FILDES’ DIARY:
I’m getting fed up with myself here and will be glad when we move or go for a rest.
REGIMENTAL DIARY:
Body of soldier reported lying dead in passage in RHQ.
It wasn’t mine. It turned out to be an engineer who had committed suicide. “Lucky bastard,” said Nash. I think we were all feeling like that. At 1530 hours came orders that might have saved his life. “17 and 19 Batteries will move to rear position for refitting and rest.” The news fell like a bombshell, it galvanised smiles back on to our faces. We were walking around and saying like Mr Barrett to Elizabeth, “You must restttt, my dear.”
I give the order from the Command Post to all Guns, “Cease fire—prepare to move.” We could hear the cheers come back over the headphones. The tempo changed as though we’d all been given a shot of adrenalin. I got radio AFN and plugged it through to all the gun-pit Tannoys.
We danced with each other all day.
DECEMBER 10, 1943
Today we go back! Griffin enters G Truck bivvy, a garland of withered flowers on his unshaven head, a blanket, toga-fashion, around his ungainly body. “Beware the Ides of March.”
“Beware the Clap of Naples,” was the reply.
“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”
“The shovel’s in the lorry.”
“The evil that men do live after them.”
“We must fill in the shit-pit before we leave.”
“We got ter clean up the battlefield.” Bombardier Fuller, known back home as ‘Stop thief’, is passing on the commands of our Major. Soon, carol-singing gunners are roaming muddy fields gathering fag ends, packets, bottles, dead mules, tins, and place them on a funeral pyre. As the flames roar up, a cry, “Anyone for suttee?” Other guns are firing, not us! Wasn’t it lovely? We stand and watch the sweating gunners on the 3.7s; when they loose off a round we all cheer and they tell us to piss off or they’ll turn the guns on us. Nasty men.
In the Command Post, Lt. Walker, MID, has liberated the souls of the duty signaller and specialist with excerpts from a whisky bottle. We start rolling in the telephone lines, and dismantling the equipment.
“I could do this with my eyes closed,” said Ernie Hart.
“Try it then,” said Shapiro. He did, and dropped it in the mud.
“Stand by to move!” What we are supposed to stand by they do not say. I choose a tree. You never know when you might need it. I have Kung Fu’ed my kit into my big pack and kitbag. I have wrestled my tent to the ground, got a half-Nelson on the tentpole and heaved it from the earth, then with a great javelin throw I have hurled the lot into the back of G Truck.
“Owwwww fuckkkkk,” so the truck is not empty. Through his burnt binoculars, Jenkins has spotted some rubbish in yon field, and he sends yon Gunner Hall, and we can hear yon swearing from him.
Yes. We’re all ready to move. All the rubbish has been picked up. The pits filled in.
“Yes,” Edgington reflects, “we’ve done everything save strew fresh grass-seed.”
We were ready to move. We stand by our vehicles, all smiling, and as I say, ready to move. We warmed the engines up, ready to move, cleaned the windscreens, ready to move. Oh yes, we were ready to move. I said so. “I’m ready to move, aren’t you?” I said to Edgington and he said, “Oh yes, I’m with you on that, as sure as I’m 954022, I’m ready to move.”
For three hours we were ready to move, then four, five and six hours. We were all falling silent. On the seventh hour Bombardier Deans said, “I think somebody’s fucked it.”
Lt. Walker is passing with a bemused smile on his blond face, he turns and says, “What are you waiting for?”
“Anything,” I said.
He paused then walked on towards his truck, where he turned and shouted, “If it’s any consolation, I’m as pissed off as you are.”
“There’s a big hold-up on the Teano Road,” said BSM Griffin, trying to help.
“There’s a bigger fucking hold-up here,” said Jam-Jar. “I’m going to see a lawyer!”
“Give him my love,” said Griffin. All night we sat and froze with only tea and bread scrounged from the cookhouse truck as relief. In painful positions we tried to sleep out the rain-filled night. It was like being tied up in sacks and thrown in the Bosporus. The growling of empty stomachs rings round the valley. At the sound of a snore a sleepless voice says, “Lucky bastard.” I have had my legs in every position except behind my neck, and I’m saving that for an emergency. I am just dozing off with my legs behind my neck when the truck jolts.
“Mummy, mummy.” I shake Deans gently by the throat. “Get the bucket and spades, we’re off.”
Along the dawn-haunted roads we slush along. By now, life has so little interest, an announcement that the world was coming to an end could only have cheered us up. I am dozing, dozing, smoking, dozing…
“Wake up! We’re ‘ere.”
BSM L. Griffin as he appeared in Volume 3
Deans is clambering out the truck, sleepily I follow, and where are we? It’s a farm. We are in a large courtyard flanked by a large four-storeyed redbrick Victorian Gothic building with a circular Camelot-type tower, along with numerous other utility buildings. The courtyard was knee-deep in crap. We donned our ‘Wellies’. We are all assigned a building, the Specialists and Signallers are given what is a shed being used as a coal-bunker.
“You’ll have to clear it up if you want to get comfortable,” said Sergeant King. I dumped my kit on the coaldust-laden floor.
“Can’t we burn it and start again?” I said.
There was the ‘sorting-out-where-to-kip’ time-lag, and then at 10.30, BREAKFAST! By which time most of us had forgotten how to eat. Hard on that we parade for Captain Sullivan.
Captain Sullivan, who personally supervised the chicken-shit clean-up.
“As you can see, this yard has been crapped in for the last hundred years by chickens, cows, sheep…”.
Was he going to say, ‘now it’s our turn’?
“If we’ve got to spend Christmas here, we don’t want to spend it up to our neck in shit, so we’ve got to set-to and clear it up, the sooner the better.”
He then left us to clear up the shit, while he went away not to. The lads set-to with shovels, but I could see that it was going to take days. I put the great Milligan brain to work and I came up with the answer. Some large squared-off timbers lay around, the thickness of a tree trunk; they were about twelve feet long by about four feet square. To these we attached dragging ropes and by pulling them along the yard up a slope, we deposited the crap into an adjacent canal. Any chicken that tried to crap here now got a brick on the back of the nut. Clouds of black coaldust swirled in the air as we set about our shed. We got so black that soon the strains of ‘Swannee. Ribber’ were heard, and what appeared to be negro gunners doing the cakewalk.
“I don’t think this was always a coal-bunker,” said a blackened Deans. “It’s been used as a garage at times.”
“Oh what a relief,” I said. “These little bits of unsolicited information do wonders for us.”
It was a weary bunch of gunners that bedded down that sooty night.
With the usual ingenuity, each man had concocted a bed of sorts, the most painful was Gunner Devine’s. He slept on a sheet of corrugated iron, it made the most devastating clanging noise every time he moved.
DECEMBER 12, 1943
MY DIARY:
COLD AND RAIN. CONTINUED TO SHOVEL SHIT AND COALDUST.
Much the same as yesterday. After the overnight rain the courtyard has refilled with crap, and we start all over again. The Signallers and Specialists attacked their billet. They enlisted Ted Wright, who drove the water cart in and turned the taps on. There is nothing to report for the days that followed, save the horses. (Save the Horses. A new appeal.) The fallow fields and meadows housed a collection of horses and a few donkeys. A ride wouldn’t be a bad thing. With this in mind the Gunners Devine, Nash, White and Milligan strode manfully over the
canal bridge, and closed in on three shaggy looking equines. At our approach, they looked up, ears forward; with lots of outstretched hands and utterances, ‘Good boy, here boy, woah boy’, and ‘Come here, you bastard’, we managed to get one to stand still while Vic Nash prepared to mount. Had he ridden before? He thought so. Up he goes. He sat there for a few moments savouring the height; being a short-arse, this was all new to him. He lights a cigarette.
“Never mind the bloody fag, get the thing going.”
Devine was anxious to see the display. White was somewhere chasing a brown filly that had almost taken him out of sight. We had heard him shouting implorations, but he was now down to slinging lumps of turf after the reluctant creature. Here, however, Nash was preparing. He threw his cigarette away, then said to the animal, “Come on…off we go.” She didn’t go off. He tried several more ‘off we goes’, but she went on grazing.
“Get ‘er head up, will you,” he instructed us.
This done he tried a sudden use of the heels and in doing so fell off.
“I thought you said you could ride,” said Devine.
“I thought so too,” insisted Nash.
Devine helps him up again but they still argue.
“It hasn’t moved yet and you’ve fallen off.”
“It takes time to get back into the swing of it…when I say ready, give her a smack on the arse…right?”
Right. Nash settles, takes a firm hold of the rope and the mane.
“Right,” he yells.
Devine connects his palm with her rump. SMACK! loud and clear. We helped Nash up again.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to remember,” he said.
Devine pats the horse. “I can do better than that: I’ve never ridden, but it should be easy. I seen tons of cowboy pictures…they never fall off.” Milligan and Nash hold hands as a step. Devine is on!!! He smiles in triumph. Devine is off. White has come running back, he has chased the brown horse out of the province. He settles for a donkey. Great, he’s on, he stays on, and manages to get the animal to run around.
“Anyone got a camera before it’s too late?” he shouts. After the trials of ‘Cowboy’ Devine I got on and rode the horse at a canter around rather muddy fields. I hadn’t ridden since I was a boy in India. I had forgotten how wonderful it was, and that smell peculiar to horses; we messed around like this until we hear a terrible yell and a splash. Nash is in the canal. Devine had challenged him to leap across and he had failed. Devine is laughingly helpless as Nash thrashes the shit-strewn waters and swears his way to the bank where Devine hauls him up, only to find himself on the same side he’d jumped from. There is a shivering run by Nash along the canal to where the bridge is, some quarter of a mile away. He divests himself of his now reeking battle dress, and hangs it outside to dry. It’s past redemption. The smell is appalling. He tries to exchange it at the Q stores; he had only been in there two minutes when everyone ran out. When he ran out after them, they all ran in again. They told him to get it washed and it would be alright. The farmer’s wife fainted when he showed it to her. Finally, he boiled it. It killed the smell but the suit shrank twelve inches. In a fit of desperation, he put it on; his appearance in the Q stores sufficed to point the need for a new one. Alas, the new one was two feet longer than him. The moral is, don’t go riding. But many persisted; every evening, the meadows were full of galloping horses with gunners hanging round their necks. The Italian farmer wondered why every morning his horses were too shagged out to pull his wagons. He reported this to the Major and Part 2 Orders read, “The practice of riding farm horses in off-duty hours will cease forthwith, as the animals are only for agricultural use.”
“Thank Christ its all over,” said Nash from somewhere inside a battle dress.
Ahhhh! The Army Kinematographic Corps have visited us! they set up their cinema in our billets! There’s to be three shows starting at three…second house six…last house nine.
“Signallers and Specialists in the last batch,” said Sgt. King.
Bloody nerve, it was in our billet, we had to move all our beds, and we had to wait outside until nine at night. We all strolled over to the Tower house, where Edgington and mob are in a frenzy of pontoon. Lire notes are piled in the middle, and like true punters and sportsmen their faces are masks of utter misery. Smudger Smith is Banker. They have been playing nigh four hours, and the total winnings are somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve shillings, there could be suicides before the night is over.
“Stand behind me, Milligan, you’re Irish, bring me luck,” says Money-Mad Edgington.
Strangely enough, his luck did change, he lost the lot.
Some of the lads had seen the three and six o’clock show and knew it by heart. The film was Casablanca, dubbed Case-of-Blanco, with ‘Humphrey Gocart’.
Every entry by Bogart was greeted with “Now listen, Blue Eyes.” Ingrid Bergman got “‘Ave you had it yet darlin’?” Bogart in Casablanca town was repeatedly warned “The invasion’s cummin’, piss orf before you’re conscripted.”
At one stage as Bogart nonchalantly put his hands in his pockets, a warning to Bergman, “Look out, darlin’, he’s going to show you the white-eared elephant.”
Claude Rains was greeted with “Here comes the weather report.” When Bogart’s victim fell to the ground there was “Stretcher bearer!”, kissing was greeted by 200 gunners making suction noises. I can never ever watch that film again. I report in full Alf Fildes’ diary, it gives an interesting insight as to what an ordinary soldier was thinking on that day thirty-five years ago.
Cinema Show in our garage, so we’re out all day till it’s our turn. Good film Casablanca, lots of barracking. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman and Claude Rains, but made me rather lovesick and homesick, nevertheless very entertaining. Most of the lads sweeping up muddy courtyard along with parades. Maintenance with Milligan leading mad moments of his latest invention called ‘Drooling’, a new game with effects on victims, who are pounced upon with verbal hoots and groans like gorillas. How mad we all are when there’s a war on and no artificial pleasures. Jerry still holding his winter line cleverly with MG’s and Mortars but 5th Army gaining yard by yard.
CAMINO MONASTERY piled with dead of both sides and therefore unoccupiable since rock surface affords no graves for bodies, it must have been horrible to clamber up that sheer-razor rock with mortars dropping with lethal accuracy but, after changing hands a number of times, it is now definitely ours and the 46 Division are advancing with the Yanks.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1943
Mobile Shower Unit have arrived, naked gunners all over the place, steam, soap, whistling, songs, pranks. A Quartet of naked men are standing in barber-shop formation—Edgington, Milligan, Devine and White. The water cascades down them, patent-leathering their hair to their heads, water jets run off their noses, elbows and willies.
“We’re poor little sheep who have lost our way, baaa, baaa, baaa.” This is all done with a fine feeling for dramatic gestures, arms shoot up in all directions, occasionally the steam would obscure them completely. We sang for nearly an hour; when we came out all of us were bright red.
“I feel giddy,” said Edgington.
“It’s the loss of dirt,” I said. “It leaves you dizzy.”
Having given us a shower we are now told to don our denims and “Clean the underside of all the signal vehicles.” An hour later we were all shit-black again. As luck would have it, the showers unit was still working; soon from the steam came “We’re poor little sheep…”
The Bath Corporal said, “‘Ere, weren’t you lot in this mornin’?”
“Yes.”
“You’re only supposed to ‘ave one go.”
“This is only one go,” I said.
“This is the second time you been in. I recognised the singin’.” Fame at last!
He forthwith switched off the water. We were left naked, covered in soap and shivering.
“I’m not ‘avin’ this,” said Devine
, who runs after the Corporal. Soon the water flowed again, but then it went off again, and on again, and off again…we could hear a scuffle out back somewhere, then the thud of a body falling to the floor. Devine reappeared with a turncock, he had blood coming from his mouth. “The bastard! I told him.”
What had happened? Simple. The Bath Corporal now lay unconscious by his control valve.
“Hurry up, then,” said Devine. “I didn’t hit him very hard.”
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1943
REGIMENTAL DIARY:
RA Band visited 10 Corps area and gave performance in the Teatro Garibaldi at Santa Maria, and Capua Vetere.
MY DIARY:
ONLY EIGHT SHOPPING DAYS LEFT TO CHRISTMAS. OH DEAR, I MUST HURRY.
FILDES’ DIARY:
Still no Naples or rest but plenty of graft.
Graft yes. We are cleaning and recleaning our Signal equipment.
“I can’t clean this wireless set any more, Sarge.”
“Why not?”
“It’s starting to scream.”
Afternoon. All ranks other than those on guard and regimental duties will proceed to Santa Maria for the RA Band Concert.
The Garibaldi Theatre fronted a muddy street. The interior was a wonderland of plaster work, gilt, marble columns and red velvet. Built 1840, in classical style, it would be a show-piece anywhere. Right now the RA Band are pumping out ‘Colonel Bogey’. We listen to a few Sousa Marches and off out. American Red Cross Cinema! That was for us. It’s full. Round the back, Milligan. Open door. On to the rear of the stage. Fildes, White and I lay on our backs on the reverse side of the screen and watched George Brent and Mary Astor in a film I think called Black Victory When the titles came up, White said, “This must be the Joe Louis versus Max Schmeling fight.”
I wish it had been. The film bored me to death, it was a series of doors opening and people coming into rooms, talking about an inheritance, then leaving; after door number fifty opened I fell asleep. I’m woken by Fildes to ‘stop bleedin’ snorin’ ‘, I can’t imagine what people on the other side of the screen thought as this inexplicable snoring was heard in a scene where the Will was being read.