Mussolini_ His Part In My Downfall Part 13

"Where are the woods, sir?"

"Ah! That's another question."

"Get the vehicles off the road and under cover."

We walk around muttering, "The woods are full of 'em!"

The lethal voice of Major Jenkins is penetrating the air. We drive up the slope and on to a small muddy plateau with numerous trees. We follow a small trail to the high bank. Under the trees we camouflage G truck.

"Jerry's been sh.e.l.ling the area, better dig in," says Bombardier Deans.

Dig? One thing I don't dig is digging. I'm not the first to spot the possibilities of sleeping in the church.

I move my kit in that evening. In the aisle is a catafalque mounted on a trestle. The catafalque is all black velvet with a great black cloth to cover the whole thing. What the h.e.l.l! It looks great inside, so I make my bed in it. If I get killed in the night, I'm all ready. Great fun, I am asleep in my catafalque, Bombardier Trew comes in to wake me up for my spell of duty. He is unaware of my macabre resting place. Gradually I arise from my box with the black velvet cover over my head. I let out a terrible howl and Bombardier Trew screams ' 'Ghosts' and runs for his b.l.o.o.d.y life, and I find him gibbering in the Command Post to Lt. Budden.

An OP has been established on Monte Croce. Not again! Rain!!! Where does the stuff come from??? There's to be a big attack on Monte Camino, it's the 201 Guards Brigade to do the dirty work. I can't lie here, I must do something to help the war effort. I do. I go to the cookhouse for dinner. What's this I hear? That hungry b.u.g.g.e.r Kidgell, he's been having one dinner here, then running across to the American Battery next to us and scrounging another. He must have hollow legs.

"The attack goes in tomorrow night," so speaks Major Jenkins, who for once has deemed to tell us what's happening. I am on Command Post duty up till 11.30. Mr Wright is duty officer. In between firing he reads the Daily Express Daily Express. At 1100 hours the thing called Edgington comes in, it carries a mug ahead of it.

"Good news," he says, he looks very merry, he should, there's been a rum ration and he's had his and a little more. "I've got yours here." He poured a measure into my mug.

"A Merry Christmas to you all," I said.

He empties a pocket full of chestnuts, soon they are roasting on our fire, and splitting open with a little bang. They taste delicious!!

"Alf Fildes is feeling groggy," he tells us. "He's got a sore throat so has gone to bed in the back of his truck."

There is nothing like a 15-cwt truck for a sore throat. Vic Nash is coming on duty. "Oh my poor guts," he says.

"He's got the s.h.i.ts! Keep away," we all say and cringe in the corner.

The guns report difficulty with the platforms, mud is making it increasingly difficult; each time they fire, the gun slithers in a circle. We can hear the swearing from the Command Post. But it's imperative they keep going as the attack is about to go in, they need help up there, so the back-breaking work of manhandling the guns back on target continues.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1943.

ALF FILDES' DIARY: ALF FILDES' DIARY: Typical Sunday morning, people going to church opposite. Plenty of firing last night, and church has lost a few windows. After breakfast a dozen ME's came over and made trouble but left us alone, they made for the main road Typical Sunday morning, people going to church opposite. Plenty of firing last night, and church has lost a few windows. After breakfast a dozen ME's came over and made trouble but left us alone, they made for the main road.

Before the first ma.s.s we have to hide our beds-and make ourselves scarce.

I am walking to the cookhouse through a conglomerate of American foxholes and guns. The Yanks sound their air-raid alarm. It's noisier than the raid. Americans start running in all directions. I didn't. It was highly unlikely the planes could spot us in this heavily wooded position. They roar over the top of us, and later we heard machine-gunning and bombing somewhere down the Rocamanfina Road. Along with Edgington we explore the Church Annexe and find a piano in the vestry. Soon Italians in Church can hear distant Cole Porter tunes.

A Priest appears, he is not hostile, and stays to listen, I think think his name was Father Alborghetti. He too took over the piano and then sang arias from his name was Father Alborghetti. He too took over the piano and then sang arias from La Boheme, Tosca La Boheme, Tosca, in a quivery ecclesiastical voice. We're all having fun! "Aren't you glad we've liberated you?" I said to the priest.

I do an all-night stint in the Command Post in promise of all day off. It's b.l.o.o.d.y cold, and in between Fire orders we all crouch over the brazier. The six o'clock news from the BBC is good. Kiev in Russian hands after a terrific advance. I'm so broke I could do with an advance myself. We are playing pontoon for matchsticks. Rumour that a Gunners' rest camp has been established somewhere on the Sorrento peninsula, is it true? Guns continue to fire through the night. The fight for Monte Camino continues, it's a b.l.o.o.d.y affair. I write some letters home.

Nov. 9, 1943 Nov. 9, 1943 Dear Dad Dear Dad, Nothing much to report except World War 2. Is it still going on where you are? It's winter here, lots of mud, and very cold especially in the mornings, so the balaclava and gloves you sent are very useful. Writing this in a cave, so we haven't come far from Neanderthal man, have we? There's always rumours of 'going home', one look at this mob and you'd realise we're all all going home. Thanks for the three going home. Thanks for the three Life Life magazines, one reads and re-reads them over and over again and they are usually pa.s.sed through gunner in the Battery. I'm desperately trying to think of any news, and there isn't any. Read Beachcomber in the magazines, one reads and re-reads them over and over again and they are usually pa.s.sed through gunner in the Battery. I'm desperately trying to think of any news, and there isn't any. Read Beachcomber in the Express, Express, he explains it all. I'm here and you're there, and every day is much the same as the previous. The conversations are food, s.e.x, and after the war, sometimes its war, food and after the s.e.x. I'll have to close as we're about to start sending deliveries of steel to the gentlemen of the Third Reich he explains it all. I'm here and you're there, and every day is much the same as the previous. The conversations are food, s.e.x, and after the war, sometimes its war, food and after the s.e.x. I'll have to close as we're about to start sending deliveries of steel to the gentlemen of the Third Reich.

Love to all Your Loving Son Terry Your Loving Son Terry PS: The Major tells us we must win the war because we're British.[image]

Capt. Leo Milligan walking home to Orchard Way, Wood-hatch, Reigate, Surrey, 1942-3, while second-in-charge of RAOC depot, Reigate. Now we all know.

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1943.

What's this? Edgington has made an incredible find. A free-range harmonium! It's in the Vicarage and the priest says we can use it, so the morning is spent playing jazz; as a mark of respect I play my trumpet muted, Alf plays guitar and the priest and his lady cleaner sit and listen a bit amazed, jazz under Mussolini had been banned as decadent; well, the music wasn't, but we certainly were. It was an unusual morning, the priest giving us an unexpected blessing before we departed.

"What was he doing then?" said Edgington.

I explained. "It's a blessing."

"What good does it do?" he said.

"Well, it's supposed to be a solemn occasion on which he, as a minister, fortifies your soul by sprinkling holy water over you."

"It only made me b.l.o.o.d.y wet," said Edgington.

Grim news of the fighting on Monte Camino, the Guards are attacking but Jerry has reinforced his position with 1st/104 Panzer Grenadiers, and fighting is raging all over the peak.

[image]

Sgt. J. Wilson, Bdr. Sainsbury and gun-crew filling in football coupons, Monte Santa Maria, apple orchard position, November 17 1943.

NOVEMBER 10, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: MUCH THE SAME. BAD WEATHER. WENT INTO THE VILLAGE OF TERRA CORPO, IT'S ALMOST IN RUINS. WE ARE TRYING TO GET A PHOTO TAKEN OF OURSELVES BY AN 'ITI' PHOTOGRAPHER, HE SAYS 'DOMANI' (TOMORROW). HE SAYS THAT EVERY DAY, TOMORROW TAKES A LONG TIME TO ARRIVE IN ITALY. WEATHER RAIN, SLEET, WINDY. MUCH THE SAME. BAD WEATHER. WENT INTO THE VILLAGE OF TERRA CORPO, IT'S ALMOST IN RUINS. WE ARE TRYING TO GET A PHOTO TAKEN OF OURSELVES BY AN 'ITI' PHOTOGRAPHER, HE SAYS 'DOMANI' (TOMORROW). HE SAYS THAT EVERY DAY, TOMORROW TAKES A LONG TIME TO ARRIVE IN ITALY. WEATHER RAIN, SLEET, WINDY.

Just up the road before the village are a few houses, one is occupied by RHQ. It is owned by a Doctor Fabrizzi, who was in the Abyssinian Campaign. We went there to play some music for the RHQ Signallers (who had invited us). It was a cosy large front room, nicely furnished, with a piano. We played some jazz, the Doctor, who looked like Cesar Romero, showed us photographs from the Abyssinian War, and a ghastly collection they were; they showed atrocities committed on Italian soldiers, which mostly meant emasculating them with a knife and letting them bleed to death. A Scandal! the wife of the Iti doctor fancies our MO, Dr Bentley (will he end up with his photo in the alb.u.m?), and somehow they get down to Naples and spend a naughty weekend there. A touch of the Ernest Hemingways!

It has rained now continuously for five days. Sgt. Donaldson tells me that the guns are in a bad state. The carriages are starting to warp so badly that 15 and 18 Batteries are being pulled out of action.

"I wish to G.o.d my carriage would warp," I said.

"You know what they're going to do to reinforce them, weld railway lines round the front and the two sides."

"I suppose this means all the b.l.o.o.d.y trains will stop running." Sgt. Donaldson was up for some kind of vehicles' inspection.

"I don't know how the b.l.o.o.d.y things are still working." He was going on about the road conditions.

"They've organised a one-way system, half the day it's up traffic, the other half down traffic, if you come up early you have to wait half the b.l.o.o.d.y day before the down system comes in."

"Don't come up or down," I said, "come sideways, like the Chinese."

He stayed to have lunch with us, a lovely Stew, we sat under the altar of the church eating and telling dirty jokes. It was a bad day for G.o.d.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1943.

Armistice Day. Ha ha ha.

Lt. 'Johnny' Walker is at an OP on Monte Croce. He is suspicious that a white farmhouse is harbouring the enemy, so he drops a few 200 pounders around it; as they get closer a door bursts open and out rush a Jerry patrol who run like h.e.l.l to a farmhouse a hundred yards away. Walker then sh.e.l.ls that place, out runs Jerry back to farmhouse one, he does this till the Jerries are s.h.a.gged out and finally double back to their own lines. "When I fight an enemy, I like to keep them fit," says Walker.

That night fairly quiet in the Command Post, Lt. Stewart Pride not feeling very well. "I must report sick in the morning," he says. "Any music on the wireless?"

I fiddle with the k.n.o.bs. We are surrounded by hills and the reception is very bad. I get what sounds like someone singing in Yugoslavian.

"I don't understand, Milligan," says Stewart Pride, "you can't get our b.l.o.o.d.y OP, which is only half a mile away, yet you can get some idiot singing in Yugoslavia."

"That's because he's singing very loud, sir. If our signallers at the OP could be given training in opera, it would be easy."

It's two in the morning, b.l.o.o.d.y cold, Edgington has just come off Telephone Exchange duty, he comes into the Command Post for a warm. "Cor, it's taters," he says, making straight for the brazier. We all stand round it, the twigs crackling.

"What was the news tonight?" says Edgington.

"The Russians are advancing in all directions including upwards. The Allies are making steady progress, and Harry Roy is in hospital with appendicitis."

Edgington grins at Stewart Pride. "Do you like Harry Roy?" he says.

"I don't know, I've never met him," says Stewart Pride.

b.u.t.toning up his overcoat Edgington bids us goodnight. "I will see 'ee in dawn's rosy light," and he slips under the canvas into the night.

We hear him fall in the dark and fade away swearing to himself. I shout through the canvas, "Don't forget, dawn's early light." Came the answer, "b.a.l.l.s." Oh what a lovely war. Not so lovely when we hear by the grapevine that our PBI are suffering 50 per cent casualties. Thank G.o.d I'm not in the Infantry. So ended Armistice Day, what a day to die.

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1943.

On this day my diary is blank. I think this is because I was too busy moving, as is borne out by Fildes' diary that says: Move forward at 0500 hrs to new position. As usual the digging in the crackpot major loves so well. Beautiful country and orchard-mountains far away snow crested now. Lovely apples make place too much like England with green downs and autumn leaves. Xmas greetings mail being issued Move forward at 0500 hrs to new position. As usual the digging in the crackpot major loves so well. Beautiful country and orchard-mountains far away snow crested now. Lovely apples make place too much like England with green downs and autumn leaves. Xmas greetings mail being issued.

0500 hours! No wonder I didn't make any entry in the diary. However I have this excerpt from a letter I wrote home on the thirteenth and in it I say: "...today is like an English Summer's day, birds sing their repet.i.tive little phrases, the village overlooking the field I'm in looks like a drawing from a Hans Andersen Fairy Story, excuse the writing but I'm laying down..." "...today is like an English Summer's day, birds sing their repet.i.tive little phrases, the village overlooking the field I'm in looks like a drawing from a Hans Andersen Fairy Story, excuse the writing but I'm laying down..."

So where were we? The map reference was 999003 and that indicates a place called Monte Santa Maria. I never knew that Maria was Saint No. 999003.

OK. So what can I think up on the apple orchard position?...Well-like I said...it's a bit of a blur, except for the orchard itself which is very clear in memory-plus the view from the corner of it, of not-so-distant peaks,* snow-capped in the chilly Autumn morning, and rose-tinted, unmistakably, and spectacularly, in the early dawn light-the very first time I had ever seen, and I suspect a few other English city-dwellers like me, such a magnificent natural phenomenon. OK. So what can I think up on the apple orchard position?...Well-like I said...it's a bit of a blur, except for the orchard itself which is very clear in memory-plus the view from the corner of it, of not-so-distant peaks,* snow-capped in the chilly Autumn morning, and rose-tinted, unmistakably, and spectacularly, in the early dawn light-the very first time I had ever seen, and I suspect a few other English city-dwellers like me, such a magnificent natural phenomenon. Abruzzi Mountains. Abruzzi Mountains. If I can take a guess at the orientation in say the long axis of the raggedly-oval-shaped orchard, maybe sixty-eighty feet in length, was east-west, roughly, and those unearthly beautiful peaks were laying about south-east* as we peered southward over the thick hedge that completely surrounded the orchard. If I can take a guess at the orientation in say the long axis of the raggedly-oval-shaped orchard, maybe sixty-eighty feet in length, was east-west, roughly, and those unearthly beautiful peaks were laying about south-east* as we peered southward over the thick hedge that completely surrounded the orchard. Wrong. It was North. He's lost as usual. Wrong. It was North. He's lost as usual. The alt.i.tude was accentuated by the fact the peaks seemed to be at about the same level as us across a deep valley* and to its east. The alt.i.tude was accentuated by the fact the peaks seemed to be at about the same level as us across a deep valley* and to its east. The Valley was the Garigliano Plain (Eh?). The Valley was the Garigliano Plain (Eh?). Of the apples in the orchard we identified at least six familiar types, though I'm sure there were considerably more trees than that. Russets, Granny Smith's, Big Canadian Reds, c.o.x's Orange Pippins were among those I can still recall, while one tree had produced what Alf and I concluded must have been a cross between an apple and a pear, rather small, delicious to eat, and having a quite marked perfume or scent into the bargain. I recall that under each tree there was a veritable carpet of its apples-windfalls-and the scene under the Big Canadian Red tree was something to marvel at-the darkish-red, highly-polished skins glistening with diamond-like drops of moisture all catching the fitful shafts of sunlight just breaking through the foliage. Only half an hour later or maybe less we found ourselves being nearly suffocated by the onset of a large patch of very dense mountain mist, the minute droplets of water-vapour being concentrated as to bring visibility down to almost nil and clog our breathing alarmingly: it only lasted a few minutes but we got really panicky in that time. Of the apples in the orchard we identified at least six familiar types, though I'm sure there were considerably more trees than that. Russets, Granny Smith's, Big Canadian Reds, c.o.x's Orange Pippins were among those I can still recall, while one tree had produced what Alf and I concluded must have been a cross between an apple and a pear, rather small, delicious to eat, and having a quite marked perfume or scent into the bargain. I recall that under each tree there was a veritable carpet of its apples-windfalls-and the scene under the Big Canadian Red tree was something to marvel at-the darkish-red, highly-polished skins glistening with diamond-like drops of moisture all catching the fitful shafts of sunlight just breaking through the foliage. Only half an hour later or maybe less we found ourselves being nearly suffocated by the onset of a large patch of very dense mountain mist, the minute droplets of water-vapour being concentrated as to bring visibility down to almost nil and clog our breathing alarmingly: it only lasted a few minutes but we got really panicky in that time. This coloured drawing-now that I've finished it-won't mean much, if anything, to a stranger reading the book, and the lads themselves-other than the Monkey 2 team-may not recognise much of it, since the guns were virtually out of sight from the road in the lower-level corner of the next field, perhaps 200 yards or more from the road. This coloured drawing-now that I've finished it-won't mean much, if anything, to a stranger reading the book, and the lads themselves-other than the Monkey 2 team-may not recognise much of it, since the guns were virtually out of sight from the road in the lower-level corner of the next field, perhaps 200 yards or more from the road.[image]

Edgington's crayon masterpiece, thirty years on Certainly I've visualised it from a position n.o.body could possibly have occupied-twenty feet or so up in the air among the roadside trees of a fairly dense wood on the left hand side of the road as you came up it. Certainly I've visualised it from a position n.o.body could possibly have occupied-twenty feet or so up in the air among the roadside trees of a fairly dense wood on the left hand side of the road as you came up it.

Edgington and I are off duty; to shelter from the unending rain we hole up in the back of someone's three-tonner. We chat about anything, we sing songs together, we like doing vocal arrangements. I play the trumpet part and Harry does the Ba.s.s accompaniment. We scrounge tea from Spike Deans. Lt. Joe Mostyn is pa.s.sing by. I could see his Jewish soul burning with loathing of the war, not so much against the Germans, but the fact he was only on a Second Lieutenant's pay, when he really wanted to be in his schmutter shop in Whitechapel, doing ma.s.s-produced suits that all the Spivs would buy off the peg at five quid a go. I could see his gaze a long way from this muddy pit we were in, he was in the workroom, watching the girls on their machines, and fancying the one with the big b.o.o.bs who was doing the padding in the shoulders. The times he had said to me, "Whoever designed the battle dress was a Schmock, the first thing to do when you dress a soldier is to make him look, or think think he looks, attractive to the opposite s.e.x, but look at this-" he would indicate my battle dress, "-no wonder the Yanks get all the women, what do you look like? A cripple! We he looks, attractive to the opposite s.e.x, but look at this-" he would indicate my battle dress, "-no wonder the Yanks get all the women, what do you look like? A cripple! We all all look like cripples! When we march past a saluting base, the natives think we're all going into a home for the deformed." look like cripples! When we march past a saluting base, the natives think we're all going into a home for the deformed."

Yet, although he was never very good at Gunnery, or, as we used to call it, Goonery, he still was the man who kept the officers' mess topped up with little luxuries. I remember Lt. Walker coming to the Command Post, his eyes shining with orange sauce.

"Where in G.o.d's name did he get a duck in this wilderness?" At the Apple Orchard position, Mostyn detailed three Gunners who spent all day collecting sacks of apples, he gets the cookhouse to stew them, and for several weeks there was apple puree on the table. Mind you, he was suffering; his family were all Kosher, and he had started off following the Kosher diet, but as the war entered its second year he gradually became 'christianised', the great temptation was upon him. At the rest camp at Amalfi, he was offered a plate of sh.e.l.lfish. Strained to breaking point, he said (according to Lt. Walker), "Why should I go on being hated by Hitler for being Jewish? I'm going to take the pressure off." So saying, he plunged into the dish, beating his breast and shouting, "Mother! Forgive me, but eat eat, Joe, EAT EAT."

Yes, Joe Mostyn was an unforgettable character. I last saw him in the foyer of the c.u.mberland Hotel at Marble Arch in 1952. He was a bit offish with me, and seemed loath to talk, but he did impart the info that he was 'Teaching the Israeli Army Gunnery'. If so, but for him the Six Day War would have been over in two.

The war is gradually having its effect on the officers. Bdr. Sherwood is at the foot of a hill on which our OP is sited. He is in his little bivvy by his bren carrier when the link phone buzzes. In Sherwood's own words this is what transpired.

SHERWOOD:.

OP. Link Answering.

LT. BUDDEN:.

Ah, Sherwood?

SHERWOOD:.

Yes, sir.

LT. BUDDEN:.

I'm bored.

SHERWOOD:.

What you want me to do, sir?

A PAUSE, SLIGHT BREATHING, THEN.

LT. BUDDEN:.

Sing.

SHERWOOD:.

(Singing) Lay that Pistol down Babe, Lay that Pistol Down, Pistol Packin' Momma, lay that pistol down. (He continues thus till the song is finished.) LT. BUDDEN:.

Thank you.

[image]

Above: Lt. Cecil Budden, taken just before the asbestos roof behind nearly decapitated him. Today he is alive and well and living in Ess.e.x Lt. Cecil Budden, taken just before the asbestos roof behind nearly decapitated him. Today he is alive and well and living in Ess.e.x.

SAt.u.r.dAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1943.

Because of the OP's field of view, and a thousand feet height added to the guns' range, the targets are never ending. Despite the cold the gunners are actually sweating. A casualty! my boots are leaking. I examine them seated in the back of G truck. White pa.s.ses by sipping tea.

He stops. "What's on?"