MY DIARY: MY DIARY: OWING TO NON-ARRIVAL OF NO. 19 AND 21 WIRELESS SETS NO BATTERY OP CAN BE ESTABLISHED, ORDERED TO 'STAND DOWN'. OWING TO NON-ARRIVAL OF NO. 19 AND 21 WIRELESS SETS NO BATTERY OP CAN BE ESTABLISHED, ORDERED TO 'STAND DOWN'.

Now to let you have the boredom of the Official History of the Regiment.

Their (19 Bty) position lay at the foot of Monte Mango, and was approached by means of roads little better than mountain tracks, worse indeed than any encountered in Africa. Yet by evening after a day of feverish activity Their (19 Bty) position lay at the foot of Monte Mango, and was approached by means of roads little better than mountain tracks, worse indeed than any encountered in Africa. Yet by evening after a day of feverish activity [see? they even make the poor b.u.g.g.e.rs work with a temperature. S.M.] [see? they even make the poor b.u.g.g.e.rs work with a temperature. S.M.] and some quite unprincipled borrowing of equipment (cigarettes, chocolate, etc.) they were in action, and were immediately given the attention of Stukas and some quite unprincipled borrowing of equipment (cigarettes, chocolate, etc.) they were in action, and were immediately given the attention of Stukas.

Now Gunner Edgington recalls the first gun position.

Action! Lights! Cameras!

I recall travelling on one of the Scammells as we went into action. We travelled fourteen miles I remember 'The Dean'* saying, yet we found out later the 'bridgehead' was only two miles in depth-it had been started just two weeks before, and though we didn't know it then, Jerry was well advanced on the task of chucking us right out. One man, a certain Sergeant of our Battery by name of Michael 'Bullp.r.i.c.k' Ryan, was to completely reverse the situation almost single-handed! I recall travelling on one of the Scammells as we went into action. We travelled fourteen miles I remember 'The Dean'* saying, yet we found out later the 'bridgehead' was only two miles in depth-it had been started just two weeks before, and though we didn't know it then, Jerry was well advanced on the task of chucking us right out. One man, a certain Sergeant of our Battery by name of Michael 'Bullp.r.i.c.k' Ryan, was to completely reverse the situation almost single-handed!

We didn't get moving till late in the day and then crept along an interminable, winding, tortuous course, until long after nightfall we came into an earth road between the giant trees of what seemed like a forest, except that they were set strangely in very orderly straight rows. There were smaller trees between them-apples?-lemons?-and running suspended along all of them, grapevines-all of them loaded with their fruit, fully ripe, for it was September. No light but Budden's torch-everyone inhibited from *Bdr. Spike Deans any noise that was avoidable-a hissed instruction, and the driver swung his wheel, the huge vehicle grinding slowly into the vines tearing great lengths of them away. The torches showed great puddles of what seemed like blood in the soft ryecorn-sprouting earth. No light but Budden's torch-everyone inhibited from *Bdr. Spike Deans any noise that was avoidable-a hissed instruction, and the driver swung his wheel, the huge vehicle grinding slowly into the vines tearing great lengths of them away. The torches showed great puddles of what seemed like blood in the soft ryecorn-sprouting earth. Trees-these giants carried ma.s.ses of very fine walnuts-were dragged down by two Scammells arranged fan-wise to a particular tree with a powerful steel hawser running from one front winch-gear round the tree to the other's front winch-a line of fire was cleared! Next morning, a raid-Spike and 'Dook', shaving, dive under a Scammell. Fire orders kept coming and kept getting cancelled. We could see Monte Stella through the trees-like a kid's drawing of an alp-watched our infantry struggling on it-then the most incredible 'shoot' of them all-Mick knocked the top clean off it with two rounds, sighting through the barrel a 7.2 howitzer aimed like a pistol!! Suddenly a great ragged mob of Hun fighter planes interceded, surging over the nearest crest, bellying down right over our tree tops, cannons going, though whether at us I know not. Trees-these giants carried ma.s.ses of very fine walnuts-were dragged down by two Scammells arranged fan-wise to a particular tree with a powerful steel hawser running from one front winch-gear round the tree to the other's front winch-a line of fire was cleared! Next morning, a raid-Spike and 'Dook', shaving, dive under a Scammell. Fire orders kept coming and kept getting cancelled. We could see Monte Stella through the trees-like a kid's drawing of an alp-watched our infantry struggling on it-then the most incredible 'shoot' of them all-Mick knocked the top clean off it with two rounds, sighting through the barrel a 7.2 howitzer aimed like a pistol!! Suddenly a great ragged mob of Hun fighter planes interceded, surging over the nearest crest, bellying down right over our tree tops, cannons going, though whether at us I know not.[image]

19 Battery about to fire on Monte Stella, on which Jerry is perched. Man firing gun in off-white vest is Gunner Devine.[image]

The moment after firing; idiot photographer failed to capture sh.e.l.l exploding on peak. Note driver with steering-wheel of bus lorry-the rest was stolen by Italians Yes. I remembered being Stuka-ed, the evidence of this was a six-foot-deep trench at the bottom of which looking up white-faced and saying 'Tell Hitler I'm sorry' was Lance-Bombardier Milligan. What did did Basenji mean? Basenji mean?

My slit-trench was in the angle of a farm-hut wall and a raised bank. All day Jerry 155mm sh.e.l.ls were pa.s.sing over our positions.

"They're after the 25-pounders in the field behind us," says Sgt. Ryan.

"Behind?" I said, turning yellow. "Christ, we're far forward for heavies."

"Forward?" he giggled. "We had b.l.o.o.d.y Nebelwurfers in this field this afternoon."

Ryan had excelled himself. In the absence of an OP he had aligned his gun on Monte Mango by looking up the barrel, elevating it a bit above that, and by G.o.d, he was actually dropping the sh.e.l.ls right on target.

I was surplus to requirements so I spent the afternoon writing letters, and eating handfuls of purple grapes that grew above my trench. I'd read about Conquerors partaking of the spoils of war. What I hadn't read about was the terrifying attack of the s.h.i.ts that followed.

Dear Mum, Dad and Des Dear Mum, Dad and Des.

We've been moved, I'm not allowed to say where. We had spaghetti for lunch. The lunacy continues and has every chance of becoming a way of life unless we stop it soon. Men are getting so used to wars that the Psychiatric wing of the RAMC are planning how to break the news to the men when the war is over. I am keeping well, we don't go hungry in this war, the Compo Rations are very good, that's if you get to the box first-this is the first day in this country, so I haven't caught anything yet. I would welcome any books, periodicals and newspapers, preferably ones that say the war is over, and believe me the war I am keeping well, we don't go hungry in this war, the Compo Rations are very good, that's if you get to the box first-this is the first day in this country, so I haven't caught anything yet. I would welcome any books, periodicals and newspapers, preferably ones that say the war is over, and believe me the war is is over...over over...over here. here. I'm writing this in a hole in the ground, it's convenient, because if you get killed, they just fill the hole in and sell it as a cemetery. That's all the cheery news, will write again when the situation is a little less fraught I'm writing this in a hole in the ground, it's convenient, because if you get killed, they just fill the hole in and sell it as a cemetery. That's all the cheery news, will write again when the situation is a little less fraught.

Loving son, Terry.

I lit up a cigarette and lay back. Mind a blank. The guns roar, the night comes. Grapevine message, "Dinner", across the field with mess-tins, I am walking on a field that has been laying fallow for a few years. One still feels the furrows where the plough once moved. In the corner of the field under some walnut trees, a heavily camouflaged cook-house is operating, and by the screams they are operating without an anaesthetic. In the queue I find Kidgell and Edgington.

"Where you been hiding?" is the merry greeting.

"Hiding? me me hiding? that's a malicious rumour, I haven't been hiding. I have been standing on the peak of a mountain, swathed in a Union Jack, with a searchlight beaming on me and I have been crying 'Come on you German swines, and feel the taste of British steel!' Do you call that hiding?" hiding? that's a malicious rumour, I haven't been hiding. I have been standing on the peak of a mountain, swathed in a Union Jack, with a searchlight beaming on me and I have been crying 'Come on you German swines, and feel the taste of British steel!' Do you call that hiding?"

"That's a load of cobblers."

"Talking of cobblers," says Kidgell, "wot are those terrible things floating in the stew?"

"Mines," says our cook. "But don't worry, they're ours."

It is a Maconochie Stew, and it tastes b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous. We sit with our backs against a bren carrier. The odd gun falls silent as the gun-teams take turns for their meal. It's dark now, all around the unending roar of artillery. Odd rumours.

"They say he's starting to pull out and our patrols are on the outskirts of Naples."

"Cor, Naples, eh?"

We would all like to be in Naples. It would be the first European city since we left England nearly two years ago. We've all been warned of the 'dangers'. If the brochure was telling the truth, venereal disease was walking the streets of Naples and one could contact it just by shaking hands with a priest. The BQMS has pa.s.sed a message we won't be getting any mail for a week, he says things like that to cheer himself up. Amid the gunfire we hear a droning, a lone plane, it's Jerry, he drops a green flare. It was so pretty we all cheered when it came on.

"Milligan???? Milligan????" A voice is calling.

"Is that you mother?" I reply.

It's Bombardier Fuller, he is saying, "Pack enough kit to last forty-eight hours, you're goin' up the OP."

Enough to last forty-eight hours. Wearily I climb into Bdr. Sherwood's bren carrier, already in it and waiting are Captain Sullivan, Signaller Birch and Bombardier Edwards. In a second carrier are Lt. Budden, Sig. Wenham; I cannot recall the Driver.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: GOT ON TO NARROW ROAD TO MANGO, ROAD JAMMED WITH VEHICLES, TWO TRUCKS AHEAD STRUCK BY JERRY MORTARS. STUCK FOR NEARLY TWO HOURS. GOT ON TO NARROW ROAD TO MANGO, ROAD JAMMED WITH VEHICLES, TWO TRUCKS AHEAD STRUCK BY JERRY MORTARS. STUCK FOR NEARLY TWO HOURS.

Progress is slow, road jammed with vehicles, very dark now, ahead is a glow of a large fire. Lt. Budden dismounts, he is coming towards us with a face that says Confusion Unlimited, and he appears to be the Managing Director.

"That's the mountain there," he points to a mountain that is so big it doesn't need pointing to. Still I take his point. "We've got to get up that."

"We need a ladder, sir."

"How we going to get a b.l.o.o.d.y bren carrier up there?" says Birch.

"Post it."

He tried to hit me.

"I'll miss him."

"Who?" says Birch.

"A helmsman whose face showed white through the wheel house."

It's really dark. We can hear the small arms fire. The crump of mortars is endless. What was was Basenji? There is now a nose-to-tail traffic jam along a narrow walled lane; the red glow ahead is getting larger, and now owns the sky. Some walking wounded are squeezing past us on their way back. Basenji? There is now a nose-to-tail traffic jam along a narrow walled lane; the red glow ahead is getting larger, and now owns the sky. Some walking wounded are squeezing past us on their way back.

"Wot's happening?" I said to one of them.

"Jerry mortars, they set fire to the ammo truck-any minute now."

He had hardly said it when there was an explosion and the random fireworks of the ammo going off showered the sky with sparks; it was great fun, and costing us a fortune. A Military Policeman is coming down the convoy.

"Back up, if you can," he says, and laughs. We pa.s.s the message down the line, half an hour later we start to move backwards. A Despatch Rider is riding up from down behind us calling out "Any 19 Battery here?...Any 19 Battery here?..."

Birch says "Yes."

Silly sod! Never Never answer anything in the Army, too late now. It's Don R. Lawrence. He tells us we have to take the bren carrier and go back to pick up a wireless set which has just arrived from the beach, and Captain Sullivan on another truck is going to the OP, so we breathe a sigh of relief, we start extricating the bren carrier from the congestion, marvellous, when we've almost got it out the b.l.o.o.d.y thing breaks down, we struggle and manage to push it on to its side to allow the traffic through. Budden tells us, "We'll have to walk to HQ and get fresh orders." answer anything in the Army, too late now. It's Don R. Lawrence. He tells us we have to take the bren carrier and go back to pick up a wireless set which has just arrived from the beach, and Captain Sullivan on another truck is going to the OP, so we breathe a sigh of relief, we start extricating the bren carrier from the congestion, marvellous, when we've almost got it out the b.l.o.o.d.y thing breaks down, we struggle and manage to push it on to its side to allow the traffic through. Budden tells us, "We'll have to walk to HQ and get fresh orders."

I tell him I don't need fresh orders, I'm perfectly satisfied with the ones I've got.

"Please, Milligan," says Budden, "try and be a soldier." and be a soldier."

We finally reach RHQ. It's off a walled lane in an Italian farmhouse, built around a forecourt two storeys high; an exterior staircase leads up to the first floor, which is surrounded by a balcony. The farm is blacked out except the room where our our HQ is, that is a ma.s.s of light c.h.i.n.ks coming from windows and doors like an early HQ is, that is a ma.s.s of light c.h.i.n.ks coming from windows and doors like an early Son et Lumiere Son et Lumiere. Several vehicles are parked in the forecourt. The drivers are asleep in the back. Twenty minutes pa.s.s. Mr Budden appears, he smells of Whisky, the khaki after-shave for men. He is much happier.

"We are not needed, Milligan," he says.

"Does that mean for the duration?"

We both walk back to the gun position, which is easily found. We just followed the loudest bangs.

SEPTEMBER 24, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: COOL NIGHT, A TOUCH OF AUTUMN CHILL IN THE AIR. HAD VERY DISTURBED SLEEP. KEPT WAKING UP IN A COLD SWEAT, TOOK SWIG AT WATER BOTTLE, HAD A f.a.g. WHAT A b.l.o.o.d.y LIFE. I FINALLY DROPPED OFF INTO A BLACK SLEEP, LIKE DEATH. AM I THE BLACK SLEEP OF THE FAMILY? COOL NIGHT, A TOUCH OF AUTUMN CHILL IN THE AIR. HAD VERY DISTURBED SLEEP. KEPT WAKING UP IN A COLD SWEAT, TOOK SWIG AT WATER BOTTLE, HAD A f.a.g. WHAT A b.l.o.o.d.y LIFE. I FINALLY DROPPED OFF INTO A BLACK SLEEP, LIKE DEATH. AM I THE BLACK SLEEP OF THE FAMILY?.

SEPTEMBER 25, 1943.

I awoke at first light, sat up, yawned. I felt as tired as though I had not slept. A morning mist is rapidly disappearing. It swirls around the head of Monte Mango. I start the ritual of folding my blankets. A voice calls, "Hey, Terry." Terry? I hadn't been called that since I turned khaki. It was Reg Lake, a Captain in the Queen's Regiment. He had been sleeping about thirty yards away. Reg was the pre-war manager of the New Era Rhythm Boys, one of the best semi-pro bands in London. He was the one who gave me my first break as a 'crooner'. Last time I had seen him was on a 137 bus going from Brockley to Victoria.

"My G.o.d, Terry, what are you doing in this G.o.d-forsaken place?"

"I'm helping England win the war." What a silly b.l.o.o.d.y question. "Reg," I said, "or do I call you sir?"

"How long you been here?" he said.

"Came yesterday-I thought it was a day trip."

"I was here on the landings, you missed all the fun."

"I'll try and make up for it."

It was difficult to make conversation. I couldn't say, "Where's the band playing this week?" I asked what had happened to the boys in the band.

"All split up."

"That must be painful."

"Most of them are in the services-remember Tom the tenor player with only one lung? They took him."

"They took me and I've only got two."

He was called away by a Sergeant. I never saw him again, I've no idea if he survived the war. If he reads this book, I hope he gets in touch.

A voice is calling across the land, "Bombardier Milligan."

"Bombardier Milligan is dead," I call in a disguised voice.

The voice replied, "Then he's going to miss breakfast."

Good G.o.d! it's nearly nine! I just get to the cookhouse in time to have the remains of powdered eggs, bacon and tea that appears to have been all cooked together.

"You slept late," says Edgington.

"I'm training for sleeping sickness."

[image][image]

Loading a 7.2-to the right, Monte Stella; to the left, Monte Mango We are now gathered around the Water Wagon doing our ablutions. Edgington is at the lather stage, peering into a mirror the size of a half crown propped on a mudguard. He was moving his face clockwise as he shaved. I had stripped to the waist, which brought cries of "Where are you?" I had my head under the tap enjoying the refreshing cascade of chlorinated cold water, at which time, twelve FW 109s are enjoying roaring out of the sun, guns hammering, there's a G.o.d-awful scramble, we all meet under a lorry. I caught a glimpse of the planes as they launched their bombs on the 25-pounder regiment behind us.

"Look out," warns Edgington, when the planes were half way back to base. He hurled himself face down. "All over." We stand up. Edgington presented a face, half lather, dust and squashed grapes.

What was I I laughing at? One moment I was well. Next moment I was on my knees vomiting. It was unbelievable. I became giddy, kept seeing stars and the Virgin Mary upside down. laughing at? One moment I was well. Next moment I was on my knees vomiting. It was unbelievable. I became giddy, kept seeing stars and the Virgin Mary upside down.

"Report sick," says Bombardier Fuller.

"You're so kind," I said.

They took me to the Doc, who said I had a temperature of 103.

"What have have you been doing?" he said. you been doing?" he said.

"I was washing, sir."

Having a temperature of 103 allowed you to stop fighting. No but seriously, folks, I was ill! Oh I was ill was ill!! The war would have to go on without me! In a bren carrier they took me shivering with ague to the Forward Dressing Station. It was a small tented area off a rough track; a Lance-Corporal, tall, thin with spectacles, took my details, tied a label on me, I think it was THIS WAY UP.

"That stretcher there," he said.

So, they were going to stretch me! I felt a bit of a fraud. Around me were seriously wounded men. Some were moaning softly. A chubby Catholic Priest, about forty-five, red faced, blond hair going grey, walked among us.

"What's wrong with you, son?"

"I got fever."

"Fever?"

"Yes. Disappointed, father?"

He grinned, but it didn't wipe the sadness off his face. He told me they were awaiting the arrival of some badly wounded men from the Queen's.

"They were trying to take that." He nodded towards Monte Stella.

Three jeeps arrive with stretcher cases. Among them is a German, his face almost off. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. There was a trickle of wounded all afternoon, some walking, some on stretchers, some dead, the priest went among them carrying out the last rites. Was this the way Christ wanted them to go? The most depressing picture of the war was for me the blanket-covered bodies on stretchers, their boots protruding from the end. For my part I kept falling into a delirious sleep, where I told General Montgomery to sing 'G.o.d Save America' with his trousers down. When I awoke it was evening. I'd been lying there about four hours.

"Are they going to take me?" I asked an orderly.

"Yes, you're next, Corporal," he comforted. "We had a lot of badly wounded, we had to send them off first."