Just a few weeks later in May, I am feeling even more demoralised as I say goodbye to the capitano. ‘I am being transferred to the Orient.’ He grips my hand in his in a strong hold but his face is sad. ‘You are like the son I never had,’ he whispers. Giving my hand one more squeeze, he let’s go and turns away. I almost doubt I have heard correctly. Sometimes I forget that I am nearly twenty-three-years-of-age. This war has made me old before my time. We have worked well together and formed as strong a friendship as anyone can when one is a POW and the other is their keeper. But, it seems that he was truly fond of me.
By August, I still have not managed to escape. My mind has begun playing games with me. Should I return home or just high tail it to Russia as soon as I get out of here? What will my Italia be like now?
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