Free The Man Who Broke Into Auschwitz by Denis Avey Page A

could hear our tanks coming from the north to join in. White flags began appearing along the road and Italian soldiers started to emerge, many no doubt glad it was all over. I kept some pressure on the trigger. It could still turn nasty. Later we heard of an officer who had been attacked with an axe by a prisoner who had already surrendered. It paid to be cautious.
    The man was walking alongside the column when I saw him, past burnt-out trucks and hideously distorted tanks. More Italiansoldiers with white flags appeared as he passed by. There are different accounts but I can still see him wearing a long cape open at the front. There were the occasional flashes of his uniform underneath and you could see he had more gold braid on him than Soft Mick. General Annibale Bergonzoli, ‘Electric Whiskers’ himself, was surrendering. He had escaped Bardia and Tobruk but he was now in our hands along with a clutch of other generals.
    As his dusty cape parted I noticed that he still had what looked like a small ivory-handled automatic pistol on him. I stepped forward and gestured towards the gun at his side. He stared at me defiantly, he knew what I wanted. Hardly pausing, he patted the tiny weapon with his right hand and then wagged his finger. I understood straight away. He was not giving up his pistol and surrendering formally to anyone less than an officer. I stood aside and waved him on in their direction. I believe it was Captain Tom Pearson who finally got it off him.
    And that was the battle of Beda Fomm. In just a couple of months we had taken a 130,000 prisoners. Our breathless race across the desert had allowed us to finish off the Italian 10th Army entirely, but there was no jubilation in our camp, only relief.
    Two days after the shooting stopped I picked my way through the tangled metal and twisted carcasses of vehicles. The danger that had kept me alert and focused during battle was gone. Mangled bodies were scattered around in the dust already attracting flies. There were severed arms and legs spread out over a wide area, cut off by explosives or even concentrated machine gun fire. Wounded Italians were propped up against odd-looking rocks like gateposts. There was a solitary tree. Most of the injured had been taken away but some were still lying in the dirt, too weak to groan. It was a ghastly situation.
    Everyone copes in his own way, I suppose. I ran into Mike Mosley again. The great war hero was mooching around amongstthe sand dunes staring at the ground. He straightened his back and came across to me.
    ‘Do you know, Avey,’ he said, ‘I’ve found no less that twelve species of wildflower in this little patch of sand alone. Amazing.’

Chapter 5
     
    D espite the pasting the Italians had received during the battle, we had captured quite a few weapons and vehicles intact. I was told to list all the useful Italian clobber we could salvage. There were private cars in that last desperate column. Their polished fenders were now coated in thick dust. There were coaches too, which had carried prostitutes from the Italian bordellos of Benghazi. The women were packed off with the rest of the civilians back the way they had come, to the annoyance of some of the lads.
    Later, Bergonzoli claimed he lost partly because all those civilians, over 1,000 of them, got in his way. Ridiculous. He had the grace to admit that what he called ‘the excellent marksmanship of The Rifle Brigade’ had something to do with it as well.
    It is surprising what you find after a defeat. I came across a splendid collection of cockade hats all with their own flourish of feathers. The generals wouldn’t be needing those any more. I kept one. Then there was a beautifully crafted set of surgeon’s tools in a hand-sewn leather case with dried blood still on the scalpels. I was more interested in water. Rations hadn’t improved much and I was desperately thirsty.
    My eye was soon drawn to a largely intact group of trucks. They carried hundreds