Through the lines.
Stage 6
Through the lines.
This last part of the journey was perhaps the most perilous, with the greatest chance of being captured or shot, owing to the heavy concentrations of German troops.
Fortunately, in such a mountainous landscape, it is almost impossible for a defensive line to cover every inch that it is designed to defend. There were, it would seem, plenty of gaps available; the problem was to find them!
And again fortunately, local people were almost invariably keen to share their knowledge of these gaps.. indeed many were actively seeking to get through the lines themselves.
Eric Newby was now working on a mountain farm, living an almost normal existence with the family that had taken him in. In the middle of October this idyll was shattered by the arrival of a German search party when he was, fortunately, at a village ball with the daughters. He was able to make good his escape to an even more remote mountain top farm where he was to remain until his eventual recapture by the Italian Fascist Militia at the end of the year.
Hugo de Burgh, now recovering in a hospice in the town of Visp in Switzerland writes “We interested ourselves in the soldiers of our own armies and dominions who drifted over the mountain passes from Italy and were collected at Visp to be fed rested and to some extent clothed. It was October , all had been very lightly clad and were now for the most part in rags. Many of the men came over with almost bare feet, bleeding and frost bitten. Some had not come at all; the gaping crevasses had claimed them; surprisingly few in view of the complete lack of food, clothing and mountain equipment.”
Stuart Hood and Ted were still at large on the other side of the country in the first week of November, and slowly heading south into the Garfagnana. “Standing on the edge of the valley we looked across to the marble mountains of Carrara. These peaks gleamed like snow. The Allies were somewhere above Naples – 300 miles to the south”
Richard Carver and the Dean had fallen in with some allied parachutists who had landed behind German lines and were engaged in trying to extract escapers by sea to Termoli . The Dean successfully made that sea passage in the night of the 6th to 7th November. But Richard’s escape still had some time to run.
Elizabeth’s diary has a slightly more upbeat tone on the 2nd of November, writing-
“wire from liz quoting George Kitson – heard G and Peter reported walking right way on Oct 20th…. Feel quite light headed!”
1st November
When it was light, I found that the shed was half full of good eating apples, so I made my breakfast off these and some bread which I still had. I dried myself in the sun, and seeing no one about, spent the morning in idleness.
About midday I started up the hill in front of me, and reached in quite a short time the village of Civitella. Here I found a hospitable welcome and spent the rest of the day eating and drinking well. Real tea and jam was provided, and finally a bed. The Germans, it seemed, came to the village occasionally to requisition livestock, but as there was no motor road, they didn't come very often, and their visits were not likely to be entirely unannounced.
2nd November
After a good night's rest, and much restored inside and out except for my boots I was conducted, early in the morning, down to the rivers edge: my host parted from me with tears in his eyes and many wishes for my welfare.
The river, unfortunately, was in full view of the road, so I splashed through about knee deep without taking my boots off. Two German lorries passed just as I reached a strip of cover between the road and river. I crossed the road, and climbed slowly out of the valley. It was a fine sunny day, and I could see Maiella behind me: The slopes where I had been were now covered in snow.
For the rest of the day I walked in pleasant weather through a populous countryside: I left Casoli to the east and saw no Germans. One or two old women told me stories about Germans lurking in woods with machine guns, waiting for prisoners, but on closer inquiry it became clear that these Germans were siting their guns to cover the road approaches to villages and road junctions. I accordingly avoided such places and had no trouble. In the later afternoon I crossed the Sangro just below Bomba, and climbed a few miles up the hill to a remote village called San Buceto, well away from motor roads. Here I met a man who seemed to think I liked answering his silly questions, but in the end he gave me a good meal. I spent the night in the kitchen of a strong anti-fascist, who had retired here from Bomba having fallen out with the local fascist boss. He gave me breakfast in the morning before I left.
3rd November
After an hour's walking, during which the sun rose in exotic splendour, flooding the Maiella snows with red, I reached a wooded crest, and looked out southeast over a wide valley towards Vasto (Isernia). I had been hearing the guns from that direction for some time now, and rumour had it that a big battle for the town was underway. Here I found two English ORs living with some charcoal burners. One of them had tried to cross the Trigno, where the line approximately was, but had been caught by the Germans. Although he had escaped without difficulty, he was determined not to try again. There were, he said, one or two English officers who had been living in the neighborhood for some time. A charcoal burner then told me that German troops were at rest by the riverbank to the east of us, and that others were siting machine gun posts covering a road junction just below us: they would, he said, be at work again within half an hour. This did not allow me time to get clear of the area, so I found a vantage point and waited for them to arrive. Italians did the work, while Germans walked about in pairs, talking. Motorcycle DRs arrived from time to time, and cars came and went.
I decided not to make a detour, which I might have done, but to stay where I was till nightfall. I slept in the sun most of the morning, but later on it was too cold, and I moved down to the edge of the wood, as soon as the Germans knocked off, about an hour before dark.
I crossed the road soon after this and walked on south, keeping a course which would take me slightly east of the high hill village of Montessa. I had a meal at a farmhouse at about 9 p.m. and went on again for a couple of hours, when I called at another farm and slept in the loft to the early morning.
4th November
This farm was not more than two miles from Montessa which was full of Germans. The farmer's mother clearly resented my presence, and did her best to speed me on my way: the Germans apparently requisitioned freely from the farms in this area, as a little later on at another farm, I had a most fearful nervous reception. The man said nothing but: ‘we have bambini here’ and the women crouched in the corner looking terrified; the result, doubtless, of German threats against harboring prisoners. before leaving, I got what information I could about the movements of the Germans, but the man was in such a state, I don't suppose it had much truth behind it.
I moved on carefully, using cover continuously; I saw three obvious escapers about half a mile away, galumphing across a field in a most guilty looking amateurish fashion. Gunfire was now frequent, all last night I had heard and seen it in the Vasto direction, and now I heard a certain amount to the south of me as well.
My intention, obviously, was not to march to the sound of the guns, but to find a gap where there wasn't much fighting going on. I had chosen, from the map the stretch of the Trigno between Trivento and Castiglione. I now crossed a stream which a little higher up crossed the road between |Montessa and Castiglione. This stream, running northeast to the sea, was the one along the banks of which - further down – German troops had been reported as resting. I found a farmer and his family having a rest in a field: they were sowing, they told me, and invited me to share their meal with them. This I did, and fortified by what I thought was reliable information from the farmer, a sensible level-headed man, I continued southeast up a steep hill. This line of heights ran down to just north of Castiglione, and gave a good view of the countryside. When I got to the east side of the ridge, I could see for many miles towards Vasto, and over, but not into, the alley of the Trigno. There was a good deal of activity going on: shells were landing a few miles below me, and there was dive bombing. A little further on I could see one or two vehicles on fire. There was little movement on the roads, though I could make out one or two groups of parked vehicles. I pinpointed several villages from my map, but as local report varied widely as to which side was holding which, this didn't help me much. It was in fact quite impossible to make out where the Germans and English were respectively, and it was clear that if I once got down onto the lower ground, I should be even more at sea. I therefore continued south along the ridge.
In front of me was occasional gunfire – not shell bursts – and it seemed likely that there I would find the German medium artillery, firing south across the Trigno, and east towards the confused battleground which I had been studying.
I went all morning along these high Downs, going through flocks of sheep with their shepherds, and meeting occasional pigs also with their attendants, generally elderly females. As time went on visibility decreased, and by midday I was almost entirely shrouded in swirling mist and cloud. By the middle of the afternoon, I had reached the end of the ridge, and about a mile away across a deep ravine-like valley caught glimpses of the hill town of Castiglione: the main road ran across my front, and did not seem to have much traffic on it: I learned afterwards that this was because it was already mined.
The side of the valley had plenty of cover, and so I went down to the stream at the bottom, intending to cross the main road by night. I had by now located the guns which I had heard firing, and my proposed course did not seem likely to bring me up against either their supply lines or their OPs. I had a wash in the stream, particularly my feet, which were now not so good as they had been. My boots had as much hole as sole and innumerable nails: I also had a sore and deteriorating heel. In the wood across the stream I found a party of Italians looking after their cattle which they were hiding there from the Germans. They themselves lived in Castiglione and were going back there after dark. They said they would see me across the road and put me on my way: they lent me an ankle length blanket coat, as it was now cold.
Accordingly we timed our approach to Castiglione, and got onto the road in the dark. German vehicles were moving about in every direction, most of them being half-tracked: I saw no tanks. The father and his two elder sons now took leave of me, and detailed a boy of about 12 to take me to a cousin's house in a village about three miles to the south. We arrived without incident, travelling most of the way just below a minor road, on which German traffic was moving: this road, I imagine, went to Trivento, but wasn't shown on my map, as it was a new one.
The cousin's house was fuller than I would have believed possible, and hotter. I spent quite a good night in an attic with all the male Italians, and had a fair breakfast of potatoes.
5th November
I set off down a mule track under a cold overcast sky: after a couple of miles I came to a farm, and called in for the latest intelligence reports. They had nothing definite to say, except that there were a lot of Germans about: this seemed more than likely. They gave me apples, and, just as I was going on, the son of the house came up. He asked me to go no further, but to stay where I was until nightfall, when I would be able to contact a certain Italian, who knew the best way to the British lines. I agreed to this, and was taken to a cave they had dug in a secluded portion of the farm, with a view to hiding themselves from the Germans, if necessary. Here I was installed, with blankets, food and plenty of wine. I received visits from time to time from the youth, and also from a large American-speaking Italian, who had a lot to say for himself. It seemed that there was a plan on foot for a party of Italians to move across the Trigno with their animals so as to avoid the rapacious hands of the Germans, who, as I had been told ad nauseam, were taking all the food they could from the farms and giving no payment, only their justly derided paper vouchers.
But mainly I dozed and ate and dozed and drank, until the youth appeared with a beaming face, and exclaimed rapturously ‘we are saved!’ I told him, somewhat severely, to explain himself, and it seemed that in two nearby villages definite signs of a coming German withdrawal had been noticed - billets being vacated, offices packing up and so on. This soon confirmed by the fat man, who added the friend of his had made a journey to and from the British lines without much difficulty. It was therefore decided to start the column of Italians and their animals that very evening. The youth saddled a cob towards evening, and we both shaved and had a meal. About half an hour before dark we set out for the rendezvous. I was by now very lame, so I rode on the cob: it was almost as uncomfortable mounted as on my feet, the pack saddle being devilishly designed, and made of wood.
We joined the convoy quite soon, and went by mule tracks down the Trigno valley towards Trivento. There were, I suppose, 30 or 40 Italians, as many mules, ponies or donkeys, and as well, cows and calves, and one minute donkey progressing steadily under a sizable haystack. The party seemed well organised: reconnaissances were made ahead, and we only moved when the way was clear; there was a moon and no wind. I soon became very cold and borrowed an overcoat from the fat man, but was, in spite of the cold, almost tempted to sit on it instead of wearing it. There was periodical gunfire over our heads from the German side, but nothing fell anywhere near us.
The valley was deep and wooded, our path tortuous and rough. We crossed the river about midnight while the moon was still up; it was quite a business getting the party across - the cattle would wander downstream away from the ford, and some got themselves into deep water, but in the end we were all safely on the south bank. We now toiled steeply uphill through woods and then there was a long pause while the village of Trivento was reconnoitred. No Germans were there and we all moved through, still going east, parallel with the river.
6th November
We now became lost and wandered about for some hours: the moon went down, and eventually at about four o'clock in the morning we put up at a farmhouse: my youth was by now feeling very ill – probably exhaustion combined with overeating – and he had been riding on his pony for the last half hour. I more or less forced my way into the kitchen of the farmhouse, and rested in front of the fire till dawn. A youth tried to persuade me to give him my battle dress on the grounds that it would be dangerous for me to have it on, but as I had just heard his father say that there were no Germans about and that the English were in Lucera, (Lucito*) three hours march away I had pleasure in informing him that he was a bit late with his offer.
When it was light I started off for Lucera*, my haversack being carried by an unsavory man, who was now angling for the post of official succourer of escaping English officers. I went along at a good pace, over high cold downs, and before long was in sight of Lucera* and about two hours march away. Here I was accosted by a blood thirsty Italian with a shotgun, who tried to ask me questions. I was short with him, and he apologised for delaying me, explaining that he was looking for escaping Germans, and was hoping to shoot some.
I reached Lucera* during the morning, and found a smart looking Canadian SSM of Princess Louise's Dragoon Guards holding the village in solitary splendor. From that moment on, my movements were under the auspices of the British military authorities.
The End
Conclusion.
Some ten days after his arrival at Lucito (* Lucera, in the MS turned out to be one of it’s rare geographical errors, being an unfeasible distance onward from Castiglione and Trivento; Lucito, however, fitted all aspects of the account) my mother heard that G had made it through and was to be sent home.
A series of her diary entries tell the tale;
Nov 16 got G’s letter in post office. Rushed to tell ST and fainted at her feet… sent off countless telegrams…… feeling quite moonstruck
Nov 18 another letter from G….. I unpacked and sorted G’s clothes and had a blissful time….
December 11 Heard from Gerald at Liverpool and talked to him on telephone…. Quite unhinged me…. Never been so thrilled in my life
Dec 12 Gerald home
December 13 got up 8 am, very cold and brilliant all day. C (daughter) good and it was a continuation of the fairy tale.
Peter Burnes was recaptured but survived the war, and was a familiar visitor to the farm in the 50’s and 60’s.
Van Burton, as far as I know, was also recaptured but I believe survived to tell the tale too.
Eric Newby was recaptured by the Italian Fascist militia just before the New Year, having been betrayed by a pro Fascist villager. He was to spend the remainder of the war as a prisoner in Germany. When the war was over he worked in Italy for the commission that was attempting to recompense and thank the Italians who had helped the escapers. He was also reunited with the girl he had fallen in love with in Fontanellato Hospital, and married her. (His time in the mountains is the basis of his novel Love and War in the Apennines)
Stuart Hood was to remain at liberty and, having fallen in with a band of resistance fighters, adopted the dangerous and exciting life of a partisan until eventually being repatriated toward the end of 1944. (He recorded his experiences in his book Pebbles from my Skull)
Richard Carver, after the Dean’s departure, had eventually elected to carry on walking, but had, after a few days, found himself having to hide in a cave for a fortnight before being helped, with assistance from the Italian family who had been maintaining him during this period, to cross the front line and be reunited with his stepfather, General Montgomery, who was the British General on this front. Monty’s greeting to his stepson upon this reunion… “Where the hell have you been?” forms the title of Richard’s son Tom’s account of his father’s escape.
Hugo de Burgh signs off his brief account thus; “Before leaving Visp I called to thank the Swiss officers for heir kindness to us all. One of them said – Why not? If it had not been for the Battle of Britain in 1940 there would be no Switzerland.”
My father spent the rest of the war in a training role at Sandhurst, and when it was all over resumed his civilian life where he had left off.
However he had been marked in two major ways by his time in Italy.
The first was to be visible fairly quickly. While at Fontanellato another inmate, who in peacetime had been, I believe, an agricultural lecturer, had provided, for the entertainment and instruction of anyone who might be interested, a course of classes in agriculture; my father, who was already interested by the subject, followed this course with a keen interest, and by the time they were released he was determined to leave his job with the timber firm that he had been with before the war and go into farming. A couple of years later he bought the farm near Oxford, where he was to remain for the next 40 years.
The second was that he was deeply affected by the help he had been given by so many people from this deeply Catholic country, from impoverished peasants and country priests to wealthy landlords and monks. Over the next years, and I feel his Italian experiences certainly played into this decision even if they weren’t entirely responsible for it, he ended up, to the horror of many conventionally Anglican family members, converting to Catholicism.
Eric Newby, Dick Carver, Stuart Hood all returned to the Italian mountains in later times, for they had all, in different ways, made strong connections with Italian families with whom they had stayed. My father, having never spent more than a night - or possibly two - in the same company, never did so – perhaps also because the farming life that he had chosen did not provide large enough periods of time to indulge in foreign holidays – and as he was not generally of a storytelling disposition, we did not hear much mention of his experiences there.
However a few of the threads of that period ran on into his later life…. Pete Burne was a familiar face to my elder siblings, and I believe even made an extended stay at the farm when recovering from some health problems; in later times my father had a correspondence and some meetings with Eric Newby, as well as following the offerings of the Monte San Martino trust, (a trust set up to honour the bravery of the Italian population who had offered so much help and hospitality to escaping prisoners). His interest in and affection for the area and the people is also illustrated by the presence in his papers of a variety of newspaper cuttings and articles and literature.
He went to some effort to set down this record of his own journey from memory after the event.. ( I believe he wrote the account within the following year.)
That it remains so detailed and (almost completely!) accurate is a testament, I believe, to the intensity of the experience and to the deep satisfactions he must have derived from rising to the many challenges which he faced. Although I doubt that he would have said this, his view being that he was merely doing what he had to do, I think that, in his heart, this was one of the high points of his life.
He would, however, have been the first to note that one of the most prominent features of the whole experience was the courage and kindness of the Italian country people who, at such enormous risk to themselves, opened their hearts and their doors so invariably to him, as to so many other fugitive POWs at this time.