ME:.

Right ranging Right ranging mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Amen. Fire!

I know now that Evelyn Waugh was a Catholic, and in Yugoslavia, p.i.s.sed out of his mind, went all out for medals by standing up during bombing raids and shouting to poor Randolph Churchill under a table, "Come out, you yellow swine." Well, I wasn't that that good a Catholic. good a Catholic.

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British soldier forcing officer to paint his portrait at gunpoint.

DECEMBER 5, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: RAIN. GUNFIRE. BOREDOM, HOMESICK, LOVESICK. RAIN. GUNFIRE. BOREDOM, HOMESICK, LOVESICK.

These early December cold, rain-soaked days were hanging heavy on us all. The boredom was only alleviated by sheer effort. Off duty we would foregather at 'Chez G Truck' bivvy. The consumption of tea was enormous, we had more of it than ammo; for men to return from mud, sh.e.l.ls, rain and cold to enter our little den and see a woodfire was great. Edgington was a linesman, whereas I I was a wireless operator-the ratio was that of navvy and bank clerk. Edgington's intelligence warranted more than linesman-but his performance on a wireless set during hectic fire orders would have ground the war to a halt. He couldn't do things at anyone else's pace, it had to be his was a wireless operator-the ratio was that of navvy and bank clerk. Edgington's intelligence warranted more than linesman-but his performance on a wireless set during hectic fire orders would have ground the war to a halt. He couldn't do things at anyone else's pace, it had to be his own- own- he was his own total master, he gets it right, but all in he was his own total master, he gets it right, but all in his his own time and you can't do that in a war. He squats near the fire, his mug to his lips. own time and you can't do that in a war. He squats near the fire, his mug to his lips.

"Ahhh!" he gasps, "Heaven."

"Heaven?" said cryptic-voiced Nash, "call this b.l.o.o.d.y heaven?"

"It was a momentary lapse," said Edgington, "it's pa.s.sed off. I no longer think this is heaven-I'll rephrase it-it's f.u.c.king h.e.l.l."

Edgington has just returned from OP line maintenance, he tells us there's very little Christmas spirit up there. The season of goodwill is stone dead, and so are our young men. We outstare the fire in silence, Nash throws his stub into the flames. The saltpetre flares blue. Fildes is uncasing his guitar.

"Gonna burn it?" said Deans.

Fildes ignores him; attentively he tunes the strings.

"Play 'The Nearness of You'," I said. Alf nods. "E-flat," he says.

We all sing it. Enter Jam-Jar Griffin.

"Oops sorry, vicar-is there a service on," he said reverently, taking his hat off.

"Yes," says Nash, "active-f.u.c.king-service."

"Can I join in?" guffaws Jam-Jar, taking off his overcoat. "Let me partake of this seasonal red tannic-acid tea-and wish my guts the compliments of the season. A real d.i.c.kensian Christmas to you all."

Guffaws. Alf Fildes laughs long at Jam-Jar's old world posturing.

"'Ark," says Nash, cupping his hand to his ear in fairy-like gesture, "isn't that an old d.i.c.kensian 7.2 gun goin' off?-'pon my word I didn't know Christmas was so near-I must to the workhouse to put my Christmas Puddins in place."

Alf starts to play 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas', we all join in. All evening Dean's had been in a state of agitation, finally, "It's no good," he said, "I'll have to open it."

Open what? He has a bottle of Marsala! he has been waiting all night for us to depart, but couldn't wait any longer, now he had had to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar. to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar.

"It's corked," I said.

"Corked? it's f.u.c.ked."

"Let's think of something nice," said Deans. "Are you going anywhere for Christmas?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm going to spend a few days in my tent in Italy."

"I think I'll take a stroll round my truck-never know who you might meet," said Fildes.

Buzz-buzz. Our private phone is going. Deans raises it.

"h.e.l.lo-Chez G Truck..." he hands me the hand-set. "It's fer you."

Gunner Hart in the Command Post is asking me, "'Ave you taken the pencil?"

"No, I haven't, I've only got my own." Can he borrow it, otherwise the Battery will be 'out of the war'.

In a few minutes he appears covered in mud.

"I fell over," he said.

I handed him the pencil.

"Cup of tea?" said Deans.

"Just a sip," said Hart. "They're waiting for me to start the war." He took a hasty mouthful. "Ta," he grinned.

"Fire one for us," we called after him.

"Any special colour?" we heard him say.

The drumming of rain starts on the canvas ceiling, I throw a log on the fire, it reflames, a shower of needle-sparks fly up the chimney.

DECEMBER 8, 1943.

This day the battle was won. Jerry pulled out and Monte Camino was ours. I don't think a battle could have been fought under worse conditions. The pace now slackens, I manage a wayside bath in a tin. It's so cold you keep the top half fully dressed while you do the legs, then on with the trousers, strip the top half and do that.

We are all fed up with being in the same position, and rumours are flying. We're going home, etc., and the best one of all-the war is going to finish in eight days!

DECEMBER 9, 1943.

I can't take much more of this b.l.o.o.d.y rain. It's time we had a rest. I must have been depressed because on this day my diary is empty.

FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: I'm getting fed up with myself here and will be glad when we move or go for a rest I'm getting fed up with myself here and will be glad when we move or go for a rest. REGIMENTAL DIARY: REGIMENTAL DIARY: Body of soldier reported lying dead in pa.s.sage in RHQ Body of soldier reported lying dead in pa.s.sage in RHQ.

It wasn't mine. It turned out to be an engineer who had committed suicide. "Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," 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 bombsh.e.l.l, it galvanised smiles back on to our faces. We were walking around and saying like Mr Barrett to Elizabeth, "You must restttt 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 s.h.i.t-pit before we leave."

"We got ter clean up the battlefield." Bombardier Fuller, known back home as 'Stop thief', is pa.s.sing on the commands of our Major. Soon, carol-singing gunners are roaming muddy fields gathering f.a.g 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 p.i.s.s 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 f.u.c.kkkkk," 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 gra.s.s-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 f.u.c.ked it."

Lt. Walker is pa.s.sing 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 p.i.s.sed off as you are."

"There's a big hold-up on the Teano Road," said BSM Griffin, trying to help.

"There's a bigger f.u.c.king 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d." 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."

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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 c.r.a.p. We donned our 'Wellies'. We are all a.s.signed 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.

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Captain Sullivan, who personally supervised the chicken-s.h.i.t clean-up.

"As you can see, this yard has been c.r.a.pped 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 s.h.i.t, so we've got to set-to and clear it up, the sooner the better."

He then left us to clear up the s.h.i.t, 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 c.r.a.p into an adjacent ca.n.a.l. Any chicken that tried to c.r.a.p 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: MY DIARY: COLD AND RAIN. CONTINUED TO SHOVEL s.h.i.t AND COALDUST. COLD AND RAIN. CONTINUED TO SHOVEL s.h.i.t AND COALDUST.

Much the same as yesterday. After the overnight rain the courtyard has refilled with c.r.a.p, 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 ca.n.a.l bridge, and closed in on three s.h.a.ggy 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d', 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-a.r.s.e, this was all new to him. He lights a cigarette.

"Never mind the b.l.o.o.d.y f.a.g, get the thing going."