Behind the Wire - Memoirs of a World War 2 P.O.W.

By Roy Henry Burgin

Roy Burgin voluntarily enlisted into the Grenadier Guards Regiment in the British Army in January 1940. His introduction to war-time service started on British soil before he was moved to North Africa late in 1943 where the Italian troops were in retreat. Roy was launched into the real horrors of World War II when he was sent to Italy to take pa

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Burgin
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648109198

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Behind the Wire

Memoirs of a World War 2 P.O.W.

Roy Burgin

The copyright for this work is retained by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, E-book, or otherwise, without prior permission from the copyright holder or under the conditions of fair use.

ISBN: 978-0-6481091-9-8

Copyright © 2022 Roy Burgin

All rights reserved

Table of Contents

About the Author

Chapter 1 – Capture

Chapter 2 – Farewell to England

Chapter 3 – Florence transit camp

Chapter 4 – Stalag IV-B

Chapter 5 – Stalag IV-F

Chapter 6 – The lead mine

Chapter 7 – After the bombing of Dresden

Chapter 8 – A miserable Christmas

Chapter 9 – A hot blast

Chapter 10 – The end in sight

Chapter 11– Living off the land

Chapter 12 – Greatest hope

Chapter 13 – Going home

Battle of Anzio - Background

Battle of Anzio – Aftermath

Roy and Winnie’s life after WW2

Photo Gallery

About the Author

Roy Burgin voluntarily enlisted into the Grenadier Guards Regiment in the British Army in January 1940. His introduction to war-time service started on British soil before he was moved to North Africa late in 1943 where the Italian troops were in retreat. Roy was launched into the real horrors of World War II when he was sent to Italy to take part in the Anzio Landing where he was shot and taken prisoner.

From his Company of 90 men Roy estimates that he and five others were the sole survivors of a suicidal assault they were ordered to make on entrenched German machine gun positions.

He spent eighteen months in a German Prisoner of War work camp where he was forced to work in a lead mine. Roy’s memoir is written with great sincerity, compassion and humour in what were some of the darkest hours of World War II. He describes the approach to the Anzio Landing below.

"From Naples, we sailed throughout the hours of darkness and into the dawn of another day. A day we all knew could well be our final one in this world.

For we were bound for Anzio, well behind the German lines, in a move designed to shorten the war. In the event I don’t think it did but it did end the lives of many of my friends and comrades and as I write it, it is for them I feel a great sadness. May we pray and hope that the high ideals they fought and died for will bring that wonderful world of peace forever."

Chapter 1 – Capture

We had spent a long sleepless night after advancing about 15 miles (25 kilometres) east from the Anzio Beachhead to enter the battle. Anzio is 165 miles (270 kilometres) north of Naples, from where we had come, and about 35 miles (56 kilometres) south of Rome.

Our Company was in position in a farmyard, overlooking a small valley. We had dug slit trenches in the darkness, using our army issue short shovel and small mattock. The trenches were about two feet deep (60 centimetres), just under two feet wide and about four or maybe five feet (1.5 metres) long. The farm must have bred rabbits as I was able to hang my excess gear and pack off a nearby rabbit hutch, as it would not fit in the trench. I shared my trench with a comrade, Alan, a Scotsman who I had only known for about two months, but in that short time we had become good friends.

About two hundred yards across the valley were some farm buildings which were being used by the enemy as an observation post. During the night, which was very dark, we had posted a listening patrol within fifty yards (46 metres) of their observation post but had learned nothing of importance. Like us they were being quiet. Being on this patrol was one of the most nerve-racking experiences I have ever endured, having to stay quite still in complete silence for two hours with the enemy just a few yards away.

With the coming of dawn the Germans began firing shells at random into our position but in our slit trenches they caused few casualties. I can’t say the same for my gear however that was hanging on the rabbit hutches – the hutches, and my equipment, was completely blown to pieces, along regrettably with a wad of tobacco that I had carefully stored.

Suddenly on our right flank, a heavy machine gun opened fire and soon through the smoke we could see German infantry advancing on us, firing rifles and light machine guns. We drove them back but this attack cost them dearly for we could hear the cries of the wounded who were lying in a ploughed field some 150 yards (137 metres) away.

Then there was a brief lull when stretcher bearers appeared and began removing the wounded. This lull seemed to me to be the most wonderful period of my life and I tried to convince myself it would last, even that the war would end at that very moment; but I knew of course that was wishful thinking. I knew during that day I would either die, be wounded, be taken prisoner, or survive another day and everything looked very bleak.

Miraculously during the lull a cook arrived with a dixie of tea which he dumped on the ground and shouted, Tea up before scuttling off as fast as he could go. How I envied him his job. The dixie, I would guess, held about two gallons (9 litres) of tea. The tea was about twenty yards away and grabbing my comrades’ and my own mess tin I ran in a crouching stance and scooped out a good measure in each, then sprinted back to our trench, losing a good half of the tea on the way. English mess tins are rectangular and not at all easy to carry liquid in, especially if one is running. It rather reminded me of the egg and spoon race on school sport’s days, just a few years ago.

We sat low in our trench drinking the tea and smoking and talking of home. Quite inexplicably the tea had a bluish tinge but it tasted alright.

Alan said how parts of Italy reminded him of home. He was, I think, a farmer and I knew he came from the Outer Hebrides. He had a gentle nature and, for a Scotsman, a gentle accent, but he did have the dry Scottish sense of humour. He was an easy man to like. He should really have been in the Scottish Guards, not the Grenadier Guards, but I’m not sure why he ended up with us.

Alan and I had some things in common. We were both married and were both fathers of sons of four months whom we’d never seen. We each had a precious snapshot which we were showing each other when the lull ended and all Hell broke out.

Within minutes from this moment Alan would be killed – so these last few words I shared with him had very sadly been the last conversation of his short life.

We were suddenly subjected to the full fury of enemy mortar fire. Their artillery had also found our range. To those unfamiliar with the deadly accuracy of mortar fire it is almost impossible to describe the terrifying experience of becoming its target. In a few minutes our trenches were reduced to a shambles and our company had suffered heavy losses.

A sergeant, who was wounded in his thigh, suddenly appeared and sat gingerly on the edge of our trench, getting down as low as he could. He said the brigade had fallen back but orders were for us to hold our position. Even as he left our trench to pass on the order he was killed.

When our brigade fell back the Germans moved in behind us and opened up with light machine gun fire so we were isolated. We knew the worst a few moments later when three tanks appeared and began firing their cannons into our few remaining trenches. One tank ran the gauntlet of our anti-tank fire, running its tracks over the trenches and crushing to death those within them. Their dying screams rose above the roar of battle and the murderous hell of war enveloped us