Mussolini_ His Part In My Downfall Part 30

Christ. Breakfast at 4.30. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!! 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 to 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.p.a.ce 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 me, I would make s.p.a.ce by would make s.p.a.ce by careful 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 s.p.a.ce 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, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 stay away, don't come back and I'll do it all." 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. "G.o.d bless you, sir," I said, "G.o.d 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 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. "f.u.c.k 'em," he says, "f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-em," and I think that about summed it all up. I fell asleep to his gentle swearing. 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. "f.u.c.k 'em," he says, "f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-f.u.c.k-em," and I think that about summed it all up. I fell asleep to his gentle swearing.

4.20 AM.!.

Please G.o.d, 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. .h.i.t 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 b.l.o.o.d.y great holes in the ground for b.l.o.o.d.y great guns."

He didn't answer, he lit up another cigarette. Then spoke, "Why don't the b.l.o.o.d.y Pioneer Corps dig our holes?"

"Because they are all home in b.l.o.o.d.y beddy-byes."

I explained the Pioneer Corps only did roads and buildings, not 'makin' 'oles in the ground'.

"We do the b.l.o.o.d.y lot. I've dug 'oles, filled sandbags, chopped trees, put up tents, officers' messes, karzis, Nissen huts, the b.l.o.o.d.y lot."

"So? What are you complaining about, you could be right now with the PBI, being sh.e.l.led, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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. Army west front.

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Lloyds Bank move in on D+1 using a Banco di Napoli sign.[image]

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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l. 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' att.i.tude 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 att.i.tude.

Our Colonel gave him six months in Sessa prison for not co-operating with the Allies. 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.

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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 b.u.t.tons 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, "The sweete season that bud and bloom forth brings With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale."

Soon the room filled with cigarette smoke, swearing, moaning, and an occasional s.n.a.t.c.h of song. After a hot meal, there was aught to do but get into bed. A last gesture of sociability, I went outside to the wireless truck, listened to the BBC News, jotted down the main details, and from my bed read it out to the lads. The best received was the unstoppable grinding advance of the Russian Army, who were well inside the Polish border, the announcement of which brought a small tired cheer. Birch was sitting up in bed, his arms folded, a cigarette embedded in his face.

"I'm too b.l.o.o.d.y tired to smoke," he said.

"Try steaming," I said. "It's easier."

Bombardier Harry Holmwood chips in, "It's alright for some, Milligan, sittin' on their a.r.s.e all day, playin' their bugle."

"I swear on the Pope's legs I have not touched the bugle all day."

I slept soundly that night.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944.

ON THE JOB AT 8.15. BITTER COLD. THROUGH THE BUSHES MASKING OUR POSITIONS WE CAN SEE THE SNOW ON THE HILLS ACROSS THE GARIGLIANO.

We were supposed to dig a Command Post, but No! No, we find a super cave right near the gun positions. So, instead we have to dig a cookhouse; this took most of the day. We dug into a bank under the supervision (Super?) of Vic Nash. There is nothing so invigorating as an ex-Old Kent Road pastry cook tellin' you how to dig a hole.

Hands and feet are freezing, the only way to get them warm is dig. By five o'clock it was too dark to see. We returned to the billet and luxurated in the warmth inside provided by an old Italian device, a large stone the size of a millstone, with a countersunk hole in the middle filled with charcoal, that burnt brightly with a minimum of smoke. It was all very quiet here, but at night we hear how close our infantry were by the night exchanges of machine-gun fire, just over the brow of a hillock behind us. At night we would hear the grumble of vehicles bringing supplies for the 'build up', and a sound that always made me feel ill, infantry men coming up the line, the unending trudge of what sounded like hollow boots and the occasional clank or clink of some metal equipment, and most distinctive, that ring of an empty metal tea mug. I used to wonder how in G.o.d's name the High Command could keep the movement of a quarter of a million men secret...I always had the feeling that Hitler knew exactly where I was all the time.

On this the coldest day of the year, we hear that bitter fighting is going on for Vittori, and we are now only five miles from Ca.s.sino.

The days that followed were all the same, digging. To speed up the process more gunners arrive to dig at night! Mail is slow in coming up here owing to the traffic congestion and the one-way road system.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 7, 1944.

What's this mess approaching at dawn. It's a fully s.h.a.gged-out Gunner answering to the name Edgington. "Arggggggggggg," he collapses into our billet. "What a b.l.o.o.d.y caper...up at four o' bleedin' clock, half a mug of cold tea, a spoonful of egg powder and now this bleedin' c.r.a.p hole." He drops his kit.

"Welcome home, young ma.s.sa," I said. "De plantation ain't bin de same widout you."

"Ohhhhhh," he groaned as he fossicked in his pockets for f.a.gs. Seeing him nigh to death my heart was sore afraid, so I scrounged an extra mug of tea, then sat him on his big pack. "Now tell mummy, was there a rude boy at school today?"

"I refuse to be cheered up," he said. "There'll be no smiling Harry till about mid-day."

"No? let me help you keep that way-there's b.l.o.o.d.y great holes in the ground to be dug, and you you have to dig 'em in the crippled position otherwise Jerry can see you." have to dig 'em in the crippled position otherwise Jerry can see you."

He is soon with shovel, and the wind whistleth through the seams in his underpants, and he liketh it not. A young Italian boy from the village came up and did some digging for us-as a mark of apprecation we gave him a few V cigarettes that would stunt his growth. We get a visit from the village barber; in an immaculate white jacket, he cut the hair of the entire mob. He was very thorough, snapping hairs in ears and noses. He went away, his pockets bulging.

"It's mad," said Edgington, "paying for something you don't want."

Captain Sullivan comes up to poke around. "Mmm-yes," he said. "Was it worth the journey?"

JANUARY 8, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: WEATHER WARMER. DIGGING. WEATHER WARMER. DIGGING.

JANUARY 9, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING AND SWEARING. DIGGING AND SWEARING.

JANUARY 10, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING AND SWEARING. DIGGING AND SWEARING.

JANUARY 11, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING FINISHED. SWEARING STOPS. DIGGING FINISHED. SWEARING STOPS.

At last. We could relax, but still all movement had to be minimal and carried out under cover. Nash used to hold a piece of cardboard over his head. He was desperate for an officer to ask why, but it never came to pa.s.s. One fine morning he says, "I must have a look at Jerry's lines. It's a nice clear day, the view ought to be good."

He was right, the view was so good he got a Jerry bullet over his head, and a terrible telling off from Sgt. Jock Wilson.

"You want tae giv awa' oer position? You stoopid little c.o.c.kney c.u.n.t!"

We had done all the digging and were now to excavate our own G truck billet. Down a small bank we find an ideal spot, and start to dig. We make it almost a room-size excavation, we roof it with corrugated iron, prop it up with poles, some canvas to waterproof it, a camouflage net on top along with dressing of bushes and branches. With loving care I I tunnelled out a large chimney, and had a fire going to dry out the interior. Edgington's sketch shows the method of excavation at that site, and my drawing shows the finished job. What I needed for a bed was a good piece of wood. Now, Gunner Nash had mentioned a ruined church across the road. tunnelled out a large chimney, and had a fire going to dry out the interior. Edgington's sketch shows the method of excavation at that site, and my drawing shows the finished job. What I needed for a bed was a good piece of wood. Now, Gunner Nash had mentioned a ruined church across the road.

"There's catacombs, you can see 'em through the floor." Yes indeed, Nash saw Milligan disappear down that hole; soon hurling upwards were numerous bones, skulls, rocks, etc. as I searched for a coffin lid. Eureka! I got three, and soon I was lying on it in grand style; the others I gave to Deans, and one to the telephone exchange for the duty signaller to lean against.

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Method of digging a dug-out

JANUARY 12, 1944.

Troops in front of us are our old friends the Berkshires and a new mob, The London Scottish. Heard ITMA on Radio this evening. Corny b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Heard Henry Hall, corny b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Have laid in a good supply of firewood. Made two more oil lamps, now in niches inside of our dug-out. Knocked off drum of Derv Oil from parked lorry. Enough to last us a month. Swopped soapy cigarettes with Italians in exchange for eggs. Had a marvellous evening meal, boiled the eggs and floated them in our beef stew and potatoes, ate it sitting on my coffin lid. I gazed long in the fire, and listened to Deans holding forth about the war! "It must must end soon," he says. end soon," he says.

"Why?"

"Because I want want it to." it to."

"If wanting wanting to is going to end it, I wanted it to end the day before I b.l.o.o.d.y joined." to is going to end it, I wanted it to end the day before I b.l.o.o.d.y joined."

"I'll tell you when it's going to end," said Fildes in between mouthfuls. "When we've flattened every German city and every German, that's the way it will end."

"I think he's going to lose, but we can't afford to let up here, he knows he's going to go on retreating, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d only wants revenge in the form of our blood. The blokes running their war would rather burn Germany to the ground than surrender, they'll only surrender when they have to, and that goes for those little yellow f.u.c.king creeps the j.a.ps."

"Oh Christ," said Deans. "I'd forgotten about them, it'll be just our b.l.o.o.d.y luck, when we've finished Jerry off, we'll be shipped off to the b.l.o.o.d.y jungles...it's never going to end."

Down on the plain there is a burst of MG fire, trained ears recognise it as Jerry's, there's response from tommy guns, two patrols have clashed, life and death, more shooting, and I slide another spoonful of dinner in. I really can't get it all together, us dining, them dying...A head pokes through the black-out, it's gambling-mad Bombardier Marsden.

"Pontoon?"

"p.i.s.s off," we said.