Part 12 (1/2)
”There's b.l.o.o.d.y luck!” said Tume, ”hit by the enemy and no blood.”
”My Blighty one and it didn't work,” I moaned.
Bombardier Andrews was sweating and pulling at his lower lip-I don't know why, it looked long enough.
”How long does this go on,” he said.
”Until the war is finished,” I said.
”Don't take any notice of him,” said Tume, seeing that Andrews was frightened. ”Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes an hour, it depends which German's German's on duty.” The wireless came to life, bravely Tume crawled out and put the headphones on-bravely I watched him do it. Luckily the sh.e.l.ling stopped. The battle was moving away. Sgt Dawson had arrived, he dismounted and let off. ”Ah, that's better,” he said. ”Only for you,” I said running clear. ”Come back you coward,” he shouted. ”It's one of ours.” on duty.” The wireless came to life, bravely Tume crawled out and put the headphones on-bravely I watched him do it. Luckily the sh.e.l.ling stopped. The battle was moving away. Sgt Dawson had arrived, he dismounted and let off. ”Ah, that's better,” he said. ”Only for you,” I said running clear. ”Come back you coward,” he shouted. ”It's one of ours.”
The rest of the day was a bore save for sudden rushes to hide from ME log's and periodic visits to watch the Battle. We dined well on hot stew brought in vacuum containers. By sunset the battle had left us behind, we packed up and returned to Munchar.
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A gunner piddling against the gunwheel watched his comrades
Divertiss.e.m.e.nt Sept. 1973 As I sit in a suite on the 13th Floor of the Euro-building in Madrid, writing this volume, I reflect on that time 30 years ago, and the emotional a.n.a.lysis of those khaki days, have left such a deeply etched impression, that the whole spectrum actually re-inhabits my being with such remarkable freshness that the weight of the nostalgia is almost too much to bear, feelings that I had incurred in those days, towards people, incidents, nature, which I thought of as almost trivial, were really Of t.i.tanic proportions, and ones, that I now realize were to stay fresh, and become more poignant as the years pa.s.sed, and the desire to experience them all once again, be they good, bad or indifferent, became a haunting spectre that suddenly, during the course of a day, takes you unawares, a particular word, a scent, a colour, or song could trigger it off. It could be at, say, Ronnie Scott's Club with a companion. Without warning someone plays a tune, and immediately, the surroundings and the companion become total strangers, and you long for those yester-ghosts to s.n.a.t.c.h you and rush you back to that magic day it happened. I used to scoff at my father's looking forward to his annual World War I reunions, but now I know, you Floor of the Euro-building in Madrid, writing this volume, I reflect on that time 30 years ago, and the emotional a.n.a.lysis of those khaki days, have left such a deeply etched impression, that the whole spectrum actually re-inhabits my being with such remarkable freshness that the weight of the nostalgia is almost too much to bear, feelings that I had incurred in those days, towards people, incidents, nature, which I thought of as almost trivial, were really Of t.i.tanic proportions, and ones, that I now realize were to stay fresh, and become more poignant as the years pa.s.sed, and the desire to experience them all once again, be they good, bad or indifferent, became a haunting spectre that suddenly, during the course of a day, takes you unawares, a particular word, a scent, a colour, or song could trigger it off. It could be at, say, Ronnie Scott's Club with a companion. Without warning someone plays a tune, and immediately, the surroundings and the companion become total strangers, and you long for those yester-ghosts to s.n.a.t.c.h you and rush you back to that magic day it happened. I used to scoff at my father's looking forward to his annual World War I reunions, but now I know, you have have to have them! In fact I was instrumental in getting our own D Battery reunions started, and lo and behold, the attendance increases every year. to have them! In fact I was instrumental in getting our own D Battery reunions started, and lo and behold, the attendance increases every year.
Despite the friends.h.i.+ps I have made since the war, it is always those early ones that have weight, understanding, confidence and mutual experience that I cling to. Though my best friend Harry Edgington has emigrated to New Zealand, we are closer than ever, I know that a particular tune will automatically make him think of the time we played it together, and the same applies to me. Our correspondence is prodigious, his letters fill 3 Boxfiles, likewise recorded tapes, in which he sends his latest compositions, asking my opinions. He sends me tapes that send me into gales of laughter and yet all these occasions are not really happy, and yet I welcome them, they give a most soul warming effect, it savours of satisfaction, and yet is emotionally inconclusive, it has become, like cocaine, addictive. Is it because with the future unknown, the present traumatic, that we find the past so secure?
April 8 1943: This way to another battle At Sunset we drove to a rendezvous with Captain Rand, Bdr Edwards, Gunner Maunders in a Bren driven by Bdr Sherwood, it was dark when we met, ”We'll sleep here tonight,” said diminutive Captain Rand in a voice like Minnie Mouse. We slept fitfully by the roadside as trucks, tanks, etc. rumbled back and forth but inches from our heads.
April 8 1943: Djbel Mahdi Up at first light, drove in the wake of a hurried Jerry retreat along the floor of a hot dust-choked valley, we pa.s.sed still burning vehicles-some ours, some theirs. A few carbonised bodies-'brew ups' as Tank men called it. We stopped to pin-point our position, to my left, lying face down was the body of an Italian not long dead, the blood on his neck still oozing, lovingly, I removed his watch. The Bren stopped at the foot of Djbel Mahdi.
I gave it to my father, and it's still in my mother's possession. I gave it to my father, and it's still in my mother's possession.
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The 2/4 Hamps were still digging in when we arrived. I followed Capt. Rand and Bdr Edwards uphill, unreeling the remote control from the wireless. f.u.c.k! it didn't reach. Rand and Edwards dropped on their bellies just below the crest. I had to run back, fix them a telephone that reached back to the remote control, so they shouted fire orders to me by telephone, and I pa.s.sed them on by wireless. We didn't have time to dig in, and Christ! a German 'Stonk' hit us-it was a rain of sh.e.l.ls. To stay where I was meant death, so I ran to an Infantry Officers' fox-hole. ”Any room for one more?” I said.
”Sorry old boy, this is a one-man trench.”
I dived in head first as fresh sh.e.l.ls landed.
”Well now it's a b.l.o.o.d.y two-man trench.” I tell you! They are willing to let you die rather than move over! The sh.e.l.ling stopped. I got out and returned to duty-more sh.e.l.ls-I found a small depression in the lee of some rocks.
”Where are you,” shouted a voice.
”I'm in a depression,” I said.
”Aren't we all,” was the reply.
So far we hadn't pa.s.sed any fire orders, it was very hot, I asked Maunders on the wireless if he had any water. Yes. I started to run down to get some. A fresh mortar barrage. I lay face down, sweating. It stopped. An infantry man stopped by me, G.o.d knows where he came from.
G.o.d: He came from the 2/4 Hamps.h.i.+re my son.
Me: Ta.
The soldier delighted in telling me, ”It's no good hiding there, he'll get you no matter what, if you haven't got a trench, any minute now he should start his mortars, he dropped some this morning just where you're lying.” All this got my back up (which by now was down by my ankles), ”Why don't you f.u.c.k off and join the German Army?” I thought he was going to shoot me but he cleared off. I was learning the strange quality of the human race. His kick was to find somebody who looked scared, and try and make him terrified. I suppose he liked feeling little girls' bicycle saddles as well. A Hamps.h.i.+re private popped his head up from a funk hole. ”If they attack, do you think we can hold 'em?”
”Yes,” I said confidently, ”there's a barrage going down at 2.”
”Oh good,” he said.
I got some water from Maunders, then dashed up to my remote control in time to pa.s.s fire orders. It was 13.59 hours. At 14.00 the barrage went over followed by the infantry attack. From the crest I watched the P.B.I, going forward, down the slopes of Djbel Mahdi, across the valley and up the slope opposite. Men fell sideways and lay still, no one stopped, they reached the German F.D.L'.s, from the distance it looked comic. Men jumping out of holes with hands up, men running behind trees, leaping out of windows; it took about an hour. By 3 o'clock we had taken the position, but Jerry counter-attacked, we sh.e.l.led him, and broke up the attack. Around a hill comes a British Officer, clowning at the head of about 50 PoW's from the 1/755 Grenadier Rgt, the young officer was Goose-stepping and shouting in Cod German ”Zis is our last Territorial demand in Africa.” Be-him a stiff, bitter-faced Afrika Korp Oberlieutenant marched with all the military dignity he could muster, none of his men looked like the master-race. As they pa.s.sed, our lads stood up in their fox-holes farting, and giving n.a.z.i salutes; recalling the ritual of ancient conquerors riding on a palanquin and parading their prisoners of war behind them. Here there were shouts of ”you square-head b.a.s.t.a.r.ds” and ”I bet we could beat you at f.u.c.king football as well.” Behind us across the valley Churchill tanks were attacking a low hill, up the valley came a squadron of FW log's. We all let fly, we were feeling good, suddenly the leader burst into flames. Bdr Sherwood shouted ”Look Spike, look!” The plane left the formation, went on its back in a slow death agony, then raced to the hills opposite and exploded. ”Woah-ho! Mahomed” we yelled.
1st Army battle cry. 1st Army battle cry.
”That's for my brother,” said a bitter Irish voice. We were not out of mortar range but we kept getting small 'Stonks' of 88 mm's landing behind the crest.
Concentrations of Artillery fire. Concentrations of Artillery fire.
I suddenly heard a scream. ”I can't stand it any longer, I can't, I can't, I can't.” A young infantry lad came past, his face buried in his hands, accompanied by two old sweats. ”There, there, lad,” one was saying, as they led him away. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, sitting in a hole in the ground, just waiting, hoping the next batch of sh.e.l.ls won't get you. That night I slept fitfully in my shallow hole.
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Jerry Straffing April 1943-from ditch near Djebel Munchar
Trauma I was smoking a cigarette when the mortar bomb hit me, when I regained consciousness I was lying on my side, my left shoulder and arm were lying 20 feet away, my lung was protruding from my chest, flies were swarming on it, my sight faded, even tho' I knew my eyes were open I couldn't see, talk or move. I hear the voices of stretcher bearers. Thank G.o.d, if they hurried I might have a chance. ”There's one here,” said a voice. Another voice replied, ”No, he's dead, get the wounded ones first, bring him later.”
”Spike! SPIKE!” The voice of Maunders was shouting in my headphones.
It was morning...
”h.e.l.lo Alf. Yes?”
”Why didn't you answer?”
”I was waiting for the stretcher bearer.”
”What?”
”Nothing-what you want?”