"Piles."

"Piles! At your your age." age."

"Yes, sir-I'm advanced for my years."

"Yes-they look very sore-"

"They're b.l.o.o.d.y sore-it's painful to walk."

"Well, I've no medication for them-I'll give you bed down forty-eight hours-attend B."

Bed! Forty-eight hours! A fortune-teller said one day I'd be lucky!

JANUARY 19, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: SORE a.r.s.e. GOOD MORNING, EVERYBODY. ALL VERY DEPRESSED ABOUT THE LOSS OF THOSE POOR b.l.o.o.d.y GUNNERS. SORE a.r.s.e. GOOD MORNING, EVERYBODY. ALL VERY DEPRESSED ABOUT THE LOSS OF THOSE POOR b.l.o.o.d.y GUNNERS.

It was a sunny morning again. I could hear some birds singing in the olive trees. Wish I had something to sing about. Can't sing about a sore a.r.s.e. Thank G.o.d, I'm bed down; but no, here comes bed up, it's Sgt. King.

"Sorry, Milligan, you'll have to go on Command Post, we're stuck for signallers, that c.u.n.t Jenkins took enough of them with him to start a regiment."

"But I'm bed down, Sarge."

"What with?"

"Piles."

"Piles? That all? I'm not asking you to use that end, just answer the phone and work the wireless, that won't affect 'em."

I couldn't say no, we really were short of men. So, with my backside hanging out, I sit on it in the Command Post. Situation reports are coming in, the battle up front is raging; I can't understand why the guns are so quiet. It must be close fighting. Deans is on duty and so is Lt. Wright.

"They've forgotten about us," he says, stands up, stretches himself and sits down, a masterful exercise in control. Deans sc.r.a.pes some chestnuts from the fire and hands them around from his tin hat. "Farm Fresh," he said. "Laid this morning."

The phone goes. "Command Post...it's for you, sir." I hand the phone to Mr Wright.

"Wright here...yes...yesssss." He hangs up. "That was Regimental OP...they were checking that the line was through."

"Of course, I couldn't have told them that, sir."

Wright grins, he's one of the lads. "Well, Milligan, that's one of the perks of being an officer."

"One day I'll be an officer, sir," I said in shining tones, "and I'll I'll be able to pick up the telephone and say, "Yes, I can hear you." That will be a wonderful day." be able to pick up the telephone and say, "Yes, I can hear you." That will be a wonderful day."

The phone buzzes, I s.n.a.t.c.h it up and shout, "I'm not an officer but I can hear you and that means that the line is through!"

It turns out to be some poor lost b.l.o.o.d.y signaller from another field regiment, he's been following the wrong line.

"Whose line are you then?" he says.

I can't tell him, that's security.

"Oh f.u.c.k," he says, and then I'm sure he's one of us, but I give him a quick security test. "Who says 'This is Funf speaking'?"

There's a giggle on the line. "That's ITMA."

"This is 56 Heavy Regiment so we're no use to you, mate."

"Ta," he says and is gone.

Lt. Wright is looking at me. "What was that ITMA stuff all about?"

"I was checking a signaller's bona fides, sir."

"Were they in order?"

"Yes, sir, he knew exactly what the answering code-word was for ITMA."

"And what was it?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y awful, sir."

The phone rings again. "19 Battery Command Post." It's the RHQ OP. "Take Post." I rattle down the Tannoys, "Right Ranging." Soon we are all immersed in a two-hour Cannonade; we have no time other than to s.n.a.t.c.h a drag at a f.a.g.

"Christ, someone's copping it," was Lt. Wright's remark, based on the fact that the target remained static and we just rained gunfire in it. "It's a crossroads with ammo lorries trying to get through," he informs us later.

The OP tell him that several trucks have been blown up and they are trying to detour over adjacent fields, where the 25-pounders plaster them. It ends with most of their trucks blown up and they pack it in, but it took a lot to stop the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They were a tough lot OK. At mid-day I am relieved by Sgt. King himself.

"Off you go, Milligan, get lunch and be back at-" he looks at his watch "-two o'clock."

"Right."

"'Ow's yer backside?"

"Out of bounds."

I have lunch, then lay on my bed in total discomfort and very depressed. I think I'd better have the operation, yes, I'll see the Doc in the morning and have the d.a.m.n things out. Guns are going all around me; in between, birds try and sing, what do they think of all this lunacy? I have a stab at reading a book by another loony, Lord Byron; it's appropriate, Childe Harold Childe Harold, and it's being read by Child Milligan, he goes on about Italy and Rome: Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility. More rich than other climes' fertility.

Have I got news for him! No I couldn't stomach Byron today, so I read what must be the most up-to-date newspaper in Italy-the Daily Express Daily Express, January 7, 1944. It was flown here on an RAF with a contingent of officers, one of whom met Lt. Mostyn at base depot, and in turn it had ended up in the Command Post.

[image]

Lt. Joe Mostyn-an identification photo was given to each member of the battery with warning not to lend money.

"It says we have 'Fighter with no propeller'," I read aloud. "Ah, well that's due to shortage of parts," said Vic Nash. "I myself have a razor with no blades, it's part of a plan to drive us all b.l.o.o.d.y mad."

I read that there is a "Test lighting of street-lamps in Malpas Road, Deptford, a Councillor Coombs pressed a b.u.t.ton in a controlling sub station and the lights came on."

Nash looks up from de-mudding his boots. "A lot of f.u.c.king good that's going to do for winning the war."

"I've looked through this paper and there's not one b.l.o.o.d.y mention of us."

"That's it mate...we're the forgotten Army."

"Forgotten...FORGOTTEN? Don't make me laugh...they've never b.l.o.o.d.y heard of us."

Smudger Smith and Spiv Convine from B Sub have arrived. They are definitely scrounging. "Got any f.a.gs, Milly?" (Smudger always called me Milly.) He's moaning about not having enough mail.

"They must all be bleedin' crippled from the shoulder dhan, I written a dozen bleedin' Air letters and nuffink back, last one was Christmas...Huh...women...Huh!"

He was right. "Women huh!", that summed them up. "Huh."

"Good news, Smudger, according to the Daily Express Daily Express there's no war in Italy." there's no war in Italy."

He borrows the paper; I never saw it again. It would come to the same terrible end that all good newspapers came to in this army, even The Times The Times. At that time, I was dreaming of after-the-war ventures, and I had decided that I would like to have a Club on the river. Edgington, Deans and myself had discussed being partners with Dixie Dean* from Hail-sham. It would be called either Holiday Inn or Ravello's: Deans would see to the catering, I would have a band, and Harry Edgington would play the piano in the lounge. I had a pad and I was writing down what the requirements of the place were-plates, chairs, etc. Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

"Come on, you're b.l.o.o.d.y late," Sergeant King has bearded me in my lair.

"Sorry, Sarge, I was miles, miles away."

"We're all all b.l.o.o.d.y miles away," he said. "They're having a b.l.o.o.d.y hot time across the river. We're through to them on the wireless; they're at Tac HQ where 'Looney' is. Lt. Budden and party are up Dimiano trying to establish an OP.'" *He used to play drums with us when we were stationed in Hailsham. b.l.o.o.d.y miles away," he said. "They're having a b.l.o.o.d.y hot time across the river. We're through to them on the wireless; they're at Tac HQ where 'Looney' is. Lt. Budden and party are up Dimiano trying to establish an OP.'" *He used to play drums with us when we were stationed in Hailsham.

Lt. E. Wright holding up a set of railings willed to him by his mother.

We are walking together to the CP. He leaves me at the entrance.

"Hurry up, Milligan," says Lt. Wright, "we're off again."

Bdr. Edwards has been working the phone, the wireless and the Tannoy.

"What's it feel like to be fully employed, Eddy?" I said, taking over the earphones.

Bombardier Edwards was a gift to the army. He did his job to full measure, never complained, first cla.s.s at his profession of Specialist, clean, shaved every morning even in cold water, about five foot ten, black-haired, not in any way good-looking, prominent teeth, never said much; when we were all getting p.i.s.sed out of our tiny minds, Eddy would be doing water-colours and sketches of the landscape. We noticed at dances, whenever he took the floor, he appeared to be on wheels and his lady partner pushing him around. At OPs he was very brave-well, braver than me-he wouldn't flinch when one dropped near, and I did, I flinched when they didn't drop near. I even flinched when nothing was happening, I was an inveterate flincher. I flinched after the war whenever a car backfired.

The weather now is glorious, a faint promise of spring warmth is in the air, the sun is in a cloudless sky, and the Germans must be cursing it as the RAF and the USSAF pound the daylights out of them. Suddenly there are no more fire orders. All round, guns are going, all except us, is it because we're Jewish? We all stare into the Command Post fire, it stares back, we are all p.i.s.sed off, and trying to find comfort in dreams.

"I think I'd like to be walking along the front at Brighton with Margaret," said Edwards.

At the hour of five I was glad to see Sergeant King come and take over. I go straight to my bed. My backside is on fire. I swallow six aspirins to try and kill the pain.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: FILDES ARRIVED BACK FROM OP WITH ERNIE HART ALL BADLY SHAKEN, HART IS ALL IN AND CRYING. "THOSE POOR b.a.s.t.a.r.dS UP THERE," HE SAYS. FILDES ARRIVED BACK FROM OP WITH ERNIE HART ALL BADLY SHAKEN, HART IS ALL IN AND CRYING. "THOSE POOR b.a.s.t.a.r.dS UP THERE," HE SAYS.

Lt. Wright calls the few remaining signallers together. "Look," he sounds uneasy, "they need a signal replacement up at Tac HQ...any volunteers?..."

There is an embarra.s.sing silence, I can't stand it.

"I'll go, sir," I heard myself say; I was the only NCO there, I had had to say it, example and all that. "So, Mr Fildes, you have come to take me for a nice little ride." to say it, example and all that. "So, Mr Fildes, you have come to take me for a nice little ride."

Alf Fildes smirks. His eyes tell a different story.

JANUARY 20, 1944.

Going to Dimiano OP I get into the jeep next to Alf and we set off; he didn't say much until we got through Lauro and then on to the railway track, now denuded of rails and used as a communications road. It was a lovely day, sunny. Suddenly Alf said, "This is beautiful! Sunshine-birds singing, I could do with more of this."

He told me the OP and the Major's HQ were both in 'dodgy' positions. Hart had been up the OP, and it had finished him-Jerry was ramming everything on to them. It all sounded grim, and I wondered what my lot would be.

The sounds of Artillery faded as small arms, automatic weapons and mortars increased. We were pa.s.sing a steady stream of ambulances; one I notice had shrapnel holes in the sides.

[image]

Recce scout car coming out of smoke being laid to obscure pontoon bridge over the Garigliano.

We turned off the railway embankment on to a country 'road', really a cart track; a one-mile sign read 'Castle-forte 5 kilometer'.

"How's Jenkins been behaving?" I said.

Fildes smirked. "He sends everyone up the OP except himself. I think he's s.h.i.t scared, that or balmy."

I didn't fancy being in any way mixed up with Jenkins, he was humourless. I didn't understand him at all, no one did; G.o.d help me, I was soon to find out what a lunatic he was. I was already tired having been awake for two nights, and the piles were giving me h.e.l.l. We approached the ferry bridge over the Garigliano. Jerry was lobbing occasional sh.e.l.ls into the smoke that was being used to obscure the crossing. From the smoke loomed the Pontoon Ferry bearing its load of wounded. Some looked pleased to be out of it. Others looked stunned, others with morphia were just staring up from their stretchers.

"Any more for the Woolwich Ferry?" says a cheerful c.o.c.kney voice. We and several other vehicles move forward, among them a truck loaded with ammunition-a few more Jerry sh.e.l.ls land in the river. By the sound they are close, can't see for smoke-we stop. Through the smoke, a figure with outstretched arms to stop us going off the end as apparently had happened earlier. A jeep driver, thinking it was a continuous bridge, roared off the end, surfaced swearing. "Where's the rest of the b.l.o.o.d.y bridge?" More sh.e.l.ls. We are moving.

[image]

Pontoon bridge over the Garigliano during a lull in the sh.e.l.ling. Men with ugly faces were told to look away from the camera.

We pull off the other side; to our left looms Mount Dimiano.

"That's what all the trouble's about," says Fildes, "our OP's on there somewhere."

Off the road to our right is a cl.u.s.ter of farmhouses, some sh.e.l.led, some intact.

"This is it," says Fildes, as we turn right into them.

We pull up in front of the centremost one. A two-storeyed affair-all around are dead Jerries. MG bullets are whistling overhead as we duck and run inside.

It was a large room. On a makeshift table was a 22 Set. There was Jenkins. Laying down at the far end of the room, 'Flash' Gordon, Birch, Fuller, Howard, Badgy Ballard, Dipper Dai-all looked as gloomy as h.e.l.l.

"It isn't the war," said Birch, "it's Jenkins."

"Milligan-you can get on the set right away," says Jenkins.

I took over from Fuller; immediately, Jenkins sends RHQ a series of pointless messages. "It's very stuffy in the room."