Christmas greetings card showing conditions in the Italian theatre of war.
DECEMBER 1, 1943
REGIMENTAL DIARY:
Supported fire continued through the night.
FILDES’ DIARY:
The ‘do’ begins tonight.
MY DIARY:
RAIN, BLOODY RAIN.
“And, on the fifth day, he divideth the land from the waters.” Not any more he didn’t, for “On yer umpteenth day, he mixeth the land and the water and lo! he maketh mud, and he putteth his beloved son, Gunner Milligan, up to his neck in it.” Command Post very busy all day, preparations for fire plan for attack at 2200 hours.
Ammunition is being dumped by the guns, through the day the pile of mustard-coloured shells mounts up. Mud is everywhere. Are they going to attack in this weather? Up a mountain? At two in the morning? I couldn’t help but recall Siegfried Sassoon’s World War 1 poem:
He’s not a bad bloke
Said Harry to Jack
As they humped their way forward
With rifle and pack
But he did for them with his plan of attack.
(I think that’s right.) Did that thing still happen? To add to our emotional confusion we are issued with Christmas Air Letter Cards. They have no particular artistic merit, done by a run-of-the-mill artist. Most certainly I wouldn’t let him run my mill.
Christmas? It didn’t seem possible. Yet, somehow, the ancient message was still relevant (a bit of a white relevant), and the echo of Childhood Christmasses held strong in the memory. That distant happy time had strength, the call of family and close feelings remained indestructible. Hearts and flowers, please!
The truck from Wagon Lines has arrived with Christmas Mail. Smiles all round. A parcel from my dear mother. It’s sewn up in a cloth wrapping, giving it the appearance of a mummified cat. With jack-knife, Army for the uses of, I, stitches parcels for the undoing of did. Fruit cake! Mars bars! Holy medals, holy pictures, cigarettes, holy smoke!
We have to double up on Command Post duties, one signaller on the wireless set, one on the telephone and the Tannoys to the guns.
“Christ, no sleep for us tonight,” said Ernie Hart.
Ben Wenham is testing the dags, and topping them up with distilled water.
“Give ‘em a little drinkypoos,” he said, talking to himself.
The OP party have left, Lt. Walker, Bombardier Trew, Jam-Jar Griffin, Pinchbeck, they’ve gone in our newly acquired jeep, with a ‘cheese cutter’ on the bonnet. This was an upright metal bar that was introduced when Jerry patrols started putting taut thin wire across a road after dark, which resulted in decapitating the passengers. Long lines of supply mules are heading up the line, kicking, braying, biting, their Cypriot handlers forever leaping out of the way with shouts of “Oushi! Oushi!” The weather has grounded all flying (it’s even grounded walking) though we do hear one lone plane that sounds like a Jerry, it is, he drops some splinter bombs in a graveyard!
“I think he’s losing his nerve,” said Lt. Stewart Pride.
All is ready for the big do, codename ‘KONKER’.
A sub gun lets off occasional harassing fire so the pre-barrage silence is not too obvious. Edgington is out with the line maintenance signallers. Every half-hour a check call comes through from them.
“Hello, Line Maintenance here, line OK?”
“Yes, OK.”
“Thank fuck.”
Yes, we were all fully employed.
0200. Barrage Starts
After preliminary fire orders are given to the guns, the fire plan takes over and we just sit and wait for targets from the OP. There are nearly a thousand guns savaging the night.
0400. The Attack Goes In
Like a miracle the rain stopped just before zero hour. Is God on our side?
A Tale of Gunner Edgington
‘Twas a dark and stormy night and the Monkey Truck signallers lay dead asleep. At the soul-shattering hour of 0100 hours, with a gale blowing and rain squalling the tempest-black night, a cry is hurled among the dormant bodies.
“The OP line is ‘dis’.”
Reacting like a Pavlov dog, Edgington rises, dons his boots, and plunges into the night. He follows the wire, falls into a three-foot muddy stream, mends the break. At dawn, while we were taking the first tea of the day, a spectre appears at the Command Post entrance, it is the same height as Edgington…it is Edgington, from head to foot it drips with water and mud overlaid with a fine layer of frost. Two eyes look out from the mud. It groans.
“Edgington!” said Vic Nash, “you naughty, naughty boy, I’ve told you never to play with those boys next door! You just wait until your father comes home.” Nash is lucky to be alive.
DECEMBER 2, 1943
MY DIARY:
MISSED BREAKFAST.
“Sorry I’m late, Ronnie,” I said in a grovelling voice, “I didn’t get to sleep till late.”
“I’m sorry, matey, it’s all gone, there’s some tea left, and some bread.”
“Tea and bread? Oh yum yum, can you make the tea as cold as possible, and the bread nice and stale, I don’t want to get used to luxuries.”
Ronnie May grinned. I always wondered why a man with such a refined Etonian accent ended up cooking. Apparently he came from a very upper class family in the jewellery business. He went to Harrow and but for the war would have gone to Oxford. He had fallen in love with a working class girl, and the family frowned on the prospect of marriage. The war had come along and to prove that he wasn’t a snob he had turned down a commission and become a cook. This was all to impress the girl, who then went off with an officer. I reheated the tea on Spike Deans’ primus, and toasted the bread on the G truck fire. Seeing my foodless plight Deans says, “Would you like something to spread on that?”
“Oh Christ, yes,” I said.
“There’s some boot polish in my pack.”
The utter swine. Revenge! I contacted Bombardier Sloggit at RHQ. He worked in the Q stores. He in turn phoned Deans and said, “Report here at once, there’s something for you to collect.”
Deans reported and was given the empty boot-polish tin and told, “If ever you get some butter, you can keep it in here.”
Checkmate. Ten o’clock, my turn for Command Post duty. Taking a writing pad and some old newspapers, I walked down the incline across the small depression, up the slope. I passed Maria doing a mountain of military laundry.
“Buon giorno, Maria.”
She smiled and blushed, the innocence of Italian country girls was something to see. Something else to see was the top of her stocking tops as she bent over.
“You’re ten minutes late,” said Ernie Hart.
“I’ll give you a receipt for it,” I said, “and if that’s not enough, tonight I’ll wear a hair shirt studded with hob-nails, OK? Now, if you hurry up you’ll see the back of Maria’s bum.”
We were very busy all morning, a total of 587 rounds were fired in support of the Camino Battle. On the Infantry network I hear a new map reference: ‘Bare Arse Ridge’. How it got its name is hard to conceive. Lt. Walker said it was during a previous attack, the Guards had come upon several Jerries squatting down having a ‘Pony’. One would be hard put to it to find a memorial that said ‘To the Fallen of Bare Arse Ridge’, and yet that was the case.
We came to a slack period. I start writing seasonal letters, and some poetry which was crap. I read it to Lt. Wright. “What do you think of it, sir?”
“I’m afraid, Milligan, I shall never think of it,” he said.
The rain had let up, a weak silver sun strained to make itself felt. Suddenly, from what seems directly above me, comes the roar of aero engines, oh God! are we for it?, a long burst of machine-gun fire. We all rush out, there are shouts of alarm, men are running and looking up. There, at about 500 feet, are a squadron of American Kittyhawks; the leading plane appears to be coming straight for me. I don’t understand, I hadn’t ordered one. His machine guns are blazing away, a figure hur
tles from the cockpit, a parachute mushrooms, the fighter flashes past and hits the ground a hundred yards to our left. There is no explosion, so! Hollywood had been lying to us. The pilot is floating down on to an adjacent field. Our idiot Major appears.
“Follow me,” he says as though we’re the Light Brigade. He leads, holding out his pistol, he doesn’t run straight for the pilot, no: we follow the track plan, we skirt the edge of the field in Indian file, the pilot is extricating himself from his chute and wondering why we are circling him, the Major bounds up, he points his pistol at a man chewing gum, wearing a red flying jacket with the words HANK, THE KID FROM IDAHO on the front, and a yellow bird on the back inscribed FLYING EAGLES, he is taking a cigarette from a packet of Camels.
“Hands up! English or German,” says the looney Major.
The American went purple. “You’re fucking lucky I’m anything, it’s your trigger-happy fucking Ack-Ack, why don’t they make up their minds whose fucking side they are on.”
The Major was a little taken aback, steadied himself and said, “Consider it a gesture in return for the number of bloody times you’ve bombed us.”
This was great fun—Christmas, not only fighting Germans but each other. After being entertained at the officers’ mess with a cup of tea, he was whisked away by a USAAF jeep driven by a coloured private wearing a white bowler hat. Don’t ask me why. We waved them goodbye.
“Come and crash on us again some time,” we called.
Edgington is stumbling from his cave. “What happened?” he said. “I was writing to Peg.”
I grabbed his arm dramatically. “Writing to Peg?” I echoed. “You missed the crash? Wait, I’ll see if I can get him back.”
They all go across to see the remains of the Kittyhawk. The thieving bastards make towards the wreck with chisels, hacksaws, screw drivers, I call, “Leave a bit for me.”
Circling the wreck Edgington had said, “I wonder if there’s anyone underneath.”
White bends down and shouts: “Anybody underneath?”
Command Post, Fontana Fredda, December 1943 171
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1943
MY DIARY:
POURING RAIN. DUG A DEEP DRAINAGE PIT AROUND MY BIVVY TO DIVERT FLOW OF WATER. G TRUCK NOW HAVE LOGS ON THEIR FIRE. VERY COSY. UNENDING BREW-UPS OF TEA AND COFFEE. BACK ON COMMAND POST DUTIES. MUST ANSWER LETTERS.
A letter from my mother’ and father had said that my brother was to go into the RAF (as he ended up a private in the Ulster Rifles, I began to feel uneasy about my parents’ sanity). My father’s letters were getting to be a pain in the arse. He seemed obsessed with the idea that I ‘didn’t answer your mother’s letters’. Now at that time I thought he might be right, but on checking with my Correspondence log I note that I answered each and every letter. Since then and down the years to his death, he continued to insist with his accusations, so much so that I registered all my letters (over the years it cost a bloody fortune) and stuck all the receipts in a book that I presented to him on his seventieth birthday with the message:
“To dear Dad, a small token to prove that I always answer all Mum’s letters.”
He looked at it and said, “This is a fake, my memory is the real proof of your laxity in letter-writing to your poor mother.” He even wrote to all our relatives asking them to write to me and pressurise me to ‘answer his poor mother’s letters’. It was a true case of mania. He died saying: “Promise you’ll write to your mother today.” She was standing beside me at the time.
My mother’s letters were equally a mass of instructions:
“Pray to Saint Patrick and Saint Theresa every night. Go to Confession and Communion every Sunday! Say prayers morning, noon and night, always wear your scapular medals, don’t swear, keep your holy pictures in your pockets”…
How do you go into action? On your knees?
OP OFFICER: Target tanks.
ME: Yes sir, Et in secular, target tanks, Amen.
OFFICER: HE 119 Charge four.
ME: Yes sir, HE 119 Charge four. God forgive me for attempting to kill Germans.
OFFICER: Angle of sight 03 degrees.
ME: 03 degrees. Holy Virgin, bless these fire orders.
OFFICER: Right ranging.
ME: Right ranging mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Amen. Fire!
I know now that Evelyn Waugh was a Catholic, and in Yugoslavia, pissed out of his mind, went all out for medals by standing up during bombing raids and shouting to poor Randolph Churchill under a table, “Come out, you yellow swine.” Well, I wasn’t that good a Catholic.
British soldier forcing officer to paint his portrait at gunpoint.
DECEMBER 5, 1943
MY DIARY:
RAIN. GUNFIRE. BOREDOM, HOMESICK, LOVESICK.
These early December cold, rain-soaked days were hanging heavy on us all. The boredom was only alleviated by sheer effort. Off duty we would foregather at ‘Chez G Truck’ bivvy. The consumption of tea was enormous, we had more of it than ammo; for men to return from mud, shells, rain and cold to enter our little den and see a woodfire was great. Edgington was a linesman, whereas I was a wireless operator—the ratio was that of navvy and bank clerk. Edgington’s intelligence warranted more than linesman—but his performance on a wireless set during hectic fire orders would have ground the war to a halt. He couldn’t do things at anyone else’s pace, it had to be his own— he was his own total master, he gets it right, but all in his own time and you can’t do that in a war. He squats near the fire, his mug to his lips.
“Ahhh!” he gasps, “Heaven.”
“Heaven?” said cryptic-voiced Nash, “call this bloody heaven?”
“It was a momentary lapse,” said Edgington, “it’s passed off. I no longer think this is heaven—I’ll rephrase it—it’s Fucking Hell.”
Edgington has just returned from OP line maintenance, he tells us there’s very little Christmas spirit up there. The season of goodwill is stone dead, and so are our young men. We outstare the fire in silence, Nash throws his stub into the flames. The saltpetre flares blue. Fildes is uncasing his guitar.
“Gonna burn it?” said Deans.
Fildes ignores him; attentively he tunes the strings.
“Play ‘The Nearness of You’,” I said. Alf nods. “E-flat,” he says.
We all sing it. Enter Jam-Jar Griffin.
“Oops sorry, vicar—is there a service on,” he said reverently, taking his hat off.
“Yes,” says Nash, “active-fucking-service.”
“Can I join in?” guffaws Jam-Jar, taking off his overcoat. “Let me partake of this seasonal red tannic-acid tea—and wish my guts the compliments of the season. A real Dickensian Christmas to you all.”
Guffaws. Alf Fildes laughs long at Jam-Jar’s old world posturing.
“‘Ark,” says Nash, cupping his hand to his ear in fairy-like gesture, “isn’t that an old Dickensian 7.2 gun goin’ off?—‘pon my word I didn’t know Christmas was so near—I must to the workhouse to put my Christmas Puddins in place.”
Alf starts to play ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’, we all join in. All evening Dean’s had been in a state of agitation, finally, “It’s no good,” he said, “I’ll have to open it.”
Open what? He has a bottle of Marsala! he has been waiting all night for us to depart, but couldn’t wait any longer, now he had to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar.
“It’s corked,” I said.
“Corked? it’s fucked.”
“Let’s think of something nice,” said Deans. “Are you going anywhere for Christmas?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to spend a few days in my tent in Italy.”
“I think I’ll take a stroll round my truck—never know who you might meet,” said Fildes.
Buzz-buzz. Our private phone is going. Deans raises it.
“Hello—Chez G Truck…” he hands me the hand-set. “It’s fer you.”
Gunner H
art in the Command Post is asking me, “‘Ave you taken the pencil?”
“No, I haven’t, I’ve only got my own.” Can he borrow it, otherwise the Battery will be ‘out of the war’.
In a few minutes he appears covered in mud.
“I fell over,” he said.
I handed him the pencil.
“Cup of tea?” said Deans.
“Just a sip,” said Hart. “They’re waiting for me to start the war.” He took a hasty mouthful. “Ta,” he grinned.
“Fire one for us,” we called after him.
“Any special colour?” we heard him say.
The drumming of rain starts on the canvas ceiling, I throw a log on the fire, it reflames, a shower of needle-sparks fly up the chimney.
DECEMBER 8, 1943
This day the battle was won. Jerry pulled out and Monte Camino was ours. I don’t think a battle could have been fought under worse conditions. The pace now slackens, I manage a wayside bath in a tin. It’s so cold you keep the top half fully dressed while you do the legs, then on with the trousers, strip the top half and do that.
We are all fed up with being in the same position, and rumours are flying. We’re going home, etc., and the best one of all—the war is going to finish in eight days!
DECEMBER 9, 1943
I can’t take much more of this bloody rain. It’s time we had a rest. I must have been depressed because on this day my diary is empty.
Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall Page 17
