Part 22 (1/2)
ME:.
Right ranging Right ranging mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Amen. Fire!
I know now that Evelyn Waugh was a Catholic, and in Yugoslavia, p.i.s.sed out of his mind, went all out for medals by standing up during bombing raids and shouting to poor Randolph Churchill under a table, ”Come out, you yellow swine.” Well, I wasn't that that good a Catholic. good a Catholic.
[image]
British soldier forcing officer to paint his portrait at gunpoint.
DECEMBER 5, 1943.
MY DIARY: MY DIARY: RAIN. GUNFIRE. BOREDOM, HOMESICK, LOVESICK. RAIN. GUNFIRE. BOREDOM, HOMESICK, LOVESICK.
These early December cold, rain-soaked days were hanging heavy on us all. The boredom was only alleviated by sheer effort. Off duty we would foregather at 'Chez G Truck' bivvy. The consumption of tea was enormous, we had more of it than ammo; for men to return from mud, sh.e.l.ls, rain and cold to enter our little den and see a woodfire was great. Edgington was a linesman, whereas I I was a wireless operator-the ratio was that of navvy and bank clerk. Edgington's intelligence warranted more than linesman-but his performance on a wireless set during hectic fire orders would have ground the war to a halt. He couldn't do things at anyone else's pace, it had to be his was a wireless operator-the ratio was that of navvy and bank clerk. Edgington's intelligence warranted more than linesman-but his performance on a wireless set during hectic fire orders would have ground the war to a halt. He couldn't do things at anyone else's pace, it had to be his own- own- he was his own total master, he gets it right, but all in he was his own total master, he gets it right, but all in his his own time and you can't do that in a war. He squats near the fire, his mug to his lips. own time and you can't do that in a war. He squats near the fire, his mug to his lips.
”Ahhh!” he gasps, ”Heaven.”
”Heaven?” said cryptic-voiced Nash, ”call this b.l.o.o.d.y heaven?”
”It was a momentary lapse,” said Edgington, ”it's pa.s.sed off. I no longer think this is heaven-I'll rephrase it-it's f.u.c.king h.e.l.l.”
Edgington has just returned from OP line maintenance, he tells us there's very little Christmas spirit up there. The season of goodwill is stone dead, and so are our young men. We outstare the fire in silence, Nash throws his stub into the flames. The saltpetre flares blue. Fildes is uncasing his guitar.
”Gonna burn it?” said Deans.
Fildes ignores him; attentively he tunes the strings.
”Play 'The Nearness of You',” I said. Alf nods. ”E-flat,” he says.
We all sing it. Enter Jam-Jar Griffin.
”Oops sorry, vicar-is there a service on,” he said reverently, taking his hat off.
”Yes,” says Nash, ”active-f.u.c.king-service.”
”Can I join in?” guffaws Jam-Jar, taking off his overcoat. ”Let me partake of this seasonal red tannic-acid tea-and wish my guts the compliments of the season. A real d.i.c.kensian Christmas to you all.”
Guffaws. Alf Fildes laughs long at Jam-Jar's old world posturing.
”'Ark,” says Nash, cupping his hand to his ear in fairy-like gesture, ”isn't that an old d.i.c.kensian 7.2 gun goin' off?-'pon my word I didn't know Christmas was so near-I must to the workhouse to put my Christmas Puddins in place.”
Alf starts to play 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas', we all join in. All evening Dean's had been in a state of agitation, finally, ”It's no good,” he said, ”I'll have to open it.”
Open what? He has a bottle of Marsala! he has been waiting all night for us to depart, but couldn't wait any longer, now he had had to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar. to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar.
”It's corked,” I said.
”Corked? it's f.u.c.ked.”
”Let's think of something nice,” said Deans. ”Are you going anywhere for Christmas?”
”Yes,” I said, ”I'm going to spend a few days in my tent in Italy.”
”I think I'll take a stroll round my truck-never know who you might meet,” said Fildes.
Buzz-buzz. Our private phone is going. Deans raises it.
”h.e.l.lo-Chez G Truck...” he hands me the hand-set. ”It's fer you.”
Gunner Hart in the Command Post is asking me, ”'Ave you taken the pencil?”
”No, I haven't, I've only got my own.” Can he borrow it, otherwise the Battery will be 'out of the war'.
In a few minutes he appears covered in mud.
”I fell over,” he said.
I handed him the pencil.
”Cup of tea?” said Deans.
”Just a sip,” said Hart. ”They're waiting for me to start the war.” He took a hasty mouthful. ”Ta,” he grinned.
”Fire one for us,” we called after him.
”Any special colour?” we heard him say.
The drumming of rain starts on the canvas ceiling, I throw a log on the fire, it reflames, a shower of needle-sparks fly up the chimney.
DECEMBER 8, 1943.
This day the battle was won. Jerry pulled out and Monte Camino was ours. I don't think a battle could have been fought under worse conditions. The pace now slackens, I manage a wayside bath in a tin. It's so cold you keep the top half fully dressed while you do the legs, then on with the trousers, strip the top half and do that.