10

Mutiny

For 400 mainly fit and healthy men our daily routine was tedious, to say the least, so we greeted the military’s plans for work and recreation with enthusiasm. August was drawing to a close, and with the prospect of winter not so very far away, plans had to be made for winter quarters for the soldiers who were quartered under canvas near the camp. An offer was made to the prisoners: in return for our work to build permanent soldiers’ quarters we could build ourselves a recreation hut in the compound, with facilities which would include a weekly visit from a mobile cinema.

We were ecstatic, but our elation was soon dampened by the hostile reception from one section of the camp. Our cooperation would mean collaboration with the enemy, they said, and Malusa, the Fascist radio officer, made it known that anyone participating in the work would be taken note of, reported to the Fascist authorities after the war and appropriately punished.

Great argument raged in the camp, until a copy of the Geneva Convention on the treatment of PoWs was produced, and a quote from Article 50 of that document was posted on the notice-board. This article states that, among other work, duly detailed. . . All labour connected with camp administration, installation or maintenance and not having a military purpose is permitted.

This was pronounced upon by Captain Bonorino, who could hardly be accused of anti Italian sentiments. To the great satisfaction of most of the camp, he gave the opinion that it was perfectly proper and indeed beneficial to the prisoners for such work to be undertaken. So, despite the continuing opposition of the extreme right-wing element, who continued with their threats of retribution to anyone participating, the work parties were formed. With great enthusiasm and some expertise, for there were some joiners and carpenters among the men, the soldiers huts were soon finished.

By the middle of October work started quickly on the recreation hut, for in addition to the weekly cinema show, was the promise of a canteen where we could spend our 20 cents a day work pay. But November soon arrived and with it the beginning of the fierce cold of a Canadian winter, with temperatures falling overnight to well below zero. Ice began to form at the edge of the fast-flowing St Lawrence, heralding the complete closure of the river, which would be ice-bound in a matter of a few weeks. The camp was completely unprepared for the sudden cold. No winter clothes had as yet been distributed, and we were still clad in the lightweight uniforms issued to us on the night of our arrival. Small, pot-bellied, wood-burning stoves were hurriedly installed in the middle of the dormitories and eating areas, and we huddled round them all day long for warmth.

During the summer months, hygiene had been a simple matter. Cold showers could be taken at will, and laundry would dry out quickly in the warm atmosphere. But now even the basic rules of hygiene were difficult to carry out. Shaving in the bitterly cold toilet area had become a Spartan undertaking, and most of the men made do with clipping their whiskers with a pair of scissors. Washing oneself was difficult too and a change of clothing out of the question, for clothes could not be washed and dried. Moreover, to add to our discomfort, and despite the intense cold, the two daily roll-calls were still carried out in the open. Each morning and evening 400 cold and shivering men were rousted out of the fortress and made to stand and be counted in the frozen windswept compound.

The fact that our captors were warmly clad in heavy overcoats, their heads covered with fur hats and earmuffs, served to increase our anger. Complaints were lodged with the Camp Commandant, but he insisted that roll-call should be carried out in the open air. Proper clothing would soon be available to the prisoners, he said. Then he went on.

‘The dormitories must be ventilated at least once or twice each day. You are keeping all the windows in the fortress tightly shut, thus resulting in an unhealthy atmosphere. Some fresh air can only be beneficial’.

He was probably right, for we had become a dirty unwashed bunch. We had to realise that we were prisoners, he continued, and Camp S was not a holiday camp but a prison camp. Orders had to be obeyed. . . or else. That stirred up memories of the first night on the island, so a sullen obedience was observed. Heavy winter clothing was issued after a few more days, but the roll-calls in the open continued, despite the ever colder weather, with the temperature falling as low as minus 25 degrees. Rumour had it that one night a soldier guard had frozen to death on the bridge above, after the heater in his sentry box had failed. Sullenness and resentment festered and grew.

One day matters came to a head. Colonel O’Donohoe (now promoted from major) carried out a spot inspection of the dormitories, did not like what he saw, and an eruption ensued.

‘You are filthy and unshaven’, he roared, ‘and the dormitories little better than pig sties. Proper use must be made of the washing facilities and there is absolutely no excuse for your filthy state. Razors have been issued to everyone so there is no excuse for not using them. From now on everyone will have to be clean-shaven at roll-call. The dormitories will have to be vacated for a period each day and those men not occupied on the work parties will spend their time in the general areas of the building and not lying all day in their bunks as you are doing now’.

He turned to his sergeant and ordered him to see to it that these instructions were carried out. The soldier in attendance, Sergeant Le Seour, was only too well-known to the prisoners. He was a hard man. About 40 years of age, he had been reared in the lumber camps of Quebec and before rising to the rank of sergeant in the army had worked for a time as a warder in one of the tough US penitentiaries. The powers of invective and abuse he had learned were put to good use in his maintenance of discipline in the camp and amongst his own soldiers, who feared and disliked him no less than the prisoners. We remembered the weight of his hand from the night of our arrival for there were few who had not felt it on that occasion.

Since then an easy enough working relationship had developed between prisoners and guards. The group now in charge of the camp belonged to a French-Canadian Home Guard regiment, and the soldiers were all of mature years. As no great love was lost between the Quebecois and the English-Canadians, the guards were in the main sympathetic towards the Italians in the camp. But Le Seour was sympathetic to no one, and his method of sorting out the prisoners and his own men was direct and simple. In the winter, to spite us, he would keep us waiting for ten minutes at roll-call at minus 20 degrees as he ranted.

‘No moving or talking in the ranks or else you get four hours on the snow party. Don’t look at me that way, you fucking wop, or you’ll shovel shit in the soldiers’ latrines! Lousy wop bastards, lousy Jew bastards. . .’

His own soldiers fared no better and as a result the sergeant was not well regarded. For fear of possible reprisals nobody dared complain about him, not even to the genial little Captain Pitblado. In the interests of an easy life we shied clear of the ill-tempered sergeant. With his instructions completed, the Colonel departed, leaving a glowering Le Seour to confront the men. He was short and to the point.

‘Tomorrow I want every one of you bastards shaved, or I’ll want to know the reason why not.’

Early next morning the dormitories were a hive of activity. Every available metal mug and container had been pressed into use for the heating of water over the glowing stoves, then rushed to the toilet areas in our attempts to shave. In the absence of mirrors this was often a reciprocal affair, with many a cry of anguish as faces and necks were nicked by clumsy hands. Then came roll-call time and the 20 groups stood clean-shaven in the snow-covered compound, with faces red and smarting from our unaccustomed exposure to the freezing air. Then with the blast of a whistle to stand to attention, in marched Le Seour, face grim and ready for action. Faces were closely examined, with a searching hand occasionally testing for stubble.

Half-way down the line Le Seour stopped in front of Arturo Vivante. The case of the internment of Vivante was gone into in detail in a Penguin publication written at the war’s end by A Lafitte, a Cambridge historian, with an introduction by the late Richard Crossman MP. The son of an Italian Nobel Prize winner, Arturo had been sent to boarding school in England in the late 1930s by his father to escape the anti-Semitic atmosphere then brewing up in Italy. At the time of his arrest Arturo was just 15 years old, a small dark olive-skinned boy with dark hair and cheeks which had never felt the touch of a razor.

Le Seour looked at him closely, noticed the fine dark down on the boy’s cheeks and bellowed.

‘Did you shave this morning?’

‘No sir,’ came the trembling answer. ‘I have never shaved’.

‘Are you trying to make a monkey out of me?’ roared the sergeant. ‘I gave orders that everybody had to shave!’

And grabbing Arturo violently by the lapels of his jacket, he shook him like a rag doll and threw him backwards into a snowdrift by the side of the compound path. More frightened than hurt, Arturo rose to his feet. He was covered in snow and sobbing, with huge tears rolling down his cheeks, forming beads of ice in the intense cold.

A hum of anger arose from the assembled prisoners, which grew in volume until it seemed as if a million bees had been let loose. A snowball flew through the air, hitting Le Seour squarely on top of the head, to be followed by a barrage aimed in his general direction. Not all the snowballs were well-directed, many landed harmlessly on the ground, but a good proportion of them struck home, covering him from head to foot in a mantle of snow.

With a yell Le Seour drew his truncheon, bent on revenge, but the accompanying officer, realising quickly that the situation was about to turn ugly, blew several sharp blasts on his whistle. In the flash of an eye the compound filled with soldiers and the prisoners were herded back into their quarters, leaving a snow-covered sergeant spluttering in anger.

Back in the fortress, the implication of what had happened began to sink in. Some groups of timorous prisoners regretted the spontaneous reaction to the attack on young Arturo, which, after all, had been more spectacular than dangerous. Memories of that first night came flooding back, and there was much hand-wringing and fearful speculation. I had been as resentful as anyone during the past few weeks, and had been as vociferous as anyone in my complaints about the lack of clothing.

Anger welled up inside me at the treatment meted out to little Arturo, so I conferred for a moment with some of my group, jumped on to a table the better to be seen, and shouted for attention in Italian.

‘What are you afraid of,’ I shouted. ‘They’re not going to kill us for throwing snowballs at a sergeant! If they had wanted to do that they could easily have done it the first night. What can they do to us? Put us in jail? We’re there already. Are we men or what?’

And sensing their attention increasing, I went on.

‘We have started something, so let’s see it through. Let’s stick together for our rights. Let’s call a strike, no cooperation with the military, no work parties, no services of any kind to the soldiers, no roll-call. Nobody goes into the compound for any reason whatsoever. This is the time to demand our rights under the Geneva Convention!’

I waved a much-thumbed copy of the document aloft.

‘We have the right to a visit from an International Red Cross representative. Now’s the time to get decent conditions. There are enough rations in the kitchen to last for several days if properly used, and enough fuel for a short time too.’

Carried away with my own rhetoric, and with the calculated intention of eliciting support, I turned to the Fascist group.

‘What does your Duce say? Meglio vivere un giorno da leone che cent’ anni da pecora.’¹

Rather pleased with my own histrionics, I jumped down and let others take up the theme. Finally shouts of approval drowned out the few faint voices of dissent. A quick plan of procedure was drawn up by the group leaders, who to a man favoured such a course of action, and so began the great mutiny of Camp S.