Harry starts to sing ‘Cuore Napolitano’, a song we had heard in Amalfi. It had all been memorable.
JANUARY 1-2, 1944
A muddy field, a rectangular pitch, at each end goals made from a bric-a-brac of telegraph poles, logs and branches of trees fresh-painted with whitewash. Around the touchlines are foregathered men of 19 Battery, they have come to see 19 Battery ‘wipe the bloody floor’ with a team from RHQ. “We’ll teach ‘em to live in dry bloody billets,” said Dai Poole as he took the field to captain our team. Great cries of encouragement, as against the boos that greet RHQ. The referee is Sgt. Donaldson, the two linesmen Jock Hall and Bdr. Marsden: so biased is the referee that the entry of RHQ is greeted with a blast on the whistle and a cry of “Offside.”
The game didn’t seem to bear much relationship to football. Rather mud-ball. At times it was buried a foot under the surface, and after ten minutes both sides looked identical. Thereafter all the players ran around the field identifying themselves by shouting ‘19 Battery’ or ‘RHQ’. It sounded like a lunatic Eastern bazaar. All attempts at positional play were abandoned in favour of a mass concentration of wherever the ball was. I swear to God the first goal for 19 Battery was scored by the referee, and when the ball came where the touchline might have been, several spectators joined in the dribbling. The interval was resplendent with two huge containers of tea, and a seasonal ‘gift’ of rum. The spectators were into it first, and the players got bugger all.
The game is about to be resumed, but stops when three 19 Battery players were found hiding among the RHQ team. The game ended in a 2-0 win for us. Our second goal was unique; RHQ goalie stopped a shot and was standing holding the ball on the goal-line, when Gunner Devine shoved him in. There was a hell of an argument but the goal was allowed, some say only after the referee had promised the goalie fifty lire.
That night we had news from the front, 18 Battery in a duel had blasted a Jerry gun off the face of the earth with an observed direct hit (from an Air OP), and 15 Battery had destroyed a very dangerous MG pill-box. Happy New Year!
Correct uniform for officers sleeping on duty.
JANUARY 2/3, 1944
Search for AFN Naples
I wanted to get the Band a broadcast; with this in mind I skidaddled to Naples, hitching all the way. After much searching, I finally located the offices of the Allied Forces Network. They were located on the first floor of the San Carlo Opera house. I passed along a corridor of Baroque doors. Signs—‘Cappo de Ballet’, ‘Maestro del Orchestra’, ‘Prima Ballerina’, and ‘Viatato Ingresso’. Finally a piece of true British enterprise, ‘AFN Liaison Officer’, written on a piece of cardboard with a three-inch nail through it. I knocked politely—the door was opened by a tubby ATS girl who greeted me with “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to someone about doing a broadcast.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes…”
She stood there like a dummy.
“Well—could you tell me who to see?”
“Well, there’s only Lieutenant Mondey.”
“Can I see only him?”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
“Not unless he’s an extra-sensory perceptionist.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She waddled off to a door directly behind her. Her bottom wobbled as though operated by an invisible hand. She reappeared blushing as though she had been interfered with. If this was the case her molester must be blind.
“Lt. Mondey will see you now.”
I walked into a room that had obviously once been a broom cupboard. The desk took up most of the room, the walls were barren save for a nail with a hat on. On the desk was the stub of a pencil, a telephone and a copy of the Union Jack. Behind it sat a minute, sallow-complexioned man; he was either a dwarf or sitting on a milking stool. If the latter was the case, the pained expression suggested the stool was inverted. He looked at me as though I had come from Mars.
“Yes, what is it?” he said, shifting his seat.
His demeanour gave me the same feeling Edith Cavell got on the dawn of her execution.
“I’m Lance-Bombardier Milligan, sir, 56th Heavy Regiment.”
He received this announcement as though it was an eviction notice.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“I’d like to get a broadcast for a Jazz Quartet.”
An eviction notice plus seizure of all assets. This was all new to him; by the silly look on his face, anything was new to him. He squirmed and said, “I see.” He didn’t really. “Are you professional musicians?”
I thought the answer ‘Yes’ a good one.
“Do you earn your living as a musician?”
“No, I earn it as a Lance-Bombardier.”
“I better make a note of the Band’s name,” he said. “It’s—er?—er?”
“It’s—er—D Battery Dance Band.”
“E Battery?”
“D sir.”
“What?”
“It’s D, sir.”
“D? D what?”
“D Battery—you were writing E.”
“Oh,” he scribbled out the E and wrote D. “There,” he said as though he’d climbed Everest. “Now!” He placed his pencil tidily on his deck. “Anything else?”
Anything else? What was he talking about?
“Yes, sir…when?”
“When what?”
“When can we broadcast?”
“Broadcast? Well…we don’t know what you sound like, do we? ha ha ha.”
“Well, how about an audition?”
“Audition?” It was like checkmate. “Ah yes—an audition—now when?”
“Any time.”
“Any time—when would that be?”
God! there was only one way he became an officer, he was baptised one.
“I think my boys could make it day after tomorrow—the afternoon.”
“Let me check my diary.” He opened a drawer which was empty, he pretended to write something, closed the drawer. “Well, that’s that,” he blinked.
I saluted, he didn’t. I don’t think he knew how to. I walked out past the ATS girl, who was preparing for the next groping session.
Outside I rubbed my hands with glee. (I always kept a tin handy.) Wait till the lads hear the news!
“Now what songs will I sing?” were Kidgell’s first reactions. “I’ll be a hit on radio—for a start they can’t see what a short-arse I am.”
“It took a bloody war to get us on the air,” Fildes says, “we owe it all to Hitler.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “will you all stand for Adolf Hitler.”
JANUARY 4, 1944
MY DIARY:
NIGHT OF FOURTH. NEWS THAT WE ARE ABOUT TO MOVE ‘SOMEWHERE’ AT ‘SHORT NOTICE’. THIS HAS FLATTENED ANY HOPES OF THE BAND PLAYING ON THE AFN NETWORK IN NAPLES. BUGGER! BUGGER! BUGGER.!
It was a coldish night, so most of us were in bed, some with bottles of vino, some reading old newspapers, some writing those feverish letters home. I was reading letters from Bette, Beryl, Lily, Ivy Mae, Madge, and for some inexplicable reason, Jim. I would read all the best bits out to the most frustrated Gunners. White is sitting up in bed, with Happy New Year chalked on his tin hat.
Enter Bombardier Fuller. What’s he doing up? He is fully dressed, looking very alert, and bearing down on us. It looks bad. It is bad. He says, “Listen fer yer names.” He calls out, “Nash, Milligan, Deans,” he drones on for about ten more. My God, they’ve found us, we were going to war again—a new position. We are the advance party to dig gun-pits, Command Posts, cookhouse, shit house, etc. etc.
“You’ve got to be packed and ready to leave at 0530 hours.”
Christ. Breakfast at 4.30. Bloody hell!! Why don’t they make sleeping a crime and have done with it?
“I suggest we sleep with our eyes open,” I said.
“Shut up, Milligan,” says Fuller.
He tucks his papers back into his pocket. He tells us we have t
o prepare our trucks and load them ‘tonight’. We swearingly drag ourselves from our beds. The rain outside is torrential, and into it we go. We have to test the batteries for the wireless set, then test the set, pack all the Command Post equipment. Who invented bloody artillery boards??? What idiot invented drums of cable, what fool made deadweight telephone exchanges, that had twenty subscribers and also subscribed to double rupture? Like drowned rats we humped all this stuff into the wireless truck, and you HAD to pack it very carefully or you couldn’t get in yourself. My companion in the back was to be Gunner Birch, who had Space Cancer—with a minimum amount of possessions he could fill a room. Every flat surface for a hundred feet around was covered, every chair, table, box, floor, shelf, hook, nail he managed to cover with a mess of possessions, and me, I would make space by careful packing. In would come this lumbering idiot and fill every bit of that. Even then his pockets bulged with stuff he could find no room in his kit for. Underpants and vests poked out of his pockets, vests he could find no space for he wore, his gas mask was full of socks and handkerchiefs. He was a walking disaster, and worse, he was walking with me. As fast as I packed something in place he would throw something on top. By eleven I told him: “Look, go away, lie down, stay away, don’t come back and I’ll do it all.”
He walks squelching back to his bed. By midnight I had unpacked the truck and repacked it, making a mental note to get into my seat next morning before he managed to pile it with his rubbish. I returned to the shed, and was delighted to see that someone had lit a brazier that glowed lovely and red in the dark.
“Finished?” It was Spike Deans speaking.
“Yes, I’m finished,” I said, warming myself by the fire.
I took off my soaking boots and socks, and changed into dry clothes, leaving my wet ones to dry in the heat. Deans looms from the dark with a cup of hot tea. “God bless you, sir,” I said, “God bless you.”
“Just made it before you came in, there’s a whole tin of it still hot.”
“Good luck, sir,” I said.
I wearily slid into bed and sipped the tea. It was quiet now. Better get some sleep. I drained the tea, rolled myself into my blankets, got really comfortable—warm—cosy—drowsy—had to get up for a slash! As I lay there the others came dripping in at various intervals. Little Vic Nash is swearing enough for a Company of drunken Scots Guards. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, “fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-em,” and I think that about summed it all up. I fell asleep to his gentle swearing.
4.20 AM.!
Please God, why didn’t you take me in my sleep! Pitch-black cold, and a howling gale. As I dress I hear a tree crashing down, why couldn’t it fall on me?, some distant shouts; it all sounds like we’re on the moon. Breakfast helped. The duty cook, Ronnie May, served it up like a zombie, then went back to bed. At 5.30 sharp our small convoy moved out. The destination was a place called Lauro. In the back of the wireless truck, by the light of the operation lamp, I found the place on the map, a small village on the foothills that ran down to the Garigliano plains. Across the brown Garigliano were towering mountains—in these Jerry was waiting, among them a Jerry who was going to do for me. Slitheringly, we pressed forward on our muddy narrow road. First light was eeking through overcast skies; the wind was at gale force, coming from the south-west; we could feel the truck take the impact as strong gusts hit us broadside. Behind us was a three-tonner with the digging party. Stark winter-black trees lined our route in inordinate patterns. The road was deserted except for a gradual increase of military traffic going the other way. I hoped they weren’t retreating. One never knew in war. More than once have I seen an infantryman run out of his tent down a slope to do a ‘pony’, and heard anxious voices saying to him, “Are we retreating?” In this case he was evacuating.
I was directly in front of the wireless set. I switched on and got early-morning music from AFN Naples. I cursed the luck that had spoiled the Band’s chances of doing a broadcast. News is good. The Russians have advanced across the Polish border and are now ten miles inside. It seems they might win the war before us. If the Allies know what they are doing, they must occupy as much territory as they can before it is annexed by Russia. Otherwise, the post-war border of Russia will be somewhere near Tunbridge Wells. Every day we don’t land in France is a bigger headache for us after the war. It’s frustrating to know that this war will make Russia a post-war giant, and that all our Military energies would be spent on a peacetime build-up to meet the Red Threat. It seems that like Hollywood endings, wars went on for ever. As my dear father had once said, “The only way to get rid of wars is to have them.” Right now we were having one. “Wot are we supposed to be doin’ at this place?” says Birch, who is not the brightest. “We have to prepare gun positions by the 10th, a big do is going in.”
“What have we got to do?”
“You and me?”
“Yes.”
“We do what the rest of them are doing. Digging bloody great holes in the ground for bloody great guns.”
He didn’t answer, he lit up another cigarette. Then spoke, “Why don’t the bloody Pioneer Corps dig our holes?”
“Because they are all home in bloody beddy-byes.”
I explained the Pioneer Corps only did roads and buildings, not ‘makin’ ‘oles in the ground’.
“We do the bloody lot. I’ve dug ‘oles, filled sandbags, chopped trees, put up tents, officers’ messes, karzis, Nissen huts, the bloody lot.”
“So? What are you complaining about, you could be right now with the PBI, being shelled, mortared and machine-gunned, and here you are safe and sound in a luxury wireless truck that would be much more luxurious if it weren’t for your packing, you loaded this truck like it was a bloody dustcart. No, Birch, you have nothing to grumble about, but everyone has a right to grumble about you! What were you before the war?”
“Happy,” he said. The standard funny answer to that question.
“See? You can’t even think of an original reply. What were you really before the war?”
“I was a trainee sluice operator at a Sewerage Farm.”
“And you call that happy? You must be a pervert.”
“Pervert? What’s a pervert?” he said, his dull eyes blinking.
“A Pervert is a trainee sluice operator on a sewerage farm.”
By eleven, we arrived at the hill village of Lauro—through it ran the road to the 5th Army west front.
Lloyds Bank move in on D+1 using a Banco di Napoli sign.
Bren carrier of London Irish Rifles going to the front.
JANUARY 5, 1944
The roads in Lauro are all the same. Built and paved about 1870, they had remained the same width ever since. A Sherman tank filled the whole road, the only way to let it pass was to run over you. In the main street of Lauro was the Police Station; at the most, it could hold about ten prisoners in its two separate cells, really each cell was for four people. Off a central room, which was entered from the road, were three other rooms, two as bedrooms for policemen on night duties, one room for cooking; it was all on one floor, all adobe walls.
That morning when we arrived, the place was pretty hairy; in the central room at a table sat an Intelligence Corps Corporal, who must have got there by reason of his speaking the language. As we entered, there were angry shouts, babies screaming and women crying. Both cells were crammed with civilians, so much so we nicknamed it the black hole. They were civilians who had crossed through our lines to avoid the fighting, but all had to be screened in case spies were among them. The Corporal was talking to an old Italian man who wore banded leggings around his trousers, and skin shoes. He could have walked out of the eighteenth century. The smell inside the prison was hell. The prisoners had no facilities and they had had to defecate in the cells. Why this situation was allowed to exist can only be put down to the wonderful ‘I’m alright, Jack’ attitude of the British. We are not cruel, but, Christ, sometimes we come very close to it.
The man in charge was the Commandante of
the Carabinieri. A man in his fifties, grey wavy hair, wearing a crumpled grey-blue uniform, he was an out-and-out ‘Fascisti’* and made it very clear by his surly attitude.
≡ Our Colonel gave him six months in Sessa prison for not co-operating with the Allies.
He unlocked a room which was to be our billet. It was large enough for twelve to fifteen beds. He grunted “Oui.” We all trooped in and chose our positions, mine near a window; I always did this in case of a direct hit blocking the door. (But silly! supposing one hit the window?) I was immediately made ‘Room Orderly’ for the day, by me. Vic Nash had to start up a cookhouse in one of the adjacent rooms, alongside an Italian lady cook, one Portence, a middle-aged lady, all very willing and smiling and amused at seeing a man doing the cooking. She cheeerily helped Vic Nash, and was quick to learn the benefits of making tea, and the rewards to be had in the shape of cigarettes and bars of chocolate. She seemed to be eternally on duty, from dawn to one in the morning. When I think of some of the soppy females of today who get a charlady to clean their flat of three rooms while they phone their friends and eat chocolates, I realise the change in the quality of ladies’ working lives.
The Commandante of the Carabinieri
Howling gales continued blotting out any sound of gunfire. It was a gorgeous easy day. I was able to renovate my kit, sewing up socks, putting buttons on trousers that had been held up with knotted string and signal wire! (Any message for my trousers today?) At eleven o’clock Portence brought me a mug of tea! I lay back on my bed sipping it and reading from an Anthology of English Poets I had bought in a shop at Castelemare. I read the Love Sonnets of Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey), who apparently imitated Petrarch. I had enough trouble imitating Al Jolson. Somewhere outside, the Gunners were digging in heavy mud and a howling gale. When they returned that evening, soaked, muddy, tired, I just didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d been reading,
Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall Page 24
