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213377 Sgt. Lynn Sarrell Ongley South African Army Sergeant Lynn Ongley was held in P.O.W. Camp, Derna, Libya.
P.O.W. Camp, Benghazi, Libya. PG 54, Fara Sabina. PM 3300, Rome, Italy. Stalag 4B Mühlberg-on-Elbe, Dresden, Germany and
Stalag 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany. Whilst held captive he wrote a number of poems:
Red Cross Parcel by L.S. Ongley, 7 October 1942
- The Red Cross keep us fit and well
- With many a tasty dish
- No sooner is the issue made
- We fry up spuds and fish
- The chocolate lasts a little spell
- Our prunes we soak and stand
- Twelve biscuits spread with butter thick
- My word they do taste grand
- The meat roll fried in margarine
- With Yorkshire salt and milk
- While toast and butter heaped with jam
- Slides down like folds of silk
- The bully smeared with mustard
- Between two hunks of bread
- Can be described as having
- All powers to turn the head
- The oatmeal mixed with rasins
- Makes porridge sweet and stiff
- Our breakfast cheese warmed on the toast
- Gives a savoury niff
- Pork sausages baked in eggs
- Mixed veg with Irish stew
- Sweet custard smoothed o'er apple duff
- At last we rest and sip our brew
- The creamed rice sweets and apricots
- We hold for yet a while
- While cocoa in the evening hours
- Completes the welcome pile
- Maybe I've missed the honey sweet
- The golden syrup two
- But if their are some missing tins
- I leave the rest to you
- Without the Red Cross helping us
- Our lives we might have lost
- So when the war has passed us by
- We help what e'er the cost
- The cigarettes we cherish most
- Their help is great indeed
- When food is short we pull the belt
- For nicotine is feed
- My text to you is finnished
- No more there is to be
- The weekly Red Cross parcel gift
- To you I bend my knee.
Campo Concentranamento 54. P.M. 3300. Fara Sabina. Rome. Italy.
My Wife
by L.S. Ongley
30 May 1943
- You are my own, my very tower
- My work, my play, my trial, my power
- Your truthful lips, and gliding grace
- Those ways, those acts, my thoughts embrace
- All you I love, my hearts refrain
- My hope, my fear, my joy, my pain
- Your thoughtful eyes and redgold crown
- Those pools, those strands, my sorrows drown
- In you I find my whole domain
- My left, my right, my quest, my claim
- Your simple faith and girlish pride
- Those aims, those traits, with me abide
Concentration Camp 54. Fara Sabina. PM 3300. Rome. Italy.
Stalag Exercise
by L.S. Ongley
15 April 1944
- Twenty times a day I walk
- Around the compound square
- Twice to a mile is ten of the best
- Quite a fair jaunt without any rest
- A deed not common but rare.
- Rainy days I do the same
- The lads just stand and smile
- On the third time round they point and nod
- While I race faster across the sod
- A picture of ease and style.
Mühlberg P.O.W. Camp Dresden. Germany.
I Would Like
by L.S. Ongley
16 August 1944
- I would like to have a four pound loaf
- Of steaming snow white bread
- A vat of butter rich and fresh
- Enough to turn my head
- A china plate piled high with steak
- Six soft fried eggs on toast
- Tomatoes in their dozens
- With a chunk of fatty roast.
Stammlager 4B, Mühlberg-on-Elbe. Dresden. Germany.
Prison Bread
by L.S. Ongley
22 Feb 1945
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- An oblong lump of sawdust and rye
- Cut into sixths by an expert eye
- A slip of the knife and we moan and we cry
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- A choicer food can never be found
- With a basic content of wood and ground
- We wonder they don't make them square or round
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- A four pound loaf at two pound size
- Always too heavy, it never will rise
- Yet we never complain for it pays to be wise
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- Crusts make a cake for the afternoon brew
- While slices we have with our evening stew
- The only complaint is the loaves are so few
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
- It may be hard and heavy as lead
- But no bread at all would cause tears to be shed
- So though it may be ersatz we have to be fed
- Six to a loaf of bread we are
- Six to a loaf of bread
Concentration Camp 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
Sidelight
by L.S. Ongley
24 Feb 1945
- Patience is a virtue to prisoners its true
- But four long years of waiting
- Leaves them feeling awful blue
- What with grumbling and bickering
- There's nothing left to chew
- The age long days of hardship
- And the never ending queue
Concentration Camp 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
Mind Over Matter
by L.S. Ongley
3 March 1945
- He placed a plate upon the table
- Just in front of where I sat
- Boiled potatoes, pork and onions
- With a great big chunk of roasted fat.
- The steam rose up, I could but simper
- Streams of gravy, brown and hot
- Lay there piping with the onions
- Still I sat a drunken sot.
- Heaps of bread strewn on a napkin
- Inch thick slices, white and fresh
- Mounds of butter, lay there gloating
- Underneath the oval mesh.
- Then the vision slipped and wavered
- Up and past, the screen slid by
- Now my eyes could see those turnips
- All that passed was just a lie.
Stalag 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
Our Bungalow by L.S. Ongley
13 March 1945
- Bare brick walls all cold and damp
- With freezing stony floor
- A tiny closet wet and foul
- The lighting system poor
- Shaky beds of nails and plank
- No mattress can be seen
- A draughty roof of timber logs
- The dripping rafters green
- A smoky stove burns twice a day
- The atmosphere is dead
- One table is the furniture
- Reprisal it is said
- Some window panes are missing
- The door wont fit the frame
- Two heaters never operate
- For coal is just a name
- Fifteen feet by twenty
- Is the length of our prison hut
- Eighty men packed sardine tight
- With every window shut
Stalag 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
Starvation
- Theres nothing left in the larder
- Not even a crumb of dry bread
- The knock in my stomach grows louder
- Repeating the throb in my head
- The coffee is tasteless and bitter
- No breakfast of hot eggs and ham
- Meat is a dish quite unheard of
- Including the butter and jam
- One parcel is all that is needed
- Canadian or British will do
- I would finish the lot in an hour
- Excepting the milk and brew
Concentration Camp 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
Good Friday by L.S. Ongley 30 March 1945
- (Five weeks of starvation rations)
- To-day is Good Friday the Day of our Lord
- At home the hot cross buns are eaten
- Out there they strive with gun and sword
- Until the foe is surely beaten
- Last night I prayed to the one above
- To send us help in bread and meat
- My prayer was held how great his love
- I kneel in silence before his feet
- Day by day they said there was none
- Our hunger made us droop and sag
- We join you with your hot cross bun
- Each one with his red cross bag.
During the days of hunger, trial and tribulation, parcels arrived to-day, after weeks of gradual starvation. Half a parcel per man.
Stalag 357. Fallingbostel. Hanover. Germany.
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