Eight poems by Cpl. D. Nevitt were included by Robert Dickinson in his prison camp journal, “Servigliano Calling.”

During the holidays, when we are reminded in song that “there is no place like home” and when we feast and make merry with loved ones, Corporal Nevitt’s poem and the other four others I have posted today have a special poignancy.

These poems reflect love of England, craving for home and family, and optimism that the war would one day end and normal civilian life would resume.

Reflections

Maybe outside the snow has fallen,
And the weather’s really dud,
Or maybe it’s been raining
And it’s inches thick in mud.
You’ve just received your dinner,
And it’s only made you feel,
A little bit more hungry,
And you say, “Roll on next meal”

You think of food in England,
For, nothing else to do
Of the roast beef, lamb and chicken,
And the good old Irish stew.
Then your back starts itching,
Just warning you anew,
That in the shirt you’re wearing,
The lice are standing too.

You think of your own bedroom,
No vermin to be seen,
Of pre-war days in “Blighty”,
And what you might have been.
Again you think, what could be worse
Than a prisoner-of-war
And then you think of Libya;
Of your pals who live no more.

You see once more the desert,
With scorching sun on high,
You hear again the shrapnel,
And bullets flying by.
You see your comrades falling,
As they hold the Hun at bay,
And yourself doing best to help them,
As their life blood ebbs away.

You thought you were unlucky,
Until this crossed your mind,
That vision of the desert,
And the boys you left behind.
But really you’ve been lucky,
For you’ve still got your life,
And think of her in England,
Not a widow but a wife.

You may still be a prisoner,
With nothing much to eat,
But barley-bread and biscuit,
Macaroni, rice and meat.
But you’ve still got your future,
And this war must end some day,
And from the news we’re getting,
It’s not so far away!

This delightful poem by C.G. Hooper-Rogers is a veritable menu of delicious (and profoundly missed) foods.

Hooper-Rogers wrote two poems recorded in “Servigliano Calling,” and he co-authored a third with Alec Forman. Although on this page his initials appear to be G.G., the other two poems clearly list his initials as C.G.

Thoughts

Nothing to do but lie on your bed
When you’ve finished your stew, and eaten your bread,
Looking at continuous falling of snow,
With nothing to do, and nowhere to go.

I sit and think, and dream and muse,
Of anything, everything, and if I choose,
Pick up my pencil, and to pass the time
Jot down my thoughts in verse and rhyme.

All I’ve got to do is think,
Of all I used to eat and drink,
And the phantom foods I used to like,
Haunt me all the blinking night.

Gruyère, Cheshire, Gorgonzola,
Sago, rice and tapioca,
Roast beef, lamb, and mutton broth,
Apple pie and beery froth.

Chicken, potatoes and nice green peas
And other pleasant things like these,
Trifle, pastries, rich fruit cakes,
Winter nights and hot milk shakes.

Steak and kidney puddings too
Yorkshire pud and Irish stew,
Fish and chips in paper bag,
Grand Finale—English fag.

Six poems by G.A. Hollis appear in “Servigliano Calling,” Robert Dickinson’s journal.

My Home

Sometimes when I’m sweating in the blist’ring desert heat,
I dream about my birth-place, with it’s age old village seat,
I see the carter’s cottage half-way down the lane,
With the river at the bottom; and I long for home again.

And when sandstorms turn the desert into a raging, stinging hell,
I see my own back garden, with it’s fruit trees and the well,
I smell the apple blossom as it sways upon the bough,
While the busy buzzing tractor is straining at the plough.

Sometimes in the evening, as I watch the darkening sky,
I wonder if the same old moon is shining there, on high,
Upon those red tiled roof-tops, and the village green so neat,
Casting long weird shadows down the quilined village street.

And when this strife is over, and I shall at last return,
I’ll thank the Lord, my Maker, who gave me grace to learn,
That, no matter what my station wherever I may roam,
England is my heritage my one and only home.

This poem of longing for England is one of three poems in “Servigliano Calling” by Denis Crooks of Southend-on-Sea, Essex.

England

This place of heat and sun and sand!
When shall that day return
That I shall no more tread this land,
But that for which I yearn!
O England mine—my home, my love,
When shall I see thee more?
Thy pleasant fields, white clouds above,
And sea-encircled shore.

“Memories of Home” is one of three poems by Bombardier P.G. Whapples recorded in Robert Dickinson’s journal.

Memories of Home

Imagine a cool, new forest dell
Your turn at the lane, then at the well,
Into nature’s own store,
The earth as a floor,
Where nothing has changed ten decades or more.
Amongst stately trees,
In a clean healthy breeze,
Mingling with song the humming of bees.

A myriad of colours stretch into the deep,
Of a forest, or listen! The bleating of sheep,
That have wandered astray,
In the heat of the day,
Unknown to the shepherd, asleep in the hay.
Then a dog’s heavy bark,
Or the song of a lark,
Comes through the twilight, before the dark.

While musing of this, ’tis a fine English day,
Where my friends are all happy—and I far away,
In a country way up in the hills, very cold,
In the land where Vesuvius bursts, we are told,
In a cold prison-camp, just over the foam,
From England, and you, and all that is home.

Armie Hill landed in Vichy-controlled French North Africa on November 8, 1942 during “Operation Torch,” the Allied invasion.

The following month he sent this holiday card to his family. The French Bonne Année is a wish for “A Happy New Year.” The card pictures a snow-covered village framed by holly and mistletoe and a Christmas herb (possibly rue). In one corner is a horseshoe—symbol of good luck.

On the back Armie wrote:

Wishing you a happy Christmas.
Loads of Love
Armie

The following February Armie was captured at Kasserine Pass. He spent most of the year in captivity.

Happily, the Christmas of 1943 found him celebrating Christmas at home in Phelps, Wisconsin on furlough. Many soldiers who escaped from Camp 59—those who were not killed or recaptured—spent Christmas 1943 hiding in the Italian countryside.

John A. Allen
c/o 98 Ware Street
Kalgoorie
Western Australia
Australia

In Charles Simmons’ calendar/address book, beneath the Christmas hymn “We Three Kings,” is recorded the name and address of John A. Allen.

He is the only Australian in the book.

Charles Simmons’ calendar and address book contains the names and addresses of six Italian families. They presumably provided assistance to Simmons after his escape from Camp 59.

The names are:

Il Signor: Maroni (or Moroni) Nazzareno
M San Martino
____ Molino Prov Macerata

Molino is a small place near to Monte San Martino, and the word before it could be “frazione” which means “fraction,” a denotation that it is a part of the commune of Monte San Martino.

Cesaroni-Arnolfo
Comunanza (Ascoli Piceno)
Italia Marche
(Note that the Italians always put the surname before the first name. So the name in this case if Arnolfo Cesaroni.)

Dema Paopranelli
Comunanza P. Ascoli

Giacomozzi Pasquale
S. Martino al Faggio
(Ascoli Piceno)

If “al Faggio” is the correct place name here (the handwriting is difficult to decipher), there is a San Martino al Faggio in the right area. It’s a frazione of Smerillo—on the hill facing Monte San Martino.

Cesoroni Iolanda
Comunanza
Italia Marche
Provincia di Ascoli Piceno

Iva Perticara
Monte San Martino
P. Macerata-Italia

The P stands for Provincia. There were four provinces at the time in Marche. From north to south: Pesaro; Ancona; Macerata; Ascoli Piceno. (Another, Fermo, has been added recently.)

So these places are all on either side of the county borders of Macerata and Ascoli Piceno.

Many thanks to Anne Copley of Oxford, UK, for her help in reading and interpreting these addresses!

Al Maly provided this photograph of his father, Joe Maly, taken when Joe was in Italy and while he was being sheltered by the Papiri family of Montefalcone.

To the best of my knowledge the writing on the back of the photo reads:

Montefalcone li 25-6-1944 (A. Piceno)

Mio dovere come patriota, lasciarvi a tutti il ricordo
Famiglia Papiri, Nello Papiri

The first line indicates the village name (Montefalcone Appennino), the date (June 25, 1944), and the province the village was a part of at the time (Ascoli Piceno). Montefalcone is today a part of the newly-formed Province of Fermo.

The next two lines translate as “My duty as a patriot,” plus something along the lines of “I’ll leave you all this record [or keepsake].”

And it is signed,
“Papiri Family, Nello Papiri”

According to Al, the first man standing on the left is a son in the Papiri family. Next to the son is Joe Maly, and beside Joe is James Guillary. The other three men in the photo were also escaped POWs. Joe and “Gilly” were both housed in Hut 4–Section 11 of Camp 59.

Al told me his dad “was one of the men who made it out through the hole in the wall and in his group one of the men was shot. They could not go back for him as they were under fire. He never talked much about the war, only little indirect statements when I was young and a little more detail as I got older and more close to him.”

After the escape, Joe fought with the Italian resistance. He eventually made it to the Polish lines.

Joe passed away in January 2000.

An article by Steve Grazier, “WWII vet finally awarded medals 60 years after serving country,” appeared in the online Cortez [Colorado] Journal on October 17. Luther Shields, now 90 years old, received his fine assortment of military service medals at a ceremony at the Vista Grande Inn in Cortez on October 6.