The head disappeared. We could hear him visiting all the dug-outs around.

"How come he always seems to win?" I said.

"Never mind that," said Fildes. "How come we always seem to b.l.o.o.d.y lose?"

THURSDAY, JANUARY 13, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: SUNNY, SPRINGLIKE MORNING. VERY QUIET. WOKEN BY STARLINGS SQUABBLING OVER Sc.r.a.pS I'D LEFT OUTSIDE DUG-OUT. NO WORK. PARADE AND THEN DO AS WE LIKE. EXCHANGE MANNED BY MONKEY TRUCK MEN. WILL CHECK COMMAND POST TO SEE ALL SIGNAL STUFF WORKS. SUNNY, SPRINGLIKE MORNING. VERY QUIET. WOKEN BY STARLINGS SQUABBLING OVER Sc.r.a.pS I'D LEFT OUTSIDE DUG-OUT. NO WORK. PARADE AND THEN DO AS WE LIKE. EXCHANGE MANNED BY MONKEY TRUCK MEN. WILL CHECK COMMAND POST TO SEE ALL SIGNAL STUFF WORKS. FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: Cushy now digging is finished. We all had bath down at village hot showers in front line. Fifty casualties in last night's attack by Berkshires and London Scottish Cushy now digging is finished. We all had bath down at village hot showers in front line. Fifty casualties in last night's attack by Berkshires and London Scottish.

Oh yes, those hot showers; there were the infantry blazing away just outside the town, but what Fildes doesn't doesn't say in his diary was that when it was L/Bdr. Milligan's turn to have a bath, he and a score of the other great unwashed are suddenly divebombed by Jerry, five ME 109s. A goodly sight the folk of Lauro village were treated to, as a crowd of naked pink men scooted out the shower rooms and dived for cover in adjacent slit trenches. As I sat naked in my muddy pit my one thought was for my money in my battle-dress jacket, no sooner the bombing over and people sorting themselves out than L/Bdr. Milligan was seen to sprint back to the shower unit. Thank G.o.d! Money was safe! I must have Jewish blood. It was only after checking my wallet that I asked if anyone had been hurt. We restarted our shower as we were now all muddy. This time there is no singing, all ears were tuned to listen for any further planes. Pink and rosy and smelling of Lifebuoy soap I took me to my dug-out, rolled up the canvas flap and let the sunshine in. The fire was going nicely, so I took out my trumpet and played away at the jazz for an hour. say in his diary was that when it was L/Bdr. Milligan's turn to have a bath, he and a score of the other great unwashed are suddenly divebombed by Jerry, five ME 109s. A goodly sight the folk of Lauro village were treated to, as a crowd of naked pink men scooted out the shower rooms and dived for cover in adjacent slit trenches. As I sat naked in my muddy pit my one thought was for my money in my battle-dress jacket, no sooner the bombing over and people sorting themselves out than L/Bdr. Milligan was seen to sprint back to the shower unit. Thank G.o.d! Money was safe! I must have Jewish blood. It was only after checking my wallet that I asked if anyone had been hurt. We restarted our shower as we were now all muddy. This time there is no singing, all ears were tuned to listen for any further planes. Pink and rosy and smelling of Lifebuoy soap I took me to my dug-out, rolled up the canvas flap and let the sunshine in. The fire was going nicely, so I took out my trumpet and played away at the jazz for an hour.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, what's this, then?" Through the sandbagged portals steps Gunner Edgington.

"I heard the tune of a fairy piper and I couldn't stop a-dancing." Then in a ridiculous voice, "I've danced allll the way here, me dearrrrr."

We yarned nostalgically about our 'gigs', all that happy playing together that had now all stopped.

"It's not the same without people dancing," he said. "Dance music needs dancers."

I brew up some tea, and he talks about tunes he's got going in his head. He had the great gift of writing a tune that you almost immediately remembered, and he still does; it's a great waste of great tunes that he doesn't try to sell them. I'm privileged to be the only one who hears them, it's like having your own pet composer. He whistles a new theme,

[image]

Lauro gun positions, January 1944. Two officers (Lts. Pride and Walker) are on their knees through lack of food. Also on his knees is Vic Nash, who is the same height standing. Standing on the left is Ron Sherwood, and pointing is Jamjar Griffin.

"It's called 'The Angels Cried'. I had it in mind when you first told me that you loved Lily Dunford and she'd gone off with some other twit, and I think I've just about got the tune right."

I'm honoured! a song about my love affair. Wow!

Bombardier Marsden is up with the Naafi and Free Issue, he's on the fiddle again and is going to raffle a bottle of whisky.

"Ten lire a ticket." We all buy one. "Ten lire for a bottle of whisky, that's cheap," he says.

"It's ten lire more than you paid for it, you thievin' b.u.g.g.e.r," says forthright Gunner Devine.

"Watch it, watch it," threatens Bdr. Marsden.

"Watch it it," laughs Devine. "Watch it it." Whatever that meant.

Marsden has that sharp look, anything that's going, he'll have. His type always seem to get into the Q stores or something to do with the rations, and carry a Housey-housey kit or a Crown and Anchor board up their shirt. He is more than keen on knowing if there's been any casualties; if there are, that means all their b.l.o.o.d.y rations go into his pocket. We carry our rations back to the dug-out, and start stuffing ourselves. It was almost a psychological need, a subst.i.tute for happiness.

"I suck mine until there's only the raisins and nuts left in me mouth then I manipulate them into a ball and chew them." This was Edgington revealing his method of chocolate mastication. Were there no secrets left? He groans at the call of his name.

"b.l.o.o.d.y Exchange duty, when will it all b.l.o.o.d.y end, when, when?" With hands raised in heavenly appeal he leaves.

I forage among the olive trees and gathered wood for the fire. Wrote home to Betty with a thousand improper suggestions. The sun is waning, I light the oil lamps in the dug-out, and I thumb through a book of British poetry, some of Wilfred Owen's poems-they are woefully sad, full of anguish...

SAt.u.r.dAY, JANUARY 15, 1944.

I woke up with a feeling of foreboding, had it all day. I remember on duty in the Command Post. In the darkness men, machines and guns are moving, moving, moving, an occasional mule brays out a protest; this luxury is not afforded the men, it's uncanny how we hear no utterance from them. It's as though they are struck dumb. To add to the depressing atmosphere a lone piper wails in the rain-filled dark 'The Skye Boat Song'.

"It's the London Scottish, they're buying their dead," said Bdr. Fuller, who had come in to replace the batteries in the telephone. "Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, buryin' 'em in the b.l.o.o.d.y rain, their graves are 'alf full of b.l.o.o.d.y water."

The air above the gun position is an overlay of Jerry sh.e.l.ls. "They're after something behind us."

We hear the sh.e.l.ls exploding, and I wonder if they're on target. Grapevine says no. 0350 hrs, more fire orders, no one sleeps tonight. 0500 hrs. The rain has stopped. Through the cave mouth I see the trees growing in the morning light; among them I see the muzzle bed. In comes Tume.

"Oh, here we b.l.o.o.d.y go again," he puts his mug of tea down, no time to drink, more fire orders. I leave the cave; outside it's guns guns guns! There's a frost. I feel it crunching underfoot. I descend the ladder to our dug-out. Deans is asleep...the fire is just alive, I throw a handful of wood on, the noise awakens him.

"'Ello," he yawns, "what's the time?"

"Just gone five...b.l.o.o.d.y cold."

I automatically prepare my bed. I'm off to collect grub, I wobble across the hard ground, balancing my dixies, powdered egg and mashed potatoes; as I walk I sip the life-giving tea-why do we dote on tea? It tastes b.l.o.o.d.y awful, it's only the sugar and milk that makes it drinkable. It's like f.a.gs-we've got hooked. Weary, I climbed into my bed, three dark blue blankets, and one grey, funny how I should still remember the colours...As I closed my eyes, the sun was streaming above my sand-bagged wall; it cut a golden swathe into our dug-out, illuminating Deans' legs. He was shaving into a metal mirror and humming a tune.

"Sorry mate," Sgt. King is peering down on me, "we're fresh out of signallers, you'll have to go back on Command Post at eight."

What was it now? 6.40. "OK, Sarge, I'll kip till then. You'll wake me, won't you?"

No he won't. I sleep fitfully, casting glances at my watch. I'm back in London-no I'm not, I'm in Italy. My mother is making banana sandwiches. I'm off to work-no I'm not, I'm in Italy at five to eight. And I was washing in Spike Deans' dirty water; a f.a.g, and I'm back in the Command Post. Lt. Stewart Pride is duty officer. Christ, I'm tired.

"I'll get you a relief at mid-day," said Bombardier Fuller; the b.u.g.g.e.r looked clean-shaved and fresh. He'd been getting his quota of kip.

"A moment of cheer." Edgington just off Exchange duty comes in. "Some mail, up, mate."

I recognise my brother Desmond's terrible handwriting, that or it's been written during a violent earthquake. He is seventeen, working as an errand-boy in Fleet Street for fourpence a week, he gets up in the dark, travels on a smoke-filled blacked-out third-cla.s.s carriage to all-black Black-friars-then to some grim office, runs around the streets with messages and packages that are now forgotten, meant nothing, left no trace and changed the world not one jot, he then came home in the dark on a blacked-out train to a blacked-out house, no wonder he went to Australia. He tells me he's doing lots of drawings, and follows the course of the war with teenaged fervour-he has a paste-up book-and numerous drawings. He sends me one of 'German Bombers over Riseldene Rd, SE 23'. Shall I send him one back of German bombers over my dug-out?

[image]

7.2 being laid by Bdr. Fordham (eh?), Lauro, January 1944.

[image]

Lt. Stewart Pride awaiting a call to stand in for James Mason.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 16, 1944.

I have no entry in my diary, but in a small pocket-book I had written this. "On road to OP. Wherever that is. It's going to be a big 'Do'. Everything secret. With me are Lt. Budden, Bdr. Fuller, Driver Shepherd. It's a glorious evening, blue sky, sunshine so unfitting for a b.l.o.o.d.y battle-here goes-long live Milligan. Wait, we are to go back to the gun position for the night and await further orders. So to bed. Did not pleasure any lady with my boots on."

I remember dumping my Arctic Pack on the OP jeep, and made my way back to the dug-out. Spike Deans was still awake. He was scribing to some bedworthy female on Anglo-Saxon sh.o.r.es, "If only she was on the b.l.o.o.d.y phone it would save all this burning of midnight oil."

"Yes," I said wearily.

"Here," he stopped writing, "weren't you supposed to be at the OP?"

"Change of plans, Churchill didn't want to risk me, so he's called it off...until tomorrow."

"What a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, getting you all worked up and then call it off...Where's Fildes?"

"He's already gone on ahead...with the first party."

"Sod his luck."

He continues his lovelorn missive. "Christ, it's quiet," he says. "I can hear the nib scratching on the paper."

"Haven't you got a silencer?"

"Good night, kind sir."

MONDAY, JANUARY 17, 1944.

REGIMENTAL DIARY: REGIMENTAL DIARY: Regimental OP established at 882960 and line laid by 10.30 Regimental OP established at 882960 and line laid by 10.30. FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: This was the hottest time I've ever had when we crossed the Garigliano. Shepherd and I in jeeps were two days behind the advance carrying party, who footslogged to the river then crossed in boats. We joined them at 167 Brigade HQ This was the hottest time I've ever had when we crossed the Garigliano. Shepherd and I in jeeps were two days behind the advance carrying party, who footslogged to the river then crossed in boats. We joined them at 167 Brigade HQ. MY DIARY: MY DIARY: BREAKFAST AT 0800. OP PARTY FOREGATHER AT 0900. WE ARE ISSUED WITH ARCTIC CARRYING PACKS. WE HAVE A 'DRESS REHEARSAL', FULLY LOADED, THEN BREAK OFF TILL FURTHER ORDERS, IN WHICH TIME I AM WRITING THIS. BREAKFAST AT 0800. OP PARTY FOREGATHER AT 0900. WE ARE ISSUED WITH ARCTIC CARRYING PACKS. WE HAVE A 'DRESS REHEARSAL', FULLY LOADED, THEN BREAK OFF TILL FURTHER ORDERS, IN WHICH TIME I AM WRITING THIS.

I had made a note in my diary at this point saying, "I died for the England I dreamed of, not the England I know." I had a terrible foreboding of death. I'd never had it before. We hang around all day. The waiting is the worst part. I oil my tommy gun, I don't know why, it's already oiled. Word that our Major and his OP party are at 167 Bde HQ at Santa Castrese.

"I suppose," says Fuller, "'ees the patron saint of Castration."

"They make a d.a.m.n fine stew," I said.

"What do?"

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks."

I had a great urge to go to the ballet. I had always loved ballet, and was forever in love with ballerinas; it's something I still suffer from. Somehow I couldn't see myself going to the ballet today. Going to the Major, under fire, crawling forward to him and saying, "Excuse me, sir, could I have a 24-hour pa.s.s to see Coppelia Coppelia?" It wasn't on.

"You're not going, Milligan, you're wanted on the WT at the Command Post." Bombardier Fuller gives me the news. Birch is to go in my place. Christ, what game are they playing? That's twice! This will drive me b.l.o.o.d.y mad. Still I was going to be safe. Why was I grumbling? It's still evening. It's sunny, and, it's good to be alive.

"Christ! You back again," said Deans.

"Is it bothering you?"

"No."

"Well, it's bothering me."

I flopped on my bed and dumped my small pack down. Five o'clock. Time for Command Post. I've got a sore bottom. The dreaded piles!

[image]

Alf Fildes on the path just outside our dug-out in Lauro. His hands are tied behind his back to stop him going blind.

The evening in the Command Post was enlivened by some c.o.o.n-type singing. Lt. Stewart Pride, Edgington, Deans and I were given to spirituals. Our programme was 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot', 'I looked over Jordan', 'Old Man Ribber'. At eight o'clock I flopped on to my bed. I knew there was a barrage going over at 2100 hours. I didn't want to miss it, so I read a collection of t.i.t-Bits t.i.t-Bits and and Tatlers Tatlers. I must have dozed off but I was awakened by the Boof boof boof of Beauforts blazing away about four hundred yards from my dug-out. In my diary I write: "Barrage not very intense. Beauforts using one in five tracer, I think it's more a marking barrage for the infantry. Better get my head down, I'm on at 0500! Piles giving me h.e.l.l." "Barrage not very intense. Beauforts using one in five tracer, I think it's more a marking barrage for the infantry. Better get my head down, I'm on at 0500! Piles giving me h.e.l.l."

JANUARY 18, 1944.

Somewhere in the small hours I heard explosions in that distant sleep-ridden way; I hard Spike Deans say in a sing-song voice like Jiminy Cricket, "Oh Spikeeeee, we're being sh.e.l.leeddd."

I remember my reply, "f.u.c.k 'em," and dozed off but then...my diary tells the story: 0220 HRS: AWAKENED BY SOMEONE SCREAMING COMING FROM THE GUNS, PULLED BACK THE BLACK-OUT AND COULD SEE THE GLARE OF A LARGE FIRE, AT THE SAME TIME A VOICE IN PAIN WAS SHOUTING "COMMAND POST, FOR G.o.d'S SAKE SOMEBODY, WHERE'S THE COMMAND POST?" IT WAS SOMEONE WITH HIS HAIR ON FIRE COMING UP THE PATH, HE WAS BEATING IT OUT WITH HIS HANDS, I JUMPED FROM MY BED SANS TROUSERS AND RAN TOWARDS HIM, IT WAS BOMBARDIER BEGENT. I HELPED BEAT THE FLAMES OUT. HIS FACE AND HANDS WERE BADLY BURNT, I HELPED HIM UP THE LADDER TO THE COMMAND POST AND I BLURTED OUT TO THOSE WITHIN, "THERE'S BEEN A DIRECT HIT ON THE GUNS." I REALISED THEN I WAS LATE WITH THE NEWS, WOUNDED GUNNERS WERE ALREADY BEING ATTENDED TO. EVERYBODY LOOKED VERY TENSE, BEHIND ME FLAMES WERE LEAPING TWENTY FEET IN THE AIR, I RUSHED BACK TO MY DUG-OUT DRESSED IN A FLASH. TOOK MY BLANKETS BACK TO THE COMMAND POST TO HELP COVER THE WOUNDED. I THEN JOINED THE REST OF THE BATTERY, WHO WERE ALL PULLING RED-HOT AND BURNING CHARGE-CASES AWAY FROM THOSE NOT YET AFFECTED. THEY WERE TOO HOT TO PULL BY HAND SO WE USED PICKAXES WEDGED IN THE HANDLES. LIEUTENANT STEWART PRIDE WAS HEAPING EARTH ON THEM WITH HIS HANDS. GUNNER DEVINE SEEMED TO BE ENJOYING IT, HE WAS GRINNING AND SHOUTING, "THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I'VE BEEN WARM TODAY.'" IT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME THAT SOME OF THE BOXES THAT WERE HOT MIGHT STILL CONTAIN UNEXPLODED CORDITE CHARGES, FORTUNATELY THEY DIDN'T GO OFF AND THAT'S WHY I'M ABLE TO WRITE THIS DIARY TODAY. 0220 HRS: AWAKENED BY SOMEONE SCREAMING COMING FROM THE GUNS, PULLED BACK THE BLACK-OUT AND COULD SEE THE GLARE OF A LARGE FIRE, AT THE SAME TIME A VOICE IN PAIN WAS SHOUTING "COMMAND POST, FOR G.o.d'S SAKE SOMEBODY, WHERE'S THE COMMAND POST?" IT WAS SOMEONE WITH HIS HAIR ON FIRE COMING UP THE PATH, HE WAS BEATING IT OUT WITH HIS HANDS, I JUMPED FROM MY BED SANS TROUSERS AND RAN TOWARDS HIM, IT WAS BOMBARDIER BEGENT. I HELPED BEAT THE FLAMES OUT. HIS FACE AND HANDS WERE BADLY BURNT, I HELPED HIM UP THE LADDER TO THE COMMAND POST AND I BLURTED OUT TO THOSE WITHIN, "THERE'S BEEN A DIRECT HIT ON THE GUNS." I REALISED THEN I WAS LATE WITH THE NEWS, WOUNDED GUNNERS WERE ALREADY BEING ATTENDED TO. EVERYBODY LOOKED VERY TENSE, BEHIND ME FLAMES WERE LEAPING TWENTY FEET IN THE AIR, I RUSHED BACK TO MY DUG-OUT DRESSED IN A FLASH. TOOK MY BLANKETS BACK TO THE COMMAND POST TO HELP COVER THE WOUNDED. I THEN JOINED THE REST OF THE BATTERY, WHO WERE ALL PULLING RED-HOT AND BURNING CHARGE-CASES AWAY FROM THOSE NOT YET AFFECTED. THEY WERE TOO HOT TO PULL BY HAND SO WE USED PICKAXES WEDGED IN THE HANDLES. LIEUTENANT STEWART PRIDE WAS HEAPING EARTH ON THEM WITH HIS HANDS. GUNNER DEVINE SEEMED TO BE ENJOYING IT, HE WAS GRINNING AND SHOUTING, "THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I'VE BEEN WARM TODAY.'" IT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME THAT SOME OF THE BOXES THAT WERE HOT MIGHT STILL CONTAIN UNEXPLODED CORDITE CHARGES, FORTUNATELY THEY DIDN'T GO OFF AND THAT'S WHY I'M ABLE TO WRITE THIS DIARY TODAY.[image]

Bdr. Begent in a romantic mood or with heart disease.

It was a terrible night, four Gunners died and six were wounded. All suffered burns in varying degrees. The work of subduing the fire and tidying up went on until early dawn. It was terrible to see the burnt corpses. There was little Gunner Musclewhite, he'd been killed sitting up in bed. He was burnt black, and his teeth showed white through his black, fleshless head. Sgt. Jock Wilson too, Gunner White and Ferrier...

A burial party under BSM Griffin were starting to dig as dawn came up. I went on duty at the Command Post. I wondered where Edgington was and wondered if he was a victim.

"No, he's on Exchange duties," said Chalky White.

I had run over to him just to verify. I pulled back the black-out that covered the little cave that the Telephone Exchange was; I could see he was visibly shaken by the affair.

"Just seein' you was still alive," I said and rushed back to the chaos.

What had happened need never have been so bad had we all not become careless. The Gunners had dug themselves a dug-out and covered it with a camouflage net, but they had surrounded their dug-out with Charge Boxes. The first sh.e.l.ls must have hit the charges, which blew up and ignited the camouflage net that then fell in flames on top of those trapped underneath...

1605 hrs Lauro dive-bombed by seven enemy fighters. The all-night standing had made the piles worse. They started to bleed, it's all I needed for a perfect night.

Yes! I have what is called the curse of the Milligans-piles! My father had them, my grandfather had them, I was born born with them. I thought they came along with legs, arms and teeth. They were b.l.o.o.d.y painful, and mine were bleeding down my legs. My father with them. I thought they came along with legs, arms and teeth. They were b.l.o.o.d.y painful, and mine were bleeding down my legs. My father hated hated, personally hated, his piles; he, a great romantic romantic of all the ailments! of all the ailments! he he, good-looking tap-dancing he, had to get piles. Why piles? he would rage as he squatted on two bowls of water, dipping his end alternatively into the hot and cold. Why-why like Chopin could he not have the romantic scourge? Consumption-"Look at the sympathy he sympathy he got, lucky swine!"-he could sit at his piano in a cell of the Carthusian Monastery, composing his Nocturnes, coughing gently: got, lucky swine!"-he could sit at his piano in a cell of the Carthusian Monastery, composing his Nocturnes, coughing gently: that that was music and disease at its romantic best. But how, he asked, how could Chopin, in the sight of his beloved George Sand, sit at his piano, strike the first chords of the E Minor Nocturne, clutch his backside and say, "Oh my piles"-he wouldn't have got very far like that! My poor father-how he suffered, it wasn't the piles but his was music and disease at its romantic best. But how, he asked, how could Chopin, in the sight of his beloved George Sand, sit at his piano, strike the first chords of the E Minor Nocturne, clutch his backside and say, "Oh my piles"-he wouldn't have got very far like that! My poor father-how he suffered, it wasn't the piles but his pride pride that hurt. When he had to cancel a performance at the Poona Gymkana special show for Sir Skipton Climo MC in 1925, he wrote: that hurt. When he had to cancel a performance at the Poona Gymkana special show for Sir Skipton Climo MC in 1925, he wrote: "Dear Lady C, I'm afraid I have been confined to bed, an old war-wound from Mesopotamia, a Turkish sniper got me", etc. "Dear Lady C, I'm afraid I have been confined to bed, an old war-wound from Mesopotamia, a Turkish sniper got me", etc.

When I said to him, "Why don't you have them out?" he said, "What? and let them escape! Never! when I die I'll go straight to h.e.l.l and I want those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to come with me and SUFFER."

We drove in a 15-cwt back to the Wagon Lines, and waited outside Dr Bentley's tent-came my turn.

Duck into the tent. Dr Bentley. He smiles as I enter.

"Ah Milligan-haven't seen you for a while."

"It's not for the want of trying, sir."

"You look alright."

"You're looking at the wrong end."

"What is it?"