Part 15 (2/2)
Behind us we can see Monkey 1 Truck, Webster's face showing occasionally through the windscreen wipers. Behind that a line of our vehicles at varying distances. A sign, ”You are travelling over this bridge by courtesy of the USA 345 Bridge Building Co.”.
We could do with more of this, 'These sh.e.l.l-holes are by courtesy of the 74 Medium Regiment' or 'This devastated landscape comes to you by courtesy of the 5th Army,' or a sign pinned to oneself, 'This crummy battle dress comes to you by courtesy of our mean b.l.o.o.d.y Quarterbloke'. Army,' or a sign pinned to oneself, 'This crummy battle dress comes to you by courtesy of our mean b.l.o.o.d.y Quarterbloke'.
Jerry has made a thorough job in blowing all the bridges, every one we cross has been laboriously replaced with a Bailey. Total weight of a gun plus the Scammell is nearly twenty-five tons; they have to slow up when crossing, and gradually the light trucks pull ahead of the gun convoy. The torrential rain forces us to pull down the back canvas of the truck.
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Muddy conditions We have stopped (big deal), we hear raised voices, a large lorry has slidden off the road. The driver's face covered in blood, he is being hauled up from below; other mud-saturated figures are helping him into another truck; they all have to shout above the roar of the deluge. It's like a school for the deaf. We are off at a snail's pace. G.o.d knows how drivers can cope.
”Can you see where you're goin'?” calls Hart through to poor Driver Masters.
”No,” comes the reply, ”I'm driving in Braille.”
It's about mid-day, or if you go by the light, midnight. We have been halted on a road; to our right, looming over us are Monte Santa Croce and Monte Mattone, both over 600 to 1,000 feet. They run east to west on a range that ends up near the coast with Monte Ma.s.sico, 800 feet. ”They ought to keep the draught out,” says Hart. All that day we were truckbound by rain; if and when the b.l.o.o.d.y stuff stopped, we debussed and stretched our legs. There is no sign or word of the cookhouse.
”I think under the circ.u.mstances we should surrender,” I said.
Somehow the cooks have managed to juggle up a hot meal, a temporary affair of two lorries about ten feet apart, with a canvas spread over to cover the area between. In it they have done the impossible. HOT DINNER! As I collected mine I told Ronnie May I was writing to Buckingham Palace to recommend him for an award.
”Never mind the b.l.o.o.d.y award,” he says. ”Ask them for some f.u.c.king matches that aren't damp. I have to sleep with mine in me pocket, otherwise this b.l.o.o.d.y mob wouldn't get any hot grub.”
”Let me help,” I said dramatically. ”I would consider it an honour to sleep with your matches tonight.”
Bombardier Fuller explains. ”When this b.l.o.o.d.y rain stops, we got to dig the Command Post over there-” He points to a small land area about thirty feet below us in a valley. ”We dig into that bank, the ten line exchange will go in that cave to the left-” he indicates a small cave ”-and to the left of that, I think there's a cave big enough to take the Monkey Truck Mob.” Poor Fuller, he's up to his eyebrows in mud; riding a motor bike in this weather is like going over the Niagara Falls in a gas stove.
The rain stops. I found a bank on the road, under the cover of a large tree; with my motley collection of boxes, tins, boards, etc., I rigged up a bed and got my tent into position. It was very damp, but at least I could kip in the 'dead' position. The proximity of pa.s.sing traffic to my bed was but a few feet, however, I had a 'home'. Before turning in, I listen to the BBC Overseas six o'clock broadcast: ”The Germans are pulling out to pre-prepared positions called the Gustav Line.”
Mussolini is in Verona as head of the Provisional Fascist Government. The Russians continue their relentless advance even in midwinter. How do do they do it? Here we were standing still: a German Propaganda Poster of the time reflects our predicament. they do it? Here we were standing still: a German Propaganda Poster of the time reflects our predicament.
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WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1943.
Thank G.o.d today is SUNNY.
”Look,” I shouted, kneeling and pointing a quivering finger aloft, ”the sun, I tell 'ee it's the sun. People says ois darft, but I tell 'ee that's the sun. I 'eard people in England say if they sees the sun they report it to the police.”
”Yes, yes,” says Bombardier Fuller. ”And that,” he says, pointing, ”is a shovel. Start f.u.c.king digging.”
”I realise,” says Vic Nash, ”that with all the diggin' I've done out here I must have changed the shape of Italy”
Vic is short, about five foot five, looks Jewish but isn't. He was a pastry cook in the Old Kent Road before the war, but is now digging Command Posts.
”Why didn't they put me in the Army Catering Corps?”
”You should have asked,” said Bombardier Trew.
”I did ask,” said Nash, a note of exasperation. ”I said look, I'm a pastry cook by trade, can I go in the catering Corps?”
Nash pauses, lights a cigarette. ”The Sergeant said, ”Of course, you're lucky, they need cooks in the Royal Artillery.” So I thought I was safe, but now, f.u.c.k it! Look at this lot.” He held up a shovel coagulated with mud.
We freeze as the sound of planes is heard. Whose are they, where are they?...they loom into view from the south.
”Bostons,” says Trew.
Their engines are labouring under the weight of bombs, above them and to the right are a squadron of Kittyhawks. Americans!
”For Christ sakes don't move,” warns Edgington, ”or they'll 'ave us.”
They move majestically towards the Abruzzi Mountains, Jerry flack peppering the air around them.
”It's astounding that so few planes get hit,” said Deans, peering at the conflict with his right hand shading his eyes.
”Well,” I said, ”it's very difficult for the sh.e.l.l and the plane to be in the same place at the same time. By the law of averages it can't happen too often.”
”Ooooooom, 'ark at b.l.o.o.d.y Einstein,” says Nash, tapping his head with his finger. ”I say this, the sh.e.l.l with yer number on will get you no matter where you're standin', for all we know there's one on the way to us now.”
I cupped my hand to my ear and leaned forward. ”List! I think I can hear it now...no...wait...no, it's not for you, it's for...for Mrs Ada Grolledes of Brockley.”
Even as I spoke, a plume of smoke starts to trail from one of the Bostons.
”They've got one,” shouted Ernie Hart enthusiastically.
The Boston turned in a slow circle and started to head back to base, we watched as it jettisoned its bombs. The smoke was still trailing from its port engine as it pa.s.sed into the distance in the direction of what must have been Foggia aerodrome.
”I bet there's a few s.h.i.+tty underpants up there,” said Edgington grimly.
”There's a lot of s.h.i.+tty underpants down 'ere,” said Nash, who hadn't been able to get a bath for nearly ten days. The Boston gradually diminishes into the nothingness of distance.
”That made a nice little break,” said Ernie Hart.
It sounded heartless, but things like planes on fire were all the real entertainment we had. If a lorry crashed in a ditch, men would come from all over to see it pulled out again, anything to break the boredom.
”There's a fortune awaiting the man who can invent portable holes. Edgington says this with a strained voice as he hurls a shovel of mud. There is a pause, then I sing:”
Oles...Portable 'Oleeees Oles...Portable 'Oleeees They'd be useful to all the troops including the Poles. They'd be useful to all the troops including the Poles. Yes we need 'oless, portable 'oles. Yes we need 'oless, portable 'oles.
I'm stuck for words, so Edgington continues: ”It would save us all for havin' to dig like b.l.o.o.d.y moles.” ”It would save us all for havin' to dig like b.l.o.o.d.y moles.”
He's stuck, I continue: ”Shovelling lumps of mud Is very bad for me. When I started I was six foot one But now I'm four foot three.” ”Shovelling lumps of mud Is very bad for me. When I started I was six foot one But now I'm four foot three.”
The flow of the muse is interrupted by the dreaded Major Evan Jenkins. He walks with his torso bent forward at a ''ere's me nose, me a.r.s.e is following' angle. He looks at the hole.
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