More howling laughter. There was nothing so funny as a disorientated Jam-Jar. He realised he was on a losing wicket so joined in the laughter.

"Wot do I care," he roared. "You can't help if it you're a lot of ignorant b.u.g.g.e.rs."

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Soldier pouring sweat out of his boots.

We made it by mid-afternoon. Ravello was magic. It had called the great from many countries, Mozart, Wagner, Greta Garbo, the Duke of Windsor, and Lance-Bombardier Milligan. Ravello was the seat of the Princes of Rufulo. In the centre of the town was the Piazza, with its Cinquecento Chieasa. Inside, one is overwhelmed at the artistry, from the chased silver keyholes in the doors to the magnificent marble-sculptured pulpit turned into lace by the artisan, with the images of the Rufolo family entwined in the facade. A beautiful bust of the Matriarch of the Rufolos (blast! I can't remember her name, was it Rita?, it must be in the Yellow Pages).

The peace inside was shattering. George Shipman, to our amazement, played three Purcell pieces on the organ, we had no idea he could play! Neither did he. The music soared as only an organ can. I sat in what had been the Ducal Pew, and gazed at the complex of marble that made up the altar. Like all worked marble of its day it was a masterpiece. The vaulted ceilings, however, were free of decoration, just plain whitewash which caught the light and gave the interior the effect of sunshine through gauze.

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Duomo interior, Ravello.[image]

Work it out yourself.

We felt like a cup of tea. In the Piazza we entered a little cafe. They made us a pot of brown water with some very nice Italian pastries.

The place is almost deserted save for a few waiters suffering touristic withdrawal symptoms.

"Beforrrrr warrr, come many a peoples, many, many peoples, English, plenty English, English very rich," said our waiter looking at me.

I stood up and sang 'G.o.d Save the King', at the same time pulling out the empty linings of my trouser pockets. He understood, and soon he too displayed his empty pockets. We sat him down and he had tea and cakes with us. It was Ken Carter who was flush with money.

"As it appears that 19 Battery are skint, we of the 74 Mediums will pay."

At these words Edgington and I took off our hats, prostrated ourselves on the pavement and kissed his boots. He tried to shoo us off, but we stuck to him like leeches, grovelling to him and shouting 'Thank 'ee young master' in a Suss.e.x brogue.

Now what? The place to see, apparently, was the Gardens of the Palace, listed as Belvedere del Cimbrone. Even though it wasn't the flowering season, the gardens were a sheer delight to the eye-shrubs, bushes, trees all placed with the utmost precision to create an atmosphere of relaxation and tranquility. A central ornate marble fountain played watery tunes from its moulded lead faucets, surmounted by stone Cherubim. It was so planned as to avoid any view of the sea until one arrived at the tiled terrace, which was reached through a small replica of a Roman Triumphal Arc, alas now stripped of its marble!

"See?, we're not the only ones who've lost our marbles," said Edgington.

It was sunset. Standing on an abutment of the Villa Cimbrone, we were looking out on to a sea that lay like polished jade. Away to our left, about to be swallowed in an autumn mist, was the sweep of the Salerno coast running away into the distance like an unfinished song. I stood long, next to Harry Edgington. There was no noise, no trains, motor cars, motor bikes, barking dogs. It was a moment that was being indelibly etched in my mind for life. I felt part of past history. Wagner had stood on this spot, what went through his head? From what I hear it was "Vitch Italian Bird can I make vid zer screw tonight?"

"We better get something to eat," said the soft voice of Bombardier Ken Carter.

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Belvedere del Cimbrone "Where?"

"Let's go back to the Piazza," I said. "There might be something there."

"I don't remember seeing anything there," said Edgington.

"You must remember seeing something something, Harry, if it's only the floor. I mean we were only there half an hour ago."

"Your power to bend words," he said, "will one day end you in the nick, nuthouse or graveyard."

We reached the Piazza as the twilight was touching the adjacent hills.

"You lads lookin' fer sumfink?" A wavery female c.o.c.kney voice! Standing by the gate of a whitewashed wall was a small, skinny lady of about fifty or a thousand.

"She's speakin' c.o.c.kney," whispered Edgington from the corner of his mouth.

"Perhaps she's lost," I said. "We're lookin' for mangiare mangiare," and I automatically did the sign of eating.

"No need to make signs fer me, darlin'," said the amazing c.o.c.kney voice. "I lived in London forty years."

With the Romans, I thought. She then told us the good news that was to lead to an unforgettable night.

"Come on in, we can fix you up wiv eggs and chips and some wine, that'll do yer, won't it?", she said and gave that forced c.o.c.kney laughter of embarra.s.sment.

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Soldier buying a dress in hopes of an early release, apparently to Arabia.

We followed her on to a terrace that had a sensational view down a precipitous mountain that concluded with the sea. In a small, plain, wine-coloured walled room, adorned with a few religious pictures and a mixture of stern-faced Neapolitan grandfathers, grandmothers and children in communion white, we sat around a central table with a tablecloth that looked suspiciously like a sheet. I hoped I wasn't at the feet end. Chattering, she plonked down two large carafes of red wine. "There, that'll keep yer goin' till din-dins," and disappeared into the back room where she reverted to broad Neapolitan and shouting. She was answered by a male voice that appeared to have sandpaper lining his throat, that or his appliance had slipped.

To Edgington's joy, there was a piano against the wall. The first notes of 'Tangerine', and we all joined in, a memory of our North African Concert Party days. Outside, twilight was crepuscularly moving along the Amalfian coast. Ah ha, eggs and chips Italian-style, with spaghetti!

"Heavens alive!" exclaimed Edgington, a man brought up on roast beef and two. "Spaghetti with eggs?" he chortled, "that's what Catholicism does for you."

I observed the faces of my comrades, the same expression I had observed a thousand times; it is when for a moment conversation stills at the sight of the food, the communal spirit is temporarily forgotten, and each man is only aware of himself, his stomach, and the pleasant preparatory taste of salivary juices in his mouth. A half-smile was on the face of them all except Jam-Jar. His face took on the appearance of a Cougar about to kill.

"There yer are, me darlins," said our little lady, balancing four plates along one arm.

There followed that urgent rattling of cutlery knives and forks foraging like hungry wolves among the repast. There's the usual English insult to culinary art, snowstorms of salt and pepper. I saw her wince at the request for 'Tomato Sauce'. Her husband appeared, a replica of Henry Armetta,* short, fat, greasy, amicable; he grinned and made the little nodding gesture of the head peculiar to Italians.

Hollywood support star of the Thirties. Hollywood support star of the Thirties.

On reflection, it would look peculiar on anybody.

"Buona, eh?"

"Si, molto buona," we chorused.

Pressing my linguistic abilities I said, "Te voglio un becairi de vino'?"

By his facial reaction I could have been speaking Chinese; even worse, he said, "Scusi, ma Io non parla Francese."

They had a drink with us. "'Ere's Victory for the Allies," she said.

That got rid of all the wine. Two more carafes arrived, with them we drank a 'Salute Italia Viva Il Re' that got rid of two more. From the bread on the table Jam-Jar Griffin was wiping the last of the egg off the plates.

"Leave the pattern on, mate," said Carter.

"Now, would you like a sweet?" said our Lady of the Food. "We got lots of eggs 'ere and a barrel of Marsala in the cellar and, as a special treat, we could give you all a Zabiglione."

There was the stunned silence of culinary illiterates. Tactfully she explained what it was, how it was made and how it tasted. "It was made in honour of a General Zabiglione, I believe he was one of Garibaldi's Generals." How could we refuse?

In great antic.i.p.ation we proceeded to destroy our taste-buds with State Express 555. Overwhelmed by my musical ego, I sat at the piano and played a very dodgy version of 'Body and Soul', leaving out the difficult key-change in the middle eight.

"That's a lovely tune," said Carter.

"Yes it is," I said.

"Then why play?"

"It's coming," said Edgington cupping his ear in the direction of the kitchen, from whence came noises in the wake of which our Madonna of the seven Teeth came forth with a tray on which were six gla.s.ses of yellowish stuff. Slight apprehension, except Jam-Jar who is into it like Dracula into a throat. "It's custard," he said, "That's it, zabiglione is Italian for custard."

It was the turn of Lance-Bombardier Carter to play.

"They laughed when I sat down to play the piano," he said. "But when I played...they became hysterical."

We all giggled and laughed, mind you, at this stage we would have all giggled and laughed if we'd been told we had a week to live. He played his own composition, called 'Candlelight'.* I still, to this day, sometimes find myself humming it.

*Strange, when I was writing about this particular incident, I phoned Ken and asked if he remembered the words. He said, "Yes I've got them somewhere. I'll dig them out and let you have them." That night Ken died in his sleep.

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The man on the right is Bombardier K, Carter and the man on the left isn't-but with promotion could be!

We were now introduced to an exotic Italian after-dinner drink, Sambuca, which is set alight.

"Christ," said Edgington, "how do you drink that without first-degree burns?"

Outside, night had fallen along the Amalfian coast. With Ken still playing those incredibly romantic tunes of the Forties, Harry and I went and looked at the view outside. It was a vast, velvety panorama. The moon lit the whole scene, the clarity was startling, like sunlight through a blue-tinted gla.s.s. I could hear distant singing drifting upwards from the sea. I noticed boats with tiny yellow lamps like fairy lanterns on the water, and a rhythmic beating, of course! it was the pescatores pescatores attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas. attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas.

I include Harry Edgington's recollection of that evening, written in 1977!!

But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I've already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven't a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn't tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fashion, cutting a ma.s.sive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed. But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I've already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven't a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn't tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fashion, cutting a ma.s.sive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed. We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen's boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and sights came to us perfectly focused, so clear was the moonlight, so we just drank in the scene, which I would say was starkly rather than restfully beautiful. We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen's boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and sights came to us perfectly focused, so clear was the moonlight, so we just drank in the scene, which I would say was starkly rather than restfully beautiful.

Back in the little dining-room the romantic mood had gone, and Jam-Jar Griffin was in the middle of a magnificent rending of 'Poor Blind Nell', who in thirty-two bars of music had more perversions committed on her than a victim of Caligula. Reg Bennett played ' 'Blue Moon', then ' 'Follow my heart my dancing feet', while I danced with the hat-stand, and Edgington a chair.

The denouement. Rosie says, "'Ow about some Iti champagne?"

Champagne??? Gunners drinking Champagne? It was called Asti Spumanti, more like Proof Lemonade, but the sheer feeling of luxury made it even more heady.

"Cor. Champagne," said Edgington, making it disappear at a great rate.

He was at the old piano again; we stood around and sang tunes that put an emotional seal on our generation. Along about two in the morning we paid the bill, bade noisy good-nights to Rosie and her husband, and started down the long winding road to Amalfi. It looked like a silver river. No one was drunk but we certainly weren't all that steady, there was a lot of sliding and slipping on a sharp gradient...It was a mile to the bottom, and I think our gyrations added another three. The seafront was quiet, a few c.h.i.n.ks of light showed through late windows. I slept to the sound of the sea and a tide of thunderous snoring from a Neolithic gunner in the next bed who was fully clothed and sick down the front of his battle dress, a perfect end to a memorable night.

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Jam-Jar Griffin and Reg Bennett appearing as extras in a picture featuring a horse and driver.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: NOTHING. NOTHING. FILDES': FILDES': Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii.

This day was was memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It's a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss 'official' breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them. memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It's a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss 'official' breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them.

"Aren't you seeing Pompeii?" says White.

"Not from here-anyhows, I hate conducted tours."

I order two eggs-a-cheeps from the Signorina.

"This place gets a bit boring after twenty-four hours," says White.

For the first time the drunken Scot talks. "Aye-f.o.o.kin toors-nae b.l.o.o.d.y gude-s'better here, ah f.u.c.k."

Let me describe him. Short, stocky, black hair, red face and staring blue eyes in a sea of red veins, he had no mouth as such-it looked more like an incision. He reeked of alcohol. The front of his battle dress was a ma.s.s of red wine-stains-his teeth were Van Gogh yellow-he hadn't a penny, and sat with anyone who could stand the smell.

"I can't get rid of him," said White.

I ate my eggs and yarned with White. The drunken Scot kept interjecting, with unintelligible Scots rubbish. "Yerur-nae-narraer-getar-arrr-Glasgae arrhh-f.u.c.k."

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Left to right: Edgington-Bennett-Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong Edgington-Bennett-Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong.

We get on to the beach and hire a boat. "Yem-nae ach-aye, Glasgae-abl-f.u.c.k." I took the oars and we pulled gently from the sh.o.r.e. Out loud I quote, "All in the lazy golden afternoon-full leisurely we glide."

"Yer nae sael ger-Glasgae-ah-f.u.c.k."

A hundred yards offsh.o.r.e, I stack the oars and we just drifted-wonderful! peace! smoking, with our feet up. The sun is warm, the air balmy, the waters calm, the terrible Scot is sick-not in the sea, in the boat. We rowed back hurriedly, with him downwind. "Arragh-wae gal-ferrr-Glasgae ah f.u.c.k," he said.

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Left to right: Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans.

We climbed the sea wall and ran away from the reeking Scot. The afternoon we walked along the coastal road towards Positano-the afternoon sun was like a warm caress, we slung our jackets over our shoulders.

To our right are granite cliffs-"What's caused that?" White points to a great cleavage in a hill.

"That's a fault."

"Fault? Whose b.l.o.o.d.y fault?"

Carefully I explain its geological origins.