Word spread quickly among the Italian Scots in their shops and restaurants about the pending arrests and subsequent deportation, tipped off mostly by their Scottish neighbors and friends. Most were so eager to show the English government how agreeable they could be, they packed ahead of time and waited on the curb to be taken away. There were a few who hid from the police but they would soon be found and join the rest.
The spiderweb of train tracks from points north and south converged outside Manchester. The tracks that ran along the river Irwell had not seen such a steady flow of locomotives pulling cars into the platforms outside Manchester since the mill had been in operation. When the men and boys arrived by train in Bury, they disembarked and found hundreds more men on the platform waiting to be processed.
The Italian prisoners of war had been rounded up from one end of England to the other. Herded into groups, the Britalians did not resist. They listened carefully and followed instructions issued by the guards, whose guns were held at the ready should there be trouble.
The abandoned fields by Warth Mills were an ideal location for a prison camp, according to the men who designed such things. The prisoners would be processed outdoors in cordoned-off stalls, herded single file like cattle for the slaughter. Once their names and personal information were recorded, they were admitted indoors to the mill. Two thousand men would fit in the makeshift barracks, though the number swelled to three thousand that day, and all still managed to squeeze into the abandoned cotton mill. Barbed wire fences surrounded the lot and building. Armed guards stood at the entrance.
As the prisoners filed inside, they found no chairs, benches, or beds, just a massive, filthy factory two acres deep. In the far distance, across the floor, was a group of prisoners who had arrived first and finished the task of sweeping the floor clean for the incoming. Word soon spread that they were professors and teachers from Oxford, men of the Jewish faith with roots in Germany and Austria who might be spies. The Britalians did not believe that these teachers were any more a threat to the English government than they were. But it didn’t matter. They were the side without weapons.
The mill was dreary. The air was thick with the filaments from the cotton looms. There was grease on the floor, left behind from the machines, no doubt. Overhead, the glass panels of the skylights were so filthy you could not see through them. The glass was broken and cracked, allowing the elements inside. The walls crawled with black mold.
The prisoners were issued canvas sacks to fill with straw for their beds. Once they stuffed the sacks, the prisoners stood around and wondered what would come next. Boys sat on their duffels. Some men turned their suitcases upright and propped themselves upon them. The incoming prisoners circulated, looking for familiar faces in the crowd.
Confusion was the mother of fear, and the lack of information given to the prisoners fed their anxiety. No one had explained exactly why they had been brought to Warth Mills and where they were going.
Antica joined the line to pick up a canvas sack and straw to make a bed.
Mattiuzzi and his son, Piccolo, picked up their mess kits: a tin plate, bowl and cup, knife and fork. No food was offered with the empty plate.
Savattini entered the mill, having disembarked with the last load of men from the train station. Savattini tried to assess the situation as he looked at the behemoth mill, filled to capacity with men. He wondered where the kitchen was located.
Fracassi entered the mill several men behind Savattini. He had been brought to Warth Mills in an army truck with thirty other men, outfitted with benches that could seat only ten comfortably.
As Fracassi joined his fellow prisoners, he moved through the crowd dressed in his long black cassock and Roman collar. The internees stood out of respect, creating a path for the priest to pass. They bowed their heads and murmured greetings to the old priest. Fracassi nodded, acknowledging the men until he made it through the crowd to the far end of the mill.
* * *
Savattini walked through the mill, searching for familiar faces, knowing that the most important aspect of a ma?tre d’s duties was to make connections. His eyes fell upon a group under a window, three men who had formed a circle. This looked like the group for him. He needed a drink and they were sipping grappa. Savattini reached into his pocket to count his cigarettes. He had exactly thirteen left, which would get him through to the morning.
“Gentlemen,” Savattini said as he joined Antica, Mattiuzzi, and Piccolo. “Where are you from?”
“Glasgow.” Piccolo extended his hand, introduced himself and the others.
“No, I meant in Italy. Where are your people from?”