Someone in the valley below is trying to attract our attention with a mirror.

"I wonder what they want."

"We better switch on the set," said Fildes.

We get through and the message is "Come in. Position being closed down." We take our time. I stroll to the top of the mountain ridge for a last look, a marvellous view meets the eye, 1,000 feet below us is the great Garigliano plain, with the snow-mottled Aurunci Mountains on the far side of the river. To the left is the Gulf of Gaeta. In the distance at the curling point of the bay is Gaeta itself. Even as I watch, a great plume from an explosion starts skywards, Jerry carrying out demolitions. Why can't I get a fun job like that? The last of the infantry are leaving their foxholes, and wearily making their way back down the mountain.

"The line's moved forward," says a tired-looking Corporal in answer to my question.

"You never see many of 'em smiling or laughing," reflected Fildes.

"They've got b.u.g.g.e.r all to laugh at. I mean what do you say, "Cheer up, Charlie, we're being mortared', or 'Cor, talk about a laugh, we were sh.e.l.led all night and ten of us was killed.""

Boooommmmm. Another explosion in Gaeta.

"There won't be much of the b.l.o.o.d.y place left," said Fildes.

Boooommmm!

"Christ, they've got it in for that place."

"Wish we had some binoculars," said Fildes.

"Can't you hear without them?"

Oh what a lovely sight! Spitfires with American American markings, so there was markings, so there was something something of ours that they were using, usually it was us borrowing from them; they fly in threes, at about 10,000 feet, then suddenly go into a dive towards the foothills across the Garigliano; soon they are shrouded in flack. We hear the Spits' cannons going, then they shoot straight up from the dive, alternately turning left and right from their target, then coming in for a second run. They repeat this three times then turn away and race back for our line, climbing as they do. We just sit and watch it as though we were at the Palladium, "Encoreeeee, bravoooooo." of ours that they were using, usually it was us borrowing from them; they fly in threes, at about 10,000 feet, then suddenly go into a dive towards the foothills across the Garigliano; soon they are shrouded in flack. We hear the Spits' cannons going, then they shoot straight up from the dive, alternately turning left and right from their target, then coming in for a second run. They repeat this three times then turn away and race back for our line, climbing as they do. We just sit and watch it as though we were at the Palladium, "Encoreeeee, bravoooooo."

Fildes starts back for the truck. "Come on, Milligan, we don't want to get stuck in the dark."

While we are up here on this hill, there had been excitement in the valley. The officers' mess had caught fire! We couldn't stop laughing. Officers off duty were in bed when the conflagration started. They were seen in their pyjamas hurling buckets of water (filled by their batmen, of course), and Major 'Looney' Jenkins was seen to rush in and from the smoke and flame hurl his possessions to safety, where Gunner Pills (who hated him) was seen to throw them all back in again. What remained of Jenkins' kit was a sorry incinerated mess, his appearance on parade next morning was a joy to behold; in a charred hat, smoke-blackened battle dress, and his right arm in a sling from burns, he had the gall to enter in Part 2 Orders 'Injured in Action'. I remember I penned an 'Ode' to the occasion in the style of McGonagall, I didn't preserve it but it went something like this: Ohhhh 'Twas in the month of November Ohhhh 'Twas in the month of November In Nineteen Forty Three In Nineteen Forty Three That the officers' mess caught fire, That the officers' mess caught fire, Oh dearie dearie me. Oh dearie dearie me. And into that terrible fire And into that terrible fire Major Jenkins did rush in Major Jenkins did rush in To save his precious possessions, To save his precious possessions, His wig, his teeth, his gin. His wig, his teeth, his gin. But as he threw his treasures out But as he threw his treasures out Gunner Pills committed a sin, Gunner Pills committed a sin, For as fast as the Major threw them out For as fast as the Major threw them out He threw them all back in. He threw them all back in. On parade next morning, On parade next morning, Our names on the roll to check, Our names on the roll to check, Major Evan Jenkins appeared Major Evan Jenkins appeared A charred and tattered wreck. A charred and tattered wreck. If only he had stayed inside If only he had stayed inside And been burnt to a cinder, And been burnt to a cinder, He'd have given us all a laugh He'd have given us all a laugh Much bigger than Tommy Trinder. Much bigger than Tommy Trinder.

Whistling merrily, we pack all our gear and prepare the descent. The ground was like grease, Fildes drives down at one mile an hour, engaging four-wheel drive. I have to walk ahead and scout out the least dangerous bits, gradually the gradient became more acute. The truck starts to slide down with a gathering momentum. All I could think of saying was "Goodbye, Alf, I'll tell the missus." Alf doesn't want to die. He remembers an old bus-driver's trick. He puts the truck into reverse, and the counteraction of the wheels slows the vehicle up and it gradually comes to a halt. He looks out the cab and grins.

"Cor b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I want more money for this job."

"That was brilliant! Brilliant Brilliant, do you hear me, Fildes! I won't let this go unnoticed...you see, by tomorrow morning you'll be on the honours list and an extra egg for breakfast, a present from a grateful nation, G.o.d bless you, young Alf, you and your see-through underwear. England isn't finished yet...it'll be finished tomorrow."

Together we gradually slither down the hill, and with perfect timing arrive back as Bombardier Deans is making coffee.

"It's the men from the hills," announces Nash.

"Yes, we bring good tidings, Jerry is blowing up Gaeta."

Fildes has raced to the battery office and returned with mail.

"You always get more than anyone else, Milligan."

"Well, you unimaginative b.u.g.g.e.rs only write to one bird, I wrote to ten; you're paying the penalty for monogamy."

I am drinking Deans' coffee and luxuriating in my letters. Ah! Romance! Darling I love you, Dearest, my Darling, Darling Terry, Darling, darling, darling, good luck to them all I say! Alf is depressed, one of his kids is ill with scarlet fever. Fancy being a child in this war, shortages, fathers away, might get killed, bombs, and scarlet fever on top.

"They're only going to give forty-eight hours' leave in Naples," Jam-Jar comes in with the news. There is a stunned silence. "Didn't you hear?" repeats Jam-Jar, removing his tin hat, leaving the lining on his head. "Leave..." he starts to spell it out. "L-e-a-"

"Alright, alright, we heard," I said. "Me and my friends are in a temporary state of shock. We're not used to such announcements."

"Naples," says Deans looking up ecstatically.

Fildes isn't enthusiastic. "Forty-eight hours? That's no b.l.o.o.d.y good, it'll take us half a day there and hack, all we'll get is an afternoon and a morning, what can you do in that time?"

"I should imagine, if you have the right addresses and you're quick, you could get in ten s.h.a.gs, three Litres of Vino and a ton of spaghetti," says Nash.

"s.h.a.gs!" Jam-Jar has a look of horror on his face. "Don't you know Naples is the most Syphilitic city in Italy?"

"That's nothing, we'll we'll make it the most syphilitic in the make it the most syphilitic in the world world!" says Nash with a sweep of his hand.

"Perfidious Albion," says Jam-Jar.

"Vitreous China," I reply.

"We're going to look a b.l.o.o.d.y scruffy lot, we need a clean change of clothing."

"Clothing," I mocked, "we need a complete change of body, I smell like the inside of a Guardsman's sock."

So that I will be nice and fresh for the journey I've been put on Command Post from 2.30 in the morning till 5.30! Lt. Stewart Pride is on duty. No! he's got malaria; I peer into the officers' billet.

"Hope you feel better soon, sir."

He looks up from his camp bed. "Thank you, Milligan," and so saying downs half a bottle of whisky. He looks terrible and is sweating like a pig. Whisky. They all admitted that it was this fiery Scots anaesthetic that made them try for a commission. I get my head down early. At the dreaded hour of two twenty-five and three quarters, Alf Fildes wakes me. "Spike!"

"Ahhhhharggh-Arggh!"

"Your turn."

"Arrrggg-Arrrggg Argg-er"

He stands over me, pulls the blankets off. "You'll go blind," he says.

In the Command Post Lt. Budden is talking to Bombardier Edwards. The night is a quiet one. Thirty-six rounds fired of hara.s.sing fire. I doze with my back against the wall. Towards dawn I fall off the box I'm on. The phone buzzes. "Command Post," I say.

It's the 8th Survey Regiment, or rather one of them. They give me a message that is all gibberish, I write down the string of figures and hand them to Lt. Budden. Survey Regiment, or rather one of them. They give me a message that is all gibberish, I write down the string of figures and hand them to Lt. Budden.

"This must mean something to someone," I said.

Budden takes the message, screws his eyes up, they appear to have a left-hand thread.

"Ahhh, at last, Deans," he handed the message to him.

Deans takes it. "Ahhh yes." he said.

From it they start doing sums, and drawing lines with protractors and set squares. I return to the dozing, and I fall off the box a second time. This way I pa.s.s the long hours till dawn.

It's now Sat.u.r.day, November 27.

I have to alert the cooks, so I take my mug. Gently I wake May, for he is a cook, and therefore G.o.d. I help him find his boots and a.s.sist him to his feet, all the while saying, "Ronnie May is a prince among men, for his is the truth and the light and walks in the ways of wisdom."

"You want some f.u.c.king tea, don't you?" he said.

"Ahhh, the master can even read the human mind."

I stick around as he starts up the field oven by throwing a lighted match into the dripfeed tunnel. Whoooosh. It ignites.

"Food, b.l.o.o.d.y food, that's all this lot think of, all I am is a total slave to the intestines of this lot, how can a public schoolboy like me, with a future in the jewellery business, end up stirring porridge in a world war?" he moaned merrily as he placed dixies of water and food over the fire. He unrolls the bacon from their gold-tinted compo tins, and slops them into the dixie.

I get the first breakfast of the day. 'G' truck is silent with the sleeping Fildes, Nash and Deans. The camp is stirring, odd guns bark around the area.

Naples! I try to make myself look respectable, I have a good shave in hot water, and wash my hair; the removal of all that dirt leaves me light-headed and I have to sit down. G.o.d knows what will happen when I have a bath, it could mean a wheelchair.

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'G' truck with its 'tented' attachment and Milligan's terrible tent.

Basenji. Did it really mean non-barking dogs? The three-tonners are warming up, we are all getting aboard, it's eighty miles to Naples, on these roads it would appear to be two hundred. By nine o'clock we are all packed in the back, by 9.30 we are still all packed in the back. Impatient swearing is emerging from the pa.s.sengers, it gradually swells into a roar and then the chorus of "Why are we waiting, waiting f.u.c.king waiting, why oh why are weee waiting." The ting ting was always, under my musical direction, hit loud and hard, " was always, under my musical direction, hit loud and hard, "TINGGGGGGG!" the word reverberated around the gun position, cries from those left behind of "Take the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds away."

The lorry suddenly lurches forward, a great jeering cheer comes from the pa.s.sengers and it continues as we jerk and slither down the secondary road.

"Our King is sending us to Naples to get Syph," cries Smudger Smith.

"Hoorayyyy," comes the mob's reply.

It was a dreary nightmare journey, along worn muddy secondary roads in transport that was also secondary, in turn we looked like secondary troops, it all fitted.

SAt.u.r.dAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1943.

At mid-day we pulled into the Piazza Dante, clogged with vehicles and people. Italians are screaming at each other-some are screaming at walls some are screaming at themselves. The city pulsated with life, some drunks were pulsating with death, the pavements were crammed with pedestrians who overflowed on to the street, Allied soldiers, civilians, all jostled together. There was that peculiar smell of Italian cigarettes permeating the air. As we jump from the truck, several pretty girls are touting for restaurants, "Nica-a-food-anda-wine" says one ravishing little beauty; as bait she handed us a plate of fishcakes; delicious! "Molto buono," I said. We followed her to a side street into a Trattoria.

"This b.l.o.o.d.y menu's in Italian," moaned Wenham. We put away a mountain of spaghetti, some set about with a knife and fork. "This isn't a meal, it's a b.l.o.o.d.y puzzle," said Wenham.

"You're supposed to swallow it long long," I said.

"And la.s.soo me guts?"

"How do the Ities manage to eat this day after day?" said Griffin.

"Like I told you, with a fork fork."

Alf Fildes has his head back at forty-five degrees, it was something to do with the winegla.s.s he was draining. "Ahhhh, lovely stuff."

"Be forewarned, all you Lochinvars," said Deans, "there's pox galore out here, one good screw and yer p.r.i.c.k will swell up like a marrow and yer b.a.l.l.s drops off."

"Now, why doesn't Thomas Cook put that that in his brochures? All that 'See Lovely Naples and Sorrento, cities of Love and Music' c.r.a.p!! He in his brochures? All that 'See Lovely Naples and Sorrento, cities of Love and Music' c.r.a.p!! He should should be saying Round Trip to Naples and back to an old English Syphilitic Ward, 67 return." be saying Round Trip to Naples and back to an old English Syphilitic Ward, 67 return."

We window shopped. Such luxury goods! Silk shirts, stockings, watches, suits, shoes.

"How come back 'ome we got bleeding cardboard boots and suits made out of Gunny sacks in our shops and the Ities got all this?" said Fildes.

"Ah! but we we have better tanks, aeroplanes and guns," I said with a cheerful inane grin. have better tanks, aeroplanes and guns," I said with a cheerful inane grin.

Fildes is looking at a magnificent ladies' kimono. "What's Seta Pura mean?"

"It means Pure Seta," I said.

It was stockings and knickers that seemed to be the main purchases, thousands of parcels were in transit to wives, girlfriends (and some boyfriends), the basic reason was the s.e.xual thrill the squaddie had in buying them and waiting for that inevitable letter back saying, "When you come home you can put them on for me." Alas, by the time they got home some b.l.o.o.d.y American had already taken them off. I bought a leather cigarette case for my leather cigarettes, it was real hide and I bore in mind that if boiled, Kidgell would eat it. Fildes buys a silk bedspread, hair-pins, and guess what? Silk stockings. We repair to the new Mecca of the British Army, the Army and Navy Club! This one time Universal Store, now adapted as a Naafi, staffed by pretty girls.

FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: Lounge, music room with Iti Trio, cakes, sandwiches, hot dinners, tea and silk stockings, all at reasonable prices, everywhere an air of elite comfort Lounge, music room with Iti Trio, cakes, sandwiches, hot dinners, tea and silk stockings, all at reasonable prices, everywhere an air of elite comfort.

So, if blokes in crumpled battle dresses with their boots up on the table, cheeks bulging with doughnuts and jam dribbling down was elite comfort! Then luxury would be a Gunner eating a bully beef sandwich in evening dress, seated in a workman's hut.

There are some ugly girls serving, a red-faced Infantryman is looking at one and saying ecstatically, "Corrrrr, just look at 'er." There is a time for ugly women, and World War 2 was it. I have seen desperate soldiers as handsome as Greek G.o.ds escorting women who looked like Arthur Mullard in drag.

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Waitress at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, fanning flies off soldier's soup.[image]

British troops being driven insane at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, 1943. The soldier slumped at the end is almost ready.

We ensconced ourselves in the Lounge and listened to the Iti trio. The violin-leader was a thin, febrile male, circa seventy-two, deepest eyes, they appeared like two holes drilled in his head with someone from behind looking through. Another old man with bald head and a curly white moustache (or was it a curly head and a bald moustache?) played piano, a huge stomach forced him away from the keyboard, he had to play arms stretched. One more big dinner and he'd never make it. On drums, a Gorgeous Italian Girl with shoulder-length raven black hair. They were grinding their way through a selection of 'Touristic' melodies, 'Pistol Packing Mamma', 'In the Mood', it was totally unbearable.

"I suppose he thinks 'e's Glen Miller," I said.

"He sounds more like b.l.o.o.d.y Max Miller," said Fildes.

Jam-Jar Griffin and Spike Deans are approaching, they are excited, they've been buying silk stockings. It's late afternoon, we've had tea, we go and visit the Duomo; this was an interesting vaulted shopping Arcade, high enough for pigeons to fly within it. It's cruciform in shape; after four hours' walking around, so were we. In a moment of petroleum-induced madness we all piled into a dying Fiat taxi, the driver could barely see over the bonnet, we thought he was standing in a hole in the floor and propelling the vehicle on foot.

A quick drive around town, then he dumped us back at the Piazza Dante; there was a terrible argument over the fare. Who was going to pay it? Inside every Christian there is a Jew shouting to get out.

"We better get to the billet before it gets dark," said Deans, who was being mother.

The billet was on the dock front, we knew when we got to it, it was the only building standing. "Fifth Army (British Contingent) Transit Camp. All intakes report to the Guard Commander." We hawked our stuff off the truck and presented ourselves at the Guard Room.

"Yes! What is it?" said an officious, chubby, red-faced, totally idiot RE Sergeant.

"If he was in Germany Hitler would make 'im a Gauleiter," said Wenham.