"A Gauleiter? He couldn't make a cigarette lighter," said Jam-Jar.

Words didn't count here. We each produced our 48-hour pa.s.ses. The sweaty Sergeant took them all, walked to the window and squinted at them, he took three minutes to digest each one.

"They're all the same, Sarge," I said kindly.

"No, they're not!" he snapped. "Numbers and names are all different."

The s.h.i.t. He then proceeded to laboriously enter our names in a book. He wheezed as he almost etched our details on the paper. "'Oo's senior here?" he said.

"You are," I replied.

"I'm senior NCO with this party," interjected Deans.

"You'll be responsible then," said the s.h.i.t.

"Responsible for what, Sarge?"

"Never mind what, you're responsible, understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Deans crisply. "Partyyyy shunnnn."

We all did nothing.

"From the right Number."

"6-12- 1091-2 3/3," we said.

"Partyyy Quickkkkkk March!"

We all hibbled-hobbled out of step from the room, before the startled gaze of the s.h.i.t.

A large warehouse with beds.

"Aye," said a dopey room orderly. "We not bin open long, you first lot we 'ad today."

"What time's dinner?" we chorused.

"Ooo, seven o'clock till eight."

We tried the dinner from seven to eight. It was b.l.o.o.d.y terrible.

"You going out after this?" said Jam-Jar.

"I don't think so," said Fildes. "I'm s.h.a.gged out walking."

"I'm s.h.a.gged out eating that b.l.o.o.d.y food," said Griffin. "I think I'll have an early night."

"Yes," I said, "why don't you all try your silk stockings on?"

The dopey room orderly is putting black-outs up at the windows. One miserable yellow bulb cast a depressing gloom around the room. We are all in bed when the air-raid warning goes. We all sit up.

"What are we supposed to do?" said Wenham.

"We're supposed to be frightened," I said, "quick, put your silk stockings on!"

There was no sound of planes, and I fell asleep not knowing or caring. Tomorrow I must must buy some silk stockings. buy some silk stockings.

SUNRISE, NOVEMBER 28, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DID THE SAME TODAY AS WE DID YESTERDAY. VERY COLD, BUT SUNNY. MUST BUY SOME SILK STOCKINGS. DID THE SAME TODAY AS WE DID YESTERDAY. VERY COLD, BUT SUNNY. MUST BUY SOME SILK STOCKINGS. FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: Leave today at two o'clock Leave today at two o'clock.

We all lay in bed long after breakfast, anything to avoid it. We drive back into Naples, and after half an hour in the Army and Navy Club, we are off. Driver Kit Masters says we should be back by about "I don't know when."

"Forty-eight hours! we spent fourteen fourteen of them at the Transit Camp," estimates Griffin, "and how long did we spend in Naples? of them at the Transit Camp," estimates Griffin, "and how long did we spend in Naples? Four b.l.o.o.d.y hours Four b.l.o.o.d.y hours, it's all b.a.l.l.s, we had absolutely no time for perversions."

"We'll do some on the way back," I said kindly.

On that cold b.u.mpy muddy ride back there were no perversions other than a 'Jimmy Riddle' over the tailboard. We arrived at Teano, there's a G.o.d Almighty hold up, long lines of trucks are ahead of us, the drivers outside banging their hands on their sides to keep warm.

FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: We got out and picked oranges and looked at the appalling damage to the town. An old man even excreted in the street with no comment We got out and picked oranges and looked at the appalling damage to the town. An old man even excreted in the street with no comment.

I don't understand! ORANGES ORANGES in midwinter? What had Fildes been drinking? and, c.r.a.pping in the street with 'no comment'? I mean, what was the old man supposed to say? Ole! in midwinter? What had Fildes been drinking? and, c.r.a.pping in the street with 'no comment'? I mean, what was the old man supposed to say? Ole!

We are off again, soon the sound of the guns comes wafting. It's pitch-black outside, it's pitch-black inside, there's no choice.

"So that was Naples," said Fildes, "I can't believe it, all this switching from civilisation to war, it's hard to get it together."

The luminous ends of the cigarette are dancing in the dark. One flies out the back as its usefulness ends. We arrive back 'home' at eight o'clock, s.h.a.gged. We make for the cook-house; after a mess-tin of steaming M & V,* we turn in; it's very cold tonight, I sleep in my battle dress. Outside the rata-clack-squeak of tanks going north. *M & V. Meat and Veg.

NOVEMBER 29, 1943.

"Wakey, wakey."

My watch says 0500 hours.

"Wakey, wakey my a.r.s.ey, why don't you f.u.c.key wuckey offey?" is my clear language reply.

Oh dear, it's no use, it's Sergeant King, he says, "You are goin' hup the Ho-Pee-it's only for twenty-four hours."

"That's long enough to get killed," I said.

In Sherwood's bren carrier I travel a fifteen-mile road to Sipichiano. At times we are in full view of Jerry. He doesn't sh.e.l.l us. But you have that feeling that any minute he will and that's like being sh.e.l.led.

"How come they picked you?" said Sherwood.

"I wasn't quick enough."

Whee-crashhh!

"He's spotted us!" shouts Sherwood.

He drives off the road behind a deserted farmhouse. Whee Crash. Whee Crash. 88s! Is he going to drop one behind the farm? No, he just goes along the road. Five more rounds and then stop. Is he waiting for us to come out? Only one way to find out. Sherwood revs up and then rushes out on to the road. I cringe...nothing, soon we're safe behind covering ground. The OP was manned by Bombardier Eddy Edwards, Signaller 'My brain hurts' Birch and a Lieutenant from 18 Battery whose name I can't remember and a face that's left an indelible blank on my mind. The trench was in low scrub on a forward slope, indispersed among the Infantry and to our right an OP from 74 Mediums which I, muggins, had to crawl to, linking them up to us by phone. At the bottom of their trench grinning upwards is L/Bombardier Ken Carter. Little did I know I was looking at the man who would one day produce Crossroads Crossroads. Had I known I would have killed him there and then. During the night I spoke to him on the phone. I'd heard he was putting together a new show. "Yes, it's a pantomime...Ali Baba."

"Same cast as Stand Easy? Stand Easy?"

"Bigger, much bigger...about a hundred."

"Hundred? Christ, who's left to fire the guns?"

"I want it to be really big, West End stuff, the lads must be fed up with all those skinny b.l.o.o.d.y six-handed ENSA shows."

"Think you'll be allowed to do it?"

"Yes, I've already spoken to Brigadier Rogers."

"Did he speak to you you, though?"

"Yes."

"Another cla.s.s barrier has fallen! Headline! Bombardier addresses Brigadier and lives."

Our hushed conversation was terminated by Jerry artillery.

"I suppose it's to keep us awake," said Bombardier Edwards.

Squatting in a trench for hours is h.e.l.l. The pain at the back of the knees is exquisite. After dark we stand up to stretch ourselves.

"What we need are detachable legs Mark One," I said. "A heater in the seat of the trousers, a lubrication-point at the back of each knee, hollow rubber feet that can be filled with hot water, an electrified nose-m.u.f.f, and a collapsible Po."

"I agree with all that, Bombardier," said the Lieutenant, "save for the last mentioned. I think a Po would make a man lose that wild sense of freedom that he has as he sprays the foliage of Italy with a deft hand and a flick of the wrist."

The sh.e.l.ling is big stuff, Jerry 155mm, it's falling about 200 yards to our right where the Infantry have some Vickers machine guns. The phone emits a faint buzz. I s.n.a.t.c.h up the hand set.

"OP," I whisper.

"Command Post here." It's Pedlar Palmer, G.o.d's gift to ugly women. "Line OK?" he says.

"Yes...clear."

"Anything happening?"

"A bit of Jerry sh.e.l.ling, that's OK, it's Edwards' breath that's killing us."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," said Edwards. Palmer continues, "It's all quiet back here, anything up your end?"

"No, there's nothing up my end."

"Dirty little b.u.g.g.e.r you." He goes.

The sh.e.l.ling stops.

"The poor darlings must be tired," says the Lieutenant.

A burst of heavy German machine-gun fire. A bren-gun starts to answer back with its laboured chug, chug, chug. Why did the idiot want to fire back? It was only upsetting Jerry! Christmas was coming, we should be making paper chains and funny hats to hang on the officers. We open our vacuum tea tube. It's now very tannic and burns the tongue but it's hot. The front goes quiet, a gossamer-thin quilt of light starts to furnish the sky to our east, it grows almost imperceptibly; a lone, very strong crowing c.o.c.kerel shrills the air.

"Silly c.u.n.t," said Birch.

A soft lush pink mounts the heavens and I watched overawed as it turns almost crimson, then pales into the lucidity of daylight. h.e.l.lo, who's this approaching on his stomach?

"Sorry I'm late," it says, as it slithers into the trench.

Ah, I recognise those brown teeth, it's Thornton, my relief. What a relief!

"Sherwood's waiting behind the hill to take you back in his little Noddy car."

I collected my small pack and crawled back, always conscious that a b.l.o.o.d.y German might spot me and riddle my a.r.s.e with metal, but no! I'm safe and riding back in the bren carrier.

"It's dodgy along here," says Sherwood.

"It's your own b.l.o.o.d.y fault for coming in daylight."

"Couldn't help it," he said. "Thornton was late seeing the MO."

"Excuses, b.l.o.o.d.y excuses, this b.l.o.o.d.y army is made up of them."

"Keep moaning," said Sherwood. "It's the only way to promotion."

Heeemmm Bammmmm! Wheeem Bamm! It's the same b.l.o.o.d.y 88mm from yesterday! Lucky he has only spotted us as we go round a hairpin bend out of view.

"We're not safe yet," said Sherwood. "Those b.l.o.o.d.y things can fire round corners."

They couldn't. What they could could do was wait for you to reappear, and when we did, he was waiting. Wheeeem Bammm! Wheeem Bammm! He was getting too close, we'd have to take evasive action. Sherwood pulls the carrier off the road down a very steep gradient, it takes us out of view but puts us at a perilous angle. We wait, listening intently. We know what to do, it's a terrible trick, you wait for a vehicle going in the opposite direction, and while Jerry is following him, you scoot out the other way. This we did, some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d in a recce car came by and got the lot, and Whoosh! the khaki cowards were gone! do was wait for you to reappear, and when we did, he was waiting. Wheeeem Bammm! Wheeem Bammm! He was getting too close, we'd have to take evasive action. Sherwood pulls the carrier off the road down a very steep gradient, it takes us out of view but puts us at a perilous angle. We wait, listening intently. We know what to do, it's a terrible trick, you wait for a vehicle going in the opposite direction, and while Jerry is following him, you scoot out the other way. This we did, some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d in a recce car came by and got the lot, and Whoosh! the khaki cowards were gone!

Back safe and sound, I collected my breakfast, and join the G Truck bivvy. The fire was being rekindled by Vic Nash, fresh from his bed and looking like the spirit of dawn in his shirt, boots, half a f.a.g, and coughing his lungs up.

"They didn't get you then?" was his cheery greeting.

"No, but you'll be glad to know they nearly did."

"You could go back again."

"No, they've stopped piece work."

"Ahhhhhhggggg."