Part 4 (1/2)

Return to Unit. Return to Unit.

RTU? That had me, so I sang it to a Novello tune 'RTU again whenever spring breaks through.' (Groans).

He blinked and made me sign a piece of paper that in as many words said, ”We have tried to kill this man but failed.”

”You will be ready by 0830 hours and take the unexpired portion of your day's rations.”

Unexpired rations? The mind boggled. I started a series of farewells and looked deeply into the eyes of all the nurses with a look that said quite positively, ”You're lucky I never screwed you,” and they looked back with a smile that said, ”When you've been promoted to Captain, knock three times.” rations? The mind boggled. I started a series of farewells and looked deeply into the eyes of all the nurses with a look that said quite positively, ”You're lucky I never screwed you,” and they looked back with a smile that said, ”When you've been promoted to Captain, knock three times.”

OCTOBER 1, 1943.

It's a mixed day, a souffle of sun and cloud. Outside the 76th General a 3-tonner truck is waiting like a wagon at the Knacker's Yard. A short squat driver with a squint in his left eye 'finds' and calls our names out from a bit of tacky paper. ”Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan?” General a 3-tonner truck is waiting like a wagon at the Knacker's Yard. A short squat driver with a squint in his left eye 'finds' and calls our names out from a bit of tacky paper. ”Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan?”

”Yes, that's me,” I said. ”Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan.”

He calls out the names of several more soldiers of the King, who at the sight of them would abidicate. I enquire where we are being taken.

”Corps Reinforcement Camp.” He p.r.o.nounced the word 'Corpse'. An Omen.

We all climb over the back of the tailboard, there's no roof, only the supporting struts. So started a journey of much boredom. Come, let us start.

I look at the vacant stares of my travelling companions, all infantry men, they have my sympathy. We drove for half an hour, during which they never said a word.

”Like a f.a.g,” I said to one.

”Ta,” he says.

That's half his vocabulary gone, I thought. He was Irish. The roads are tired and dusty, tanks have ground away the surface, after half an hour we pa.s.s through Battapaglia.

”We're going South!” I said.

Still no sign of animation from my companions. The buildings we pa.s.s are all much like I originally described, the colours usually white, pale blue, deep blue, sometimes a light pink, cl.u.s.ters of shops, small one-man affairs, all looking pretty run down and shabby. There are goods for sale but none luxury. There's bread, vegetables, seasonal fruit, apples, walnuts, grapes, figs; 'Casa de Scarpa' show a poor variety of shoes, looking very pre-1939, what was I talking about? I I was a pre-1920 model myself. was a pre-1920 model myself.

What was I doing in this war? it's only three years old, I'm older older than the war! it's not fair! how can a three-year-old war understand a man of twenty-five? We are pa.s.sing fresh-painted army signs, Base Ordnance Depot, Town Major, REME Workshops, and what's this? VD Clinic? So soon? Isn't love a wonderful thing? What isn't a wonderful thing is sitting in this b.l.o.o.d.y lorry with seven Australo-pitheci. British PoWs didn't give information when tortured by the Gestapo because they didn't know how to talk. than the war! it's not fair! how can a three-year-old war understand a man of twenty-five? We are pa.s.sing fresh-painted army signs, Base Ordnance Depot, Town Major, REME Workshops, and what's this? VD Clinic? So soon? Isn't love a wonderful thing? What isn't a wonderful thing is sitting in this b.l.o.o.d.y lorry with seven Australo-pitheci. British PoWs didn't give information when tortured by the Gestapo because they didn't know how to talk.

”Dat town was called Battapaglia,” said the Irishman.

The act of speaking five consecutive words so exhausted him, he laid down. We pa.s.s Italian Military Policemen, looking scruffy and unshaved; they were performing helpful tasks like guarding German PoWs, whose a.r.s.es they kicked in revenge, but they were getting weary of repeated insults from allied soldiers giving Fascist salutes with cries of ”Mussolini-Spaghetti!” Suddenly the sky blackens, great thunder clouds congregate, the temperature lowers, spots of rain fall. The Irish soldier then makes an incredible prediction.

”I tink it's goin' ter rain.”

Immediately a deluge started.

”See?” he triumphed.

With no cover, we sat huddled in our greatcoats.

”Are you alright in the back there?” came a voice from the cab.

”Come on in the water's lovely,” I said.

The journey seemed endless. ”Where in G.o.d's name are they taking us?”

”I tink,” said the Mick, ”dey are just querying us.”

As quick as it started the rain stopped, the sun came out. Soon we were all steaming like wet laundry. At mid-day the lorry arrives at a field of tents, fronted by a farmhouse; there is a sign: Corps Reinforcement Unit. We are shown into the HQ office. A Corporal seated behind a desk: ”Name? Number? Religion? Regiment?” He tells us, ”You are here to await pick-up by your regiments.”

”How long will that take?” I said.

He frowns. I've broken the code! ”Well, I don't exactly know, so far no one has picked up anybody, we've only been 'ere for a week, so it will take a while for 'em to find the location. There are tented lines, two men to a bivvy. Part 2 Orders are posted on the board outside.”

We walk along the line of muddy tents. I find an empty one. I see men walking rapidly with empty mess-tins; food! I follow. We arrive at a field kitchen. Food??!! Two slices of cold bully beef, a carrot, a boiled potato. A mug of tea, two biscuits. No mess tent, eat where you stand. I see an intelligent face, his shoulder flashes, HAMPS.* We get talking, name Arrowsmith, was on the landings, sh.e.l.l shock. He looks a little like Ronald Colman, slim, about five foot seven, intelligent, sensitive.

”It's simple arithmetic, the longer you are alive in action, the nearer you are to getting to your lot. You see, I think, I rationalise, and that way you see only too clearly your death approaching. If I go back to my mob, I'll never see Blighty again. I came ash.o.r.e with B Company. At the end of three days, me, the sergeant and one private were all that was left. We were given replacements; two days later, me and two of the new replacements are all that's left. I mean, it's on the cards; one night we are on patrol, we brush with a Jerry patrol, a grenade explodes on a tree next to my head, I don't remember any more till I wake up in an ambulance. The quack says it's concussion and I'll soon be alright. Alright? The c.u.n.t! He's talking about the outside! what about up in here? here?” He taps his head with his spoon, it sounded hard-boiled. ”That's where it all happens, and inside me it says no go no go.”

We go back to our tents.

”Can't sleep in this b.l.o.o.d.y thing,” says Arrowsmith surveying his muddy bed.

I suggest we look around for a dry place.

”Dry?” He laughed.

”You don't know what Basenji means do you?”

”What?”

”Never mind.” *2/4 Hamps.h.i.+re.

We squat in our tents, smoke and talk. At this Camp there was a morning roll-call at 7.00, breakfast from 7.30 to 8.30, then Parade at 9.00, the rest of the day you did what you could with a muddy field and two hundred tents. There was no transport, no entertainment, no money. The boredom was unbelievable. I mean, if a man sneezed, it was considered entertainment. The camp was about three hundred yards from Red Beach, Salerno. For the next three days Arrow-smith and I just foraged around, collecting walnuts and looking for war souvenirs. We had the occasional bathe, but the water was getting that first autumnal chill that made swimming nippy.

The Pioneer Corps were on the beaches collecting war salvage, all middle-aged men. We talked to them. Why did they join up?

”Anyfink ter git away from the bleedin' wife.”

They are all old soldiers, some from World War 1, they are well organised. At lunch they light a fire on the beach, and are soon frying eggs and bacon.

”Like some grub?” says their Sergeant.

”Christ, yes,” I said.

[image]

Salerno Beach. Soldiers treasure-hunting. 44 The Sergeant is a Londoner, he's about fifty, big, burly and used to be a fish porter at Billingsgate.

”I wos gettin' fed up, so I fort, 'ave a go in the Pioneer Corps. When they knowed I bin a sergeant in World Woer I, they makes me a sergeant right away, so strite on I'm orl rite fer lolly.”