Corporal Edward Lee Gamble (1917 – 2003) - Third Transvaal Scottish Regiment.

My Grandfather wrote this before he died and i am hoping some will enjoy or have more info


Corporal Edward Lee Gamble (1917 – 2003) - Third Transvaal Scottish Regiment.



This is his story.





After the East African campaign, we thought and felt, that we were invincible – the best trained – the best armed – the best led – and part of the best army the world had ever known – we were GUNG HO – the next fort please!

After East Africa, Egypt was a bit sobering – Gerry’s (Germans) nightly capers over Helwan and subsequently Mersa Matruh, were mainly pie-in-the-sky We dug in and laughed him off. When we crossed the wire on 22nd November 1941, we had had (to the best of my recollection) only ATTACK training. Meet the enemy head on and knock him –bayonets – the lot.

We had no training in how to handle a defeat or repulse – no rearguard action preparation. It was (perhaps understandably) never contemplated – we were invincible! We had taken a quarter of a million Italian prisoners in East Africa, and now we would do the same to the Heinies (Germans) – O YES!!

The Sidi Rezegh battled started at approximately 2p.m. on the 22nd of November and ended after dark on the 23rd November, by which time, most survivors were to some degree, battle happy. When we heard the fateful order “Every man for himself – run for your lives” it was bloody shattering. We were all in the bag! (Prisoners of war).

I was captured at about 7.30p.m. by a German patrol, one of whom spoke perfect Oxford English! No one could ever forget that terrible thirsty march to Benghazi – the filth, thirst and terrible hunger.

That first night we just lay huddled together for warmth, but I don’t think many, if any, managed to sleep.

The following morning we were rounded up by our German captors. Transport arrived for the wounded and officers, about noon, with still no sign of any food or water. We were told we would receive such that evening. After the transport left, we were told to fall-in and were marched off down the road in the direction of Benghazi. A ragged band of approximately 2000 miserable and disillusioned troops.

At sunset, our tongues sticking to the roofs of our mouths, and our legs feeling as though they did not belong to us, we were halted and told to sleep in a circle

The food? The water?

Tomorrow they said! There was none available that night!



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Tired, angry and frustrated, those who had a drop of water left in their water bottles, wet their lips and tried to settle down to sleep We were now so exhausted that a very cold night could not prevent us from sleeping.

During the night the Italians arrived to take us over. After the cold efficiency of the Germans, the Italians introduced a more human element of slapdash and muddle. The Germans had a few words to say, jumped into their vehicles and vanished. The Italians shouted, exclaimed, fixed bayonets, posted guards all around us – then decided they were too near, too far, too many, too few!

Before it was properly light, they all began shouting “Avanti, Ho, Ho!” and we scrambled stiffly to our feet.

Were to fall-in in threes, no, in fives, no, in fours. The officers and N.C.O.’s harangued one another over this point, but eventually we got moving, without any final ruling!

We trudged on across a valley past several enemy camps. The further we went the lower our spirits sank. They sank, if possible, below zero. The glare struck up at us from the sand as fiercely as the sun overhead. We began to feel thirsty as never before. Men were collapsing and being helped by their friends, who were also on the point of collapse themselves.

Every time we asked where the water was - we had almost ceased to care about food – our guards said “One more kilometer”. They brought up a truck which traveled slowly alongside us and picked up those who could not go any further, but you had to be in a pretty bad way to qualify for a ride!

The men began to sit down, refusing point blank to walk another step. Just about then, two trucks came past, one loaded with cases which obviously contained food of some sort, and the other carrying a tank of water. They traveled just in front of us. This was irresistible, we shuffled and tottered on.

At about 1 p.m. the two trucks stopped. We crowded round them like a loose scrum. The Italians said, quite naturally, that they could not issue rations properly to this clamoring mob.

The officer prisoners still left with us, tried to organize us into sections, and after a great deal of squabbling for preference, the sections queued up at the trucks in turn. Each man received half a biscuit and about a quarter of a pint of water, which was just enough to make you thirstier.

The Cape Corps and African sections had been left until last, and before their turn came, the water ran out. We would have been justified in making a protest, instead we just turned away sadly with the angry look of beaten animals. I felt like crying with rage.

The afternoon was burning on to its greatest heat. I found myself longing for the night to fall. I knew that it would probably be too cold to sleep, but it would bring relief from the sun, which now seemed to me a brutal thing. Anything is tolerable if you can see and end to it, but torture of this kind, to which there appeared no reasonable limit, was beginning to make me feel as if something must give way soon; my legs, my lungs, my heart, my brain. I wondered dully, if I was mad. They said thirst made you go that way.

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As the sun set, we staggered past the El Adem aerodrome, and we appeared to be heading straight for, of all things, a lake. It was nothing more than the late sun reflecting on the mud vlei, but it deceived most of us. The Africans and Colored men who had had no water at all, yelled with delight and began to run, gasping “Dam toe” in their exhilaration.

Before we could reach this purely fake ‘dam’, the guards swung us left down the El Gobi track. Our pace slackened almost to a standstill. The Italians said we must go another kilometer, or they would not give us any water. We went the kilometer, and then stopped. They said, ‘another kilometer’, but we refused to move any further. They brought the trucks of water and food down to us.

As before, there was the uncontrolled rush to the trucks, and nothing was given out until some organization was established. It was now dark and the blackout made any organization useless.

I received a quarter of a tin of Italian bully beef (50grams) and half a biscuit, which was about as much as anyone got, but what I really wanted was water. This was only available to the strongest those with the most cunning, who went up several times and worked their way in to the front of the queue, again and again. Men fought for water like hyenas. In two days Axis and the desert between them, had knocked 2000 years worth of decency out of us. Or so it seemed at the time.

The next day, our guards applied the last and most excruciating turn of the screw. They made us march again. I remember scores of men falling on their faces and licking up the tiny puddles of muddy water in the road. When we reached an Italian camp somewhere west of Tobruk, we were given a rest. I estimated we had walked 20 kilometers. Few of us had had more than a sip of water in three days since our capture, and none had had more than a biscuit and mouthful of meat all told. Add to this that many of us had blisters as big as fried eggs on our feet.

From here we were taken on trucks to a fenced paddock about 25 kilometers west of Tobruk. We arrived after dark, fully expecting to be told to lie down for the night. To our amazement, an efficient Italian officer organized us quickly, and we found ourselves issued with food – a 200-gram tin of bully beef and a biscuit each, AND as much water as we wanted! It had the effect of a miracle. We began to laugh and talk good humorously again. It rained that night, we had no shelter, but we did not care. The thirst march was over, and the world seemed endurable again.

Need I say anything about Rommel and his ‘Afrika Korps?’ Physically and mentally, they were as good as we were. But they were better armed and superbly led. Rommel wanted to get rid of us as soon as possible – so he handed us over to the ‘Verdampte Tzingeuner’ – the “Dings or Ities”(Italians). The Ities also wanted to be rid of us – they were not equipped to handle large numbers of prisoners of war. Water, food and shelter were a problem. The camp was makeshift – no buildings or tents – Rommel visited us here and apologized for the lack of accommodation and food.

After three days in the paddock, we were put onto trucks and driven to a camp in Benghazi. Here we stayed a week. Everyone cold, half starved and dysentery. We were housed in some Italian barracks. The tiled floor was like an ice floe.

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I was there from 24th November to 8th December 1941. Although we didn’t realize it or show it, we were mentally disorientated. I mention this because of what happened later. But being in a group helped to some extent, but not totally.

So now we come to the ‘San Sebastian’. Originally a British cargo vessel, she was commandeered by the Italians early on in the war.

On the morning of the 8th December 1941, we were lined up in the harbor, where this single ship was tied up. This was our first sight of the ‘San Sebastian’.

As I remember it, we were grouped into 100’s, issued with blankets and food. One blanket, one tin of meat and one bun, and told this had to last us for two days. I was sharing with an ‘A’ Coy Jock called Eddie Milward. He carried the food and I the blankets.

Going up the ladder to get onto the ship, Milward was ahead of me. At the top of the ladder was an Italian officer counting us. (We were new to P.O.W life and each man should have carried his own food and blankets). Between Milward and me the ‘Ding’ put his arm out and signalled me to stop. Milward was sent forward to the forward hold. The ‘Ding’ motioned me to the aft hold and I put up a big scene that Milward and I were together and I had to join him because he had the food etc.! The ‘Ding’ officer (as is typical of Ities) put up an even bigger scene and started opening his holster which held a nasty looking piece of weaponry.

O.K, I understood that language, and moved off to where he pointed. That aft hold. I was first at the ladder and climbed down into the hold and staked my position at the food of the ladder This was nearest to the opening in the hatch and the toilets , 2 x 45 gallon drums, for our 500 or more men in various stages of dysentery. The stench was unimaginable, but the first night was reasonably comfortable for me – but bloody hungry!

During the night and in total darkness, we could feel the ship changing course several times.

Besides the P.O.W’s on board there were a number of German and Italian soldiers and officers going home on leave. We didn’t know or care how many.

Our escort was a small Italian destroyer carrying a maximum load of depth charges (and unbeknown to us, a New Zealand Brigadier General!).

To my knowledge not a single P.O.W. and only a few Heinies and Ities had life jackets and there was no lifeboat drill.

We awoke – if any could sleep – on the 9th December to clear skies, but a strong southerly wind. We were 20 feet or more below the waterline an had no idea of where we were or in what direction we were heading. Because of the wind, there was also a heavy swell

That morning, with both toilet drums overflowing, we put up a big complaint to the Italians. Towards midday they allowed one man at a time to go up on deck to use the toilets, intended only for the use of the Germans and Italians. This also allowed the man to get a few lungs full of clean,

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fresh air. Eventually, my turn arrived and I climbed the ladder up on to the deck. I saw clear sky and in the distance, about 5 or 6 miles away, LAND.

I had no idea of the time – some say it was 4 p.m. I thought it was nearer 2p.m.. The sea was quite rough. As I stood on the deck watching the distant land, I had an overpowering feeling to stay on deck – don’t go down that ladder!. But what about the other poor bastard waiting for his turn up the ladder? As I took a last long look at the land, I saw them - two white lines of bubbles coming at the ship. One ahead of the other – torpedoes!

The first one missed us – the second hit the forward hold were Milward was and where I should have been!

The torpedo must have been about six to ten feet below the surface and as it hit the ship, a column of water about 60 – 80ft high, rose into the air. In this column were hatch covers, men, parts of men and other debris. For a few seconds all was very quiet – perhaps a minute – then chaos broke out. Nobody took charge. The first lifeboat launched contained the captain of the ship and all his officers. They pulled away from the stricken vessel as fast as they could. From this point on, the whole scene was a confusion of disjointed incidents.

For my part, my first reaction was to rip off the hatch covers of our hold and drag as many men as possible on to the deck. The ship was already going down at the bows and most men thought she was going to sink – the deck was now sloping from the stern to the bows by about 45 degrees and it was virtually impossible to move about, unless you gripped the side rails. After some time, it began to dawn on us that the ship was not sinking further than the 45 degrees.

In the meantime, total chaos and confusion reigned on deck – hundreds of men – some naked in the wintry Mediterranean air – had jumped overboard. Huge wooden rafts were cut loose and fell onto the hordes of men in the water below. No one was in charge of anything, Nobody knew what to do. Because the ship was at such an angle at the bows, the propeller was half out of the water, and still turning slowly!

I watched a crowded raft, with 40 – 50 men on, or clinging to it, sucked in by the propeller and pieces of wood, men and pieces of men were flung into the air. This scene was repeated several times. Men floating in the water , on hatch covers or clinging to flotsam, were sucked in by the propeller and thrown into the air. Arms, legs, torsos and various body parts flying in all directions.

Men who could not swim and saw the land 5 miles away, started praying in groups and singing hymns. The look on their faces was indescribable! They faced death praying. To this day, I cannot bear to hear the hymns “Abide with Me” or “Oh God, our help in ages past” for obvious reasons.

Other men who had managed to get to the sloping galleys, snatched half cooked meat out of the boiling pots and drank scalding soup!

After some hours, the wind freshened towards the land and some German marine officers shut down the engines that were turning the propellers, and a measure of calm settled on the floating wreck.

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The land now seemed closer, we could see lights on the shore as night was closing in. We could also hear breakers pounding against jagged rocks.

Four A Coy Corporals, Bernie Friedlander (known to us as ‘Buller’), Tosty Dickson, a corporal whose name escapes me, and I now started making plans as to how we could get ashore. We were all strong swimmers, and finding various ropes lying around, Bernie tied a rope around his waist and we lowered him into what appeared to be calm water, but it was in fact oil from the bunkers torn open by the rocks onto which the wreck had drifted. We saw ‘Buller’ and his rope being hauled out by people on shore. I followed him with Tosty behind me. The fourth corporal brought up the rear. On shore, Greek farmers took us to a nearby shed while others took over the ropes we had brought ashore.

I estimated that there had been 2200 prisoners of war on board the ‘San Sebastian’ of whom 431 were killed when the torpedo hit, and 230 wounded. We were not bothered about the others!

Though we did not know it at the time, we had arrived in Methone bay, on the west coast of Greece.

The Italians fell upon us on the road through Methone. We were to be marched ten kilometers up the coast to Pilos. We were as much objects of interest to the local Greek population, as they were equal objects of interest to us.

We marched up the road to Pilos. On either side of the road were orchards, vineyards, fields bearing the obvious marks of having once been well cared for, but now showing signs of neglect. Everywhere was becoming overgrown with grass. The Greeks did not intend growing any food for the Germans or the Italians!

On the hillside above us, we saw a castle. This was where we were heading. Huddled under the 20 foot high walls in the narrow courtyard, we felt the reality, the sting of imprisonment. The sky blackened, and it rained.

At night we were herded into tiny cells, 30 men at a time. We sat down, there was no room to lie down. No one was allowed out until the next day and over half of us had severe dysentery.

Then a few days later we were loaded on to trucks, amidst much confusion, but with no regrets, and driven to Kalamata to be entrained. We did not know where we were going, so we just sat on our wooden seats and nibbled the two small loaves we had been given for the journey.

At nightfall, we were ordered off the train and marched about five miles into the frosty dark, where we were turned out into a fenced field and left to our own devices.

Some bales of hay had been place in the field for bedding. We tore these open and made warm nests for ourselves with layers of hay over us. Sheer luxury after the nights we had spent in very cold conditions!

When we woke, we found we were in a rectangular paddock of about a hectare, strongly fenced with barbed wire. We were told we were about 8 kilometers east of Patras, on the Gulf of Corinth.

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The Italians gave us groundsheets which buttoned together to make little tents, like the ones they were living in themselves, and we had plenty of straw to sleep on. Bit by bit they gave nearly everyone a dixy and a spoon. About three quarters of us got a blanket each. These were Italian army blankets, only about the size of a maize bag and about as thin. Just as things were beginning to look up, problems arose.

Lice put in an appearance. Without soap and towels, we had no way of fighting these pests. What water there was, was only enough for drinking purposes. I saw men with over 80 lice on their persons.

Then dysentery took hold of the camp, it saw its chance and moved in on all the camp inmates.

On top of that, the weather broke. The sky grew leaden. The thunder rolled across the countryside like shellfire. Wind like spears blew down our little tents and slashed the cold into our bones. The now sodden ground of the paddock, trampled by fifteen hundred pairs of feet, became a pig pen and earned the place that name.

It is December 25th. But there is no Christmas in the pig pen. The cooks are unable to make us any morning coffee, which is breakfast, because the wood is too wet. A fine rain keeps us in our tents. At noon we get out two loaves – good bread, but only 400 grams each. When the cooks eventually get the fires going, we stand in the freezing rain to collect our ration. It is warm water with a film of grease on top of it. I throw mine away.

The Camp Commandant is giving us a Christmas present. Some boxes of currants. When they are divided up, we get a dessertspoon full each.

On Old Year’s morning, the Italians moved us down the road to some woodsheds and locked us up for a month, in complete darkness. Remembering that most of us still had dysentery, and we were only let out to the toilet one at a time during the day, you can imagine the state of the inside of these sheds.

At the end of January, the Italians marched us through the town to the docks and we were put aboard a large troopship bound for Bari. We were pleased to be going to Italy as the Italians themselves told us how marvelous the place was. We were soon disillusioned.

Arriving in Bari, we stood on the dockside shivering in the bitter wind. From there we were marched through the town to the railway line where a line of cattle trucks stood to receive us. In these we traveled down to Brindisi to be greeted by an Italian officer who spoke with an American accent, and who informed us that we would all be shot if anyone escaped. We were then marched through the darkness, rain and wind for 5 miles to what we were to learn was camp 85. It was the pig pen all over again.

At this camp our beards were shaved off and our hair cut, and we were then sent into Bari for showers, but the lice stayed with us. We were supplied with a postcard to send home and inform our people that we were still alive, but prisoners of war.



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Then we were on the train again. At Gravina we were once again marched into the countryside. Cresting the hill, we saw this mass of stone buildings, some still under construction. This was Campo di Concentramento no.65, where, for all we knew, we were going to spend the rest of the war.

We were the first prisoners in the camp. We found we had straw filled mattresses on the bunk beds, and they gave us all three blankets and two sheets, but the most important thing they hadn’t got, was food. They told us we had to wait until the next day. That was when we had our first hot meal in 48 hours. But there seemed to be something wrong, there was not much of it. Our arrival at camp 65 had coincided with a 50 per cent cut in P.O.W rations. The guards said they would try and get us extra vegetables. When the vegetables arrived they were dandelion leaves and turnip tops! But they were edible and welcome.

All this time we had had nothing to smoke. In Greece and at camp 85, the Italians had given us five cigarettes a day. But camp 65 was a new one, and no supplies of cigarettes had reached it yet. Heavy smokers paced up and down the wire begging cigarettes from the guards. Scrambles took place on sick parade for the butts thrown down by the Italian doctor.

So life continued, with the main interest being in the next meal. Then we were informed that Red Cross parcels had arrived in Gravina for us. They reached the camp a few days later and were immediately locked up in one of the huts. The Commandant would do nothing with them until he received instructions from Rome!

When at last, the necessary instructions were received, they were carried out to the letter. Every tin was punctured and every jar opened to ensure nothing was inside the contents other than what the label said. This meant that only one parcel was issued a day. We refused to accept anything under these conditions. After several days, the Italians saw the error of their ways, and started to issue the parcels, only puncturing the tins. But only for one hour a day! This meant that very few were given out each day.

Eventually the system started to work and life settled down once again.

Then in July 1943 the Fascist Government of Italy collapsed and the King of Italy sacked Mussolini. We all started to wonder what was going to happen to us. Would we be released or would we be transferred to Germany? Whilst negotiations were going on between the Italians, we were moved to camp 52. Two days after this, we were loaded into railway cattle trucks and transported to a transit camp 40 kilometers from Munich, Germany.

From here we were moved by cattle truck up to Stalag 344, at Lamsdorf near Breslau. Here on the northern borders of Germany, we were to learn what winter meant. We were locked u p in our billets from dusk to dawn. This far north meant that dusk came at 3.30p.m and dawn arrived 18 hours later at 9.30a.m. And all that time was spent in the dark.

It was here, at Stalag 344, that I met my first Russians. They were part of a party that went out everyday collecting wood for the camp fires. They did not receive Red Cross parcels, as we did,

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because the Russian authorities would not supply them to their German captives. So in exchange for wood, we gave them some of our food, and at Christmas we invited them to our Christmas dinner, which they accepted.

Looking around our billet and seeing the large pin-up on the wall, they remarked that we appeared to be more interested in women than food. They being half starved, no Red cross parcels, showed a great deal more interest in the food we provided.

Before the winter of 1944 – 1945 ended, the Russian and Western armies were racing towards each other across what was left of Hitler’s Europe. In Stalag 344 on Germany’s eastern edge, we could hear the distant rumble of the Russian guns.

As the Russians slowly approached the border between Poland and Germany, the German authorities decided to move us further west. We were marched out in groups with what we could carry, which, being weak as we were, was not a lot. We had started our captivity with a thirst march, now it was drawing to a close with the ‘Death’ march. It was the middle of winter and we had to struggle through thick snow wearing every item of clothing we had, which in these freezing conditions, was not nearly enough.

In the Stalag 344 we had been reasonably well fed, receiving regular Red Cross parcels, but once on the road, this all failed and everyone, including the guards, went without food. Now the guards did not threatened to shoot the stragglers, they did. At least the prisoners believed they did. Anyone who collapsed beside the road was left with a guard, and a few minutes later we would all hear the shot!

But later, when we arrived at the next camp, we found all the stragglers following us in on the back of a lorry, grinning guards included. The whole exercise had been to make us keep walking as long as possible, and with as few dropouts as possible.

Accommodation at night became virtually impossible to find as the groups in front had already occupied most of the available barns etc. So we often spent the night cowering under a hedge beside the road. After a zig-zag march avoiding the main roads, we eventually arrived at Stalag 4B at Gorlits. We were all as emaciated as we had been in camp 65. Just skin and bone. It was some comfort then, that the 300 who had marched from Stalag 344 would be continuing the journey west by rail! But in wartime even rail travel has its own disadvantages.

At a siding, a few prisoners at a time were allowed to get out. On the next line a goods train looked ripe for raiding – the more so as the guards were elderly, thin on the ground and, hopefully, not very clear-sighted. Two enterprising prisoners forced the door of the goods truck and found it full of cans of meat. The truck was soon empty.

But if the guards had seen nothing, a railwayman had been more observant. Looting was a capital crime and he did his duty. He called the Gestapo. They drove the prisoners back into their cattle trucks and announced that two from each truck would be shot.



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Before these executions could take place however, both prisoners and Gestapo faced execution from the skies. Out of an innocent sky came a squadron of United States Mustangs, and strafed the train, turning it into a sieve and causing many casualties. Gestapo or not, everyone was getting as far from the train as possible.

The raid over, and dusk making further attacks improbable, ambulances collected the dead and wounded. The prisoners were coaxed back on to the train and the Gestapo threat was forgotten.

At Fallingsborstel, 50km north of Hamburg, the prisoners were marched into a large prison camp containing almost every Allied nationality. It was grossly over-crowded and grossly underfed. As at Gorlitz, indeed as at Gravina in the old days, food was again the obsessive topic. Was there no escape from recurrent hunger?

The Allies were crossing the Rhine and Fallingsborstel was to be evacuated this time eastwards. But with the Russian advance, this move did not get very far and finally, we awoke one morning to find that our guards had vanished during the night.

A few days later we met up with an advanced unit of the British army. The best sight in four years!

Events moved very quickly after that. Transported by lorry to the rear of the fighting, good grub all round – as much as we could manage! Then transported by rail, to the south of France. Here we were re-kitted out, medically examined and fed more beautiful food.

It was now April 1945 and though we did not know it, the war was almost over in Europe. After a few days rest in the South of France we were flown by Douglas D.C. 8 (Dakotas) to Scotland. Several more days rest, and another train journey took us to near London. This was in anticipation of our being shipped back to South Africa.

So it was that I found myself in London on VE day – 8th May 1945. The city went mad. Everyone thronged the streets singing, dancing and waving flags I doubt that anyone went to sleep that night. I most certainly did not.!

Then a few days later I sailed from Southampton heading for Cape Town and home to my wife and a child I had not seen before, and who was now 4 years old!

Never was there a sweeter sight than that of Table Mountain, as the ship approached Cape Town harbor, having wondered many times over the previous four years if I would ever see it again!

 

Wiki has these two passages:

From: Solomon Mahlangu Regiment - Wikipedia (the new name for the regiment)

There is a thread here on the ship's sinking: SS Sebastiano Venier (Jason) 09 Dec 1941

There is a little more on: Transvaal Scottish Regiment during WWII. (South Africa) Page 1 RootsChat.Com

 

The transfer of men from PG 65 to PG 52 in the summer of 1943 was reported on by the International Red Cross inspector after visiting PG 52.

- In June approximately 465 prisoners of war arrived here from Camp No. 65.

Some men were sent from PG 52 to PG 73 Fossoli on 21 July 1943 as the first step in their transfer to Germany, (I CAMPI FASCISTI - Dalle guerre in Africa alla Repubblica di Salò) but Corporal Gamble's name doesn't appear in the list so presumably he was among the prisoners transferred in September '43.

Vitellino

 

UK, British Prisoners of War, 1939-1945
Name: E L Gamble
Rank: Cpl.
Army Number: 78590
POW Number: 81607
Camp Type: Stalag
Camp Number: 8A
Camp Location: Gorlitz, Poland
Section: South African Land Forces : Officers and Other Ranks

TD

 

A chronological list of research subjects (which I might work through):

1. the East African campaign. See for one: The East African Campaign
   
2. The Sidi Rezegh battle. See: Sidi Rezegh – “The South African sacrifice resulted in the turning point of the battle” and (PDF) Sidi Rezegh and Tobruk : two South African military disasters revisited 1941-1942
   
3. At Gravina, Italy Campo di Concentramento no.65
4. After the Italian surrender: we were moved to camp 52
5. Stalag 344, at Lamsdorf near Breslau. Stalag VIII-B - Wikipedia , Facebook Groups and I: Conditions at Stalag VIIIB, Lamsdorf | NZETC
   
6. Stalag 4B at Gorlitz. See: Stalag IV-B - Wikipedia , The POW Camp (1940-1945) and many more
   
7. At Fallingsborstel, 50km north of Hamburg, the prisoners were marched into a large prison camp. See: Stalag XI-B - Wikipedia , The first POW camp liberated – Fallingbostel – World War II Today and many more

There are a small number of place names, which I assume can all be readily id'd; a few place names may defy identification e.g. a Greek castle on the west coast.

 

thanks i found them previously

I just wanted my grandfathers name out there as he brought me up as a son, a stroke finally took him and died peacefully, but taught me will to survive anything life can bring

unfortunately pics and drawing from pow camps were lost but most striking one he had was over xmas, was drawn by an Italian chap of a woman naked but the men ignored her and went for the food

 

cant guarantee names and places this was dictated to my cousin and he was a "sharp tool" so there could be grammar, spelling or other errors in the story

 

There's no need to research this, Gavin. They were moved in June 1943 BEFORE the Italian surrender which was on 8 September 1943. At least, that's what the Inspector said - SEE MY WEBSITE ON PG 52.

I know a fair bit about this camp. Some friends of mine own a house overlooking it and I live 90 minutes drive away.

Vitellino

PS: The men from PG 65 Gravina and all the other southern camps were moved to camps further north before the Sicily landings in July 1943. Your grandfather got his time scale wrong but the sequence of events in Italy is correct.

 

thanks a million

love to know where tricky dicky found the old boys info it blew my mind to get his pow and army number

i remember the story from when i was a kid, i knew i may be off as he was in his 80's when this was put to paper, so not surprised time scale is out, Im gonna research when work calms down

 

Here's some more information for you. It comes from document WO 392/21, held in the National Archives, London, produced from data supplied by the International Red Cross/Protecting Power, as to the last camp the prisoner of war known to have been in. Prisoners who were moved in the summer of 1943 are frequently shown in their penultimate camp, as is the case with your grandfather.



Best wishes,

Vitellino.

 

thanks i am astounded by this

 

If you have access to Facebook you might like to look at this:

Campo 65: Prigionieri di Guerra

It's in Italian but the photos are interesting. I was invited to speak at the inauguration in June 2019 - again in Italian, I'm afraid.

Vitellino

 

Gavin, do you know the date your grandfather wrote his testimony? Alon

 

Alon,

Gavin has not logged on for two years now, just sent him a PM and CC'd you in too.

 

Hello Alon, my grandfather, who was in his 70s, shared his stories with me when I was a young boy. Unfortunately, I don't have the exact date of those moments. I was the only grandson eager to listen, but being young, I forgot many details. That's why I was grateful when I came across this testimony. Unfortunately, I don't know when he wrote it, and cousin had transcribed it, but sadly, that cousin has also passed away

 

It's a really interesting error that in South Africa the Venier is known as 'San Sebastiano' (Sebastiano Veniero wasn't a saint) - there is even an academic article using this name, which has no connection to the ship, while in New Zealand she is better known as the 'Jason', which was her original name when the Dutch ordered her.

Thanks for bringing this back up, some riveting detail on her sinking in the OP.

I have written about it here: https://crusaderproject.wordpress.com/2010/05/22/the-tragedy-of-the-pows-killed-at-sea/ and more specifically here: https://crusaderproject.files.wordp...-prisoners-of-war-on-mv-sebastiano-venier.pdf

Friedlander received the George Medal for his actions, and the German officers (merchant navy) were there only by the grace of God, as the RAF had sunk their ship (Tinos) in Benghazi a few days before, so they weren't needed in North Africa.

All the best

Andreas

 

That's intriguing, changing the name of a boat or ship is believed to bring bad luck. According to your information, his survival I would attribute to being on deck. I cannot verify the story's accuracy, as my research has been limited, and the timeline might be slightly off. Understandably, the POWs may not have been in the right state of mind, as mentioned in the narrative, but didn't want to change his story as that was his to tell and the way he remembered it
I recently discovered that Karen Horn of South Africa authored a book titled "Enemy Hands." I've ordered it today and am eager to delve into it for more insights.

 

that pdf verified some of the facts he gave, nice to know even though he was in a difficult mental state his sense of time was more on par then what others thought
"I had no idea of the time – some say it was 4 p.m. I thought it was nearer 2p.m.."

 

Karen Horn interestingly uses the wrong name for her paper on the Venier.

All the best

Andreas