ELEVEN

The remote prisoner of war camp on the Marlborough Downs south of Swindon was one of the last to be hastily assimilated by the Department of Defence. It was a former borstal for juvenile miscreants, now needed for the group of Italians suffering malnutrition after their defeat in North Africa. In the rush to find a secure location for those who had been starved of food after capture, this rundown gaol was considered safe from intrusive journalists. The detainees, including Carlo, had recovered from their deprivation on transfer to Britain but were never informed that the food scandal was being secretly investigated. Nearly a thousand had been denied rations diverted to a black market in Alexandria, and while the army was determined the guilty would be dealt with, it was agreed the outrage must be hidden from public scrutiny. This was why a criminal group in Egypt was facing jail and the Italian POWs were held in a place considered unsuitable several years ago, but was now felt to be a useful if temporary containment. It was agreed to move them to somewhere more appropriate, when this mishap had been buried from memory.

But after the case had been dealt with, the offenders punished and the army undamaged, the plan to remove the Italians had been delayed and then forgotten. There were now POW camps all over Britain, too many of them it was felt, and by the start of their second year at Marlborough Downs, the prisoners all knew there would be no transfer. This dilapidated penitentiary was to be their home until the war was over. Nothing was done to improve the facilities, the money was needed for the war effort and workers being paid to improve living arrangements for enemy prisoners would have brought headlines and angry questions in parliament. If it had not been for one of the guards, Carlo Minnelli would’ve hated every day of the two bleak years he spent there.

Herbert Mason had been a former teacher at the local village school, and before that had taught English at a London College. Too old for military service and volunteering for guard duty, he was on an early morning shift when he saw Carlo sitting near the wire fence drawing on a scrap of paper. He paused to watch and wondered whether or not to speak. Not many of the POWs spoke English, and most were bad-tempered because of the poor conditions. Not that he blamed them. He decided it was best to walk away.

“Good morning,” Carlo said, surprising him by slowly asking in English, “Do you know where I get della carta?” When Mason looked puzzled, Carlo tapped the paper and tried to explain. “Documento?”

“Do you mean paper?” Herbert Mason asked, making a writing gesture with his hand.

“Si. Si, pape-per. Too small.” He indicated the little piece of paper, on which he had sketched a duck. They were often seen in the grounds after rain.

Herbert moved closer to admire the sketch. “One of our ducks,” he said.

“Duck. Si,” Carlo smiled.

“Good drawing.” As Carlo looked blank he said, “Good. Very good.”

“Grazie. Ah…you like? Thank you.”

“You speak some English?”

“In P…poco, poco…” It was the guard’s turn to look blank, as Carlo held up his hands to illustrate the small amount of English he spoke.

“A little bit?” Mason guessed.

“Si! Leetle! My Mamma…” he indicated his mouth, and waggled his fingers to demonstrate.

“She teach?”

“Si,” said Carlo, smiling. It was the first of several meetings.

The following day he found Carlo at the same spot, trying to sketch on the other side of the same scrap of paper. Carlo could hardly believe it when he saw the guard carrying a parcel of sketching paper.

“A present,” he was told as they met.

“Presente! Un regalo! Molte grazie!” Carlo handed his piece of paper to the guard, gesturing it was a present in return. “Prego. Please, for you.” There was now a duck on the reverse side as well, but alongside it was a figure that was identifiable as Herbert Mason himself.

A week later they had come to an agreement. The guard would give him regular lessons in English in return for Carlo doing large signed portraits of Herbert and his family. He would bring photographs of his wife and children and more sketching paper whenever Carlo needed it. And by the way his name was Herbert, but friends called him ‘Herbie’ so that’s what he wanted Carlo to call him.

If there was anything that helped pass the time over that long second year of incarceration, it was learning to speak fluent English with Herbie. The basic words Beatrice had taught him became coherent sentences. He was quick to learn as he had so much empty time to fill. He took pleasure in surprising Herbie at each lesson by how rapidly he progressed. It had another value. He and other prisoners had often debated how the war was progressing, and in their first year it was impossible to know the truth. So much news was propaganda. But in the second year Carlo was able to hear and understand what the guards were saying, and also interpret the news on the radio. The British had endured a period when invasion seemed certain, but were encouraged by the voice of Winston Churchill when he announced the Eighth Army victory at El Alemein: “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Carlo heard the words and wrote them down to remember them, thrilled by the eloquence that was so different to the clumsy tedious rhetoric of Mussolini’s speeches.

As occasional letters began to arrive from Beatrice, he sometimes sent a few sentences of English in his replies to her. He thought of her often, and was glad to hear her frequent hints about Luigi. There were many nights also when he lay awake to nostalgically remember Silvana. In his wakeful memories, he tried to recall the lanes she’d led him through after they had left the locked Villa. But it proved impossible to remember the names of so many narrow back streets, let alone recollect the one she lived on.

At first he’d found the British weather a shock after the Libyan heat, but he was now accustomed to it. And unlike many of his countrymen he did not mind the hard work. Some survivors from his platoon had come from office jobs and found it arduous, but Carlo was used to toiling in the vineyard. The local farmers had the prisoners working maximum hours on their land, keen to take advantage of this cheap labour. Five shillings a week was the proposed wage, but some farmers surreptitiously reduced that by half. He’d heard a few saying they should not have to pay anything, that these were enemies lucky to be allowed to work in the fresh air, not confined in cells like British air crews in Germany. He thought this last group sounded like his father and wondered if Salvatore had remained in Lombardy or put the vineyard and house up for sale. It would soon be approaching the third year since his early morning departure, but his boyhood in Santa Maria already felt like part of another lifetime. He wondered if the rest of this war, however long it took, would be spent in this isolated penitentiary in southern England? A place that would be sheer hell without his weekly lessons with Herbie.

In June 1943, just after Carlo’s twenty-fourth birthday, a speech in Britain’s House of Commons declared there were too many prisoners-of-war having to be fed and accommodated in England. It echoed a growing body of opinion that U-Boats ruled the Atlantic, targeting merchant supply ships and creating a growing food crisis. “We are compelled to look after too many enemies,” declared members of the House of Lords and the civilian population faced with punitive food rationing agreed. Whitehall set out to discuss this matter with Australia, requesting they accept POWs from Italy and also Nazi Germany. The Australian parliament was less eager about the Nazis but after a series of cables deciding who would pay for the transfer, the matter was resolved.

By coincidence in the months this took to organise, a riot broke out in the camp at Marlborough Downs started by a large fascist contingent, Blackshirts loyal to Mussolini, who still believed his speeches claiming they could win the war. Guards were attacked, tents and huts burnt, and local infantry platoons had to be rushed in to quell the rampage before it got out of control. An enquiry was hastily convened but made little attempt to uncover the source. As a result the entire occupants, the Blackshirts and those who’d stayed well clear of the riot, were marked as trouble-making activists. Rather than find the ringleaders, all Italian POWs in the camp were listed for deportation when the first ship was available to transfer them.

The rumours in the camp began slowly. At first it was just chit-chat and gossip that they were being moved to somewhere else in Britain. Then speculation suggested the move could be overseas. Somehow in the translation of this recurring gossip the destination was named as Austria, and the Italians all expressed their delight at being delivered to a neighbouring country. They’d be able to walk across a friendly border and go home again. Carlo heard this but found it difficult to believe, deciding silence was the best way to deal with absurdity. He was unable to discuss it with Herbie, who had been taken ill and was on temporary retirement. But Herbie aside, he was not unhappy to be leaving the camp in Marlborough Downs. Apart from the meagre facilities, they’d had two years of being poorly treated, made to work long spells—ten to twelve hour days on farms—sometimes forced to work on roads or building sites, often being abused or mocked by villagers and scorned by groups of schoolchildren. Many of the guards were no better, calling them ‘chocolate soldiers’ and claiming Italians were better at surrendering than they were at actual fighting.

So wherever they were being sent, at least it was to another, and perhaps a better, place. Unfortunately it was a hot day in early September and there were no trucks to transport them. Nor were there any rations. After a route march across the Hampshire Downs, and no sign of a food van when they reached Basingstoke, they were forced to wait without food and water for the special train to move them to Southampton Dock. Even worse, sometime on that train journey came the news their destination was not Austria in Europe, but a place on the other side of the world with a similar sounding name and closely related spelling.

Their long overdue meal arrived barely in time to prevent another riot. But the fascists among them continued the protest, doing their utmost to turn it into a full-scale rebellion. They had been strongly in favour of Austria, but were loudly and violently against Australia. They tried to cajole the others, goading them to refuse any order to board ship, demanding instead to remain in this part of the world because the war must end within months. It was insane to send them so far away. Germany now occupied almost everything in Europe except neutral Switzerland. They felt certain Hitler still intended to invade England, and because of the Berlin-Rome axis all Italian prisoners should be remaining in Britain to take over the camps and deal with any of the guards who’d treated them poorly. Side-by-side with their German POW comrades from other camps, they’d have a veritable army that could march on London, take over the government, and start to get rid of enemies like Winston Churchill and the Jews.

For hours they raved and shouted fascist slogans, trying to foment more upheaval, while the majority like Carlo did their best to abstain, knowing this was pointless. Their last prison camp was not an environment they ever wished to see again. The other side of the world could hardly be worse than the past two years; it might even be better. Far better, Carlo thought, if these mad buggers and their Nazi friends could remain on this side of the globe.

The following morning embarkation at Southampton began. Two armed infantry platoons were brought to control the queues formed along the docks, and a total of 2000 mostly Italian POWs were loaded onto the Royal Star, a British passenger liner that had been turned into service as a troopship. An estimated quarter of these were ardent fascists, still loyal to Mussolini and in a state of moody belligerence. A small proportion were Nazi Germans. Once they were on board scuffles broke out while they fought for the limited number of hammocks, or spaces near the portholes. A platoon of armed marines were stationed on board as guards, but the navy crew was nervous. It was a recipe for a very unpleasant voyage.

Luigi heard reports of the shipment and took the news back to Beatrice’s apartment where they were now living together. She was stunned by the thought of Carlo being transported to the other side of the world. England was so much closer. Since learning where he was imprisoned, she’d acquired books with details and photographs about Wiltshire and Marlborough Downs. It had seemed to her like pleasant countryside in which he might feel at home. Although home was perhaps not somewhere he wished to remember.

Luigi, knowing far off Australia came as a shock, tried to convince her he might be safer there than in England, which could still face bombing raids. To comfort her he talked of kangaroos and koala bears Carlo could sketch, and the very bad reports he’d heard about the previous camp. He also stressed how Australian troops had so far successfully repelled the Japanese attack in New Guinea, so any real danger there was over. She knew he was attempting to console her and their love-making that night, while always intense, was deeply emotional.

She lay awake long afterwards, listening to his steady breathing and feeling grateful at the way her life had changed since the first day she saw him. It was such a joy after the turmoil and anger of the years with Salvatore. Their relationship was no longer a secret to her close friends or family. She had received a delighted phone call from Gina, who had only met him once when she visited Rome for the weekend, but instinctively liked him. So had her parents, although there had been cautious endorsement from them both.

“Great news,” her father had said. “Just as long as he isn’t drafted to fight in Greece, Albania, the Balkans, or any of mad Musso’s crazy wars.” Luigi had been able to assure him it was unlikely he’d be sent to any wars, even the crazy ones. He was classified as a junior officer, whom the army found more useful to employ as a consulting lawyer in their legal battles.

“I liked him from day one,” Sofia had enthused, but being Sofia she did raise the difference in their ages. “In your two big relationships since art school, there’s always a gap, darling.”

Beatrice hastily pointed out there’d been eleven years between she and Salvatore, but scarcely three between her and Luigi. No great gap at all.

“True,” said Sofia, “but this time you’re the older and he’s nicer. Far nicer,” she added on reflection. “Make sure you look after him. By which I mean, please don’t lose him.” Beatrice laughed and promised this was a lasting association, aware it was Sofia’s odd way of expressing approval. She and her mother were closer now and this new happiness would be complete if only the war would end so Carlo could return to them and begin his scholarship.

But the war did not look like ending; there were stalemates and reversals and Australia was not entirely a peaceful place on the other side of the world. There was still a lingering battle being fought in New Guinea. The Royal Star, overloaded with prisoners, had been only a few days at sea when Japan had sunk a warship and freighters along the east Australian coast. Previously they’d bombed Darwin and their midget submarines had attacked Sydney Harbour. In Britain Winston Churchill had called for Australian troops in the Middle East to remain there and continue the fight against Rommel. This demand was promptly refused by Australia’s Prime Minister, John Curtin, insisting that Australian troops return to defend their own country. They were needed at home.

The Pacific was still ringed by countries occupied and ruled by Japan. The British must fight in their own hemisphere and Australia would do the same in the Pacific. Curtin had also successfully called on the United States to combine with Australia’s defense, as aid could no longer be expected from Britain. The old ties of empire were being dismantled.

When the Royal Star reached Capetown in South Africa, there was a sudden debate between London and Canberra, on whether the ship should continue its voyage. There had been daily outbreaks of worrying violence, the Nazi Germans and Blackshirt fascists in conflict with the more passive Italians, with the marine guards lax and seemingly unable to keep control. The message was sent to London—the ship could be in danger on the longest stretch of its voyage—across the Indian Ocean. If the insurrection became any worse, the armed guards on board would not be able to restrain a full blown mutiny.

But Britain was insistent; they did not want the prisoners of war returned. It would be a bad look for the government; the media would ridicule the costly dispatch of thousands of POWs as far as South Africa, then an absurd decision to return them to England. After a short stay to refuel and take on more provisions, the ship must proceed as ordered. Plans were already in process for their distribution to the available camps in Australia.

To improve security on board, more guards were sourced from South African army units to reinforce the marines, and prisoners were prohibited from going ashore during the stay. Even more extreme was the decision that only small groups be allowed fresh air at a time. For most of each day they were kept locked below decks, despite a heatwave that made the lower sections of the vessel like an oven. Though no strict record was kept by the guards, this caused a number of deaths and there were secret burials at sea after dark. Twenty fatalities were reported, but it was rumoured the real body count was more than twice that.

Prisoners like Carlo down in the lowest section of this nightmare vessel knew nothing of what lay ahead of them. The ship’s captain had requested, in view of the previous violence and overcrowding, that the ship terminate at Perth and allow those on board to disembark at Freemantle. This was rejected; the ship was to proceed to Sydney as the captives were already assigned to camps in eastern Australia. Any change would mean extra cost. As for the mention of overcrowding, the captain might care to remember that these were enemy prisoners, not privileged guests on an ocean cruise.