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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. Please type your message:      We recommend you copy the text about this item and keep a copy on your own computer before pressing submit. Your Name:             Email Address:       @ **Please type the first part our your email in the first box (eg. john.smith) the @ sign is added automaticallly, please type the second part in the second box (eg. gmail.com). Do not enter your full email in each box or add an @ sign or random spaces.** Please type in the code shown here:    If you are unable to read the code please click here. If you have received an error message for incorrect code, please click to refresh the code before resending. This should overcome the error message.