Part 27 (2/2)

”b.l.o.o.d.y lost, ain't we?” says Vic Nash. ”Are we lost?” he shouts through the canvas to the driver.

”No, we're not b.l.o.o.d.y lost,” is the reply. ”Stop moanin' or I'll go into reverse.”

”Is Amalfi in Italy,” says Spike Deans, and looks at me.

”It is is in Italy and we must be nearly there.” As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO. in Italy and we must be nearly there.” As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO.

We all perk up, and the view from the back of the lorry starts to get beautiful, with the sea on the left and mountains to our right. We have many hairy moments trying to negotiate the numerous bends with loony Italian drivers coming the other way. Snuggled along this coast were small fis.h.i.+ng villages that looked like those over-syrupy buildings in Disney cartoons, yet they were real. The war had been kind to this coast; the only sign of destruction was our lorry.

”Oh Christ, how much longer? Five b.l.o.o.d.y hours, you can fly from London to Moscow in that time.”

A small squad of unshaven Carabinieri come marching along the narrow road; they are broken up by the pa.s.sing of our lorry. They reform and continue marching smartly out of step.

The lorry is stopping! AMALFI! Cheers! We pull up on the seafront, opposite is a large barrack-like building. A freshly-painted white sign says '2 AGRA Rest Camp'. The whole village is built on steps that ascend up the mountains; the buildings are a mixture of white, sky blue, pink and deep blue; down the centre of the village runs a stream. I could see the odd lady doing her laundry in it and several small boys doing other things in it. The whole place has architectutal maturity; there are numerous creepers and vines growing in profusion on the walls and balconies. In summer it must be a riot of flowers, right now it's a riot of gunners, there is a scramble as we dash for the best beds (if any); a Bombardier, all Base Depot smartness personified, says, ”Follow me, 19 Battery Personnel.”

ALF FILDES' DIARY: ALF FILDES' DIARY: ... ...Great! Tablecloths, writing and leisure room, laundry facilities, barbers and SPRING BEDS! in the dormitories. No Roll-Calls! Breakfast from 7-30 to 8.30.

We were on the third floor in a dormitory of about thirty beds. No pictures, no curtains, no chairs, just beds. Edging-ton is testing his by his usual method, ten paces back, a run, then hurl yourself on.

”Seems alright,” he said.

A 'resident' says that the grub here was 'not so good', but there were 'plenty of cafes in the town'. We dump our kit and make for outside. There is a great echoing thumping sound as we 'last one down's an idiot' down the stone steps.

The town sloped up the hill from the waterfront. Running along the flanking hills were the remains of fortified walls and crumbling turrets, an echo of the days when the Moors raided the coast. What was unusual was a large Basilica almost on the beach and, more wondrous, sculptures by Michelangelo; an even more important work of art was a sign with the magic words 'Eggs and chips'. I remember so well that sheer magnificence of smelling food being prepared continental-style, be it only eggs and chips! Through the Amalfi Amalfi cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us! cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us!

”I'd forgotten what it was like to feel happy,” said Edging-ton, as he poked his victuals in.

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We had wandered around Amalfi, bought postcards, walked up and down the seafront, tried to chat the Signorinas, no dice. I thought perhaps when I said 'Me Roman Catholic' it might break the ice, but no. I tried ”Me Protestant, me Jewish.” Nothing.

Chalky White looms up from behind the sea wall.

”I been sunbathin',” he is saying. ”What s.a.d.i.s.t sent us to the seaside in December?”

It's late evening, nightlife consists of going to bed. We troop back to the leisure room to play darts. Dinner is bully beef stew, it's not bad, but somehow eating bully beef in Amalfi is like ordering beans on toast at Maxim's. We are restless, so decide to go for a stroll. It's dark, in the distance we can hear Ack-Ack, G.o.d knows where from. It's a reminder of what we have to go back to. We walked up the steps that ran alongside the stream, and ascended slowly until we reach a cafe. We entered a small room full of soldiers drinking. Alf and I sat down and ordered a couple of brandies; the room was blue with cigarette smoke. A fat-bottomed girl was carrying the drinks to the table, and those whose bottom brushed them seemed well favoured. One drunk was singing self-indulgent songs, 'My Mother's Birthday' or some such c.r.a.p. Ah! the fat bottom is approaching us, she has a lovely plump smiling face, with brown eyes as large as walnuts and glistening like oiled olives. She smiles, places our gla.s.ses before us. ”Signore,” she utters. ”Corrrrr,” we utter.

”Lets go,” said Alf. We picked our way down the steps, no sound save the cascading water running down to the sea. Most of the lads were in bed except! Edgington, he's writing Peg one of his letters. That could mean a three-hour stint ending with swollen b.a.l.l.s. I just fell into the bed. Springs! Marvellous. Black out. Zzzzzzz.

DECEMBER 28, 1943.

I am roused in the early hours, bitten to death, my bed alive with bugs. I am worried about getting typhus. I report it to the duty Bombardier, he's nonplussed.

”Why you and no one else?” he says.

”Yes, why why me and no one else,”. I said. With my clothes off I looked like I'd been sandpapered. I reported to the MO, a 45-year-old Base Depot drunk recovering from last night's p.i.s.s-up. With eyes like smoked gla.s.s windows he examines me and says with authority, ”You have been bitten by something.” me and no one else,”. I said. With my clothes off I looked like I'd been sandpapered. I reported to the MO, a 45-year-old Base Depot drunk recovering from last night's p.i.s.s-up. With eyes like smoked gla.s.s windows he examines me and says with authority, ”You have been bitten by something.”

”Have I?” I said.

”Have you had a typhus injection?”

”Yes,” I said very quickly.

”Good,” he said. He wrote me a prescription for a bottle of camomile mixture.

”Have a good shower,” said the Orderly, ”then rub this on.”

I retired to the showers. They're ice cold, aren't they!, my screams ring through the building. Covered in pink liquid I dress and join the lads in the rest room. Alf Fildes and I decide to look around the shops; he has already been around and been accosted by two girls who called him 'h.e.l.lo Baby'. I thought he looked older. My face a ma.s.s of red blotches, Fildes and I appraised the goods in the windows.

”What b.l.o.o.d.y prices,” he moaned.

I was flat broke and living on money borrowed from Edgington, who in turn was living on money borrowed from Vic Nash. It did not deter me from going into the shops just to chat up the shopgirls, all of whom look ravis.h.i.+ngly beautiful. We returned to the billets for lunch, an indifferent affair of stew, potatoes, bread, rice pudding, and tea. It tasted best if you mixed the lot together. Still it went down, and you could hear the crash.

”Now what?” says Edgington as we wash our dixies.

”The Ballet? The Opera? Or pontoon al fresco?”

”We're only here for four days, we must act quickly.”

”Alright, Hamlet in four seconds!”

The billet notice-board recommended a visit to Ravello. This was at the top of the hill directly above Amalfi, so the gang of us set off, Spike Deans, Harry Edgington, Jam-Jar Griffin, Geo. s.h.i.+pman, Alf Fildes, Reg Bennett and Ken Carter.

”They say it's very nice up there,” says Ken Carter.

”It's a long way to the top,” says the Billet Bombardier.

We start walking. The afternoon was bright, with slight haze out to sea. As we ascended I observed profusions of semi-tropical plants growing from the slopes; there were even small Alpine-type flowers growing amid rocks; gradually the view unfolded on to the sea and the Divine Coast; it was superb.

”They say that when an Amalfian dies and goes to heaven, it's just another day to them,” spoke Spike Deans.

”Wot if he goes to h.e.l.l?” guffaws Jam-Jar.

”Well, you'd be able to welcome 'em in, tell 'em one of your sc.r.a.ppy jokes and they'd know the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l we've we've bin suffering from with you!” says Edgington. bin suffering from with you!” says Edgington.

Jam-Jar reacts. ”Listen, pudden! Where I come from they think I'm in the Noel Coward cla.s.s.”

There is an explosion of disbelieving laughter. He tries to retain his dignity by shouting above it.

”I've sung in D'Oyly Carte.”

”You never even sung in a f.u.c.kin' dustcart,” says Gunner Nash.

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