The aerial! This was a metal interslotting series of metal poles with a cross-shaped antennae at the top. Its maximum height was twenty feet.

We contacted Ernie Hart at the Command Post.

"Any mail up, Ernie-over."

"Yes-over."

"Any for me or Fildes?-over."

"Hold on."

We wait, during which time he makes enquiries. "Yes, there's some for both of you-over."

"Great. Any news about leave? Over."

"Nooo. Nothing. There's a rumour about forty-eight hours in Naples-."

"Can you tell Edgington that the mist is on the Swonickles? Over."

"The what? Over."

"The mist is on the Swonickles-over."

"What's it mean? Over."

"He'll understand-over and out."

The pattern of the day is only broken by rushes to do a slash and cook the lunch. We keep our bit of fire area dry by laying a gas cape over it. We make tea about every two hours. Doing a 'pony' is difficult and entails getting a rain-ridden b.u.m. Of course, our leader, Winston, he's not kipping in the back of a truck, no, he and his crony Roosevelt are in sunny Cairo, and as it's Thanksgiving Day, he's got Roosevelt carving great lumps of turkey at his villa, and so stoned does the old man get that after the scoff, they put the gramophone on and the Prime Minister of England dances with a Mr Wilson. What's happening to the war you say? So! Churchill is foxtrotting in Cairo; Milligan is kipping in the mud of Italy; game, set and match to Churchill.

On the 8th Army front, the 78 Div. and the Indian 8 Army front, the 78 Div. and the Indian 8th Div. have attacked and got across the Sangro. G.o.d knows how they did it in this weather. Perhaps they had umbrellas. Div. have attacked and got across the Sangro. G.o.d knows how they did it in this weather. Perhaps they had umbrellas.

The evening comes in dark and gloomy, Alf boils up a couple of tins of stew, sitting up in bed we eat it and small talk. He tells me his missus has sent him a Conway Stewart pen. I clutch the bedclothes with excitement. He shows me the latest photo of his wife Lily and their two kids. I clutch the bed clothes with excitement. On the morrow we would try and extend the aerial.

MEANTIME, NEXT DAY.

"I'll try and put it up this tree, Alf," I said, with good intentions.

"You should look good in a tree. I always thought, in your paybook where it says place of birth it should say Tree."

"Hold this aerial, Alf," I said, "and I will climb up and insult you from a great height."

The words rang clear on the morning air, also clear in the morning air was my lone scream as I fell ten feet.

"You alright?" said Fildes with a whimsical smile.

"Of course, don't you know falling ten feet from a tree is always alright?"

Clutching and swearing, twigs snapping around me, I managed to get up to the lower branches and let out a Tarzan call.

"Pa.s.s me up the aerial, Alf," says Milligan.

It would appear I have climbed too high for him to reach me.

"You'll have to come down a bit," he says.

The tree is winter-green and slippery; in various contortions that are only done by a man with strychnine poisoning, I get to a lower level and give a Tarzan cry.

"Here, grab 'old," says Fildes, holding up the aerial. I firmly grab one of the Windmill antennae, it snaps off.

"Never mind, there's still three more."

I try and haul the thing through a complex of branches and boughs; now, a twenty-foot-long pole is no manoeuvrable item. It was like trying to thread a giant darning needle and I wasn't trained for that. I gave another Tarzan call, it got to the stage where I was trapped between the branches and the aerial.

"Shall I chop the tree down?" said Fildes, giggling.

"It's the antennae that's in the way," I said. "I'll unscrew them."

I soon have three loose antennae in one hand, and I find the other hand insufficient to climb and and hold the aerial. hold the aerial.

"Catch," I said, and dropped the antennae. Looking up, Fildes loses his balance, and starts to slide back down the muddy slope. So smooth is his progress that he doesn't realise he's moving; gently the back of his nut collides with a tree. I gave the Tarzan call, and a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y good it did. The antennae are now slopped in the mud. I, in contrast, am covered in the green moss of the tree trunk and covered in scratches. This is called modern wireless communications.

"Shall I come up and help?" said Fildes.

No, I need no help, I am the complete wireless technician. I give another Tarzan call to verify it.

A wet officer from 17 Battery appears at the bottom of the tree. He explains to Fildes that he is to pa.s.s on a shoot for Major Jenkins. Fildes explains that this is not possible until the aerial is up. The officer can hear swearing issuing from the tree behind him because Milligan has ripped the knee of his battle dress. It's letting in the cold mountain air, something his London-bred knees are not accustomed to. The officer is Lieutenant Pascoe, young, slim, very refined. He could hear a very unrefined voice from behind a tree saying, "f.u.c.k all this, if it doesn't work this b.l.o.o.d.y time, I'm packing it in."

I have managed to tie the aerial to the top of the tree. "Throw the antennae up, Alf."

Using Olympic-style javelin throws, Alf manages to hit me on the chest.

"Can you tell the man up the. tree that the shoot has to go through at 1430 hours?" says Lt. Pascoe.

Fildes shouts up the message. Milligan is unaware of the officer's presence, and replies thus: "They'll be f.u.c.king lucky."

I give one more Tarzan call. On descending I was confronted by a smiling Lt. Pascoe.

"Did you leave Jane up there?" he said.

"Oh h.e.l.lo, sir," I said. "We're having trouble with the aerial."

"Yes, I heard you having trouble."

We immediately tried the strength of the new aerial; it's no better. As it is a prearranged shoot with no adjustment of ranges, it goes through on morse. The target lay on the rear crest of Limata Grande.

"What's so important about that?" I asked Lt. Pascoe.

"Nothing. It's a registration shoot for future reference."

With that he demands tea.

"Yes, sir," I said and demanded cigarettes.

He gave us one each. Tea concluded, he took his leave, wandering off left towards where his transport was hidden. We hear a 'Heloooooo' from further down the slope. Was this the spirit of Arcadia? There, amid the greenery we see a clutch of muddy gunners in various stages of climbing. They are Bombardier Syd Price and his merry ration carriers.

"Come down here," he calls.

"Why?"

"Because we we can't get up can't get up there there."

"If we we come down come down there there where you can't get up from, where you can't get up from, we'll we'll be down be down there there as well not being able to get back up as well not being able to get back up here here where we are where we are now now."

"It's yer b.l.o.o.d.y rations, take 'em or we'll eat 'em here."

A desperate situation. Alf and I slither down the hillside. Rations are rations and we'll do anything to get them. Along with them we find "Two b.l.o.o.d.y great batteries for the wireless." We manage to get the rations up, but the weight of the batteries is too much, so we leave the things on the mountain. Syd Price puffs his pipe as he and his 'porters' slither backwards down the mountain.

"When are we going to be relieved?" I asked as a parting question.

"Use a tree," he calls.

We are alone again in our little heaven in the clouds. A small group of silent Infantry men are leaving their position. They pa.s.s us in silence. We've had a belly full of wireless.

"Let's pack it in," I said, "I feel a bit feverish." I bed down and Fildes prepares an evening meal. I had fallen asleep before he served it.

Drill instructor at the low port.

[image]

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1943.

ALF FILDES' DIARY: ALF FILDES' DIARY: Still up here on the hill but rather enjoying it Still up here on the hill but rather enjoying it. MY DIARY: MY DIARY: FEEL BETTER THIS MORNING. COLOSSAL DOWNPOUR OF RAIN. EVERYTHING DAMP AND SOGGY, ESPECIALLY ME. FEEL BETTER THIS MORNING. COLOSSAL DOWNPOUR OF RAIN. EVERYTHING DAMP AND SOGGY, ESPECIALLY ME.

I awoke to the roar of rain on the canvas roof. Six o'clock! What's the matter with me? It's this Army habit of 'early', it was catching and now I I had been affected. It will take years of post-war training to get back to normal. I make the morning tea and wake Fildes, who is lying on his back sucking air in through his open mouth. had been affected. It will take years of post-war training to get back to normal. I make the morning tea and wake Fildes, who is lying on his back sucking air in through his open mouth.

He opens his bloodshot eyes, for ten seconds the brain doesn't register; I hold up his chipped brown mug with the steaming tea, a soppy grin spreads across his face and a clutching hand takes the tea.

"Oh, good luck," he says, sips it, and screams as he burns his tongue.

"So what'll we do today?" he said.

"Nothing."

"That's all we've b.l.o.o.d.y well done since we've been here."

"Yes, it's a serial."

We roll up the back flap of the truck and sit looking out at the rain-drenched mountainside, which gradually disappears into the mist of the downpour.

"I haven't heard a sound this morning," said Fildes. He peers round the back of the truck. He is checking his patent water catchment. This is a hole with a piece of canvas placed in it.

"It's full," he said.

It seemed lunatic to be catching water in weather like this but we need it to wash in, saving our Jerry can of clean water for drinking. Silently, a dripping soldier appears.

"17 Battery," he announced. "We've come to relieve you." He pointed down the mountainside to his truck on its side. "We can't get it up any further," he said.

"Did you put chains on?"

"No, its bad enough wearing battle dress."

"The truck truck."

"We had everything on, it's took us two hours to get that far."

He pointed to the truck on its side.

"Look, it's impossible for us to get our truck down, and you can't get up, so it's pointless you staying here." He nods agreement.

Poor b.u.g.g.e.r collects his belongings from his truck and disappears down the hill with the driver.

That night, out of sheer boredom I read my Army paybook.

"Interesting?" says Fildes.

"Incredible, says I was born in a tree."

We off with the light, and lie back smoking in the dark. The rain continues; fancy, right now Churchill will be sipping brandy and smoking a cigar.

NOVEMBER 26, 1943.

It was like a spring morning. "I don't believe it," said Fildes. "The sun." It changed everything, colours once brown were now green, green, green. Today I would shave. Today I would organise my life anew. No more s...o...b..d in bed all day, today I would do things. What those things were I didn't yet know, but it would be 'things', the first 'thing' would be breakfast. I build a fire and soon make the bacon sizzle. The smell is wafting through the morning air. A string of mules accompanied by Cypriot attendants come from the left and pa.s.s slowly by. They are a little amused seeing us in nothing but socks, boots and shirts. Fildes is shaving.

"Marvellous what the sun will do," he says.

He whistles in between strokes of the blade. I will do the shave 'thing' after the breakfast 'thing'.

"After this I'm going to have a look over the hill 'thing' at Jerry's positions," I declared.

"I'm beginning to wonder how long we'll be up here," said Fildes. "It's been four days now, we were only supposed to be here for twenty-four hours."