day, Saturday October 9th, it was announced that the first RAF types would leave on Monday. Peter Bragg, Bob Jones, Roger Phillips, Gordon Reneau and I went to a cinema, and then sat over drinks talking until the early hours.

Next morning, our departure was postponed to Tuesday. I received a cable from Kim in London:

 

CONGRATULATIONS ON ESCAPE. THOUGHT YOU'D DO IT. HAVE CABLED FATHER AND FAMILY. REGARDS KIM MACKAY.

 

I went for a walk in the afternoon and called on the Gutersohn family in Muenchwilen but they had just left for a holiday. I had afternoon tea at Berghof Wil and met Herr and Frau Klaus and their son. In the evening I had a talk with a Swiss Major Heberlein, who confirmed Swiss sentiments in strong support of the Allies.

On Monday 11th, I was busy fixing rooms for five new arrivals. Therese and Anna-Marie Bannwart took our photographs in the afternoon and I went to their home for supper.

At 1030hrs Tuesday 12th October we left for Berne via Zurich. We had lunch on the train and arrived Bern at 1330hrs. We were met by Mr A.E. Reason, the Air Attaché's secretary. He took us to the Hotel Baeren and then to the Legation where Peter Bragg and Roger Phillips were to stay with Sir Clifford and Lady Norton. We spent the whole afternoon with Mr Reason going round the shops and fitting ourselves out with clothes. We had late afternoon cocktails with the Nortons and I told her about Dad being in Chungking. Colonel Wheeler of the Military Attaché's Office gave me the address of the Falquier family. Back to the Hotel Baeren for dinner then to a film - "International Squadron"

We were at the Legation at 1000hrs next morning to find out about our clothing allowance. We were to get SwFr 500 plus an extra SwFr 150 for winter gear. We bought ski suits and heavy winter overcoats as well as hats. I went to Lady Norton's to meet Mr Sin Jen, the Chinese Charge d'Affairs in Bern.

On Thursday 14th, we collected our money at the Legation then called at the Police Station to receive temporary passes. We paid our clothes bills - suit SwFr123.55, overcoat 150.00, ski suit 69.95, shoes 60.00, socks 17.50, shirts 34.40, tie 4.80, studs etc 7.80, braces 5.80, hat 27.20, underclothes 57.00. A grand total of SwFr 558.00. Late afternoon, we went to a cocktail party at the home of the Air Attaché Air Commodore F.M.F. "Freddy" West, VC and met his charming wife Winnie. We then had dinner with an Englishwoman Virginia Frewen and went to the Bellevue for the rest of the evening, finally getting to the Baeren at 0330hrs next morning.

On Friday 15th, I bought some grey slacks at the cost of 31.50 plus five clothing coupons. Roger and Peter met us at the hotel to go to Police Headquarters to get our passes stamped, then to the Coupon Office but it was closed. I bought a ski head-band for 2.50, a ski cap for 15.00 and hogskin gloves 32.50. At the Police Station, we picked up thirteen meal coupons each for the next two days. I then went to the Chinese Embassy to have afternoon tea with Mr Jen and to send a cable to Dad in Chungking:

BIRTHDAY GREETINGS. MANY HAPPY RETURNS. EVERYTHING HERE FINE. MUST REMAIN UNTIL WAY CLEAR. MEANTIME SKIING AROSA. LOVE FREDERIC.

I went up to the British Legation and saw Mr Reason. We were to leave at 0930 hrs the following day. I met Beryl Mauerhofer, an Englishwoman married to a Swiss, and had a drink with her, then returned to the hotel Baeren for dinner.

We were up early the following morning, paid our hotel bills and left on the train for Zurich at 0935hrs, arriving at 1130 hrs. The country between Bern and Zurich is very beautiful - green rolling hills, dark green forests, serene lakes, picturesque farm houses. Switzerland is a fabulous land!

At Zurich we were welcomed by the wife of the British Consul General, the Vice Consul and his wife, the American Consul and several other dignitaries. They gave us a sumptuous lunch of venison, and finally got us to the 1340hrs train for Chur with a moment to spare. We reached Chur at 1600hrs and left for Arosa at 1615 hrs in a narrow gauge train which was waiting for us in the middle of the main street.

The journey up the Schanfigg valley was enchanting - green slopes studded with log huts, lovely rail stations bedecked with flowers, pretty villages clustered here and there, rocky cliffs, bubbling streams. Dark green forests and mountains towering all around. It was a veritably dreamland.

We reached Arosa at 1745hrs, bursting through the final tunnel to find Squadron Leader Smith and some of our Air Force friends waiting for us on the station. We went to the Hotel Rothorn which was to be our home for the next six weeks. Officers and sergeants were in the same hotel but they messed separately. After dinner we went up to the Hotel Schweizerhof to spend a couple of hours in the bowling alley (Kegelbahn). We looked forward to the following morning when we would have an opportunity to see the village and explore the surroundings.

 


Arosa.   Escapees enjoying their freedom at the Hotel Beaurivage, Winter 1943-44.  Back Row L-R:  Torps Smith, Gus Lönneberg, Gerry Orr, Ken Bridges, Johnny Jones, Wilf Gordon, F/O Joe Beeton (Ottawa), Hugh Baker, Gordon Reneau, Denis Berters, Geoff Chinchen, Frenk Lorentz, Thurston Smith.  Front Row L-R: Derek Isles, Bill Reinford, Tony D’Ancy, Bob Jones, F/O Don Wares (Liverpool), Gerry Goodman, Fritz Bornettler, W/C Peter Brugg, F/Lt Butch Dawson, Fred Eggleston, F/O Bratchell, Roger Phillips, F/O Ken Hodge, F/O E. Bartlett. Front: F/O Ken Lee.  (Denis Trotman in Hospital – injured practising Gold Test Downhill!)

 

A PAUSE FOR THOUGHT

At this stage in my story, I think I should review events after we jumped from the train at Lavis on September 13th 1943. In all, 102 officers escaped from our train and, of these, fifty including thirteen Australians reached Switzerland.

Mort Edwards got out but was recaptured a few days later when taking shelter on a railway station. While he was asleep, his identification tag slipped out of his shirt and was recognised by an Italian with Fascist sympathies.

Hal Roberts was last seen by Jack Kroger and Barney Grogan the night after they got out. He was about to attempt to cross a river which looked daunting. In answer to a letter I wrote to him in March 1983, he described how he was recaptured:

"Your mention of the escape brings back memories (I think the Old Man Above was looking my way a bit). This little Italian chick found me in an orchard, brought me some food and then brought some hefty Jerries with wicked looking machine guns. After questioning me, it became obvious I was not a threat to them although the words Saboteur and Parachutist were mentioned (I was dressed in other than normal battledress). I was sure I was being taken to a wall against which I was to be shot. I can still remember my feelings of relief when they put me in with some others who had escaped. Fred, never again!! Best Regards, Robbie. "

Robbie finished up in Germany in the infamous Stalag Luft III and, towards the end of the war, had an unpleasant time fleeing across the country, with a lot of frightened German guards, ahead of the Russian juggernaut.

Our train was stopped soon after I jumped and before Geoff Chinchen had a chance to get out . The German officer in charge of the train was shocked at the number who had escaped and worked himself into a frenzy. One of the German speaking POW's reportedly heard him send a radio message requesting permission to shoot the remaining POW's as an example to discourage any further attempts.

The remaining POW's were bundled back into their box-cars and the doors secured with wire. This did not stop Athol Hunter and Bert Comber who had been with us at Sulmona and Bologna. Their escape attempt was to cut through the end of their box-car and squeeze through onto the buffers. This took a long time and they were in Austria by the time the hole was big enough to get through. The train was on the downhill run to Innsbruck and travelling too fast to think of jumping. After nearly an hour perched precariously on the buffers in the cold mountain air, Athol and Bert were relieved when the train slowed down. They finally hopped off but had not gone more than a few metres before they were picked up by a German patrol. When questioned, they said they had come from the train which had now stopped near-by.

The Germans bundled them back into their box-car "the same way as you came out!" Soon, a senior German officer came along and angrily asked: "Who has been damaging the property of the German Reich?". Athol, unabashed, replied: "We did!'', which sent the German officer into a rage and made him dance up and down. After he had calmed down he asked: "And what did you propose to do after you escaped from the train?" Athol said: "Oh! We were going to have a look at Germany and meet some German girls!". This was trigger for another fit of frenzy by the German officer and, when he finally got control of himself, he said peevishly: "The trouble with you English is you think this war is a joke!".

Those recaptured went to camps in Germany and were not released until Germany surrendered; but Geoff Chinchen and Athol Hunter escaped from Fort Bismarck, Strasbourg and, with the help of the French Resistance, got through France to Switzerland. When the camp was about to be moved, they had themselves bricked up in an alcove in the basement and managed to escape after the others had left. When they were picked up by the French Resistance, they had an anxious few days while their identities were verified with London. When they were cleared, they were given forged papers and travelled across France by train. Their papers described Geoff and Athol as being deaf and dumb French workers so they would not have to answer questions but Athol, throughout the trip, had such a wild conspiratorial look in his eyes, Geoff was frightened it might give them away.

To me, our eight day adventure from Monday September 13th at Lavis in Italy to Monday September 20th at Zuoz in the Swiss Engadine, was exhilarating! We covered 190 kilometres through some of the most beautiful mountain country in Europe. We crossed four high passes, each of the order of 3000 metres (9843 feet) above sea level and our entire party got through to Switzerland thanks to the courage, compassion and generosity of the Italians who helped us on the way. We depended entirely on them for shelter, food, and guidance as to the path to follow. The other factor enabling our success was the weather. For the most part we had beautiful clear days except when we came near to Santa Caterina, crossing Passo di Gavia, and as we made our last climb to Trupchun Pass and entered Switzerland.

At the same time of the year, on September 23rd 1976, when I made the comparatively easy climb from the Swiss side to Trupchun Pass, the sheer slope was covered with a sheet of hard snow. The climb was risky, one slip would have resulted in a headlong plunge to the rocks 500 metres below. The snow on the Pass itself was three metres deep and, to the east, the mountains we had come through in Italy were deep in snow. We could not have succeeded in such conditions. Good fortune had smiled upon us!

All of this makes one feel very humble! How could one survive without the hand of providence? Where are those brave people who helped us at the risk of their lives and the lives of their loved ones? To what splendour can the human spirit rise? What impelled those ordinary, magnificent, human beings to become involved in our earthly survival? Truly it was a soul-stirring, deeply emotional experience!

Heidi and I visited parts of the escape route thirty three years later. The reaction of my mountain-born beloved as we drove through the towering mountains was "why did you choose to come by such a difficult route?".  I explained that it was, in fact, the shortest way and that it allowed us to cross the land without undue risk of meeting Fascists and Germans.

I guess a reason beneath it all was my love of the mountains which have always given me the feeling that my soul is free. It was no idle love. I had learned to respect the mountains in my early days skiing when survival following a sudden change in the weather was an ever present consideration. We skiers were amateurs. Not because Australian mountains are less dangerous. They have claimed many victims! No, we were city dwellers, not mountain people.

It was an inspiration to meet those mountain people of Italy! People who have survived, generation after generation, by the sweat of their brow, the support of their community, and the power of their intellect. The mountain people of Europe are reverent, god fearing, compassionate, humble, and proud - their roots deep in the soil handed to them by their forefathers. They are no "factory people"! The land is theirs and they belong to it!

When Heidi and I were in Venice some years ago, I can remember the reverence of the guide when he showed us the magnificent painting of the Virgin Mary behind the altar in the Parish Church. "Titian, the artist, was a mountain man" he explained, as if he felt some explanation was needed for the sheer beauty which filled one's eyes with tears.

Perhaps a simple incident can illustrate the strength of their roots and the communal strength of those people close to the soil. Heidi and I, in October 1976, drove up the Val Tellina to Bormio and thence to Pedenosso on the northern slopes of Valdidentro along the escape path I and my companions had followed thirty three years earlier. At Pedenosso, Heidi felt the going was too difficult so I left her in the car and walked on towards Pradaccia. I had been through only once but the scene was indelibly in my mind. There it was; the log cabin where we had been given food and guidance on that Sunday morning, September 19th 1943! It was deserted and in ruins! I saw two young people loading grass hay onto a cart a few metres further on.

I walked up to them and asked: "Who is the old man who used to live in that house? He and his wife helped us escape thirty three years ago. I don't know his name but they had a son who was a prisoner of war on the Russian front. " The young people talked together for a moment and then came back with:

"That was Cesare Martinelli! He has since died but his son Dino lives in that white house you can see in the valley below". As soon as they mentioned his name, I recalled he had told us he was Cesare. Those young people had not been born when we went through but the legend had become part of the folklore of the community.

Heidi and I went down to the white house in the valley and saw a woman digging potatoes in the garden. I told her I was looking for Dino Martinelli whose father had helped us 33 years previously. She was Dino's wife, and her initial caution was allayed when I told her how Dino's father and mother had spoken of him being a prisoner on the Russian front. She said Dino was working in a garage in Bormio and she was not sure when he would be back, but her daughter would take us to Dino's brother Guido who lived just down the road. Guido proved to be well off and produced Johnny Walker Black Label Whisky for the men and sweet Marsala wine for his wife and Heidi. We yarned with them for a while but explained that we couldn't tarry, having a long way to go. They vowed they would give Dino our best regards and we parted richer for the experience.

That evening, we drove to Santa Caterina and spent the night at the Pensione Confinale where we were made welcome by the Lady of the House, Signora Bonetta and her son Giuseppi. During the evening meal, I told of my quest and Signora Bonetta said I should try the albergi Compagnoni, Pedrancini or Baita Fioriti as places likely to have been our haven of refuge and succour on September 18th 1943.

Next morning, we found Albergo Compagnoni with some difficulty as a new road had been built through the village but, as soon as I entered, I knew this was the place. There seemed to be nobody about but eventually a woman came down the stairs. I told her my story and she said "alas, my husband is out hunting but I am sure he would want to see you" We could not wait but I left my card with notes of gratitude for the help we had received as our escape party passed through. A few weeks later, in Arosa, I received a charming letter from Luciano Compagnoni, who remembered well as a teenager the time we stayed at his father's hotel. His father had died in 1965 but the family often had spoken of us and wondered if we had made good our escape. He ended his letter with the remark that he was overjoyed to learn that a sense of gratitude was still alive in mankind. It seemed, Signora Bonetta was his sister.

During the following days, Heidi and I drove through the mountains to Passo Tonale but there was no chance we could ever locate the farmer who had given us food and shelter nor his fourteen year old son who had come out to meet us as we approached in the afternoon and, early next morning, had guided us through forest tracks to avoid the Germans. There was a funicular to Passo Paradiso and we went up to have a look. People were skiing on the glacier but we could not stay.

Our next goal was Fontana Buona in Val Genova. We stayed the night at Pinzolo and drove up the valley next morning. We went as far past Fontana Buona as the road would allow but it became too difficult and, for an hour. I left Heidi in the car and went on by foot. The view which finally opened up before me was awe inspiring, and brought memories crowding back.

On our way back, we stopped at Fontana Buona and I asked Pino Ciaphi behind the Bar who it would have been who had given us shelter. He said it would have been Rozario and Ottilia Frizzi. Rozario had died in 1973 but Ottilia lived in Strada Val di Genova, Carisolo. This was on our way back to Pinzolo and we called at her house but no one was there. I wrote to Ottilia from Arosa and received a reply in which she told me how pleased she was to hear from me. The difficulty to me of corresponding in the Italian language inhibited our exchanges and I was not certain whether Ottilia really knew who I was, but it was nice to be in touch after all those years.

Pinzolo was near to the mountain chalet Rifugio Valsinella in the Brenta Group where we had sent the night and I had drawn the escape map; but it would need two days to visit the chalet and it was unlikely our caretaker would be there.  At Andalo on the other side of the Brenta Group, I did not know at which house it was where we had stayed in the barn but I did recognise the start of the track we had taken next morning.

At Lavis, I found the spot where I had jumped from the train and my hide-out in the vineyard; but it would have been futile to try to find the peasants who had found Bob Jones, Sandy Mair and me in the cornfield and brought us wine and clothes.  We could never hope to find that brave woman and her children who had accompanied us across the bridge over the river Adige at the risk of their lives.  Our most magnificent helpers must remain unknown! They truly were "Lives obscurely great"!

Thus ended our pilgrimage.

Later we were to visit the camps at Bologna, Sulmona and Padula, but that is another story

 

 

 Reprinted with kind permission of Mrs. Heidi Eggleston. 

 

For further details about Fred’s fellow RAAF escapees who made it to Switzerland, including 3 Squadron's Geoff Chinchen and Bobby Jones, see

    http://www.aifpow.com/part_3__the_raaf_in_switzerland/chapter_1__evades_and_internees

 

Newspaper Clipping from the Collection of Harold ("Robbie") Roberts...

 
 

 


Click here to return to the top of this page