In anticipation of the moves the order goes out that all vehicles will have the tyre chains on. Drivers get into the most appalling state carrying out the order.
“Surely,” says Edgington, “this rain must be longer than Queen Victoria’s.”
“Let’s go to the Command Post,” I said. “See what’s on the wireless.”
We double across, giving off our usual Red Indian War Whoops. In the Command Post, Vic Nash and Bombardier Edwards have folded up the Artillery Board and are packing the remaining bits and pieces.
The fire is glowing red, Edgington and I settle by it. We steam in the near heat. It was the only refuge in a grim world of mud and cold.
“I wonder what wondrous fairyland they are taking us to,” says Deans. He takes a cigarette from his tin.
Little Vic Nash, “Give us one, I’m clean out.”
Deans hands the tin across.
“Fucking Vs! These are personal fuckin’ insults,” says Nash, but still takes one. “It won’t fukin’ well light.”
“You have to dry the bloody thing out first,” advises Deans in sage-like voice.
“You know, I wrote to my MP in London about these bloody Vs, and said it was a disgrace that we had to smoke the bloody things.”
“Did you get a reply?”
“Yes, he said there was nothing that could be done because these fags are made in India, and it’s easier to ship fags from India to Italy than from England; he put a packet of twenty Players in a parcel and wished me good luck.”
“Well, you don’t appear to have had any,” said Edgington.
“Have you see this,” says Deans and hands us a page torn from the Union Jack, the Army newspaper…I was so smitten with what I read I copied it out.
Corridors of Power.
MKI General:
Leaps tall buildings with a single bound. More powerful than a steam engine, faster than a speeding bullet. Gives policy to GOD.
Colonel:
Leaps short buildings with a single bound. More powerful than a shunting engine. Is just as fast as a speeding bullet. Walks on water (if the sea is calm). Talks with GOD.
Lt.-Colonel:
Leaps short buildings with a running start in favourable winds. Is almost as powerful as a speeding bullet. Walks on water in indoor swimming pools. Talks with GOD if special request is approved.
Major:
Barely clears a Nissen hut. Loses tug-of-war with a steam engine. Can fire a speeding bullet and swims well. Is occasionally addressed by GOD.
Captain:
Makes high marks when trying to leap tall buildings. Is run over by trains. Can sometimes handle a gun without inflicting self injury. Dog paddles, talks to animals.
Lieutenant:
Runs into tall buildings. Recognises trains two out of three times. Is not issued with ammunition. Can stay afloat if properly instructed in the use of a lifejacket. Talks to walls.
2nd Lieutenant:
Falls over doorsteps while trying to enter buildings. Says, “Look at Choo Choo.” Is NEVER issued with a gun or ammunition. Plays in mud puddles. Mumbles to himself.
Sgt.-Major:
Lifts tall buildings and walks under them. Kicks steam-engines off the track. Catches speeding bullets in his teeth and eats them. Freezes water with a single glance…HE IS GOD!
This occasion was at Santa Maria. The weather was bitter cold. The rain had stopped. For some reason, we had nowhere to sleep, so Edgington, Pedlar Palmer, Trew, Fuller and myself made a giant bed right out in the open. First we laid down a huge canvas Gun sheet. On that we all made our beds in a square, all feet towards the middle. That done, we laid over the top yet another giant canvas Gun sheet. I’m still desperate to remember why we did it, so I ring up Edgington in New Zealand, he recalls the occasion, but again the reason is unexplained.
ME: Harry?
H: Yes, is that you, mate?
ME: Yes, it’s me, mate.
H: Cor strewth, what’s the time there?
ME: It’s ten past eleven here in the morning.
H: It’s ten past ten at night here.
ME: Good night.
H: Good morning.
ME: Harry, I’m on Volume 4 of the war memoirs, now Rocamanfina…and Terra Corpo…do you remember the occasion of the great bed?
H: Cor yes, we did it right out in the open, we used gun canvas.
ME: Good! Can you remember why we did it?
H: Yes.
ME: Why?
H: We were all bloody balmy.
ME: I know that, but was there any other reason? Were we short of tents?
H: No, sanity.
So there we have it. In that bed we slept like babes. Alas for Edgington, in the middle of the night someone from the Command Post tells us, “The line to the OP has broken.” No one answered except the innocent Edgington. He gets up, and in his words, “I don’t know why no one else heard the call. [I know.] I got up and for some reason didn’t lace up my boots. I started to trace the line. I reached a stream that was so churned up by crossing motor traffic, the water was like porridge. I found the break, but had to cross the stream which was about three feet deep. On my return, I took my boots into the Command Post, which had the brazier burning. I was too tired, I just threw my boots in the fire and waiting for them to dry I fell asleep sitting up. Next morning I took my boots from the embers, they were snow white and as hard as iron. To soften them I had to soak them in water again.” End of Edgington bit.
When the remaining Giant Bed sleepers awoke at dawn, the gun canvas was covered white with frost, yet I remember I had slept soundly and warm. End of Milligan bit.
I had been feeling a bit groggy all day. I could feel a cold coming on, so I dosed myself with hot tea and rum.
The 16th ended like it had started, with thunderous deluges of cold rain. It numbed the mind, the body and sapped the morale. My sleeping ‘Quarters’? I had found a small embankment. In it I noticed a crevice that was about the length of a man lying down. It was recessed back about five feet, and from this I made a small, very dry, little sleeping quarters. There was only room for the bed, my small pack and an oil lamp.
By astute placing of my gas cape and some ‘acquired’ waterproof sheeting, I had made it rainproof. About ten that rain-swept evening, I lifted up the flap of my ‘den’, climbed in, removed my soggy boots, trousers and jacket, and eased myself into the dank blankets. I left the oil lamp burning for a while to give a little cheer to the gloom. Thoughts tumbled through my head—home, jazz, women, leave, money.
I take another swig from the rum ration in my water bottle, ghastly, I take another swig from my rum ration, ghastly…I take a swig from my rig ration. I take a rash from my swig.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1943
The BBC News:
“Heavy rain in Italy is slowing the Allied advance.”
(Advance? What advance?) Today was a crisis day, the drivers tell us of chaos on the roads: flooding and cataclysmic subsidence has all but brought traffic to a halt. A Recce party return with the news that we have a new gun position at 966976.
“Come to romantic 966976 and take the waters, wallow in health-giving mud baths.” I am saying all this from my den when Edgington’s voice draws nigh.
“Hist! I hear a voice from yon catacomb.” He pops his head under the gas cape. “Come on, I’m off to brekker.”
The rain is running down the gas cape he holds over his head. I still feel groggy, but I don my clothes; together we slurp-slurp-slither towards the cookhouse. It’s in a large tent among the apple trees. At the serving table stand Ronnie May and Charlie Booth. They’ve been up since six making the grub. Again! A fried egg! some spam stuff, bread, jam and tea.
Slip-slop-slur we go, sheltering the food under our capes. The Command Post fire is almost out. Wenham is inside, disconnecting the ‘Dags’.
“I’m leavin’ two new ones,” he says in his Sussex burr.
Lt. Wright comes in behind us. “Oh dear, who’s let the fir
e out?”
We quickly add more twigs. The twigs are very damp, but when they burn have a lovely applewood smell.
Still no firing, we call up the OP. Lt. Walker wants to speak to Lt. Wright, they pass pleasantries, he hands me back the phone. I speak to Bdr. Eddie Edwards.
“What’s it like up there?”
“Bloody wet, Jerry is very quiet, it’s live and let live at the moment, though he did a bit of mortaring around us last night.”
“Don’t come back here, you’ll be killed by boredom. Is it dry up there?”
“Yes, we’re in a building, what’s left of it.”
“I give up. What’s left of it?” I laugh.
“You silly bugger.”
“You know the guns are out of action.”
“Yes, I know, but we’ve got to stay here for Observation, we’ve been flash-spotting Jerry guns at night.”
“Well, I’m just going to finish me tea. See ya.” To emulate the events that happened the rest of the day, carry out the following exercise: pour three buckets of water over yourself, face a blank wall and chain smoke.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1943
Today was, as Sean O’Casey said, “A state of Chassis’. Everything is now mud brown—men, machines, trees, mountains, apples. I hear Edgington singing ‘It’s a Brown World without you’ to the tune of ‘It’s a Blue World without you’. I try and match it with ‘When the Brown of the Night meets the Brown of the Day, someone waits for me’. He tops that with ‘When you hear that serenade in Brown’. I go on with ‘Brown Moon, I saw you standing alone’. I sing ‘Am I Brown,” he sings ‘St Louis Browns’ then ‘In my dear little Alice Brown Gown’.
“Brown Skies.”
“Brown Birds over the Brown Cliffs of Dover.”
We have to be ready by mid-day. The only way to get the guns out of the mud is tractors. We are to try the Americans.
“Americans?” gasps our Major. “No, we must never sink that low.”
“We are sunk that low, that’s why we need them,” we informed him. To our aid came three giant American tractors. They eventually help us on to the road facing north-east; Fuller revs up his motor bike.
“Follow me,” he says, and goes straight into the ditch. It was all too much.
We leap out and pull the bike off him. What did he look like??? His face had disappeared; he is now convulsed with laughter.
I am now travelling with Ernie Hart, a thin cadaverous face, the rims of his eyes always looked red and sore. He was a nice lad with a quiet sense of humour, so quiet no one ever heard it. I tell him our destination.
“San Domenico?” he repeated, “lots of Sans in this country.”
“Yes, sans fags, sans money, sans every bloody thing.”
Behind us we can see Monkey 1 Truck, Webster’s face showing occasionally through the windscreen wipers. Behind that a line of our vehicles at varying distances. A sign, “You are travelling over this bridge by courtesy of the USA 345 Bridge Building Co.”.
We could do with more of this, ‘These shell-holes are by courtesy of the 74 Medium Regiment’ or ‘This devastated landscape comes to you by courtesy of the 5th Army,’ or a sign pinned to oneself, ‘This crummy battle dress comes to you by courtesy of our mean bloody Quarterbloke’.
Jerry has made a thorough job in blowing all the bridges, every one we cross has been laboriously replaced with a Bailey. Total weight of a gun plus the Scammell is nearly twenty-five tons; they have to slow up when crossing, and gradually the light trucks pull ahead of the gun convoy. The torrential rain forces us to pull down the back canvas of the truck.
Muddy conditions
We have stopped (big deal), we hear raised voices, a large lorry has slidden off the road. The driver’s face covered in blood, he is being hauled up from below; other mud-saturated figures are helping him into another truck; they all have to shout above the roar of the deluge. It’s like a school for the deaf. We are off at a snail’s pace. God knows how drivers can cope.
“Can you see where you’re goin’?” calls Hart through to poor Driver Masters.
“No,” comes the reply, “I’m driving in Braille.”
It’s about mid-day, or if you go by the light, midnight. We have been halted on a road; to our right, looming over us are Monte Santa Croce and Monte Mattone, both over 600 to 1,000 feet. They run east to west on a range that ends up near the coast with Monte Massico, 800 feet. “They ought to keep the draught out,” says Hart. All that day we were truckbound by rain; if and when the bloody stuff stopped, we debussed and stretched our legs. There is no sign or word of the cookhouse.
“I think under the circumstances we should surrender,” I said.
Somehow the cooks have managed to juggle up a hot meal, a temporary affair of two lorries about ten feet apart, with a canvas spread over to cover the area between. In it they have done the impossible. HOT DINNER! As I collected mine I told Ronnie May I was writing to Buckingham Palace to recommend him for an award.
“Never mind the bloody award,” he says. “Ask them for some fucking matches that aren’t damp. I have to sleep with mine in me pocket, otherwise this bloody mob wouldn’t get any hot grub.”
“Let me help,” I said dramatically. “I would consider it an honour to sleep with your matches tonight.”
Bombardier Fuller explains. “When this bloody rain stops, we got to dig the Command Post over there—” He points to a small land area about thirty feet below us in a valley. “We dig into that bank, the ten line exchange will go in that cave to the left—” he indicates a small cave “—and to the left of that, I think there’s a cave big enough to take the Monkey Truck Mob.” Poor Fuller, he’s up to his eyebrows in mud; riding a motor bike in this weather is like going over the Niagara Falls in a gas stove.
The rain stops. I found a bank on the road, under the cover of a large tree; with my motley collection of boxes, tins, boards, etc., I rigged up a bed and got my tent into position. It was very damp, but at least I could kip in the ‘dead’ position. The proximity of passing traffic to my bed was but a few feet, however, I had a ‘home’. Before turning in, I listen to the BBC Overseas six o’clock broadcast:
“The Germans are pulling out to pre-prepared positions called the Gustav Line.”
Mussolini is in Verona as head of the Provisional Fascist Government. The Russians continue their relentless advance even in midwinter. How do they do it? Here we were standing still: a German Propaganda Poster of the time reflects our predicament.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1943
Thank God today is SUNNY.
“Look,” I shouted, kneeling and pointing a quivering finger aloft, “the sun, I tell ‘ee it’s the sun. People says ois darft, but I tell ‘ee that’s the sun. I ‘eard people in England say if they sees the sun they report it to the police.”
“Yes, yes,” says Bombardier Fuller. “And that,” he says, pointing, “is a shovel. Start fucking digging.”
“I realise,” says Vic Nash, “that with all the diggin’ I’ve done out here I must have changed the shape of Italy”
Vic is short, about five foot five, looks Jewish but isn’t. He was a pastry cook in the Old Kent Road before the war, but is now digging Command Posts.
“Why didn’t they put me in the Army Catering Corps?”
“You should have asked,” said Bombardier Trew.
“I did ask,” said Nash, a note of exasperation. “I said look, I’m a pastry cook by trade, can I go in the catering Corps?”
Nash pauses, lights a cigarette. “The Sergeant said, “Of course, you’re lucky, they need cooks in the Royal Artillery.” So I thought I was safe, but now, fuck it! Look at this lot.” He held up a shovel coagulated with mud.
We freeze as the sound of planes is heard. Whose are they, where are they?…they loom into view from the south.
“Bostons,” says Trew.
Their engines are labouring under the weight of bombs, above them and to the right are a squadron of Kittyhawks. Am
ericans!
“For Christ sakes don’t move,” warns Edgington, “or they’ll ‘ave us.”
They move majestically towards the Abruzzi Mountains, Jerry flack peppering the air around them.
“It’s astounding that so few planes get hit,” said Deans, peering at the conflict with his right hand shading his eyes.
“Well,” I said, “it’s very difficult for the shell and the plane to be in the same place at the same time. By the law of averages it can’t happen too often.”
“Ooooooom, ‘ark at bloody Einstein,” says Nash, tapping his head with his finger. “I say this, the shell with yer number on will get you no matter where you’re standin’, for all we know there’s one on the way to us now.”
I cupped my hand to my ear and leaned forward. “List! I think I can hear it now…no…wait…no, it’s not for you, it’s for…for Mrs Ada Grolledes of Brockley.”
Even as I spoke, a plume of smoke starts to trail from one of the Bostons.
“They’ve got one,” shouted Ernie Hart enthusiastically.
The Boston turned in a slow circle and started to head back to base, we watched as it jettisoned its bombs. The smoke was still trailing from its port engine as it passed into the distance in the direction of what must have been Foggia aerodrome.
“I bet there’s a few shitty underpants up there,” said Edgington grimly.
“There’s a lot of shitty underpants down ‘ere,” said Nash, who hadn’t been able to get a bath for nearly ten days. The Boston gradually diminishes into the nothingness of distance.
“That made a nice little break,” said Ernie Hart.
It sounded heartless, but things like planes on fire were all the real entertainment we had. If a lorry crashed in a ditch, men would come from all over to see it pulled out again, anything to break the boredom.
Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall Page 12
