Part 7 (1/2)

I reflected, as I lay in bed, that I'd had a cushy few weeks behind the lines, but from the stories the war was not going to be a gentleman's one like we had in North Africa. Since those distant days I have actually met one of the German lads who was in the line opposite us in North Africa, Hans Teske. In fact, I organised a small reunion at the Medusa Restaurant in December '76 for those who had been involved in fighting in and around Steam Roller Farm, February 26, 1943. An officer present, Noel Burdett, hearing Teske and me stating that we must have actually fired at each other that day, said, ”Your survival indicates you must both be b.l.o.o.d.y awful shots.”

Later Hans Teske dispelled the belief that Germans had no sense of humour by inscribing my menu: ”Dear Spike, sorry I missed you on February 26, 1943.”

As I lay dreaming, an unbelievable experience happened. In the dark a farm dog had got into our room. I heard him sniffing around. I made friendly noises and in the dark his cold nose touched my hand. I patted him and left it at that, the next thing the dirty little devil piddled on me. Was he Mussolini's Revenge?

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: 0600 AM: DRIVEN FROM WAGON LINES TO GUN POSITION. 0600 AM: DRIVEN FROM WAGON LINES TO GUN POSITION.

It was sunny, but everywhere wet, damp and muddy. Cancello is a small agricultural town on the great plain that lies on the North bank of the Volturno. I'm in a three-tonner with Driver Kit Masters. At seven we arrive at the gun position, the guns have gone, and all that is left are the M Truck Signallers who are to reel in the D5 lines.

”This is it,” said Driver Masters, pulling up in a mora.s.s of mud.

I leap from the vehicle and land knee-deep in it.

”It's all yours,” says Masters, and speeds away like a priest from a brothel.

Emerging from holes in the ground are mud-caked troglodytes. I recognise Edgington.

”Why lawks a mercy,” he said in Southern Negro tones, ”welcome home, ma.s.sa Milligan, de young ma.s.sa am home, praise de Laud and hide de Silver.”

”Good G.o.d, Edgington, what are you wearing?”

”Mud, it am all de rage.”

”I can't tell how good it is to be back, mate,” I said.

”Oh what a pity-now we'll never know.” I offered him a cigarette.

”You must be mad, why in G.o.d's name did you come back?”

”I ran out of illness.”

”Get out! All you got to do is a pee against a Neapolitan karzi wall and you get crabs.”

”Where's the guns?”

Edgington countenanced himself as a Red Indian. ”White men gone, take heap big fire-stick and f.u.c.k off.”

More mud-draped creatures are issuing from what had been the Command Post. I suddenly remembered!

”Where's all my kit?”

”We had to auction it off-it started to smell.”

Jam-Jar Griffin alone and unafraid, his BO having driven the Germans from the Volturno plain.

”Don't b.u.g.g.e.r around, everything I treasure is in my big pack.”

Harry shook his head. ”Sorry mate, yer big pack has gone AWOL*, but yer kitbag's safe in G Truck with Alf Fildes.”

Absent without leave Absent without leave ”Where's Alf Fildes?”

”He's at the new gun position, last time I saw him he had the s.h.i.+ts, anyhow your kit's in his truck.”

My big pack, lost! It was a major disaster.

”You can report it missing killed in action,” says Edging-ton.

All that I held dear was in there, things close to a soldier's heart, like socks, drawers cellular, worst of all my n.a.z.i war loot, a dagger, an Iron Cross, an Afrika Korps hat, and a set of p.o.r.nographic photographs taken lovingly from a dead Jerry on Long Stop. I was going to send them back to his home. Now never would his mother hold those photographs of three people s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g close to her heart and say, ”Oh mein dear son.” Bombardier Fuller is approaching.

”You're just in time, we've got to reel in the OP cable.”

”Oh,” I groaned, ”I can't do that, I'm convalescing from sandfly fever, they've got all the sand out but there's still a lot of flies left.”

He shoves me forward. ”On that bleedin' truck.”

There was no escape. The M Truck signallers start to reel in the line. We travel North along a tree-lined road; ahead in the distance lie a range of mountains, some snow-capped: these are the ones we will have to cross to gain access to the Garigliano plain. Jerry has pulled back into them and is waiting.

”He knows a good thing when he sees it,” says Fuller, looking at them through his war-loot binoculars.

OCTOBER 21, 1943.

Reeling in a telephone line is very simple. A 15-cwt 'Monkey' truck has a hand-operated cable drum on a mount, you walk along disentangling the line and the lucky Gunner stays on the truck and winds the drum. It was a fiercely contested position, bribes were offered, money and cigarettes exchanged hands. It never worked.

”I know just how a trained chimp feels,” 'Ticker' Tume was moaning. He was in a ditch untying the line from a stake. ”We're just trained b.l.o.o.d.y monkeys,” he went on. ”Once you're caught by a circus, that's it, they can do what they b.l.o.o.d.y like, make you ride bicycles, jump through hoops, it's all to humiliate. I never thought I'd see the day when I I was a performing b.l.o.o.d.y monkey.” was a performing b.l.o.o.d.y monkey.”

There were cries of encouragement from the lads.

”This isn't a war,” he continued, ”this is a b.l.o.o.d.y chimps' tea party.”

There was a great cheer. The end of the line is up a water tower in the grounds of what had been an Iti Prisoner of War camp. Edgington looks at his watch.

”It's exactly 4.45,” he informs us.

”Oh good,” I said. ”I must remember that.”

The landscape was devoid of any signs of life. All the cattle and farmers had 'scarpered'.

”I feel we are the last humans left alive,” Edgington said gloomily.

He frequently made such predictions. In post-war years, Harry's brother Doug told of an occasion in the thirties when Harry had predicted the exact date of the end of the world. When the appointed day came and naught happened, Doug felt cheated. He phones brother Harry and asks what went wrong, and Harry says, ”Er-well, give it a couple of days.”

Harry denies this story. Meanwhile, in Italy, Harry is sent up the tower to unhitch the telephone line. He starts to climb a dodgy ladder. I say dodgy, as the rungs came away as he grabbed them.

”Brew up,” says Fuller.

We adjourn to one of the huts. It's the Camp Commander's office, now a mess of scattered papers, broken furniture, on the floor a picture of Mussolini, the gla.s.s smashed, footprints over the Duce's kisser. Graffiti on the wall.

”The Hamps were here.”